WHALES: Women HAppier with Lowered Expectations and Standards

tuby or not tuby: i'll ask the questions

2009-10-22T18:50:00.053-04:00

below is the first big-time blog (for we are large if not in number, WHALES) interview filmmaker i'll call 'tuby strutch' has landed. tuby is a stop-motion animator/filmmaker who is on the verge of what we in-the-know call 'the tipping point.' (ie, laypeople, he's about to EXPLODE.) tuby, seeing in me perhaps kin genius, had the wiles enough to chat me up, so this is the transcript of his responses to the penetrating questions i knew you readers would want answered.

me: hallo.

ts: yo.

me: first off, i must say i’m very glad this is a chat, rather than an in-person interview
because i’m so excited i may have just peed.

ts: hahah well then that makes two of us!
i mean, i didn’t just pee--i’m just glad i can’t see you.

me: i’m glad for you as well.
i mean, i’m sure it would be intimidating.

ts: dunno about intimidating, more like grossed out.

me: no, no, i mean being interviewed--

ts: nah, i’ve been interviewed before--

me: but not by a blog established and forceful as WHALES.

ts: WHALES may be big-time, like you tell me, but i've been interviewed for blogs and mags.
got a lot of attention after the radiohead video--

me: no, no, me president; me intimidating.
anyway, radiohead!--i love the puppets in weird fishes!
tell me, where did you get them, amazon.com?
they have everything
were they pricey?

ts: ha! no way, dudette, i made those puppets--they're sitting right here.

me: wow, really? so, like, you're really talented.

ts: it’s not all fun in the sun--they can be assholes.

me: how did you learn to do this? whut do you make them out of? who helps--

ts: it gets claustrophobic in here, i know, but i’ve caught em drinking my beer
and i’m not gonna lie--i’m not above corporal punishment for that shit!

me: you do it all, the filming, too?

ts: of course--i have a camera--

me: omg.

ts: anyway i don’t call babyhead-horse from the efterklang video ass-head for nothing--that mutant freak stole--

me: you're a damn genius.

ts: all my pbr! and i.... really?

me: no.

ts: why not??

me: my friend told me there aren’t enough genii in the world for you to be one of em.

ts: how many are there?

me: 5.

ts: who?

me: (shrugs)

ts: then how does cockgobbler know this?

me: i dunno. he's swedish.

ts: what the fu--

me: whut are you wearing?

ts: what?

me: wearing. on your...body.

ts: jeans, shirt.

me: and?

ts: hehe actually, nothing.
too busy for laundry.

me: heheh
(whee!)

ts: anyway after i won that radiohead contest, it was great--talking to so many people! the response has been awesome!
i've been making videos, and i'm working on a screenplay--it's gonna be SICK!
i'm gonna do shit that's never been done before, dudette--gonna blow your tits off!

me: omg.
ahem
remember when you said in that interview that you run into the woods naked and cry?

ts: haha yeah! i say some weird shit--like fighting with ass-head. i just like fooling around.
i love ass-head.
i was saying basically that life overwhelms me at times with its beauty, its agony. life's --

me: so you run in the woods naked?

ts: what i meant was--

me: when?

ts: i don't really--

me: where? i mean, if someone were to go to certain woods at certain times, they might get to see--

ts: dude, i don't
i don't run into the woods--i was just saying--

me: you made that up?

ts: mehhrr....

me: you lie in your interviews?

ts: no, man, i--

me: so, you could be lying right now.

ts: listen, loopy!

me: you could be saying that you don't get naked, but you really do!

ts: speaking of woods--my latest video--it's gonna be the best ever! i'm really gonna push the boundaries--annihilate em!--which i think is how an artist has to work.
and i get to shoot in nature, which for me is the sweetest--

me: tell me! WHERE? WHEN?

ts: yo, i'm out.

me: wait! sorry, i
i don't really want to see you naked.
well, i do--but i'll talk about art
if i have to.
i mean, i LOVE your work! not as much as i love naked.
merde!

ts: i’ve gotta go--gotta ton to do--shit don’t make itself!
laters!

me: at least tell me what you look like! next time, can we do videochat?
i <3 you!
oops, that didn't work.
i heart you!

tobystretch@mac.com is offline. Messages you send will be delivered when tobystretch@mac.com comes online.

let them frolic free and topless

2009-10-21T18:28:00.022-04:00

readers, as surely you have noticed, i've not posted in a while. the reason? well, besides the usual (working paltry hours, tending to an insatiable libido), i've also been developing a pitch for a feature film. yes, i--ms. c.!--am about to make my foray into film world. my idea is simple: gather together the meatiest of hollywood man-meat and let them frolic freely and shirtless. with the right cast--ie, christian bale, eric bana, daniel craig, the dudes from 'the hurt locker,' ben kingsley (for gravitas!) and, in his acting debut, carne de rafael nadal--it's failproof. i've already written the script: buffed-up dudes meet at the beach, or pool or something; they take off their shirts; they stay like that; fade out. i've even made the poster.

now i don't know a lot of hollywood folk, but who could say no to something that's low-budg (with the exception of stars' salaries (i'm ballparking that for a cast of 7 to do a 2-hour frolic at, say, $100/hr, it would run $1400; adding food and emollients, $1445)), requiring no elaborate costumes, set or script and already including the gorgeous poster at left?? not anyone i'd like to know. i do have a skanky friend ('skank'), and she gave me this advance praise: '['a day without shirts'] is the greatest cinematic achievement of all time! the story was so poignant i wept.' and that, readers, is encouragement enough for me.

giving jon the smackdown

2009-08-13T11:32:00.048-04:00

years ago i met a woman in seoul (i was on holiday, having heard kimchi was good for stamina) who was in the process of moving to nyc. when 'dawn/dong' told me that her motivation was to be on the daily show, i whipped her up a script, informing her, 'just write a book, and with a solid shtick, you'll get on no problem!' of course, i just wanted someone to give jon--my nemesis! (see WHALES conception)--the smackdown. i thought surely this small, kind of bitchy asian woman would finagle her way onto the show if she put forth the effort. alas, she recently contacted me to say that she was leaving ny because it smells of pee (like seoul doesn't?) and never did get on the show. i'm posting the script here in hopes it not go to waste (ladies, 안뇽하세요?).

Dawn/Dong on Jon's Show
June 27, 2007
[note the date: the bitch had over 2 years to get on the show. meh.]

JS: Hello! Welcome to the--whoa.

D/D: What, what’s wrong? Oh, well, I’ve never been to New York. Never been to a big city--I don’t know how BIG CITY folk dress. In Seoul, it’s perfectly hip--

JS: To pair maroon with magenta? (laughs) And Seoul--Seoul is one of the biggest cities in the--

D/D: Okay, technically Seoul’s a city, but, you wanna get technical? Because this bodice is crimson, and the gauchos? Technically they’re mauve.

JS: I stand corrected. (smirks)

D/D: And the shoes? Dude, I wear these to accentuate my size. (holds up foot to show aqua ballet flats)

JS: Dong, you’re 4-foot, and you’re wearing--

D/D: That’s right, Jon. I like to be lifted.

JS: Lifted? What--what does that mean, 'lifted'?

D/D: Well, I’m sure as hell not talking about ‘This Week in God.’

(audience laughs)

JS: If those slippers are what you call lifted, man, you gotta look up Kim Jong-Il’s cobbler. (laughs)

(audience is silent)

D/D: Jon, Jon--are you finished?

JS: (stops laughing)

D/D: What I meant by lift is just that. You know, elevated--

JS: What?

D/D: Picked up. Lifted. Off the floor.

JS: Wh--?

D/D: Being a dwar--petite--is a great way to get picked up and spun around, tossed about. If the guy is hunky enough, it’s like having my own amusement park.

D/D: (pauses, smiles, swings feet) So...?

(audience goes wild--chanting Lift-Lift-Lift!)

JS: (leans over, examines D/D, squeezes own biceps)

D/D: What, what now? What are you looking at? Oh, that? (big laugh) Come on now, you know TV adds 20 pounds.

JS: I don’t know--

D/D: Hey, you can use my inhaler!

JS: Dong, I don’t need--

D/D: Uh, this is kind of embarrassing, but, Jon? The name is Dawn. Dawn. Not Dong.

JS: That’s what I said: Dong.

D/D: It’s Dawn: D-A-W-N.

JS: Uh, I don’t speak Mandarin--

D/D: I’m not Chinese--I’m from New York!

JS: Hey, I’m not a Chomsky aficionado--wait a minute, didn’t you just say you’d never been to--

D/D: Dawn is an English term. You know, as in it dawns on her that she may be on the wrong show.

JS: Now--

D/D: JOHN--see, how do you like it, JOHN?

JS: (looks helpless)

D/D: (whispers) I said John with an H.

JS: Touché.

D/D: Anyway! Shall we tackle some real issues here?

JS: Yes! Let's--

D/D: You know, you never discuss women’s issues--and I think it’s high time you did.

JS: Okay--salient women’s issues it is! (waves pen around) Now, wasn’t it just the anniversary of Title IX? How long has it been--34, 35 years?

D/D: (waits)

JS: Uh, okay. Do you live in South Dakota?

D/D: (drinks water)

JS: (looks lost)

D/D: Thongs, Jon. (rolls eyes) Women and their thongs: needs to be addressed.

JS: Now we’re talking, bo-yee! Thongs: they’re so small, my wife carries an extra pair in her locket. But it’s like the sock phenomenon: they always disappear in the--

D/D: Unhygienic.

JS: What?

D/D: Love the look. Hate the feel.

JS: Really? I myself am fond of the feel. (smiles, adjusts in seat)

D/D: Jon, doesn’t that, um, er, chafe your chode--?

JS: Cho--?

D/D: That part between your ballsac and your ass--

JS: Does it chafe your chode?

D/D: No--I said ballsa--

JS: Oh, yeah. (blots forehead with tie)

D/D: And I don't wear them: they're NASTY.

JS: (blots with vigor)

JS: Alrighty! Dawn--D-A-W-N. It's a nice name, by the way.... Yessiree.

D/D: (looks at invisible watch on wrist)

JS: Ah! Didn’t you say you had a pertinent question for me--one you said would give Americans insight regarding my place in popular culture?

D/D: Oh, yeah, that.

JS: Bring it, bitch!

D/D: I still wanna know how you wear--

JS: (clears throat) We’re moving on.

D/D: Okay. (pauses) Okay, boss-man, my question is this: in the film of your life, who would play you? a) Hilary Duff b) Lance Bass or c) Apu

JS: Uh....

(audience laughs)

(crowd shouts A!s B!s and C!s)

D/D: They’re torn.

JS: Well, why don’t you tell me, since apparently you’re the omniscient one?

D/D: (thinks a moment) Duude--you’re so Apu.

(audience cheers)

JS: (addressing crowd) Thank you. (plays with pen and papers)

D/D: (beams)

JS: Dong, thanks so much for coming. Everybody, the book is I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butthead!: Jon Stewart’s Appeal in Youth Culture--and, well, it’s fucking brilliant.

(audience roars)

science, monkey, chicken know all

2009-08-12T01:09:00.002-04:00

hold the phone, readers! after my traumatic yesterday, i took an in-depth and muy scientific mental disorder diagnostic test to find out what, if anything, i had. (i would have put money on korsakoff's.) but the test results were unequivocal and positive: 'You Are Normal. Everyone requires some level of craziness in their lives to keep them sane and you have the perfect amount. Overall, you lead a well-balanced life. Also, you sexy genius!*'

needless to say, hallefuckinglujah! oh, WHALES, it's a wonderful life, is it not? i for one am just glad to have this silliness over and done with. next week will recommence business as usual, addressing the salient issues of the day. in fact, understandably inspired by hardcore science at the moment, i will publish the results of a comprehensive study i conducted last week wherein i observed various groups in their natural surroundings (i.e., at their favorite bars getting shitfaced): navy seals, musicians, foreigners and hobags. i will make sweeping generalizations/conclusions.

speaking of hobags, it's bedtime. ooh and i can't wait to break the news to stuffed monkey and rubber chicken! they've always asserted i was normal.
*added by ms. c.

is there a way to deport him? i wonder

2009-08-11T01:00:00.006-04:00

readers, it was a sad day in WHALESland. today your president was called a 'freak' and 'weird.' oh, i know the saying ('sticks and stones...'), but these words were, excuse my french, cruel. and i thought to myself: why--why am i a freak, lord? a recent post may have revealed some weirdness, but i explained that (the crazy cycle, duh), so this assault saddened me. and it was not just for myself--but for you, dear readers. dear, sweet, crazy ladies (btw, love you!): what this might do to you. well, i didn't know what effect it would have--but i knew it could not be good for one's self-esteem, following a freak.

but then i realized something: the ASSaulter (emphasis intentional (i am witty freak)) was swedish. that's right, and an obsessive follower of my blog, so what does this say about him (in regard to his offense and myself)? simply, he's jealous. and jealousy is so unbecoming (and starting out as a swede certainly doesn't help). you know, i'm actually surprised i have not faced this sort of insult before now, for there are some men--i'll assume mostly foreign--who fail to grasp that the WHALES mentality may be their only hope.

danzig's overshare

2009-08-10T15:09:00.017-04:00

today i saw this, which was a delightful reminder of this. should it break the deal if a dude's personal library consists of stories about a child-killer baby jesus (if that is not to your liking)? hell no, especially if he is as open/inviting as danzig (did you see that smile following the warm 'welcome to my book collection'?). sweet.

carpe diem: purloin the chicken! (or plunder blunder)

2009-08-08T10:34:00.037-04:00

carpe diem, readers: that's what they say. so the instant the owner of a rubber chicken turned her head, i filched said chicken. dunno why exactly, but that is the way some successes happen, as my gal sarah famously said: I answered him ‘Yes’ [to 'run as his running mate'] because I have the confidence in that readiness and knowing that you can’t blink, you have to be wired in a way of being so committed to the mission, the mission that we’re on...you can’t blink. and i daresay ex-politico palin would be proud: i did not blink, i was so committed (to the mission) and consequently i surprised myself with victory (or acquiring a thing i never dreamt of owning) and a position i never thought i'd hold (with rubber chicken in my purse at a company cocktail party). of course i would never question the wisdom of nondead fish that go against the flow, because readiness, commitment, not-blinking--all whilst not thinking--are the cornerstones for a proper WHALES. but i wonder if some thought would have been advantageous in this case: while at first i thought to myself, 'i own a rubber chicken!' later that evening the chicken honestly creeped me out.

maybe because it was on my pillow. either way, disappointed and ruing my plunder, i threw the chicken in a corner.

the impact of john hughes

2009-08-07T09:47:00.026-04:00

the passing of john hughes yesterday naturally had gen xers everywhere reminiscing the pain of adolescence, as was the theme of some of his most adored movies. and it reminded me of one incident in particular that as i see now was an early lesson that would later inform the WHALES philosophy. it involved the movie 'some kind of wonderful,' about a lesbian who falls in love with a boy with craniodiaphyseal dysplasia who pursues a tramp who hits on her visiting son from the future: it's exemplary of hughes' unconventional take on young love. hughes is also known for his gift for rhapsodic language, e.g., when the lesbo says 'all i care about is me, my drums and you!' (eat your heart out, jane austen.) it is this quote that brings to mind my childhood best friend, whom i was inseparable from and constantly emulated, because she said this to me, only she said 'me, my cat and my sister!' which was devastating. hence the great lesson, readers: don't expect life to imitate a classic romance.

happy anniversary to me

2009-08-04T05:31:00.003-04:00

i wore earplugs to bed the other night because i wanted to sleep as long as humanly possible the following day, which isn't so weird, but i tried eating one of them in my sleep (i awoke when i tasted earplug). i must admit, i had a moment, mid-earplug-chew, of 'oh my god, i'm retarded.' and it elicited memories from last summer--about this time--when i left my apartment wearing slippers, thought it was 2007 and lost my shoe in a taxicab. i recall also spilling soup from a shallow bowl and saying, 'this is a shallow bowl!' (my roommate answered, 'it's a plate.') and it's all made me think...is there, like, a crazy cycle? because then it would totally make sense, and i am pretty much right on schedule, which i guess is good.

it happens to be the first anniversary also of the start of guerre a trois, a fight i started between myself and 3 friends. (yes, i know that makes it quatre, but i didn't count one friend, who is small and impotent. (ms. c scores again, losers!)) the war, incidentally, has recently concluded: the german friend became asian, the other got fat and the small one sobered up and moved in with her parents. (war is never pretty, readers.) and, not uncommon for ferocious warrior-enemies, we don't talk anymore (the fat one calls, but i don't answer). assessing it all now, looks like a victory celebration is in order. (hurray, me!)

kindle starts a fire (in the loins)

2009-08-01T23:16:00.041-04:00

there's a hot debate going on over the value of kindle, amazon's ebook reader, or ereader, or whatever. as you know, i like the book and on occasion, say, when vacationing in remote lands, where there's no tv, cinema or men of acceptable cleanliness, i've been known to read it. so naturally i must weigh in on this kindle thing. i haven't used one, nor have i seen one, but i agree that it will change the face of books, publishing and the universe in general, eliterature in specific. sure, it's easy to dismiss these ewhazitwhozies due to the limited ebooks available, lack or poor quality of pictures/photos and the inability to simply leaf back and forth as i love to do with a paperback (also, i frequent the front and back covers, for clues as to what the hell book is about), not to mention the exorbitant price tag and stupid name, but there's one thing that clinched it for me: no more snickers at my favorite reading material. by the way, the following are (no, really) available in kindle editions (and, as bezos points out, you can read with one hand). i know, i know: i'm a hopeless romantic.

and topping the WHALES reading list:

and not just for us literati, there are practical books some people need read--and would--if none would be the wiser:

in light of all this, i say, the uberjolly bezos is positioned nicely for the hilton prize (if the prize were awarded by pervs).

navy seal's the deal

2009-07-28T07:38:00.028-04:00

wow, readers, my subconscious is in tarsem singhesque overdrive lately. with the exception of this one where i find a moisturizer that is the exact color of my flesh (i awoke irked: 'really, brain, wtf?' but in brain's defense, the moisturizer wasn't greasy or tacky, blended in instantly and felt like air, i.e., awesome), i've been having dream after dream wherein i discover my amazing latent talents. (yes, recognizing a dunce upon which to pin one's homicide (see 'love/life sentence'), i've decided, is a gift.) and since they've also lent insight into man (get thee a man! as mentioned, e.g., you can blame him for stuff), i think it only right to share.

last night, for example, i dreamt i was a navy seal. and, like a navy seal, i was pulled around behind a helicopter shaped like an egg beater (only the beater-things were teeny, tiny propellers) as it zipped through the clouds in a high-altitude sky. i have to say this part of seal training (pardon my french) fucking rules. then there came the sea stuff, which was less remarkable, largely because as a youth i spent many an entire day in water (when i was a lass, my family summered on the shores of a land (i am no novice swimmer)). they, the seal people, said i had to swim an hour, which i'd totally done before, even if it was a dead man's float with the occasional kick. the toughest part was dealing with the other seals. e.g., on my first day in open water my partner took a pizza cutter and sliced her throat open wide, i guess because it was a slow kind of day, and all these sharks came, just like she said they would. because it was her fault, i sat on her back as she swam us to safety. then, after a light lunch, we had to catch an enemy. to do this, we watched an omniscient video a la spaceballs. the enemy was a gaunt, scruffy-looking dude, but once in the water he became aquaman, which came as a surprise. he summoned whales and fish; but the whales were big and clumsy and just bumped into us, and the fish tickled our feet. aquaman was furious, but at least we deemed him lame enough to let him get away.

my partner and i were celebrated for our triumphs that night, and that's when i realized we were the only females. that's right: there are roughly 1 million male seals to every female. not that that's the only--though of course the most, by far--rewarding thing to being a seal and serving one's country: you might just get the chance to be on 'the wanted,' which as far as i can tell has yet to cast women (not counting scandinavians).

you may be thinking, 'join the military, when there's a war--nay, two wars--going on?' but don't you think that if there were two wars going on, they would be all over the front pages of every newspaper, and there would be protests/music festivals galore? i reassert: DUDES! and tv!

a love/life sentence

2009-07-20T14:15:00.071-04:00

i had a nightmare last night. i dreamt i murdered my friend 'frank' and buried him in my front yard. it was a shoddy job: i kicked an area of loose dirt aside then over him (it was an arid climate, as in utah). anyone step on him, or a strong wind come, and i was screwed. i thought of putting up a sign, 'keep off lawn,' but it wasn't a lawn. i was doomed. i waited on my sofa for the cops to come. i felt like such a loser--i'd killed someone, and done a sucky burial. i felt i deserved it all: prison, prison food (which would surely include iceberg lettuce), prison toilets, prison clothes, all-female--woahs! no, no, i couldn't go to jail, no way no how, or i'd die, dead.

i've no idea how i killed this person (funny, but that wasn't part of the dream), but i know it was without care (e.g., in plain daylight), planning, thought or even motive. i mean, i liked frank. if i were to get away with this murder, it was going to take a miracle: surely someone saw something, and all over town people were doing crossword puzzles, the solutions to which would reveal the killer (i carried them around, too, but of course didn't do them). the puzzles were like time bombs--never mind that the people were no good at crosswords! it seemed hopeless. i had to be brilliant.

when the cops came to question me, i mentioned casually that i was dating someone (in reality, i don't know this person), saying he was an odd, odd, odd! yet lovable bloke. they showed interest, and i said, 'ohhhh, no, not him--he's an angel! i mean, he's unpredictable and emotionally fragile--total loose canon!--but he's great. so sensitive...insane, troubled.... he loves his shrink.' turns out this guy looked anemic, foreign and though bookish a half-wit--i.e., for this scheme, perfect! but 'fabby' wasn't wholly without charm or appeal (think: a muted sacha baron cohen character), and it truly pained me to imagine framing him for murder. i vacillated. i asked myself, 'how could i live with contemptible me after this? how will i sleep at night? i mean, he's european--he will be EVERYONE'S bitch.' then i thought about sleeping in a prison exclusively bitches and was resolute.

fabby and i took a walk in the park, and i'll never forget the look on his face when he realized i was setting him up (i waved at the cops and pointed at him). when the cops started toward us, fabby threw down his puzzle book and ran. i was shocked and pleased, it was all so easy. fabby was so slow, the cops took a couple steps and grabbed him by the collar. i couldn't bear to watch, so i went to new york and rode a crazy chairlift running backward up hunter mountain.

because the hill people were suspicious, whispering and pointing, still laboring pitifully over their crosswords, i crawled under a house. my dear friend 'foubi,' a tall, blond manly man, was surfing the pacific ocean in the basement. he shouted over the crashing waves, 'you're innocent--INNOCENT!' i was shamed by this display of faith and said, 'what if it was me? what if i'm insane, and i did it?' 'no,' he yelled, 'it's a dream--A DREAM!' so i went inside to use the toilet. there were so many doors to the bathroom that i nearly peed my pants deciding which one to enter and then closing them all. then there was no toilet paper, so i sat there.

i was still hanging out on the toilet when some dude peeked in (i think it was his house). then my mom peeked in. i said to mom, 'i know it sounds crazy, but i took a liking to fabby. and i really thought this might, despite the whole wrongful imprisonment thing, make him fall in love with me--for being brilliant and clever, succeeding--for having a can-do attitude!' she stared at me. i said, 'he likes brainy.'

i don't have to explain myself! but i will

2009-07-19T14:08:00.001-04:00

WHALES, i was going to write a lengthy and detailed explanation for my months-long disappearance, but i think it unnecessary (dammit, i'm the president). but, if you insist, let's just say it rhymes with 'grack binge' and move on.

WHALES recruiting grounds--i mean, book clubs!

2008-12-08T20:13:00.008-05:00

years ago i had a roommate who belonged to a book club. she tried in vain to drag me along. i'd see her toting around bottles of wine and anita diamant and shudder. 'there isn't enough wine...' i'd say to myself. but when i read this article, listening to the complaint that these 'clubs' are still mostly women, often what is discussed are things other than the book (surprise, surprise) and they often turn into drunkfests, i began to reconsider--for they sound like the absolute ideal place for WHALES recruitment. (as i've said, only the celibate have the inclination to read.) drunk+horny+warped sense of own intellect/superiority=the most fervent WHALES!

now, i don't have a lot of free time, certainly not enough to read. but i do think i could join not only one of these groups, but several. you see, i need only one book, and that's how to talk about books you haven't read, an instant classic and of course the book to end all books; it is a masterpiece. housed in the appropriate cover, so as not to offend anyone, it will accompany me as i sit and chat and watch the WHALES numbers rise. incidentally, i'm considering group fees.

my yang yang

2008-12-05T01:01:00.009-05:00

a couple weeks ago, a man was attacked by a panda bear at a zoo in china, and it seems people were less than sympathetic, readily blaming the victim:

The 20-year-old student had ignored warning signs and scaled a two-metre (6.5ft) barrier to get into the pen, hoping to cuddle the creature, who bit chunks of flesh out of the man's arms and legs. Speaking softly ('It hurts to talk,' he said) from his hospital bed, the injured man said the panda had looked so cute, he had just wanted to hug it. 'Yang Yang was so cute, I just wanted to cuddle him,' he whispered. 'I didn't expect he would attack.... I have many bites.' Yang Yang did not seem to suffer from the incident and was not penalized. In fact, the food-guy fed him extra helpings of leaves and stems. 'No need to blame the bear,' he said.*
*edited by ms. c.

i know what you're thinking--what kind of jackass breaks into a bear pen...to cuddle?--but not i. we learn as early as infants to love bears, starting with teddys. and those of us young at heart never lose that reflex. i for example am one of these youthful sort. i even have a yang yang story of my own.

i too was attracted to the panda's reputation as gentle, and its stylized black-and-white/yin-yang look and woeful-looking eyes. and, when i spotted my yang yang from afar, i too 'just wanted to hug it.' but as i drew nearer, i discovered that my yang yang was no panda bear--in fact, it was no bear at all. it was a man--MAN (or a thing very closely resembling one)--and not even one black and white, but a very pale, anemic-looking, fleshy color. i only thank god i had the realization pre-cuddle.

that's the spirit

2008-12-03T16:48:00.050-05:00

maybe it's the cool weather, twinkly lights or fumes from my radiator, but whatever the reason, december has found me in high and magnanimous spirits (essential to finding success as a WHALES--yay moi!). and when recently i met an art critic at a gallery opening, my new joie de vivre worked like a charm.

a lovely fellow (he slunk around wearing all black and a permanent sneer), i invited him to drinks. as usual, i inquired about his work (men do love to talk about themselves and their work, no?). he said that he'd yet to write an unequivocally positive review. how long had he been a critic? over a decade. i thought this harsh--i mean, curious--and asked him to elaborate, and thus our delightful conversation:

he said, 'you may think it harsh--'

'not at all!'

'but what i aim to do is a community service. all these deluded, wannabe artists--they're wasting their time, they're wasting their lives--i wish to liberate them. they could be doing other things. there's a shortage out there: sanitation workers, truck drivers, teachers. they're always hiring at that home for people with disabilities--and who's better qualified to work with retards than self-deluded artists?'

i shrugged. 'who?'

'think about it: one person's shattered dream is another's ass-wiper. i should start a program; i could probably get some kind of medal.'

he was enterprising; i like that.

he took a small notebook and pen from his pocket. 'i just had a thought and want to get it down.'

'work, work, work!' i said. (big smile.)

'no, no, this is my hate book.'

'hate book?'

'book of hate. i write hate lists in it--lists of things i hate.'

'cool beans.'

'like headbands on babies.'

eh?

'those skinny satin things people tie around babies' heads,' he said. 'babies have no hair, or next to no hair--why do they need headbands? it's cruelty; it's child abuse. it's like a tourniquet--it's sick.'

'i don't think they hurt; they're not tight--'

'who cares? they're dumb! form should follow function, and headbands have no business with babies--not unless we're talking the brood de sasquatch.'

'they're...decor, or something--'

'they don't have hair.'

clearly, he cared very much about children.

'and sleeveless turtlenecks!' he said as he scribbled.

'yes, save the turtleneck!'

'what are you babbling about? sleeveless turtlenecks: they make NO sense.'

'the t-shirt?'

'it's not a T-shirt--therein lies the problem. it's like...a worm.'

'well, i don't see exactly--i mean, why--'

'you want cold arms and a hot neck?'

'no.'

we sat there awhile, i with my whiskey, and he with his lists ('eye contact--not all the time, just generally'), then i invited him to a theater reading i was to attend later that evening.

'i don't do theater,' he said. 'theater is just a bunch of dilettantes. i'd almost do ballet. at least with ballet, they're committed: those kids never hold down a meal--and there's no faking a pas de chat--either you look like a cat, or you don't.'

'i LOVE ballet,' i said, then ordered another round and blew off the reading.

brave new world: flaskys

2008-11-29T01:12:00.013-05:00

the economy may be in the shitter, but, oh, the sales! yesterday, i found two flasks--TWO--for the price of less than one-third of one. they are fabu.

i hung with both of them last night and realized that they each have a distinct personality. one has bright stripes, the other a floral print, and one is bigger than the other. i recalled my friend 'nabby' had named his flask steve and agreed that names were in order. george immediately came to mind: it is a friendly name. i always liked the names bert, bernice and gerta. willis sounded fun, then phyllis (cool-aunt name), phinneas, raul, javier, archibald, reginald, wesley, ludwig, wolfgang (wolfie for short), humbert (i'd call the other one humbert as well), rusty....

even while in bed, names kept coming to me. i got up to write them down. it was 4am; i was tres fatiguee. i consulted 'jazzy,' my most pragmatic friend. he'd named his el flasko. i said fuck it and settled on flasky--flasky 1 and flasky 2. if i felt fancy, i could say un et deux. i went back to bed. then i thought: if flasky shows me a good time, i could say good flasky, if bad, then bad flasky. if naughty, then naughty flasky! i could punish/reward as i saw fit (e.g., do you want to sleep with me, flasky?). i lay awake, thinking.

today, exhausted from lack of sleep yet excited still, i told my friend about flaskys. she said, 'that's like my son: he named his turtle turtley.' i nodded. 'great minds think alike,' i said. 'he's four,' she said. i have found my inner child. it seems anything's possible in this world of flaskys.

many thanks

2008-11-27T03:28:00.024-05:00

i spent thanksgiving with my friends 'tardo' and 'jazzy' this year, and the gratitude flowed like water:

me: happy turkey day--thanks so much for having me!

tardo: so good to see you--it's been ages!

jazzy: it has been a long time, since before my show.

me: whoa, that's right! by the way, how was it?

jazzy: i was awesome.

me: did you play jazz?

jazzy: why do you say that, because i'm black?

me: no. because your name--

jazzy: thanks for reminding me i have a dumbass name.

me: it's not dumbass!

jazzy: it got my ass kicked every day as a kid--

me: that was long ago--

jazzy: are you calling me old? thanks.

me: no! it's just that now you're a big dude and--

jazzy: great, now i'm fat. thanks a lot.

tardo: (to jazzy) oh, pookie. (to me) there's a show on tuesday--come, and bring li'l willy.

jazzy: his name is Little Willy?

tardo: no, he's just got a small pe--

me: thanks, tardo! tell everyone, why don't you?

jazzy: i'm 'everyone'?

tardo: and, what, it's not like you're screwing him anymore.

me: thanks. like i needed the reminder.

tardo: (to jazzy) she hasn't done it in, like, forever.

jazzy: yipes.

tardo: (to jazzy) thank god i have you.

jazzy: (to tardo) ditto.

(tardo and jazzy make out)

me: i brought pie....

(me holds out pie)

tardo and jazzy: (sucking face) thanks....

election day/night

2008-11-25T17:36:00.015-05:00

i know i have yet to comment on obama's stunning upset and consequently i've had to face an onslaught of email/messages demanding my reaction, thoughts, further instruction, etc. i don't condone nagging, but have decided it's time i comply. as you might have guessed, i was pained by the outcome (but time heals all wounds, and it's been weeks). here are the three main reasons:

1. i am a not a woman who takes readily to change; i like routine, and predictability. for years, i have had the same breakfast every morning.

and we all know how i regarded sarah palin, what with her uber chic crab motif and tattoos. but even more appealing to me was her promise of a smooth, seamless transition in the white house--to palin's 'never, ever did i talk about, well, gee, is africa a country or a continent?' from w's 'families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream.' what could be easier than that? ignoramus a philistine (et vice versa).

obama, on the other hand, has already begun surrounding himself with the 'nation's brightest' (e.g., clinton, volcker). 'smart' people in the white house after close to a decade: it will take some adjusting.

2. i read an interview with the abominable stephen colbert and jon stewart. this is what colbert had to say about the election:

The Democrats are going to change everything. We're going to have gay parents marrying their own gay babies. Obama's gonna be sworn in on a gay baby. The oath is gonna end ''So help me, gay baby."

uggh!

3. i got so hammered on election night reveling--i mean, ululating--that i don't remember much about it. i vaguely recall cancan dancers, masked men in unitards a la borat and kissing booths. my friend tells me, in the end, i laid down on the street to kiss it and praise jesus i didn't have to move to canada--i mean, barf and smash my fabulous updo:

inexplicable optimism

2008-11-22T08:45:00.012-05:00

last night, after a grueling workday, i was feeling inexplicably optimistic. dunno why: i was exhausted from my high-stress, executive-type job and have been celibate for years now, and that morning i'd walked in on my old-man flatmate, who stinks of moth balls, sitting in full-lotus position on the living-room floor--naked. even so, i was almost skipping down the street and feeling less and less fatigued with every step-skip. i ran a few spontaneous errands. i met some friends out for a birthday dinner and upon arriving at the table declared: i got a bikini wax--i am feeling VERY OPTIMISTIC!

it made me ask myself, 'are WHALES optimistic? is this (in)consistent with the WHALES philosophy?' then i said, 'that is an excellent, excellent, excellent question.' then: 'wow, me smarter than i thought.'

my quick conclusion? yes, WHALES are optimistic, for optimism and having high/unreasonable expectations and standards are not the same things. and optimism is a fine virtue--i refer you to candide and the teachings of pangloss. um, scratch that. anyhoo, WHALES can be optimistic because dammit i'm president and me say so. (amen.)

scotch comes from scotland

2008-11-21T00:00:00.006-05:00

some time ago, i'd gone for drinks with a lad to whose intellectual capacities, e.g., expansive vocabulary, worldly knowledge, were the main attraction. i'd envisioned dense, diarrheal discussing/arguing with head-/chin-scratching and touche!-shouting. i wore my nerd glasses and wallabees; he showed up in a cardigan. i looked at us and thought, the sky's the limit: anything from dubus to debussy, joachim to yuri g, jodorowsky to houellebecq to wollstonecraft--fruit-by-the-foot to fugu!

the night began with pricey cocktails made from fancy whiskey. neophyte drinkers (this was long, long ago, readers), we picked the brain de bartender (we learned that scotch comes from scotland) and in no time were sloshed. we went to his place and, after a few nutterbutters, were ready for intellectual discourse. 'i like your breasts,' he said. hence my love/hate of the drink.

poopie hands

2008-11-20T10:18:00.013-05:00

my first love said that communication was the most important thing in a relationship. i thought about this 'most important thing' and that surely love, respect, honesty and the ilk (this was pre-WHALES days) were more essential. but, during the long time since, i've learned that this precocious boy was spot-on, for without communication there can be no building of all that other stuff. and even the most ardent animal attraction can be snuffed out in an instant if further connection is not made and maintained. communication is no easy thing--it requires work, sometimes a great amount of it, and if you don't put forth the effort you may rue it. i have many stories of this sort of regret, and it's with a heavy heart that i share this one.

years ago, while abroad, i fell madly, instantly in love with a feral australian. i'd spent the night in his hut after drunken revelry (full moon?). the following morning i called to him from the toilet for tissue. he replied that he didn't use toilet paper. this was not especially shocking, and i did without. but upon further inspection i discovered his bathroom was utterly bare: no shampoo, no soap, no towel--nada. i told him i had a headache, that i required coffee, and fled. i spent the remainder of my time on the tiny island rejecting his advances, leaving him bewildered and hurt. i felt awful, being that we shared such a beautiful beginning, of passionate, animated conversation, giggle fits and make-out sessions in the sand. and i could have said--i should have said: 'i adore you, i really do--stop touching me--but i can't get past the fact that you have poopie hands.' and, simple, just like that: problem solved, romance resumed. but even when he'd tell funny stories, eliciting guffaws, or bring me cocktails, or when i'd see him dancing all crazy-like about the bonfire, i couldn't do it. i just couldn't see having that convo.

cure for insomnia? UPDATE!

2008-11-18T11:55:00.012-05:00

i headed home, tipsy on chimay, having made a decision on a plan of attack, and fully prepared to carry out said plan. but the train ride home was long enough for me to reconsider: masturbate, exercise and binge-eat all at once.... i decided to consult doogie one last time via email before undertaking project (because project it would be).

his response: BAD MENTAL PICTURE. vexed, because that does not help, i replied: okay, but do you recommend, and any suggestions (combos/variations)? i have not heard back from him. in fact, he has not appeared on gmail, facebook, etc., since.

what to do, what to do.... i wait.

wannabe doctor responds! with cure for insomnia?

2008-11-17T00:23:00.012-05:00

turns out doctor-boy (see recent ellroy/gretzky posts) did not find my words offensive, but is merely slow: it took him 8 days to read 2 pages--of dialogue (i.e., 2 minutes of reading, as you know/saw). his response: 'HAHAHA! Did you really write that--for me? Methinks you are a genius!' he then insisted we meet. naturally, i obliged this new fan (one never wants to irk/offend a new fan, to avoid any potential obsessive/crazed reaction).

i must confess here that i had an ulterior motive, aside from the normal man-related. my insomnia (that i've mentioned oft) is being an increasingly intolerable whore, so i regarded this as an opportune time to pick a professional's brain (albeit not bona fide, but wannabe). so, over cheap shitty beer (i'd planned to pick up the tab in exchange for worthy advice), i asked the young doctor his recommendations. his response: 'exercise like really hard, then eat until you think you're gonna barf, and then masturbate.' i totally did not expect this from little doogie, and it caught me so off-guard that i paid for his beers anyway.

the next night, while out for yummy belgian beer, i relayed the story to my friend, who said it was sound advice, in his opinion. he added that masturbation always makes him hungry, so suggested adjusting the order to: masturbating, eating, exercising. i thought it over, and since my case extreme (alas, tis 4am as i write this), i've decided why not all at once. (update unlikely, so to not gross out readership.)

dear ndugu

2008-11-10T10:24:00.014-05:00

i am not a nicholson fan, per se (though he does not offend me in any way, save for his turn in 'the departed'--barf!), but i love the bit in 'about schmidt' wherein he writes regular, copious letters to his sponsored child ndugu. it all starts out appropriately as an introduction from warren [nicholson], the lonely benefactor, to a 6-year-old tanzanian boy, eg: hi, i'm warren, i send you money, so you can stay alive, i can mention i have you at cocktail parties, etc., etc. soon, warren is unloading in his letters details about his wretched wife and miserable existence, and, if i recall correctly, expletives (but whatever: the dude is tanzanian, and 6). the letters become a journal for this journal-averse sad sack. the movie, readers, is not a good one, but i must note here that also screen siren kathy bates gets naked (and, imo, that's worth a netflix).

ladies, i have had ndugus. i mean, i have not sent relatively negligible sums of my own currency that would make a profound difference to a skinny, naked child in a third-world country--but i did write lengthy, frequent emails to cute boys. and similarly, i expected/received nothing in return and talked about them at parties.

i met my first ndugu during a particularly beautiful autumn in northern california. he traveled most of the winter and i wrote him, fully believing that he would not respond, being on the road, but i cared not. all i endeavored to do was amuse/entertain him, even if a little. he replied on occasion (which i faithfully celebrated with an extra vodka or two), and, since i too traveled, our paths crossed several times. we always had a rollicking time--skiing and partying--he'd even gushed about my witty--yet poignant--emails. so operation ndugu proved a wild success. in the end, i even wrote a story about that winter fling, which was later published in a ski magazine (the editor hailed it as 'the perfect mix of skiing, drinking, and chasing tail'; my friends called it 'ski porn'). ndugu #1 was less pleased by this, but by that time the season had ended and, with it, my affection.

i don't plan ndugus; ndugus happen. i do not meet dudes and say: self, you're gonna barrage this man with emails and messages and, reply or no reply, you're gonna be tenacious like suckling--let the lonely drunken inanities begin! readers, i am not so masochistic, or pathetic. (well....) dammit, the point is: don't be discouraged if a man refuses to acknowledge your existence, for it is not up to him alone: it takes two to commence to tango, two to tango, and two to end the tango. diligence is a virtue, and sometimes men just cease resisting: they fatigue--they can't run (or disregard) forever. sometimes men get so weary they just plain forget they don't find me particularly attractive or likable (yay me). yes--men are no match for us women, with our innate loquacity and predilection for denial. maybe i'd even feel compunction if the act didn't have a slight element of altruism to it, for to give something in order to receive in return, if you ask me, isn't giving at all. when people talk of karma, i say, 'smarmy bastard.'