Monday, September 26, 2005
1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
(This is actually from one of my favorite posts. I'm going to add the sentence that follows because it's much funnier that way.)
It has been reported that Brookelina has already been fitted with an exact duplicate of Jolie's body and face, including her famous lips. When asked how she felt about taking on this new role, Brookelina's reply was, "Holy shit, look at these tits!!!"
The rest can be read if you click here.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Ok fine, here it is.
Yes, we had found our way into a biker bar in Amsterdam, but since the only people there were me, BF, Ducky, and Mr. Burp, we didn't really have cause for concern. Mr. Burp's friends had left on the pretense of seeking out the tattoo artist, so we basically took over the bar and made it our own. Mr. Burp seemed to take to us, and was soon well on his way to catching up with us in our inebriation.
It never occurred to us that his friends were actually looking for the tattoo artist, so imagine our surprise when they came back to the bar with a very large, very inked-up man named Molly. I'm assuming it's a Dutch name, I might have asked him, but I was drunk and this was 15 years ago so who knows. During our independent tattoo research throughout the city, Molly's name had come up several times in relation to the Hanky Panky. We had ourselves a celebrity artist!
We immediately set about trying to charm the .....socks ...off of him, so he would tattoo us that night. No such luck. We did manage to charm the shirt off of him, as you can see from the photo. Yes, that's Molly and me in the biker bar. Hi Mom!
Molly proposed an interesting offer - spend the night drinking and carousing with him throughout the red-light district, show up sober -hungover- tomorrow, and he would personally tattoo us for half price. Hmmm....what should we do....
30 seconds later we were wiping down tables and putting stools up on the bar, as Burp had decided to close the bar and come with us. And yes, to answer your question, this sort of thing does happen to me all the time. Well, it did happen to me all the time, back in the day.
I can honestly tell you that I have very little recall about where we all went and what we did. I have vague memories of going in and out of sex shops, of being chased around the canal by a mohawked shop owner with a riding crop, of squinting in a dark bar to see that the people on the stage were in the middle of an orgy, and of juuuuust a bit more drinking. No drugs though. A girl's gotta have her standards.
Ducky and I had reached the point of no return - eat or pass out. Molly sent us around the corner to get hot dogs for the group of us. Mmmm....hot dogs. Five years of vegetarianism down the drain. We found our way to the hot dog vendor and promptly forgot to get anyone else a thing to eat. Important tip - never send a drunk American girl to get your food. Ducky and I got our hot dogs and found ourselves a nice comfy piece of alleyway under a bright red light to park ourselves. Life was good.
I had just taken a bite of my long-awaited weiner when I heard this horribly shrill voice screaming just above me. Ducky and I just sat there dumbfounded, no idea what was going on in our foggy state. And then the voice got closer, and closer, until it - and its owner - were right in front of us.
It was a hooker. Yes, a real honest-to-God red light Amsterdam prostitute. Apparently we were sitting on the ground just below her window, and she was not happy about it. I have absolutely no idea what she was screaming - it was all very Charlie Brown teacher to me - WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK was all I heard. We stared at her slack-jawed, like the proverbial deer in the headlights. When she realized we weren't moving until we were finished our gourmet meal, she stormed off, wonking all the way.
Ducky and I went back to work on our hot dogs. Across the alley was another hooker in her window. She waved us over to her. Intrigued, we managed to haul ourselves up to see what she wanted. She opened her door and asked us what had happened and if we were ok. I was surprised by how friendly and down to earth she was. She told us the other hooker was a bitch who was always yelling at the tourists and to pay her no mind. I remember thinking that this girl could have very easily been one of my friends, so normal did she seem. We sat and chatted with her for a bit; it was a slow night in the district.
When we finally turned to go, I saw that two middle-eastern looking men were ogling the wonker. She was dancing and squirming, trying to entice them to come to her. As they gestured to her to open her door, I suddenly found myself infuriated that the wonker was going to get business while my new friend there lost out because she was being nice to us. And I was not about to let that happen.
I stormed over to the potential johns, grabbed them by their shirts, and shouted, "You don't want to go to her, she's a bitch, go to HER instead!", and I literally threw them over to my new hooker friend. She quickly let them in, blew me a thank you kiss, and slammed her door shut. I smiled smugly to myself as her shade was drawn. I helped my new friend! I was so proud.
And then we heard that shrieking sound again. Only this time I could hear words like fucking bitch and you're dead mixed in with the shrieks.
I remember very clearly seeing Ducky's eyes go really wide as he grabbed my hand and screamed "RUN!!!!!!!!!". I turned to look, and saw that the hooker was coming after us with something in her hand. It might have been a bat, a machete, I had no idea. My life flashed before my eyes as Ducky jerked me around and we ran like hell, screaming like banshees. Crazy thoughts were flashing through my head - I can't believe how fast she can move in her Frederick's of Hollywood heels, I am going to be killed by a hooker in Amsterdam and that is all anyone will remember about me, just let us get back to Voorburgwal - she can't kill us in front of all those people. Our screams were almost as loud as hers - "MOOOOOLLLLLYYYY!!!!!!!!!!! HELP!!!!!!!!!!" I could hear her screeching behind us, "Your mommy can't help you now!!", just as we reached Voorburgwal and I slammed right into the arms of Molly.
The hooker stopped dead in her tracks when she realized we were under Molly's protection. He said something to calm her down, took away whatever was in her hand that she meant to kill me with, and sent her back to her window. He gave us a good scolding for interfering with her business, but he was really more interested in knowing where the hot dogs were. Then we got scolded again for forgetting his food. We decided then it was time to call it a night.
BF and I did make it back to the Hanky Panky the next day - around 5:00 pm. Molly couldn't believe we actually showed, and even Burp and his friends came down from upstairs when they heard we had arrived. Burp gave us a tour of the museum and Molly showed us pictures of the different rock stars he had tattooed. He drew at least a dozen roses for me until I had just what I wanted, gave me a package of toilet paper to put under my head for a pillow - something I don't think he did for just anyone - and gave me a mirror so I could watch him tattoo my ass. I must have screamed "Is that BLOOD!!!!" 20 times, and each time he would stop so I could see that it was ink, not blood. And yes, it hurts to get a tattoo! Anyone who says it doesn't is lying.
A few months later we went back to Amsterdam one last time. Our first stop was the Hanky Panky to see Molly and Burp again. To be honest, I didn't really expect them to remember us. We were tourists in a tourist town - girls like us came and went on a daily basis. Molly wasn't there, so we introduced ourselves to Henk Schiffmacher, the owner of the Hanky Panky, who insisted on seeing our tattoos.
Yep, that's a Hanky Panky rose alright, he said.
Just then Molly showed up and threw his arms around us.
You remember us! We were so happy to be remembered.
Molly burst out laughing and sent someone upstairs to get Burp. Then he said something to Henk in Dutch, who promptly burst out laughing as well.
So! Henk said, you're the one that almost got herself macheted by that hooker!!
It's always nice to be remembered.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Sunday, September 18, 2005
After several days of investigation in countless coffee shops, it became clear that the only place to consider for the permanent staining of our bodies was The Hanky Panky. It's not just a tattoo parlor, it's a museum. No seriously, it is. Stop laughing.
And so we got drunk. Isn't that what you are supposed to do when you get a tattoo? Never ones to do anything without an audience, we picked ourselves up a sidekick - an Israeli boy named Ducky. No kidding, his name was Ducky. You can't make that shit up. Ducky joined us as we proceeded to drink ourselves into a stupor at the hotel bar (another time I will tell you about the hotel, remind me) and then we spent the rest of the evening stumbling through the red light district in search of the Hanky Panky.
At last we found it. So much time and effort and alcohol had brought us to this moment that we could barely contain our excitement - or keep ourselves from swaying - as we made our way down the stairs to get our long awaited inkstains.
It was closed.
How can a tattoo parlor in the red light district of Amsterdam be closed at 10 o'clock at night? We were so incensed, so inebriated, that we actually managed to crawl up the two flights of stairs to "The Other Place", the bar above the tattoo parlor. Upon entering, we were full of questions. Why was the tattoo parlor closed! Where were the tattoo artists! Why was there a bong shaped like a penis behind the bar!
The bartender leaned very close to me and unloaded the loudest burp in my face that I have ever heard. He then informed us that the Hanky Panky was closed at night because of stupid American girls like ourselves who go in drunk at night for tattoos and then come back crying the next day because their parents are going to kill them. Then he walked away laughing to his friends at the bar, saying something in Dutch. I heard the words "silly bitches" in there somewhere.
I was drunk. Did I mention that? And no bartender walks away from me without giving me a free drink and hitting on me!
That's MISS Bitch to you.
Sorry Burp, I should have asked. Do you speak English?
Of course I speak English, you just heard me.
Ah, then I repeat, that is MISS Bitch to you. Now, where is the tattoo artist and what does one have to do to get a drink around here?
He cracked a smile. He fought it, but he did. He said something to his friends at the bar. They stood up and said they would be back with the tattoo artist. Burp ambled back over and asked us what we were drinking. He waved away our money.
Thank you Burp.
That's Mr. Burp to you.
It was then that we noticed the motorcycle hanging on the wall with what looked like a pair of woman's legs draped over it. Ducky and BF started noticing other things around the bar - pictures of bikers, leather jackets with fiery words, logos with skulls. We wandered around the bar with our drinks, ogling the various "art", as it slowly became clear to us where we were.
Apparently we had stumbled into a Hell's Angels' bar.
to be continued.....click here for part two
Friday, September 16, 2005
- My New Career. AKA How I Worked My Way Down To The Bottom Of The Food Chain
- I Married a German Dissident in Geneva
- Amsterdam, Tattoo Molly, and The Homicidal Hooker
- The Boy With The Cork
- Three Blind Dates
- Memories of Maloney's
- Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now?
- My Secret Crush
- Places I Have Been Kissed
- Pretty Boys All in a Row
Thursday, September 15, 2005
by Rev. Dr. Robin Meyers
Mayflower Church, Oklahoma City
As some of you know, I am minister of Mayflower Congregational Church in Oklahoma City, a church in northwest Oklahoma City, and professor of Rhetoric at Oklahoma City University. But you would most likely have encountered me on the pages of the Oklahoma Gazette, where I have been a columnist for six years, and hold the record for the most number of angry letters to the editor.
Tonight, I join ranks of those who are angry, because I have watched as the faith I love has been taken over by those who claim to speak for Jesus, but whose actions are anything but Christian.
We've heard a lot lately about so-called "moral values" as having swung the election to President Bush. Well, I'm a great believer in moral values, but we need to have a discussion, all over this country, about exactly what constitutes a moral value -- I mean what are we talking about? Because we don't get to make them up as we go along, especially not if we are people of faith. We have an inherited tradition of what is right and wrong, and moral is as moral does. Let me give you just a few of the reasons why I take issue with those in power who claim moral values are on their side:
When you start a war on false pretenses, and then act as if your deceptions are justified because you are doing God's will, and that your critics are either unpatriotic or lacking in faith, there are some of us who have given our lives to teaching and preaching the faith who believe that this is not only not moral, but immoral.
When you live in a country that has established international rules for waging a just war, build the United Nations on your own soil to enforce them, and then arrogantly break the very rules you set down for the rest of the world, you are doing something immoral.
When you claim that Jesus is the Lord of your life, and yet fail to acknowledge that your policies ignore his essential teaching, or turn them on their head (you know, Sermon on the Mount stuff like that we must never return violence for violence and that those who live by the sword will die by the sword), you are doing something immoral.
When you act as if the lives of Iraqi civilians are not as important as the lives of American soldiers, and refuse to even count them, you are doing something immoral.
When you find a way to avoid combat in Vietnam, and then question the patriotism of someone who volunteered to fight, and came home a hero, you are doing something immoral.
When you ignore the fundamental teachings of the gospel, which says that the way the strong treat the weak is the ultimate ethical test, by giving tax breaks to the wealthiest among us so the strong will get stronger and the weak will get weaker, you are doing something immoral.
When you wink at the torture of prisoners, and deprive so-called "enemy combatants" of the rules of the Geneva Conventions, which your own country helped to establish and insists that other countries follow, you are doing something immoral.
When you claim that the world can be divided up into the good guys and the evil doers, slice up your own nation into those who are with you, or with the terrorists -- and then launch a war which enriches your own friends and seizes control of the oil to which we are addicted, instead of helping us to kick the habit, you are doing something immoral.
When you fail to veto a single spending bill, but ask us to pay for a war with no exit strategy and no end in sight, creating an enormous deficit that hangs like a great millstone around the necks of our children, you are doing something immoral.
When you cause most of the rest of the world to hate a country that was once the most loved country in the world, and act like it doesn't matter what others think of us, only what God thinks of you, you have done something immoral.
When you use hatred of homosexuals as a wedge issue to turn out record numbers of evangelical voters, and use the Constitution as a tool of discrimination, you are doing something immoral.
When you favor the death penalty, and yet claim to be a follower of Jesus, who said an eye for an eye was the old way, not the way of the kingdom, you are doing something immoral.
When you dismantle countless environmental laws designed to protect the earth which is God's gift to us all, so that the corporations that bought you and paid for your favors will make higher profits while our children breathe dirty air and live in a toxic world, you have done something immoral. The earth belongs to the Lord, not Halliburton.
When you claim that our God is bigger than their God, and that our killing is righteous, while theirs is evil, we have begun to resemble the enemy we claim to be fighting, and that is immoral. We have met the enemy, and the enemy is us.
When you tell people that you intend to run and govern as a "compassionate conservative," using the word which is the essence of all religious faith -- compassion, and then show no compassion for anyone who disagrees with you, and no patience with those who cry to you for help, you are doing something immoral.
When you talk about Jesus constantly, who was a healer of the sick, but do nothing to make sure that anyone who is sick can go to see a doctor, even if she doesn't have a penny in her pocket, you are doing something immoral.
When you put judges on the bench who are racist, and will set women back a hundred years, and when you surround yourself with preachers who say gays ought to be killed, you are doing something immoral. I'm tired of people thinking that because I'm a Christian, I must be a supporter of President Bush, or that because I favor civil rights and gay rights I must not be a person of faith. I'm tired of people saying that I can't support the troops but oppose the war. I heard that when I was your age, when the Vietnam war was raging. We knew that that war was wrong, and you know that this war is wrong -- the only question is how many people are going to die before these make-believe Christians are removed from power?
This country is bankrupt. The war is morally bankrupt. The claim of this administration to be Christian is bankrupt. And the only people who can turn things around are people like you--young people who are just beginning to wake up to what is happening to them. It's your country to take back. It's your faith to take back. It's your future to take back.
Don't be afraid to speak out. Don't back down when your friends begin to tell you that the cause is righteous and that the flag should be wrapped around the cross, while the rest of us keep our mouths shut. Real Christians take chances for peace. So do real Jews, and real Muslims, and real Hindus, and real Buddhists--so do all the faith traditions of the world at their heart believe one thing: life is precious. Every human being is precious. Arrogance is the opposite of faith. Greed is the opposite of charity. And believing that one has never made a mistake is the mark of a deluded man, not a man of faith. And war -- war is the greatest failure of the human race -- and thus the greatest failure of faith.
There's an old rock and roll song, whose lyrics say it all: War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing. And what is the dream of the prophets? That we should study war no more, that we should beat our swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks. Who would Jesus bomb, indeed?
How many wars does it take to know that too many people have died? What if they gave a war and nobody came? Maybe one day we will find out.
Time to march again my friends. Time to commit acts of civil disobedience. Time to sing, and to pray, and refuse to participate in the madness.
Mayflower Congregational Church
**I would just like to add here that I am not a Christian - but I am grateful that there are Christians in America who are willing to look beyond their religious beliefs and realize what kind of man is running our country.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
7 Things I Plan to do Before I Die:
- Own a home
- Find a good man
- Go back to Australia
- Visit Bora Bora
- Write a book
- Sleep with one of my celebrity crushes
- Win the lottery
7 Things I Can Do:
- Make people laugh
- Play the flute
- Forgive someone who deserves it
- Organize just about anything
- Throw a great party
7 Things I Cannot Do:
- Whistle through my fingers
- Wear a thong
- Listen to ignorance
- Drive without cursing
- Vote Republican (ok, I'd vote for McCain)
- Understand physics
7 Things That Attract me to the Opposite (or same) Sex:
- A killer smile (with dimples)
- Makes me laugh
- Success (Do not confuse success with wealth. I don't care about wealth. I view success as someone happy in his career and his life)
7 things that I say most often:
- Shut up!
- Holy crap!
- Which part of (insert word or phrase here) don't you understand?
- Sounds good to me
- There ya go
- No worries
- Viggo Mortensen
- Brad Pitt
- Jon Bon Jovi
- Keanu Reeves
- George Clooney
- Matthew McConaughey
- Jared Leto
7 things I like to eat:
- Chicken Wings
- Eggs Benedict
Feel free to tag yourself!
**Added note: I was actually tagged for this after all. The Real Me tagged me days ago and even mentioned me in the post! But I have been a bad blog reader lately and I missed it. That's what I get for being a brat! Serves me right. Bad Brookie, bad!
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Several days ago, while walking along the hallway toward my classroom, I had an apostrophe. I actually stopped in my tracks as an overwhelming feeling of rightness took over my body. I'm surprised that the whole school didn't hear the bells ringing, or notice the way suddenly everything was clearer, brighter, sharper. I knew at that moment, sure as the sky is blue and the earth is round, that being a teacher is what was meant for me all along. I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. I am actually living what I once dreamed about doing. It is at once awe-inspiring and humbling. And is probably why I haven't written much about my teaching experience so far. It doesn't feel new to me. It just feels incredibly normal. And by normal I do not mean boring or tedious. It just....fits....like a glove. It's right.
Here in Florida we start the school year insanely early - teachers reported for work August 2nd. Don't ask me why - I know why - but don't ask me. It will only start me on a rant. Students start on the 9th. So I have officially been teaching for a month now. Everyone warned me that the first year is the hardest, and everyone was right. There is so much to learn! State mandates. County laws. School rules. Administration policies. Names of kids. Names of teachers. Names of secretaries, lunch ladies, teacher's aides. And none of that has anything to do with the actual job I was hired for - teaching! I have been lucky in that I have been assigned a fabulous mentor, have a great team of teachers to work with, and have a principal that loves me (she was one of my college professors - I had a 105 average in her class).
I am also team teaching, which means I share a room with another teacher and we split the duties. We have 31 kids in our first grade class. 16 are officially "mine", 15 "hers". We teach as one class, but for some activities the class separates. It's working out well - though it is crowded and a bit noisy. We take turns teaching whole class, and when one is teaching, the other is either monitoring the room or doing paperwork. We do all our lesson planning from home and email each other back and forth until it's complete. If you think this means we do half the work in half the time, then you would be correct. We are so organized - it's possible my partner is more anal than I am - that we are actually the envy of the other teachers. Our room is always neat. Our discipline plan is simple, direct, and extremely strict. Our kids love us and fear us all at once. It seems the stricter we are, the more they love us. Go figure.
Although I'm very strict, and even can be "mean" sometimes, I'm really a soft touch. The other day I took a test away from one of my girls when she tried to cheat. She put her head down on the desk and a few minutes later I realized she was sobbing. It absolutely killed me that I made a little girl cry like that. You have to realize that I teach at a very poor inner-city school. Most of these kids are living below poverty level. They have it rough enough as it, they don't need to be sobbing in school. And may I add that this particular little girl also has sickle-cell anemia. I felt like a shit. I hugged her and dried her tears, and we talked about why she tried to cheat. She actually knew the answer to the question on the test, she just didn't want to get it wrong - because she didn't want to disappoint me. Did I say I felt like a shit? I meant to say I felt like a gargantuan, super-sized, steaming pile of shit. I gave her test back, she finished it, and got a 100. Later she drew me a picture that said "I lov u Ms Rose".
I didn't feel so bad when I brought one of my boys to the principal's office later that day (my first time sending a kid to the principal!), considering he hit another boy in the face. This particular student drives me bonkers. If corporal punishment were still allowed he'd be in a full body cast from not only me but from all of his activity teachers as well. He walks into a classroom and the teacher groans. He has no self-control whatsoever. He is up out of his chair constantly, he talks non-stop, he shouts, he dances, he pushes and shoves. He is a walking/talking headache. After a particularly bad day recently - where both my partner and I and his activity teachers had reprimanded him numerous times - I found him walking through the cafeteria carrying his lunch with tears pouring down his face. Holy moly, is that remorse I see?! Is he actually feeling sorry for his behavior, for once?? I quickly went up to him and told him it would be ok, we all have rough days, his will get better. He looked up at me with his little tear-stained face and cried, "They don't have any pickles left!!!!", and then started wailing. I wanted to throw him into oncoming traffic. May I take this opportunity to thank the administration for giving this boy to me my first year teaching. Worst part is, he's the smartest kid in my class. Best part, he's got a doll for a mom. We have gotten to know each other quite well already, believe me.
I could go on about every student, but that would test the limits of my blog friends' patience. Simply put, I love them all, even the one mentioned above. I love that they hug me and want to succeed for me. I love the looks on their faces when I tell them I expect greatness from them. I love their gasps when I tell them I expect them all to go to college someday, and to become doctors and scientists and of course - teachers. I love that they think that I am right about everything, so I must be right about this too.
I get paid crap for doing this. And yet I can't help but feel sorry for everyone in the world who isn't a teacher.
Friday, September 09, 2005
One Selfless Act of Support for Relief Efforts Inspires Others
Written by Kevin Titus , Special to Redcross.org
Thursday, September 08, 2005 — GULFPORT, Miss. – When Drake Cox’s two daughters saw the devastation from Hurricane Katrina on their television set in Springfield, Mo., they asked their father: "Who’s going to help them, daddy?"
Initially Cox told them he didn’t know. Then, his little girls, ages 5 and 9, asked: “Daddy, can’t you help them?” That is when he knew he had to do whatever he could.
His family had been saving money for years for a trip to Disney World. Like most families, it was going to be their dream vacation. But, like so many on the Gulf Coast affected by Hurricane Katrina, the Cox family's plan would be put on hold.
The young girls told their mother and father that they would rather donate that money to the American Red Cross to help those affected by Katrina than go on vacation – Mickey would just have to wait.
“They inspire me to do everything,” said Cox about his loving, concerned daughters.
Moved by his children's generosity, Cox knew that he too could make a sacrifice. So he sold his beloved 2002 Honda Shadow motorcycle – that he had pampered and treasured – on eBay and gave 100% of the money to the Red Cross in support of the relief efforts. Their act of selfless charity has spurred others to action; when friends, neighbors and even strangers heard about it, they made sacrifices of their own and donated to the relief effort.
Cox, with his employee Jeff Paul, then set off to deliver their donations in person to the Red Cross on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. The last thing he did before he left for the coast was stop by his children’s school to say goodbye. His nine-year-old daughter gave him tearful hugs of pride, while his five-year-old girl gave him a high-five.
"Go get 'em dad!" she said.
Cox and Paul drove through the night and arrived at the Red Cross relief headquarters in Gulfport, Miss., with their donations, not seeking recognition but looking to provide relief to many who are suffering from losses caused by Katrina. Meanwhile, back in Missouri, his wife Pamela was coordinating available hotel rooms for evacuees who had come to the Springfield area seeking shelter far from the devastated coast.
The sacrifices of this little family in support Hurricane Katrina relief operations has attracted a lot of attention from the local media and even People Magazine – although Cox made it clear that this wasn’t about them. He indicated that his family didn’t want the attention; they only wanted to provide whatever help they could.
It is thanks to the generosity and compassion of families like this that the Red Cross is able to provide relief to the victims of disaster.
Now go to the Red Cross site and donate, donate, donate!!!!!!!
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Monday, September 05, 2005
This is what I would like to wake up to.
Please see what you all can do.
Thanks in advance.
**Added note: Thanks to all for my happy birthday wishes! And special thanks to those that sent me e-cards, email greetings,and mentioned me on their blogs (especially the ones with the fabulous pictures!). It was all very much appreciated and made turning the big 4-0 a little less freaky. I love you guys!
Still waiting on Viggo.......