Other people’s parents. I hate meeting other people’s parents. I feel like a total dork.
I’m just not so good at it. I try really hard to make a good impression. I get really nervous… and then I get really uncomfortable that they hate me and they know that they are making me nervous and they know that I’d rather be somewhere else and then I end up not talking at all because it’s easier than keeping up the conversation…
I’m sure it all comes from my parents. My mother, no matter how old my friend, talks to them like they are four. She gets freaked out by younger people. “DO YOU LIKE MOVIES? THAT’S GOOD. YOU’RE A GOOD BOY, YOU KNOW THAT?” My dad’s tactic is a little more blatant. He ignores them. Just sits in his chair and reads or watches television.
Other People’s Parents could be the nicest people on the earth, offering me chocolates and tea and “isn’t-the-weather-simply-atrocious” or they could be toothless and dancing on tables and I would still have the same look on my face: total and utter horror.
Which also makes me look like I’m bored and they aren’t entertaining me enough. So they ask me since I’m in comedy if I can tell them a few jokes and I try to say no and they say “come on,” and I try to explain that I’m not a stand-up comic and the stuff I do is improv, which you make up right there, or sketch, which requires other actors, props and costumes. So then they persist, saying that this is like improv, and “surely you must have one joke” and I always back down into my joke-in-the-pocket:
The Great Interrupting cow.
Oh! The Great Interrupt–
And hilarity ensues. pamie takes giant bow and is welcomed into said someone’s parent’s life.
I just got some bad news after I finished the above.
Two friends of mine are splitting up after quite some time together. I am deeply saddened and at a loss for words. I have other friends (two couples) going through divorces right now.
Love is funny, isn’t it? The things we do for love… the things we won’t do for love… the way that your mind gets all twisted around when you don’t know what you really want anymore and you don’t know what or who to hang onto, and part of you doesn’t want to hang onto anything and you want to be your own person and you want to do what’s best for You and No One Else, but then you think about it, and you really liked the person you were when you were with that someone else. Or you think about it, and you realize that you never want to be that person again. But there was a time, when this person meant the world to you. I find it amazing how easy it is for the human mind to forget about why they were with someone in the first place. We become obsessed with being correct in things… we want to be the Better Person in the ex-relationship. We want to be the one that friends and family side with. “Look what he/she did to me.” When the truth is often times you did it to each other. People become so vulnerable when they are in love. They will show you the very deepest, blackest part of their souls and look at you with frightened eyes asking, “Do you still think I’m great? Even after knowing that?” And of course you still think they are great, because nothing’s swaying you in the New Love stage of the relationship… but it all comes back in the Getting Sick Of You stage, where all the tricks are played. Every thing you’ve ever said that you regret saying was said during this stage. You never liked his parents. You never liked her poetry. She faked it with you the first time. He was the one to accidentally run over your cat. She always loved Last Boyfriend better. (That last one was actually said to me. He said, “I’ll never love you the way I loved ______ and that’s too bad for you. You’ll never experience my truest love and devotion.”)
And hey, I think I did, for a while. But when you are in the Angry Stages of the relationship, people say the cruelest things. It becomes a case of sibling rivalry. The couple are together long enough that they start thinking like brother and sister… they become competitive and fighting for the side of the bed and who uses the car and who holds the remote. It’s territorial.
But when It’s Over… that’s the saddest part. Because even if you get back together, there’s always that fear of abandonment coming back. It’s hard to let someone come back into your life after you’ve just worked so hard to get them out…
I’ve been very lucky. “Lucky” is a terrible word to use in this case, but I’m not sure which is the right word… I’ve always been the dumper. I’ve never been the dumpee… and I think that’s because I don’t leave a relationship until it’s just not going to work anymore. There’s too many raw emotions and frustrations to ever look into each other’s eyes and see the original love. And in just about every case, those men have stayed friends of mine… not best buddies or anything, but I can call them to talk if I wanted to, and we converse by e-mail and phone occasionally. And it’s a year later or eighteen months later, when you’ve really moved on in your life, or maybe found someone else, that you talk to your Ex and you really see why you fell in love with them in the first place. You remember who you were in the Beginning of the relationship and all the good times and then the bad times start seeming silly. And then you have a moment of regret… and then you remember the Getting Sick of You stage and the Really, Really Mean stage and you remember why you high-tailed it out of there.
Some relationships never get to the Really, Really Mean stage. They just lose that piece of electricity that brought them together. They grow apart naturally, or just don’t get what they need in life from the other person anymore. Those can be the saddest break-ups, because there’s no one to blame and there’s no catalyst for the end… it just stopped working. It stopped being your Favorite Thing. How do you explain that one to someone, eh? “It’s not you, it’s me.” Fuck you, it’s me. If it was you and not me, then I’d be breaking up with you and you’d be saying, “It’s not you , it’s me,” and I’d be going, “You’re damn right it’s you.”
I get so sensitive about relationships because being in love is a really important part of my life. It is my base. I don’t feel as funny or as warm or as good of a person without a complimentary side. I like who I am when I’m with my boyfriend. We make each other laugh. He knows me better than anyone else in the world. I am over-protective of our relationship because it’s sacred to me. He’s just an incredible person. And when I hear about break-ups (sometimes between people I thought would stay together forever…) then I get nervous that what I have right now is just as temporary as all the others have been.
In Los Angeles the keyboard broke down during final dress rehearsal. The keyboardist said everything would probably be fine for the show and not to worry… we went to a psychic down the street. And I had my palm read. She said that I was to have a really long life. I would really like my job when I was older. Something really great was going to come out of the show we were doing. I was going to have children. I was a good person and I shouldn’t worry so much.
Then she broke my heart.
–”You aren’t with anyone now, yes?”
–”No! I am! I have a boyfriend.”
–”Oh. And how’s that going?”
–”Oh. Because… how long have you been with him?”
–”About a year and a half.”
–”And everything is good?”
–”Well, I don’t see you with him forever. Someone is going to come in and sweep you off your feet. I see someone else in your future.”
And I wanted to scream, “My boyfriend is a Gemini! You’re seeing his twin!”
–”Are you sure?”
–”I could be wrong. If you two are happy. Of course I could be wrong. What do I know? Your keyboard will work.”
And it did. It worked the whole show. In fact, it cut out at one point, and our keyboardist got it back up before he had to play the next note.
But I hope she’s wrong. Because I really like the way things are now. Relationships tend to be a lot of work, but this is the most rewarding work I’ve ever done. I wish there was a way to tell him every day how much he means to me without sounding like Amy Fischer or something… but I think he knows. Deep down he knows that when I’m not with him I miss him. When I go to sleep, I dream of him. And when I think about my future, I always include him in my fantasies.
And then I think… I control my future, and if I want her to be wrong, I can make her wrong. And I will try my hardest. I guess that’s the hard part about relationships– trying to make them work when you start to falter. To keep going at it when your heart isn’t in it anymore, hoping to jump-start it to a place it once was. We all grow up all the time, and sometimes two people who were in the same place at one time end up two different people through the natural course of their lives. I quote The Prophet–
I’m just kidding. I’m not going to quote The Prophet. What kind of candy ass quotes the Prophet outside of a wedding? I just felt I was getting preachy. It’s your life. Live it how you want. Fall in love as much as you can. Have a blast. Just watch the heartbreaking, okay?
I hate to watch love die between friends. Then we have to choose sides and you never get to be a group again. You hear terrible stories about the other person and you don’t know what to think about either of them anymore.
But if they break-up, then they won’t get married… and then you don’t have to meet their parents… now there’s something to think about.
Uughh… I’m gonna go get drunk. In the name of love, of course.
i’m not getting too old, am i?
I watched the MTV Video awards last night. I probably wouldn’t have bothered, since it was Must-See-TV, and I missed all the shows from last season being on stage, but last night they decided to show the last Seinfeld again, and I had already seen it. So I flipped to MTV.
And I came to a terrible conclusion.
I’m getting older.
MTV is no longer for me. I don’t find my escape from the chains of my life. I don’t feel that those people know me and are singing to me and my heart doesn’t race for the Backstreet Boys.
Even last year I had a better time, watching Marilyn Manson and Chris Rock… this year, I felt that the whole thing was sloppy and silly. All the performers from my youth are getting older. The Beastie Boys are doing protests (although their set kicked ass), and for some reason Madonna now sounds like Madeline Khan. When did she become British? When? I kept waiting for her to go, “I’m really glad I won this award, because if I hadn’t there, well, I’d, there’s, flames. FLAMES. On the side of my face, heaving… breathing breath…”
And then there was a bunch of artists I didn’t give a crap about. I would find something else to watch. There were presenters I didn’t even know. That’s never happened before. I was always such a big fan of MTV growing up… I was watching “Video Killed the Radio Star” with all the others, but sometime after the invention of The Real World Seattle, I stopped bothering to turn in.
I mean, “Make ‘Em Say, UUUGHH?” What the hell is that? The guy sounds like he’s still learning to speak.
And I felt that someone in the MTV judging booth was trying to hold onto the same past that I was, otherwise Madonna and Will Smith would not have won as much as they did. We wouldn’t have seen Aerosmith, Metallica, Chuck D…The Beastie Boys’ Michael Jackson Video Vanguard Award Video Montage left much to be desired. They put much more soul into L.L. Cool J’s and Mark Romanek’s last year. Puff Daddy was not the big winner he was last year. And Fiona Apple? To quote my boyfriend, “Star power: dim, dimmer, dimming.”
I’m glad Hole played, but where was Radiohead? The Foo Fighters? How can “Smack My Bitch Up” win three awards (nominated for more) and be a video that was banned on MTV?
Why was Eric Clapton nominated for best male video? Who saw that video? What’s going on?
It was the worst presentation of the nominees ever. Just bits of clips slammed together with static and noise and YOU KIDS TURN DOWN THAT MUSIC, YA HEAR! PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO THINK AROUND HERE! Jesus, I’m complaining about the feedback on the award presentation and that makes me incredibly VH-1, I know, but I mean, COME ON! I want to see who was nominated, and not try and figure out what video was next. All the skipping and the scratching. I felt old. Who was Tatiana Ali?
Speaking of VH-1, don’t think that for a moment I’m not nervous that I watch much more VH-1 than MTV. I get my Pop-Up Video fix and even watch My Generation once in a while, but I’ll tell you, I don’t understand why Daria is funny. Is it supposed to be funny in a Janeane Garofalo sort of way? Or is it like the opposite of Beavis and Butthead (in which Daria was a funny character)… I just don’t get it. I don’t understand the pull of Daria. And once Daria was such a hit on MTV, I knew that I was no longer the target audience for MTV. They were already trying to push M2 on me, which I’ve never seen available anywhere, and I’m considered “retro” or something stupid like that… some half-ass label that basically means “older than college age kid but not, like, my mom or anything.”
I have no music station. Therefore, I have no identity. Or at least that’s what the television tells me. I gave up on the radio long ago, but giving up on MTV has really hurt a part of me that still wants to be wild and young. Pop Culture is one of my favorite things… but some of the people in today’s Pop Culture bore the hell out of me.
I want rock starts with guts. I don’t care if you “Don’t Get Down on the First Night.” Make me feel something when you sing. Make me cry and scream and jump around. At least keep me interested, for Pete’s sake. I mean, Matchbox 20? Like, gag me with a spoon.
I’m almost willing to say I’ve outgrown MTV because I don’t really want to be associated with today’s “MTV Generation.” But, I’m upset that they already gave it away without my willingness to give it up. It was a big part of my youth, and now it’s not for me anymore. I hope that today’s MTV Generation realizes that they are getting hand-me-downs, and not the original, powerful, style-making channel that MTV once was. They don’t even know what the Basement Tapes was. They have no idea who Dave Kendall was, and they could never shout at the top of their lungs in a ridiculous accent, “This is Dave Kendall on 120 Minutes here on MTV.” They never saw Adam Sandler as Stickpin. They didn’t watch Will Smith complain about his parents when we knew him as the Fresh Prince (and he didn’t have a t.v. show).
So, MTV is leaving me behind, and leaving me VH-1. I remember when I was a kid I hated VH-1. I thought it was total crap music, and I was concerned that I was becoming a crap music listener when I started watching it last year… but I think that VH-1 has lowered it’s age demographic for us… because if I remember correctly… yes… that’s right…I’ve never liked Michael Bolton… and I never will. VH-1 wants to be my new MTV, and like a neglected lonely child, I’m willing to be comforted in its mediocre arms. I can take a little Shania Twain with my Crowded House. Just don’t take away my Behind the Music.
pamie’s job gets to her brain. what are you doing there?
Staff meetings. The beginning of the end of my sanity. I try and keep calm here at work, but once I get told that someone is doing something wrong and since someone else is doing something inappropriate, we are all going to be punished together. I haven’t been treated this way since the first grade when all of our glue got taken away because James Vincent wouldn’t stop eating it.
I am an adult. I work with adults. Please don’t babysit me at work. Let me know if I’m doing a poor job. Let me know when I’m not doing something right. But don’t punish me with the others and take away my freedoms because someone else can’t handle it. Oh, it just chaps my hide. I tell you what. Micromanagement is dumb, dumb, dumb.
But pamie? Excuse me, pamie?
What? What? What do you want? I’m trying to vent here.
Don’t you work on your webpage every day at work?
pamie sits still for a while, deciding whether or not now is the best time to storm from the room
(cont.) I’m just saying I know they let you go home when you want and you have, like, unlimited sick days and stuff. And when you went to L.A., that was, like, no big deal.
But I have no creativity at this job! I just sit here at this desk and wait for the phone to ring and then I have to deal with angry customers and then I have these people telling me that I do my job fine, but they want to punish me just in case I think I may not start doing my job fine.
Oh. Cuz it sounds like you have a cushy job.
What do you know? YOU DON’T KNOW MY PAIN.
I’m just saying it seems like you’re overreacting a bit.
This job sucks my creative soul.
Would you take off that ridiculous beret?
I just think you need to calm down a little and realize that this job only sucks when you have meetings. You pretty much get to do whatever you want to do.
They try to control my every move.
Didn’t you write your last play while you were on the clock?
Not all of it…
Man, get off the floor. Stop pouting. Clean yourself up, for Christ’s sake.
You’re right. I should just sit here and show them they can’t break me with their silly rules and regulations. I can take whatever they throw at me. That makes me look like a good worker. Complete acceptance of whatever inane rule they decide for the day. YOU I’m just suggesting you stop wiping your nose on the mouse pad. You look disgusting.
Man, have some dignity.
You’re right. Would you sign my guestbook?
So anyway, I was a little worked up about work today, and I just want this damn week to be over. Even with the shorter work week it feels long, long, long. And I guess the waiting until the doctor’s appointment in October is just dragging things out further. Oh, and working on another show. And weekend shows on the road. (I’m driving to Corpus tomorrow for a gig (through violent thunderstorms) so I won’t be writing tomorrow… and if I don’t come back… well that’s another thing you can blame on El Nino.)
So, anyway… I’m just starting paragraphs with “So Anyway,” and that’s terribly good writin’… shoot, ma, you shure talk good.
Have you ever had to take a test at work? I don’t mean for certification or for promotion or anything… I had to take a test at the staff meeting. A test to see if management was drilling things into our heads enough. A test to see if they were doing their job good enough. It pisses me off to be a guinea pig. I just had to take a test to see if I know everything I was supposed to know a year ago and some of the stuff on the test we were told we were never supposed to know by heart if we knew how to find it but apparently the rules have changed and someone forgot to tell the worker bees. Jeez, I hope I get a good grade. I want to keep up my NT GPA. Christ. Next I’ll need a hall pass to go pee.
will the storm bring new life into pamie?
check it out!
(I realize that if you dawdled to this page, you may not see an accurate link, but it’s supposed to rain for the next four days. Like, storm, which hasn’t happened in, like, forever.)
Rain. Wonderful rain coming this weekend. So excited. So freakin’ hot around here. Been darn hot for so long. Must… kill… man who turn sun on hot.
Because, I’ll tell you what, I’m feeling like this guy over here to the right, and I’m tired of it. If you ever come to Austin, there’s this thing that we say, and it’s completely true. If you never had allergies before in your life, you will get them after you’ve lived in Austin for three years. You develop them. It’s sick. I wake up every morning sneezing and sniffling and I get to work and everyone thinks I was just in some traumatic fight with my boyfriend because I’m all puffy-faced and tired and the fact is I just want to go back to bed.
Then I’m tired all afternoon, and then I go to rehearsal or whatever and I get home at the end of the night and I’m wired. I can’t sleep. I stay up until three or four in the morning and start the whole damn process over again the next day.
So hopefully the rain will clear away some of this crap in the air. When did I turn into Travis Bickle? Jesus.
Also, lately at work, I’m becoming a bit of a journal junkie. I don’t usually stick around for long, but I like looking around to see what else is out there. So if you’re wondering who that damn uugate.tivoli.com is, it’s me. I lurk around to see what’s new.
And there’s more, not to mention the guys on the main page, but I’m starting to realize where my day goes and I’m getting a little depressed. Most of these guys stop by my page and I wanted to give some props.
It’s just been so damn hot this summer, that I haven’t been going outside on my work breaks for fear of starting a massive asthma attack. Come on, autumn. What am I talking about? There’s no seasons in Texas. We barely have any trees. It doesn’t ever turn cool here, just one day it gets cold. It’s always Halloween night, and you’ve worn some French Maid or Bunny costume and you’re freezing your cottontail all night long.
I think I need a vacation. Just get away from Texas for a while. Going to LA wasn’t exaclty a vacation, since I was working the whole week on the show. I want to pull out my sweaters and jeans and big clunky shoes. I want to see my breath. I want to snuggle under the covers and complain that my toes are freezing.
Has it come to this? I’m talking about the weather? Have I shared with you so much these past couple of weeks that I’m reduced to talking about the heat, the humidity, the pollens? Probably not. It’s just a slow day.
I’m so damn bored at my job lately. I just want to be more creative. I feel like tech support is sucking my soul. I’m a human manual. And I never liked doing technical writing. I wish I got paid for the things in my life that I do that really make me happy. Then I wouldn’t have to sit here every day and feel my eyesight weaken. But, then again, so few are that lucky. I’m lucky enough that I have a job with flexible hours and such. I have benefits….(speaking of weakening eyes.. I’d better check on that Vision Plan)…and it’s not like my job is that hard. Just tedious. I detest things that waste my time and are tedious. Like changing the kitty litter. You’d think they would have learned by now how to do it on their own. Lazy bums.
Found out that a friend of mine who recently dropped everything to move away and see a girl moved away and dumped the girl and is probably coming back. He’s been gone about a week and a half. Sometimes it’s hard to start all over again, and once we get away from what we thought was holding us back, we realize how much it gave us the determination and stamina we had in the first place. If you get away from what breaks you, what weakens you, and what you fear, then you live without accomplishing. You live without moving.
This Hallmark moment has been brought to you by pamie, who urges you to get out more and don’t just drink diet coke and eat popcorn all day in a little hole someone calls an office. Look what it does to you. Absolutely pitiful.
That’s what I was all set to write about yesterday. I was going to talk about Sunday’s wedding reception and how people who don’t normally get on the dance floor become Michael Flatley the second cake is served.
But then my car broke down, and I don’t feel like writing about being the stage queen anymore. Instead of singing “Dancing Queen,” now I can hear whenever I put the key in the ignition my car singing “Take a Chance on Me.”
Okay, so my car won’t start yesterday and I have to get a ride to work. I had found a ride home and was supposed to pick up my friend after work. My boyfriend said he replaced the battery before he went to work, so I got a ride home from a co-worker. Now, I had a show last night– Laura House’s Going Away Benefit, and I didn’t want to miss that… so I got home and my co-worker drove away… and my car wouldn’t start. Luckily two women were leaving their apartment just at the same time, and I got them to jump my car. I went to the bar to pick up my friend, but he could not hear me honking outside. So I decided to pull around into the alley, leave my car running long enough for me to run in and get him, and my car would be just fine. Well, in my haste to jump out of the car and come back without it being stolen, I forgot to put the car in park. It starting rolling forward towards this Jetta, and I had to jump in my car all Luke Duke style and put on the brakes. Just as I stopped the car before it hit the car in front of me, the car died again.
My friend came out and tried to jump the car. It wouldn’t start. We kept trying and trying and then decided that since it was a brand new battery, my alternator must be broken. Now, I have free towing and roadside assistance with my cell phone, but I left my cell phone at home. So now the deal was, we were to go to the show, and my friend would take me home after the show, pick up my phone, drive back to the bar and get my car towed. Now the car is kind of half-in/half-out of the alley, and my friend decides that if I put the car in neutral, he’ll just push it into the alley. I explain to him that the car is on an incline, and he is about 5’7″, and that the car will roll him over. He tells me he’ll be fine, but to watch him through the rear view mirror. I put the car in neutral, it started rolling backwards and my friend began waving his arms frantically. It took three of us to push the car into a less-likely-to-be-towed position.
So I started drinking. People kept buying me drinks because I looked so pitiful. The price of the battery that afternoon had insured that I was pretty broke until next week (ever been to a wedding and didn’t end up broke afterwards?). Instead of forgetting my troubles, however, I started wallowing in them.
So three of us are driving to the show in a two-seater car. Very comfy. The car was a convertible. We were late for the show, so driving pretty quickly. My hair looked like hell. My face felt like hell. And I had all my stuff from work and the show over my shoulder.
The show went well, and we were over pretty early on in the night. So I went to find my friend… couldn’t find him. I thought, “Well, I’ll go check his car.”
Gone. Gone, gone, gone, daddy, gone. He and his girlfriend had left. And I was stuck at a comedy club. Oh, and they drove off with some of my stuff in their trunk. So I started drinking some more, because my other friends were like, “Dude, that sucks. Wanna beer?” And they’d buy me a beer. The “Get-pamie-drunk” fund was much more successful than the “Get-pamie-home” fund. If you put my fund with Laura’s fund, we raised some serious cash in the hiz-ouse last night.
So I start calling around, and then finally get a hold of another friend, who is at the same bar that my car is stuck at, who is sitting with my friend who left me at the club. Friend who left comes back to pick me up, while friend at bar contacts my boyfriend at work to come and be my hero yet again.
I got back to the bar and my car jump started without a problem. Then my boyfriend came by and cleaned the battery connections with some SOS pad or something, and now everything works fine.
But it took all day and all night yesterday for everything to work fine. And I was tired. I’m still tired.
I depend on my car so much, and when it doesn’t work, I feel really lost. Pitiful. And trapped. Like I have no way out.
So, I was the dancing queen at the wedding reception, did I mention that? It was just the most I’ve ever danced at a wedding. We had a blast. Jumping around, smoking and drinking, making total fools out of ourselves. It was great to just sweat for a couple of hours. But I was paying for it on Monday. The spine does not like you to surprise it with half an hour of “The Twist” followed by “The Butt” when you have only been using it to do “The Web” for three months prior.
I’ve also been rather busy at work this week, which always kind of chaps my hide, because I’d rather just sit here and type. But my job is one of those that interrupts you rather than something you can do and then you go and do this, and then you come back to this. Waiting for the phone to ring makes your brain go a little crazy.
Consequently, I apologize for missing yesterday’s entry. I just want a nap.
But I wrote a song. It’s to the tune of “Mo Money, Mo Problems” by the Notorious B.I.G.:
“I don’t know what my car wants from me it’s like the more miles I drive across the more problems we see.”I’m also a fan of my boyfriend’s alternate version:
“I don’t know what my Mazda wants from me it’s like the more money I spend on it the more problems I see.” Stupid car. “my car sucks cash, too”
“Some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world. I want to be the one to walk in the sun. Oh, girls, they wanna have fun. Oh, girls just wanna have fun.”
– Cyndi Lauper, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
So I didn’t go to Girls’ Night Out. I went out with the boys. I had never been to a “Gentlemen’s Club” before. I didn’t know what to expect. I thought there’d be sex in the hallways and drugs and Joe Pesci beating some guy in the corner and beer bongs and such. I know girlfriends/fiancees/wives who tremble at the two words “Bachelor Party.” Images of Tom Hanks and sheep pop into their heads, along with the Jerry Springer episode of the men having the bachelor party in front of the bride-to-be, enjoying every second of touching another woman with America’s approval. I, too, was against the concept of Bachelor Parties being a “Rite of Passage” for all men… the last hurrah as a single man. The last time you are allowed to stray from your new Ball and Chain. My view of these parties has changed. The emphasis is on the word Party. It’s another drinking party with a bit of sex thrown in for fun and teasing.
The reason I was so pissed about what happens at Bachelor Parties is it always seems like more fun than Bachelorette Parties. If you happen to go see male strippers at a club, it just isn’t the same experience. First of all, the men are never really that attractive. They are older, and so muscular that their bodies become a joke. They act like they control you, and that they are sexier and prettier than you are. The music is stupid. No one wants to see someone grind to Bon Jovi or AC/DC. The men are greasy and cold. Inevitably, it becomes a case of “which girl is going to touch that guy” and the women are squealing and daring each other to touch that thing. The same effect could be made by putting a dissected frog on stage…it’s just as cold and slimy and attractive, and we’d still just dare each other to touch it. Except the frog won’t touch back and force our heads into their crotches. It’s embarrassing, and not sexy at all. Bachelor Parties seem to be one big sex fest, and they get to listen to L.L. Cool J and Prodigy. Not fair. I want a Ladies Club where the men are sexy and you want to spend your money.
So now I’ve done both. And the Gentlemen’s Club experience is so much better. I’m going to tell you what goes on at these parties, in case you have never, or will never experience one of these first hand. Here we go.
I went to this party to find out what the big deal is. Why men like to go. Is it just titties? Is it the taboo of touching other women? Or is it getting together with your closest friends to send someone off in one final night of wild living? I went with the decision that I was not going to make anyone conscious of the fact that there was a girl there. I didn’t want to hinder anyone’s good time. I didn’t want to be the one mistake of the night.
The Rules There are some rules involved, and the first rule is what is making this entry so hard to write. What happens at these parties is sacred and not to be shared with anyone else. Because of this, I will only write what happened to me, and how it affected me. Everyone else will be left out, as it is the right thing to do, and since I was invited along, I’m keeping my promise with the others. Not that anything heinous went on, but if someone reads this that knows someone who went to this, the last thing I want is to be told I can’t go next time, because I’ll tell the world (literally).
I believe that No Touching is a rule there. That didn’t really happen, but I’ll explain later.
Everyone buys that bachelor dances and drinks. The bachelor never has to dig into his wallet for anything he wants that night. The Best Man is in charge of making sure that the Bachelor is getting everything he wants.
Everyone else is supposed to get really drunk and act like fools.
I was not the only woman at the club. I was the only woman in our party. But there were less than five other women in the house. The other women guests mostly stayed in their seats.
The dancers are very pretty. They are very limber. They smell good. And man, are they soft. There’s this powder that they put on themselves…if only the Ladies’ Club men would get in on this act…they may get more money. Scent is very important, and softness… well, you can’t beat that.
The women have an attitude on the stage. They are either very bored or very sassy. I preferred the sassy ones to the flippant ones. I mean, they should at least act like they are happy to see us, right?
There are different reasons men go to these establishments. We were there for the right reasons. But some men are there merely to feel like they are getting lucky. The funny thing is those men never look like they are really having a good time. It’s like they are at a grocery store, going down their checklist to see if they got enough Asian Titties, enough Catholic Schoolgirl Thighs, enough Baby Doll Blonde Ass Cheeks… seems rather boring to me to just make sure you touch every naked woman there.
Men come with other men, men come by themselves, and men come with a woman. The men in packs are the most boisterous. They look like they are having the most fun.
Now, first let me say I wasn’t nervous until we were about to turn into the club. Then I thought maybe I was making a mistake and that I was about to ruin my friend’s Bachelor Party experience. Was I going to make the other men uncomfortable and not want to have the normal party? Did they think I was going to rat on them or exaggerate the stories to make my night sound more deviant? Or, quite simply, was I going to make them feel guilty?
I wasn’t nervous after we had taken our seats. There wasn’t as much nudity as I thought. There were three stages with women on them, and they were set up around the club. There were a couple of bars, and I heard a rumor that there was a Black Jack table, but I never saw one.
The first thing I did was use a restroom, where I was washing my hands next to a mostly naked woman who was counting her money for the night. We had a pleasant conversation about hand soap. There were three stalls in the room, and they were filthy and covered in graffiti. None of the toilets flushed. I went back to the guys and told them about it and they were surprised, because their bathroom had a bathroom attendant and a shoe shine guy. Equality of the sexes, it wasn’t. So I had my boyfriend steal me mints from his restroom all night.
Oh yeah, I went with my boyfriend. So at first he was getting teased that he wasn’t allowed to have any fun tonight, and they were teasing me that I cannot hold anything against him or get mad or jealous.
And then I went up to have my first dance with the lady on the stage.
I’m not exactly sure what happened… but somehow I became a bit of a star. I’m wearing all the clothes, but people were giving me money to go up and get dances instead of them. And it was a blast. The dancers were having a good time, too, because they could play around with me more (they had a good time rubbing their heads on my chest and making it look like they were making out with me by covering my head with their hair.) They would laugh and talk to me and ask if I was with the large table of whooping guys. I got to experience the attention that a dancer gets without actually taking my clothes off. What I didn’t realize was that every time I went up to get a dance (it only costs a dollar, which I find amazingly cheap), all the men in the room were watching us. I started going up with my friends so we could have group dances, etc. and it was so silly that I was just laughing the whole time.
A man came up to me and asked me if I could “help him with his wife.” Apparently it was her idea for the two of them to go, but when she got there she got shy, and he said I looked like I was having a good time, and he wanted her to see how painless and fun it is. It was fun until the guy came around the third time asking me, and then the whole table got a little creeped out.
Some women kept up the act the whole time, dancing with me and touching me and such… and there were some women that I actually started thinking liked me. I realize that that’s what a lot of men probably start thinking as well, “Hey, she really likes me. I mean the real me. She sees who I really am.” Silly, but these girls are very good actresses. And they look like they are having fun, and they are having fun with you, and remember what I said before about them being soft and smelling good.
The Table Dance
(aka Lap Dance)
So it was decided that I was getting a lap dance. After paying for a few at the table, the novelty was wearing off. It was the end of the night, and everyone was just about broke. What could top the evening? Some seriousgirl-on-girl action… you can’t beat that for $25.
First let me say that I missed the Beastie Boys concert that night, and I was a little bummed out, since I’m sure they won’t be around for a while.
So this girl is picked for me, and she’s sitting on my lap talking about school and dancing and where she used to work and such (another difference from Ladies’ Clubs… I never saw Male Strippers talk to anyone). In mid conversation the song started and she got off my lap and started dancing… which was more of a jolt to me than anything else… but then I heard the song. “Intergalactic” by the Beastie Boys. I was getting my concert after all.
It was fun. I got to play the exhibitionist. I got to give the Bachelor a send-off in a way that the other boys just couldn’t. I got to make the evening unforgettable, and I had a great time. She’s talking to me the whole time, which was a little weird, but I think she realized that I was looking into her eyes and not at her ass, and she felt compelled to talk. I didn’t mind the conversation.
I’m so much shorter than anyone else in that bar. All the dancers towered over me, and I’m looking like I’m twelve, but I’m feeling kind of sexy because I’m getting all this attention, and then my dorkiness came through. She misjudged my height, because I’m probably six inches shorter than her average clientele, and she kicked me in the face with her platform shoe. We had an awkward apologetic moment together, and then she kept going. I can’t even be a sexpot right.
What I noticed different about our party is that although we were looking around, we were still talking to each other and having a good time. We were joking about the Bachelor getting married, and we were comparing women and their various talents/merits and such. But after you are there for about two hours it changes a little. You stop noticing that the women are topless, and you start looking for clothing to entice you a little. People are sitting around chatting with topless women and no one seems to care. I saw a man getting a lap dance and when she had her back to him she was yawning, and he was checking his watch. I saw another man getting a lap dance, but watching the lap dance behind him rather than the girl in his lap. They eye starts looking for something, anything new, and eventually all novelty is worn off, and you’re ready to go home and have some cheap beer.I had always though of Bachelor Parties as an excuse to mess around on your significant other. I thought they were painful and cheap. What I learned the other night is that when they are done correctly, it is merely a way of throwing the ultimate party for the bachelor. To tell him what an incredible friend he is, and to celebrate the fact that his marriage is tomorrow. We don’t want him to go home with these women, but we want him to feel loved by these women… well, not so much loved, but attractive. That his life is not ending (although that’s what gets shouted a bit, “You’ll never have this again.”). That the act of settling down with a woman does not mean that all sexuality is over. The Bachelor Party affirms that although the Bachelor is about to be a husband, it does not make him any less of a man.
So I had a blast. I was crowned “Best Woman” alongside the Best Man. I had a good time being “One of the Guys.” My boyfriend joked that I got to see the Inner Sanctum. I was honored to be invited. And what I saw wasn’t as scary as everyone made it out to be. I’m willing to try anything once. And the crew I was with will probably make sure it isn’t my last.
hold onto your hats…and bouquets… and programs… and that three-year old, where’d he go?
My friends’ wedding was a complete success. It was darn close to being a total disaster. It was an outdoor wedding, and it was probably 103 degrees when we all got to the church in wool and polyester and pantyhose and flowers and hairspray and jackets and pants and all. So we were set for a sweat fest.
Then the ceremony was about to begin, and I looked in the sky: dark, dark clouds. I was so nervous that we were going to get poured on. We started the ceremony, and then the wind hit. You know that crazy wind right before a huge storm? Blowing us around like you wouldn’t believe. But everyone in the ceremony was an actor, and you know how we are: “The Show Must Go On.” And we got a little louder (some a LOT louder) and we got a little bigger, and kept a sense of humor through the whole thing. Every once in a while a drop would fall… but we beat nature.
It never rained on us.
And it was the most engaging wedding you’ve ever seen. Such tension, such drama. It’s like in Poltergeist when the dad’s trying to get out the keys to let the family in the car before the undead gets him… we just wanted to hear “Kiss the Bride” before the crash of thunder and lightning. Every added song, every reading was another layer of suspense. Will the sister singing on the karaoke machine get electrocuted at the climax of the song from a sudden downpour? Will the veil get blown off the bride’s head before the groom lifts it to kiss her? Will all the flowers blow away? Will the children start crying? Will we still be able to hear the ceremony? And most of all… What happens if it rains?
Relationships are full of drama and comedy. Theatre is full of drama and comedy. The ceremony between two members of our theatre world should be just as exciting, fulfilling, and ultimately– entertaining. Let God join the two of you together with a mixing of his most powerful elements. Let the world see you start together with all of your friends and family determined (as Viola is to find Sebastian after the storm in Twelfth Night) to start your lives off right. Let us cry for you because it finally happened. Let us cry for you because we are proud of you, happy for you, and relieved that everything went well. Let us cry for you at the mere spectacle of it all.
Love is messy. It is fast, unpredictable, and surprising. Love makes you dizzy. Sometimes you have a bit of cleaning up to do when love sets you down for a second. Love makes your friends get caught up in it and want to be a part of your love so bad they don’t care the consequences. Let ‘em take a branch to the eye for love.
Don’t ever let your storm die down. Always keep it exciting and amazing and electrified. And when you hit that calm of the eye of the storm, appreciate it for what it is– down time before the next whirlwind… time to buy more survival equipment, time to check on the chicken coop.
Don’t shake your fist at the storm, but thank it for the way it will keep your life always interesting, and never, ever dull.
To Weldon and Martinique Happiness and Passion Forever I Love You
karma, n. 1. Hinduism, Buddhism. action seen as bringing upon oneself inevitable results, good or bad, either in this life or in a reincarnation. 2. (loosely) fate or destiny. — karmic, adj.
It’s only fitting that after mocking my gynecological exam last week that I should get the phone call this morning. That’s how things work, you see. You mock something to the American Public and it will bite you on the ass. They have found abnormal cells in my pap smear. They don’t know what that means, exactly, until they run some more tests. They will run these tests in a few weeks. That is when they are next free. They are going to perform what is called a colposcopy, and then they will know more if these cells are pre-cancerous, and then what treatment I should follow. They left me with more questions than I had answers and a knot in my stomach that cursed the gorditas I had just eaten before answering the call.
So, all this sent me into near hysterics this morning, and I left work shaking and confused and I spend $50 on office supplies to make me feel better. I got nice new pens and paper that comes in a carrying case and new ink for my printer and a new notebook to start working on my new play. I thought that playing with staplers and yearning for scanners would keep my mind of things. It did, until I got home, and I was alone and I was still confused. I had friends tell me that it’s probably nothing, but I can’t shake in my head that this kind of thing never happens to me, I’m not usually really sick in like a hospital sick kind of way, and I’m terrified of chemotherapy (having seen my father go through it) and then I got myself all worked up again.
Sally Jessie Raphael this afternoon was about women with cervical cancer that cured themselves with homeopathic remedies. Sesame Street was about how important it is to take care of yourself when you are sick.
I was scared. All afternoon I was scared. I have to wait an entire month to know any more than I do now. So I went online, and I started doing some research as to why I’m getting this procedure and what it means.
Here’s the best explanation, from Planned Parenthood in Houston:
Your clinic has just called to say that your recent routine Pap test for cervical cancer has an “abnormal” result. What should you do? How should you feel?
A few women may panic at this news because they think “abnormal” means something very serious is wrong [That would be me, Ma'am]. Fortunately, most women know this is not true. It does means two things:
1. Further tests are needed to find out where these abnormal cells are and what kind of cells they are.
2. She should have another checkup soon, even though she feels just fine. Quick action will help prevent any serious problems from developing and will also relieve any worry.[Tell that to my physician, who's making me wait a month.]
Since, as a screening test, a Pap smear may not give the complete picture, her clinician may order a colposcopy. With the help of an instrument called a colposcope, a biopsy (tissue sample) can be taken. This greatly improves the accuracy of diagnosis
More info and answers can be found here.
Then I found this site:
What is colposcopy?
Colposcopy is an office procedure performed by your doctor to evaluate the exact meaning of an abnormal pap smear from the cervix. It can also be used to more accurately evaluate abnormalities of the vagina, vulva or external genital area.[yummy.]
Why is a colposcopy recommended?
Colposcopy is usually recommended if you’ve had abnormal Pap smears, or if an abnormality on your cervix was identified during your pelvic exam.[suddenly I realize that my last doctor was lying to me. I don't have a beautiful cervix. She was just sweet-talking me. I feel so cheap.]
What happens during the procedure?
You will lie on an examination table, just as you would for a Pap smear. Your doctor will insert a speculum into the vagina to hold it open, just like the procedure for obtaining a pap smear. Then, a vinegar and water solution [HEL-LO!] will be applied to the cervix to make the abnormal areas more visible. You may feel a slight tingling sensation at this time.
Next, your doctor will use an instrument called a colposcope, which provides magnification, to evaluate the cervix. With your permission your doctor then may decide to biopsy your cervix and endocervical canal to evaluate any areas in question. Some medication may be applied if there is bleeding from the biopsy.
Colposcopy takes between 15 to 30 minutes and is performed in your doctor’s office.
After the procedure, you may experience light bleeding or mild cramping from the biopsy which can last for several hours.
It is best to avoid sexual intercourse for a period of one to two weeks following a colposcopy procedure. [damn.]
For most patients, it is safe to return to work and resume other activities such as driving and exercising as soon as you feel able.
And if you need to know what all this looks like, this site was kind enough to show you what your insides look like.
Then I found some scare tactics:
Examples of alternatives [to colposcopy] are:
1. conization (removing a cone of tissue ) of cervix.
2.doing nothing and risk dying of cancer of the cervix.
Then I found a picture of the actual instrument:
And I guess that’s when I started calming down about the whole procedure. It’s just a test to see what’s wrong. And what’s wrong is in such an early stage that they can fix it. They’ll freeze something or blast something or coax something out of there and I’ll be fine. So, nine hours after finding out this news, I’m feeling better. I’m not crying at the drop of a hat (I was crying at A League of Their Own this afternoon, for Christ’s sake!), and I don’t keep hugging my cat like it’s for the last time.
I urge you, if you are a sexually active woman, or a woman over the age of seventeen, get an annual physical every year. I go every year, and all of a sudden there’s something they’re worried about. Early prevention is critical in so many of these diseases. Please contact Planned Parenthood, or your Primary Care Practitioner or your family doctor to get your annual. It’s good for your body, and it’s good for your peace of mind.
I’m fine. I’m going to be fine. I’m upset that I had to do all of this research on my own, and that my doctor wasn’t the one telling me that all of this was fine, and she had this apathetic tone of voice, throwing out words like “biopsy,” “cancer,” and “abnormal.” It took my own research, and the stories of my friends to reassure myself that I’m just going through a minor medical trauma, and that I’m gonna turn out fine.
I wish I didn’t have to wait a whole month to find out any more info. I wish that we had a better health care system. I wish I knew what was wrong with me.
Time to sit and wait. Keep myself calm, and focus on the important things in my life. I just hope those cells sit and wait until their big day, and don’t try and dress up or impress the doctor or anything. I’m sure my cells are big show-offs too. I can’t believe there’s another part of me that’s abnormal.
I swear, sometimes I’m just one big joke.
“nothin’ to see here”
So…we wrote a really funny sketch at rehearsal yesterday. It really is funny. I think people will like it. The rub? It requires total nudity.
Watch as pamie’s spine shrivels into the back of her neck…
I just can’t do it. Now, look, I’ve thought a lot about it and everything, and I’ve decided that this sketch is about comedy. It’s about making people laugh. My naked body is not funny.
It’s more like an exhibit on Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Okay, maybe I’m being a little hard on myself or whatever, but it’s my decision whether or not to parade my body around in front of strangers, but the guys in my troupe are so disappointed that I don’t want to bare all…well, the guys and the girls, I was using the term “guys” collectively. Here in Texas we refer to that as “All Y’all.” That’s the plural form of “Y’all” in case you didn’t know…
I mean, what would make me do it? How would I get over my fears of being naked and pointed at? If I was getting paid? Nah, not really. If I was getting whistles and grins? Most definitely not. If I was being filmed so I couldn’t see anyone’s reaction? That’s too creepy. Maybe if I had a bag over my head so I couldn’t see them.
So then I was feeling bad that I was letting down the group think of the troupe and I was like, “Okay, it’s time for me to stop being a baby and just do it. Just say I’ll get naked.”
I didn’t say this aloud, of course, so I can still back out at anytime.
But if I just decide to like my own body more, become more comfortable with who I am, I won’t have this problem. Let’s see, for me to become more comfortable with my body, I have to like my body more. For me to like my body more it has to look like someone else’s body. For me to have someone else’s body, I have to live in a Science Fiction novel. For me to live in a Science Fiction novel, I’d probably have an alien body, and for me to have an alien body I’d have a whole new set of body issues about having my father’s antennae and my mother’s nine eyes and I’m probably not ready to deal with that.
So then I decide that to be comfortable with my own body I have to just change my body to how I want it to be. I start exercising like a moron…”Oh, since I’m sitting at this red light, I should do some butt squeezes. Boy, am I changing my life around. That’s so good for me. Look how much healthier I am.” Five butt squeezes and suddenly I’m Susan Powter. I drink five bottles of Naya a day. You know, those 1.5L bottles? I convince myself that I am burning more calories on my nineteen trips to the bathroom every day at work (even healthier) and my smoking is a great appetite suppressant (health, health, health). Who needs deal-a-meal when you have float-away?
Then I start feeling thinner (because peeing every half-hour makes you feel pretty svelte) and I decide to stand naked in front of the mirror.
And then that evil critic in my brain starts shouting like Carrie’s mother, “THEY’RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU! THEY’RE ALL GONNA LAUGH AT YOU!” And I know that the whole point is that they laugh in the first place, and what are the chances that the entire audience is only starting at my thighs, but my brain is very, very paranoid. I convince myself that I should probably be in a shroud and not visible to the public again and then I try and cry but I can’t because I’ve peed all fluids out of my system and I convince myself that food is the enemy and that I can sustain on a power bar a day and then I remember how power bars taste like rice crispies soaked in molasses and I get nauseous and then I decide that maybe if I only think of power bars I’ll never be hungry again.
Then I decide I’m being silly again, and that there’s nothing wrong with my body, and my boyfriend loves me, and he loves my body, so why shouldn’t I? And then I think, “They just don’t know I’m the master of disguise. Without my protective baggy T-shirt the world will know. I’ll be like the Phantom of the Opera without the mask. The Incredible Hulk without the ripped shirt. Divine without a dress.
Then I get depressed again and decide that it’s time to like my body. I decide that the only thing keeping me from liking my body is the way it looks. I decide to lose X number of pounds. I decide it will take X number of weeks (this number is usually the countdown to a major event– wedding, show, seeing old boyfriend, seeing current boyfriend’s family, etc.). I convince myself that I have total control over myself and what I eat. Then I realize that I don’t eat so much, it’s just that I don’t eat things good for me because I’m so busy I never have time to cook. Decide to cook more. Go to store, buy $200 worth of groceries. Start doing yoga. Lots of yoga. Butt crunches in car. Start buying Subway sandwiches for lunch. Get home very late, very drunk on weekdays, do show on weekends. Get wrapped up in some friend’s crisis. Realize a week and a half has gone by. Throw out $200 worth of rotten stupid vegetables and skinless, boneless meat.
It’s hard to love your own body. Even when my boyfriend is talking about how much he loves my body, I’m thinking, “Wow. Love really is blind. Or he’s not wearing his contacts.” Then I start thinking that maybe he doesn’t wear his contacts on purpose when he’s with me. Then I realize that I’m truly, truly paranoid, and of course I look fine.
Then I go home for the weekend and my mother says, “Oh, you gained a little weight, huh?” And I try to explain to my mother that I’m carrying 4 Liters of water in me because of the car trip and I’ll be a much skinnier person when I get out of the restroom. She just sighs.
So, I’m trying to decide whether to take the plunge and just get naked on stage in front of many strangers and a few industry people. Aw, man, I’m a puss. I’m just a big puss.
Nudity is a very private issue, I guess, and in this business it becomes a bit public. (I accidentally just typed “pubic” and had to change it, but I’m cracking up right now) I’m not the only one that’s hesitant about dropping trou, but I’m the most vocal about it. There’s something funny about a naked man, but a naked woman becomes an object to scrutinize, and if she’s not perfect, worked on by a pack of highly skilled physicians, squeezed and molded into Perfection, then there’s a gross-out factor there that I don’t think I can handle.
But it’s a funny sketch.
But what if no one laughs because they cannot believe that’s actually my butt?
What if my troupe members can never look at me again?
What if a fan club starts for my tummy?
What if it’s no big deal?
What if– gotta pee.
righteous dude ferris and power lloyd duke it out
Growing up in the eighties gave young girls two types of men to look for in a future mate. Two films divided what type of girl you were and what type of guy you wanted. Those two films are Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Say Anything…
Those two boys are Ferris Bueller and Lloyd Dobler.
Two cute boys. Two charming boys. Two very different boys. But in looking for a guy, you’re either a Mia Sara or a Ione Skye. Who did you want to be?
Ferris was the happy-go-lucky guy who would spend an entire morning getting you out of school by convincing the principal your grandmother died. He’d convince his friend to let him use his father’s car because your father would drive a nicer car. He’d get you out of class and take you to the Sears Tower, the museum, a ball game, and serenade you in a parade. (Life moves pretty fast for Ferris, check out this site to see how Ferris can even beat the hands of time.)
Ferris would discuss marriage with you, but you knew he probably wasn’t too serious. He was mostly thinking about himself and what he wanted to do. Besides, he’s older than you are. Ferris has no future plans. Ferris may not graduate high school if he keeps skipping. Girlies (like Sherilyn Fenn) are always hanging on Ferris, and trying to take your man. He does not stray, but he could if you two were in a particularly nasty fight.
There is never a dull moment with Ferris. He will always accomplish the impossible. He will make you feel like a queen. He takes care of his friends, and he’s RICH. Ferris has the cash. His brainless parents probably would throw the stuff at you two if you got married. If Ferris would get married…
Ferris would probably try and pull a few scams on you, too. You’d have to decide if you could really, really trust him.
Ferris would serenade you with “Twist and Shout,” or his clarinet version of “I Dream of Jeannie.”
Jeannie, Ferris’ sister, would hate you every waking moment.
If you got better wedding gifts than she did, she may very well send you a bomb in the mail.
Ferris can get out of any situation. He’s fast on his feet. He can make a clean getaway, unless there’s a couple of girls in bikinis lying in the yard where he’s running.
Ferris will make you less of a stress freak. He will explain to you that all the fuss isn’t necessary and when you see how much fun he’s having, you’ll get pretty convinced.
Ferris moves pretty fast. Buy some condoms.
Lloyd will love you from afar for quite some time. He will eventually get up enough courage (just by being amazed that you are so incredible) that he will call you and ask your father if he can date you. At first he will appear a bit dorky and rambling, but there’s a charm in his logic.
Lloyd Dobler will be a perfect gentleman on your first date. He will tell you you look wonderful and stay up all night with you without expecting you to put out.
Lloyd, unfortunately, is so nice that he will take three hours out of your date to find a drunk guy’s house and drop him off after the party.
Lloyd will have girlfriends. Best girlfriends, but there’s nothing going on between them, and there will never be anything between them. They will give him advice and support and give you advice and support.
Lloyd is ambitious. He takes care of his body. Kickboxing. The sport of the future. He’s a good uncle, helping to keep the fun in his sister and nephew’s life. He has stayed where T-I-M has gone. He’s into good music, and has a great sense of humor. He likes Bavarian Dutch Style Pretzels, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the Clash.
Lloyd will start to hang out with you more and more. He only thinks about you. He wants to spend as much time with you as possible. He will kick shards of glass out of your way when you’re walking.
Lloyd will teach you to drive a stick shift. He will visit you at work. He will go to dinner at your family’s house. He will stay out of family matters, but still support you through your decisions.
He will shiver and shake when you are intimate, and he will try to blow it off like he’s cold. But when he looks you in the eyes, you know it’s because of you that he’s shaking. He will write you a letter the next day, and will wait a few days later to tell him that he loves you, just as you were about to give him a pen.
He will not give up. He leaves messages on your machine. He talks about you to friends. He tries to bond with other boys, but he knows that’s not his style. You’re his style. You make him a better person, and he makes you a better person. If only you weren’t so selfish. So stupid and selfish none of this would have ever happened. Dammit, Diane! He gave you his heart and you gave him a pen! You stupid bitch! Don’t you care about his feelings? So your daddy’s going to the pokey, this is true love we’re talking about here!
Lloyd will serenade you with a perfect Peter Gabriel song that was playing the first night you made love. Lloyd pays attention to detail. Lloyd would never embarrass you. He would never make you feel bad about yourself. He will patiently wait for you to come back, and he won’t even blame you when you make him get punched in the head.
Lloyd’s flaws come from the fact that he needs you so badly he doesn’t take care of himself. He doesn’t care if you came back because you needed someone rather than you needed him. He needs to believe in himself more. After all, he’s Lloyd Dobler.
Lloyd will visit your dad in prison when you won’t. He’ll try and explain what’s happening. He’ll drop everything and go to Europe with you. Lloyd loves you for your talent and your heart above everything else.
Ferris and Lloyd are two different types of boyfriends. Do you want the rebel or the romantic? Do you want to chase or be chased? Do you want your parents to approve or disapprove? Well, in this case, I think that Sloane’s parents approved more than Diane’s, but that’s another story.
I am happy to say that I’ve found my Lloyd Dobler that I’ve been searching for all these years. I’m beaming about him today, because he’s coming back into town. I have a sensitive, romantic guy who kicks the glass out of my way, teaches me a stick shift (on his own car), and likes to talk late at night. He doesn’t want to buy anything. sell anything, or process anything, or buy anything sold or processed or sell anything bought or processed or… you get the idea. He’s in love with my mind and my heart. He’s charming, funny, and attractive. He’s got close girlfriends who think he’s the best, but wouldn’t date him. He is always looking out for me. “He checks up on me” at parties. He trembles.
He likes the Clash.
Whatever you’re looking for, keep true to your heart. And for all you guys out there looking for a girl, pleasefollow Lili Taylor’s advice:
“No, don’t be a guy. Anybody can be a guy. Be a man.”