I’m on the couch of the Lowe and Huff’s in humid, sticky Georgia. For those of you who do not know Al and Chris, they are two people who met right here on pamie.com, fell in love and moved to Georgia, got married, and then their lives went a little something like a country song, as they lost a lot of people they love and then everything that was left in a tragic fire.
But they’ve rebuilt. They’ve moved on. They’ve got their love and now they’ve got this perfect baby and there’s this couch that isn’t on fire and this dog that seems really quite patient, and they’re still the same wonderful people who would bend over backwards for a friend, or fling themselves forward to maim anyone who tries to harm those they love. Continue reading →
July 4th Weekend, 2009: a bunch of fools descend upon Anna Beth Chao’s home in Monroe, Louisiana for four days of beer, music, Sonic, and whatnot.
Anna Beth, Allison and Pamie talk about a number of issues, including the state of their hair (or lack thereof), their superpowers (or lack thereof), and dignity (or lack thereof). Look for a super-quick cameo by Chris Huff.
(And apologies for all the post-derby-bout bruising all about my arms and chest. You’ll soon see why they’re the least of my problems.)
A Short Play to Demonstrate the Amount of Control Anna Beth Chao Has Over My Life
[Two women sit 1736 miles away from each other.
An unemployed blonde with absolutely nothing to do for months stares at her living room bookcase, picks up her cell phone and sends a text.]
PAMIE: What if I moved the Flurgen* to the other wall? Where the puffs hang? And put tiny couch where the big couch is?
[The other woman is tiny, wearing Hammer pants, and is currently painting the area behind her kitchen electrical sockets, using a toothbrush made of unicorn eyelashes. Her phone buzzes. She looks at the message, and immediately texts back:]
Y’all, I was in the car for 12 hours yesterday. Creeping across the Southeast in the rain, ice, sleet and snow, just like the US Postal Service, except I’m fairly certain no postman, even on his longest route would ever dream of putting on a performance such I did in the driver’s seat.
I am a car-dancer. I admit it. Hell, I’m a car-Diana-Ross. I sing and sing and sing and flail around like a drag queen, imagining myself alternately as Gwen Stefani, Whitney Houston, Maria Callas, Marvin Gaye and all the members of the B-52s and REM, combined. (I seriously do a mean Tina Turner circa the Ike years also, but that is a story for a different day.) Twelve hours down I-20 yesterday, from Birmingham to Dallas, with more than 200 cds in the car…well…people, it was a rolling sideshow.
Too much time has been wasted deciding who was the best. Now you get to decide.
It’s been said that she has a voice of an angel. On loan from God. With 2.9 percent financing. You know her from the forum. You know her mother hates her daddy. She’s Allison.
The self-proclaimed Pop Culture Princess will probably be evicted after her late night antics here. Anything to beat Allison. She’s beat down drunken rival karaoke teams. She’s given the smackdown to many suckas that tried to step. The problem here? She screws up the first chorus, and then tries to be quiet while singing a Bonnie Tyler song. You can’t do that. Lord. It’s Pamie.