Tarhearted.

TATTOOS I WANT.

 

WITCH SONGS OF MY YOUTH.

It should surprise nobody that I was completely obsessed with witches when I was little, and there was a certain song we used to sing in elementary school music class. I've been trying to get anyone and everyone I can think of to remember it over the years, but the only lyrics I could remember were something like, "...Stir it in my witches brew. I've got magic. Ali-cadabra-cadoo."

Now, thanks to Dlisted of all things, I know that it was Hap Palmer's "Witches Brew." Mystery solved! the internet wins again!

 Check out these hot lyrics. I wish Lady Sovereign would cover this shit:

Dead leaves, seaweed, rotten eggs, too.
Stir them in my witches’ brew.
I got magic, Alakazamakazoo.

Spider web, moldy bread, mucky mud, too.
Stir them in my witches’ brew.
I got magic! Alakazamakazoo

ooo - My witches’ brew - ooo
What’s it gonna do to you?
Boo!
Floor wax, thumb tacks, purple paint, too.
Stir them in my witches’ brew.
I got magic, Alakazamakazoo.

Finger nails, lunch pails, apple cores, too.
Stir them in my witches’ brew.
I got magic, Alakazamakazoo.

ooo - My witches’ brew - ooo
What’s it gonna do to you?
Boo!

Wrinkled prunes, mushrooms, motor oil, too.
Stir them in my witches’ brew.
I got magic, Alakazamakazoo.
I got magic, Alakazamakazoo.

Thank GOD that's solved. Now I have to get that on my ipod along with Mrs. Garrett singing my other favorite witch song from The Worst Witch, "My Little School."

Beat on it, Delilah!

ST. WINIFRED'S SCHOOL CHOIR.

Facebook has an application that tells you what the number one song was on the day you were born. The Fiance's was a Bee Gees song. Mine was a John Lennon song. That is, mine was a John Lennon song in the United States. In England the number one song was, "No One Quite Like Grandma" by St. Winifred's School Choir.  

Yes, seriously.

Check this creepy shit out. What is wrong with you, England? This was a number one song in December of 1980? What, you don't like Olivia Newton-John?

LOVE.

It's been a little hard to write lately because I have to write things I'm being paid for, but I have had several pieces of MONDO and HUGE news that I'm not allowed to share building up inside for weeks now and it's starting to get  a little frustrating.

In the meantime, please enjoy these images from girls romance comics and know what the world looks like through my eyes.

An aside to the brunette: I feel you, girl. I always think of Muriel Heslop's meltdown in the wedding dress store in Muriel's Wedding. "Why can't it ever be me!? WHY CAN'T I BE THE ONE?"

Boy, there's a lot of asshole dudes in these comics.

He won't. Jean shorts? No. Just, no.

EEP! Somebody call the police!

A RANDOM THOUGHT ABOUT EDUCATION.

First of all, I am not a stupid person and I don't wish to make it seem like I have a low self-esteem or anything. That's not what this is about.

That said, sometimes I feel frustrated by my own inability to communicate something. The sensation is very frustrating, like a thought or an idea gets trapped inside of me and I can't get it out properly either by speaking or by writing because I just plain down know the words to do so.

I wonder if people with better educations than me ever experience this. Sometimes I worry that an education is the arms and feet of a natural intelligence and that my mind is completely limbless.

Oh, here is a graphic that expresses how I feel, because I like pictures.

DISPATCHES FROM NEW YORK CITY.

Life in New York is far from the glamor that hatchet-faced old witches from Sex and the City would have lead you to believe in. Par example? I was walking toward a lunch meeting on Hudson Street when A HOBO THREW A HOT DOG AT ME.

He straight hit me in the head with a hot dog.

A hot dog.

A hobo's mostly eaten hot dog.

Fuck this city. I hear Portland is nice.

CAKE FARTS.

I have encountered any number of strange and hilarious fetishes in my day. Plushies, sploshers, pony play... you name it. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING is quite as hilarious as cake farts.

I haven't laughed this hard in a long while. Whoo! I really needed that.

Don't watch this if you're easily offended or the least bit squeamish or uptight. It's called Cake Farts. Use your imagination (the real thing is so much funnier.) And now, the sentence I always knew I'd type one day... click below for cake farts!

NOT SAFE FOR LIFE, LET ALONE WORK.

EVERYTHING IS THE WORST. PITY PARTY PART A BILLION.

I haven't much felt like blogging lately. I've been feeling kind of blue.

Everybody's been writing about Outrageous Fortune, the book that basically says that American theater is dead and playwrights should just kill themselves. I haven't been saying much about it because, frankly, it's too depressing.

Part of me just shrugs and thinks, "Who cares?" It's not like I ever had a home in the institutional theater anyway. It's not like I ever loved the plays they were doing, even when they weren't doing some dusty old Shakespeare production. That part of me even sort of hopes that the whole theater system just crumbles to rubble so we can all make plays in our basements and houses and backyards and churches (if you're so inclined) and have that just be enough.

The other part of me hoped against hope, that even though I write icky and depressing dark comedies that some day the institutional theater would come around to liking me (even though I didn't go to a fancy pants graduate school and don't have parents who are willing to pay my rent. Cheap shot!) That way, I could quit my day job in porn marketing and make a living in the theater. Stupid, I know. Especially since one of the findings of Outrageous Fortune is that the high average of a playwriting salaries is 40k. 40k? Can that be right? That's less than I make, and I have a pretty low level job.

And I've been following the marriage equality news whilst simultaneously planning my own wedding, which is really scary. I'm trying not to get my hopes up about the Prop 8 trial and its likely Supreme Court hearing. We have a supreme court half full of bigots after all, and my community has been repeatedly punched in the gut over the last year or so. So even though Prop 8 is constitutionally indefensible, the defense might win because of longstanding prejudices. Just today the defense argues that discrimination against gay people doesn't exist and used Will & Grace as his proof.) In the simplest terms, being a second class citizen in a country where half the population hates you fucking sucks and it can get depressing when you really dwell on it.

Oh, and when i thought I bottomed out depression-wise, Haiti decided to swallow its citizens and then kooky old skeleton Pat Robertson says it's because of their pact with the devil.

Aye yay yay.

Everything is the worst.

The only things that make me happy are:

1.) I'm getting married!

2.) The Drums. Have you guys heard how awesome The Drums are?

MY FUNERAL.

When I die I'd like three simple things:

1. To be buried in a quasi futuristic tuxedo like Klaus Nomi's.

2. To be buried in a glass bubble in a snowy, minimalist landscape a la Catherine Deneuve in Donkey Skin.

3. To have Amanda Lear perform "Follow Me" live:

RAPUNZEL IS A HORROR STORY.

I have a genuine and well documented fear of or repulsion of super long hair. Ladies, don't get all upset or insecure. I mean really, really long hair. Past your butt long. Renaissance festival, Crystal Gale long.

I don't know why, but I feel really nervous when i see those flyaway hairs. It just looks unhealthy and weird and unclean to me. Do see them combing it is obscene and if I'm ever so unlucky that it touches me, I shudder. I have no idea where this comes from, but it's genuine and deeply embedded. (I also hate horse's tails, which seem similar, and touching any untreated wood. I never said I was rational or normal!)

That said, people will occasionally leave pictures like this on my Facebook or in my inbox:

And I think, "My friends are jerks!" and I laugh it off.

Then, today, The Boyfriend emails me a picture from his phone, subject, "Neigh!" I open it up and get this:

I'm glad it's braided and thus put away, sort of, but hurt that The Boyfriend hates me and is clearly not involved in this relationship.