Hi and Sorry for all the Links.

Ho, Yes I Did.

So, I’ve been busy. There’s the Naked Bits gig, which I’m totally loving, and I hope you are, too, so while you’re sitting at your computer anyway, send off a little note to the Village Voice telling them how hard Audacia Ray’s Naked City rocks. Michael Musto shouldn’t get all the glory. Loveyoumichaelloveyourhairmwah!

Turns out that regular writing for the above has given me back the “huh, I should maybe blog about something” bug again, which is good, because blogging or rambling or digital diarrhea or whatever you’d like to call it, serves as a kind of warm up for better stuff. And I’ve been doing better stuff.

Like, hey, I wrote a book! Okay, not my own concept, and not Pulitzer stuff, but writing for hire is writing for hire, and I got paid to write a funny, silly, sexy little book. Often I found it more funny than sexy, but that’s partly because I laugh a lot while fucking. Actually, probably because the process of the book was pretty hilarious. I don’t know what it’s called yet, and the last I heard it’ll be published, like, Spring of 2009. That seems forever from now, but then I’m still unpacking from my summer vacation last year, so I think we can all guess how the time will go from here. I will, of course, post more when I know more, but hey, I thought that was kind of fun. Also, there are lots of hilarious naked photographs on my computer now that I desperately need to drag over to the external HD. No, I’m not getting rid of them, they turn me on and make me laugh simultaneously. That’s good stuff, folks.

Also, hey, I’ve got a story in the Rachel Kramer Bussel’s forthcoming anthology Spanked: Red Cheeked Erotica, available for preorder here. Check out the blog here. My story is called Laser Tag. I think it’s funny. Rachel apparently thinks it’s hot, and it’s based loosely on events from a Flaming Lips show last summer. So there’s that. Order the book! Get it in July! Imagine the poolside/seaside conversations you could be having once you’ve been spotted reading it. (Uh, seriously? I’d buy it for the cover alone. Yow.)

I’m working on another nameless writing project which I hope will garner more coinage, contacts and constructive criticism (unless said criticism finds fault with my rampant and mostly unintentional use of alliteration), because I’m really kind of digging this.

Um, what else?

My ex still thinks it’s okay to be superbly behind on his support for our children, so that’s a nice constant, but I believe I am steadily making strides toward not totally relying on him. Like, omg, what if he made a ton of money and decided to all of a sudden write a check for everything he owes? Dudes, I would skip my happy ass to the bank, wait cynically for five business days to make sure it cleared, and fucking go to Disneyland. Or Canada, because I think that overall, Canada’s a pretty happy place and giant mice pretty much eliminate the fun factor for me.

Okay, so let’s recap: I’m doing well, not flush enough to attend Pilcrow and support my ladies Amy Guth and Leah Jones (Wah!), but things are moving and I’m doing pretty okay. I could stand to exercise more, to look awesome for my future book signings, so I’ve set myself up an online running log. If you’re on Active.com come over and say hi. Apparently I can’t get enough of the social networking doohickie. Though I’ve heretofore resisted Facebook, my sense is that eventually I will crumble to its will.

Along the same lines, Twitter seems to have taken over as my preferred method of disseminating awesomeness across the interwebs. So easy to just pick up my Blackberry and go “woah, check this out!<< Link>>” (Seriously, check it out.) You can follow my Twitter updates if you want. Probably I won’t insult you or anyone you know and if I do, probably you/they are mean and deserved it, and/or it’s funny.

Let’s go have some fun.

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Filed under Blogging, Friends, Writing

Ire Land

So, while people seem bent on concerning themselves with everything I do and my mother’s reverted to High Martyrdom, Kelly’s in Dublin on business. We met at a hotel near the airport to have sex before he left. Well, also to kiss and take a shower together and stuuuuuff. Cos it’s fun to have sex in hotels.

Anyway, I gave him a flash drive with music. Cos that’s what he does. He makes me playlists and this was the first time I’d made one for him, and I sort of worried about whether he’d think I was sappy or in luuuv or whatever (WHATEVER), and I thought that maybe I shouldn’t give it to him because now that I listened to it on the drive over, I think maybe it’s cheesy and awful and weird.

It is cheesy, but I give it anyway. It’s a sweet thing to do. As many sweet and goofy gestures as Kelly has done, I am put to shame, and nothing I do with a stupid iTunes mix is going to trump his collection of stunts.

I have never seen High Fidelity (and no, Kelly’s never stood outside my house with a portable stereo), but I think that mix tapes (cds, thumb drives, whatEVER) should tell a story, or at least make sense to somebody, and not just be some random collection of songs that somebody happens to like. So here’s our story, I guess.

I give you a selection from this music I gave this person who has had five sexual relationships in his life and who calls me from his seat while they’re telling people to turn off their portable electronics just to say thanks for the music, SugarPop, I had no idea you liked the Ramones.

First up: Fluorescent Adolescent by The Arctic Monkeys

You used to get it in your fishnets
Now you only get it in your night dress
Discarded all the naughty nights for niceness
Landed in a very common crisis
Everything’s in order in a black hole
Nothing seems as pretty as the past though
That Bloody Mary’s lacking in Tabasco
Remember when he used to be a rascal?

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Filed under Dating, Fuckbuddies, Stories

Opposing Counsel

Some of you who follow my Twitter updates may have noticed a short tweet last night that went something like this: “Omg, rudest date ever.” Here’s the (longer than 140 characters) story:

Joe called last Saturday, after basically three months of silence. It’s cool, we didn’t have an exclusive relationship, goodness knows, but I tend to gravitate toward the “Hey, let’s take a break for a while, no hard feelings” line of breaking things off, rather than screen and ignore calls or emails which he seems to favor.

I like Joe. He’s fun to hang out with and go to football games and watch basketball games and Mike & Mike in the Morning. You know, buddy-style. And while I am, in his words, “damn sexy,” we have never had penetrative vaginal intercourse (Ew, sex ed.) I look good on his arm at parties and restaurants and I’m smarter than most women he knows, which is a big turn-on.

So, last Saturday I picked up the phone and he asked me to dinner on Monday, after he finished his hearing at the courthouse.

(Did I mention that I referred my sweet little brother to Joe, who is a hell of a divorce attorney?)

I met him at a bar downtown, we had a glass of wine and I admired his suit. I’ve never seen him in pants other than jeans, and never in dress shoes. Like, ever. He started telling me about the hearing, and how clueless my sister-in-law’s attorney was. I could tell he was in lawyer mode, and silently thanked the universe that I didn’t have to face him in court. Since this was a dinner date and I was starving, I suggested we finish our wine and go down the street for sushi. And that’s when the real trouble started.

Instead of sitting at the table to which we were shown, Joe scooped up the menus and moved over to a different table. I have no idea why; they were right next to each other. Then, when our server came to take our order, he wanted her to have the chef make half an order of the sashimi assortment because, as he said, “20 pieces of sashimi is too much food.”

For two people? Seriously? That’s 10 bites of food each.

I ordered a spicy tuna roll and he rolled his eyes.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re just going to fill up on rice. It’s a waste.”

“Even so, I would like the spicy tuna roll, please,” I said to the server.

Joe threw up his hands. Poor server walked away with our order and my apologetic look.

Soon the server was back. “Excuse me, I’m very sorry, but the chef cannot halve the sashimi plate.”

“Why not?”

“It’s restaurant policy.”

Joe laughed menacingly, as if this server and the sushi chef had conspired against him and he was now prepared to make their lives a living hell, “Bring the menu back.” Then, “Give us the seven-piece tuna sashimi. And some more sake. Hot.”

No “please.” No nod of acknowledgment when things were presented, much less a “thank you,” which I attempted to deliver, embarrassed by his lack of etiquette. I fucking hate that.

So, dinner for two consisted of one seaweed salad, one spicy tuna roll and seven pieces of sashimi. What?

Midway through the salad, he mentioned something which gave me a chance to tell one of my famously funny sushi stories. Two sentences in, he corrected a detail about a James Bond movie, “It’s blahblahblah,” he shot. I replied, “Huh, really? I thought it was blahblahblah.”

“Listen, I’m the 007 expert here. It most certainly is blahblahblah; I’ll bet you a hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars.”

I sat there, stunned.

What?

“Um, okay.”

“Finish the story.”

“No.”

“Just finish the damn story, Linnie.”

“I will not tell the story simply to finish the story. It’s not funny anymore.”

I took a bite of seaweed. The couple at a nearby table were looking over nervously. We sat in silence.

“Listen, you could have at least waited until I’d finished before you–”

“Shot you down?”

“–interrupted me and shot me down. I’m not opposing counsel.”

He apologized to me, but maintained his rudeness to our server for the remainder of dinner. I didn’t see the check, but I’m sure he didn’t tip her nearly enough for having to put up with him and his pompous, condescending attitude.

We walked out, and said goodbye on the corner. His car was at one end of the street, and mine was at the other, “I’ve missed you, baby, we should see each other again soon.”

I smiled wanly, “Thanks for dinner, Joe.”

I waited for the light while he walked to his car. I turned on my heel and walked back into the restaurant. The hostess held up my umbrella, “Back for this?”

“Oh, I forgot about that! Thanks, but I actually wondered if you could please give this to our server with my apologies.”

I handed her a ten dollar bill and went home hungry.

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Filed under Dating, Divorce, Frustration, Fuckbuddies

I Have a Secret Heart

Feist

C’mon, secret heart, tell her how you feel.
I love this song. Feist makes me want to fall backward onto my bed and hug a pillow and Ron Sexsmith is an awesome songwriter. Elvis Costello says so.

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Filed under Dating, Friends, Music, video

Happy International Day of Awesomeness!

Thanks to @leahjones, I bring you greetings on this, the first International Day of Awesomeness. More about the day here.

Shortie-short post, but just have to say, it’s March 10th because that’s Chuck Norris’ birthday. Hah!

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Not That Tambourine Man

Last night, I took the boys to Tae Kwon Do and we went for pizza afterwards. Sitting in the pizzeria downtown, we sat and talked about their day. During a lull, when Miles and Jack were chewing and the large group at the next table had cleared out, I noticed that Miles and I were both nodding our heads to the same beat coming through the speakers over our heads.

I smiled, “Oh, this is a gooood song!” My shoulders, torso and neck moved on their own, jerking around with the music. I picked up an imaginary tambourine and started playing.

Miles promptly tossed his crust onto the plate and did the Egyptian.

Look! Scary Gary Numan!

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Filed under Kids, Music, video

O Helen, My Helen!

Is it just me, or does Helen Mirren become ever lovelier with each passing year?

2008_mirrenh_01.jpg

Le Swoon.

Photo via.

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Filed under Girldom, Stories