You are viewing [info]mcmeljo's journal

Mel Johnson and the Terrible Los Angeles Adventure   
06:41pm 06/07/2009
  Well hello, there. It's been a long time, hasn't it? What have I been up to? Well, I'll tell you.

In March, I decided to pack up everything I hold dear (car, cat, plates, etc) and for some reason, move to Los Angeles. City of Angels. City by the Sea. Sounds nice, doesn't it? It was February, after all. Blistering cold in Washington DC, miserable and gray. I decided to make the trek out west to try and find an industry job so that I might work whilst writing screenwrity diddies to sell. Everything seemed great. So I shipped the car, and took the cat on the airplane.

Immediately, things all came crashing down. The only thing that hasn't done so was, luckily, the plane that brought me to this City by the Sea.

When I got off the plane, cat in bag and bag in hand, I went to my new place of residence. Since I had been there to sign my lease (one month earlier), the building had gotten a little... crappier. But just a little. My landlady assured me that although she would not be there, she'd leave my keys under the doormat. I looked, but there were no keys. I called, she didn't answer. When, an hour later, I finally got in touch with her, she sent over the maintnance man to open the door. He's very nice, but, sadly, does not speak a word of English, and my Spanish aint so hot. When Landlady (who speaks no Spanish whatsoever) tries to ask him to do something, she shouts. Because, as we all well know, volume = comprehension. He let me in, the cat got over her ten hour traumatization, and all was seemingly well.

That night, falling asleep, I was interrupted by two things. The sounds of fucking from the other side of my bedroom wall, and the sounds of what seemed to be a bowling tournament in the apartment above mine. My mother encouraged me to move immediately, but I said "nah, come on. It's only six months. I can do anything for six months."

That's what I thought. Let's see what these past six months have brought me.

After getting here, I had to go pick up my car from the shipping truck. However, the truck driver's clutch broke, so I had to go out to Ontario (over an hour east of here) to pick it up. When I got there, I got the car, and the truck driver let me know that when he drove it off the truck, an engine light came on. Well, long story short(er), I had my car "fixed" in Virginia before I moved. Not only did they not fix it, they caused $3,000 worth of damage to it. I had to leave it in Ontario for a week while they fixed it.

Okay. So I get the car back, but the people who damaged its innards won't pay us. It's a big ordeal. Still going on.

Next up, the water in my apartment's faucets is rusty, a week after running it for several minutes every day. That's still going on.

I got a job early on reading screenplays for a WB affiliated production company which allows me access to the lot, which I totally took advantage of. I was all about hanging out in Stars Hollow, which was mecca for any self respecting Gilmore Girls fan. Heaven for sure. That was neat. The company called me every day for about a month, then? Nothing.

The drama in the apartment building continues, meanwhile, with the woman in the apartment above me frequently beating the shit out of her child at all hours of the day and night. On one occasion, he called her for nearly ten minutes to come into the bathroom and wipe him, and she ignored him. When he came out of the bathroom having not wiped, she said "THAT SHIT'S NAAAAASTY" and proceeded to beat him. Loudly.

Terry came to visit, and he deemed the building I live in inhabitable. He's right. There are puddles on the floor in the hallway, it smells weird, and the power comes and goes. Furthermore, since the building doesn't have wheelchair accessible parking spaces (illegal in america), we're forced to park in the vendor parking. With Landlady's permission.

Around this time, the building quality starts to decline severely. There are children playing in the parking lot and around the dumpsters, there's dog shit EVERYWHERE, including inside the building, the sprinkler timers are set to come on three times a day and so the courtyard is now a muddy lake. Basically, it becomes really obvious that Landlady no longer lives here.

A week later, a knock at the door. It's Landlady and her bratty bratty brat daughter (age 6). Landlady proceeds to tell me that she got the hell out of here and that she's moved to Burbank to a really nice building. And she's inviting me to come along for a $500 increase in rent. No thanks, you're a terrible Landlady. Meanwhile, Bratty Daughter proceeds to pick up a piece of expensive jewelry and try to break it, pulls my (angry) cat's tail, and then uses the bathroom and PEES ON THE FLOOR. Landlady uses my toilet paper to clean it up.

So now it's the middle of June, and Terry visits for a second time. This time, we park in the vendor spot as instructed, and my car is towed. I go into the office and am greeted by Landlady's mother (?) who also works for the company. She's a terrible bitch and tells me they towed my car this morning. Where did the tow it? Who towed it? Who had it towed? She provided answers to none of these questions. I ask for the phone number for the district manager. I can't get a hold of her.

I report my car stolen to the LAPD. They put me on hold for several minutes and come back to tell me that my car is at a tow lot in Canoga Park, which is 30 miles away. My brother angrily drives me there. They won't give me the car because of several things.
1. The car isn't in my name.
2. The Credit Card is being declined.
After several hours of phone calls and faxes, they give me my car. But, you guessed it, it's BROKEN.

$1300 worth of Damage is caused to my car. It needs:
1. A new bumper
2. A new skid plate
3. new fenders (both sides)

I am angry. Very angry.

The apartment building won't pay me for any of this - not the tow, not the damage to the car, not the insurance deductable.

I am angry. Very angry.

I return to my apartment building and park it under a tree, my assigned spot, where shit falls out of the tree daily and i need to get a car wash at least three times per week.

Today, I take my car to the car wash before dropping it off at the body shop, and the woman at the gas station car wash tells me that my car is too dirty to go in the car wash, and that she's not going to permit me to buy a car wash. Too dirty. To go. In the car wash. Boy, did I let her have it. I yelled about how my car was discriminated against and that she couldn't do that. Needless to say, she let me do what I damn well pleased.

On the 4th of July, I left my building to go to see JAWS at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery with friends. I walked through the lobby only to see that it was FULL of water - water that gushed out of a light fixture in the ceiling. I called the new building manager (the fourth one in 4 months), but he chose not to answer the emergency telephone. I proceeded to call him eleven more times, but got no answer. I left various voicemails, but heard no response.

Upon returning, slightly inebriated, to the building six hours later, the water had continued to collect in what started as puddles but ended up being vast lakes on the floor. I called the building manager again. No response. I called the police, who connected me to the fire department.

The fire department came and shut the water off in the building. It was off for 20 hours before anyone could even reach the building manager by telephone. Twenty hours of no showers. Of no flushing toilets. Angry. Very angry.

It's back on now. It's still rusty.

I cannot recommend that you or anyone you know come to California to live. All I can recommend is that you be thankful for your East Coast homes, and that you thank whomever you thank for having an occupation that didn't force you to live, against your will, in this terrible, terrible City by the Sea.		  
     Read 2 - Post
 
Mel Johnson and the Journey to the Center of the Philadelphia Airport   
07:40am 23/02/2007
 
mood: amused
Now you may not know this about me, but in the past year, I have had 9 jobs. So, about a month ago, I registered to work for Unnamed Temp Agency #1. This is a good way to make the next 9 jobs I have look like just one job. In some sick way, I feel as though I've beaten your system. I say your because I feel like if you're reading this, you're out to get me in one way shape or form.

The day I registered with Unnamed Temp Agency #1, they placed me at a post production warehouse here in the City of Brotherly Love, which I was excited about! I mean, hey, I've been looking for something within my little industry of choice here in said City of Brotherly Love for a month or two, but to no avail. To think! All I had to do was take a stupid typing test and a stupider Microsoft Office Proficiency Test (I probably freaked the people in the office out when I got to the Power Point test. It made me pretty fucking angry and I yelled and cussed at the computer like it was a Protestant wearing orange on St. Patrick's Day, 1963), and I would be awarded a job (albiet temporary) in my industry of choice. The gentleman I worked for was very kind to me, and I liked him because he reminded me of the dad from American Dreams. Of course, the job wasn't for enough money, and I was told it would be for maybe a week, definitely three days, and it ended up only being for two, and I was in the finance department, not the creative department, and I had to do a lot of heavy lifting (files!), and there was a stale Wawa pretzel on my desk when I arrived on the first day, and it stayed there until I left, and the only reason I knew about it was that I used the napkin it was concealed in to blow my nose.

ANYWAY.

Yesterday, I received a call from my contact at Unnamed Temp Agency #1 offering me an assignment. The phrase "offering me an assignment" makes me feel like some sort of intense CIA agent, which I am not. But it's fun to pretend. She asked me if I was available to work this morning, although it was very short notice. I told her that short notice was not an issue, since I was really planing to sit around all day and stare at the wall, and I could easily do that on Saturday instead. The assignment was to register people(s) for a seminar (okay) at a hotel (okay) at the airport (wait, what?) for not a tremendous amount of money (not okay) from 6:30am - 10:30am (NOT OKAY! NOT OKAY!). However, since I haven't left my house for any reason but sketch comedy since I got back to Philadelphia on Monday, I said yes.

I did everything right to assure that I got there on time. I really did. I went to bed at 11:30. I set my alarm for 5:15. I woke up to the friendly sounds of the friendly garbage truck at 5:03. I almost cried, because isn't that the worst feeling ever? I got up and made coffee, ate food (dangerous for me that early in the morning), made myself look all fancy, and left my house at 6. I drove to the gas station. I purchased 12 gallons of gasoline. Then, I got on 95 south and headed for the airport.

Now, this is where my morning turns interesting.

In being responsible, I looked up the location of the hotel using Google Maps, which notified me that I should get off 95 at exit 15. So, I did just that, and got to my destination around 6:15.

Now, when I say get to my destination, I mean that I saw my destination, waved at it, circled around it, but apparently the Four Points by Sheraton is at the nexis of the universe and cannot be accessed by humans, because damned if I could find out how to get there. I wound around the hotel four times, and saw it from all angles. It seemed like a nice place. In my fifth and final attempt to find the entrance to the hotel's parking lot, I turned down an odd road that looked like it would lead me back in a direction I had not yet been.

I have been a lot of scary places. I have seen much of the South having grown up there, I have been to Nowhere, Oklahoma. I have seen old men with no teeth read the news. I have been lost in both Camden and Newark, New Jersey. I have seen the Meadowlands. But in all my years, I have never been in a place more terrifying than where I was this morning - the road that time forgot near the Philadelphia International Airport, where the South Philly Mafia must dump their murder victims. The road was all cracked and broken, almost completely corroded away in places where the water had risen. The weeds were so tall that surely they could have waved at eachother from across the top of my unsuspecting Jetta. When I realized how far I had gotten from any signs of life, let alone any signs of life that I would have been comfortable to be near, I started to get a little antsy.

Mind you, at this point in the day (6:27am), the sun was beginning to come up, but it was pretty much still dark. So, you can imagine, when I saw a man standing in the tall weeds nearly a mile from any somewhat friendly signs of life by himself doing something that looked like picking up cans with a spike, but could have been digging a grave or hacking up bodies, I freaked the fuck out. He stopped his dismembering, looked at me, and then proceeded to WALK TOWARDS MY CAR. I high tailed it into 5th gear and sped away, screaming.

Although I was sure, and terrified, that this road led either to a dead end or to hell, it eventually spat me out on 95 North. I could have taken the next available exit to turn around and head back to try and find the hotel again, but since the next exit was near my house, I just came home.

So, I called Unnamed Temp Agency #1 and left a message informing them that my car wouldn't start. I realize that this is a blatant lie, but to tell them the truth would be less believable/acceptable to society. The truth would go like this, in phone call form:

"Hello, this message is for Friendly Contact Girl. This is Melody. It's about 6:30am, the time I'm supposed to start working at this seminar at the hotel that they conveniently built without an entrance. After about 20 minutes of driving around in circles, I got lost on a terrifying road and was almost hacked to bits by a man whom I can only assume had no teeth and was the basis for the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I've turned around entirely by accident, and am now on the way home where no one will see how fancy I look today but my roommate and her unnaturally large and surprisingly friendly male cat. Sorry for the inconveneince. This really is my fault, though, and next time you offer me a job for $40, I'll think about it for a minute before I say yes. Can we still be friends? Love, Mel."

No. We can't.

Love,
Mel		  
     Read 1 - Post
 
Mel Johnson and the Devistating Whitetail Experience   
05:01pm 15/11/2006
  When I was a Girl Scout, I was very close to being kicked out for punching a girl in the throat. However, I had already paid for the ski trip to Whitetail, the worst ski resort known to man.

One saturday, the troupe and I packed up and drove up to Whitetail with the worst mothers in the Northern VA area. When we got there, we were taken to a little beginner's instruction class. Sadly for me, I was the only one who had never snow skiied before, despite being a skilled and accomplished water ski champion. The instructor's girlfriend called him, and he had to leave. He left us by saying "you've all skiied before, right?" And everyone said yes but me. But, no matter, because bunny slopes are idiot proof.

I tumbled down the shallow hills that had nearly no incline at all while my fellow scouts breezed past me with the greatest of ease. Before lunch, all the girls decided to go over to the intermediate slope, because the bunny slope is boring, apparently. Not wanting to be left alone, I joined them, thinking I'd just ride the lift up and back and wait for them at the bottom.

Now, I am afraid of heights, and I believe that this particular event in my life is responsible for said fear. Upon reaching the top of the intermediate hill, I was told that I had to ski down, because the lift was out of order. Hesitating, I left the top of the hill after everyone else, and saw only one opportunity to get back to the bottom. Ski down.

I left the top of the hill, and everything seemed fine. Then, I hit my first patch of ice.
I slid a ways down on my ass, which hurt quite a bit, and a middle aged man behind me ran over me, which caused him to fall as well. I apologized, he sneered at me, and I got up, brushed myself off, and headed back down. When I hit the second patch of ice, the same thing happened, only this time, I skidded into a man in front of me, and knocked him down on top of me. When I rolled over, I realized that this was the same man I'd knocked over previously. I let out a nervous chuckle, and said "I guess it's back to the bunny slope for me!" to which he responded, very grumpily, "This IS the bunny slope."

In front of me on the hill was an increse in incline, and for a football field's length, I would have to ski almost straight down on a large patch of ice that would shame either of the Poles. So, on my ass, I scooted down the hill, hoping that it would all be over soon. In the distance, I could see the lodge, and realized how high up I actually was. I started shaking and my mouth got all dry, and I almost started crying, but stood my ground. Or sat my ground, rather, sliding on my butt down the hill as best I could.

I heard a loud thud next to me, and looked over to see a little girl, nearly half my age had skiied to a stop next to me. She asked me what was wrong, and I told her I was terrified and couldn't get down. She helped me to my feet and guided me with the greatest of ease to the bottom of the slope. I thanked her, and could hold my tears no more. I started sobbing, kicked off my skiis, and returned them, then headed inside to eat my lunch.

Inside the lodge, I found the rest of the troupe, who were already finished with lunch. I was informed that there was no more food, because they didn't notice I was missing, and divided what they assumed to be an extra lunch among the parents, who were fat and still hungry, slobering like pigs in the warmth of the lodge. Everyone else ran back outside to ski until the sun went down, but I stayed inside, and stole $10 from someone's unattended purse and bought my own lunch at the snack bar.

After that, I fell asleep in a pile of unclaimed coats, and woke up when one of the chaperones pulled his coat from underneath me.

And that was the first and last time I went snow skiing.		  
     Post
 
based on a true story, and written one year ago today.   
07:19pm 14/11/2006
  Dear Roomie,

When I call my Mother, I tell her just how gross you are,
You listen to bad music, yet you're a slob like a rock star.
There's not a man left in this city you haven't already screwed,
Giving keys to our apartment out is really just quite rude.
You bitch about the washers but you never clean your clothes,
When friends of mine come over you turn up your snobbish nose.
You discredit my existence and say I sit around all day
Yet when I try to work at night you're in my fucking way.
The pile of garbage in the living room is yours: it isn't mine,
And I'm fucking sick of asking you to move it all the time.
You eat all of my ice cream then complain that it's not soy
And I'm really getting tired of your always being coy.
Never should central AC be set to 50 degrees,
And when you burn your stupid incense I always gag, cough or sneeze.
If you think any dirty dishes that have piled up in the sink
Have been used by anyone but you, you're dumber thank I think.
Remember when I showed you how to use the nice vacuum?
Yet, I'd need a fucking shovel to get in your filthy room.
You'd like a free-range bunny to pet for your mental health?
Maybe you should first learn to care for YOUR STUPID SELF.

Oh, but roomie when you're out is when I have to clap my hands
Because I refuse to empty any more of our trash cans.
For every time I have put up with one verbal attack,
I take something from your room and I will never give it back.
I steal all of your quarters to get my laundry done,
Showing friends how gross you are became my favorite source of fun.
You may be inconsiderate, but roomie, I don't care.
Because I just used your razor to shave all of my ass hair.
Since you have so many bottles, I will use all your shampoo
And I never ever care if what I'm doing bothers you.
I often use something of yours to clean the bathroom sink
And I only use YOUR liquor when I mix myself a drink.
Often times I wonder why I don't just change the locks,
But I think I'd really rather commandeer all of your socks.
I constantly remember living with you is a curse,
So be prepared, roommate of mine, for me to be much worse.

Best,
Anonymous.		  
     Post
 
Mel Johnson and the Tale of the Permanent CCD Ejection   
07:14pm 13/11/2006
  *or as some would call it, the Central City Dump*

I attended Public school between the ages of 5 and 17. Because of this, I was forced - against my will, of course - to continue my religious studies in CCD (catholic sunday school) on Sunday mornings after mass. I would try my hardest to kick and scream and fake sick to avoid the one and a half hours of CCD, but I usually failed. Often times, I would even sit very very silently and not mention CCD to my mother at all, with hopes that she would just forget to take me.

Now, it's only an hour, you say. Surely that can't be so bad, you say.

But it was.

And let me tell you why. Now, Catholic mass, while only an hour long, seems like an eternity. Even now, now that I am grown, it seems like an eternity. My mind wanders terribly, and always has. And much like in a movie, I'll voice my mind wanderings - much to the dismay of my mother, who does not want to answer questions in the middle of the First Letter of Paul to the Corinthians.

As a Catholic child, you quickly adopt "the mass has ended, go in peace" as your favorite words. Even now, they give me delight and pleasure to hear, as though my ears are being given metaphorical sugar. So, imagine my dismay when, after hearing these seven glorious words (seven words... seven deadly sins.... yeah, i'll probably end up going to hell anyway. check), you are pushed out into the sunlight only to be crammed into a foreign classroom to hear about things that couldn't possibly interest your 5 - 17 year old mind? And words that you can't understand, let alone spell - words like "beattitudes" and "ephiphany" and "callipers." Okay, that last one isn't a religous term at all. It's a really accurate ruler, apparentlly. Or so I'm told. Anywhoo, to make matters worse, you are crammed into the aformentioned foreign classroom with a woman who isn't your teacher - she's somebody's mom. And that somebody was usually in the class, and had to sit up front. And you're still wearing your church clothes.

This is the worst part. I feel as though church would be a lot more tollerable for little kids if you'd just let them wear what they wanted. Which, for me, would have been that tiger suit that I wore everywhere. Badass.

I never knew anybody in CCD from school. The two or three Catholics that attended my elementary school were either
A) in another class
B) older than me
or C) Lame.

I knew a few of them eventually from baseball/softball/swimteam/prison, but I never did like any of them. And, because I was the obnoxious kid, they didn't like me. Which was fine, because as you must know by now, I have a knack for being able to entertain myself for hours and hours and hours! I'm my own biggest fan.

As far as fans goes, my brother is a close second, my dad, a close third. That brings me to the following story.

Often times in my life, I have been guilty of getting "off task" while trying to accomplish assignments. In 8th grade CCD class - confirmation year - this often happened, leading the teachers to dislike me vastly. My teacher, we'll call her Mrs. Kuzmuk (because that was her fucking name), made me sit in the corner FACING THE WALL as a result of this. Now, you may stop and think "hey, maybe that's just cause for her actions." But do you know what? I might be obnoxious, but I've never in my life been so obnoxious that I had to face a fucking wall.


We had our confirmation retreat at Marymount University in Arlington. We were in this room where we were listening to a priest talk about what was expected of us as adults in the catholic church. He was talking about how most people get married and have kids, but that some of us don't. So, he asks "who doesn't get married?"

Someone raised their hand and said nuns, and someone said priests, and someone said monks, and i, of course, raise my hand and, being the hilarious soul that i am, say "the ugly people don't get married."

The whole room cracked up, including the priest, who said "well, some of them do," and i said "yeah, to eachother." My teacher, who often made me sit in the corner in class for being obnoxious, came over to me and said "if you don't be quiet, you're going home right now." I said "oh no! anything but that!"

They called my house, but of course, at noon on a tuesday, nobody was there. i stayed, then went home that night like everybody else, and my mom was out of the house for some reason (and she's the real parent in the house. my father is just like a goofy older brother who talks about poop and tells dick jokes. he's also baptist). Dad was the only one home. The phone rings, it's my sunday school teacher. She says, "your daughter was an enormous discipline problem at the retreat today" and told him the whole story.

Dad laughed his ass of at the end of the story and goes "well, that's true, ain't it?" she hung up on him, and we had a good laugh. so the next week in class, we had to sign this contract that said after confirmation we'd keep persuing our religious education -- that we weren't just in it to get confirmed. i, sadly, was not given said form.

And that was the end of my religious education.		  
     Post
 
Rod Roddy says....   
05:24pm 06/11/2006
 

This is, by far, the most hilarious thing anyone has ever been inspired to make after having a conversation with me.		  
     Post
 
Welcome to DirecTV!   
06:35pm 10/09/2006
  Here at DirecTV, we're interested with providing our customers with quality service, from the first time we greet you up until the moment you send us on our way.

DirecTV promises you that we might try to get to your home within the alloted five hours that we say we'll be there to install your equiptment. We'll show up looking sweaty, angry, and reeking of body odor and booze. We promise to leave your front door wide open, so that your pets almost escape into the street.

We make it our goal at DirecTV to creepily oggle at you through your second story bedroom window as we make our way to the roof, where we will stomp around, causing the paint in your celing to crack. Above all, we want to provide excellence.

DirecTV takes great pride in being the only television provider who drills holes in your floors and walls against your will and, if applicable, knocks trash cans over, spilling waste onto your bedroom carpet. Our customer service is world renound, and tecnicians won't fail in their task to make loud, angry phone calls to their headquarters, which are always concluded with the question "are you fucking stupid or something?"

But here at DirecTV, we're interested with providing the world with somewhat moderately priced television service. And since you live in the world, that applies to you!!		  
     Post
 
Oh, Darline!   
11:32am 07/09/2006
  Oh, Darlene!
A day in the life of a sexually aquatic madman.


I awoke that morning singing Lola by the Kinks. I find this to be particularly odd because at the time, I knew no one by that name.
The previous evening, I had gone to bed wearing a pair of blue fleece socks. When I woke only one of them remained on my body. I pulled the sheets from the bed to retrieve its partner, but to no avail. It was neither in the bed nor under it.
Glancing at the picture frame on my dresser, I laughed long and hard at what I saw there. Perhaps a little too hard. Perhaps I laughed so hard that the walls began to shake, and crack, causing my neighbors to shout words of hate and disapproval at me through the plaster. Perhaps car alarms outside squealed and squabbled with each other as the ceiling fan above me shot sparks at the curtains, setting them ablaze. Perhaps my town house development burned to the ground, killing everyone who lived there. Women, and their children, and their children's pet goldfish.
That didn't happen.
I did bust my gut laughing, however, laughing at the picture in the frame: it was the sample photo of an unknown young girl. My laughter ended as my heart skipped and sank at the thought of the picture it had replaced.
Oh! Darlene!
How glorious the light was that shone from your fair eggshell skin! I remember how it was for us to glide together on the sea, and how it felt each time I slid my mast into your portholes!
When Darlene sank, I felt strangely relieved. Her demise was at my hands: I put a sledgehammer through her radiant decks after seeing her; and I sunder to remember this, dear reader "rocking" in time on the undulating ocean with another boat. Not me. My heart shattered! The glass in the picture frame shattered, then I reverted to the sample photo.
I am loneliest in the bath.
The aquatic surroundings remind me of her natural habitat. I try to re create what we had with toy boats in the bath, but none can emulate her loving caress.
I have a cat.
Sometimes late at night, I lie awake in the silence, periodically yelling "GET THE DAMN PHONE!" at no one.
I drink out of a chicken.
My roller skates were in the shop, so I walked to the marina; two miles down the middle of the highway. I ignored the honking cars as Jesus ignored the devil's challenges in the desert.
The marina was empty - unusual for a Thursday morning. The air was calm, and the water followed suit. On the dock stood a solitary fat girl, tugging awkwardly at her clothing in a failed attempt to hide her rolls from the world. Two boats lulled each other into an afternoon slumber in unison atop the water's surface and - but wait! What is this? A woman with broad shoulders and shimmering red hair stepped out onto the deck of an even more gorgeous boat: one who could shame my Darlene herself.
The vixen with the red hair beckoned me nearer to her with one solitary finger, and when I boarded her boat, she took me in her arms and whispered in a dark brown voice in my ear: I'm Lola. L-O-L-A Lola.
Her hair smelled like the sea: salt, fish, and garbage and as I took in this pungent stench, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a single blue fleece sock floating at ease atop the water. It was then that I was at peace.
Girls will be boys and boys will be girls, and it's a mixed up muddled up shook up world except for Lola.
And that was the end of me having sex with boats.		  
     Post
 
Midgets!   
11:15am 13/08/2006
  The legend of Vienna Virginia’s Midgetville is one that has been passed down from generation to generation among the area’s inhabitants. Along Northern Virginia’s Old Dominion trail (formerly the Old Dominion train line) are nearly 15 houses on the remaining 14 acres of the Wedderburn Estate that are rumored to house the retired and ailing circus performing little-people.
The houses, which now stand in ruin, are no larger than a typical one car garage, yet have a far more elaborate floor plan. They each consist of a living room, kitchen, and bedroom spread across two floors. Each tiny house is equipped with a wood burning stove, and although the apparent midget commune is long deserted, the smell of burning wood still lingers in the air. Every house has an outdoor bathing facility built into the ground, although in recent years, the local youth have used these bathing pits for bonfires.
How did these mysterious houses become associated with circus midgets? Legend has it that in 1892, the Bailey family of Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus fame who owned several hundred acres of neighboring land (now named Bailey’s Crossroads on behalf of the family) commissioned newspaper tycoon A.J. Wedderburn to build the tiny houses as a retirement facility for his circus performing little people. The houses are buried in the thick woods of the area, and Bailey thought this secluded area a fine place for the little people to escape the jeers and mockery of society. It was here that the midgets lived peacefully for many years, until the area became more and more populated, and their hiding place was stumbled upon by common folk more frequently. Local lore dubbed the commune “Midgetville,” as it is still referred to today.
Several generations of little people are rumored to have lived in these appropriately sized houses after the original Barnum and Bailey retirees. Sometime in the late 1970’s, the tenants decided that the jeers of many a high school student was too much for them, and hired themselves some security – a mentally handicapped gentleman with a shot gun who would chase and threaten trespassers gawking at the little people of the Wedderburn estate. Although this midget guardian no longer guards the now boarded up houses, the rocking chair post where he spent many of his days still sits on one of Midgetville’s tiny front porches.
In 2004, rumors of developing the Wedderburn land into 4 or 500 multi-million dollar town homes was thrown around, but today, no development signs can be seen on the estate. Although several of the locals who live in the surrounding areas deny the legends of Midgetville, there is no denying that the grove of tiny houses certainly is mysterious, and filled with the untold secrets of the past.

- Melody Johnson, Falls Church		  
     Post
 
Winona Ryder in the Promised Land   
10:21pm 30/04/2006
  As a child growing up in an obsessively Catholic family, one does learn the names of the things that will ultimately send you to hell before one learns what these things actually are. Gluttony. Greed. Pride. Sloth. These are all words to describe the simple pleasures in life: Thanksgiving. Pay day. Bragging rights. Lazy Sundays. It was early in life that Monty Romero learned, at the strict hands of Catholic priests and nuns, that all of the things he enjoyed were forbidden. Gluttony. Greed. Pride. Sloth. Envy.
Self-gratification.
But who really knows, as a child, what those things actually are?
At the age of thirteen, as boys began to develop all around him, their concentrations left video games and comic books and went elsewhere – to a land thirteen year old boys can only visit by themselves: the promised land. It was around this time, that his friends acquired their knowledge of the ultimate distraction that Monty knew something big was about to happen.
“Why do you spend all your time at church?” Monty’s best friend Marty said. “Come to Benny’s house. Benny found some of his dad’s magazines. There’s girls inside.”
Monty didn’t feel like it, and he said so. He liked church, and Father McCaffey, and invited his public school chums to the All Saint’s Day ball. They said they would go, but they didn’t have to like it.
The big Catholic dance was like all big Catholic gatherings. It was stuffy in the activity hall, the paper punch cups could only be used once before leaking through onto paper tablecloths, which tasted like stinging when the ink touched the tongue. There were piles of shoes, too small for growing feet discarded like the plague in the corner of the room. There was messed Catholic hair, and sweaty Catholic dresses. Lost clip on ties by the hundreds cluttered the floor. The nuns made sure no one touched, even by accident in a tiny room where an invisible line separated boys and girls like the line of demarcation once separated Portugal and Spain.
One final tie made its way to the floor without notice – the blue and silver striped one, which had once decorated Monty Romero’s neck.
“Time to piss!” declared Monty, and off he went.
Monty enjoyed the handicap bathroom, with its solitude from the rest of the world, and its high, high toilet seat, which, in the past, enabled him to swing his thirteen year old legs. He unzipped his pants and went about his business while wiping the sweat from his thirteen year old brow.
On the back of the toilet was a People magazine. Trash left, no doubt, by a high schooler before. On the cover was none other than Winona Ryder, looking quite crazed in that way that she has. She’d been caught, red handed, at a store stealing things, and her face said “uh oh!” but her eyes said “SHIT!”
And what was this sensation? A sensation never felt before. All at once all the sensation grew stronger, and every way Monty moved and everywhere he put his hand only made things feel better. Oh Winona Ryder! Thank God you stole that purse! Steal more purses. STEAL MORE PURSES AND HATS! And then, some Catholicism escaped from Monty’s body, leaving him sweatier than ever before.
Monty couldn’t have seen this coming. How could he? But he knew now that this was his reason for being – to recreate this activity over and over again, for Monty was in love!
“BODY OF CHRIST!”
Amen.

Monty stormed out of the handicap bathroom and back onto the dance floor, where Benny and Marty were waiting for him.
“I just did something in the bathroom, and the result was AWESOME,” Monty yelled just as the music turned off. All the heads turned, and Father McCaffey flew to Monty’s side, grabbed him by the ear, and pulled him into the hallway.
“Gluttony. Envy. Sloth. Pride. Greed. Anger. Lust. Do you know what Lust is, Montague Romero?”
“No.”
“Self Gratification!”
“What?”
“NEVER DO THAT AGAIN! Or you will go BLIND!”
Let us pray.
Monty learned through the shouts and sore ears that his newly found pleasure was highly frowned upon. But how could something so great be considered so bad? The priest had just told him that what he had done was evil, so why then did Monty want to do it again? When Monty got home, he did just that – again and again, until he fell asleep. Then again in the morning, sometimes 5 times a day, for Monty had finally found the key to the land that thirteen year old boys could only visit by themselves, the place where Winona Ryder was sometimes a guest – the promised land.
“So he says that it’s wrong, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”
“You’re fucking gross, man,” Benny told him. “We don’t want to hear this.”
“So don’t stop,” Marty said. “That old flamewad can’t stop what you do behind closed doors.”
It was then that a hand reached out from nowhere and slapped Marty across the face, which sent him flying onto the parking lot pavement.
“Ouch! [EXPLITIVE] [EXPLITIVE]! Mother of [EXPLITIVE]!”
“You have no faith, heathen runt, but don’t you dare take Monty’s!” Father McCaffey demanded.
“A plague on your faith, you old piss ant!”
That’s Father Piss Ant to you.
Monty decided that his favorite place to be alone was in the shower.
“Monty! Come out!” his mother would yell, tearing Winona’s head from her body.
“I’m coming!”
“Monty, NOW,” she continued to yell.
“I’M COMING!”
Already, it was the thirty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time – and Monty was a new man.
In school, surrounded by nuns and priests, Monty never got alone time. In addition to this, Father McCaffey told everyone to watch out and keep Monty in their sight, and both hands where they could be seen. No funny business. But one day, Monty got adventurous on the playground. He hid behind a tree – he sat in the pine needles which smelled of sap and fall, and bugs crawled over his Buster Browns as he closed his eyes and blocked out the sounds over head – birds, planes, possible supermen – until it was only him, and the sensation previously never felt before, but now felt quite frequently. It grew stronger and stronger, and finally, all that was Catholic left him, and when Monty opened his eyes, there stood four nuns. One who was crying, one who was vomiting all over her habit (which reminded Monty of a hilarious joke. What’s black and white and has barf all over?), one was bright red in the face, and the other didn’t have a face: she was running full sprint in the opposite direction to fetch the Father.
“Monty, you are expelled from Catholic school.”
“But why, Father? Look not on our sins, but on the faith of your church.”
“SELF GRATIFICATION, MONTY. You’re lucky you didn’t go blind.”
So Monty went home, and since he had the house all to himself, he did what he knew how to do. He closed his eyes and went to the place where Winona stole. But when he got there, she wouldn’t steal hats and purses. She wouldn’t do anything except cross her arms and wait for him to finish. He couldn’t finish with her not cooperating. Why, Winona, why?
When Monty opened his eyes, he saw the world in a different way, and when he pleasured himself, he thought of a different lady: Anne Heche, in the desert, preaching about aliens.
The mass has ended, go in peace.		  
     Post
 
BIG MONKEY! BIG MONKEY!   
12:18am 03/03/2006
 

PAT SAJAK HATES ANIMALS


Okay. Maybe Pat Sajak doesn't hate all animals, but he certainly hates this one. I'm not even quite sure what kind of animal this *is*. So we're going to assume, just for the moment, that it is some sort of monkey. However, the terror in Pat Sajak's eyes say "this sloth is going to bite off my fucking face." And you know what? I think he might be right.

I like to imagine that in the first takes of this photo shoot, Vanna White was there, but the sloth/monkey horribly mauled her.		  
     Read 1 - Post
 
How to be a Fat Kid   
11:16pm 23/02/2006
  Behold, your defense mechanism – self deprecating humor. Congratulations, you’ve already got step one covered. The trick is to make fun of yourself before they can make fun of you. Ever seen the movie Roxanne with Steve Martin? And there’s that scene where he’s in the bar, and that guy makes fun of his nose? So he rattles off all of the insults he’s ever heard, and wins the crowd over before they can be turned on him? Just do that. Think that if you point out on a regular basis that you have a weight problem, people won’t feel the need to remind you.

And it’s a good thing, because fuck them and their reminder. You’d be perfectly happy with yourself if they’d just leave you the hell alone. Pretend you don’t hear them, your mom will tell you. Your teachers will tell you. You will tell yourself. But you do hear them – you hear them loud and clear, even when they whisper behind your back that the reason Travis Jackson “doesn’t like like you” is because of the roll around your middle that appears when you sit down.

That roll. It doesn’t go away. In your youth it was composed of chocolate cookies and ham, as you’ve gotten older you replaced that with beer. Here are some tricks to make it seem smaller. Tuck it into your pants, or tuck it into itself: poke yourself in the stomach until your one large roll becomes two smaller ones. Wear a sweatshirt at all times, even in the summer. Convince yourself that you are always cold.

Lie to yourself. Never get on the scale, and tell yourself that your pants fit too tightly just because they’re newly clean – they’ll stretch back out to their normal size. Your prom dress is a twelve? Just tell them it’s mis-marked. It was the only size they had and my mom took it in at the seams. You can always hold your stomach in, but it’s just a matter of time before it comes back out – the world knows it’s there, no matter how much you hope it’s not.

Look around and find larger people. Look at them and say “they’re happy. What are they doing mentally to make them better off than me? I look much better than they do.” Her boyfriend is cute, and she’s twice my size. Come up with a mean nickname for her. Watch your bad Karma pile up. Wonder why this is happening to you. Stop to consider that they didn’t have Elaine as a grandmother, spouting evil from her lips and calling it love. You might be a fat kid, but you deserve to be treated like everybody else. I guess.		  
     Read 1 - Post
 
Big Brother is Wåtching   
10:11pm 20/02/2006
  In 1984, a lot of things happened. I think somewhere they had Olympics, and a president was elected in the United States of America. I bet he's dead now. I bet he didn't watch a lot of the olympics that year, either. Some time after these things happened in 1984, I was born.

My parents were very pleased with me in the beginning. I was pink and soft, and I probably smelled like roses (much like now). I was warm and lovable.

So what happened?

Here I stand before you, much more sarcastic than ever intended. I am loud, I am crude, and I am painfully amusing. I have been told that this will assure my spinsterhood from here on out. Oh well. It's the journey that matters, right? Fuck you, destination.

The following entries have been leaked from my brain to you, so that you might try and make sense of me, as you see fit.		  
     Post
 
 
mcmeljo