Official website for humorist, Twitterist [it is so a word] and occasional fiction writer Benjamin Kissell.
Follow me on Twitter (praetor1983) for occasion daily bon mots.
DESPERATELY SEEKING ... ATTENTION [how many glasses of wine will it take to get this to happen or will I give up before it does]
Benjamin Kissell
Why yes, I assume that mocking Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey is a brilliant and oh-so-time-appropriate commentary. Right? I'm totally cutting edge, here ...
I've never made a secret of my intense, full-bodied disinterest in Twilight from the get-go [think of an oak-barrel aged Cabernet Sauvignon]. I made pithy, under-my-breath comments about it to its face like some mean girl bitching about 'that' skank in school; penning snark-fueled tweets like I was Taylor Swift after a break-up [pick one - I love the girl, she knows how to write some scathing ex-songs]. As an openly gay man who has a penchant for awesome hairdos, you would think I'd be right there with the rest of the world fawning over Robert Pattinson. But, you would be wrong. In short, I did not like Twilight, its author, most of its actors, its media saturation ... and truth be told, nor was I a fan of its odd effect on the populace.
That is ... except when it came to my paycheck.
When Twilight began baring its fangs with the herds of Twi-Hards (teens and moms) my store - the now, lamentably gone Borders Books Inc. - took note. We saw the rabid fans queueing up outside of the Young Adult bookshelves hunting for copies of Twilight, New Moon and their ilk as well as the as-many-as-possible and the are-you-kidding-me weird concoctions we tossed on the shelves to tie-in to the Twilight brand.
Hell, there are (somewhere) even photos of me in white-tinged make-up and glitter posing with customers (and their mothers) as I played ring-master in our Twilight parties. [Yes, I am aware how hipster it is of me to both mock them and yet partake in their excesses ... in my defense, I'm a narcissist who loves to have an audience (as evidenced by my article "Pavlovian Responses"). ] We all played a part - audience, readers, book-sellers and even detractors - in the media and hype that became the Twilight typhoon of popularity. [How Fraudian is my subconsious; I had to type 'popularity' three times there ... the first two times I misspelled it as 'poopularity'.]
I even tried to make my way through the movies a few years back; my ex-roommates decided we should have a 2-day Twilight-a-thon in honor of the series ending. Between distracting myself with texting my friend John - who would go on to be my boyfriend fiance - and the nigh-criminal levels of wine I chugged to make it through the first 3 films ... well, you'd think I was at Gitmo the way I whined, bitched and moaned. Of course, by the second bottle (and end of the first movie) I was actually - dare we say it - enjoying the movies. I found myself texting John little gems like "drunkety juice makes plot holes disappear" as I got progressively more shit-faced and enjoying the hyper-over-acting and piss-poor rip-off writing [seriously; read Romeo & Juliet, watch Roswell and then compare them to Twilight ... you're welcome]. Of course, I woke up the day-after with cotton mouth and a sense of shame on-par with being dumped by a Kardashian.
Why no, I didn't crash and burn ... or wake up wondering if I might be Rosanna Arquette. Eventually I HAD to make a reference to the movie whose title I'm homaging for this article.
[Random Twilight Reference: If you want a good laugh, check out the wickedly-witty Jen Lancaster's twisted takes on Twilight reenactments (with toys! pets! snark!) on her original site,Jennsylvania]
Twilight is, oh-so-grudgingly-admitted, a cultural phenomenon [of course, so were the Taco Bell Chihuahua and Crazy Town ... so we're not talking the best-of here] and, like any true cultural phenomenon, it spawned everything from spoof books (National Lampoon did it right) to rip-offs and prolific fan fiction. In the rare instance of genuine talent trumping subject matter authors like Cassandra Clare shot into the spotlight - and bestsellers list - when their Twilight Fan Fic writing found its way onto various literary agents' screens [I so heart Cassie - such a sweetheart; I've yet to hear anyone speak an ill word of her].
Of course, just as soon as I'm about to forgive and forget with Twilight and its hellspawn, we're gifted with the oh-so-what-the-f#@k-ness of Fifty Shades of Grey (the ultimate BDSM fan fic of Twilight) and its omnipresent popularity.
Can I just ...
Uhm ...
I mean it's ...
Yeah, no. The tampon thing? Eww. I'll just be over here waiting until the furor over the novel/movie/everything-else-associated-with-it dies down. Go on, entertain yourselves with it - I have a good book and I learned how to wait years ago. [Of course, if wine is involved while I wait, lawdd knows what shitty things I may begin to stop hating ... perhaps even Kanye West? Nah. The amount of sweet, sweet Moscato needed to make that happen would kill me first.]
You know, come to think of it, the rampant narcissist in me keeps wondering if I should start writing Twilight Fan Fic in a get-rich/famous-quick scheme. I mean, I've no qualms admitting that I want massive attention called to my writing - even when I don't always have something deep to say. Ooh! Perhaps, I could call it 'Middle of the Day' and make it about a struggling artist and her creep-tastic stalker-esque anger-management-needing agent-turned-lover ...
AM I OPINIONATED OR WHAT? a.k.a. try these reading suggestions on for size
Benjamin Kissell
Beatrice knew she heard the muffled cries of her children from the other room but chose to turn the page regardless ... they could always beg on the streets for food; she had these books to finish.
Some have called me opinionated. Some have called me egocentric. Some have called me so full of editorializing that I have to insert witicisms into my witicisms ... side-tracking you from the original thought process so much that you stop to wonder what it is I'm really saying. [Admit it; you've thought this before, haven't you?] Friends/loved ones/family/the boyfriend fiance/random strangers on the street/internet trolls have all called me out on this narcissism.
And they would be correct.
I am opinionated. I believe I have amazing opinions - even when those opinions are only about whether the pizza I'm about to consume is fantastic or merely tasty [see previous articles]. I am one person who isn't usually afraid to voice his opinion and assume that you want to hear it. Even if you don't ... well, you didn't have to read this, did you? [But thank you for doing so, anyway! I luff you!]
It isn't enough that I'm opinionated in general [we went ahead and established this, right?] but I've been constantly consulted and cultivated for my opinion in a particular regard for years: Books.
When I worked at Borders (and ever since), I was regularly asked "Is this a good book?" and "Should I read this?" or "What do you think I need to read?" Is it any wonder I have raging Literary Narcissism? To that end, after Borders closed in 2011 I began posting "Summer Reading Lists" but this year I've decided to kick it up a notch - I'm going to randomly begin posting OPINIONATED STATEMENTS ON WHAT YOU SHOULD HAVE IN YOUR PERSONAL LIBRARY because ... well, you should just read these books already.
Whether you're a reader of light-hearted fare or deep and heavily introspective works, I know some great authors and books that belong in your personal library. They range from the brilliant Stacey Ballis, Caprice Crane, Kelly Barnhill, Brian Farrey, Maggie Stiefvater to the absurdly funny Celia Rivenbark, Freeman Hall, Laurie Notaro and Jen Lancaster. And don't forget classics from Jane Austen and Vergil.
Stacey Ballis:
"Off the Menu" and "Out to Lunch" Stacey - aside from being a wonderful, lovely and loving person to know - is one of those brilliant authors who can effortlessly weave a fantastically fun story with depth and characters you can't help but both identify with and fall a little in love with. Each of her hit-novels have been a-can't-put-down read which I may or may not have devoured in the course of an evening each. Stacey writes with such depth and passion that you cannot help but be pulled into her wonderful take on modern life in Chicago nor can you help but be pulled into the entwining lives of her broad cast of characters (after you read a few of her novels, you'll notice cameos! SQUEE!) These two most recent additions to her pantheon of awesome are must-buys! The added bonus recipes at the end of her books? ERMEHLERDD! If you have even the barest hint of good taste, you'll order both of these and then demand another helping!
Caprice Crane:
"Confessions of a Hater" and "Family Affair" Caprice is in a class by herself (whether as a staunch friend or writer) and when it comes to injecting poignancy and hilarity into a story she has no peer; having honed her skills between screenplays, television series scripts and several amazing novels she has a distinct and terrific narrative voice which she is able to blend into a myriad of characters and story-levels (she is at home writing for a young adult audience as she is writing adult fiction). Whether you love them or love to hate them, her characters comprise believable true-to-life (and yet sometimes over-the-top) worlds; a feat which assuredly stems from her own background between NYC and LA. Caprice's ability to deftly tell even a painfully awkward story with wit and poise is a never-lauded-enough talent and one you're sure to enjoy! Take it from me.
Kelly Barnhill:
"The Mostly True Story of Jack" and "Iron Hearted Violet" Kelly is one of those rare talents that writes not only beautifully dark tales for adults (her catalogue of short stories for Sci-Fi/Fantasy anthologies is impressive to say the least) but pens layered and rich tales for the middle grade set (which, since I'm recommending them, are also easily enjoyed by the ... um ... not-so-middle-grade set). Her work wends its way between believable reality and heightend fairy tale in such compelling ways that when the story involves a cantankerous princess in a world rife with magic arguing with a dragon ... you don't even pause; you're right there with her entrenched and caught up in the tale one hundred percent.
Brian Farrey:
"The Vengekeep Prophecies" and "With or Without You" What is it with Minnesota? The state seems to produce more fantastic authors than you can shake a stick at (Kelly, Brian, Anne Ursu and more!) and each one stands apart with skill and taste. Brian is able to weave tales on a myriad of levels; his innovative middle grade action/adventure/fantasy trilogy which kicked off with "The Vengekeep Prophecies" is both endearing and hilarious; producing just as many "Aww" moments as not-so-quiet chuckles at the easily connectable first-person narrative. "With or Without You" is a stand-alone award-winning piece of art: think "The Outsiders" crossed with "Rainbow Boys". A heart-wrenching and amazing tale which will break your heart and remind you that you have one at the same time.
Maggie Stiefvater:
"Lament" and "Ballad" Maggie is a demi-local NYT bestelling author (whom I was 2 years behind in college and have met a few times after when she'd shop/sign at my bookstore) whose work spans the YA genre gamut. As popular as her Werewolf series and more recent books are, her first two novels are what I first read and loved. Set in a very-similar-to-where-we-went-to-college town, Maggie's Dark Faerie novels are captivating and vastly enjoyable. To say that I've been pining over a possible third novel in the series for the last REDACTED years is an understatment.
Some people often wonder where all of my paycheck goes ...
Celia Rivenbark:
"Rude Bitches Make Me Tired" and "You Don't Sweat Much for a Fat Girl" Celia is one of those suave, sweet and swearin' Southern ladies you have to read to believe. I had the great fortune to meet her while on vacation two summers ago and she is just as funny and sweet in-person as you could hope. Her humor essay collections range from the poignant to the absurdly hilarious as she takes on everything from Bubbas to Da Hubby with wit and pinache reminiscent of Nora Ephron (yet, even funnier - yes, I said it). You'll find amazing (and amazingly funny) advice in her newest collection, "Rude Bitches Make Me Tired" and if you can keep yourself from snorting in laughter ... well, I'm not sure if we should be friends.
Freeman Hall:
"Retail Hell" and "Return to the Big Fancy" Freeman is a fantastic friend (he pushed me to start this website!) and an entertaining writer whose deliciously devilish humor memoirs about work in the retail world (as compared to his hilarious spoof of "Stuff White People Like" entitled "Stuff That Makes a Gay Heart Weep") are a MUST READ for anyone who has ever worked in retail/customer service or had a friend/loved one/passing acquaintance who has. Despite (in my opinion) never-enough publicity for his second memoir the word has gotten out - and that word? Is "HILARIOUS". Freeman's voice is both uniquely singular and, yet, the perfect everyman. Think "The Grapes of Wrath" but with snark, handbag sharks and caustic wit set in the world of retail ... you won't regret adding these to your library.
Laurie Notaro:
"The Potty Mouth at the Table" and "I Love Everybody (and other atrocious lies)" Laurie Notaro is practically a household name in humor; her memoirs and novels each garnering NYTbestseller status and these are two fine examples of why. Whether you're the uncomfortable-singing-in-public-type who lip-syncs along with Christmas Carols so as to not appear rude or the type who just isn't comfortable with anyone touching your shower puff [I'm sorry, but just because I'm marrying you does NOT give you the shower puff touching rights - amiright?] or someone who wants to yell at pretentious Yoga Snobs ... Laurie is the right touch. Judging from the hoarse voice I got reading her out-loud on a road trip to entertain my Mum, everyone should love this potty mouth.
Jen Lancaster:
"Bright Lights, Big Ass" and "Twisted Sisters" Jen Lancaster is best known for her debut humor memoir, "Bitter is the New Black", however her follow-up, a collection of humor essays, will probably retain position as my favorite laugh-producer ever. Admittedly, this may have something to do with the fact that I was lucky enough to read it in manuscript form [Jen is not only my literary hero, I'm lucky to call her my friend] and would consider it better than even the most popular David Sedaris collection (blasphemy schmasphemy). Her most recent foray into fiction is a deliciously delightful read (although, I all-too swiftly devoured it #FirstWorldProblems). Ooh, and if you pronounce a certain antagonist/hero character's name you MAY notice a (purposeful) similarity to ... well ... you get the idea.
Jane Austen:
"Pride and Prejudice" and "Persuasion" If you haven't lived under a rock (or slept through 9th grade through college English classes) you are more than passingly familiar with the iconic Jane Austen novels. Yes, we all want to find ourselves a Mr Darcy (an arch humorist with snarkily cynical outlooks and a creamy center); yet, no matter how brilliant you consider P&P, I'll always have a soft spot and abiding love for her comedy of errors and role-reversal novel, "Persuasion".
Publius Vergilius Maro/Vergil:
"The Aeneid" If only Vergil knew JUST how influential his "throw it in the fire" masterpiece would turn out. Iconic imagery and important historical information about the era and aftermath of the Trojan War wouldn't have made it to the modern era if not for Vergil's propaganda machine! In much the same manner as Homer's "Odyssey" the Roman poet chronicled the 10 year escape/journey of the last Trojan prince, Aeneas, as he wends his way through the Mediterranean and sets off a chain reaction which led to the founding of Rome! [Vergil wrote this 12 part epic poem on behalf of Caesar Augustus as a way to emphasize his divine heritage: Venus begat Aeneas whose bloodline begat Romulus and Remus, Romulus being the ancestor of Caius Iulius Caesar, the divine uncle/adopted father of Octavius Augustus. However, he was so unsatisfied with the occasional meter slip and unfinished nature of the poem that he requested Augustus burn it upon his death ... which the emperor conveniently forgot to do. Whoops!]
and special notation of "Will Grayson/Will Grayson" (for the John Green fans out there). You should read this NOT because John Green co-wrote it (although he is brilliant and funny and a bajillion other fantastic things) but because it was co-written by the dazzlingly talented and wonderful David Levithan whose ground-breaking novels of YA and LGBT literature are a MUST HAVE for anyone and everyone! "Boy Meets Boy"? "Two Boys Kissing"? "The Realm of Possibility"? *sigh*
THAT ONE TIME I EMBARRASSED MY BOYFRIENDFIANCE IN PUBLIC
[okay, so it's happened more than once ... I'm allowed SOME creative licensing occasionally]
Benjamin Kissell
Go ahead and raise your hand if you've never been the one causing your boyfriend fiance's friends to ask "What the f#@k is he doing with him?" ... put your hands down, I know you're lying.
Move over Laurie Notaro and Jen Lancaster - my favorite reigning queens of "Well, shit; I shouldn't have said that in front of your coworker/colleague/friend/boss/classmate/whatever" - and make room for someone new to join you in the "Fuck; did I really just say that?" Club. Hell, I think I should take a center seat ... or at least a nice plush one to recline in as I recover from the mortification that my very big, very loud, very persistent mouth got me into recently. Perhaps with some chocolate and a hot compress?
I have a big mouth - this I know - which is locked, loaded and apparently a hair trigger on an itchy trigger finger.
It's bad enough when you get yourself into trouble/awkward situations/mute staring contests when your mouth goes on autopilot and Verbal Diarrhea is produced [i.e. the inability to shut the fuck up and ERMEHGERDD STOP THE WERD FLOW ALREADY!]; but when your verbosity causes ripples in the fabric of reality impacting those around you? Well, it gets dicey. And when the one impacted the most is the one who's promising to stand up in front of God, your friends and family and probably more than a few protesters to begin a life together? Yeah. It's a whole new level of Oops I Crapped My Pants-isms.
My mouth is not unknown to cause these issues - one could say it's a condition which has plagued me since I made the unnerving mistake to open it and talk (back). My family was made aware of this situation early on and friends have experienced the occasional social setbacks when I blurt out something that might cause even the most Peter Griffin-esque person to reconsider the need for a verbal filter [for example: despite being about a decade in the past, I am NEVER living down meeting my best friend's Buddhist temple leader and lamenting losing my place to my ex as 'the most popular date in town' within a five-minute period. NEVER].
Let's rewind the scene to where the amazingly patient victim [i.e. my boyfriend fiance] was completely sideblinded despite being patently aware of who he's marrying [you know, the guy whose mouth has been off-and-running since the mid-1980's].
In short: I blame low blood sugar, lack of sleep and a natural propensity for a constantly running mouth on the following experience. I blame Red Barron for everything else.
"What an idiot!" If what follows causes you to shun me in shame ... well, you're probably not alone.
If the appropriate music for the situation could be piped through the tinny and gawdd-awful speaker-system which courses through the veins of Wal-Mart it would be the Muzak equivalent of the Jaws theme.
My innocent and loving boyfriend fiance and I were doing the shopping tango; alternating between what we affectionately call the "Wonderland of Crap" side (where all of the stuff we actually need is located and often hidden behind open pallet jacks and annoying Wal-Mart shoppers who don't understand the concept of MOVE ALREADY YOU CREEPY OLD BRAIN-FRIED METH HEAD IN NEON JEGGINGS) and the Produce/Groceries side (where we usually end the trip) when the first notes of the dreaded music should have flared.
Duh Duh.
Duh Duh.
Coming off of my third week in a row vacillating between overnight and mid-day shifts back-to-back-to-back and getting little-to-no sleep (and even less consistent food intake) my internal monologue filter was stripped to 'Well, maybe they won't hear me and even if they do, so what - I'm muttering' which is never a good sign. When an incredibly rude jackass pulled his cart out in front of us, cutting us off and almost causing the cart's handle to embed itself in my solar plexis, I stopped myself from slipping off my boot and tossing it at his head. Barely.
"mumble mutter mutter dark statement mumble mutter"
"Honey, what'd you say?"
"Nothing, mumble mutter mutter mutter"
This scene quickly mimicked itself several more times with increasingly snarky mumbling on my part by the time we'd meandered through the all-too-minimal dvd selection - [come on guys, enough re-packaged Rob Schneider flicks; they weren't worth paying to see in theatres and they aren't worth the cost of the $5 Discount Bin sticker you just slapped on them, either]. My stream-of-consciousness commentary and our debates on what to get/put back/not even reach for were shaving down to almost monosyllabic commentary at this point. To salvage our afternoon and good moods, we would have to finish the shopping toute sweet. And that? Meant a harried and hurried run through the grocery section grabbing whichever scented room spray caught my eye [Fresh Linen EVERY TIME NO EXCUSES], whichever brand of cat food we could grab and lift [Meow Mix, 20lb bag of indoor cat formula for Bitch Pudding] and pushing whichever off-brand of House Made Oreos, honey buns, imitation crab meet, soy/almond/lactose free milk and non-red dye #5 powdered drink mix we could get our hands on into the cart.
Duh Duh. Duh Duh.
Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh Duh.
We were wending our way through the frozen foods section ogling our potential pizza purchases [why yes, frozen pizza is a staple in any household I choose to live in] when the water went dark with chum and the sleek silouhette dove under the unsuspecting victims.
My poor doomed boyfriend fiance looked up from our heated debate on which (and how many of each) Red Barron Pizzas we should just "toss in the damn cart already" and caught the eye of a striking middle-50's housewife a good head shorter than me. A more suspicious [read: less secure] person would wonder why they both beamed at one another before launching themselves into an animated and earnest conversation.
"What are you doing on this end of town? I thought they had you chained back at the store?"
"Occassionally I gnaw my foot off at the ankle and break free."
A polite chuckle ensues from both.
Ahh - of course! The fact that my boyfriend fiance is a well-liked and rather popular guy at his work neatly explains this. I begin to tune out after my attempted rejoinder falls on not only deaf ears, but possibly muted faces (I'm sure she was only being funny when she rolled her eyes, right?). Of course being as that I was only half-listening due to my intense focus on pizza [I want this goddamn pizzaalready] my strictest attention to the verbal banter wasn't exercised and possibly missed a joke or three between them when I interjected.
I cannot quite fully explain what happens next as my memory of what happened is hazy and blurred. When I come to, I found out it was a feeding frenzy full of bloodied water, bruised ego and - from eye-witness accounts [the harangued and now quite shell-shocked boyfriend fiance] - full on Verbal Diarrhea explosion worthy of any 24/7 news channel around-the-clock special as I spontaneously segue from normal, if not mildly introverted and exhausted Benjamin into ... wait for it ... Persistant Seller Man.
It seems the phrase "speaking of which ..." is now banned from my vocabulary as I attempted to steamroll into their conversation with this ominous segue change not once, but twice. Used car salesmen don't have the fanaticism I seemed to possess as I slipped into the waters and went for conversation-blood. Between the "not enough food in my system or caffeine" and "too many work-hours" my exhausted brain went right over the edge of what is appropriately lengthy and approachable conversation and right into "dude, not to sound all judge-y, but does he need medication or what?" depths. She was a leggy blonde all alone on a midnight swim - completely doomed.
"Speaking of which ... have you tried the Red Barron's Nacho Pizza? Because the Red Barron's Nacho Pizza is beyond amazing. It's like the best spicy nacho you ever had ... but better because it's freaking pizza! Look how cheap it is - I mean, you could get two of these for the same price as a Digiorno's! Here - let me grab one for you and you can switch it out!" Between my rounds of extolling the brilliance of such a culinary experiment, her protestations of fitting into her dance girdle and the possibly manic look to my eyes the middle-50's housewife made an abrupt and surprisingly courteous departure.
What was probably running through my wonderfully loving and patient boyfriend fiance's head as I embarassed his poor ass.
To say that my future husband was a bit off-put by this encounter would be an understatement of epic proportions. He was flabbergasted and - to be honest - a little mortified. This was one of his semi-regular customers and the likelihood of his seeing her repeatedly in the near future was ... um ... certain. I'm sure a thousand excuses played in his mind on how he would write this off [foremost among them would likely be that I was indeed out of some much-needed ADHD medication]. Here he had been assuming I was his nice, normal [okay, demi-normal?] boyfriend with whom he lived and shared a cat and instead? I was apparently a stark raving nutter on the payroll of Red Barron Pizza. [Look, I'm not saying I'd never purposefully promote something or shill for a product - I'm only human ... I'm just saying that if I did, well, I'd be honest about it from the get-go and it'd be for something more impressive than pizza.] The drive home was tense as I tried to find the words to adequately explain what had happened and to sufficiently apologize for the carnage wrecked.
Low Blood Sugar? True - I'd eaten maybe one meal in the last 36 hours.
Exhaustion? Also true - I'd slept a cumulitive 8 hours over the last 48.
I'm possibly batshit crazy with a side of Running Off At the Mouth Syndrome which puts the floodgates of your standard Verbal Diarrhea victim in the shade - both of which come firmly from my mildly-insane family? Let's face it ... that's pretty accurate.
So, I said the only thing I could: "I'm so sorry" because I was and am. I love my boyfriend fiance and cannot wait to celebrate our union ... even if he has to pretend I'm Lucy, Jeannie, Samantha or any one of the bajillion sort-of-embarassing-home-situation 50's and 60's sitcom housewives the husbands always seemed nervous to bring company home to.
Thankfully, he loves me beyond the pale and seems to have accepted this new revelation of batshit crazy with a wink-of-the-eye and a wry sense of humor. Proof positive? He began more than a few jokes over the last week with "Speaking of which ...". Between his loving laughter and my own sense of self-effacing humor we were back to normal swiftly [for which I'm eternally grateful].
Lesson learned - I have GOT to get a handle on this running-off-at-the-mouth thing ... and I will. At least, I intend to at least work on it and possibly keep a candy bar and/or coffee in my man-purse at all times to best avoid this Snickers Commercial-level of insanity again.
But, never ever forget: the genius of Red Barron Nacho Pizza is not to be denied.
Tired? I'm Right There With You a.k.a. [one dastardly long day ... I'm sure you've had one of those]
Benjamin Kissell
Millions of smiles and millions of miles ... yet today? I am neither smiling nor looking forward to going that extra mile with these tires ...
You ever have one of those days?
I'm sure you have. One of those soul-shredding, brain-draining, mind-numbing, emotion-testing days where all you want to do, at the end of it, is collapse into a warm bubble bath and sip some fine, fine Wal-Mart Moscato until your eyelids droop and you nod off into a much-deserved rest ... your well-worn paperback copy of Bright Lights, Big Ass(or whichever all-purpose entertaining read you default to) slipping onto your fuzzy bath mat beside the tub.
Instead, you end up sipping cold coffee while you hope against hope that it's bitter blackness will not only keep you awake and lucid, but non-snappy and head-bite-off-y towards employees and customers alike until you can go collapse (face first) into your cold bed.
It all began innocently enough - as it always does.
Ever since I'd dropped REDACTED on car repairs back over the Christmas holidays [why yes, the perfect Christmas/New Year's gift to myself were these repairs *eyeroll*] and gotten my car back, it'd been a little shaky in the steering and handling. Being a complete car newb [as I've mentioned before] I wrote this off as a 'new fixin's be new handlin's' and ignored it. That is, until my boyfriend [oops, fiance - still getting used to that] texted me the night before while I was at work.
John: My parents saw metal in your tires - you need new ones baby. Don't touch them!
to which I brilliantly replied
Me: I what? Huh?
Apparently, the reason the car had been shaking even more en route to work was because the steel underneath the rubber was EXPOSED DUE TO THE DETERIORATION OF THE FRONT TIRES!
*pause*
Were shredding. I'm going to let that sink in for you ... my tires?
With me so far?
Being the mature [read: it had to happen sometime, amiright?] person that I am, I asked John to join me in a run to Wal-Mart after my 9.5 hr shift at work was over and hunt down new tires.
Completely forgetting to note the size/pressure requirement/etc before entering the behemoth known as Tire Central we were swiftly overwhelmed and soon resorted to stilted Google searches on our phones for what would/wouldn't be an appropriate new tire for my Oh-God-Is-It-Really-That-Old Honda. After finding what I thought was an appropriate fit/size/etc I took the pragmatic approach of running outside (still exhausted and friggin' hungry, thank you) and trying to take a photo of my tire to make sure I got the right data.
Um. Apparently no one had informed me about how difficult it would be to take said photos in a SUPPOSEDLY well-lit parking lot. As it turns out, it's really bloody hard. After spending 10 minutes on my knees trying to capture the image (and possibly getting tetnis from the shard of rather grey-brown and unknown metal I was kneeling on) I finally had a half-decent pic.
Which of course wouldn't send. Not enough signal my ass.
'No need', I said to myself (rather smugly, if I may be so honest) 'I can just type down the numbers/letters and text them to John. Brilliant, I am!'
[Why I hadn't thought of this BEFORE kneeling for 10 minutes exhausting and frustrating myself is something I'll chalk down to low blood sugar.]
After hiking the impressive distance back between the main entrance and the Tire Center - the rough equivalent of two city blocks [or as my tired ass was calling it "Fuck this"] - I discovered that the tires we'd picked out had been wrong all along and the ones I wanted were the ones RIGHT THERE. The ones $20 more expensive.
Bucking myself up with promises of "Ooh, this will be easy - I can buy the tires and just install them myself! I am so smart! I shall save so much money!" and empty carbs [a.k.a. the fine, fine return of Swiss Cake Rolls to my diet and anything Reese's] I let John steer the cart on with the promise of tire switches in the morning.
......................
Some people bolster egos with booze ... I'll stick with self-delusions and c0pious quantities of chocolate.
Cut to this morning.
Realizing that my smart economic choice was really inappropriate - what with all of the amazing and smug-inducing tools I used the last time I did this not being mine and living over in my Grandfather's garage - I plopped myself down on the couch and dialed Wal-Mart's number. The smug definitely evaporating in the already-too-damn-warm weather. Luckily, they promised that they could install the tires - both of them - for a paltry sum of $20 and a disposal fee of $3 for the old tires. GENIUS! Victory! #WINNING!
My optimism and foolish hopes were due to be sent askew because the sight greeting me as I stood in front of my Older-Than-Dirt-But-Still-Running Honda was a depressing one: one of the two about-to-be-replaced tires had decided - in the time my in-laws had been out-and-back to BJ's - to go flat. This was no mere 'flattish flat'. No. This was 'IN-YOUR-FACE-MUTHA-FUCKA-SEE-HOW-FLAT-I-CAN-BE flat'. Thankfully, this wasn't something that some wonderful application of time, grease and father-in-law aid couldn't conquer.
Okay, despite the setback, I could handle this. I would be happy to slide my card through the machine paying the mere $23 when they were done. I was ready, willing and able to get on with my day and work this afternoon.
Of course, my afternoon ground to a halt while waiting for the Tire Gurus to get back to me: My evening shift person wasn't feeling well and wasn't able to be there tonight. 'No problem', optimistic me said. 'Just get your other evening employee to fill in - he'll love the overtime! Everybody wins! Still #Winning!' And yet, unlike his usual enthusiasm for money, he did not leap at the chance. In fact, due to circumstances beyond his control ... well, he wasn't up to being in this evening either.
Well, fuckballs. What to do ... what to do ...
Between the distraction of laughing myself into an awkward public display of braying jackass laughs while reading some Laurie Notaro and the back-and-forth texts with my originally-covering-that-shift employee I soon had it solved: I would come in at 7pm and be there until 2am when he would be able to muster up the strength to be there. Success! Britney Spears-level-comeback here people!
So, of course, it was time for the Universe to kick me in the stomach again. ARGH!
The oh-so-kind Tire Guru sat me down to explain why he wasn't able to put the second tire on: apparently, in their zeal to get my car repaired back in January, my mechanics had not only forced the tire lug-nuts on, they had cross-threaded and possibly stripped two of them. In terms of car repairs, this isn't normally something to cry about (as it is often easily repairable) nor is it something to scoff at (as you cannot legally or safely drive without three solid ones). Being as this was out of their league repair-wise, they suggested I go over to the nice folks at TIRE STORE NAME REDACTED FOR FEAR OF LEGAL ISSUE who would be able to switch the lug nuts and I could come right back for the finished repairs.
Still, setback aside, I could soon be #WINNING! I had a plan of action; Charlie Sheen, eat your heart out. Of course, my plan of action didn't take into account the fact that today is the Busiest Day In The History of Forever at TIRE STORE NAME REDACTED FOR FEAR OF LEGAL ISSUE and the earliest they could see me would be tomorrow morning.
Deep breaths. Calming Breaths. Inward breaths that make me center myself ... chocolate center with a creamy peanut butter crunch ... *ahem* Snap back here, Benjamin.
The very nice young man at TIRE STORE NAME REDACTED FOR FEAR OF LEGAL ISSUE was very supportive and helped break down the various scenarios that could be wrong with the repairs and gave me a cost/expense line-by-line on it. In terms of cost it was somewhere between "pfft that's just one less meal in a restaurant" and "Oh gawdd, oh gawdd, the hemorraghing is going to kill me" ... suffice it to say, I was seeing red as my green was evaporating.
On the still-somewhat-shaky-because-only-one-of-the-needed-tire-repairs-was-done drive BACK over to Wal-Mart and the Tire Guru I made up my mind to pick up my tire and either drop off my car with my in-laws' preferred mechanic [35 years they've been going to them and never been swindled once] or throw a small hissy fit over the phone and demand my mechanics fix the problem for free "OR ELSE". [Can you guess which one it ends up being?]
Sadly, this plan of action hit yet another snag, what with the Tire Gurus losing my tire.
Yes, say it with me boys and girls; They - the Tire Gurus - had lost my friggin' expensive-enough-I-wasn't-eating-out-with-family-next-week new tire. I may or may not have blacked out before pasting a forced-Southern-charm smile on my face and politely requesting my tire appear. Pronto. [I would like mad props for neither spitting, screaming nor striking anyone during this scene ... I deserve them].
.........................................
The newer-than-new tire snugly in my trunk [no, they didn't find my originally bought tire, they just grabbed one off the wall ... how's that for a solution?], I slowly drove home to leave the car in the driveway until dropping it off for repairs in the morning after deciding to call and give my mechanic the best venting of why this was their problem and not mine possible. [Terse and short words are very effective when combined with a "you will fix it" attitude.] A nap - and chocolate - called to me a siren song. Something positive for me, since John was at work and we'd be missing each other until I crawled into bed tonight.
A nap will always be the perfect way to get a quick bolt of rejuvination. A nap after inhaling half a box of Swiss Cake Rolls is the perfect way to wake up with an extreme case of cotton mouth reminiscent of my most fabulous hangovers [the high points of my early 20's]. A nap, inhaling half a box of Swiss Cake Rolls and waking up to continue your already-too-long day is a guaranteed way to groan loud enough you scare your cat.
..............................................
Chocolate: sometimes the most comforting of friends ... while others, the great pretender delivering stronger cottonmouth than a freshman mixer of trashcan punch and screwdrivers
The Universe, perhaps taking momentary pity, let the evening progress rather nicely. True, it was a busy time at work, but, it didn't promise to be insane or ri-fucking-diculous like it had been the last four days, either.
The hours smoothly tracked by; 7-8pm, 8-9pm, 9-10pm, 10-10:30pm ...
And when 10:30 rolled around the Universe - enough okay? KTHXBAI - gave me the big old middle finger and my still-sick employee called with a painful update: he wasn't going to be able to come in at all ... which set up the 11 hour shift for me as the perfect whipped-cream non-dairy [still lactose intolerant, thanks] topping to this fucktard of a day.
When I get home after dropping off my car at my mechanics WHO BETTER FIX THIS ALREADY AND DO IT FOR FREE and being up-and-running for a good 24-hours-plus straight my prize? Will be to crash into bed beside my wonderful, understanding, amazing, sweet, sometimes-snoring boyfriend [dammit, I mean fiance] for a whole four hours before I have to get up and do it all again.
It's enough to curl up in the fetal position and declare this a "Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" ... or maybe just to get a little hate on for the Tire Guru Gods.
FOR THE HONOR OF GRAYSKULL fabulous secrets were revealed to me ... [That's right ... FABULOUS secrets]
Benjamin Kissell
I could never tell: was Light Hope a Discotheque or just the result of She-Ra spending too much time at the local Bath House? *cough* Can you say ... 'Fruit Fly'? *cough*
Everyone, I suggest you sit down for this.
I apologize for the double-length article ahead but it feels warranted as I am about to drop some science on you. Impart some possibly-little-known-facts. Share with you some incredibly fabulous secrets.
I love She-Ra and He-Man possibly as much now as I did as a 6 year old.
[*silence*]
Okay, guess it wasn't that much of a surprise or secret.
As a child of the 80's I still harbor a not-so-secret love for all things MOTU [Master Of The Universe, the He-Man line of toys and books] and POP [Princess of Power, the She-Ra line]: I had the action figures, the playsets, the costume-accessories, pillowcases and sheets, the banks, the books, comic books and quarterly magazines ... and even once the cereal.
Apparently I had a mother who really wanted me happy [or wasn't a fan of seeing me toss a tantrum that put Linda Blair to shame - complete with pea soup shots].
It goes without saying, that as a gay boy who grew up in the 80's I wanted to grow up to be She-Ra: The Princess of Power. Quel shock, right? I could knock you over with a feather - or a golden boustier. She was everything I wasn't as a child: strong, confidant, popular, assertive and ... let's be honest here ... a kick-ass hero in high heels and perfect hair.
[Coincidentally, this is where I developed my intense hatred for all-things wedge-heel: the Princess of Power toys were supposed to represent She-Ra and her friends who, mostly, ran around Etheria in heels ... yet the toys? To support and allow them to stand-up without assistance, the designers had them in these garish (to me) WEDGE heels. Um. No Mattel. No.]
"Now to even the odds a little bit - for the honor of Grayskull ..." OOH LOOK! SPARKLY RAINBOWS! SPA-ARKLY RAINBOWS!
But it's true.
One of my grandmother's favorite memories to trot out - admittedly telling it in a less-than-super-gay way - is her explanation of how she knew I was going to be so "artistic" and a "good writer" because I had such a "superb imagination":
Nana: Benjamin, you've always had a superb imagination - I knew you'd grow up to be artisitc. You're such a good writer; you have such a strong way with telling stories.
Me: Aww, thank you Nana *hugs*
Nana: Remember, when you were a kid - maybe three or four - and you would run around yelling ... what was it you yelled? Oh yes 'Sword to rope'
Me: *snorted laughter and an eyeroll*
Nana: You'd run around the backyard with Jay and you would pretend that baseball bat of his was your little sword. Oh the fun you two had.
[Explanation: She-Ra's sword was able to transform from sword into whatever plot-device she needed that episode to help solve the mystery/snare the villain and her memories here are of me and my uncle - with whom I played Battle Beasts/He-Man/SilverHawks/Thundercats in the mid-80's - playing baseball in the backyard; the only way he could convince me from ages three to five to play the game with him was to allow me to pretend to be She-Ra. So, whenever we would play, I'd stand there, at home plate, announcing "Sword to baseball bat". True Story.]
"Sword to rope!" Gurrl, I lost track of how many times I tried this. Sadly, it never worked.
I know, it's hard to believe; but I really was an effeminate, big-haired, skinny [oh, to be that skinny again naturally - I'm just not up for all that exercise and dieting] and geeky kid who didn't get along with the other boys in-class when they weren't playing with their He-Man action figures (Silverhawks, Transformers or Thundercats were also acceptable). I was lost mentally (and physically walked away) when the subject of a 'Hulk Hogan' or 'Wrestlemania' passed their lips. On more than one occasion at my elementary school playground I was seen stomping my (purple) corduroy pantsed butt away from the conclave of boys under the monkey bars and slide to the more girl-friendly gymnastic bar corner.
At least there my talking about She-Ra, JEM and Rainbow Brite didn't garner me severe mocking.
Ususally.
Although I do often wonder about Valerie Maxwell ... between her penchant for dressing like Vickie from Small Wonder and her EXTREMELY Mary Lou Retton hairdo it's a small wonder [*snort*] she didn't try to kick my ass for intruding on her all-girl-all-the-time little club. [Perhaps I should Facebook stalk her and see if she ever revealed her love of Beaches, softball and mullets - if so, that'd be awesome.]
Regardless, it was a love of She-Ra which gave me strength many days to face the bullies and walk into school with my head held high despite being the epitome of "weird" and "different" [as my kindergarten-through-fifth-grade-required counselor described in her first write-up of me: "possible homosexual tendencies"]:
1) smaller than the other boys in my grade in both height and weight - check 2) smaller than most of the girls in my grade in both height and weight - check 3) better hair than most of the girls in my grade - check 4) better taste than most of the girls in my grade - BIG. FAT. CHECK. 5) the ability to walk on my toes reminiscent of high heels [learned from JEM and She-Ra] - check 6) a love of all-things Unicorn (including a rainbow unicorn towel for naptime) - CHA-CHECK 7) a voracious appetite to read almost anything I could get my hands on - check 8) the only boy in the 1st and 2nd grade taking gymnastics and begging for tap shoes [what? I liked the way they clicked when I walked] - check 9) being one of the VERY few students at my school in what was considered a shameful minority ... a child of divorce - check [which was far healthier, trust me, than their marriage had been]
My mother (the rock throughout my life, who raised me while working full-time AND attending college to get her teaching degree) has understood and supported me despite the fact that my differences drew attention and polarizing like/dislike from students and teachers (and parents) throughout my childhood ... yet, never once did she do anything other than have my back. I needed that new Princess of Power Frosta toy to feel better after Scottie Gayle kicked my (purple) corduroy pantsed butt? If she had the money, she went out and found it. My She-Ra official costume didn't come with a red cape? She was right there tying our red bathroom towel to my back so I could rock it out in full regalia ... sometimes [possibly under duress] she would put on the Hordak mask and play along with me.
If any of this looks familiar, then you, too, were a child of the 80's ... or possibly a compulsive shopper like me. And yes, I had those Golden Girls (top row), JEM dolls (middle) and She-Ra toys *sigh*
When I grew up, and went through more bad dates than the entire collected series of Rock of Love, I Love New York, Tila Tequila and other assorted MTV/VH1 dating show COMBINED [see my bevy of date-themed articles over the last umpteen years], it was my latent and rekindled love of She-Ra that helped shine the light on the man who would turn out to be my soul-mate. My one true love - John. Someone who doesn't need me to have the golden boustier, bouncy blonde hair, giant muscles and super powers to be super-powered to him.
[I still say it was madness spending that amount of money on an ACTION FIGURE honey! But thank you! *kiss*]
My love of the original toys has bonded me, as an adult, with friends like Irma Eriksson (creator of the popular webcomic Imy) [Irma's shown her love of She-Ra in various strips and Illo-art]. My love for the new line of MattyCollector toys has been a common bond with George O'Connor (author of the award-winning Olympian graphic novels) [more than one of his video interviews has shown a background of MOTU figures along the shelves of his home-office] and a not-so-hidden shared love has connected John and I with new friends like Josh Bethka here in-town. [Who knew there was a sub-culture of He-Man geeks in the area?]
My 30th birthday, for example, was a portrait in He-Man and She-Ra excesses: an 80's cartoon-themed costume party saw us hosting as Skeletor (him) and She-Ra (me, natch).
"FAAAAAABULOUS SECRETS!"
When we moved in together and set up our apartment our living room soon boasted a bevy of original 80's He-Man and She-Ra toys, the modern Matty Collector action figures (complete with $300 Castle Grayskull) and vintage comic books and mini-books on display ... all of which we both love.
And, of course, when it came time to propose to John, I did so in the only way which seemed reasonable: with the help of She-Ra and her twin brother, He-Man. Taking several hours to come up with the perfect idea (hopefully) and then eventually posing our He-Man and She-Ra action figures around the room with little love notes building up to the inevitable question ... I took the biggest leap of faith in my life. The answer? Well, our matching He-Man/She-Ra Swords of Power/Protection engagement-slash-wedding rings should answer that.
For the Honor of Love - By the Power Above! We have the power so can you ...
chic is always chic ... except when it's paired with the wrong accessories.
Benjamin Kissell
Some colors are the ultimate in complimentary [and I don’t mean they blow smoke up your arse]. They are your best friends and finest allies in helping to make yourself feel and look better.
They can flatter your skin-tone: turning your pale Edward Cullen palette into a fresh-from-the-tanning-salon-Snookie-esque glow. They are capable of making your eyes pop: accenting or contrasting that lovely earthy green in your eyes, turning them from matte-finish moss to glowing emeralds. They have cache; they carry weight and help you feel like you are perfectly garbed in [fashion] armor for battle – ready for any eventuality and feeling secure and attractive.
In days past people would look at their complexion, hair and eye color as indicators of which “color season” we were: for example, your snow white skin with coal black hair marked you as a ‘Winter’ [and possibly the Evil Queen’s next intended victim, or a villain in a C.S. Lewis novel or Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale].
Admittedly, this probably ages me as 1) the seasonal color delineation has gone the way of Vanilla Ice over the last 2 decades and 2) as a kid I would sit in as my Mum and Gran discussed which we fall into, eventually joining in as a 20-something [I consider myself a Winter, but am more likely a late Fall … an Autumnal Winter Cusp?]. Shallow? Possibly. Vain? Probably. But entertaining nonetheless.
Some things never came into fashion ... I mean, I love me a sweater, but belted sweaters? And those hats? Who do those guys think they are - Carly Simon?
Fashionable color trends come and go; in the 80’s neon was king, in the early 90’s Grunge held sway with earth-tone plaids, the mid and late 90’s saw the bubble burst with the pastel palette and stark bold basics holding sway. The 2000’s? Well, I’d make some pithy comment about colors and styles in the millennial era, but to be honest most of my wardrobe hasn’t really evolved from the large selections of black t-shirts – black by itself, black with logos, black with iron-ons, black with, black, etc etc [sweet lord do I buy a lot of black tees] – with the varying over-shirts and a plethora of jeans I started wearing at 18. You’d think I were Neil Gaiman or something with all the black I buy.
You’d also think I would evolve past my ‘look’ at 22 … and yet, here we are.
I admit, I’m not the arbiter on all things hip and trendy. There is a difference between fashion and style: some of us have it … and [must not name names and point fingers] some of us don’t.
However, that being said, there is something that we can probably all agree on as a complete fashion faux pas. A color that flatters nobody: highlighting only the worst features and drawing attention to the biggest flaws …
Stupidity.
Stupidity is a color which looks good on absolutely no one.
You have a slightly offset eye? Stupidity only draws attention to it and when we see that, Margaret Cho-esque lines will come tumbling out of our mouths [“Gurrl, you should get a monacle – it’d be so coot!] You have a hyper-fake-hideously-orange-fake-spray-can-fake tan? Well, no one’s perfect. But stupidity draws our eyes to it and our sharp tongues to comment quicker about it than a Kardashian divorce.
Simply put; stupidity is that fashion accessory few can afford, yet too many seem to have in abundance.
Stupidity, despite the glaring evidence to the contrary, is gauche and tackier to match with than plaid gauchos [PLAID GAUCHOS!]. It truly is the ultimate fashion faux pas. It’s been remarked [by my mother. Repeatedly] that stupidity seems to be the only color some people seem to recognize or pair with across the fashion spectrum.
……………
Of course, bitchy will always be in style.
To quote my friend, Misty Barfly, “Bitchy, unlike stupidity goes with every outfit. It was Versace’s and Chanel’s biggest inspiration. It’s like the little black cocktail dress” always in fashion and forever desirable.
The Tao of Fabulous [where I drag my boyfriend, my mother and our friend with me as we brave a tropical storm, Northern Virginia/Washington DC traffuck, line nazis and a waffle house breakfast to follow the Tao of Jen Lancaster ... on a leg of her book tour while bedecked in pearls, pink and plaid as is required by the Tao of Fabulous] [man, I think I outdid myself on long subtitles with this one]
Benjamin Kissell
If you don't either laugh yourself into a near-pants-wetting fit (or at least cause your coffee to spill while you fall out of your chair) I'm not sure we can be friends. I mean, I guess we can ... but, I'll secretly worry you're always judging me and then where will that get us?
A quick apology in-advance: this? is going to be a lengthy article (roughly 4400 words, compared to my usual 700-ish).
Also? I realize I should have posted this back in June, but between work and ... okay, I'm just a reeeeeeeeeally good procrastinator.
That is, the root of Jen Lancaster's newest hit humor memoir lies in the edicts and strictures laid down by Martha [let the record show that I have had an affinity for all-things Martha since she became the bane of my neurotically fastidious and home-make-y grandmother's existence in the mid-90's]. Thank you Doyenne of Domesticity for helping to inspire my literary idol to new heights.
It's because of Martha's composure and regiment of straightforward dictates that Jen took on a year of Living to help make 2012 suck far less than 1) it would have otherwise and 2) than 2011 had. [For the full story, pick up a copy of THE TAO OF MARTHA at many of your fine, fine book retailers.]
In that vein, I realize that for chunks of the last 7+ years I've been subconsciously attempting to live the Tao of Fabulous. Which is ...
The Tao of Fabulous: the philosophy, and state-of-being, embodied by humor memoirist, chick lit enthusiast, snarky, occasionally-foul-mouthed, NYT bestselling author, queen of the madras plaid and doyenne of pearls - Jen Lancaster.Thou shalt wear pink, plaid, pearls and/or some combination thereof.
I take the Tao of Fabulous seriously because Jen isn't just my literary idol, she's also someone I've been lucky enough to call my friend. I may have mentioned, in other articles over the last few years, that we met through Myspace [don't judge] the week her first book, Bitter is the new Black, came out and through a series of back-and-forth e-mails we struck up a friendship. Who knew that a snarky ex-sorority girl and a bitchy gay guy would get along famously?
Cut to the obligatory 80's sitcom audience laughter/chuckle.
Ever since 2008’s Pretty in Plaid Tour I haven't missed an opportunity to see her and this year I plan on seeing her twice: once in the DC area - technically Bethesda, MD - like usual, followed by another either north or south. As her closest other appearances are Philadelphia, PA and Cary, NC and as I would sooner cut off my left pinky toe than return to PA any time soon [a long story involving family, small-towns and a distinct lack of humor] it was an easy choice naming Cary as a must-see.
Which is why my ever-patient and loving boyfriend has just walked into my bedroom to find me amidst what can be politely called a shitstorm of clothing. I’m in the middle of my room with a travel bag on my desk chair while a multitude of shirts in hues of pinks and greens surround me as well as several pairs of ‘dressy’, ‘not dressy’ and ‘distressed’ jeans. I will not be caught unawares this year [2010 I am so looking at you, that is … if I could stand to look at those photos].
“Um. Benjamin are you ready?”
“Almost.”
“Almost? Are you sure?”
“Yes, just have to pick out what I’m actually wearing is all,” I reply while I hold up a particularly vibrant pink t-shirt to my chest, folding it and placing it in my ‘possible’ pile.
“Oh, that’s all.” His dry humor tone is matched by a cocked eyebrow as he eyes the 3 large stacks of ‘possible’ piles. Okay, so I admit it – packing light is not my forte and packing for a 3-day, 2-night road trip with photo-ready clothes in specific colors and styles? Tasking me, it is.
“Yes, that’s all – I’ve narrowed it down to these 2 pairs of jeans,” I say as I set one pair in the bag and begin to shimmy out of my house-pants [read: grey flannel shorts] and into the new [splurge because I? Deserve it] grey-black jeans. “And down to these stacks of pink, green and grey t-shirts to match with those,” my hand pointing over his shoulder to the stack of dress-shirts tossed on my bed pillows. I lean in to kiss him as I zip and buckle up.
“Which go with which?” I defer to John’s eye a fair bit as he has a fantastic sense of color – which may or may not stem from his side-career as an artist. “I only need an outfit for tonight’s event and tomorrow’s and then the drive home. Oh and pyjamas. By the way, do you know if the hotel room Mum got us is a queen-sized or full?”
“Queen.” Another kiss. “You can wash anything you need to at my place when we get home tonight.” He pauses and hands me two stacks of shirt/over-shirt combination, “These work, baby. Now hurry and get dressed; we’re meeting Edie in Bethesda in just over two hours.”
Edie, one of my Mum’s best friends and one of John and my good friends, is joining us tonight for our first stop and we’re going to pick her up in the morning tomorrow on our way to Cary (Mum would join us tonight, but, as a teacher it's presumed that she needs to be there on the last day of school). A professional ballroom dancer, Edie has a quick wit and dry sense of humor – another reason she gets on with us.
I’m proud of myself, by the time I get out of the apartment and into John’s freshly cleaned out [yes, Mum, he really did clean it out for you guys] yellow battle tank – one tough and tumble yellow Nissan SUV – I’ve been able to pack all of my stuff for this trip into one decent-sized travel tote with only the snacks and water-bottle loose. I’m genuinely impressed with myself here.
I’m garbed in my sea-foam green gingham dress shirt and bright pink tee – pearls [given to me by our friend Dani] clutched and threaded through the collar which I’m debating on popping or not. I believe I pass muster.
Traffic leaving Fredericksburg and passing up through Springfield goes smoothly until we’re about 10 miles south of Washington, DC. While sitting in yet more traffuck [admit it: a funny and accurate term] – we notice that the air blowing out at us is no longer the refreshing not-as-hot-and-humid-as-it-is-outside-in-June air but on the other side of warm. Almost scalding. Looking down, John utters a stream of well-chosen expletives as we slowly move half a car length forward.
“What’s wrong?”
“The temperature gauge,” he says pointing down at it. From my side and experience – and let’s be honest, I’m never going to be known for being auto-mechanically inclined – I can guess that the shift on arrows here isn’t the usual for his tank. “The longer we sit in this shit, the hotter the engine’s getting.”
“I’m betting that’s a bad thing.”
Thankfully, John knows when I’m joking in an attempt to lighten his mood and he reaches over to grab my hand while we watch the gauge rise steadily.
……............
The good news? Pulling off the highway and letting the car rest for five minutes pushes the engine’s temperature back to normal.
The bad news? After relaxing with a bag of Funyons [how I had never had them in the first 29 years of my life, I shall never know] in a Catholic school parking lot, finding our way back onto the highway from this adorably cliché uppity yuppie enclave and finally making it over the DC border onto the Clara Barton Highway we are once again stuck in re-donculous traffuck.
Between the still fluctuating engine temperature, the steady warm rain beating on the car windows, the angst at being still a good 10 miles and 30 minutes away from where we need to be and the shit-tastic driving skills of this Maryland asshat in front of us our moods are frayed.
This jerk in a tiny little ragtop sports car has been driving down the middle of the road, half-in/half-out of both lanes and constantly is swerving to block attempts at anyone passing him on either side.
Yepp. Northern Virginia traffic sucks ass.
After what feels like 16 years [or just took 16 years off of my life] spent cursing out just about everyone around us, the GPS [who seems to enjoy interrupting me whenever I start to say something to John] and Washington DC in-general, we pull into an overpriced, well-lit, very packed parking garage and I quickly hang up the phone seeing Edie walking towards us in a cute sweater/dress ensemble. I primp while John has a stress-cigarette.
We made it.
Definitely good news.
In fact, we actually made it in good time, ahead of our projected schedule, that we were able to pick up copies of Jen’s new book, a copy of Pretty in Plaid for John, and eye the escalators for signs of the Barnes & Noble café on the third floor. Thankfully, my policy of neurotic panoramic observing [some call it paranoid-based-spying, I prefer my term] paid off when I spied a caramel ponytail topping a lovely blue’n’green striped top and knew that Jen was in the house.
Thankfully, Jen isn't caught offguard when we approach; in fact she's enthused and glad to see me - pulling me into an immediate hug - and thrilled to talk about both knitting and John. Having now learned to knit [see chapters of Tao of Martha] she understands and is doubly-so impressed with the scarves my Mum knits, as well as the one she knitted for Jen last year. Pulling John into a bear hug, she just gives me a huge grin over his shoulder as she knows about my lackluster/hillarious dating history and I may or may not have gone on at length about him in various e-mails with her since we began dating back in January.
............……
The event's gone off without a hitch … well, except that the microphone kept going in and out, they held an adult humor reading/signing in the middle of the children’s book section (fully decked out in 100 Acre Wood regalia - HOLLA!) and the handler was either mildy incompetent or masively lackadaisical [and as someone who did that when I worked in a bookstore I can tell you it isn’t that tough to ride herd]. Basically without a hitch, right?
Why yes, Bennifer 2.0 is still fucking fabulous ... AND MATCHING!
Jen was fabulous, looked fabulous and was fabulously amazing – shoring up plans for us to all see each other tomorrow in North Carolina … that is, if this fachachta tropical storm doesn’t destroy the east coast – and taking the time to chat and pose for photos with her myriad of fans that filled up the large room.
I sure hope the wet roads are better in the dark. I mean, traffic home can’t be that bad, can it?
.................
Thankfully, it’s smooth sailing back to John’s house where we collapse in a heap on the bed. I fall asleep mumbling something about DC’s traffic being the fourth circle of Dante’s Inferno.
............……
Car packed with snack food for 300+ mile road trip? Check. Car filled up with gas? Check. Multiple packs of caffeine pills, bottles of Monster Java and a very large mug of my requisite bitter, bitter black coffee? Holy-you-bet-your-ass check.
Boyfriend in the driver’s seat, Edie in the seat behind me and my Mum in the seat behind him we pull out onto the highway – her travel bag, while honed after a dozen-plus business trips to conferences over the last few years, is still roughly twice the size of mine, dwarfing it in the way-back. A fact I rag her on.
Of course, I forgot to pack a back-up pair of socks – this round to you, Mum. This round to you.
Why yes, I realize I do need to develop a steady hand when taking photos ...
Passing back and forth another bag of Funyons, a batch of chocolate and thin mint cookies and some delicious toffee Edie baked up this morning (inspired by the chapter Jen read at last night’s event in which she tackled “Easy Toffee”) we’re making good time as we head south, through and past Richmond.
How friggin' awesome is John? Also? Still blurry, I know. I know.
A-and I just spoke too soon: the rain just found and bitch-slapped us.
............……
What looms above us is probably best described as ‘God’s intestinal distress’.
Clouds roil, winds howl and the rain is coming down in sheets so strong and solid I’m pretty sure that Noah’s somewhere texting “Enuf Dude, we get it”. The storm is (of course) coming from the south. Which direction are we solidly heading? South. Jen is tweeting - @altgeldshrugged – updates on her plane/car/plane travails as she tries to make the journey from DC to Raleigh to Cary.
If mental will were capable of dispersing the rain and clearing the weather up not only would we have sunny skies right now, but the level of concentration I’m bending towards it would produce rainbow-farting unicorns. Alas, all I see is more grey; more clouds; more rain … ooh, and jerkwads without their headlights on while the rain is pouring out of the sky’s asscrack.
What proceeds as we drive down the road is a blur [literally and figuratively *sigh*] of rain, grey skies, goofy photos, more rain, a slew of inappropriate jokes and yet more rain. When we make a turn and pull past a tall copse of pines, somewhere about forty-five minutes into North Carolina, and the bright azure blue of a rain free sky greets us I may be muttering along the lines of “all rain and no sky make Homer something, something” [ten points if you got The Simpsons Treehouse of Terror Halloween Special ‘The Shinning’ reference – for the rest of you, go and look it up. I’ll wait].
Huh, who knew: North Carolina is actually kinda pretty when you’re not drowning in a tropical storm.
Maybe that should be their new advertising slogan?
............……
Our hotel is off the beaten path [and by that I mean we practically have to make an illegal U-turn to pull off the street and into the shopping center surrounded by lovely pines – this state seems chock full of pines, what's up with that? – flanking the hotel] which affords us a lovely bit of privacy and view of some lovely pine-y vistas out of our room.
Speaking of our room, I hope Mum and Edie’s is even half this nice; a large and comfortable bed, well-sized desk with – ooh, is that a plush desk chair? And, unless I’m completely nutters, that’s a fully-accommodating kitchenette. By the time I’m finished spinning in the room taking photos to document the trip [for both posterity and for you, Dani] to flop down on the bed beside John, the room phone’s ringing.
No time for romance, I guess.
YAY! Less blurry ... perhaps I've developed a photographer's hand?
I pick up on the third ring, but not before stealing a quick kiss; Mum’s voice greets me.
“Boys, are you ready?”
“Almost.”
“Almost? Are you sure?”
[Can you see a theme here? Do these people know me and my penchant for stalling and taking for-fucking-ever to get ready? One of the first things Mum and John bonded over was my habit of changing an outfit two or three times before I even leave the house.]
Throwing caution to the wind – and the perfectly chosen outfit of pink and black I was ALREADY WEARING, GAH! Why did I just abandon you, Tao of Fabulous? – I change into a cross between grunge and prep [Prunge? Grep?]: pink tee, pink/grey/black/white plaid flannel shirt, the requisite pearls and nice jeans with way-too-expensive leather boots. Still spraying on my cologne, I allow John to usher me out the door (taking long enough to note that the bathroom has great lighting for doing hair but absolutely NO fan for air circulation. WTF?).
I’m already regretting my wardrobe choice – malfunction? – by the time we’re in the car and fighting with the sassy GPSes. Mum’s refuses to believe we aren’t still in Fredericksburg and John’s refuses to a) pick up a strong enough signal for us to hunt down the address and b) do anything other than talk over me. Every time I seem to open my mouth – at this point, I’m surly when I do – the GPS’ English-accent lilt proceeds to gain volume and passive-aggressively hush me.
“We can’t be that lost, I mean the hotel’s only a mile and a half from the boo-”
“Gaining signal, please wait.”
“What the? How big does a nail supply store have to be? That thing is at least half the size of Wal-”
“Would you like to direct me to your destination?”
“I swear, if we didn’t need that fucking GPS to get us home, I’d throw it out the d-”
“Proceed to the highlighted route and you will arrive at your destination.”
If her little tinny voice could sound any more smug I’d suspect her of being a female Newman [Seinfeld reference, kiddies – look it up]. As it is, I grumpily lean back in my seat while we search for, eventually pull up to and hunt for a parking spot at the rather-full Barnes & Noble. Hrmm. I guess Jen has a lot of fans here in North Carolina. True, she’s probably not coming back for a while, so I’m sure a lot have come out to see her. We’re also not running that late, are we? Her event starts at 7:30 and it’s only 7:40 by the time the demented offspring of Hal 2000 has led us here.
............……
Of course we’re late.
Of course we’ve missed a good chunk of Jen’s reading (true, John, Edie and I had heard it last night, but Mum hasn’t). And of course it’s packed. And of-freaking-course even though John and I stand a good head taller than the majority of fans who are filling out this 200-ish packed room it’s a bitch trying to see past the Bride of Frankenstein Hippie Housewife [if I could take a photo of her without drawing attention to myself, I would, but I’m afraid she’d claw my face off before hissing down my neck-hole] and the lovely large column smack dab in our view.
How would the Tao of Fabulous have us deal with this? Poise sounds about right.
Ha! I know: it’s a good thing neither of us is a stranger to heels so that we can stand on our toes to better our vantage without much strain as we lean on each other.
............……
When we walked in and picked up our books we were all given colored slips of paper; red, orange and yellow. The lovely slips in Mum’s and John’s hands are yellow [at this point I have so many books signed for me, friends and family I could possibly set up my own store, if I were willing to part with a single one – I’m just here for the Jen-ness] which means a decently-long wait is ahead of us, if I make my guess right.
As we stand and mill around the oh-so-short-man-complex event wrangler goose steps around the audience checking to make sure we only queue up when our color AND group are called. And lest anyone here were to misstep, mishear or goof-up somehow, he loudly reminds us that he WOULD be regularly walking through the line checking our color slips.
Where last night I railed against the lazy half-assed-ness of the lady in Maryland, I am now almost crying in mourning for those halcyon days of yore. One extreme to the other it seems: lazy to uptight dick-weasel.
When John and I leave the seating area to pick up food in the café – I did mention I’m a sucker for their frou-frou coffee drinks and over-priced sandwiches, no? – he glares at us. When I walk back to the bathroom to hit the loo because the frou-frou coffee drink has already cycled through my system? He glared at me. When I threaten to take his lanyard and choke him with it, he glared … well, he would have if I hadn’t just fantasized about that last part, writing it into a quick text to a friend.
All the while, Jen – like last night and countless other stops over the years since she began touring with her second book, 2007's Bright Lights, Big Ass [probably my favorite collection of humor essays. EVER] – smiles, makes personal and intuitive talk and poses with her fans for countless photos. You can tell that despite the heat, the gyganormously wicked weather and crazy traffic, Jen truly enjoys meeting and interacting with her fans.
After waiting for the Color Threat to pass Code Orange – people came out of the woodwork to appear with that damned orange slip of paper; I wouldn’t be surprised if dickwad Line Nazi had plants hidden throughout the store just to muck with Yellows [the name feels almost pejorative at this point]– and make it to Code Yellow, the four of us wend our (sweaty) way up to Jen. [Yes, I know this is the South and the heat is natural, but we live in an age with the blessings of Central Air, please take advantage of this, okay?] The five of us chat away while photos are snapped with classic Ikon cameras, iphone camera apps and everything in-between. I sure hope the photos of me in this outfit don’t suck [they will].
See? Told you the photos would suck of the outfit ... hence only one. Heh.
Before it hits me that we’ve made it, Jen is hugging me and we’re saying our good-byes and promises for next year.
...........……
Having survived an all-too-early wake-up [I'm on a vacation road-trip, 10 am is too-damn-early] Edie suggests, while Mum and John second the motion, we throw caution to the wind (and possibly our intestinal stability) and break our fast with the ubiquitous Southern roadside fare of The Waffle House. After all, what road trip is complete without a morning filled with stomach-gratifying grease to kick it off?
Between the angry Serbian(?) man who cannot grasp the concept of tax on food, the actual queue of people dressed UP to dine here, the 20-something waitress who cannot quite figure out a bill’s total with both a calculator and our waitress’ aid and the creepy little man (woman?) in an ill-fitting page-boy wig of indistinguishable color – is it black? Brown? Animal? – there is enough going on around us to keep me entertained as I slowly come awake [aided by the bitter, bitter black coffee] waiting for our breakfast to arrive.
To say we devoured breakfast would be an understatement: despite my natural aversion to all things The Waffle House [long story, don’t ask] I happily tuck in and only leave enough on my plate to warrant a doggie bag for the remnants of John’s hash browns and my sausage and ham. The acrid taste of the industrial vat-made coffee is very soothing and soon I’m playing footsie with my sweetie while we all laugh and talk over one another about how we feel this road trip is going.
Consensus: well.
After a cadet blue sky, overcast and dull, when we left the hotel, the weather is now bright as we step out of The Waffle House; white wisps of cloud frame the brilliant blue of the pastel sky as we walk out to the tank, my fingers entwined in John’s. We have several hundred miles to go, true, but we are on our last leg of this whirlwind tour. Who knows what stop we’ll make en route home? When we make it over the Virginia state line we can hit the Visitor’s Center and make a decision where we’ll stop on our way back to Fredericksburg: Williamsburg, Lynchburg, Petersburg, another ‘burg? Perhaps the Hipster enclave of Careytown in Richmond?
The road is open and the Tao of Fabulous says to go where we will – but just to do so with flair and fabulous wit.
And pearls – don’t forget the pearls.
............……
I would be remiss in not thanking those who went with me and endured my plethora of neuroses and bitch fits [okay, a few hissy fits probably happened, too – mea culpa] up, down and back again.
Thank you to Edie Orazi for being an unexpected joy on this trip – your delicious toffee was only outdone by your fabulous company. We’ll have to do this again. Consider it a date, young lady!
A HUGE and repeated thank you to my Mum, Lori Kissell; every time we take a trip – whether it be a road trip, a train-driven escape or a cross-country flight – I find myself walking away even closer to you and loving you all-the-more. The rest of our family may be leery of playing Trivial Pusuit against a Jeopardy champion, but I’ll always be happy to play (and even occasionally win) with you!
I cannot express how thankful I am to my wonderful, usually-patient, always understanding and perennially smart-alecky boyfriend, John; you are my rock, my best friend, my wicked other half. Thank you for being the driver to my mental getaway and for your steady hand behind the wheel when it’s a literal getaway – I can’t say enough how lucky I am and how much I love you!
And a huge thank you to Jen for being both an inspiration and a fantastic friend to know the last 7 years. I still occasionally pinch myself in glee to be your East Coast Gay! When I grow up - if I have to - I want to be a lot like you: smart, funny, kind, generous ... and snarky enough to put the fear of God in hipsters.
CARRIE BRADSHAW AIN'T THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN [a.k.a. that article I trot out every few years to show I'm not a knock-off Sex And the City writer; proving it when I toss you a purposefully SATC article to show you the difference in my voice, tone and ... man, this is a long title, isn't it?]
Benjamin Kissell
"I don't know about you girls, but I can't fathom what I was thinking looking back at those outfits from seasons 1-4." "Yeah you do - we were being paid to be walking mannequins, Kim."
In my early 20's, there wasn't a cheap fad, fashionably chic course or retro neuveau tack I didn't try to stay ahead of and yet, it somehow wasn't UNTIL my very early 20's that I finally landed on the bandwagon that the ENTIRE FREAKING WORLD had been latched onto [like a hipster in skinny jeans latches onto his organically-grown coffee] - I found my love for Sex and the City and became one of the herd. And it was fun.
Don't get me wrong, I'd heard about it before then - its popularity had been as ubiquitous as the heretofore mentioned hipsters in skinny jeans are now [seriously, walk down a sidewalk or through your local mall and count them up ... you'll thank me - or be so depressed you down half a box of wine (white, not red you heathen)], however, despite its popularity I hadn't discovered how SATC related to me. True, I was a mildly-fashion-conscious gay man living in a large small-town (or a small large-town, whichever you prefer), but whenever Sarah Jessica Parker and her emaciated frame showed up on my television screen shilling for HBO's newest season of bobbleheads I took a 'Not me' stance.
That is, until I made the fateful mistake that haunted my mother for weeks afterward ... I caught the first mini-marathon when TBS began airing it [I may have subjected her to a viewing of the entire first season when I ran out and bought it on dvd the next day ... 8+ years later and I'm not sure if she's forgiven me yet].
By 2008 and the release of the first SATC movie, I already owned 5 out of 6 seasons, had a myriad of pink and high heel-themed accoutrements and had discovered a love of all things chick lit [of course, for the last part I really can lay that at the feet of Jen Lancaster, but that's another article]. I was a gay man hooked. I had a sickness and I had also discovered my love of writing in the similar dating vein as the fictional Bradshaw and her real-life counterpart (and creator) Candace Bushnell.
My humor posts about my dating life (the ups and downs) on various pages [okay, mostly my rotating Myspace pages ... don't judge me, 'twas 2005-8 when it was still slightly popular] had garnered me a slew of fans and, of course, more than the occasional comparison to Bradshaw and Bushnell. In an effort to show how different my voice was from the SATC vibe, and in celebration of the release of the film, I penned an article where I took on the role of Carrie Bradshaw in my own little community.
That article is what follows, please enjoy ... and if you don't? Well, who forced you to read it?! Oh, I did? Well, still. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride anyways.
..........................
"If I pose awkwardly in designer couture, no one will be able to tell I've been starving the entire production and would happily gnaw off the knee of the nearest Grip. Right?"
Cue the “dah, dah dah, dah dahdahdah dah …"
Fredericksburg
is a moderate city, in the picturesque riverside of the Rappahannock,
and in that city, there are thousands and thousands of single people,
all colliding in an attempt to find themselves and that “special one” they can call their own.
On
any given day, there are several hundred thousand stories going on in The City which sometimes dozes in the sun, but here we'll focus on 4 friends; 4 single ‘girls’ who just want to
make it through the day and have some fun – because girls do just wanna
have fun.
Today is a Tuesday evening and a light rain is falling
upon The City, but this doesn’t deter any of the twig-like
overly-made-up and designer-dressed girls and their friends from speeding around the area,
walking in knock-off labels and shopping the high-end stores while they totter on stalactite heels which promise future crippling.
It's on this kind of evening that these 4 friends – me and mine – decide to
meet up at our favorite restaurant and around the table our day’s
events are re-capped and gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Where we have
no qualms about our ‘kiss and tell’ stories.
.........................
Outside of
downtown lives and works Sarah, who speeds past obstacles and itinerant drivers in her stylized green sedan:
confident, stylish, a sexy brunette, she works by day in the financial
district doing banking work. Recently 21, she is the kind of confident and curvy woman that men throw themselves at and many female
co-workers eye with envy. She lives with her best friend and close
confidant, Johnny, but still finds time for her work, close
“girlfriends” and yet, more time to work her way through college while shopping like there's no tomorrow.
Past downtown, in the western suburbs we find Christany winding her way in her black pick-up truck: vivacious, energetic, larger than life, Christany is the sort of
petite blonde bombshell not seen since the days of Marilyn and Mansfield. She
may be the youngest of our group, at 19, but, don't let that fool you,
she is full of spitfire energy and wisdom, her firm convictions lend
themselves to her stalwart character and a bright future. She works in
the private sector, in her family-held company. Many have mistakenly
assumed that the earnestness and baby-blue sweetness of Christany means
she is lacking in worldly knowledge – a big mistake. Just because she
lives by the credo “a ring and a priest” doesn’t mean, she is naïve.
While
across and from uptown, Nate drives by in his smart and sensible blue compact car:
smart, kind, caring, long-minded and stalwart, at 22 he is the most
successful of our group, working deep in the corporate sector. Tall, at
6’2, his dirty blond locks, short-cut of course, are accented by his
deep blue eye, he gains and garners appreciative looks from men like a
Park Avenue Socialite collects shoes. Much like Christany, he has enough
confidence in him to light up the city, allowing others to bask in his
brilliance. Quick witted, Nate has often been the comic center of
whatever group he is in, and if there isn’t one, he draws it to him.
And
then, there’s me, Benjamin, driving from the outlying northern 'burbs to the chic bistro in my classic clunker – a powdery blue
sub-compact: at 24, almost 25, I am the oldest of our group, having seen
a sometimes-too-much of the world and yet remaining so sheltered that I almost naively
hold onto optimism (an oft-dangerous quality, or at least a
get-me-into-a-bad-situation trait). In the 7+ years I’ve been dating, I've seen so much; yet, it’s but a drop in the bucket to the drama and man-troubles available to us. At almost 5’11
(a solid 6 foot with gelled hair and couture shoes) I attract a
moderate amount of attention from men … some good, some bad, and many just plain funny.
We meet up, I arrive last, at
our usual dining spot. Having just missed Sarah (I wave at her as she
drives past me in the parking lot, called back to work without a cocktail to sooth her), I sit next to Nate in the booth.
Sidling in, I reach for the drink menu as a new and different waitress
leans in and joins our conversation in a welcome manner, enjoying the
banter. Giving her my ID, I decide to order a Cosmo, in honor of the
day, and I lean in for the commentary from my girls.
Christany,
it seems, is in-between assignations with the company, having finished a
job earlier in the evening, she is waiting for the call to head to the
next. Like is often the case, she and Nate engage each other in fierce
(but non-combative) conversation, debating everything from the case of
“nature vs. nurture” to religion. Tonight isn’t any different.
The
waitress arrives with my heavily vodka-laced pink drink, which burns pleasantly on the way down giving me a warm glow on this rain-drippy evening.
Realizing I don’t want to drive drunk – well, mildly intoxicated – I
decided to pick up an entree of “loaded potato skins” to help stave off
the effects.
While we talk and gab, Nate and Christany
trading quips and smart barbs, I fill them in on my day at work,
mentioning that after leaving retail-hell, I met up with my other friend
(the gorgeous brunette, Christine) at the movies, where we shared
popcorn, soda, and a love for the girls of “Sex and the City” (me,
appropriately decked out in pink and chic). As we chat, we also keep an
eye on the inhabitants of the bar, and even note a well-muscled young
man who brushed past us as he made his way back to the bathroom and
returned to the bar. Christany, as the least subtle of us (a feat Nate
closely follows her in and I am fast gaining on), has made mention of
his “gawgeous ass”, to which I reply in a not-too-hushed “mmm”, while I
bend my head in his direction.
Men-watching, intense
conversation, drinks and fun are our norm, and with the weather turning
mildly on us, we are not surprised when Christany receives the call to
head to her next job. Getting the checks, we pay and turn to leave.
And that is when Fredericksburg’s innate sense of humor comes to pass.
I
hug Christany, and as I turn to walk past – in my pink and grey finery, my hair not-quite-as-coiffed as I'd like –
I notice a familiar face dipped forward in conversation, one eye on
me, the other on his dinner partner. Like his hand.
My own most recent mistake. My Mr. Big.
It’s
been months - almost a year - since I cut him out of my life. Over nine
months since last I saw him. Apparently, The City decided I had a ticket for unclaimed emotional baggage that it wanted me to pick up.
Especially if I'm not having a good hair-day, asshole!
In shock, I said the first thing which came to mind: “Mother-fucking cocksucker”.
Hoping to slip away before I'm noticed, I turned to breeze past, tossing a goodbye wave to Christany and Nate. All hopes to gracefully exit the
restaurant before I caused a scene fled when I had to shove the doors open which caused the wind to catch my jacket and flip it open and into my face as my currently no-longer-gel-held hair whipped into something reminiscent of Something About Mary. Flushed with embarrassment, I realize that I'd shoved my feelings about
what had happened out of the way - zipping them closed in a Louis Vuitton suitcase which I'd been doing my best to forget where it'd been left - instead of dealing with and then getting past them.
Nate
calls these moments, 'Toldja So's' – because he usually has.
When I get home, I slough my finery in lieu of comfort-clothes and a knitted cap over the fly-away hair in my bedroom and soon find myself at my desk, staring blankly at the laptop
screen when I begin to wonder …
When we end something with someone, is
it really over? Or do they have to end it with you, too?
Can you present your ticket and release your emotional baggage with someone? Or do you both have to pick up your luggage to let it go? Does the unclaimed
emotional baggage just trail behind you; eventually
going unnoticed until it’s just a regular part of you
Deciding
not to let these questions go unanswered, I unblock Big’s screenname from
my Instant Messanger long enough to see that he was online. Hemming and hawing, I take a swig of my coffee and begin to type a direct and simple message.
Of course, he immediately responds.
Politely
engaging him in conversation for a few minutes from there I realize he
hasn’t changed at all: he's still a selfish and petty, self-centered
little boy in a grown man's body. He tells me all about the cute new guy he's been
seeing (the slim, effeminate boy with cashmere and express jeans he had
his hand on at dinner) - whether he thinks this will bond us or brag, I don't care to know.
It's clear that the baggage has been picked up and discarded on his end.
Deciding that the healthiest thing I can do is to end all contact between us on a clean and honest note, I decide to be blunt and tell him that I
know all about his cheating and the lying that he thought he'd hidden from me and that he needs to be more selective in his
trysts. And then I hit the 'Block' button and lean back in my desk chair.
As I sit there, my knees at my chin and my
computer screen glowing in front of me, I begin to glow in turn. Smiling
to myself, I feel the cold weight of the anger I’d been carrying around
since the end of me and Big lift off. My smile is genuine, for the
first time since his caustic words at the end of us I don’t
hate him.
I don’t want to avoid him, forget him or hate him. I just want to move past him.
Of course, this means Nate was right. Again.
In the end, though, we have to claim the emotional baggage - whether to keep it with us, or to hopefully let it go on its merry way and our part in packing it so heavily. Sometimes all we need is a little self-confidence and the temerity to go through with finding the answers.
That ... and some really good friends with cocktails.
SUMMER READS 2013 [or, read what I tell you to, because they're damn good books]
Benjamin Kissell
"Marjorie, will you pass the sunscreen?" "Sure, just lemme finish this chapter." "But that's what you said 30 minutes ago." "Mm hmm, and you believed me then; it's not like you're getting any less Jersey Shore tan, is it?" "Marjorie, remind me to smack you when I finish this page."
What happens when you run out of wine, daquiri, vodka and reads - then eventually patience and tolerance - while you're at the beach? Well, if you're anything like me [and let's face it, if you read my articles, you're prolly already on that path] you reach for your phone to protest about it through twitter before you get up and hunt down a combination thereof.
Some [read: many] might hit up the bar to replenish waning stock and glare at the annoying hipsters and scantily-clad men and women who completely-destroy-your-self-esteem, but I would like to think that my influence would lead the rest to either turning on their e-reader and downloading a new book or hitting up their vacation hotspot's bookstore.
[Last year, while on the twee North Carolina island we took our vacation on there was 1) so little cell signal that I couldn't tweet my displeasure at running out of Chardonnay let alone download a new book and 2) such weak internet for the first 3 days that it rendered my tablet next-to-useless. So, instead of whining - yes, I do more than just that - I went to the local wine and book shop and bought several new reads which got me through the week.]
[Yes, I do realize how awesome it was that I found a store which sold wine AND books.]
[Double-yes, they fucking sold chocolate, too!]
*Ahem* Anyways; the best way to either get through such a situation or recover from it is to have a list of fantastic reads to pull from. Names and titles to keep an eye out for.
Wonderful books recommended by yours truly.
Whether they are from some of my favorite authors, friends or someone I've never met but enjoyed, the following books are all ones which ought to find their ways into your beach bag, your back-pack, your purse or your deck's chair-side table.
As she read Jaws, little Abigail decided that it was quite a good thing she was already floating in a warm pool ...
The newest memoir from multiple-time NYT bestselling author (who also happens to be my literary hero and friend) of fiction and non-fiction came out June 4th. Jen took on LIVING [baddum bum ching] a year under the precepts and guidance of Martha Stewart where she learned: What to eat, how to pray and who to love. I can't tell you how impressed I am that she successfully merged the brilliant dictates of all-things Martha, the empress of domesticity, within her own life while retaining her signature wit, self-effacement and connectivity to her audience. Think Julie and Julia ... but funnier.
A summer run doesn't feel complete now without a romp with the brilliant Notaro (whose own books helped inspire Jen Lancaster) [and three of whose books kept me from losing my mind on the aforementioned NC trip last year], a multiple-time award-winning and NYT bestselling author of fiction and non-fiction. Her newest collection of essays and wit feels like you're sitting in the corner of your local coffee shop telling apalling and hilarious stories you-probably-shouldn't-be-sharing with your best friend, regaling yourselves with embarassment and brilliance.
The anthology which inspired the Sundance Channel's hit series follows 20+ brilliant writers' points of view and tales on being the fag hag, the fruit fly, the gay-best-friend and many permutations of the relationships between gay men and straight women. Edited by the author of the super-huge-hit YA Blue Bloods series, de la Cruz, this collection features work by some of my favorite authors and several friends. For example, Stacey Ballis' love of gay men showcased here helped influence the relationships of several protagonists in her best-selling novels. It's been a distinct pleasure to chat with David Levithan over the years and this read gives even more insight into why we get along. Brian Sloan, the genius behind WTC View (play and film) who I helped set up a tour with back in 2008, wrote a piece that I can identify with in so many respects it's almost eerie (which is partly explained that we grew up in the same general area). A must-read for any gay man, straight woman or anything in-between.
Humorist, satirist and bullshit-call-out would all be appropriate words to describe Brandon Mendelson and his book, Social Media is Bullshit. Tired of all the empty hype and complete bollocks that social media gurus preach through Twitter, Google+ and what-have-you? So is Brandon. There is nothing wrong with a little elbow grease and hard work, but, so many of the social media (which he correctly points out is an oxymoronic phrase) sellers want you to believe that you get something for nothing and that's just plain bullshit. Delivered with Brandon's distinctive wit and verve, this how-to-survive the upcoming dot-com 2.0 burst with straightforward truths left me laughing and thinking.
Return with Freeman Hall into the world of Retail Hell in his 2nd memoir, the follow-up to his hit Retail Hell and his collection of humor essays, Stuff that Makes a Gay Heart Weep [Okay, I'll admit, not only is Freeman a friend - we met after his first book's release - but, I helped edit STMaGHW and was a regular contributer to its website ... in fact, my writings for both of his websites helped launch my website through here - so THANK YOU FREEMAN!!!]. Join him as he shows you the windows onto the tortured retail soul complete with roaming Shopasaurus/i, thieving and deceitful children, lying and conniving discount rats and a slew of co-workers you wouldn't want to be within 10 leagues of, let alone work with. You'll laugh and you'll cry with Freeman on this follow-up journey of introspective thought and biting wit.
Okay, MASSIVE confession time: each of these e-book anthologies includes an essay or short story by me. But I'd recommend them regardless because there are some damn fun stories which will bump your blood pressure to lethal levels, make you laugh so hard you'll cry in pain and roll on the floor wincing in sympathy. Collected from the various regular contributers to Retail Hell Underground and chosen by Freeman, these e-books are sold through Amazon but will convert to any digital reader device. My pieces to look out for in them are as follows: Little Monster Hell - "Sticky Fingers" Discount Hell - "Maryland Brown'n'Dirty" Stolen Hell - "Stabiliity is Overrated" Coworker Hell - "The Devil Wears Wal-Mart"
Caprice Crane's sophomore novel, the delightful comedy of errors, was so good that I couldn't put it down upon buying it and devoured it in one night, staying up until 7am - I just HAD to know how it would end. Would she recover? Was her memory truly gone? Would she marry the wrong man? The right one? Released in 2007, Forget About It has held a place of affection in my library since its release [NOT just because I adore Caprice and am lucky enough to count her as a friend] and I can bet it will for decades to come. Full of wit, heart, depth and sparkling dialogue it isn't hard to see why it's both audience-loved and critically well-received. Caprice brilliantly weaves a tale of mistakes, criss-crosses and confusion that will keep you holding on until the end.
And after you read it, pick up Caprice's newest novel, Confessions of a Hater, when it hits bookstores in August. Caprice brilliantly and deftly mingles her Hollywood and New York City roots in each of her novels and this one looks to be no exception, promising biting wit and some unbelievably fun snark.
Stacey Ballis, who makes me laugh every time I am lucky enough to chat with her, constantly delivers in her novels - whether it is one where she turns the food world on its ear or plays with your expectations and catches you unawares. Spinster Sisters helped me feel better for a good long while that I chose to be single because I made it for the right reasons. Chock full of three-dimensional characters, dilemmas, drama and dazzling wit you'll hate when the book ends, wanting more.
Coming out in December is Stacey's newest novel, Out to Lunch, which draws from the rich literary and culinary world she lives in and creates a fantastic new tale ... which may or may not have a fantastically gay character with a name you might recognize. Just sayin' - keep eyes peeled.
Why yes, Jen writes fiction as well as non-fiction ... but, both will keep you on the edge of your bed laughing. In her 2nd fiction debut, Jen tackles such immense roots as Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion, Whitesnake and Hot Tub Time Machine in a journey of self-discovery where our completely feckless hero faces her high school demons which make LiLo and the Heathers look positively sweet in comparison. Will she come out the other side better for it? And who will pay the price for her learning curve?
The fourth installment in the Heather Wells mystery series from the acclaimed writer of The Princess Diaries, follows former pop-singer turned-collegiate-administrator and part-time detective Heather as she is forced to confront a murderous mystery involving attacks on her ex-boyfriend's fiancee (whom he cheated on her with) all in her school's dorms. Cabot had me with the first installment, Size 12 is Not Fat, and has kept me tangled in the drama and the death with each successive (and successful) mystery, year after year.
And this September, catch the fifth volume, The Bride Wore Size 12, when it hits shelves. What will happen when Heather's looming wedding develops interesting, and morgue-linked, entanglements?
Okay, how I didn't know that there was FINALLY a fucking sequel to The Devil Wears Prada? Now, don't get me wrong, I LOVED the movie - Meryl bloody Streep, Anne ruddy Hathaway and Emily buggery Blunt are three of my favorite modern actresses - but it had very little resembling the original, biting and satirical book (including a very different, and much more happy-go-lucky ending than the book). I can hardly wait to read Lauren's newest and return to the world we all fell in love with. Of course, now when I read it I won't be able to help hearing Blunt and Streep's voices in my head jesting with the reader.
The conclusion to Simner's ground-breaking and brilliant YA series comes to bookstores near you! Simner took the post-apocalyptic genre and turned it on its ear with the release of Bones of Faerie. Gone were the stereotypical undead clamboring after the pockets of human resistance, in their place were pockets of surviving humans under siege from the magical destruction rent upon their world from their war with Faerie. The most inoccuous of things could kill you, a homicidal sunflower or man-eating willow tree, and the world was darker and more beautiful in her telling for it. Now, in the third chapter the fates of Faerie and Earth are entwined on the decisions made by our brave, and young, heroine. I can't tell you how eagerly I've awaited its release.
I picked this book up back in 2007 when it appeared on the new hardcovers table in Borders and found myself awash in a snarky, raunchy and rather accurate [at least to my myth-minded self and my Latin teaching Mum] depiction of a family of Greek Gods trying to make their way through 21st century London. In fact, it was such an impactful read that it (and the novel Venus Envy by Shannon McElden) inspired my short story, "winnebaGODS on High" for a forthcoming American Travels anthology. Phillips deftly wound a large cosmological-implications tale with one of the human condition, something I aspire to and hope to one day achieve.
The newest team-up from the award-winning and brilliant minds of the two Charles [I was lucky enough to meet them both in 2011 at FaerieCon in Baltimore and get autographed art and books] is an elaboration on their tale, A Circle of Cats which, in-turn, was partly inspired by ideas appearing in Neil Gaiman's The Sandman series. The reader gets the privilege of following the journey of a little girl as she is rescued from Death by the magic of cats and is set upon a path of discovery, delightfully told and illustrated by this wonderful team. Vess' work has appeared in a multitude of comic books, graphic novels, novels, and innumerable images throughout the internet and has a uniquely dreamy quality which makes his work on Faerie tales all-the-more appropos. De Lint has written more fantasy novels than you could shake a stick at and one day I hope to own them all.
Patricia A. McKillip is one of those prolific authors whose work has yet to dissapoint me, despite the pile of her books which takes up a large corner of my largest bookshelf. Whether she makes you squirm from the implications of a philandering spousal nymph or longing for answers to what happens to a stranded Undine, this collection of her short stories - including a previously unpublished speech - is a lovely display of her 30-odd years in the Fantasy genre.
What happens when you take your classic Fairy tale about princesses, stable boys, a kingdom in peril, a dangerous cosmological force and a dragon and turn them on their ear? Well, you get this terrific and at moments almost terrifying middle-grade novel for all-ages from Kelly Barnhill [and yes, the chats I've had with her are always fun, whether debating Doctor Who or the merits of the Grimm's fairy tales]. Princess Violet isn't your average princess and Barnhill makes sure that you walk away realizing what a strong-willed, iron-hearted, and positive figure a non-Disney princess can be ... for all of her flaws, Violet is one of those rare protagonists who not only inspires but aspires. In between work and friends, I still made sure I wasn't going to bed before I finished this delightful novel in one day.
Whether you think you know where the story will go or not, it doesn't. Follow in the adventures catalogued in the first volume of Vengekeep - a stunning and fun, epic-minded middle-grade novel for all-ages. Farrey crafts a bewitching and oft-times hilarious world somewhere between The Princess Bride and The Chronicles of Spiderwick. [Like with his demi-neighbor, Kelly, Brian and I have had some fun conversations on The Doctor and Star Trek: TNG] The fact that the second volume, The Shadowhand Covenant, is due for release this October isn't helping things as I want to know what happens NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! And I'm betting, like me, you'll wanna know it too.
One of the perennial favorites of fantasy authors world-wide, Emma Bull's novel helped truly usher in the modern era of Urban Fantasy. Dark, gritty, real, lauding, uplifting, tittering, teetering on the precipice and a thousand other adjectives could be thrown out in attempts to describe this novel, but, all would fail to capture the stark brilliance. I discovered her work in the same anthology I found Patricia A. McKillip in, as a young man, The Faery Reel. Her breadth of tale in short form is something I can only hope to capture one day. War for the Oaks helped usher in an era where authors could play with Faeries in more than just the Victorian gardens or lush warfields of Middle Earth and for that, I couldn't be more thankful.
Speaking of Urban Faery stories, Wicked Lovely - the debut novel from Marr back in 2007 - is the perfect melding of classic Irish faery tales and the Urban fantasy genre spearheaded by War for the Oaks. Marr launched a beautiful and harsh series with this twist on the classic story of the battle between Summer and Winter crafting an epic-minded world just slightly different from ours for its inclusion of the Good Neighbors. Simple rules for the Faery-sighted helped keep Aislinn's world rooted ... until they were broken and the repercussisons shook her very world to its core and changed her life forever. Four follow-up novels followed the Dark Court, the High Court, The Summer and Winter Courts and the solitary Fey as their worlds began to collide.
Deftly, and dizzyingly, mixing together The Tempest by William Shakespeare, Aasimov-ian sentient robots, a dystopian future rife with death and beauty, and the startling worlds of the Olympian Gods as they interfere in the decade-long Trojan War this 2-volume story will cause you to scratch your head as you go back and re-read to be triply-sure that you got what-it-was-that-just-happened ... did that really just happen? And did he really just put that together? Simmons, best known for his psychologically-thrilling suspense and horror novels and his classic watershed Sci-Fi Hyperion (the 4-volume series), has set the bar to an almost unimaginable height with this mash-up of Sci-Fi, history and mythology.
AND THUS CONCLUDES ANOTHER INSTALLMENT OF ME TELLING YOU WHAT TO READ ... for now.
I've been working (off and on, regrettably) on a short story for my friend, Drew's American Travels Anthology. When he asked if I were interested in doing a short story for it, I was flattered. I was overwhelmed. I was in over my head. I was ... flummoxed.
I really don't travel that much. I sat and stared at the computer screen for the better part of a day trying to see what ideas may leap to mind.True, in Jan '06 my best mate and I, Nate, packed bags and drove up for 3 days in NYC.
In Jan '07, I took a Greyhound bus from Fredericksburg VA to New London CT and back - by myself.
In Oct '09 I took a bus to NYC and back in a 23 hr period to see a friend's book-signing.
This past spring I flew to LA and back with Mum for her Jeopardy taping.
It all sounds so grand, but, really, I haven't done much real "traveling" suitable for a Travel Antho.Then it hit me, it doesn't hafta be all-true travel, does it? What if it's fiction, or even - G*D forbid - fantasy American travel? This opened things up for me; if I can write it how I want it (and with approval) how do I want to? I still was stuck sitting in front of a computer.
Only this time, I wasn't alone.
Joining me, is an image - a small family in a Winnebago, bickering and stressed by being crammed altogether in a small, ramshackle Winnebago (too few of them by choice). Athena, her lovely black tresses pulled into a ponytail sitting next to her brother Ares, bickering with his selfish-ass, their lame brother Hephaestus occupying the spare bed, offering pointed remarks as he busies himself with his tools.
Their parents, Zeus and Hera, trying to figure out the best-route to their camping grounds in upstate New York - him in anachronistic mash-up clothing, her in a Martha Stewart-inspired wardrobe, not a hair out of place. Zeus grousing about traffic, Hera squaring her shoulders and biting her tongue - she had warned him not to take this stretch of 395.I could see this clear as day.
Of course, the internal conflict was what drew me to tackling the short story (and spawning the idea for at least another, if not several more). But, the external conflict? What sort of Greek Mythological story could I adapt for an American Travels tale? How about a Native American Algonquin Myth - the Wendigo! Wanna see how I did it? Wait for the short-story to come out in print. But, until then, check out this sample - If you would, lemme know what'cha think?
“Quit it!” “No, you quit it!”
“Da-ad, he’s touching me!”
“No I’m not. She’s poking me with her pen!”
“Am not, your arm’s just in the way!” “So isn’t; her arm’s on my seat!”
“Is not, that’s my armrest!”
“Nuh uh, is not!”
“Uh huh, is too!”
“Is not!”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
“Is too!”
“Knock it off right now or so help me I will pull this Winnebago over and incinerate the both of you.”
I may have snickered; after all, when you’re Immortal, that sort of threat doesn’t really hold water.
“I heard that, young lady,” his tone deepened. “I wouldn’t be so cocky; remember, there’s no Aegis with you.” Damn, he’s right. I hate it when he’s right. And he’s almost always right. “You’re not too old for me to take over my knee.” Of course, he’s also sometimes wrong.
“Dad, I was too old for that the day I was born,” I muttered. Which, technically is true … the fact that I’m now about five thousand years old doesn’t really help his argument. I swear, I could hear his eyes rolling at me.
“You tell her, Dad,” my annoying and bratty big brother chimed in, before sticking his tongue out at me – always hoping to score beaucoup brownie points with the parentals. He can be such a namby-pamby prick sometimes. Others? He’s just an outright arse with major bloodlust and a Gods-complex. Before I could resort to effective name-calling (and possibly violence), my mouth open and ready for the words to come out, Dad gave me the look in the rear view mirror.
You know the look. It’s that look your parents give you through their furrowed brows; the look which says ‘one more toe out of line and you are in seriously deep trouble’. Yeah, he gave me that look. Times, maybe, a couple thousand.
Deflated, I slumped back into my seat. Of course, not before resorting to said violence. Placing a well-aimed fist right into my bratty brother’s tender nether zone wiped the smug look off his face and earned me another look and a thunderclap right on my side of the RV. Totally worth it.
Bratty winced in pain, while my other brother – the prince of brooding – snickered at his discomfort, offering me a not-so-silent “Good shot” rumble from back in his bunk. I may have laughed indelicately at this.
“If you three do NOT shut the Tartarus up and behave, I will pull over and drop your sorry Godling butts on the side of the road THIS INSTANT! Do you understand me?”
“Dear, would you mind keeping your eyes on the road? You’re swerving.” Her eyes glued to a copy of Elle, Mum calmly murmers. “And, darling, please do not antagonize your father while he’s driving.” Ooh, we’re onto me now. “Or your brothers for that matter; you know what that does to a road-trip.” You mean, what that does to your magazine reading on a road-trip, don’t you?
Is it just me, or is it blindingly obvious that my brothers are her favorite? Anyone? Nope? Never? Totally can’t tell she favors those two boys over me. Of course, being my step-mother probably doesn’t help sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, I know she loves me and we usually can get along pretty well, but, we’ve been known to fight – and when we do, we do it right.
Prime example; back in the day, when we fought over the Golden Apple we both said some very petty and snide things (the terms ‘shrew’ and ‘frigid bitch’ may have been thrown out). After Gods-know how long of constant bitter fighting we ended up asking that dopey (but oh-so-pretty) shepherd-boy to judge us in a beauty contest. I know, I know – a beauty contest? But, it had Kallistei “For the Most Beautiful” in Greek on the apple, so, we went there. Our divine pride was on the line, here. He really didn’t show good taste, though, picking my scantily-clad cousin (*cough* slut *cough*) over both of us. Although we disagreed with the judgment, it did bring us together: Mum and I teamed up to punish him and scorn her – that’s what family’s built on, right? Mutual animosity and love. Keep that going for a few thousand years and you end up with us.
So, there you have it; we’re a group of five Immortals traveling through the country in a Winnebago. Bickering along the way. What part of that doesn’t scream ‘Greek Gods’?
Procrastination is a lost art form, so I shall try to resurrect it - no, no glittery vampires or goth-made-up zombies here, just avoiding actually finishing this draft of Those Things Which Go Bump in the Night (short story to introduce the world, properly, to Simon Drake and a world filled with denizens like daemons and the Fae.
Ever notice that our two most popular 'Otherworld' figures have been romanticized into almost identical roles?
Vampires (thanks to Stoker, Rice and *shudder* Meyer) are highly sexual, gorgeous (and now glittery, igg) figures who steal you away in the night who can either use you up and throw you away or turn you into one of them.
Faeries (have always been and still are, thank you) are highly sexual, gorgeous (sometimes glittery, thank you Ridley Scott) figures who steal you away in the night who can either use you up and throw you away or turn you into one of them.
It made me ask, back in March 2008, what if Faeries and Vampires were more entwined in our cultural subconsciousness than we think?
The Eirish and Scandanavian folklore combined with classic Greek mythology as I searched out this answer and helped form the world of Simon Peter Drake, Daemonslayer and the book Revelation/Annihilation. I hope you enjoy this second sample from his world, and this teaser scene from my short story, Those Things Which Go Bump in the Night.
Rose Allon was a shopkeeper. Rose Allon was a kindly spirit always giving to her friends and co-workers. Rose Allon was a sweet, quiet girl and, tonight, Rose Allon was running for her life.
Glancing behind her, she barely saw her pursuer in the mountain twilight. The fleeting look cost her precious seconds as her toe stubbed on the uneven pavement slowing her flight. Catching her stride, she blindly threw her purse behind her at the unknown assailant hoping to slow it. She doubted if it was even noticed.
After locking the doors on her shop (the Rose Boutique) that night she had hastened toward her car. Parked in the back lot along the tree-line, she'd left it under the streetlamp – after all, with those disappearances, one could never be too careful (as her mother routinely reminded her). As she pulled her keys from her Coach bag a stiff breeze caught her blonde bob and, reaching up to pull the hair from her eyes, the keychain clattered as it fell onto the pavement.
Dropping to her knees, her jeans pressed to the asphalt, she groped for the missing car keys touching upon them right next to the driver’s side front tire. She paused: something caught her gaze as she looked across to the shadowed trees from under the practical mid-size sedan. A slight motion of a darkened figure. Large, definitely bigger than her. It could be a bear – didn’t her mother harangue her about the black bear population of the Shenandoah Park? God, why did this kind of stuff happen to her?
Snatching at the keys, Rose went to rise from her crouch when the rustle of leaves caused her to catch the sudden movement of the (bear?); like a shot, it sprang towards her.
Run, her instincts had told her. Run fast.
As she turned and ran, Rose knew it was no bear. Deep down, she knew whatever – or whomever – it was chasing her was the source of the local disappearances. Panting, she bolted down Sylvan Street, away from the wooded side, in the direction of the town square where she was sure the all-night coffee shop would be an escape.
The dull thud of her purse hitting the pavement emphatically told that her rearward throw had met with no success.
The dead grass poking through the fissures in the pavement scratched at her ankles as she passed. Sweat streaked her face and hair. Rose felt her pulse pounding in her ears and the bile rising in her throat. Sprinting for the light and the needed safety of the public venue, her hopes for escape escalated.
She was only seconds from breaking from between the buildings and into the well-lit square when the cold hand grabbed ahold of her sweat-slick hair, firmly pulling her up short.
Her shoulder wrenched itself with a painful crack as she was thrust against the brickwork wall.
The shadows seemed to gather around him (she was sure he was male), hiding him from her view. Her fear was pungent, palpable in the air. His sharp sniffs rent the silence. Rose felt like prey cornered and seized by some great predator; sheer terror held her faster than his stone-stiff grip. The light glinted in shards, throwing a halo about his head and casting his face in gloom. Wrapped in the inky-blackness of the night, his features held in contrast, he leaned in close, crushing the air from her lungs. She could feel the cool hiss of his breath upon her.
As Rose began to pass out, a blood-black haze overtaking her vision, she could have sworn she saw a skinny kid hurtling at the monster in the dark and a certain death beside her.
Leaning over the prone woman unconscious upon the ground, her blonde hair framing her young face, Simon searched for a pulse. Her shallow breaths and thready beat gave him hope. Pressing her neck, his fingers came back sticky with blood; the puncture wounds were blessedly shallow. He had interrupted the bite in time.
Watching for her to slowly come around, Simon readied his short list of questions so as to not upset her too much. The woman, whom he recognized as the young proprietress of the upscale clothing store in the Sylvan Shopping Centre, described her attack in sparing detail (he guessed at a glamour) which fit with what he’d gleaned from the other disappearances.
There was no doubt about it, the monster who’d been about to end her life (and had attacked the four missing people) had been a Fae. A Fae dark and blood-minded enough to feed upon mortals and instill such fear. A Fae who was obviously a member of the Unseelie Court.
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