Star Un-Struck

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a celebrity sighting! Not to fear, the Las Vegas travelogue will continue shortly (and the next part features firearms!).

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[The scene: noon, the lobby of Jul's building, directly in front of the elevators. Our intrepid heroine sighs and fiddles with her iPod cords... another day, another dollar, another Field Greens 'n Gorgonzola salad (Ed. Note - 41% FAT?! F that S... next time, I'm getting what I really want). Actually, another SEVEN dollars; they might as well call it Au Bon Highway Robbery. Ahem. A number of suit-clad type-As are milling about, including Oddly Familiar-Looking Guy in Business Suit]

Elevator: Ding!
[Jul, several lawyers and Familiar Guy shuffle aboard elevator]
Female Lawyer: "Hell-OOOO, Mr. Governor!"
Governor R3nd311: [intensive schmoozing... "HI... you! Still working in litigation/mergers/white-collar crime/the cafeteria?"]
Male Lawyer: "HEY THERE, Mr. Governor!"
Governer R3nd311: [schmooze-a-rama... "Wow, it's Old So-and-So! How's that recreational hobby? Send spouse/domestic partner/hamster my love!"]
Jack White, via Jul's iPod: "GIRL, you have no faith in MEDICINE!"
Governor R3nd311: [expectant glance in Jul's direction]
Jul: [silently] "Doo, doo doo doo doo, doo-doo, doo, doo doo doo..."
Governor R3nd311: [anticipatory smile in Jul's direction]
Jul: [pokes packet of honey-mustard dressing in Au Bon Pain bag]
Governor R3nd311: [grin of desperation... or perhaps gas pain. He DOES enjoy his cheesesteaks...]
Jack White: "Oh, GIRRRRRL!"
Governor R3nd311: ["Mental note: blue suit needs pressed. Also, have unschmoozable girl killed. Get Midge to investigate re: commuting own sentence."]
Elevator: Ding!
Jul: [yawns, shuffles off]

Note #1: I wasn't TRYING to be rude; I just thought it was a given that one keeps to one's self on an elevator. As a registered subversive, shack dwelling nutball Libertarian, I have no personal views on R3nd311. Much as I was hoping he'd (let one fly and blame it on some poor associate / press all the buttons and then run away laughing), no such chicanery occurred.

Note #2: It is at times like these that I wish I had some strongly-held principles. It seems like it would've been deeply satisfying to step off, whip around and yell, "LEGALIZE IT, MANNNN!", or perhaps the more altruistic, "STOP THE OPPRESSION OF TIBET BY THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF CHINA... MANNNN!"

Las Vegas, Nevada Is Trying To Kill Us All - Pt. II

III: Lady Liberty, Come Out and Play With Me

An unexpected damp spot on the vast, rumpled sheet of the Mojave, "The Meadows" has attracted Spanish traders, Mormon settlers, the Union-Pacific Railway and, most recently, the mighty forces of capitalist decadence. Flying in, the rough plain of sand and ochre seems endless. Then, inevitably, the mark of man - those unnaturally precise lines gouged by a clever boy with a bigger knife than he ought. They're initially sparse - bright, harsh little burgs which will ruin your Chevy and mutate your melanin. The lines grow closer - suburbs, of course. The Real Deal is probably awful, possibly beautiful. It's a mad scribble on graph paper, a tiny gush of neon in the middle of a wasteland. Touching down, even the nauseated and miserable experience a sort of grudging awe.

The Hoover Dam, the Empire State Building, the Golden Gate Bridge - our nation's most impressive structures tend to be utilitarian. Vegas, however, is that rare and wonderful place where enormous quantities of money and effort are expended for no noble purpose whatsoever. It's grandiosity because we can, or because that’s what sells. It is, in a way, a purer vision of America than any of our more useful toys would indicate.

If Vegas by plane inspires wonder and reflection, Vegas by foot inspires low-level panic. The noise, lights and jangling begin the second you step off the plane. If you had a good arm, you could probably toss quarters towards a slot machine from the jetway itself. At the time of my visit, the wall immediately above the baggage-claim escalators featured an enormous close-up photo of Celine Dion’s head. Queasy and cranky, my first thought was not “My, I would certainly love to see international best-selling recording artist Celine Dion perform at Caesar’s Palace”, but “Aaaagh! That thing eats its young!” I scurried over to the carousel, snagged my suitcase and boarded a Strip-bound shuttle bus. I was entering the belly of the beast (no, not Celine).

After my suitcase and I were dumped in front of our hotel, I realized that we were in a bit of a bind. The room reservation was in Em’s name, and she wouldn’t be arriving for another three hours. “Well, dang,” said I, “Looks like it’s just you and me, ol’ 2” Bigger Than Standard Overhead Compartment” (his rap name is “Biggie O.C.”). “We’ve been in Vegas for two whole hours. Isn’t it time we had a drink? Signify your consent by doing absolutely nothing.” With Biggie O.C.’s wholehearted approval, we strolled down the block towards our first “F&L”-related task: getting sloshed at the Circus Circus.

The Circus Circus was Vegas’ first “family-oriented” casino. At the time it was terrifying an ether-addled Thompson, it was a fairly recent addition to the Strip. The passage of thirty years and the addition of an indoor amusement park (replete with log flume) have not dulled its sinister, clown-heavy ambiance. The upstairs midway is still chaotic; it’s possible to fling a bean bag at a milk bottle while sipping a 40-oz. daiquiri and watching a silver Lycra-swathed acrobat balance atop a 20’ pole. Descend into the bowels of the casino and there’s chaos of a different sort. The dingy little bar offers a modicum of peace and a good view of the action, perfect for amateur sociologists and professional drinkers. “Hey, are you over 21?” said the barkeep when I ordered my drink. “Yeah,” I said. “Oh, okay,” he replied, handing me a Scotch and soda. This town, I admitted, pulling out my notebook, certainly has its charms.

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IV: Like Bukowski, But Nicer and With Better Boobs

Writing at a bar is either incredibly pretentious or a tribute to a fine literary tradition. Kerouac knocking back Thunderbird… Hemingway sipping a mojito in Key West… Lord Byron holding back Jane Austen’s hair as she demurely hurls into a Dumpster - well, maybe not. I can only hope it’s the latter. I spent a good deal of my Vegas excursion perched on a stool, scribbling away in the Official Amateur Writer Notebook and chewing on a drink stirrer. In writing - much like in sex - alcohol doesn’t spur one to new heights of greatness. Rather, it’s Vaseline for the conscious mind, relieving the awkwardness and chafing, hastening the arrival of the fun part. By the time Em called to let me know she was at our hotel, I’d cranked out fifteen entertaining but disjointed (and in some cases, moist) loose-leaf pages.

Notes From Underground The Circus Circus Hotel and Casino

• “Deal or No Deal” slot machines: cultural ephemera devoured, digested, excreted in a brighter and louder form before the original product has even hit syndication
  
  
• This entire operation pumping so furiously hard that you can’t help but imagine an era in which it all shudders to a halt and slowly erodes. The Wynn, that brand-new, massive sheet of copper foil, tarnished and punctured. Massive polygons devoured by choking greenery. Silica, steel, concrete reduced to from whence it came… just a little bit more blocky and stylized.
  
  
• The Strip, fantasy: a deliriously cramped, walkable Gomorrah. Here’s a life-sized pyramid! Here’s a medieval castle! There’s a ten-story, neon-bedecked replica of Donald Trump’s hair! The Strip, reality: it’s the suburbs. Only with slots and whores.
  
  
• NASCAR shirts, Bud Lite and ever-elusive gratification.
  
  
• I appear to be the only person in Vegas actually paying for my own drinks. The question of the day – are you playing? Pouring quarters into slots? Frantically jabbing a video poker screen? Attempting to knock over a tower of milk bottles with a bean bag? Well, then, sir… may we get you anything? Watery drink? Deep-fried snack? Fellatio? Oh, no need to move… keep on pulling that level. Syndee will be by shortly to take care of your OTHER lever, ha ha ha. It’s no trouble, no trouble at all. This establishment always likes to show our appreciation for loyal masters of the bean bag such as yourself.
  
  
• Seven-freaking-fifty for a watery-ass Manhattan? Made with, like, Ol’ Granpappy’s Caramel-Colored, Whisky-Flavored Grain Neutral Spirits? FOR SHAME, referee-attired bartender!
  
  
• I am not playing. Of all the adult activities I’ve tried – excessive drinking, drugs of varying degrees of legality, fooling around with the entire Philadelphia metropolitan area – wouldn’t you know, good ol’ legalized gambling is the only one which held no allure. And it’s not like I haven’t TRIED. There’s not a potentially addictive behavior I haven’t rubbed up against like a starving housecat.
  
  
• It’s okay. It comes with the job. If Van Gogh can suffer and die in the name of his art, surely I can plunk down seven-fifty a glass for mine.
  
  
• Whoa. Maybe these drinks aren’t so watery after all.

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To Be Continued...

Las Vegas, Nevada Is Trying To Kill Us All - Pt. I

Prelude: Gimme a Scotch and Dramamine

I was somewhere around Nevada in the middle of the desert when the airsickness began to take hold.

"Oh, nooo…", I groaned, pressing my head against the cool glass oval of the window. Despite having nerves (and an esophageal sphincter) of steel, I don't fly well. My mind is untroubled by the prospect of hurtling through the stratosphere in a pressurized tin can. My body, however, is violently opposed to the whole idea. Commercial air travel makes me feel like I've been flung across the room by someone with large and ungentle hands. The landing - usually endured with eyes, teeth and barf bag clenched - is that final, sickening smack as I tumble into a coffee table, a wall, Detroit.

"Ugh," I said, staggering into McCarran International Airport, "I need a drink."

As it so happened, I was in the right place.

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I: Dr. Gonzo vs. DARE Graduates

In 1971, Hunter S. Thompson and Oscar Acosta traveled to Las Vegas, ostensibly for Thompson to cover the Mint 400 motorcycle race for Sports Illustrated. A somewhat-fictionalized account of this trip - manic, drug-fueled, and vomit-splattered - became "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". Let there be no doubt: Thompson possessed some formidable journalistic chops. However, from "F&L" forward, his public persona wasn’t that of "author" so much as "professional batshit-crazy individual". The Hunter of counterculture mythology comes off as a funnier, more depraved Hemingway, banging away on a Selectric while armed to the teeth and coked to the gills. This legacy makes "F&L" something of a guilty pleasure. It's a taste one suspects might best be kept private, like a love of "Chic" magazine or an appreciation for "Catcher in the Rye" which persists past age sixteen.

Well, to hell with that.

Foie gras and oily pizza are both delicious. Despite "knowing better", I proudly maintain my affectatious middle-class penchant for the seedy. I read classics and dry Booker Prize winners with the same grim resolve that I eat sugar-free bran muffins. For fun, I slip into something a bit more subversive. What can I say? I've got a thing for cheap Scotch, boys who don’t call back and authors with an utter disregard for safety, civility and “Elements of Style”.

Thompson called “Fear and Loathing” a “failed experiment in gonzo journalism”. My own Vegas sojourn, then, could be described as a failed pastiche to a failed experiment in gonzo journalism. I’m singularly unsuited for reckless rabble-rousing. I’m a mother, an introvert and - most importantly - a child of the 80’s. AIDS, computers and institutionalized irony have always existed. My generation was relentlessly warned that experimenting with sex and drugs would not only kill us, horribly, but deeply disappoint Nancy Reagan. Before setting foot in Vegas, I knew I’d be incapable of recreating the crazed zeal of Thompson’s novel. However, I vowed that the entire trip would be a ridiculous, goofy paean to the book.

“Say, do you mind if I throw a grapefruit in the shower with you?” I asked my friend Em, my Sin City partner-in-crime.

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Er… no reason.”

No grapefruits were employed as projectiles. I did not ride bumper cars while staggeringly drunk, seduce the entire staff of the hotel’s concierge desk or get kicked out of the Guggenheim-Hermitage Museum’s Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit for yelling, “Good god, has anyone told the NEA about this filth?” In that respect, my trip was a failure.

Actually, it was a failure in every other respect, too. Las Vegas kicked my goddamned ass. But, as failures tend to be, it was at least entertaining.

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II: Sugary Expectorations, Pals Traversing the Nation

Em and I met when we were fourteen. My earliest memory of that era involves us leaning out of one of our junior high's second-story windows, sucking on jawbreakers and launching vividly-hued gobs of spit on the asphalt below. Charming lasses, we. She and I had quickly forged one of those moody, intense friendships only possible between similarly-alienated teenage girls. It was sort of like "Heavenly Creatures", only without the cold-blooded matricide. As we grew older, our paths diverged and our platonic fervor cooled. Nonetheless, we kept in touch, reuniting every so often for lamb nargisi and wise-assery at the same Indian restaurant we'd been frequenting since our virginal youth (which is to say, a looooong time ago).

She and I took our first trip together when we were fifteen. To call the Ecology Club Whale Watch of '96 a fiasco would be charitable. When we weren't vomiting over the railing of the SS Pollywog, we were flinging dead sand crabs at one another and waging World War III over our shared collection of Nirvana cassettes. Although we quickly shed all ill will and crab appendages, a decade passed before either of us proposed another outing. "A friend of mine is getting married in Vegas," e-mailed Em several months ago, more concise and impulsive than I’ll ever be, "Come with me! It'll be awesome!"

I'm not a spontaneous individual. I do extensive research before purchasing, say, plastic bags (and now know that Ziploc's "sliders" are the bag-fastening device of the beast). Yet within half an hour, I'd shot back an enthusiastic affirmative. "Damn," said the logical center of my brain, reeling, "You win this round, but if you think this means you can start buying lesser-quality food storage products, you've got another thing coming."

I desperately needed a vacation. Twenty-aught-six had been the most tumultuous year of my life. Working, caring for a toddler, moving, dismantling a marriage, selling a home… they’d reduced me to a feebly-twitching raw nerve. A need for escape. A serendipitous invitation. Appealingly sordid visions of “Jul and Em In Las Vegas”. Before I was fully aware of what I was doing, I’d already booked my flight.

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To Be Continued...

Sir Mix-a-Lot I'm Not

Following my last post, the fantabulous Doctor Mama quipped that I should send off some of my deeply silly old-school rhymes.

"How does one get a job writing rap lyrics?" I wondered, "Dear Sirs: The Inuit have over seventy words for snow. I myself have over eighty for desirable female buttocks."

"You should see if you COULD do eighty for the buttocks," replied Doc M. Because she's a sadist. "First do no harm"? Yeah, RIGHT. How about the irreparable harm my brain has suffered as a result of actually compiling such a list?

And so, without further ado: The Assified Eighty. I'm going to go lie down. On my stomach, of course.

Alright, okay, let's get this started, hon… here's eighty synonyms for buns
There are some Gentiles that like to call 'em hams
Keepin' Kosher? Then how 'bout servin' up two helpings of mac 'n DAMN!
And for dessert, a sweet, sweet bon bon
Or if that don't make ya moan, perhaps you'd be tempted by a double-dip without the cone?
If it's fly, it's called callipygian
Or if that's causin' confusion, do the medical thang and call it a sub-sacral protrusion
You can pound, you can thump, you can shimmy that rump
You can boom, you can zoom, you can float those balloons
If you're a shortie, young 'n whiny, you just call that thing a heinie
Sir Mix-a-Lot informed us that she gotta pack much back
Was he lookin' in a crystal ball with a big ol' crack?
Alone, he stood and shouted out about the juicy double
Today, everyone's runnin', hustlin', tryin' to pop that bubble
He knew it takes a special woman to wave that round thing in your face
Ain't nothin' knockin' her over when she got that solid base
It's like Epcot center, with a big ol' indent-er
It's soft and it's cute, like the Georgia state fruit
All over the world, makin' men go, "Whoa!": if you're a Latino, get a load of that culo
If G-d's chosen people happen to be the look-ahs, you better believe it'll be a tuchus
And 'though Brit-speak is damned hard to parse, we all understand when they're talkin' arse
Mad props to the English; they're versatile like that, god bless the queen and all hail the prat
Thought the UK was done? Not unless we mention bum
Firm or squishy, in thong or not, it's a double-shot of 80-proof hot
There's always room for Jell-O; that shit don't get old, so let's call it a jiggler cause it don't fit no mold
That thing's out of bounds, so talkin' 'bout sweetness, let's just call them mounds
If it's barrelin' right towards you, call it a caboose
It's small and it's playful? Well, then turn them puppies loose!
If you're into disco, you can shake your groove thing
Into hip-hop? Then check out them nuggets of bling
To get poetic, it's a dewdrop the male eye absorbs
Getting' celestial, they're a pair of high-gravity orbs
A small constellation that makes fellas swoon; although they're red-hot, they're still known as the moon
If you're staying on this planet, try the Southern hemisphere
Hell, go to Antarctica, so long as it's got rear
But take some provisions, perhaps in a can
Some rolls
and some muffins of hotness (not bran)
In the Alps? You can slide down those double-diamond slopes
Fly to Cali, get an taste of some flesh cantaloupes
It's over, it's done, time to head on homes, to your houses, your trailers, your geodesic domes
Squares are for squares; when a nice round booty appears
Just give up that key and we'll unlock them spheres
A'ight, okay, so fullerenes ain't quite the norm...
You can still build your mansion on an adipose platform
'Cause everybody's cravin' a nice, firm fundament
Straight-up sexy shelter, just like a two-room tent
Even lookin' towards the future, you gotta look at the behind
Goin' all Nostradamus on an apocalyptic hind
Gotta get down to the bottom of things
Get a handle on that sexy sack
Brace your eyes and groin for that dual-pronged attack
Cause she's got a moneymaker and is ready to shake 'er
Wigglin' that derriere from here to there
Puttin' some skin-tight clothes on them marshmallows
Gotta love the XX gender, from those headlights to that rear fender
Sleek and sexy, with all that junk in the trunk
It's a stone-cold, rock-solid gluteal chunk
It's the illustrious J. Lo's claim to fame
Even the WNBA girls got some back-court game
At the risk of soundin' crass, you gotta, gotta love that ass
Round or flat, narrow or wide, ain't nothin wrong with some backside
Ain't gotta be Secretary of the Interior, to go wild for the posterior
Ain't gotta be the Army, settin' off mortars, to wanna deploy troops to the hindquarters
On MST3K (if you need a reminder), those lil' robots called it a hinder
Funny, Girl, how it's called a fanny though without the Brice
And how mamas use tushie when tryin' to be nice
They're more than nice, they're golden, those squishy globes
Anatomically perfect, that's those dorsal lobes
Essentially, potentially pinchable cheeks
Scalable, impalable southernly peaks
Can't go wrong with butt
Or for those that it shocks, the tame, the clinical, the ol'-fashioned buttocks
You'd best have a seat
We're drawin' to an end
We're guessin' you learned a little 'bout Tag Team's best friend
Whoomp! There Is Is, so don't go turnin' tail
C'mon and run your fingers over the letter "C" in Braille
Golly, heck and gee, sir, there ain't nothin' like the keister
Time to sail, mateys, hope we helped you learn, 'bout the timber-shiverin' wonders of buoys astern

I'm In Love With That Song - Special Feature - Sounds o' Summertime

Summer: it’s fireworks, ice pops as a food group, mosquitoes gorging on your vital fluids. It’s also driving around aimlessly at dusk, windows down and music going full-blast. Many people seem to have “summer songs” or “summer albums”; tunes which instantly conjure up the swelterin’ season. For me, it’s always been Sublime’s self-titled album. It’s seventeen tracks of bouncy, bratty machismo, intensely evocative of charred hot dogs, pilfered Coronas and vague sunburnt longing.

I doubt I'll find another disc as intensely "summery" as "Sublime", unless someone digs up Bradley Nowell's corpse, reanimates it, brushes off the maggots and shoves it into a recording studio. And I'm not advocating that, as awesome as it might be. There's still plenty of music which nicely defines each brief, bug-bitten season. This year, I wanted to experience the sounds of my hep new urban environment... the pulse of the city, as it were. Thus, I spent the summer flipping my radio between two genres I'd previously shunned: college radio and Top 40. My aural anecdotes appear below.

College Radio: WPRB (also known as "W- ummn... that was... uhhh... The Charred Hot Dogs?... yeah... you might not have heard of them... it's just one guy with a Mr. Microphone, actually... um...")

Despite my desire to strangle the on-air "talent" with their own Belle & Sebastian t-shirts, listening to 'PRB was interesting. Occasionally, out of NOWHERE, they'd play a mind-meltingly terrific song. I discovered Flin Flon and The Victoria Lucas on 'PRB; I now shake my arhythmic white booty to both on a regular basis. Howver, for each truly ass-kicking tune, I had to suffer through hours and hours and hours of shows such as...

Industrial Washing Machine Filled With Hammers and Set on “Heavily Soiled” Hour

This is exactly what it sounds like. Also know as “Are you sure you’re actually ON a station?” and “Baby Mobile as Envisioned by Glenn Danzig”. This show is wildly inconsistent; some pieces make you want to disregard Johnson & Johnson’s sage advice and insert a Q-Tip into your ear canal ALL THE WAY. Others aren’t unpleasant at all, despite being utterly random and atonal. I sometimes wonder if the "sonic recycling bin" genre has undiscovered benefits. Perhaps a lack of discernible pattern frees up one’s mind, allowing it to access obscure and deeply-hidden information.

Although in my case, it’d probably be, “Oh, fuck! I forgot to renew my car registration!”

Ululation Nation

This show is full of mystery. Are the singers African? Indian? Venezuelan? Are they happy? Sad? Being attacked by fruit bats? Are they singing about love? Death? The difficulty of removing guano from Berber carpet?

Whatever the issue may be, it's clearly one of deep importance, as they are capable of rattling their epiglottis about it for no fewer than forty-five minutes at a go.

I listen to Ululation Nation in the secret hope that one day, the singer will pause, emit a series of harsh, phlegmy coughs, then chirp, "Ahem! Terribly sorry... now where were we? Ave Mariiiiiiiiiia, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena..."

So, in summation: listening to college radio is like being in an Olympic swimming pool filled with frog intestines... but which also contains a few high-quality diamonds. Does the grossness outweigh the potential reward? It's a personal choice. Me? I'm still gritting my teeth and suffering through "Lou Reed Flicks Bottle Caps at a Stack of Marshall Amps for Three Hours, and It's Fucking GENIUS, Man".

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Top 40: Q102

Philly's local Top 40 station is a long-lived anomaly in a market where stations change formats more often than most people do underwear. When I was a wee lass, they trafficked primarily in Vanilla Ice, MC Hammer and other borderline-novelty rap acts. At the time, I lived in a Led Zepplin t-shirt and was planning on naming my firstborn "Page-Plant Thumbscrew", so I viewed Q102 with abject disgust.

As I grew older and less-insufferable, though, I came to appreciate the populist beauty of Top 40. Plenty of artists are more talented/creative/capable of penning lyrics more eloquent than "if you no gimme the work the blue balls a erupt". Top 40 tunes, however, are urban Muzak. Despite a lack of superior artistry, these songs are enjoyed - day after day - by a huge number of people. They're not "serious" art, but art's totally subjective. If "Pullin' Me Back" is more emotionally resonant for a teenager sitting on a sun-baked stoop on Girard than, say, "Concerto in D Minor", that's not for me to demean or deny.

Since this was my first summer as a liberated (and libertine) woman, it's not terribly surprising that I gravitated towards more booty-intensive songs. Two of this summer's most pervasive tunes celebrated the sheer, raunchy glee of hittin' it unashamed-style:

Promiscuous - Nelly Furtado

This is overproduction at its finest. I wasn't a huge fan of Nelly's earlier, angst-pop offerings; "I'm Like a Bird" invariably made me snap, "Yes, in that you need to stop your freakin' cheeping." "Promiscuous" however, tosses every Top 40 trick in the book in a blender and hits "Frappe". The results are surprisingly drinkable. This song did for proud female sexuality what Ron Popeil did for spray-on hair: FORCED you to look at it, whether you wanted to or not. As a result, I can offer only two half-hearted criticisms:

1. Nelly, you are from CANADA. There's only so promiscuous you can BE when you're wearing, like, down parkas and mukluks six months of the year! Unless you have your own polar-centric seduction techniques, ala, "Is that a strip of elk jerky in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

2. Towards the end of the song, Nelly sings, "Hey is that the truth or are you talking trash / Is your game M.V.P. like Steve Nash?" This is a flagrant rip-off of the Beastie Boys' classic "I got mad hits like Rod Carew".

Actually, maybe I don't have a problem with that. Hip-hop lyrics are my only source of sports statistics; why not improve my Trivial Pursuit game while shaking my ass?

May I humbly suggest the following?

• "You're at the ten-yard, baby, we'll be hittin' it soon / Unless you're Offensive Player of the Year, just like Warren Moon"
  
• "I really like your style, girl, how 'bout we leave this party / and ground it into double-play like my man Ernie Lombardi?"
  
• "I'm playin' my A-game, just like Mike Krzyzewski / I really hope you like it, girl, and... um... uh.... damn."

Sexy Back - Justin Timberlake

This was basically the 2006 version of "Hot In Herre"... a novelty tune which should’ve peaked fast and died young. Instead, it hit #1 and became the auditory equivalent of beach sand: worming its way into your car, your home, your ass, your egg-salad sandwich. For awhile, it was so ubiquitous that you were surprised you didn’t hear it in MORE places… Domino’s commercials, for instance ("We're bringin' Cheesy Bread back... YEAH! Other grease-topped dough wads better watch their back... YEAH!").

Come to think of it, I’m not sure America really needs a Secretary of Sexy Restoration, no matter how determinedly Justin has campaigned for the job. We use sex to peddle everything from shampoo to cigarettes. Even fairly benign industries have capitalized on the allure of the illicit (“DICK!... Steinberg is just one of the financial experts available to help you diversify your investment portfolio!”). Objectively speaking, sexy has not left us. Sexy has not even run out to the 7-11 to get a Chipwich.

Special Bonus Feature: As It Turns Out, Maybe I Do Need a TV

[Despite the fact that I spent all summer thumping my steering wheel to this song, I somehow remained utterly deluded as to the singer’s gender. My sister clued me in while we were driving to WaWa one evening.]

“Oooh, keep this!” she said as I fiddled with the radio. The car soon filled with the familiar, guttural moans of someone who’s either deeply aroused or ruing the day they ever ate those clam strips.

“Who’s the chick singing?” I asked Junket, pulling into a parking space.

“Dude,” she said, “That’s not a chick. That’s Justin Timberlake!”

“No… no, it’s not!” I said, staring at her in horror, “That’s totally a woman!”

“Jul, haven’t you seen the video?” she asked.

“No… I don’t have a TV!” I whimpered, my brain unable to process this new information.

"This really changes your perception of the song, DOESN'T IT?" said Junket with malicious glee.

"IT CHANGES NOTHING! BECAUSE THAT IS A GIRL, GODDAMN IT!" I shrieked. Hey, if it works for high art, it can work for Top 40.

Escargoing Out Of My Fucking Mind

Okay, I'm coming out of the closet.

Every now and again, for no discernible reason, I, um, go crazy.

I get depressed. Not in a "deeply saddened Applebee's took Dulce de Diabetic Coma cheesecake off the menu" kind of way. Not even in a "rear-ended Hummer while absentmindedly picking nose; now gushing blood on Climatronic system while neckless troglodyte punches your hood" kind of way.

Nope. I get horrifically, heartbreakingly, makes-Eeyore-look-like-Richard-Simmons type-depressed. When I'm in the gray, smothering embrace of a really bang-up depressive episode, it doesn't take a professional to see that mine is not the sanest of membranes.

Observer: "Wow, look at the sun shining behind those clouds!"
Me: "Fuck the sun."

Now, why would I bad-mouth the celestial body responsible for strawberries, daisies and, y'know, our planet NOT being a barren, ice-encrusted wasteland?

Clearly, because I need drugs.

My brain gets sick sometimes. All sorts of whiz-bang medications exist which not only effectively control this particular illness, but also sound like science fiction characters (I like to imagine them battling serotonin reuptake with lil' bitty light sabres). Seroquel! Effexor! Cymbalta! Obi-Wan Kenobi! Oh, wait.

So do I take my daily dose of sanity religiously, pausing before I swallow to give thanks to modern medicine?

Well... no.

I'm not sure if it was due to a desire to be a macho, pill-shunning Chuck Norris type (roundhouse-kicking dopamine in the head until it wishes it were never endogenously secreted!) or plain old self-delusion, but two months ago, I went off my meds.

Now, wait just a ding-danged minute here. Would someone afflicted by ANY OTHER illness try to delude themselves like that regarding their condition? Imagine someone emphatically insisting, "My pancreas is FINE! It produces PLENTY of insulin! Matter of fact, my islets of Langerhans are the BIGGEST YOU'VE EVER SEEN!"... before thudding to the floor in a diabetic coma.

Silly, huh? Diabetics can't control their bodies like that. And neither can I.

This has been one of the saddest, weirdest, most hilarious weeks of my life. It's been my own weepy version of "The Jerry Springer Show". Thankfully, no folding chairs have been thrown at my head, unless you count the metaphorical Chair of Enlightenment.

I'm hoping I've learned my lesson. Praying, actually, in my own heathenish way (side note: I once wore a t-shirt emblazoned with "HEATHEN" to high school. About fifty people asked, "Who's Heather?" New Jersey public school system, hurrah!). Because otherwise, it'll all have been for naught. And oh, what a ride "it" has been.

---

Know this: I sleep around. I don't require dinner before dessert (although yuppified, proscuitto-strewn pizza never hurts). I'm easy like Sunday morning.

I refuse to be ashamed or defensive about this. I really, truly enjoy sex. I spent much of my youth picking out paint chips at Home Depot, choosing between "Sun-Speckled Wheat Field" and "Ever-So Slightly Burnt Waffle" rather than "Your place or mine?" During the three days per week I'm not Official Mama and Sippy Cup-Refiller to the Stars, I jog, I read, I eat out and, yes, I have sex. And to answer the inevitable question: I play it hellaciously safe. I will even bust out my old-school skillz to expound:

Wrappin' it like Christo
Spreadin' nonoxynol like Crisco
Even if they got bad pests
I be stayin' clean as a palimpsest

Ahem.

Shortly after moving to the city, I met a gentleman I dubbed "Mr. Snail", due to his charmingly shy nature. It soon became apparent that Mr. Snail wasn't shy in every way, and he became my casual hookup of choice. He was funny, intelligent, thoughtful, respectful... a genuinely decent, delightfully smutty guy. Although ours was a strictly "no strings" relationship, we enjoyed one another's company and had many fine conversations as well as licentious tussles.

If you can't see where this is going... well, I suggest you go see a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. It'll be FULL of surprises. Will Jack Testosterino manage to save the world from zombies/nuclear warheads/meteors/nuclear warhead-stuffed meteors controlled by zombies who apparently possess aeronautical engineering degrees? You just NEVER KNOW!

---

Know this, too: a week ago, I turned twenty-five. The day the ol' odometer rolled over, I woke up unexpectedly and catastrophically depressed. It took me close to an hour to get out of bed; J.Q. was delighted to spend that time crawling around the big bed, poking me in the eyeball and cackling, "Ahhh-EEE!" I'm not even going to TELL you how he identifies my nose.

Eventually, I determined it was in the best interests of my vision and sanity to Get the Fuck Up. I busied myself with party preparations... slicing mushrooms, making ice, resting my head against the wall and weeping pitieously. It was all very Serious Adult Novel-ish, actually... discontent and crudite! Mental illness and creme fraiche, whizzed and the Cuisinart and scooped up with the Baguette Rounds of Conformity!

The party itself was lovely... good company, excellent risotto, preternatually cute babies. I mixed plenty of drinks and tickled plenty of bellies (for the Big and Little people, respectively; no gin 'n Enfamils were served) but felt oddly "flat" for the duration. My sister Sarah, sensing that I wasn't my usual ass-kicking, name-taking self, stuck around after the last guests trickled out. We sat on my futon, listening to my birthday CDs and discussing Important Sisterly Things... namely, men. Sarah had recently ended a tumultuous three-year relationship and was eager to slap on a mitt and resume playing the field.

"I wish I could find a cool guy to just hang out with, y'know?", she said, "Nothing serious... just to see what it's like to have fun again."

Maybe it was the glass of "Fleur de Stainless Steel Vat" wine I'd been sipping.
Maybe it was Marilyn Manson shrieking nihilstic directives from my speakers.
Maybe all of those syllogism-heavy tests were inaccurate, and I'm not actually a gifted child.
Or maybe, just maybe, I was depressed.

"You should go hang out with Mr. Snail," I said, "He lives pretty close to here, and once you get him to open up, he's a load of fun."

"Er... wouldn't that be, well, extremely weird for you?" said Sarah.

"Eh, I don't think so. And if so? Screw it," I said, employing that ever-stellar "depressed person logic". Unwise choices? Global upheaval? Making your cell phone play a snippet of Joy Division every time it rings? Screw it.

Sending your younger, thinner, prettier, flirtier sister out for drinks with a man on whom you've developed a little bit of a crush?

Screw it. And screw that stupid sun, too.

---

I've gotta say, all parties behaved with admirable tact and compassion. Well, except me. I more or less lost my shit. But I'm MENTALLY ILL! Isn't that good for at least one "Get Out of Emotional Train Wreck Free" card? No? Well, damn. I'll bet if I was muttering to my hair and sheathing my appliances in aluminum foil, you'd cut me some slack.

The first text message came while I was strolling around MegaBookstore.

"Not sure about appropriate etiquette here", wrote Mr. Snail, "But Jul... I really like your sister."

I sank into one of MegaBookstore's granite-like chairs, the kind specifically designed to prevent you from loitering and treating the place like some kind of frickin' lending library. This hasn't stopped me; I'm willing to risk ass-related nerve damage if it means not paying $28 for a hardcover.

"Oh... well," I typed, brain whirring, back aching, "You kids have fun, then."

It soon became apparent that, due to my brilliant strategy of "not telling him or alluding to it in any way", Mr. Snail had been utterly unaware of my micro-crush... and, despite enjoying my company, had harbored no reciprocal feelings.

It was kinda like firing a bullet into a room full of nitroglycerin vapors.

"Are you going to the Unlovable Place?" said Kateri as I sniffled into the other end of the phone, "Do NOT do that, Jul! Don't do it!"

Statement of objective fact: no relatively normal, sane man has ever been smitten with me. Not the boyfriends, not the husband, not some random dude standing in line at the Stop 'n Shop. But that's okay, right? I'm young, I'm somewhat unique, I'll one day find my own level and live in a beautiful world full of Oscar Wilde quotes and foie gras on toast points... right?

Wrong, hissed my brain. You're broken. You will not be loved. Not now, not ever.

I had not only gone there, I'd donned an snorkel and flung myself in head-first.

---

Thank G-d, Buddha or random chance for my friends and family. Oh, and my casual hookups... who, despite not liking me "that way", were still kind enough to visit and attempt to cheer me up.

"I can just disappear, if you want," said Mr. Snail, burying his head in his hands. "I feel like such a complete ass."

"Not your fault," I sniffled, clutching a throw pillow to my chest, "Although it is your fault for not being a dick about it. Now you're the hot, funny, NICE guy who doesn't want me."

"Oh, jesus," groaned Mr. Snail, "Jul, don't even do that to yourself."

"I'm glad Sarah's going to be with a nice guy," I muttered, staring at the carpet, "Kind of takes the sting off of being alone and losing my favorite booty call. Oh, wait: no, it doesn't." After an hour of similarly cheery proclamations, I shooed him out of my apartment.

Poor Mr. Snail.

"I don't have to date him!", said my sister, "If it's going to make you sad, I'll kick his ass to the curb!"

"If, after all this, you DON'T date him," I said, "I will hunt you down and kill you. You'll have a head start, though, since I can't see to get up off the couch."

It was my friend A. - wise, compassionate, endlessly supportive and similarly afflicted - who finally managed to crack my miserble candy shell.

"If you are off antidepressants, get back on something, pronto," she wrote. "Yes, you are one tough mofo, but when there are weapons at your disposal, you are not weak for using them. This is not like childbirth without an epidural; it's more like ... living without shoes. Yes, you get used to the cuts and callouses and occasional frostbite, but it still sucks every time you take a step."

Two days after the shit hit the fan, I left a message with my GP. Although I stopped short of screeching, "I NEED DRUGS NOOOOOW!", it was still persuasive enough to ensure that a bottle of Wellbutrin was in my clammy little hands within two hours. I'm good like that. Shit, I could probably convince John Calvin to knock back a few.

Perhaps that's the meds talking.

---

I took my first dose on the bus, practically chewing off the child-protective cap in my eagerness. While the 'butrin itself will take a few weeks to work its magic, taking steps to address the problem seemed to soothe my inflammed brain tremendously.

I'm still vacationing in Unlovable Family Resort Area... but now, I seem to be able to stay in the shallow end. I have spent enough time in this place to justify buying a time-share. Despite the abundance of freaky anthropomorphic animal heads, I can't help but feel Disneyland would be more fun.

Sarah and Snail are utterly charmed by one another. In an effort to cheer myself up, I'm compiling a list of "Things I Have Which Sarah Doesn't". So far, I've got "adorable - if somewhat bitey - child" and "four inches of height... let's see you reach that jar of beets on the top shelf, bitch! Oh, wait... your boyfriend would probably do it for you."

It comes in fits and spurts. Right now, it's a lovely day. The Baptists down the street are singing hymns and cooking ribs. I'm now eight tablets closer to being able to coexist with my own thoughts. The little cream-colored tablets make me oddly happy. They're the prospect of feeling good about life and myself, formed into a disk and stamped with a "G" (supposedly for "Glaxo"; I prefer to think it's for "Good god, you're insane!"). It's a small thing, but it's a start.