The Miss E Of Worlds Most Hated (E's for Eerie, not Elated)

I hurt. Like, my bones hurt. HURT.

The Tale of Missing Merch and the Famous For Nothings

A day off on tour is not really a day off.

I'm so close to my friends and family. I mean, I'm a few hours from home and a few minutes from my friends in NY/NJ area. Have I been able to see anyone? Nope. We're so busy and I'm responsible for keeping us all on track so I can't just dart off to see my friends. I feel bad but c'est la vie.

I am at my happiest when I am hard at work. I think we've established this previously. But this whole time, I've been on my kick emailing promoters and our agents and calling publicists and setting up interviews and getting us to places and handling money and basically just going nonstop. I love it. I mean, I LOVE it. Sightseeing? Homie, fuck you directly, sightseeing. Get out of my way and let me work.

I was thinking, when I was in the shower. I don't think I've done a lot. I really don't. But I was washing my hair and my thoughts went like this: "Age 16/17-music and broadcast director of my high school radio station, dj o said radio station, promotions director for a local label I helped found. Age 18-dj on my college radio station, founding member of college record label. Age 19-engineered my first band, produced my first record, director of recording for record label, DJ. Age 20-apprenticing at largest recording studio in Boston, DJ, still recording director at label. Age 21-took my first band to radio/major labels, president of record label, 3.8 GPA college graduate. Age 22/23-Intern at 10 room recording studio, asked to assistant engineer for paying clients (which interns DO NOT do), hired at most profitable recording studio in the world. Age 24/26-Hired to manage my old studio's direct competition, youngest studio manager of major recording studio in Los Angeles, manager for 2 bands, tour manager for 1 band."

It hit me in the shower and I had to sit down. I actually really do have a career doing what I love. That's... huge. I say all that above not to brag but to be real with myself. Because I really, truly feel that I haven't accomplished that much. I'm not rich by any stretch of the imagination. I am financially independent but there have certainly been times I've had to call my parents and very humbly ask to borrow money to pay for my car insurance or the dentist or whatever until I got enough to pay them back. I can't afford real Chanel bags so I have to buy knock offs. I don't yet own my own home, not even a condo, and while my apartment is pretty goddamn rad, its not my parent's amazing house.

That is what it is, to be in your twenties. You are used to the house you grew up in, the lifestyle. And there is this strange pressure on us that somehow makes us all think we should have a 401K (not that we know what that is) and a house and everything figured out overnight. Raquel turned 19 two days before me and she and I have been talking about how we both feel like we're too late and too old and have accomplished too little. Its this weird delusion that grips your senses and makes you feel so... insignificant? Unaccomplished? Incomplete? I can't even explain it. But if you're in your twenties, you know. I thought being a teenager sucked and was filled with depression and despair. Well, nothing compares to the feeling of directionlessness and ennui and fear that its all going to collapse when you've just barely gotten on your feet that comes with being in your twenties. I'd take feeling isolated and picked on but safe than feeling unstable yet being faux-cool any day.

Well, not any day. Some days, I'd never give this up for the world. Fuck, all days, I'd never give this up. I love where I am in my life. Its so... new. Anything is possible. But with that uncharted wilderness of my life comes with it unseen pitfalls and unimaginable pains. And that is frightening to me. I can't stand that unknown.

I'm not saying this to make you tell me how great I am or how in awe you are of what I've done so please spare me those comments. No amount of "you're amazing, you're my hero" will make me feel any more accomplished nor will any "you're just a dumb bitch who wants to be efamous" make me feel any less valid. What I think of myself, in my heart of hearts, is dictated soley by my perception of myself. Why I say all this is because, well, this is my goddamn journal and its where I record what I'm thinking. But I know I have an audience and I know that this audience is comprised mainly of people my age who are struggling with the same feeling or people a little younger who will soon be exposed to these feelings and the wash of confusion that I felt. The fact of the matter is, you don't get what you want or even what you need overnight. You work and you work and you work more and you're still struggling and striving and you have to decide if you want that $5.99 mascara or you want to be able to eat something other than ramen noodles for dinner. People tell me fairly frequently that they are in awe of me or whatever and... and don't be. Seriously. Because until I have my mansion off Fountain and Laurel (it will be mine), I will think I haven't done enough. Fuck, probably even then. Please have the realization that I did in the shower; that you've accomplished more than you think you have. Wherever you are in your life, that is where you are. You can work to change it or it will change without your control. So yeah, look to me now and again if you need inspiration or a kick in the ass or someone to look down upon or whatever you need to advance yourself. But don't stop and look at me. No matter what, keep running in that race. I sincerely hope a bunch of you beat me to the finish line.

Whoa, totally got off track. Sorry. I had a nice, introspective shower. Okay, where was I? Oh yeah. New York.

Driving in this city is like playing Frogger for real. Jeffree and I left in a rush, late to his meeting with Kid Robot. We got the car and I barreled down the avenues and streets and broad ways of the 'Big Apple' to Kid Robot headquarters. Holy FUCK, if I could have an office in NYC, that would be it. First of all, it was floor to ceiling KR toys and hoodies and stuff just EVERYWHERE, arranged in eye-pleasing ways. We sat on giant smoking labits to wait for our contacts and marveled at all the new shit that is coming out. It is so fucking cool, I cannot even begin to explain to you. So fucking cool. I couldn't take pictures but damn, I wanted to.

We met with their contact person who was amazing. We basically sat and just shot the shit for an hour, occasionally mentioning business but mostly just talking. She played us some Lilly Allen and told us about how much she loves Too Short. This girl actually ruled. In between the super good hangs, she confirmed Jeffree as a model for Kid Robot's brand new designs. They are unlike anything KR has done before so you will all have to be on the lookout for it at the end of the summer. He's so pumped on it and I'm pretty much floored for him.

Afterwards, she brought us downstairs to the room where they actually make all the product demos and showed us a bunch more new stuff that is coming out. It was so cool to be right where they created things that I adore so much. She told us to take anything we wanted. I shuffled my feet and hesitantly looked around but she was having none of it. She made sure I left with 2 hoodies and 2 tshirts and Jeffree left with 2 hoodies, a tshirt, and a track jacket. Like, really? Wow. Thanks. Just based on their generosity alone, I'm amped on Kid Robot. They didn't have to give me shit. The meeting was with Jeffree, not me. Hell, Jeffree didn't even have to bring my ass. So I'm stoked on life about it. Like, for real. And they invited us to something I will have to reveal later which was also totally rad of them because, again, they could have just invited Jeffree and not me. So we left feeling pretty goddamn good about ourselves and even better when we got outside and found the car hadn't been towed.

We drove across town to Jeffree's booking agents office where we had to carry down 19 fucking boxes of merch and shove it into our illegally parked car. It is impossible to see out the back windows of the SUV and only 1 other person besides me fits in it now. So tomorrow, I have to take Michael to the venue and unload and he has to count in 1000 items then I have to go back and get Jeffree and Raquel. I can't even think about tomorrow. It is gonna be the funnest hell imaginable.

After we packed in our merch, we ditched the car and darted into the bank to deposit our tour money and the apple store because... I need it in my life. Jeffree does MAC makeup. I do Mac computers.

After that, we dashed back to the hotel to retrieve everyone else then it was back to Cafeteria for dinner. My choice of eating the veggie burger was an unwise one, as it was more rice than burger but it was still good. The mashed potatoes were better.

Now, its closing in fast on midnight and I need to sleep even though I am so not tired. Wish me luck for tomorrow. I'll need it. Hell, wish us all good luck and a good show.

See you on the flip side of Bamboozle. And if you're going, we play at 7:30 on the pass the mic right stage. We're closing it out! I'm kinda stoked about that. So props to Jeffree because, motherfuckers, we're still DIY. We still do this tour business off our own bank accounts and pay ourselves back once we get the guarantees. We don't have shadow investors or hidden record labels. You want punk rock DIY, we are punk rock DIY in a little, glamorous package.

And that is something that still makes me smile and makes me proud every time I realize it. No matter what, we're doing something. 

I am over driving that fucking SUV. It shakes, it doesn't steer well... we have almost died because of that goddamn SUV and the trucks roaring down the highway at -20 miles per hour countless times over the past few days. The worst. Hate it. Hate.

We (meaning I) drove the 6 hours back to NYC today. There is nothing worse than piloting a big car you don't know well that has shitty steering through a city populated entirely by complete idiots. (AKA Yankees fans. If you like the Yankees, get the fuck off my blog.) Jeffree hung out the windows in an earnest attempt to get himself lynched while I made my way, cursing and screeching, in between yellow cabs and those that yearned to commit suicide under my tires. We found pinkberry because, goddamnit, its been days. I had to stay in the car where some valet tried to convince me that I wanted to park my car elsewhere. I didn't want to park my car elsewhere and, in true New York fashion, I kept him there arguing long enough for everyone to get pickberry and get back in the car. We said goodbye to Asher, which broke my little emo heart as he is my fellow audio geek, and drove to our hotel.

We're staying in this suuuuuuuuper nice huuuuuuge hotel. It is 15 floors and we have the penthouse. Its incredible. All glittery and steel and glass. Very post modern. I'm happily running around, taking pictures, when I stop to take in the view out the bedroom window.

Its a big hole with some steel beams. Construction.

And the words "the hotel is in the World Financial Center" hit home very hard.

"Is this... is this Ground Zero?" I ask.

"Yup," says Jack. "They're rebuilding." He starts getting into what a nightmare the construction has been to travel around the city. And I'm just standing there, whitefaced.

"Is there a problem?" Jeffree says, with the scorn so characteristic to his voice when I am being melodramatic over something silly.

"Nothing. I just lost friends." And I sit down and get on my kick. Everyone lets the subject the hell go, which is a first because we usually rag on each other about everything.

I won't go in the bedroom. I don't want to look at it. As far as I'm concerned, we're staying in Times Square. Or in Brooklyn, wherever that is. Or in the Statue of Liberty's fucking torch. We're not... where we are. Not where planes hit and people died and my greatest fear came true. No plane crashes, mind you, though that is high on the list. Since I was a very, very young girl I have been terrified of war. I used to wish upon stars, countless stars, every night that I would never live to see a war in my lifetime. And I was little, too. Maybe six or seven. I didn't wish for a pony. I wished for peace... no, that is a lie. I wished for no war. Peace and no war are two very, very different things.

We took two cabs to dinner and driving past the construction... its unreal. I watched it roll by the window in silent horror. Michael got me talking about my future plans after a while but being here... I don't like it.

Dinner was had at Cafeteria, which is this intensely rad joint on the corner of something and something else. The Naked Chef from the food network set up the menu and its all shit like mac n cheese and meatloaf but its helllllla good. We all munched away in silence, all on our kicks. We're all a little stressed and tired from traveling, I think, and we were running late to the movie. Its hard, being trapped in little spaces together, because we're all strong personalities and everything is very last minute. Fuck, I JUST booked our Bamboozle hotel now. We don't have the full details on everything from our meetings to our merch so its all last minute, all seat-of-the-pants, all 'lets do it' and its stressful. Fun but stressful. A vacation, this is not.

Good, because I fucking HATE to vacation.

We caught a cab up to 84th and Broadway (or something to that effect) to take in the midnight showing of Spiderman 3. Ben (from Dillinger Escape Plan and Jeffree's manager, if ya'll didn't know) and his lady friend joined us. It was very New York crowd. There was a little bit of talking at the screen but nothing too bad. I actually enjoyed it more because of the crowd than anything else, although when Spidey gets all Pete Wentz when he first gets the symbiote suit was fucking awesome and godDAMN, I want to be Venom. GNARRAWRETC!

We hopped a cab back to the hotel and crawled into bed. We just had an hour long powwow about Bamboo and the rest of the tour, etc. Tomorrow, we take some meetings and get our merch and then its go go go. We play Saturday, do sooooooooomething at Bamboo (shhhhh) Sunday, play NYC Monday, Hartford Tuesday, then fly the fuck home to LA.

Time for some serious shut eye.

I wish for a night without nightmares as I slumber next to the place that redefined 'terror' and its usage in our daily lives.

More than ever, I wish for peace. But as I have said a hundred times, don't just wish for peace - work for peace.

Peace,
   E

Holy fuck, I'm tired. You best feel loved, that I take time when I should be sleeping to write long as blogs about the fucking ghey nonsense we did.

Okay, so we finished out the drive to Pittsburg. We very, very, VERY nearly died. A truck switched into our lane and we had to swing into the shoulder. Like, really almost died. I got around him  and Jefffree threw a coffee at him. Our gps brought us into this residential neighborhood where we stopped at the worst fucking nail salon ever. Jeffree and Raquel's nails.... unspeakable. Michael, Asher, and I left them too it and wandered down the street. We found a gaming store where I bought $400 worth of 2nd edition White Wolf books and every copy of Mind's Eye Theater ever made. Um, boo yah? Boo yah. Can I get a boo yah? BOO YAH! We wandered, trying to find cigarettes. None were to be discovered but we did find a botox salon. Amazing.

I want you to yell that out loud at your computers right now. Do it. Frighten your mothers.

Jeffree is fucking right now. I'd just like to say that for the record. A really, really, really hot dude too. God, love my life. If I can't be a gay man, I can live vicariously through Jeffree.

I mean REALLY hot.

Anyway, I caught a fish. Like my segway from fucking to fishing? Meh. Its all the same. There was this little stream in front of the nail salon and after wandering about, I decided it was time to fish. I clambered down the bank and waited with my hand in the water until a little minnow swam over. I nabbed that little fucker... for half a second. I got him out of the water for 15 seconds so motherfuckers, that counts.

We piled into the car and drove to the WRONG 400 Lincoln Avenue. Fuck you, GPS. We reprogrammed and got to the venue by 5:15. We were supposed t get there between 5 and 5:30 so yay us. We loaded in to this beautiful converted church that was fucking huge. Stained glass windows and two floors for our dressing rooms. We had a piano and a bathtub and all this crazy shit. Stoked on life. We brought everything in and I crawled into the tub to take a bubble bath. It was kinda amazing.

However, Ultraviolet was like helllllllla late. They had touched base with me earlier in the day to let me know they wouldn't be there by sound check. They were supposed to be there by 6:30, which was doors. They got so lost they didn't arrive until 8:30. It was nearly a disaster but they arrived with 45 minutes to their set time, which gave them just enough time to set up.

As ever, I ran "sound" - otherwise known as hitting play/pause. For the first time, there were no disasters on my end. Jeffree and Raquel, however, fucked up the words about 129589302240 times and the show was all the better for it, to be honest. Fucking up broke them out of the box you sometimes get in while performing and got them to interact with the crowd more.

In between songs, I showed Asher how to work the console, et al. I want him to come out as our sound guy so we gotta get him up to speed. When the front of house guy figured out that I knew what I was doing he was like "why don't you do this?" I was like "bitch, please, I'm on vacation." Turns out he has a cd from Prime Rib, one of the bands I produced way back in the day, and was like way into them so we had a cool chat about Emerson Records and the aritst commune I used ot be in and all this shit. It was intense.

After the show, we brought Jeffree out to do his signing and there were literally 200 kids waiting for his autograph. We had to make them line up and take pictures. The venue wanted us to do it in 20 minutes so I had to start hustling kids through, making them only take one picture and not allowing autographs. It sucked because no one got to spend time with him but it was more important to me that everyone at least got a picture than the first 20 people who were in line got to spend quality time with him.

One fucking bitch almost got her teeth knocked out, please fucking believe. I got so intense with her that the entire room of people went silent. "What did she say to you?" people asked after that. "Well, I don't kno what words came out of her mouth but what I heard was 'Miss E, please beat my ass,'" I replied.

Aside from that, it ruled. Everyone at the venue was super amazing. The security was sooooo good to us, the promoter ruled... I mean, it was pretty much a dream. The only thing that sucked was not having our fucking merch drop shipped so we sold out within 15 minutes. Ghey.

After the signing, we piled back into the SUV and drove. It took us 2 hours to get out of pittsburg because I got lost 29823869043869043 times trying to find an open gas station. The road in Pittsburgh suck dick. Like, for real. We had to keep flagging down cops and asking where a gas station was then getting lost all over again. Even with GPS! Motherfucker.

And now we're in the exact same hotel as last night, one room from the one we stayed in, and I'm going to sleep.

Night, hos.

Okay. Put on your tl;dr hats, kids.

First of all, my itinerary for today is: wake up, wake up Jeffree, get him to do a phoner (call-in interview) with some local radio station, rouse everyone else, check out, drive the remaining hour and a half (or less :-D) to Pittsburg, find the venue, load-in, soundcheck, make sure merch is perfect, run sound and generally run around for the show, oversee his signing, load-out, hustle everyone back into the car, drive back to NYC.

"Why is there a cut off finger in the bath? So weird." - Jeffree

This is what is happening around me as I type.

So, we booked out tickets super last minute. I HATE HATE HATE to fly so we tried something new to keep me calmer - connections. I've never been on anything that wasn't a direct flight before. We took a smaller plane (but not a puddle jumper) from LA to Vegas (40 minutes), a 757 from Vegas to Charlotte (4 hours), and another smaller plane from Charlotte to NYC (1 hour 20 minutes). On our first plane, we made our bitchy queen of a stewardess give Jeffree's makeup case its own seat. Our only layover was in Charlotte for 2 hours, which gave us time to unwind and talk to some LA-native who had been transplanted to North Carolina... and purchase body butter from the body shop because we needed fucking lotion.

All the other flights were fine but the plane from Charlotte to NYC sucked. There ain't no first class on a plane that small, kids. We sat all the way in the back which meant our seats didn't recline at all. Sheer exhaustion and pilled-out comas overtook us and we slept, crumpled over our tray tables like burnouts in high school chem class. It was not thrilling.

We landed in NYC and met up with Michael Merch. I have just informed him that this is his new name. If you come up to our merch booth at any of the east coast dates, please say hi to him as Michael Merch. He also accepts tips and phone numbers. "Because that's what I want to do for the next nine days," he grumbles. "Call fourteen years olds."

We piled all of our luggage, which actually is not a lot for us, onto a cart and went to rent a car. It took them 2 and a half hours to sort it all out. Jeffree was not thrilled because they didn't have a car that was appropriately 'niggery'. No Hummers or Escalades. We rented the biggest SUV they had, making sure it came with GPS. At first, I hated the GPS but having some annoying voice to guide me through the madness of New York, especially because it tells me where to turn so I can put my full attention on the assholes around me who can't drive or who think walking in front of cars is fun.

I'm really glad we decided to rent an SUV instead of getting a tour bus. At first, I was skeptical because it leaves me to do the bulk (likely all as I am the road trip champion) of the driving but if we had a bus we couldn't just up and go everywhere we want. This way, we can fly by the seat of our pants and do whatever, which I dig.

We drove into New York and parked over by Saint Mark's, waiting for Raquel to come home. We were supposed to go to Sandi's and sleep but her flooded apartment made this an impossibility. We milled up and down the street, shopping a little aimlessly. I got to go the Trash and Vaudeville, which was the fucking disappointment of the century. My kick kept dying because I was dealing with the venue tomorrow and every other goddamn thing. We had to stop by the tmobile store so I could charge it for five minutes and arrange all these fucking interviews, etc. We ended up in an Afghani restaurant known as Khaiber Pass, sprawled out on their pillows in the window, smoking hookah. Jeffree's friend Asher joined us and the two of us went into audiogeek mode as he wants to do live sound. With any luck, he'll be coming out with us during a much longer tour that I can't yet reveal.

Raquel eventually wandered her black ass down the street and gave us hugs. We shopped a bit more and got dinner at A7. We talked Asher into coming with us to Pittsburg. He ran off to hang with his family for a hot minute before coming back, Raquel and Jeffree went to get their hair done, and Michael and I crawled up into the loft and passed the fuck out. We left the car on the street, praying that it didn't get towed, booted, ticketed, stolen, or broken into since all of our stuff was in it.

In the middle of dinner, Jeffree's manager called. A problem? On tour? Really? That never happens. The merch was supposed to be drop shipped to Pittsburg. Yeah. That didn't happen. Thank GOD we decided to bring an extra suitcase with our merch left over from the Gilman. Otherwise, we'd be fucked. Like, really fucked. FUCKED. But we have merch and we arranged to have the merch for Bamboo sent to the office on the 4th so all will be well... er, hopefully.

I have to help Michael sort 14 boxes of merch the day before Bamboozle. WAAAAH! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Anyway....We slept until 1AM. I had to get the fucking xanax out of my system before I had to drive. I was rough and starting to sway from side to side. I woke up all sweaty and gross but drug-free. Everyone else kinda slept in the car and I floored it through the rain and over the mountains, et cetera, until it hit 5:15 AM and we were an hour from Pittsburg. (Mapquest the distance and do the math. DO NOT DRIVE LIKE ME.) We found some silly motel in the middle of fucking nowhere and checked in. When we were checking in, all the truckers were having breakfast and checking out and they were not amused with the freak show. We all went down in our panties and shook our la-la-la-labia before passing the fuck out.

I woke awoken by my alarm screeching, so I shook Jeffree awake so he could do his interview and now we're slowly getting ready.

"It looks like a pile of 9/11." - Asher, on the hotel next door.

Yeah, the flight 93 stuff is totally not offensive or creepy in anyway. (There are pre-printed directions to the Flight 93 crash site at the desk of the hotel where we're staying.) Profiting off a national tragedy? My nation would never do anything like that.

See you in Pittsburg!

I am a pacifist. Not because I have any major heartfelt opposition to violence but because, in all honesty, I am a total pussy. I do not like pain and because of certain things that happened in my childhood, I actually have very, very extreme panic attacks when confronted with in-the-flesh violence. This is not to say I haven't been in a handful of fights in my life but I avoid them when at all possible. I've learned that acting crazy and being all "BITCH I WILL SLIT YOUR THROAT AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK" works well because I look the part. I've gotten out of hundreds of fights this way.

But not last night.

We went to Moscow after Jeffree's rehearsal. I'm not entirely sure what possessed us to do such a thing. Possibly it was my joy over my totally awesome new hoodie. We got there around 12:15, after the list was closed. I ended up forgetting my wallet with my ID but the owner of the club walked me in so I didn't have to worry about it. Its not like I'm not there all the time. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

As we were walking up the street, some kid starts yelling "Jeffree! Jeffree!" This is very par for the course so we just kept walking. We saw Keith and Daniel and stepped between some parked cars to get to them. As I stepped off the sidewalk, something hit me and I tripped into the back of a car. Joel had to pull me upright. When I looked up, this horribly attired scene boy was grabbing Jeffree's arm and screaming "Jeffree! Jeffree!" despite being 6 inches away from him. Jeffree yanked out of his grip and said "don't touch me." This kid starts going off about how Jeffree is pretending to be a bitch and not know him. He keeps getting close and grabbing Jeffree, to the point where I have an arm out between the two and I'm warning the kid in my most growly voice to back the fuck up.

Since he won't leave us alone, we get to Keith as fast as we can. We're standing in the street talking to him when I hear "rustlerustleTHUD". When I look over to see what is going on, this kid is laying on the street. Apparently, he tried to air kick Jeffree, missed, and fell on his ass because he was so drunk. He jumped up and started grabbing at him and Jeffree shoved him away. A few more people got in between us and him and he still kept yelling and lunging at Jeffree. It was so ridiculous that Keith actually thought he was with us because who fucking acts like that except a friend that is joking around. We got our crew and got the hell inside.

Apparently, this kid tried to follow us inside and attacked Daniel and/or the bouncers. I'm not entirely sure as I didn't see it but I do know he got banned from Moscow.

Inside, we wandered and idled and people watched but for some reason none of the regulars were there and we bailed after an hour or so. As we were walking back to my car, someone stars yelling "FUCKING TRANNY! FUCKING FAGGOT!" The usual. We laugh about it to our friends from out of town and say "welcome to Hollywood" and get in the car. I start to back up but I see someone running towards the car and I stop so I don't hit anyone. The drunk scene boy from earlier slams into my driver's side window at top speed, hitting it over and over with first the flat of his hand then his fist and I'm afraid he is going to break it. "Get the fuck off my car!" I yell and he hits my window so hard it shakes. I roll it down quickly because I don't want him to break it, not thinking this will give him access to me. "Back the fuck off my car, dude! Go the fuck away!" I yell. He reached into my window and grabs my hair, yanking me into the doorframe and spitting at me. I get caught on my seatbelt but he gets my head out of the car a bit. I throw down my sidekick and shove his hands so he hits the car on the other side of us. He steps back and pulls open my door and I feel that familiar rising wave of panic starting to bubble up within me. But I know if I freeze up this kid is gonna hurt me badly because he's drunk and he's mad and he's crazy so I step out of the car because I don't want to be pinned. There is no way I can drive away because we can't back up without hitting this kid. Somehow, I manage to get the car in park and take my seatbelt off in all of this. He opens my door but I step out under my own power.

I'm a pacifist. I'm a pussy. I don't want to get in a fight. So I get out of the car with the same sort of tact that has gotten me out of a million fights before - the Angry Voice. "Get the fuck away from us!" I yell, thinking 'okay, so yeah this kid has already attacked me but maybe the angry voice and some jaw clenching will make him leave'. Its worked on dudes twice his size. I square my shoulders and point away from the car. Think mean, Miss E. Think mean!

Yeah, no. The kid hits me in the face. I do not like being hit in the face. It hurts and it messes up my make up and it took me a fucking hour to figure out how to put on fake lashes without Jeffree's help. I turn to the side and bend over so he can't get my face again, putting my arms up. I'm not fighting yet because I can't. My limbs are heavy and I feel like you're in those horrid dreams where you're running from a monster but you're moving through molasses. Everything is seizing up around me and my vision is going black. (I told you, I have a really, really extreme panic reaction to fighting. Like, bad news bears.) But I'm thinking to myself that I have to do something to defend myself because he just hit me on the back of my neck now and it's pushing me towards the ground and I see Jeffree getting out of the car to defend me but if I just totally freeze up, I'm gonna get hurt bad. So I hit him in the stomach, more of a shove than a punch. He grabs the banana clip in my hair and pulls. It yanks for a second then the clip comes loose and he stumbles, surprised. I'm turning to get up and I use the force of my spin to sock him in the shoulder. Great, now he's coming at me again and my fist hurts. Lovely. He jumps on me and his fingers touch my neck, trying to squeeze. His nails scrabble against my skin and my vision whites out. I was once choked and beaten as a kid (have I yet mentioned the childhood trauma and the panic disorder?). I lash out instinctively and I think I got him in the face. Even though my eyes were open, I couldn't see anything. My vision had whited out completely. I hit something but it may have been Jeffree, who had run around the car to pull this kid off me. His hands tighten around my throat for a second then he's away and Jeffree is shoving him back, yelling something at him to try and make him leave.

But, like my Angry Voice, it has no effect and this kid goes after Jeffree now. My vision gets all crystal clean and slow-mo and I watch this kid try to kick my roommate. He has Jeffree by arm and I remember thinking that I hope he didn't scratch his new tattoo. I also remember being impressed by Jeffree's ability to balance on his stilettos with some drunken psychopath yanking on his arm.

The door to my backseat fairly explodes and our friend Billy leaps out of the car. Before Jeffree can do much more than pull the kid off me, Billy has the guy around the waist. His speed knocks them both a few steps away from Jeffree and I. The kid is like freaking out at this point a hits Billy and they scrap a little. Billy manages to get the kid by his arms and get behind him, pinning him so he can't fight. He's kicking and yelling but it's sort of useless at this point. And I'm thinking "yay, fight over."

It bears noting that this kid attacked us repeatedly and we only defended ourselves and each other. When Jeffree pulled him off me, he didn't hit him, just pulled him away until the kid hit him first. When Billy yanked him off Jeffree, he didn't use fists until after the kid had hit him a few times. As soon as Billy had him pinned, Jeffree backed down and checked on me. None of us went after him nor did we ever tag team him. We weren't trying to hurt him, merely get him to stop hurting us. This was probably a good thing because if Jeffree or Billy actually cut loose, we'd probably be in jail.

So, as I was saying, Billy is holding this kid pinned so he can't keep fighting. He's still trying to kick and bite and thrash but Billy is a strong dude. But this kid has a friend who was down at the other end of the parking lot and he has been running down towards us. He jumps on Billy's back and hits him in the back of the head. Billy let's the drunk kid go to defend himself and the drunk kid turns with this like Mortal Kombat yell and attacks him. So now Billy is scrapping with two dudes.

Jeffree and I look at each other. "Hold mah grill, girl," he says and I want to start laughing because its the most absurd thing that could happen in this situation. He gives me his grill, his purse, and his shoe. The crazy drunk kid breaks away from Billy and brandishes a fist with brass knuckles. He runs at Jeffree, who still has one shoe in his hand, in the middle of giving it to me. The kid's swings and misses then his arms close around Jeffree's waist and slam them both into the car beside us. Jeffree bonks him over the head with a heel. The kid bites Jeffree's stomach and Jeffree hits him again and gets him off. Not liking being whacked with a blunt object, he lunged at me again. Cute, right? Go after the girl with her hands full of shit who really can't defend herself. So he goes for me and I swing and hit him with Jeffree's brand new Tarina purse. Way to ruin our accessories, man. I know I should drop everything but I'm holding Jeffree's phone and I don't want to break it. This is all I can think - if I drop the phone, its going to explode all over the ground and little springs and gears are going to go rolling everywhere and he's gonna be really mad at me. I skitter backwards but this kid has me trapped against the car and I have nowhere to go. I'm watching his fist with the shiny brass knuckles and I'm thinking 'don't drop the phone. Don't drop the phone. Don't drop the phone.' He swings and I block him with Jeffree's purse. His fist hits the car beside my head and dents it. There is a white scrape in the paint and I'm still thinking 'don't drop the phone.' His fist slides along the car and grazes into my hip and I whack him with the purse again. I hop to the side as he grabs around my waist. I can hear his teeth snap shut with a click, feel his lips touch me shirt as he tries to bite my side. I bop him over the head with the hand that is holding the phone and Jeffree's grills. They dig into my hand and I nearly drop the phone I've been so focused on this entire time. He tightens his arms and slams me into the car again so I hit him on the head with the phone once more. His arms loosen but so does my grip on the phone and I'm screaming in my head 'don't drop it, don't drop it, don't drop it!' I can't think about the kid attached to my waist. I can only think about the stupid cell phone.

Jeffree grabs the kid by the shoulder and practically throws him away from me like we're in the WWE. He gets between me and the kid and very calmly stands there. I watch him tuck an errant piece of hair behind his ear like this is no big deal and its hilarious to me. The Drunk Kid runs back at us, swinging and screaming "KILL YOOOOOOU!!!" Bonk! goes Jeffree's shoe on his head. Thankfully, this kid is drunk enough that he is trying to grapple and bite instead of punch because those brass knuckles were no joke. He grabs the back of Jeffree's shirt and they're spinning around in this circle, the kid gnawing on his tshirt and Jeffree hitting him over the head with his shoe. "Don't hurt him," I yell and Jeffree actually pauses and gives me a disparaging look, nonplussed that his shirt was now covered in drool and stretched out by this kid tugging on it. How he keeps his poise in such situations, I'll never know. He's not even really trying to fight this kid, just keep him away from me since I'm trapped. They continue to spin, Jeffree bonking him over the head in a bored manner as this kid kept biting and clawing at his sides. I don't think he was really taking this seriously since he never once bothered to punch the kid just whack him like you would a dog that is being naughty.

All of a sudden, Billy grabs the kid and tosses him away from us. His friend has backed up and is yelling "what the fuck man, what the fuck!" Billy puts his fists up and steps between us and them, not attacking but looking menacing. "Leave us the fuck alone. Get the fuck away from our car and leave us the fuck alone," he spits. Does crazy drunk kid lunge for him again? You bet. But his friend grabs him and Jeffree takes Billy's arm before he can really hurt someone. "Get in the car," he says calmly. So we all pile in to the car and I back out and we leave. The kid breaks away from his friend and hits the trunk of my car with his fist but I'm out of the box of cars at this point and he is behind me not beside me so I can actually just get the fuck out of there. Jeffree and Billy are opening their doors to go back and beat the hell out of him but I just speed up so they can't get out of the car.

The best part is that all of this happened in full view of the cops, who didn't do anything. They didn't even stop me when I left.

We check to make sure each one of us is okay. Billy somehow managed to take his plugs out while he was fighting and tuck them in his pocket. He has a big scratch on his back like he'd been having rough sex. Jeffree checks his makeup in his compact like some crazy dude with brass knuckles didn't just try to cause us grevious bodily harm. He sprays perfume on himself and then on me and grins at me. "Did you have fun, angel?" he says and winks at me.

I just start laughing because, really, did this actually just happen? Like, really? Jeffree grins at me and we turn up the radio en route to Swingers. Jeffree puts his shoes back on and helps me clip up my hair again. Billy laments that the kids stretched out his shirt. I giggle as the last of the panic attack rolls away. Apparently, that really did just happen.

And best of all, I didn't drop the phone.

((written yesterday afternoon in the car. I didn't post when I tried before. wah.))

I apologize for what is about to be an atrocious amount of spelling and grammatical errors but I'm tirrrrrrrred.

So we left for SF 28 hours ago. I'm currently sitting in the front seat of our rented and dented land yacht, feeling the A/C chill the damp spots in the only pair of jeans I brought. Fuck you, precipitation.

Ok, I just turned my side of the dual climate control up to 74. Jeffree cooed at me since that's what his is set at. We are total faggots, in case you might be wondering. I'm still amazed we can live together and jaunt off in tiny confined spaces with each other for long hours and only rarely feel compelled to stab each other to death with our phone chargers.

We galloped up here in record time, being that I drive like I'm running from the law at all times. Chalk it up to watching Worlds Wildest Police Videos every time I have lunch.

Oh god, 2 hours from home. I can't begin to explain to you how much I hate any place that isn't LA. When you have somewhere that feels like home, even when it hurts the worst, every other place is just aggravating and irritating. But that is why I tour - to go other places and come back to LA and fall back in love with her. Seeing other places reminds me of what I might otherwise take for granted. My city, my genie, my granter of wishes.

I'll say it again - I love LA.

And I fucking HATE San Francisco. Hate it. Hate. HATE. Goddamn hippies. Cartman ain't got nuthin on me, boo.

Before we even left, we got lunch at a little jewish deli in our neighborhood. The husband and wife that owned it were hilarious. They asked us if we'd ever been to the Bunny Ranch (google it) and gave Jeffree his new name - Jeffree Star aka 47. We about died laughing. Aside from me puking, it was a good note to leave on.

About 150 miles from SF, J* had a horrid realization. We'd remembered the limited edition merch, the tennis shoes for driving, the heels for the show, the back up tracks in multiple formats. But we forgot one thing in our rush - Jeffree's makeup.

After banging our heads against the dashboard, we got into problem solving mode. I went fast enough that we made it to Berkeley in four and a half hours. (Don't drive like me. Seriously.) We checked in to the hotel then ran to 4th street. We found the MAC store there and explained our dilemma to the girls working there. Luckily for us, they were really, really nice and let us use their demo make up so j* could get ready. So he did his makeup is about 25 minutes, which is 20 less than his most rushed time.

When we got outside, it was starting to rain. We hurried to the Gilman for load in and set up all the merch that had been drop shipped there. We left Michael there, who had nicely offered to do merch for us. I took Johnny and Jeffree back to the hotel to get ready and get the limited edition merch we'd shoved into my suitcase. In the hour we were gone, Michael was mobbed and was very harried by the time we came back. We sorted out his cash so he had enough fives to make change as the kids ran over to get pictures.

I had to keep moving Jeffree around the club just because so many kids crowded around that it became impossible to move. We couldn't get the kids that had already gotten a picture out to get new ones in because everyone pressed in from all directions. Every time this happened, I had to grab poor Jeffree and drag him somewhere else so this cycle could start again.

For those of you who don't know, 924 Gilman is one of the most legendary clubs on the west coast. Its our CBGBs. Its totally volunteer run and where bands like AFI and Green Day got their start. However, those bands can't play there any more. The Gilman is punk rock is the best way. You're signed? Fuck you. They only book bands without deals.

And they take care of them. The painted the entire stage and back wall pink for us. It was rad. However, there is no backstage, no vip, no artist parking or headliner bathroom. So we have to be in the crowd of kids the whole time. This became a real problem because the crowd of kids locked down whatever area we were in. Merch - no merch sales. DJ booth - staff can't move. Back or front door - fire hazard because no one can get in or out.

At an hour to showtime, I pulled Jeffree out completely and we went across the street to some crappy alehouse. We killed time with some friends before returning to the madness. I hopped up into the sound booth to take care of business.

I'll let you all in on a secret. When we do one offs, we don't always have a band. If you've seen us live, you may notice the music just mysteriously emanates from Jeffree's body... otherwise known as, I hit play on the iPod or CD player. And I really hate it. As much as there are more things that can go wrong with a live band, it is easier to cover up if someone breaks a string or an amp explodes or someone starts playing the wrong song. Its only one part of the music going wrong. If anything at all happens to the CD player, all the music stops at once.

Now, we burned a quick CD just in case the Gilman couldn't DI our iPod. This was, in fact, the case and we had to go off CD. I copied down the setlist off the iPod onto my kick, thinking all would be well.

We played the intro song and I leaned over the wall to shout to Jeffree and Johnny when it was go time. They barely made it to the stage, through the crowd. All was well until the 4th song, when Eyelash Curlers started playing. Jeffree looked a little confused to me but rolled with it expertly. I, however, panicked. The song was 5 earlier than it should be. This was problematic for me as I now could not be sure if any of the rest of the songs were in the order they were supposed to be in and because the club only had one CD player, I couldn't pop it out while J* talked and check. Normally, it'd be no big deal but we were cutting one song and pulling up guest vocalists for a song.

I hit talkback and warned Jeffree that we may have to do I Hate Music. God LOVE that boy because when it played he goes "this is a new one called I Hate Music... wait. Wait. I'm just not feeling it. Let's here one you all know." And I skipped forward to Louis Vuitton. I don't care if you don't like his music, boy knows how to bring it and roll with mistakes live.

After that was supposed to be Eyelash Curlers and I bit my lip. I couldn't even see how many tracks were on the CD so I couldn't guess if we'd somehow put it on the CD twice or what. While Jeffree was talking, I jacked the CD faders down in the house and jammed in headphones. The next song was Negative Creep.

"Negative Creep is next," I buzzed through talkback. "Bring the guys up."

"Eyelash Curlers," Jeffreee said, his own faux lashes becoming dark black lines as he glared in the darkness back at me.

"You already played it," I said.

"No I didn't." His pink mouth scowled at me. "Hit it."

So I backed up the CD player and played it again. Kids went WIIIIIIILD for it all over again. No one seemed to notice that we'd already done it except for this one dirty punk dude in the back who was yelling insults. But hey, so long as the rest of the crowd was happy, who gave a damn? They just get a longer set and more time for people to hop up on stage. So hey, the Gilman got a longer set than I think we've ever played before, even though we had actually planned on cutting it down to 30 minutes.

My favorite part of the set was Negative Creep. Jeffree brought Carlos and Billy on stage, who are maaaad hardcore. They screamed the entire song and the entire crew in the sound booth was screaming along back at him, jumping up and down with each other. Side note - the staff at the Gilman fucking rules. Anyway, I don't know if J*'s fans know how amazing of a death metal growl my boy in a dress has going on. Despite the no stage diving plaques, Billy and Carlos jumped off the stage and pitted with the kids. It was AWESOME and a good break from the electro for a place so down and dirty as the Gilman. I mean, for a club that is so legendary and a show that I, personally, have been looking forward to since the day we booked it... we kinda had to go above and beyond our normal show and I'm glad we did. And despite what was almost a near fatal error, when the lead sound girl for the Gilman reached to eject out CD to put in the house music before J* was done playing but caught herself at the last second, when the last note rung out, it was drowned out by people screaming and I couldn't even hear Jeffree on the PA as he thanked everyone.

By the time the set ended, the entire room felt wet and warm with sweat and excitement in the way I remember good shows feeling when I was a teenager. That disgusting smell of bodies pressed together for too long, the sound of voices hoarse from cheering now figuring out plans for the next step, the knot of kids that clogged up the venue even more than before to get pictures... this to me meant that we might have played the best show in our touring career. (Well, we nothing. I hit play. Jeffree played the best show of his career. So props to him because, really, he is the one who pulls all this off.)

I got up on the wall of the sound booth to jump down into our merch area but saw Jeffree was going an entirely different way. So I jumped the wall on the other side, only to find he'd gone to where I was originally figuring he'd go. The crowd of kids was so thick that I couldn't get through. So I ran out the back door and in the front door, ducking through the crowd on the other side to get to him. Part of my job is to be body guard and crowd control, which means I'm the poor sucker telling kids that they have to leave after they've gotten a picture so others can get through or the one yelling at the crowd to all take one step back so the don't crush each other and, worst of all, the one who takes Jeffree away before the last autograph is signed if there are too many people and the venue security is ushering us away. Basically, I'm responsible for crushing kids hopes and dreams (Okay, that's melodramatic - taking away what might be the highlight of their night. But I like the sound of 'crushing hopes and dreams' better.) It kinda sucks because I feel bad but its what has to be done.

Again, the press of fans got too bad inside and I pulled Jeffree outside again. The thinking was that having only one wall meant kids wouldn't be caught by the small spaces and we'd be able to more efficiently get kids in and out so everyone could have an autograph and a picture before we had to clear the area because of the noise ordinances that are still threatening to shut down the Gilman. This did not so much work as kids closed in on all sides and pinned us against the wall so the kids in the front who were getting pictures and autographs couldn't (and wouldn't) get out and no one else could get close the get their own. I had to keep yelling at kids to back up because I was pushed against the wall so hard it hurt, nevermind anyone else. It was crazy on a whole new level.

It finally calms a little as a few kids force their way in and out of the crowd and it thins a bit. I left Jeffree with Joel as I had to go to payout. I wasn't happy about this, as I am a nazi control freak but payout couldn't really wait on us. The Gilman does payout differently from most other venues. Normally payout is simple. You get a guarantee - for example $2000 - which you will get no matter how many kids show up. You get half before the date to lock in that you are going and half after the show, plus a predetermined cut of the door, say 20%. (These are just numbers for easy math so don't show up to your local venue and demand them when you book a show, PS.) Some venues only give you a guarantee, some only give you a cut of the door... there are many different variations.

The thing that makes the Gilman different is that in most other venues, these percentages or guarantees are set prior to the show. You know you're making X% of the door or X amount of money. The Gilman doesn't do that. What they do is pile up all the money, take out whatever they need to pay their bills and give the rest to the bands and let us decide for ourselves who should get what. Its very hippie happy commie punk rock. The night was very draw heavy, being that about 80% of the kids were there for us which lends us credence to have the lions share of the pot. But I'm also not a total bitch so I gave some of our money back to the other bands, making sure the band that made the least got the most of the money I put back in to the pot. So it was cool, being a part of something that was, yeah, for profit but not with a profiteering mindset. At the end of the day, everyone got taken care of. Everyone had enough money for food and gas and per diems and still made a profit, even the tiniest band on the bill who otherwise wouldn't have made much on the gig. We all left the office happy.

I was NOT happy went I went to get the car so we could load out. It was literally SHITTING rain. Buckets and buckets and buckets of rain slamming down on me like I had forgotten happened. What we consider a torrential downpour in LA is what is considered in the rest of the country to be "oh? It's raining?" So I was totally unamused. By the time I walked across the parking lot to the car, I was wet. But with trying to figure out how to arrange all the merch boxes in the trunk so they'd fit, by the time we all finally left, I was soaked to the skin. I got to the hotel and stripped. I'd only brought one pair of jeans so I ended up sitting in my panties and a lacy black tank top in the hotel room like we were shooting a porno. Most of our friends headed out to some party but Johnny and I elected to stay in and sleep because I really couldn't roll out nude from thigh to ankle.

I woke up this morning with a raging migraine that I dosed out of existence with Excedrin. We walked around Telegraph in what passes for sunshine in the morning, turning up our noses at the tye dye and pachouli. I nearly got into a fight with a tshirt because I can't stand snooty, faux-anarchist and anti-capitalist slogans BEING SOLD FOR PROFIT IN A STORE! The next 'sunshine and light, peace and clean air' granola crunchy hippie I see is going to get a beating, I swear to god. I hate that whole "lets pretend like we care" activist college vibe. I grew up with it and it is just as a disingenuous an affectation as uber-vain scene kids or ohsoelite hipsters. But something about faking that you give a goddamn about sweat shop workers so you buy organic coffee offends me WAY more than buying only MAC makeup. Maybe its that hollow gestures that don't actually benefit the world enacted by people who do not truly live by the ideals they self-righteously shove in others faces at every opportunity annoys me senseless because I grew up with it. Maybe its just that I hate hippies. But I'll save my fifty cent word ridden condemnations of Intellegensia hypocrisy for another time.

Since I can't keep my trap shut about how much hippies piss me off and how badly I want to burn Berkeley to the ground, we decided to pile into the car and get the hell out of there. We stopped at a bathroom in a gas station on the way out where there was literally a chunk of bloody fetus on the floor. I am not even for a second joking. I hate, hate, hate San Francisco. Hate it. HATE.

So now we're cruising through the mountains and the clouds are so low that mist caps the mountains like snow. If we pulled over, a 20 minute hike up the green expanse would have me dancing in a cloud. The light is surreal, gray yet bright. Everything is in high contrast - the rocks a deep smoke, the grass like a field of emeralds cut through by an angry coal road. The clouds are soft and I wish we could stop. Its been rainy on and off all the way down, only for a few seconds at most. We're on the edge of the storm.

"Is it raining in LA?" Johnny just asked.

The question answers itself as we come over the hill. In the distance, between a part of the mountains, there is a bright patch of sunlight like a flower in the middle of the heather gray skies. Little tiny tract houses just look like brown smears but I know what it is. Its sunny in LA. Down in the bottom of the valley, out of the shaded mountains and the creamy clouds, there is a filthy little wasteland that is my paradise. Seeing it glowing like some dumb ending to a movie makes me giggle. It fills me with this sense of joy, of strength, of credits-rolling, hero-got-the-girl, the-world-is-safe elation like I cannot describe. My heart is swelling in my chest and unless it is something to do with the change in altitude then I might be happy right now. Happy we did good, happy the kids love the show, happy to come home, happy to turn up the radio and sing along until we get home and I can fall into bed and sleep.

A picture may be worth a thousand words but my camera on my kick won't load so you'll just have to trust me when I say that little flower of sunlight is my home. And now matter how tempestuous my life, now matter how unsettled I am right now, no matter how badly I crave a semblance of stability, I wouldn't give up what I got. My home makes me so happy that the city itself glows with my joy to welcome me home. Hi honey! I'm back! Did you miss me. I missed you too.

Even if you hate where you live, go outside and take another look around. Why do you hate it? I didn't just hate Boston because I was a whiny teenager who wanted to be free from my parents. I hated Boston because it was a lie, the same reason I hate San Francisco - an illusion of intellectualism and compassion to conceal the truth that the city was bigoted and greedy and lived in fear of the poor. I love LA because I actually feel like were are more honest. We're the first in line to make fun of ourselves. We're the first in line to say this city is a pretty cesspool were people will fuck you over on the idea of a dollar. We say 'it's all about image' and 'spend money to make money' and 'good marketing is better than good sex.' But saying it means setting those myths aside. I'm not Jeffree - I am not good hair and better makeup and a perfect body. Am I still accepted, by him and by my city for exactly who I present myself to be? (Because I can't expect anyone to know the real me unless I give that to them.) Hell yes I am. When we aren't being Jeffree Star and Miss E, do Elissa and Jeffree still get along? Hell yeah. Does Elissa and Jeffree sit around under the covers and watch TV instead of going out to Red Carpets? Yeah, once a week or more. Could I have ever turned off the "Elissa, queen of wit and paragon of knowledge" in Boston and gotten the same acceptance? Fuck no. If I segwayed from dissecting the social impact of advertising cheese in India to, say, how I'm stoked that Jael got kicked of ANTM without giving it some redeemingly intellectual spin then everyone would have been horrified. I'm not bookish or highbrow all the time. Neither am I always shallow or unaware. I'm a mix of the extremes, as is everyone else. Where did moderation and tolerance get lost?

I'm getting unnecessarily introspective. I can't help it. Its the light - all ethereal and serene. I'm going to ponder the last of the rainclouds to the strains of Puffy and Xtina. Pretty little rain clouds, lets have a sing along. I'm going home.

I logged onto my myspace and I've noticed a bunch of bands have put the VT with the black ribbon somewhere in their default image. And it really, really offends me. 'Why?' you might wonder, though not if you know me well. 'Think about it,' I reply. Why would a bunch of people who spend their days spamming our myspace with show flyers every other minute suddenly care about a bunch of dead college kids? Do some of them truly care? Did some of them probably lose friends and family? Absolutely. But I'm going to go ahead and say that a lot of them put that logo up there at least in part because it makes them appear sympathetic and can help market their shitty music.

And this disgusts and enrages me. Like the Duke rape case - the media was SO STOKED on destroying the lives of these boys and when the charges were dropped, what did they do? They attacked the girl who brought the charges and are dragging her name through the mud. Its like 2 days after 9/11 when people were standing in the center of Boston Common with 'Never Forget' or '9/11 we support NY' shirts. They weren't out there because they were going to sell those shirts and give the money to the victims families or the city. They were out there to make a quick buck.

I have a scarf I bought maybe a week after 9/11. It has bold black and red stripes and I'd been meaning to pick up a gothy scarf like that for a while. So when I was looking at it, in this shady little street cart in Downtown Crossing, I noticed the thing that made me buy it. Embroidered in the bottom it read 'I love America?' Now, I'm sure the guy had meant for it to be an exclamation mark but was he was foreign so I don't think he understood what the question mark did to the sentence. I bought it because it was such an amazing way to sum up all the ways we went wrong as a nation after 9/11 and it reminds me, whenever I riffle through my closet and come across it, of that moment of realization.

Tragedy sells. The DAY Anna Nicole died, CNN did a segment on how the tabloids were pissed off that she died on a Thursday because its the worst possible day for a breaking news story for them. They've already gone to press or something like that and they will be behind the online and tv gossip rags until the next week and would be stuck doing tribute issues instead of breaking news which sells more. THE DAY SHE DIED! I was dumbfounded when I watched that. And now, making her into a saint and making a movie? It is profiteering off tragedy once more. Make her likably hated while she is alive and a saint when she's dead and you'll sell, sell, sell.

But I'm taking this rant out on the news media so let me bring it back to my own industry. Remember every country star putting out 'lets kick osama in the balls' songs? Remember Marilyn Manson getting crucified for Columbine then mentioning it every 15 seconds until, um, now? Its marketing! It sells records! And it drives me crazy! Is some of it genuine? Sure. I'm sure Manson was pissed he got fucked because of some crazy psychos who didn't even like his music. I'm sure those country singers were just as horrified about 9/11 as the rest of the nation. But I don't think I have to illustrate to anyone just how it went from genuine concern to a profiteering mindset in 2.2 seconds.

Be honest with me for a minute. Did you giggle about this shooting? For some reason, it didn't seem like this one got taken seriously like Columbine did but perhaps this is a function of observing how keyboard cowboys reacted to this. Personally, how do I feel about it? I think it is a senseless loss of life. But am I going to pretend like my heart is torn apart and I'm oh so sad about it? No. I don't know anyone who goes to school there or lived in that community. I have no business being all "woe is me" when it actually didn't cause me any sort of personal pain. I feel for the families and I feel for the school community, especially because they won't be left alone to grieve. I almost jumped through my tv and slapped some anchor on CNN when he kept trying to push some girl who had lost her friend in the shooting to condemn the school for not doing enough to protect them when she said she actually thought they did a great job. And now the shooting is going to be used to push through ridiculous legislation and used as a way to sell candidates since next year is a big election year.

Remember Hurricane Katrina?

Yeah, our government and media won't for another..... probably eight or nine months when we start really getting into the race to the presidency.

So I'm not going to make another commentary on the shooting save for this. Its a tragedy but one that didn't touch my life except through my television. I don't really have any business getting all teary eyed and pretending like I care because I don't. Like I said, I feel for the families and the community and I'm angry about how this is going to get exploited but I'm not sitting in my office bawling my eyes out because of this. And I know that its not the only tragedy that occurred in the world today. Gang members mowed each other down a few miles away from me. Many women were raped across the globe. Children were murdered. People were tortured. In war zones across the planet, innocent civilians died. Do you see me standing here bawling my eyes out of any of them? Are you? No, not unless you know them or people who live there. And there is nothing wrong with that, either.

So lets set aside the fake boo-hoo-hooing for attention or instant agreement to whatever we're selling, be it band or point of view, and do the right thing for once. If you truly feel compassion for the people who lost family or friends then donate or volunteer with a charity. Two charities have already stepped up and are getting involved in counseling kids and parents about school violence - http://www.kidspeace.org/ and http://www.teencentral.net/. Volunteering or donating to groups that counsel troubled teens, such as the Boys and Girls Clubs of America is a step in the right direction and takes just as much time as googling some shitty ribbon and sticking it on your myspace. That ribbon is meaningless. It does not do anything to help the victims or decrease the chance of another school shooting occurring. 'Its to show support, Miss E.' No, its not. If you truly, truly want to support the people that have been hurt by this, you'd do more than chuck some shitty pixels on your myspace for a week and a half.

Have I donated to all three of those charities? Yes, I have. Will I keep my eyes and ears open for more direct charities that will help victims who have survived with their medical bills? Yes, because I think that is very important. Do I have a ton of money to give? No. I put about $25 into each because that is all I can afford. But if every jackass band on myspace donated the same or better yet played a charity event where one dollar from every ticket sold went to a charity to help stop school violence... well, think of what that can accomplish.

I challenge you - all of you, whether you hate me or you like me because you're still here reading this - to actually do something to change the things you feel strongly about. You hate WMHC? Then make your own fucking band or your own studio or whatever and eclipse us. You love Alicia? Get involved with The American Thyroid Association to help find a cure for her thyroid problems or donate money if you don't have time. MCR saved your life from bulimia and depression? Then do for others what they did for you and get involved in organizations that address these issues. And if you have any shred of decency as a human being, don't put that goddamn VT ribbon on a single thing you own without actually doing something to help the people who are represented by it.

Put your money where your mouth is or just don't speak.

So, what the hell did I do for my birthday? Well, if you're afraid of bare nipples, e coli, narcotics, italian stereotypes, or extreme narcissism, quit reading.

Also, this is not as cleverly written as usual but I am fucking drained. So deal with it.

We left LA after a brief jaunt to Pinkberry. Now, a very important part to this story is cash. I don't use it. I don't like it. I'm always afraid I'll lose it and I keep as little of it on me as possible. However, some entrepreneur decided to steal my debit card numbers last week and go to Vegas with them. They didn't get any money in the end but I did have to turn my debit card off and get issued a new one. It was assuredly not what I needed since I had to take out cash from the bank and deal with the eternal going in to the gas station and paying and running out of cash RIGHT as the bank closed, etc, etc, etc. But with this minor annoyance, I was set to have a good time.

I did the whole 6 hour drive myself, having so much fun singing and dancing in my seat with Jeffree and Raquel that it felt like we'd just gotten in the car. The venue put us all up in the Hotel Adagio which was quite beautiful. Hotels in SF are HELLA expensive so J* playing a show meant that all of our transportation and lodging expenses were covered. There is definitely nothing better than a free trip so we were all pretty stoked.

We took a brief nap before Reno showed up to escort us to lunch. Now, for some reason that escapes me, we all decided greasy diner food was what we wanted and required. So instead of going to a nice restaurant, we hopped over to Lauri's diner and instantly regretted it. The food sucked and was, well, diner food.

Upon returning to the hotel to get ready, we were joined by Dirty Diana who was going to photograph the show. We went outside to hail a cab and we stopped by an independent limo driver who said he'd drive us for "just a fat tip." Knowing this had to be some sort of scam, we got in anyway. And it was well worth it. This guy was CRAAAAAAZY. Diana got some of it on video so bitch, post that shit! He was hitting on Diana, talking about how he loved her "big nose" and how he needed a woman "18 to 35". Diana offered to hook him up with her mother but he was like "no mothers, no aunts. I want a girl, 18 to 35." And every time we paused, he was like "ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, GODDAMNIT?!?!?!" He had this thick Italian accent and tried to make his voice all sexy, which just made it funnier. Jeffree tried to be outrageous but nothing was going to detract this guy from getting a girl. 18 to 35, of course.

We got out of the limo and the dude tried to hustle us for a bunch of money, like we knew he would. Since he pulled up to the front of the club, I had to have security escort us all inside and upstairs to our dressing room. Details about the show had gotten misrelayed and we were all set to do 7 songs. To our dismay, the club only wanted us to play 3. We cut our intro and over half our set. I was left upstairs in the sound booth with an ipod, trying to hustle the set list into order at the zero hour. I had no way to talk to or even see Jeffree and the mics in the booth were turned down so I couldn't hear when he was ready to start the first song. I just kind of guessed. And because the sound guy wouldn't get out of the way and let me run the board myself, I couldn't dial up or down anything - not the tracks, the mics, the sound in the booth so I could hear. The DJ was like "well, shit, I don't have to spin" so he turned off the sound in the booth so I was going off of what I could hear over the roar of the crowd. Needless to say, none of us were really happy with how the performance turned out.

Despite that, we had fun. We hung out with the kids at the club then decided to go down to the tenderloin to a strip club. The tenderloin is SCARY and as we were parking the car we witnessed two dudes holding back their raging friend who was trying to jump into a cab and beat the cab driver. I clung onto our newlyfound male companions because even gay boys can still fight better than I can and allowed myself to be dragged into what is affectionately known as a "Tittie Bar." Some of the guys we were with knew the owner so we were given a booth in the back. I was instructed to pick out the 'hottest one' so I could get a lap dance. At first, there were no prospects but then a lovely brunette wandered on stage. Diana and I, giggling, went and sat up front. Diana made an arrow out of dollar bills pointing to me and I hid nervously. The girl came over and danced in front of us. "Hi," she said, smiling.

"Uh, hi," I mumbled.

"It's her birthday!" hooted Diana.

"Really? Gimme your hands?" I nervously extended them and the girl grabbed them and rubbed them over her bare breasts and stomach. My first thought was 'wow, her skin is really soft. I'll have to ask her what kind of moisturizer she uses.' She rubbed her breasts across my face then did some pole work in front of us.

"Um, thank you?" I said as she walked off, because I can't not say something totally lame after an experience like that.

We giggled through her three songs then Diana chased after her to ask her if we could have a lap dance when she had a minute. Thinking back to my lecture on proper strip club etiquette, I sat patiently and pondered if maybe strippers were like band members and we should have left her alone until she was out of the dressing room or if that was considered a compliment or what. She came over eventually and we chatted. At first, Diana and I were going to go but we couldn't find an empty VIP room. So she came back and talked to us more and pretty much fell in love with Jeffree. So he brought his friend Billy and the 3 of us got a lap dance. We ended up talking to this girl for a while and she was really nice, if a bit on the crazy side. But so are we so we totally dug her. She was really sweet and was like "yeah, I try only work when I need to. I don't really like it." We invited her to come see us at the Gilman next week and hang out. I forgot to ask her about the moisturizer.

We got led up to a VIP room upstairs. Jeffree, Raquel, and I played with the pole for a while before we all headed out... and back to the goddamn diner. It was fun, just fucking off and talking, but it had been a long day and we were excited to get some sleep.

In the morning, we made the executive decision to go back down to LA that night since I wanted to see the Almost for my birthday. We drove to MAC in Union Square then over to Haight Street to shop. Waiting for Jeffree's friends turned into a 6 hour process so we got our nails did and our shop on. In a break from conventional stereo types, the over the top drag queen and loud mouthed native went down to the beach to take in the relaxing sites while the two sistahs that love sunshine and waves stayed shopping. It was nice, bonding with Raquel in between stoners and rockabilly shops. We gaggled and bought little toys and had fun.

Finally, it was time to go and despite Jeffree's reluctance to leave his friends (and mine to say bye to Diana for a week), we piled into the car. Driving at night has never been my strong suit so we all traded off. Raquel hasn't driven in 2 years so letting her drive my car in galeforce winds at 100 miles an hour was a test of friendship.

Except that bit where they didn't go 100 miles an hour. I got up to do the last hundred miles and we made it home in an hour because I am an evil driver of speedy driviness. Exhausted, we collapsed into bed.

In the morning, I was given lots of hugs then taken to be fed at the Grand Luxe. It was definitely a church day and there were lots of women with crazy hats hating on the weirdos in the corner. We ate fast, running late, and rushed home to get ready. Despite having been to the Glass House 82390583490634 times, J* couldn't figure out how to get there from LA and not the OC so we ended up catching only the last 3 songs. This just put us in a "not in the mood" mood and we ended up wandering outside the venue and down to Starbucks. We came i for the end of Say Anything's set then went backstage and just stood in a bathroom talking. Once we all figured out we were all on the same page, we packed back into the car and went to see Disturbia. Its nice that we can be honest with each other and leave if we're not having any fun instead of staying because we feel like we should or we have to. The show was great and the bands were amazing but we were all so tired after driving so much and performing that we needed something much chiller.

So we met up with Clint and caught Disturbia, which was great, then went home to relax. Raquel left us Sunday morning and Jeffree and I spent the rest of the night watching OZ and all the TV we had missed like proper lazy bitches. It was nice and calming and what I needed. It was mildly crazy and mostly cool. Most importantly, it wasn't awful which all even numbered birthdays have been for me. So ra ra ra me and one year until the Dead At 27 Club.

Amen.

I'd like to be in love.

This may come as a shock to anyone who knows me, seeing as I am outright hostile to anyone who so much as compliments me and I turn up my nose disdainfully at the idea of coupledom at every turn. But I am hopeless romantic, deep down in that icy little ball that is my heart. (Funny side note - I totally just typed 'licy'. My heart has lice. This might explain a few things, like why my lungs itch. All this time, I thought it was huffing asbestos...) Every hopeless romantic )pretty much anyone with double X chromosomes) wants a love story. I want the Prince with the white horse and the castle and the fighting with dragons and the epic poems and royal wedding with red roses and the ball and the uncomfortable shoes and the fairy godmothers and the transfigured mice and the cloyingly named little people.

Especially the bit with the dragons and the shoes.

Thing is, I'm not ready for it. I know what keeps me from "falling in love" is me. I had a totally rad dude who will remain nameless. Said Dude is very handsome, incredibly intelligent, unfailingly well-mannered, and a friend of a number of years so I know his character well. What is more, he has his life together, owns his own company that is doing really well, and understands being a workaholic yet doesn't work in the entertainment industry at all. (Finding someone who understands my lifestyle who isn't in entertainment is next to impossible.) He's like a dream come true. Do I want to date him? OH FUCK NO!

Why? Well, because he's perfect. (Okay, he isn't but we're going to say he is just because it makes my rant all the more dramatic. Ignore this parenthetical aside. It did not happen. I erase your memory of it.) And every girl wants a bad boy. The Prince needs a Harley next to the white charger and on the weekends he needs to be able to toss of that armor and pull on a leather jacket. Who wants the perfect guy? I'm a chick, I want to fix dudes and mold them into my design of the Perfect Dude. Every girl does it, at least to some extent. Even I, the self-actualized woman, do it. And the funny thing is we don't know what we want and what we do want is two conflicting ideas so we just end up with a mess on our hands and taking up half the bed and all of the blankets.

Okay, I'm not being honest. If I met someone who met my utterly unrealistic standards and they happened to catch me when I was in a receptive mood to their advances (which will occur the next time Haley's comet comes around) and they pursued me but not too aggressively and they were perfectly maintained yet not obsessed with their own beauty and they had a dialog with me about our common interests that must include the following; an unhealthy-near-fetishistic obsession with Severus Snape, the invalidity of NeoCon ideals, random object collections, the works of Milton and Zelazny interpreted as body art, the defense of Elitism, the defense of Anarchism, the defense of Atheism, 1960s Batman, and the 100 most important things we would do as Evil Overlords then I would TOTALLY start dating. DUH! Its not me at all.

Despite the fact that I'm content being single, there is still a part of my heart that wants a dude who will call me "Snuffie Wugs" and whom I can be all starry eyed over until our respective groups of friends throw burlap sacks over our bodies and beat us to death with shovels because they can't stand the baby talk. Who doesn't want that? Everyone does.

Everyone wants to be so cute their friends just fucking hate them. It's like wanting food and shelter and faux-chanel. Its basic human biology. The only more noble death for a Spartan than dying in combat was to be bludgeoned to death by sacred rocks from the bosom of Greece herself after repeatedly professing your love for your 'Pookios Bearios LoveiosFace'at every public occasion between the Feast of Hermes and the Hunt of Artemis. Its in the directors cut of 300, if you don't believe me.

Through all of history, people have wanted to be 'in love' in the outrageously trite and unrealistic manner portrayed by the movies. (Further in the future, someone will go back in time to show our ancestors 'Sleepless in Seattle.' They will be clubbed to death with Woolly Mammoth bones for infecting our culture with that tripe. That movie sucks.) And don't even get me started on what disgusting mutations of the human psyche came about when the entire palaeolithic continent of Gondwana (google it) was rounded up and made to watch 'All My Children.' Oh, the horror!

Possibly, I have gotten off topic. I think my original point was that I'd love to be in love and truly, I would. I really do believe that by bumbling around, actually living my life, I'll meet the right guy (TO MOLD AND SHAPE MWAHAHAHAHAHA..... goddamnyou XX chromosome...) and fall madly in love. I really do believe this. I could spend my days searching for the right dude but then what am I bringing to the table? Desperation and someone who has been so focused on finding their 'other half' that they don't know themselves.

I probably take this to an extreme - being that I am celibate and I don't date if I can't see it going somewhere serious with a dude. I'm sorry but I don't want to waste me time. Sex is easy, boring, and meaningless. So it Warcraft and I can have Multi-Person Online Gaming with as many people as I want on unsecured servers without risk of getting AIDS. Harddrive failure? Whatever. I do monthly backups. Until I can clone myself, I can't backup my body. Hell, I can even pay some one $20 to get my character to level 20 just because I wanted another blood elf but I was too lazy to go through all the beginning quests in Eversong Woods. Not that I'd ever do anything like that.

I could very easily have sex with a whole ton of super hot and out-of-my-league-looking dudes in small to middling rock bands who were just using me for free studio time and connections. See, in any other town in the world, guys would just be using me for my phenomenal tits but since everyone in LA has a boob job and we're all obsessed with 'making it' LA hookups go above and beyond the usual 'take advantage of warm, willing hole.' Now, since I'd never stoop so low as to being a warm, willing hole and I'd really never be a warm, willing hole with financial benefits, I don't bother having meaningless hookups, one-night stands, or any sort of 'relations' with LA dudes just looking for a good time and a record contract. Granted, I could hook up with any number of hot dudes who aren't trying to use me for my connections but I'm just sayin... I could nail some hella, hella hot dudes just because of my business cards. I mean, WOW, hot. I mean like WOW.

No matter how hot the dude, if its not for lurrrrrrve, I'm not about it. (But I mean, seriously, WOW hot.) But clearly, I'm not in a position in my life where I'm going to find love. Also, my cynical nature and black-and-white viewpoint that there is no middle ground between pointless fucking and True Love doesn't really facilitate me breaking from that viewpoint to see if it is actually a correct one. But I'm herpes-free so I'll stick to it, thanks.

This brings me back to 'looking for love.' I could roam around like a cock-hungry queen or desperate spinster, trying desperately to find some guy that I could convince myself is my One Twu Luv but that's fucking pathetic and I'm above that. I really, truly believe that not looking is the only way to find the real deal. When you look for something intangible, you never find it. You can't search under rocks and in beds for happiness like a set of keys you lost. You can only work towards it. So how do you work towards love? By working on yourself. By being someone that you love and respect so when someone else sees you, they love and respect you, too. I'm always working to be the person that I want to be and you know, I woke up this morning not liking myself in a lot of ways, so that is my new focus of what I am going to improve. I am ever-evolving, ever-analyzing, ever-scrutinizing and adapting and taking strides towards who I want to be. I don't do this for a dude. I don't do this to attract a dude. I don't do it for anyone but myself because I'm the person I go to sleep with and I'm the person that I wake up with. I have to live with myself. I am not perfect nor will I ever be but I am relentlessly self-improving.

I'm a hopeless romantic, at heart. I truly am. I look at all of my friends who are happy in love and I'm happy seeing them. (And knowing that I get to stick them in burlap sacks and beat them with shovels if they get much cuter.) And I want that but the only way to have it is to have it on my own terms. My terms are unconditional (void where prohibited) and even if I wanted to, I could not bend or break them. I can't be in love with Said Dude because I'm not in love with Said Dude. He just doesn't make my heart go pitter patter. No amount of dating dudes or fucking dudes or chasing dudes around trying to find the dude of my dreams is going to make the Perfect Dude appear. That isn't how life works and I don't get why other people pretend it is otherwise. Or maybe it does happen that way for other people. Who am I to judge? All I know is, no matter how much my heart wants to be in love, that stubborn organ hasn't found anyone to be in love with. And I am not a person who is run by their heart but I am a person who listens to their heart. If there was someone whose name echoed there with every heartbeat, I'd go after him. (Er, well, no I wouldn't because I've asked out every dude I have ever dated because apparently I'm intimidating and I've resolved not to do that anymore but YOU GET MY POINT.) But the fact of the matter is that what I want, I want intellectually. I remember what being in a real relationship felt like and it was wonderful. It was solid and comforting and stable and supportive - and that is something I need right now because my life is chaotic and uncertain. While my friends are the best I could ask for and provide unwaivering support and understanding there is just something about having a boy kiss your watery eyes and say "Babe, I love you. It'll all be okay somehow." Yes, yes, ball of testosterone, it will! Our luv will see us through!

Oh please.

Someday my prince will come, and all that jazz, but until then I got moves to make, earth to shake, a cake to bake, and lives to take. Ninja!

Out the door like a cheating boyfriend,
    Miss E

So Chris will be posting a video about the first half of our strip club adventure soon but I want to beat him to the punch and I am so deliriously tired right now that if I sleep, I will forget everything that happened.

So I have never been to a strip club in my actual life. I've been to live sex shows several times while in A-Dam but I've never actually seen girls just take their tops of and shake their very expensive, man-made sweater cows at horny old business men before. Lindsay, being a stripper, found this pretty much morally outrageous. And unlike every other person who has ever promised to take my shy ass to a strip club, bitch delivered! (Did I mention that Chris's girlfriend might actually be the raddest fucking person on the face of the planet? And I thought this before she bought me a lap dance, too.)

I went home and, once my nap got fucked by a continuing fuck-up at work (which has managed to ruin my Sunday AND my Monday and will likely ruin my Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday as well), I said "screw" and took Meghan to get Chris and Lindsay. We begged, berated, and otherwise bribed Mad Real Rachel to come out with us despite the fact that she had just gotten off a plane from England. (15 hours flight? Fuck that noise.)

I'm so dancing in my chair to Wired All Wrong and taking off my hoodie like I'm a stripper. Hang on. ::jigglejiggle:: Okay. Continue.

I want a pole in my bedroom, yo. Or my living room. Jeffree will work that shit, you know he will.

AHEM! ANYWAY. Back to the strippers. We decide to go to Jumbo's Clown Room which is this SKETCHY motherfucking strip club down in the ghetto side of Hollywood. Uh... the more ghetto side of Hollywood. This whole fucking berg is one giant goddamn disaster.

Fuck, I'm tired.

Okay. So we search for parking forever before we say "fuck it" and valet the car. Now Jumbo's is in this shitty little strip mall next to a Korean convenience store with posters for lychee ice cream in the window so old they have been bleached blue and white by the sun. We show our IDs and walk inside they place that looks exactly like a strip club should. Stage with a pole and white christmas tube lights wrapped around the rail that enclosed it. There were barely any people there. Lindsay is telling us what etiquette is proper in a strip club and asking the waitress what the rules are for things like lap dances. I am fucking telling you, if you have never gone to a strip club, go with a stripper. Because she knew exactly what we were supposed to do and didn't front unlike my shy ass who was trying to burrow under Meghan and Chris in sheer terror of the girl on the stage in her bikini.

Jumbo's is no nude at all. Not topless or anything. Just tattooed chicks in their bikinis. Jumbo's is know for having midgets (little people), amputees (appendage-challenged), and other non-standard human beings (freaky weirdos). We're down for freaky weirdos, being freaky weirdos ourselves. The girls tonight were all of standard height and had the usual amount of arms and legs but they had tattoos and danced to Nine Inch Nails and Depeche Mode. As soon as we sit down and settle in, Lindsay is giving me dollars and walking me down to the stage. She taught me how to appropriately hang my dollar bills on the rail and nicely sat with me as some girl jiggled her butt in our direction. Now, I'm totally down with stripping. I think that it can either be trashy or empowering - its what you do with it. I don't find it dehumanizing in and of itself. It depends on the club, the crowd, and the girls. Personally, if I could do it without it ruining my career thanks to the wonderful double standards of this industry, I'd strip at least once for that feeling of power. I even wanted to be a Suicide Girl before that site turned into total trash and the exploitation of the girls became apparent because I really like the idea of powerful, beautiful, non-normal women as sex symbols as opposed to sex objects.

I could have a whole tirade about sexual injustice but I am trying desperately not to rant, ramble, soap box, or side track any more than is absolutely possible because my ass NEEDS SLEEP. There are nifty colored trails all over my vision. Fun. Did I mention I fainted and threw up today because I'm so exhausted? YAY! I'm so not editing this. This is true stream of consciousness. Dude, Wired All Wrong is so good. You're freakin me out, girllll!

Ok, where was I? Allow me to scroll up? Ah yes. Okay, so i sit there watching this chick jiggle and I'm all 'where do I look? Is it politer to look these chicks in the eyes or the vajayjay or the boobs or just a generic body part? Do I smile if I catch her eye?" And Lindsay has gone back to Chris and Meghan and I'm sitting here trying to figure out how not to offend this girl and how to communicate that I respect what she is doing and don't see her as trashy and I'm not there to perv out I'm just curious about the whole experience while awkwardly fidgeting with my measly two dollars that I now feel is a total insult from woman to woman and I'm just like overthinking because I do that and then its over and I can run back to my crew and hide.

Yeah, Lindsay is so not having that. This girl named Capri comes up after she gets off stage. She's pretty in a bookish way from the neck up, with emo glasses and bottle black hair and a face that is more sweet than sexy. From the neck down, though, she's actually kinda bangin. She's certainly got a way better body than I do (except my tits are bigger but I got everyone beat in that department) and she walks up and sticks her hand out and says hi. And I shake her hand because I wasn't raised in a barn and Lindsay is like "Up. you're getting a lap dance. This girl was nice and introduced herself. Come on." And I'm doing my best impression of a deer in headlights so Lindsay offers to go with me because we all know there is not a snowballs chance in hell my scared ass is getting a lap dance alone.

We go off into a little booth 5 feet from where we were. It has its own pole and Lindsay and Capri talk about how lap dance rooms with poles are such a better vibe and the perils of dancing in heels and other things in the same kind of all-business way I get around other engineers when we ramble about DSP or expanding our chassis. She tells me how to hold my legs and the accepted places to put my hands, which I shove nervously under my thighs. So the song starts and Capri starts dancing. And I still don't know where to look so I'm staring at her belly button, contemplating how she is lucky enough to have the right anatomy to have a top and bottom belly button rings because my belly button doesn't have a full ridge all the way around which bums me out because I really want to do a quad then she grabs my fucking hair and makes me look at her boobs and I'm totally trying not to grin because holy crap this is fucking Awkward City and I have just been elected mayor. I get my lap dance and Lindsay makes me send Chris over. Chris doesn't want a lap dance from Capri because there is this banging blond chick on stage who can work the pole like its old news but Capri was nice and she told us that she was lucky if she'd make $30 that night and so he goes to get his lap dance too.

I sit with Meghan and watch the blond girl, who can fucking actually crucify herself on the pole then spin down it like something that spins gracefully down poles. I'm feeling a little more comfortable with all of this, now that I've had some other girl's boobs in my face so I walk down and sit in the front and stick some money on the rail. And again, its hella awkward. Every time this girl and I catch eyes we smile and laugh a little. I follow her shoes because I'm trying to figure out how the hell she does all this without kicking herself in the foot - which she proceeds to do at the end of the set and we both laugh to each other. Its actually a really comfortable kind of vibe. It's sexual but not really. I mean, the girls don't really take anything off, the music rules, and it's just downhome in this really sleazy kinda way. Like a seedy bar that you're a regular at kinda feeling. It's a shithole but they know your name.


Bitch can work the pole, I swear

But its also kinda boring. We wanted midgets and amputees and to see a bar fight. Capri peaces out after thanking us for making her night because she made more off of us than she would have dancing on the stage all night and doesn't have to stay thanks to Lindsay's generous tipping. So we leave shortly thereafter, rerouting poor Rachel to meet us at Crazy Girls, which then proved to be closed. We moved everyone to the parking lot at the Standard for bathroom pictures and a short video before peacing. We walk next door to the Body Shop, which is full nude and at first I'm excited. I'm like "hell yeah, pervy weird shit!" But the vibe just sucks. We hadn't even sat down yet before the "ANYBODY WANT A DAAAAANCE" stripper from South Park comes over and asks us if we want... a dance. Lindsay politely says not just yet, we wanted to get settled in first. She says "oh. Well, you're a group of girls. You don't buy dances anyway." She walks away before Lindsay can leap over the table and pop her EEE fake ones. A big girl comes over to ask us if we want a dance too but has the unfortunate timing to do it as we're getting our drinks (non-alcoholic as full nudes can't serve liquor) and slinks away.



The vibe blows. On the real, it blows. All the girls are ugly and desperate. The first girl slams her heels together loud enough you can hear it over the music (which isn't up too loud) and then fingers herself. The dim lights are cut through with strobes and black light but nothing can disguise the smell of cleaning products and sheer desperation. It's a bumout.

The next girl who comes on stage is the big girl. At first, we thought she was just chunky but we realize she has no cellulite and that fat is all baby fat. This girl is maybe 19, with bleached platinum hair and a face like a young Anna Nicole. Its a major, major bumout. She sucks at stripping and its obvious she's new. We're sure the other girls are hella mean to her. After she gets on stage and starts wandering around, asking everyone if they want dances, Lindsay gets up and runs after her. She saves her from a 20 minute conversation with some dude who was never going to buy a lap dance and brings her over. I make Meghan come with me because I'm so not getting a lap dance alone, dude. No way. We go in this mirrored room in the back and the bouncer doesn't even know this girl's name, she is so new. He tells her she was supposed to turn our chairs the other direction but it was okay for now. So we sit there awkwardly, trying not to grin at the sheer weirdness off it as she dances badly in front of us. She walks into the mirror at one point and laughs mirthlessly at her own clumsiness. Its weird. She's so nervous we can literally hear her heartbeat and we're trying to make her feel better by giving off a sort of comforting silence. We give her money after, making sure to tip well, and Meghan asks if she's new. "Yeah," she says. "Can you really tell?"

"A little," says Meghan. "But you did really good."

"Thank you," I add nervously right as she says the same. We all smile at each other and she stays behind to talk to the bouncer about proper lap dance protocol.

After that, we're like the stripper good karma patrol. The girls who are nice, who obviously don't make a lot of money, we're sitting up front tipping. It's amature night and we meet a girl who drove up all the way from Orange County to compete. She's only 19 and she can only strip at full-nudes since full-nudes don't serve liquor. So she is competing at Amature Nights until she is 21 so she doesn't have to work at a club. Her name is Persia and we promise to remember it and root for her so she can win $1000 dollars.

This one crazy, crazy dancer gets on stage and she is getting hella nasty. So, giggling, we encourage Chris to ggo sit up with the bevy of dudes at the end of the stage. He lays down his dollar bills on the stage and in short order, this girl is writhing in front of him, knuckle deep in her own orifices. Then, with cheetah-like speed, her legs snap out and wrap around the back of his head. She jerks her legs and his face flies directly into what is colloquially known as her "pussy" and grinds on his face. We all laugh, faces half hidden behind our hands. When the song ends, Chris jumps up and runs back to us, wiping off his ear with a napkin.

Oh. These girls didn't clean the pole between dancers. EW. Also, Lindsay and Meghan lured these drunk dudes inside when Meghan went outside to smoke long enough that they club could get door fee and two-drink minimum out of them before kicking them out for being too drunk. Take that, horny morons!

So wanting to do our final act of good stripper karma/total debauchery, Lindsay gives Chris money for a lap dance. He wanted this total sorority looking chick but she disappeared into the champagne room to do one can only guess what so we debated the relative merits of the others - who was nice, who was cunty, who was making good tips, who had the energy. He eventually went with this possibly-coked-out hippie girl who had danced without shoes. He disappeared with her then she reemerged without him after a time. You should all mock him for going into the bathroom and jerking off even though he'll deny he did such a thing.

After that, it was pretty much time to bounce. I'd gotten to see what a strip club was actually like and curried good favor with whatever gods watch over the Vixens of the Pole. I even got a lesson about what strippers who walk out of a club still in their heels are going to do.

Goodbyes were said, which was a total bummout but promises were made for more hangs soon. These will be upheld or Chicago will be razed by my army of totally oiled, bare-chested Spartans in nifty leather diapers. I mean it!

And that, ladies and worms, was my night at the strip club. Now I am going to strip off all my clothing and pole-dance my way into naptime. Night!

Stuff happened at the shows. I will discuss it later for I need to sleep. However, two things need to be made abundantly clear with all due haste.

First of all, you don't see many tours like this anymore. Big production, pyro, lighting... this tour is so expensive. If they break even on this tour, it'll be a miracle. Like, no joke, they are probably going to end up in the hole. Why don't you have great rock tours like this anymore? Because there is no money to put them on. Rock is the most downloaded genre of music. Rock is the genre with the lowest record sales. So most bands can't afford to have a huge tour like this. Its not the 80s anymore. No more GNR explosionfests. So when people say "downloading just hurts big labels and fuck them anyway" there is another example of how it actually hurts music fans and bands of all sizes. I'd LOVE to see more tours like this. Too bad that MCR and Fall Out Boy are the only rock acts that could afford to do it. The best AFI could do was trees. A7X? Smog machine. This is why I buy music even though I can get pretty much any CD I want for free. Because I want Jeffree to be able to afford pink glitter cannons.

Secondly, anyone who says MCR doesn't do enough for their fans can pretty much blow me. Last night, I saw the guys for literally long enough to get a hug and say 'good show'. Tonight, I sat backstage waiting after the show for 2 hours and didn't even get that. Why? Because they were doing meet and greets and then signing stuff. They are so good to their fans to the point where they are literally drained and don't have anything left for even their families. They just go home and go to sleep. No partying, no hanging out, nothing. Then they get up at fuck off early in the morning to do it all over again. At places like LA where there are SO many fans in the meet and greets and so many people waiting... they just don't have the time for their friends because they've given all their time to their fans. So anyone, anyone who says they don't care about their fans and don't give to their fans and don't do enough for their fans can take a long walk off a very, very short pier.

I am so proud of those boys. Seriously.

Before I even talk about the show, let me take it back to the first time I ever heard of My Chem. Some kid left me a comment or something on myspace and I think I was going to his page to block him. He had the video for "I'm not okay" on his page and I was like "what is this movie with hot freaky boys getting picked on? I want to see it." I sat through the whole video thinking it was a trailer for a movie. When I realized it was a music video, my jaw fell open. "This is the best music video ever made," I said to myself. "Because it does what a video is supposed to do. It makes you watch the whole thing and remember the band." I bookmarked the kids page and played the video for every single person in the studio that night, insisting that this band was going to be the biggest thing ever.

Flash forward to Taste of Chaos and watching FUSE's coverage while closing at my old studio. 3am and they're interviewing MCR. "They're total nerds," I said to my coworkers. "They seem like sweet dudes. Good for them, kicking ass and rolling dice."

Flash forward to Warped Tour (my first Warped) and standing in the heat, squashed up against the barricade, happily singing my heart out in between taking pictures with my sidekick. "They're blowing up!" I told everyone. "How rad."



Flash forward to Warped on the East Coast, the anniversary show in my home state. MCR closed it out and it was magical, standing in the mud, in the rain, crushed against the sound board. I saw a girl with way rad hair and snapped picture of her with my kick, wanting to try and steal her hair later. She came over to me when she saw I had a kick. "Are you getting any service?" she asked. "Not much," I replied. "Lame. Kick's just don't work out here. You're the first person not on the tour I've seen with one all day," she said. "I'm from LA," I said and we both laughed. "I'm Eliza. Nice to meet you." We smiled at each other and that was that. I talked about her rad hair about every twenty minutes for the rest of the show.



Flash forward. MCR and this arena tour. I take my three best friends. I rock fankid makeup because I wish I had Frank's X eyes idea before he did. We meet some sketchy dude walking to the arena who fakes like he works for the band and compliments our tattoos. He seems rad and he's like "oh, I'll get you passes and introduce you to the band." I regret wearing fangirl makeup and spend the next hour trying to take it off. Dude never gets us passes. We run inside 2 songs into the set. Its okay. We have a hugging party in the mosh pit. I feel loved.



Flash forward. Halloween. The G7SD boys decided to have a lead singer party. Who should I be? I have the jacket. I have the wig. I have the velvet pants. All I need is a tie from Hot Topic. You best believe I make a fierce Gerard.



Another flash forward. I've gotten a Big Kid Job! I'm a studio manager now, not just a runner. To celebrate, I decide to take my best friends to do MCR like real members of this industry. I fly us all out to Vancouver. Limo, hotel, champagne, the whole nine. I had arranged passed from my new friend at Warner. He set up a meet and greet just for us. The poor boys (except Bob) had to come out and sign stuff for us. Gerard and Mikey might be more scared of us than we are of them but its a close thing as I am terrified of both of them. I talk to Ray about Quantum Physics and we promise to keep each others planes in the air. For the first time flying on a plane, I feel safe. I keep looking at the picture we took with the guys, feeling like I had actually come into my own in this industry. I felt so powerful, being able to do this for my friends. I felt grown up and happy to be so. Look at my face - you can see this is one of the happiest moments of my life.



Flash forward the beginning of a time that was both dark and light. Eric and I had been hanging out every day because all of our other friends lived 30 minutes away. He lives in a shitty apartment in Hollywood that is always dirty and filled with empty beer cans. We got to shows as much as we can just to get out. He meets Meghan, who I know through a band but am fucking terrified of. She seems mean and makes me want to cry. But she has a crush on Eric and he's in love with this band, Valentine. We go see them play downstairs at the Viper. Meghan and I have a conversation about Eric via my sidekick. She is with a girl with dark hair who also looks mean and scares me. But once we go outside and get to talking, she's super nice. I like her more than Meghan. They talk about the pictures of Pete Wentz that got leaked the day before. "He's in a band, yeah?" I say. They look at me like I'm from Mars. I feel dumb. I hide behind Eric. I complain on the way home that Meghan hates me and only talks to him because she likes Eric.

Flash. Moving forward but not far. A few days later is Saint Patrick's day. Somehow, we end up picking up Mehgan and Alicia from up the street even though I am convinced Meghan pretty much thinks I'm the biggest loser on the face of planet Earth. I talk to Alicia all night long. We don't shut up. Eric teases me the next day. "I thought you were scared of them," he said. "I was," I admit. "But I have a lot in common with Alicia. She's so motivated. I adore her. But Meghan still hates me." "Oh no she doesn't," scoffed Eric. "You're just shy."



Let's flash again, to Sarah coming home from tour. I've gotten comfortable with Meghan by now but I'm still petrified of Sarah. We've been playing each other in Navy Commander but I still think she hates me. Please god, don't let them find out I'm a nerd.

Another flash. They know I'm a nerd. They love me anyway. Life is good. Playing video games on Sarah's floor is better.

Flash. What do you mean Alicia is engaged to Mikey from My Chemical Romance? I feel awkward. He shows up at Sarah's house. I am petrified of him. I stare at my shoes a lot because I am afraid to meet his eyes. Suddenly, this is awkward. I mean, I have your poster on my wall, bro. I kinda don't want to be his friend because I don't want him to think I want to be his friend because I like his band. I kinda resent him for hanging out. I really, really like Alicia, Sarah, and Meghan and we hang out all the time. Is this going to make it weird? I resolve to not talk to Mikey as I am scared shitless of him.



Flash to Taste of Chaos again. We don't go. Eliza steals a ride from some psycho to come have dinner with us. "I think I know you from somewhere," we say to each other.

Flash. Internet shitstorm begins. I'm confused. Other my chem fans are treating me weird. Can't we just all talk about Harry Potter? I babble like normal in my LJ about how weird this sudden burst of lurking is. The hate club hates me. There is a hate club?

Another flash forward. I've always wanted a surprise party. Always. ALWAYS. What do I want for my birthday? A surprise party. Its not my long standing biffles who pull it together. It's the "Fatty Crew." They even blindfolded me. I feel very loved... and a little tipsy.



Flash. Am I more scared of Chris or Mikey? The world may never know.

Flash. Damnit. I forgot my commitment to just not talk to Mikey or talk to him as little as possible for he is rad and funny. Instead, I forget he is in a band I love. This is awkward when we get in the car and his songs come on the my mix cds. Must. Remember. To Skip. Hit Single. Oh, whatever, deal with it, listen to your own music. I like your band. Let's go get a kitten! OHMYGODISAWTHEBESTCOMICBOOKTODAYEVER!



Flash. VEGAS!!!!!!! Rollin in the convertible, yo! I hate this city but I love the company. Can we keep Eliza forever and a day? Like, seriously. "PS E Cuts, I remember how I know you. I lurked you on Warped Tour in Boston because I loved your hair. I even took a picture," I said. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA THAT RIPS!" she laughed.



Flash. "I can't wait until you hear the new record," said Mikey as we came down the urine-smelling stairs from Sarah's apartment. He pointed at me, between Sarah and Meghan. "You especially. Because I know you're a fan. And I think you'll appreciate it." Thanks, homie. Now I don't feel so weird about digging your band and being your friend. And hearing your plans for the record and tour - a totally new band, a giant parade in the streets for the record release, explosions on stage. You're a dreamer, Mister Way. That sounds so rad but... in this industry, in the current climate... are you really going to throw your fans a Black Parade? I am dubious.

Flash. Brainwave! We now have all sorts of kids who are super rad to us. Meghan wants to start a news website. But who is really gonna care? Oh yeah. Our kids. Let's make something rad for them instead of just news, where we can put all of our questions in one place and besides news articles we can interview our friend's bands and maybe expose some rad music and art or some comedy clubs or something. All the things we're passionate about. Think Chris might help a little? Alicia, Meghan, and I feverishly sketch out ideas for the site and argue about the best layout. Sarah checks her myspace.

A flash. I fly home for Warped and get to see Chris? Still scared of him? Yup. Still scared of him. It takes until day two, in Jersey, that I feel comfortable around him. Possibly because he's dangling lobsters in my face. Also, since when do people bring me presents? HOLY CRAP THOSE TSHIRTS RULE! Thanks guys! I show them to my mother when I get home. "That's very strange," she says. "I hope those people don't think you're important." "No way, Mom," I say. "They totally know I'm a nerd." I talk about it with Leigh the entire way to Jersey. I have fans? I don't want "fans". They aren't "fans". They're friends. I talk to them every day on livejournal! Are they fans? They're not fans. What is a fan? I'm still a fan of MCr but they're my friends. Am I a fan? Can I be a fan? Now I'm having an existential crisis. Great.



Let's flash forward. The summer is over. No more laying around the apartment. The band is going on tour. Alicia and Eliza are going home. If I say I hate MCR and refuse to by the record will you guys stay in LA and we can keep playing Warcraft until 5am? I mean, really. I'm not joking. I like my homegirls and homeboy way more than I'll like any damn record. Seriously. Guys. I hate your band now. Really. Now put down my godkitten and let's watch Last Bride Standing.

Flash again. The Black Parade is totally a side project between the guys in the Red Chord and the dude from the Cure.

I'm flashing you like a streaker. The website is open. I think this is rad. MCR is in town for Halloween and I get to see my friends again. I think this is radder. Standing up in the balcony, watching the show, I remember the year before I was dressed up as Gerard, watching the little band I produced play the Hard Rock. Is this ironic? I can't tell. Meghan, is my neck still wet?



Another flash. It's the holidays. That means driving 6 hours from Vegas after Jeffree played a show to San Diego just to go see our friends. Isn't that the definition of the holidays? I don't know anymore. I'm tired. I want to go to sleep. Is taking a nap on Sarah's shoulder while the band plays rude? I struggle to stay upright. Hey its Skatekwondo and Martini_Romance aka Tess and Lindsay! You guys aren't just user icons! Give me hugs. I hope security gets crabs. Fuckin' A. Alicia, Mikey, I love you but seriously? I need a nap. Get in the goddamn car.



Surprise! Its a flash! Alicia and Eliza visit a lot. Not nearly enough. Why does everyone live so far away? This sucks so bad. I haven't seen heads or tails of Mikey in months. Fifteen minutes of warcraft gabbing outside a hotel? Lame. Lame. Lamelamelame. LAME. I'm supposed to be a fan of this band, right? Well, fuck you, Black Parade! I'm not an MCR fan anymore! I quit! I want my friends back. Here are all my posters and my cds. Gimme my friends back. Okay, except I need my CDs because I love listening to them. And those posters are part of what makes my room feel like home. So... okay. Fine. I'm still a fan. Just... have a good tour and let my friends come play my city so I can see them soon. ::sigh::




Flash. Tonight. Am I more excited to see my friends or to see what I have been told is a great show? Eliza! Hug! Alicia! Hug! Mommy and Daddy Cuts! Hug! Mikey and Gerard! Hug! I feel content. We get to sit on a platform behind the stage and watch what is a truly great show. I feel excited. We get mobbed by people wanting Jeffree's picture after. I feel normal. I get a few people who want my picture. I feel like I want a hug too and a review of the concert and to not feel like I'm any different from them because I'm not.

Because I'm not.

Because I'm still a fan. Because MCR still excites me and lifts my spirits and makes me smile. Because I am absolutely and unapologetically a fan of this band. Because I am proud to know that I was right - that this band would be the biggest thing to hit rock and roll since electricity and that these boys are some of the sweetest, kindest, appreciative giant fucking nerdboys on the planet. Because they know I'm a fan and they're happy I am. Because they only person who ever made me feel weird about being a fan and a friend was me (and judgemental internet stalkers who are reading this and seething. Hi!). Because I came by all of this honestly, awkwardly, and through a lot of questioning. Because I'm proud that I can still be a fan, that I can still watch the show and know every word and sing every line. Because, at the end of the day, its still about the music. At the end of the day, being a fan of MCR has brought me what I hope it will bring every one of its fans - a group of solid friends who care about me, understand me, appreciate me, and love me despite all my flaws and the fact that I am a painfully shy nerd with a penchant for run-on LJ entries. Who they are, in the scheme of famousness, doesn't matter. That is who they are to the world. That is not who that are to me. They are a brown boy with a big mouth, a yellow girl with a good eye, a newlywed with a good heart, a scorpio with the best sense of humor, a farm gal who is always there to listen, and a sweet little dude who can run his mouth about gaming or books or half a dozen other things that make me go "OHMYHOGBLAHBLAHBLAHRANT!" I hope that everyone has a group of friends like that. I'm in my mid-20s and I appreciate how lucky I am to have stumbled into all of these people.

So I want to say thanks to MCR, as a fan, for helping unite me with 6 other people that I deeply love and adore. I want to say thank you for being music that has underscored some of the best and worst times in my life. Thank you for putting on some of the best concerts I've ever seen and giving me some of the best days of my life. Thank you, most of all, for proving me right and becoming everything I thought you'd be as both a band and as people.

I'm proud to say that I am a fan of My Chemical Romance. It's a dirty word nowadays but I'll wear it with pride.

I will always, always, always be a music fan.

So this is my response to Fawna's writing challenge which was "A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom." I didn't really proof it so it may have some grammar problems (a plethora of commas, for example) but this is me just writing for fun. So, yeah.

PS, if you want to DO the writing challenge with me and Fawna, go ahead. You can take her challenge to me (above) or mine to her which was "On top of a lonely little hill on the outskirts of a lonely little town is a lonely little house. Tell me the story of this house from the houses perspective." Or just write whatever.

Yay writing!



Letters and Sounds

Snick, snick, snick, went the razor. Snick, snick, snick – over and over again until everything was pure and white and even. Snick, snick, snick then it was scraping and forming and portioning out my meal.

FFFFFFFFF – all the letters in a row make the same sound. Say it out loud. FFFFFFFFFFF. That sound ran up into my nose, burned down my throat, and started buzzing around in my brain. It mixed in with the other buzzings rolling in through my ears. Just outside the bathroom, a whole room of people chattering and gossiping and flirting and arguing and deciding if they want to pay an extra five bucks for Filet or if a New York Strip is fine. Filtered through the door, it all sounds like consonants running together.

Except this one couple in the shit seat. The shit seat is the table by the bathroom. You probably figured that out, don’t know why I told you. Sorry, not supposed to break the fourth wall and all. Let’s just forget I ever addressed you. I was never good at telling stories.

So there is this couple in the shit seat, table by the bathroom, blah blah. And this couple, I hear the vowels and the consonants and the words they are saying. Not clearly, only a word here, a phrase there. This couple, they are getting divorced, it sounds like. The woman is talking fast, steamrolling over the man whom I picture to be skinny and meek. You know the type – oversized horn-rimmed glasses, thin tie with penguins on it, stains he can’t wash out of his cheap white button up. Brown pants. Loafers. You know this guy. You’ve seen him in the movies or maybe you picked on a younger him in high school or maybe you are him, crouching down low over your keyboard at work, poppoppop at the keys, wiping your nose on the back of your hand.

Fourth wall, right, sorry, got it. Just think of that last paragraph as my buzz back through the bathroom door. All consonants. You can’t understand it. It’s just noise.

Right, ok. This woman, right? Talking away, knocking down poor meek little man she’s divorcing, prattling on about kids and homes and cars and money. She has it all planned out, it seems. When he is scheduled to pay child support and what weekends he can visit and who is going to get the rug Aunt Selma brought back from Germany that little Billy took his first steps on.

I made up the bit about the rug. She didn’t talk about a rug, Not that I could hear, anyway, but maybe she did. I couldn’t hear it all. Only phrases.

Anyway, this fat bitch, right - because you know she is both overweight and overbearing to be carrying on like this - she is just laying into this little man, laying out his life for him. Bam! Fifty grand a month. Bam! Kids on alternate weekends. Bam! Bam! NO house. NO dog. Bam! Like a boxer, just taking this guy’s life away.

This little guy is just thinking – I mean, I don’t know what he’s thinking because I’m not a psychic but you know when you see or hear something like this you just know what the guys thinking – this guy, he’s thinking ‘man, I still have to pay for your house and your clothes and the kids you wanted so you put a hole in your diaphragm to get and that ugly SUV and the platinum AMEX… and what do I get? No house, no car, no wife to cook me food or wash the skid marks out of my undies. Just a hole in my wallet and a gold-plated ring to remember you by.’

That’s what I’d be thinking. I’d flip the table and yell ‘Bitch, you don’t get my mon-aaaaaaaay!’ I mean, you can’t flip the tables here – they’re bolted to the floor – but I could maybe throw a plate or something. It’s the yelling that matters. So the whole place can hear every letter.

Snick, snick, snick, I can’t hear them over the razor and so I lose the thread of their conversation for a while. But I know what they are saying. Who gets what, when, and for how long and how much. Every story is the same. The only people who ever sit at that table are divorcees. They are the only people who book a reservation three days in advance on the busiest night at the busiest hour. We know, when they call, and we put them in the shit seat.

When their phrases return, the fat bitch is crying. She didn’t want to do this and he made her and he cheated and the same damn laundry list of excuses I’ve heard every time I decide to take my 15 in the ‘family bathroom’ where I get a whole room to myself instead of hiding in a stall like a cow awaiting slaughter.

My dad, he owned a steer farm, see? Liked to fight, too. Army guy. But this isn’t about me. Sorry. Nevermind. My mom was a MILF, though. The original. Just sayin’.

So she’s crying -‘wah wah’ and whatnot - and the FFFFFFs are dancing around in my brain some more. And then the crying gets closer - ‘wah wah you don’t love me’ - and I’m laughing to myself, picturing heifer snot and her little hand-wringing husband, and then the goddamn down is open-shut-snick! Snick for a lock sound not snick for a razor sound this time and I’m standing there ‘shit-shit-shit’.

And the fat bitch, she’s 5’2”. She’s got the Hillary Clinton hair cut and a little WASPy waist under this drab brown dress and she’s actually pretty trim. One of those cardio soccer moms, I’m thinking, and I’m holding out the plate of coke just hoping this bitch doesn’t scream for the police. I’ve been up the river once on a drug count but I did my time and got out.

Sorry, I’m talking about me again and you don’t care about… oh and now I’m talking to you again. Sorry, sorry. I just forget. Its just letters, just consonants, blah blah, ignore me.

I’m standing here, holding the plate and the razor and she’s looking at me then the plate then the razor then she’s over next to me, FFFFFFFFing up my dinner into her nose. But, shit, so long as she doesn’t roll on me to the cops or the management, she can do all the consonants she wants.

“Could you hear us?” she asked, rubbing the bottom of her nose nervously.

“Nyah. Just noise through the door,” I say.

“Ahhh,” she replies and snorts thoughtfully. “Can anyone hear us?”

“Nyah.”

“Good.” And then she is on me and my skinny white butt is up against the bathroom tiles next to the baby changing station. The koala is watching us make vowel sounds since we snorted up all the consonants and she’s saying ‘EEEEEE’ and I’m ‘OOOOOOO’ and the koala is silent because he’s seen it before.

So we do it fast then she snorts up what’s left of my blow – FFFFF – and then she is straightening her panties and trying to tell me her life story. And I listen until my watch beeps and tell her I got to go back on shift now.

When I come by to bus her table, she squares her shoulders and ignores me, reaching out to take her husband’s hand and say maybe they should talk this out, maybe they are moving too fast, that she still loves him, that all of this was a mistake. I know. Every soon-to-be ex-wife I’ve ever fucked in that stall, every time they sit back down in the shit seat, they get back with their man. And every man, looking at that wife-shaped hole in his wallet, he takes them back. No costly therapy, no lawyers. I think of it as my duty to humanity, keeping moms and dads together so their kids don’t grow up all dysfunctional. That’s a job I’ve done for years. Centuries, maybe. But it’s a new era, this ain’t Rome, and even Cupid has to pay the rent. So I take her empty plate with a wink and go back to fill up mine, snick, snick, snick.

What you need to understand is, I like to speed. Not like, really... more like need. I need to speed. I'm what you can an "expedient" driver. I have many a time crammed my foot, encased in some fully fabulous shoe of course, all the way down to the floorboards while happily butchering Xtina at the top of my lungs. Or the Spice Girls. I'm really good a ruining the Spice Girls. I mean like professionally good.

Ahem... so Jeffree and I are also professionally fashionably late. We don't mean to be. (Well, not always, but I have actually uttered "well, the party starts at nine so we shouldn't get there until at least 10. Maybe 11." And was being dead serious, too.) It just takes us a fair bit of time to get ready and we have a tendency to lounge like lounging things until too close to zero hour. After primping and preening, we were a little later than we needed to be. So I drove like a demon, further ruining my poor hands which are still swollen today. The wind cresting the mountains going into the Grapevine didn't have quite the push as the night before but coupled with the steep gradient and curving blacktop, it was rather harrowing.

Not that we noticed.

Although my iPod adapter did not want to cooperate and kept trying to drown our dance party in static, we boogied our little hips all the way to Bakersfield. (Miles: 100. Time: 1 hour. DO NOT DRIVE LIKE ME. My dash lights are dead so I can't tell how fast I'm going.) We had to park in buttfuck nowhere again because I couldn't figure out where the fuck artist parking was. We hurried in and got our passes from Will Call. In a marked change from the night before, security was none too nice to us. Usually, we just carry our passes instead of sticking them on. I'm the most paranoid person ever and if I have to put a sticky pass on me, I'm constantly touching it, terrified it has fallen off. (Because a lot of them do.) So when we flashed out passes, security was like "you have to put them on." "Can I put it on my purse?" asked Jeffree. "You can put it on your per...son," the guard responded. I had some trouble getting the backing off mine. It didn't want to peel off and kept shredding into paper instead of exposing the adhesive. "Is that a fake?" asked the guard, reaching out to paw me. I managed to get the backing off just then and put the pass on and he grabbed my breast, "looking" at my pass. I was unamused. So we finally get past those guys and we're trying to figure out where the dressing room is. We pass a guard and he grabs my wrist and goes "what color are your passes? What is the date on them? What are you doing back here? Lemme see your passes!" And we're like "chill bro, we're friends of the band. He's doing make up." So I get groped AGAIN and I'm thinking I should move my passes back to my jeans but they have glitter pinstripes painted on and the pass won't stay.

We get glared at and questioned by another 5 security guards until we finally hit the dressing rooms for hugs and relaxation. Ben from Scarlet Grey (check them out) was there, who is one of the sweetest people ever. We got to chatting and discovered he lives literally 3 blocks from my place. Joy! Jen also came, who is likewise great and working on a new musical project that I will wise you all up to when it comes out.

I just discovered two stuck pixels on my screen! Motherfucker.

Anyway. We went and stood by the sidestage for a while and it was like FLASHFLASHFLASHJEFFREEEEEEE! Kids came running down to the railing to get stuff signed. Ben was a little shocked by it but I've gone enough places to with Jeffree that it now doesn't phase me. J* and I went upstairs so he could sign more stuff and take pictures and we had yet another conversation about approachable celebrity. People like him and me and people like us because we're approachable. You know J* runs his myspace whereas AFI doesn't. He may, off chance, read your message or comment you. And he can and will be places and make himself available for pictures and a chance to talk to him and such which most band members can't do. It's cool for fans. Its a different marketing model for business nerds like me and its effective. And more than anything, its a business model that I enjoy being a part of. I'd rather get to see kids faces, close up, squealing with joy and shaking with nerves at meeting him than sit in a stupid office and plug in sales figures and try to figure out what market would receive him the best. Fuck that. I want to watch someone's entire face light up. I want to forget, for a minute, that this is a business at all.

Although, it's still weird when people recognize me. There were a few people who did, most notable this adorable pair of girls who were literally shaking from head to toe. I gave them french fries and talked with them (Miss E's patented calming strategy - give food, discuss neutral topic) but they were so overexcited that they couldn't stop shaking like leaves and jumping up and down and talking too loud. It was honest to god the sweetest thing ever. I love kids like that, who don't push or get crazy, but are still SOOOOOO excited that it can't help but melt your heart to watch.

There were a lot of kids like that which helped balance out how continually shitty security was. All the kids were really polite and well-mannered but still trembling like over-stimulated puppies. A lot of them didn't have cameras or paper to get signed so I was taking pics with my kick and doling out pieces of paper for them so they could have something to take with them. It felt good to watch what would have been tossed in a trashcan by me become something that really made someone's night.

With that reflection in my heart, we went back down to the dressing rooms until it was show time. We stood by the side of the stage for a while, our view blocked by a smiley face balloon that Nils had to nearly curbstomp to get it to stay out of our line of site. We stayed there for a few songs, reveling in having a PA aimed toward us this time so it didn't sound like utter shit. But the lure of the floor drew us in and Jeffree and I went out to watch a few songs from the back of the venue. And as we walked back and forth from the stage to the floor and back, kids were crying for Jeffree and when he stopped to sign stuff and give one girl a birthday hug, they freaked out. I don't know, just watching their reactions just made me sosososo happy. I always feel weeeeeird standing side stage and singing along (not that it stops me) because we're supposed to be all VIP and professional and crap. I'll be professional when the band is offstage. But when I'm at a show, no matter who it is, I want to scream and cry and sing and let my makeup run too. Watching fans, good fans, do that is a similar sort of catharsis for me now.

So I stood, dancing subtly with Jeffree and singing quietly and appreciating the behind-the-scenes. I was thinking a lot about being a fan and growing up into "an industry person" this weekend while I was at these shows. I had a conversation with Ben about it. He has been an AFI fan for YEARS and now he is friends with the band. Its a little strange because you don't really think of "Band Member" as a Member of This Band. They're just this dude or chick you know. You're not their friends because of the band and so that fades into the background, like anyone else's job. So when you step back and realize it, its a little strange. And then you feel kind of weird that you were (and remain) a fan. Its a hard line to walk, mentally, some times. Can you still be a fan? There is no answer.


And I'm thinking about all of this, about who I was at 15, sweating in the pit, and who I am now at 25, standing backstage. And it made me smile. I think who I was then would be proud of who I am now. And I'm certainly proud of who I was then. And I'm thinking all of this and I'm noticing things like behind the WALL of white marshall amps... there is a single cab that is micced. I'm noticing Jade and Hunter's subtle and not so subtle hand motions to the side stage sound man (he is the one who controls the monitors they hear on stage). I'm watching him and I'm watching the board and I'm catching the technical glitches. I'm watching the lights and the back drop and I think I missed two whole songs just really falling into the production and the behind the scenes secret life that keeps the show going. Watching the roadies scuttle across the stage to reset cables or untangle Hunter from Davey's mic cable... it was like rediscovering something that I'd started to take for granted a little.

And godDAMNIT, I got to see Davey godwalk. See, I always end up having a shitty view when he does it. I'm either side stage and the PA blocks my view or I have run to the back of the venue but then he's this little thing on some other little things. So Jeffree had ducked out to go to the bathroom and I slid to the side so I could watch him vault the barricade. Then I went quickly down the avenue between the seats and the actual floor so I was maybe 6 rows of people back and could see perfectly as kids crowd surfed up to sing with him. I bounced back over to sing "Hey Jeffree Star, can I?" as they closed then helped him sign more stuff, first when the kids ran down the stairs to us, then leading him out onto the floor, then taking him upstairs. By the end of that, I was pretty much elated. I'd contented both my fan side and my pro side and gotten completion and catharsis from a show like I wanted to and could let all of that go and go back to see my friends and forget all about music all together.

Its only now, getting all reflective while writing this that I can appreciate how cool that is.

We said our goodbyes and got our hugs then walked out back to the car, stopping for pictures again. (I don't kid when I say that I can't take him anywhere. But now I'm used to it and it was jazzing me up so much to watch so I kinda love it.) There was some local band that had myspaced him whom we met up with momentarily before heading back over the hills, down the freeway, through the wind, and home into our little bed to slumber away peacefully for the first time in days.

All in all, a good weekend. A weekend spent most certainly inside my head over thinking the deeper life meaning of things like lighting and mic placement but that is who I am, after all. The girl who thinks too much and makes little tiny things into overarching metaphors for a fabricated reality and is obsessed with both art and commerce. I tend to get out of balance, thinking so much about all these intangibles and this weekend helped bring me back to a place of peace, a place of appreciation, a place that I constantly wander away from. I got to satisfy being a fan, being a friend, and being a "word that starts with F for business professional." So thanks to the band and the fans, not that either will likely ever see this, and to Jeffree, of course, who is nice enough to take me to all this nonsense and let me have all these ridiculous moments of epiphany and rumination and reverie when I probably should just be enjoying a good ol' 4 on the floor.

I think what I mean to say in all of this is that I had a good time.

The AFI show was good, as I was sure it was going to be. It was at some college basketball stadium and was sold out so yay boys! The wind on the freeway getting there was shoving the car around to the point that Jeffree and I were screaming and I was holding the wheel so hard my knuckles actually dislocated (I have this problem a lot) and are swollen and bruised as I type. Does this keep me off the internet? Well, does having a dislocated jaw keep me from talking? Srsly.

So, we run through the blustering wind to the venue. And we're treated like gold. The girl at will call is like "Jeffree, everyone knows who you are. You need an escort." Davey had already sent us someone and she walked us backstage. Not gonna lie, that was a new level and it was kinda neat. Creepy but neat.

However, you can't keep us backstage. Pssh eff that. We walked back for a second to say hi to Smuff, Nillah, and RDub (as they are colloquially known) then we were out so J* could take pics with kids and we could go get water. And out of nowhere is our bodyguard who is like "If you wanted something, I would have just sent one of our runners!" And we're baffled by this. Trust and know, we can walk through a crowd of people and get a bottle of water on our own. I mean, we're self-important assholes but we're not THAT bad.

So we shot some silly vids then went back to the side of the stage as AFI went on. They were stellar, which surprises no one. But I was standing there, feeling kind of jaded and annoyed. Sound backstage at an arena is fucking atrocious. And backstage I feel all awkward singing at the top of my lungs and dancing like a jackass. So I'm just standing there feeling really weird and uncomfortable and I'm thinking of what I'm going to write on LJ later and how no matter what I say, some shitty asshole is going to decide I'm bragging or not appreciating what they'd kill for or I'm trying to start drama somehow and I'm just BUMMIN on fans and music and over-thinking my entire life, as I tend to do sometimes. And all of a sudden, without a word or a note of prompting from the band, the entire place started screaming "THROUGH OUR BLEEDING, WE ARE ONE!" And it just lit up my entire life. Because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter who is banging who and who is gonna talk shit about it and really, really doesn't matter if people who don't know me love me or hate me. It matters that I am there and that I am in love with the music and I am doing what I would have killed for and I got to it honestly and I know that. So I listened to the crowd screaming and let it wash over me and felt regenerated and a little less jaded, for I have been getting fucking jaded recently. The kids who sit on the internet all the time (myself most CERTAINLY included) are such a small part of the overall fan community for any band. Hearing people singing, screaming, being a part of this moment in music together yet each experiencing it individually - that is the 'fandom' I want to be a part of.

Jeffree is kind of the same way as me and after a few songs we were like "fuck this" and went out into the crowd to watch the show. And we wrapped our arms around each other and we sung our little black hearts out and I danced like a jackass by some 13 year old girls and we grinned at each other and put our fists in the air and I enjoyed myself. So thank you, crowd of people I'll likely never see again and band I will see tomorrow, because I really needed that.

After the set closed, we walked back so I could get a cigarette then went back out so J* could take more pictures. I talked with security and shot the shit with them quite enjoyably until they had to bounce all the kids that were with us. We went back to AFI's dressing room and Davey is all "uhhhh my ride bounced on me." After some deliberation as to whether we should take him to his friend's house or our place (as his friend's house was an hour out of our way), I went off to retrieve the car and bring it to artist parking. I ended up getting fucking totally lost, wandering around in the godawful wind, asking security how the fuck I was supposed to get my car up a one way street and a sidewalk to get back to artist. They unblock a route for me and I retrieve Jeffree and Davey. The latter has to duck down while we drive by everyone waiting by the back gate while the former rolls down the fucking window and yells hi. He enjoys giving me mini-heart attacks.

So, we got directions from one of the crew guys and he insisted we go 15 s to 215 n... which we do... and end up in fucking BARSTOW. If you want to find out how fucking far out of the way we went, mapquest Los Angeles and Barstow. Yeah. YEAH. YEAH. I suck. And the BEST part was when, in my totally dark dash as Davey had to point out, the fucking gas light came on. In the middle of the desert. With NOTHING for 25 miles in either direction. Davey is like "uh, if we run out of gas, what exactly are we going to do?" And I'm all "uh, freeze to death, bro." His response, "Cool." Luckily, as my car was seconds away from giving up the ghost we hit "bat country" and a gas station or 12. So yeah, when J* and Davey's video FINALLY uploads to Buzznet and you get to see it - that was shot in a gas station 100 miles in the wrong fucking direction of where we needed to go. Yup. I RULE! This is why we let me drive everywhere!

Oh wait. No. Its because I'm the only one with a fucking car.

Gah.

Anyway, so we are now way the fuck in the wrong way. But whatever. We turn around and keep babbling at each other. Long car rides are kinda the rule when you barely get to see someone. You get forever and a day to talk. I think I was more bummed on the fact that we went the wrong way than anyone else since my fucking hands hurt from all the wind-white-knuckle shit. Davey and Jeffree were kinda totally oblivious to the additional 2 hours of drive time and it actually passed really fast, which shocked me because the ride from Barstow usually sucks so hard its unbelievable.

I managed to only kinda get us lost the rest of the way. Which is to say that I went the wrong way 3 more times. Yup. I did. Not gonna lie. I SUCK at directions tonight.

And now it is 5 am and change. I had my Lullaby time so I'm tired but Jeffree and I are sitting on opposite computers, shouting curse words at each other and dancing in our chairs to Gwen Stefani so sleep may just continue to elude. Oh, also it must be noted that we had a goth dance party on the way there and a rap-off on the way back. BALLIN!!!!!

Naptime. Night!

So, I had dinner with my favorite Buzznet rapscallions, Steve and Karen last night to talk about how to make my little part of the site better and give more cool stuff to you guys. And well... I'm not a model, yo. I'm not trying to be. I'm not a photographer and I'm not trying to be. I'm not a writer either but I do like to write and I think that what I have to say is way more interesting than crappy sidekick pictures of my dinner. So I'm going to start blogging over here just like I've been doing on my LJ for years. They're gonna be long and wordy and about as deep as a puddle but hey - it's only the internet. Read 'em if you like. Skip 'em if you like. I'll still be posting as many ridiculous pictures as ever. So I hope you enjoy the new blogs AND the pictures. And thank you, seriously, for taking the time and effort to wander over to my corner of the internet and see what I'm posting, whatever it is. Thank you.

- Miss E

Meghan needed to go shopping. Meghan sent me stern looks over AIM. All day.

See, between her two jobs, Meghan has no free time. And, as I am the wheels of this operation, I am a necessary component to Meghan being able to get things like toothpaste. So I nabbed her after work and we wandered around the mall. I bought a nifty new frame for artwork TBD and some Warhol prints. Werd.

One of the things she desperately needed was a new 2G flesh tunnel to replace the one she lost since she's had to wear a straw in the hole for a week. If you don't know what a flesh tunnel is, its the type of plug that is hollow and you can see through, like in the pictures of my ears below. Mine are a little bigger than hers, because she is lame.

We stopped at Studio City Tattoo and I decided to FINALLY replace the CBRs that had fallen out while I was riding rollercoasters at 6 flags. I've had belly button rings in my ears for 3 months now! And while I was looking at jewelry, I said 'fuck it'. I've wanted tragus piercings FOREVER and I've been too chicken shit to get them. See, when I got my industrial (which rejected after 2 years, wah) done, it made the most awful crunching sound EVER. Now, this sound (not the pain) put me off ear cartilage holes for a LONG time. I got the two little rings in my right ear and that was fine but I've been a sissy about my traguses. "They're so thick! It's gonna crunch and be so loud because its right by my ear canal! Its gonna hurt REALLY BAD!"

Fuck that.

So I soldiered on up to the chair, even though I REALLY didn't want to. The sound.... oh, the sound! I was so scared of it. Meghan didn't come over to hold my hand. In fact, she wandered over across the street for a while. So I had to go it on my own. And lo and behold, it barely hurt and I was fine. I'm braver than I thought I was. The first one barely hurt at all and was pretty much silent, for which I am grateful for because I might have sissied out and looked like a jackass with only one hole. I lolled my head over to let him do the other ear, which was a little harder. This one made a sound but not a bad one, really. It sounded kinda like what I imagine blood going through your veins sounds like if you could turn up the volume. "Shuuuuuurlp!" It kinda made me giggle. Nick, my piercer, paused to talk to one of his coworkers. Now, if I get tattooed, I don't bleed. (At least, not where I have them.) If you pierce me, I bleed like a fucking stuck pig. So, in the 30 seconds it took him to talk to the dude, my ear was like "GUSH!", making it hard for him to screw the ball on because his fingers were slick with blood. So that one hurt a little when I sat up, because it got jostled. That is also the ear that the shattered bits of cartilage from my jaw (long story) pokes into, so its gonna be a little more of a bitch.

On the whole, though, it was easy. And now I want to go back and start working on my ear projects. I mean, dude, my left ear has 3 HOLES!!!! The other one has 7! I want my spikes and my industrial and my conches and everything else I've been planning. Grr. But I have to take 3 months to soak and heal this bullshit, which I hate about piercings. I'm a fucking nazi about them, too. I soak that shit religiously because my body HATES to heal cartilage.

But score one for me, sucking it up and getting over my fear of getting more ear work done. Because, unless I start piecing my vag, I'm out of anything but ears that I want to pierce.



I'm gonna switch the studs for rings when they heal but studs are easier for me to heal because they'll get caught on my curls less.

Meghan and I determined I'm the most pierced one in the crew. I have 13 currently (lip, nostril, belly button, and all my ear work) and I've had 23 permenant holes in my life and a bunch of play piercings that just stayed in for a few days.

Hello Interwebz! It's time for "Another Lecture on Not Being a Fuckwit" by Miss E.

IF YOU STALK SOMEONE'S AWAY MESSAGES AND GET OFFENDED BY WHAT YOU READ THERE, IT IS YOUR FAULT. Believe it or not, people actually DO NOT write their away messages simply to offend the random stalkerazi psycho uber-fans that add it just to read the away messages. Hell, when MY away messages say "fuck you, leave me alone, I'm sleeping" I am talking to the people who MESSAGE ME. And, if you TALK TO ME, you know that it isn't an angry message, merely me being ridiculous. I drop F bombs like I'm George Bush and my away message is Iraq.

NOW, if you are EXTRA SPECIAL CREEPY and you like to jump to conclusions about people's private lives based on away messages, ask your Special Ed teacher to translate this part for you, because I may be using some words you don't understand, like 'cat'. Are you listening? People put jokes in their away messages. People put stuff about their friends in their away messages. People put where they are in their away messages because it's for our fucking friends. That's why its called a buddy list. SO WHAT if you are a creepy motherfucker and you lurked Alicia's away so you know where Gerard had his birthday dinner? Did you or any of your friends come out? No. If anyone ever actually shows up, would they be thrown out if they bothered MCR? Yes. And we know that. We know you guys are only internet brave but won't actually ever show up and most of you live in fucking Wisconsin so you couldn't. So shut the fuck up. We'll put whatever we want in our away messages. No one makes you read them. In fact, you go out of your way to do so. People go out of their way to call Jeffree a faggot or me a sand nigger or both of us cunts on MySpace. Do you see us deleting our shit or making it private? Fuck no. That is letting that creepy assholes win. I am not letting a bunch of delusional and judgmental sociopaths alter how I live my life.

And when someone puts that they are pregnant in their away message, if you HONESTLY think that not only that it is true and not at all an inside joke but that it is actually intended to upset YOU PERSONALLY then ask a parent, guardian, or other adult to help you pull your FUCKING HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS! You think we're self-important? Fuck, my ego is so big it eclipsed the SUN and I don't think people that I DO NOT KNOW nor have I EVER SPOKEN WITH write something in their away messages just to piss me off! ZOMG Justin Timberlake has 'sidekick luv!' in his away message! CLEARLY, even though I stole his screenname off some random website of celebrity screen names, he MUST know that my sidekick has been broken all week and is doing it SOLELY to piss me off.

Listen to me. STOP jumping to conclusions!!! Stop assuming every single thing we do is aimed at you. Meghan and I probably talk about the lurkers more than the whole crew put together and WE don't even talk about the kids we don't know about BECAUSE WE AREN'T PSYCHIC! How can I talk about you or start shit with you if I DON'T KNOW YOU'RE READING MY SHIT? We talk about how funny Danica was today or how stoked we were to see Tess or how we're going to kidnap Le Ballz Crew and make them live in my closet with my shoes. Why? BECAUSE WE KNOW THEM! Because we consider them friends! Because we talk to them pretty fucking constantly. I've had blanket statements address to lurkers before and it was telling people to respect the away message and not bother me while I'm sleeping. And you know what... THAT WAS STILL ADDRESSED TO THE FUCKING PEOPLE WHO MESSAGE ME. The only time I have EVER 'addressed' the people who lurk and don't talk was that 'marauders of the mousepad' message, which was a default away that was passed around the whole interwebz and put up by everyone because it was FUNNY. And you creepy lurkers got offended because its.... apropos! I'm sorry, is that too big of a word? It means that away message was accurate because you DO stalk away messages, waiting to see if they change. It sucks when its true, huh?

So now that I have egregiously abused my caps lock key, I want you all to go look in the mirror. You say we're self-involved? Well, look at yourself. I don't lurk the away messages of people I don't know. (Except that boy that I like but technically I know him, I'm just too shy to talk to his ass.) And if I did, I wouldn't be so fucking pompous as to assume that an away message is meant specifically to fuck with my head. I don't assume that because I've read a few articles and posted a few conspiracy theories that I know ANYTHING about the people I stalk. And it IS stalking.

I leave my AIM public so I can talk to lurkers. Why? Because some of you have become my friends. (And I did that WAY before WMHC so please choke on a large slice of STFU.) Because people IM me with problems or questions and I want to be available to help. Am I aware that creepy fuckers who make judgment calls about me and make up a whole tale about my life in their heads read my shit obsessively? Yup. Do I think about it? Very, very rarely. Have I ever written something vague just to fuck with people's heads so they can feel all cool on the MCRmy boards? Nope. Does the person out of all of us who is the least tech-savvy even THINK about any of this at all ever? Nope. So shut the goddamn hell up.

If you don't like me, ignore me. Don't IM me, don't read my aways, don't read my LJ, don't click on my buzznet, don't go to my myspace, don't go to WMH.com. If you love me and think I'm great, talk to me and get to know me so you know what I'm really like. But please be respectful of my time and my life and the fact that I am not personally on call to talk to YOU 24/7 because I am, in fact, a real person with a real life and a real job. And, whether you talk to me or just stalk me, don't assume you know ANYTHING about my life or my friends beyond what little we tell you. You are NOT entitled to know anything about the bands you love beyond what they choose to tell you. You are not entitled to know anything about US beyond what we choose to tell you. Don't assume that everything we post or say or do is to offend YOU. Don't read into myspace headlines or away messages. (My friends only makes a joke about alimony being a business expense. Clearly, I'm trying to make you fuckwits think I am actually Jessica Simpson in drag and I'm starting drama for Team Nick. Clearly. Comma.) YOU want to make us bitches or saints and YOU intepret our actions as such. It is YOUR fault you're sitting at your keyboard offended or ecstatic. You willingly are reading this and you willing sought out whatever forum you found this rant on. I didn't come to your house and stand in your front yard and yell this to you. Take some fucking responsibility.

Don't believe everything you read on the internet. Don't think that you can read an interview and suddenly extrapolate conclusions about the friends of the friends of the band. (Remember when Revolver tried to make it look like Jeffree was a super fan that Davey hated? Yup, CLEARLY, Davey hates him AND me and we had a fistfight at Swingers last week. Clearly. Comma.)

Just stop assuming, stop stalking, and FUCK OFF.

And, for God's sake, on April 1st look at the goddamn calendar. Because when I post a notice that I'm pregnant with Jeffree Star's child and somewhere, in the vast reaches of the internet, some J* fan forum goes buck wild... well, they don't call it April Fools for nothing, folks.

Submitted for the approval of the Midafternoon Society...

The Tale of Mike Cannon and How Living Well Is The Best Fucking Revenge
or
Its the End of the Week and I've Made Every Phone Call To Every Management Company Possible and now I'm Bored Off my Ass

Once upon a time, in the land of Worcester, Massachusetts there lived a girl by the name of 80s. 80s kinda liked this nickname because she did like the 80s an awful lot but she felt weird about it because she knew it was actually a mean nickname given to her by the boys in her grade who wanted to make fun of her.

But it was a better nickname than Eli, which was a shortening of her name so horrible and unacceptable and wrong that she pretended to think I was the greatest nickname EVER so no one would call her that EVER AGAIN.

80s attended one of the richest, most illustrious private schools in the country. To be a day student in middle school (boarding was more expensive, as was high school) was more expensive than Harvard tuition. However, her parents wanted her to have the very best education and so they figured out how to afford it.

Her classmates used to make fun of her for being the 'poor' kid because she didn't wear Prada and her mother drove a Dodge instead of a Lexus. This annoyed 80s greatly as both of her parents came from real poverty and fought to get to where they were so she had an appreciation for economic struggle. Her school was in the center of one of the worst parts of Worcester and, when the students walked down the block to their brand new 5.4 million dollar sports field (the cost of which was printed exuberantly wherever the school board could put it), they had to walk past kids barely older than them nursing infants. Her fellow students would laugh at them and congratulate themselves for being rich. And when they were assigned community service associating with the unwashed masses horrified everyone.

80s did not fit in. 80s felt bad for people who didn't have what she had and knew it was just genetic luck that got her born into a family that could afford Worcester Academy instead of a ramshackle 3-decker across the street. 80s liked community service, although she would only volunteer at the youth center after she spent a whole year volunteering at Saint Vincent's hospital talking to old people and had several of them that she had come to love pass away. 80s didn't care about fancy cars or nice clothes. 80s liked school and comic books and heavy metal.

In 7th grade, there had only been 6 girls and 6 boys in her whole grade. All of the preteen boys banded together, as boys were wont to do. And of the girls, there was the tomboy (who got to hang out with the boys on probationary status), the popular girl, the hot girl, the school spirit girl, and the deaf girl (who got made fun of for 2 weeks until they realized she couldn't hear to be offended and thus, it wasn't any fun.)

This left 80s as The Weird Girl. And she was. To pass dress code but still be comfortable, she wore black leggings under a giant baggy sweater every day. This was not a good fashion statement. 80s knew nothing of the girly arts of makeup or proper dress and, even though she had many outfits, she always managed to put them together in the most garish combinations possible. She was friends with two Juniors who were even more socially outcast than she was and they formed a Role Playing club which was the ultimate social suicide.

80s was great to play tricks on. If you were nice to her for even a moment, she'd smile and put aside all the mean things that you did to her... and you could do more! The Middler boys took joyous advantage of this to lure her into places like the science closet and lock her in with all the dead frogs. (The dead frogs didn't scare 80s. Being locked in a closet for 3 hours until the janitor found her did.) They also loved to pick her up bodily and shove her into the dumpsters outside the student center or throw rocks at her and chase her until she ran up a tree that they couldn't climb then keep her pinned there so everyone could come make fun of her. And the girls were worse, with their cutting comments that every girl knows.

7th grade was not a very good time for 80s. Not at all. Her family was fighting all the time. Her mother had been assaulted by a patient at the mental hospital where she worked and now had brain and back damage. Her mood swings became wildly irrational and she and her daughter fought nearly constantly. Seeing his wife hurting and his daughter miserable, her father was also a powder keg. And when 80s started bringing home horrible grades because of her treatment at school, they would have vicious fights. When she tried to turn to her teachers, they just ignored what she told them about the other students. They were the sons and daughters of privilege and thus were above being disciplined. 80s was told, in no uncertain terms, to shut up and deal.

So, by 8th grade, 80s was spending her $100/week allowance solely on alcohol. She did not buy lunch at the school cafeteria with it. She did not spend it in the arcade. She did not buy clothing or even comic books. She had 4 different seniors that she gave $25 each every week to buy her as much Smirnoff as possible. As she didn't know anyone who drank, it didn't occur to her that vodka could be mixed with anything so she drank it straight from the bottle like she'd read about in her Metallica unauthorized biographies. She drank all day, from when she got up in the morning to when she slept at night, if she slept at all. Her grades crashed and she went into a downward spiral. She didn't shower for weeks at a time (and certainly smelled worse than Caty Sumner) and when she did, she'd often cry in the shower because her hair was so matted and dreaded from not being cared for that she had to rip out great chunks to comb it out. If she had known of the Bell Jar, she would have echoed its sentiments. What was the point of eating, shitting, sleeping, washing your face? You'd just have to do it again the next day.

In short, 80s was miserable. Utterly, soul-crushingly miserable. Her summer had been long and lonely, filled with vodka and bruises and nights spent sleeping in the cemetery up the street from her house to get some peace and fucking quiet. But 8th grade night be different! Sure, the whole school hated her but they had new students that year and SURELY one of them would be a freaky weirdo, too!

Hope loomed on the first day, at the 'retreat'. Every year, the middle school girls and boys went on a retreat to 'Trust Camp'. They did activities together to build 'community' and 'unity' like dropping 80s during trust falls or not holding 80s safety rope so she fell off the rope walk 10 feet to the ground or partnering up with everyone but 80s so she was left standing; drunk and alone in the dirt at this stupid, hypocritical camp, getting yelled at for not having a partner and not 'wanting to be a team player'.

As she was standing at the end of the line by herself, trying to figure out how the fuck she was supposed to magic a stupid partner for the final stupid event out of the stupid air so she could leave this stupid camp and go back to her stupid home, she noticed a new boy standing near her. And to her shock and amazement, he turned around and smiled at her. "Um, hey. Do you have a partner?" he asked her.

She shook her head and backed up in case he decided to throw rocks.

"Um, me neither. Wanna be my partner?" he asked.

She shook her head and backed up more.

The boy hung his head at getting rejected and kicked a rock. 80s jumped about a foot. "Um, ok. Nevermind then."

She tugged on his sleeve a moment later. "Um, I'll be your partner. Sorry."

"It's cool. Are you good at climbing trees?" he asked.

She grinned. He had no idea.

80s and Mike Cannon won the very final event of Trust Camp to her overwhelming joy.

Mike Cannon was 16. Mike Cannon had just been released from juvvie. Mike Cannon's mother drove a station wagon and he had to share a bedroom with his brother because his parent's couldn't afford a bigger house! In short, he was everything that WA wasn't.

He was perfect.

And 80s loved him.

At first, they got along famously. 80s was a bit of a tomboy although she didn't quite get sports. Mike thought the rich arrogance of their classmates was a joke and would always talk about how they'd all get beaten up in 'the Real World.' He told her about juvvie and she bought him alcohol and cigarettes. They'd sit in his car and listen to Metallica.

What 13 year old girl wasn't going to fall for the rough-and-tumble, handsome older bad boy that was sensitive and sweet with her and defended her from the legion of bullies?

What 16 1/2 year old boy wants to hang out with a 13 year old girl that plays D&D and thinks a quarterback is a basketball position even though she is on the basketball team?

In retrospect, it makes sense. In the moment, 80s had no idea what was really coming.

It has been mentioned above that 80s was sort of sweetly naive. She wanted to believe the best of people and, though she had learned her other classmates never meant well, she trusted Mike. So when he started teasing her, often more viciously than the others since he knew her better, she didn't understand. When he'd ask to meet her places then wouldn't show and instead she'd get jumped by the middle boys, she just assumed they waylaid him somehow.

She didn't want to believe her only friend was fast becoming her worst tormentor.

The winter dance rolled around and Mike asked 80s to be his date. Blushing, she assented. She stood in the shower for 2 hours getting the mats out of her hair, got her mom to take her to a salon to style her locks and apply makeup, and skipped down the stairs in a brand new dress. She waited on those steps for hours but Mike never showed to pick her up like he promised. She begged her mother, who knew her baby girl had been stood up but didn't have the heart to tell her, to take her to the dance.

When she arrived, 80s located Mike standing by the punch bowl with all the other boys, the Hot Girl by his side. "Hey Mike?" she asked. "Um, did you forget to pick me up?" she asked, having a bad feeling.

He laughed at her and everyone else laughed along. "I can't believe you'd show your ugly face here! Did you have your Mom drive you? Are you stupid? I'd never take a girl like you to the dance! You're ugly! And I hate you!" Everyone laughed harder.

And the girl who would grow up to be Me ran away crying.

That memory sucks. I mean, seriously, that's some Carrie shit. And, having teachers that wouldn't listen to me, parents I was fighting with, and no friends meant I had no one to talk to about it. So I cried and I drank and I cut myself and I was MISERABLE. But life goes on.

See why I say there is NO amount of money you could ever pay me to do Middle School over again?

Years later.... 2004, in fact, when I was at my most hot and toned and looking totally rad if I do say so myself and I do, I went home for Warped tour. I have to say, if I was gonna go home and run into people, that is totally the way I want to do it. For the record.

So Warped was in bumfuck nowhere that year and we stopped at a diner/truck stop on the way home to get food after nearly crashing my [dad's] car. And as we were eating and chatting, I hear "Elissa?"

And I turn around. It takes me a moment to remember his face and name. "Mike?" You're kidding, right?

"Wow. It is you! How are you?"

Well, I was great until I saw you just now. "I'm great. How are you?"

"Uh, good. Do you live around here?"

"No. I live in Hollywood." Go, cold cutting LA tone, go!

"Oh. Oh wow! What are you doing out there?"

"I work for a recording studio." Lets not mention I'm only a runner.

"Wow! Really?"

"Yeah. Really." Dick.

"So... are you home visiting? Do you live around here?"

You already asked that. "No. I live outside of Worcester. We're just here to see Warped Tour. We're on the way home. What are you doing out here?"

"Oh. I, uh, work here. I'm the cook."

"Oh." WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN!!!!!!!!!

"So.... uh, listen. Are you, you know... in town for a while? I'd really like to hang out with you."

Did you just check out my tits, you fucking skeeze? "No. Sorry. I leave in a few days and I'm busy. Could you bring me another Coke, though? Thanks."







WIN.

And that's the tale. I took a lot of shit in grade school and high school. I got the worst of it in middle school. And, uniformly, the people that were fucking bastards to me are working at Payless Shoesource or Denny's, despite all that money. The ones from middle school (since they had more money) have more illustrious careers... that have fallen into ruin, across the board. One just got sued for medical malpractice, one is just got kicked out of college because you can only be an undergrad for 7 years before they boot you, and 3 are in various stages of ugly divorces. And for some reason, when I run into them, they feel the need to tell me about it. Maybe because, no matter how mean they were to me, I was always nice back.

I'm not always nice, like a said an entry before. I probably shouldn't think its so damn great that these people who were horrid to me years ago got a karmic slap. But its validation to be that I somehow did something right when, at the time, I thought I was doing it all wrong. Maybe I'll fall on my face and they'll all laugh at me. Lord knows it won't be the first time.

But until that moment, I'm going to smile and know that living well is the best revenge. I didn't have to Columbine or Carrie it. I got out of there and am doing something I love and I'm pretty happy. I didn't have to 'avenge' myself against the people who hurt me because they ruined themselves. The Boston rumor mill still functions and I know they hear about me just like I hear about them. And that is the best revenge - to know that they have to hear that, despite everything, I am still a freaky weirdo with no fashion sense who reads comic books and likes learning and I'm damn successful doing it. I can't think of a better revenge than that.

So suck on that, padre!