Giddy Girlie

I was an only, but I was never lonely. I learned to amuse myself at an early age, and being the only kid "mature" enough to venture out as a tag-along to adult dinner parties and the like, I took in a lot of information. Sitting on the far side of the living room, nose in a Beverly Cleary book, I took lots of mental notes. I saw the way the ladies sat, ankles crossed. The way the men would run to refresh their wine coolers, then return smelling distinctly of skunk and with eyes as red as spanish peanuts. I figured out a lot about how the world worked at a very tender age. I always knew about my father's philandering. About my mother's quiet suffering. About which people clearly didn't belong in certain social circles, and how a swimming pool or a good drug dealer can change all of that. Even as a tiny tot, I had it down pat. The explanations, the arguments, the defenses that worked.

One such example : I was 3 or 4 years old, and my mother and aunt had forced my cousin Eric to play with me. Being 5 years older, Eric had absolutely no interest in chasing around a preschooler, but eventually resigned to the fact that he had to. Instantly, I grew smug with the knowledge that he was being made to play. Forced to make me happy. He created a game of "cops and robbers" that involved rubber band guns that left a distinct sting on your heinie or arm, where ever they landed. After one pelt by the rubber band, I decided that I needed the bigger gun. He and I squabbled a bit over why he should have the bigger gun (older, bigger, wiser) versus why I should have it (I said so). After bickering for a good 5 minutes, I delivered an ultimatum : hand over the gun, or I'll put my gum in your hair.

Eric stood his ground, defiantly coaxing me "do it... go ahead" so... I did. And I smashed it in good. I wiped all the stickiness from my fingers all around the crown of his head. Mashed his bangs deep into the gum, which was stringy and purple.

When he finally got over his amazement, he ran to his mother, upset. I hid in the bedroom, unsure of what punishment would come to me for this one... instead I heard the two women in the kitchen justify to him that I was "just a little kid" and that I didn't "know any better" and 5 minutes and a forced "sorry, Eric" later I was off the hook. Eric, however, was in the back yard getting his hair buzzed.

Posted by giddygirlie at 6:02 PM | Permalink

While I'm not 100% sold on any of the current contenders (poor Ralph Nader, go home and rest... don't become a Republican pawn!!) I can tell you that my vote firmly lies outside of the Bush campaign. I am part of a new breed of middle class poor, held down by the politics of the current White House that looks after only it's most elite citizens.  I live in a country where 3 million children went to bed hungry last night, and the prospects for today aren't looking much better, and yet the extremely wealthy found loopholes in the tax codes to avoid paying money to the government for their luxury items.

What I am is an ABBA. ABBA is a group formed to get everyone out to vote, no matter who it's for. The only message is : Anything But Bush Again

Posted by giddygirlie at 9:11 AM | Permalink

When my mother remarried, she moved me out of the city and into a tiny rural canyon in Orange County. Next to the National Forest, it's a sleepy town with little more than a few houses and the occassional trailer home. The center of town (8 miles down a windy road) is comprised of a small general store, a one-room public library, an even smaller post office and a restaurant that is eternally changing ownership and closed for remodelling. I never took to "canyon life" and couldn't wait to escape to the "city" at every opportunity. Immediately after high school, I took an apartment in an urban area and never looked back. I always felt differently, because I was always a city girl at heart, who was just living in the wrong place for a while. The other kids in the canyon have a totally different challenge. They grew up in the creek beds and dusty mining trails of the canyon and don't know anything of the "big city" and most of them are faced with a disturbing surprise upon entering high school and being bussed to Orange. So many hit the ground running, trying always to catch up... drinking and drugs, sex and violence... trying to experience it all as fast as possible, in an attempt to disguise the fact that they are "canyon people" - the red necks of Orange County. Jamie was just such a girl.

Jamie was our urchin child. Always running through the canyon in bare feet. Ponytail askew, frizzled and twisted like she'd been sweeping the sidewalk with it. She was the girl with a lizard in her grimy fist or a tadpole in a bottle. After her mother left and her father moved next door to us, she became my second little sister. She and Shaina were inseparable. If she didn't sleep over at our house, she'd arrive early in the morning. It became such a routine, that my mother didn't even blink and tossed both little girls into the tub at 7am and shampooed everyone at once. After bathing and brushing, my mother would dress the two alike. Whenever we'd shop for Shaina, my mom would drape 2 of everything over her arm... the two tiny blonde babies would skitter about the neighborhood, up a tree, over the creek, down a trail in matching pink baby doll dresses with daisy trim.

As they grew older, Jamie was always the instigator. Living alone with her dad allowed her more freedom that my own sister. The two would sneak off to smoke cigarettes swiped from their dads, test out red lipstick, and crank call boys.

Last night, Jamie stopped as my brother rode by on his bike. Always one to lend a kind word to the "little kids" who were looking up to the older, cooler kids, she stopped and chatted. Complimented his bike, asked about his trip to Disneyland. He rode his bike along side her as she walked to her house, and saw her off safely.

News came early this morning. Jamie never woke up this morning, an apparent overdose. The whole neighborhood is in mourning. Every twisted canyon road is lined with neighbors hugging and crying. The small town has come out, all 200 inhabitants, to share their grief and mourn the loss of another small town girl running to fast to try and catch up with the big city.

Posted by giddygirlie at 2:10 PM | Permalink

Today I came home from work sick (I'm doing my best not to breathe on the monitor, I suggest you do the same) and took a nap. God, that was heavenly. But when I woke up I was all anxious... like my idle hands were screeching for something to do. Did I pick up a mop? A vacuum? A swiffer even? no.

Instead, I decided now was a good time to scrapbook. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know... I need another project like I need a hole in my head. I already have 2 half-knitted scarves by the side of my bed and 6 embroidery projects scattered around. I have the sewing machine set up on the dining room table from when I hemmed my jeans last week, and neat piles of hotel brochures sitting on the coffee table from my convention (ahem, in June).  Regardless, I dove right in. I grabbed my "fancy" scissors and the regular kind and the bursting envelope of vacation pictures and plopped myself in the middle of the living room floor.

After a 2 hours of cropping and slicing, I had to get up and stretch saying the famous last words "I'll clean that up tomorrow, I'm still working on it". I have every intention of working on it again tomorrow... but the reality is that it will sit there in a mess until at least Saturday, when I'll have the time to clean up after myself.

If you showed up unannounced, this is what you'd see : dead roses on the front porch, sewing bric-a-brac on the table, the coffee table piled up with with brochures, a floor full of scrapbook trash and a stack of pictures of me in NY, and the clean, folded laundry on the couch. Dude, it's embarrassing, so please call first. And give me at least an hour head-start.

Posted by giddygirlie at 9:59 PM | Permalink

• giving Lou Ferigno a high-five while walking by (Ryan)
• encounters with herds of Spidermen
• half nekkid sluts (courtesy of Adult Comics)
• John & Rosey's hotel reservation being cancelled due to overbooking, causing 3 stages of grief : 1. anger 2. swearing 3. saying fuck it and going to Vegas saturday night instead
• black armpits from my new black shirt
• attack of the killer tomatoes tattoo (Mia)
• meeting a super duper Kung Fu master (literally) who is a celebrity bodyguard and also one of my favorite new friends (Dave)
• laughing at the sign "$85 to meet Mark Hammil, $35 to meet Val Kilmer **note, ticket purchase does not guarantee that you will actually get to meet celebrities. No refunds. Absolutely NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY!!! If you want to have something autographed, you must ask permission first. Items such as photographs, toys, and collectibles may not be autographed"
• Chris sitting on the IDW panel next to Will Eisner
• freebies
• Thomas Jane (the Punisher) asking for a copy of Chris's script

Posted by giddygirlie at 10:31 PM | Permalink

Fuck your precious baby... my sign will say :

Breadwinner on Board

Posted by giddygirlie at 11:43 PM | Permalink

Crime Lab Studios isn't getting it's own booth (a combination of finances, laziness, and the fact that the only "together" person in the bunch just had a baby and is thereby excused from looking out for the rest of us) this year, so we're all tacking on to our parent companies - those being the companies that sign the paychecks. Danny Miki, Allen Martinez, & Victor Olazaba will likely make the rounds doing autograph sessions and such - check your programs for times & locations.

We will be exhibiting with Todd MacFarlane/Spawn this year, although I doubt we'll be at the booth much. Ryan's not scheduled for any autograph sessions (he's still a grom) so we're free to spend the days how we please*. Mostly, we'll be soliciting work... trying to get Ryan some more full time gigs... you know how it is. Big Pimpin'. That means that we won't be in the actual booth a whole lot, but you can probably find me there hanging out in the back, knitting.  Except for the hour of 12pm - 1pm on Saturday, during which you can find me waiting in line to snap a picture with the Coreys. Yes, you read that right... we're just one step from voting Feldman-Haim!

If any of you can make it Friday night is the infamous dinner at the Old Town Mexican Cafe, which is where we hold our banquet. Thanks to the freakshows at Atomic Basement who always keep track of who is where and how many people, etc. It's sure to be a margarita-fueled good time, that goes all night... generally, about half the group migrates back to the Gaslamp District to be seen at the various parties and such. If you stick by Danny Miki, you can get into all of them - from the Top of the Hilton parties thrown by the big boys (Marvel, D.C., etc.) to the funky costume fiestas and the cocktail receptions... whatever you're looking for, it's there!!

So, in case you didn't read this proficiently enough : PLEASE COME AND KEEP ME COMPANY... SOMEONE... ANYONE!!

p.s. I love you
 

*drunk and eating popsicles by the bay

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Tonight in the bath, I re-read a few of my favorite essays, one of which is "Punks in LA : It's Kiss or Kill" by Jon Lewis. If you're at all interested in the LA punk scene of the late 70's, this essay is very interesting. Pair it up with Penelope Spheeris' "Decline of Western Civilization" documentary [for good measure, watch the whole trilogy] and you should feel up to speed. And smack dab into the center of my childhood.

Two of the quotes that I underlined in the book :

"Punk surfaced in Los Angeles in the late seventies as a curious blend of anarchy and anomie - as one last desperate attempt for white, urban, lower middle class youths to dramatically express their distaste for a society that had long since expressed its disinterest in them... No youth movement before or since has laid so bare the desperation residing at the heart of the now failed urban American dream."

"It is just unfortunate that punk, as with all other youth movements, has been annexed into mainstream popular culture, and, as is so often the case, it has resurfaces as far less threatening and far less politically important to those too young or too rick or too suburban to really understand what the movement meant less than a decade past."

Posted by giddygirlie at 9:31 PM | Permalink

Then I also thought about how weird it has to be to actually BE a super-scary-icon-type-guy like Rob Zombie. I mean he can never just slack off and tie his hair into a ponytail - he'll get beat up. So he HAS to paint his face and dread his hair and sew his eyes shut or whatever... at least I have the option of wearing pajamas to the grocery store and blending in with the other nerds.

Plus, can you get a clear mental image of a guy like him sitting down to breakfast? Just chowing on a bowl of cheerios or something? I don't think I could resist laughing if I saw a thing like that.

Posted by giddygirlie at 12:08 PM | Permalink

Tonight, I saw the episode for 1993, which reminded me of so many things forgotten... not to mention the Bee Girl from the Blind Melon video.

Personally, I always thought she was cute and loved her part in the video. Of course, I am probably skewed somehow, since I know Heather, who was the Bee Girl. She's a friend's little sister.

Another 90's factoid for you : she's not the same gal from the album cover. She's an actress that was hired for the video only.

Anyway, go back to loving your decades in 30 minute incriments, people. Chop! Chop!

Posted by giddygirlie at 10:30 PM | Permalink

She wrangled one into the bed, strong armed the other onto the couch. Then chose the armchair to curl up and sleep herself. The alarm was set for 3 o'clock. Plenty of time to get them dressed and ready and haul them down to the boat.

3:30pm Rosey dragged them both out of their stupor and buttoned their cuffs while they smoked a joint. Handing them toothbrushes with paste already on them, she rushed them through the door and out to the dock. Standing at the slip, the two of them giggled too much and shouted "dude" at each other too many times. She found a railing to steal a quick rest, where she sat, never letting them out of sight. Rosey also herded together the rest of the boys when they arrived. Creased pleats can do so much for a punk with spiky hair.

She helped set the tables, carried the flowers, pinned a fallen curl. What I realized at the end of it all was that I probably should have married Rosey!

Instead, I got this one... and I love him even still. Happy Anniversary, Ryan.

Posted by giddygirlie at 12:53 PM | Permalink

An Excerpt :

I am sorry about today...I hope you will still be my friend and not have to blog harshly about me tonight.

Posted by giddygirlie at 8:57 PM | Permalink

It was the perfect day - warm weather, cool pool, pirate costumes, treasure chests, citrus Smirnoff, BBQ, Mario Kart Double Dash, and fireworks galore!

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