And so it goes

It's 2:40 am but I don't want to go to bed.

So much going through my mind. When I think back about what I have to thank for my state of mind it all comes back to the drugs. Thank God for drugs. Sometimes you just need a little help. There's nothing wrong with that and fuck anyone who says otherwise. Fuck them and their poor, normal lives.

I've spent a lot of this week drunk. I didn't plan for it to be that way. It's just one of those weeks. Karaoke on Monday night turned into an unexpected drunkfest. I met a hot young thing at Last Exit and then a severly hot former lover walked in and flirted with me for an hour and then a hot possibly soon-to-be-lover walked in. When it rains it pours, and I've been living in a drought. My heart is aching for something just out of reach.

Tuesday was a "date" with the hot-young-thang. Little boys are still really into bar hopping. Why leave the bar we're already at? It's a brewry for chrissake. Jesus. He just knows nothing about anything and by anything I mean life and I don't feel like spending my time playing teacher.

Wednesday I spent with a former lover of mine drinking cerveza, enoying the pool, and watching some fantastic Showtime shows. Alas, this evening left me wanting. I think Thursday was a dry day and, funny enough, a day when I most needed a drink. Today found me at happy hour at Four Peaks with some good friends and some wicked strong beer on an empty stomach. Also cameos by both my ex boyfriends. Exactly. I spent the rest of the evening drinking my cousin Ryan's wine with Jodi and Jason and then capped off my night at Last Exit with a SoCo and Cran. I didn't want to leave the bar either but I had no right spending any money there at all. I just thought I would pop in and see what a Friday night is like there now that the ownership has changed. Yeah, not that good. Sometimes you just don't want the night to end. In my case it was not wanting to go back to my empty apartment I've been holed up in because it's too fucking hot to go outside.

I don't want to sleep until one but I have nothing to get up for. My room is a stye, my heart is bruised, and my wallet is empty. Ain't life grand.

Assumptions & Inuendos

I have a huge rack.

Big McLarge Huge. All real, all me, thanks Mom & Dad, thanks God & nature.

I don't know what it is about having large breasts that makes strangers think they can make certain comments to me like, "You have huge boobs!" Or really, any kind of sexual inuendo. Maybe it's breasts of any kind that make people (men) talk about them. I don't know. Mine have been at least a D since I was 18 so I've been dealing with this for a while now.

And more than the comments it's the assumption and insinuation that because I have huge boobs I must be a slut, easy, get around, hook up with guys all the time. This is the utmost in falacies. In other words, WRONG. How does the size of my chest give anyone any kind of indication of my interaction with men? Yes, I may recieve a lot of typically unwated attention from men because of them that doesn't mean I am boning every dude that talks to me because of them. It's obsurd to think otherwise.

I am highly selective. Highly. I don't hook up with guys. I don't do one-night stands. I don't make out with random guys. If I'm touching you, consider yourself lucky. If I'm making out with you, consider yourself quite special. If I'm naked in bed with you consider yourself blessed. If I'm dating you? Son, you won the jackpot. Now I don't say that to be cocky. I don't think I'm better than anyone else, I simply know I'm rad. I am awesome. Everyone should think of themselves as awesome and a catch. I am one of those people. And I don't let just anyone touch me let alone see me sans clothes, let alone date me.

I also don't understand the connection between a large chest and the assumption that the owner is void of intellect. AKA DUMB. I mean, maybe I do, when you see so many women running around with huge, fake tits and they don't seem to have a lot going on upstairs. I didn't buy these, motherfucker, and don't insult me by asking if they're real upon first meeting me. I don't appreciate being pegged by a stereotype I don't resemble in the least. I know it's human nature I just wish that people would be less jackassy. It's insulting.

I also have this problem when I tell people I'm an actress. They say, "Oh" as if they already have me pegged. You don't. When I tell people I'm an actor they correct me: "You mean actress." Do you call a female doctor a doctorette? No. You don't. Once, when I got the "Oh" response from a man I told I was an actress, I went on to say I have a Bachelors Degree in Philosophy and he honestly said to me, "Oh, so you're smart?" Wow. Yeah. Thanks, assface. It's as if people stop listening to me after they hear the word "actress". They ignore anything else I may say or do. Again, stereotypes fall into play here. People must think "flaky, dramatic, stripper, bimbo" when they hear "actress". Funny, that's not what I think when I look at actresses like Kate Winslet, Kate Blanchet, Meryl Streep...

The ultimate combo of having huge boobs and being an actress is everyone thinks I do porn. At a bar in Santa Barbara one night I told an older man who was hitting on me that I was a movie extra. He said, "X rated movies?" First of all, when was the last time you saw an extra in a porn? Second of all NO! I DON'T DO PORN! Just because I have huge boobs doesn't mean I do porn! Jesus! I have a Bachelors Degree in theatre! I've been on stage for 20 years! I've done movies and extra work! I READ BOOKS!!!

I've had people tell me maybe I shouldn't tell people I'm an actress, or I should leave that out of online profiles and the like. I say bullshit. This is who I am and if people, or men, can't handle the fact that I like to act then they can walk on by. I'm not your typical actress, either. And if, in looking at my online profile or actually talking to me, someone's going to dismiss me and everything else about me because I'm an actress then screw 'em. I don't need 'em. I'm not stupid enough to confuse what I do with who I am.

Act, think, dream, live. Hoist those tatas high and keep shunning the nonbelievers.

Saint Valentine's Day Noir

From February 16, 2009

Valentine's Day was quite fantastic.

I took a trip to San Francisco for the book release party for San Fransico Noir 2: The Classics, a collection of noir short stories, one of which is penned by Mr. Craig Clevneger. Craig intended to spend the afternoon writing but we ended up talking for hours and then watching a really obscure and fantastic British TV show from the early 90s. Awesome. We went looking for food and ended up at this tiny cafe that serves crepes. I've never had a crepe with anything but Nutella, and only from a street vendor in Paris. I had no idea there was such a variety. I had one with smoked turkey, cheese and cranberries. Wow. So damn good.

We gussied up and walked down the couple of blocks to the Ha-Ra Club and it was packed. Tiny, but packed, with a jazz saxaphonist playing. The bartender was very W.C. Fields and a complete character. Craig had some friends there already and 3 of us ordered drinks and when the bartender brought them over he said, "I hope you all get the clap." Oh my God, we were rolling on the floor. He told another guy at the other end of the bar, "I'll get to you in a day or two." Priceless.

The evening started out a bit slow and there were times I felt like I was at a class lecture and the room was just silent. Craig seemed a bit nervous as he didn't warm up and prepare the way he usually does and he was worried that the audience was already comatose. I told him not to worry, his work was great and he has a great voice and is entertaining and egaging and he will be fabulous. The host started to introduce him and as he made his way to the mic one of the other authors, a tall bald former PI who has tea cup poodles and is a total riot, came right over and said to me, "You have excellent taste in men." Damn straight.

His reading was fantastic. The audience laughed and he made jokes and they were riveted. The story, The Numbers Game, is fucked up but in such a great way and very noir. Which is a good thing as it's a noir collection. His name is on the front cover next to Jack London and Mark Twain. Not bad company. Or Bad Company. At one point I yelled for some Free Bird. He recieved thunderous applause and yells and when the readings were over he made his rounds signing copies and shaking hands and meeting fans new and old. A little troupe of us walked back up the street to Route 101 and had cocktails and laughed and had delicious conversation. I felt like I knew these people for years the way we all just hit it off, and I recieved many demands to move to the city. Our glasses clinked on through the night.

(This reel missing)

In the morning we sat and talked and played with the kitties Ralph and George until one, and we meandered down the street to have lunch at Tommy's. So much food, so good, so cozy. Then Craig took me to City Lights Bookstore. OhmyGodOhmyGodohmyGod. Be still my Beating heart. Three floors. The kid behind the counter had been the kid behind the table selling the anthology the night before. We wandered the store and he picked up three copies of the anthology, one which was for me. We spent my last few hours next door at Vesuvio which was THE Beat bar, and had a very Tombstoney feel to me, and drank and talked and talked and talked as the rain poured down and into the window next to us on the second floor.

George - "had eyes the color of a gas flame and this unwavering, blinkless blue stare, like he could bend metal with his mind."

Ralph - "was a leaden stump of orange fur. I never saw Ralph move from his spot on Skinner's balcony, not once, but I never saw the same pile of feathers beside him either.

San Fran is one hell of a town. When I told my dad Craig lives in the Tenderloin he said, "Oh my GOD. How many guns does he own?" It's probably not the safest part of town, it's true. But it was bustling and full of creative people. It rained all day yesterday and kicking it at the airport was awesome. My flight was delayed almost 4 hours. I truly miss the pre-911 days when friends could see you all the way to the gate. We could have hung out for a few more hours. Thank God the plane showed up earlier than expected. I still got in at around 1:30 this morning. At least I'm more than half way through Steve Martin's autobiography now. Sky Mall catalouge. Bonus! I'm looking forward to another trip to the city.

Happy Valentine's Day to you, darlin'!