No Woman Can Resist a Man that Looks Good in a Speedo

So, yeah. If anyone's noticed I've deleted the behemoth of an excerpt from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance because in retrospect, even I wouldn't bother to scroll through that.

Also, I got rid of the post flaunting my ability to kick proverbial ass because apparently more people scan this blog over than I thought.
People who are not phased by my anonymous referencing and thus would be inclined to let any referenced parties know that they are being referenced.

On a separate note, I'm leaving town. That sentence alone makes me happy and excited. Hopefully by the time I arrive at Amherst, happy and excited will have made it's way over to "fuckin' pumped".

I wish you all a great summer. And remember, don't forget to bring a towel.

Uh Oh, Here Comes the Resolve Face

Alright someone needs to start talking me down from my desire to get a tattoo.
Right now.

Now I'm not what you would call a determined person. Hence my sedentary lifestyle and overall lazy outlook.

But once I get the idea in my head about something like a piercing, there ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no river wide enough to keep me from getting it.
Which brings us to the sneaking out to Greenwich Village one fine day last summer to get a few piercings that my mother strongly advised warned threatened against.
Though I was luckily able to come to senses before I got the mappa tassie involved, it was a close call.

So now I've been sitting here since I got home from yet another 3 hour exam, pondering and searching for what would look pretty branded into my flesh forever and ever.

This could be a problem.

Oh well, as long as I stop before I start to look like Bif Naked a couple members of my family might be dissuaded from permanently disowning me.

Tattoo Parlors and Pop Culture and Botticelli, Oh my

I have my tongue pierced.
Like so:



And no, it's not for that extra umph in the art of fellatio. But because I've wanted to have a metal bar rammed in my tongue since I was about 12 years old.
You could call me an unusual child.

But despite my friendly view of body piercing, tattoos have always been a whole 'nother ball game.

To me, piercings are far less permanent than say, branding yourself with ink for all eternity. You take out the bar, the hole closes up and worst case senario is you're stuck with a little scar.

Getting a tattoo is far more daunting. I sometimes think that people fail to realize that shit's gonna be there forever unless you're keen on the idea of sizzling off your skin until the ink isn't visible anymore.

However as of late I've been considering the prospect of a tattoo a little more seriously.
Though I've always had my eye out for something that "speaks to me" and have been a true appreciator of the body art of others, I never really thought that I'd end up getting a tattoo.

My belief is that you should find something that you want a tattoo of, rather than get something because you want a tattoo. Which is why I have a little problem with tattoos of hearts, stars, and horeshoes, clovers and blue moons.

Now I'd hate to think my increasing desire to meet my fate with the needle is due to my recent excursion into the heart of pop culture, where at a concert, nearly everyone had some kind of extravagant piece on their body.

But it seems for now I've just got to wait it out and hope this is just one of those phases. Because along with any normal apprehensions one may have, I firmly believe that I'd be one of the lucky ones to get stuck with some drunk tattoo artist named Bubba who thought that my saying "Venus" meant please draw me a "penis".
See:



Otherwise, if I can't shake this yearning, it seems I'm going to be stuck with a little bit of

Botticelli's Venus

or an

Om

discreetly located on my upper back for quite a while.
And, no, I don't know why I'm in love with the painting. Just am.

Concert Virgin No More

There are few things that everyone in America can agree on:
Cancer is bad.
Johnny Depp looks better in eyeliner than any woman ever could.
And lastly, if you're in a band, be it klezmer or death metal, the ladies want you.

We don't care if you're Tiny Tim or the King. Strap a guitar on and I will personally do my best to jump your bones.

Thus, it is a pivotal time in any young woman's life when she experiences her first concert.
Now some may say start gently, ease your way in. But my opinion is if you're gonna do something, do it right. And so it was time for me to step up and embrace my womanhood with grace and a little help from the Pixies accompanied by Interpol and LCD Soundsystem.

Now of course I've seen many a-bands scream their cute little heads off at the local AOH, or a bunch of friends jam for a few too many hours. But as far as an official, arena concert, this was to be my first.

And a well deserved first I might add. After waking up at 5:O4 am and lugging myself to school to drudge through two final exams, I had but an hour and a half to convince my afro that this was not the time to be testy and slip into just the right slut apparel in order to catch a train to Long Island (or "Lon'guy'lind" to the natives).

It was then that I and my fellow travelers learned the pain that is junctioning.
After my second session of frantic scurrying to find the right train in Penn station, it was safe to say that my coolly-isolated yet sexually-charged composure that I had been planning to bring with me to the concert had been replaced with a slightly more anxious, frazzled, and pissed-off bitch.

Luckily the moment I saw the behemoth of a stage that is Jones Beach Theater, all my traveling tensions were washed away. By the end of the first couple of Interpol songs I had not a care in the world. And by the time the Pixies took the stage I had more love flowing through me than John Lennon during the Yoko years.

I must say it was superb. Superb.

Now, the more traditional response would be "It was kick ass...Man". But now that I am a full-fledged woman, I have no use for petty and unintelligible remarks.
Though those who heard me erratically giggling through the first half hour of the Pixies set may beg to differ.

Unfortunately, things become a little hazy after that because that's when I made friends with my lovely neighbors and their even more lovely Absolut refreshment.

As the fantastic musical festivities came to an end I bid farewell to several companions and trekked back to take yet another train.

After arriving at Times Square, being the foolish darlings we are, my friend and I decided "Wouldn't it be wonderful to walk to the apartment?".
The apartment being on 93rd between second and third. Us being on 34th and 7th avenue. It being 1:40 am. In an area with a reasonably good crime rate.

But we tossed back our fears with the remembrance of the previously consumed vodka and set off on our journey.
After running into some gentlemen callers who had also just consumed a helping of some ethyl nectar and forcefully persuading my companion that, "No, going home with them would not be equally as wonderful as walking to the apartment", we somehow made our way to our crash pad.

Each of us a little wiser, a little more inebriated, and whole lot more thankful that the Pixies do, in fact, kick ass.

If You're Still Not Sure Whether You Want to Have Sex with Ethan Hawke...

I strongly recommend you watch Before Sunrise and/or Reality Bites.
As soon as possible.

I don't know if it's just this unpreventable chic thing or perhaps a twinge of a little late night loneliness, but let me tell you, the man's got the goods.

I would even dare to venture and say that he is perhaps even more sultry than Matty D.
And as we all know by now, that's a tough man to top.

Now, I'd like to think I grew out of the celebrity sexual appeal interest back in my youth. You know, when Nick Carter got a little too chubby, and after Titanic, when liking Leonardo DiCaprio became quite the faux pas for all us prepubescent 5th grade girls.

But I think, and this is probably just the Linklater film talking, that although I know a-many fantastic and beautiful people, I'm still kind of holding out for that possibility of the impossible. Such as making sweet love to Ethan Hawke. Among other things.

Anyway, enough of this, now I must go cleanse myself of this crap and read the Feminine Mystique or something of the like.

But seriously, watch the movies. I don't care if you're man, woman, or wild boar. You will want to have lots of steamy, pseudo-intellectual sex with Ethan Hawke. Guaranteed.