Don’t mind the mess, just trying to update the site for the first time in 10 years. This might take a while, but feel free to dig around in the rubble, who knows what you’ll find.
Jay: “You wanna go pick up some chinese food? I found a cheaper place than Jade Dragon, but they don’t deliver.”
Me: “Just call Jade Dragon. I already took my pants off.”
Jay: “You would rather spend 30 dollars than put pants on?”
Me: “Did I stutter?”
Me:”OH MY GOD, JAY! There is pee EVERYWHERE in here!”
Jay: “WHAT? Like in the living room?”
Me: “NO! The bathroom. All over the floor!”
Jay: “Ohh, you mean MY pee. I thought you meant the dogs had peed in the living room or something. That would have been bad.”
Me: “THIS IS STILL BAD!”
Jay: “Well aren’t you just Wikipedia in a box.”
Me: “More like Wikipedia IN my box!”
Jay: “Annnd there it is.”
Me: “Because the pages stick together.”
Jay: “I’m leaving…”
Me: “Also, like a ton of people have had their had hands in it.”
Well now, what’s all this???
I have a new article in the third issue of a fantastic experiment called “The Proof.” Brave Chicagoan Tom McHenry has put a lot of love and frustration into assembling a great little paper with contributions from some truly talented artists and writers.
If you’re in Chicago, pick one a copy for free! You can also get individual issues or a subscription HERE!
Every year on February 1st, artists all over the globe participate in “Hourly Comic Day.” Of course, most of THEM can draw, but it’s not like I’ve ever let a lack of talent stop me from doing anything else in my life. WARNING: PROCESSED IN A FACILITY THAT ALSO PROCESSES GPOY, BOOBS, DOG BUTTS
All “comics” (and we do use that term lightly) created using the PicSayPro phone app because Karla couldn’t be bothered to open goddamn photoshop for one goddamn day, could she?
I haven’t had cable television (or network for that matter) for about 4 years. This isn’t some holier-than-thou “ooh, I NEVER watch TV” life choice, Jay and I just figured out a while back we only ever watch 2 or 3 TV shows, and we prefer to watch them a full season at a time, via DVD or Netflix or…other methods. We put the cable money into high-speed internet and a large stack of burnable DVDs to…uh…use as coasters. Yeaaah, we set our drinks on them. That sounds good.
One advantage of a cable-free lifestyle is that I am blissfully unaware of half the crap clogging the airwaves, though because I spend most of my life online, I still occasionally find out who a Kardashian is fucking. However, I’d managed to avoid learning about the precious little miracle that is Nancy Grace – until I discovered THIS gem, helpfully retweeted by Mike Sacco:
Seriously, do I use an underwire or what? And could you make it snappy? My hands are getting tired.
Holy moley guacamole, this woman is a INCREDIBLE. Not only does she host “television’s only justice themed/interview/debate show, designed for those interested in the breaking crime news of the day” she’s a HERO, helping to find missing children!
Oh, wait, that isn’t a police hotline. That’s the number to call into her show.
Well, that’s cool, I’m pretty sure she’ll pass any hot tips to the cops, as soon as she’s done shrilly accusing anyone dumb enough to call in of murdering the girl themselves.
Despite her seeming fondness for obstructing ongoing police investigations, Nancy is actually ALL about getting the cops to do their jobs:
No matter how many steamy, salacious diaries she has to read in graphic detail on-air, remember, Nancy is DOING THIS FOR JUSTICE.
And if you think “CreepySexDiariesPart2” (Part 2!!!) is the worst hashtag someone could use on Twitter, you don’t know Nancy Grace:
A grown-ass, presumably human woman thought the most appropriate way to report on an infant’s tragic, possibly accidental death was with DEAD. BABY. IN. CAR.
I don’t know whether to offer an dumbstruck slow-clap, or burn the HLNtv Studios to the fucking ground.
Of course, Nancy Grace has pretty strong feeling about dead babies in cars, after being thwarted in her attempt to literally pull the switch at the electrocution of Casey Anthony. While I still have a raised eyebrow about the Anthony acquittal, Nancy Grace has taken it as a personal affront, dedicating more television hours to cobra-spitting condemnation of every member of the Anthony family than poor Caylee Anthony was alive. Court system be damned, Nancy Grace knows your sins and she will whisper them to the angels in the dark of the night.
Or, you know, scream them on a television screen for ratings. Same diff.
I can think of one.
And with that, I’m off to buy more blank DVDs, a map to the HLNtv Studios, matches, and a gallon of gasoline. Don’t ask what I’m doing with any of them unless you want Nancy Grace’s next tweet to be #DeadSnitchInCar. Just sayin’.
TO THE GRADUATING CLASS OF 2012
I would first like to apologize to all of you for the lateness of these remarks, as graduation was clearly several months ago. When I saw a letter from my old high school, I assumed you guys were still mad about me stiffing you on that ’95 yearbook, and the invitation to speak ended up underneath a bottle of off-label Irish Cream. I never thought I’d be desperate enough to drink that shit, but lo, the time has come, and as I’ve got half a bottle of generic Bailey’s in me, I am ready to share my words of wisdom with you all.
Some of you may be heading off to the work force, beginning a trade, or, if my graduating class was any indicator, considering adding a third child to your family. If that describes you, keep up the good work! You may adjourn to the parking lot for a beer, or continue breastfeeding (both, if you’re related to Shannon Anstormer).
My words are for those of you heading off to college:
First off, never be friends with someone you want to sleep with. There is no “Friendzone,” there is only the “Dishonest fool who thought he/she could wear down the object of their affection” Zone. Likewise, do not be friends with someone you know wants to date you, thinking *someday* you might wake up with a desire to taste their genitals because “he/she is really nice.” If you find yourself in either situation, knock it the fuck off and move on.
Anyone who pressures you to use drugs and alcohol isn’t your real friend, buuuuut…I’ve seen your real friends, and to be honest, maybe if you tried the drugs and alcohol you would be cool enough for better friends? Just a thought.
Liking things ironically is a huge waste of time. Disliking things because other people like them (or even worse, like them “the wrong way,”) is a huge waste of time. Somebody liking the Dave Matthews Band has nothing to do with you. Enjoy the shit you like and try not to be an asshole about it.
Never tolerate bigotry, hatred, or cruelty in the world around you. But don’t be an insufferable prick when you point it out.
The world doesn’t owe you anything. But it will give you more than you can ever imagine if you keep an open heart and mind. Not too open, though. You’ll figure out the sweet spot in a couple of years.
You will never be dumber than you are at the ages of 19 and 24. At 19 you’re gonna be exposed to a lot of new ideas, and people, and authors, and politics. You will be tempted to play a guitar, or make out with people who play guitars. No one has ever gotten high and REALLY thought about Kerouac or Bukowski the way you have, but trust me when I say: You are not reinventing the wheel and your poetry is awful.
At 24 you will think back to your foolish 19 year old self and smirk, proud of yourself for FINALLY being a grown up.
Here’s the secret: NO ONE IS A GROWN UP.
Whether you’re a 40 year old wife and mother, or a 75 year old racist senator, deep down everyone is 22 years old, flailing wildly through life with a misplaced sense of their own importance. You think you’re mature right now because you’re no longer in high school. But one day amid the office politics of your average architectural firm is proof that YOU WILL ALWAYS BE IN HIGH SCHOOL.
“Well then, Karla, if everyone acts like this forever, why do you say WE’RE so dumb?” you say smugly. “How come WE’RE the idiots?” you ask, like an asshole.
Because you fucking are. You are the WORST right now, and you will know it in exactly 7 years.
In the meantime, stay away from the goddamn guitars.
Man, I have been outdoorsy this summer. While you’re reading this, I’m fishing at the mysteriously named “Fish Lake” in central Washington.
Of course, whenever I say I’m going fishing, I mean “Sitting on a dock, paying little to no attention to the pole in my hand and getting drunk.” I genuinely love fishing, and caught my first fish at age 5, but my method of fishing as an adult is identical to the way I fished as a child – minus the Snoopy fishing pole and with slightly more beer (I grew up in Kansas).
When I first met Jay’s folks, we’d rented a cabin in the wilds of Canada’s Algonquin Park, and I couldn’t understand why they were so adamant about renting a boat before we could go fishing. “What do you need a boat for? There’s water right here! Gimme a pole and a lawn chair and let’s get to work. By which I mean, give me a beer.”
The looks of faint disgust from the collective Pinkerton family (Jay included) would have been disheartening if I had been able to see them. Luckily my head was down, as I’d already found the cooler and was busy rooting through it like a starving grizzly bear.
“Oh, you only brought Canadian beer. Well that’s cool. I guess.” I said, pitching lovingly crafted sandwiches on the ground in search of Budweiser (see, Kansas). “And hey, where are the worms? There’s only potato salad and shit in here.”
Ignoring the fact his prospective bride was clearly accustomed to keeping nightcrawlers in the same coolers she would keep food, and was also quite possibly feral, Jay explained they only used lures. Jay’s dad David offered me the use of “Big Shiny,” or “Shiny Pete” or something, an heirloom Pinkerton fishing lure guaranteed to catch the most fish.
“Nah, lures are too much work, unless you’ve got a lot of stink-bait on ’em.” I gave a disapproving glance at the cooler again “and I didn’t see any stink-bait in there.”
“Stink…what, no, Karla, it’s simple. You cast the line with the lure, then slowly reel it back in.” Jay demonstrated using a fancy spinner reel, a foreign contraption involving precise, David Blaine-worthy hand movements.
“Heh, yeah, no thanks. Do you guys have any other fishing rods? You know, like the ones with the little button?” Giving up on the cooler, I began digging through the tackle box. “I just need a plain old fishing pole and a bobber. You guys have bobbers, right?”
Jay’s dad looked disturbed, presumably more by his son’s relationship choices than my question.
“Um. No, no bobbers.” David said.
“Well how am I supposed to know when I’ve caught a fish?” Clearly, Canadians knew nothing about fishing, and were probably retarded.
“Jesus, Karla, you feel the bite, then pull up sharply and then – ” Jay did the complicated thing with the spinney reel again. I noticed it involved both hands.
“Whoa, wait up a second. You have to use both hands on that reel?” I looked at Jay accusingly, as if he’d told me we were going fishing and ended up at the dentist instead. “How am I supposed to hold my BEER?”
Jay and his dad sighed deeply, then got in the truck to go back to town. They returned with a carton of nightcrawlers (which I promptly tucked into the potato salad “for freshness”) and a bag of bright red and white bobbers. After settling me happily on the dock with worms, bobbers, and a Labatt Blue, they took the boat out onto the lake for some “real fishing.”
Ironically, we all caught the same amount of fish, which was exactly “none.” The lake had been recently featured on some public access fishing show as one of the best spots in Canada, and by the time we arrived it’d been grievously depleted by other eager fishermen. We didn’t have the fresh-caught, pan-seared trout Jay was dreaming of, but the sandwiches were fine once I smoothed my shoe-prints out of them, the potato salad surprisingly tasty. And defying all logic, Jay’s parents still loved me (like I said, Canadians might be kind of retarded).
Best of all, I didn’t interrupt my drinking by accidentally catching a fish.
I can only hope I’m so lucky this time.
click image to enlarge
Inspired by the wonderful old woman who decided it couldn’t be that hard to touch up a Spanish masterpiece.
What I’m about to write may seem out of place, wedged between dick jokes and farting dogs and ridiculous Breaking Bad fan art, but it’s the outlet I have, so it’s what I’m using.
The news has been pretty crazy this week, with politicians deciding they need to define what rape is and isn’t, what rape is or isn’t capable of (preventing pregnancy, curing cancer, making Jesus cry). In fact, I’m not even going to go to the trouble of linking to the stories, or the specific men involved, because they are legion, they are omnipresent, and they’ve been saying the same thing for years now. They want to have a conversation about rape, but not one about “how can we prevent more rape?” Ostrich-like, they’ve created a defense dependant on fewer people being “really” raped, because only certain rapes count. “Forcible” rapes. “Legitimate” rapes.
In the face of this onslaught, many brave women (and some men) have shared their stories of sexual assault, trying to show these politicians, and us, what rape looks like. Their stories are shattering, and even the coldest heart would have a hard time arguing they’re not “legitimate.”
So this is what an illegitimate rape looks like.
It looks like a 19 year old girl at a community theater wrap party. The boy she’s flirted with all summer brought his girlfriend, so she’s awkward and frustrated and angry as only a 19 year old girl can be. An older friend bought her a bottle of tequila. In the morning she’ll look at the empty bottle and ask “Who drank all my tequila?” Her friends will laugh and say “YOU did!” She had just three shots before she blacked out. She’s a lightweight.
She only remembers scraps of the rest of the night. Little frozen Polaroid snapshots among the blackness. She has a glimpse of kissing a much older man, some friend of her best friend’s boyfriend. Next she is laying on a bathroom floor, her skirt tangled around her waist, her sweater pulled open while the older man jacks-off onto her tits. Next her best friend’s boyfriend leads her down a hall to his bedroom, past the couch where her friend is fast asleep. The girl is confused, and doesn’t know why she’s letting him get on top of her when her friend is just outside the door. She can only think “I have to ask him to wear a condom, right?” over and over. She asks. He doesn’t.
The next day she sneaks out of the house before anyone else wakes up. She meets with her friend to discuss what happened. “I guess…I guess I didn’t say no. But I wouldn’t have said yes.” Her friend blames the boyfriend, not the girl, a saving mercy.
The girl goes in for her first HIV test, and buys three pregnancy kits. She waits, terrified. Everything comes back negative.
Weeks later, the girl and her friend, and that boy she liked take a gallon of weed killer to the now ex-boyfriend’s house. They write “PRICK” in 2 ft. high letters across his lawn. A juvenile prank to combat their feelings of helplessness and rage.
No one thinks of calling the police.
The next time looks a little grayer.
She’s five years older now, has been married and divorced, even. She’s a radio DJ who hangs out in a tattoo parlor a lot. She’s tried drugs. She’s had sex with a lot of people, a lot of one night stands. This night she’s at yet another bar, a party, doing shots of Jager and trying to drink her 6 ft. tall little brother under the table. She’s laughing as she runs across the street to another bar, where she once again hits a blank wall, impenetrable this time. There’s empty darkness until she wakes up the next morning in her own bed with a guy she sort of knows from the tattoo shop. She shrugs it off as another crazy night.
She doesn’t find out what happened until weeks later.
After she’d run laughing into the other bar, the bouncer (a casual acquaintance) invited her upstairs to his apartment. A guy friend saw the invitation, and almost stopped her. “Are you sure?” But she was laughing, and he was on a date, so he let her go. He would feel guilty about this afterwards. Later, he’d confront the bouncer to find out what exactly happened. The bouncer would hem and haw and say he’d been drunk too, and yeah, he found some used condoms by his bed, but the other guy (the one from the tattoo shop) was the one who took her home.
It turned out there were at least 3 guys in the apartment.
They told my friend I was naked, but wouldn’t tell him what else happened.
I felt sick to my stomach when he told me, but I laughed it off, because I didn’t want him to feel guilty for not stopping me. I tried not to think about it and moved on.
Many people would hesitate to call my experiences rape. I certainly didn’t call it that. It was a “bad situation,” an “unfortunate experience.” It was my fault for being drunk. I barely remembered it, and in one case, didn’t know what happened until after the fact. I hung out with the wrong crowd, I got sloppy around men I didn’t know or didn’t know well enough…I got treated like girls get treated when they don’t watch out.
As if the guys who passed me around like a party favor had nothing to do with it.
I, like most women, felt the burden was mine alone. Values are applied to rape based on what we did to encourage it, or didn’t do to prevent it. Because we’re told the only one responsible for your not getting raped is you.
Men are never told not to get drunk around women because it’s dangerous. “If you’re drinking, she might not say no,” is the incentive, not the warning.
Not all men are rapists. Many would never dream of “taking advantage of the situation.” Some, like my friend, might try to step in. And yes, a very small handful of women have lied about being raped because of regret, or revenge, or for attention. Just like many men and women have lied for revenge, or attention, or political gain.
But ultimately, arguing over what’s “legitimate” distracts us from the recognizing how much we’ve failed to educate perpetrators, because we’re too busy laying the responsibility for safety on the victims.
I was not forced to the ground and violated horrifically by a stranger. I was not physically restrained. I was impaired from giving or withholding consent by my own actions. I did not say “no.”
And now you know what that looks like.