What the Hell!!!

So...
Been a while. You could say I have been preoccupied ( obviously).
Life has been fun, and for some reason the whole bloggin' thing, well, fell by the wayside, or perhaps even the East Side.
This city sometimes gobbles you up, rolls you around her mouth, puckers and licks you, then returns you to the spot you were. Or perhaps that is just life, and NYC has nothing at all to do with it at all. Either way I am all aglistening ( another made-up word) with experience and unblogged stories.

The funnest damn thing to happen of late was a weenie bit of inlovedness.
"weeeeeeeeeeeee"
It's just like going down a waterslide with no bathers on, I swear.
Though this inlovedness has a very clear shelf life, given that the recipent of my waterslide enthusiasm is leaving NYC in a few months. Perhaps that is why I have allowed a little inlovedness to happen.
It's safe, in a doomed way.

Oh, sweet Doom. Ravish me with your blackish blue lipstick.
- Doom must surely wear that shade.

Ah, it's not really like that. It's far more bright and airy.
Doom-Lite... Wearing a nice summery coloured lippy, perhaps Coral?
The kind of doom that giggles and runs around bare feet on freshly cut grass.
Whilst a mushroom cloud appears in the distant background.

Yeah, I totally dig that Doom-Lite Chick
She, knows how to party.

Holy Shit... I have to perform.

What are you doing this coming Wednesday? You are coming to see me of course!!
You will get to hear stories by other confused foreigners too!
Buy me a drink, I will need it.
!! Multiple !!'s are an attempt to hide my sheer panic !!!!!

Peg Board Puzzle...

People get scared of using the word GOD. Because God has been stolen, and attached to some things very un-Godlike.
God is not judgment. God is not hatred.
God is not a figure, draped in white, lounging in a cloud, reaching out like E.T phoning home.
At least that is not my GOD.
God (for me) is a series of moments, that maybe fleeting or long-lasting (if I am lucky). God is that feeling I get when I experience something pure.

Last night I experienced so much 'God' that if there was a church for people like me, I would sign up to be a missionary.

It goes like this...

Firstly, it has to be explained that the company I shared last night with, is of the 'extraordinary' kind. You know, not of the regular variety.
I have to go off on a little tangent now, to explain myself fully, otherwise I will not be able to portray the evening in a way that it needs to be explained, or more precisely in the way I wish to explain it.

There is a virtual Peg Board Puzzle in my chest. And people, are like the pegs, that fit into those holes. Sometimes when I meet people, I hold that peg, survey the shape of it/them, and decide how to make it/them fit. I might have to shave off an edge or two, whittle away at some parts in an attempt to accommodate that shape, that person. Other times the shape that they hand me is totally out of whack with the holes of my internal pegboard, and , well... They are not going to be individuals that I carry around in the vessel that is 'me'.
But, then there is the other lucky peg holders. Those wonderfully syn-compatible (ok, I totally made that word up) people, that hand me who they are ( in colourful wood, non toxic paint) and presto. They fit, easy, snug. Beautifully.
It doesn't happen often, but there are times when that transaction is instant, and one of those holes in my chest, is all of a sudden filled with the energy and wonder of a truly awe-inspiring individual... And I feel... Well, just a little more complete ( *yes yes I know one should always be complete in themselves and not rely on anyone else for that kind of thing... Jus' Sayin' ).

So, this wonderfully shiny, colourful, amazing shape that has so recently entered the peg board of my chest. Took me out.
She took me to see Johnette Napolitano at Joes Pub.
This is where words will fail me...
J.N was another shape that helped fill my teenage angsty chest back in the late 80's. Filling it continually for many years after.

Needless to say, (but I will say it anyway) , I cried.
Yes, I silently wept with pure joy, by candlelight and red wine. Beside company who knew exactly why I was weeping and understood it totally. No words needed.
Johnette was a vehicle of God, all on her own with her guitar, singing notes that entered that peg board of mine, reverberating through old angst, into the new, then up and down my spine until there was nothing to do but cry.

When the spotlight dimmed, and we hit the streets, I swear my feet did not touch the ground.
Not through the streets of the East Side, not down to Delancy and not even over the Williamsburg Bridge. Intoxicated by the experience, further fueled by playing Jameson Bottle Relay across the East River.
All this and more happened last night...Under a moon that looked as if it were wearing a beret of midnight blue.

I had a Witness...( Thank you. You know who you are)

And I testify.

Was Jane Austen Bionic?

I know it's an awfully silly blog title . For starters Steve's surname is AustIN. Silly, Silly!.
But I did get a little giggle happening when I imagined a bonnet wearing Jane Austen, BeepBeepBeepBeeping her way through a manicured English Garden. Doing all sorts of ye olde worldy things, bionic needlework, bionic romance writing, bionic high teas and such.

Would a Bionic woman in the late 1700's be able to do anything at all? Or would the delicate nature of her demure sex, prevent her from really getting the most out of her Bionic-ness?

I guess I will never really know.

The only thing I am sure about, is that I always wanted to be Bionic. Not because of Steve Austin (he just didn't do it for me). Nope, I was more a Jamie Summers kinda girl. I can still see Lindsay Wagner in a red valour tracksuit, jumping over volkswagon beetles and other funky things from the 1970's.
Yes, we had the technology.
We still do apparently, as now Lindsay is all gungho about those Sleep Number Beds.
Oh Lindsay, lets go back to 1976 (I'll stay my current age, thanks) let's pick a yummy sleep number,( I can think of at least one ), and lets Beepbeepbeep on every number... Going down.

I'm Baaaaaaaa aaack.

It's been a long time...

My absence from this virtual place has not been because there has been nothing to write about.
The opposite is true. Too Much. Well not 'Too', but at the very least 'Much'.
As this is my first post in clearly sometime, I do not want splay it all out now. Instead I will see what percolates to the top, and froths over the edge, and into here.

Adventures of many kinds.
New people came into my life, changing everything from; who I love, how I show it, what I do, and where I do it.
I must thank the Universe and any other responsible Deities for it all... Yay! To change, and the giddy joy it brings. Even the slightly hurty change, it's just like peeling off layers, with something fresh and colourful underneath ( of course , this sometimes takes a heap of self convincing, but I am tenacious, and depression is a drag.)

Let me stick to the present, before I get all misty eyes with recent-history nostalgia.

Presently, I am in a new home. A home filled to the brim with enthusiastic hominess, of mellow evenings and impromptu parties. Of meals cooked with love and domestic camaraderie. After a few weeks of couch surfing, waiting for this room to become available, I am finally ALL in. Funny how I learned to live out of a backpack and not really miss the material clutter of my life. It's back now, albeit still in boxes. I joke about burning it all... It's not really a joke. If I had an incinerator and some matches, I would. Putting it in the rubbish is not good enough. It gets rifled through and strewn across streets, I don't want that.
I want the pleasure of fire.
I will not be satisfied if it were merely dispatched, I want it consumed.
My consumables, consumed.
Eaten up by the Red Mouth of Irretrievability.
Gone.


*Universe, that does not mean burning my house down.
**just had to mention that... After all, strange shit happens.

My new room, is on it's way to being absolutely yummy. I just have to see to the aforementioned boxes, etc.
I built a loft bed in here, so fucking proud of myself I never shut up about it. I am half tempted to go buy a tool-belt, and just meander around the house whilst it hangs from my hips. And there, just a little above my back pocket, a small plaque.
'In constant celebration of my carpentry skills'.

Although I was always aware of power tools being sexy
I just never really entertained the whole, Black'n'Decker'Sex'O'Rama deal as a part of my own allure.
...As something I could pull off, e.g "Roowwr, pass the drywall...Screw... Baby"

Ending the innuendo with a dykolicious, finger-on-the-trigger, drill pose (or hetrolicious, depending on the audience).

Now, however, I think I could... If nudged, in the direction of a jigsaw and some 2 x 4, cause a slight rumble on the DIYsexiness scale.
This is of course all supposition, I need to research this theory, so... if you need something drilled,
screwed,
mounted
or,
umm
...Polished.

Call me :o)

callme

callme
Originally uploaded by fluffmuppet.

I went to lunch in Manhattan the other day, with 2 of my closest mates.
It was a funny lunch, one full of innuendo, lesbian humour and double entendres. On the table next to us was this cute woman, with red highlights in her hair and red cord pants.
She seemed amused by our antics, our references to dildos and breasts between mouthfuls of korma curry and naan bread.
The way she would look up and grin in our direction, let us to think she might be gay.
One thing we were sure of is that she was cute.
I decided I should lean across and talk to her, but just as I was getting up the juice to do it she starts to leave.
"Quick girls, we must follow her"
So the one friend who had to go back to work pecked our cheeks leaving me and my partner in stalking crime, Dara to follow this woman.
I've seen movies, I know you can't be too close, but then again you don't want to miss the walk sign... It's all very complicated.
We crossed the busy manhattan streets between cab bumpers and against flashing red men, follow the cute woman in the white coat.
All the while I am reaching into my bag trying to find a pen and something to write on.
Then only thing I can find is a book of essays and a metrocard.
Meanwhile the woman has crossed over 20 something st and it's red man, no crossing.
I've missed my chance... Wait, no.. She has gone into a coffee shop, I see her past the traffic, in line...
Ok, here is my chance.
Dara has disappeared into a shop to try and get something to write on, just as I have decided to rip the cover off "Bulletproof Diva" and scribbled my name and number across it.
I run across the road and wait for the mystery woman to come out of the coffee shop, as I see Dara shrugging her shoulders as if to say "what the fuck are you waiting for?"
I was waiting for her to stir her milk in.
Then, fueled by temporary insanity, I propelled myself to turn around walk into the coffee shop and approach this woman.
When I opened my mouth to explain/introduce myself, all these stupid words fell out, I am sure she thought I was spastic.
I did manage to tell her that me and my friends thought she was the cutest woman we had seen all day and that she should ring me.
She smile broadly and said 'Thank You', blushing as I shoved my torn book cover at her.

I don't expect her to call me, it was more about being brave or stupid enough to actually be that kind of person.
At least we both have a story to tell about what happened to us at lunch on Monday.
I can puff out my chest and feel like I did something I have never done before.. and she can go home and tell her boyfriend about the woman with an accent who wrecked a book to write her number on.

Wake Up Papal!

"...an intrinsic Moral EEEEEVIL"
That's what the new old Pope has to say about me and my lifestyle.
What does a 78 year old ex Nazi Youth Member know about Intrinsic EEEEVIL ? More than me I reckon.

I am not saying he is Evil, he is probably a very interesting man with some really funny stories. Let's face it, he isn't going to be around that long unless they come up with the Cryo-Pope-Mobile. Maybe the Vatican is biding time with a transitional Pope until someone more gutsy steps up to the balcony.

Come on Jesus... Rise again, we need a Hebrew Hippy to show us the way.

Hey Mami

The sunset around here is cool, in an urban way.
Everyone is out on their stoops and the bodega is more like a roller disco. Kids hang out front with boom boxes, wearing old style white leather skates.
There is this gaggle of boys that sit on the corner and talk to every girl who walks by.
I know that one of them is called Bevan as once he insisted walking me home ( 5 houses down)he wanted to carry my groceries, he wanted my phone number.
He was 16 years old.

All those boys wear their pants low, the lower the cooler I guess. I don't really get it, then again I am sure my mum didn't get my flouro socks and plastic bangles in the 80's... You know what that means, it means I am old.
These boys can't walk more than 6 steps without having to stop and pull their pants up, they look like they pooed themselves, the calvins and Fubu's belted at the thigh.

"Hey Mami"
Bodega chorus at all times of the day.
Then there is the more direct " Hey Sexy" , these guys had to be shitting me, I just woke up, my hair is a split end explosion and I slept in my mascara, I AM Alice Cooper.
God Bless Them.

dmb

dmb
Originally uploaded by fluffmuppet.

My landlord is 80 something, her daughter 40 something lives in the basement most of the time. Her daughter is a bit of a train wreck, in a civilized controlled way, this I figured out when she tried to give me a nugget of nose candy because I did her a favour. I dubbed a copy of 'All That Jazz' for her one day... She must really dig that movie I guess.
Anyway, that's not the issue, I don't care about what people shove in their orifices, it really is cool with me. What I do care about is her weird habit of playing one particular Dave Mathews song , over and over and over and fucking over, 12am through to 2am is her DMB party time.
Everytime I hear that 3 minute friggin' drum solo rise up from the basement an assault me, well, I find myself considering violence. Unfortunately I have no passive aggressive route to travel, nope, I am doomed to be the victim until the cocaine she snorted wears off and she passes out amongst the beer bottles, small mirrors and straws.
I have never cared for the DMB, hearing him/them, makes me want to neck myself at the best of times, alas my current circumstances have compounded my mediocre dislike to full blown, gut wrenching, hair pulling, teeth grinding repulsion.
Yes Mr Mathews, if I ever see you on the streets of Manhattan I think I may have to take it all out on you personally, afterall, she is my landlords daughter, but you... You are ripe for the slapping.

10/6... In This Style

I saw two (2 2) ducks shagging in Prospect Park, I guess that means spring is here.
Not the most eloquent of Spring signalings, no melting snow drifts, no budding tree branches. Poetic it was not, straight to the point, it was.
Sex, people, it's all about sex.
To take my mind off the fact that I now have to proclaim celibacy in order to retain a level of self respect, I am throwing a party. A PARTY.
A Mad Hatters Tea Party no less.
There is no better way to ignore ones lagging sexual prowess, than by dressing up in a ridiculous costume and consuming the naughty cousins of shitake and portabello.
I have a yard! In New York City that can be enough to sprinkle you with friends, even if you are a total arsehole.
Same goes for owning a car, having 4 wheels in this fair city will garnish your weekends with pleading mates and futon mattresses.
Before the big day I have plenty to do,
I have even have a list.

1) Make Funky Invites.
2) Make Funky Giant Toadstools.
3) Find a Large Caterpillar.
4) Teach it to Smoke out of a Hookah.
5) Turn my Hallway into a Rabbit Hole.
6) Make a White Rabbit out of a Old Sock.

anyway,

I am late, I am late for a very important date
...well, not really.