Why the USA Really Won

Yesterday the USA was eliminated from the World Cup Soccer. Like many Americans, I was glued to the screen. I also suddenly cared about soccer out of the blue. Yes, I will admit most of the time I don't follow it. But the World Cup made me a fan. Suddenly soccer became my crack cocaine. Part of it was I like sports anyway, and would have watched regardless. Plus it was easy, because one of my jobs is I rant about sports for the Ranter app on iphone and Android. The most fascinating part was watching how soccer was played around the world, and how each country had different strategies.

Ghana played rough, and racked up a shit ton of penalties. However, they played with heart and determination that a lot of their pretty boy Euro soccer counterparts did not. Portugal had superb ball handling skills. Amazing, and they worked as a cohesive team with their offense, but their defense was kind of strong but not really. Germany was amazing defensively. So much so that their midfield and offense lacked. However, they resembled more of an army than a soccer team, filling in the gaps, refusing to retreat, and ultimately guarding their goalie. Algeria, like Germany, had a super strong defense. They were also great athletes all around, and had a strength everyone under estimated. And of course Belgium bored me and found me wishing for a team like Ghana, a team with character. But I will say, Orighi impressed me with his speed and ball handling skills. I walked away from those games not only wanting more, but respecting the game as a whole.

Soccer isn't big in America. Yeah, every high school and college has a team. It's not nearly as  big as football though. Good soccer players get respect, but not like football, basketball, and baseball players do. And as we all saw from the World Cup these guys are not softies. Clint Dempsey basically could not walk, he had a black eye, broken nose, and was still on the field playing. Thomas Muller had a black eye, I believe a leg injury, and a cut so deep it required six stitches and was still scoring most if not all the goals for Germany. DeMarcus Beasley had a chronic hamstring injury, but wasn't letting that stop him. And then one Algerian guy had a piece of gauze on his head the size of a sand dollar, probably because he had some cranial injury and his brain may or may not have been leaking. (The British commentators said this, not me). And he was out there fighting his heart out.

Football, basketball, and baseball players don't always have those guts or determination. While football is a brutal game, it is played with pads and gear. Basketball never gets this bloody, if it did the NBA would strike. With those injuries they could never pay child support. As for baseball, please they guys are babies and in my opinion the most borderline of the pro sports.

I remember in my hometown the boy's soccer team won the state championship one year. We were proud of them, and they were a gifted squad. However, no one focused on their accomplishments. The attention went to the football team, and the lackluster season they had. Rather than focus on the silver lining, everyone focused on the darkness our sucktacular football team brought. It was as if the accomplishments of the soccer team ceased to exist. Even in school, the football team were always considered the popular guys who got all the babes.

Soccer on the other hand, well, they got no women. Instead, they lived in near obscurity. Any win they had went largely ignored. To raise money for their team, their parents worked concession at the football games. Additionally, because football raised money for the weight room, they were forced to swallow this pill with a smile. These parents had to grin and bear it, knowing that while their sons were heroes in the fall, they weren't front and center although they were as strong and tough as the young men playing under the Friday night lights. Their sons were tall and lanky or short and spindly, not Alpha Males built like blocks. But this is America. Soccer is not big. I say this not only because this is true, but also because there was clear resentment on the end of the soccer parents.

Nonetheless, the football team was giving. Their presence and winning streak not only paid for the weight room, but they let the other lesser saluted sporting teams use it. They greeted their jock cohorts like brothers and sisters, not the vicious landlords as Hollywood portrays. Still, it must have been a bitch to be a shrub in this sporting musical.

My brother Wendell, my sister Skipper, and I played soccer. Wendell played until eighth grade, when he got too big and stocky and switched to football. He translated his skills as a soccer player into football quite well. Unlike many of his teammates, he had speed and was able to take punishment as well as give it. And while practices in the heat are not easy for any big guy, Wendell got through it more gracefully than many of this teammates. Skipper played soccer until she injured her ACL. However, like many soccer players, she learned pain management and somehow ran cross country while lacking a vital ligament in her leg for years. They were able to so these things because of soccer toughness. I on the other hand just sucked and knew when to get the fuck off the field.

The USA was once the laughing stock. However, we got quite far in this cup. Americans showed respect for this often overshadowed, over looked sport. These gifted athletes shined. They had their day. And we also began to understand that there were sports outside of football, baseball, and basketball that needed our attention. Truth be told, not every young man is going to shine on the grid iron, ball court, or diamond. Some might shine on the big green. And that's okay, because we need people there too. Fun fact, all the Euro players are dating or married to models. So sometimes on the big green, you can do quite well for yourself, too

So when summer comes to an end, and fall approaches, I will see the kids heading to soccer practice.  Some will be tall and thin like reeds, tripping over their own two feet as their body waits to catch up to itself. Others will be tiny, carrying water jugs that are as big and weigh as much as they do. Their parents will strap on the shin guards, and make sure the mouth protectors are fit to size. And then when their kid takes the field, they will cheer and hope that they don't get injured.

Instead of writing them off, my heart will warm a little. They are working and fighting hard. Finally in America, we realize these young men have a place and purpose, too. Like many a pee wee football player is a potential NFLer, they are planting the same seeds in little league soccer.

Perhaps one of these young men will be our next World Cup Superstar.



Come to my book signing
Thursday July 3
7:30
Don't Tell Mama
343 W. 46 st
12 dollars gets you in, and gets you a copy of the book
If you bring your book, get in for free.

Choosing Myself

I remember when I was a kid I was watching Beverly Hills 90210. In a famous scene where I am ashamed to say I got emotionally invested, Kelly had two suitors. One was Brendan Walsh, the self-righteous good guy import from Minnesota. The other was the trust fund tormented on again/off drug addicted bad boy Dylan McKay. As they are jockeying for her, Kelly tells them, “I choose me.”

Yes. I am ashamed I know this and it is etched in my memory. I am a child of the 90s, which means I have watched all the Lifetime Moment of Truth Movies. Yes, Kellie Martin is my oppressed woman spirit animal.

However, it makes sense for this next part of the blog so bear with me.

Fast forward many years later. I am crashing the Gay Pride Parade with my boss Bruce and my friend B. I am dressed in an outfit from my costume box. B is dressed like Diana Ross. And Bruce is himself. Of course we had a new adage to our group, a youngster by the name of Juicy with rainbow socks who sometimes spoke in an English accent, and sometimes a Jersey accent. Perhaps he was trying to be Madonna. Bruce was making the most of his Pride trip, and had his Grindr app out and ready to go.

When not running the singing telegram company, Bruce is a meditation expert and yogi. When I freak out over the phone Bruce is always telling me to breathe. He is telling me to come to peace with the crazy. Then again, it’s easy for Bruce. He always has some hot guy in his bed.

The morning had been a crazy one. I had gone to church, and now was getting ready for Pride. While the label of the church I attend is Christian, I consider myself more of a Believer. The reason I use that tag is because I grew up with so called Christians who were hateful people. The only way God was ever going to love you was if you were straight and white. Otherwise you were Shit Outta Luck. My belief is God didn’t make a mistake when he created anyone, and assholes come in all shapes, sizes, and orientations. Same with good people. So yeah, in the words of the Monkeys, “I’m a believer!” Okay, bad joke.

Anyway, on my way to the parade, I was walking past the community center of sorts. This weird fringe church rents it out. In NYC, space is expensive, and when you can make extra money on the space you do it. And when I say these people are bizarre, they scare the living willies out of me. But their money is green like everyone elses, right? Anyway, this unfortunate looking young woman was standing out front, scowling. Apparently, her belief system is once you turn your life and will over to whatever crazy God they worship you have to throw away your comb and say goodbye to MAC cosmetics because they are made by Satan. She had mousy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in several weeks let alone combed, Ramona Quimby freckles, and a blue shirt with a Bible quote. Yes, we are talking a stable individual. Because all normal people just have those clothing items laying around.

I would have had no problem with God girl except for what she said when she saw me walking down the street in my costume. She said to her friend wearing a red shirt with a Bible verse, “I can’t believe my eyes. Look at that thing. You better get the children inside before it comes any closer.”

I don’t know what was worse, her fashion sense or her shitty personality. No wonder good Christian men look at porn, Jesus! Plus to even indicate I might hurt children is just terrible and asinine on so many levels. But she was bitching because she knew I was headed to the Gay Pride Parade. Why else would I be wearing a flamboyant outfit, and why else would she be seething and scowling? So basically this was a Twat for Jesus. Even in the most liberal city in America, it’s amazing how bigots still are wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing. This is why Upworthy continues to fight. Idiots unfortunately have opinions and homophobia is alive and well.

Nonetheless, I shook off the Twat for Jesus when I got to the parade. Bruce is an expert parade crasher. I did not know this until he told a white lie. We were late and were trying to catch up with our float. As we crashed, we picked up Juicy as I mentioned. Finally, we decided on the Google float because it had the best music. We danced alongside this group of strangers. Officer E, my gay puppet, nicknamed Officer Handsome and Officer Bottom by my gays on various occasions, marched/crashed with us as well. He was frisking gay boys and kissing the ladies. Skipping down the street, I high fived and hugged strangers. It was peaceful and fun. Rumor has it the cops fight over who will work the Pride Parade because there are never any fights. Seriously, they throw sparkles and make the world pretty? How could you hate the gays?

Down the street, a young woman recognized me from television. Actually, she recognized Officer E from his Travel Channel clip. I was just there. She hugged me, kissed me on the lips, and without warning shoved her tongue down my throat. She was quite beautiful so I didn’t mind. Plus in the state of New York I can have both an ex-husband and an ex-wife if I so desire. However, some warning about the tongue would have been nice.

After having a stranger’s tongue shoved down my throat, which made me feel pretty because it had been a long winter, I came across a church supporting the Parade. They held up signs that said, “God created you, knew what he was doing, and Jesus thinks you are FABULOUS!” I wish Twat for Jesus could have seen that. I wish she could have seen me being tongue kissed by a stranger and Bruce on his Grindr app getting lucky. Then her head would explode. That would truly be an act of God. Unfortunately, she was probably getting anal from some closeted kid who was too ashamed to come out because he still needs to graduate from his Christian high school. And plus he can dream she’s a dude and anal doesn’t count, right?

We ended up joining the float of the gay football team for a bit. And basically we danced for forty blocks. As the parade wound down, and Officer E got a shout out from the drag queen emcee, Bruce and I found ourselves in deep conversation.It was about love. It was about distinguishing between love and love/hate. We agreed that love/hate was always bound to end in disaster because it would turn to pure hate. Bruce explained people entered into these relationships because they always wanted to be chosen. They were desperate to be chosen, therefore putting out something that wasn’t real to the world. Bruce explained that is why you must always choose you.

He told me once I figured out who I was completely, it would be easier to choose myself. And that way I could find a relationship that was not only loving but real. It was because I would find a partner that chose himself. And because we chose ourselves we wouldn’t be desperate and wouldn’t put out something to the world that was fake. This was deep, way deep. It was also true.

It made perfect sense on a core level. When it came to love I never chose myself. My disaster of an engagement was me choosing someone else and making him my Higher Power because I believed no one would ever want me. Instead, I found myself isolated from my friends and family because I didn’t want them to know how badly I was really being treated.

Then I chose a number of people who weren’t worthy of my company, and got upset when they didn’t choose me. Most of the time I felt like my brain was being sucked out, and I was wasting my time doing stupid shit with these shitheads. Finally, I found a guy who treated me alright. Everyone around me pressured me to choose him. I did. I figured he was a lawyer and I could have a great life. But he ended up being one of the biggest liars I have ever met. This dude could lie about the weather and do it with a straight face.

Why me? I didn’t deserve this. But yes I did kind of. I was being inauthentic and was desperate to be treated well after being used as a punching bag. Everyone was quick to point out he had a job and I was forced into the relationship by those around me. I chose him and I chose what I thought I was. I didn’t choose me.

During various points in my life, I found myself desperate and wanting things, only to have them repelled by the universe. Bruce explained because of my state of desperation I wasn’t giving them the option of accepting me. He explained to envision my day, and choosing what I would want to do during that day and time. Rather than having my time wasted by idiots doing stupid things, etc. Bruce explained when I did this, my world would materialize and everything would open up to possibility.

As we had this discussion, I saw all the young gay kids. These days, they are coming out as teenagers it seems. They were only starting to do that in my time. Seeing them made me realize these kids lived in a world that not only doesn’t want us to choose ourselves, but they were being told on a larger scale not to choose themselves because what they were was wrong. They had the finger pointed at them by mobs of morons like Twat for Jesus. Already, none of us ever feel good enough from time to time for any variety of reasons. But this was making it worse.

Suddenly, there was a part of me that felt super, duper important for crashing the Pride Parade with B and Bruce. I was letting these kids know it was okay to be who you were, no matter who that person was, as long as you lived and loved safely without injury to yourself or others. I was letting these kids know that they counted. Yes, they could choose themselves. That way they didn’t have to choose something else like a partner who treats them like crap or any other time wasting vice.

Or maybe we are just giving ourselves too much credit.

I also thought of Bruce, and how spiritual he is. He is loving and accepting of all beings, even his most difficult of clients. The Twat for Jesus on the other hand is judgmental, bigoted, and a hateful bully. I grew up with shitheads like her. Of course, this made me want to see Bruce fight the Twat for Jesus. He would kick her ass with his mind waves and meditation vibes.

And then I thought of it. Unfortunately, she wasn’t reading the Bible. If she did she would know Jesus was a peace lover, accepted all people, and by all standards would be a socialist today. Instead, she is embracing hate speech that probably aren’t even her own words. If she was asked to explain her beliefs, she probably couldn’t do it. The poor thing is so confused and probably doesn’t have a cohesive thought of her own. Most bigots who hide behind the shield of empty faith and misused Bible quotes don’t. She’s not choosing to have her own thoughts. She isnt choosing to ask questions. She isnt choosing her. Poor thing, no wonder she is so lost.

As I get older, I get better about accepting who I am, liking it, and going with the program. I look like a baby doll that escaped from a toy store. My hair is bright blonde. I talk like a red neck chipmunk on meth. I am exceedingly eccentric but am good under pressure. I am a puppet master, singing telegram deliverer, and verbose writer.

I am also stressed out host/producer. So come to my show/book signing at Don’t Tell Mama 343 W. 46 st.

And when all the forces of nature are pulling me and I feel stressed and like I am not enough, a desperate woman. I will look them in the eye and say, “I choose me!” 

World Cup

These people are the ones who spilled the secret.......

 Steve Rogers is Clint Dempsey. Read the rest of the blog and I will explain....

As many of you know, I follow World Cup Soccer because of my gig with Ranter. I have been covering the US Team extensively. To me, the US Team has two stars.

One star is Clint Dempsey. So far the man has a broken nose. Additionally, he has acquired not one but two black eyes. Not to mention he can't walk, but somehow manages to jump. However, Clint Dempsey is a beast. He still somehow manages to play soccer. Clint Dempsey doesn't complain. He doesn't bellyache and pretend to be injured. It's because Clint Dempsey is in fact Captain America.

No, he is not cryogenically frozen. He is fo realz

The other is DaMarcus Beasley. He has a name that should belong to an American NFL player instead of a Euro style footballer. Nonetheless, Mr. Beasley rocks them all. . Like Clint Dempsey, he will never die. Say, didn't Captain America have a black side kick?

We are doing this. Yes we are!

Our first opponent was Ghana. I had mixed feelings about Ghana. They played a hard game, which I appreciated. We need tough opponents with real issues like how to feed their families on our sometimes over-indulged American doughboys. We need opponents who might get shot by their governments if they lose. So I could appreciate them that way. However, a lot of the tripping and spitting and other elbowing served no purpose. Some dudes were elbowing other dudes just to elbow them, and the ball was no where in site. One dud tripped another for no reason whatsoever! They broke Clint Dempsey's nose, and he might have had a tampon coming out of there but they could not defeat his spirit, and they could not defeat us because he is Captain America.

A celebration after a mob attack and elbow on the field

Our second opponent was Portugal. Overall, I didn't like the Portugese Team. I thought they were a bunch of pretty boys. Or they were over tattooed morons who believed they were playing professional basketball instead of soccer with all those moron tattoos. My least favorite was Christian "The Rapist" Ronaldo. Aside from clubbing women over the head and taking them back to his cave for a night of forced intercourse, he is just a tool with his little lightning zig zag bolts in his head. I was praying he got injured. Anyway, what I liked about the Portugese team was their ball handling skills were SUPERB! They knew how to get that ball, keep that ball, and pass it to their friends who could handle the ball in a like fashion. America could have used a little work in this regard. Their defense, while nothing to write home about, was better than ours. Michael Bradley kept losing the ball like an old woman loses her dentures, all the time. Not to mention Tim Howard was at McDonalds not keeping his eye on goal for the first and last minutes of the game. We should have won not tied. That is the only way the native peoples of Brazil would seek revenge against these bloody tyrants who made them speak their language and adopt their culture. But either way, I was not happy about that tie.

This woman may  or may not have consented. But then again, when Ronaldo's around, who needs to sweat those details?

"We will, we will rape you. Maybe not them, but I will baby. Cause I am the man no one says no to." Christian Ronaldo, direct quote and true fact

Our third opponent was Germany. I knew they were going to be tough. Germany has always been tough. They almost took over the world twice. Even in the days of the Holy Roman Empire, they did not retreat and even sent their women to fight. They scared the shit out of the Roman Legions. Anyway, back to soccer. I knew they were going to be a worthy opponent. And they were. Right away, these Rhinelanders scored a goal. Additionally, while their ball handling skills were not as good as that of the Portugese, they were excellent still. The strength Germany had was the ability to fill in those gaps, those holes. Yes I am talking defense. Additionally, they didn't just guard their goalie, they fortified the man. There was a reason America didn't score. No one would have scored. There was a wall in front of the goalie like an old time war fort, and no one was breaking through. And Germany had to be respected for toughness. Thomas Muller was their strongman, barely being able to walk and playing with six stitches. So what his brains might be leaking out of his head? There was a soccer game to be won. And they won 1-0.

They were not far away from the goal they were guarding when this photo was taken

Or maybe Steve Rogers is really Thomas Muller. I am very confused right now. Where is a sexless comic book nerd when I need one?

What will happen against Belgium? Let's just wait and see.

Want to join me and follow the cup? Download Ranter on your iphone or Android xoxoxo

And come to my special event July 3 @ 7:30 PM Don't Tell Mama 343 W. 46 st (Not soccer related, relax). 

Simple Kind of Life (No Doubt)

During my recent work binge, I was bit by the bug of insomnia. To make a long story extremely short, I went to the facebook page of a girl I went to high school with. In a tripped out too tired to sleep plus the fact she appeared in my feed led me to check up on her life. I will call her Jenny. Back in the day Jenny was a pretty kid. She was a cheerleader, and each year was nominated for Homecoming Court. But while a pretty kid, Jenny also had a good heart. Not all pretty kids do. Jenny and I were never besties or even friends per se, but we had some of the same friends. If we saw each other on the street today, odds are we would say hello and catch up for a minute maybe.

Unlike Jenny, I was popular for my achievements, not for being a pretty kid. However, because my brother Wendell played football, I was friends with the football players because I knew their families. Plus some were second or third generation cheerleaders, so sometimes I knew their families as well. So yeah, I was friends with the pretty kids.

Anyway, I got the five second online update on Jenny’s life. She was doing well for herself, a little interior design business. I remember her being a good artist. And I also saw she had gotten married. Unlike some pretty kids who’s best look days are in high school, Jenny retained her beauty. Some of it might be genetics, but a lot of it is because she was always a nice person. Pretty kids who are ugly on the inside don’t usually age well. The newly wed and her handsome husband are expecting a baby. It’s trippy, because it was only yesterday I was headed to NYU. I had just finished high school. Time passes so quickly.

These days I am just a Princess Pan chasing a pipe dream. It’s odd how the rest of the world has moved on to adulthood in ways I havent. Yeah, I am on my own doing things that would scare most people. Sure, things have started to happen in my career. But I sacrificed most of my 20s and work night and day. And as for husband and children? Who are they and what is that?

Morbid curiosity mixed with sleeplessness I googled to see if they had a wedding announcement. I know, not the least bit creepy, right? Part of me justified it as I was too tired to sleep. The other part of me felt like I was hiding in her bushes outside her house. I still did it anyway. Well I came across Jenny’s wedding website. Her husband, Preston, is a former Marine turned firefighter. They met on a boating trip, where during a strange series of events she fell overboard. One thing about the city of Pittsburgh, is that our three rivers have currents. And if you get caught in them, you could drown. Jenny got caught in a current, and Preston dove overboard. He was able to swim out against the current, put her on his back and got her to shore. The rest is history.

The cynic in me wanted to believe it was a lie or fabricated. But he’s pretty built so there is probably truth there.

I was happy for the both of them. They looked like a nice couple. Good people deserve good things. However, I felt a pang of something in my gut. It’s not jealousy. There are times Jenny probably wishes she could live my life. Note: I make it sound really good on facebook. Not to mention I am doing everything I want to do. It was more like Envy Light, that is, if envy were a soft drink. It was a gentle reminder that when I declared my intentions of chasing rainbows and Skittles and declared my career my first love, perhaps there were some things I wasn’t going to get. And it also occurred to me that in my pursuit of fame and fortune onstage, on screen, and in print I didn’t have much outside of myself. Yes, I live that so called selfish kind of life. It’s a real conclusion when you come to it, and one that can not be labeled in simply one adjective.

I know the life I lead is not equipped for a husband and children. Most guys don’t understand when they come second. This is why show biz marriages always end in disaster. Children always want to come first. They can’t when there are lines to be learned and deadlines to be met. In a lot of ways, show business is not designed for people who want a family. You end up getting married several times and having a bunch of kids who hate you. Or you die alone with your stories and posters with no one at your side. There are the rare few like Jeff Foxworthy who find the needle in the stack of needles, a spouse that supports them unconditionally. Or people elect to have a family, but either do community theatre or teach thus sacrificing the dream. Some are happy, but there are those who always wonder, “What if….”

About a year ago, I was involved with a project where the guy I was working with was getting married. The wedding came first, and the project came second. His bride to be, a woman who was pushing 35 but dreamed of her wedding day since she had been 5, wanted the most expensive wedding ever and wanted to go to Hawaii. That meant he wanted everything for free which doesn’t happen in New York. Needless to say, because he was on the wedding channel, I was stuck doing all the work and everything exploded. I explained to him he had to make a decision. What was more important, the wedding or his career. Another wedding might come along, and this might merely be his starter marriage. However, the way my business is structured, you might not get this chance again. I wasn’t saying scrap the wedding, I was saying prioritize your time. Either way, it ended in disaster.

As I was cracking the whip, people around me made me feel like a piece of shit for making him prioritize. I was called a mean, bitter woman by several people I felt were my friends. If I were a man demanding the same things, I would have been an effective leader. I felt for Oprah when she was ridiculed by women for being honest, if she had chosen to have kids they would have hated her. I felt badly for the character of Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, because if she were a man she would have been a corporate genius. I felt for both Margot Channing and Bette Davis, women who sacrificed everything for their careers only to be vilified by those around them for not fulfilling a traditional gender role. Then again, if we got Hillary Clinton in here she would know all about that, right?

Either way, I have the better career and my ex business partner gets regular blow jobs. Who is more successful? Depends on who you ask.

But then that leaves me with the aching question in my stomach as well as that of every Feminist. Can women have it all? The Second Wave promised that women could. But as time go on, many women drop the career or compromise it to raise their children. They don’t want to be away for those developmental milestones. Could you blame them? Or when they try to have the heavy duty career they are away from their children, putting them in the arms of a possible sicko who could hurt them and feel stressed and guilty. Or they try to do both but look and feel tired. Then women wonder if Feminism sold them a crock of shit and if it is worth it to have both?

It sounds promising on paper, but then again, so does Communism.

Some of my reluctance at coupling is aimed at the fact I work with mostly dudes. In the comedy world, the make up is mostly male. Some men don’t welcome the idea of female comedians and don’t find them funny. These mouth breathers can be exhausting, especially when they inform you that the only reason you get certain things is because you are a “cute woman.” I also work as a sports talking head. Most of the guys I work with are alright. A few weeks ago, two let me know they didn’t appreciate a woman encroaching on their sacred territory in not so many words. Needless to say, sometimes when I close my door I prefer not to be greeted by the tyrannical, oppressive patriarchy. I don’t want to be chained to the stove, being some man’s stretch marked sex slave fuck you very much.

This past week I did a puppet film with people affiliated with the Harvard Documentary Lab. My child costar was especially impressive, knowing his lines and needing very little coaching. I wish more adult actors were like him. Additionally, the executive producer’s son was a little man. He was funny, bright, and quickly tutored me in the latest video game. The executive producer explained as a single mother she and her son were a package deal. I found myself taken with both children, and hoped if I were ever in a position to have kids they would be like that. Then I realized why people did have children, they were a diversion. They impressed you without realizing it, and made you laugh when you took things too seriously.

Our director lives in the Mississippi Delta with her wife and two children. Yes, she is part of a biracial lesbian family that lives in one of the poorest, most underserved parts of the country. I remember she glowed when she spoke about her wife and kids. No matter what the nature of your family unit, people get a special spark when they talk about their significant other or children. Single people don’t have that. Our director has it all. She has the beautiful family, a career as a lawyer, a career as a filmmaker, and she is happy. Maybe Feminism didn’t lie. So there is hope.

Still, I know I am unlucky in love. I broke enough mirrors to be unlucky for five lifetimes. Maybe I never got the Captain of the Football Team or the Class President, but I had their dad or dirty uncle pursuing me when I was either working as a lifeguard or bagging groceries at the supermarket. Prince Charming doesn’t stop by my window. His married deadbeat brother with a heroin addiction does. Nothing says Monday morning like a black sedan following you slowly down the street knowing you could possibly end up on an episode of Snapped. So yeah, with that shit luck it was easy to say “Bye Bye Love.”

I have no time to focus on love anyway. I have a big event at Don’t Tell Mama on July 3 (Plug). I have growth at Ranter, which has been an awesome opportunity. I have a music video being released. So is my DVD. My brain is leaking. Better pick up the pieces.

Still, there is a part of me that wants to be drowing in Pittsburgh’s choppy rivers, and when all things look down I want to be rescued by an ex-Marine turned fireman. I want him to carry me away into the sunset. Shit, I hate it when I turn into a woman. It really sucks when that happens.

Or maybe I should stay the fuck off of facebook when I can’t sleep.