Two weekends back, I boarded my friend Oscar’s truck and headed out to the Grove.
Ska shows are the best for eye candy. Shit howdy.
Skanking is the best new exercise for your thighs, turns out. If you have the means, I hiiiighly recommend these guys live. One of the most fun shows I’ve been to in a long time.
Songs!: http://mog.com/music/Reel_Big_Fish/songs
-CJ
Over the weekend, Josh and I spent many hours grunting and kicking and throwing and sweating during a five game kickball tournament for a youth charity. My company sponsored enough people to form two teams. Kiddo played ball on the sidelines with a friend while we kicked some ball ASS.
There’s never a lack of interesting in my life.
-CJ
I received some pictures from the Flugtag pre-party shindig we got to attend:
That’s my big, bald sweetheart, Joshua.
She of the gracious invite to said shindig, Aislinn.
These images tie into one of two new resolutions.
- I will be less stingy with photographs
I’m notoriously camera shy and that is putting it nicely. I’m generally pretty profane in my aversion to being in a picture and despite all my ‘radical self-love‘ speak, I insist every one that does end up taken is ugly and… the f-word. Fat. All the time with this! I need to cut the shit. Pictures don’t have to be pretty. They have to capture a moment in time so you can laugh at your hair with your (or someone else’s) grandbabies!
I may not share all or even most of the pictures I find myself taking willingly but I will not shy away or bash myself either!
The second resolution I recently made, and please suppress your laughter, is:
- I will be nicer
Simply put. I have learned a lot about myself and I don’t like a lot of what I see. I recognize the selfishness and the roundabout and confusing way I try to deal with my anger. I see that I try to place blame more often than I will accept it as my own. My personality is generally very abrasive and without sacrificing who I am, I think I could make a conscious effort to be friendlier and more engaging. I’ve unofficially made Ree the supervisor of this resolution. As such, she is allowed to tell me when I’m acting the opposite of my resolve and I can’t take it personally. Because that wouldn’t be nice.
Wish me luck. Please.
-CJ
On Friday evening, I headed out to The Glasshouse in Pomona. It’s an all ages venue that I’ve been to at least a dozen times. Some of the more outstanding shows I was lucky to see there were Save Ferris’ second to last show ever (between 2002-2004 sometime, I think*) and my first Glassjaw show in November, 2002 when I was becoming largely pregnant and required the surroundings of gentlemen who wouldn’t let a rowdy being near my precious frontal cargo.
*The time lapse part of my brain has broken. Things that occured six months ago feel very much like they were last week. This explains my maturity regression. Sometimes I think I’m sixteen.
The Juliana Theory are not the best band, nor one of my favorites, and don’t hold an especially meaningful place in my heart. But it was their first show in five years and their last show ever and I felt obligated a few months back (who knows how many?!) when I bought myself a ticket. I hadn’t seen them before but I’d worn out a copy of Emotion Is Dead when I was in high school. Plus, ya know, live music kicks ass.
It was really, really cool. They played really fucking well and I thoroughly enjoyed swaying around and singing along. I’m glad I got the chance to see them and hang out with my cousin Alex and her ladypants, Heidi, while doing so.
On Saturday I cleaned with fervor until only a few stray white cat hairs remained. We ordered the UFC fight and had some people over for burgers and dogs in bulk packages. Of note: I am really bad at feeding the vegans. My apologies to those friends.
The turn out was fantastic. I met and made merry for the first time with a friend I’ve talked to through a journaling site for a couple months. Some friends I was starting to lose touch with made an appearance and rekindling with my blackened heart. Even people I didn’t know showed up, causing me to whisper to Josh, “who the fuck is that dude??”
The fights were super disappointing. A geedee refund is in order. I actually left the room for the last few minutes of the BJ Penn fight and I had been pretty jazzed to see it go down.
A couple of us headed up the street where a 29th birthday party was occuring that included an ice sculpture and a stripper with few to no boundaries. These two things were not combined at any point, mind you… that I know of.
I struggle with my thoughts on the… stripping industry? I’m all for the freedom to do what works best for you, to flaunt your talents by way of gyrations and picking up cash without using your hands, feet or mouth. If you know what I mean. And I think that you do. Although then I cringe a little to think of the risk this girl may be taking some nights and how, above the money she makes, I hope this is what she wants to be doing.
There’s a whole feminist rant to be had for either side of that coin. I’ll leave it to the pros.
Making nice with new neighbors is always fun, even if you’re supposed to be 100 yards away from that block by law. Ahem.
Sunday was lazy and indulgent. Kiddo was between excitement and nerves for the upcoming first day of school, which went swimmingly compared to last year. There’s a new after school program that she’s excited to check out and new friends to make, as her closest is attending another school this year, and a new teacher to make crazy. As long as the kid is happy, I’m happy.
Would it make me a big meanie to say that I am so relieved school is back on? Let the routine fall back into its blessed place.
-CJ
You incorporate another being in your life and suddenly shit starts getting reeeal domestic. I think it happened at the pause between which seasoning is best on barbequed chicken and the ‘if I sweep, will you mop?’ plead.
I break the fascade sometimes and revert back to shenaniganing around the city with some lady friends. Last night found four of us sipping beers and shots of Jager at a friend’s house before a company sponsored baseball game at Angel stadium.
Yes I know I’m a Dodger fan, thank you, but I have a love of the SPORT.
Geez. Anyway. Next thing I knew, the Angels were down, and we were warming bar stools at a nearby gay bar. Then suddenly it was after midnight and I was drunk. Good morning, Story of My Life.
At the time I realized I should probably head home and not lose my ass in pool any longer, I remembered my very favorite little dark punk rock joint was about a signal away from where I was. And it would have been like driving by your grandma’s street and not at least saying hello. I parted the familiar curtain by myself and sipped some beer while Ferris Bueller’s Day Off played behind the bar. A super cute girl asked if I was there alone and I attributed it to my incredible popularity, natch. We made friends. And then we went to the bathroom and showed each other our tattoos in all the inappropriate places. She had one whole boob inked!
It was a good night but I had drinker’s remose like you wouldn’t believe except that you totally would because this happens every single time, doesn’t it? Doh.
BBQ at my house this weekend for the BJ Penn fight. My new friend is coming. If you play your cards right, maybe she’ll show you the tattoo.
-CJ
Filed under: frenz
“forgive the tzpos. z and y are reversed on german kezboards. bastards. I äm also somewhat drunk in a Cuban cigar lounge in Berlin. hate me if zou must. more later. smooches xoxo”
I’ve been conducting a refresher course on The Juliana Theory’s Emotion is Dead album. I snagged a ticket months ago for their upcoming show.
PLUS. Reel Big Fish in a month. Doug Stanhope the following week.
And this weekend? My good lookin’ and I were invited to join one of the PR teams for the Red Bull Flugtag event. Someone said ‘open bar’ and I said ‘YESPLEASE.’
Without things to look forward to, I may crumble.
-CJ
The man (the one I fuck, not the one I damn) and I made the most of the two different worlds we live in this weekend. At 25 and 28, we still like to stay up late and wake up with regrets, bruises and a tangible drinker’s remorse. As parents we endure enjoy a number of domestic duties as well. (I do consider drunken shenanigans a duty, ps. Where else would I get the fodder?)
Friday night we hit the freeway with two friends for a unique type of double date. The kind where the goal is to create real friendships out of forced and mandatory ones… because you used to screw one half of the other date. It was very fun and not forced at all. There was good food and much, much laughter at the Laugh Factory in Long Beach. Every sixty or so days, I give away my O Negative and sometimes the Red Cross gives me free VIP tickets to a comedy show for it.
Do check out Darren Carter. I just downloaded his album, That Ginger’s Crazy, on iTunes.
You know when you ascend the levels of drunk from ‘buzzed’ to ‘code red’ to ‘oh fuck’? By the time we hit a dueling piano bar after the show, Washington Apple in hand, I realized I’d gone overboard. But in alcohol there’s no Ctrl+Z so I threw it back anyway.
Saturday was a strange day for a hangover. We had 1st, 2nd and 3rd birthdays to attend. We stocked up on Pillow Pets (best toy EVAR) and hit the road:
The first and third birthdays were for the adorable daughters of boyfriend’s (okay, his name is Josh) friend, Charlie. We wore festive leis and all was merry.
The 2nd birthday party was for my girl Kristine’s little lady. The day she was born I had one hand on Kristine’s left foot as she pushed and pushed and total tunnel vision. Birth is beautiful… but not pretty. It’s incredible to see the little blonde cutiepants running around and high fiving and baby talking at two years old now. All full circle and shit.
This morning we were up early so Josh could make an appointment at a sensory deprivation… place. While he floated and went to mental places that scare the absolute shit outta me, Kiddo and I played in the sand and bought more handmade jewelry than we’ll ever need.
I could personally boost the ecomony in Venice with contribution to the crafts on the boardwalk. I am such a sucker. Although I was not having all seventy-seven street musicians pushing their headphones at my face, all CHECK OUT MAH SHIT AND GIMMIE MONEY!*
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Heh. I can see that.”
“Seriously, dude? No.”
*I respect the art and straight-to-the-people marketing. It’s the pushiness.
We made it home and realized we were completely fucking wiped out. I plan to spend the rest of this Sunday in a sedentary state, at some point moving to shovel Josh’s awesome jumbalaya in my mouth.
That is so not a euphemism.
-CJ
My co-worker and her family took on San Francisco last week. In Chinatown, she met this little man and declared that I must have him:
I love him so hard.
His tag says ‘use method: to dangle.’ And so he shall.
-CJ
Yet again, I did Vegas. This time with slightly more style and a lot more hangover.
The Paris was lovely and all, if that’s your thing. I felt like a hack, though I fit in there much more than at the Palazzo (so super fancy – the fountains are worth more than my life) where I had the opportunity to see Jersey Boys. I had no idea I would LOVE this show or be as familiar with the Four Seasons’ music. The show followed a night of drinking so heavily that the sun was well up (and baking the city to a crisp 115°) by the time I found sleep. I paid for such an event, surely. And it made a 1 a.m. bedtime in a chilly hotel that Saturday such a decadent event.
I love how damn dark you can get a hotel room. You can sleep until 1pm and THAT, my friends, is a vacation.
-CJ
