All two of my readers may notice updates have been even more scant than usual, and this is for several reasons. Hope to have some things resolved soon, although I may disappear again in about a month and a half’s time.

Then things should be smooth as Belvedere.

In theory.

Normally, I am loathe to say the name “Perez Hilton”. Part of it is due to my abhorrence for celebrity obsessed culture, and part of it is because I am convinced that he and Spencer Pratt are like the Candyman, that they are summoned by and gain power from the utterance of their designations. However, I find I have to break that silence right now and be damned with the consequences at a later date. Still worse to admit, I find myself actually… siding with Perez Hilton – at least a smidge. I won’t be joining in on the #unfollowperez trend, but it’s not only because I would never follow him in the first place.

I’ve already mentioned on here that I find our grieving process in this society to be pretty ridiculous, but I really only touched the tip of the iceberg with that. I find it amusing that we seem to ignore everyone’s flaws posthumously. In a way you could say that everyone becomes an angel in death because we all become clean; our sins never existed in the minds of our mourners. I suppose that makes sense in that we are grieving the loss of the good in that person, not the bad, but I still don’t think that it makes the practice healthy or okay. I hate to break it to you, but we all have flaws, even Sister Mary Jehosaphat with all her kind words and charity work for peg-legged orphans.

Michael Jackson is no exception to this bizarre process of post-mortem absolution. Before his death, everyone seemed convinced of his sin, forgetting that we are, in this country, “innocent until proven guilty”. Jokes told at his expense were easy and frequent. Nobody thought twice; nobody felt guilty.

Yet now the internet is engaged in a massive baww-ing session over this newspost on Asshole McGee’s website. I am not even going to go into the fact that everyone seems happy to ignore the fact that this was made before Jackson’s death was confirmed because that’s not the point of this. What I will say, however, is that this is totally and completely something that most people would have gone along with and agreed upon if Michael had lived.

Everybody loved swapping stories on how eccentric Michael’s behavior was, how he was a product of growing up in the limelight without a real childhood, how he would have to be insane to do what he did to his face. Nobody believed him when he said hadn’t had plastic surgery or that he had vitiligo. Most people were convinced he hurt those boys. A dermatologist confirmed his diagnosis, and a psychologist testified that Jackson showed signs that he had regressed to the mindset of a ten-year-old boy, not that he was a pedophile. And yet we loved nothing more than not believing him.

To be honest, I am still not convinced he didn’t have plastic surgery, but I can’t say he didn’t have vitiligo because I just don’t know enough about it. Maybe he bleached his skin because he was nuts, or maybe he bleached it because of his disease. Maybe he didn’t bleach it at all. Maybe he wasn’t as crazy as we thought. And maybe, just maybe he didn’t hurt those boys. We don’t know. We may never know.

But don’t attack Perez for doing something you did before. That’s just bullshit, and the false attacks spilling over Twitter, Facebook, etc. are just ridiculous. You can be genuinely remorseful for your judgement of Michael when he was alive, but don’t out and out pretend it never happened when it did. Stick to tweeting about how much you loved his music, his influence on pop culture, or the complications this will create for the planned Thriller Casino. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.

Besides, there are plenty of other reasons to attack Perez. Just ask will.i.am.

I’m pretty much a fucking pottymouth. I don’t know why. Maybe at one point in my life I thought it made me look hardcore, and it just kind of got stuck that way like my mom always said it would. Or maybe I am a freedom fighter, and excessive cursing is my brilliant manifesto to the world, my way to stand up to The Man. I am a rebel without a (fucking) cause, and my tongue is sharp enough to pierce through my goddamned skull if I am not careful.

Or maybe I just don’t get it.

I hate people who use the phrase “bad words”. I hate swear jars. I just plain hate the concept that words themselves have some fucking voodoo curse placed upon them that can somehow destroy society and turn polite young children into hardened hooligans. We call Harry Potter fantasy because words like “avada kedavra” can kill a motherfucker, and yet we do not blink at the stupid fucking concept that words themselves seem to hold power in our own world.

At this point in a debate about language that takes place in my corner of the globe, someone will inevitably always bring up the dreaded “n word” as an example. However, the letters N, I, G, E, and R are not fucking bio-mechanical robotic vehicles from Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. They do not combine to make the fucking Megazord. All of the power contained within those six letters are given to them solely based on our own history and attitudes. “Nigger” is not a magical incantation. It is not the Fear spell from World of Warcraft. It is frightening because it is associated with slavery, lynchings, overwhelming hatred, and cold-blooded murder. People have lost their self-respect, their families, and their lives over the widely accepted definition of this word and its social implications, not the letters themselves.

People seem to think it’s rude to use “profanity” at a party, too. As if the letters F, U, C, and K get really cheeky when they are together and inappropriately grope other guests. Curse words are not a part of polite conversation!

But these words are, in the end, simply arbitrary. If I made up the word, “rezton” and gave it the definition “to brutally murder the boring, vacant person you are conversing with,” I think it would be a lot ruder to discuss this as my favorite hobby rather than loudly yelling, “shit!” when I inevitably spill spiked punch upon my new favorite blouse.  Nobody but me knows what the word means, however, so they just sort of nod their heads and smile blankly, their minds and eyes wandering to the party VIPs, wishing they weren’t stuck talking to the crazy woman wearing a brimmed beanie in the middle of the summer… And I get away with murder. Everybody wins.

Of course, you could ask me to say something romantic, and I could respond with, “Vai toma no cú”, which, if I am not mistaken, roughly translates as a request for you to please go and get sodomized. But you don’t know that, I don’t know that, and my father is a very funny man whose first language happens to be Portuguese. Everybody wins.

So please don’t bitch at me about my language. Don’t gasp and shake a change jar in my face with a condescending expression. Don’t kid yourself in thinking that the random arrangements of letters you employ somehow make you superior to me and mine. Because in the end it’s our intentions that matter, and you can fucking kiss my vulgar ass.

It never ceases to amaze me that the articles I am least happy with seem to be the ones that are getting the most hits and comments, haha. I never should have posted the last entry, it’s not really ready, but there you go.

Things are a little bit crazy over here, so I haven’t been devoting as much time as I could or should. Still, I have a few articles started, and I have decided just to post some snippets of the rough drafts here, just to show you I am not being a total bum (as if anyone reads this, lol). They might not be turned into full articles and likely will be changed quite a bit. But still. First drafts is first drafts.

—

Some people hear me talk and think I am anti-American. I certainly come from a cynical, disillusioned generation, born long after the Kennedys, after America’s legacy of politicians you felt you could trust at least as far as you could throw them. Welcome now to the age of acrimony, where misanthropy and disparagement reign supreme. This is where I grew up, where I formed my outlook on the world. This has got to affect a girl at least to some degree.

—

Of course, if we think we’re fooling anybody, we spend our hard earned allowance at non-conformist establishments such as Hot Topic and blare My Chemical Romance loud enough for anyone close enough to Deal With It. I cannot stress it enough that these individuals are not trendsetters. Anything cool is automatically shunned, and anything unhip or off-kilter is automatically obsession-worthy. It’s the easiest path to becoming an “individual”, just going with the opposite of what’s popular. These kids fail to realize that you don’t have to get up at the crack of noon to figure this out, and that they are simply riding an undercurrent of social conformity. Hating what’s in vogue is not a trademarked idea; it’s very popular.

Years ago, I had a speech teacher who said she used to assign eulogies to her students. But these weren’t eulogies for your uncle or your grandma or even your third cousin Doug with his lazy eye. The assignment was to compose and recite your own eulogy. Ultimately, she stopped assigning it because people felt it was too morbid. Personally, I was fascinated. Maybe it was vanity, maybe it was that I saw the comedic potential, I don’t know, but I requested to do this assignment even when she didn’t ask it of us.

I guess I don’t get the way that we treat death in this society. People seem to be so particular. You have to wear black. You have to be quiet and solemn. You have to be stuffed into a room with people you don’t know or like and hear “how are you holding up?” about a million times while contemplating whether or not it’s possible for ones head to fall off from constant slow nodding. God forbid you don’t shed a tear. Then you’re just a monster.

Everybody has their own way of mourning. Do we need to be so judgmental about it? Someone is dead. Shut the fuck up and focus on the loss of life.

Personally, I’d rather see laughter at my funeral. Anybody can cry at a wake, even if they didn’t know the deceased and are only contemplating the reality of their own mortality. Or just looking for attention. It takes a special kind of person to leave an impression so strong that we’re able to laugh through our grief. I’d like to leave that kind of beauty behind.

So crack a smile at my memorial if you don’t want your ass to get haunted.

Now, without further ado, I will post the obituarty, edited:

We gather here today to honor the passing of a great hero,  a true legend, Sara M.

Sara was born and lived as many of us do… Only with about 300% more concentrated awesome. She attended college for a time before writing her famous paper “World Peace in Two Easy Steps.” In her paper she discussed how obvious it was that all that was needed to achieve world peace was… I’m sorry, you all know how that happened. This is a eulogy, not a history lesson.

Anyway, after the success of Operation World Peace (also known as Operation Obvious Code Name), no less than twenty-six countries renamed themselves in her honor. She was truly the Earth’s greatest hero, and we are proud to have called her a citizen of the United States of Saraca.

After this, she was highly sought after by every educational institution known to man… Harvard, Oxford, DeVry… But she turned them all down to study directly under her greatest hero – the man, the myth, the legend – Chuck Norris. She attempted to thank him for the knowledge he gave her by manufacturing Chuck Norris toilet paper, but it was a failure. Her only failure, really, and later she realized her mistake – Chuck Norris simply does not take shit from anybody.

She was a very busy woman, of course. When she wasn’t involved in her careers of action archaeology and Nazi hunting, she enjoyed long walks on the beach, fire side chats, and sky diving with orphans into pools of ice cream… She could also crochet a mean pair of booties.

At ninety-seven-years-old, Sara would still be with us if she hadn’t driven her custom Harley through that ring of fire. She is survived by her wife, Angelina Jolie, and their eighty-seven adopted children.

Having some issues that are preventing updates at this time. Loooots of issues.

So enjoy while I hackily repost some old prose from a short story I am always working on, haha.

—-

When did this happen?

Nona felt the familiar headiness that came with infatuation. She felt her heart race just as every cheesy romance novel gushed about and felt even her intake of breath change itself. But it hadn’t quickened, she thought. At least, not that she could tell. No, this was more a deepening of her breath, and her mouth opened slightly in – what? – Anticipation? Perhaps it was lust.

Whatever the emotion, she was overtaken by it, and that frightened her.

She was not supposed to feel this way. The object of her affections was all wrong. Not the right gender, she thought. Not the right gender at all.

For years since puberty she’d known exactly what she wanted, and it was always the same sex that drove her mad. It was always the same experience, too: her heart always raced, her breath deepened, and her lips parted just slightly. She was sure her eyes darkened as well, on occasion. But because she was inside herself, it could have just been a romantic notion.

“Are you okay?” Pete looked at her with concern as he handed her the movie ticket. His eyes stayed on her, even as he opened the theater door and ushered her in, his hand on the small of her back. Nona shuddered – not unpleasantly – and forced a smile to shine through the fog of her confusion.

“I’m fine,” she told him, shaking off her thoughts. Things are how they are. You can’t choose love.

And maybe she did love the man – man – she was with. But one thing was certain: there was a definite infatuation there.

——–

Some nights after the movie let out and the dinner was eaten, she would go home and feel more complete than she ever had. And she was grateful for the change. She would curl up in bed in silence and reflect on the night before falling into a state of dreams.

Other nights, when she shared her bed with the man who fascinated her, she would wake up from a dreamless sleep and stare at him until he stirred himself. She would study everything from his eyes to his jaw before looking under the covers and verifying that he was, in fact, male.

The remaining nights were not as peaceful. She would open the door, clutching her abdomen and grasping for a chair to hold her up until she made it to the bathroom. Over dramatics, she knew, but some how necessary. And after a few dry heaves she would watch a queer movie and fall asleep dreaming of semi-butches and quasi-femmes. She would wake up the next day and have to physically remind herself that she had been out with a male the night before, not swooning over Clea Duvall.

And on occasion she found she hated herself. She thought, perhaps I am a traitor? Perhaps I shall be burned at the stake?

She never hated him, of course, for that itself was impossible. But it was often that she asked herself, so where do I fit in now?

Welcome to the new domain! Mind the dust as I will be designing a permanent layout soon.

Thank god Twitter is around for LatinPrincess21 to tweet the ever important and thrilling message, “Eating a Baloney Sandwich.” The alternative, of course, would be me pacing around my room, tearing my hair out, worried to death that she is not getting her daily recommended dosage of spare animal parts. And when she posted that she was watching TMZ? I breathed a sigh of relief. I have to know that she is watching quality, groundbreaking television; otherwise, my world might implode.

Here’s the thing: I don’t hate microblogging. I tweet. I have Tweetie and Twitterfon on my iPhone and Tweetdeck on my MacBook. So it’s not that I don’t get the concept or that I am completely cynical about it. Rather, I just don’t get how some people utilize it. I really, really don’t care if you’re drinking a half caf soy latte while talking to Mary Jane Whatsherface. On average, I don’t care if you’re going to sleep, going for a jog, or brushing your cat’s fur. I don’t understand why you think you’re so fascinating that people want to read about Captain Whiskers’ hairballs, anyway. Really. The mundane details of your every daily activity are absolutely of no concern to me whatsoever.

Still, there are many good uses for microblogging. These include (but are not limited to):

• keeping in touch with one’s fanbase or supporters, e.g. Felicia Day, David Davis, and Gavin Newsom
• generating discussions and passing fast notes to large audiences
• sharing quotes or bits of wisdom

If you’re into astrology, I guess it’d be cool to tweet people’s horoscopes. Plus, if news entities like CNN would get on the ball and actually utilize their Twitter accounts, it is the perfect medium for posting headlines. (Assuming it’s not too much to ask that I find out what exactly happened that involved Madonna’s left foot when I missed half your crawl. RT, please.)

Of course, the device updates function also allows for groups of friends to essentially use Twitter as a group text messaging hub, in which case you can post about your sandwiches and slumber parties all you want. But there is a difference between utilizing the site as a tool and treating it like the world’s largest public receptacle of shit nobody cares about.

Mainly, I like to use it as a way to keep up with artists, actors, and friends. My personal tweets range from (attempted) humorous daily observations to project status notifications (and occasional hypocrisy). In a nutshell, Twitter is so much more than an announcement board for your bio updates.

At this point, I must admit that I am not a saint in this regard. I have been known to post incredibly boring tweets, I know. I never said I didn’t have an ego the size of Mars and find myself absolutely fascinating. But at least I have remorse, damnit.

Of course, Tycho Brahe (obviously not the astronomer) says this all the best:

Who the fuck do you think you are? Who are you that you can force your Goddamned minutia on other people, your stupid bullshit, your stone-ground artisanal condiments? How dare you. You should be ashamed.

Indeed.

Edit: Apparently, Twitter is good for freedom fighting as well. Now that’s something.

There are many things in this world I do not comprehend. Some things are beyond my realm of understanding: complex theories about the mathematics of spatial phenomena, endless lines of computer code forming a clean operating system, the massive appeal of Dancing with the Stars. Other things (such as every Algebra teacher I’ve ever had), I just seem to get bored of and tune out, so I miss out large chunks that I don’t exactly rush to fill in.

And then… there are other things.

Astrology is just one of those things I Just Don’t Get. Am I supposed to believe there are different hormones in the air depending on the day of the year, and that they are in significant enough quantities as to affect the development of the fetal brain? That babies born on the cusp of two signs exhibit personality traits from both because there is a curious mixture of the two hormones in the air as one disappates and the other wafts in as the planetary alignment dictates??

I Just Don’t Get It.

Today someone looked at me and said, “You’re a Taurus, right? Because you don’t act like a Taurus.” And I think that broke my brain.

What gets me is, she’s not an unintelligent lady. She seems to be a pretty smart cookie, as do a couple of other people I know who believe in astrology… So why then do they believe in this crap? If I don’t “act like a Taurus”, doesn’t that tell you that there is something wrong with the model? Doesn’t clear evidence to the contrary disprove the theory?

And what really gets me is that people don’t seem to realize that astrological signs, horoscopes, all of that crap, they’re all so vague that practically anyone can relate to them to some degree. If I made up my own sign, like the Tsunami Dolphin, and said, “You are someone who takes a great deal of pride in at least one aspect of your life. When things are going well, your mood greatly reflects it, and people love to be around you!” a lot of people would find themselves nodding their heads along with my words. Who doesn’t have something they take pride in, whether it’s their job or their kids or their collection of antique thimbles autographed by Queen Elizabeth? Most people are happy when things are going well, and everyone likes to think that people love to be around them. If you don’t relate to any one of these things in at least some small way, you’re someone I probably would not want to hang around, Mr. Krabby Patty.

But I digress.

I don’t know. Maybe astrology stems from a fear of the unknown. We’re still trying to unlock the secrets of the human brain, what makes people tick, and the future is most certainly a mystery to us. Ignorance tends to be fertile ground for fear, so perhaps we invent these methods as a way of coping with the darkness. I guess it can be nice to think that the person you are head over heels for is distant because of the pull of the heavens and not because they’re Just Not That Into You. And I guess for some stumbling people, reading their horoscope in the morning can tell them how to approach their day.

Not that I think it’s wise. I’m just sayin’. Sum skurry shit can make us do some rather illogical things.

The official diagnosis was a fractured coccyx. I also pulled a hammy, but that was hardly noticeable, due to the profound agony radiating from the center of my poor little Georgia O’Keeffe. [...] The lasting legacy of the Cooter Smash is that I’m the first to know when it’s going to rain. That’s right. I both sing and predict the weather with my hoo hoo. Mozart, meteorology, plus all the usual stuff.

And yet I remain single.

‘Splain it to me, Lucy.

With lines like this peppering her memoir, how can you not love Kristin Chenoweth?

This woman is definitely a ball of fire and spirit, possessed with an incredibly sweet nature and over the top, hilarious personality. I know she used a ghost writer for this book, but I can’t help but fall in love with her voice nonetheless. The fact that she acknowledges her “ghost writer”, going so far as to put her name on the front cover, illustrates perfectly the polite, down-to-earth persona she puts through in the account. Kristin is an upbeat, relentless Christian gal, but to merely describe her as such (and leave you to gag) would be a total and complete injustice. Ms. Chenoweth is a force to be reckoned with and, simply put, must be experienced.

Most non-Christians have a rather sour taste in their mouths when it comes to Jesus freaks. I believe Ghandi put it best when he said, “I like your Christ; I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” And, indeed, for many that is true. More than a few people seem to distort the teachings of Jesus, using his words as they see fit. (For the record, I am not religious, but it is historical fact that Jesus was a dude who lived and said some words.) Years ago they used the Bible to justify slavery, and these days they use it to justify homophobia among other delightful forms of discrimination… All the while happily munching on shell-fish and attending Church with their heads uncovered. They blissfully condemn the undesirables and loudly preach that they are going to Heaven so much harder than you. They feel quite comfortable casting the first stone and have, in essence, created God in their own image.

But I digress.

The thing that I love about Kristin Chenoweth is that she takes the true messages of Jesus and applies them to her life and interactions with other people. She is an open, loving woman who believes in God, gay rights, and puppies who whine indignantly. I know, I know, you’re developing diabetes at just my words, but I am super cereal. She seems completely genuine and absolutely, well, adorable.

Of course, she’ll probably still leave a few (heartless!) souls with a desire to punch a cheery blonde with a quickness. And, who knows, maybe she’s making this persona up for Hollywood… But I ate every word of that damn book up like my eight-month-old pit/lab eats anything he can get his fat baby muzzle on (he is convinced we are starving him). I am hoping this is genuinely her voice, her person and her story, because she is a breath of fresh air in this incredibly self-absorbed society.

The writing itself was just hilarious, as well. I don’t know how much of it was Kristin and how much of it was Joni, but jay-sus. I laughed out loud a few times and just had a really good time with it in general. Ms. Chenoweth is outrageous, hilarious, and utterly fabulous.

It needs to be said: I absolutely adore her.

Final Diagnonsense: 4 out of 5 Georgia O’Keeffes