So I hate heels. Pretty much. I used to wear them all the time in high school and early college and they were fun and I was fairly talented at quietly wandering around in them (as opposed to awkwardly click clacking and slip sliding all over the damn place)…and then one day I was on campus and stepped off this curb and my heel didn’t land quite right and I almost fell on my ass and these guys playing hacky sack were like “Whoa! That chick almost totally biffed it!” I just so happened to be going through this weird paranoid phase and I began wishing I were much shorter after this incident. I developed this theory that people who are shorter must feel safer because they are closer to the ground (so if they fall or something, it obviously won’t hurt as much) and thus this probably makes them more happy and confident…which, in truth, doesn’t seem likely; most short people I know are pretty self-conscious about their height and are always wishing they were taller…but, of course, super tall people are also pretty self-conscious and are always wishing they were shorter. I would say the perfect height (for a girly anyhow) is probably 5’5” to 5’9”…and I fit that (5’7” ish). So I’m good with that height and I decided I should always be as close to the ground and my natural height as possible (it will keep me safe and balanced…or something dumb and made up like that). Plus I like wearing my comfy ass cute Vans and saying hell no to shoes that are gonna make me 5’10” or taller and give me blisters and shit.

Unfortunately I had to buy heels for my brother’s wedding. And I swear I looked at upwards of 700 pairs of shoes and I found one (yes, one) pair I liked…loved, even. And that pair just happened to be a little tight so I needed a half size up and they didn’t have it in that size and I spent all last week looking for that damn shoe at some other store, but to no avail. So I then had to find another pair…and damn, it was hard. 90% of heels in stores are tacky wannabe Sex in the City shit and 5% are ridiculously expensive and 4% are too uncomfortable and 1% (I’m being generous here) I like. The shoe industry is really a crock. Really, they’re all pretty expensive and ugly and people somehow are convinced that they should buy them. It’s weird…but I digress. I eventually found a pair that didn’t make me want to barf (not that I loved them or anything but they were pretty chill), but they were really tall and tended to slip on my ankles. So I spent the last week strutting around the apartment, trying to perfect my long cast-aside signature walk.

Here is one photo session from said practicing. I tried to be all experimental with my posing and shit and really, I think I was fairly successful. It took some skill to work the heels with the mini and I could certainly use some work but I was just a little proud of myself for pulling off some of these poses.

Note: So I’ve watched tons of ANTM and I’ve looked at zillions of pictures of myself (it’s weird that I dislike being photographed so and yet I have at least, you know, a billion photos of me from the last year…and I decided to make these pictures a feature on my blog. Crazy) and I’ve decided that the more awkward and uncomfortable a pose feels, the better it’s gonna look (in general and probably). I take a normal picture in a conventional (read: stiff) pose and it looks like crap but then I bend and contort and fall the hell down while posing and it looks way cooler. Tyra might not be good for much but she’s helped teach me this (or was Mr. Jay responsible for that? Hmm…). Just keep your face calm (though, as you can probably tell, I love going for the frightened/bemused facial expressions too) and do something hella weird with your body and things will turn out splendidly, dahling.

Anyway, here are the winning pictures of my Smile Project, something I initiated to get me more comfortable with smiling big toothy (the project doesn’t apply to the closed mouth smile…I’m a pro at that) believable grins before my brother’s wedding (for those of you that don’t know, I tend to get insanely uncomfortable when trying to smile naturally for a camera (I’m way more comfortable with being all posy and fierce…which screws me over most of the time) and it all comes across as fake and/or frightened and/or jacked).  The event is in a few weeks and I figured it was time to reveal the best of my results.

Here are my main findings:  I look best when slightly drunk and blown out (the extreme paleness of my skin seems to distract from any awkwardness that may come across in my features…I think).  So I figure if Eric sneaks in a flask (sure, there will be liquor at the wedding…I’m just one of those people that’s not really comfortable drinking in front of my parents so I’m gonna keep it on the down low) and the wedding photographer is ridiculously untalented, I’ll be cool.

It’s a Norwegian film about friends and writers and it’s amazingly well-written and directed and the editing is all innovative and awesome and the whole thing is at once happy and sad and funny and heart-breaking and brilliant.  Ahhhh!  I want to marry it!!!!!

I finally feel a tad better about my struggles with the creative process…for some reason most writers (or wannabes, I guess) I meet in real life are strangely optimistic (and most of the time seemingly unrealistic) about the whole writing thing.  They don’t really seem to question the merit of their work and they force their writing upon people with “Praise me!” faces and upon receiving the subsequent forced praise, beam all proudly and don’t even bother to question the merits of such shallow compliments (“Well, uh…it’s good.  Why?  Uh…lots of reasons…and I need to leave now.  I’m late.  For um…yeah, gotta go”).  Then they get rejected and wonder why…but then put it out of their heads and blame it on other people’s weird taste.  And then they just look at me blankly when I try to tell them about all of my mental anxieties that inevitably surface when I’m working on something and how I immediately hate everything I complete, making the editing process almost unbearable, and how I wish I would’ve been born with any other talents but I have a sickening compulsion only to write and be read.  I’m always kind of worried about this generation of young people, like maybe too many people with not enough talent get praised by their peers and probably the school system in order to ensure they have incredibly high self-esteem…but then they don’t end up as intelligent, I think.  Sure, they may be happier (a fool’s paradise and all that), but I think it’s a sign of true intelligence when you experience a healthy amount of self-doubt.  It shows that you’re critical, that you’re thinking, that you’re looking to improve shit.  Not to say I have a healthy amount of self-doubt with my writing; mine’s just an overwhelming sickness.  I can only hope I get something brilliant written and published/made (depending on whether my novella/essay collection/screenplay makes it to the finish line first) before I have the typical artist breakdown.  Bah humbug.

Anyway, the two main characters in Reprise made me feel way better about my struggles as a writer…and it depressed me, but ultimately gave me a lot of hope.  Like I’m not alone and things don’t have to be so hopeless (at least not in all cases).  And other people (in a film, yes…but someone wrote that film!) have the same fears about being derivative or trying too hard to force feeling and such.  It was good to see.

I’ve seen one film in each of the last three years that’s completely blown me out of my seat:  Half Nelson in 2006, This Is England in 2007, and now Reprise in 2008.  Tons of amazing movies came out last year (There Will Be Blood, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Grindhouse, I’m Not There, Michael Clayton, No Country For Old Men)…but somehow none got to me the way those three films have.  They each captured something in me and were all amazingly written and directed and acted and they made me happy yet sad (hey, I’m a happily sad person…or a sadly happy person?  Hmm, which is better?) and they gave me a lot of hope in the future of art and filmmaking and writing and yes, humanity.  Amazing, truly amazing.  I hope it keeps up each year and then I’ll make a definitive list of these films and write a book about it…and it’ll get stuck in the editing process, but fuck, what are you gonna do?

I was just sitting on a stool, minding my own business and trying to spin all around (it was making me happy), when a really short, insanely drunk girl chose to confront this really tall nerdy guy about the status of their (non?) relationship like a foot in front of me.  She actually was like, “You’re not into me anymore, are you?” and he was like, “No”…and I was like “Uh, kill me now?”.  I mean the guy didn’t even pause or stutter and I’m totally not kidding, it all went down right in front of my face, in my very own personal space.  So then she just stood there, looking drunkenly confused and put out, and was like, “Yeah, I figured” and he was like, “Yeah”…and I was like “OH GOD, PLEASE KILL ME NOW!” And then she leaned in and pointed at some dude from one of the opening bands and was like, “Well…I kind of think that bassist guy is cute,” and the nerdy guy looked slightly relieved and was like, “Oh yeah, do you want me to hook you up?” and she was like, “No…uh, maybe you could just mention sometime if you’re ever around him and he’s like wondering or something and you could be like…” and yadda, yadda, yadda.  She stumbled away seconds later (and did I mention she had like a cast on her arm?  It made the whole thing that much worse and more bizarre…which, I always find it strange when people have broken limbs in the underground music scene.  I don’t know why, but it’s weird) and the dude ran off to giggle about the awkwardness of it all with some chick from one of the bands…this time, three feet to my right (thank goodness for small favors)

And I was scarred for life.

Several other depressing things happened too, though I’m choosing not to discuss those…it’s all too depressing.  I was sickeningly drunk off of two Tangtinis (shameful) and we ended up leaving the concert early so I could go collapse on my living room floor (and avoid bursting into tears at a crowded bar because of a bunch of shit that didn’t even involve me…c’mon, I feel others’ pain, people).  I woke up in the middle of the night and my awesome assymetrical tank top (the thing is bitchin’) was all pushed off to one side, completely exposing one half of my early 90s-ish day-glo bra…and my roommate and her boyfriend were wandering around the room (though when I first woke up they were exiting the room so I just felt someone’s presence and heard footsteps and I thought it was like a baghead dude or something and I was frightened and tried in vain to wake the passed out Eric up).  Classy.

Moral of the story:  Sarah should eat more during the day on weekends…or drink less or something (but it was just two drinks!).  And people should go outside to have sad and awkward conversations about not liking each other, far far away from the drunken Sarah.  It’s the only polite thing to do.

And here we have a big blank white wall in my apartment, which I like to pose in front of and pretend like I’m in an American Apparel ad.  Of course, I’m actually wearing a bra in all of these pictures (you thought I was the sort of girl to post pictures of herself on da big ol’ bad internet wearing sheer shirts with no bra?  Nah, you’re silly).

The first two pictures were taken last summer and the rest were taken in the last month (mostly the last week).  Hmm, have I changed at all?

Once upon a time last week I was sick…well, I was feeling as I always do (all extremely fatigued and with a slight stomachache from eating something or other), but a little bit worse.  So I went home from work at lunch and crawled into shorts and a tank top (it was hot as hell in my apartment) and plopped myself out on that damn comfy/cursed sectional that is the main furnishing of my apartment.  I turned on the TV and found nothing on but a bunch of judge shows (which I already knew would be the case).  Now, occasionally I am down with the judge shows as they can be fairly entertaining and an enlightening glimpse into sectors of the population I’m not really in contact with (or ones I am in contact with, but like doing research on from a safe distance…like choads!).  But that day it was all just sad and depressing so I decided to nap and hopefully wake up in time to make fun of one of the worst shows on TV:  The Tyra Banks Show (oh shit, did I just blow my chances at America’s Next Top Model?  Ah well, it’s totally worth it…I mean, someone needs to be confronting the annoying Ms. Thang on all her hypocritical  bullshit.  But whatever, I’ll get into that later when I write more in depth about my profound love of ANTM sometime).  And instead, much to my chagrin, I pulled a blanket over me while sleeping, got ridiculously overheated, slept right through Tyra, and had the worst fever dream of my entire life.  Holy shit.

It started out at a big bowling tournament that I was somehow apart of.  Tons of people I only kind of know were there and I was in a bad mood due to some personal shit I don’t really feel like going into (I do occasionally reserve the right to keep a few things private, believe it or not).  Anyway, at some point they had all these weird items on a table and I was announcing what they were to everyone with this microphone (one of those things I really can’t make sense of…like what were the weird things supposed to be?  Were they supposed to be entertaining because they were strange, or were they prizes of some kind?  And why the hell was I suddenly the talk show host of the bowling tournament?).  And for some reason I just put the microphone down during my big presentation and ate one of the items which looked kind of like a little pillow or something.  It didn’t look like food, but it also didn’t look like anything gross…just a benign tan pillow.  And it suddenly got dead quiet in the bowling alley…and then someone was like, “OH MY GOD, YOU JUST ATE A COBRA!” and I was like, “Fuck off”  but then saw everyone’s faces and was like, “Oh FUCK, seriously????  NO!!!!”  And then someone proceeded to tell me how it wouldn’t grow to full size and actually look like a cobra until it was in my stomach because it was some result of an experiment (the value of such an experiment remains a mystery).  So I got big ol’ shiny tears in my eyes and asked if I was going to die and no one seemed to know.  So they all just watched me sit there and cry for awhile.

As luck would have it, I didn’t die…because the cobra’s head got wedged in my throat.  So it couldn’t bite me because it couldn’t reach any part of me to bite (which doesn’t make any sense; couldn’t it bite my mouth?  And why the hell didn’t I choke to death???), but every time I opened my mouth it would try to strike out and bite people I was talking to or eat my food (possibly the grossest part for me, in all honesty).  So I just stood around feeling immensely uncomfortable, while something slithered around inside of me and I starved to death.  I tried not to think about the snake head inside of my mouth (it was kind of like this one time when I hurt my jaw–at Elitch Gardens, though it had nothing to do with being there–and it would pop in and out of place whenever I opened my mouth.  It lasted for like a day and a half and was extremely uncomfortable and I mostly just had to sit around and try not to open my mouth), but it was really fucking hard not to, you know?

These scientists ended up telling me that I would die in four days if the snake stayed inside of me.  Something would dissolve and the poison would overtake my body…or something.  But on the fourth day they came up with some sort of risky procedure to get the snake out.  They said there was like an 85% chance of me dying so they took me to the bowling alley to do the procedure (what?  It’s as sterile an environment as any, right?) and I ended up telling a lot of people a lot of things right beforehand (though I had to tell them from a distance so the cobra wouldn’t try to bite them).  I settled a lot of scores and said some things that really needed to be said and it was all quite beautiful, actually.  The best near-death experience I’ve ever imagined for sure (except for the whole snake in my body part, yeah?).  Getting to actually work things out pre-death and say everything you’ve ever wanted to say to people kind of reminded me of the film After the Wedding, which is this Danish film that in all honesty was a bit like a Lifetime melodrama (though the best one they’ve ever made, of course) but I ultimately found it rather enjoyable (mainly because of the extremely likable Jorgen and a scene involving him and “It’s Raining Men”…ahh, those Danes know how to party).  But anyway, I liked this part of the dream; it was rather lovely.

And then I woke up…from my surgery, that is.  It was a surprise success.  They showed me the dead snake and I felt really weird and emotional about it.  My organs were apparently all contorted into the shape of the cobra’s head (which, again, doesn’t make sense considering the head was somehow in my throat the whole time) and my stomach was sticking out at a weird angle.  Everyone, including doctors and family members and friends, found this uproarious (they seriously were all giggling and guffawing and pointing at me) while I was all disturbed and worried and no one seemed to be able to tell me if my body would ever look normal again.

And then…I woke up for real.  Mortified and as grossed out as I’ve maybe ever been in my whole life.  I certainly have had more disturbing and frightening nightmares, but nothing quite as disgusting (not that I can recall anyhow).  I like didn’t even have an appetite for the rest of last week because whenever I thought about eating I thought about my throat and that stupid fucking cobra with its lethal tongue…horrendous, indescribably so.  Only now can I write about it without shuddering uncontrollably and wanting to throw the hell up.

So go my dreams.

Sorry to subject you to that.  Really.

1. I meant to say so a long, long time ago, but you should really go see The Visitor as quickly as possible. I adored Thomas McCarthy’s directorial debut The Station Agent but every time I read the synopsis for The Visitor I thought it sounded rather dull and predictable and all feel-goody (what nonsense! I’m all about the feeling awful, no? Yup).  Even Richard Jenkins, one of my favorite actors from my dearly departed Six Feet Under (though, hell, I had like 12 favorite actors on it…throw in Mr. Ben Foster, Mr. Jeremy Sisto, and especially Mr. James Cromwell (and those are just to name a few) with all the incredible main actors and damnye, that shit is lethal), couldn’t capture my interest. But thankfully a new film drought in my lovely lady Denver town led me to it a few weeks ago. And it was all beautiful and quiet and powerful in the same real sort of subtle way The Station Agent was. Perhaps the most impressive thing about Mr. McCarthy is how he’s able to write these amazingly deep and likable characters that are, at first glance, completely normal. They’re all kind of flawed somehow and yet they all maintain this gentle goodness (every single main character from those two films, I swear; go watch, you’ll see) and basic dignity and grace that you can only see after spending so much time with a person in real life…so really, you hardly ever see it in movies. But an hour into his movies and you feel like you know these characters, and they are perfect in their own little ways and even the silence in their conversations is good and kind (and not even awkward because they let it exist) and it makes you feel good about living because you know somewhere, somehow, real people are capable of such genuine and understated acts of love and kindness. I’m a cynical lass a good part of the time and yet his movies have me preaching the truth of friendship minus any selfishness or sex or other shit that I see distorting most relationships. It’s just closeness, pure and true.
2. What was all that about? Yeah, I don’t know either. It was weird (I appear to be in a weird mood…I’m totally eating spicy Cheez-Its and a banana with whipped cream…um?). I went and saw a different depressing film (did I mention that The Visitor is also depressing as hell and an indictment of our government’s terrible wrongdoings? Yeah, well) this weekend, My Name Is Albert Ayler, the Albert Ayler documentary at my neighbor in the Sarah ‘hood, Neighborhood Flix. Which, Albert was amazing. He was a genius and I’m only just now getting into his stuff and I’m all super excited about it (as I always am when I discover something so incredible and amazing for the first time and I actually get to hear songs for the first time ever with my tiny blank canvas ears…and geez, I really get off on it. Fuck). But the documentary had some problems…it was confusing and I think the filmmaker had issues with figuring out how much time to spend on things and what stuff to focus on. Like some important details were barely touched on and then never brought up again while others…actually, I think it could’ve pretty much used more detail everywhere. Hell, tack on 20 extra minutes of interviews and I think it would’ve been better…but still nowhere near the genius of The Devil and Daniel Johnston (though, obviously, Daniel is alive and Albert is dead…that certainly makes a difference with a documentary). But anyway, it was a real downer and made me all depressed. But…just go listen to his music, ok? And on a happier note, he was another of my cool talented awesome musician friends who went and played and hung around in Sweden for a time (like my main man, Lee Hazlewood…remember?). Which is way cool since the biggest one chunk of my heritage is, in fact, Swedish. So I love them and they love me…right? Yeah, let’s pretend that’s what it means. Oh and one of Albert’s Swedish girlfriends was featured in the documentary and I adored her. She wasn’t some great beauty (as you expect with the Scandinavian ladies, I guess) but she seemed like a lovely person and was cute as a button. Damn, I really want to move to Sweden with my clarinet.
3. Oh and more music love…ahhhh, I’m just so excited and in love right now. Why? Because I am in the midst of throwing myself full on into Tropicalia and African music and jazz…and this is terrific. Because I figured it would at least be another year until I immersed myself in jazz (and yes, I have predictions about such things) but I’m craving it so much right now. And there’s so much for me to hear and learn about and find and I’ll draw myself a little map and figure out some fun ass route for me and my headphones to journey through to find awe-inspiring new shit I’ve never really heard…aw, I’m gonna have such a good summer my friends. I can feel it in my very (fragile) bones.
4. I’m gonna get a pretty new bike really soon. And I bought this brilliant huge book of stickers so I can design some cool sticker art for my bike (like a lot of the stickers aren’t even full stickers…for instance, I adore animal stickers and this book has a lot of stickers that aren’t even full animals, but just like a giraffe’s leg or a lion’s nose…seriously, how awesome is that?!). The stickers rock it with my crayons and I’m all obsessed with new art projects I’ve dreamt up to incorporate them into.
5. So You Think You Can Dance is back! It’s seriously like the reality TV show equivalent of The Visitor (don’t laugh right in front of me, come on now). It’s somehow inspiring and good-natured and non-exploitative and it makes you love a lot of people you’d never really think of loving otherwise. Cat Deeley is a cute Amazon nerd of a host and I absolutely adore most of the guest judges/choreographers (and even the main judges have grown on me over the years…something I never would’ve thought a possibility with Mary Murphy in the beginning…that laugh is something else (but also hysterical and occasionally endearing)). Like Mia Michaels is one of my favorite people on the planet (and yes, I know I throw that around a lot…but yes, it really does mean something when I say it). And there are so many just insanely talented and entertaining dancers out there waiting to be discovered. I was trying to pinpoint how it’s so different than American Idol…and I think for one thing most musicians I would really like and be impressed with wouldn’t want to go on it in the first place (not being snobby at all…it’s just a super restrictive and stifling environment for creativity you know?) and for another, mainstream audiences aren’t going to accept like some brilliant avant-garde artist on there (hell, the judges probably wouldn’t have sent Bob fucking Dylan through to the top 24…”Voice isn’t good enough, dog”). Music’s an entirely different medium than dance when it comes to audience appreciation, it seems. Like a talented dancer has the ability to be creative and come up with his/her own amazingly innovative choreography and lots of people from all different backgrounds will be appreciative of it in some way or another. Oh and don’t take any of this as an endorsement for Dancing with the Stars either; the thing that makes this one special is just the sheer level of talent of all the dancers and their drive to succeed in some way or another (and not just desperately whore themselves out for some late career attention). I’ve never seen a reality show with a more positive and vaguely intelligent vibe (other than Project Runway, I guess). Oh and if you’re one of those hipster lame-o’s that says watching any television is terrible and mind-numbing and a sign of less intelligence…uh, fuck off? Because, obviously, a lot of television shows are more intelligent and creative and well-written than most films being made today and reality show criticism can really expand your mind and argumentative powers against the evils (and–very occasionally–strengths) of our society. I’ll be getting into this later when I make my Top 10 list of TV shows you need to watch, but take my word on it, I’ll make you look like a real douche bag if you try to tell me you don’t watch any television shows because they’ll rot your brain (and guess what? I still have time for writing, creating art, listening to mad amounts of music, seeing crazy amounts of movies, reading, and TV. It can be done so don’t give me those excuses).
6. I’m sad about Sydney Pollack. He was in many great films (I actually haven’t seen all that many from his directorial catalog, however…I’ll need to work on that), including my favorite Woody Allen: Husbands and Wives (speaking of which, I’m also going to make a guide to Woody’s best movies list sometime soon…whew).
7. To end things on a definite high note: the Pee Pee CD release show was last weekend! At the Mercury Cafe, or as I affectionately like to call it “my favorite speakeasy” (it’s a weird phenomenon…there are like three other places near it that totally make me feel like I’m in the 1920s for some reason). It was amazing and and wondrous and full of dancing and love. And I’ve seen them live tons of times over the past couple years but this was truly a special occasion. Aw, I’m listening to their CD now and I can’t even express how happy it’s making me. You know, there was this one moment during the show when they were singing “O, Little Boy” and it was so beautiful and perfect (as it always is when they play it…damn, I just tend to have several revelations and ephiphanies during all their shows. No wonder they’re my favorites, eh?) that it kind of made me a little sad. Because one day I may not be here or maybe they won’t be or somehow things will change and I just didn’t want that song or moment to ever end (Eric said this thought process is exactly what’s wrong with the way my mind works). Aw, I love them (they definitely make me want to stick around Denver a little while longer before running off to Sweden).

And if you’ll excuse me, I now have a three hour dancing date with Fela Kuti.

You finally get to meet my awesome animal friends!  With their incredibly fucking sweet names!  Because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s naming things (it’s truly a talent…no, more like a gift…a precious, precious gift).

So enjoy.  Or don’t…but I’ll totally say you’re really uncool if you don’t (and trust me, you don’t want that; the entire world lives in fear of me thinking they’re uncool one day…yup, that’s sure true).

I feel weird…because, yes, I had a weird weekend. Most of which stemmed from the M.I.A. show on Saturday.

So here’s the deal: I’m sleepy, I’m sickly (booze and junk food and little sleep for three days will do that to you, honey), I’m uneasy (the scary TV preview for The Strangers has me all nervous and frightened…lame as hell, damn it), and I don’t really do show reviews. At least not in the way most people do show reviews. But I’ll try to briefly give you a glimpse into the experience. For you and only you, dear reader (aww, that made you all uncomfortable and happy? Adorable…it mostly just made me uncomfortable…but that’s still cool for you).

So I don’t really like the Fillmore. I don’t know why, exactly, but I don’t. I’ve been to perhaps four shows there my entire life (I’ve been lucky they don’t often get people I’m willing to drop dough on seeing) and every time has been a bad experience. Two of the previous times I was underage and sober and one of the other times I was slightly drunk but had been tricked into going to a show under false pretenses by one of my brother’s ex-girlfriends (whom I never was really chummy with), and so I assumed that this would be the show where I would like the Fillmore. Because I would get crazy drunk (so this is terrible and a confession I don’t really like making, but I tend to get super drunk at concerts because I can get really easily annoyed at shows when sober…but when I’ve been drinking, I’m way more likely not to notice annoying/lame/perverted/disgusting/mean/asshat concert-goers (and yes, there are lots of them…if you haven’t noticed)) and I would be there for a show I actually wanted to see with people I chose to see it with.

But then.

I had a long day (really long…we’re talking road trips, hanging around outside for hours (while it was all hot and windy), and consuming only like 300 calories before 8:00 PM). So when we went to get something to eat and drink before the show, I was a bit…out of sorts I guess. We were already like hours late for the show and weren’t sure when exactly M.I.A. would go on (I’m so sick of having to predict when people are going to go on…I can’t stand getting to shows too early or too late and it kills me when I have no clue what time to get there) so we just decided to get appetizers and a few drinks. Well, being that I had almost nothing in my stomach, I got drunk fast. Which is never good for me or the rest of my evening. And our service took forever (which I didn’t really notice because I was too busy watching the room spin around me) so Eric was worried we were gonna be late for the show and then we couldn’t find a parking space even remotely near the theatre (or excuse me, auditorium) for the longest time because the Fillmore and the Ogden are horrible places to find parking at (especially when there were big shows going on at both).

But we finally made it through the doors and there was just a DJ spinning (and M.I.A. would not end up going on for like an hour after we got there…darn it). It was really crowded and we initially went pretty far up front, into the huge mass of dancing maniacs, and I thought maybe my bathroom dance diva would come out (and some sort of inner club kid would take over and it’d be crazy annoying but also kind of cute)…and it sort of did initially. There were some false starts and then I’d finally get going and be shaking it for like a minute and then I’d feel really exhausted and dizzy and have to stop…and then I’d be going again and have to stop because people would be pushing their way through the crowd and stepping on my feet (it had been a while since I’d gone to a large sort of show where you have to seriously consider whether or not it’s a good idea to wear sandals…and, being that I was completely off all day long, I forgot all about it)…and then I’d start again and some icky guy near me would be watching me and I’d get annoyed (interesting side note: I’ve never received so much attention from lesbians in my life…this was mostly just flattering though. I know, boys, double standards and yada yada. Sorry)…and then I’d get back into it but I wouldn’t be feeling the music…and yeah. I don’t know, I guess that’s what separates me from all the club kids…well, one of many things probably. Maybe if I had rested up all day and had a normal Saturday at all I could’ve managed better…but I was just so disoriented. There was no way I was dancing through all that without actually being on X or something.

So anyway, we ended up in the balcony by the time M.I.A. finally took the stage. I was kind of freaking out because all the people in the far south balcony looked really creepy…it’s so dark and you can’t really see them or their faces, you can just barely see people are over there…and it really seems like they’re watching you (it reminds me of the orgy scene from Eyes Wide Shut somehow). M.I.A. came on and I was maybe happy, but I also felt as if I might die. I was having a seriously hard time standing and I really wanted to be down on the floor but the dancing mass was frightening and I was hella dehydrated…and it wasn’t good at all. We tried standing at all different places in the theatre during her set, but I couldn’t get the feeling out of my head that I hated the Fillmore and it felt as though I wasn’t really at the concert (it was all out of body and strange). I just wanted to go home and eat something healthy and refreshing and fall fast asleep and stop feeling weird about everything. I went and sat on the floor for a while, during which Maya called all the ladies up on stage and they danced around for a while. It was weird; Ghostface did the same at his show and it was by far and away the worst part of that show (it wouldn’t have been so bad except they stayed up there for like ten minutes and I had to pee the entire time but I didn’t want to miss any of his set). And then the girls wouldn’t get off the stage and they had to ask them like four times to leave so they could continue on with the show and then boys got up on the stage and danced for a while after. Gosh, I just wanted to leave so much. I don’t know if it was the Fillmore or the crowd or my seriously damaged state of mind, but it all just seemed kind of uncomfortable and unsettling. I really can’t say why. It had nothing to do with the music (everything sounded pretty much how I thought it would sound…though we left before the encore (if there was one) and I never got to hear “Paper Planes,” which I really wanted to hear because, of course, it’s a fucking awesome song and also because I heard it was really weird and not that great at Coachella, and I wanted to see what the live performance was like for myself). At some point she said we must be used to hearing entirely different shows than anyone else ever hears because everyone who plays in Denver is out of breath…which, I always forget about the whole altitude thing. I haven’t ever noticed this so much, but maybe that’s why some people I’ve seen have sounded shitty (I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt anyhow).

So we finally left and went home. Eric made me some edamame but I fell asleep on the cursed comfy couch before it cooled off enough to eat. I had all sorts of nightmares, one after another, and I woke up the next morning with one heck of a hang-over. I felt as though I’d just gone through something horribly traumatic, but couldn’t really say what.

Weird, my friends. That’s all.

I guess it’s times like this when I feel like I need a change, though I’m not sure what. Damn it, Fillmore.

Plus it’s no secret I’ve been really bored with Denver lately (sorry lovely da da Denver; you know I really love you, right?).  Last weekend, however, completely refreshed me and made me appreciative of this great city again (truly great, by the way.  Sure, I was born in state and all, but Denver would still be my third choice US city to live in if I hadn’t been born in Colo-the-RAD-o (heh, I’ve been way lame today…but whatever, I’m sleepy and choosing to embrace it).

Anyway, here are some of the highlights from last weekend:

1. I bowled a 140, bitch!  And I haven’t been bowling in ages.  First game was a 117, which is also pretty amazing for me, then came the magnificent 140 (aw shucks, I nearly cried in ecstasy…yeah, that’s a lie, you’re right).  I totally whipped all the people in the lanes surrounding us, boys included (though I got second in my group both times because two different guys beat me by like four pins each time in some sort of fluke…stupid, stupid boys). My scores are also remarkable considering my ball never went more than 9.4 mph (I have this weird way of bowling where my ball starts out rolling the normal speed on the release and then it slows way down and tiptoes toward the pins and everyone falls asleep and then wakes back up and curses at me and flips me off and then falls asleep again and then….fuck, she rolled a strike?!  The ball was barely rolling!  That shit’s fantastic!!!  She should go pro!!!  Ask anyone; that’s exactly what happens.  Anyway, we went bowling at Elitch Lanes, which had a very nice vibe (I’d been meaning to go there for the longest time but, as usual, was failing at life).  I felt way more comfortable there than at most bowling alleys…where, have you noticed, people can be really weird?  The last time I went bowling I was doing really well but then this like 35 year old guy showed up to bowl with his mom in the lane next to us and it appeared as though he still lived at home and he also appeared to be quite revolting and they had their own balls and all, which would make one believe they were good bowlers, but then they really sucked.  It was kind of sad…but, you know, also funny.  Anyway, the icky guy kept staring at me and I could feel his beady eyes on my ass every time I got up for my turn (and yes, ladies, if you didn’t know, guys like to use the bowling thing as an excuse to check out your sweet ass butt (ass as adjective, butt as butt)…according to my brothers, it’s an excellent first date test of hotness), and so I’d just chuck my ball all hurriedly so I could go slink down in my seat, as far away from pathetic douche as possible.  And the guys I was with were all like, “What’s your deal?  You were doing so well and now you’re not even trying” and I’d pout and such…not cool, I say.  Elitch Lanes had some drunken choads, sure, but it was a zillion times better than that shit.  Plus I got to drink…a hard lemonade.  That shit was lame (and made me feel like I was at a horrible high school party), but I was already drunk and I just wanted something that didn’t taste like alcohol and that was the best I could do there.  They have like amazingly cheap bowling nights and their Friday deal is all incredible as fuck so I think I’m going to be doing tons of drunken bowling this summer (who knows?  If I can get my speed over 10 mph I might really be able to go pro!  That would be the awesomest thing ever).
2. We tried out this new restaurant on Saturday before heading to Elitch Lanes and its menu had one of those trendy and vaguely snooty yet awesome things where they’ll have affordable “Small Plates” and super expensive “Large Plates.”  And the small plates are basically side dishes I can mix and match in whichever way I choose and it’s completely acceptable.  Like I go to a Village Inn and order a side of broccoli and a side of mashed potatoes and a strawberry shake and everyone will probably think I’m a weirdo picky dimwit slutty (why slutty?  I don’t know either) annoying freak of a person…whereas I do the same thing at a semi-fancy place where the shit is under “Small Plates” instead of “Side Dishes” and no one bats an eye.  At worst, they act as though it’s incredibly endearing and adorable…which I’m cool with.  So I got charred edamame and a baked potato, which totally complimented the place’s awesome awesome awesome Tangtini!  It has fucking Tang in it!  With vodka and triple sec and sprite!  And the rim was lined with Tang!  That shit tasted amazing; new favorite drink hands down.  Oh and for dessert?  Rice crispy treats with M&Ms and Fruity Pebbles (not all in one; there were like three of each kind) and there was this amazing marshmallow cream on top…muy delicioso.  And the staff was very cool and took to us like butter (meaning:  wanted to have sex with us, as usual) and our waiter was asking us what we were doing after and we said we were going bowling at Elitch Lanes and he said he was in the restaurant league.  Which is way cool; I have this fantasy of seeing all my favorite service industry employees across the city bowl against each other….hmm, I’m getting all hot and bothered even thinking about it.
3. I bought a new bikini with anchors all over it.  They finally filled the pool at my apartment and all us residents went “hooray!” and I went to buy a swimming suit I’d had my eye on for a while.  And it was awesome because they only had one left in my size…but then Eric spied this anchor one and begged me to get it instead.  Because the anchor is one of my many adopted symbols…for some weird reason or another.  I don’t know when or why it really happened, but it did (and I once upon a time wanted to get a pink tattoo of an anchor that would barely be visible just so I could fuck with people’s minds).  Anyway, the anchor one was cute (all baby blue and baby pink like), and it had little anchors all over the bottoms and over the left boob…but then there was one giant anchor over the right boob.  Which I thought was really cool…until I noticed the thing was covered with rhinestones.  And then I was like, “Uh…my boobs are not rhinestone boobs” (they’re classy tits, they are) and Eric was like, “No, you can pull it off.  It’ll be cool…come on, come on, come on, come on, pretty pretty please” (in essence)…and whatever, I finally relented.  They actually aren’t rhinestones, but studs…which is slightly less trashy I suppose.  We’ll see if I can totally pull it off or whatever.  Meh, bikinis are cheap; I’ll probably go get the other one soon (my size better not be gone…or else).  I’m all too excited about the California adventure so I have a feeling I’m going to go nutty on buying shit for it.  Because I have this image of lazing about a beach in all my cute bikinis…with all my animal figurines surrounding me (that’s right; they’re totally coming with!)!  Those Cali choads won’t know what hit ‘em.
4. We went and saw the new David Mamet film Redbelt.  I was really into The Spanish Prisoner in high school, mostly because I was all fascinated by Steve Martin’s serious side (though that now seems like his normal persona in my head, considering all his writings I’ve read since then), and I normally don’t really like the “playwright turned filmmaker” thing (see, for instance, Neil LaBute’s godawful and pretentious The Shape of Things…even the insane charms of Paul Rudd couldn’t save that shit), but I happen to like Mamet.  His stuff still seems play-like, but in a good way.  Like he gets actors to say things entirely differently (is it with the phrasing or something?  It’s longer, like Shakespeare) and…I don’t know, I really like what he does with the actors and the sound in his films.  It’s all very deliberate and nice somehow.  Anyway, I really liked Redbelt.  Everything didn’t exactly add up in the end, but it was good taken as a whole and it left a nice impression that’s only grown since seeing it.  Plus there were super awesome previews before it (we’ve been seeing a lot of commercial movies lately so I’ve been exposed to the same shitty previews over and over…all hail the return to independent film!), one of which was for The Fall, a film that appears to have been made in 2006 but is finally getting released here this year.  It appeared to be the most insanely beautiful looking film I’ve ever seen from the preview.  Incredible, insanely ambitious visuals (my mouth actually seemed to drop open in amazement while watching it…and I’m a hard person to impress, believe it or not).  And the story looks good too.  The director is the guy that directed The Cell, a film that scared the shit out of me (I can’t think of a more appropriate premise to show the most disturbing images possible…thankfully I can’t remember most of them because I had to block it all from my mind in order to ever get any sleep again)…so that kind of concerns me.  Like sometimes I’ll see some visuals that are only vaguely scary and really, I’ll totally appreciate them and their beauty and all, but then they’ll show up in my nightmares out of context and be upsetting as hell.  And I could see this happening with shit from The Fall, but I’m trying to be brave and not a pussy about it all.  I’m still really looking forward to seeing it when it comes out.
5. My adorable, lovely, awesome parents  (yes, I’m one of those weirdos that gets along with their parents) made the trek to Denver and the fam went out for brunch on Sunday in honor of Mama’s Day.  My family is cool and this made me happy.
6. Our friend was taking off for New Mexico for the summer for an internship and so we hung out late Sunday night in a very deserted downtown Denver.  And I’m not normally a downtown sort of girl (it mostly being choad central and all) but it’s actually pretty nice when it’s all deserted.  Kind of Gotham City like and all that.  And I’ve decided I need to start staying out late and doing crazy shit on nights before my workdays, because I’m sick of feeling like I only have a life on the weekends.  That stuff is mega lame…so I’m just gonna kill myself from exhaustion and do whatever I feel like doing during the week.  Um…hell yeah?
7. We went to our regular spot on Friday (of the Consumer Sex post) and I was feeling all kind of unloved by the world and vaguely depressed by the end of last week (I’m not sure why, really; probably a combination of listening to too much Richard & Linda Thompson (Shoot Out the Lights and Pour Down Like Silver) and something hormonal), so a trip to that restaurant was just what I needed.  The hostess lit up in ecstasy when we came through the door, two of our favorite waitresses waved all excitedly at us, one of the barbacks talked us up during our meal, and we gained a new waitress fan.  And that night I had a bizarre nightmare in which a waitress from the restaurant accused me of stealing this modeling agency business card from her (uh…I seriously have no idea where that came from).  And she called me “prissy” and everyone at the restaurant turned against us and hated me.  It was upsetting and I finally realized I should be more appreciative of the love we receive there, and not all embarrassed by it.  Because it’s nice to go there; it makes us feel like we’re on Cheers (only no one actually knows our names…but hey, they know our faces).  I was happy when I woke up on Saturday and realized they still liked us there.  Good people, nice times.

So yeah, it was a pretty decent weekend.  Now I’m gonna go fold my laundry and get ready for another grand (hopefully) weekend.  Here’s hoping I get more than two hours of sleep tonight (as I did last night; I felt way shitty all day long…aided by my drinking a giant peach tea this afternoon at work to keep me awake and then dealing with a sickly, uneasy, sweet, sloshy feeling in my tummy for the rest of the day and evening as a result.  Oh and one of my ears has been plugged up and I’ve been trying to un pop it by yawning, but every time I try to yawn I feel as though I might throw up and so I have to close my mouth…and ew and such).  Have I mentioned I suck at life lately?  Yeah, well.