Crazy Virgo

The Homeland

* half-way thru this post, the underline key got stuck. For that and no other reason is half of this narrative  underlined. It's not for dramatic emphasis.

You've heard me mention my roots on this blog plenty of times. Sometimes I shy away from them, or disparage them, unless  it comes to food. Then, of course, I'll be the first to mention my state practically gave birth to BBQ and slow-smoked ribs.  Or if it comes to the great people who were born of this state - The Mayor, The First Lady, Me, Brad Pitt, Melissa Etheridge - I'll claim to how much I love it. Well, we're back in KC, MO for what looks to be the #2 greatest weekend of the summer. Our dear friends, who also happen to be the Mayor of Kansas City and his wife, the First Lady (and I say mayor in the sense of a man that takes a daily walk around to wave at his neighbors, monitor thier lawns and college allegiances,and when he walks into the neighborhood bar everyone calls "mayor" and bows ) have graciously opened their Brookside B&B to us and I must say it's fanstastic. The only way to stay in KC is at your best friends place that just redid their backyard to include a fire place and a bocce-quality lawn,in the spare bedroom that has its own deck with two adirondack chairs,  and approximately three blocks from a fantastic coffee shop that has a hidden side table always reserved for us when we visit. Really it's Midwestern paradise, if there is such a thing. The Mayor and First Lady work extremely hard to take us someplace new every time we come to KC, and to fill us with BBQ, beer and good times.

So, after being held captive on a Southwest airlines flight for an hour with overly-cheery flight attendants, obese people and a baby that sounded like it was having a kidney removed, Gentleman Lover and I are tucked in to our exclusive table at The Roasterie. Initially we both attempted to be laptop jockeys get some work done, but we are always so distracted people watching when we come to Kansas City. It's un-culture shock. People are still wearing that? Does anyone not drive a Chevy? Is that much Tommy Bahama legal? Look at the size of that baby stroller! I poke and prod Kansas City, but sometimes I let my roots show and I really love it. Sometimes. I try hard to see the best parts of the city (jazz, the Chiefs, bbq, the BLT's at the Peanut), I do, and for the sake of the Mayor and First Lady and the incredible work they do to promote, preserve and progress the goodness (and the fact that they are putting our asses up for the next 4 days), I will try to keep my mouth shut about the other stuff. This is a good place, and in the next 4 days I'll give you a peak into the CrazyVirgo side of Kansas City.

More of the #2 greatest weekend of the summer to come. In the next episode, CrazyVirgo, Gentleman Lover, The Mayor and First Lady bear witness to the 2nd Greatest U2 cover band of all time. Then, we meet with Lord & Lady Beaverhausen and make the trek to Heaven.

Passat, I love you, but you're pissing me off.

Why, Passat, why? All we want is to love you forever and ever, and all you do is continue to disappoint and aggravate us. We tried to bring you to Colorado where you can play in the snow with your all-wheel drive, but you apparently didn't want that because you barfed coolant all over Idaho and refused to go any further than Ogden, UT. Fine. We bought you a brand spanking new water pump. Spoiled brat. Apparently that wasn't enough, because you continue to plague us with your varying sicknesses. Coolant tank. Coolant tank cap. Coolant system. I was none too happy with you last night when I was driving from Denver to Boulder and you yelled STOP really loud and forced me to pull over in Westminster at the Hampton Inn parking lot and look under your skirt in the pouring rain. None too happy at all. This is really hard for me to admit, but I think you're bulimic. We keep feeding you $25 bottles of special VW coolant and you keep throwing it up. Beautiful, pink, expensive vomit all over the street out in front of the house, in parking lots. Have you no shame? What have we done to you that causes you to show us so much hate? Is it that you don't have a garage to sleep in? Well, you'd better get used  to that because we're not ever going to live in Suburbia, USA, where everyone has a garage for their cars. We're urbanites. You'll be parked on the street, and if you're lucky, a designated parking spot. We feed you premium gasoline, almost every time. We bathe you regularly. We always play you good music, and keep you updated with news and events. Please, Passat, please. I love you. I love your genius German design so much, and I want to keep you with me. But you are making it incredibly hard not to send you right back where you came from to endure a rainy, gray winter being skinny and deformed and go down in price on a lonely used car lot. Now, you're  going through some tests today with some specialists, and hopefully they will just replace your stomach and we'll forget this ever happened. IF not, then we'll have to talk about therapy, or possibly giving you up for adoption. I'm sorry, Passat, but you've left us no choice. Please just come back to us the same sweet Passat you used to be the 5 minutes after we brought you home.
Love,
Crazy Virgo & Gentleman Lover

Lost my head...or someone's

I don't normally put a lot of stock into dream interpretation, but recently I've been having some pretty morbid dreams. I don't know if I'm eating spicy food, or eating to late in the evening, or watching too many  episodes of "Frontline" before I go to bed. It hit a pinnacle this week when I dreamed I was riding a motorcycle with this girl that I went to grade school and high school with. Now, as a side note, this girl and I were friends, but not best friends. There weren't any slumber parties. We never traded secrets or dyed each other's hair with kool-aid. We never really had any sort of awesome girl connection to each other, nor did we have petty school girl fights either. All in all, it was your run of the mill normal friendship. You can imagine my surprise when she showed up in my dreams, on the back of my motorcycle. So this girl and I are riding down a nondescript road and she falls off the motorcycle and I decapitate her by running over her neck. I look behind me and there's her decapitated head, full of curly brown hair, rolling down the road. Holy shit, right? I bolted upright in bed and had to splash cold water on my face in the middle of the night to get over that one. (I kind of liked it because it felt like in the movies where you're watching a really scary, surreal sequence only to realize it's a dream when then the main character jolts up in their extremely comfortable DWR bed, and walks through their awesome loft to their high-designed bathroom to splash filtered water on their face). I've had bad dreams before, but never ones that could end up with me facing a manslaughter charge for nixing a girl I haven't thought of since senior year. Again I say, Holy Shit!
Today at work the dream was consuming me, so I consulted a dream book. According to The Illustrated Dream Dictionary, a decapitated head in a dream is a sign not to lose one's own head about a problem that will present itself. I think I could have figured that one out. However, someone else's death could mean that I'm taking on too much. The death of an absent friend is a signal for a wedding (a couple months late on that one, but ok). Killing someone in a dream means you're under a lot of stress. Again, some words of wisdom I could have come up with myself, no ESP required. I also consulted our office clairvoyant, who said it's not necessarily about death or the girl, and really it shouldn't have been scary. Pardon me, pal, but you weren't the one running over a past girlfriend's head, were you? Try that one on for size and tell me how scary it isn't. 
So, what did my dream mean? Apparently, I'm getting married again, a problem that will stress me out. I shouldn't lose my head about it, and keep the stress to a minimum. Sweet. Couldn't be further away from the truth. Anyone else got any great ideas?

Stop drinking the Kool-Aid

It's the newest corporate buzzword and it's driving me crazy. I've been very patient about letting it just run it's course,much like Out of the Box, which is still over-used, and taking it "offline," when no one is online to begin with. But I just saw a "drinking the Kool Aid" reference on one of my favorite blogs - A Hamburger Today. They were talking about the new McDonald's hamburger for the love of god, and they threw "it" in there - "The new Angus Burger at McDonald's. Did we drink the Kool-Aid?"  People say it to GL all the time, has he drank to Kool-Aid yet, referring to the cult status of his job. All over the country people are asking each other if they have "drank the kool aid" referring to their jobs, places to eat, popular bands, political campaigns, sports teams, whatever. It's maddening. I realize this whole thing started with the Jonestown massacre, so Thanks Mr. Jones. Now everyone is committing fake suicide daily and for the most pathetic of reasons. Remember when Kool Aid was just a jolly old friend that you met every day after school? What happened to this guy?

A meaty subject

I love meat. I tried for a few years to be a vegetarian, or rather, just not eating meat. I ate chicken. I had my entire speech prepared and memorized whenever anyone asked me why, at the young age of 18, I would prefer not to eat meat. "Well (person), I think the practices performed on cows is inhumane and terrible. We should have more respect for the animals that we share the planet with. And, until that happens, and conditions improve, I will not eat meat." What about chicken then, how is that different? "Right. Chicken, is, um, well, the conditions there are not as violent and immediate and I need protein. Alright? Back off and go eat a bloody steak."
I wasn't very good at defending my case. However, I remained true right up until we moved to San Francisco and I discovered In & Out Burger. Oh Heavenly beautiful burger. GL went straight for the incredibly clean, meaty wonderland after we moved to the city. I watched him lovingly bite into the fresh made patty with American yellow cheese, crispy ice-berg lettuce, fresh red tomato and special sauce on a toasty white bun. I cried. And that was the end of the affair. I cheated big time. I ran straight for the counter, ordered a cheeseburger, stood vigilant while they made it fresh in front my of wide-eyes, and then made sweet sweet love to that delicious burger, right there in the Fisherman's Wharf In & Out Burger. It was magical. From there it was only a matter of time before I went animal style.

Now I seek out burgers like a mother I never knew. Which brings me to my post. I'm heading back to the homeland over Labor Day. That's Missouri, of course. And, the home of a beautiful, beautiful burger. It's from a place that makes absolutely no effort whatsoever to increase the organic-ness of their beef. It came from a cow - that's all they know. They don't update the interior. White, formica counters. 10 stools. They don't fool around with gourmet anything. Bun. Burger. Cheese and pickles if you ask nicely. It's strictly business, and business is good. I'm talking about none other than Town Topic Hamburgers. I remember when I was young, and mad cow disease was irrelevant, my dad used to take me here. We'd sit at the counter and order cheese burgers and talk about the Chiefs (please come back LJ). I really didn't know much about them then, but I listened to my dad talk about them and just give an emphatic "uh huh" to whatever he said. The last time I visited Town Topic, when it should be visited, at 2 a.m., I sat down at the counter, ordered a single cheese burger and tots. Then, I gave a little wink to the line cook and said, "how 'bout you throw a little bacon on that?" Without a word, he flipped two pieces of sizzling bacon in the air, and used my cheeseburger as a landing space. It. was. heaven. I adore you Town Topic cheeseburger, and I'm coming to see you again real soon. May you not change a thing until my lips meet you again.

Like a Heatwave

Diana Ross and the Supremes must have been living in Colorado when they created the song "Like a Heatwave." It's a scorcher here. It's noon, and already it's 94º outside. I thought the sunshine and dry climate of this place was totally going to mix well with me. Turns out, I'm a baby. I used to hate living in A/C. I thought it disconnected us from our world and put an unnecessary barrier between us and nature. Now it's one degree over 80 and I've got it cranking.I'm all, "where's that barrier? Bye bye nature." I'm thanking modern science and technology for bringing AC into my life. What's wrong with me? I've gone soft. I can't even leave my office right now because the thought of getting sweaty (and you know I mean boob-sweat) leaves me with a heat-induced headache. Yes, I see that there are plenty of other places in the U.S. that are hotter than Colorado, but I don't live there. Sorry Louisiana and Texas and Georgia and Mississippi. But, you guys know how to handle this weather. It gets hot and murky every summer. You know what to expect. I've been a temperate climate dweller for the last 8 years, and now I'm plunged into a hotbox with no clouds in sight. Actually, I have experience in this weather. I lived in Chicago for one hot summer. I remember one day it was so fucking hot, and we didn't have AC, and my roommate and I hated our other roommates, so the thought of sitting in a hot house with our other roommates was hell. So, we went to a bar that had AC, but also had the windows open. It was still so hot that our hair was sticking to our necks, our faces were melting, and it was so loud, that if we tried to talk, we ended up sweating profusely. So, we jumped in a cab and rode around for $30 in the ac with out heads hanging out the window like dogs. I hated that weather, so I high-tailed it back to the West coast. Yes, I was born and raised in Missouri with a mother that never believed in air conditioning, but even then I sought out friends with AC and got through it the best I could. I was also young and could swim all day long if I so desired, and never got sunburns, and didn't have boob sweat, and didn't wear make-up, and didn't have a car with black leather seats, and had none of the concerns that an adult facing a day of record-breaking temperatures has to face. I know what you're thinking, "waaa waaa little baby. Grow up and sit in your comfy house on your modern sofa, and read your Dwell magazine, and watch your re-runs of Sex in the City and drink an expensive, imported cold beer and surf the net." Ok.

Stuck between a slice and a hard place

So, here I am at World's Most Awesome Job. Just loving my job like there's no tomorrow. Kissing my computer and my desk and my keyboard, and thanking everyone for letting me work here. Smiling and singing. La la la. There should be no reason for the scrunched up face and furrowed brow that I'm currently sporting. I'm completely stuck. I've been given World's Greatest Assignment at World's Greatest Job. And I'm stuck. You know how I love me some slice, right. Other than Gentleman Lover, it's the only other thing I would curl up and sleep with every night. It's the world's perfect food when it's made correctly. Thin, floppy, cheesy, tomatoey, NY-style. Imagine my delight when my boss tells me that I'm going to be working on an advertising campaign for the local NY slice joint. I'm ecstatic. I'm thanking him. I'm eating there every chance I get. And, it totally lives up to every expectation I set for it. Thin, floppy, cheesy, tomatoey. It's foldable and beautiful and everything it should be. Just like New York City slices. So, being a confessed lover and addict of the slice, I should have been full of ideas of how to make this slice place well-known in our fair Western city. I mean, it's like this assignment was made for me. It's like when Michelangelo saw a huge slab of marble and said, "I'm going to chisel a large naked man out of that!" I should take a bite of the beautiful slice and close my eyes, and BAM! Out should fall the most witty, NY-ish, clever, smart outdoor advertising campaign ever done for a NY slice place in the West. But, alas, it hasn't. I've looked for inspiration just about every where. In this cheese. In the crust. In the white, grease covered paper plate. I've even looked for "slice" and "pizza" in missed connections on craigslist NY. Far be it from my to rule anything out as my muse. But nothing has come. I've even dreamt about this assignment and woke up with the worst idea ever. So there you have it. I'm stumped. Stumped over a heavenly assignment for my favorite food. Any ideas?

Born to love Bourne

Yes, I flocked with 3 bazillion other people to see The Bourne Ultimatum on Friday. It's my dirty secret. I LOVE Jason Bourne. I have seen every one of the now-on-the-way-to-box-set stardom movies. I watch them every time they are on TBS/TNT/USA. And I netflix them every-so-often just for fun. I love the suspense and the intrigue and the 15 countries they visit in every movie, and the intelligence and the hidden secrets of the CIA, and of course Matt Damon's hotness and ass-kicking goodness. And the car chases, and the mind-games, and the back-stabbing, and Run Lola Run (even though they killed her off). I think it boils down to the fact that the action isn't horrible Steve Segal type dialog, bad camera work, and ugly extras filmed in Canada for tax breaks. It's smart, smart, sometimes too smart for me, dialog and story lines. Incredibly good looking cast. And the camera work and direction is always interesting, intriguing, different, and perfect for each scene. Especially this particular installment. I don't know the director, Paul Greengrass, from Adam. But I know I like his style. He tries, and succeeds in my opinion, to mush together the color and staging of an indie film with the action and movement of an action film. Hard assignment. Well done. Action. Action. Action. Say what you will, but it wasn't an expected scene after scene after scene of shallow conversation and helpless babes in cleavage tops and shorts skirts. The fight scenes?? Hello! Kick ass Jason Bourne. Especially in Tunisia. F*ck. Was that well-dressed assasin-guy ever going to die? And what about Bourne's indestructableness..... That guy can take a fall through a glass window, get worked over by a trained assassin, get hit by a car, nearly strangled and still walk away looking like he got a few bumps and scrapes, but otherwise a pretty good night sleep.
Let's talk storyline.... I dug it. I liked how they picked up from the middle of the last movie, as if there was all this behind-the-scenes stuff going on that we should have known, but didn't. Crafty. As much as I love Jason Bourne, I really love the guy who played the reporter. One of the lesser-known, yet great British actors who have been in a ton of my favorite Brit Flicks. I was so excited when I saw that he was going to be a part of it...then I saw it coming. Wait!!! Don't go through that door.... be patience, damnit. Nope. He ignored and got it in the head. Shit. Why do they have to kill off such great actors in a small amount of time. I know, I know. Storyline. Psh. Whatevs. I wish he was around longer.
Ok let's talk about Nicki Parson/Julia Stiles. She is my only complaint in the whole movie. She said about 4 words and they were all cryptic. She seemed like a helpless frail wimp of a woman, and to my knowledge that doesn't get you high profile jobs with the CIA. She didn't really do anything, except make a lousy attempt to get into Bourne's pants. Yes, that hair cut was meant to Single White Female the Marie character played by the lovely Franka Potenta. I'm on to you, Stiles.  So  can we talk about Nicki Parson/Julia Stiles' hair??? How can a woman look that good after using a box of dye purchased in Tunisia and then using a dull pair of scissors??? No freaking way. She makes one small mousy comment about having a "particularly hard time" with Jason, then says "you don't remember at all do you?" Remember what, bitch? SAY SOMETHING!!!! Then she's off on a bus. Ugh. Fine, whatever. Anyone else fed up with her as a character in the Bourne storyline?
Ok, now let's discuss whether or not there will be another chapter. Of course the entire movie-going, Bourne-loving public salivated over the ending where he floats then swims away at the last minute. However, I don't necessarily think that means there's another chapter. Bourne's entire motivation was finding the beginning of Treadstone and ending it...finding out where he came from. He's found it, succeeded. So now what? Any forecasts???
In the end, if Jason Bourne starts Jason Bourne's Academy for learning assasination techniques, I'll sign up. If he puts out a CD of songs to fight to, I'll listen to it every day. If he makes an action coloring book for kids, I'll buy it. If McDonalds puts together a Bourne burger with twice the meat, twice the cheese and twice the action. I'll eat it.  I'm a sucker for the Bourne enterprise....oooh a possible  next installment title????

Oh, Hells Yeah!

I might have the perfect job. (**Update** I'm working for a small ad/design shop in Denver). Today, a rather  hot day in Denver, the bossman walked around our loft workspace and said "Come on. Let's go have lunch! Yep. Come on everyone." He made excited hand motions to the stairs, so all 13 of us obliged. Outside our office, glistening in the sunshine, sat a brand new cruiser bike for each employee. Yes, in fact I did wet myself on the spot. "Christmas come early this year," said the bossman. Each cruiser reflected each employees personality - believe it or not there are many in this small office. A Sturgis man, a communist, an over-the-top 23 year old...you get the idea. And me. I got the Amsterdam Electra cruiser, made for the commuter. Moi. Plain. Blue. Utilitarian. Perfect. Bye bye car. We immediately formed a bike gang, paraded around the neighborhood and rang our bells with fury. Ching ching. Ching ching.

From now on, you'll see me working Baby Blue all over Boulder, a six-pack strapped to the back on my luggage rack. Oh, and the answer to your question - Very cool.
The high-water shorts...another post all together. For now, let's just talk about how much I'm in luv with my job. No, that's not a misspelling. L.U.V.  As in high school crush, writing on my locker in lipstick luv. They treat me better than any job I've ever had. They give great gifts. They're always forcing beer on me. They smile a lot. There are goo goo eyes involved and teasing and making fun. No tickling, but I'll just let that slide. I luv them. They luv me. We're together 4 ever. Sigh.... Tomorrow we'll ride around on each other's handlebars.