jon benet ramsey vs. john mark karr?

quien es mas macho? wait, this is sick. i can't believe i even started to post this one. i'm already burning in hell at some undetermined point in the future, and now i'm sure add acid to the flames. real acid.

besides this one's no contest. jon benet all the way. have you seen that guy??

never one to moderate

feeling unflinchingly fearless (i said i was drinking tequila), i asked, "how's the zinfindel?" and studied her face and its lack of movement. she turned slowly and replied in a low, whisper-thin voice that bespoke of throat surgery, "fine. it's not rose, but it will do." interesting. she actually answered me. straighforwardly. with no hint of the grinding animus she had projected at zac. she wasn't in the neighborhood of friendly, but she had left ragetown. i proffered that perhaps they were just out of rose since the times style section had declared it the new cosmo. (no, i didn't actually read that in the times. i discovered this suddenly useful factoid on a blog. no, not the huffungton post. whatever.) the hipsters must be slurping the stuff the way a child follows a parent through a disaster. not sure what's going on or why and with only the vague supposition that this must be right despite all the horror associated with the moment. i think rose wine is pretty horrible anyway.

her gossamer voice rose slightly.

"did you read that in the times style section?"
(imagined response:)
"fuck no! i don't waste my time or money on those self-haters!"
(real response:)
"no, a friend told me. i just thought it was noteworthy."
"is it?"
(uh oh...a challenge...didn't expect to get that...think...think...)
"of course. until tonight, i've never seen anyone drink it, so i thought it was curious that it should suddenly be the 'it' drink." (yeah...take that! smarty pants!)

her eyes narrowed slightly as if to gauge whether i was insulting her or simply a naif who had never traveled in those social circles where rose wine is de rigeur. i hoped she would pick two. it was closer to the truth. though i suppose in my own tequila-inspired, unconscious way, i was taking a swipe at the practice of quaffing fruity drinks. it speaks of eloquent eves writing roccoco poetry and reading keats. wicker picnic baskets and floral dresses. hair tied back with a ribbon. french furniture. landscape paintings with heavy wooden frames. candelabras. ick. not my scene and maybe i was unintentionally communicating that. but i certainly didn't want her to think that. lest i become the next victim of her visual mutilation. chills.

"i started drinking it when i was 13 because it was the only booze my mother kept in the house."
"so it's not because it's the new cosmo."
"no. and i won't stop drinking it because of that either."

she softened slightly. as if her self-validation had broken through whatever vexation she'd walked in with. and now i was getting a better look at her face. some creases, but not so many as to give away her age. heavy brown eyes. round face, but not without some angle around the nose. she looked almost like her nose had pushed out from the back of her head somehow. it wasn't big, but it looked like it was trying to escape. not out of fear, but to explore whatever was out there. like a puppy.

her lips were full, but pale. maybe it was just that kind of lipstick. the kind hookers and strippers use. that they then line with darker lipliner. not that i've studied so many hookers and strippers. for real. i haven't. i'm just observant is all. but she didn't have the lipliner, and in the paucity of light this bar offered, i honestly couldn't say if it was her lips or a covering that were looking as if they were made from smoke.

june carter cash vs. emmylou harris

quien es mas macho? the first lady of country music and beloved wife of johnny cash or the silver-streaked sexy angel of country?

no singe lit her

she ordered a rose wine. the bartender, zac without a k, always quick with a joke, snarked that she could get that fancy stuff in one of them biker bars, but not here. normally, zac's a hit with angry-looking, near-feral woman, but this time his playful jab was met with fuck you eyes instead of fuck me eyes. he demured and offered a pink zinfindel as an alternative.

(no, i had no idea that place stocked fucking pink fucking zinfindel either. now that i do, i am ponderously considering never taking my business there again. my dollars shouldn't be supporting that sort of establishment.)

maybe she felt bad for the death-stare she had just rained on zac (not likely) or she just wanted a fruity wine (yeah...that's probably it), but she accepted his counter-offer. the bottle was the same stale old design of a bottle that's been conveying wine since the days when the nazarene was creating his vintage from desert water. but the label was something else. now get this, it was fucking pink fucking zinfindel, but the label was a black background with a crimson phoenix of flames staring out at the imbiber in what can only be described (by me) as a pouncing crouch. wings spread, eyes fixed outward with a mastered rage, it looked like it may have already been off the label but for the fact it was still of only two dimensions. i will not, so long as my veins carry this much testosterone, drink any color zinfindel, but that label alone got me to submit a quick second order of tequila. and make it a double.

she didn't seem to notice the label. or maybe she just didn't have the vivid imagination of someone trapped in his own world of fantasy. she fumed away sipping her fruity wine and ruminating over something. something. what could it be? especially after a good tequila bathing, my brain likes to try to connect to other brains in the room to try and figure out what made their hosts look and act the way they do. i would never invite such scrutiny upon myself or welcome it, but my own validated hypocrisies stopped getting in m way a long, long time ago.

i'm a singer, not a swinger

neither really. just a guy who got more than he bargained for going out on a thursday night. it all starts with the simple act of finding a watering hole in which to begin the slow, torturous death of my sorrows. for that night at least. still haven't quite figured out how to deal with her death. not seeing her every day, hearing her voice, or holding her while we sleep probably won't ever feel ok to me. but i've got no choice right? soldier on, stiff upper lip now. cheerio.

anyway, i chose someplace around the corner because it meant i could get really toxic and still get home easily. planning is everything. i knew it was going to take a serious binge to blind myself to the pain in my core. so i walk in, belly up, and kick it off with the usual. a little tequila. it's hard to explain why i sip tequila. no one ever introduced the idea to me. i just started doing it one day. i don't have any idea why. but when i do, i feel like i'm transported to another time and place. mexico, or maybe what we now call texas, in the early 19th century. i'm a plantation owner. yeah, mustache, linen suit, straw hat; the whole sterotype. but i look good, natural. not forced or put on. and it's hot, but not stifling. i can sip my tequila and watch the sun set while my workers finsh the chores for the day. the sun's roses and oranges ring the valley in front of me and wish me good night the way a lover waves goodbye. i know i will sleep and she will return for me in the morning. but i'll still sleep alone.

see it all comes back to being alone. missing her. the only way i can even sleep is by flattening myself with booze. otherwise i just lay there, trying to still capture a whiff of her from the sheets and pillows. wanting to close my eyes and reach out and have my hands discover her there. but yeah...not gonna happen. not gonna happen.

so, i'm sipping my tequila, aggresively insiuating myself into a crossowrd puzzle, when this woman sits down next to me. medium height, slender, brunette, purposeful. sat down like she'd just gotten done running over someone over who'd been asking for it for months. i made a casual notice of her, but didn't really disassociate myself from my puzzle. but then id' get stuck on a clue, wrestle with it, lose, and my eyes would land on her. it wasn't that she was pretty, which she was, and wasn't that she was looking at me, she wasn't. no, there was something burning off her. she smoldered the way someone whose just been separated from a fight fumes away because the fight isn't over. like she was working out in her mind how to finish the job later. i wasn't persuaded she was muderous just yet, but in retrospect, it wouldn't have suprised me.

paris hilton or lindsay lohan?

quien es mas macho? the heiress with a heart of slutty tin or the vascillatory actress raised with traditional long island values?

titular

always loved that word. though that love has grown from different parts of me. of course when i was young, it was the simple definition of the word that thrilled me. it just seemed so useful a word. instead of saying "so-called" or "nominal", i now had this arrow in my linguistic quiver. i was mightier for it. and i bestrode the world as a colossus.

now though, having had my fun with the word, i delight only in the fact that it contains the word "tit". yeah, tit. that's pretty cool.

especially when used in the phrase "titular head of state"...yeah tit head...awesome.

the gossamer smoke that traced rings around her head

yeah, another attempt at doing what all the kids are doing. no, i'm interested necessarily in covering one subject relentlessly like a gossip or sports or politics site. nor will i be featuring my macrama handiwork and tips. and don't look for group pictures of my friends and i out at a bar or restaurant or theme park or anything of the sort.

nope, no pictures of my non-existant child for its grandparents to have easy access to. and i certainly won't be pushing my notions about fat-trapping or string theory.

bascially, i'm going to be determinedly goofy, serious, pained, optimistic, passionately spongy, and furtively placcid as it suits me. and once in a while, i will ask, quien es mas macho (see post below).

everybody cool with that?

steven spielberg or george lucas?

quien es mas macho? the man who crafted modern mythology out of sci fi cliches or the man who taught us to fear sharks and mayors who wear leisure suits?

please discuss...