Tonight I found out that my roomie has been feeding kitty when he gets home from work, which is usually a full hour before I return home from the gym. Kitty gets fed first thing in the morning & when I get home I always make her dinner, which for the past several months has been her 2nd for the evening. Now kitty has a fat ass.
Random search hit: Torpedo Tits
Found here:
Hidden somewhere in my toy display is the original Barbie that started the doll craze, a hot blond number with torpedo tits from the 80’s that I got off ebay. It’s a wonderful life.
Shopping is the answer, not Jesus.
Spike called me yesterday just to ask what the name of an athletic clothing store in WeHo.
"LASC?" I said without blinking. "Or, LA.. something like that."
"That's it, LASC.. I couldn't think of the name, and knew you'd be the right person to call."
"Why? I don't shop there." I replied rather snappishly. This is how rumors get started.
"Fergie, shopping is in your DNA."
This is true. I don't have any sense of direction, but I can always find a mall.
This evening, Weezy called to tell me about the terrorist warning here in LA. Maybe all this bullshit is panic and chaos, but fuck, I remember a time when we didn't have emergency telephone trees. Weezy told me the police had just issued a statement on the news about a possible attack tomorrow on a west LA shopping center. I was the first person she thought to call.
OK, is everyone and their queer neighbor prego?
Because earlier today I ate a peanut butter and sugar sandwich.
Sun Tea
Growing up, summer days with Mama Fergie were filled with lots of time for long bike rides, trips to the park, ice cream cones, and sun tea. Something about the long, slow brew in the hot sun made a warm glass taste so simply wonderful all on it’s own. Perfect, just like today.
Did you know you can make sun tea by the glass? It’s easy.. set a tea bag in a tall glass of water outside in the sun & check back in a couple of lazy summer hours.
Yes, I know it isn't officially summer time yet, but that's the fabulous thing about living in SoCal.. it is summer here.
The early years..
Some twenty years ago when I was in kindergarten, I remember my first confrontation with a peer. It was during milk & cookie time. I was sitting on the floor, resting back on my hands as I enjoyed what is still my favorite part of the day. A girl with mousy brown hair in a flower dress walked over to me and stepped on my fingers. She didn't accidentally step on them, but rather placed the hard souls of her k-mart specials across the spread of my digits and rocked back and fourth over each knuckle.
I pulled my hand out from under her and tried to bend my throbbing fingers. She looked over at her friend and laughed, mocking my pain and fake crying. I certainly wasn’t in enough pain to cry, but her actions left me perplexed. I didn’t understand why someone might hurt others without any motivation.
Even by this early age, I’d been fitted for several pairs of boxing gloves. I understood what a physical confrontation was. My father being a devout martial arts student throughout my childhood, he also learned through teaching my brothers and I the art of self-defense. Up to that particular day in Grade-K, my understanding of the need to protect myself was to get away if someone tried to kidnap me.
I just couldn’t grasp why this little girl would set out to totally kill the buzz of milk & cookie time, so I asked my mom. She told me that some people pick on others because their basic animal instincts dictate a pecking order. I collected wildlife trading cards, I understood. Someone has to be king of the kindergarten jungle. Often, this is the one that everyone else in the food chain fears.
I was reminded of something my father’s sensei told me. A coward dies a thousand times.
“But, she’s a girl.” I said hopelessly.
“If someone is hurting you, always fight back.”
“Even if it’s a girl?”
“That’s what equality between the sexes is all about.” Said my mother, the church secretary.
The next day at school, I thought about ratting the little girl out to my teacher. My worry was that Hard Shoe Harriet would do something sneaky, and I’d get caught popping her in return. Thus, she’d not only crunch my knuckles twice, but she’d set me up to take the punishment for fighting. I gave it some thought, but ultimately dropped the idea of snitching. My teacher was, after all, an idiot.
A month or so prior she’d come up with the batty idea of combining everyone’s materials for the entire class to use. This meant my special left-handed scissors, the only ones in the class, became public property. As soon as they were dumped into the big white tub marked with a picture of a right hand holding scissors, my special left handed cut-cuts were lost forever. I resolved to learn everything using both hands, and told my teacher, quite flatly to her face, that she was stupid.
Reflecting on this exchange, I didn’t think I could count on Ms. Brainfart as an ally.
All day, I was anxious that the little girl would try something. She had another thing coming the second time around. I couldn’t wait for her to make a move; I’d just learned an upward palm thrust I was dying to try out. As the day went on, I began to fantasize about the exchange.
She’d move in to step on my fingers, and I’d slide my hand away quickly, bending at the elbow and pulling it towards my chest. Then I’d swing my arm back and chop her in the shin, really putting my shoulder into it. As she fell, I’d strike with the upward palm thrust. I sat alert, ready to spring any moment during milk & cookie time. Nothing. From my peripheral vision, the girl sat with her back to me and didn’t look over.
Excuse me? Don’t screw with my vision.
During recess, I took things into my own hands. While Ms. Brainfart was busy pulling one of the special kids off the fence, I strolled over to the little girl with the shit brown hair and cheap shoes. I slapped that bitch square in the face.
She fell to the ground. Her friend’s eyes bulged as her slack jaw dropped open in shock. I turned on my heel and casually walked back to my monkey-bar rocket ship.
I'm staying in this weekend.
Last Friday night on the way to White Party, three friends and I reserved side-by-side accommodations at a super-fantastic one star motel & truck stop. By ‘super-fantastic’ I mean shit-hole, and by ‘road trip’ I mean our tires were shot out on our way through downtown. We were forced to abandon our BMW on the 110 and face down a punk ass gang of Chinese teenagers. By ‘face down,’ I’m of course referring to grabbing our belongings and running for our lives.
Without transportation we were stuck on their turf. Buses simply don’t run in downtown that late at night for fear of teenage gang members, and the chances of running into the police were as likely as growing wings and flying to Palm Springs. We had to hoof it, and ran as fast as we could in our Gucci loafers without stressing the leather. Straight out of a low budget USA movie, the four of us barreled down the street in supermodel fashion, dramatically flipping our hair every time we looked behind us for signs of a tail, pushing hookers and homeless people out of our way (sometimes just for fun).
Fortunately we were in the clear. LA freeways are not constructed for quick and easy turn-around. In fact it may not have been a consideration at all, based on my own experience trying to do so. Not in a drive-by situation mind you, just poor sense of direction.
We found a place to collect ourselves at the closest pay-by-the hour hotel and reserved two ‘group’ rooms, each furnished with a set of twin beds fitted with plastic sheets. The place looked like a back alley abortion clinic. We tried not to touch anything, but that’s really hard to do in a small space riddled with years of nasty without levitating. I can levitate, of course, I just don’t like to show off. The greasy man behind the check-in counter had given us a knowing smile when he saw us come in. He was sure he knew exactly why four obviously gay men were booking a cheap motel, and licked his gold tooth suggestively.
I checked our room for peepholes, least this episode turn into a Hitchcock knock-off. After escaping the children of The Warriors,* I wasn’t about to get chopped up by some homicidal transvestite wearing an old, unflattering housedress and a raggedy wig in a granny bun. I mean, if it’s my fate to be brutally murdered, at least let it be someone hot like Mickey Knocks* or Patrick Bateman.*
I thought I’d found a classic psycho j/o window in the shower, but it turned out to be the smashed head of a roach. If you’re wondering, yes, I did my Horror Movie Scream when I realized I was less than an inch away from an icky bug’s smashed face. I immediately demanded our first hour free and a complimentary bottle of alcohol from the mini-bar to numb my pain. Greasy guy at the front desk knocked on our door instantaneously, squeegee in hand.
There was no mini-bar stock, but he offered me half a bottle of warm rum, which he told me he’d bought this morning and kept behind the counter after pouring half of its contents into a Cherry Flavored Super Big Gulp. His tongue was shockingly red, and each time he slid it across his mouth-bling, a little rubbed off onto his teeth. Coupled with the orange Cheeto-like substance already there, the resulting display gave me a papier-mâché mixing flashback from art class. I was a bit surprised when he furbished accoutrements for the alcohol, rather than just handing me the open bottle. They did have one star, after all. He’d brought along a plastic wine glass, a hermetically sealed straw taken off the back of a juice box, and a can of coke. Someone simply must re-evaluate the star system.
The dismembered cockroach shower scene didn’t disturb me as much as the idea that the rest of it’s body was still aimlessly wandering around our room somewhere, as they can survive for six months without anything attached above their little bug shoulders. My buddy ReRe didn’t believe me, so we looked it up online. Thankfully I take my laptop everywhere. Our search confirmed that I was correct, and to both our surprise we also learned that cockroaches often mate after being decapitated. Now that is the ultimate mercy fuck.
After an insanely crazy night running away from gang members, the smashed bug head mega gross out, and the creepy, greasy guy with the gold tooth taking way too much time showing us how to order porn and far too little time with the bleach and scrub brush, I was so emotionally drained I had to give myself a facial. Again, very fortunate we grabbed the cosmetic bags and our other belongings to supply us with the necessities for our survival. In a crisis, it’s important to keep your head and focus on the most important details.
ReRe said he was getting something to eat from the taco stand at the end of the parking lot, but all I’d seen in that direction was a trash bin with a dead prostitute’s legs poking out awkwardly from inside the receptacle. When he hadn’t returned after forty-five minutes, I became concerned that the dragon ball gang might have caught up with him. My moisturizing gloves prevented me from dialing Spike & Mr. Bernard next door and telling them the bad news. I might have looked for him or something, but I’d just applied my eye stress relief pads and they require a full twenty minutes to set. Finally, ReRe returned with his take-out food, pizza.
“Was the taco stand closed?” I asked, slightly muffled, as I was underneath a full-body warm towel wrap by that time.
“No,” ReRe said as he lowered his voice with disappointment, perhaps a little shame, “It was a dumpster.”
Before I could even think to stop myself, I heard my voice saying “That’s what I thought! Why the hell did you think it was a taco stand, Retardo?”
“Don’t start calling me by my full name or I’ll call you by yours, Fergie!” He snapped back, pronouncing my name Fuurrr-geee with a mocking tone in his voice. ReRe is always trying to pick fights with me.
I unwrapped my mummy mask and snapped him with a wet towel wrap across the face. A damp, thick towel can really crack a mean whip if you’ve had as much practice as I have using everyday household objects as weapons. ReRe stumbled a bit and wined something about his eye, but I was too busy pointing out the stupidity of his remark. “Fergie isn’t my first name, bitch. Now don’t work me or I’ll grab my belt with the giant rhinestone encrusted buckle.” Violent reinforcement is the only way with some people.
Once, I tried to give ReRe a time-out when he was talking too much during a shopping excursion at one of my favorite boutiques, and he flat out refused to sit in an antique chair facing the back of the store for ten minutes. To this embarrassment he added insult to my character by insinuating that I try to control people through mind-games, pussy power, and physical intimidation. I kicked him in the kneecap.
He spent his time-out dramatically pretending to be crippled in pain on the floor like a little sissy boy. As soon as his time was up, he stopped moaning and walked around completely limp free. Until he realized I was watching him, at which point he started dragging the wrong leg behind him like it was made of rubber and weighed three hundred pounds.
“I know Fergie’s not your first name, cuntheiress!” ReRe spat. He swears saying something really arrogantly after someone else has just said it makes people think he’s known it all along. If he weren’t approaching thirty, I’d bet he could make a lot of friends by going back to school, starting over in kindergarten. I do have to give him some credit though. Anyone who posses the sheer audacity to call me a derogatory name I made up is a real Bitchy McBitch, and those are my kind of people.
“Ok then, what’s my first name? I bet you don’t even know!” I taunted like the mature fifth-grader I am. I tried not to make it obvious I was looking around for something heavy to smack him with, like the table.
“Well, I didn’t want to say it, unlike a certain someone who likes calling people by the wrong name, or by something they don’t like. I know your real name, it’s not even Fergie, you made that up, just like Cher and Madonna, Mr. Wes Ferguson.”
“Wes isn’t my first name either, you idiot.” I said flatly, noting the comparison to Madonna and Cher.
“Wait,” he paused. I could hear the little gerbil racing around the wheel inside his head. “Wes isn’t your first name? But that is your name, isn’t it? I’m so confused!”
The gerbil lost it's footing, bounced off the wheel, and was catapulted into the black abyss of ReRe's empty skull. My job was done. “I’m sure you’re pizza’s cold by now, since you’ve been standing there throwing a pissy bitch fit for a year and a half.”
“Me? You! You totally started this!” No one ever wants to take the blame for a pissy bitch fit. I love that I can exaggerate by 535 days and he disagrees with the part that’s true.
“No Retardo, you had to get all indigent with me because your name is retard with an ‘O’ at the end, which does literally nothing to disguise the fact that your name is retard. Don’t misdirect that shit at me, I’m not the box of nails that named you. Bottle up all that anger and bitterness for the next time you visit those mentally challenged parents of yours and tell them they ruined your life by deciding to have children.”
ReRe looked perplexed. “Well, if they hadn’t, then you’d be without this gourmet feast of cold pizza.” Suddenly his pizza was our pizza, and I was supposed to be thankful he was willing to share. Clearly, this was only to show that his existence benefited me, all just because I told him he never should have been born. People are so transparent.
I slowly rose to unwrap the rest of my body from the steaming towels so I could take a shower. “Keep your pizza, fat ass. This is White Party weekend, neither of us should be eating.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that one.” ReRe beamed with the evil glee of someone about to pull his trump card. “But what about the heels I took off the dead whore at the taco stand because they're your size?”
I gasped and clutched hand to heaving chest in Scarlet O’Harrah fashion. “You mean to tell me... you... pried a pair of heels off a dead body... and planned on giving them to me?” ReRe finally set the pizza down and turned around, revealing the liquid black fuck-me-pumps hanging out of his back pockets by the heels. “Honey,” I said as I leveled my eyes at him, “From now on, I swear I’ll never, ever call you Retardo the retard again. Now wipe the blood off those shoes and hand them over.”
Seeing those fake leather stems gave me an idea to get us out of the mess we were in. That’s not true, it wasn’t a solution to the predicament at hand, but it was an insanely super idea to take our minds off the situation and entertain ourselves without risking a cap in our asses if we left before daybreak.
I clicked into prima donna mode, basically an invisible transition. “I think if we move the TV there’s enough room to do a runway show. Call those two cows next door that never visit when we’re hiding out from gun wielding children and tell them to bring the CDs and travel martini kit over.”
With that, I went to finger-wave my hair and assembled a purple ensemble to perform as Prince in all his big shoe glory. As I caught my reflection in the mirror, I had the feeling I’d once again be the only showgirl left by final curtain. It’s not easy performing for audience members who've been beaten to the floor in a catfight, twisted an ankle while performing drunk in pumps, or have passed-out and flopped over, ass up on the bed from too many dirty martinis. Still, I knew it would be way more fun than staying up all night eating nasty pizza, which I’d have to throw up later, while watching bad porn, the charges for which I’d dispute when we checked out.
I guess the moral of this story is, even being trapped in a roach infested, gym-less, crack motel with the manga mafia on their tail can’t stop a fun loving group of flaming homos from getting shitfaced and prancing around in a pair of dead girl’s heels.
I hate mornings.
I'm never awake this early unless I'm still up from the night before. Unfortunately that’s not the case today. Rather than sleep through the afternoon, I will instead prepare myself for the day ahead. The break of dawn is a natural enemy for night creatures such as myself, but I'm trying something new.
I don't go into the office until at least noon, if going to work is completely unavoidable. Instead of rolling out of bed @ 11:30, putting the shower on auto wash & wax, then jumping down the inflatable slide to the limo in my robe & slippers with a selection of clothes on hangers, I'm giving myself more time in the morning. I feel so productive already!
Looking down at myself in elevator, I’m oblivious as the door opens and some lady watches me wipe carpet lint off the crotch of my pants.. There I am, hair crimpled, keys in hand, messed clothes; my name is late-night booty call. I’m standing directly in her way as I fondle myself, checking my zipper and belt buckle, until she clears her throat and says ‘Oh, hello.’ Doink! Pardons and excuses are uttered as I exit the elevator without making eye contact.
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People have always said that I display great tact and skill in dealing with people, and they're usually surprised at how often I get what I want. That's because I understand that diplomacy is the art of being dishonest without actually lying.
And now for something completely different..
I had a nice birthday dinner this year, which I made. Yes, me. I made it!
No fancy pants resturant, no take out, and no gorumet delivery. I cooked.
It was lovely. Grilled honey lemon chicken served over a bed of baby spinich with sliced almonds and raisins, sprinkled with goat cheese.
I've always thought driving your own car, cleaning, and cooking were things reserved for the staff. This year, for the first time in my life, I went full on Martha and loved every moment. It was like I was doing a favor for myself.
I'm fuckin' old. That, and good help is hard to find.
I still love you, Martha.
Sure, you've got to be a hard ass bitch to make it in the world of the suits. Maybe you have to lie a little, or hide the truth. Big Business always takes a bit off the top. I'm not saying this is right, I'm just saying it’s widely accepted as long as you don't get caught.
If you do, make sure you’ve made enough to buy your way out of trouble.
Martha Stewart is living the american dream. She worked her way to the top, formed a billion dollar corporation, and is now being persecuted for her success. Once she's gone through a public trial by fire, she can raise from the ashes a new woman and reclaim her empire. I bet she gets a make-over & has a little work done along the way.
Go Martha!
Today is the last day..
I've decided to renew my vow to quit smoking. Yes, I'm going to quit. Tomorrow.
For now, let me suck the thick cloud of carcinogens into my blackened lungs, let me savor the dry, ash taste as it dances across my tongue. To truly enjoy the occasion, I think I should pop a bottle of wine. You can stay for a glass and a smoke or two, can't you?
Good! I'll pop two bottles and we'll let one breathe.
..friday night my friend Ernie and I went out to meet some friends for dinner. It's a sin in LA to arrive early, which we had by more than twenty miutes. Fortunately, it was $5 martini night @ Hamburger Mary's, & we were trashed by the time our first guest arrived. The rest of the weekend has been a bit of a blur..
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Kitty-Vac.
I think it may be entirely possible to harness kitty to the vacuum cleaner, like a mule to a plow. Judging by the speed at which she bolts from the room whenever I turn the damn thing on, the carpet would be done in a matter of minutes. I'm doing some research to see if this would be considered animal cruelty.
© copyright Wes Ferguson
2001-2006
