Recent Developments:
So, I went to the VAGINA Monologues last night. You know, just to see what all the kafluffle was about, get a taste of the cultural context, get in touch with my womanhood, kumbaya and all that bullshit. At least now I can say that I have a defined opinion about the show.
Verdict: WRETCHED. Take your date to this little gem if you crave a swift and permanent break-up.
Although the show was definately, how shall I say this . . . thought provoking, it did not turn me into the vulva-worshiping, guitar-playing, purple-wearing, soul-searching, moon-charting, 100% organic reusable cotton tampon using, dick-hating, dildo-wielding, adamant, galloping clitorus that the reviews implied it would.
As a matter of fact, the only monologue that I actually enjoyed was one about the sexual connotations of a short skirt. Because the gorgious, leggy actress wore an extremely short skirt. I have no idea what she actually said, since I spent the entire segment staring at her luscious, lilly-white gams. "SHOW US YOUR TITTIES! WHO'S YOUR DADDY?!"
So yeah, I fully renounce the right to "be my vagina," as the play suggested. It's a hole. It doesn't talk, dress itself, contain a village, have a mascot, or smell like the breath of mother earth after a spring rain. It's pussy. Plain and simple.
Goddamn carpet-munching, hairy-armpit, cat-breeding, granola-gobbling, period-announcing, hair-braiding, man-slandering, ejaculating, new-age wymyn.
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I have procured tickets to the following concerts: Moe (2/25), Keller Williams (2/26), and Interpol (3/15). Moe has yet to earn anything but ambivilance from me, but Alan assures me that we'll have a gay old time. As for Keller Williams, I am terribly interested in his live performance ever since aforementioned S.O. told me that Keller plays by himself, running from instrument to instrument, laying down tracks; a man at the soundboard then loops each track and mixes everything just so. The recordings agree with my tastes well enough, but mostly I'm going for the novelty of Keller's technique. However, Interpol rocks my goddamnmotherfucking socks. I love 'em. Never seen 'em live, but can't hardly wait. Whoo hoo!
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If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning.
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Alan James Pappalardo is lord and master over a small corner of my universe - namely my capacity for joy and satisfaction. I am but a slave to love and his long, thick, hard . . .
. . . to spell last name. GOTCHA.
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