And when life serves you a healthy helping of young people, both foreign and domestic- and you happen to live in Southern California, you head to Vegas for New Year’s Eve and promptly get them drunk.

Because just as the all-shrimp-diet keeps our fellow avian friends pink, alcohol generally propels the best parts of us- the youthful, [...]]]> The things is, Birds, when life gives you flamingos, you feed them shrimp . . .

And when life serves you a healthy helping of young people, both foreign and domestic- and you happen to live in Southern California, you head to Vegas for New Year’s Eve and promptly get them drunk.

Because just as the all-shrimp-diet keeps our fellow avian friends pink, alcohol generally propels the best parts of us- the youthful, merry-happy shit-shows we aspire to be- to the surface.

And merry-happy shit-shows we were. For a weekend, at least. (Perhaps emphasis on shit-show?)

Tina, my dear friend from Bensheim, Germany happens to be living in San Clemente, California for a year. Seeing as I hadn’t been down to see her yet since her October arrival upon the fake-breasted shores of Orange County, I invited her to come with me to Las Vegas for New Year’s Eve.

As you’ll all recall, my bestfrannnnn Nohea moved to Vegas in October. Naturally, us three little birdies, plus the addition of my cousin, Jordan, went out on New Years . . .

Naturally, because Vegas experiences are always rife with cliches and debauchery, the first night- the night before New Years- we don’t remember much and the second night, three out of four little birdies drank too much while engaging in duplicitous activities.

When the countdown rang out and the fireworks began spouting from the tops of hotels across the strip, Nohea was vomiting her brains out in the Bellagio; a completely hammered Jordan and Tina were backstage at the Guns N’ Roses concert.

Eventually, Nohea and I made it outside, into the throngs of drunks, to take a picture with the fireworks in the background.

(We’re wearing hats some nice man gave us. And no, it wasn’t the guy with the pancake-shaped head who gave them to us. More on friends’ beer goggles later. LOL.)

Then we, as all drunks do, sought food and heated shelter. Chili Cheese Fries? Yesssss please.

Somehow, through massive communication failures (i.e. dead cell batteries), I wound up at the GNR after party without Tina and Jordan. Nohea was bitterly not-sleeping in the car while waiting for four hours for me to return. (So she could take a shit, of course.)

Eventually, at around 7 AM, after dropping Nohea off at home, I finally found Tina and Jordan inside the Flamingo, on the strip, far, far from the Hard Rock, near the ever-elusive Fire Pit. (Don’t ask about the Fire Pit. Trust me, even if we told you, you’d never be able to find it. LOL.)

On the way home, we drove past a cool dude in an ugly plaid hat while getting on the freeway. He was holding a piece of cardboard that read “San Diego.”

Naturally, due to one of the few un-crappy Will Ferrell movies in existence, “Anchor Man,” I immediately thought of whale vagina.

That was enough, I guess.

I turned to Tina while merging on to the freeway and asked, “Should we pick that guy up? San Diego isn’t really that much farther than San Clemente?”

Tina, worn out and exhausted, hastily replied: “I think I’ve had enough adventure for the weekend.”

So I got off the freeway, and we scooped up Vuk, our hitchhiker from Croatia . . . Duh.

Away we went. (Insert Vrrrrrrooooom, vroooooom noises, please.)

There was a brief interlude, because I felt it necessary to introduce both Vuk and Tina to In N Out for the first time. (Yesssss!) I’m proud to say that Tina’s first burger there was a double-double animal style!

We dropped off Tina in San Clemente, with her very nice, very conservative, very Christian roommates.

We drove the extra 60 miles to drop off Vuk, who turned out to be a legit dude who loves his politics and his pot. (Yay for good karma and new friends in the New Year.)

Then I dropped Jordan off.

And finally, I made it home.

A-fucking-men, right Birds? A-fucking-men. First thing I did was hit the shower. (Because we got home after 7 o’clock in the morning, I only had time to sleep, not shower.) Ewwwwwww, the filth that ran off my skin turned the water black for a solid 30 seconds. Not joking.

Now here’s a slideshow, so you can laugh a bit more at our expense.

And so you can see, Pretty Birds, for a little while there, we really were “filthy little biscuits” in Vegas.

Many a road trip has slaked my wanderlust and many a shit-shows have confounded my imagination.

So much to tell you, but I have so. little. energy.  (I went from LA -> Palm Springs -> Twentynine Palms -> LA -> Twentynine Palms -> San Clemente -> LA -> Vegas -> San Clemente -> San Diego -> FINALLY [...]]]> Birds, quite a bit has happened since I wrote the last post.

Many a road trip has slaked my wanderlust and many a shit-shows have confounded my imagination.

So much to tell you, but I have so. little. energy.  (I went from LA -> Palm Springs -> Twentynine Palms -> LA -> Twentynine Palms -> San Clemente -> LA -> Vegas -> San Clemente -> San Diego -> FINALLY LA AGAIN AT LAST AND FOR GOOD.)

Know what I’m sayin’?

As for you guys . . .

I hope you all had a crazy, if not lovely, New Years.

Thanks for reading over the years. Here’s to a kick-ass new year, hopefully filled with more shit-show-y madness than you could ever hope for!

Forthcoming NYE-in-Vegas post . . .

I am ever-more becoming one of those crunchy-granola people I mock so ceaselessly. Hypocritical much?

Yesssss. What with my days of hot-yoga and trying to eat healthy, organic, and of course, because I am a gluten-free brat, all things generally devoid of that pain-inducing protein, you’d think I was back in Brooklyn or had moved to the Bay Area.

Alas, I am not back in New York [...]]]> Birds, Birds, Birds, the rumors are true.

I am ever-more becoming one of those crunchy-granola people I mock so ceaselessly. Hypocritical much?

Yesssss. What with my days of hot-yoga and trying to eat healthy, organic, and of course, because I am a gluten-free brat, all things generally devoid of that pain-inducing protein, you’d think I was back in Brooklyn or had moved to the Bay Area.

Alas, I am not back in New York (sad, but true story) and I am not in San Francisco, but guess what I am doing?

The yoga studio I signed up with is in the midst of a 30 day challenge. It started over a week ago, and the goal is to go once a day for 30 days, to take the hour and a half a day for yourself to improve your practice. So far, I’m a week in and really, really, really feeling good. The heat- you’re essentially doing yoga in a dry-sauna, sweating buckets of toxins and water and electrolytes out- has been a tremendous aid in battling my joint pain. The people are pretty nice—- and being the observationist (no, that’s not a real word–so says Spell Check, but I’m sticking with it) that I am, I’ve made some startling sociological discoveries (more on those later though).

As for the “poisonous meatloaf” I refer to in the title of this post, sister-frannnn Nu made a gluten-free meatloaf that wasn’t quite gluten-free. In a moment of pure laziness, I had some of this meatloaf for breakfast Monday morning. It was amazingly-scrumptious (and this is from someone who doesn’t care too much for red meat). By the time I got to my classes, my stomach was cramping up. By the time I got to my afternoon “Scribble Madness,” the vomitous (another non-word, Holy-Sweet-Mother-of-Baby-Jesus, am I on a roll or what?) feelings were in full swing. Then the depressing, trance-like music came on, and next thing I knew I was face-down to a public toilet seat (is there any grosser place to vom?) up-chucking the poisonous meatloaf, wondering what could have possibly set my stomach off.

When I arrived home later that evening, Nu told me that she forgot that the onion-powder mix she used was processed in a facility that also processes wheat, among the many other allergens that make people’s bowels ache the world over. A totally honest mistake, because if you’re not gluten-free and you aren’t used to cooking gluten-free, you forget about a lot of things that may or may not have gluten in them. You forget about things like cross-contamination, etc., etc.

Update: Haven’t gotten chucked from Scribble Madness, yet, but it’s probably only a matter of time, LOL.

So anyways, that’s what I’m up to these days when I’m not writing, Birds. I’m just scribbling furiously, like a madwomen, with the appropriate manic, unkept hairstyle (to cut or not to cut?), debating whether or not I’ll be joining in on LA Fashion Week festivities next week (I bowed out of NYFW), trying to be as crunchy-granola as possible, trying not to get chucked from classes, doing lots of yoga, and really enjoying Fall television (so, so, so much more on that later.)

Has anyone else noticed that there are like so many of my future baby-daddies on television these days? (Shemar Moore, Eric Dane, BENJAMIN BRATT?!) It’s gloriousssssss. In fact, it deserves a post all it’s own. (Expect it, seriously.)

Also, just received three massive boxes of delicious gluten-free things from my loving brother, Keegan, who works in “Health Food Marketing,” but, naturally, he smokes, drinks, and doesn’t exercise too much. LOL. He is a genius! Sends me organic honey from upstate, gluten-free chocolate chip cookies (so delish!), and so many delicious things.

Two final notes to make: Nohea is officially moved to Vegas. Sad, because I miss her, but happy, because this is the natural progression of life, blah, blah, blah. A good shake-up is always good for one’s constitution, right? Scabs is in England somewhere (lucky bitch!) after trekking through London and Dublin. We have successfully G-chatted and I can report that she is trying her darnedest to enjoy life and not be all emo-sadface. Naturally, I have fully encouraged her to rob-cradles and hate-fuck all those lousy, young, Orange County neo-cons who are studying abroad with her. There’s nothing like a good hate-fuck, is there?  Especially when you’re a female minority surrounded by a multitude of chauvinistic, white, male Republicans who think Dick Cheney is the second coming of Christ and that drones, yes the military kind, are a figment of conspiracy theorist’s imaginations. (Birds, you have no idea how far removed from the wars some, not all, people are here. Another post on the hypocrisy of some military families—which many people will undoubtedly decree I should burn forever in the fiery lakes of Hell for—soon. But this isn’t VogueRanting, dears. It’s RogueRanting.)

Naturally, this is the worst possible picture of the two of us I could have chosen from the litter on my phone, but that’s just how I roll. Here you see us possibly indulging in some strawberry margaritas and cheap Mexican food at her going-away party a couple of weeks back. She hasn’t posted anything yet, but if you want to be a creep and keep tabs on my lovely friend (with her newly shorn hair and fabulous new wardrobe), click here! (Scabs: Post something already, you slacker! I’m eagerly awaiting your foray into blogging.)

Now, back to yoga, back to life, back to doing things I should have done weeks ago (like making some sewing repairs in my ever-expanding wardrobe), and back to being a brat.

Happy Saturday, Birds. Don’t go getting chucked (from any or all things) without me!

My vase doesn’t hold flowers. It holds my spare change. LOL.

Must get my mountain on soon. Must convince Nohea to come with me.

She inspires me to do a lot of things, like eat incessantly, up my tramp-y-ness quotient exponentially, decorate with doilies, (insert other rad things here).

She is pretty awesome, and I’m really proud of her.

Tomorrow will be short on posting, [...]]]>

Little Boys On A Mountain With Candy In Hand, originally uploaded by jacqueline.fonte.

My bestfriend, yeah, the one who stole my boyfriend, Crazy Willy, from me, is graduating from college.

She inspires me to do a lot of things, like eat incessantly, up my tramp-y-ness quotient exponentially, decorate with doilies, (insert other rad things here).

She is pretty awesome, and I’m really proud of her.

Tomorrow will be short on posting, because I’ll be watching her walk, with what is probably a heinous cap & gown on, in to the future.

Things are looking really bright these days.

No shame. That two-timing bastard!

I like to make my friends dress up like trainwrecks monkeys. I like to get them sloppy merry, happy drunk and take advantage of them, Pretty Birds. I fatten them up with French Fries (don’t forget the Grey Poupon!) and clove cigarettes cigars. I like to make them crawl the pubs; I like to laugh when they motorboat a stranger’s breasts as we linger outside, closing time long gone [...]]]>

I like to make my friends dress up like trainwrecks monkeys. I like to get them sloppy merry, happy drunk and take advantage of them, Pretty Birds. I fatten them up with French Fries (don’t forget the Grey Poupon!) and clove cigarettes cigars. I like to make them crawl the pubs; I like to laugh when they motorboat a stranger’s breasts as we linger outside, closing time long gone (Scabs!). I like to laugh at the strange couples we meet (there’s always a ménage á trois invitation on the table), the bro-fest’s we mock as I make Scabs chug her beer and Ortencia gulp her nasssty tequila. What can I say?

I’m obsessed in love with the cult, and you know I love a good theme.

Send Me All Your Vampires.

Round One:

Becky, Me, Nohea, Ortencia, Scabs, Ramos, little man from Hollywood, freaky, Brady-Bunch-like couple trying to get their swuuuuurve on, plus two losers from Rhode Island.

Horns and friends and twins and bad bitches forever. And ever.

“Feelin’ Good” – Nina Simone

Horns and friends and twins and bad bitches forever.

And ever.

“Feelin’ Good” – Nina Simone

Now, I’m not sure why New York City hasn’t quite caught on to Taco Tuesday, but let’s just say I’ve totalllly missed it.

For those of you in New York wondering what the heck Taco Tuesday is . . . It’s basically a sweet amalgamation of [...]]]> Pretty Birds, I’m back from Big Bear (more on those shenanigans later), and last night was Tuesday . . . Taco Tuesday.

Now, I’m not sure why New York City hasn’t quite caught on to Taco Tuesday, but let’s just say I’ve totalllly missed it.

For those of you in New York wondering what the heck Taco Tuesday is . . . It’s basically a sweet amalgamation of all things heavenly and heavily hot-sauced. Obviously, it goes down every Tuesday, and there’s generally some sort of deep discount on tacos, like, say, one taco for one dollar. Sometimes there are even happy hour specials. Cheap drinks and tacos? Amen. You then show up to this taqueria with your posse. (All legit Taco Tuesday places are taquerias; don’t ever even mention the name Rubio’s Baja Grill in my presence on a Tuesday). Then, after ordering a wide variety of tacos, loading up on the tomatillo salsa (or, if you prefer, the red stuff), you proceed to consume your body weight in tacos. Duh.

Then, while in a taco-coma, you make plans for the rest of the week with friends (e.g., St. Patty’s Day or Sundays in LA or tix to the Lake-Show), and when someone offers you a ticket to the opera on Saturday, you tell them you’ll check your schedule, because duh, you’re smart enough to be a social-opportunist and not commit to any plans until the very last minute.

As Today was Tuesday, Nohea, Womb Buddy, Shea and I headed to Hole Mole on 4th Street in Long Beach. Taco’s were a dollar, and yeah, we totes went above and beyond our civic Angeleno duties by consuming twice our body weight in tacos.

Can I get an “Amen?”

Amen.

(Embarrassing pictures below, starring Nohea, Shea’s “Fat” Face, TACOS!, and Womb Buddy. )

So, if you didn’t know about Taco Tuesday (because you live your life in some sort of waste receptacle?), now you do.

Now go forth, Pretty Birds, and eat tacos!

PS. I highly recommend Hole Mole for your basic, no frills (they don’t add foul ingredients purists like me semi-detest, e.g. nacho cheese), flavorful tacos. It’s a dump-y little joint, but you don’t go for the atmosphere.

It’s just that well, I’ve been writing a lot- just not blog-ish stuff.

Also, I’m still trying to figure out how to work this new vid editing software so that I can share some new artists with you. (I’m such a MASSIVE FAILURE at stuff like this these days. Why is that? Must work on this. [...]]]> I know, I know, RogueRanters. I’ve been seriously neglecting this blog, right?

It’s just that well, I’ve been writing a lot- just not blog-ish stuff.

Also, I’m still trying to figure out how to work this new vid editing software so that I can share some new artists with you. (I’m such a MASSIVE FAILURE at stuff like this these days. Why is that? Must work on this. Pronto.)

But overall, just dreaming about loads of things, like owning a hot chocolate maker and crisp autumn weather and chunky knit sweaters in rustic colors and pulled pork sandwiches . . . Don’t ask me about that last one, because even I couldn’t tell you, but I’m actually kind of excited for fall. (Not winter, NEVER winter, FUCK winter.)

(Usher’s “Love In This Club” for Nohea)

Here’s a list of things I wish I could be doing right now (if I weren’t writing this to you, because we all know writing to you obviously tops the list):

- I’d be wine tasting in Napa.

- At Sweet Afton’s in Astoria, indulging in some fried pickles.

- Be back at Hapuna Beach on the Big Island (Hawaii), swimming under the impending dusk and then getting ready to eat, drink, and head out for another night swim with friends.

-I’d be in Phi Phi, Thaliand, having a shroom burger

- A bubble bath sounds kind of nice, actually.

- I’d be perfecting my bagel recipe

- OR actually, above all these things, I really, really wish I was hanging out with my best friend- yeah, the one who crapped her pants all those years ago- in San Clemente, California, having a bit of a wino night, dancing around a fire pit somewhere, maybe with some strangers . . . or her grandparents. Maybe she could even get stoned or something and ride circles on her beach cruiser around the fire pit, giggling. Seems like something she’d do, right? I’m sure we’d get good and sauced up, try to eventually head to sleep, spend all night laughing about her haunted room, and eventually freak each other out enough about ghosts to make us want to hold a seance.

But since I’m not in California, I’ll try to resume regular posting tomorrow. I mean, I’m not making any promises, but you know, I can at least promise you I won’t post another fuddy-duddy list like this. It will be actual content. LOL. Not videos about vermin in New York City.

xo,

Bubble Girl

PS. Here’s a little sound bite from my other best friend. You see, she drunk dialed me and left this little gem in my voicemail box last night:

“Jaqqqqqqqq, me and Joy are trassssssssshed.  I don’t know what the fuck she’s doing, but I’m eattttttang! (Joy in the background: “JAQQQQQ!”) She’s throwing foooooood at my facccccce. Oh my God, you would laugh so hard. I love you.”

Wolfpack reunion going down in Oahu; t-minus 4 days. If you’re not already, you SHOULD drink to that, because duh, you should always drink to good company and family.

Have fun ladies! I’m sorry my pants-less self won’t be there to help you get trassssssshed, but add some Aussie notches to your bedpost for me. (“Bag ‘em like some groceries”)