This Might Sound Bad…

…but I think I have an explanation for some forms of prejudice against black people.  Let me be clear, I am discussing prejudice, not racism.  My theory is, that our primal survival instincts subconsciously raise red flags when it is difficult for us, to “read” another persons face from a comfortable distance.  A distance where if we needed to, we could still “flight,” and easily get away.  So, it truly is only skin deep.

I made my discovery while I was walking down the street in Savannah, Georgia one not so very special day.  Outside of some house were a few men.  One of them, I thought I worked with.  I was at a close enough distance to where I should have been able to absolutely tell if I recognized the person for sure or not. But I couldn’t tell!  Why?!  It wasn’t until I was relatively close in proximity to him, that I could see that he was not in fact the guy I knew.

Another example.  While walking at night, EVERYONE tries to read the person who is nearing them. It’s inane, we’re programmed to read an approaching creature, and decipher if we see them as a threat. This brings me to my main point. A white person, is easier to read from a safe distance, a distance where we could still “flight” if we felt the need. A black person however, is harder to read SIMPLY because light does not reflect off of their skin as well. So! Even though that sounds bad, I think because light does not reflect as well off of black skin, that is why there are ridiculous racial divides that still exist, and it’s simply that it’s harder to “read” black people from a distance. Excuse the run-on sentence.

Of course, when approaching a white man on a sidewalk at night, I attempt to read their face as well, and decide if I feel he is a potential threat.  I can come to a conclusion at a safe enough distance to where if I DO feel threatened, I still have time to cross the street or do whatever I need to do to prevent confrontation.  With a black person, I have to be closer in proximity to be able to adequately read their face, decide if I do feel a potential threat, and if so, it is now too late to comfortably dissipate the situation because I’m too close in proximity.

I know it sounds absurd, but I think it makes sense.  Thoughts?

I’d like to conclude this by stating that I have ZERO tolerance for racism.

Quotes by Me

I’ve got a sore neck, a crippled bank account and a broken down dream.  But tonight, I’ll set your soul aflame.

W.W.A.D.

What. Would. Ari. Do.?

There’s a boy named Ari.

And I think he is a hero. He moved here from Albania with his parents when he was sixteen years old and did not know a word of English. He told me the story of his first day of school, and how it was by far, the worst day of his life. It’s quite inspiring, but for some reason, even though it wasn’t whispered, and it wasn’t sworn to secrecy, it felt private. So I’m not going to tell you his tale. Fast forward to eleven years later, and now he speaks perfect English, and has two more years before he will graduate from medical school.

Ari goes to school full-time, Monday through Thursday, and then works at our restaurant Friday through Sunday. He’s been working there for about ten years. My Dad owns the place, and I guess Ari’s father had heard that there were a couple of Albanian’s working there, so he came by, and asked if there was a position available for his son.  Ari has been there ever since. I admire the familial bond the Albanian’s I work with still have, that Americans are severely lacking.  That’s a topic for a different day.

Ari now tends bar for about nine hours on Friday and Saturday afternoon/nights, and works in the kitchen from 9:30am-midnight on Sundays. That’s about 33 hours in three days after a full medical school work load. And he NEVER complains. It took me asking him how much he sleeps, for him to ever mention to me that he only sleeps about three hours a night. Most people, if they go ONE night with only three hours of sleep, the whole fucking world knows about it because it’s their topic of conversation for the day.

Ari and I disagree on almost everything. First of all, he’s a Republican… so most of our debates stem from that in some way or another. Whether it’s a discussion about gun control or the Federal Bank or racial discrimination, we generally bump heads.  But he’s good.  Better than he knows.  My kind of hero.  The kind that over time will be forgotten, his name probably not mentioned in texts, but the kind of hero that if everyone were a little more like him, we’d probably live in a better place.

Although I have no history or romantic ties with Ari, I find myself deeply wanting his approval.  The thought of him disapproving of me or my actions, or being let down by me in some way, stings my soul.  I did something recently, that normally I would just laugh off, or fool myself into brushing off, but I can’t shake it the way I could before Ari was in my life.  He has become my moral compass.  I’ve known him for a long time, but only in the last few months have I actually began the process of getting to know him.

The day after my “mistake,” (which really wasn’t that bad at all) I saw Ari at work.  Although I’m sure he had no idea of what I did, I could barely look him in the eye.  It was as if he has become a tangible representation of my conscience.  He grounds me, and I barely know him.  I could count the number of times on one hand that we’ve had what I would consider to be a “real” conversation.  I suppose he just sets a good example without words.

It’s nice to have someone in my life again who reminds me of what I do and do not want to do, and he is completely unaware of the moral direction he provides me.  Maybe I’m putting him on a pedestal, but I’m okay with that for now.  It’s nice to know someone who I can root for and believe in.  If you are like myself, and going through a quarter life crisis, I advise you to  find your Ari.  He/she will remind you of who you really want to be.

The Only Cool Pink Drink

Hi world.  I’m here to give you the recipe to the only good pink martini.  Typically, I’m allergic to pink drinks.  My glass RARELY has ice in it, and is usually filled with brown liquid (whiskey, neat), or clear with a hint of green (gin martini with two olives).  This is not because I am trying way to hard to be a character from Mad Men, but because if I get anything else, even whiskey on the rocks, or flavored martinis, I drink it too fast, and thirty minutes later I’ve downed a pint of straight liquor and we’ve got another “Heedless Sinner” volume on our hands.

I had to come up with a drink titled, “Spring Fling” for the bar, so I rolled my eyes, and embraced what I knew had to inevitably be a Martha Stewart colored drink, in order to properly correspond with the name.  But!  I did us all a solid, and came up with a friggen delicious cocktail.

First, chill the martini glass.  Then, in a METAL shaker add rocks with:

2 parts Hendrick’s Gin

1 part St. Germaine liqueur

2 parts grapefruit juice

A dash of grenadine.  A literal dash!  This part is important!  It should be less than a 1/4 oz.  Nothing more or else it will be too sweet.

Shake!  Shake!  Shake!

Then strain into martini glass and top with a splash of tonic water.  Again, this is just a topper.  No more than a 1/2 oz. of tonic.  But don’t forget it!  You need the hint of tonic to compliment the gin.

No garnish!

Enjoy!

P.S. Gin makes you sin… so have fun, my friends.

 

The Adventures of Touring with a Rock Band – Part 7

Two fun drinking games I learned while touring, that I encourage all of you to take part in.

First, the Buffalo.  Apparently, this stems from the gun-slinging days, which makes it truly badass.  When drinking alcohol, one must drink using only one’s non-dominate hand.  The reason, is so that your dominate hand, the one that you would use to retrieve your pistol with, is always free, in case you need to suddenly draw.

Notice which hand is being used for what.

Most people are right-handed, thus, you MUST always drink using your left hand.  If you are drinking from your right, and someone calls “Buffalo,” you have to chug the rest of your drink.  However, if someone calls Buffalo, but they are incorrect (for example if the drinker is left-handed, and the “caller” is unaware of this), then that person must chug their drink AND buy the next round.  The only way you are exempt from all Buffalo rules, is if you have a tattoo of a Buffalo.  The person I learned this game from, did in fact, have a tattoo of a buffalo on his wrist.  I kind of fell in love with him when I discovered this.  So he can drink from whatever hand he wants, and never needs to chug or buy drinks.

Though this is known as a “game,” it is more of a club.  It’s a lifelong commitment, that unites loyal, honorable drinkers.  I’m sure this is why it is popular amongst the “touring” crowd.  Every person I have met who is a member, has also been on a tour at least once.  A real Buffalo member will never dispute or whine about having to chug a drink if he or she is in violation.  Also, Buffalo members will never be “that guy” or “that girl” at the bar.  It’s for serious drinkers only.

One must be invited by a member to become one.  So, if you are not part of the Buffalo Club, you are not allowed to start playing now.  However, now that I have made you aware of its existence, if you hear someone calling “Buffalo,” I suggest you make friends with that person, and if he/she thinks you are worthy, they will invite you to become a member.  The American Buffalo Club website can further explain what it means to be a member.

Second game, and my favorite, is called, “Iced.”  We did this a lot on tour.  Take a Smirnoff Ice bottle, (the most disgusting of all malt beverages) and cleverly disguise it so that the person you are trying to “Ice,” is unexpectedly encountered by the bottle.  For example, the best one that I witnessed was while I was on Warped Tour. Peace Tea sponsored Warped, so there was an absurd amount of Peace Tea beverage cans everywhere and they are delicious.

One of the guys cut the bottom out of one of these cans, and put it over a Smirnoff Ice bottle, completely covering it.  He then offered the tea to our Tour Manager, covering the open bottom with a napkin.  When our TM accepted the offer, thinking it was simply a tea, he grabbed it, removing the hollow can, revealing the disgusting Smirnoff Ice, which was now glistening in his face.  When this happens, you have been Iced, my friend.  And you must get down on one knee, and chug the Smirnoff as so:

This is what followed the Peace Tea offering.  Epic.  …And Kyle MacDougall is hot.

It seriously sucks when it happens to you, but is seriously hilarious when it happens to someone else.  I put a bottle in one of the musician’s suitcase, because I knew he was about to go through it.  He lifted up a folded shirt, and instead of finding the clean boxers he was in search of, he was presented with a Smirnoff Ice.  If you fail however, and the person you are trying to ice suspects what is happening, or if your plan is unsuccessful (for instance, if my friend had not in fact gone through his suitcase) YOU must get down on one knee and chug.  A fun touring game that you can bring to the real world.  Because remember… touring life is not the real world.

Cheers!

I Dare You

Laying low at a bar.  What else is new.  I was reading Maxim at a high top in the shadowed area of the Chic-a-Boom Room, a cool spot located in Dunedin, Florida.  Two guys walked by, and a few seconds later, one of them comes back around.

“My friend told me to turn left for the bathroom, but I had to turn right to tell you how pretty you are.”

I literally laughed out loud.  I fucking love cheesy pick-up lines.  I think they’re so much fun.  My favorite…

(Picture a boy acting like he’s in a deep discussion with another friend, then turns to you…)  “Hey.  Do you know how much a Polar Bear weighs?”

“No.”

“Enough to break the ice.  (Offers out his hand)… “My name is Mikey.”

I fell for that one.  I thought it was hilarious and that boy got a genuine laugh.  Anyway!  Although I was one hundred percent flattered and entertained by the lame, “turn left/turn right” pick up line, I didn’t, at first, take him seriously as a human being at all.  Because of my curse, to my not so surprise, I discovered that he was the musician playing at the bar that night.  OF COURSE.  But that’s irrelevant.

Side note:  I understand that it’s incorrect to start a sentence with a conjunction, and I understand that I just did it twice, but sometimes it’s just necessary for effect.  Side note #2: I will admit that I just spent a solid two and a half minutes trying to decide if I should use “effect” or “affect” with that last sentence, but gave up and went with the most popular.

Back to the story.  Later, I was sitting at the bar, next to a fellow solo female bar patron.  She bought me a shot, which was incredibly sweet and “female bonding” of her.  Once I took my nose out of my magazine, and started being at least mildly social, I quickly realized that she was friends with the musician.  The one with the cheesy pick-up line.  Boy, do they have some history!  I loved their chemistry and weird relationship, which was put out on display for me as the night and conversation progressed between the three of us.  While I’d love to digress, and tell you about their doomed romance, instead, I’ll get to my point.

The point of this random musing is that this night, reminded me that EVERYONE, even the guy with the terrible pick-up line has something to offer if you just listen.  I believe his name was Jeremy?  Maybe?  So Jeremy, the guy who I originally didn’t take seriously as a human being, ended up saying something which I found to be relatively profound.  To paraphrase his drunken theory… he basically said that all it takes to save a relationship, or maintain a long-term relationship, is twenty minutes of undivided attention a day.  Whatever relationship in your life that is lacking, whether it’s a romantic relationship, a close friendship, a familial relationship… whatever.  Put aside twenty minutes of your day, to give that person all of yourself.  Leave your cell phone, your to-do list, the television remote and your insincerity, and listen.  Listen and talk with that person for a solid twenty minutes.  That’s all it takes, and it will take you far.

Jeremy seemed to relate this to a marriage.  He definitely is not married, but the way he was talking, I’m assuming that he was at one point.  Sadly, I think he made this “twenty-minute self-help” discovery too late.  I related this advice to my relationship with my Mother.  My Mom is a beautiful human, and if everyone had a little bit more of her in them, the world would be a better place.  I truly believe that.  However, she can be absolutely annoying at times, and for me, difficult to talk to and find common ground with.  But after contemplating Jeremy’s theory, I decided that if I simply take twenty minutes of my day, and put aside my differences with my mom and embrace her quirks, I think it could make a world of difference.  It could build our relationship, make it stronger and be overall beneficial for both of us.

So I dare all of you, to be still.  Be still, for only twenty minutes a day with the person in your life that you love, and care enough about to save a relationship with.    Advice from the drunken free-spirit musician at the bar.  To add to this….

Caitlin rule:  Give EVERYONE the time of day.  They may just surprise you.

Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 10

This is how pathetic I was last night… a prostitute had to help me get a cab.  Rewind, and let me start with what I do remember.

I went with a couple of people from work to the restaurant across the street where we always receive an endless flow of free booze and food.  To our pleasant surprise, it turned out to be one of the manager’s birthday who is a friend.  The champagne is opened.  More drinks and good conversation brings us to the next bar where I dance by myself like an asshole to the terrible live band playing bad 90′s hits.  Now there are six of us.

Next memory: skipping down Hollywood Boulevard arm and arm with Will, the birthday boy, like we’re in the fucking Wizard of Oz.  Who knows, we may have skipped right over Judy Garland’s star.

Next memory: strip club.  Now there are two of us.  Don’t know how that happened.  It’s only myself and Will, who I have never hung out with outside of visiting each others bar, watching high-end strippers bounce their ass up and down in a way that makes it look like it’s independent from the rest of their body.  I shyly threw some ones on the stage, looking like one of those timid kids at the petting zoo who is scared that the goat is going to bite her if she gets too close.

Next memory: standing on the sidewalk at God knows what-o’-clock, and now there is one.  I’m by myself in the middle of the night on a side street that is just off of Hollywood and Vine (an intersection you don’t want to find yourself alone at) with no purse and no car and wearing Will’s jacket.  Until this moment, I was having a great time.

Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street

Obviously, my purse has my cell phone and all of my money and wallet in it.  When I could not find my car, a random woman who was also outside came to my rescue.  I barely remember her face, but I remember she made the executive decision that I needed a cab.  I don’t think I was using words at this point.  She called me a cab, and waited with me.  I really hope I was able to mumble a sincere thank you.

I now believe that everything happens for a reason, because THANK GOD we went to that strip club.  Inside of Will’s jacket pocket that I was wearing, there was $80 worth of ones.  This was the lifeline that got me home.  Don’t remember how I got into my house, because I didn’t have my keys.  Maybe I should check my windows to make sure that I didn’t fuck up at my break-in.  Woke up in the morning still in my clothes, look around me and see a bunch of one dollar bills strewn over my bed, I remember that I have no phone, car or wallet, and I literally started laughing out loud.  This was going to be a fun day.

I manage to get out of bed, and come up with a plan to get my life back together.  I grab the ones, and my little black address book, assuming I’ll need some numbers in a little bit, and walk my still drunk ass the 1.3 miles to the subway station.  I arrived back at my bar and found a co-worker who had Will’s number.  I was hoping that he would be able to provide me with either my purse or some answers.  Both if I was really lucky, but I was not betting on that.  We tried getting in touch with him, but no response.  I put some Bailey’s in my coffee to try to nurse the hang-over, and it definitely temporarily helped.  It’s disturbing how well I can function with a hangover.  Too much practice.

After hanging out for a couple of hours with some of the bar regulars, telling my story to everyone, I had them ALL interested in what the hell happened last night.  We needed clues.  We needed Will.  I didn’t even remember the names of the places we were at to try to call the establishments to see if they found my purse.  FINALLY he calls back with news.  He has my purse!  I am SO lucky.  I honestly thought it was gone for good.  I run over to his hotel bar to collect my things, and begin to exist as a real human being again.

Will had all the answers.  God bless him.  And how this guy ended up with my hot mess on his birthday… poor thing.

At the bar with the lame live music, Will and I apparently picked up some big dude that ended up being a weirdo, so that’s when everyone else left, leaving us with the giant, who we ditched by telling him we were taking a smoke break.  Will and I then went to the strip club, and after, I said I was driving home.  Like a kind gentleman, he talked me out of that ridiculous idea, and we apparently went back to the hotel he manages and the place where the night began, to chill for a bit and sober up.  He told me that we stumbled out to the back patio where we laid down for a bit while our cells rejuvenated, and huddled up together, trying to keep ourselves warm with the two jackets that we turned into makeshift blankets.  As he’s telling me this, I’m vaguely remembering laying with him and thinking it was oddly comfortable, but then it just goes black again.  We were such a pathetic scene, that the night watch guy brought us a big down comforter, and we were able to fall asleep for what I’m guessing was a couple of hours.

Now here is where things took a wrong turn.  Will says that I woke up, got up without saying anything, so he assumed I was going to the bathroom, and then I just never came back.  Leaving my purse and jacket behind and his jacket on.  I must have walked to where I thought my car was, forgetting that I had valeted that day, and this is where I meet the kind stranger who called me the cab.  Will was laughing his ass off when I told him that part, and I was like, “I can’t figure out what her deal was.  She must not have been homeless because she had a cell phone, but she was definitely just on the streets.”  He told me she was a prostitute.  Duh.

Living the dream, my friends.  One drink at a time.

P.S. I did all of this in heels and without throwing up.

Why I Love Not Having a Smartphone

I have many pretentious arguments as to why smartphones are the end of social progression, but I’m going to exempt you from my rant, and go straight into my small anecdotes, those of which would probably not have happened if I owned a smart phone.

Side Note: I don’t understand why “smartphone” is one word, so to embrace my obstinate side, I am going to refer to them as “smart phones.”

I often find myself needing to stop to ask for directions, since I don’t have a GPS in my phone or car.  We all know that I just let loose, take the ride, and find myself in some unexpected places.  Due to this, I have woken up to the, where-the-fuck-am-I, thought on more than one occasion.  Because I don’t sleep, it’s usually at an absurdly early hour, between 6:00am and 8:00am, depending on how late it was that I passed out (generally between the hours of three and five).  With all of that being said…

Anecdote 1:

Girl’s night out with my friend, Maia.  Long story short, I woke up the next morning on her couch, in my tiny little dress, and had no idea how to get home.  I splashed my face with water, flung my heels into the car and drove to the closest place that would be able to provide me with answers as to my location.  McDonald’s.  Brilliant.  French fries and milkshakes are the perfect hang-over cure so I was killing two birds with one stone.  I walk in looking fucking beat.  I asked the cashier for directions, but he was young, and clearly had grown up with a smart phone, so was equally as clueless as myself.  I sighed and dived** into my milkshake and french fries.

A sixty-something-year-old man who had apparently heard my unsuccessful exchange with the cashier, approached me and asked where I was trying to go.  I explained, then so did he… giving me flawless directions.  Here is where it gets fun.  He said, “You look like you had a hell of a time last night.”  Yup, yes sir, I did.  I said something about how I was feeling the consequences of it, and he went on to say that the best hang-over treatment is another drink.  He brought me out to his truck, where he retrieved a flask from the glove-box, and poured a healthy amount of bourbon into my vanilla milkshake.  Fuck yes.

To paint a small picture, it was literally 7:05 in the morning, and I was in this dress…

high heels, smeared make-up, sweating alcohol, obnoxiously large sunglasses to hide my blood-shot eyes, and not giving a FUCK about any of it.  To see me in a McDonald’s parking lot, accepting a shot of bourbon into a milkshake at 7am, from an overweight man with a mustache… all I’ve got to say is, I hope someone driving by appreciated it.  We ended up talking for a good ten minutes about how billboards have destroyed road-trips, and then I went on my way, feeling 100% better and laughing out loud about what just happened, as The Smashing Pumpkins played on my car stereo.

Anecdote 2:

Got lost driving back from a person’s house who I should definitely not have spent the night at to begin with.  Again, I was wearing some absurd outfit at seven in the morning, and pulled over at a Denny’s because I figured I’d grab a coffee to remedy my pain and then ask for directions.  Before I was able to walk in, I met TJ.  TJ was an old mother fucker.  He looked like he was eighty, but from what I learned about him during our conversation, he couldn’t have been quite that old.

He was crouched down in front of the door smoking a cigarette and said, “where you tryin’ to get to young lady?”  How did he know?!  I explained in the best way that I could, considering that I was absolutely still drunk from the night before.  He told me how to get back, and then we just started talking….

The conversation led into how he came to be in California.  He had literally jumped on a moving train from somewhere in the Mid-West (I forget where exactly) and ended up in California where he has been working for the train yard ever since.  The mentioned train yard was directly behind the Denny’s we were at, and he went on to say that he’s there almost every morning during his early break because he’s “sweet on” one of the waitresses.  I told him he should ask her out and jokingly offered to be his wing girl, completely forgetting the generational gap, and that he would have no idea what the hell a “wing girl” is.

It didn’t matter.  We bonded over shit coffee, and the unspoken recognition that both of us were willing to befriend an unsuspecting stranger.  Something that seems to be a dying practice.

Anecdote 3:

I have an odd fascination with barges, and also find giant industrial style landscapes to be beautiful.  So, I was driving down I-110 some late night, and noticed the colossal port of Los Angeles.

Just a section of the LA Port.

I turned in and drove through it for AT LEAST an hour.  The place is huge, (7,500 acres) and I would stop every half a mile or so to stand up on the roof of my car and look out onto the vast landscape of man-made beauty to remind myself that I am happy and free.  During these moments of middle class white girl introspection, I decided it was my calling to somehow work at the docks, but I had no idea how I was going to make that happen.

My first challenge however, was going to be finding my way out of the deep maze that I had just drove myself into.  I just started driving and hoped I’d eventually find a sign pointing me to some recognizable highway.  Instead, I saw a bar.  I figured that almost every patron inside would be a port worker, so I shrugged my shoulders, thought what the heck, went in, and walked up to the first man I saw.

“Hi!  Do you by chance work at the port?”

“Yes.”

From there, Greg, a late thirties Mexican American man told me all about dock life and how to get into the Union, which is very interesting but I won’t get into that now.  We had a couple of drinks, I learned about his family and truly enjoyed his company.  He didn’t get creepy at all, and actually checked a couple of his friends who interrupted a few times with inappropriate innuendos regarding the two of us.  Why can’t two people of the opposite sex have a conversation without it appearing romantic?

Greg then gave me directions out of there, and left me with his work number in case I ever wanted him to show me around the docks.  The following week I gave him a call, and he happily showed me around the areas he works, and it was amazing.  I loved every second of the visit.  Mark my words, I am destined to one day, somehow be involved with a city port.

Final point: None of these wonderful encounters would have happened if I owned a smart phone.

**Did you know that “dove” is not a real word?  To be grammatically correct, the past tense of dive is, “dived.”  Fun fact.

Five People Living or Dead

I’m big on questions books.  I used to throw a lot of parties, and one of the key ingredients to being a good host, is making sure everyone feels included.  Weird tension and segregation between groups of people who don’t know each other is a buzz kill.  One of the best ways to get everyone talking is question books.  There are the fun “Would You Rather” books, which ask ridiculous questions like, “would you rather pee your pants or drink a glass of spoiled milk?”  Then there are the more serious question books, which is when things get interesting and you find yourself bonding with the most unexpected people.

One of my favorite questions that I have come across is, “If you could invite any five people, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would they be?”  Which brings me to our discussion.  I like this question because it’s ever evolving.  My five seem to constantly be changing, and I find myself thinking regularly, “hmmm I would probably consider bringing (insert cool person here) to my dinner party.”  The most recent consideration was Johnny Cash, but unfortunately, he didn’t quite make the cut today.  Maybe next month he’ll have better luck.

Without further adieu, the five people I would like to invite to dinner would be:

1.  Thomas Jefferson

2.  Anaïs Nin

3.  Ernest Hemingway

4.  Caravaggio (the painter)

5.  Kristen Scott Thomas

Now for my explanation.  There are a bunch of people I would like to meet, but I’m trying to consider the “vibe” of the entire group.  The above five, I feel like would get along (for the most part).  Or at least keep things interesting.  I could see Caravaggio and Hemingway having a literal pissing contest after drinking Scotch, neat, and arguing over the most effective way to skin an animal carcass or start a fire, or something that’s equally as arbitrarily manly.  Then they’d bro down over a game of “Five Finger Fillet” while Kristen sips on wine, humming a French tune and seductively getting Thom to come out of his shell for a moment and gently dance with her.  Anais would be on the balcony smoking a cigarette, wondering if any of her past loves are looking up at the same moon right now that she is.  I’d be at the sundae bar (having a make-your-own-sundae station is crucial to my parties), and then we’d all sit on the floor together, pass around a wine bottle and laugh over a game of Never Have I Ever.

Jefferson is my one constant.  He always makes the cut.  I have a fascination with the cycle of brilliant minds in history, and have my own theory about such.  Well, a half-assed theory because it is based on no real merit.  It’s really just a Caitlin thought, and like most of my grand ideas, it’s probably naive, but these callow musings are my way of still believing in the good of the world.  I believe that the universe brings together brilliant minds at times when we’re in the most need of them.

I have many examples that I won’t bore you with, but one of them is the Founding Fathers.  I truly believe that never before in history, had so much genius been in one room together.  This can’t be merely a coincidence.  It’s the universe’s way of providing us with a solution.  Enough hippie jabber.  The full explanation of my theory will be a discussion for a different day.  Back to Jefferson, he’s just fucking sexy because of all his mystery, and I’d try to get him drunk, then get in on the real gossip of his life and ask him about his love affairs with his slaves, and what his secret coded messages were actually about.

Kristen Scott Thomas is probably the choice that you’re scratching your head at.  I don’t know why, but to me, that woman just seems like when she talks, we should all listen.  She has this wisdom about her, and she’s cultured, so I think she could hold her own next to the other self-indulgent artists’ that I’ve chosen.  On top of her charm and intelligence, I think she’d be a fucking blast to get drunk with.  Her and I would definitely end up outside jumping on a trampoline together.

We all know my night would probably end with myself, cuddled up next to Caravaggio on the couch.  Though I’d hope it to be Hemingway, let’s get serious… I somehow always end up with the guy who seems most likely to draw a picture of a penis as well as the most mentally unhinged.

One thing I think that all five of these people have in common, is that they seemed to have made love to the world.

Who would your five be?

Let’s Talk About Firefighters

What is it about firefighter’s that makes every single girl/lady/woman/fucking living creature with ovaries cum all over themselves?  There is no other profession that has this effect on women.  ALL females, have a thing for firefighters.

You’re welcome.

I lived behind a firehouse for about a year in college, and it was friggen fantastic.  I think I fell a little in love with every single one of them.  I struck up an odd friendship with one… he would randomly knock on my door during his shift and borrow a movie (I have an impressive collection), but let’s get serious, it wasn’t about the movie.  Hmmm I think we’re still facebook friends.  Anyway!  Does anyone have any real insight as to what the meaning behind this infatuation is?  Yes I know, they save lives…. they’re in good shape… blah blah blah.  But there must be more to it.  Paramedics save lives, cops save lives, Doctors for Christ sakes!  UPS guys are in GREAT shape (have you ever noticed that every UPS man has fantastic legs?)  So what is the deep seeded reason that all women have a soft spot for firefighter’s?

My old college roommate walking in front of our apartment building. The brick building in front of him was the Firehouse. I just like this picture…

I brought this observation up to a male bartender that I once knew, and for a second, I thought he made a sound argument.  He mentioned that all girls are the same way with bartenders.  Reluctantly, I had to agree… he was right.  But!  Then I rebutted because not all women spend time in bars.  Duh!  True, there is also something about bartender’s that get the girls going, but not all girls go to bars.  ALL women LOVE firefighters.  From teenagers to senior citizens… from goth wannabe’s to preparatory students… from stay at home mom’s to tattooed drug addicts… we all love fall in love with firefighters.

I think it must have to do with the media, like everything else.  Firefighters are always depicted as the good guy.  They save people and cats, but do so without corruption (cops) and while risking their own lives in the process, unlike doctor’s.  They can do no wrong because in our minds, it’s the last honest, and truly selfless profession.  If firefighters made a lot more money than they do, we probably wouldn’t be quite as into them, even though that seems backwards.  But it would take away from the “selflessness” of their image if they were rolling around in cash.

Does anyone have any insight into this psychological question?

P.S.  I googled, “hot firefighter” and this was the first image that came up and I just had to share because I think this is hilarious.  Not sexy at all… just flat out weird.

hahahahahahahaha!