5 days and counting...

we hope that you choke, that you choke, that you choke

coming soon to a computer near you

that dickie hard at work again...




marlow the tease...

"how u doin"


SUMMER '08
MARLOW AND DICKIE

don't call it a comeback

As birds were beginning to chirp this morning, I was enjoying a rather intense sexual rendezvous when I was disrespectfully interrupted by my iPhone, imitating church bells, fullfilling its daily 5:45 a.m. duty of waking me from golden slumbers knowing I have no plan to clear the sheets a second before 7:15. No day should start out this disappointing before making a complete exit out of slumbersville. Naturally, I wished upon the dream fairies to teleport me back to the euphoric entaglement but instead found myself reunited with odd acquanitnances and long lost friends together as a group in my high school gymnasium for no particular event. Double wammie. Lost sex dream faced with memories of the dorks of my youth I fought so hard to forget.

It…it…it t’was…SOAP POISONING….!!!

taking a break, blog for 'ole times sake, clearing my thoughts, connecting the dots...

[eat your hearts out rapper wannabes....don't hate the magic]

I've got an idea...take a look at this devil...



Folks, I would like you to meet my roommate, and dear family friend, Jerry Oscar Seinfeld. Don’t be fooled, Jerry is not a full blooded canine of the Jack Russell Terrier family. Jerry's blood runs half rodent/half dinosaur. Clever kid that one - struggles with ambition. After his bout with Seasonal Affective Disorder the die hard started putting in 14 hour days at The Weekend Theatre working directly under Frits Milchowsky, Director of Events and Sr. Casting Exec. These days when Jerry comes home at night, correction if Jerry comes home at night, he demands a double scotch and water, hops on the couch where he inevitably passes out, and tests my sanity with ceaseless snoring. When he can't sleep at night Jerry escapes the demands of art by means of a phony myspace account posing as "Chino", a Vegas promotions manager at The Mandalay Bay Casino and Resort who was born and raised with his 2 brothers, 1 sister, and 1 half brother in a little town called Moapa Valley. Jerry doesn't think I notice the light shining through the door crack at 3 am but I do. Half the time I don’t know whether he’s coming or going. True story: two nights ago Jerry walked through the front door at 9 pm, puked on the hardwoods, then proceeded to clean up the brown concoction half single malt scotch whisky half dead bird with the tongue of his very own mouth. Jerry means well, he does. This is the first month Jerry has been able to make rent, on time and in full, and I am really trying to give the little guy a second chance. Having dabbled with depression last month I feel its necessary to keep the boat steady if ya know what I mean.

I promised Jerry a plug: If you are looking to get out this weekend please keep in mind The Weekend Theatre's rendition of "Sailor's Do Cry" debuts Saturday evening, curtain call at 8:15.

For those of you unaware, I am studying to become a certified personal trainer. The course is kicking my ass. There was no "welcome" section to this 2 year course. Instead, International Sports Science Assoc. jumps head first into what I would compare to advanced 6th grade physical science. I had to refer to dictionary.com on the first word referenced in unit 1 - Sedentary. Go ahead and laugh if you wish. I had no clue what sedentary meant but you can be sure I throw it around during conversation whenever remotely pertainable. To make matters more difficult, I am simultaneously attempting to get in shape. I killed myself at the gym last week only to become a lazy dog ("SEDENTARY") all weekend, consuming my body with an abundance of carbs mixed with a large portion of fatty acids that quickly made my butt their permanent home. At 10 pm Sunday eve I found myself sprawled out on the couch englufing a cone containing two hefty scoops of pistachio almond ice cream. I woke up this a.m. with an upset belly feeling sluggish and guilty.

I know you are already thinking what I am screaming - I am going to be one excellent personal trainer.

Naylor, here is your riddle.

golfer boy, golfer boy where'd you get that swing?
we met on the roof after a night of drinking.
"welcome ladies" in his baratone voice...
"you don't say" is naylor's phrase of choice.
the pga working you 12 hour days
with a year-round tan from the hot sunrays.
we cut up a rug in dallas 06
learned jager and sauasage are not a good mix.
naylor sailor tailor you're special alright
lets go find a patio and catch up some night.

In closing, I must wish Ms. Phillips a very Happy 31st!

~ Josie

ode to matthew

matthew oh matthew where does your garden grow
i have fallen for a man cant deal with no ho
lookin so pretty while singing pretty in pink
just give him your number and pass him a wink
oh no, he says, i am too meek
do you think he'd call by the end of the week?
for sure, i declare, you're honest and true
a gentleman would be happy to have you.
sit tight and drink that last glass of wine
we'll be passing out shots in a matter of time.
a catch you are with that carebear stare
tell me matthew why didn't you pay for cab fare?

riddle me timber

ramblin' riddles...
this is my current escape from the daily demands of life.
Some need work. More to come.
Enjoy!

There once lived a rascall named Jeff
some swear he might have been deaf
looking for a thrill
he copped him a feel
that girl named Nancy
was really a Bill!

In Texas lived a sweet gal named nikki
pretty, big boobs, but a smidgen too picky
she met a nice boy
but boy was he coy
what is that bump on his dicky?

Maybe was definitely weird
not only because of her beard
she cussed like a sailor
not a boy would nail her
'twas those hairy pits that we all feared

There once was a lad called Randale
a beer in his hand confessing a tale.
He favored the crown
many shots he'd take down
once got groped by a male.
Is that poop on your pants
we scream with disgust?
He cried go ahead and laugh if you must.
I don't remember what I did last night
I thought I went to bed but something doesn't seem right...

Aint much there
but I bet a ton of hair
No worry
I'm in no hurry
my friends have left me
and the night's getting blurry.

There once was a duo we'll call them a mess
a diva named stacie and a sadie named jess.
Got a ride with the line cook
they later confess.
Feels good to be bad
oh what fun these girls had.
Smokin, drinkin, chattin up the crowd
stacie is always screamin so loud!
Now it is time to stop and dwell
I wonder what story tomorrow they'll tell?

I fell for a gent we'll call him matt
he gave me his digits I gave him my hat.
He had a way with a ball
handsome and tall.
We had sex on his hood
damn it was good.
Candy is gonna make him fat!

elle my belle why do you look so down
you're one of my favorite people around
remember the time you slept in that tent
scott stepped foot in your shirt and to the truck you would vent
shot upon shot of german liquer
what a wild group of ladies we were
mustard mayo will always make me smirk
along with shannigans we got away with at work

stacie don't look so gloom
with friends all around the room
light up a smoke
and tell me a joke
still got that pic of me ridin that broom?

in a land far away lived a hermit named Jake
his 95 Cherokee a bandit did take
crunching numbers by day
a man with little to say
he enjoys a good smoke
nebraska football's no joke
a temper built of steam
the boy can get mean
just give him a drag
of that pipe or a fag

talkin 'bout my generation

Welcome back comrades!

I sent my sexy prisoner a love note this week, the first in months. Feeling a bit carried away, and an unscrupolous desire to take this creative edge one step further, I am enlightening you dirty dogs with a blog.

I’ve been a smidge indifferent about music this week. Generally speaking genres of listening election are dependent upon my mood. Radiohead is good for those days you wish to reflect - or slit your wrists. Hey now, that was a joke. Radiohead feeds my creative soul. Abba’s “Dancing Queen”, on the other hand, is great for those 4 am moments you find yourself in water next to a skiboat on the middle of the lake swimming in cut off jean shorts.

This week I suffer from a '50s itch. Some like to refer to them as classics, “oldies” if you’re nasty. This caliber of rock-n-roll is an extreme contrast to my preferred indie post punk genre (I’m cool like dat). As a young tomato, my father liked to entertain me with the notion that I should have lived during the 1950’s. You see, everything about this era fascinates me but ultimately what I fancy is the simplicity. Understated clothing, incomplex song lyrics, pristine television shows. Today lyrics are weird, disturbing, risqué and complicated. What happened to “ABC easy as 123”. Kindergarden basics, folks!

With less options life was easier during the ‘50s. Families lived as families should. Marriages were the real deal. People were easily pleased and led happy lives. I could easily be Betty Crockeresque. Pull the hair back with a ribbon, grab an apron, paste on a permanent smile, and employ the use of “dear” in every sentence. Cuttin’ a rug was easier back in those days, too, I am sure. Bopping, twisting and shaking all about. I don’t know what to do when I find myself on a dance floor these days. I know that Jess points down and I point up. For the record, only few know what this means and for this I am grateful.

Everyone has one. Those songs that, without a doubt, make you tear up and ultimately cause an all out boo hoo session? You can be in the best of moods yet something within your subconscious mind triggers this breakdown. One of those for me is Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel. This fine tune takes me back to when I was 12 years old and my family moved to the state I now call home. My parents played this tune relentlessly. I guess you can say it makes me sad for them, even today.

The things that entertained us for hours upon hours as children require inebriation nowadays before they begin to sound remotely entertaining. Standing on the pool table - poolsticks doubling as mics and guitars - interpreting the Go-Go's is rarely an option between my friends these days. There was always a 100% chance of an argument over who got to be Belinda Carlisle. Or sometimes, as if we didn’t get enough of the real deal, we’d rush home after school to play “school” – always bickering over who filled the teacher role. Sometimes, probably when we craved some form of personal spiritual release, we played “church”. Saltine crackers served as the host for Communion. Having attended a Catholic School for years, requiring us to attend Mass a couple days out of the week, enabled us to memorize every detail of the liturgy.

Today’s generation of kiddos are so removed from mine I don’t know what entertains them outside of meth and sex. Disturbing. I can promise you that I didn’t have the slightest clue what sex involved until I reached my teen years. My knowledge was limited to a man lying on top of a woman while unitedly moving the lower half of their respective bodies mixed with a little thrusting. p.s. - you're naked. GASP! The Catholic school I attended liked to keep us sheltered this way. Ms. Morrison, my 8th grade religion teacher, didn’t go into specifics during the sex education class she was painfully responsible for teaching – incidentally during religion class. The premise of intercourse was vaguely limited to something like “the engagement of a special act of love between a husband and wife”. My classmates and I clung on to Ms. Morrison's every word anticipating the 4-1-1 on the goods, but nothing. I flipped through my sex ed book only to be disappointed with pictures of blossoming flowers and shit. I remember finding the term “wet dream” in the glossary located in the back of the book. One fine Saturday afternoon I mustered up the nerve to delicately ask ma “mother, what is all this wet dream talk.” Without a word my mom nervously tip-toed out of the living room, walked outside where she found my father and whispered something in his ear. After humiliation numbed a bit I vowed to never ask the parents another sex associated question. To add insult to injury I am 32 years old and no one has explained to me what a wet dream is.

Years later my father uncomfortably confronted my sister and I with a half-assed “if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask.” My dad, a smart one he is, knew that we knew we were required to live and learn.

When I was 17 years young my “sex talk” came in the form of my father sitting my twin sister and I down and forcing us to intently listen to “Dashboard Light” in an attempt to scare us from men and sex. If my memory is correct, we were required to take notes and pass a quiz later. You might say it worked. I immpatiently waited to have sex for the first time until a week before my 18th Birthday. Opportunities were plentiful, but in the end I was a scared. I couldn’t escape the embedded fear that once I had sex I was no longer a young girl. I didn’t want to disappoint my dad, guilt ridden and all, even though he would never have known. In fact, I suspect my parents would be shocked to learn I was sexually inactive during my high school years.

My final sex talk, occuring right before I flew out of the nest, dear daddio tells the sis and I “If Mr. Brady can die of AIDS so can you. Wear a condom”. I will pass along this same wisdom to my children some day.

In typical Josie fashion, that was a tangent and a half. I am looking forward to the possibility of inclement weather and englufing a mouthwatering hot dawg tonight! Easy to please…just like Betty Crocker. CIAO BABY!