#3 (w/bonus footage)

This is how I feel lately:

I Want My $5

Shit shit shit shit shit
I am head over heels for derby. Specifically Arch Rival Rollergirls derby.
This would be good if there wasn't a 96% chance Ryan and I will be heading to Ohio soon.
They've got a league there, but it's just not going to be the same.

Under this Roof

P&V

Round on the ends, hi in the middle. At least my vote will count.

How I Became a Hat (pt. 1)

Here's what happened. I was eighteen and more lost than I am right now. And I met a man.
I skipped my high school graduation to earn some bucks at the video store. As I wasn't quite sure where my life was headed, I figured it was good idea to start putting some cash in the wallet; I could get the piece of paper later. This gentleman picked up an exercise video and then asked me if I liked Kurosawa. I said sure, though I hadn't watched any of his films yet. I only ever checked out Party Girl for my free rental, but I was unwilling to reveal the gap in my knowledge of cinema. Normally I'm reluctant to chatter on with men like him, by which I mean men creased around the edges with age whose eyes are filled with just the subtlest hint of loneliness. They tend to fall for my moon pie face and gee whiz vocabulary pretty hard. So I sent him packing without getting into too many specifics.
I didn't drive yet, and in my typical shy fashion, I often trudged home in the dark after the store closed rather than asking for a ride. Somewhere in between the florist and the dry cleaner along the far side of the strip mall a long maroon car pulls up. Mr. Henry Overwater, whose name and penchant for sophomoric frat comedy I knew from the nifty corporate database, popped his head out the window, "Do you need a ride, miss?"
I am not in the habit of accepting rides from strangers, but I had to get home somehow. If I went on foot I was fairly certain Mr. Overwater would follow me anyway, sticking his head out to check my status. So I took the ride.
I don't like the smell of leather, and his leather interior had me gagging as soon as I got in. "May I roll the window down?" I asked.
"Sure, kiddo." He pressed a button on his window console. "That better?"
I nodded, turning my face to the lightly brushing night air. I imagined my classmates draped in blue robes, throwing their hats up in the air, and eating late dinners in the company of decrepit relatives, and thought At least I'm not them.
My hands worked as Mr. Overwater's directions to my house since my lips glued together with fear of what sadistic elements of torture he might have waiting in the trunk. With one final flick of my wrist, we pulled into my driveway. The lights inside the house were off. My mother finally stopped waiting up for me on my eighteenth birthday. Mr. Overwater killed his headlights so as not to wake the neighbors.
"Is there any way I could convince you to stay with me awhile longer?"
"I doubt it." I began to reach for the door handle.
"My son died three days ago."
"That's terrible. But I still can't stay." I'd heard the I've lost my dog pitch before. No thank you.
"We didn't have him until we were older. Too busy for a family. He was beautiful, but never healthy."
Now I'm not typically wooed by sob stories or strange men in stinky cars, but when you're 18 and trying to figure some things about your life, it's easy to hope you'll learn something valuable by bypassing the not-talking-to-strangers rule. Still, I kept my hand on the door ready to jump for freedom if things got pervy.
"But the thing is he was my heir, and now I have to find another."
The construct of his comment was clearly designed to perk up a young wage-slave's ears. The only fantasy more common among my ilk than a dead distant relative bequeathing an independently wealthy lifestyle was selling a screenplay for an independently wealthy lifestyle.
"Well, I could be your heir," I said releasing my hand from the door. I offered it up like it was nothing, a slip of cellophane kite caught in a tree. I could be a video lackey for the rest of my life, or I could inherit millions and build a Parker Posey-shaped pool. It could go either way really, depending on my mood.
"Indeed," he said. He coughed a little, then said, "I was hoping you'd say that."

#2

$5

Okay, so I was thinking that me as a rollergirl was not going to last. The social pressure seemed too overwhelming, and I was starting to get all ADD with the repetitive nature of our "practices". But lollywhoppingoodygoodness if I am in it for life after last night's practice! There was group stretching, there were time trials, there was falling practice (I think I'm a natural)... It brought all these nostalgic adolescent feelings back to the fore, you know, the one's I had submerged with beer and cookies and DVD marathons. I spent most of my formative years as an athlete (mostly in the pool) and I don't quite know why I lost touch with the drive to be active. But it's back, and better than ever because roller skates are involved. Like swimming, skating has always given me a sense of otherworldliness, a chance to find new power and movement and as a result, be a little less human. But more than that, more than anything, I just had so much friggin fun last night, and I am salivating at the chance to do it again! All the organization, all the fishnets, all the whiskey meetings distracted me from why I originally joined derby in the first place--to learn how to kick ass on wheels. I've re-assumed this as my "prime directive," and I'm going all the way, baby!

Some Piss, Some Vinegar

So we ducked out the benefit early because I am a bad rollergirl and started feeling over-whelmed by the sold out crowd. Also I started getting cranky because Mothra's Mutha (the only band we actually saw) was totally excellent and yet everyone around me was striking a dull pose and snarfing down their drinks. Not that I did anything to encourage any more raucous behavior. I wanted to dance, but decided instead to ditch. I'm not very good at having the responsibility of having a guest, but I brought Ryan along to show him what was what. He was a bit snarky poo about stuff (not the girls, to quote, "You've got some lookers on your team." or the band "I liked the girl who knew her way around a guitar.") and I just can't handle the worry that someone's not having a good time under my watch. It was probably a wise decision to leave early anyway as I was running a lowgrade fever earlier yesterday and feel like utter crap today (though disappointingly not hungover). I signed some dude's paper and made chit chat with a few boy-fans who deciphered my monkier so I s'pose I did my part. And perhaps I'll be more aggressive next time, as I will be leaving the boy at home, though he is fiendishly handsome arm candy...

DHS

So I've started working a couple evenings at the Danger Hat Society Room. Martine picked up a few new cases; also she said she was tired of smelling the old folks. I can use the extra cash, and besides it's sort of comforting knowing that I'm not alone, especially since I found an empty blue envelope shoved into the mouth of Trix, one of my old underground contacts who I found face down on his couch with an arrow in his back, an episode of the Golden Girls (the one where Blanche's sister strolls onto the lanai and asks her for a kidney) illuminating the gruesome scene.
The funny thing about the Danger Hats is they drool and fart all over the nice leather furniture while they play euchre, just like any other old folks. But I never expect it from a group of their caliber. I mean Ornella Campisi alone has accomplished more in her lifetime than most war generals, yet she belches like a frat boy.
My new job doesn't entail much, and by much I mean nothing. I'm supposed to check newcomer's credentials, but since most of the Hats who frequent the room have been nibbling on scones there since Ford was in office, I mostly doodle and surf the internet. Every once in awhile I have to shoo a parent and child combo out because they mistook the Hat emblem on the door for the foofy children's clothing store Tally Ho!, but it's easy enough to demonstrate that I have no suspenders or petticoats to offer that that aren't already wrapped around the crepe paper skin of the rose petal and sour milk crowd in the next room.
It's been unseasonably warm here, and Martine took me to the zoo yesterday. I wanted to ride the train so badly, to purchase a set of those perforated tickets and wave at passersby, but it wasn't running because it's still technically winter. Martine is an artist in addition to her other responsibilities, and she likes to sketch the prairie dogs as they pop in and out of their tunnel homes. We brought two lawn chairs and were sitting there staring at the little guys, Martine sketching and me shoveling popcorn into my mouth, when they started feeding the sea lions. Like moths to a flame, parents dragged their children over to see the show. There's something about the sound of several dozen giggling children that sets my teeth to grind. I started humming to myself to block out the noise. A big round of applause filled the air. So did the awful croupy bark of the sea lions. The dozen prairie dogs out of their holes ignored the twice daily noise, but I turned my head to check out the scene just in time to get a big fat fish in the face.
I stood up, walked over to the pool, and yelled to the keeper, "What's the big idea?"
He motioned like he couldn't hear me over the din of the rugrats.
I lifted up the fish that hit me and made the universal sign for "Nice aim, zoo asshole."
He lifted up a fish from his bucket, which was about half the size of mine and silver. The one in my hand was red. Martine grabs me by the shoulder, and says, "Physics, Cherie. There's no way that fish made it all the way from the lion pool."
The breeze picked up and carried an answer my way: the acrid smell of a stale stogie. I looked in the fish's mouth, and a tiny piece of blue paper fluttered out.
Guess I finally know who's after me this time.

Coming Soon...

The DHS, I swear...
In the meantime:
Yeah so it's gonna stay Lucy Van Welt. I ended the poll early because the total came 7 to 2 and I think that exhausts the bulk of my readership. Also I noticed a "Shrieking Violet" on the main roster, and while the sentiment is not the same, "Shrinking Violent" is just too close for comfort.
Thanks to all who validated my previous brilliance!

Stop the Presses!

Yeah! Arch Rivals in the mainstream (and poorly edited) press...

Post-Dispatch Article

Also I thought of a new derby name (a little too late):
Shrinking Violent
I think I actually thought of it when I first started and then forgot it... Oh well...

#1

My boy prefers this outtake:

"Can I have $5"

April: Do you want to come skate with me?
Ryan: How much does it cost?
April: Like five dollars, It's totally cheap.
(beat)
April: Can I have five dollars?

This is a classic exchange between my husband and I regarding roller derby, which brings us to derby portion of the new Danger Hat week. On the plate today: "The Way Out Show on Friday" or "What the hell am I going to wear?"

My closet doesn't exactly scream "rollergirl," what with its many varieties of blue dress shirts, as well its collection of coffee stained skirts. I'm trying to figure out how to achieve a kitschy/punk look without looking like I got smacked by the wrong side of Hot Topic. It's proving more difficult than I originally thought. I have two short (yikes) skirts one black/glittery and the other red/scrolly (I think this one might actually be a top, but since it fits around my hips it's a skirt goddammit) and have purchased blue and black fishnets. I'm planning to throw all this and my Arch Rival tee shirt together somehow, but I'm sure I'll be cranky come Friday evening, and resort to gobs of red lipstick. I really just need to learn how to sew, so I don't have to count on stores to have the stuff I want at the last minute.
I'm also seriously considering dyeing all or part of my hair blue because I've always wanted to. Also I think I'm secretly trying to get fired. We'll see how that pans out. I'm mostly talk talk talk in the area of radical modification, though I'm still tickling the idea of a tattoo for my twenty-fifth. I'm also considering owning some cats (much to my Dr. Doolittle of a husband's glee). I realize that I am perhaps having a midlife crisis of sorts.

Banging my head against the wall

Under This Roof

Now With More Content!

Okay, so I am once again trying to create a sort of schedule for this blog. I know this only lasted like three weeks last time, but I'm gonna try again and have even made the schedule a fixture on the front page (see cutie in top hat at right). That said, I'm running a little late on "Sat: Under This Roof" due to lack of a proper inkpen. I promise it'll be up tomorrow. In the meantime this is what I had for dinner:

Cinnamon sugar French toast, cheesy eggs, and ice cold Stag.
Yummy!

For fans of the last post

You may enjoy this little ditty:



This is posted in the spirit of "I'm going to surprise myself when I open my blog tomorrow." This surprise is punishment for an hour in which I crammed all the depression I've been supressing the last month or so, also for filling my husbands digital camera with self-portraits of this kind since he got it.

But what I really want is for the world to love me a little more. And who doesn't love an androgynous puppy dog wearing a bomber cap sticking its head out the car window? No one.

Oh...my...god...

This is the best thing since Vice Don'ts.

Irresistable Dating Prospects

And in the spirit of full disclosure, there are many days that I myself would qualify as a don't:

JAN 20th/WAY OUT

Hosted By: ARRG
When: Friday Jan 20, 2006
at 10:00 PM
Where: The Way Out Club
2525 South Jefferson Ave
St. Louis, MO 63104
US
Description:
ARRG

Click Here To View Event

Looks like I'll be "going out" without wheels for the first time in a long time. At least my derby brethren will be on hand, and I'll have socially soothing libations in hand.

Binge

So I did all of my Xmas shopping one or two days before the holiday. Getting such a late start means that my appetite is still whetted for rampant consumerism. I keep having to remind myself that I don't need a Pucci scarf or $200 boots, so I've started some therapy by replacing the boots with sleep and the designer labels with chocolate cake (hey, if I lard up, a flash of Pucci's not gonna make a difference).
I also occupy my mind with exciting career ideas, which basically means I look at classifieds all day long. This morning's search was unproductive however, as I was nudging E on my gas-o-meter, and kept thinking, "That job's twenty effin' miles away, there's no way I can make that..." Guess my gas tank isn't the only thing running on empty.

Back to business

So, in case you've forgotten since I've been navel-gazing of late, I also fight a bit of crime on the side. Things have been slow lately, what with the Tipper Truce and the capture of Maximilian Meatshank, so I wasn't really ready for yesterday's standoff. I was minding my own business drinking apple juice in the park near work, enjoying the stiff breeze, and doodling on some spreadsheets. This shady figure slithers up the path, at first I just assume he's indigent or a scam artist about to tell me how he has a car around the corner that leaked its last droplet of gasoline and his triplets, who are colicky, are bundled up in car seats waiting for some fine lass like myself to dole out a little financial love so they can get home safely. But as he draws nearer, I can smell him. He smells like garden tomatoes, which is sort of a baffling scent in midwinter, but at least it isn't piss or Old Spice. Still I keep my focus locked on the dead grass sprouting from the sidewalk in front of me.

"I know who you are," he says in a voice like a tea pot coming to boil.

I only have only three responses to this question, feign deafness, stab to the gut, or:

"Did we go to high school together? Home Ec? Third Period?"

He rolls some mucus at the back of his throat, but his voice still comes out at the pitch of a whistle. "No." And then, "I know who you are."

"We can do this easy, man," I say lowering my voice several octaves for the contrast. "Walk away." I look at a mother and her little girl doing yoga a few oak trees over. I don't want a scene, I don't know what he wants, but I'm pretty sure it's not my apple juice.

"I just have a message." He extends a pale blue envelope that has a snotty cluster of tomato seeds smeared on one corner.

Fine. I'm wearing a skirt, I don't want the hassle of a fight. I take the envelope, put it in my bag.

"We done?"

"Sure," he says. Next thing I know I'm kissing concrete, his boot heel sinking into my right cheek. After I'm sure I'm disfigured, he releases his foot. I spit out some blood. A jogger is approaching, ear buds in, oblivious to anything but her own stride. He lifts me off the concrete anyway, and in a stage whisper loud enough so that the yogis can hear he says, "You gotta be more careful, girl. Next time it could be serious. Did you take your medication like you're supposed to?"

"No, I forgot, Uncle Jonesy. Sorry," I yell, then lick at the blood crusting around my lips.

"You think you're real cool, girlie. But we're gonna gitcha," he snarls. I feint right, but he's already halfway to the parking lot. I open the envelope, and there's nothing inside.

As per your request

I try to stay away from these sorts of things because I end up obsessing over my choices. Also because I am already painfully self-reflective (obsessed?), so they don't really reveal much. But as one of Danger Hat's most active readers requested my particpation, I feel obligated lest I lose 1/5 of my viewing audience. That'd be a big hit come sweeps.

7 Things to Do Before I Die:
1 Travel lots (from Arizona to Russia to Walla Walla)
2 Find an income source that doesn't depress me
3 Create something of humor and beauty and share it with people
4 Ride a motorcycle
5 Be useful in a crisis
6 Help someone learn to read
7 Tell my family that I love them a bazillion more times

7 Things I Cannot Do:
1 The splits
2 Make friends quickly
3 Drink or eat without spilling
4 Be "sexy"
5 Skate backwards
6 Keep rhythm
7 Chew only one piece of gum

7 things that attract me to people:
1 Trivial knowledge
2 Unabashed exuberance
3 Cynicism/sarcasm/cutting personal jabs
4 Contrary opinions
5 Dark hair, dark eyes
6 Questionable fashion
7 Tics

7 Things I Say Most Often:
1 Ow
2 Ahole or an Fer
3 Ooops
4 I don't know
5 Roller derby
6 My brain hurts
7 Sorry, I mumble

7 Books or Series I Love (in no particular order):
1 Time Traveler's Wife
2 The Pigman
3 Catcher in the Rye
4 Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man
5 Harry Potter
6 A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
7 The Lioness Quartet
(Wow, I'm a sucker for coming of age)

7 Movies I can watch over and over:
1 Shaun of the Dead
2 Ghostbusters
3 Impostors
4 Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
5 The Philadelphia Story
6 Ghost World
7 Royal Tenenbaums

7 people I want to join in:
1 Ryan
2 Sarah Kate
3 Kristopher
4 Dirk
5 Max
6 Herman
7 Margaret

In the year 2006

April beats whatever health/stress/immuno-deficiency issues have been causing her to be on a rotating schedule of cold, stomach cramps, cold. She also reads many many books instead of watching all seven seasons of Buffy twice. Instead of seeking high-paying work in the dullsville sector, she finds a job that pays just enough and utilizes very little of her emotional and intellectual stockpiles so that she may devote herself entirely to the creative projects she's been kissing but not seriously making out with in the past year, namely Mostly Tish and Clyde, the unnamed April and Ryan comic strip, and Fingernail Moon. Even better would be a part time job with low expectations and a huge paycheck, but this year April is again logical and realizes this exists nowhere. She also returns to college, but in an inventive way that encourages the aforementioned projects instead of stealing time and motivation from them. She replaces her squishy bits with muscle so she is a solid wall whipping around the rink instead of a pillowy one. Also, she purchases some really cute clothes, some comfy but stylish shoes and quits spending so much time reading celebrity gossip at sites like the Superficial and Go Fug Yourself. She grows out the bangs she chopped to bits the Thursday before Xmas, but not too much. She considers a tattoo, but once again chickens out. She may move to Chicago, IL or Columbus, OH, but that has to do with Ryan's 2006 over which she only has marginal control. She falls down. A lot. And spills soup, coffee, and mustard on each article of clothing she owns. She learns enough HTML, CSS, etc... to actually make this site her own. She learns to write effectively about other people and tell stories instead of focusing entirely on her odors and neurosis, but then relapses two weeks later. She may sing karaoke if drunk and forced, but it is just the painful as the first time all those years ago. In November, she has a tea party with Sasquatch and Nessy and is promptly institutionalized. She watches Wonder Falls, again, and shakes her fist at Fox. She quits wanting fancy things and starts seeking elusive things like satisfaction. She drinks a lot of coffee. She tries to keep her house clean, but is only marginally successful. She breaks the habit of buying new clothes so she doesn't have to do laundry. She tries to love more and be more forgiving, but it's difficult and she struggles because there are lots of dumb things going on in the world. She dies tragically in the December earthquake but is resuscitated by a mole person who emerges from one of the resultant fissures. Once again she is institutionalized.