Archive for the ‘Alisa has feelings’ Category

Rule 13

Wednesday, March 10th, 2010

Dear Internets,

Can you honestly imagine me playing hard to get? Because I can't.

When I was 19, The Rules came out. The Rules were written by two skinny Anne-Coulter-esque women. You know, the kind of chicks who think that they’re hotter than shit because they can wear a pencil skirt and have long hair? Anyway, these bitches wrote The Rules, a book which proclaimed that the only way to “capture” Mr. Right is to be unavailable, and make him chase you. On a Rules first date, you’re not allowed to stay for longer than ten minutes. Whether you have something else to do or not, you have to look at your watch and say “Oh! I have to go!” and jump up and run away after ten minutes. After said date and for the rest of the relationship, you’re not allowed to return his first phone call. You have to wait until his third, or fourth. Or something. Apparently, the recipe for success is a combination of being unavailable, and maintaining mystique.

The book that insults us all.

As we all know, I am super-aggressive; sexually and in every other way. And I couldn’t maintain mystique to save my life. So, I fucking hated this bullshit. Probably because they created a program I have no hope of following, and then called any woman who didn’t follow their program lonely and stupid. But that’s not all of it.  It pissed me off that this philosophy is based on the idea that men need to be manipulated into love. Because for all of the slutting around I do, I like men. I respect men. And I’ve spent the better part of the last 17 years trying to work through all of my shit so that I can figure out how to have healthy relationships with them. The idea that I need to manipulate one into loving me means that I’m not lovable all by myself, and I can’t trust a man to make his own decisions about his feelings. All of which sucks.

The Rules Bitches: Arch-nemesis's of everything awesome

About two years after their books hit really big, both of those bitches found themselves divorced. Which gave me some satisfaction. I don’t usually delight in the misfortunes of other people. But I considered these women the Arch-Nemesis’s of everything awesome. And so, their divorces fed my desire to see them sad. Unfortunately, these divorces didn’t stop them from continuing to offer dating advice. They are continuing to wage their war against honest dating, even now. Their website is stocked with pictures of them smiling next to real celebrities. There’s even a quote from Oprah, saying that they are genius’s.

I understand their popularity. I think everyone wants to create some order out of the chaos of our lives. Especially when it comes to dating. Everyone has lines they won’t cross. I have name rules. Like the other night, I met a Ryan. Isn’t it weird how all Ryan’s are hot? And while he was charismatic, I knew he was Hell-bent on his own destruction. As well as the destruction of anyone else who said that they liked him. So, even though he had Dylan-hair, and was trying to throw some (pretty good) game at me, I passed, because it doesn’t matter how good a Ryan is in bed, the mind-fuck you’re getting afterward makes the whole thing feel like a bad sexual decision.

After I’ve met 3 different people with the same name, I can make general observations about the name. My name rules have helped guide me through my life.  I try to believe in exceptions to the rules. They exist. I’ve just never met them. Michael’s always try to fuck with my head. David’s kinda hate themselves. Kaytea’s are always a crazy-ass party, that you will never regret attending. But you should rest-up first. Emily’s are steadfast friends. And Becky’s are bitches. Rebecca’s are usually nice, thoughtful and sensitive. Steve’s are good friends, who will always listen, and seldomly put out.

As much as I depend on my name rules, they’re subjective. They’re based on my experience with people who have those names. The Bexter (note, she goes by Rebecca, not Becky, because she knows Becky’s are bitches too, and has therefore never let anyone call her that)  has had different experiences with different names. So, she is open to dating a David, or a Justin (although, she’s dated a lot of Justin’s she might be done with that particular name). So, basically, while I love my name rules, and they are the guiding light of my life, I can’t pass them along for public consumption, except as a party trick.

Recently, I was updating the list of people I’ve slept with. I’ve got 83 people on the list… And I feel like I’m missing some people. So, if we’ve slept together, could you please email me, so that I can double check and make sure I’ve alredy counted you? Please don’t email if we only made-out. You dont’ count. Wait. Unless we made-out and it was good, and you’d like to make the list. In which case, please email me, and I will consider your request. You can send your sexual requests (and tales of our dalliances together) to snarkycardsatgmaildotcom.

I have noticed lately, that I have a collected a lot of wisdom, from all these different boys, and situations I’ve found myself in. I give great dating advice. Which I can’t figure out how to follow myself (much like the evil bitches I despise). But my observations have helped my friends (and strangers I meet at the bar) navigate through their own dating debacles.

So I’ve decided to put together my own list. The Rules by The Snarky Card Chick! I will feed them to you in the form of cards, until we have enough for a book of our own. And then we can give America a choice, The Rules for girls who like men (by Alisa Starr) or The Rules for girls who like to manipulate men(by some heinous bitches).  Rule #13 is the first rule I ‘ve written so far. I wrote it for my friend, Tina. Who is a cougar. Which is kind of exciting, and it makes me very, very proud.

It’s a good rule, I think. But it’s not going to be part of the top ten. I don’t know how long the list will be yet. I’m just writing down things as they happen to me. Or as they happen to my friends. If you have suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

Love,

Alisa

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Fenbi Finally

Friday, January 8th, 2010

I am a woman of many talents… Or at least, that’s what my friend Sheila told me last night. I kinda knew that before she said it. I mean, I know I’m charismatic. And, of course, very beautiful. Although, I think I keep most of my beauty in my boobs. The combination of which means that I’ve talked a lot of people into giving me a variety of jobs over the last twelve years. And I have hobbies; I knit, sew, paint, write, scrap-book, collage and I can make a pretty good avacado-banana salad. But Sheila was just surprised because she found out that I read Tarot Cards.

My brother, Stephenie, the novelist.

My sister, Joy, the artist

My sister, Joy, the artist

I guess I don’t talk about tarot cards that much, so I get why she’d be surprised. All of the kids in my family read cards with amazing accuracy. My brother also writes novels, and my sister makes jewelry, and paints and draws, and makes clothes. I’ve always wondered if it was an artistic thing. And then I don’t know, so I give up and spend a few minutes pitying my parents, who wanted us all to go to college and get real jobs, and have careers with clear trajectories. And then I get distracted thinking about my brother’s short stories, and I worry about finding him a publisher. And then I worry about finding me a publisher. And I forget to figure out if reading Tarot with accuracy is connected to creative ability.

My first cat’s name was Tarot, because even though he was completely feral, he looked like he knew how to be loved, and love me back. I got him from a crazy-cat lady in California. She’d found him in a garbage can. He was six months old, and he’d never lived inside. It took me a year until he let me pet him, and even then, I had to corner him in the bathroom, and use thick gloves my sister gave me to pick him him, and put him on my lap, while he yowled. I prayed he didn’t scratch my eyes out, while I pet him over an over again, saying fiercly “Someday you’ll like this!’

I was pretty feral when I got him, I’d just estranged myself from my family, and I was 22, living in my hometown, all of my friends had gone away to college, and I didn’t know how to make new ones. I was working 90 hours a week, and I wasn’t sure if my life was going to be worth fighting for. Taming Tarot was one of the few things that gave my life direction and trying to show him love injected compassion into my angst-ridden existence. And slowly, as he started to look to me for love, so did I. I got some therapy, and started coffee-shop slutting around again, and he started letting me cuddle with him at night.  And all the while, I read my own cards over and over again, for guidence.

This is a picture of my third costume change of the evening, at one of our blow-out Fun House parties

The thing is, my cards always told my future. And it scared me a little. And one day, four years later, I was at college -I’d gone back to school to get my tiny Sociology degree- and I got the New Location card. Which always means I’m going to move. I called my Fake Husband, who I lived with at The Fun House and told him. “You don’t have to move just because the cards say you do!” he blustered. “No. You don’t understand, I don’t want to move, but the card came up, and when it does something outside of my control is going to happen, and so I’m going to.” I was sad. And a little frustrated. I liked our ginormous house of awesome. But Steve and I always seemed to be arguing this was just one more thing. He’s still kinda Christian in his thinking. And things like Tarot cards are spooky and a little wrong. “Well, just because your cards say it doesn’t mean you have to do it.” He hung up quickly. I glared at the phone. Unbenknownst to both of us, Crazy Dennis, our Speed-Freak landlord was  breaking into the Fun House at that very moment, so he could leave an eviction notice in my bedroom on the back of an envelope. I found it when I got home from school. “What do you think about Tarot now?”  “I just try not to think about it.”He replied uncomfortably. And I thought “Well, if Steve can ignore the fact that Tarot’s real, than I can too.” So, I put my cards away, and I moved to Portland. Tarot died when we moved here, he’d gotten into a fight and some other cats sharp parts had knicked his lungs. The vet said if I’d had a million dollars, I might not have been able to save him. And I was so sad, I couldn’t say the word for a long, long time. I ran out and got two kittens to replace him three days after he died. They were cuddly and cute and open and loving and so opposite him, I put the cards and the cat away in my mind and I haven’t thought much about either since.

But the last six months have been hard on me. I love my life. But it’s become unpredictible and extreme. And every day something huge happens, and I have to figure out how to deal with it. Some of it is good stuff (which I will reveal to you, dear internet, when it’s all finalized. I don’t want to get your hopes up and then dash them) and some of it is bad stuff. And it’s gotten to the point that I’ve realized that The Universe was right when it decided to give me Tarot Cards.

I had always thought the ability to see my own future was a consolation prize for giving me such a shitty childhood, abusive parents and a stubborn nature. But now that I’ve had some therapy, and my abusive childhood is no longer the defining thing in my life. I mean, I still think about it sometimes, but it not longer hurts my feelings that those things happened to me. And I’ve started to accept my stubborn nature, and give it some begrudging props. I wouldn’t have gotten this far with my Snarky Cards if I hadn’t been so sure that this was the best way to make myself a writer. I’ve wanted to be a professional writer since I was 6. I made a promise to myself that I would one day be a writer. Which is why I’ve worked my ass off, 90 hours a week for two and a half years, hungry half the time, promising myself it would get better if I could just stand being poor and scared and tired and hungry for another year. Stringing myself along, ignoring kind-hearted people who told me over and over again to get a real job and work on my dreams part-time. “Like a normal responsible person”. Because I’m stubborn. And I said I would finish this. And I said it would make me a writer. And I don’t have a goddamn book published yet.

Lately I’ve begun to think that rather than being a consolation prize for a hard life, my Tarot Cards tell my future because my life is so weird, and totally unpredictible, and I need some advance warning about what’s coming up so that I can get ready. And The Universe knows that, and so it gives me a heads up out of consideration. And, maybe the advance warning of what’s going to happen next will allow me some mediocum of security in a world where I depend on Strangers in Bars to pay my rent. Or, as I did last night at Kelly’s Olympian and Meridian Gold Dust, the electric bill and phone bill. -Thank you Strangers in Bars! Todays electricity is brought to me from you! And also: Cute-Boy-Rich: Please stop intonating that we’re going to make-out and then disappearing. You are a cunt tease. Nobody likes a cunt-tease. Next time I see you, you better be cornering me in a bathroom and trying to grope me.

They sound as good as they look. I promise. Ass-shakin good!So, tomorrow night Fenbi’s playing a show again. FINALLY! They’ve asked me to read Tarot for anybody and everybody. I will be doing that for $5 a reading at the Ash Street Saloon from 8pm until close-to-closing. A word of warning though: When Fenbi plays, you need to shut-up and dance. That’s what I’ll be doing.  So -before and after the cute boys entertain us with deliciously dancable music-you can get your present, and possibly your future read for $5. I’ll bring some Snarky Cards too, so anyone who wants to peruse through those can.

I’m off now, to try and make some sort of gypsy costume, so that I’ll look like a vagrant fortune-teller. I hope to see you tomorrow night!

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Shag saves the Day

Thursday, December 10th, 2009
See what I mean? You're already titmitized

See what I mean? You're already titmitized

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars, from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. Which are huge. They will crack you the fuck up. Not my boobs, they will tittmitize you. The Snarky Cards will crack you the fuck up.

Lately it seems like the highs and lows of my life happen all at once. In the last two months, I’ve started to feel like my life is much bigger roller-coaster than ever before. It’s hard to figure out how to feel about it all, because everything changes so quickly, and my emotions are slow and laborious. And it seems like I’m always stuck on the last thing that happened to me. Instead of enjoying the now. Especially if that last thing was negative, and the now is positive. It’s hard to find the chocolate, when it’s embedded in the shit sandwich in front of you. Or maybe it’s hard to eat chocolate after you just had a shit sandwich?

Like, three months ago, I came back from California to find that one of the coffee shops that carry my cards had closed. Without telling me. And without paying for the stock I’d left there on consignment. I was blinded by my rage, at them, and at me, for not seeing this coming. -And if you know any of the guys who used to own Chance of Rain Coffee Shop, tell them I’d like my cards or my money, please. (Yeah, I’m still a little pissed).

chance of rainI spent the next few days worked myself into an angry frenzy. Nothing could convince me that this wasn’t a sign that I’m a shitty business person, who makes shitty business decisions. More than that, it was the fact that these guys who had sold my cards for years couldn’t so much as email or call me to tell me that they were closing the shop and did I want my Snarky Cards back? It was a violation. And it made me feel bad about myself and bad about them. And impotent. I couldn’t find them. I didn’t have their phone numbers, I tried finding them online, but it’s easy to ignore someone’s email. It’s hard to ignore a phone call. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop feeling mad. And that made me more mad.

The next day, I got a wholesale order from a store in Brooklyn, NY. But I was still so mad at Chance of Rain, this order didn’t assuage the impotence and rage I felt when I walked up to Chance of Rain and saw the closed sign. It took me a while to let go of being angry at those communist-cafe owners.

So it took me weeks to realize that Shag, The Brooklyn store who bought my cards for their grand opening is a much bigger, better deal than my continued business relationship with that coffee shop. And it’s OK if those hippie, anarchist dicks left town without telling me (although, those dude still owe me money, so if you see any of them, please ask for my money back. Or maybe discreetly shit on them).

flyer_final_for_emailIn fact, Shag’s buying Snarky Cards makes them bi-coastal! That means that I can make something happen in other people’s vaginas on every coast of the country, ultimately bringing me a great deal closer to world domination. Which has been my plan all along. in case you can’t tell. So after a week or two of recovery time, I went around preening, telling people offhandedly “Oh, yeah and Snarky Cards are selling in New York now. Oh. Didn’t I tell you? Yeah, a sexy store in Brooklyn bought them.” I tried to be subtle but I’m really bad at subtle. It didn’t matter, my friends were thrilled that I’d gotten my cards that far into the world.

shagAnd Shag rocks. I couldn’t afford to go to New York for their opening, but they’ve gotten great reviews (note the pics of Snarky Cards right before the pics of the vibrators!) on and offline. They’re a swanky sex boutique.

Early next year, Swag’s owners are planning on launching their own line of organic homemade lubricant, made with all natural products and no added preservatives. A condom gumball machine is in the works too. And they do casting. Which means that you can go into their store with  your partner and have a cast made of his or her sexy parts, so that you can make a sex toy shaped exactly like the one you love. How cool is that? I’m so excited that I’m affiliated with such a swanky, innovative shop! They’re like Good Vibrations and a sexy art studio all in one. All in all, it kinda seems like the perfect place for Snarky Cards. And now I have a reason to visit New York!

So in the end, after my stomach turns a little bit, when the roller coaster of my life slows down, I find that everything is a little bit better than it was before all the ups and downs. So I’m trying to take a deep breath, and enjoy the ride.I’m trying to have faith that it will all turn out right in the end. And what’s better for faith than a room full of vibrators? So, thanks Shag for giving me an upside, and saving the day!

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An Ode To San Francisco

Wednesday, October 7th, 2009

Your big enough cockFor those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. tip money boobs faceThey will crack you the fuck up.

I am back from San Francisco. Coming back from California is always weird for me. When I’m there, my phone rings constantly; friends, needing to know where I am and when I’m going to come hang out, giving me suggestions for where I can sell. Cute Californian boys trying to lure me into bed.

In San Francisco I’m the hot new thing. When people see my cards for the first time, they scream. And they have more money in SF than they do in Portland. So after they stop screaming, they buy more cards.

In Portland, I’m a staple, a “very Portland phenomenon” and people nod and smile and say “Nice to see you again”. They  say “I’ve always wanted to meet the person who does this.” And shrug when I ask if they wanna look at the new cards. They say “Oh, I can buy them at Tiny’s.” Or, “I see these all over!” and I have to work a little harder to dazzle them, to eek my rent out of my Snarky Cards.

I love my Portland life, but it’s very solitary. I spend about 90 hours a week making cards, or selling cards. Most of my good friends are Bad-Ass Bitches who own their own businesses. And they’re busy, trying to build their empire. So I steal a girls night here and there. So the phone is silent, and I’m old hat here, and switching between the two worlds is confusing, and a little depressing.

pegasus-pendragon-books-berkeley-ca

Pegasus Bookstore! Now carries Snarky Cards!

In conclusion: I love The City. And the City seems to love me back. It’s a nice change from the solitary life in Portlandia.

As of last week, Pegasus Books now carries Snarky Cards! It took a year, but Victory is now mine! Now that one store has succumbed to my charms, more will fall! Mooo-hahahahaha! (Is that an evil laugh? I can’t tell. I tried to sound it out, but I’m not sure if I nailed it or not.) So if you love Snarky Cards, and you need some, and you live in the Bay Area, you can go to Pegasus and get yourself some!

Divorce Season's around the corner people! Dig it! I can comfort you in time of need, and help you get laid again!

Divorce Season's around the corner people! Dig it! I can comfort you in time of need, and help you get laid again!

But as I get used to the sweetness of my own company again, I find myself becoming one with the Portland Art Scene once again. I’ve been going out selling at bars almost every night this week. This Saturday, I’ll be at Missisipi Pizza, getting my groove on to The Chapman Swifts. And this Sunday I’ll be at Crafty Wonderland, with my typewriter, Bob, bringing you custom Snarky Cards, and sage advice for those feeling lost in love.

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My Fake Mom

Wednesday, July 15th, 2009

For those of you who didn’t know, last week I turned 30. I am pretty stoked about the new decade. Usually I get nervous about my birthday; and for good reason. Every year, I become a totally new person. It’s not something I do on purpose, it bubbles out from inside of me. And the next thing I know, I’m rearranging my life with new priorities, changing my friends, setting my life on a totally different course.

I try to set my life in order in the months before it, but that usually proves pretty useless. It’s like cleaning your room before you let someone else move into it. The new 30 year old me might not like the carpet, so what’s the point of steam cleaning it before the event? I’ve never wanted all the drastic changes, and once I make them, I freak out a little bit. But in the end, they’re usually good for me. When I was 22, I estranged myself from my parents for my birthday. When I was 27, I started Snarky Cards. Last year, I bought a bikini.

This year, I don’t know what will happen. I’m still waiting for the bubble inside of me to to hit the surface. I think my Aunt Judi knows that it’s hard on me, all this change. And that’s why, periodically, she comes to stay with me, to see me through the event. Judi is my Fake Mom. She’s always been there for me, even when it was hard for her to figure out how.

The first time I had sex, I told her about it. She was the only adult I told. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and worried that I’d made a terrible mistake. But all that fell away when she beamed at me and said “Great! How was it?” When I started Snarky Cards, I asked her what she thought, and she said “Well, I think it’s really brave. 90% of businesses fail in their first year.” I thought she would tell me that I was doing something really stupid. But she was stalwart in her realistic support. I think what she meant was “I understand you have to do this, and it’s ok, whether it works or not, I get that you have to try.”

The four days that she spent with me this year were amazing. She was happy to run to the bus stop with me, and and meet all of my favorite bartenders, and she and Lisa hit it off. Like, I think Judi and I might end up sharing my best friend. Which is awesome, because they both like the same kind of boring shit. Like if we’re walking somewhere, Judi would say “I wonder what that building is made of?!” and Lisa would say “Yeah! Let’s go look at it!” and they would both tromp off across the street to touch the building and talk about material. Which is great, because I don’t care what the building is made of. And I don’t want to go across the street to look at it. So I’m glad Lisa and Judi had each other. It makes time with both of them way easier.

The three of us spent my entire birthday walking and talking and eating and drinking. It was perfect. We got to talk about our feelings and our dreams. I love that shit. And I saw my cousin Deanna, who dropped in on the girl-time we were having. She and I managed not to piss each other off, in the hour that we hung out. Which is a first.

I hope your Fake Mom is as rad as mine!

I hope your Fake Mom is as rad as mine!

In the four days she was here, Judi and I went over my whole life; she was making small corrections in my thinking and my future plans every day. I finally get how annoying it is when I do that to other people. But the thing is, she was right. About almost everything. It’s nice to have a Mom. It’s nice to have someone in my life who cares about me and can give me advice, or just plain tell me to straighten my shit out. And her and Lisa getting along felt really good too. A Mom who likes my friends? Awesome!

Judi would tell you that you don’t need anyone else to approve of your life. That you should just do what you think is right, and try not to hurt anyone else. And she’s right. But it still felt really good for me to have her to come see my success and smile. Maybe that’s the radical change for this year. Maybe I just admit that it’s OK for me to have a family; to need other people. Maybe that’s Big Enough.

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Buzz

Tuesday, April 21st, 2009
The Buzz Issue: Sex, Bugs, and Rock 'n' Roll, Good Vibes, Bad TV, and more!

The Buzz Issue: Sex, Bugs, and Rock 'n' Roll, Good Vibes, Bad TV, and more!

I’m back from San Francisco, I have new Snarky Cards, and a new sense of my own worth. To quote Ani: There’s nothing like seeing your own history in the faces of your friends.

And speaking of friends, guess what? Bitch Magazine wrote about me! The heroes of my youth have found value in my work! I feel so fucking Validated!

So, for all you bitches out there, or bitch-lovers, get yer copy now. Not only will it Validate your taste in me, there’s some Important Vibrator Information in there as well.

And to celebrate my success, I’d like to help get your laid, with a new hitting-on-you card. I give you: The One Night Stand!

sex-eye-contactBecause one of my goals with Snarky Cards is to help other people have more sex. Or more sex with better people. Or better sex with the same people. Or less sex with lame people. Whatever. It’s been really hard for me to nail down a business motto, because I want so many good things to happen to your genitals. So I hope you get laid, and I hope you get yer Bitch on.

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San Jose, Stephanie and The Snarky Card Report

Saturday, April 11th, 2009

Tomorrow, or later on today, I’m going to have Passover, which I do, every year in Santa Clara, California, with Dori and the family I knit together from nothing, when I found myself all alone, at 22.

This isn't my typewriter. My typewriter is a Smith Carona named Bob Huston. This kinda looks like Bob.

This isn't my typewriter. My typewriter is a Smith Carona named Bob Huston. This kinda looks like Bob.

This afternoon my brother picked me up from the Fremont bus station, where I was sitting with my cards, typing. I didn’t sleep last night. I painted all night, in order to get ready to take The Silicon Valley by storm! I painted 900 fucking Snarky Cards. I brought my typewriter. I ignored my other responsibilities, and I painted for 16 hours at a time. I stopped sleeping, and answering my email and talking to my friends, in order to fuel my obsession with having enough cards to return to my hometown triumphant and ready to be recognized.

I didn’t just paint all night. I painted all night, and then I did laundry and then I took some online orders to the post office, and then I went to Sweetness Cafe, and talked to my best friend Kay (who makes their delicious pastries!) and drank some coffee and then I went to my Chiropractor and went home and packed some more, and tried to push all the things into my Big Fuck Off Backpack (which I lived out of when I went to Ireland, where I slept with lots of boys) and you get the point. It was a long night of working and then a long day of chores and then an airport, a BART and when Stephanie found me at the BART station, I was no longer ready to take The South Bay by storm. I was ready to collapse.

Stephanie and some hot girl. He looks like a grown-up, doesn't he?

Stephanie and some hot girl.

So Stephanie took me to his apartment, where we sat in front of his huge television, and I typed cards and he read my cards and laughed, and we argued the finer writing points of our favorite shows.

After I got in the car, he started quizzing me “So, Dollhouse?” I nodded. “It’s getting better. I think in episode 6 or so, the B story started coming together and also, your man Tahmoh? Yeah, he has some confrontation-y moments with Patton Oswalt!’” Stephanie’s face filled with delight “What!” he thundered “No-one told me that! I fucking love Patton Oswalt!” I smiled, I knew it would seal it for him. I know my brother. I love my brother. And he and I have the same best taste in almost everything.

"The Shat"

"The Shat"

We spent a few hours arguing for the few TV shows we don’t have in common. “He breaks down the fourth wall without  breaking character!” He thundered, about “The Shat”, while he tried to lobby for Boston Legal.

I’m not falling for David E. Kelly’s shit one more time, that guys’ shows crack and crumble under the pressure of their own successes every time. And I had my heart broken by the eventual failures of Ally McBeal, The Practice and Boston Public. It was Boston Public that finally ended my love-affair with David.

Boston Public: hot teachers, social change, Michael Rappaport and it still fell apart. Fuck you, David E. Kelly!

Boston Public: hot teachers, social change, Michael Rappaport and it still fell apart. Fuck you, David E. Kelly!

I cannot take that man’s false promises again. Other people have bad relationships with exes, who disappoint them over and over again. I have bad relationships with television producers who can’t keep their end of the bargain up. I tried to explain the consistent  implosion of Kelly’s Characters, and Stephanie, with the hope that youth brings, pooh-poohed my disbelief. And halfway through our debate, I realized that we love television for the same reasons, because we are writers. And we love new characters, we think of them as real people, we think of them as contrived, writing devices. We pull television apart and put it back to together to figure out what we would do differently. We can pinpoint the moment our suspension of disbelief snaps, and he’s the only person I have who watches TV so that he can think about writing harder.

And it’s so good to be with my people. When I get homesick, in Oregon, I think I get homesick for this.

Well, that and the disdain in the faces of strangers on the train. I miss disdain. Portland has this small-town-friendliness that was so hard to take when I first moved there. It still hovers above me, sometimes, pressuring me to be nice when I feel like glaring.

And the people. God, there are so many fucking people in this city. It’s like a real city. You can be a dick, or act crazy, in front of strangers, and none of those strangers will ever remember you. And you’ll never see them again, because there are so many fucking people here. This is a real city.  It stretches for miles. And there are hundreds of thousands, millions of people in it. And I found myself relieved to find myself anonymous again. Breathing came easier. And the sunshine shone on my back, as I typed my Snarky Cards up. Making my art in the place that begat me.

It’s funny to come home. Especially because I never come home to the place where I grew up, only to the people I have always loved, in a city that always looks different.

Stephanie: The Boy on the right. He finally grew into his nose!

Stephanie: The Boy on the right. He finally grew into his nose!

Stephanie is happy. He makes enough money. He has a home he likes, a girlfriend who likes him, a huge DVD collection, and he is working on his second novel. He’s doing better than I am, most days. My little brother has grown up, in just a year, he turned into the person he’s always wanted to be. He even has a fucking Bowflex. Because he likes weight lifting. He’s never been in a better place than I am before. His life has never been enviable to me.

And I am still tired. But I’m started to feel grounded again, like I do every time I come home. When I got to Steph’s house, I was tired and I was disappointed in myself, for not being able to go out and take downtown San Jose by storm. But now, sitting here, counting my blessings, I think it’s going to be OK. The Universe keeps surprising me by showing me all the good stuff.

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