Their street names are Tres Perras Locas: 3 crazy bitches. Yuriko, Marisi, and Joy, my sister. Twin to Janis, the muppet to the left.

Janis, my sister's muppet twin

Dear Internets,

I seem to have seamlessly slipped into my new life. I’ve been volunteering at Twilight Artist Collective, and this week, Joy and I saw the Muppets movie together. We texted Stephenie, because he loves the muppets more than he loves chocolate. When we were deciding what time to go, I said “You know, I’ve always worried that I was Miss Piggy. And I’ve always worried that I wasn’t Miss Piggy.” Joy burst out laughing. “Shit! You are Miss Piggy!”

We got our seats in the theater, and Joy opened her bottle of Saki. I’m taking a break from drinking, so I just had one celebratory sip. When we were first starting our lives, Joy and I both had fake names. I went by Molly at work, because people told me that I looked just like Molly Ringwald. And Joy went by Janis, because she looked like the muppet, Janis. I’d told people at the bar that the night before and my friend Colin bent over laughing. “She does!” he said while gasping for air. “I didn’t want to saying anything before!” Joy and I pointed out scenes to each other in which our alter-egos had done a particularly good job. And we held hands while Kermit and Miss Piggy sang the Rainbow Connection.

Christmas Cards are now up on etsy! Get yours today!

And Thursday, I ran into my friend Colin at the bars, so I knocked off work early and went back to his house, to make jokes in his living room.

All these little moments, going to the movies with my sister, hanging out with my friends on the spur of the moment, were so painfully absent in my Portland life. I feel like I’m treating myself by letting myself indulge in them now. And they let me feel loved. They make me feel like I have a life, and I am more than just a Snarky Card machine, created and adored simply so that I can entertain and nudge people towards emotional honesty. I think that’s the root of why I started to feel so angry with Portland. As a town, it embraced my cards. It loved my creativity, and was astounded by my nerve, but very few people wanted to go to the movies with me, or hang out with me after the bar.

And next week I’m the starr of open mike night at 22 doors. One of my favorite bars.

You can buy this this Sunday at 22 doors on Capitol Hill!

I don’t exactly know what I’m going to be doing, or saying. But I’m pretty sure I’ll say a lot of funny things. About my Vagina. And I’ll probably be showing off my boobs. And I’ll be doing custom cards, with my typewriter, Bob. And I’ll have my paintings and my cards and my undies.

So, from 8 to 11 this Sunday night, I’ll be at 22 doors in Capitol Hill: 405 15th Ave E, Seattle, Wa. Come, laugh at my exploits, buy some cards, eat some yummy food, drink some booze and hit on some hotties. See ya then!

Love,

Alisa

As some of you 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. They will crack you the fuck up.

I know it’s been a long time since I’ve written to you. This summer has kind of been hard on me. After I decided that I ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO get out of Portland, I started spazzing out about it. It’s been about 6 years since I moved. And since then, I’ve stopped driving, or owning a car. Which would be fine, if I was moving across town. But I’m moving 173 miles away.

These are my gay cats: Chester and Tigger. They cuddle because they're in love.

And it’s not just me, it’s me, my two gay cats, Chester and Tigger, and Snarky Cards. I spent all summer trying to figure out what to do with the business I have here, while I move up there. So, I thought, and I thought and I thought, and I made a plan and a back-up plan, and a back-up to the back-up plan.

And all the while, my newest room-mate was making me crazy. She didn’t have her own towel (or her own soap…?), she ate all my food, she didn’t wash the towels she used, or pay me back for the food she ate. I started squirreling things away in my room, because everything I left in the living room would just disappear. Her kitten, while adorable, would pull things out of the trash and drag them all over the house. Shitty Roomie didn’t take the trash out, although, to be fair, she didn’t put trash in the trash can either. She just left the whole cycle up to me, she (or her kitten) would leave shit on the floor, I would pick it up, put it in the trash can, and then take the trash out. This cycle of feeding, and cleaning up after Shitty Roomie soaked up a lot of my extra-energy. Leaving me with a lot of plans that I couldn’t get started on. Leaving me feeling even more terrified that I can’t pull this move off.

See? Doesn't he look like he's being tickled by my wit? This is how it usually goes down.

While that was going down at home, I was starting to notice that I was no longer having a good time selling in the bars of Portland. I started fights with people. I was cranky. I got tired of people saying “I don’t want to buy any more of your cards, but I never want you to stop doing it! I support you!” I swear to God, that’s a direct quote. And, I’d hear that shit a few times a night. It is some condescending bullshit. Once pronounced, the customer saying this shit to me, would beam, waiting for my gratitude. “I appreciate you and that’s so much more important than money.” some of them would add proudly.

Moral support generally requires some actual action. In order to claim that they are morally supporting me, my friends have to bring me chocolate, whiskey, weed or Murder She Wrote when I’m in the dark place; read my rough drafts, listen to me bitch, cry, yell and just generally give a shit about me. That is moral support.

These people were not doing any of these things. They liked me as a back-drop. They liked that I’m part of the Portland scenery, they like saying that they’ve met me. But they have no desire to support me as an artist. They would never use Snarky Cards, because they’re not the kind of people who say what they mean to the people around them. And, um, they bought some cards from me two years ago? So, like, they don’t need to buy any more.

Look at my tits. Who could not want what I've got? It's astounding!

And the longer I sold my cards, in bars, this summer, the more pissed I got at this dynamic, this conversation that I kept having with Portland. And finally, around August, I got it. I was sick of Portland, and Portland is sick of me.

So, I spent a month moping. Because I wanted to be the rejector. I wanted my friends, this town, my businesses to be alarmed at my impending move. I wanted people to yell “Oh my god! How will I live without you?” and, while a few people did that, they were all kidding. Magnum (my ex-boyfriend) used to say “The thing about Portland, is it doesn’t give a shit about you. It doesn’t give a shit whether you live here or not. It doesn’t give a shit whether you make art or not. Portland just doesn’t care about you.” And this started running through my head. Every day. I moped and sulked, and alternately, tried to be super-fabulous, super-funny, super-sexy, in an effort to eek out some regret, or genuine feelings from people I’ve thought of as my friends for the last few years.

And, it kind of worked. I got a little bit of love, from my bartender friends. A few of my customers teared up. I realized that I will miss this tiny, tiny town a little bit. After I’d gotten all of the well-wishes, and we’ll-miss-you’s out of everyone that I was going to, I was done.

So, after I’d paid September rent, I took off for California, to bond with my niece, and make a bunch of money, and get my head right for the move.

California was a balm that I badly needed. I spent a week at KT’s house, bonding with her and her boyfriend and her cousin. I rested on Arlette’s couch. I discovered the awesome that is Oakland. I saw my niece, and my brother, and beautiful sister-in-law, Christina.

In fact, that was kind of a crazy-awesome highlight. They took me to The Mall. I love malls. My first job was at a mall. My first bookstore job was at a mall. And the freedom that those jobs gave me, the self-esteem that I got from being good at them, is still potent for me. I walk into a mall, and I remember discovering that I was good at work, I remember having crushes on the guys at the shoe store, I remember buying ones or fives from the chicks at Hot Dog On A Stick. All the stores employees were connected by our mutual drudgery, allowing you to find camaraderie with hundreds of people on any given day. Also: bonus, you could figure out if the guy at the shoe store was a player by asking around. But more importantly than all of that: working at the mall gave me a wedge to put between me and my fucked-up family, suddenly I had a reason I couldn’t go to church or birthday’s, or Hell, even Christmas.

And it was the first time I ever felt myself engrossed in work. It was the first time I ever lost track of time, because I was concentrating so hard on a task. It was the first time I was rewarded for being bossy. And it was where I learned I could sell things. When I worked at Brentano’s, my sister worked at Macy’s. And at Christmastime, we would work until midnight, closing down stores on opposite sides of the mall. After we were done, we’d take off our shoes, and light a cigarette, and walk triumphantly through the mall, claiming it all as our space with our trailing cigarrette smoke. The boys we’d picked up, at our respective jobs would hoot and holler around us as we decided what kinds of other debauchery to indulge in for the night.

Dance party with the baby!

Christina and Stephen didn’t take me to just any mall, they took me to THE MALL where all of these good feelings went down. It’s been rebuilt, since then. The Brentano’s I worked for has been gone for a few years now. The back hallways I used to hide in have been torn down. The food court is in a different place now, but I still remember that walk of triumph. I still remember all of those good feelings I had when I first walked into it. And being there with Kiddo, and his kiddo, and the gorgeous and sensible Christina, was kind of awesome. But, even better, Christina wanted to shop at Torrid, which is the sexy-clothes-for-big-girls store. So, I got to try on clothes, in my favorite store, with my favorite people. And when we got home, Christina and I had a margarita, and then we all had a dance party with the baby. It was magical. And fun. And sweet.

It’s hard for me to explain how awesome my niece is. I take it for granted that Stephen’s kid is going to be great. That was a gimme. But I think the things I am astounded by about Emi, are the part of her that are her mother, Christina. There are a lot of awesome things about my sister-in-law. She’s loyal. If you fuck with my brother, you fuck with her. And she likes to get even as well as mad. She likes to laugh. She is a girly-girl. She is hot as shit. You can depend on her to say the most reasonable thing in the room. And she’s kind. But she’s also guarded. She wants to know what kind of person you are before she lets you in. (This is something I really admire about her) So, it takes a while. But when Christina smiles, her whole face splits open with happy. And it’s child-like. I mean, if you had a good childhood. And it feels like a reward. My niece has that same beautiful giving-in-to-Joy smile. The first time I saw it, in the car, on the way to the mall, I started crying a little bit. It’s so big. And it’s so completely present. And Emilene’s smile makes me feel really, really grateful that Christina is in my life. So she can be part of my family. So I can be part of the family she’s making with Stephen. But most of all, I wanna figure out how to smile like these girls.

So, we laughed. And we made jokes, and we talked about our problems. I was super excited, to show

Stephen and his baby. Well, our baby.

Emilene the books I”d bought her. But she did not give a shit. I mean, she’s, like, 6 months old. So, I get that she’s got other stuff going on. Walking is more important that reading, right now. But Stephen squealed with delight when I pulled out Danny The Dinosaur, Morris Goes to School and Little Bear. Apparently, he’s been reading them over and over to our little girl ever since.

Stephen woke me up early the next day, with coffee and a regretful smile. He knows I don’t do mornings. We got in his car, so he could take me to the train station. “Are those kids….in high school?” I gestured to some kids crossing in front of the car. He nodded. “Actually those kids are going to our high school.” He replied. “You wanna see it?” I was so surprised that I could identity teenagers at a distance, it took me a minute to hear what he said. “You live down the street from our high school? Um, sure, I’d like to see it. I guess.” I was weirded out. Why do people stay in the same place their whole lives? As we passed the teenagers, I rolled down my window. “LOSERS!!!” I screamed out, as we passed them getting into a car. (Which, by the way, they were going to drive 3 blocks to our high school. Hello? Pollution? Recession? Obesity?)

I settled back into my seat, grinning. I’m 32 years old. I had had 3 hours of sleep. I’m sure I looked like shit. In fact, I’m sure I looked like a crazy, fat, old woman, yelling from a car. But it still made me feel awesome. Stephen looked at me with a mixture of fear and disbelief. “That chick was wearing tight jeans. I hated girls like her in high school.” I said defensively. I was lying. I didn’t really hate anyone in high school. It just felt good to taunt children.

The memory of that night with my family has carried me through the last two weeks I’ve been back in Portland. And tomorrow night, I’m going to go to Seattle, to see my friends, and sell my wares, and try to believe that soon I’ll be able to call that new city home. So, if you’re on Capital Hill, and you want some sassy, sexy, boobilicious fun, go to a bar, and wait for me there. Or email me. And let me know where you’ll be. I can totally meet you up. And save you from life without my boobs.

Love,

Alisa

My name is Alisa Starr. And for those of you who don’t know, I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I haven’t been writing to you lately, because a lot of crap has happened all at once.

First, the circus came to town. And they were like “Are you coming to Bumbershoot with us?” And I was like “Yeah!” and then I realized that I couldn’t go. Because I had a show to do. And a Bachelorette party. The Bachelorette party was the biggest deal. Ever.

See what I mean? She still looks like a freaking model

First of all, it was my first Bachelorette party since I was 16. When I went to a party for a girl I knew from church: Joy. Not my sister Joy, who is cool. But Gross Joy. Gross Joy was like the polar opposite of my sister, while still being eerily similar to her. They’re both blond and curvy, but Joy is tall, blessed with a model’s body (no shit, she really was a model in college. Which probably explains why standing next to her still makes me feel insecure), and Gross Joy was so short and yet curvy, rendering her doll-like. They both have a high sex drive. And liked male attention. Joy was really good at flirting, and usually had lots of different guys on call at all times. Whereas Gross Joy just tackled Wolf on our living room floor, in a flirtatious way, until they were both rolling around and panting. I think that was her main move.

Gross Joy was also a little cross eyed, and I always assumed she was a little retarded. Because I am a dick to cross-eyed people. They creep me out. If I can’t tell where your eyes are at all times, I am incredibly unnerved. So, maybe she wasn’t actually retarded. However, she was marrying my friend Wolf, which I considered another sign of mental defect. Or maybe I should say she was marrying Wolf, who had wanted to be friends with me when I was 12. He wanted to be my role-model. My safe grown-up friend. This isn’t quite as creepy as it sounds. I grew up in a Christian Church, you might have heard of them, they’re called the Baptists. My parents practiced a different kind of Christianity at home. I may have mentioned to you before, my parents are demon-hunters, and God speaks to my Mother on the phone. Which are both things that Baptists don’t get with. So Jon and Sherri (said parents) were in the closet about their freaky form of Christianity until 4-5 years ago. When they came out of their Crazy Christian Cult Closet, their church promptly kicked them out. I’m pretty sure that they’ve actually been kicked out of a few churches since they came out. But they’re worried I’ll make fun of them, so they don’t keep me that informed these days. They’re probably right.

See my Grams bogarting my picture? I think it's the hottest pic of me from high school

But at that point, they were respected members of a church. i was 16 so I too was a member of the church. And adults in church feel like it’s their duty to mentor teens. I had at least 6 people try to mentor me. .When we got together,  I was my most charming, trying to win them over with my personality, trying out new material on them. These years were the years that I was just figuring out that I wasn’t as ugly as Sherri had been telling me (I have included pics, so you can decide for yourself). Guys were crawling all over me. And I’d just gotten molested, so I had no sexual boundaries, and my taste in men included all of the ones I’d met who were willing to treat me like crap. And who doesn’t want to treat a hot 16 year old girl like crap? So, I was, as I am today, less swears, of course, but with the same deep desire to make-out with everyone I meet. Or tease info out of you, about your deepest, darkest make-outs.

Since I was a very little girl, strangers have been telling me their secrets. When I was 11, I was miserable. I had at least 5 grown-ups confiding in me, as well as several abused children. I thought I was going to die, because every time I looked someone in the face, they told me something horrible that had happened to them. By the time I was 13, I realized that the flood of secrets wasn’t going to stop. And, like any teen super-hero, I figured out that I could control my powers, but I had a hard time doing it consistently.

My boobs were smaller, but still awesome back in the day

For instance: when I got nervous, I would yank secrets out of people in order to gain control of the situation. I think on some level, I knew that these “potential mentors” had chosen me so that they could mute some part of my personality (Could it be that they didn’t like my loud-mouthed bitchiness?). So, these well intentioned Christian Adults would take me out for food, and I would talk about my sex-drive, and make jokes, and when that didn’t impress, or they got too “Well, Jesus really wants you to blah blah blah” I’d get nervous and pull some deep seeded desire, or fear out of them to make them stop. Afterwards they regarded me with suspicion and betrayal. Nobody tried it twice. I was always pleased to find myself a failed project.

By the time Wolf proposed to Gross Joy, he had decided I was a lost cause. He still liked hanging out at our house, though.  He liked playing with my little brother, and talking to my Mom, and making guy noises with my father. And it was our living room, in which he courted Gross Joy, and by courted, I mean, they would wrestle around on our living room floor. Which gave credence to my friend Steve Mix gleefully telling me later that he’d seen Gross Joy giving blow jobs in the parking lot of our local laser tag center.

My sister, Cool Joy, and I at that point regarded Wolf with some disgust. Three years earlier, his best friend, Greg Robbins had gone to jail for molesting us. And he had stuck by Greg, saying that he didn’t want to “pick sides”. Which enraged us. But it was generally agreed amongst our parents and Wolf, that Cool Joy and I were sluts, who were asking for it, and Greg got a raw deal, having to do those 9 months in jail. They all thought we were real bitches for not going to Wolf and Gross Joy’s wedding. Which is how my brother, Stephanie, found himself in a wedding party alongside the man who had assaulted his sisters.

Sherri roped me into going to the wedding shower (Christian women we knew didn’t have Bachelorette parties) So, I had tea, and watched numbly, as the slightly retarded (and secretly slutty) woman who’d been heavy petting on my living room floor for months with the least attractive man I knew, opened demure night-gowns, and dishes and other lame presents. All the while, trying not to attract the attention of either of her eyes, and not dwell on the fact that this meant that the two grossest people I knew were going to have sex. As the church women cooed, and made sweet comments about how to make a home with a man, with demure references to their “wedding night”. It was hypocritical, and a lie, and worse than all of that, it was really fucking boring.

That was the last Wedding Thing I’ve done. In the last 10 years, I’ve had two friends get married. My friends, it seems don’t believe in marriage. I don’t think Stacy had a bachelorette party. And I couldn’t come down for KT’s. So, while a wedding is rare in my circle, a pre-wedding party is even more rare.  And besides that, I really wanted to get the taste out of my mouth from Gross Joy’s wedding shower. Even 16 years later, it still makes me feel uncomfortable.

Probably more importantly than that, Alicia and I have been friends since high school. I only talk to one other person from high school; The Bexter. And the last two years or so, I’ve realized that there’s something so precious about someone who knew me before I knew how to hide, moderate, control, frame, or spotlight myself. My friendship with Alicia and Bex have became really important to me. And the fact that she invited me at all delights me.

So, I put off Bumbershoot and the circus. But, I reasoned, I can go out with Alicia and the other hot bitches, and go home at around 12, paint, sleep and then take the train the next morning to Seattle. So, I bid them farewell, promising to meet them in Seattle in a few days.

On my way to the bachelorette party, Something Horrible Happened. I’m not going into it right now, but let me just say I lost Something Important. And I freaked out. I realized I had to find what I’d lost before I could leave the city. I was deeply angry with myself. I was deeply disappointed in myself. I was trying stop from having a small mental breakdown, and then I walked up to the bar.

This is the kind of bar I would have never, ever, in a trillion years gone into. No matter where I lived, I would have avoided The Barrel Room. There was a line waiting to get in, and a cover (two strikes). And big, huge bouncers. When I got into the outdoor dance area, I saw a bunch of bitches with spray-on tans and white-blond hair, wearing miniskirts and looking unimpressed and/or unintelligent. There were muscley guys in tight shirts scanning the crowds for prey. As I walked into the bar, I passed two more burly security guys holding a handcuffed drunk between them, throwing him out of the bar like he was a piece of trash. The thunderous noise of a dueling piano bar greeted me. I stood in the entry-way, stunned by noise, trying to figure out if they had cuffed him using wire or actual handcuffs. I wondered what a person had to to do get arrested in a bar. I was so pissed, I couldn’t breathe. “Great, this place is full of airheads, assholes, it’s noisy, and they expect we’ll see a lot of fights.” I surveyed the crowd angrily. I quickly found Alicia, who promptly yelled “Alisa! I Loooove you!”. Which kinda calmed me down. I put my bag at our Bachelorette table and went to the bathrooms.

The girls room was 5 bitches deep. And nobody was coming out of the stalls. “Um, you guys? Can I ask you something? Are my legs too musclely?” The bitch at the front of the line trilled. I looked at her, and started muttering to myself. This girl was wearing a gold lame minidress, and 4 inch heels. Bitch knew she looked good. She just wanted to make sure we were talking about how good she looked. “Oh, you better Shut the fuck up, bitch.” My teeth were clenched while I repeated my mantra. Christina, one of the girls from the bachelorette party was waiting nervously next to me. She tried to explain to me loudly that everyone’s insecure about something! I didn’t believe for a minute that she thought that girl was insecure, I think it was just code for “Please don’t start a fight in here!” It reminded me not to start a fight in there.

I suggested brightly that we use the men’s bathroom, trying to just accept that this was the bar that my friends wanted to go to, and I love Alicia, and I need to calm down. As I tried to soothe myself, I made small talk. “Um, I think I’m just gonna smoke some weed tonight.” I told her, through the stall. Meaning, other people seem to think that liquor can make you agro. I’m already agro, maybe I need to relax, and not drink, which might make me more agro. “Not on my premises, you’re not!” said the woman with the scary tits at the sink. I looked at her surprised and said “Um, no I was going to take a walk around the block.” She continued to stare at me angrily, and as I stuttered through trying to make nice with her “Oh! Is this your bar? It’s so packed! I can’t believe you’ve been open less than a year! Good job!” She pretended to accept my apology, and when I made it out of the bathroom, I went straight for Johnny Walker. I tipped well, and went outside for a cigarette; trying to forgive myself for losing the Something Important, and trying to accept that I was here to have a good time. And so what if every asshole in Portland was hanging out at this bar? Yes, if any of those fuckers had tried to drink at Kelly’s Olympian, or The Aalto, the real drinkers in this town would have talked shit on them until they left. But I wasn’t there to drink and make friends, I was there to celebrate Alicia. I reminded myself through 2 whiskeys and 3 cigarettes. I finally calmed down enough to come back to the Bachelorette table, which was right next to one of the dueling pianos. Alicia and I yelled at each other that we loved each other, and I anally fucked the inflated sheep we had at our table with one of the chocolate penis’s, which amused not only our table, but also the guys behind us.

Fuck yeah, I'm busing out the yearbook pictures. She's hot, isn't she?

Me and my old last name

The reason I loved Alicia in high school was that she was one of those girls who just wasn’t going to take any shit. She always seemed angry. And I liked standing next to her, because she would talk shit out of the side of her mouth about everyone around us, like we were in prison. She hated everyone and everything, and I found it so restful.

Since the last time I saw her, she’s gained weight, and it looked fantastic on her. She, like me, just gets juicier when she gains weight. She was wearing this brilliant red dress, and she looked regal. Her tits and her ass were everywhere, and covered in red. Every time she moved, she was surrounded by at least three of us, and she glowed. We formed a rolling court of laughter, like an island of awesome amidst a sea of skanky-beefcake.

Alisa and Alicia singing our hearts out

I relaxed into the party, and the girl-time worked it’s magic on me. I was so fucking happy to be there. By the end of the night we’d hooked one of our girls up with our waiter (who was the only normal dude in the place), gotten two retarded beefcakes to drink beer out of our inflated sheep’s ass, and our party of hot bitches had been spotlighted. One of the piano guys sang her a song, and we all danced our asses off. As a group, we had some kick-ass moves.

Wasn't Anna adorable?

Anna, who went to high school with Alicia and I has literally grown two more inches, and now looks like a model. “FUCK!” I shrieked when I saw her, “You HAVE to come to our 20 year! You’re the hottest girl in our class now! April Lujan will eat your shit!” Anna just shook her head embarrassed. “Hey! What about me?” Alicia asked. “You and I are hot, but Anna’s hotter.” I informed her.

Anna rolled her eyes. Which, she did a lot to me in high school. I love seeing Anna. She used to shoot me these looks like I was fucking up her life by talking whenever we hung out. “I think I was just scared.” She said when I teased her about hating me in high school. “I didn’t hit puberty until I was in college, so I didn’t get kissing and boys.” Which, of course, was all I talked about. I never got  upset by her apparent dislike of me. I thought it was funny. In my old age, I feel sorry for people who don’t like me. But in high school, I thought it was hilarious. And Anna was so cute and weird, I liked being close to her in the alphabet, regardless of how little she liked me. Every once in a while, she’ll bust out her prim, disapproving voice -like when we got our 2nd phone noise complaint from the hotel manager- and I get nostalgic for the good old days when I used to scare the shit out of her. We hung out until 3am, and I realized that I wanted to follow this party to it’s inevitable conclusion. So, I crashed in Christina’s room, and in the morning, we kept bonding and talking, and I was designated to find a breakfast place close-ish to the airport.

The morning after

We found ourselves eating some kick-ass food at The Slingshot. When we walked in, some of the girls looked confused. “Um, are we eating at a bar?” Cindy asked. I just nodded at them, confused. “Um, you guys wanted to go to the Cheerful Tortoise. What did you think that was?” I asked. “Well, we didn’t know. None of us live here.” Cindy pointed out. I smirked a little. The Slingshot lived up to it’s reputation, and after Jen finished she pushed her plate away “That was the best breakfast I’ve ever had.” she sighed. I made everyone try some of my aebleskivers, and we floated through the morning trading stories, making plans, laughter propelling us through until it was time for them to catch their planes back to all the little towns everyone had come from.  We agreed that we were awesome at Bachelorette parties, and took another dozen pictures, and made plans for the wedding weekend to be even better than this.

Sometime later that day, I realized that if I hadn’t lost Something Important, I would have missed it. I mean, I would have gone to the party, but I wouldn’t have drunk and danced my ass off, and gotten to know all the people who love Alicia as much as I do. I would have been nice, and polite, and had a drink, and then gone home and painted and packed and taken the train to Seattle to spend the next few days with the circus. And I haven’t been surrounded by bad-ass bitches in so long, it was so good for my soul, to get some girl-to-girl time. And to remember what we were like as little girls. And to marvel at how far we’ve come. And to tell Alicia I’m proud of her for being brave enough to marry someone. Losing Something Important left me no choice but to stay in town and dance and laugh and remember how much I’ve loved my life and my friends so far. So, I think the Universe reached into my back pocket, and pulled out Claire’s money-order for rent, sprinkling it on the streets of Portland, to make me stay.

But that’s another story.

Love,

Alisa

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. Like tonight, for instance, I went selling at The Sidestreet, and The Aalto. And then I made my way down to The Meridian Gold-dust. I stopped by Kelly’s Olympian, before I rounded out the night at Muu-Muu’s, O’Brien’s and 21st Ave Bar and Grill.

And now that my stupid birthday is over, I find myself feeling fewer feelings. And the few feelings I can feel are mostly relief and delight, that that horrible birthday is behind me. It seemed innocuous, right? I mean, it’s only 31. But it sure through me for a loop. Tonight before I left, I called my Uncle Joel. We swapped gossip, and talked some shit about our family. And then I filled him in on my life, and he filled me in on his. I sold a lot of cards tonight, and I got to grab a lot of hot ass. And cute boys smoked me out (Leroy). My regulars were happy to see me, and the kids who hadn’t seen Snarky Cards before were happy I stopped by.

All in all, it was an art-prostitutes dream. All of that whine-ing about my aged-ness brought me up short on rent this month. So I’ll be out slinging my wares all week. If any of you fuckers would like me to stop by anyplace in particular, drop me a line. In the meantime, I’ll see your drunk-ass at the bar.

Love,

Alisa

It started a few months ago. I’ve sold 22,000 Snarky Cards since I started, and most of those I’ve sold to Portlanders. So, around September, I was starting to feel like I was old hat. Old hat means overfamiliar through overuse. Or, not fresh. And that’s exactly how I was starting to feel.

I wanted to go somewhere where I was fresh, where Snarky Cards was new. I like going into a city and spreading my own version of The Good News. -As opposed to my mother’s Good News, which is that Jesus died for our sins, and whosoever beleivith in Him shall have everlasting life.

My Good News is that you don’t have to have sex with someone who bores the fuck out of you anymore. I can help you dump them! Or: sometimes hate-fucking is a good alternative to fighting. I like to think that both my mother and I are doing God’s Work. Just my work for God is more fun.

Seattle’s always been a little charged for me. It currently houses one of my most despised ex-boyfriends and my sister. Whom I have been fighting with on and off again for the last ten years. Mostly on. It’s a weird kind of fighting too. We’re either at each other’s throats, trying to kill each other, or we are on the same team, reading each other’s minds, finishing each other’s sentences, laughing until we piss ourselves at our own jokes. Maybe it’s always that way with sisters. I don’t know. She’s the only one I’ve ever grown up with. In our teens, we were so close, I thought we were the same person. In our twenties everything in our lives exploded and we started resorting to emotional trench war-fare.

I knew if I went to her city, I would have to try to make-up with her. (The ex-boyfriend is out of the question. I may hold that grudge until I die. I hope he gets a very painful cancer. I know it makes me a bad person, and I don’t care.) So, I called, and I tried to apologize, and she apologized, and we yelled a little, and then we cried and slowly things have started to get better and better between us. But I wasn’t sure if we could handle a weekend together.

In my head, I am always more succesful than I am in real life. So in my head, I came to Seattle, and stayed in a hostel, and spent a few hours with Joy at a time, and we got used to each other slowly, and I had an out so that if we ended up fighting, or I couldn’t stand her, or she couldn’t stand me, we could retreat to our seperate places. But in real life, the week before I came up to Seattle I made enough for a train ticket. Not enough for a train ticket and a hostel bed. It didn’t matter, because Joy seemed sure that I should stay with her anyway. So, I got on the train, with my cards and my boobs and tried to hope for the best.

Joy and Emily. I know, my sister (the blond) and I look opposite.

When I got to the train station, there was a hot girl there, holding a sign that said my name. How rad is that? I’ve never had anyone hold a sign with my name on it. “Alisa?” The Hot Girl said “I’m Emily. Joy asked me to come get you!” I was so struck by how nice that was, that my sister sent someone to get me, and it set up a precident of niceness that Joy and I stuck to for the entire weekend. Emily did her best to buffer between us, and she was necesary and important as a buffer. Joy and I still got on each other’s nerves, but we really tried to figure out how to be nice to each other. And somehow, the effort of kindness, is as good as kindness itself. I really liked both Joy and I that weekend. I took a lot of deep breaths, trying to figure out how to say something important to me without hurting her feelings. And I think she did too.

So, we drank and I sold some cards, and I discovered the Wild Rose and The Comet and they discovered that they liked my cards. And my boobs, and my stories.

After the first night of selling and hanging out, Joy and Emily and I went to a Karoke bar, and partied down. I did not sing Karoke. I don’t sing Karoke, unless my friend Kay announces that we’re going to Chopsticks. I’m a sucker for their sweet ‘n’ sour chicken, and when Kay gets up to sing, it’s almost always something awesome like Alanis Morisette, “You oughtta know”. If Kay’s drunk, and I’ve had some yummy Chinese food, then conditions are perfect for me to sing in public.

So, conditions were not perfect for me to sing in Seattle. But I sold cards and schmoozed while the hot bitches my sister and Emily are friends with sang their asses off.

Seriously, how hot are we?

We stayed and sang and it was hilarious and awesome. And afterwards, we got greasy mexican food. Which is not better than Chinese food. But it’s hard to find greasy Chinese food at 3am in a city you’re unfamiliar with. So, I settled.

 All in all, it was a righteously good time. That was about two months ago. Since then, I’ve been back twice. I didnt’ want to say anything until I knew for sure, but so far, Seattle seems to kinda dig me. And I have to admit, I have a medium sized crush on Seattle.  And if we can keep up this flirtation, it might culminate in sexy-time for both of us!

Last week, I realized that I had sold 17,993 Snarky Cards, since I’ve started. Most of those I’ve sold in Portland, Oregon, where I live. And you can tell. There aren’t very many bars, coffee shops or refrigerators left in Portland that aren’t marred by a Snarky Card or two. I think I might have saturated the market. And I’m getting that itchy feeling. I wanna go somewhere where my cards and my boobs are new.

Shannon is on the left, and her room-mate Lizzie is on the right. Lizzie let me sleep in her room. Her bed is really comfy. I didn't have sex in it. I had sex in a car in the parking lot next door.

So, I went to Eugene. This isn’t totally out of the blue, my little sister Shannon lives in Eugene, she’s going to be an architect. She’s the only one out of the four of us to get a degree, and I’ve never visited her. I know that sounds harsh, but she comes to Portland to hang out every other month, and I never really felt like I could leave. But now, all I’m doing is thinking about leaving. So, I splurged the $22 for the bus ticket down to our state capital.

This is the Eugene Buffalo Store, isn't it sexy?

When I got to Eugene the bus stopped in front of Buffulo Exchange, where I promptly tromped in with my Snarky Cards and asked if they would like to carry them. The cute girls at Buffalo Exchange were delighted, and they bought 60 Snarky Cards for their store.

A night at the bar can get you knocked up!John Henry's had this up at the bar. I thought it was precious.

Later, that night, Shannon and her girlfriend, Jen took me out to the bars to sell. It was awesome! I sold a lot of cards, and I met a lot of people, and I flirted with cute boys. The boys of Eugene are pretty rad, funny, smart, and not at all weird, like they are in Portland. My mind was blown with the make-out possibilities!

On Saturday, I went around to some stores in The Whittaker. Which is the independent, cool, hipster area of Eugene. In other words: It’s the part of Eugene that looks like Portland.

We started with Olive Juice. Which is this KICK-ASS party store! They have wigs, mustaches, cocktails sets, and boost-i-ae’s! It’s like, they stock everything you could ever want, in order to be the life of the party! Obviously, being a booze-focused party store, they went ape-shit over my cards, and you can now find Snarky Cards nestled amongst the coolness that is Olive Juice.

The Fruits of My Sweatshop!

I only brought two display boxes, and I got nervous that maybe I’d need more. So, Shannon got out her paints, and handed me some cardboard, and I went to town making some more. Eventually I roped her and her room-mate Dana into helping me get the cardboard all prepped for painting. It was like my own little sweatshop! I’ve always dreamed of my own sweatshop.My heart melted at the site of them.

Afterwards I went selling at the bars Saturday night. The kids in Eugene seemed to dig me, and I sold a lot of Snarky Cards, and I talked to a lot of cute bartenders. I smoked some weed and I flirted with some cute boys. On Sunday, Shannon wrangled Jen and some cute girls they’re friends with, and we all went to The River to swim. It was really fun. Well, except that these girls are all about ten years younger than me, and thought nothing of bounding down steep ravines into said river. And my poor leg, still feels a little stuck and broken. And so I got stuck, and I felt a little old.

Thanks, Eugene! For making this whore feel at home!

But that’s the price for not dying; feeling your age. And they were so young and beautiful and enthusiastic, it was hard not to get caught up in their excitement. I think it stirred something up in me, though. Maybe it was their easy laughter, or maybe it was just that I’d already noticed The Boys Of Eugene; they flirt easier than The Boys Of Portland. They show unabashed interest. They don’t seem as fucking depressed as Portland Boys either. That night, I went out selling in the bars of Eugene one last time with a mission. I was going to get fucking laid. And I did. I met a really cute boy, who didn’t have a hard time cleaning the spiders out of my Vagina, in his sexy station wagon.

All in all, it was the best trip I’ve ever taken to such a small town. I heart Eugene. And I think Eugene hearts me!

Battlestar Galactica: Sexy Robots Doing It With Sexy People

Friday night I went to the Battlestar Galactica showing at The Baghdad Theater, with my Snarky Cards in tow. It was packed. And it was fun. Cort and Fatboy -the radio guys who threw this gig together- announced a couple of things before the show started, and at the end of these anouncement, Fatboy said “So say we all!” and everyone in the theater yelled “So say we all!” simultaneously. Just like on the show. I’ve never been part of spontaneous group-yelling before. Unless you count Christian Camp when I was a kid. Which, you know, kinda sucked. Some deep part of me tingled at how awesome it was. I beleive the word is nerd-gasm.

I sat next to two people, a guy and a girl -friends, no benefits. The girl had never seen my cards before and wanted one for a girl she is hopelessly throwing herself at. The boy said “You haven’t seen her cards before? Seriously? She’s a Portland Icon!”

I was stoked. I’ve never been iconic before, and he told me about the last time we met, what cards he bought from me, and what he did with them. No-one likes commercials, but Friday night’s Battlestar Galactica episode was brought to us by Viagra. As that anouncement was made, the theater went wild. Nerds like their sex (why do you think there’s so much invisible-robot-sex in the first season?) and the fact that Viagra had deemed us Dorks market-worthy soothed us. I was kind of itching to sell to the hoardes of Geeks, but at the same time, I felt so comfortable talking to my seatmates about what has happened before, and what might happen next, as the robots and the people have sex and get married and try to make life, not war. Which will be hard, because the robots keep nuking all the planets where the people want to live, but I digress.

Afterwards, I went to Kelly’s Olympian, as I was walking up, I saw Jake, one of the cute bartenders there. He and I hugged and I bummed a cigarrette from a stranger, walking around amongst the other smokers and showing off my cards.

A guy near the door half-turned and said “Hey! It’s the Snarky Card Chick!” A woman just walking out of Kelly’s looked at me and said “No shit?” I smiled. “Um, yeah!” Her eyes bulged out and she said “Seriously? You make the Snarky Cards?” I nodded and offered her a pile to look at. She kept staring at me, wide-eyed. “Ohmygod! My friends and I talk about you all the time! I live in Seattle, and my friends are not going to beleive that I met you! This is so awesome!”

She rummaged through her bag, and found some money, announcing that she had to have a card. Her name was Pam. The band that she and her friend Lindsey had traveled 145 miles to see play had just cancelled. “But now that I’ve met you, the trip was worth it!” She exclaimed. It’s weird to think that people consider meeting me a triumph, or money well-spent. But I’m glad that my cards made Pam so happy that she talks about them with her friends. And also: I really like it when people talk about me. Good or bad, I love it when people spend time thinking about me when I’m not there. What can I say? I’m a narcissist. I wrote down the directions to Voodoo Doughnuts for them (a real Portland Icon) and happily waltzed inside Kelly’s.

The Glorious Space Monkey Coffee!

Where I saw Tom, who owns Space Monkey Coffe. He carries my cards, and he was in really good spirits. His band had just played. It was nice to see him outside of a work context. We hugged a lot, and when one of my customers came up and asked “You know her?” Tom told the story of when I came into his shop with my wheelchair and my broken leg. My friend Alice, who had broken her leg the day before me was pushing me around in my wheelchair. She couldn’t quite walk yet, but she had volunteered to limp behind my wheelchair, pushing. It was one of those stories that made me realize, Tom and I are friends. We have weathered things together.

The whole night had a glow about it, like, The Universe was telling me “You’re still doing a good job. You’re Art is important to other people. This is still what I want you to do.” I made some money, I talked to some people who had never seen my cards and were blown away by them. I drank a delicious Mai-Tai and before I hailed a cab home, I bought myself some of the best Mexican Food that Portland has to offer, from the cart on 2nd and Ash.

Shitting on someone's Coffee Table: A new way of showing love and adulation in this terrible recession?

As a thank-you to The Universe, I give you “Sh-t On Your Coffee Table” for all of you out there, who like to shit on your friends stuff to show them your love, or your poor bowel control, or both simultaneously. I hope you like it!

Fenbi: International Superstars played at Ash Street and it fuckin’ rocked. Just like I said it would. I even danced a little. I think dancing knocked my leg a little sideways, or maybe it was that weed that that homeless guy smoked me out with after the show, but I’m pretty sure that I walked sans limp all the way to the bus stop. It was magical. All of a sudden, my legs both worked, and they moved in tandem, without complaint. I had three whiskeys and a fat blunt in me by then, but even the cold couldn’t touch me, and I was in awe of my own body, working again. I blame Fenbi, for making me wanna dance so bad.

Today, in honor of bodies in general, I posted a new Snarky Card for all you Knocked Up Bitches. I hope you like it!

I betcha thought that you needed some penis and vagina action in order to get knocked up, huh? Nope. It's not true. It's just Jaeger. You drink enough of it, and a baby magically starts growing inside of you. That's why I don't touch the stuff. I stick to whiskey, and I've been baby-free for 15 years.

Last night, I went out and sold some cards to the beautiful people at The Bonfire. It was splendiforous! I had 5 whiskeys, and I sold a shit-load of Snarky Cards!

OK. That was a horrible, scandalous lie, so that I would look good on The Internets. I didn’t sell that many cards. Mostly, I traded cards for whiskey. And it was hard. I think I didn’t realize before last night that approaching drunks and asking them if they’d like to buy your art is asking for a lot of rejection. Which can sting, if you’re not used to it. And after 3 months of holing up in my house, nursing my broken leg, getting stoned, watching Buffy and knitting, I’m not used to rejection anymore. So when a guy told me that “Card season is over”. It kind of surprised me. I sold these cards last year around this time. So that asshole is wrong. And was just blatantly making shit up so that he wouldn’t have to talk to me. The pre-broken Snarky Card Chick wouldn’t have let that slide. But I was…like…impotent.

And I kept using high-nervous-voice when I said “I was hoping I could show you my Brutally Honest Greeting Cards!”

After an hour I stopped trying to sell and I just started drinking. “I used to be good at this, right?” I asked The Cute Bartender. He nodded and looked surprised. “You used to own this room.” He told me emphatically. I looked at him nervously over whiskey #2. “Really?”

“Really.” He said firmly. I turned morosely to the cute boy next to me. The girl he’d been talking to got up off the stool and went to the bathroom. “You’re working her hard.” I told him drily when she was out of earshot. “What? Um, no. I have a girlfriend.” My face crumpled in disbeleif. “Shit! See? I can’t even read that! Ohmygod. My mojo is gone! I can’t even tell when people are flirting anymore. Shit! It’s like finding out you’re suddenly not good at sex!” I wailed. He grinned. “Oh. No. We were flirting. But, you know, it’s not going anywhere. I have a girlfriend.” I stared at him while he looked sheepish. Something inside of me clicked. I can tell when people are flirting still. I can even get them to confide in me. I’m not terrible at this.

I got up off the barstool and limped to the back room, where I hadn’t tried selling yet. And then things started looking up. Someone recognized me! Or at least, she knew my cards, and she looked at them and said “Gimme! I wanna see what you’ve got!” And then I was surrounded by people squealing and laughing while they read my art. And all was right with the world. Later, a cute boy spent an hour working his cheesy-ass game on me. It’s been so long since I’ve heard cheesy bar game, that it worked! And I got laid.

So, it was not the triumphant return to the bar that I expected. It turns out that my job is hard. And it takes skill. You have to have the right tone. You have to be able to read people. You have to be grateful. And you have to be ok with people telling you “No!” a lot. Most of which I was not, last night. I was nervous. I was scared. I was worried that the Universe broke my leg because it wanted me to stop selling my cards in bars.

But, I think the Universe broke my leg for other reasons. And while I didn’t make as much money as I would have liked, eventually, it got easier. And I realized: I can remember how to do this. My leg is healed. I can go back to my old life. So, thanks to the Bonfire, and The Cute Bartender, and the boy who had sex with me and the people who traded me Snarky Cards for whiskey. You reminded me that I’m still Super. Even though I got broken.