Me, slingin' my Snarky Cards

Dear Internets,

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.

This Sunday, Red Light Clothing Exchange is having their annual Naked Shopping Party! I’ll be slinging my cards, with my typewriter, and my boobs. There’ll be a band, and prizes. I mean, prizes that are not just “win all the clothes you can wear” which is, of course the big prize.

People have been asking me what the deal is with this Naked Shopping Party.  The rules are simple: everyone shows up with clothes on. The biggest prize offered is  that you can win all the clothes you can put on at once. Obviously, it’s easier to fit more clothes on, if you start off naked. If you’d like to shop naked, you put your name in a box and the delicious and delightful staff at Red Light draw the names of 2 boys and 2 girls from the box.

And they shop. And everyone else shops too. But they shop naked. And the rest of us get to watch. How rad is that? While we’re watching the naked shoppers, I’ll be typing up new and custom Snarky Cards. I’m excited about partying it up, and writing some new shit for your horrible and hilarious sexual situations. There will also be lots of Snarky Undies for those of you who haven’t gotten a pair yet.

So, if you wanna celebrate Easter the way Weed Jesus would want you to, come on down to Red Light, to get your custom Snarky Cards, your Snarky Undies, and your voyeur on.

See ya then!

Love,

Alisa

Since the last time I wrote you, a lot of shit has gone down. I know, I should keep you updated.  But I don’t. Because like it or not, internets, I’m sort of a public figure. I’m kinda famous in Portland. And people seem to know me (or remember me) in San Francisco too. Which makes me feel kinda responsible for telling you the whole truth. And when I don’t tell you about my feelings it’s because I’m waiting until I know how I feel about them.Which sounds kind of lame. But you know what? Feelings are complicated, and outside of not wanting to jinx the nice ones, I also don’t want to burden you with too many of the complicated ones until I can give you the complete picture. In the short run, I may hate that bad sexual decision I made in San Francisco. I may be incredibly angry at my Vagina for leading me astray. Or my 3 girlfriends, for making-out in front of me, and leaving me sexually frustrated so that I ran up to the nearest, hottest single guy and propositioned him. Spending the night with him was the worst sexual decision this year. And I’ve spent at least 30 hours regretting our sexual contact. Which is 28 more hours than we spent in bed. But, larger picture, after a month of context and thinking about it, I realize that I love the  6 best-selling cards out of that bad sexual decision. So, while I still hate the fact that that cock was in my Vagina, I’m glad that I wrote:

Dear_______________

You are a great lay and a bad person. I hope you get hit by a car and someone you love has to unplug you.

Sincerely,

____________________

See? Aren’t you glad I waited to tell you the whole story until I had a happy ending?

So, this is what’s going down. I have been thinking that this might be my last year in Portland. So, of course, hot boys have been hitting on me( my most major complaint about this town) and rad girls have been befriending me. And generally, Portland has been delivering on all of the shit that I was complaining that it didn’t offer in a last minute attempt to woo me here forever.

The Glorious and Awesome Claire

And, as you know, I love California. And I have loved California a lot this year. I’ve spent at least two months there this year, going back for Holidays (passover) and birthdays, and graduations, and general celebrations, because this is the year that Everything Happens. So, my love affair with California has intensified, and since I thought maybe I’d break up with Portland this year, it makes sense that my back-up city (and several of my back-up booty-calls) should start crooning in my ear. But two weeks ago, I went back for a graduation. Claire, my favorite room-mate (and non-sexual life-partner) was graduating from Berkeley. Which reminds me, Claire, if you’re reading this, I found some chips in the living room. The bag was mostly empty, and hidden a corner. You hadn’t spilled beer on them, but I thought they were abandoned in a drunken way. So I stole them, and am devouring them now. If you were saving them for later, I totally owe you a partially eaten bag of Dirty All Natural Potato Chips.

This is Chester. He is gay. And he likes to rape Tigger, whenever he feels feelings. It's pretty fucking hilarious.

So, Claire was graduating from Berkeley. Which is amazing and awesome, right? So I found two, very nice homeless girls to stay in the apartment, and Claire and I booked it to The South Bay. From whence we came. The homeless girls took great care of my very gay, very adorable cats. And Claire did a brilliant job of graduating. Unfortunately, everything else about the trip sucked. Every day I got a sucky phone call, from a Californian with Bad News. And every day, I longed for the comfort of The Art Shack, where I make Snarky Cards, watch my cats rape each other and make hilarious comments while Murder She Wrote or Law and Order SVU reign supreme.

So, while Portland and I might be on the rocks, I’m feeling even worse about California than I ever have. So, I may still think about leaving the Northwest, but I think my only option is going more North West, like Seattle or maybe Canadia (where the stars are more awesome, and the television is more adorable).

So now I’ve been back for a week and a half. And after I crawled out of the fetal position, and realized that I’m in a safe place, where my life rocks, and Californians can call me here, but I still have cat rape and Murder she Wrote to comfort me, regardless of their bad news, I also realized that I have built a beautiful life in Portlandia.

Yes, I may not have a “boyfriend” or any “prospects” or any regular “booty calls” but I drink for free. And most of the people I meet have a story about how Snarky Cards have made their lives better. And while Portland boys don’t put out, they do like to ogle me and they give pretty good motorboats. And I know where to go to get great food on the cheap, and tonight I got let into two of my favorite bars after closing time, to share drinks with cute boys who flirt (with no intention of putting out, or even making out, fucking cunt-teases) and sexy bartenders who pour hard.

This week, while I was selling, I got no less than twelve motor-boats, and I got to squeeze a lot of man-ass (very awesome man-ass by the way) while I was selling. And when I get Bad News Phone Calls, they’re never from Portlandia.

So, PDX, thank you for being the awesome boyfriend I keep coming back to, because my ex-boyfriend (I’m talking to you California) totally used to hit me. And while I know I don’t wanna get hit anymore, I’m not sure if I deserve a fully-functional penis, so I stay with you. Even though you don’t put out so much, you give good cuddle, and when I want to cry, you hold me really nice. I love the fact that I feel safe with you, and I know that even though you don’t sex me up the way I’d like you to, Portlandia, you totally support me as I work through my feelings, and you think my boobs are awesome in an abstract way. Which is almost as good as regular sex and worship. And the food you make me while I’m feeling down, makes up for the fact that my vibrator runs out of batteries almost every week.

That’s the update, internets. I’ll have more better news in a few days. Sorry it took me so long, and it’s not as happy as I’d like it to be. I’m suffering from a little geographical dysmorphia. This is as coherent as the story gets. My next post will be about my fucked up family. Which is way more entertaining than my pathetic and annoying longing-to-be-where-I’m-not

Love,

Alisa

This is me, selling my shit in a bar! My tits look enormous because they are enormous

My name is Alisa Starr. I made Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. I also sell them online. And in stores. You can find them all over the place. They will crack you the fuck up.

I’ve turned a few of my bestselling cards into paintings for your pleasure. I hope you like them. I hope you buy them. They’re cluttering up my house, and I need to pay an extraordinarily large electric bill this month, because I live in the goddamn North Pole.

I mean, I know we had an Indian Summer this year, and the days were hot into September. But I didn’t think we’d pay for it by freezing our asses off for all of December. I mean, seriously, it’s the 7th of December. And today I went outside wearing two and three layers, and my ass and my teeth were so cold I couldn’t think straight. And my ass (or The Mountain, as I like to call it) does not get cold. Ever. I keep it enormous so that it keeps me warm. It’s the size of my friend Lauren’s studio apartment. So the fact that The Mountain froze means that we have some seriously crazy-ass weather going down right now. I mean, it would have been warmer if it had snowed. How fucked up is that?

So, I hope that you enjoy my paintings, because I need to heat The Art Shack.

This was the first Snarky Card that I ever wrote. It sells like crazy. Everyone loves this card. Well, who can blame them. Everyone loves rejection, when you can do it to someone else.

There’s something secretly delicious about rejecting other people. Whether you’re interviewing for a job, apartment hunting, or plain old dating, being the first one to conclude that “This isn’t going to work” comes with it’s own secret, guilty, glee. When you reject first, it implies that you’re better than that job, apartment, person. Or that you think you’re better (which is the same thing, really).

And this card doesn’t have any bad words, and no real assignment of blame. It simply states that you think you’re better than someone else. And so you can’t see any kind of future relationship. Which is what you mean when you say all the crap you find yourself saying when you’re trying to “dump someone nicely”. (Which by the way is a waste of time).

Maybe you take home people for the wrong reasons.

Like the time I took home that Frank Sinatra impersonator, which was ironic, because I hate Frank. Or the time I slept with a guy because he made a bad (as in poor quality) racist joke. Or the time that I took a guy home because he made great physical comedy with the pads that come in my double D bras, or the time I took a guy home because I thought that we knew each other on Friendster, and had been flirting for weeks. But it turned out we hadn’t, and I didn’t know him at all, he had been purposefully vague so he could get some action. Or the time I slept with a guy because he had cancer. I mean, he didn’t have it anymore, but he hadn’t had sex since he’d had cancer, which is apparently traumatizing. Or the time I slept with a guy because he said he was friends with Kaytee Sackhoff. Or the time I slept with a guy because he was sad. Or the time I slept with a guy because he had a pretty name (Tyler Jewell). By the way, don’t ever do that. His name was pretty. And so was he. And he graded me after sex. I didn’t get an A. But he didn’t really inspire my best kung-fu. And also: he was not giving me much to work with. But did I want to talk about it afterwards? No. I did not.I wanted to pretend like it was good and then walk my ass home. What the fuck, Tyler Jewell? Or the time I slept with that guy because he made a lot of dead-prostitute jokes.

I have a history of bad sexual decisions. And I appreciate it every time someone says that they love me, despite the fact that I offer my vagina up to boys for random and sometimes indiscernible reasons.

So I made this card because I love this idea. That my friends care about me, no matter what kind of crazy random stranger-hate-sex I engage in. And I love that it’s a painting now. I hope you buy it for someone who you love, or someone who you love, who puts my bad sexual decisions to shame.

And then, there’s Fuck you and your fucking Feelings. Maybe you need learn how to tell people to fuck off. Maybe you’re the kind of person to whom strangers tell secrets for no apparent reason, and you’re tired of it. Maybe you are responsible for everyone’s feelings, and you want to take a vacation from that particularly lame job. Or maybe you hate feelings and sees them as a sign of weakness.

Whatever your deal is, I hope you hate feelings enough to buy this painting, which tells feelings to fuck off.

So: Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you don’t have to look at ugly people, or eat bad food, or sleep somewhere cold, or have sex with someone you no longer like, or go without sex. I hope that all of your regular problems dissipate into the Christmas booze and food and generosity that they always talk about on tv!

Tender Loving Empire! Admit it, you're enticed.

Yesterday I hung around Betsy The Great’s Studio. She made jewelry and I used her scanner to bring you new Snarky Cards. Afterwards, we stopped by Tender Loving Empire, where they carry Betsy’s Jewelry. I met Brianne, and handed her a pile of Snarky Cards, just as Betsy was saying “Alisa make the Sna-” Brianne exclaimed “Oh! Yeah! I’ve been meaning to contact you. I want to carry these. People have been asking me if I have them.”

So Snarky Cards are now available at Tender Loving Empire, a hip place to shop. Which is good news, because Powells doesn’t want to carry them anymore. Which is actually OK with me. I know that Powells is huge. And when people heard that my cards were for sale there, they were impressed. But, honestly, I only pursued them as a vendor to soothe my hurt pride.

See, I used to work for Powells. And towards the end of our relationship, I didn’t like them, and they didn’t like me. I love books. I love selling. The combination makes me tingle. I worked in bookstores for 8 years. It was the first career that I built that I was proud of. Working at Powells left me feeling disillusioned with bookstores, and Portland.

I hated how inefficient it seemed, and how disinterested the people who worked there were with selling books. The union (Powells employees have their own union) made it hard for the managers to manage and because of the union there was a lot of unsaid bullshit floating around the store. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against unions. I think that Powells needs the one it has, and without that union, Powells employees would most likely not receive fair treatment. But it left the store in a stand-off. And it seemed like neither the employees or the management really ever got what they wanted. Almost everyone I met who had worked there for a long time was depressed. In short, it sucked.

But it bothered me that they disliked me as much as I disliked them. I’ve only ever flourished in bookstores. And having them “lay me off” (I didn’t make the Holiday cut) hurt my pride as much as disliking my employment there disillusioned me about Portland.

So, when they agreed to carry Snarky Cards, it seemed like a huge deal to me personally. Some part of me was like “Ha! You still want me!” The prestige of having my cards at Powells (and it was largely just prestige, they never sold very many) was an aside. I mostly just wanted to assuage my wouded ego.

And, I think I did that. Two weeks ago, I was at Powells. And I didn’t feel resentful anymore. I still have the floor plan memorized, left over from the months that I traipsed those rooms for minimum wage. But I didn’t recognize most of the people I saw working there. It’s been 3 years. And I guess that Snarky Cards and the new life that it’s led to -of Art and Fame and being appreciated for my brutal witt- have overshadowed the pain that my Powells experience brought. When I bought my Sue Grafton novel, the cashier who rang me up pointed at Sue’s picture. “I met her last week, when she did a reading here.” She said. “She was very personable.” I smiled. “Oh. I didn’t realize Sue did readings here. I guess I’m not very clued in to who guests here.” She smiled and handed me the Powells newsletter. “Well, take one of these, it’ll tell you what’s going on.” I nodded, surprised. I didn’t feel like telling her I used to hand those newsletters out myself, to customers like me. Suddenly, it didn’t seem relevant.

I guess what I’m saying is, I’m Ok with ending my professional relationship with Powells. And I’m delighted to be a part of Tender Loving Empire’s Artist Army. The shop is clean and bright, and Brianne and her husband have amazing taste. I wanted to buy a lot of the shit I saw there. It seemed like if I had that stuff, I’d be cooler. And it’s always nice to be wanted.

It seems like I’m moving from a place professionally where I only deal with people who really like me. Who knows? Maybe this newfound Work Self Esteem will translate into Sex Self Esteem, and I’ll stop making Such Bad Sexual Decisions.

In the meantime, I’ve made this new Happy Anniversary! card for everyone who’s happy with the person that they’re fucking. See? My optimisim is overflowing! Thanks Betsy! And thanks Tender Loving Empire!

Most of them, of course, somehow couldn’t make it until I was able to walk (OK, limp) around and show them some semblence of a good time. Seeing my history in the face of my friend while she watched me sell my art sewed it all together. Past met present. When I broke my leg, I couldn’t take care of myself. And I’ve always taken care of myself. Depending on other people so completely devastated me in ways that I was surprised by.

As part of my post-broken breakdown, I’ve been trying to figure out why I started selling Snarky Cards in the first place. Thankfully, Arlette is sensible and kind. “Because you’re good at it.” She said in between bites of Ole Dirty Bastard (Voodoo Doughnuts completed her Portland experience). “Are you sure I’m not just trying to make up for a shitty childhood?” I asked. “Nope. You like people. And you’re making your art.” She said. She sounded sure. And she is one of the people who knows me better than I do. So I believed her.

Trusting her made me feel light, and peaceful. After I shoved her onto the MAX line to the airport, I floated over to Radish Underground, to see if they wanted some of the new cards Arlette and I had made while she was here. They bought them all. (So, newnewnew Snarky Cards at Radish Underground, now! Check it out! Doesn’t it look like a freaking party in there?) Celeste, who co-owns the shop, has her own clothing line, and we talked about a dress I want her to make, so I’ll have something new to wear selling at the bars.

Afterwards, I had a relaxing drink at The Teazone, where the cute bartender chuckled over the new Snarky Cards I restocked them with.

And I just spent 3 hours getting some new cards ready for the internet. Here’s the first one, all ready for you to send it to your best buds who make bad sexual decisions:

Making my Art, and selling it takes faith. And like all faith, sometimes mine falters. So I need to borrow better faith from my friends.

Thanks to everyone who keeps buying my cards, and telling me stories about how you used them to make your friends laugh, and decorate your fridge, and confront your exes and hit on strangers.

And thanks, Lauren, for telling me that your Mom loved them. I like your Mom. She gave me an Easter basket full of chocolate for Passover last year.