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

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. And I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars, from a box that hangs beneath my boobs.

As some of you also know, I’m moving to Seattle in October. Before I go, I’m planning on doing a few shows. One of them is Share the Love; a party on August 5th. Tickets are $15. And the money goes to benefit Basic Rights Oregon, which is an organization fighting to make it safe to be Gay, Transgender, Queer and Bi in Oregon. There’ll be aerial dancing, burlesque, dj’s, food cards, raffles and lots of other fun.

So, if you love your gays. And you wanna hang out in a place where everyone loves your gays, you should totally come. Also: if you think you’re going to miss me, and you want a Custom Snarky Card, you should totally come.

This is me, in my Judy Garland dress. Which I will be wearing so that the gays will know that I belong to them, at Share The Love!

If you don’t come, then clearly you are a homophobe. Or you aren’t that into me. Which actually, might also make you a homophobe, since I’m a HUGE fag-hag. I’m such a fag-hag that when straight boys bore/annoy me, I picture them having gay-sex, in order to get through the conversation. I think nothing is hotter than gay-porn. And I have a dress that I bought at the goodwill because I thought it would make me look more like Judy Garland.

So, put it on your calendar! Get your gay on, and your custom Snarky Cards, and help Oregon become a little more equal, all at the same time!

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. Recently, I was in Seattle and I loved it. I’m planning on moving there at the end of September. Until then, I’ll keep haunting the Portland bars that I’ve grown to love.

The lovely girls of Twilight

The end of my trip to Seattle was sweet. I typed my Snarky Cards at Twilight: an Art Collective in West Seattle that’s been selling my cards for the last two years. I love the girls who own the place. And I’m proud that they’re my friends. And I’m glad to be part of their wonderful boutique. While I was in Seattle, I made some really great paintings for this show. I’m really excited about them. I think they’re the best ones I’ve ever done. They’re all $100 each. And they’ll be hanging on the walls at Twilight for the next month.

$100 Now for sale at Twilight Artist Collective!

Usually, when I’m typing my cards at a show, that’s my whole world. I’m watching people laugh at my cards, and making them new shit I think that they’ll like. I am typing as fast as I can, to show off, and get the stock out. But this time, I got to watch people looking at my paintings. It was awesome. My shit was hung at the far wall. So, they’d wander, peering at the other artists work. A little intent, trying to decide what they thought. And when they got to the Snarky Paintings they had this bored/concentrating look on their face. And I got to watch their expressions change, first they smiled a little at the bright colors, and then, as they read them, they would break out into a grin. I’ve been watching people have reactions to my cards for so long, it never occurred to me that watching someone like my other shit could be more rewarding. But it was. I felt like a real Artist.

Afterwards, we went out for a real celebration and we laughed our way through dinner and drinks and I remembered what it was like to hang out with a posse of ladies. It was delicious. And I felt loved. I floated my way through selling for the rest of the night.

My sister

Joy and I got along fabulously. I think we’ve always been on the same team. But we didn’t realize it. Growing up in an abusive household meant that we didn’t know how to be nice to each other. It didn’t help that Sherri used to pit us against each other. I was smart and ugly. Joy was dumb and pretty. And we used to curry favor with her by talking shit on each other. It took us  years of being careful with each other. Holding our tongues. Trying not to judge each other. And last month it paid off. We tried to be nice; it wasn’t easy for her to let me take over her apartment with my paint-a-thon. And it wasn’t easy for me to do anything. I was so distraught when I got there that I couldn’t really talk. She made a special effort to be kind. And I made a

Joy's delicious bitches: Yuriko, Jenny and Marissi

special effort to tell her what I needed, and how I felt. And by the time I left, I knew we were a team again. More than that, I loved her friends. They folded me into their group seamlessly, like I wasn’t a hot, broken mess. They just walked right past my nervous breakdown, and got out the make-up and costumes, and started a giggly gossip girl party, and between their kindness and their ability to have fun  no matter what, I climbed out of my pit of self-pity and despair, and right into their fun. I knew that when I move there, I’ll have friends. And the person who knows me best will be happy to help to tell me to get my shit together; whatever I need most.

Quartz lying in Joy's bed

I was on my way to pick up a book for my rideshare home and i passed a guy selling random shit on the street. I picked up 2 Faye Kellerman’s and 2 mannequin heads for $8. The mannequin faces were dirty, like they’d been fighting. I quickly stuffed everything

Quartz lying in Joy's bed with a mannequin head

but them in my backpack so I could stroll down the street, holding one in each hand by their hair. Happily pretending they were the heads of people I’d killed. When I got to my sister’s house, I put one on her kitchen table and hid the other one in her bed, cackling the whole time.

It was a beautiful end to a great trip. Now, I’m haunting the bars of Portland, scaring up rent money. And money for my move. Hopefully I’ll see you out there, somewhere.

Love,

Alisa

Dear Internets,

 As you may know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. They will crack you the fuck up. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. Mostly, I sell them in Portlandia. And sometimes, I sell them in San Francisco, where my bad-ass bitches reside. Even more sometimes, I sell them in Seattle, where my sister lives.

Recently, in the middle of my life-philosophy-blowing  Thing, I also went back to San Jose, from whence I came, and confronted my parents about their abuse, and explained to them, that no matter how nice they would like to be to me now, it doesn’t make up for the shit they did to me before. And we’re not going to have a relationship.The depths of my despair meant that I couldn’t do any of that shit at home. I think I was left alone too long with my feelings or something. Because after a while, I was crying every day. For hours. And nobody came to check on me. And after a little while, my abandonment issues started sounding alarms. And then the fact that I was sad didn’t matter. The fact that nobody checked on me was the problem. I felt alone. And I was sure that I’d been right all along, and everyone will leave me eventually, because who could ever learn to love a loud-mouthed-big-assed-titty-showing-bitch? (I have illustrated both my big ass and my titty-showing above, for those of you who would like to see more boobs and ass to get you through this long-ass emotional post.)

All of this line-drawing, boundary-having, combined with all this relationship-having (and then Not Having) has left me…drained. I found myself in “the depths of despair” to quote Anne of Green Gables. And I couldn’t figure out how to snap myself out of it. Eventually my shrink suggested drugs. Or, she strongly recomended, that I call my friends and ask them to come help me. Which is hard. I hate asking for help. But more than that, I hate pills. I love weed, but pills kinda give me the heebie-jeebies. And so, when people suggest I take them, I try to fix my shit, so that I don’t find myself at a pharmacists’s mercy. So, I called my sister. And she said “Come to Seattle. Bring you paint, and your cards. I’ll buy you a train ticket, and you can stay here, and work until you feel better.”

So, I’ve been hiding out, in her apartment on Capital Hill, painting and thinking, and smoking weed, and worrying about how I got myself into this hole. Joy has been a goddess. Sometimes, when we’re together we’re 15 again, and everything we do is hilarious, and a little mean. And sometimes we’re in our thirties, trying to figure out how to be kind to each other, only after recently ending our five-year-war. For most of our childhood’s we were on each other’s sides. We kept each other safe. But in our twenties we became different people, or more ourselves than we had been.

THis was my motto for the last ten years. Well, maybe my motto was more like "Be alone, fuck often".

Joy falls into relationships easily, and stays for as long as she can stand it. I avoid contact. I like sex, but I think, for the most part, I haven’t really trusted men. And it’s easier to fuck ‘em and leave ‘em than it is to trust them to be nice to me. And due to said shitty childhood, I’ve had really crap taste in men. And I always thought, if I’m gonna have shitty taste in men, I might as well keep contact with them brief and to the point.

But my inability to pull myself out of this funk has trumped all that. We may annoy the fuck out of each other, but in the end, she wants me to be OK. And I think I just needed that feeling. I think I just needed to stay with someone who gave a shit that I was OK. Portland is a wonderful town, but I don’t think I have a lot of friends there. And even if I did, I don’t have anyone who wants to take care of me. Who will check in, because they know I’m going through something hard. So, I’ve been sleeping on her couch, watching her dress her friends up for parties, and eating her yummy food. And after a day or two, I was able to start painting again, and then I was able to start typing. And then I started selling in Seattle.

Anyway, that all seems to be changing. I think that the depths of my despair come, not from a break-up, like I first thought, but from me, creating a new person inside of myself. My shrink likes it when I do this. She calls it cocooning, and she gets this look in her eyes, like I’d make a good case study. I sit around, and I make art, and I think about who I’ve been, and what I thought, and I get rid of some stuff, and I figure out what to keep. And in the end, I have more self esteem. And I take less shit. And I tell people how I feel, and what I need quicker. It takes a lot of sleeping, and some crying. And I have to talk to somebody who knows me, and can talk me down, when I climb myself up a tree, with all of my crazy-thinking.

Like, last night, when I tried to pin all of my bad feelings on Magnum, and Arlette wasn’t having it. “You just got stretched too thin.” she chided. “You tried to do a lot of hard things at once, and now you’re a little vulnerable. But don’t blame Magnum for all of this. No relationship can knock you down this much. And you’re not broken, you’re just a little delicate now. You’ll recharge. And no GUY will ever shake you up this much. This is your family, and your parents, and your identity.”

This is Jenny, one of Joy's crew, in the middle of before-the-party-dress-up!

So, I’ve been hibernating at Joy’s. And her life is fucking amazing. Her friends all live a block away from her. And they all wander as a group from house to house, carrying weed and beer with them as they go, trying on each other’s clothes, telling each other funny stories, making or eating food, and generally preparing for the next party, knowing full well, that the party they’re already at will be better than wherever their going. Her friends come over, to do all of those things, whether Joy’s there or not. And so

Yuriko and Marissi getting ready to party!

I’ve been admitted into this club, forced to hang out with her hilarious and kind friends. And being surrounded by people has helped me with the cocoon thing. I miss my cats. But so far, I don’t seem to miss PDX much.

Seattle, it turns out is much more marvelous than even I had anticipated. The people here are smart, and funny and they are trying to figure out sex and themselves, and dating, and friendship. I’ve been trying out some new bars. And I think I’ve made some friends. There are a few cute boys that I have some simpatico with, who might wanna hang out in the future. Everyone seems to dig Snarky Cards. And Snarky Tits. And life in this town is a lot less bleak than life in Portland has been. “So, move and have sex, and make friends, and be around people who actually do stuff. Portland is where hipsters go to die.” Arlette recited, in a bored tone of voice. She’s been trying to get me to move for ages. And you, Dear Internets, might have noticed, that I haven’t been happy in PDX for a while. “Well, you told me a year ago, that you couldn’t live in Portland for longer than a year.” Claire said. “So it’s about time you moved.”

This is my newest painting, for sale at Twilight this Thursday!

So, I’m trying to figure out how to make it work. I’m checking Craiglist. I’m mentally packing up my house. I’m figuring out the logistics of getting my ass from Portland, to Seattle. Along with all of my shit, and my cats.

Until I go back and pack up my Pdx life, I’ll be out in Seattle, selling my Snarky Cards, mostly haunting Capital Hill, working on paying my last month’s rent in Portland. And on Thursday, I’ll be debuting my new paintings, and typing Custom Snarky Cards at Twilight Artist Collective.

Come check out my new shit, and celebrate my newly declared Seattle Love at Twilight Artist Collective on Thursday, May 12th, from 6-9pm. I’ll be typing up a storm. And I’d love to make your life easier, by writing you some hilarious and angry Snarky Cards.

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

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

It's pretty hot, right? Can you believe Celeste made this? She's a genius!

I had a fantabulous time at Radish Underground, Friday night. We made a lot of custom cards. And I think I outdid myself. Betsy the Great was there, making custom jewelry. And the red dress that Celeste made for me was amazing! You’ll see it tonight, if you come to Voicebox for the Valentines Day party!

Win this painting at Voicebox tonight!

I’ll be there with Bob, my typewriter. It’s $10 at the door, to get in, a portion of which will be donated to Ethos. Which is a non-profit dedicated to bringing music to poorly funded public schools. Which, is kinda amazing. My public school was pretty well-funded but we had no funding for music. But we were middle-class, and we knew how to sell candy bars, and all that crap. By we, I mean they, of course. I am not musical. I am a groupie. I can write, I can crack wise. I can do all kinds of crap, but when it comes to music, I am useless.

Some of that is probably due to an evil piano teacher I was forced to spend time with as a child (Oh Mrs. Kerr!). And the rest of it I credit to Mr. Hibbert, my 8th grade choir teacher. I’m pretty sure he was in love with my mother. Which wouldn’t have been creepy, but she seemed to relish the crush. I always felt like I was interrupting something whenever I was in the room with the two of them. And they kept coming up for reasons for that to happen. Mr. Hibbert looked like a puppet. And he was an Orange Person. I hated and feared Orange People. I didn’t really get over being racist against them until I was 23 years old. I think that doubled the gross-out factor of his and my mom’s possible emotional affair. Also, in my head, when they did it, he was an actual puppet. It’s gross to think of your mother doing it with anyone, but a puppet puts the whole thing squarely in Stephen King territory.  So after 8th grade choir class, singing was kinda ruined for me.

Which is why you won’t hear me belting out any kind of song tonight. You can belt out as many songs yourself as you’d like -free sing all night! And you’ll get a free Snarky Card with your entrance fee, and you’ll also get entered to win one of my fabulous paintings.

Cards like these could come in handy tonight!

You may not be sure about your night tonight -maybe you’ve been single for a long time (like me!) or maybe you’re trying to deal with a shitty break-up, or maybe you like your boyfriend, but you’re not sure if you’re still attracted to him, maybe your wife has gotten drunk and angrily called your parents for the last time, maybe your husband doesn’t put out enough, maybe your girlfriend obsessively texts you. Whatever the deal is, I can make a Snarky Card, to help you ease the pain of your heart. And hopefully, along the way, you’ll meet other cranky singles, or at least some hotties who wanna cheat. And it’ll all culminate in hot, angry sex.

I mean, seperately couples will take each other home. Not that it’ll end in an orgy. Because, I am not pro-orgy. I mean, I don’t judge other’s orgies, it’s just not the right kind of sex. For me.

I know, it makes me sound like a hard-core prude. But I’m just not into group sex. And (as I recently found out in Seattle) I’m not into hanging out, waiting for someone to finish an orgy in a room next door to me so we can hang out. I’m sorry, I know that this will probably upset you, Internets, because you were totally going to ask me over for a 5some next week. But I always figured, I’m easy. That should be good enough, and the fact that I’ve had sex with 87 people should distract everyone from the fact that I don’t gang-bang. Or orgy. Or even threesome. And while I like having sex in public places, I think that’s as far as my adventuresome sexual spirit goes. It makes me feel a little Vanilla about how I get down. It’s embarassing to be one of the Sex Goddesses of the Western Hemisphere and not orgy. But I am.  Or maybe I’m just more straightforward than that multiple-partner mess. I like the hook-up. The hook-up is easy. The hook-up is my happy place.  And I’m hoping that there might be some in store for each and every one of us who shows up tonight.

Also: I relate to cranky singles better than I relate to happy couples. And if there’s nothing but happy couples at Voicebox tonight, I’m going to feel out of place. So, please angry singles searching for hate-sex, please come down and keep me company and I’ll write you some revenge Snarky Cards, which will soothe your battered egos, and I’ll point out the hottest single person in the room, and you’ll go over and start making out, and I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I made something happen in your Vagina, or on your penis, without having to touch it myself.  Because making people come from a distance is what I live for!

So see ya tonight at Voicebox, from 7-11pm, 2112 NW Hoyt Portland, OR.

Love,

Alisa

For the last two days, I’ve been selling Snarky Cards in Seattle’s bars. And it’s been really awesome!

But more about that later, right now I wanna tell you about tomorrow. I’m catching a train back to Portland in a few hours, and I’ll be up all night, to make some blank cards for tomorrow’s Crafty Wonderland! At the Doug-fir!

Sunday, October 11th, from 11am-4pm at the Doug Fir Lounge, 830 E. Burnside

I’ll be there, with Bob -my Smith Carona typewriter not be racist or anything, it’s just everyone always wants to know what kind of typewriter he is, so I feel like I should just say it straight out – and blank cards, and my witt, to bring you custom cards for your fucked up personal relationships. I’ll help you break-up, make-up, comfort somone in their time of bad sexual experience, or tell your child that you wish they were a different person. Ok, just kidding. I would never help a parent express disappointment. That would be mean. But the other stuff I’ll do!

So, if you’re in Portland tomorrow, come to the Doug Fir! And get your awesome on!

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 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!

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.

As some of you already know, my name is Alisa Starr and 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.

$30 at Rock 'n' Rose!

Some of you may remember that I promised you Snarky Card Paintings. And I delivered. You can now purchase these lovely  paintings at for $30 each at Rock ‘n’ Rose! It’s an awesome store at 616 E Burnside, in  Portland, Oregon. They specialize in Vintage Clothes, but they also have kick-ass jewelry, belt buckles (A Pac-Man belt buckle! Seriously.), and new clothes by local designers. Rock ‘n’ Rose kicks ass, and they have been kind enough to carry my First! Ever! Snarky Paintings in their store.

The painful Vagina! $30 at Rock'n'Rose!

If you don’t live in Portland, and you’d like some of these delightful paintings, you can still buy them. Feel free to call or email Rock ‘n’ Rose to ask them about shipping!

As you can see, I took a few of my most popular cards, and put them on Canvass. I hope you are pleased. They look ok, right?

Wouldn't this make you feel better, if you saw it on your wall everyday? Only $30

The thing is; paintings are different. They’re bigger! And they’re art, so they’re permanant, so I made a Snarky Painting that’s never been a card: The A-hole Mirror. I get that this shit will go on your wall, and I wanted you to have something nice to say to yourself over and over again.

It's nice right? I can live with being a Huge Bitch if I'm loved.

I really liked making these paintings.

And I’d really like to sell them, so I can justify making more. So, whether it’s a birthday, an anniversary, or just a treat for yourself; you need a Snarky Painting, and you can’t figure out how you lived your life without one for this long!