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

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!