Month: September 2007

Welcome back to Tool Time everyone. Tim and Al can’t be your hosts today, so you will have to settle for myself, six lovely co-hosts and a special guest star.

Cast of Characters:

FreckledK, a.k.a. “Houdini” – Pulls guys out of her hat like a magician doing a rabbit trick.
Suicide Blonde, a.k.a. “URL Junkie” – Sometime bail arranger, victim of drink theft.
Mystery Girl!, a.k.a. “Mrs. Mystery” – The Original Whorebucket, lover of line, “Did you see that fight outside?”
Momentary Academic, a.k.a “The Eye of the Storm” – Master trademarker, part time voice of reason, part time instigator, full time giggler.
Jordan Baker, a.k.a. “The Devil in Fishnets” – Index card hoarder, all around mastermind of escape plans.
“Jemma” – a.k.a. “I was the last stop before Skanksville” – Featured in FreckledK’s recent post, the quiet one laughing at the stupidity which surrounds her.
Arjewtino – a.k.a. “Justin Time” – Special Guest Star and reinforcement called at the 11th hour.

In this segment, a tool is going to hold court in front of seven women. The women, who chose their seats at the bar for its space to spread out and vantage point for spotting game were quickly saddened to learn that the arrival of one tool and the placement of one load-bearing pillar would render their entire night cockblocked. Now, what would you do if you wanted to get rid of him? I was piss rotten mean to him, threatened to punch him in the face, stuck my stiletto heel in his crotch and then, doubled those efforts when he said, “I can’t believe anyone would actually have sex with you.” That had me firing off a text message across town which garnered the return response, “I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t have MORE sex with you.” Ego duly satisfied. Back to the show.

Girls? A little help? How would you get rid of him? What are your best methods for pest removal?

FreckledK: “I called for help. Then I turned my back on him and started talking to some other guy.”
MysteryGirl!: “I asked him if he saw the fight outside.”
Jemma: “I used my most evil psychological tactics. I waited until he delivered a line he thought was funny, then I would lean over and whisper in FreckledK’s ear, ‘He is a tool,’ loud enough for him to hear, and obvious enough for him to know I didn’t like him.”
Suicide Blonde: “I outwitted him when he pulled out his blackberry. In a bar. On a Saturday. No one was going to steal that URL name from my hot little hands.”
Momentary Academic: “I tried to be cordial, but then encouraged him to hit on another girl across the room just to get him away from us.”
Jordan Baker: “I appealed to the masses. Since none of us could get him to leave, I wrote a note on an index card that said, ‘Are you of sound mind? Can you get this guy away from us?'”

Luckily Jordan Baker had several index cards, because that exercise took a few tries. Arjewtino even came with his friend who looks like the guy from Sideways and STILL this guy would not leave. He was like a leper.

But finally. Imagine the relief we felt when, after hours of pleading with him to get lost, a cute boy walked up to us with an index card in his hand.

“Hey. Someone passed me this note.”

There was so much clapping and cheering, you would have thought we were front row at a gay piano bar with Liza Minnelli doing an encore. Half the bar turned around to look at seven girls who just spent five hours held hostage by some guy whose proud accomplishment was locking up a URL about dudecheckoutmyblog.

Brilliant. The line by crafty Jordan Baker was brilliant. I thought my great line of Summer 2006 was brilliant, “Are you with the band?” But, no. This one takes the cake. If you can’t get the guy to get away from you, write someone an S.O.S. note. When the Titanic is sinking, these are the girls you want with you. These are the girls who will MacGyver their way out of any situation with their skill and wit.

For some reason, when I think of that guy, the words from “You’re So Vain” plow through my head.

This was the last episode of Tool Time from the basement. We’re taking our act on the road. You’ve been warned. This sleepy little town is ripe for some damage. Hide the booze and your underage sons. Whorebuckets unveiling, coming soon.

My book reports from Greece. I know you were waiting with bated breath for these.

Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence. I read Sons and Lovers and absolutely loved this book. I couldn’t get enough, didn’t want it to be over, wanted more after it was finished. So, I chose another Lawrence classic, Women in Love. Uh…ick. I didn’t like it. What I loved about Sons and Lovers was that it was so timeless – I know of many cases where that situation (boy who is plucked as favorite of the mother can’t seem to find a woman who is good enough and ends up alone) happens today. I suppose that Women in Love is timeless as well with its theme of women who just are never fucking happy no matter who the man and what they do for them, but it just wasn’t as interesting or well written to me. Call me nuts.

D.C. Noir was my non-classic. Reading this on the middle of a practically deserted island still annoyed me because, let’s face it. I hate D.C. Why I chose to read a book about a place I don’t care for, only served to annoy me more. If that was even possible. There were a few good stories in there though. But not the one about the yuppie mom who took the doll she found in the alley behind her house in a “transitional neighborhood.” The doll belonged to a crazy lady living in the halfway house across the street from the Yuppie Compound, and the drugs inside belonged to a dealer who then put a hit out on the crazy lady. See, there is a such thing as being “too liberal” you assholes. That yuppie bitch should have minded her own business and left the doll where she found it instead of trying to give the crazy lady a “better doll.” Silly liberals think helping others is a game to make themselves feel better and to assuage their guilt. Thankfully the next book was better.

One of my favorite songs of all time is For Whom the Bell Tolls by Metallica. One of my favorite authors of all time is Hemingway. So Hemingway has a book called For Whom the Bell Tolls and I finally read that puppy in Greece. Typical of Hemingway (and Metallica,) it didn’t disappoint.

What I was most curious about was – knowing that both were about war, in what capacity were they linked. That is a horrid sentence I just wrote and I can’t figure out how to fix it. Anyway, it seems that the song is about the portion of the book that contains El Sordo’s last stand. “Men of five, still alive, through the raging glow, gone insane from the pain that they surely know.”

This one is a must read. And the song, a must listen. True to Hemingway’s style, you think you are there and you are left with your jaw open because you just have no idea where he is going. If I ever had a conventional church wedding (cough cough cough!) I would most definitely walk down the aisle to Metallica by the way.

The last in my pile was Ulysses. I have already made this confession to my friends, family and “friend,” so I may as well tell you all. I need the Cliffs Notes, or something. Momentary Academic soothed my ego by telling me there are whole grad classes on the book by itself. One Jordan Baker recommended I buy a certain companion to Ulysses to help my understanding, however, I sort of want to quit. Look, I read 200 pages of the highly touted “greatest novel of all time” or whatever. Can’t I quit? It’s just about a bunch of drunk Irishmen, and I’ve dated several of those so that has to count for something.

This whole Cliff’s Notes thing is really wearing me out. I stare at Ulysses every night and choose something else to read, usually Bazaar or Lucky, and coo over the clothes I’ll never buy, in anticipation of the day when I finally crack and just go buy something to help me finish this thing. And the day I buy it is the day I solidify my place in Loserville. Population: 1. Unless anyone else wants to fess up to not getting Ulysses either…

All my bitching about Greece and yet, I’m number one on Google Greece for the search term “Velvet.” Aww shucks. I think you all still love me even though you tried to arrest me at the end.

Though, sadly, I’m still rocking the number 2 position for “ways to get a girl exited.” (Exited?) On that search term, I’m trailing behind number 1, How do I get my girl squirting?

Well, it certainly beats the long time span last year where I was number one for “velvet ass sex.” (Currently holding the number 19 position on that one…)

So, it’s no secret that I didn’t love Greece. I felt bad for not loving it, but then I asked my mom if she would go back again and she choked, then said something like, “HA! NO FUCKING WAY!” (Obviously, I didn’t learn to swear like a sailor by hanging out at bars.) I won’t, and can’t, get into the details of our last 24 hours in Greece but I will tell you that they involved the words, “Call Security,” and that upon our return to the states, everyone’s response on hearing the details were, “You are lucky to be alive.”

Honestly. We are. Had you told me this prior to our trip, I would have assumed it would have been something the Velvet Family would have done. But, I promise, none of this was our fault. And I think my parents are effectively not answering their phone or front door for a while at the Velvet Family Compound.

Anyway, there was one good part of the trip in all of the mess.

The island my grandfather came from is a place no one has heard of, is on no cruise line route, and frankly, I want to go back there. And I don’t want to be hearing no stinking English when I do, so I will not be naming said island. You can find your own island anyway.

We stayed at our cousin’s house. I knew it was primitive when they said, “The bathroom is outside.” Shit. The first morning, I was woken by roosters. They wouldn’t let me sleep, cock-a-doodle-doo-ing each other from every side of the island, so I got up to take a walk. I went up the hill to the main road and scared the shit out of a bunch of goats. Look how cute they are. I want one!!!

You can’t see it in this picture, but they tie the goat’s front foot to its corresponding back foot. I know goats can kick some ass climbing mountains, but I didn’t understand why they tie their hands to their feet. Our cousins said it was because they will run away. My mom was threatening to do that to my dad if he didn’t behave. Anyway, that was when I realized just how far in the middle of nowhere we really were. No. Wait. When I was reading D.C. Noir and a Donkey walked by…THAT’S when I realized just how in the middle of nowhere we were. And it was awesome. This is him, later on, being led by his owner.

The cousins are trying to get me to come back and spend a month next summer. I said, “Bitch, ain’t you heard of no job and shit?” But they are Greeks, and Greeks take plenty of time off without worrying about a job and two weeks vacation.

We went to see the house where my grandfather was born and lived until he illegally came to the U.S. My great grandparents raised seven children in a hut the same size as my shoebox in D.C. Because I’m not a materialistic, I actually never complain about the size of my condo. I could pack everything I own and move in probably less than 5 hours. But with a man and seven kids? Shit. Anyway here is my living proof of how POOR my family was.

Now, of course the house wasn’t originally trashed on the inside. But, according to the Greeks, “that’s what happens when Albanians buy it.”

My grandparents up and left Greece and came here to live out their arranged marriages, sling hash in diners, work at Bethlehem Steel, and sew garments in a sweatshop. They did it for my parents, who then became the first generation on both sides of the family to choose their own spouse and to attend college. And my parents did it for my brothers and I, who then went on to grad school, got good jobs, and don’t have to worry about money. There is a fallacy in the American Dream for my grandparents. It existed – but not for them. For their kids and grandkids.

Because my grandparents were born in Greece, I can actually get dual citizenship. My brother and I thought that was pretty cool the first few days of our trip and vowed to look into it. But by the end? All I could think was how our grandparents wanted so badly to get out of there, and how, 80 years later, we wanted to leave after only being there a few weeks, and I’m not so sure.

Capitalism. Democracy. Being an American. We may not be perfect, but we’re a whole lot better than a lot of other places.

When we finally left Athens and got to the islands, I was much more of a happy camper. The cruise ship islands were wretchedly overcrowded with tourists. Mykonos was awful. Proof positive once a place makes it to something like E!’s “Wild On,” or the ill-fated Tara Reid show, “Taradise,” it’s ruined.

On our cruise, we went the coast of Turkey and to five islands. I thought being in Athens sucked, I was crying to go back after the day in Turkey. CRY-YEENG. I thought I loved Patmos until I heard some bitch from Long Island in her track suit say to the guy at a kiosk, “How much is da wadda?” Oy. When you fly 12 hours, take a bus for an hour, and a cruise ship for 2 more days and still hear English? No! We then went to Rhodes, which was pretty built up and not like an island at all. We tried to leave my dad in Crete, where he is from, but he was wise to our game and refused to be distracted by “Hey, is that a 5 Euro bill flying down the street?”

The final island was Santorini. That was the only island where we had to take a tender boat because our cruise ship was unable to get through the shallow waters to the port. Getting on the tender boat, I should have known. They were pulling people from the cruise ship and literally throwing them on the tender and yelling in Greek “ELLA ELLA ELLA!” I ended up with several people in my lap, including someone’s baby. We parked so damn far out in the ocean it was at least 25 minute tender ride, where I once I exited, promptly wanted to yak everywhere. Add insult to injury, once you are “on the island,” you are still not on the island. Santorini is a huge mountain. See?

The reason the water is so shallow is because that part of the harbor used to be above ground, but there was a volcano and the Atlantis theory. When I got there, I was informed that the only ways up the mountain were by donkey or cable car, both costing you money, of course. I have to say, I HATE the fact that we did nothing but pay money to get to this damn island – airfare, public transportation, cruise, and they drop us off and we still have to pay more? ARRGH! The alternative for stupid (and vengefully cheap tourists) is to walk the 566 steps. I looked at my brother and he said, “Let’s go.” In Athens, we ran up Likavitos, so why not.

Navigating a hill simultaneously being used by the donkeys was an accomplishment. My mom called out, “Watch out for the donkey shit” as they got into a cable car and jetted up the mountain. There they go!

And, here was what our route looked like.

As we passed all the tubby Americans riding the poor donkeys, they made comments about how nuts we were. Yes, look at my brother’s washboard abs and my cellulite free ass earlobes and tell me we don’t know what we’re doing. Thank you, come again.

There’s our cruiseship by the way. Yup. It was out there all right. Not the first one, by the way, the other one way the hell out there.

Anyway, all that kaka has a point, otherwise I wouldn’t have told you. Later that night I am in line to retrieve our passports that the cruiseline held hostage for the week. I overheard something about how these people were supposed to be “on the ship that sunk.” I asked them what they were talking about. Then I reported back to the Greeks with, “Did you know this cruiseline had a ship sink a few months ago?” My mom said, “Um, NO. The travel agent didn’t tell us that.”

Some googling indicates that in April, 2007, Louis Hellenic cruises lost a boat because they RAN AGROUND IN SANTORINI. So now I get why we parked our asses over by Egypt and tendered in. Our boat was actually the “replacement” boat for the one that sunk. You have to wonder at what point we tendered over the sad remains of the lost ship. These links are fun:

Cruise Ship Sinking

Definitely watch this video

Anyway, the final 24 hours in Greece were so disastrous that I actually can’t even tell that part because it still gives me the shakes. Just know, my mom was handing out valium, I threatened to shred my passport, my dad told several people to fuck off in both English and Greek and we all vowed to never go back again.

One more installment of this trip, then I’m going to go back and check on what the cops have been doing…which reminds me…in Turkey, I saw cops getting their shoes shined outside the police station. Since the Greek-Turk rivalry is vicious at best and violent at worst, I refrained from taking a picture. But, I did get this picture of the Greek cops standing around doing absolutely nothing in front of the U.S. Embassy in Athens!

The beaches in Athens are rocky and filled with cigarette butts. It’s a widely known fact, but this was just a temporary stay on the beach before we boarded a ship. We ran out of things to do in about 4 minutes. My brother took to calling me Blackie, for my ability to walk outside and instantly become three shades darker in 10 seconds. After giving up on the sun worship, he and I found ourselves surfing the internet in a hotel conference room. I kept asking him to hand over his PDA but he kept pushing me off. After several tries with the standard, “Hold on, I’m not done,” and “Your dogs are fine, you don’t need to check your email, you psycho,” he said, “Go look at that flip chart over there on the stand.”

I have been his sister for enough years to know what that means. I flashed back to visions of Erasa-board menus in restaurants with prices changed to 99 cents and leftover rice in chinese restaurants molded into a penis and balls and I said, “Oh no. What have you done?”

I walked over to the flip chart, and I saw this:

All right. So it seems that he’s drawn a penis next to “personal rapport” on what appears to be a presentation for salesmen. But what are they selling? I flipped the page and saw this:

DING DING DING DING DING!!! What do we have here? A SEMINAR for PICK UP ARTIST WANNABES? I’ve truly waited my whole life for a day like this! Yay!!!!! Ladies, we’ve heard enough from the boys. It’s time for an alternative take, isn’t it?

Because I wanted to help these poor sad little fuckers, I really did, I decided to add a few slides of my own. First, we have this one, which I placed between their introduction pages:

I left after this slide. But then I told my mom about it. I filled her in on the totally absurd “PUA” society, how guys spend money and time perfecting ways to get into girls pants – the blogs, the books, the seminars, the t.v. shows, and then I decided another slide was in order. I’ve learned that I just can’t leave the scene of a crime until I’m almost caught. So, I made my mom be the lookout while I crafted the next slide:

Who are these losers at life whose seminar I hopefully destroyed? I read that stupid book by Neil Strauss – The Game. Retarrrrrrded. And that book was about 400 pages too long. True to form, he’s a total geek who tries his hand at being a PUA, nails a few skanks, then falls hard for some girl in Courtney Love’s crew. (Oooh, bet that one was a winner. She promptly left him for Robbie Williams by the way, and he sits at home painting his “game goggles” with a racing stripe.) I wanted to see if I had ever “fallen” for any of these tricks. Unsurprisingly, I hadn’t. Why?

Because the girls who fall for these tricks are insecure and competitive and not worth having. My girls and I are not competitive with each other. That is probably key to this entire shindig. If we were out and some guy said something insulting to me like, “You don’t seem as smart/cute/skinny as your friend,” I would just agree. She’s my friend. Why would I take his insult and then turn it into an insult on her to “prove” him wrong? And so the plan is foiled and he doesn’t get in my pants – then what – I don’t get laid? Oooh, how awful. I just got another get-out-of-jail-free card on not getting herpes. How terrible for me. You should all feel so sorry for me.

The rule is universal – if you spend all your time talking about “it,” you aren’t getting “it,” whatever “it” may be. It applies to money, sex, status. The person who talks about how important they are at their job is the one who is insecure. The one who is constantly coming up with the new “million dollar idea” will spend their life as a poor man. The guy who spends 23 hours a day strategizing how to get in a woman’s pants most likely fits the following personality profile:

1. Was a loser in high school.
2. Still thinks life now is high school.
3. Insecure at work. If he even has a job – which many of these guys don’t, the job is something menial in the lower ranks of the corporation.
4. Talks about getting laid all the time.
5. In reality, has very little sex.
6. Gets very little attention from women.
7. When his advances are rebuffed by a woman, he goes on all out rampage to malign her. He thinks calling her names will hurt her feelings, but the fact that she was smart enough to reject him speaks volumes for her confidence.
8. Has “Mommy” issues or had one parent totally absent from their upbringing.
9. Once (or twice) had his heart broken by a woman so badly that he now wants to get back at the rest of the female population by fucking his way through them for the perceived injustice.
10. Spends a lot of time planning revenge on others who go against him.
11. Has not matured into adulthood.
12. When he is constantly rebuffed by the same classification of women (i.e. an age group or certain ethnicity) he will publicly renounce them as targets, citing a litany of reasons why he will “no longer date American girls,” or why “women over 24 are over the hill.”
13. Owns no property; usually lives in group home or with parents.

If all you are looking to do, legitimately, is get your dick wet, fine. But what do all these losers have in common? They study and train, train and study, fuck hundreds a few women, then ultimately find a girl they fall in love with and renounce their former ways.

I like to think I helped maybe just one guy who came back to the seminar say, “Hey, she’s right! I do have a small cock.” Wait, that’s not what I meant to say. I meant to say that hopefully, just one guy learned that using a success rate formula for measuring “notches” is a pretty sad way to live. Try being genuine. Try making yourself a better person instead of using insults to bring others down to in turn elevate your own perceived worth. Spend your money on an education boys, a real education, in an accredited institution and the girls will come, pun intended. I promise. I learned more about human nature and life in general in grad school and from work than I did hanging out in bars and assessing body language.

If you have to trick her into bed, and she’s dumb enough to be tricked, is she really worth it?

I’m not one of those day by day, recap of every excruciating detail of my travels kind of girl. I hate that as much as I hate looking at someone else’s vacation photos where they tell you every single detail from over your shoulder (“Cousin Bob was just outside this shot, it was so funny, he was tying his shoe!”) God damn is that boring. So this will be a bit unconventional.

First. Borf is alive and well in Athens.

That sign behind shows how you would spell “Athens” or as it is known in Greece, “Athina.” The letter after the “A” is the Theta, so that stands in for the “th” part. And the “H” is really an “I.” Fucking confusing. Just use the regular alphabet you damn Greeks. Turkey does. (Oops. My grandparents just rolled over in their graves.) Anyway, here’s another:

Borf made it to the Plaka district of Athens. Well done.

Second, look at this kid. It was very hard to get these pictures. We were in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. My brother and I saw him and had this conversation about how people predispose their kids to being gay when they dress them like this.

It’s a boy by the way. In a sleeveless nipple shirt, short shorts and sandals. Jesus Christ.

Sorry they are so blurry, but when you are stalking a kid through a museum in a foreign country to take a picture of him, you sort of feel like a pedophile and you just want to get the hell out of dodge as fast as you can. Trust me. You don’t want to find yourself in a Greek jail having to explain yourself, because there is just no translation for “I have a blog in the United States and I want to post his picture on it so we can play gay or European!”

Third, here’s the Acropolis. Sorry about the scaffolding. They’re trying to save it or some crap.

That’s Athens. I was told it was a two-day city. I was told correctly. After five days there, we were ready to leave. I was thinking in my head, “If the islands don’t shape up any better, I’ll renounce my heritage and become Italian and somehow investigate changing the big old honking Greek Flag tattoo on my back.” The next morning, my brother announces at breakfast:

“If the islands aren’t nicer than this shit pit, I’m going to become Italian.” I wondered if I said that out loud or if we had just spent too much time in a hotel room together at this point.

Finally, I learned that in Athens, picking your nose in public is not disgusting. I saw shopkeepers, moped riders, pedestrians, cabbies – all with finger jammed in nose, digging for gold. I’m going to give this a test run in Dupont. I’ll let you know how it works out for me.