January 2011

Tonight’s segment in the unfolding story of Jillian & Thol has been hijacked by a weekly phenomenon. It’s called Friday Night. After a crazy-ass hell-ish week at The Slave Box.

I think you know what that means.

Drink Amongst Yourselves. Drink very, very well…Cheers!

(Now playing: The Cramps – “Naked Girl Falling Down The Stairs” Go look it up, listen to it. It rocks.)

Looking back over the whole ordeal, the months and days and never-ending minutes of every hour, Thol felt as if a whole lifetime had happened to him. A complete cycle from beginning to end, birth to death, with all its peaks and valleys of stress, adventure, paralyzing monotony, ecstatic happiness, hope, fear and ultimate exhaustion that saps the life right out of a person. He felt…no, he KNEW…that the person he had been at the start of it all and the person who was sitting here on the front steps of this burned-out, gutted apartment building now were so very different as to not even  be related by blood, by time, by space. He felt alien. And somehow vacuous.

burned_bldg_Istanbul 648He buried his head deeper into the space between his knees, long fingers gripping his scalp, nails digging, pulling on his matted and greasy hair intermittently. He was sucking in air in disjointed huge gulps, each one larger and more ragged than the last, trying to keep the tsunami of shock and emotion from engulfing him. The calm methodical exterior that he had subconsciously yet meticulously exuded during the past few months was cracking in a multitude of long running jagged tentacles like ice on a lake after one expertly thrown javelin hits with a deep *k-thunk!* in the most perfect spot. Or a windshield of safety-glass that crumbles into a heap of gem-like, ice-like bits left scattered across the asphalt after a crack-head jacks stereo from the parking lot of an unfamiliar girl you went home with from the bar one night.

Oh, he couldn’t let it happen. It was over. It was going to fine…or it was eventually. And he had others to think of, others that still needed his help. Yes, it was over. And yet there was so much left to do…

© 2011 D. Kessler

The sound of the jackhammer seemed a bit off to Jillian. Oh, it was loud alright…very loud…and the closer she got to it, the louder it got. But it wasn’t the decibel that was different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. As she turned the corner at the light she shook her head. “No matter,” she thought to herself. “I’m turning the other way…away from it. Not going to get caught in that construction zone today, so I guess I won’t be figuring out what it is exactly about it that’s so…” But wait. There it was, louder than ever. She could have sworn the clamor had been on her right. And she had turned left…away from the obnoxious hammering, not toward it. Maybe it was just bouncing off the walls of the buildings downtown, she reasoned. That had to be it. Funny how when there were so many towering walls of concrete and glass and stone and metal at every which way angle, one just really couldn’t be sure from which direction the sound…any sound…was coming from.

She signaled to take another left at the next corner, waiting for the red light to change, and glanced anxiously at the clock glaring in the dashboard of her new Lexus…a recent birthday gift from Daddy. Crap, she was going to be late to her meeting with…who was she meeting? She couldn’t remember. Damn that jackhammer! It was really distracting…messing with her head. Would it never stop? How could it be that she hadn’t passed it, left it far behind by now? It seemed to be following her…and getting louder and…she covered her ears while she banged her head on the steering wheel. They must be hammering on a steel beam in the road because it was starting to sound almost like a bell, the incessant piercing irritation that was metal hitting metal over and over and over again bouncing around her skull as to make her crazy. But they didn’t make roads with steel beams in them…did they? Skyscrapers, yes…but city streets?

The light changed and Jillian swung left into the far right lane, getting ready to take the next right so she could get on the express lanes toward the university. She was really going to have to hurry if she was going to make it to her interview on time. Wait. Was it a meeting or an interview? What was wrong with her! And she suddenly felt awfully warm…too warm for the season and the day’s weather. She flicked on the air conditioning and choked as a waft of hot, smoky, dusty breeze hit her in the face. What the…?! Had it been that long since she used the air conditioning? She apparently needed to have the vents cleaned! But wait…this was a new car. It wasn’t even two months old yet…

Suddenly the jack hammering was impossibly loud…and damn it, it WAS a bell it was hitting! A dull flat-sounding bell being hit with a huge motorized mallet on high speed. She coughed again, couldn’t seem to get her breath. All of a sudden a crash through her passenger side window made her jump from her skin…and as she glanced at the clock on the dash again she realized it still said exactly the same time it had all those blocks ago. No way. No fucking way. The green digits of her dashboard clock were frozen at four twenty-three…four twenty-three…A.M.! Somebody large and strong grabbed her and lifted her bodily out of the smoke and broken glass and into the fresh, very cold air of the dark night that was very early morning. Everywhere were flashing lights and men shouting to each other and people standing in clusters or just milling about. Had she been in an accident? How could she? She didn’t remember hitting anything or anyone coming out of nowhere to hit her. She was always such a careful driver, that’s why Daddy had gotten her the new Lexus…kind of a reward, you know?…and…

Jill rubbed at her eyes, choking and coughing. She felt that her lungs were on fire and there was ground glass in her eyes. One of the men put a plastic cup over her mouth and nose…wait, it was an oxygen mask, wasn’t it?…while another laid her on something firm and pulled a thin flimsy blanket over her to her chin. Whole lot of good that did…she felt frozen, and slightly numb. Jill marveled at how quickly the EMTs had gotten to the crash scene. Something not quite right with that either. Oh Hell! Daddy was going to really give it to her for crashing the car after less than two months! She struggled against the EMTs to sit up to look back at the car, hoping against hope it wasn’t too badly damaged. “Oh my god,” she thought to herself. “It better not be totaled!”

What she saw floored her more than a thoroughly crumpled Lexus ever could. Some of what she had assumed to be flashing lights of the ambulance and police cars weren’t lights at all. It was fire…lots of fire…tearing though a building on the other side of the street. She blinked. HER building. HER condo. With dawning realization, the accompanying overwhelming anxiety threatened to suffocate her more than the smoke billowing out her bedroom window like fluffy grey clouds of dryer lint. Suddenly Jillian realized that the jackhammer…the downtown buildings…the flashing green numbers of the clock in her Lexus dashboard…all of it…had all been a dream. She tried to call out to the EMTs assisting her but all she could manage was a whimpering moan as she sank back onto the gurney as she lost consciousness again.

And still that jackhammer fire alarm on the outside wall of her condominium…right outside the window of what used to be her bedroom…continued its call to Hell.

© 2011 D. Kessler

Way to lose Readers…that you possibly/probably never had:

  1. Don’t post anything anything anyone actually wants to read about.
  2. Be Not-Nice to other bloggers in one or more recent posts.
  3. Be so lazy that Star Trek: Next Generation takes precedence over pretty much everything else.
  4. Drink vodka for dinner…preferably with a microscopic amount of dry vermouth and a cocktail onion or two.
  5. Have Twizzlers for dessert.
  6. Post insipid lists meaning nothing.
  7. Repeat.

That is to say…the aforementioned is exactly my evening tonight.

Welcome to El Castillo on a Tuesday.

© 2011 D. Kessler

I find it very odd that a topic of the daInternational Dateliney from The Daily Post is “What’s your idea for a perfect Sunday“. Um…hmm. I double checked the email and, yes, there is the date “Janurary 24, 2010“. Last  time I checked, that was today…and today where I live it was a MONDAY.

Okay, okay…I’ll give you that it is not necessary that the topic question has to correlate exactly to the day of the week that it actually is, but….here’s the deal: It goes on to ask If it’s Sunday where you are, what kind of day is it so far?”


What planet is this from? See, I’m on planet Earth…in North America…on the West Coast…and the date on my inbox shows this was received January 24, 2011 at 11:13:00 am…Pacific Standard Time. There’s no way in hell or that anywhere on this planet was it Sunday when The Daily Post posted this question. It was either Monday or Tuesday in any given place on the planet.

In Nuku’alofa, in the Kingdom of Tonga…which is practically right on the International Date line…it was Tuesday, January 25, 2011 at 11:13:00 AM…day two of the work week, coffee break time.

To the northeast of Tonga…up in Honolulu, Hawaii…Monday January 24, 2011 was just starting at 9:13:00 AM and Hawaiians were just getting to work downtown.

To the northwest of Tonga…in Hong Kong…it was Tuesday, January 25, 2011 in the wee snoring hours of the morning at 3:13:00 AM.

Keep moving west to Mumbai, and it was just barely turning Tuesday, January 25, 2011, at 12:43:00 AM….time for bed.

In Istanbul, Turkey, it was still Monday, January 24, 2011 at 9:15:00 PM…they were just halfway through a late dinner.

You getting the picture? Nowhere on the planet was it Sunday. Not anywhere. I think the author posing that question via The Daily Post might be on another plane of existence…or possibly an ignorant idiot.

I vote for ignorant idiot…

…And it’s probably the fault of some Republican somewhere voting against adequate funds for public schools in the district the author grew up in.

© 2011 D. Kessler


Ivar’s Salmon House for Sunday Brunch…with twenty other people…all in honor of a new life arriving in a few weeks via one of my oldest friends. Yes, that’s right…A baby shower. Not your normal baby shower…for Not-Your-Normal crowd of unusual suspects. It was lovely.

Copious quantities of crab legs, prime rib, oysters on the half-shell, salmon of various preparations, eggs benedict, various porcine breakfast meats, crepes, to many salads to count, fruits and breads and tarts and eclairs. Mimosas, Bloody Marys, Coffee. Oh god, yes…Coffeeee.

I was too preoccupied with consuming the food to take pictures of it, so here instead are some snaps of the room, starting with the vaulted ceiling above our table…hung with ancient hand-hewn canoes and Native art:


A portion of the wall mural behind our table:

Mural (crop)

Some beautiful proud people gone before line the hall from the buffet to the dining room:

Old Ones 3

Let me just say that I could go on from here and rant and rave about the atrocities that have been done against those proud people at the hands of the evil white eye in search of profit and power. I have a pang in my gut that is not due to too much hollandaise or a questionable oyster or too many sweeties, but rather from the commercialism and greed thinly cloaked in a ambient tribute to those that have lost so much, even their own culture. They are not now the same peoples as they were for hundreds of years. They have been manipulated and marginalized, crushed into the background of society.

Yes, I could. I feel I should…but I just don’t have the energy. My fire has been doused with a dawning of futility. That and so much wonderful food today, with friends dear…and so now I must sleep.

Too. Much. Food.

© 2011 D. Kessler

aspirin3I think we maybe had a little bit too much fun last night. Just a tad. Judging from the way I’ve been a big lazy blob on the couch, clicking my way through the Xfinity On Demand menu and fading in and out of napping for the past, um, whole day…yeah I’d say that last night was a bit off the charts. Oh yeah, that…and my head is killing me.

I’m thinking it was either the fantastic fru-fru cocktail with plum infused vodka and rhubarb muddled with cucumber and other stuff that started it all off. Or maybe it was the four tall vodka-crans at the next place. Or maybe it was the can of Rolling Rock and Wii Trivial Pursuit at 3:30am with the glass of waterneighbors upstairs…or…

Oh hell, I know what it was. It was the two whole cigarettes I smoked during  the Wii Trivial Pursuit at 3:30am. Ew…Gross. *cough-cough* *gag*

Also…note to self and anyone else going out and getting their drink on that’s over the age of 35:  EAT SOMETHING FIRST. You know…like, uh…DINNER.

Talk about a seasoned professional pulling an amateur stunt. Yeah, I’m feeling not so hot today, so this is all you, dear Reader, are getting from me. Oh, but it all seemed like a WONDERFUL idea at the time. Best laid plans and all that. They always do.

Now back to space-out with a Xanax and drink the tallest glass of water you’ve ever seen. We’ve got places to be, and to be seen at, tomorrow.

© 2011 D. Kessler

I’m sitting in my local just having a drink or five. It’s Friday night, it’s payday, my buddy’s pouring stiffies (you know…Mike…of previous post fame). The jukebox is playing the good, the bad, & lots of the ugly…everything from Nine Inch Nails to Hank III to Journey to Gogol Bordello…it’s a Good Thing. Very.

So, pardon me if I don’t really have an earth shattering rant or a sage blurb to dispense to the masses.


I deserve it! I preserve it! (Okok…no B-52’s references, I gotcha.) Damn it if I haven’t earned this cocktail and all it’s cousins!

I’m wishing y’all a Happy Fucking Friday and go tear some shit up with people you love. RIGHT NOW! Do it. Cuz if they’re really friends worth half their salt… they miss you. Even if you saw them yesterday.

If you’ve read some of my posts in the Archive…specifically during the 2008 Presidential Campaign…you’ve probably gotten the idea that I really can’t stand a Certain Woman Who Shall Not Be Named. There’s not much worse in my book than being a total idiot and thinking you’re a genius, plus you just can’t keep your mouth shut…even when every time you open it you do more damage to yourself and those you supposedly represent than if you JUST…SHUT…THE FUCK…UP.


Maybe I should be happy she can’t keep her oral flaps zipped. The more she spews lately, the worse she sounds, the deeper she shoves her foot down her esophagus. Hell, she should be digesting her left knee right down in her upper intestine right about now. At this rate she’ll be a candidate for a Hoveround and government assistance before the next presidential campaign. Oh no! Let’s watch the double standard kick in, shall we?  She doesn’t want a government health program for the masses, but what do you bet she’ll take government funds for medial assistance if she ever needs it!

I know I’m not spouting anything new here. I’m just letting off some steam so I don’t explode the week of February 28-March4. That’s the week we’re not only not going to write about The Dumb Barbie-Bitch from Alaska. We’re going to do that thing that Arrogant Sociopaths absolutely hate.


Yep. Flip that channel, turn the page, click off the website…completely fucking pretend she doesn’t exist!  Can you sing “blahdadaladalaladadahlalaaaaaah” with me while covering your ears and squishing your eyes up tight? You know…just like when we were kids?

Facebook has a info page here.

Better yet, LeftAction has a petition you can sign here.

Go do it, Join us!

Because that Dumb Bitch just pisses the hell outta me to no end. I can’t even begin to say the vile things I think about someone that bereft of soul.

The only YouTube video I can handle watching of her is this one…cuz she actually doesn’t say a damn thing.

© 2011 D. Kessler

I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know how to eat like a skinny person. Well, actually, let me clarify. I do know how to eat like one very specific skinny person…the skinny person that I used to be.

For over 35 years I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, in quantities I wanted…and never gained a pound. I was that skinny bitch you hated, the one that wore a size 2 and ate burritos the size of a small child…WITH all the extra cheese and gi-normous glops of sour cream. I ate cake and pie for breakfast, drank breves instead of lattes, ordered fries drowning in melted cheese and dunked them in brown gravy before I washed them down with a full-bodied micro-brew amber ale.

The carbs and fat grams were off the charts. The party on my taste-buds was that to rival an exclusive event on Ibiza…and I drank to match. Oh yes, I drank a lot….frothy girly drinks, heavy wheat beers, sweet liqueurs and of course vodka. Vodka with juices. Hel-LO…can you say calories?

Through all of that…all those years, well into my late 30s…I remained a lithe 5-foot-6-inch 115 pounds.

Oh,I didn’t work out…I didn’t need to. Yes, my feet were my main source of transportation…that and public transit…and I didn’t have a sit-down job, but neither did I have job that required a ton of energy either. I wasn’t running around all day and night, lifting and moving or breaking a sweat…almost never. I just was that lucky girl with the amazing metabolism.  Until…

I’m not sure what happened. Could it be that age really just kicks in one day? I mean, it was like…*snap!…all of a sudden I was growing in places I didn’t want to grow. Sure, I finally got the much coveted “Twins”, but the heck made the deal to let their “cousins” move into The Upper and Lower Asslands, and gave permission to all manner of their “extended family” to take over bodily neighborhoods I didn’t know I had!  My awesome expensive club clothes…Lip Service, Catherine Coatney, Betsy Johnson, all of them…no longer fit. My work clothes weren’t comfortable…and my ankles started bothering me if I wore heels for too long.

So, I did what everybody always says to do: I cut back on all the things you’re supposed to, and then even cut them out altogether. It didn’t seem to help, not one bit. I tried going to the gym…I really did…but I all that happened was my appetite went up and, even though I didn’t give in to it, the scales still stayed the same. I try to eat sensible: small portions, whole grains, naturally low fat…it’s not working. It’s gotten so that I’m afraid to eat anything at all…anything…AT ALL…and I get serious guilt if I eat, period.

Add to that that I live with two adults that can eat anything and do and seem to think I should eat what they’re eating, when they’re eating it. AND I have a mother-in-law that thinks the world revolves around pasta and processed/packaged foods, so she delivers such to my house every Saturday…from Costco…gratis. I’m at my wits end.

Don’t get me wrong…I’m not shopping for clothes in the plus-sizes…yet. Oh-gawd-shoot-me-please-before-that-happens. But I sure as hell don’t know who the frak that woman is in the reflection as I walk past the glass-fronted shops and cafes on my way to and from The Slave Box…but she isn’t me and I don’t like her.

No sirree. I don’t like her one bit.

© 2011 D. Kessler

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