At the altar of the Rollergirl gods

Okay, so, rundown of last night’s Philly Rollergirls fresh meat tryouts:

We got there, realized we were a handful of people who didn’t already own skates, filled out a bunch of paperwork, which included the requisite “tell us about yourself” and “why do you want to be a rollergirl?” (I included ‘I’ve been hit nine times by cars, getting hit by girls doesn’t scare me. In fact, I look forward to it.’) and then went out and rolled around.

They had us skate five times around the track, looking for speed and style (I sucked ass, and was probably slow as all get out), skate between cones, slalom-style (I actually said, ‘Whee!” while doing it, which could either work in my favor or put me out of the running entirely), running start on the toe stops (essentially balancing on this little nubs of worn rubber at the end of your toes, defying gravity and the gods and making you look like a cross between a chicken and an epileptic sneaking around), and an in-person interview.

That part was particularly grueling as it was about this point the caffeine and wine combo I’d employed at home to simultaneously mellow me out and get me moving fast kicked in, causing me to talk far too fast, sweat profusely, act like I was still in third grade and twitch, although the latter bit I think I disguised by spinning around in circles until I almost threw up.

When we were done doing all those things they sent us away, with nothing more than the promise that the few selected (10 tops, and there were probably 50 people trying out) would be contacted at the end of the week.

For the rest of us, there’s the sorrow of knowing that we weren’t good enough. Yet.

I’m driving to Delaware as soon as I can find the time to buy my own pair of skates. And yes, I’m gonna put pom-poms on them, just like when I was 12!

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Tales of a Badass Rollergirl Wanna Be, Vol. 2

Okay, I’m just going to spit it out: tomorrow’s rollergirl tryouts.

Augh!

It’s okay … it’s okay.

Cat and I have been skating like quad-crazed fiends, and I’ve got a blister the size of Texas on my right heel, and a sore ass from landing a few too many times after getting a bit too cocky re: my abilities. But, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and whatever’s in between, well, there’s ice and Advil.

Wish us luck…

Time to use our remaining choices: at the bank and voting booth

I don’t even know what to say. What is there to say in response to the ban on abortion signed into law today in South Dakota?

Words have made little difference to those who do not even consider the procedure an option for women who have been raped, or are carrying a relative’s child.

Nice.

There’s something more powerful than words here in ’Murka, and although I too tend to picture a shotgun as I write that, I’m speaking of the single most powerful thing to the genteel citizenry and powerful white men controlling this country: Money.

I’m putting it where my mouth is, and I’d like to urge everyone else to do the same, because, let’s face it, abortion sucks, it’s the last thing anyone wants to happen. But it does. Period. No hearts and flowers, wishing it away or forcing it away.

Start with Planned Parenthood. They’ve been there for my uninsured ass in the past, and it’s always been comforting to know that no matter what I might need in relation to my sexual self — pain relief, condoms, birth control, STD tests, prenatal care or abortion — I can count on them.

I want to make sure the next generation can as well, for whatever care they need.

Anyone delusional enough to think abortion will end if it’s illegal needs a kick in the teeth. It never has, never will, and these dumbasses really need a clue. Each one signs the legislation in the blood of some poor, desperate women as she bleeds to death from a botched back alley abortion. Remember those? Don’t worry, you won’t have to: they’re coming back in fashion.

It’s time to talk through the pure force of funds.

These bastards are hijacking every scrap of free will, free speech and self-determination the citizens of what was, way back in the day, the best country in the world, are barely clinging to.

I’ve had enough, and I’m sick and tired of sitting around talking about things. It doesn’t work on these thugs. Time to get serious and Just. Say. No.

Because, you and I both know that if the daughter of any of those South Dakotan bastards came home knocked up she’d be secretly whisked into the operating room of some MD for an abortion faster than you can say “amen.”

More Fun with Cheney!

To be perfectly honest, I cannot even begin to discern which element of the news that VP Darth Cheney shot a fellow hunter is more disturbing:

 

µ      The vice president’s office did not disclose the accident until the day after it happened.

 

µ      [Property owner Katharine] Armstrong said she was watching from a car while Cheney, Whittington and another hunter got out of the vehicle to shoot at a covey of quail.

 

µ      [The victim, Harry] Whittington "came up from behind the vice president and the other hunter and didn’t signal them or indicate to them or announce himself," Armstrong said.

 

µ      "The vice president didn’t see him," she continued. "The covey flushed and the vice president picked out a bird and was following it and shot. And by god, Harry was in the line of fire and got peppered pretty good."

 

µ      "Fortunately, the vice president has got a lot of medical people around him and so they were right there and probably more cautious than we would have been," [Armstrong] said. "The vice president has got an ambulance on call, so the ambulance came."

 

So, essentially, what we’re to believe is that Cheney drives around looking for things to kill. When he finds something, he has his driver stop the car, which, I’m assuming, causes the assorted other vehicles that travel with him to stop as well. These vehicles include at least one ambulance. He then gets out, finds what he wants to kill, locks his prey in a visual death grip (much like a predator missile, I’ll betcha’) and does not register a human being in his gun’s path.

 

Tell me, which part is more frightening? I cannot decide…

 

H Stands for Has-Been

Christ all fucking mighty, Henry, can you give it a rest already?

Yes, I know, we all understand you need to pay the rent, and the residuals from those Apple commercials and Nissan voice-overs don’t last forever.

But really, honestly, I say this with as much love as I can muster: no one cares.

The last time I saw you, with dear ol’ Mags, I had such bronchitis I couldn’t speak, which was your lucky day, because, really, if I’d intended to pay good money to sit around listening to some undersexed big-necked middle-aged white man talk about how women, once they get into a relationship, suck their partners’ souls dry and just want to go shop for curtains, I could listen to Fox News.

And that’s free.

I know, Henry, I understand this must be tough. I’ve followed you, Henry, was part of the audience, mosh pit, fan base for years. I played the Rollins Band on my radio show, listened to Black Flag, fantasized about bearing your love child.

But those days are gone, Henry, gone the way of the telegraph, trust in government, budget surplus and your virility.

So please, Henry, please understand: we who followed you, who understood you, believed in what was once your brilliance, cannot stand you.

And if I happen to see you wandering around my dear ol’ city of brotherly love next week, don’t worry, I won’t talk to you. You don’t like interviews, or conversation, you need to keep your concentration, keep focused on the task at hand. I know. I remember.

It must be so hardcore being you…

A love letter of unbridled desire

I can no longer deny it, and must shout it out to the world. I wish to sing a love song, jump on a couch like Tom Cruise; I cannot be silent any more.

You are my love. My desire. My passion.

I walk through driving snow, sit in rush hour traffic, go out of my way to embrace your tender sweetness. You are my everything.

But, like all good things, you are fleeting, coming into my life on winter’s darkest days, brightening my spirits and sweetening my tongue.

And alas, my love, I crave you! Crave like no other. Yet when you go, I forget about my love, the way I feel when you’re around, until you return, bringing with you a stronger ocean of longing each time.

And alas, my love, you, like so many others, are so bad for me. The way you make me feel, the person you turn me into, I scarcely recognize. And, like so many others, I must let you go.

But, for now, I cannot.

Because I know that soon, my love, soon you will, again, be gone…