Well, I fell on my technologically-challenged ass last weekend in Vegas.

Not only do I not possess a shiny, happy orgasmic iPod of all that is audibly holy, I could not find my digital camera when, ten minutes before I was supposed to leave, I decided to pack my bags.

So, I did what any aging art star who fondly remembers fondling Leicas and drooling over Hasselblads in the olden days would do: I dragged the crate labeled “cameras” from the closet — filled with such fun re-discoveries as an electrical-taped Holga, Polaroid Captiva, several Minolta 35mm’s and Keropi point-and-shoot — and loaded up an real, actual camera … with film, no less!

Granted, buying the film was probably as time-consuming and frustrating as finding the digital would have been — a few lonely rolls hung along the wall of the local CVS, nestled, dusty, between memory cards and reading glasses.

The good news is that there’s no effing shutter lag when doing photos the old school way. The bad news is that I’m still waiting to get them back …

In the interim, I’ve composed an image that, I think, accurately reflects the photos you will, someday, see …

It came from the ‘yunk

Okay okay okay, I swear to god I have not been abducted by aliens or become a nun or fallen off a really big cliff, although all of those things are certainly possible at any point in my life…

I know. I know…

So, the big news is the She-Devils’ upcoming bout, next Sunday, May 21. Buy tickets now or I will personally hunt you down on my rollerskates (and fishnets) and hurl insults at you until you click on the goddamned paypal button to appease me.

At which point I will then rifle through your music collection (or simply steal your iPod), eat whatever junk food is in your fridge, steal your liquor and leave you alone, with your paypal confirmation number, shivering in the corner, feeling violated.

And you know you’ll enjoy it.

And really, either way, you’re gonna’ get beat up, so you might as well check out some serious roller derby (no pillow fights here, we use our fists).

‘course, I won’t be at this bout, I’ll be laying alongside a clear, blue body of water in the middle of the Nevada desert, with a drink in my hand, many more in my body, feeding the caution-to-the-wind desire for the sin of all Norse-girl sins: a suntan!

That’s right, Vegas. If you see a lobster hobbling through PHL sometime after next weekend, you’ll know it’s me. Kindly avoid touching me, and keep in mind I’ll probably be emanating heat from the burns, so if it’s warm outside, you have been warned….

As far as my extended electronic absence is concerned, I’ve got a few excuses, none of them all that good, but remember, people, I’m old and probably don’t care. The good news is the serial singleton one-bedroom is coming together nicely: I managed to move all 3,000 pounds of chick lit books, plastic plates, coffee mugs from around the world and random pieces of paper, art supplies, clothes and shoes I never wear, several bikes and way too many useless, outdated computers across town and up three flights of stairs.

I’m never moving again. They’ll have to hurl my cold, lifeless corpse down one of those mega-trash shoots they attach to buildings that lands in those mobile truck-sized dumpsters before I’ll lug this crap around again.

I remember the first time I set off on my own and packed my life into the back of my beat up… er… okay, shiny red fast turbocharged German sportscar… when I was 20 and drove until I hit the shiny blue ocean. Well, okay, it was Massachusetts — does that count?

Back then, if it didn’t fit into my car, it no longer belonged to me, or, actually, lay forgotten in the dark corners of my parents’ basement until last year, when they decided to sell their house. (Which, coincidentally, was called off shortly after I went through all my crap and managed to move most of it out… I still imagine the champagne toast after they pulled out the “for sale” sign and wondered what to do with all the newfound junk-storing space.)

Of course, we all have to move on, collect more things, more baggage in oh so many forms, and before you know if you’re still hauling your shit around in the back of a shiny red German car, only this time it’s done in a dozen loads because you’re too poor to afford movers, and too much of a useless hermit to make it to bars and get hit on by men with big arms and small brains who you can convince to move you that weekend thinking you’ll agree to have sex.

Either way, you’re bound to wind up sweaty and tired and vowing to never, ever do anything that horrible again…

Two weeks, people, two weeks…

Girl-On-Girl Roller Derby Action Hits the Garden State
on Sunday, May 21!
There will be blood, bruises and Sweet Revenge at 7 p.m. on Sunday, May 21, when the Penn Jersey She-Devils’ Sadistic Sweethearts take on fellow PJSD team the Fallen Angels in a knock down, drag out—and guaranteed to be sold out—grudge match at Holiday Skating Center in Delanco, N.J.

The two teams went head-to-head in the league’s premiere bout on Sunday, March 26, at Holiday Skating Center, where they wowed a sold-out audience and raised money for the Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN). Three hundred more tickets have been added for this bout, and are also guaranteed to sell out. Tickets are $12 in advance, $15 at the door and $20 VIP.

To help the She-Devils become the most badass athletes Penn-Jersey has seen in over 30 years, 2004 Roller Derby Hall of Fame inductee Judy “the Polish Ace” Sowinski, and Arnold “Skip” Schoen signed on as coaches last year, setting PJSD apart as the only league coached by bona fide banked track roller derby stars. In addition to whipping the She-Devils into shape on wheels, both Judy and Skip skated for the Philadelphia Warriors in the 1970s, where they kicked quad-skate ass for a living.

Roller derby is a real, unscripted sport, and the She-Devils hone their skills twice a week at Cornwell’s Skating Center in Bensalem, Pa. A third team will be formed this spring; unlike roller derby leagues of the past, modern roller derby leagues are comprised of at least two teams that skate against each other in addition to other area leagues. Skaters also take unique names, which are registered in a national database.

Additional bouts for the 2006 season are currently in the planning stages for rinks throughout New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania, including a bout in Hershey, Pa., in June. In the meantime, each She-Devil is busy perfecting her game, with rookies joining on a regular basis as the sport becomes increasingly popular. There are nearly 80 flat track roller derby teams across the U.S., and counting!

About the She-Devils: The Penn Jersey She-Devils is the original Philadelphia region all-girl roller derby league. Founded in 2005 by Ken Sikes and Greg Spencer, PJSD is a skater-owned and -operated league, with over 40 skaters from both Pennsylvania and New Jersey, ranging in age from 20 to 45, who strap on quad roller skates and hit the rink every Monday and Thursday at Cornwell’s Skating Center in Bensalem, Pa. She-Devils’ occupations vary widely—the league includes body piercers, chefs, chemists, clowns, massage therapists retail owners, tattoo artists and teachers—but all She Devils are in it for one thing: to skate like hell.

My Own Little Corner of Manayunk

I’ve finally stopped sleeping with ear plugs. Not initially. For the first few days it seemed almost foreign to sleep with the ability to hear anything and everything going on around me.


But now that it’s been a full week of freedom I’d have to say it’s pretty goddamn cool.


Oh, I had my doubts, the lingering fears and uncertainty: if a scary monster were going to attack me, is it better to remain oblivious until the very end, or hear every scale, scraping toenail and breath of fire as it moves ever closer?


Granted, the real reason I’d taken to earplugs wasn’t so much scary monsters as annoying surroundings. And I have to say, since vacating my West Philly abode I do not miss the boomin’ system. Not one bit. Not one beat. Nada…


And yes, it’s true, I’ve moved into my own digs in the land Justin euphemistically refers to as Many Hunks, otherwise known as the land of bicycles and spandex. (Although, technically, I’m in a place called Wissahickon. Whatever… I see bicycles…)


To celebrate, I took mah baybee out for a spin last week to see what it’s like to hit the open road straight from home, and not have to make my way through the ‘hood first. An hour later, sucking air and bright lobster red, I realized I’ve got a lot of work to do—apparently skating’s not all that in the land of fitness!


But it sure is fun to do and watch, and in the spirit of roller derby unity a few of us She-Devils made our way to Long Island last night for their opening bout, which was definitely much fun. Ranking high on the un-fun o’meter, however, would be Google directions and the asshole programmer who decided the easiest way from Philly to Long Island is through Man-effing-hattan!


Anyone who happened to be on 34th yesterday as a little red VW crawled along, its driver heaping curses upon Google while shaking the steering wheel … well, I apologize. Hopefully there won’t be any lasting scars…

Wednesday: Dork, dork, dork… I’m a dork. Or just regressive… repressive? Aggressive? (Well, ask my fellow roller girls about that … they’ll be glad to tell you I throw a mean block … right before I fall on my ass!)
Sitting here stretching after running, getting ready to go out, listening to same dj I’ve been smitten with since time began, thinking about how I used to go out running before going out countless years ago, and would stretch listening to smit’y dj…..
Either I need to exorcise the ’90s or embrace them. Whatever I choose, however, I’ve got the wardrobe!

Tuesday: I’m so damned tired. And completely off my rocker, it seems, considering the fact that somehow I managed to take myself outside the house this a.m. with two completely different earrings on.


Now, granted, that’s not a huge deal — happens all the time, I’m sure, with earrings, socks, shoes, anything that comes in twos — but the part that has me most worried is the fact that no one said a word to me.


So what does that say about me?!?!?


I think I’ve just got so much going on right now I can’t keep the brain, or its accessories, on straight!


First off, there’s the skating around in circles while simultaneously trying to push other skaters around — while remaining upright, a talent I’ve yet to master, or even get the basics of — not to mention the writing and the visiting and the eating, drinking and be merry’ing, along with the fact that any day now I am moving from the dark hole I’ve been residing in for far longer than originally intended to a brightly lit cocoon of my very own.


That shit takes time and energy.


And then there’s all the other stuff that floats around my peripheral vision like the ghost that walks between the walls of this scary, old house. Or maybe it’s just my paranoid schizophrenic-esque roommate. Who knows. Either way, I’m outta’ here to chase ghosts of my own.


In the meantime, things continue to get away from me.


Like the fact that for the first time since switching phone service providers a year ago I looked at my phone bill, and the number rundown, only to discover a number from an area code I lived in once upon a time…


Only, I never remembered getting a single call from this number, because if I had I would have picked it up immediately. For, you know, curiosity’s sake.


Not because, you know, there might be someone at the other end I’m desperate to, you know, talk to…


So now I sit and stare at the number. Whoever it was gave up trying weeks ago, which I can’t say I blame them, and never left a message, which I also cannot blame them for….


So what do I do?


If I call, what do I say? I can’t find the number on google. There’s no other choice. I call, or I don’t. Two horrible decisions for an anti-social butterly!


If only life were as easy as strapping on a pair of skates and pushing people around…


God I need help… or balls!




Had the overwhelming desire to pen ode to my bike yesterday after seeing all the healthy folk riding out in the sun-drenched Philly world. Unfortunately, realized I’m no Shakespeare and the result resembled more of “there once was a bike from Nantucket” than a sappy love sonnet.

Was coming home from work when, at a stop sign, extremely hot LeMond rider with tasty tattoos crossed my path. Same yum-yum I’d chased last year on my complimentary-hued blue Zurich. Turned. Followed him. Followed him. Chickened out as visions of restraining orders flashed in my head.


Gotta’ get me some balls!

It’s hopeless, really. I’ll disregard perfectly good single male specimens upon discovery that they don’t find being clipped into a sleek piece of plastic and metal, flying like a bat out of hell with nothing more than a sliver of spandex between them and the asphalt, foreplay, and yet I’m too chicken to make eye contact with a perfect fantasy match! Pathetic…