9622.net

I got no ideas for Luisa, but I can tell you that when I read "my best girlfriend," I thought you meant like, your bottom bitch. Your favorite of your harem.

'Cause Migs is just pimp like that.

Man, I had to read that first post, like, five times before I had the math sorted out (yes, of course I'm drunk...)

Personally, I wouldn't chalk it up to a gay thing. Luisa is probably attracted to X-type. Chances are both her Ex and New Guy are X-type. If I go out and run into some guy who likes Futurama, Gin and slutty shoes (on the ladies...) chances are we're gonna bond at least a little bit.

I love stavrosthedirtypsychechicken.

Sometimes a dirrty cartoon gesture is just a dirrty cartoon gesture. (But clearly not in this case.)

Miguel, I don't see her having all that many options, aside from letting their friendship play out and being the great and classy woman I have no doubt she always is anyway.

Of course, spite (and the occasional divisive rumour, and barring that, arsenic) are also quite effective.

Evan Dorkin once drew a 3-panel comic strip called "Pretty Boy Freud" in which our Sigmund storms into a back with his pistols blazin' demanding everyone put their hands up. Everyone asks him, "Whay are you doing this?" "What are you saying?" To which he of course ansewrs "Sometimes agun is just a gun, now hand of the money!"

In other news, I DON'T WANNA DO LAUNDRY AND LISA'S MAKING ME! WAAAH!!

Heh, my first husband and my present husband are very good friends - my first husband was the best man at our wedding! I think it's excellent, and I don't think there's anything kinky about it, thank gawd. First hubby has changed/matured since our breakup, and has now become the guy I saw the potential of way-back-when.

Nonetheless, his habit of playing the accordian in his underwear would still make it impossible for us to live together.

I understand, tizzie. I understand.

Ew.

The answer to the title of this post is "Yes. Sometimes they snap out of it, and sometimes they don't."

I wish I could offer some useful advice Migs, but I'm afraid that my usual response in situations involving bothersome ex's is to throw any heavy and/or sharp objects within my reach at their heads while screaming obscenities. I blame it on my napolitana blood.

Which reminds me I have the opportunity to improve my aim this week. Bugger.

Maybe the exhusband and the boyfriend are swapping stories about her, to her detriment.

Or not.

(does Schweppes Girl know about this?)

Schweppes Girl is agin it, Bunny. In fact, she said the same thing as you. But she doesn't like that I worry about "Luísa" either. Portuguese wives don't really allow female friends. Or better: really don't allow. Why do you think I posted the problem here? Cowardice, dear girl - sheer cowardice.

"Luísa" read all the comments here, had a good laugh, said she learnt nothing. 'Cept from romakimmy. Who reinvigorated her. Same attitude, you see! :)

No offense to you Miguel, but I have to wonder after the type of girl who puts husband and lover at the same table to "sort things out" and then is disappointed when they actually do. My black heart tells me she was hoping for a floor show a 'la romakimmy. I know girls like this, who pimp fights because it gives them a charge to see a couple of brutes slugging it out over her fair hand. No such luck this time? Boo-fuckin-hoo darling. Probably she's just hoping these two are a wee bit lavender to ammeliorate the more likely event that these two are just embodying the notion that she's not as fancy as she thought she was.

I got a buck right now that says she's already got #3 in the hopper. Any takers?

*cries*

So, am I gay or not?

I'm so confused...I mean, doesn't everyone like gin?

Perhaps the tone of my earlier post was colored by the fact that I used to date one of those special, fisticuff-provoking women. Got the scars to prove it, too.

*hands Miguel a conciliatory tissue in a decidedly heterosexual manner*

Is '#3 in the hopper' a slang term for something filthy? 'Cause it sure sounds like it.

Oh. Oh. Oh Dear.

I just KNEW Schweppes Girl was a brilliant woman. *ahem*

I've taken to opening this page and looking blankly at Mr. Frood and trying to stupidly smile at the same time he does.

Who needs sleep?

so now it's called a hopper?

I've come to the conclusion that most of the people on MeFi weren't hit enough as children.

Just a thought.

(As adults neither, jon.)

Um, just to clarify I only tend to fisticuffs when the events of said relationship resemble a really bad soap opera. You know, the usual plot line of boy proposes to a girl, girl accepts, happy couple plan to live happily ever after, evil ex-girlfriend claims (insert extraordinary event involving boy here), boy needs space, boy comes back to girl begging, new bad things happen to boy, boy needs space, boy plays yo-yo with girl's heart, boy dumps girl, girl tells boy to never contact her again, boy decides he made a huge mistake and continues to bother girl on and off for the next two years ignoring directive of "Fuck off and die Cocksucker" from girl.

Like Fes, my response was tinged by personal experience (and the fact that I have to meet up with said ex this week for various reasons and am not a happy romakimmy about it). I would like to state for the record that I do not advocate the hotblooded stereotypical Latina mode of arguing nor violence towards men.

Unless they deserve it. ;-P

Late to this thread, too funny.
Mig, come real close as I whisper this [so the Dames don't hear] Never ever try to figure a woman out; they change once they know you know. Be a man, deal with it. Realize we don't bear children they do, bow your head and just say, Yes Dear.

I'm so confused...I mean, doesn't everyone like gin?

Yes dear, a gin martini, dirty...

Cheers, Thom! :)

Cheers back at ya, Mig.[scratches head wondering how to make a cheers sign, throws poo instead, then ducks]

Enough of these silly exboyfriends and such. I'm interested in hearing about how our coupled monkeys met (if they'd like to share). 30 guineas to any couple who met when they were in a circus act together. Minus points for those who met in bible study. Did you know when you met him/her that they would eventually be a significant part of your life? Miguel & Tizzie, I expect a story for each spouse.

Oh the dreaded him/her and then they. I apologize. I of course meant him/her then he/she. I do English good!

Me and pips met when we worked in a bookstore. I had the computer section, she had poetry and lit crit. One night there was a poetry reading by a poet whose daughter pips was freinds with. I stayed for the reading. It was well attended so I had to squeeze in to a small spot on the floor. Afterwards, we went and had coffee and fries at the diner. A month later she showed up on my parents lawn unexpectedly with keys to a 2 room 3rd floor walkup in Bridgeport. The rest is history.

As to whether she'd be a significant part of my life, I had a good hunch she would be.

Does meeting in the kitchen of a Bible school count?
Our first real conversation had to do with a Robert Service poem called The Cremation of Sam McGee. I made an impression because I'd actually heard of it.

The northern lights have seen strange sights
but they also take points away for kitchens of bible schools

You don't want to know, Witchy. The awful truth is I met them all, as well as all the women I know, in nightclubs. Being a terrible ladies' man, I met them all by somehow engaging them in conversation, with follow-up letters, whatever it took. Boring? But effective nonetheless.

Of course they all told me, at the first chance, they seduced me. And, with time, and hindsight -I have come to realize, sadly, this is probably true.

Andrea and I met when we were about 18. Just out of high school. I was working in a coffee shop in downtown Saratoga, California. She was working at a bakery across the street. We sort of hung out together with mutual friends sometimes. One day, I noticed that she seemed to be hanging around the coffee shop an awful lot by herself, and it dawned upon me to ask her to dinner. We were never apart more than a day for almost five years after that.

We went to Community College together, transferred to UC Santa Cruz together and lived together for a couple of years up until we were a couple of months from graduating.

I don't know what happened. We never fought really, but just one day we didn't want it anymore, and we had The Fight. I remember walking down to the beach at about 4am and watching the sun come up, feeling so afraid of what was to come, and wondering how the hell I could not be with this woman. Luckily for me, I had become quite a drinker, and that helped me not think about it for a while.

We didn't see each other or speak one word for five years after that. We were off living our lives, growing up and all that stuff. I'd still think about her though. It was like another part of me had left as she closed the door to our apartment that last time.

Then, one day, my mother died. She had had cancer for a year or so, and it was ugly. My two sisters and I were in charge of the funeral and notifying everyone. As we thought of everyone who should be there, Andrea's name came up. She had always been close with my mom, who was just shattered when we parted ways. We found her number and I called and left a message on her answering machine.

She told me later that she started crying when she heard my voice on the tape.

She was living in Southern California, about 500 miles from where I was in the Bay Area, but by coincidence she was going to be in town the day of the memorial service.

After the service, we had a wake, where we drained a keg and cried and laughed and remembered my mom. Andrea said later she wasn't sure if she should come to the wake or not, and that she knew what would happen if she did.

Long story slightly less long...a year later I was on my knee in a graveyard in Bristol, England, proposing to her.

Our story could so easily have been this story, but it wasn't. Mostly thanks to the early death of my mother.

The first night we were back together, Andrea dreamed of my mom asking her to take care of me.

That's so truthful and well written, Chris. Damn you, man - you've gone and changed my mood.

(Thank you)

*tries to maintain curmudgeonly, bitter, "Romance? Bah." attitude*

*fails*

sniff. Ya'll are wrecking holy hell on my conguncitivitis.
[this is good]

Oh, geez Kaf. You went and made me all weepy.

How embarrassing.

[this is good]

Kafkaesque, that's some story. You have One True Love. I on the other hand, have had a few.

Husband #1 and I met in Driver's Ed class. Subsequently, both of our children were concieved in automobiles.

#2 and I met at my little brother's wedding. It was lust at first sight. We kept trying to be in love, worked really hard at it, but about 5 years later my nerves gave out and he had to go.

Current husband and I met on the internet. Oh, shaddup, it happens. I tried to fight it - at one point I said "You cannot be interested in me, I am a penniless writer." He said, "I am a penniless writer, too." I said, "Yes, but I have a big black hairy dog who sheds a lot." And he said that he had two big black hairy dogs that shed a lot. Then, I had the clincher. "You cannot be interested in me because I have two teenaged sons with autism," and he replied that he had been a charge nurse in a psyche ward for adolescents.

So, he trumped my ace.

Wow my love life is dull. ;)

Really, EBK?

If you believe that, people, you'll believe anything. I hear a guy say his love life his dull and my reliable ex-Lothario antennae beep me "Achtung! A wolf on the prowl!".

And no, I'm not leaving Lupo out of this, either.

Not his - is, dammit. ;)

It's been many years since I've been on the prowl migs.

Shhhh! ;)

Kafka, that was beautiful.

But apparently my comment did not find favor with the server. Post, dammit!

"Kafka, that was beautiful."

I said the same after reading that wonderful story about the giant cockroach.

I met MissusFes at a Moody Blues concert. I was the young dissolute with the blazing eyes who came to see the Fixx open, she was the ex-cheerleader who just about had it with the standard baseball-scholarship types who'd given her trouble her whole life.

Our seats happened to be next to each other. We shared a doobie. The rest, as they say, is history. Fifteen years in May.

*makes resolution to tip a glass to Kaf and Andrea tonight, and to destiny, and to strength of heart*

Very nice story, sir.

Would it suprise you to know that I was a cheerleader once upon a time?

Would it suprise you to know that I was a cheerleader once upon a time?

Because it would surprise me. Doubly.

I met the senorita (we're not married) at a house party that was being thrown for her birthday. I was quite drunk and quite smitten, and she maintains that I wished her a happy birthdy about 12 times that night. I was just having fun.

I saw her a few more times that semester, but returned to Tulsa for the summer to do an internship working in an advertising firm from hell. When the next semester started, I had a couple of friends over to my apartment to hang out. We all drank Jagermeister and watched "Fargo" and I chatted with D some more. We wound up talking all night, long after everyone had left, and by the time that I took her home the sun was coming up. We went out to dinner two nights later, and then history began writing her story.

The server is doing very strange things. I think it's been drinking.

Surprising? no. Intriguing? yes.

Did you miss the part where I said I would be suprised?

It was Karen's jambalaya that hooked me. I'm eating some right now. Mmmmm....

son of a gun, you'll have big fun

Oh, I'm having a grade school flashback. Someone has a radio on and it's playing "Oh Sherry" by none other than--Steve Perry.

Witchstone, I would be surprised if you were a MORMON cheerleader.

*still sulking after deleted points. Hoping the fact 20th anniversary is in August makes up for it*

our love
holds on
ho-olds on

um, b*f*: you hang out with people who talk constantly about schtupping monkeys. stones, glass houses, etc.

Who do Mormon Cheerleaders cheer for? God? The team? The Tabernacle Choir?

hmm, I have really depressing and sad stories about how my relationships have ended... that's about it.

Who do Mormon Cheerleaders cheer for?

Same thing as regular ones: The Boys.

um, b*f*: you hang out with people who talk constantly about schtupping monkeys. stones, glass houses, etc.

I have an incredible capacity for ignoring things. You forget I used to work third shift at the Waffle House.

Did you miss the part where I said I would be suprised?

It only makes you more intriguing, the way you toy with us so!

You forget I used to work third shift at the Waffle House.

I couldn't possibly forget that, my dear.

That would be like forgetting that you once sent a book and CD to Turkey.

Was it the bird or the country?

That would be like forgetting that you once sent a book and CD to Turkey.

I forgot about that.

Later I had a very traumatic incident with that particular postal clerk. *shudder*

Of course, that tale was just puffery. We really met in a Turkish prison, where she was my kindhearted guard, who would remove the larger grubs from the other prisoners' dinners and sneak them into mine. At night, she would regale me with fantastic tales of her days sailing with Sir Francis Drake.

One day, there was a timely riot over turkish coffee privileges and I saw my chance to flee.

She was torn between her loyalties to the state and her budding love for me. In the end, she shot me in the leg, we embraced, and we limped to freedom with a rucksack full of Turkish Delight and Turkish State Monopoly cigarettes.

Which promptly melted.

Did I just stumble into a Fraser episode?

yes.

Down goes Frazier!

Turkish coffee trumps all. Word.

I believe that Rock Kandy may have an edge on Turkish Coffee.

I sense a Steel Cage Match of Absurdity brewin'.

Them's fightin' words.

I feel a Steel Cage Match of Absurdity a-brewin'.

Is that the record for time length of eaten posts?

In the Steel Cage Match of Absurdity, there can only be seven mandarin oranges.

Tathagata

I need chocolate. And more ice tea.

i may tell you later, or I might not. ugh.

hey! non seqitirs are my department.

And the watermelon was delicious, tj.

Hoist on your own petard. That'll teach ya. Plus you're petard will be all stretchy and stuff.

I don't know about that petard stuff. Last time, with the penguin, who - it turned out - was not a midget nun, things became not only stretchy but a bit sticky for comfort as well.

Ah yes, nuns and maple syrup. Fickle mistresses, indeed.

Plus, the elements of war in relation to martian flicks are confusing as well.

Listen, what you're forgetting is that it's made of obsidian.

*touches Kafka*

*starts beating up on other monkeys with a bone, establishing the dominance of the tool builder in the human continuum.*

Okay, story o my luv!

I was sort of, um, rebellious most of my teen-twenty-something life. Dated what are commonly referred to as "curs" and "scoundrels" (one is now in prison--I won't go into why, but we'll just say it revealed exactly how unstable he really was). I happened to have really good taste in friends, but horrible taste in boyfriends, so at least I had someone to turn to when it all went to crap in the end, which it always did.

Eventually, I swore to myself that dating sucked and I was officially done with it. No more cheap tawdry flings, no more psychos, nothing. I was reformed. I didn't date for eight months.

Of course, on the surface I was still rebellious, hanging out with my friends who were all in bands, or with my friends who were in the field of "adult entertainment arts, dance section" and drinking like a champ.

One night my roommate (in a band called T.) talked me into going to see another band (G.) who he had been trying to go get me to see for years. I never went because I thought their name sounded completely butt-rock (no offense, admirers of the butt rock), and I thought my roommate's taste was often suspect. But his own band, who I loved, worshipped G. so I thought, "How can seven people be wrong?"

I fell in love with G. Love love love. They were one of the best live bands I had ever seen, and they were political and irreverent and altogether hilarious, and their music was this throbbing, pulsing, primitive assault. I was smitten. Clearly, everyone else in the audience was too.

The front man was this clean-shaven bald channeler of the black musical arts who also played timbolitos during song bridges and was this charismatic force to be reckoned with. He oozed passion and wore a Milli Vanilli shirt which was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. After their show, my roommate fawned over him (their bands had played together on occasion so they were acquaintances) and I noted that while on stage he was one step away from being Lucifer, off stage he was extremely soft-spoken and retiring, almost boyish. And he had these little round glasses that he wore off-stage that made him look like a Marxist intellectual. Adorable.

But he thought my roommate and I were dating, so that was it.

A few months later my look had changed (my hair had gone from bob to bleach-butch) and the band came back to town. I was having a terrible day for some reason, but had promised my friends I would come see G. I showed up late, the band was almost done, and my mood was even blacker. After they finished, I went out to say my farewells to everyone (cranky) and as I walking past the bar saw the singer. Since we had met a few months earlier, I waved at him and kept on walking. As I crossed the lobby I turned around and there he was.

"Have we met?" he said.

"Yes, a few months ago," I said, and described the circumstances.

Clearly surprised that we had met, he kept talking to me. And talking to me. I was flabberghast. Not only did I look like "The Littlest Lesbian," but many of my female (and some of my male) friends had a bone for this guy. But here he was, raptly paying attention to my mumblings and sputterings. I was in heaven. He was being interviewed by some journalist from London who had flown out to see them and he ditched him altogether. When the band was supposed to load out, he ditched them too. I kept telling him to go do whatever it was he had to do, but he ignored that recommendation and just kept talking to me.

Needless to say, he came home with me. And then I felt like a tramp. Because not only had I promised myself that I would never have one of those cheap, tawdry flings again, but one with a singer in a band who lived in another city was the lowest of the low. Stereotypically cheesy. But I was crazy about him. I thought I would never hear from him again, which is usually how those things work, and passed it off as another stupid chapter in my life, even though I was all a-flutter everytime I thought about him.

A few days later my stepfather got mortally ill. I was calling home all day long, trying to make arrangements to go back and visit, and I was completely drained. I was on the phone with my father when I got a call on the other line. It was, of course, my illustrious one-night-band-stand. I burst into tears and told him what had happened, which must have been quite shocking for the poor man on the other end of the phone. But he was terribly sympathetic and sweet and made me laugh during a very dark day, and my heart went *boom* all over again.

There were phone bills. There were visits. There were clandestine, sneaky meetings in his town. It was very cheesy, but completely exciting.

Over time, he picked up and moved to be with me, we eloped, and we've now been together for almost eight years. And now we're the most boringly happy married couple you ever did see.

There's more to the story, but that is, in a very large nutshell, how we met.

That's a great tale, Readymade.

My cockles are warm.

It sounds absurdly impossible re-reading it now. Like, "Yeah, a guy in a band followed you around a club and now you're married. Uh huh."

Truly.

Love is so cool.

Or maybe the lesson is, "One night stands CAN work!"

D'oh! I meant "truly" in response to kaf's cockles. Not that it's truly absurd.

Stop interrupting me!

I'm sorry.

*bows head in shame*

be wary of warm cockles.

I've gotten good response to my warm cockles. Particularly when I brandish them during fancier dinner parties.

Does your wife know about that?

Of course. She even knitted me a cockle-cozy.

I fell in love with G. Love love love.

So, I guess you're married to G. Love. How does the Special Sauce feel about that?

Don't tell me these kinds of stories! I thought musicians were safe! *frets*

that's funny, I'm not invited to dinner parties any more because if my frequent cockle barandishment.

Y'know, I started getting death threats from Special Sauce, but I thought it was a joke. I mean, why would deli condiments have a beef with me?

I thought she was talking about G Love and Special Sauce too.

I like cold beverage!

So, um, it's friday. So should I have kangaroo meat appetizers of polynesian cocktails?

or, dammit, or...not of

yes.

I think you should try my warm cockles, buddy.

But if we give in now, won't that make things more difficult down the road (as they say)?

Let me state for the record that I am not married to G Love. Other than the name, I don't even know who that is.

Just because you marry a musician, it doesn't seem to negate the geek genes. A grave disappointment, let me tell you.

cocktastic!

whoops, I was referring to jon's kangaroo meal.

or I could always just get some Boone's Farm and Quangaroos

Damn. I keep butting in everywhere today. I should jes keep ma fat yap shut.

I was kidding (G. Love isn't a bald channeler, in the first place). It just was funny that you put G. Love together.

But I will state for the record that G. Love is meox mix delicious.

Is that really G. Love? Are you joshin' me? 'cause that is some tasty freeze!

now my cockles are warm, too. mmmm ... G. Love ...

hmmmm...mine are still a little chilly.

*rubs cockles furiously*

You need to find a cockle-warmer.

9622.net: now my cockles are warm, too

I'm here, cockleberry.

10 points to the first person who knows what movie I'm referencing.

And yes, that is mostly definitely our Mr. G. Love. I think we know what the Special Sauce is. It is the only sauce that can warm the cockles.

If you keep doing that, you'll go blind

I love that this photo came up on my G. Love search.

EBK: Moonpools and Caterpillars? Why, they're from Utah! They did an instore performance back when I was avoiding adulthood by working at a music store.

witchy: tombstone

10 more points for me!

Sure, I'm old and all, but not fifteen minutes ago I got carded for beer.

I am a freakish manchild.

mmmm.... avidly avoiding adulthood....

What the fuck is that Time magazine cover doing in this thread?

What the fuck is that Time magazine cover doing in this thread?

And in case you're wondering, it's just fine to steal bandwidth from Time.

You hear me, Time? Come on! Bring it!

*is killed by Time*

After all, Time is on my side, yes it is.

*awards 10 points to tj*

Val Kilmer was the only good part of that movie.

Oops. That was the wrong thread, wasn't it?

I pray my death shall be swift and painless.

For those of you closely watching the Sebastian Bach/Jesus Christ Superstar disaster:

Metal Sludge covers the heartbreaking news

What Sebastian has to say (badly spelled)

Metal Sludge's response to Sebastian's thoughtful prose

Ah, it's good for a giggle or two.

check out the new issue of INSIDE KUNG-FU (April 2003 with the pink cover) for a picture & article about me & my Kung Fu Sifu (instuctor ) Damian Cordisco

Hmm. Damian Cordisco....Miguel Cardoso....

Hmm.

And you never see them in the same place at the same time

Mr. Sebastian's site made my eyes bleed with the centered formatting. Kill kill kill!

Damian Cordisco...

The numbers of my MeFi user page right now are weird... I wish I had the numerical skills to decipher them but they all seemed at sixes and twos and to be pointing to 9622. So I came here and what did I find?

*is felled by a downpour of spears

That boy named Kaf, he worries me sometimes.

You know, I'm happy that MeFi user 9622 is named 'babypussy,' but I'm sad that they're one of those sign-up-and-disappear types...

And her blog is just sooooo derivative.

I got a buck that says babypussy is really aaron in drag

Okay, y'all remember my little love story? The one where I fell in love with some guy in a band and then married him?

We just found a Live Journal named after his band. Not only is there an LJ named after him, but the author of the journal (now woefully out of date) is a cat named after the band.

Grotus the cat hasn't updated in a very long time, I'm sorry to say.

Um...post, bee-yatch!

I'm stuck in here!

Did I o-ffend, mighty server?

Yes!

Kneel before me!

*kneels (down to throttle it)*

A note about posting images:

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