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Friday, April 15, 2011

Advice to Ship Storm

Dearest Dear Blue Velvet,

I am writing to request a dose of that sage advice you're always bragging about having. I blame my recent addiction to scrambled eggs with cheese and sage for this desire. That and Heath Ledger, whose woulda been restaurant in Greenpoint fed me said eggs. RIP, dude. [Editor's note:  Did I ever tell you people my Heath Ledger joke that I told for a week after he became dead?  No?  OMG!  Did you hear about what happened to the accounting department at work!?  They lost a ledger last week!!!]

More so, though, I'm writing because my one true love left me this week and I don't know what to do about it. We were two lost ships without navigation lights (or docking lights, depending on the boat. Amiright?!?), floating down the river, away from one another, for thirteen years. Then one miraculous day (a year ago in three weeks, actually), our boats bumped into one another (in the biblical sense) in the romance capital of New England:  Attleboro, MA. Since then, I moved to New York to be with him, and to my dismay, even though things were going beautifully, he decided to up and move to Los Angeles: City of Bikini Sluts, for the summer. That's okay, right?

But then "summer" turned to "September" and we now stand to either be apart for six months or forever (if he "gets a job on something amazing") and I'm not sure what to do. My friends all say he's not the type of guy who'll fall victim to the wiles of the orange whores in their two-pieces - but what if he does?! Or, what if he finds someone who isn't in a bikini at all, and instead, is smart and funny and wears real clothes???

Do I trust him, even though we've been sexing for nearly a year and yet don't call each other B- and G-words? Nor have we said the L-word? All these questions seem too stupid to even ask, but I'm hoping some of your infinite relationship wisdom can help guide me in the right direction.

Forever in middle school,

Ship Storm
Dearest Ship Storm,
Your situation reminds me of the time when I worked at the MAC counter with a black, ghetto-chick-done-well, Annette, (or as her other, non-white friends would call her, but she would never let me call her:  'Net).  Anyway, 'Net and I worked together for about four years and we became quite close.  We were both Virgos!  She confessed to me that she banged Mike Tyson in the ' 80s--with photographic evidence to prove it!  She told me that I was the only white girl she ever met who could do black girls' makeup the right way. You know, without making them look all ashy and shit.  I admitted to her that she was the black, ghetto-ass, older sister I never had.  BFF!
Let's face it, you can take a girl out of the projects, but you can never take the projects out of the girl.  She took too many "bafroom" breaks, "aks'ed" a lot of questions, and sipped on too much grape drank in our years together for me to ever forget from which side of the train tracks she called home. 
'Net and I got along famously for most of our friendship.  Sadly, as with most relationships, we had a disagreement.  Let me preface this with the fact that 'Net, with the exception of me, was highly suspect of white folk in general.  One day I aksed (!) her if she would ever bang a white dude.  She was all, "Oh hell no!  White people smell like wet dogs to me!"

Seriously? I wondered.  After about five minutes of chuckling, I said, "What the fuck!  I always thought that black people were the ones who smelled like wet dogs!"  

"Oh no, girl.  It's white people!"

"Oh no you didn't!  Black people smell like wet dogs, not white people!"

The vacillating went on and on and on until our shift ended and we drifted towards our respective cars parked in the Macy's parking lot.  The next time we worked together we decided that we would never agree on which race reeked of wet dogs, so we agreed to disagree.  I think the whole debacle brought us closer as two friends of different races.  Since I have a blog and she doesn't, I am going to go on record to say that white people do not smell like wet dogs, the end, no backs, infinity.

Wow.  Just Wow.  Apparently I wrote all of the preceding stuff last night after I drank an entire bottle of $4.49 "Merlot" that I bought at Seven Eleven.  One would suppose that drinking such an elixir would incite a few hallucinations or drunk dials.  All I did was post a lowbrow Facebook status update, wrote most of this response and murdered a homeless person. 

So, you want to know what you should do about a dude you love who moved a couple thousand miles away from you or something like that?  I would say, break up with him, but since he's not your "B" and you aren't his "G" and you've never said "L", then I guess you really can't break up with someone you weren't ever dating.  My advice is that you get some of this wine I had last night and see where the night takes you.  Also, since you are free for the summer, you should be my merch girl on my comedy tour taking place in June.

Blue Velvet

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Race Relations: A One Act Play

Race Relations:  A One Act Play
Written by:  Timotea

Boy - a 30s white male

Sassy - an early 20s black female

Opening Scene:

Lights open on interior of interview room.  Boy is interviewing Sassy for a low income job in the American South.

Boy: How do you spell your name Jalisa?

Sassy: J-A-L-I-S-comma up top-A.

Boy: Comma up...? Oh, you mean an apostrophe?

Sassy: Who anna trophy?

Boy: I think I got it Jalisa.

Sassy: It don't sound like dat. It go "jah-lee-ZAY".

Boy: Oh, yes. Because of the comma up top?

Sassy: Mmmmm-hmmm.
--Fade to Black--

Saturday, March 5, 2011

And So It Begins: A One Act Play

And So It Begins
A One Act Play

Written by:  Timotea
Edited by:    Blue Velvet

Young Man, as himself
Female Friend, as herself

The City of New Orleans

Opening Scene:
Morning light slowly rises on bed.  A young man in underwear is on cell phone chatting with a female friend.

Young Man:  I don't remember much after we got back to Wells' apartment.

Female Friend:  That's when you started drinking tequila, but after you smoked enough weed to blow up the sun.

YM: Tequila? That's what that taste is in my mouth.

FF: Or the champagne from Delachaise

YM:  Who went to the Delachaise?

FF:  WE DID! You ate, like, fifty Johnny cakes, fries and guzzled champagne before you passed out when I was in the bathroom.

YM: Jesus Christ. (lights cigarette) At least I finished on champagne. Gawd, I fucking hate Mardi Gras.

--Fade to Black--

**To Be Continued**

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Planned Parenthood

These are sad times, people.  Did you hear that Planned Parenthood may lose federal funding?  Although they are known for their abortions, which are not funded by the federal government, they also offer STD testing, birth control and, rumor has it, bikini waxing--which are funded by the government. 

I travel a lot.  One of my favorite things to do when I visit a new city is to check out the local Planned Parenthood.  (I know, totally touristy!)  Anyway, I would hate for them to lose precious monies!  What else is there to do on a Tuesday in Duluth, Minnesota?  If you care anything about abortion rights, ensuring the producers of "Teen Mom" have a smaller applicant pool, tourism, or getting tested, I implore you to sign this online petition:

Planned Parenthood has The Sads :(

In the event funding is lost, I have proactively sent the good people at Planned Parenthood some ideas on how to cut costs and increase revenue.  First, they need to start charging for the post D&C cookies and juice, or at least do a cross-promotion with The Girl Scouts during cookie season.  I also suggested they borrow from the Holocaust museums' (yes, plural, the fucking Holocaust museum is a chain!) business model and open up a gift shop in each branch.  After all, I've often wondered:  Where do I go to purchase a gift for the guy who has everything, including herpes?  Lastly,  they could install an interactive exhibit that allows the patients and their guests to shoot real guns with real bullets at the protesters out front!

Saturday, January 29, 2011

The Chevrolet Set

Years ago, my sister was gifted with a real Rolex watch.  For the first few weeks that she had it, she would wear short sleeves, generously offer the time to anyone, twist her wrist a lot, and refer to it (constantly) in casual conversation.  "Did you know that my Rolex can withstand enough water pressure to be worn while SCUBA diving?"  "My Rolex automatically adjusts to any time zone in the world!"  She's never been SCUBA diving, or travels internationally much--save for a disastrous family European vacation.  Where was that amazing watch when she and my niece wasted hours in Parisian souvenir shops resulting in me being late for (and subsequently denied) my tour of the Notre Dame? 

I admit, I was slightly jealous.  Not because I wanted a fucking Rolex, but because I wanted to sell the damn thing and use the money to go on vacation or buy some expensive clothes.  Which is what I think she should have done with it, because it has been sitting in her jewelry box for about six years or so.  Before retiring to its permanent home in the jewelry box, however, the watch provided a bit of entertainment for me and, I believe, for my sister as well.

Sometime during the honeymoon phase of her relationship with the watch, my sister and I visited a local bar.  I wouldn't consider it a four-star establishment, but it wasn't a dive.  It had a wine selection.  We, as per usual, drank heavily while seated at one end of the bar that was closest to the wine rack.  Last call was impending and we wanted to continue to drink.  I informed my sister that the bar was known to sell "to-go" drinks.  She agreed that we needed some drinks to-go, but she did not agree that we should pay for them.  She studied the wine rack, chose a bottle, stuffed it under her shirt and covered up with her jacket.

The bartender witnessed her attempt and immediately said, "Hey! Put back that bottle of wine you are trying to steal!"

My sister, while throwing her hands in the air, responds with, "Fuck you! I'm not stealing shit!"  Then she flashes her wrist at the man and says, "My Rolex could buy this dump!"  Really.

All of her arm and wrist movements must have loosened up the hold her shirt had on the wine. Almost instantly after "dump!", the wine fell out of her jacket and onto the floor--breaking the bottle.

She and I exchanged glances, and without saying a word, we ran out the back door.  Fast.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Fortune Cookie

I never get, "You are lucky in love." or "Great wealth will be yours."  Instead I get this:

"Ghosts that you cannot lay to rest will haunt your sleep."

However, I plan to use the lucky numbers for the lottery this week.  Wish me luck!

Friday, December 17, 2010

Dear Diary #20

Hi All.  I feel like DD #20 should be the last diary entry that I post on the blog, for various personal reasons.  Enjoy. We had a good run.  ~BV

Dear Diary,

Today I wished to listen to my first favorite Bob Seger song, "Still The Same", on my second favorite Bob Seger record, "Stranger In Town".  I glided into the dining room and soon found myself standing before our built-in cabinet which houses our vinyl records.  I ran my index finger along the spines of the sleeves of a truly fabulous record collection until I stopped on the "S"es.  The only Bob Seger record I saw was one of The Bob Seger System variety and not of the latter day Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band.  Hmmm.  Where could my record be?

I had a suspicion--given Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band is not considered to be as tragically hip as The Bob Seger System--that my record was being housed in a location that was not in plain sight.  You know, in the event that someone comes to visit, happens to study the record collection and--gasp!--discovers that Jack isn't cool because he has a Bob Seger record post 1969!  The horror!  I eventually located the record in our version of a cut-out bin, along with a bunch of demos from fledgling bands given to Jack (who would give them to me and say, "Do whatever it is that we do with these.") and a Christmas compilation that contained my favorite Christmas song, "Holly Jolly Christmas", but not sung by Burl Ives so Jack said that I couldn't play it in the house.

I was so excited!  I planned to drink some wine, smoke some cigs and listen to "Still The Same" over and over again.  I would lift the needle, drop the needle, listen and repeat.  I pulled my vinyl goodness out of the slightly tattered sleeve and began to place the black circle on the turntable when I noticed a deep gash etched through the entire first song.  The first song being "Still The Same".  My blood boiled.  My nostrils flared.  My day was ruined.

I projected my voice from the bottom of the stairs, "Jaaaaaccckkk!"

Jack:  (Walks downstairs) What?
Me:   What the fuck happened to my Bob Seger record?
Jack:  (Grins)  Ha!  I did that.
Me:   What?  Why?
Jack:  I hate that song so I took a fork to it while you were at work yesterday.
Me:   A fucking fork?
Jack:  (Cackles wildly)

I hate Jack.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Advice to Paunch

Dear Blue Velvet,

I think I might be chubby.  I'm not really overweight, but I could stand to lose about ten pounds.  I like to drink and party.  Do you have any dieting tips for me?


Dear Paunch,

I assume that you've heard of consuming less calories than you burn, right?  That really works.  Nowadays, I usually fluctuate between 105-115 pounds.  However, during my teenage years through about age 22, I weighed 90 pounds. I attributed my teeny, tiny, nearly unattainable frame to exclusively consuming either soup broth or one ounce of Special K cereal per day, relentlessly exercising and smoking copious amounts of pot.  Smoking pot?  Yes.  I'll explain how weed kept me waif-ish. 

In the beginning, being a stoner was great.  I was relaxed, giggly, I understood what the fuck Rene Descartes was trying to say when he said, "I think, therefore I am." I never made drunk dials or woke up with a hangover or worse.  Best of all:  I rarely consumed--save for the very occasional case of late night munchies--extraneous calories, such as those contained in alcohols.  The end result, was a thin, thin me.  I was convinced that I would be a lifer, and perhaps even grow my own one day.  Then it happened:  Paranoia.

My theory is that my pot induced paranoia started to creep in after a rendezvous with some bad acid.  The details of the trip that transpired from this particular hit of acid cannot and should not be explained on this blog.  It was so horrific that when I finally stopped tripping--I'm talking days here--I called my motherfucking drug dealer and demanded a fucking refund. Surprisingly, he gave me one.  He must have received a lot of complaints from that batch.  (Side bar:  Let's pour some out for Jamie, the refund granting drug dealer, for recently he became dead and gone.  My second former drug dealer, the first being Fat Matt, to have perished in the past five years.  Yes, attending the funeral of a man you only know through street drugs, yet somehow know well, is rather strange.)

The end result of all of the literal madness was that I could no longer physically or emotionally handle being a pot aficionado.  I began to weird out all of my friends.  I quit cold turkey*. I decided to start drinking beer as an alternative, which really packed on the pounds in terms of its own calories and the additional calories from late night trips to White Castle for french fries and cheese sticks.  In a matter of months I went from a less than zero to a two and sometimes even the dreaded four.  "The buzz must go on!" I reasoned, "I cannot face life as a sober person!"  Inevitably, I started to research ways to drink and stay thin.  As a steady size two, I will share these tips with you, Paunch.

1.  Watch "The Karen Carpenter Story".  Take notes. 
2.  Count your calories.  If your desired weight is 110lbs, find out what the calorie allotment is to maintain a weight of 110lbs and subtract all of the alcohol calories you plan to consume from your daily ration.  For example, if you can have 1400 calories per day, but you want to get wasted that night, you should probably only have a bowl of soup and a cracker as your one meal for the day.  I strongly suggest that you leave a cushion of at least 300 calories for incidentals such as shots or french fries.
3.  If you fuck up and overeat or imbibe, go to your local drug store and pick up some Syrup of Ipecac.  I'm not going to lie, this magic elixir and friend to all bulimics will fuck you up for a few days.  It is to only be used in cases of extreme weakness. 
4.  Maintain a baseline of being at least mildly depressed most of the time.  If you start to feel happy or hopeful, remind yourself that the world is a terrible place and everyone is out to ruin you.  Repeat as necessary.
5.  Tape this quote to your refrigerator:  "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" ~Kate Moss

Try these tips, Paunch, and keep me abreast of your progress.  Always remember:  Nobody likes fat people.  Nobody.

*After many years, I am finally able to sometimes take bong rips or puff on a spliff.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Brokeass Matchmaker: Results Driven

Hello Readers.

It's been a week or so since I've started the wildly popular "Brokeass Matchmaker" service on the blog, and it's already garnered the attention of a reader called "Chen".  In the mysterious email, Chen simply stated, "I have a proposal for you."  That's it.  So....

Chen, if you are out there and reading, please resubmit your email with more specific information.  Are you a non-racist racist?  A tough guy looking to get punched in the face by a Kuntry dominatrix? Androgynous with luxurious hair and young, supple skin? Please reveal yourself and your intentions to Lisa, Kathy and Kelli--our single ladies looking for free stuff love--post haste.  Let's make this happen.

While I suppose it is possible, but highly unlikely, that the email from Chen is spam, it would make my holiday season complete to see these lovely and well endowed ladies get some kisses under the mistletoe.  (Even if one of them is Jewish and the other two are halfsies.)  We can all dream that magical Christmas dream!

And finally, I am feeling extra generous lately and will start another free service on the blog:  Tarho readings from Mademoiselle de Teacup.  Mademoiselle is a renowned clairvoyant with superior insights to the human condition.  She also has a drinking problem, but it usually doesn't interfere with her work.  If you would like a free reading, please submit your name, date of birth, and a question to bluevelvetsfp@gmail.com.  Select readings will be posted on the blog.


Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Brokeass Matchmaker Profile #3: Kuntry girl seeks tough guys for drunken and violent good times

Do as I say.  That's all.

A freak on the street and a lady on your face.

Cold, cold heart

Boring, loser, non-hoodrat types need not apply

Name:  Kathy
Interested in: Tall, arrogant, selfish men who respect that I am arrogant and selfish

Height: 5' 6"
Weight: Some cushion/not total fatty--can totally can run a mile
Bewbz: Very Famous (DD)
Profession: Painting, Partyin', odd jobs to pay for Painting and Partyin'

Likes: Kentucky, doing hood rat stuff, climbing/dancing on furniture, attention, people who can take a punch, tough guys, drunk dials/texts, general insanity, drugs, drunk spelling bees, drinking in the alley, serenades, James Brown dance parties

Dislikes: passive agressive creepers, crybabies, children, sober people, the government, art snobs, women, when people act like dicks because I don't eat cheese, television, people who act like dicks because I don't like television

Looking for: A tough guy who is actually tough and not a pussy baby on the inside. I tell the truth and expect the same. Must be a good dancer.

If you or anyone you know is interested in a hot and violent date with Kathy, email bluevelvetsfp@gmail.com.  Please include a recent photo and a few lines about yourself.