Juggalo Reprezentation

I feel I should come out of the closet on this, because visibility is important.  Now I don’t routinely bang Insane Clown Posse or Twiztid, but a juggalo once told me that I am a juggalo, and by his decree, so I am.  I, Bébé Mélange, am a juggalo.

If you are a juggalo and feel the need to talk about it with someone, let my comment section be a safe space for you.  Also, if you just want to ask a juggalo a question, you can put it to me.  Just be kind, you know, ask in good faith. Thank you…

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…ok, apologies to real jugheads; this was obviously a bit facetious.  no offense intended, do consider me an ally at least?  i’ll pour a faygo out for you in contrition.  i really was granted juggalo status by one of that tribe, but it’s more of an honorary title.  rezpekt.

There’s not much to that story.  I went to a diploma mill type commercial art school, which lured in radical bros by saying “you could make animays or vidya games.”  This wasn’t me; I was lured by lies about how much money I could make with the job skills.  But this juggalo, he was a radical son of a bitch, as they say.  He had a ball bearing necklace and his life drawings looked like lofi dragon ballz.

We rode the same bus south from Seattle into poor people lands, where he was the kind of guy to drop acid and shoot fireballs in his back yard, and I was the kind of binch to work in fast food and come up with house rules for ttrpgs I’d never get to use.  One night he told me that I met his criteria for being considered a juggalo.  Fantastic.  I’ll accept that.

I hope he’s having a juggalish good time out there somewhere, perhaps with a juggalette and two point five juggajuniors.  He was a handsome lad, but life has many traps.

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More Bad Ideas

Maybe because life has been rather hard lately in some respects, I’m just full of escapist compulsions.  Being a creative type, these tend toward the creative – write this, write that.  Sometimes I even have an urge to draw and I am sooo out of practice on that shit.  What I need to be doing is keep that new year resolution to sort out our shit and empty the storage unit.  If Florida is going to start having bouts of underwaterness within fifteen years, my condo is as well.  If I get that shit squared away, it will be much easier to move.  Just to live in general.

Let me interrupt the explanation of my bad ideas to talk about a good idea that isn’t getting discussion.  Any place that could salvage real estate with a system of dikes needs to get on that shit right fuckin’ now.  If Washington state does that with this river valley I live in, some pretty useful land can be kept.  And maybe we won’t have to throw all the work we did here in the trash.  All the suffering we went through just to get this far in life.  Ho hum.  File that next to Marcus Ranum’s big proposal for humanity to unfuck itself.

Anyway, thinkin’ about ttrpg fun times I’ve had in the past got me yearning to fuck around with that in the present.  Run a Vampire: The Masquerade game with myself just to see where the random rolls lead me.  But if I’m going to waste time writing, it should be writing something at least quasi-original.  One approach people like to take, to get the creative juice of a rpg while still having a possibility of selling it as their own writing, is filing the serial numbers off – like the Fifty Shades lady done with her fanfic.  I’m not in that state of creative desperation.

Then again, why focus on original content?  The notion I should make any of my writing legal to sell?  That’s laughable.  But then, making art that uses other people’s content just seems kind of pathetic.  I’ve made no secret of my disdain for fanfic.  Writing a story in somebody else’s world is a close cousin to that.  Why think of the content of a game as writing?  It’s really hard for me to not do that, for reasons.

Other random wild hares – Read all the books you’re supposed to read, to be an intellectual.  Finish Josefina y Blasfemia.  Serialize a completely unrelated novel on here, like I did with Centennial Hills.  Get back into drawing by way of doing a comic strip.  Get back into drawing by way of doing all of the exercises in the How to Draw Manga book series.  Start a book club.  Start practicing singing.  Make music.  Make concept albums.

I am tired, I am weary, I could sleep for a thousand years…

Those dudes from U2 ripped this song off pretty hard for “Goldeneye,” I think.  Whatever.

Anything is anything.

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Twenty Year Date-iversary

Been with this guy for 20 years as o’ NYE midnight-ish, been married only a year and a few months.  It’d be nice to do something cool for the two decade date-iversary, but we’re too gay to know how to drive, and got health issues limiting the options further.  No need for suggestions, stuff be what it be.  But congratulate us if yer so inclined, that’s cool.

New Year’s Eve 2005, we started hanging out earlier in the day, in his apartment.  I think we ate out, that I don’t recall, but I do remember we showed each other movies we like.  He showed this anime called Dead Leaves I’ve never heard of anywhere else or since (how odd), I fast-forwarded to the highlights of Hard Boiled.  I’m more of a basic bitch in the obscurity game.

One of our mutual friends came over to hang out for a bit.  I remember coming out of the bathroom and both of them looking at me like I’d lost my mind.  Took a second to realize it was because I was doing a shaky leg dance to straighten the long johns inside my jeans.  Hey, maybe I like to twerk.  Don’t judge.

He kissed me when I was on the way out the door a lil after midnight.  Or before?  I don’t remember.  Then I took a bus back to Everett.  The end.

I invited myself to live with him and sorta ruined his life possibly.  I was telling him “I love you” a year before he said that to me.  His ILUs are hard-earned.

It’s good tho.  We abide

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A Dreamworld of Magic

I’ve always loved escapism, in one form or another.  Before I could write I drew pictures, played with toys, I’ve always been into TV and movies, the second I learned about TTRPGs went hard for those, and in recent years have spent much of my time writing fantastic scenarios.

Actually before I even learned about RPGs, I’d kind of invented them for myself?  I’d tell stories when my brother and I were supposed to be sleeping, and he’d tell me what his character was doing.  I’d draw the characters when I got up in the morning – some version of ourselves as millionaires or future cops or cowboys or rock stars in a Van Halen mold.  Funny in those pictures I’d always be taller, but when we actually grew up he beat me by a few inches.

So I’m at the bottom of my social media feed, as it were.  I’m out of more mindless distractions, and my brain is calling out for magic again, like some kind of squishy pink Ronnie James Dio inside my headbones.  But somebody else’s fantasy won’t do.  Gotta have my own.  What will work for me?  What will scratch this itch?

Sometimes it’s giant robots.  My husband once suggested to me that Castle of Otranto could easily be turned into anime, and I thought the giant armor is basically already a mecha.  How would I render that?  As a comic?  Too much effort.  I like giant robots but I don’t do nearly enough with them.  Had an idea for a heavily giger-influenced mecha story with big gay overtones…  it’s not time for that yet.

Cat people.  As a fantasy trope.  Why are they on my mind?  They were always kinda weird, right?  Usually it’d be a sexy lady with a cat head, like, ok, are you seriously going to kiss a cat mouth while you’re boning down?  Eesh.  Let me not squander my furry points completely.  Um.  I dunno.  You can have a cat head if you want to.

Flamin’ swords.  I saw one recently somewhere; where was that?  A video game trailer?  I feel like it was a lady character with a flamin’ sword, sleeshin’ away.  I wonder what the first occurrence of fiery swords in fiction is.  Was it the arch-michael keepin’ us out of the godda davida?  So little in the bibble was truly original, wouldn’t be surprised to see an older source.

Through the course of various Spooktobers and MonsterHearts I have come up with a lot of fantasy stories, and as an exercise I recently tried to combine as many of them as I could into one excessively complicated plot.  That’s the key to making a 900-page fantasy doorstopper like Georgie the RatRollicker Martinez – have lotsa subplots.  But that’s too much.  I need something I can dip in and out of more easily.

Because I don’t have all the time in the world.  It’s back to work Monday and I’m not lovin’ it.

gimme a catboy in a gundam with a flamin’ sword.  he says reeawwrr!  flame sword is go!  and flies into the night sky, disappearing as a twinklin’ star.  then do your chores and go to work.  blugh.

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Awash

between the boards is where the roaches dwell.  i suppose they were named cockroaches due to an affinity for chicken coops.  the beams cross between floors and walls, sandwiched by the boards, plastered and painted over, but full of delicious prizes.  the cockroaches do not think about this.  it’s safe, it’s warm, it has lovely rot to eat.  gets a little crowded, so you venture timidly into the bright places to see what other nosh you might feel out.  this is where the war begins.  but until that comes?  back between the boards?  as much peace as they are ever afforded.

between the boards we dwell.  the other side of the plaster from the tiny ones, the lumbering creatures that need enrichment and numbness in equal measure, to balance our burning brains.  the electronics enrich, the plaster and the carpet, they numb.  we are megafauna, our median adult size defining the lower bond of that term, depending on who’s talking.  it fits.  takes a lot to move the old meat around, especially when it’s like this.

outside the boards, outside the boxes, it pours down on us, endless.  heaven taking a piss.  the universal solvent.  water.  the plants in the garden are left to their own devices.  sink or swim, guys.  if you were pruned now, you’d rot.  draw those old leaves in around you and pray overwatering isn’t a thing for your kind.  even worms famously find the sodden earth unlivable, and take their chances with crows and robins.  how do moles and gophers live through this sort of thing?

drips were a thing in art, and you still see it sometimes.  it might have emerged from the aesthetic of graffiti, of oversprayed paint running down walls from the tagger’s design, like so much blood.  lots of sculpture and visual art with sculptural elements bear this motif as well, and in both cases it is dripping frozen in time.  but that’s not how the dripping works right now, in the world.  it’s an unfathomable constellation of violence, roiling in the sky where the drops aggregate, hurtling toward the earth in columns sheets waves or just as so many singular streaks, so many more than in all the paintings in all the galleries in the entirety of the 2010s, coming down every minute of every hour, until the sky is spent.

they splash, they explode, or they wriggle vermiform down slick surfaces, loosely bound in their units by that surface tension whose bizarre nature we take for granted.  i can think of two fluids i’ve ever dealt with that cling to themselves like that – mercury and water.  nobody regards the behavior of mercury as normal, when in childhood you break the thermometer to watch the pretty poison burst apart and fuse again into strange orbs and amoeba-like puddles.  the eldritch properties of water slip past our notice as it slips past our gums.  the way we infuse it with fruit pulp, dried leaves, and burnt beans all break that surface tension, to some extent – coffee the most effective of all.  that’s why it spills so readily, leaping out of your cup at the slightest provocation.  tho maybe the tension is still there, just writ small, with narrower rivulets and spicules, clinging to the outside of your cup as it races down to leave its indelible brown stamp below.

water is water.  it all washes over us, keeps us hiding between the boards, until we can’t ignore it anymore.  like the war between roach and man that erupts whenever the border is breached, the water can bring chaos into our little shelters.  ceilings collapse, pipes burst, floods threaten everything.  there is flooding in my town, i hear.  i’m not so very far from the river.  will it swell enough to reach my family?  not likely.  not this year.  maybe when a little more arctic ice is gone.  i’ll live to see it.

let’s reflect on the reason for the season – to wish you had storybook weather, from books that were written in a land of distinct seasons, in the northern hemisphere.  whether you’re boiling away in australian heat or wiping snails off packages before you bring them inside pacific northwest doors, you want to see the jolly old elf dashing through the snow.  denied, like any other dream you’ve been sold.  i suppose hereabouts we are not the kind to buy dreams, but some of us feel the pain of their temptations more profoundly than others.

the long sleep continues.

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Thanks for Giving Us the Plague

We’re all sick.  My mother-in-law brought home some wacky virus or other, which naturally is hitting my husband the worst, because they always do.  As I compose it’s only 5:49 in the evening (black night this time of year at this latitude) and after eating some thanksgiving themed gruel, he’s gone back to sleep again.  At least there’s no wheezing.  They say rest is supposed to be good for sickness, right?

MiL cooked the gruel tho, and I said thanks to her for that.  Wish she’d ever wear a mask.

I’ve been thinking about how much of a social outlier you have to be to wear a mask these days.  Practically nobody does it.  That makes it a conformity thing, I think.  There is no way the vast majority of the population in a blue state feels easy-breezy-indestructible about disease and/or nihilistic enough to not care who suffers or dies for unnecessary transmissions.  Some of these people would do it, if they weren’t afraid of looking like a freak.

So when you see somebody wearing a mask properly, understand that person is either a cowardy custard whose germophobia exceeds their social fear, or they are a person so fucken cool they genuinely don’t give a fuck what other people think about them – mostly the latter.  Props either way, because vulnerable people like my husband don’t deserve this shit.  I wish his mom wasn’t a slave to conformity.

After a few hours of interruption, back to finish the article up.  He woke to eat two bites of pumpkin pie and went back to sleep.  Snoring again.  At least that’s breathing.

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DONK

weird birding day.  was looking directly at my bedroom window when a robin flew into it like a ton of bricks.  somehow it was able to fly away afterwards, but jesus fucking christ.  my phone just wanted me to type jesus fucking morbius.  maybe i should make a wattpad account.  also i saw a bald eagle pretty well, for a good amount of time, so one happy thing.

weird dreaming night.  something like hellraiser but more elaborate.  some goofy old lady kept nearly opening the box by accident and we had to force it closed.  there was a demon with a name like anh nyeng and all his cultists had it tattooed on their chest.  lots and lots and lots of violence.  skulls getting smashed, guns, machetes.  i think the trailer for tetsuo: body hammer may have been an influence.

i just wanted to get these memories down quick, don’t miss the post before this, if you want something more substantial.

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Can’t Tell My Husband

One day I randomly discovered that watered down coke zero tastes just fine, when served partially frozen or with a lot of ice.  Further, I found that randomly admixing other beverages to it lends a certain interest to the concoction, creating a kinder, gentler chalice of iggy pop.

My husband’s peculiarities are such that he never finishes his seltzer completely.  Waste not want not, I have taken to using the dregs of his seltzers to flavor my watered down coke zero.  This is disgusting to him, but he allows it.  But my newest transgression might be so odious that it provokes murdilation with extreme prejudice, and therefore it must remain a dark secret between you and you and you and I.

There is also at least some risk of foodborne illness.  That said, I’ve seen a guy regularly eat bananas that have turned completely brown and mushy – like that was his preference – and he never died, so here I go…

Last week I sliced an apple and I did not eat the whole thing.  It remained in the crisper until this week.  It wasn’t completely rotten, but it was a little off.  Random areas had become lightly discolored, and more peculiar, the taste was altered by proximity to a big bag of fire roasted hatch chile peppers.  Both the apple and the peppers were sealed in ziploc bags, but those peppers were radioactive.  This experience is like eating a radish with light sweetness and a healthy dash of green pepper flavor.

Why am I strangely compelled to continue eating this corrupted apple?  By the time this post comes out of queue, I will either be dead from the consequences, or alive and fine, despite my poor judgment.  Stay tuned.

Hello from beyond the grave perhaps.  I hope you’re having a nice day.

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Be Still and Know

I was in the parking lot of home despot, when I saw this sign at a distance.  Initially I thought it said, “I AM GOD.”  Strange place for fundie horseshit, I mused, until the actual product was revealed: “FARM FRESH SOD,” where the words farm and fresh were de-emphasized.

I had been primed to see these words by this ornament dangling from the rearview mirror of my ride’s coach:

Sit still and know that if you misbehave, jesus will fuck you up.  Bes’ believe.

I like to mix the ideas.  KNOW THAT I AM SOD, THE FARM FRESH GOD, like a parody of this jam:

If you haven’t thought of that song since your homeboy in college DL’d a midi of it in 1989, you’re welcome.

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Hey Greydies

Some time ago I saw a lady with sort of purple-grey-blue skin, likely argyria.  Maybe she was exposed to silver as part of an industrial job, or pollution in an area she had lived, or because she had whack-ass beliefs and was drinking that shit for medical woo.  I saw her a few times in the Crown Hill neighborhood of Seattle, and a few years after that at a malwart in Federal Way.  Had to be the same lady, tho it’s not like I had her face memorized.  How many people in her demographic have that color in my neck of the world?  This time she was decked out in clothes that advertised her fealty to shitler, so I’m thinking it was the medical woo.

I’ve seen some other grey ladies.  One time when I was working in that same malwart, very early in the morning a short old white lady bought something at my counter.  She was probably done up for church, but she was so fashionable looking.  She was in a suit jacket and dress, with a blouse and pearls and silver jewelry on her wrists and fingers, all silver-grey like her hair, but in different sheens and patterns to strike a balance of contrast and harmony.  I don’t remember what her face looked like, just that fashion, which is probably the kind of impression most old ladies are hoping to leave on people.  So cool.

More recently I saw a pretty dark-skinned black woman with perfectly formed thin locs in a striking blend of black white and grey, like shining rocks in a river.  Her skin was kind of grey, so what one would call ashy?  That’s usually bad news, but for some reason it was more an even tone over her limbs, rather than whitish stuff some people get in areas of thicker skin.  Maybe it was a temporary effect from some kind of lotion; it didn’t look unhealthy.  Still, that was another grey lady, and I believe she was wearing grey as well.

Hey greydies.  Sorry to notice you.  I know a lot of ladies would rather not be noticed.  Just to say, that’s a legit color.  Ya cool, except maybe that first fool.  Have a nice day.

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