Day 6. Laryngitis.

Congratulations. It’s bacterial!

No shit.

Could I be even more medicated?

Challenge excepted!

I thought this medicine wasn’t loaded?

Lies!!

If you can read this, kudos to autocorrect. I’m all over this keypad. 

I am not a graceful sick person. I don’t just get into comfy jammies and sit by the window neatly tucked in a blanket with a cup of tea and a good book. That’s what I do when I feel well. That’s how I relax on a good day off. When I’m sick things are going to get broken. 10,000 tossed used tissues and maybe two will actually make it into the trash cans. My bed and couch both look like multiple crime scenes. 

When I’m on the mend I scrub my apartment down like a hitman, bucket full of grade A cleaning and sanitizing products, rubber gloves, face mask, me in my underwear, ‘Sicilian Pastorale’ playing in the background. 

Day 5. Laryngitis. I was in the shower when I suddenly had a severe coughing fit. And just then a little water went in my nose as I struggled even harder to inhale, further choking I almost died, right there, my heart skipped a few beats, my knees buckled, I went down, bam, accidental shower drowning. Self inflicted. Not quite erotic asphyxiation, but alone nonetheless, wet and naked.

Take long hot showers they said 

It’ll clear up your lungs they said

You’ll feel better afterwards they said

And while I struggled to breathe at the bottom of my tub all I kept thinking was - thank god I don’t have a dog. Who would care for it after I died? 

One night while hanging out in Hollywood, I met the guitar player from (band) WASP and his chick, or was it the bass player? Circa ‘95. Not important. Anyway, they told me this story of when they were having sex in the shower and crashed through their glass shower door. Both had been stuck deep with massive shards of glass. Blood everywhere. “We finished having sex. The blood bonded us.” They said. And then they took off their clothes and showed me their scars. 

It was an interesting night.

Point is 

Their shower story was way more readable than mine. 

Oh hey. It’s raining out. 

Is there any way to exit this blog without seeming unsober? 

No?

Ok then.

“I don’t do the blowing in this marriage.”

https://youtu.be/1Mdj2e4TiOM

Day 4. Laryngitis.

Everyone is giving me advice on how to get rid of laryngitis, and I’m doing it, all of it. You could tell me to bury a potato every three hours while facing east, and damnit I’m on top of the hour with a giant spoon and a bag of spuds. Does it matter what type of potato I bury? No? Yukons, it is! 

And yes

I quit smoking back around 2001/2002, just before I got married and after my second lung infection, more specifically after my respiratory infection. It took two bodily infections before I quit smoking. And then I married a smoker. Smart. Some say chronic lung and throat infections are the result of smoking. My dad died of throat cancer years after he quit smoking. Others argue throat and lung viruses are the result of not having your tonsils taken out. I still have my tonsils, and I’m an ex smoker, plus I was married to a smoker. Second hand smoke. — With all these things under consideration, is not still possible that I got laryngitis because people don’t cover their mouths when they cough and sneeze? 

I should have been a lawyer. 

Day 4 of laryngitis is the sore throat, nagging dry cough, and every 23rd syllable uttered has actual volume. 

Two people I work with said, “Vicks vapo rub, rub it everywhere, even on the bottoms of your feet, then put on a pair of socks and continue rubbing Vicks everywhere on your body. Do it just before you go to bed.”

On the bottoms of my feet? 

I’m pretty sure they’re just messing with me but fuck it, I did it anyway.

Theraflu and Vicks rub.

You bet. On the bottoms of my feet and all over. I got 6 hours of undisturbed sleep. I’m doing it again tonight.

A coworker told me to do shots of tequila to get rid of the junk in my lungs. I don’t drink tequila but damnit I’m getting faced on Patron tomorrow night! If you need me Thursday I’ll be in my bed drowning in a pool of Vicks vapo rub, salt, lime juice, and quite possibly my own vomit and urine. 

Last Saturday I couldn’t even get out of bed but to pee and drink theraflu. I binge watched ‘Bates Motel’ season 5. Their version of the iconic ‘Psycho’ shower scene was cool. Unexpected until the water started running. Sucks there’s no season 6. 

I also tried watching ‘Sea Of Trees’. 

I tried. 

No. Just no. 

I wanted to like the movie so bad, but I couldn’t. Didn’t. 

I live in a second floor walk-up. I must have blogged about it. I’ve lived here now going on four months in December. I share a heavy iron security gate with the person across from me. As in, when I look through my peep hole, I can see their door. I’ve had two different neighbors in these four months, and the apartment is now empty, or so I heard one of my neighbors say recently. Which is odd considering I hear people in that apartment all the time. 

Ghosts

Aliens

There’s a guy who lives across the street with a rice burner for a “motorcycle”. He’s very proud of it. Revs it up at least three times a day.

How do deaf people get release from wanting to yell at people? By throwing rocks? Broken bottles? Old school. I like it.

Bugs! Bugs everywhere!

“You look like Elsa.”

Who?

“Elsa. From the movie.”

What movie?

“Frozen.”

Never saw it. 

“You never saw Frozen??” 

After the fourth person told me I looked like Elsa from Frozen, I looked her up. First of all, she’s a cartoon.

Racist!

“It’s your makeup, and your hair. Especially your hair. It reminds people of Elsa.” 

My hair gets whiter every day. Plus it’s long again. I wear it up a lot. Daily when I go out in public. Double french rolls. Twists. Braids. Buns. A big pile of dernier cri on my head. And the way I’ve been wearing it lately, sure, I could see it. Elsa. 

My doppelganger is a Disney ice princess. 

Sounds about right. 

I have laryngitis. Last Saturday it just came on. Very sudden. A few hours later I was completely sick. Chills. Fever. Sore throat. I spent all day yesterday in bed. Today I feel better, though I still have a sore throat, laryngitis, and a cough. No chills or fever. The 3 cups of theraflu and 30 blankets I threw on my bed took care of the chills and fever.

The reason people get sick is because of other people. Someone no doubt coughed or sneezed without covering their mouth within breathing space and gave me laryngitis - which by the way takes up to 14 days to recover from. Thank you very much, dick. 

People don’t cover their mouths when they cough or sneeze. They don’t care about you. Selfish! 

I saw that flu shot debate that went viral on social media, and let me just say I’m a believer of the flu shot. I wash my hands. I cover my mouth when I cough and sneeze, but other people do not. Case in point, I have laryngitis. 

I always cough and sneeze in my shirt. But when you work on the Vegas strip, where most tourists don’t know how to flush a toilet, let alone wash their hands after, it’s no wonder people get sick. 

I’m going to start carrying a can of Lysol around with me. Spray people who cough and sneeze without covering their face. If you’re willing to mace someone over a Walmart coffee maker on black Friday, I should be allowed to Lysol you in the face for not covering your mouth when you cough and sneeze. Hotel cleaning ladies DO NOT get paid enough. Whatever you’re paying them it’s not enough. I can’t imagine the filth they must encounter. Human beings are disgusting filthy creatures. 

I want a job where I can wear my fluffy bathrobe all day if I want.

Working on it. 

Old lady goals. 

Thank you Amazon and Albertsons for delivering. I am (this close) to never having to leave my apartment ever, ever again.

Thanks for the text. No not really.

Dearest Mr Turner, I said I was smart, not perfect. Plus I write these blogs on my cell phone. I’m lucky if ten words in a row get spelled correctly. “Hey, remember that time when we huilhff5!!& jjo4.seh!’kf? Oh my god, that was amazing!” 

See what I did there, I actually spelled out the words “oh my god”. Impressive right?

Someone told me I look like Carrie Ann Inaba, but with gray hair. Who? I looked her up. She’s Japanese, Chinese, and Irish. All things I am not. Damn racists! I’d have to see what she looks like with no makeup on. Does she look like a sexually confused 14 year old boy with no makeup on? Then yes, we look alike. 

Why are you people always shocked when you see my tattoos? YOU KNOW I’ve been a fuck-up at least one time in my life. 

Back in the day, Christine and I always asked each other in our most rare sober moments, “How are we still alive?” How did we make money? How did we pay for that? No one knows. Not even us. Not then. Not now. Well, I mean, on occasion, we had (some) idea. And back when I lived across the street from the Whisky in WeHo, I’d wake up days later to find money all over my apartment. Meh. As long as I didn’t wake up with stab wounds, bullet holes, or gonorrhea, all was right with the world. Back then we called it reckless and irresponsible. Today we just call it being old. 

I await the day when I’m old enough to be afflicted with Alzheimers and spend the rest of my waking hours wandering around town in a bathrobe, pink fluffy slippers, and my giant red mug. Even if I don’t get Alzheimers I’m doing it anyway. Maybe next year?

And that’s what you get sir for hiring young writers. They can only steal some of my material, some of the time.;)

In some 48 days I turn 50 years old. 

More importantly in 41 days this blog turns six. I thought it was turning seven. I was wrong - as I am about many things. Thank god I have you to remind me. 

Happy Thanksgiving, Mr Turner.

Dead wax

Dear idiot girl being pranced around the Vegas strip like a donkey by some guy who told you to wear six inch heels and a tiny bikini dress, you do know it’s only 48 degrees in Vegas at night, right? It’s cold out. That’s why the rest of us are wearing both hoodies and jackets. That dude doesn’t care about you. But worry not, your social media friends will surely appreciate your bitching about him when he dumps you next month for a girl with class and self respect. 

And speaking of self respect...

Whoever dressed Ezra Miller for that Playboy spread should be FIRED. That clear salmon colored negligee with solid color collar is just awful as is that blazer. Queer card REMOVED. No self respecting self-identified queer would wear such terrible threads. 

And another thing, Mr Miller 

Your colors are obviously late autumn, not spring. I mean Hello. 

Yup, I’m a snob even with the queers. 

If you go to the Louvre in Paris, don’t dress like a hooker, little miss “Australian social media personality”. Translation: she has zero talent and therefor just acts like a whore in public for attention. The only women defending her are people I wouldn’t be seen in public with. 

Snob. Me. Yes. I admit it. 

There’s a difference between being a snob and being stuck up. Snobs care about actual public behavior, education, sophistication, and applied standards IN PUBLIC. People who are stuck up, have none of those things but will still disregard you for lack of superficialities like looks and money. 

I much rather have tea and sandwiches with a poor educated man with manners, than a rich good looking creep. 

Going out in style, being excessive, it’s a fantasy. It’s not reality. Isn’t that right Aldo Nova? I’m guilty of excess. But I do it for me. I’m old. I’ve made every bed I’m going to make in life. I’ve earned both my fabulous gray hair and dying however I damn well see fit. 

That said...

I’ve nearly reached my maximum pain threshold for creeps and morons. PURGE!! That chick who was denied entrance into the Louvre is so messed up in the head, behaving like a whore in public is the only way she identifies love and acceptance, like girls in porn. Smart girls learn a skill or talent, or read a book to better herself and occupy her time. 

Did I just call that chick not smart? Yes. Yes I did. SNOB!  

Don’t get me wrong, I think money exchanged for services between consenting adults should be legal, as long as it’s all performed discreetly behind closed doors. And...

I get spending money on what younger generations consider attractive and sexy, lord knows my generation couldn’t dress ourselves either at their age, but they’ll get old and then what? Be a burden? I didn’t think I’d live this long either but I did. SURPRISE! 

The majority of my generation did a real bang up job raising millennials and Gen Z’s. 

I adore my friends who gave their kids undivided attention, love, discipline, encouragement, support, hockey sticks, passports, and paintbrushes, instead of computers and cell phones. 

If the only selfies your kids are taking is of their wardrobe, you suck as a parent. 

Anyway

I tried watching Cable Girls, couldn’t get into it. Sorry. Pretty pictures though. 

I’m seriously considering moving to Alaska, or anywhere remote where Albertsons and Amazon delivers. I’ll chop wood all summer and get a nice log bin for  winter fireplace and cooking. No I won’t. I’m old. I’ll buy my wood logs from other people like everyone else. I just need an excuse to have axes and hatches laying around.;)

I read and watch movies at night by candle light. I love candles. Judge me. I don’t care. At least once a week I scrape melted wax buildup out of my candle holders. Candles. I’m silently building up to a roaring brick fireplace. Not one of those California flip a switch gas fireplaces, no, I mean a real actual fireplace.

And another thing!

The only reason Fortnite beat Red Dead Redemption 2, is because you can punch an annoying nagging feminist in the face in RDR2. I will listen to an intelligent, sarcastic, well thought out disagreement, over hysterical nagging scream-o, any day of the week. I can’t listen to most bands I religious followed in my 20’s and somewhat in my 30’s because now they’re just too loud.

Ssshhhhhh .... Is my favorite reply to most people these days.

“Hey Simone, I need... “

No. Ssshhhh. 

Complete with finger over the lips visual. 

If I was a smarty pants I’d mold new candles with all that dead wax, but...

I’m just smart. No pants.

Two-Lane Blacktop

Two-Lane Blacktop — 1971 movie

Two-Lane Blacktop — song by Rob Zombie

And now 

Two-Lane Blacktop — blog by Simone Gordon

First, my respects to Stan Lee. He was a legend. One of the greats. Respected by all genres of the art world. 

I am both a DC Comics and Marvel fan. As a kid, among others, I was way into X-Men, Rogue in particular, and even now I still follow the Batman franchise with Gotham. I love comics where women have 80’s rockstar hair. The bigger, the messier, the better! And no one in comics are ever entirely good or villainous. Which makes them more interesting.

Comics take us back to childhood. The 70’s. 80’s. Everything was so different then. America was so different. It was a simple time and being a kid during that time was great. Amazing. Fun. Comics. Bubble gum trading cards. Tree houses. Candy cigarettes. Bikes. Skateboards. Toy guns and pop caps. All before the internet and cell phones. We used our imaginations back then to entertain ourselves. During the summertime there wasn’t a clean street in a mile radius of my house that didn’t have my chalk artwork all over it. If my dad wasn’t married to a nutjob back then my childhood would have been absolutely perfect. But, there’s aways gotta be something, eh?

I considered drawing comics in my 20’s. I rarely draw women but comic heroines look fun. The hair! Still, it’s such a totally different style from what I do. I would have had to been taught, and in my 20’s I didn’t have the patience to practice something new every day to be good at it. 

Anyone can draw, paint, and sculpt. Anyone. As with anything, it just requires daily patience, practice, and discipline. It’s hard work. It’s lonely. Don’t like hard work or being alone, you’ll never be good at making art. My occasional downfall is drawing what I want instead of drawing what makes money. Like in ‘Purple Rain’ my music only makes sense to me, but every now and then I connect with someone else, and crazy as it seems it’s a million times more rewarding making that special connection rather than drawing meaningless pictures for money. Quality not quantity. I’m an art snob. No self respecting artist would make cheesy xerox prints for hotel rooms. Anyone can do that now on their computers. 

The older you get, the more defined your art becomes. 

Young John Wayne was quite handsome, but that’s not the John Wayne who became someone special to us. It’s the older, confident, mature, “Pilgrim, you caused a lot of trouble this morning...” who we lovingly know.

All I want, is all I’ve ever wanted, to make art, drink wine, and travel. I truly am a simpleton. 

The only way this country will ever get back the peace we once had is to remove instant gratification, and make people earn what they have, as we all once did. 

Last night I re-watched ‘Lords of Dogtown’ and wished I lived in Venice, CA in the 70’s instead of 2017. If you’re like me, since becoming an adult, you’re a perpetual stranger in a strange land, and no matter where you go the only time you’re home is in your art. I think that’s why so many artists cover their walls with their own works.

Anyway, back to drawing my menacing suspension bridge

And all that waits on the other side.

Nerf gun party

“How can you not say anything about the CA fires?”

Natural disasters are awful. I know. I’ve lived through two devastating earthquakes. San Francisco, 1989. Northridge, 1994. What rips my heart out with these CA fires are the helpless pets humans left to die in the fires because they ignored the state’s evacuation notices. Even if you think the fires will pass you by, move your pets, you monsters. I’m hearing report after report how people are leaving at the very last minute struggling to get their pets (like horses) out in time. It sickens me how animals like horses are tragically murdered by irresponsible owners who didn’t move them, instead leaving them behind to die, still tied up even so they had zero chance to escape. 

When there’s an emergency evacuation warning due to natural disaster like brush fire, or when you can actually see the giant fire from your house, but you decide to stay anyway ignoring the warning, my sympathy isn’t for humans, it’s for their pets, and wild life.

Drive AWAY from natural disasters. Not towards it. Dummies. You can see a brush fire. It’s not like SURPRISE brush fire! Smoke detectors. A plan. Common sense.

“Omg there’s fire ahead! What do I do? What do I do?”

Um. Drive in the other direction maybe? 

And that’s all I’m going to say about it. 

“How can white women be Republicans?”

Stereotyping white women, that’s your plan? Unacceptable. Do better. 

Remember when Candace Owens made a bunch of YouTube videos on being a strong educated black woman, and all these Democrats re-posted her videos on Twitter, only to find out a very short time later that she’s a Republican who now works for Charlie Kirk. Doh’Oops! I love screen grab. 

I’m (this close) moving to Alaska. Maybe I can get a job raising chickens. Tipping cows. Churning butter. 

The pressure is on for me to bring a date to a Christmas party. Hello 1-800-studs? Apparently I’m not allowed to do that again this year. 

There’s maybe four hours of the day when I feel pretty. Getting there, however, is utterly disgusting. 

EXAMPLE: I now routinely wake up to nose bleeds. It seems the lining in my nose doesn’t cotton to desert air. I spend ten minutes each morning blowing dried blood and scabs out of my left nostril and no, back in the day I was a right nostril perfunctory drug user being right handed and all.  So it seems I’m in need of a humidifier. Mmmm. Sexy. Wanna wake up next to me? 

I live not far from Nellis Air Force Base. I would date military man. I already have respect for him so that’s one less thing. 

Hearing these Veterans Day stories are heart wrenching. But we must hear their stories. Nothing but respect for these men and women during their time of service. 

God bless all you who serve and protect our country. Thank you.

Plan B

I just downloaded the Dolly app. Guys with trucks who will help you move furniture for a fee. Brilliant. Why hasn’t someone started this service before? I’ll use this all the time. Wait. “Service not yet available in Vegas.” Yup. Figures. 

“France called, they want their statue back.” Many Americans don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’m not ragging on educated white people, obviously, I’m talking about the idiots who mace a crowd at Walmart on Black Thursday over a 30 inch TV. 

So, Daniel, mystery solo male swinger, either lives in Henderson, Summerlin, or 3 miles down Sahara from the strip. In three emails he’s given me three different locales. I didn’t even ask him where he lives. He just randomly offered it. Meanwhile insisting, “Let’s meet out by you.” The plot thickens. Not really. We know what’s going on. Married and cheating. Good grief. Swingers.

Anyway

Plan B

Booger hoodie! 

I just learned there’s a place called Fucking, Austria. 

An actual village called Fucking

In Austria

Whaa... t?

Why have I not heard of this before? What have I been doing all my life? I must go to Fucking, Austria. 

They should have a Ducking, Austria. You know, because of autocorrect. They could get the idiots who didn’t look over their reservations before confirming them. 

Oh

I’m just a child of wonder today.

Why does the Riddler on Gotham remind me of Daniel Tosh?

Why do French fries only taste good after you immediately buy them, and not reheated in the oven the next day?

Why did my apartment smell like mud when I came home from work last night? 

I think I’ve stumbled upon the secret behind movie popcorn butter, it’s actual real salted butter made in Mexico. Not a racist joke. I found real salted butter made in Mexico, and it’s aawwee-some! Tastes just like movie popcorn butter. I should be dead in a week. #thankgod 

This woman...

I totally see her as the type of schitzy person who murders elderly for their social security checks but then forgets where she put the social security checks. Shes both maniacal and distracted. 

“Wait. Why is this knife in my hand? I was going to stab someone? Who? Are you sure??” 

Maybe that’s why this country has no money. They keep killing the wrong people

The only humans who have money are the ones making multi million dollar movies about a world with no money. 

Dear feminists 

https://youtu.be/MPYAM9AfRHo

(Wait for it) 

* goddamnit it got deleted

I was going to end this blog with that fantastic YouTube clip but first I just want say...

Kudos to bringing back an old scam to the Vegas hustle: Looking homeless. You guys are great. There’s people who purposely look homeless but drive nice cars, have credit cards, cell phones, a house in East Hapton, etc., it’s just their hustle. They don’t smell, they look fed, they have nice skin, nice teeth, and nice breath. But their clothes and hair are dirty. Their clothes are dirty but perfectly intact. Their hair is dirty but it doesn’t smell. And they have super nice skin and manicured nails under the dirt. And still, I see tourists throw lots of money at them. Good for them.

Ah Vegas...

The town where everybody smiles. Everybody except the cashier at that one Walgreens. She never smiles. She wants to murder everyone. I can see it in her eyes. She’s totally gonna own the first PURGE. I want her on my team. 

“Billy Billy! Welcome on top! All hail Scotland! Taco time!” God bless you drunk foreign bastards. 

Single swingers

I watch a lot of movies/Netflix especially when I draw.

There’s a documentary called ‘God Knows Where I Am’ about a woman, Linda Bishop, who struggled with mental illness (schizophrenia) which resulted in her death. A few months before she died she started writing a journal. And then one day the pages suddenly go blank. Her rotting corpse was eventually found on the floor of the abandoned house she was squatting in.

Sigh.

I’ll probably die in this little Vegas apartment. It’s not my intention to stay in Vegas until the day I die, but then again it was never my intention to be in Los Angeles for more than a few weeks back in 1992. Twenty-six years later...

I often wonder what would have happened had I returned straight home to MN from San Francisco in 1992 as I had planned rather than fatefully detouring to Los Angeles to visit friends first.

Dawn, a childhood friend, says I would have gotten bored had I moved back to MN, and would have fled the boredom once more to some place else after a month or two. She’s right. Maybe I should have gone to New York. It was probably affordable back in 1992 like LA used to be. In 1993 or was it ‘94 I had a giant one bedroom apartment in West Hollywood, across the street from The Whisky, for $750 a month. Life was good then. For a little while. That same one bedroom apartments is about $3,000 a month now FYI. 

Still, with all my early impressions about life, New York would have been a more suitable choice, west coast oceanic weather be damned. 

Whenever I’m asked for an emergency contact these days I use Aramis. Both of my parents are dead, I’m divorced, and I have no children. But truthfully, my friends know if a month goes by without any writing (anywhere) they know I’m dead. This is the golden rule for anyone these days I suppose. Twitter, FB, Snapchat, texting - don’t post anything for a month, chances are you’re dead. Especially at my age. 

If I make it to 55 years of age I’ll move into a senior community just to be around people my own age. It’s kind of a big deal to me now, being around people my own age. Baby boomers thought my generation was loud, lazy, and disrespectful? They must think the following generations have gone completely nuclear. 

Anyway

Halloween 

Don’t trust the fruity shots! 

I can drink wine until I pass out. Then wake up. Then drink until I pass out again. Wine has no effect on me except for when I drink too much I just pass out. But those damn fruity shots always give me a hang over. Always. 

After swapping a few nice messages with this guy (Daniel) who emailed me last week, I wanted to meet up with him today.

Alas 

I’m hungover so today won’t work. 

Damn fruity shots.

Someone started to spray paint FUCK YOU on one of the building dumpsters but either ran out of paint, or time, or didn’t know how to spell YOU, either way it’s hilarious. 

Daniel and I have now swapped two or three emails and have decided to meet some place on the 9th for a drink. Already our profiles are unraveling. He’s listed in Henderson but says in email that he lives in Summerlin. The plot thickens. 

Daniel says he’s French from Montreal but since he has no one to speak French to he’s losing the ability. How is that possible? Is that possible? Do bilingual people lose their native language if they speak another for most of their adult life? The plot thickens. 

He says he’s French but he has blonde hair and blue eyes. I guess that’s possible. I know a few very light skin Mexicans with blonde hair and blue eyes. But you have to consider mix breeding somewhere down the line. 

He also says he lived all over the Midwest and west coast, like me. So there’s that. And like me, he refuses to live in a winter state ever again. Good. My rocking chair will never know temperatures under 50 degrees. It’s November and I currently have my air conditioner on. 

He seems nice (online). I refuse to give him my phone number. If we start texting each other a week before we meet I’ll lose interest. I know me, I just will. And being as how we met on a swinger website - I’m guessing he’s on every online avenue trying to meet people in Vegas. He said he’s only lived here a month and a half. I’ve only lived here a year and four months. Maybe he’ll want to check out a few places with me. After all, the holidays are fast approaching. Last year I had roommates. This year I live alone. Who wants to be in Vegas, alone, during the holidays?

He’s been around it seems, plus he’s on at least one swinger website as a solo male, which means he’s quite possibly more banged up than a Japanese test drive dummy. 

Good.

Me too.

But just in case he’s not, I’m bringing along the booger hoodie. A girl must always have a plan B. 

What’s a booger hoodie you ask?

Well, it’s a...