Fatale Abstraction

I had my hair did today.

My hairdresser is a sexy chick who is half-French, and she's wild and funny and we have similarly twisted senses of humor. We laugh like hyenas when we get together. We talk about style, fashion, celebrities, and the drama of the moment, whatever that may be. She's the only person I know who rides the rides at the State Fair, never worrying about whether all the little bolts were properly tightened when they set that shit up. She actually persuaded me to get on a roller coaster there with her last time I went. She may be the only person I know who is as zany as me, or moreso. Poor woman!

Anyway, I saw a man across the salon who looked extremely familiar, but I was mid-sentence and didn't want to break my meter, so I quickly forgot about it.

In a little bit, Fran and I were in the washroom, my head in a basin and her washing my hair as I chattered merrily along about the latest celebrity poop. I noticed that the man was having his hair washed at the next station, but again, I blathered on. I was saying that considering the front-and-center photographs recently of Paris Hilton's and Lindsay Lohan's naked *ahem* personal areas, and considering the recent you tube footage of Paris Hilton laughing her head off when a doughy ugly rich boy was calling Lindsay a "fire crotch" --well, it was just ironic Paris laughed at "fire crotch" considering how much uglier than Lindsay's Paris' was.

I have to say I'm generally opposed to cosmetic surgery on principle, but I think it's time both these girls put their money where their mouths are and have a little procedure. Seriously ugly. I mean ugly in the sense that a rather balanced set of equipment is to be desired. Paris herself made me wonder if it's possible to herniate a labia. (what is singular - labium?) Anyway, she needs a labiectomy or some sort of tuck. ew. I mean, dammit! If you are going to be such an exhibitionist, you'd better make sure everything is properly arranged before you go throwing caution to the wind.

I don't know about you, but I'll never stay in a Hilton Hotel for the rest of my life. That rich kids are such colossal screw-ups is understandable, but I can cast my memory back to a time when after an acute public embarrassment, the effed-up rich kid would have the decency to go underground for a wee bit before having another flare-up. Paris Hilton, in contrast, is the never-ending Herpes outbreak that will not be ignored, dammit!

After her kidnapping and Helsinki syndrome and being forced to rob a bank with the Symbionese Liberation Army, fabulously rich kid Patty Hearst went on to have a somewhat normal and private life, later delighting us by popping up in John Waters movies and being murdered by etiquette-happy Kathleen Turner for wearing white shoes after Labor Day.

Not so:Paris Hilton. Her night-vision home movie sexcapades wove their unctuous slime-trail all over the web, her eyes glowing like the raccoon digging through the trash that she is - and that's not enough! She has to show us her vagina. EW! I'm amazed she hasn't gotten it a tv show yet, because she will not rest until every last one of us has seen it.

Anyway, back to the salon. We were howling with mirth, and I noticed the two guys were laughing with us, and then I knew I recognized the laugh. He's a handsome man named Gary who had a loft in Dallas in the same building I lived in at one point.

Gary has this mellifluous voice that is so dreamy, you could drift off just listening to him read a phone book.

Oh, and Gary played David Austen - the brother of character Winter Austen on that old soap opera "The Edge of Night." [my brush with fame!] Anyway, we laughed and laughed. It was so incredible to see him.

Gary works at an upscale shop in Dallas that wants to put in a case of my jewelry. I really need to get on the ball and do that, but I've been so over-committed and stressed out and not dealing with the pressure well, frankly. And did I mention I have completion issues? I'm very good at starting things, but finishing them? Not so much.

Anyway. tra la!

Today I'm heading back to Arkansas for a weddin'. Yup, it's a weddin'.

Now, I don't know if there will be a shivaree, but my sister told me about a shivaree she went to once about 15 years ago or so.

Dad's aunt Geneva (my dog-breeding grandpa's sister) had been a widow for about 15 years, and a man from church courted her and they decided to get married. She was about 70, and he was probably late 70s, just a companionship thing.

Well, late that night, a whole bunch of family members snuck up around Geneva's house with tin cans with coins inside and wrenches and metal things to bang together and generally make a ruckus, as if to disturb some romantic goings-on. It was all a good-natured joke, and apparently this is a very country thing to do, and something that used to be done all the time when people wed.

My sister grabbed an obliging coffee can at Grandpa's house and dropped a few small rocks in .
When the mayhem commenced, sister shook her can, only to be doused by a fetid shower of tobacco juice - for she had unwittingly grabbed a can Grandpa had been using as a spittoon.

There's a moral to that story that I don't even think I have to tell you.

I will say that it's remarkable how often spittoon mis-haps have turned up in both her and my stories from childhood. You haven't lived until you've climbed out the car at the end of a road trip and went to bed, only to awaken the next day to find that in the process of riding down the road with your arm resting on the open window, you acquired a peppering of tobacco freckles courtesy of the dipper/chewer in the front seat. Think of it as some sort of anointing or initiation. It was funny to me back then, too. Probably my sister was hostile and angry about it, though, knowing her. Were you, sister?

Whew, I'm exhausted and rambling. So here's the deal. I'll try to post from the road, but it may be one of those retarded audio blogs that make you question my sanity, so I apologize in advance. Yes, I know I'm a goober.