Supafine!

OK. I'm at my in-laws' house, using their computer. I'm the only one awake, because I'm still operating on night-shift time, not holiday time.

Spent an uncomfortable two hours watching "Bringing Down The House" with Iain's family. And before that, it was Queer Eye For The Straight Guy. My mom-in-law laughed. I laughed. Everyone else said it was retarded.

Oh well.

Shit, I better make this short; I think the typing is waking Iain up.

OK. I'm about to jet outta here, spend some time in Pittsburgh, etc. etc. So yeah, I'll be gone. The whole weekend. Things may be hinky, but I'll return and fix them later, I promise.

Have a great Turkey Day.

Hey, boys and girls. I've missed you.

Just a quick note to let y'all know things will be quite tumultuous at Supafine soon. I'll be gallivanting around Western P.A., eating turkeys and meeting with members of the Slimy Pebble Whitewater Team [long story, I'll tell you sometime].

I'm also dumping loads of time into the new web site. Never fear -- when the time comes, you'll know. But just get ready to make a new bookmark, OK? Nothing too tough to remember, just a wee change. I promise, you'll love it, because it's consistent, dependable and familiar. Trust me.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with these words of advice: "Shake it like a Polaroid picture." [God help Outkast if I ever lay hands on 'em, because "Hey ya" has been stuck in my head for about six straight days.]

So much mini-turmoil in the life of Supa MB. I'll give you a few hints of the marvelous things to come:

1. Work. Shall be moving to the Towson office next week. Much, much closer to home. Fortunately, also full of great people. Very excited. Shall miss my current newspaper.
2. Web. Shall be moving to a new domain and publishing system. Much, much more bad-ass. Fortunately, also full of great Supafine content. Very excited. Shall miss ... well, nothing really.

OK. Not much turmoil at all, I admit, but damn, it is exciting!

On a repentant note: Synthetic, I want to apologize. I feel I jumped off the handle [is that the expression?] at you the other day. I still am not certain of your identity, but whatever it is, I apologize for the name-calling. [But not the rant]. I am over myself, and life can go on now.

Lovely visit with Dan. He documented it very well, but left out one story: The Ubiquitous Dad.

We pulled into the parking garage at the Renaissance Hotel downtown, planning to ooh and ahh at the Harbor and grab some lunch. Some guy in a Passat pulls in immediately behind us. He's got a little tyke with him, a sober two-year-old. Well, Dad Guy looks like he knows where he's going -- presumably to the stairs -- so we follow him. He keeps looking over his shoulder, and we all make a little joke about following him.

At the top of the stairs, Dan and I emerge into the bright sunlight and head down the street. Dad Guy heads the other way. We're ready to tackle Tourist Town.

A block later we realize Dad Guy is walking in front of us. The four of us pause at the light. He glances quickly at us -- two young people, one of whom is carrying an enormous camera -- and dashes across the street, tyke in tow. Can you blame him?

We shrug our shoulders at the paranoid man and head up to Pizzeria Uno for some lunch. After, Dan shoots some cool photos from the pedestrian bridge over Pratt Street [I think it's Pratt]. We cut through the mall ... where we see Paranoid Dad Guy and son.

"Strange," we say, because it's been about two hours and yet we meet again. At the door, he goes left, we go right, looping around the block so I can have a smoke and find the entrance to the garage. We find it, locate our car, unlock the doors, look up -- and there's Dad Guy! Getting into his car! With his wee son!

"Swear we're not following you, man," we say nervously. Dad Guy has forgiven us, though.

"Enjoy your visit?" He's figured out that we're not detectives. Merely tourists. We chat, we laugh, we lean on our cars and discuss the area. Reluctantly, we draw the conversation to a close. He pulls out of his space and drives off.

We, of course, followed him.

Hmmm ... guess you had to be there.

This post brought to you by: A Poetic Retelling Of An Unfortunate Incident from the album "Letting Off The Happiness" by Bright Eyes.

I can't believe I haven't posted about this yet. Check yo' head, Supa.

Photodan is coming to town!! Thursday!! We gonna get our drink on and do the Tour of Baltimore.

Tour of Baltimore includes Supa MB leading Photodan to Very Important Baltimore Landmarks, such as: The Apple Store in Towson, the Wharf Rat in Fells Point, maybe more drinky at The Barn in Parkville, a little Walters Museum action, the Blacks in Wax museum, maybe even more drinky at Tully's, the Federal Hill Kodak Moment spot, and ... of course ... the Inner Harbor [fleetingly, and through a bus window].

Quite comprehensive, I assure you. I mean, obviously, I am no Mobtown expert, considering I only moved here like, last week, and never leave my apartment, and don't even live in the city. But dammit, I have my Insider's Guide and a street map.

We gonna shake this place up, yo!

Yeah. So I've already mentioned that I'm not the hippest, most with-it lass on the block. Which is why it will not surprise you that I'm only just now reading "A.H.W.O.S.G."

Well, and by "reading" I mean "stumbling through the preface."

No premature opinions yet, of course. Say, when did this come out?

*flips to title page*

...

2000!!! Am I that far behind the times!? Christ.

... Mass. court rules gays entitled to wed.

Dear "Synthetic":
Thank you for pointing out my tendencies to pose and strut and pretend I'm something other than a pathetic middle-class suburban married whitegirl. I appreciate it.

"The tragically hip neopunk is simply a construct, a pose, a sham."

Indeed, it is. I'm not cool. I never have been. I never, ever will be. And, as I discussed in a February 13, 2001 self-satirizing column for The BG News, I am a poseur, too.

In fact, because I said it so well back then, here's the link to the column.

So, again, I thank you. From the bottom of my sappy, happy heart,

Supa MB

p.s. I fucking hate anonymous commenters, don't you? I mean, I think I know who you are, sweetcheeks, but since I don't, I'll drive myself crazy trying to figure it out. Thanks for that, too.

As The Rev. Spork points out, there are people born in the 1990s who are now entering puberty.

This, of course, explains why the horrible fashion mistakes of the 1980s are making a comeback. These tykes didn't have to live through the pain and horror of neon green leggings and flat sparkly shoes with bows on them.

This explains why the previously mentioned Care Bears, as well as My Little Ponies and Dallas hair are on the upswing again.

And while I love I Love The 80s, I'm suddenly very alarmed at its popularity. Yes, it's nostalgic. But that shit's not cool! And what's up with the golden-oldies flava of Greatest Hits of the 90's CD collections?

It's an endless cycle of pop culture regurgitation. The 70s were obsessed with the 50s [see: Grease]. The 80s were obsessed with the 60s [see: the resurgence of Op Art, Pop Art and tacky color combos]. The 90s were obsessed with the 70s [see: flared pants, a renewed interest in environmentalism]. And our present decade has the unfortunate obsession with the 80s.

Awful, awful, awful. And just like I had to during the 80s, I understand that I have to patiently sit back and wait for this all to pass, so I can relive the 90s again in 10 years.

I just hope I can make it that long.

Where's Angry Ugly Monkey Girl? I'm so sick of my own sappy happy pap. Ooh, let's blather about Talking. Ooh, Relationships. Ooh, Chick Flicks.

Ugh.

No edge at all, man. None.

***

So last night was an impromptu happy hour at Tully's with some math and science faculty. Good times. And a good long convo with Jeffy, who wrote a great story for 210 West.

This morning was the Book Thing. Came away with two ginormous stacks of [free] books, everything from Introduction to Vertebrate Embryology to a teen pulp novel called Sloppy Firsts.

Oh my God, I'm boring myself.

P.S. Missing my girls and guy on North Bissell. Say hi to Sergio for me, and stay out of trouble, you crazy cats.

Amazing how fast time flies when you're tipping a few back, comfortably reclined on your brand-new camp chairs, enjoying the evening chill with your honey.

Iain and I spent a good three and a half hours doing the Back Porch Ritual last night, discussing money, family, personalities, sex, friends, weekend plans, marriage, Life, The Universe, and everything. Lord, I can't even remember it all.

But I know it was good. I know this is getting repetitious, but I can't express enough how powerful the BPR is for a relationship. I'd recommend it to anyone. Marriage trouble? Bust out the BPR. Friend problems? BPR. Boyfriend issues? BPR. Fighting with your step-dad? BPR.

Guaranteed to cure what ails ya. No distractions, just talking. And I know beer doesn't make you cool [and listen up, yo, it's for Adults Only, OK. Don't get any ideas ... you've still got six years to go], but it does loosen up the inhibitions, paving the way for really tough/deep/unlikely conversations.

All in all, an unbeatable combination. Try it sometime.

This post brought to you by: Shanty from the album "Native State" by Cartoon.

Crap. Isn't it a really, really bad sign if you find yourself and your situation parodied in the Onion? Todd passed along a link that, disturbingly, fit me to a T: Mom Finds Out About Blog.

[And Blogger has a solution].

I find this article hilarious on two levels: One, that I just posted a "Mom, Thanks for Reading" entry. And two, that I've just undergone the mom-found-it trauma about a month or two ago.

We worked through it, though. Turns out that, with her MomRadar, she knows most of my shit anyway, without me writing it down. And she's cool with stuff, too. So I'm no longer freaking.

I presume y'all understand that this is ... how you say ... one aspect of myself. A now-slightly-censored aspect of myself. Not in a bad way, of course. But still. There might just be a few things Mom, Dad and Little Bro/Sis just don't need to know about the Supa MB.

Even though, obviously, it's all pretty much out there now.

And you know, if there's one thing Mom taught me, it's "Don't Write Anything You Don't Want Someone Else to Read."

Unfortunately, the best advice often goes unheeded. Ah, well. You live, you learn, as Alanis once said. I'm getting the hang of it.

Now I'm just waiting for The Onion to put out a "Work Finds Out About Blog" story.

Then I'll know I'm in trouble.

[Here's a shoutout to the woman who gave me life, the man who made it all possible, and the siblings without whom I never would have turned out the way I am today.]

The way I wanted to make clothes was to remember what it feels like to put something on that fits, that feels so good, that you don't want to take it off, that in your imagination, when you see yourself happy and lovely, walking through a heavenly late morning spring mist just burning off with rays from the noon sun, armed with a picnic basket filled with runny cheeses and baguettes and chocolates, to meet your most adored lover, somewhere deep in a friendly forest, you are wearing that dress. That you will lay down in that dress, that you will be fed in that dress, that you will be kissed in that dress, that you will make love in that dress and never think once while it is happening that something might rip, you shouldn't be sitting down, there might be a bulge here or there you have to hide, that you will be free to move, eat, love. If that is 'soooo baaaaaddd' then let it be bad. I don't give a shit.

Hello. My name is Supa MB, and I'm a blog-aholic.

According to Marie Claire [the source for all knowledge, of course], I have an addiction to blogging. Also, I am a compulsive e-mail checker.

You may not have guessed this, but it is true. Too, too true.

It's the reason I spend hours at a time crafting the words to portray my enormously boring life to all of my eager, passionate readers. The reason I actually spent $8.95 to forever secure the domain www.supamb.com. The long nights. The longer days. The research, the HTML code handbook, the minimalist dial-up connection.

It's all for you.

I know you're blushing; you're making sweet self-deprecating remarks, but it's all to no avail. I'm an addict, OK? I can't stop. It's what gets me through the day. I can only have experiences now that will yield good material. I take notes on my actual life. On diner napkins! In full view of everybody!

I don't think there's any hope. I have vomited my teeniest personal details for you. I have offered up every embarrassing factoid, moment, and thought that I have for you.

I learned cascading style sheets for you.

I have endured the media attention, of course. Suffered through the endless e-mails and comments. Taken to wearing sunglasses in public places, lest a photographer recognize me, capture my essence on film and sell it to the National Enquirer.

All this, I do for you. And what thanks do I get? Do I get the green? No. Do I get the lucrative book deal? No. Do I get complimentary peanuts? Only sometimes, and only with force.

Why, you may ask, do I continue this online self-flagellation? This verbal landslide of inward-directed analysis and commentary?

Mostly because I'm an abominable, self-obsessed, neurotic, needy, un-self-actualized person who would shrivel up like a dead mummy and die without writing things down.

But partly because I know at least one of you out there likes it.

Mom, thanks for reading.

And now, the story you've all been waiting for: How I Spent My California Vacation.

In the immortal words of Jeffro: What didn't we do?! I did take notes, on a napkin at dinner somewhere, but I can't find them now, so here we go -- from memory.

Naps. MTV. Pasta and a Chocolate Hockey Puck at Sonoma Chicken Coop. Naps. Drinks at the Pig with J.H., M.M., S.U., S.P., K.W., A.B., and a guy we didn't know. Sleep. Donuts for breakfast. San Francisco. Lunch at the Cha Cha Cha on Haight. CD's at Amoeba. Dolores Park. The Mission. The Castro. Union Square. Fisherman's Wharf. Dinner at Calzone's in North Beach. Drinks and Dancing with Kara and Ari at Kell's [very momentous for mi compadre!]. Sleep. MTV. Breakfast of Ritz Crackers. Lunch at Tommy's Mexican Restaurant with Kara/Ari combo. MTV [I needed to catch up, dude]. Mojitos and poker at P.'s. Socializing in S.J. Sleep. Flight. Return.

Grocery-shopping.

Highlights: Remembering olden days and makin' new rememberies. Finding another grammar geek. Pulling out my Polaroid on the corner of Haight and Ashbury. Being serenaded by a pretentious panhandler. Riding a municipal bus. Witnessing history being made at the straight bar. Touring the Merc. Meeting the people J. talks about. Seeing palm trees. Seeing the Pacific.

Danger zone: Purchasing an accessory which is the height of cool in S.F., but which will get me made fun of here. Drinking and dishing [very low tolerance, very big mouth]. Renewing my addiction to popular magazines and cable television.

Not-so-crunk: Rain and 50-degree weather.

In sum: Flipping fantastic time. Too bad Cali is 500 gazillion miles away!

Post-script: K.M., how could you! The only time I'm in S.J., and you hightail it to ... we'll just say Wheeling, W. Va. Rain check in the mail?

This post could only be brought to you by California Love from the album "The N.W.A. Legacy, Vol. 1," by 2Pac.

OK. Venturing to California. No shit. Flying out at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow. I'll try not to have a heart attack.

Going to spend some quality time with my Jeffy, see the sights, maybe have a little freak-out. This is all brand-new to me ... I don't jet-set around like all y'all. Very Big Deal.

I'm packing, and catching some shut-eye before the cabbie comes at 5 fucking thirty in the A.M. I'll be thinking of you all as I clutch my armrest in a white-knuckled grip of death!

This post brought to you by: Angels From Montgomery from the album "Souvenirs" by John Prine.

P.S. Weebles, I'll miss you most of all.

Ooh! Ooh! Something very, very exciting could be happening this weekend. I'm talking awesome. I'm talking transcontinental. I'm talking ... Sheep. Mabel. Jokes. Peanuts.

Soon, soon, it will all make sense. Stay tuned.

This is my kind of November. Sunshine, hot weather, trips to the beach.

Warning! Dirty story ahead.
Went to the Gunpowder today, Hammerman area, with Iain, Karen, John, Matt, Brenda and Doug for a cookout. Played on the piers, tossed the football around, grilled some brats. It was fun. Beer-commercial fun. But with no beer.

As we were eating, we spied a couple down in the water, waist-deep. By the bird-shit-covered pier. They were all making out and stuff.

"Aw," we said. Isn't that cute. Young love.

Then it turned serious.

His shirt came off. And evidently, so did his trunks, because we saw way too much of his ass. Then we spied her feet sort of wrapped around his waist. Thankfully, her wet T-shirt, or whatever was passing for a dress, was still on.

They were doing it. Like, in the water. Up against the nasty dock. At three in the afternoon at a public park in full view of everybody.

"I didn't realize we were going to get dinner AND a show," said Brenda.

And she was right, it was a show. We couldn't stop watching. It was gross and funny and bizarre. Finally Karen let out a real sharp whistle, the kind you make with two fingers, and we catcalled for a minute, but nothing could deter these two lovestruck teens from gettin' it on.

"Maybe someone told him that if they do it underwater, she won't catch pregnant," said Iain.

Well, maybe she will and maybe she won't, but for God's sake, they're bound to catch something. You ever see what floats in that bay? Eeeeyick.

"I bet both their parents are at home, and they had nowhere else to do it," Doug said.

"It'd be even worse if they come up for air and they're, like, 50," someone else said.

And if I may say so, this was one marathon session. It's like they were the only two people in the world ... which I'm sure was real romantic and all -- for them.

Matt suggested we toss them a few bucks. "Hey, buddy! Here's a fivespot toward getting a room."

No response from our little exhibitionists -- at least, none we could see.

Well, we hooted and hollered just a tiny minute more, and debated running down to the shore to swipe their clothes.

Come to think of it, we may have been just as obnoxious as the two young and impatient lovers were.

Hm.

In the end, though, we just let them be. Karen reminded us that she's got a medical kit in the car, should the little horndogs sustain any injuries, such as ... splinters. Or Ebola. Which, I'm presuming, they didn't. They eventually wrapped up the show -- though no curtsies, thank goodness -- and meandered back to the sand to coo at each other and watch the water.

That, my friend, is dedication. That, my friend, is pure love. Or something.

Wading into freezing-cold dirty water to have wild public sex: It doesn't get any more serious than that. I wish them all the best. And I really, really hope they have quality health insurance.

This is why the Back-Porch Ritual is such a good thing: figuring out what's important.

What's your "if only?" The one thing that, if you had it, would make your life perfect?

Everyone has one, as near as I can figure. Mine, right now, probably is "If only I lived closer to my family, my life would be perfect." Two years ago, it was "If only I lived in the same town as Iain, my life would be perfect." Five years ago, it was "If only I had my own apartment/passed this class/had fifty bucks."

Trouble is, you're always going to have an "if only."

Now I've passed that class, I've got fifty bucks, I live in the same town as Iain, and life still isn't perfect.

My conclusion? Living with that "if only." Knowing it's always gonna be there, and being OK with that. If I keep the same "if only," then at least I can say, "My life is as near to perfect as it's going to get."

And it is, really. I mean, what are my troubles? I don't have enough friends in town? I only have a 12-pack of Rock, instead of the case? My feet are cold?

Please. I should be so lucky, right? Well, sometimes I forget that, and need to remind myself to suck it up. It could be worse. It has been worse [a lot worse]. And though yeah, it could be better, why does it have to be? Why not be happy -- content -- with the way it is now? Why's it always got to be bigger-better-faster-more?

We're so programmed to want the next, the latest, the best, the most. Climb that corporate ladder. Buy that SUV. Furnish that condo. Upgrade upgrade upgrade. Live beyond your means. I'm so guilty of it. Panther for the Mac just came out, and I want it so bad I can taste the plastic wrapping. I need an iPod. I'd love to have a real fucking couch, one that seats three people.

You know what? I'll live. My parents started out with milk-crate furniture and a black and white television. Come to think of it, they were still driving an explodey Ford Pinto when they were my age. And you know what? They survived. Thrived. And lived to tell the tale.

Wanting what I don't have makes me a very unhappy girl. Wishing I had more, wishing I had whatever, makes me miserable. And you know, I really don't relish feeling like shit.

So maybe this is settling. Maybe I'm a loser for not having a burning ambition. Unpatriotic for not having a driving need to be the king of the mountain. Maybe I'm shortchanging myself by being happy with what I've got, instead of needing more.

That may be so.

But to me, it's a new kind of contentment, you know? Like, an Alcoholics Anonymous kind of contentment, where you can just accept what you've got and be grateful for it. It's like my own little 12-step plan to happiness: Not Wanting Other Shit.

Let's see how this works out.

This post sanctimoniously brought to you by: What I Got from the album "Sublime" by Sublime.