1. hoopty

In reference to cars: a vehicle in poor condition, often large, boatlike, and aided by duct tape or bungee cords. Comes in two flavors, White Trash and Black Ghetto. See also: hoopty mobile.

Chinese astrology matches your birth year up with an often not attractive animal and thus your characteristics, downfalls and general “you-ness” is calculated into a list of words and phrases matching a 10th grade grammar book.  While highly annoying to be called things such as intuitive and witty, the Asians are typically correct about everything and these horoscopes are spot on.  For instance, I was born in 1984, making me a rat (not cute), which also means that my power element is water.   I am a perfectionist, highly irritable, very interested in the opposite sex and inclined to be simultaneously bossy and uptight one day and a hippy dippy creative wanderer the next (very, very true).

However, after this year I have determined that I will create my own system of astrology, in which case, I have deemed 2009 the year of the car.

Now, I am not one for dramatics, so I shall spare you the grizzly and personally annoying details of my past year in “Car Talk,” which has included one wrecked Passat, two flat tires, a missing hubcap, a broken window and one car break in.

But several weeks ago my car trouble was truly the whipped cream on top of my humble pie.  Let me preface this story (I do like some dramatics) by saying that I live in a very very nice and friendly, albeit sometimes snobby , neighborhood in Denver called Washington Park.  My hood is filled with leafy green trees, beautiful running trails, trim happy couples with their oodles of blonde kids and lots of Porsche Cayennes, BMWS and tricked out Audis.

It’s the kind of place a 25 year old punk like me is very fortunate to hang, especially when there was a garbage bag on the window of her Jetta.

The masking tape was a nice touch.

Yep, garbage bag.  I feel that this week of hell/hilarity/humility is best  expressed in a type of day by day diary/mini memoir I wrote and have tenderly named “The Hoopty Diaries.”  Enjoy.

Day 1, Monday: An inordinate amount of snow has squired Denver in a down of white and I go to my car at 8am to find my doors frozen.  As taunting texts come in from East Coast friends enjoying the 60 degree gift from El Nino I manage to pry myself into my driver side and make the 4 minute jaunt to work.  I try to put my window down to clear snow from the driver mirror and hear the motor grinding and hissing as it tries to do its thing.  Ever the impatient (horoscope key word!) and stressed morning person, I continue to hit the button wildly until the motor wimpers and stops altogether. As I go to get gas , I slam my door and hear craaaaaaaaaaaaash as my window slips down into the door abyss to never be found again.

After 4 hours at Pep Boys full of swearing and reading an ESPN article on Tim Tebow’s virginity, I leave with a bag taped to my window.

Day 2, Tuesday: It’s not so cold out anymore so the bag isn’t that bad, but I find making left hand turns, especially at night, to be  incredibly dangerous on top of my already piss poor driving.  I take the long route to work which essentially takes me five minutes out of my way but only involves right hand turns.  This is not before my attractive lawyer neighbor across the street wants to know if the police have been contacted yet about my car break in.  I kindly tell him that the only crime is that I am a child in a woman’s body, carrying a $500 purse but using a hefty bag as a window.

Day 3, Wednesday: I finally get around to calling shops when I have down time at work, only to be told that it will cost $600 dollars to fix this before I tell them that this is not true and they go quiet before we both hang up like an awkward call before a first date.  The men in my office treat me like a fantasy football team and drown me in stats and repair shop addresses and even do it yourself (haha) directions on how to get this window fixed.  My co-worker calls me trashy girl and laughs every single time he does it.  Another co-worker tells me to buy the part and take it to “one of his guys” and he’ll do it for cheap.  He’s from Long Island and I get the sense that he has a guy for everything from haircuts to calzones.  I feel like an episode of the Sopranos.

Day 4, Thursday: I am relegated to wearing  my winter coat while driving and the lack of mobility makes me feel like I have T-Rex arms.  As I drive through Cherry Creek past Neiman Marcus and Hermes I am sure I am getting dirty looks, but the thick plastic keeps me from seeing (my saving grace).  At this point it is not so much the cold that bothers me but the fact that the whipping sound against my “window” makes it impossible for me to hear NPR on my morning drive.  I put on Lil Wayne because he is the only man alive louder than nature.  I am now in a full-fledged hoopty and not even my thick Coach hipster glasses can salvage this.  On the way home from work I stop at Whole Foods to get some sushi because I am feeling pretty lousy.  Not only do I get dirty looks on account of my car, but I also forgot my reusable tote.  I’m like Hester Prynne of organic food purchase.  Double lousy.

Day 5, Friday: Hurrah!  With a little elbow grease I figure out a system that works!  I grapple back and forth with some Mexicans and get the part at cost and get my Pep Boy guy Brett with the rancid soul patch to put it in for me 300 dollars cheaper than the next cheapest guy!  I leave work early (ugh, again)  and wait at Starbucks for four hours reading tween fiction and watching episodes of East Bound and Down on my Macbook until it is ready.  A swipe of the debit card and I am apart of normal functioning society again.

Moral of the story?  Well there really is none, but I guess if you can’t laugh out loud about being the occasional asshole , at least write it down so your loved ones can.



 Today  a pal and I were engaged in our typical nonsensical daily conversation that keeps us from jumping off of bridges.  You know, the type of marshmallow fluff that only the people engaged in the conversation are interested in: cute puppies, ninjas with lasers, why people with bad grammar suck, delicious burritos, etc, etc, etc.

 But then my boy got real on me.  Like Sarah Palin on Oprah real.

 It seems that during his formative college years, he regarded himself as the single guy and was not the stand up ooey- gooey hot pocket of love and honor and commitment that he is today (you get the picture).

 Long story short, he believed he owed one of his wounded an apology and wanted to know if he should say he’s sorry.  The girl has moved on, but my boy believed she deserved something.  (BTW, isn’t it funny how we can deserve both good and bad things, depending on the day/how big of a bastard we are being)?

 This got me thinking, why do we apologize?

 There are a lot of reasons we apologize; most  typically because it helps keep a steady environment of peace and sanity, especially if the person is someone you live with or are within close proximity to on a daily basis such as a wife, brother, roommate or colleague. Let’s face it, life is tough enough without a coworker eating your Special K or your cubicle mate ratting you out for Facebooking.

 Depending on how lippy or irritable you are, you may even find that apologizing becomes as commonplace as saying Thank You or Good Morning or You Need to Leave Before My Roomate Wakes Up.  Half the time they aren’t truly sincere, but they’re an outreach; a symbolic white flag and a moment in time where we put our hands up and surrender for the sake of maintaining a staid routine.

 But what about those really long overdue apologies?  The kind that can’t be done with a SomeEcard,  but rather have to be penned with one of those old-fashioned quills and ink by candlelight or done standing on someone’s doorstep in the rain in the middle of night (and it HAS to be raining for drama sake).

 You know what I’m talking about, and we ALL have someone in our lives that deserves a  I FUCKED UP, YOU’RE RIGHT, I’M WRONG, PLEASE ACCEPT THIS GIFT CERTIFICATE TO BENNIGAN’S type of apology.  Hopefully not too many but I’m sure you’re thinking of that person right now.

While sometimes we are looking to repair the relationship which was demolished due to our own missteps, many times (especially romantically) the involved parties have moved on.  Yet, we have this nag, this itch to tell someone we messed up and it was all our faults.

 Call it Catholic Guilt/Jewish Guilt/Karma/Overbearing Mother, whatever you’d like, but isn’t it inherently selfish to apologize sometimes?  Even if we are truly truly sorry, by apologizing we’re reopening someone else’s grieving process and spring cleaning our bad deeds shelf in order to make room for the mistakes we’ll more than likely make sooner than later…because, well, that’s what humans do.  Since we’re the offender we get to breathe easy while the hurt party now has to replay the damages and spend a lost weekend watching reruns of Mad About You and eating Thai food. 

 Good intentions or not, apology accepted or not, we’ve now placed something back into someone’s conscience that time and the human memory have done a pretty good job of removing on their own.  Things like your father’s difficulty accepting your liberal arts degree or your grandmother’s shock that you live with your boyfriend!  See how easy that is!

 Another factor that comes in to play is time.  Whether its embarrassment, denial or simply the abhorrence of the offense, sometimes the desire to apologize can take years.  It’s really easy to say “I’m sorry because I was young” or “I’m sorry you didn’t understand my love of jam bands at the time.”  But to  just say “I’m sorry” with no bows or strings or gadgets attached can be really tough.  If you do something horrible to someone, are you better off apologizing immediately as a sign of recognition or to wait a while to show sincerity?

 I don’t have the answers to these questions, because if I did I’d have a book option from Harper Collins right about now.  Rather, I’m thinking out loud instead of doing menial marketing pieces.  However, I am certain that if you’re going to say those tough words, make sure you don’t do it on a post-it note.

 It didn’t work on Sex and the City and it sure as hell won’t work for you.

 And if you never apologize?

 You’re a dick and that’s for another blog post.



Don't be that girl. Unless it's your birthday. Or you just got divorced.

The pressures of life and bills and relationships make it reasonable, nay necessary, to socialize with others and indulge in alcohol from time to time.   Of course the way that you interpret “from time to time” is up for speculation.   My cousin, friends and I decided to center our imbibing around a “super sports weekend” consisting of the Broncos/Patriots game and game 3 of the NLDS with the Rockies and Phillies.

Thanks to the subarctic temperatures in Denver Saturday night the baseball game was moved to Sunday, meaning that rather running the 100, this was more like the 1600…summer Olympics style.  A veritable marathon of talking, dancing, drinking, games and sports- – there was going to be some required stamina and decorum.  Looking back on how the weekend went, involving 1 arrest, a couple upheave episodes and several trainwreck bruises,scratches and wipeouts, it seems pertinent to use our collective group of 8 to lay a few ground rules about how – and how not- to be a class-A drunk.  It’s like a case study for the extremely hammered!

The wrongs:

1) The world is not your bathroom, don’t make it out to be: This is especially important should you find yourself involved in any type of outdoor festival, tailgating or public event.  Peeing on walls, yourself or in bottles (unless you have eagle eye aim) is for cavemen or cocker spaniels.  We are classy women and men here.  Find bathrooms before your 7 bottles of IPA because you know what?  That bush that you think is a hidden forest is pretty see thru once you’re blitzed.

Addendum: Use the bathrooms of your own gender.  A girl trying to go in a urinal is only funny to that girl and flashing genitals to the opposite sex at a sporting event only happens on Cinemax, not in real life.

2) Don’t Get Lippy: Unless you are provoked, don’t be the provoker.  A little ribbing when you kill someone in Cornhole is expected.  Unloading dirty expletives on the stadium worker who won’t sell you 9 beers at once is bad taste.  Now I swear like a sailor.  Much more than what is considered ‘classy.’ But the skank factor goes up to volume 11 if not only am I holding my own pint of Jack Daniels, but also screaming at someone “You Don’t Know Me!” It’s the equivalent of holding four children on my hip in front of a double wide.

3) Walk, don’t Run: I’ll use my self as an example for this one.  In my excitement for football during the weekend, I ran towards Invesco field only to find myself bite it, sprawling forward into some orange construction netting.  No one looks sophisticated sprawled out like one of those chalk drawings of murder victims. I now have to brush off at work why it looks like I had unsuccessfully tried to fight Mr. T all weekend.

If you are going to run, or need to (from the police, I’ll get to that in a second), make sure it’s early on in the game and not after 4 solid hours of drinking.  Ever see a pretty girl in a dress at a wedding with lots of cuts and bruises on her legs?  That girl has been running drunk.  Not cute.

Addendum:  If you can barely walk in the shoes you put on pre-drunk, you don’t have a shot in hell post-drunk.  I was wearing Uggs and still managed to almost cripple myself.  I’m not saying go the orthopedic route, but be honest about how fucked up you really plan on getting and act accordingly.

4) If you get caught by the police, they win: You can run, swerve, fake out, do the Heisman pose… but if the police get you, it’s game over.  Calling them pigs, swearing, spitting or throwing your beer only makes your time in the drunk tank that much worse.  Our friend during this weekend got her assault on and ended up in surgical booties and a holding cell which she likened to Alcatraz.  “They were so mean to me,” she said.  Well no kidding.

The rights:

1) Find an auspicious time to throw up: Yes, no one looks classy or regal throwing up.  Yeh, maybe you shouldn’t have drank that much.  But sometimes it happens!  Take a cue from my friend Diane who at the top of Invesco field managed to throw up in a french fry container with only her companions knowing!  Quiet, head forward, like nothing happened.  She also managed to say “Pardon me, hold on please, I’m going to throw up now”  several times.  That is the way a real lady would do it.  This style also comes in handy for women’s social functions when you can’t stand the lady talking about her ‘amazing, supportive husband’ or her ‘spiritual trip to Thailand’ and you find yourself downing vodka martinis.

2) The more polite you are, the less people focus on your hammer time: Using phrases such as “excuse me” “sorry” and “thank you” allow people to focus on you kindness and way less on your ability to beer bong like it’s a night game, mid season with your team going 7-0 ! You can bet they’re a little blizted too and the Mary-Sunshine Martha Stewart attitude goes a long way.

3) Continue to Tip Well: This goes along with politeness.  If you’re 5 patron shots in and you are still tipping at least 20 percent?  Not only are you a classy drunk, but you can do your math!  “Goddamn genius from a nice family” is what people will be muttering behind you (at least that’s what I pretend is happening!)

Point being, if you’re American and a breathing homosapien there’s a good chance you’ve been drunk.  But unless you’re 19, being “that guy/girl” is no longer acceptable.  Take a cue from the Irish and not only be wasted, but also fully functional.

It’s all about multitasking.

And we love that in the U.S.A.

And if you’re unsure?  Just yell “Michael Phelps is a classy drunk!!”

No one will question you.



1. guy’s girl
That great girl who can just chill and be ‘one of the guys’. She’s into sports, beer, action flicks and doesn’t give a damn what others think.
However, unlike the tomboy, she has her gang of girl mates who she shops with and does girly stuff.
When attractive, this girl is mysterious and elusive. Acts aloof and gives off the ‘cool girl’ aura, like she’s very aware of both guys’ and girls’ worlds.


These would surely be flown on a ceiling fan.



“You’re dad must be awesome.”


“You’re a dad’s girl aren’t you?”

And my personal favorite (from Doug the other day) : “Hungover in Nashville? But you drink more than most guys.”

Ahhh yes, the saccharine sweet sounds of being a guy’s girl.  The girl that gets put in head locks and splits bills and honestly knows what Bucky *fuckin* Dent means without slyly navigating to Google.com on her Blackberry Pearl.  She knows about the German Purity law of 1516 and why it makes Hefeweizen taste so damn good.  She does tailgates and strip clubs, and no not to be a faux Katy Perry lesbian but because her pals knows that nothing they possibly say or do there would make her bat one lash of her DiorShow Mascara-d eye.  And plus it’s just too damn far away to take her home beforehand.

Hi my name is Sara Kelly and I’ an alcohol-,er, guy’s girl.

I know, I know.  What am I complaining about? Boys as far as the eye can see.  Trips to go hang out with *my boys*  Funny text messages from *my boys*  Hugs, and fist bumps and cramming in between 5 of *my boys* on the couch to watch soccer/hockey/football/baseball/insert anything drinking or competitively related here.

You wanna know why I’m complaining?  Here’s a list:

Nicknames: What does a girl call two girls both named Kristen?  Kristen N. and Kristen S. or “Blonde Kristin” and “Brunette” Kristin.  What happens when there are two girls named Sara(h) and you need to differentiate?  One is Sara the other is (and these are things I have been called within the past several weeks) : Cockhead, Lil Ho, Princess Lil Ho, Brakebeater, Playa, Punk, Loser, and my favorite, Nutsack. It’s even better being introduced that way as in, “Hey Sarah, this is Sara, but you can just call her Lil Ho.”

Bodily Functions: Gentleman, would you fart or burp on a first date? Pee with the door open? Would you then laugh?  Would you talk about back hair/nut hair/pimples “that hurt” to a girl who caught your eye at a party?  No way.  Do I get to hear/see/smell experience all of this?  You bet.  And no one thinks twice.

Drinking:  Yes I can drink.  And no, I don’t drink cosmos or appletinis and yes I do drink vodka and whisky and beer and bourbon.  But that doesn’t mean that my liver is the same size as yours or that the extra 5 inches you have on me is just height and that I can make it up in personality and go shot for shot with you for 12 hours straight.  Oh and PS- what happens when 5 guys order beers and you order a vodka tonic at dinner? You get called a faggot by 5 guys…I can’t make this stuff up.

This past weekend in Nashville I was denied entry into the Broadway Brewhouse because I was visibly intoxicated.  *My boys* answser? “Get your act together!”  Sirs, I will get my act together when you stop yelling “Slam that beer!”  It saves us all time when we’re running to get in a cab and you have to get back out to pick me up covered in bloody cuts because my heel was caught in a sewer grate.  Speaking of heels…

Pace: My shoes are 5″ off the ground.  They have a pointed toe box and yeh they kinda hurt, but they match my dress and I’m going to wear them.  I cannot run down asphalt/mudhills/backards/or in front of traffic in them.  And no, I will not wear “flat shoes” with my dress as I was told to do this weekend.  As in, “You’re wearing those?  We’re not picking you up when you break you back!  You’re done for cockhead!”  Speaking of pace…

Food: I can’t eat fried pickles and pizza and dirty burritos and gravy 7 days per week.  I also don’t want to see you do it so fast that your head is spinning a top your neck like a gremlin movie as you open your gullet and swallow a club sandwich the way a Burmese Python would inhale a small asian child that Angelina Jolie hoped to adopt.  Speaking of violent behavior…

Rough Housing:  This past weekend, and pretty much for the past 10 years of my life I have been bitten, slapped, punched, pushed down, fallen on, tackled and ninja kicked. Have you ever been fallen on my a whisky soaked 400lb Southern boy?  Probably not.  Sometimes it was a classic infantile “I like you so I’m going to get to touch you by hitting you” ploy, but the other 80 percent of it was a don’t touch my beer, I’m going to bite your forearm WWF move.  And you know what?  Guy’s girl or not, it still really hurts.  Even further, when you go to work in a pencil skirt with two black knees people either think you are an amateur boxer or a weekend hot mess.

Language: My heritage makes it easy enough to for me to swear or talk in un-ladylike tongues.  When you spend all of your time with guys that multiplies by 10.  An illustrious group of boys that I run around with, known as the Beaters,slowly but surely developed their own talk.  If something requires effort?  “Sounds like work!”  “May I have a cigarette?” becomes ” Gimme that tough stick!” (note: Beaters do not ask for things, but rather take things).  This is fine when I’m amongst them, but if I start saying “Gimme that tough beer” at work functions it will be the downfall of me.  One of the Beaters sisters noted that they “speak in code.”  Scary thing?  I’m fluent in it.

Messing with My Stuff:  Yeh I’m a guy’s girl, but I still have access to things that boys are interested in, and because I’m that guy’s girl, they may take it, steal it, throw it or ruin it without asking.  Think my bras being used as wrestling helmets and my underwear being flown around on ceiling fans.  You get the picture.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that deep down, each one of *My Boys* does in fact love and respect me, but when you’re having a bad day, getting punched while being called Super Ho at 9am makes you sometimes wish there was a girl to say Let’s Go Shopping and watch 4 hours of The Hills today.  It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, you can count on someone telling me to “Stop bitching and grow some balls.”

Which would not be good for anyone.

Especially me.



The wrinkly future.

The wrinkly future.

Part of my morning ritual at work is to get to the office a little early, get some coffee and read all of the things during the day that really don’t seem professional such as PerezHilton, Blogtheque,  Bill Maher’s New Rules on Huff Post and of course the sugar crack website that draws us all in like blinded sheep: Facebook. 

Typically I look over Hargusta and the Caus’ profiles, respond to any wise ass posts I get from my dear friends and then look to see what my family is up to.  Since I’m not a huge phone person, (I talk on the phone to my parents and sister about once a week) FB is a good way to see where everyone is.  Yesterday I was viewing my dad’s FB page when I was socked in the face with the status update: “If Tom Brady gets hurt again, whose fault is that? WTF!?”

Hold the phone.

WTF? Did my dad really just say that?  For those who know the Skelladay family you know us to be respectful, cultured, conversational people in front of the curtains and rowdy, whisky drinking pirates off stage.  As I’ve gotten older I’ve heard my father drop some Fs and even some MFs in the midst of a beer drinking and sports family session.  From the stories I’ve heard, I’m sure the Fs also flew in his younger days when every Saturday night was like a scene from a Burt Reynolds film.

But here it was, in social media form, for everyone to see…and I don’t think I liked it.  The Caus, being the ever helpful and enlightened friend recommended that I expound on my father’ s new found text knowledge and teach him STFU, also known by its more formal phrase, “Shut the F*ck Up!”

Can you imagine? My father in his recliner, Monday Night Football on, talking to his friend: “Oh-em-gee! You shot two under par? On that course!? STFU!!  Wow, the Detroit Lions couldn’t get any worse than they were in 2008! LoL!” 

My friend Ryan encouraged me to direct my dad to Webopedia to where he could learn all of the text vernacular that has made us all so inherently lazy.  Curious, I went there yesterday and learned that there are over 1,180 different text abbreviations.

Um, excuse me?  While the majority of them are for Dungeons and Dragons virgins who need to kick ass on Play Station 3 when they should be at prom, there were others that seemed to come completely from left field.  I will occasionally throw an OMG at Hargusta if she tells me big news, but for the most part I stick to the English language I treasure so much.  Would you know what it meant if someone sent you a message that said LTLWDLS?  I didn’t think so.   It stands for “Let’s Twist Like We Did Last Summer.”  Apparently, Chubby Checker songs are so vital to our every day communication that an acronym will help get you out of a pinch if, say, you’re being mugged and your attacker has an affinity for classic American oldies.

While still an undergrad, I worked as a writing tutor for academic services to help pay for beer and beef up the wet noodle limp resume most graduates have when all of a sudden they’re not in college anymore and have to get a real job.  While one day helping a girl edit a Freshman composition paper on the love of Orpheus and Euridyces, this darling student managed to squeeze “LOL” into her final paragraph just as she explained that, damn it, if Orpheus hadn’t looked back Eurydices wouldn’t have been taken back to the depths of the underworld. 

Correct me if I’m wrong, but being stolen away to live in the underworld with Hades and the three headed dog doesn’t seem like an LOL moment, and furthermore, it scares me to think that we are gravitating toward a world where resumes are peppered with TTYL and Obama will be referred to as the HBIC (ahem, that stands for Head Bitch in Charge).  There’s even a musical group now called LMFAO…you may be familiar with their annoyingly catchy song “I’m in Miami Bitch.”  Perhaps Jeff Buckley sings it as he rolls over in his grave…

Upon looking back on the incident from yesterday, I’ve come to realize that I actually enjoy having my parents on facebook.  I am one of those people who gets along incredibly well with her family, and for that I’m lucky.  But my iPhone wielding father using WTF means there are no more secrets.  He gets FB, he understands text lingo, he harasses Terrell Owens on Twitter and with that, I’ve come to the sad assumption that unless we’re willing to consciously step away from our Crackberrys and go hide in the Adirondacks for a long weekend, none of us can be totally anonymous again.  Everyone from 5th graders to senior citizens is on board with technology, meaning that your business is now your neighbor’s whose business is her ex boyfriend’s, and so on and so forth.

So rather than going on and making this seem like a whining lament, I will just say to my dad: I am going to Nashville next weekend for Halloween, and if it gets out of hand and you see pictures, I hope that you LoL rather than WTF. 



Being the respected scholar that I am, I’ve been keeping my pulse on some of the more important breaking news that has been happening within the past several days.  I say it’s important news because these stories make the CNN news ticker right next to other earth shattering factoids such as Jennifer Aniston is back on with John Mayer and Oprah is fat again.

Before yesterday, my favorite news story of the week was about a hoax played by a woman in Columbus, Ohio.  This street rat crazy woman must have had a day off from her job at Merrill Lynch…or she didn’t have a job at all; I didn’t really get the details.  Either way she decided to rent a limo and take it to one of the country’s frontrunners in fashion..Burlington Coat Factory.  If you don’t mind pleather Hugo Boss coats from 1998, this store is Mecca. If I had to pinpoint it for those who are not familiar, I’d say one step up from Walmart, four steps down from Super Target.   

Upon entering, the suspect superfluously announced that she had won 1.5 million dollars in the lottery and would pay for everyone’s purchases.  As pandemonium ensued, loved ones called loved ones who called baby mamas who called fly bitches who called brahs who called their boys to all come down and get in on some of this hot shit because the Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen coat collection was dwindling low.  Pretty soon over 1,000 people were jammed outside to get in.  Well hmm, turns out street crazy’s funds must have been tied up in offshore accounts because she didn’t have the flow to pay for everyone’s Bongo jeans.  That’s when the customers (who would have had to pay for the purchases initially LIKE ANY OTHER DAY) decided they had ‘earned’ these free things and started looting the store, stealing and throwing things to the ground.  News stories likened it to looking “just like hurricane Katrina.”  So now not only do we have vandalism but also a bad, bad allusion to a major devastating event that killed people.  Nice.

The millionaire herself.

The millionaire herself.

This reminded me of the time I was in front of a Ross walking to my car and two women drove by in a Cadillac and one stuck her body out of the sunroof and screamed “I’M RICH BITCH” and threw dollar bills at people passing by. I’m not a formal thespian (writing is my craft) but if I were to pretend to be wealthy I would A) Throw on something other than a Garfield t-shirt B) Not hire a limo to go to a shopping plaza like I’m making a stop on the way to homecoming  and C) Probably try and flaunt my green at a place like Neiman Marcus, not Kmart.  

However, this would also all be dependent on the fact that I thought it was actually a good idea to skip work to pretend I was a baller…but I digress.  If you ever see Warren Buffett throw Benjamins at a lady standing in line at Value City let me know and I’ll eat my words.

But now for your social media orgasm of the week…Welcome to the Falcon Heene variety hour.  I’ll spare going over theFalcon details again;  if you need them, you can find them here.  Turns out, the little boy who suspended flights at DIA and had the Air National Guard following his every move for two hours was actually in a box in his attic ‘taking a nap.’ 

The family has been so traumatized that they’ve had time to go on CNN, all of the local news outlets here in Denver and even decided to skip school this morning so that Falcon could throw up during a live interview with the Today Show.  While I’m perturbed that taxpayer money went to finding a boy whose family may or may not have played a prank, mostly I just don’t want people to think that all of us Coloradans name our kids Falcon or Juniper or Sierra Rain and build time machines in our backyard while listening to Widespread Panic. 

So thank you Heene family for making Colorado seem that much crazier than when you were on the show Wife Swap- uh, twice.  When I want to scream because every newscaster in Denver won’t stop making awful puns about UFOs and hot air balloons and every jackass at Maloney’s drunkenly yells “GO FALCON GO!”  I’ll be sure to give you a call.


Hip_Hop_Harry1Music buffs and fly bitches, please take a seat.  This is not a musical dissertation and certainly not going to be documented by Norton Anthology for your consideration.  Yes we can talk about the block parties of 1970s Bronx, Rick Rubin’s influence or N.W.A.  But you know what?  I’m not even Licensed to Ill.  Rather, I’m a head band wearing, VW driving, Catholic school attending white girl from the east coast and this is my story.

I started thinking about this post the other day when I was flipping through my iPod and noticed that, yes, in fact it is bogged down with “sad indie songs” (as my friend Nick put it).  How could it be that my nano had become swallowed by only Bon Iver, Great Lake Swimmers and Fleet Foxes when I know every word sitting pretty on Tupac’s All Eyez on Me album?  It seems I was suppressing the ill nana that was begging to come out.  It was time to figuratively pop some Cris and roll the doj.  I’m not saying I’m going to trade my J crew chinos for Apple Bottoms jeans, but are you Picturin’ Me Rollin’? I know you are.

As evidence by this blog and other works,  those in the know are familiar with my love of words.  Using them, reading them, writing them- – language is beautiful.  To me there’s nothing better than taking an oatmeal blah of a paragraph and transposing it into a spicy Cajun something- it’s the sexy equivalent of black stilettos. Ever since my first writing was published at the age of 9,  (a little diddy about Earth Day, spare me the heckling) I have been destined to appreciate the poetic ebb and flow of placing Louis Vuitton Don into a song nine times. 

There’s certainly an arguable stance on each side of the table for the musical merit of hip hop but for me it’s Jedi mind trick ability to put me in a good mood seems reason enough to turn Lupe Fiasco on at a Rufus Wainwright kind of  intellectual soiree.  Hip hop can be incredibly painful and stunning like Lauryn Hill’s Miseducation of Lauryn Hill or downright dirty, nasty, silly like Ludacris’ Chicken n Beer.  Where you want to fall on that color wheel is up to you.

When I’ve had an awful work day and a parking ticket is waiting on my car you bet I’ll choose Biggie over Neil Young.  If you’re in a bad mood who wants to be The Only Living Boy in New York when No Sleep Till Brooklyn is one flick of the iPizzle wheel away?

My belief is that a lot of the appeal to my demographic is for three fleeting minutes we can sit on dubs, drop it to the floor, check chedda like a food inspecta or serenade our loved ones to the sweet sounds of Jeremiah’s birthday sex.  College shortys can get low and accountants daydream about switchin four lanes in the Rove.

This past spring I was out in downtown Denver at a hippy bar, with a hippy band and the visceral smell of patchouli and the insistence of forgoing showering for grad school papers; naturally about art therapy and tree sap emulsification.  Sounds like a typical granola night, right?  Well when this hippy band decides to cover Ice Cube’s It Was A Good Day, who is singing, “I gotta go cause I got me a drop top /And if I hit the switch, I can make the ass drop?”  That’s right, 150 pantagonia-coveting, Birkenstock wearing local brahs and the women that love them.  If that’s not a case for getting on Amazon right now and buying Jay-Z’s Blueprint 3, I don’t know what is.

Yes the word poser could probably be a synonym for my name, maybe worse depending on how you see my opinion.  But if a few thousand white kids at Vanderbilt’s Memorial Gym can get em high for Lil Wayne for the sake of having a good time, who am I to not join in? 

By the way, I did join in and it was one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen.