Porch Talk

Porno Cards

I spent an evening at Sarah's apartment taking part in a drinking game with pornographic playing cards we called 'Tits or Vag.' It went like this,

"Tits or Vag?"

"Tits."

If vag was the focus, we had to drink.

You could also play with the color of lingerie, or the theme in the male-centric deck(Cowboy, biker, etc.). I started with champagne, may have had some vodka, or rum- don't remember- but I know I ended with strawberry daiquiri. Audra kept topping my glass off.
I had more cigarettes that night than I'd ever had in a week. Woke up with my lungs burning and throat sandpapered.
Before everyone else, I stumbled over to the Dollhouse and promptly blacked out. I woke up an hour or so later under my winter coat, shivering. At some point, Paddy and Audra's roommate threw a purple Mighty Ducks fleece blanket over me, but still I shook. I tried to sleep with my arms wrapped tight around me, and chin tucked into my chest. Finally, I did. Only in short spurts, however.
It was so cold, I dreamed of blankets in a pile next to me, only to awaken, freezing, to find a dark, silent house with no blankets to be found.
I rose the next morning at 7 AM, cramped from shivering and straining into myself for warmth, and unable to talk. I got to the Dining Hall on campus and ate a bagel and drank a glass of orange juice only to throw it all up in the bathroom sink. I remember the brightness of my orange vomit on the white porcelain as a girl emerged from the pink stall behind me.
The world was still a little shaky, but made it to my 8 AM Geography lecture, anyway.
No More Rock N Roll.

Whiskey Lullaby

There is a fairly well-known group up here, with a large mutton-chopped lead singer. We call him Beast.
There was a long period when I did not drink. Sometimes I still feel ashamed that I started, but in the end, I'm going to drink. The real issue is excess. And that's what a lot of these stories are all about.
Beast likes Whiskey. I do, too.
A long story short, there was a party at Doll House. Beast was there with a 3/4 full bottle of whiskey he was trying to finish. We decided to try and out-drink each other. I won.
Beast laughed and cracked a beer open.
Did I mention Beast is a big guy? I can't remember exactly how big at the moment, but he's probably two of me. I am a pretty average sized female: 5' 5", 126 pounds.
I realized I had 20 minutes to get somewhere and pass the fuck out. 20 minutes, because that's about how long it takes your stomach to tell your brain you've consumed something, and begin feeling its effect. It's sometimes shorter with alcohol.
More people began arriving at the house.
Luckily, a friend of mine was having his sound stream that night, and the radio station was only 4 blocks away.
As I left, Audra prophetically whispered to Willikers that he was 'getting lucky tonight.'
Apparently, a couple of people showed up to the sound stream and they had a grand old time. I wouldn't know- I was passed out for 2 hours in a rolling office chair.
No More Rock n Roll.

Fuck Buddies

Have you ever made out with a friend and then immediately regretted it?
I have avoided this situation. When sober.
Call me traditional, but I don't have sexual relationships with people I want to remain friends with. It's, like, jungle law. Or something.
Anyway, that's not to say that I want to date and marry every guy I've ever fooled around with. I don't really want to date or marry any of them. Well, definitely not date, anyway.
It's just that when it gets sexual, the relationship changes, and you can't pretend it doesn't. At least I can't.
I made out with one of my best friends a month and a half or so ago. I threw up in his sink, first. Twice. It was fuchsia.
You know the drunk where your face muscles kind of twitch and give up, and your one eye is getting all wiggy winking squinting, and the other one isn't focusing on anything? The room spins when you sit still, and your feet spin when you walk. That's the drunk I was that night.
There are pictures. My friend Jameson whipped them out via his camera at South Point one night and showed the group. He claims they will never go online, but that there will be prints made, and he will show them to my children, if I have any. They are horrifying, but funny to everyone else. I don't remember those pictures being taken. Or that party.
Anyway, my make out friend:
He tried to take my pants off, and I stopped him. I don't have sex with guys drunk. Anymore.
He didn't call the next day. Or any days after that.
We aren't really friends, anymore.
Rock N Roll No More, Please.

Clubbing

Last night was AMAZING. and horrifying.
But first: the weekend.
This weekend was the legendary Big Gay Sleepover (BGS).
I am not going to explain what this entails. It's none of your business.
The weekend started with a show at the Avenger's Tower,and ended with a brunch at the Olympia Family Restaurant.

But last night:
Last night we went out to Steel Night Club. They have a hot Latina Night on Thursdays. And a stripper pole.
We (a bunch of girls) got all dressed up to 'go clubbing.' Unfortunately, I am the only one in the group under 21. To get in, I had to pretend to be a friend of a friend's girlfriend, because he works there. So, my 'boyfriend' and I arrived first:
He fire-man carried me inside, all confidence that we wouldn't run into any problems. However, at the door, the bouncer said that I didn't look old enough, and shined a flashlight in my eyes.
Then he laughed, and asked what color beads I wanted (Mardi Gras). Phew.
Later, Joel ('boyfriend' dearest), told me the other guys that work for Steel were asking him how he 'got that.' Apparently, I'm a hot piece of ass.
It was a lot of fun: I only had to buy 1 drink (Joel bought the rest), and I was dancing more than I had in a long time. This included grinding on a lot of guys, and pushing off the ones that were icky.
I had a few dance-offs. I won every one.
Suck it.
Also, I made out with a guy. On the dance floor. And he kissed terribly.
I mean, so terribly that just thinking about it, I get shivers and want to clean my mouth.
Oh, and we got on the stripper pole before leaving.
No More Rock n Roll.

Death of Sega Genocide

A great band had its last show on February 13th, 2010. Sega Genocide is no more, and we are all sorrier for it. (NMRNL:1)
Dear Miranda,
It was a pretty rough show. Knowing this would be the case, I dulled my senses with a bottle of Quaker-inspired beer, and went to, throwing anything that got in my way, and getting generally buck-ass wild in the mosh pit. (RnR:1)
There was blood, and a lot of toilet paper. A guy tried to pick me up by my legs, and I kicked him in the piercing. (RnR:2)

For their final performance,
the band dressed in formal wear

and brought 2 boxes of toilet paper rolls. I twirled like a ballerina, and this guy named John wrapped me up like a mummy. It was probably the best concert I have ever been to at the After Dark.
Also, at the end of it, Jimmer told me to get on stage and sing 'Rock N Roll Ninja.' This made me more happy than I have been in a long time. (RnR:3)
After the show, John came up to me and said he thought I was a badass, and was impressed by how rough I was on the guys, and how fearless. (RnR:4) Then he dropped the best pick up line that's ever been used on me: "This is going to sound like a corny pick-up line, but those are the coolest fucking pants I have ever seen." Lycra leggings. Shiny.
Now that I think about it, that's the only pick up line anyone has used on me, I think.
Anyway, one thing led to another, and... his buddy walked up and tried to talk to me. I put a hand in the guy's face, informed him he was cockblocking his friend, and told John we could "pick this up later," at the after party. (RnR:5)
SouthPoint(RnR:6), then the after party at Fire Department.
John and I immediately began talking again. He suggested we start over, mixed me a drink, and the flirting continued. This girl from the show came up to me and began calling me 'her Josephine,' and kept putting an arm around me, talking about how awesome I was, and hugged me a couple times. Then she brought up stripping. Things got awkward.(NMRNR:2)
I went upstairs to talk to Jim, and while up there, thought about the possibilities with John.
He was funny, very cute, confident, made me feel beautiful, but didn't follow me around pathetically, and, most importantly, totally into it.
But, when it really came down to it, I simply did not want to sleep with him. I don't like the idea of going home with strange men. So, I put my drink down in Paddy's room (I'd only had a few sips), got my coat, and went downstairs.
I told John I was leaving. He said I could just stay there and flirt with him some more. It was tempting, but I told him I thought he was cute, and very nice (NMRNR:3), but that I wanted to go home.
So, I went home, got into my big cozy bed alone, and went to sleep.
It was a good night.
Love,
Josephine

Rock n Roll: 6
No more Rock n Roll: 3

*Photos by Bryce Patton and Jameson Diedrich('s camera)

An Easter Rising

An Easter Rising is a great drink to celebrate Eastertide, or to dull a hangover from some Post- Lent, Pre-Easter debauchery.

Fill half of your glass with blush wine,
fill an eighth more with straight, chilled vodka,
and top it off with Fresca, or white soda of choice.
Mix or serve as-is.

If you're looking for something with a heavier flavor, replace the blush with a darker red wine, and the Fresca with cola of your choice.

New Band, New Failure

I tried to perform with my newest band tonight.
I spent a week soundproofing and stressing out about the show in my basement. Tried to smooth things over with the woman that shares our house, looked around for free/cheap soundproofing material, and threw together a band to play the songs I'd written in 2 practices accumulating a total of 4 hours. The new bassist had never played bass, but we figured it was punk, and so it could sound like shit and still be cool.
I performed, played through 1 of the songs we had practiced, ended the others early, and wanted to generally break down into tears the entire time. I was stupid, and nervous, and just wanted everything to end.

The day I had been preparing for finally came. February 19th, 2010, Nato Coles played Avenger's Tower. My roommates' finally performed with the band they've been practicing with for months. They rocked.
Then it was my turn.

I've always had crippling stage fright- but only in front of people I know. I can do anything I want in front of people as long as I can't connect a name to a face. Also, mics scare the crap out of me. There's got to be a phobia of microphones in someone's medical dictionary somewhere. I can't hear myself, or I can't hear myself the way everyone else hears me, and it always sounds horrible to me. The reverberation, the magnified clicks and harsh brushing of lips in my vocalizations-- it's horrifying.
The truth is that I'm a great performer- particularly with anything that includes oration. But I've only been able to achieve a comfortable performance if I could see someone I knew. Those people's judgments matter to me, and while I realize they will still feel the same way about me, and lie and tell me I did well when I get off that stage, and probably even be proud of me, it worries me sick that they didn't enjoy it at all. I don't want to make people suffer through 'one of Josephine's performance-things.'

As a child I wasn't shy. I liked the spotlight, and I usually put myself in it: singing, dancing, yelling, whatever. In 4th grade my school had a talent show, and I entered with one of my favorite songs- 'Julian of Norwich.' This was not the first time I had signed up to perform, but this year my older brother had developed a little bit of a mean streak, as brothers are wont to do upon entering puberty. When I practice, and hit a note too high for my voice, Edward would squint up his eyes in mock-pain and say "oooh-ouch!"
When I got on stage, I messed up pretty bad, because all I could think about was the image of him in pain because of my poor vocal skill, and his voice echoing that. I still think about that when I'm on stage today-- a decade later.

Fast forward to 19 years old. A pretty successful folk band from the UP, Misty Lyn & the Big Beautiful and a solo artist, Matt Jones, came down to Point to perform at the After Dark Coffee House. They needed an opening act, and my then-boyfriend, an acoustic performer himself, didn't want to do it. The other stock solo-folk acts up here were all busy, and so I volunteered myself. I don't know what I was thinking.
Tyler, the guy responsible for the bands coming down here, created an awesome poster with the entirety of my long-ass name (which is longer than the principal band's name) on it. I felt pretty awesome with my 'stage name' pasted up all over town (my stage name is my first, middle, and dual Polish last names).
Anyway, to get to the performance:
I came with a guitar, plugged in, spoke into the mic, and nearly had a heart attack. I know I can play guitar pretty well. I know I can sing tolerably well. I did neither of these things.
The mic threw my voice, and the whole time I was trying to sing these songs I had been singing alone in my house, and recording over and over again in my dining room, my friends stared straight ahead, and looked generally bored. The worse part was that whenever I looked at my boyfriend, his eyes were always riveted on my fingers. I kept faltering because I thought I was doing something wrong: was the guitar buzzing horribly? Was I hitting the chords too rough?
This was a guy whose tears would well up whenever one of his friends got behind the mic, and who would stare into their face in absolute adoration the entire time. He never looked at me like that, not when I sang, not when I played guitar, and definitely not when I performed my poetry.
The one and only time I thought he was really riveted on me in that way was at a birthday party where we were both asked to perform. After that party, he sent me a long message basically telling me he didn't approve of the friends I was with, using terms like "you can do better," and telling me to not "go crying to the first nice guy I meet next time I can't look in the mirror in the morning."
There were other times and places people shut me down, and these are the things I think about when I perform. I know there are people that support me, and I remember those friends that are always at the front of the stage, looking up at me in utter pride and adoration, ready to applaud loudly at anything I could possibly do. I also remember the times I was heckled on stage and thrived because of it. Plus my Dad thinks I'm the shit (and not everyone can say that). But I'm only human.

It was a good night, but the end of it all, I got shut down for something I didn't intend to be romantic at all, and fell asleep on top of my covers in my clothes smelling like beer and vodka.

Rock N Roll No More.