Where's my pimp when I need him?

Ive been mistaken for a prostitute on three separate occasions.

No its true. Not my finest moments of course but each of the stories amuse me in their own way. The life I live is anything but ordinary.

1. July 2002, day trip into London with some fellow actors. A night in the city well deserved after days of brutal rehearsal under the direction of a tyrant and an imbecile. I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, a pony tail. The hot summer day had melted my natural curls into natural kink (and not the fun kind.) I was sans appeal. I was also in a group, on a walk, in a city.

So what if it was Soho, the red light district of London. So what if its seedy reputation screams out "young girls beware." So what if the t-shirt I was wearing read "Got Crabs?" and apparently the gentleman took that to mean "If the answer is No, I dont have crabs, Ill be happy to take your money in exchange for sex."

There was still no reason for that man to have his driver pull over and run after me with five 100 dollar bills and a penthouse promise.

"I have a boyfriend" I said in my natural accent (an unusual occurrence for crazy me.)

"Bring him along" the man said and Im sure that I blushed.

The answer was a simple "no."




2. June 2004, Pikes Place Market. It was supposed to be an 80's day with my favorite witch but she cancelled last minute and I was too hot to stay in. Frayed denim skirt, off the shoulder baggy purple sweatshirt, leg warmers, hoop earrings. I admit the blue eyeshadow might have been a little much but you cant half-ass the 80's.

Just leaving the market I am immediately surrounded by a group of questionable gentlemen who very quickly make their desires known. I nervously hurry through the bunch without so much as a word and think that Ive survived without harm or humiliation.

I was wrong. The next alleyway introduced me to two of Seattles finest. Everybody loves a cop on a bike, especially when they think youre a street walker.

"No, Im just shopping sir, and I happen to like the 80's" (No accent, cant lie to a cop.)

"Any I.D. on you Maam?"

"Yes sir."

"Ooohhhh...youre from Las Vegas....(whispering amongst themselves)..."

"Yes sir."

"Well I dont know what they do in Las Vegas, Maam, but here in Seattle were not looking for trouble."

The answer was a "No......officer, that was not my intent"

After a few more ridiculous words I was on the bus headed towards the top of Queen Anne and the safety of my home (a.ka.a....THE DEN OF SIN....obviously.)



3. This afternoon, February 2006. I had just dropped off my car at the Mazda dealership and was told that it would be ready in about 3 hours. Oil changes, it seems, are no longer an "in and out" kind of thing. Knee length denim skirt, full coverage black top, seamed stockings, vintage heels. Yes yes Ill own up to the bed hair, but theres no crime in looking "satisfied."

I called a taxi to take me to the U-District for some time biding at the Barnes and Noble, I have a sudden need to learn Castillian Spanish. A yellow top cab pulls up across the street and backs into a parking space, I assume its mine so I make my way to his side of the road.

He rolls down his window for me to ask, "are you here to pick up someone specific?" (Looking back I see this was the wrong question to ask, especially in an English accent, but it was in all innocence.)

"You," he grumbled and my naivety opened the back door.

"U-Village," I said.

"Ive never had a ride with such a leggy, well endowed woman before," and even his thick Russian accent wasnt enough to excuse the foul imagery that his next words conjured up.

I'll spare you the details. It took me no time at all to demand he pull over and let me out.

"I dont take your money when you could pay me with other things," he yelled out the window as I slammed the door shut and shivered as I walked quickly away.

The answer was a "HELL NO."

Being stranded inbetween the district and the village was humorous to me. I called Orange cab this time, Yellow is no longer my recommendation.

Hookin' it never pays.

Word

In my pitiful attempts to study for the GRE I decided to try to learn 25 new vocabulary words a day. That lasted a week. By the end of it I couldn’t remember the first 25. So I downsized – 10 words a day. My head hurt. So now I have a lovely system…I come in to work in the mornings, let someone pick my word of the day (which I write on sticky notes and post them around the office because we all know how much I love sticky notes) and I attempt to work the word into nearly every conversation.

This morning I let Heather choose. “Minion – a hanger-on, a follower.”

The problem with this word is, I’m already too familiar. I’ve had minions for years. I keep them in my closet, my bed, my bath, and my beyond. I call them Men.

At one point in college I capitalized on my “collection” by dressing them in vinyls and leathers and collars and chains and made them carry me around on a sofa while I sang my little heart out in a precariously placed little Elivra-esque black number with fishnets and wicked heels. Sure it was a blatant display of egotistical brilliance, sure it was a little over the top by UT standards, sure it was a Halloween show (oh damn that made it far less interesting didn’t it?) but the point is that it felt good to keep them on a leash.
I’m a bit of a power whore. If ever I were to assume the role of potentate, the world would be in trouble.

I’ve grabbed my handy thesaurus (easy to do, I don’t travel far without one) and my favorite of the synonyms is by far “Sycophant.” Yes yes…I like the way it sounds.
Ok then, today’s first matter of business….find me a sycophant.
Maybe I’ll put a sticky note on the door to my house. It will be pink. It will read,
“Sycophant wanted: Apply Within.”

But don’t bother knocking incessantly on the door, I’m much too craven to open up. Meet me instead at one of the local haunts. I’ll be the tall one with the green eyes and the “come hither” grin and you’ll be the one with the leash. You’ll adore me and I’ll pretend not to notice.

Perfect. I think this is working out nicely

Sunshine and Tulips

My life lately has been filled with entirely too much drama. When you get to the point where you don't dare answer phone calls from unknown numbers, or you don't dare sneak to the peephole in the door when someone is knocking, or when you return home to find tulips on your doorstep and rather than being curiously flattered you get sick to your stomach about who the gifter could be - it's time to seek help.

I've fired my therapist.

I truly appreciated his unconventional methods, his admiration of medicinal marijuana ( a recent suggestion he sprung on me to help me cope with the anxiety...I plead the fifth) , his bizarre little homework assignments (usually involving a completely unrelated support group or a zoo), and I even grew to adore the glass eye. But after spending a good year of my time and a good chunk of my money seeing him on a regular basis, you'd think he'd find a way to remember my name.

So I have no shrink, no drugs (legal OR otherwise), retail therapy is getting old (and by "getting old" I mean that I'm running out of money), I've hit up all the Alcholic, Narcotics-Acholic, and Sex-aholic meetings a non-addict could ask for, and I've just about run out of therapeutic ideas.

So tell me, dear readers, what do I do now?

My mood this morning is more mid-maelstrom-mental than mawkish. (Well hello alliteration, thanks for joining us.)

I’m in the need of a good brain cleansing, maybe something along the lines of an “Eternal Sunshine” type erasure. Ok. I’m beginning to think it’s not such a bad idea after all, maybe Kate and Jim were right in the first place. I wouldn’t mind forgetting about my possible stalker, I wouldn’t mind forgetting about how someone once stole all my money and my car and I’m still digging myself out of the financial debt he got me in, it would be ok to let go of the memory of my first love and how he broke my heart via email, I’d gladly give up memory of the cheating ex and his wild ways, I wouldn’t mind letting go of the time I watched a friend throw his life away over something as silly as a substance, and I’d be more than happy to say goodbye to the memory of the boy who liked boys. ( I sure know how to pick ‘em don’t I ?)

But here’s the thing…there’s no such thing as selective erasure. If it goes it all goes and I don’t want to get rid of the good with the bad.

How else would I remember being proposed to by a stranger in France with the portrait he drew of me after seeing “me” in a dream? How would I manage without the memory of the first time someone told me they loved me and I believed it? Why would I want to go on without the reminder of that night where we baked applesauce cake and then used it as a weapon in the kitchen, the porch, the bathroom and left my tub smelling like apples for days? How could I forget our first picnic on the beach where we were alone and it was raining and we stayed and we laughed? Why would I want to erase the thought of the cd he sent me from Poland with homemade movies of he and the boys, portions of silent sections in black in white? What about that night camping on the roof of the theatre as we listened to Madame Butterfly being performed below? How could I forget apartment shopping, and house shopping, and life shopping? Why would I want to?

So I guess I'll continue starring in this melodrama of mine and hope for the best realizing that with the best comes the worst and it’s my responsibility to fight through. Let’s chalk it all up to new experiences and hope that opening myself up like this is more beneficial than not.

After all, it's better to have loved and lost.......right?

To whomever left the tulips on my doorstep, thank you. Just next time leave a note.

The Best part of waking up...

The problem with grabbing a “coffee on Queen Anne” is this: (A)I don’t drink coffee, and (B) I’m no where near pretentious enough to so much as hold a cup of it in Queen Anne. It’s a nice gesture, and in most cases it’s the most casual and convenient “meeting” method. It’s a no expectations activity, it’s a non date. 9 out of 10 “firsts” here in Sea town most likely begin that way and successful (or un) it’s a cultural right of passage. It’s Seattle for hell sake, people drink coffee like air here and QA is the quintessential neighborhood for “getting noticed.” Who could ask for more? A lot of pressure could be put on this one solitary cup of ground beans. This could be the ice breaker for a casual encounter, a NSA rendezvous between strangers who need this grounding activity to validate their human existence before embarking on an experimental one It could be the kind of ground- toeing first date between crushes that turns any office going adult into that giggling thirteen year old of years past. Eyes will dart, punches will be lightly thrown, a tickle fight may ensue. The meeting might be the first handshake between executives, or future executives, or wannabe executives. It might be the gateway to Gateway. Just kidding, I mean Microsoft. There’s a chance it could be the initial interview for something interesting or random as a craigslist found “Creative Havoc” coterie that requires it’s members to “shock and awe” from the getgo. (Hypothetically speaking of course, I would never participate in such a troublesome group....ever.) I once witnessed a divorce be discussed and decided over two cups of grande something extra hot. Busy store, public accountability, coffee shop Switzerland. Or best of all, it could be the long awaited reunion between long lost friends who’ve become too carried away in their own busy lives to take the time to sit and really BE. And this seemingly casual corner café would be witness to a moment of brilliance where each party could look up from their nervously fiddling hands and say, “this is what you’ve meant to me...” I suppose this silly little paper cup represents something far greater than anything a coffee shop full of experienced baristas could ever imagine. Quite possibly, years of tears and smiling stories shared could all come down to a panegyric moment with a cup of brew. So what does a no-joe girl like me do in such situations? I put on my highest heels, my tightest skirt, my sweetest smile, and order a grande’ chai. And if I’m feeling sly, I’ll get there early enough to order ahead. So when he arrives, he’ll never know that as I sit there across the low faux wood table with my legs crossed towards him that not a solitary bean was harmed in the making of this cup of introduction. “Hello sir, pleasure to (re)make your acquaintance. And might I add, coffee on Queen Anne was such a lovely choice. “ I’ve been ready for years

Read more: http://www.myspace.com/chaseunruly/blog?page=2#ixzz10HOebVeW

Any Given Friday

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I collect people.

My life is what it is because of the acquaintances made and paths crossed. I live for the stories that so vividly fill my life chapters and without all the many interesting characters my pages would be blank.

I like interesting types. Artists, deviants, intellectuals, but I don’t limit myself to these groups exclusively. I am an unbiased collector, looking for all original pieces.

On a particular day in my most recent chapter, I filled my character list with all sorts of colorful collectibles.

The day began with a plumber, an electrician, and a less than cordial landlord. It involved reparing the roof around my leaky skylights, reversing the damage done by a previous tenant that liked to pot his plants in the bathroom sink, and trying to pull a little "tom-foolery" on my sly eyed landlord when he began to question the possibility of a newly vacated witch.

Never trust a man named Steve.

Next came my usual downtown antics that resulted in erratic flirtation with nearly every alpha male that took a second glance at my fishnets and entirely too much time well spent with a lovely assortment of white guys in ties. Throw in a photographer, an idolization of Bettie Page, and I’m on my way back to the heart of the city for a brief rendezvous with my latest admiration.

My excitement was genuine. So was his disappointment.

My already saccharine sensibilities combined with a newly damaged ego sent me into a mood ride with nothing to hold onto. Destination? Anywhere but lachrymose. Strangely enough, I had no taste for retail therapy.

Suddenly it’s evening and I’m cursing audibly at the friend who is supposed to be cheering me up but instead has sent me on a wild goose chase in the rain for pre-ordered vegetarian thai somewhere in the middle of busy Ballard where I had to pay to park and then walk blocks in the downpour in heavy boots and false lashes. I was less than pleased.

A couple quick conversations and pats on the back exchanged and I’m home again redressing for the third time today and off to meet trouble somewhere outside the confines of the city. The dreaded ex. Or X. Or something unfamiliar that allowed me to be in a room full of men craving back scratches and pancakes. My able hands were all to eager to please.

Get your minds out people, I was simply doing the back scratching. I let the boys do the pancake making and I was smart enough to decline a stack. My role for the evening was to play interesting stranger to a house full of testosterone, and players, and youth. I didn’t mind my part. Lingerie parties were visited, unlikely unions were made, and experiments were performed and observed. As the only non participant in their evening’s exploits, I had front row seats to the libidinous displays of affection (mostly directed my way...the pleasure of being the only girl) and was suddenly feeling my ego rise with each pair of wonderfully tightening pants.

Too much information. In general, too much information.

By the time I drifted off my mind was drafting versions of this day’s chapter and wondering just how many characters would make the final cut. If in this passage your find yourself identified, bravo.

I enjoy my new collection additions, what a colourful array.

Pre-existance

Strange feeling really, waking up one morning and realizing I don’t exist. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I ever have. Believe me when I say this is not a cry for help or attention so much as a straightforward realization. I don’t exist.

Maybe it’s a malediction, I did live with witches until very recently and they’re convinced that I won’t be truly aware until I become one with the coven. No...that’s not it.

I remember as a child being seriously concerned that I was one of the "gifted" children in a short bus special kind of way but that everyone walked on eggshells around me to prevent me from knowing the truth. I really thought that someday I’d need to be institutionalized for something I was completely unaware of.

Then I grew up and realized that I was right, I AM crazy and I started seeing a shrink. I’ve always appreciated having someone to talk to (who didn’t primarily reside with the other voices in my head) and I’ve slowly begun to accept the things he’s taught me about myself and tried to use them to understand who I really am.

BUT...as I left his office after our last meeting, he shook my hand and said, "thanks for another wonderful session Katherine." I didn’t think too much of it and brushed it off as if maybe I just heard him wrong. But as I got home and looked over my "homework" from the good doc I realized that every time he had written my name, he had written some version of Katherine.

Ok...the worst possible thing you could do for a girl who is constantly questioning her identity is to confuse her with someone else. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Katherine, Kate, or Kathy and I’m pretty sure that what ever progress he’s made in convincing me that I exist has been very quickly reversed.

Next comes my sweet but genuinely officious friend who shall remain nameless (not because I don’t know his name mind you but because I’d like to protect the innocent here) friend X. Good guy, but largely responsible for my current state of self reflection.

"Who are you?" he says. "What are you doing with your life? Do you really think that you’ll look back on this time in your existence and say, ‘here’s what I have to be proud of’?"

Uhhhh.... Was that supposed to be my goal? ... Yes? ... Shit.

Of course he’s right. Of COURSE he is. But sometimes I guess it’s just easier to blend into my surroundings and forget that I’m supposed to be a positive addition to society. Sometimes it’s easier to think that I don’t exist. I’ve always been the pertinacious type.


Living in a place where an "artist" in search of himself/herself is so quotidian that only the businessmen and postal workers stand out isn’t good for my ego. Pretending that the term "artist" still applies to me is far worse. I don’t deserve the title. Artists exist.

Even so, it’s a new year and with each new year I resolve to make this one better than the last. Fortunately for me, that shouldn’t be so difficult this time around. The future, I decided just this evening, is where I exist. Just this morning I was born. And though it’s one hell of a world that I’ve been thrown into, I’m ready to make it mine.

Congratulations you...this is your existence. Isn’t it lovely? Doesn’t it feel right?

I smiled at the thought of it and then went out for groceries. I’ll have veggie lasagne, spinach and bleu, and a couple of bottles of Acai with Passionfruit and Mango (because what good is a new existence without "Nature’s healthiest highest antioxidant fruit"?)

"Brace yourself dear world, I’m here and I’m ready!!!"

I think I may have said it out loud but fortunately the people of PCC are rather forgiving. Bags in hand I made for the door terribly excited to brave the world. And as I do a very formidable automatic glass door refuse to accept my new existence and made complete contact with my stupidly grinning face.

Again....shit.

And I’m back where I started. Honestly people, if even an automatic door can’t tell that I’m there, what am I supposed to think?

My new theory: Who needs existence? I’m perfectly content as a nominal member of society and I don’t see much changing from here on out.

After all, it’s best summarized by Simone Weil, "The future is made of the same stuff as the present." I think she was a philosopher. Or a lesbian.

I give in.

Trenchant Observations

I’ve been thinking a lot about Eurydice lately.

And no, it’s not because Aunt Gums and Uncle Fatty were kind enough to tell me on my last trip home that I was destined to go straight to hell.

I’ve been thinking about Eurydice, in fact, because I’ve decided that she may have been one of "history’s" most powerful women.

Akin to the likes of many women before her, she held the world in her hands for one brief moment (I’m convinced that she knew what she was doing that brief moment before turning stone) and she did what any woman in her position could/should/would do. She WAS power.

Delilah took back the power with one swift slice of the scissor,

Joan was truly of her Arc,

Anne Hathaway (of Shakespearean not modern fame) supposedly took more than her "second best bed",

Oprah lost the weight and gained a book club.


Women of power excite me.

**Let us pause to appreciate that this state of mind is the same as that found in my "Pre Existence" so before we jump to conclusions as to my current mood or phase, let us simply assume I’m playing difficult to read. I play it well.**

I return to women of power.

I myself have been accused of knowing my role and more than owning it from time to time. Believe me I can deliver a soliloquy with the greatest of ease, I can produce one solitary tear on cue and follow it with streams, I can reduce men and managers alike to puddles of their former selves with nothing more than a winsome smile, I can most assuredly work any given room.

BUT...given the chance to bring about a monumental change, would I crumble?

I say no.

In fact, I truly believe that if I found comfort in my very own underworld and suddenly felt my wrists being pulled into the brightest of undesirable lights I too would search out that perfect moment when Sisyphus sat silently on his perch and watched as the man we’ll call "O" took matters into his own hands. And I would, in my sweetly serene subtle way simply say ,

"Orpeheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again."

Pause... Turn... Stone. I’d remember his stoic face as he handed over the reins. As he handed over the Reign.

Ah gentle power, welcome home.

Eurydice, I’ve decided, claimed hegemony over her husband AND her hell.

Wouldn’t it be nice?