I May Not Be Fat, But I Still Look Like A Whale

So as I have mentioned in the past, I do not sport the slender physique of a starving Somalian or a high-fashion model. Throughout the years, I have become increasingly comfortable with my non-twiggy self, since what I possess seems to be a magnet for Man Hands. Of course, a good twenty pounds of this reason reside in my colossal Boulder Holder, which results in a good amount of non-classy cleavage that I would be lost without. However, there is always one place where my muscled and french-fry fed bod always gets on my nerves.

The Dressing Room.

I ventured to the mall last week to procure a dress for my Rockstar’s niece’s wedding. (Yes, the fact that he has a neice old enough to marry is not lost on me.) I was thrilled to find myself once again amonst friends, (I mean the racks of clothes) and greeted each with a warm smile. It took me less time than it would take you to sing Happy Birthday twice to load my arms down with a pile of overly-dressy and bejeweled frocks (including a clearanced prom dress) and I made my way to the dreaded Room.

Let us just say, after becoming stuck in a dress with my arms over my head and my bosoms the obstacle to my freedom, I will only be trying on dresses with elastic surrounding the boobs. (I would have called for an attendant, but I was much too embarrassed.)

I tried on at least twenty dresses of all shapes and sizes, and felt exactly like Prince Charming searching endlessly for Cinderella’s foot. This one was too tight; this one was too loose; this one showed too much cleavage; this one showed to much back fat, (of which I don’t have alot of, but in certain dresses, it seems like I have backboobs). The only thing I can definitely get away with is going a little bit short on the skirt if need be, because I’ve been told I have baby-like skin, and they are well-muscled from hours of heel usage. In the end, I left the mall feeling depressed and corpulant. The only thing that made my sulking better was the fact that I picked up a pair of bronzey sequined pumps for only $8. (Go me!)

My friend Delightfulness was with me during my decent into self-loathing. She assured me that I am beautiful (easy for her to say- she was shopping at the other end of the dress rack on the skinny side- we needed megaphones to communicate our findings.) and that every day I must look at a different body part and tell myself what it was I liked about it. I began with my toes, and how I like that they are not long and creepy like so many peoples’ are. I find this excercise helpful except for one major thing- I can tell myself how perfect my boobies are (many people have done so) and how nice my skin is, and how non-flabby my butt is, but in the end, I’m still only skinnier than 3/4 of the McDonald’s devotees. And that does NOT make me look good in a dress.

P.S. I ended up finding a fabulous one-piece pantset that perfectly displayed the proper amount of cleavage to remain tasteful and still draw attention away from the eyesores.

Sunday Drive

It has been said that drivers in St. Cloud, Minnesota are the worst in the world. Spending a good deal of my time driving to and from work in this town, I know this fact to be true. I would venture to say, however, that ALL drivers in Minnesota are the worst- while I have not had the pleasure of driving across other states now and then, it is safe to say that from what I’ve seen of Minnesota drivers, if the rest of the country drove as such, we would have reverted back to horses as our main source of transportation long ago.

Why am I mentioning the flaws of the Minnesota Licensed, you ask? Let me tell you.

I have mentioned in the past that I play piano for church every Sunday. (You may laugh now at the thought of the Bookwhore in church, everyone does.) Because I have continued to move further and further away from the church, I now live a good hour’s drive away. This drive allows me to reflect on my week, and to crank up Rob Zombie’s Pussy Liquor and Zakk Wilde’s Counterfeit God and jam out while I drive.

Yesterday, I was going about my own business, cruising at an unapproved 70 mph when I came up behind a polk of a driver. The main road I take to church is a source of constant chagrin to me, as it is infested daily with drivers who insist on going under the speed limit, and it is a two-lane highway with many hills not acceptable for passing. This causes me to resort to the only choice that remains- tailgating the slow-polks to irritate them enough that they go faster.

Said polk was just jaunting along at a less-than-desirable 45 mph when I came up behind him. Since I was jamming out at the time to Sick Puppies’ Riptide, I perhaps didn’t quite notice that I was committing my habitual tailgating crime. I realized it when the man began to turn, and I passed him on the right, and he swerved as if to hit me, then proceeded to flick me the bird. I just waved as I cruised past him in my yellow truck, but inside, I was steaming.

On the remaining drive to church, I daydreamed about what my inner homicidal maniac wanted to do to that rude man:

I would have made a quick U-turn and followed that asshole down the rode of his choice, tailgating and laying on the horn until he decided to stop along some desolate highway. Then I would have stopped, thrown my lovely truck into park and jumped down from the excessively-tall cab, landing rightly on my bronze sparkly wedges I was sporting. I then would have proceeded to pound on the man’s hood like Tarzan before dragging his terrified ass outta his driver’s seat and shout, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! JUST FUCKING GO FASTER, YOU DOUCHE!”. I then would have found it necessary to pummel his face to a bloody pulp before connecting my fabulous shoes with his manhood, at which time he would crumple to the asphalt, meanwhile, I’d be standing with hand on hip waving my finger at him and yelling, ” I better not see you going under 60 mph, and if you use that finger at me again in any way other than a pleasure-inducing manner, I will fucking bite it off, you fucker.”

Yeah, that woulda shown him!

Freaks: Part 2

Here’s the rest of what I wrote yesterday.

There were books. Everywhere. Casey’s apartment had the exact same lay-out as his own, yet it was almost completely unrecognizable. The only furniture in the room were two barstools placed at the breakfast bar. Those and, Greg counted quickly, nine bookshelves. Not only were all the shelves full, but there were stacks of books lying intermittantly on the floor. There was no couch, no TV, or anything else for that matter.

“Holy shit.” The words slipped out of his outh before he realized he’d said them out loud.

“Welcome to my humble abode. Take care not to disturb the reading material.” Casey joked as she ushered him in, and Greg felt a thrill as she placed her hand on his side to guide him forward.

He turned to her. “You’re a freak. What’s with all the books?” He was certain he still had a shocked expression on his face. “It looks like frickin’ Barnes and Noble in here.”

Casey put a hand on her hip. “It’s my thing, so shut up. They’re beautiful. You’re a freak too, but I don’t go around telling you so. Who the fuck orders shit that comes UPS four times a week?”

Her sassy attitude snapped him back to reality and the books were forgotten.She looked so damn cute standing there with a furrowed brow as she admonished him, he decided to dive on in.

He stepped toward her, and as he did so, he realized this was the closest he’d ever been to here. He was startled to realize that he towered over her. As she looked up at him in confusion, he noticed her nose was squarely at his chest. How had he never noticed how small she was?

When he stooped to kiss those perfectly pouting lips, he heard her suck in a breath of surprise. As his lips met hers, he put his hands on either side of her face to keep her from retreating. For an instant, he was afraid she’d resist, but then e felt her lean into his kiss, and that was all he needed.

The last weeks of sexual frustration she’d created all came out as his hands slid from her face and he wrapped his arms around her. He clung to her like a man drowning as his tongue parted her lips and his kiss deepened. Casey moaned softly in her throat at this slight intrusion, and the sound had an almost physical pull on his prick. He felt himself straining against the fly of his pants as he grabbed Casey’s ass two-handed with a little more force than he meant to.

She had her hands in his hair now, tugging as her tongue did a sensual dance with his. Every pull was like a direct hit to his groin, and he pushed himself against her belly with need. His hand on her ass slif around to the front of her, and he was amazed to find she was wet enough already that he could feel her desire through her pants. She sucked in another breath when he found her clit through her paper-thin pants, and her hand slid over his as she oushed against it to create more friction. He pulled away from the kiss and watched her eyelashes flutter and her face flush as he stroked the most intimate part of her. Just her reaction was enough to make his already hard cock throb. He took her hand and placed it on his chest so she could feel his racing heart before he slid his hand down the front of her pants and slipped his finger inside her. She groaned when he did so, and her hand went from his chest to his zipper.

“Fuck.” He whispered into her hair before he captured her lips with his once again. She was so unbelievably wet! Her hand stroked over his naked erection, and he stilled to relish the feel of it. He hand on his dick was more than he could take, and he pushed her pants off and then tore off his own. He lifter her by the ass clear off her feet and drove himself into her as he pinned her up against one of the many bookshelves.

Casey let out a cry of pleasure when he slid himslef into her. The feel of her tight around him was exquisite, and he stilled once more.

“Fuck me. God, please fuck me.” Her fevered whisper was enough, and he pulled out and then drove himself into her again and again mercilessly.

Greg watched the flush on her Casey’s pale skin spread as he fucked her. Her eyes were closed and her head thrown back as he brought her closer to the peak. He was surprised at how easily she came when she squealed as he buried himself deep in her.

“Fuck!” Finally having her, and then listening to her come was enough to send him over the edge, and he pushed into her one final time while he shuddered in exstasy. Her arms were tight around him, and he secretly wished as the wave of pleasure subsided that she wouldn’t want to let go.

“It’s about time you got up the nerve to do that.” He grinned as she winked at him, because even a good fucking didn’t stop that smart mouth.

Freaks

The beginning…

“Gregory Eugene!”

Until recently, Greg had only been addressed so by his tyrant of a mother when he was a kid. The sound of his own name had always made him cringe, yet in the the past few weeks, he found himself grinning like a fool whenever he heard it. The fact that it was a girl almost half his age who was sexy as hell saying it may have had a little something to do with that.

“What trouble have you gotten into today?” Greg flirted with Casey as she sat in her regular spot on the landing. He felt a small stab of disappointment when he noticed she was wearing yago pants instead of her usual choice of skirt. There would be no panty viewing today.

“Sleaze.” He berated himself for the dirty thought, especially when Casey flashed her thousand-watt smile at his teasing.

“I took Arthur for a walk and ended up playing chess with a completely adorable old man in the park.”

Greg cringed inwardly at the mention of Casey’s part time job. She’d brought Arthur by on one of Greg’s days off, and he’d been appalled to find the mammoth beast of a mutt drooling at his door. He mentally shook his head to dispel the memory and focused on the conversation.

“So did you win?”

Casey raised and eyebrow at the question, which only made her too-young looking face more adorable.

“Of course, Silly. When have I ever lost at chess?”

“Well just because you can beat me…” Greg shrugged.

When Casey’d mentioined she played chess, Greg had only suggested a game so he could get her in his apartment. He’d never been very good, but he didn’t mind losing repeatedly to his new-found crush. He was only frustrated because she seemed completely oblivious to his self-conscious advances. Too, she was very affectionate, and she didn’t notice how he tensed in anticipation every time she touched him in passing.

“So I got home and UPS was here. I made them leave the box, but you’re gonna have to come get it, ’cause it’s too heavy for me.” Casey stood up abruptly, and opened her apartment door, waiting expectantly for him to follow.

Since the first day, when she’d offered to sign for his packages, Greg had spent ridiculous amounts of money ordering shit he didn’t need just to have an excuse to talk to Casey. His lameness was not lost on him, but for some reason,this angel with the body completely overwhelmed him. The only reason he knew anything about her was because she talked incessantly, but he noticed she asked more questions about him than she answered about herself.

As he walked up the stairs, he admired her ass in her yoga pants, no longer disappointed in her choice of wardrobe for the day. He realized he was insanely curious to see the inside of her apartment- how did this energetic little Aphrodite live? When he followed her inside, he blinked in disbelief.

Sorry! That’s all I have time to write today!

A Dedication to 199 (and to All the Others)

This post is dedicated to the 199th amazing individual who has deemed my histrionic babbling worthy of followage. Without you, Ackeyands, I would just be a blogger with 198 followers. You have saved me from the awful even-numbered follower, Hamza, who I’m sure is a lovely and beautiful person in his own right, other than the fact that he was unlucky enough to follow my blog when I already had a lovely odd-number of proverbial blog sheep. From the few posts of your that I checked out, Ackeyands, I can tell you and I shall be great friends-or in the least, we shall be entertained by each other’s blogs for many moons to come.

No, no- I am not forgetting those many bloggers who have gotten me to this point. Though they are too numerous in numbers to list in their entirety, I hope they are somewhat sated by the fact that I have, at some point, read a post or two from every single one of their blogs. I noted that the range of personalities and talents of my followers is vast enough to create a very effectibe blogger army, but since I don’t believe in war, I suppose we could be a Blogger Flash Mob instead.

I would like to mention a few of my followers that have made writing for you all even more entertaining, with their comments and with their occassional mention of me in their blogs.

H.E. Ellis, because without her, I would not have a backup future wife, and I would never have read a book written for young adults that was worth reading, as of yet.

Brainrants, because without his first comment, I would have never found the perserverance to continue writing when I first started. Also, I would have never known the drama that comes along with a blogger’s jealous spousal unit.

John, because in his understated way, he is the most faithful of my followers. Though he does not blatantly comment in an overly-amourous manner on any of my posts like some of the others do, his persistant clicking of the like button on the majority of my posts lets me know of his at least intellectual infatuation with me…

Diatribes and Ovations, because he has the decency to pretend I’m as amazing as I want to be.

Page to Screen, because he liked me enough to find me on Facebook.

HR Nightmare, because he has given me the blessing to marry his ex-wife if my Rockstar doesn’t marry me, and because he is the only Vampire I’ve known in real life.

Sandy Like A Beach, because she is like me, but with dancing ability.

Delightfulness, because she was lucky enough to live within driving distance of me, therefore making her my only blogging buddy I have met in real life. Also, she is a great friend who acts as though I fart rainbows and shit butterflies.

Edward Hotspur, because he is the male version of my histrionic schizophrenic self, and his underlying passive-aggressiveness is not lost on me.

To all who have read or will read my blog- if I have made you laugh or cry, made you feel any other emotion, and entertained you even a little, then I have accomplished what I set out to do. Thank you for your intellectual patronage. XOXO

 

A Perfect World: A Sparklebumps Daydream

I was thinking today about what the world would be like if it were exactly the way I think it should be. Of course, the normal ideas of no war, or hate, or prejudice came to mind, but as lovely as that sounds, those weren’t exactly new and original enough to get my heart pumping at an accelerated and excitable rate. I’m certain there will be a few raised eyebrows from some that read what I would constitute as Perfect World Ideas, but then- would it be a Sparklebumps post if there weren’t? 😉

1. People would express their…. physical emotions without the fear of jealousy, envy, and homicidal tendencies exuding from their significant others.

In translation, if a person met someone and the two felt a mutual physical attraction, they could feel free to act on that without their spousal/girlfriend/boyfriend companion yelling and shedding the Tears of One Scorned. I realize this could possibly be the most absurd idea you’ve ever heard, and would probably result in a world full of people fucking numerous and infinitismal amounts of people, but isn’t that happening anyway? You never know what could happen if you would have banged that hot chic that was making eyes at you at Walgreens while you were waiting to pay for your Colon Cleanse. Maybe you’d be living happily ever after with her and your harpy wife….

2. Instead of smiles and handshakes, people would greet others with hugs.

Just think, if you had to hug everyone you came into contact with, you’d make sure you were well-cleaned and smelling fresh always, wouldn’t you? In my opinion, this idea can only result in a world full of beautifully-scented individuals. It would perhaps also brighten many people’s days.

3. There would be a International World Unity Day.

Instead of having a Gay Pride Parade, or a Republican National Convention, every single person would set aside the ideas that make them different from each other, and remember that we are all human, (or mutant) and grab a beer, or a non-offensive carbonation-free beverage, and shoot the shit.

4. There would be no money.

Have you ever watched those zombie apocalypse movies or end of the world films and thought to yourself, “It’d be totally awesome just to be able to go borrow whatever you needed from the local grocery store.”? If we could just barter and borrow and share the things we had, wouldn’t things be alot easier? You know, like I could just go to the Ford Dealer and let the salesman know I’d bring that Boss Mustang back after a joy ride? Keep in mind, I haven’t thought about the economical fallbacks of this plan…

5. Everyone would be read to as a child.

It seems to be that those who have been read to as children grow up with a more developed vocabulary and a excelled wish for knowledge. It would be lovely if I never had to hear the words, “I seen that happen.” offend me from someone’s mouth ever again.

6. People would be truthful and direct with everyone. And they wouldn’t be offended.

If you didn’t like someone, you would tell that person, so they could do their best to stay away from you, instead of you pretending to be that person’s friend and then going to Joe Blow and backstabbing said disliked person.

Also, if your girlfriend asked you if she looks fat in this, you could say yes without fear of your balls being removed while you sleep.

7. Taylor Swift, Michael Bolton, Kristin Stewart, Stephanie Meyer, and other Ass Clowns of Questionable Talent would be rightfully quarantined to an island on the Moon.

 

Reverand Mother Sparklebumps

I think I forgot to mention how I have always had a subconcious urge to be a nun. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that, when I was younger, I believed all nuns burst into songs while climbing mountaintops, or perhaps its my deep and abiding yearning to help the helpless. (I also think it would be pretty cool to wear a habit, because black and white would go with most of my shoes.) Sadly, because I am not Catholic, and do not have a deep devotion to the Catholic beliefs, (and because I posses an excessively strong sex drive) I shall have to forego being a nun.

Too, it would be hard to compete with the Ultimate Nun- Mother Theresa. She is truly one of my heroes, because anyone who devotes themselves so selflessly to others is just really amazing to me.

That being said, I have always wanted to own an orphanage, (even though they don’t technically exist in the U.S. anymore) or a half-way house for junkies and whores, or a shelter for homeless people. I also thought it would be lovely to own a home where people who are alone and don’t have anyone would be able to come and live, so that they could get hugs daily and never have to cry because they are lonely.

‘Tis true that there are times I would like to be alone. But I believe that is mostly due to the fact that I do not have the  5 boys I wanted running around like hoodlums. I do have a brother who is lonely, and I know there are at least two little girls at church who need adoption. (Not to mention numerous third world country children who need a mommy.) My Gramma and Gramps also need caring for, but I’m not quite sure how they would feel about living in a communal setting with a bunch of orphans and loners.

The question is, would it be outlandish for me to make this thought a reality? I surely wouldn’t want the Sparklebumps’ House of Hugs to be viewed as a freakish hippy or incestuous commune like we those nude beaches and those almost-Mormon institutions. I just want a place where I can say, “Come on down to MY house if you need a hug, or a friend, or some candy!” (Oh, yes. There would always be candy.) It seems like everyone had a good old time at Hogwarts, so I don’t see how people could NOT want to come live at my house….Of course, I wouldn’t have Quidditch, so there’s always the possibility of disappointment, I guess.

P.S. If you need a friend, or some sparkly advice, or a virtual booby squish, you need only ask. XOXO

Writing Lessons

So I am in the midst of the final leg of a trilogical journey. Let me make an observation here.

E. L. James’ writing did NOT get better with practice.

Yes, I am once again referring to the disaster known as The Fifty Shades bonanza.

One thing any person that reads occassionally may tell you if you ask is that a book that is excellent and well-written is hard to put down. (Unless, in some cases, it is too intense and one needs time to cool down.) Let me point out something here.

I’ve had no issues putting down these books. In fact, I’ve been wallowing through the last one for almost a month because I get so easily distracted from the relationship between Ana and Christian Grey.

Perhaps it’s the “Gah!” and “Argh!” I keep reading.

Let me explain.

There is a bit of sexual content in these books, and nearly every instance is punctuated with these words.

I don’t know about you, but even in the throes of passion, I’ve never used the word (if indeed it even is a word) “argh.”

In fact, when I think about it, even my un-passionate moments are devoid of this word.

It is safe to say that I would perhaps only use the word “argh” in a text, that would not be spoken out loud.

Men, I have a question for you- If a woman cried “Argh” while you were doing here, would your reaction be to groan in your throat and come?

I didn’t think so.

How about “GAH!” ?

Does that speak to a baser feeling in the pit of your stomach?

I actually began giggling when I read two pages of a sex scene and noticed Ana repeating, “Ah.” “Ah.” Ah.” Was she gonna climax, or was she gonna sneeze?

It is true that I have never weilded my penis in a way that would perhaps make women react thus, (except my faux one that one time with that one girl) but I would assume that “Oh, god” and “fuck me” would be the standard desired response.

Too, would a man punctuate his thrusting with “You. Are. So. Beautiful.” ?

Because Christian Grey did.

I believe I would also giggle if that happened in real life.

Anastasia Steel described it as “Hedonism gone wild.”

Here is an excerpt from the last book.

“In one efficient move, he dispenses with his pants and boxer briefs so that he’s gloriously naked and looming large and ready over me.”

Translation: “He whips his huge boner out and is ready to stick it in.”

Here is an example of how I would have worded that phrase- “He smoothly slipped out of his clothes, and I drew in a sharp breath when I saw his want for me.”

Please tell me that’s a bit better than “someone looming large over me.” It sounds as though he had a monstrous mutation hiding in his pants.

No, Anastasia’s not the only one who states the obvious in monosyllibic and uninteresting ways.

“Oh, you’re so ready.”

No shit, Christian. You generally want a girl to be wet after playing with her clit and stroking her nipples. If she’s not, I’m sorry to say that she’s probably not that into you.

“Oh, what you do to me.”

Tell us, Christian, because I can’t quite figure it out by the thing looming large over Ana.

At least he thinks she has a “glorious ass”.

 

 

Musings of a Would-Be Model

I was thinking today, trying to decide what to write, when I realized I haven’t mentioned yet the fact that one of my dream jobs would be to be a high-fashion model. Here is the appropriate time to splurt coffee across your computer screen.

I am fairly certain I could handle the gruelling tasks of walking down a runway and posing unnaturally and uncomfortably while wearing six-inch stillettos. (It is true, I also wouldn’t mind getting paid zillions of dollars to stand around in designer duds.) While I am not generally photogenic, I have no doubt that after one or two disastrous photo shoots with no usable results I would have gotten the hang of proficiently mastering a sultry pout, instead of having my face captured for all time with my mouth slightly and awkwardly agape. However, there are just a few problems that come into play when considering my desired modeling career…

I am not tall.

According to the mean and teasing males I work with, I’m not even average. Though slightly taller than an Oompa-Loompa, I agree that it would be considerably awkward to watch me walk down the runway with the likes of lanky and excessively-elevated models such as Heidi Klum and  Alexandra Ambrosia. There was a time when I had high hopes of making it onto Tyra Banks’ America’s Next Top Model; sadly, when I printed off the 14 page application, one of the first requirements I read was that one needed to be at least 5’7″ in order to even be considered. It seems that it matters not that I can walk without teetering along in shoes that would immediately remedy this problem. Ah, well.

Secondly, I have excessive boobage.

I don’t know if many of you have noticed, but the clothing of high fashion generally lacks a sufficient amount of material to cover titties larger than those of a ten year old. Luckily for tall and thin models, this is not an issue. However, if you were to duct tape a couple of balloons filled with chocolate pudding to their two-peas-on-a-board bosoms, you would better understand the point I’m trying to make. The one and only reason that skinny girls are better than curvy girls is that they have the ability to wear whatever they want and it looks good. If I were to don an evening gown with a neckline that plunged to my belly button, I would look like I was ready to stand on the street corner and accept heroin needles and crinkled ones for blow jobs.

Lastly, I am not symmetric.

It is true that not all high-fashion models are beautiful. In fact, there are a great many of them who are very androginous and not ultra-feminine. But if you look closer, they all carry the same proportionate gene. Not one super model suffers from a lazy eye, or a bit of excess skin on her ear lobe, or a left boob that is bigger than her right, or, oddly enough, hair that is thicker on one side of her head than the other. I seem to have been unfortunate enough to accrue all these issues.

And so, until such time the Powers that Be find it discriminately appropriate to have a fashion line modeled by trolls, it seems that I shall have to pass up my future as a model. C’est la vie.

 

I Can Sleep When I’m Dead

It would make sense that after a gruelling week at work, a person would want to go home and unwind, perhaps with a bottle of Pinot Grigio or some other uppity foofoo swill. However, it seems I have a very different way of unwinding.

I am pleased to report that after putting in 52 hours in four days as a Pizza Slut last week, I was still able to rush home and make myself excessively presentable on Friday night in order to take my Rockstar out to see L.A. Guns perform.

It matters not that L.A. Guns first got together as a band when I was yet entertaining myself with My Little Pony and Sesame Street. It is true that my when thinking of the music of my youth, my reminiscing first goes to New Kids on the Block and Michael Jackson. That being said, this is one of those times when I wish that I were ten years older, so that I may properly recall fondly the days of 80’s hair bands in the style of my Rockstar and my much-older brother.

Because of their passion for all things 80’s rock, my brother and my Rockstar both have instilled in me the love of hair and heavy metal bands, shirtless lead singers, and heroin-hooked bass players who don’t necessarily recognize the groupies they banged back stage. While I don’t necessarily remember popping a top at a high school party to the high-pitched voice of Vince Neil singing Ten Seconds to Love, my ears perk up when tunes of such ilk make their way through the radio to my aural devices. Oh, to have such energy as Dee Snider when he announces the House of Hair on Sunday mornings. You certainly don’t see that sort of reaction when Ryan Seacrest mentions Justin Bieber’s Girlfriend song.

Anyhoo, I found out that L.A. Guns was coming to town, and I knew my Rockstar very much liked them, so I stated that we must go, no matter how tiring my work schedule has been. So I donned my new teal and purple heels, and off we went to the Red Carpet.

The Red Carpet is a historical nightclub in downtown St. Cloud that is best known to me as a magical money-sucking machine. As in, I will enter the front door with $100 and within four hours, have nothing to show for it except an excessive buzz and empty pockets. The decor is hideous and in need of an update; the stage is miniscule and hardly large enough to support a stack of Marshall amps; and the bartender girls are deliciously adorable and adept at taking dollars from your hands. It’s great.

Being set in a college town, the Red Carpet is usually filled with the over-educated and underpaid younglings of St. Cloud. Happily on Friday night, I was pleased to find that for the first time since I became of legal age, I was the youngest in a crowd of mullet-sporting, stuck-in-the-80’s group of people. With my Peach Schnapps and water in one hand, and my own middle-aged Rocker in the other, I prowled the many floors of the Red Carpet intent on scoping out any hot chics that were present and awaiting the arrival of the Guns.

By the time the show started, my Rockstar was sufficiently drunk enough that he could no longer hide the child-like enthusiasm he felt at being able to see a band from his youth. He rambled on about the demise of the band he’d put together in high school, and about how frustrated he was when they hadn’t wanted to rock out to L.A. Guns. I assured him that when we finally start our band, we will jam to whatever floats his boat. Then the show started.

One of the disappointing things about a band that’s been touring off and on for some 20 odd years is that generally not all the original members are usually present. This is not necessarily a huge issue, as long as the lead singer is still around. I can say with fair certainty that though I never witnessed L.A. Guns in their heyday, I believe that Phil Lewis (the lead singer) was the heart and soul of the band. Strutting around in his bedazzled un-buttoned shirt, his performance lacked nothing despite the fact that his younger and obviously much-prettier days were past. In my inebriated state, I even noticed that he most certainly was making eyes at me during The Ballad of Jayne. Too, I was amazed to see that he had the power to make every fan there scream in ecstasy just by yelling, “Hey! Hey! Hey! HEY!” and pumping his arm in the air.

As I walked precariously back to my car while berating myself for stupidly wearing gorgeous heels to a rock concert, I thought to myself, “I’ m so glad I didn’t decide to stay home and sleep.”

P.S. I also decided I need to become a Rockstar.