"Whenelse, other than between now and the time you die..."

Dear God,

Last time we had spoken, I was 13 and had just become a woman. I went to my suburban bay window, the one loaded with pillows, and prayed that you take me away. I've grown a lot since then.
I now write on behalf of my friends. I think they belong in Heaven. I'll start with the boys first, because I know you are a man.
You need Vegan in Heaven. He is a man cut from the know, although some doubt his masculinity because (cover your ears, God) his mom is gay and uses whips.
Life is bleak without Ian. God, can you really do without a boy who makes you surprise cheese fries in bed?
Kody Starr is a daring superstarr. He crashes cars and tips vans for kicks. When he comes, he'll try and pack his camo hunting outfit and try to hide from you. Just inform him that Heaven is blue and white.
Ben is our bartender. He wants to go to Heaven most. He has a lot of questions for you.
Luke Stiles is my neighbor. He knows how to get things...Actually, he'll get into Heaven regardless.
Jakie...You can't have him. Not ever...Give me a pony and maybe we'll talk.
Now for the women:
Shannon is sexy and courageous. She started this blog. At your parties, she'll show you what she can do to a Boyz 2 Men song.
Maggie Ray, one look into her soul, and you'll erect a palace of sugar between your thighs.
Jessica Willis melts hearts and candy bars in deep fat fryers.
Katie Ray will be the first one to yell at you.

I know you were watching this weekend. So let's just get the details straight:
On Friday night most of my friends payed vigil to the Da Vinci Code. (You're in that movie, somewhere.) They sat in the dark with heavy eyes deep in a religious trance muddling over your enigma.
Saturday we celebrated your sunshine on bikes in Prospect Park. When you almost took that Mexican's life, we knew it wasn't for real. The ambulance came anyway. By the way, did he get the green card?
By night our group had broken into different sects. One sect decided to get an early start on your holy Sunday. They stayed up all night in another kind of religious trance. Another sect offered up a sacrificial chicken in a cage in a nearby loft, also managing to get an early start on your early church day. Meanwhile Tom, your half-breed, was his own sect; he was dancing to religious trance elsewhere. I'll bet he danced into the morning as well. Come to think of it, sect one discovered an unidentifiable man on that early morn, paying homage to them outside their window.
Later on we relocated to the pourhouse. We listened as Ben talked of God (that's you) and God's women. We drank of the blood of Christ and of the Blood of Mary and of the Holy Water.
But it wasn't until Monday that you showed yourself to us. We walked past a church on our way to a birthday party. We partook of your offerings in that cardboard box out front: a book about abortion, two cans of soup, and an opened 12 count package of maxi pads (counting in at eight). It was a Puerto Rican church. We know you were there with us, on that roof across from the Food Bazaar. Sitting around basking in our friendship, we busted apart birthday crabs with dirty hands. The world swelled with our laughter. Then we broke out the chalice of Mary Magdalen's womb, the maxi pads. Alan, the birthday boy, stuffed one into his mouth twice. That did it. You knew he was ingesting the holy grail. You were moved by this act of glory. We felt your teardrops gently at first. Then you let go. You couldn't help it. Your shoulders shook with each sob. The sky rumbled. You sneezed and we saw lightning. The rain came down. Sir, you cried like a man should.
We sat around soaked with your tears. A friend at the party said it best. Staring off into the starlight, he proclaimed, "Whenelse, other than between now and the time you die will you ever feel like this." I got to thinking. I still don't want you to take me away yet. But when you do, can my friends come, too?

shopping for goodie

Ok so like I was at the store the other day shopping for food for a dinner party I was giving. It was a very important dinner party cause I invited my boss and his new fiance, which just so happened to be an ex-paratrooper named Linda. She isn't that hot but I would definately give her a 7 on the "You're a little chunky but I would still attempt sexual intercourse with you after three or four Coors longnecks" scale. So I was at the super market in the produce section looking for this seasons organic land cucumbers for this wicked quiche recipe I got off of the internet. I'm examining this excellent specimen when all of a sudden Linda, the para-trooper, bumps into me. She excused herself and then she noticed who I was. To make a long story short, my brother farted in the oven while the quiche was baking and in a rush I served it anyway. To my surprise it tasted better than I expected. The dinner party was a success and my brother still has puss oozing off his ass from where he got burned. The moral of the story is: don't get too upset if a huge juicy fart is laid into the oven your organic land cucumber quiche is baking in because it will still taste good.

iguana attacks

Iguanas are known for being bloodthirsty. You've heard the stories. "Harmless" iguana jumps out of toilet to gobble suburban baby. So naturally, when one spots such a beast one gives themself over to pure unadulterated hysteria, full tilt. And when such a victim is Jessica "Teal" Willis, well...
Saturday afternoon started off like they all should. Vegan is slapping meat patties together for the grill outside. Jakie is tinkering with pulleys and beer parts. Tom is missing. I am on surveillance, on a dirty portion of the couch, trying to figure out that smell. Katie Ray arrives in a cloud of perfume and body lotion and distracts me from my duty. Shannon arrives next a harem of boys on bikes in tow. Ian and Jessica arrive next. Jessica strolls in, swinging a boxed cheesecake from its twine. She smiles sweetly, for there is no way she can foretell the event that will chage things forever.
Fast forward a few hours. We are all outside. The patties sizzle on the grill, techno music blares from the speakers, Katie Ray smells like the rest of us, and Vegan has mustard and ketchup and bits of meat collected at the corners of his mouth. Jessica Willis is a bundle of succulent flesh, seated next to me on the cooler. Her diligent boyfriend Ian steps away to retieve some very necessary item. Jessica is left open, her milky skin glows in the moonlight. The iguana acts quickly.
He had been watching the whole time. From his niche deep inside the cracked wall, he had eyed us all as we gathered coolers together in a protective circle, the strong men gathering on the outside while the soft-fleshed women sat safely inside. He had escaped weeks prior. His owners were fat and had beat him, prodded him, and forced him to listen to Puerto Rican hits. He wasn't going back, but he was hungry. He had watched us laugh, noticed Maggie toss her blonde hair, saw how Jakie gave up his seat to older women. Tears came to his eyes. He didn't want to be bad. But he could smell the meat, and then he saw his opening.
I first noticed something was wrong when Jessica's body convulsed. While convulsing, she managed to turn her full mouth to my ear. Her screams penetrated my soul. Before I could shriek back, cool liquid spread over my skull and shoulder, and claws dug deep into my flesh. Then I looked down. My blood curdled. There was an unidentifyable reptile lump coiled around Jessica's soft foot. Jessica was dead and I was drowning in her blood. Then I smelled beer and I came to.
As it turns out, Jessica wasn't dead. Her blood upon me was in fact half of the the drink that she held in her shaking hands. We assembled a rescue team to wrench the jaws of the iguana from her luscious ankle, and handed her over to Ian. Ian held her close. The iguana was sent back to its fat Puerto Ricans with no supper(excuse the misplaced modifyer). We went forth with the party. The death count is as follows: one innocent soul, two chairs, half of a cheesecake, and one sorely-missed broom(Chris Mitchell, you will die).

The next day we met at the Pourhouse and counted our bruises.

Love,

Anna Montana

seconded

i couldnt have said it better myself. we love you benjamin and it is always a special night when you grace us with your presence.

I heart New York, by which I mean I heart Ben

While Ian was playing with the Law Revue band at the finest of New York City venues--The Baggit Inn (spelling???????)--the rest of us went to el cantinero to consume a wealth of tequila mixed with a little bit of icy heaven. A lot of different people were there, including Kody's work friends. They stood on the other side of the bar. Kody told us that all the guys are gay and they all make out with the straight girls and then talk about which one of them is a better kisser, which is pretty weird. And not only did Disciplina manage to make it after a long day on the Conde Naste treadmill, Benjamin Rameaka (spelling???????) also surprised us all with his always welcome presence. After 5 margaritas, but no free shot, the Ray sisters, Ben and myself hopped on the L train. Ben convinced us to get off at Bedford (like a bunch of pussies) and then treated us a bridge of sushi, two plates of pad thai and some fried calamari at Planet Thai, which I don't actually remember anybody ordering. But it was Totally Sik. I have no idea what we talked about, but I'm sure that the conversation was great too. Ben also paid for our cab. God, what a fucking gentlemen. Dear Ben, I'm always surprised that you want to hang out with us, and when you treat us to a night like last night (treat us with your company, not the money), I kind of feel like I'm not a degenerate anymore. Until I wake up on friday morning and drag my wastoid self to work, as I always do on friday. Then I remember that you can take the degenerate out of the bar, but you can't take the bar out of the degenerate...that doesn't make sense, but you know what I'm talking about.

-Shannon

Oingo Boingo

I just took my Con Law exam today, and then somebody smoked all this pot and I think I got, like, a contact high or something. What do they say, secondhand smoke or something? Thank you for pot smoking. We've got a big art show coming up, y'all (btw, all these people who aren't from the south at law school write y'all in their emails but they spell it ya'll. wtf) Anyway, we've also been working on some stuff in the lab. We shot this video with Danny Elfman:

http://www.bsospirit.com/curiosidades/elfman_zone.htm

NAI