Postcard from the Beach 7

The universe operates on a misapprehension known as the Equivalency Paradox. All systems in our universe tend toward balance, yet balance can never be achieved. Something must be always out of whack. Like how Galileo noted that a pendulum's swing lasted a consistent amount of time no matter how wide its arc. Then the clock was invented and time became a regulation. Then railroads, then medicine began extending our life span. Then you and me. I can measure every single thing about the physical world, categorize and theorize about the way things work, but you are and will forever be a mystery to me. Something shimmering that rose to the surface, mesmerized me, and evaporated back into an ether. The Equivalency Paradox implies that for everything you took from me, I will get back too much. My arc, consistently timed, will push me outward in a complete and opposite direction. That you left me with nothing means you've given me more than I could ever imagine.


Postcard from the Beach 6

Reflections are imperfect representations of the real. To see yourself backwards offers little in the way of self-awareness. In cinema, someone who casts a reflection is of two minds or has a hidden agenda. You'll never know who you really are until you see yourself in someone else's eye. Even this can't reveal what you are capable of. Even what you've already done. I believe that my mirror self knows a way he can still love you. I believe he is still with you. I know there are infinitely many chances for happiness and that you are but one. The universe expands outward in all directions. There are an infinite number of choices made every day that draw us together, keep us apart, but somewhere, the choices we did not make—even you—linger out there in someone's eye, watching us watch them.


Postcard from the Beach 5

Symmetry is a closed system, unlike the wave or time. What begins also ends, clearly and firmly, as it began. All creatures of this earth possess one of two kinds of symmetry. Radially symmetrical beings can be sliced across their length at an infinite number of points while maintaining a perfectly equal division. Humans are bilaterally symmetrical, meaning we cut one way: down the middle. A scissoring. Some philosophers believe our inner essence is symmetry waiting to happen, that we are halfway whole. The system inside of us, aphysical in nature, can never be measured. But you know when it's whole, don't you. You have a pretty fucking good idea when that part of you inside suddenly doubles. Becomes an even number. And then again when it's trimmed away. Toward the odd. We drift apart, try to grow again. A starfish regenerates its missing arms like this. It must—its entire concept of the universe is plugged into a base-5 system.

for RS



Jen Currin presents the vertigo west poetry collective at LOCUSPOINT. We're proud to feature work by the following inventive and innovative poets:

Meliz Ergin
Collette Gagnon
Brook Houglum
Helen Kuk
Kim Minkus
Emilie O'Brien
Cristina I. Viviani

along with Jen Currin herself.

Shin Yu Pai's Dallas Edition will launch in mid-July. Enjoy!

Postcard from the Beach 4

A wave is a repetition you can measure infinitely long in either direction. But time is measured backwards, only by what has passed. We anticipate that time is a repetitive system like the wave, that each minute ahead of us will be equal in length to the minutes we've lived, but there is only probability of this. It seems certain when you consider rt = d. This means space and time have an equivalency. Since the universe is infinitely large, time must therefore be endless. And time has existed as long as space as existed. I am very thankful to time and to waves for never stopping. Imagine what could be, what moment you might be trapped in. Out of all of them, chances are the moment would likely be a painful one. Instead of a series of painful ones.


Postcard from the Beach 3

I want to remember us like this: in love, on a beach, our arms connecting to the same body. Every day the past grows more and more hazy. It's harder to remember you, all of you—just bits and pieces stay behind. But I'll always have the kiss. The funny thing about loving you is that it can only end in losing you: either you leave, or I leave, or one of us dies. I have been left, discarded, tossed away by so many lovers that there's clearly a foregone conclusion to reach when I try to love another man. In dating we are destined to be disappointed. The true thing happens only once. Why does this need persist? To attempt again the tired first-conversations and first kisses unlike yours. That inevitable result: loss. I read somewhere yesterday: insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.


Marginalia from a beach letter never sent.

Interesting sidenotes:

One of the first people I (nearly) ran into when I first got to the hotel was Andrew Firestone, formerly of (dubious) The Bachelor fame. I stepped out of the elevator and there he was, chatting about the laudable virtues of the Audi with two bachelorettes and a dude.

Interesting sidenote to the sidenote: I have actually walked into a celebrity before. Peter Paige (of Queer As Folk) walked up to a security guard the same time I did. We were both frisked and then went to walk into the building at the same time. Boom! We smacked into each other. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry," I said embarrassedly. We both took a step back, paused, and then stepped forward again. Boom! He started laughing. I freaked out, turned red from head to tie, made a noise like a little squeak, and then ran up the stairs like Cinderella in reverse.

I finished (?) another short story, "Material Girl," today. Next is "Papa Don't Preach." I have three more stories rolling around in my head. If this were a novel, I'd have about 60 pages done.

That is all.

Postcard from the Beach 2

Imagine each chair represents a person in the world who is thinking of you this very minute. What a bold testament this is to your likeability, how much potential for love exists in the world you inhabit. It comes at you from all directions. If you have been loved, your probability of being loved again increases exponentially. Love makes you anti-immune. You become more susceptible to it the more it infects you. This is true for all people, and so now we say the luckiest people are also, generally speaking, the sickest.

for Gina Franco


Postcard from the Beach

This is not an emergency. This is not a test. When I walk along the shore to hear the waves crash, it triggers some kind of alarm nevertheless. Yesterday I stood in the dishsoap aisle of the dirtiest Kmart in the United States. I was wrapped in the smell of that apartment and it rang the alarm. The quiet of the hotel room at night rings the alarm. The empty plate of room service food left outside the door triggers that alarm. To travel alone is to see the world as it if were in a heightened state of alert. A code orange. When I realized they weren't rushing to save me, it occurred to me then, for the first time, that I actually was in very real danger. There is more to say——too much to squeeze into this mere note. Have you been able to read what I never said?

for MM


Where's Waldo?

If he's at the beach, I'll let you know.

I'm here until Friday.

That's when I'll shake the sand from my bathing suit.


Moving Day

I'm moving to a new apartment today. Kind of my dream apartment, actually. 19' ceilings, loft space, all the space I need.

But let me tell you. I've had to move at least once in 10 of the past 12 years. I'll break it down for you:

1995: moved to dorm room
1996: moved home, moved to off-campus apartment, moved to dorm room
1997: moved to new dorm room, moved home, moved to new dorm room
1998: moved to off-campus apartment, moved to dorm room
1999: moved to boyfriend's apartment, then together moved to a new apartment
2000: moved from apartment to dorm (housing provided by job)
2001: moved to Arizona (approx 1790 miles)
2002: [did not move]
2003: moved to off-campus apartment (quit job that provided housing)
2004: moved to townhouse with boyfriend)
2005: [did not move]
2006: moved to apartment (break-up move)
2007: moved because my apartment was SOLD and they didn't tell me

That's 17 moves, if you were counting. What's worse is that when I moved to college, my parents wanted to start trying to sell their house, so they literally made me take everything that belonged to me. Everything.

I've carted it around like a sad little nomad ever since.


The Reveal

Okay, I think I can say it now. It seems like most people have been notified...

My chapbook The Strange Case of Maribel Dixon was selected as one of the published finalists for the DIAGRAM/New Michigan Press Chapbook Contest and will be published this fall!

A short story in poems, the chapbook concerns the vanishing of Maribel Dixon, wife of physicist Edward Dixon, in 1930s America.



Wait...are you saying literature isn't dead?

I think one of my biggest minor annoyances in life is talking to people about literature. Books.

When I meet people, I generally don't offer up that I write, although it is frequently a question that follows once people have asked what I do for a living, since it seems a natural extension of the place where I work. I cop to it if asked, yes, and then for some reason, people always feel compelled to confess to me various aspects of their reading habits. "I don't read much,"
they'll say, as if apologizing to me personally, or to pre-empt my seemingly inevitable judgment of their intelligence, class, or cultural savvy.

[As an aside, something similar occurred when I first came out. People would respond with the most outlandish confessions, like "Once I stole lip gloss from Wal-Mart!" or "Once I let a boy do me in the butt!" As if there's an equivalency there.]

The people who don't read much, I understand. People are busy. Books take a lot of time, and a lot of them are kind of bad, especially if you don't know what you're looking for, have gotten a crappy recommendation, or are new to reading for fun. For most people, reading is a chore akin to carefully flaying their own skin from their body and stretching it taut across a drum to be tanned into leather. I get that. Sometimes, some books make me dislike reading. This is the case with any book my father would enjoy: non (*shudder*) fiction.

People, I don't care if you read. Don't read if you don't want to. I'd rather talk about what's on TV anyway. Did you see the Veronica Mars finale??

Those who do read, I find, generally begin to ask me if I like a series of writers. They generally ask like this: "Do you like ____? Do you like ____? Do you like ____?" as if this were high school and I were handed a note that says, after each one, "check yes or no."

Their list of writers oftentimes looks like this:

Dead white guy
Dead white guy
Dead white woman
Nearly dead white guy
The DaVinci Code
White guy I think is probably dead, maybe in the past couple of months
Dead white guy

It's as if most people believe that "literature" is no longer being created. That all of these great books, written by dead people, somehow just appeared on the shelves in their local bookstore. They don't seem to understand that there are actual living writers creating actual works of art RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE. They also don't seem to understand that they can read those books shortly after they are published, while the writer is still alive, and that typically they can also go somewhere not far from their house to hear the author read, meet the author, etc.

I've learned when people ask me what I read that I generally have to list for them the dead people whose books I've enjoyed, or else they look at me quizzically, wondering who these writers are they've never heard of. "Oh, they're still alive," I explain, and then I'm met with a very skeptical look that I know means nothing written by a living person could be worth reading.

I think America's reading-living-writers crisis has become so extreme that "Living Writers" could be a real stumper of a category on Jeopardy!

Unless, of course, the book has been made into a movie, a TV movie, or a mini series.



I finished the first draft of my first short story in seven years. While I was in Vegas I started writing the second story, concerning one of the characters several years later. I know what happens to a third character in the future. I think he's in this new story too. It takes place in (surprise) Vegas.

I can share my good news in, like, two days. I'm really excited about it. I was playing it cool before.

I went out in search of a lover yesterday—a particular lover. A pair of black Kenneth Cole Flex-a-bits. They look like this:

They feel like this:

I just tried to order them online and they are backstocked until October 10.


Miranda July is my homegirl. (excerpt from "Roy Spivey" in the New Yorker)

"My people are going to be waiting for me out there, so I won't be able to say goodbye properly."

"I know. That's all right."

"No, it really isn't. It's a travesty."

"But I understand."

"OK, here's what I'm going to do. Just before I leave the airport, I'm going to come up to you and say, Do you work here?"

"It's OK. I really do understand."

"No, this is important to me. I'll say, Do you work here? And then you say your part."

"What's my part?"

"You say, No."


"And I'll know what you mean. We'll know the secret meaning."


We looked into each other's eyes in a way that said that nothing else mattered as much as us. I asked myself if I would kill my parents to save his life, a question I had been posing since I was fifteen. The answer always used to be yes. But in time all those boys had faded away and my parents were still there. I was now less and less willing to kill them for anyone; in fact, I worried for their health. In this case, however, I had to say yes. Yes I would.


Good News | Vegas Index Part Deux

Good news in the inbox today, but I'm just teasing you with it right now. Details to follow. Until then, enjoy part two of my Vegas Index:

Number of times we went to the karaoke bar at Imperial Palace: 2
Estimated median age of the karaoke participants: 40
Estimated ratio of men to women: 1 to 3
Approximate age of the woman who sang "Fergalicious": 45
Latest possible year her black lace dress-over-bike shorts and bleached overpermed hair were last considered "sexy": 1986
Approximate angle (from center) at which she wore her matching black baseball hat: 80 degrees
Percentage of lyrics to "Fergalicious" she knew by heart: 100

Total number of times I sang: 3
Chance the karaoke dj told me they only had the Marilyn Manson version of the song I wanted to sing: 1 in 3
Number of times I sang the Marilyn Manson version instead: 0
Total number of times I sang the words "Gettin' boys is how I live": 1
Total number of times this was in reference to myself: 0
Total number of times I sang the words "[I wear] my birthday suit when I'm home alone talkin' on the phone, got an interview with Rolling Stone": 1
Chance that I am actually at home in my birthday suit at any given time: 1 in 19
Chance that I am talking on the phone in my birthday suit: 1 in 50
Chance that I am also being interviewed by Rolling Stone: 1 in 1x10(-23)
Chance that I am in my Vegas hotel room in my birthday suit: 1 in 3

Number of times Helena Handbasket sang: 4
Number of songs she sang originally performed by an actual or probable lesbian: 2
Minimum number of times Helena Handbasket was encouraged to "take her top off" by a member of the audience: 3
Number of times she took her top off: 0

Total number of consecutive power ballads performed in one night: 4
Chance it was originally performed by a tenor: 1 in 2
Chance it was originally performed by Nancy Wilson: 1 in 4
Chance that the power ballad's lyrics concerned lost love or being ignored by a lover: 1 in 3
Chance that it was a declaration of eternal love that ultimately ended in divorce: 1 in 4

Chance that the karaoke dj said something flirty to me during our 3 seconds of conversation before my song: 1 in 2
Chance that this included punning the word "lei" for "lay" in reference to sex: 1 in 6
Actual number of times I got "leied" by the dj: 1

Minimum total number of gay men who went to Margaritaville on Saturday night: 3
Number of them who weren't in my pants: 2
Number of them who wanted to be, other than me: 1
Maximum number of occupants of my pants at any given time: 1
Chance that a woman at Margaritaville was a drunk blond in a tube top: 1 in 3
Percentage of women at Margaritaville who were drunk and dancing in my "dance space": 13%
Percentage of straight men at Margaritaville who elected to dance: 50%
Percentage of those straight men who could not find the beat: 89%
Number of straight men who instead stood on the dance floor watching the band: 7
Likelihood an audience member will sing the "Bum Bum Bum" part of "Sweet Caroline": 1 in 1.5

Approximate lifespan of a Vegas cocktail: 7 minutes
Approximate lifespan of a Vegas vacation: 3 days
This number expressed as a series of cocktails: 617.14
Approximate length of Britney Spear's Vegas marriage: 55 hours
This number expressed as a series of cocktails: 471.43


Effigy Poetics

Thanks to all who linked to the TIME magazine article about why poetry sucks and doesn't meet anyone's needs. After reading it, I feel like I am now a part of a very hoity-toity circle of airbags—like the Marketing Department in Dilbert but with bigger vocabularies.

Blaming poets for poetry sucking seems like the right thing to do. After all, we don't blame the gun for killing someone, we blame the gun manufacturer. We don't blame the cigarette, we blame tobacco companies. We don't blame the customs agent, we blame the tuberculosis-infected individual who slipped through. Perhaps one day soon there will be a class-action lawsuit against all poets everywhere. For making poetry suck.

It's helpful, too, then, that people across the country are asking poets why our poetry sucks so bad. Why are we wasting time with the lyric when we could be tittilating folks with filthy limericks and the like? And isn't the haiku just so darling? With poetry like this, we could reel in both the WWF Smackdown audience AND all six people who were watching Men in Trees this year.

If poetry were more popular, perhaps we could encourage America's most avid and widely-read readers to put down their Danielle Steele novels and try something new.

In all honesty, though, if I really were to choose some people to blame for people's dislike (and distrust) of contemporary poetry, I'd look at the English teachers. The handgun-wielders. The cigarette smokers. The people who put poetry into action for young people, when attitudes and associations are formed about literary and poetry.

How many of us sat through classes where imagery was "decoded," where symbols were "demystified," "explained"? How many of us read actual living poets when we were school—or poems written before 1940? And it's not even really the teachers' faults, many of whom aren't and will never be able to receive poetry as anything other than a set of tropes and codes, meter and rhyme, etc. That's what they were taught. And education is, after all, catching.

And what about our textbook publishers, who select poetry that doesn't connect to young people? The world is no longer as interested in writing by the Big White Guys anymore. Even white kids are tired of reading it. An effort to represent the poetry being written today would be more beneficial in raising poetry's cultural quotient.

Billy Collins isn't for everybody. Nikki Giovanni isn't for everybody. But Billy is for some people, and Nikki is for some people, and for the rest of us there's still an enormous widening gyre of poets and books to be read.

When people lament that only poets are reading poetry, it exposes their naievete. Of course we are. Because we know there's so much good stuff out there. If you're not reading poetry, there's something wrong with you, not us.


Hilary Duff: A Treatise

I'm going to admit something that probably won't shock you if you read this blog often enough.

I've been listening to Hilary Duff. A lot.

Her new album, Dignity, comes in the wake of her break-up with Good Charlotte frontman Joel Madden. They were always sort an odd pairing from the beginning, in my opinion: squeaky-clean Hilary and tatooed punk-rapper Joel? I'm not seeing it. But according to Seventeen magazine, they were very cute and very in love.

Not anymore. The first song on the album, the sitar-influenced "Stranger," claims: "Nobody believes me when I tell them that you're out of your mind / Nobody believes me when I tell them you've got so much to hide." Duff goes on to explain that she knew the relationship was over when the way he looked at her changed. From Duff's view, the subject of the song was affectionate and caring in public, but distant and reluctant in private. "I can see what's going on this time / There's a stranger in my life."

The first few tracks on the album are great. After "Stranger," we get the title track, which is a big-fat diss to Joel's new gf (who's got the preggers?!) Nicole Richie. After insisting that all this girl can do is pay for things, Duff complains, "You'd show up to the opening of an envelope / Why does everybody care about where you go?" before launching into this paparazzi-laden indictment:

It's not news when you get him in bed
It's not news when somebody slaps you
It's not news when you're looking your best
C'mon...give it a rest

Duff goes on to describe how she's ready to hear the hard things (as long as they're spoken "With Love") and, moving on, she asks a poetential suitor: "Were you born in '74? / Are you the kind of guy that I should ignore?" because he's "Danger"ous. I'm just glad I was born after '74, or I might be offended by this.

The rest of the album is mixed....some really lame tracks (like the misstep "Gypsy Woman"—when Hilary says "she can swallow knives," are we to take this as a veiled fellatio reference?), but it ends on a high note.

I used to hate Hilary Duff, although once I accidentially watched an episode of Lizzie McGuire and I kind of liked it. I like Dark Hilary better than Light Hilary. And although her lyrics are still somewhat insipid, her music has a more mature sound to it that is fun to dance to (in the bar or in the shower) and even more fun to sing in the car.

So if you see me tooling around Phoenix in my little Scion and my lips are moving, don't worry. I'm not crazy. I'm not talking to myself. I'm singing along with Hilary.

(For more insight into this break-up, see also my posts on Good Charlotte's break-up album Good Morning Revival


Found Poem Friday

Actual Text (in order) from a 1989 issue of Sassy magazine:

You pick
1989's most
beloved stars

We take
you to the

This teen
"suicide" was
a murder

Cut-out gifts
from us

10 ways to
save the planet

And 87,354


Spread the Word: Phoenix is Hot (But You Already Knew That)

I'm pointing out interesting factoids to you in bold.

Phoenix arts economy is flourishing
Kyle Lawson
The Arizona Republic
Jun. 6, 2007

People may not realize it, but Phoenix maintains a thriving growth industry: the arts.

A national survey released today states that the city's non-profit cultural institutions and their audiences contributed $361 million to the Valley's economy during 2005.

That represents an increase of 38 percent in local arts spending since 2000, when the last survey was conducted. That survey was released in 2002. In terms of generated revenues and attendance, the total places Phoenix well ahead of most cities and regions with populations of 1 million or more. And it is more than the $311 million in economic impact generated by the 2007 Cactus League.

Indeed, one of the most surprising revelations in the study: Arts events attracted 6.1 million people in 2005, more than attended the 2007 FBR Open and Arizona Diamondbacks, Phoenix Suns and Arizona Cardinals games combined.

The survey also estimates that local arts groups directly or indirectly support 11,164 jobs, more than 10 times the national median for that category.

The figures are contained in "Arts & Economic Prosperity III," compiled by Americans for the Arts, a cultural advocacy group based in New York and Washington, D.C. Across the nation, 156 communities participated in the project, the most extensive of its kind ever conducted, said Phil Jones, executive director of the Phoenix Office of Arts and Culture.

Data was collected from 67 city arts institutions, including Ballet Arizona, Arizona Opera, Heard Museum, Phoenix Art Museum, Phoenix Symphony, Arizona Theatre Company and smaller troupes.

Although the first survey involved seven Valley communities, the 2005 report concentrated on Phoenix, with three East Valley communities compiling their own statistics.

"The first survey showed that, Valley-wide, arts institutions and patrons spent $344 million," Jones said. In 2005, "that figure was $361 million for Phoenix alone. I think that is pretty significant in terms of just how fast the arts are growing here and their strong economic impact."

The report also indicates that institutions and patrons of Chandler, Mesa and Tempe spent $82 million in 2005.

Phoenix Mayor Phil Gordon said he wasn't surprised to learn that the arts were an economic power in the city.

"Years ago, Jim Ballinger of the Phoenix Art Museum taught me that, if the art museum itself were a business, it would be one of the largest businesses in Arizona," Gordon said.

"What is surprising is the magnitude of the growth. I've always felt that you can't have a great city without the arts. This is proof that we're getting there. Phoenix is becoming one of the great cities of the 21st century."

Kevin Myers, executive director of Ballet Arizona, appreciates the encouragement.

"We've known for some time that the ballet is doing well; we've seen a 20 to 40 percent growth in revenues every year for the past four years," he said. "What pleasantly surprises me is to learn that the ballet is not alone in its success. The public appreciates that this is a city that enhances the lives of its residents."

It's about time the arts received some recognition, Cheryl Weiner of Scottsdale said. Weiner regularly attends symphony concerts, theater productions and events at the Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts.

"People don't appreciate the arts and the quality of our artists," she said. "I find that depressing. I'm a native of Boston and, when I came here, I was apprehensive about what I was going to find. Instead, I was impressed by the work. I hope this survey convinces more people to attend local events. If we don't engage in what is here, it's going to go away."

The survey breaks the Phoenix figures down into $133 million spent by arts groups and $228 million by patrons. The latter figure does not include the price of admission but does include money spent on dining, transportation, souvenirs and other items connected with the arts experience.

Not everyone spending money on the arts is strictly local, not by a long shot.

"During the gathering of the data, we discovered that 60 percent of those attending city events came from outside Maricopa County," Jones said. "They each spent an average of $45 beyond what they paid for tickets."

Although the numbers are impressive, Jones noted that they're also useful. The survey's greatest benefit will be as "an invaluable advocacy tool," he said.

"We now have something to take to the City Council and the state Legislature that shows in a quantifiable manner just how strong an impact the arts have on this community."

Jones' office receives in the neighborhood of $1 million in annual tax dollars to distribute among non-profit groups and artists.

"Thanks to this survey, we can show that the $1 million leverages $17 million in local tax revenues and $22.5 million in state tax revenues," he said.

"That's a pretty good return on an investment."


Vegas, More

I was in Vegas last weekend to attend the annual Americans for the Arts (AFTA) convention. It was my first time attending and it wasn't quite what I expected it to be. There were sessions on Leadership, Community Development, and Economic Development that were of interest to me, and I attended a few things every day. It was so unlike AWP—which, I have to admit, I enjoyed much more this year.

Unfortunately, I didn't feel like I took much away from many of the sessions. I did attend a really nice discussion of issues surrounding revenue-generating programs in nonprofits, and I also attended the absolute worst leadership session I've ever encountered in my whole entire life. Those were the highs and lows, aside from what I mentioned yesterday.

There were two parts that were of great value to me, though. The first was meeting and listening to the other members of the "Emerging Leaders" group (professionals in the nonprofit arts industry who have only a few years of experience or are new leaders in their organizations). They are an amazing, dynamic, smart, and interesting group of people, all so invested in what they are doing and why they're doing it.

I also got to spend time with some other arts professionals from Arizona, and they were dreamy. Thanks, all!

As someone who organizes a conference, it is so interesting to attend other conferences. I routinely found myself thinking, "Oh, I would not have done it that way at all," and "What a great idea!" depending on the situation. It's helpful to experience--as an attendee--other approaches to conference structure and planning. I got some good ideas from them this year.


Vegas Index in the Style of Harper's

Total money lost in slot machines: $80.00
Percentage of this lost in penny slot machines: 75%
Total money won in slot machines: $40.00

Chance that a meal was eaten at a fast-food establishment: 1 in 2
Chance that a meal was a buffet: 1 in 10
Chance that a meal was simply just overzealously enjoying a catered hors d'oeuvres reception: 1 in 3

Number of men who showed me their wang: 2
Minimum number of times this occurred in a steam room: 1
Minimum number of times this occurred in a men's restroom: 1
Chance that the wang-shower was a conference attendee: 1 in 2
Number of wang-showings that were solicited: 0
Percentage change in the number of unsolicited wang-showings that have occurred in my life: +200%

Number of times the drunk woman next to me on the airplane bumped me: 7
Number of times she dropped the f-bomb: 12
Number of times the f-bomb was in reference to the airplane or the flight: 10
Minutes of constant complaining she engaged in as we taxied for take-off: 25
Number of anti-gay slurs she made before take-off: 1
Seconds it took her after the anti-gay statement to turn to me and say, "I don't know if you're gay or whatever, but no offense.": 2
Number of times her significantly older husband encouraged her to "take a chill pill": 2
Number of chill pills she actually took: 0



I'm in Vegas this weekend for the first time.

Be gentle.