Because Sometimes My Email Is As Freaky A Place As My Mind

I'm all frisky this morning just like my five pound Yorkie Poo after she gets groomed. Probably because my hair is nearly the lightest shade of platinum I could muster without turning it blue (actually it was blue for a moment), and I'm back to my awesome bangs. I couldn't handle that side swept, get a hair cut already, bullshit I was sporting.

What I'm saying is my ass is wagging around like I just found a ball I totally forgot about under the couch and it's the coolest shit EVER!

Also, I came into some fantastic email love from Miss Yvonne and sometimes you realize you can touch someone's life even if the entire state of Oklahoma separates you from them. Check it:

Depeche Mode came on XM this morning on my way to work and it made me think of you, and then right after that Billie Idol's Dancing with Myself came on. For reals. I was air punching the shit out of my drive today. It was like you were there, except you weren't and I was by myself shoving my fist into the air and curling my lip and then the lawn guys at my office saw me and started laughing and I was all "fuck you, lawn guys! You don't even know how cool I am...I'm Miss Yvonne, assholes!" and then I did a double air punch just to spite them.

And, you know that touches me in a special place I call my heart. It's like feeding little hungry children and shaking hands with lepers. Only the kids are still hungry and there isn't enough hand sanitizer in the world to make me touch those zombie freaks.

It's okay, lepers don't have feelings so don't get all crazy on me.

Inside of the little oasis that is known as my email is also an email exchange I had with the Dirty Pirate Hooker, in which I offer up some fantastic parenting advice she in no way actually asked for:

DPH: Omg, my kid is Hitler this morning. I refuse to sieg heil.

Me: Well you should, or she's probably going to rape you and throw you in the gas chamber and that would be all kinds of wrong.

DPH: I'd take a violent rape and gas chamber over her attitude today.

Me: Holy shit. What the fuck is the matter with you?

DPH: I don't know. I haven't had enough coffee yet.

Me: Well apparently. You're kid is a tool of the devil. Pretend like you don't even notice.

DPH: I wish I could video her rants in the morning and show her why I'm a drunk in 10 years.

Me: Can't you just get her up from bed at like 10:00 at night and show her that you're a drunk now?

Oh you said show her WHY! My bad.

And that is why I'm watching episodes of In Treatment lately. I need to brush up on listening/advice giving skills.

The moral of today's story. If you send me an email, it might just make it to my blog. Actually, more than likely it will. My life is a little on the slow side. And, if we're all not careful, our kids are going to get video of us looking like David Hasselhoff with a cheeseburger.

I'm Pretty Sure Billy Idol Knows Who I Am And Probably Thinks I'm Awesome

Sometimes when you profess your love for air-punching gods you get noticed. My righteousness is now a part of Billy Idol's history.

Billy? I'll be expecting a phone call.

And a signed picture.

Oh and lessons in air-punching.

I know this isn't a real post, but I'm sitting at home with a sick kid, watching the other guy who calls me his muse, Bruce Campbell, waiting for Joaquin Phoenix to call and tell me that he wrote the best hip-hop song that a hairy white-guy who has no business even saying the words hip and hop in the same breath has ever written and it is about me. And probably buying whole foods in bulk and firing his housekeeper because what else would he write about? Except maybe being a train jumping, breakdancing hobo. He's totally got that going for him.

My musiness knows no bounds.

Also? My kid has wiped his nose on every flat surface of the house this morning. So you know, I have that going for me.

Dancing With Myself AND Complete Abandon

I have absolutely no idea what it means when you find yourself air-punching with abandon, tears flowing from your eyes, dancing with yourself, letting the soulful sounds of Billy Idol flow over your entire being without care during Monday morning rush hour traffic, but that was exactly the situation I found myself in this morning and I liked it.

It was like the father of all that is air-punching crept into the back seat of my car and said, "Do it. Let yourself go!" And I did. I was air-punching and swaying. I was truly dancing with myself and I didn't care who saw me or what they thought. Drive on stuffed shirts, with your blue-tooths and crazy long to-do lists, it's just me and Billy in this car and we are making big things happen!

It felt reckless and dangerous and holy and religious all at the same time. I was in the temple of Billy and all that is Billy.

Last week I found myself in the Cradle of Love. After I was Dancing With Myself this morning, I was cruising the stations, trying to find something that would bring back what I had only just found. I found a moment of solace with Siouxsie Sioux and her Banshees going all Peek-a-boo on me and then it happened. Billy and I were having our White Wedding.

So here's to you Mr. Idol. You are victorious. You are all that is right in this world. You are truly the king of air-punching. Without you, my Monday morning would be just that. Another Monday morning.

Rock on, Billy. Rock on!

Sweat, sweat, sweat, sweat - AAAAAAAHHHHH!


PS Billy - If I ever find out you are locking love slaves in your house ala Rick James and Boy George, I will be highly freaking disappointed in you!