Sometimes you want a Spock you can admire

And sometimes you need Spuck:

 

But this one’s for your inner Spocktard:

My Christmas shopping has begun!

 

But that’s not really what we want to see. Give us the real thing:

Happy Superbowl

Vote for Cherry here: http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/G2GHJLL

Voting ends tomorrow for telling a story at Bawdy’s anniversary, and I probably won’t win–but vote for me, I really want to tell a story there. Here’s why:

I have told stories at Bawdy every year of its existence, starting with one of the very first ones. I performed the first 15 minutes of my show at a Bawdy so long ago it was still hosted at the Cataclysmic Megashear ranch. And we’ve both come a long way–I had a successful show with good reviews and everything at the March, Bawdy now pulls in big audiences at real venues and Dixie gets invited all over the place to pimp it. She deserves it. She has worked her ass off and Bawdy continues to be special, magic. She makes the audiences feel like they are in on one the dirtiest funniest secrets in the Bay Area. And she’s hot!

Full disclosure here, Dix has been my friend a long time. I’ve worked with her on some of her own performances, and she saw my show every step of the way. And I think one of the things that Bawdy and my show have in common, one of the things I love, is the celebration of weirdness and difference. Everyone who takes the stage at Bawdy is an attention whore a pervert a freak or a weirdo (usually off of those)–and proud of it. We are the people who felt harassed and imprisoned by the hegemony of false normality growing up. My favorite color was NEVER pink. I didn’t have a Barbie lunch box–I had Sigmund the Seamonster. Because he was a freak, and I identified with freaks, even at age 7. (Later I got to meet Billy Barty who played Sigmund, and he bought me dinner. Suck on that, Dixie!) (Dixie has a fetish for dwarves). but I had to go to school and pretend that I wasn’t weird, year after year after year–hiding. Not hiding very well, because I sucked at it–but desperately trying to pass so that people would leave me alone and I could go play Barbie s and m orgy by myself in peace. And read my Dad’s porn and french kiss the dog.

Some people asked me why I called the show that even though that event is not really central to the plot of my show, but it actually is. Because the show is about coming out as a freak and a pervert and a weirdo, and to do that you have to face what you are, face what you have been, and say it loud and proud. I was ASHAMED of that dirty little memory for the longest time, and then I realized, “HEY! Normality is a lie! Everyone has weird dirty peccadilloes they don’t confess to–but for me FUCK SHAME! FUCK IT!

Because we’re human, okay? To be human is to be weird. And Bawdy does the same thing–it says…Shame? Never heard of it. The only time you should have a stick up your ass is when you actually have a stick up your ass. Us? We’re weird and we love it, and you don’t have to hide around us. Tell us that story about the time you tried to talk dirty and it backfired! Tell us about the time your one night stand broke your penis! Tell us and know that we might laugh at you but we don’t judge you.
So that’s why you should come out at see Bawdy’s five year anniversary show
the Verdi Club
Feb 18th
15$ ahead of time, 20 at the door
go here for tickets:http://bawdystorytelling.com/events/021812-5-hardcore-years-of-bawdy/

And if we’re both real lucky, I might be telling a story too.
Till then, may all the sticks in your ass be literal…

Or maybe you like your rock a little more classic. OK.

Or maybe you just want to rave in a cuddle puddle with Spock all night long. Yeah, we got that covered too;

OK, everyone. Keep on Spocking in the Free World. See you next week for the long anticipated S and M Spock.

Because we took acid, we know our heads are echoing caverns and
deserts where not much lives, and our thoughts are hard-scrapple survivors of drought, but
so what?
Although I know like Socrates and Peter Tork
that I know nothing, knowing
that, I got arrogant, so let me remember all the things I don’t know.
Which are immense.

I don’t know how a car works, or quantum physics,
or even really electricity.

I do not understand precisely what the liver does or how it
does it, I don’t know
what happened at the end of Friends or
who the prime minister of Algeria is
or what kind of government they have there.
If the map were unlabelled,
there are many countries I could not point to
with confidence, among them
Mali.
I do not know how to make toothpaste.

It is humbling to realize that I could sit here and list the things I don’t know

all day and all night and I would never run out

of things that I don’t know, not ever,
still there is another shadow list of things I don’t
even know I don’t know,
things that could be known but are not
known to be known by me.

I read recently that some numbers are not computable, that they thought at one point that all numbers were computable,
but now they “know” that the vast majority are not.
I haven’t got the foggiest idea what that means.

But it seems to mean that stretching underneath everything we can see is a vast world we can’t, in much the same way that a butterfly will never understand France, though it
might live there its whole short life. Physicists,
I understand, think now that maybe
we are all holograms, that we are vibrating lines that got excited and began to project themselves into a new dimension,
which just goes to show that scientists today get all the good drugs,

but leaves me with
a whistling ignorance so vast it has no name.

LISTEN UP PEOPLE!
Every day I drive over to my boyfriend’s house, I see this smack in the face of all that is decent: a sign alerting me that I am passing the home of “Ex’pression College.” Yes, I agree with you, WordPress grammar program, helpfully underlining that to let me know that that cannot POSSIBLY be right. I am OU’TRAGED by this NO’NSENSE.

Apostrophes are not primarily DECORATIVE in function. They are not the sprinkles on the crapcake of your prose!

I am sorry to be harsh to any institute of learning, but this has been PI’SSING me off for years. Also, they have the ugliest logo I have every seen.

But much worse than the rampant, flagrant whoring of apostrophes is their omission. Grammar programs don’t check for them that well (not unless you really get nuts, like the folks over at EX’PRESSION). So people think, well, they just don’t matter anymore. We don’t need them, right? Why do we constantly need to signal people that we’ve taken something out? Why not just take it? BECAUSE THAT’S STEALING! It’s stealing meaning and complexity from our beautiful language. Sure we could also eat with our hands and knock people over the head to let them know we want to have sex with them, but we’re better than that. AREN’T we?
Actually, I do both of those things. Never mind.
Anyway: apostrophes. Treat them with respect. They’re not whores to be jammed willy nilly into any word you want. They are not delicate accent flowers, sprinkles, or lace. They are workers who want to roll up their sleeves and mark the history of language. They show us how we have changed, where we lightened the load, so we can carry that history with us. And that makes us human. We’re not animals–use apostrophes!

Well, first: there’s a track by a Swedish synth-pop nightmare S.P.O.C.K. (Swedish People Often Carry Knives) (not really) called “Queen of Space.” Want to hear it?
Go here:

http://www.rdio.com/#/artist/S.P.O.C.K/album/2001_A_S.P.O.C.K_Odyssey/track/Queen_Of_Space/

Is it any good?

But no, I know what you really want to see:

Vegas is horrible and amazing and spectacular and weird as hell. It is the weirdest place I have ever been–way weirder than Burning Man. How was it? what did I do and see? how had it changed since I was there 20 years ago? (Wow).
We stayed a night at the Palms, except not REALLY at the Palms. e were in some tarted up annex that they try to make sound sexy–you have to get to it from the main casino by “Sky Tube.” Doesn’t that sound AWESOME? Doesn’t it sound like you are going to be zipped through the sky a la Futurama? Well, the “sky” part means “second floor” and the “tube” part means “excruciatingly slow moving sidewalk, like you have in airports.”
The Palms is chock full of night clubs with cool lighting and terrible music and girls in tight dresses, like so:

Unfortunately these girls have friends with less conventionally attractive bodies whom they cruelly have convinced to wear the same kinds of dresses, so we also saw lots of this:

Then around one in the morning you can really start telling the pros from the amateurs when you realize that all the boob job girls are still wearing these shoes while the college girls on a lark have given up and are clutching their shoes in their hands:

But what about the gambling? You might ask. Ok, the gambling.
Did you know that slot machines don’t take quarters anymore? No, the days of truckers’ wives with buckets of coins is over. Now all the machines print out tickets that you can either cash or take to the next machine. We did win at the batman slots–we trippled our money twice. They have Batman and Hangover themed machines that have extra cartoons and games to keep you interested and I think they pay more because they are trying to get young people hooked. But the Batman slots were awesome:

[caption id="attachment_497" align="aligncenter" width="260" caption="that's better"][/caption]

Our second night we went over to the Luxor. Have you seen the Luxor? It looks like a giant black outer space titty that shoots lasers into space:

The double bill at the Luxor was Carrot Top and “Menopause, the musical.” I am NOT shitting you. Which made me think for a minute that I had accidentally died and gone to a strangely Egyptian-themed hell.

But no one actually forces you to go to the show, so I eventually decided I was still alive.

Our room came with a hot tub and truly terrible porn. Porn that convinced you that maybe aquarium fish were a lovely hobby and that you should chop your genitals off. And the color was off and we couldn’t fix it, so everyone was the color of an Oompa Loompa.
We watched the sun come up from the hot tub. Then at ten in the morning we were awoken by a guy climbing on our window. BECAUSE HOW DO YOU CLEAN A PYRAMID??? Traditional window cleaning options are clearly out, so terrifying your guests with alpine derring do is the only logical answer.
Anyway, then we were off to another terrifying day of oxygen bars, shopping, Hangover themed EVERYTHING, and scary ads warning us not to tell anyone what we’ve seen. Vegas HATES twitter. We watched the sun go down on this roller coaster:

Then limped to the airport with our sixty dollars in winnings, and a memory that will last just long enough to make sure we don’t go to Vegas again anytime soon.
Oh yeah. And we saw this guy. And he was wearing a question mark suit and everything. We didn’t know who he was and I wish I still didn’t:

THE END

PONY SPOCK

PLUSHIE SPOCK

by lanabosak in deviant art

BUT PRETTY PRETTY PRINCESS SPOCK is the fairest of them all

by PYdiyudie from deviant art
The one that started it all. DERANGED!