I’m just being all kinds of fake-braggy lately

Despite my newfound interest in a certain Saintly presence (8-0, crazy talk!), we’ve pretty firmly established that I’m not a hugely invested sports fan.  Even when I lived in Lexington, I still cheered for Louisville sometimes just to be petulant.

Still, I took an interest in the Kentucky Sports Radio blogger contest this year–first when Applegate posted about his Maysville buddy entering, and later, when I realized I had my own hometown friend in the fray.  Er, Fray.

What I didn’t know until yesterday is that my fellow actually won.  He didn’t tell me–it was Hamby (although possibly there is a ginger informant network that we just aren’t aware of:)

Ladies and gentlemen, the newest KSR blogger, Mister Will Lentz.

So maybe we were on the Future Problem Solving team together in elementary school.  So maybe his mom thinks I’m cool.  So maybe we danced really awkwardly to a slow Usher song at a middle school dance this one time.  So maybe I’ve pet that dog he’s holding.  So maybe I taught him everything he knows about winning.  I don’t know.

Being the stalwart professional that I am, I tracked down Mr. Lentz and got a statement for him–that is, I saw him on Facebook chat.  Here (somewhat paraphrased, as Facebook ate the conversation) is what he said, for the .2 seconds before work that I talked to him:

“Well, now the work begins…the winner’s honeymoon is over, I guess.  But the last KSR winner was from Paducah as well; clearly Western Kentucky is a training ground for blogging excellence.”

How true, sir.  Excuse me, I gotta get dat dirt off my shoulder.

What is this I don’t even

I take an innocent stroll around the Transy sectors of Facebook, and what do I see?

It’s been three years.

Too soon, Sigs and company, too soon.

I mean, we are talking about a straight-up ripoff: the non-canonical costume interpretations, the random inclusion of a blonde Batgirl, a hastily-thrown-together Scarecrow…although what’s with the dual Poison Ivys and whatever Nick is supposed to be I’m not sure.

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Darth Vader takes it off: actually, probably safe for work.

As you may recall, the unofficial #4 on my “Things to Do in New Orleans” list involved me checking out the burlesque scene here. I have, and it is glorious, sexy, and frequently hilarious good times.  Case in point: I went to a Fleur de Tease‘s Halloween-and-movie-themed revue a few weeks ago.  They’re one of the city’s five or so troupes–they combine old-school burlesque with modern humor, aerialists, magic acts…that sort of thing.

This was my absolute favorite act.  Make sure you watch to the end.

For all your Collar-poppin’ Creole needs:

Cool story, breaux.

Not the Bond Villain

I love Halloween so much.

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My ladyfied Baron Samedi costume is gonna be rad as hell.  He’s one of the most iconic voodoo spirits, and presides over death, the ancestors, spicy food, protecting kids, and dirty jokes (look it up, yo).  I just have to figure out a way to keep from looking like Zatanna-goes-to-the-beach.

Not sure when I’m specifically dressing up, as I’m (fittingly?) working this event Halloween weekend (and possibly bringing KISS home with me), but it’s going to be glorious.  Although I could use it as a holdover costume until Mardi Gras…unless certain people come to visit me.  In which case I will be working on replicating the right half of this:

The Ballad of Cajun Steve, Pt. 1

It was 10:00 am when we first caught a glimpse of him.  Nervously sauntering up and down the train in yellow snakeskin shoes, a polo shirt–once white, now greying from too many washes–tucked into pre-faded blue jeans.  His collar should have been popped.

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The Greatest Taboo

This one goes out to our favorite Far East traveler, if only for his amazing dexterity with tact. And for other reasons.

And, for the record, if this Tim Minchin fellow gets hit by a train anytime soon, he immediately goes on my list.

He’ll show *you* a Whole New World…

I mean, I always thought I had a pretty good vocal range, but some people will insist upon putting me to shame.

When you can’t find a lady to be your Princess Jasmine, you damn well do it yourself. A lesson for us all.

A Change Gon’ Come

Well, kids, I’m going on an adventure.

This Friday, I’m driving down to New Orleans to try to make this whole self-actualization (read, find a job that makes me happy, pays me money, and is not in Paducah) thing happen.  There are definite job prospects in place–I’ve been a busy girl, and my friends in the city equally so–but I’m fairly certain that I need to be physically there for anything to come to full fruition.

I’m staying with a Transy alum who’s now at Tulane until things are more concrete.  For her part, she seems quite happy at the upcoming prospect of cooking equipment and a working XBox.  Not to mention my inexplicable charm (and my tendency to set like five alarms in the morning and clog the shower drain with curlable, sheddable hair).

But one cannot job-hunt alone.  That’s like going to school and doing your academic work and nothing else.  So here, for your delectation, are my proposed extracurricular activities, those awesome things I’ll finally be able to do, once I have arrived.

Take some proper improv classes. I’d like to expand my theatrical chops beyond the Doc Soulis school of acting (alliteration, self-flagellation, and an obvious political agenda are your keys to success) and my old improv troupe’s school of writing (this skit is only funny if you are over 35**).  I’d say I want to be the next Felicia Day, but really I just want to be the first Hope Kodman.

Root for UK/Louisville. It was never ironic to do so when I lived in Lexington or P-town, but now I can be all rebel about it.  People will see me walking down the street and go, “Oui, mon” — (because they are all Gambit, obviously) — “That girl is cool as hell, but she always cheers for fucking Kentucky teams.  What a rebel.”  As far as the NFL goes, I will split my affections equally between the Steelers (my dad’s team) and the Saints.  I’ve been raised from the beginning to cheer for black and gold.

Find a rad apartment. Preferably equipped with a courtyard garden and haunted by benevolent-yet-mischievous spirits.  Also some random filigree strewn about the basic architecture.

Go to a burlesque workshop. I’ve been drawing pictures of girls in corsets and feathers since I was like, seven.  It’s in my DNA.  First step, get some rhythm, seconds step, buy one of those huge feather fans.

Organize a zombie walk for charity (probably a hunger drive), complete with real-time infection/turning. A city that voluntarily dresses up and marches around during the last third of winter is ripe for this kind of flash-mob event.  Although I have my own personal fears about a quasi-realistic zombie walk, even if it is to and from a bar or something–I’m always paranoid that some gun-toting conspiracy theorist will spot it, mutter that his day has come at last, and open fire.

Find and destroy Cajun Steve. If Chris Hansen hasn’t gotten to him already.

Cover a tree with buttons.

So.  Expect loads of updates on the strange people and events which befall me as I take my first not-so-tentative steps into the city where, as Mark Krause once told me, “You can be whoever you want to be.”  And if I don’t update loads, it’s because I’m busy experiencing those strange people and events.

But probably I will.  A city can win my heart, but the Internet stole it in like ’95 and, like a weak-willed girlfriend, I always end up going back to it.

** That said, they have definitely improved since I was with them.  But I still say me and Brittny’s “Emo Infants” routine was comedic gold compared to their Lippizaner Stallions bit.

A PSA for the Mens

Attention fellas:

If you look like any of these gentlemen:

I probably want to ‘sup you, and other things besides.

BONUS POINTS IF YOU ARE ALIVE.