Dolly Parton Is My Homegirl

My friend Sean just went to Berlin to play jazz and drink beer in 200 year old pubs with handsome blonde women named Uta. Sort of makes your life look like a stack of crap, huh? That’s what I thought, too.

On the other hand, I went to see Dolly Parton at Radio City Music Hall on Thursday night. Smyres took a picture of me in front of the marquee.

It’s also worth noting that there used to be a woman’s ass in this picture. She was crossing the street when Smyres snapped the photo.

“No worries, Fatsuit,” Smyres said. “I’ma photoshop her ass right on outta there.” And she did.

Smyres is teaching me to like country music. I think she’s done too good a job, maybe. I’m pretty sure my next-door neighbor would agree with that, poor thing. It’s like a 24-hour-a-day chain gang and cotton-picking session over here these days. If I don’t blog for awhile, you’ll know it’s cuz I’m playing the washboard.

Dolly P is my new hero, however. She plays about 900 instruments and she’s cute as a button and she works the ginormo boobs like nothing you’ve ever seen before. Also, I love someone who can attack themselves with a bedazzler and look normal. She’s not human, our Dolly. She was given to us by the la-ord-uh, and all we can do is be grateful.

She played “Jolene”, which made several Dolly Lookalike drag queens in the audience weep, and “Me and Bobby McGee”, which made me weep, and “Nine to Five”, which made Smyres punch me repeatedly in the shoulder from sheer joy.

Also, something disturbing happened. A mother and son, definitely foreign, perhaps alien altogether, started making out with each other in the seats in front of us. The boy was about 13 years old and fat and had a bowl-cut and wore a t-shirt that said, I kid you not, “No Fat Chicks.” The mother was small and skinny and looked like a librarian. They started out with their arms around each other in a way that a New Englander like myself might find a little disturbing, and wound up kissing each other loudly on the face whenever the show hit a highlight.

At one point, Smyres leaned over to me and said, “I am going to call the police,” and I have to tell you that I didn’t think it was a bad idea, really.

Later on, I ran into them again at the t-shirt stand while I was buying my unironic Dolly Parton baseball tee, and they were still fondling each other, only this time, I could hear that the mother had an accent, so I decided that maybe it’s OK to fondle your son in Denmark, and I tried to brush it off.

I showed Smyres my shirt and she informed me that it will pay for itself in free drinks. I will let you know how that goes. I killed two drinking companions this weekend, and not for snoring. Part of this is because I generally stick to beer, and I’m good at drinking beer, and part of it is because I never ever want to go home and go to sleep, even when it’s obviously what I should do. Especially then.

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A Brief Note on the Whole Beauty Thing…

…and then I’ll stop being a girl.

I had a boyfriend once who told me, lovingly, “You’re not classically beautiful. But I find you quite attractive!” I broke up with him about two weeks later.

The whole beautiful thing is very hard on us girls, but you know that, so I won’t bore you with yet another litany of our hardships. I’ll just say this: The cure for worrying about this shit is moving to New York. There are so many ridiculously beautiful people of both (perhaps I should say “all”) genders here, that you’re never going to compete. After about three weeks of freaking out about my clothes and my hair and my lack of accessories, I decided to just paint my toenails and let it go.

The end result of this is that I’ve become a lot more confident. Mrs P has always said that I dress like an anime superhero, what with my t-shirts and short skirts and sturdy sneakers and crazy hair and bright colors, and she’s right. So I’m just embracing it. If anyone can tell me where I could get some bullet-proof cuffs or perhaps a Lasso of Truth, I’d be most grateful.

(A note to comicbook nerds: Yes, I know Wonder Woman isn’t anime. Calm down. This is why you’re finding it so hard to meet girls.)

YAY!

I have fixed the archives, because I am a genius. RSS coming soon, I hope.

In the meantime, big news: in a month or so (an eternity in Internet time, I know, but bear with me) you will be viewing a whole new Smash. I’m hiring a company to redesign the site so that it’s extra shiny and pretty and nice. So here’s what I need from you: taglines. This is the little snippet that appears under my mugshot. I’m out. It’s embarrassing enough to spend half my free time writing about myself. I can’t also be expected to come up with a soundbite, you know? So any thoughts are much appreciated.

First prize: My ever-lasting devotion.

Washland: Clean Clothes and the Stories Are Free!

Feeling low? Might I recommend hieing yourself over to your nearest laundromat? You can clean your clothes, and, as a bonus, remind yourself that you are very, very fortunate and should never complain again.

My laundromat is staffed by two middle-aged latina women who rarely speak, but often roll their eyes as I stuff fourteen towels and three pairs of jeans into a single load. I feel guilty about these women. I am sure that my whiteness and relative prosperity has somehow caused their lot in life, although I’m not certain how. So I usually just smile and mutter hello and then continue destroying the equipment.

Tonight, I was sitting in my favorite chair by the door, reading Blink, because I am the last person on the planet who has yet to do so, when a young latino man came in and started talking to one of the women.

“What the fuck you got on your leg?” she asked him.

He proudly displayed his tattoo, which, from what I could see over my glasses, appeared to be a nude woman surrounded by swirls of her long flowing hair. There was also another figure, but I couldn’t make out what it was doing.

“It’s a tattoo,” he said.

“What is she doing?” the woman demanded.

“She eating her pussy out.”

I looked again. The other figure, was, in fact, another woman. Engaged in the act of, er, well.

“You sick fuck!” the woman screamed and swatted him. “Why you put that on your leg? WHY YOU WANNA PUT THAT ANYWHERE ON YOUR BODY?”

He tapped his chest. “That’s me! That’s how I roll.” (As an aside, this is my new favorite expression.)

She shook her head. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Gonna get a six pack.”

It was just about then that I started to get a sinking feeling.

“Well, be careful. I won’t bail you out this time!”

The young man left, and the woman turned to her friend. “He’s my youngest,” she said proudly. She smiled. “My baby!”

A note to Ma Smash: It could be worse. I’ve only got the one tattoo, and there are no ladyparts anywhere in it!