It's been a while since I've blogged. I could write about how my thanksgiving went- it was... odd. Instead, I'll write about my job. They actually had me sign a no-blog form stating that said I will be fired for discussing work, employees and products online. One manager has hated me from my first day. RHONDA. One of these mornings I am going to show up half in-the-bag or jacked-up on blow and I am going to kick her fucking ass. Well, probably not. But I do really want to snap her scrawny ass like a twig. She thinks I want her job. Silly bitch, I want her boss' job. I had 2 department heads fighting over me today, that was neat. I've switched departments and now work in apparel. I tore the whole back room apart. One thing I have is mad organizational skills. I was warned not to continue working so hard by a few employees since then I'll be expected to maintain that same work ethic constantly. I've taken that suggestion to heart. After all, I just want money. I don't really want to work. And I don't feel like blogging right now, either.


The word of the day is: Money.
That’s right. Loot, green, moolah, the benjamins, whatever you call it, I wants it.
In an ideal world, money wouldn’t be of any importance. There’d be a lovely utopian communal-type way of life where we all got naked, held hands, sang songs and dropped hallucinogenics on a very regular basis. BUT, as much as I’d love that sort of thing, I realize that it takes money to get my converse. It takes money to buy my drugs. Well, usually. I can only mooch off the fam for so long. I mean, I want to have some sort of inheritance or else how will I buy that love shack in Thailand where I plan to live out my elder years with an IV drip and several lithe, young locals to fulfill all my sexual needs? Hmm? Oh yeah, employment.
I’m starting a new job tomorrow. Soon I will rule the world. Funny thing, I am wanting to go to a premier party in Detroit this weekend and if the new job won’t let me take the night off, I will soon be unemployed again.
I’m a little too impulsive, I suppose. Maybe? Fuck it. My priorities are right where I like them.
I had a little binging to do and when I went to sleep at noon on Saturday, I popped in the movie Empire Records. As with several substances, I came in and out of consciousness frequently and since my dvd player is on repeat, I ended up with Coyote Shivers’ Sugar High in my head all of last night and today. That and Money by whoever the hell made that one. I’m adding a pic of Coyote Shivers onto this post because whatever he may be in life, I do think the man knows how to party. I respect that. Also, I love his voice.
Alright, I need to recuperate from this weekend. I’m done.
Oh, one last thing:
I sent a fossil of a 350 myo cephalopod called an orthoceras to this guy once. I had one sent to me this weekend. Now how many fucking people would find something like that to be a cool gift? Apparently there are 2 of us.
Drugs or fossils. Send either.


I stood in line behind a fat man last weekend, JUST in case someone decided to bust caps and whatnots into the crowd. He’s a big target and would, at the least, slow the bullets down. I made it backstage and met the bands- something that’d have gotten me wet like 10 years ago. Unfortunately, I missed meeting Marky Ramone by like 10 minutes. I drank many beers, made out with this beautiful 20yo chicky and drug her into her first pit. I kicked ass in that pit. It may be a testament to my age, but that was the first pit that I had zero fear in. This one bitch shoved me and I sent her flying halfway across the pit. She turned around and flipped me off, starting her bitching, and I screamed at her, “I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU!” and she believed it. Her eyes were huge and she lost the little balls she’d had and she backed off. That was… unnerving. I went from fun to crazy in seconds. I’ll blame the music.

The bruises reveal just how much I enjoyed Fiend Fest ‘06.
I hated Orange.
I loved Osaka Popstar. They were my favorite performance of the night. They even do a cover of the Sailor Moon song. Oh, and a punked-out version of Man of Constant Sorrow.
The Adicts have a huge following. I met a couple at the pit’s outskirts who came from Columbus, Ohio. There was another guy from Alberta, Canada. My most memorable moment of their performance was when this guy with liberty spikes AT LEAST a foot tall walked by, I asked him, “How did you get them to stay? Egg whites?” He looked at me and said, “Why the hell would someone put egg in their hair?” and I realized that this new generation of “punk” sucks. Their clothes are all bought with the holes already in them. From Hot Topic. At least they came to the right place for a schoolin.’

I was totally surprised at the talent of Juicehead. The drummer is really cool but the lead guitar/vocals/songwriter has what I see as an exceptionally huge career ahead of him. Huge. The stupid bassist needs to be dropped from the band. Immediately. I found him to be an arrogant fuckhead that seems to lack any rhythm, whatsoever.

Last up that night was The Misfits. And they are…. still the Misfits (sans Danzig, of course). Old school punk that still makes old-school punk. I fucking loved being able to see them again, even though I feel so old now. Time for more piercings. Do they still sell Manic Panic?

By the end of the night, I was this sweaty, glitter-coated drunkard. It was great. The only bad part was when it came time to go. I’d had SOOO much to drink that I probably should have thrown up in the bathroom before hitting the street, but I didn’t. Instead, I told a friend that they had 10 minutes to get me out of Detroit or I’d either be throwing up in her car or on the side of the expressway…. And then I’d be passing out. Well, she didn’t make it. That’s right, it’s time for Sarah’s immature tales of drunkhood. I rolled down her window and threw up while she was doing 90 down 94. What a sight that guy behind us must have had. Luckily, I’d only eaten a small side-salad Friday and there was really nothing but alcohol for me to throw up. Then I passed out, waking up at 6 am the next morning, bruised and nauseous, with a hangover that I’m not really sure I’ve gotten over yet. After my brain recovers, I have to write about how the Democrats won America back from the terrorists. By terrorists, I mean the Bush Administration and all his wretched cronies.


Alright, I couldn't get this linked to my Fiend Fest post so I'll try to post it here.
If We Don’t Risk Our Lives For Drugs & Music, the Terrorists Have Won

There are times when it feels like I am regressing more and more into my youth. Sure, few people look forward to getting old, rusty and then dying painfully, but still, I think I have a more difficult time facing the loss of youth than most. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ancient, and with plastic surgery in the forecast, I will never be old. Don’t write me bitching about the breakdown of cells, the inability to maintain elasticity, blah, blah, blah…. As long as I feel and look young, that’s enough for me. Plus, I won’t make it to ancient. I fully intend to float away at some point, albeit much later in life. Anyone that’s had a grandparent that’s been old and sickly should understand my reasons for that. As I told my father just last week, I really hope to be a beautiful corpse. As I’m still a kid in my head, I will continue with my childhood pursuits: Sex, Drugs, and Music; I’d have said rock & roll but I’m not THAT old. Rock died with the onset of the Seattle-sound, grunge music in the 90’s. Sure, there are still some suckass cock-rock 80’s-type stragglers out there, but they’ll realize their sound will never be resurrected in the mainstream (or hell, any other world for that matter), eventually.
Anyway, back to the main point of this post: I am going to the ’06 Fiend Fest. Wahoo! I’m taking a risk since it’s in a really shitty part of Detroit. I mean REALLY shitty. Last time I was there, 5 minutes after I left, there was a drive-by and a few people were shot on the sidewalk. Though I certainly don’t want to take a bullet, the way I see it, there are few things worth suffering for more than art. Any yes, fuckers, it IS art. Even if you aren’t into old-school punk, anyone that isn’t a small-minded assclown should be able to admit that. I mean, you know the guy in NY that flung shit all over an image of the “virgin” Mary? Well, that was art even though the religious zealots freaked right the fuck out. So if you write me, let’s not have it turn into a punk vs. classical argument or some such shit. It’s all opinion, anyway. But if you wish to email me, feel free. Keep in mind that while all 3 are debatable, I really enjoy anyone telling me how beautiful, smart and saucy I am. For that matter, if you want to tell me that I am a vapid (or crazy) cunt, I’ll enjoy that too. I seem to have gotten several more readers lately and if I continue getting input, I’ll add a comments thing. Also, for anyone that gets especially creative with their email to me, I’ll post it here. Good or bad.
Now, back to the Fiend Fest. I am really geeked about going. These events are doubly fun as I will undoubtedly run into old friends and ex boyfriends. It’s always nice finding out who blew their brains out, ODed, ended up in the nuthouse, or going to prison. It’s a twisted family reunion of sorts. One with lots of drugs, tattoos, piercings, leather and angst. A friend contacted me wanting me to bring his girl with me so he can go out and shoot heroin all night without her knowing. Apparently his chick was cool until breeding, but then she decided that the only way to live is straight-edge (drug-free) and anyone that disagrees is shit. But she’ll eat at McDonalds. I mean, you’re dead if you you’re some bubble gummer that can’t handle your drugs and you’re dead if your heart bursts from clogged arteries from shoving nastiness down your throat. I was thinking of telling him I’ll bring her IF he gives me a bunch of oxies. I can’t get drunk anyway because the last thing I want to be is fucked-up in Detroit, driving around, getting lost in a neighborhood that is full of a bunch of gangbangers. If you make a wrong turn there, you might get shot for it. What a fucking cesspool. If it wasn’t for the occasional hockey game and Harpos, I’d rarely, if ever, go there.
Well, the percodans have kicked -in and I think I’ve rambled enough.