Seraphia: 50% Saint, 50% Stripper

There is a charming little oceanside town on the California Coast just south of San Francisco. It's filled with over-priced boutiques, surfers, artists, $15 artichoke appetizers and the world's best seafood restaurant (and I'm not just saying that because my Aunt works there).

It's also a great place to build an illegal fire on the beach and smoke a little crack until you vomit and then smoke a little more.

And for whatever reason, it's a place where the local teens are given nicknames that stick with them for life. It's kind of like a Catholic getting their very own confirmation name. I was never confirmed (and not just because I told my mom the holy water burned) so I never got to give myself a new name. Which is too bad because I already had a named picked out - Seraphia. Seraphia, because she was a virgin and a martyr and if you're going to pick a new name you might as well go big. That, and because I thought it would be a great name if I ever had to work the pole for a living or serve sloppy mouth hugs in the VIP room.

[Gentlemen, please put your hands together for the lovely, the virginal, the long-suffering ...Seeeraphiiiiaaaaa .....]

And I didn't grow up on the coast so my nicknames in High School were totally crappy. People still call me G, which is short for Gina. I just totally blew your mind with the originality of that one, huh? Maybe that's why I've dubbed myself Miss Spoken. Or maybe I just love the idea of an alternate personality, one that refuses to integrate. One that doesn't play well with others and sometimes stubs her vagina (not really, but I hadn't used the word vagina yet in this post and I always like to use it at least once. You're welcome.)

My late husband grew up in this town. Actually, he would clarify that he grew up in Trailer Town which is exactly what it sounds like; a community of trailer homes. Double wide, bitches. Anyhell, he went by the name Seltar and I think I dated him for several weeks before learning his real name was Richard. My sister, Miss Led, had a similar situation. She once dated a guy but could never remember his name so she just called him homey.

"I love you, Miss Led."

"Ditto, Homey."

Actually, I guess her situation wasn't the same at all. Anyway, my point is that these people have the best nicknames I have ever heard of. Names like Turkey Dinner ('cause he was as big as a turkey dinner), Puppy, Bucket, Goose Mama, Frogger and his little brother Tadpole (fucking brilliant), Clayture, ZiirroSixx (I'm sure I spelled that wrong), Jungle Brother (no, he wasn't/isn't black) and the list goes on and on.

So what'd they call you back in the day? Come with it, Innernetterz. I promise I won't tell a soul.

Fuck You, Stevie. Superstition IS the Way.

Here it is ... the required post dedicated to saying goodbye to 2009 and hello to 2010.

Another year gone and this one felt like a fucking landslide. Legal became legal and managed to not get arrested. The Boy graduated kindergarten and turned six. Boss Lady turned five and enrolled in college (not really, but soon maybe...no pressure to excel, sweetheart). We survived Disneyland, Santa Barbara and bloody noses. I turned 37 and didn't care. We wrote messages on balloons to Seltar on the anniversary of his passing and sent them skyward.

I laughed, I cried, I ranted, I raved, I drank Chardonnay.

So to you 2009, I wrap you in pretty paper and lovely ribbons and I bid you farewell. I'll remember you in journal entries, heartfelt letters to Sel, semi-funny blog posts, recipes from Sunday night dinners and photos yet to be organized, many to be printed (maybe in 2010 but more likely in 2011).

And though I may not be the most religious person (religious art excluded), I am very much a superstitious person. You will never find my ass under a ladder, I'm constantly throwing salt over my shoulder and if you open an umbrella inside my house I'll have no choice but to remove your spleen with my teeth. I'm not kidding. Next time I see you you'd better have a rabbit's foot, a four-leaf clover and a fucking pot of gold for me.

I believe in superstitions more than I believe in resolutions (I never claimed to be rational nor sane). So instead of making a pact with the Devil myself to lose ten pounds or write the Great American Novel, I will wear polka dots for prosperity, bright yellow panties for wealth and eat twelve grapes before the final stroke of midnight. I'll eat lentils on New Years Day and if I can find it I'll also throw in a stuffed pig's trotter. I'll eat my noodles unbroken and won't sweep until January 2.

According to Stevie, when you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer. Superstition ain't the way. Whatever. I'll take my chance and let you know this time next year just how prosperous fluorescent yellow panties can be.

Happy New Year from she who is Miss Spoken!

Grease Yourself Up and Get Ready to Wrestle!

Last week I ranted a bit about MTV's Teen Cribs. This week I'll be raving about the Yin to it's Yang, VH1's Great Debate. Because nothing makes this Dame smile like a good verbal dogfight based on things supremely trivial. Bring it, chumps!

In this super short series of five shows, VH1 seeks to answer the greatest pop culture questions e-v-e-r. And I say "super short" because with only five shows, I'll have to catch them all when they re-air which of course VH1 will do on a perpetual loop 'cause the Rock of Love skanks have finally wobbled their drunk asses off the tour bus and into Charm School.

Anyway, as I was raving .....

The Great Debate is kind of like their show, I Love the 80s, but not. In the course of a handful of one hour shows that grow in intensity, familiar personalities, comedians and overall idiots (think Brooke Hogan) will tackle micro-world queries such as:

Who had the best damaged penis scene?  Something About Mary vs Pork's

Who was the jerkiest High School Principal?  Ed Rooney vs Richard Vernon

Which was the most bad-ass Tarantino flick?  Pulp Fiction vs Reservoir Dogs

Which is the most important video game ever?  Pac-Man vs Donkey Kong

Neither the pop-culture junkies, the pot heads or even the adults still living in their parent's basement has an advantage here.  Watch it once and you'll see that you really do have an opinion on who the hotter Travolta is: Tony Manero vs Danny Zuko  (duh,  Zuko).

My suggestion is to grab your popcorn (which can be thrown at the TV with no damage unless you also throw the bowl), grab your box o'wine 'cause you'll need it to dull the pain when irrational decisions are made (like who was the hottest castaway on Gilligan's Island) and let's...get...ready...to...ruummmbble!  

I Heart Porn

Me and porn are old friends. We go way back. Way back to when I was seven years old and found a hand drawn comic buried in the sand dunes of a San Francisco beach. Turned out to be porn; gay porn. God, I wish I still had that book! I'd take it to the Antiques Roadshow for televised appraisal. My beloved vintage gay porn nestled between antique farm tools and art deco vases. Heavy sigh.

My Highway of Porn led to cutting class in high school to watch Marilyn Chambers get pleasured by nuns and three trapeze artists in Behind the Green Door. Brazen teenagers, watching the classics, drinking Brass Monkey while the guys shifted uncomfortably on the couch, pillows over their laps. Good times.

But then there was that unexpected detour when I stumbled upon something that can only be described as Disney Porn. The Little Mermaid with that mop of a sheep dog; Cinderella and her hatchet-faced step-sisters; Beauty and the Beast. It got me thinking of what that loud-mouthed, bossy little bitch Dora would look like in full Dominatrix gear. Her and her sex slave monkey, Boots. Those were dark times, my friends. Dark times.

There were other pornographic pit stops, too. Like the time when I became fascinated with porn magazines. One magazine came with a poster of four women having a picnic and buttering each other's biscuits, so to speak. I promptly hung this in my hallway and glued googly eyes on all of the girls. I thought it was hysterical. My Grandpa (who stopped by unexpectedly) did not. Then there was the time I considered selling my panties on Craig's List under the name Kitty Litter. Or the time I wanted to dust off my thigh high boots and latex catsuit, march my way over to the local Internet Porn Distributor and demand a job. Maybe something in Human Resources ("Give me your filthy timecard, Pig Boy!"). These dreams of adult-industry fame and fortune lay dormant... unfulfilled.

And now I find myself obsessed with the Sundance Channel's Green Porno. It stars the gorgeous Isabella Rossellini.  Who has gone from this:

To this:

Green Porno is a series of short films dedicated to the mating habits and reproductive lives of insects and marine life -- spiders, snails, whales and then some. In the film, Why Vagina, Madame Rossellini casually walks around a virtual forest of erect paper penises, explaining how our vaginas are species-specific so that us ladies won't accidentally get screwed by a bear. Clearly she hasn't come across German porn or spent any time trolling the Internet's vast collection of woman vs. farm animal. Nonetheless, I will happily give up three minutes of my day to watch her dressed as a hermaphroditic earthworm or simulate sex with a snail. Foam, fabric and wild kingdom orgasms. My new fetish.