Well, we’ve got the new Blogger Blog up and running. All new posts will start coming up there. We’ll be keeping this one up, though, so if you have a comment on any of the posts on this one, we’ll still see them and respond.

We hope you’ll all join us.

http://readswc.blogger.com

Hey, everyone. We want to say thanks for reading and commenting on the blog this week. You helped us break Shoulda Woulda Coulda’s personal records and we had a total blast getting everyone’s feedback. It was really great having intelligent discourse and … ugh, sorry. My last brain cell just died. I need to lay down. Or is it lie down? Take it away, Mitchell.

I’m fairly distracted right now. The anticipation for KU and Memphis tomorrow is almost unbearable. After watching Kansas smoke North Carolina last night, I’m feeling pretty good. It seems like every win Kansas has had this tournament has been touted by the announcers as somewhat of a fluke. They talk about how they played good but never know if Kansas will be able to do the same against the next team. They always do, though. Tyler Hansbrough wasn’t even an issue in that game. All he did was let people knock him over to get try and rack up the free throws. That’s bullshit.

So, the stakes are high, eh? I seem to remember you saying something about crying in the fetal position if KU lost last week. What’s going to happen if the unspeakable occurs? Speaking of the unspeakable, do you think I could find a keyboard that doesn’t make so much noise? The infernal racket is going to be the end of me. I think I’m dying … But before I perish, we should let our readers know that we’ve decided to drag up and move our blog to a new and improved home. Care to do the explaining, Mitchell? I need to find something to stuff in my ears. I can’t stand the clacking anymore.

Well, Google whore that I am, I suggested moving to Blogger. It truthfully just offers better options and now’s as good a time as any to get everything moved over there. The new url is http://readswc.blogspot.com. Go take a look around, but please understand that we’re still working on it. New stuff should be showing up there in the next couple of days. Be sure to bookmark it and add it to your reader.

For sure. But don’t worry, we’re still keeping this blog alive so we can all go back and point and laugh and continue to enjoy the kick ass conversations we’ve had with you guys.

That’s pretty much it for this week. We hope you guys will all move over to the new blog location with us.

We promise to make it worth your while. Thanks, everyone!

I figured I’d write something a little less serious today for grins and giggles. Here is a Saturday morning for me.

I think the laundromat saturation in this town of Hutchinson is ample.
We’ve got more than enough decent facilities to choose from. Despite
that, I always go to the most run down one in town.

I’ve been coming to the same mat for something like five years, and I
have no idea what the place is called. When referencing it, I call it
“the one by the liquor store.” I won’t even get into that convenience
right now.

This place apparently peaked in the seventies and has been going down hill
since. Its open 24 hours, which is awesome for people that just don’t
like to deal with other people when they’re doing laundry. I can’t stand
a laundromat full of people. It’s very stressful.

The only staff at this place is an old man that comes in on weekends
and mops and gets quarters. I always nod and say “hi” to this guy, but
he’s usually not having it. I said “Happy Easter,” to him and he replied
“ok.” True story.

I’m confident that when this place closes down for business, it will be
kept as a city landmark. The wall themselves tell many a story.

Fair enough.

With the quality literature and the sickly yellow haze, the ambiance is
second to none here. I also get the company of my good friend the
Grobe.

I don’t know what that is, but it makes me feel safe and afraid at the
same time.

Update: Ratherto has informed me in the comments that the above contraption is a mangler.

It may be stupid of me to come to the crummiest joint in town to do my
laundry. But this place is a staple of my morning. After I watch Ninja
Turtles, I throw my dirties in the basket and head down to the “one by
the liquor store … No, not that one. The one across from Papa Johns”
and do what I have to.

So, I’m at Mickey’s on Oak Park Ave, on my Sidekick, reading Mitchell’s post, you know, his take on the conversation that we all started in on yesterday, and whose booming voice do I hear next to me?

River. That’s right, our homey from the blogosphere. We go back to my bartending days– six years ago, but we’d lost touch forever, and the next thing you know, dude’s got his own kick ass blog going, we’re shooting the shit on each other’s pages daily.

Yesterday’s whole back and forth became such a great conversation, and then to be standing in front of Mickey’s counter waiting for my order, reading Mitchell’s response to River’s response to my rant, and look over to see River ordering food–it was just weird.

How ’bout it, Riv? You were just like–Wha–? Who? How?

Heh heh.

Funny stuff.

Nora’s last post was amazing. The River’s rebuttal was also great. If you haven’t read either of them, I suggest reading them before mine.

Let me rap atcha for a second on this subject, if I may.

Yes, there is a breed of much, much more aggressive women. The old fashioned standard of a man courting a lady to build her interest in him has been rendered virtually obsolete. A major contributing factor to this is social progression.

We live in an instant gratification world. Fast food, instant information through the internet and things like that have made the majority of the civilization accustomed to getting what they want, when they want it. This, naturally, has carried over into the relationships. Nobody wants to put a bunch of work into getting their rocks off. But rushing into something like that doesn’t make for a meaningful, worthwhile relationship. Consequently, men and women rack up the numbers on their sexual partner list.

It’s like tasting something before you even smell it. You’d know it was shit if you just took a whiff first.

What do the above factors bring about? Well, go to any club or bar and you’ll see – a bunch of men and women on the prowl. Their goal for the evening is almost always to figure out a way to engage in sexual congress by the end of the night. Were that not the case, they would probably be somewhere a little quieter without alcohol as social lubericant. These people spinning around in the sexual centrifuge until they end up out the door with someone to sleep with set the precident. Because society is morally bankrupt when it comes to sex? No. It’s because those are the people that seem to be HAVING THE MOST FUN.

It’s a real bummer for the more selective people. I personally have a very low tolerance for the amount of bullshit I’ll take just to get laid. Because of this, I’m not out there just looking for someone that is willing to come home with me to roll around in the sheets. I want to find someone with whom I can share a mutual interest that might last a while. Lo and behold, I’m single.

Maybe I’m old fashioned. Maybe I’m a sap. I don’t know. But I’m not interested in sexual conquest. I like to bust a nut as much as the next guy, but I’ll be seeing to that myself before I wet my wang in a bitch as shallow as a puddle of my spit. I’ll talk to girls, maybe dance with a few, but I NEVER intend on getting laid the first night I meet someone. It’s just not an interest of mine.

Ultimately, I can handle sexual frustration much more than I can handle the concept of potentially finding myself stuck with a complete bitch because of a one-night deal.

The bottom line for me is this: It was a sad, sad day for me when Western society began using the euphemism “hook up” for a sexual encounter. The only possible reason to do that is to soften the blow of promiscuity. But 27 “hook ups” in a year is still fucking 27 people in a year. Gross. How about a little self respect, ladies and gentlemen?

To dudes, I say: keep the spuzz-slinger holstered unless you see anything developing out of the relationship. Think about how many guys you know that have kids with women they wish they’d never met. It’s nothing a little foresight couldn’t help remedy.

To ladies, I say: Nice guys finish last, but it’s only because they’ll make sure you get yours first. You know what I mean … That’s right.

Warning: this is a mega-rant. You will need a cup of coffee, perhaps a cigarette and a sense of humor.

Disclaimer: I do not hate men.

I’ve been thinking for quite some time that the whole sexual revolution was a scam, a conspiracy. Once upon a time, men chased women. They worked hard to get our attention and keep it. They hustled. Now who’s doing the hustle? Who’s doing the dirty work?

Women.

Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river, boys. Anyone under the age of fifty doesn’t know what it was like back in the day. I hear tell of the legends. Back when guys asked girls out on real dates, picked them up and took them out. They’d go to dinner, movies, or even–gasp!–dancing. It wasn’t out of the question to hope for a good-night smooch, but most of those guys were probably aware that they weren’t going to get much more than than on the first date, and that was okay.

Everyone was sexually frustrated, even though it wasn’t ladylike for a female to admit that she might just want to rip off her gloves and pull up her skirts to say, “Thanks for the steak dinner and the fox-trot, buddy!”

By the time I started “dating” in the early nineties, “dating” was kind of a thing of the past, and from what I can tell, it’s gone steadily downhill since. Instead of expressing interest in a girl by asking for her phone number and asking her out on a proper date, the rundown seems to be meeting in a social situation, possibly exchanging phone numbers and suggesting “hanging out sometime,” which is often followed up by drunken gropings. Now, I’m not saying that doesn’t sound like any fun at all, because a drunken grope can be one hell of a good time.

My point is, ever since it became the norm for women to do all the things men do, like work full time, forge careers in formerly male-dominated fields and making the first moves romantically, it’s just come to mean one thing: it’s easier for men to get laid and women to do the dirty work.

It’s a conspiracy, and I am here to expose it.

Going against the admitedly rigid social and sexual norms leading up to the 1960s included the advent of the birth control pill. Don’t get me wrong–I worshipped at the altar of the Pill for many years, grateful that I had not only regular periods, but regular consequence-free booty. I don’t even want to consider the long-term effects of jamming up my system with more hormones, though. I want to consider the consequences of giving men one less reason to give a shit about what happened after the fact.

Removing the fear of unwanted pregnancy broke the frigid spell in the 60s creating a global warming trend in the pants of daring women all over the Western world, giving them the “power” and “control” of choice. It made screwing around A-OK. Again, I’m not bagging on the A-OK-ness of freedom and choice, and I certainly don’t think the pill is a bad thing. It just opened the door for women to act like men in their sexual dealings.

Unfortunately, millions of years of evolution cannot be undone by a few generations of free and easy sex.

Newsflash, guys: that woman over there probably like sex just as much as you do. However, she may not view the aftermath in the same way you do. She may not want to marry you and have ten thousand babies with you, but if she fucked you, she probably likes you at least a little (unless it was the elusive hate-fuck–but that’s another blog for another day).

But it’s not just the men. I could find myself feeling sorry for men because, with women getting out there and being assertive and in control of their sexuality and social life, we might be sending mixed signals (I’m using the royal we. I’m married now, and my husband and I confound each other in a totally different way. But I was in there in the trenches for a good ten years).

The sexual revolution resulted in a total upheaval of gender roles. It’s on women now to decide how they’re going to transmit interest, make a connection and keep their needs and wants in line with they way they want to present themselves. Sure, there are scads of ladies who play the field like champions, wrack up the numbers like Wilt Chamberlain and love every second of it.

There are just as many women, though, who would rather have a “steady” boyfriend to get to know and love, though, and it’s getting tougher out there all the time as the Willhelmina Chamberlains are creating the illusion that the modern woman of today is just a sex-machine ready to devour all of the men in her path.

Books like “The Rules” or “He’s Just Not That Into You” and millions of other self-help books reflect what I’m ranting about here: we women are confused. We want to have social power and status, but when we meet someone we really like, we want to be wanted for more than just a casual–ugh, I’m going to use the awful phrase–”hook up”. Sure, lots of women like casual sex, too. Until she realizes she likes you. Then she wants formal sex. Confusing? Yes. Complicated? For sure.

No one knows what the rules and mores of sex and dating are anymore.

Let me illustrate my rant with a real-life episode from my friend’s life. She meets a guy at a party. They exchange numbers. They email, text and talk here and there. Instead of asking her out on a formal date, he suggests they “hang out” and go to the gym. That’s fine; he even picked her up. What a gent. After a few weeks of semi-flaky dating, she finally just out and asks him, “Where is this going?”

He hems and haws. He’s a busy guy, you see. And if she’s not cool with the non-dating variety of screwing around that they’re doing, well, maybe it’s just not in the cards.

She agrees wholeheartedly and, without rancor, signs off the conversation with a, “Sure. Well, see you around.”

He recently returned from a two-week vacation, and she dropped him an email to ask how it went. It bounced back to her undeliverable. He blocked her why? Because she wanted to know his intentions with her? Where their “relationship” was going? Does he perceive her as a bunny-boiler because she wasn’t going to make herself available on his terms or fade away like a good girl? Because she wanted to hear it from him?

Wow. What a psycho! Frankly, I’m proud of her for communicating her thoughts with this guy instead of just playing the “cool” card and letting him have his way unfettered and unquestioned. I’ve known her since we were kids and she simply does not do psycho, hysterical or even really pissed off (except one time when she got sick of me being a fucking bitch and threw keys at me–I totally deserved it).

I remember a time when I was single and I probably would have just dealt with being priority number four-hundred and fifty just because I liked a guy and had already slept with him. Better the devil you know, right? Bullshit. Because of the sexual revolution, women are expected to fuck like men and deal with the consequences like men–as in, sex is the end, not a means to creating intimacy.

Men, I don’t hate you. I love you. Men are wonderful and I am not blaming or hating on you at all. It’s the system I rant and rail against. It’s not set up to evolve smoothly with massive biological and social advances in a few generations. And as we women evolve into more aggressive creatures, it seems to be creating a bigger divide emotionally.

Furthermore, men, I don’t think you are emotionally-devoid sex-robots. Not in the least. I just think that men and women should both be more aware of what it is they’re looking for when they embark upon sexual relationships. And be more honest about those expectations.

If I could go back in time, I would have said to one particular guy who seemed to enjoy being my “friend with benefits” (I just puked in my mouth a little) and tell him, “Hey, listen, fuckwad–I want to be your girlfriend, and if you can’t deal with that, I’m going to take my slutty little ass home and cuddle with myself.” I just didn’t know better. Our arrangement was the norm in our social group. I didn’t think critically enough to question that norm. On certain levels, I knew the arrangement wasn’t for me, but I wasn’t brave enough to question it or, better yet, to drag up and have a threesome with Ben and Jerry in the comfort of my own apartment instead.

In conclusion, women, make men work for that pussy.  Sure, you may want the sex just as bad, but if you’re not sure if the aftermath is going to be pretty, it might not be worth it. (Where was this voice of wisdom six years ago?)  Unless, of course, you want to be a fuck-buddy. In that case, do what you want. And men, be honest from the very start if you aren’t in the market for more than casual sex. We know you don’t want to hurt our feelings and make us cry. That’s why you lie your asses off. So, just man up and say, “I’ll fuck you, baby, but you’re not going to be my girlfriend.”

There are a lot of really good guys out there that don’t know what the hell to make of us modern women, all assertive and powerful and in control. Guess what, guys–we’re as confused as you. It might just be that we wear our confusion in a very sexy and intimidating way. Maybe it’s the shy, sweet ones who will save the day and turn the revolution into evolution.

Our friend Paul over at Skull Kull just passed the 2,000 hit mark today. How did he choose to celebrate? Well, I’m sure he’s up to all kinds of trouble, but one thing he did do was to give Shoulda Woulda Coulda special props in his blog.

One of the coolest things about Paul is his collaborative spirit. He spends a lot of time getting artists and writers to work together, and we think that kicks ass. Check out Skull Cull for all kinds of creative and interesting projects.

http://skullcull.wordpress.com/

Congratulations on hitting the 2000+ mark, Paul. Keep up the good work.

The rocking knife sliced uniform carrot moons, ribbed sickles of celery and cubes of Spanish onion. The onions stung and my tears coursed freely. I stopped trying to catch them with my tongue, letting them season the mirepoix instead.

I tipped the cutting board over the pan, shaving the vegetables into the bubbling butter and olive oil. They jumped at first and then settled into a sweat as I reduced the heat.

Making my version of lamb stew is an all-day event, or, that is, it begins early in the day so the wine can breathe and the ingredients can properly marry.

I poured myself a glass in a patch of sun on the counter. The velvet Bordeaux coated my tongue and throat and warmth blossomed in my gut. I swirled the glass, sniffed it and drank again.

After sliding the vegetables from the pot to a plate, the floured lamb cubes went in, searing in the oils lining the bottom. When the bottom became richly crusted and browned, I tipped my glass into the pot and inhaled the vapor. The hiss became a bubble. I scraped the flavor from the surface. The vegetables reentered along with cubed potatoes, a healthy splash of wine and a bouquet garni.

The doorbell rang as I opened a small can of tomato paste. I creeped to the window and peered through the slats of the wooden blinds. I saw a small white Ford with the Nicor logo. I opened the door. A young man stood before me with a clipboard.

“Your meter’s inside, ma’am?”

Shit. The gas meter lay practically hidden from view, sandwiched between the wall and the stacked washer and dryer.

“Sure, this way. Here, why don’t we grab you a chair? It’s hard to read the—“

Lightning struck my right temple. Why did I never before appreciate the comfort of my kitchen floor?

“Turn down … Turn down the heat, please …”

The dark-haired-boy-in-duplicate stepped over me and twisted the dial on the range. The stew smelled good already. I just hoped it wouldn’t burn.

My mother is so much more than a fountain of wisdom. She’s also a pop-cultural speculator. Join her on a mystical journey of snack food, fame and fortune.

I started about three months ago and my journey has taken me places I hadn’t been for some time. First it was a large bag of Ruffles potato chips, which was decidedly the wrong approach, Ruffles have ridges, you see. I can’t find what I’m looking for with all those little hills and valleys, which are good for dips, but not my purposes.

Next I moved onto the gold standard, regular old potato chips. After five bags, I still hadn’t found what I was seeking, Bummer. Okay, let’s try a different approach, I thought, something no one else has tried in this field.

We’ve all seen the Jesus toasted cheese sandwich, the Virgin Mary in bacon, John Lennon in tuna salad, and all kinds of chip animals and celebrities. No. I needed to go another route. The corn chips, Bugles, Chex-mix, tortilla chips and scoops, pretzels of all shapes and sizes– none of these delivered the Holy Grail.

Finally, I found what I was looking for and then some. After ninety-one days, forty-five pounds, and permanently orange fingers and lips, I give you … Mick Jagger … in, of all places, the 16th bag of those crunchy little snacks … Cheetos…

Now, I have to send this pic to E-bay. Bidding will begin tomorrow at 9 am….starting bid will be $450.00. Come on–this is piece of Rock & Roll history!

Clifton tossed his coat into the booth and plopped down. The small Asian woman that seated them sat waters in front of him and his girlfriend Kim.

“You habbabuffay today?” she said.

“What?” Clifton was bewildered.

“Yes,” Kim said. “We’ll have two buffets and two Dr. Peppers, please.”

“Meesa Peeb?”

“What?” Clifton said.

“Mr. Pibb is fine,” Kim said.

The waitress hustled away to get their drinks.

Kim began to stand. “Watch my purse while I go get some food?”

“What? Why can’t we just go at the same time?”

She sat back down. “I can’t just leave my purse here, Clifton.”

“Why not? I’m leaving my coat here.” He held it up to and sat it back into the booth to demonstrate.

“But my money and stuff is in my purse.”

Clifton shifted and reached into his back pocket. “I’ll leave my wallet in my coat. Would that do it for you?”

“Please don’t be impossible tonight,” she sighed.

“You know how much I hate these places. I just don’t understand how someone can voluntarily put themselves in a situation where they have to compete in the least for their food. I mean, you’re up there; there’s no direction. There’s just people coming at you from every which way to get that last piece of old, tepid food. This isn‘t Oklahoma, Kim,” he said.

“Well, I like this place. You’re just going to have to suck it up every once in a while. I go to places you like.”

“I always kind of thought my reciprocation for that was going to Long John Silvers with you.”

Kim stood up without replying. “Watch my purse, baby. Please. I’ll be right back.”

Clifton put his feet up Kim’s seat and slouched back. He spitefully stared at her purse to see if it posed any threat of sprouting legs and walking away. The waitress returned with the sodas.

“Thank you very much,” he said.

“Oh syure,” the waitress said, then walked away.

Across the restaurant, an obese man with a long grey beard sat alone with a heaping plate of food. Three empty plates lay stacked on the other side of the table. Everyone in town knew the man, he rode a three-wheeled cruiser bicycle around town. Clifton had heard his name was Stan, but he and his friends always called him Mr. Blurg. The closest thing to a celebrity that small town had.

A piece of spare rib hung loosely from Mr. Blurg’s beard, threatening at any moment to fall. The sight disgusted Clifton. The nausea wave increased three-fold when Kim returned with her plate.

“You’re serious? Buffet sushi?” he crinkled his nose.

“I like sushi,” Kim replied.

“Yeah, me, too, but … at a buffet? Raw meat that’s been sitting out at room temperature is like eating a petri dish of Ebola.”

“It was on ice,” Kim said.

“Oh!” he threw his arms up. “That’ll scare away the bacterium!”

Her stare grew icy. “Just go get some food.”

He reluctantly stood to go to the buffet. “That’s probably for the best. I don’t even want to breathe the same air that hazardous material occupies. I might get the avian flu.”

“It’s fish, you asshole. Go get some food.”

Clifton took the top plate from the spring-loaded dispenser, set it aside and grabbed the second one. People moved in every direction, jumping erratically from item of choice to other. He took a moment to plan his point of entry into the madness. The intention was to pick a spot and a direction and just stay the course until he had gotten what he wanted from each spot. He intended to load his plate as much as possible, to avoid having to return to the chaos.

The salad bar seemed least bustling, so he opted to begin there. He prodded the lettuce with the tongs and decided to pass when he noticed it nearly floating. The woman he got in line behind moved suddenly in his direction, making him jump. She scowled at him.

“Sorry about that whole having mass and taking up space thing. It’s one of the drawbacks of existing,” he said as she continued on her way. “This salad bar ain’t happening.”

Next stop in the tour of culinary marshal law seemed safe enough. Nobody was there. He looked along the bar: sweet and sour chicken, lemon chicken, sesame chicken and fried chicken. Sesame chicken appealed the most of those options. As he moved to get some, a boy of maybe five appeared right next to him. Eyes magnified by his huge glasses, he looked up at Clifton.

“What you got there?” Clifton asked, looking at his plate. “Pizza, nachos and mac and cheese, huh? Looks like somebody’s getting an authentic taste of the orient. Wow, what’s that? It looks like a little piece of hot dog wrapped in bacon with a toothpick through it. Wow.”

The boy stood on his toes and reached for the sweet and sour sauce ladle. His fingers barely missed it. Clifton pushed the handle closer so he could grab it, curious what he planned to do with it, considering the contents of his plate. He spilled the majority on the bar before dumping the remainder on a blank spot on his plate. After putting the ladle into the sesame chicken, he scampered away. Down to lemon chicken or fried chicken on that side, Clifton scanned the other side to find nothing of interest. His eyes widened when he noticed Mr. Blurb moving at him with surprising speed. Clifton bee-lined to the next table.

He returned, frazzled, to Kim at the table. She looked his plate over.

“Pasta salad, a roll and some fruit?” She shook her head.
“Least likely candidates for contamination,” he explained.

“You’re unreal.”

“Let me tell you something; I worked in the food industry for almost ten years, and I know how things go. The health department rolls in here and notices that they’re not rotating stock and keeping the food on the bar heated or cooled properly. The people that run this fine dining establishment just shake their heads and say ‘Oh yah. Syure, serve nooo bad food.’ Those health department guys don’t even want to fuck with it. They know they could move on to a restaurant where they can understand the people and ream their asses instead. Meanwhile, people flock here, blissfully ignorant of the potential poison they’re ingesting,” he took a drink of water to cool down from his diatribe.

Kim breathed deeply through his nose and shook her head. “Just eat your fucking pasta salad and fruit so we can get out of here.”

They ate silently for several minutes.

“So I’m thinking … sex tonight?” he said.

She closed her eyes and fought a laugh. “We’ll see.”