Stokely

At age 23, they say, is the year you conquer the world. So far, I've been given two birthday cakes, mid-calf Indiana Jones boots, three James Bond novels, a lovely autoharp and a coat to help me in my pursuit.
--
I was given a birthday dinner party, a month later after my Christmas day birth, in which a bird or 18 birds to be exact, gave their breasts and their lives to serve my guests. I say the birds died nobly like the cat who died of curiosity. Their breasts became succulent, turned into an ancient yet secret Italian dish known as Chicken Parmesan served over a bed of pasta and tomato sauce with a hint of mint, and prepared by no other than the lovely Mr. Sean Crowley.
Attendees were required to wear mustachios to the affair, but no gentlemen suits were allowed and duels were taken outside. The tables were adorned with red table cloth, confetti, and tea candles along with growlers and Carlo di Rossi. Long-legged dancing girls accompanied by a eccentric duo who attended prior to eating a burrito, and sweet sweet vocals of a chosen few, brave enough or drunk enough to preach their message of ABBA were all sources of arts and entertainment.
And though the festive episode was contained in one room, it did creep to other parts of a gloomy building, turning the male's bathroom into a gentleman's smoking parlor and music-making merry in another. Still, such a circumstance was unable to trigger a numbered of rooms and hallways into the same lively mood, and they remained unwalked, untouched, and unventured.
Still, the one thing that truly feminized such a mustachio occasion was the thoughtful and well-executed pastry skills of the dancing queen, hailing from Denmark, Sidsel Overgard, who reminded each and every one of us how sweet girls are -- not the squabbles and feuds of gentlemen have -- with her heart-shaped vagina cookies.
Yet, details beyond the end of the dinner party, after everyone left and the room cleared, remain just between two persons -- the last two people who danced the last song, sang the last song, and kissed the last kiss -- in that room -- that night.
--
My father recently acquired a fish tank, and left to my demises I named his fishes: Rocky Balboa, Grace (R.I.P. Hope and Faith ... irony no?), Wolfgang, Hansel, Gretal, and Schnitzel along with Dorothy and Sophia Petrillo.
--
I was recently rushed to the Emergency Room for what was thought to be a severe case of stomach flu (Only, learning a week later, it was food poisoning). However, I survived quickly, thanks to in part my parents and granny as well as the makers of J-E-L-L-O. Alas, three days later of J-E-L-L-O, I woke one morning to realize I had been dreaming that a Happy Meal had been chasing me. And needless to say, it chased me right out of bed.
I also recently found out the bill for my ER visit was $1,000+ even with insurance and have noted to myself, that in the future, I will outsource my emergency room visit to a medical center in a third world country.
--
"There's nothing worse than having your quick wit go unappreciated, well - having your face chewed off by piranhas is probably worse, but not much else." Dan Melchior said on my job
Amen.
---
Oh man, out of 2000 folks, I was one of the 247 chosen. Oh man. Therefore, I am NYC bound for grad school in August. Requesting kisses as you send me along my way. XXX
--
I can be a snoozey Q. ZZZZZzzz
--
After a night of dancing, how can one resist the offer of a gentleman's inquiry to hoist her onto his shoulders, even in a short dress, and then leave her on top of a bar counter to do the latest, hip dance craze. It's a great sadness that few too many would indulge in such behavior, but I say lift away.
--
Google me....I dare you...
--
If you can't dance at shows, then what's the point? I'm working on dancing with a drummer on stage... is it possible.
--
Yes, yes, I do have a story about death squads. Every journalist has a 'holy shit' story to talk about.
--
The winner of the 2008 presidency -- MySpace -- what the frick is with all the presidential candidates friendship requests.