Cutest Engineer Ever

Squishy little pieces of foam that I need right now to block out the rest of the world.

Haven't written in a while. I wonder if anybody even reads this blog anymore. When I look back at some of the entries, I can understand why they wouldn't. What a head case I can be! But then so is the rest of the world... hence the need for squishy pieces of foam.

A lot has happened in the past few months. Sometimes I think back to when I was in high school; I wondered a lot about what I was to become. My teenage self - looking at me today - probably would have thought, "Cool, that sounds alright." Your teenage self thinks big - the career, place of residence, even how you keep up your physical appearance. They look at the resume and not the shit you had to go through to become who you are. They don't think about whether the journey is worth it. It's the end product they think of, at least it's what I thought of when I was 18.

Anyway, the past few months have brought a lot of change in my life. It's thrown me into what feels like a majorly, drawn-out acid trip. Going with the flow is not as easy as floating down a stream, or maybe floating down a stream isn't all that easy . You have to give up control to a current that can change at the first sign of a storm.

I'm no longer a practicing engineer - a change that feels right, like a new chair that cradles your butt, tailored for your ass only. I'm now a front waiter in Aspen at one of the more expensive restaurants in town. The mindless work of polishing silver and glassware is welcoming. Having to deal with a chef who is neurotic and completely out of his gourd has been one of the more demeaning experiences of my life.

Another change was falling hopelessly in love - a toxic energy that puts you in a state of euphoria with waves of hair-pulling frustration blowing by. It's a liquor that can be so comforting but can leave you feeling nauseous and absolutely miserable. We're stupid for thinking love is perfect. It takes years of upkeep and acquiring its unique taste to make it beautiful along with its imperfections.

I'm not regretting these changes. I just hope that I can recognize the right time for change again. I've lost a little of my identity, and I think change does that. I once identified myself as an engineer with no boyfriend and a loving cat. But that's no longer. Now I'm wondering what I will become again. I'm back to being young and having those feelings of excitement and optimism, as well as anxiety and fear. Change is good - I just have to remind myself at times, that's all.

I just saw this commercial of a guy pulling one hair out of his head. He kept pulling and the hair just continued in one long strand. As he pulled more and more, he started to unravel from his feet all the way to his waist... a man becoming unraveled over hair loss.

Throw a cigarette out your car window while driving by a cop car - this may make you think twice before lighting up... at least, while you're driving.

Here's a hypothetical situation for you: say you're in some foreign country where Americans are not welcome, and you've been put in jail on trumped up charges. The jail tenders are horrible and maniacal people - if you can even call them people. They have some sort of life form chained to a pole right in front of your jail cell. This life form - let's call him Grosslinger - resembles what one can imagine as the offspring of a slimy dragon and a deformed human who had parents that consumed too much acid during pregnancy and had really bad, oozing pimples. You can tell Grosslinger is eyeing you; he's hungry - but not stomach hungry. Grosslinger winks at you and licks his slobbery lizard lips with a human tongue. He even speaks to you in English: "It's been a long time for me - since the last American." If the guards had given you any water, you would have peed your pants right then and there. Instead your mouth becomes even drier, and you sit in the furthest corner of your cell trying to think happy thoughts.

So I think I have painted a decent picture of Grosslinger for you - if such a picture can be called decent. The guards like to play games, and you're their hockey puck, football, bowling pin etc. Okay, let me get to the hypothetical part of this whole entry. You are forced to make a decision: you either have to kiss Grosslinger with his tongue in your mouth or let him feel your boobies up with his hands that have really grimy junk under his fingernails. There is no other option - well, I guess death would be an option, but who knows what's on the other side of death.

Well, I have polled several of my friends with this hypothetical situation, and all have chosen to be felt up. Of course, they all think I'm a bit on the sadistic side for even thinking of this whole convoluted situation. But I do have a point that I'm making. How is it that kissing became first base and being felt up second?

This whole topic presented itself when I went to a wedding a few months ago. Weddings are a breeding ground for the "hook up". If you're single and fairly attractive, chances are you will hook up with another fairly attractive person at the wedding, especially if booze is involved. Baptist weddings are a whole other story and a boring story at best. You see, a similar situation occurred to me at a wedding, and I mean similar - not exact for crying out loud. This guy kinda attached himself to me, and I couldn't shake him. He was nice enough and okay looking (not Grosslinger) - I just wasn't all that interested. Somehow the guy ended up in my hotel room. I was drunk; everybody was drunk. There's really no need for further explanation - besides, my girlfriends were also in the hotel room passed out or throwing up (poor Jodi - she must have visited the toilet five times that morning). Anyway, to make a long story short, this guy and I snuggled (my bridesmaid's dress still on) and well, he felt my boobs up. But I wouldn't let him kiss me.

Explaining this to my girlfriends was trying to say the least. All of them thought it was very backwards and made fun of what a first date would be like with me. "So, Carrie, would you just stick you chest out at the end of the date when you're saying good bye? What do you do when he leans over to kiss you? Grab his hands and let him do some honking?" So that's why I brought up Grosslinger. My boobs were being massaged and it felt nice, but to have a tongue in my mouth from a guy I just met that night was way to intimate for me.

Kissing... It's pretty intimate - facing someone, smelling their breath, pressing your face against theirs. In "Pretty Woman" (not a fan but it's a good example), a prostitute allows men to go in for home plate on the exception that there is no first base. She has her boundaries, yo. I doubt if many prostitutes kiss their clients - kissing is for the ones they love. I had a friend tell me about an experience he had in Las Vegas. Apparently, there are a few places, where a bunch of mobile home thingys are grouped together - kinda like a brothel on wheels. Ladies for hire have their own rooms - or maybe I should say offices - where they do business with their "Jons" or "Johns". His description gave me an image of a fuck factory. Girls show up for work, punch in their time cards, stock up on condoms and lobe, and prepare to spread, bend over, or gag. It didn't sound like there was much mood enhancement - no batting of the eyelashes or even an exchange of smiles. The girls' rooms have no velvet couches or heart-shaped vibrating beds. The personal effects in their offices/rooms are like what we have in our offices - a zen garden, some Simpson figurines, and taped up Dilbert cartoons. They are there for just straight up fucking - all in a day's work. But kissing... well, that's personal.

So if a professional doesn't even acknowledge first base, then how is it that we amateurs naturally conform to predetermined bases established in the ballgame of love? How did the kiss even appear? Who invented it? I sincerely doubt two people with mammoth foreheads locked eyes in a cave and started making out. There must have been some type of evolution over the centuries. A little nose nudging, some biting on the neck, and finally a tongue in the mouth - a foreign tongue that is. I'm sure there was other activity prior to the birth of the kiss. Dare I say that copulation happened before the kiss? Yes, I will go there. Kissing seems to be more enlightened. Kissing is more like art. Copulation has reproduction attached to it - a function necessary for the continuing of the races.

I doubt if I will have much luck changing the order of bases in the courting ritual. It's just something to ponder. I don't know how I will approach this situation on my next first date. It will, of course, depend on the situation and how drunk I am. Besides, I'm a good girl; I don't visit any bases on the first date...

It's been a while since I've let loose and been out with the crew. I finally found a weekend that wasn't gobbled up by stupid-head work. So, of course, I went wild. Seeing live music has always been a passion of mine. It's fallen to the wayside, because I need to pay the bills - man, what a system the rat race has become.

Friday, Jen and I went down to Santa Cruz and met up with all of our friends to see Sector 9 play at the Catalyst. Sound Tribe Sector 9 is evolutionary, like no other band I've witnessed. I've seen them play since 1998, and each time they're better and better - which seems impossible, because after each show my body is tingling with hair standing on end, and in my mind's eye I see a ticker tape passing by: "Best Show in Town". Just sitting here writing about them gives me goose bumps. It's hard to describe their sound, since there's really nothing like it. I can hear influences from Radiohead, Sigur Rus, Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, and various jam band flavorings. But to formulate Sector 9's sound into words is impossible – not to be cliché. If classical music transcended from the opera house into the electric medium, it would find itself spawned from the unified minds of Sector 9. They truly compose, and their music takes you on a trip from soft giggly feelings to tears from sad, forgotten memories to intense enlightenment.

Friday night listening to Sector 9, I felt myself uplifted where the laws of physics and math no longer explained the rotation of my world. An ethereal wave splashed over my body, and I saw the sparks of lightning bugs popping up behind my eyelids. "Have you ever been to a revivalist's meeting? I betcha don' even know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Well, you're in one right now." Back in her prime, Nina Simone asked her audience this question when singing "Children Go Where I Send You". When leaving the Catalyst that night, I felt I heard the holiest of sermons. Can I get a witness, oh Lord? Forget about church on Sunday, I already went Friday night.

Jen and I got into Santa Cruz late Friday night. The band had already started, and there was still a long line out the door. We somehow obtained rock star parking right in front of the venue but had to scare off some dread-headed kids to acquire it. If there's one thing I could do without, when going to see live music, it would be these damn little hippie kids whose mothers never taught them manners and whose occupation consists of panhandling, number one, and the selling of non-functional glass pipes, number two. When the show was over, a bunch of them were camped on and by my car, selling said products and playing their drums and didgeridoo. Actually these guys were pretty nice, and their glassware seemed of good quality. Dawn, my best friend, played the didgeridoo for just a little, and all the hippie kids were pretty impressed that such a straight looking girl could chant so well. Dawn used to be a hippie, and now she despises them.

Before Jen and I entered the venue, we needed to down our mushroom shakes. If you wanna know a good and tasty way of consuming mushrooms, listen closely. A friend of mine informed me of this recipe last Halloween, and I've never gone back to the common delivery systems of tea or chocolates or peanut butter. You simply throw your mushrooms into a blender with the following edibles: frozen fruit, include those with citrus; any fruit juice, preferably orange or grapefruit; ice cream is optional, especially if shake goes without refrigeration for a substantial amount of time before being drunk; and a little vanilla flavoring, also optional. The citrus part is key. The acid helps the toxins from the mushrooms enter the blood stream faster - instead of waiting a good hour or so for the mushrooms to take hold, you're looking at approximately 15 to 30 minutes before blossoming takes place. Mmmm good...

Being the glutton I am, I downed my shake within 15 minutes. Jen was pretty hesitant - she's had some pretty bad trips on mushrooms, and she wasn't feeling 100% that night. I've had a couple of bad trips, as well. But I feel seasoned and have learned to remind myself, while tripping, that I'm supposed to feel like I'm going out of my mind. However, a true seasoned tripper would know that taking too much will cause you to forget to remind yourself of whatever it is you're supposed to remember... Anyway, Jen didn't finish all of her shake, so I took the remainder :) ----> 8)~

Well, my friends, it would be an understatement if I told you that it took every ounce of self control for me to hang on to my shit by the time set break came around. What was worse was that I kept bumping into various friends that I hadn't seen in a while. My mouth couldn't decide if it wanted to smile, frown, or drop open in a stupefied manner. My lips were quivering, and I was truly getting upset that they couldn't figure out a resting place. Actually, snarling seemed to be the best position for my trembling lips. Dawn, Jen, and I went outside and sat on the grassy median that was separating the two directions of the road in front of the venue. It was an oasis, and we were surrounded by asphalt on which little hippies skated to and fro, yelling to one another in the way that they do.

At first, I thought I was solo in my mushroom madness and was scared to inform the others. Don't ask me why I was scared - I just was. Looking at Jen, I realized she'd stumbled onto the path of looney tunes and hob noblers, as well. Were the leaves of the trees blowing in a wind that I could not feel or were they waving at me? While sitting on the fuzzy grass and burning my jeans with a forgotten cigarette, I started to remember all the tricks of keeping your shit together while on 'shrooms. Remember to pee - you need to release those toxins and not let them stew in your bladder. Mostly, it's allowing room for more toxins to be released from your blood stream. Well, this is my theory anyway, and it works when I put my mind to it. Also make sure to drink plenty of water and eat an energy bar of some sort. Upon remembering the rules played by a seasoned tripper, I felt a tidal wave of relief saturate me. Yay - I remembered!! A seasoned pro, I is!!

With this new found relief, my lips stopped quivering and found a new home within a smile. I rushed to the car, only 25 feet away, to get a balance bar and water. I came back to the welcoming island in the center of the road, plopped down by Jen, and found serenity wherever I looked. Hello, glorious world with your bright colors and beautiful dread-headed fairies floating about with their glass flutes!! Hello! As I was basking in the warmth of my discovery, the cops came by with their bullhorns telling us to please leave the median. Actually, I don't think they used the word please. The Santa Cruz police are not the most peaceful of peace keepers, as witnessed later that night. After the show, their form of crowd control consisted of growling dogs. I shake my head at this and wonder how power became so popular - how and why?

Anyway, Jen, Dawn, and I congregated over by my car, along with all of the other hippies leaning against it - glad I could provide refuge. Jodi stopped by - Jodi is a celebrity within the jam band music scene. She's very beautiful and quite a character - anyone who frequents live music shows within San Francisco has seen Jodi and probably heard her Chicago flavored voice. Jen and I were still tripping hard, and my mind was remembering the spinning tea cups at Disney World and how I was glad I wasn't in one at the moment. Set break was over, and Sector 9 was revving up their engine - they were ready to take their audience for a ride. Jen and I had to muster up our mustard to set foot into a closed-in space with sweat filled air. Could I do it without losing my marbles? Might as well.

As expressed previously in this entry, Sector 9 gave quite a performance. I was blown away in my own little world, eyes closed, and my body moving without any effort. Oh hallelujah, Amen!! No one could talk to me during the show, because I wasn't home. Knock, knock - can Carrie come out to play? She's already playing, come back in an hour. The stage was beautiful. Rob, Jen's boyfriend, is the set designer for Sector 9: Robert Newell. One of his sculptures was hanging above the stage, and his flower arrangements made every girl blush. He gave me a sunflower at the end of the show - I definitely felt a part of the chosen ones. Later, I gave it to a guy who wanted it for his girlfriend - he said it would make her feel pretty. Well, since it made me feel blessed, I thought it was only decent to spread the love. God, I felt to so goddamn good after that show - down and dirty, 'til I'm clean again. Can I get a witness??!!

I was the happiest I had been in, well… I can't remember when. I was ready to give back. In the past month, I’ve been thinking of a career change. So far I’ve contemplated the following professions: lounge singer (just need to take some singing lessons to get my technical ability up to par – I already have the seasoning down); writer (it’s just that I write about nothing – is there a demand for nothing?); and civil rights attorney. Civil liberties has always been a deep interest of mine (check this link out: civilliberty.about.com), and ever since 9th grade I wondered what the hell was up with the electoral college. To see its fall in my lifetime would be a total fulfillment. You know why Bush is president? The electoral college is why. After the show, I felt motivated for a change. I still feel the motivation, but I also feel the fear.

At the end of the night, Jen, Rob, and I headed to the beach, after Rob’s stuff was all packed up. We spent the night under a blanket of fog covering the ocean. I woke to the sandy footsteps of dedicated surfers in the early morning. I felt good, even though my sleep was thin. Friday night gave birth to a wonderful Saturday. The happiness of last weekend has become diluted, but it still resonates. It’s time to develop a plan of action.

Earlier this week I had to go to Las Vegas on a business trip. My company is pursuing a sewer master plan for the City of Henderson, located southeast of Las Vegas. The LV office needed me for the interview, because I'm known as an expert when it comes to modeling sewers with this one particular modeling program. That's right - I'm an expert... My paycheck gives no indication that I'm an expert in anything, except for being a total pushover when it comes to working long hours on total headache projects.

Now, I've already been to Las Vegas a few times and have lost my fair share of quarters, screwed up the rhythm of a black jack game to the point of being shamed into leaving the table, and made an ass out of myself by hitting a guy in the head with dice while playing craps. None the less, I still managed to see the appeal of Sin City... well, now that I think of it, that's when I was watching the movie Casino and practically drooling over Sharon Stone's hot outfits - goddamn!! Any woman would be purring like a smitten kitten to have a wardrobe like that, not to mention having a body whose curves resemble that of a winding road, tattooing its trail up a green velvet mountain. Lick my lips and swing my hips, hallelujah!

I stayed at the Gold Coast Casino Hotel. Originally I thought it was funny that my company was putting me up in a casino - why not just a regular hotel? I'll tell you why not just a "regular" hotel. People who come to Vegas stay at the casinos - they want the experience, yada, yada. So it's not like there's a huge market in Vegas for just "regular" hotels. "Regular" hotels have no lobbies filled with ringing slot machines and aren't decorated with carpets that have really busy patterns (why is it that casinos have carpets that make you feel like you're on acid?). "Regular" hotels in Vegas look like the houses/trailer homes found in the north Georgia mountains - collapsible.

The Gold Coast is definitely on the lower end of the glitzy casino spectrum. The typical patron at the Gold Coast would be considered geriatric, even though they may be in their 30's. Leathery skin, cigarettes clinging to chapped lips, blood shot eyes, and faces that are reminiscent of the California Gold Rush are what you'll see at the Gold Coast. The front row of slot machines are reserved for those with walkers and oxygen tanks. The second row is reserved for those with overly plump asses. There are no cute girls all dressed up to pretend they don't notice you noticing them. And I'm sure I don't have to explain why there is no line for the buffet - charred steak, mysteriously still showing the powdered residue of meat tenderizer. None the less, the Gold Coast still has some appeal... air conditioning and fairly decent water pressure.

During my stay, I took advantage of having a TV to watch. Jen and I have banned television from our home; it's been over three years since I've owned a boob tube. But when I do get a chance to watch one, I become hypnotized by its blinking eyeball of advertisements and scenes staged by actors who take themselves way too seriously - actors who play characters that talk of very important things but never mention how shitty the coffee is that they're drinking or giggle at the silly things that make a real person giggle. Life is very dramatic when lived in TV land, and nobody wears the same clothes twice.

After a long day of preparing a presentation that ended up boring one of my audience members to sleep, I laid in a king sized bed, covered with bleached clean sheets and a thin polyester orange bedspread, flipping through ten channels - one of which was in Spanish and another devoted to Keno. As luck would have it, the Democratic National Convention was on. It was all well and good. I would fall asleep to one speaker and wake to another - not unlike the guy forced to sit through my oratory saturated with technical talk and hydraulics language. Poor guy - I bet he was hung-over. I sure hope he's not a key player in determining which consulting firm wins the job... Yeah, I'm sure he was hung-over.

Speaking of hangovers, I was surprised to see Ted Kennedy as one of the speakers at the convention. Holy Christ in a hand basket!! Who made the decision to book that guy? I wasn't alive when it happened, but have we forgotten about Chappaquiddick? Not to mention the various puddles of booze and pissed off women left in the wake of this man? Really now, out of all the thousands of democrats who have worked hard for this country, why did this party of donkeys choose the most ornery of them all? Other than Ted, I was pretty pleased with the convention, as far as conventions go. All that cheering, balloons, streamers, and Ron Jr.'s guest appearance have convinced me that Ol' George W. will be vacationing in Texas instead of Camp David.

While watching the convention, I couldn't help but notice how politicians have very saggy faces. What's up with that? Even the guys in their 40's have faces similar to an old hound dog tired from a long day of squirrel chasing. I know what office Ted should hold - Best Politician Face. His fat face with bloated eye bags and jowls hanging over his shirt collar would drive any campaign to victory in representing politicians' mugs. I don't think I've ever seen so much loose skin in one place (well, I did stay at the Gold Coast). If there had been a strong breeze at the convention, the flags would not have been the only ones waving.

Awaking to the glitz of Sin City and falling asleep to the confetti-filled theatrics of Democrats - it's been an exhausting week.

For some reason, the "H" key on my keyboard would not work this morning. All of my email greetings started with "i" or "ey" or "ola" or "ello". As I turned my keyboard on its side to see what was up with Mr. H, a surprising amount of crumbs fell out of my board of keys. Shaking only took care of the really loose buggers. I'm gonna have to resort to an air blower for the rest, I'm afraid.

In the past month, I've been treating myself to pastries in the morning. Work has become so fucking grueling that the only thing that gets me out of bed is the thought of a yummy pastry purchased in the cafe of my office building. On my way to work, I'm thinking of which pastry it will be today - croissant, scone, bear claw, cinnamon roll, or big-ass American sized muffins (chocolate's my favorite). Once I've dumped my satchel, keys and morning newspaper in my office, I run down to the cafe and sheepishly order my morning pastry. I say sheepishly, because the owner, a cute little Asian lady, has lately been giving me the once over before greeting me. She smiles as if to say, "I appreciate your business", but her up and down glances are saying, "ummm... but I don't need your business that bad."

I guess, my pastry fetish has gotten a little out of control, so says my keyboard, the glaring eyes of a sweet Asian lady, and my favorite pair of Levis jeans. I don't know how I can work without a pastry. If only I could smoke in my office!!

The American language - that annoying root that grew away from the tree of English and some how wandered through the soil, only to find itself infiltrating your sewer laterals, causing back up, and eventually creating over flow onto your fancy tiled bathroom floor. Yep, I suppose you could consider your high school English teacher analogous to the special clean up teams that take care of the mess caused by those pesky tree roots (but the Persian rugs are never the same). English teachers can try as they might to instill in their students proper grammar and better adjectives than "nice", but they can't fend off the outside environment, where those same savage tree roots cause sidewalks to be uneven and trip you when you play Frisbee.

The American language is drowning in waters concentrated with the word "like" and the phrases "you know" and "I mean". During the past few weeks I have examined my conversation with others, particularly noting the amount of times I revert to Valley Girl dialect. The data is astonishing, my fellow Americans, and as I sit hear typing "Americans" I begin to wonder if other countries use similar unnecessary language fillers such as the ones cited above. It's been a while since I've crossed the borders of our country. The closest was during my recent trip to Disney World in the Canadian part of Epcott Center. After watching a documentary and browsing through shops filled with hockey paraphernalia and beer-can-holding hats with plastic straws, I felt more acquainted with Canadian culture and felt learned enough to participate in discussions concerning the Canadian way of life...

Well, maybe Canada is not the best choice in exploring other foreign countries' affinities toward ineffectual word inserts, given their close proximity and similar way of life, and, well, then there's the whole "eh" thing that would take paragraphs to dissect. How about Iceland? I really don't know much about Iceland. It's the birth place of Sigur Ros and Bjork, so it can't be too bad. But given the crazy-ass way they construct their words, I really doubt they give much time to pronouncing more crazy-ass words that provide no added meaning to their statements. French and Spanish - does it really matter? Those languages are sexy no matter what you're saying. The English - I have to say this: I think their accent fools us at times, making certain lads and lasses sound smarter than they really are. Try talking with an English accent while using the vernacular of a southern California surfer - see what I mean? Accent aside, my English friends speak quite fluidly with no hiccups from the babbling stream of babble.

The wandering roots from the language tree - the "like"s and the "you know"s and "I mean"s - find themselves wedged into spaces of conversation once occupied by pauses - pauses needed in order to better articulate the next thought. That's a theory my friend, Jill, has postulated. We Americans are in such a rush to spit out our words and are so afraid of someone interrupting, that we feel we must use word fillers to buy more air time. I have to agree with Jill; listening to coversations around me has only supported this view. Our language has become inundated with preservatives causing the American language to fatten up. Fast Food Nation - Fast Food Talk

Am I becoming a language Nazi? Well, self-righteousness is seeping in like oil into pores, soon to come to a head. I've already brought up in conversation the over use of these partially hydrogenated letter compilations. My friends agree, roll their eyes at me for pointing out their over usage, and then revert back to the convenience of fast food talk.

We don't talk English in the United States - we talk American.

Well, there we were with our skill saw and belt sander - Kali, the Goddess of Creation, Preservation and Destruction; Bitch on Wheels (or Cotton Tail for those watching Discovery). This weekend was the third annual Power Tools Drag Race, and it was every bit as black leathery and "Goth chick mania" that it was last year. But this time I actually participated - standing on the side lines was not an option this year. I wanted to race, and toward the end of preparing our skill saw for lightening speeds, I wanted to win.

For those of you who are not familiar with the Power Tools Drag Race phenomenon, I'll fill you in. The Power Tools Drag Race is an event held in a junkyard in San Francisco, and, just as the name suggests, it's a race between power tools. Most of the action occurs on two 75 foot long race tracks, each consisting of plywood, 12 inches wide, bordered by 2x4's There are a few classes you can enter - the super stock class, consisting of very simple designs where the power tool, itself, is not modified; the modified class where pretty much anything goes; the riding class, where people are actually insane enough to ride their contraption in which a power tool is embedded; the sex toys class (don't ask - it's never as sexy as it seems... really); and the unofficial rocket class, held when the cameras are turned off and NASA's satellites are out of range. It's as awesome as it sounds and then some. Plus there are the announcers who are fucking hilarious and extremely offensive - who could ask for a better afternoon of fun.

My team, the Drag Queens, consists of Gwen, Jen Clemente, and me . Gwen and Jen entered Bitch on Wheels last year, and she ranked pretty high - I think fourth. Bitch is more about looks than winning.

This year I wanted in on the action. Gwen and Jen accepted me as a teammate. Our plan was to have a skill saw as our second entry - last year the skill saws were the ones that had the most speed. Lucky for us, Gwen's boyfriend, Zander, has a shop that is absolutely in-fucking-credible. Zander has competed and won several times in Battle Bot's competitions. Not to mention - but I will - he won the Riding class at this year's drag race. I can't help but brag.

For approximately the last month and a half, Team Drag Queens worked diligently to prepare their second entry for this year's drag race - Kali - as I mentioned above, the Hindu goddess of Creation, Preservation, and Destruction. You see, Kali embodies the essence of a power tool. She creates by destroying, much like a chain saw cutting down trees for nice rich folks to have pretty wooden floors. She preserves life, much like a power drill used to mount the moving chair along the stair case, transporting Granndma to and from upstairs. No more breaking hips for you, Grandma!

We drilled some wheels onto Kali's frame - mostly for balancing and buffering along the sides of the track - figured out a good angle and depth for her to race, took her 18 voltage and ramped it up to 48 volts, and lastly, and most importantly, we mounted her butter cream cocoa mannequin head to the front and bolted a lizard on top of her skull for a mohawk. The Discovery channel filmed us the whole way - from our first team meeting, to the design stage (which consisted of a sketch drawn in crayons), to our creating a test track, to our drilling through metal, to my getting super glue on my lip and fumbling while screwing on nuts, to finally the race weekend.

Saturday was the elimination round, and thank the lord God that our competition forfeited both Kali's and Bitch's rounds. Kali had some wiring issues. Firstly, the stereo cord wasn't stuck in the connectors very well, and then secondly she became unplugged 3/4's of the way down the track. Bitch on Wheels did as best as she could for a belt sander - all that matters for her is that she looks good. On Sunday, Kali and Bitch raced one after the other during the first round - imagine how hurtful and disappointing it was when both of them lost to power tools that weren't nearly as cute. I couldn't believe how upset I was. The Discovery channel stuck their cameras right in our faces, asking us how we did. I looked at them in amazement - we lost, for Christ's sake. Anyway, lucky for us, it was double elimination. Since both girls lost, we were bumped to the "Losers'" bracket... whatever...

I think that Bitch and Kali felt mortified having to hob knob with losers. So they got it together. Both of them began to win round after round in the "Losers'" bracket - they just needed time to get warmed up - they didn't have a chance to primp. It was sooo uplifting and exciting to see them bobbing down the track - leaving saw dust in their competitors' faces. This time Discovery saw a pit crew that was more than happy to ham it up.

But I'm not even to the best part - Kali and Bitch go head to head. It was orgasmically bitter sweet to see our girls race against each other - reaching the climax, knowing it would be over in 2.42 seconds. It was only suitable for me to represent Bitch - after all, we were wearing matching outfits. Gwen took the lead for Kali, and we insisted that Jen be our flag girl for the race of all races. She was the flag girl for last year's event but not this year - she broke up with the guy who's in charge of the drag races. Instead, there was this scantily clad chick, who is known to be into clown porn - San Francisco has all kinds. Anyway, Jen held the green, sequined flags in the air - Gwen and I both looked at her intently. 3, 2, 1 - go!! Skill saw and belt sander shot down the track like darts from the eyes of Medusa. Kali ended up winning - it didn't matter. I actually worked on Kali, so I felt pretty proud that my screw tightening and super glueing contributed to her glory. But through it all, Bitch and I became friends, both of us finding a kindred spirit.

So our last race was against a four year old little girl and her skill saw. Something makes me think she had help with hers - grounds for immediate disqualification in my eyes, but I didn't say anything to the judges. As far as I was concerned, we reached our pinnacle. The chance to race again was merely sprinkles on a cupcake. It really doesn't matter whether the four year old little cheat won or Team Drag Queens... really, it doesn't... The point is our girls represented, yo!

Next year I think we should enter an angle grinder. They're even sexier.

I want to quit my day job and become a lounge singer. I'll keep you posted...

It's gyp, not jip. Whatever...