Kerry Allen

Happy Halloween!

Actually, although I will don a costume any other day of the year and role play like a fanatical 10-year-old, I don’t much care for Halloween. Distaste for the whole concept of going door-to-door threatening strangers into supplying you with food and the hypocrisy of ridiculing costumed folk 364 days a year but it’s suddenly KEWL because you want to do it on October 31 have soured me on the holiday. However, since I played the part of a zombie for most of this week (4 a.m. Tuesday through midnight Thursday with a cumulative total of about 4 hours of sleep… yeah, definitely one of the shambling undead), I feel I’ve adequately participated in the festivities this year.

My sleep disruption was caused by a major schedule disruption involving travel to the far distant land of Orlando on October 28 to spend quality time with my boyfriend, Trent, while he did his thing at the UCF Arena.

Your boyfriend brought the cold with him.

So I could wear my Underworld pants without dying of heat stroke. He’s considerate like that, always very attentive to my comfort.

But as I was apparently some kind of puppy-kicking Hun in a past life and Karma is a vengeful bitch, it couldn’t be all happy-happy-joy-joy for the duration.

Joining us today to provide additional tangential commentary (in her signature color of vomit-inducing pink) is special guest correspondent Trish Perfect!

Huh? What? Iz still def.

Oh, I see how it’s going to be. Go veg out with KNUMB Easy Listening 104.5, grandma. I can handle this myself.

Well see, I have a predicament. Y’all have successfully assimilated me into the Cult of Trent…

Welcome to the dark side. Have a cookie. Told you you couldn’t resist the allure of the SLAVIC MAGNETISM. Your seduction was inevitable.

Mr. Perfect thinks he’s awesome with sauce, and it’s not because of his penetrating gaze and pretty mouth.

Are you suuuuuure?

Looking at that picture in the last post, there’s some room for doubt. Gawd, and most definitely not the Norse one I married. BUT if I’m too enthusiastic in my worship, Mr. Perfect will develop a complex, and you’ll break my face for slobbering all over your boyfriend.

Maybe a few teeth. Not your whole face. Shall we commence?

You start.

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Well, first of all, while our little gang of six (with the perfect 2:1 concert-going ratio of guys to dolls) waited outside in the crisp evening breeze, Mr. Perfect, who is a minor celebrity of sorts, was recognized by some of the surrounding younguns.

Excuse me. MINOR celebrity?

Well, it’s not like he’s Steve Blum or anything. When it became obvious Mr. Perfect was more interested in engaging in PDA with the bimbo he was with…

What’s PDA?

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Public displays of affection. And you, obviously, were the bimbo in question.

I certainly hope so. Hey, don’t knock it. When you have two kids, you have to take it where you can get it. And we weren’t taking it or getting it as far as some of the jailbait was.

Well, sooner or later they have learn guys don’t value girls who put out for an audience. No time like the present.

That has to be LEARNED?

In light of some of the behavior witnessed Tuesday night, is there any doubt the answer is “yes”?

Is it too early to educate Princess Perfect?

Um, I wouldn’t go so far as “don’t give blowjobs in the parking lot” when advising your five-year-old, but it’s never too early to introduce the general concept of setting personal boundaries. Anyhoo, Mr. Perfect being otherwise engaged, the children glommed onto the old lady (moi) who understood their lofty standards of music, cinema, video games, and snack foods and stuck with her the rest of the night.

I think they were glomming onto your Underworld pants. Forget about a Miracle Bra. Those are Miracle Pants. Not that you’re a fat cow or anything…

Will the lies never cease?

… but those pants made you look half your size. Had I not had my hands full with Mr. Perfect, I would have glommed onto you myself.

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And if their power to alter sexual orientation isn’t enough to convince you of teh awesome, if somebody pukes on them, you just hose ‘em off. [Again, I could use the puking smiley.] Could there BE better pants? I think not. But I made it clear to the children from the start that my heart belongs to my boyfriend.

We had a good fifty people referring to Trent as “Kerry’s Boyfriend” before the night was through.

All according to my master plan. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the current Presidential campaign, it’s that the truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how many people are willing to go along with your bullshit. If those fifty people tell another fifty people and so on…

And it makes it on Fox News…

It will be reality by the end of the week.

I can’t believe you went there.

Oh, I went there. After that crap they were pulling at early voting?

Please don’t.

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The same frickin’ people in that HUGE line every day to make it look like there’s a four-hour wait so people will give up and go home? You better believe I went there, and I went to the Supervisor of Elections, and I went to the local news. See how they like it when the Voter Fraud Spotlight swings over in their direction. Slimy bastards.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I sense some lingering animosity.

I’m a seething mass of animosity, and I presume we’ll get into that eventually. At any rate, my boyfriend…

Hey, if you can alchemize bullshit into reality, shouldn’t you have planted the seed of “Kerry’s a billionaire” or something?

Money can’t buy me love, although… it COULD buy a dart gun, a number of sedative rounds, and a Sleep Number bed equipped with wrist and ankle restraints. Hmm. More thought required.

The fabled restraining order isn’t a joke is it?

I am not in violation!

Down, girl. I was surprised by the widespread willingness to play along, with the exception of a few sullen teenage girls with horrible makeup.

Seriously. Line of demarcation much? If you’re going to use a foundation forty shades from your actual skin color, in the name of all that’s holy, B-L-E-N-D! Three pounds of eye makekup? Fine. Enough metal piercing your face to unbalance your gait? Cool. Hair that’ll poke somebody’s eye out? You have my total support. But no matter how desperate you are for attention, no one should ever, under any circumstances, notice your foundation application.

I sense a plug coming on.

Nah. Much as I love me some Bare Minerals, I can’t afford it myself anymore. But there have been amazing technological breakthroughs even in drugstore crap, so there’s no excuse for the smeary orange mask look.

Forget the orange. Did you notice pseudo-Goth behind us?

Twenty hours a week in the tanning bed, then painted herself white (to the jawline) for the purpose of…??? Yeah, I noticed. I thought maybe she was a mime, except she would not shut up.

I’m not going to complain about the noise because aside from being kickass noise, it drowned out mimegirl’s bitching. But the lights. Come on. I’m surprised there weren’t mass seizures. You have to admit that was too much. 

Ahem. It IS the LIGHTS in the Sky tour.

Should be the LIGHTS in your EYES tour.

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Okay, I admit I’m never impressed with concert trappings. Look, if rabid android squirrels got into your lighting and ate all the wires and you had to go on without the light show and the crowd would still go INSANE because they’re not there to see the frickin’ lights, you don’t need them. But I would imagine when several thousand people pay money to see you, there’s some pressure to PUT ON A SHOW, and given a choice between overenthusiastic lighting and Trent engaging in Mansonesque performance art, I’ll take the lights, plzthxkbai. But really, the music is all you need, boyfriend.

Something surprised me even more than the grassroots Kerry+Trent movement, and that was that it was not Angst Fest 2008 in there.

We’re there to have a good time. Disenfranchised youth (and old folks who used to be disenfranchised youth) drop the angst at the door. When you have baseline angst, shaking your booty and screaming your head off…

I could not believe you were singing.

Only because nobody could hear me.

Enough to impress your new fan club that you knew all the words.

Dude, I love words. I play with them every day. I study their rhythm and nuances of meaning. My boyfriend’s are particularly precious to me. I’ve been plugged into NIN since before those kids were BORN. OF COURSE I know all the words.

Holy crap we’re old.

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No, we are Experienced Women barely into our Prime, you with your former professional cheerleader hotness still intact and I with my Underworld Pants of Miracles. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, angst + shaken booty + decapitation by screaming = blissed out. The NIN live experience is a cupcake-scented rainbow bubble of peace and harmony and happiness.

Must be the braingasm talking because horny 17-year-old boys for damn sure do not smell like cupcakes.

Okay, sweaty cupcakes. But I soaked up all that positive energy like a sponge. I was absolutely euphoric by the time it was over. I was dancing to the ringing in my ears on the way back to the car. And heeeeeeeeeere’s Karma!

Who should slither out of the darkness but… DUN-DUN-DUUUUUUUUN! Kerry’s baby daddy!

Okay, if you must refer to him in that sense, stick with D.A.D.S.—Deadbeat Absentee Donor of Sperm.

KerBer kind of deflates, sweaty cupcake rainbow bubble busted, and without even knowing who this sleaze is, her posse rallies around her.

Forget the angry dudes. The angry dudes are there only to distract you from the pissed off former cheerleader who will do things to you with a pompom from which you will never recover, physically or psychologically.

But even that is only a temporary diversion because that is all it needs to be because Ker is the Queen of Cool.

Har. Ker deserves an Oscar for that performance.

D.A.D.S. says, “Kelly! DAMN, you look good!” (Yes, he called her Kelly.)

He only knew me for six years.  You can’t expect a name to stick after such a brief acquaintance.

And she responds without so much as a pause, “Thanks! You look like shit. Spend some time in prison lately?”

Not as statistically improbable a possibility as with the general population. I exhibited questionable taste in companions before appointing Trent to the office of my boyfriend.

And he’s wearing a brand spankin’ new concert T-shirt, and she says, “Nice shirt. It’ll do to replace the one you stole from me back in the day. Hand it over.”

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And he’s all, like, “Nuh-uh!”

Until he notices the posse has swelled in size and decides it’s in his best interest to do whatever she wants before things turn ugly.

Keep in mind, it’s now 40-something degrees, and he’s shirtless.

Hypothermia is too good for him. The douchebag didn’t even ASK about Angelic Daughter.

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He had probably conveniently forgoten about her existence. And that is why antagonizing him was stupid. He is a spiteful douchebag, and in the process of dwelling on what a castrating bitch I am and contemplating various forms of vengeance, he just might remember something like that, which is why I still haven’t been sleeping.

Told you, don’t sweat it. I have a shovel.

And I’m torn about what to do with the shirt. On the one hand, it’s NIN. On the other, it has touched the D.A.D.S.’s skeevy flesh, and I don’t know if Tide can adequately remove that funk.

Give it to one of your gaming buddies who couldn’t go. I’ll buy you something untainted.

If you can find a black zip-front hoodie in a grownup size, that would provide me with much solace.

No such luck at the NIN store, as I’m sure you were aware. Any objection to homemade with love?

Homemade with love is fine with me, I’m all for cutting out the middle man, but send Boyfriend a check to compensate him for logo infringement. He has to support me in the lavish fashion to which I’ve become accustomed, after all, and hijacking the merchandise train impedes his livelihood.

You’re living on ramen and Carnation Instant Breakfast, and you want me to cut Trent Reznor a friggin’ check for painting “NIN” on a sweatshirt?

Yeah. It sort of falls into the realm of theft of intellectual property, and I don’t support thefting from my boyfriend. I’m protective like that. It’s the least I can do for the Underworld-pants-survivable weather with which he gifted me.

And I happen to LIKE ramen and CIB.

You’re insane.

You’re just now arriving at this conclusion? I’da thunk Tuesday night would have established that fact beyond the shadow of a doubt…

Anticipate being comatose from exhaustion for the remainder of the week.

(Honestly, since I was 12 years old, I have never been to a concert on a weekend. Not that it matters now that I’m working 7 days a week, but NEVER in 22 YEARS? How does that happen?)

Miss me terribly and think of me often.

The following graphic representation of Kerry’s Braingasm sponsored by Two Decades of Impure Thoughts.

Soul-sucking eyes: I has them

Can you still get The Slip for free? Ha! Yes! Go forth and download free industrial dance doom metal or whatever the hell category it falls into. (They want your email to send you the secret password, not to steal your soul. Honest. Would I lie to you? Well, okay, but not about this. And isn’t a free NIN album worth your soul? I mean, what are you using it for, anyway? It’s just sitting there collecting dust and presenting a target for temptation. You’re better off without it.)

Actual street: Hidden Brick Road

Is that not the cutest? Does that not fill your mind with all sorts of magical fantastical possibilities?

If my middle-grade fantasy tendencies were less apocalyptic and more cutesy, I could spark a whole series off “Hidden Brick Road.”

Darn you, Libby! Why can’t you be cuter?

“Gee, lady, I don’t know. Maybe the galactic oppression and the price on my head—or hand, as the case may be—and my dad’s disappearance and that part where you KILL my favorite person just sucked all the cute right out of me. Write me some dimples and a clever little pet if you want cute. Otherwise, quit hassling me and give me something I can use, like a decent disguise or an effective weapon or universal peace.”

What kind of story would that be? Nah. Know what you need? Betrayal by one of the few people you trust…

“Ryder’s right. You ARE evil.”

… here’s a horrifying glimpse into The Life Of.

This is what happens to the kitchen during the week when, if I have time to cook, I don’t have time to clean up:

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And this is how I spend 2 hours of my “spare time” over the weekend: 

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I ran the dishwasher TWICE, and the sink is still full of dishes, silverware, and baking sheets, but at least the “somebody call the Health Department” factor has been removed.

Until we’re a little further into this week and the process repeats itself.

And believe me, I know my kitchen sucks. Yes, some genius put in WHITE laminate countertops which, after about thirty years, are unfixably stained, and the cabinets are seriously made of plywood, and that REALLY is all the counterspace I have. 

When I watch those home-buying shows on HGTV and somebody says, “The kitchen is too small,” when said kitchen is invariably four times larger than mine, I want to reach into the TV, drag their whiny asses into the real world, and show them what a too-small kitchen looks like. Try doing Thanksgiving for twelve with four square feet of counterspace. Hell, try making cookies. Having enough space to “entertain” in the kitchen is so far down the list of kitchen upgrades here, I am unable to sympathize with their plight.

(If your memory needs refreshing: Chapter 1 and Chapter 2.)

The cab driver must have overcome his disapproval long enough to report her alleged breakdown. Why tonight, of all nights, did she have to encounter a conscientious human being?

“Thank you so much for rescuing me from that nice windowless building.”

“Dawn is hours away. There’s no need to panic.” Amanda added that last part for her own benefit, since Nate’s sarcasm suggested more annoyance than apprehension.

She fished her cell phone out of the bag to call another cab. They could drive around until midnight, when she could make another ATM withdrawal—most of which would have to go toward reimbursing the driver for hours of chauffeur service. Then they’d be right back to no cash, no transportation, and no way to contact Leo.

The phone showed a full battery bar, but no signal. She headed back toward the highway, where she’d been able to connect earlier. Time to stop deluding herself. She didn’t need a ride to the bank. She needed a car, and one wasn’t going to come into her possession through lawful means. “I’ll get us a ride.”

See the rest of “Beyond the Darkening: Chapter 3″

If you pitch a hissy fit all over the news because a CARTOON takes a swipe at your favorite political ticket, and subsequently contend, “It’s just a stupid cartoon, nobody cares, it can’t hurt us,” you have successfully completed the transformation from Drama Llama™ to Hippo Crit™ (major characters in the upcoming Media Circus™ collectible card game). If nobody cares and it’s not hurting you, you shouldn’t be calling attention to it. And if people do care and it is hurting you, you still shouldn’t be calling attention to it, because it wouldn’t have gone viral if you hadn’t, and far fewer people would be laughing at you now.

Also, if you tell your supporters to steal your opponent’s signs as a “tangible expression of their loyalty,” you might also consider telling them not to go on the national news to announce that you told your supporters to steal your opponent’s signs as a “tangible expression of their loyalty.” Adding “thievery” to the ”racism” and “misogyny” and “widespread, generalized hate” themes at the parties you host scrapes a little extra altitude off the moral high ground you claim to be running on. In case you hadn’t noticed, the only people you’re impressing with this tactic are of the increasingly unsavory variety.

But keep it up, by all means. Your embassadors of ill will are scaring the waverers in a direction I heartily approve.

Very truly the other guy’s,

Ker

I gave up on the UF I’d been struggling to read for over a week because the protag is irredeemably, infuriatingly oblivious.

Let’s say… you’re in a situation in which someone is launching attacks against you that are becoming increasingly hazardous to your health. Around the fourth or fifth such attack… your left arm is magically turned into Skittles. You seek magical medical attention from a powerful sorcerer-type dude who’s on the same side you’re on but doesn’t like you very much, and the feeling is mutual. The powerful sorcerer-type dude who doesn’t like you very much never asks, “Hey, putz, how’d your arm get turned into Skittles?”

Would that not cause you to wonder at some point why powerful sorcerer-type dude who doesn’t like you very much DIDN’T ask what happened? Even if you’re such a little pissant to him, he can’t muster an inkling of curiosity about your peculiar affliction, wouldn’t you think an explanation would be helpful toward CURING it? Wouldn’t you think the lack of asking indicated some preexisting knowledge, like, I don’t know, the sort of preexisting knowledge that might arise from being in cahoots with the one who Skittlefied your arm?

For that matter, rewind a little bit. If your left arm got turned into Skittles, wouldn’t you be telling as many people as possible, “Dude! LOOK what that crazy sumbitch Bob did to my friggin’ arm!”, without even being asked?

Which brings us to another problem: repeated failure to share information between characters. The very first time it happened, I rolled my eyes because it was so blatant. Flashback: Gee, if only that waiter hadn’t interrupted us that time my mentor was infodumping about just this scenario, I’d know how to get out of it now that it’s happening to me. How inconvenient that we didn’t resume that incredibly important conversation after he capped off our coffee. By the fourth or fifth time, it was obvious the big mystery could have been solved and all the trouble resolved by Chapter Three if protag would just divulge information to the people who are far more capable of handling the situation than he is, so the continuation of the story is entirely dependent upon one character or another’s inability to complete a sentence.

But let’s get back to the obliviousness for a second, shall we? When repeated attempts have been made on your life, would you think it’s remotely a good idea to have sex with and sleep in the bed of and consume food prepared by a total stranger? See, for me, any one of those things would require at least a smidgen of trust, which I would have some trouble manufacturing on a stranger’s behalf right then, given the circumstances of multiple recent near-death experiences.

But why would the protag worry? He’s exhibited all the reasoning skills of a houseplant for the last 200 pages and come off none the worse for wear, except for a few Skittles. Clearly, nothing really bad is going to happen to him.

And even if something really bad DOES happen, IT’LL BE OKAY! Because someone more powerful, more knowledgable, and generally more competent will be along shortly to save him, like they have for the last 200 pages every time he’s aimlessly wandered into some potentially fatal situation 10 seconds after being warned about just such a potentially fatal situation!

I suppose it could be worse. At least it’s a male character being TSTL for a change.

I find it completely implausible that the villain has any interest in the protag because the protag is useless. You don’t become the Badass Evil Overlord by exterminating the village idiot.

And, contrary to how I suspect the rest of this book goes, the village idiot does not miraculously defeat the Badass Evil Overlord in the final minute of the darkest hour.

I’m going to imagine his dog does and spare myself further irritation by tossing this one in the donation box.