Voting leads to thinking...

Buenos Noches!

So, I did this thing we Americans call vote tonight.

Whilst I was perusing the ballot a few thoughts crossed my mind, like:

'Who are these people?'

'I'm hungry for a bear claw right now.'

'Who are these people again?'

'Would a bear claw be fresh enough so late in the day to be good?'

And, last but not least,

'All these combination running mates makes me wonder what other combos I would vote for...'

Which leads us to our next bit, Pistola Whipped cracks the combination.
(I know, you come up with a better name).

Cheese and crackers



Gimme 20-year aged cheddar and some Pepperidge or straight up saltines and EZ Cheese, I don't care which way you serve it, that's a combination that would get stuff done in Congress.



Lady Gaga f. Beyonce in 'Telephone'
That Jamaican accent that L. Gaga uses when she sings 'party' and then when Beyonce rips in channeling Tina Turner in 'We Don't Need Another Hero' during the breakdown KILLS! Put those bitches on a ballot and you got my vote any November 2.



Ralph Nader and Winona LaDuke.
Check.

The long part of Dennis Miller's hair and Tyra Banks' forehead






Everyone's minds would be so blown by this powerful and glorious combination that things would just get done. And get done fiercely!

Pistola Whipped is a democratic nation and welcomes your entries...

Got out and voted,
P. Whipped

Pistola speaks nonsense and then in metaphors....

Hello,

Are we all surviving?

Well, IT is here. You know it and I know it. Dang, we all knew it was coming. We could feel it in our bones. Some dimension is added in our perpetual depression. Our coffee tastes different. Instead of looking out the window to view our backyards hopefully we now look wistfully. And this thing's arrival sits heavily on our chests, like a small monkey might while picking lint out of a bellybutton. Our eyes droop as the television flashes images of better bodies, better kids, better lives and we fall asleep...

Wait, do you know what I'm talking about? Because I don't. Oops.

I'm doing some baking right now.

Yes! I know. I know. You are all asking how does lil' Pisty here find time in her busy schedule to bake?! Quite honestly it is hard to manage with a full schedule of Real Housewives of Atlanta, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Project Runway, Teen Mom, 16 and Pregnant, Judge Judy, The First 48 and, of course, The Tyra Banks' Show, but I'm managing.



As I was adding in a teaspoon of salt, a tablespoon of vanilla, a cup of sugar and a dash of love, I was thinking: baking is kind of like a relationship.



You add attraction, you fold in interest, you sift in a helluva lot of baggage, a pinch of this and that, mix it all up, heat it all up and you get this delightful treat. But sometimes it isn't all what it cracked up to be. And sometimes what looks like a cow paddy ends up being the tastiest morsel you've ever tasted. Sometimes it's lovely and sweet and lingers on. Sometimes it doesn't bake all the way through and you get a big fat mess where you keep finding dried up batter bubbles in your kitchen for years and you think how do I keep finding these things and it reminds you of that awful cake you had to throw out. Sometimes you get something that is so amazing, wonderful and fascinating that it's gone before you know you even had it so good. And sometimes you get a recipe that you keep coming back to because it's always fun and challenging to make and the outcome is consistently a fucking delight.

Off to frost the old standby.

Stay classy,
Pistola E. Whipped

Let's tackle complicated themes like civics, sobriety and sleaziness...

Hello,

How’s it hanging and banging?

Once again I’ve let my civic responsibility lapse.
My blog = my civic responsibility.
This is the kind of rationalizing I do in order to get out of voting in non-presidential elections.

Things are a-changin’ here in the life of Pistola Whipped.

Let’s have a look how, shall we?

1.) I’m dabbling in sobriety. And dear readers, it is a strange and new world. It feels weird to not be sick with a debilitating hangover at least once a week. I've had to find a new scale on how to base a person's merits since judging a person based on how they make a drink is no longer applicable. Oh, and the most unusual and positive change is to have some extra bucks in my wallet. Sobriety has created an alarmingly large amount of time in my life to pursue such hobbies as painting, writing, reading, staring at the ceiling, wondering what my friends are up to, watching even more reality TV than before and turning into a bore that obsesses over my eyebrow hairs. That being said, do my eyebrows look weird to any of you guys?

2.) I am going to write an article for a Minneapolis newspaper. Not the ‘Star Tribune’. Nope, not the ‘City Pages’. Negative on ‘The Onion’. Actually, in the likely event that I am rejected I’m just gonna go mum on the name of the publication. If they do publish my article then I’ll post that shit all over this blog. In fact, I’ll probably rent Conan O’Brien’s orange blimp and drive it all over the state with a banner that says, ‘I am the next CJ!’



And that is really about it.

Take it sleazy folks, because if you’re reading this blog, that’s probably the only way you can get it.

PW

Summer of '10 in pictures...

Howdy,

I went for a walk today and it dawned on me that I should really update this blog. I keep forgetting that I need to tend to this blog. I should be watering it, feeding it, mothering it, smothering it and even bleeding it just to the point of death before resurrecting it. Kind of like how I treat my house plants and let's be honest, my romantic relationships.

I wasn't sure what to write about. I've been off trying to pack 12 months of living into three months of time as we're wont to do here in Minnesota. Thus my usual stalking, er speaking with fabulous celebrities hit a dead end on the first warm day of June.

And BAM! it's September. That crisp breeze blowing through our screen windows ushers in thoughts of dark brews, fuzzy sweaters and past domestic disputes brought on by Vikings' losses.

With all this nostalgia and changing of the season, I thought I would encapsulate the summer of '10 in pictures. Here ya are!

We kick things off right with a Sunday Funday at Casa de Hayes (after a drunken biking accident):



The party was fun even with a super huge chin (brought on by above mentioned drunken bike accident):



Oh, and then there is that danged new Target Field the Minnesota Twins are playing in. I feel it's an accurate summation to say I've ate about 300 cheese curds there and seen Joe Mauer hit into about $3 million worth of double plays over the past three months, but golly it is a great ol' time:



I got that little thing I liked to refer to as my dragon-shaped bruise covered up:



Into a beautiful Minnesota lady slipper:



My work had a fabulous fund-raising event that friends and family attended:







And then there was July. I didn't take any pictures myself, but I think I can paint an accurate portrayal of the month by stealing images from the Internet.

It started with this:



And felt like this a lot:



And was finally diagnosed by this handy little pattern:



Oh, and I started to look a lot like Mary Jo Buttafuoco after a certain Long Island Lolita got to her:



Naturally July cannot go unmentioned with the totally awesome Jewell Stock:



Shall we move onto August...?

There was a delightful pool party at Ma and Pa Charron's:





More Labe tattoos:





And a goddamn hootenanny at the goddamn Mohler's:





A little Wheeler bachelorette party:





And of course the cherry on top of this delicious hot fudge (and a little caramel) summer...the annual Labe pilgrimage to Ten Mile Lake:









Until next summer,
I remain,
Pistola Whipped

Pistola goes to first base with Justin Morneau...

Hello,

How are you earthlings?

I’m well up here in the blogosphere. It’s been a little lonely, but I’ve been passing the time trying to find a blog post worthy of reading, by you, my dearest readers.

And I think it finally happened. I went out and interviewed many celebrities both alive and dead. I cured cancer. I re-wrote the American Constitution. Yet, after hours upon grueling hours of searching…I took it back to what I know. And what I know is Minnesotans.

So, with no further ado here is:

A little chatter with Minnesota Twins first baseman Canadian Justin Morneau:



PWGAL: Hi Justin!

JM: Hi there. How are ya?

PWGAL: Oh fine. And you? [cracks open a Labatt Blue and winks at Justin].

JM: Doing great.

PWGAL: On behalf of me and my fellow citizens welcome to America! [Pistola enunciating words slowly]

JM: Thanks. I’ve lived here for about six years now. I’m married to an American and I play baseball in America. Plus, Canada isn’t too far from here. So, I guess you could say I feel pretty American.

PWGAL: Right. If you’re so American name our current president?

JM: Barack Obama.

PWGAL: [checks with assistant to see if Justin is right] Yes that is correct. So, let’s get back to you being a first baseman. Do you ever dream of getting to second or third base?

JM: Well, not really. I’m comfortable at first base. I don’t think that getting to play second or third base is necessarily a measure of skill, but more a level of finding out what you're good at and sticking with it.

PWGAL: Doesn’t anyone apply pressure to you to round the bases?

JM: Well, perhaps when I’m at bat, but when I’m playing first base, no.

PWGAL: At bat, aye? Is that what they call it in Canada?

JM: Call what exactly?

PWGAL: You know.

JM: No, I don’t think I do.

PWGAL: Come on Justin. I know you’re Canadian and all, but really? We’re talking about SEX! You’re a first baseman: guy who likes a little kissing before scoring the big home run.

JM: Wow, you think that I’m a professional kisser?

PWGAL: Naturally.

JM: No, I play baseball, a sport, as a professional in Major League Baseball for the Minnesota Twins.

PWGAL: I’m really not familiar with baseball or sports.

JM: Listen. I need to head to batting practice. Can we wrap this up?

PWGAL: Sure, Justin. Here’s a little parting gift from me [Pistola leans in for a kiss].

JM: You’re nuts. [Justin takes can of Labatt out of Pistola’s hands and whips it at her head.]

Interview abruptly ends.

A year of domesticity....

Hello dear readers,

I know it's been awhile. Sorry for the separation. I've really missed you all (Nate and Sarah).

The boyfriend and I recently celebrated one year in our new house. I'm publishing something I wrote prior to moving in with each other. It's good that I can look back over the past year and recall that it's been a fairly smooth ride...no restraining orders...yet.

Enjoy!

At what point in a relationship is it okay to throw romance, passion and the beauty and solace of one’s apartment or house for a shared living space?

I’m not exactly sure, but I have been thinking about it lately. And not just for fun but because it may be time. Yep, time to co-habitate with the boyfriend.

We’ve been dating roughly seven months, haven’t known each other even a year and yet here we are: I’m forwarding him house listings from MLS. We’re emailing about yards, square footage, mortgages and central air conditioning. And it’s fun…right now. Speculating about our future, dreaming of barbecues in the backyard with all of our perfect couple friends. Decorating to each of our own tastes, satisfying both of our odd collections. I can see myself now, shaking my head and fighting a smile as I re-wash the dishes that my boyfriend carelessly rinsed and threw in a pile next to the sink. Oh, good times. And I’m sure we can still maintain our interesting and exciting sex life after taking out the trash, weeding the garden, painting over the weird kitchen borders the previous owner chose to hang, paying bills and sending off the errant solicitor. I’m sure we won’t disagree or grow sick of each other. I’m sure we’re the exception to the rule.

So, why should we carry on the way we are? I mean what’s great about having a safe, solo haven where I can drink a bottle of Cabernet and listen to stupid songs and air sing at the top of my lungs and fall over and break my own stuff without having to feel guilty about it the next day? I actually don’t like standing in front of the open fridge door in my underwear dipping sweet and sour pickles into a jar of crunchy peanut butter. Well, I don’t actually like doing it in front of others. And I mean, I hate going on the annual weekend-long garage sale tour with my friends and picking up the grossest paintings I can find and hanging them on my walls immediately after getting home. I hate that.

And what do I do when the boyfriend and I get in a fight? It’s nice to go home and fling myself dramatically in my bed and shamelessly pound on the pillows with nobody watching except for the movie audience I am acting for in my mind. What bed can I do that in if he’s already doing it in ours?

I guess I’m struggling with a battle against the unknown. I know things right now are fantastic, awesome and truly fabulous. I still get smug when one of my imperfect couple friends (scratch them off the backyard barbecue list) complains about their boyfriend’s showering habits. Like that he doesn’t shower. And I know that mine does, because he has time alone in his own apartment where he showers and writes songs about me and emails all his friends about the super cool chick he is thinking about buying a house with. I can still imagine him doing all this independent stuff and that warm feeling surges through me. But is that warm feeling true affection or is it because he is doing stuff I don’t get to know about and do with him?

I imagine we’ll end up living together. It seems like the natural progression of this thing that I like to call a relationship. I suppose we’ll just end up being another couple, buying a house in order to play at being adults. Perhaps we’ll fail? Maybe we’ll succeed.

What if he comes home one night and I’m on my knees, earnestly air-singing along to Bob Seger’s ‘We've Got Tonight’ and he likes me for it? Even loves me for it? And what if he likes doing that too? Then perhaps we could listen to the Kenny Rogers/Sheena Easton duet version instead and fall down and accidentally break each other’s stuff (I’ve never liked his Ikea chairs anyway). Maybe it’s jaded to think too far ahead in the future and assume that all the day-to-day stuff can get in the way of the cool thing we have. I think Bob sums it up the best, ‘We’ve got tonight, who needs tomorrow, we’ve got tonight babe, why don’t we stay?’

Yours very truly,
PW

Much pondering on this day of rising...

Hello!

And Happy Easter to you, too.

I've decided to take my fate into my own hands. If I can learn one lesson from the Jesus Bunny, it's to overcome my own demons and rise above. What better day to celebrate this new lease on life than Easter Sunday?

I guess, arguably, Arbor Day could count...



I digress.

Remember the list I made several weeks ago after being heartlessly rejected from graduate school? I barely do, so let's refresh. It was a list of the five things I would like to do with my life. I've considered the list and the reality of it is, well, it's not very realistic. The idea of being a detective is interesting, but the idea of being a cop in order to become a detective is not interesting. So, let's check that one off the list.

Alt-country singer/songwriter? I don't think I should mistake the facts on this one. Just because I can relate to a lot of the pinings of other sad bastards and own a few western-style shirts does not make me qualifed to write or sing alt-country songs. Crossed off the list.

The product of a trust fund made the list. This is an example of the way I think. Or more accurately, the way I don't think things through. I'm not the product of a trust fund nor will I ever be. That is something one is born into and after 32 years of life I've finally accepted this is not me.

Also, I included a Real Housewife of Minneapolis on that list. I actually wouldn't mind doing this so much, except for the fact that I'm a.) not married, b.) living at poverty level and c.) not into shopping, plastic surgery or anything that any of those Real Housewives broads are into. And also, this show does not exist, so once again...I'm kind of a moron.

But novelist was on there...I've been thinking on this one. I have no patience or the talent to write a great American novel, but I would feel comfortable being a series writer like Carolyn Keene or Louis L'Amour or Nora Roberts. And two of my favorite genres are mystery and western fiction...so to combine the two? I could even pull one of my alt-country western style shirts on to sit down and write...what do you think?

In the event the western meets the mystery in novel form...what would an appropriate crime be to kick off the series? Cowboy Jack in the barn with a noose? Harlot Lorraine in the saloon with a pistola?

Get back to me,
Pistola