Friday, August 27, 2010

Pensive Pirate is Pensive.

I'm enjoying sound pirate labor in the fine Central West End neighborhood, pouring drinks and serving fishes, among other delicious foods. I'm deepening my love-hate relationship with the Vitamix and turning out delicious smoothies. They are better with rum, I assure you.

As always, I'm seeking more work, because a pirate loves nothing more than in the off-season, while wintering, to build up the pirate-stash of doubloons. Have to finance summer raiding somehow, yes?

I'm likely to take an excursion to Wentzville's Pirate Fest, coming up here in September, to drink cider and rum in the sunshine and tell too many jokes about ARRRRgyle socks.

Wonderful Things About Pennsic XXXIX:

1) Roasted whole goats, served with date sauce, in good company.
2) The 10th Anniversary party hosted by Iron Lance for Piers and Jules (spelling surely botched, entirely my own). There was a 25-lb snapping turtle delivered to the bar as a present, and shots of rum poured off the boar's head for Pennsic virgins.
3) There was epic dancing around many a camp fire, and the kindling and care of darling hookahs.
4) I filked Ani diFranco for the SCA. I'll post the lyrics once they've been tweaked, and will likely torment your ears with my rendition of it sometime in person soon. "Life in the SCA ain't easy, but the folk on the outside don't know..."
5) I learned a variant of "Nay, no never" to use in sharpening my SCAdian geography. My thanks to Baroness Lianette of the East for singing it to me.
6) The Canadians had brought a solar-powered 2-keg-large refrigeration unit. Amazing! Shared baked brie in their encampment, and heard some wonderful songs.
7) Work for the Pillaged Village was grueling but rewarding; I still have dreams/nightmares of checking in and pricing belly dance gear.
8) My tent is dead. Long live the tent!

Monday, August 16, 2010

Pennsic War XXXIX !

Most of this fine war in the Debatable Lands was spent working for merchants, however there was a smidgen of time for classic war pursuits. Bardic circles, dancing around fires, attending classes, consumption of spuriously-colored-beverages, meeting new friends, creation of delicious foods, general antics and enabling vice or virtue, depending on the light levels...

I was easily identifiable due to epic hair cut of wrath, for better or for worse. I also ate only 2 slices of bacon the entire war, an accident, I assure you, but one I won't let happen again. I now have one saturated, broken tent drying out in the backyard, a kitty cat happy to see me home, and about 8 loads of laundry in process.

With a few days to process, install filters, and verify, I'll have generated a few lovely war-stories suitable for public consumption.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Events which I have become more blase about this spring:

It's been a long summer. Content temporarily pulled for editing.

excellent. pilgrim's progress continues.

I still have 670 new e-mails of the 1,000+ from the 20-days at/recovering from Lilies War. Please continue to be patient with me, I am responding as quickly as humanly possible.

I am still boxing, scrubbing, cleaning, moving, and striving not to unpack anything and failing. I now have zero dollars, some pocket change, and way too much need for an industrial-strength vacuum.

The hatred I have for this convent and its violations of the laws of thermodynamics knows no bounds. In four hours, the allotted time will have expired. I declared Friday that ere the fine city of Saint Louis failed to net me paying work by 9 a.m. Monday, I would begin the process of moving south to NOLA or north to OMAHA.

Now the craigslisting begins in earnest. I have no actual cash-money or W-2 jobs, in spite of a week of schmoozing, cruising, dropping apps and hoping/praying. Fuck this shit. Fuck this city (or not, rather). I am exhausted, I am impoverished, and I am applying for government assistance like a paper-work-monster.

Dear US Government: I paid all my taxes, even when I made little-to-no-money ever, at all. I dream of a day where in a calendar year I net more than $10,000 - $14,000. I made/had more money as a professional student. Now I'd like to benefit from the pseudo-Socialism that upsets the main-line Republican party so much. Thanks you!

In good news, all this industrial-strength cycling is adding definition to my thighs. Awesomesauce! My core muscles are improved, as are biceps and forearms. When I grow up, I will be an epic fencer for my kingdom. DRACO INVICTUS!

Sunday, June 27, 2010

demarcation delurkification dissipation dilution

It's been a long summer. Post pulled, to be restored at a later time.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

This was going to be articulate...

Instead, in short-form:

Lilies War outside of KC in the kingdom of Calontir was amazing. I had no internet from Tuesday June 10th until yesterday at 5 p.m. Thank you to #phoenix who made the netartubez run on the laptop of exploding doom yesterday evening.

I love Henri's, rainbows, mud puddles, and new friends.

I hate that every pair of shoes I own is now growing its own mold farm.

I am moving. RIGHT NOW. So if you have a basement/truck/strong arms/willingness to do an act of service for a pirate, she promises handsome rewards. In the form of brownies and awesome, mostly. Looking for pirate booty? Helping Pasqualina di Bisclavret move/get a ride to Crystal Chamfron over the river/re-auth in rapier/not kill people has rewards.

The latter's not a joke; I've been good for the first 26 years, 6 months, and 28-odd days of my life this far, what with the constant moving, boxes, bullshit, lonliness, library books, guilt, shame, neuroses. If you choose to cross me/slow me down/criticize me (like my father/family/teachers) then I will throw things at you. They could be water balloons. It could be napalm.

Please don't find out the hard way.

This PSA brought to you by #tiggerears #woootstlPRIDE !

Sunday, June 6, 2010

Once upon a time, when I was young(er) and foolish(er)

From's article, "How I Became a Pothead" by Cary Tennis:

"Sometimes in recovery we will say things, like, For all the trouble it caused me, this drug or that drug also saved my life. These things we say are sometimes true. We need something at a certain time in life to get us over something or get us to something or through something; we are lost and empty, and some of us would kill ourselves or kill somebody else if we couldn't find something to momentarily give us what we need. So we find these things. We find pot or alcohol or pills. We take it and we feel better. We figure, now we know the answer. Later, because this is only a substitute for an answer, or a temporary answer, our reliance on this thing brings us to grief. But we can understand how these things happen, especially when we are young and don't know anything."

[ ]

I've been feeling pensive about drugs, addiction, the medicated mind, and the need for even legal, prescribed medications following an experience with a room mate both dysfunctional with and without his perfectly-legal medical-industry-approved need for Adderal to function. My own trip to the ER, sent by well-meaning co-workers, and the hell that was the 3 days it took me to process the Atvian out of my system has generated its share of rage, shame, and tears.

Frustration that I let myself get so burnt out and spent that
1) someone in power concurred that I needed to go the ER
2) other folks working there who had known me for all of 2 days declared that I was surely drugged out of my gourd
3) a new friend, seeing parallels in my experience and her own (all true) took me in and promised it would be okay

I had suspicions of what anti-anxiety drugs would do to me; I've avoided like the plague other pyschotropic drugs. I've also avoided the therapy that could lead to such prescriptions: I watched all my friends from 1997-2010 bouncing from experimental drug regimen to the next, hoping for balance, feeling, life. Thirteen-year-olds shouldn't have been put on Paxil, as far as I'm concerned, because I was the one holding the hair, pleading with my friend not to slit her wrists, not tonight, oh please, at the age of 14. That's a lot for anyone, at any age.

I had pitcher ears, a deep shyness and social anxiety, and because I was so much better at hiding my own brokenness, I was often called, "the most stable" of friend groups, always available to help sort the pieces, encourage the anorexics and bulemics to eat something besides celery and gummi worms and laxatives. This makes my friends today laugh, belly laughs filled with pain and disbelief. For years though, I was the best post-Victorian Methodist-Minnesota-raised Protestant-Christian girl -- I couldn't sin, I wasn't permitted. But Jesus said, "Make me a servant, humble and meek," and I have that song memorized as perfectly today as when I learned it for choir at the age of 12.

Serving meant listening, hugging, hoping, praying. It meant holding sobbing bodies and telling them that no matter what the teacher had said, the parent had said, the ex-boyfriend had said, that I believed s/he was beautiful, intelligent, and perfect. What else could I say? I believed these truths; I could see inner beauty glowing through spiderwebs of self-doubt.

At the time, and even today, I often have trouble seeing my own beauty, in mirrors, writing, and in life. I have those same spiderwebs wrapping me up tight, tangling my hopes and dreams in a slurry of disbelief, anxiety, and conviction that I shall never be good enough, not for anyone, any job, any man or woman, or for my society/religion/family.

I believed myself an ugly duckling, a boyish, bookish girl trapped by obligation to God, family, education. The first boyfriend was a shock to my system: how could he think I was cool, or pretty, or worth his time?

I doubt there is any surprise that this kind of emotional roller coaster has chased me up and down my teens and early twenties, even to today. How could I be loved, when I couldn't love myself most mornings, days, and nights?

I'll tell you the lie I tell myself when I wake up in the morning, and before I go to bed at night: I am better now. I love myself. I know that I have imperfections, that I am learning, that I often fuck up the church's money and that I will likely continue. I will try too hard, I will give too much, I will let my people-pleasing, child-protecting, heal-and-serve mechanism devour all of my self, my being, and my energy and I will crash and burn.

Once downed, I shall wallow, deep in shame and regret. I will wish I had done x, or y, or z differently. I will dream of how, one day, when I grow up, things shall be different.

When I crawl out of that gutter of despair, it will be with a rope-sheets-braids-ladder of love for myself.

And if some nights, it's nicotine or alcohol, loud industrial dance music, or Ani diFranco sing-a-longs with my cat that help me to believe that I love myself, I will use those tools. I will drink the last martini, polish off all of the rum, and smoke 10,000 cigarettes until I am hoarse and hacking.

With these crutches, I will remind myself: there is love enough for me. And when I have more, I'll share it again.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

When I grow up ...

... things will be different.

In the meantime, piracy as usual means paperwork. Who knew letters of marque took so much energy to maintain?

It was a true pleasure to make some charming new acquaintance this weekend. Best wishes to all on their travels homeward!

Sunday, May 2, 2010

I write letters.

Dear Saint Charles:

I do find you rather charming and quaint. However, you remind me of pretty much everywhere I lived until Saint Louis City. It's not always a pleasant set of memories. Would you do me a best-friend favor and let me go back across the bridge? Some time this week, preferably? I'd like to make it to the Complex for tomorrow night, actually. Could we arrange that? Pretty please?

Yours most nervously,

Landlock'd Piracy

File under: xkcd was right

Presentation of bachelor breakfast a la Saint Charles, MO, in the compound:

1) Giant bowl of deep fried potato slices
2) Giant bowl of crispy bacon
3) Two buttery slices of toast (mine)
4) Eggs served w/ choice of cheese
5) Coffee + optional condiments, including coconut creamer
6) Dipping sauces of mayonnaise + ketchup. Offer of horseradish, cobra-bottle hot sauce.

Wait, wait a minute: NO, Colt 45 is not a breakfast food.

6) IceHouse delivered, cracked. Sips.

NO. This is not ... hmmm... Must I keep the rings on the can? I want to slice them up so the turtles don't get their heads stuck. And birds don't drown in rivers when they...

What's that you say? Shut the frak up and drink the beer? Well ... if you insist... I suppose I did eat all that breakfast ...

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

burnt yer netwebz to a ckrispy finish

demotivational posters
see more

blame the patriarchy until i feel better...

Well, hell. will make me feel better:

-----"Anyway. Unable to go back to sleep, I flipped on the TV. The show was PBS workhorse “This Old House.” Some strawberry blonde dude was converting a purlin into a hex-jig, or installing a new blart box in an old neffit; I don’t really remember on accounta I was in a stupor at the time. All I know is, I watched through swollen, sleep-deprived eyes as the strawberry dude effortlessly pulled heat-sensitive galvanized conduit through a wooden alloy breezeway and had the new helicopter landing pad or low-voltage window-washer all up and running in about three minutes flat. Impressive!"

_____"The next thing I knew, there was a young assistant TV producer named Tristyn on my doorstep.* This was fairly unusual. I have erected fences and laid land mines and taken other antisocial measures specifically to keep assistant Tristyns off my doorstep."

bombing until oblivion! it's the only way out!

broke Kthulu haus into BABAYAGA MODE

Content pulled for editing. Pardon the re-organizing.

Friday, April 23, 2010

fixing the world, one rubber ducky at a time.

My current solution to each & every post-modern existentialist feminist crisis is: 1) flail 2) flail 3) flaily art 4) flaily dance 5) RUBBER DUCKY BATH TUB TIME 6) collapse at Kthulu House 7) wake up confused on living room floor, under dog, debris 8) rinse repeat

Thursday, April 22, 2010

VIA Oatmeal: Why not to name lakes while eating dinner:

This pirate approves of this incidence of (drumroll please) landlocked piracy! EpicWin for Webster, Mass.

Forty Cannon Salute *bambambam* *pewpewpewpew* [oh noes party crashed by laser-powered kittens]

overboard!into the kayaks!

in my dreams I'm dying all the time

Hey, good news! Scheduling a flight/Amtrack epic event (okay, so a small 2-4 day excursion) to SLC to pick up my car. I am putting ducks in rows here in STL so I can go and be a good auntie to impending baby creature/monster arriving in SLC.


May 1: Leaving candy on doorsteps, knocking, and running away screaming. Still fun after 20 years.

[first Thursday in May] Somewhere in here is b3r site dinner. HEY, who's coordinating that for me? If I'm allowed, I'll cook you all vegan sausages and you'll cry. It's true. I've seen it. How to make a Calontiri fighter sob: soysausage. Bwahahahahahaha. With a side of tofu salad. And moar seaweed. *wicked cackles* I'll feed you nori, and you'll like it, gorramit.

May 8: First Tower Grove Farmer's Market. Play Where's Waldo. See if you can find me there.

May 14/15/mumble: Epic win! My lil sis is gradumataing and I am SO DAMN PROUD that I'm caravanning to btown to ensure that she has an awesomesauce partay. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! [You can tell I'm excited, I can't spell anymore. And I devolved in LOLgrammar]

Saturdays in May: Farmer's Markets in Tower Grove make my heart sing. Wow, I love them so.

Thursdays starting in maybe June: Downtown farmer's market: play Where's Waldo again.

In June, there's this thing? in Kansas? named Lillies? Apparently I'll be there too. Encampment still under negotiations -- who's offering better booze in exchange for my epic vegan camping kibble and awesome sauce barista/babysitter/camp counselor/firebuilder/northshield/canadian skillz? Although, admittedly, there is one encampment with a tiny monster that holds a number of compulsions for me. Oh, tiny monsters. I do <3 you so hard. She's my favorite frakking marmot in the barony.

[Trust me, Where's the Landlocked Pirate is almost as much fun as the game Schrodinger's Underpants.]

So, it's time for another epic Landlocked Piracy summer. If you want to book a nibble [and careful, the War Kittens are out for my soul] [and I apparently have a legal and binding contract regarding a shoulder-mount, backpack portable water balloon siege weapon that I have to have for the defense of Northshield's neighboring shire out in the boondocks on the Serengeti at Pennsic] don't hesitate to write/telegraph/postcard/postsekrit/message-in-a-bottle me.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

First World Problems.

Who the frak do I have to screw in this Saint Louis City of Three Damned Rivers to get a cab at 6:14 a.m. when I am stone cold sober?!


This landlocked pirate is EXCEEDINGLY upset about her airship being in drydock in damnable Salt Lake City. She also can't get four consecutive days off of work with enough notice to go get it.

She's a pirate. She's never off the clock.

ARGH 6 A.M. and I'm changing voice. HALPZ, send a chariot! plz?

Wednesday, April 7, 2010


Steampunky art/costume/decor supplies treasure hunt on Cherokee yesterday was a *smashing* success. Today and tomorrow are *artcation*! Wherein one requests off of work to have sufficient time to make ART! for the soul.

If you think you'd like to take part in the art-party/construction party/costuming party please let me know: it's going on allllllll day and allllll night!

[Breaks for sleeping tbd based on eta wherein a='keels over']

Monday, March 29, 2010

The Cabeirium!

The Landlocked Piracy crew is thrilled to bring you news of an excellent event: The Cabeirium. Pasqualina di Bisclavret is hosting this gothic steampunk dance party Thursday, April 8th. You should check out The Cabeirium on facebook or blogger

To snipe the phrase from Bloomington Indiana's Chapel Perilous:

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

This is what happens when you are hired by three places simultaneously

1) You don't see your friends or family, only your co-workers, who become both
2) You lose all sense of time/space/place and timeslip
3) You think many words but have not time in which to write them
4) You don't get to make art, and it's all you want to do
5) You eat crackers standing up in your kitchen with tuna fish from a can at 4 a.m. and can't tell if it is breakfast or dinner
6) Produce rots in your fridge from neglect
7) Your cats snub you
8) Your laundry piles up to 12-load mountains
9) You fail to do any and all paperwork
10)You run out of stamps, toilet paper, and conditioner. Simultaneously.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Pirate Relocation Crew

So, excellent pirate news:

There are two new jobs that pay both in perks and in green hard cash. They are in a field both draining but fulfilling, and they're both for good management. I hope to continue to work at both through all of 2010 if not longer. I hope to make a reasonably lucrative living from both to stick with them, as well.

There is a brand new pirate-ship-dry-dock in an excellently tall building with southern exposure. I am excited both for new piratical neighbors of high quality and mad skills, as well as for slipper commuting during times of insomnia. Also, the neighbors equal an outlet for compulsive cooking while living alone.

There is a shiny new foster-pup named Kahn Zeus. As in Kahn of the Great Mongrel Horde. Must credit Massa Aelered le Verrier du Saint Tobain for that one, since the Mongrel Horde being managed by Zeus is his. When I left the dogs were playing tug of war. adorable He is a Husky/German Shepherd mix, 6 months of age, and smart as a tack. He's already learned 20 words in 5 languages, hooray for linguistic experiments. We're going to take epic walks in Forest Park and it will be for the win!

Yes, of course, since you asked. He already knows that "Hold" means "freeze right there mister!". He also knows that "Grok" means "stop and think about it, fool."

I also have an official position working for the Barony of Three Rivers, the Baron Ravz and the Baroness Kajsa, in the Kingdom of Calontir in the Knowne World. I am coordinating Site-Dinner for the barony and I look forward to coordinating with gusto. Hooray!

By tonight my toothbrush will live in my own damn bathroom, comma honey. I love and honor the four or more toothbrushes that are strewn across the city in varying places, proximitous to sofas-of-no-obligation but I look forward to my own nest and my own things, all in their spaces and places.

A shout-out to the households who have hosted me during this time of stress and trial, you all know who you are and I appreciate you so hard and will cook you many wonderful foods.

"How America can Rise Again" from The Atlantic Online


“When I was growing up, these bridges and roads and dams were a source of real national pride and achievement,” Stephen Flynn, the president of the Center for National Policy in Washington, who was born in 1960, told me. “My daughter was 6 when the World Trade Center towers went down, 8 when lights went off on the East Coast, 10 when a major U.S. city drowned—I saw things built, and she’s seen them fall apart.” America is supposed to be the permanent country of the New, but a lot of it just looks old."

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Some linguists have children.

Others have clever foster dogs. Zeus, the Husky/German Shepherd mix, has already learned 20 words in five languages. Language learning for the win! Nibble by nibble, he grows in wisdom and tongues.