Camo brings out my freckles

Photo by Axle Adams from the Big One Tournament.

Photo by my uncle.

temporary tattoo artists

Monday night, Mila Minute and I hit the red carpet on roller skates for a booze-tasting party in Hollywood. A winery in Paso Robles (trying to market itself as the Pabst Blue Ribbon of wines) is working out a sponsorship arrangement with the Dolls. They hired Mila and I to pour their vino and apply temporary tattoos (bearing the winery’s logo) on party-goers tipsy enough to believe temporary tattoos are either cool or a good idea, ever.

We showed up in our uniforms and skates, and in addition to talking up the winery’s flagship red zinfandel to those who stopped by our table for a taste, everyone wanted to know more about the Derby Dolls. The league has a game on the 30^th, and naturally, neither Mila nor I brought fliers to promote. A few phone calls later and Tilda Whirl came to the rescue with promotional materials in tow.

“Have you seen the latest flier?” I asked Mila while we waited for Tilda to arrive. We were standing behind the table, munching on stinky cheeses and intermittently sipping our glasses of merlot, cab and zin. “It’s me! I'm flier famous.”

“That’s you on the flier?” she said. “Really? I thought it was me.”

“No, it’s definitely me. It’s obvious if you’ve seen the photo it’s based on.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Because I really thought it was me.”

“I’m telling you! It’s me. Just wait until Tilda gets here. She designed the flier. She can settle it.”

Meanwhile, the general manager of the winery stood with us behind the table, witnessing our egos do battle. We make the Diva Jammers look humble.

(when Tilda pulled up to the club, she said to Mila (without any prompting) "Did you know that's Judy on the flyer?" It's based on this photo by Charlie Chu).*

In the world of signature derby moves, skaters like Mila and Krissy Krash have the rocket whip and the leg whip. Judy Gloom, the Charlie Brown of the banked track, will forever be the skater who’s skates fly from her feet mid-jam. It happened again over the weekend at the Big One Tournament. As my skate soared into a cluster of ACDG spectators, I heard the very kind Cherrylicious attempt to make me feel better: “That’s totally happened to me too!” she hollered from the crowd. What she didn't realize is that it’s the fifth time it’s happened to me.

To my credit, after frantically lacing up my skate, I still managed to score on that jam, so maybe those 2-minute flat track jams aren't so bad after all.

And I’ve got new skates coming in the mail.

If you’re feeling like a road trip, Fight Crew is playing a flat track game in Bakersfield on Saturday. Let's hope none of those Bakersfield skaters try to eat my eye on the track.

Also, check out my recent guest blog over at The State I Am In. It’s supposed to be about cooking, but Georgia turned it into a tribute to my awesomeness. I’m not complaining. Georgia is my friend, and an amazing one at that.

*addendum to the wine-tasting event: Guess who woke up the next morning with her arms covered in temporary tattoos? Temporary tattoos are not as temporary as one might think. I wore long-sleeves to the library that day.

Rosehips

Jorga, my occasional acupuncturist, was staring into my ear this morning when he noticed something. He had already finished his business with the needles, paying special attention to the line extending up my arm to my shoulder, which I had injured last week, and was the reason for my visit. He twisted those needles one at a time, and when I winced and told him it hurt, he did it again.

"Are you having problems with your hips, too?" he asked my ear.

"No," I responded, but too quickly. Initially, a "hip problem" made me think of a joint problem, but the truth is, my hip is bruised as hell. I keep knocking the same spot, right where the bone protrudes a bit, and the result is layer upon layer of bruising -- a kaleidoscope of wounded yellows, blues, and gray-greens. At flat track practice last night, a newer skater wiped out in front of me, and I went down with her, crashing onto the concrete hip first, again. I jumped from the floor in a flurry of angry "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"s. The upper crust is of my kaleidoscope bruise is newly pink where the injury is fresh.

"Yes," I changed my answer. "I keep bruising my hip."

"Your left one?

"Yes."

"I can see that. It's here in your ear."

Then he taped some seeds in my ears and told me to buy Indian food because the tumeric would help my shoulder heal.

"I cook with tumeric all the time. I have it at home."

"You should go buy some Indian food now."

It was 9:30 a.m.

"O.K."