Lola. L-O-L-A Lola. Lalalala Lola.

When I go out and meet new people, most often people who are trying to hit on me and I really don't care to invest too much time into, I like to tell them my name is Lola. It short, easier than "BRYNNAN! NO, BRYNNAN! NOT BRENNA, BRYNNAN. B-R-Y... forget it," and if they're real smart, they get the picture pretty much immediately and leave me the hell alone.

And just like I have a sexually confused shark mascot named Herbert who sits on my dashboard, I have a name for my drunk self too. My alias, or just the really riotous/hysterical/sometimes mean/sometimes a little cry-y person who comes out of me when I'm drinking: Lola.

While I drink a lot during the week, it's actually not that often that I get shit house fall on your elbow slap a cabbie climbing tree drunk. But when I do, Lola always takes care of me. She always knows the right time to leave the bar: just the perfect slot where no one will really miss you and you can sneak out after you've called a cab, and everyone knows you're kinda drunk but not drunk enough to worry about you or call and bother you later, and no one will ask you dumb questions the next day like, "whoa, your face was really stuck to that peanut container! Are you okay?"

And one time I had this really creepy cab driver who kept asking me some borderline intrusive questions like bra size and sexual fantasies (don't remember this) and while Brynnan would have not thought twice about the dirty situation that could have been upon her, Lola told the cabbie to stop two blocks away from my house at an apartment complex, wandered around the building waiting for him to leave, and when he pulled away, took Brynnan's shoes off and ran like hell to the house.

That's friendship.

She usually makes fairly good decisions and always sets the alarm early. She always has a glass of water waiting by the bed and she always says what Brynnan has been keeping in for the past few weeks in angst. (Some of you might know Lola from Facebook or our last argument.)

And while The Kink's "Lola" is really a man, and my gay shark comment from above might have thrown you off, I am not a dude. And this is not Lola writing this post, albeit it is 1:47 in the A.M.

Goodnight,

Herbert's Uncle Brynnan, Lola.

You Might be an Accessory to Murder and Not Even Know It

Remember when you would wake up in your best friend's bed and her dog was in your face and her roommate was in the room looking out the window and a cop was knocking on the door and there was police tape all over their house and there were two bodies lying dead in the neighbor's yard?

I do.

Two weeks ago, I went to San Antonio to play with two of my best girls, and this is how we woke up one Friday morning. To all that stuff. Up there. What I just said.

Alarming to say the least.

Whahahappened was...

This craaaazy ex boyfriend was stalking his ex girlfriend who was staying at her friend's house across the street from Reagan and Amy's house. He had been sitting in his car since 5 AM that morning, waiting for her to come out and go to work, pulled into the drive, (right in front of my car!) gunsablazin', shoots her, then offs himself.

Super cool move, right?. Jack wagon.

While Reagan and Amy talk to the police and sort of panic for a while, I go back to sleep. This isn't my neighborhood... I live far far away from this tragedy and well, we partied pretty hard at the old Thirsty Horse last night and I did one too many shots with that large Mexican guy named Vincent and danced... a. lot. So, yeah, I'm gonna go to bed, you guys let me know if the shooter wakes back up and starts wreaking havoc on our side of the street.

So upon waking, I politely ask CSI if I can get my car out of the crime scene and go on my merry way. Reagan told me later that night Old Blue was all over the news. She's pretty much famous. And has since been partially traumatized because she had a front row seat for all the psychosis.

This is Old Blue back in her better days. You know, before the two-tone hood and before the old Dodge Ram-ed us, and before the tire blew out and tore half the fender off. She's still running strong, people. Reag is on the left and my sister, Clyde is the dear in the middle. The awkward tall girl with the bad blonde hair? No idea.

So now you have an idea of who all is involved in the murder matter. Minus Clyde.

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

And here's Amy...

Just so you can get an idea...

So we all, fortunately, put the whole thing behind us. Until this weekend when Old Blue and I returned to the scene of the crime. We park, like always, on the correct side of the road in front of the neighbor's house. Old Blue seems hesitant. I talk her down and tell her goodbye for the weekend as I am going to have to leave her and go to the Gumbo Cookoff outside of town without her. And so, Reag and Ames and I leave San Antonio and have a grand old time with this girl...

Julie. (Steady as a rock, this one.)

Anyway, grand old time, etc, etc. Then Amy...

who had come back home early for work calls me up and says there is a strange note on my car. When Reagan and I get back to San Antonio, we find this...

on my car. In case you can't read it, it says, in the most passive and quite aggressive fashion: "Do you realize two people died last week because you keep parking here? Park on you house."

Oh my.

No, I did not realize two people died due to my car, nor do I have a house nearby to park on. And I shrug it off. Some idiot has too much time on his/her hands waiting around for my car to reappear which he/she has obviously and wrongly associated with a murder/suicide and there is nothing to do but laugh about it. Reagan, however, is pissed. And wants answers.

"No one is going to treat my guest that way," she claims. So, we go to the woman's house across the street whose friend she was letting stay there and who also just happened to die a week or so ago from a crazy ex boyfriend. Can't wait.

The lovely woman did not post the note, but she thinks it was her other neighbor next door who she told some inside information to. (Gaw leee this is a long story). Apparently, crazy ex boyfriend saw my car in front of the house and thought I was some new guy the girl was sleeping with. And they know this because of text messages between the two people who died. Text messages that I'm sure went something like this:

-Who the f*ck are you boinking who drives a blue mustang?!

-Tell him he drives a 16 year-old girl's car. And I'm going to kill him. Then you! And then myself probably.

-Ya like that? Bitch?

...and maybe so on and so forth. I can't say for sure because I didn't read their phones, the police did. And neighbor woman. Who told her mean, nasty man-neighbor. Who then blamed the death of two people on my 1998 blue Ford Mustang.

And here's where things get very real for Brynnan. I had to walk away from the woman's house and sit down to try and calm myself, which was shaking vehemently. I took the note off my car, kept it for my scrapbook at home entitled "Why Does Weird and Sometimes Scary Shit Keep Happening to Me?", and while Old Blue has had some trouble starting up lately, she cranked right up and said, "Let's get the crap out of this Hell Hole."

Someone is Messing With Us

So it's Valentine's Day. Or what I like to call Kay Jeweler's Day. That place really knows how to milk this holiday. I don't even have cable and the commercials are still annoying me. It's not that I'm bitter about VD, it's just that I feel like it's a load of crap. De Beers probably invented it right about the same time they started destroying people and their lives for hunks of stone in the earth.

Effing De Beers. (As I finger my diamond earrings I accepted from my sister as a graduation gift. Gaw! I'm a fraud.)

Anyway, so I tell Internet Guy (or MDCJ, or Handsome Redhead, or whatever you want to call him) that I don't want anything for VD and I meant it. He probably thinks I'm setting some crazy woman trap in which if he fails to get me something I will pitch a hissy fit and later throw it in his face.

Wrong.

Just like my dad says on his birthday when I call him and tell him "happy birthday, Dad!"... "Just another day, Brynn." What a buzz kill that guy is.

Lately, however, the roommates and I have been receiving small gifts in the yard. A little holiday cheer for the blue house. Someone is definitely messing with us.

One night I came home to this.

Seabiscuit? What is that? According to the poster, it's a movie. In which Jeff Bridges participates and where "a long shot becomes a legend."

So the night I came home to said poster, I first (naturally) took a picture. Then, since I assumed it was one of the roomies', I brought it inside, only to hear the girls the next day, "What the hell is this? Where the hell did it come from?"

It's from the neighborhood watch. It's from the man/woman who keeps leaving us extraneous gifts on the porch. It's from the orange cat who posts up on the porch furniture and vomits on everything. It's his way of saying he's sorry.

That's it. The cat did it. He's sorry. Love, Fat Orange Cat.

Acceptable. But how do you explain the red mountain bike in the yard at 2 AM. How did you manage that, Fat Tabby Cat? That bike is pretty hefty. I know because I lugged it into the house at 2:03 AM, leery that the owner of red bicycle was hiding behind the fence and watching, waiting for some thief to come along and drag his bike away, (drag because he had cleverly let the air out of the tires so it could not be driven) and then jump the thief in a crazy hobo-like rage. These are all the things that my head made up as I panicked over the bicycle for the good three minutes I waited before I made my move; ultimately deciding that, Thanks Guy, I have a new bike.

And so... we wait. Will the gift giving continue? Are we going to get something for Valentine's Day? A De Beers diamond? A bouquet of red roses? Probably not. We're probably going to get a steaming pile of dog shit next. Because, let's be honest, someone is definitely messing with us. He/She is laughing his/her ass off because he/she keeps putting junk in our yard/on our porch, and we (mostly me) keep dragging it in our house and leaving it lying around looking cumbersome and really messing up the design of our living room. This is funny to this person. He/She is probably keeping a diary over how stupid we (okay, me) are. I know because if I were messing with someone by leaving random shit on their porch, I would for sure keep a diary about it.

Sister, Sister

Schwester. Hermana. Sorella. Soeur. Zus. Sister.

My sisters are the best thing that I have in my life. Thanks, parents.

Maura Lanell, or more affectionately and since the age of zero years old, Clydesdale.

The youngest of the three, this girl is phenomenal. ONE of the coolest things about Clyde is that she knows anything and everything about classic rock: she can name the song, year it came out, the lead guitarist, and how he died in his own vomit or plane crash or whatever.

She is incredibly easy going, up to a point of disgust oft times, and has a hard time passing by a couch (or any warm patch of softness anywhere) without falling asleep on it. Some of the best times I've had with Clyde were just driving around, listening to tunes, flipping a coin to turn left or right in the middle of nowhere, and just enjoying each other's company.

You can tell her anything and she does not judge, she is always accepting and charming beyond belief. While Maura is cool as shit, she is also uncommonly anal, which doesn't make a whole lot of sense... she doesn't care if you accidentally catch her hair on fire, but she'll plum flip out if you don't make her bed correctly; with this pillow here and this tag facing this way. Maura, like the rest of the women in our family, is at her peak in the summer. She functions best in the sun and she prefers her shorts short enough for her pockets to hang out the bottom. (And then Dad throws them away. And sometimes said shorts end up being mine and I'm like, "Hey Dad, why did you throw away my shorts? I'm 26, I do what I want." And he's like, "Come here, it's time for your whippin'." And then I run away and drive back to Austin.)

Maura despises the cold so much that it makes her vomit. She gets into her (skateboard) car and blasts the heat at such a high capacity that upon the car heating up, she finds she has created a hotbox which overcomes her with nausea and she gags and ultimately, vomits.

She is clever, smart, sensitive, and giving. There are countless times I recall Maura being a comfort to me when others were not able. A beautiful person inside and out. My best friend.

Best friend, that is, right behind this girl, who has known me every year of my life and who used to throw toys in my bassinet: Alyssa Dawn. Deta Dawn, Lyssie, Lyssa Belle, Ish, Assyla, Asylum, etc, etc.

Alyssa is one of the most dynamic persons you will ever meet. She is true to herself in any circumstance. She is proud, determined, and to some, a tad frightening. When I was in 1st Grade and Alyssa in 3rd, an older girl bullied me on the playground incessantly. Alyssa and I didn't have recess together but we passed each other on the way in/out. I had dealt with it as long as I could but I finally told Alyssa what was going on. She made me point the girl out to her, who was a year older than Alyss, and while I went back into school for the day and have no idea the exchange that was made between the two girls, the bully bitch never messed with me again. I almost feel sorry for her because God only knows what Alyssa said to scare the shit out of her. Empty threats, I can guarantee they were not.

Alyssa is honest beyond belief and sticks up for what she knows is right. She is incredibly knowledgeable about a little bit of everything; there are few subjects in which she cannot participate intelligently. She hates wire hangers, substitute cursing, ("If you're going to curse, you might as well say the whole damn word!") and when audiences sing the lyrics instead of the band in a live concert.

Her sense of fashion is incomparable to most. She is daring, bold, and striking. Eat your heart out dudes, she's taken.

Alyssa is like a classic country song that never goes out of style. She was country when country wasn't cool.

Lately, she's been dragging around this thing...

...Miss Bella Pearl. The newest woman in the family.

And of course, Maude: Joan Elizabeth.

This woman can rage on the piano, sing like a freaking dove, and do a mean Michael Jackson. (Thanks for learnin' us some moves, mom.) It is few and far between when all five of us get to be together and I look forward to it every time.

I could not live without my sisters and I cannot wait to see the woman that Bella Pearl will become. She seems to be coming along nicely so far, although her German could use some work...

Don't Take Your Guns to Town, Bill

The other night I was lying in bed, dead asleep, when I heard a scratching noise coming from inside my house. Waking up to the thought of being raped and murdered is less than ideal. And while I lie in bed for a good three or four minutes listening to the scratching, whimpering noise, my head started to get extremely hot and I realized, if there is someone in my home right now, the home that I am all alone in, this person is going to harm me and there is nothing I can do to stop him. I suddenly began wishing with all my might that when I reached under my bed, there would be a Remington 12 gauge pump action shotgun handy.

But there wasn't.

It was about this time when I came out of my dead sleep and realized that one of my roommates has a damn dog, a dog that I try with all my might to ignore, which is probably the reason for my scare. I completely forgot about little Belle, the tiny chihuahua, who is usually quiet as a mouse when her mother is home. Fear aside, I went to sleep, hell bent on buying a gun the next day.

But. I am from a home that does not believe in loaded guns. I grew up with a gun cabinet, full of rifles, shotguns, bows, arrows, ammunition, whathaveyou, but not one of those weapons was ever loaded and ready for use. It simply was not necessary. I also grew up with a very large man in my house who, when in a situation he felt was harmful to his children, no matter how asleep the large man was, would plundered through the house with strange lucidity, prepared to come to blows with whatever the thing was he felt was endangering the household.

I do not have that luxury now. What I do have, is a scared-y pants chihuahua.

So, what to do? Keep a loaded gun under my bed? The idea has me nervous. Then what? Keep an unloaded shotgun under my bed? What's the use. Put a sign on my door that says, "We have a gun. Don't break in or I'll shoot you in the leg. Probably not straight in the gut because, well, while it would stop you from doing what you're doing, I don't want to kill you, and eventually, you will probably die from a close range shotgun blast to the gut, and no one wants to sit in a courtroom over the fact that you're a dumbass. You should probably just leave while you have the chance."?

No.

You remember the Johnny Cash song, "Don't Take Your Guns to Town?" Poor Billy Joe was just a youth when he went into town for the first time. "He changed his clothes and shined his boots and combed his dark hair down"...? Remember? Anyway, his mother begged him to not take his guns to town, it's just asking for trouble. Damn it if Bill took his guns to town anyway, got into a bar fight, and tried to pull his gun, wasn't quick enough, and was shot.

Damn it, Bill!

DON'T TAKE YOUR GUNS TO TOWN, SON. LEAVE YOUR GUNS AT HOME.

Need advice, friends!

(Oh and if you are a serial rapist reading this post, I have already bought a gun and it's waiting on your ass.)

Quiet Time.

There are times when it's appropriate to be loud as all getout...

e.g.:

-in the middle of the a wheat field with your (naked) cousins, using candy Easter eggs as body paint.

-ordering a shot of whisky at 1:55 AM on West Sixth Street.

-screaming at your sister to give you back your super cool track pants stolen from HHS, 1999.

Then there are other times. When it's time. To shut

the hell

up.

To shut the hole in your face. Your trap. Your pie hole. Your yapper.

When I get off work, if it's not 2 AM, I like to go to a favorite spot of mine and sit at the bar and have a beer or two, wind down and go home. Most often, there's a friend or five around who are there and I'll politely exchange with them, then keep to myself and enjoy a beverage, maybe momentarily chat with the bartender, watch "Cheers," etc.

But sometimes, there's a loud crazy bitch at the bar, who has been there since Happy Hour, and wants to gab at everyone who walks in the door, about Obama and Healthcare and bisexuals and transgendered persons, and eventually will get kicked out because she's going to lunge at my friend Willis and try to strangle him, and all the while I am sitting, helpless to her ranting and raving, wishing that I would have done to a different bar to drink my beer, praying for her trap to shut.

What is it with loud people? Every day, my bar fills up with (mostly) men, watching sports, quietly. I watched last weekend as one guy who had brought one of his girlfriends along, rolled his eyes and sat in complete misery for three or four hours while she yapped her face off and he, trying to watch football, tried his best to respond to her questions and stay interested in her conversation, when really all the poor dude wanted to do was enjoy his Sunday, eat pretzels, drink beer and flirt with the bartender.*

And it's not just women. I know a couple dudes who realllly lovvve to be the loudest person in the room. While I know that I can be especially obnoxious sometimes too, I try not to make it a regular habit.

My buddy Todd said one day, "I wanna hang out and drink a beer with me." I get that. I think I'd enjoy it as well. I like me pretty okay. But then we started talking more about this idea.

Todd: "But I think I'd get annoyed with myself after a while."

Me: "Yeah, like all the crap about yourself you pretend is okay. It would really be starring you in the face then. There's no denying it."

Todd: "I think I would have to punch me in the face."

Me: "Yeah. I'd be like, 'Geeeeezzz, Brynnan! I've already heard that story, like, one billion times! And you're really terrible at the joke telling. Enough already! And you can go ahead and stop the writing everything in the air with your fingers, it's really getting old.' "

Todd: "Yep. I'd fight myself for sure."

I might just have to agree with that...

There are also times at the watering hole when you're sitting silently, minding your own, and the patron beside you, who is equally as kept to him/herself as possible, wants to engage you, but only briefly. I know the woman beside me doesn't want to talk to me, and she knows I don't want to talk to her. And the two of us, respecting the other's wish to not get too involved in one another, the conversation goes something like this:

Woman beside me at Donn's Depot, as she gets up to go to the bathroom: "Gotta go powder my nose."

Me: "Okay, I'll save your seat."

And later, as she is leaving for the night, the exchange that unfolds is one of familiarity and ridiculousness.

Woman: "Well, it's my witching time."

Me: "You're gonna turn into a pumpkin."

Woman: "I got a long way to go."

Me: "Be careful."

The End. Weird. And what just happened?

*I do not allow men at my bar to flirt with me. Unless I want them to.

The Woes of a Sports Bar When You're Only a Semi Sports Fan

While football fans make up a hefty percentage of my income (thanks, guys) I have to say that I could not be more pleased about the dwindling of this year's National Football League hooplah. Working in a sports bar has caused me great anguish in that I am unconsciously and relentlessly taking in information via ESPN and Sportsnation or whatever about Brett Freaking Favre and Wade Stinking Phillips. It is constantly (and silently because I refuse to put on the audio) sinking in my brain, allowing me to interject into fantasy football conversations, conversations that I do not wish to be a part of! How did I know that Eric Mangini was fired this morning? And while I like to sit at a bar/stadium and watch a football game like anyone else, I do not like to have my life steered by any one thing. Some of these folks live and breathe this shit.

Two of my Seattleite regs (Seahawks fans, congratulations by the way, that was weird) are two of my favorites because not only do they mix things up for me and keep me on my bartending toes by ordering the most random selection of drinks one can conjure in three hours, Ellie has what I think can only be diagnosed as National Football League Tourette Syndrome.* This is the sweetest woman I have ever met in my life and given one bad call/play, the woman turns into Cruella de Ville.

*NFLTS is a very dangerous and mostly contagious problem. Avoid loud/angry bar patrons when witnessing this display.

"TODAY ON: YOU'RE GONNA SEE IT A THOUSAND MORE TIMES TODAY!":

Will Favre retire? Should have a couple years back.

How many times can you play one airing of Sports Center in one day? Eleventybillion.

Is it okay to dump Gatorade on the owner? Only if he's an asshole.

Here's a report for you, Michelle Beadle: "Extreme Excess of Gatorade Leftover After Win Leaves Trainers Wondering: Are Our Players Getting Enough Hydration Out There?"