I would like to give you my side of the story when it comes to Tricia and her cursing history. She just wrote about the day she swore at the Mulheisen's outside her sixth birthday party. That was a great day! In fact, it's one of the more famous days in our family lore.

Trish has always been a bad-ass kid. When she was a baby, she would make mean faces at people who were looking at her in the supermarket... when she learned to talk, I swear one of the first phrases she learned was, "What are YOU looking at?" And it sucked for her, because she was like a cute little wide-eyed, curly-haired baby you'd see in a cartoon or something. So people wanted to look at her. She'd have none of that, though. She'd stick her tongue out, yell at them, cover her face with her hands... very anti-paparazzi.

Later on, as she went to school, things got worse. She was very brave, because she knew her big sister would be there to get her out of a mess if need be (that's me!) and she just had a take-no-shit attitude from day one of getting on the school bus. By the time this birthday party came around, she had learned quite a few choice words, both at school and through some anonymous sources who wish to remain anonymous (coughMEcough).

So there she was, all decked out like a little princess on her birthday. Smiling, all her little buddies there playing around in the front yard and in the street, and that deep voice came blasting through the windows to everyone still in this house: "MOTHERFUCKERS!" It was like the Exorcist-- surely this cute little girl didn't just say THAT!

Yeah, she did. I remember my Mom's face just going white, and her bottom teeth seemed to come out under her top lip in a sneer as her brow furrowed deeply into her skull, and she harshly whispered, "Did I just hear what I THOUGHT I heard? Was that... Tricia?"

Goon that I was, I laughed and nodded yes. My friends Kristen Marsh and Tracy McCreadie were there that day, and they were laughing too. I think all that laughing sent my Mom into a tizzy of fury, and she practically knocked herself over trying to run to the door to scream at Tricia. It was great!

After that incident, the next famous Tricia Cursing Moment came when she was about 8 or so. I had been turned on to Eddie Murphy's standup stuff from the kids in school and on the bus, and I had bought a cassette tape of "Delerious" and laughed my ass off at it on a regular basis. I remember calling Tricia in to listen to the Ice Cream Man sketch, as well as Aunt Bunny Falling Down the Steps. Well, after that, I know Trish listened to the whole tape. I was trying to keep the whole thing a secret from my parents so they wouldn't confiscate the tape; there was a whole mess o' "motherfuckers" in there.

One day, Tricia is out side, messing around and talking out loud to her cat. The window to the kitchen was open, and my Mom was inside cooking dinner. (Note to Tricia: maybe your problem is OPEN WINDOWS. Look around next time.) Anyway, Trish is pretending the cat is saying stuff in this little voice, and she says, "You don't hit me, motherfucker!"

Once more, Mom goes and swings the backdoor open and gasps, "What did you say??" and Trish gets in trouble.

Now at this point, I grab Trish and pull her into my room. I coach her. "Whatever you do, don't tell them you heard it from my Eddie Murphy tape. Say you heard it on cable, on HBO or something."

Trish agreed, and we went to dinner. After dinner my father goes, "SO what's this I hear... you were saying some nasty words outside." Trish nods. My mom picks it up:

"Where did you hear that stuff?" (Mind you, Mom seems to have forgotten about the birthday party already--so how bad can it really be??)

My heart is pounding, but I know Trish won't let me down. Trish says meekly, "Lisa's Eddie Murphy tape."

Traitor!! Well, I had to turn over my beloved tape, and heard my parents playing it in the next room and laughing at it. I was told I couldn't buy stuff like that anymore, blah blah. A few months later, I found the tape hidden in my Dad's glove compartment in his truck, so I cleverly took it out, made a copy of it, and put it back in there so he wouldn't know.

As luck would have it, he happened to have an Andrew Dice Clay tape in there (not mine) too. So I "borrowed" that one and made a copy of that at the same time, and had a whole slew of new nursery rhymes to tell the kids the next day on the bus.

I'm sure Trish told her friends all those rhymes, too.

Trish and I were talking about Paula Cole yesterday. That should be comedy enough for you, right there.

But still, we could only think of two songs she ever had. They are, of course:

*I Don't Wanna Wait
*Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

Both of these songs CRACk my shit up! She sings so funny. Sorry if anyone reading this is a fan, but I have to be honest and true to myself here, above all else. And the honest truth is, I think she is a lowdown crappy songwriter/singer.

"I Don't Wanna Wait" was used in the unfortunate Dawson's Creek as a theme song. That alone opens it for public mockery. If you are a theme song, the bottom of the barrel is being the one that accompanies James Van Der Beek wearing dockers and looking all pensive on a weekly basis. The cool theme songs all want to beat up this theme song and take its lunch money. This theme song has probably been pantsed by the theme song to "The Jeffersons" on more than one occasion.

Also, it was put to good use by Cartman on South Park on a couple of choice episodes, making it funny in a whole other way. My favorite SP moment featuring a Paula Cole song was when Cartman went back in time to 1776 and he beat the Young Messenger boy to death-- and then he hummed this ditty while dragging the body off. (In case you can't tell, I love the humor on South Park; hence, the name of this blog. Oh, Beeeeen. Taco-flavored keeses.)

No one really knows the words. You know: "I don't wanna wait! For OUR lives to be Ov-er, I wanna know right now, da dee dee deee!" Then you have that kicking "doo doo doo, do do do, doo doo doo, do do do" high-note part of the song to get STUCK in your HEAD ALL DAY, Goddammit! Grrr! I do not like you, Paula Cole! I do not like you with a Pole. I do not like Paula Cole, I do not think she has a soul.

Next up: Cowboys. The woman is obsessed with finding the cowboys. She asks this in a song, pretty much to anyone who'll listen. I think this song was an attempt to get men to be like cowboys. She seems to be saying, "OK, I know you guys all think I am hot and all. Well listen, if you want to be with The Paula (she calls herself this all the time, I'd wager), you need to do this, and this, and rope this and have a cookout with that and talk like John Wayne. Do this and you may one day attain The Paula."

Nope. I don't buy it. I for one, am not looking for the cowboys. I know they are gone, as she says, but for me, it's better off not knowing where they have gone off to. In all probability, the cowboys have gone to Dallas. Not sure why, but the seem to feel a need to congregate there and play football.

Oh, wait, not THOSE cowboys. Shoot. She was talkin' 'bout them smelly guys in the hats, with the chaps and the guns. Oh, hold on. Yeah. I think I DO know where they've run off to. They are hanging out at the Brass Rail Saloon here in Phoenix (on the north side of Thomas Road, just across from the Walmart and Home Depot). Nope, wait, that's just smelly guys. The cowboys. Hmmm. She has me stumped. I don't know where they went.

So, anyway, my point is: Paula Cole sings dumb songs. We know she doesn't want to wait for her life to be over, and that she is searching for the type of man who can sit around the campfire and fart a lot. And where is she now? When is her new album coming out? What will be her next hit? Has she seen that movie where James Van Der Beek plays a cowboy? I'll give you all a tip: if you spot Paula Cole hanging around your yard, taunting the dog and drinking from your hose, you can catch her in a ColeTrap(tm) by putting a small TV/VCR combo in there with this movie playing; it gets her every time. I've caught that rascally bitch four times in the past month alone.

And keep the lids on your trash cans to keep her from nosin' through your garbage.

Random thought #4988-A76T7332HQ:

How come redheads are called redheads? Why aren't they just referred to as "reds" or "auburns"?

I bring it up because it's the only hair color that's used to quantify its owner by taking the color itself and adding the word "head."

I mean, look at it this way: There are "brunettes" but there are no "brownheads."

"Blondes" but no "yellowheads."

Now when we get to black, silver, green and grey hair, it gets tricky. With these words we add "-haired." But they are, again, never called blackheads, silverheads, greenheads or greyheads.

It's just sort of weird for redheads. It's not their heads that are red, it's their hair. Imagine how freaky it would be to see a true redhead walking around. Not just someone with an intense blush or sunburn-- I'm talking pure red fury skulls.

Anyway. Just somethin' to think about.

Hey, I wanna give a shout out to the EAST!

You guys out there on the eastern seaboard rock. I just realized more people there read my blog than people here in the state where I live now. I know where the love is. Thankya kindly.

Now that THAT'S out of the way, let's talk about liquid nitrogen!

Yesterday I had to get some weird-ass alien-looking stuff frozen off a part of my body. Okay, it was my second toe on my right foot that was infected with da sickness. I thought it was that thing called "jungle rot" and then I remembered, oh yeah, I live in the desert where it hasn't rained since April. Then I thought it was "the plague", and then I remembered, oh yeah, that was eradicated with the advent of penicillin and better hygiene practices. Finally, I thought it might be I was "trapped under a boulder while I was out hiking and had to saw my own toe off to escape", and then I remembered, oh yeah, I haven't gone hikin' in quite a spell, and I still had my own toe when I looked down there to prove it. The truth is way less exciting than all that. I had SARS in my TOE! They diagnosed it because there were all these Hong Kong-ians following me around everywhere with face masks on.

They had to burn the SARS (aka: plantar wart) off my toe using super-cold methods. It was weird. I won't get into the details since I know it's breakfast time for some of you, but it felt like I was in Hogwarts' infirmary for this. The nurse taking care of me was this slightly-lumpy, smiling lady in a pink dress. She was making jokes about Push-Up Pops when she came in the room with a styrofoam cup full of liquid nitrogen, or whatever it is they use to freeze shit off people's bodies. Next, she froze up my toe with this stuff and when she was done, she said, "Okay, want to see something cool?"

She then proceeded to throw the contents of the cup across the room, towards the door. Mind you, this is a substance that could freeze your FACE off if it hit you. And here she is, throwing it around like it's confetti. As the stuff hit the wall and carpet, it made a POOF sound and dissipated in a cloud of smokey haze. It was like she had done a spell.

When I told Tom about this, his reaction was: "What if a doctor had just opened the door at the exact moment she threw that? AHHHHHH!!!" I think this exact scenario happened once on an episode of "Gimme a Break," and Nell Carter threw shit all over a young Joey Lawrence as he was climbing down out of his tree house.

OK, maybe that's not totally accurate. I have no idea if he really had a tree house in that show. But Nell Carter, much like a capuchin monkey, is known for throwing shit. May she (and her shit) rest in peace.

I've got a claim to fame, you know. In college, I was on the radio.

Back in The Day, I was a DJ on the college station and I was so good at it, it was INSANE. I mean seriously, people, I really knew how to hit play on a CD player. I could say things into a microphone better than 80% of the other DJs. I could even read things out loud in an even and clear voice. Yes, the world of College Radio was a candy store with all the doors flung open for me to saunter right in and help myself to all the sweetness. I was the BEEOTCH. Yeeaaah.

My show was called Jigsaw, and I went on the air every Sunday morning at 8am. Which was not easy. I had to drive 40 minutes or so each way to get down to college. I was a commuter and lived at home. But my show was so worth it, it made me grit my teeth and punch things! And then I would giggle and rock back and forth and spit jellybeans at people. I was hardcore dangerous with my weirdness. And since it was so early on a weekend, I was extra goofy with sleepiness, so the show only benefited from my stream of consciousness ramblings. (Or, so I like to think, anyway.)

Jigsaw's angle was that I would play something like Bad Religion's "Shades of Truth" and follow it up with an incongruous song such as Louis Armstrong's "Mame." I also spent hours carting up samples of dialogue from different sources. I would mix in Simpsons quotes, or snippets of historical speeches. (Nixon's "I am not a crook" speech mixed in over the intro of Squirrel Nut Zipper's "Prince Nez") In all probability, I was probably the only college senior on the eastern seaboard staying up late on a typical Saturday night to find choice Art Carney quotes and taking pieces of dialogue out of "The Jerk" to use in my show.

One item that found its way onto my show early was the audio to the "We are Indians!" scene from "Cannibal: The Musical." What a gem! Nobody knew what the fuck I was playing when I would air this, and I'd get some calls and then I would spend the next airbreak talking up this movie. It's priceless, weird stuff. I got to showcase a lot of little-known movies like this that no one else would have known about otherwise.

I also did some dream interpretation on-air, using a dream dictionary someone had given me for my birthday. I had to shut that down though after being thoroughly stumped by someone who called in wanting to know what her dream about a squirrel who hides ketchup packets inside people's tires meant. I really couldn't decipher it, so I told her that it would seem that she was going to lose a lot of money soon--either lose money or her teeth. Half the dreams in the dictionary were interpreted as meaning: "You will lose a tooth." I don't know why the dream dictionary writers were so obsessed with dental loss, but I only read 'em as I read 'em.

I ended up with some followers, too. A lot of people liked the celtic crap I would play on rainy mornings. Sometimes a hung-over girl would call and make a request going out to her friends to hear "I Touch Myself" or something I would never really play. I mentioned wanting a "Preacher" comic on the air, and someone mailed a bagged-and-boarded copy to me at the station. I even had dinner with a listener and his wife once. I was on a roll.

Then I graduated. Gravy train, end of the line. Everybody off!

I had one more DJ job after that; at a local station out of Red Bank, near the train station. I was a lot more confined in that job, though: I had a play list, and had to play "My Heart Will Go On" once an hour. The owner of the station was this greasy NJ type (OK, not to be stereotypical, but I am referring to those guys with the toupees, the Gorilla Wear pants... you know who I'm talkin' about) with a lot of shady money, and he once asked me to come to his office to talk about a TV show he was producing, and to WEAR A SKIRT.

Like the naive spazz that I am, I did it. I showed up in a skirt, and he gave me a copy of a script of a show he wanted to shoot down the shore somewhere-- it was described to me as being "a cross between Baywatch and NYPD Blue." He wanted me to take the lead role of a "bitter divorced cop." Here's a section of the script, as my memory serves: My character would come in to a darkened apartment after a long day on "the beat." I threw down my bags, and went into the bathroom to take a long hot bath.

Next, there are flashback scenes to "a happier time". (I know there's a lot of " "'s in here, but it's the nature of this beast, so bear with me.) There would be a shot where my character was remembering her marriage. The first thing she remembers? Being in the shower with her husband (who would be played by the producer's greasy, toupee'd son) and licking his chest.

O-kaaay. I think we all know what I did next. I took that script and I--

You can now catch this show on at 2am on your local cable channel. It's called Walking Out of the Office and Never DJing At Your Stupid Station Again, You Perv.

Sad, really, isn't it. I know.

I would have made an awesome bitterly- divorced cop!!

If I could be any food I would be a NOODLE.
Noodles are all kinds of shapes. They are flat, they are thick; they are elbow shaped; they can even be penis-shaped (I'm told)! Noodles, noodles. I love noodles!

The best part of noodles is how delicious they are. I seriously have a thing for noodles. I mean, really, it's too much. I have to eat noodles on a daily basis, or else my body shuts down and my liver slips between all my other organs and tries to escape through my peehole. Man, it's not pretty. So you see, I MUST have noodles everyday or I die.

I just had some noodles for lunch. I had macaroni and cheese, with crumbled croutons on top. Mother of Yum, it was great. Comfort food all around.

Maybe I should work on constructing a noodle helmet. Much like a beer helmet, but with long pieces of spaghetti that come down off of convenient NoodleSpools(tm) on each side of my head. There could also, hypothetically speaking, be a SaucePassThrough(tm), wherein the pasta could go through a tube of sorts where nutritious sauces, like alfredo and marinara could be deposited on its surface, enroute to my mouth. It would take years of dedicated research to come up with an attachment to add grated parmesan cheese to this helmet, though. Science has only come so far, after all.

I am glad as all get-out that they finally invented the PASTA PRO. Holy hell, I was praying that science would catch up with noodle-preparation at some point, and they finally did. Before the Pasta Pro, all the noodles would get poured straight down the drain with the cooking water, and noodles would dump out all over the other foods and the good china plates like a foul-smelling Lou Albano throwing his fat ass down on your nice clean couch to watch "Hollywood Squares". Man, it was just a mess.

The Pasta Pro has one of the greatest commercials, too. There's a shot of Life Before the Pasta Pro, where the mother is frantically trying to cook her family a nice, Christian meal of spaghetti, and the noodles are getting away from her in a big way. The commercial shows a shot of Dad and The Kids, sitting at the dining room table, all of them looking anxious since the pasta has not yet been presented to them. Lazy assholes, I think. Would it KILL YA to get up and help poor ol' Mom out? What, is this 1954 all the sudden? But anyway, the kicker to this scene in the commercial is when the Father Figure Man grimaces, angrily tilts his head and then points at his watch as the voiceover says something like "Tired of making your family wait for dinner?"

Tired? More like LIVING IN FEAR. That watch-pointing dude looks like he is seriously gonna fuck that mother up if she doesn't get that fucking pasta to the table, STAT. The poor woman! Think of how often she has had to endure his beatings, his berating of her at the family dinner table ("Look kids, at your mother's hair. Sure, you'll say she looks tired from cleaning all day and slaving over the stove. Don't be fooled, kids. Here's a good example of how to look like a tramp!") and him screwing his secretary all the time when he says he's just working late. The last thing she needs is to be caught bumbling around with boiling pasta!

If you are in kindergarten and you see a kid willingly lick up spilled milk off the floor of the schoolbus, and the kid then propositions you, that's gonna set the stage for a lot of fucked up shit later in your development.

I am pretty sure this is true, because it is my own true life story. When I was in kindygarden, I rode the bus every day with this kid named Eric. Eric was nasty. His hair was black, cut into a very-unkempt bowl cut and seemed to always give off an unwashed odor, and he would get really hyper and loud at strange times. I vaguely recall a time our bus was stopped at a light and Eric stood up and screamed, "FAAAAARRRTT!" really loud. Everyone laughed real hard, of course, but Eric instead looked like he was going to cry. He meant to say FART in the most heart-felt way possible, and all of us dim kids were laughing like buffoons. He must have been an artiste.

One morning as we were heading home from school, he dropped his carton of milk on the floor. He must have "lifted" an extra carton to bring home. Maybe they didn't let him have milk at home or something. Maybe he was lactose intolerant, or just reverted to pus-form if he drank anything dairy. Anyway, I am not sure anymore, but someone may have pushed him that day or forced it to fall. Eric, who never completely closed his mouth so his his pointy baby teeth stuck out like chiclets over his lips, growled and snarled like a cat. He actually stood up and screamed, "MEEEE-owwwww!" and then he leapt down to the floor of the bus and hunched over the spilled milk.

I'm sitting there in a two-seater, my back against the pale green metal wall of the bus, my own bowl-cut hair pressed against the window, and watch this unfold-- even though I was only six, I must have known instinctually that I was watching some shit I would always remember. I know I lifted my shoes up onto the seat so they wouldn't get milk splashed on them.

"Eric's gonna lick up the milk!" someone screamed. Kids jumped out of their seats all over the bus. Everyone wanted to see Eric lick up some milk.

Sure enough, Eric bent down and, still yowling like a retarded cat, licked up the milk. ALL OF IT. The black rubberized floor of the bus was not clean, mind you. All manner of elementary school offal was all over it. And Eric licked up the milk right next to my seat.

Then he stood up proudly, as the whole bus erupted into a chorus of, "EWWW!" and "GROSS!"'s, and looked at ME. Seriously, this milky freak chose me to look at next, and he licked his lips--he is only six years old at this point, remember-- and was like, "You can be my catgirl!"

Kids teased me for awhile for that. It was soon forgotten because Billy Walsh, who wanted to be a fireman, developed a little crush on yours truly. I got to have Fireman Billy breathin' down my neck as I tried to innocently play in the sandbox. Or listen to "The Gambler" on a 33-record player/headphone set-up in the corner of the classroom (that's the second Kenny Rogers reference in 2 days; I better slow down, or, rather, I think I need to figure out real fast 'when to fold 'em').

One more thing about kindergarten. When we wanted to go to the bathroom, we had to put this string of colored wooden beads around our neck. It had something to do with learning responsibility, or maybe just observation (if the string of beads was not hanging off the doorknob of the bathroom, that meant someone was inside doing "their business"), but it really just seems like a scarlet letter kind of thing.

Snot-nosed Kid #1: Hey, Lisa has to go POTTY!
Snot-nosed Kid #2: Ha ha! Potty goer!
Snot-nosed Kid #3: Everybody, guess what? Lisa's wearing the potty beads! Ha ha!

In my recollection (which may be enhanced) they all circled me and I balled up against the radiator and hid my face in shame as they pelted me with erasers. Covered in chalkboard dust, I was hurled out of the backdoor of the kindergarten, into the cold playground. There, sprawled on the blacktop, I lashed together some discarded chinese jumpropes and made a rope, which I used to pull myself back up through the window. The class was quietly at work, tracing their hands with brown crayons to make a turkey on a piece of paper. I snuck up quietly behind Fireman Billy, and slowly, delicately, brought the Potty Beads down around his pudgy neck.

I stood up proudly, knocked over a desk in the process, and screamed: "Behold! Billy has to PEE!"

The kids all laughed, pointed, and jeered at Billy. He cringed, and started to cry.

Billy peed his pants. I was triumphant.

The end.

This is one of the best Onion stories I have seen in a long time.
Headline: LAPD Discovers Hidden Deformed Olsen Triplet

Why is humor surrounding the Olsens so damn funny, anyway? I've also noticed it is quite the trend these days to keep hideous-looking children in your basement. If I had a basement, damn straight I'd have a couple of pinheads down there myself. For now I must make do with a heavily-drugged Kenny Rogers in the hall closet. I know, it sounds crazy. But it's the best I can do right now.

Long live the Onion!! Huzzah!

I really love the Garden State. There will always be a fond spot in my innards for the state I grew up in. The culture there alone is worth writing home about. Especially if you are in prison, and you want to write home and ask for some Ramen noodles from your mom, you might as well mention how cool NJ is while you are at it. And remember why you are there, you dirty no-good check forger.

I digress. Like usual. Anyway, Karen wrote to me this morning to let me know she was traveling on the Parkway recently and noticed an interesting advertisement posted at one of the toll booths. You know how they have those little signs there, saying who is going to be playing soon at the Arts Center? Well, Karen had to share with me that the next BIG act headlining the PNC Bank Arts Center will be...

IRON MAIDEN!

Iron Maiden, man! Wow! I SO don't care! But what I like to picture is the Iron Maiden tour bus, pulling into the parking lot there and climbing out into the summer sun. They stretch their legs, which are still cramping up from the long ride as well as the tight pants, and look around at the green grass and trees, the chirping birds, and the clean white dome of the 'Center, and one of them would say, "Let's fuckin' ROCK Holmdel, man! Woooo!"

And the other Iron Maidens would sort of shift around, scratch themselves, (perhaps one fans himself with a small battery-operated hand-held fan) and say, "Yeah, yeah, sure. Wooo." There are some scattered coughs, and one guy mutters that he needs to take his shoes off to rest his bunion.

Then they will wander back onto the bus and go to sleep for a couple of hours. Later that night, they'll get it up, so to speak, and get their Iron asses on stage and blow the goddamn mullets off of their many fans gathered on the lawn seats (because working at the kleenex factory in New Brunswick really doesn't pay what it should, dude). But until that time comes, they are sleeping. Why not? Hell, if you were a rock star, you'd spend a lot of time sleeping, too. Who's gonna stop you? What, is Marilyn Manson gonna come knocking on the door of your TraveLodge and yell, "C'mon, man, we have to go train for that Boston Marathon! And the kids at the soup kitchen are waiting for us to come ladle out the fuckin' clam chowder! C'mon, get up!" Nah. And before you even say it, let me assure you that Gavin Rossdale will not be wanting to go over his tax returns on the picnic table while the roadies set up. And there's no chance that Meatloaf (Mr. Loaf to the ladies) will pick the kids up from ballet class. Rock stars don't have to do shit. You should know that by now.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to berate you. Let's just pick up the pieces and move on.

I was curious about Iron Maiden's show, so I went on the Arts Center web site and found out the names of some other acts coming soon to a Holmdel near you.

I was pleased to hear that variety is still the order of the day over at PNC. For instance, the day before Iron Maiden takes the stage, you have the choice of cold-kickin' it live with Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme! Steve and Eydie, you know... Steve and Eydie? They hung out with the Chairman of the Board! Frank! You know you wanna see some sequins. And I don't mean the sequins hangin' off your mother's nipple tassles, you piece of crap.

Wow! I am so NASTY today. Janet Jackson would definitely not approve of this attitude. Good thing I am a dame, otherwise I am afraid she would want to pummel me square in the walnuts. (Gotta keep an eye on them Jacksons.)

If anyone has any interesting Iron Maiden and/or Steve and Eydie info, send it my way. I think there's some unmined comedy here somewhere, but I am currently suffering from a case of the hiccups and need to go get some more water, so I can't look up anything right now. Hiccups suck! What's the deal? What causes a hic, and why does it add a cup all the time? Hmm. Mr. Wizard, where are you when I need you?

Oh, there he is. Under my desk. Dead.

I'm always amazed at the completely random thoughts that come piling out of my head first thing in the morning, like a clown car full of fat clowns who all really have to take a piss really bad, so get the fuck out of this car so help me God.

For instance, without warning, this morning I woke up thinking about Hunter S. Thompson.

This is probably because I was reading about writing last night before I went to bed. The magazine was actually super helpful. It offered tips on copy editing your own work before you send it to an editor (I can attest to that much; although rarely do I take my own advice--for instance, this blog is riddled with typos I am too lazy to fix) and other things like being concise and using words that uniquely express what you're thinking. Tying words together into colorful, personalized sentences makes this daisy chain that you just can't help but pick up and twirl around in your fingers... I want to create that kind of story.

Anyway, gettin' back to Hunter S. As I read this stuff, I started to think about writers that have influenced me in the years I have been writing. The biggest influence is Stephen King.

Before I read any of his schtuff, I didn't know it was OK to reference pop culture in your writing. Or to have fun and be sarcastic right in the middle of a tense, scary moment of the book. (For instance, I've been known to laugh out loud at whole passages of "Misery"... all thanks to the way he strung it together. James Michener, for example, would have depressed the hell out of us if he had attempted to write the very same story. Isn't that weird to think about?)

Next on my list of influences is S.E. Hinton. Yup, the Outsiders got me writing in a big way. There was something so personal about Ponyboy's voice in that book (which, I might add, did not come across in the movie at all... I used to love the movie, but it was a poor substitute for the actual novel. Although I can't recall if there is a moment in the book where Emilio Estevez's character sits down in front of the TV set to watch Mickey Mouse with a beer in one hand and a whole chocolate cake in the other. Cinematic gold. And nothing gold can stay, ah har har har.). It was the first good, accessible use of the first-person narrative, which to this day is my first choice when writing fiction. In fact, I can't comfortably do it any other way.

S.E. Hinton was also only 17 when she published that book. So not only was she a woman writing in a male voice (something I also do almost exclusively), she was young and had ambition to be published. This sort of gave me a kick in the pants (the back part, not the crotch part) to get going and actually write down these things that bunny hop around in my head. Of course, I long missed my own deadline of getting one of my novels published by the age of 20. But hey, I still think about it. That's gotta count for something.

Speaking of great narratives, nothing is better than Holden Caulfield. When I read Catcher in the Rye, I became aware of how uniquely UNIQUE a character voice could sound. Nobody in the history of published books has ever sounded like Holden. After that book, I started to work on defining the character himself and creating his own speech and thought patterns, and the importance of the little details in bringing the story out of the ether. (The fact that Holden "loves to read little kid's notebooks" stands out for me. Also when he cried after dropping the record in the park and it shattered. All great story moments that say a lot about who is he. I love it!!)

More recently, there have been other influences that have trickled in from all over the place. Anne Rice, Neil Gaiman, Garth Ennis (Preacher comics), Quentin Tarantino, Tim Burton (for Edward Scissorhands), Peter Hedges, Joss Whedon (you ROCK, man!) and the wonderful "doughy Midwesterner", Mike Nelson. Etc. Etc. But the odd one is Hunter S. Thompson.

I watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas mainly because I'm a huge Johnny Depp fan. But then I really liked what I was watching. On first glance, it's a drug trip movie. Yeah, no getting around it, really. But the thing about that movie is it really showcases Hunter S. Thompson's writing style. He was one of the first reporters to interject the reporter himself into a story; the story is no longer just a report of what happened, but what the REPORTER experienced and interpreted regarding that event. He was kind of ballsy that way, and I know a lot of papers/magazines wouldn't publish his stuff when he first started, but someone did take that chance and he ended up writing a best-selling book on the Hell's Angels... all written from inside the club. He infiltrated what he was writing about. I love that.

Anyway, the core of the movie Fear & Loathing (which a lot of people I know hate, by the way) is the disintegration of what America is. Each year it gets stripped away a little more by greed, excess, plastics, bad politicians and insincerity and righteousness. Sure, lots of people got on the hippie bandwagon and were looking "for peace love and understanding for 3 bucks a hit," but where did all that peace, love and understanding get us today? Hmm. Good question.

But I like that he asked. It got me thinking. Plus, there are some really funny turns of phrases in his writing, and a lot of it made it to the movie screen.

My favorite lines are in a scene that takes place the morning after a particularly bad drug binge for Raoul Duke (Thompson's alias) and his attorney. Johnny Depp is seen stumbling around a completely fucked-up hotel room, food and garbage everywhere, and the voiceover asks:

"Did the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries?"

Many a time I have looked down into my Burger King sack and wondered the same thing.

I just like the idea of a bunch of druggies wandering throughout the country, spreading uneaten french fries wherever they go, like they are broadcasting seeds. If you saw uneaten french fries somewhere, you'd just know it was the work of junkies who were moving through the area.

Anyway, that's my thoughts for today.

Just for the record, I also was thinking about what Queen Elizabeth thinks of that scene in "Naked Gun" where her likeness has to pass hot dogs down the row at the baseball game.

This post was edited/ elaborated on at 3:30 today. I was glad to hear some of you wanted to know more. Thanks a bunch! So if you want to know more about Gold King Mine/ Ghost Town, read through this and check out the link.
"A baby goat looks great until it grows up and decides to start exhibiting perverse sexual behaviors." --an exotic pets expert in an article from The Arizona Republic today.

I know I can't be the only one who reads this sentence and then immediately wonders... exactly what sort of weird shit do goats do? I know goats are famous for eating anything; cartoons show them eating whole tin cans. So this begs the question: what really goes on behind that wooden fence?

I really like goats a lot. There are two goats that are kept by the owner of the Jerome Ghost Town (http://www.goldkingmine.com/) that I always have to visit and feed grass to every time I go there. I've got pictures of the one goat when he was a baby, and then when Trish and I went back with my Dad a few years later, I got pictures of him all grown up. The owner has put an old enamel washtub upside-down in their yard, and the young goat will jump up on it and stamp his one foot on it without moving the rest of his body. It's kind of cute, and for some reason, I can sit there and watch this monotonous activity for about an hour. Not a minute longer. Otherwise I start getting that twitch. I pass out. Next thing I remember I am face down inside an old abandoned mine shaft, I am wearing a sloppy and mud-stained blonde wig and I am sore. I always wonder if the goat did that. Now, after reading this article, I am thinking... yes.

Getting back to the Jerome goats. There's also an older goat in that pen, with long, spindly horns and a slight beard under his chin. This is where 'perverse' may be entering the picture. In this goat's case, he is probably a Gimp.

I say this because there are two little rubber balls pushed onto the ends of his horns. If that goat is wearing a black zipper mask the next time I go there, I wouldn't be surprised at all.

There's also an old donkey that wanders around amongst the junk. Don't call him a jackass.

Now I want to talk about one of my favorite places, and one of my favorite sounds.

This Ghost Town is really an elaborate old car dump. There are classic trucks and super-old firetrucks and other vehicles scattered around the property, with weeds growing between the cracks in the dried-out rubber on the tires. The donkey slows clomps past the old cars and dark-wood, 19th century buildings (there's an old dentist shop with actual equipment in it, and an old schoolhouse) and sighs, swishing flies away with its tail. The guy who runs the Ghost Town/junkyard is this old guy with white hair and a beard... he always wears a red bandana around his neck and a cream-colored floppy old prospector's hat. He looks like he'd be a background character in a crowd scene in an old John Wayne movie, especially if that movie involved gold prospectors who owned their own ghost towns. This old guy not only lives at the Ghost Town in a small little house with a tiny little manicured lawn out front, but he tends to the goats and donkey and gives demonstrations of the steam-powered saw mill for visitors.

This is an old 1880s-era contraption, and he will feed in a log and let the wood chips fly everywhere, and he won't even put on safety glasses or anything. He is very wizened and sun-grizzled, so I guess a little wood chips and sawdust don't faze him at all. As he is 'warming up' the saw mill, he sounds off a super loud steam whistle. The name of this whistle is Big Bertha. You can pay this guy some money to sound off Big Bertha. Insert your own punchline, if you are so inclined.

Every time I hear that steam whistle, especially if I am in the part of the "Town" closest to the saw mill, I practically jump out of my skin (see earlier post about loud noises). It's kind of cool to hear, though, if you are further away and in some quiet part of the property. The last time I was there, I was taking a picture of the actual 1984 Olympics Bus, faded and dusty in the weeds, with one broken window in the back and the red, white and blue paint chipping away, when I heard the whistle. It's kind of a mournful, echo-y sound, and it floated across the valley. If you look around in Jerome, there are mountains everywhere and craggy valleys with beige and gray rock formations and mountains with the sides blasted off in the search for copper. To hear that lonely whistle sound drifting out over that sort of landscape, mixing in with buzzing insects and the chip-chip sound of some random bird off in the distance, and see all these trucks, buses and even tractors that hadn't run in probably over 20 years... it's definitely a creative moment for someone like me. I want to sit and write and capture all of it, and film it and paint pictures of it, and so on and so on...

A little more about it: there's also an actual mine shaft you can walk into (it's dark and creepy and there is a sign warning you to watch out for rattlesnakes) and up on one of the overlooking hills is an old brothel. Someone propped up a mannequin on the porch, and this is extra freaky to see amongst all this old abandoned stuff. The mannequin is dressed like a whore, obviously. And then there is another one looking out of one of the windows. Man, if being in a old haunted place won't get you, the mannequins will. I can't imagine being locked up in that old brothel overnight with two creepy mannequins. Eww.

Go to Jerome sometime, and wear shoes you don't mind getting super dusty. And make sure you go into the shed that's all vintage motorcycles... mostly Indians, which are really so interesting in the way they're built, they don't make 'em like that anymore... and look up and stare at the massive collection of old chainsaws hanging over your head. Motorcycles and chainsaws. All while smelling that goat-smell and hearing steam engine whistles and smelling fresh sawdust.

It is awesome.

People who eat pancakes crack me up.

On my way into work this morning, I drove past this restaurant called "The Original Pancake House", as I do every morning. There was a woman wearing a floppy hat with a cord under her chin (you know these people that wear these hats? What's up with these people, anyway?) and a generously-portioned ass standing in front of what I presumed was her car in the parking lot in front of the restaurant. Anyway, she was by herself and she was laughing very hard. To no one. It looked like she was thinking to herself, "Man, those pancakes sure were somethin' else!"

The rest of my drive, I thought about this woman and her large posterior region. I really think that, if you took a shovel and cracked her across the fanny, a bunch of pancakes would come spilling out across the pavement. The ass had that sort of jiggly yet solid look to it. Much like a pancake.

Pancakes are hysterical. Just saying the word "PANCAKE" is good times. It's a little flat cake, you see? And it's cooked on a pan. Then you put it on your plate with syrup (which must be Mrs. Butterworths; under no circumstances should you attempt to have any other syrup, lest the Brown Lady will come to life and sneak up behind you and choke you while you are cleaning out the litter box!) and you eat it, yummmm. And then you get fat. And people start referring to you as "Chunky Cheeks."

Whole restaurants are devoted to this, the PanCake. It's even gone international. Back in Middletown, a whole stretch of Highway 35 real estate has been earmarked for a "House" that sells the delightful treat. And now, I find out that the ORIGINAL Pancake house is right here-- and it's been here for lord knows how long!

I had no idea. I had been under the impression that the Chinese introduced us to the pancake... why not, they're already responsible for other stuff like firecrackers, pizza, and fortune cookies. (That's what's so diggin' about the Chinese; they give us new stuff all the time.) But as the existence of this Arizona restaurant now shows, the pancake originated here. Probably the Hohokam indians were sitting around one day, bored out of their minds and wanting a yummy new breakfast treat, so they mashed some food together and poured something over it (it was probably mud back then) and whammo! Pancakes were born. They offered them to the white man, who proceded to get fat on said cakes and opened up the original pancake house. They wouldn't even hire the indians to wash the clay dishes; they put a special call out to Mexico to send some talented people up this way to do that.

Anyway. I have to admit something now. I like pancakes. I do! However, I really can't eat them more than maybe 3 times a year or I swell out like a fattie. Pancakes are heavy, man. Seriously! They lay in your stomach like... man, I don't know! But they just chill in there, sitting in your bile and soaking up all the bourbon and whiskey and they just lay there some more. Other food comes swimming over to the pancakes in your stomach and it hops on and takes a break. Pancakes are like the life rafts for other nutritious foods. They hang out for a few days, probably until about Wednesday, and then finally they say, "This place sucks, I think I'm gonna head south and check out that traverse colon place I heard about."

Pancakes also have a lighter, faker cousin you can try. Hotcakes! Oh man, that's what I like. Over at Mickey D's! Oh, delicious Hotcake. You come to me in a crisp shell of styrofoam, and you taste like a sponge! Oh, Hotcake! You are my delight! Take me home, Box of Syrup! (Insert trumpet solo: Wahhh wah wahhh...)

And you thought I was done. Nope! I have even more to say! What would happen in Mrs. Butterworth got into a row with Aunt Jemima? Who would win?
Probably Mrs. B, because she is three dimensional and she has that lovely "Good mornin' child'ren!" voice. But Aunt J is a little more hip and with the times. She was updated and lost her do-rag in the 80's, remember? Now along with her buddy Multi-Cultural Betty Crocker, they would probably fight dirty. I could see her motoring up to Mrs. B's house in her macked-out Cadillac, and firing a few hundred shots all over Mrs. B's porch and into her front windows, and rolling out of there with the Crocker in the backseat, wasted out of her mind and laughing at some House of Pain that just came on the radio. This could then be known as the War of the Syrups, and people would remember where they were when they heard that Mrs. B took out Aunt J and the Crocker using just her bare hands and a do-rag.

Finally, other Pancake Thoughts to close this out:

"There's nothing flatter than a pancake,
Nothing you can make.
The only think that could be flatter
Is the fish they call the hake." --Jack Handey

"What is you favorite word?"
"Pancake!" --Tobey McGuire as Dustin "Screech" Diamond to Will Ferrell's James Lipton on an Inside the Actor's Studio skit on SNL

"Let's call her Pancake House"
--me to Tricia regarding a certain fat "friend" who had a wedding.

I'm done.

It's important to be polite. (What's funny is that I originally had a typo there: it used to read: "it's important to be polute.")

Seriously though people, it won't kill you to ask someone for their permission before you do something. What sort of "something"'s am I talking about? Well, I'll tell you.

Take this happy little exchange I had with my mother just now. She was at the fax machine upstairs, sending something out, and I was on my way out the door. I held the door for her when she was finished and we were going to walk down the stairs together to go back to our desks.

Very polite.

It's customary in many cultures to hold the door open for mothers. And various other beings, such as nursery school directors, masseuses and Supreme Court judges.

Next, I calmly asked her: "Can I push you down the steps?"

She didn't seem to hear me; or, maybe this option didn't suit her. I thought of another.

"Mom, can I please push you through a plate glass window?"

She looked at me and did her patented Mom-style sigh and laugh. Then she answered: "No."

Well, because I am a polite person, that was all the answer I needed. I respected her decision and refrained from either pushing her down the stairs or through a glass window.

See? That didn't sound so hard to do, did it?

The next time you want to throw someone into a wood chipper, or into the gaping maw of a great beast from the deep, please use courtesy to ensure this is what the throw-ee really wants to do.

Thank you.
--The Management.

"I think the intelligence I get is darn good intelligence. And the speeches I have given were backed by good intelligence."

Our leader said that today. The big yokel who led us into a war that could have been avoided. I am deeply ashamed. News travels fast, and by now people around the globe are hearing our president (I don't remember when he won) say a phrase like this. If you are traveling abroad, you might as well smear barbecue sauce all over your mouth and wear a big buckle on your belt that says in simulated 24K: I Am A Big, Stupid American. Because thanks to Bush, that's exactly how people are gonna see you, no matter how well-educated or sensitive to other cultures you are.

You can change out the word intelligence for so many other things that he is actually qualified to talk about. For instance:

"I think the pork and beans I get is darn good pork and beans. And the speeches I have given were backed by good pork and beans."

Thanks, leader of the free world. Now go home to daddy and if you can't say something smart, just keep your mouth shut.

Before I say anything else, here's a teaser: WHITE BROCCOLI.

I recall a more innocent time, when I actually enjoyed the musical stylings of Michael Jackson.

This was in the 1983-84 era, to be exact. I saw the video for "Thriller" and was all "wow" and "he's cute." Back then, I did think he was cute. In his little whiteand yellow vest with the one curl down on his face, that was my idea of non-threatening, androgynous cute. I was only about 8 or 9 at the time, mind you. I also saw "My Little Pony" dolls as cute, too.

Now, I am loathe to say I ever bought this man's records. I can't think of a stranger celebrity. I don't need to get into the whole bleached-your-skin-white, removed-all-bones-from-his-face, slept-with-children-and-rode-in-a-"hot air balloon"-with-Macauley-Culkin shit he's been up to since the mid 80s. But every now and then, a story breaks about him that just makes me smile all over again and remember why we need really stupid, really insane celebrities in our lives.

I've been thinking about this Katharine Hepburn dame now since she went on to the next level. I really liked her in the "African Queen" and thought she was a cool looking lady as she aged. And they did a wicked good impression of her on SNL back in the Mike Myers age (..."And who should walk through the door but Gumby and Pokey!"). She wore a kick-ass little bun in her hair and liked to wear pants. So I have a special little spot reserved inside of me somewhere for KH.

Anyway, this morning my respect for her went up a notch. I read this on AP today and had to laugh:
NEW YORK - Having Michael Jackson over for dinner was such a strain for Katharine Hepburn, she needed a stiff drink afterward.

Scott Berg writes in his new book about Hepburn that Jackson didn't know what cauliflower was when Hepburn served it to him. He called it "white broccoli."

Jackson kept telling Hepburn over dinner that she was his favorite actress, but he couldn't name any of her films.

Berg says the minute Jackson left, Hepburn cried out for her housekeeper to "get the whiskey."

********
OK, first I have to say I do question her judgement about having Michael Jackson over for dinner in the first place. But maybe it wasn't her idea; maybe he was one of those people who kept calling her and sending her flowers and being really weird--maybe she would hear the sprinklers go on at 5 AM and then hear something that sounded like a 4 year old girl crying outside her window. So she pulled on a robe and peeked out through the curtains and saw Michael J. standing on her lawn dressed in a tuxedo, holding a bunch of balloons that said "I love you Kate!" and trying to sing through his tears. Maybe she sighed and thought, I'm gonna have to do something to get this asshole to leave me alone. Her agent said, "Have him for dinner just once. But here's the thing; confuse him with vegetables while he is here. No man every returns after he's been shamed with vegetables."

So that's what she did.

Lucky for her, Michael Jackson hardly ever eats anything except gold-crusted donuts and Captain Crunch in a bowl full of baby formula, so he doesn't have much knowledge of vegetables. He had once seen cauliflower when Joe Jackson was driving him and Tito past a cauliflower field once on the way to a gig. (The other 3 Jacksons were already there, because maybe their mother drove them to the hospital beforehand to stitch up their ass cheeks after their father had cracked them with a belt, so they got to ride with their momma) Anyway, there goes Michael and Tito looking out the window, their eyes wide with child wonderment. "What's that?" cries a curious Tito.

"Shut up and sing, you little shit! You gon' make your daddy rich, ya hear? No questions!" says Mean Old Joe.

Tears fill tiny Michael's eyes and drip down his naturally wide nose. "You know what it looks like, Tito? White clouds. I love white things. Maybe it's some kind of broccoli, maybe--"

He didn't get a chance to finish telling his brother his theory because Joe punched him in the kidneys and threw him through the windshield for talking. His childhood was lost forever. At least, it was lost until he made 3 billion dollars and could buy a sham childhood back again.

So anyway, years later when sassy Katharine Hepburn presented him with the mystery vegetable, you can see why he would say white broccoli. This is a man stuck at the mental age of 7, and stuck on the day he flew through a windshield and Joe Jackson ran him over with his pickup and smashed his innocence all over a dirt road while Tito wailed like a little girl.

Also, the memory of this trauma caused him to blank out and get nervous and not remember any of her films. He was desperately trying to win her approval. This strategy had worked before with Liz Taylor and Emmanuel Lewis. However, he was too blasted full of bleach to think straight. Can you blame the man for wanting to achieve purity (AKA: "whiteness") in order to ease the pain of his ruined childhood? And for wanting to appease older, more respected, more talented, and better people like Kate?

No. I hate his excuses. He is just fucking crazy. My bet is that after that dinner with Kate, he was on his way to molest the whale from Free Willy or something. Dirty no-nose asswipe.

But good for you Kate-- glad you had the foresight to get drunk afterwards and then write about this in your memoirs, so we could all laugh at him some more. Thank you, you truly are my kind of actress.

Hooooooly crap.
I just found out that there's a Klingon version of "Hamlet." http://www.kli.org/stuff/Hamlet.html

What. The. Fuck.

All's I was doing was trying to find some stuff out about how to actually speak Klingon. Our dog Callie seems fluent in it. I wanted to send Tom a funny message from Callie and have it be...in actual...Klingon. OK, I'm a dork. But still! I never expected that the Bard would be subjected to all this P'GAGH H'AK! shit!

That was probably real Klingon right there I just said. I probably just said something like, "Put cold butter in my earballs" or something. Fuckin' Star Trek.

Regarding the now-separated Iranian twins:

"If God wants us to live the rest of our lives as two separate, independent individuals, we will," Ladan Bijani had said.

Hey, don't get mad at me. SHE'S the one who said it, not me.

Can I help it if God made his decision in a violent flow of unstoppable head-blood?

Uh-uh.

Check out Toole's blog for a Very Special Episode of a new TV show starring everyone's favorite Formerly Conjoined Lawyers. The link's to the right, jackass.

More later! It's a topsy-turvy world out there; we just frig around in it.

I spent some time in the 99 cent Store last night. All I know is that one minute, I was driving through the parking lot, looking at the white fluorescent light spilling out into the night like a beacon of cheapness, and the next thing I know I am in line behind two of the craziest mexican teenagers buying orange juice and belts, and the old couple at the top of line are slowing counting out nickels to make their purchase. How in holy hell did I end up here?

The story is fraught with impulse. I have been going through a rough patch lately, where I am going out and purchasing things almost on a daily basis. I have recognized I have a problem, so that's step one. I'm not spending much money, mind you... just enough to buy a $2.50 frisbee for Callie here and a jar of peanuts for Tom there, but I still feel the undeniable need to go out and wander in stores lately, and it's hard to break the habit.

Last night, for instance, all I was trying to do was develop some photos of Malcolm and Callie at the one hour photo at Osco. However, the machine was down. So as I was driving out of the parking lot, I passed the 99 Cent Store. (Why isn't the cent sign on the keyboard? They've got $, and they even have the little-used |, so why not CENT? And what the hell is the proper usage of ~, anyway?)

Inside, it was a mecca of knock-off stuff. I saw knock-off Pop Tarts! Knock-off Pantene shampoo! Even a cheap-o version of WD-40 called something like "Spray Grease in a Can". I found myself wandering with a slight shuffle to my step through the aisles. I passed many an odd person. Like the pimply overweight woman wearing a "Rock" t-shirt (the wrestler, not the Sean Connery movie) looking over the fake Ritz crackers. The three children who were unsupervised and tearing up and down the aisles, yelling in Spanish and waving a Gummi-version of Tweety Bird that was about 5 inches tall. The young mother, wearing a low-slung skirt so a white, flabby belly hung out suggestively over the wasitband, towing along a little girl who looked about 3, maybe 4, and was inappropriately wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a diaper. And finally, the old man who was camped out in front of the cans of various bug sprays and traps, shifting his weight from slip-on-shoe clad foot to foot, all while taking long, deep breaths that had a distinct phlemy sound to them. He would pick up on can, read the back, sigh, and pick up another one. I left him there, feeling powerless to ease his indecision. Or his hacking lung infection.

I rounded up a hearty basket of 99-cent booty. Some of the things I purchased:

* Aforementioned jar of peanu's for Tom
* Box of bandaids with dinosaurs on them (for my ironic youth-craving moments when I fall down and bang my face open on a broken bottle in the gutter)
* Cotton baby blanket for Malcolm (he needed a summer-weight blanket-- so what, he might seem spoiled, but remember, this was a 99 CENT blanket!)
* Lens-cleaning cloths for camera lens and glasses. I've been steaming up my lenses lately with all that peeping photography I've been doing as a hobby
* Jug of water. Just a jug. Gulp.
* Two crappy cheap-ass kid's toothbrushes. Because I don't go in for all that fancy city-slicker talk 'bout Reach or Colgate brushes; them's for rich folk.

One thing I almost bought, but didn't, was a cassette tape by Hulk Hogan and his band! Isn't that glorious-- Hulk Hogan has his own band! And he released an album with some great-sounding titles: "Hulkmania"; "Pinned to the Mat!" "Macho Man is a Fag!" "I Look Like a Viking and Love the Ladies Like One, Too" and the classic, "I Cut the Holes in the Back of My Shirt With an Exacto Knife At My Kitchen Table, In Case You Were Wondering." (I might go back and buy this one... not just one copy for myself but one for anyone who writes to me and tells me you want one too. Seems like this is too good for just me to experience by my lonesome. There were at least 15 copies of this tape there.)

So I took my basket and got on line to pay. Only two registers were open, and it was almost 10 minutes until the store closed. The guy on the register kind of reminded me of that teenager on "The Simpsons"... very blank, very stupid, with a cracking voice.

The girls in front of me were buying a carton of orange juice each, and one was buying a 99 cent belt. The belt-one was wearing low-slung, slutty pants and I could see her hip bones glaring under the white light. Celine Dion was singing something incredibly heart-felt over the loudspeaker. (No, it wasn't a recording either, that Canadian bitch was really in the store!) The other girl was heavy-set and flirting with the guy in line in front of them, who was a very tall, very pudgy mexican guy wearing a baseball uniform. Here's some stuff I overheard:

Fat Girl: "Hey, so what team do you play on? (I note it says the name right across his chest in bold blue letters)
Baseball Dude: "The Scottsdale Screaming Bandeleros With Torn Jock Straps team. Hey, we just won a game, you know."
FG: "Oh, that's cool. So do they let you keep that shirt?"
BD: "No, I have to return this. I also have to return this hat." (I note that he is purchasing Faux Draino.)
FG: "Oh, that's cool. So do they let you keep those pants?"
(There is a giggle here from HipBone Belt Girl)
BD: (Blushing) "Yeah, I keep these pants. These are my pants now."
HipBone Belt Girl: "I'm buying this belt." (Holds it up proudly on its cardboard backing)
FG: "You know what, those are almost my school colors you're wearing. Except our colors are red and white."
BD: "What school do you go to?"
FG: "I don't. But I home school myself in the trash dump out back, teaching myself to read off of discarded duck sauce packets." (She really said the name of her real school, but trust me, my embellishment is more interesting)
HbBG: "I'm buying this belt because I need a new belt. Ha!"
FG: "You know what's cool? On school spirit day? I get to wear striped socks at my school. What about you?"
HbBG: "Oh, that's cool, I can wear striped socks anytime I want to. Isn't this a cool belt?"

I had to shut it out after awhile because I noticed the line wasn't moving. I peered past the huge baseball dude and saw there was some old guy up there, and he was hunched thoughtfully over the counter. Register Boy was looking overwhelmed and was alternately switching his on/off button clicker to turn the lights off and on on his register sign. I saw the old guy was standing next to a woman I assumed was his wife; she had brilliantly dyed black hair in a high, poufy old lady style with a fake flower behind her ear. Her blush was a blinding shade of Hot Peach, and matched her Jade Green eyeshadow quite nicely.

I ascertained that they were having trouble and holding up the line because they were paying for their purchase in nickels. The line was growing behind me and someone actually yelled out, "What's going on up there?" I couldn't help but smile. I also thought about putting down my basket and just going home. But I HAD to buy those peanu's!

There were piles of nickels everywhere on the counter. There were so many nickels, I saw, that Register Boy had to call his manager (that's what his Morse code-like light-flashing was all about) to see where they could put all the nickels. I thought of a couple of fun places. The manager ended up taking the cash drawer and giving him a new one.

I finally paid, got out of there just as that Lionel Richie "Easy Like Sunday Morning" song was coming on. As I backed my car out of the parking spot, I noted a witty sign on the window:
"Low prices are born here
And raised someplace else!"
The kicker for the sign was a hastily-drawn chick busting out of his shell.

I'm going back for that Hulk Hogan tape soon. Consider yourself warned.

I love to hear kids talking about their first cars. The best is when little kids-- like 7 or 8 years old-- start talking about how they're going to drive a fire truck someday, or they get specific and say they want a Lincoln Navigator with a tricked-out Missy Elliott package, or something. Kids are so full of ideals. So many dreams. Wishes. And in most cases, those dreams end up crushed.

This might come as a surprise to anyone who didn't know me well when I was about 8 years old, but I used to harbor a daydream about being a bus driver. No kidding-- and now look at me, editing Bus Ride magazine. Life sure works out funny sometimes. But what I used to do was ride my bike around the neighborhood and occasionally "stop" to pick up "passengers" along my "route." I had a map I had drawn in my room of a fictional town (I made up quite a few fake towns as I kid) and it had street names and bus stops all over it. Names like "Johnston Road" (after my Dad's friend Hoke, whose last name was Johnston) and "Greenville Way" (this was the street alongside our side yard, which had three trees and some grass so I thought it made a good Greenville) dotted my map. I would coast along and have inner dialogues with passengers and yes, even the dispatcher. (Sample dialogue of me 'sassing' back the dispatcher: "What? Pick up how many people at the Campbell Avenue Pass? Don't you know this bus only carries 85 people??")

My bike provided me with lots of good times back then. Not only would it be my bus, it was also my horse sometimes. I would ride really fast and pretend I was on a running horse, and my hair was blowing behind me in the wind like a native american princess. I had no idea that, years later, I would tell this story to an ex-boyfriend who would warn me not to tell this story to anyone else due to its apparent 'sexy' factor. Wha....? What the hell is sexy about a kid playing pretend on a bike? Sick bastard, you get the hell outta my memories about bike riding right NOW!

Snap. Done. Okay, but yes, bikes rock. When Tom and I lived near Papago Park, I would take the canal route down to the trail along the park and do the same thing. I would daydream again. How funny that some things never change. I will say the truth is that I don't daydream about being behind the wheel of a bus anymore, but I do think the horse thing sometimes. Why not, it's my mind. More likely, though, I would be thinking about the physics of it and pretend my bike was going a step further and FLOATING.

This veers dangerously into Pee Wee territory, I am afraid. I love, love LOVE PW's Big Adventure, and always wanted a bike like his (my current bike is red, and has a slight 50s style, as an homage to the X1). But how freaking awesome would it be to have a bike that could float over the ground and take you soaring away...up, up, and SMACK right into a tree branch! See, I don't want to go too far with this because sooner or later, the phrase "I meant to do that" would have to come up, and I don't feel the need to go there on this particular tangent.

I think I just like to slip back into kid mode once in awhile, and I obviously don't care who knows it.

Anyway, FIRST CARS! How many of us end up getting the car they always thought they would get? Except for Super Amazing Celebrity People like the Olsen twins (who I have heard are trillionairres and own their own country now, OlsenLand, next to Finland), it's unlikely you're going to get lucky the first time out of the box.

I used to want a Jeep Cherokee when I was in high school. Or a Wagoneer (i liked the wood panels). Instead, I got a silver and gray, 2 door Chevette.

Chevette! Ahh, what a fine auto-mobile. (Pronounce it with 2 words) My dad found it through someone, and the first time I laid eyes on it, it was parked on the side of someone's house in Port Monmouth, all dirty and with silver paint peeling off the bumpers, the engine in the backseat, resting quietly on a few newspapers. For $500, it was mine.

Luckily Dad was able to wake up the engine and put it back where it belonged. Once it got running, it never quite got over that sleepy coma it had been in, and would shake and roar like a John Deere if I pushed it up past 55mph.

Some of my greatest Chevette memories include:
* Cramming a bunch of my Goth buddies in my car by putting the back seat down. I had Goths climbing in through the hatchback and laying atop one another, all in a desperate attempt to get from HS North to Red Bank. It was a Blue Tuesday, indeed.
* Taking it on the Turnpike to go see that NJ Devils game; we were following Joe Latin and Ian Lewis and the poor 'Vette almost gave out at a toll booth-- note earlier reference about speed limits
* Affixing a small plastic lizard toy to the dashboard and naming him Sal (after Dali) and realizing tape and hot dashboards do not mix well.
* When the Middletown cop pulled me over for going "75" on Tindall Rd. I had to explain to the cop that this was physically impossible, as my car couldn't reach that speed without breaking apart. He let me go. Those cops were liars.
* In trying to cross the Compton creek after a downpour, I started driving through a massive puddle on one of those rickety little backstreets through the marshes with no streetlights. The puddle kept going, and getting deeper. Soon my engine light came on and the car stopped. I was in water up to the middle of my door. Me and my passenger helplessly rolled down the windows and contemplated wading out and coming back for my wet, floating car in the morning.
Suddenly, at the other end of the street, headlights. I saw a guy get out of a truck and come towards us through the lights, wading through the water. He yelled, "You guys stranded?" I said we were, and he came over and--
KILLED US!
No, actually, this cool mysterious guy pushed us back out of the water and then waded back to his truck and drove away. It was so cool. Like an episode of "Touched by an Angel" without all the touching. Or Della Reese.
* On graduation day, Kyle came over and we decorated our cars up with crepe paper, balloons and other stuff. Our cars looked great! All decked out in orange and black. But when I headed down the street to go over to school to catch the bus to graduation, I realized that CREPE PAPER is no match for SPEED. After hitting only 20mph, most of the crepe was flying off my car at terrifying rates. I feel bad about that minivan behind me that got the worst of it, and ended up swerving and flying off that cliff in flames...

Well, anyway, let us all take a few moments to remember, with love, our first vehicles. And later on, let's all meet for a bike race down Fictional Street. I'm the one on the palomino.

Aren't old mix tapes the coolest thing?
I have been listening to mix tapes circa 1992-99 in my car the past week or so, and I have to say I am impressed by some of the zingers I have re-discovered. Granted, some choices are questionable ("What Do I Have to Do" by Stabbing Westward, followed by a song from Cirque du Soleil's "Allegria") but overall, it's been pleasurable listening.
Here are some of the more telling songs that have popped up. From this, you can pretty much ascertain my psyche:
"Be My Baby" (Ronnettes, maybe?)
"Stripped" by Depeche Mode (live)
"Nosering Girl" By Nerf Herder (awesome!)
"Chim-chimeree" from Mary Poppins (when you're with a Sweep, you're-- fill in the blank)
"Guilty" from Gravity Kills
"Ice Planet Hell" from some group with Star in the title??
"Face Like a Frog" by Danny Elfman
"Ich Bin Ein Auslander" by PWEI
"Wash Jones" by Squirrel Nut Zippers

There's tons more, too, but I have forgotten them already. An interesting phenomenon that happens while you are listening to old mix tapes is that, as it's playing, you realize you always already know what the next song is going to be somehow, no matter how many years it's been since you heard it. But then, sitting at your desk typing a blog, you realize it's wiped clean from your memory.

Another thing that happens is you instantly transport yourself back to the place and time that the tape was made in. For me, that meant I was actually driving at sunset and looking at the Superstition Mountains yesterday while listening to DM's "Somebody" on a mix and suddenly, I was out by my backyard pool in Belford, reading a People magazine and trying to get a suntan, listening to my Walkman. And then free association hits big time... soft serve from RJ's, the smell of the Saint Mary's Fair, wishing my hair would grow faster, and wanting a pair of K-Swiss sneakers really bad.

Last thought for the night: speaking of being spooked by loud noises, have you ever spooked yourself with your own fart?
I just watched the dog do it.
Hilarious.
Gross, but hilarious.
Even funnier: this is the second time in my life I have witnessed a dog scare itself awake with its own flatulence.
Maybe--and this is just a hypothesis-- I need to go out more.

That new shiny job I got? Well, it sucked. Sucked gigantic, sticky, dead whale balls, to be exact. And that, my kind sirs, is a smell you don't want to get on your person.
They left key points out, they said I had a "negative attitude" (oh yeah, walking around and looking for more work is a bad thing... didn't I learn that from Virgo already? Good gravy, what was I thinking?) and frankly, they were just too snotty and I didn't fit in. I am not there anymore, and as of Monday I am back at my old job, writing and talkin' bout buses again.
Ahh, life is funny that way. I believe the kids today call it "a curve ball." Well, in my case, I would liken it more to life throwing me a Baggie full of chocolate pudding.
I duck to avoid getting hit with a bag of pudding, but alas, said Baggie hits me anyway.
But in this case, when I get the nerve to stand up and look down at my white shirt, there is no pudding on me-- the Baggie was a Ziploc. So I now have a Ziploc full of rich, creamy pudding treats. Sure it might be warm! Sure, it might have some congealed "skin" that got mushed around in the act of throwing! (And who is the mysterious pudding thrower, anyway, while we're at it? Is there some grimacing fat man with a sweaty brow watching me from behind a fence who has some sick problem with throwing plastic bags of pudding at women? Does he have his pants zipped, or what?) But the thing is, yippee! Free pudding!
See? Things can work out when the situation seems pretty bad at first. Sometimes, pudding is just a gift from the heavens. Or Bill Cosby.
And pudding is DEEElicious!
Anyone got any puddin?
It's 1:11 in the morning and I am writing about pudding. Ye Gods.

"We've dealt with a man who had extensive burns after a bottle rocket went up his pant leg." --quote from Tuesday's Scottsdale Tribune article on the dangers of fireworks.

We're on the cusp. It's almost Independence Day. As in, "I can light this roman candle myself, I don't need help!" Yup, yessurree bob, Blow Shit Up Day is tomorrow and I am very excited about having nothing planned and having no explosives in the house whatsoever.

I'm one of those people that's always "spooked" by loud noises. I don't like 'em. I hate balloons because they always pop right near you and make me yell, "AAH!" I can't stand thunder crashes-- it's cool and atmospheric and I appreciate that part of it, but it sometimes followed by a loud pop or splitting sound of lightning hitting something, and that makes me go all wiggy. Fireworks are near the top of my list of things that make me jumpy. I don't mind the big professional displays so much--they're far away and you have that moment before the noise hits to know the loud sound is coming. You hear that high-pitched whizzing noise so there's time to cover your ears. So that's not the problem; the problem is dumb kids.

A few weeks ago, I found a bottle rocket in our backyard. The kids across the street sometimes set off firecrackers and it makes the dogs get all crazy and even more importantly-- we live in freaking ARIZONA. The hub of all things dry and forest-fire-prone. We are in the city, but still t'ain't no excuse to go around lighting things up around here just because the fire department's right down the street. For instance, right before we bought this house, same kids (supposedly) set a fire in the alley and burned the garage (now we have a new garage, yippee, but still... you see my point?) because things go up so easy here. There was a fire the next street over about a week ago when a wood fence mysteriously caught fire. In NJ, there was much more leeway to screw around with fire since it was so wet there anyway... you have to hand it to the tenacious little bastard who manages to light some kindling back in NJ.

So, OK, fire bad. But the LOUD noise part... yowza! Why are certain people like me so twitchy? I look like Tweak on Fourth of July. Also, I remember a couple of times where a firecracker almost killed me or someone I loved in cold blood!

One time it was outside Jesse's house when I was dating Steve. The guys were being dumb guys and set off chasers and a few loud popper-things--you know, those strips of three-inch-long firecrackers that you throw in the street or in an aluminum trash can and hear the tat-tat-tat explosions? I was standing in the yard with other people, when suddenly a chaser just went beserk and chased random humans around the yard. It ended up zipping into a bush right next to the house, and inches from where I was standing. People were screamin and they had to put a small fire out. Good thing they caught it before it took the house up. I was really shaken- I had almost singed my perm!

Another time--well OK, I can't think of another time. But yeah, I could make something up for sure to illustrate my point. There was the time a bottle rocket shot at Mr. T and got caught in his chains and almost blew his throat up! Yeah! And good thing the T is so tough, 'cuz he just pulled it out and snapped it in half and ate the firey end and said, "I ain't got no time for no firecracka jibber jabber!" as he crunched the sparks through his teeth. Man, that was a close call, that time. God bless Mr. T.

What the hell was I originally talking about? Oh yeah, Mr. T is cool, except for those cheesy commercials he does. That was my point. Also, it's fun to eat watermelon on the fourth of July. Melons is good.

Have a safe Fourth! Don't blow anyone up! I might write more if the fancy strikes me.
(Run! It's a runaway Fancy! Grab the baby and get out, movemove move!!)

One minute you're psyched, the next minute you are feeling let down and icky. Have you ever felt like that? I've had a whole day of that so I don't feel much like being funny. But I can't let down my one reader--me-- who really likes that shit.
COMMENCE "SEINFELD"-esque MOMENT:
So what's the deal with Arm and Hammer baking soda, man? An arm does not smell good. Nether does a hammer. Put together, they are supposed to clear out bad smells in the fridge. How does baking soda absorb smells anyway? Something you can bake with AND clean the floor with. Wow, can you make that claim, eggs? What about you, flour? Baking soda. God's gift to the masses, right between Warwick Davis and the George Forman grill.
("Willow" and some baking soda, cooked up on a grill--that would make one tasty 4th of July burger, my friend.)

I am tired and burned out from all this hoopla today. I miss writing during the day, but check it out again tomorrow night as I will try to do this again if I can. Peace out to all y'all!