I plan to go swimming one day this week, probably during the day while most people are at work, so that I have some relative privacy. I haven't been swimming as much as I used to since I moved to Arizona. That seems strange to me, as we technically have more days in the year that are potentially swim-worthy. But I haven't lived anywhere with a private pool, and that has made the difference. Apartment complex pools are always surrounded by apartments, and those apartments often have people looking out of the windows or standing on the balconies smoking and talking on their phones. I don't like being watched while I swim. Also, once you have a couple of weeks of 100+ degree heat, the water warms up and it is no longer pleasant to swim. And if you do, you can't really get out of the pool too easily, because the concrete around the pool is so unimaginably hot. So, in conclusion... I don't swim much.
Back in the Day (oh, that glorious Day we all remember!), I was always swimming, all summer long. Pictures of me growing up show me being so tan I was brown and my hair was lighter from the sun. I had all kinds of pool toys and would play games with my friends, like Mermaids or Water Extravaganza (a water-based talent show, usually incorporating early Madonna music). Swimming was, to me, the utter shit. I recently remembered the Shame of the Yellow Bathing Cap when I was about 9.
I went to a really crappy Girl Scout camp for a week one summer, along with my friend Tracy. We had spent entire days swimming at each other's houses in the summer, only getting out of the pool to eat, go to the bathroom, or change the radio station when we heard too much Duran Duran when we were in the mood for Howard Jones. Anyway, the point is we were excellent swimmers. We could dive, and swim laps, and find even the rustiest penny on the bottom of the deep end. So we weren't too worried when we got to Girl Scout camp and they announced that there would be a swim test to see which girls would be able to swim in the pool's deep end and using the diving board.
We did the swim test, which I can't remember at the moment, and I thought we did pretty well. I know it involved being able to tread water for at least two minutes or something like that. I have a vague memory of focusing my attention on some pine trees in my line of vision, so I wouldn't look over at Tracy and start laughing, which would make me drown, of course. Laughter in pool=drowning. Anyway, once all the girls had done the swim test, the counselors said we would be grouped into the following groups:
Red swim caps= very poor swimmers. These people could only stay in the shallow end, and could not go past a line of floating buoy-things.
Yellow swim caps= medium level of swimmers. You could swim up to the line, and venture into the middle part of the pool, but had to stop at the blue line of buoys, which signified the deep end of the pool.
Blue= the best swimmers. They had full access to the pool, and could also use the diving board.
Tracy and I were so angry when our names were called for the Yellow group. It must have been a mistake. After all, we knew we were the best swimmers there. We watched with extreme jealousy as a handful of girls got the coveted Blue swim caps and squeezed them down over their feathered hair. I felt like a little kid who needed supervision because I was too uncoordinated to keep myself afloat in the terrible deep end. Tracy and I spent our pool time being little bitches about the Blue group, particularly this one girl named Charity who seemed to be perfect in everything, and would do big show-offy dives off the diving board every chance she got. (At least we weren't in the Red group... but truthfully, those girls were the ones who were borderline Downs or retarded, anyway. I remember one very large girl having trouble just getting into the water without freaking out. And some of the other Reds couldn't swim at all, and just clung to the edge of the pool with a look of hollow disenchantment in their eyes--they didn't come to camp to be tormented with water.)
That camp really sucked. And I think that horseflies and bees tormented us while we were in the pool-- my guess is that they probably were drawn to the ugly yellow glowing swimcaps the most. "Buzz, buzz-- let's go mess with the Yellow Tards."
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
I was just thinking: if I found a razor blade in my oatmeal, I would keep eating the oatmeal around the razor blade, first of all. Then I would be outraged that someone had placed a razor blade in my oatmeal. Is it weird that I'd keep eating before I'd let the outrage kick in? Oh well. And you know what-- I'd prefer it to be Cream of Wheat, if I could make a request. Cream of Wheat beats oatmeal, every time. Kind of like how scissors beat paper. Or your Dad beats your Mom.
One more thought before I walk away from this computer for several consecutive hours: I'm sure there have been millions of people over the years who have felt themselves become incensed over incense. It is annoying, isn't it? All that smoke, and the ashes and the new age people lurking about.
Thanks for reading! You have earned yourself a Dum-Dum lollipop. I have a whole bag here, all for you good people. But, seeing as how this is just my lame blog and you are all off living your lives in exotic locales all over the globe, I'll just have to hang onto these Dum-Dums for awhile. Keep 'em safe, in the meantime. Also, to keep 'em eaten. Strawberry is the best. I throw that stupid watermelon one at the toilet, because I despite artificial watermelon flavoring.
As mentioned earlier: thanks for stoppin' by, and have a pleasant day with your bad self.
One more thought before I walk away from this computer for several consecutive hours: I'm sure there have been millions of people over the years who have felt themselves become incensed over incense. It is annoying, isn't it? All that smoke, and the ashes and the new age people lurking about.
Thanks for reading! You have earned yourself a Dum-Dum lollipop. I have a whole bag here, all for you good people. But, seeing as how this is just my lame blog and you are all off living your lives in exotic locales all over the globe, I'll just have to hang onto these Dum-Dums for awhile. Keep 'em safe, in the meantime. Also, to keep 'em eaten. Strawberry is the best. I throw that stupid watermelon one at the toilet, because I despite artificial watermelon flavoring.
As mentioned earlier: thanks for stoppin' by, and have a pleasant day with your bad self.
This is a shot of Four Peaks mountain; which is the range I can see everyday from my neighborhood. Notice the dry, parched earth and brittle, corpse-like shrubs. And that sky might look pretty, all blue and clear, but it pushes down a relentless heat with no moisture anywhere-- this sky will suck you dry. Anyway, I am here...
...and this is where I would rather be right now. I have a full-out lust for trees and water at the moment. I think I have a serious problem, and need to move my ass out of Phoenix as soon as I can. This greenery and water-lust reached massive proportions this past week; normally, I can handle the stupid dry heat well into July. Not this year. This year, I feel ready to make this my last summer here, and mean it.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Now might be a good time for me to consider writing up my living will. I have been sick for about 3 weeks straight now. That is a long-ass time to feel like crap. I think my time is rapidly drawing to a close, so fare thee well, world! I am annoyed about it, and thoroughly disappointed in the apparent lack of fortitude my immune system has been displaying lately. I seem to have got me one o’ those ‘lazy’ immune systems. My immune system has been like a day-laborer who doesn’t speak English and can’t fully get the job done—it just moves things around from place to place and falls asleep in a shady spot when the goin’ gets tough.
Today I went to the doctor, again, and this time got the diagnosis of “tonsillitis.” Yay, yippee. That sounds fun. I am really getting a kick out of all this not-swallowing I have been doing today. And I am at work, I should mention, not home. I am sort of not here, and not functioning at optimal levels.
As for all this whining, it isn’t helping, so I will move on to something else. Such as…
Lisa and the Art of Spazzing Out on a Bicycle.
I pull these stories out because I don’t have much else going on at the moment, and because I am daydreaming about being healthy enough again to enjoy a good coast on the old Schwinny Cooper (that’s my bike, in case you’re not acquainted with her personally) sometime soon. Of course, now it’s Arizona Hot out, so the biking won’t be all that joyous, but at least wind is generated when biking, and that’s something.
I have always been a bike-rider. I have already posted something about how I used to ride around in circles on my bike as a kid, or imagine that I was a bus driver, picking up ‘people’ along my ‘route’ as I rode around my neighborhood. As I got a little older, I also became a little dumber and seemed to lose important skills. Like motor skills, coordination, balance…
Cases in point:
• While attempting to “do a trick” while riding around Belford one day with my Dad, I thought it would be cool to stick my legs out in front of the pedals, lean back on the seat of my 10-speed, and coast along like that for awhile. Result: One foot veered too close to the spinning wheel, foot was caught in spokes. Bike fell over as I fell very clumsily over the handlebars. Injury: Torn tendon in foot, pulled muscles, including hammy. Scraped palms. Bike was uninjured. (Sidenote: I got to stay home from school for 2 days, which I spent watching “Stand By Me” on heavy rotation.)
• Riding along East Road in the same lovely town of Belford, a car full of teenagers rode by very fast. One person leaned out of an open car window as they went past me, and screamed “WOOOO!” really loud at me. Result: The loud noise spooked me, and I jerked the handlebars roughly and ended up slamming the front wheel into the curb. I landed on the sidewalk, and my bike skidded to a stop in the road next to me. Cars had to veer around my fallen bike as I gathered up my dignity. Injury: None, but my pride was definitely busted.
• With my faithful sidekick Kristen, we attempted to traverse the field near her house on bicycles one fateful day. We figured our bikes could handle riding on grass. They could, but not when we reached a very wet and muddy patch in the middle of the field. Result: Mud sprayed up along my entire back, including into my hair, as we rode through the mud. Kristen was spared, since her bike had a guard over the back tire to prevent mud disasters. Then, my tire got stuck and I just slowly toppled over into the mud as I tried vainly to prevent it from happening. Injury: None. Did have to borrow her mother’s clothes when we went back to her house after the fact, as mine were too muddy to be saved with a simple “wiping it off” motion with a paper towel. The embarrassment of having to wear Kristen’s mother's jeans for the rest of the afternoon haunted me for years.
• Riding my bike along Oak Street in Scottsdale, just about a year or so ago, I was enjoying a rare bike ride without Malcolm sitting in the basket near the handlebars. I was listening to my DJ player, just having a grand old time going really fast along the side of the road, when suddenly my bike slammed into a rather deep and severe “dip” in the road. Result: Upon impact, my ass flew up off the seat and gravity slammed me back down, hard. I bit my tongue and involuntarily yelled out something in a warbly voice, like “Ooooooh-arrrrr!” Injury: Tongue bitten, ass made sore by impact, embarrassment ensued as I realized people at a yard sale a few houses away, across the street, had witnessed the whole thing and had probably heard my loud, goat-like cry.
• Bugs in eye: Repeatedly
• Bugs in mouth: Repeatedly
• Bitten by something I swore were “sand chiggers” while riding on Sandy Hook: once. Itching ensued, including in the delicate crotchal region. Scary.
• Smacked in the face by low-hanging tree branch/ leaves: Approximately three times. Only one hit, by my estimate, caused me to swerve or almost-fall. Mostly my problem lies with not ducking my skull low enough as I ride underneath the branches. Usually my forehead takes the heat. I have a tough old forehead, so no serious injuries have resulted.
I really do hope to get on the bike again soon. When I do, I will return here should I have any interesting accidents. I know these little stories aren’t all that great, and I am sure people who actually brave rough terrains (not me) or ride often (unlike me) have better and bloodier tales to tell. But this is all I’ve got at the moment, so please lay off. I have a swollen throat —be gentle with me and my gimp-ass self for now. Thanks a million.
Today I went to the doctor, again, and this time got the diagnosis of “tonsillitis.” Yay, yippee. That sounds fun. I am really getting a kick out of all this not-swallowing I have been doing today. And I am at work, I should mention, not home. I am sort of not here, and not functioning at optimal levels.
As for all this whining, it isn’t helping, so I will move on to something else. Such as…
Lisa and the Art of Spazzing Out on a Bicycle.
I pull these stories out because I don’t have much else going on at the moment, and because I am daydreaming about being healthy enough again to enjoy a good coast on the old Schwinny Cooper (that’s my bike, in case you’re not acquainted with her personally) sometime soon. Of course, now it’s Arizona Hot out, so the biking won’t be all that joyous, but at least wind is generated when biking, and that’s something.
I have always been a bike-rider. I have already posted something about how I used to ride around in circles on my bike as a kid, or imagine that I was a bus driver, picking up ‘people’ along my ‘route’ as I rode around my neighborhood. As I got a little older, I also became a little dumber and seemed to lose important skills. Like motor skills, coordination, balance…
Cases in point:
• While attempting to “do a trick” while riding around Belford one day with my Dad, I thought it would be cool to stick my legs out in front of the pedals, lean back on the seat of my 10-speed, and coast along like that for awhile. Result: One foot veered too close to the spinning wheel, foot was caught in spokes. Bike fell over as I fell very clumsily over the handlebars. Injury: Torn tendon in foot, pulled muscles, including hammy. Scraped palms. Bike was uninjured. (Sidenote: I got to stay home from school for 2 days, which I spent watching “Stand By Me” on heavy rotation.)
• Riding along East Road in the same lovely town of Belford, a car full of teenagers rode by very fast. One person leaned out of an open car window as they went past me, and screamed “WOOOO!” really loud at me. Result: The loud noise spooked me, and I jerked the handlebars roughly and ended up slamming the front wheel into the curb. I landed on the sidewalk, and my bike skidded to a stop in the road next to me. Cars had to veer around my fallen bike as I gathered up my dignity. Injury: None, but my pride was definitely busted.
• With my faithful sidekick Kristen, we attempted to traverse the field near her house on bicycles one fateful day. We figured our bikes could handle riding on grass. They could, but not when we reached a very wet and muddy patch in the middle of the field. Result: Mud sprayed up along my entire back, including into my hair, as we rode through the mud. Kristen was spared, since her bike had a guard over the back tire to prevent mud disasters. Then, my tire got stuck and I just slowly toppled over into the mud as I tried vainly to prevent it from happening. Injury: None. Did have to borrow her mother’s clothes when we went back to her house after the fact, as mine were too muddy to be saved with a simple “wiping it off” motion with a paper towel. The embarrassment of having to wear Kristen’s mother's jeans for the rest of the afternoon haunted me for years.
• Riding my bike along Oak Street in Scottsdale, just about a year or so ago, I was enjoying a rare bike ride without Malcolm sitting in the basket near the handlebars. I was listening to my DJ player, just having a grand old time going really fast along the side of the road, when suddenly my bike slammed into a rather deep and severe “dip” in the road. Result: Upon impact, my ass flew up off the seat and gravity slammed me back down, hard. I bit my tongue and involuntarily yelled out something in a warbly voice, like “Ooooooh-arrrrr!” Injury: Tongue bitten, ass made sore by impact, embarrassment ensued as I realized people at a yard sale a few houses away, across the street, had witnessed the whole thing and had probably heard my loud, goat-like cry.
• Bugs in eye: Repeatedly
• Bugs in mouth: Repeatedly
• Bitten by something I swore were “sand chiggers” while riding on Sandy Hook: once. Itching ensued, including in the delicate crotchal region. Scary.
• Smacked in the face by low-hanging tree branch/ leaves: Approximately three times. Only one hit, by my estimate, caused me to swerve or almost-fall. Mostly my problem lies with not ducking my skull low enough as I ride underneath the branches. Usually my forehead takes the heat. I have a tough old forehead, so no serious injuries have resulted.
I really do hope to get on the bike again soon. When I do, I will return here should I have any interesting accidents. I know these little stories aren’t all that great, and I am sure people who actually brave rough terrains (not me) or ride often (unlike me) have better and bloodier tales to tell. But this is all I’ve got at the moment, so please lay off. I have a swollen throat —be gentle with me and my gimp-ass self for now. Thanks a million.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
As if I didn't have ample reason to despise Wal-Mart before, I have decided I will boycott this store simply for its overly conservative, Right-leaning ways that kept me from enjoying long minutes of dirty puppet sex. Apparently, Wal-Mart will only sell things that are cleaned up and "family friendly", as well as the always-popular Book of Mormon and the entire freaking Chicken Soup for the Soul series, just in case you were out of toilet paper AND spiritual values.
I found this out in a terribly hard way this past week, when I stopped in Wal-Mart to buy, yes, some toilet paper and dog food. I ended up walking through the movie section of the store, which is normal for me because I can't resist looking at DVDs these days. And there it was-- the DVD for "Team America: World Police!" I was so excited to see it there that I quickly snatched up a copy and proudly slid my credit card through the reader at the register, and commenced skipping to my car as birds tweedled in the trees around the trash-strewn, hot parking lot. Oh, lovely day!
This past Friday, I had some friends over to watch my brand-new DVD. I was so excited. I felt like I was cool... Yeah, I have that movie with the puppet sex and all that, oh yeah. I remember I had removed the disk from the case, and was placing it into my DVD player like a happy kid on X, when Trish's voice snapped me from my gaiety.
"Oh. You didn't buy the Unrated and Extended Version. You just got the regular one."
"What?" I snapped. "There's an Unrated and Extended Version??" My voice was squeaking out and I saw the other friends in the room starting to look a little uncomfortable at my distress. It's never good when the hostess starts wigging out. Last time it was such a mess, what with the things I started doing with the rake and the bag of chocolate shavings and the broken glass. They knew it was time to remain calm, and ready for anything. They braced down.
"Yeah. This isn't it. It would say it right on the cover..." Trish said, showing me the case. Sure enough it didn't say Unrated or Extended anywhere on the cover.
That's when I knew it. It was Wal-Mart's fault. Wal-Mart, with its holier-than-thou stocked films. Wal-Mart, refusing to sell a movie with a long scene of puppet sex featuring showers and stuff. Wal-Mart: We Decide What's Good for Joe American. And Screw You, Lisa. You Heathen.
I honestly felt so mislead and used. I didn't even have the option of buying the dirtier version of the movie, and I resented it. Sure, I should have know there were 2 versions, and sure, this is a lesson hard-learned regarding the dangers of the impulse buy during lunch hour. But still. Why the censoring? Why not have the freaking greeters hand out pamphlets on parenting to the people who walk through the doors instead? That might work, too. Obviously, we need corporations to let us know what's good or bad, so we probably could use them to step right into our families, too. God knows parents don't do it right now, anyway. Wal-Mart-- We'll Raise Your Kids So You Don't Have To!
And here's the kicker: Ol' Roy Dog Food gives my dogs gas. This is the final piss in my face, Wal-Mart. Go sell it to the billion other people out there who are not me.
I found this out in a terribly hard way this past week, when I stopped in Wal-Mart to buy, yes, some toilet paper and dog food. I ended up walking through the movie section of the store, which is normal for me because I can't resist looking at DVDs these days. And there it was-- the DVD for "Team America: World Police!" I was so excited to see it there that I quickly snatched up a copy and proudly slid my credit card through the reader at the register, and commenced skipping to my car as birds tweedled in the trees around the trash-strewn, hot parking lot. Oh, lovely day!
This past Friday, I had some friends over to watch my brand-new DVD. I was so excited. I felt like I was cool... Yeah, I have that movie with the puppet sex and all that, oh yeah. I remember I had removed the disk from the case, and was placing it into my DVD player like a happy kid on X, when Trish's voice snapped me from my gaiety.
"Oh. You didn't buy the Unrated and Extended Version. You just got the regular one."
"What?" I snapped. "There's an Unrated and Extended Version??" My voice was squeaking out and I saw the other friends in the room starting to look a little uncomfortable at my distress. It's never good when the hostess starts wigging out. Last time it was such a mess, what with the things I started doing with the rake and the bag of chocolate shavings and the broken glass. They knew it was time to remain calm, and ready for anything. They braced down.
"Yeah. This isn't it. It would say it right on the cover..." Trish said, showing me the case. Sure enough it didn't say Unrated or Extended anywhere on the cover.
That's when I knew it. It was Wal-Mart's fault. Wal-Mart, with its holier-than-thou stocked films. Wal-Mart, refusing to sell a movie with a long scene of puppet sex featuring showers and stuff. Wal-Mart: We Decide What's Good for Joe American. And Screw You, Lisa. You Heathen.
I honestly felt so mislead and used. I didn't even have the option of buying the dirtier version of the movie, and I resented it. Sure, I should have know there were 2 versions, and sure, this is a lesson hard-learned regarding the dangers of the impulse buy during lunch hour. But still. Why the censoring? Why not have the freaking greeters hand out pamphlets on parenting to the people who walk through the doors instead? That might work, too. Obviously, we need corporations to let us know what's good or bad, so we probably could use them to step right into our families, too. God knows parents don't do it right now, anyway. Wal-Mart-- We'll Raise Your Kids So You Don't Have To!
And here's the kicker: Ol' Roy Dog Food gives my dogs gas. This is the final piss in my face, Wal-Mart. Go sell it to the billion other people out there who are not me.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
I've been tagged by Lengli and Trish to do this bit about my music selections, and it's taken me a whole day to get to it. Here goes my best effort:
The total volume of music files on my computer: Honestly, I have no clue. And I couldn't figure out how to check. This should give you an idea of how dumb I am. I do know that on my Dell DJ, which contains a mirror image of my computer's library, I have about 4,000MB loaded on there.
Last CD I bought: I got two new VNV Nation CDs yesterday. Ordered them from my wishlist on Amazon. VNV Nation has been great writing-music lately. Thanks to Kristen for letting me know the "good" albums.
Song playing right now: Oh, gosh. It's "Earth Died Screaming" by Tom Waits. Before that it was a song called "Into my Blood" by Carina Round. I wouldn't back-announce further, though. I have to stick to the format with which I was tagged.
5 songs that mean a lot to me:
* Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saens. It's so lush, gothic and perfect for letting your imagination go when you are a kid, listening to it on a Walkman as you walk along a trail in the woods around Halloween. And I still listen to it now and feel the same way about it as I did when I was a youngun.
* Wish by NIN. Makes me want to rock out, and it never gets old.
* I Like Birds by Eels. Happy song to bop around to. I put it into the play Trish and I directed this summer. Seeing that guy Matt standing on a chair as the lights came up with this song playing was so adorable. Loved it.
* Up, Up and Away by Fifth Dimension. Cracks me and Trish up. We were in Ulta one night, and this song came on. She started laughing b/c it was the first time she ever heard it. However, in the 70s my Mom played that album a lot and I sure as hell knew the words. We still do our best Fifth Dimension impression when we are riding in the car, usually with someone who could be easily annoyed by us.
* Crescent Silver Scythe by Sheila Chanda. This song was playing in the car one day as I was driving home from work-- the day after I had a very vivid dream that would become my next novel idea. As I listened to this song, I suddenly found myself building a plot, creating a character and thinking of her mannerisms and things like that... and had to rush in and jot my notes down the second I got home. Everytime I hear this song I want to write the new book. Plus it's totally different than a lot of things I have. It's almost meditative, and plus she sings well.
And now it's my turn to tag someone. Here are my chosen tag-ees:
*RaeAnn, since I want to see if she ends up bringing up Eddie Reader or not
*Rob-- I have no idea what he's listening to out ol' Ohio way these days
*Haiku Girl-- I have a feeling her collection is awesome
The total volume of music files on my computer: Honestly, I have no clue. And I couldn't figure out how to check. This should give you an idea of how dumb I am. I do know that on my Dell DJ, which contains a mirror image of my computer's library, I have about 4,000MB loaded on there.
Last CD I bought: I got two new VNV Nation CDs yesterday. Ordered them from my wishlist on Amazon. VNV Nation has been great writing-music lately. Thanks to Kristen for letting me know the "good" albums.
Song playing right now: Oh, gosh. It's "Earth Died Screaming" by Tom Waits. Before that it was a song called "Into my Blood" by Carina Round. I wouldn't back-announce further, though. I have to stick to the format with which I was tagged.
5 songs that mean a lot to me:
* Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saens. It's so lush, gothic and perfect for letting your imagination go when you are a kid, listening to it on a Walkman as you walk along a trail in the woods around Halloween. And I still listen to it now and feel the same way about it as I did when I was a youngun.
* Wish by NIN. Makes me want to rock out, and it never gets old.
* I Like Birds by Eels. Happy song to bop around to. I put it into the play Trish and I directed this summer. Seeing that guy Matt standing on a chair as the lights came up with this song playing was so adorable. Loved it.
* Up, Up and Away by Fifth Dimension. Cracks me and Trish up. We were in Ulta one night, and this song came on. She started laughing b/c it was the first time she ever heard it. However, in the 70s my Mom played that album a lot and I sure as hell knew the words. We still do our best Fifth Dimension impression when we are riding in the car, usually with someone who could be easily annoyed by us.
* Crescent Silver Scythe by Sheila Chanda. This song was playing in the car one day as I was driving home from work-- the day after I had a very vivid dream that would become my next novel idea. As I listened to this song, I suddenly found myself building a plot, creating a character and thinking of her mannerisms and things like that... and had to rush in and jot my notes down the second I got home. Everytime I hear this song I want to write the new book. Plus it's totally different than a lot of things I have. It's almost meditative, and plus she sings well.
And now it's my turn to tag someone. Here are my chosen tag-ees:
*RaeAnn, since I want to see if she ends up bringing up Eddie Reader or not
*Rob-- I have no idea what he's listening to out ol' Ohio way these days
*Haiku Girl-- I have a feeling her collection is awesome
Monday, May 23, 2005
My favorite superhero is The Human Porch. It's basically this awesome, wooden porch, see, and it has a face and a mouth and it talks to you and the eyes can watch everything that goes on out on the porch (and sort of down into the yard, too, if he strains a bit--since his eyes point upward and all). The Human Porch's greatest power is to be, well, the greatest porch on the planet. Everyone will be talking about how cool The Human Porch is this summer.
I have so much stuff. When I had a house with the ex, there were a lot of little places to squirrel away the stuff, and even though I moved out about 9 months ago or something, he is still finding my stuff in places like the attic, bathroom closets and the garage. I am kind of ashamed at the sheer amount of this crap, too. Because it's not even GOOD crap. It's shameful crap.
Today he gave me back the following: *plastic bag containing my Pound Puppy, my high school backpack, various dolls from my childhood *a wind-up toy from Tokyo called Spark-Bibo (little dinosaur creature that shoots sparks from its mouth as it walks) *James Brown rubber ducky (a rubber duck with the face of James Brown-- it's still in its plastic container so it could be a collector's item) *some cracked plastic glasses I bought at Target about 5 years ago *a juice glass with a snowman on it *a copy of my high school newspaper, the Lion's Roar, stuffed inside a Victoria's Secret bag alongside a figurine of a little girl wearing a big floppy hat.
This is a random grouping of my "things" and to be honest, it made me heave a gigantic sigh of "I need to simplify my life more" as I loaded into the back of my car. How do those people with the minimalist-houses do it? Those contemporary West Elm/ Copenhagen/ IKEA houses that are so organized, neat and spare? Why can't I have that, too? I would love to only have The Necessaries around me. That would be cool.
This is a relatively useless blog entry. I think this one could end up in the shitter soon. For now, however... I post!
I have so much stuff. When I had a house with the ex, there were a lot of little places to squirrel away the stuff, and even though I moved out about 9 months ago or something, he is still finding my stuff in places like the attic, bathroom closets and the garage. I am kind of ashamed at the sheer amount of this crap, too. Because it's not even GOOD crap. It's shameful crap.
Today he gave me back the following: *plastic bag containing my Pound Puppy, my high school backpack, various dolls from my childhood *a wind-up toy from Tokyo called Spark-Bibo (little dinosaur creature that shoots sparks from its mouth as it walks) *James Brown rubber ducky (a rubber duck with the face of James Brown-- it's still in its plastic container so it could be a collector's item) *some cracked plastic glasses I bought at Target about 5 years ago *a juice glass with a snowman on it *a copy of my high school newspaper, the Lion's Roar, stuffed inside a Victoria's Secret bag alongside a figurine of a little girl wearing a big floppy hat.
This is a random grouping of my "things" and to be honest, it made me heave a gigantic sigh of "I need to simplify my life more" as I loaded into the back of my car. How do those people with the minimalist-houses do it? Those contemporary West Elm/ Copenhagen/ IKEA houses that are so organized, neat and spare? Why can't I have that, too? I would love to only have The Necessaries around me. That would be cool.
This is a relatively useless blog entry. I think this one could end up in the shitter soon. For now, however... I post!
Friday, May 20, 2005
“Floating around in the ether.” That’s a phrase that popped into my head earlier today. I like it. What is floating around in the ether? What’s the deal with all this ether, anyway? Webster (the one that's not Emmanuel Lewis) describes ether as: 1)a volatile, highly-flammable liquid compound used as a solvent and an anesthetic 2) The heavens.
Which description do I like better? Ehh, I am not too picky here; ether or.
Did you get that joke I planted right there? Oh, man, I am flyin’ high and there’s no getting me down now.
People say that things are floating around in the ether when they don’t know what the hell is going on. “The answer is floating around out there, somewhere in the ether.” People in mental wards probably say it more frequently, but I think people prone to using clichés a lot use it, too. I don’t say it much. Just for today.
Here’s some things that are floating around in MY ether today:
• While I was talking to Trish about the porn cookies this morning (see her blog), the song Shakedown from Beverly Hills Cop jumped into my head. I don’t understand why, really… porn cookies and Bob Seger don’t usually go together. But I thought it was extra funny to look at the cookies in the filthy shapes and pretend that song was the “soundtrack” to the cookies. “Shakedown, breakdown—you’re BUSTED!”
• Another great Beverly Hills Cop song: The Heat is ON! Of course! What the hell… of course I would think of that song. And the fantastic SNL skit with Ben Stiller and Will Ferrell as Glenn Frey. “Before this night is over, I’m gonna have Glenn Frey stank all over me!”
• It’s hard to find quotes online for the MST3K movie, “A Touch of Satan.”
• Overheard in the office: “No… it should be ‘smooshier’ than that.”
• Remember Good Humor’s “Fat Frog” ice cream? Man, I want a Fat Frog right now.
• “Getting the Fat Frog” definitely sounds like a euphemism.
• My bangs grow too fast. Just a week ago I swear they were too short. Now they’re hitting my eyebrows again. Maybe I’ll just grow them out. I love that my hair is completely powerless when it comes to my wishes. I am in essence saying: Bangs, meet scissors! Or—bangs, get ready to be clipped back for a few months while you are in your awkward growing-out stage! Just try to protest… I ain’t gonna listen. Quit yer bitchin’, hair!
• My current favorite “Deep Thought” is: If they ever build a statue of me, I hope they won’t have me with my mouth open, holding a sign that says I LOVE ROTTEN EGGS.
• I saw a few minutes of “The O.C.” last night and I was wondering: is the preppy polo shirt look the new “edgy” look for young men these days? Seems like it. Whatever happened to punk?
• I have taken up spitting.
• If you are eating a banana, and the banana breaks and a piece lands on your desk, is it socially acceptable to pick up the banana-piece and stand it back on the remaining banana in the peel and then keep eating as you balance the broken banana with your other hand? I did that this morning; and I don’t give a rat’s behind what you think, I never liked you anyway.
• Don’t worry-- I am all talk, no sincerity. I like you. I just hardly know you, that’s all. I get shy around people.
• I want a STATION WAGON again! So that I can tell people that they have to sit in “the Way Back.” Trish and I spent so many long hours seated in the Way Back of our family’s station wagon. We would look forlornly at the people driving behind us—it wasn’t much fun to have to face people in traffic. It makes you feel stupid. Sometimes we would wave, sometimes we would make faces or hold up signs that said funny things; like, CALL POLICE—WE’RE KIDNAPPED! and OUR DAD IS A FUGITIVE AND HE EATS PEOPLE and WHO FARTED? We were such kidders. Most of the time though? We zoned out with our Walkmans, listening to mix tapes we had made just the night before. Why was it so crucial to always make a new mix tape before a road trip? Whatever the reason, it is DAMN important.
Which description do I like better? Ehh, I am not too picky here; ether or.
Did you get that joke I planted right there? Oh, man, I am flyin’ high and there’s no getting me down now.
People say that things are floating around in the ether when they don’t know what the hell is going on. “The answer is floating around out there, somewhere in the ether.” People in mental wards probably say it more frequently, but I think people prone to using clichés a lot use it, too. I don’t say it much. Just for today.
Here’s some things that are floating around in MY ether today:
• While I was talking to Trish about the porn cookies this morning (see her blog), the song Shakedown from Beverly Hills Cop jumped into my head. I don’t understand why, really… porn cookies and Bob Seger don’t usually go together. But I thought it was extra funny to look at the cookies in the filthy shapes and pretend that song was the “soundtrack” to the cookies. “Shakedown, breakdown—you’re BUSTED!”
• Another great Beverly Hills Cop song: The Heat is ON! Of course! What the hell… of course I would think of that song. And the fantastic SNL skit with Ben Stiller and Will Ferrell as Glenn Frey. “Before this night is over, I’m gonna have Glenn Frey stank all over me!”
• It’s hard to find quotes online for the MST3K movie, “A Touch of Satan.”
• Overheard in the office: “No… it should be ‘smooshier’ than that.”
• Remember Good Humor’s “Fat Frog” ice cream? Man, I want a Fat Frog right now.
• “Getting the Fat Frog” definitely sounds like a euphemism.
• My bangs grow too fast. Just a week ago I swear they were too short. Now they’re hitting my eyebrows again. Maybe I’ll just grow them out. I love that my hair is completely powerless when it comes to my wishes. I am in essence saying: Bangs, meet scissors! Or—bangs, get ready to be clipped back for a few months while you are in your awkward growing-out stage! Just try to protest… I ain’t gonna listen. Quit yer bitchin’, hair!
• My current favorite “Deep Thought” is: If they ever build a statue of me, I hope they won’t have me with my mouth open, holding a sign that says I LOVE ROTTEN EGGS.
• I saw a few minutes of “The O.C.” last night and I was wondering: is the preppy polo shirt look the new “edgy” look for young men these days? Seems like it. Whatever happened to punk?
• I have taken up spitting.
• If you are eating a banana, and the banana breaks and a piece lands on your desk, is it socially acceptable to pick up the banana-piece and stand it back on the remaining banana in the peel and then keep eating as you balance the broken banana with your other hand? I did that this morning; and I don’t give a rat’s behind what you think, I never liked you anyway.
• Don’t worry-- I am all talk, no sincerity. I like you. I just hardly know you, that’s all. I get shy around people.
• I want a STATION WAGON again! So that I can tell people that they have to sit in “the Way Back.” Trish and I spent so many long hours seated in the Way Back of our family’s station wagon. We would look forlornly at the people driving behind us—it wasn’t much fun to have to face people in traffic. It makes you feel stupid. Sometimes we would wave, sometimes we would make faces or hold up signs that said funny things; like, CALL POLICE—WE’RE KIDNAPPED! and OUR DAD IS A FUGITIVE AND HE EATS PEOPLE and WHO FARTED? We were such kidders. Most of the time though? We zoned out with our Walkmans, listening to mix tapes we had made just the night before. Why was it so crucial to always make a new mix tape before a road trip? Whatever the reason, it is DAMN important.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
This is a link to a streaming radio station from Seattle.
Thank you, Friend Who Sent Me the Link for KEXP. It makes for great background randomness as I write. Czech it out!
Thank you, Friend Who Sent Me the Link for KEXP. It makes for great background randomness as I write. Czech it out!
Life is full of harsh lessons. For instance, we can't control events. Fate is unstoppable, like a bowling ball being thrown off a bridge. Even if you are really strong, you can't do much except watch that ball hit. And maybe get out of the way, I guess.
I found out I can't control things today, when I decided to clean out the bottom of my toaster oven. I had a bunch of that crusty crumb-stuff on the bottom from all the English muffins and waffles that have spent some time browning in my little oven. I removed the tray and started bringing it over to my faithful trash can.
But when I went to dump the crumbs into the can, I lost control. The lid to the garbage can was not up far back enough (it's one of those fancy silver trash cans with the lid that opens when you step on the little pedal-- I like to refer to my trash can as The Flapping Torpedo) and the edge of the crumb-catchin' tray knocked into the lid. Crusty crumb-stuff went fucking EVERYWHERE! And to make it worse, I stepped in some a little bit.
And the dogs wouldn't eat it.
So I had to clean it up.
I can't control anything. Life, crumbs, dogs. Nothing. Might as well just go back to bed and not wash ever again!
I found out I can't control things today, when I decided to clean out the bottom of my toaster oven. I had a bunch of that crusty crumb-stuff on the bottom from all the English muffins and waffles that have spent some time browning in my little oven. I removed the tray and started bringing it over to my faithful trash can.
But when I went to dump the crumbs into the can, I lost control. The lid to the garbage can was not up far back enough (it's one of those fancy silver trash cans with the lid that opens when you step on the little pedal-- I like to refer to my trash can as The Flapping Torpedo) and the edge of the crumb-catchin' tray knocked into the lid. Crusty crumb-stuff went fucking EVERYWHERE! And to make it worse, I stepped in some a little bit.
And the dogs wouldn't eat it.
So I had to clean it up.
I can't control anything. Life, crumbs, dogs. Nothing. Might as well just go back to bed and not wash ever again!
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
I saw this picture and I said, "All right! They voted Wayne Newton in as mayor! You're the coolest, Los Angeles." Turns out it's some other dude. I think his name might be Ricky Ricardo, El Guapo, or maybe Jose McSpanishguy.
Either way, he is getting a forehead full-a Caucasian lovin' from Whistful White Man, who seems to be having a religious experience--perhaps over the smell of the Latino-hair. And when El Mayoro finishes up with that, he can turn the other way for some of that special chocolate surprise stuff. (I know what you're thinking. That guy? There's no way THAT GUY will give it up for the mayor. Look how serious he is. But I implore you-- don't be so naive. The packaging might be a little tougher, but dark sweetness awaits inside!)
My dog attacks sprinkler heads. It's the greatest thing ever. I found out last night when I walked her and the automatic sprinklers came on, and she dove face-first into the water, biting and snarling at it. She attacked every single freakin' sprinkler head along our walk. Her collar had to air-dry outside overnight.
I'm watching this lady walk to a bus stop up the road right now as I get ready to leave work for the day. It made me stop and ponder an important question: Why am I afraid to ride the buses in Phoenix? I wasn't scared in NJ. I'd get on that Academy bus and ride my shit right into "the City." But here, it seems so daunting. Maybe because those bus-people look a little, I don't know, "infected" out here. Luckily right now I have a car, so it's good to be me. Ha! Suck on this, bus riders! One word for you: LAME. Get a car, poories.
I'm watching this lady walk to a bus stop up the road right now as I get ready to leave work for the day. It made me stop and ponder an important question: Why am I afraid to ride the buses in Phoenix? I wasn't scared in NJ. I'd get on that Academy bus and ride my shit right into "the City." But here, it seems so daunting. Maybe because those bus-people look a little, I don't know, "infected" out here. Luckily right now I have a car, so it's good to be me. Ha! Suck on this, bus riders! One word for you: LAME. Get a car, poories.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Arrested Development was renewed for another full season. This makes me one happy little bitch! Damn, that show is brilliant. "The last person I thought I'd be picking up on Spring Break was Mom."
I hung up some blinds today. Yesterday Greg came over and hung up the Problem Blind in my bedroom-- the one I had attempted for hours and hours to hang way back in February. I had the wrong screws-- and Greg figgered that shit out and bought the right ones. I was so excited about the newly-hung Problem Blind that I went ahead and hung up the other blind for my office, using the leftover screws. It's awesome, I tell ya. I was existing with nothing but sheer curtains covering my windows. I was forced to change my clothes inside my closet. No kidding, I was too modest to change out in my bedroom for fear someone would see me nekkid from the street. Well, modesty be damned because I can cavort about in whatever state of undress I desire! Yippee ki-yay (sp), motherfucker.
I'm reformating my book at the moment, and getting ready to present another one to a publisher by next week. I was at my computer all afternoon, just re-arranging excerpts of my book around and getting things in order. I have been writing this book for about 7-8 years now. So there are about 12 different versions of the story, all saved on about 6 different floppy disks. I've had a hell of a time pulling together the stuff I am going to keep, putting it in the general chronological order it needs to be in, and beginning the rewrite and edit process to make it all cohesive. I am so excited though, because the elements are coming together, sir. It's become a wrastlin' match between me and the muse of writing. And of course, DANCE.
I just haven't got much else to share at the moment. I went to see a band play last night with Greg that was pretty intriguing: The Dead 60s. I haven't been out to see a show in so long. It's nuts. I need to do that more often. Although maybe when I am not still overcoming a loud cough. This morning I felt like balls. I'm OK now though. And I am sitting here in my newly-blinded room, with Jill Tracy and VNV Nation playing as I sort through a million pages about dolphins, DNA and some surfer girl. It's fun to write from a male POV, because I get to imagine what we chicks look like to dudes. My conclusion stands at: I think we are probably really hot! Boys are so easy.
I hung up some blinds today. Yesterday Greg came over and hung up the Problem Blind in my bedroom-- the one I had attempted for hours and hours to hang way back in February. I had the wrong screws-- and Greg figgered that shit out and bought the right ones. I was so excited about the newly-hung Problem Blind that I went ahead and hung up the other blind for my office, using the leftover screws. It's awesome, I tell ya. I was existing with nothing but sheer curtains covering my windows. I was forced to change my clothes inside my closet. No kidding, I was too modest to change out in my bedroom for fear someone would see me nekkid from the street. Well, modesty be damned because I can cavort about in whatever state of undress I desire! Yippee ki-yay (sp), motherfucker.
I'm reformating my book at the moment, and getting ready to present another one to a publisher by next week. I was at my computer all afternoon, just re-arranging excerpts of my book around and getting things in order. I have been writing this book for about 7-8 years now. So there are about 12 different versions of the story, all saved on about 6 different floppy disks. I've had a hell of a time pulling together the stuff I am going to keep, putting it in the general chronological order it needs to be in, and beginning the rewrite and edit process to make it all cohesive. I am so excited though, because the elements are coming together, sir. It's become a wrastlin' match between me and the muse of writing. And of course, DANCE.
I just haven't got much else to share at the moment. I went to see a band play last night with Greg that was pretty intriguing: The Dead 60s. I haven't been out to see a show in so long. It's nuts. I need to do that more often. Although maybe when I am not still overcoming a loud cough. This morning I felt like balls. I'm OK now though. And I am sitting here in my newly-blinded room, with Jill Tracy and VNV Nation playing as I sort through a million pages about dolphins, DNA and some surfer girl. It's fun to write from a male POV, because I get to imagine what we chicks look like to dudes. My conclusion stands at: I think we are probably really hot! Boys are so easy.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
I was at the gas station just now, fillin' up the old gas tank of course, when this dirty older guy came walking up to me across the lot. He was actually dirty in the literal sense; a filthy white T-shirt with stains on it, stained jeans and old boots and a baseball cap. He looked Mexican or Indian, I couldn't tell which at first. He was walking with that sloppy drunk-walk because it was clear he had just left this seedy little bar across the street called The Playa.
He yells out to me: "White girl with black hair! Hey, yeah!"
I was in a charitable mood, so I said hey back to him.
Him: "I like that, white woman with black hair. If you were Indian I would call you '(insert something in Pima language here' or '(another Pima word)' with No Legs."
I laughed and he came over by the front of my car as I pumped the gas. Somehow I could tell he was just a harmless drunk, and this was interesting.
Me: "What was that again, something with No Legs?"
Him: "Bubbala* with No Legs."
Me: "What does that mean?"
Him: "Ahhh... it means you are not working at that anymore, you are retired."
(Working at what? Hmm.)
Him: "So, which name do you like better? Ha?"
Me: "What was the first one again?"
Him: (Said the Indian word again) "That means, um, not a prostitute, it means virgin. So which name do you want?"
Me: (I was starting to laugh a little now, and he laughed too) "I think I will take the first one."
Him: "For it to be your name, you say it, OK? What was the first one?"
Me: "Uhh... I can't pronounce it."
Him: "Nah, you can't because white women can't talk Indian." He laughed now and stumbled a little.
Me: "Well, then, I will be Bubbala with No Legs then."
Him: "Yeah. OK, you be careful and you be gone then!" (What? I was pretty sure he was telling me to get my retired prostitute ass out of there in a hurry.)
Me: "All right then. Take it easy."
I finished pumping my gas and put the cap back on, and got in my car and drove back home thinking: Damn, I have to blog about this before I forget it. And I wish I knew what those words were he was saying. I should have gotten out my notebook and asked him to spell it for me so I could look it up. *Bubbala is just my guesstimate of what he said-- and I know he wasn't speaking Yiddish, so this spelling is obviously incorrect.
It's not everyday that a drunk Indian tells me I am a retired prostitute or a virgin-- and it's my choice of which I can be called--at the gas station. A banner day for me!
He yells out to me: "White girl with black hair! Hey, yeah!"
I was in a charitable mood, so I said hey back to him.
Him: "I like that, white woman with black hair. If you were Indian I would call you '(insert something in Pima language here' or '(another Pima word)' with No Legs."
I laughed and he came over by the front of my car as I pumped the gas. Somehow I could tell he was just a harmless drunk, and this was interesting.
Me: "What was that again, something with No Legs?"
Him: "Bubbala* with No Legs."
Me: "What does that mean?"
Him: "Ahhh... it means you are not working at that anymore, you are retired."
(Working at what? Hmm.)
Him: "So, which name do you like better? Ha?"
Me: "What was the first one again?"
Him: (Said the Indian word again) "That means, um, not a prostitute, it means virgin. So which name do you want?"
Me: (I was starting to laugh a little now, and he laughed too) "I think I will take the first one."
Him: "For it to be your name, you say it, OK? What was the first one?"
Me: "Uhh... I can't pronounce it."
Him: "Nah, you can't because white women can't talk Indian." He laughed now and stumbled a little.
Me: "Well, then, I will be Bubbala with No Legs then."
Him: "Yeah. OK, you be careful and you be gone then!" (What? I was pretty sure he was telling me to get my retired prostitute ass out of there in a hurry.)
Me: "All right then. Take it easy."
I finished pumping my gas and put the cap back on, and got in my car and drove back home thinking: Damn, I have to blog about this before I forget it. And I wish I knew what those words were he was saying. I should have gotten out my notebook and asked him to spell it for me so I could look it up. *Bubbala is just my guesstimate of what he said-- and I know he wasn't speaking Yiddish, so this spelling is obviously incorrect.
It's not everyday that a drunk Indian tells me I am a retired prostitute or a virgin-- and it's my choice of which I can be called--at the gas station. A banner day for me!
Friday, May 13, 2005
Code name: Codeine and the Psychological Tickle.
Yes, they gave me my very own prescription for a codeine-enhanced cough syrup today. And I took it. Mmm. Codeine.
So when I felt a tickle in my throat (which is unfortunate to have strep at the moment, yuck), I told myself, "Self, calm down. You took the codeine. That tickle you feel is not real. It's a psychological tickle, nothing more."
I wish I could go to a movie this weekend. Maybe I will get better and I can go. If I tried to go right now, I would be the asshole with the hacking cough. So I better just stay home-- I have not left my house much for the past five days now-- and watch Buffy reruns and eat steamin' hot ramen soup.
If I could go to a movie, I would see "Unleashed." Too bad they didn't keep it with its original title, which was "Danny the Dog." The French are OK with that title, but I guess Americans are too stupid to get it. They'd be taking their kids to see the movie about the cute lil' dawg named Danny. Awwww! That reminds me of when I saw "Bad Santa" in the theater, and how shocked I was at the number of children in the audience. All these parents took their kids to see this movie, and even more surprising was that only one set of parents with kids got up and walked out. You just don't take your little kids to see Bad Santa. Or Unleashed. Leave 'em home.
I don't even know what the fuck I am talking about! I am very sick right now and can't even swallow for holy hell's sake. I did take that codeine though-- I guess that's what is giving me the creative license to spew all this garbage all over my blog. Anyway, good night ladies and gents; and if you see me, don't go in for the kiss. (Strep, remember? Sheesh! I am very pretty and all that... but I am diseased!)
Yes, they gave me my very own prescription for a codeine-enhanced cough syrup today. And I took it. Mmm. Codeine.
So when I felt a tickle in my throat (which is unfortunate to have strep at the moment, yuck), I told myself, "Self, calm down. You took the codeine. That tickle you feel is not real. It's a psychological tickle, nothing more."
I wish I could go to a movie this weekend. Maybe I will get better and I can go. If I tried to go right now, I would be the asshole with the hacking cough. So I better just stay home-- I have not left my house much for the past five days now-- and watch Buffy reruns and eat steamin' hot ramen soup.
If I could go to a movie, I would see "Unleashed." Too bad they didn't keep it with its original title, which was "Danny the Dog." The French are OK with that title, but I guess Americans are too stupid to get it. They'd be taking their kids to see the movie about the cute lil' dawg named Danny. Awwww! That reminds me of when I saw "Bad Santa" in the theater, and how shocked I was at the number of children in the audience. All these parents took their kids to see this movie, and even more surprising was that only one set of parents with kids got up and walked out. You just don't take your little kids to see Bad Santa. Or Unleashed. Leave 'em home.
I don't even know what the fuck I am talking about! I am very sick right now and can't even swallow for holy hell's sake. I did take that codeine though-- I guess that's what is giving me the creative license to spew all this garbage all over my blog. Anyway, good night ladies and gents; and if you see me, don't go in for the kiss. (Strep, remember? Sheesh! I am very pretty and all that... but I am diseased!)
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Hey, I might still be sick, but I can tell you one thing: When I see a slutty Little Red Riding Hood in the middle of the road at rush hour, I am not hallucinating a slutty Little Red Riding Hood in the middle of the road at rush hour. That bitch is really THERE.
I had a witness, too. Trish was in my passenger seat. We were driving along, listening to some music, and we suddenly see--like a mirage-- a young woman standing in the middle of the road ahead. There, in the middle turning lane, she stood proudly like a beacon of stupidity. This is a turning lane on a busy 4 lane road (Thomas Rd) at the busiest time of the day possible. And she stood there.
This girl was wearing one of those Halloween costumes; the ones that are Slutty Character. You know the ones-- Slutty French Maid, Slutty Nurse, Slutty Baby, Slutty Corpse. Why all the female costumes in the Halloween costume shops must have a prostitute-flair to them, I will never understand. But anyway. This girl in the road was wearing a Little Red Riding Hood (Slutty) costume. Real short skirt, and she paired it with those thigh-high platform fetish boots. And she held some sort of poster-board sign, and was waving it at oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, I was in the lane facing her backside, so I couldn't read the sign.
Drivers were slamming on their brakes to get a look at the distracting girl-slut in the road, waving a sign around. I almost rear-ended the minivan in front of me. This made me deeply pissed off. Trish and I were laughing (well, I was coughing/ wheezing) at this random sight, and then really getting annoyed over the potential accidents that could occur because of her. We were still talking about when we got to the red light. And then a cop went by in the opposite direction. I remember I looked right at him and pointed back in the direction of Little Red, hoping he would do something about it. Why? Because. That's why. I like freaks, but not freaks in traffic.
And the cool thing was? I watched in my rear-view mirror as he drive down the road, and then pulled into the turning lane and switched his lights on and got out of the car to get Little red Riding Slut out of the street. I did a small cheer. Trish and I were elated, because it is so damn rare to see cops out here actually apprehending anyone. Sure, you see the meth labs getting busted; the guys in handcuffs outside the apartment complexes, that kind of stuff-- but I never seem to see the speeding asshole in the GTO who cuts everyone off and speed at about 90MPH down the freeway getting pulled over. Or the truck that totally runs the red light; or any other number of situations. This is not Middletown, where there were 4 cops for every teenager.
I think, from what I could see of the sign, that it was a Yard Sale sign. Who holds a Yard Sale at 6pm on a Thursday evening? What, did she just wake up two hours prior from being at the rave all night and go, "Oh, crap Cindy, we need to have that Yard Sale! Let's go do it now!" And who the hell is this Cindy? Well, whoever she is, SHE should be apprehended too. Letting her friend dress like that and stand like that in traffic. Honestly. That's what friends are not for. Let me give you an example of what a true friend is to a typical ho-bag girl today: A real friend will flush the toilet for you, when you suddenly give birth at the junior prom to the stillborn baby you didn't know you were carrying. You don't want to look at it. And you sure as hell don't want to see it--its little tiny face and little tiny blue hands-- go down the drain. But she will do it for you! She will flush! Now that's a friend.
I had a witness, too. Trish was in my passenger seat. We were driving along, listening to some music, and we suddenly see--like a mirage-- a young woman standing in the middle of the road ahead. There, in the middle turning lane, she stood proudly like a beacon of stupidity. This is a turning lane on a busy 4 lane road (Thomas Rd) at the busiest time of the day possible. And she stood there.
This girl was wearing one of those Halloween costumes; the ones that are Slutty Character. You know the ones-- Slutty French Maid, Slutty Nurse, Slutty Baby, Slutty Corpse. Why all the female costumes in the Halloween costume shops must have a prostitute-flair to them, I will never understand. But anyway. This girl in the road was wearing a Little Red Riding Hood (Slutty) costume. Real short skirt, and she paired it with those thigh-high platform fetish boots. And she held some sort of poster-board sign, and was waving it at oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, I was in the lane facing her backside, so I couldn't read the sign.
Drivers were slamming on their brakes to get a look at the distracting girl-slut in the road, waving a sign around. I almost rear-ended the minivan in front of me. This made me deeply pissed off. Trish and I were laughing (well, I was coughing/ wheezing) at this random sight, and then really getting annoyed over the potential accidents that could occur because of her. We were still talking about when we got to the red light. And then a cop went by in the opposite direction. I remember I looked right at him and pointed back in the direction of Little Red, hoping he would do something about it. Why? Because. That's why. I like freaks, but not freaks in traffic.
And the cool thing was? I watched in my rear-view mirror as he drive down the road, and then pulled into the turning lane and switched his lights on and got out of the car to get Little red Riding Slut out of the street. I did a small cheer. Trish and I were elated, because it is so damn rare to see cops out here actually apprehending anyone. Sure, you see the meth labs getting busted; the guys in handcuffs outside the apartment complexes, that kind of stuff-- but I never seem to see the speeding asshole in the GTO who cuts everyone off and speed at about 90MPH down the freeway getting pulled over. Or the truck that totally runs the red light; or any other number of situations. This is not Middletown, where there were 4 cops for every teenager.
I think, from what I could see of the sign, that it was a Yard Sale sign. Who holds a Yard Sale at 6pm on a Thursday evening? What, did she just wake up two hours prior from being at the rave all night and go, "Oh, crap Cindy, we need to have that Yard Sale! Let's go do it now!" And who the hell is this Cindy? Well, whoever she is, SHE should be apprehended too. Letting her friend dress like that and stand like that in traffic. Honestly. That's what friends are not for. Let me give you an example of what a true friend is to a typical ho-bag girl today: A real friend will flush the toilet for you, when you suddenly give birth at the junior prom to the stillborn baby you didn't know you were carrying. You don't want to look at it. And you sure as hell don't want to see it--its little tiny face and little tiny blue hands-- go down the drain. But she will do it for you! She will flush! Now that's a friend.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Well, I think Darwin was right. I do. Monkeys are evolving and learning and we're all gonna die. Evidence: this story about monkeys learning how to escape by watching us. Monkeys, apes, whatever we call them now-- we should get used to calling them Master soon enough.
By the way, I love "Planet of the Apes." I just want to say that. Except Tim Burton should have kept his paws outta the monkey pot. I love Tim Burton but even I have to admit he was stepping in some seriously bad-stinking shit there. What a mess that was. Eeeek.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
I've got people out there, working away night and day, always on the alert, to find the nuggets of information YOU NEED to get through this hell on wheels we call life. My crack team of agents finds things that matter.
Today, my friend JASON sends this tidbit of information:
I figure this info would come in handy from tonydanza.com ........
Q: How can I get tickets to "The Tony Danza Show"?
A: Unfortunately we are booked for this whole season. But please keep checking this website for information about future tickets for next season. When we say "booked" we mean we've found plenty of nursing homes to drag down to the show and force them to watch it.
Please note: Children under the age of 18 must be accompanied by an adult and children under 10 years are not permitted. Due to legal reasons we cannot divulge why children are not allowed on the set. All we can say is it could be related to the cancelled "Magic hands" segment.
Today, my friend JASON sends this tidbit of information:
I figure this info would come in handy from tonydanza.com ........
Q: How can I get tickets to "The Tony Danza Show"?
A: Unfortunately we are booked for this whole season. But please keep checking this website for information about future tickets for next season. When we say "booked" we mean we've found plenty of nursing homes to drag down to the show and force them to watch it.
Please note: Children under the age of 18 must be accompanied by an adult and children under 10 years are not permitted. Due to legal reasons we cannot divulge why children are not allowed on the set. All we can say is it could be related to the cancelled "Magic hands" segment.
I'm sick. I have chest congestion and a bunch of other symptoms of sick that are just too boring and whiny to list here. But my point of blogging today is this:
People are disgusting!
My story begins this way: I went to bed really early last night-- 9:00. So that means I woke up really early today. I was up and walking the dogs at 6am today. Very unusual. Luckily I am working from home today so that makes my sick life better, but anyway I realized as I was walking them that I needed some medicine. I recalled that there's some newfangled 'severe congestion' OTC medicine, so I got all gussied up (this means I put on clean underwear and deodorant)and went over to the grocery store at 6:30am.
Even at 6:30am, the assholes are out. Not that many customers were in the store at that hour, which I thought was awesome. I was able to run through and get the majority of what I wanted.
I wanted some ice cream. Why not, I figured; I am SICK and when you are SICK you are allowed to eat whatever the hell you want. And ice cream is what they give SICK people in the hospital when they have throat problems, and I have throat problems. All my logic seemed to be in order, so I ambled down the ice cream aisle to get some ice cream.
Except COUGHING LADY was in my way. This old lady wearing a smelly T-shirt with the American Flag and an eagle on it, with leggings and crappy-looking black sneakers was standing in my way. Right in front of the case with the ice cream I wanted. She was leaning over her cart, looking through a very messy and very gross-looking stack of coupons, and coughing. OK, now I have a cough at the moment, but it's not hacking and wet-sounding, and plus I have some self-control and I had copious amounts of tissue in my pocket to cover my mouth with in case I had to cough in public.
This hag, however, was leaning over those coupons (you know how paper gets gray and germy-looking when dirty old people hold it? That was the color and frayed-edginess of these coupons) blocking my way to the hallowed ice cream. So I did what anyone would do. I said, "Excuse me."
She glanced up at me and actually looked back to her coupons and coughed some more. I heard a death-rasp in there. I asked her again, and she inched her cart up maybe about 4 inches without looking at me. This was weird.
Finally, I attempted a reach for the freezer case handle. Maybe she would get the message and move up more so I could get in there. And as I am reaching, she suddenly comes alive. She pushes the cart out into the middle of the aisle and announces, "They make a lot of ice cream and it's so hard to find the one on the coupon!"
She then stands next to me as I take out my chosen ice cream, and then weasels next to me and pushes the door open all the way and stands there, WAY too close to me, and is looking at the ice cream. I backed out, now that that I had my ice cream. And the bitch starts COUGHING at the ice cream with her goddamn mouth open.
THIS is why I get sick. Why we ALL get sick. Inconsiderate, unwashed, nasty, weird old bitches. They are the carriers of the forbidden deathfunk.
It was just a weird encounter. Then, I go to pay and there is just one register open since there are only strange, coughing customers in the store. By default, I am included in this icky little population at the moment. An old man was ahead of me, talking about his illness (God! Stop it with the sick already!) to the cashier, who was also an old dude. But this guy had to of course, stand there and keep talking about his ulcers long after he was rung up and given his total. And then, he had to write a check. Of course. Of course. I was starting to feel my throat swell up and I knew I needed to leave real soon so I could have my own coughing fit (in my preferred place, which is not the dirty grocery store but the solitude of my own car). Finally, he left and I was waited on. It took me about a minute to get all done, including paying.
The bagging lady was an old lady too (I guess only the elderly will work that early), and don't you know it. As she handed me my bags she said in a rattly old-smoker voice, "Have a nice day." And as I walked away, I heard her coughing hard. A wet, disgusting cough.
Oh, man. I am never going shopping AGAIN. I want to be healthy, damn it! Healthy! Is that so much to ask? Christ!
People are disgusting!
My story begins this way: I went to bed really early last night-- 9:00. So that means I woke up really early today. I was up and walking the dogs at 6am today. Very unusual. Luckily I am working from home today so that makes my sick life better, but anyway I realized as I was walking them that I needed some medicine. I recalled that there's some newfangled 'severe congestion' OTC medicine, so I got all gussied up (this means I put on clean underwear and deodorant)and went over to the grocery store at 6:30am.
Even at 6:30am, the assholes are out. Not that many customers were in the store at that hour, which I thought was awesome. I was able to run through and get the majority of what I wanted.
I wanted some ice cream. Why not, I figured; I am SICK and when you are SICK you are allowed to eat whatever the hell you want. And ice cream is what they give SICK people in the hospital when they have throat problems, and I have throat problems. All my logic seemed to be in order, so I ambled down the ice cream aisle to get some ice cream.
Except COUGHING LADY was in my way. This old lady wearing a smelly T-shirt with the American Flag and an eagle on it, with leggings and crappy-looking black sneakers was standing in my way. Right in front of the case with the ice cream I wanted. She was leaning over her cart, looking through a very messy and very gross-looking stack of coupons, and coughing. OK, now I have a cough at the moment, but it's not hacking and wet-sounding, and plus I have some self-control and I had copious amounts of tissue in my pocket to cover my mouth with in case I had to cough in public.
This hag, however, was leaning over those coupons (you know how paper gets gray and germy-looking when dirty old people hold it? That was the color and frayed-edginess of these coupons) blocking my way to the hallowed ice cream. So I did what anyone would do. I said, "Excuse me."
She glanced up at me and actually looked back to her coupons and coughed some more. I heard a death-rasp in there. I asked her again, and she inched her cart up maybe about 4 inches without looking at me. This was weird.
Finally, I attempted a reach for the freezer case handle. Maybe she would get the message and move up more so I could get in there. And as I am reaching, she suddenly comes alive. She pushes the cart out into the middle of the aisle and announces, "They make a lot of ice cream and it's so hard to find the one on the coupon!"
She then stands next to me as I take out my chosen ice cream, and then weasels next to me and pushes the door open all the way and stands there, WAY too close to me, and is looking at the ice cream. I backed out, now that that I had my ice cream. And the bitch starts COUGHING at the ice cream with her goddamn mouth open.
THIS is why I get sick. Why we ALL get sick. Inconsiderate, unwashed, nasty, weird old bitches. They are the carriers of the forbidden deathfunk.
It was just a weird encounter. Then, I go to pay and there is just one register open since there are only strange, coughing customers in the store. By default, I am included in this icky little population at the moment. An old man was ahead of me, talking about his illness (God! Stop it with the sick already!) to the cashier, who was also an old dude. But this guy had to of course, stand there and keep talking about his ulcers long after he was rung up and given his total. And then, he had to write a check. Of course. Of course. I was starting to feel my throat swell up and I knew I needed to leave real soon so I could have my own coughing fit (in my preferred place, which is not the dirty grocery store but the solitude of my own car). Finally, he left and I was waited on. It took me about a minute to get all done, including paying.
The bagging lady was an old lady too (I guess only the elderly will work that early), and don't you know it. As she handed me my bags she said in a rattly old-smoker voice, "Have a nice day." And as I walked away, I heard her coughing hard. A wet, disgusting cough.
Oh, man. I am never going shopping AGAIN. I want to be healthy, damn it! Healthy! Is that so much to ask? Christ!
Monday, May 09, 2005
George Carlin in the 70s cracked me up. I was too young to listen to him in the 70s, but my parents had a record of one of his stand-up shows. I discovered it at some point as a kid, and spent hours listening to it and memorizing his routine. Today, I have one small "bit" playing in my head on repeat, so in order to get on with my life and move on to bigger and better things (publishing companies interested in our book for example)... I will type it here. Copyright laws be damned, I guess. But here's a message to the copyright police, if this helps: this material is copyrighted to George Carlin. I mean no harm.
MAN 1: (Sound of a deep inhale) Bob? These cigarettes of mine... they taste like crap!
MAN 2: Say, Dan! Crappy taste? Why don't you try the cool, refreshing taste of new Coolies Cigarettes!
MAN 1: Coolies, eh? You smoke 'em?
MAN 2: Nope! Found 'em in the subway toilet!
Oh, and I like the humor of this even if I don't smoke. I am not one of these uptight sonsabitches who can't find humor about things I personally don't condone. No way. Funny is funny. I love a good Jesus joke, I admit it, even though I believe in the dude and all that. And, this is odd, but depending on the context and the delivery I can also laugh at jokes that have to do with "kicking the cat" or "shooting the bear" or "strangling the duck" or "choking the salami stallion." Wait. What was I talking about again?
It was a good weekend. I cleaned. Then, I saw "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" (and have been singing the So Long and Thanks for All the Fish song since). Last night I watched the Elvis movie, of course. Jonathan Rhys-Myers played Elvis, so there was never any doubt about me tuning in; pretty boy that he is! I went to sleep and woke up coughing and ugly. Well, maybe not that ugly, literally... just with that ugly feeling you get what you wake up sick and have to get dressed and go to work anyway. I have one strand of hair that keeps infiltrating my bangs and it clearly does not belong in my bang-line. It's a long hair. It fell across my nose this morning as I was walking down the hall at work, and I reached up and swatted it away while muttering soft curses, and just then a lady walked around the corner and startled me. I feel like a mess. A mess who can't stop quoting George Carlin and singing a song made famous by dolphins. Well, at least I showered today. That's something.
MAN 1: (Sound of a deep inhale) Bob? These cigarettes of mine... they taste like crap!
MAN 2: Say, Dan! Crappy taste? Why don't you try the cool, refreshing taste of new Coolies Cigarettes!
MAN 1: Coolies, eh? You smoke 'em?
MAN 2: Nope! Found 'em in the subway toilet!
Oh, and I like the humor of this even if I don't smoke. I am not one of these uptight sonsabitches who can't find humor about things I personally don't condone. No way. Funny is funny. I love a good Jesus joke, I admit it, even though I believe in the dude and all that. And, this is odd, but depending on the context and the delivery I can also laugh at jokes that have to do with "kicking the cat" or "shooting the bear" or "strangling the duck" or "choking the salami stallion." Wait. What was I talking about again?
It was a good weekend. I cleaned. Then, I saw "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" (and have been singing the So Long and Thanks for All the Fish song since). Last night I watched the Elvis movie, of course. Jonathan Rhys-Myers played Elvis, so there was never any doubt about me tuning in; pretty boy that he is! I went to sleep and woke up coughing and ugly. Well, maybe not that ugly, literally... just with that ugly feeling you get what you wake up sick and have to get dressed and go to work anyway. I have one strand of hair that keeps infiltrating my bangs and it clearly does not belong in my bang-line. It's a long hair. It fell across my nose this morning as I was walking down the hall at work, and I reached up and swatted it away while muttering soft curses, and just then a lady walked around the corner and startled me. I feel like a mess. A mess who can't stop quoting George Carlin and singing a song made famous by dolphins. Well, at least I showered today. That's something.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Someone has been giving Armsweat some pretty flowers. Even recalling a little statement made in passing about liking Gerber daisies. Someone is doin' their homework and being nice to the Armsweat. Also, these flowers make for a nice shot for me to say Happy Mother's Day to my mom. Just recently, I spent an hour on the phone with Mom as she watched a Diamondbacks game. I never watch sports so I turned to the same station and watched, too. She explained all the rules of the game, and she told me things about which players were good, which ones were unproven, and why this particular hitter was walked when the one before him wasn't. I was surprised because I didn't know she was that big of a baseball fan. I knew she would watch games when I was growing up, but never seemed to give it her full attention or anything. But here she was screaming at the TV when someone did something dumb, and giggling when some of her favorite players did well. I was excited to learn something brand-new about my Mom that day. I want to know what else she is really into that I don't know about. Maybe she is a fondue-cooking queen, or she can do that trick with spinning plates on sticks. That lady could be capable of anything and everything, so while I am impressed, I am also on guard. After all, she did find this blog and she figured out how to comment... she can definitely crush my spirit with a well-placed adjective. So if you're reading this Mom-- my point of this post remains, simply: Happy Mother's Day and thank you for impressing me one more year! Love ya.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Sparkly things rule! If you could see me today, I am sparkly. I decided to do this consciously as I got ready for work this morning. I was feeling a little sick from allergies or whatever the hell is bothering me, and thought I needed to put my favorite jewelry on today to compensate.
I have this new stretchy silver bracelet from Hot Topic that I love, so I threw that on. Next was a necklace with purple, pink and white rhinestones on a shiny silver strand. My nails already had a solid coat of glitter polish, and I topped it off with shimmer eyeshadow. Probably a bit much for the office, but I decided I honestly do not care in the slightest. Besides, it is Friday and if they had a problem with it they could gladly send me home.
I think the ability to unabashedly love glitter, sparkles and sequins is one of the great joys of being female. I love all this crap. The other thing is, sparkly things are extremely mesmerizing and they can hypnotize you into absolute calmness, if you let it happen. Take staring at the sun (or moon) glinting off the ocean, for instance. That's the best kind of sparkle. Shiny things, oooooh. I know that if some evil person wanted to entice me to go somewhere or do something bad, all they'd have to do is lure me with shiny things. Much like Hoggle in Labyrinth, I will lumber hungrily after the sparkly thing.
My sister is very good at making things that are covered in rhinestones or jewels. She covered her MP3 player with about a thousand little rhinestones, and recently finished a rhinestone collar for Katie. You should see how fucking rad that thing looks in the sunlight. Wow. As if I didn't stare like a simpleton at my dog's cuteness enough, here comes a sparkly pink and clear-jeweled, glittery collar to make me stare at her more. It's a miracle I get anything accomplished at all, what with all these sparkling things.
I'm reading "Wicked" now by Gregory Maguire, and I admit I am sort of excited to get to the part where they talk about the ruby slippers. Mmm, ruby slippers.
I have this new stretchy silver bracelet from Hot Topic that I love, so I threw that on. Next was a necklace with purple, pink and white rhinestones on a shiny silver strand. My nails already had a solid coat of glitter polish, and I topped it off with shimmer eyeshadow. Probably a bit much for the office, but I decided I honestly do not care in the slightest. Besides, it is Friday and if they had a problem with it they could gladly send me home.
I think the ability to unabashedly love glitter, sparkles and sequins is one of the great joys of being female. I love all this crap. The other thing is, sparkly things are extremely mesmerizing and they can hypnotize you into absolute calmness, if you let it happen. Take staring at the sun (or moon) glinting off the ocean, for instance. That's the best kind of sparkle. Shiny things, oooooh. I know that if some evil person wanted to entice me to go somewhere or do something bad, all they'd have to do is lure me with shiny things. Much like Hoggle in Labyrinth, I will lumber hungrily after the sparkly thing.
My sister is very good at making things that are covered in rhinestones or jewels. She covered her MP3 player with about a thousand little rhinestones, and recently finished a rhinestone collar for Katie. You should see how fucking rad that thing looks in the sunlight. Wow. As if I didn't stare like a simpleton at my dog's cuteness enough, here comes a sparkly pink and clear-jeweled, glittery collar to make me stare at her more. It's a miracle I get anything accomplished at all, what with all these sparkling things.
I'm reading "Wicked" now by Gregory Maguire, and I admit I am sort of excited to get to the part where they talk about the ruby slippers. Mmm, ruby slippers.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
How awesome was my Granny? Well, awesome enough to present me with my very own sponge sandwich! It was a series of sponges shaped like sandwich-parts. And yes. As you can tell from my lip-smackin' pose here, I did taste the sponges one day. Only the cheese-sponge had a slight deliciousness to it. The rest tasted like sponge.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
There was a commercial for women's deodorant in either the late 80s or early 90s that had a song that went:
"Pressure's on
Getting higher
Difference is
You stay drier!"
Was that Secret? Or Ban Roll-On? What the hell deodorant WAS THAT? And why am I singing it when I should be going to bed now? That's what I can't figure out, and no amount of derring-do seems to be clearing it up for me, try as I may.
Plus, to make life even more horrible, I think I don't know how to use derring-do properly in a sentence.
"Pressure's on
Getting higher
Difference is
You stay drier!"
Was that Secret? Or Ban Roll-On? What the hell deodorant WAS THAT? And why am I singing it when I should be going to bed now? That's what I can't figure out, and no amount of derring-do seems to be clearing it up for me, try as I may.
Plus, to make life even more horrible, I think I don't know how to use derring-do properly in a sentence.
TWICE now as I have been writing a piece on losing weight for work, I have typed "body fart" instead of "body fat." That pesky R is too close to that T for its own good, if you ask me. No really... why don't you ask me? I am fun to ask things of.
Oh, tra-la-la. Just another beautiful day in the sunny land of my consciousness. I like my unconsciousness a little better. I really do love sleeping, or even just the act of laying down and curling up into a small ball. Especially now that the air conditioning has been turned on in my home; it's delightful to just lay my lazy head down and let the dogs surround me in their doggishness and just drift off into total 100% non-productivity.
Speaking of curling into a small ball, I was thinking to myself about preparing for disasters, like bombs. I know they used to teach that ball-curling technique, as well as the "hide under desk and cry like a little bitch because the Reds are coming" method back in the 1950s and stuff, but it seems to me that our schools are lacking such practical education today. I think I might spearhead an initiative to get this back in the schools. I know we as a nation probably wised up over the decades and realized no amount of curling-up and desk-squating was going to save our asses if a nuclear bomb hit. But still, it can't hurt to try. At the very least, it will give Today's Youth a nice healthy feeling of pro-activeness as they die. We are not a nation of sit-stillers; we want to feel like our sorry attempts at movement mean something. At least we went down fighting. That's the spirit!
There are so many instances where curling up into a ball can help a kid, too. Not just bomb-times. Say you have to have your teeth pulled by a sadistic dentist. (Just follow me on this one, here) You can curl up in a ball for at least a period of time that will enrage the sadistic dentist. As he/she runs to retrieve a blunt object with which to hit you with to make you uncurl, you can use that time to quickly wire your own jaw shut. When the sadistic dentist returns, you can calmly come out of your ball-position and stare him/her down with your safely wired-shut jaw. That'll show that sadistic dentist!
Ball-curling is NOT useful for:
* Avoiding paying your taxes
* Driving on a busy highway at rush hour
* Staying alive while adrift in the ocean after the boat goes down
* Avoiding being set on fire
* Building a house of cards
* Reaching something on the top shelf
* Avoiding molestation or rape
* Quantum physics (which makes me think of the next one:)
* Watching "Quantum Leap" with Scott Bakula
* Not catching cancer
* Washing windows
* Walking on a tightrope
* As a way to avoid finishing your novel
Each of these things has been personally tested by yours truly-- I did the work so YOU don't have to.
The new Nine Inch Nails album is pretty decent stuff. I like it better than the Fragile, but still less than Downward Spiral. I thank you, Trent Reznor, for the new melodies with which to clog my brain and keep me out of trouble with the law. You rock. And you probably don't roll. But still, keep it up, you proud son of Pennsylvania!
Oh, tra-la-la. Just another beautiful day in the sunny land of my consciousness. I like my unconsciousness a little better. I really do love sleeping, or even just the act of laying down and curling up into a small ball. Especially now that the air conditioning has been turned on in my home; it's delightful to just lay my lazy head down and let the dogs surround me in their doggishness and just drift off into total 100% non-productivity.
Speaking of curling into a small ball, I was thinking to myself about preparing for disasters, like bombs. I know they used to teach that ball-curling technique, as well as the "hide under desk and cry like a little bitch because the Reds are coming" method back in the 1950s and stuff, but it seems to me that our schools are lacking such practical education today. I think I might spearhead an initiative to get this back in the schools. I know we as a nation probably wised up over the decades and realized no amount of curling-up and desk-squating was going to save our asses if a nuclear bomb hit. But still, it can't hurt to try. At the very least, it will give Today's Youth a nice healthy feeling of pro-activeness as they die. We are not a nation of sit-stillers; we want to feel like our sorry attempts at movement mean something. At least we went down fighting. That's the spirit!
There are so many instances where curling up into a ball can help a kid, too. Not just bomb-times. Say you have to have your teeth pulled by a sadistic dentist. (Just follow me on this one, here) You can curl up in a ball for at least a period of time that will enrage the sadistic dentist. As he/she runs to retrieve a blunt object with which to hit you with to make you uncurl, you can use that time to quickly wire your own jaw shut. When the sadistic dentist returns, you can calmly come out of your ball-position and stare him/her down with your safely wired-shut jaw. That'll show that sadistic dentist!
Ball-curling is NOT useful for:
* Avoiding paying your taxes
* Driving on a busy highway at rush hour
* Staying alive while adrift in the ocean after the boat goes down
* Avoiding being set on fire
* Building a house of cards
* Reaching something on the top shelf
* Avoiding molestation or rape
* Quantum physics (which makes me think of the next one:)
* Watching "Quantum Leap" with Scott Bakula
* Not catching cancer
* Washing windows
* Walking on a tightrope
* As a way to avoid finishing your novel
Each of these things has been personally tested by yours truly-- I did the work so YOU don't have to.
The new Nine Inch Nails album is pretty decent stuff. I like it better than the Fragile, but still less than Downward Spiral. I thank you, Trent Reznor, for the new melodies with which to clog my brain and keep me out of trouble with the law. You rock. And you probably don't roll. But still, keep it up, you proud son of Pennsylvania!
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
A typical night spent hanging out with the sisters winds up with one of us on the floor, shoved up against a wall as we pretend to be dead and/or wasted, with something coming out of our pants. In this case, we can clearly see that Trish had chosen to affix "Caution" tape to her waistband for comedic effect. This photo is rather dated, as it was taken in January 2005, but the message is clear: it is not always safe to hang out near Trish's pants. This a message that you kids would do well to learn.
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