Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Hairy Hissmas! Where should I fly?

A Merry Pagan Solstice Celebration to All!

…er…, I mean, a Happy, joyous Seasons Greetings to Everyone!

Whatever you want to call it.…, we celebrated this Christmas with bits of our neighbor’s pine tree (silver-showered in rain) decorating our place, red drippy candles (the blood of Cross-bearers roars strong!) lighting our smiles, stockings that looked like Express-Mail packages from mom (nuts and rice-crispy treats died for our sins!), Christmas Carols that Mister E. improvised on the guitar, drum and rock-star-esque vocal kazoo (“Grandma got run-over by a reindeer!”), and a few sacrificed lamb-like children (don’t worry—they wanted to taste fire!)…

Quite marvelous (and tasty!), indeed!

Now…, all that’s left in my feeling completely fulfilled for the holiday season is for me to choose a destination for my next pagan vacation coming in a few weeks…

I’m thinking Costa Rica or Panama because they have special, Frequent Sacrificer Deals from LAX and OAK…,

Honduras, on the other hand, has got vampire divers, Belize has multi-lingual mongrels, and Caracas has college friends to welcome me…

…but any suggestions (or offers of already-plucked/sheared sacrifices) would be greeted with open tongs and warmed charcoal…


Wednesday, December 20, 2006

High Voltage Translated

The adult ESL students today all looked like zombies.

Some had cavernous, pitchy carvings under their eyes.

Others had face blemishes and actual, real human skin in places where caked foundation and carpet-thick blush usually resided…

Some wore PayLess sneakers in place of high heels, and jeans instead of tight lycra-esque wristbands around their waists.

It was a strange day, indeed.

I thought a reality TV show slash cross-culture-dressing, Twighlight Zone emissary had descended in the night and possessed, redressed and re-made my Past Perfect Continuous-learning disciples.

It was either that, I thought, or they had all gotten happy-hour hammered the night before and were still recovering from the cheap shots of sleazy American culture and first-time, salt-tequilla-lemon-slice pick-up lines of the local fauna.

But, as it turned out…, my suspicions were unfounded.

The Saudi Arabian woman was just up all night because her baby was sick. The Taiwanese man was just overly perplexed about the psychological intricacies of homophobia in different cultures, and dying for discussion. The Spanish man had just spent the past 53 hours drinking coffee and painting in preparation for his next exhibit. The Korean man was just stressed about packing and buying souvenirs for his trip home in two days. The Peruvian woman was just ill from food-poisoning. And, the Japanese girls all simply had a group feeling of “low-voltage/ discontentment,” as they called it…

“Low voltage?” I inquired.

“Yes, Low Voltage, Low Tension” they responded (if not in verbal unison, then at least in vocal intention).

“Oh, you mean you are not feeling very energetic or excited today?” I guessed (mentally translating Japanese English to Comprehensible English).

“Yes, that’s right. We are feeling low voltage today.”

“Meaning… uh… that if I touch you now, I will not instantaneously become a fried, electrocution-flavored human corpse?”

“That’s right,” they repeated, completely baffled: “Low Tension.”

And, so it was that today I learned to associate “Low voltage” with the wearing of sweat pants and the absence of face make-up.

It’s quite astounding, really, the worldly insights and intrinsic bits of universal knowledge that we would all be deprived of were it not for quality Cross-Cultural Education.

Monday, December 18, 2006

Laziness Begets Winning Google Searches that behave like Splog Without the Ads

Ok. It’s time to fess up.

I’m a pathetic, slacking blogger these days.

I admit it.

The last time I tried to post, I went to edit my silly words and lost them all to the Ether’s Ministry of Editing (which is no small feat, as the Ether’s editors couldn’t really give a spotted owl’s stool what parades naked with genital Big Mac acne around Blogspot…).

But, anyway, excuses aside, I’ve got to post something...

So, I’ll very unoriginally post some of my favorite winning google searches that recently landed unsuspecting surfers here, at Up the Creek Without a Platypus:

anaconda toilet box torture, genital protection hockey, spanked tomatoes, aardvark leprosy, Well Hello there Mister sneaky pants, sex with a cigar, Demolition Derby Tercel, burnt eyelashes, cantaloupe bong, Waterbed icepick, elephant unchi, bible coderackers, platypus love, funny and sexy breast check up, ABDUCTION FANTASY, columbian insurgency anal, camping schlong, age old people sneezing, schlong restaurant, Enormous Testicles, pink platypus, Sexy platypus, Alligator candy, Abduction fantasy, Clitorism is Us, sand like silth, suicide witness, sunnyside up spanking, pee under trees, raccoon dog testicles, minotaur slayed, baby salad fornication, deadliest ant, genital protection bareback riding, rancid song test wake up, how to masturbate without waking up partner

I have to say my favorite is "Columbian insurgency anal"... Though..., on second thought..., "spanked tomatoes" and "age old people sneezing" run a tight competition...

Well…, what can I say? I hope they found what they were looking for.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Olfactory Hoppiness and Audible Obscenities

I suppose there are things more disconcerting than having a grown man wearing a giant block of synthetic cheese on his head pour beer on you.

(…being urinated on by a miniature Dachshund, for instance, or having your shirt collar straightened by a wino wearing splashes of decomposing haggis cologne…)

But, being a virgin to the arena of live American Football, I didn’t know such things were par for the athletic spectator course. I didn’t know that a culture existed within which it was acceptable to spew volcanic, garlic-cheese-fry tephra into the faces of those around you, and I’d never heard of any club that invited its members to scream obscenities into each other’s ears and shove stale, under-fermented malty-hoppy yeast aromas up each other’s nostrils.

This club, however, does in fact exist. They are most commonly known as “football fans”.

And, I was among them last night at the snowy Seahawks-Packers game in Seattle.

When my private student, Makoto, invited me to join him in his section 310, season pass seats, he probably thought I knew and cared more about football than I actually do. He probably thought, for example, that I knew what a “down” and a “red flag” were and that I understood why non-inebriated men would line up to wrestle with each other to the dissonant screams of shirtless, chest-painted cat-callers.

But, I disguised my ignorance well.

Having lived in quite a few different countries where strange happenings were the norm, I was able to adapt quickly to the new stadium environment. When others wearing my color (blue) jumped up to wave flags and holler enthusiastic obscenities, I did the same. When natives boo-ed baritone beer breath indecencies, so did I.

And, I think I did all right. (At least…, no members of the Club potato-sacked me or pulled me back into a dank locker room for questioning. And, the rumors of water board-supported quizzes on QB and runningback statistics… well…, nope- luckily never happened.)

And, actually…, I have to admit that the fans won me over. There’s something outstandingly special about the type of primal screaming, hysteria, emotional excitement and touchdown-determined disappointment that comes with watching a live football game;

something we don’t get to experience everyday in our humdrum lives.

Yeah, it’s something alright…

Something like competition-strummed cacophony and oral malodor.

*Edit/Update: Honestly, I had an awesome time at the game, and can’t wait to go to another one!! (I’ll just bring along my supplemental vocal chords and face mask next time!)

Friday, November 24, 2006

Web-schlong Winks

I've finally added blog links.
Most are my real-life friends.
Some are real-life blog buddies of a few years.
And the other two... well..., I don't know who they are.

If I've forgotten you, talk to my editors.
They are lazy luddites, but are very kind.

Poultry as Passage

Discreetly wrapping up your first pair of blood-stained panties and burying them at the bottom of the campground dumpster…

Getting your first pocket knife and carving your name into a picnic table… Hearing, for the first time, that giving birth is like squeezing a razor blade-adorned watermelon through your throat…Writing your first poem and reading it to a mirror… Divulging, on your knees, your first Jaegermeister to a receptive porcelain ear... Boarding a plane alone, for the first time, to a foreign place… Learning to finger unknown Beethoven movements on your own smooth corpora cavernosa glans… being poked in a sensitive zone where no pocket knife has been before…

These are true Rites of Passage.

And, well…, I thought since I’d spelunked these passages before, I was pretty much done with the Coming-Of-Age ritualistic nonsense.

I mean…, What other silliness could there really be left?

I’ve already ridden without training wheels, navigated my first munchies, slept on cardboard boxes, signed soul-claiming contracts, and braved the consumption of VeggieMite…

There couldn’t possibly be more ticket-checkers, waiting to negotiate my passage into adulthood, could there?…

Yes, there could.

I learned yesterday, that there is a dude (who also works minimum-wage security at the rio of Stix border) standing at the gates of Adulthood, checking to make sure that all United-states-of-Americans have cooked their own Thanksgiving meals (without the help of their families).

I learned that if you are a USA passport-holder and have not yet a)burned a witch, b)been a CIA snitch abroad or c)baked a bird bitch for the holidays, you will be denied passage to the Land of Grown-Upedness.

Fearful that we wouldn’t make it past the frontera and would remain perpetual stag-party brothers of Peter Pan, Mr. E and I decided yesterday to roast an innocent winged beast, stuff her with tasty potions, and give her company on the plate.

After six hours, our meal turned out great (despite our many outspoken exclamations of “What the hell is this globby thing?!”, “Are her legs supposed to be limply flailing like that?!” and “What?! You have to cook a casserole?!”).

We are both ecstatic.


Both of our Visas are still mysteriously pending at the border…

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Of Teet-sharing and Dear-Diarying

I’ve never been much for the I-went-here-today-saw-this-felt-that kind of blog post.

…Especially when the places been, the things seen, and the feelings felt are of the pretty mundane, had-orange-juice-and-coffee-for-breakfast-and-am-feeling-kinda-bloated ilk…

But, what can I say? I’m lazy, have been neglecting my blog a lot recently, and I had orange juice and coffee for breakfast today. And yes, I am feeling slightly bloated.

So, here goes the kind of post I usually hate:

My week in a shelled pair of nuts

Taught some English. Took some walks. Had a life-sized, self-defense doll sporting a green belt sit next to me on the bus. Unraveled the mysteries of when to use definite articles with uncountable nouns (mainly when the dry martini well at the party dries up…). Facilitated crude compare-contrast conversation with Japanese students at a bar after visiting a home-grown American sex shop. Hit a surprisingly decent open-mike night (spoken-worders, young-angsters, expired rockers, dark eccentrics and tabla poets). Became an official Washingtonian (the trip to the Department of Licensing was so amazingly stress-free that I might just as well have been getting a teet massage from Buddha himself). Checked out my dad’s recently uploaded site (so much for blogger anonymity!) Watched and was disappointed by Borat (c’mon! a little less drama, and a little more docu!). Was informed by my veiled Saudi Arabian student that humans used to live for thousands of years. Read some of this and this. Ate some burrito made by a white woman (go Seattle!). Drank some orange juice. Took a few shits….

And there we have it: my best attempt at a Dear Diary entry.

Well, the sooner I quit this uninspired post, the better.

(Yes, I’m still practicing my double comparatives!)

And, finally…, here’s a squirrel sucking from a momma dog’s lactating boob.


Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Erection Day Sigh

There are no keys on this laptop that can accurately express the long sigh of ecstatic relief/hope/pride I am feeling and exhaling right now for my country.

(Perhaps, if I were more versed in the young email-cum-text message language of LOLs and OMGs, I could illustrate it with a few semicolons and closing parenthesis, a smattering of custom smiley faces or a long series of dashes, apostrophes and backslashes artistically arranged… but, alas…)

The only way I can describe this feeling is to compare it to the emotions I might feel if I had just learned that my beloved, younger brother (who had been a clown-costumed criminal, crack-burning crony for 19 years and a male-bride-ordering sexaholic with an affinity for building meth labs inside of National Parks) had just finished Rehab and now sported 10 months of sobriety notches on his belt.

Aaahh, yes…. the sincere pride, admiration, respect, hope and love for a dear brother who has moved his chemical drug factories out of the old-growth forests and into the new….

Happy Election Results Day!

Friday, November 03, 2006

The hotter, the better

Last Tuesday was Hallow's Eve, and I've been meaning to post about it for a few days now.

I've got great gaudy, raunchy and sensibility-wrenching raw tales of Japanese students in thimble-sized skirts and wanton, western-French maid get-ups...., detailed descriptions and candid shots of promiscuously-dressed, pecker peek-invoking Peter Pan iron-ons, shamelessly sexy scenes from innocent exchange students in tall stockings, stories of stretched napkin bosom sheaths and high-heeled ruby-studded leather boots...

But..., the time has passed…

The blogosphere has left Halloween behind in its laundry basket.

Used and ready for recycling.

No..., the truth is that I would feel slightly exploitive – if not REALLY WRONG- using my curvaceous, nubile, whore-adorning language learners as blog post attractions...

(... plus, I think it's illegal to post those kind of shots without ethical clearance.

...even if the featured models DO dress and act like the type who would giggle and apologize while saying no and gasping as you stuck an antler up their rear kettle spout....)

Honestly, though…, I have spent the better part of a week disguising explanations of the possible cultural/anatomical implications of dressing like a dirty skag beneath target grammar points.

For example, Wednesday, we studied Double Comparatives (i.e. “The more it rains, the wetter I get,” and “The earlier I wake up, the more time I have to masturbate,” etc.)

So, I tried a few “Complete-the-sentence” games with them:

Me: The more I speak English…,
Students: … the more confident I become.

Me: The more fast-food I eat…,
Students: … the more weight I gain.

Me: The shorter my skirt is,….
Students: …the cuter I look.

Me: The more leg, ass and pubic hairs a bystander can see…,
Students: … the cuter I look.

Now…, I don’t know if I’m just becoming old and over-protective, or if these alleged college graduates are just still that ridiculously naïve…

But, I DO know that the next student wearing a hoola-hoop of fabric ‘round her waist who complains about obnoxious male suitors at the bus stop will get a free double comparative lesson from me:

The sluttier you look, the more slut-seekers you’ll attract.

And the more slut-seekers you attract, the...

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Diamond Voyeurs find Puff

Here I am, peering in through -c's window. A peeping Tom, if you will… Lady Godiva’s reincarnated voyeur…

Her boyfriend (-c’s, that is, not Lady Godiva’s) is out, working at the Bodies Exhibit.

She has no T.V.

Her stereo is turned off.

And, she is…, Oh My Lord!...

She is fixing a cup of tea.

And, now, sweet Madre de Maria!, she is solving for the slope of two given graph points on the back of a Trader Joe’s receipt!

(The absolutely heinous and shocking obscenity of it all!)

Wait!—now she has discarded her tired receipt and is scribbling lesson plan notes on post-its inside an ESL textbook!

(What crude and immodest acts of disgust!)

And… hold on… could it be??!!

She is googling something…

I can’t exactly make out what she has typed in…., but I can see that it has something to do with swollen eyelids, past-continuous conversational topics and WIRED magazine subscriptions…

Oh well…, no nude, dish-washing going on here…

Time to move on to the next window…

(If you only knew how many duds we voyeurs come across in search of gems!)

Friday, October 27, 2006

One Way (USA WAY) or Another...

Break out the bubbly, put on a skanky dress, ready your dancing shoes—there’s gonna be a party!

In a few days I’ll celebrate my one year and two month anniversary of living back in the US of A after quite a few years of travel affairs and global male mistresses!

My partner (the US of A) and I are absolutely thrilled!

Honestly…, neither of us really thought it would last this long…

He was sure I would run off with the first intriguing, dimwit foreign Country I met who offered promises of excitement and wonder…

And, I was sure he’d bore me to exile with his predictable desires, monotonous stories, and apathy towards his own dimwit cranial Administrations…

But…, we both surprised each other, and are still happily honey-mooning in development-inspiring exploration and quest-questioning passion (…despite his lack of critical attention to his dimwit cranial administration…)!

So…, raise a glass!, put on a punny Halloween costume!, slash an over-handed smile at someone unexpected!, and wish me a happy current life with the US of A!

After all…, anniversaries celebrate the most un-expected and primordially exciting, entertainingly beguiling, and symbolically soul-salt-licking situations of all occasions…!

(...PLUS, they give you reigns to wear pom-poms on your head, paint on your knees, obscure bandanas around your joints, eye-patches on your ears, fangs in your nose and shower curtains 'round your ankles when you feel like dressing up!!)

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Erecting Baz

I actually sat down to write about Baz.

(He’s the old man I talk to every morning at the bus stop who’s got a story for every beer and a Whiskey for every myth…)

He’s got enough unintentional defecation anecdotes to burry a Golden Shower Fantasizer, and can sing the original lyrics to “She’ll be cummin’ ‘round the brown mountain when she comes…”

But…, unfortunately my creative muse has begun whinging about our possible dives into fecal matter and memory loss, and has staged a sit-in.

So..., what I’m left with are controversial and entertaining bits of real news (the homosexual penguin exhibit in Norway, Allegations of the Spanish King shooting a piss-drunk bear, Seattle’s new Metro-sexual invoking Slogan, silliness supporting/opposing my long-standing love of Ali G’s character: Borat, and frustrated remnants from a sunny day of studying for the Washington Teacher Skills Test)….

So, I’ll just complain about the studying…

Samuel is 2 inches taller than Rudy and Rudy loves dick. James does not love dick but he can white-wash a wall in four hours. Rudy is ¾ of an inch taller than James when he is white-washing but shrinks to ¼ of Samuel’s size when he is painting a window sill. Samuel can white-wash a wall in half an hour if no one else’s height exceeds Samuel’s minimum length. James is 1 inch taller than Samuel when he is not white-washing, but gains 2% of his ordinary white-washing length when he touches brush-stroked sill. If James ordinarily operates at 5/17 the same length and painting speed as Samuel, how long will it take James to paint a window sill alone, and how tall will Rudy be?

I swear, these are the type of questions they are asking a potential teacher here in Washington state…

Somehow, I think the skills I learned in high school, along with the observations, could come in handy just about now….

Monday, October 09, 2006

Of Fatred and freed Dryer sheets

My friend told me it was meant to be; it was Destiny.

I mean, yeah, OK, I’d go on a date with him any day… But…, destiny?

I’d hold his hand while staring into his cosmic eyes, and we’d navigate the uncomfortable silences with talk of today and tomorrow; of hermit crabs and honeydew, radishes and Rohipnol, and of sand dollars and salami….

Yup…, if I could choose anyone to go on a blind date with, it would definitely be this hunk. He’s got everything a girl could want: confidence, creativity, power, humility, sensitivity and girth… And, to top it off, he’s got the best sense of humour of anyone you’ll ever meet!

Yeah, he’s got it all (… and a beautifully comedic lack of explanation for any of it).

So, who is this exciting and spontaneous blind date candidate of my moist dreams?

Well..,, as I’ve never worried about over-using fondue clichés here before…, I’ll just go ahead and tell you…:

He’s (and here’s where we dip our skewered clichés in fondue cheese together…):

The Universe, The Genetically-altered Jellyfish, and Everything.

And it’s because of the daily prospects for a blind date with this romance-improvising catch that I can confidently refute my friends’ claims of “fate” and “destiny” as explanations for the strange things that happen in our lives.

After all, the blind date of MY fantasies has no plans. He might surprise me by wearing a a flowered MooMoo with baby bonnet to meet my parents one day, and sport a $1000 pin-striped suit with matching ballet slippers and tentacle-protectors to the laundromat the next.

But, he certainly doesn’t care much who I haphazardly meet, or what serendipitous opportunities arise from random encounters…

BUT…, on the other hand…, blind dates aren’t always meant to be...,

and I do sometimes feel like there is something incredibly magical going on in the world to make things fall, Paulo Coehlo-style, into unjustified puzzle piece place (“…as if the universe were conspiring to make it so…”).

I mean, how else could you explain arriving at the laundry machines at exactly the moment your washing and drying simultaneously finish and a Russian neighbor catapults the door open with dirty socks flying, dryer sheets fluttering in the sunset dusk, and the lost black cat appearing after a week-long absence??

Or, when your best friend from NY visits for the weekend, and the planets align to allow Dylan parodies, art openings, wilting inflatable mattresses, Trader Joe’s wine bottle line-ups and finger-scooped brie to become fantastic, laughter-filled memories…?

Or when journalism-aspiring immigration workers meet children’s book illustrators/musical geniuses and esl-teaching/obscure blog-post hobbyists for bouts of ferry trips, tide-trapping beach hikes, and acapella renditions of “I love little baby ducks, small pick-up trucks, ….and onions!” …??

So, here’s to blind dates that show up when least expected!
To the chaotic beauty of existence, and to the three Norse Norns whose watering buckets might still accidentally spill on our porch weeds when we’re busy worrying about the bandit orangutang raping our kittens!
And to Columbus (who did some sailing and, by some arbitrary advertising scheme of fate, got me the day off of work today), to old friends in new places, bold charades in old faces, Thai food buffets, blackberry bushes going into dormancy, morning Mimosas, egg and swiss on bagels, the NY Times, little baby ducks, birds of the world,

…and squirrels.

*P.s. for those who don’t know the brilliant, poetic lyrics that manage to rhyme “birds of the world” with “squirrel” and “onion” with “tomatoes on the vine” and “kisses from a child”, have a re’listen to this song. It’s fantastic! The giggles it invokes should definitely make it well worth the time!

Sunday, October 01, 2006

And then, Nanobot created Cover Letters

So, you're sitting on the deck, inhaling sun, slurpin' down heat for the winter, imagining the day when nanobots rule your body and autonomously administer nutrients and anecdotal stories via wireless networking systems…

What do you think you’re doing?!

You’re supposed to be critiquing and perfecting your students’ internship cover letters!

(…granted, this is slightly hilarious, considering that the cover letter that won you your current position reads like a bumbling Hunter S, Thompson correspondence penned under bath-water bubbles…)

But, really, what are you doing?? Who do you think you are, relaxing on a Sunday afternoon, reading Ray Kurzweil’s recently published book, imagining a future of technologically progressive humans who defy current, biologically-defined needs…??

…when, CLEARLY, there are more pressing matters at hand, such as the reworking of cover letter sentences like:

“I developed up-to-the-minute capabilities of helping foreign people in customers with individual hard work and motivation as if they was Japanese speakers.”


“My enthusiastic try my best motivation is my most high motivation and important to me.”

It’s obvious you have to get it together!! Get off the Sunday sunlight kick, away from the speculative scientific reads, and back to the cover letters!

So, get to it! Stop reading and sun-bathing! Get to writing a brilliant cover letter!


Dear Sirs,

I’m writing in regards to the internships available at you hotel. I think my experience in customer service, English language ability and my love of pleasing others in a multitude of ways will prove to be great contributions to your company.
I’ve served many a foreign guest, in the most needy of times. I can adapt to unique customer desires and am willing to serve your clients in whatever unconventional areas they propose.
I believe the skills mentioned above prove that I would be a great asset to your business. Please contact me to discuss how I can further please you.
Eager Intern Applicant with big-mouth Smile

So…, how about that for a friendly, functional cover letter?

Can I go back to reading science-fiction-echoing, techno, bio-chemical-based predictions of the human race now...?

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Re-spanking the Painting

I just wrote a nice, long, predictably silly and embarrassingly pretentious post about the local Oktoberfest here, but just as I was about to post it, our internet service went out…

(thank the mighty platypus!)

so, instead of blog-oligizing on a beautiful sunny afternoon, I turned to hanging with Mr. E who was painting outside on the corner, creating a well-degredated flying butt monkey piece, apparently very historically political and currently statement-making.

It was such a phenomenal piece of artistic ape ass rendering, that I felt, also, inclined to paint.

So, not wanting to utilize expensive supplies, I took scissors to cardboard box and savagely hacked myself a canvass. I began with the yellow and maroon: a brushy outline of a stein-guzzling frat boy here. A sketchy blocking of a meaning-searching, pussy-excavating dream there. A profoundly meaningful squiggle on top of that…

But then I realized that (though I had creative genius taking the mouth-guard in my corner), I didn’t have the acrylic motivation to complete such a profound work of art,

So I turned my embriotic masterpiece over to Mr. E, had him sign a few legal rights papers, and watched as it was painted, in a more aesthetically-pleasing and realistically impressive kind of way.

And, I have, hereby inaugurated this lazy blog with a picture…

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Of syllabic sludge and samarai

Yes- it’s true. I’m a romantic sucker for words and language. Serve me up a linguistic mouthful of chopped syllables sautéed in assonance on a nice bed of irony-strained description, and…, well…, I’m one happy chick.

But, if you REALLY want to get me peckin-at-the-bit excited…, just mix up a nice wordy stir-fry of completely arbitrary ingredients, seasoned with a most obscure range of spices, chase it with a shot of indescribable sludge (with no Latin equivalent), and I guarantee I’ll be cock-a-doodlin’ with the hens by daybreak!

Now, I know…, there are some people out there who disagree…

There are some naïve souls out there who believe that true happiness is to be found only in love, damn-good orgasms, in family, or in a well-executed Thai body massage…

But, let me set ye lost souls straight…:

It just don’t get better than- yes, I’ll say it: “linguistic muck”.

And, that’s why, though I’m over-worked and far-under-paid, I love my current job so much.

Where else could I go at 8am, still waiting for my coffee to kick in, listen to intriguingly fantastical linguistic muck, and get PAID for it?!

And, just to show you how great my current employment is, I’ll share the inspiring and tragic tale that I got paid to listen to this morning:

“When I was a junior highschool,”
(Yes- apparently a great number of Japanese university graduates were once educational facilities themselves!)
“my mother regret very much my experience… In bed I was bunking top,”
(Well, who DOESN’T, these days?!)
“and – how can I say? – fire spirit samarai ghost strangled me from neck down with the French carrousel animals spinning at ceiling.”
(Oh yeah, the old, romantic spinning, French merry-go-round line…)
“I was very scary. But, now my mother she is very kindly. And, I am happy because of study English.”

In my opinion, tales of such profound sorrow, sadness, reconciliation and unintentionally-moving poetry just don't come around every day!

So, this morning I decided two things:

1) that I will hold off on looking for alternative jobs for a while and

2) that, as of today, all of my students (so that they can check their grammar, of course) will be recorded on tape, explaining some of their most influential experiences.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Prescription rugs for Atomic Readjustment

It’s not like dropping a couplet of rosy-cheeked, newborn twins into a blender, really, but…

Putting a few psychologically healthy, socially-skilled human beings into a light-absent, unadorned cell with a rhythmically syncopated faucet drip, a bored albino ferret and ten minutes of blared Chopin once every 9 hours…

Now…, that’s something I would love to observe!

(Aside from providing exceptionally entertaining dinner party discussions, it would be…, well…, philosophically-engaging and psychologically intriguing enough to keep me home on a Friday night…)

How many months would it take before our once-healthy individuals built their own perceptional Stonehenge around melancholically euphoric outcries, began associating enlightened thoughts with rodent-toe nibbles, and hypothetical sunlight with delayed water droplets?

How long before our once-productive members of society constructed a ferret-scat sculpture to the Darkness, began writing abstract articles about evil chlorophyll-converters with terroristic tendencies, and developed a sound-based, drip-powered irrigation system?

These are the kind of obscurely ordinary and stupid thoughts that often shoulder-jab me at the bus stop, making me wish I had gone into a field that allowed me to do otherwise unethical scientific research…

But…, alas…, though I enjoy contemplating the ideas behind atomic bar-hopping within our quantum physical world and can’t get enough of discussing the repercussions of uncertain electrons, I can’t bring myself to study and memorize any physiological or chemical equations that would educationally pertain to such experiments.

So.., I have decided I have to create my own studies…

And..., well…, I can think of no better, easily-diagnosable, experimental Subject than Myself…, so here goes my shot at scientific research…:

One simple, healthy rat thrown into a foreign yet healthy environment…

Rat = me, healthy environment = ESL School

Observations: It only took the Subject a few weeks to adjust to the new, shadowed, Platonian, dark world of rampant ferrets, leaky faucets, and oddly-timed obscure music…

Within two weeks, the Subject was still smiling, laughing and carrying on as if things were perfectly normal…, even when people around her were uttering such odd phrases as:

“I am a typewriter”

“Fine movie producers are worn by great editors.”

“I am China.”


“If I couldn’t have had had a wouldn’t great had experience, I would, had have fabulous great times kindly!”

Conclusions: The Subject (yes—me!) took everything in stride, treated every exchanged conversation as if it were perfectly normal and…,

Diagnosis: this Subject is only moderately aberrational in her thinking and behavior.

Recommended Prescription: only 76 more years of life for this Subject, a few months of therapeutic discussion from an equally-aberrational thinker, and two full-strength 120mg pills of reality (taken via expresso shot) per day.

*Editorial insert: TGPIF (Thank the Great Platypus It’s Friday!) I don’t get paid enough to lesson plan at home, lead extra-curricular ferry trips to neighboring islands and chat with outstandingly accommodating, English-language-practicing conversationalists with expected preferences and rehearsed arguments! Thank the winged mammal-like whatsit in the sky for Mr. E, blank sheets of paper, and random drum circles by the river!

*Cheesy editorial PS#2: And thank the world for so many smile-invoking pieces of confetti that come in the form of political flyers.

Monday, September 04, 2006

New Genes on the Industrial Block

If an evolutionary geneticist were studying the adaptation habits of Mister E. and myself right now, he might conclude that we are healthily carving our way into a sustainable niche here in Seattle. …And, that we might just have the survival techniques necessary to keep up with these dog-nibbles-dog North-westerners.

Or…, that we might just be harmless and artistically kooky enough to Olympic-style curl our way under the radars of potential predators looking to go Darwinian on our Southern Californian rumps…

After all, we’re not doing too poorly thus far in our new habitat.

As my previous deodorant-application post attests, we’ve managed to master the bus systems. (…though, I still aspire to one day hone the social grace and deftness necessary to shave my legs in between public transport transfers…)

Also, I’ve secured a nice little, hermit crab shell-earning position in the heart of the trendy homosexual district. No…, it’s not as glamorous as you might think; it doesn’t involve flaunting my stylish cargo pants-parading butchness or testing the durability of genetically-engorged cucumbers… Instead, I teach ex-pat adults to speak with the inarticulate fluency and grammatical apathy required for visa-holders to seamlessly sew their embroidered presence into the patchwork of this country.

And, as if all that weren’t enough to support our evolutionary muscle in this new place…:

we’ve also managed to finger paint our own flavorful prints on the local ecosystem’s pallet by wandering around town in pajama bottoms to the unexpected shock of native observers (one resident even went so far as to drop his jaw – though I thought a more flattering tribute would have been to drop his drawers - and compliment us on our “superb urban trendiness”)

But, perhaps, the thing that lends the most convincing evidentiary credence to our remarkable survival fitness claim, is that we finally have a hobbit hole to call our very own… or, at least…, to call our landlord’s very own loan…

It sits atop a little hill in the once-bohemian-art-center-turned-tourist-destination, overlooking the Washington ship canal, wind-bopping sailboats and a very large refinery of sorts.

To be honest, I’m not sure that it’s a refinery at all. It looks suspiciously like a cement factory. Or a whale blubber warehouse. Or a senior-citizen-exploiting knitting sweatshop…

The building reads “Marine Industries,” and I find myself just too imaginatively intrigued by its mystique to spoil the fun by looking its purpose up on the ww-web.

Something about the hideous rectangular monstrosity makes me want to sing the Tom Wait’s song: “What is he building in there?” and spend my three-day weekend coming up with possible mundane atrocities they might be committing inside its beige perimeter…

… a warehouse filled with kelp, rounded sea glass and three-eye-sporting, tentacled anemones with Nostradamic inclinations…?

… a hydroponic, chlorophyll-producing, thermal saline energy-converter manned by octopi with reading glasses and non-accredited PhD’s…?

… a post-it notes-manufacturing farmhouse built on the buried remains of a yet-unsponsored prophet’s scrolls…?

In any case…, I like to think of our industrial neighbor as playing an integral sushi roll in our success in this new city meal. A creative muse, if you will... A humble enforcer of the potency of our socially adaptive double helix health... An angled metaphorical ass-nudger with nucleotide chains of butt-kicking vigor…

And, if nothing else…, the mound of gravel in its parking lot is perfect for midnight pajama parties, deodorant-applying barbeques and bus schedule-swapping soirees…

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Inventory of Justin Kayes

Some subversive criminal geniuses can last years in their chosen professions without ever being caught. Like Dommer, for instance. Or Frank Abagnale Jr. … Or, if you’re a fan of over-sized shoes and balloon-nose make-up: John Wayne Gacy.

But not me.

I got busted today.

And, no…, (before you start entertaining romantic thoughts of necrophilia under star-studded canopies… or cannibalism with sides of ketchup)…

I am NOT a psychopathically deviant criminal, practicing violent voodoo rituals under deity-blessed barbeques.
Nor, am I a cunning, computer-savvy embezzler, a fraudulent document-twister or even a clever advertising-abuser.

And I certainly would never wear a clown costume out for a good night of rape-ery!

Except, of course, if I could paint my own toe nails…

… preferably, autumn woodpecker orange with lightning bolts of pre-pubescent passion fruit yellow…

No, really, though…

I got caught today while committing the most juvenile of social crimes.

Yes, it was a publicly heinous act. Yes, it was second-glance deservingly disturbing. And, yes, it was the grandma-gossip-grabber your nosy neighbor wishes for:

I was crouched in one of the back seats of the 49 bus headed for work on Capitol Hill, doing the unthinkable at 8am:

I was applying deodorant.
(to its appropriate destinations, mind you.)

And, yes, it was my second offense. And, yes I should have been more candid. But, my winged platypus!, doesn’t everyone deserve to skip a step in their morning ablutions process 2 days in a row at least once every few years?!

In any case…, if you are wondering what criminal repercussions targeted me after being visually apprehended for 5 seconds in the bus driver’s rear view mirror: well.., none.

And, if you are wondering why I felt inclined to tell this asinine story after such a long blogging absence: well…, I’m not sure there is any of that either.

And why I happened to have an extra stick of shower-fresh, armpit massage oil in my backpack?: well…, it’s probably the same reason I have a headlamp, two (I counted them) breath-mints, 14 different black pens, a colony of crushed staples, an inoperable minidisk and two unreadable books in my backpack:

Just in case.

'Cuz, well, you never know...

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Simulated Me and Indecent Pee

Two sixteen a.m.
I bobby-pin my hair up, leave a small clump of greased split ends to line the spine of my nose, and put my pompodour wig on. I freckle my cheeks with a mixture of watermarks attained from a neighbor's car windshield and paper voids acquired from a local copy shop's hole punch. I wriggle into the quilted outfit a peyote-eating curandero made for me from patches of space-time and discarded chicle wrappers, and wiggle my toes to make sure that my lightly-salted, seaweed pantyhose won't run when I tiptoe.
And, off I go into the night.

Sometimes I sit under trees, chatting with bark beetles. Other times, I patrol the night sky, wondering if it's the smog or the confetti in my kaleidoscope that impairs my vision of others like me...

...ok, fine... so, I don't really do this. But I DO often find myself doing mental jumping jacks in imaginary and fantastical worlds (... perhaps currently reading this and this doesn't help much!), and I DO often catch myself creativity twisting and fictionalizing real(?)ity around me... Just for fun, you know..., and to keep my pitcher filled with freshly-squeezed muse-juice (which by the way, despite a few reports to the contrary, is no longer sold at twenty-four hour pawn shops).

And we all do it sometimes. We all re-define the world around us and create snapshots of made-up truths to fit in with our perceptions of the way things are, the way things might be, or the way it-would-be-really-fun-and-trippy-if-they-were.

So, I've made up quite a few half-truth, fictional identities for myself (thanks, Philbrick for recently posting about this odd phenomenon).

So, I've got blogger "-c", customer-service "-c", MySpace "-c", third-person journal "-c", hi-grandma! "-c", love-impermeable "-c", goofy "-c", pussy-cat "-c", hell-no-I-won't-put-my-commas-inside-my-quotation-marks "-c", etc.

And, now, thanks to a good blogging buddy (who has never met me in person or seen a picture of me),...

I have virtual, Simulated "-c"! And, I'm hot! Check me out here. I am the "Mysterious Stranger" in the 9th picture down who apparently likes to piss in her own front yard.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Back Seat Blues

Yesterday, while on a flight from Seattle to Los Angeles, I interviewed an oft-forgotten celebrity of world travel. Over a complimentary two bags of honey-roasted peanuts and a Sprite, he gave me exclusive insight into the trying lifestyle and over-looked hardships of a salary-neglected, Alaskan Airlines Rockstar:

-c: So, how do you feel most days?

Travel Rockstar: Well, for the most part, I'm very happy. But, it's always a rollercoaster of excitement and emotion, isn't it?

-c: Absolutely. So, what brings on your highs?

TR: Well, I feel really good when people recognize me in the aisles, comment on my dedication and achievement, notice my stylish attire and feel comfortable sitting down with me for take-off, and sharing their iPod favorites with me.

-c: Sounds great! So, when does your rollercoaster cart descend?

TR: Well..., we all feel a little insecure sometimes, I guess...
Sometimes, I question my own self worth when people lean up against me while they're waiting for the lavatory, or when they bump up against me while "stretching their legs" without even feigning a mumbled "I'm sorry."

-c: Yeah, that could be tough for anyone...

TR: Occasionally, I even get a little peeved when people curse me for not being as limber as their local yoga guru or as flexible as their new shoe insole...

-c: Well, it seems shoe insoles these days get a little more praise than they deserve...

TR: No doubt! And..., well..., I even feel a little ignored and neglected when people throw their purses in my lap without asking permission, and when they, uninvited, grab my arms and try to maneuver them up and down as if my limbs were but stringed appendages of their agents' marionette...!

-c: I understand. So, what keeps you in the business?

TR: Well, to be honest... being the non-reclineable, window-less Back Seat of a commercial airplane isn't all that glamorous. But, I have to say, I occasionally get the appreciative passenger who treats me with respect and dignity despite my faults. I've even had a few people leave me their cell phone or passport in my pocket as a token of our intimate relationship!

-c: Well, that sounds wonderful. Unfortunately, I have to cut this interview short, as my neck is killing me.

*Update: Just flew into L.A. to do some moving and play. Will be driving back up to Seattle shortly with a car-full of gear, a stop in the Bay, and a few more stories. Long live the cramped, back seats of airplanes!

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Big Party, No Pandemonium

They didn’t try to feel me up.

They didn’t ask to look through my bag.

They didn’t even bother to inquire whether or not I was concealing a bloody, man-slaughtering mandolin in my sock.

It was all very strange.

If this was Seattle’s “biggest, craziest” outdoor musical Big Bang of the summer…, well…, let’s just call it soft and sweetly refreshing.

Where were the outlandishly deranged assholes with existential “beef”? Where were the violence-threatening eco-terrorists, the gekko-footed wall-climbers with odd inclinations, the crafty wallet appropriators, the stool-starting Gangstas with attitude, sneaky new-but-used cocaine salesmen, the mad audience-exciting movers and shakers of silliness/insanity, and the crowd-cramping cannibals offering cheap carne-on-e-stick, guey??

I just didn’t see them.
(…or, at least…, I didn’t see them loudly enough to notice…)

I almost felt like I was back in Japan; the three-block audience a colony of bopping heads, hive well-wishers, appreciative observers, deep-thinking smilers and inactive silent revolutionaries.

There were tons of bands and people, but there were no practicing trouble starters, and no police.

Quite astounding really.

And, though I’m a strong proponent of subversive behavior, poking fun at the ordinary, and causing chaos for the sake of rocking the boat, it was still quite refreshing to see such a big event held with such relaxed maturity and class.

I'm starting to think these so-called Seattleites are actually just actors, playing chill peeps roles for my benefit. As soon as I sign a long-term rental lease and a work contract here, I'm expecting the syringes to start flowing through the streets, undulating under the weight of maniacal, pitchfork wielding, mutated politician clones with the blood of suburbanites dripping from their fangs.

But, maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

Boat Party

I couldn't have felt any older, even if a giant purple dinosaur had emerged from a paper-machet volcano to lead us in rounds of "row, row, row your boat" as we struggled to string painted pasta-piece necklaces…, and stopped only to exchange exasperated "poo poo heads" over who got the dried, lavender tortellini.

I could almost feel crows trampling the muddy corners of my eyes, leaving near fossilized footprints on my face as flocks of undergrads in pirate costumes passed around alligator masks, candy cigarettes, skittle-colored jello shots, and talked of "deconstructing old paradigms of understanding," and "annihilating out-moded education models with heavy-handed pourings of Whiskey Sours."

Yeah, I was feeling old…
… old like I-had-just-crampon-crunched-my-way-past-Mallory and-Sisyphus-and-was-on-my-way-over-the-hill Old.

Old like I just didn’t care anymore and could scream: “We’re all being attacked by bow-tied, flute-playing ants!” in the middle of a church barbeque without minding if I upset someone’s discussion about how much dill is just the right amount in a potato salad…

But…, yeah, I swear someone was sprinkling gray hair seedlings in remote areas of oft-succulent growth on my body when I overheard Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's recent escapades used to illustrate the meaning behind an arguably profound Samuel Beckette quote, and when my refusal to drink Tequilla (that was obviously fermented in a re-used trashbag-lined kiddy pool outside of a carnival goldfish cemetery-slash-nuclear storage site) provoked a dissonant chorus of "CHUG it! CHUG it! CHUG its!"

Oh well. Maybe it’s not about age at all…

After all.., I couldn’t even handle those kind of parties when I was that age…


Most of my “grown-up” friends now are admittedly still prone to bouts of freestyle poetry recitations (with an emphasize on fellatio puns and shunning of political buns), sessions of banging on household items (for no reason except that- wow, those are some “cool sounds”!), rounds of summer-saulting and skinny-dipping (only where appropriate and attention-grabbing, of course!), and improvised skits performed in public places (the louder, goofier, and more obnoxious, the better!)…

So, I guess it’s safe to say that even though I felt quite old at the party, those cheap booze-guzzling, liberal arts sea mariners are, in fact, a lot more “grown-up” than I am.

Afterall, I’m certainly not mature enough yet to use the words imperialism, secularism, logical positivism, multilateralism, and Clitorism all in a single, chatty conversation with someone I just met.

But, give me a few years.

I’m sure I’ll work them all into a coherent pick-up line one day.

Of the Devil’s condoms and food stamps

So, when I was a teenager, I was known, on occasion, to drop arbitrary condoms and pregnancy tests into poor couples' unwatched shopping carts in the super market.

(thanks, frustrated writer for rekindling this memory☺)

I hoped that it would spark exciting conversation and dialogue (maybe a bit of humor and otherwise difficult-to-invoke exchange between the discoverers of the merchandise), result in microcosmic pandemonium, and create (if nothing else) a great source of laughter for myself and my friends.

Yes, it was quite cruel.
Maybe even a bit too ‘prophetic, pubescent proselytizing’ for anyone’s taste…
…but, I was young and dumb…

But, now…, it’s quite boring, actually…

I don’t get to play the trouble-starting, world-examining, piss-taking critic anymore…

I don’t get to apply anti-flea lotion to the devil’s advocate’s tail. I don’t get to grease the spokes of absurdity’s earlobe and swing his daughter’s umbilical-cord jump rope as her friends chant: “One LeapFrog, 2 LeapFrog, 3 LeapFrog more!”.

Instead, I dress up and interview for jobs doing the other thing that I LOVE more than anything: working with children. I share my experience, ability and over-qualified enthusiasm, only to realize that the pay couldn’t support the needs of a domesticated, half-pedigree dog in any part of the city.

Anyway, I’m sure that some enlightened guru of the east once said that living off of happiness, rice, noodles, library books, vagabond blogging and un-paid editorializing was the ultimate key to existence…

At least…, if he didn’t, he should have said that… ☺

*Update/Edit: To preserve my credibility as a dedicated educator, I’ll have you know that I would never drop condoms or pregnancy tests into a child’s lunch box. After all, we all know that abstinence pills work far better. Especially when the children are still in their formative years.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Ring, ring. Hello?

There's no fooling a sweet, honest, greesy-haired techie who's just diagnosed your ailing cell phone. You might as well try telling a 40-year-cop-turned-neuro-psychologist that you've never had lustful thoughts or acted upon them.

"Well, your phone's circuits have been fried, and it appears that someone has tampered with your cell phone. Are you sure it hasn't been exposed to a city-block-sized vat of sticky, citrus consistency-based beverage, as well as some evil-intentioned intruder who tried to mop it up?"

Me: "Uh...er... perhaps a tiny droplet of... er orange juice... uh... dropped within its reach...and, er.. maybe someone very similar to myself in appearance slipped in through the open screen window downstairs to try and dry it out... ah, man! I've divulged too much!"

"Well...," (dramatic flat-lining image drowns out all WiFi connections in a 3 block radius) "there's nothing I can do for it now. Please see the Salesman for an absurdly over-priced new phone, or consult eBay and Craigslist for a better deal."

And away the all-knowlegeable, late-teen doctor goes...

Luckily, I'm still feeling happy today.

I mean..., it's hard to feel down when you've spent the week doing awesome things like visiting Seattle's Coolest Science Museum (the best fun, interactive displays and exhibits ever!), The Inner-Geek-Invoking Science Fiction Museum (c'mon, am I the only one who grew up loving Bradbury, Ursela K. LeGuin, Heinlein, Douglas Adams, Harlan Ellison, Orwell, Arthur C. Clark, Shelly, & Jules Verne??!) , Summerfest (if your boyfriend's an artist, never take him to an art fair unless you're ready to spend hours reading and writing about Chaos and Funny Feynman while he sketches and creates...) as well as lots of coffee shops, used-book stores, and a couple of job interviews. Overall..., very good stuff!

I'm loving Seattle!

P.S. Anyone have an old cell phone with a verizon serial number they want to toss my way?

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Juice the improbable

It's not an easy thing to do.
Not just anyone can do it the first time they try.
Really, it takes a bit of dexterous flair, a certain tactical finesse, and a few servings of cosmic luck.

But, miraculously, I managed it.

I successfully tossed my cell phone from my inflatable mattress into a narrow-mouthed glass of orange juice.

I instinctually, unintentionally and exactly calculated the weight and velocity of my flying communication devise, while taking into account gravitational and morning-wind-through-the-window variables to successfully perform this act.
What a miracle to accomplish such a grand feat purely by accident! Just imagine the ego-tickling pride and self-reaffirming dignity I must be feeling right now! Such inspirational and self-glorifying accomplishments don't come every day, you know.

Well..., perhaps it was for the best... Mister E suggested that it was my subconscious’s only way of chewing through the leash; its only way of liberating its free spirit from the confining whips of lovers, prospective employers, family and those ever-pesky good friends.

I, on the other hand, just can't help but be amused by the ever-outstanding preciseness of the universe's random exactness.

I mean..., how many other times in my life have I arbitrarily tossed an object, only for it to fall safely onto a stack of books, a carpet or a pine-needled floor? What are the odds that my projectile should land directly in a glass of citrus sweetness, complete with home-style pulp?!

Anyway, it’s occurrences like this that re-instill my momma’s-milk faith in the Great Winged Platypus and her crafty plans for us all.

(P.S. If you’re still finding that your questions about life, existence, meaning (and why arbitrary objects land in orange juice) are not being satisfactorily answered…, I’d be happy to send you further info on the religious teachings of the Great Platy-Pussy).

Sunday, July 09, 2006

First "Hmmm....s"

I, once, semi-accidentally walked into a "Snack Bar" in Japan and, upon immediate observation of the chatty, paid girls in fabric-lacking tops and hemmed-to-the-hyena-howl skirts, I drew my impressions of what the establishment embodied.
I thought it had to be another pay-for-company escort service-based business, marketing to high-paid, lonely (most-probably-married) salary men. I thought it was just another 'please-the-Money-with-prospects-of-pussy' kind of place.
But then, after many an evening, I finally met the owners, got to know them, their kids and their grandchildren, and eventually realised that there was far more to the business than just that...
The family wasn't making money off of simply night-capping pine cones...; they were making green bills off of--

...well, honestly, I still don't know...

But.., my point is that you can never know fully what is going on in a certain place based solely on your initial, intuitive responses.

First impressions should seldom be relied upon to accurately reflect what will come to exemplify the way you will know a place over time.

BUT..., they (1st impressions) can certainly illustrate significant milestones in evolving perceptions...
So..., before I forget what reflex-like responses Seattle has inspired in me, I present:

My First Impressions of Seattle (... First REgressions to come later...):

1)Damn, there are a lot of white people here. (*disclaimer: yes, I'm white too:))

2)Wow, it's outstandingly beautiful here. (*disclaimer: yes, I'm outstandingly beautiful too)

3)Man, everyone and their dog's pet-sitter's hampster has a tattoo. (*disclaimer: no, I have not yet artistically branded myself)

4)Since when does a single split second of the sun peaking out from behind the clouds constitute a heat wave? (*disclaimer: I'm used to having scalding, near-fatal, humid temperatures help ignite my barbeque)

5)Green, good. Trees, good. Parks with winding trails, very good. (*Disclaimer: unecessarry)

6)Wow, people are pretty relaxed here-- As mentioned in the previous post, they lack the bundles of splintery chopsticks up the butt found in so many other modern Arsch-concaves of modern metropolises ( ... or is it metropoli? metropoloose?--Anyway, *disclaimer: again, unecessarry)

7)People really covet their coffee here. (*disclaimer: I've coffeed a coveter before, but... that's not something I advertise on the internet...hahr.hahr.)

8)Public transportation is pretty good in this city (*disclaimer: not always. Yesterday, our awesome, environmentally-friendly, veggie-run bus broke down on us. Mister E said that's what happens when you let Maize run the maze. I'm still not so condemning yet, though...)

9)This is an awesome location, beautiful environment, good people

(*disclaimer: but, damn!, there are a lot of white people...).

----Far more impressions and experiences of Seattle to come soon. ----

(*Current News: inflatable mattress-residing, bus-pass-toting, museum ticket-reusing, used book store leach on the loose in the Pacific northwest tries a local pale ale and demonstrates-- charades-style-- how hoppy she thinks the brew is.)

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

The Nice Price

I've always been skeptical of those probing psychological quizzes used to shallowly diagnose personalities (I mean, who doesn't consider themselves caring and kind? ... and, who doesn't see albino guinnea pigs in pink laederhosen and Hendrix headbands playing badminton in 90% of inkblots these days?)

But, if a bored psych intern threatened to psycho-babble me to sleep if I didn't make a list of adjectives that best describe me, 'friendly' and 'outgoing' would probably make the top 15 (nestled, of course, among 'introspective', 'shy', 'creatively aberrational (read slightly demented)', and 'excessively silly (as in, a well-phrased bodilly function joke can excite my wet-my-pants giggle reflex just as easilly as a geniusly-timed sarcastic and intelligent remark can'...)).

But, I, like, way digress...

I speak now of 'friendly' and 'outgoing' qualities because I had always considered these to be great attributes worthy of more wide-spread demonstration among members of the human race (and among certain members of the animal and insect kingdoms as well-- I mean, why can't wasps be more like their social butterfly counterparts, and grizzlies more like their friendly Yogi bear brothers?).

But, now I'm starting to wonder if the qualities of kindness and amicability are not a tad bit over-rated. In fact, I'm starting to think that these characteristics are highly suspicious.

It's just that I'm not used to so much 'niceness'.
Unlike L.A., Seattle seems to be boiling with benevolence and extreme cordiality. Everyone seems to be a little nicer, a little more open, and a little less suffering-from-a-thorny-barbeque-skewer-up-their-ass.

Half of the time it's really wonderful to be talked to as a human being by strangers, engaged in light-hearted conversation at the bus stop, and treated with a bit of respect and humanity.
The other half of the time, though, I find myself questioning the motives of such unfettered kindness. Who does this guy think he is, asking about my first pet dog when all I want is a coffee? Why is this lady arbitrarilly asking my boyfriend what color m&m's he likes best? Does she want to bake him some fancy brownies? Or ascertain what color bottons to decorate our effigies with?

I dunno... I suppose I'm joking. I suppose I value openness and friendliness more than I'll admit, and I suppose a little extra random kindness in the world really isn't such a terrifying thing...

But, one thing I'm certain of is that anyone soliciting my feelings on the day's temperature and amount of cloud-cover must be up to something. Most likely they're involved in some super-secret, sociological and meteorological recconnaissance mission aimed at annexing the planet and securing domination over all of our manufactured robots, Hello Kitty dolls and Elvis impersonators...

As usual, people, this is no joke. I don't make this stuff up.

Monday, June 26, 2006

Where the Wobblies were

So, it’s afternoon here in the south of California, and I’m feeling euphoric excitement cut with anxiousness.

The streets are lit orange.
Road-sauteed skunk is in the air.
Russian neighbors are talking grammatically-altered baby-speak to my brother’s dog, fire engines are battling regurgitated free-styles in Spanish, an original coal-fueled, model train is being ignited in the driveway next door, mid-modification-revving engines are groaning twilight attempts at breath along my street,
and I’m…

well…, I’m trying to digest the fact that myself and Mister E. are on our way to Seattle Washington in less than 24 hours with only a few backpacks, some love, a coupla bottled cliches and no plans.

I guess it shouldn’t be all that new or scary…

Afterall, I’ve done tougher things. I’ve lived and worked in countries where I didn’t speak the language; places where they fed me things like guinea pig and horse sashimi and bowed profusely at me while I did my grocery shopping. I’ve worked with inmates in Ecuadorian jails, swapped gambling leads with sun-baked seven year olds at a kick-boxing match in Thailand, dodged zapoteco pick-up lines in the back of a flat-bed and tried to order a black coffee in Starbucks without getting laughed at…

I should be able to handle a simple move.

…especially to such a beautiful place that Tom Robbins had this to say about:

“I’m here for the rust and the mildew, for webbed feet and twin peaks, spotted owls and obscene clams (…), blackberries and public art (…), for the rituals of the potlatch and the espresso cart, for bridges that are always pratfalling into the water and ferries that keep ramming the dock. I’m here because the Wobblies used to be here, and sometimes in Pioneer Square you can still find bright-eyed old anarchists singing their moldering ballads of camaraderie and revolt. I’m here because someone once called Seattle “the hideout capital of the U.S.A.,” a distant outpost of a town where generations of the nation’s failed, fed-up, and felonious have come to disappear. Long before Seattle was “America’s Athens”, it was America’s Timbuktu.”

Yup, it definitely sounds like my kind of place! …Webbed feet, “moldering ballads,” Wobblies and failed, fed-up felons. Ooh la LA! Come to me, Seattle!

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Don't sneeze on the food

I once met someone with an outstandingly unique sense of smell. He could smell a smuggler swallowing sacks of hash in the medina of Chef-chauan Morroco from his VW in Van Nuys. He could smell bow resin residue on the hallucinating retinas of a relapsing exchange student practicing her violin in Vienna. He could smell burnt eyelashes on an ex-rocking, re-located Brit fourteen blocks away and..., ten Miller Light bottles down the bar, he could smell an aspiring actress menstruating into white-tailed cotton.

(... needless to say..., his ability to smell dirty money landed him a job designing ventriloquist dummies for entertainment caterers at various financial advisor-thrown parties, and his inability to keep his mouth shut regarding his nasal capabilities got him a fat lip and a few tampon-tinted teeth from a drunk "extra" who went on to play "princess" in a couple of Paramount productions...)

But, anyway...

He's not the only one around to have such an extraordinary "sense" that physically drives and emotionally tortures him. He's not the only one who feels his sacred gifts are giving him knee jives to the sacred joo-joo...

For, I too, have a special Sense. Yes, it's true-- I, too, feel the inflammatory pangs of my semi-scientific talent, crow-barring at the rust-crusted metaphoric nails of my cranium and pin-striping my pedant-envying purity.

Yes..., I've got a "sense" too...

It's an uncanny ability to spot people mid-plot; a pseudo-scientific nose for catching ordinary folk involved in underhanded conspiracies and cover-ups...

And, it was whispering through napkins to me today as I had lunch with my grandparents at their favorite All-you-can-eat buffet in Orange County....

This forth dimension-transgressing "sense" of mine said to me: "The senior citizens are up to something here. There's something fishy going on by the baked salmon buffet."

I mean, how else could you explain such secure cognizance of Monday-only potato dishes, Thursday-specific cobbler knowledge, and the busgirl's Green Card family specifics? How else could you explain the common, local nodding at the old woman who picked up each and every piece of silverware only to replace it before returning to her seat to symbolically wash a single fork in her water glass? Or, the couple who mysteriously stuffed four bulky napkins into two pockets and snuck out the back door when they realized the enchiladas were finished? Or, the conspiratorial, constituent-based firing of the cashier who stole tip money, ignored senior citizen discounts, had no relatives and couldn't count back change? It looks to me like Pinochet's potholder-knitting regime is back in full force.

And, I don't think I'm the only one who could tell something was up. Anyone could see by looking at these seniors that they were plotting something in that Home Town Buffet... Maybe a counter culture-esque romance novel revival, an elaborate comfort-food media diversion, a strangle assassination using prescription pill-chrocheted twine, an undermining eco-terroristic explosion of state-supplied oxygen tanks...

Well, whatever it was..., it was clearly something dangerous.

I could just sense it. Those grandmas had something scandalous up their sleeves.

So, just a bit of advise: Be careful, aware, and have a closer look at the elderly in your own neighborhood. The lady down the street who talks to stuffed, pink kittens might just be the ringleader of the International achy bone virus-smuggling Cartel. And, just how do you think Old Mister Polyester-in-Suspenders actually gets his tomato plants to be so impossibly healthy and fertile?

He's got secrets international intelligence agencies don't, that's how.

*Disclaimer: I am, in no way, asserting that everyone over the ripe age of 35 is involved in nefarious dealings; only that we have to be cautious.

Friday, June 16, 2006

My name's "Big Buckaroolahs"

Him: Hi, my name is "Head Supervising Specialist at So-and-So-we-beat-the-Dot-Com-Crash-and-went-on-to-make-Super-Sized-Straws Productions".

Me: Well... uh... hi. Nice to meet you...

Him: Did you meet my friend, "Top Marketing Executive for We-spit-on-your-spleen-Jocoby Spyers and Lyers"?

Me: ...er... no, not yet..., but he sounds... er... nice.

Him: And, this is his friend, " I-make-Big-Bucks-and-Live-Alone-by-my-Asian-Stone-Pool-with-Babbling-Creek-and-Jakuzzi".

Me: ... why... er... I suppose the pleasure is mine!

Now..., maybe it's just me. Or maybe it's because I'm in southern California. But..., it seems that the replacement of Self and Personal Character by Job Title is a tad bit obscure and unnecessary.
I mean..., since when do we need a new rim job on our zero-to-seventy bum to present our attributes and quirkishly divine qualities??

Personally, I can't remember a time when I met an outstandingly clever and witty conversationalist who prefaced his intelligence, puns and sociability with: "And, just to be clear: I'm Directing Designer for the nation-wide Dung Displays at Wallmart"...

But..., then again..., maybe that's just me....

Maybe I'm falsely accustomed to meeting grounded folk who don't find it necessary to smother their social attributes with job-title toppings...
Maybe I've been unnaturally lucky enough to know people who prefer to sprinkle their lives with humour and honesty rather than drenching their doodles with pretense and masks of check-paid corporate titles... Maybe, in my cheesy world of travel, I have seen only those who notice (now..., I hate to trickle cliches, but...) "the bigger picture".

Or maybe..., I'm just jealous.

... because, afterall..., I can't say I'm the Director of "Digression Dissemination" at Starbuck's multi-motleyed Monopoly.

quite yet...

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Work that pole, baby!

OK, think of that sexy, young, nubile beauty you run into at the post office, sending an intriguing package to a far-off land, or that devilish, cute and witty sweetheart in front of the local supermarket, working her night job:... there she goes, dancing around and caressing the pole, working it like a pro, stealing a sexy glance over a few bills tucked in her panties...

Well... that is precisely what I was NOT doing all of yesterday...

I actually spent the day, working the polls... the primary election polls in the U.S.

Instead of widening my lower lips, I was opening the registered voters List book. Instead of sliding up and down the metal poll, I was instructing voters to slide their ballot into the Inka-Voting machine. Instead of receiving scum-infused numbers, I was accepting ballots.

And, it was quite fun, actually!

But...., after fifteen hours of voting instruction and ballot accepting...

... well, it was a bit disheartening to find that only 10% of my precinct's registered voters actually showed up to exercise their rights...

The most inspiring moment of the experience, though, came when the 1st grade class of the local elementary school came to visit. The students asked such questions as: "Can my grandma put our ballot in THAT box?" and "Where can my big brother tell the president to do good things?"

Well...., overall, I wish the conscientious seven-year-olds of the world could vote....

... and..., I wonder what would happen if they were to end up 'working the poles' in another capacity...

Feelin' groovy

Yeah, alright...
I'm only slightly chagrined to admit that we were THAT car for 2144 miles across New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado...

You know the car...

It's the one that drives 60mph along the highway where the posted speed limit is 75mph.

It's the one you pass in the open desert, assuming it's manned by a senile, old, achy-boned, just-joined-the-marijuana-club-when-he-turned-87-at-his-optomotrist's-recommendation great grandfather (who swears he left his combat compass next to his keys under the sports section beside the dart board)...

It's that car that inspires your imagination; that car that forces you to concoct absurd explanations (like Alien-Invoked Right Ankle Movement Syndrome (ARAMS) and Too Cool for Time Disease (TCT))... just to explain the sluggard speed at which this otherwise able-engined vehicle with high fuel-emisions potential decides to travel...

But, actually, we were just cruising at the devil's speed to keep the gas consumption down, check out some of the views and smile, knowing that our contribution to atmospheric destruction would be penned by our campfires and by too many angry souls rushing to get places they didn't want to be...

--And..., we were actually quite lucky that we were driving livke waddling penguins who had already fed their young when the first and second tires expressed their frustrated exasperation about inflated life...

AAnd... again, when a fanged, apparently aggressive rubbermaid trashcan attacked our mobile haven of illegally-downloaded mix cds without warning--...

Maybe, we could all benefit by stopping to smell the cockroaches and defecation in our fast-food Meal Deals before devouring them...
Maybe, we could all hand an extended moment of breathing and sheer 'experiencing' in between our snapped photos and 'important appointments'...

And, maybe... (now I'm plunging into controversy), our current administration could do worse than re-inforcing those old gas-saving speed limit laws, pursuing advertisement of our well-researched alternative sustainable energy sources, and enforcing a few "chill-out and remember to enjoy and appreciate life" campaigns.

But... I contradict myself:

What's the hurry, anyway?

Friday, May 26, 2006

Wrenchin' the Monkey

So there we were.
Cruisin' down the highway into Durango, suckin' on the straw of mountain heat scents, illegally entertaining our expired poetic licenses with country and western tunes on the radio

(“I'm a goin' where the green grass grows,
gonna watch my corn pop up in rows,
yes, I'm a goin' back to my trailer park ho's”)

when suddenly…

PTANG!! Pppssssshhhhhhhh…..

And, just like that, we had an exhausted rear tire, as saggy and wilted as Aunt Gemima's tit after a lifetime of offering sugary syrup sucks for US$2.49 a pop.

And, it struck me once again, how integral the occasional chimpanzee wrench tossed impetuously into life's working machinery is to a healthy human psyche.
I mean…, it's all pretty pansies and cute panda babies as long as the gears are greased and running smooth as Guinness down the throat…

But…., c'mon, that's just plain Jiffy and jelly on white! (no-not simple, quick and tasty…, but rather, BORING).
I, for one, think that any soul claiming total satisfaction without the occasional mosquito bite in the matrix, renegade cockroach in the milkshake or passport in the pocket during the rinse cycle, is no more trustworthy than a nun who doesn't masturbate.

But, alright, fine… maybe I'm being a bit extreme… maybe I'm more of a sucker for conflict than most… maybe, I just love to see the milk spilt and the cookie jar broken…

But…, I think that deep down in that itsy bitsy, teeny tiny little electron-sized hole hidden under the little left toe nail of everyone, there's a screaming itsy bitsy teeny tiny little sprite that demands chaos and corrosion in the supporting beams of our lives.
There's a piece of us all that secretly hopes that the mailman will mistakenly deliver the neighbor's porn subscription to our mailbox…, that one day all the world's sewage systems will get blocked up and result in the first shit-works display of the era…, that the world wide web will suddenly and inexplicably go down…, that the cd will start skipping so we can make some of our own music…, that the actress will forget her lines so we can see a real show…, that we'll get so lost on our way to the supermarket that we have to sleep in a field, join a doily-crochetting workshop, eat grasshopper soup for nourishment and rely on the directional sense of nomadic livestock to find our ways home…

Anyway…, all this sputtering of silliness aside…,

The flat tire was a pretty benign, soggy little toothpick in the machinery.

But, if experience wears any paisley scarves of precedence, there're a few mini wrenches and a party set of cutlery waiting around the next bend…

And I can't wait!!

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Rock on!

You know you've successfully slipped on the skates and cruised out of L.A. when the hum of alienation and social solitude ceases to harmonize with the traffic of the 405 freeway..., when the Song of the police Sirens sinks into the religious ravings of breadbasket broadcasts..., and when the local newspaper's criminal reports feature a stolen trash can and a goat who got his head stuck in the fence...

Yup, I've again left California for a road trip out to beautiful Colorado, where time is slower, afternoons more poetic and the Rockies rock!

...will try to get a few posts in should an internet connection be blown in on a fresh thunderstorm breeze...

Hasta pronto!

Monday, May 15, 2006

Infidelity and Neptune

So, I've been accused of having an affair.

I've been accused of breaching the loyalties of love and engaging in lustful acts of impious passion and peccant pleasure...
I stand at the discerning conversational gates of Judgement for alleged crimes of boyfriend betrayal and two-timing treachery...

And, well..., what better place to come clean than here in the privacy of my very own www-dot blogging Eden...?
So, here it is...

Yes, it's true.

I have been disloyal.

I have coveted, mentally disrobed, and even quite non-figuratively caressed the supple seams of another's bodice. I have allowed myself to be soaked by the saturating fluids of another, and to feel the expulsions of another's ecstasy on my stomach, just below the belly button. I have plunged, hands first, into emotional exchange with another, back-stroked through waves of desire, and even floated swimmingly in his arms, discussing the intricacies of subjective art and the humility of human existence...

(Hell, we even discussed the roles of self-adhesive stamps, aphids, out-sourced customer service lines and jigsaw puzzles as they pertain to jingoism!)

So..., who was this enchanting seductor whose riptide gallantness dragged me to drift so disloyally from my entrusted love?

... well..., since this is my very-private, well-sequestered, secret, online journal...., I suppose I can reveal his name without violent repercussion...

His name is Poseidon.
And, well, he's quite the looker.
He's got deep, bottomless eyes that change from mailbox blue to toothpaste turquoise in the crash of a wave.
He's got strong. smooth hands that can go from playful ass-slapping to gentle embracing with the blink of the moon.
He wears the rising sun on his shoulder like a price on his bar-code.
And, though he's been known to carry a syringe or two in his pocket, has been accused of aiding and abetting a few narcotic cargo-loaders, and has transported a few weapons in his day, he's quite the catch.
He's more fluid in dialogue than anyone I've ever met, can carry conversation like a ship... (and can sink it with the same ease...)
He's well-traveled; has seen the paper-shredding scandals of the great Barrier Reef, played thumb wars with the discarded Inca Cola bottles on the shores of Ecuador, played hot-potato shoe-toss in Koh Pan Yang, and heard billions of footprint fables from around the globe.
He's strong, confident, and has even been offered prayers worth families (not dollars) in his name!

But, still..., it's true...., I feel pillaging remorse for my infidelity in this case...

Maybe I shouldn't have plunged so nakedly and thoughtlessly into the embrace of such a dodgy, one-timing bachelor of the tide...

Maybe I should have thought twice before allowing such a Casanova to nova all my cash...

But, c'mon...! Who HASN'T had wet dreams about sharing an afternoon or evening with a god who has historically received human sacrifices in his name and who has seen the planet through so many geologic and atmospheric transformations??

Who HASN'T had a fantastical vacation affair with the Ocean??

I don't know...
But, at least I can now tell my grandchildren I once had a one-night stand with a bloke who had hermit crabs in his wallet and kelp in his armpit hair...

And.... THAT's gotta be worth something someday....

Monday, May 01, 2006

Snail-Mail letter

To whom it may concern,

I am writing in regards to the recent shocking and disconcerting decline in acceptable processing of corporal, -c-collected data. It has come to my attention that a few of the devilish little vagabonds in charge of receiving, processing and transmitting information that enters -c´s body have been renigging on their responsibilities, and have been under-performing in their most basic duties.

Over the past week alone, a stunning amount of information has been in-putted for translation, and yet nothing has been properly processed or decoded.

This is, quite simply, an outrage, and I am writing now to demand long-neglected results.

Please dijest, internally and emotionally analyze, and enzymatically break down the following data without delay,
or all contracts will be voided upon the hour:

1 homicidal bus driver, plunging into Chiapan curves as gunshots cough from a skipping dvd of a Chinese revenge film
2 instances of giggles over crude, breaching-on-impeity-and-heresy sketches of Sor Juana masterbating with a vibrator and toe-sucking monks sporting halos
3 quizical gringo "What?s" when bodilly symptoms pharmeceutically perscribed either Gatorade or Dramomine
4 double takes when the used, sun-scorched condom on the hotel windowsill was discovered (... a true cultural and historic icon with profound anthropological stories to tell...)
5 camouflaged gasps of fear when we descended an 80 degree-angled, dodgy latter into a subterranean, fresh-water sink hole
6 Bloody Mary´s said for having entertained band-name inspirations when gazing upon portraits of the crusifiction in the central cathedral
7 "Oh man!" moans of simultaneous relief and disgust at having liquidly evacuated many a meal
8 physiological coctails of response when we were stared at by that severed bull´s head; his eyeballs alligned perfectly with all those gooey internal organ adornments

Yes, I write this letter now, requesting that you offer your utmost attention to the deciphering and processing of these bits of input. As a staunch supporter of the categorization of the chaos that often slithers into Our -C, I ask that you now help us to regain a few slivers of order to the otherwise unsightly mess of sloppy excitement, wonder, and naive awe that have recently blanketted formerly relied-upon cynicism and jadedness.

I thank you for your time and patience, and look forward to working wih you in the future,


-C´s Reaper and Keeper

**Edit/Addition: Check out Mr. E´s take on our idyllic busride into Chiapas here.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Of lude loudness and musical Mexico

There are lots of things I love about Mexico... like marketplace bargaining, sodas in plastic bags, live wires dangling from power lines, exposed septic tanks, sing-song medicinal herb vender spiels, and that ever-exciting possibility of discovering the Mother of Jesus over a stool-saturated toilet bowl or on a billboard advertising beer...

One of the things I love most about Mexico, though, is that it is anything but a quiet country. It´s a land of loud cacaphony blaring music, whining washing machines, sporadic whistle-blowing, horn-honking, bell-ringing, engine-revving, silverware-clanking, laughter and voices, baby cries, loudspeaker announcements, plastic bag rearrangements, tin roof improvisations, radio static, guitar greetings, poundings, hammerings, sweepings, window slammings, pipe-creakings, bus gear changes, children´s screams and distant tele novelas resounding...

It´s kind of like if you were to take a large aluminum box, fill it with some bells, marbles, beaded hair ties, mescal, broken pipes, ping pong balls, rusty nails, keys, coins, trumpet players, glass shards, religious regalia, competitive yoddlers, a few live kittens, and then shake the box vigorously for twenty four hours... then,... you MIGHT just get the first few notes of Mexico´s aria...

BUT..., it´s not just the incessant sounds and noises that make this country so magically and endearingly loud.

Actually..., EVERYTHING here is loud.

The people are loud with sincerity, the laughter loud, the outlook on life- loud. The scents and textures and tastes of Mexico are loud, and... even the ocean, the jungle and the vacant desert winds are loud.

One glance down a small pueblo street where the houses are painted bright pink, puke green, magenta, unhealthy pee yellow, construction orange and brilliant blue, and you´ll see that even the colors here bravely scream loudness.

Hell..., even the priestly little parasites that the country passes on to its foriegn visitors can be pretty loud, noise-needy nerds when they´re on the job.

Yup. There´s nothing that quite hollers ¨welcome to Mexico!¨ like waking up four or give times in the night to competing radios playing oompah banda music, a passing truck broadcasting Miguel´s Carniceria propoganda, and Mister E in the bathroom; his rear end fissuring vivacious lava flow and humming a bubbly Mexican song og love, sorrow and loss...

Ahh... yes... the sounds of Aztlan....!

Chichen Itza

Mayan glyphs that mirror Chinese kanji in their pictorial, phonetic and poetic translations hammer my sun-smeared retinas,
as dusty plumes swath my scallion-unlike Saquatch toes.
I watch a boy chisel a wooden mask; his powerful hands those of an old-souled carpenter with forty years of practice.
I paint a memory, reach out to hold a hand, and smile a little when I think of how nothing and everything is never and always changing.
At least I know that when I get back to town, I can expect only that which I don´t expect, and that those Mayan glyphs will read differently in my absence.
I can only fantasize... but.., maybe, just maybe... that glyph that we thought meant ¨corn¨now means ¨porn¨ and that famous Mayan symbol for ¨zero¨now signifies ¨Pepsi¨

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Notes from la floja roja

Imagine here an extensive post, buttered in rich description and sand-covered stories of beachy adventures. Imagine here humid tales of midnight skinny dips, sexual affairs with Poseidon, sweating caguamas, Mayan spirits, scorpions in bed, hippy treehouse-like abodes, colored pencil sketches, stream-o-consciousness musings, psychadelically-colored fish, water-through snorkel inhaling, moon-watched laughter, chicken taco hospitality, flip-flop fantasies, the wisdom of a Don Juan, late-night philosophizing, and a little bit of perfect entropy.

Yup. Imagine all that...
plus a few more nuggets of marvelous absurdity and... well, you´d have the post I WOULD have written if I had longer than 4 minutes of time remaining on this computer...

Overall, the postcard version of this blogpost is:

Having a great time in Mexico! The weather is gorgeous, the characters inspiring, and the food delicious. It´s fun to be back in a place where time occassionally trips and falls into potholes, conversations spiral sincerely into silliness and being is just..well... being. I´ll bring you all back the souveniers you requested, plus maybe a pig wearing a sombrero or a nice stray dog with a hobo rucksack and a hammock.
Wish you were here!

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Bloated Heads and Hide-n-seek

Sometimes it feels like life is just missing a little something... like if you could only get your hands on some formless clay or a black bean burrito, everything would just miraculously slide into its destined place.

Well, for me right now, I feel like all I need are a few enormous, over-sized Olmec heads in my life.
Well... those, a few ruins, some stunning coastline, a touch of stomach upset, a pinch of the Unknown, and a good serving of some inspiring company.

Yup. You guessed it. My travel bugs are nipping at those tender places between my toes again, and rather than squashing them between two graham crackers with chocolate (c'mon- you've never heard of toasted travel mite s'mores before?!), I'm going to heed their nagging nibbles.

My Mystery Man (we'll just call him Mister E.) and myself are leaving tomorrow morning for a month in Mexico.

Though my posts might be a bit sporadic in the coming weeks, expect their quality to directly reflect the number of chickens I breast feed on the bus, the quantity of shoe-shine proposals I receive, and the pile-up of linguistic lip-clenchers I invoke...

Ready or not, Yucatan, here I come!

Thursday, April 06, 2006


For all you's whores out there, I know life is tough. It's hard to tell what surprises the day's clientele might bring, and what sticky situations might explosively shock you.

So..., I've come up with a One-size-fits-all (no pun intended) horoscope to alleviate the time-consuming and energy-draining process of remembering your own birthday, identifying your astrological sign, and finding your daily prophesy in the cum-damp pages of the newspaper.

Today's Whoroscope:

The sun and moon are at odds today. Tread carefully. Beware of impious pimps, for greed is colliding with the moons of pussy-prospect, and blue-balls are rising in the green-back orbit. Be careful today with f**ked-up fantasy-fulfillment assignments and suck-sational sensations. Dire Desperates are on the rise. Question urgency today, and stability and excitement will follow.


...well..., despite my seemingly insightful visions of working-girl destinies...,

I've never really been one for blind astrological faith. I tend to see the characters of the zodiac more as indicators of civilization's mentality in a historical context rather than as landmarks in a grand cosmic fate.
But... who am I to say?

Afterall..., maybe it's just a newly-packaged, alternatively-marketed case of old Greeky Cassandra (who was blessed with the ability to fortell the future, but cursed by the fact that no one would ever believe her...)

I DO know, though, that if I am to prescribe to some of the horoscopes I read for myself today, I can expect a few marital quibbles between the sun and the moon, expect Saturn to no longer move backwards, expect my "fizzle to turn to sizzle", look forward to a bit of specifically-ambiguous change, and expect my "wacky humor to lighten up some awkward situations".

Ahh, hell... where do I sign up? Today's as good a day as any to become a converted Believer!

... Maybe an orbit's not just an orbit, and Saturn CAN move backwards...!

Hey, afterall, even a skeptic can't help but believe that a little fizzle might transform into some sizzle, and that undoing someone's meteor belt today might just mean prosperity tomorrow!

(further whore-o-scopes to follow...)

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Love Lunacy and the S.O.B.

Believe me. I've still got enough taco fixings to make a combination plate, my migration path still leads me around - not over- the cuckoo's nest, and my levies are not yet leaking philosophical fantasies to Wilson the volleyball...

But, yes, I'm sharing an expectation-expounded moment of over-the-top, thesbianesque therapy with a sweetly-fragranced orange blossom.

And, I'm not embarrassed to admit it.

(... actually, I wanted to Tchaikovsky-style blogesize about a local lad named Leslie who tried to woo me away from my artist love - who was pretending to be a Croation patriot - .... T'woulda been a touching tale of a gallant, lost soul, pawning plumbing skills for rip-tide loneliness redemption in front of the neighborhood internet gaming abyss as fake foreign accents crescendoed, and humour was drowned in soul-scabbing empathy...
BUT..., instead I find myself sitting on the porch, chatting about love with a fruit flower...)

Scented Orange Blossom (S.O.B.): -c, you are acting unnaturally silly, grinning at guileless absurdities, devouring potty praise, laughing and lactating with arguably immature fluency... What's up with you? Did you swallow a peyote button with your pad thai or a sprig of dandelion with your wine?

-c: No, no, my dear scented orange blossom, I'm merely hosting a tea party for Senor Happiness, sharing Argentinian mate with Honeymoon Harry and skipping a little rope with Simion Smiles-a-lot (you know..., the neglected knight of the round table who was written out of King Arthur's court after committing not-so-noble acts with the celebratory feast's poultry products.)

S.O.B.: I see. But, -c, are you quite certain you've not let a few marbles trickle out through the cranial drain?

-c: No, I assure you- I'm as sane as a Twinkie-defensing, infant pteradactile murderess before trial.

S.O.B.: Then..., why are you Cheshire-cat interfacing with a fallen orange blossom?

-c: Hmmph... What would a bile-less bloom like yourself know about LOVE anyway?!

Man... I wish I would have read the fine print when signing up for this Cliche Love Gym...

I mean, who in their right mind would agree to a contract that read:
"I invite everyone to question my sanity. And, I agree to take full legal and emotional responsibility for any possible, incurred conversations with verbose citrus casks??!

C'mon- anyone who did that would just be finger-plucking ass-ininity!

(... we here at Up the Creek are currently experiencing technological tributaries due to aberrational planetary allignment and mis-stacked Leggos... but, we promise to return to regular programming as quickly as possible. Please be patient!)

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Pancho does Sweet Sixteen

When I was sixteen, I went to live in Germany as an exchange student. I lived with a German family, attended a German school, partied with German kids, ate German food, and had no buffers in my first language aside from evenings spent reading Don Quixote, pretending to be a teenage knight-ress errant (I was the rational companion, faithfully advising my cohort about the potential dangers of those menacing windmills-- afterall..., it doesn't take a space shuttle door-crafting scientist to know that a breeze-borrowing machine of that stature is capable of devouring a cactus and three infants while challenging a tempest to a game of checkers!).

Oddly, though, my most potent and soul-stranglingly influential memory of the experience was...
not the time I rode a tandem bicycle into a creek as my friend and I illustrated the symptoms of the Jaegermeister Curse via fragranced, throat-catapulted projectile displays...
nor was it when I got lost in the countryside, broke bread with an old woman who made me rake leaves in exchange for directions...,
or, when I failed every subject but got the highest score in math (the only subject that required no language abilities)...

It was, in fact, the initial plane ride over there.

I can still taste the vivid excitement/fear brew that tickled my pubescent chemical make-up...; that frightened-shitless-of-the-unknown-but-furiously-excited jolt of existence-recognition that I've come to love and embrace.

And, that's how I'm feeling today...: that same Oh-No!Oh-Yes! sentiment that likes to take you by the hand and point out, again, your mortality and the invigorating brilliance of this peanut-shell-onion-layered-Mexican-bean-dancing Spark that is life...

-c, what is this cliche poetic babble you're toying with?, you might be asking...

Well, a super special someone is coming home tomorrow from Japan, and I couldn't be more scared... and ecstatic!!
(Up the Creek old-timers might remember him from last August's post about obnoxious couples in the Japanese public eye..)

But, hey!, lots would give up their tax returns to feel sixteen and headed for a foreign land again!

I, on the other hand, got lucky...

All it took was a few minutes in the waiting room, and a professional business meeting...

(What can I say? Loki just isn't as busy these days...)