On Fakes, Faking and Toast

Who can spot a fake?

Not everyone.

But, I can.

And, maybe you can too.

I can spot a fake smile, a fake nod of approval, a fake boob job, a fake prosthetic limb (in the nude), a fake offer to help excavate dog doo from my shoe sole, a fake claim of rational non-fallacy, and a fake Virgin Mary outline on a piece of toast, given the right lighting conditions.

After all, this is the age of faking… we have to be prepared.

Our peers, children, neighbors, government and media work hard to ensure that we see enough fakeness everyday to acquire sufficient fake-sensing, personal radars.

I mean, just imagine how much fake-ological evolution had to take place in order for us to get to the point we humans have reached today. How many of our ancestors had to ooh and aahh at the seeming miracle of toupees, drop jaw at the magician who cut a woman in two, fear death and anguish for coveting a neighbor’s really cool four-wheel drive before we could recognize the bright orange hue of a FAKE sun tan?

Yes. We should be much better at spotting fakes by now.

In a time of fake fantasies, fake fur, fake beef, fake weapons, fake Rolexes, fake teeth, fake evidence, fake IDs, fake memoirs, fake lips, fake Louis Vuitton bags…
We should definitely know better…

BUT, I sincerely hope we haven’t learned yet.

And, I say this because, I myself, am on the verge of embarking on an adventure of “faking,” and I whole-heartedly hope that nobody notices.

I have just moved to a new city and taken a new job for which I feel myself completely unqualified.

If anyone spots this fake in the act of faking, I will be pressed to conclude that the theory of fake-ological evolution is indeed true.

Job Position Available: Ruler of the Universe

/Geek Confession

I’ll be looking for a new job soon. I’m pretty sure I want to be Queen of the Ants.
Well… that, or Big Blade of Grass among all the grasses...

In any case, I’m not the only one looking for a job with high aspirations.
A friend I met a few years ago in Nepal sent me an e-mail today, divulging his ambition to get a job as ‘Master of the Universe’.

And, it struck me that he might not be the only one with this desire.

So, in hopes that I might help others out there with a similar goal, I am posting the following job opening that came to my attention through secret channels of cosmic networking and job-searching:

Job Title: Chief Executive of the Universe

Position Summary: The Master of the Universe or CEU is responsible for implementing the strategic goals and objectives of the Universe, and is accountable to the Scientific Laws which currently govern the Organization of the Universe (as well as to the Board of Organizational Chaos). Working with the Chair (whose dark matter-infested offices in the Small Magellanic Cloud Galaxy are in the process of relocation), the CEU is responsible for giving direction and leadership toward the achievement of the Universe’s philosophy, mission, strategy and universal light year goals and objectives (whatever they may be).

Qualifications:
-Advanced degree in Confusing Little Life Forms (or related field)
-Minimum of 10 billion years of administrative/managerial leadership experience related to planets, pulsars, quasars, comets, binary stars, neutron stars, globular clusters, OR confusing Little Life Forms
-A history of responsibility for multi-galactic matter profit and loss
-A sense of humor

Knowledge, Skills and Abilities:
-Earned reputation for creative ‘big picture’ thinking, reasoned problem solving, and capacity to put good ideas into practice
-Ability to manage processes of creation and decline while simultaneously confounding the Little Life Form
-Evidence of success in securing planetary, stellar and galactic support
-Strong networking, conflict resolution, space-time dialogue and subatomic communication skills
-Untaught natural capacity to laugh, create and inspire organic and comedic evolution
-Ability to speak and write persuasively with passion, lack of clarity, beguiling purpose and de-emphasis on meaning (multilingual skills required)

Please send cover letter and curriculum vittae to any address you feel like. Please no phone calls or emails. We will contact you if you are right for the job.

Editor’s Note: I’m not sure, but I think if you tell them your best friend is a dwarf star, it might help your diversity standings among the competitors...

Cosmic Holes, PMS and Perspective

It’s that time of the month again.

It’s that time when blood flows from me, and I stick spongy cotton up my entrance way in an attempt to thwart threats of panty paint scribbles and menstrual malodors. It’s that time when the haphazard viewing of a wailing baby and the sing-song intonation of a bee zzzz-ing around a flower fill me with purposeful understanding of an interconnected world- cyclical, alive and fertile.

But, more importantly: it’s that time when I have a socially-acceptable excuse for being unpredictable, socially intolerant and seemingly uncaring of the petty, personal plights of others.

This month, the timing couldn’t be better.

It just so happens that over the last few days I have been feeling abnormally unsympathetic towards the woes and tiny traumas of my fellow humans (…or, hu-people, as we feministically-correct like to call us).

I pity every emotion-exposing soul-bearer who has shared their problems with me recently only to get a slow shrug and a “so what?” eyebrow flick in response. Each and every one of the confiders deserves better…

But what can I do? I have been busy. I have been busy braiding my thoughts into rastafarian dreads, trying to contemplate the vastness of the universe and the immensity of potential nothingness.

Yeah..., it sounds like philosophical hopscotch on a bed of psychedelically-altered, eastern-religious rice, I know, but it’s pretty sane stuff. Really. Especially, considering what we are learning these days…

Astronomers just recently released their findings of an enormous expanse of universe devoid of anything…er… everything… (See this and do some googling). Basically they just found a huge patch in the universe’s quilt that has NOTHING on it. This means that grandma didn’t embroider any holiday prints there, didn’t glitter-glue any decorative sparkly stars, ringed planets or any visible, shiny sequins. She didn’t even spill any tea or release any scented, dyspeptic gases there. It’s a big, empty patch in our universal quilt with NOTHING on it.

And by big, I don’t mean like the size of your rich neighbor’s pimpin’ new Sports Utility Vehicle with GPS and automated pubic hair-drying capacity. It’s not big like the size of your ex-lover’s thighs, your continent, this planet or even the Milky Way galaxy. It’s more like 1 billion light years in diameter big…

Well, let’s try this. Have you ever spent a romantic night under the stars and wished that you could take your sexy companion to the brightest star in sight for an evening of nefarious debauchery? If you had the right travel agent who could book you a flight traveling at the speed of light, you could get to your destination of passion and unbridled euphoria in no less than 2 years. Yes, that’s 2 light years, minimum.

However, to cross this patch of recently found, grandma flatulence-absent cosmic nothingness would take you I BILLION years, traveling the speed of light. Business class.

Yeah, it’s pretty damn big. And pretty astoundingly vacant. And pretty thought-masturbatory.

So, this week, when people told me about their malfunctioning iPods, bedbug infestations, childhood traumas, psycho boyfriends, and parking dilemmas, I had to giggle at the insignificance of their perceived catastrophes.

Luckily, I could reference the socially-accepted ‘woman’s bloody time of the month’ excuse for my lack of sympathetic decency.

And then, I could go back to worrying about my apartment deposit and Lindsay Lohan’s cocaine-anaesthetized rhinoplasty…

Beard Confessions

I’ve never understood why criminal confessions were so hard to get.

I mean, why does getting the truth out of someone always involve some torturous combination of physical brutality, psychological attack, inhumane intimidation, threats on family, sleep deprivation and ridiculous good cop/ bad cop routines (at least, in the Hollywood films and in U.S. off-shore detainment facilities)?

I just don’t get it.

Getting someone to confess their most hidden, unspeakable inner secrets is easy.

I do it every day.

All you need is a broth of new culture, a pinch of mild alienation, one heaping fingernail full of introspection, and a foreign language to translate the flavor. That’s it.

I mean, if I can do it, anyone can. I was never trained in the art of interrogation. I’m just a high-poverty-line ESL teacher. And, yet, just this week, I learned about a Taiwanese man’s forbidden liaisons with a Chinese woman of royalty, a Korean gal’s botched reconstructive facial surgery, and a Saudi Arabian’s story of claiming his wife upon first sight at age five and ‘re-having’ her at age 14.

And, it’s true. Speaking a second language allows you to say (and even think) things you would never feel comfortable or permitted to express in your own language.

That’s why I wasn’t at all surprised today by any of my students’ summaries of their respective childhoods. (We were practicing the form: “I used to…”)

“He used to jog, but now he watches 'American Idol'.”

(Aww… that’s cute.)

“When she was young, she used to collect stamps, but now she doesn’t. And she used to love 8-Man. He was a power magic cartoon hero. But now she doesn’t like.”

(Aww… that’s cute.)

“He used to use scissors cut worms. He used to pretend like he famous cooking chef… But, now he doesn’t cut worms. However, he is good at cooking.”

(Aww…that’s cute… in an I-used-to-fantasize-about-sea-urchins kind of way)

“She used to have a beard. She used to feel embarrassed because of beard.”

(Aww…that’s what? A beard? Why, that’s just trauma with fewer calories.)

“Yes, uh, she used to have a beard. This beard it was very dirty and it make.. uh.. made many problems. It is- was very noisy and it sometimes make-made messy. But now, she doesn’t have a beard.”

As a compassionate teacher aware of the unintentionally-revealed secrets exposed when conversing in a foreign language, I nodded and smiled, thinking to myself what an adept extractor of buried confessions I was. Yes, I had uncovered a poor Turkish woman’s young struggle with facial hair. So there, Guantanamo Bay questioners! Eat my graceful, torture-less tact!

Of course, now as I’m beginning to get my resume together for the secret service interrogation job I have always dreamed of having, I’m beginning to doubt my super-extraordinary, clandestine intelligence-unveiling abilities.

After all, when a Mexican from Guadalajara says “beard,” he probably just means “bird”….

And… unfortunately, I can’t think of a single Intelligence Agency that would be impressed by an interrogator with unmatched ability to expose past pet information.

(“Yeah, he might be planning to simultaneously detonate bombs in every Starbucks around the globe, but I’m not sure. What I do know, though, is that he had a guinea pig named Poinky when he was eight.”)

I’m ready to admit that I might not meet the qualifications to become a successful interrogator.

My aspirations of becoming an animal psychiatrist, however, are not yet squashed.

(“As a young parakeet, he was once called a mustache. That’s when all of the psychological abuse began…”)

Gerascophobia

I just turned 29 years old.

And I’m pretty damn happy about that… though not overly zealous. I mean, to me, a birthday is just another day; or more precisely, another day I am alive and in awe of the universe, and a day I can ‘cry if I want to’ and contort my face in otherwise unacceptable positions while blowing out flaming wax sticks. It’s pretty special, yes, but no more special than any other magnificent day when I scrunch up my facial muscles and purse my lips in the privacy of my own bathroom.

That’s why I was surprised at how many birthday-wishers plummeted into well-intentioned, graceless verbal acrobatics around the apparently dismal and scary fact that I had almost spent 30 years alive and healthy:

“Happy Birthday, -c! Don’t worry, though: you have one more year before you’re Old!”

“Happy B-day! It’s amazing you’ve led such a full life! Soon you’ll be shaving your nipples and chin!”

Call me a liar. Call me a fake. But, I swear, I have never been afraid of growing old. I have never suffered from gerascophobia, as it is medically called. If anything, I think getting old is an evolutionary sign of strength and virility.

In my opinion, getting old is sexy. I think gray hair, wrinkles and experience are the hottest attributes anyone could have. I think an intelligently expressed opinion over a racing, over-heating heart is more vagina-moistening than any unexamined proclamation from a physically-fit, wrinkle-less youngster on a treadmill any day.

That’s right: I’ll take man-tits and nose hairs over ignorance or stupidity, hairy hands down.

Don’t get me wrong, though. Just because I’m not a sufferer of gerascophobia (fear of getting old) or rhytiphobia (fear of getting wrinkles), doesn’t mean I don’t have other irrational fears.

I’ll admit I am slightly ergophobic (fearful of work and responsibility), plutophobic (fearful of wealth), emetophobic (fearful of vomiting), and apiphobic (fearful of bees). (*Honestly, if I were a character in Orwell’s 1984 and were trapped in a cage with work responsibility, a bunch of bees, a stack of Hamiltons reading ‘In God we Trust’ and the threat of lunch regurgitation, I would not only admit that 2 and 2 were 5, but also that the Earth was flat and that George W. deserved to be elected supreme Dictator of Positive Progress for eternity.)

I’d say I got off pretty easy with my fears, really. To think, I could have been one of the unfortunate souls who has a paralyzing fear of ticking clocks (chronophobia), a debilitating and antidisestablishmentarianistic fear of long words (Sesquipedalophobia), or even worse a fear of opinions (Allodoxaphobia), a fear of erect penises (Medorthophobia) or -most horrific of all- of thinking (Phronemophobia).

Yup, I'd say I'm pretty lucky. Not only am I excited by the fact that I am growing older, but I do not have an irrational fear of chickens at dusk or of toothpaste tubes taking over the world.

And, those, I'm sorry to say are not claims everyone can make.



*Edit/Update 1: I sometimes feel angst about dinner conversations. Could I be Deipnophobic?

Jail the Jaywalkers!

Many a dangerous criminal and violent psychopath go undetected for years. They have no criminal history, no outstanding warrants, no accusations of sodomy or ferret-fucking made about them over the water cooler. They are, in the law’s eye, safe and ideal citizens: kind, normal, acquiescent and predictable.

You can see them buying broccoli, bananas, detergent and milk at your local supermarket. You nod to them in front of your house as you are taking out the trash. You smile at them as they pass you on your way to work.

They are entirely indistinguishable from other ordinary folk, working 9 to 5, trying to survive, raise families, and understand the meaning of life. They have clothing preferences and movie favorites, opinions on politics and thoughts about music. They eat, sleep, love, breathe and count stars just like you.

They are lawyers, bus drivers, artists, propeller makers, seatbelt engineers, writers, migration workers, waiters, water pipe salesmen, NGO organizers, marketing specialists, yoga instructors, volcanic tour guide leaders, financial specialists, aspiring script play writers, physical therapists, dildo mold makers, sex therapy doctors, grad students, ship-in-bottle builders, and educators.

Sometimes, you don’t even know they’re criminals until you catch them red-handed in vile acts of abominable law-breaking and terrorism.

Luckily, authorities caught one of these two-faced, deviant devils this morning. Now, we can have a better picture of the felonious transgressors who commit some of the most deplorable and dubious dick-slaps to societal law.

At 7:44 a.m. today, a white female English teacher was observed walking across the street on her way to work. One of Seattle’s finest motorcycle cops noticed that the ‘Don’t Walk’ signal had begun to flash just as the sinning teacher placed her heathen sneakers onto the road. Although the signal remained green as she safely crossed the street, and no driver or pedestrian was inconvenienced or harmed by her crossing, the esteemed officer luckily captured this national threat.

Though the suspected terrorist subversive has not been detained, she has been issued a $56 traffic infraction for crossing the street while the ‘Don’t Walk Red Hand’ flashed.

We can all, now, feel safer because justice has been served, and Seattle has been immunized against the impending national security threat that this jay-walking, terrorist teacher posed.

Sigh of relief…

Editor’s question: Should I fight the infraction or allow justice to be served and my country made safer? I mean, it's only $56... but, it's $56! And... can I use the: "It's the principle of the thing!" argument here?

Delusions of Invisibility

We were talking about invisibility cloaks.
As people often do…

in multi-national ESL grammar classes
(when they are not discussing conjunctions, prepositions, declining bee populations, nuclear contraception and global cucumber size standards).

The class was divided, and a civil debate raged in broken English. Half of the students believed that we would never gain the ability to make objects invisible to the human eye, while the other half claimed we already had the technology, and it was only a matter of years before exploration of the military applications decreased government masturbation time by fifty percent.

I, of course, being the objective teacher, sat straddling the proverbial wooden fence. I moderated, asked provocative questions of each side and poked holes in faulty arguments, pausing only occasionally to pluck fence splinters from my crotch.


I was in Teachers’ Paradise. You’ve heard of the place, I’m sure. It’s a mythical land of plenty where critical thinking skills play games of lacrosse with social skills, and hillsides of curiosity sing with the laughter and debate of mentally inquisitive students. Newly gained knowledge seeps into lively conversation, and beneath every tree of suggestion, new ideas sprout.

I tell you, it was spectacular. Assertions and rebuttals made in the Future Perfect Continuous Tense were flying around like child porn round a minister’s hard drive, and Conditional Passives were mobilizing more quickly than child therapists round a military base.

But, even the finest persimmon rots.

And when I returned from skipping through the knowledge field of flowers in my day-dreamed Teachers’ Paradise, I was forced to hear the REAL discussion going on in my classroom. At that moment, I was flogged by a splintered plunger handle of reality, and any engorged pride I once had in my own teaching skills was immediately deflated.

“If I be indivisible tomorrow, it’s means every soldiers can’t feel me. He don’t touch me and I can murder him not justice.”

“Yes. And I think by 2050, we will have been being make indivisibility by government. This we will have been become a lot of dangerous.”

What? So much for my perceived idyllic debate of logic and insight, and so much for my sanity…

While I thought we were talking about the scientific possibility and potential ramifications of creating a Harry Potter-style Invisibility cloak, we were in fact discussing whether or not humans could be chopped up and divided into little pieces by the government and ‘touched’ and ‘felt’ by soldiers.

Hmmm. Yup, it’s time to call the Nuthouse recruiters. We have yet another delusional ESL teacher to catch.

P.S. For the record: I don’t exaggerate the English skill of my students for comedic purposes. I don’t have to. They really talk like this.

Plus, I've met a few native English speakers who dream of this level of literacy.

And, although they are patriots, these honest souls are still not quite sure if their nation is indivisible, invisible, miserable, commiserable or even liveable...

On Dust, Welcoming, and Paris Hilton

I’d rather read about dust accumulation on unused dildos.
I’d rather read about moth ball replacements in old farts’ closets.
I’d rather read about the international distribution of pocket lint.

I’d rather read about almost anything, really….

Anything but Paris Hilton.

But damn if I didn’t just get a great giggle out of reading my good friend’s post about the very subject! Check it out at his first virgin blog:

Grog Fog Blog

(Sending a big Blogosphere Welcome to Scotts, my hilariously entertaining, long-time Japan-residing, amazing photograph-taking, thought-inspiring, brilliantly blathering brother in Hawaii! May your days of Bloghood be plentiful, and may you save me from reading many a dildo dust story!)

Cry of the not-so-mute mime

I admit I’m probably a scary teacher.

A lovable teacher, yes, but an obviously crazy one.

Afterall, it’s not natural for any human to spontaneously burst into animated gorilla improvisations when explaining uses of gerunds and infinitives. Nor is it considered sane to employ another human being to pick their nose so that you can illustrate the uses of the past perfect continuous tense. (He had been picking his nose when the gorilla decided to interrupt him.)

But, that’s why I love my job. As an ESL teacher I am, by design and purpose, encouraged to foster a comfortable environment in which everyone can theatrically pick their nose, scratch their rear hairs and pretend to be a gorilla. The students are, afterall, learning a new language that will inevitably make them look like idiots at some point when they misuse it, so why not make them comfortable with that feeling right away?

Unfortunately, I’ve found more often that it’s just me who feels like the idiot.

Student: I like ramen. And I enjoy bagels. They are very delicious.

Me: No way!!?? (exaggerated arm-flaling) You like ramen?? (exaggerated slurping gestures) Oh my god (mocking prayer reenactment), you like New York style bagels too?? I can’t believe it!! (exaggerated facial expressions of disbelief) But don’t you think the demand (overacted grabbing gestures) for onion bagels (donut sketches on the whiteboard) promotes excessive planting of onions fields (mimed tears over onion chopping) resulting in infertile soil? (lying on the floor, pretending to be nutrient-depleted earth)

Student: Uh… I don’t like onion bagels.

Me: Oh.

I’m becoming increasingly worried that my tendency to over-use gestures and childish imagination might one day be the end of my social life.

(dramatic enactment of tears rolling down my face onto my Mac)

Web Search Apology

Sometimes you need quick, peripheral information about something.
Sometimes you want to expand your already profound knowledge of a topic.
Sometimes you’re looking for validation or disproof of an outlandish claim.
Sometimes you’re just bored and want to know what info exists on the www about baby sock alterations, coprophilia and acrylic paints….

Whatever your reasons for using Google Search may be,
I wish you luck.

I do, however, sincerely apologize to the guy today who typed into Google Search:

“why can i only get one erection a day?”

and landed on a blog page about gay flamingos.

Terribly sorry.

I’m a “Flam Hag”

(slightly different from the colloquial “Fag Hag”)

As I stated in my last post, I like gay flamingos.

Yes, The Gay Flamingo (or The Flaming Fuchsia Phoenicopterus, as it is known by genus tossers), is perhaps one of the most delightful of dinner party topics (or guests, for that matter).

It has a long, sexy neck capable of various acts of sensual dexterity, lovely webbed feet (which we all know were sculpted in the image of the Almighty Platypus), and a downwardly-bent bill which differentiates it from The Homo Heron or The Sissy Stork (who are both far inferior cocktail party conversation catchers).

The Flaming Pink Flamingo is most often recognized by the fact that it stands on one leg.
Although some scientists attribute this to an attempt to conserve body heat/energy and to keep its legs from getting wet, I think we can clearly say that this is a seductive ploy on the part of the hetero-heathen flamingo to entice other flaming companions.

I mean, don’t humans employ this same tactic when trying to lure a mate? Don’t women often drape partially-revealing clothing over their voluptuous bosoms to inspire in their pursuers a desire for the mysterious and unattainable? Don’t men (when hoping to cunt-spelunk) sometimes quote dead philosophers/poets and learn to play “Blackbird” on the guitar, hoping to ignite intrigue and mystery about their deep thoughtfulness and sensitivity (and, thus, SEX appeal)?

In this same way, I believe the Flaming Flamingo hides his leg in order to fertilize the curiousity of his potential wing-slappers.

Anyway..., that's it.... I think The Flaming Flamingo (along with its hetero cohorts) is pretty feather-flappin' special.

Afterall..., if he can filter out mud and silt from his diet using the lamellae which line his mandibles....,

just what ELSE can this exquisite pink prince do with his hairy tongue?


*For info about this spectacular creature, please contact a qualified biologist, ornithologist or flamingologist to do a Google search for you.

Otherwise here are a few extremely random articles about homosexuality among flamingos:
Gay flamingos pick up chick
Flamingos strike long-term relationship
Gay flamingos Celebrate fifth Anniversary with their Children
Homosexual Activity Among Animals Stirs Debate

Creationist Disneyland

I love travel almost as much as I love absurd nonsequiturs, bouncy balls that come to life when parents leave the house, cat-sized African rats in Florida and gay flamingos.

So, it should come as no surprise that I spend unhealthy amounts of otherwise potentially productive time researching where I will take my next trip. Usually, my imaginary adventures take me to exotic and enticing international locations that boast an equal amount of cultural wazoo and natural, jaw-dropping zenaliciousness.

(yes, I just used the word 'zenaliciousness' and, no, it isn't a real word.)

This time, however, my dream destination has been decided, and it is not the megaliths of Malta or the tourism-free island of Tokelau. I have decided that I desperately want to visit

…drumrole and gentle gong hits…:

Petersburg, Kentucky.

Why would I want to visit this flat, uninteresting stitch of Middle America?

The answer: To visit the 60,000 sq/ft, $27 million Creation Museum that opens tomorrow, May 28th.

Not only is it a Museum that teaches the Truth (namely that the Earth is 6000 years old rather than 4.5 billion and that humans were lucky enough to have been created on the same day as dinosaurs and, thus, chill together in the Garden), but it also has some wicked cool special effects and some pretty intense attractions and exhibits worthy of any good amusement park/ museum.

For example, if you’ve ever wanted to see a live poison dart frog, visit with an animatronic dinosaur created by the Universal Studios designer of JAWS and KING KONG, recline comfortably in a planetarium as you come to understand why there was an all-mighty Creator and not an illogical BANG..., then you should look no further!

You can also ride the surround-sound video biblical history Adventure and experience why making seemingly irrational assumptions before analyzing fossils is logically necessary, see how the Grand Canyon was formed in mere days, as well as be delightfully sprayed with water as you learn about the Flood that wiped out everything but Noah’s Ark!

I’m especially looking forward to seeing my sincere literary appreciation of the Book of Genesis put to shame as I come to see that this intriguing story is, in fact, not allegorical, but instead backed up by scientific proof.

During my trip to Kentucky (which, I admit, is fantastically created in my own head), I will also have a Press-Pass badge that reads:

“-c, Super-respected, Open-minded Member of Compassionate Journalists International”

And, with this imaginary badge, I will immediately command attention. I will chat with the mechanical version of a stegosaur baby (whose tracks we just found). I will also gain an exclusive interview with Ken Ham, the creator of this spectacular museum. I will ask him how they got the animatronic dinosaurs to look so unsurprised when they saw human children giggling beside the waterfall, and what feats of technology enabled the museum to get the audience seats to shake when the Flood came.

If we establish a good rapport, I might also guide him to conclude with one of his favorite quotes from his father: “If you don’t believe in Genesis, then the whole rest of the Bible falls.”

I, of course, will also get to hold the poison dart frogs in my hand.

And name them Iggy, Stan and Leviticus.


*Editor's Update: As sarcastically decided as I may seem in my own opinions, I vampirically crave the opinions of others also so that I can continue to reevaluate. What do you think about this new museum?

Tag Hag

I love the world of Blogging. BUT, every time I see another silly chainletter-like “Tag” being passed through the home-typist gauntlet, I feel a bit embarrassed.
Usually, I pass these by, hoping someone else will find fulfillment in answering questions about their first crushes, most embarrassing moments and first pets named Fluffalufugus.

This time, however, I was unintentionally “dared” to participate. A few months ago (yeah, I’m a procrastinator), Frustrated Writer wrote on his blog:

“I would’ve tagged -c but I doubt she would’ve responded…”

Now… I could hardly leave this blatant “dare” alone without feeling like a rejected, weak, cajones-less pussy (which I most certainly am not. I’ll have you know that my turkey flesh-like cajones are bigger than most). So here I go, attacking my first, semi-official “tag” ever:

The rules:

1. Get tagged.
2. List five things that have not been revealed on your blog.
3. Tag five others.

Well… screw all this. I wasn’t “officially” tagged, I’m not going to prescribe to the correct number of requested revelations, and I’m not going to “tag” anyone who doesn’t want to be tagged. Tag, tag, tag, tag, tag. Yup, I reached my quota.

So without further a doodle, here are 9 insights never before shared on this blog. (Why 9, you ask? Well, because its square root equals exactly 3 more than the number of nose hairs I ever hope to have visible to the public, of course.) Here goes:

1. I sometimes shave my armpits and wash the shower tiles at the same time (efficiency is not only for the Japanese and the insect kingdom)
2. I sometimes critique the conceptual art Mr. E has made on the shower walls with strands of our hair
3. I once got a full-body rash from skinny dipping in an Italian canal bordered by thistles and interested bridge-watchers
4. I like the way the word ‘flatulence’ rolls off the tongue
5. I was valedictorian of my tiny high school graduating class, and I showed up barefoot and stoned
6. I once performed vile acts of “loose bowel movements” in the meticulously-sculpted bushes in front of the Governmental Palace in San Cristobal, Mexico.
7. I was once asked to spell out a man’s name in cocaine on the back of an Ecuadorian toilet. Luckily, he had a short nickname.
8. I often play the Devil’s Advocate despite my beliefs
9. In person, I’m not actually the biting, vulgarity-embracing, smart-ass I often claim to be on my blog. In fact, I’m actually pretty quiet and shy. Ah… how honesty doth free the soul!

Tag, tag, tag, tag, tag. Man, what a harsh and obnoxious word.

It has none of the linguistic grace that the word “flatulence” possesses.

Rhymes with Muscular

Today’s Vocabulary Word: Crepuscular

Definition (according to Dictionary.com):
1) of, pertaining to, or resembling twilight; dim; indistinct
2) Zoology. Appearing or active in the twilight, as certain bats and insects

How would you use this adjective?

"I've always been rather crepuscular in my ways."??
"The bat's crepuscular diatribe bored me despite his sonar arguments."???
"The crepuscular arguments batted the sonar board's diatribe."???
"Fine, you win! Just crepe us, queller!"???

Obviously, I need some help with this word...

Of Dirty Clothes and Smart Designers

Did the Great Platypus make my Laundry Basket?

He showed up this morning without warning. Not a phone call. Not a knock. Not even an email.

With the epiphanic bomb he was about to drop on me, you would think he would at least have the proverbial balls to send some kind of sign or warning. A quick lightning bolt to the earlobe… A burning hairbrush with words of guidance… Shit, even a single singing telegram delivered by a Sea at low tide would have been enough.

But, no. He caught me unprepared. He symbolically slapped me with a pubescent pineapple while I was unsuspectingly watering my house plant (whose name, though irrelevant, is Ignacio).

As I turned towards the sink to refill my glass blender (yes I water Ignacio with the same receptacle that I use to mix my morning fruit Smoothies), I was suddenly kicked by a steel-toed and profound Epiphanic Moment (Ok—if ‘epiphanic’ isn’t a word yet, it should be!). And I had to stop, completely transfixed by a spectacular and chore-halting display of beauty.

I couldn’t help but stare.
The color composition was exquisite. The geometric design, impeccable. The chaotic exactitude, seemingly miraculous.

How could such an incredible masterpiece have just appeared from nowhere? How could so many improbable elements have come together at just the right moment to allow for the blossoming of such a powerful exhibition of life energy? There couldn’t possibly be a viable, falsifiable and comprehensive explanation for the origins of such a complex and spectacular splurge of seeming splendor aside from that of an Intelligent Designer…

And then my pseudo-religious epiphany was toppled by a devilish and logical inner voice.

“Why the hell are you staring at your overflowing laundry basket?” asked the voice.

“Because it’s so beautiful,” I answered. “I can’t stop wondering how something so complex and aesthetically precise in its imbalance could develop without the aid of some extra-terrestrial, higher-powered hand. I mean, it seems damn-near improbable that the fuchsia panties would just HAPPEN to be lying so perfectly beside the worn denim jeans, and that the forest green cargo shorts would just HAPPEN to fall so complimentarily close to the off-red Engrish tank top reading ‘Life always happily, Be Cheer.’ I have a hard time believing that science could explain that.”

“Well,” the voice said, “YOU tossed all of those terribly unstylish articles of clothing there. I think the most logical explanation is simply that you have poor aim.”

“But I just hurled my clothes at the laundry basket randomly, and without intent or underlying meaning,” I countered.

“Precisely.”

“But… how can you explain the complexity of color composition and the emotion-invoking beauty of this laundry landscape? I mean, something of such beauty doesn’t just EVOLVE through arbitrary disrobement. That seems too difficult to explain. It must have been CREATED with some intent purpose and meaning, by some force grander than myself.”

“Nope. You just took off your dirty clothes and threw them there." The voice was sounding very matter-of-fact now. "Your clothes fell the way they did due to a lot of physical and chemical factors we can discuss at a later time. As for the awesome beauty of your soiled array of clothing-- it’s just as simultaneously random and precise as your own beautiful existence. There IS, however, one last matter to address…: the matter of WHY you removed your pink panties before throwing them there…”

“Isn’t that irrelevant, though, if the beauty of my dirty clothes heap was not meaningfully sculpted by an omnipotent Designer?”

“Absolutely. But, it makes for better conversation.”


*Editor's note: No, those are not my panties.

But, they'd probably look good in my laundry basket.

Portland kicks cool tides and child stool into a can

Is it cooler than Seattle? Yes.
Does it rock the house? Yes.
Rock the boat? Yes.
Rock the frail foundations of traditional social Ineptitude? Yes.
Am I writing this of my own volition? Yes.
Is there some critical, mythological, prodding prick of a Portland P.R. Agent hovering over my shoulder as I type this? Yes-- I mean, No.
Does he brandish a big, brain-washing, evergreen gaze? No—I mean, No.
Does he sport a funky hair-do with the words “authentic identity” shaved into his sideburns? No.
Does he look like a gypsy on a syncopation binge? No.
Does he patch his crotch holes with muse-drooled fabric? No.
Is he poking my tongue now with his humanity-fired flavor prod? No.
Does he want me to move to Portland? Absolutely not.

What do you think I am, some kind of schizophrenic lunatic?

*Editor’s note 1: Sorry I've been gone so long. Excuse: forthcoming.
*Editor's note 2: Excuse coming forth at a speed infinitesimally slower than the currently translatable speed of forthcoming excuses.
*Editor's note 3: I didn't mean to change the colors on my blog. The Great Intelligent Designer (the new blogger) finally caught up with me. Nothin' you can do when Omiscience overrides your natural blog evolution...
*Editor's note 4: Portland rocks!

Blog-slacking and Hair-styling

You may think you are safe. You may think he will never get you again.

After all, he’s only a mythological monster...

He’s only some brutish, confidence-bashing beast who may have once left drool and spittle puddles under your bed when you were a child. He’s only the imaginary imp you left behind long ago, but who still reminds you of the power of procrastination and of the various intravenous options for caffeine.

If you think he'll never find you again, though, you're wrong. His name is Creative Blog Slackerdome (A.K.A. CBS), and he may, in fact, be at your doorstep now.

According to last week’s research by Up the Creek Without a Platypuses’s only –c, this legendary bully is alive, strong, and still targeting everyone.

“Just yesterday, I felt his presence,” -c over-emphatically revealed.

“I was trying to compose a blog post about Global Warming as it pertains to U.S. political campaigns when… well… I decided to lead an ESL class discussion about the topic and… ehm… He showed up.”

Although our very own reporter, -c, showed signs of increasing heart rate, hightened blood pressure and uncomfortable sweat drippage, we pushed her to tell us more about her unique experience with the omnipresent Creative Blog Slackerdome Beast .

“He somehow managed to redirect the conversation in our ESL class, and we ended up talking about Don Imus, monkey brain consumption in China, Sanjaya's hair and Necrophilia.”

When pressed for further comment, -c simply responded:

“I'll have to write a real blog post later. For now, there is clearly some Spirit of Dark Slackerdome at work here.”

Say “cheese”

Dismal as it may seem, I think smiles have become cliché in today’s world. They have become fake-toothy footholds for achieving desired feats. They have aligned themselves with insincere compliments and other forced fronts (like inappropriate shoulder-nudges and winks), intended to gain selfish and flashy results.

These days, it’s not uncommon to see a full canine through molar spread while looking into the face of the lady who wants to shut off your electricity, screw your boyfriend, and repossess your prized, albeit obscure, book collection.

That’s why I hereby declare a Real Smile Revival!

If we all come together with the mission of embracing smiles for sincerity and honesty, we can eradicate those trivial, emotionally-prosthetic lip crescents based on bulldung and personal gain. We can bring the “true smile” back to the people!

So, tell me: How are YOU going to promote the advancement of honest, candid Smiles?

Here’s how I did it:

I took a batch of English language students in Seattle.
I carefully examined their old ID’s and Driverse Licenses to make sure that they had no history of previous public Smiling.
I arranged them in a semi-social stance, stood with them, and told them that the Tooth Fairy was real.

Ok... honestly, that's not true at all. These are some of my students I bumped into while cruising the International district with my boyfriend, father and step-mother.

They are genuine smilers and require no "real smile" mobilization.

In fact, they could probably care less if armies of "Insincere Smilers" continued to walk the streets indiscriminately.

Nonetheless, I call today for a recall of all imitation Smiles! Let over-worked lip muscles relax, let chapped teeth have safe haven from unnecessary social blizzards, and let sincere mouth manifestations of happiness and laughter prevail!

(... and let creamy, representational praise to obscure european cheese deities be socially acceptable!)

Undercover Trans-Slacktions

You are smart. You are beautiful. You have two dozen False Claim Convictions duct-taped to the bottoms of your belt notches. You have half a bullet and a full piece of Altoid Box shrapnel in your left nostril from the last time you dove in front of a crippled puppy to save its life.

You are an undercover, Craigslist Intelligence Agent, on the job.

Your mission today is to pick up a package from one of the most dangerous of Craigslist Posters: Melissa “Yeah, sounds Perfecto” Flake.

She is known for having never shown up to at least three parties she told her friends she would, and for having “forgotten” to call her best friend back, even though it was a “911/ like, super urgent” crisis.

She is armed and scandalous. Beware of her transparent attempts at cunning excuses, and of her cocked, pistolic voice-messaging ploy.

Meet her at the Issaquah Albertsons, 10 a.m.

----------

What?! She never showed up? She didn’t bring you the crappy cell phone you were going to give her cash for? She didn’t even call? You must have blown your Flake-Busting cover! What Kind of a Craigslist Intelligence Agent do you call yourself?!

Despite your failure, we here at the CIA think your proven, social, Convict-Flake-exposing skills still warrant you one more chance.

His name is Josh “uses lots of LOLs in Craigslist transactions” Stoner.

He will meet you in front of Walmart at 11:30 a.m. with a scratched old cell phone and a charger.

Be cautious—any wrong move could trigger a bong circle and potentially dangerous Poetry Slam in Walmart’s car maintenance aisle.

----------

What?! He showed up? What? He provided the goods promised in between LOLs?! What? The transaction went smoothly?! What? There was no bong session on corporate tricycles?!! He must have been on to you!

You’re fired!

----------

Note from –c:
Yes, after many a harrowing email correspondence, and one wasted drive, I managed to replace my expired cell phone without having to deal with redtape-trained teenagers at Verizon. Yippee!!! Now, if I could only get the CIA off my ass…
Apparently, I'm not doing my job.

*Picture again, courtesy of Mr. E

Of bite-less dogs, proverbs, and ESL teaching to doctors

We were exchanging proverbs while talking current events.

“A dog who pontificates loudly and speaks... er… without halt…. He cannot… yes, he cannot, before stop, make blood from your ankle.”

My Romanian student smiled sheepishly, as if asking her perfectionist, Gastrology-studied Self for permission to be silly. After apparently having received said permission, she embarked on a theatrical, gesturing voyage that involved opening and closing her thumb and index finger as if they had been pasted together by slow-drying rubber cement.

“Yes. Some dogs, you know, speaks dissertations loudly,” she explained as her thumb and pointer finger kissed each other in rapid, uninterrupted succession.

Ok, I thought: some dogs talk a lot.

“And these dogs,” she continued, eyebrow-pointing at her spastic fore-finger, crabclaw-like performance, “do not can bite for blood.”

Her fingers deflated, bored.

Ok, I thought… Edward ScissorHands can’t cut hair artistically….verbose dogs don’t draw blood… loud dogs have no bite…

“His bark is worse than his bite!” I cried, proud and relieved. I’d finally gotten what she was trying so dramatically to tell me.

“No! No!” she almost yelled, breaking enthusiastically from her characteristic, Med Grad stoicism, “like this, but different. He is like a empty cup who makes many bubbles, but has no boiling water…”

Alright, I thought… A Mormon beer carries no kick… one passionate individual does not sway the social tide… a peacock's plume out-weighs its meat…?

“No,” she clarified, “ He is like a loud dog with too much talk, but decreased thought. It’s means this dog is not of cleverness, but he boils his water anyway.”

And, finally, I understood the English proverb she was trying to find:

“Empty vessels make the most noise.”

And, yes, yes, my Romanian med student agreed and went on to explain how stupid (as she put it: “non-clever”) people often tend to talk too much.

And, though I wanted to point out how interesting the cross-cultural parallels between our respective proverbs were…

I shut up.

I couldn’t say another word.

After all, who wants to be a barking, empty vessel? Or a boiling dog bitch with no vampiric bite?

**Edit/Update: And, now you can see, perhaps, why teaching English as a second language can drive one slowly insane...