He said, She said

Olly: "So this is how it happened... First she grabbed me by the neck and dug her gloved thumbs viciously into my Adams apple. Her brown-flecked green eyes hummed a creepy tune of murder and lunacy as she plunged her hiking boot maliciously into my groin. I tried to scream, but all that would come out was a kind of creaky, wooden breathlessness. My once hearty limbs threatened acquiescence as they listened hopelessly to my pathetic squeaking, and I knew that the end was close. It was then that I saw the sunlight at the end of the lawn, signaling the end of my path. I moaned a silent prayer, made peace with myself and my oft-neglected roots, and resigned myself to the twisted whims of the brutal, cloven boot human whose savage hands prepared to break my neck. And then, all went black. I don't know what happened next, but my buddy Gabriel who was watching from a neighboring sky-rise building says that the wicked woman then hacked me up into little pieces, tossed my mangled remains over the fence and into a big dumpster, whereupon she proceeded to jump up and down on top of my diced body until I was completely flattened. That sick bitch!"

-c: "Did I do it? Yes. Am I remorseful? No. Not at all. Olly was one of the hundreds of already-lifeles oleander trunks that I hacked up today. In fact, it's me who is the victim here. That brittle little cunt stabbed me numerous times, drawing blood and causing me to repeatedly say "ouch!". I have since experienced excruciating back pain, muscle aches and increased body odor due to Olly struggle-induced perspiration. The extraordinary emotional trauma I have endured may last for days, and I fear that I may never be able to commit to another long-term relationship with a drought-resistant plant again. I ask that you members of the jury find this barbarous bush guilty of evil acts toward a do-gooder, and award me lots of investment-acceptable compensation. Thank you."

"All you need is...."

When asked to complete the above phrase, 76% of moderately to highly literate English speakers responded: "love". Five percent said "duct tape". Three percent: "a few good yen", and the rest were evenly torn between "a phat ride", "a pair of titanium barber's shears", "grandmas's home-cooked stew", and "faith".

One polled marketing accountant went so far as to say, "all you need is humility," but the interview was cut short when he was dragged into the alleyway by a gang of 14 year old BMX bikers wearing jackets that read: Peace, SK8, ride or die, bra.

Samantha Sans, a free-thinking hair stylist from Paris, Texas reported, "all anyone really needs is security. Security and a bed on the table." She was supported by the enthusiastic nods of four, recently nail-manicured ladies on their way to the outlet mall. (They all also agreed that "nothing in the world beats Grillin Willy's chili cheese fries.")

But, I just don't know...
I mean, I agree that all we essentially really need is Love, but in my experience, it never hurts to have a staple gun, a passport, a ball of twine and some hydrogen peroxide either.

No, but really... on a serious note, this Love thing can be a real tough cookie on your plate. You'd think if it were really the ONLY thing we needed, it would be a little easier to bite into (otherwise, our species would have died off by now). You'd think it would be more like a cube of tofu that tastes like sunset and inside jokes and slides down your throat without requiring 93 volumes of disclaimers...

(Use Love only after consulting your doctor. Do not use Love if you have previously tried it, if you have ever lost a sock, found a hair in your salad, chased a grasshopper, bred pygmies, felt the "groove", slept on your side, tried to count the stars, cursed an appliance, 'mooed' at a cow, swallowed a coin, or if you believe yourself to be mostly human. Love may cause possible side-effects which include, but are not limited to: nausea, dementia, giddiness, euphoria, upset stomach, excessive smiling, bad poetry writing, crying, unwarranted exultation, googly-eyedness, weight-loss, weight-gain, weightlessness, uncontrolled laughing, vomiting, "this song is about me!" exclaiming, light-headedness, intense introspection, jealousy, paranoia, selfless caring, lunacy, and loss of mind. Should you experience any of these things, consult your physician, and immediately consider dropping out and tuning in.)

Uh... I seem to have gotten a bit sidetracked (not to mention nauseated, demented and giddy)... But, to get back to the issue at hand...

All you need is---

Ah, hell, I don't know...

But I have yet to go wrong with: a few intelligent and good people around, a sense of humour, and a can of WD40.

Melodious Road trip blues

Melting a few saline snowballs in the corners of my eyes, I waved farewell from my driveway this morning. Yes, parting is such sad, sad saline snowball-stimulating sorrow sometimes...

I knew that it was the last time that I would ever see her.

I'd never see her slip on the ice again, endangering not only her own bruised body but those of innocent bystanders as well... I'd never hear her endearing huffing and puffing as we ascended Sherwin grade on our way home to the snow-capped base of Mammoth Mountain... And most tragically, I'd sung Bob Dylan's 115th St. blues with her while out of gas on a mountain road for the last time...

Yup... Soul mates like her are hard to come by... I mean, how many others ask for duct-tape over a band-aid, take spilt coffee with a smile, stutter when you ask them to hurry up, socially freeze up on you in crowded parking lots, and beg strangers to jump them just for kicks...?

She wanted to share in just one last vocal song with me before she left... I can't blame her, really... A kind of parting closure, if you will... So, we sang "These boots are made for walking", then I took out the radio and said goodbye to my dearest friend: my '82 Toyota Tercel with the duct-taped mirrors and ski pole held-up hatchback.

I think the beauty and chaos of the universe have something grand in store for us all.
And she is no exception.
I'm sure she'll get over me and move on to enrich the life of someone new...

(But, I DO secretly hope that that new special someone won't be able to diligently dance in the driver's seat to a Dylan diddy with her quite the way I could...)

Hockey Enlightenment

It's not breaking news.
Or glorified mandarine-orange press.
In fact, it's a universal truth that's been backed up by statisticians, philosophers, and scientists for centuries. Pythagoras proposed it first, Darwin discussed it in his 'Theories of Adaptive Sports Enthusiasts', and Freud eluded to it once when chatting with his mother over tea...

It's the non-arguable FACT that some people are just not cut out to be effective competitive sports fans.

And I'm here to admit that I'm one of those genetically pre-disposed souls who has never been able to convincingly cheerlead for an organized sports team. (I know, I know... I've pretended to passionately support the USC Trojans, I've clenched my fists while watching the Colts make that field goal, and I've even worn a Charlotte Hornets hat because I liked the color scheme...) But... I just have never had it in me to be the kind of die-hard groupie a professional sports team merchaniser hopes for...

But, somehow, this psychological, sports team-supporting ineptitude vanished last night. My friends took me to see my first live hockey game EVER, and it was truly awesome! (... I know it's hard to believe, but the experience honestly goes up there on the list beside partner-caressed orgasms, poetry-writing in the desert, and arriving in a foreign airport without a plan).

I was one of only four other people in our section NOT wearing a Kings jersey. I was the only one who looked like a reckless, rhythm-less retard when the announcer called for organized rally-clapping, and I was certainly stupidly verbose enough to repeatedly reveal my lack of knowledge about the players on the ice.

Despite all of this, though... I had a wickedly amazing time!

And, I attribute all of it to what Freud might have called the 'natural human tendency towards collective partying'. There's just something inherently heart-justifying about jumping up and screaming exuberantly at the exact same time as thousands of other people do the same.

Who knew that a geezer psychologist years ago could prophesize my imminent acceptance of organized sports...

I've officially seen the light and accepted sports-team fanaticism as my lord and savior.
Have you?

To free tree or not to free tree...

***
Hi. My name's Stanley, and I'm a virile, young fig tree off-shoot.
I'm not sure why this crazy woman is currently wielding a chainsaw psychopathically near my throat.
All I've ever done is try to grow towards the sunlight, convert carbon dioxide to useable energy, sugars and oxygen, fertilize the soil beneath me with my leaves, provide a combative home for insects offering both pollination and disintigration, and give a few tasty bits of sweet fruit while hoping, to one day, have a family of my own...
I know that my mother, the main fig tree, will survive without me but...
I just don't understand why these humans (especially this out-of-countrol, bandanna-mummified chainsaw murderess) have to chop necks so thoughtlessly.
***

Hi. My name's -c, and I wear a bandanna. I'm a young, healthy, chainsaw-wielding environmentalist. I strive to protect all species of flora that aid in the perpetuation of unique natural habitats providing home to otherwise endangered ecosystems, and I don't want to have to cut any throats.
BUT, this feisty little fig tree-wanna-be off-shoot has cuddled with, and seductively entwined himself around, a few dead oleander bushes and an orange tree who has passed on. Now, I am no murderess, but I just can't give a proper burial to these late Heroes of Vegetation (let alone chop up any new firewood) without taking the life of cute little off-shoot Stanley...
***

We need your vote now!
Vote:

a) for letting poor Stanley live because he's such a good, prolific off-spring with nothing but an amazing future of fig-production and vegetative expansion before him!

or

b) for authorizing the massacre of a small limb so that fire hazardous, dead debris can be cleared from the peripheries of family residences and, in turn, allow for new birth of aspiring young shoots.

Celebrating Unblogged Secrets Revealed

Today, all kinds of peeps are coming together to celebrate.
Everyone who's anyone will be here!
Afterall, it's the 1 year and 2 day anniversary of this blog: Up the Creek without a Platypus!

I know for a fact that gnomes of all (well, quite a few, at least) socio-economic backgrounds are on their way. Three nationally-recognized coalitions of retired military nymphs are currently catching the bus in L.A., a few of the most respected aardvark advisors will be arriving shortly (after they pick up their pre-packaged Blind Dates on the corner by Paco's Taqueria), and, within the hour, a gaggle of gargantuan gastro-philanthropists from the United Front of Genital Protection and Geographic Insemination will be arriving (just a tip: don't ask them what they do until both you and they have consumed no fewer than 6 dirty martinis).

Then, the party will begin! First a quick, get-you-ready set by the screaming peacocks of an Ohai, California local. Then, the tell-tale wing-flapping of recently-immigrated So 'Cal parrots, and a bit of drumming by my mother's own opossom pals from the attic.

Then, after the dance-invoking, rhythm-expounding gala subsides, we'll calm for a short yet sincere speech, tears and memories:

"One year and two days ago today (sniff, sniff), I was one year and two days younger than I am today. And so was the Sphinx. And the Kelloggs company. And this blog was but a fledgling with nothing but a silly title I intended to change but never did. (sniff) I was living in Japan, had just gotten my first computer EVER, and wanted to learn to write creatively in front of a screen as opposed to a bar napkin. (pass me a Kleenex- this is too much!.. and I wanna jot down some thoughts!) I was mourning the loss of a best friend to soy and cornfields and I (oh, I can't say it!) was realizing that I no longer had the vocabulary or ability to articulate myself in my native language (sniff) without the use of Japanese bows, grunts, head-tilts, and (yes, it's true!) complicated sucking-air-through-teeth maneuvers. So I (sniff, sniff) conceived this Blog Baby to fill the emptiness. And, oh what indescribable pleasure she has given me throughout the year! (whaa!!)

Once tears and wails subside, it will be time for the dirty, behind-the-scenes, never-before-told, unblogged secrets of Up the Creek without a Platypus to be revealed...:

I'm actually not a 27 year-old, female English teacher.
I'm actually a 59 year-old, male, retired schoolbus driver.
I like drinking beer at the demolition derby, sleeping late, and sharing sunsets by my kiddy pool. I'm looking for a like-minded, pre-pubescent girl who's funny, sexy and smart, can enjoy a good boy-band tune, likes to shop for trendy friendship necklaces and who, when grounded by the "'rents", paints anarchy symbols on her backpack.
If you think you're her, please give me a call.
(if my old lady answers, just say you're with the propane inspectors.)

Up the Creek: Happy 1 year and 2 day Anniversary!

Rock-skipping Part II

Skipping rocks is to flipping pancakes, as:

a) counting books is to mounting cooks
b) throwing grounders is to growing weeds
c) playing tic-tac-toe quick is to laying desperate dick
d) addressing dignitaries is to caressing Bloody Marys
e) eating oyster is to heating a cloister
f) jumbling words is to fumbling catches
g) spilling the beans is to Chilling Supreme
h) none-of-the-above-ing is to the fun of love-ing
or
i) what?! they have absolutely nothing to do with each other


*Note: I grabbed this handy little test question from the International D.A.C.A. (Deep Anals of -c's Absurdity), Vol. 43889. For a full explanation of the correct answer, please go skip a stone, flip a pancake, consult the FAQs and consider going with answer j)

Auto Mechanics of Rock-Skipping

Are there any rock-skippers out there? (And, no, it doesn't count if you've gleefully skipped through a secluded spring meadow of wildflowers, singing Springstein songs... Nor, does your experience circumnavigating the globe as captain of a marble sea maiden with a few stones rolling on deck...)

I mean, a real rock-skipper. A straight-up, feel-the-essence-and-the-universal-power-of-rock-skipping-deep-in-your-soul kind of rock-skipper. Not a wanna-be rock-skipper who hangs out by the lakeside, holding flat stones like they were fashion accessories and half-assedly hurling them against the wind at the water's deeps. No, no... I mean a real, feel-your-limbs-and-molar-cavities-become-the-tide-worn-curves-of-a-beached-stone-as-you-bounce-across-the-trampoline-water's-surface-still-tasting-the-human-hand-sweat-on-your-matamorphic-dermis kind of rock-skipper. The kind whose thoughtfully-selected rock flies frictionlessly across miles of moon-moved liquid landscapes not entirely unlike (but actually kinda darn dissimilar to) a ping pong ball on an ice table.

Anyway, what I'm getting at saying (eventually, I swear!) is that anyone can be a real rock-skipper. A rock-skipper of a particular trade, that is. I mean, we have our classic rock-skippers of Paleontology, rock-skippers of puppet-design, rock-skippers of prairie dog dentistry, rock-skippers of marital unfaithfulness, rock-skippers of one-liners, and rock-skippers of toothpick architecture.

Unfortunately, I'm not quite sure yet in what area of expertise my personal rock-skipping genius lies (unless it's somewhere in between rock-skipper of the fool-player and rock-skipper of arbitrary connections)
But, I DO know what kind of rock-skipper I am NOT.
And, that is the rock-skipper of auto mechanics.

For the past week, I have spent my days in my worn overalls, lathered in grease and sweat, taking wrench and screwdriver to the tricky bowels of an '82 Toyota hatchback and an '89 Honda accord.
OK, fine, so maybe that's not quite true. Maybe, in fact, that's pretty much not at ALL true.
The truth is that I have spent this week in front of two open car hoods, staring blankly at odd metal thing-a-majigs, funny intestine-looking cables and hoses that connect the odd-looking thing-a-majigs and Tupperware-appearing wine boxes housing Cryptonite-colored beverages. And, all the time standing, eyebrows furled and arms crossed, repeating a meditative and frustrated vocal:
"Hmmm..."

Though I fear it may be a long time before I get my GirlScout's Rock-skipping Badge of Mechanics, I think I'm making steady progress. Afterall, I've already earned one Girlscout patch for replacing countless funny-looking tubes connecting funny-looking moving metal thingies, one patch for removing a fan belt, another for taking off a garter belt, and one for siphoning gasoline without inhaling. Hey, every true rock-skipper of spirit has to start somewhere!!

A-political

As I sat there at the patio table, debating the death penalty with a passionate Palisades lawyer (residing around the corner from Tom Hanks and Michael Keaton), I wondered how many times this poor man had already had this discussion.

I mean, afterall, I'm not in the business, I'm younger than he, and I've already had this ping-pong conversation nearly 2.7 patrillion times (minus, of course, 1.5 patrillion debates that ended in: "But what if a one-eyed mariner drowned your mother in a swimming pool of vinegar and pickled olives- oh, forget it. Pass me the peanuts.")...

No, but honestly... The thing that astounds me is the magnitude and sincerity of fist-clenching, intestine-raising Passion that accompanies our strongest beliefs,
regardless of the antiquity of the debate.

I mean, no matter how many times I exchange foreign policy discussions or giggle over "Bushisms", I still always get an overwhelming body-clenching anger when forced to discuss the current administration.

And, even though I've pro-ed and con-ed to excess, I still always feel my body on the verge of eruption when arguing the superiority of platypuses, discussing the downfall of dehydrated Tang, and verbally wrestling with my opponents over the inalienable rights of Pineapples as officially-recognized pizza toppings...

I just don't know how to scientifically explain it...
I mean, what kind of biologically-concocted mixed chemical drink aides in the screaming of individuals over the position of toilet seat lids and toothpaste tops? What psychological reasoning explains outbreaks of faith-based hatred, sexual-orientation-platformed disgust, and bar brawls over country music selections?

I guess I'm getting more entry-level, college-style philosophical here than I should...

All I mean to say is that I think it's absolutely wonderful that we homosapiediscohumanoids continue to get riled up about our strongest beliefs despite the repetition of questioning.

And, that discussions- even age-old, been-there-done-that ones- are undeniably excellent.

(PS - non-politically and non-religiously speaking: Dog Damn if I won't take a knife to the neck of a brick if you tell me killing is ever OK.)

The Night the Wind Had PMS

The current So 'Cal wind- she's a crafty cunt. The way she's been freestyle solo swing dancing from orange tree branch to my roof and back- it's, well... overtly sexual and, quite frankly, obscene!

Now, I know what you're thinking- in most languages and cultures that like to attach a Mr. or Mrs. title to their inanimate objects and naturally-ocurring phenomenon, The Wind is decidedly masculine (i.e. El viento in Spanish, Brother Wind in Native American traditions, Der Wind in German, Il vente in Italian and Otoko no kaze in Japanese... (OK, maybe not really that last one but...-)

But, tonight, as I sit here on the porch listening to the screams of the emotionally-battered oleander against the chain link fence, I can assure you SHE (the wind) is no more a HE than I am an IPod.
(... although... I did once genuinely believe for about an hour that I was a patch of lichen on a parched rock... but, I'm saving that for another post altogether...)

I mean, there's just no way that this sneaky force, scattering thoughts, dry leaves and gardening brochures like they were scribbles in a 3 yr old's coloring book
is anything BUT a full-fledged, irratic raging female!

And, I can say this without being fire-range stoned for breaching unwritten laws of political correctness, because I myself am a full-fledged, irratic raging female... and, I believe in the situationally-based, appropriate use of epithets of all races, creeds, religions and sexes.
And, I'm sticking to that!

So, blow on, ye beautiful, pheremone-fragranced bitch! And thank you! El tiempo oscuro de noche is made extraordinary by your womanly blow!

...er...womanly show... I mean, womanly flow...
...aww, hell, no matter what I write, I can't help but offend even myself :)

Drop a WC Bomb in 2006!

Wishing everyone a happy New Year!

Being as I'm in the vicinity of Downtown H-glamour, you might expect a bit of glitz and scandal...

Unfortunately, I have no tales of the rich and famous. Instead of hitting the strip, I went out to a friend's ranch where cowboy hats, boots and mud rang in the 12:01am.

The hugest bonfire I have ever seen was fed monstrous logs by forklift as we chatted, drank and danced about beside the bareback bull-riding arena,
and I drummed on a bucket to my beautiful brittle-fingered guitar strummers.
(granted..., my pals couldn't play their guitars, but they sure could fake it, and I played a mean pail, if I do say so myself!... Hey, even the kids and dogs were showing off their hip-thrusting moves!)

The oddest part of the the evening took place when I found myself actively promoting a "Poop Party" with two friends of mine.

"Yeah! I'm gonna go poop! How about you?"
"Oh, I just can't wait! Pooping is so much fun!"
"Yes! I love it too! Let's all fo poop together!"
"C'mon! Quick! Let's get pooping!"

I know it spoils some of my glamorous and mysteriously seductive appeal, but I have to admit that this wasn't actually as kinky as it sounds... The truth is, my friends and I really had no interest in shitting together. In fact, we all found it a rather fascinatingly disturbing idea...
But, we were restroom-bound with a friend's 13 year old, autistic daughter who hadn't squeezed out a log in over two weeks. This poor girl was deathly frightened of letting a little submarine out through the back hatch and into the sea! So, we did as any altruistic group of committed citizens would do... We planned a nice Poop Party!

Unfortunately, December 31st didn't prove to be the day for dropping digestive missiles...

But, I'm not worried.

I'm sure that the New Year will bring happy defecation to everyone!

Happy 2006!