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!
Monday, June 26, 2006
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.
(... 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...
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...
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?
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?
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