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!
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
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)
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)
Saturday, January 14, 2006
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!!
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!!
Saturday, January 07, 2006
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.)
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.)
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
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 :)
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 :)
Sunday, January 01, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, December 30, 2005
El pueblo unido jamas sera vencido!
Today I was dressed to blend in with a Columbian insurgency group, or at least costumed impeccably to hit a jungle vine-hung pinata with a few Zapatistas...
I was wearing a pair of garden work-stained cotton pants from Guatemala with pull strings at the heels, an oversized gray thermal top embroidered with dust, cobwebs and bits of insulation, a rubberbanded headlamp and a faded blue bandana around my nose and mouth...
Though I WAS hoping to attract the attention of some cutting-edge Hollywood fashion designers, my only real objective today was to attack back-end-exited rat jewels from my mother's attic.
Obtaining the treasured jewels, though, proved more difficult than I had anticipated. I was immediately ambushed by an army of asbestos soldiers on the piped grassy knoll of rotten insulation. Then, the narrow supporting beams decided to realign themselves on an inside joke whim to watch the attic intruder run the dusty, labyrinthine gauntlet and get stuck hunched in the corner. And, to make matters worse, my nose was flooded with new flu mucous, threatening to explode into my stylish Subcomandante Marcos mask.
Sigh... I'm ready for bed...
Don't worry, though- I'll be bright-eyed in the morning, ready to flaunt next spring's line of dumpster-diving gowns.
I was wearing a pair of garden work-stained cotton pants from Guatemala with pull strings at the heels, an oversized gray thermal top embroidered with dust, cobwebs and bits of insulation, a rubberbanded headlamp and a faded blue bandana around my nose and mouth...
Though I WAS hoping to attract the attention of some cutting-edge Hollywood fashion designers, my only real objective today was to attack back-end-exited rat jewels from my mother's attic.
Obtaining the treasured jewels, though, proved more difficult than I had anticipated. I was immediately ambushed by an army of asbestos soldiers on the piped grassy knoll of rotten insulation. Then, the narrow supporting beams decided to realign themselves on an inside joke whim to watch the attic intruder run the dusty, labyrinthine gauntlet and get stuck hunched in the corner. And, to make matters worse, my nose was flooded with new flu mucous, threatening to explode into my stylish Subcomandante Marcos mask.
Sigh... I'm ready for bed...
Don't worry, though- I'll be bright-eyed in the morning, ready to flaunt next spring's line of dumpster-diving gowns.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Of algae and Turkey Basters
Every young philosophical mind, at some point, poses the ageless inquiry: Are we alone in the universe?
Well, I made up my mind at about age 9 that we are most certainly and positively NOT alone; that somewhere just past Mike's Meteor Meatball stand before you get to the international headquarters of the Excess Extra-terrestrial Excrement Dump, there is a quaint little pub filled with out-of-work algaes drowning their sorrows in pints of nitrogen, wondering out-loud in slurred algae dialect: "Is this all there IS?"
So, even though I know that this pub exists (afterall, there's a webpage about it!), I still found myself pondering the question throughout the holidays: Are we alone?
Are we the only family, I wondered, that finds it perfectly normal to wrap Christmas gifts in brown paper grocery bags with doodled pictures of homicidal snowmen on them?
Are we the only family that recites "The Night Before Christmas" with added, improvised verses about Prancer's extra-curricular trips to the gay reindeer bars?
Are we the only family that gets turkey baster in our stockings, just so we can "squirt things"?
Are we the only family that has tamales for Christmas dinner and contemplates putting guacamole and salsa on our lemon bars?
Well, anyway, it was a stellar Christmas at home this year!
Next year, I think I'll send an invitation out to the regulars at the little nitrogen pub by the Meteor Meatball Stand... I'm thinking we'll have a lot in common....
Well, I made up my mind at about age 9 that we are most certainly and positively NOT alone; that somewhere just past Mike's Meteor Meatball stand before you get to the international headquarters of the Excess Extra-terrestrial Excrement Dump, there is a quaint little pub filled with out-of-work algaes drowning their sorrows in pints of nitrogen, wondering out-loud in slurred algae dialect: "Is this all there IS?"
So, even though I know that this pub exists (afterall, there's a webpage about it!), I still found myself pondering the question throughout the holidays: Are we alone?
Are we the only family, I wondered, that finds it perfectly normal to wrap Christmas gifts in brown paper grocery bags with doodled pictures of homicidal snowmen on them?
Are we the only family that recites "The Night Before Christmas" with added, improvised verses about Prancer's extra-curricular trips to the gay reindeer bars?
Are we the only family that gets turkey baster in our stockings, just so we can "squirt things"?
Are we the only family that has tamales for Christmas dinner and contemplates putting guacamole and salsa on our lemon bars?
Well, anyway, it was a stellar Christmas at home this year!
Next year, I think I'll send an invitation out to the regulars at the little nitrogen pub by the Meteor Meatball Stand... I'm thinking we'll have a lot in common....
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Shoulda known...
I really should have known...
when I saw the particle-board hotel sign tied to the bars protecting an upper level window...
I should have known when I sensed the tangible desperation in the cat-callish compliments of the qeued men in front of the door entrance...
I should have known when I had to pass through three gated and locked doorways just to get up the only flight of stairs...
and when I saw the dangling open lightbulb and the cigarette-burned carpeting...
I should have known when I bargained the price down from $45 to three packs of cigarettes...
But, I REALLY should have known when the channel that first came (literally) onto the TV when I hit Power was High-quality, hard-core porn...
I should have known then that I was in a hotel a perspective "teacher" should NOT be staying in the night before her interview.
But, there I spent the evening..., attempting to plan a lesson, create materials and rest, while all the time being serenaded by pogo stick-style, bouncing beds in the three rooms upstairs and on each side.
Occasionally, the squeaking and bouncing would stop for a sacred 90 seconds of sheer peace and bliss, then the metal gates would open and close, a door would drag shut over musty carpet, and the cycle would begin again.
Yeah, well, I know: I shoulda known...
But I also shoulda known that, albeit philosophically speaking a dung beetle is no different than a garage door opener, they cannot be used interchangeably...
that a captive audience is not always grounds for a strip-tease or a hokey-pokey performance
and that just because the cat's away, doesn't mean he won't come back to find the mice a playin'...
And, even though I shoulda known..., well... the world's still spinning (...it IS, right?), and I'm pretty pleased with the wobbling groove it's got going on!
when I saw the particle-board hotel sign tied to the bars protecting an upper level window...
I should have known when I sensed the tangible desperation in the cat-callish compliments of the qeued men in front of the door entrance...
I should have known when I had to pass through three gated and locked doorways just to get up the only flight of stairs...
and when I saw the dangling open lightbulb and the cigarette-burned carpeting...
I should have known when I bargained the price down from $45 to three packs of cigarettes...
But, I REALLY should have known when the channel that first came (literally) onto the TV when I hit Power was High-quality, hard-core porn...
I should have known then that I was in a hotel a perspective "teacher" should NOT be staying in the night before her interview.
But, there I spent the evening..., attempting to plan a lesson, create materials and rest, while all the time being serenaded by pogo stick-style, bouncing beds in the three rooms upstairs and on each side.
Occasionally, the squeaking and bouncing would stop for a sacred 90 seconds of sheer peace and bliss, then the metal gates would open and close, a door would drag shut over musty carpet, and the cycle would begin again.
Yeah, well, I know: I shoulda known...
But I also shoulda known that, albeit philosophically speaking a dung beetle is no different than a garage door opener, they cannot be used interchangeably...
that a captive audience is not always grounds for a strip-tease or a hokey-pokey performance
and that just because the cat's away, doesn't mean he won't come back to find the mice a playin'...
And, even though I shoulda known..., well... the world's still spinning (...it IS, right?), and I'm pretty pleased with the wobbling groove it's got going on!
Thursday, December 15, 2005
North to Something
There's just something about those over-night buses...
and, this indescript Something beckons me,
singing ever come-hitheringly...
So, I must follow.
For, if I don't, well..., we all know what Indescript Somethings are capable of...
So off I go towards San Fransisco for a few days...
Be back soon!
and, this indescript Something beckons me,
singing ever come-hitheringly...
So, I must follow.
For, if I don't, well..., we all know what Indescript Somethings are capable of...
So off I go towards San Fransisco for a few days...
Be back soon!
Monday, December 12, 2005
Christmas Curse
I think Nostradamus forsaw the coming of this frightening day. And Bible Code-crackers around the globe are rejoicing at the fulfillment of this profound Prophesy.
Yes, this terrifying fortune has finally come to fruition..., and I fear the menacing atrocities have yet to ascend to full zenith!
Beware! The Day of Too Many Christmas Lights and Excessive Holiday Lawn Adornments is upon us!
No longer will a single strand of colored bulbs lining the roof suffice. No longer, can we rest content with a simple seasonal wreath hanging on the door. We must have more! There must be lighted bucks and mechanical does, balloon-bellied Santas and militias of gingerbread men!
I admit, that I, too, have fallen victim to the charm of this vicious prophesy, for not weeks ago, I blew a fuse helping to decorate a friend's house. We couldn't stop with just the white icicles. No, screamed the tempting serpent: You must do more! So, we added colored bulbs. But, still, our appetite for the Forbidden Christmas-light Fruit was not appeased. So we hung a red-eyed Santa in the window. But, he eerily begged for company. So, we hung a Snowman beside him (because we all know that Kris Kringle's eternal loneliness lies in his lack of snowball brethren..). But still, something was missing! Our two merry men were alone with their unfulfilled desires for goodies and booty. So, we gave them a giant lighted present and a red and green stocking and plugged it all in.
And, for one beautiful fleeting second, the angels sang and the lights evoked little boys with gleeful I'm-gonna-shoot-my-eye-out grins, and peace was felt by all in the neighborhood.
Until... the lights went dark and the fuse went black, and we knew, first-hand, that the Curse of the Day-of-too-many-Christmas-lights was upon us.
Now... don't get me wrong. I'm no practicing Scrooge or Grinch, but... I feel it necessary to say:
America, once again, you've gone too far!
If I had it my way, we'd all forget these blow-up candy canes and mechanical sleighs,
and just make-out under unlit branches of mistletoe...
Yes, this terrifying fortune has finally come to fruition..., and I fear the menacing atrocities have yet to ascend to full zenith!
Beware! The Day of Too Many Christmas Lights and Excessive Holiday Lawn Adornments is upon us!
No longer will a single strand of colored bulbs lining the roof suffice. No longer, can we rest content with a simple seasonal wreath hanging on the door. We must have more! There must be lighted bucks and mechanical does, balloon-bellied Santas and militias of gingerbread men!
I admit, that I, too, have fallen victim to the charm of this vicious prophesy, for not weeks ago, I blew a fuse helping to decorate a friend's house. We couldn't stop with just the white icicles. No, screamed the tempting serpent: You must do more! So, we added colored bulbs. But, still, our appetite for the Forbidden Christmas-light Fruit was not appeased. So we hung a red-eyed Santa in the window. But, he eerily begged for company. So, we hung a Snowman beside him (because we all know that Kris Kringle's eternal loneliness lies in his lack of snowball brethren..). But still, something was missing! Our two merry men were alone with their unfulfilled desires for goodies and booty. So, we gave them a giant lighted present and a red and green stocking and plugged it all in.
And, for one beautiful fleeting second, the angels sang and the lights evoked little boys with gleeful I'm-gonna-shoot-my-eye-out grins, and peace was felt by all in the neighborhood.
Until... the lights went dark and the fuse went black, and we knew, first-hand, that the Curse of the Day-of-too-many-Christmas-lights was upon us.
Now... don't get me wrong. I'm no practicing Scrooge or Grinch, but... I feel it necessary to say:
America, once again, you've gone too far!
If I had it my way, we'd all forget these blow-up candy canes and mechanical sleighs,
and just make-out under unlit branches of mistletoe...
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Teaching Trials and tantalizing Topics
If you're hiring a butcher, you first want to see him hack a few bloody limbs.
If you're hiring a dog-catcher, you'll probably want to see his pup-bagging techniques prior to contracting his services.
And, if you're looking for a wing-walker, you'd probably want to see how he does thirty floors up in a glass elevator...
Well, the same goes for a teacher. So, next week I have to give a "sample lesson".
I'm actually really excited about this, as I love getting up and displaying my oddness and foolishness in front of other people. But, the hard part is picking an appropriate and engaging topic... (They suggested such topics as: The difference between similes and metaphors, Balancing Equations, and How a Bill becomes a Law.)
Personally, though, I think I can do better than that...
I was thinking more along the lines of:
*Evolution-Schmevolution: Study of Scientific Stupidity
*Odd or Even Numbers: Which are better?
*Popsicle Comparisons: Push-ups vs. Big Sticks
*Alternative Shoe-tying Techniques: When the rabbit goes UNDER the tree, AROUND the huckleberry bush and THROUGH the slinky
Well..., I just can't quite decide which one I'll choose, but...
I think I definitely have this interview nailed, baby!
If you're hiring a dog-catcher, you'll probably want to see his pup-bagging techniques prior to contracting his services.
And, if you're looking for a wing-walker, you'd probably want to see how he does thirty floors up in a glass elevator...
Well, the same goes for a teacher. So, next week I have to give a "sample lesson".
I'm actually really excited about this, as I love getting up and displaying my oddness and foolishness in front of other people. But, the hard part is picking an appropriate and engaging topic... (They suggested such topics as: The difference between similes and metaphors, Balancing Equations, and How a Bill becomes a Law.)
Personally, though, I think I can do better than that...
I was thinking more along the lines of:
*Evolution-Schmevolution: Study of Scientific Stupidity
*Odd or Even Numbers: Which are better?
*Popsicle Comparisons: Push-ups vs. Big Sticks
*Alternative Shoe-tying Techniques: When the rabbit goes UNDER the tree, AROUND the huckleberry bush and THROUGH the slinky
Well..., I just can't quite decide which one I'll choose, but...
I think I definitely have this interview nailed, baby!
Monday, December 05, 2005
Micky slipped me one and I missed
I was only gone for a minute.
90 seconds at most.
But, as any seasoned bar patron knows, you should never leave your drink unattended while powdering your nose or fingering the jukebox. That's just asking for trouble. You might as well leave your opened beverage with a post-it note that says:
"Dear broke, lonely, two-toothed trucker,
feel free to drink my martini or, better yet, slip something into my drink and take me out behind the dumpster.
Signed,
Yours and Waiting"
In any case, I think some divine, inebriated hand recently spiked my bottled Elixir of Life with something. I suspect it was Natsukashii-morphinephedrinhydrobermide. But, I'm no chemist...
How does this drug affect the body?, you ask. Well, in my case, it has cut my days with a series of film-frame Natsukashii Moments.
(*a "Natsukashii Moment", for those with no knowledge of Japanese, is an Awww-that-brings-me-back Moment of Nostalgia)
Although these invasive Natsukashii Moments have not yet interfered with my precious REMs, they have taken over my otherwise ordinary waking, present-moment routine.
And, the most potent dose of Natsukashii Moment as of late came when a friend took me to a local, renowned Sushi place in the San Fernando Valley...
There's nothing that makes me exclaim "Awww... that brings me so pleasantly back!" quite like bantering in Japanese, being brought free food and sake, miming kanji on your palm and debating the differences between Asian and Western lovers with a sushi chef...
Awww, how I miss Japan!
and, how glad I am that I left my elixir unwatched while rubbing the jukebox's g-spot...
90 seconds at most.
But, as any seasoned bar patron knows, you should never leave your drink unattended while powdering your nose or fingering the jukebox. That's just asking for trouble. You might as well leave your opened beverage with a post-it note that says:
"Dear broke, lonely, two-toothed trucker,
feel free to drink my martini or, better yet, slip something into my drink and take me out behind the dumpster.
Signed,
Yours and Waiting"
In any case, I think some divine, inebriated hand recently spiked my bottled Elixir of Life with something. I suspect it was Natsukashii-morphinephedrinhydrobermide. But, I'm no chemist...
How does this drug affect the body?, you ask. Well, in my case, it has cut my days with a series of film-frame Natsukashii Moments.
(*a "Natsukashii Moment", for those with no knowledge of Japanese, is an Awww-that-brings-me-back Moment of Nostalgia)
Although these invasive Natsukashii Moments have not yet interfered with my precious REMs, they have taken over my otherwise ordinary waking, present-moment routine.
And, the most potent dose of Natsukashii Moment as of late came when a friend took me to a local, renowned Sushi place in the San Fernando Valley...
There's nothing that makes me exclaim "Awww... that brings me so pleasantly back!" quite like bantering in Japanese, being brought free food and sake, miming kanji on your palm and debating the differences between Asian and Western lovers with a sushi chef...
Awww, how I miss Japan!
and, how glad I am that I left my elixir unwatched while rubbing the jukebox's g-spot...
Monday, November 28, 2005
Truck-Stop TP: What we need to pee
How many plies of toilet paper do you use on an average just-filtering-the-liquid-through-your-body visit to the little girl's or boy's room? Do you use an equal length of wiping material regardless of the TP brand, thickness, fluffiness and density?
These are the kind of questions that peppered my brother's and my Thanksgiving holiday conversations.
You see, we had both returned to our mom's house for the "Thanks, here's a bullet" celebration of our colonial forefathers to find that our mother had switched from double-plied, cushioned loo rolls to, what we refer to as, economical Truck-Stop TP (TSTP). Upon being questioned about her motives, she replied that she had conducted a month-long study of her own personal hygeine habits and had come to the conclusion that she pulled an equal length of cleansing towel regardless of the nature and makeup of the toilet paper. Therefore, using TSTP saved her money and lasted longer.
Now, let's think about this... There is quite a broad spectrum of closet-room activities; each activity requiring a different length of TP to successfully and sanitarily complete. There's the ordinary, and most common Let's-get-these-glasses-of-water/juice/soda-through-the-system pee. In my case, this calls for about three or four plies. For a man, it often requires nothing more than a healthy shake. Then, there is the I'm-still-shaking-from-seventeen-cups-of-coffee relief. Logically, this should call for no extra plies, but the inaccuracy of a jittery wiping hand must also be considered... We also have the Is-that-8-or-9-cans-o'-Coors? pee. This one is tricky, as the results are scientifically unpredictable: a quarter of the TP roll could disappear, the entire thing could be used to redecorate the living room, or the TP could be forgotten altogether- you just never know. Then, of course, there are the nitty-gritty Get-that-meal-through-digestion bathroom activities... This topic, though, being so complex and extensive in subtleties won't be explored in this post... but, let's just say that plies necessary can range from four to two hundred seventy-nine. After that, women have their Special-time-of-the-month powder room exercises, which require additional TP usage, and virile men with imaginations or excellent reading material may wish to use a few extra plies during clean-up as well...
In short... well... I've taken on a monster of an issue here and haven't even tackled the question... but,...
My gut, evidence-lacking stance on the controversial issue is that toilet paper should be soft enough to sooth while simultaneously being expendable enough to wipe the seat with.
These are the kind of questions that peppered my brother's and my Thanksgiving holiday conversations.
You see, we had both returned to our mom's house for the "Thanks, here's a bullet" celebration of our colonial forefathers to find that our mother had switched from double-plied, cushioned loo rolls to, what we refer to as, economical Truck-Stop TP (TSTP). Upon being questioned about her motives, she replied that she had conducted a month-long study of her own personal hygeine habits and had come to the conclusion that she pulled an equal length of cleansing towel regardless of the nature and makeup of the toilet paper. Therefore, using TSTP saved her money and lasted longer.
Now, let's think about this... There is quite a broad spectrum of closet-room activities; each activity requiring a different length of TP to successfully and sanitarily complete. There's the ordinary, and most common Let's-get-these-glasses-of-water/juice/soda-through-the-system pee. In my case, this calls for about three or four plies. For a man, it often requires nothing more than a healthy shake. Then, there is the I'm-still-shaking-from-seventeen-cups-of-coffee relief. Logically, this should call for no extra plies, but the inaccuracy of a jittery wiping hand must also be considered... We also have the Is-that-8-or-9-cans-o'-Coors? pee. This one is tricky, as the results are scientifically unpredictable: a quarter of the TP roll could disappear, the entire thing could be used to redecorate the living room, or the TP could be forgotten altogether- you just never know. Then, of course, there are the nitty-gritty Get-that-meal-through-digestion bathroom activities... This topic, though, being so complex and extensive in subtleties won't be explored in this post... but, let's just say that plies necessary can range from four to two hundred seventy-nine. After that, women have their Special-time-of-the-month powder room exercises, which require additional TP usage, and virile men with imaginations or excellent reading material may wish to use a few extra plies during clean-up as well...
In short... well... I've taken on a monster of an issue here and haven't even tackled the question... but,...
My gut, evidence-lacking stance on the controversial issue is that toilet paper should be soft enough to sooth while simultaneously being expendable enough to wipe the seat with.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Of dreams, monkeys and NASA
I really admire those people who are absolutely and entirely certain of what they want to do and be in life...
You know, like that kid who knew at age 12 that he wanted to be a pediatrician, specializing in rare elbow and ankle deformities...
or that girl in grammar school who said she wanted to be a horse, galloping across the countryside with her mane flapping in the breeze,
that driven twenty-something who said: "I will let nothing get in my way of becoming a data-entry slave for Mitsubishi",
or the guy I met in Guatemala who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his calling in life was to take ground water level samples and pass the results on to people who knew what to do with them...
I, on the other hand,
am not so decisive.
In fact, I tend to be passionately dedicated to a new career plan roughly every 23 minutes...:
2:34pm-- Quick, -c, grab your Nalgene bottle, hiking boots and nature-lovin' smile; you're gonna be an environmental educator, giving lectures about praying mantis ecosystems and symbiotic moss-bark relationships!
2:57pm-- Hurry, -c! Lose those khakis and sport your smock; it's time to make millions off of painting driftwood and beach pebble sculptures!
3:20pm-- Go on! That law degree awaits! Your career fighting first amendment violations and enforcing the ousting of stupid people from positions of power is just around the corner!
3:43pm-- You mean to say that I don't have the qualifications to be a free-lance astronaut?
4:06pm-- Since when is prodding discussions about the Nature of Existence with sarcastic jibes not a high-paying corporate position?
4:29pm-- What?! There's no salary available for traveling the world with a pet monkey, eating, sleeping and scribbling incoherent thoughts on napkins?!
Oh well... Some may say that I have a little narrowing-down to do... But, I can't wait to see the look on those people's faces when they read my autobiography written on globally-collected bar napkins about my life painting driftwood and sarcastically impaling philosophical discussions with my monkey on my environmentally-sustainable, ACLU-funded space station... So, there, ye doubters!
You know, like that kid who knew at age 12 that he wanted to be a pediatrician, specializing in rare elbow and ankle deformities...
or that girl in grammar school who said she wanted to be a horse, galloping across the countryside with her mane flapping in the breeze,
that driven twenty-something who said: "I will let nothing get in my way of becoming a data-entry slave for Mitsubishi",
or the guy I met in Guatemala who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his calling in life was to take ground water level samples and pass the results on to people who knew what to do with them...
I, on the other hand,
am not so decisive.
In fact, I tend to be passionately dedicated to a new career plan roughly every 23 minutes...:
2:34pm-- Quick, -c, grab your Nalgene bottle, hiking boots and nature-lovin' smile; you're gonna be an environmental educator, giving lectures about praying mantis ecosystems and symbiotic moss-bark relationships!
2:57pm-- Hurry, -c! Lose those khakis and sport your smock; it's time to make millions off of painting driftwood and beach pebble sculptures!
3:20pm-- Go on! That law degree awaits! Your career fighting first amendment violations and enforcing the ousting of stupid people from positions of power is just around the corner!
3:43pm-- You mean to say that I don't have the qualifications to be a free-lance astronaut?
4:06pm-- Since when is prodding discussions about the Nature of Existence with sarcastic jibes not a high-paying corporate position?
4:29pm-- What?! There's no salary available for traveling the world with a pet monkey, eating, sleeping and scribbling incoherent thoughts on napkins?!
Oh well... Some may say that I have a little narrowing-down to do... But, I can't wait to see the look on those people's faces when they read my autobiography written on globally-collected bar napkins about my life painting driftwood and sarcastically impaling philosophical discussions with my monkey on my environmentally-sustainable, ACLU-funded space station... So, there, ye doubters!
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Krishna, toss me a dog!
It's always kind of special when someone throws something at or towards you... (unless, of course, it's a brick, a skillet, or a heavy water heater...).
No, but, REALLY, you have to admit that there IS some invasive sense of irrational soul-assessment and subconscious ego-transformation that accompanies the arch of an odd projectile aimed in your direction...
In my case today, it was a hotdog. Well... a hotdog wrapped in aluminum foil to be exact..., and a cascade of plastic-bead necklaces, tootsy rolls, chewing gum, and a fountain of flyers, fun and music...
Yes, I was attending the annual Doo Dah Parade in Pasadena: the lively and fun Rose-Bowl-Parade-parodying spectical of the year! The Spoof parade to beat all others!
Among my favorite marchers were:
(!)The Men of Leisure: Synchronized Nap Team (they periodically lied down in unison on the concrete and napped, and engaged in synchronized ass-scratching mid-march)
(!)The Howdy Krishna (wearing full Krishna garb, he cutely removed his cowboy hat and bowed "howdy" to everyone he passed)
(!)The Habachi Crew (they grilled and bazooka-tossed hot dogs and potatoes while dancing and wearing goofily magnificent costumes and charcoal bags on their heads)
(!)The Drop-the-ball-withGeorge Troupe (who featured a masked Dubya repeatedly dropping a beach ball, as individuals carrying signs bearing Bush failures tossed bouncy balls to the crowd)
(!)The friendly Chia People (who marched with the local chapter of the Green Party, claiming "Chia people make their own oxygen")
and
(!)The Body Piercers (who featured two guys swinging from their backs, held up by a few shoulder-blade skin piercings)
There were, of course, many other noteworthy political groups present (all situationally-biassed liberals, as well), in addition to the numerous red-hat chapters, cute dog acts, awesome marching bands and the "Invisible marching drill team"...
But...
overall, I give it a thumb and fingers up, and request that more odd objects be thrown at me at the earliest and most promptly convenient time!
No, but, REALLY, you have to admit that there IS some invasive sense of irrational soul-assessment and subconscious ego-transformation that accompanies the arch of an odd projectile aimed in your direction...
In my case today, it was a hotdog. Well... a hotdog wrapped in aluminum foil to be exact..., and a cascade of plastic-bead necklaces, tootsy rolls, chewing gum, and a fountain of flyers, fun and music...
Yes, I was attending the annual Doo Dah Parade in Pasadena: the lively and fun Rose-Bowl-Parade-parodying spectical of the year! The Spoof parade to beat all others!
Among my favorite marchers were:
(!)The Men of Leisure: Synchronized Nap Team (they periodically lied down in unison on the concrete and napped, and engaged in synchronized ass-scratching mid-march)
(!)The Howdy Krishna (wearing full Krishna garb, he cutely removed his cowboy hat and bowed "howdy" to everyone he passed)
(!)The Habachi Crew (they grilled and bazooka-tossed hot dogs and potatoes while dancing and wearing goofily magnificent costumes and charcoal bags on their heads)
(!)The Drop-the-ball-withGeorge Troupe (who featured a masked Dubya repeatedly dropping a beach ball, as individuals carrying signs bearing Bush failures tossed bouncy balls to the crowd)
(!)The friendly Chia People (who marched with the local chapter of the Green Party, claiming "Chia people make their own oxygen")
and
(!)The Body Piercers (who featured two guys swinging from their backs, held up by a few shoulder-blade skin piercings)
There were, of course, many other noteworthy political groups present (all situationally-biassed liberals, as well), in addition to the numerous red-hat chapters, cute dog acts, awesome marching bands and the "Invisible marching drill team"...
But...
overall, I give it a thumb and fingers up, and request that more odd objects be thrown at me at the earliest and most promptly convenient time!
Friday, November 18, 2005
Womb with a view
It was a sunny Tuesday morning when they came for me.
The birds were chirping sweetly. The fire truck sirens were drowning them out, and the Taco Bell drive-through was crammed to capacity.
They put me under a blanket with a biography and told me not to come out until the captain had turned off the seatbelt sign. They assured me everything would be fine, and that I would be safe once we arrived at the CBD (Center for Blog De-tox).
The CBD was a charming and warm institution that hummed of family and informed vitality. Every room had been ingeniously designed with protruding, motherly arms that reached out to welcome and happy-hug the visitor.
The whole establishment was like a giant Womb...
Like an enormous, muscle-plumped Womb with a locker-room steroid secret and a perpetual drip of EHC (Excessive Human Caring)...
... (except without all those sticky, disgusting Wombly fluids circulating through and around it...)
Anyway,... the CBD hooked me up. I was provided with a brilliant buddy to womb-trot with and offered such daily seminars as:
*Dominoes, Debauch and the Decline of Dignity
*Anarchy, Alfalfa-harvesting and Afterlife
*Bucket Beers, Banter and Bread-neck Bars
*News, Nicotine and Caffeine: What the Indianapolis Star doesn't tell you
*Revolution, Resilience and Retribution: The Return of Roller Derby
*Horseshoes and Whore Issues: What they didn't teach your skanky sister in kindergarden
And, in the end, I graduated from the Blog De-tox Program! Yeah!!
But... here I am again... De-toxed and back for another fix...
I just can't seem to kick this one...
*Update: To fulfill prerequisites for the Roller Derby Seminar, check out my friend's Chicago roller derby league here. These sexy renegade chicas will beat you into proper learning shape, if I don't get to it first...
The birds were chirping sweetly. The fire truck sirens were drowning them out, and the Taco Bell drive-through was crammed to capacity.
They put me under a blanket with a biography and told me not to come out until the captain had turned off the seatbelt sign. They assured me everything would be fine, and that I would be safe once we arrived at the CBD (Center for Blog De-tox).
The CBD was a charming and warm institution that hummed of family and informed vitality. Every room had been ingeniously designed with protruding, motherly arms that reached out to welcome and happy-hug the visitor.
The whole establishment was like a giant Womb...
Like an enormous, muscle-plumped Womb with a locker-room steroid secret and a perpetual drip of EHC (Excessive Human Caring)...
... (except without all those sticky, disgusting Wombly fluids circulating through and around it...)
Anyway,... the CBD hooked me up. I was provided with a brilliant buddy to womb-trot with and offered such daily seminars as:
*Dominoes, Debauch and the Decline of Dignity
*Anarchy, Alfalfa-harvesting and Afterlife
*Bucket Beers, Banter and Bread-neck Bars
*News, Nicotine and Caffeine: What the Indianapolis Star doesn't tell you
*Revolution, Resilience and Retribution: The Return of Roller Derby
*Horseshoes and Whore Issues: What they didn't teach your skanky sister in kindergarden
And, in the end, I graduated from the Blog De-tox Program! Yeah!!
But... here I am again... De-toxed and back for another fix...
I just can't seem to kick this one...
*Update: To fulfill prerequisites for the Roller Derby Seminar, check out my friend's Chicago roller derby league here. These sexy renegade chicas will beat you into proper learning shape, if I don't get to it first...
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Bugs- be right back
Man, I hate it when I get these....
These little cabin fever, travel mites.
But, I hear that only paper cuts, bluegrass dancing and plane tickets can put these little monsters back at bay...
So, I'm off tomorrow to visit a friend south of the Great Lakes and, possibly, do some exploring.
Expect forth-coming poetry soon from the travel mites!
These little cabin fever, travel mites.
But, I hear that only paper cuts, bluegrass dancing and plane tickets can put these little monsters back at bay...
So, I'm off tomorrow to visit a friend south of the Great Lakes and, possibly, do some exploring.
Expect forth-coming poetry soon from the travel mites!
Thursday, October 06, 2005
See Spot Speak
I guess we're all guilty of it sometimes...
guilty of being under-informed yet outstandingly curious;
guilty of asking asinine questions driven by parched knowledge...
For example, if someone informs me that they're a taxidermist specializing in rare Angolian, long-snouted amphibians, I might dumbly blunder an embarrassing question like: "So, tell me - I just have to know- can a lizard declare unbirthed eggs as dependents?"
... y'know... just to keep conversation rolling...
Or, if someone says they just returned from a language-study sojourn in southern France, I might retardedly hazard a dimwit joke like: "Vous lez vous coucher avec moi?",
thinking it's genuinly funny because it's the only French I know (well... that and "Il merde, sui'l vous plais"- but that's hardly a conversation-enhancer...)
But, anyway... the point is that I can fully understand and relate to wierd and off-track conversational responses to new information.
So, I always thoroughly enjoy the responses I get from people when I say I just got back from living in Japan.
Mostly, I get:
"Wow! Must be great eating sushi every day..."
or:
"Is it true they have cell phones that can change your underwear for you?"
or:
"Cool! What movies did they show on your flight?"
But, the most frequent response I get is:
"Oh really? Say something in Japanese! - I just want to hear how it sounds-"
When I get this one, I just never really know what to do... Usually, I get into position, bark "konnichiwa" and then roll over and play dead.
But, sometimes I get bored of this routine...
So, recently I've been trying out a new response:
First, I carefully compose myself, usher in a serious, Japanese head-tilt (complete with concerned eyebrows),
and then say:
"Du siehst wie ein Hund aus,"
and then bow deeply and ceremonially - (Japanese-style).
And, this one seems to be a universal crowd-pleaser. Not only does the audience enjoy hearing sounds of the Orient, but I get to giggle to myself, knowing that I just said "you look like a dog" in German to my conversational companion...
Hey, c'mon, you can't blame me for desiring a little personal entertainment!
guilty of being under-informed yet outstandingly curious;
guilty of asking asinine questions driven by parched knowledge...
For example, if someone informs me that they're a taxidermist specializing in rare Angolian, long-snouted amphibians, I might dumbly blunder an embarrassing question like: "So, tell me - I just have to know- can a lizard declare unbirthed eggs as dependents?"
... y'know... just to keep conversation rolling...
Or, if someone says they just returned from a language-study sojourn in southern France, I might retardedly hazard a dimwit joke like: "Vous lez vous coucher avec moi?",
thinking it's genuinly funny because it's the only French I know (well... that and "Il merde, sui'l vous plais"- but that's hardly a conversation-enhancer...)
But, anyway... the point is that I can fully understand and relate to wierd and off-track conversational responses to new information.
So, I always thoroughly enjoy the responses I get from people when I say I just got back from living in Japan.
Mostly, I get:
"Wow! Must be great eating sushi every day..."
or:
"Is it true they have cell phones that can change your underwear for you?"
or:
"Cool! What movies did they show on your flight?"
But, the most frequent response I get is:
"Oh really? Say something in Japanese! - I just want to hear how it sounds-"
When I get this one, I just never really know what to do... Usually, I get into position, bark "konnichiwa" and then roll over and play dead.
But, sometimes I get bored of this routine...
So, recently I've been trying out a new response:
First, I carefully compose myself, usher in a serious, Japanese head-tilt (complete with concerned eyebrows),
and then say:
"Du siehst wie ein Hund aus,"
and then bow deeply and ceremonially - (Japanese-style).
And, this one seems to be a universal crowd-pleaser. Not only does the audience enjoy hearing sounds of the Orient, but I get to giggle to myself, knowing that I just said "you look like a dog" in German to my conversational companion...
Hey, c'mon, you can't blame me for desiring a little personal entertainment!
Monday, October 03, 2005
"Bad Squirrel!"
There's something both wonderful and disturbing about the blurring of Identity I'm feeling now back in the states.
While living in Japan, I abhorred being boxed into the Gaijin (foreigner) Label; being identified as a blue-eyed wonder with questionable chopstick-maneuverability skills and a dislike for natto (fermented beans that look and smell like they are bathed in cum).
But, now, I actually kind of miss it.
I miss having a foreign foothold to call my own.
I miss having a crew of backbreaking reinforcers to beat on drums, strum strings in the street and spout infantile potty poetry into Piman's, pens and publications.
I miss having a valid I.D. to hold in my hand over a clever, semi-flippant joke.
Ok, so I admit it.
I miss being a baboon.
Maybe, it's because every local in the neighborhood I grew up in now mistakes me for a European tourist.
Maybe it's because at every anti-war rally I've attended, I get odd looks when I say that I didn't come with any "organization"... I don't know. But, I know I have to do something...
So, I've decided that, in order to give myself a box to fit into and a pretty flag to bear, I have to identify the flag I do NOT bear.
And, because the bees are no longer causing me angst, I think I'll pass the torch to the Squirrels. Yup... that's right:
The Squirrels.
These militant foes have been perpetuating evil and plotting pernicious plans in my mom's yard for years. In fact, just last week they dropped four, unripe, green oranges on my head while I was innocently reading!
My reliable sources have also informed me that these subversive rodent scoundrels have been stealing our walnuts, and engaging in repeated Squirrel rights atrocities.
Yup, that's right... AND, it's no secret that they have potentially fatal supplies of Walnuts of Mild Destruction hidden around the garage and mulberry tree...
It's time to take action! ... time to show these buck-toothed beasts of Badness what flag I carry!
Ok... I feel better now. Not only do I have to play the baboon in Japan, but I can wear the suit in my own country also! What a relief...
Now... back to the issue at hand... scrapping squirrel civil liberties...
While living in Japan, I abhorred being boxed into the Gaijin (foreigner) Label; being identified as a blue-eyed wonder with questionable chopstick-maneuverability skills and a dislike for natto (fermented beans that look and smell like they are bathed in cum).
But, now, I actually kind of miss it.
I miss having a foreign foothold to call my own.
I miss having a crew of backbreaking reinforcers to beat on drums, strum strings in the street and spout infantile potty poetry into Piman's, pens and publications.
I miss having a valid I.D. to hold in my hand over a clever, semi-flippant joke.
Ok, so I admit it.
I miss being a baboon.
Maybe, it's because every local in the neighborhood I grew up in now mistakes me for a European tourist.
Maybe it's because at every anti-war rally I've attended, I get odd looks when I say that I didn't come with any "organization"... I don't know. But, I know I have to do something...
So, I've decided that, in order to give myself a box to fit into and a pretty flag to bear, I have to identify the flag I do NOT bear.
And, because the bees are no longer causing me angst, I think I'll pass the torch to the Squirrels. Yup... that's right:
The Squirrels.
These militant foes have been perpetuating evil and plotting pernicious plans in my mom's yard for years. In fact, just last week they dropped four, unripe, green oranges on my head while I was innocently reading!
My reliable sources have also informed me that these subversive rodent scoundrels have been stealing our walnuts, and engaging in repeated Squirrel rights atrocities.
Yup, that's right... AND, it's no secret that they have potentially fatal supplies of Walnuts of Mild Destruction hidden around the garage and mulberry tree...
It's time to take action! ... time to show these buck-toothed beasts of Badness what flag I carry!
Ok... I feel better now. Not only do I have to play the baboon in Japan, but I can wear the suit in my own country also! What a relief...
Now... back to the issue at hand... scrapping squirrel civil liberties...
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