Banging on things, staring into fires, doodling on rough-textured emu toes while chatting on the phone...
Sometimes, there are things in life that just seem to be so natural, so comfortable and so easy.
They're the things that gracefully call to us, enticing our primal subconscious, and luring us into game-play without ever requiring a second-guess or a reconsideration...
Let's call these things "Comfort Doodlings" (...because..., I've been told that "Banging, Fire-staring and Emu-decorating" was already copyrighted by a Swiss psychologist to denote an oft-neglected, abnormal-tendency disorder prevalent among down-under pyromaniacs with mobile phones...)
Anyway, these "Comfort Doodlings" are different for everyone.
For some, these experiences come with simply devouring chips and guacamole, dissecting amphibians, cycling into the wall at the gym, watching a good movie, partaking in orgasm-goaled orthopedics (--hey, some people are into that--), and taking romantic walks on the beach.
Me, though..., I'm much simpler.
For me, I'm comfortably doodling when I'm being ass-soaked by moist soil under an Oak tree, writing incoherent perceptions, miming conversation with someone whose language and culture don't translate, reading my way into a fun, new world, engaging in mental impiety while observing an orange blossom-driven hummingbird, taking a bus in a foreign country without knowing its destination, exploring "whys" with curious kids, discovering a novel instrument as new music is conceived, and discussing arbitrarily relevant subjects like home-made salad dressing, skunk-dating habits and the dental benefits of purgatory inhabitants.
But... the reason I set out to write this post (though I seem to have gotten a bit silly-style side-tracked...)
was to express how Rico Suave smooth and comfortable it is to hang out with old friends.
I recently saw a core group of kids that I knew from age three through highschool.
And, though, we've all changed immensely, are on different paths. it was oh-so doodle-comforting to be in their presence!
What can I say? Nothing calls for Comfort Doodles like chilling with someone who knows you used to be a book geek, who saw every truth-or-dare you fumbled when you were twelve, was there when you began your portfolio of Firsts, and remembers when you used to wear florescent Body Glove accessories and pretend like you were a mountain bike expert...
Ahhh, yes... everyone's got their Comfort Doodling favorites... (be they blogging, skipping rope, panda-painting, laughing with the family, creating stick figures, eating raw horse, walking the dog or whistling...)
I DO sometimes wonder, though, if anyone else's comfort doodling involves pineneedles and prisms...
Monday, March 27, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Peace March Delirium
Pour a handful of energy, a fat Zeusian craneful of heart, and a shoebox-full of shared passion multiplied by (3.14159...) times Hope + a few bottled waters + handmade signs of support + i to the Public-Wants-to-be-heard Power, and you've got the makings for a fine, envigoratingly exhausting three days of anti-war marching.
(I actually had some great photos ready to post- to inaugurate my picture-less prose blogousity- ... but, being the self-proclaimed luddite MAC-user I am, I went and just lost all of them to the ether... --Luckily, I believe them goofy scientist geeks who say that energy lost here, is energy found elsewhere...)
But...
If I HAD shown a few photos..., you would have seen thousands of marchers for peace with creatively-penned and painted signs, students and mothers, citizens and lovers, workers, chillers, teachers, policemen, sons and daughters and brothers and sisters who went out of their ways and missed buses home to protest what their Country is doing, and asking WHY?
... I even had a nice little shot of myself, looking quite hippy and naive beside a "PEACE" sign and a home-made "Democracy by example- NOT BY WAR!" banner...
(You couldn't have cut my innocent, hippy idealism and cultured optimism with a samarai sword!)
You also wouldn't have known by looking that I was a perditious cynic, prone to excessive sarcasm, circuitously random blogging, and utter written absurditiy!
You wouldn't have known by looking that, when I can't sleep at night, I count stars like sheep, alternating from English, Spanish, Japanese to German (One, dos, san, vier, five, seis, shichi, acht, nine, diez, juichi...)
You wouldn't have known by looking that my voice is currently coarsely shot from chanting anti-war slogans:
"Que queremos? PAS! Cuando? AHORA!"
("Whadd'we want? PEACE! When D'we want it? NOW!")
and my legs are aching from 20 miles of walking.
But, I've got no complaints... Afterall, I've been walking only a few days with Fernando Suarez (the 50-year-0ld father of one of the first latino soldiers lost in Iraq) who is marching from Tijuana, Mexico to San Francisco for PEACE with many others (check out the mission and awesome trek of these amazing folks at: Fernando's site and Pablo's site)
I have to admit, though, that I'm ready to eat someone's grandfather because I lost my photos, and that, last night, as I tried to relax, I was still chanting as I dreamt...
Whadd'we want? PEACE! When do we want it? NOW!
Whadd'we want? SLEEP! When do we want it? NOW!
(But, I DO promise that if too many more politically-slanted experiences or observations creep into my future, I'll start a new blog for politics alone. This creek shall not be tainted! Nor shall platypuses be hit with political paddles!)
(I actually had some great photos ready to post- to inaugurate my picture-less prose blogousity- ... but, being the self-proclaimed luddite MAC-user I am, I went and just lost all of them to the ether... --Luckily, I believe them goofy scientist geeks who say that energy lost here, is energy found elsewhere...)
But...
If I HAD shown a few photos..., you would have seen thousands of marchers for peace with creatively-penned and painted signs, students and mothers, citizens and lovers, workers, chillers, teachers, policemen, sons and daughters and brothers and sisters who went out of their ways and missed buses home to protest what their Country is doing, and asking WHY?
... I even had a nice little shot of myself, looking quite hippy and naive beside a "PEACE" sign and a home-made "Democracy by example- NOT BY WAR!" banner...
(You couldn't have cut my innocent, hippy idealism and cultured optimism with a samarai sword!)
You also wouldn't have known by looking that I was a perditious cynic, prone to excessive sarcasm, circuitously random blogging, and utter written absurditiy!
You wouldn't have known by looking that, when I can't sleep at night, I count stars like sheep, alternating from English, Spanish, Japanese to German (One, dos, san, vier, five, seis, shichi, acht, nine, diez, juichi...)
You wouldn't have known by looking that my voice is currently coarsely shot from chanting anti-war slogans:
"Que queremos? PAS! Cuando? AHORA!"
("Whadd'we want? PEACE! When D'we want it? NOW!")
and my legs are aching from 20 miles of walking.
But, I've got no complaints... Afterall, I've been walking only a few days with Fernando Suarez (the 50-year-0ld father of one of the first latino soldiers lost in Iraq) who is marching from Tijuana, Mexico to San Francisco for PEACE with many others (check out the mission and awesome trek of these amazing folks at: Fernando's site and Pablo's site)
I have to admit, though, that I'm ready to eat someone's grandfather because I lost my photos, and that, last night, as I tried to relax, I was still chanting as I dreamt...
Whadd'we want? PEACE! When do we want it? NOW!
Whadd'we want? SLEEP! When do we want it? NOW!
(But, I DO promise that if too many more politically-slanted experiences or observations creep into my future, I'll start a new blog for politics alone. This creek shall not be tainted! Nor shall platypuses be hit with political paddles!)
Friday, March 17, 2006
Good-Guy, Bad-Guy, Love-to-Hate Hypothesis
Oh yes...
Bold defiance poking indignant talons at the faceless "them"...
Raging despondency sticking its tongue out from its foaming mouth at the pillars of "normalcy"...
Yes, these are some of the great things in life; these are some of those wondrous marvels that allow us to feel vulnerably alive... the things that let us voice adament public condemnation while simultaneously feeling secret admiration behind closed doors...
I mean, honestly, who doesn't disguisedly love a clever and ingenious villain or a sagacious art thief who takes off with a Monet, using nothing but brilliant cunning and a stick of bubble gum? ... or a modern-day Robin Hood who hacks into the military spending fund, using an orange peel, a rusty antenna and 49 spearment-flavored toothpicks?
Deny it if you will (-- I won't ask you to take a loss on your social credit report points --) but..., we all love a good, old-fashioned Stick-it-to-the-man Trojan Tale every once in a while.
I guess, maybe, that's why I was glued to the doofus tube yesterday, watching FOX News cover a high-speed car chase through Los Angeles. While I clenched my cavities and furrowed my never-once-plucked eyebrows at the reckless speeding and deplorable endangerment of innocent lives, there was some cavernously camouflaged whisper (... probably residing in my rebellious Achilles wedding-ring finger with all those wanderlust parasites and self-destructive, tite-rope-walking, membrane-depleted, nomadic white cells...) that said: "Go Mr. Car Thief! Left at the next corner, and you'll lose them coppers!"
But..., later on in the evening, I learned that the leading role in the Breaking News attraction (the pimped-out Chevy SUV with flashy rims, cable TV, GPS, X-BOX and atmospheric pressure-Stabilizer) was my friend's stolen vehicle that had chauffeured me to dinner and karaoke not three weeks before!
Suddenly, I was cursing what had once been exciting shots fired at the rear window, hexing the once romantic, joint-toking, hot-wiring bandit, and praising LoJack.
Though, it's an age-old lesson, it's one human nature seems to always blank on when Exam time rolls around... Face it- it's easy to love things until they directly attack you or your loved ones, and it's a pleasure to hate things until they pat you on the back and give you a candycane and a kiss.
(Hey, afterall... 1st Amendment rights are all rainbows and puppy dogs until the grandma-mutilating, Mother Theresa-fisting, elephant cock-bearing 12-year-old gymnast-impaling Nazi Oil-coholic Militants get their protest permit!)
But..., that being said..., I'll still be a rapid page-turner if any genius diamond thieves decide to publish their authority-outwitting memoirs of clever deception and criminal successes!
And, hey, the only reason most of us live in LA anyway is to have local coverage of all the car chases!
Bold defiance poking indignant talons at the faceless "them"...
Raging despondency sticking its tongue out from its foaming mouth at the pillars of "normalcy"...
Yes, these are some of the great things in life; these are some of those wondrous marvels that allow us to feel vulnerably alive... the things that let us voice adament public condemnation while simultaneously feeling secret admiration behind closed doors...
I mean, honestly, who doesn't disguisedly love a clever and ingenious villain or a sagacious art thief who takes off with a Monet, using nothing but brilliant cunning and a stick of bubble gum? ... or a modern-day Robin Hood who hacks into the military spending fund, using an orange peel, a rusty antenna and 49 spearment-flavored toothpicks?
Deny it if you will (-- I won't ask you to take a loss on your social credit report points --) but..., we all love a good, old-fashioned Stick-it-to-the-man Trojan Tale every once in a while.
I guess, maybe, that's why I was glued to the doofus tube yesterday, watching FOX News cover a high-speed car chase through Los Angeles. While I clenched my cavities and furrowed my never-once-plucked eyebrows at the reckless speeding and deplorable endangerment of innocent lives, there was some cavernously camouflaged whisper (... probably residing in my rebellious Achilles wedding-ring finger with all those wanderlust parasites and self-destructive, tite-rope-walking, membrane-depleted, nomadic white cells...) that said: "Go Mr. Car Thief! Left at the next corner, and you'll lose them coppers!"
But..., later on in the evening, I learned that the leading role in the Breaking News attraction (the pimped-out Chevy SUV with flashy rims, cable TV, GPS, X-BOX and atmospheric pressure-Stabilizer) was my friend's stolen vehicle that had chauffeured me to dinner and karaoke not three weeks before!
Suddenly, I was cursing what had once been exciting shots fired at the rear window, hexing the once romantic, joint-toking, hot-wiring bandit, and praising LoJack.
Though, it's an age-old lesson, it's one human nature seems to always blank on when Exam time rolls around... Face it- it's easy to love things until they directly attack you or your loved ones, and it's a pleasure to hate things until they pat you on the back and give you a candycane and a kiss.
(Hey, afterall... 1st Amendment rights are all rainbows and puppy dogs until the grandma-mutilating, Mother Theresa-fisting, elephant cock-bearing 12-year-old gymnast-impaling Nazi Oil-coholic Militants get their protest permit!)
But..., that being said..., I'll still be a rapid page-turner if any genius diamond thieves decide to publish their authority-outwitting memoirs of clever deception and criminal successes!
And, hey, the only reason most of us live in LA anyway is to have local coverage of all the car chases!
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Peace and Big Screen Fame
Some people go to church on Sundays. Some people lounge about the house in fuzzy pink platypus slippers. And some people make a pot of coffee and read Dear Abby columns to their loved ones.
But, nope. Not me.
So, what was I doing this past Sunday at about noon?
Why, dragging coffins across the sand on Santa Monica beach and lining up white crosses, of course! Why...? What ELSE would I be doing?!
My mother and I and hundreds of others were taking part in a national Women Say No to War event organized by CodePink. It was an assembly of concerned men and women for peace who gathered on the beach to have their voices heard and be a part of a large, aerial artistic statement.
The sand was the canvass, the people, the paint, and a circling helicopter was the capturer of the image.
And, yup. I think my big debut in the spotlight was quite a hit! I see wide-open Hollywood doors on the horizon and, most likely, a supporting role alongside George Clooney in the near future.
Check me out here! If you squint a bit, you can make out my dramatically intense Cry-for-Peace pose! (I'm the faint pink splotch on the upper right hand side of the O in NO.)
And, if anyone knows of a good agent who'd be interested in helping to find high-paying forums for my powerful theatrical performances, I'll be interviewing all next week...
But, nope. Not me.
So, what was I doing this past Sunday at about noon?
Why, dragging coffins across the sand on Santa Monica beach and lining up white crosses, of course! Why...? What ELSE would I be doing?!
My mother and I and hundreds of others were taking part in a national Women Say No to War event organized by CodePink. It was an assembly of concerned men and women for peace who gathered on the beach to have their voices heard and be a part of a large, aerial artistic statement.
The sand was the canvass, the people, the paint, and a circling helicopter was the capturer of the image.
And, yup. I think my big debut in the spotlight was quite a hit! I see wide-open Hollywood doors on the horizon and, most likely, a supporting role alongside George Clooney in the near future.
Check me out here! If you squint a bit, you can make out my dramatically intense Cry-for-Peace pose! (I'm the faint pink splotch on the upper right hand side of the O in NO.)
And, if anyone knows of a good agent who'd be interested in helping to find high-paying forums for my powerful theatrical performances, I'll be interviewing all next week...
Friday, March 10, 2006
Suckers and Paint
Finger painting has to be one of my all-time favourite pastimes. There's nothing quite like walking up to the visceral gates of artistic orgasm with your hands swamped in raw color and earthy clay-like goop squishing between your fingers...
It just can't really be beat- (... even with a weasel-tail whip or a ceremonial bamboo stick)...
So, why am I inclined NOW to write about this finger-friendly, raw and primordial channel to the divine?
Well... because I just completed a lovely finger-painted piece that, I believe, deserves high accolades for its unlikely and brilliant choice of artistic medium.
--No--, I didn't just rub vomit into a rabbit hide or smear shit all over a canvass, and step back to smile at my workmanship....
But..., ACTUALLY, that's not too far from the truth...
You see, I had first peed conventionally into my mom's toilet bowl and flushed, when I noticed that the water was still continuously running...
So, as one does,
I removed the lid of the toilet holding tank and discovered that the crucial suction sucker, plunger-lookin' thing-a-ma-bob of the flapper was weak and reluctant to properly suck...
And as I tried to coax it back into its sucking vocation, I discovered the bounteous black-orange rusty silth that had accumulated at the base of the tank...
And, wow! what could be better for finger painting than this pasty grime?! (... Had plumbing existed back in the age of Salamancan Cave Life, I'm sure those wall paintings of buffaloes would have been even more alive...!)
With my hands bathed in mamma's neglected sediment-shit-tank ink, I grabbed the first, flat-surfaced disposable item I saw in bathroom sight (a 1970's cut-out foam shoe inlay- probably used as some hiking boot design for my father's first outdoor gear company) and dove into artistic misplay and unsupervised finger painting...
And, so I composed and completed the "Bowl-rusted Soul-shocked Beauty on Blue Foam Foot" (Bids on eBay start at $35 for this creative rendition of a catapulted stick figure trapped in a multi-colored footprint, representative of the loneliness of lavatory life)...
It seems that my mom and I will be trying to install a new fill valve and flapper in the toilet this evening, as I secretly await the big bucks that will inevitably pour in after the release of my first Finger-painted Toilet Sludge Exhibition: Solitude, Synergy and Sink Scum.
*Have you checked the sediment in YOUR local toilet holding tank for colorful, artistically-usable paints lately? You'de be surprised what gifts rusted pipes and apathetic plungers can bring!
It just can't really be beat- (... even with a weasel-tail whip or a ceremonial bamboo stick)...
So, why am I inclined NOW to write about this finger-friendly, raw and primordial channel to the divine?
Well... because I just completed a lovely finger-painted piece that, I believe, deserves high accolades for its unlikely and brilliant choice of artistic medium.
--No--, I didn't just rub vomit into a rabbit hide or smear shit all over a canvass, and step back to smile at my workmanship....
But..., ACTUALLY, that's not too far from the truth...
You see, I had first peed conventionally into my mom's toilet bowl and flushed, when I noticed that the water was still continuously running...
So, as one does,
I removed the lid of the toilet holding tank and discovered that the crucial suction sucker, plunger-lookin' thing-a-ma-bob of the flapper was weak and reluctant to properly suck...
And as I tried to coax it back into its sucking vocation, I discovered the bounteous black-orange rusty silth that had accumulated at the base of the tank...
And, wow! what could be better for finger painting than this pasty grime?! (... Had plumbing existed back in the age of Salamancan Cave Life, I'm sure those wall paintings of buffaloes would have been even more alive...!)
With my hands bathed in mamma's neglected sediment-shit-tank ink, I grabbed the first, flat-surfaced disposable item I saw in bathroom sight (a 1970's cut-out foam shoe inlay- probably used as some hiking boot design for my father's first outdoor gear company) and dove into artistic misplay and unsupervised finger painting...
And, so I composed and completed the "Bowl-rusted Soul-shocked Beauty on Blue Foam Foot" (Bids on eBay start at $35 for this creative rendition of a catapulted stick figure trapped in a multi-colored footprint, representative of the loneliness of lavatory life)...
It seems that my mom and I will be trying to install a new fill valve and flapper in the toilet this evening, as I secretly await the big bucks that will inevitably pour in after the release of my first Finger-painted Toilet Sludge Exhibition: Solitude, Synergy and Sink Scum.
*Have you checked the sediment in YOUR local toilet holding tank for colorful, artistically-usable paints lately? You'de be surprised what gifts rusted pipes and apathetic plungers can bring!
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Door-to-door Redemption
With the daily nagging atrocities of our misguided Administration, the commercialization of humor, the replacement of love letters by text messages, and the exponential super-sizing of life's simple truths..., it's sometimes a matter of heavy weed-wacking and muscle-soaring sludge-removal to get to the essence of things...
That's why it's always so refreshingly grin-grabbing when we actually encounter things that still retain their originally inherent elements of purity...
And, that's why today I'd like to give thanks for one thing that, Thank the Cosmos, still remains sacred in this country. And, that is
the Integrity of the door-to-door Salesman (-- or "salesperson" if you're the type who prefers "person-hole" to "manhole"--)
I just had a lovely exchange with a bubbly young girl, selling window cleaner. It went something like this:
Bubbly Girl: Well, HEY there, girl!!
Me: Uh... hey there.
Bubbly Girl: Is your mom or dad home?
Me: Nope. My mom's probably at work, and my dad lives on a sailboat in Europe.
Bubbly Girl: Whoa! That's some crazy stuff! GEERL, how old are you?
Me: Uh... 27.
Bubbly Girl: DAAMN, girl! YOU lookin GOOOD! C'mon- give it up!
(* Bubbly Girl extends upright palm and I tap it "five")
Bubbly Girl: So, check THIS out!
(* Bubbly Girl takes out a blue marker, draws a line across her white towel and proceeds to scrub it with the aid of her "window cleaner")
Bubbly Girl: Betchu've never seen no window cleaner do THIS before!
(* Bubbly Girl shakes her booty to non-existent beats and the white towel takes on a light blue goopy tinge)
Me: Uh.. nice.
Bubbly Girl: Hell YEAH, that's nice!
(* another enthusiastic extended palm and another "five"-giving)
Bubbly Girl: Just imagine what it can do with coffee stains, red wine, water marks and shower grime... you know what I'm sayin?!
(* Bubbly Girl then - NO JOKE - takes a suck on the nozzle of her spray bottle and..)
Bubbly Girl: It's DAMN good with chicken too!
Me: ..eh.. hee hee..mmm...
Bubbly Girl: So you wanna get you some of this?
Me: uh... I don't think we really need it...
Bubbly Girl: Alright then.
(* Bubbly Girl does one last little music-less hip-shaking performance for the road)
Me: But, good luck to you! Try my neighbor's place!
To be honest, I feel like I should have bought some of her sugar water, if only to thank her for brightening my day, and re-instilling some nebulous crumb of humanity... That, AND, I wish every salesman would dance and high-five with such inhibition... What a marvelous world that would be...
("We have this fine flatscreen available for only $640 - would you like to see my break-dancing moves?")
That's why it's always so refreshingly grin-grabbing when we actually encounter things that still retain their originally inherent elements of purity...
And, that's why today I'd like to give thanks for one thing that, Thank the Cosmos, still remains sacred in this country. And, that is
the Integrity of the door-to-door Salesman (-- or "salesperson" if you're the type who prefers "person-hole" to "manhole"--)
I just had a lovely exchange with a bubbly young girl, selling window cleaner. It went something like this:
Bubbly Girl: Well, HEY there, girl!!
Me: Uh... hey there.
Bubbly Girl: Is your mom or dad home?
Me: Nope. My mom's probably at work, and my dad lives on a sailboat in Europe.
Bubbly Girl: Whoa! That's some crazy stuff! GEERL, how old are you?
Me: Uh... 27.
Bubbly Girl: DAAMN, girl! YOU lookin GOOOD! C'mon- give it up!
(* Bubbly Girl extends upright palm and I tap it "five")
Bubbly Girl: So, check THIS out!
(* Bubbly Girl takes out a blue marker, draws a line across her white towel and proceeds to scrub it with the aid of her "window cleaner")
Bubbly Girl: Betchu've never seen no window cleaner do THIS before!
(* Bubbly Girl shakes her booty to non-existent beats and the white towel takes on a light blue goopy tinge)
Me: Uh.. nice.
Bubbly Girl: Hell YEAH, that's nice!
(* another enthusiastic extended palm and another "five"-giving)
Bubbly Girl: Just imagine what it can do with coffee stains, red wine, water marks and shower grime... you know what I'm sayin?!
(* Bubbly Girl then - NO JOKE - takes a suck on the nozzle of her spray bottle and..)
Bubbly Girl: It's DAMN good with chicken too!
Me: ..eh.. hee hee..mmm...
Bubbly Girl: So you wanna get you some of this?
Me: uh... I don't think we really need it...
Bubbly Girl: Alright then.
(* Bubbly Girl does one last little music-less hip-shaking performance for the road)
Me: But, good luck to you! Try my neighbor's place!
To be honest, I feel like I should have bought some of her sugar water, if only to thank her for brightening my day, and re-instilling some nebulous crumb of humanity... That, AND, I wish every salesman would dance and high-five with such inhibition... What a marvelous world that would be...
("We have this fine flatscreen available for only $640 - would you like to see my break-dancing moves?")
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Change and Golden Calf Worship
"Do you think that's how she has sex?" my friend asked, nodding toward the acrobatic fiddler on stage whose hips floated to musical tide while her smile stunned stars in the sand when arpeggiotic waves receded.
"Well, I dunno," I answered, leaning over a pint of Sam Adams and a bottle of Coors Light, "but she sure moves her bow as if she had embraced and forgotten everything all at once... which is ALWAYS a good sign when pursuing fulfillment of primordial urges!"
"Yeah. It is, isn't it...."
And, back to silly conversation we went, drinking and reminiscing, munching and greeting old friends.
It was my first time back in four years to the mountain/ski town I used to live in. The amazing mountains and trip-you-if-you-look topography were still there. Some of my old coworkers from the bookstore/videostore were still there, wittying up the world. The smiles were the same. The street names were the same. Even the plowed, layered snow on the sides of Main Street looked the same.
Only, it had changed. Three Starbucks had come into town. A multitude of tourist-marketed restaurants had settled. A vertical poll with scantily-clad hired dancers had snuck into one of the bars. And many a tiki joint with Mai Tai specials at escalated prices had landed in the High Sierras. The police force had been tripled, 70% of the locals could no longer afford to live, and private jets crowded the tiny runway south of town.
But..., thanks to my divine Savior and Leader: The Holy Winged Platypus (...now, I don't like to preach, but if you're interested in attaining true happiness and contentment in life, contact me and I can talk to you about how the Winged Platypus can help YOU to help YOURSELF and help OTHERS- 1800-PT-PUSSY)....,
anyway.., thanks to the Winged PlatyPussy, I ended up among good company in what's left of the old mountain town I remembered...
... good people..., good music..., good lovers of the outdoors..., good stuff!
(And, by the way, I have no affiliation with the referenced 800 number.
But...., if it DOES in fact exist, I'd like to submit my resume, and say that, though I don't have webbed feet or a rubbery snout, I have a pretty sexy phone voice...)
"Well, I dunno," I answered, leaning over a pint of Sam Adams and a bottle of Coors Light, "but she sure moves her bow as if she had embraced and forgotten everything all at once... which is ALWAYS a good sign when pursuing fulfillment of primordial urges!"
"Yeah. It is, isn't it...."
And, back to silly conversation we went, drinking and reminiscing, munching and greeting old friends.
It was my first time back in four years to the mountain/ski town I used to live in. The amazing mountains and trip-you-if-you-look topography were still there. Some of my old coworkers from the bookstore/videostore were still there, wittying up the world. The smiles were the same. The street names were the same. Even the plowed, layered snow on the sides of Main Street looked the same.
Only, it had changed. Three Starbucks had come into town. A multitude of tourist-marketed restaurants had settled. A vertical poll with scantily-clad hired dancers had snuck into one of the bars. And many a tiki joint with Mai Tai specials at escalated prices had landed in the High Sierras. The police force had been tripled, 70% of the locals could no longer afford to live, and private jets crowded the tiny runway south of town.
But..., thanks to my divine Savior and Leader: The Holy Winged Platypus (...now, I don't like to preach, but if you're interested in attaining true happiness and contentment in life, contact me and I can talk to you about how the Winged Platypus can help YOU to help YOURSELF and help OTHERS- 1800-PT-PUSSY)....,
anyway.., thanks to the Winged PlatyPussy, I ended up among good company in what's left of the old mountain town I remembered...
... good people..., good music..., good lovers of the outdoors..., good stuff!
(And, by the way, I have no affiliation with the referenced 800 number.
But...., if it DOES in fact exist, I'd like to submit my resume, and say that, though I don't have webbed feet or a rubbery snout, I have a pretty sexy phone voice...)
Monday, February 27, 2006
Olympic Occasions and Evasions
So, I wasn't a very dedicated fan of this year's Winter Olympics…. In fact, I kind of feel like I let down half of the citizens of Italy with my pathetic Petri-dish support (“Eh Georgio! Canna you believa we hadda one less aviewer of California thisa year!? Don't tella momma-- she will cry this year's awine harvest into molto big salty puddle!”)
I DID tune in, however, to watch the little cutie snowboarder, Sean White propel himself just two and a half feet short of orbit. (I guess when you're 19 years old, it's way cooler to rebel against physics than get a lip-piercing these days…).
I also caught a few moments of the “(insert random string of numbers) meter, elliptical-track, ice-skating race”. I quite enjoyed the intellectual stimulation this event brought me. I spent the whole time mentally calculating the precise ratios of the competitors' body weight distributions. (Now, if that Swiss dude were an ant, could he carry 40 times or only 10 times his weight in lower calves??)
Plus, I did get a few minutes in watching the off-the-ice reality show between those artsy, figure-skating “dancing” couples. I didn't much care for the event itself, but I was truly applauding and yelling my approval at the television when the couples stepped off the ice. They gave each other the iciest cold shoulders and subtle butt-flicks that screamed “I can't believe you dropped me in front of all those people on the greatest night of my life!” and “Well… if you weren't such a fat-ass!...”)
Other than that, I didn't get much more viewing. But, my brother and I DID managed to watch a few moments of the closing ceremony… (To be honest, we had no idea what was going on…)
Brother: OK, I think that opera singer's vibrato represents patriotism and international sportsmanship.
-c: Yeah, but what are those Canadians doing out there, stacking up giant sugar cubes in white robes?
Brother: I don't know… An amalgamatic rendition of The Blue Man Troupe does toddler Avont-guardianism….?
-c: …Plus Avril Lavign for color…? And those women in wedding dresses…? Clearly, symbols of purity and the inherent global trend towards ball-and-chain-ism, right?
Brother: …got me….
-c: Yeah, me too… What else is on?
Aesop probably has a little fable to illustrate the moral here, though I'm not sure what is… But I think he'd put it something like this: It's easy to criticize and poke fun at what you, yourself cannot do.
Afterall, I can't carry even twice my body weight in baby cows, and my feet are certainly too big to borrow Avril's high heels….
I DID tune in, however, to watch the little cutie snowboarder, Sean White propel himself just two and a half feet short of orbit. (I guess when you're 19 years old, it's way cooler to rebel against physics than get a lip-piercing these days…).
I also caught a few moments of the “(insert random string of numbers) meter, elliptical-track, ice-skating race”. I quite enjoyed the intellectual stimulation this event brought me. I spent the whole time mentally calculating the precise ratios of the competitors' body weight distributions. (Now, if that Swiss dude were an ant, could he carry 40 times or only 10 times his weight in lower calves??)
Plus, I did get a few minutes in watching the off-the-ice reality show between those artsy, figure-skating “dancing” couples. I didn't much care for the event itself, but I was truly applauding and yelling my approval at the television when the couples stepped off the ice. They gave each other the iciest cold shoulders and subtle butt-flicks that screamed “I can't believe you dropped me in front of all those people on the greatest night of my life!” and “Well… if you weren't such a fat-ass!...”)
Other than that, I didn't get much more viewing. But, my brother and I DID managed to watch a few moments of the closing ceremony… (To be honest, we had no idea what was going on…)
Brother: OK, I think that opera singer's vibrato represents patriotism and international sportsmanship.
-c: Yeah, but what are those Canadians doing out there, stacking up giant sugar cubes in white robes?
Brother: I don't know… An amalgamatic rendition of The Blue Man Troupe does toddler Avont-guardianism….?
-c: …Plus Avril Lavign for color…? And those women in wedding dresses…? Clearly, symbols of purity and the inherent global trend towards ball-and-chain-ism, right?
Brother: …got me….
-c: Yeah, me too… What else is on?
Aesop probably has a little fable to illustrate the moral here, though I'm not sure what is… But I think he'd put it something like this: It's easy to criticize and poke fun at what you, yourself cannot do.
Afterall, I can't carry even twice my body weight in baby cows, and my feet are certainly too big to borrow Avril's high heels….
Thursday, February 23, 2006
'blogProps
I'm about to admit what any dignified blogger should never admit. (Hate me if you will, but….) The truth is that I don't actually read many blogs.
And, on top of this sad blog-deprivation disease I suffer from, I also have a benign cancer that renders me too lazy to list my favorite crème de blog links on my page…
So, to make up for it, here are the few and wonderful blogs that I DO read in no particular order:
Meandering Musings Muster Madness (Texas) A brilliant sense of humour, an always-inspiring creativity, an altruistic determination, and provides a warm and embracing feeling of family and a never-ending game of wit and cleverness.
PureLand Mountain Excellent prose, witty insights about life in Japan, and spot-on, humour-tinted observations about life, nature and everything.
Leprechaun Soup - (Japan) well-written and engaging thoughts from… well, let's just say he's a special and inspiring someone coming home soon…
Random_Speak (Tampa bay, FL) This woman is hilarious! An incredible writer, artist and, I suspect, human being. She cracks me up with her sardonic humour, Onion-esque articles, and her uniquely honest take on the world.
On Gaien Higashi Dori (Japan) An amazing Irish writer who grabs me with his love of nature and the outdoors, incredible photographs and responses to the media at large. (if you're into futbol, or soccer, he's got something for you too!)
Felix's Daily starfish and waffles - Felix (Canada) provides the finest simulated online reality episodes as well as superb cocktail recipes, excellent photographs from travels around the world, and fun musings
Life and other such events (Chennai, India)- Fun anecdotes, stories and thoughts from a banker/thinker/humanist/philosopher in India
Notes from the 'nog - (Japan) Superb writing, thoughts, observations, musings and haikus from a friend and long-time resident guru of my Japanese hometown, “The 'Nog” (also, a great source of good reading material and music!)
Circus freaks in training - (Japan) The entertaining thoughts and experiences of my Canadian sister who lives, breathes and walks the walk of our corner of the rising sun set land. (In person, she can be even more sarcastic and biting than me, if you can believe it!)
The Logic of the silent Cascade - (Boston) A recent addition to the blogosphere, he's an old soul, an old friend and an articulately descriptive ponderer of the universe. (More J.H. for everyone!)
Tokyo Damage Report - Hilarious with a sense of humour and irony to beat all others. He just moved back to the states from Tokyo, so I can only look forward to what lies in store…
anchored nomad Another hilarious liver-of-life, with an enticingly fun and worldly view of everything!
the long division - Another daily-life blogger who cracks me up.
Well, there are more but I fear losing crucial cranial globules (c'mon! they're those all important squigly, tubular things in the brain!) if I cut-and-paste another thing...
And, on top of this sad blog-deprivation disease I suffer from, I also have a benign cancer that renders me too lazy to list my favorite crème de blog links on my page…
So, to make up for it, here are the few and wonderful blogs that I DO read in no particular order:
Meandering Musings Muster Madness (Texas) A brilliant sense of humour, an always-inspiring creativity, an altruistic determination, and provides a warm and embracing feeling of family and a never-ending game of wit and cleverness.
PureLand Mountain Excellent prose, witty insights about life in Japan, and spot-on, humour-tinted observations about life, nature and everything.
Leprechaun Soup - (Japan) well-written and engaging thoughts from… well, let's just say he's a special and inspiring someone coming home soon…
Random_Speak (Tampa bay, FL) This woman is hilarious! An incredible writer, artist and, I suspect, human being. She cracks me up with her sardonic humour, Onion-esque articles, and her uniquely honest take on the world.
On Gaien Higashi Dori (Japan) An amazing Irish writer who grabs me with his love of nature and the outdoors, incredible photographs and responses to the media at large. (if you're into futbol, or soccer, he's got something for you too!)
Felix's Daily starfish and waffles - Felix (Canada) provides the finest simulated online reality episodes as well as superb cocktail recipes, excellent photographs from travels around the world, and fun musings
Life and other such events (Chennai, India)- Fun anecdotes, stories and thoughts from a banker/thinker/humanist/philosopher in India
Notes from the 'nog - (Japan) Superb writing, thoughts, observations, musings and haikus from a friend and long-time resident guru of my Japanese hometown, “The 'Nog” (also, a great source of good reading material and music!)
Circus freaks in training - (Japan) The entertaining thoughts and experiences of my Canadian sister who lives, breathes and walks the walk of our corner of the rising sun set land. (In person, she can be even more sarcastic and biting than me, if you can believe it!)
The Logic of the silent Cascade - (Boston) A recent addition to the blogosphere, he's an old soul, an old friend and an articulately descriptive ponderer of the universe. (More J.H. for everyone!)
Tokyo Damage Report - Hilarious with a sense of humour and irony to beat all others. He just moved back to the states from Tokyo, so I can only look forward to what lies in store…
anchored nomad Another hilarious liver-of-life, with an enticingly fun and worldly view of everything!
the long division - Another daily-life blogger who cracks me up.
Well, there are more but I fear losing crucial cranial globules (c'mon! they're those all important squigly, tubular things in the brain!) if I cut-and-paste another thing...
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Bigger than a toothpick
What's bigger than a breadbox and smaller than a giraffe wearing prayer flags, a menorah and stigmata piercings through its hooves?
What's warmer than a refrigerated avocado but colder than a draft beer?
What's smarter than an x-box but stupider than a stone?
What's more mobile than a doorknob but less limber than a jellyfish?
What's more inquisitive than an armchair philosopher but less apt to retain the answers than a politician?
What's more alive than a supernova but just as dead as its sister?
What's bundled up in four layers of cotton, fleece and down and still shivering in the sun?
Why, it's ME, of course!, sitting on the shore of Lake Tahoe in the snow, trying to post something to my blog. There are two feet of snow-less pebble beach upon which I sit, but everywhere else is covered in a majestic blanket of new powder (I hear God has his house-keepers on their way to do some vacuuming, but St. Maria called in with laryngitis and St. Carmelita de la Virgen had to pick up her kids from iPod practice...).
The air is crisp, the water calm, and all that I hear is the melting and falling of snow from the pine branches… (well, that, and the loud wailing of my MAC: “Mommy, why are you doing this to me?! I showed you everything I hid from you a few days ago… why must I freeze like this? Remember those documents you thought you lost last year…? Well… get me a hot chocolate and feed my battery, and I can assure their safety for you!)
No but, really… I'd say chilly lakeside solitude is a highly, under-appreciated yet entirely necessary element when it comes to human happiness. (…but, then again, this comes from someone who finds ecstasy in finding a-symmetrically-patterned bird dung on the sidewalk….). But… I'd certainly go so far as to say that the POTENTIAL for glimpses of happiness in sitting by a cold lake in the snow is definitely larger than a breadbox and smaller than a 35.9 katrillion dollar winning Lotto card.
Man... it's beautiful...!
What's warmer than a refrigerated avocado but colder than a draft beer?
What's smarter than an x-box but stupider than a stone?
What's more mobile than a doorknob but less limber than a jellyfish?
What's more inquisitive than an armchair philosopher but less apt to retain the answers than a politician?
What's more alive than a supernova but just as dead as its sister?
What's bundled up in four layers of cotton, fleece and down and still shivering in the sun?
Why, it's ME, of course!, sitting on the shore of Lake Tahoe in the snow, trying to post something to my blog. There are two feet of snow-less pebble beach upon which I sit, but everywhere else is covered in a majestic blanket of new powder (I hear God has his house-keepers on their way to do some vacuuming, but St. Maria called in with laryngitis and St. Carmelita de la Virgen had to pick up her kids from iPod practice...).
The air is crisp, the water calm, and all that I hear is the melting and falling of snow from the pine branches… (well, that, and the loud wailing of my MAC: “Mommy, why are you doing this to me?! I showed you everything I hid from you a few days ago… why must I freeze like this? Remember those documents you thought you lost last year…? Well… get me a hot chocolate and feed my battery, and I can assure their safety for you!)
No but, really… I'd say chilly lakeside solitude is a highly, under-appreciated yet entirely necessary element when it comes to human happiness. (…but, then again, this comes from someone who finds ecstasy in finding a-symmetrically-patterned bird dung on the sidewalk….). But… I'd certainly go so far as to say that the POTENTIAL for glimpses of happiness in sitting by a cold lake in the snow is definitely larger than a breadbox and smaller than a 35.9 katrillion dollar winning Lotto card.
Man... it's beautiful...!
Friday, February 17, 2006
Ring-a-ling, Sting-my-bling
I've been back in the states from Japan for many a month now, and still haven't gotten a cell phone...
Maybe it's that I'm fearful of commitment.
Maybe it's that I'm just plain simple.
Or, maybe it's that I haven't been enticed by the right ring tone yet...
Because, really.... I'm a sucker for sound.
Give me a nice police siren sound as a ring tone with my "homies". Hit me with a bird-call ringer when my hiking peeps are feeling the natural silence. And, ring a fucked-up drumming bridge when chillers from the band are perfecting rhythmic continuity...
Then, maybe, just maybe....
I'll get a cell phone.
But, until then, I'm northward bound for a few days.
I'm catching a U-Haul truck with my father to bring Belgian furniture to my brother up in Oakland, Then, we'll see... Maybe I'll find the right ring tone there (I hear those San Francisco hippies have a lot of absurd sounds up their sleeves), and maybe I'll even sneak a blog post in between ring tone auditions...
Anyway... be back soon with cacophony for the circumspect cell phone owner!
Maybe it's that I'm fearful of commitment.
Maybe it's that I'm just plain simple.
Or, maybe it's that I haven't been enticed by the right ring tone yet...
Because, really.... I'm a sucker for sound.
Give me a nice police siren sound as a ring tone with my "homies". Hit me with a bird-call ringer when my hiking peeps are feeling the natural silence. And, ring a fucked-up drumming bridge when chillers from the band are perfecting rhythmic continuity...
Then, maybe, just maybe....
I'll get a cell phone.
But, until then, I'm northward bound for a few days.
I'm catching a U-Haul truck with my father to bring Belgian furniture to my brother up in Oakland, Then, we'll see... Maybe I'll find the right ring tone there (I hear those San Francisco hippies have a lot of absurd sounds up their sleeves), and maybe I'll even sneak a blog post in between ring tone auditions...
Anyway... be back soon with cacophony for the circumspect cell phone owner!
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Pucks and Dunks
Jack Nicholson's eyes were suavely angled towards the Laker's scoreboard four rows in front of me, and the team's sweat was potable. Filet mignon, fine wine, fun company and an excellent King's come-back tickled my dizzy excitement... How did I get so lucky??...
Rather than plead the fifth, I guess I'll just come clean...
I had to do a few favors, if you know what I mean... (namely, for a donkey and four acne-excited horses).
... Hey, I can't be the ONLY one willing to try new things for tickets to a few professional sports games...
No-- c'mon! Here's what really happened:
A good friend of mine took me to see my second-ever LIVE hockey game (LA vs. Chicago- The Kings came back in OT after a seven-game losing streak! Yeah!)
We were then treated to go out and eat at a high-class, $35 a plate restaurant where we tried to converse in multiple languages and play "How many eyebrows can you raise with inappropriate antics?"
We chatted about world destinations, snowflake types, unconventional parking lot motifs, and finally invented a spilt-wine coverup story that involved the accidental collision of innocent dining pedestrians, blinded by the luminescence of a fallen fork.
We were then generously bought tickets for the Lakers basketball game, and ended up sitting court-side and cheering...
And... well... I never thought I'd say this more than once... but I think I'm really getting a crush on watching live professional sports.
... but, please scar and leather me if I ever start tossing around names of famous athletes (or if I ever learn their significant others' hobbies and pass-times...)
After all,
Pucks are for fucks,
Dunks are for monks,
And, Sports
are for those in
tight, lycra shor--
(*p.s.- I made up the horses, but... well... let's just say that some donkeys can be more charming than you'd think... especially when they put on a tuxedo and dot their thick, firm neck with cologne...)
Rather than plead the fifth, I guess I'll just come clean...
I had to do a few favors, if you know what I mean... (namely, for a donkey and four acne-excited horses).
... Hey, I can't be the ONLY one willing to try new things for tickets to a few professional sports games...
No-- c'mon! Here's what really happened:
A good friend of mine took me to see my second-ever LIVE hockey game (LA vs. Chicago- The Kings came back in OT after a seven-game losing streak! Yeah!)
We were then treated to go out and eat at a high-class, $35 a plate restaurant where we tried to converse in multiple languages and play "How many eyebrows can you raise with inappropriate antics?"
We chatted about world destinations, snowflake types, unconventional parking lot motifs, and finally invented a spilt-wine coverup story that involved the accidental collision of innocent dining pedestrians, blinded by the luminescence of a fallen fork.
We were then generously bought tickets for the Lakers basketball game, and ended up sitting court-side and cheering...
And... well... I never thought I'd say this more than once... but I think I'm really getting a crush on watching live professional sports.
... but, please scar and leather me if I ever start tossing around names of famous athletes (or if I ever learn their significant others' hobbies and pass-times...)
After all,
Pucks are for fucks,
Dunks are for monks,
And, Sports
are for those in
tight, lycra shor--
(*p.s.- I made up the horses, but... well... let's just say that some donkeys can be more charming than you'd think... especially when they put on a tuxedo and dot their thick, firm neck with cologne...)
Friday, February 10, 2006
Unlawful En-peachment
So, here in the states, there's been a lot of talk about government spying, bird droppings on eaves, and targeting of individuals who use coded "terrorist phrases" in their e-mails (like "protection of Uncle Bill's amendments to his pre-nuptual," "the Paparrazi dive under Paris Hilton's sheets again," and "the eagle has landed, and the Administration is out scuba-diving with imported parrots")...
Now, I don't really want to get into this, but I WILL state the one conviction of mine that I feel very strongly about, and that is:
My privates should be kept out of the public sector!
And, I don't think I'm being too extreme or close-minded on this one either... Afterall, my privates are my special, sacred places! Even my grandma (God/Allah/Winged Platypus, rest her soul!) told me, "Always keep 'em clean and keep 'em safe!"
And... I just can't argue with my grandma.
No one touches or plays with my privates without permission, and no one has the right to fire me from my job, en-peach me (the act of exiling a person to the center of a Giant Peach- What?! Did you think James was all that sexually innocent?) for my privates' recreational habits..., AND, it is absolutely inexcusable to put my privates' profiles in a 'Possible Terrorist Threat' folder just because they are (--even if I DO say so myself--) of exceptionally high ogling-quality!
And that's that. I'm pretty firm on this one... just as I am on my belief in the Separation of Church and Slate-mining, and Toothpaste and Orange juice...
And yet... I can't help but want to share my personal life excitements with my blogging buddies in the public sphere... So, to celebrate the hideous hypocrite within all of us, I now reveal today's ecstatic, fourth amendment-protected sentiments...:
I just got the BEST Valentines card in my mailbox I have ever received, and I can't stop smiling! (Now, understand that I hate the holiday, and would rather suck salmon eyeballs through a straw than entertain the Hallmark Day's silliness...but...)
Nothing beats a hand-made card packed with musings, drawings and sincerity from someone you miss.
(...well... except maybe a snow leopard singing karaoke from the middle of a pile of hot, naked surfers covered in complimentary colored paint, pious poetry, and freshly-fallen powder....- but that's to be saved for the 'Private Sphere of Fantasy and Pornography'--- Coming soon to a Blog near you!)
Now, I don't really want to get into this, but I WILL state the one conviction of mine that I feel very strongly about, and that is:
My privates should be kept out of the public sector!
And, I don't think I'm being too extreme or close-minded on this one either... Afterall, my privates are my special, sacred places! Even my grandma (God/Allah/Winged Platypus, rest her soul!) told me, "Always keep 'em clean and keep 'em safe!"
And... I just can't argue with my grandma.
No one touches or plays with my privates without permission, and no one has the right to fire me from my job, en-peach me (the act of exiling a person to the center of a Giant Peach- What?! Did you think James was all that sexually innocent?) for my privates' recreational habits..., AND, it is absolutely inexcusable to put my privates' profiles in a 'Possible Terrorist Threat' folder just because they are (--even if I DO say so myself--) of exceptionally high ogling-quality!
And that's that. I'm pretty firm on this one... just as I am on my belief in the Separation of Church and Slate-mining, and Toothpaste and Orange juice...
And yet... I can't help but want to share my personal life excitements with my blogging buddies in the public sphere... So, to celebrate the hideous hypocrite within all of us, I now reveal today's ecstatic, fourth amendment-protected sentiments...:
I just got the BEST Valentines card in my mailbox I have ever received, and I can't stop smiling! (Now, understand that I hate the holiday, and would rather suck salmon eyeballs through a straw than entertain the Hallmark Day's silliness...but...)
Nothing beats a hand-made card packed with musings, drawings and sincerity from someone you miss.
(...well... except maybe a snow leopard singing karaoke from the middle of a pile of hot, naked surfers covered in complimentary colored paint, pious poetry, and freshly-fallen powder....- but that's to be saved for the 'Private Sphere of Fantasy and Pornography'--- Coming soon to a Blog near you!)
Monday, February 06, 2006
Cantaloupe Cascade
Over the river, through the woods, and just north of the yoga mats and fruit smoothie trees in the strawberry fields, there's a little trailhead guarded by a wooden box housing informational brochures about life, the universe, and the governing properties of existence.
For a small donation, you can grab a brochure and a long-armed Pogo pygmaeus (an orangutang) to walk hand-in-hand with you along the spongy path to the Cantaloupe Cascade...
(...it's quite a vision indeed... trickling melons... the spray of sticky orange goop on your face... the occasional white seed of eternal youth..--Lonely Planet rated this waterfall the most magical, untouched location on Earth... that was..., until they published its coordinates in their "Off-the-beaten-track, Utopian Destinations for just-out-of-college-gonna-travel-and-see-the-world-for-six-months, Life Meaning-Searchers" section, and its babbling brook began to whisper fraternity phrases and offer complimentary cantaloupe bong hits--...)
Anyway, though, tourist-tainted beauty and recreational melon use aside... Have a look at the brochure, and you'll find a few important secrets about the chaos-governed universe and the greed-groped human state.
Now..., I only know this from a seventh-hand source..., but I hear this Cantaloupe Cascade Brochure has some pretty crazy and insightful ideas to offer. For example, it states that:
*Eggs wobbling right before an earthquake can upset the molecular structure of sea horse cells on the opposite side of the globe and turn the buggers homosexual...
*... spaghetti that sticks to the wall after having been raised and boiled to techno music is 53% more likely to fall when the song changes (compared to 57% of Country/Western-raised pasta who opt to cling to the vertical paint until well into a song's first chorus)...
*... human beings are Imperfect, and sometimes stop to ogle the nutritional ingredients on Capt'n Crunch cereal boxes, whereas wheat sprouts do not.
*... nature vs. nurture discussions are best saved for those with appropriate professional qualifications (like Jerry Springer's producers, dudes who pawn uteruses for flat-screen T.V.s, and protozoan-american schooll teachers).
*... and, there is a universal, inherent buttered-toast truth that states that (despite Murphy's insecurity issues), bread should go ahead and fall on the floor however it damn well pleases!... Butter-side Up, Down, Sideways, Leaning or with a few fit strips of bacon licking its crusts!
I'm telling you...! I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who... who, well, knew someone who'd read the brochure and hiked the Cantaloupe Cascade trail.
I wouldn't make this stuff up, people!
For a small donation, you can grab a brochure and a long-armed Pogo pygmaeus (an orangutang) to walk hand-in-hand with you along the spongy path to the Cantaloupe Cascade...
(...it's quite a vision indeed... trickling melons... the spray of sticky orange goop on your face... the occasional white seed of eternal youth..--Lonely Planet rated this waterfall the most magical, untouched location on Earth... that was..., until they published its coordinates in their "Off-the-beaten-track, Utopian Destinations for just-out-of-college-gonna-travel-and-see-the-world-for-six-months, Life Meaning-Searchers" section, and its babbling brook began to whisper fraternity phrases and offer complimentary cantaloupe bong hits--...)
Anyway, though, tourist-tainted beauty and recreational melon use aside... Have a look at the brochure, and you'll find a few important secrets about the chaos-governed universe and the greed-groped human state.
Now..., I only know this from a seventh-hand source..., but I hear this Cantaloupe Cascade Brochure has some pretty crazy and insightful ideas to offer. For example, it states that:
*Eggs wobbling right before an earthquake can upset the molecular structure of sea horse cells on the opposite side of the globe and turn the buggers homosexual...
*... spaghetti that sticks to the wall after having been raised and boiled to techno music is 53% more likely to fall when the song changes (compared to 57% of Country/Western-raised pasta who opt to cling to the vertical paint until well into a song's first chorus)...
*... human beings are Imperfect, and sometimes stop to ogle the nutritional ingredients on Capt'n Crunch cereal boxes, whereas wheat sprouts do not.
*... nature vs. nurture discussions are best saved for those with appropriate professional qualifications (like Jerry Springer's producers, dudes who pawn uteruses for flat-screen T.V.s, and protozoan-american schooll teachers).
*... and, there is a universal, inherent buttered-toast truth that states that (despite Murphy's insecurity issues), bread should go ahead and fall on the floor however it damn well pleases!... Butter-side Up, Down, Sideways, Leaning or with a few fit strips of bacon licking its crusts!
I'm telling you...! I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who... who, well, knew someone who'd read the brochure and hiked the Cantaloupe Cascade trail.
I wouldn't make this stuff up, people!
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Self-censorship
For the first time ever, I just deleted a previously-published post.
I had to give the boot to "The Aristocrats",
because it was just too inappropriately disgusting and offensive
...even for me!
I know, I know... Lucifer is shivering...
I had to give the boot to "The Aristocrats",
because it was just too inappropriately disgusting and offensive
...even for me!
I know, I know... Lucifer is shivering...
Monday, January 30, 2006
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."
-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."
Saturday, January 28, 2006
"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.
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.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
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...)
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...)
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
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?
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?
Monday, January 23, 2006
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.
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.
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