I've finally added blog links.
Most are my real-life friends.
Some are real-life blog buddies of a few years.
And the other two... well..., I don't know who they are.
If I've forgotten you, talk to my editors.
They are lazy luddites, but are very kind.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Poultry as Passage
Discreetly wrapping up your first pair of blood-stained panties and burying them at the bottom of the campground dumpster…
Getting your first pocket knife and carving your name into a picnic table… Hearing, for the first time, that giving birth is like squeezing a razor blade-adorned watermelon through your throat…Writing your first poem and reading it to a mirror… Divulging, on your knees, your first Jaegermeister to a receptive porcelain ear... Boarding a plane alone, for the first time, to a foreign place… Learning to finger unknown Beethoven movements on your own smooth corpora cavernosa glans… being poked in a sensitive zone where no pocket knife has been before…
These are true Rites of Passage.
And, well…, I thought since I’d spelunked these passages before, I was pretty much done with the Coming-Of-Age ritualistic nonsense.
I mean…, What other silliness could there really be left?
I’ve already ridden without training wheels, navigated my first munchies, slept on cardboard boxes, signed soul-claiming contracts, and braved the consumption of VeggieMite…
There couldn’t possibly be more ticket-checkers, waiting to negotiate my passage into adulthood, could there?…
Yes, there could.
I learned yesterday, that there is a dude (who also works minimum-wage security at the rio of Stix border) standing at the gates of Adulthood, checking to make sure that all United-states-of-Americans have cooked their own Thanksgiving meals (without the help of their families).
I learned that if you are a USA passport-holder and have not yet a)burned a witch, b)been a CIA snitch abroad or c)baked a bird bitch for the holidays, you will be denied passage to the Land of Grown-Upedness.
Fearful that we wouldn’t make it past the frontera and would remain perpetual stag-party brothers of Peter Pan, Mr. E and I decided yesterday to roast an innocent winged beast, stuff her with tasty potions, and give her company on the plate.
After six hours, our meal turned out great (despite our many outspoken exclamations of “What the hell is this globby thing?!”, “Are her legs supposed to be limply flailing like that?!” and “What?! You have to cook a casserole?!”).
We are both ecstatic.
But…,
Both of our Visas are still mysteriously pending at the border…
Getting your first pocket knife and carving your name into a picnic table… Hearing, for the first time, that giving birth is like squeezing a razor blade-adorned watermelon through your throat…Writing your first poem and reading it to a mirror… Divulging, on your knees, your first Jaegermeister to a receptive porcelain ear... Boarding a plane alone, for the first time, to a foreign place… Learning to finger unknown Beethoven movements on your own smooth corpora cavernosa glans… being poked in a sensitive zone where no pocket knife has been before…
These are true Rites of Passage.
And, well…, I thought since I’d spelunked these passages before, I was pretty much done with the Coming-Of-Age ritualistic nonsense.
I mean…, What other silliness could there really be left?
I’ve already ridden without training wheels, navigated my first munchies, slept on cardboard boxes, signed soul-claiming contracts, and braved the consumption of VeggieMite…
There couldn’t possibly be more ticket-checkers, waiting to negotiate my passage into adulthood, could there?…
Yes, there could.
I learned yesterday, that there is a dude (who also works minimum-wage security at the rio of Stix border) standing at the gates of Adulthood, checking to make sure that all United-states-of-Americans have cooked their own Thanksgiving meals (without the help of their families).
I learned that if you are a USA passport-holder and have not yet a)burned a witch, b)been a CIA snitch abroad or c)baked a bird bitch for the holidays, you will be denied passage to the Land of Grown-Upedness.
Fearful that we wouldn’t make it past the frontera and would remain perpetual stag-party brothers of Peter Pan, Mr. E and I decided yesterday to roast an innocent winged beast, stuff her with tasty potions, and give her company on the plate.
After six hours, our meal turned out great (despite our many outspoken exclamations of “What the hell is this globby thing?!”, “Are her legs supposed to be limply flailing like that?!” and “What?! You have to cook a casserole?!”).
We are both ecstatic.
But…,
Both of our Visas are still mysteriously pending at the border…
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Of Teet-sharing and Dear-Diarying
I’ve never been much for the I-went-here-today-saw-this-felt-that kind of blog post.
…Especially when the places been, the things seen, and the feelings felt are of the pretty mundane, had-orange-juice-and-coffee-for-breakfast-and-am-feeling-kinda-bloated ilk…
But, what can I say? I’m lazy, have been neglecting my blog a lot recently, and I had orange juice and coffee for breakfast today. And yes, I am feeling slightly bloated.
So, here goes the kind of post I usually hate:
My week in a shelled pair of nuts
Taught some English. Took some walks. Had a life-sized, self-defense doll sporting a green belt sit next to me on the bus. Unraveled the mysteries of when to use definite articles with uncountable nouns (mainly when the dry martini well at the party dries up…). Facilitated crude compare-contrast conversation with Japanese students at a bar after visiting a home-grown American sex shop. Hit a surprisingly decent open-mike night (spoken-worders, young-angsters, expired rockers, dark eccentrics and tabla poets). Became an official Washingtonian (the trip to the Department of Licensing was so amazingly stress-free that I might just as well have been getting a teet massage from Buddha himself). Checked out my dad’s recently uploaded site (so much for blogger anonymity!) Watched and was disappointed by Borat (c’mon! a little less drama, and a little more docu!). Was informed by my veiled Saudi Arabian student that humans used to live for thousands of years. Read some of this and this. Ate some burrito made by a white woman (go Seattle!). Drank some orange juice. Took a few shits….
And there we have it: my best attempt at a Dear Diary entry.
Well, the sooner I quit this uninspired post, the better.
(Yes, I’m still practicing my double comparatives!)
And, finally…, here’s a squirrel sucking from a momma dog’s lactating boob.
...yup.
…Especially when the places been, the things seen, and the feelings felt are of the pretty mundane, had-orange-juice-and-coffee-for-breakfast-and-am-feeling-kinda-bloated ilk…
But, what can I say? I’m lazy, have been neglecting my blog a lot recently, and I had orange juice and coffee for breakfast today. And yes, I am feeling slightly bloated.
So, here goes the kind of post I usually hate:
My week in a shelled pair of nuts
Taught some English. Took some walks. Had a life-sized, self-defense doll sporting a green belt sit next to me on the bus. Unraveled the mysteries of when to use definite articles with uncountable nouns (mainly when the dry martini well at the party dries up…). Facilitated crude compare-contrast conversation with Japanese students at a bar after visiting a home-grown American sex shop. Hit a surprisingly decent open-mike night (spoken-worders, young-angsters, expired rockers, dark eccentrics and tabla poets). Became an official Washingtonian (the trip to the Department of Licensing was so amazingly stress-free that I might just as well have been getting a teet massage from Buddha himself). Checked out my dad’s recently uploaded site (so much for blogger anonymity!) Watched and was disappointed by Borat (c’mon! a little less drama, and a little more docu!). Was informed by my veiled Saudi Arabian student that humans used to live for thousands of years. Read some of this and this. Ate some burrito made by a white woman (go Seattle!). Drank some orange juice. Took a few shits….
And there we have it: my best attempt at a Dear Diary entry.
Well, the sooner I quit this uninspired post, the better.
(Yes, I’m still practicing my double comparatives!)
And, finally…, here’s a squirrel sucking from a momma dog’s lactating boob.
...yup.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Erection Day Sigh
There are no keys on this laptop that can accurately express the long sigh of ecstatic relief/hope/pride I am feeling and exhaling right now for my country.
(Perhaps, if I were more versed in the young email-cum-text message language of LOLs and OMGs, I could illustrate it with a few semicolons and closing parenthesis, a smattering of custom smiley faces or a long series of dashes, apostrophes and backslashes artistically arranged… but, alas…)
The only way I can describe this feeling is to compare it to the emotions I might feel if I had just learned that my beloved, younger brother (who had been a clown-costumed criminal, crack-burning crony for 19 years and a male-bride-ordering sexaholic with an affinity for building meth labs inside of National Parks) had just finished Rehab and now sported 10 months of sobriety notches on his belt.
Aaahh, yes…. the sincere pride, admiration, respect, hope and love for a dear brother who has moved his chemical drug factories out of the old-growth forests and into the new….
Happy Election Results Day!
(Perhaps, if I were more versed in the young email-cum-text message language of LOLs and OMGs, I could illustrate it with a few semicolons and closing parenthesis, a smattering of custom smiley faces or a long series of dashes, apostrophes and backslashes artistically arranged… but, alas…)
The only way I can describe this feeling is to compare it to the emotions I might feel if I had just learned that my beloved, younger brother (who had been a clown-costumed criminal, crack-burning crony for 19 years and a male-bride-ordering sexaholic with an affinity for building meth labs inside of National Parks) had just finished Rehab and now sported 10 months of sobriety notches on his belt.
Aaahh, yes…. the sincere pride, admiration, respect, hope and love for a dear brother who has moved his chemical drug factories out of the old-growth forests and into the new….
Happy Election Results Day!
Friday, November 03, 2006
The hotter, the better
Last Tuesday was Hallow's Eve, and I've been meaning to post about it for a few days now.
I've got great gaudy, raunchy and sensibility-wrenching raw tales of Japanese students in thimble-sized skirts and wanton, western-French maid get-ups...., detailed descriptions and candid shots of promiscuously-dressed, pecker peek-invoking Peter Pan iron-ons, shamelessly sexy scenes from innocent exchange students in tall stockings, stories of stretched napkin bosom sheaths and high-heeled ruby-studded leather boots...
But..., the time has passed…
The blogosphere has left Halloween behind in its laundry basket.
Used and ready for recycling.
No..., the truth is that I would feel slightly exploitive – if not REALLY WRONG- using my curvaceous, nubile, whore-adorning language learners as blog post attractions...
(... plus, I think it's illegal to post those kind of shots without ethical clearance.
...even if the featured models DO dress and act like the type who would giggle and apologize while saying no and gasping as you stuck an antler up their rear kettle spout....)
Honestly, though…, I have spent the better part of a week disguising explanations of the possible cultural/anatomical implications of dressing like a dirty skag beneath target grammar points.
For example, Wednesday, we studied Double Comparatives (i.e. “The more it rains, the wetter I get,” and “The earlier I wake up, the more time I have to masturbate,” etc.)
So, I tried a few “Complete-the-sentence” games with them:
Me: The more I speak English…,
Students: … the more confident I become.
Me: The more fast-food I eat…,
Students: … the more weight I gain.
Me: The shorter my skirt is,….
Students: …the cuter I look.
Me: The more leg, ass and pubic hairs a bystander can see…,
Students: … the cuter I look.
Now…, I don’t know if I’m just becoming old and over-protective, or if these alleged college graduates are just still that ridiculously naïve…
But, I DO know that the next student wearing a hoola-hoop of fabric ‘round her waist who complains about obnoxious male suitors at the bus stop will get a free double comparative lesson from me:
The sluttier you look, the more slut-seekers you’ll attract.
And the more slut-seekers you attract, the...
I've got great gaudy, raunchy and sensibility-wrenching raw tales of Japanese students in thimble-sized skirts and wanton, western-French maid get-ups...., detailed descriptions and candid shots of promiscuously-dressed, pecker peek-invoking Peter Pan iron-ons, shamelessly sexy scenes from innocent exchange students in tall stockings, stories of stretched napkin bosom sheaths and high-heeled ruby-studded leather boots...
But..., the time has passed…
The blogosphere has left Halloween behind in its laundry basket.
Used and ready for recycling.
No..., the truth is that I would feel slightly exploitive – if not REALLY WRONG- using my curvaceous, nubile, whore-adorning language learners as blog post attractions...
(... plus, I think it's illegal to post those kind of shots without ethical clearance.
...even if the featured models DO dress and act like the type who would giggle and apologize while saying no and gasping as you stuck an antler up their rear kettle spout....)
Honestly, though…, I have spent the better part of a week disguising explanations of the possible cultural/anatomical implications of dressing like a dirty skag beneath target grammar points.
For example, Wednesday, we studied Double Comparatives (i.e. “The more it rains, the wetter I get,” and “The earlier I wake up, the more time I have to masturbate,” etc.)
So, I tried a few “Complete-the-sentence” games with them:
Me: The more I speak English…,
Students: … the more confident I become.
Me: The more fast-food I eat…,
Students: … the more weight I gain.
Me: The shorter my skirt is,….
Students: …the cuter I look.
Me: The more leg, ass and pubic hairs a bystander can see…,
Students: … the cuter I look.
Now…, I don’t know if I’m just becoming old and over-protective, or if these alleged college graduates are just still that ridiculously naïve…
But, I DO know that the next student wearing a hoola-hoop of fabric ‘round her waist who complains about obnoxious male suitors at the bus stop will get a free double comparative lesson from me:
The sluttier you look, the more slut-seekers you’ll attract.
And the more slut-seekers you attract, the...
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Diamond Voyeurs find Puff
Here I am, peering in through -c's window. A peeping Tom, if you will… Lady Godiva’s reincarnated voyeur…
Her boyfriend (-c’s, that is, not Lady Godiva’s) is out, working at the Bodies Exhibit.
She has no T.V.
Her stereo is turned off.
And, she is…, Oh My Lord!...
She is fixing a cup of tea.
And, now, sweet Madre de Maria!, she is solving for the slope of two given graph points on the back of a Trader Joe’s receipt!
(The absolutely heinous and shocking obscenity of it all!)
Wait!—now she has discarded her tired receipt and is scribbling lesson plan notes on post-its inside an ESL textbook!
(What crude and immodest acts of disgust!)
And… hold on… could it be??!!
She is googling something…
I can’t exactly make out what she has typed in…., but I can see that it has something to do with swollen eyelids, past-continuous conversational topics and WIRED magazine subscriptions…
Oh well…, no nude, dish-washing going on here…
Time to move on to the next window…
(If you only knew how many duds we voyeurs come across in search of gems!)
Her boyfriend (-c’s, that is, not Lady Godiva’s) is out, working at the Bodies Exhibit.
She has no T.V.
Her stereo is turned off.
And, she is…, Oh My Lord!...
She is fixing a cup of tea.
And, now, sweet Madre de Maria!, she is solving for the slope of two given graph points on the back of a Trader Joe’s receipt!
(The absolutely heinous and shocking obscenity of it all!)
Wait!—now she has discarded her tired receipt and is scribbling lesson plan notes on post-its inside an ESL textbook!
(What crude and immodest acts of disgust!)
And… hold on… could it be??!!
She is googling something…
I can’t exactly make out what she has typed in…., but I can see that it has something to do with swollen eyelids, past-continuous conversational topics and WIRED magazine subscriptions…
Oh well…, no nude, dish-washing going on here…
Time to move on to the next window…
(If you only knew how many duds we voyeurs come across in search of gems!)
Friday, October 27, 2006
One Way (USA WAY) or Another...
Break out the bubbly, put on a skanky dress, ready your dancing shoes—there’s gonna be a party!
In a few days I’ll celebrate my one year and two month anniversary of living back in the US of A after quite a few years of travel affairs and global male mistresses!
My partner (the US of A) and I are absolutely thrilled!
Honestly…, neither of us really thought it would last this long…
He was sure I would run off with the first intriguing, dimwit foreign Country I met who offered promises of excitement and wonder…
And, I was sure he’d bore me to exile with his predictable desires, monotonous stories, and apathy towards his own dimwit cranial Administrations…
But…, we both surprised each other, and are still happily honey-mooning in development-inspiring exploration and quest-questioning passion (…despite his lack of critical attention to his dimwit cranial administration…)!
So…, raise a glass!, put on a punny Halloween costume!, slash an over-handed smile at someone unexpected!, and wish me a happy current life with the US of A!
After all…, anniversaries celebrate the most un-expected and primordially exciting, entertainingly beguiling, and symbolically soul-salt-licking situations of all occasions…!
(...PLUS, they give you reigns to wear pom-poms on your head, paint on your knees, obscure bandanas around your joints, eye-patches on your ears, fangs in your nose and shower curtains 'round your ankles when you feel like dressing up!!)
In a few days I’ll celebrate my one year and two month anniversary of living back in the US of A after quite a few years of travel affairs and global male mistresses!
My partner (the US of A) and I are absolutely thrilled!
Honestly…, neither of us really thought it would last this long…
He was sure I would run off with the first intriguing, dimwit foreign Country I met who offered promises of excitement and wonder…
And, I was sure he’d bore me to exile with his predictable desires, monotonous stories, and apathy towards his own dimwit cranial Administrations…
But…, we both surprised each other, and are still happily honey-mooning in development-inspiring exploration and quest-questioning passion (…despite his lack of critical attention to his dimwit cranial administration…)!
So…, raise a glass!, put on a punny Halloween costume!, slash an over-handed smile at someone unexpected!, and wish me a happy current life with the US of A!
After all…, anniversaries celebrate the most un-expected and primordially exciting, entertainingly beguiling, and symbolically soul-salt-licking situations of all occasions…!
(...PLUS, they give you reigns to wear pom-poms on your head, paint on your knees, obscure bandanas around your joints, eye-patches on your ears, fangs in your nose and shower curtains 'round your ankles when you feel like dressing up!!)
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Erecting Baz
I actually sat down to write about Baz.
(He’s the old man I talk to every morning at the bus stop who’s got a story for every beer and a Whiskey for every myth…)
He’s got enough unintentional defecation anecdotes to burry a Golden Shower Fantasizer, and can sing the original lyrics to “She’ll be cummin’ ‘round the brown mountain when she comes…”
But…, unfortunately my creative muse has begun whinging about our possible dives into fecal matter and memory loss, and has staged a sit-in.
So..., what I’m left with are controversial and entertaining bits of real news (the homosexual penguin exhibit in Norway, Allegations of the Spanish King shooting a piss-drunk bear, Seattle’s new Metro-sexual invoking Slogan, silliness supporting/opposing my long-standing love of Ali G’s character: Borat, and frustrated remnants from a sunny day of studying for the Washington Teacher Skills Test)….
So, I’ll just complain about the studying…
Samuel is 2 inches taller than Rudy and Rudy loves dick. James does not love dick but he can white-wash a wall in four hours. Rudy is ¾ of an inch taller than James when he is white-washing but shrinks to ¼ of Samuel’s size when he is painting a window sill. Samuel can white-wash a wall in half an hour if no one else’s height exceeds Samuel’s minimum length. James is 1 inch taller than Samuel when he is not white-washing, but gains 2% of his ordinary white-washing length when he touches brush-stroked sill. If James ordinarily operates at 5/17 the same length and painting speed as Samuel, how long will it take James to paint a window sill alone, and how tall will Rudy be?
I swear, these are the type of questions they are asking a potential teacher here in Washington state…
Somehow, I think the skills I learned in high school, along with the observations, could come in handy just about now….
(He’s the old man I talk to every morning at the bus stop who’s got a story for every beer and a Whiskey for every myth…)
He’s got enough unintentional defecation anecdotes to burry a Golden Shower Fantasizer, and can sing the original lyrics to “She’ll be cummin’ ‘round the brown mountain when she comes…”
But…, unfortunately my creative muse has begun whinging about our possible dives into fecal matter and memory loss, and has staged a sit-in.
So..., what I’m left with are controversial and entertaining bits of real news (the homosexual penguin exhibit in Norway, Allegations of the Spanish King shooting a piss-drunk bear, Seattle’s new Metro-sexual invoking Slogan, silliness supporting/opposing my long-standing love of Ali G’s character: Borat, and frustrated remnants from a sunny day of studying for the Washington Teacher Skills Test)….
So, I’ll just complain about the studying…
Samuel is 2 inches taller than Rudy and Rudy loves dick. James does not love dick but he can white-wash a wall in four hours. Rudy is ¾ of an inch taller than James when he is white-washing but shrinks to ¼ of Samuel’s size when he is painting a window sill. Samuel can white-wash a wall in half an hour if no one else’s height exceeds Samuel’s minimum length. James is 1 inch taller than Samuel when he is not white-washing, but gains 2% of his ordinary white-washing length when he touches brush-stroked sill. If James ordinarily operates at 5/17 the same length and painting speed as Samuel, how long will it take James to paint a window sill alone, and how tall will Rudy be?
I swear, these are the type of questions they are asking a potential teacher here in Washington state…
Somehow, I think the skills I learned in high school, along with the observations, could come in handy just about now….
Monday, October 09, 2006
Of Fatred and freed Dryer sheets
My friend told me it was meant to be; it was Destiny.
I mean, yeah, OK, I’d go on a date with him any day… But…, destiny?
I’d hold his hand while staring into his cosmic eyes, and we’d navigate the uncomfortable silences with talk of today and tomorrow; of hermit crabs and honeydew, radishes and Rohipnol, and of sand dollars and salami….
Yup…, if I could choose anyone to go on a blind date with, it would definitely be this hunk. He’s got everything a girl could want: confidence, creativity, power, humility, sensitivity and girth… And, to top it off, he’s got the best sense of humour of anyone you’ll ever meet!
Yeah, he’s got it all (… and a beautifully comedic lack of explanation for any of it).
So, who is this exciting and spontaneous blind date candidate of my moist dreams?
Well..,, as I’ve never worried about over-using fondue clichés here before…, I’ll just go ahead and tell you…:
He’s (and here’s where we dip our skewered clichés in fondue cheese together…):
The Universe, The Genetically-altered Jellyfish, and Everything.
And it’s because of the daily prospects for a blind date with this romance-improvising catch that I can confidently refute my friends’ claims of “fate” and “destiny” as explanations for the strange things that happen in our lives.
After all, the blind date of MY fantasies has no plans. He might surprise me by wearing a a flowered MooMoo with baby bonnet to meet my parents one day, and sport a $1000 pin-striped suit with matching ballet slippers and tentacle-protectors to the laundromat the next.
But, he certainly doesn’t care much who I haphazardly meet, or what serendipitous opportunities arise from random encounters…
BUT…, on the other hand…, blind dates aren’t always meant to be...,
and I do sometimes feel like there is something incredibly magical going on in the world to make things fall, Paulo Coehlo-style, into unjustified puzzle piece place (“…as if the universe were conspiring to make it so…”).
I mean, how else could you explain arriving at the laundry machines at exactly the moment your washing and drying simultaneously finish and a Russian neighbor catapults the door open with dirty socks flying, dryer sheets fluttering in the sunset dusk, and the lost black cat appearing after a week-long absence??
Or, when your best friend from NY visits for the weekend, and the planets align to allow Dylan parodies, art openings, wilting inflatable mattresses, Trader Joe’s wine bottle line-ups and finger-scooped brie to become fantastic, laughter-filled memories…?
Or when journalism-aspiring immigration workers meet children’s book illustrators/musical geniuses and esl-teaching/obscure blog-post hobbyists for bouts of ferry trips, tide-trapping beach hikes, and acapella renditions of “I love little baby ducks, small pick-up trucks, ….and onions!” …??
So, here’s to blind dates that show up when least expected!
To the chaotic beauty of existence, and to the three Norse Norns whose watering buckets might still accidentally spill on our porch weeds when we’re busy worrying about the bandit orangutang raping our kittens!
And to Columbus (who did some sailing and, by some arbitrary advertising scheme of fate, got me the day off of work today), to old friends in new places, bold charades in old faces, Thai food buffets, blackberry bushes going into dormancy, morning Mimosas, egg and swiss on bagels, the NY Times, little baby ducks, birds of the world,
…and squirrels.
*P.s. for those who don’t know the brilliant, poetic lyrics that manage to rhyme “birds of the world” with “squirrel” and “onion” with “tomatoes on the vine” and “kisses from a child”, have a re’listen to this song. It’s fantastic! The giggles it invokes should definitely make it well worth the time!
I mean, yeah, OK, I’d go on a date with him any day… But…, destiny?
I’d hold his hand while staring into his cosmic eyes, and we’d navigate the uncomfortable silences with talk of today and tomorrow; of hermit crabs and honeydew, radishes and Rohipnol, and of sand dollars and salami….
Yup…, if I could choose anyone to go on a blind date with, it would definitely be this hunk. He’s got everything a girl could want: confidence, creativity, power, humility, sensitivity and girth… And, to top it off, he’s got the best sense of humour of anyone you’ll ever meet!
Yeah, he’s got it all (… and a beautifully comedic lack of explanation for any of it).
So, who is this exciting and spontaneous blind date candidate of my moist dreams?
Well..,, as I’ve never worried about over-using fondue clichés here before…, I’ll just go ahead and tell you…:
He’s (and here’s where we dip our skewered clichés in fondue cheese together…):
The Universe, The Genetically-altered Jellyfish, and Everything.
And it’s because of the daily prospects for a blind date with this romance-improvising catch that I can confidently refute my friends’ claims of “fate” and “destiny” as explanations for the strange things that happen in our lives.
After all, the blind date of MY fantasies has no plans. He might surprise me by wearing a a flowered MooMoo with baby bonnet to meet my parents one day, and sport a $1000 pin-striped suit with matching ballet slippers and tentacle-protectors to the laundromat the next.
But, he certainly doesn’t care much who I haphazardly meet, or what serendipitous opportunities arise from random encounters…
BUT…, on the other hand…, blind dates aren’t always meant to be...,
and I do sometimes feel like there is something incredibly magical going on in the world to make things fall, Paulo Coehlo-style, into unjustified puzzle piece place (“…as if the universe were conspiring to make it so…”).
I mean, how else could you explain arriving at the laundry machines at exactly the moment your washing and drying simultaneously finish and a Russian neighbor catapults the door open with dirty socks flying, dryer sheets fluttering in the sunset dusk, and the lost black cat appearing after a week-long absence??
Or, when your best friend from NY visits for the weekend, and the planets align to allow Dylan parodies, art openings, wilting inflatable mattresses, Trader Joe’s wine bottle line-ups and finger-scooped brie to become fantastic, laughter-filled memories…?
Or when journalism-aspiring immigration workers meet children’s book illustrators/musical geniuses and esl-teaching/obscure blog-post hobbyists for bouts of ferry trips, tide-trapping beach hikes, and acapella renditions of “I love little baby ducks, small pick-up trucks, ….and onions!” …??
So, here’s to blind dates that show up when least expected!
To the chaotic beauty of existence, and to the three Norse Norns whose watering buckets might still accidentally spill on our porch weeds when we’re busy worrying about the bandit orangutang raping our kittens!
And to Columbus (who did some sailing and, by some arbitrary advertising scheme of fate, got me the day off of work today), to old friends in new places, bold charades in old faces, Thai food buffets, blackberry bushes going into dormancy, morning Mimosas, egg and swiss on bagels, the NY Times, little baby ducks, birds of the world,
…and squirrels.
*P.s. for those who don’t know the brilliant, poetic lyrics that manage to rhyme “birds of the world” with “squirrel” and “onion” with “tomatoes on the vine” and “kisses from a child”, have a re’listen to this song. It’s fantastic! The giggles it invokes should definitely make it well worth the time!
Sunday, October 01, 2006
And then, Nanobot created Cover Letters
So, you're sitting on the deck, inhaling sun, slurpin' down heat for the winter, imagining the day when nanobots rule your body and autonomously administer nutrients and anecdotal stories via wireless networking systems…
What do you think you’re doing?!
You’re supposed to be critiquing and perfecting your students’ internship cover letters!
(…granted, this is slightly hilarious, considering that the cover letter that won you your current position reads like a bumbling Hunter S, Thompson correspondence penned under bath-water bubbles…)
But, really, what are you doing?? Who do you think you are, relaxing on a Sunday afternoon, reading Ray Kurzweil’s recently published book, imagining a future of technologically progressive humans who defy current, biologically-defined needs…??
…when, CLEARLY, there are more pressing matters at hand, such as the reworking of cover letter sentences like:
“I developed up-to-the-minute capabilities of helping foreign people in customers with individual hard work and motivation as if they was Japanese speakers.”
And:
“My enthusiastic try my best motivation is my most high motivation and important to me.”
It’s obvious you have to get it together!! Get off the Sunday sunlight kick, away from the speculative scientific reads, and back to the cover letters!
So, get to it! Stop reading and sun-bathing! Get to writing a brilliant cover letter!
Ok…fine….:
Dear Sirs,
I’m writing in regards to the internships available at you hotel. I think my experience in customer service, English language ability and my love of pleasing others in a multitude of ways will prove to be great contributions to your company.
I’ve served many a foreign guest, in the most needy of times. I can adapt to unique customer desires and am willing to serve your clients in whatever unconventional areas they propose.
I believe the skills mentioned above prove that I would be a great asset to your business. Please contact me to discuss how I can further please you.
Sincerely,
Eager Intern Applicant with big-mouth Smile
So…, how about that for a friendly, functional cover letter?
Can I go back to reading science-fiction-echoing, techno, bio-chemical-based predictions of the human race now...?
What do you think you’re doing?!
You’re supposed to be critiquing and perfecting your students’ internship cover letters!
(…granted, this is slightly hilarious, considering that the cover letter that won you your current position reads like a bumbling Hunter S, Thompson correspondence penned under bath-water bubbles…)
But, really, what are you doing?? Who do you think you are, relaxing on a Sunday afternoon, reading Ray Kurzweil’s recently published book, imagining a future of technologically progressive humans who defy current, biologically-defined needs…??
…when, CLEARLY, there are more pressing matters at hand, such as the reworking of cover letter sentences like:
“I developed up-to-the-minute capabilities of helping foreign people in customers with individual hard work and motivation as if they was Japanese speakers.”
And:
“My enthusiastic try my best motivation is my most high motivation and important to me.”
It’s obvious you have to get it together!! Get off the Sunday sunlight kick, away from the speculative scientific reads, and back to the cover letters!
So, get to it! Stop reading and sun-bathing! Get to writing a brilliant cover letter!
Ok…fine….:
Dear Sirs,
I’m writing in regards to the internships available at you hotel. I think my experience in customer service, English language ability and my love of pleasing others in a multitude of ways will prove to be great contributions to your company.
I’ve served many a foreign guest, in the most needy of times. I can adapt to unique customer desires and am willing to serve your clients in whatever unconventional areas they propose.
I believe the skills mentioned above prove that I would be a great asset to your business. Please contact me to discuss how I can further please you.
Sincerely,
Eager Intern Applicant with big-mouth Smile
So…, how about that for a friendly, functional cover letter?
Can I go back to reading science-fiction-echoing, techno, bio-chemical-based predictions of the human race now...?
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Re-spanking the Painting
I just wrote a nice, long, predictably silly and embarrassingly pretentious post about the local Oktoberfest here, but just as I was about to post it, our internet service went out…
(thank the mighty platypus!)
so, instead of blog-oligizing on a beautiful sunny afternoon, I turned to hanging with Mr. E who was painting outside on the corner, creating a well-degredated flying butt monkey piece, apparently very historically political and currently statement-making.
It was such a phenomenal piece of artistic ape ass rendering, that I felt, also, inclined to paint.
So, not wanting to utilize expensive supplies, I took scissors to cardboard box and savagely hacked myself a canvass. I began with the yellow and maroon: a brushy outline of a stein-guzzling frat boy here. A sketchy blocking of a meaning-searching, pussy-excavating dream there. A profoundly meaningful squiggle on top of that…
But then I realized that (though I had creative genius taking the mouth-guard in my corner), I didn’t have the acrylic motivation to complete such a profound work of art,
So I turned my embriotic masterpiece over to Mr. E, had him sign a few legal rights papers, and watched as it was painted, in a more aesthetically-pleasing and realistically impressive kind of way.
And, I have, hereby inaugurated this lazy blog with a picture…
(thank the mighty platypus!)
so, instead of blog-oligizing on a beautiful sunny afternoon, I turned to hanging with Mr. E who was painting outside on the corner, creating a well-degredated flying butt monkey piece, apparently very historically political and currently statement-making.
It was such a phenomenal piece of artistic ape ass rendering, that I felt, also, inclined to paint.
So, not wanting to utilize expensive supplies, I took scissors to cardboard box and savagely hacked myself a canvass. I began with the yellow and maroon: a brushy outline of a stein-guzzling frat boy here. A sketchy blocking of a meaning-searching, pussy-excavating dream there. A profoundly meaningful squiggle on top of that…
But then I realized that (though I had creative genius taking the mouth-guard in my corner), I didn’t have the acrylic motivation to complete such a profound work of art,
So I turned my embriotic masterpiece over to Mr. E, had him sign a few legal rights papers, and watched as it was painted, in a more aesthetically-pleasing and realistically impressive kind of way.
And, I have, hereby inaugurated this lazy blog with a picture…
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Of syllabic sludge and samarai
Yes- it’s true. I’m a romantic sucker for words and language. Serve me up a linguistic mouthful of chopped syllables sautéed in assonance on a nice bed of irony-strained description, and…, well…, I’m one happy chick.
But, if you REALLY want to get me peckin-at-the-bit excited…, just mix up a nice wordy stir-fry of completely arbitrary ingredients, seasoned with a most obscure range of spices, chase it with a shot of indescribable sludge (with no Latin equivalent), and I guarantee I’ll be cock-a-doodlin’ with the hens by daybreak!
Now, I know…, there are some people out there who disagree…
There are some naïve souls out there who believe that true happiness is to be found only in love, damn-good orgasms, in family, or in a well-executed Thai body massage…
But, let me set ye lost souls straight…:
It just don’t get better than- yes, I’ll say it: “linguistic muck”.
And, that’s why, though I’m over-worked and far-under-paid, I love my current job so much.
Where else could I go at 8am, still waiting for my coffee to kick in, listen to intriguingly fantastical linguistic muck, and get PAID for it?!
And, just to show you how great my current employment is, I’ll share the inspiring and tragic tale that I got paid to listen to this morning:
“When I was a junior highschool,”
(Yes- apparently a great number of Japanese university graduates were once educational facilities themselves!)
“my mother regret very much my experience… In bed I was bunking top,”
(Well, who DOESN’T, these days?!)
“and – how can I say? – fire spirit samarai ghost strangled me from neck down with the French carrousel animals spinning at ceiling.”
(Oh yeah, the old, romantic spinning, French merry-go-round line…)
“I was very scary. But, now my mother she is very kindly. And, I am happy because of study English.”
In my opinion, tales of such profound sorrow, sadness, reconciliation and unintentionally-moving poetry just don't come around every day!
So, this morning I decided two things:
1) that I will hold off on looking for alternative jobs for a while and
2) that, as of today, all of my students (so that they can check their grammar, of course) will be recorded on tape, explaining some of their most influential experiences.
But, if you REALLY want to get me peckin-at-the-bit excited…, just mix up a nice wordy stir-fry of completely arbitrary ingredients, seasoned with a most obscure range of spices, chase it with a shot of indescribable sludge (with no Latin equivalent), and I guarantee I’ll be cock-a-doodlin’ with the hens by daybreak!
Now, I know…, there are some people out there who disagree…
There are some naïve souls out there who believe that true happiness is to be found only in love, damn-good orgasms, in family, or in a well-executed Thai body massage…
But, let me set ye lost souls straight…:
It just don’t get better than- yes, I’ll say it: “linguistic muck”.
And, that’s why, though I’m over-worked and far-under-paid, I love my current job so much.
Where else could I go at 8am, still waiting for my coffee to kick in, listen to intriguingly fantastical linguistic muck, and get PAID for it?!
And, just to show you how great my current employment is, I’ll share the inspiring and tragic tale that I got paid to listen to this morning:
“When I was a junior highschool,”
(Yes- apparently a great number of Japanese university graduates were once educational facilities themselves!)
“my mother regret very much my experience… In bed I was bunking top,”
(Well, who DOESN’T, these days?!)
“and – how can I say? – fire spirit samarai ghost strangled me from neck down with the French carrousel animals spinning at ceiling.”
(Oh yeah, the old, romantic spinning, French merry-go-round line…)
“I was very scary. But, now my mother she is very kindly. And, I am happy because of study English.”
In my opinion, tales of such profound sorrow, sadness, reconciliation and unintentionally-moving poetry just don't come around every day!
So, this morning I decided two things:
1) that I will hold off on looking for alternative jobs for a while and
2) that, as of today, all of my students (so that they can check their grammar, of course) will be recorded on tape, explaining some of their most influential experiences.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Prescription rugs for Atomic Readjustment
It’s not like dropping a couplet of rosy-cheeked, newborn twins into a blender, really, but…
Putting a few psychologically healthy, socially-skilled human beings into a light-absent, unadorned cell with a rhythmically syncopated faucet drip, a bored albino ferret and ten minutes of blared Chopin once every 9 hours…
Now…, that’s something I would love to observe!
(Aside from providing exceptionally entertaining dinner party discussions, it would be…, well…, philosophically-engaging and psychologically intriguing enough to keep me home on a Friday night…)
How many months would it take before our once-healthy individuals built their own perceptional Stonehenge around melancholically euphoric outcries, began associating enlightened thoughts with rodent-toe nibbles, and hypothetical sunlight with delayed water droplets?
How long before our once-productive members of society constructed a ferret-scat sculpture to the Darkness, began writing abstract articles about evil chlorophyll-converters with terroristic tendencies, and developed a sound-based, drip-powered irrigation system?
These are the kind of obscurely ordinary and stupid thoughts that often shoulder-jab me at the bus stop, making me wish I had gone into a field that allowed me to do otherwise unethical scientific research…
But…, alas…, though I enjoy contemplating the ideas behind atomic bar-hopping within our quantum physical world and can’t get enough of discussing the repercussions of uncertain electrons, I can’t bring myself to study and memorize any physiological or chemical equations that would educationally pertain to such experiments.
So.., I have decided I have to create my own studies…
And..., well…, I can think of no better, easily-diagnosable, experimental Subject than Myself…, so here goes my shot at scientific research…:
One simple, healthy rat thrown into a foreign yet healthy environment…
Rat = me, healthy environment = ESL School
Observations: It only took the Subject a few weeks to adjust to the new, shadowed, Platonian, dark world of rampant ferrets, leaky faucets, and oddly-timed obscure music…
Within two weeks, the Subject was still smiling, laughing and carrying on as if things were perfectly normal…, even when people around her were uttering such odd phrases as:
“I am a typewriter”
“Fine movie producers are worn by great editors.”
“I am China.”
And
“If I couldn’t have had had a wouldn’t great had experience, I would, had have fabulous great times kindly!”
Conclusions: The Subject (yes—me!) took everything in stride, treated every exchanged conversation as if it were perfectly normal and…,
Diagnosis: this Subject is only moderately aberrational in her thinking and behavior.
Recommended Prescription: only 76 more years of life for this Subject, a few months of therapeutic discussion from an equally-aberrational thinker, and two full-strength 120mg pills of reality (taken via expresso shot) per day.
*Editorial insert: TGPIF (Thank the Great Platypus It’s Friday!) I don’t get paid enough to lesson plan at home, lead extra-curricular ferry trips to neighboring islands and chat with outstandingly accommodating, English-language-practicing conversationalists with expected preferences and rehearsed arguments! Thank the winged mammal-like whatsit in the sky for Mr. E, blank sheets of paper, and random drum circles by the river!
*Cheesy editorial PS#2: And thank the world for so many smile-invoking pieces of confetti that come in the form of political flyers.
Putting a few psychologically healthy, socially-skilled human beings into a light-absent, unadorned cell with a rhythmically syncopated faucet drip, a bored albino ferret and ten minutes of blared Chopin once every 9 hours…
Now…, that’s something I would love to observe!
(Aside from providing exceptionally entertaining dinner party discussions, it would be…, well…, philosophically-engaging and psychologically intriguing enough to keep me home on a Friday night…)
How many months would it take before our once-healthy individuals built their own perceptional Stonehenge around melancholically euphoric outcries, began associating enlightened thoughts with rodent-toe nibbles, and hypothetical sunlight with delayed water droplets?
How long before our once-productive members of society constructed a ferret-scat sculpture to the Darkness, began writing abstract articles about evil chlorophyll-converters with terroristic tendencies, and developed a sound-based, drip-powered irrigation system?
These are the kind of obscurely ordinary and stupid thoughts that often shoulder-jab me at the bus stop, making me wish I had gone into a field that allowed me to do otherwise unethical scientific research…
But…, alas…, though I enjoy contemplating the ideas behind atomic bar-hopping within our quantum physical world and can’t get enough of discussing the repercussions of uncertain electrons, I can’t bring myself to study and memorize any physiological or chemical equations that would educationally pertain to such experiments.
So.., I have decided I have to create my own studies…
And..., well…, I can think of no better, easily-diagnosable, experimental Subject than Myself…, so here goes my shot at scientific research…:
One simple, healthy rat thrown into a foreign yet healthy environment…
Rat = me, healthy environment = ESL School
Observations: It only took the Subject a few weeks to adjust to the new, shadowed, Platonian, dark world of rampant ferrets, leaky faucets, and oddly-timed obscure music…
Within two weeks, the Subject was still smiling, laughing and carrying on as if things were perfectly normal…, even when people around her were uttering such odd phrases as:
“I am a typewriter”
“Fine movie producers are worn by great editors.”
“I am China.”
And
“If I couldn’t have had had a wouldn’t great had experience, I would, had have fabulous great times kindly!”
Conclusions: The Subject (yes—me!) took everything in stride, treated every exchanged conversation as if it were perfectly normal and…,
Diagnosis: this Subject is only moderately aberrational in her thinking and behavior.
Recommended Prescription: only 76 more years of life for this Subject, a few months of therapeutic discussion from an equally-aberrational thinker, and two full-strength 120mg pills of reality (taken via expresso shot) per day.
*Editorial insert: TGPIF (Thank the Great Platypus It’s Friday!) I don’t get paid enough to lesson plan at home, lead extra-curricular ferry trips to neighboring islands and chat with outstandingly accommodating, English-language-practicing conversationalists with expected preferences and rehearsed arguments! Thank the winged mammal-like whatsit in the sky for Mr. E, blank sheets of paper, and random drum circles by the river!
*Cheesy editorial PS#2: And thank the world for so many smile-invoking pieces of confetti that come in the form of political flyers.
Monday, September 04, 2006
New Genes on the Industrial Block
If an evolutionary geneticist were studying the adaptation habits of Mister E. and myself right now, he might conclude that we are healthily carving our way into a sustainable niche here in Seattle. …And, that we might just have the survival techniques necessary to keep up with these dog-nibbles-dog North-westerners.
Or…, that we might just be harmless and artistically kooky enough to Olympic-style curl our way under the radars of potential predators looking to go Darwinian on our Southern Californian rumps…
After all, we’re not doing too poorly thus far in our new habitat.
As my previous deodorant-application post attests, we’ve managed to master the bus systems. (…though, I still aspire to one day hone the social grace and deftness necessary to shave my legs in between public transport transfers…)
Also, I’ve secured a nice little, hermit crab shell-earning position in the heart of the trendy homosexual district. No…, it’s not as glamorous as you might think; it doesn’t involve flaunting my stylish cargo pants-parading butchness or testing the durability of genetically-engorged cucumbers… Instead, I teach ex-pat adults to speak with the inarticulate fluency and grammatical apathy required for visa-holders to seamlessly sew their embroidered presence into the patchwork of this country.
And, as if all that weren’t enough to support our evolutionary muscle in this new place…:
we’ve also managed to finger paint our own flavorful prints on the local ecosystem’s pallet by wandering around town in pajama bottoms to the unexpected shock of native observers (one resident even went so far as to drop his jaw – though I thought a more flattering tribute would have been to drop his drawers - and compliment us on our “superb urban trendiness”)
But, perhaps, the thing that lends the most convincing evidentiary credence to our remarkable survival fitness claim, is that we finally have a hobbit hole to call our very own… or, at least…, to call our landlord’s very own loan…
It sits atop a little hill in the once-bohemian-art-center-turned-tourist-destination, overlooking the Washington ship canal, wind-bopping sailboats and a very large refinery of sorts.
To be honest, I’m not sure that it’s a refinery at all. It looks suspiciously like a cement factory. Or a whale blubber warehouse. Or a senior-citizen-exploiting knitting sweatshop…
The building reads “Marine Industries,” and I find myself just too imaginatively intrigued by its mystique to spoil the fun by looking its purpose up on the ww-web.
Something about the hideous rectangular monstrosity makes me want to sing the Tom Wait’s song: “What is he building in there?” and spend my three-day weekend coming up with possible mundane atrocities they might be committing inside its beige perimeter…
… a warehouse filled with kelp, rounded sea glass and three-eye-sporting, tentacled anemones with Nostradamic inclinations…?
… a hydroponic, chlorophyll-producing, thermal saline energy-converter manned by octopi with reading glasses and non-accredited PhD’s…?
… a post-it notes-manufacturing farmhouse built on the buried remains of a yet-unsponsored prophet’s scrolls…?
In any case…, I like to think of our industrial neighbor as playing an integral sushi roll in our success in this new city meal. A creative muse, if you will... A humble enforcer of the potency of our socially adaptive double helix health... An angled metaphorical ass-nudger with nucleotide chains of butt-kicking vigor…
And, if nothing else…, the mound of gravel in its parking lot is perfect for midnight pajama parties, deodorant-applying barbeques and bus schedule-swapping soirees…
Or…, that we might just be harmless and artistically kooky enough to Olympic-style curl our way under the radars of potential predators looking to go Darwinian on our Southern Californian rumps…
After all, we’re not doing too poorly thus far in our new habitat.
As my previous deodorant-application post attests, we’ve managed to master the bus systems. (…though, I still aspire to one day hone the social grace and deftness necessary to shave my legs in between public transport transfers…)
Also, I’ve secured a nice little, hermit crab shell-earning position in the heart of the trendy homosexual district. No…, it’s not as glamorous as you might think; it doesn’t involve flaunting my stylish cargo pants-parading butchness or testing the durability of genetically-engorged cucumbers… Instead, I teach ex-pat adults to speak with the inarticulate fluency and grammatical apathy required for visa-holders to seamlessly sew their embroidered presence into the patchwork of this country.
And, as if all that weren’t enough to support our evolutionary muscle in this new place…:
we’ve also managed to finger paint our own flavorful prints on the local ecosystem’s pallet by wandering around town in pajama bottoms to the unexpected shock of native observers (one resident even went so far as to drop his jaw – though I thought a more flattering tribute would have been to drop his drawers - and compliment us on our “superb urban trendiness”)
But, perhaps, the thing that lends the most convincing evidentiary credence to our remarkable survival fitness claim, is that we finally have a hobbit hole to call our very own… or, at least…, to call our landlord’s very own loan…
It sits atop a little hill in the once-bohemian-art-center-turned-tourist-destination, overlooking the Washington ship canal, wind-bopping sailboats and a very large refinery of sorts.
To be honest, I’m not sure that it’s a refinery at all. It looks suspiciously like a cement factory. Or a whale blubber warehouse. Or a senior-citizen-exploiting knitting sweatshop…
The building reads “Marine Industries,” and I find myself just too imaginatively intrigued by its mystique to spoil the fun by looking its purpose up on the ww-web.
Something about the hideous rectangular monstrosity makes me want to sing the Tom Wait’s song: “What is he building in there?” and spend my three-day weekend coming up with possible mundane atrocities they might be committing inside its beige perimeter…
… a warehouse filled with kelp, rounded sea glass and three-eye-sporting, tentacled anemones with Nostradamic inclinations…?
… a hydroponic, chlorophyll-producing, thermal saline energy-converter manned by octopi with reading glasses and non-accredited PhD’s…?
… a post-it notes-manufacturing farmhouse built on the buried remains of a yet-unsponsored prophet’s scrolls…?
In any case…, I like to think of our industrial neighbor as playing an integral sushi roll in our success in this new city meal. A creative muse, if you will... A humble enforcer of the potency of our socially adaptive double helix health... An angled metaphorical ass-nudger with nucleotide chains of butt-kicking vigor…
And, if nothing else…, the mound of gravel in its parking lot is perfect for midnight pajama parties, deodorant-applying barbeques and bus schedule-swapping soirees…
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Inventory of Justin Kayes
Some subversive criminal geniuses can last years in their chosen professions without ever being caught. Like Dommer, for instance. Or Frank Abagnale Jr. … Or, if you’re a fan of over-sized shoes and balloon-nose make-up: John Wayne Gacy.
But not me.
I got busted today.
And, no…, (before you start entertaining romantic thoughts of necrophilia under star-studded canopies… or cannibalism with sides of ketchup)…
I am NOT a psychopathically deviant criminal, practicing violent voodoo rituals under deity-blessed barbeques.
Nor, am I a cunning, computer-savvy embezzler, a fraudulent document-twister or even a clever advertising-abuser.
And I certainly would never wear a clown costume out for a good night of rape-ery!
Except, of course, if I could paint my own toe nails…
… preferably, autumn woodpecker orange with lightning bolts of pre-pubescent passion fruit yellow…
No, really, though…
I got caught today while committing the most juvenile of social crimes.
Yes, it was a publicly heinous act. Yes, it was second-glance deservingly disturbing. And, yes, it was the grandma-gossip-grabber your nosy neighbor wishes for:
I was crouched in one of the back seats of the 49 bus headed for work on Capitol Hill, doing the unthinkable at 8am:
I was applying deodorant.
(to its appropriate destinations, mind you.)
And, yes, it was my second offense. And, yes I should have been more candid. But, my winged platypus!, doesn’t everyone deserve to skip a step in their morning ablutions process 2 days in a row at least once every few years?!
In any case…, if you are wondering what criminal repercussions targeted me after being visually apprehended for 5 seconds in the bus driver’s rear view mirror: well.., none.
And, if you are wondering why I felt inclined to tell this asinine story after such a long blogging absence: well…, I’m not sure there is any of that either.
And why I happened to have an extra stick of shower-fresh, armpit massage oil in my backpack?: well…, it’s probably the same reason I have a headlamp, two (I counted them) breath-mints, 14 different black pens, a colony of crushed staples, an inoperable minidisk and two unreadable books in my backpack:
Just in case.
'Cuz, well, you never know...
But not me.
I got busted today.
And, no…, (before you start entertaining romantic thoughts of necrophilia under star-studded canopies… or cannibalism with sides of ketchup)…
I am NOT a psychopathically deviant criminal, practicing violent voodoo rituals under deity-blessed barbeques.
Nor, am I a cunning, computer-savvy embezzler, a fraudulent document-twister or even a clever advertising-abuser.
And I certainly would never wear a clown costume out for a good night of rape-ery!
Except, of course, if I could paint my own toe nails…
… preferably, autumn woodpecker orange with lightning bolts of pre-pubescent passion fruit yellow…
No, really, though…
I got caught today while committing the most juvenile of social crimes.
Yes, it was a publicly heinous act. Yes, it was second-glance deservingly disturbing. And, yes, it was the grandma-gossip-grabber your nosy neighbor wishes for:
I was crouched in one of the back seats of the 49 bus headed for work on Capitol Hill, doing the unthinkable at 8am:
I was applying deodorant.
(to its appropriate destinations, mind you.)
And, yes, it was my second offense. And, yes I should have been more candid. But, my winged platypus!, doesn’t everyone deserve to skip a step in their morning ablutions process 2 days in a row at least once every few years?!
In any case…, if you are wondering what criminal repercussions targeted me after being visually apprehended for 5 seconds in the bus driver’s rear view mirror: well.., none.
And, if you are wondering why I felt inclined to tell this asinine story after such a long blogging absence: well…, I’m not sure there is any of that either.
And why I happened to have an extra stick of shower-fresh, armpit massage oil in my backpack?: well…, it’s probably the same reason I have a headlamp, two (I counted them) breath-mints, 14 different black pens, a colony of crushed staples, an inoperable minidisk and two unreadable books in my backpack:
Just in case.
'Cuz, well, you never know...
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Simulated Me and Indecent Pee
Two sixteen a.m.
I bobby-pin my hair up, leave a small clump of greased split ends to line the spine of my nose, and put my pompodour wig on. I freckle my cheeks with a mixture of watermarks attained from a neighbor's car windshield and paper voids acquired from a local copy shop's hole punch. I wriggle into the quilted outfit a peyote-eating curandero made for me from patches of space-time and discarded chicle wrappers, and wiggle my toes to make sure that my lightly-salted, seaweed pantyhose won't run when I tiptoe.
And, off I go into the night.
Sometimes I sit under trees, chatting with bark beetles. Other times, I patrol the night sky, wondering if it's the smog or the confetti in my kaleidoscope that impairs my vision of others like me...
...ok, fine... so, I don't really do this. But I DO often find myself doing mental jumping jacks in imaginary and fantastical worlds (... perhaps currently reading this and this doesn't help much!), and I DO often catch myself creativity twisting and fictionalizing real(?)ity around me... Just for fun, you know..., and to keep my pitcher filled with freshly-squeezed muse-juice (which by the way, despite a few reports to the contrary, is no longer sold at twenty-four hour pawn shops).
And we all do it sometimes. We all re-define the world around us and create snapshots of made-up truths to fit in with our perceptions of the way things are, the way things might be, or the way it-would-be-really-fun-and-trippy-if-they-were.
So, I've made up quite a few half-truth, fictional identities for myself (thanks, Philbrick for recently posting about this odd phenomenon).
So, I've got blogger "-c", customer-service "-c", MySpace "-c", third-person journal "-c", hi-grandma! "-c", love-impermeable "-c", goofy "-c", pussy-cat "-c", hell-no-I-won't-put-my-commas-inside-my-quotation-marks "-c", etc.
And, now, thanks to a good blogging buddy (who has never met me in person or seen a picture of me),...
I have virtual, Simulated "-c"! And, I'm hot! Check me out here. I am the "Mysterious Stranger" in the 9th picture down who apparently likes to piss in her own front yard.
I bobby-pin my hair up, leave a small clump of greased split ends to line the spine of my nose, and put my pompodour wig on. I freckle my cheeks with a mixture of watermarks attained from a neighbor's car windshield and paper voids acquired from a local copy shop's hole punch. I wriggle into the quilted outfit a peyote-eating curandero made for me from patches of space-time and discarded chicle wrappers, and wiggle my toes to make sure that my lightly-salted, seaweed pantyhose won't run when I tiptoe.
And, off I go into the night.
Sometimes I sit under trees, chatting with bark beetles. Other times, I patrol the night sky, wondering if it's the smog or the confetti in my kaleidoscope that impairs my vision of others like me...
...ok, fine... so, I don't really do this. But I DO often find myself doing mental jumping jacks in imaginary and fantastical worlds (... perhaps currently reading this and this doesn't help much!), and I DO often catch myself creativity twisting and fictionalizing real(?)ity around me... Just for fun, you know..., and to keep my pitcher filled with freshly-squeezed muse-juice (which by the way, despite a few reports to the contrary, is no longer sold at twenty-four hour pawn shops).
And we all do it sometimes. We all re-define the world around us and create snapshots of made-up truths to fit in with our perceptions of the way things are, the way things might be, or the way it-would-be-really-fun-and-trippy-if-they-were.
So, I've made up quite a few half-truth, fictional identities for myself (thanks, Philbrick for recently posting about this odd phenomenon).
So, I've got blogger "-c", customer-service "-c", MySpace "-c", third-person journal "-c", hi-grandma! "-c", love-impermeable "-c", goofy "-c", pussy-cat "-c", hell-no-I-won't-put-my-commas-inside-my-quotation-marks "-c", etc.
And, now, thanks to a good blogging buddy (who has never met me in person or seen a picture of me),...
I have virtual, Simulated "-c"! And, I'm hot! Check me out here. I am the "Mysterious Stranger" in the 9th picture down who apparently likes to piss in her own front yard.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Back Seat Blues
Yesterday, while on a flight from Seattle to Los Angeles, I interviewed an oft-forgotten celebrity of world travel. Over a complimentary two bags of honey-roasted peanuts and a Sprite, he gave me exclusive insight into the trying lifestyle and over-looked hardships of a salary-neglected, Alaskan Airlines Rockstar:
-c: So, how do you feel most days?
Travel Rockstar: Well, for the most part, I'm very happy. But, it's always a rollercoaster of excitement and emotion, isn't it?
-c: Absolutely. So, what brings on your highs?
TR: Well, I feel really good when people recognize me in the aisles, comment on my dedication and achievement, notice my stylish attire and feel comfortable sitting down with me for take-off, and sharing their iPod favorites with me.
-c: Sounds great! So, when does your rollercoaster cart descend?
TR: Well..., we all feel a little insecure sometimes, I guess...
Sometimes, I question my own self worth when people lean up against me while they're waiting for the lavatory, or when they bump up against me while "stretching their legs" without even feigning a mumbled "I'm sorry."
-c: Yeah, that could be tough for anyone...
TR: Occasionally, I even get a little peeved when people curse me for not being as limber as their local yoga guru or as flexible as their new shoe insole...
-c: Well, it seems shoe insoles these days get a little more praise than they deserve...
TR: No doubt! And..., well..., I even feel a little ignored and neglected when people throw their purses in my lap without asking permission, and when they, uninvited, grab my arms and try to maneuver them up and down as if my limbs were but stringed appendages of their agents' marionette...!
-c: I understand. So, what keeps you in the business?
TR: Well, to be honest... being the non-reclineable, window-less Back Seat of a commercial airplane isn't all that glamorous. But, I have to say, I occasionally get the appreciative passenger who treats me with respect and dignity despite my faults. I've even had a few people leave me their cell phone or passport in my pocket as a token of our intimate relationship!
-c: Well, that sounds wonderful. Unfortunately, I have to cut this interview short, as my neck is killing me.
*Update: Just flew into L.A. to do some moving and play. Will be driving back up to Seattle shortly with a car-full of gear, a stop in the Bay, and a few more stories. Long live the cramped, back seats of airplanes!
-c: So, how do you feel most days?
Travel Rockstar: Well, for the most part, I'm very happy. But, it's always a rollercoaster of excitement and emotion, isn't it?
-c: Absolutely. So, what brings on your highs?
TR: Well, I feel really good when people recognize me in the aisles, comment on my dedication and achievement, notice my stylish attire and feel comfortable sitting down with me for take-off, and sharing their iPod favorites with me.
-c: Sounds great! So, when does your rollercoaster cart descend?
TR: Well..., we all feel a little insecure sometimes, I guess...
Sometimes, I question my own self worth when people lean up against me while they're waiting for the lavatory, or when they bump up against me while "stretching their legs" without even feigning a mumbled "I'm sorry."
-c: Yeah, that could be tough for anyone...
TR: Occasionally, I even get a little peeved when people curse me for not being as limber as their local yoga guru or as flexible as their new shoe insole...
-c: Well, it seems shoe insoles these days get a little more praise than they deserve...
TR: No doubt! And..., well..., I even feel a little ignored and neglected when people throw their purses in my lap without asking permission, and when they, uninvited, grab my arms and try to maneuver them up and down as if my limbs were but stringed appendages of their agents' marionette...!
-c: I understand. So, what keeps you in the business?
TR: Well, to be honest... being the non-reclineable, window-less Back Seat of a commercial airplane isn't all that glamorous. But, I have to say, I occasionally get the appreciative passenger who treats me with respect and dignity despite my faults. I've even had a few people leave me their cell phone or passport in my pocket as a token of our intimate relationship!
-c: Well, that sounds wonderful. Unfortunately, I have to cut this interview short, as my neck is killing me.
*Update: Just flew into L.A. to do some moving and play. Will be driving back up to Seattle shortly with a car-full of gear, a stop in the Bay, and a few more stories. Long live the cramped, back seats of airplanes!
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Big Party, No Pandemonium
They didn’t try to feel me up.
They didn’t ask to look through my bag.
They didn’t even bother to inquire whether or not I was concealing a bloody, man-slaughtering mandolin in my sock.
It was all very strange.
If this was Seattle’s “biggest, craziest” outdoor musical Big Bang of the summer…, well…, let’s just call it soft and sweetly refreshing.
Where were the outlandishly deranged assholes with existential “beef”? Where were the violence-threatening eco-terrorists, the gekko-footed wall-climbers with odd inclinations, the crafty wallet appropriators, the stool-starting Gangstas with attitude, sneaky new-but-used cocaine salesmen, the mad audience-exciting movers and shakers of silliness/insanity, and the crowd-cramping cannibals offering cheap carne-on-e-stick, guey??
I just didn’t see them.
(…or, at least…, I didn’t see them loudly enough to notice…)
I almost felt like I was back in Japan; the three-block audience a colony of bopping heads, hive well-wishers, appreciative observers, deep-thinking smilers and inactive silent revolutionaries.
There were tons of bands and people, but there were no practicing trouble starters, and no police.
Quite astounding really.
And, though I’m a strong proponent of subversive behavior, poking fun at the ordinary, and causing chaos for the sake of rocking the boat, it was still quite refreshing to see such a big event held with such relaxed maturity and class.
I'm starting to think these so-called Seattleites are actually just actors, playing chill peeps roles for my benefit. As soon as I sign a long-term rental lease and a work contract here, I'm expecting the syringes to start flowing through the streets, undulating under the weight of maniacal, pitchfork wielding, mutated politician clones with the blood of suburbanites dripping from their fangs.
But, maybe I'm just being paranoid.
They didn’t ask to look through my bag.
They didn’t even bother to inquire whether or not I was concealing a bloody, man-slaughtering mandolin in my sock.
It was all very strange.
If this was Seattle’s “biggest, craziest” outdoor musical Big Bang of the summer…, well…, let’s just call it soft and sweetly refreshing.
Where were the outlandishly deranged assholes with existential “beef”? Where were the violence-threatening eco-terrorists, the gekko-footed wall-climbers with odd inclinations, the crafty wallet appropriators, the stool-starting Gangstas with attitude, sneaky new-but-used cocaine salesmen, the mad audience-exciting movers and shakers of silliness/insanity, and the crowd-cramping cannibals offering cheap carne-on-e-stick, guey??
I just didn’t see them.
(…or, at least…, I didn’t see them loudly enough to notice…)
I almost felt like I was back in Japan; the three-block audience a colony of bopping heads, hive well-wishers, appreciative observers, deep-thinking smilers and inactive silent revolutionaries.
There were tons of bands and people, but there were no practicing trouble starters, and no police.
Quite astounding really.
And, though I’m a strong proponent of subversive behavior, poking fun at the ordinary, and causing chaos for the sake of rocking the boat, it was still quite refreshing to see such a big event held with such relaxed maturity and class.
I'm starting to think these so-called Seattleites are actually just actors, playing chill peeps roles for my benefit. As soon as I sign a long-term rental lease and a work contract here, I'm expecting the syringes to start flowing through the streets, undulating under the weight of maniacal, pitchfork wielding, mutated politician clones with the blood of suburbanites dripping from their fangs.
But, maybe I'm just being paranoid.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Boat Party
I couldn't have felt any older, even if a giant purple dinosaur had emerged from a paper-machet volcano to lead us in rounds of "row, row, row your boat" as we struggled to string painted pasta-piece necklaces…, and stopped only to exchange exasperated "poo poo heads" over who got the dried, lavender tortellini.
I could almost feel crows trampling the muddy corners of my eyes, leaving near fossilized footprints on my face as flocks of undergrads in pirate costumes passed around alligator masks, candy cigarettes, skittle-colored jello shots, and talked of "deconstructing old paradigms of understanding," and "annihilating out-moded education models with heavy-handed pourings of Whiskey Sours."
Yeah, I was feeling old…
… old like I-had-just-crampon-crunched-my-way-past-Mallory and-Sisyphus-and-was-on-my-way-over-the-hill Old.
Old like I just didn’t care anymore and could scream: “We’re all being attacked by bow-tied, flute-playing ants!” in the middle of a church barbeque without minding if I upset someone’s discussion about how much dill is just the right amount in a potato salad…
But…, yeah, I swear someone was sprinkling gray hair seedlings in remote areas of oft-succulent growth on my body when I overheard Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's recent escapades used to illustrate the meaning behind an arguably profound Samuel Beckette quote, and when my refusal to drink Tequilla (that was obviously fermented in a re-used trashbag-lined kiddy pool outside of a carnival goldfish cemetery-slash-nuclear storage site) provoked a dissonant chorus of "CHUG it! CHUG it! CHUG its!"
Oh well. Maybe it’s not about age at all…
After all.., I couldn’t even handle those kind of parties when I was that age…
And,
Most of my “grown-up” friends now are admittedly still prone to bouts of freestyle poetry recitations (with an emphasize on fellatio puns and shunning of political buns), sessions of banging on household items (for no reason except that- wow, those are some “cool sounds”!), rounds of summer-saulting and skinny-dipping (only where appropriate and attention-grabbing, of course!), and improvised skits performed in public places (the louder, goofier, and more obnoxious, the better!)…
So, I guess it’s safe to say that even though I felt quite old at the party, those cheap booze-guzzling, liberal arts sea mariners are, in fact, a lot more “grown-up” than I am.
Afterall, I’m certainly not mature enough yet to use the words imperialism, secularism, logical positivism, multilateralism, and Clitorism all in a single, chatty conversation with someone I just met.
But, give me a few years.
I’m sure I’ll work them all into a coherent pick-up line one day.
I could almost feel crows trampling the muddy corners of my eyes, leaving near fossilized footprints on my face as flocks of undergrads in pirate costumes passed around alligator masks, candy cigarettes, skittle-colored jello shots, and talked of "deconstructing old paradigms of understanding," and "annihilating out-moded education models with heavy-handed pourings of Whiskey Sours."
Yeah, I was feeling old…
… old like I-had-just-crampon-crunched-my-way-past-Mallory and-Sisyphus-and-was-on-my-way-over-the-hill Old.
Old like I just didn’t care anymore and could scream: “We’re all being attacked by bow-tied, flute-playing ants!” in the middle of a church barbeque without minding if I upset someone’s discussion about how much dill is just the right amount in a potato salad…
But…, yeah, I swear someone was sprinkling gray hair seedlings in remote areas of oft-succulent growth on my body when I overheard Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's recent escapades used to illustrate the meaning behind an arguably profound Samuel Beckette quote, and when my refusal to drink Tequilla (that was obviously fermented in a re-used trashbag-lined kiddy pool outside of a carnival goldfish cemetery-slash-nuclear storage site) provoked a dissonant chorus of "CHUG it! CHUG it! CHUG its!"
Oh well. Maybe it’s not about age at all…
After all.., I couldn’t even handle those kind of parties when I was that age…
And,
Most of my “grown-up” friends now are admittedly still prone to bouts of freestyle poetry recitations (with an emphasize on fellatio puns and shunning of political buns), sessions of banging on household items (for no reason except that- wow, those are some “cool sounds”!), rounds of summer-saulting and skinny-dipping (only where appropriate and attention-grabbing, of course!), and improvised skits performed in public places (the louder, goofier, and more obnoxious, the better!)…
So, I guess it’s safe to say that even though I felt quite old at the party, those cheap booze-guzzling, liberal arts sea mariners are, in fact, a lot more “grown-up” than I am.
Afterall, I’m certainly not mature enough yet to use the words imperialism, secularism, logical positivism, multilateralism, and Clitorism all in a single, chatty conversation with someone I just met.
But, give me a few years.
I’m sure I’ll work them all into a coherent pick-up line one day.
Of the Devil’s condoms and food stamps
So, when I was a teenager, I was known, on occasion, to drop arbitrary condoms and pregnancy tests into poor couples' unwatched shopping carts in the super market.
(thanks, frustrated writer for rekindling this memory☺)
I hoped that it would spark exciting conversation and dialogue (maybe a bit of humor and otherwise difficult-to-invoke exchange between the discoverers of the merchandise), result in microcosmic pandemonium, and create (if nothing else) a great source of laughter for myself and my friends.
Yes, it was quite cruel.
Maybe even a bit too ‘prophetic, pubescent proselytizing’ for anyone’s taste…
…but, I was young and dumb…
But, now…, it’s quite boring, actually…
I don’t get to play the trouble-starting, world-examining, piss-taking critic anymore…
I don’t get to apply anti-flea lotion to the devil’s advocate’s tail. I don’t get to grease the spokes of absurdity’s earlobe and swing his daughter’s umbilical-cord jump rope as her friends chant: “One LeapFrog, 2 LeapFrog, 3 LeapFrog more!”.
Instead, I dress up and interview for jobs doing the other thing that I LOVE more than anything: working with children. I share my experience, ability and over-qualified enthusiasm, only to realize that the pay couldn’t support the needs of a domesticated, half-pedigree dog in any part of the city.
Anyway, I’m sure that some enlightened guru of the east once said that living off of happiness, rice, noodles, library books, vagabond blogging and un-paid editorializing was the ultimate key to existence…
At least…, if he didn’t, he should have said that… ☺
*Update/Edit: To preserve my credibility as a dedicated educator, I’ll have you know that I would never drop condoms or pregnancy tests into a child’s lunch box. After all, we all know that abstinence pills work far better. Especially when the children are still in their formative years.
(thanks, frustrated writer for rekindling this memory☺)
I hoped that it would spark exciting conversation and dialogue (maybe a bit of humor and otherwise difficult-to-invoke exchange between the discoverers of the merchandise), result in microcosmic pandemonium, and create (if nothing else) a great source of laughter for myself and my friends.
Yes, it was quite cruel.
Maybe even a bit too ‘prophetic, pubescent proselytizing’ for anyone’s taste…
…but, I was young and dumb…
But, now…, it’s quite boring, actually…
I don’t get to play the trouble-starting, world-examining, piss-taking critic anymore…
I don’t get to apply anti-flea lotion to the devil’s advocate’s tail. I don’t get to grease the spokes of absurdity’s earlobe and swing his daughter’s umbilical-cord jump rope as her friends chant: “One LeapFrog, 2 LeapFrog, 3 LeapFrog more!”.
Instead, I dress up and interview for jobs doing the other thing that I LOVE more than anything: working with children. I share my experience, ability and over-qualified enthusiasm, only to realize that the pay couldn’t support the needs of a domesticated, half-pedigree dog in any part of the city.
Anyway, I’m sure that some enlightened guru of the east once said that living off of happiness, rice, noodles, library books, vagabond blogging and un-paid editorializing was the ultimate key to existence…
At least…, if he didn’t, he should have said that… ☺
*Update/Edit: To preserve my credibility as a dedicated educator, I’ll have you know that I would never drop condoms or pregnancy tests into a child’s lunch box. After all, we all know that abstinence pills work far better. Especially when the children are still in their formative years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
