So, it’s afternoon here in the south of California, and I’m feeling euphoric excitement cut with anxiousness.
The streets are lit orange.
Road-sauteed skunk is in the air.
Russian neighbors are talking grammatically-altered baby-speak to my brother’s dog, fire engines are battling regurgitated free-styles in Spanish, an original coal-fueled, model train is being ignited in the driveway next door, mid-modification-revving engines are groaning twilight attempts at breath along my street,
and I’m…
well…, I’m trying to digest the fact that myself and Mister E. are on our way to Seattle Washington in less than 24 hours with only a few backpacks, some love, a coupla bottled cliches and no plans.
I guess it shouldn’t be all that new or scary…
Afterall, I’ve done tougher things. I’ve lived and worked in countries where I didn’t speak the language; places where they fed me things like guinea pig and horse sashimi and bowed profusely at me while I did my grocery shopping. I’ve worked with inmates in Ecuadorian jails, swapped gambling leads with sun-baked seven year olds at a kick-boxing match in Thailand, dodged zapoteco pick-up lines in the back of a flat-bed and tried to order a black coffee in Starbucks without getting laughed at…
I should be able to handle a simple move.
…especially to such a beautiful place that Tom Robbins had this to say about:
“I’m here for the rust and the mildew, for webbed feet and twin peaks, spotted owls and obscene clams (…), blackberries and public art (…), for the rituals of the potlatch and the espresso cart, for bridges that are always pratfalling into the water and ferries that keep ramming the dock. I’m here because the Wobblies used to be here, and sometimes in Pioneer Square you can still find bright-eyed old anarchists singing their moldering ballads of camaraderie and revolt. I’m here because someone once called Seattle “the hideout capital of the U.S.A.,” a distant outpost of a town where generations of the nation’s failed, fed-up, and felonious have come to disappear. Long before Seattle was “America’s Athens”, it was America’s Timbuktu.”
Yup, it definitely sounds like my kind of place! …Webbed feet, “moldering ballads,” Wobblies and failed, fed-up felons. Ooh la LA! Come to me, Seattle!
Monday, June 26, 2006
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Don't sneeze on the food
I once met someone with an outstandingly unique sense of smell. He could smell a smuggler swallowing sacks of hash in the medina of Chef-chauan Morroco from his VW in Van Nuys. He could smell bow resin residue on the hallucinating retinas of a relapsing exchange student practicing her violin in Vienna. He could smell burnt eyelashes on an ex-rocking, re-located Brit fourteen blocks away and..., ten Miller Light bottles down the bar, he could smell an aspiring actress menstruating into white-tailed cotton.
(... needless to say..., his ability to smell dirty money landed him a job designing ventriloquist dummies for entertainment caterers at various financial advisor-thrown parties, and his inability to keep his mouth shut regarding his nasal capabilities got him a fat lip and a few tampon-tinted teeth from a drunk "extra" who went on to play "princess" in a couple of Paramount productions...)
But, anyway...
He's not the only one around to have such an extraordinary "sense" that physically drives and emotionally tortures him. He's not the only one who feels his sacred gifts are giving him knee jives to the sacred joo-joo...
For, I too, have a special Sense. Yes, it's true-- I, too, feel the inflammatory pangs of my semi-scientific talent, crow-barring at the rust-crusted metaphoric nails of my cranium and pin-striping my pedant-envying purity.
Yes..., I've got a "sense" too...
It's an uncanny ability to spot people mid-plot; a pseudo-scientific nose for catching ordinary folk involved in underhanded conspiracies and cover-ups...
And, it was whispering through napkins to me today as I had lunch with my grandparents at their favorite All-you-can-eat buffet in Orange County....
This forth dimension-transgressing "sense" of mine said to me: "The senior citizens are up to something here. There's something fishy going on by the baked salmon buffet."
I mean, how else could you explain such secure cognizance of Monday-only potato dishes, Thursday-specific cobbler knowledge, and the busgirl's Green Card family specifics? How else could you explain the common, local nodding at the old woman who picked up each and every piece of silverware only to replace it before returning to her seat to symbolically wash a single fork in her water glass? Or, the couple who mysteriously stuffed four bulky napkins into two pockets and snuck out the back door when they realized the enchiladas were finished? Or, the conspiratorial, constituent-based firing of the cashier who stole tip money, ignored senior citizen discounts, had no relatives and couldn't count back change? It looks to me like Pinochet's potholder-knitting regime is back in full force.
And, I don't think I'm the only one who could tell something was up. Anyone could see by looking at these seniors that they were plotting something in that Home Town Buffet... Maybe a counter culture-esque romance novel revival, an elaborate comfort-food media diversion, a strangle assassination using prescription pill-chrocheted twine, an undermining eco-terroristic explosion of state-supplied oxygen tanks...
Well, whatever it was..., it was clearly something dangerous.
I could just sense it. Those grandmas had something scandalous up their sleeves.
So, just a bit of advise: Be careful, aware, and have a closer look at the elderly in your own neighborhood. The lady down the street who talks to stuffed, pink kittens might just be the ringleader of the International achy bone virus-smuggling Cartel. And, just how do you think Old Mister Polyester-in-Suspenders actually gets his tomato plants to be so impossibly healthy and fertile?
He's got secrets international intelligence agencies don't, that's how.
*Disclaimer: I am, in no way, asserting that everyone over the ripe age of 35 is involved in nefarious dealings; only that we have to be cautious.
(... needless to say..., his ability to smell dirty money landed him a job designing ventriloquist dummies for entertainment caterers at various financial advisor-thrown parties, and his inability to keep his mouth shut regarding his nasal capabilities got him a fat lip and a few tampon-tinted teeth from a drunk "extra" who went on to play "princess" in a couple of Paramount productions...)
But, anyway...
He's not the only one around to have such an extraordinary "sense" that physically drives and emotionally tortures him. He's not the only one who feels his sacred gifts are giving him knee jives to the sacred joo-joo...
For, I too, have a special Sense. Yes, it's true-- I, too, feel the inflammatory pangs of my semi-scientific talent, crow-barring at the rust-crusted metaphoric nails of my cranium and pin-striping my pedant-envying purity.
Yes..., I've got a "sense" too...
It's an uncanny ability to spot people mid-plot; a pseudo-scientific nose for catching ordinary folk involved in underhanded conspiracies and cover-ups...
And, it was whispering through napkins to me today as I had lunch with my grandparents at their favorite All-you-can-eat buffet in Orange County....
This forth dimension-transgressing "sense" of mine said to me: "The senior citizens are up to something here. There's something fishy going on by the baked salmon buffet."
I mean, how else could you explain such secure cognizance of Monday-only potato dishes, Thursday-specific cobbler knowledge, and the busgirl's Green Card family specifics? How else could you explain the common, local nodding at the old woman who picked up each and every piece of silverware only to replace it before returning to her seat to symbolically wash a single fork in her water glass? Or, the couple who mysteriously stuffed four bulky napkins into two pockets and snuck out the back door when they realized the enchiladas were finished? Or, the conspiratorial, constituent-based firing of the cashier who stole tip money, ignored senior citizen discounts, had no relatives and couldn't count back change? It looks to me like Pinochet's potholder-knitting regime is back in full force.
And, I don't think I'm the only one who could tell something was up. Anyone could see by looking at these seniors that they were plotting something in that Home Town Buffet... Maybe a counter culture-esque romance novel revival, an elaborate comfort-food media diversion, a strangle assassination using prescription pill-chrocheted twine, an undermining eco-terroristic explosion of state-supplied oxygen tanks...
Well, whatever it was..., it was clearly something dangerous.
I could just sense it. Those grandmas had something scandalous up their sleeves.
So, just a bit of advise: Be careful, aware, and have a closer look at the elderly in your own neighborhood. The lady down the street who talks to stuffed, pink kittens might just be the ringleader of the International achy bone virus-smuggling Cartel. And, just how do you think Old Mister Polyester-in-Suspenders actually gets his tomato plants to be so impossibly healthy and fertile?
He's got secrets international intelligence agencies don't, that's how.
*Disclaimer: I am, in no way, asserting that everyone over the ripe age of 35 is involved in nefarious dealings; only that we have to be cautious.
Friday, June 16, 2006
My name's "Big Buckaroolahs"
Him: Hi, my name is "Head Supervising Specialist at So-and-So-we-beat-the-Dot-Com-Crash-and-went-on-to-make-Super-Sized-Straws Productions".
Me: Well... uh... hi. Nice to meet you...
Him: Did you meet my friend, "Top Marketing Executive for We-spit-on-your-spleen-Jocoby Spyers and Lyers"?
Me: ...er... no, not yet..., but he sounds... er... nice.
Him: And, this is his friend, " I-make-Big-Bucks-and-Live-Alone-by-my-Asian-Stone-Pool-with-Babbling-Creek-and-Jakuzzi".
Me: ... why... er... I suppose the pleasure is mine!
Now..., maybe it's just me. Or maybe it's because I'm in southern California. But..., it seems that the replacement of Self and Personal Character by Job Title is a tad bit obscure and unnecessary.
I mean..., since when do we need a new rim job on our zero-to-seventy bum to present our attributes and quirkishly divine qualities??
Personally, I can't remember a time when I met an outstandingly clever and witty conversationalist who prefaced his intelligence, puns and sociability with: "And, just to be clear: I'm Directing Designer for the nation-wide Dung Displays at Wallmart"...
But..., then again..., maybe that's just me....
Maybe I'm falsely accustomed to meeting grounded folk who don't find it necessary to smother their social attributes with job-title toppings...
Maybe I've been unnaturally lucky enough to know people who prefer to sprinkle their lives with humour and honesty rather than drenching their doodles with pretense and masks of check-paid corporate titles... Maybe, in my cheesy world of travel, I have seen only those who notice (now..., I hate to trickle cliches, but...) "the bigger picture".
Or maybe..., I'm just jealous.
... because, afterall..., I can't say I'm the Director of "Digression Dissemination" at Starbuck's multi-motleyed Monopoly.
quite yet...
Me: Well... uh... hi. Nice to meet you...
Him: Did you meet my friend, "Top Marketing Executive for We-spit-on-your-spleen-Jocoby Spyers and Lyers"?
Me: ...er... no, not yet..., but he sounds... er... nice.
Him: And, this is his friend, " I-make-Big-Bucks-and-Live-Alone-by-my-Asian-Stone-Pool-with-Babbling-Creek-and-Jakuzzi".
Me: ... why... er... I suppose the pleasure is mine!
Now..., maybe it's just me. Or maybe it's because I'm in southern California. But..., it seems that the replacement of Self and Personal Character by Job Title is a tad bit obscure and unnecessary.
I mean..., since when do we need a new rim job on our zero-to-seventy bum to present our attributes and quirkishly divine qualities??
Personally, I can't remember a time when I met an outstandingly clever and witty conversationalist who prefaced his intelligence, puns and sociability with: "And, just to be clear: I'm Directing Designer for the nation-wide Dung Displays at Wallmart"...
But..., then again..., maybe that's just me....
Maybe I'm falsely accustomed to meeting grounded folk who don't find it necessary to smother their social attributes with job-title toppings...
Maybe I've been unnaturally lucky enough to know people who prefer to sprinkle their lives with humour and honesty rather than drenching their doodles with pretense and masks of check-paid corporate titles... Maybe, in my cheesy world of travel, I have seen only those who notice (now..., I hate to trickle cliches, but...) "the bigger picture".
Or maybe..., I'm just jealous.
... because, afterall..., I can't say I'm the Director of "Digression Dissemination" at Starbuck's multi-motleyed Monopoly.
quite yet...
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Work that pole, baby!
OK, think of that sexy, young, nubile beauty you run into at the post office, sending an intriguing package to a far-off land, or that devilish, cute and witty sweetheart in front of the local supermarket, working her night job:... there she goes, dancing around and caressing the pole, working it like a pro, stealing a sexy glance over a few bills tucked in her panties...
Well... that is precisely what I was NOT doing all of yesterday...
I actually spent the day, working the polls... the primary election polls in the U.S.
Instead of widening my lower lips, I was opening the registered voters List book. Instead of sliding up and down the metal poll, I was instructing voters to slide their ballot into the Inka-Voting machine. Instead of receiving scum-infused numbers, I was accepting ballots.
And, it was quite fun, actually!
But...., after fifteen hours of voting instruction and ballot accepting...
... well, it was a bit disheartening to find that only 10% of my precinct's registered voters actually showed up to exercise their rights...
The most inspiring moment of the experience, though, came when the 1st grade class of the local elementary school came to visit. The students asked such questions as: "Can my grandma put our ballot in THAT box?" and "Where can my big brother tell the president to do good things?"
Well...., overall, I wish the conscientious seven-year-olds of the world could vote....
... and..., I wonder what would happen if they were to end up 'working the poles' in another capacity...
Well... that is precisely what I was NOT doing all of yesterday...
I actually spent the day, working the polls... the primary election polls in the U.S.
Instead of widening my lower lips, I was opening the registered voters List book. Instead of sliding up and down the metal poll, I was instructing voters to slide their ballot into the Inka-Voting machine. Instead of receiving scum-infused numbers, I was accepting ballots.
And, it was quite fun, actually!
But...., after fifteen hours of voting instruction and ballot accepting...
... well, it was a bit disheartening to find that only 10% of my precinct's registered voters actually showed up to exercise their rights...
The most inspiring moment of the experience, though, came when the 1st grade class of the local elementary school came to visit. The students asked such questions as: "Can my grandma put our ballot in THAT box?" and "Where can my big brother tell the president to do good things?"
Well...., overall, I wish the conscientious seven-year-olds of the world could vote....
... and..., I wonder what would happen if they were to end up 'working the poles' in another capacity...
Feelin' groovy
Yeah, alright...
I'm only slightly chagrined to admit that we were THAT car for 2144 miles across New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado...
You know the car...
It's the one that drives 60mph along the highway where the posted speed limit is 75mph.
It's the one you pass in the open desert, assuming it's manned by a senile, old, achy-boned, just-joined-the-marijuana-club-when-he-turned-87-at-his-optomotrist's-recommendation great grandfather (who swears he left his combat compass next to his keys under the sports section beside the dart board)...
It's that car that inspires your imagination; that car that forces you to concoct absurd explanations (like Alien-Invoked Right Ankle Movement Syndrome (ARAMS) and Too Cool for Time Disease (TCT))... just to explain the sluggard speed at which this otherwise able-engined vehicle with high fuel-emisions potential decides to travel...
But, actually, we were just cruising at the devil's speed to keep the gas consumption down, check out some of the views and smile, knowing that our contribution to atmospheric destruction would be penned by our campfires and by too many angry souls rushing to get places they didn't want to be...
--And..., we were actually quite lucky that we were driving livke waddling penguins who had already fed their young when the first and second tires expressed their frustrated exasperation about inflated life...
AAnd... again, when a fanged, apparently aggressive rubbermaid trashcan attacked our mobile haven of illegally-downloaded mix cds without warning--...
Maybe, we could all benefit by stopping to smell the cockroaches and defecation in our fast-food Meal Deals before devouring them...
Maybe, we could all hand an extended moment of breathing and sheer 'experiencing' in between our snapped photos and 'important appointments'...
And, maybe... (now I'm plunging into controversy), our current administration could do worse than re-inforcing those old gas-saving speed limit laws, pursuing advertisement of our well-researched alternative sustainable energy sources, and enforcing a few "chill-out and remember to enjoy and appreciate life" campaigns.
But... I contradict myself:
What's the hurry, anyway?
I'm only slightly chagrined to admit that we were THAT car for 2144 miles across New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado...
You know the car...
It's the one that drives 60mph along the highway where the posted speed limit is 75mph.
It's the one you pass in the open desert, assuming it's manned by a senile, old, achy-boned, just-joined-the-marijuana-club-when-he-turned-87-at-his-optomotrist's-recommendation great grandfather (who swears he left his combat compass next to his keys under the sports section beside the dart board)...
It's that car that inspires your imagination; that car that forces you to concoct absurd explanations (like Alien-Invoked Right Ankle Movement Syndrome (ARAMS) and Too Cool for Time Disease (TCT))... just to explain the sluggard speed at which this otherwise able-engined vehicle with high fuel-emisions potential decides to travel...
But, actually, we were just cruising at the devil's speed to keep the gas consumption down, check out some of the views and smile, knowing that our contribution to atmospheric destruction would be penned by our campfires and by too many angry souls rushing to get places they didn't want to be...
--And..., we were actually quite lucky that we were driving livke waddling penguins who had already fed their young when the first and second tires expressed their frustrated exasperation about inflated life...
AAnd... again, when a fanged, apparently aggressive rubbermaid trashcan attacked our mobile haven of illegally-downloaded mix cds without warning--...
Maybe, we could all benefit by stopping to smell the cockroaches and defecation in our fast-food Meal Deals before devouring them...
Maybe, we could all hand an extended moment of breathing and sheer 'experiencing' in between our snapped photos and 'important appointments'...
And, maybe... (now I'm plunging into controversy), our current administration could do worse than re-inforcing those old gas-saving speed limit laws, pursuing advertisement of our well-researched alternative sustainable energy sources, and enforcing a few "chill-out and remember to enjoy and appreciate life" campaigns.
But... I contradict myself:
What's the hurry, anyway?
Friday, May 26, 2006
Wrenchin' the Monkey
So there we were.
Cruisin' down the highway into Durango, suckin' on the straw of mountain heat scents, illegally entertaining our expired poetic licenses with country and western tunes on the radio
(“I'm a goin' where the green grass grows,
gonna watch my corn pop up in rows,
yes, I'm a goin' back to my trailer park ho's”)
when suddenly…
PTANG!! Pppssssshhhhhhhh…..
And, just like that, we had an exhausted rear tire, as saggy and wilted as Aunt Gemima's tit after a lifetime of offering sugary syrup sucks for US$2.49 a pop.
And, it struck me once again, how integral the occasional chimpanzee wrench tossed impetuously into life's working machinery is to a healthy human psyche.
I mean…, it's all pretty pansies and cute panda babies as long as the gears are greased and running smooth as Guinness down the throat…
But…., c'mon, that's just plain Jiffy and jelly on white! (no-not simple, quick and tasty…, but rather, BORING).
I, for one, think that any soul claiming total satisfaction without the occasional mosquito bite in the matrix, renegade cockroach in the milkshake or passport in the pocket during the rinse cycle, is no more trustworthy than a nun who doesn't masturbate.
But, alright, fine… maybe I'm being a bit extreme… maybe I'm more of a sucker for conflict than most… maybe, I just love to see the milk spilt and the cookie jar broken…
But…, I think that deep down in that itsy bitsy, teeny tiny little electron-sized hole hidden under the little left toe nail of everyone, there's a screaming itsy bitsy teeny tiny little sprite that demands chaos and corrosion in the supporting beams of our lives.
There's a piece of us all that secretly hopes that the mailman will mistakenly deliver the neighbor's porn subscription to our mailbox…, that one day all the world's sewage systems will get blocked up and result in the first shit-works display of the era…, that the world wide web will suddenly and inexplicably go down…, that the cd will start skipping so we can make some of our own music…, that the actress will forget her lines so we can see a real show…, that we'll get so lost on our way to the supermarket that we have to sleep in a field, join a doily-crochetting workshop, eat grasshopper soup for nourishment and rely on the directional sense of nomadic livestock to find our ways home…
Anyway…, all this sputtering of silliness aside…,
The flat tire was a pretty benign, soggy little toothpick in the machinery.
But, if experience wears any paisley scarves of precedence, there're a few mini wrenches and a party set of cutlery waiting around the next bend…
And I can't wait!!
Cruisin' down the highway into Durango, suckin' on the straw of mountain heat scents, illegally entertaining our expired poetic licenses with country and western tunes on the radio
(“I'm a goin' where the green grass grows,
gonna watch my corn pop up in rows,
yes, I'm a goin' back to my trailer park ho's”)
when suddenly…
PTANG!! Pppssssshhhhhhhh…..
And, just like that, we had an exhausted rear tire, as saggy and wilted as Aunt Gemima's tit after a lifetime of offering sugary syrup sucks for US$2.49 a pop.
And, it struck me once again, how integral the occasional chimpanzee wrench tossed impetuously into life's working machinery is to a healthy human psyche.
I mean…, it's all pretty pansies and cute panda babies as long as the gears are greased and running smooth as Guinness down the throat…
But…., c'mon, that's just plain Jiffy and jelly on white! (no-not simple, quick and tasty…, but rather, BORING).
I, for one, think that any soul claiming total satisfaction without the occasional mosquito bite in the matrix, renegade cockroach in the milkshake or passport in the pocket during the rinse cycle, is no more trustworthy than a nun who doesn't masturbate.
But, alright, fine… maybe I'm being a bit extreme… maybe I'm more of a sucker for conflict than most… maybe, I just love to see the milk spilt and the cookie jar broken…
But…, I think that deep down in that itsy bitsy, teeny tiny little electron-sized hole hidden under the little left toe nail of everyone, there's a screaming itsy bitsy teeny tiny little sprite that demands chaos and corrosion in the supporting beams of our lives.
There's a piece of us all that secretly hopes that the mailman will mistakenly deliver the neighbor's porn subscription to our mailbox…, that one day all the world's sewage systems will get blocked up and result in the first shit-works display of the era…, that the world wide web will suddenly and inexplicably go down…, that the cd will start skipping so we can make some of our own music…, that the actress will forget her lines so we can see a real show…, that we'll get so lost on our way to the supermarket that we have to sleep in a field, join a doily-crochetting workshop, eat grasshopper soup for nourishment and rely on the directional sense of nomadic livestock to find our ways home…
Anyway…, all this sputtering of silliness aside…,
The flat tire was a pretty benign, soggy little toothpick in the machinery.
But, if experience wears any paisley scarves of precedence, there're a few mini wrenches and a party set of cutlery waiting around the next bend…
And I can't wait!!
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Rock on!
You know you've successfully slipped on the skates and cruised out of L.A. when the hum of alienation and social solitude ceases to harmonize with the traffic of the 405 freeway..., when the Song of the police Sirens sinks into the religious ravings of breadbasket broadcasts..., and when the local newspaper's criminal reports feature a stolen trash can and a goat who got his head stuck in the fence...
Yup, I've again left California for a road trip out to beautiful Colorado, where time is slower, afternoons more poetic and the Rockies rock!
...will try to get a few posts in should an internet connection be blown in on a fresh thunderstorm breeze...
Hasta pronto!
Yup, I've again left California for a road trip out to beautiful Colorado, where time is slower, afternoons more poetic and the Rockies rock!
...will try to get a few posts in should an internet connection be blown in on a fresh thunderstorm breeze...
Hasta pronto!
Monday, May 15, 2006
Infidelity and Neptune
So, I've been accused of having an affair.
I've been accused of breaching the loyalties of love and engaging in lustful acts of impious passion and peccant pleasure...
I stand at the discerning conversational gates of Judgement for alleged crimes of boyfriend betrayal and two-timing treachery...
And, well..., what better place to come clean than here in the privacy of my very own www-dot blogging Eden...?
So, here it is...
Yes, it's true.
I have been disloyal.
I have coveted, mentally disrobed, and even quite non-figuratively caressed the supple seams of another's bodice. I have allowed myself to be soaked by the saturating fluids of another, and to feel the expulsions of another's ecstasy on my stomach, just below the belly button. I have plunged, hands first, into emotional exchange with another, back-stroked through waves of desire, and even floated swimmingly in his arms, discussing the intricacies of subjective art and the humility of human existence...
(Hell, we even discussed the roles of self-adhesive stamps, aphids, out-sourced customer service lines and jigsaw puzzles as they pertain to jingoism!)
So..., who was this enchanting seductor whose riptide gallantness dragged me to drift so disloyally from my entrusted love?
... well..., since this is my very-private, well-sequestered, secret, online journal...., I suppose I can reveal his name without violent repercussion...
His name is Poseidon.
And, well, he's quite the looker.
He's got deep, bottomless eyes that change from mailbox blue to toothpaste turquoise in the crash of a wave.
He's got strong. smooth hands that can go from playful ass-slapping to gentle embracing with the blink of the moon.
He wears the rising sun on his shoulder like a price on his bar-code.
And, though he's been known to carry a syringe or two in his pocket, has been accused of aiding and abetting a few narcotic cargo-loaders, and has transported a few weapons in his day, he's quite the catch.
He's more fluid in dialogue than anyone I've ever met, can carry conversation like a ship... (and can sink it with the same ease...)
He's well-traveled; has seen the paper-shredding scandals of the great Barrier Reef, played thumb wars with the discarded Inca Cola bottles on the shores of Ecuador, played hot-potato shoe-toss in Koh Pan Yang, and heard billions of footprint fables from around the globe.
He's strong, confident, and has even been offered prayers worth families (not dollars) in his name!
But, still..., it's true...., I feel pillaging remorse for my infidelity in this case...
Maybe I shouldn't have plunged so nakedly and thoughtlessly into the embrace of such a dodgy, one-timing bachelor of the tide...
Maybe I should have thought twice before allowing such a Casanova to nova all my cash...
But, c'mon...! Who HASN'T had wet dreams about sharing an afternoon or evening with a god who has historically received human sacrifices in his name and who has seen the planet through so many geologic and atmospheric transformations??
Who HASN'T had a fantastical vacation affair with the Ocean??
I don't know...
But, at least I can now tell my grandchildren I once had a one-night stand with a bloke who had hermit crabs in his wallet and kelp in his armpit hair...
And.... THAT's gotta be worth something someday....
I've been accused of breaching the loyalties of love and engaging in lustful acts of impious passion and peccant pleasure...
I stand at the discerning conversational gates of Judgement for alleged crimes of boyfriend betrayal and two-timing treachery...
And, well..., what better place to come clean than here in the privacy of my very own www-dot blogging Eden...?
So, here it is...
Yes, it's true.
I have been disloyal.
I have coveted, mentally disrobed, and even quite non-figuratively caressed the supple seams of another's bodice. I have allowed myself to be soaked by the saturating fluids of another, and to feel the expulsions of another's ecstasy on my stomach, just below the belly button. I have plunged, hands first, into emotional exchange with another, back-stroked through waves of desire, and even floated swimmingly in his arms, discussing the intricacies of subjective art and the humility of human existence...
(Hell, we even discussed the roles of self-adhesive stamps, aphids, out-sourced customer service lines and jigsaw puzzles as they pertain to jingoism!)
So..., who was this enchanting seductor whose riptide gallantness dragged me to drift so disloyally from my entrusted love?
... well..., since this is my very-private, well-sequestered, secret, online journal...., I suppose I can reveal his name without violent repercussion...
His name is Poseidon.
And, well, he's quite the looker.
He's got deep, bottomless eyes that change from mailbox blue to toothpaste turquoise in the crash of a wave.
He's got strong. smooth hands that can go from playful ass-slapping to gentle embracing with the blink of the moon.
He wears the rising sun on his shoulder like a price on his bar-code.
And, though he's been known to carry a syringe or two in his pocket, has been accused of aiding and abetting a few narcotic cargo-loaders, and has transported a few weapons in his day, he's quite the catch.
He's more fluid in dialogue than anyone I've ever met, can carry conversation like a ship... (and can sink it with the same ease...)
He's well-traveled; has seen the paper-shredding scandals of the great Barrier Reef, played thumb wars with the discarded Inca Cola bottles on the shores of Ecuador, played hot-potato shoe-toss in Koh Pan Yang, and heard billions of footprint fables from around the globe.
He's strong, confident, and has even been offered prayers worth families (not dollars) in his name!
But, still..., it's true...., I feel pillaging remorse for my infidelity in this case...
Maybe I shouldn't have plunged so nakedly and thoughtlessly into the embrace of such a dodgy, one-timing bachelor of the tide...
Maybe I should have thought twice before allowing such a Casanova to nova all my cash...
But, c'mon...! Who HASN'T had wet dreams about sharing an afternoon or evening with a god who has historically received human sacrifices in his name and who has seen the planet through so many geologic and atmospheric transformations??
Who HASN'T had a fantastical vacation affair with the Ocean??
I don't know...
But, at least I can now tell my grandchildren I once had a one-night stand with a bloke who had hermit crabs in his wallet and kelp in his armpit hair...
And.... THAT's gotta be worth something someday....
Monday, May 01, 2006
Snail-Mail letter
To whom it may concern,
I am writing in regards to the recent shocking and disconcerting decline in acceptable processing of corporal, -c-collected data. It has come to my attention that a few of the devilish little vagabonds in charge of receiving, processing and transmitting information that enters -c´s body have been renigging on their responsibilities, and have been under-performing in their most basic duties.
Over the past week alone, a stunning amount of information has been in-putted for translation, and yet nothing has been properly processed or decoded.
This is, quite simply, an outrage, and I am writing now to demand long-neglected results.
Please dijest, internally and emotionally analyze, and enzymatically break down the following data without delay,
or all contracts will be voided upon the hour:
1 homicidal bus driver, plunging into Chiapan curves as gunshots cough from a skipping dvd of a Chinese revenge film
2 instances of giggles over crude, breaching-on-impeity-and-heresy sketches of Sor Juana masterbating with a vibrator and toe-sucking monks sporting halos
3 quizical gringo "What?s" when bodilly symptoms pharmeceutically perscribed either Gatorade or Dramomine
4 double takes when the used, sun-scorched condom on the hotel windowsill was discovered (... a true cultural and historic icon with profound anthropological stories to tell...)
5 camouflaged gasps of fear when we descended an 80 degree-angled, dodgy latter into a subterranean, fresh-water sink hole
6 Bloody Mary´s said for having entertained band-name inspirations when gazing upon portraits of the crusifiction in the central cathedral
7 "Oh man!" moans of simultaneous relief and disgust at having liquidly evacuated many a meal
and
8 physiological coctails of response when we were stared at by that severed bull´s head; his eyeballs alligned perfectly with all those gooey internal organ adornments
Yes, I write this letter now, requesting that you offer your utmost attention to the deciphering and processing of these bits of input. As a staunch supporter of the categorization of the chaos that often slithers into Our -C, I ask that you now help us to regain a few slivers of order to the otherwise unsightly mess of sloppy excitement, wonder, and naive awe that have recently blanketted formerly relied-upon cynicism and jadedness.
I thank you for your time and patience, and look forward to working wih you in the future,
Sincerely,
-C´s Reaper and Keeper
**Edit/Addition: Check out Mr. E´s take on our idyllic busride into Chiapas here.
I am writing in regards to the recent shocking and disconcerting decline in acceptable processing of corporal, -c-collected data. It has come to my attention that a few of the devilish little vagabonds in charge of receiving, processing and transmitting information that enters -c´s body have been renigging on their responsibilities, and have been under-performing in their most basic duties.
Over the past week alone, a stunning amount of information has been in-putted for translation, and yet nothing has been properly processed or decoded.
This is, quite simply, an outrage, and I am writing now to demand long-neglected results.
Please dijest, internally and emotionally analyze, and enzymatically break down the following data without delay,
or all contracts will be voided upon the hour:
1 homicidal bus driver, plunging into Chiapan curves as gunshots cough from a skipping dvd of a Chinese revenge film
2 instances of giggles over crude, breaching-on-impeity-and-heresy sketches of Sor Juana masterbating with a vibrator and toe-sucking monks sporting halos
3 quizical gringo "What?s" when bodilly symptoms pharmeceutically perscribed either Gatorade or Dramomine
4 double takes when the used, sun-scorched condom on the hotel windowsill was discovered (... a true cultural and historic icon with profound anthropological stories to tell...)
5 camouflaged gasps of fear when we descended an 80 degree-angled, dodgy latter into a subterranean, fresh-water sink hole
6 Bloody Mary´s said for having entertained band-name inspirations when gazing upon portraits of the crusifiction in the central cathedral
7 "Oh man!" moans of simultaneous relief and disgust at having liquidly evacuated many a meal
and
8 physiological coctails of response when we were stared at by that severed bull´s head; his eyeballs alligned perfectly with all those gooey internal organ adornments
Yes, I write this letter now, requesting that you offer your utmost attention to the deciphering and processing of these bits of input. As a staunch supporter of the categorization of the chaos that often slithers into Our -C, I ask that you now help us to regain a few slivers of order to the otherwise unsightly mess of sloppy excitement, wonder, and naive awe that have recently blanketted formerly relied-upon cynicism and jadedness.
I thank you for your time and patience, and look forward to working wih you in the future,
Sincerely,
-C´s Reaper and Keeper
**Edit/Addition: Check out Mr. E´s take on our idyllic busride into Chiapas here.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Of lude loudness and musical Mexico
There are lots of things I love about Mexico... like marketplace bargaining, sodas in plastic bags, live wires dangling from power lines, exposed septic tanks, sing-song medicinal herb vender spiels, and that ever-exciting possibility of discovering the Mother of Jesus over a stool-saturated toilet bowl or on a billboard advertising beer...
One of the things I love most about Mexico, though, is that it is anything but a quiet country. It´s a land of loud cacaphony blaring music, whining washing machines, sporadic whistle-blowing, horn-honking, bell-ringing, engine-revving, silverware-clanking, laughter and voices, baby cries, loudspeaker announcements, plastic bag rearrangements, tin roof improvisations, radio static, guitar greetings, poundings, hammerings, sweepings, window slammings, pipe-creakings, bus gear changes, children´s screams and distant tele novelas resounding...
It´s kind of like if you were to take a large aluminum box, fill it with some bells, marbles, beaded hair ties, mescal, broken pipes, ping pong balls, rusty nails, keys, coins, trumpet players, glass shards, religious regalia, competitive yoddlers, a few live kittens, and then shake the box vigorously for twenty four hours... then,... you MIGHT just get the first few notes of Mexico´s aria...
BUT..., it´s not just the incessant sounds and noises that make this country so magically and endearingly loud.
Actually..., EVERYTHING here is loud.
The people are loud with sincerity, the laughter loud, the outlook on life- loud. The scents and textures and tastes of Mexico are loud, and... even the ocean, the jungle and the vacant desert winds are loud.
One glance down a small pueblo street where the houses are painted bright pink, puke green, magenta, unhealthy pee yellow, construction orange and brilliant blue, and you´ll see that even the colors here bravely scream loudness.
Hell..., even the priestly little parasites that the country passes on to its foriegn visitors can be pretty loud, noise-needy nerds when they´re on the job.
Yup. There´s nothing that quite hollers ¨welcome to Mexico!¨ like waking up four or give times in the night to competing radios playing oompah banda music, a passing truck broadcasting Miguel´s Carniceria propoganda, and Mister E in the bathroom; his rear end fissuring vivacious lava flow and humming a bubbly Mexican song og love, sorrow and loss...
Ahh... yes... the sounds of Aztlan....!
One of the things I love most about Mexico, though, is that it is anything but a quiet country. It´s a land of loud cacaphony blaring music, whining washing machines, sporadic whistle-blowing, horn-honking, bell-ringing, engine-revving, silverware-clanking, laughter and voices, baby cries, loudspeaker announcements, plastic bag rearrangements, tin roof improvisations, radio static, guitar greetings, poundings, hammerings, sweepings, window slammings, pipe-creakings, bus gear changes, children´s screams and distant tele novelas resounding...
It´s kind of like if you were to take a large aluminum box, fill it with some bells, marbles, beaded hair ties, mescal, broken pipes, ping pong balls, rusty nails, keys, coins, trumpet players, glass shards, religious regalia, competitive yoddlers, a few live kittens, and then shake the box vigorously for twenty four hours... then,... you MIGHT just get the first few notes of Mexico´s aria...
BUT..., it´s not just the incessant sounds and noises that make this country so magically and endearingly loud.
Actually..., EVERYTHING here is loud.
The people are loud with sincerity, the laughter loud, the outlook on life- loud. The scents and textures and tastes of Mexico are loud, and... even the ocean, the jungle and the vacant desert winds are loud.
One glance down a small pueblo street where the houses are painted bright pink, puke green, magenta, unhealthy pee yellow, construction orange and brilliant blue, and you´ll see that even the colors here bravely scream loudness.
Hell..., even the priestly little parasites that the country passes on to its foriegn visitors can be pretty loud, noise-needy nerds when they´re on the job.
Yup. There´s nothing that quite hollers ¨welcome to Mexico!¨ like waking up four or give times in the night to competing radios playing oompah banda music, a passing truck broadcasting Miguel´s Carniceria propoganda, and Mister E in the bathroom; his rear end fissuring vivacious lava flow and humming a bubbly Mexican song og love, sorrow and loss...
Ahh... yes... the sounds of Aztlan....!
Chichen Itza
Mayan glyphs that mirror Chinese kanji in their pictorial, phonetic and poetic translations hammer my sun-smeared retinas,
as dusty plumes swath my scallion-unlike Saquatch toes.
I watch a boy chisel a wooden mask; his powerful hands those of an old-souled carpenter with forty years of practice.
I paint a memory, reach out to hold a hand, and smile a little when I think of how nothing and everything is never and always changing.
At least I know that when I get back to town, I can expect only that which I don´t expect, and that those Mayan glyphs will read differently in my absence.
I can only fantasize... but.., maybe, just maybe... that glyph that we thought meant ¨corn¨now means ¨porn¨ and that famous Mayan symbol for ¨zero¨now signifies ¨Pepsi¨
as dusty plumes swath my scallion-unlike Saquatch toes.
I watch a boy chisel a wooden mask; his powerful hands those of an old-souled carpenter with forty years of practice.
I paint a memory, reach out to hold a hand, and smile a little when I think of how nothing and everything is never and always changing.
At least I know that when I get back to town, I can expect only that which I don´t expect, and that those Mayan glyphs will read differently in my absence.
I can only fantasize... but.., maybe, just maybe... that glyph that we thought meant ¨corn¨now means ¨porn¨ and that famous Mayan symbol for ¨zero¨now signifies ¨Pepsi¨
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Notes from la floja roja
Imagine here an extensive post, buttered in rich description and sand-covered stories of beachy adventures. Imagine here humid tales of midnight skinny dips, sexual affairs with Poseidon, sweating caguamas, Mayan spirits, scorpions in bed, hippy treehouse-like abodes, colored pencil sketches, stream-o-consciousness musings, psychadelically-colored fish, water-through snorkel inhaling, moon-watched laughter, chicken taco hospitality, flip-flop fantasies, the wisdom of a Don Juan, late-night philosophizing, and a little bit of perfect entropy.
Yup. Imagine all that...
plus a few more nuggets of marvelous absurdity and... well, you´d have the post I WOULD have written if I had longer than 4 minutes of time remaining on this computer...
Overall, the postcard version of this blogpost is:
Having a great time in Mexico! The weather is gorgeous, the characters inspiring, and the food delicious. It´s fun to be back in a place where time occassionally trips and falls into potholes, conversations spiral sincerely into silliness and being is just..well... being. I´ll bring you all back the souveniers you requested, plus maybe a pig wearing a sombrero or a nice stray dog with a hobo rucksack and a hammock.
Wish you were here!
Yup. Imagine all that...
plus a few more nuggets of marvelous absurdity and... well, you´d have the post I WOULD have written if I had longer than 4 minutes of time remaining on this computer...
Overall, the postcard version of this blogpost is:
Having a great time in Mexico! The weather is gorgeous, the characters inspiring, and the food delicious. It´s fun to be back in a place where time occassionally trips and falls into potholes, conversations spiral sincerely into silliness and being is just..well... being. I´ll bring you all back the souveniers you requested, plus maybe a pig wearing a sombrero or a nice stray dog with a hobo rucksack and a hammock.
Wish you were here!
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Bloated Heads and Hide-n-seek
Sometimes it feels like life is just missing a little something... like if you could only get your hands on some formless clay or a black bean burrito, everything would just miraculously slide into its destined place.
Well, for me right now, I feel like all I need are a few enormous, over-sized Olmec heads in my life.
Well... those, a few ruins, some stunning coastline, a touch of stomach upset, a pinch of the Unknown, and a good serving of some inspiring company.
Yup. You guessed it. My travel bugs are nipping at those tender places between my toes again, and rather than squashing them between two graham crackers with chocolate (c'mon- you've never heard of toasted travel mite s'mores before?!), I'm going to heed their nagging nibbles.
My Mystery Man (we'll just call him Mister E.) and myself are leaving tomorrow morning for a month in Mexico.
Though my posts might be a bit sporadic in the coming weeks, expect their quality to directly reflect the number of chickens I breast feed on the bus, the quantity of shoe-shine proposals I receive, and the pile-up of linguistic lip-clenchers I invoke...
Ready or not, Yucatan, here I come!
Well, for me right now, I feel like all I need are a few enormous, over-sized Olmec heads in my life.
Well... those, a few ruins, some stunning coastline, a touch of stomach upset, a pinch of the Unknown, and a good serving of some inspiring company.
Yup. You guessed it. My travel bugs are nipping at those tender places between my toes again, and rather than squashing them between two graham crackers with chocolate (c'mon- you've never heard of toasted travel mite s'mores before?!), I'm going to heed their nagging nibbles.
My Mystery Man (we'll just call him Mister E.) and myself are leaving tomorrow morning for a month in Mexico.
Though my posts might be a bit sporadic in the coming weeks, expect their quality to directly reflect the number of chickens I breast feed on the bus, the quantity of shoe-shine proposals I receive, and the pile-up of linguistic lip-clenchers I invoke...
Ready or not, Yucatan, here I come!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Whore-o-scope
For all you's whores out there, I know life is tough. It's hard to tell what surprises the day's clientele might bring, and what sticky situations might explosively shock you.
So..., I've come up with a One-size-fits-all (no pun intended) horoscope to alleviate the time-consuming and energy-draining process of remembering your own birthday, identifying your astrological sign, and finding your daily prophesy in the cum-damp pages of the newspaper.
Today's Whoroscope:
The sun and moon are at odds today. Tread carefully. Beware of impious pimps, for greed is colliding with the moons of pussy-prospect, and blue-balls are rising in the green-back orbit. Be careful today with f**ked-up fantasy-fulfillment assignments and suck-sational sensations. Dire Desperates are on the rise. Question urgency today, and stability and excitement will follow.
...hmmm...
...well..., despite my seemingly insightful visions of working-girl destinies...,
I've never really been one for blind astrological faith. I tend to see the characters of the zodiac more as indicators of civilization's mentality in a historical context rather than as landmarks in a grand cosmic fate.
But... who am I to say?
Afterall..., maybe it's just a newly-packaged, alternatively-marketed case of old Greeky Cassandra (who was blessed with the ability to fortell the future, but cursed by the fact that no one would ever believe her...)
I DO know, though, that if I am to prescribe to some of the horoscopes I read for myself today, I can expect a few marital quibbles between the sun and the moon, expect Saturn to no longer move backwards, expect my "fizzle to turn to sizzle", look forward to a bit of specifically-ambiguous change, and expect my "wacky humor to lighten up some awkward situations".
Ahh, hell... where do I sign up? Today's as good a day as any to become a converted Believer!
... Maybe an orbit's not just an orbit, and Saturn CAN move backwards...!
Hey, afterall, even a skeptic can't help but believe that a little fizzle might transform into some sizzle, and that undoing someone's meteor belt today might just mean prosperity tomorrow!
(further whore-o-scopes to follow...)
So..., I've come up with a One-size-fits-all (no pun intended) horoscope to alleviate the time-consuming and energy-draining process of remembering your own birthday, identifying your astrological sign, and finding your daily prophesy in the cum-damp pages of the newspaper.
Today's Whoroscope:
The sun and moon are at odds today. Tread carefully. Beware of impious pimps, for greed is colliding with the moons of pussy-prospect, and blue-balls are rising in the green-back orbit. Be careful today with f**ked-up fantasy-fulfillment assignments and suck-sational sensations. Dire Desperates are on the rise. Question urgency today, and stability and excitement will follow.
...hmmm...
...well..., despite my seemingly insightful visions of working-girl destinies...,
I've never really been one for blind astrological faith. I tend to see the characters of the zodiac more as indicators of civilization's mentality in a historical context rather than as landmarks in a grand cosmic fate.
But... who am I to say?
Afterall..., maybe it's just a newly-packaged, alternatively-marketed case of old Greeky Cassandra (who was blessed with the ability to fortell the future, but cursed by the fact that no one would ever believe her...)
I DO know, though, that if I am to prescribe to some of the horoscopes I read for myself today, I can expect a few marital quibbles between the sun and the moon, expect Saturn to no longer move backwards, expect my "fizzle to turn to sizzle", look forward to a bit of specifically-ambiguous change, and expect my "wacky humor to lighten up some awkward situations".
Ahh, hell... where do I sign up? Today's as good a day as any to become a converted Believer!
... Maybe an orbit's not just an orbit, and Saturn CAN move backwards...!
Hey, afterall, even a skeptic can't help but believe that a little fizzle might transform into some sizzle, and that undoing someone's meteor belt today might just mean prosperity tomorrow!
(further whore-o-scopes to follow...)
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Love Lunacy and the S.O.B.
Believe me. I've still got enough taco fixings to make a combination plate, my migration path still leads me around - not over- the cuckoo's nest, and my levies are not yet leaking philosophical fantasies to Wilson the volleyball...
But, yes, I'm sharing an expectation-expounded moment of over-the-top, thesbianesque therapy with a sweetly-fragranced orange blossom.
And, I'm not embarrassed to admit it.
(... actually, I wanted to Tchaikovsky-style blogesize about a local lad named Leslie who tried to woo me away from my artist love - who was pretending to be a Croation patriot - .... T'woulda been a touching tale of a gallant, lost soul, pawning plumbing skills for rip-tide loneliness redemption in front of the neighborhood internet gaming abyss as fake foreign accents crescendoed, and humour was drowned in soul-scabbing empathy...
BUT..., instead I find myself sitting on the porch, chatting about love with a fruit flower...)
Scented Orange Blossom (S.O.B.): -c, you are acting unnaturally silly, grinning at guileless absurdities, devouring potty praise, laughing and lactating with arguably immature fluency... What's up with you? Did you swallow a peyote button with your pad thai or a sprig of dandelion with your wine?
-c: No, no, my dear scented orange blossom, I'm merely hosting a tea party for Senor Happiness, sharing Argentinian mate with Honeymoon Harry and skipping a little rope with Simion Smiles-a-lot (you know..., the neglected knight of the round table who was written out of King Arthur's court after committing not-so-noble acts with the celebratory feast's poultry products.)
S.O.B.: I see. But, -c, are you quite certain you've not let a few marbles trickle out through the cranial drain?
-c: No, I assure you- I'm as sane as a Twinkie-defensing, infant pteradactile murderess before trial.
S.O.B.: Then..., why are you Cheshire-cat interfacing with a fallen orange blossom?
-c: Hmmph... What would a bile-less bloom like yourself know about LOVE anyway?!
Man... I wish I would have read the fine print when signing up for this Cliche Love Gym...
I mean, who in their right mind would agree to a contract that read:
"I invite everyone to question my sanity. And, I agree to take full legal and emotional responsibility for any possible, incurred conversations with verbose citrus casks??!
C'mon- anyone who did that would just be finger-plucking ass-ininity!
(... we here at Up the Creek are currently experiencing technological tributaries due to aberrational planetary allignment and mis-stacked Leggos... but, we promise to return to regular programming as quickly as possible. Please be patient!)
But, yes, I'm sharing an expectation-expounded moment of over-the-top, thesbianesque therapy with a sweetly-fragranced orange blossom.
And, I'm not embarrassed to admit it.
(... actually, I wanted to Tchaikovsky-style blogesize about a local lad named Leslie who tried to woo me away from my artist love - who was pretending to be a Croation patriot - .... T'woulda been a touching tale of a gallant, lost soul, pawning plumbing skills for rip-tide loneliness redemption in front of the neighborhood internet gaming abyss as fake foreign accents crescendoed, and humour was drowned in soul-scabbing empathy...
BUT..., instead I find myself sitting on the porch, chatting about love with a fruit flower...)
Scented Orange Blossom (S.O.B.): -c, you are acting unnaturally silly, grinning at guileless absurdities, devouring potty praise, laughing and lactating with arguably immature fluency... What's up with you? Did you swallow a peyote button with your pad thai or a sprig of dandelion with your wine?
-c: No, no, my dear scented orange blossom, I'm merely hosting a tea party for Senor Happiness, sharing Argentinian mate with Honeymoon Harry and skipping a little rope with Simion Smiles-a-lot (you know..., the neglected knight of the round table who was written out of King Arthur's court after committing not-so-noble acts with the celebratory feast's poultry products.)
S.O.B.: I see. But, -c, are you quite certain you've not let a few marbles trickle out through the cranial drain?
-c: No, I assure you- I'm as sane as a Twinkie-defensing, infant pteradactile murderess before trial.
S.O.B.: Then..., why are you Cheshire-cat interfacing with a fallen orange blossom?
-c: Hmmph... What would a bile-less bloom like yourself know about LOVE anyway?!
Man... I wish I would have read the fine print when signing up for this Cliche Love Gym...
I mean, who in their right mind would agree to a contract that read:
"I invite everyone to question my sanity. And, I agree to take full legal and emotional responsibility for any possible, incurred conversations with verbose citrus casks??!
C'mon- anyone who did that would just be finger-plucking ass-ininity!
(... we here at Up the Creek are currently experiencing technological tributaries due to aberrational planetary allignment and mis-stacked Leggos... but, we promise to return to regular programming as quickly as possible. Please be patient!)
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Pancho does Sweet Sixteen
When I was sixteen, I went to live in Germany as an exchange student. I lived with a German family, attended a German school, partied with German kids, ate German food, and had no buffers in my first language aside from evenings spent reading Don Quixote, pretending to be a teenage knight-ress errant (I was the rational companion, faithfully advising my cohort about the potential dangers of those menacing windmills-- afterall..., it doesn't take a space shuttle door-crafting scientist to know that a breeze-borrowing machine of that stature is capable of devouring a cactus and three infants while challenging a tempest to a game of checkers!).
Oddly, though, my most potent and soul-stranglingly influential memory of the experience was...
not the time I rode a tandem bicycle into a creek as my friend and I illustrated the symptoms of the Jaegermeister Curse via fragranced, throat-catapulted projectile displays...
nor was it when I got lost in the countryside, broke bread with an old woman who made me rake leaves in exchange for directions...,
or, when I failed every subject but got the highest score in math (the only subject that required no language abilities)...
It was, in fact, the initial plane ride over there.
I can still taste the vivid excitement/fear brew that tickled my pubescent chemical make-up...; that frightened-shitless-of-the-unknown-but-furiously-excited jolt of existence-recognition that I've come to love and embrace.
And, that's how I'm feeling today...: that same Oh-No!Oh-Yes! sentiment that likes to take you by the hand and point out, again, your mortality and the invigorating brilliance of this peanut-shell-onion-layered-Mexican-bean-dancing Spark that is life...
-c, what is this cliche poetic babble you're toying with?, you might be asking...
Well, a super special someone is coming home tomorrow from Japan, and I couldn't be more scared... and ecstatic!!
(Up the Creek old-timers might remember him from last August's post about obnoxious couples in the Japanese public eye..)
But, hey!, lots would give up their tax returns to feel sixteen and headed for a foreign land again!
I, on the other hand, got lucky...
All it took was a few minutes in the waiting room, and a professional business meeting...
(What can I say? Loki just isn't as busy these days...)
Oddly, though, my most potent and soul-stranglingly influential memory of the experience was...
not the time I rode a tandem bicycle into a creek as my friend and I illustrated the symptoms of the Jaegermeister Curse via fragranced, throat-catapulted projectile displays...
nor was it when I got lost in the countryside, broke bread with an old woman who made me rake leaves in exchange for directions...,
or, when I failed every subject but got the highest score in math (the only subject that required no language abilities)...
It was, in fact, the initial plane ride over there.
I can still taste the vivid excitement/fear brew that tickled my pubescent chemical make-up...; that frightened-shitless-of-the-unknown-but-furiously-excited jolt of existence-recognition that I've come to love and embrace.
And, that's how I'm feeling today...: that same Oh-No!Oh-Yes! sentiment that likes to take you by the hand and point out, again, your mortality and the invigorating brilliance of this peanut-shell-onion-layered-Mexican-bean-dancing Spark that is life...
-c, what is this cliche poetic babble you're toying with?, you might be asking...
Well, a super special someone is coming home tomorrow from Japan, and I couldn't be more scared... and ecstatic!!
(Up the Creek old-timers might remember him from last August's post about obnoxious couples in the Japanese public eye..)
But, hey!, lots would give up their tax returns to feel sixteen and headed for a foreign land again!
I, on the other hand, got lucky...
All it took was a few minutes in the waiting room, and a professional business meeting...
(What can I say? Loki just isn't as busy these days...)
Monday, March 27, 2006
Comfort Doodlings
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...
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...
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...
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