You may think you are safe. You may think he will never get you again.
After all, he’s only a mythological monster...
He’s only some brutish, confidence-bashing beast who may have once left drool and spittle puddles under your bed when you were a child. He’s only the imaginary imp you left behind long ago, but who still reminds you of the power of procrastination and of the various intravenous options for caffeine.
If you think he'll never find you again, though, you're wrong. His name is Creative Blog Slackerdome (A.K.A. CBS), and he may, in fact, be at your doorstep now.
According to last week’s research by Up the Creek Without a Platypuses’s only –c, this legendary bully is alive, strong, and still targeting everyone.
“Just yesterday, I felt his presence,” -c over-emphatically revealed.
“I was trying to compose a blog post about Global Warming as it pertains to U.S. political campaigns when… well… I decided to lead an ESL class discussion about the topic and… ehm… He showed up.”
Although our very own reporter, -c, showed signs of increasing heart rate, hightened blood pressure and uncomfortable sweat drippage, we pushed her to tell us more about her unique experience with the omnipresent Creative Blog Slackerdome Beast .
“He somehow managed to redirect the conversation in our ESL class, and we ended up talking about Don Imus, monkey brain consumption in China, Sanjaya's hair and Necrophilia.”
When pressed for further comment, -c simply responded:
“I'll have to write a real blog post later. For now, there is clearly some Spirit of Dark Slackerdome at work here.”
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Say “cheese”
Dismal as it may seem, I think smiles have become cliché in today’s world. They have become fake-toothy footholds for achieving desired feats. They have aligned themselves with insincere compliments and other forced fronts (like inappropriate shoulder-nudges and winks), intended to gain selfish and flashy results.
These days, it’s not uncommon to see a full canine through molar spread while looking into the face of the lady who wants to shut off your electricity, screw your boyfriend, and repossess your prized, albeit obscure, book collection.
That’s why I hereby declare a Real Smile Revival!
If we all come together with the mission of embracing smiles for sincerity and honesty, we can eradicate those trivial, emotionally-prosthetic lip crescents based on bulldung and personal gain. We can bring the “true smile” back to the people!
So, tell me: How are YOU going to promote the advancement of honest, candid Smiles?
Here’s how I did it:
I took a batch of English language students in Seattle.
I carefully examined their old ID’s and Driverse Licenses to make sure that they had no history of previous public Smiling.
I arranged them in a semi-social stance, stood with them, and told them that the Tooth Fairy was real.
Ok... honestly, that's not true at all. These are some of my students I bumped into while cruising the International district with my boyfriend, father and step-mother.
They are genuine smilers and require no "real smile" mobilization.
In fact, they could probably care less if armies of "Insincere Smilers" continued to walk the streets indiscriminately.
Nonetheless, I call today for a recall of all imitation Smiles! Let over-worked lip muscles relax, let chapped teeth have safe haven from unnecessary social blizzards, and let sincere mouth manifestations of happiness and laughter prevail!
(... and let creamy, representational praise to obscure european cheese deities be socially acceptable!)
These days, it’s not uncommon to see a full canine through molar spread while looking into the face of the lady who wants to shut off your electricity, screw your boyfriend, and repossess your prized, albeit obscure, book collection.
That’s why I hereby declare a Real Smile Revival!
If we all come together with the mission of embracing smiles for sincerity and honesty, we can eradicate those trivial, emotionally-prosthetic lip crescents based on bulldung and personal gain. We can bring the “true smile” back to the people!
So, tell me: How are YOU going to promote the advancement of honest, candid Smiles?
Here’s how I did it:
I took a batch of English language students in Seattle.
I carefully examined their old ID’s and Driverse Licenses to make sure that they had no history of previous public Smiling.
I arranged them in a semi-social stance, stood with them, and told them that the Tooth Fairy was real.
Ok... honestly, that's not true at all. These are some of my students I bumped into while cruising the International district with my boyfriend, father and step-mother.
They are genuine smilers and require no "real smile" mobilization.
In fact, they could probably care less if armies of "Insincere Smilers" continued to walk the streets indiscriminately.
Nonetheless, I call today for a recall of all imitation Smiles! Let over-worked lip muscles relax, let chapped teeth have safe haven from unnecessary social blizzards, and let sincere mouth manifestations of happiness and laughter prevail!
(... and let creamy, representational praise to obscure european cheese deities be socially acceptable!)
Monday, March 12, 2007
Undercover Trans-Slacktions
You are smart. You are beautiful. You have two dozen False Claim Convictions duct-taped to the bot
toms of your belt notches. You have half a bullet and a full piece of Altoid Box shrapnel in your left nostril from the last time you dove in front of a crippled puppy to save its life.
You are an undercover, Craigslist Intelligence Agent, on the job.
Your mission today is to pick up a package from one of the most dangerous of Craigslist Posters: Melissa “Yeah, sounds Perfecto” Flake.
She is known for having never shown up to at least three parties she told her friends she would, and for having “forgotten” to call her best friend back, even though it was a “911/ like, super urgent” crisis.
She is armed and scandalous. Beware of her transparent attempts at cunning excuses, and of her cocked, pistolic voice-messaging ploy.
Meet her at the Issaquah Albertsons, 10 a.m.
----------
What?! She never showed up? She didn’t bring you the crappy cell phone you were going to give her cash for? She didn’t even call? You must have blown your Flake-Busting cover! What Kind of a Craigslist Intelligence Agent do you call yourself?!
Despite your failure, we here at the CIA think your proven, social, Convict-Flake-exposing skills still warrant you one more chance.
His name is Josh “uses lots of LOLs in Craigslist transactions” Stoner.
He will meet you in front of Walmart at 11:30 a.m. with a scratched old cell phone and a charger.
Be cautious—any wrong move could trigger a bong circle and potentially dangerous Poetry Slam in Walmart’s car maintenance aisle.
----------
What?! He showed up? What? He provided the goods promised in between LOLs?! What? The transaction went smoothly?! What? There was no bong session on corporate tricycles?!! He must have been on to you!
You’re fired!
----------
Note from –c:
Yes, after many a harrowing email correspondence, and one wasted drive, I managed to replace my expired cell phone without having to deal with redtape-trained teenagers at Verizon. Yippee!!! Now, if I could only get the CIA off my ass…
Apparently, I'm not doing my job.
*Picture again, courtesy of Mr. E
toms of your belt notches. You have half a bullet and a full piece of Altoid Box shrapnel in your left nostril from the last time you dove in front of a crippled puppy to save its life.You are an undercover, Craigslist Intelligence Agent, on the job.
Your mission today is to pick up a package from one of the most dangerous of Craigslist Posters: Melissa “Yeah, sounds Perfecto” Flake.
She is known for having never shown up to at least three parties she told her friends she would, and for having “forgotten” to call her best friend back, even though it was a “911/ like, super urgent” crisis.
She is armed and scandalous. Beware of her transparent attempts at cunning excuses, and of her cocked, pistolic voice-messaging ploy.
Meet her at the Issaquah Albertsons, 10 a.m.
----------
What?! She never showed up? She didn’t bring you the crappy cell phone you were going to give her cash for? She didn’t even call? You must have blown your Flake-Busting cover! What Kind of a Craigslist Intelligence Agent do you call yourself?!
Despite your failure, we here at the CIA think your proven, social, Convict-Flake-exposing skills still warrant you one more chance.
His name is Josh “uses lots of LOLs in Craigslist transactions” Stoner.
He will meet you in front of Walmart at 11:30 a.m. with a scratched old cell phone and a charger.
Be cautious—any wrong move could trigger a bong circle and potentially dangerous Poetry Slam in Walmart’s car maintenance aisle.
----------
What?! He showed up? What? He provided the goods promised in between LOLs?! What? The transaction went smoothly?! What? There was no bong session on corporate tricycles?!! He must have been on to you!
You’re fired!
----------
Note from –c:
Yes, after many a harrowing email correspondence, and one wasted drive, I managed to replace my expired cell phone without having to deal with redtape-trained teenagers at Verizon. Yippee!!! Now, if I could only get the CIA off my ass…
Apparently, I'm not doing my job.
*Picture again, courtesy of Mr. E
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Of bite-less dogs, proverbs, and ESL teaching to doctors
We were exchanging proverbs while talking current events.
“A dog who pontificates loudly and speaks... er… without halt…. He cannot… yes, he cannot, before stop, make blood from your ankle.”
My Romanian student smiled sheepishly, as if asking her perfectionist, Gastrology-studied Self for permission to be silly. After apparently having received said permission, she embarked on a theatrical, gesturing voyage that involved opening and closing her thumb and index finger as if they had been pasted together by slow-drying rubber cement.
“Yes. Some dogs, you know, speaks dissertations loudly,” she explained as her thumb and pointer finger kissed each other in rapid, uninterrupted succession.
Ok, I thought: some dogs talk a lot.
“And these dogs,” she continued, eyebrow-pointing at her spastic fore-finger, crabclaw-like performance, “do not can bite for blood.”
Her fingers deflated, bored.
Ok, I thought… Edward ScissorHands can’t cut hair artistically….verbose dogs don’t draw blood… loud dogs have no bite…
“His bark is worse than his bite!” I cried, proud and relieved. I’d finally gotten what she was trying so dramatically to tell me.
“No! No!” she almost yelled, breaking enthusiastically from her characteristic, Med Grad stoicism, “like this, but different. He is like a empty cup who makes many bubbles, but has no boiling water…”
Alright, I thought… A Mormon beer carries no kick… one passionate individual does not sway the social tide… a peacock's plume out-weighs its meat…?
“No,” she clarified, “ He is like a loud dog with too much talk, but decreased thought. It’s means this dog is not of cleverness, but he boils his water anyway.”
And, finally, I understood the English proverb she was trying to find:
“Empty vessels make the most noise.”
And, yes, yes, my Romanian med student agreed and went on to explain how stupid (as she put it: “non-clever”) people often tend to talk too much.
And, though I wanted to point out how interesting the cross-cultural parallels between our respective proverbs were…
I shut up.
I couldn’t say another word.
After all, who wants to be a barking, empty vessel? Or a boiling dog bitch with no vampiric bite?
**Edit/Update: And, now you can see, perhaps, why teaching English as a second language can drive one slowly insane...
“A dog who pontificates loudly and speaks... er… without halt…. He cannot… yes, he cannot, before stop, make blood from your ankle.”
My Romanian student smiled sheepishly, as if asking her perfectionist, Gastrology-studied Self for permission to be silly. After apparently having received said permission, she embarked on a theatrical, gesturing voyage that involved opening and closing her thumb and index finger as if they had been pasted together by slow-drying rubber cement.
“Yes. Some dogs, you know, speaks dissertations loudly,” she explained as her thumb and pointer finger kissed each other in rapid, uninterrupted succession.
Ok, I thought: some dogs talk a lot.
“And these dogs,” she continued, eyebrow-pointing at her spastic fore-finger, crabclaw-like performance, “do not can bite for blood.”
Her fingers deflated, bored.
Ok, I thought… Edward ScissorHands can’t cut hair artistically….verbose dogs don’t draw blood… loud dogs have no bite…
“His bark is worse than his bite!” I cried, proud and relieved. I’d finally gotten what she was trying so dramatically to tell me.
“No! No!” she almost yelled, breaking enthusiastically from her characteristic, Med Grad stoicism, “like this, but different. He is like a empty cup who makes many bubbles, but has no boiling water…”
Alright, I thought… A Mormon beer carries no kick… one passionate individual does not sway the social tide… a peacock's plume out-weighs its meat…?
“No,” she clarified, “ He is like a loud dog with too much talk, but decreased thought. It’s means this dog is not of cleverness, but he boils his water anyway.”
And, finally, I understood the English proverb she was trying to find:
“Empty vessels make the most noise.”
And, yes, yes, my Romanian med student agreed and went on to explain how stupid (as she put it: “non-clever”) people often tend to talk too much.
And, though I wanted to point out how interesting the cross-cultural parallels between our respective proverbs were…
I shut up.
I couldn’t say another word.
After all, who wants to be a barking, empty vessel? Or a boiling dog bitch with no vampiric bite?
**Edit/Update: And, now you can see, perhaps, why teaching English as a second language can drive one slowly insane...
Friday, February 23, 2007
Bi-polar blogs, and the People that love them
I sometimes cry myself to sleep. I sometimes ball into the early hours; my tears soaking the hardware of my emotions as I contemplate the feelings of insurmountable neglect and abandonment that burden my every miserable day. I sometimes look at myself in the mirror and see nothing but a heinous, green façade with pre-destined template, devoid of love and meaning.I know it’s terrible, but I’ve even thought of deleting myself before. You know, just wiping out my insignificant existence from the infinite web-like world, and hoping for redemption one day. After all, what am I but a bunch of ones and zeros that form silly words with etymological roots in the languages of prehistoric invertebrates and an occasionally-interested parent blogger?
Who am I? My given name is Up the Creek. Last name: Without a Platypus. And I am the lonely and neglected weblog of the heartless –c.
She has abandoned me for almost two weeks now. She has probably forgotten me.
She has left me feeling deserted when I most needed guidance. She has ignored me when I felt most alone. Oh, woe is me, and my connected offspring!
Sincerely,
Sad Up the Creeek
----
Dear My Weblog (first name: Up the Creek, surname: Without a Platypus),
How are you? This is -C here. I have been thinking of you often, but haven’t had the chance to visit.
I’m sorry I have neglected you recently, but I was burdened by the visit of a houseguest and a long weekend trip to Vancouver. I had an amazing cross-border adventure despite the breakdown of our car. The visit was complete with friendly Canadians, reassuring mechanics and inquisitive Passport-Requirers.
I wish you had been there.
Despite my absence, my love for you is as emotionally muscled as ever,
Big heart,
-C
***Pictures again shamelessly stolen from Mr. E
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Ordinary
It’s an ordinary day. You’re getting on an ordinary bus with ordinary passengers, leaving an ordinary Seattle location for another ordinary Seattle destination.
You witness an ordinary drug deal taking place under the ordinary bus shelter (meant to protect you from the ordinary rain), scrounge for an ordinary quarter to supplement your ordinary dollar, mount the ordinary vegetable oil-run bus and sit down quite ordinarily beside an ordinary citizen with six ordinary grocery bags of exceptionally ordinary groceries.
You exhale an ordinary sigh of security, knowing that everything is predictably…, well… ordinary.
Then, you covertly begin glancing around the bus to size up your fellow passengers
(…as one ordinarily does)…
When suddenly you notice that the man across the aisle wearing the overtly ordinary khaki outfit (held together by bland leather shoes and an oddly ordinary canvass shoulder bag) has freed a folded, quite ordinary blank piece of paper from his ordinary inner professor coat pocket and is frantically scribbling mathematical equations in a most hasty and stunningly UNordinary fashion.
From your uncomfortably ordinary public perspective, you can clearly make out the various variables in his pace-increasing, scribbled equations.
And, they are clearly not ordinary. Yes—some are actual numbers that you recognize from your privileged 2nd grade education, but most are illegible squiggles that, were you not so ordinary, you might ordinarily recognize as grand theoretical and philosophical concepts represented by bloated alphabet soup ingredients.
You spend a moment entertaining embarrassingly ordinary fantasies of what his calculations could possibly pertain to…
…. 1) he’s supporting the yet un-proven theory that the number of To-Go-Double-shot Americano-Coffee condensation droplets in a single Seattle bus is directly proportional to the number of North Face-attired bus riders
2) he’s working out a Relativity-embracing theory that holds that arbitrary seating on buses (aided by the presence of pet dogs on the bus floor and Self-Help books in passenger hands) is indeed the most efficient way to cram a single unit of public transportation
3) he’s rewriting his grandmother’s shopping list in celestially navigate-able form…
4) he’s…..
JAB!... an ordinary, bearded bus regular suddenly pokes you in the shoulder, and you realize that the bus has come to a not very Unordinary halt at your ordinary stop.
You get off, walk home and take time to mentally tickle your clit because it’s Friday.
And, predictably, your clit responds excitedly.
Why?
Because it’s not only Friday, but it’s a Friday most ordinary.
(for best taste, insert fondue-cheese grin here…)
**Shameless thievery Update: Cartoon commuter pic stolen from Mr. E
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Basketball Bulge
“First, I’m gonna take you to see one of the biggest and most famous dicks in the city.”
Now…, if a tour guide or field trip leader told me that, I would be filled with questions, disgust, excitement and a bit of nervousness.
... And, that wouldn't be all that an abnormal a response, would it?…
But, apparently it would…
This was one of the opening sentences of my field trip presentation last night. We were going to see the Sonics play the Bulls at the Key Arena, after visiting one of the most well-known Dick's of the city.
And, my guided audience of international students responded to my statement that we would see the biggest dick in Seattle simply by smiling, nodding enthusiastically and giving a few ‘thumbs up’ signs.
I suppose they were used to being shown large penises on field trips… Perhaps in their countries, observing over-sized male members was a natural catalyst for enjoying basketball games, or… maybe, phallic photo ops were the norm these days for the new generation of English language learners….
Whatever the case…, I was quite disappointed by the lack of student disappointment when I brought them to Dick’s Hamburger Shop for dinner, rather than taking them to view one of the most enormous penises in the state.
It’s quite lonely to share a juvenile joke with yourself.
(…But, I suppose it’s better than explaining the joke to 13 eager, male-cucumber-nuance-ready learners...)
Now…, if a tour guide or field trip leader told me that, I would be filled with questions, disgust, excitement and a bit of nervousness.
... And, that wouldn't be all that an abnormal a response, would it?…
But, apparently it would…
This was one of the opening sentences of my field trip presentation last night. We were going to see the Sonics play the Bulls at the Key Arena, after visiting one of the most well-known Dick's of the city.
And, my guided audience of international students responded to my statement that we would see the biggest dick in Seattle simply by smiling, nodding enthusiastically and giving a few ‘thumbs up’ signs.
I suppose they were used to being shown large penises on field trips… Perhaps in their countries, observing over-sized male members was a natural catalyst for enjoying basketball games, or… maybe, phallic photo ops were the norm these days for the new generation of English language learners….
Whatever the case…, I was quite disappointed by the lack of student disappointment when I brought them to Dick’s Hamburger Shop for dinner, rather than taking them to view one of the most enormous penises in the state.
It’s quite lonely to share a juvenile joke with yourself.
(…But, I suppose it’s better than explaining the joke to 13 eager, male-cucumber-nuance-ready learners...)
As simple as pie and relatives
I thought it would be easy. As simple as making spaghetti. A cinch. A breeze. A picnic. A piece of cake. An easy A…
But I was wrong.
Taking the TOEIC Test (Test of English for International Communication) as a native English speaker was tougher than I had anticipated.
I expected to get 100% as the questions seemed pretty clear and the grammar (though absolutely NOTHING like the way people actually speak) was fairly straightforward.
So, when I learned that I had missed two questions, I was duly chagrined. I would no longer be able to walk into my Test Prep class as a Teacher with any dignity or semblance of authority. My students would whisper and giggle in the corners, passing notes that read: “Miss –C, Miss –C, She ain’t got da skillz to teach no English to me!” and I would cower on my back-pedalling unicycle when asked to confirm “the most common, American usage” of the subjunctive.
I still don’t know which questions I missed.
But, I have my suspicions.
I remember finding the “listening” questions most trialing, as they pretended to resemble real-life conversations. In these questions, I was forced to listen to a phrase or question posed by a stereotypical Aussie, Brit or American, and then asked to choose the appropriate response.
One question went like this:
“Excuse me. Can you tell me what time the bus leaves?”
a) Yes, on Monday.
b) No, I’m not interested.
c) Yes, at 1:30.
d) No, he’s my brother.
Now, I knew I was supposed to choose the BEST of all possible answers. Since, I had absolutely no idea what bus the slow-speaking, elocution-trained English man was talking about, I chose b). Was my test graded unfairly because I didn’t care about the English voice actor’s bus schedule?
The other listening question I remember giving me difficulty was:
“Mary, what should we have for dinner tonight?”
a) Let’s go to the movies.
b) Pizza and salad.
c) At 8:30.
d) My sister and her husband.
Pizza and salad??! Who eats pizza and salad? Pizza and beer--yes, but... Clearly the answer was d).
Those test writers are sneaky bastards, I tell you.
But I was wrong.
Taking the TOEIC Test (Test of English for International Communication) as a native English speaker was tougher than I had anticipated.
I expected to get 100% as the questions seemed pretty clear and the grammar (though absolutely NOTHING like the way people actually speak) was fairly straightforward.
So, when I learned that I had missed two questions, I was duly chagrined. I would no longer be able to walk into my Test Prep class as a Teacher with any dignity or semblance of authority. My students would whisper and giggle in the corners, passing notes that read: “Miss –C, Miss –C, She ain’t got da skillz to teach no English to me!” and I would cower on my back-pedalling unicycle when asked to confirm “the most common, American usage” of the subjunctive.
I still don’t know which questions I missed.
But, I have my suspicions.
I remember finding the “listening” questions most trialing, as they pretended to resemble real-life conversations. In these questions, I was forced to listen to a phrase or question posed by a stereotypical Aussie, Brit or American, and then asked to choose the appropriate response.
One question went like this:
“Excuse me. Can you tell me what time the bus leaves?”
a) Yes, on Monday.
b) No, I’m not interested.
c) Yes, at 1:30.
d) No, he’s my brother.
Now, I knew I was supposed to choose the BEST of all possible answers. Since, I had absolutely no idea what bus the slow-speaking, elocution-trained English man was talking about, I chose b). Was my test graded unfairly because I didn’t care about the English voice actor’s bus schedule?
The other listening question I remember giving me difficulty was:
“Mary, what should we have for dinner tonight?”
a) Let’s go to the movies.
b) Pizza and salad.
c) At 8:30.
d) My sister and her husband.
Pizza and salad??! Who eats pizza and salad? Pizza and beer--yes, but... Clearly the answer was d).
Those test writers are sneaky bastards, I tell you.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Birthday Bug in Costa Rica
I've always been a passionate promoter of solo traveling.
I've extolled the virtues through rough, approximate-syllable haikus and slurry eulogies to every mosquito, resort-rendered deaf vacationer and apathetic aphid I could find.
I've told them of the remarkable benefits of bussing, training, and hitching alone (namely, the amount of people you meet, the extended kindness and invitations offered by others and the ability to avoid the itineraries of shopping travelers, dance club seekers, Mai Tai enthusiasts… as well as the soul-necessary ability to stay three extra days in an otherwise touristically uninteresting place, just because the hammock is comfortable...)
But, there is one logical reason I can think of for inviting a travel companion along with you on a vacation or exploration. And that is:
so you have someone to take pictures of.
And, so..., when my mother gave me this hand-made, construction paper Bug for my birthday last summer, I decided He would make the most amiable and relaxed companion on my next trip. Afterall, he already seemed to have a flair for the travel life...
And, I must say that our little Birthday Bug did quite well on the road.
He was care-free and friendly as we navigated the crowded Avenida Central in San Jose, remained pleasantly optimistic when we had to stand without seats for the four hour busride to La Fortuna, and slept peacefully as his travel companion (yes, that's me) joked and chatted into the early hours with Japanese-fluent Tico hostel owners and Law philosophers.
Now, many creatures of Costa Rica have an affinity for and an exclusively survival-based relationship with water (like the Jesus Christ Lizard and the poison dart frog). But, our little Birthday Bug companion proved not to be the aquatic enthusiast you'd expect.
Infact, he was appallingly frightened of swimming, cowered from waterfall misty sprays and even crumpled his contruction paper arms at the touch of sweaty tourist fingers.
(I even offered him a stylish mini-coconut bikini and a tree-sap latex speedo, depending on his orientation... to no avail.)
BUT, I did finally get him to pose for a photo once, albeit very unwillingly, infront of a small cascade...
He tried to smile, but the wind currents sent his black paper
legs swinging liberally in the humid breath of his hiking companion, and he just didn't feel comfortable posing alone.
Having been the domesticated entomological puppet of a mother's creative hands for so long, he just didn't feel much at ease in the presence of a daily-active volcano and its seismically charged, bordering rivers...
But, I like to think he DID later enjoy himself a bit, locked safely inside a Zip-Lock tupperware containter for three days (with appropriate airholes, mind you), as his traveling home-girl hiked throught the Cloud Forest alone, aweing at the sights of Quetzales, being drawn to wing-like arm stretches beside cloudy vacancies and enjoying the sounds of non-construction-paper insects and birds for three hours at a time without seeing another person...
But he did get hungry.
And he did get lonely.
So, when he met a tired and friendly stray puppy one night, our little protagonist insect (though, he could be an arachnid... for he has lost a few paper legs in journey...) reached out for companionship.
And because his travel companion had forgotten to bring such proper medical supplies as glue, colored construction paper and scissors, and because he was so tired, lonely and hungry...
He ate the dozing puppy right there in Mal Pais, Costa Rica;
first swathing the dozing puppy in a moist caccoon of artificially-colored paper,
and then sucking the sashimi juvenile dog juices out like a dry martini with bedbug chasers and remnants of undigested, out-of-date Lonely Planet guidebook pages...
Yes..., I like to think we both had a good time...
(more to come soon...)
I've extolled the virtues through rough, approximate-syllable haikus and slurry eulogies to every mosquito, resort-rendered deaf vacationer and apathetic aphid I could find.
I've told them of the remarkable benefits of bussing, training, and hitching alone (namely, the amount of people you meet, the extended kindness and invitations offered by others and the ability to avoid the itineraries of shopping travelers, dance club seekers, Mai Tai enthusiasts… as well as the soul-necessary ability to stay three extra days in an otherwise touristically uninteresting place, just because the hammock is comfortable...)
But, there is one logical reason I can think of for inviting a travel companion along with you on a vacation or exploration. And that is:
so you have someone to take pictures of.
And, so..., when my mother gave me this hand-made, construction paper Bug for my birthday last summer, I decided He would make the most amiable and relaxed companion on my next trip. Afterall, he already seemed to have a flair for the travel life...
And, I must say that our little Birthday Bug did quite well on the road.
He was care-free and friendly as we navigated the crowded Avenida Central in San Jose, remained pleasantly optimistic when we had to stand without seats for the four hour busride to La Fortuna, and slept peacefully as his travel companion (yes, that's me) joked and chatted into the early hours with Japanese-fluent Tico hostel owners and Law philosophers.
Now, many creatures of Costa Rica have an affinity for and an exclusively survival-based relationship with water (like the Jesus Christ Lizard and the poison dart frog). But, our little Birthday Bug companion proved not to be the aquatic enthusiast you'd expect.
Infact, he was appallingly frightened of swimming, cowered from waterfall misty sprays and even crumpled his contruction paper arms at the touch of sweaty tourist fingers.
(I even offered him a stylish mini-coconut bikini and a tree-sap latex speedo, depending on his orientation... to no avail.)
BUT, I did finally get him to pose for a photo once, albeit very unwillingly, infront of a small cascade...
He tried to smile, but the wind currents sent his black paper
legs swinging liberally in the humid breath of his hiking companion, and he just didn't feel comfortable posing alone.
Having been the domesticated entomological puppet of a mother's creative hands for so long, he just didn't feel much at ease in the presence of a daily-active volcano and its seismically charged, bordering rivers...
But, I like to think he DID later enjoy himself a bit, locked safely inside a Zip-Lock tupperware containter for three days (with appropriate airholes, mind you), as his traveling home-girl hiked throught the Cloud Forest alone, aweing at the sights of Quetzales, being drawn to wing-like arm stretches beside cloudy vacancies and enjoying the sounds of non-construction-paper insects and birds for three hours at a time without seeing another person...
But he did get hungry.
And he did get lonely.
So, when he met a tired and friendly stray puppy one night, our little protagonist insect (though, he could be an arachnid... for he has lost a few paper legs in journey...) reached out for companionship.
And because his travel companion had forgotten to bring such proper medical supplies as glue, colored construction paper and scissors, and because he was so tired, lonely and hungry...
He ate the dozing puppy right there in Mal Pais, Costa Rica;
first swathing the dozing puppy in a moist caccoon of artificially-colored paper,
and then sucking the sashimi juvenile dog juices out like a dry martini with bedbug chasers and remnants of undigested, out-of-date Lonely Planet guidebook pages...
Yes..., I like to think we both had a good time...
(more to come soon...)
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Post from the Road
Midst trip through CA hotspots.
Minimal time to post.
Will try anyway.
Familiar warm winds. Relatives and frozen water pipes. Traffic and Mexican food. Harp players and Waldorf zealots. Bloody poodles and ferocious rotweilers. Desert stars from the back of a pickup truck. Wine country and incompetent bank tellers.
Disclaimer: This is not intended to be poetic, entertaining, lyrical or even readable. I just felt I should post before boarding another plane.
I should have, however, just sent you here to check out my Simulated Self in action, selling flowers. It's far more palatable.
Minimal time to post.
Will try anyway.
Familiar warm winds. Relatives and frozen water pipes. Traffic and Mexican food. Harp players and Waldorf zealots. Bloody poodles and ferocious rotweilers. Desert stars from the back of a pickup truck. Wine country and incompetent bank tellers.
Disclaimer: This is not intended to be poetic, entertaining, lyrical or even readable. I just felt I should post before boarding another plane.
I should have, however, just sent you here to check out my Simulated Self in action, selling flowers. It's far more palatable.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
1,2,3... HAPPY NEW YEAR!
I know a guy who can replicate, precisely, the distinct sound of a dove looking for a mate.
His realistic “coo” can get any wholesale warehouse shopper to look up and squint inquisitively at the rafters of the ceiling. His hollowly sweet song can have pale-wristed, avion-scat-a-phobics* on the sidewalk ducking under large parked trucks and pulling juvenile weekly newspapers over their shower-capped heads.
Not only can he also do this in Spanish (“cu-curru-cu-cú”!), but he can dove purr in any language and, most exceptionally, he can impersonate these white winged peace icons ON COMMAND!
…I also know a guy who can theatrically burp on command, and a friend who can consistently produce an obscure and hilarious new vocabulary word on command.
So…, for example.., if these three were sleeping, you could jab them all in the derriere with a pinecone, require them to immediately perform and, without even a grunt or an eye-rub, you would hear:
“Cooo-ooo! Cooo!”
“buuuurp!”
“ah.., f*ck this uxorial, crapulent imbroglio!”
and, then they would all roll back over and sleep as if nothing had happened.
So…, why am I writing about this?
Well…, I guess it’s because I’m jealous.
I have never had, as far as I know, a talent for performing an audience-pleasing action ON COMMAND.
Whenever someone asks me to “tell a joke” or “be funny”, I immediately freeze up and can’t remember even a single nun pun…
If someone asks me point-blank to juggle or dance, my cheeks start to burn baby-butt pink, and I toss the balls as quickly as I can…
I hate it when people ask me to “speak another language” for their exotic pleasure, and I employ every quick, clever quip I can to get out of reinforcing stereotypes by “telling stories” of my international experiences in 40 second conversations…
Basically… (even though I love performing and making a donkey organ of myself at times), I don’t like ‘dancing’ on command. I prefer to dance when it comes naturally and in proper context.
I mean..., you wouldn’t ask a great sexual composer to create a masterpiece without foreplay, would you? And, what kind of interviewing reporter would ask for a life history without establishing an understanding and casual rapport first?
What I’m trying (albeit long-windedly) to get at is that being retrospective about the past and contemplative about the future is not something that happens ON COMMAND.
(...for me, at least.)
It’s not something to be done only during January of the New Year.
It’s something that is done year-round, on arbitrary Sundays when the wind is particularly awkward and on weird Wednesdays when your ordinary habits seem suddenly silly…
So, all I'm saying is: Forgive me for not observing the New Year in the seemingly accepted manner. Trust me, I've got enough resolutions to fill this month's void!
***By the way, if anyone know the correct word for the phobia that reflects a fear of falling bird shit, please let me know. You need help as much as I do.
His realistic “coo” can get any wholesale warehouse shopper to look up and squint inquisitively at the rafters of the ceiling. His hollowly sweet song can have pale-wristed, avion-scat-a-phobics* on the sidewalk ducking under large parked trucks and pulling juvenile weekly newspapers over their shower-capped heads.
Not only can he also do this in Spanish (“cu-curru-cu-cú”!), but he can dove purr in any language and, most exceptionally, he can impersonate these white winged peace icons ON COMMAND!
…I also know a guy who can theatrically burp on command, and a friend who can consistently produce an obscure and hilarious new vocabulary word on command.
So…, for example.., if these three were sleeping, you could jab them all in the derriere with a pinecone, require them to immediately perform and, without even a grunt or an eye-rub, you would hear:
“Cooo-ooo! Cooo!”
“buuuurp!”
“ah.., f*ck this uxorial, crapulent imbroglio!”
and, then they would all roll back over and sleep as if nothing had happened.
So…, why am I writing about this?
Well…, I guess it’s because I’m jealous.
I have never had, as far as I know, a talent for performing an audience-pleasing action ON COMMAND.
Whenever someone asks me to “tell a joke” or “be funny”, I immediately freeze up and can’t remember even a single nun pun…
If someone asks me point-blank to juggle or dance, my cheeks start to burn baby-butt pink, and I toss the balls as quickly as I can…
I hate it when people ask me to “speak another language” for their exotic pleasure, and I employ every quick, clever quip I can to get out of reinforcing stereotypes by “telling stories” of my international experiences in 40 second conversations…
Basically… (even though I love performing and making a donkey organ of myself at times), I don’t like ‘dancing’ on command. I prefer to dance when it comes naturally and in proper context.
I mean..., you wouldn’t ask a great sexual composer to create a masterpiece without foreplay, would you? And, what kind of interviewing reporter would ask for a life history without establishing an understanding and casual rapport first?
What I’m trying (albeit long-windedly) to get at is that being retrospective about the past and contemplative about the future is not something that happens ON COMMAND.
(...for me, at least.)
It’s not something to be done only during January of the New Year.
It’s something that is done year-round, on arbitrary Sundays when the wind is particularly awkward and on weird Wednesdays when your ordinary habits seem suddenly silly…
So, all I'm saying is: Forgive me for not observing the New Year in the seemingly accepted manner. Trust me, I've got enough resolutions to fill this month's void!
***By the way, if anyone know the correct word for the phobia that reflects a fear of falling bird shit, please let me know. You need help as much as I do.
Monday, January 01, 2007
On unflawful perfection and fault invention
If you don’t have enough inherent idiosyncrasies as a person, I say it is your social responsibility to invent some.
I mean, lets say you’re an outstanding guitarist. You are an impeccable master of both technical and methodological precision who tight-ropes flawlessly between soulful inspiration and musical exactitude. You run up and down arpeggios like virtual staircases, and your every performance is like a Jimmy-invoking séance.
Yes, you’re an extraordinary musician who will probably even make it into music history books and slip into the pretentious conversations of martini-drinkers at parties held by old people trying to be hip.
But…, will people like you?
No.
Because no one likes a faultless genius. No one likes a perfect neighbor, an intelligent AND beautifully-breasted coworker, or a weather man who is an actual meteorological psychic. Aside from making great paper weights, such people just serve to highlight the flaws and shortcomings of others.
So, that’s why I think it’s important for everyone (especially all the other flawless people like me in the world) to invent a few well-developed, rough-edged idiosyncrasies that can be tacked on to their personality in times of social awkwardness or peer disdain.
The kick-ass, impeccable guitarist, for example, would be wise to get himself a drug addiction of some sort and an affinity for rubbing zebra dung on his forehead and genitals during performances.
The perfect neighbor could get herself a minor personality tic like…, for example, an obsessive-compulsive need to repaint the mailbox each and every day wearing only a pair of blue clogs and a postal service hat.
Et cetera…
But, you ask, does the preacher practice what she screeches?
Why yes, in fact, I do.
In my own life, I’ve uploaded a few invented flaws and idiosyncrasies that I often use to highlight my inherent persona and keep my social peers from thinking I’m dull.
The first thing I invented was a passionate disdain for mayonnaise. I learned over many years of being asked “What foods do you like/ dislike?” that my honest answer (“I like everything. There’s not a food I can think of that I don’t like.”) was not a socially acceptable answer. Every time I tried to answer truthfully, my interrogators would INSIST that there must be a food I couldn’t stand.
Hence, I pulled mayonnaise out of my ass (…but, sorry, I didn’t film it and post it to Youtube), and now just the thought of that whipped-cum white puree gives me the inclination to sing Christmas carols with Whitney Houston and Ted Haggard.
The other personality enhancer I brewed for myself is a lovely little piece of work I call Travel Snobbery…
I figure everyone spins the globe and fantasizes about seeing the romantic shores, exotic creatures and diverse flora of distant lands unprotected by corrupt governments.., but NOT everyone can boast of a narrow-minded snobbery about the “correct” way to travel.
So…, I carefully designed (first out of toothpicks and later out of idea alone) a unique, backpacker-wiggle-your-bare-toes- down-into-the-cultural-earth-eat-cheap-stuff- from-local-markets-and-stay-in-three-walled-places-that- cost-less-than-a-bottle-of-water attitude towards travel which I have used to add spice to my public personality on many a crowd-pleasing social occasion.
And this little idiosyncratic attitude of my exoteric self says that Costa Rica is for howler monkeys and one-week tourists who wear their backpacks on their stomachs and scream when they see spiders near their food.
But… what can I say…, the ticket was cheap. So, I’m going.
...Phew!... All of these words just to say that I’m going to Costa Rica…
No…, honestly, all of the circumlocutive wordiness is just a part of my recently invented “Can’t get to the point” Flaw that I’m working on now to enhance my otherwise banal personality. Let me know how it’s coming.
I mean, lets say you’re an outstanding guitarist. You are an impeccable master of both technical and methodological precision who tight-ropes flawlessly between soulful inspiration and musical exactitude. You run up and down arpeggios like virtual staircases, and your every performance is like a Jimmy-invoking séance.
Yes, you’re an extraordinary musician who will probably even make it into music history books and slip into the pretentious conversations of martini-drinkers at parties held by old people trying to be hip.
But…, will people like you?
No.
Because no one likes a faultless genius. No one likes a perfect neighbor, an intelligent AND beautifully-breasted coworker, or a weather man who is an actual meteorological psychic. Aside from making great paper weights, such people just serve to highlight the flaws and shortcomings of others.
So, that’s why I think it’s important for everyone (especially all the other flawless people like me in the world) to invent a few well-developed, rough-edged idiosyncrasies that can be tacked on to their personality in times of social awkwardness or peer disdain.
The kick-ass, impeccable guitarist, for example, would be wise to get himself a drug addiction of some sort and an affinity for rubbing zebra dung on his forehead and genitals during performances.
The perfect neighbor could get herself a minor personality tic like…, for example, an obsessive-compulsive need to repaint the mailbox each and every day wearing only a pair of blue clogs and a postal service hat.
Et cetera…
But, you ask, does the preacher practice what she screeches?
Why yes, in fact, I do.
In my own life, I’ve uploaded a few invented flaws and idiosyncrasies that I often use to highlight my inherent persona and keep my social peers from thinking I’m dull.
The first thing I invented was a passionate disdain for mayonnaise. I learned over many years of being asked “What foods do you like/ dislike?” that my honest answer (“I like everything. There’s not a food I can think of that I don’t like.”) was not a socially acceptable answer. Every time I tried to answer truthfully, my interrogators would INSIST that there must be a food I couldn’t stand.
Hence, I pulled mayonnaise out of my ass (…but, sorry, I didn’t film it and post it to Youtube), and now just the thought of that whipped-cum white puree gives me the inclination to sing Christmas carols with Whitney Houston and Ted Haggard.
The other personality enhancer I brewed for myself is a lovely little piece of work I call Travel Snobbery…
I figure everyone spins the globe and fantasizes about seeing the romantic shores, exotic creatures and diverse flora of distant lands unprotected by corrupt governments.., but NOT everyone can boast of a narrow-minded snobbery about the “correct” way to travel.
So…, I carefully designed (first out of toothpicks and later out of idea alone) a unique, backpacker-wiggle-your-bare-toes- down-into-the-cultural-earth-eat-cheap-stuff- from-local-markets-and-stay-in-three-walled-places-that- cost-less-than-a-bottle-of-water attitude towards travel which I have used to add spice to my public personality on many a crowd-pleasing social occasion.
And this little idiosyncratic attitude of my exoteric self says that Costa Rica is for howler monkeys and one-week tourists who wear their backpacks on their stomachs and scream when they see spiders near their food.
But… what can I say…, the ticket was cheap. So, I’m going.
...Phew!... All of these words just to say that I’m going to Costa Rica…
No…, honestly, all of the circumlocutive wordiness is just a part of my recently invented “Can’t get to the point” Flaw that I’m working on now to enhance my otherwise banal personality. Let me know how it’s coming.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Hairy Hissmas! Where should I fly?
A Merry Pagan Solstice Celebration to All!
…er…, I mean, a Happy, joyous Seasons Greetings to Everyone!
Whatever you want to call it.…, we celebrated this Christmas with bits of our neighbor’s pine tree (silver-showered in rain) decorating our place, red drippy candles (the blood of Cross-bearers roars strong!) lighting our smiles, stockings that looked like Express-Mail packages from mom (nuts and rice-crispy treats died for our sins!), Christmas Carols that Mister E. improvised on the guitar, drum and rock-star-esque vocal kazoo (“Grandma got run-over by a reindeer!”), and a few sacrificed lamb-like children (don’t worry—they wanted to taste fire!)…
Quite marvelous (and tasty!), indeed!
Now…, all that’s left in my feeling completely fulfilled for the holiday season is for me to choose a destination for my next pagan vacation coming in a few weeks…
I’m thinking Costa Rica or Panama because they have special, Frequent Sacrificer Deals from LAX and OAK…,
Honduras, on the other hand, has got vampire divers, Belize has multi-lingual mongrels, and Caracas has college friends to welcome me…
…but any suggestions (or offers of already-plucked/sheared sacrifices) would be greeted with open tongs and warmed charcoal…
MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS!
…er…, I mean, a Happy, joyous Seasons Greetings to Everyone!
Whatever you want to call it.…, we celebrated this Christmas with bits of our neighbor’s pine tree (silver-showered in rain) decorating our place, red drippy candles (the blood of Cross-bearers roars strong!) lighting our smiles, stockings that looked like Express-Mail packages from mom (nuts and rice-crispy treats died for our sins!), Christmas Carols that Mister E. improvised on the guitar, drum and rock-star-esque vocal kazoo (“Grandma got run-over by a reindeer!”), and a few sacrificed lamb-like children (don’t worry—they wanted to taste fire!)…
Quite marvelous (and tasty!), indeed!
Now…, all that’s left in my feeling completely fulfilled for the holiday season is for me to choose a destination for my next pagan vacation coming in a few weeks…
I’m thinking Costa Rica or Panama because they have special, Frequent Sacrificer Deals from LAX and OAK…,
Honduras, on the other hand, has got vampire divers, Belize has multi-lingual mongrels, and Caracas has college friends to welcome me…
…but any suggestions (or offers of already-plucked/sheared sacrifices) would be greeted with open tongs and warmed charcoal…
MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS!
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
High Voltage Translated
The adult ESL students today all looked like zombies.
Some had cavernous, pitchy carvings under their eyes.
Others had face blemishes and actual, real human skin in places where caked foundation and carpet-thick blush usually resided…
Some wore PayLess sneakers in place of high heels, and jeans instead of tight lycra-esque wristbands around their waists.
It was a strange day, indeed.
I thought a reality TV show slash cross-culture-dressing, Twighlight Zone emissary had descended in the night and possessed, redressed and re-made my Past Perfect Continuous-learning disciples.
It was either that, I thought, or they had all gotten happy-hour hammered the night before and were still recovering from the cheap shots of sleazy American culture and first-time, salt-tequilla-lemon-slice pick-up lines of the local fauna.
But, as it turned out…, my suspicions were unfounded.
The Saudi Arabian woman was just up all night because her baby was sick. The Taiwanese man was just overly perplexed about the psychological intricacies of homophobia in different cultures, and dying for discussion. The Spanish man had just spent the past 53 hours drinking coffee and painting in preparation for his next exhibit. The Korean man was just stressed about packing and buying souvenirs for his trip home in two days. The Peruvian woman was just ill from food-poisoning. And, the Japanese girls all simply had a group feeling of “low-voltage/ discontentment,” as they called it…
“Low voltage?” I inquired.
“Yes, Low Voltage, Low Tension” they responded (if not in verbal unison, then at least in vocal intention).
“Oh, you mean you are not feeling very energetic or excited today?” I guessed (mentally translating Japanese English to Comprehensible English).
“Yes, that’s right. We are feeling low voltage today.”
“Meaning… uh… that if I touch you now, I will not instantaneously become a fried, electrocution-flavored human corpse?”
“That’s right,” they repeated, completely baffled: “Low Tension.”
And, so it was that today I learned to associate “Low voltage” with the wearing of sweat pants and the absence of face make-up.
It’s quite astounding, really, the worldly insights and intrinsic bits of universal knowledge that we would all be deprived of were it not for quality Cross-Cultural Education.
Some had cavernous, pitchy carvings under their eyes.
Others had face blemishes and actual, real human skin in places where caked foundation and carpet-thick blush usually resided…
Some wore PayLess sneakers in place of high heels, and jeans instead of tight lycra-esque wristbands around their waists.
It was a strange day, indeed.
I thought a reality TV show slash cross-culture-dressing, Twighlight Zone emissary had descended in the night and possessed, redressed and re-made my Past Perfect Continuous-learning disciples.
It was either that, I thought, or they had all gotten happy-hour hammered the night before and were still recovering from the cheap shots of sleazy American culture and first-time, salt-tequilla-lemon-slice pick-up lines of the local fauna.
But, as it turned out…, my suspicions were unfounded.
The Saudi Arabian woman was just up all night because her baby was sick. The Taiwanese man was just overly perplexed about the psychological intricacies of homophobia in different cultures, and dying for discussion. The Spanish man had just spent the past 53 hours drinking coffee and painting in preparation for his next exhibit. The Korean man was just stressed about packing and buying souvenirs for his trip home in two days. The Peruvian woman was just ill from food-poisoning. And, the Japanese girls all simply had a group feeling of “low-voltage/ discontentment,” as they called it…
“Low voltage?” I inquired.
“Yes, Low Voltage, Low Tension” they responded (if not in verbal unison, then at least in vocal intention).
“Oh, you mean you are not feeling very energetic or excited today?” I guessed (mentally translating Japanese English to Comprehensible English).
“Yes, that’s right. We are feeling low voltage today.”
“Meaning… uh… that if I touch you now, I will not instantaneously become a fried, electrocution-flavored human corpse?”
“That’s right,” they repeated, completely baffled: “Low Tension.”
And, so it was that today I learned to associate “Low voltage” with the wearing of sweat pants and the absence of face make-up.
It’s quite astounding, really, the worldly insights and intrinsic bits of universal knowledge that we would all be deprived of were it not for quality Cross-Cultural Education.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Laziness Begets Winning Google Searches that behave like Splog Without the Ads
Ok. It’s time to fess up.
I’m a pathetic, slacking blogger these days.
I admit it.
The last time I tried to post, I went to edit my silly words and lost them all to the Ether’s Ministry of Editing (which is no small feat, as the Ether’s editors couldn’t really give a spotted owl’s stool what parades naked with genital Big Mac acne around Blogspot…).
But, anyway, excuses aside, I’ve got to post something...
So, I’ll very unoriginally post some of my favorite winning google searches that recently landed unsuspecting surfers here, at Up the Creek Without a Platypus:
anaconda toilet box torture, genital protection hockey, spanked tomatoes, aardvark leprosy, Well Hello there Mister sneaky pants, sex with a cigar, Demolition Derby Tercel, burnt eyelashes, cantaloupe bong, Waterbed icepick, elephant unchi, bible coderackers, platypus love, funny and sexy breast check up, ABDUCTION FANTASY, columbian insurgency anal, camping schlong, age old people sneezing, schlong restaurant, Enormous Testicles, pink platypus, Sexy platypus, Alligator candy, Abduction fantasy, Clitorism is Us, sand like silth, suicide witness, sunnyside up spanking, pee under trees, raccoon dog testicles, minotaur slayed, baby salad fornication, deadliest ant, genital protection bareback riding, rancid song test wake up, how to masturbate without waking up partner
I have to say my favorite is "Columbian insurgency anal"... Though..., on second thought..., "spanked tomatoes" and "age old people sneezing" run a tight competition...
Well…, what can I say? I hope they found what they were looking for.
I’m a pathetic, slacking blogger these days.
I admit it.
The last time I tried to post, I went to edit my silly words and lost them all to the Ether’s Ministry of Editing (which is no small feat, as the Ether’s editors couldn’t really give a spotted owl’s stool what parades naked with genital Big Mac acne around Blogspot…).
But, anyway, excuses aside, I’ve got to post something...
So, I’ll very unoriginally post some of my favorite winning google searches that recently landed unsuspecting surfers here, at Up the Creek Without a Platypus:
anaconda toilet box torture, genital protection hockey, spanked tomatoes, aardvark leprosy, Well Hello there Mister sneaky pants, sex with a cigar, Demolition Derby Tercel, burnt eyelashes, cantaloupe bong, Waterbed icepick, elephant unchi, bible coderackers, platypus love, funny and sexy breast check up, ABDUCTION FANTASY, columbian insurgency anal, camping schlong, age old people sneezing, schlong restaurant, Enormous Testicles, pink platypus, Sexy platypus, Alligator candy, Abduction fantasy, Clitorism is Us, sand like silth, suicide witness, sunnyside up spanking, pee under trees, raccoon dog testicles, minotaur slayed, baby salad fornication, deadliest ant, genital protection bareback riding, rancid song test wake up, how to masturbate without waking up partner
I have to say my favorite is "Columbian insurgency anal"... Though..., on second thought..., "spanked tomatoes" and "age old people sneezing" run a tight competition...
Well…, what can I say? I hope they found what they were looking for.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Olfactory Hoppiness and Audible Obscenities
I suppose there are things more disconcerting than having a grown man wearing a giant block of synthetic cheese on his head pour beer on you.
(…being urinated on by a miniature Dachshund, for instance, or having your shirt collar straightened by a wino wearing splashes of decomposing haggis cologne…)
But, being a virgin to the arena of live American Football, I didn’t know such things were par for the athletic spectator course. I didn’t know that a culture existed within which it was acceptable to spew volcanic, garlic-cheese-fry tephra into the faces of those around you, and I’d never heard of any club that invited its members to scream obscenities into each other’s ears and shove stale, under-fermented malty-hoppy yeast aromas up each other’s nostrils.
This club, however, does in fact exist. They are most commonly known as “football fans”.
And, I was among them last night at the snowy Seahawks-Packers game in Seattle.
When my private student, Makoto, invited me to join him in his section 310, season pass seats, he probably thought I knew and cared more about football than I actually do. He probably thought, for example, that I knew what a “down” and a “red flag” were and that I understood why non-inebriated men would line up to wrestle with each other to the dissonant screams of shirtless, chest-painted cat-callers.
But, I disguised my ignorance well.
Having lived in quite a few different countries where strange happenings were the norm, I was able to adapt quickly to the new stadium environment. When others wearing my color (blue) jumped up to wave flags and holler enthusiastic obscenities, I did the same. When natives boo-ed baritone beer breath indecencies, so did I.
And, I think I did all right. (At least…, no members of the Club potato-sacked me or pulled me back into a dank locker room for questioning. And, the rumors of water board-supported quizzes on QB and runningback statistics… well…, nope- luckily never happened.)
And, actually…, I have to admit that the fans won me over. There’s something outstandingly special about the type of primal screaming, hysteria, emotional excitement and touchdown-determined disappointment that comes with watching a live football game;
something we don’t get to experience everyday in our humdrum lives.
Yeah, it’s something alright…
Something like competition-strummed cacophony and oral malodor.
*Edit/Update: Honestly, I had an awesome time at the game, and can’t wait to go to another one!! (I’ll just bring along my supplemental vocal chords and face mask next time!)
(…being urinated on by a miniature Dachshund, for instance, or having your shirt collar straightened by a wino wearing splashes of decomposing haggis cologne…)
But, being a virgin to the arena of live American Football, I didn’t know such things were par for the athletic spectator course. I didn’t know that a culture existed within which it was acceptable to spew volcanic, garlic-cheese-fry tephra into the faces of those around you, and I’d never heard of any club that invited its members to scream obscenities into each other’s ears and shove stale, under-fermented malty-hoppy yeast aromas up each other’s nostrils.
This club, however, does in fact exist. They are most commonly known as “football fans”.
And, I was among them last night at the snowy Seahawks-Packers game in Seattle.
When my private student, Makoto, invited me to join him in his section 310, season pass seats, he probably thought I knew and cared more about football than I actually do. He probably thought, for example, that I knew what a “down” and a “red flag” were and that I understood why non-inebriated men would line up to wrestle with each other to the dissonant screams of shirtless, chest-painted cat-callers.
But, I disguised my ignorance well.
Having lived in quite a few different countries where strange happenings were the norm, I was able to adapt quickly to the new stadium environment. When others wearing my color (blue) jumped up to wave flags and holler enthusiastic obscenities, I did the same. When natives boo-ed baritone beer breath indecencies, so did I.
And, I think I did all right. (At least…, no members of the Club potato-sacked me or pulled me back into a dank locker room for questioning. And, the rumors of water board-supported quizzes on QB and runningback statistics… well…, nope- luckily never happened.)
And, actually…, I have to admit that the fans won me over. There’s something outstandingly special about the type of primal screaming, hysteria, emotional excitement and touchdown-determined disappointment that comes with watching a live football game;
something we don’t get to experience everyday in our humdrum lives.
Yeah, it’s something alright…
Something like competition-strummed cacophony and oral malodor.
*Edit/Update: Honestly, I had an awesome time at the game, and can’t wait to go to another one!! (I’ll just bring along my supplemental vocal chords and face mask next time!)
Friday, November 24, 2006
Web-schlong Winks
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.
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.
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!
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