I wrote some new lyrics to an old Christmas song. It's a Christmas song I always really liked as a child, ever since Big Bird sang it on my Sesame Street Christmas album which they don't make anymore, and which Elmo totally wasn't on, and that wasn't a bad thing. No offense Elmo.
The new song is entitled:
It's Beginning to Feel a lot Like Christmas.
It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Soon it'll almost be cold.
And the thing that will make it cold
Is the chilling, morbid thought
That we're making the world inhospitable for ourselves.
A pair of gas powered boots
And some gas powered suits
Is the wish of Bobby and Ben.
Gas powered socks
And a gas powered clock
Is the hope of Janet and Jen.
And mom and dad are hoping for
A brand new Ex-cur-sion.
It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Jesus would be so proud.
And the thing that will make him smile
Is knowing it'll just be a while
Before we're all up in heaven with him.
Is the beginning of winter supposed to be hot?
Our planet's becoming a giant crock pot.
Gas powered this and some gas powered that
Throw in some smoke and some gas powered gas.
And mom and dad are trying to decide if they should just smother us in our sleep at night so we don't have to face the future.
It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.
Christmas.
Christmas.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Dad's Glasses part 2
So I'm in the back seat of my parent's car riding to work this morning when my father begins to explain why his glasses no longer have a spool of scotch tape wrapped around the bridge. It turns out that last night Dad got it into his head that what his glasses needed was superglue. And of course it could not wait so he did it right away.
I'm sure he was careful. I'm sure he laid copious amounts of paper on the table so as not to spill glue all over the place. I'm sure he had appropriate lighting and he probably even had special tools besides to aid in his project. What he didn't have was patience.
The way Dad tells it you would think that he immediately picked up the glued glasses and put them to his face, but I'd like to think that he waited at least a minute or two for the glue to dry. I don't wish to speculate. Anyway, he said that he put the glasses on and glue just started pouring down the lenses. It's a wonder he didn't glue the damn things to his face.
My father did not panic, however. He did what anyone else might do, and what I will caution you all against doing right now. He very calmly ran the glasses under water to wash away the glue.
Ok. Superglue is not the same as Elmers, which some children eat. Here's a bit of trivia that may someday save your glasses. The catalyst for most kinds of superglue is.... water. That means you pour the glue where you want it and the moisture in the air speeds the drying process up. That is why superglue might stay wet for hours on a dry piece of paper but as soon as you put your moist and oily little finger on it the paper dries right to you and you have glue on your skin for several days.
So then Dad had glue drippings permanently dripping down his glasses. So he brilliantly told my mother to do whatever she could to get it off; it didn't matter if she scratched them because he couldn't see out of them anyway. So my mom got a knife and began to scratch off the glue and gouge the lenses in the process.
Note number 2 that may someday save your glasses: Most superglues can be removed with solvent. It is a special chemical designed to make glue "let go."
"So," said Dad as we drove down one of the busiest roads in Atlanta, "I really can't see anything."
"So why didn't you just let Mom drive?"
"Are you kidding?" he asked. "I want to make it to Christmas."
Ok, the last two lines didn't happen, but he really did tell me as we drove down Peachtree Industrial Boulevard that he couldn't see anything.
I'm sure he was careful. I'm sure he laid copious amounts of paper on the table so as not to spill glue all over the place. I'm sure he had appropriate lighting and he probably even had special tools besides to aid in his project. What he didn't have was patience.
The way Dad tells it you would think that he immediately picked up the glued glasses and put them to his face, but I'd like to think that he waited at least a minute or two for the glue to dry. I don't wish to speculate. Anyway, he said that he put the glasses on and glue just started pouring down the lenses. It's a wonder he didn't glue the damn things to his face.
My father did not panic, however. He did what anyone else might do, and what I will caution you all against doing right now. He very calmly ran the glasses under water to wash away the glue.
Ok. Superglue is not the same as Elmers, which some children eat. Here's a bit of trivia that may someday save your glasses. The catalyst for most kinds of superglue is.... water. That means you pour the glue where you want it and the moisture in the air speeds the drying process up. That is why superglue might stay wet for hours on a dry piece of paper but as soon as you put your moist and oily little finger on it the paper dries right to you and you have glue on your skin for several days.
So then Dad had glue drippings permanently dripping down his glasses. So he brilliantly told my mother to do whatever she could to get it off; it didn't matter if she scratched them because he couldn't see out of them anyway. So my mom got a knife and began to scratch off the glue and gouge the lenses in the process.
Note number 2 that may someday save your glasses: Most superglues can be removed with solvent. It is a special chemical designed to make glue "let go."
"So," said Dad as we drove down one of the busiest roads in Atlanta, "I really can't see anything."
"So why didn't you just let Mom drive?"
"Are you kidding?" he asked. "I want to make it to Christmas."
Ok, the last two lines didn't happen, but he really did tell me as we drove down Peachtree Industrial Boulevard that he couldn't see anything.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
time
So I got to the Park and Ride in plenty of time today. I'm supposed to get there by 7:15 and I was there right at 7:15. But my carpool, aka Mom and Dad, were not there. I am not the most punctual person in the world, but I am rarely more than 5 minutes lates. Lately I have been making a concerted effort to be there on time.
Anyway, they were not there. So I waited. And waited. At 7:35 I called my Dad and he answered the phone this way:
"Yes, we're on our way. I'll be there in a minute and your mother is right behind me."
---note to you environmentalists: We normally do not take 3 cars. My parents drive together and pick me up at the Park and Ride and we carpool in. I like the environment. But today my mother had to leave work early so Dad and I are riding the bus home.
"Ok," I said. "I just wanted to be sure I wasn't supposed to ride the bus in."
The night before my mother had called and spoken to me for about fifteen minutes while I played Star Craft on the computer. When I got off the phone with her my wife asked what we had talked about and I could not, for the life of me, remember. So I was legitimately afraid that she had told me to ride the bus.
"No," he said. "I'll be there in a minute."
I wasn't exactly mad. I've been late some too, so I wouldn't complain. But it seems to me that whenever I am 5 minutes late I get cross looks. If I am ten minutes late, which does not happen often, I get a phone call and sometimes cross remarks about respect. But when Mom and Dad are late it isn't their fault. And when they are on time and I am already there I hear comments like last weeks, which actually came from my mother, "Did you get some good traffic?" Which translates to: "How are you here early?" I wanted to say, "I'm frequently early. If you were frequently on time you'd know that." But I have been late some, and it is not uncommon for them to be at the Park and Ride before me. Still, there is a double standard there.
So Dad drives up 5 minutes later and hops out of his car. I don't look at him, (because I'm a bit upset) and he says, "It took me forever to get your mother moving this morning. I swear if I hadn't been there she'd still be asleep. I got in the shower and when I got out she was still in bed. Then I got her up and she went through her usual ritual of letting the dogs out and getting breakfast, even though she was twenty minutes late."
Incidentally, he is not one to talk. Dad is rarely late himself, but if he is not going somewhere and you are he has absolutely no qualms about talking and talking to you so that you are late. And then he just shakes his head like you don't understand the importance of time. So his ranting was only serving to make me more irritated.
Then he walked around to the other side of the car, though I still had not looked at him directly, and he said, "Time means nothing to your mother. She doesn't comprehend the disrespect or the inconvenience associated with making people wait. It just doesn't matter to her." By this point I was staring at the asphalt; just plain mad.
Then I looked up and everything changed. I looked at Dad and saw that his glasses had been taped together at the bridge. Imagine those Revenge of the Nerds movies with the guys taping their glasses together, only instead of using masking tape my father used Scotch tape, and not a small amount. The tape was so bunched up that it stuck off his face almost an inch. He kept ranting about Mom, but I was too busy trying not to laugh.
~sigh~
Anyway, they were not there. So I waited. And waited. At 7:35 I called my Dad and he answered the phone this way:
"Yes, we're on our way. I'll be there in a minute and your mother is right behind me."
---note to you environmentalists: We normally do not take 3 cars. My parents drive together and pick me up at the Park and Ride and we carpool in. I like the environment. But today my mother had to leave work early so Dad and I are riding the bus home.
"Ok," I said. "I just wanted to be sure I wasn't supposed to ride the bus in."
The night before my mother had called and spoken to me for about fifteen minutes while I played Star Craft on the computer. When I got off the phone with her my wife asked what we had talked about and I could not, for the life of me, remember. So I was legitimately afraid that she had told me to ride the bus.
"No," he said. "I'll be there in a minute."
I wasn't exactly mad. I've been late some too, so I wouldn't complain. But it seems to me that whenever I am 5 minutes late I get cross looks. If I am ten minutes late, which does not happen often, I get a phone call and sometimes cross remarks about respect. But when Mom and Dad are late it isn't their fault. And when they are on time and I am already there I hear comments like last weeks, which actually came from my mother, "Did you get some good traffic?" Which translates to: "How are you here early?" I wanted to say, "I'm frequently early. If you were frequently on time you'd know that." But I have been late some, and it is not uncommon for them to be at the Park and Ride before me. Still, there is a double standard there.
So Dad drives up 5 minutes later and hops out of his car. I don't look at him, (because I'm a bit upset) and he says, "It took me forever to get your mother moving this morning. I swear if I hadn't been there she'd still be asleep. I got in the shower and when I got out she was still in bed. Then I got her up and she went through her usual ritual of letting the dogs out and getting breakfast, even though she was twenty minutes late."
Incidentally, he is not one to talk. Dad is rarely late himself, but if he is not going somewhere and you are he has absolutely no qualms about talking and talking to you so that you are late. And then he just shakes his head like you don't understand the importance of time. So his ranting was only serving to make me more irritated.
Then he walked around to the other side of the car, though I still had not looked at him directly, and he said, "Time means nothing to your mother. She doesn't comprehend the disrespect or the inconvenience associated with making people wait. It just doesn't matter to her." By this point I was staring at the asphalt; just plain mad.
Then I looked up and everything changed. I looked at Dad and saw that his glasses had been taped together at the bridge. Imagine those Revenge of the Nerds movies with the guys taping their glasses together, only instead of using masking tape my father used Scotch tape, and not a small amount. The tape was so bunched up that it stuck off his face almost an inch. He kept ranting about Mom, but I was too busy trying not to laugh.
~sigh~
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Magic Eye
Have you ever looked at those magic eye optical illusion puzzles. They are pretty neat. You have a picture that is really just a jumble of patters that repeat on a piece of paper and you are supposed to focus on the middle of the paper with it close to your nose, then, as you pull the paper away, you are supposed to keep your eyes from refocusing and in the double vision, on the patterns in the picture, you will see a three dimensional object floating before you. It's quite cool when it works, which for me is only about a third of the time.
Now, can you imagine being the clever guy who thought of that and then trying to explain to someone what you have. How many people do you think looked at his (or her) paper for hours on end and finally said, "This is bull-shit!"
"Now you say this is three dimensional?"
"Yes, there is a 3-D bunch of bananas."
"All I see is this tree and monkey pattern over and over again."
"Well, you have to kind of look past the page."
"You mean it's on the next page?"
"No, it's on that page."
"I don't see any bananas."
"You have to sort of cross your eyes and blurr your vision."
"Well then I won't be able to see anything."
"No, not at first. But after you stare at the page for a while a bunch of bananas will pop out."
"It's gonna pop out at me? Is this a pop-up book?"
"No, I don't mean really pop out. It's a figure of speach. The bananas will seem to pop out."
"So then I stare at this page until I imagine a bunch of bananas?"
"Well, no. They are really there, in the picture."
"Where?"
"On the page, but you can't see them."
"You can't see them? Are they invisible?"
"Sort of."
"Then how can people see them?"
"By looking at the page for a long time."
"So, there is a bunch of bananas on this page that has no bunch of bananas..."
"Yes."
"And you can't see the bananas to look at them, but the only way to see them is to look at the page?"
"Exactly."
"And you want me to publish a whole book of these things?"
Now, can you imagine being the clever guy who thought of that and then trying to explain to someone what you have. How many people do you think looked at his (or her) paper for hours on end and finally said, "This is bull-shit!"
"Now you say this is three dimensional?"
"Yes, there is a 3-D bunch of bananas."
"All I see is this tree and monkey pattern over and over again."
"Well, you have to kind of look past the page."
"You mean it's on the next page?"
"No, it's on that page."
"I don't see any bananas."
"You have to sort of cross your eyes and blurr your vision."
"Well then I won't be able to see anything."
"No, not at first. But after you stare at the page for a while a bunch of bananas will pop out."
"It's gonna pop out at me? Is this a pop-up book?"
"No, I don't mean really pop out. It's a figure of speach. The bananas will seem to pop out."
"So then I stare at this page until I imagine a bunch of bananas?"
"Well, no. They are really there, in the picture."
"Where?"
"On the page, but you can't see them."
"You can't see them? Are they invisible?"
"Sort of."
"Then how can people see them?"
"By looking at the page for a long time."
"So, there is a bunch of bananas on this page that has no bunch of bananas..."
"Yes."
"And you can't see the bananas to look at them, but the only way to see them is to look at the page?"
"Exactly."
"And you want me to publish a whole book of these things?"
About me.
I haven't written much in a little while because I've been very busy at work, which is really the only place I can write since my Internet at home has been disconnected temporarily. So I thought I would write a bit more than normal today since it seems like it might be a moderately slow day.
I just rode the elevator up from the snack room and I shared it with a man who smelled nicely of Drakkar Noir, which is not a bad scent really, except that a lot of people put way too much on and it can totally become noxious in larger doses. But the man in the elevator had a nice amount on. I haven't smelled Drakkar in years, but it is one of those smells you don't really forget. Smells can be very nostalgic for me. Some smells remind me of family trips to Florida, or my Aunt Bob's house, who is actually a woman; Bob is short for Bobbie Taylor. I imagine when she and my parents decided she would be called Aunt Bob they got a real laugh out of it. I, however, grew up with the name and didn't realized it was funny until I was in my twenties. Her house smells of laundry detergent, hard wood floors, and discrete ancient cigarette smoke that has hidden in decade-old crevaces and refuses to come out, but over time does not smell harsh or irritating, but smells rich and hearty. When I smell any of these things I am taken back to mornings spent on her fold out couch with my brother and sister and cousin watching the Flintstones. Some smells remind me of the summers I worked at Camp Glisson as a counselor, and some smells remind me of the days I worked at Macy's one Christmas time. Drakkar reminds me of those days at Christmas. Drakkar would probably remind me of Christmas anyway because Christmas time means more time at the mall and malls almost always smell like perfume.
I have a tendency towards hypochondria. I went to the doctor last week, but I was really sick, I had a sinus infection, and I considered asking the doctor what a person needs to do if he is haunted by the fear that he might be a hypochondriac. I assumed she would think it was funny, but then she would say see a therapist.
I fear dying of a heart attack because I don't take care of myself. I go in spells where I work out a bit, but it isn't enough to help. But that would be my fault. I wouldn't be able to blame anyone if I died of a heart attack or heart disease or of a stroke.
I also fear dying of some exotic disease that you can't control getting and you never know you have until it is too late like Chaggas or Mad Cow. One of the office secretaries told me about Chaggas a while back and now I fear getting whenever I have a mosquito bite that I don't remember getting. Chaggas is a fungal type parasite that gets into your blood when a Chaggas bug bites you. Actually, the parasite is found in the Chaggas poo which it poos on your skin while it is biting you and you scratch the bite then get the poo in the wound and therefore get Chaggas. Chaggas takes many years to show up, but by the time you show real Chaggas symptoms there is no cure. If memory serves it eats away at your musculature. At first I was not afraid of this because mostly people in South America get it, though there have been some cases as far north as North Carolina. But now I'm more afraid of it because I worry that my doctor will not be looking for such an illness and it will go undiagnosed. In the early stages it is treatable.
Last night as I was decorating my house for Christmas I scratched my finger on a tiny nail. When I pulled back I did not see blood so I didn't think anything of the wound, but later that night I realized that I had bled a little bit, so now I'm wondering if my last Tetnus shot is still good. It must have been over ten years that I had one.
I love Christmas time.
I hate the song Christmas Shoes.
I like just about every other Christmas song, however. I like Christmas trees and Christmas wreathes. I like the little Christmas villages and fancy ornaments. I like Christmas cartoons and holiday specials.
I don't like beer.
Last night as we were decorating for Christmas my kids decided they wanted to go outside with me. It was dark and pretty cold, but I guess outside with daddy was less scary that inside alone, even though I had a Christmas cartoon on the TV. There wasn't much the kids could do in the way of helping decorate. It required a lot of standing on the ladder and holding tons of cords and such. After we had been working for about fifteen minutes my daughter said, "Hey Daddy, let's pretend we're having fun."
I just rode the elevator up from the snack room and I shared it with a man who smelled nicely of Drakkar Noir, which is not a bad scent really, except that a lot of people put way too much on and it can totally become noxious in larger doses. But the man in the elevator had a nice amount on. I haven't smelled Drakkar in years, but it is one of those smells you don't really forget. Smells can be very nostalgic for me. Some smells remind me of family trips to Florida, or my Aunt Bob's house, who is actually a woman; Bob is short for Bobbie Taylor. I imagine when she and my parents decided she would be called Aunt Bob they got a real laugh out of it. I, however, grew up with the name and didn't realized it was funny until I was in my twenties. Her house smells of laundry detergent, hard wood floors, and discrete ancient cigarette smoke that has hidden in decade-old crevaces and refuses to come out, but over time does not smell harsh or irritating, but smells rich and hearty. When I smell any of these things I am taken back to mornings spent on her fold out couch with my brother and sister and cousin watching the Flintstones. Some smells remind me of the summers I worked at Camp Glisson as a counselor, and some smells remind me of the days I worked at Macy's one Christmas time. Drakkar reminds me of those days at Christmas. Drakkar would probably remind me of Christmas anyway because Christmas time means more time at the mall and malls almost always smell like perfume.
I have a tendency towards hypochondria. I went to the doctor last week, but I was really sick, I had a sinus infection, and I considered asking the doctor what a person needs to do if he is haunted by the fear that he might be a hypochondriac. I assumed she would think it was funny, but then she would say see a therapist.
I fear dying of a heart attack because I don't take care of myself. I go in spells where I work out a bit, but it isn't enough to help. But that would be my fault. I wouldn't be able to blame anyone if I died of a heart attack or heart disease or of a stroke.
I also fear dying of some exotic disease that you can't control getting and you never know you have until it is too late like Chaggas or Mad Cow. One of the office secretaries told me about Chaggas a while back and now I fear getting whenever I have a mosquito bite that I don't remember getting. Chaggas is a fungal type parasite that gets into your blood when a Chaggas bug bites you. Actually, the parasite is found in the Chaggas poo which it poos on your skin while it is biting you and you scratch the bite then get the poo in the wound and therefore get Chaggas. Chaggas takes many years to show up, but by the time you show real Chaggas symptoms there is no cure. If memory serves it eats away at your musculature. At first I was not afraid of this because mostly people in South America get it, though there have been some cases as far north as North Carolina. But now I'm more afraid of it because I worry that my doctor will not be looking for such an illness and it will go undiagnosed. In the early stages it is treatable.
Last night as I was decorating my house for Christmas I scratched my finger on a tiny nail. When I pulled back I did not see blood so I didn't think anything of the wound, but later that night I realized that I had bled a little bit, so now I'm wondering if my last Tetnus shot is still good. It must have been over ten years that I had one.
I love Christmas time.
I hate the song Christmas Shoes.
I like just about every other Christmas song, however. I like Christmas trees and Christmas wreathes. I like the little Christmas villages and fancy ornaments. I like Christmas cartoons and holiday specials.
I don't like beer.
Last night as we were decorating for Christmas my kids decided they wanted to go outside with me. It was dark and pretty cold, but I guess outside with daddy was less scary that inside alone, even though I had a Christmas cartoon on the TV. There wasn't much the kids could do in the way of helping decorate. It required a lot of standing on the ladder and holding tons of cords and such. After we had been working for about fifteen minutes my daughter said, "Hey Daddy, let's pretend we're having fun."
Friday, December 01, 2006
Red Shoes Rising
If I were a werewolf then the Christmas song "Christmas Shoes" would be my full moon.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Do you agree?
I need everyone's opinion on this, please.
I like Christmas music. When I was a child Christmas was my favorite time of year. My parents did it up huge. Our house was a winter wonderland. And, of course, from Thanksgiving day until the new year Christmas music was all that we heard. I know Christmas music. I know the words, I know the rhymes, I know the stories. I have heard the old and the new. I know Christmas music.
And it is my opinion, and please let me know if you agree or disagree, that the song:
Christmas Shoes
by the band:
New Song
is absolutely the worst Christmas song ever to have been written, ever. It may be one of the worst songs ever. It is horrible and horribly melodramtic. Not to mention horrible and bad. Every time I hear that song I cringe. Dear God, please this Christmas deliver me from having to hear that song again.
I like Christmas music. When I was a child Christmas was my favorite time of year. My parents did it up huge. Our house was a winter wonderland. And, of course, from Thanksgiving day until the new year Christmas music was all that we heard. I know Christmas music. I know the words, I know the rhymes, I know the stories. I have heard the old and the new. I know Christmas music.
And it is my opinion, and please let me know if you agree or disagree, that the song:
Christmas Shoes
by the band:
New Song
is absolutely the worst Christmas song ever to have been written, ever. It may be one of the worst songs ever. It is horrible and horribly melodramtic. Not to mention horrible and bad. Every time I hear that song I cringe. Dear God, please this Christmas deliver me from having to hear that song again.
Ouch!
Three weeks since my last entry. Ouch. You'd think I was married to this blog.
No laugh?
Fine.
Sorry about the long wait, for the four of you who actually read this blog. I've been stalling out on posting because I've been terribly distracted. I have distractions. It is my tragic flaw. I almost never finish anything because I distract myself away from it. I went to a psychoanalyst about this and other issues about two years ago. His basic comment was, "Yeah, that's bad." It cost me a great deal of money to have him basically agree with me.
See, distracted again.
All this is to say that I am pretty sure I'm going to end my Third [adult swim] Campaign, unceremoniously. Sorry. I may revisit the Ambrosia story at a later time, but for now I have to set it aside.
No laugh?
Fine.
Sorry about the long wait, for the four of you who actually read this blog. I've been stalling out on posting because I've been terribly distracted. I have distractions. It is my tragic flaw. I almost never finish anything because I distract myself away from it. I went to a psychoanalyst about this and other issues about two years ago. His basic comment was, "Yeah, that's bad." It cost me a great deal of money to have him basically agree with me.
See, distracted again.
All this is to say that I am pretty sure I'm going to end my Third [adult swim] Campaign, unceremoniously. Sorry. I may revisit the Ambrosia story at a later time, but for now I have to set it aside.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
My underwear
Today I had but one pair of clean underwear left. The choice is a no brainer: wear the undies and do some laundry tonight. Except when I donned these patterned boxers I found that the elastic waist band had seen its last effective day, and it was now refusing to hold.
No problem, I thought. Once I get my pants on and my shirt tucked in and my belt fastened I won't even notice it. Well I noticed it. I looked into the bathroom and saw my former pair balled up in the floor, probably wet from shower drippings. I checked the drawer again and confirmed that this was my last clean pair.
So now I sit at my desk with quitter underwear. I used to believe there was nothing worse than a sock that had lost its will to stay up on the leg; a quitter. Now I know that the lazy sock has a lazy cousin. In case you have not had the opportunity to wear lazy underwear let me inform you that it is less than comfortable. Every step I take I think my pants are falling down.
Why I didn't throw these away the last time I will never know.
No problem, I thought. Once I get my pants on and my shirt tucked in and my belt fastened I won't even notice it. Well I noticed it. I looked into the bathroom and saw my former pair balled up in the floor, probably wet from shower drippings. I checked the drawer again and confirmed that this was my last clean pair.
So now I sit at my desk with quitter underwear. I used to believe there was nothing worse than a sock that had lost its will to stay up on the leg; a quitter. Now I know that the lazy sock has a lazy cousin. In case you have not had the opportunity to wear lazy underwear let me inform you that it is less than comfortable. Every step I take I think my pants are falling down.
Why I didn't throw these away the last time I will never know.
A mute point
In my job, which I do not love, I was just now making an argument that I believed was sound. Alas, I was wrong, for I was told by a member of our Policy department that my point was mute.
I did not realize a point could be anything but mute. I would very much like to see a point that was not mute.
Well, it is no matter. My point is mute. And now so am I.
I did not realize a point could be anything but mute. I would very much like to see a point that was not mute.
Well, it is no matter. My point is mute. And now so am I.
Friday, November 03, 2006
colon
I think everyone should have to register their digestive systems with the Department of Defense. I just went to the bathroom and I believe, 100%, that there are some people I work with whose "exhaust" would be considered weapons grade.
Fainting in the ailes
Have you ever heard these stories about people fainting at horror movies? Am I the only one who thinks this is a load of crap. I mean, consider all of the people that visit these movies. Somewhere, someone is bound to faint. The PR people just have to wait for the report. They probably already have the press release written. "4 people fainted accross America at the opening of latest horror flick." I wouldn't be surprised to find out that people faint in every movie. 17 Children Faint at Opening of Disney's Lion King 8 Movie.
If anything the ridiculous wait times would cause me to faint. If I'm spending most of an afternoon waiting to buy a ticket with my knees locked and my only sustenance an abnormally large back of Skittles and a Coke, fainting isn't a possibility it's a requirement of Newton's 1st law.
And these multiple faintings are just as easily explained. One person steps into the theater and like a clumsy buffoon he trips and falls down; fainter number one. The person behind him wasn't watching and she trips over him; fainter number two. This continues for three or four people and suddenly four people have fainted at a horror flick that hasn't even begun. That must be one scary damn movie.
If anything the ridiculous wait times would cause me to faint. If I'm spending most of an afternoon waiting to buy a ticket with my knees locked and my only sustenance an abnormally large back of Skittles and a Coke, fainting isn't a possibility it's a requirement of Newton's 1st law.
And these multiple faintings are just as easily explained. One person steps into the theater and like a clumsy buffoon he trips and falls down; fainter number one. The person behind him wasn't watching and she trips over him; fainter number two. This continues for three or four people and suddenly four people have fainted at a horror flick that hasn't even begun. That must be one scary damn movie.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
HALLOWEEN... but first an apology.
Ok, I know the two, maybe three, people that visit this site are getting pretty frustrated with how little I have been posting lately. And you're probably pretty irate at the fact that I haven't sent a new letter to [adult swim]. Well, sorry.
Now let's move on to funner things.
HALLOWEEN
I never really dressed up as anything cool for Halloween. The coolest thing I ever was was probably Luke Skywalker, and it was uber cool, but my parents chose that for me. I was only four. They dressed me up in white pants and some kind of white shirt with a brown cloth belt. But the coolest part were the accessories that they bought me. I got a lightsaber, which was nothing more than a flashlight with a long plastic tube, a real Star Wars blaster, and a glow in the dark Stormtrooper helmet. I cannot remember if it was a knock-off stormtrooper helmet or the real thing. Anyway, I was Luke, but I could disguise myself as a trooper. I was totally cool. The uncoolest thing about my costume was my boots. Luke had those tall leather boots. Well, my parents weren't about to spend a chunk of money on gay ass boots just so I could look the part. So they rubber-banded two brown paper bags to my feet.
So you know, folks, it is possible for a four year old to feel embarrassed. That Halloween we did not go trick or treating. We were too little. Instead we went to a Halloween party at church. I successfully bobbed for an apple because I have an enormous mouth. Anyway, back to the embarrassment. The main room of the party was a linoleum floor and it was freshly cleaned and buffed. In those paper bag boots I had on I couldn't stay standing. I kept slipping and sliding all over the floor. So I was torn between wearing the boots and looking like Luke, an not wearing the boots but also not cracking my head open on the floor. I took off the boots begrudgingly.
I still have that old blaster, though I have long since lost the battery cover. The lightsaber I ruined when I got in a lightsaber fight with my friend, who, lacking a lightsaber of his own, used a wiffle ball bat. That lightsaber went from awesome to junk in about two swings. And the wonderful helmet that glowed in the dark I hung onto for years and years. It was totally cool, and one day it was just gone.
The second coolest thing I ever went as was a Trashman. I tossed on a pair of blue jeans with holes and a ratty old shirt of my dad's. Then I used a small amount of make-up to add some dirt smudges to my face. I messed up my hair and I grabbed a trash bag to haul candy. That year I made such a haul that it almost took three whole days to eat it all.
I was such a friggin' pig.
Now, everyone has an opinion on them... are they good? are they bad? Are they part of Halloween or independent? But I think that Halloween isn't really complete without a good Haunted House. Oh, they are just too cool. And they don't have to be Mega-Scary, especially if you have little kids.
I have a cousin named Taylor. As far as I'm concerned, and for the rest of my life, he is the king of haunted houses. Whenever we got together as kids it was a given that we would build a haunted house. Taylor had a true desire for stories of the undead, and he had an endless supply of skeleton hands and giant spiders, ghosts sounds and skull candles the melted red. Plus the little nick-nacky things that every Target and Wal-Mart keep through October now, but back then you could only find them in the back of magazines by mail-order. And we would use his stash to build haunted houses for our parents to walk through and pretend they were scared. Since then I have loved haunted houses. My favorite ride at Disney is the Haunted Mansion.
That said, I am singularly disappointed in all haunted houses who think the best way to scare you is to toss you in a dark room and grab at you then run after you with a chainsaw. Snore. The best haunted houses are visual. Gore is ok, but gothic is better. Fog is paramount and strobe lights are top-shelf. Chainsaws are lame and weak. Eyeballs, while a bit juvenile, are totally cool. And for kids a good black light is way cool.
In my dreams of future Halloweens, when my kids are a bit more grown, I want my graveyard front yard, but I also want to help my kids build a haunted house that their friends can come to and laugh at and eat candy and say, "I totally wasn't scared by that."
Now let's move on to funner things.
HALLOWEEN
I never really dressed up as anything cool for Halloween. The coolest thing I ever was was probably Luke Skywalker, and it was uber cool, but my parents chose that for me. I was only four. They dressed me up in white pants and some kind of white shirt with a brown cloth belt. But the coolest part were the accessories that they bought me. I got a lightsaber, which was nothing more than a flashlight with a long plastic tube, a real Star Wars blaster, and a glow in the dark Stormtrooper helmet. I cannot remember if it was a knock-off stormtrooper helmet or the real thing. Anyway, I was Luke, but I could disguise myself as a trooper. I was totally cool. The uncoolest thing about my costume was my boots. Luke had those tall leather boots. Well, my parents weren't about to spend a chunk of money on gay ass boots just so I could look the part. So they rubber-banded two brown paper bags to my feet.
So you know, folks, it is possible for a four year old to feel embarrassed. That Halloween we did not go trick or treating. We were too little. Instead we went to a Halloween party at church. I successfully bobbed for an apple because I have an enormous mouth. Anyway, back to the embarrassment. The main room of the party was a linoleum floor and it was freshly cleaned and buffed. In those paper bag boots I had on I couldn't stay standing. I kept slipping and sliding all over the floor. So I was torn between wearing the boots and looking like Luke, an not wearing the boots but also not cracking my head open on the floor. I took off the boots begrudgingly.
I still have that old blaster, though I have long since lost the battery cover. The lightsaber I ruined when I got in a lightsaber fight with my friend, who, lacking a lightsaber of his own, used a wiffle ball bat. That lightsaber went from awesome to junk in about two swings. And the wonderful helmet that glowed in the dark I hung onto for years and years. It was totally cool, and one day it was just gone.
The second coolest thing I ever went as was a Trashman. I tossed on a pair of blue jeans with holes and a ratty old shirt of my dad's. Then I used a small amount of make-up to add some dirt smudges to my face. I messed up my hair and I grabbed a trash bag to haul candy. That year I made such a haul that it almost took three whole days to eat it all.
I was such a friggin' pig.
Now, everyone has an opinion on them... are they good? are they bad? Are they part of Halloween or independent? But I think that Halloween isn't really complete without a good Haunted House. Oh, they are just too cool. And they don't have to be Mega-Scary, especially if you have little kids.
I have a cousin named Taylor. As far as I'm concerned, and for the rest of my life, he is the king of haunted houses. Whenever we got together as kids it was a given that we would build a haunted house. Taylor had a true desire for stories of the undead, and he had an endless supply of skeleton hands and giant spiders, ghosts sounds and skull candles the melted red. Plus the little nick-nacky things that every Target and Wal-Mart keep through October now, but back then you could only find them in the back of magazines by mail-order. And we would use his stash to build haunted houses for our parents to walk through and pretend they were scared. Since then I have loved haunted houses. My favorite ride at Disney is the Haunted Mansion.
That said, I am singularly disappointed in all haunted houses who think the best way to scare you is to toss you in a dark room and grab at you then run after you with a chainsaw. Snore. The best haunted houses are visual. Gore is ok, but gothic is better. Fog is paramount and strobe lights are top-shelf. Chainsaws are lame and weak. Eyeballs, while a bit juvenile, are totally cool. And for kids a good black light is way cool.
In my dreams of future Halloweens, when my kids are a bit more grown, I want my graveyard front yard, but I also want to help my kids build a haunted house that their friends can come to and laugh at and eat candy and say, "I totally wasn't scared by that."
Thursday, October 26, 2006
It was an accident.
I already had a headache. It wasn't horrible, but it wasn't nothing. It was, after all, a headache. It hurt. In my head.
So I wasn't committed to the accident when it happened. I was puttering along at a red light, if I was moving at all it was just the slow shuffle of cars that aren't at the front of the line, as they edge up to the next car. Then BAM! my car jumped forward about a foot, maybe less. It was such a low impact that I almost didn't know what happened. I thought maybe my brakes had temporarily failed and I had simply moved forward. But that would not have explained the jerkiness of it, or the noise. Then I looked in the rearview and sure enough there was a car right on my bumper. Well, technically they were about a foot behind me, but close enough for me to realize what had happened.
My first emotion at this point was, "Awe shit." I could tell the other driver felt the same. In my mirror I could see his shoulders drop in resignation as his brain told him that holding his breath any longer would not erase the reality that he had in fact hit me. I could also tell that he was young and had two others in his car. One was in the front passenger seat and the other was in the floorboard of the front of the car with her feet still hovering in the air around the middle of the back.
My head pounded harder. I totally wanted to pretend this had not happened and just keep on driving. Is it a hit and run if you're the one who is hit? Probably. I decided to I should pull over just to be safe.
When I got out of the car the first thing I did, like a good person, was ask if everyone in their car was ok. They were. Then I inspected the damage. At first I didn't see any. "Awe shit again," I thought. It would be one thing if the back end was all mangled. Then I would be totally justified in calling. But with no clearly visible damage it made calling the police that much harder. There were a couple of scratches, but that was all. And, as I messed with the Continental Kit, which had come loose, a long piece of plastic came out. The purpose of this strip of plastic is still unknown to me, as I could not find a place where it went, and losing it did not seem to affect the functionality of the Continental Kit. For those of you not in the know, the Continental Kit is the fake tire on the back of some older model luxury cars. Basically it is a large piece of ornamental garbage that extends the length of an already ludicrously long car. I was hoping that the one on my car would be irreperably damaged. But after fiddling with it for a second it locked back into place and was good as new.
Two scratches. Two scratches was all I had to show for calling the cops. Then the kid got out of the car. To say he looked odd would be an understatement. He had this amazing hair. He must have used half a bottle of product to get it to stay how he had it. It was a feat of cosmetic engineering. His hair stuck out about 7 inches from his head, all the way around. He looked like he had a hair halo. But it did not stick out everywhere. Just in a ring, like Saturn, around his head. Imagine an old timey straw hat, like Huckleberry Finn might have worn, only push it far back on his head so that from a profile view the front rim is pointing at a 45 degree angle from the ground, and the rest of the rim went around his head on that same plane. That was how this driver looked. It was totally awesome. And he wore Burkinstocks with no sock, which means he understood how Burkinstocks are not to be worn (with socks).
His friends were a girl and a guy. The guy looked like your typical skater. He had his bangs hanging down the side of his face to his chin and he wore all black with chains here and there. The girl looked like a typical girl in sweats. She was, however, clearly in love with the guy in black as she only stopped sucking on his face when her cell phone rang, which was about every three minutes.
Hair-halo came up to me after calling someone on his phone, and said, "It looks like I have more damage than you."
Of course he did. He was driving a tiny, green Hundai. I was driving a gigantic, burgundy 1988 Cadillac. His car was made for economy. My car was built to defy economy. My car was built to show the Soviets how asinine toilet-paper lines are. In America we have as much toilet paper as we want. And we get it by driving to the store in wheeled battleships that get 13 miles to the gallon. And even if I hadn't been driving a Cadillac, red always beats green. That's a fact of science.
Anway, he said what he said, and I told him I had called the police. He nodded as though he understood. "If it were my car," I said, "I wouldn't care. The damage is almost unnoticable. But it is my grandmother's car." "Yeah," he said.
As we sat there waiting for the cops I looked for my insurance. I know that grandma had put me on her insurance, but I couldn't for the life of me find a current copy. I searched through every piece of paper in the car, but there was nothing current. GREAT! I got hit from behind, doing everything right, and I'm going to get a ticket for not having insurance. That made my head start pounding again; only much, much harder. And as the sun started to go down, it got colder. That also made my head pound.
Sigh.
Finally the cop got there and took our driver's licenses and plate numbers. He quickly interrogated us regarding the accident, and we both agreed on how it happened. Then Hair-halo had to fill out a form because he was only 17. Then he sat in his car for 15 minutes while I wondered if I was going to get a ticket and Hair-halo looked like he was wondering the same thing. We didn't. The cop just gave us information cards to fill out and exchange, then he told us we could go.
There really isn't a good ending to this story. I mean, it isn't a bad ending; it isn't an unhappy ending. It's just an ending. I went my way and they went theirs. But since then I keep thinking, "God. I used to be 17."
So I wasn't committed to the accident when it happened. I was puttering along at a red light, if I was moving at all it was just the slow shuffle of cars that aren't at the front of the line, as they edge up to the next car. Then BAM! my car jumped forward about a foot, maybe less. It was such a low impact that I almost didn't know what happened. I thought maybe my brakes had temporarily failed and I had simply moved forward. But that would not have explained the jerkiness of it, or the noise. Then I looked in the rearview and sure enough there was a car right on my bumper. Well, technically they were about a foot behind me, but close enough for me to realize what had happened.
My first emotion at this point was, "Awe shit." I could tell the other driver felt the same. In my mirror I could see his shoulders drop in resignation as his brain told him that holding his breath any longer would not erase the reality that he had in fact hit me. I could also tell that he was young and had two others in his car. One was in the front passenger seat and the other was in the floorboard of the front of the car with her feet still hovering in the air around the middle of the back.
My head pounded harder. I totally wanted to pretend this had not happened and just keep on driving. Is it a hit and run if you're the one who is hit? Probably. I decided to I should pull over just to be safe.
When I got out of the car the first thing I did, like a good person, was ask if everyone in their car was ok. They were. Then I inspected the damage. At first I didn't see any. "Awe shit again," I thought. It would be one thing if the back end was all mangled. Then I would be totally justified in calling. But with no clearly visible damage it made calling the police that much harder. There were a couple of scratches, but that was all. And, as I messed with the Continental Kit, which had come loose, a long piece of plastic came out. The purpose of this strip of plastic is still unknown to me, as I could not find a place where it went, and losing it did not seem to affect the functionality of the Continental Kit. For those of you not in the know, the Continental Kit is the fake tire on the back of some older model luxury cars. Basically it is a large piece of ornamental garbage that extends the length of an already ludicrously long car. I was hoping that the one on my car would be irreperably damaged. But after fiddling with it for a second it locked back into place and was good as new.
Two scratches. Two scratches was all I had to show for calling the cops. Then the kid got out of the car. To say he looked odd would be an understatement. He had this amazing hair. He must have used half a bottle of product to get it to stay how he had it. It was a feat of cosmetic engineering. His hair stuck out about 7 inches from his head, all the way around. He looked like he had a hair halo. But it did not stick out everywhere. Just in a ring, like Saturn, around his head. Imagine an old timey straw hat, like Huckleberry Finn might have worn, only push it far back on his head so that from a profile view the front rim is pointing at a 45 degree angle from the ground, and the rest of the rim went around his head on that same plane. That was how this driver looked. It was totally awesome. And he wore Burkinstocks with no sock, which means he understood how Burkinstocks are not to be worn (with socks).
His friends were a girl and a guy. The guy looked like your typical skater. He had his bangs hanging down the side of his face to his chin and he wore all black with chains here and there. The girl looked like a typical girl in sweats. She was, however, clearly in love with the guy in black as she only stopped sucking on his face when her cell phone rang, which was about every three minutes.
Hair-halo came up to me after calling someone on his phone, and said, "It looks like I have more damage than you."
Of course he did. He was driving a tiny, green Hundai. I was driving a gigantic, burgundy 1988 Cadillac. His car was made for economy. My car was built to defy economy. My car was built to show the Soviets how asinine toilet-paper lines are. In America we have as much toilet paper as we want. And we get it by driving to the store in wheeled battleships that get 13 miles to the gallon. And even if I hadn't been driving a Cadillac, red always beats green. That's a fact of science.
Anway, he said what he said, and I told him I had called the police. He nodded as though he understood. "If it were my car," I said, "I wouldn't care. The damage is almost unnoticable. But it is my grandmother's car." "Yeah," he said.
As we sat there waiting for the cops I looked for my insurance. I know that grandma had put me on her insurance, but I couldn't for the life of me find a current copy. I searched through every piece of paper in the car, but there was nothing current. GREAT! I got hit from behind, doing everything right, and I'm going to get a ticket for not having insurance. That made my head start pounding again; only much, much harder. And as the sun started to go down, it got colder. That also made my head pound.
Sigh.
Finally the cop got there and took our driver's licenses and plate numbers. He quickly interrogated us regarding the accident, and we both agreed on how it happened. Then Hair-halo had to fill out a form because he was only 17. Then he sat in his car for 15 minutes while I wondered if I was going to get a ticket and Hair-halo looked like he was wondering the same thing. We didn't. The cop just gave us information cards to fill out and exchange, then he told us we could go.
There really isn't a good ending to this story. I mean, it isn't a bad ending; it isn't an unhappy ending. It's just an ending. I went my way and they went theirs. But since then I keep thinking, "God. I used to be 17."
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Dork
It's official. I'm a dork.
Adults are wise, that is for certain. The older you get, provided you are paying even the slightest bit of attention, the wiser you become. But the kids are in the know.
What does that mean?
It means kids are the Keepers of the Knowledge of all things Dork. If someone younger than you calls you a dork, it is probably true. It can only be negated by someone else, younger or the same age as the first person telling you it isn't true.
It's ok. If someone younger than you calls you a dork it doesn't mean your world is coming to an end, unless you are still in school and that person younger than you is too big for you to pound. For adults it just means you have passed beyond the world of cool. You are now the walking uncool. Children will fear you, because your touch can potentially cause them to become uncool also. Your own children will learn to hide you from friends and to plead adoption.
Occasionally an adult will be considered cool by younger generations, like Bono, or by all generations, like David Bowie. But it's a masquerade. Bono cries like a baby for a hat that was stolen by a rabid fan and David Bowie had sex with Mick Jagger. So clearly when a person becomes an adult being cool doesn't really count for much. I mean, Mick Jagger? Of all the men David Bowie could have slept with he chose him?
Anyway, the reason for this rant is that I was the victem of a drive by dorking this evening. They didn't actually call me a dork, but they might as well have.
I was decorating my house for Halloween. I like Halloween. I have grand plans for the day I can actually afford to decorate the way I want for this holiday, but for now I have to settle for adding a bit at a time. So all I have in the way of Halloween lights are green lights. I know, Christmas is Green and Red, but who really uses green lights at Christmas? I've never seen a house decked out in just green at Christmas. I've seen red, white and even blue, but never all green. I suppose it is possible, but why should green be the property of Christmas? I think green is a perfectly Halloweeny color. I think it is creepy. I think it is cool. And besides, I don't have any purple lights yet. Ultimately I would want green and purple. As Halloween as it can be, right? I like orange, but not orange lights.
So as I was hanging my 300 lights my daughter said, "Aren't those Christmas lights?" to which I gave her the above arguements. She seemed to understand and perhaps agree with me, but a few minutes later she started singing Deck the Halls. Frustrated I said, "They aren't Christmas lights. Green is a good Halloween color."
Anyway, after the kids went in to eat dinner, and while I was still outside decorating some teenagers drove by in an SUV and yelled, "It's not Christmas!" Then they sped to the cul-de-sac and did a donut. They were going so fast that they almost tipped their car, and I was almost vindicated; what could be more dork than dorking someone and tipping your car over? That'd be divine dorking right there. But they didn't tip. Their wheels came a little bit off the ground and then landed again to make a perfect peel-out. They had turned it to cool. And they laughed as they drove off.
I just stood there knowing there was nothing I could do. If I had yelled they'd never have heard me with their car engine, loud music, and squeeling tires. I'd have just looked like some crazy old guy, and they'd have been all the more righteous. And even if they had been able to hear me I'd still have had to worry about what my neighbors might think of whatever it was I might have said. Sadly, what popped into my head the moment they said it was not at all appropriate for a family neighborhood.
They yelled, "It's not Christmas," and immediately I wanted to yell, "It's not Dick-mas either, but y'all are celebrating."
See. I'm a dork.
Adults are wise, that is for certain. The older you get, provided you are paying even the slightest bit of attention, the wiser you become. But the kids are in the know.
What does that mean?
It means kids are the Keepers of the Knowledge of all things Dork. If someone younger than you calls you a dork, it is probably true. It can only be negated by someone else, younger or the same age as the first person telling you it isn't true.
It's ok. If someone younger than you calls you a dork it doesn't mean your world is coming to an end, unless you are still in school and that person younger than you is too big for you to pound. For adults it just means you have passed beyond the world of cool. You are now the walking uncool. Children will fear you, because your touch can potentially cause them to become uncool also. Your own children will learn to hide you from friends and to plead adoption.
Occasionally an adult will be considered cool by younger generations, like Bono, or by all generations, like David Bowie. But it's a masquerade. Bono cries like a baby for a hat that was stolen by a rabid fan and David Bowie had sex with Mick Jagger. So clearly when a person becomes an adult being cool doesn't really count for much. I mean, Mick Jagger? Of all the men David Bowie could have slept with he chose him?
Anyway, the reason for this rant is that I was the victem of a drive by dorking this evening. They didn't actually call me a dork, but they might as well have.
I was decorating my house for Halloween. I like Halloween. I have grand plans for the day I can actually afford to decorate the way I want for this holiday, but for now I have to settle for adding a bit at a time. So all I have in the way of Halloween lights are green lights. I know, Christmas is Green and Red, but who really uses green lights at Christmas? I've never seen a house decked out in just green at Christmas. I've seen red, white and even blue, but never all green. I suppose it is possible, but why should green be the property of Christmas? I think green is a perfectly Halloweeny color. I think it is creepy. I think it is cool. And besides, I don't have any purple lights yet. Ultimately I would want green and purple. As Halloween as it can be, right? I like orange, but not orange lights.
So as I was hanging my 300 lights my daughter said, "Aren't those Christmas lights?" to which I gave her the above arguements. She seemed to understand and perhaps agree with me, but a few minutes later she started singing Deck the Halls. Frustrated I said, "They aren't Christmas lights. Green is a good Halloween color."
Anyway, after the kids went in to eat dinner, and while I was still outside decorating some teenagers drove by in an SUV and yelled, "It's not Christmas!" Then they sped to the cul-de-sac and did a donut. They were going so fast that they almost tipped their car, and I was almost vindicated; what could be more dork than dorking someone and tipping your car over? That'd be divine dorking right there. But they didn't tip. Their wheels came a little bit off the ground and then landed again to make a perfect peel-out. They had turned it to cool. And they laughed as they drove off.
I just stood there knowing there was nothing I could do. If I had yelled they'd never have heard me with their car engine, loud music, and squeeling tires. I'd have just looked like some crazy old guy, and they'd have been all the more righteous. And even if they had been able to hear me I'd still have had to worry about what my neighbors might think of whatever it was I might have said. Sadly, what popped into my head the moment they said it was not at all appropriate for a family neighborhood.
They yelled, "It's not Christmas," and immediately I wanted to yell, "It's not Dick-mas either, but y'all are celebrating."
See. I'm a dork.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Dreams
So you know, I dream. I always dream, and so do you. I don't always remember my dreams, however. I do remember them some times, and sometimes they are interesting. And sometimes I have recurring dreams.
The most annoying dream that I have over and over again is a flying dream. There are no similarities from one time to the next except in how I fly. I may be on the beach or walking down a wooded path. But in every dream I can fly. I know I can. I can feel inside me the truth that I can fly. But I'm not able to prove it to anyone. Sometimes I have to fly to save myself or someone else. Sometimes I have to fly just to prove I can. Sometimes I just want to fly for myself, dammit. But in this recurring dream I can't get it to work all the way. But it is worse than simply not being able to fly. Oh I can fly in my dream. But I can only do it about a foot off the ground. I cannot get any lift. It is the most annoying thing in the world. And frustrating. Oh, it is so frustrating to be able to fly, and to know you can do it, but to only get a foot off the ground. Ugh.
Another recurring dream I have been having lately is a commercial. I actually dream that I am watching TV and I see this commercial. It is a commercial for Johnson's Nipple Band-Aids. These band-aids are specially shaped for nipples. Female nipples. I don't know if the intent is for women who are nursing, but the women in the commercial are not preggers, or even post.
In the commercial you hear this typical dignified woman talking about Johnson's Nipple Band-Aid. There is no build up to it. The commercial doesn't assume that parents need to shuffle kids out of the room, or explain why it is important to be talking about nipples. The lady just starts talking. And as she does a pair of tits, complete with nipples, comes walking by. They are NOT band-aided. The camera does not show a face, and it does not go low enough to see belly-button. It is all glorious boob. And this woman walks in conga line around an all white stage as more women start to file in behind her. Some are completely covered, wearing sweats or a T-shirt, or whatever. Some are wearing jackets that are open enough to see the nipples and boobs. Some are wearing T-shirts with holes cut out for the nipples to poke through. And of course, every once in a wonderful while, is a pair of completely nude boobs.
It is important to mention at this point that this is a totally medical thing. Nipple band-aids are important for posterity. The women of the world need to know these things exist, so these commercials have to air. And it would be absolutely silly not to show the product in action. It is totally ludicrous to suggest that the only reason for the boob parade is to attract the attention of men. NONSENSE! Sex cannot sell a band-aid. The women are toppless to make sure everyone is on the same page about what, exactly, a nipple is. And they need to show the public how to apply the all important nipple band-aid. Anyway, these women walk around for a good little while and finally they all pull these little round band-aids and they place them on their nipples. That's where the commercial looses my attention, but the lady goes on to say something about stretchy material and lotion on the pad and skin sensitive adhesive. I don't really care. I just want to see the beginning again.
The most annoying dream that I have over and over again is a flying dream. There are no similarities from one time to the next except in how I fly. I may be on the beach or walking down a wooded path. But in every dream I can fly. I know I can. I can feel inside me the truth that I can fly. But I'm not able to prove it to anyone. Sometimes I have to fly to save myself or someone else. Sometimes I have to fly just to prove I can. Sometimes I just want to fly for myself, dammit. But in this recurring dream I can't get it to work all the way. But it is worse than simply not being able to fly. Oh I can fly in my dream. But I can only do it about a foot off the ground. I cannot get any lift. It is the most annoying thing in the world. And frustrating. Oh, it is so frustrating to be able to fly, and to know you can do it, but to only get a foot off the ground. Ugh.
Another recurring dream I have been having lately is a commercial. I actually dream that I am watching TV and I see this commercial. It is a commercial for Johnson's Nipple Band-Aids. These band-aids are specially shaped for nipples. Female nipples. I don't know if the intent is for women who are nursing, but the women in the commercial are not preggers, or even post.
In the commercial you hear this typical dignified woman talking about Johnson's Nipple Band-Aid. There is no build up to it. The commercial doesn't assume that parents need to shuffle kids out of the room, or explain why it is important to be talking about nipples. The lady just starts talking. And as she does a pair of tits, complete with nipples, comes walking by. They are NOT band-aided. The camera does not show a face, and it does not go low enough to see belly-button. It is all glorious boob. And this woman walks in conga line around an all white stage as more women start to file in behind her. Some are completely covered, wearing sweats or a T-shirt, or whatever. Some are wearing jackets that are open enough to see the nipples and boobs. Some are wearing T-shirts with holes cut out for the nipples to poke through. And of course, every once in a wonderful while, is a pair of completely nude boobs.
It is important to mention at this point that this is a totally medical thing. Nipple band-aids are important for posterity. The women of the world need to know these things exist, so these commercials have to air. And it would be absolutely silly not to show the product in action. It is totally ludicrous to suggest that the only reason for the boob parade is to attract the attention of men. NONSENSE! Sex cannot sell a band-aid. The women are toppless to make sure everyone is on the same page about what, exactly, a nipple is. And they need to show the public how to apply the all important nipple band-aid. Anyway, these women walk around for a good little while and finally they all pull these little round band-aids and they place them on their nipples. That's where the commercial looses my attention, but the lady goes on to say something about stretchy material and lotion on the pad and skin sensitive adhesive. I don't really care. I just want to see the beginning again.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Letter 6
Dear [adult swim],
I contemplated not telling you any more of Sugar's story this time. Actually, I thought about not telling you any more althogether. See, a guy approached me on the street and said he knew the truth about Sugar, and that he was going to turn me in as an accomplice to collect the reward money. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about and he showed me photocopied versions of the letters I had sent you. Then he said, "A friend of mine works at [adult swim] and he gave me these letters. He also showed me some magnificently drawn pictures. Drawings so beautiful and breath-taking that they could only have been drawn by a person intimately involved in the sordid affair."
At first I felt betrayed by you. I was crushed that you had shared these secretive tales that I hazardously shared with you so hazardously with a complete stranger, who happened to be a friend. Then it occurred to me that this guy knew too much. Not only did he know the story, and claim to have seen the splendor of the drawings, but he knew what I looked like. There is no way he could possibly have known this. I have never sent you pictures of me, and I have never described myself to you. The only way he could have known how I look is if you told him, and the only way you could have known is if you had been stalking me. then I realized how incredibly paranoid that sounded and I laughed out loud to myself.
This complete stranger continued to talk, but I don't know what he was saying because I was laughing out loud. Finally he interrupted me. "Why are you laughing?" he asked.
"Becuase," said I, "For a moment I thought you were telling the truth."
"But I am telling the truth," he said.
I almost got scared all over again, then a clever thought occurred to me. "Of course you would say you are telling the truth. You are a liar."
"But I'm not," he said. "I'm really telling the truth."
"I'm so sure," I said, feeling fairly unsure. "If you are telling me the thruth then what is my name?"
"Are you kidding? You sign it to the bottom of every letter."
"And my address?"
He knew that too. He knew my wife's name, my kids' names, even my pets' names, which I know I never told you.
Beads of sweat were dripping down my back. It seemed as though this person, falling hopelessly in love with the power of my magnificent writing, had been stalking me for some time, months perhaps, in the hopes of gleaning some of my skill for his own. But, as usually happens with these psycho/schizophrenics, his frustration with not being able to measure up to my tremendous virtuosity in the area of writing had led to anger and then to hatred. And then, clearly, he must have kidnapped someone from [adult swim] and tortured them until they revealed all of the information he could use about me.
Then it occurred to me; my writing is so infinitely inspiring that it is terribly unlikely that just one person would want to be like me, and then fall in love with me, and then have a pscychotic break and want to kill me, cook me, and eat me in the hopes of devouring my power. Therefore, everyone at [adult swim] must also want to cook me and eat me! Afterall, you have been reading my letters for months now. Greedily consuming each word. Licking the paper I wrote on. Rolling naked on the duplicated copies of my genius. Xeroxing copies of the missives, shredding them, rolling them and smoking them like freehand hashish.
The stranger stood and stared at me. "See," he said, "I know who you are."
That's when it struck me like a bolt of lighting. "This is just and amazing coincidence," I said. "There must be another Michael out there with a wife and kids and pets by these names, with my birthday, and my favorite color, and my favorite Little Debbie Snacks, living at my address."
"That really doesn't sound possible," he said.
"Let me see the folder again," I said
So the retard handed me the folder and I bolted. I have considered that he might have made copies, but I haven't heard from him since that day. I'll keep my fingers crossed.
So that brings up back to the NOW. Why, you must be asking, in light of this psycho's obvious psychosis, and your potential/highly probably psychosis, am I proceeding with my store?
CONTINUATION:
Sugar stared, transfixed to the television. A dignified, but modest man pleaded to the camera for an information leading to the safe return of his beloved wife. He was offering a $2000.00 reward, which he confessed he would have to pay in installments. Several small children stood beside him and wept for their mommy.
Ordinarily Sugar dismissed such press briefings as they did not concern him or anyone he knew. But the picture in the background of this mother and wife was very familiar to him; intimately familiar. It was Ambrosia. And the thing that made Sugar's blood run cold was the man at the microphone pleading for his wife was not the trollish looking man who had dumped a million dollars in his lap.
When Hunny entered the room Sugar snapped the TV off.
"Your white as a ghost," she said walking over to the kitchenette counter. "Are you feeling ok?"
"I've been better," he said.
"You need to get out and get some sun," she said, pulling a loaf of bread from one of the cabinets. "And spend some money. That will make you feel better."
"I don't think so," Sugar moaned.
"You've hardly spent a dime since we got here. I'm beginning to think you aren't having fun."
"I'm just feeling a bit sick. I'm thinking we may need to go home early."
Hunny's demeanor hardened. She tossed a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. "Shake it off. We've only been here seven days. You owe me five more."
"I know ," Sugar said, hanging his head. "I just don't... Wait. Don't you mean that I still own you four days?"
"I've added a day," she said, returning to her whimsy. "Twelve seems, I don't know... better than eleven."
Sugar wanted to throw up. He felt like he'd swallowed the window unit air condtioner. "It's just that we've spent so much money."
"Well, it's ours isn't it?"
"Yes," he said,"I guess. But it's more than just the money. I'm worried about some things I left unfinished at home."
"If you're referring to that dead tramp you left laying in my yard then don't. I've taken care of your little indiscretion."
The toaster popped as Sugar's heart stopped beating. "Whu... ah... Buh..." His mind was racing. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't form a thought. "Whu?" he asked again.
"Oh please. Don't treat me like a fool," she said. "I've known about your affairs for years. You have affairs, I have affairs, everyone has affairs. It's what keeps a marriage together."
"You've cheated on me?"
"Oh," she laughed, "Don't play innocent now. At least I've never killed any of my lovers."
"But I didn't..."
"Quit lying," she snipped. "You're not good at it." She opened the hotel's complimentary refrigerator and pulled out the butter. "Oh, don't worry about it, Sugar," Hunny said, returning to her nurturing tone. "I've had my very close friend Donnie take care of it. Consider the issue burried."
She took a bite of her toast and leaned against the table. It wa obvious that she was trying to be sexy. She was not horrible looking, by any means, but she was no Ambrosia. "What about the husband?" Sugar asked.
"You mean that guy on TV?" she said with a mouthful of toast. "He's an idiot. And his kids are ugly. What does he think he's going to get for two grand? The money she had on her must have been dirty or he'd have told the cops about it."
She took another bite of toast and then repositioned herself so that her nightgown pulled tighter against her chest. "My guess is she ran off to start a new life after she robbed her husband blind. And clearly she didn't tell anyone what she was doing. You were right to kill her. Your timing couldn't have been more perfect. Now, don't you want me?"
signed
October 12, 2006
Ps. Don't aske me to explain the picture.
Ok, I'll explain a little. It's a chicken eating a phone. You know, like the old saying, "That guy's running around like a chicken eating a phone." I just decided I'd draw a picture of that old saying. I think I did a good job too. That chicken is eating that phone like his head's cut off.
Pps. I just realized something about the picture that may seem odd. Telephones used to have things called Cords. That's what that twirly thing connecting the chicken to the phone is. The "cord," if I'm not mistaken, is how the phone user got information to pass through the placenta. This was the only way to order pizza in the 19th century.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Husbandly Duties
Every husband, and perhaps every sensitive boyfriend, knows that there are times in a relationship when you have to do dreadful things that you don't want to do. Horrible things. Unspeakable things. You have to talk about your feelings. You have to watch chick flicks. You have to watch unedited videos of other women giving birth. And you have to pretend you like it. Every good man knows this. Remember this truth before you judge me.
Tonight I went to see James Blunt in concert at the Gwinnett Arena. My wife has been a fan since she first heard Beautiful. She was unable to go when he came to Atlanta the last time and when she was offered tickets to this gig she half told/have asked me if I wanted to go. My not going would not have meant she would not go. It only meant she would have gone with someone else. Somehow I thought that was unwise.
Anyway, I went. Remember, I am a good husband.
We dropped the kids off at the designated grandparents houses before making our way to the neighborhood of the Arena. We were a full two hours early so we decided to eat dinner out. We stopped at the Loafing Leprechaun and as we were getting out of the car I saw James Blunt walking through the parking lot. My heart nearly skipped a beat and I jumped up and down saying, "I see him! I see him!"
He walked into the restaurant ahead of us and I was giddy as a school girl. Rebecca said if I embarrassed her in there she would kill me. I didn't say anything else about James being in the restaurant until the waitress came. I kept calm and quiet and ordered my unsweet tea. Then when the waitress asked what I wanted to eat I asked her what James had ordered. "James who?" she asked. "James Blunt," I said. "He's in the restaurant right now."
"He is?" the young lady said, standing up straight and smoothing out her T-shirt. "No," my wife said. "A guy walked in ahead of us who was tall-ish with shaggy hair, and looked nothing like James Blunt, and my husband decided to be an ass to try and embarrass me."
Sometimes she can really be the needle to my fun balloon.
I had the Reuben and she had the Fish and Chips. It was going to be a British evening. The Reuben was quite delicious so I felt the evening would not be a total waste. However, if you go to the Loafing Leprechaun I do not recommend the homemade potato chips. They tasted like fried paper.
When we were done eating an had paid it was 7:10pm. We still had 50 minutes until the show started, so we made our way to the Arena. We didn't want to be late.
When we got there we were asked by seven hundred different people to see our tickets so they could tell us in which direction to head so that another person, a little bit closer to our seats, could direct us to the next person a little bit closer to our seats. Eventually we got seated. We were on the second floor, about a hundred yards from stage, but with a bird's eye view.
When we first sat down there was no one even nearby. There may have been 30 or 40 people in the auditorium. Eventually people started trickling in and I thought it was going to be a congenial little group of us, up in the clouds. To our left sat two girls and a guy. After they had been seated for a while I looked over and saw the guy put his foot up on the seat in front of him. I was shocked and I asked Rebecca, who has a good bit of experience with orthopaedics, and she confirmed that he must have had a knee surgery or two. She agreed that "No, a knee does not look that way naturally." In front of us sat two young couples; two young ladies with dilated eyes, and their two young men who kept looking at their watches. I looked at mine.
I must say I was overwhelmingly impressed by the fact that James started right on the spot at 8:00pm. It was to the second. And the first song he played was pretty darned good. I thought at first that it was new because I hadn't heard it before. I am not a real James Blunt fan, but I have been made to listen to his album on more than one occasion, as you can probably imagine.
When the first song ended one of the girls to our right said, "Is that James Blunt," to which Knee Surgery said, "I don't know what the f*** he looks like." Then, before he started the second song James said, "I would like to thank James Blunt for letting us play with him..."
"Why is he thanking himself?" I asked my wife.
"This isn't James," she said lovingly. "It's the opening act. They are called Star Sailor."
How was I supposed to know? He was tall-ish with shaggy hair... kinda lanky... had an English accent... played guitar... and was playing at the James Blunt concert. Plus he was about two inches tall from my perspective.
Star Sailor turned out to be a pretty decent band. The lead singer actually had a good raport with the croud. He didn't act nervous. He played songs with really catchy beats. Most of his lyrics were good. I was impressed. They played a thirty minute set and said good night. It was 8:30.
At that point I had to take a bathroom break and get Rebecca another drink. When I returned there were about three times as many people in the stands as before. And it wasn't the pleasant group from before. It was girls. Where before there was no one to my right, now there were about 20 girls. By girls I mean women between the ages of 20 and 25. And they were all talking on their cell phones. After a few minutes of watching and listening it became clear that they were talking to each other on their cell phones, not people outside the concert. Not even people in different parts of the arena. I won't even comment on that.
I will comment on the fact that there was not a single guy in this group of 20 girls. That's not necessarily a bad thing. It could have been a girls' night out. I'm not trying to imply that they were all scorned, bitter sorority girls out to get liquored up and pissed off, only to go home and cry about how aweful men are and how badly they hate them and want one. They were probably just great fans. I will also comment on the fact that the girl immediately to my right stepped out and came back with three beers. In ten minutes she had finished them off and was asking her friends if they thought she had enough time to go get some more. They said probably not, but she did anyway. She came back with two more.
I will also make a final comment on the two girls who came in just before the show started and sat behind me. I have a habit of looking at people that enter my viscinity. I think it is perfectly natural. You hear something or see it in your periphery, so you turn and look. That's what I did. Is it my fault that one of them was wearing an extreamly short mini-skirt? Is it my fault that she was behind on her laundry duties? I don't think so. I don't think I should have been punished for following my own reflexive instincts.
At about 9:15 the lights went out and the screaming began. I think the girls right next to me and behind me turned around in their seats and screamed right into my right ear. They must have been upset that a man had dared to set foot in the concert. I think the first song James played was called "Let's All Scream."
So you know, James is a decent performer, if a little frenetic on stage. He can sing on pitch, his voice was pretty, and the music was pretty good. That is, what I could hear of it. A second after the first note of each song played the croud began screaming and some girl from the 20 yelled that she totally loved James and that this was her favorite song. And rather than yell it to James she screamed it with a megaphone into my ear. The screaming persisted for about a minute into the song, subsiding just in time for the chorus, then commenced when the song ended. I think even James began to get annoyed as he actually suggested at one point that the croud might want to wait until later in the song to begin singing along. I translated that to mean, Shut the F*** up with all the G** Damn screaming. But I'm not fluent in British, so I could be mistaken.
Then came Good Bye My Lover. Oh shit. The man just walked up to the piano and the 20 went nuts. One girl slipped right off her seat. They were hyperventilating and he hadn't played the first note. Then the mini-skirt behind me began to cry. The beer guzzler quickly downed her last beer and James began to sing.
This is one of Rebecca's favorite songs so she wrapper her arm around mine. She sang quietly so as not to disturb anyone, and I could tell she was enjoying herself. And just as I was about to say something sweet to her, I don't remember what, I heard mini-skirt blubbering behind me. Now, I don't make fun of the emotions of women most of the time; even though they are completely irrational, and sometimes terrifying. I respect that women are a tide of happy and sad, and that I will never understand it. By respecting that, the way a good park ranger respects the grizzley, I have managed to stay alive all these years. But this girl was blubbering like a little boy who lost his bike and his dog in the same moment. It was absurd. I know my wife was having a moment listening to her song, but I couldn't hold it in. I began to laugh. Yes, I said it, I was laughing at this girl. Because it was asinine. I can't think of a word that describes how stupid her crying was. Retarded is too overused. And besides, I like that word. I don't want it to become old. It was re-fucking-diculous how she was crying and I started laughing equally as hard. It was beyond my control. I think the universe made me do it. There must have been an angel with a smile on her face, and she thought up that I should balance out the idiotic display of boo-hoo with some uncontrolable laughter.
Then came the part I could not have made up. Mini-skirt's friend said, "Do you need a little pick me up?" And mini-skirt sobbed, "Yeah," and they both got up and went to the bathroom. When she returned she was right as rain.
The rest of the concert went just about the same, only with varying degrees of my ears bleeding. For an encore James played a new song, don't ask me what, and a Pixies song. One of my favorite Pixies songs. He did a decent job of it, I must say. It made me really want to see the Pixies. Then, of course, he played Beautiful. There was so much estrogen in the air that I developed a temporary vagina. Then, I was allowed to go.
When I got home, as I was preparing for bed, I fell asleep on top of the covers and immediately fell into a dream. In my dream I was back at the concert only I was a hot woman with a tiny waist and huge boobs. I was on the front row and James picked me out of the croud to be his back stage pass. I was so excited as he drove me to his hotel room in his limo. He had wine and cheese and pot pourri in the car. When we got to his hotel we made wonderful love. I am not ashamed to admit that I have dreams like this sometimes. I do think it is important for me to say, however, that James was a selfish lover. I was barely getting started when he had finished. He got up and got out of bed and I felt tremendously used. I almost started to cry when he picked up his guitar. Then he tossed me a pillow and started to sing. It was sufficient to finish the job. When I and the song were over he said, "Good Bye My Lover," and had hotel security escort me out. My boobs were still hanging out and everything.
When I woke up from my dream I thought honestly about it for a moment or two. Then I figured that I might be just a tiny bit jealous of James. And perhaps a little bit embarrassed to admit he writes decent songs that I kinda do enjoy. Don't tell Rebecca.
Tonight I went to see James Blunt in concert at the Gwinnett Arena. My wife has been a fan since she first heard Beautiful. She was unable to go when he came to Atlanta the last time and when she was offered tickets to this gig she half told/have asked me if I wanted to go. My not going would not have meant she would not go. It only meant she would have gone with someone else. Somehow I thought that was unwise.
Anyway, I went. Remember, I am a good husband.
We dropped the kids off at the designated grandparents houses before making our way to the neighborhood of the Arena. We were a full two hours early so we decided to eat dinner out. We stopped at the Loafing Leprechaun and as we were getting out of the car I saw James Blunt walking through the parking lot. My heart nearly skipped a beat and I jumped up and down saying, "I see him! I see him!"
He walked into the restaurant ahead of us and I was giddy as a school girl. Rebecca said if I embarrassed her in there she would kill me. I didn't say anything else about James being in the restaurant until the waitress came. I kept calm and quiet and ordered my unsweet tea. Then when the waitress asked what I wanted to eat I asked her what James had ordered. "James who?" she asked. "James Blunt," I said. "He's in the restaurant right now."
"He is?" the young lady said, standing up straight and smoothing out her T-shirt. "No," my wife said. "A guy walked in ahead of us who was tall-ish with shaggy hair, and looked nothing like James Blunt, and my husband decided to be an ass to try and embarrass me."
Sometimes she can really be the needle to my fun balloon.
I had the Reuben and she had the Fish and Chips. It was going to be a British evening. The Reuben was quite delicious so I felt the evening would not be a total waste. However, if you go to the Loafing Leprechaun I do not recommend the homemade potato chips. They tasted like fried paper.
When we were done eating an had paid it was 7:10pm. We still had 50 minutes until the show started, so we made our way to the Arena. We didn't want to be late.
When we got there we were asked by seven hundred different people to see our tickets so they could tell us in which direction to head so that another person, a little bit closer to our seats, could direct us to the next person a little bit closer to our seats. Eventually we got seated. We were on the second floor, about a hundred yards from stage, but with a bird's eye view.
When we first sat down there was no one even nearby. There may have been 30 or 40 people in the auditorium. Eventually people started trickling in and I thought it was going to be a congenial little group of us, up in the clouds. To our left sat two girls and a guy. After they had been seated for a while I looked over and saw the guy put his foot up on the seat in front of him. I was shocked and I asked Rebecca, who has a good bit of experience with orthopaedics, and she confirmed that he must have had a knee surgery or two. She agreed that "No, a knee does not look that way naturally." In front of us sat two young couples; two young ladies with dilated eyes, and their two young men who kept looking at their watches. I looked at mine.
I must say I was overwhelmingly impressed by the fact that James started right on the spot at 8:00pm. It was to the second. And the first song he played was pretty darned good. I thought at first that it was new because I hadn't heard it before. I am not a real James Blunt fan, but I have been made to listen to his album on more than one occasion, as you can probably imagine.
When the first song ended one of the girls to our right said, "Is that James Blunt," to which Knee Surgery said, "I don't know what the f*** he looks like." Then, before he started the second song James said, "I would like to thank James Blunt for letting us play with him..."
"Why is he thanking himself?" I asked my wife.
"This isn't James," she said lovingly. "It's the opening act. They are called Star Sailor."
How was I supposed to know? He was tall-ish with shaggy hair... kinda lanky... had an English accent... played guitar... and was playing at the James Blunt concert. Plus he was about two inches tall from my perspective.
Star Sailor turned out to be a pretty decent band. The lead singer actually had a good raport with the croud. He didn't act nervous. He played songs with really catchy beats. Most of his lyrics were good. I was impressed. They played a thirty minute set and said good night. It was 8:30.
At that point I had to take a bathroom break and get Rebecca another drink. When I returned there were about three times as many people in the stands as before. And it wasn't the pleasant group from before. It was girls. Where before there was no one to my right, now there were about 20 girls. By girls I mean women between the ages of 20 and 25. And they were all talking on their cell phones. After a few minutes of watching and listening it became clear that they were talking to each other on their cell phones, not people outside the concert. Not even people in different parts of the arena. I won't even comment on that.
I will comment on the fact that there was not a single guy in this group of 20 girls. That's not necessarily a bad thing. It could have been a girls' night out. I'm not trying to imply that they were all scorned, bitter sorority girls out to get liquored up and pissed off, only to go home and cry about how aweful men are and how badly they hate them and want one. They were probably just great fans. I will also comment on the fact that the girl immediately to my right stepped out and came back with three beers. In ten minutes she had finished them off and was asking her friends if they thought she had enough time to go get some more. They said probably not, but she did anyway. She came back with two more.
I will also make a final comment on the two girls who came in just before the show started and sat behind me. I have a habit of looking at people that enter my viscinity. I think it is perfectly natural. You hear something or see it in your periphery, so you turn and look. That's what I did. Is it my fault that one of them was wearing an extreamly short mini-skirt? Is it my fault that she was behind on her laundry duties? I don't think so. I don't think I should have been punished for following my own reflexive instincts.
At about 9:15 the lights went out and the screaming began. I think the girls right next to me and behind me turned around in their seats and screamed right into my right ear. They must have been upset that a man had dared to set foot in the concert. I think the first song James played was called "Let's All Scream."
So you know, James is a decent performer, if a little frenetic on stage. He can sing on pitch, his voice was pretty, and the music was pretty good. That is, what I could hear of it. A second after the first note of each song played the croud began screaming and some girl from the 20 yelled that she totally loved James and that this was her favorite song. And rather than yell it to James she screamed it with a megaphone into my ear. The screaming persisted for about a minute into the song, subsiding just in time for the chorus, then commenced when the song ended. I think even James began to get annoyed as he actually suggested at one point that the croud might want to wait until later in the song to begin singing along. I translated that to mean, Shut the F*** up with all the G** Damn screaming. But I'm not fluent in British, so I could be mistaken.
Then came Good Bye My Lover. Oh shit. The man just walked up to the piano and the 20 went nuts. One girl slipped right off her seat. They were hyperventilating and he hadn't played the first note. Then the mini-skirt behind me began to cry. The beer guzzler quickly downed her last beer and James began to sing.
This is one of Rebecca's favorite songs so she wrapper her arm around mine. She sang quietly so as not to disturb anyone, and I could tell she was enjoying herself. And just as I was about to say something sweet to her, I don't remember what, I heard mini-skirt blubbering behind me. Now, I don't make fun of the emotions of women most of the time; even though they are completely irrational, and sometimes terrifying. I respect that women are a tide of happy and sad, and that I will never understand it. By respecting that, the way a good park ranger respects the grizzley, I have managed to stay alive all these years. But this girl was blubbering like a little boy who lost his bike and his dog in the same moment. It was absurd. I know my wife was having a moment listening to her song, but I couldn't hold it in. I began to laugh. Yes, I said it, I was laughing at this girl. Because it was asinine. I can't think of a word that describes how stupid her crying was. Retarded is too overused. And besides, I like that word. I don't want it to become old. It was re-fucking-diculous how she was crying and I started laughing equally as hard. It was beyond my control. I think the universe made me do it. There must have been an angel with a smile on her face, and she thought up that I should balance out the idiotic display of boo-hoo with some uncontrolable laughter.
Then came the part I could not have made up. Mini-skirt's friend said, "Do you need a little pick me up?" And mini-skirt sobbed, "Yeah," and they both got up and went to the bathroom. When she returned she was right as rain.
The rest of the concert went just about the same, only with varying degrees of my ears bleeding. For an encore James played a new song, don't ask me what, and a Pixies song. One of my favorite Pixies songs. He did a decent job of it, I must say. It made me really want to see the Pixies. Then, of course, he played Beautiful. There was so much estrogen in the air that I developed a temporary vagina. Then, I was allowed to go.
When I got home, as I was preparing for bed, I fell asleep on top of the covers and immediately fell into a dream. In my dream I was back at the concert only I was a hot woman with a tiny waist and huge boobs. I was on the front row and James picked me out of the croud to be his back stage pass. I was so excited as he drove me to his hotel room in his limo. He had wine and cheese and pot pourri in the car. When we got to his hotel we made wonderful love. I am not ashamed to admit that I have dreams like this sometimes. I do think it is important for me to say, however, that James was a selfish lover. I was barely getting started when he had finished. He got up and got out of bed and I felt tremendously used. I almost started to cry when he picked up his guitar. Then he tossed me a pillow and started to sing. It was sufficient to finish the job. When I and the song were over he said, "Good Bye My Lover," and had hotel security escort me out. My boobs were still hanging out and everything.
When I woke up from my dream I thought honestly about it for a moment or two. Then I figured that I might be just a tiny bit jealous of James. And perhaps a little bit embarrassed to admit he writes decent songs that I kinda do enjoy. Don't tell Rebecca.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
No excuse New Haircut!
I have no excuse for why I am so late with this latest installment. I'm just sending it out today. I will post it on Monday.
If it's any consolation I got a haircut this week. It looks sweet. And the best part was this barber was clever. She did NOT hand me the mirror and ask me too inspect the back. See, I don't have the copious amounts of hair I once had. And while I don't exactly have a complex about my hair loss, I don't want to be reminded of it by a hair dresser. It makes me want to say, "Oh yeah, thanks for pointing out that I don't have much hair back there. That means you didn't have as much work to do. That means that you don't need as much tip."
But this lady was good. She cut my hair like I like it and she didn't let me look at the back. Kudos to her.
When I was approximately 23 years old I was first confronted about my hair. I went to a Great Clips in Athens and I saw this little oriental lady. I only went in for a trim because back in those days I had long hair. And by long hair I mean it went half way down my back. I'd show you pictures, but I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I had a mustache. I'm not ashamed of the hair. I'm kinda ashamed of the 'stache. It looked decent when I had the long hair. Kinda piratey. But I kept the mustache long after I got rid of the hair. But anyway, I digress.
So I had long hair and a mustache and I went to Great Clips. I was not married yet. I'm not sure if that matters. So I sit down to have this lady trim my hair, shave my neck and the typical things to make long hair on a guy somewhat presentable. And she did them all. But as she was cutting my hair she said, in a typical oriental accent, "You going bald."
"No, I'm not," I said calmly. "I have a wide part. It has always been that way." This last fact was not just me rationalizing. I had always had a pretty big part. But, I hadn't looked at the back of my head in years. Why would I?
Anyway, the lady was persistent. "No, you go bald. You losing hair."
"No," I said. "That is the way my hair has always been."
"You always lose hair like this?" she said loud enough for everyone to hear and then held up a handful of hair, some of which I could tell wasn't mine. "You going bald. You losing hair."
"I'm not going bald," I said, trying to keep her quiet.
"Oh yeah," she said. "Look," and she held up the mirror.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
It was true. My part had never been that big before. It was enormous! I was bald! Well, not yet, but I was going bald! I was turning into a hideous bald person!
I was depressed from that point on.
I wasn't really bald at that point. I was only bald enough for an oriental hair dresser to notice. But it was coming. Slowly but surely. Even now I am not techncially bald, but I don't have as much up top as I once did. Every once in a while a friend or family member will say, "Yep, it's really getting thin up there isn't it." That's why I don't have many friends or family members.
In retrospect I think that lady must have been some kind of ancient oriental demon with an elemental power over hair. I don't think she liked me because I was the essence of goodness and purity, so she cursed me to have perpetually thinning hair. I should probably see an exorcist.
If it's any consolation I got a haircut this week. It looks sweet. And the best part was this barber was clever. She did NOT hand me the mirror and ask me too inspect the back. See, I don't have the copious amounts of hair I once had. And while I don't exactly have a complex about my hair loss, I don't want to be reminded of it by a hair dresser. It makes me want to say, "Oh yeah, thanks for pointing out that I don't have much hair back there. That means you didn't have as much work to do. That means that you don't need as much tip."
But this lady was good. She cut my hair like I like it and she didn't let me look at the back. Kudos to her.
When I was approximately 23 years old I was first confronted about my hair. I went to a Great Clips in Athens and I saw this little oriental lady. I only went in for a trim because back in those days I had long hair. And by long hair I mean it went half way down my back. I'd show you pictures, but I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I had a mustache. I'm not ashamed of the hair. I'm kinda ashamed of the 'stache. It looked decent when I had the long hair. Kinda piratey. But I kept the mustache long after I got rid of the hair. But anyway, I digress.
So I had long hair and a mustache and I went to Great Clips. I was not married yet. I'm not sure if that matters. So I sit down to have this lady trim my hair, shave my neck and the typical things to make long hair on a guy somewhat presentable. And she did them all. But as she was cutting my hair she said, in a typical oriental accent, "You going bald."
"No, I'm not," I said calmly. "I have a wide part. It has always been that way." This last fact was not just me rationalizing. I had always had a pretty big part. But, I hadn't looked at the back of my head in years. Why would I?
Anyway, the lady was persistent. "No, you go bald. You losing hair."
"No," I said. "That is the way my hair has always been."
"You always lose hair like this?" she said loud enough for everyone to hear and then held up a handful of hair, some of which I could tell wasn't mine. "You going bald. You losing hair."
"I'm not going bald," I said, trying to keep her quiet.
"Oh yeah," she said. "Look," and she held up the mirror.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
It was true. My part had never been that big before. It was enormous! I was bald! Well, not yet, but I was going bald! I was turning into a hideous bald person!
I was depressed from that point on.
I wasn't really bald at that point. I was only bald enough for an oriental hair dresser to notice. But it was coming. Slowly but surely. Even now I am not techncially bald, but I don't have as much up top as I once did. Every once in a while a friend or family member will say, "Yep, it's really getting thin up there isn't it." That's why I don't have many friends or family members.
In retrospect I think that lady must have been some kind of ancient oriental demon with an elemental power over hair. I don't think she liked me because I was the essence of goodness and purity, so she cursed me to have perpetually thinning hair. I should probably see an exorcist.
Friday, October 06, 2006
sigh
Leroy is gone. He lasted 10 days. I guess my gravestone sent a pretty clear message.
I am a bit dismayed though. The security guys were laughing about the whole incident and saying that some guy named Jose must have done it. WHAT! Jose? Who the hell is Jose?
On top of that they took my gravestone. I want that back. It took 3 minutes to make. It's probably sitting on Jose's desk.
I never get any damn credit.
I am a bit dismayed though. The security guys were laughing about the whole incident and saying that some guy named Jose must have done it. WHAT! Jose? Who the hell is Jose?
On top of that they took my gravestone. I want that back. It took 3 minutes to make. It's probably sitting on Jose's desk.
I never get any damn credit.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
visitors
Ok, I probably shouldn't have done this, but I gave Leroy a headstone. I was torn between not doing anything and seeing how long it would take before housekeeping finally got around to cleaning up Leroy, and putting my little gravestone to use, which I thought was very funny, and risking Leroy getting noticed early and cleaned up. In the end, as is evident, I opted for the gravestone. I'm sure it won't be long now before someone see this and cleans it up, but I had to do it.
This evening, after I put out this wonderful piece of comedy/art, I was visited by Leroy's brother. He showed up at my house to thank me for remembering his brother Leroy and for creating such a nice grave. I told him it was my pleasure and then I sprayed him in the face with Raid. Now he and Leroy can reminesce in roach heaven.
---
And can you believe that one of the secretaries at my office actually looked at that wonderful headstone and said, "For the record, you made this at home." I wanted to say, "For the record, shut up." But I didn't because I'm super cool. And I probably shouldn't have been making that at work, which, for the record I did. N't.
Day 10, Leroy's Undead Vigil - Horrible Dreams
Leroy has now been dead for 10 days. He maintains his macabre station at the foot of the stairs waiting for one of his kind to remember him and take him to his final resting place. I personally don't care if another cockroach removes him, a rat, or even the end of a broom, I just would like to see him gone. For his own sake. Not simply because his continued presence causes within me a serious lack of faith in our building cleaning crew.
Though Leroy's family still has made no attempt to move his body, someon has clearly been tending to him. The crusted over guts that squished out of his cracked carapace as Leroy's soul met sole, are no longer present. I suppose some other insect, more disgusting than a roach, if that is possible, or perhaps another roach, has come along and eaten what remained of the good Leroy. Perhaps in the insect community eating another insect is a sign of respect.
"Leroy, you were a good friend. And though I honestly couldn't tell you apart from any other roach if my life depended on it, I feel safe in saying I knew you. You were a sweet roach, I always told my wife. And now, as she and I eat your slightly crusted, gelatinous remains, she sees that I was right. Or, more correctly, she tastes that I was right. Dude, you're delicious."
I'm reminded of one of the orientation days at college. All of these geeky groups has booths outside the student union and they were trying to get people to join. Let's face it, all of these groups seem freaky, or geeky, or just plain weird to outsiders, but this group was nuts no matter how you slice it. It was the entimology group. There were these two pimply faced students sitting next to a terrarium. The sign clearly read that they were entimology students and so I figured they must have a walking stick, or a praying mantis or some other wicked insect inside for people to mess around with. I approached and was utterly dismayed to see the biggest f-ing cockroach crawl from under the girl's sleeve and across her knuckles.
I must have frozen because the guy next to her cracked a wide smile. "It's a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach," he said. "Do you want to hold it?"
"I'd like to step on it," I said, and he laughed. "I figured you'd have something cool."
"This is cool. These are about the coolesting thing we could think of to bring. Anything cooler would have been able to fly away."
I had to admit that made sense. But it didn't explain why the girl was treating it like a pet. "Can you hear it hissing?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "Why is it doing that?" "She's doing it because she doesn't like being held," the girl said. The irony was too great and I couldn't resist saying, "So the horrible, nasty, disgusting cockroach doesn't want to be held by you? That's got to be a blow to your ego."
Luckily she took this in the good spirit it was intended and ran away crying, trying to comb the matts and crickets out of her hair. Ok, she didn't. She just laughed. She probably thought I was odd.
-Horrible Dreams
Ugh. All of this talk about roaches, an insect I cannot abide, has reminded me of last night's very short, but quite disturbing dream. My dreams are usually very vivid and often disturbing when I can remember them. Last night's dream was no exception.
You will need a tiny bit of history to understand this dream. I am not grossed out by all insects. I am quite fascinated, though appropriately respectful, of bees and ants. I also like butterflies, mantises, ladybugs, and all of the "cute" insects. But when I was about 12 I was mowing the lawn and as I passed under a tree I felt a horrible stinging in my hand. I had made the unfortunate mistake of brushing up against a caravan of Saddleback Caterpillars. Not highly venemous, their sting only hurt for about half an hour. Still, it aided in my general anxiety. Flash forward to last month and I was mowing my front yard again when I noticed a huge colony of slimely black caterpillars devouring one of my oaks. These were not furry like the gross caterpillars kids play with that make their hands smell so distinctly nasty. And they were not pretty like the Saddleback. They were leathery and hairless. They were gross.
Ok, enough history. My dream was very short. I stuck a Q-tip in my ear, which was itching rather badly, and I rubbed it around and around. When I pulled out the Q-tip, along with copious amounts of wax, there sat one of those slimey caterpillars wrapped around the end.
It was so disturbing that even after I woke up and realized that it was just a dream I was trying to rationalize how the caterpillar might have gotten in my ear. It must have been crawling across the ceiling and just as I pulled out the Q-tip it fell and landed right on the end. That must have been what happened. Because there is no way that nasty thing was inside me.
I got up and took a shower.
Though Leroy's family still has made no attempt to move his body, someon has clearly been tending to him. The crusted over guts that squished out of his cracked carapace as Leroy's soul met sole, are no longer present. I suppose some other insect, more disgusting than a roach, if that is possible, or perhaps another roach, has come along and eaten what remained of the good Leroy. Perhaps in the insect community eating another insect is a sign of respect.
"Leroy, you were a good friend. And though I honestly couldn't tell you apart from any other roach if my life depended on it, I feel safe in saying I knew you. You were a sweet roach, I always told my wife. And now, as she and I eat your slightly crusted, gelatinous remains, she sees that I was right. Or, more correctly, she tastes that I was right. Dude, you're delicious."
I'm reminded of one of the orientation days at college. All of these geeky groups has booths outside the student union and they were trying to get people to join. Let's face it, all of these groups seem freaky, or geeky, or just plain weird to outsiders, but this group was nuts no matter how you slice it. It was the entimology group. There were these two pimply faced students sitting next to a terrarium. The sign clearly read that they were entimology students and so I figured they must have a walking stick, or a praying mantis or some other wicked insect inside for people to mess around with. I approached and was utterly dismayed to see the biggest f-ing cockroach crawl from under the girl's sleeve and across her knuckles.
I must have frozen because the guy next to her cracked a wide smile. "It's a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach," he said. "Do you want to hold it?"
"I'd like to step on it," I said, and he laughed. "I figured you'd have something cool."
"This is cool. These are about the coolesting thing we could think of to bring. Anything cooler would have been able to fly away."
I had to admit that made sense. But it didn't explain why the girl was treating it like a pet. "Can you hear it hissing?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "Why is it doing that?" "She's doing it because she doesn't like being held," the girl said. The irony was too great and I couldn't resist saying, "So the horrible, nasty, disgusting cockroach doesn't want to be held by you? That's got to be a blow to your ego."
Luckily she took this in the good spirit it was intended and ran away crying, trying to comb the matts and crickets out of her hair. Ok, she didn't. She just laughed. She probably thought I was odd.
-Horrible Dreams
Ugh. All of this talk about roaches, an insect I cannot abide, has reminded me of last night's very short, but quite disturbing dream. My dreams are usually very vivid and often disturbing when I can remember them. Last night's dream was no exception.
You will need a tiny bit of history to understand this dream. I am not grossed out by all insects. I am quite fascinated, though appropriately respectful, of bees and ants. I also like butterflies, mantises, ladybugs, and all of the "cute" insects. But when I was about 12 I was mowing the lawn and as I passed under a tree I felt a horrible stinging in my hand. I had made the unfortunate mistake of brushing up against a caravan of Saddleback Caterpillars. Not highly venemous, their sting only hurt for about half an hour. Still, it aided in my general anxiety. Flash forward to last month and I was mowing my front yard again when I noticed a huge colony of slimely black caterpillars devouring one of my oaks. These were not furry like the gross caterpillars kids play with that make their hands smell so distinctly nasty. And they were not pretty like the Saddleback. They were leathery and hairless. They were gross.
Ok, enough history. My dream was very short. I stuck a Q-tip in my ear, which was itching rather badly, and I rubbed it around and around. When I pulled out the Q-tip, along with copious amounts of wax, there sat one of those slimey caterpillars wrapped around the end.
It was so disturbing that even after I woke up and realized that it was just a dream I was trying to rationalize how the caterpillar might have gotten in my ear. It must have been crawling across the ceiling and just as I pulled out the Q-tip it fell and landed right on the end. That must have been what happened. Because there is no way that nasty thing was inside me.
I got up and took a shower.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Day 7, roach carcass
Every day I use the stairs in my building. It hardly counts as excercize, but it does more so than taking the elevator. Therefore I take the stairs so that when I finally do have my first heart attack I can say, "But I take the stairs," and everyone will say, "That's just horrible," and they'll all seriously doubt the conventional wisdom that tells us "Our hearts are important."
Anyway, last Tuesday I went downstairs at the end of my day, and as I reached the bottom of the stairs I saw a dead cockroach. The roach had clearly succumbed to the pressures of government work, if the pay doesn't get you the lack of respect from society in general will, and so he threw himself under the next passing shoe. I can't say that I haven't considered doing this myself in the past.
Or maybe it wasn't suicide. Maybe the current cockroach-administration decided that his job wasn't important anymore. Only they didn't want to appear too "insensitive" to other cockroaches, so rather than lay him off, with a million tiny mouths to feed, they gave him the most dreaded assignment a roach can receive: to walk defiantly before a human. Sure, if you live you are a hero; the stuff of cockroach legends and Mexican folk tunes, but how many actually live?
His (or her) end had been particularly brutal. Though every leg did appear to be attached to some part of the body, the body itself was not attached to itself completely. There was some here and some there. It appeared as though the offending shoe had not be satisfied to merely step, but opted to step and pivot, and perhaps even to grind. And thus did a low wage earning cockroach, from the Cockroach Department of Labor, meet his end.
Anyway, that was 7 days ago, Tuesday, September 26, 2006. Today, Monday, October 2, 2006, our cockroach is still sitting at the bottom of the stairs. We do have a cleaning staff, but apparently the stairwell is not high on their agenda. Clearly no one of import takes the stairs, so who cares if it is clean and free of roach cadavers?
Well, I care. Poor Leroy Roach is decaying in my walking path. It is totally uncivilized.
In the last seven days Leroy's family probably hasn't even noticed. I imagine his wife has already shacked up with another roach. His children already call the new man 'papa roach.' And his favorite chair, a stale frosted flake, is already inhabited by the new head of house. If Leroy had known when he was alive that his loss would go unnoticed; that he was so easy to replace, so easy to forget, so easily forgotten, he'd have been crushed.
Well I noticed Leroy. You and I are not so different. We both spent way too much damn time in this government building! We both took the stairs for our health. We both felt the heel of the man on our backs. You and I are brothers, Leroy (except that I find you and your kind totally disgusting). And I will lament your passing a little bit every time I go down the stairs. And when I imagine that I can smell your insides, and I start to lose my lunch, I will know that it is not nausea that affects me, but injustice. And I will pray that someday a giant foot does not smash me into oblivion. And I will record, for all of my blog readers, the status of your unnatural resting place. Consider it a monument to you, Leroy -- as close to becoming my hero as a cockroach can. Which is not at all.
Anyway, last Tuesday I went downstairs at the end of my day, and as I reached the bottom of the stairs I saw a dead cockroach. The roach had clearly succumbed to the pressures of government work, if the pay doesn't get you the lack of respect from society in general will, and so he threw himself under the next passing shoe. I can't say that I haven't considered doing this myself in the past.
Or maybe it wasn't suicide. Maybe the current cockroach-administration decided that his job wasn't important anymore. Only they didn't want to appear too "insensitive" to other cockroaches, so rather than lay him off, with a million tiny mouths to feed, they gave him the most dreaded assignment a roach can receive: to walk defiantly before a human. Sure, if you live you are a hero; the stuff of cockroach legends and Mexican folk tunes, but how many actually live?
His (or her) end had been particularly brutal. Though every leg did appear to be attached to some part of the body, the body itself was not attached to itself completely. There was some here and some there. It appeared as though the offending shoe had not be satisfied to merely step, but opted to step and pivot, and perhaps even to grind. And thus did a low wage earning cockroach, from the Cockroach Department of Labor, meet his end.
Anyway, that was 7 days ago, Tuesday, September 26, 2006. Today, Monday, October 2, 2006, our cockroach is still sitting at the bottom of the stairs. We do have a cleaning staff, but apparently the stairwell is not high on their agenda. Clearly no one of import takes the stairs, so who cares if it is clean and free of roach cadavers?
Well, I care. Poor Leroy Roach is decaying in my walking path. It is totally uncivilized.
In the last seven days Leroy's family probably hasn't even noticed. I imagine his wife has already shacked up with another roach. His children already call the new man 'papa roach.' And his favorite chair, a stale frosted flake, is already inhabited by the new head of house. If Leroy had known when he was alive that his loss would go unnoticed; that he was so easy to replace, so easy to forget, so easily forgotten, he'd have been crushed.
Well I noticed Leroy. You and I are not so different. We both spent way too much damn time in this government building! We both took the stairs for our health. We both felt the heel of the man on our backs. You and I are brothers, Leroy (except that I find you and your kind totally disgusting). And I will lament your passing a little bit every time I go down the stairs. And when I imagine that I can smell your insides, and I start to lose my lunch, I will know that it is not nausea that affects me, but injustice. And I will pray that someday a giant foot does not smash me into oblivion. And I will record, for all of my blog readers, the status of your unnatural resting place. Consider it a monument to you, Leroy -- as close to becoming my hero as a cockroach can. Which is not at all.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Don't go to Rome! And don't, absolutely don't make Homemade Root Beer.
Acutally, I mean Rome, Georgia. I had to drive there this morning for a training I was assisting in. The training was pretty boring. My part essentially is to click the mouse button every couple of minutes when it's time to advance the Power Point presentation. I do have to answer questions once in while, on the rare occasion that I actually know something that the presenter doesn't, which isn't often.
Anyway, I'm not suggesting that you not go to Rome because I was bored during training. If that were the case then I'd have to suggest you not go to just about every major city in Georgia, and I like Georgia. No, I think you should avoid Rome because the civil engineers that designed the roads were clearly demented. They were deranged and they took deranged pleasure in five way intersections, and three way intersections, and roads that turn off into no where.
And so you know, should you ever decide to go to Rome, against my instructions, Highway 411 is ubiquitous. It does not go straight and it does not follow any pattern of logic. Even on Map Quest it forks like 4 times. But Map Quest is outdated. 411 has metasticized. I turned off of Interstate 75 and onto what I think was State Road 20. Shortly thereafter I saw the sign to exit right onto 411, the road I thought I wanted, and under that was the word: ROME. I took it. But where Map Quest said it went straight it curved, and where Map Quest said it curved it went straight. And where Map Quest said it would take me within one turn of my destination 411 decided it would take me within one turn of my sanity. After I was on 411 for about ten minutes I saw another exit for ROME, but it also had the street name 411 under it. This is not unusual for the south, as we tend to develope around old rural road systems and old roads get chopped up and twisted. But even I, having lived in the south my whole life, could not explain this road. I exited off of it three more times, each time exiting back onto a road by the same name. Then, on my way home, I took a different route so as to avoid the confusion of 411. I hadn't been driving for five minutes when I was on 411 again.
But don't let me give you the idea that 411 was the only odd road out there. I actually went down one road that looked like a two lane divided highway. It looked like that because that's what it was. So I'm driving in the left lane on the right side of the divide when all of a sudden, honest to God, out of nowhere, a double yellow line appears on my right. I'm suddenly driving down the wrong lane! I look ahead and see a car coming. Naturally I moved over to the right lane-I was never in any danger as the road was not heavily traveled-and I looked to the left side of the divide and saw a tiny "road closed" sign. Well that would have been a bit more helpful when the road actually divided!
I arrived in Rome at 7:45am, and I had to be at my training at 8:30am. I walked through the doors of the training room at 8:45. It took me a full hour to finally find my way through the maze of roads.
And don't think that the locals understand it either. As best I can tell they have resigned themselves to living in Dante's Highway Inferno. After I had been in the city for a half hour without any reasonable sign of the street I needed I pulled over and asked for directions. I went into a temp agency because I assumed that the people that worked there would be relatively familiar with the area. I walked right in and told the lady that I was late for a meeting, and did she know where this building was and how I could get there. And she said with narry a sign of confidence:
"Um... heh heh... I know where it is... it's... well... you want to take... you know this light right out there... take a left on it... perhaps I need to draw you a map... well... that might not help... see, you want to take a left out there... do you have any paper... take a left at the light then at the next light a right... and then... well... after you take a right you're gonna go for a while... and then... maybe I should just draw the map... do you know where the Braves stadium is... take a left at this light right out here... take a right at the next one... then you go until you see a new apartment complex high on a hill... take a left at the light just before that... then you go for a while and you will see the Braves stadium on your right and a Fuddruckers on your left... it's right there."
Believe it or not that seemed pretty easy for me. After I filtered out all of the crap it seemed there were only three turns. I could remember that. And for added measure, the guy in the office with us nodded and said, "Yep."
I followed their directions. I even knew where to turn when I saw the apartments atop the hill. Then I came to a Braves stadium, which must be a minor league stadium or perhaps an exhibition field for the major league team, and across the street was the Fuddruckers. But what was missing?
Everything! There was nothing there! There was an empty field by the stadium which was clearly set aside for parking, and beside the Fuddruckers was a forest. On the only other street corner stood a vacant building with a For Rent sign on it. I drove down three possible paths before finally finding the office which was a good half mile from Fuddruckers.
DON'T GO TO ROME.
And if you are ever considering trying to brew your own Root Beer... DON'T.
I found this little website that offers a very easy recipe for Root Beer, and so I thought I would try it. It seems uber-easy. Take a 2 liter bottle. Pour in a cup of sugar. Pour in 1/8 teaspoon of yeast. Pour in a tablespoon of Root Beer Extract. Then pour in water. Swirl around until dissolved. Fill bottle to within 1 inch of top with tap water, tightly put the cap on, and set in a warm, dry place for two to three days. After that refrigerate for at least 24 hours and serve.
Well I couldn't find Root Beer Extract anywhere. What I did find was butterscotch extract. So I gave it a whirl. I don't see how it would have made a difference. It seems to me the only thing I did was alter the flavor. Nothing more.
Well maybe I'm wrong, but Dear God, don't try this at home kids! This evening, after braving the streets of Rome, I pulled safely into my driveway craving a yummy carbonated Butterscotch soda. I twisted open the top and it fizzed to life. I was excited. I poured a glass and it fizzed a bit less than I had hoped, but it did fizz. Then I put my nose up to the rim of the glass and wiffed what can only be described as liquid hell. It was bilious. It smelled like vomit on the rocks. But I was determined to give it a shot. I mean, what if it tasted better than it smelled?
Yay! It did taste better than it smelled! It did not taste good, but it tasted better. I think the best discription of it is Rotten Oranges. Moldy rotten oranges. I poured it out. I couldn't even bring myself to swallow a single swallow. Oh Lord, please let me not have poisoned myself.
Anyway, I'm not suggesting that you not go to Rome because I was bored during training. If that were the case then I'd have to suggest you not go to just about every major city in Georgia, and I like Georgia. No, I think you should avoid Rome because the civil engineers that designed the roads were clearly demented. They were deranged and they took deranged pleasure in five way intersections, and three way intersections, and roads that turn off into no where.
And so you know, should you ever decide to go to Rome, against my instructions, Highway 411 is ubiquitous. It does not go straight and it does not follow any pattern of logic. Even on Map Quest it forks like 4 times. But Map Quest is outdated. 411 has metasticized. I turned off of Interstate 75 and onto what I think was State Road 20. Shortly thereafter I saw the sign to exit right onto 411, the road I thought I wanted, and under that was the word: ROME. I took it. But where Map Quest said it went straight it curved, and where Map Quest said it curved it went straight. And where Map Quest said it would take me within one turn of my destination 411 decided it would take me within one turn of my sanity. After I was on 411 for about ten minutes I saw another exit for ROME, but it also had the street name 411 under it. This is not unusual for the south, as we tend to develope around old rural road systems and old roads get chopped up and twisted. But even I, having lived in the south my whole life, could not explain this road. I exited off of it three more times, each time exiting back onto a road by the same name. Then, on my way home, I took a different route so as to avoid the confusion of 411. I hadn't been driving for five minutes when I was on 411 again.
But don't let me give you the idea that 411 was the only odd road out there. I actually went down one road that looked like a two lane divided highway. It looked like that because that's what it was. So I'm driving in the left lane on the right side of the divide when all of a sudden, honest to God, out of nowhere, a double yellow line appears on my right. I'm suddenly driving down the wrong lane! I look ahead and see a car coming. Naturally I moved over to the right lane-I was never in any danger as the road was not heavily traveled-and I looked to the left side of the divide and saw a tiny "road closed" sign. Well that would have been a bit more helpful when the road actually divided!
I arrived in Rome at 7:45am, and I had to be at my training at 8:30am. I walked through the doors of the training room at 8:45. It took me a full hour to finally find my way through the maze of roads.
And don't think that the locals understand it either. As best I can tell they have resigned themselves to living in Dante's Highway Inferno. After I had been in the city for a half hour without any reasonable sign of the street I needed I pulled over and asked for directions. I went into a temp agency because I assumed that the people that worked there would be relatively familiar with the area. I walked right in and told the lady that I was late for a meeting, and did she know where this building was and how I could get there. And she said with narry a sign of confidence:
"Um... heh heh... I know where it is... it's... well... you want to take... you know this light right out there... take a left on it... perhaps I need to draw you a map... well... that might not help... see, you want to take a left out there... do you have any paper... take a left at the light then at the next light a right... and then... well... after you take a right you're gonna go for a while... and then... maybe I should just draw the map... do you know where the Braves stadium is... take a left at this light right out here... take a right at the next one... then you go until you see a new apartment complex high on a hill... take a left at the light just before that... then you go for a while and you will see the Braves stadium on your right and a Fuddruckers on your left... it's right there."
Believe it or not that seemed pretty easy for me. After I filtered out all of the crap it seemed there were only three turns. I could remember that. And for added measure, the guy in the office with us nodded and said, "Yep."
I followed their directions. I even knew where to turn when I saw the apartments atop the hill. Then I came to a Braves stadium, which must be a minor league stadium or perhaps an exhibition field for the major league team, and across the street was the Fuddruckers. But what was missing?
Everything! There was nothing there! There was an empty field by the stadium which was clearly set aside for parking, and beside the Fuddruckers was a forest. On the only other street corner stood a vacant building with a For Rent sign on it. I drove down three possible paths before finally finding the office which was a good half mile from Fuddruckers.
DON'T GO TO ROME.
And if you are ever considering trying to brew your own Root Beer... DON'T.
I found this little website that offers a very easy recipe for Root Beer, and so I thought I would try it. It seems uber-easy. Take a 2 liter bottle. Pour in a cup of sugar. Pour in 1/8 teaspoon of yeast. Pour in a tablespoon of Root Beer Extract. Then pour in water. Swirl around until dissolved. Fill bottle to within 1 inch of top with tap water, tightly put the cap on, and set in a warm, dry place for two to three days. After that refrigerate for at least 24 hours and serve.
Well I couldn't find Root Beer Extract anywhere. What I did find was butterscotch extract. So I gave it a whirl. I don't see how it would have made a difference. It seems to me the only thing I did was alter the flavor. Nothing more.
Well maybe I'm wrong, but Dear God, don't try this at home kids! This evening, after braving the streets of Rome, I pulled safely into my driveway craving a yummy carbonated Butterscotch soda. I twisted open the top and it fizzed to life. I was excited. I poured a glass and it fizzed a bit less than I had hoped, but it did fizz. Then I put my nose up to the rim of the glass and wiffed what can only be described as liquid hell. It was bilious. It smelled like vomit on the rocks. But I was determined to give it a shot. I mean, what if it tasted better than it smelled?
Yay! It did taste better than it smelled! It did not taste good, but it tasted better. I think the best discription of it is Rotten Oranges. Moldy rotten oranges. I poured it out. I couldn't even bring myself to swallow a single swallow. Oh Lord, please let me not have poisoned myself.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
fall
Autumn, for me, is a time of great progress and looming depression. The long and bleak winter that follows Christmas is such a drag on my light dependant body that I really do get down sometimes. Sadly, more than once in the past, this eminent cold induced funk has been so clear and anticipated by me that it has sullied what should have been the mirthful time of Thanksgiving and Christmas; kind of like wasting Friday, Saturday and Sunday mourning the fact that Monday is coming. Finally, in 2004 I actually saw a therapist about it, at my wife's behest. But, as soon as spring returned and my spirits lifted I realized that my Therapist was a nutter himself and I quit going.
The good news is that during this time I am usually fairly prolific. The bad news is it will come in great spurts with long periods of me wallowing in self pity. I hope to spare you from the latter. Another point of bad news is that most of my creativity, in the fall, is poured into music. I have yet to figure out how to subject you readers, who don't exist, to my music. Some blogs allow you to post your music. Alas, blogger does not yet. I have considered opening another such blog and linking the two, but that would require a great deal of work that I'm not certain I have in me. But I digress.
Acutally, I don't recall what I was going to say. I only know it was going to be clever, and histerically funny. But I got off on this stupid tangent about me getting depressed in the winter, which was said to lead up to a really good joke, but now I have forgotten the joke that the whole prelude preluded to.
I hate winter.
Fall is ok. Much reder and yellower and organger.
Winter blows.
The good news is that during this time I am usually fairly prolific. The bad news is it will come in great spurts with long periods of me wallowing in self pity. I hope to spare you from the latter. Another point of bad news is that most of my creativity, in the fall, is poured into music. I have yet to figure out how to subject you readers, who don't exist, to my music. Some blogs allow you to post your music. Alas, blogger does not yet. I have considered opening another such blog and linking the two, but that would require a great deal of work that I'm not certain I have in me. But I digress.
Acutally, I don't recall what I was going to say. I only know it was going to be clever, and histerically funny. But I got off on this stupid tangent about me getting depressed in the winter, which was said to lead up to a really good joke, but now I have forgotten the joke that the whole prelude preluded to.
I hate winter.
Fall is ok. Much reder and yellower and organger.
Winter blows.
Fart
I farted.
It smells pretty bad too.
Thank God nobody comes to this blog, otherwise I'd be pretty embarrassed. People would be talking about how my blog stinks, and how I need to open a window or something.
And I say, "This is a blog n00b. There are no windows."
And they'd be all like, "Well you got the fart smell in here somehow. So get some damn windows in here."
And I'd be like, "Hold your breath if you can't take it."
And they'd say, "Fine."
And I'd say, "Good."
And they say, "[holding... holding... holding... gasp... deap breath] OMG!"
And I'd be like, "LOL."
And they'd be like, "ROFL."
And we'd laugh because it smelled so bad.
And then someone would say, "Man, my whole office stinks now. You need a disclaimer on this blog."
And my new friend, the one who said OMG and ROFL, would be like, "Kiss it. His butt just totally PWNED you." And I'd have a new friend for once.
It smells pretty bad too.
Thank God nobody comes to this blog, otherwise I'd be pretty embarrassed. People would be talking about how my blog stinks, and how I need to open a window or something.
And I say, "This is a blog n00b. There are no windows."
And they'd be all like, "Well you got the fart smell in here somehow. So get some damn windows in here."
And I'd be like, "Hold your breath if you can't take it."
And they'd say, "Fine."
And I'd say, "Good."
And they say, "[holding... holding... holding... gasp... deap breath] OMG!"
And I'd be like, "LOL."
And they'd be like, "ROFL."
And we'd laugh because it smelled so bad.
And then someone would say, "Man, my whole office stinks now. You need a disclaimer on this blog."
And my new friend, the one who said OMG and ROFL, would be like, "Kiss it. His butt just totally PWNED you." And I'd have a new friend for once.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Letter 5
Dear [adult swim],
I am worried that my last letter might have given you the impression that Sugar is only motivated by money. It would be unfair for you think such a thing without knowing him for a lot longer. Perhaps at the end of this letter you will better understand his complex personality. I still don't understand the bastard and he's been one of my dearest friends since high school.
CONTINUATION:
Sugar knew exactly what he was going to do. He'd toss the dead lady in one of his meat freezers and he'd toss the million in a high yield, low risk bank account. When the husband finally came looking for him Sugar would express his deepest condolences for failing to resuscitate her, then offer to pay back the full million. Hopefully the kind man, seeing that sugar had given his very best, and being distraught at his loss, would rebuke the money and insist that Sugar keep it. But if he did take it back Sugar would still have the interest it had accrued, which, depending on how long it took the poor whelp to find Sugar, could be enough for a nice vacation home.
Sugar had it planned perfectly; where to put the money and where to put the body, but as any married man knows, there is no plan, no matter how sublime, that a good wife can't totally cock up.
Sugar drove along, happy as a clam, day dreaming about where his summer home might be. He hummed and giggled, and allowed his heart to race just a little bit. Then as he pulled into his driveway his wife came walking out the front door-arms folded, face red as the very devil-and Sugar felt his heart stop dead, then drop straight into his designer pants.
"Where have you been?" she asked in a voice that cannot adequately be described as angry.
Sugar had no idea what to say. He wasn't entirely certain how long he'd been gone. He only knew that his heart hadn't started beating again, and he was suddenly ravenously hungry. "John asked me to pull a double-shift," he said.
"A DOUBLE...!" she shouted. "You've been gone for TEN days."
"Ten?" he said, more to himself. "Wow. That's... impressive."
"Impressive?"
"Well," he stammered. "I mean, I seriously must have lost track of time."
"You lost track of ten days? How am I supposed to believe that? How am I supposed to believe any thing you say to me now?" At this point Sugar's wife had calmed down to being furious. Sad and angry tears rolled down her face.
"I don't know what to say, sweetheart," he said. "I should have called."
"You should have called?" she yelled. "And said what? 'Hunny, I'll be staying at work for the next ten days. Don't wait up.' Do you think I'd have believed you?"
"I..."
"No," Hunny interrupted, "You've been with a woman."
"I have not."
"How long have you been planning this?"
"What?"
"How long have you been planning this get away? Are there suitcases in the trunk?"
"What? No!"
"Then let me see," she said. "If you want me to even begin to believe that anything you have told me is true, open the trunk."
Sugar's eyes widened and his body went cold. He would never be able to explain a dead woman with a knife in her tit. His wife would call the cops. He'd be divorced and in jail before nightfall. He didn't even know the husband's name. There'd be no one to confirm his story.
His hands started to sweat. "I won the lottery."
There was a pause as his wife stared at him open mouthed. "What?" she said, as though she honestly had not heard him.
"I won the lottery," he said and pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. He thrust it out and she instinctively took the loot. "There's more in the car. It's a million all told."
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I," he said.
"We won the lottery?" she said, growing excited.
"I could hardly believe it myself," he said smiling. "I was so dumbfounded I drove around in a daze. I only came to my senses today."
"Well why didn't you say so?" Hunny cooed.
"Well," Sugar said, "I didn't want us to go crazy and spend it all. I think we should just put it in a savings account and sit on it for a while. We'll have fun with the interest."
"Like Hell," she said. "You're taking me on vacation. As it happens I have my bags packed. I was getting ready to go to Mother's. I'll go get them and you can show me what's in the trunk."
She ran inside and in a flash Sugar opened the trunk and pulled out Ambrosia's corpse. He flung her over his shoulder and ran to the side of the house. There he tossed her on the ground and looked in the side window. His wife was almost to the front door. Quickly he kicked leaves over the body and threw a few fire logs on top. Then he ran to the door in time to help his wife with her bags.
"Hunny, don't you think we should make some plans and reservations before we..."
"No," she said in a cold, deep voice. "You owe me a vacation. I'm thinking at least eleven days. Don't you think?"
"Yes dear," he said. I wasn't there when this happened, but to this day when he tells this part his shoulders sink and he gives a deep sigh.
On their way out of town Sugar convinced Hunny to stop at a used bookstore to spend some of their new money on some light reading for the trip. She got a romantic novel and a travel guide to Florida. Sugar got Advanced Cybernetic Robotics, Alchemy and Your Body, and How to Raise Your Dead Lover After Weeks of Rotting Outside Your Home While You Were Away in Florida. They really were some lucky finds.
Michael
September 8, 2006
Ps. The white pouring from Ambrosia's breast in the picture is not supposed to be milk. I had kicked around the idea of milk spewing forth, or of Ambrosia "milking" to death, but that really seemed to reduce this tragic story to something less than serious and quite apart from the truth, which this totally is.
No, the white is my artistic rendering of the blood pouring from Ambrosia's wound. Red didn't work because it was too fake looking. Everyone knows that the blood would seep into the green shirt and the colors would mix, not to mention that after an hour or two in the car the blood would have dried to a deep brown or black. But every time I tried to draw the blood as brown or black it looked equally unrealistic, and like I was too stupid to realize blood was, afterall, red. So it's white. If you don't like it... eat it.
Pps. I probably shouldn't say "eat it" to someone, or something, that I would like to consider me for a job. However, I also know that this letter will not likely go to a hiring manager. If it is even read before it gets thrown away it will be read by an inturn or a paid lackey. Bearing that in mind... If you don't like the white blood you can Super Eat It!
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