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."
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
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.
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