Grey Garden Chronicles

Losing my Mind Online

2009-11-11T16:19:00.000-08:00

Because you could be a Veteran and this could be your day...Easily... This post is for YOU!

The homeless man who fell off the cliff by my house when he was drunk (and sleeping on the edge of a cliff!) just walked by wearing new hip-hop gear. His limp (from the fall) seems to be healing quite nicely and is almost gone. The clothes look good on him, nevermind the fact that he's a 40-50 year old Mexican-American homeless person as thin as the rails of a train-track, with a giant moustache curling around the sides of his permanently drunken and malnourished face.

Sometimes he kicks and yells at invisible people standing beside him--Today, veterans day, I could see them for the first time: They are all the annoyingly blase and loitering ghosts of Dead (undead?) Civil War Soldiers. They hang around like pigeons and take ghostly dumps on homeless people and their things.

I'd like to add this thought to the mix:

http://www.mcphee.com/shop/products/Handerpants.html

Can we get these in boxes by the hundreds (like hospital gloves) and distribute them to the homeless, as a token of our gratitude for their anticipated attempts at cleanliness if we ask them really, really nicely to stay clean, with sugar on top...???

And now I'll close on these words:

Fucking Hell.

Femmebots Am Good

2009-09-06T18:29:00.000-07:00

Here's where I admit I sometimes linger at the end of listening to my voicemail, just waiting in silence for a short pause after the point where the robot seductress says, "press seven to delete the message; press nine to save it."

I wait for maybe five seconds max--doing nothing, filing my mental fingernails--so I can hear my personal-voicemail-femmebot ask me, with no trace of sadness or real concern, "Are you still there?......Are you still there?.....Are you still there?"

Mmmmm...

Rien, Merci

2009-08-26T15:41:00.000-07:00

Nothing. This post is about nothing.

Hubba Hubba, Our New PA!

2009-08-26T15:15:00.000-07:00

The first thing about our new PA on Sunday was that she showed up in a "Sexy Police Lady" get-up: Motorcycle Cop glasses hid beneath enormous tufts of wavy, dark hair. A well equipped utility belt was slung low on super-duper, short-shorts and on the top, piles of cleavage exploded out the front of a tightly buttoned-down shirt.

When she opened her mouth, the voice was so low and dryly deadpan that you couldn't guess it came from a woman. And as she began speaking it was all we could do not to stare in amazement--She flatly stated in strict monotone-run-on-sentence, robot-speak:

"I just got off a week of shooting sixteen hour days for television where we were all walking zombies and nobody had any kind of revolution or revolt because they were all making BANK, like the PAs were getting over 800 a week and the DP made 5,000 and everybody was getting SO MUCH OVERTIME PAY that no one would open their mouth or say anything..."

"I don't have a business card, people, I have a RES-UM-MAY. I can email it to you...I have your email address...It's on the callsheet...I think I'll eat a banana."

And when she ate a banana we all followed her around to watch. It was like that.

The crew in complete thrall spent all day trying to figure out if she was into men or women...We finally decided both, she certainly must be into both--There was just no other answer.

So yeah. That happened.

The Zoo

2009-05-08T12:21:00.000-07:00

My Housemate, Mister Wifi is taking his kindergarten class to the Los Angeles Zoo today for a field trip. I suspect they're going to watch hot little monkeys lilting in the heat and falling off their poles.

And speaking of poles, another friend was telling us that she took a class-full of first graders to the zoo and there was a Zebra with a giant hard-on that the kids were pointing at and asking about...Ugh.

And it was just RIDICULOUS in size. Double ugh.

I hate when that Zebra comes over and asks to use my email, as if he doesn't have his own, and I go to the store or something and come back and he's sitting all shirtless and nervous-looking.

Then, I see that my Spam Folder is WIDE open and all my secret stash of Penile Enlargement emails rifled through, my credit card by my phone, my phone dialed to some crazy 800 number and the earbud in that goddamned Zebra's giant, dirty ear. And he's all "ummm...I was just making a few phone calls..."

Apparently also at our fine local zoo, it IS NOT advisable to look the gorilla in the eye, or he'll fling his poo at you.

Apeshitz, meet Lipshitz, my close friend and attorney for years...

Next show at 3:00.

The Ghost of Dom Deluise

2009-05-05T11:48:00.000-07:00

It was about six years ago, almost to this very day, when after a night of dinner and wine and lovely company, we decided to make a weiji board and get down to some strange business.

After having written out all the letters, written in little squares that said "Yes" and "No", we realized there were two letter "P"s on the weiji board, which might have been what got our summoning off to such a rocky start.

The overhead lights crackled with electricity as my friends and I fought to put our hands on an old jelly jar lid, which was moving around the board in a hunt for Red October, or a friendly peanut butter lid to pal around with--whichever came first.

"Whose spirit are we going to conjure?" someone asked, "And what shall we ask them?"

Almost as if possessed, and in a low and haunting whisper, I answered for us all, "We would like to speak to the ghost of Dom Deluise...and we are going to ask him which was his favorite Cannonball Run...We are going to ask him what it was like to work with Burt Reynolds...We are going to question, 'Are Lonnie Anderson's breasts real, Dom?--Tell us, for we MUST KNOW!' We are going to see if he still gets hungry from the Great Beyond, and we are going to try to find out what his favorite kind of sandwich is....Now hush!"

As the jelly lid whizzed around from one letter to another, spelling out crazy bullshit things we cried, "What are you trying to tell us Dom? What is it that you're struggling to say?"

Suddenly, in a dazzling feat of magic and pseudo-science, The Ghost of Dom Deluise began to speak through me...And out of my mouth, Dom said in a painful, droning wail, "Givvve meee a sandwiccchhhh... Givvve MEEE A SANDWICHHHH! GIMME A SANDWICH!!!! GIMME A SANDWICH!"

To make things easier on the poor fella we made another short-answer box next to the ones saying "Yes" and "No" that simply said, "Gimme a Sammich". The lid kept moving over to this spot--Eerie stuff!

We figured out all sorts of things that night. We moved through time and space to solve ancient riddles, etcetera.

CUT TO:

Having forgotten all about that night's dark work, I was sitting at my office desk maybe two or three days later, probably typing up a memo to the Board of Trustees or some such thing...Out of nowhere every one of the people who had been at the seance for The Ghost of Dom Deluise began calling and emailing me--all within the course of about five minutes.

Apparently some one had realized that Dom Deluise wasn't actually dead and had called or emailed the rest of the party to alert them to my 'fraud'.

I'm not sure why, but everyone decided that they felt a little gypped, a little cheated--they had seen the man behind the curtain and it was me. They all wanted to know why? Why had I done it? Had I known he wasn't dead yet? What was I thinking?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I told everyone. Right. Dom Deluise is not fucking dead, but I had some serious questions for him, we all did, and I didn't have his phone number.

Then I sang a teary-eyed and slowed-down rendition of That's Entertainment.

Dom Deluise, You Big Happy Fella, You'll be missed!
Happy Cinco De Mayo, Dom. Valla Con Huevos.

Rare Gems

2009-05-03T01:17:00.000-07:00

One more for the day; a gift from me to you:

http://www.earwormmp3.com/brazilian_diamonds.mp3
You can download it for free. It's just sweet and, well, there you go.

DJ Earworm is awesome, FYI and has mashups available to download on his website:
http://www.djearworm.com/

Okay, I want this!

2009-05-02T16:33:00.000-07:00

http://yousetthescene.blogspot.com/2009/02/sinking-radio-radar-bros-uncle.html

The cover of Uncle Albert Admiral Halsey by the Radar Brothers is SO FUN! There's a link where you can hear it at the above website--scroll down, succah!

And I try so hard not to be a fan of that P. McCartney!

I Sang Neither of These:

2009-05-02T15:41:00.000-07:00

They did NOT have this song at karaoke:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFhO321qdmk
(sorry would not let me embed video)

But they did have this one:

Skaraoke

2009-05-02T15:13:00.000-07:00

We got a karaoke room in Little Tokyo last night and I realized not only that I can't sing, but I REALLY, REALLY can't sing. I mean I guess I knew this, but it's never stopped me before. I mean I guess it was little more than a small detour last night, but still...Why do I pick songs like Wanna be Starting Something and Careless Whisper? So shameless, so bad.

Needless to say, it was SO MUCH FUN. Everyone else could sing or faked it (with enthusiasm and dancing/marching). And I met two adorable and lovely ladies, for the second time, who I'm really glad to know.

I like grown women who stand on furniture like that's what it was made for.

Gnat Man

2009-04-30T23:49:00.000-07:00

I've almost completely washed The Pipsqueak out of my hair...That's all!

Entry Deleted

2009-04-30T23:40:00.000-07:00

BECAUSE...I...JUST...CAN'T.

Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

2009-04-30T22:57:00.000-07:00

So I met an aging artist, an early experimental filmmaker and video artist, and his young actress (girlfriend?) at their place for tea. It was highly surreal and delightful.

The filmmaker asked me in German if I was a crazy whore upon my arrival to see what I would say. I don't understand much German but luckily have one good expression that I cheerfully threw back, "Nine, danke!" So it all worked out.

He threatened to read obscene poetry that he'd written but never came up with anything too scandalous, to my great sadness. Lots of stories about promiscuous women he'd known years before, presumably all true.

The girlfriend (??) feeling a bit left out of conversation, said she'd won an Oscar when she was a child. She handed me a dirty tumbler with a pink, iced beverage inside that she called wine. There was a perfect imprint of her lips made in crazy-colored lipstick on the rim of the jar.

She said she'd won the Oscar for her role in ET--The original ET, not the version we've all seen.
She'd played "the little girl with blond hair and brown eyes," which must have required her to dye her hair and wear colored contacts.

After that, she was going to continue acting and maybe do some modeling, but had to go to elementary school instead. A very disappointing experience. Although she did learn some science and math and to read and write.

This was all before she became an Egyptian Queen and Esthetician (giving facials) --two separate jobs she held simultaneously.

Well, I'll be!

Birthdays RULE!

2009-04-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

I swear to god, Roz might be the cutest thing on two legs! Her birthday party in the back, private room of a local coffee shop with all of us writing and performing our Crazy Poems was more fun than you can ever imagine.

XOXOXOXO

A Better Note

2009-04-28T19:21:00.000-07:00

We are living in a precarious time: Let's all be nice.

Control Freaks Who Feel Threatened

2009-04-28T18:45:00.000-07:00

If you want to be ruthlessly attacked, assessed and discounted, sidle up to an egotistical control freak.

It helps if they feel a little bit threatened because then they'll be really mean. And in the same breath tell you how cruel you are. Clearly they are not getting some attention and need therapy, but never mind all that. They say they are just being honest; they are just there to help.

They'll blame you for their problems and accuse you of all of the things that they do. They won't look at you or see you. They'll just vent and threaten and talk about your problems, as they'd like to see them--however that is.

If anything makes less sense and is more obnoxious, I'd hate to see it.

The happy news is that there are so few people in the world like this and you can see them coming. They care only about themselves, which is easy to spot.

Unfortunately Los Angeles is a mecca.

Thoughts?

People Will Surprise You

2009-04-28T15:53:00.000-07:00

Don't ever think you understand the heart or mind of another human being. You don't and you won't; not completely; not ever.

And if you believe for one second that you can predict what someone will do in any given situation--how they'll react, how they'll feel--well, there too you're wrong.

People will surprise you.

On Film Reviews and Then Some

2009-04-27T18:12:00.000-07:00

You should probably never send a review to me unless you're sure its author knows how to write.

In the one I read today the 'writer' hit every film reviewing pet-peeve of mine in quick, musical succession as if he were simply practicing his scales!

When that difficult mission had been accomplished, he then dredged up and trotted out each and every writerly faux-pas he's never even heard of...Because he doesn't read!

If there was a book entitled: A Poor Man's Arsenal of Dreadful Writing Techniques or Grammatical Errors That Kill, this man would own it.

And never have read it. Yet, surprisingly mastered all of its techniques.

I know I'm not innocent of any of this and yet I feel the need to shake this man, from the roots upwards, and scream to a God I don't even believe in:

"Is it first person singular or first person plural that you're writing from, you dumb cluck?! "

The Phone Call and How it Went

2009-04-27T16:53:00.000-07:00

Smoking Almonds
vs.
Shitting Glitter

These are the urgent matters we must hurry to discuss before we die.
DNA Rocks!
(with an X)

The Scent of a Nutter

2009-04-27T16:44:00.000-07:00

If I created ballots for people to vote on, (not that I don't), I'd see to it that there were some fine and interesting issues put forward and that we all got our say on the matter>

For instance, shouldn't Crazy Persons smell like nuts, so you immediately know them upon arrival and can also tell when they leave?

And if you try to hold a serious meeting but something is whiffy of walnuts, you can save your best ideas for later?

Later, when the room is no longer Pecan Pie Scented, you can get down to some business.

My mom just called and wanted to talk about Smoked Almonds first, I guess just to get that pressing topic out of the way.

Yep.

Dear Librarian, Send Help!

2009-04-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

I need help with my research because I want to give proper credit for this...

Years ago, I remember reading an issue of Giant Robot (I think?!) that interviewed an artist about her work and one of her projects was a Shit Glitter pill. It was a big plastic capsule full of silver glitter in a package that said: Shit Glitter. The instructions were very simple.

She said this never really took off as a product though was obviously more conceptual anyhow...

I have been delighted by the Shit Glitter pill since reading about it. I think of it often and fondly.

Not knowing the artist's name, but wanting to, I decided to do a quick bit of Internet research and found this:

http://www.adrants.com/2007/12/if-you-cant-shit-roses-at-least-shit-glit.php

Now either my memory is completely whack or someone is ripping off the original artist and creator of said item. Or maybe she sold the rights to her "idea" to another artist, Tobias Wong, who manufactured the product but as real gold. To be even cheekier.

I tend not to trust my memory, because that's more fallible than hard evidence, but still.

I must know!!!!! Just what is the story of shitting glitter?!!!!

Brunch on a Weekday!

2009-04-22T15:38:00.000-07:00

Well I'll be a monkey's shiny, ripe red one!

I've got a Pwang visiting!

Too Darn Hot

2009-04-21T02:47:00.000-07:00

Honestly, I don't know if it's the weather or the smell of ripe armpits, despite two showers and four nasty encounters with a deodorant stick turned to pudding by the heat, but I cannot sleep. It's disgusting.

I would melt but I've got (glittered) shit to do. Like shower and fight with Product. And Write. Drivel. To: Creeps. From: Perverts. With Love.

The Shadowy Pervert and Other Diseases

2009-04-21T02:34:00.000-07:00

The Shadowy Pervert is the name I give the creepy gray head that you get as your default image when you generically follow a blog on blogger. I've got one myself; The Mark of a Pervert.

It seems to be based on the fellow who goes on a talk show and, sitting in the dark, with an altered voice, will tell you how he or she only dates pedophiles.

I suppose it's designed to haze you into putting up a real photo. Honestly, it just makes me write like a pervert.

Ha.

Not the Energy Drink

2009-04-21T02:24:00.000-07:00

Some people just are Rock Stars, swear to god. -- C.E., who met the beard and I at Mahlo tonight is certainly top of the list.

This is a shout-out to C.E., her delightful antics and her little dog too, who she said was given his name because he's a "A Cat Shit Eater".

!!!!

An Embarrassment of Riches

2009-04-21T02:17:00.000-07:00

I keep thinking of this term today and I seriously just need to shut the bleeding hell up because, yeah.

If I weren't eccentric, though, I'd still be crazy.
The difference between the two being a roof over one's head.
And a window to throw it out of.

And these late night posts need to get together and protest their author's sleeping habits, which are currently scatter-shot.

Squirrel Soup

2009-04-15T14:31:00.000-07:00

Our dear crazy dog loves a good dance number.
I promise you, I was teaching her how to belly dance last night.
We had matching skirts and bras and everything!
I put a wig and some lipstick on her, gave her a few brief instructions on how to stand on your hind legs..

"Whatever you do, try to stay standing," I cajoled.
"It's not bellydance if you don't!" I threatened.

The old girl got it and we were wiggling up a storm, balancing flaming swords on the tips of our noses, pouring each other scalding hot tea from elevated heights--We were moving, we were shaking, we were baking some proverbial chicken...In our minds.
(I don't know, work with me here).

"Whew, " I sighed, "What a workout!"
"Thank you little lady," I curtsied.
She bowed politely and went on her merry way, still a bit riled up from the dance number and tugging on her rope toy, which I forgot to say that we did plenty of too.

She was going a bit berserk in fact and tore outside, barking like the screaming beejesus to prove it.

Not too much later all was quiet and our Canine of Ill Repute was sitting quietly on her cushy little floor throne, when I heard a bearded scream from my roommate.

It seems that after an arduous round of dancing middle-easterly there is nothing to satisfy a pup more than to kill a squirrel and drag it's lifeless little corpse into the kitchen for someone to throw in a pot and add some potatoes to.

We decided, it being a depression and all, that the only forward-thinking thing to do was to whip up a quick batch of Squirrel Soup and carry it door to door, offering a little extra support to our neighbors and friends in this, our communal time of great need.

It was a raging success and we all got stuffed. The end.

Follow The Leaderhosen

2009-04-15T14:24:00.000-07:00

I logged into this durn thing late one night in some sort of stupor--I clearly wasn't at my best and should really not have been writing about life, love, those who live it and those who get screwed. Etc.

I'm not sure what I did but realize that now I am accidentally following my own blog under some randomly generated nonsense name that I believe has PB&J in the title.

Happy day: I'm a jelly bread!
Who knew?

Ghost Stories for Young Boys - Part One:

2009-04-15T14:13:00.000-07:00

I don't remember how it started but when my brother Ivan was very young, like three or four years old, he was terrified of Abraham Lincoln. Not just any old Abraham Lincoln, mind you, but that special, personal version of our--was it fourteenth president?--the one that lived quietly in Ivan's closet and could only be seen late at night when the door was accidentally left slightly open.

Sometimes when it was way past dark and Ivan was trying to get to sleep, all tucked into his wee tiny bed and the light from the hallway would filter into his bedroom. It would be just enough light for him to catch sight of Abraham Lincoln where he was silently standing--tall and proud--wearing his standard issue stove-pipe top-hat, with the classic bow tie around his neck. Honest Abe never moved so much as quietly loomed, beady little eyes glistening. Needless to say, this scared my brother shitty and he would scream for our mom to come and shut the closet door for fuck's sake already.

My mom would come running to shut the closet door and be smiling slightly in that knowing and motherly way so that it was almost as if she and Abraham Lincoln had been in bed together in the next room and had planned the whole event--you know--for a lark.

Ivan was not amused. Ivan was never amused by the antics of Abraham Lincoln--not the one in his closet and certainly not the mechanical version at Disney World. I can't remember if this was before or after he began the late night house calls to Ivan's bedroom, but we also had a run in with Old Abe in The Hall of the Presidents at Epcot Center. As you are wheeled into the room on the roller-coaster like seats, being horrifically seat-belted in so there is no escape, you see Abraham Lincoln seated on his giant chair, much like his statue in DC. When you are front and center an easy target for the man, Abraham Lincoln, the robot, jankily stands up, cogs popping and wheels turning not-too-smoothly--the man needs some oiling--and his mouth begins to move, slightly off with the words, like the mechanical bears at Chuck E Cheese pizza. But the effect is twice as eerie because it's a dead president, giving an undead speach, his mouth gaping open and shut
like a fish on dry land gasping for water:

"Four score and seven years ago..." That was as far as he got before I heard Ivan screaming from the car next to mine, where he sat with my sister. He tried to unbuckle himself and climb out of his seat, to no avail, and then he began to cry. Eyes shut, mouth wide open to almost the full size of his head, which was thrown back in the most abjectly miserable wail. Now I've never been to the wailing wall, but I'd bet that it had nothing on this...and the band played on: "Our father's fathers..." droned mechanical Abe. And all the rest of it.

I'm certain that there is nothing more miserable than childhood. Unless, of course, it's being haunted by Abraham Lincoln...which you should really hope like hell you never are.

Ghost Stories for Young Boys - Part Two:

2009-04-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

So, maybe when Ivan turned five or six, my brother became terrified of Anne Frank.

I'm not sure how it started but I do know that my sister, Andrea, and I thought this was terrifically funny so she and I sat down with a copy of The Diary of Anne Frank and armed with pencils, pens and erasers set out to do our worst.

On the cover of the book was the popular photograph of Anne Frank--a young girl with screwy teeth, dark circles under her eyes and carefully attended hair. We wanted to "enhance" this portrait, the way children often do, by penciling a moustache, blacking out the teeth or drawing on a giant mono-brow, as if a bat had just flown into the poor girl's face and died--You know the mischief. We started by taking our mean little pencil-top erasers and scrubbing away the image, we whited out the pupils in the eyes, but we weren't careful so we removed some of the face around them to leave the spooky effect of Anne Frank having wide glowing white orbs where her eyes should be. It was a terrifying effect so we stopped right there.

Then the real haunting of The Diary of Anne Frank began. We would take the book from the shelf and put it beneath the pillow on Ivan's bed. Or maybe we would put it in his sock drawer, in his coat pocket or his lunch box--wherever we could think of.

We didn't often see when or how Ivan would discover the book each time, but when he did he would return it to the book shelf, usually shoved behind some books or buried beneath a stack of others. It was fairly easy to find as he would face the spine inward so you could see only the pages of the book--And it was the only book that was turned around on the shelf, facing inwards.

Once I remember putting the book inside the pajama shirt my mom had put on Ivan's bed for after he came out of the bathtub one night. Andrea and I watched as he discovered the book and, rather than scream or show any alarm at all, he quietly put the book to his lips, kissed the portrait on the cover and said "please don't hurt me, Anne." Then he carried the book down the hall and threw it as hard as he could so it landed on top of the bookshelf. We never would have found it again, I'm certain, had we not seen this ourselves.

You'd think we'd leave well enough alone after witnessing such a solemn moment and for the most part I think we did, but we were mean older sisters and had nothing better to do.

We discovered that the heating vents on certain floors of our house were connected to other ones, so, for instance you could speak into the floor vents upstairs and hear it crystal clear from the rooms below.

This prompted a whole series of mischievous plots, one of which was waiting until Ivan was in bed at night and almost asleep and then we would whisper into the heating vents above his room in low, droning, ghost-like voices: "Annnne Fraaaannnnk...Annnnne Fraaaannnk..."

We would do this until Ivan would jump out of bed and run to find our mom--This barely gave us enough time to make it back to our rooms and pretend to be asleep.

I doubt that anyone fell for this and I'm sure we got into a lot of trouble--It's hard to believe one little dead girl could cause so many spankings.

The End.

Duck and Cover

2009-04-10T17:56:00.000-07:00

The most insane noise rattled the house today.
Windows, walls, floorboards--you name it; it was shaking.

I thought a World War II pilot must have somehow escaped the tragedy of his own century and the gas crisis of this one and was about to dive-bomb us all--Flying noisily and dangerously low, moving through space, time, inventing equations that bend both--equations I'm not old enough to understand and wouldn't explain to you if I did.

But no.

It was not one, but two ghetto birds in flight; low-flying and traveling in a pack of two. (That's helicopters to you peeps in Alaska!)

"Safety in numbers, good buddy," one says to the other over the radio and nods meaningfully as they pass each-other in mid-flight--Meanwhile, some dweebish co-pilot in dark shades and a shit-eating grin leans over and gives a thumbs-up.

Fuck it. They were flying close enough for this story to be true--they were flying close enough to have babies. Fuck em.

Two, Four, Six, Eight--Who Does Paul Appreciate?

2009-04-10T17:41:00.000-07:00

I like to think this song was written by Paul for Ringo and that he was so drunk he forgot there were four Beatles and thought he was just seeing double.

Which math doesn't really work, but you'll kindly suspend your disbelief when you listen to the song and picture a drunk P. McCartney trying to keep his little R. Starr to himself--all of this magic with two other dumbfounded scuttle-bugs following in hot pursuit, trying to prove that they too exist and are not, in fact, chopped liver.

Beatle pate. How tasty; how rare.

Almost; So Close: a fan, a friend, a guy named Ali

2009-04-08T04:12:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I saw that a man in India I had never met was following this blog--One out of like three people who had bothered to put a little picture of his face up and say, Yes, Yes I will read this thing.

Clearly he'd made more of an effort to follow it than I did to write it.

I was all, "Hello Mister Muslim from Around the World."

I was all, "However you found me and are proudly reading whatever I toss off, whatever random noise at whatever random moment inspires this weird white girl in America, well that Sir--Mister I'm Sorry Are You Hindu, Sir?--that and all the rest of whatever you're up to, not that I have any earthly idea...but ALL of it--it's alright with me."

And then a Led Zeplin song played.

Everything was GROOVY.
ALL CAPS, I mean it with the CAPS.
And my happiness, like these words,
Was,
All spaced out like this;
Like a Poem,
Like a Song,
And a songbird to sing it,
Right in your ear.

And then he unsubscribed from this blog.

He must've thought I would teach him how to plant beets and farm the land. How to purify water and save the people. How to look a cow in the eye and smile from the soul, I don't know.

It never happened.

Led Balloon

2009-04-08T04:08:00.000-07:00

the thing about Led Zepplin that makes them my nemesis band is this: Everything about their music and the people who listen to it says, "Oh yeah."

It says, "Oh yeah, here we are, right where we want to be."

Is it? Can't we do better?

What Kind of Decent Blog Doesn't Mention BACON Every So Often?

2009-03-31T11:49:00.000-07:00

And here it is people:
Smack your lips together for a hot plate of sizzley-crisp, crackling-hot, old-tymey, crazy-making, grease-squirting...the one, the only...BACON!
(And His BACON-LOVERS' MARCHING BAND!)

Ugh.

WAG-SPLOSION!

2009-03-31T11:34:00.000-07:00

So I've recently discovered that I tend to date or get involved with WAGs--Weird Alone Guys--a term invented by a friend-of-a-friend, who is a self-proclaimed WAG.
Chances are, if we've ever dated, you're a WAG or a WAG-to-be (Future WAG) or a WAG-wisher (WAG Wannabe)?

I'm not sure what this says about WAGs and the Women Who Date Them, but WAGs don't have co-pilots. They will always and forever be ALONE. Thus the name.

This is certainly something to look at and analyze more closely...so go right ahead.

Great. So now I get to be murdered in my own home!

2009-03-31T11:21:00.000-07:00

I was putting my contacts in this morning --yes I am Old School in the Seeing Eye Department--And, unable to see or defend myself, with one precious contact lens perched delicately on one hand and bottle of saline solution grasped tightly in the other, I heard the lock to the outside door being wiggled and jimmeyed and someone trying to break in...The dog was making noises, though they were low, I couldn't tell whats...not barking, but strangled perhaps and choking on her own blood. Etc.

And honestly my first thought --fueled by sheer terror and utter annoyance both was, "Great. So now I get to be murdered in my own home."

Apparently this was not the case as my roommate, the beardo, had simply left the key in the mailbox which he does sometimes to flirt.

Part Ten in our lesson plan consists of how not to terrorize your roommate. But we will never get to lesson ten. We always seem to stop at Lesson Four: Flirting.

Can we get some new reading material please? Better and sharper tools, cave-people, that's what I'm asking for!

Let's make better tools and then let's use them!

The Truth Winked at Me

2009-01-29T23:10:00.000-08:00

The Truth is something.
I will never tell.

How can I?
When so many other possibilities exist,
All on the tip of my tongue.

This is a poem about sex and dating;
A sand trap,
To fall in.

Believe me,
Don't believe me.
See if I care.

Generic Beer Can

2009-01-29T22:59:00.000-08:00

This is the Generic Beer Can of blog posts--Black and White and Tasteless.

Talking to Mister WiFi the other day, he was wistful of the day that generic beer cans could be found on grocery store shelves. And then somehow so was I.

???

When was that day? And weren't we both ten years old at the time?

I had a friend who used to throw angry tantrums about neo-retro movements that in any way emitted psuedo-nostalgia for a time never experienced by the perpetrator.

But somehow the 80s will never die. They were so stupid that we all must re-live them again and again and again and bloody well like-slash-love it.

And then a meteorite hit this blog post and wiped it out.

Follow This Blog!

2009-01-29T22:55:00.001-08:00

Follow it straight up a tree!

Are you there God? It's Me Voltron

2009-01-29T22:43:00.000-08:00

This posting is all about learning to be a robot the hard way. No. No it isn't. I'm not so much motivated to write as forcing the moment. Ho-hum. Ho, fucking hum.

I do get to select the perfect pink dress to be a bridesmaid in a wedding between cats. Cats who I don't doubt are siblings. So thanks for that Garbett. I have several pink dresses that, upon consideration, don't quite fit the 'bill'.

Oh, but wait! I have a SEWING MACHINE!

So there goes my Saturday afternoon.

I hope you don't mind if I wear a blood red taffeta underskirt for the occasion and either a wig or a crazy hat...I have just the hat actually, with built in cat ears. Ho ho ho. The hat and the wig and the shoes have been selected.

Beware cats...your love is being celebrated in a bad fashion moment that might be too awful for words. And now I must end this post because The Beard keeps asking me weird questions and I can't think straight. I can only think gay. Gay Cat Wedding with Bells On.

And Feathers.

People Who Poke and Throw Snowballs

2009-01-24T15:11:00.000-08:00

I'm serious. You know who these people are. Do something about it!

Duck Tits

2009-01-17T16:30:00.000-08:00

Duck Tits is a fat black kid with a dirty little face that is always eating the same giant chicken leg and every time he tries to talk with his mouthful of chicken no one understands a word he says so he sobs uncontrollably and eats more chicken.

He's not really a super-hero but he has the magical power of transforming the world around him into a musical when ever he begins singing. He starts sobbing and singing and where ever he is, people drop everything and do incredible dance numbers and back-up vocals. No one understands his lyrics, but seem to know all the words anyhow.

And this is what I know about that.

To Get to the Other Side

2009-01-17T16:26:00.000-08:00

I wrote the craziest late night wine-inspired email to a friend that only said this:

Fuck a duck. A chicken shaped duck.
The End

???
To his credit he replied that he would get right on that.
Ha.

So Not Impressed

2009-01-16T16:19:00.000-08:00

Why do I play dumb games with uninteresting people? Am I really that bored?

Yes, yes I am.

Off to twiddle my thumbs until a new day arrives,
DG

I'll Never Sleep Well Again

2009-01-14T00:51:00.000-08:00

I was recently informed that someone I used to date was often likened to Quagmire on Family Guy.

Hot Ham Water

2009-01-14T00:49:00.000-08:00

Thanks again, Arrested Development, for planting another disgusting thought in my head.

Bollywood Knows Best

2009-01-12T18:54:00.000-08:00

Another Date with Disaster

2009-01-12T17:24:00.000-08:00

My older sister convinced me to go to a high school dance with her boyfriend's "single" friend when I was in ninth grade by paying me $20. It seemed like a lot of cash at the time and probably was when you consider what I would spend it on...Probably something like this:

2 Cassette tapes
1 can Aqua Net hair spray
2 new colors of nail polish (was into blue, black and green at the time, with a mission to find a certain color of deep emerald green with a certain smallish texture of glitter inside...???)
1 Pair of Tights (probably plaid)
Eyeliner

So that really was a lot of money at the time.

Anyhow, I went to the dance and ignored the poor guy, whose name I forget, and sat in the bleachers with my friends. We were too cool to dance and pretended not to notice where we even were. The indignity.

I asked to be taken home early and had someone else coming to pick me up after I got dropped off. I was saying an awkward goodbye from the passenger seat of his car when my sister and her date pulled up alongside us in front of my parent's house. She happily yelled through the open windows, "We'll go around the block a few more times so you two can kiss!"

They drove off and in a panic I froze.

He was very tall, this tenth grader, and as he leaned in to kiss me, I ducked out from under his arm, opening the car door on my side and toppled backwards onto the sidewalk. I quickly regained whatever composure I could pretend to have and scuttled inside.

What rot.

High School Dating Memory

2009-01-12T16:30:00.000-08:00

I met someone who looked just like the adult version of someone I dated very briefly in 10th or 11th grade--forget which--and the long-forgotten memory of that came flooding back to me and has been cracking me up all day.

He was a year younger than I, so I couldn't take him at all seriously to begin with. And then there was his high-pitched, fire-truck-siren-inspired squeal whenever he thought something was funny. He considered me to be "the funniest person he ever met," a regular laugh-riot.

The relationship was all of my shocking dead-panisms and his hysterical laughter. There was nothing more to it than that.

He was incredibly attractive and mindlessly stupid. But he had that crazy laugh-track, and I am still not above pushing the single button any given toy might have, over and over and over again....

He came from an extremely conservative back-ground with all sorts of conduct codes brow-beaten into him by his parents. He was poised and polished, naive and starched.

But he followed me around like a dumb dog and I'll admit I loved it. I had a sassy mouth and an attitude that really sucked. With ratty hair dyed whatever color, too much eyeliner and dressed to break my mother's heart, I never got to meet the parents. This was fine with me because fuck them anyhow.

I can't imagine a lipsticked teenage tart with Sid Vicious swagger spouting Fran Liebowitz-isms wouldn't be amusing and I know I worked that angle.

I became increasingly interested in seeing this giggling, one-trick-pony crack and launched an intensive campaign of talking the most dreadful smack, doing my damndest to shock and appall. He only laughed more wickedly and wildly at anything and everything I would say and rather indiscriminately. I was not impressed. I remember thinking of hyenas and feeling sad.

I convinced him to drink tequila shots and make out with me, but it wasn't until I went for his zipper that he stopped laughing and looked sick. He said that nothing was wrong but he just remembered he had to have dinner with his grandparents and he was late. We never really talked again and that's all I know about that.

Happy New Year!

To Spam Folder, With Love

2008-12-01T15:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Michael_Vincent5, Michael Vincent2, Micheal222, thank you three Michaels for finding me a job almost every day! It's nice to have online associates looking out for my needs! So are you guys Siamese Triplets or WHAT?

Dear Bob Allen, thanks for your 90 Day Free Wealth Challenge! You rock!

And to all the ladies, men, children and dogs who are always on the lookout for new and interesting ways to enlarge my penis--from the bottom of my thank, I heart you!

xoxox- Darla

Another Holly Jolly Recipe for Disaster:

2008-11-26T18:13:00.000-08:00

Egg Nog

Tequilla Mockingbird

2008-11-26T18:06:00.000-08:00

A Holiday Drink for You and Yours:

2 drams of Tequilla
3 cups ice
2 gold stars
3 purple hearts
1 lime
2 lousy explanations
1 wizened leprechaun

Toss in a blender and frappe, sir!

Jolly well frappe it!

Moving On...

2008-11-25T14:49:00.001-08:00

This Posting is Under Construction.
We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause you.

The Management

Email With Lesser Beings Hurts Me...

2008-11-25T14:42:00.000-08:00

But to try to pull something sincere from the flaming email wreckage, there is this:

I saw Charlie Kaufman's directorial debut today. I hope Mike Leigh forgives me (but did not see Happy Go Lucky). Most everyone I was with hated it, but he speaks to me. I found it so lovely it made me cry. This is not what anyone else will say about it. I would tell people not to see it in fact, unless I wanted them to hate me too.

Oh well. There are so few people in the world with any real creativity and brilliance.

Most people don't understand abstract thought I find and don't like art, which concept is a simple one: The tension (or play) between reality and abstraction = art. The more abstract one gets the more the audience thins. I tell you, there are few and rare airplanes flying at the greatest heights. I don't blame them. The air is thin enough to make breathing difficult.

That being said, Mister WiFi explained to me why Mr. Rogers was a genius, not by shedding insight on Fred Rogers but on the concept itself.

He said, "He was totally original and could never be replicated...THAT is GENIUS." So maybe I'm a little less offended by the term. But it is a lonely and loosely knit one.

Also Jwolfe told me that Mr. Rogers had a song that said, "Some folks are fancy on the outside and some folks are fancy on the inside...Every body's fancy, every body's fine..." which also gave me a new love of the Mister R.

Then two friends joined his fan club on facebook and sent it my way...Here's where I admit I went with the river on that one...

Who knew this week would be so full of hard-core Fred Rogers Love?

Huh?

Email of the Day:

2008-11-16T16:44:00.000-08:00

And the Email of the Day award once again goes to my lovely mother, who just gets better:

"Dear Darla, Nothing new, just miss talking with you! I just read about the fires around L.A.; hope you are far from any of them; take extra vitamin C and other vitamins.

Come visit us if things get worse where you live!

Your Dad had a scary accident on the way home yesterday--he hit a patch of black ice in the Pathfinder before he could put on the 4-wheel drive. He spun all over the road then off it sideways, down a hill about 100 feet without rolling, through a barbed wire fence. He drove with the 4-wheel drive through snow to a nearby ranch house where the owner had just arrived. He offered to pay for the fence, but the man said it belonged to the Fed. govt.--he was happy he had told him so he could check his livestock and make sure none had gotten out. When your Dad got back to the place he went off, there were a truck and boat which had been off before him, a semi, a van on it's top, 2 ambulances and several highway patrol cars. He thought sure he was going to roll, but is fine, the car has a hundred or so scratches from the wire--whew! Thank the Lord he was O.K. He had been fitted with stuff for sleep apnea testing, had tape and wires from his finger and neck, figured the rancher must have wondered what that was about. His heart meds kept him from feeling fear or anxiety, since they slow down his heart and block adrenaline--don't know if that's good or not. So, a quiet Saturday--and I am tired and think I will hit the sack--love you, sweetie, punkin' pie darling! Lots of love, Mom

Something More Spicy, Please!

2008-11-16T16:39:00.000-08:00

I am in need of something more spicy.

Blandness has been BORING ME TO DEATH.

Why do only the French understand that banality is well, banal. And that nothing is worse than mediocrity or Ennui. Why? WHY? WHY!!!!

Trying to date boring men always makes me boring...

No more, I swear this time, no more.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Entry Omitted

2008-11-06T17:22:00.000-08:00

We are very sorry to announce that this entry has been omitted.

Thank you for continuing to visit my blog despite this fickle business.

The Management

A Brief Email Exchange: Part I

2008-11-06T16:30:00.000-08:00

Dear Darla, my computer wouldn't let me open your news page!!!

Anyway, we both like Obama a lot, saw him here months ago and are looking forward to having him for our President.

My favorite Presidents have been Dems--clear back to J.F.K. whose grave we visited yesterday, Jimmy Carter and I think R.F.K. would have made it to the Presidency and been great.

That said, I think this is most exciting because of the history of blacks in the U.S. --it is a miracle, as an elderly black man in a wheel chair said.

It is the beginning of waking our country up again to those issues and making things right for the race we have wronged.

In a nutshell. It's nice to be on the same side of things as kids and hubby!

Well, back to the laundry, off to the store for yogurt and bananas, our daily breakfast!

Love to see you sometime soon! Lots of love and kisses!

Mom

A Brief Email Exchange: Part II

2008-11-06T16:25:00.000-08:00

Dear mom,

Your email neglected a few small details that I hope it's not too terribly annoying to ask you for:

Could you kindly send me a list of all the presidents in the descending order you like them, last name first?

Additionally I would appreciate a bit more on the history of blacks in this country in essay format.

And, finally, I will need to know the kind of yogurt you planned on having for breakfast.

Thanks ever so!

Much love,
Darla

A Brief Email Exchange: Part III

2008-11-06T16:20:00.000-08:00

Dear honey,
Strawberry!
History forthcoming.
Order of favorites, well--I'll have to think on that--some are a real tie.

Love you honeybuttons!
Will send on actual news of honey just in case--Glad to hear from you anytime! I'm at school so gotta run!

Lotsa love,
Mom

A Brief Email Exchange: Part IV - Actual News of Honey

2008-11-06T16:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Darla,

Seems like honey and cinnamon will cure everything but bad attitudes and mouse infestations. Bummer.

"Facts on Honey and Cinnamon: It is found that a mixture of honey and Cinnamon cures most diseases. Honey is produced in most of the countries of the world. Scientists of today also accept honey as a 'Ram Ban' (very effective) medicine or all kinds of diseases. Honey can be used without any side effects for any kind of diseases. Today's science says that even though honey is sweet, if taken in the right dosage as a medicine, it does not harm diabetic patients.

Weekly World News, a magazine in Canada, in its issue dated 17 January,1995 has published a list of diseases that can be cured by honey and cinnamon as researched by western scientists."

Love,
Mom

If you are in Los Angeles...

2008-11-05T12:04:00.000-08:00

Go to AFI FEST 2008!

See a movie!

Spooky Halloween Email From Mom:

2008-11-05T11:55:00.000-08:00

Dear Darla,

Night before last my tooth fell out as I was sewing, my front left crown, that is. Your dad and I talked about writing a novel titled, "Oh, Shit, My Tooth Fell Out." sounds pretty trite, I know.

Just a way to get started.

I had just eaten a carameled apple, maybe a connection, but after 25 years?

I wanted to finish my quilt before 10:00, when your dad planned to go to bed, so I kept sewing for a while. Besides, I was in no hurry to look in the mirror, but I knew I should clean my mouth with Peroxide, so eventually I did.

When I went to bed I showed your father my teeth--he turned away in agony. I looked very haggle-toothed with the little piece of a tooth left in my mouth.

My brother and brother-in-law suggested I try to scare the kids at school for Halloween, the dental receptionist mentioned me looking like a Jack-O-Lantern.

I got some glee in smiling at my classroom's teacher when I took the cupcakes to school, told her she could decide if I should come in for a half day or not. She smiled dryly and told me to stay at home and relax.

Other friends noticed right away and wondered how I had fixed my tooth to look that way for Halloween, etc.

I got tired of it, however, and wanted to be normal again, but not before I began to empathize with people I know with no teeth, physical disabilities, etc. I began to fantasize about an arm or my nose falling off and wonder why a half tooth could make such a difference in my appearance and self-worth.

But it was worth all the trouble, because I had a sick day to play, have lunch in the park, shop, sew, make phone calls and luxuriate in my freedom. Hallelujah!

It took the dentist about 15 minutes to cement it back in--a fortunate case, since the tooth didn't break off. After more than 25 years, he said it had been well done, and I need to write my retired dentist and thank him for that.

Your dad is happy for me, he says, that we don't have to fly to D.C. with my missing tooth, nothing compared to how happy I am.

That's it, my darling, something to make you smile and be thankful that you can!

Here is a number that called for you, whatever you wish to do with it: Patti XXX-XXX-XXXX She seemed bothered when I repeated Ratty? back to her, maybe was the type.

Lots and lots of love, Mom

Dreaming of Jew Cheeks Past . . .

2008-11-04T13:04:00.000-08:00

I almost married my crazy friend Jew Cheeks the other night. For the SECOND time. I had to call it off though, due to bad weather--Actually there was a blizzard of work to be done and fortunately for the rest of my life, I am the industrious type.

My insane work ethic saves me from many mistakes.
It's not the best excuse, but it's what I got.

But back to the almost wedding. Jew Cheeks was drunk on a bed of cheap fur, surrounded by other drunk friends that he decided were his bachelor party. It seemed the absolute wrong thing to do, so in keeping with the rest of my life, I decided to go for it.

Soon after I said yes, I would marry my darling little ewok, two other friends, The Garbett and The Kneedler, announced that their cats were also engaged to be wed, asking me to be the maid of honor. I said yes to that too (I hope you guys weren't kidding!).

It was a glorious day.

When I offered to make it a double wedding (probably because I've always wanted to say, "Minister, make it a double!") Team G & K seemed a little offended. Said The Kneedler "There is no way we're going to let you cut in on our cats' wedding"

Fine, fine. Back to wedding planning! Whew! It really tires a girl out!

But worth it!

As the charming Dr. Faust said to Jew Cheeks and myself, ours would be an amazing coming together (again) of two disparate tribes:

A POLISH-JEWISH WEDDING with a BIG FAT STUPID RECEPTION.

I can just hear the Priest (Rabbi) now:

Do you, Jew Cheeks take Gruzzle Nuzzle (what my fiance calls me--he can't pronounce or spell my long last name) as your unlawful wedded wife?

And do you, Gruzzle Nuzzle take Jew Cheeks to be your something something something? And honor and cherries and something something something?

I now pronounce you Pollock and Jew. . . You may now kiss the Pole.

And then the skies began to darken. And I had work to do.

Men Who Fear Death

2008-10-29T00:43:00.000-07:00

And the Women Who Love Them

Fuzzy Dumpling

2008-10-29T00:37:00.000-07:00

Although these words should never be pasted side by side, when you meet the cat down the street who can only be named this, as god is my witness, you will know what I mean.

And yes, cats are better than people.

cats > you

Cranky, Cranky...

2008-10-26T17:10:00.000-07:00

Why oh why am I so cranky?

Dido? Really?

2008-10-25T14:17:00.000-07:00

I paid KCRW $55 to ship their old garbage to me.

I'm serious.

They sent me the copy of an uninteresting milk-toast mix CD from 2002 for my $50 premium (not the one I selected AT ALL) and charged me $5 for shipping.

Thanks for sending your trash around the city via parcel post rather than having it collected by The Brothers Sheen--or which EVER actors-slash-garbagemen are working for the Department of Stinky Business these days.

Vaginal Flutters:

2008-10-24T20:28:00.000-07:00

Thank you, Jwolfe, for the Halloween Costume Suggestion.

(Correction: Congratulations on Your New Holiday Look!)

I no longer feel obligated to dress like one of the look-alike back-up singers in a pseudo band called "The Sarah Palins" for Halloween--along with every other brunette white girl who owns a pair of glasses in America.

(Correction: I will sadly play the dysfunctional part anyhow, due to being an American Overseas and not attending any Halloween parties when in transit--unless the plane ride happens to be on an Old School Rock Star Party Bus, etc.)

Instead, I can be truly FAB and nakedly FANCY FREE as follows:

(Correction, what I mean to say is as follows: NAKED SARAH PALIN in a GOD-DAMNED BABY BONNET.)

...Although this costume IS remarkably similar to what I wore for Halloween two years ago...

(Correction: Two years ago I was not naked. Not even once.)

And thank you too, Avolk, for the thought that twitchy men walking down the street are in actuality being privately thrilled by the beating wings of butterflies trapped confusingly up inside their female business. (???) I will never again be a person without this image permanently lodged in my brain.

The Books and How We Cooked Them

2008-10-24T15:22:00.000-07:00

On my way home from San Francisco I lost a day in transit. Which I don't attribute to poor impulse control, not this time.

Somehow visiting S.F. and preparing to go to London shook something loose in my brain. Something that had been feeling sorry for itself for a while I think, and immersed in bad memories and details.

And somehow, capowie! It just went away.

I grew up in a day, in a car-ride, and stopped caring about things I never cared about anyhow. For now.

And then, last night at dinner, we talked about making The List: a list simply to express to yourself (if to no one else) what you need in a person, should you ever choose to Fall In Love Again EVER.

The List sort of grows in size if you're honest.

And then it shrinks down to nothing if you're too, too honest.

I've always been the latter and all I need is this:
Someone to laugh at this stupid world with.

(Okay, this is a lie. Here's where I flat out admit it.)

The end?

Jiggity Jog

2008-10-24T08:34:00.000-07:00

Back in Los Angeles; Chez Same Name.

The Beauty; The Horror.

Let this be a lesson to you.

Warhol's Minions

2008-10-24T08:22:00.000-07:00

I've been asked to talk about my theory of San Francisco being a city full of Hangers-On.

Because it is. Hardcore.

When Andy Warhol died, someone shook out The Factory--carpets and all, clear down to the bare-boned rafters--depositing whatever remnants of human garbage remained there right smack onto the scurvy-loving streets of San Francisco.

Now they just keep regenerating, replicating and replacing themselves.

No artists here, buddy. Only the fashionable, unfashionable and fashionably late.

Je suis en Tard.

Frenchmen Impersonating Arabs; Whitemen Speaking Frog

2008-10-21T12:16:00.000-07:00

To be continued...

Pwang and other Delights!

2008-10-21T12:12:00.000-07:00

Last Night I saw Pwang for the first time in a long time.

She looked beautiful, happy and well looked-after.

Thank you world in general--(and HT specifically)--for taking such good care of the wonderful and amazing Pwang.

!!!

From Mister WiFi:

2008-10-21T12:02:00.000-07:00

Things are fine here. I saw the rat. I stared into his beady eyes behind the washer. I purchased a rat trap, but he is wise and has not taken the bait. I hear him in the walls at night. He goes stritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. I whisper back to him, "I'm going to get you rat." But laughs at me with his tiny rat laugh: "Tee hee hee hee!" Then I curse him in a loud voice and I say, "Damn you, rat bastard, damn your eyes to hell!" Then he titters madly and does the rat dance in the rafters and scatters rat turds everywhere. Nothing makes him happier. So it goes.

To Mister WiFi:

2008-10-21T11:55:00.000-07:00

Oh My! A Rat! A Rat! A Fat and Smelly Rat!

I tell you, I always hear that thing scuttling about above the ceiling and in the walls.

He is not our friend.

In fact before I left I did a load of laundry, but not until I had first removed rat turds from the washing machine.

You can tell they are from a rat's bottom because they are bigger.

I am with my friend Deerie Lou who says that the word for the day is "autumnal" and the phrase for the day is "plump autumnal rump" as in:

It is acceptable to find,
Rat Turds in your pantry.

It is not fine to find,
Rat droppings in your panties.

I will kick that rodent in:
His Plump Autumnal Rump.

I went with Deerie Lou to get an Ultrasound today.

I have never seen such a gorgeous half-baked bun in any oven. No, nor so fine an oven to bake the bread in. It was a marvelous experience and one I shan't soon forget it.

D. Lou lets me pretend that the baby is going to have big blue eyes, much like myself and the ghost of her gorgeous Burmese kitty who passed on to the stranger pastures of Cat Heaven earlier this year--But not until having first assisted me in making sure that Our Lady of the Always Adorable Sneakers is With Child: Our Child.

I am her father, Luke! That is to say, the Beautiful Burmese and myself, we are the proudest EVER Fathers to Be!

I am putting on my finest shoes and doing a little dance all the way to the courthouse.

p.s. I'll be driving home tomorrow.

Death by Beetle

2008-10-20T12:04:00.000-07:00

Can you imagine being smacked dead by a volkswagon beetle? I can. This is san francisco after all...Where pedestrians are SO Pedestrian that cars want to drive right through them.

I watched my nephew cross North Beach streets while reading a Garfield comic book, with cars reeving their engines and smiling evil grins waiting for him to land on their grills.

But that was yesterday.
Luckily nothing happened there.

Still, I have to say that this worried me more than most things.

AND THEN:

What the hell is up with this city's Faux Homeless population?
(I know, I know; easy target.)

We gave a "homeless" woman a box of food and she looked at it rather dubiously and said in Fine Harvard English-forced to sound slang: "Yeah, Lasagna is Cool..."

This She-Hobo all but handed us a Berkley business card with "Senior Professor of English Literature and Elocution" printed on the front.

Then she stacked our dinner left-overs on her pile of To Go Boxes kept carefully hidden from public view and commenced looking miserable and hopeless.

We watched as S.F.'s Finest Bum Lady stood up (leaving the large cache of food collected on the curb and in the gutter) and in two shakes she:

Brushed off her homeless look;

Shrugged the defeated slump out of her posture;

Wiped the bruised expression from her face;

And, counting her mostly Ca$h Dollar$ take for the day, she hopped merrily onto the nearest bus headed to Pacific Heights, where she could have her hairstylist rinse the fake gray from her hair, braid her extensions back in, change her clothes before her dinner meeting to go over her latest business plan with clients.

Etc., etc., etc.

You really have to believe this shit to see it!

Another Email (Rant) For Your Pleasure:

2008-10-20T11:38:00.000-07:00

Trader Joes has a nice rose called Vielle Ferme, I believe, which has the random image of a goat on the label and an ecologically friendly screw-top.

(Correction, there are Roosters on the label--Goat, Rooster, same thing!)

It shouldn't stain your carpets and is far better than Chardonnay, which is without doubt the worst kind of wine ever with White Zinfandel being a distant second.

I should mention this only because I never have.

I should also say that since you don't drink wine you could never know this, so don't worry.

You could also never know that Charles Shaw is in no way delicious; it is simply cheap.

People can be lied to enough to believe anything, and the whole Charles Shaw thing is simply a vicious rumor started by winos and the son of Charles Shaw, hoping to inherit a kingdom of two-dollar bills rather than a vineyard of disgusting grapes and a few million vats of undrinkable wine.

People may disagree with me, but let them.

Today's Email Message to Mister WiFi (copied ver batim):

2008-10-20T11:35:00.000-07:00

I'm in San Francisco, dreaming of eggs.

Here is something else you probably don't know: Every morning I have eggs for breakfast, usually in the form of egg whites, which are far better for you, with spinach and salsa.

That's my deal with that.

And I never get bored of it, or if I do, I don't complain. Because no one would listen or care (certainly not me) and I doubt I would change it up anyhow.

C'est la vie.

But stolen garbage eggs are (tend to be) a little scary.

I still, however, appreciate the scavagings of crazy old birds even if this is not actually a word as such (according to my spell-check) and even if crazy old birds are really a Salty Dog, Sea Captain.

I met my sister and brother and nephew in this fair city and now I'm visiting friends a bit.

How are you? How are things there?

Mrs. White in the Library with the Candlestick

2008-10-14T22:13:00.000-07:00

Sunday we had a last minute Old School Bar-B-Que with a New-School-Twist.

My lovely cousin and her friend were in attendance, making me very happy.

The Beard and his brother grilled two entire beautifully-seasoned and stuffed chickens on mesquite logs burning inside Just Yer Basic Grill.

The other roommate (Mister WiFi) came home (after being gone for three days) and went ritualistically through his sequence of Sunday events as follows:

Each (Every) Sunday, Mister WiFi goes to Trader Joes and buys seven pre-packaged lunches for the week, plus one orange and one apple for each day of the week (14 total) to be included in said lunches.

He buys one carton of milk, one block of cheese, one bag of avocados and two bags of pre-washed salad leaves.

Mr. WiFi buys one frozen dinner for each night of the week, one box of cereal (two on a slow week) and two random cans of soup.

He buys one carton of apple juice and one carton of orange juice.

On Sundays, during Mister MiFi's Trader Joes Outing, he will buy one plastic container of organic Roma tomatoes and two pre-packed containers of Wild-Card-Random-Fruits, which are currently pears and grapes but are sometimes peaches and bananas.

Often enough, The WiFi will purchase one bag of dry pasta (only spaghetti) and pasta sauce. This is in exchange for one of the frozen dinner entrees--

I'd bet Cold Hard Cash that I could buy Mister Wifi's entire slate of weekly groceries for him should he ever Take Ill or simply be willing to Join in Any Reindeer Games.

Personally I would love to do it just to see if I could remember everything.

I should mention that The Wifi is often sick actually--being a school-teacher--but plows religiously through said routine all the same.

The Trader Joe's run usually happens at noon on Sunday. He will go once a week.

Then at 3:00 p.m. (3:30 p.m. if he's running late) Mister WiFi will go to Staples and make copies of his lesson plans for school.

This Sunday though, his plans were all bungled because Mr. Wifi had flown to attend yet another, third wedding (which also took place on Saturday).--Therefore his weekly rituals were thrown for a loop.

I could tell he was miffed.

But maybe he was just fine.

Mister WiFi has a magical way of always being (or at least seeming) JUST FINE.

And then we played Clue.

It was a long game with many players. Finally I won but not for trying too hard, only by paying attention to who at the table asked good questions, what each person would ask and how they would ask it, so that without seeing everyone's cards, I pretty much new which cards they had. For instance certain people would guess their own cards to cause confusion. Some people would guess just one (or both) of their own cards to narrow down certain parts of the Final Solution. Some people would operate sincerely and strictly by the most basic of premises, never adding variety or spice to the mix.

I was Ms. Scarlet, but I didn't do it.

This time.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Goose!

2008-10-14T22:00:00.000-07:00

Saturday I met The Beard's brother, who actually was fine in person and not at all a DISASTER.

He had gotten on a bus to Los Angeles when he was drunk. Prior to that he had spoken with The Beard about his life plans when he was Tripping On Acid.

If you call that Fine.

Somehow it was Okay though. The Beard's Brother was nice and normal and reasonably sane (for someone from the south).

If you call that Normal, Reasonable or Sane.

Professor The Beard had a wedding to go to, so I graciously (if I do say so) drove his Brother around the city.

We talked about all kinds of things and went to local hot spots for out-of-towners.

PB's Brother really liked the Griffith Park Observatory and The Red Lion.

When Prof. The Beard came back from his wedding he took over--I checked my email (massively backed-up!) and realized that one of my favorite people in the world (one nicknamed Monkey) had gotten married that day.

!!!!

I only knew about said wedding after the fact and through a cheeky little email.

I have never met Monkey's Blushing Bride, but do know this:

They share a deep and undying passion for All Things Movie, Music, Manga and Comix.

This warms my heart--Congratulations You Two!

October 11th - Ketchup

2008-10-14T21:18:00.000-07:00

Playing a game of Catch-Up as I had a very busy weekend and never wrote in Ye Olde Goode Tymey Blogue. So now I'm going to fill you in on the fine details of the weekend.

First of all, The Beardo called me at work on Friday to say his brother was on his way here and he was in a panic. His brother, he said, was in a crazy state of mind and probably going to take The Beard's Jeep, drive into the desert until it blew up and then end his life. The word DISASTER kept appearing in the transcript of his conversation.

Friday night The Beard and I decided that we would pretend that all was well with his brother, even if it wasn't and simply raise the bar on conversations, motivations and living.

And then we went to my favorite wine bar where I know and love the bartenders (Sgt. Recruiters, if you must know) and had such a fine time meeting everyone else in the room. I was told someone sitting at the bar had a friend with a huge crush on me (yeah, I'm sure he could tell from a distance) because apparently I was in Zelda Fitgerald mode; crazy-flapper-style.

My Secret Crush turned out to be a short, stocky, part-Comanche hairdresser who not only was wearing an ascot and dressed like he could be a full-time extra on LOVE IN--He also had a giant, bobble-head of dark, over-styled hair that looked like a fully coiffed woman's wig.

My new boyfriend told me I had the most amazingly insane eyes.

I told him, Oh yeah, well I don't know what she's doing, but you've got Betty Davis' Eyes.

He responded that his ex-girfriend told him he had Shark Eyes and I replied that this could be the case only if sharks had Charlie Manson eyes...

He squealed that he loved me and had a hot tub at home.

I asked, Oh yeah? Not a Swimming Pool? I could only love a man with a swimming pool!

He said he could build one--His friends backed him up nodding and bobbing their heads and faux-whispering (loudly) how stinking rich this little nodder-head troll is and how he is also very nice and yadda, yadda, yadda.

I promised I would visit Trolly McTrollson at his hair salon.

He said, Good thing, because it looked like Stevie Wonder had done my hair.

I explained to him about my love of Bad Prom Hair, or the hairdo I affectionately call Always The Bridesmaid. I said this haido was most fun to take to a matinee, blocking the viewers behind you in a game of hair-do Chicken, daring them to ask you to move... I told him I had Rat Snipers nestled in my hair; hiding; waiting; daring him to say ONE MORE WORD.

He shrieked with gay delight (being a Male Hair Dresser after all) and pledged his love to a complete stranger with crazy eyes, too much eye make-up, big, ratty hair, giant earrings and a hot pink, hounds-tooth, three-quarter-sleeve jacket and super high-heels.

If that aint crazy, I don't know what is.

Then we escaped with our lives.

We went to the new wine bar down the street from home (Wine for The People) and tried the recommended Cotes Du Rhone--which I pretended was Just Terrible, not sure why, and somehow made these bartenders also my new best friends.

Next I met the owner of the place (very nice and friendly) and talked to her about the interior design, the menu, her hopes for the future of the location and the neighborhood--We covered everything but actually reading over her business plan together.

I told her I knew a troll with a hot tub that would love her--or at least I thought this very loudly to myself.

But wait, that was Friday and I was supposed to be Ketching-Up about Saturday.

Mearde.

For Dicipline's Sake!

2008-10-10T16:55:00.000-07:00

To prove that I can do it, I'm going to check in with this blasted blogspot each and every day.

Presently I find, however, that I have absolutely nothing to say. I'm worn out, tapped, drawn, quartered and all the rest of it, so I will simply talk to have a single-sided conversation here -- Just the way I hate it: With No One; About Nothing.

For Argument's Sake, I suppose I should play the devil's advocate with my own pissing in the wind and say that, Ah, no, conversations with yourself are the best ones because then there is no one to be in disagreement with...But then I must chime in that I quite often argue with myself, and in fact these are the worst brawls of all...Knocked-Out, Dragged-Down, Street Fighting.

And then I have to ask, Has anyone out there not read the Truman Capote short story 'Lola'?

If not, get on it. You can google it!

Panty Sniffers and You: A Field Guide

2008-10-09T16:02:00.000-07:00

As the month rolls up when i must sublet Ye Olde Frat-House Roome, I consider how the world can be divided into two-types of people:

Anyone who thinks there are only two types of people and everyone else who knows better--to paraphrase a favorite author.

OR, (For the sake of a more interesting conversation), let's just say the Pro and Non Panty-Sniffing Sets.

I'll break it down a little further though--just to prove that I get the spectrum of human diversity:

1. Panty-Sniffers
a. Subtype A
b. Subtype B
c. Subtype C
(Ad Infinitum)

2. Non Panty-Sniffers
a. The Moral Opposition
b. The Extremely Occupied
c. Former Sniffers Who "Got Burned and Learned"
d. The Extremely Boring
e. The Highly Naive
f. The Very Wise
g. All the Rest

As you can see, there are more people for it than against it, thus my dangerous room-rental quandry:

Do I wash all of my underwear first?
Bury it in the yard?
Hydroponically Freeze it in laboriously vacuum-sealed, labeled-and arranged-by-date (reverse chronologically) high-tech, futuristic sandwich baggies?

OR WHAT?

London Calling!

2008-10-09T01:30:00.000-07:00

Woo-Hoo, Yes it is!

Busy is the word for the day. As in trying to solve all the smaller and larger puzzles and then make them all interlock to get my ass to London within the next few days.

Lizmit! I'm yours!

xoxo

No More Pronouns

2008-10-09T01:08:00.000-07:00

Mister WiFi and I watched Anime with the neighbor who told ghost stories of coyotes gang-raping neighborhood cats. (Much, like he said, my dining-room chair was doing to him...Ouch! Okay, I'll glue the wood back into one piece rather than the current shifting Jenga game of chair parts. Alright already. Okay okay.

I made dinner for the neighbor and his boyfriend and the rest of us here at Chez Same-Name. It was more ambitious than delicious and more sincere than tasty. But I was distracted. The future beckons and London Calls, but I'll save that for the next post. I've been busy.

WiFi and I talked about the way you can never arrive earlier to a place than you will actually arrive there. Especially not in the morning and especially if there's no majorly pressing need.

My Beardo explained to me tonight how one reason we are all stuck in our own heads is a linguistic problem and how one way to avoid this business is to get rid of pronouns and begin speaking of things and thinking of the world more objectively and abstractly.

The conversation was delightful but never went as far as it should have. And then also he explained how instead of seeing yourself in some certain scenario you begin to see your self as a single point on a bigger map involved in a bigger picture of things. But I simplify....

He went on about how hobbies are the key to being less concerned with our small day to day distractions and then railed against the word hobby as describing what I can only think of as "worthwhile pursuits" or "passions" or "obsessions" unless they truly mean "hobby" in a "Lady-of leisurely-pursuits-cat-loving-craft-faire" kind of way. In which case, I'm there.

But seriously this day made me realize that there's no real point in paying so much attention to language as to what people mean. Which is all about the non-verbal communication. No time for pronouns, Dr. Jones!

The Spanking and How We Took It:

2008-10-07T22:39:00.000-07:00

The first official meeting of the house-mates was tonight and went well. We had beer and popcorn and printed agendas and everything.

There were cleaning schedules with stickers for when we actually do our part, a dog-walking calendar on white-board with personalized, magnetized bones and I forget what-all.

Mister WiFi knows his business! The Bearded One--not Jesus, Freud or Santa, but my other roommate--and I were impressed.

We talked and made lists and doodled and I cried because I can never say what I want to say and nobody understands what I mean and then I ate a pickle. These hormones of mine are in a tizzy these days. Fucking what is up with becoming an adult and all that bullshit?...I never wanted to be a free range Lucille Ball without a Ricky, but guess what?

And then we played cards and smoked cigars and called up some private dancers who came over and shook it. We grew fat and tired and fell asleep standing up and/or hanging upside down.

The end.

Taco Truck, Two A.M.

2008-10-07T14:11:00.000-07:00

Last night I made cookies with Mister WiFi because we are like that: Cookie Making Crazy Persons. They were oatmeal and raisin because we are like that: Healthy Cookie Making Crazy Persons.

Just when I thought I was an adult getting away with a cookie dinner, a lovely friend called and she and I kidnapped Professor The Beard and took him to The Echo, a local dive that features Monday night music and hair-do-clad boys in tight trousers with facial hair galore (Is it coming or going? Who's to say?)

Just when we thought we'd gotten away with it, we spontaneously combusted into a taco truck trek to try the "Best Tacos in Los Angeles" that we'd heard so much about.

If you think I can't make friends with every single stranger that crosses my path in front of a Two A.M. Taco Truck, you'd be wrong.

And if you think I'm not sure to already know at least one person at said truck (due to past friendliness with strangers) you'd also be wrong.

And if you think I actually ordered a taco (which was the whole point of the venture) you'd kind of be fooling yourself.

In the end, I would like to thank the basketball coaches of the local Dream Center for their kind support, the red-head who offered to fight me (for fun!) over a tub of green salsa, the cute boy with the over-bite whose name I can never remember but is in a friend's band, and, last but not least, the best taco truck experience in Los Angeles which I swear to god happened in front of the Von's near Alvarado and Sunset...

So there!

The Hollow Cost

2008-10-07T11:32:00.000-07:00

My 12 year old nephew got into trouble at school today for:

A. Saying that soccer is "Friggen' Retarded".

B. Somehow implying that the Holocaust was a Jewish holiday. (Details on this are a bit vague)

Does anyone consider the source of such comments before getting their knickers in a twist?

Apparently one Junior High School P.E. Teacher and one Junior High School Social Studies Teacher (to name two persons that I can think of just offhand) like having their knickers twisted high and far up their butts; hardcore.

Why else would they have the jobs that they do? Can't be the high pay and delightful working conditions...

An Email From Home

2008-10-07T11:29:00.000-07:00

"Dear Darla, did you ever try your hand at poetry? You had enough images to write a whopper! I wrote a short poem for my book about a dragonfly and wanted to make sure I didn't copy from anyone, so I did a search on dragonfly/poem and a lot of stuff came up, poems, Haiku, books on poetry, etc. Hard to be original these days! But do try writing more because you are good at it. I will tell Mimi the suit arrived and you were grateful. Is that O.K.? Well, back to either work on my book or watch junk with yer daddy on the telly. Lots of love, and wish you were here! Mom"

Poetry is for the Tender and Frail...

2008-10-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

Much as Succulent Strips of Chicken are for the Meek and Gentle of Heart.

Adieu, Forever Adieu:
Sweetest Dipping Sauce;
Softest Fainting Couch;
Kindest Old Chair.

Where are you, as I need:
Lilac Plumage for the Breast;
Heavy Medals on my Chest;
Poultry tangled in my Hair?

And that, my friends is the closest thing to a poem as I'll ever write.

Enjoy.

House Meetings and Other Funny Jokes

2008-10-06T17:12:00.001-07:00

I live with two men who share the same name. It's magical. One has a scruffy beard that proceeds him and the other has an invisible, secret beard that--much like Wonder Woman's jet-- cannot be seen by the naked eye. Unless you, yourself are naked.

No, that's not entirely true--I added that secret beard thing at the last minute, you know, to spice things up. Let me know if you like it. I haven't decided where to take this blog yet. Hmmm...Thoughts?

Anyhow, my roomies and I, we live in a ram-shackle co-ed frat house that's infested with creatures of all kinds, but mainly people; big, stupid, annoying idiot us. And we need someone to keep track of our nonsense-- I'm quite certain. And I'm here to do it. Capturing each day and it's blizzard of idiocy on film forever, if the internet were a camera and words were photography and pork could fly.

So for this posting, I would like to talk about the house meeting we were scheduled to have, as requested by Mister WiFi, my roommate without the beard, who spends all his time online. He buys things on ebay, mainly t-shirts and googles things and watches the news on CNN.whatever.

And he decided that we all must talk and come to terms with a cleaning plan and clearing a path forward and white boards should be scribbled on with some sort of cookies served. (He is a school-teacher and this is high on the list of things a good meeting must have).

My other roommate Professor The Beard decided we could only have said meeting late at night on a Sunday (last night) when none of us would be able to attend (Mister Wifi goes to bed at 9:30 on school nights, Professor the Beard is unreachable and I am anybody's guess.

So that tanked.

And the only reason I mention it is because we now have an agenda for our next meeting, which is actually the first meeting and still won't actually happen according to those of us "In the know" and that agenda goes a little something like this:

0. Shoes

1. House Rules

2. Cleaning Schedule

3. Mice

4. Repairs needed to house, to ask H.C. for....

5. Home Alone time

6. Family nights together

6b. Shoes

6c. Happy Hour schedule

7. Garage, basement, breakfast room/office/study, Plans for...

8. Garage sale!!! When?

9. Food, drink and sundry

10. Bills, Bills, Bills

11. Music, DVD's, TV, Radio, Speakers

12. Garden and Firepit

13. Our sanity and well-being, friendship, soulness and direction

14. HOUSE PARTY - when??

15. The Five Year Plan

16. The Ten Year Plan

Egads! The only thing I put on that agenda is mice and shoes (I like shoes and like looking at them, trying them on and talking about them but not in a dreadful, trite Sex in the City kind of way...And conversely on the mice issue, I don't like them, looking at them, trying them on or talking about them, etc., etc.)

But what is fucking up with that Five Year Plan, Ten Year Plan?! Am I married to this house? And I don't know it yet? Is the engagement ring of marrying this frat house stamped across my face? Well, sir, I will blog about it until I move! Every day and hard!

Stay tuned...

Secondly: The Wildlife

2008-10-06T16:33:00.000-07:00

"No time like the present to work things out."

I somehow became an overnight Beastie Boys fan last week when two different times B-Boy song lyrics popped into my head and would NOT LEAVE. I had no idea I loved them so much.

But in a barely interesting game I am now playing with myself, I insist on asking anyone who's playing music if they would be so kind as to throw some Beastie Boys on the plate. Or up against the wall; to see what sticks; and other cliches.

I can't even remember the lyrics that got me going, but it wasn't, sadly, the ones above.

Then, as promised, I would like to address the wildlife via cutting and pasting an email to my mom:

"Mom-The suit was weird and I'm going to leave it on the curb but tell Mimi that I loved it. The cookies are delicious but I forgot they were in my room and some mice woke me up the night before last trying to get at them. Yuck. So I moved them into the fridge and last night the mice were back to wake me up...I chased them out of my room finally but realized today that they pooped in the box with the suit. Double yuck.

This house is crowded and gets field mice in the summer. I would get a cat but there is the dog. We've been trapping mice but they've gotten wise. Plus there are squirrels in the attic, rats in the garage, possums in the bushes, racoons in the trees and coyotes roaming the streets like a pack of wild hookers; cheeky but tough.

Enough I say.

Enough!"

I'd like to retro-actively title this post "Letters Home - Part IV"

Mercy.