Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Fuzzy Dumpling
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
And yes, cats are better than people.
cats > you
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Dido? Really?
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.
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.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Vaginal Flutters:
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.
(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
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?
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?
Warhol's Minions
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Pwang and other Delights!
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.
!!!
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:
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:
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.
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.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Death by Beetle
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!
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:
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.
(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):
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?
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?
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Mrs. White in the Library with the Candlestick
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.
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!
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!
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
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.
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.
Friday, October 10, 2008
For Dicipline's Sake!
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!
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!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Panty Sniffers and You: A Field Guide
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?
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!
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
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
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!
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!
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The Spanking and How We Took It:
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.
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.
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!
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
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...
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
"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...
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.
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.
Monday, October 6, 2008
House Meetings and Other Funny Jokes
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:
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...
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 PlanEgads! 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
"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.
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.
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