Losing my Mind Online

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

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

Nothing. This post is about nothing.

Hubba Hubba, Our New PA!

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

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

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

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!

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:

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

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

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

Entry Deleted

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

Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies

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!

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

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

Control Freaks Who Feel Threatened

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

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

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

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

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!

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!

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

I've got a Pwang visiting!

Too Darn Hot

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

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

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

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

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

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:

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:

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

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?

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

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

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?

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!

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!

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

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

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!

Follow it straight up a tree!

Are you there God? It's Me Voltron

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

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

Duck Tits

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

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

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

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

Hot Ham Water

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

Bollywood Knows Best

Another Date with Disaster

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

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!