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!