Well, we made it through yesterday in one piece. Seems to have been just a bug after all. The forensic evidence follows.....
1. Instead of lying on the couch all day and subjecting me to the spectacle of his misery, he WENT TO BED. In the bedroom. And slept.
In the early stages of diabetic wierdness, he lies on the couch all day moaning and yet insisting nothing is wrong and that he's not acting defensive...defensively, and scowling and talking to you as soon as you're out of earshot and then pouting when you ask him to repeat himself. Occasionally he'll get up with his hair all sticking out like Astro Boy and stumble off to the bathroom holding one side of his stomach as though his liver were migrating. Where he spends 45 minutes making odd noises, reading magazines and snarling when someone asks if he's going to be much longer. Then it's back to the couch for another round of 'how long can I irritate my wife before she puts me out on the curb in a heftybag? IN PIECES?'
2. He actually took pain medication. For pain. *
Instead of bitching all day about having a (headache, backache, toenail ache...) and then getting all defensive (and denying it) when you ask him if he's taken any asprin.
3. He barfed. The clincher! Not a person who just goes around chunking up chow on a whim, he.
Now, I play this for laughs here, but actually it's not funny. It flat fucking sucks to have to keep second and third guessing the actions of someone you respect like a spy, particularly when you know they're not feeling well. On the other hand, the suckage factor goes way up when you have a 250 lb biker who benches 300 lbs undergoing a diabetic event in your house wandering at large and hallucinating. Its just not fun. Getting said into the car to go to the emergency room is not fun. Keeping him in the car is not fun. Having him check the speedometer every fifteen seconds to see if you're speeding is not fun.
Now don't go getting all worried and shit. That only happened once, ten years ago. I'm just venting off some excess paranoia. But keep us in your thoughts, won't you, because I just may take a baseball bat to him yet.
* just poopy old naproxin, dammit. wheres the fucking vicodin? someone call keith richards for me.
Monday, March 27, 2006
For sale cheap: biker, used, stretched front end, wide glide, custom paint.
This morning finds me stuck at home with TWO children...the goonybird, who has as his excuse lack of years, and the yummy biker, who has NO EXCUSE WHATSOEVER.
Now before you go rolling your eyes and saying "oh geeze, another man-hating 'guys are such children when they're sick' thing" let me just say that this is a 'yummy bikers with Monday-itis make me want to set shit on fire' thing.
Actually, let me qualify that further. The yummy biker has diabetes. Diabetes that is inoxerably making its way from type II 'everybody thinks this can be cured with diet' to type I 'blindness, foot amputation, running sores'. It's genetic. Runs in his family. He could be an uber-healthy kenyan marathoner who subsists on a diet of air and spirulina and it would make no difference.
One of the side effects of diabetes in men is depression. In his case it manifests itself by turning a normally wonderful person into Satan's three-year old boy. This is not an exaggeration, my darlings. I wish it were. He gets phantom stomach aches, gets weekenditis and mondayitis, sulks, pouts, refuses to go to bed...yeah.
Any change in his body chemistry is presaged by odd behavior. He becomes absolutely convinced that we are broke. (remember the last time that happened? He needed his meds adjusted bigtime, turns out.) He also does this thing where he settles in on the sofa for the evening and becomes COMPLETELY INERT. He kind of semi-dozes, semi-watching tv and semi-paying atention. Meanwhile the goonybird could be making long distance calls or butt-naked, chasing the evil dogs with a chainsaw...but if it doesn't happen to cross his line of vision, he takes no notice whatsoever.
Which for some reason makes me blisteringly pissed.
Even though I know its not that big a deal. Still. When he's howling like a bad shakespearian actor for the bazillionth time that day because the goonybird smacked him in the 'nads with a book again, you just want to heave them both out in front of a silage truck.
Heres the problem.
Maybe this isn't Mondayitis.
Maybe he really does have a bug. God knows it's going around.
Or maybe it's not.
Fuck.
Now before you go rolling your eyes and saying "oh geeze, another man-hating 'guys are such children when they're sick' thing" let me just say that this is a 'yummy bikers with Monday-itis make me want to set shit on fire' thing.
Actually, let me qualify that further. The yummy biker has diabetes. Diabetes that is inoxerably making its way from type II 'everybody thinks this can be cured with diet' to type I 'blindness, foot amputation, running sores'. It's genetic. Runs in his family. He could be an uber-healthy kenyan marathoner who subsists on a diet of air and spirulina and it would make no difference.
One of the side effects of diabetes in men is depression. In his case it manifests itself by turning a normally wonderful person into Satan's three-year old boy. This is not an exaggeration, my darlings. I wish it were. He gets phantom stomach aches, gets weekenditis and mondayitis, sulks, pouts, refuses to go to bed...yeah.
Any change in his body chemistry is presaged by odd behavior. He becomes absolutely convinced that we are broke. (remember the last time that happened? He needed his meds adjusted bigtime, turns out.) He also does this thing where he settles in on the sofa for the evening and becomes COMPLETELY INERT. He kind of semi-dozes, semi-watching tv and semi-paying atention. Meanwhile the goonybird could be making long distance calls or butt-naked, chasing the evil dogs with a chainsaw...but if it doesn't happen to cross his line of vision, he takes no notice whatsoever.
Which for some reason makes me blisteringly pissed.
Even though I know its not that big a deal. Still. When he's howling like a bad shakespearian actor for the bazillionth time that day because the goonybird smacked him in the 'nads with a book again, you just want to heave them both out in front of a silage truck.
Heres the problem.
Maybe this isn't Mondayitis.
Maybe he really does have a bug. God knows it's going around.
Or maybe it's not.
Fuck.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
quaint vignettes from my rural idyll
IT IS SPRING!
I have daffodils. I have vinca. I have snowdrop and crocus (somewhere) and best of all, I have a wreath of gentle, fragrant clematis armandii around my front window framing my little slice o' paradise.
I also have moles. No, not personal moles, you zany madcap person who is wacky, lawn type moles. Moles overrunning and undertunnelling my front and back yard. Moles chewing through the tether holding the water meter housing in. Moles burrowing around in my flowerbeds. Moles making little volcanoes everywhere.
Last year when this situation first began I decided to put the hose down one of the mole tunnels and turn it on full blast. Up washed a mole on a column of water, just like in a cartoon. The cutest, snubby, chubby, velvet soft little animal you ever saw, just like a hamster wearing catchers mitts.
As soon as he hit the grass he was off again digging away. I picked the little guy up by the tail and he just kept on furiously digging away in midair.
Awwwww!
So I let him go in the hay field across the street.
This year, everyone on Front Street has moles.
Yesterday the guy across the street ran the mechanical Opie around on his property. This is a chubby, hindslung tank full of strained cowshit that drives around and around spraying seagull food behind it in a great fan, like a peacocks tail. Guess what my house smells like this morning? Patchouli incense. 15 tons of patchouli incense. With more on the fire even as we speak.
Springtime means time to mow. Now I finally put my foot down after living here for a year and demanded a riding lawnmower because 1. our property comprises four city lots, and 2. I am 45 and I DESERVE A GODDAMN RIDING LAWNMOWER. Which at present sits unused and dead of battery in the shed. Meanwhile, the grass is getting tall and lush. I may have to hire a stout young native with a machete and a good knowlege of the forest before I venture out again. In fact I may do that anyway.
(Yahoo! Last minute update! The yummy biker just this moment got the rider going! They're playing my song!)
Across the back fence from my yard is the community soccer field. Right now it is covered with gulls, overflow crowd attracted by the green rain of food across the street. And in that flurry of white and gray there is one black spot. A crow. A crow with romance on his mind. And the object of his affections is a gull.
This little drama gets played out every year. To me, adult gulls look identical. But for some reason this poor crow singles out a lady gull and follows her and her alone for days, bowing and cawing and strutting and offering her nightcrawlers the size of anacondas. He has even tried to mount her. She just dips her bottom and steps around him. And this is the treatment he receives every year. But hope apparently springs eternal in the corvid breast.
Is it spring where you are? ( Oh, well, for the love of Mike of course it is. But does it show?)
I have daffodils. I have vinca. I have snowdrop and crocus (somewhere) and best of all, I have a wreath of gentle, fragrant clematis armandii around my front window framing my little slice o' paradise.
I also have moles. No, not personal moles, you zany madcap person who is wacky, lawn type moles. Moles overrunning and undertunnelling my front and back yard. Moles chewing through the tether holding the water meter housing in. Moles burrowing around in my flowerbeds. Moles making little volcanoes everywhere.
Last year when this situation first began I decided to put the hose down one of the mole tunnels and turn it on full blast. Up washed a mole on a column of water, just like in a cartoon. The cutest, snubby, chubby, velvet soft little animal you ever saw, just like a hamster wearing catchers mitts.
As soon as he hit the grass he was off again digging away. I picked the little guy up by the tail and he just kept on furiously digging away in midair.
Awwwww!
So I let him go in the hay field across the street.
This year, everyone on Front Street has moles.
Yesterday the guy across the street ran the mechanical Opie around on his property. This is a chubby, hindslung tank full of strained cowshit that drives around and around spraying seagull food behind it in a great fan, like a peacocks tail. Guess what my house smells like this morning? Patchouli incense. 15 tons of patchouli incense. With more on the fire even as we speak.
Springtime means time to mow. Now I finally put my foot down after living here for a year and demanded a riding lawnmower because 1. our property comprises four city lots, and 2. I am 45 and I DESERVE A GODDAMN RIDING LAWNMOWER. Which at present sits unused and dead of battery in the shed. Meanwhile, the grass is getting tall and lush. I may have to hire a stout young native with a machete and a good knowlege of the forest before I venture out again. In fact I may do that anyway.
(Yahoo! Last minute update! The yummy biker just this moment got the rider going! They're playing my song!)
Across the back fence from my yard is the community soccer field. Right now it is covered with gulls, overflow crowd attracted by the green rain of food across the street. And in that flurry of white and gray there is one black spot. A crow. A crow with romance on his mind. And the object of his affections is a gull.
This little drama gets played out every year. To me, adult gulls look identical. But for some reason this poor crow singles out a lady gull and follows her and her alone for days, bowing and cawing and strutting and offering her nightcrawlers the size of anacondas. He has even tried to mount her. She just dips her bottom and steps around him. And this is the treatment he receives every year. But hope apparently springs eternal in the corvid breast.
Is it spring where you are? ( Oh, well, for the love of Mike of course it is. But does it show?)
Friday, March 24, 2006
I couldn't resist! I had all these great songs saved!
This one goes out in honor of Noshit Sherlock, my top coon. Wielding a disciplinary spoon and living with her cheddar-abusive sister in the land of the wily waka-rere-rangi*, Ms. Noshit survives in apparent self-sufficence despite her tender years, performing singlehandedly all the necessary household tasks and simultaneously playing a number of wind instruments. One assumes the neibors who are aware of this fact are buried in the back yard under the kiwi vine, a' la Jodi Foster in 'The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane'. She attends Miskatonic University along with Our Saviour, Jesus, his twin brother James, and any number of fun-loving lesbians who play rugby and drink a lot. Ms. Noshits' favorite beverage is one which has the word 'proof' on the label. Do visit this amazing prodigal here at http://drivingthebustohell.blogspot.com/ but be nice, or I'll find you and hurt you. And your dog. In fact I think I'll kick the shit out of your grandmother too if I can catch the old sow.
THE NOSHIT POST
....................Last night was dark. Today finds me full posession of my faculties once again, dammit. I keep trying, but nobody wants to lend me their fish.
"In the morning
Laughing, happy Fish Heads
In the evening
Floating in the soup
Ask a Fish head
Anything you want to
They won't answer
They can't talk
I took a Fish head
Out to see a movie
Didn't have to pay
To get it in"
Fishheads, by some group
I hit my sister thirteen times today with the rear bumper off a Buick but she still wouldn't shut up about the flies. Wwhy do the flies keep annoying me? I don't like the flies. Make the flies go away.
I know they're watching.
And waiting.
" Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?
Lydia The Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
and a torso even more so.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is The Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it, The Wreck of the Hesperus too.
And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue.
You can learn a lot from Lydia!
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la. "
Lydia the Tattooed Lady, the Marx Brothers
The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs.
The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs.
"smelly cat, smelly cat
what are they feeding you?
smelly cat, smelly cat
it's not your fault
they won't take you to the vet,
you're obviously not their favorite pet.
you may not be a bed of roses,
you're no friend to those with noses
smelly cat, smelly cat
what are they feeding you?
smelly cat, smelly cat,
it's not your fault"
Smelly Cat, by that goofy broad on Friends
I met my friends outside the emergency room and we all ran in and pushed over all the wheelchair people. We switched catheter bags with Ringers' lactate. We sang foul ditties and smeared food on the walls of the cafeteria. Later, we wondered why. We wondered why.
"I woke up this morning with a bad hangover
and my penis was missing again.
This happens all the time:
it's detachable.
This comes in handy a lot of the time:
I can leave it home when I think it's going to get me in trouble,
or I can rent it out
when I don't need it.
But now and then I go to a party, get drunk, and the next morning
I can't for the life of me
remember what I did with it."
Detachable Penis, Primus
Tomorrow I will go to school the same as always. I long for the day when my kind will rise again, up from the primordial slime and muck which shrouds the bed of the obsidian-dark fathoms, up from below the leaden grey and icy waves of the ocean, up from the seaweed-garlanded spires and temples where once the Elder gods were worshipped in their foulness......until then, i wait.
No, wait.
I mean, I wonder if Billy will let me copy his homework?
Geeze, what comes over me?
* translated: airplane. they're untrustworthy however you look at it but never moreso than on newzealands' soil.
THE NOSHIT POST
....................Last night was dark. Today finds me full posession of my faculties once again, dammit. I keep trying, but nobody wants to lend me their fish.
"In the morning
Laughing, happy Fish Heads
In the evening
Floating in the soup
Ask a Fish head
Anything you want to
They won't answer
They can't talk
I took a Fish head
Out to see a movie
Didn't have to pay
To get it in"
Fishheads, by some group
I hit my sister thirteen times today with the rear bumper off a Buick but she still wouldn't shut up about the flies. Wwhy do the flies keep annoying me? I don't like the flies. Make the flies go away.
I know they're watching.
And waiting.
" Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?
Lydia The Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
and a torso even more so.
Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclo-pidia.
Oh Lydia The Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is The Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it, The Wreck of the Hesperus too.
And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue.
You can learn a lot from Lydia!
La-la-la...la-la-la.
La-la-la...la-la-la. "
Lydia the Tattooed Lady, the Marx Brothers
The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs.
The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs. The dogs.
"smelly cat, smelly cat
what are they feeding you?
smelly cat, smelly cat
it's not your fault
they won't take you to the vet,
you're obviously not their favorite pet.
you may not be a bed of roses,
you're no friend to those with noses
smelly cat, smelly cat
what are they feeding you?
smelly cat, smelly cat,
it's not your fault"
Smelly Cat, by that goofy broad on Friends
I met my friends outside the emergency room and we all ran in and pushed over all the wheelchair people. We switched catheter bags with Ringers' lactate. We sang foul ditties and smeared food on the walls of the cafeteria. Later, we wondered why. We wondered why.
"I woke up this morning with a bad hangover
and my penis was missing again.
This happens all the time:
it's detachable.
This comes in handy a lot of the time:
I can leave it home when I think it's going to get me in trouble,
or I can rent it out
when I don't need it.
But now and then I go to a party, get drunk, and the next morning
I can't for the life of me
remember what I did with it."
Detachable Penis, Primus
Tomorrow I will go to school the same as always. I long for the day when my kind will rise again, up from the primordial slime and muck which shrouds the bed of the obsidian-dark fathoms, up from below the leaden grey and icy waves of the ocean, up from the seaweed-garlanded spires and temples where once the Elder gods were worshipped in their foulness......until then, i wait.
No, wait.
I mean, I wonder if Billy will let me copy his homework?
Geeze, what comes over me?
* translated: airplane. they're untrustworthy however you look at it but never moreso than on newzealands' soil.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Bread
Today I am making bread (and actually I should be proofing the dough right now.)
Baking used to be something that I found difficult, but in the last five years I've become something of a dab hand at it. I think once I let go of the scientific method and started going by feel is when it all came to me.
Most baking books preach absolute precision. You must rigorously measure and weigh and temp and dither and worry. Now, that's in disregard of the fact that perfectly lovely bread was being produced for centuries before it even occurred to anyone to invent clothes. My grandmother (fully clothed) made it in a zinc tub and baked it in a wood stove 'until it smelled done.' Guys in the Klondike made it in a hide bag they wore on their belly under their shirts. And once you've sat back and entertained THAT mental picture for a moment or two, you never look at a loaf of sourdough bread the same way.
If I didn't have a Cuisinart (a robocoupe) my shit would be sunk, though. Not only for bread, though. I use that sapsucker at least once a day; in fact I've chainsawed my way through three so far. I'm on #4, and #5 is waiting in the cupboard for its debut. Fork blending? Yeah, right. Kiss my what?
I love the smell of the ingredients. A nice egg, a little yogurt, water, yeast, the flour, the sugar and salt...they all have a perfume. And I love to handle the dough. I knead with my eyes closed, going mainly by feel to determine when enough is enough or things are too sticky or need dampening up.
Bread dough as it begins to work is a magic substance. Warmth begins to flow from it as the strands of gluten lengthen and the structure becomes silky. It's the same warmth a baby gives off when it's sleeping on your chest. A fragrance like heaven must smell early in the morning (when Jimi Hendrix is making toast) rises in little wisps as you turn and fold and turn and fold.
I make a french-style loaf once a week just for a giant hoagie sandwich dinner. So that all the goodies and yummies will fit and not squit out the sides, I tear out some of the fluff with a fork. For the rest of the evening the Yummy Biker and the Goonybird sneak into the kitchen and pick at the 'bread guts' for a snack and feel like they're getting away with something.
This is one of the priceless pleasures in life. Bill Gates has nothing I want.
Baking used to be something that I found difficult, but in the last five years I've become something of a dab hand at it. I think once I let go of the scientific method and started going by feel is when it all came to me.
Most baking books preach absolute precision. You must rigorously measure and weigh and temp and dither and worry. Now, that's in disregard of the fact that perfectly lovely bread was being produced for centuries before it even occurred to anyone to invent clothes. My grandmother (fully clothed) made it in a zinc tub and baked it in a wood stove 'until it smelled done.' Guys in the Klondike made it in a hide bag they wore on their belly under their shirts. And once you've sat back and entertained THAT mental picture for a moment or two, you never look at a loaf of sourdough bread the same way.
If I didn't have a Cuisinart (a robocoupe) my shit would be sunk, though. Not only for bread, though. I use that sapsucker at least once a day; in fact I've chainsawed my way through three so far. I'm on #4, and #5 is waiting in the cupboard for its debut. Fork blending? Yeah, right. Kiss my what?
I love the smell of the ingredients. A nice egg, a little yogurt, water, yeast, the flour, the sugar and salt...they all have a perfume. And I love to handle the dough. I knead with my eyes closed, going mainly by feel to determine when enough is enough or things are too sticky or need dampening up.
Bread dough as it begins to work is a magic substance. Warmth begins to flow from it as the strands of gluten lengthen and the structure becomes silky. It's the same warmth a baby gives off when it's sleeping on your chest. A fragrance like heaven must smell early in the morning (when Jimi Hendrix is making toast) rises in little wisps as you turn and fold and turn and fold.
I make a french-style loaf once a week just for a giant hoagie sandwich dinner. So that all the goodies and yummies will fit and not squit out the sides, I tear out some of the fluff with a fork. For the rest of the evening the Yummy Biker and the Goonybird sneak into the kitchen and pick at the 'bread guts' for a snack and feel like they're getting away with something.
This is one of the priceless pleasures in life. Bill Gates has nothing I want.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
hassled by the man
Not one to pattyfoot around, I emphasize the following:
hey! yeah, you! leave a fucking comment! It's mandatory now! Thats right! House A' Pain, baby!
I had to appear in district court yesterday for a mitigation hearing. Remember back when I went dashing up to the Stainless Steel Amazons's house to pick up the Goonybird (out of the kindness and generosity of my heart and a genuine concern for the welfare of my grandson because I am a woman with a beautiful soul) and got stopped by the cop? Yeah. He was kind enough to drop the speeding ticket-and I was flying low- but he felt compelled to cite me for the expired tabs*. That, I'm assuming, had something to do with the fact they had been expired for nearly half a year.
So anyway I had to show up in court at 8:30 a fucking m.
At the vestibule I get wanded in and pass through the metal detectors; fine. Then recall that I'm carrying a pocketknife on my keyring. Back I go to the security guard like a good little citizen. She examines the knife (sharper than madonnas tits, too-I use it to purloin cuttings.) "Oh no," she says, handing it back. " You can keep it. It has to be a little longer than this." Now the thought occurs to me to point out that the human heart lies a mere two inches behind the sternum, a plate of gristle easily punctured with a determined blow- and anyway you can kill somebody by sticking a pencil in their eye, and here I am wandering around at large in a public building with a cranium full of prozac and a knife for the love of fuck, but I decide not to. I am smart like that.
When it comes my turn for judgement I run a quick wedgie check (nope!) and then step up to the bar.
"I'd like to see your license" the judge states.
I rummage around in my purse and pull out my wallet. And the fucking zipper sticks. Bad enough; but the pull is a stupid skull with a rose in it's teeth. I'm trying to keep the judge from seeing that since I'm disguised as a responsible adult and I'd like to maintain that impression as long as I'm in the hands of the law. I managed to wriggle the vinyl thing holding all my cards out of the side of the wallet. The vinyl tears, and as all my identification and photographs go sliding across the bench I present my license to the judge.
"Oh,' he says. "I didn't want to see your license. I meant your license."
I pause. A small blood vessel in my brain begins to swell.
"Did you get them? he asks."
"I have a license", I chirp helpfully.
"I don't want to see your license. I mean your license", he says.
I shuffle through my papers as though I know exactly what this smiling busload of rectums is trying to get at. But then-
'Aha,' I realize. 'Not license. Buckwheat means 'tabs.'
"Oh, yes. The expired tabs, yes. I had new ones on the car 45 minutes after I received the ticket" I reply.
"Oh. Then I'm reducing your fine to 60.00"
He smiles all crinkly, obviously about to deliver himself of a bon mot. "Oh, and, by the way, nice license."
Plumb fuckin' eludes me, too.
* 'Tabs' are reflective stickers with a date you have to attach to the license plates of your car. They're due every few years. It's a form of extortion.
hey! yeah, you! leave a fucking comment! It's mandatory now! Thats right! House A' Pain, baby!
I had to appear in district court yesterday for a mitigation hearing. Remember back when I went dashing up to the Stainless Steel Amazons's house to pick up the Goonybird (out of the kindness and generosity of my heart and a genuine concern for the welfare of my grandson because I am a woman with a beautiful soul) and got stopped by the cop? Yeah. He was kind enough to drop the speeding ticket-and I was flying low- but he felt compelled to cite me for the expired tabs*. That, I'm assuming, had something to do with the fact they had been expired for nearly half a year.
So anyway I had to show up in court at 8:30 a fucking m.
At the vestibule I get wanded in and pass through the metal detectors; fine. Then recall that I'm carrying a pocketknife on my keyring. Back I go to the security guard like a good little citizen. She examines the knife (sharper than madonnas tits, too-I use it to purloin cuttings.) "Oh no," she says, handing it back. " You can keep it. It has to be a little longer than this." Now the thought occurs to me to point out that the human heart lies a mere two inches behind the sternum, a plate of gristle easily punctured with a determined blow- and anyway you can kill somebody by sticking a pencil in their eye, and here I am wandering around at large in a public building with a cranium full of prozac and a knife for the love of fuck, but I decide not to. I am smart like that.
When it comes my turn for judgement I run a quick wedgie check (nope!) and then step up to the bar.
"I'd like to see your license" the judge states.
I rummage around in my purse and pull out my wallet. And the fucking zipper sticks. Bad enough; but the pull is a stupid skull with a rose in it's teeth. I'm trying to keep the judge from seeing that since I'm disguised as a responsible adult and I'd like to maintain that impression as long as I'm in the hands of the law. I managed to wriggle the vinyl thing holding all my cards out of the side of the wallet. The vinyl tears, and as all my identification and photographs go sliding across the bench I present my license to the judge.
"Oh,' he says. "I didn't want to see your license. I meant your license."
I pause. A small blood vessel in my brain begins to swell.
"Did you get them? he asks."
"I have a license", I chirp helpfully.
"I don't want to see your license. I mean your license", he says.
I shuffle through my papers as though I know exactly what this smiling busload of rectums is trying to get at. But then-
'Aha,' I realize. 'Not license. Buckwheat means 'tabs.'
"Oh, yes. The expired tabs, yes. I had new ones on the car 45 minutes after I received the ticket" I reply.
"Oh. Then I'm reducing your fine to 60.00"
He smiles all crinkly, obviously about to deliver himself of a bon mot. "Oh, and, by the way, nice license."
Plumb fuckin' eludes me, too.
* 'Tabs' are reflective stickers with a date you have to attach to the license plates of your car. They're due every few years. It's a form of extortion.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
...a nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that chocolate, lard, white sugar and caffeine are all health foods. and beer.
As the level of gleeg in my lungal regions decreases, my level of wanting to do things increases. Drawing of crows picking hideously at a severed head? check. (Turned out good, too.)
Dishes washed? check.
Hair tinted in a sad attempt to appear as though I HAVE hair? check.
Messers. Piggy and Tazzy get the tip o' the hat for todays post. Everyone go see http://www.tazzyandpiggy.com/nsfw/ right now and give them both a big ol' blow job, won't you?
Yes, that means you too.
P and T suggest....
"1. Blog about your deepest sexual fantasies,
2. or poo,
3. or that woman down the road that you don't like the look of,
4. or the person down the street that you DO like the look of.
5. Or how about telling us your thoughts as you masturbate?
6. Or even something as dull as your favourite socks?
7. What about that tattoo? Tell us about that!"
1. Geeze, guys, my daughter reads this.
.........Nyeh, so what!
My deepest sexual fantasy took place in Ape Caves National Park (you see the 'deep' connection here?) which was located on Mt. St. Helens, also making it the highest sexual fantasy I ever had. Having retreated to a small bell-cavern off the main tunnel to moke a doink, I briefly but vividly entertained vulvar visions of vaginas and full body fucking when I became temporarily lodged like a fat boy in the almond-shaped passage back out. Soon afterwards the entire mountain exploded. Coincidence?
2. Already done poo, and rather well I think. I promised another story concerning horses and dogs, though, and that one's in the works.
3. Did that too. But God knows that well aint dry.
4. Geeze, which direction? And how far down the road? In my little corner of heaven there are people I dislike, people I kind of dislike, people I tolerate occasionally and to date 5 people I actually like-like. (not counting you, my darlings.)
5. Who thinks? Do you think? Isn't that distracting? Are you suposed to think? Nobody told me. Now I'm all paranoid. Thanks.
6. Toe socks. They're like cozy little gloves for your feets. I like 'em.
7. Which one?
And thank you to everyone. I really felt like deep fried dogshit last week and you cheered me up.
Dishes washed? check.
Hair tinted in a sad attempt to appear as though I HAVE hair? check.
Messers. Piggy and Tazzy get the tip o' the hat for todays post. Everyone go see http://www.tazzyandpiggy.com/nsfw/ right now and give them both a big ol' blow job, won't you?
Yes, that means you too.
P and T suggest....
"1. Blog about your deepest sexual fantasies,
2. or poo,
3. or that woman down the road that you don't like the look of,
4. or the person down the street that you DO like the look of.
5. Or how about telling us your thoughts as you masturbate?
6. Or even something as dull as your favourite socks?
7. What about that tattoo? Tell us about that!"
1. Geeze, guys, my daughter reads this.
.........Nyeh, so what!
My deepest sexual fantasy took place in Ape Caves National Park (you see the 'deep' connection here?) which was located on Mt. St. Helens, also making it the highest sexual fantasy I ever had. Having retreated to a small bell-cavern off the main tunnel to moke a doink, I briefly but vividly entertained vulvar visions of vaginas and full body fucking when I became temporarily lodged like a fat boy in the almond-shaped passage back out. Soon afterwards the entire mountain exploded. Coincidence?
2. Already done poo, and rather well I think. I promised another story concerning horses and dogs, though, and that one's in the works.
3. Did that too. But God knows that well aint dry.
4. Geeze, which direction? And how far down the road? In my little corner of heaven there are people I dislike, people I kind of dislike, people I tolerate occasionally and to date 5 people I actually like-like. (not counting you, my darlings.)
5. Who thinks? Do you think? Isn't that distracting? Are you suposed to think? Nobody told me. Now I'm all paranoid. Thanks.
6. Toe socks. They're like cozy little gloves for your feets. I like 'em.
7. Which one?
And thank you to everyone. I really felt like deep fried dogshit last week and you cheered me up.
Monday, March 20, 2006
the nation in review
In the breaking up stage of things today. I will spare you the descriptions.
-Oh all right; fine.
Ever had a fishtank? Think of the worst fishtank you have ever seen. No, worse than that.
...and hold that picture...
Thats it.
Yeah.
Thinking seriously about not doing the blog thing anymore. The weather is changing and I am turning my attentions to other things....That, and I feel 'all talked out'. I guess I have a limited need to communicate? I dunno. Ideas and suggestions and questions and stuff welcome.
But mostly, tissues.
-Oh all right; fine.
Ever had a fishtank? Think of the worst fishtank you have ever seen. No, worse than that.
...and hold that picture...
Thats it.
Yeah.
Thinking seriously about not doing the blog thing anymore. The weather is changing and I am turning my attentions to other things....That, and I feel 'all talked out'. I guess I have a limited need to communicate? I dunno. Ideas and suggestions and questions and stuff welcome.
But mostly, tissues.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
state o' the nation
How am I?
You are adorable and kind to worry.
In answer, I only have two words:
banana slugs.
Send rum.
*stumbles back to her bed of pain*
You are adorable and kind to worry.
In answer, I only have two words:
banana slugs.
Send rum.
*stumbles back to her bed of pain*
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Indian Lore, or, Fuckin' with your stereotypes, part un
I am a native american so don't go getting yourself in a bunch over the following. I can do this stuff. I have permission. And you know how I'm always talking about white folks, and calling the catholics a pile of twats? I'm part white and I was raised catholic. See how this works? And using the same logic, you will never find me referring to the spoos, the zippyheads, the kites or the eelshoes in a pejorative fashion, mainly because I made those up.
THE HISTORY OF THE FLATBUTT TRIBE-SAVAGE INVESTORS OF THE OLD WEST
Back , back, my children, back in the dim mists of time, the Flatbutt tribe lived their charming, primitive lives undisturbed by the passing parade, amid the peaceful ponderosas high in the hills.
Yes, it was a time of innocence. The mighty Flatbutts stalked game (mainly Twister) in the primeval forests. They raised bonsai Republicans, which they later sold as chum to the fishing tribes living along the coast, or sometimes traded for Altoids. They made highly sophisticated pottery and are known from the archeological record as the inventors of the booby mug. They were particularly known for their greeting cards, which they imbued with powerful magic charms and a strong, greasy aroma.
The children of the Flatbutts were reared with a keen appreciation of something. Nobody knows what exactly. They spent much of their youth high in the elms, waiting for salmon to pass beneath, attempting to hit them with water balloons. Life for the young Flattbutt was idyllic, and most of all, unhygenic. When a Flatbutt lad or lassie came of age they were initiated into adulthood by members of the secret tribal Amish Death Metal Society...felled from their lofty aeries by setting light to kilos of Matanooska Thunderfuck beneath their dung-whitened roosts, and then flung headlong into the mighty Lager river, which ran, strong, foaming and yeasty, through the center of their ancient tribal lands. For days afterwards those living downstream tasted, and knew.
Using pool cues, the newly-made adults were then rescued from the malty torrent and greeted by the tribe. A huge bonfire using wildcrafted sofas was set ablaze. The next three days were passed in feasting, catered by Port O' Subs, attempting to light off damp fireworks with gasoline, peeing for distance, fart tag and Twister. During this time, and for some afterward the buffalo were wary.
The adult male Flatbutt was of average height, not counting the additional inches added by the ceremonial pirate hat and cuban-heeled boots. Adult males wore a penis sheath, a ribbed length of dryer vent decorated with feathers and crackerjack prizes, held fast to the body with duct tape, and many inches longer than was entirely necessary. This article of clothing, it was believed, aided the hunter in attracting the police. Sometimes in bad weather the males would burrow deep into the forest duff in search of Playboy magazines cached earlier in the year.
Women were revered as givers of life, and they alone carried Israeli manufactured automatic weapons with taped clips. Women customarily went topless (inspiring the tradional indian war cry WOO WOO) wore raffia platform shoes with cherry toe clusters and midlength tulip skirts adorned with poodles, eiffel towers, and Frenchmen riding bicycles. No ensemble was considered complete without the traditional Hermes bag where the scalps and genetalia of their enemies were carried. During the winter the females would often drive in to Portland and take in some shows, maybe do a little shopping, and later hunt elk with stone-tipped spears through the center of town, dodging busses and gorging on the thrill of potential bloodshed.
Then came the pioneers... Europeans banished from their own lands by a populace sick to death of their constant whining about being too cold and too wet and too muddy and oo, can't I have another blanket and oh dear the thatch is leaking again and could somebody bring me something hot to drink? and maybe a magazine? and could you turn the channel before you leave?
They crossed the plains leaving trails of used tissues, and the rumor of their passage was told in the sudden increase of postnasal drip among the tribal peoples with whom they traded for Vicks and aspirin along the way.
The first doomed meeting between the Flatbutt tribe and the ofay happened on Friday. Everyone was settling in for a nice picnic lunch and maybe later a swim in the river if it wasn't too chilly (making certain they waited the traditional one sacred hour after eating to appease Douglas, the giant monster lager lizard who was rumored to live on the bottom of the channel eating the adidas of the unwary.) Without warning, from over the rolling hills in the distance appeared the Pintos and Gremlins, the Chevrolet Caprices and Pontiac Sunbirds of the settlers, drawn by tired oxen with large crayons.
Without so much as a howdy do they headed toward the river, heedless of the noshing natives, and then into the very river itself, where they drank their fill, promptly passed out and floated away downstream.
The Flatbutts rallied. Gathering up their blue tarps and styrofoam coolers they waded in, chunking rocks and bottles, sandwiches and eight-track players, and finally, desparately, pelting them with the used diapers of their own children. But a sense of destiny hung over the whole scene, a portent of doom, a scent of failure, and several other things.
And so history was played out on the sage-strewn stage of the painted praries.
Intermarriage alloyed the pride and strength of the Flatbutts. Competition for cigarettes drove the price up. Korean and Japanese investors swept in and bought up the primeval forestlands for a pint of pee and a box of Kotex and built mini malls where once proud Flatbutts had hunted in proud and flatbutted nudity. Although that was supposed to be a little Flatbutt secret.
But a ray of hope gleams through the crack in the bathroom stall of history, blocked though it may be by the wadded up toilet paper of Caucasian revisionism. Today, using laptop computers whch they cleverly assemble from sticks, rocks, pinecones, and some of those carboard tubes that paper towels come on*, the Flatbutts are slowly regaining their former status as the savage investors they were of yore.
Given time, a clearly written pattern-preferably Bernina- and the right yarn, they will rise again.
WHITE MAN, PRAY TO JESUS THEY HAVE YOUR CORRECT SIZE.
*a perfect example of Flatbutt injun-uity.
THE HISTORY OF THE FLATBUTT TRIBE-SAVAGE INVESTORS OF THE OLD WEST
Back , back, my children, back in the dim mists of time, the Flatbutt tribe lived their charming, primitive lives undisturbed by the passing parade, amid the peaceful ponderosas high in the hills.
Yes, it was a time of innocence. The mighty Flatbutts stalked game (mainly Twister) in the primeval forests. They raised bonsai Republicans, which they later sold as chum to the fishing tribes living along the coast, or sometimes traded for Altoids. They made highly sophisticated pottery and are known from the archeological record as the inventors of the booby mug. They were particularly known for their greeting cards, which they imbued with powerful magic charms and a strong, greasy aroma.
The children of the Flatbutts were reared with a keen appreciation of something. Nobody knows what exactly. They spent much of their youth high in the elms, waiting for salmon to pass beneath, attempting to hit them with water balloons. Life for the young Flattbutt was idyllic, and most of all, unhygenic. When a Flatbutt lad or lassie came of age they were initiated into adulthood by members of the secret tribal Amish Death Metal Society...felled from their lofty aeries by setting light to kilos of Matanooska Thunderfuck beneath their dung-whitened roosts, and then flung headlong into the mighty Lager river, which ran, strong, foaming and yeasty, through the center of their ancient tribal lands. For days afterwards those living downstream tasted, and knew.
Using pool cues, the newly-made adults were then rescued from the malty torrent and greeted by the tribe. A huge bonfire using wildcrafted sofas was set ablaze. The next three days were passed in feasting, catered by Port O' Subs, attempting to light off damp fireworks with gasoline, peeing for distance, fart tag and Twister. During this time, and for some afterward the buffalo were wary.
The adult male Flatbutt was of average height, not counting the additional inches added by the ceremonial pirate hat and cuban-heeled boots. Adult males wore a penis sheath, a ribbed length of dryer vent decorated with feathers and crackerjack prizes, held fast to the body with duct tape, and many inches longer than was entirely necessary. This article of clothing, it was believed, aided the hunter in attracting the police. Sometimes in bad weather the males would burrow deep into the forest duff in search of Playboy magazines cached earlier in the year.
Women were revered as givers of life, and they alone carried Israeli manufactured automatic weapons with taped clips. Women customarily went topless (inspiring the tradional indian war cry WOO WOO) wore raffia platform shoes with cherry toe clusters and midlength tulip skirts adorned with poodles, eiffel towers, and Frenchmen riding bicycles. No ensemble was considered complete without the traditional Hermes bag where the scalps and genetalia of their enemies were carried. During the winter the females would often drive in to Portland and take in some shows, maybe do a little shopping, and later hunt elk with stone-tipped spears through the center of town, dodging busses and gorging on the thrill of potential bloodshed.
Then came the pioneers... Europeans banished from their own lands by a populace sick to death of their constant whining about being too cold and too wet and too muddy and oo, can't I have another blanket and oh dear the thatch is leaking again and could somebody bring me something hot to drink? and maybe a magazine? and could you turn the channel before you leave?
They crossed the plains leaving trails of used tissues, and the rumor of their passage was told in the sudden increase of postnasal drip among the tribal peoples with whom they traded for Vicks and aspirin along the way.
The first doomed meeting between the Flatbutt tribe and the ofay happened on Friday. Everyone was settling in for a nice picnic lunch and maybe later a swim in the river if it wasn't too chilly (making certain they waited the traditional one sacred hour after eating to appease Douglas, the giant monster lager lizard who was rumored to live on the bottom of the channel eating the adidas of the unwary.) Without warning, from over the rolling hills in the distance appeared the Pintos and Gremlins, the Chevrolet Caprices and Pontiac Sunbirds of the settlers, drawn by tired oxen with large crayons.
Without so much as a howdy do they headed toward the river, heedless of the noshing natives, and then into the very river itself, where they drank their fill, promptly passed out and floated away downstream.
The Flatbutts rallied. Gathering up their blue tarps and styrofoam coolers they waded in, chunking rocks and bottles, sandwiches and eight-track players, and finally, desparately, pelting them with the used diapers of their own children. But a sense of destiny hung over the whole scene, a portent of doom, a scent of failure, and several other things.
And so history was played out on the sage-strewn stage of the painted praries.
Intermarriage alloyed the pride and strength of the Flatbutts. Competition for cigarettes drove the price up. Korean and Japanese investors swept in and bought up the primeval forestlands for a pint of pee and a box of Kotex and built mini malls where once proud Flatbutts had hunted in proud and flatbutted nudity. Although that was supposed to be a little Flatbutt secret.
But a ray of hope gleams through the crack in the bathroom stall of history, blocked though it may be by the wadded up toilet paper of Caucasian revisionism. Today, using laptop computers whch they cleverly assemble from sticks, rocks, pinecones, and some of those carboard tubes that paper towels come on*, the Flatbutts are slowly regaining their former status as the savage investors they were of yore.
Given time, a clearly written pattern-preferably Bernina- and the right yarn, they will rise again.
WHITE MAN, PRAY TO JESUS THEY HAVE YOUR CORRECT SIZE.
*a perfect example of Flatbutt injun-uity.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
i hate my lungs (warning: contains dickensian childhood scene)
Is this a 'pity me" post? Why yes, I think it is.
I have had asthma for 39 years, starting abruptly in 1966...in fact around October-November of that year. One month into first grade.
Many specialists say that childhood asthma is stress induced. Let's examine 1966, shall we?
I was in a first grade class that contained 41 children in a single room, with one teacher. (Mind you, this was a private Catholic school that charged an obscene sum for enrollment.)
Surprisingly, despite the asbestos wrapped pipes and the shredded textbooks, this wasn't too horrible in itself. It was in the classroom next door that the real concentration camp conditions were.
Unbeknownst to everyone at the time, the nun who taught that class was suffering from a brain tumor the size of a golf ball. When she became irritated at one of her six-year-olds, she would draw a circle on the blackboard, have them touch their nose to it, and then smack them in the back of the head with a hardcover math book. This we knew because our nun described exactly what was taking place over there, and threatened to have that teacher come and take care of us similarly if we acted up.
She lit into those children so hard that the chalk would bounce out of the trays on our side. The kids seated closest to that wall would get so scared they'd start to cry...and in true 'Catholic school horror story fashion', our nun, Sister Mary Petronella, would go crimson with rage and start slamming books on her desk and shouting at us to mind our own business... while in the background you could hear the kid in the other room screaming and crying and getting his skull cracked off the slate board while the nun bellowed gibberish at the top of her lungs.
I mentioned this at home, and my mom only laughed and showed me the scars on the underside of her wrists from the whippings she got in Catholic school. 'Hurts more there' she explained.
Finally one of the little kids from the other room ended up hospitalized with a concussion and a broken nose, and his parents had money, so of course then the shit hit the fan. But up until then, why, you could always tell the kids from Sister Clementines class...they were the ones with the bloody noses and two black eyes.
So yes, some stress.
Then of course there were the less-than-ideal conditions in the patient-run mental ward I was growing up in. I've treated that elsewhere, so 'nuff said on that point.
The punchline? Because childhood asthma was written off in those days as a 'psychological ailment', I was perceived as 'faking it' ( i.e waking up from a dead sleep unable to breathe, coming out in hives, coughing up things I refuse to describe, turning blue from lack of oxygen, sneezing so many times in a row that my throat bled and capillaries burst in my face) I received only token treatment for my asthma. At the time I was told that too many doctor visits cost too much money.
But see, my father was a career man in the navy. We had 100% medical coverage.
In spite of taking all the required precautions, asthma is a 'the more you get it, the more you get it' scenario so I'm only one or two jumps ahead of the game at any given time. I've always had respiratory problems-bronchitis, pneumonia of every stripe, bacteria busily evolving primitive societal structures in my sinuses, it's been pretty bad. In fact its been downright nightmarish. I've lost quite a few jobs because my resistance is so low I start racking up the sickdays as soon as I come into regular contact with the public.
And now I've got bronchitis again. Dammit to HELL! Every! Fucking! Spring!
Of course the days of 100% medical coverage are a thing of the distant past, so like most Americans in my income bracket, what I'm reduced to doing now is calling around to my friends and asking do any of them have any partial prescriptions of antibiotic laying around could I buy. Yeah, like trying to score weed. Not that I couldn't go to the doctor, but weigh half a day out of my life and the cost of the gas, and the cost of the visit, and the cost of the perscription without any co-pay, and well, fuck it.
So I sit here, full up to the tits with contraband Cephalexin. And, my darlings, I can only pity the holy, bleeding FUCK outta the next goddamn person who crosses my shit.
Have a nice day! :)
I have had asthma for 39 years, starting abruptly in 1966...in fact around October-November of that year. One month into first grade.
Many specialists say that childhood asthma is stress induced. Let's examine 1966, shall we?
I was in a first grade class that contained 41 children in a single room, with one teacher. (Mind you, this was a private Catholic school that charged an obscene sum for enrollment.)
Surprisingly, despite the asbestos wrapped pipes and the shredded textbooks, this wasn't too horrible in itself. It was in the classroom next door that the real concentration camp conditions were.
Unbeknownst to everyone at the time, the nun who taught that class was suffering from a brain tumor the size of a golf ball. When she became irritated at one of her six-year-olds, she would draw a circle on the blackboard, have them touch their nose to it, and then smack them in the back of the head with a hardcover math book. This we knew because our nun described exactly what was taking place over there, and threatened to have that teacher come and take care of us similarly if we acted up.
She lit into those children so hard that the chalk would bounce out of the trays on our side. The kids seated closest to that wall would get so scared they'd start to cry...and in true 'Catholic school horror story fashion', our nun, Sister Mary Petronella, would go crimson with rage and start slamming books on her desk and shouting at us to mind our own business... while in the background you could hear the kid in the other room screaming and crying and getting his skull cracked off the slate board while the nun bellowed gibberish at the top of her lungs.
I mentioned this at home, and my mom only laughed and showed me the scars on the underside of her wrists from the whippings she got in Catholic school. 'Hurts more there' she explained.
Finally one of the little kids from the other room ended up hospitalized with a concussion and a broken nose, and his parents had money, so of course then the shit hit the fan. But up until then, why, you could always tell the kids from Sister Clementines class...they were the ones with the bloody noses and two black eyes.
So yes, some stress.
Then of course there were the less-than-ideal conditions in the patient-run mental ward I was growing up in. I've treated that elsewhere, so 'nuff said on that point.
The punchline? Because childhood asthma was written off in those days as a 'psychological ailment', I was perceived as 'faking it' ( i.e waking up from a dead sleep unable to breathe, coming out in hives, coughing up things I refuse to describe, turning blue from lack of oxygen, sneezing so many times in a row that my throat bled and capillaries burst in my face) I received only token treatment for my asthma. At the time I was told that too many doctor visits cost too much money.
But see, my father was a career man in the navy. We had 100% medical coverage.
In spite of taking all the required precautions, asthma is a 'the more you get it, the more you get it' scenario so I'm only one or two jumps ahead of the game at any given time. I've always had respiratory problems-bronchitis, pneumonia of every stripe, bacteria busily evolving primitive societal structures in my sinuses, it's been pretty bad. In fact its been downright nightmarish. I've lost quite a few jobs because my resistance is so low I start racking up the sickdays as soon as I come into regular contact with the public.
And now I've got bronchitis again. Dammit to HELL! Every! Fucking! Spring!
Of course the days of 100% medical coverage are a thing of the distant past, so like most Americans in my income bracket, what I'm reduced to doing now is calling around to my friends and asking do any of them have any partial prescriptions of antibiotic laying around could I buy. Yeah, like trying to score weed. Not that I couldn't go to the doctor, but weigh half a day out of my life and the cost of the gas, and the cost of the visit, and the cost of the perscription without any co-pay, and well, fuck it.
So I sit here, full up to the tits with contraband Cephalexin. And, my darlings, I can only pity the holy, bleeding FUCK outta the next goddamn person who crosses my shit.
Have a nice day! :)
Monday, March 13, 2006
agitatos and girlbogs
I always wonder what third world citizens must think of the way Americans treat their pets. We own dogs, and while we are not disgusting in our dog ownership-no outfits, no oojy cuteums voices-we are kind of stupid when it comes to them. For one thing, they eat WAY better than us, at least if you look at cost percentages. And this we spend on animals who lick their own asses.
We must be doing something right, though...we seem to have had the evil dogs forever. First came Jett. She was to be my husbands' dog. She was followed several years later by Opie, who is supposedly my dog. The truth of the matter is both animals exert equal satanic dominion over our household, friends and guests. And, uh, we actually bought Opie for Jett. We didn't want her to feel lonely. Yeah, its pathetic.
Both dogs have nicknames. Jett is the Girlbog, because she is a girl, and like bogs, poo is inevitable. Opie is the Spud, a.k.a. AgiTato, because he is in some mysterious way very much like a potato.* He does not walk; neither does he amble or stroll. He tatoes. Stubbing along in a perfect state of zen mind, head lifted, eyes closed, completely enraptured by some divine odor, oblivious to everything in his path, unhurried, unworried...this is Opie, passant, tatoing.
Jett grew up into a diva of the first water. Opie was already full grown when we got him. Despite being older, male-er and stronger, he is completely happy to let Jett have the run of things.
This is not passivity, however, even though he allows himself to be grabbed mid whiz by Jett and humped-it's complete and utter indifference. He will let Jett-or any dog, for that matter-hump away on the south end of him as though he were one of those nickel horsie ride at the grocery store. Dog X might even work itself into doggie paroxsysme (that's Fronsh, y'all), panting and grinning and drooling and losing its footing, tossing it's head like a ponygirl...meanwhile Opie will be blinking sleepily, chewing his toe.
Jett is a dogs' dog; there is nothing cute about her. The poor thing is caught in a terrible dillemma, though, because for all her instincts she is no bigger than a rat terrier and the fact simply hasn't registered. If you go to pick her up she'll go all stiff and awkwardly twist around exactly the way a large dog does when you try and lift it; kind of ridiculous in an animal no larger than a loaf of bread. She won't sit on your lap for the same reason-she is a BIG dog, not a baby lap dog. She digs dens. She points birds. I once had to pull her away by the collar from a muskrat lodge she was desparately, even compulsively, trying to pull apart...a pile of logs and limbs the size of a city bus. The oddest behaviour is her fascination with white rocks. She would spot one while she was wading and completely submerge, head and all, open her eyes, then crawl across the bottom army-man style until she was able to grab the rock in her mouth. Then she'd stand, trot back to shore and put it on the ground. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. She'd leave a conical pile of round white baseball sized rocks next to every body of water we visited. Is she a breed example of the rare submarine baseball hound? Like Area 54, Stonehenge and much of the Catholic religion, it is a mystery.
My husband is Opies' manservant. I am a convenient source of warm flub when the heater goes off. Opie is Opie. The rest of the world exists only per its relative utility vis a vis Opie. He is a benevolent despot, but a demanding one nonetheless; he wants what he wants, but when his wants are satisfied, why then the rest of the world may proceed. He will be picked up and put on the bed. No matter the bed is scarcely more than futon height from the floor, more than simple for him to waddle up on despite his stubby legs. No, he will be lifted. If you choose to ignore him, he will voice his displeasure and generally Agitate. He does this by repeatedly flumping his butt on the floor and sighing heavily in disgust. He will nose. He will bump. And he will make a sound in his throat I have never heard another dog make.
Imagine you sing bass. Now imagine you also have a terrible case of bronchitis, and that during the past day you have eaten a large amount of elderly beans and that they're reeeeeping and buuu-orpping around in your gut. Now-the sound you might make if someone slowly sat down on your stomach-THAT is the sound Opie makes when something displeases him. OO UHHHrrrrr MMM rr MM. RRoo nnn? MMoooo rrrr.
Neither dog has aged badly. Of course where once they were entirely black they now have white points, and they spend lots more time sleeping, but other than that they are still exactly the same. This must be hybrid vigor or something they're putting in cat food that my dogs are reaping the secondhand benefit of; either way. Both of them are doggie Methuselahs and neither one is showing it in ill health, deafness or blindness and for that I am so grateful. They get so much enjoyment out of the things in their world that its heartwarming to be able to provide them with a comfortable version of dog retirement. Rotton smelly dogs.
* opie even has his own emblem, *, an asterix. If you see this sigil shining on the clouds some uneasy, dismal night, stay indoors. the Dark Tato is abroad.
We must be doing something right, though...we seem to have had the evil dogs forever. First came Jett. She was to be my husbands' dog. She was followed several years later by Opie, who is supposedly my dog. The truth of the matter is both animals exert equal satanic dominion over our household, friends and guests. And, uh, we actually bought Opie for Jett. We didn't want her to feel lonely. Yeah, its pathetic.
Both dogs have nicknames. Jett is the Girlbog, because she is a girl, and like bogs, poo is inevitable. Opie is the Spud, a.k.a. AgiTato, because he is in some mysterious way very much like a potato.* He does not walk; neither does he amble or stroll. He tatoes. Stubbing along in a perfect state of zen mind, head lifted, eyes closed, completely enraptured by some divine odor, oblivious to everything in his path, unhurried, unworried...this is Opie, passant, tatoing.
Jett grew up into a diva of the first water. Opie was already full grown when we got him. Despite being older, male-er and stronger, he is completely happy to let Jett have the run of things.
This is not passivity, however, even though he allows himself to be grabbed mid whiz by Jett and humped-it's complete and utter indifference. He will let Jett-or any dog, for that matter-hump away on the south end of him as though he were one of those nickel horsie ride at the grocery store. Dog X might even work itself into doggie paroxsysme (that's Fronsh, y'all), panting and grinning and drooling and losing its footing, tossing it's head like a ponygirl...meanwhile Opie will be blinking sleepily, chewing his toe.
Jett is a dogs' dog; there is nothing cute about her. The poor thing is caught in a terrible dillemma, though, because for all her instincts she is no bigger than a rat terrier and the fact simply hasn't registered. If you go to pick her up she'll go all stiff and awkwardly twist around exactly the way a large dog does when you try and lift it; kind of ridiculous in an animal no larger than a loaf of bread. She won't sit on your lap for the same reason-she is a BIG dog, not a baby lap dog. She digs dens. She points birds. I once had to pull her away by the collar from a muskrat lodge she was desparately, even compulsively, trying to pull apart...a pile of logs and limbs the size of a city bus. The oddest behaviour is her fascination with white rocks. She would spot one while she was wading and completely submerge, head and all, open her eyes, then crawl across the bottom army-man style until she was able to grab the rock in her mouth. Then she'd stand, trot back to shore and put it on the ground. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. She'd leave a conical pile of round white baseball sized rocks next to every body of water we visited. Is she a breed example of the rare submarine baseball hound? Like Area 54, Stonehenge and much of the Catholic religion, it is a mystery.
My husband is Opies' manservant. I am a convenient source of warm flub when the heater goes off. Opie is Opie. The rest of the world exists only per its relative utility vis a vis Opie. He is a benevolent despot, but a demanding one nonetheless; he wants what he wants, but when his wants are satisfied, why then the rest of the world may proceed. He will be picked up and put on the bed. No matter the bed is scarcely more than futon height from the floor, more than simple for him to waddle up on despite his stubby legs. No, he will be lifted. If you choose to ignore him, he will voice his displeasure and generally Agitate. He does this by repeatedly flumping his butt on the floor and sighing heavily in disgust. He will nose. He will bump. And he will make a sound in his throat I have never heard another dog make.
Imagine you sing bass. Now imagine you also have a terrible case of bronchitis, and that during the past day you have eaten a large amount of elderly beans and that they're reeeeeping and buuu-orpping around in your gut. Now-the sound you might make if someone slowly sat down on your stomach-THAT is the sound Opie makes when something displeases him. OO UHHHrrrrr MMM rr MM. RRoo nnn? MMoooo rrrr.
Neither dog has aged badly. Of course where once they were entirely black they now have white points, and they spend lots more time sleeping, but other than that they are still exactly the same. This must be hybrid vigor or something they're putting in cat food that my dogs are reaping the secondhand benefit of; either way. Both of them are doggie Methuselahs and neither one is showing it in ill health, deafness or blindness and for that I am so grateful. They get so much enjoyment out of the things in their world that its heartwarming to be able to provide them with a comfortable version of dog retirement. Rotton smelly dogs.
* opie even has his own emblem, *, an asterix. If you see this sigil shining on the clouds some uneasy, dismal night, stay indoors. the Dark Tato is abroad.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
one declines
Does anyone remember when the band 'KISS' was cool?
Me either.
But according to all the retrospectives, they were just the next best darn ol' thing to electricity and Jesus.
This is such horseshit.
What the fuck, Gene, you don't have enough money? For Gods sake, man, take your hat and go. You were never cool. Your band was never cool. Your entire fan base was the kids too young to know the difference and deluded people in the Midwest who thought they were really doin' some rebelling now, boy, that KISS, boy, they are just really satanic as all get out! 'Knights In Service (to) Satan'! Boy howdy! Won't Pastor Eddie just shit a brick?!?
Their music defined subaverage. That they still managed to have a couple of hits, putting them up there with such musical milestones as 'Jimmy, Don't Be A Hero' and 'MacArthur Park'and 'Down In The Meadow In The Iddy Biddy Poo' simply means they had a lot of cocaine to pass around.
The reason this is yanking my chain is because I just got sent an application for a special credit card. A KISS credit card. A credit card with the rockin image of the rockin badass KISS band on the front complete with Gene Simmons' rockin badass tongue hanging out.
Right.
Like I am going to pay for a box of tampons by slappin down a KISS credit card.
Like I am going to try and rent a car using a KISS credit card.
Like I am going to go out in public and attempt to take part in the money economy using a KISS credit card.
'Declare your status as a proud member of the KISSNATION!!' reads the application. "Show the world that YOU are a rock and roll soldier in the KISS ARMY!!' Yeah, do all that AND keep your lobotomy scar hidden. It's not easy.
Mother of Christ. I think I'm insulted. I really do. It's not so much the inanity as the implication that I was that big a dork and that I"m still that big a dork.
Now, I live in a part of the country where many women my age find it perfectly acceptable, even unremarkable, to charge things using a 'Winnie the Pooh' charge plate and have angel teddy bears printed on their checks. By now it should probably go without saying that I would rather farm toads in my pants than carry something like that round, but still. Teddies and stuffed toys tell the world you're a lightweight, but they don't scream every time you use them 'Woo Hoo! I can't be trusted with simple tasks! I'm a moron! I draw faces on my stomach with lipstick and take polaroids of it! Crack? Why yes, please! And could I have some for my cousin-er, wife here too?
So yes, I'm going to pass on the KISS credit card.
Me either.
But according to all the retrospectives, they were just the next best darn ol' thing to electricity and Jesus.
This is such horseshit.
What the fuck, Gene, you don't have enough money? For Gods sake, man, take your hat and go. You were never cool. Your band was never cool. Your entire fan base was the kids too young to know the difference and deluded people in the Midwest who thought they were really doin' some rebelling now, boy, that KISS, boy, they are just really satanic as all get out! 'Knights In Service (to) Satan'! Boy howdy! Won't Pastor Eddie just shit a brick?!?
Their music defined subaverage. That they still managed to have a couple of hits, putting them up there with such musical milestones as 'Jimmy, Don't Be A Hero' and 'MacArthur Park'and 'Down In The Meadow In The Iddy Biddy Poo' simply means they had a lot of cocaine to pass around.
The reason this is yanking my chain is because I just got sent an application for a special credit card. A KISS credit card. A credit card with the rockin image of the rockin badass KISS band on the front complete with Gene Simmons' rockin badass tongue hanging out.
Right.
Like I am going to pay for a box of tampons by slappin down a KISS credit card.
Like I am going to try and rent a car using a KISS credit card.
Like I am going to go out in public and attempt to take part in the money economy using a KISS credit card.
'Declare your status as a proud member of the KISSNATION!!' reads the application. "Show the world that YOU are a rock and roll soldier in the KISS ARMY!!' Yeah, do all that AND keep your lobotomy scar hidden. It's not easy.
Mother of Christ. I think I'm insulted. I really do. It's not so much the inanity as the implication that I was that big a dork and that I"m still that big a dork.
Now, I live in a part of the country where many women my age find it perfectly acceptable, even unremarkable, to charge things using a 'Winnie the Pooh' charge plate and have angel teddy bears printed on their checks. By now it should probably go without saying that I would rather farm toads in my pants than carry something like that round, but still. Teddies and stuffed toys tell the world you're a lightweight, but they don't scream every time you use them 'Woo Hoo! I can't be trusted with simple tasks! I'm a moron! I draw faces on my stomach with lipstick and take polaroids of it! Crack? Why yes, please! And could I have some for my cousin-er, wife here too?
So yes, I'm going to pass on the KISS credit card.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Genetically altered blog post
Back awhile ago the Koreans succeeded in raising a strain of pig genetically engineered to glow in the dark. This caused quite a sensation here at Rancho FirstNations. 'What if they made a GLOW-IN-THE-DARK wrinkle dog??' I mused. I had fantasies of owning an entire litter of them and letting them loose on the property after dark, and running around amongst them screaming 'No! Call them off! Call them off FOR THE LOVE OF GOD..
I still cherish that dream.
Then I found this series of pictures (scroll for the full horror):
http://www.damnfunnypictures.com/html/Worlds-Ugliest-Bald-Cat.html
And thats got me thinkin' about cat ownership once again. But not just any cat. A bioengineered cat.
A GENETICALLY ENGINEERED LUMINOUS STICKY WRINKLE CAT.
Say farewell to yesterdays boring cat.
Say hello to todays' new Adhesive Lumacat!
Press telephone messages onto the Lumacats forehead and save $ on old fashioned Postit notes!
Grease it with shortening and play 'squit the cat for distance' at your next party!
Imagine the utter pantswetting horror your tiny trick-or-treating visitors will experience next Hallowe'en when they reach in the candy bowl and find a mewling litter o' Lumacats coated in red jello! AND RAW CHICKEN LIVERS!!!
WE COULD DO IT!
WE HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY!!!!!!!!!
_________________
Speaking of cows, the first time I ever saw a Shar Pei wrinkledog it scared the living crap out me. I was walking down the sidewalk and I'm approaching what I thought was a very elderly, bald headed man sitting behind the wheel of a Cadillac.
As I passed, the elderly bald man went utterly batshit and started barking at me, snarling, honking the horn, and bashing his slobbery face against the glass in rage. I almost shit a length of bowel.
To me, one of the greatest accomplishments of the 21st century so far is the invention of the glow-in-the-dark pig. Trust dear old FirstNations-someday soon you will see this same technology applied to house pets-and I'll bet you any money the Japanese will be the first ones to market it. Until then, you can eat a ham sandwich in the dark and dream about that day.
I still cherish that dream.
Then I found this series of pictures (scroll for the full horror):
http://www.damnfunnypictures.com/html/Worlds-Ugliest-Bald-Cat.html
And thats got me thinkin' about cat ownership once again. But not just any cat. A bioengineered cat.
A GENETICALLY ENGINEERED LUMINOUS STICKY WRINKLE CAT.
Say farewell to yesterdays boring cat.
Say hello to todays' new Adhesive Lumacat!
Press telephone messages onto the Lumacats forehead and save $ on old fashioned Postit notes!
Grease it with shortening and play 'squit the cat for distance' at your next party!
Imagine the utter pantswetting horror your tiny trick-or-treating visitors will experience next Hallowe'en when they reach in the candy bowl and find a mewling litter o' Lumacats coated in red jello! AND RAW CHICKEN LIVERS!!!
WE COULD DO IT!
WE HAVE THE TECHNOLOGY!!!!!!!!!
_________________
Speaking of cows, the first time I ever saw a Shar Pei wrinkledog it scared the living crap out me. I was walking down the sidewalk and I'm approaching what I thought was a very elderly, bald headed man sitting behind the wheel of a Cadillac.
As I passed, the elderly bald man went utterly batshit and started barking at me, snarling, honking the horn, and bashing his slobbery face against the glass in rage. I almost shit a length of bowel.
To me, one of the greatest accomplishments of the 21st century so far is the invention of the glow-in-the-dark pig. Trust dear old FirstNations-someday soon you will see this same technology applied to house pets-and I'll bet you any money the Japanese will be the first ones to market it. Until then, you can eat a ham sandwich in the dark and dream about that day.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Eukanuba would make a million dollars off this flavor
Because my beloved grandson, the Goonybird, is made of finer stuff than the common run, just the whisper of an irritant or a single whole wheat cracker will cause his ass to rot off.
In order to spare him his grandmothers fate (FIRSTNATIONS: assless queen of the Flatbutt tribe. Venus Williams I am not) he must be let to roam free, free, free, in order to let the breezes circulate. As he is a boy baby and *ahem* unedited, this means we all spend a great deal of time marvelling at the amazing elasticity of the human foreskin.
Was such a day as this I sing. This morning, actually. He had performed all his sceduled bodily functions so I figured we'd just let him air out for awhile. And promptly forgot.
For a long time.
Well, memory came racing back to me and I went racing out to the front room where the Goonybird was romping on the sofa. All was calm. All was bright. Round yon baby had no visible substances besmearing him...fine...
Then I remembered the dogs.
Then I remembered the dogs.
I looked, and there they were, poised, like buzzards on a bargeload of medical waste, licking and trembling. Gazes fixed, noses almost touching.
Between them, on the rug, lay a turd.
Blessedly intact. Miraculously solid. Incredibly uneaten.
Blessedly intact. Miraculously solid. Incredibly uneaten.
It instantly got a job as first mate on the porcelain yacht. Mr. Goonybird instantly got a diaper.
Now, I haven't stopped until just this moment to ask myself, 'Self? do you think there might have been any more little brown cars on that choo-choo?' And I prefer that to remain unasked; a mystery, like the interdimensional time-space portal in Beaver, Oklahoma, and much of the Catholic religion.
And in case you were wondering, yes; I do own a carpet cleaner. I've damn near wore it out.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Try and remember to pick up some toilet paper on the way home from work.
DATES TO REMEMBER IN MARCH:
March 2: International Take Your Dog Dowsing Day. Because you never know.
March 4: Apterygi Day, New Zealand. Festival celebrating the kiwi, a flightless, hair covered baseball. The kiwi plays a vital role in the economy of this island nation, where it is cloned in large vats and exported for use as a nutritious spreadable butter in third world countries.
March 1: Ass Wednesday. Feast of the Burning Donkeys in the island nation of Norway. On Wednesday.
March 13: Dio del Ristomunte, Brazil. Day of the Resteraunteurs. On this day the citizens of this island nation celebrate the return of the Royal Mounted Restauranteurs.
March 17: St. Patricks Day. Comemorating the mass circumcision of the Irish Patricks. On an island.
March 21: Natilacio de Benito Juarez, Iceland. Celebrating Natalie and Ben 'Little Benny" Juarez, this island nations' famed Mafia ballroom dancing team.
March 26: Mothering Sunday, UK. Synchronized childbirth is the order of the day on Mothering Sunday, when women of all lands gather to compete in this ancient, time honored event.
March 20: The Vernal Equinox. Free well drinks for ladies during happy hour!
March 2: International Take Your Dog Dowsing Day. Because you never know.
March 4: Apterygi Day, New Zealand. Festival celebrating the kiwi, a flightless, hair covered baseball. The kiwi plays a vital role in the economy of this island nation, where it is cloned in large vats and exported for use as a nutritious spreadable butter in third world countries.
March 1: Ass Wednesday. Feast of the Burning Donkeys in the island nation of Norway. On Wednesday.
March 13: Dio del Ristomunte, Brazil. Day of the Resteraunteurs. On this day the citizens of this island nation celebrate the return of the Royal Mounted Restauranteurs.
March 17: St. Patricks Day. Comemorating the mass circumcision of the Irish Patricks. On an island.
March 21: Natilacio de Benito Juarez, Iceland. Celebrating Natalie and Ben 'Little Benny" Juarez, this island nations' famed Mafia ballroom dancing team.
March 26: Mothering Sunday, UK. Synchronized childbirth is the order of the day on Mothering Sunday, when women of all lands gather to compete in this ancient, time honored event.
March 20: The Vernal Equinox. Free well drinks for ladies during happy hour!
Friday, February 24, 2006
This is not an airport
The goonybird has invented a new dance we call 'The Propeller Dance.' It' a variation of the Stompy dance and it involves many of the same moves and positions as the Stompy dance (which is a dance danced by stomping around in a circle using one foot as a pivot.) However, the Propeller Dance is only performed when the artist is unencumbered by a diaper.
Yes, friends, he's discovered how to get his dinger zipping around in a circle on purpose.
So impressed with himself was he that he woke grandpa out of a sound sleep to witness its debut performance. By all accounts, it was quite a show. We thought grandpa was going to tear himself a new hernia.
Yes, friends, he's discovered how to get his dinger zipping around in a circle on purpose.
So impressed with himself was he that he woke grandpa out of a sound sleep to witness its debut performance. By all accounts, it was quite a show. We thought grandpa was going to tear himself a new hernia.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
druuuuuuuuuuuuugs
I have lifted the subject for this post from the lovely and talented, the beneficent, the resplendant, the completely cosmic Ms. Surlygirl! You can find her at:
http://dflatchimebar.blogspot.com/
Go there and find out just why Ms. Girl is so popular among today's webnosceti. You'll be glad you did! ......................(was that good? did i do it right?)
I like drugs; lets get that clear right now. I think they should be legalized, and I have no problem with whatever it is you want to take. You want to inject battery acid, thats 'ku. Don't assume I'll tie you off, but go ahead.
Although I have tried opiates (not worth the constipation), I have never stuck a needle into myself. If I become diabetic, I'll have to use a pump because there's just no way.
So, onward. I was a mere slip of a girl, only 13 years old the first time I smoked pot. Ah, the memories. It was at a concert. Never mind whos concert. Oh all right, it was Elton John. A guy passed me a # , so I took a rip and passed it on. Seemed appropriate at the time.
Well! The two girls I was with were JUST! UTTERLY! SHOCKED! AND! APPALLED! (and too puss to take a hit, losers.) When school started that fall everyone already knew all about it... apparently certain somebodies had been burning up the telephone lines all summer.
And damn, did my stock go up! Kinda backfired on ya, didn't it, Terry and Jane! (Little twats.) Man, I was COOL. When I set the ladies room towels on fire later in the year my reputation was set in stone...I was one WILD ASS BITCH.
I did acid only once, when I was 14, during summer school ( yeah, fine I had to go to summer school. I kind of forgot to attend half of my freshman year. Hey, people forget things.) As God is my witness I will NEVER make that mistake again. I was SO loaded. And I stayed that loaded for eight hours. And I had to eat dinner with my parents...and my mother served boiled peas...and when I speared them with a fork, the peas...made a sound...and they burst.......and.......fluid.......ran.......out........
I usually just drank. Hell, I was a seasoned drinker at a very young age, as a consequence of growing up with a boozer who had boozer friends. Shit, I even knew how to pace myself. The downside was, nobody else my age did. So at a party, when everyone else around me was puking and crying and blacking out and crawling around in their underpants beneath the pool table, I was the one who always ended up confiscating car keys and unplugging the toilet. Yay! Nursemaid! Just exactly how I wanted to spend my teenage party years. So what did I do? I ended up with the guy who supplied drugs to that end of the county.
This dishrag would stick anything in his head. He did not care. He was also the individual who invented wake and bake. He punctuated his entire life with bong hits. Sit up in bed, take a bong hit. Drift into the can, take a dump, bong hit (no lie, kids. while he was sitting on the throne.) Eat breakfast, bong hit. Turn on the news, several bong hits. Leave for work, bong hit. Etc. He went from just dope to everything and anything pretty rapidly, and started substituting drugs for sleep and food and work, and me, so I left him.
Now that's not to say I didn't keep right up with him; I did. I just wasn't very impressed with any of it, though God knows I tried. Anyway, that pretty much wrapped up my druggie years.
After that, the only notable (I'm qualifying that; notable, now come on) time I've been high was back on New Years, in Canada. Down a couple blocks from our hotel there was an abandoned 'Sixties era movie theatre, and set into one of the steel foyer walls was a doorbell and an intercom. You pushed the doorbell, said 'Tom told me to come here for weed' and a door in the steel wall buzzed open. You went up the stairs to a rather nice brick loft, after passing under the scrutiny of the large scowling bald man with the police issue spring baton, and there, sitting behind a desk was the pleasant, ordinary dealer. You gave them the money and they retrieved a bag of the proper size from the drawer and off you went. Kind of like making a bank transaction. Wave to the cop parked across the street, "Hi mountie! Diggin' Vancouver!" Cop waves back, "Hi American! Diggin your cash!" and off you toddle to the nearby Blunt Bros.
Blunt Bros. is gone now...farewell, my first dope cafe! You opened the door and a giant steel-blue cloud whoofed out. And inside, the air was not only blue, it had texture. And mass. All being produced by a group of the most profoundly, on-their-lips, slack-jawed, staring stoned people; I mean STONED people. STOOONED PEOPLE.
It was like a museum vignette. Like the ones that show a group of fiberglas cavemen living their daily cave lives? Only this would have been titled 'North American wastoids reducing their braincells to whimpering submission: c 21st cent.". Only crunchables, pop and paraphenalia were on sale...basically the only draw was the 'oooo, we're breaking the law out loud!' cachet. Still, it was fun, and I honked down a great big heefin joint with some (fiiiiiine) french snowboarder guys who thought it was great fun to get the chubby housewife wasted.
Later on that evening we all wandered around town admiring the buildings and worked on burning that ounce down. I had an excellent time. Beautiful city, everyone in a celebratory mood, fun friends, and absolutely ass kicking drugs. Party on Wayne! Party on, Garth!
http://dflatchimebar.blogspot.com/
Go there and find out just why Ms. Girl is so popular among today's webnosceti. You'll be glad you did! ......................(was that good? did i do it right?)
I like drugs; lets get that clear right now. I think they should be legalized, and I have no problem with whatever it is you want to take. You want to inject battery acid, thats 'ku. Don't assume I'll tie you off, but go ahead.
Although I have tried opiates (not worth the constipation), I have never stuck a needle into myself. If I become diabetic, I'll have to use a pump because there's just no way.
So, onward. I was a mere slip of a girl, only 13 years old the first time I smoked pot. Ah, the memories. It was at a concert. Never mind whos concert. Oh all right, it was Elton John. A guy passed me a # , so I took a rip and passed it on. Seemed appropriate at the time.
Well! The two girls I was with were JUST! UTTERLY! SHOCKED! AND! APPALLED! (and too puss to take a hit, losers.) When school started that fall everyone already knew all about it... apparently certain somebodies had been burning up the telephone lines all summer.
And damn, did my stock go up! Kinda backfired on ya, didn't it, Terry and Jane! (Little twats.) Man, I was COOL. When I set the ladies room towels on fire later in the year my reputation was set in stone...I was one WILD ASS BITCH.
I did acid only once, when I was 14, during summer school ( yeah, fine I had to go to summer school. I kind of forgot to attend half of my freshman year. Hey, people forget things.) As God is my witness I will NEVER make that mistake again. I was SO loaded. And I stayed that loaded for eight hours. And I had to eat dinner with my parents...and my mother served boiled peas...and when I speared them with a fork, the peas...made a sound...and they burst.......and.......fluid.......ran.......out........
I usually just drank. Hell, I was a seasoned drinker at a very young age, as a consequence of growing up with a boozer who had boozer friends. Shit, I even knew how to pace myself. The downside was, nobody else my age did. So at a party, when everyone else around me was puking and crying and blacking out and crawling around in their underpants beneath the pool table, I was the one who always ended up confiscating car keys and unplugging the toilet. Yay! Nursemaid! Just exactly how I wanted to spend my teenage party years. So what did I do? I ended up with the guy who supplied drugs to that end of the county.
This dishrag would stick anything in his head. He did not care. He was also the individual who invented wake and bake. He punctuated his entire life with bong hits. Sit up in bed, take a bong hit. Drift into the can, take a dump, bong hit (no lie, kids. while he was sitting on the throne.) Eat breakfast, bong hit. Turn on the news, several bong hits. Leave for work, bong hit. Etc. He went from just dope to everything and anything pretty rapidly, and started substituting drugs for sleep and food and work, and me, so I left him.
Now that's not to say I didn't keep right up with him; I did. I just wasn't very impressed with any of it, though God knows I tried. Anyway, that pretty much wrapped up my druggie years.
After that, the only notable (I'm qualifying that; notable, now come on) time I've been high was back on New Years, in Canada. Down a couple blocks from our hotel there was an abandoned 'Sixties era movie theatre, and set into one of the steel foyer walls was a doorbell and an intercom. You pushed the doorbell, said 'Tom told me to come here for weed' and a door in the steel wall buzzed open. You went up the stairs to a rather nice brick loft, after passing under the scrutiny of the large scowling bald man with the police issue spring baton, and there, sitting behind a desk was the pleasant, ordinary dealer. You gave them the money and they retrieved a bag of the proper size from the drawer and off you went. Kind of like making a bank transaction. Wave to the cop parked across the street, "Hi mountie! Diggin' Vancouver!" Cop waves back, "Hi American! Diggin your cash!" and off you toddle to the nearby Blunt Bros.
Blunt Bros. is gone now...farewell, my first dope cafe! You opened the door and a giant steel-blue cloud whoofed out. And inside, the air was not only blue, it had texture. And mass. All being produced by a group of the most profoundly, on-their-lips, slack-jawed, staring stoned people; I mean STONED people. STOOONED PEOPLE.
It was like a museum vignette. Like the ones that show a group of fiberglas cavemen living their daily cave lives? Only this would have been titled 'North American wastoids reducing their braincells to whimpering submission: c 21st cent.". Only crunchables, pop and paraphenalia were on sale...basically the only draw was the 'oooo, we're breaking the law out loud!' cachet. Still, it was fun, and I honked down a great big heefin joint with some (fiiiiiine) french snowboarder guys who thought it was great fun to get the chubby housewife wasted.
Later on that evening we all wandered around town admiring the buildings and worked on burning that ounce down. I had an excellent time. Beautiful city, everyone in a celebratory mood, fun friends, and absolutely ass kicking drugs. Party on Wayne! Party on, Garth!
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Childrens Programming, or 'Spandex is Awesome"
My brain is dissolving.
I need to get out of this house.
I have the Goonybird over to babysit. He is darling, but he would rather argue with the stove than discuss Jean Arp. Whats more, I find that I have so many hours of childrens' television logged that I am beginning to form a strange attachment to it.
Example: a French-Canadian childrens' show called Lazytown.
The two adult protagonists in this show are male...the good guy is called 'Sporticus' (brother of Agador Hercules, one assumes; and a very sportif young man he is), and the bad guy is called 'Robbie Rotton' (who is very, very rotton indeed and in dire need of a sound paddling.)
Now both these individuals are damned fit specimens of prime young manhood...which only makes good casting sense since they're called upon to leap around the set like tree frogs. In order to facilitate all that joie de vivre, both young men are costumed in sleek, full-body spandex costumes.
Smoooooooooth.
I mean bounce-a-dime-off-that-honey-tight. Almost....hentai. YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Unfortunately both men have been fiendishly dancers' belted within an inch of their *ahem* lives (one more successfully than the other is ya kin dig it)...after all, this is a childrens show.
Aha, but the producers overlooked one thing, you see.....as a consequence of being so darned fit, both men have been gifted by God with WORLD CLASS BUTTS. And those butts are wearin' spadex, baby.
No really, it's distracting as hell. The whole cast will be in the middle of some rambling debate on who stole the candy from Pixels' backpack or some shit, Sporticus turns away from the camera, and I'm lickin' the screen.
And be still my heart, but that Robbie Rotton can climb a treehouse ladder like nobodies business. You ever seen those old Blue Boy spreads where they're like, in the navy, and it's olden times, and there's a cute cabinboy, and the mean officer makes him scramble up the rigging....? Oh HELL yeah.
The other show that bothers me is called The DoodleBopps.. The Doodlebopps very own blue boy is known as, appropriately enough, Rooney Doodle*.
Now despite the somewhat more elaborate costume young Mr. Doodlebopp is required to wear, I feel certain he too shares the same hinder assal endowment Mr. Rotton and Mr. Sporticus enjoy, as young Rooney is called upon to execute the same frenetic motor activities. Tell ya what, he's obviously willing to do damned near anything in order to pay his rent. In any event, and despite the fact that he seems to have plums stapled all over his head, he looks a rather comely lad.
I like to imagine him getting a phonecall from his agent. I imagine him looking at his bills, and his overextended credit cards, and his ridiculous bar tabs, and sighing just a little bit.
I imagine Messrs. Rotton and Sporticus receiving similar calls, and looking at each other over that weeks' scripts, and grinning wide, like Snidely Whiplash.
Yep, yep, yep.
I really need to get out of this house.
* post of 1 - 20 - 2006...'Babies Are Good' in the archives
further proof of just how much spare time I have these days.....
THE DOODLEBOPS: ROONEY
yes, our Rooney is a limber lad...
http://umusicimages.ca/thedoodlebops/microsite/info_rooney.jpg
...and he certainly knows how to party! toss him a quarter, won't you?
http://www.cinar.com/download/Doodlebops/Rooneyplaying.jpg
LAZYTOWN: SPORTICUS, ROBBIE, AND SOME KID WITH PINK HAIR
http://www.samsproductions.com/minivanmom74/Blog%20Images/kidshows/photo044.jpg ensemble shot. even an industrial strength dancers belt cannot contain the glory that is Sporticus.
http://www.lazytown.com/media/about/robbierotten.jpg Robbies sweet, sweet ass
http://www.nyrrc.org/race/2005/images/nickelodeon.jpg Sporticus...a dear little bottom, true, but no Robbie.
I need to get out of this house.
I have the Goonybird over to babysit. He is darling, but he would rather argue with the stove than discuss Jean Arp. Whats more, I find that I have so many hours of childrens' television logged that I am beginning to form a strange attachment to it.
Example: a French-Canadian childrens' show called Lazytown.
The two adult protagonists in this show are male...the good guy is called 'Sporticus' (brother of Agador Hercules, one assumes; and a very sportif young man he is), and the bad guy is called 'Robbie Rotton' (who is very, very rotton indeed and in dire need of a sound paddling.)
Now both these individuals are damned fit specimens of prime young manhood...which only makes good casting sense since they're called upon to leap around the set like tree frogs. In order to facilitate all that joie de vivre, both young men are costumed in sleek, full-body spandex costumes.
Smoooooooooth.
I mean bounce-a-dime-off-that-honey-tight. Almost....hentai. YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.
Unfortunately both men have been fiendishly dancers' belted within an inch of their *ahem* lives (one more successfully than the other is ya kin dig it)...after all, this is a childrens show.
Aha, but the producers overlooked one thing, you see.....as a consequence of being so darned fit, both men have been gifted by God with WORLD CLASS BUTTS. And those butts are wearin' spadex, baby.
No really, it's distracting as hell. The whole cast will be in the middle of some rambling debate on who stole the candy from Pixels' backpack or some shit, Sporticus turns away from the camera, and I'm lickin' the screen.
And be still my heart, but that Robbie Rotton can climb a treehouse ladder like nobodies business. You ever seen those old Blue Boy spreads where they're like, in the navy, and it's olden times, and there's a cute cabinboy, and the mean officer makes him scramble up the rigging....? Oh HELL yeah.
The other show that bothers me is called The DoodleBopps.. The Doodlebopps very own blue boy is known as, appropriately enough, Rooney Doodle*.
Now despite the somewhat more elaborate costume young Mr. Doodlebopp is required to wear, I feel certain he too shares the same hinder assal endowment Mr. Rotton and Mr. Sporticus enjoy, as young Rooney is called upon to execute the same frenetic motor activities. Tell ya what, he's obviously willing to do damned near anything in order to pay his rent. In any event, and despite the fact that he seems to have plums stapled all over his head, he looks a rather comely lad.
I like to imagine him getting a phonecall from his agent. I imagine him looking at his bills, and his overextended credit cards, and his ridiculous bar tabs, and sighing just a little bit.
I imagine Messrs. Rotton and Sporticus receiving similar calls, and looking at each other over that weeks' scripts, and grinning wide, like Snidely Whiplash.
Yep, yep, yep.
I really need to get out of this house.
* post of 1 - 20 - 2006...'Babies Are Good' in the archives
further proof of just how much spare time I have these days.....
THE DOODLEBOPS: ROONEY
yes, our Rooney is a limber lad...
http://umusicimages.ca/thedoodlebops/microsite/info_rooney.jpg
...and he certainly knows how to party! toss him a quarter, won't you?
http://www.cinar.com/download/Doodlebops/Rooneyplaying.jpg
LAZYTOWN: SPORTICUS, ROBBIE, AND SOME KID WITH PINK HAIR
http://www.samsproductions.com/minivanmom74/Blog%20Images/kidshows/photo044.jpg ensemble shot. even an industrial strength dancers belt cannot contain the glory that is Sporticus.
http://www.lazytown.com/media/about/robbierotten.jpg Robbies sweet, sweet ass
http://www.nyrrc.org/race/2005/images/nickelodeon.jpg Sporticus...a dear little bottom, true, but no Robbie.
Monday, February 20, 2006
BOOKS!
I have a collection of books that I think of as reliable standbys. Books that are such good fun time after time that I save them, and then ration them out slowly, like extra fine chocolate. Most are fiction, although a few non-fiction titles have earned their place on the list too.
The following list is not in any particular order, andI iincluded the year I first read them if I remember it. Take note of those early dates, kids...you might want to add those titles to your shelf. Except for.....
1. The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath, H.P.Lovecraft, 1981 which you must read and buy immediately if you have not already, for this is a book of such rare language, image and imagination that it belongs rightfully upon the shelf of anyone considering themself a lover of fiction. Furthermore I demand that it instantly be included in the curriculum of every class in American fiction being taught in any school anywhere. They can just bump a couple authors to make room. (Like Poe. To hell with ponderous Poe. He can sit in the asbestos handbasket with windy Mary Shelley and crappy Bram Stoker as long as he doesn't fidget.) It's an unforgiveable oversight and I want it rectified NOW. H.P.Lovecraft was a genius on the order of Aubrey Beardsley and he's been relegated to the 'oddity' shelf because people simply REFUSE TO FUCKING READ ENGLISH. (Well, that and he's really peculiar.)
I wish I had a nickel for every person who's ever told me 'Oo, Lovecrafts' too hard. I can't get into the language at all.' Morons, philistines, dregs and fice, all afflicted with Peyronies' of the BRAINSTEM, all of you. You don't DESERVE Lovecraft.
Read through 2 copies, and thats only because it's very hard to come by so I treat it well (and, um, I'm kind of afraid not to.) Otherwise the total would be well over seven.
2. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte.
A favorite since 1969. The only romance novel I've ever read. When I realized it was a romance novel I was horrified. Five copies. Finally got in in a Borzoi edition (and a Caxton just to be a smartass, and because I love the binding.)
3. Papillon, Henri Charierre. 1970
The best adventure story ever put on paper. Read through two copies.
4. Paper Moon, Joe David Brown.1971
Just an excellent, excellent work of historical fiction, completely accurate in every detail, and such a smooth read you lose yourself completely. wonderful. Second copy.
5. I'll Take It, Paul Rudnick.
Again, perfectly laser accurate in every detail and funny every time you read it. First copy, but failing fast. A latecomer.
6. Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady, Florence King.
Completely hilarious, beautifully written. Two copies.
7. The Hobbit and the Ring trilogy, J.R.R.Tolkein. 1968
(By the way, Kingsley Amis, that substance falling on your head down there in hell? Thats Tolkein up in Heaven, peeing on you. Ha.) Can't have one without the other as far as I'm concerned, and once you start, you start at the beginning and go all the way to the end with them. Glorious books. I've read my way through SIX sets of them. Yeah, baby.
8. The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas.
The second best adventure ever written. It's irresistable. Four copies
9. Dracula, Bram Stoker. 1968
You know, this book, after all is said and done, is pure dreck. It's uneven, in fact its pretty crappy in places... but still...it's Dracula. Five copies, finally got it in hardcover (Borzoi edition, so it's virtually bulletproof) in 1975.
10. The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle.
Again, irresistable. Helps that Conan Doyle never wrote a bad sentance in his life. More than four copies, at least....
(10 1/2.....The Beekeepers Apprentice, Laurie R. King. Honestly, worthy of the master. Don't own a copy but I will. I've checked it out seven or eight times already.)
11. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee. 1970. Of the bunch, the most superbly written and superbly crafted. Almost perfect, in fact. Two copies.
12. The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck.
Outstanding despite it's author. Fortunately it was written before Steinbeck turned into a self-important windbag (Travels With Charley!). Three copies
13. Watership Down, Richard Adams. also Tales from Watership Down..which I keep at the library.
Just a very likeable book about clever bunnies. Two copies
14. The Zero Stone, Andre Norton, also its sequel Uncharted Stars. 1970
Good clean (dreck) fun with aliens, talking mutant cats and spaceships. Three copies
15. Ubik, Phillip K. Dick.
A latecomer to the ranks. A work of genius. I lifted the idea for my blog intro from this book. Still on the first one. Use only as directed.
16. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute.
The Ultimate ordinary people against all odds book. I love it. Two copies
17. Boys Life, Richard McCammon.
A very odd book. Clearly this man wants to wash Ray Bradbury's feet. I like it. One.
18. Norstrillia, Cordwainer Smith.
Another very odd book, and well written. Two copies.
19. Heiro's Journey, Sterling Lanier.
Another wierd one. True dreck, but odd enough so you forgive it. Two copies
20. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, Fannie Flagg.
This was Ms. Flaggs one moment of grace. Forget the movie, forget anything else she's written. Sorry, Fannie. Two copies.
21. The entire 'FOXFIRE' series, editor Elliot Wigginton. Finally read through my first set, looking for another. Pure gold.
22. The October Country, Ray Bradbury. 1970
My favorite collection by him. Three copies.
23. Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury. 1971. Five copies. Still excellent.
24. Dragons' Tears, Dean Koontz.
Nobody writes dogs like Koontz. Very likeable dreck.
Some that have dropped off the list.......
-Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury. A great book, a must read, 1970. I just finally read it enough, I guess. Went through four copies doing it.
-anything by Robert Heinlein. 1971. Heinlein was a babyraping perv. I'm boycotting him...like he cares; he's dead. Which makes me happy. But I did enjoy a lot of his books at one time. 2 copies of Stranger in a Strange Land.
-Image of the Beast, Phillip Jose Farmer, and Blown. *ahem* Speaking of perverted. But these I'd still read if I had a gun to my head; they're good. Sick, but good. Just not infinitely repeatable as it turns out. 2 copies.
-The Jewel of Seven Stars, Bram Stoker. Likeable, minor gothic egypt dreck.
-The Barbie Murders, John Varley. Collection. The incest got to ookin' me out.
-anything by Steven King except Night Shift. I find that once is just about enough with King as a general rule, but I will return to the Night Shift collection occasionally. If only King would exercise the discipline to keep himself down to short fiction.
-Birdie, William Wharton. Finally had my fill of it. Good book, though. 3 copies.
Please note; this is not a list of all my favorites, or all the best, even. Just the ones that provide a wonderful journey time after time.
I am the only person I have ever heard of who reads books to destruction like this.
If anyone would like to suggest a new title for the ListI would be more than grateful, and pleased as well.
The following list is not in any particular order, andI iincluded the year I first read them if I remember it. Take note of those early dates, kids...you might want to add those titles to your shelf. Except for.....
1. The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath, H.P.Lovecraft, 1981 which you must read and buy immediately if you have not already, for this is a book of such rare language, image and imagination that it belongs rightfully upon the shelf of anyone considering themself a lover of fiction. Furthermore I demand that it instantly be included in the curriculum of every class in American fiction being taught in any school anywhere. They can just bump a couple authors to make room. (Like Poe. To hell with ponderous Poe. He can sit in the asbestos handbasket with windy Mary Shelley and crappy Bram Stoker as long as he doesn't fidget.) It's an unforgiveable oversight and I want it rectified NOW. H.P.Lovecraft was a genius on the order of Aubrey Beardsley and he's been relegated to the 'oddity' shelf because people simply REFUSE TO FUCKING READ ENGLISH. (Well, that and he's really peculiar.)
I wish I had a nickel for every person who's ever told me 'Oo, Lovecrafts' too hard. I can't get into the language at all.' Morons, philistines, dregs and fice, all afflicted with Peyronies' of the BRAINSTEM, all of you. You don't DESERVE Lovecraft.
Read through 2 copies, and thats only because it's very hard to come by so I treat it well (and, um, I'm kind of afraid not to.) Otherwise the total would be well over seven.
2. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte.
A favorite since 1969. The only romance novel I've ever read. When I realized it was a romance novel I was horrified. Five copies. Finally got in in a Borzoi edition (and a Caxton just to be a smartass, and because I love the binding.)
3. Papillon, Henri Charierre. 1970
The best adventure story ever put on paper. Read through two copies.
4. Paper Moon, Joe David Brown.1971
Just an excellent, excellent work of historical fiction, completely accurate in every detail, and such a smooth read you lose yourself completely. wonderful. Second copy.
5. I'll Take It, Paul Rudnick.
Again, perfectly laser accurate in every detail and funny every time you read it. First copy, but failing fast. A latecomer.
6. Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady, Florence King.
Completely hilarious, beautifully written. Two copies.
7. The Hobbit and the Ring trilogy, J.R.R.Tolkein. 1968
(By the way, Kingsley Amis, that substance falling on your head down there in hell? Thats Tolkein up in Heaven, peeing on you. Ha.) Can't have one without the other as far as I'm concerned, and once you start, you start at the beginning and go all the way to the end with them. Glorious books. I've read my way through SIX sets of them. Yeah, baby.
8. The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas.
The second best adventure ever written. It's irresistable. Four copies
9. Dracula, Bram Stoker. 1968
You know, this book, after all is said and done, is pure dreck. It's uneven, in fact its pretty crappy in places... but still...it's Dracula. Five copies, finally got it in hardcover (Borzoi edition, so it's virtually bulletproof) in 1975.
10. The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle.
Again, irresistable. Helps that Conan Doyle never wrote a bad sentance in his life. More than four copies, at least....
(10 1/2.....The Beekeepers Apprentice, Laurie R. King. Honestly, worthy of the master. Don't own a copy but I will. I've checked it out seven or eight times already.)
11. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee. 1970. Of the bunch, the most superbly written and superbly crafted. Almost perfect, in fact. Two copies.
12. The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck.
Outstanding despite it's author. Fortunately it was written before Steinbeck turned into a self-important windbag (Travels With Charley!). Three copies
13. Watership Down, Richard Adams. also Tales from Watership Down..which I keep at the library.
Just a very likeable book about clever bunnies. Two copies
14. The Zero Stone, Andre Norton, also its sequel Uncharted Stars. 1970
Good clean (dreck) fun with aliens, talking mutant cats and spaceships. Three copies
15. Ubik, Phillip K. Dick.
A latecomer to the ranks. A work of genius. I lifted the idea for my blog intro from this book. Still on the first one. Use only as directed.
16. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute.
The Ultimate ordinary people against all odds book. I love it. Two copies
17. Boys Life, Richard McCammon.
A very odd book. Clearly this man wants to wash Ray Bradbury's feet. I like it. One.
18. Norstrillia, Cordwainer Smith.
Another very odd book, and well written. Two copies.
19. Heiro's Journey, Sterling Lanier.
Another wierd one. True dreck, but odd enough so you forgive it. Two copies
20. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, Fannie Flagg.
This was Ms. Flaggs one moment of grace. Forget the movie, forget anything else she's written. Sorry, Fannie. Two copies.
21. The entire 'FOXFIRE' series, editor Elliot Wigginton. Finally read through my first set, looking for another. Pure gold.
22. The October Country, Ray Bradbury. 1970
My favorite collection by him. Three copies.
23. Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury. 1971. Five copies. Still excellent.
24. Dragons' Tears, Dean Koontz.
Nobody writes dogs like Koontz. Very likeable dreck.
Some that have dropped off the list.......
-Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury. A great book, a must read, 1970. I just finally read it enough, I guess. Went through four copies doing it.
-anything by Robert Heinlein. 1971. Heinlein was a babyraping perv. I'm boycotting him...like he cares; he's dead. Which makes me happy. But I did enjoy a lot of his books at one time. 2 copies of Stranger in a Strange Land.
-Image of the Beast, Phillip Jose Farmer, and Blown. *ahem* Speaking of perverted. But these I'd still read if I had a gun to my head; they're good. Sick, but good. Just not infinitely repeatable as it turns out. 2 copies.
-The Jewel of Seven Stars, Bram Stoker. Likeable, minor gothic egypt dreck.
-The Barbie Murders, John Varley. Collection. The incest got to ookin' me out.
-anything by Steven King except Night Shift. I find that once is just about enough with King as a general rule, but I will return to the Night Shift collection occasionally. If only King would exercise the discipline to keep himself down to short fiction.
-Birdie, William Wharton. Finally had my fill of it. Good book, though. 3 copies.
Please note; this is not a list of all my favorites, or all the best, even. Just the ones that provide a wonderful journey time after time.
I am the only person I have ever heard of who reads books to destruction like this.
If anyone would like to suggest a new title for the ListI would be more than grateful, and pleased as well.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
like the night of the iguana, if the iguana was in a coffee can in my freezer.
We have a 2-year-old goonybird in the house today!
YEAH!
WOO HOOO!
I have a two year old grandson!
You know what else we have in the house thats two years old?
His placenta.
In the kitchen freezer.
......Now come on, at least it's not out on the counter floating around in a jar. Or just, you know, laying in a drawer or something. Because that would be sick.
Meanwhile.....
...the placenta waits...
patiently...
quietly...
for its day.
THE DAY OF THE PLACENTA.
YEAH!
WOO HOOO!
I have a two year old grandson!
You know what else we have in the house thats two years old?
His placenta.
In the kitchen freezer.
......Now come on, at least it's not out on the counter floating around in a jar. Or just, you know, laying in a drawer or something. Because that would be sick.
Meanwhile.....
...the placenta waits...
patiently...
quietly...
for its day.
THE DAY OF THE PLACENTA.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Seriously colder than a dead cold thing that is dead
My morning:
6:am....awaken to howling northeast winds, windchill of 10f. (thats really, really, really fucking cold, for those of you who are foreign and smell.) glorious sunrise, diamond clear. chat with sexy and adorable husband who smells really good. drink coffee. watch news.
7:am.....husband leaves for work
7:30.....daughter calls. peculiar fuzzy, pleading tone in voice immediately arouses suspicion. still somewhat askew from husbandly pheronomes, FN agrees to daughterly plaint.
8:am...drive up mountain to retrieve grandson from lazy daughter
8:15....stopped by police officer for 'going a little too fast'
8:17....charm my way out of speeding ticket by being goodnatured and appropriately rueful about 'going a little too fast'
719....get a ticket ANYFUCKINGWAY for 196$ for driving with expired tabs.
EXPIRED SINCE LAST OCTOBER.
8:22.....pick up goonybird from lazy daughter. bald child is hatless in 70mph winds with a windchilll of 10f. inform lazy daughter of ticket. spot zitty moron in background cleverly camoflaged as pile of laundry. daughterly laziness explained. grandmotherly bloodpressure climbing.
9:00....arrive at local licensing and registration office. buy tabs. restrain goonybird from a.writing on walls of office with pen b. leaping from the counter and falling on his head c. leaping into a nearby bin full of bouncy balls for sale d. writing on checkbook with pen e. swallowing pen f. writing on counter with pen.
pen taken.
goonybird commences sirenlike shreiking and pounds feet against stomachal regions of grandmother.
after purchasing knit cap for bald goonybird, grandmother carries goonybird out of store slung backwards over shoulder. Time - 9:20
9:45....after a brief drive to calm screaming goonybird during which the abc song is sung several hundred thousand times, grandmother arrives at local grocery store.
9:48....extracts goonybird from babyseat in 70mph winds, windchill 10f. car door blowing backwards pops rear body panel on car, must be kicked shut. goonybird removes hat.
9:49.....grandmother pulls hat completely over childs' head and holds it there with fabric knotted around her fist, races into store with goonybird slung over shoulder as goonybird cannot be trusted to walk across a parking lot without getting squashed, and will not hold hands in a public place, deeming it childish.
goonybird has put on considerable weight.
9:50....deposit child into shoppingbasket baby seat. goonybird commences flapping and exclaiming 'car! rrrrmmm! rrm!'
the basket will not do. he wants to sit in the fancy basket with the kiddie car attached to the front.
9:55...no kiddiecar available. grandmother redeposits child in shoppingbasket and runs toward produce section.
9:55.02.....child is offered an apple. child accepts. child is mollified.
9:56.04....child grabs apple for other hand out of center of apple zigurat. using ninja-like reflexes developed during childhood of goonybirds' mommy, grandmother adroitly replaces apple before avalanche gets under way.
9:57....child howls. grandmother parks basket next to hubbard squash. child is soothed by proximity of giant buttocks-like vegetable.
10:48...shopping finished, child replaced in car during 70mph winds w/ windchill factor of 10f.
11:00......stop at fast food outlet. not knowing if child has eaten anything this a.m. beside apple, grandmother throws child box of fries and half a chocolate milkshake.
So. How was your day?
6:am....awaken to howling northeast winds, windchill of 10f. (thats really, really, really fucking cold, for those of you who are foreign and smell.) glorious sunrise, diamond clear. chat with sexy and adorable husband who smells really good. drink coffee. watch news.
7:am.....husband leaves for work
7:30.....daughter calls. peculiar fuzzy, pleading tone in voice immediately arouses suspicion. still somewhat askew from husbandly pheronomes, FN agrees to daughterly plaint.
8:am...drive up mountain to retrieve grandson from lazy daughter
8:15....stopped by police officer for 'going a little too fast'
8:17....charm my way out of speeding ticket by being goodnatured and appropriately rueful about 'going a little too fast'
719....get a ticket ANYFUCKINGWAY for 196$ for driving with expired tabs.
EXPIRED SINCE LAST OCTOBER.
8:22.....pick up goonybird from lazy daughter. bald child is hatless in 70mph winds with a windchilll of 10f. inform lazy daughter of ticket. spot zitty moron in background cleverly camoflaged as pile of laundry. daughterly laziness explained. grandmotherly bloodpressure climbing.
9:00....arrive at local licensing and registration office. buy tabs. restrain goonybird from a.writing on walls of office with pen b. leaping from the counter and falling on his head c. leaping into a nearby bin full of bouncy balls for sale d. writing on checkbook with pen e. swallowing pen f. writing on counter with pen.
pen taken.
goonybird commences sirenlike shreiking and pounds feet against stomachal regions of grandmother.
after purchasing knit cap for bald goonybird, grandmother carries goonybird out of store slung backwards over shoulder. Time - 9:20
9:45....after a brief drive to calm screaming goonybird during which the abc song is sung several hundred thousand times, grandmother arrives at local grocery store.
9:48....extracts goonybird from babyseat in 70mph winds, windchill 10f. car door blowing backwards pops rear body panel on car, must be kicked shut. goonybird removes hat.
9:49.....grandmother pulls hat completely over childs' head and holds it there with fabric knotted around her fist, races into store with goonybird slung over shoulder as goonybird cannot be trusted to walk across a parking lot without getting squashed, and will not hold hands in a public place, deeming it childish.
goonybird has put on considerable weight.
9:50....deposit child into shoppingbasket baby seat. goonybird commences flapping and exclaiming 'car! rrrrmmm! rrm!'
the basket will not do. he wants to sit in the fancy basket with the kiddie car attached to the front.
9:55...no kiddiecar available. grandmother redeposits child in shoppingbasket and runs toward produce section.
9:55.02.....child is offered an apple. child accepts. child is mollified.
9:56.04....child grabs apple for other hand out of center of apple zigurat. using ninja-like reflexes developed during childhood of goonybirds' mommy, grandmother adroitly replaces apple before avalanche gets under way.
9:57....child howls. grandmother parks basket next to hubbard squash. child is soothed by proximity of giant buttocks-like vegetable.
10:48...shopping finished, child replaced in car during 70mph winds w/ windchill factor of 10f.
11:00......stop at fast food outlet. not knowing if child has eaten anything this a.m. beside apple, grandmother throws child box of fries and half a chocolate milkshake.
So. How was your day?
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Clinical depression: the difference between you and me.
Normal people have normal lives. When something abnormal happens to them - having had the benefit of a normal life - they have the perspective to be able to say 'Whoa...something abnormal just happened."
That's you.
People with abnormal lives tend to experience the reverse. The normal events which occur are viewed with a great deal of suspicion, yet at the same time, indifference. Suspicion, because normal isn't their mean, and indifference because in the long run, it's going to pass.
Now, take that second person there and bomb them with clinical depression. That's me.
A person with clinical depression has for their only constant the expectation of overwhelming, crushing depair... which can hit with absolutely no warning, for no reason and without provocation of any sort, and hit like a tsunami. It can last for a few moments, it can last for a few MONTHS. And I don't mean everyday, garden variety despair; I mean the bleakest form, complete with immobility and actual pain...the type you feel when you have lost everything, and there is no hope left.
Yeah. Like that.
For no reason whatsoever.
Welcome to my world c.1964 - 1990.
I include the five years I spent going to therapy twice a week. Ew, therapy? How weak and pukey and unfit to live of you. Was it hard?
Yes.
But nothing at all compared to how hard it is trying to make it through an ordinary day when all you want to do is lie down and go to sleep forever.
Before I got treatment the ONLY two emotions I could count on were anger and sadness. Anger was the only thing that kept me upright, so I spent lots of time trying to piss myself off just so I could function, and then hiding the fact I was pissed off so I could get along. Honest to God. It worked, too...imperfectly.
Sadness filled in the blanks when my guard was down. Other emotions like happiness or satisfaction could only be relied upon to occur as a result of extremes, if then.
It averaged out to about 90% shit. The only reason I didn't commit suicide was lingering Catholic guilt. That, and wanting to live long enough to either outlast everyone I hated, or at least get even.
When all that finally changed the result was curious as hell....I started going through all the developmental stages that I missed because of the masking effect of depression. The profession didn't fully realize at that time that this happened. I wonder if it's understood yet.
So there I was, in my thirties, mother, wife, independent businesswoman...tossing fireworks at passing cars. Saving up old spraycans and stale ammunition and dud fireworks so I could have a big bonfire and toss it in. Flipping people off in traffic...as I hung out the window of the car...with one hand on the horn...screaming 'Learn to drive you IGNORANT FUCKING BAG OF SHIT!' at the top of my lungs. Because that's classy.
I even shoplifted once (a christmas ornament, which was enough to give me the screaming guilties and prevent that ever happening again). I made prank phone calls. I carried a magic marker with me and wrote graffitti in public bathrooms. I made water balloons and dropped them on bums out my apartment window. In college I'd sit in class and access porn sites while I sat in the front row with the monitor turned facing the instructor.
In other words, at thrity, I was the worlds brattiest teenager.
OOoooooooooooo, I had a great time!
Now luckily enough, my present husband was like this naturally so no problem there; we got along like a house afire. I'm sure my daughter was scarred, though. Meh; fuck it, we're even. She went through puberty on my watch.
I cannot stress this enough, though: There are answers there, as long as you're motivated enough to find them, and ornery enough to crush anyone beneath your feet who tries to stand in your way. (And there will be those people.) I was very fortunate in my choice of therapist as well. Furthermore, I pledge my eternal gratitude to the people involved in the discovery of Prozac. No, it aint for everyone but it sure in the fuck was the magic ingredient I needed.
Now I have to get used to being - not normal, that ain't never gonna happen - but more like everyone else. I'll never be normal. For one thing, I have to remind myself of this every day- that I can think positively about something and make myself feel better. And it will work. Normal people generally don't have this as part of their daily routine.
Meanwhile, I love my husband, I garden, I drink beer and I birdwatch - both goony and regular. And I tell you thats better than I thought I'd ever get.
That's you.
People with abnormal lives tend to experience the reverse. The normal events which occur are viewed with a great deal of suspicion, yet at the same time, indifference. Suspicion, because normal isn't their mean, and indifference because in the long run, it's going to pass.
Now, take that second person there and bomb them with clinical depression. That's me.
A person with clinical depression has for their only constant the expectation of overwhelming, crushing depair... which can hit with absolutely no warning, for no reason and without provocation of any sort, and hit like a tsunami. It can last for a few moments, it can last for a few MONTHS. And I don't mean everyday, garden variety despair; I mean the bleakest form, complete with immobility and actual pain...the type you feel when you have lost everything, and there is no hope left.
Yeah. Like that.
For no reason whatsoever.
Welcome to my world c.1964 - 1990.
I include the five years I spent going to therapy twice a week. Ew, therapy? How weak and pukey and unfit to live of you. Was it hard?
Yes.
But nothing at all compared to how hard it is trying to make it through an ordinary day when all you want to do is lie down and go to sleep forever.
Before I got treatment the ONLY two emotions I could count on were anger and sadness. Anger was the only thing that kept me upright, so I spent lots of time trying to piss myself off just so I could function, and then hiding the fact I was pissed off so I could get along. Honest to God. It worked, too...imperfectly.
Sadness filled in the blanks when my guard was down. Other emotions like happiness or satisfaction could only be relied upon to occur as a result of extremes, if then.
It averaged out to about 90% shit. The only reason I didn't commit suicide was lingering Catholic guilt. That, and wanting to live long enough to either outlast everyone I hated, or at least get even.
When all that finally changed the result was curious as hell....I started going through all the developmental stages that I missed because of the masking effect of depression. The profession didn't fully realize at that time that this happened. I wonder if it's understood yet.
So there I was, in my thirties, mother, wife, independent businesswoman...tossing fireworks at passing cars. Saving up old spraycans and stale ammunition and dud fireworks so I could have a big bonfire and toss it in. Flipping people off in traffic...as I hung out the window of the car...with one hand on the horn...screaming 'Learn to drive you IGNORANT FUCKING BAG OF SHIT!' at the top of my lungs. Because that's classy.
I even shoplifted once (a christmas ornament, which was enough to give me the screaming guilties and prevent that ever happening again). I made prank phone calls. I carried a magic marker with me and wrote graffitti in public bathrooms. I made water balloons and dropped them on bums out my apartment window. In college I'd sit in class and access porn sites while I sat in the front row with the monitor turned facing the instructor.
In other words, at thrity, I was the worlds brattiest teenager.
OOoooooooooooo, I had a great time!
Now luckily enough, my present husband was like this naturally so no problem there; we got along like a house afire. I'm sure my daughter was scarred, though. Meh; fuck it, we're even. She went through puberty on my watch.
I cannot stress this enough, though: There are answers there, as long as you're motivated enough to find them, and ornery enough to crush anyone beneath your feet who tries to stand in your way. (And there will be those people.) I was very fortunate in my choice of therapist as well. Furthermore, I pledge my eternal gratitude to the people involved in the discovery of Prozac. No, it aint for everyone but it sure in the fuck was the magic ingredient I needed.
Now I have to get used to being - not normal, that ain't never gonna happen - but more like everyone else. I'll never be normal. For one thing, I have to remind myself of this every day- that I can think positively about something and make myself feel better. And it will work. Normal people generally don't have this as part of their daily routine.
Meanwhile, I love my husband, I garden, I drink beer and I birdwatch - both goony and regular. And I tell you thats better than I thought I'd ever get.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
aphis CAN be prevented. Heres' how
This morning finds my grandson hairless as a doorknob. The Stainless Steel Amazon shaved the Goonybirds' head last night. Well, she and her dad did. Lacking equipment normally used to restrain livestock for branding, they removed to the bathroom, shut the door and hoisted the 'bird up on the counter - the biker shaved him, the amazon held him. Because I am not stupid I opted out of this nightmare; I watch the kid all day; I know what he's capable of. I'm lucky I have any intact sheetrock left in there. That kid bucked and flapped like a rodeo bull, and screamed and bellowed and raged, shit. I'm surprised he didn't bring the Border patrol down on our ass. I'm sure air traffic had to be diverted.
He needed the haircut, though. The 'Amazon had given him a fauxhawk some months earlier (because she NEEDS CABLE) and the back was getting all nappy and fuzzy like the rear end of a sheep. Cleanup is easier, I will say that...but geeze, this kid has a BIG ROUND HEAD. I can't stop sneaking looks at him. Dang, that is a big. round. head.
See, but his mom had a big round head too. Round and shiny. When the sun shone it was like the strange giant glowing babyhead on the Teletubbies show. She was bald as an egg until she was about three years old.. You'd put her in the bath and run some water on her and the few platinum blonde hairs she did have would go all clear. You know how, when you wash a white poodle? yeah. And I have photographic documentation to back up these allegations. Maybe I'll post it. Or maybe not. Depends on the money.
Speaking of scary pictures, I am amassing quite the list of gross out sites. I don't know what this says about me, but I like 'em. Cabbie with the skull blown out of his head and his skin draped like a banana peel on his shoulders? Bring it on. Male to female operations? Motorcycle crash at 145mph? I'm there. (No, I will not post links. Stop buggin me.) I read all the stories too. I try to avoid the sex stuff, although the clear assumption is being made that, if you like pictures of squashed korean dockworkers, then *ding!* you probably want to see naked lesbians with wubby jelly toys and-ew, delete. The arguement can be made that both are porn. I don't know. I do know that I deny myself nothing; if I'm curious then I'll look. In the oft-mentioned case of the - ahem - Recirculating Japanese Mustard Fountain, sometimes I'm really, really, really sorry I looked. But not all the time.
The Stainless Steel Amazon and I got into a conversation last Christmas about this, and she mentioned dendrophilia. (yes, Christmas at Rancho First Nations puts the 'holy' in 'holidays') so of course I made her prove she wasnt just yankin' my chain.
And she wasn't.
There are actually people out there who enjoy a very special relationship with their landscaping. Making me review a whole new constellation of insights about, oh, hiking alone in the woods, and tree surgeons. Does it matter what kind of bark? Are there people who are maybe queer for certain types of trees, like guys who only date blondes? Can you get aphids? (actually you can. While not a dendrophile, I do garden, and yes, if you drink pop and garden you will get aphids...they do bite and it does hurt. So the moral of the story is, my children, when next you approach that alluring alder, don't use flavored lube.)
And I would never have known this had I not looked. Has it made my life any better? Hasn't made it any worse. Now, if I stop and compare my choice of reading material with that of your average rural grandmother, then o.k, I start to feel kind of odd. But then, I like puppies and babies and wrinkle dogs and flowers, so maybe I'm not too far left of center after all.
...........Oh hell yeah I am.
He needed the haircut, though. The 'Amazon had given him a fauxhawk some months earlier (because she NEEDS CABLE) and the back was getting all nappy and fuzzy like the rear end of a sheep. Cleanup is easier, I will say that...but geeze, this kid has a BIG ROUND HEAD. I can't stop sneaking looks at him. Dang, that is a big. round. head.
See, but his mom had a big round head too. Round and shiny. When the sun shone it was like the strange giant glowing babyhead on the Teletubbies show. She was bald as an egg until she was about three years old.. You'd put her in the bath and run some water on her and the few platinum blonde hairs she did have would go all clear. You know how, when you wash a white poodle? yeah. And I have photographic documentation to back up these allegations. Maybe I'll post it. Or maybe not. Depends on the money.
Speaking of scary pictures, I am amassing quite the list of gross out sites. I don't know what this says about me, but I like 'em. Cabbie with the skull blown out of his head and his skin draped like a banana peel on his shoulders? Bring it on. Male to female operations? Motorcycle crash at 145mph? I'm there. (No, I will not post links. Stop buggin me.) I read all the stories too. I try to avoid the sex stuff, although the clear assumption is being made that, if you like pictures of squashed korean dockworkers, then *ding!* you probably want to see naked lesbians with wubby jelly toys and-ew, delete. The arguement can be made that both are porn. I don't know. I do know that I deny myself nothing; if I'm curious then I'll look. In the oft-mentioned case of the - ahem - Recirculating Japanese Mustard Fountain, sometimes I'm really, really, really sorry I looked. But not all the time.
The Stainless Steel Amazon and I got into a conversation last Christmas about this, and she mentioned dendrophilia. (yes, Christmas at Rancho First Nations puts the 'holy' in 'holidays') so of course I made her prove she wasnt just yankin' my chain.
And she wasn't.
There are actually people out there who enjoy a very special relationship with their landscaping. Making me review a whole new constellation of insights about, oh, hiking alone in the woods, and tree surgeons. Does it matter what kind of bark? Are there people who are maybe queer for certain types of trees, like guys who only date blondes? Can you get aphids? (actually you can. While not a dendrophile, I do garden, and yes, if you drink pop and garden you will get aphids...they do bite and it does hurt. So the moral of the story is, my children, when next you approach that alluring alder, don't use flavored lube.)
And I would never have known this had I not looked. Has it made my life any better? Hasn't made it any worse. Now, if I stop and compare my choice of reading material with that of your average rural grandmother, then o.k, I start to feel kind of odd. But then, I like puppies and babies and wrinkle dogs and flowers, so maybe I'm not too far left of center after all.
...........Oh hell yeah I am.
Monday, February 13, 2006
...and a mask and a ball gag and some leather pants with no seat, and one of those bustier things, and a
I swore to myself that when I started this thing I was not going to turn it into a bunch of political ranting, and I think I've been good for the most part, but damn. I mean, for the love of fuck.
The vice president shot a guy in the head.
Yeah.
I stood in the kitchen window this morning looking at Canada and envying them while I drank my coffee and just shook my head.
Where was the CIA? Arent they supposed to keep an eye on these guys? Keep them from running out in the street and petting strange dogs and shit? So then what in the name of Christ Almighty was the man doing waving a loaded shotgun? He's a politician! You dont let them play with guns! Same reason you only let them eat with spoons!
You know, a shotgun is a big thing. It's a dangerous thing. It's not something that you just idly whirl around like your dick or a propeller or something! And not LOADED! You're supposed to carry a shotgun CRACKED in the field because you're in a field. Fields are bumpy. Ducks get up early. It's usually cold out. Sometimes theres ice. I just want to cry. *
I know exactly what happened, too. Ill bet you any money he had a little too much wake up juice( hot coffee and Black Jack) on an empty stomach. Any money at all.
Ooo, speaking of running amuck in the field, guess who charmed his way out of the hospital last night? Yep. The playboy of the western world. And I'm about ready to put the old coot right back in. I am hot. He pulls this every time and they fall for it every time. Earn your paychecks, folks; its called dissimulation!!!! All the neurologist had to do was mention the word 'operation' and suddenly he was all better! He's going to go right back home and try to drive his car or something and...no, it doesnt bear thinking about; I've been here before. I'm about to get him a shock collar, though.
I need a whip and a chair. I really do.
*and some research skills, apparently. it was evening and they were tracking quail. otherwise I stand by what I said. what the hell, man, fucking ol' moron out there with a loaded gun like he needs quail. I ask you.
The vice president shot a guy in the head.
Yeah.
I stood in the kitchen window this morning looking at Canada and envying them while I drank my coffee and just shook my head.
Where was the CIA? Arent they supposed to keep an eye on these guys? Keep them from running out in the street and petting strange dogs and shit? So then what in the name of Christ Almighty was the man doing waving a loaded shotgun? He's a politician! You dont let them play with guns! Same reason you only let them eat with spoons!
You know, a shotgun is a big thing. It's a dangerous thing. It's not something that you just idly whirl around like your dick or a propeller or something! And not LOADED! You're supposed to carry a shotgun CRACKED in the field because you're in a field. Fields are bumpy. Ducks get up early. It's usually cold out. Sometimes theres ice. I just want to cry. *
I know exactly what happened, too. Ill bet you any money he had a little too much wake up juice( hot coffee and Black Jack) on an empty stomach. Any money at all.
Ooo, speaking of running amuck in the field, guess who charmed his way out of the hospital last night? Yep. The playboy of the western world. And I'm about ready to put the old coot right back in. I am hot. He pulls this every time and they fall for it every time. Earn your paychecks, folks; its called dissimulation!!!! All the neurologist had to do was mention the word 'operation' and suddenly he was all better! He's going to go right back home and try to drive his car or something and...no, it doesnt bear thinking about; I've been here before. I'm about to get him a shock collar, though.
I need a whip and a chair. I really do.
*and some research skills, apparently. it was evening and they were tracking quail. otherwise I stand by what I said. what the hell, man, fucking ol' moron out there with a loaded gun like he needs quail. I ask you.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
state o' the Nation (get it? get it? *snerk*)
I am mostly over my fit of temper today. Oh fine, I'm over it. Still pisses me off on principle, though.....If someone is going to jump my shit about something, at least make sure we actually disagree first, geeze. And base it on something other than my address. Oh, and this was nothing to do with you, my darlings. I was a-wandering the world wide web and fell in with a bad crowd. Oh, there was talk of politics, there was strong drink and cigarettes being smoked...heady stuff for little muks. I am a bit bruised, but wiser.
..............Nah.
Visited my father-in-law at the hospital today. He hasn't died once since he's been there, which is a good sign, but his blood pressure is still all over the charts for no apparent reason so the neurologist is keeping him there. Probably because she has a crush on him as much as anything. Meanwhile he sits there being charming and twinkly and looking pretty damn fine for an 81 year old man, with his usual crowd of admirers dropping by to pay tribute and sneak him chocolate and goofy toys and buy him dirty get well cards. I think they ought to organize themselves and buy matching ties and sweater vests.
The hardest thing for my father in law during these visits to the hospital is the food. The man was a professional chef for 40 years; a natural, self-taught. So when he gets rubber eggs for breakfast and the inevitable lime jello in the evening it just bums him out.
The second most difficult thing is, it tends to put a cramp in his sex life.
Maybe 1 and 2 are interchangeable. Probably.
It makes me angry to see him there again. Not at him, but at age in general and sickness in particular. I want to see him out on the prowl again making all the young guys blush and drinking Metaxa and baking bread and feeding the seagulls and driving his Porche. I want him to be well again.
..............Nah.
Visited my father-in-law at the hospital today. He hasn't died once since he's been there, which is a good sign, but his blood pressure is still all over the charts for no apparent reason so the neurologist is keeping him there. Probably because she has a crush on him as much as anything. Meanwhile he sits there being charming and twinkly and looking pretty damn fine for an 81 year old man, with his usual crowd of admirers dropping by to pay tribute and sneak him chocolate and goofy toys and buy him dirty get well cards. I think they ought to organize themselves and buy matching ties and sweater vests.
The hardest thing for my father in law during these visits to the hospital is the food. The man was a professional chef for 40 years; a natural, self-taught. So when he gets rubber eggs for breakfast and the inevitable lime jello in the evening it just bums him out.
The second most difficult thing is, it tends to put a cramp in his sex life.
Maybe 1 and 2 are interchangeable. Probably.
It makes me angry to see him there again. Not at him, but at age in general and sickness in particular. I want to see him out on the prowl again making all the young guys blush and drinking Metaxa and baking bread and feeding the seagulls and driving his Porche. I want him to be well again.
Friday, February 10, 2006
NOT condoleeza rice. really.
Due to recent remarks made during international correspondence, I feel I must issue a statement of political position re: international affairs. This is a self-indulgent medium, in other words, and any excuse to run my mouth is a good excuse. Not that I need one. Because I don't. And if you think I do, you are obviously new here.
AIM FOR THE ENEMY....NOT YOUR FRONT LINE.
A. Anyone traveling the web using the moniker 'First Nations' is not going to get too exercised when you slag off the U. S. federal government.
B. Explore and discuss the differences between the following concepts:
1. Individual
2. Government
C. Discuss and explore the differences between:
1. Focused political discussion
2. Light, general conversation.
D. If your personal sense of self worth is so very small, your perception of the relative worth of the country you inhabit so very withered, and the burden of living in the shadow of the ill-percieved 'superiority' of another nation - a nation that no amount of watching 'The Dukes of Hazard' qualifies you as an expert on.... if all that is just too much for you to bear without assing off with some unconsidered excuse for an opinion every time your Spidey Sense picks up the presence of an American, First Nations makes the following suggestion:
1. Open a 'party size' bag of potato chips.
2. While you're up, bring me a beer.
3. Dump the chips out, put the bag over your head and tie the opening tightly around your neck.
AIM FOR THE ENEMY....NOT YOUR FRONT LINE.
A. Anyone traveling the web using the moniker 'First Nations' is not going to get too exercised when you slag off the U. S. federal government.
B. Explore and discuss the differences between the following concepts:
1. Individual
2. Government
C. Discuss and explore the differences between:
1. Focused political discussion
2. Light, general conversation.
D. If your personal sense of self worth is so very small, your perception of the relative worth of the country you inhabit so very withered, and the burden of living in the shadow of the ill-percieved 'superiority' of another nation - a nation that no amount of watching 'The Dukes of Hazard' qualifies you as an expert on.... if all that is just too much for you to bear without assing off with some unconsidered excuse for an opinion every time your Spidey Sense picks up the presence of an American, First Nations makes the following suggestion:
1. Open a 'party size' bag of potato chips.
2. While you're up, bring me a beer.
3. Dump the chips out, put the bag over your head and tie the opening tightly around your neck.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Air quality issues
Is it time for the diaper story?
Yeah, its time for the diaper story.
__________________
Once upon a time there were two very bad evil dogs who used to go rambling in the woods with their mom. This one time we were down by the Nooksack river (yes, thats really its name)following a railroad embankment. It was salmon season, meaning March, and quite warm, and so thaw was well under way. This is the time of year that...lets call them 'woods dwelling skank beasts, holler monsters and pintos' begin to notice that the trash is starting to stink, so they start sneaking all the garbage that they'd accumulated over the winter months out of the carport - or the back bedroom, or wherever - and down to the river banks so the spring floods will wash it away. Anyway thats the theory. The most convenient hidden dumping place nearby was the riverward slope of the railroad embankment. This had been going on for years and years-there were Model T cars down there, parts of old treadle sewing machines, all kinds of stuff on up to microwave ovens and plastic milk jugs.
And diapers.
Lots and lots of diapers.
LOTS of diapers.
Which, you know, had I known about beforehand would have made me think again about my choice of hike, see.
Jett kept coming back to me down the tracks all wriggling and wagging and grinning with her head and front paws covered with what I thought at the time was, um, mud. Kind of, um, reddish mud. She'd do her little 'This is so great, mom!" dance and run back up the tracks and down into the woods again.
Meanwhile I'm just sauntering along in my childlike stupor, admiring the river, when Opie comes out of the brush ahead pulling something in his mouth. I take this something for a fast food bag. I trot up to grab it away from him but he dances off trying to entice me into playing chase. He gives his head a little shake.. "C'mon, Jiggles, don't you wish you had this? But its mine! And YOu can't have it! And I've got it!" and as he does this it unravels, and a big fat chunky baby turd rolls out.
These animals had found a virtual Mt. Everest of diapers. Was it all from one kid? One really big, fat obese mutant kid who liked ketchup? Or a lot of kids? Like crop circles and much of the Catholic religion, it is a mystery.
There is no way to describe the smell. AND there were salmon carcasses mixed in with it. It was all nice and warm with pretty curls of mist coming off it, and my dogs obviously hadn't been the first ones at the banquet either, and oh Jesus it was everywhere. In the trees, hanging in the brush, floating down the river....
And y dogs? My dogs were romping in it. Romping in this giant pile of swollen, festering, ghastly-ass funky baby shit. They are accomplished poo rompers; theres a horse story I will recount at a later time; but now is not that time. This is the time........ of the DIAPER.
I had to drag them away by the collars.
They each got repeated duckings in the river, which seemed to irritate them for some reason, probably because it was pure snowmelt, and then we all trudged back to the car and left.
Halfway home, Jett barfed.
By the time we had pulled into the driveway Jett had filled both the entire rear footwells. With barf. Baby shit barf. Both of them.
Opie was pretty quiet, but I watched as he swole up like a little inflatable hairy pig full of poo. And he was burping. Until that moment I did not realize that dogs got face farts. They do. Oh indeed they do.
They both ended up at the vet overnight and both of them had to get their stomachs pumped.
The admitting nurse seemed to have some very real elemental difficulty getting her mind around the whole shit issue. 'Feces? Oh. You mean, poop? They've been eating...some kind of doo?"
Now here I'm thinking 'Madam, aren't you the one with the degree in veterinary medicine? Is it really such big news that dogs are coprophageous?' So I lead her to the car, and opened the rear door.
"Oh", she said.
Just, 'Oh.'
'You got any paper towels?" I ask.
"No!" she replies. Before I'd finished saying the word 'towel', even.
Cost me 300$. Little fuckers.
Yeah, its time for the diaper story.
__________________
Once upon a time there were two very bad evil dogs who used to go rambling in the woods with their mom. This one time we were down by the Nooksack river (yes, thats really its name)following a railroad embankment. It was salmon season, meaning March, and quite warm, and so thaw was well under way. This is the time of year that...lets call them 'woods dwelling skank beasts, holler monsters and pintos' begin to notice that the trash is starting to stink, so they start sneaking all the garbage that they'd accumulated over the winter months out of the carport - or the back bedroom, or wherever - and down to the river banks so the spring floods will wash it away. Anyway thats the theory. The most convenient hidden dumping place nearby was the riverward slope of the railroad embankment. This had been going on for years and years-there were Model T cars down there, parts of old treadle sewing machines, all kinds of stuff on up to microwave ovens and plastic milk jugs.
And diapers.
Lots and lots of diapers.
LOTS of diapers.
Which, you know, had I known about beforehand would have made me think again about my choice of hike, see.
Jett kept coming back to me down the tracks all wriggling and wagging and grinning with her head and front paws covered with what I thought at the time was, um, mud. Kind of, um, reddish mud. She'd do her little 'This is so great, mom!" dance and run back up the tracks and down into the woods again.
Meanwhile I'm just sauntering along in my childlike stupor, admiring the river, when Opie comes out of the brush ahead pulling something in his mouth. I take this something for a fast food bag. I trot up to grab it away from him but he dances off trying to entice me into playing chase. He gives his head a little shake.. "C'mon, Jiggles, don't you wish you had this? But its mine! And YOu can't have it! And I've got it!" and as he does this it unravels, and a big fat chunky baby turd rolls out.
These animals had found a virtual Mt. Everest of diapers. Was it all from one kid? One really big, fat obese mutant kid who liked ketchup? Or a lot of kids? Like crop circles and much of the Catholic religion, it is a mystery.
There is no way to describe the smell. AND there were salmon carcasses mixed in with it. It was all nice and warm with pretty curls of mist coming off it, and my dogs obviously hadn't been the first ones at the banquet either, and oh Jesus it was everywhere. In the trees, hanging in the brush, floating down the river....
And y dogs? My dogs were romping in it. Romping in this giant pile of swollen, festering, ghastly-ass funky baby shit. They are accomplished poo rompers; theres a horse story I will recount at a later time; but now is not that time. This is the time........ of the DIAPER.
I had to drag them away by the collars.
They each got repeated duckings in the river, which seemed to irritate them for some reason, probably because it was pure snowmelt, and then we all trudged back to the car and left.
Halfway home, Jett barfed.
By the time we had pulled into the driveway Jett had filled both the entire rear footwells. With barf. Baby shit barf. Both of them.
Opie was pretty quiet, but I watched as he swole up like a little inflatable hairy pig full of poo. And he was burping. Until that moment I did not realize that dogs got face farts. They do. Oh indeed they do.
They both ended up at the vet overnight and both of them had to get their stomachs pumped.
The admitting nurse seemed to have some very real elemental difficulty getting her mind around the whole shit issue. 'Feces? Oh. You mean, poop? They've been eating...some kind of doo?"
Now here I'm thinking 'Madam, aren't you the one with the degree in veterinary medicine? Is it really such big news that dogs are coprophageous?' So I lead her to the car, and opened the rear door.
"Oh", she said.
Just, 'Oh.'
'You got any paper towels?" I ask.
"No!" she replies. Before I'd finished saying the word 'towel', even.
Cost me 300$. Little fuckers.
editing
You might notice I edited the crap out of yesterdays' post. I felt like shit knowing that was out there. My husband, Rq, is a good guy and he doesn't deserve that kind of lampooning. Plus, imagine him taking a notion and reading this...you just know that would be the post that popped up. And then all of yesterdays troubles would redouble themselves.
Which would suck since all of yesterdays troubles are gone! YAY!
We've had a car for sale for a little while-I sold it yesterday afternoon. A man came up, drove the car around the block and handed me 2 bills to hold it for him while he went about the rest of his day. Never asked me my name, never asked for a reciept...that, my friends, is life in the country.
My daughter came in with good news about her life and plans...which in a circituous fashion solved part of the problem with my father-in-law's care. I'll end up with more time to look in on him without the goonybird in tow. Normally thats kind of amusing, watching Great Grandpa be totally charmed watching the 'Bird lay waste to his home, but not real practical now since both of them are unsteady on their legs.
I'm wondering what the next few years will be like, taking care of an elderly person. My daughter is the one who is brave. She used to facilitate for the challenged; she's the one who can wipe up dirty asses and deal with geeking and drooling and not think a thing of it. Not me. Frankly, sickness and infirmity scare the living fuck out of me. Incapacity repels me. Both of these things combined with old age....fuck, I'm having trouble typing. Forget it.
Make of that what you will; there it is.
What I am certain of is that I can suck it up and deal with it.
What I worry about is being able to deal with it with grace. I want to be a blessing to the man. Certainly there are things in this world more awful than helping another person on the toilet or cleaning up after they miss.
It's the level of intimacy that is geeking me out. That moreso than my detestation of human filth, although that is running a close second.
So theres the whole issue in a nutshell. It will probably turn out to be one of those things that isn't nearly as bad as the anticipation of it is. After all, I love the man. Meanwhile I deliberately go to gross-out websites and read the ill stories and look at the ill pictures to kind of steel myself for it...and God willing, nothing in my future is going to be as bad as 'the Death of the 600 Pound Man" or the *ahem* Recirculating Japanese Mustard Fountain. No I will not post links you icky potty person.
Which would suck since all of yesterdays troubles are gone! YAY!
We've had a car for sale for a little while-I sold it yesterday afternoon. A man came up, drove the car around the block and handed me 2 bills to hold it for him while he went about the rest of his day. Never asked me my name, never asked for a reciept...that, my friends, is life in the country.
My daughter came in with good news about her life and plans...which in a circituous fashion solved part of the problem with my father-in-law's care. I'll end up with more time to look in on him without the goonybird in tow. Normally thats kind of amusing, watching Great Grandpa be totally charmed watching the 'Bird lay waste to his home, but not real practical now since both of them are unsteady on their legs.
I'm wondering what the next few years will be like, taking care of an elderly person. My daughter is the one who is brave. She used to facilitate for the challenged; she's the one who can wipe up dirty asses and deal with geeking and drooling and not think a thing of it. Not me. Frankly, sickness and infirmity scare the living fuck out of me. Incapacity repels me. Both of these things combined with old age....fuck, I'm having trouble typing. Forget it.
Make of that what you will; there it is.
What I am certain of is that I can suck it up and deal with it.
What I worry about is being able to deal with it with grace. I want to be a blessing to the man. Certainly there are things in this world more awful than helping another person on the toilet or cleaning up after they miss.
It's the level of intimacy that is geeking me out. That moreso than my detestation of human filth, although that is running a close second.
So theres the whole issue in a nutshell. It will probably turn out to be one of those things that isn't nearly as bad as the anticipation of it is. After all, I love the man. Meanwhile I deliberately go to gross-out websites and read the ill stories and look at the ill pictures to kind of steel myself for it...and God willing, nothing in my future is going to be as bad as 'the Death of the 600 Pound Man" or the *ahem* Recirculating Japanese Mustard Fountain. No I will not post links you icky potty person.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
y'all see this ass here? BITE IT!
heres the links again:
http://marlowefish.blogspot.com/
http://dflatchimebar.blogspot.com/
http://drivingthebustohell.blogspot.com/
http://www.myspace.com/witchbabywiggbat
http://wornoutshoe.blogspot.com/
http://collagemama.blogspot.com/2006/01/rooney-rants.html#comments
http://greatsheelephant.blogspot.com/
.....I tried to post them in the sidebar but apparently thats beyond my capabilities at the moment. But I tried! I did!
Warning: what follows is
WHINING! UNREPENTANT, UGLY, SELF PITYING WHINING! YES! THATS RIGHT!
Adulthood just blows. Not all the time, and really, not that awfully much, until lately.
My husband, as he does every year after a prolonged interval of bad weather, has decided that we are poor. But not just poor; no, we are at the doorstep of the workhouse poor. Eating rats poor. Wearing rags wrapped around our feet, Charles Dickens poor.
This is not the case. This is SO not the case.
Just like it isn't the case every year.
Every.
Single.
Year.
For the past 20.
Yes, this is seasonal dissaffective disorder, I know...see, but its one thing to know that and quite another to have to live with it.
Anyway, as I do every year around this time, I look for work. Which stresses the hell out of me because simply anticipating having to work alongside the same people day in and day out makes my hands tingle with anxiety. Knowing this probably isn't necessary in the first place again adds to the merriment. But it makes dh feel so validated, and it makes me feel like I'm doing something, even if it doesn't make any goddamn sense. Wierd, the funny games and rituals you find yourself performing. Still the stress level around Rancho FirstNations is pretty high.
A contributing element is my father-in-law, who is loveable; really...he is in his mid-seventies and lives alone in a huge house with bad stairs. Of course, he also has trouble walking. Of course he refuses to move. And then theres bad habit he has of, oh, just fainting for no particular reason and DYING TEMPORARILY. The man's heart just stops and starts again for no reason anyone can determine. One time he came to stuck between the toilet and the vanity, no idea how long he'd been there. Thought it was pretty funny. Mainly he calls us from the hospital and airily announces "Guess where I am?"
This is the phone call we got last night. "Mmmnhello-oo......guess who? I'm in the hospital again; came in this afternoon.....I really don't know why....I felt kind of dizzy. Well yes, I fell down. But I'm fine. I think they'll be releasing me tomorrow....unless they decide to keep me...."
Fuck I hate trouble in my house! Everybody just get a fucking grip for the love of Christ! ' *slappity biffity slappity slap*
Yeah, thats gonna happen...not. Everyone else can be a puke; ah yes, but let mom have a moment and ITS JUST ABSOLUTELY UNFUCKINGFORGIVEABLY THE WORST THING EVER!
Why now, I ask you? Why now, I beseech the skies?
Its early spring! We have blue skies for the first time in months! The snowdrops are up! Its beautiful! It's not raining! We have money!
Thats my new mantra. If I say it often enough, it'll come true.
http://marlowefish.blogspot.com/
http://dflatchimebar.blogspot.com/
http://drivingthebustohell.blogspot.com/
http://www.myspace.com/witchbabywiggbat
http://wornoutshoe.blogspot.com/
http://collagemama.blogspot.com/2006/01/rooney-rants.html#comments
http://greatsheelephant.blogspot.com/
.....I tried to post them in the sidebar but apparently thats beyond my capabilities at the moment. But I tried! I did!
Warning: what follows is
WHINING! UNREPENTANT, UGLY, SELF PITYING WHINING! YES! THATS RIGHT!
Adulthood just blows. Not all the time, and really, not that awfully much, until lately.
My husband, as he does every year after a prolonged interval of bad weather, has decided that we are poor. But not just poor; no, we are at the doorstep of the workhouse poor. Eating rats poor. Wearing rags wrapped around our feet, Charles Dickens poor.
This is not the case. This is SO not the case.
Just like it isn't the case every year.
Every.
Single.
Year.
For the past 20.
Yes, this is seasonal dissaffective disorder, I know...see, but its one thing to know that and quite another to have to live with it.
Anyway, as I do every year around this time, I look for work. Which stresses the hell out of me because simply anticipating having to work alongside the same people day in and day out makes my hands tingle with anxiety. Knowing this probably isn't necessary in the first place again adds to the merriment. But it makes dh feel so validated, and it makes me feel like I'm doing something, even if it doesn't make any goddamn sense. Wierd, the funny games and rituals you find yourself performing. Still the stress level around Rancho FirstNations is pretty high.
A contributing element is my father-in-law, who is loveable; really...he is in his mid-seventies and lives alone in a huge house with bad stairs. Of course, he also has trouble walking. Of course he refuses to move. And then theres bad habit he has of, oh, just fainting for no particular reason and DYING TEMPORARILY. The man's heart just stops and starts again for no reason anyone can determine. One time he came to stuck between the toilet and the vanity, no idea how long he'd been there. Thought it was pretty funny. Mainly he calls us from the hospital and airily announces "Guess where I am?"
This is the phone call we got last night. "Mmmnhello-oo......guess who? I'm in the hospital again; came in this afternoon.....I really don't know why....I felt kind of dizzy. Well yes, I fell down. But I'm fine. I think they'll be releasing me tomorrow....unless they decide to keep me...."
Fuck I hate trouble in my house! Everybody just get a fucking grip for the love of Christ! ' *slappity biffity slappity slap*
Yeah, thats gonna happen...not. Everyone else can be a puke; ah yes, but let mom have a moment and ITS JUST ABSOLUTELY UNFUCKINGFORGIVEABLY THE WORST THING EVER!
Why now, I ask you? Why now, I beseech the skies?
Its early spring! We have blue skies for the first time in months! The snowdrops are up! Its beautiful! It's not raining! We have money!
Thats my new mantra. If I say it often enough, it'll come true.
Monday, February 06, 2006
As near as I can figure it
I am sitting in the kitchen typing away, and Goonybird grandkid rushes in.
"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" gestures of great amazement.
"What, honey?"
" Oh no! Oh no! Dog dog!" pointing into the livingroom with great emphasis.
"What about doggie?"
"Dog dog nose! Ow! Nose! Ow!" smacking self with an open hand on the nose.
Translation: Grandmother! I've discovered the most amazing thing! The dog and I share a common feature! We BOTH have a nose! Its inconceivable! Furthermore it hurts every single time I do this!
___________________
I am folding laundry, sitting crosslegged on the floor. The Goonybird is racing around me in circles.
"One two! One two! One two! One two! One two! Oh no! Got go! Got go!" pointing at me.
"Go where, honey?"
"Go! Go go! rrrrrm! buk! One two!" pointing with great intention at the front door.
Translation: I am marching! Quite determinedly! On your stacks! Of clean clothes! We need to leave immediately ! Go start the car, woman, I need a book from the library! In the meantime It's vitally important that I continue to march on the laundry!
___________________
Goonybird comes racing up to me as I carry clothes into the bedroom.
"Wheddo go? Whaddoo gots? Go! Buck a buck a buck a buck!" gesture of confusion.
"I'm going into the other room, kiddo."
"Oh! Shit! Geddoo go! buckabuck! Rmmmm!" both arms raised over head.
Translation: where are you going and what in Gods' name do you think you're doing with my grandfathers clothing? Very well, move along. In the meanwhile I will imitate a chicken. Oh shit! Where are you going, did you say? Ah yes; fine. Carry on. Here's my chicken imitation again. Now heres' a car.
"Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" gestures of great amazement.
"What, honey?"
" Oh no! Oh no! Dog dog!" pointing into the livingroom with great emphasis.
"What about doggie?"
"Dog dog nose! Ow! Nose! Ow!" smacking self with an open hand on the nose.
Translation: Grandmother! I've discovered the most amazing thing! The dog and I share a common feature! We BOTH have a nose! Its inconceivable! Furthermore it hurts every single time I do this!
___________________
I am folding laundry, sitting crosslegged on the floor. The Goonybird is racing around me in circles.
"One two! One two! One two! One two! One two! Oh no! Got go! Got go!" pointing at me.
"Go where, honey?"
"Go! Go go! rrrrrm! buk! One two!" pointing with great intention at the front door.
Translation: I am marching! Quite determinedly! On your stacks! Of clean clothes! We need to leave immediately ! Go start the car, woman, I need a book from the library! In the meantime It's vitally important that I continue to march on the laundry!
___________________
Goonybird comes racing up to me as I carry clothes into the bedroom.
"Wheddo go? Whaddoo gots? Go! Buck a buck a buck a buck!" gesture of confusion.
"I'm going into the other room, kiddo."
"Oh! Shit! Geddoo go! buckabuck! Rmmmm!" both arms raised over head.
Translation: where are you going and what in Gods' name do you think you're doing with my grandfathers clothing? Very well, move along. In the meanwhile I will imitate a chicken. Oh shit! Where are you going, did you say? Ah yes; fine. Carry on. Here's my chicken imitation again. Now heres' a car.
a triumph of the embalmers art: The Rolling Stones live at halftime
I remember it as though it were only yesterday. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was some other shit. It was THE DAY THE ROLLING STONES PLAYED THE HALFTIME SHOW AT THE SUPERBOWL.
Yes, and what a show it was. The Rolling Stones! Can you hear them back at the NFL boardroom? Oh, dude, we grab the boomer demographic and make everyone forget about that whole Janet Jacksons' tit thing!
The problem? The Rolling Stones are deceased.
They need to retire. Retire, retire, retire. Please, please, please. I sat through the whole thing hoping for I don't know what. I just did.
Man, it was like watching a breakdown in the air conditioning at the House Of Wax. They don't play their own instruments anymore so much as they just randomly flap away at them while three other 'mystery guys' tucked away at the back fill in the blank spots. (exception: Ol' Charlie Watts was keeping his end up.) It was blatant, and it was sad and ludicrous.
I cringed watching old Mick breathlessly trudging around the stage chasing chickens off the porch, yelling lyric fragments when the whim took him. Keith Richards staggering about picking up cigarette butts off the floor and looking for his Vicodin.
There were four of us watching. We sat here, former rockers every one and three of them Stones fans, and do you know what we said as we watched this debacle?
Not 'Gosh, you just gotta admire those Stones, they just keep on going!'
Not 'Wow, they're still SO GOOD!'
No, what we were all saying was 'Mick, keep your shirt on. PLEASE keep your shirt on. God, keep your shirt ON, Mick.'
The only equivalent on the 'painful to watch' scale was the pathetic last years of Frank Sinatra, another man tried in the court of Not Knowing When to Take His Hat and Go and found guilty. Maybe it's a generational thing, but watching the Stones creak through the same farce was somehow more pathetic. A lot of it had to do with Mick. It was just gross. He's still out there flogging the sulky youth -gamin- rough trade thing. With a more attractive man, it would have been a caricature. But as played by an underfed 63 year old frog wearing hiphuggers and a demi-tee........fuck, the indignity.
Old age does not have to be that ugly. Jesus God Almighty.
So no, I was less than impressed with the halftime entertainment.
Yes, and what a show it was. The Rolling Stones! Can you hear them back at the NFL boardroom? Oh, dude, we grab the boomer demographic and make everyone forget about that whole Janet Jacksons' tit thing!
The problem? The Rolling Stones are deceased.
They need to retire. Retire, retire, retire. Please, please, please. I sat through the whole thing hoping for I don't know what. I just did.
Man, it was like watching a breakdown in the air conditioning at the House Of Wax. They don't play their own instruments anymore so much as they just randomly flap away at them while three other 'mystery guys' tucked away at the back fill in the blank spots. (exception: Ol' Charlie Watts was keeping his end up.) It was blatant, and it was sad and ludicrous.
I cringed watching old Mick breathlessly trudging around the stage chasing chickens off the porch, yelling lyric fragments when the whim took him. Keith Richards staggering about picking up cigarette butts off the floor and looking for his Vicodin.
There were four of us watching. We sat here, former rockers every one and three of them Stones fans, and do you know what we said as we watched this debacle?
Not 'Gosh, you just gotta admire those Stones, they just keep on going!'
Not 'Wow, they're still SO GOOD!'
No, what we were all saying was 'Mick, keep your shirt on. PLEASE keep your shirt on. God, keep your shirt ON, Mick.'
The only equivalent on the 'painful to watch' scale was the pathetic last years of Frank Sinatra, another man tried in the court of Not Knowing When to Take His Hat and Go and found guilty. Maybe it's a generational thing, but watching the Stones creak through the same farce was somehow more pathetic. A lot of it had to do with Mick. It was just gross. He's still out there flogging the sulky youth -gamin- rough trade thing. With a more attractive man, it would have been a caricature. But as played by an underfed 63 year old frog wearing hiphuggers and a demi-tee........fuck, the indignity.
Old age does not have to be that ugly. Jesus God Almighty.
So no, I was less than impressed with the halftime entertainment.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
BUT I LIKE IT and you have to too.
So I'm driving down the road, the rain and wind rocking my little beater car, and I'm listening to the radio, when what to my wondering ears did appear, but jolly Led Zeppelin playing Whole Lotta Love, and eight tiny reindeer.
Forget everything ever written about how lame and sad it is to listen to the music you liked your senior year- I was 17 again.
And I was ROCKIN THE FUCK OUT.
I pulled up into the parking lot of the store and parked, and I'm still showing John Bonham how its done, man, I'm singing, I'm playing air guitar, and I look up and another car has parked next to me, and the passenger is looking at me with the white showing all the way around her eyes.
'Aw, you poor thing', I thought, 'You probably feel bad because you want to listen to the nice music too.'
So I turned it up.
I have a good stereo. If you'd walked by my little car you'd have seen it was probably whoomping in and out like a paper bag on a hysterics' face. But hey-it was Zep. You understand.
And that is the point, after all-it was Zep. Some things transcend time and fashion. Led Zeppelin is one of those things. Another one is Jimmi Hendrix. In particular, the recording titled 'Hendrix Live'.
I've pillaged and burned my way through TWO MOTHERFUCKING vinyl copies of 'Hendrix Live' and one cd so far. Everyone knows Hendrix is best enjoyed at the 'Ears bleed; small animals die' setting, right? RIGHT.
Nothings changed now that I live out in the country. When the neigbors' cows start giving paisley milk, thats when Hendrix is being played at the right volume. And seriously, it is my job, nay, my responsibility, being a former resident of civilization, to bring culture to these poor toiling rural proles. And what better way, I ask you?
When I lived in Portland Oregon I had a third story apt. at the top of Hall Street (1984 was the address; is that not cool?) I'd get up early Saturday morning, crack a beer, fire up a joint, face my speakers out the window and blast Hendrix' 'StarSpangled Banner' straight down 5th Avenue into downtown, baby. Damn, you could hear those notes rising and bouncing off the buildings and echoing down the streets all the way past Burnside and trailiing off into the distance, and man, it was BEAUTIFUL! All over town, you could hear people doing concert screams. Bums would wave up at me. College kids would start rocking out on the sidewalk. Man, it was fucking glorious.
So if you lived in Portland during the 70's, that was me, and you're welcome.
That was also me on 9th and Pine.
And Republican and Queen Anne in Seattle.
And driving through Wenatchee a couple of years ago.
Forget everything ever written about how lame and sad it is to listen to the music you liked your senior year- I was 17 again.
And I was ROCKIN THE FUCK OUT.
I pulled up into the parking lot of the store and parked, and I'm still showing John Bonham how its done, man, I'm singing, I'm playing air guitar, and I look up and another car has parked next to me, and the passenger is looking at me with the white showing all the way around her eyes.
'Aw, you poor thing', I thought, 'You probably feel bad because you want to listen to the nice music too.'
So I turned it up.
I have a good stereo. If you'd walked by my little car you'd have seen it was probably whoomping in and out like a paper bag on a hysterics' face. But hey-it was Zep. You understand.
And that is the point, after all-it was Zep. Some things transcend time and fashion. Led Zeppelin is one of those things. Another one is Jimmi Hendrix. In particular, the recording titled 'Hendrix Live'.
I've pillaged and burned my way through TWO MOTHERFUCKING vinyl copies of 'Hendrix Live' and one cd so far. Everyone knows Hendrix is best enjoyed at the 'Ears bleed; small animals die' setting, right? RIGHT.
Nothings changed now that I live out in the country. When the neigbors' cows start giving paisley milk, thats when Hendrix is being played at the right volume. And seriously, it is my job, nay, my responsibility, being a former resident of civilization, to bring culture to these poor toiling rural proles. And what better way, I ask you?
When I lived in Portland Oregon I had a third story apt. at the top of Hall Street (1984 was the address; is that not cool?) I'd get up early Saturday morning, crack a beer, fire up a joint, face my speakers out the window and blast Hendrix' 'StarSpangled Banner' straight down 5th Avenue into downtown, baby. Damn, you could hear those notes rising and bouncing off the buildings and echoing down the streets all the way past Burnside and trailiing off into the distance, and man, it was BEAUTIFUL! All over town, you could hear people doing concert screams. Bums would wave up at me. College kids would start rocking out on the sidewalk. Man, it was fucking glorious.
So if you lived in Portland during the 70's, that was me, and you're welcome.
That was also me on 9th and Pine.
And Republican and Queen Anne in Seattle.
And driving through Wenatchee a couple of years ago.
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