Up the creek without a platypus

On Fakes, Faking and Toast

2007-10-03T21:31:00.001-07:00

Who can spot a fake?

Not everyone.

But, I can.

And, maybe you can too.

I can spot a fake smile, a fake nod of approval, a fake boob job, a fake prosthetic limb (in the nude), a fake offer to help excavate dog doo from my shoe sole, a fake claim of rational non-fallacy, and a fake Virgin Mary outline on a piece of toast, given the right lighting conditions.

After all, this is the age of faking… we have to be prepared.

Our peers, children, neighbors, government and media work hard to ensure that we see enough fakeness everyday to acquire sufficient fake-sensing, personal radars.

I mean, just imagine how much fake-ological evolution had to take place in order for us to get to the point we humans have reached today. How many of our ancestors had to ooh and aahh at the seeming miracle of toupees, drop jaw at the magician who cut a woman in two, fear death and anguish for coveting a neighbor’s really cool four-wheel drive before we could recognize the bright orange hue of a FAKE sun tan?

Yes. We should be much better at spotting fakes by now.

In a time of fake fantasies, fake fur, fake beef, fake weapons, fake Rolexes, fake teeth, fake evidence, fake IDs, fake memoirs, fake lips, fake Louis Vuitton bags…
We should definitely know better…

BUT, I sincerely hope we haven’t learned yet.

And, I say this because, I myself, am on the verge of embarking on an adventure of “faking,” and I whole-heartedly hope that nobody notices.

I have just moved to a new city and taken a new job for which I feel myself completely unqualified.

If anyone spots this fake in the act of faking, I will be pressed to conclude that the theory of fake-ological evolution is indeed true.

Job Position Available: Ruler of the Universe

2007-09-05T01:32:00.000-07:00

/Geek Confession

I’ll be looking for a new job soon. I’m pretty sure I want to be Queen of the Ants.
Well… that, or Big Blade of Grass among all the grasses...

In any case, I’m not the only one looking for a job with high aspirations.
A friend I met a few years ago in Nepal sent me an e-mail today, divulging his ambition to get a job as ‘Master of the Universe’.

And, it struck me that he might not be the only one with this desire.

So, in hopes that I might help others out there with a similar goal, I am posting the following job opening that came to my attention through secret channels of cosmic networking and job-searching:

Job Title: Chief Executive of the Universe

Position Summary: The Master of the Universe or CEU is responsible for implementing the strategic goals and objectives of the Universe, and is accountable to the Scientific Laws which currently govern the Organization of the Universe (as well as to the Board of Organizational Chaos). Working with the Chair (whose dark matter-infested offices in the Small Magellanic Cloud Galaxy are in the process of relocation), the CEU is responsible for giving direction and leadership toward the achievement of the Universe’s philosophy, mission, strategy and universal light year goals and objectives (whatever they may be).

Qualifications:
-Advanced degree in Confusing Little Life Forms (or related field)
-Minimum of 10 billion years of administrative/managerial leadership experience related to planets, pulsars, quasars, comets, binary stars, neutron stars, globular clusters, OR confusing Little Life Forms
-A history of responsibility for multi-galactic matter profit and loss
-A sense of humor

Knowledge, Skills and Abilities:
-Earned reputation for creative ‘big picture’ thinking, reasoned problem solving, and capacity to put good ideas into practice
-Ability to manage processes of creation and decline while simultaneously confounding the Little Life Form
-Evidence of success in securing planetary, stellar and galactic support
-Strong networking, conflict resolution, space-time dialogue and subatomic communication skills
-Untaught natural capacity to laugh, create and inspire organic and comedic evolution
-Ability to speak and write persuasively with passion, lack of clarity, beguiling purpose and de-emphasis on meaning (multilingual skills required)

Please send cover letter and curriculum vittae to any address you feel like. Please no phone calls or emails. We will contact you if you are right for the job.

Editor’s Note: I’m not sure, but I think if you tell them your best friend is a dwarf star, it might help your diversity standings among the competitors...

Cosmic Holes, PMS and Perspective

2007-08-25T01:51:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of the month again.

It’s that time when blood flows from me, and I stick spongy cotton up my entrance way in an attempt to thwart threats of panty paint scribbles and menstrual malodors. It’s that time when the haphazard viewing of a wailing baby and the sing-song intonation of a bee zzzz-ing around a flower fill me with purposeful understanding of an interconnected world- cyclical, alive and fertile.

But, more importantly: it’s that time when I have a socially-acceptable excuse for being unpredictable, socially intolerant and seemingly uncaring of the petty, personal plights of others.

This month, the timing couldn’t be better.

It just so happens that over the last few days I have been feeling abnormally unsympathetic towards the woes and tiny traumas of my fellow humans (…or, hu-people, as we feministically-correct like to call us).

I pity every emotion-exposing soul-bearer who has shared their problems with me recently only to get a slow shrug and a “so what?” eyebrow flick in response. Each and every one of the confiders deserves better…

But what can I do? I have been busy. I have been busy braiding my thoughts into rastafarian dreads, trying to contemplate the vastness of the universe and the immensity of potential nothingness.

Yeah..., it sounds like philosophical hopscotch on a bed of psychedelically-altered, eastern-religious rice, I know, but it’s pretty sane stuff. Really. Especially, considering what we are learning these days…

Astronomers just recently released their findings of an enormous expanse of universe devoid of anything…er… everything… (See this and do some googling). Basically they just found a huge patch in the universe’s quilt that has NOTHING on it. This means that grandma didn’t embroider any holiday prints there, didn’t glitter-glue any decorative sparkly stars, ringed planets or any visible, shiny sequins. She didn’t even spill any tea or release any scented, dyspeptic gases there. It’s a big, empty patch in our universal quilt with NOTHING on it.

And by big, I don’t mean like the size of your rich neighbor’s pimpin’ new Sports Utility Vehicle with GPS and automated pubic hair-drying capacity. It’s not big like the size of your ex-lover’s thighs, your continent, this planet or even the Milky Way galaxy. It’s more like 1 billion light years in diameter big…

Well, let’s try this. Have you ever spent a romantic night under the stars and wished that you could take your sexy companion to the brightest star in sight for an evening of nefarious debauchery? If you had the right travel agent who could book you a flight traveling at the speed of light, you could get to your destination of passion and unbridled euphoria in no less than 2 years. Yes, that’s 2 light years, minimum.

However, to cross this patch of recently found, grandma flatulence-absent cosmic nothingness would take you I BILLION years, traveling the speed of light. Business class.

Yeah, it’s pretty damn big. And pretty astoundingly vacant. And pretty thought-masturbatory.

So, this week, when people told me about their malfunctioning iPods, bedbug infestations, childhood traumas, psycho boyfriends, and parking dilemmas, I had to giggle at the insignificance of their perceived catastrophes.

Luckily, I could reference the socially-accepted ‘woman’s bloody time of the month’ excuse for my lack of sympathetic decency.

And then, I could go back to worrying about my apartment deposit and Lindsay Lohan’s cocaine-anaesthetized rhinoplasty…

Beard Confessions

2007-08-20T19:12:00.000-07:00

I’ve never understood why criminal confessions were so hard to get.

I mean, why does getting the truth out of someone always involve some torturous combination of physical brutality, psychological attack, inhumane intimidation, threats on family, sleep deprivation and ridiculous good cop/ bad cop routines (at least, in the Hollywood films and in U.S. off-shore detainment facilities)?

I just don’t get it.

Getting someone to confess their most hidden, unspeakable inner secrets is easy.

I do it every day.

All you need is a broth of new culture, a pinch of mild alienation, one heaping fingernail full of introspection, and a foreign language to translate the flavor. That’s it.

I mean, if I can do it, anyone can. I was never trained in the art of interrogation. I’m just a high-poverty-line ESL teacher. And, yet, just this week, I learned about a Taiwanese man’s forbidden liaisons with a Chinese woman of royalty, a Korean gal’s botched reconstructive facial surgery, and a Saudi Arabian’s story of claiming his wife upon first sight at age five and ‘re-having’ her at age 14.

And, it’s true. Speaking a second language allows you to say (and even think) things you would never feel comfortable or permitted to express in your own language.

That’s why I wasn’t at all surprised today by any of my students’ summaries of their respective childhoods. (We were practicing the form: “I used to…”)

“He used to jog, but now he watches 'American Idol'.”

(Aww… that’s cute.)

“When she was young, she used to collect stamps, but now she doesn’t. And she used to love 8-Man. He was a power magic cartoon hero. But now she doesn’t like.”

(Aww… that’s cute.)

“He used to use scissors cut worms. He used to pretend like he famous cooking chef… But, now he doesn’t cut worms. However, he is good at cooking.”

(Aww…that’s cute… in an I-used-to-fantasize-about-sea-urchins kind of way)

“She used to have a beard. She used to feel embarrassed because of beard.”

(Aww…that’s what? A beard? Why, that’s just trauma with fewer calories.)

“Yes, uh, she used to have a beard. This beard it was very dirty and it make.. uh.. made many problems. It is- was very noisy and it sometimes make-made messy. But now, she doesn’t have a beard.”

As a compassionate teacher aware of the unintentionally-revealed secrets exposed when conversing in a foreign language, I nodded and smiled, thinking to myself what an adept extractor of buried confessions I was. Yes, I had uncovered a poor Turkish woman’s young struggle with facial hair. So there, Guantanamo Bay questioners! Eat my graceful, torture-less tact!

Of course, now as I’m beginning to get my resume together for the secret service interrogation job I have always dreamed of having, I’m beginning to doubt my super-extraordinary, clandestine intelligence-unveiling abilities.

After all, when a Mexican from Guadalajara says “beard,” he probably just means “bird”….

And… unfortunately, I can’t think of a single Intelligence Agency that would be impressed by an interrogator with unmatched ability to expose past pet information.

(“Yeah, he might be planning to simultaneously detonate bombs in every Starbucks around the globe, but I’m not sure. What I do know, though, is that he had a guinea pig named Poinky when he was eight.”)

I’m ready to admit that I might not meet the qualifications to become a successful interrogator.

My aspirations of becoming an animal psychiatrist, however, are not yet squashed.

(“As a young parakeet, he was once called a mustache. That’s when all of the psychological abuse began…”)

Gerascophobia

2007-08-12T21:21:00.001-07:00

I just turned 29 years old.

And I’m pretty damn happy about that… though not overly zealous. I mean, to me, a birthday is just another day; or more precisely, another day I am alive and in awe of the universe, and a day I can ‘cry if I want to’ and contort my face in otherwise unacceptable positions while blowing out flaming wax sticks. It’s pretty special, yes, but no more special than any other magnificent day when I scrunch up my facial muscles and purse my lips in the privacy of my own bathroom.

That’s why I was surprised at how many birthday-wishers plummeted into well-intentioned, graceless verbal acrobatics around the apparently dismal and scary fact that I had almost spent 30 years alive and healthy:

“Happy Birthday, -c! Don’t worry, though: you have one more year before you’re Old!”

“Happy B-day! It’s amazing you’ve led such a full life! Soon you’ll be shaving your nipples and chin!”

Call me a liar. Call me a fake. But, I swear, I have never been afraid of growing old. I have never suffered from gerascophobia, as it is medically called. If anything, I think getting old is an evolutionary sign of strength and virility.

In my opinion, getting old is sexy. I think gray hair, wrinkles and experience are the hottest attributes anyone could have. I think an intelligently expressed opinion over a racing, over-heating heart is more vagina-moistening than any unexamined proclamation from a physically-fit, wrinkle-less youngster on a treadmill any day.

That’s right: I’ll take man-tits and nose hairs over ignorance or stupidity, hairy hands down.

Don’t get me wrong, though. Just because I’m not a sufferer of gerascophobia (fear of getting old) or rhytiphobia (fear of getting wrinkles), doesn’t mean I don’t have other irrational fears.

I’ll admit I am slightly ergophobic (fearful of work and responsibility), plutophobic (fearful of wealth), emetophobic (fearful of vomiting), and apiphobic (fearful of bees). (*Honestly, if I were a character in Orwell’s 1984 and were trapped in a cage with work responsibility, a bunch of bees, a stack of Hamiltons reading ‘In God we Trust’ and the threat of lunch regurgitation, I would not only admit that 2 and 2 were 5, but also that the Earth was flat and that George W. deserved to be elected supreme Dictator of Positive Progress for eternity.)

I’d say I got off pretty easy with my fears, really. To think, I could have been one of the unfortunate souls who has a paralyzing fear of ticking clocks (chronophobia), a debilitating and antidisestablishmentarianistic fear of long words (Sesquipedalophobia), or even worse a fear of opinions (Allodoxaphobia), a fear of erect penises (Medorthophobia) or -most horrific of all- of thinking (Phronemophobia).

Yup, I'd say I'm pretty lucky. Not only am I excited by the fact that I am growing older, but I do not have an irrational fear of chickens at dusk or of toothpaste tubes taking over the world.

And, those, I'm sorry to say are not claims everyone can make.

*Edit/Update 1: I sometimes feel angst about dinner conversations. Could I be Deipnophobic?

Jail the Jaywalkers!

2007-06-29T00:09:00.000-07:00

Many a dangerous criminal and violent psychopath go undetected for years. They have no criminal history, no outstanding warrants, no accusations of sodomy or ferret-fucking made about them over the water cooler. They are, in the law’s eye, safe and ideal citizens: kind, normal, acquiescent and predictable.

You can see them buying broccoli, bananas, detergent and milk at your local supermarket. You nod to them in front of your house as you are taking out the trash. You smile at them as they pass you on your way to work.

They are entirely indistinguishable from other ordinary folk, working 9 to 5, trying to survive, raise families, and understand the meaning of life. They have clothing preferences and movie favorites, opinions on politics and thoughts about music. They eat, sleep, love, breathe and count stars just like you.

They are lawyers, bus drivers, artists, propeller makers, seatbelt engineers, writers, migration workers, waiters, water pipe salesmen, NGO organizers, marketing specialists, yoga instructors, volcanic tour guide leaders, financial specialists, aspiring script play writers, physical therapists, dildo mold makers, sex therapy doctors, grad students, ship-in-bottle builders, and educators.

Sometimes, you don’t even know they’re criminals until you catch them red-handed in vile acts of abominable law-breaking and terrorism.

Luckily, authorities caught one of these two-faced, deviant devils this morning. Now, we can have a better picture of the felonious transgressors who commit some of the most deplorable and dubious dick-slaps to societal law.

At 7:44 a.m. today, a white female English teacher was observed walking across the street on her way to work. One of Seattle’s finest motorcycle cops noticed that the ‘Don’t Walk’ signal had begun to flash just as the sinning teacher placed her heathen sneakers onto the road. Although the signal remained green as she safely crossed the street, and no driver or pedestrian was inconvenienced or harmed by her crossing, the esteemed officer luckily captured this national threat.

Though the suspected terrorist subversive has not been detained, she has been issued a $56 traffic infraction for crossing the street while the ‘Don’t Walk Red Hand’ flashed.

We can all, now, feel safer because justice has been served, and Seattle has been immunized against the impending national security threat that this jay-walking, terrorist teacher posed.

Sigh of relief…

Editor’s question: Should I fight the infraction or allow justice to be served and my country made safer? I mean, it's only $56... but, it's $56! And... can I use the: "It's the principle of the thing!" argument here?

Delusions of Invisibility

2007-06-24T17:51:00.001-07:00

We were talking about invisibility cloaks.
As people often do…

in multi-national ESL grammar classes
(when they are not discussing conjunctions, prepositions, declining bee populations, nuclear contraception and global cucumber size standards).

The class was divided, and a civil debate raged in broken English. Half of the students believed that we would never gain the ability to make objects invisible to the human eye, while the other half claimed we already had the technology, and it was only a matter of years before exploration of the military applications decreased government masturbation time by fifty percent.

I, of course, being the objective teacher, sat straddling the proverbial wooden fence. I moderated, asked provocative questions of each side and poked holes in faulty arguments, pausing only occasionally to pluck fence splinters from my crotch.

I was in Teachers’ Paradise. You’ve heard of the place, I’m sure. It’s a mythical land of plenty where critical thinking skills play games of lacrosse with social skills, and hillsides of curiosity sing with the laughter and debate of mentally inquisitive students. Newly gained knowledge seeps into lively conversation, and beneath every tree of suggestion, new ideas sprout.

I tell you, it was spectacular. Assertions and rebuttals made in the Future Perfect Continuous Tense were flying around like child porn round a minister’s hard drive, and Conditional Passives were mobilizing more quickly than child therapists round a military base.

But, even the finest persimmon rots.

And when I returned from skipping through the knowledge field of flowers in my day-dreamed Teachers’ Paradise, I was forced to hear the REAL discussion going on in my classroom. At that moment, I was flogged by a splintered plunger handle of reality, and any engorged pride I once had in my own teaching skills was immediately deflated.

“If I be indivisible tomorrow, it’s means every soldiers can’t feel me. He don’t touch me and I can murder him not justice.”

“Yes. And I think by 2050, we will have been being make indivisibility by government. This we will have been become a lot of dangerous.”

What? So much for my perceived idyllic debate of logic and insight, and so much for my sanity…

While I thought we were talking about the scientific possibility and potential ramifications of creating a Harry Potter-style Invisibility cloak, we were in fact discussing whether or not humans could be chopped up and divided into little pieces by the government and ‘touched’ and ‘felt’ by soldiers.

Hmmm. Yup, it’s time to call the Nuthouse recruiters. We have yet another delusional ESL teacher to catch.

P.S. For the record: I don’t exaggerate the English skill of my students for comedic purposes. I don’t have to. They really talk like this.

Plus, I've met a few native English speakers who dream of this level of literacy.

And, although they are patriots, these honest souls are still not quite sure if their nation is indivisible, invisible, miserable, commiserable or even liveable...

On Dust, Welcoming, and Paris Hilton

2007-06-14T00:30:00.000-07:00

I’d rather read about dust accumulation on unused dildos.
I’d rather read about moth ball replacements in old farts’ closets.
I’d rather read about the international distribution of pocket lint.

I’d rather read about almost anything, really….

Anything but Paris Hilton.

But damn if I didn’t just get a great giggle out of reading my good friend’s post about the very subject! Check it out at his first virgin blog:

Grog Fog Blog

(Sending a big Blogosphere Welcome to Scotts, my hilariously entertaining, long-time Japan-residing, amazing photograph-taking, thought-inspiring, brilliantly blathering brother in Hawaii! May your days of Bloghood be plentiful, and may you save me from reading many a dildo dust story!)

Cry of the not-so-mute mime

2007-06-10T22:44:00.000-07:00

I admit I’m probably a scary teacher.

A lovable teacher, yes, but an obviously crazy one.

Afterall, it’s not natural for any human to spontaneously burst into animated gorilla improvisations when explaining uses of gerunds and infinitives. Nor is it considered sane to employ another human being to pick their nose so that you can illustrate the uses of the past perfect continuous tense. (He had been picking his nose when the gorilla decided to interrupt him.)

But, that’s why I love my job. As an ESL teacher I am, by design and purpose, encouraged to foster a comfortable environment in which everyone can theatrically pick their nose, scratch their rear hairs and pretend to be a gorilla. The students are, afterall, learning a new language that will inevitably make them look like idiots at some point when they misuse it, so why not make them comfortable with that feeling right away?

Unfortunately, I’ve found more often that it’s just me who feels like the idiot.

Student: I like ramen. And I enjoy bagels. They are very delicious.

Me: No way!!?? (exaggerated arm-flaling) You like ramen?? (exaggerated slurping gestures) Oh my god (mocking prayer reenactment), you like New York style bagels too?? I can’t believe it!! (exaggerated facial expressions of disbelief) But don’t you think the demand (overacted grabbing gestures) for onion bagels (donut sketches on the whiteboard) promotes excessive planting of onions fields (mimed tears over onion chopping) resulting in infertile soil? (lying on the floor, pretending to be nutrient-depleted earth)

Student: Uh… I don’t like onion bagels.

Me: Oh.

I’m becoming increasingly worried that my tendency to over-use gestures and childish imagination might one day be the end of my social life.

(dramatic enactment of tears rolling down my face onto my Mac)

Web Search Apology

2007-06-05T19:31:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you need quick, peripheral information about something.
Sometimes you want to expand your already profound knowledge of a topic.
Sometimes you’re looking for validation or disproof of an outlandish claim.
Sometimes you’re just bored and want to know what info exists on the www about baby sock alterations, coprophilia and acrylic paints….

Whatever your reasons for using Google Search may be,
I wish you luck.

I do, however, sincerely apologize to the guy today who typed into Google Search:

“why can i only get one erection a day?”

and landed on a blog page about gay flamingos.

Terribly sorry.

I’m a “Flam Hag”

2007-06-02T18:32:00.000-07:00

(slightly different from the colloquial “Fag Hag”)

As I stated in my last post, I like gay flamingos.

Yes, The Gay Flamingo (or The Flaming Fuchsia Phoenicopterus, as it is known by genus tossers), is perhaps one of the most delightful of dinner party topics (or guests, for that matter).

It has a long, sexy neck capable of various acts of sensual dexterity, lovely webbed feet (which we all know were sculpted in the image of the Almighty Platypus), and a downwardly-bent bill which differentiates it from The Homo Heron or The Sissy Stork (who are both far inferior cocktail party conversation catchers).

The Flaming Pink Flamingo is most often recognized by the fact that it stands on one leg.
Although some scientists attribute this to an attempt to conserve body heat/energy and to keep its legs from getting wet, I think we can clearly say that this is a seductive ploy on the part of the hetero-heathen flamingo to entice other flaming companions.

I mean, don’t humans employ this same tactic when trying to lure a mate? Don’t women often drape partially-revealing clothing over their voluptuous bosoms to inspire in their pursuers a desire for the mysterious and unattainable? Don’t men (when hoping to cunt-spelunk) sometimes quote dead philosophers/poets and learn to play “Blackbird” on the guitar, hoping to ignite intrigue and mystery about their deep thoughtfulness and sensitivity (and, thus, SEX appeal)?

In this same way, I believe the Flaming Flamingo hides his leg in order to fertilize the curiousity of his potential wing-slappers.

Anyway..., that's it.... I think The Flaming Flamingo (along with its hetero cohorts) is pretty feather-flappin' special.

Afterall..., if he can filter out mud and silt from his diet using the lamellae which line his mandibles....,

just what ELSE can this exquisite pink prince do with his hairy tongue?

*For info about this spectacular creature, please contact a qualified biologist, ornithologist or flamingologist to do a Google search for you.

Otherwise here are a few extremely random articles about homosexuality among flamingos:
Gay flamingos pick up chick
Flamingos strike long-term relationship
Gay flamingos Celebrate fifth Anniversary with their Children
Homosexual Activity Among Animals Stirs Debate

Creationist Disneyland

2007-05-27T20:48:00.000-07:00

I love travel almost as much as I love absurd nonsequiturs, bouncy balls that come to life when parents leave the house, cat-sized African rats in Florida and gay flamingos.

So, it should come as no surprise that I spend unhealthy amounts of otherwise potentially productive time researching where I will take my next trip. Usually, my imaginary adventures take me to exotic and enticing international locations that boast an equal amount of cultural wazoo and natural, jaw-dropping zenaliciousness.

(yes, I just used the word 'zenaliciousness' and, no, it isn't a real word.)

This time, however, my dream destination has been decided, and it is not the megaliths of Malta or the tourism-free island of Tokelau. I have decided that I desperately want to visit

…drumrole and gentle gong hits…:

Petersburg, Kentucky.

Why would I want to visit this flat, uninteresting stitch of Middle America?

The answer: To visit the 60,000 sq/ft, $27 million Creation Museum that opens tomorrow, May 28th.

Not only is it a Museum that teaches the Truth (namely that the Earth is 6000 years old rather than 4.5 billion and that humans were lucky enough to have been created on the same day as dinosaurs and, thus, chill together in the Garden), but it also has some wicked cool special effects and some pretty intense attractions and exhibits worthy of any good amusement park/ museum.

For example, if you’ve ever wanted to see a live poison dart frog, visit with an animatronic dinosaur created by the Universal Studios designer of JAWS and KING KONG, recline comfortably in a planetarium as you come to understand why there was an all-mighty Creator and not an illogical BANG..., then you should look no further!

You can also ride the surround-sound video biblical history Adventure and experience why making seemingly irrational assumptions before analyzing fossils is logically necessary, see how the Grand Canyon was formed in mere days, as well as be delightfully sprayed with water as you learn about the Flood that wiped out everything but Noah’s Ark!

I’m especially looking forward to seeing my sincere literary appreciation of the Book of Genesis put to shame as I come to see that this intriguing story is, in fact, not allegorical, but instead backed up by scientific proof.

During my trip to Kentucky (which, I admit, is fantastically created in my own head), I will also have a Press-Pass badge that reads:

“-c, Super-respected, Open-minded Member of Compassionate Journalists International”

And, with this imaginary badge, I will immediately command attention. I will chat with the mechanical version of a stegosaur baby (whose tracks we just found). I will also gain an exclusive interview with Ken Ham, the creator of this spectacular museum. I will ask him how they got the animatronic dinosaurs to look so unsurprised when they saw human children giggling beside the waterfall, and what feats of technology enabled the museum to get the audience seats to shake when the Flood came.

If we establish a good rapport, I might also guide him to conclude with one of his favorite quotes from his father: “If you don’t believe in Genesis, then the whole rest of the Bible falls.”

I, of course, will also get to hold the poison dart frogs in my hand.

And name them Iggy, Stan and Leviticus.

*Editor's Update: As sarcastically decided as I may seem in my own opinions, I vampirically crave the opinions of others also so that I can continue to reevaluate. What do you think about this new museum?

Tag Hag

2007-05-27T14:12:00.000-07:00

I love the world of Blogging. BUT, every time I see another silly chainletter-like “Tag” being passed through the home-typist gauntlet, I feel a bit embarrassed.
Usually, I pass these by, hoping someone else will find fulfillment in answering questions about their first crushes, most embarrassing moments and first pets named Fluffalufugus.

This time, however, I was unintentionally “dared” to participate. A few months ago (yeah, I’m a procrastinator), Frustrated Writer wrote on his blog:

“I would’ve tagged -c but I doubt she would’ve responded…”

Now… I could hardly leave this blatant “dare” alone without feeling like a rejected, weak, cajones-less pussy (which I most certainly am not. I’ll have you know that my turkey flesh-like cajones are bigger than most). So here I go, attacking my first, semi-official “tag” ever:

The rules:

1. Get tagged.
2. List five things that have not been revealed on your blog.
3. Tag five others.

Well… screw all this. I wasn’t “officially” tagged, I’m not going to prescribe to the correct number of requested revelations, and I’m not going to “tag” anyone who doesn’t want to be tagged. Tag, tag, tag, tag, tag. Yup, I reached my quota.

So without further a doodle, here are 9 insights never before shared on this blog. (Why 9, you ask? Well, because its square root equals exactly 3 more than the number of nose hairs I ever hope to have visible to the public, of course.) Here goes:

1. I sometimes shave my armpits and wash the shower tiles at the same time (efficiency is not only for the Japanese and the insect kingdom)
2. I sometimes critique the conceptual art Mr. E has made on the shower walls with strands of our hair
3. I once got a full-body rash from skinny dipping in an Italian canal bordered by thistles and interested bridge-watchers
4. I like the way the word ‘flatulence’ rolls off the tongue
5. I was valedictorian of my tiny high school graduating class, and I showed up barefoot and stoned
6. I once performed vile acts of “loose bowel movements” in the meticulously-sculpted bushes in front of the Governmental Palace in San Cristobal, Mexico.
7. I was once asked to spell out a man’s name in cocaine on the back of an Ecuadorian toilet. Luckily, he had a short nickname.
8. I often play the Devil’s Advocate despite my beliefs
9. In person, I’m not actually the biting, vulgarity-embracing, smart-ass I often claim to be on my blog. In fact, I’m actually pretty quiet and shy. Ah… how honesty doth free the soul!

Tag, tag, tag, tag, tag. Man, what a harsh and obnoxious word.

It has none of the linguistic grace that the word “flatulence” possesses.

Rhymes with Muscular

2007-05-19T18:11:00.000-07:00

Today’s Vocabulary Word: Crepuscular

Definition (according to Dictionary.com):
1) of, pertaining to, or resembling twilight; dim; indistinct
2) Zoology. Appearing or active in the twilight, as certain bats and insects

How would you use this adjective?

"I've always been rather crepuscular in my ways."??
"The bat's crepuscular diatribe bored me despite his sonar arguments."???
"The crepuscular arguments batted the sonar board's diatribe."???
"Fine, you win! Just crepe us, queller!"???

Obviously, I need some help with this word...

Of Dirty Clothes and Smart Designers

2007-05-14T19:40:00.000-07:00

Did the Great Platypus make my Laundry Basket?

He showed up this morning without warning. Not a phone call. Not a knock. Not even an email.

With the epiphanic bomb he was about to drop on me, you would think he would at least have the proverbial balls to send some kind of sign or warning. A quick lightning bolt to the earlobe… A burning hairbrush with words of guidance… Shit, even a single singing telegram delivered by a Sea at low tide would have been enough.

But, no. He caught me unprepared. He symbolically slapped me with a pubescent pineapple while I was unsuspectingly watering my house plant (whose name, though irrelevant, is Ignacio).

As I turned towards the sink to refill my glass blender (yes I water Ignacio with the same receptacle that I use to mix my morning fruit Smoothies), I was suddenly kicked by a steel-toed and profound Epiphanic Moment (Ok—if ‘epiphanic’ isn’t a word yet, it should be!). And I had to stop, completely transfixed by a spectacular and chore-halting display of beauty.

I couldn’t help but stare.
The color composition was exquisite. The geometric design, impeccable. The chaotic exactitude, seemingly miraculous.

How could such an incredible masterpiece have just appeared from nowhere? How could so many improbable elements have come together at just the right moment to allow for the blossoming of such a powerful exhibition of life energy? There couldn’t possibly be a viable, falsifiable and comprehensive explanation for the origins of such a complex and spectacular splurge of seeming splendor aside from that of an Intelligent Designer…

And then my pseudo-religious epiphany was toppled by a devilish and logical inner voice.

“Why the hell are you staring at your overflowing laundry basket?” asked the voice.

“Because it’s so beautiful,” I answered. “I can’t stop wondering how something so complex and aesthetically precise in its imbalance could develop without the aid of some extra-terrestrial, higher-powered hand. I mean, it seems damn-near improbable that the fuchsia panties would just HAPPEN to be lying so perfectly beside the worn denim jeans, and that the forest green cargo shorts would just HAPPEN to fall so complimentarily close to the off-red Engrish tank top reading ‘Life always happily, Be Cheer.’ I have a hard time believing that science could explain that.”

“Well,” the voice said, “YOU tossed all of those terribly unstylish articles of clothing there. I think the most logical explanation is simply that you have poor aim.”

“But I just hurled my clothes at the laundry basket randomly, and without intent or underlying meaning,” I countered.

“Precisely.”

“But… how can you explain the complexity of color composition and the emotion-invoking beauty of this laundry landscape? I mean, something of such beauty doesn’t just EVOLVE through arbitrary disrobement. That seems too difficult to explain. It must have been CREATED with some intent purpose and meaning, by some force grander than myself.”

“Nope. You just took off your dirty clothes and threw them there." The voice was sounding very matter-of-fact now. "Your clothes fell the way they did due to a lot of physical and chemical factors we can discuss at a later time. As for the awesome beauty of your soiled array of clothing-- it’s just as simultaneously random and precise as your own beautiful existence. There IS, however, one last matter to address…: the matter of WHY you removed your pink panties before throwing them there…”

“Isn’t that irrelevant, though, if the beauty of my dirty clothes heap was not meaningfully sculpted by an omnipotent Designer?”

“Absolutely. But, it makes for better conversation.”

*Editor's note: No, those are not my panties.

But, they'd probably look good in my laundry basket.

Portland kicks cool tides and child stool into a can

2007-05-09T19:33:00.000-07:00

Is it cooler than Seattle? Yes.
Does it rock the house? Yes.
Rock the boat? Yes.
Rock the frail foundations of traditional social Ineptitude? Yes.
Am I writing this of my own volition? Yes.
Is there some critical, mythological, prodding prick of a Portland P.R. Agent hovering over my shoulder as I type this? Yes-- I mean, No.
Does he brandish a big, brain-washing, evergreen gaze? No—I mean, No.
Does he sport a funky hair-do with the words “authentic identity” shaved into his sideburns? No.
Does he look like a gypsy on a syncopation binge? No.
Does he patch his crotch holes with muse-drooled fabric? No.
Is he poking my tongue now with his humanity-fired flavor prod? No.
Does he want me to move to Portland? Absolutely not.

What do you think I am, some kind of schizophrenic lunatic?

*Editor’s note 1: Sorry I've been gone so long. Excuse: forthcoming.
*Editor's note 2: Excuse coming forth at a speed infinitesimally slower than the currently translatable speed of forthcoming excuses.
*Editor's note 3: I didn't mean to change the colors on my blog. The Great Intelligent Designer (the new blogger) finally caught up with me. Nothin' you can do when Omiscience overrides your natural blog evolution...
*Editor's note 4: Portland rocks!

Blog-slacking and Hair-styling

2007-04-14T02:02:00.000-07:00

You may think you are safe. You may think he will never get you again.

After all, he’s only a mythological monster...

He’s only some brutish, confidence-bashing beast who may have once left drool and spittle puddles under your bed when you were a child. He’s only the imaginary imp you left behind long ago, but who still reminds you of the power of procrastination and of the various intravenous options for caffeine.

If you think he'll never find you again, though, you're wrong. His name is Creative Blog Slackerdome (A.K.A. CBS), and he may, in fact, be at your doorstep now.

According to last week’s research by Up the Creek Without a Platypuses’s only –c, this legendary bully is alive, strong, and still targeting everyone.

“Just yesterday, I felt his presence,” -c over-emphatically revealed.

“I was trying to compose a blog post about Global Warming as it pertains to U.S. political campaigns when… well… I decided to lead an ESL class discussion about the topic and… ehm… He showed up.”

Although our very own reporter, -c, showed signs of increasing heart rate, hightened blood pressure and uncomfortable sweat drippage, we pushed her to tell us more about her unique experience with the omnipresent Creative Blog Slackerdome Beast .

“He somehow managed to redirect the conversation in our ESL class, and we ended up talking about Don Imus, monkey brain consumption in China, Sanjaya's hair and Necrophilia.”

When pressed for further comment, -c simply responded:

“I'll have to write a real blog post later. For now, there is clearly some Spirit of Dark Slackerdome at work here.”

Say “cheese”

2007-03-31T11:08:00.000-07:00

Dismal as it may seem, I think smiles have become cliché in today’s world. They have become fake-toothy footholds for achieving desired feats. They have aligned themselves with insincere compliments and other forced fronts (like inappropriate shoulder-nudges and winks), intended to gain selfish and flashy results.

These days, it’s not uncommon to see a full canine through molar spread while looking into the face of the lady who wants to shut off your electricity, screw your boyfriend, and repossess your prized, albeit obscure, book collection.

That’s why I hereby declare a Real Smile Revival!

If we all come together with the mission of embracing smiles for sincerity and honesty, we can eradicate those trivial, emotionally-prosthetic lip crescents based on bulldung and personal gain. We can bring the “true smile” back to the people!

So, tell me: How are YOU going to promote the advancement of honest, candid Smiles?

Here’s how I did it:

I took a batch of English language students in Seattle.
I carefully examined their old ID’s and Driverse Licenses to make sure that they had no history of previous public Smiling.
I arranged them in a semi-social stance, stood with them, and told them that the Tooth Fairy was real.

Ok... honestly, that's not true at all. These are some of my students I bumped into while cruising the International district with my boyfriend, father and step-mother.

They are genuine smilers and require no "real smile" mobilization.

In fact, they could probably care less if armies of "Insincere Smilers" continued to walk the streets indiscriminately.

Nonetheless, I call today for a recall of all imitation Smiles! Let over-worked lip muscles relax, let chapped teeth have safe haven from unnecessary social blizzards, and let sincere mouth manifestations of happiness and laughter prevail!

(... and let creamy, representational praise to obscure european cheese deities be socially acceptable!)

Undercover Trans-Slacktions

2007-03-12T22:16:00.000-07:00

You are smart. You are beautiful. You have two dozen False Claim Convictions duct-taped to the bottoms of your belt notches. You have half a bullet and a full piece of Altoid Box shrapnel in your left nostril from the last time you dove in front of a crippled puppy to save its life.

You are an undercover, Craigslist Intelligence Agent, on the job.

Your mission today is to pick up a package from one of the most dangerous of Craigslist Posters: Melissa “Yeah, sounds Perfecto” Flake.

She is known for having never shown up to at least three parties she told her friends she would, and for having “forgotten” to call her best friend back, even though it was a “911/ like, super urgent” crisis.

She is armed and scandalous. Beware of her transparent attempts at cunning excuses, and of her cocked, pistolic voice-messaging ploy.

Meet her at the Issaquah Albertsons, 10 a.m.

----------

What?! She never showed up? She didn’t bring you the crappy cell phone you were going to give her cash for? She didn’t even call? You must have blown your Flake-Busting cover! What Kind of a Craigslist Intelligence Agent do you call yourself?!

Despite your failure, we here at the CIA think your proven, social, Convict-Flake-exposing skills still warrant you one more chance.

His name is Josh “uses lots of LOLs in Craigslist transactions” Stoner.

He will meet you in front of Walmart at 11:30 a.m. with a scratched old cell phone and a charger.

Be cautious—any wrong move could trigger a bong circle and potentially dangerous Poetry Slam in Walmart’s car maintenance aisle.

----------

What?! He showed up? What? He provided the goods promised in between LOLs?! What? The transaction went smoothly?! What? There was no bong session on corporate tricycles?!! He must have been on to you!

You’re fired!

----------

Note from –c:
Yes, after many a harrowing email correspondence, and one wasted drive, I managed to replace my expired cell phone without having to deal with redtape-trained teenagers at Verizon. Yippee!!! Now, if I could only get the CIA off my ass…
Apparently, I'm not doing my job.

*Picture again, courtesy of Mr. E

Of bite-less dogs, proverbs, and ESL teaching to doctors

2007-03-03T23:11:00.000-08:00

We were exchanging proverbs while talking current events.

“A dog who pontificates loudly and speaks... er… without halt…. He cannot… yes, he cannot, before stop, make blood from your ankle.”

My Romanian student smiled sheepishly, as if asking her perfectionist, Gastrology-studied Self for permission to be silly. After apparently having received said permission, she embarked on a theatrical, gesturing voyage that involved opening and closing her thumb and index finger as if they had been pasted together by slow-drying rubber cement.

“Yes. Some dogs, you know, speaks dissertations loudly,” she explained as her thumb and pointer finger kissed each other in rapid, uninterrupted succession.

Ok, I thought: some dogs talk a lot.

“And these dogs,” she continued, eyebrow-pointing at her spastic fore-finger, crabclaw-like performance, “do not can bite for blood.”

Her fingers deflated, bored.

Ok, I thought… Edward ScissorHands can’t cut hair artistically….verbose dogs don’t draw blood… loud dogs have no bite…

“His bark is worse than his bite!” I cried, proud and relieved. I’d finally gotten what she was trying so dramatically to tell me.

“No! No!” she almost yelled, breaking enthusiastically from her characteristic, Med Grad stoicism, “like this, but different. He is like a empty cup who makes many bubbles, but has no boiling water…”

Alright, I thought… A Mormon beer carries no kick… one passionate individual does not sway the social tide… a peacock's plume out-weighs its meat…?

“No,” she clarified, “ He is like a loud dog with too much talk, but decreased thought. It’s means this dog is not of cleverness, but he boils his water anyway.”

And, finally, I understood the English proverb she was trying to find:

“Empty vessels make the most noise.”

And, yes, yes, my Romanian med student agreed and went on to explain how stupid (as she put it: “non-clever”) people often tend to talk too much.

And, though I wanted to point out how interesting the cross-cultural parallels between our respective proverbs were…

I shut up.

I couldn’t say another word.

After all, who wants to be a barking, empty vessel? Or a boiling dog bitch with no vampiric bite?

**Edit/Update: And, now you can see, perhaps, why teaching English as a second language can drive one slowly insane...

Bi-polar blogs, and the People that love them

2007-02-23T02:01:00.000-08:00

I sometimes cry myself to sleep. I sometimes ball into the early hours; my tears soaking the hardware of my emotions as I contemplate the feelings of insurmountable neglect and abandonment that burden my every miserable day. I sometimes look at myself in the mirror and see nothing but a heinous, green façade with pre-destined template, devoid of love and meaning.

I know it’s terrible, but I’ve even thought of deleting myself before. You know, just wiping out my insignificant existence from the infinite web-like world, and hoping for redemption one day. After all, what am I but a bunch of ones and zeros that form silly words with etymological roots in the languages of prehistoric invertebrates and an occasionally-interested parent blogger?

Who am I? My given name is Up the Creek. Last name: Without a Platypus. And I am the lonely and neglected weblog of the heartless –c.

She has abandoned me for almost two weeks now. She has probably forgotten me.

She has left me feeling deserted when I most needed guidance. She has ignored me when I felt most alone. Oh, woe is me, and my connected offspring!

Sincerely,

Sad Up the Creeek

----

Dear My Weblog (first name: Up the Creek, surname: Without a Platypus),

How are you? This is -C here. I have been thinking of you often, but haven’t had the chance to visit.

I’m sorry I have neglected you recently, but I was burdened by the visit of a houseguest and a long weekend trip to Vancouver. I had an amazing cross-border adventure despite the breakdown of our car. The visit was complete with friendly Canadians, reassuring mechanics and inquisitive Passport-Requirers.

I wish you had been there.

Despite my absence, my love for you is as emotionally muscled as ever,

Big heart,

-C

***Pictures again shamelessly stolen from Mr. E

Ordinary

2007-02-10T01:02:00.001-08:00

It’s an ordinary day. You’re getting on an ordinary bus with ordinary passengers, leaving an ordinary Seattle location for another ordinary Seattle destination.

You witness an ordinary drug deal taking place under the ordinary bus shelter (meant to protect you from the ordinary rain), scrounge for an ordinary quarter to supplement your ordinary dollar, mount the ordinary vegetable oil-run bus and sit down quite ordinarily beside an ordinary citizen with six ordinary grocery bags of exceptionally ordinary groceries.

You exhale an ordinary sigh of security, knowing that everything is predictably…, well… ordinary.

Then, you covertly begin glancing around the bus to size up your fellow passengers

(…as one ordinarily does)…

When suddenly you notice that the man across the aisle wearing the overtly ordinary khaki outfit (held together by bland leather shoes and an oddly ordinary canvass shoulder bag) has freed a folded, quite ordinary blank piece of paper from his ordinary inner professor coat pocket and is frantically scribbling mathematical equations in a most hasty and stunningly UNordinary fashion.

From your uncomfortably ordinary public perspective, you can clearly make out the various variables in his pace-increasing, scribbled equations.

And, they are clearly not ordinary. Yes—some are actual numbers that you recognize from your privileged 2nd grade education, but most are illegible squiggles that, were you not so ordinary, you might ordinarily recognize as grand theoretical and philosophical concepts represented by bloated alphabet soup ingredients.

You spend a moment entertaining embarrassingly ordinary fantasies of what his calculations could possibly pertain to…

…. 1) he’s supporting the yet un-proven theory that the number of To-Go-Double-shot Americano-Coffee condensation droplets in a single Seattle bus is directly proportional to the number of North Face-attired bus riders

2) he’s working out a Relativity-embracing theory that holds that arbitrary seating on buses (aided by the presence of pet dogs on the bus floor and Self-Help books in passenger hands) is indeed the most efficient way to cram a single unit of public transportation

3) he’s rewriting his grandmother’s shopping list in celestially navigate-able form…

4) he’s…..

JAB!... an ordinary, bearded bus regular suddenly pokes you in the shoulder, and you realize that the bus has come to a not very Unordinary halt at your ordinary stop.

You get off, walk home and take time to mentally tickle your clit because it’s Friday.

And, predictably, your clit responds excitedly.

Why?

Because it’s not only Friday, but it’s a Friday most ordinary.

(for best taste, insert fondue-cheese grin here…)

**Shameless thievery Update: Cartoon commuter pic stolen from Mr. E

Basketball Bulge

2007-02-03T14:56:00.000-08:00

“First, I’m gonna take you to see one of the biggest and most famous dicks in the city.”

Now…, if a tour guide or field trip leader told me that, I would be filled with questions, disgust, excitement and a bit of nervousness.

... And, that wouldn't be all that an abnormal a response, would it?…

But, apparently it would…

This was one of the opening sentences of my field trip presentation last night. We were going to see the Sonics play the Bulls at the Key Arena, after visiting one of the most well-known Dick's of the city.

And, my guided audience of international students responded to my statement that we would see the biggest dick in Seattle simply by smiling, nodding enthusiastically and giving a few ‘thumbs up’ signs.

I suppose they were used to being shown large penises on field trips… Perhaps in their countries, observing over-sized male members was a natural catalyst for enjoying basketball games, or… maybe, phallic photo ops were the norm these days for the new generation of English language learners….

Whatever the case…, I was quite disappointed by the lack of student disappointment when I brought them to Dick’s Hamburger Shop for dinner, rather than taking them to view one of the most enormous penises in the state.

It’s quite lonely to share a juvenile joke with yourself.

(…But, I suppose it’s better than explaining the joke to 13 eager, male-cucumber-nuance-ready learners...)

As simple as pie and relatives

2007-02-03T10:52:00.000-08:00

I thought it would be easy. As simple as making spaghetti. A cinch. A breeze. A picnic. A piece of cake. An easy A…

But I was wrong.

Taking the TOEIC Test (Test of English for International Communication) as a native English speaker was tougher than I had anticipated.

I expected to get 100% as the questions seemed pretty clear and the grammar (though absolutely NOTHING like the way people actually speak) was fairly straightforward.

So, when I learned that I had missed two questions, I was duly chagrined. I would no longer be able to walk into my Test Prep class as a Teacher with any dignity or semblance of authority. My students would whisper and giggle in the corners, passing notes that read: “Miss –C, Miss –C, She ain’t got da skillz to teach no English to me!” and I would cower on my back-pedalling unicycle when asked to confirm “the most common, American usage” of the subjunctive.

I still don’t know which questions I missed.

But, I have my suspicions.

I remember finding the “listening” questions most trialing, as they pretended to resemble real-life conversations. In these questions, I was forced to listen to a phrase or question posed by a stereotypical Aussie, Brit or American, and then asked to choose the appropriate response.

One question went like this:

“Excuse me. Can you tell me what time the bus leaves?”

a) Yes, on Monday.
b) No, I’m not interested.
c) Yes, at 1:30.
d) No, he’s my brother.

Now, I knew I was supposed to choose the BEST of all possible answers. Since, I had absolutely no idea what bus the slow-speaking, elocution-trained English man was talking about, I chose b). Was my test graded unfairly because I didn’t care about the English voice actor’s bus schedule?

The other listening question I remember giving me difficulty was:

“Mary, what should we have for dinner tonight?”

a) Let’s go to the movies.
b) Pizza and salad.
c) At 8:30.
d) My sister and her husband.

Pizza and salad??! Who eats pizza and salad? Pizza and beer--yes, but... Clearly the answer was d).

Those test writers are sneaky bastards, I tell you.

Birthday Bug in Costa Rica

2007-01-27T17:48:00.000-08:00

I've always been a passionate promoter of solo traveling.
I've extolled the virtues through rough, approximate-syllable haikus and slurry eulogies to every mosquito, resort-rendered deaf vacationer and apathetic aphid I could find.
I've told them of the remarkable benefits of bussing, training, and hitching alone (namely, the amount of people you meet, the extended kindness and invitations offered by others and the ability to avoid the itineraries of shopping travelers, dance club seekers, Mai Tai enthusiasts… as well as the soul-necessary ability to stay three extra days in an otherwise touristically uninteresting place, just because the hammock is comfortable...)

But, there is one logical reason I can think of for inviting a travel companion along with you on a vacation or exploration. And that is:

so you have someone to take pictures of.

And, so..., when my mother gave me this hand-made, construction paper Bug for my birthday last summer, I decided He would make the most amiable and relaxed companion on my next trip. Afterall, he already seemed to have a flair for the travel life...

And, I must say that our little Birthday Bug did quite well on the road.
He was care-free and friendly as we navigated the crowded Avenida Central in San Jose, remained pleasantly optimistic when we had to stand without seats for the four hour busride to La Fortuna, and slept peacefully as his travel companion (yes, that's me) joked and chatted into the early hours with Japanese-fluent Tico hostel owners and Law philosophers.

Now, many creatures of Costa Rica have an affinity for and an exclusively survival-based relationship with water (like the Jesus Christ Lizard and the poison dart frog). But, our little Birthday Bug companion proved not to be the aquatic enthusiast you'd expect.
Infact, he was appallingly frightened of swimming, cowered from waterfall misty sprays and even crumpled his contruction paper arms at the touch of sweaty tourist fingers.

(I even offered him a stylish mini-coconut bikini and a tree-sap latex speedo, depending on his orientation... to no avail.)

BUT, I did finally get him to pose for a photo once, albeit very unwillingly, infront of a small cascade...

He tried to smile, but the wind currents sent his black paper
legs swinging liberally in the humid breath of his hiking companion, and he just didn't feel comfortable posing alone.

Having been the domesticated entomological puppet of a mother's creative hands for so long, he just didn't feel much at ease in the presence of a daily-active volcano and its seismically charged, bordering rivers...

But, I like to think he DID later enjoy himself a bit, locked safely inside a Zip-Lock tupperware containter for three days (with appropriate airholes, mind you), as his traveling home-girl hiked throught the Cloud Forest alone, aweing at the sights of Quetzales, being drawn to wing-like arm stretches beside cloudy vacancies and enjoying the sounds of non-construction-paper insects and birds for three hours at a time without seeing another person...

But he did get hungry.
And he did get lonely.

So, when he met a tired and friendly stray puppy one night, our little protagonist insect (though, he could be an arachnid... for he has lost a few paper legs in journey...) reached out for companionship.

And because his travel companion had forgotten to bring such proper medical supplies as glue, colored construction paper and scissors, and because he was so tired, lonely and hungry...

He ate the dozing puppy right there in Mal Pais, Costa Rica;

first swathing the dozing puppy in a moist caccoon of artificially-colored paper,

and then sucking the sashimi juvenile dog juices out like a dry martini with bedbug chasers and remnants of undigested, out-of-date Lonely Planet guidebook pages...

Yes..., I like to think we both had a good time...

(more to come soon...)

Post from the Road

2007-01-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

Midst trip through CA hotspots.
Minimal time to post.
Will try anyway.

Familiar warm winds. Relatives and frozen water pipes. Traffic and Mexican food. Harp players and Waldorf zealots. Bloody poodles and ferocious rotweilers. Desert stars from the back of a pickup truck. Wine country and incompetent bank tellers.

Disclaimer: This is not intended to be poetic, entertaining, lyrical or even readable. I just felt I should post before boarding another plane.

I should have, however, just sent you here to check out my Simulated Self in action, selling flowers. It's far more palatable.

1,2,3... HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2007-01-03T18:15:00.000-08:00

I know a guy who can replicate, precisely, the distinct sound of a dove looking for a mate.

His realistic “coo” can get any wholesale warehouse shopper to look up and squint inquisitively at the rafters of the ceiling. His hollowly sweet song can have pale-wristed, avion-scat-a-phobics* on the sidewalk ducking under large parked trucks and pulling juvenile weekly newspapers over their shower-capped heads.

Not only can he also do this in Spanish (“cu-curru-cu-cú”!), but he can dove purr in any language and, most exceptionally, he can impersonate these white winged peace icons ON COMMAND!

…I also know a guy who can theatrically burp on command, and a friend who can consistently produce an obscure and hilarious new vocabulary word on command.

So…, for example.., if these three were sleeping, you could jab them all in the derriere with a pinecone, require them to immediately perform and, without even a grunt or an eye-rub, you would hear:

“Cooo-ooo! Cooo!”
“buuuurp!”
“ah.., f*ck this uxorial, crapulent imbroglio!”

and, then they would all roll back over and sleep as if nothing had happened.

So…, why am I writing about this?

Well…, I guess it’s because I’m jealous.

I have never had, as far as I know, a talent for performing an audience-pleasing action ON COMMAND.

Whenever someone asks me to “tell a joke” or “be funny”, I immediately freeze up and can’t remember even a single nun pun…

If someone asks me point-blank to juggle or dance, my cheeks start to burn baby-butt pink, and I toss the balls as quickly as I can…

I hate it when people ask me to “speak another language” for their exotic pleasure, and I employ every quick, clever quip I can to get out of reinforcing stereotypes by “telling stories” of my international experiences in 40 second conversations…

Basically… (even though I love performing and making a donkey organ of myself at times), I don’t like ‘dancing’ on command. I prefer to dance when it comes naturally and in proper context.

I mean..., you wouldn’t ask a great sexual composer to create a masterpiece without foreplay, would you? And, what kind of interviewing reporter would ask for a life history without establishing an understanding and casual rapport first?

What I’m trying (albeit long-windedly) to get at is that being retrospective about the past and contemplative about the future is not something that happens ON COMMAND.

(...for me, at least.)

It’s not something to be done only during January of the New Year.

It’s something that is done year-round, on arbitrary Sundays when the wind is particularly awkward and on weird Wednesdays when your ordinary habits seem suddenly silly…

So, all I'm saying is: Forgive me for not observing the New Year in the seemingly accepted manner. Trust me, I've got enough resolutions to fill this month's void!

***By the way, if anyone know the correct word for the phobia that reflects a fear of falling bird shit, please let me know. You need help as much as I do.

On unflawful perfection and fault invention

2007-01-01T18:13:00.000-08:00

If you don’t have enough inherent idiosyncrasies as a person, I say it is your social responsibility to invent some.

I mean, lets say you’re an outstanding guitarist. You are an impeccable master of both technical and methodological precision who tight-ropes flawlessly between soulful inspiration and musical exactitude. You run up and down arpeggios like virtual staircases, and your every performance is like a Jimmy-invoking séance.

Yes, you’re an extraordinary musician who will probably even make it into music history books and slip into the pretentious conversations of martini-drinkers at parties held by old people trying to be hip.

But…, will people like you?

No.

Because no one likes a faultless genius. No one likes a perfect neighbor, an intelligent AND beautifully-breasted coworker, or a weather man who is an actual meteorological psychic. Aside from making great paper weights, such people just serve to highlight the flaws and shortcomings of others.

So, that’s why I think it’s important for everyone (especially all the other flawless people like me in the world) to invent a few well-developed, rough-edged idiosyncrasies that can be tacked on to their personality in times of social awkwardness or peer disdain.

The kick-ass, impeccable guitarist, for example, would be wise to get himself a drug addiction of some sort and an affinity for rubbing zebra dung on his forehead and genitals during performances.

The perfect neighbor could get herself a minor personality tic like…, for example, an obsessive-compulsive need to repaint the mailbox each and every day wearing only a pair of blue clogs and a postal service hat.

Et cetera…

But, you ask, does the preacher practice what she screeches?

Why yes, in fact, I do.

In my own life, I’ve uploaded a few invented flaws and idiosyncrasies that I often use to highlight my inherent persona and keep my social peers from thinking I’m dull.

The first thing I invented was a passionate disdain for mayonnaise. I learned over many years of being asked “What foods do you like/ dislike?” that my honest answer (“I like everything. There’s not a food I can think of that I don’t like.”) was not a socially acceptable answer. Every time I tried to answer truthfully, my interrogators would INSIST that there must be a food I couldn’t stand.

Hence, I pulled mayonnaise out of my ass (…but, sorry, I didn’t film it and post it to Youtube), and now just the thought of that whipped-cum white puree gives me the inclination to sing Christmas carols with Whitney Houston and Ted Haggard.

The other personality enhancer I brewed for myself is a lovely little piece of work I call Travel Snobbery…

I figure everyone spins the globe and fantasizes about seeing the romantic shores, exotic creatures and diverse flora of distant lands unprotected by corrupt governments.., but NOT everyone can boast of a narrow-minded snobbery about the “correct” way to travel.

So…, I carefully designed (first out of toothpicks and later out of idea alone) a unique, backpacker-wiggle-your-bare-toes- down-into-the-cultural-earth-eat-cheap-stuff- from-local-markets-and-stay-in-three-walled-places-that- cost-less-than-a-bottle-of-water attitude towards travel which I have used to add spice to my public personality on many a crowd-pleasing social occasion.

And this little idiosyncratic attitude of my exoteric self says that Costa Rica is for howler monkeys and one-week tourists who wear their backpacks on their stomachs and scream when they see spiders near their food.

But… what can I say…, the ticket was cheap. So, I’m going.

...Phew!... All of these words just to say that I’m going to Costa Rica…

No…, honestly, all of the circumlocutive wordiness is just a part of my recently invented “Can’t get to the point” Flaw that I’m working on now to enhance my otherwise banal personality. Let me know how it’s coming.

Hairy Hissmas! Where should I fly?

2006-12-26T18:06:00.000-08:00

A Merry Pagan Solstice Celebration to All!

…er…, I mean, a Happy, joyous Seasons Greetings to Everyone!

Whatever you want to call it.…, we celebrated this Christmas with bits of our neighbor’s pine tree (silver-showered in rain) decorating our place, red drippy candles (the blood of Cross-bearers roars strong!) lighting our smiles, stockings that looked like Express-Mail packages from mom (nuts and rice-crispy treats died for our sins!), Christmas Carols that Mister E. improvised on the guitar, drum and rock-star-esque vocal kazoo (“Grandma got run-over by a reindeer!”), and a few sacrificed lamb-like children (don’t worry—they wanted to taste fire!)…

Quite marvelous (and tasty!), indeed!

Now…, all that’s left in my feeling completely fulfilled for the holiday season is for me to choose a destination for my next pagan vacation coming in a few weeks…

I’m thinking Costa Rica or Panama because they have special, Frequent Sacrificer Deals from LAX and OAK…,

Honduras, on the other hand, has got vampire divers, Belize has multi-lingual mongrels, and Caracas has college friends to welcome me…

…but any suggestions (or offers of already-plucked/sheared sacrifices) would be greeted with open tongs and warmed charcoal…

MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS!

High Voltage Translated

2006-12-20T18:41:00.000-08:00

The adult ESL students today all looked like zombies.

Some had cavernous, pitchy carvings under their eyes.

Others had face blemishes and actual, real human skin in places where caked foundation and carpet-thick blush usually resided…

Some wore PayLess sneakers in place of high heels, and jeans instead of tight lycra-esque wristbands around their waists.

It was a strange day, indeed.

I thought a reality TV show slash cross-culture-dressing, Twighlight Zone emissary had descended in the night and possessed, redressed and re-made my Past Perfect Continuous-learning disciples.

It was either that, I thought, or they had all gotten happy-hour hammered the night before and were still recovering from the cheap shots of sleazy American culture and first-time, salt-tequilla-lemon-slice pick-up lines of the local fauna.

But, as it turned out…, my suspicions were unfounded.

The Saudi Arabian woman was just up all night because her baby was sick. The Taiwanese man was just overly perplexed about the psychological intricacies of homophobia in different cultures, and dying for discussion. The Spanish man had just spent the past 53 hours drinking coffee and painting in preparation for his next exhibit. The Korean man was just stressed about packing and buying souvenirs for his trip home in two days. The Peruvian woman was just ill from food-poisoning. And, the Japanese girls all simply had a group feeling of “low-voltage/ discontentment,” as they called it…

“Low voltage?” I inquired.

“Yes, Low Voltage, Low Tension” they responded (if not in verbal unison, then at least in vocal intention).

“Oh, you mean you are not feeling very energetic or excited today?” I guessed (mentally translating Japanese English to Comprehensible English).

“Yes, that’s right. We are feeling low voltage today.”

“Meaning… uh… that if I touch you now, I will not instantaneously become a fried, electrocution-flavored human corpse?”

“That’s right,” they repeated, completely baffled: “Low Tension.”

And, so it was that today I learned to associate “Low voltage” with the wearing of sweat pants and the absence of face make-up.

It’s quite astounding, really, the worldly insights and intrinsic bits of universal knowledge that we would all be deprived of were it not for quality Cross-Cultural Education.

Laziness Begets Winning Google Searches that behave like Splog Without the Ads

2006-12-18T22:43:00.000-08:00

Ok. It’s time to fess up.

I’m a pathetic, slacking blogger these days.

I admit it.

The last time I tried to post, I went to edit my silly words and lost them all to the Ether’s Ministry of Editing (which is no small feat, as the Ether’s editors couldn’t really give a spotted owl’s stool what parades naked with genital Big Mac acne around Blogspot…).

But, anyway, excuses aside, I’ve got to post something...

So, I’ll very unoriginally post some of my favorite winning google searches that recently landed unsuspecting surfers here, at Up the Creek Without a Platypus:

anaconda toilet box torture, genital protection hockey, spanked tomatoes, aardvark leprosy, Well Hello there Mister sneaky pants, sex with a cigar, Demolition Derby Tercel, burnt eyelashes, cantaloupe bong, Waterbed icepick, elephant unchi, bible coderackers, platypus love, funny and sexy breast check up, ABDUCTION FANTASY, columbian insurgency anal, camping schlong, age old people sneezing, schlong restaurant, Enormous Testicles, pink platypus, Sexy platypus, Alligator candy, Abduction fantasy, Clitorism is Us, sand like silth, suicide witness, sunnyside up spanking, pee under trees, raccoon dog testicles, minotaur slayed, baby salad fornication, deadliest ant, genital protection bareback riding, rancid song test wake up, how to masturbate without waking up partner

I have to say my favorite is "Columbian insurgency anal"... Though..., on second thought..., "spanked tomatoes" and "age old people sneezing" run a tight competition...

Well…, what can I say? I hope they found what they were looking for.

Olfactory Hoppiness and Audible Obscenities

2006-11-28T12:13:00.000-08:00

I suppose there are things more disconcerting than having a grown man wearing a giant block of synthetic cheese on his head pour beer on you.

(…being urinated on by a miniature Dachshund, for instance, or having your shirt collar straightened by a wino wearing splashes of decomposing haggis cologne…)

But, being a virgin to the arena of live American Football, I didn’t know such things were par for the athletic spectator course. I didn’t know that a culture existed within which it was acceptable to spew volcanic, garlic-cheese-fry tephra into the faces of those around you, and I’d never heard of any club that invited its members to scream obscenities into each other’s ears and shove stale, under-fermented malty-hoppy yeast aromas up each other’s nostrils.

This club, however, does in fact exist. They are most commonly known as “football fans”.

And, I was among them last night at the snowy Seahawks-Packers game in Seattle.

When my private student, Makoto, invited me to join him in his section 310, season pass seats, he probably thought I knew and cared more about football than I actually do. He probably thought, for example, that I knew what a “down” and a “red flag” were and that I understood why non-inebriated men would line up to wrestle with each other to the dissonant screams of shirtless, chest-painted cat-callers.

But, I disguised my ignorance well.

Having lived in quite a few different countries where strange happenings were the norm, I was able to adapt quickly to the new stadium environment. When others wearing my color (blue) jumped up to wave flags and holler enthusiastic obscenities, I did the same. When natives boo-ed baritone beer breath indecencies, so did I.

And, I think I did all right. (At least…, no members of the Club potato-sacked me or pulled me back into a dank locker room for questioning. And, the rumors of water board-supported quizzes on QB and runningback statistics… well…, nope- luckily never happened.)

And, actually…, I have to admit that the fans won me over. There’s something outstandingly special about the type of primal screaming, hysteria, emotional excitement and touchdown-determined disappointment that comes with watching a live football game;

something we don’t get to experience everyday in our humdrum lives.

Yeah, it’s something alright…

Something like competition-strummed cacophony and oral malodor.

*Edit/Update: Honestly, I had an awesome time at the game, and can’t wait to go to another one!! (I’ll just bring along my supplemental vocal chords and face mask next time!)

Web-schlong Winks

2006-11-24T14:44:00.000-08:00

I've finally added blog links.
Most are my real-life friends.
Some are real-life blog buddies of a few years.
And the other two... well..., I don't know who they are.

If I've forgotten you, talk to my editors.
They are lazy luddites, but are very kind.

Poultry as Passage

2006-11-24T14:41:00.000-08:00

Discreetly wrapping up your first pair of blood-stained panties and burying them at the bottom of the campground dumpster…

Getting your first pocket knife and carving your name into a picnic table… Hearing, for the first time, that giving birth is like squeezing a razor blade-adorned watermelon through your throat…Writing your first poem and reading it to a mirror… Divulging, on your knees, your first Jaegermeister to a receptive porcelain ear... Boarding a plane alone, for the first time, to a foreign place… Learning to finger unknown Beethoven movements on your own smooth corpora cavernosa glans… being poked in a sensitive zone where no pocket knife has been before…

These are true Rites of Passage.

And, well…, I thought since I’d spelunked these passages before, I was pretty much done with the Coming-Of-Age ritualistic nonsense.

I mean…, What other silliness could there really be left?

I’ve already ridden without training wheels, navigated my first munchies, slept on cardboard boxes, signed soul-claiming contracts, and braved the consumption of VeggieMite…

There couldn’t possibly be more ticket-checkers, waiting to negotiate my passage into adulthood, could there?…

Yes, there could.

I learned yesterday, that there is a dude (who also works minimum-wage security at the rio of Stix border) standing at the gates of Adulthood, checking to make sure that all United-states-of-Americans have cooked their own Thanksgiving meals (without the help of their families).

I learned that if you are a USA passport-holder and have not yet a)burned a witch, b)been a CIA snitch abroad or c)baked a bird bitch for the holidays, you will be denied passage to the Land of Grown-Upedness.

Fearful that we wouldn’t make it past the frontera and would remain perpetual stag-party brothers of Peter Pan, Mr. E and I decided yesterday to roast an innocent winged beast, stuff her with tasty potions, and give her company on the plate.

After six hours, our meal turned out great (despite our many outspoken exclamations of “What the hell is this globby thing?!”, “Are her legs supposed to be limply flailing like that?!” and “What?! You have to cook a casserole?!”).

We are both ecstatic.

But…,

Both of our Visas are still mysteriously pending at the border…

Of Teet-sharing and Dear-Diarying

2006-11-19T21:05:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been much for the I-went-here-today-saw-this-felt-that kind of blog post.

…Especially when the places been, the things seen, and the feelings felt are of the pretty mundane, had-orange-juice-and-coffee-for-breakfast-and-am-feeling-kinda-bloated ilk…

But, what can I say? I’m lazy, have been neglecting my blog a lot recently, and I had orange juice and coffee for breakfast today. And yes, I am feeling slightly bloated.

So, here goes the kind of post I usually hate:

My week in a shelled pair of nuts

Taught some English. Took some walks. Had a life-sized, self-defense doll sporting a green belt sit next to me on the bus. Unraveled the mysteries of when to use definite articles with uncountable nouns (mainly when the dry martini well at the party dries up…). Facilitated crude compare-contrast conversation with Japanese students at a bar after visiting a home-grown American sex shop. Hit a surprisingly decent open-mike night (spoken-worders, young-angsters, expired rockers, dark eccentrics and tabla poets). Became an official Washingtonian (the trip to the Department of Licensing was so amazingly stress-free that I might just as well have been getting a teet massage from Buddha himself). Checked out my dad’s recently uploaded site (so much for blogger anonymity!) Watched and was disappointed by Borat (c’mon! a little less drama, and a little more docu!). Was informed by my veiled Saudi Arabian student that humans used to live for thousands of years. Read some of this and this. Ate some burrito made by a white woman (go Seattle!). Drank some orange juice. Took a few shits….

And there we have it: my best attempt at a Dear Diary entry.

Well, the sooner I quit this uninspired post, the better.

(Yes, I’m still practicing my double comparatives!)

And, finally…, here’s a squirrel sucking from a momma dog’s lactating boob.

...yup.

Erection Day Sigh

2006-11-08T20:24:00.000-08:00

There are no keys on this laptop that can accurately express the long sigh of ecstatic relief/hope/pride I am feeling and exhaling right now for my country.

(Perhaps, if I were more versed in the young email-cum-text message language of LOLs and OMGs, I could illustrate it with a few semicolons and closing parenthesis, a smattering of custom smiley faces or a long series of dashes, apostrophes and backslashes artistically arranged… but, alas…)

The only way I can describe this feeling is to compare it to the emotions I might feel if I had just learned that my beloved, younger brother (who had been a clown-costumed criminal, crack-burning crony for 19 years and a male-bride-ordering sexaholic with an affinity for building meth labs inside of National Parks) had just finished Rehab and now sported 10 months of sobriety notches on his belt.

Aaahh, yes…. the sincere pride, admiration, respect, hope and love for a dear brother who has moved his chemical drug factories out of the old-growth forests and into the new….

Happy Election Results Day!

The hotter, the better

2006-11-03T21:53:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday was Hallow's Eve, and I've been meaning to post about it for a few days now.

I've got great gaudy, raunchy and sensibility-wrenching raw tales of Japanese students in thimble-sized skirts and wanton, western-French maid get-ups...., detailed descriptions and candid shots of promiscuously-dressed, pecker peek-invoking Peter Pan iron-ons, shamelessly sexy scenes from innocent exchange students in tall stockings, stories of stretched napkin bosom sheaths and high-heeled ruby-studded leather boots...

But..., the time has passed…

The blogosphere has left Halloween behind in its laundry basket.

Used and ready for recycling.

No..., the truth is that I would feel slightly exploitive – if not REALLY WRONG- using my curvaceous, nubile, whore-adorning language learners as blog post attractions...

(... plus, I think it's illegal to post those kind of shots without ethical clearance.

...even if the featured models DO dress and act like the type who would giggle and apologize while saying no and gasping as you stuck an antler up their rear kettle spout....)

Honestly, though…, I have spent the better part of a week disguising explanations of the possible cultural/anatomical implications of dressing like a dirty skag beneath target grammar points.

For example, Wednesday, we studied Double Comparatives (i.e. “The more it rains, the wetter I get,” and “The earlier I wake up, the more time I have to masturbate,” etc.)

So, I tried a few “Complete-the-sentence” games with them:

Me: The more I speak English…,
Students: … the more confident I become.

Me: The more fast-food I eat…,
Students: … the more weight I gain.

Me: The shorter my skirt is,….
Students: …the cuter I look.

Me: The more leg, ass and pubic hairs a bystander can see…,
Students: … the cuter I look.

Now…, I don’t know if I’m just becoming old and over-protective, or if these alleged college graduates are just still that ridiculously naïve…

But, I DO know that the next student wearing a hoola-hoop of fabric ‘round her waist who complains about obnoxious male suitors at the bus stop will get a free double comparative lesson from me:

The sluttier you look, the more slut-seekers you’ll attract.

And the more slut-seekers you attract, the...

Diamond Voyeurs find Puff

2006-10-29T17:55:00.000-08:00

Here I am, peering in through -c's window. A peeping Tom, if you will… Lady Godiva’s reincarnated voyeur…

Her boyfriend (-c’s, that is, not Lady Godiva’s) is out, working at the Bodies Exhibit.

She has no T.V.

Her stereo is turned off.

And, she is…, Oh My Lord!...

She is fixing a cup of tea.

And, now, sweet Madre de Maria!, she is solving for the slope of two given graph points on the back of a Trader Joe’s receipt!

(The absolutely heinous and shocking obscenity of it all!)

Wait!—now she has discarded her tired receipt and is scribbling lesson plan notes on post-its inside an ESL textbook!

(What crude and immodest acts of disgust!)

And… hold on… could it be??!!

She is googling something…

I can’t exactly make out what she has typed in…., but I can see that it has something to do with swollen eyelids, past-continuous conversational topics and WIRED magazine subscriptions…

Oh well…, no nude, dish-washing going on here…

Time to move on to the next window…

(If you only knew how many duds we voyeurs come across in search of gems!)

One Way (USA WAY) or Another...

2006-10-27T23:55:00.000-07:00

Break out the bubbly, put on a skanky dress, ready your dancing shoes—there’s gonna be a party!

In a few days I’ll celebrate my one year and two month anniversary of living back in the US of A after quite a few years of travel affairs and global male mistresses!

My partner (the US of A) and I are absolutely thrilled!

Honestly…, neither of us really thought it would last this long…

He was sure I would run off with the first intriguing, dimwit foreign Country I met who offered promises of excitement and wonder…

And, I was sure he’d bore me to exile with his predictable desires, monotonous stories, and apathy towards his own dimwit cranial Administrations…

But…, we both surprised each other, and are still happily honey-mooning in development-inspiring exploration and quest-questioning passion (…despite his lack of critical attention to his dimwit cranial administration…)!

So…, raise a glass!, put on a punny Halloween costume!, slash an over-handed smile at someone unexpected!, and wish me a happy current life with the US of A!

After all…, anniversaries celebrate the most un-expected and primordially exciting, entertainingly beguiling, and symbolically soul-salt-licking situations of all occasions…!

(...PLUS, they give you reigns to wear pom-poms on your head, paint on your knees, obscure bandanas around your joints, eye-patches on your ears, fangs in your nose and shower curtains 'round your ankles when you feel like dressing up!!)

Erecting Baz

2006-10-22T18:18:00.000-07:00

I actually sat down to write about Baz.

(He’s the old man I talk to every morning at the bus stop who’s got a story for every beer and a Whiskey for every myth…)

He’s got enough unintentional defecation anecdotes to burry a Golden Shower Fantasizer, and can sing the original lyrics to “She’ll be cummin’ ‘round the brown mountain when she comes…”

But…, unfortunately my creative muse has begun whinging about our possible dives into fecal matter and memory loss, and has staged a sit-in.

So..., what I’m left with are controversial and entertaining bits of real news (the homosexual penguin exhibit in Norway, Allegations of the Spanish King shooting a piss-drunk bear, Seattle’s new Metro-sexual invoking Slogan, silliness supporting/opposing my long-standing love of Ali G’s character: Borat, and frustrated remnants from a sunny day of studying for the Washington Teacher Skills Test)….

So, I’ll just complain about the studying…

Samuel is 2 inches taller than Rudy and Rudy loves dick. James does not love dick but he can white-wash a wall in four hours. Rudy is ¾ of an inch taller than James when he is white-washing but shrinks to ¼ of Samuel’s size when he is painting a window sill. Samuel can white-wash a wall in half an hour if no one else’s height exceeds Samuel’s minimum length. James is 1 inch taller than Samuel when he is not white-washing, but gains 2% of his ordinary white-washing length when he touches brush-stroked sill. If James ordinarily operates at 5/17 the same length and painting speed as Samuel, how long will it take James to paint a window sill alone, and how tall will Rudy be?

I swear, these are the type of questions they are asking a potential teacher here in Washington state…

Somehow, I think the skills I learned in high school, along with the observations, could come in handy just about now….

Of Fatred and freed Dryer sheets

2006-10-09T19:34:00.000-07:00

My friend told me it was meant to be; it was Destiny.

I mean, yeah, OK, I’d go on a date with him any day… But…, destiny?

I’d hold his hand while staring into his cosmic eyes, and we’d navigate the uncomfortable silences with talk of today and tomorrow; of hermit crabs and honeydew, radishes and Rohipnol, and of sand dollars and salami….

Yup…, if I could choose anyone to go on a blind date with, it would definitely be this hunk. He’s got everything a girl could want: confidence, creativity, power, humility, sensitivity and girth… And, to top it off, he’s got the best sense of humour of anyone you’ll ever meet!

Yeah, he’s got it all (… and a beautifully comedic lack of explanation for any of it).

So, who is this exciting and spontaneous blind date candidate of my moist dreams?

Well..,, as I’ve never worried about over-using fondue clichés here before…, I’ll just go ahead and tell you…:

He’s (and here’s where we dip our skewered clichés in fondue cheese together…):

The Universe, The Genetically-altered Jellyfish, and Everything.

And it’s because of the daily prospects for a blind date with this romance-improvising catch that I can confidently refute my friends’ claims of “fate” and “destiny” as explanations for the strange things that happen in our lives.

After all, the blind date of MY fantasies has no plans. He might surprise me by wearing a a flowered MooMoo with baby bonnet to meet my parents one day, and sport a $1000 pin-striped suit with matching ballet slippers and tentacle-protectors to the laundromat the next.

But, he certainly doesn’t care much who I haphazardly meet, or what serendipitous opportunities arise from random encounters…

BUT…, on the other hand…, blind dates aren’t always meant to be...,

and I do sometimes feel like there is something incredibly magical going on in the world to make things fall, Paulo Coehlo-style, into unjustified puzzle piece place (“…as if the universe were conspiring to make it so…”).

I mean, how else could you explain arriving at the laundry machines at exactly the moment your washing and drying simultaneously finish and a Russian neighbor catapults the door open with dirty socks flying, dryer sheets fluttering in the sunset dusk, and the lost black cat appearing after a week-long absence??

Or, when your best friend from NY visits for the weekend, and the planets align to allow Dylan parodies, art openings, wilting inflatable mattresses, Trader Joe’s wine bottle line-ups and finger-scooped brie to become fantastic, laughter-filled memories…?

Or when journalism-aspiring immigration workers meet children’s book illustrators/musical geniuses and esl-teaching/obscure blog-post hobbyists for bouts of ferry trips, tide-trapping beach hikes, and acapella renditions of “I love little baby ducks, small pick-up trucks, ….and onions!” …??

So, here’s to blind dates that show up when least expected!
To the chaotic beauty of existence, and to the three Norse Norns whose watering buckets might still accidentally spill on our porch weeds when we’re busy worrying about the bandit orangutang raping our kittens!
And to Columbus (who did some sailing and, by some arbitrary advertising scheme of fate, got me the day off of work today), to old friends in new places, bold charades in old faces, Thai food buffets, blackberry bushes going into dormancy, morning Mimosas, egg and swiss on bagels, the NY Times, little baby ducks, birds of the world,

…and squirrels.

*P.s. for those who don’t know the brilliant, poetic lyrics that manage to rhyme “birds of the world” with “squirrel” and “onion” with “tomatoes on the vine” and “kisses from a child”, have a re’listen to this song. It’s fantastic! The giggles it invokes should definitely make it well worth the time!

And then, Nanobot created Cover Letters

2006-10-01T19:28:00.000-07:00

So, you're sitting on the deck, inhaling sun, slurpin' down heat for the winter, imagining the day when nanobots rule your body and autonomously administer nutrients and anecdotal stories via wireless networking systems…

What do you think you’re doing?!

You’re supposed to be critiquing and perfecting your students’ internship cover letters!

(…granted, this is slightly hilarious, considering that the cover letter that won you your current position reads like a bumbling Hunter S, Thompson correspondence penned under bath-water bubbles…)

But, really, what are you doing?? Who do you think you are, relaxing on a Sunday afternoon, reading Ray Kurzweil’s recently published book, imagining a future of technologically progressive humans who defy current, biologically-defined needs…??

…when, CLEARLY, there are more pressing matters at hand, such as the reworking of cover letter sentences like:

“I developed up-to-the-minute capabilities of helping foreign people in customers with individual hard work and motivation as if they was Japanese speakers.”

And:

“My enthusiastic try my best motivation is my most high motivation and important to me.”

It’s obvious you have to get it together!! Get off the Sunday sunlight kick, away from the speculative scientific reads, and back to the cover letters!

So, get to it! Stop reading and sun-bathing! Get to writing a brilliant cover letter!

Ok…fine….:

Dear Sirs,

I’m writing in regards to the internships available at you hotel. I think my experience in customer service, English language ability and my love of pleasing others in a multitude of ways will prove to be great contributions to your company.
I’ve served many a foreign guest, in the most needy of times. I can adapt to unique customer desires and am willing to serve your clients in whatever unconventional areas they propose.
I believe the skills mentioned above prove that I would be a great asset to your business. Please contact me to discuss how I can further please you.
Sincerely,
Eager Intern Applicant with big-mouth Smile

So…, how about that for a friendly, functional cover letter?

Can I go back to reading science-fiction-echoing, techno, bio-chemical-based predictions of the human race now...?

Re-spanking the Painting

2006-09-24T20:25:00.000-07:00

I just wrote a nice, long, predictably silly and embarrassingly pretentious post about the local Oktoberfest here, but just as I was about to post it, our internet service went out…

(thank the mighty platypus!)

so, instead of blog-oligizing on a beautiful sunny afternoon, I turned to hanging with Mr. E who was painting outside on the corner, creating a well-degredated flying butt monkey piece, apparently very historically political and currently statement-making.

It was such a phenomenal piece of artistic ape ass rendering, that I felt, also, inclined to paint.

So, not wanting to utilize expensive supplies, I took scissors to cardboard box and savagely hacked myself a canvass. I began with the yellow and maroon: a brushy outline of a stein-guzzling frat boy here. A sketchy blocking of a meaning-searching, pussy-excavating dream there. A profoundly meaningful squiggle on top of that…

But then I realized that (though I had creative genius taking the mouth-guard in my corner), I didn’t have the acrylic motivation to complete such a profound work of art,

So I turned my embriotic masterpiece over to Mr. E, had him sign a few legal rights papers, and watched as it was painted, in a more aesthetically-pleasing and realistically impressive kind of way.

And, I have, hereby inaugurated this lazy blog with a picture…

Of syllabic sludge and samarai

2006-09-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

Yes- it’s true. I’m a romantic sucker for words and language. Serve me up a linguistic mouthful of chopped syllables sautéed in assonance on a nice bed of irony-strained description, and…, well…, I’m one happy chick.

But, if you REALLY want to get me peckin-at-the-bit excited…, just mix up a nice wordy stir-fry of completely arbitrary ingredients, seasoned with a most obscure range of spices, chase it with a shot of indescribable sludge (with no Latin equivalent), and I guarantee I’ll be cock-a-doodlin’ with the hens by daybreak!

Now, I know…, there are some people out there who disagree…

There are some naïve souls out there who believe that true happiness is to be found only in love, damn-good orgasms, in family, or in a well-executed Thai body massage…

But, let me set ye lost souls straight…:

It just don’t get better than- yes, I’ll say it: “linguistic muck”.

And, that’s why, though I’m over-worked and far-under-paid, I love my current job so much.

Where else could I go at 8am, still waiting for my coffee to kick in, listen to intriguingly fantastical linguistic muck, and get PAID for it?!

And, just to show you how great my current employment is, I’ll share the inspiring and tragic tale that I got paid to listen to this morning:

“When I was a junior highschool,”
(Yes- apparently a great number of Japanese university graduates were once educational facilities themselves!)
“my mother regret very much my experience… In bed I was bunking top,”
(Well, who DOESN’T, these days?!)
“and – how can I say? – fire spirit samarai ghost strangled me from neck down with the French carrousel animals spinning at ceiling.”
(Oh yeah, the old, romantic spinning, French merry-go-round line…)
“I was very scary. But, now my mother she is very kindly. And, I am happy because of study English.”

In my opinion, tales of such profound sorrow, sadness, reconciliation and unintentionally-moving poetry just don't come around every day!

So, this morning I decided two things:

1) that I will hold off on looking for alternative jobs for a while and

2) that, as of today, all of my students (so that they can check their grammar, of course) will be recorded on tape, explaining some of their most influential experiences.

Prescription rugs for Atomic Readjustment

2006-09-16T03:41:00.000-07:00

It’s not like dropping a couplet of rosy-cheeked, newborn twins into a blender, really, but…

Putting a few psychologically healthy, socially-skilled human beings into a light-absent, unadorned cell with a rhythmically syncopated faucet drip, a bored albino ferret and ten minutes of blared Chopin once every 9 hours…

Now…, that’s something I would love to observe!

(Aside from providing exceptionally entertaining dinner party discussions, it would be…, well…, philosophically-engaging and psychologically intriguing enough to keep me home on a Friday night…)

How many months would it take before our once-healthy individuals built their own perceptional Stonehenge around melancholically euphoric outcries, began associating enlightened thoughts with rodent-toe nibbles, and hypothetical sunlight with delayed water droplets?

How long before our once-productive members of society constructed a ferret-scat sculpture to the Darkness, began writing abstract articles about evil chlorophyll-converters with terroristic tendencies, and developed a sound-based, drip-powered irrigation system?

These are the kind of obscurely ordinary and stupid thoughts that often shoulder-jab me at the bus stop, making me wish I had gone into a field that allowed me to do otherwise unethical scientific research…

But…, alas…, though I enjoy contemplating the ideas behind atomic bar-hopping within our quantum physical world and can’t get enough of discussing the repercussions of uncertain electrons, I can’t bring myself to study and memorize any physiological or chemical equations that would educationally pertain to such experiments.

So.., I have decided I have to create my own studies…

And..., well…, I can think of no better, easily-diagnosable, experimental Subject than Myself…, so here goes my shot at scientific research…:

One simple, healthy rat thrown into a foreign yet healthy environment…

Rat = me, healthy environment = ESL School

Observations: It only took the Subject a few weeks to adjust to the new, shadowed, Platonian, dark world of rampant ferrets, leaky faucets, and oddly-timed obscure music…

Within two weeks, the Subject was still smiling, laughing and carrying on as if things were perfectly normal…, even when people around her were uttering such odd phrases as:

“I am a typewriter”

“Fine movie producers are worn by great editors.”

“I am China.”

And

“If I couldn’t have had had a wouldn’t great had experience, I would, had have fabulous great times kindly!”

Conclusions: The Subject (yes—me!) took everything in stride, treated every exchanged conversation as if it were perfectly normal and…,

Diagnosis: this Subject is only moderately aberrational in her thinking and behavior.

Recommended Prescription: only 76 more years of life for this Subject, a few months of therapeutic discussion from an equally-aberrational thinker, and two full-strength 120mg pills of reality (taken via expresso shot) per day.

*Editorial insert: TGPIF (Thank the Great Platypus It’s Friday!) I don’t get paid enough to lesson plan at home, lead extra-curricular ferry trips to neighboring islands and chat with outstandingly accommodating, English-language-practicing conversationalists with expected preferences and rehearsed arguments! Thank the winged mammal-like whatsit in the sky for Mr. E, blank sheets of paper, and random drum circles by the river!

*Cheesy editorial PS#2: And thank the world for so many smile-invoking pieces of confetti that come in the form of political flyers.

New Genes on the Industrial Block

2006-09-04T17:18:00.000-07:00

If an evolutionary geneticist were studying the adaptation habits of Mister E. and myself right now, he might conclude that we are healthily carving our way into a sustainable niche here in Seattle. …And, that we might just have the survival techniques necessary to keep up with these dog-nibbles-dog North-westerners.

Or…, that we might just be harmless and artistically kooky enough to Olympic-style curl our way under the radars of potential predators looking to go Darwinian on our Southern Californian rumps…

After all, we’re not doing too poorly thus far in our new habitat.

As my previous deodorant-application post attests, we’ve managed to master the bus systems. (…though, I still aspire to one day hone the social grace and deftness necessary to shave my legs in between public transport transfers…)

Also, I’ve secured a nice little, hermit crab shell-earning position in the heart of the trendy homosexual district. No…, it’s not as glamorous as you might think; it doesn’t involve flaunting my stylish cargo pants-parading butchness or testing the durability of genetically-engorged cucumbers… Instead, I teach ex-pat adults to speak with the inarticulate fluency and grammatical apathy required for visa-holders to seamlessly sew their embroidered presence into the patchwork of this country.

And, as if all that weren’t enough to support our evolutionary muscle in this new place…:

we’ve also managed to finger paint our own flavorful prints on the local ecosystem’s pallet by wandering around town in pajama bottoms to the unexpected shock of native observers (one resident even went so far as to drop his jaw – though I thought a more flattering tribute would have been to drop his drawers - and compliment us on our “superb urban trendiness”)

But, perhaps, the thing that lends the most convincing evidentiary credence to our remarkable survival fitness claim, is that we finally have a hobbit hole to call our very own… or, at least…, to call our landlord’s very own loan…

It sits atop a little hill in the once-bohemian-art-center-turned-tourist-destination, overlooking the Washington ship canal, wind-bopping sailboats and a very large refinery of sorts.

To be honest, I’m not sure that it’s a refinery at all. It looks suspiciously like a cement factory. Or a whale blubber warehouse. Or a senior-citizen-exploiting knitting sweatshop…

The building reads “Marine Industries,” and I find myself just too imaginatively intrigued by its mystique to spoil the fun by looking its purpose up on the ww-web.

Something about the hideous rectangular monstrosity makes me want to sing the Tom Wait’s song: “What is he building in there?” and spend my three-day weekend coming up with possible mundane atrocities they might be committing inside its beige perimeter…

… a warehouse filled with kelp, rounded sea glass and three-eye-sporting, tentacled anemones with Nostradamic inclinations…?

… a hydroponic, chlorophyll-producing, thermal saline energy-converter manned by octopi with reading glasses and non-accredited PhD’s…?

… a post-it notes-manufacturing farmhouse built on the buried remains of a yet-unsponsored prophet’s scrolls…?

In any case…, I like to think of our industrial neighbor as playing an integral sushi roll in our success in this new city meal. A creative muse, if you will... A humble enforcer of the potency of our socially adaptive double helix health... An angled metaphorical ass-nudger with nucleotide chains of butt-kicking vigor…

And, if nothing else…, the mound of gravel in its parking lot is perfect for midnight pajama parties, deodorant-applying barbeques and bus schedule-swapping soirees…

Inventory of Justin Kayes

2006-09-02T01:54:00.000-07:00

Some subversive criminal geniuses can last years in their chosen professions without ever being caught. Like Dommer, for instance. Or Frank Abagnale Jr. … Or, if you’re a fan of over-sized shoes and balloon-nose make-up: John Wayne Gacy.

But not me.

I got busted today.

And, no…, (before you start entertaining romantic thoughts of necrophilia under star-studded canopies… or cannibalism with sides of ketchup)…

I am NOT a psychopathically deviant criminal, practicing violent voodoo rituals under deity-blessed barbeques.
Nor, am I a cunning, computer-savvy embezzler, a fraudulent document-twister or even a clever advertising-abuser.

And I certainly would never wear a clown costume out for a good night of rape-ery!

Except, of course, if I could paint my own toe nails…

… preferably, autumn woodpecker orange with lightning bolts of pre-pubescent passion fruit yellow…

No, really, though…

I got caught today while committing the most juvenile of social crimes.

Yes, it was a publicly heinous act. Yes, it was second-glance deservingly disturbing. And, yes, it was the grandma-gossip-grabber your nosy neighbor wishes for:

I was crouched in one of the back seats of the 49 bus headed for work on Capitol Hill, doing the unthinkable at 8am:

I was applying deodorant.
(to its appropriate destinations, mind you.)

And, yes, it was my second offense. And, yes I should have been more candid. But, my winged platypus!, doesn’t everyone deserve to skip a step in their morning ablutions process 2 days in a row at least once every few years?!

In any case…, if you are wondering what criminal repercussions targeted me after being visually apprehended for 5 seconds in the bus driver’s rear view mirror: well.., none.

And, if you are wondering why I felt inclined to tell this asinine story after such a long blogging absence: well…, I’m not sure there is any of that either.

And why I happened to have an extra stick of shower-fresh, armpit massage oil in my backpack?: well…, it’s probably the same reason I have a headlamp, two (I counted them) breath-mints, 14 different black pens, a colony of crushed staples, an inoperable minidisk and two unreadable books in my backpack:

Just in case.

'Cuz, well, you never know...

Simulated Me and Indecent Pee

2006-08-08T18:14:00.000-07:00

Two sixteen a.m.
I bobby-pin my hair up, leave a small clump of greased split ends to line the spine of my nose, and put my pompodour wig on. I freckle my cheeks with a mixture of watermarks attained from a neighbor's car windshield and paper voids acquired from a local copy shop's hole punch. I wriggle into the quilted outfit a peyote-eating curandero made for me from patches of space-time and discarded chicle wrappers, and wiggle my toes to make sure that my lightly-salted, seaweed pantyhose won't run when I tiptoe.
And, off I go into the night.

Sometimes I sit under trees, chatting with bark beetles. Other times, I patrol the night sky, wondering if it's the smog or the confetti in my kaleidoscope that impairs my vision of others like me...

...ok, fine... so, I don't really do this. But I DO often find myself doing mental jumping jacks in imaginary and fantastical worlds (... perhaps currently reading this and this doesn't help much!), and I DO often catch myself creativity twisting and fictionalizing real(?)ity around me... Just for fun, you know..., and to keep my pitcher filled with freshly-squeezed muse-juice (which by the way, despite a few reports to the contrary, is no longer sold at twenty-four hour pawn shops).

And we all do it sometimes. We all re-define the world around us and create snapshots of made-up truths to fit in with our perceptions of the way things are, the way things might be, or the way it-would-be-really-fun-and-trippy-if-they-were.

So, I've made up quite a few half-truth, fictional identities for myself (thanks, Philbrick for recently posting about this odd phenomenon).

So, I've got blogger "-c", customer-service "-c", MySpace "-c", third-person journal "-c", hi-grandma! "-c", love-impermeable "-c", goofy "-c", pussy-cat "-c", hell-no-I-won't-put-my-commas-inside-my-quotation-marks "-c", etc.

And, now, thanks to a good blogging buddy (who has never met me in person or seen a picture of me),...

I have virtual, Simulated "-c"! And, I'm hot! Check me out here. I am the "Mysterious Stranger" in the 9th picture down who apparently likes to piss in her own front yard.

Back Seat Blues

2006-08-03T16:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while on a flight from Seattle to Los Angeles, I interviewed an oft-forgotten celebrity of world travel. Over a complimentary two bags of honey-roasted peanuts and a Sprite, he gave me exclusive insight into the trying lifestyle and over-looked hardships of a salary-neglected, Alaskan Airlines Rockstar:

-c: So, how do you feel most days?

Travel Rockstar: Well, for the most part, I'm very happy. But, it's always a rollercoaster of excitement and emotion, isn't it?

-c: Absolutely. So, what brings on your highs?

TR: Well, I feel really good when people recognize me in the aisles, comment on my dedication and achievement, notice my stylish attire and feel comfortable sitting down with me for take-off, and sharing their iPod favorites with me.

-c: Sounds great! So, when does your rollercoaster cart descend?

TR: Well..., we all feel a little insecure sometimes, I guess...
Sometimes, I question my own self worth when people lean up against me while they're waiting for the lavatory, or when they bump up against me while "stretching their legs" without even feigning a mumbled "I'm sorry."

-c: Yeah, that could be tough for anyone...

TR: Occasionally, I even get a little peeved when people curse me for not being as limber as their local yoga guru or as flexible as their new shoe insole...

-c: Well, it seems shoe insoles these days get a little more praise than they deserve...

TR: No doubt! And..., well..., I even feel a little ignored and neglected when people throw their purses in my lap without asking permission, and when they, uninvited, grab my arms and try to maneuver them up and down as if my limbs were but stringed appendages of their agents' marionette...!

-c: I understand. So, what keeps you in the business?

TR: Well, to be honest... being the non-reclineable, window-less Back Seat of a commercial airplane isn't all that glamorous. But, I have to say, I occasionally get the appreciative passenger who treats me with respect and dignity despite my faults. I've even had a few people leave me their cell phone or passport in my pocket as a token of our intimate relationship!

-c: Well, that sounds wonderful. Unfortunately, I have to cut this interview short, as my neck is killing me.

*Update: Just flew into L.A. to do some moving and play. Will be driving back up to Seattle shortly with a car-full of gear, a stop in the Bay, and a few more stories. Long live the cramped, back seats of airplanes!

Big Party, No Pandemonium

2006-07-30T16:08:00.000-07:00

They didn’t try to feel me up.

They didn’t ask to look through my bag.

They didn’t even bother to inquire whether or not I was concealing a bloody, man-slaughtering mandolin in my sock.

It was all very strange.

If this was Seattle’s “biggest, craziest” outdoor musical Big Bang of the summer…, well…, let’s just call it soft and sweetly refreshing.

Where were the outlandishly deranged assholes with existential “beef”? Where were the violence-threatening eco-terrorists, the gekko-footed wall-climbers with odd inclinations, the crafty wallet appropriators, the stool-starting Gangstas with attitude, sneaky new-but-used cocaine salesmen, the mad audience-exciting movers and shakers of silliness/insanity, and the crowd-cramping cannibals offering cheap carne-on-e-stick, guey??

I just didn’t see them.
(…or, at least…, I didn’t see them loudly enough to notice…)

I almost felt like I was back in Japan; the three-block audience a colony of bopping heads, hive well-wishers, appreciative observers, deep-thinking smilers and inactive silent revolutionaries.

There were tons of bands and people, but there were no practicing trouble starters, and no police.

Quite astounding really.

And, though I’m a strong proponent of subversive behavior, poking fun at the ordinary, and causing chaos for the sake of rocking the boat, it was still quite refreshing to see such a big event held with such relaxed maturity and class.

I'm starting to think these so-called Seattleites are actually just actors, playing chill peeps roles for my benefit. As soon as I sign a long-term rental lease and a work contract here, I'm expecting the syringes to start flowing through the streets, undulating under the weight of maniacal, pitchfork wielding, mutated politician clones with the blood of suburbanites dripping from their fangs.

But, maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Boat Party

2006-07-26T23:37:00.000-07:00

I couldn't have felt any older, even if a giant purple dinosaur had emerged from a paper-machet volcano to lead us in rounds of "row, row, row your boat" as we struggled to string painted pasta-piece necklaces…, and stopped only to exchange exasperated "poo poo heads" over who got the dried, lavender tortellini.

I could almost feel crows trampling the muddy corners of my eyes, leaving near fossilized footprints on my face as flocks of undergrads in pirate costumes passed around alligator masks, candy cigarettes, skittle-colored jello shots, and talked of "deconstructing old paradigms of understanding," and "annihilating out-moded education models with heavy-handed pourings of Whiskey Sours."

Yeah, I was feeling old…
… old like I-had-just-crampon-crunched-my-way-past-Mallory and-Sisyphus-and-was-on-my-way-over-the-hill Old.

Old like I just didn’t care anymore and could scream: “We’re all being attacked by bow-tied, flute-playing ants!” in the middle of a church barbeque without minding if I upset someone’s discussion about how much dill is just the right amount in a potato salad…

But…, yeah, I swear someone was sprinkling gray hair seedlings in remote areas of oft-succulent growth on my body when I overheard Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's recent escapades used to illustrate the meaning behind an arguably profound Samuel Beckette quote, and when my refusal to drink Tequilla (that was obviously fermented in a re-used trashbag-lined kiddy pool outside of a carnival goldfish cemetery-slash-nuclear storage site) provoked a dissonant chorus of "CHUG it! CHUG it! CHUG its!"

Oh well. Maybe it’s not about age at all…

After all.., I couldn’t even handle those kind of parties when I was that age…

And,

Most of my “grown-up” friends now are admittedly still prone to bouts of freestyle poetry recitations (with an emphasize on fellatio puns and shunning of political buns), sessions of banging on household items (for no reason except that- wow, those are some “cool sounds”!), rounds of summer-saulting and skinny-dipping (only where appropriate and attention-grabbing, of course!), and improvised skits performed in public places (the louder, goofier, and more obnoxious, the better!)…

So, I guess it’s safe to say that even though I felt quite old at the party, those cheap booze-guzzling, liberal arts sea mariners are, in fact, a lot more “grown-up” than I am.

Afterall, I’m certainly not mature enough yet to use the words imperialism, secularism, logical positivism, multilateralism, and Clitorism all in a single, chatty conversation with someone I just met.

But, give me a few years.

I’m sure I’ll work them all into a coherent pick-up line one day.

Of the Devil’s condoms and food stamps

2006-07-26T03:06:00.000-07:00

So, when I was a teenager, I was known, on occasion, to drop arbitrary condoms and pregnancy tests into poor couples' unwatched shopping carts in the super market.

(thanks, frustrated writer for rekindling this memory☺)

I hoped that it would spark exciting conversation and dialogue (maybe a bit of humor and otherwise difficult-to-invoke exchange between the discoverers of the merchandise), result in microcosmic pandemonium, and create (if nothing else) a great source of laughter for myself and my friends.

Yes, it was quite cruel.
Maybe even a bit too ‘prophetic, pubescent proselytizing’ for anyone’s taste…
…but, I was young and dumb…

But, now…, it’s quite boring, actually…

I don’t get to play the trouble-starting, world-examining, piss-taking critic anymore…

I don’t get to apply anti-flea lotion to the devil’s advocate’s tail. I don’t get to grease the spokes of absurdity’s earlobe and swing his daughter’s umbilical-cord jump rope as her friends chant: “One LeapFrog, 2 LeapFrog, 3 LeapFrog more!”.

Instead, I dress up and interview for jobs doing the other thing that I LOVE more than anything: working with children. I share my experience, ability and over-qualified enthusiasm, only to realize that the pay couldn’t support the needs of a domesticated, half-pedigree dog in any part of the city.

Anyway, I’m sure that some enlightened guru of the east once said that living off of happiness, rice, noodles, library books, vagabond blogging and un-paid editorializing was the ultimate key to existence…

At least…, if he didn’t, he should have said that… ☺

*Update/Edit: To preserve my credibility as a dedicated educator, I’ll have you know that I would never drop condoms or pregnancy tests into a child’s lunch box. After all, we all know that abstinence pills work far better. Especially when the children are still in their formative years.

Ring, ring. Hello?

2006-07-19T02:23:00.000-07:00

There's no fooling a sweet, honest, greesy-haired techie who's just diagnosed your ailing cell phone. You might as well try telling a 40-year-cop-turned-neuro-psychologist that you've never had lustful thoughts or acted upon them.

"Well, your phone's circuits have been fried, and it appears that someone has tampered with your cell phone. Are you sure it hasn't been exposed to a city-block-sized vat of sticky, citrus consistency-based beverage, as well as some evil-intentioned intruder who tried to mop it up?"

Me: "Uh...er... perhaps a tiny droplet of... er orange juice... uh... dropped within its reach...and, er.. maybe someone very similar to myself in appearance slipped in through the open screen window downstairs to try and dry it out... ah, man! I've divulged too much!"

"Well...," (dramatic flat-lining image drowns out all WiFi connections in a 3 block radius) "there's nothing I can do for it now. Please see the Salesman for an absurdly over-priced new phone, or consult eBay and Craigslist for a better deal."

And away the all-knowlegeable, late-teen doctor goes...

Luckily, I'm still feeling happy today.

I mean..., it's hard to feel down when you've spent the week doing awesome things like visiting Seattle's Coolest Science Museum (the best fun, interactive displays and exhibits ever!), The Inner-Geek-Invoking Science Fiction Museum (c'mon, am I the only one who grew up loving Bradbury, Ursela K. LeGuin, Heinlein, Douglas Adams, Harlan Ellison, Orwell, Arthur C. Clark, Shelly, & Jules Verne??!) , Summerfest (if your boyfriend's an artist, never take him to an art fair unless you're ready to spend hours reading and writing about Chaos and Funny Feynman while he sketches and creates...) as well as lots of coffee shops, used-book stores, and a couple of job interviews. Overall..., very good stuff!

I'm loving Seattle!

P.S. Anyone have an old cell phone with a verizon serial number they want to toss my way?

Juice the improbable

2006-07-16T20:44:00.000-07:00

It's not an easy thing to do.
Not just anyone can do it the first time they try.
Really, it takes a bit of dexterous flair, a certain tactical finesse, and a few servings of cosmic luck.

But, miraculously, I managed it.

I successfully tossed my cell phone from my inflatable mattress into a narrow-mouthed glass of orange juice.

I instinctually, unintentionally and exactly calculated the weight and velocity of my flying communication devise, while taking into account gravitational and morning-wind-through-the-window variables to successfully perform this act.
What a miracle to accomplish such a grand feat purely by accident! Just imagine the ego-tickling pride and self-reaffirming dignity I must be feeling right now! Such inspirational and self-glorifying accomplishments don't come every day, you know.

Well..., perhaps it was for the best... Mister E suggested that it was my subconscious’s only way of chewing through the leash; its only way of liberating its free spirit from the confining whips of lovers, prospective employers, family and those ever-pesky good friends.

I, on the other hand, just can't help but be amused by the ever-outstanding preciseness of the universe's random exactness.

I mean..., how many other times in my life have I arbitrarily tossed an object, only for it to fall safely onto a stack of books, a carpet or a pine-needled floor? What are the odds that my projectile should land directly in a glass of citrus sweetness, complete with home-style pulp?!

Anyway, it’s occurrences like this that re-instill my momma’s-milk faith in the Great Winged Platypus and her crafty plans for us all.

(P.S. If you’re still finding that your questions about life, existence, meaning (and why arbitrary objects land in orange juice) are not being satisfactorily answered…, I’d be happy to send you further info on the religious teachings of the Great Platy-Pussy).

First "Hmmm....s"

2006-07-09T01:06:00.000-07:00

I, once, semi-accidentally walked into a "Snack Bar" in Japan and, upon immediate observation of the chatty, paid girls in fabric-lacking tops and hemmed-to-the-hyena-howl skirts, I drew my impressions of what the establishment embodied.
I thought it had to be another pay-for-company escort service-based business, marketing to high-paid, lonely (most-probably-married) salary men. I thought it was just another 'please-the-Money-with-prospects-of-pussy' kind of place.
But then, after many an evening, I finally met the owners, got to know them, their kids and their grandchildren, and eventually realised that there was far more to the business than just that...
The family wasn't making money off of simply night-capping pine cones...; they were making green bills off of--

...well, honestly, I still don't know...

But.., my point is that you can never know fully what is going on in a certain place based solely on your initial, intuitive responses.

First impressions should seldom be relied upon to accurately reflect what will come to exemplify the way you will know a place over time.

BUT..., they (1st impressions) can certainly illustrate significant milestones in evolving perceptions...
So..., before I forget what reflex-like responses Seattle has inspired in me, I present:

My First Impressions of Seattle (... First REgressions to come later...):

1)Damn, there are a lot of white people here. (*disclaimer: yes, I'm white too:))

2)Wow, it's outstandingly beautiful here. (*disclaimer: yes, I'm outstandingly beautiful too)

3)Man, everyone and their dog's pet-sitter's hampster has a tattoo. (*disclaimer: no, I have not yet artistically branded myself)

4)Since when does a single split second of the sun peaking out from behind the clouds constitute a heat wave? (*disclaimer: I'm used to having scalding, near-fatal, humid temperatures help ignite my barbeque)

5)Green, good. Trees, good. Parks with winding trails, very good. (*Disclaimer: unecessarry)

6)Wow, people are pretty relaxed here-- As mentioned in the previous post, they lack the bundles of splintery chopsticks up the butt found in so many other modern Arsch-concaves of modern metropolises ( ... or is it metropoli? metropoloose?--Anyway, *disclaimer: again, unecessarry)

7)People really covet their coffee here. (*disclaimer: I've coffeed a coveter before, but... that's not something I advertise on the internet...hahr.hahr.)

8)Public transportation is pretty good in this city (*disclaimer: not always. Yesterday, our awesome, environmentally-friendly, veggie-run bus broke down on us. Mister E said that's what happens when you let Maize run the maze. I'm still not so condemning yet, though...)

9)This is an awesome location, beautiful environment, good people

(*disclaimer: but, damn!, there are a lot of white people...).

----Far more impressions and experiences of Seattle to come soon. ----

(*Current News: inflatable mattress-residing, bus-pass-toting, museum ticket-reusing, used book store leach on the loose in the Pacific northwest tries a local pale ale and demonstrates-- charades-style-- how hoppy she thinks the brew is.)

The Nice Price

2006-07-05T16:49:00.000-07:00

I've always been skeptical of those probing psychological quizzes used to shallowly diagnose personalities (I mean, who doesn't consider themselves caring and kind? ... and, who doesn't see albino guinnea pigs in pink laederhosen and Hendrix headbands playing badminton in 90% of inkblots these days?)

But, if a bored psych intern threatened to psycho-babble me to sleep if I didn't make a list of adjectives that best describe me, 'friendly' and 'outgoing' would probably make the top 15 (nestled, of course, among 'introspective', 'shy', 'creatively aberrational (read slightly demented)', and 'excessively silly (as in, a well-phrased bodilly function joke can excite my wet-my-pants giggle reflex just as easilly as a geniusly-timed sarcastic and intelligent remark can'...)).

But, I, like, way digress...

I speak now of 'friendly' and 'outgoing' qualities because I had always considered these to be great attributes worthy of more wide-spread demonstration among members of the human race (and among certain members of the animal and insect kingdoms as well-- I mean, why can't wasps be more like their social butterfly counterparts, and grizzlies more like their friendly Yogi bear brothers?).

But, now I'm starting to wonder if the qualities of kindness and amicability are not a tad bit over-rated. In fact, I'm starting to think that these characteristics are highly suspicious.

It's just that I'm not used to so much 'niceness'.
Unlike L.A., Seattle seems to be boiling with benevolence and extreme cordiality. Everyone seems to be a little nicer, a little more open, and a little less suffering-from-a-thorny-barbeque-skewer-up-their-ass.

Half of the time it's really wonderful to be talked to as a human being by strangers, engaged in light-hearted conversation at the bus stop, and treated with a bit of respect and humanity.
The other half of the time, though, I find myself questioning the motives of such unfettered kindness. Who does this guy think he is, asking about my first pet dog when all I want is a coffee? Why is this lady arbitrarilly asking my boyfriend what color m&m's he likes best? Does she want to bake him some fancy brownies? Or ascertain what color bottons to decorate our effigies with?

I dunno... I suppose I'm joking. I suppose I value openness and friendliness more than I'll admit, and I suppose a little extra random kindness in the world really isn't such a terrifying thing...

But, one thing I'm certain of is that anyone soliciting my feelings on the day's temperature and amount of cloud-cover must be up to something. Most likely they're involved in some super-secret, sociological and meteorological recconnaissance mission aimed at annexing the planet and securing domination over all of our manufactured robots, Hello Kitty dolls and Elvis impersonators...

As usual, people, this is no joke. I don't make this stuff up.

Where the Wobblies were

2006-06-26T15:52:00.000-07:00

So, it’s afternoon here in the south of California, and I’m feeling euphoric excitement cut with anxiousness.

The streets are lit orange.
Road-sauteed skunk is in the air.
Russian neighbors are talking grammatically-altered baby-speak to my brother’s dog, fire engines are battling regurgitated free-styles in Spanish, an original coal-fueled, model train is being ignited in the driveway next door, mid-modification-revving engines are groaning twilight attempts at breath along my street,
and I’m…

well…, I’m trying to digest the fact that myself and Mister E. are on our way to Seattle Washington in less than 24 hours with only a few backpacks, some love, a coupla bottled cliches and no plans.

I guess it shouldn’t be all that new or scary…

Afterall, I’ve done tougher things. I’ve lived and worked in countries where I didn’t speak the language; places where they fed me things like guinea pig and horse sashimi and bowed profusely at me while I did my grocery shopping. I’ve worked with inmates in Ecuadorian jails, swapped gambling leads with sun-baked seven year olds at a kick-boxing match in Thailand, dodged zapoteco pick-up lines in the back of a flat-bed and tried to order a black coffee in Starbucks without getting laughed at…

I should be able to handle a simple move.

…especially to such a beautiful place that Tom Robbins had this to say about:

“I’m here for the rust and the mildew, for webbed feet and twin peaks, spotted owls and obscene clams (…), blackberries and public art (…), for the rituals of the potlatch and the espresso cart, for bridges that are always pratfalling into the water and ferries that keep ramming the dock. I’m here because the Wobblies used to be here, and sometimes in Pioneer Square you can still find bright-eyed old anarchists singing their moldering ballads of camaraderie and revolt. I’m here because someone once called Seattle “the hideout capital of the U.S.A.,” a distant outpost of a town where generations of the nation’s failed, fed-up, and felonious have come to disappear. Long before Seattle was “America’s Athens”, it was America’s Timbuktu.”

Yup, it definitely sounds like my kind of place! …Webbed feet, “moldering ballads,” Wobblies and failed, fed-up felons. Ooh la LA! Come to me, Seattle!

Don't sneeze on the food

2006-06-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

I once met someone with an outstandingly unique sense of smell. He could smell a smuggler swallowing sacks of hash in the medina of Chef-chauan Morroco from his VW in Van Nuys. He could smell bow resin residue on the hallucinating retinas of a relapsing exchange student practicing her violin in Vienna. He could smell burnt eyelashes on an ex-rocking, re-located Brit fourteen blocks away and..., ten Miller Light bottles down the bar, he could smell an aspiring actress menstruating into white-tailed cotton.

(... needless to say..., his ability to smell dirty money landed him a job designing ventriloquist dummies for entertainment caterers at various financial advisor-thrown parties, and his inability to keep his mouth shut regarding his nasal capabilities got him a fat lip and a few tampon-tinted teeth from a drunk "extra" who went on to play "princess" in a couple of Paramount productions...)

But, anyway...

He's not the only one around to have such an extraordinary "sense" that physically drives and emotionally tortures him. He's not the only one who feels his sacred gifts are giving him knee jives to the sacred joo-joo...

For, I too, have a special Sense. Yes, it's true-- I, too, feel the inflammatory pangs of my semi-scientific talent, crow-barring at the rust-crusted metaphoric nails of my cranium and pin-striping my pedant-envying purity.

Yes..., I've got a "sense" too...

It's an uncanny ability to spot people mid-plot; a pseudo-scientific nose for catching ordinary folk involved in underhanded conspiracies and cover-ups...

And, it was whispering through napkins to me today as I had lunch with my grandparents at their favorite All-you-can-eat buffet in Orange County....

This forth dimension-transgressing "sense" of mine said to me: "The senior citizens are up to something here. There's something fishy going on by the baked salmon buffet."

I mean, how else could you explain such secure cognizance of Monday-only potato dishes, Thursday-specific cobbler knowledge, and the busgirl's Green Card family specifics? How else could you explain the common, local nodding at the old woman who picked up each and every piece of silverware only to replace it before returning to her seat to symbolically wash a single fork in her water glass? Or, the couple who mysteriously stuffed four bulky napkins into two pockets and snuck out the back door when they realized the enchiladas were finished? Or, the conspiratorial, constituent-based firing of the cashier who stole tip money, ignored senior citizen discounts, had no relatives and couldn't count back change? It looks to me like Pinochet's potholder-knitting regime is back in full force.

And, I don't think I'm the only one who could tell something was up. Anyone could see by looking at these seniors that they were plotting something in that Home Town Buffet... Maybe a counter culture-esque romance novel revival, an elaborate comfort-food media diversion, a strangle assassination using prescription pill-chrocheted twine, an undermining eco-terroristic explosion of state-supplied oxygen tanks...

Well, whatever it was..., it was clearly something dangerous.

I could just sense it. Those grandmas had something scandalous up their sleeves.

So, just a bit of advise: Be careful, aware, and have a closer look at the elderly in your own neighborhood. The lady down the street who talks to stuffed, pink kittens might just be the ringleader of the International achy bone virus-smuggling Cartel. And, just how do you think Old Mister Polyester-in-Suspenders actually gets his tomato plants to be so impossibly healthy and fertile?

He's got secrets international intelligence agencies don't, that's how.

*Disclaimer: I am, in no way, asserting that everyone over the ripe age of 35 is involved in nefarious dealings; only that we have to be cautious.

My name's "Big Buckaroolahs"

2006-06-16T15:51:00.000-07:00

Him: Hi, my name is "Head Supervising Specialist at So-and-So-we-beat-the-Dot-Com-Crash-and-went-on-to-make-Super-Sized-Straws Productions".

Me: Well... uh... hi. Nice to meet you...

Him: Did you meet my friend, "Top Marketing Executive for We-spit-on-your-spleen-Jocoby Spyers and Lyers"?

Me: ...er... no, not yet..., but he sounds... er... nice.

Him: And, this is his friend, " I-make-Big-Bucks-and-Live-Alone-by-my-Asian-Stone-Pool-with-Babbling-Creek-and-Jakuzzi".

Me: ... why... er... I suppose the pleasure is mine!

Now..., maybe it's just me. Or maybe it's because I'm in southern California. But..., it seems that the replacement of Self and Personal Character by Job Title is a tad bit obscure and unnecessary.
I mean..., since when do we need a new rim job on our zero-to-seventy bum to present our attributes and quirkishly divine qualities??

Personally, I can't remember a time when I met an outstandingly clever and witty conversationalist who prefaced his intelligence, puns and sociability with: "And, just to be clear: I'm Directing Designer for the nation-wide Dung Displays at Wallmart"...

But..., then again..., maybe that's just me....

Maybe I'm falsely accustomed to meeting grounded folk who don't find it necessary to smother their social attributes with job-title toppings...
Maybe I've been unnaturally lucky enough to know people who prefer to sprinkle their lives with humour and honesty rather than drenching their doodles with pretense and masks of check-paid corporate titles... Maybe, in my cheesy world of travel, I have seen only those who notice (now..., I hate to trickle cliches, but...) "the bigger picture".

Or maybe..., I'm just jealous.

... because, afterall..., I can't say I'm the Director of "Digression Dissemination" at Starbuck's multi-motleyed Monopoly.

quite yet...

Work that pole, baby!

2006-06-07T20:42:00.001-07:00

OK, think of that sexy, young, nubile beauty you run into at the post office, sending an intriguing package to a far-off land, or that devilish, cute and witty sweetheart in front of the local supermarket, working her night job:... there she goes, dancing around and caressing the pole, working it like a pro, stealing a sexy glance over a few bills tucked in her panties...

Well... that is precisely what I was NOT doing all of yesterday...

I actually spent the day, working the polls... the primary election polls in the U.S.

Instead of widening my lower lips, I was opening the registered voters List book. Instead of sliding up and down the metal poll, I was instructing voters to slide their ballot into the Inka-Voting machine. Instead of receiving scum-infused numbers, I was accepting ballots.

And, it was quite fun, actually!

But...., after fifteen hours of voting instruction and ballot accepting...

... well, it was a bit disheartening to find that only 10% of my precinct's registered voters actually showed up to exercise their rights...

The most inspiring moment of the experience, though, came when the 1st grade class of the local elementary school came to visit. The students asked such questions as: "Can my grandma put our ballot in THAT box?" and "Where can my big brother tell the president to do good things?"

Well...., overall, I wish the conscientious seven-year-olds of the world could vote....

... and..., I wonder what would happen if they were to end up 'working the poles' in another capacity...

Feelin' groovy

2006-06-07T20:24:00.000-07:00

Yeah, alright...
I'm only slightly chagrined to admit that we were THAT car for 2144 miles across New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado...

You know the car...

It's the one that drives 60mph along the highway where the posted speed limit is 75mph.

It's the one you pass in the open desert, assuming it's manned by a senile, old, achy-boned, just-joined-the-marijuana-club-when-he-turned-87-at-his-optomotrist's-recommendation great grandfather (who swears he left his combat compass next to his keys under the sports section beside the dart board)...

It's that car that inspires your imagination; that car that forces you to concoct absurd explanations (like Alien-Invoked Right Ankle Movement Syndrome (ARAMS) and Too Cool for Time Disease (TCT))... just to explain the sluggard speed at which this otherwise able-engined vehicle with high fuel-emisions potential decides to travel...

But, actually, we were just cruising at the devil's speed to keep the gas consumption down, check out some of the views and smile, knowing that our contribution to atmospheric destruction would be penned by our campfires and by too many angry souls rushing to get places they didn't want to be...

--And..., we were actually quite lucky that we were driving livke waddling penguins who had already fed their young when the first and second tires expressed their frustrated exasperation about inflated life...

AAnd... again, when a fanged, apparently aggressive rubbermaid trashcan attacked our mobile haven of illegally-downloaded mix cds without warning--...

Maybe, we could all benefit by stopping to smell the cockroaches and defecation in our fast-food Meal Deals before devouring them...
Maybe, we could all hand an extended moment of breathing and sheer 'experiencing' in between our snapped photos and 'important appointments'...

And, maybe... (now I'm plunging into controversy), our current administration could do worse than re-inforcing those old gas-saving speed limit laws, pursuing advertisement of our well-researched alternative sustainable energy sources, and enforcing a few "chill-out and remember to enjoy and appreciate life" campaigns.

But... I contradict myself:

What's the hurry, anyway?

Wrenchin' the Monkey

2006-05-26T17:14:00.000-07:00

So there we were.
Cruisin' down the highway into Durango, suckin' on the straw of mountain heat scents, illegally entertaining our expired poetic licenses with country and western tunes on the radio

(“I'm a goin' where the green grass grows,
gonna watch my corn pop up in rows,
yes, I'm a goin' back to my trailer park ho's”)

when suddenly…

PTANG!! Pppssssshhhhhhhh…..

And, just like that, we had an exhausted rear tire, as saggy and wilted as Aunt Gemima's tit after a lifetime of offering sugary syrup sucks for US$2.49 a pop.

And, it struck me once again, how integral the occasional chimpanzee wrench tossed impetuously into life's working machinery is to a healthy human psyche.
I mean…, it's all pretty pansies and cute panda babies as long as the gears are greased and running smooth as Guinness down the throat…

But…., c'mon, that's just plain Jiffy and jelly on white! (no-not simple, quick and tasty…, but rather, BORING).
I, for one, think that any soul claiming total satisfaction without the occasional mosquito bite in the matrix, renegade cockroach in the milkshake or passport in the pocket during the rinse cycle, is no more trustworthy than a nun who doesn't masturbate.

But, alright, fine… maybe I'm being a bit extreme… maybe I'm more of a sucker for conflict than most… maybe, I just love to see the milk spilt and the cookie jar broken…

But…, I think that deep down in that itsy bitsy, teeny tiny little electron-sized hole hidden under the little left toe nail of everyone, there's a screaming itsy bitsy teeny tiny little sprite that demands chaos and corrosion in the supporting beams of our lives.
There's a piece of us all that secretly hopes that the mailman will mistakenly deliver the neighbor's porn subscription to our mailbox…, that one day all the world's sewage systems will get blocked up and result in the first shit-works display of the era…, that the world wide web will suddenly and inexplicably go down…, that the cd will start skipping so we can make some of our own music…, that the actress will forget her lines so we can see a real show…, that we'll get so lost on our way to the supermarket that we have to sleep in a field, join a doily-crochetting workshop, eat grasshopper soup for nourishment and rely on the directional sense of nomadic livestock to find our ways home…

Anyway…, all this sputtering of silliness aside…,

The flat tire was a pretty benign, soggy little toothpick in the machinery.

But, if experience wears any paisley scarves of precedence, there're a few mini wrenches and a party set of cutlery waiting around the next bend…

And I can't wait!!

Rock on!

2006-05-23T13:34:00.000-07:00

You know you've successfully slipped on the skates and cruised out of L.A. when the hum of alienation and social solitude ceases to harmonize with the traffic of the 405 freeway..., when the Song of the police Sirens sinks into the religious ravings of breadbasket broadcasts..., and when the local newspaper's criminal reports feature a stolen trash can and a goat who got his head stuck in the fence...

Yup, I've again left California for a road trip out to beautiful Colorado, where time is slower, afternoons more poetic and the Rockies rock!

...will try to get a few posts in should an internet connection be blown in on a fresh thunderstorm breeze...

Hasta pronto!

Infidelity and Neptune

2006-05-15T14:05:00.000-07:00

So, I've been accused of having an affair.

I've been accused of breaching the loyalties of love and engaging in lustful acts of impious passion and peccant pleasure...
I stand at the discerning conversational gates of Judgement for alleged crimes of boyfriend betrayal and two-timing treachery...

And, well..., what better place to come clean than here in the privacy of my very own www-dot blogging Eden...?
So, here it is...

Yes, it's true.

I have been disloyal.

I have coveted, mentally disrobed, and even quite non-figuratively caressed the supple seams of another's bodice. I have allowed myself to be soaked by the saturating fluids of another, and to feel the expulsions of another's ecstasy on my stomach, just below the belly button. I have plunged, hands first, into emotional exchange with another, back-stroked through waves of desire, and even floated swimmingly in his arms, discussing the intricacies of subjective art and the humility of human existence...

(Hell, we even discussed the roles of self-adhesive stamps, aphids, out-sourced customer service lines and jigsaw puzzles as they pertain to jingoism!)

So..., who was this enchanting seductor whose riptide gallantness dragged me to drift so disloyally from my entrusted love?

... well..., since this is my very-private, well-sequestered, secret, online journal...., I suppose I can reveal his name without violent repercussion...

His name is Poseidon.
And, well, he's quite the looker.
He's got deep, bottomless eyes that change from mailbox blue to toothpaste turquoise in the crash of a wave.
He's got strong. smooth hands that can go from playful ass-slapping to gentle embracing with the blink of the moon.
He wears the rising sun on his shoulder like a price on his bar-code.
And, though he's been known to carry a syringe or two in his pocket, has been accused of aiding and abetting a few narcotic cargo-loaders, and has transported a few weapons in his day, he's quite the catch.
He's more fluid in dialogue than anyone I've ever met, can carry conversation like a ship... (and can sink it with the same ease...)
He's well-traveled; has seen the paper-shredding scandals of the great Barrier Reef, played thumb wars with the discarded Inca Cola bottles on the shores of Ecuador, played hot-potato shoe-toss in Koh Pan Yang, and heard billions of footprint fables from around the globe.
He's strong, confident, and has even been offered prayers worth families (not dollars) in his name!

But, still..., it's true...., I feel pillaging remorse for my infidelity in this case...

Maybe I shouldn't have plunged so nakedly and thoughtlessly into the embrace of such a dodgy, one-timing bachelor of the tide...

Maybe I should have thought twice before allowing such a Casanova to nova all my cash...

But, c'mon...! Who HASN'T had wet dreams about sharing an afternoon or evening with a god who has historically received human sacrifices in his name and who has seen the planet through so many geologic and atmospheric transformations??

Who HASN'T had a fantastical vacation affair with the Ocean??

I don't know...
But, at least I can now tell my grandchildren I once had a one-night stand with a bloke who had hermit crabs in his wallet and kelp in his armpit hair...

And.... THAT's gotta be worth something someday....

Snail-Mail letter

2006-05-01T18:20:00.000-07:00

To whom it may concern,

I am writing in regards to the recent shocking and disconcerting decline in acceptable processing of corporal, -c-collected data. It has come to my attention that a few of the devilish little vagabonds in charge of receiving, processing and transmitting information that enters -c´s body have been renigging on their responsibilities, and have been under-performing in their most basic duties.

Over the past week alone, a stunning amount of information has been in-putted for translation, and yet nothing has been properly processed or decoded.

This is, quite simply, an outrage, and I am writing now to demand long-neglected results.

Please dijest, internally and emotionally analyze, and enzymatically break down the following data without delay,
or all contracts will be voided upon the hour:

1 homicidal bus driver, plunging into Chiapan curves as gunshots cough from a skipping dvd of a Chinese revenge film
2 instances of giggles over crude, breaching-on-impeity-and-heresy sketches of Sor Juana masterbating with a vibrator and toe-sucking monks sporting halos
3 quizical gringo "What?s" when bodilly symptoms pharmeceutically perscribed either Gatorade or Dramomine
4 double takes when the used, sun-scorched condom on the hotel windowsill was discovered (... a true cultural and historic icon with profound anthropological stories to tell...)
5 camouflaged gasps of fear when we descended an 80 degree-angled, dodgy latter into a subterranean, fresh-water sink hole
6 Bloody Mary´s said for having entertained band-name inspirations when gazing upon portraits of the crusifiction in the central cathedral
7 "Oh man!" moans of simultaneous relief and disgust at having liquidly evacuated many a meal
and
8 physiological coctails of response when we were stared at by that severed bull´s head; his eyeballs alligned perfectly with all those gooey internal organ adornments

Yes, I write this letter now, requesting that you offer your utmost attention to the deciphering and processing of these bits of input. As a staunch supporter of the categorization of the chaos that often slithers into Our -C, I ask that you now help us to regain a few slivers of order to the otherwise unsightly mess of sloppy excitement, wonder, and naive awe that have recently blanketted formerly relied-upon cynicism and jadedness.

I thank you for your time and patience, and look forward to working wih you in the future,

Sincerely,

-C´s Reaper and Keeper

**Edit/Addition: Check out Mr. E´s take on our idyllic busride into Chiapas here.

Of lude loudness and musical Mexico

2006-04-21T16:23:00.000-07:00

There are lots of things I love about Mexico... like marketplace bargaining, sodas in plastic bags, live wires dangling from power lines, exposed septic tanks, sing-song medicinal herb vender spiels, and that ever-exciting possibility of discovering the Mother of Jesus over a stool-saturated toilet bowl or on a billboard advertising beer...

One of the things I love most about Mexico, though, is that it is anything but a quiet country. It´s a land of loud cacaphony blaring music, whining washing machines, sporadic whistle-blowing, horn-honking, bell-ringing, engine-revving, silverware-clanking, laughter and voices, baby cries, loudspeaker announcements, plastic bag rearrangements, tin roof improvisations, radio static, guitar greetings, poundings, hammerings, sweepings, window slammings, pipe-creakings, bus gear changes, children´s screams and distant tele novelas resounding...

It´s kind of like if you were to take a large aluminum box, fill it with some bells, marbles, beaded hair ties, mescal, broken pipes, ping pong balls, rusty nails, keys, coins, trumpet players, glass shards, religious regalia, competitive yoddlers, a few live kittens, and then shake the box vigorously for twenty four hours... then,... you MIGHT just get the first few notes of Mexico´s aria...

BUT..., it´s not just the incessant sounds and noises that make this country so magically and endearingly loud.

Actually..., EVERYTHING here is loud.

The people are loud with sincerity, the laughter loud, the outlook on life- loud. The scents and textures and tastes of Mexico are loud, and... even the ocean, the jungle and the vacant desert winds are loud.

One glance down a small pueblo street where the houses are painted bright pink, puke green, magenta, unhealthy pee yellow, construction orange and brilliant blue, and you´ll see that even the colors here bravely scream loudness.

Hell..., even the priestly little parasites that the country passes on to its foriegn visitors can be pretty loud, noise-needy nerds when they´re on the job.

Yup. There´s nothing that quite hollers ¨welcome to Mexico!¨ like waking up four or give times in the night to competing radios playing oompah banda music, a passing truck broadcasting Miguel´s Carniceria propoganda, and Mister E in the bathroom; his rear end fissuring vivacious lava flow and humming a bubbly Mexican song og love, sorrow and loss...

Ahh... yes... the sounds of Aztlan....!

Chichen Itza

2006-04-21T16:17:00.000-07:00

Mayan glyphs that mirror Chinese kanji in their pictorial, phonetic and poetic translations hammer my sun-smeared retinas,
as dusty plumes swath my scallion-unlike Saquatch toes.
I watch a boy chisel a wooden mask; his powerful hands those of an old-souled carpenter with forty years of practice.
I paint a memory, reach out to hold a hand, and smile a little when I think of how nothing and everything is never and always changing.
At least I know that when I get back to town, I can expect only that which I don´t expect, and that those Mayan glyphs will read differently in my absence.
I can only fantasize... but.., maybe, just maybe... that glyph that we thought meant ¨corn¨now means ¨porn¨ and that famous Mayan symbol for ¨zero¨now signifies ¨Pepsi¨

Notes from la floja roja

2006-04-18T10:56:00.000-07:00

Imagine here an extensive post, buttered in rich description and sand-covered stories of beachy adventures. Imagine here humid tales of midnight skinny dips, sexual affairs with Poseidon, sweating caguamas, Mayan spirits, scorpions in bed, hippy treehouse-like abodes, colored pencil sketches, stream-o-consciousness musings, psychadelically-colored fish, water-through snorkel inhaling, moon-watched laughter, chicken taco hospitality, flip-flop fantasies, the wisdom of a Don Juan, late-night philosophizing, and a little bit of perfect entropy.

Yup. Imagine all that...
plus a few more nuggets of marvelous absurdity and... well, you´d have the post I WOULD have written if I had longer than 4 minutes of time remaining on this computer...

Overall, the postcard version of this blogpost is:

Having a great time in Mexico! The weather is gorgeous, the characters inspiring, and the food delicious. It´s fun to be back in a place where time occassionally trips and falls into potholes, conversations spiral sincerely into silliness and being is just..well... being. I´ll bring you all back the souveniers you requested, plus maybe a pig wearing a sombrero or a nice stray dog with a hobo rucksack and a hammock.
Wish you were here!

Bloated Heads and Hide-n-seek

2006-04-11T21:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it feels like life is just missing a little something... like if you could only get your hands on some formless clay or a black bean burrito, everything would just miraculously slide into its destined place.

Well, for me right now, I feel like all I need are a few enormous, over-sized Olmec heads in my life.
Well... those, a few ruins, some stunning coastline, a touch of stomach upset, a pinch of the Unknown, and a good serving of some inspiring company.

Yup. You guessed it. My travel bugs are nipping at those tender places between my toes again, and rather than squashing them between two graham crackers with chocolate (c'mon- you've never heard of toasted travel mite s'mores before?!), I'm going to heed their nagging nibbles.

My Mystery Man (we'll just call him Mister E.) and myself are leaving tomorrow morning for a month in Mexico.

Though my posts might be a bit sporadic in the coming weeks, expect their quality to directly reflect the number of chickens I breast feed on the bus, the quantity of shoe-shine proposals I receive, and the pile-up of linguistic lip-clenchers I invoke...

Ready or not, Yucatan, here I come!

Whore-o-scope

2006-04-06T15:08:00.000-07:00

For all you's whores out there, I know life is tough. It's hard to tell what surprises the day's clientele might bring, and what sticky situations might explosively shock you.

So..., I've come up with a One-size-fits-all (no pun intended) horoscope to alleviate the time-consuming and energy-draining process of remembering your own birthday, identifying your astrological sign, and finding your daily prophesy in the cum-damp pages of the newspaper.

Today's Whoroscope:

The sun and moon are at odds today. Tread carefully. Beware of impious pimps, for greed is colliding with the moons of pussy-prospect, and blue-balls are rising in the green-back orbit. Be careful today with f**ked-up fantasy-fulfillment assignments and suck-sational sensations. Dire Desperates are on the rise. Question urgency today, and stability and excitement will follow.

...hmmm...

...well..., despite my seemingly insightful visions of working-girl destinies...,

I've never really been one for blind astrological faith. I tend to see the characters of the zodiac more as indicators of civilization's mentality in a historical context rather than as landmarks in a grand cosmic fate.
But... who am I to say?

Afterall..., maybe it's just a newly-packaged, alternatively-marketed case of old Greeky Cassandra (who was blessed with the ability to fortell the future, but cursed by the fact that no one would ever believe her...)

I DO know, though, that if I am to prescribe to some of the horoscopes I read for myself today, I can expect a few marital quibbles between the sun and the moon, expect Saturn to no longer move backwards, expect my "fizzle to turn to sizzle", look forward to a bit of specifically-ambiguous change, and expect my "wacky humor to lighten up some awkward situations".

Ahh, hell... where do I sign up? Today's as good a day as any to become a converted Believer!

... Maybe an orbit's not just an orbit, and Saturn CAN move backwards...!

Hey, afterall, even a skeptic can't help but believe that a little fizzle might transform into some sizzle, and that undoing someone's meteor belt today might just mean prosperity tomorrow!

(further whore-o-scopes to follow...)

Love Lunacy and the S.O.B.

2006-04-05T10:25:00.000-07:00

Believe me. I've still got enough taco fixings to make a combination plate, my migration path still leads me around - not over- the cuckoo's nest, and my levies are not yet leaking philosophical fantasies to Wilson the volleyball...

But, yes, I'm sharing an expectation-expounded moment of over-the-top, thesbianesque therapy with a sweetly-fragranced orange blossom.

And, I'm not embarrassed to admit it.

(... actually, I wanted to Tchaikovsky-style blogesize about a local lad named Leslie who tried to woo me away from my artist love - who was pretending to be a Croation patriot - .... T'woulda been a touching tale of a gallant, lost soul, pawning plumbing skills for rip-tide loneliness redemption in front of the neighborhood internet gaming abyss as fake foreign accents crescendoed, and humour was drowned in soul-scabbing empathy...
BUT..., instead I find myself sitting on the porch, chatting about love with a fruit flower...)

Scented Orange Blossom (S.O.B.): -c, you are acting unnaturally silly, grinning at guileless absurdities, devouring potty praise, laughing and lactating with arguably immature fluency... What's up with you? Did you swallow a peyote button with your pad thai or a sprig of dandelion with your wine?

-c: No, no, my dear scented orange blossom, I'm merely hosting a tea party for Senor Happiness, sharing Argentinian mate with Honeymoon Harry and skipping a little rope with Simion Smiles-a-lot (you know..., the neglected knight of the round table who was written out of King Arthur's court after committing not-so-noble acts with the celebratory feast's poultry products.)

S.O.B.: I see. But, -c, are you quite certain you've not let a few marbles trickle out through the cranial drain?

-c: No, I assure you- I'm as sane as a Twinkie-defensing, infant pteradactile murderess before trial.

S.O.B.: Then..., why are you Cheshire-cat interfacing with a fallen orange blossom?

-c: Hmmph... What would a bile-less bloom like yourself know about LOVE anyway?!

Man... I wish I would have read the fine print when signing up for this Cliche Love Gym...

I mean, who in their right mind would agree to a contract that read:
"I invite everyone to question my sanity. And, I agree to take full legal and emotional responsibility for any possible, incurred conversations with verbose citrus casks??!

C'mon- anyone who did that would just be finger-plucking ass-ininity!

(... we here at Up the Creek are currently experiencing technological tributaries due to aberrational planetary allignment and mis-stacked Leggos... but, we promise to return to regular programming as quickly as possible. Please be patient!)

Pancho does Sweet Sixteen

2006-03-29T13:36:00.000-08:00

When I was sixteen, I went to live in Germany as an exchange student. I lived with a German family, attended a German school, partied with German kids, ate German food, and had no buffers in my first language aside from evenings spent reading Don Quixote, pretending to be a teenage knight-ress errant (I was the rational companion, faithfully advising my cohort about the potential dangers of those menacing windmills-- afterall..., it doesn't take a space shuttle door-crafting scientist to know that a breeze-borrowing machine of that stature is capable of devouring a cactus and three infants while challenging a tempest to a game of checkers!).

Oddly, though, my most potent and soul-stranglingly influential memory of the experience was...
not the time I rode a tandem bicycle into a creek as my friend and I illustrated the symptoms of the Jaegermeister Curse via fragranced, throat-catapulted projectile displays...
nor was it when I got lost in the countryside, broke bread with an old woman who made me rake leaves in exchange for directions...,
or, when I failed every subject but got the highest score in math (the only subject that required no language abilities)...

It was, in fact, the initial plane ride over there.

I can still taste the vivid excitement/fear brew that tickled my pubescent chemical make-up...; that frightened-shitless-of-the-unknown-but-furiously-excited jolt of existence-recognition that I've come to love and embrace.

And, that's how I'm feeling today...: that same Oh-No!Oh-Yes! sentiment that likes to take you by the hand and point out, again, your mortality and the invigorating brilliance of this peanut-shell-onion-layered-Mexican-bean-dancing Spark that is life...

-c, what is this cliche poetic babble you're toying with?, you might be asking...

Well, a super special someone is coming home tomorrow from Japan, and I couldn't be more scared... and ecstatic!!
(Up the Creek old-timers might remember him from last August's post about obnoxious couples in the Japanese public eye..)

But, hey!, lots would give up their tax returns to feel sixteen and headed for a foreign land again!

I, on the other hand, got lucky...

All it took was a few minutes in the waiting room, and a professional business meeting...

(What can I say? Loki just isn't as busy these days...)

Comfort Doodlings

2006-03-27T15:05:00.000-08:00

Banging on things, staring into fires, doodling on rough-textured emu toes while chatting on the phone...

Sometimes, there are things in life that just seem to be so natural, so comfortable and so easy.
They're the things that gracefully call to us, enticing our primal subconscious, and luring us into game-play without ever requiring a second-guess or a reconsideration...

Let's call these things "Comfort Doodlings" (...because..., I've been told that "Banging, Fire-staring and Emu-decorating" was already copyrighted by a Swiss psychologist to denote an oft-neglected, abnormal-tendency disorder prevalent among down-under pyromaniacs with mobile phones...)

Anyway, these "Comfort Doodlings" are different for everyone.

For some, these experiences come with simply devouring chips and guacamole, dissecting amphibians, cycling into the wall at the gym, watching a good movie, partaking in orgasm-goaled orthopedics (--hey, some people are into that--), and taking romantic walks on the beach.

Me, though..., I'm much simpler.
For me, I'm comfortably doodling when I'm being ass-soaked by moist soil under an Oak tree, writing incoherent perceptions, miming conversation with someone whose language and culture don't translate, reading my way into a fun, new world, engaging in mental impiety while observing an orange blossom-driven hummingbird, taking a bus in a foreign country without knowing its destination, exploring "whys" with curious kids, discovering a novel instrument as new music is conceived, and discussing arbitrarily relevant subjects like home-made salad dressing, skunk-dating habits and the dental benefits of purgatory inhabitants.

But... the reason I set out to write this post (though I seem to have gotten a bit silly-style side-tracked...)
was to express how Rico Suave smooth and comfortable it is to hang out with old friends.

I recently saw a core group of kids that I knew from age three through highschool.

And, though, we've all changed immensely, are on different paths. it was oh-so doodle-comforting to be in their presence!

What can I say? Nothing calls for Comfort Doodles like chilling with someone who knows you used to be a book geek, who saw every truth-or-dare you fumbled when you were twelve, was there when you began your portfolio of Firsts, and remembers when you used to wear florescent Body Glove accessories and pretend like you were a mountain bike expert...

Ahhh, yes... everyone's got their Comfort Doodling favorites... (be they blogging, skipping rope, panda-painting, laughing with the family, creating stick figures, eating raw horse, walking the dog or whistling...)

I DO sometimes wonder, though, if anyone else's comfort doodling involves pineneedles and prisms...

Peace March Delirium

2006-03-21T15:52:00.000-08:00

Pour a handful of energy, a fat Zeusian craneful of heart, and a shoebox-full of shared passion multiplied by (3.14159...) times Hope + a few bottled waters + handmade signs of support + i to the Public-Wants-to-be-heard Power, and you've got the makings for a fine, envigoratingly exhausting three days of anti-war marching.

(I actually had some great photos ready to post- to inaugurate my picture-less prose blogousity- ... but, being the self-proclaimed luddite MAC-user I am, I went and just lost all of them to the ether... --Luckily, I believe them goofy scientist geeks who say that energy lost here, is energy found elsewhere...)

But...
If I HAD shown a few photos..., you would have seen thousands of marchers for peace with creatively-penned and painted signs, students and mothers, citizens and lovers, workers, chillers, teachers, policemen, sons and daughters and brothers and sisters who went out of their ways and missed buses home to protest what their Country is doing, and asking WHY?

... I even had a nice little shot of myself, looking quite hippy and naive beside a "PEACE" sign and a home-made "Democracy by example- NOT BY WAR!" banner...
(You couldn't have cut my innocent, hippy idealism and cultured optimism with a samarai sword!)

You also wouldn't have known by looking that I was a perditious cynic, prone to excessive sarcasm, circuitously random blogging, and utter written absurditiy!

You wouldn't have known by looking that, when I can't sleep at night, I count stars like sheep, alternating from English, Spanish, Japanese to German (One, dos, san, vier, five, seis, shichi, acht, nine, diez, juichi...)

You wouldn't have known by looking that my voice is currently coarsely shot from chanting anti-war slogans:

"Que queremos? PAS! Cuando? AHORA!"
("Whadd'we want? PEACE! When D'we want it? NOW!")

and my legs are aching from 20 miles of walking.

But, I've got no complaints... Afterall, I've been walking only a few days with Fernando Suarez (the 50-year-0ld father of one of the first latino soldiers lost in Iraq) who is marching from Tijuana, Mexico to San Francisco for PEACE with many others (check out the mission and awesome trek of these amazing folks at: Fernando's site and Pablo's site)

I have to admit, though, that I'm ready to eat someone's grandfather because I lost my photos, and that, last night, as I tried to relax, I was still chanting as I dreamt...

Whadd'we want? PEACE! When do we want it? NOW!
Whadd'we want? SLEEP! When do we want it? NOW!

(But, I DO promise that if too many more politically-slanted experiences or observations creep into my future, I'll start a new blog for politics alone. This creek shall not be tainted! Nor shall platypuses be hit with political paddles!)

Good-Guy, Bad-Guy, Love-to-Hate Hypothesis

2006-03-17T14:06:00.000-08:00

Oh yes...
Bold defiance poking indignant talons at the faceless "them"...
Raging despondency sticking its tongue out from its foaming mouth at the pillars of "normalcy"...

Yes, these are some of the great things in life; these are some of those wondrous marvels that allow us to feel vulnerably alive... the things that let us voice adament public condemnation while simultaneously feeling secret admiration behind closed doors...

I mean, honestly, who doesn't disguisedly love a clever and ingenious villain or a sagacious art thief who takes off with a Monet, using nothing but brilliant cunning and a stick of bubble gum? ... or a modern-day Robin Hood who hacks into the military spending fund, using an orange peel, a rusty antenna and 49 spearment-flavored toothpicks?

Deny it if you will (-- I won't ask you to take a loss on your social credit report points --) but..., we all love a good, old-fashioned Stick-it-to-the-man Trojan Tale every once in a while.

I guess, maybe, that's why I was glued to the doofus tube yesterday, watching FOX News cover a high-speed car chase through Los Angeles. While I clenched my cavities and furrowed my never-once-plucked eyebrows at the reckless speeding and deplorable endangerment of innocent lives, there was some cavernously camouflaged whisper (... probably residing in my rebellious Achilles wedding-ring finger with all those wanderlust parasites and self-destructive, tite-rope-walking, membrane-depleted, nomadic white cells...) that said: "Go Mr. Car Thief! Left at the next corner, and you'll lose them coppers!"

But..., later on in the evening, I learned that the leading role in the Breaking News attraction (the pimped-out Chevy SUV with flashy rims, cable TV, GPS, X-BOX and atmospheric pressure-Stabilizer) was my friend's stolen vehicle that had chauffeured me to dinner and karaoke not three weeks before!

Suddenly, I was cursing what had once been exciting shots fired at the rear window, hexing the once romantic, joint-toking, hot-wiring bandit, and praising LoJack.

Though, it's an age-old lesson, it's one human nature seems to always blank on when Exam time rolls around... Face it- it's easy to love things until they directly attack you or your loved ones, and it's a pleasure to hate things until they pat you on the back and give you a candycane and a kiss.
(Hey, afterall... 1st Amendment rights are all rainbows and puppy dogs until the grandma-mutilating, Mother Theresa-fisting, elephant cock-bearing 12-year-old gymnast-impaling Nazi Oil-coholic Militants get their protest permit!)

But..., that being said..., I'll still be a rapid page-turner if any genius diamond thieves decide to publish their authority-outwitting memoirs of clever deception and criminal successes!

And, hey, the only reason most of us live in LA anyway is to have local coverage of all the car chases!

Peace and Big Screen Fame

2006-03-14T13:49:00.000-08:00

Some people go to church on Sundays. Some people lounge about the house in fuzzy pink platypus slippers. And some people make a pot of coffee and read Dear Abby columns to their loved ones.

But, nope. Not me.

So, what was I doing this past Sunday at about noon?
Why, dragging coffins across the sand on Santa Monica beach and lining up white crosses, of course! Why...? What ELSE would I be doing?!

My mother and I and hundreds of others were taking part in a national Women Say No to War event organized by CodePink. It was an assembly of concerned men and women for peace who gathered on the beach to have their voices heard and be a part of a large, aerial artistic statement.

The sand was the canvass, the people, the paint, and a circling helicopter was the capturer of the image.

And, yup. I think my big debut in the spotlight was quite a hit! I see wide-open Hollywood doors on the horizon and, most likely, a supporting role alongside George Clooney in the near future.

Check me out here! If you squint a bit, you can make out my dramatically intense Cry-for-Peace pose! (I'm the faint pink splotch on the upper right hand side of the O in NO.)

And, if anyone knows of a good agent who'd be interested in helping to find high-paying forums for my powerful theatrical performances, I'll be interviewing all next week...

Suckers and Paint

2006-03-10T11:25:00.000-08:00

Finger painting has to be one of my all-time favourite pastimes. There's nothing quite like walking up to the visceral gates of artistic orgasm with your hands swamped in raw color and earthy clay-like goop squishing between your fingers...

It just can't really be beat- (... even with a weasel-tail whip or a ceremonial bamboo stick)...

So, why am I inclined NOW to write about this finger-friendly, raw and primordial channel to the divine?

Well... because I just completed a lovely finger-painted piece that, I believe, deserves high accolades for its unlikely and brilliant choice of artistic medium.

--No--, I didn't just rub vomit into a rabbit hide or smear shit all over a canvass, and step back to smile at my workmanship....

But..., ACTUALLY, that's not too far from the truth...

You see, I had first peed conventionally into my mom's toilet bowl and flushed, when I noticed that the water was still continuously running...
So, as one does,
I removed the lid of the toilet holding tank and discovered that the crucial suction sucker, plunger-lookin' thing-a-ma-bob of the flapper was weak and reluctant to properly suck...

And as I tried to coax it back into its sucking vocation, I discovered the bounteous black-orange rusty silth that had accumulated at the base of the tank...

And, wow! what could be better for finger painting than this pasty grime?! (... Had plumbing existed back in the age of Salamancan Cave Life, I'm sure those wall paintings of buffaloes would have been even more alive...!)

With my hands bathed in mamma's neglected sediment-shit-tank ink, I grabbed the first, flat-surfaced disposable item I saw in bathroom sight (a 1970's cut-out foam shoe inlay- probably used as some hiking boot design for my father's first outdoor gear company) and dove into artistic misplay and unsupervised finger painting...

And, so I composed and completed the "Bowl-rusted Soul-shocked Beauty on Blue Foam Foot" (Bids on eBay start at $35 for this creative rendition of a catapulted stick figure trapped in a multi-colored footprint, representative of the loneliness of lavatory life)...

It seems that my mom and I will be trying to install a new fill valve and flapper in the toilet this evening, as I secretly await the big bucks that will inevitably pour in after the release of my first Finger-painted Toilet Sludge Exhibition: Solitude, Synergy and Sink Scum.

*Have you checked the sediment in YOUR local toilet holding tank for colorful, artistically-usable paints lately? You'de be surprised what gifts rusted pipes and apathetic plungers can bring!

Door-to-door Redemption

2006-03-08T14:18:00.000-08:00

With the daily nagging atrocities of our misguided Administration, the commercialization of humor, the replacement of love letters by text messages, and the exponential super-sizing of life's simple truths..., it's sometimes a matter of heavy weed-wacking and muscle-soaring sludge-removal to get to the essence of things...

That's why it's always so refreshingly grin-grabbing when we actually encounter things that still retain their originally inherent elements of purity...

And, that's why today I'd like to give thanks for one thing that, Thank the Cosmos, still remains sacred in this country. And, that is
the Integrity of the door-to-door Salesman (-- or "salesperson" if you're the type who prefers "person-hole" to "manhole"--)

I just had a lovely exchange with a bubbly young girl, selling window cleaner. It went something like this:

Bubbly Girl: Well, HEY there, girl!!
Me: Uh... hey there.
Bubbly Girl: Is your mom or dad home?
Me: Nope. My mom's probably at work, and my dad lives on a sailboat in Europe.
Bubbly Girl: Whoa! That's some crazy stuff! GEERL, how old are you?
Me: Uh... 27.
Bubbly Girl: DAAMN, girl! YOU lookin GOOOD! C'mon- give it up!
(* Bubbly Girl extends upright palm and I tap it "five")
Bubbly Girl: So, check THIS out!
(* Bubbly Girl takes out a blue marker, draws a line across her white towel and proceeds to scrub it with the aid of her "window cleaner")
Bubbly Girl: Betchu've never seen no window cleaner do THIS before!
(* Bubbly Girl shakes her booty to non-existent beats and the white towel takes on a light blue goopy tinge)
Me: Uh.. nice.
Bubbly Girl: Hell YEAH, that's nice!
(* another enthusiastic extended palm and another "five"-giving)
Bubbly Girl: Just imagine what it can do with coffee stains, red wine, water marks and shower grime... you know what I'm sayin?!
(* Bubbly Girl then - NO JOKE - takes a suck on the nozzle of her spray bottle and..)
Bubbly Girl: It's DAMN good with chicken too!
Me: ..eh.. hee hee..mmm...
Bubbly Girl: So you wanna get you some of this?
Me: uh... I don't think we really need it...
Bubbly Girl: Alright then.
(* Bubbly Girl does one last little music-less hip-shaking performance for the road)
Me: But, good luck to you! Try my neighbor's place!

To be honest, I feel like I should have bought some of her sugar water, if only to thank her for brightening my day, and re-instilling some nebulous crumb of humanity... That, AND, I wish every salesman would dance and high-five with such inhibition... What a marvelous world that would be...

("We have this fine flatscreen available for only $640 - would you like to see my break-dancing moves?")

Change and Golden Calf Worship

2006-03-07T11:43:00.000-08:00

"Do you think that's how she has sex?" my friend asked, nodding toward the acrobatic fiddler on stage whose hips floated to musical tide while her smile stunned stars in the sand when arpeggiotic waves receded.

"Well, I dunno," I answered, leaning over a pint of Sam Adams and a bottle of Coors Light, "but she sure moves her bow as if she had embraced and forgotten everything all at once... which is ALWAYS a good sign when pursuing fulfillment of primordial urges!"

"Yeah. It is, isn't it...."

And, back to silly conversation we went, drinking and reminiscing, munching and greeting old friends.

It was my first time back in four years to the mountain/ski town I used to live in. The amazing mountains and trip-you-if-you-look topography were still there. Some of my old coworkers from the bookstore/videostore were still there, wittying up the world. The smiles were the same. The street names were the same. Even the plowed, layered snow on the sides of Main Street looked the same.

Only, it had changed. Three Starbucks had come into town. A multitude of tourist-marketed restaurants had settled. A vertical poll with scantily-clad hired dancers had snuck into one of the bars. And many a tiki joint with Mai Tai specials at escalated prices had landed in the High Sierras. The police force had been tripled, 70% of the locals could no longer afford to live, and private jets crowded the tiny runway south of town.

But..., thanks to my divine Savior and Leader: The Holy Winged Platypus (...now, I don't like to preach, but if you're interested in attaining true happiness and contentment in life, contact me and I can talk to you about how the Winged Platypus can help YOU to help YOURSELF and help OTHERS- 1800-PT-PUSSY)....,
anyway.., thanks to the Winged PlatyPussy, I ended up among good company in what's left of the old mountain town I remembered...

... good people..., good music..., good lovers of the outdoors..., good stuff!

(And, by the way, I have no affiliation with the referenced 800 number.
But...., if it DOES in fact exist, I'd like to submit my resume, and say that, though I don't have webbed feet or a rubbery snout, I have a pretty sexy phone voice...)

Olympic Occasions and Evasions

2006-02-27T11:50:00.000-08:00

So, I wasn't a very dedicated fan of this year's Winter Olympics…. In fact, I kind of feel like I let down half of the citizens of Italy with my pathetic Petri-dish support (“Eh Georgio! Canna you believa we hadda one less aviewer of California thisa year!? Don't tella momma-- she will cry this year's awine harvest into molto big salty puddle!”)

I DID tune in, however, to watch the little cutie snowboarder, Sean White propel himself just two and a half feet short of orbit. (I guess when you're 19 years old, it's way cooler to rebel against physics than get a lip-piercing these days…).
I also caught a few moments of the “(insert random string of numbers) meter, elliptical-track, ice-skating race”. I quite enjoyed the intellectual stimulation this event brought me. I spent the whole time mentally calculating the precise ratios of the competitors' body weight distributions. (Now, if that Swiss dude were an ant, could he carry 40 times or only 10 times his weight in lower calves??)
Plus, I did get a few minutes in watching the off-the-ice reality show between those artsy, figure-skating “dancing” couples. I didn't much care for the event itself, but I was truly applauding and yelling my approval at the television when the couples stepped off the ice. They gave each other the iciest cold shoulders and subtle butt-flicks that screamed “I can't believe you dropped me in front of all those people on the greatest night of my life!” and “Well… if you weren't such a fat-ass!...”)

Other than that, I didn't get much more viewing. But, my brother and I DID managed to watch a few moments of the closing ceremony… (To be honest, we had no idea what was going on…)

Brother: OK, I think that opera singer's vibrato represents patriotism and international sportsmanship.
-c: Yeah, but what are those Canadians doing out there, stacking up giant sugar cubes in white robes?
Brother: I don't know… An amalgamatic rendition of The Blue Man Troupe does toddler Avont-guardianism….?
-c: …Plus Avril Lavign for color…? And those women in wedding dresses…? Clearly, symbols of purity and the inherent global trend towards ball-and-chain-ism, right?
Brother: …got me….
-c: Yeah, me too… What else is on?

Aesop probably has a little fable to illustrate the moral here, though I'm not sure what is… But I think he'd put it something like this: It's easy to criticize and poke fun at what you, yourself cannot do.

Afterall, I can't carry even twice my body weight in baby cows, and my feet are certainly too big to borrow Avril's high heels….

'blogProps

2006-02-23T10:56:00.000-08:00

I'm about to admit what any dignified blogger should never admit. (Hate me if you will, but….) The truth is that I don't actually read many blogs.

And, on top of this sad blog-deprivation disease I suffer from, I also have a benign cancer that renders me too lazy to list my favorite crème de blog links on my page…

So, to make up for it, here are the few and wonderful blogs that I DO read in no particular order:

Meandering Musings Muster Madness (Texas) A brilliant sense of humour, an always-inspiring creativity, an altruistic determination, and provides a warm and embracing feeling of family and a never-ending game of wit and cleverness.

PureLand Mountain Excellent prose, witty insights about life in Japan, and spot-on, humour-tinted observations about life, nature and everything.

Leprechaun Soup - (Japan) well-written and engaging thoughts from… well, let's just say he's a special and inspiring someone coming home soon…

Random_Speak (Tampa bay, FL) This woman is hilarious! An incredible writer, artist and, I suspect, human being. She cracks me up with her sardonic humour, Onion-esque articles, and her uniquely honest take on the world.

On Gaien Higashi Dori (Japan) An amazing Irish writer who grabs me with his love of nature and the outdoors, incredible photographs and responses to the media at large. (if you're into futbol, or soccer, he's got something for you too!)

Felix's Daily starfish and waffles - Felix (Canada) provides the finest simulated online reality episodes as well as superb cocktail recipes, excellent photographs from travels around the world, and fun musings

Life and other such events (Chennai, India)- Fun anecdotes, stories and thoughts from a banker/thinker/humanist/philosopher in India

Notes from the 'nog - (Japan) Superb writing, thoughts, observations, musings and haikus from a friend and long-time resident guru of my Japanese hometown, “The 'Nog” (also, a great source of good reading material and music!)

Circus freaks in training - (Japan) The entertaining thoughts and experiences of my Canadian sister who lives, breathes and walks the walk of our corner of the rising sun set land. (In person, she can be even more sarcastic and biting than me, if you can believe it!)

The Logic of the silent Cascade - (Boston) A recent addition to the blogosphere, he's an old soul, an old friend and an articulately descriptive ponderer of the universe. (More J.H. for everyone!)

Tokyo Damage Report - Hilarious with a sense of humour and irony to beat all others. He just moved back to the states from Tokyo, so I can only look forward to what lies in store…

anchored nomad Another hilarious liver-of-life, with an enticingly fun and worldly view of everything!

the long division - Another daily-life blogger who cracks me up.

Well, there are more but I fear losing crucial cranial globules (c'mon! they're those all important squigly, tubular things in the brain!) if I cut-and-paste another thing...

Bigger than a toothpick

2006-02-21T13:56:00.000-08:00

What's bigger than a breadbox and smaller than a giraffe wearing prayer flags, a menorah and stigmata piercings through its hooves?
What's warmer than a refrigerated avocado but colder than a draft beer?
What's smarter than an x-box but stupider than a stone?
What's more mobile than a doorknob but less limber than a jellyfish?
What's more inquisitive than an armchair philosopher but less apt to retain the answers than a politician?
What's more alive than a supernova but just as dead as its sister?
What's bundled up in four layers of cotton, fleece and down and still shivering in the sun?

Why, it's ME, of course!, sitting on the shore of Lake Tahoe in the snow, trying to post something to my blog. There are two feet of snow-less pebble beach upon which I sit, but everywhere else is covered in a majestic blanket of new powder (I hear God has his house-keepers on their way to do some vacuuming, but St. Maria called in with laryngitis and St. Carmelita de la Virgen had to pick up her kids from iPod practice...).
The air is crisp, the water calm, and all that I hear is the melting and falling of snow from the pine branches… (well, that, and the loud wailing of my MAC: “Mommy, why are you doing this to me?! I showed you everything I hid from you a few days ago… why must I freeze like this? Remember those documents you thought you lost last year…? Well… get me a hot chocolate and feed my battery, and I can assure their safety for you!)

No but, really… I'd say chilly lakeside solitude is a highly, under-appreciated yet entirely necessary element when it comes to human happiness. (…but, then again, this comes from someone who finds ecstasy in finding a-symmetrically-patterned bird dung on the sidewalk….). But… I'd certainly go so far as to say that the POTENTIAL for glimpses of happiness in sitting by a cold lake in the snow is definitely larger than a breadbox and smaller than a 35.9 katrillion dollar winning Lotto card.

Man... it's beautiful...!

Ring-a-ling, Sting-my-bling

2006-02-17T00:28:00.000-08:00

I've been back in the states from Japan for many a month now, and still haven't gotten a cell phone...

Maybe it's that I'm fearful of commitment.
Maybe it's that I'm just plain simple.
Or, maybe it's that I haven't been enticed by the right ring tone yet...

Because, really.... I'm a sucker for sound.

Give me a nice police siren sound as a ring tone with my "homies". Hit me with a bird-call ringer when my hiking peeps are feeling the natural silence. And, ring a fucked-up drumming bridge when chillers from the band are perfecting rhythmic continuity...

Then, maybe, just maybe....
I'll get a cell phone.

But, until then, I'm northward bound for a few days.
I'm catching a U-Haul truck with my father to bring Belgian furniture to my brother up in Oakland, Then, we'll see... Maybe I'll find the right ring tone there (I hear those San Francisco hippies have a lot of absurd sounds up their sleeves), and maybe I'll even sneak a blog post in between ring tone auditions...

Anyway... be back soon with cacophony for the circumspect cell phone owner!

Pucks and Dunks

2006-02-12T21:43:00.000-08:00

Jack Nicholson's eyes were suavely angled towards the Laker's scoreboard four rows in front of me, and the team's sweat was potable. Filet mignon, fine wine, fun company and an excellent King's come-back tickled my dizzy excitement... How did I get so lucky??...

Rather than plead the fifth, I guess I'll just come clean...

I had to do a few favors, if you know what I mean... (namely, for a donkey and four acne-excited horses).
... Hey, I can't be the ONLY one willing to try new things for tickets to a few professional sports games...

No-- c'mon! Here's what really happened:

A good friend of mine took me to see my second-ever LIVE hockey game (LA vs. Chicago- The Kings came back in OT after a seven-game losing streak! Yeah!)

We were then treated to go out and eat at a high-class, $35 a plate restaurant where we tried to converse in multiple languages and play "How many eyebrows can you raise with inappropriate antics?"

We chatted about world destinations, snowflake types, unconventional parking lot motifs, and finally invented a spilt-wine coverup story that involved the accidental collision of innocent dining pedestrians, blinded by the luminescence of a fallen fork.

We were then generously bought tickets for the Lakers basketball game, and ended up sitting court-side and cheering...

And... well... I never thought I'd say this more than once... but I think I'm really getting a crush on watching live professional sports.

... but, please scar and leather me if I ever start tossing around names of famous athletes (or if I ever learn their significant others' hobbies and pass-times...)

After all,
Pucks are for fucks,
Dunks are for monks,
And, Sports
are for those in
tight, lycra shor--

(*p.s.- I made up the horses, but... well... let's just say that some donkeys can be more charming than you'd think... especially when they put on a tuxedo and dot their thick, firm neck with cologne...)

Unlawful En-peachment

2006-02-10T14:53:00.000-08:00

So, here in the states, there's been a lot of talk about government spying, bird droppings on eaves, and targeting of individuals who use coded "terrorist phrases" in their e-mails (like "protection of Uncle Bill's amendments to his pre-nuptual," "the Paparrazi dive under Paris Hilton's sheets again," and "the eagle has landed, and the Administration is out scuba-diving with imported parrots")...

Now, I don't really want to get into this, but I WILL state the one conviction of mine that I feel very strongly about, and that is:

My privates should be kept out of the public sector!

And, I don't think I'm being too extreme or close-minded on this one either... Afterall, my privates are my special, sacred places! Even my grandma (God/Allah/Winged Platypus, rest her soul!) told me, "Always keep 'em clean and keep 'em safe!"

And... I just can't argue with my grandma.
No one touches or plays with my privates without permission, and no one has the right to fire me from my job, en-peach me (the act of exiling a person to the center of a Giant Peach- What?! Did you think James was all that sexually innocent?) for my privates' recreational habits..., AND, it is absolutely inexcusable to put my privates' profiles in a 'Possible Terrorist Threat' folder just because they are (--even if I DO say so myself--) of exceptionally high ogling-quality!

And that's that. I'm pretty firm on this one... just as I am on my belief in the Separation of Church and Slate-mining, and Toothpaste and Orange juice...

And yet... I can't help but want to share my personal life excitements with my blogging buddies in the public sphere... So, to celebrate the hideous hypocrite within all of us, I now reveal today's ecstatic, fourth amendment-protected sentiments...:

I just got the BEST Valentines card in my mailbox I have ever received, and I can't stop smiling! (Now, understand that I hate the holiday, and would rather suck salmon eyeballs through a straw than entertain the Hallmark Day's silliness...but...)

Nothing beats a hand-made card packed with musings, drawings and sincerity from someone you miss.

(...well... except maybe a snow leopard singing karaoke from the middle of a pile of hot, naked surfers covered in complimentary colored paint, pious poetry, and freshly-fallen powder....- but that's to be saved for the 'Private Sphere of Fantasy and Pornography'--- Coming soon to a Blog near you!)

Cantaloupe Cascade

2006-02-06T14:42:00.000-08:00

Over the river, through the woods, and just north of the yoga mats and fruit smoothie trees in the strawberry fields, there's a little trailhead guarded by a wooden box housing informational brochures about life, the universe, and the governing properties of existence.
For a small donation, you can grab a brochure and a long-armed Pogo pygmaeus (an orangutang) to walk hand-in-hand with you along the spongy path to the Cantaloupe Cascade...
(...it's quite a vision indeed... trickling melons... the spray of sticky orange goop on your face... the occasional white seed of eternal youth..--Lonely Planet rated this waterfall the most magical, untouched location on Earth... that was..., until they published its coordinates in their "Off-the-beaten-track, Utopian Destinations for just-out-of-college-gonna-travel-and-see-the-world-for-six-months, Life Meaning-Searchers" section, and its babbling brook began to whisper fraternity phrases and offer complimentary cantaloupe bong hits--...)

Anyway, though, tourist-tainted beauty and recreational melon use aside... Have a look at the brochure, and you'll find a few important secrets about the chaos-governed universe and the greed-groped human state.

Now..., I only know this from a seventh-hand source..., but I hear this Cantaloupe Cascade Brochure has some pretty crazy and insightful ideas to offer. For example, it states that:

*Eggs wobbling right before an earthquake can upset the molecular structure of sea horse cells on the opposite side of the globe and turn the buggers homosexual...

*... spaghetti that sticks to the wall after having been raised and boiled to techno music is 53% more likely to fall when the song changes (compared to 57% of Country/Western-raised pasta who opt to cling to the vertical paint until well into a song's first chorus)...

*... human beings are Imperfect, and sometimes stop to ogle the nutritional ingredients on Capt'n Crunch cereal boxes, whereas wheat sprouts do not.

*... nature vs. nurture discussions are best saved for those with appropriate professional qualifications (like Jerry Springer's producers, dudes who pawn uteruses for flat-screen T.V.s, and protozoan-american schooll teachers).

*... and, there is a universal, inherent buttered-toast truth that states that (despite Murphy's insecurity issues), bread should go ahead and fall on the floor however it damn well pleases!... Butter-side Up, Down, Sideways, Leaning or with a few fit strips of bacon licking its crusts!

I'm telling you...! I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who... who, well, knew someone who'd read the brochure and hiked the Cantaloupe Cascade trail.

I wouldn't make this stuff up, people!

Self-censorship

2006-02-04T13:41:00.000-08:00

For the first time ever, I just deleted a previously-published post.

I had to give the boot to "The Aristocrats",
because it was just too inappropriately disgusting and offensive
...even for me!

I know, I know... Lucifer is shivering...

He said, She said

2006-01-30T12:21:00.000-08:00

Olly: "So this is how it happened... First she grabbed me by the neck and dug her gloved thumbs viciously into my Adams apple. Her brown-flecked green eyes hummed a creepy tune of murder and lunacy as she plunged her hiking boot maliciously into my groin. I tried to scream, but all that would come out was a kind of creaky, wooden breathlessness. My once hearty limbs threatened acquiescence as they listened hopelessly to my pathetic squeaking, and I knew that the end was close. It was then that I saw the sunlight at the end of the lawn, signaling the end of my path. I moaned a silent prayer, made peace with myself and my oft-neglected roots, and resigned myself to the twisted whims of the brutal, cloven boot human whose savage hands prepared to break my neck. And then, all went black. I don't know what happened next, but my buddy Gabriel who was watching from a neighboring sky-rise building says that the wicked woman then hacked me up into little pieces, tossed my mangled remains over the fence and into a big dumpster, whereupon she proceeded to jump up and down on top of my diced body until I was completely flattened. That sick bitch!"

-c: "Did I do it? Yes. Am I remorseful? No. Not at all. Olly was one of the hundreds of already-lifeles oleander trunks that I hacked up today. In fact, it's me who is the victim here. That brittle little cunt stabbed me numerous times, drawing blood and causing me to repeatedly say "ouch!". I have since experienced excruciating back pain, muscle aches and increased body odor due to Olly struggle-induced perspiration. The extraordinary emotional trauma I have endured may last for days, and I fear that I may never be able to commit to another long-term relationship with a drought-resistant plant again. I ask that you members of the jury find this barbarous bush guilty of evil acts toward a do-gooder, and award me lots of investment-acceptable compensation. Thank you."

"All you need is...."

2006-01-28T23:14:00.000-08:00

When asked to complete the above phrase, 76% of moderately to highly literate English speakers responded: "love". Five percent said "duct tape". Three percent: "a few good yen", and the rest were evenly torn between "a phat ride", "a pair of titanium barber's shears", "grandmas's home-cooked stew", and "faith".

One polled marketing accountant went so far as to say, "all you need is humility," but the interview was cut short when he was dragged into the alleyway by a gang of 14 year old BMX bikers wearing jackets that read: Peace, SK8, ride or die, bra.

Samantha Sans, a free-thinking hair stylist from Paris, Texas reported, "all anyone really needs is security. Security and a bed on the table." She was supported by the enthusiastic nods of four, recently nail-manicured ladies on their way to the outlet mall. (They all also agreed that "nothing in the world beats Grillin Willy's chili cheese fries.")

But, I just don't know...
I mean, I agree that all we essentially really need is Love, but in my experience, it never hurts to have a staple gun, a passport, a ball of twine and some hydrogen peroxide either.

No, but really... on a serious note, this Love thing can be a real tough cookie on your plate. You'd think if it were really the ONLY thing we needed, it would be a little easier to bite into (otherwise, our species would have died off by now). You'd think it would be more like a cube of tofu that tastes like sunset and inside jokes and slides down your throat without requiring 93 volumes of disclaimers...

(Use Love only after consulting your doctor. Do not use Love if you have previously tried it, if you have ever lost a sock, found a hair in your salad, chased a grasshopper, bred pygmies, felt the "groove", slept on your side, tried to count the stars, cursed an appliance, 'mooed' at a cow, swallowed a coin, or if you believe yourself to be mostly human. Love may cause possible side-effects which include, but are not limited to: nausea, dementia, giddiness, euphoria, upset stomach, excessive smiling, bad poetry writing, crying, unwarranted exultation, googly-eyedness, weight-loss, weight-gain, weightlessness, uncontrolled laughing, vomiting, "this song is about me!" exclaiming, light-headedness, intense introspection, jealousy, paranoia, selfless caring, lunacy, and loss of mind. Should you experience any of these things, consult your physician, and immediately consider dropping out and tuning in.)

Uh... I seem to have gotten a bit sidetracked (not to mention nauseated, demented and giddy)... But, to get back to the issue at hand...

All you need is---

Ah, hell, I don't know...

But I have yet to go wrong with: a few intelligent and good people around, a sense of humour, and a can of WD40.

Melodious Road trip blues

2006-01-25T16:02:00.000-08:00

Melting a few saline snowballs in the corners of my eyes, I waved farewell from my driveway this morning. Yes, parting is such sad, sad saline snowball-stimulating sorrow sometimes...

I knew that it was the last time that I would ever see her.

I'd never see her slip on the ice again, endangering not only her own bruised body but those of innocent bystanders as well... I'd never hear her endearing huffing and puffing as we ascended Sherwin grade on our way home to the snow-capped base of Mammoth Mountain... And most tragically, I'd sung Bob Dylan's 115th St. blues with her while out of gas on a mountain road for the last time...

Yup... Soul mates like her are hard to come by... I mean, how many others ask for duct-tape over a band-aid, take spilt coffee with a smile, stutter when you ask them to hurry up, socially freeze up on you in crowded parking lots, and beg strangers to jump them just for kicks...?

She wanted to share in just one last vocal song with me before she left... I can't blame her, really... A kind of parting closure, if you will... So, we sang "These boots are made for walking", then I took out the radio and said goodbye to my dearest friend: my '82 Toyota Tercel with the duct-taped mirrors and ski pole held-up hatchback.

I think the beauty and chaos of the universe have something grand in store for us all.
And she is no exception.
I'm sure she'll get over me and move on to enrich the life of someone new...

(But, I DO secretly hope that that new special someone won't be able to diligently dance in the driver's seat to a Dylan diddy with her quite the way I could...)

Hockey Enlightenment

2006-01-24T15:33:00.000-08:00

It's not breaking news.
Or glorified mandarine-orange press.
In fact, it's a universal truth that's been backed up by statisticians, philosophers, and scientists for centuries. Pythagoras proposed it first, Darwin discussed it in his 'Theories of Adaptive Sports Enthusiasts', and Freud eluded to it once when chatting with his mother over tea...

It's the non-arguable FACT that some people are just not cut out to be effective competitive sports fans.

And I'm here to admit that I'm one of those genetically pre-disposed souls who has never been able to convincingly cheerlead for an organized sports team. (I know, I know... I've pretended to passionately support the USC Trojans, I've clenched my fists while watching the Colts make that field goal, and I've even worn a Charlotte Hornets hat because I liked the color scheme...) But... I just have never had it in me to be the kind of die-hard groupie a professional sports team merchaniser hopes for...

But, somehow, this psychological, sports team-supporting ineptitude vanished last night. My friends took me to see my first live hockey game EVER, and it was truly awesome! (... I know it's hard to believe, but the experience honestly goes up there on the list beside partner-caressed orgasms, poetry-writing in the desert, and arriving in a foreign airport without a plan).

I was one of only four other people in our section NOT wearing a Kings jersey. I was the only one who looked like a reckless, rhythm-less retard when the announcer called for organized rally-clapping, and I was certainly stupidly verbose enough to repeatedly reveal my lack of knowledge about the players on the ice.

Despite all of this, though... I had a wickedly amazing time!

And, I attribute all of it to what Freud might have called the 'natural human tendency towards collective partying'. There's just something inherently heart-justifying about jumping up and screaming exuberantly at the exact same time as thousands of other people do the same.

Who knew that a geezer psychologist years ago could prophesize my imminent acceptance of organized sports...

I've officially seen the light and accepted sports-team fanaticism as my lord and savior.
Have you?

To free tree or not to free tree...

2006-01-23T09:41:00.000-08:00

***
Hi. My name's Stanley, and I'm a virile, young fig tree off-shoot.
I'm not sure why this crazy woman is currently wielding a chainsaw psychopathically near my throat.
All I've ever done is try to grow towards the sunlight, convert carbon dioxide to useable energy, sugars and oxygen, fertilize the soil beneath me with my leaves, provide a combative home for insects offering both pollination and disintigration, and give a few tasty bits of sweet fruit while hoping, to one day, have a family of my own...
I know that my mother, the main fig tree, will survive without me but...
I just don't understand why these humans (especially this out-of-countrol, bandanna-mummified chainsaw murderess) have to chop necks so thoughtlessly.
***

Hi. My name's -c, and I wear a bandanna. I'm a young, healthy, chainsaw-wielding environmentalist. I strive to protect all species of flora that aid in the perpetuation of unique natural habitats providing home to otherwise endangered ecosystems, and I don't want to have to cut any throats.
BUT, this feisty little fig tree-wanna-be off-shoot has cuddled with, and seductively entwined himself around, a few dead oleander bushes and an orange tree who has passed on. Now, I am no murderess, but I just can't give a proper burial to these late Heroes of Vegetation (let alone chop up any new firewood) without taking the life of cute little off-shoot Stanley...
***

We need your vote now!
Vote:

a) for letting poor Stanley live because he's such a good, prolific off-spring with nothing but an amazing future of fig-production and vegetative expansion before him!

or

b) for authorizing the massacre of a small limb so that fire hazardous, dead debris can be cleared from the peripheries of family residences and, in turn, allow for new birth of aspiring young shoots.

Celebrating Unblogged Secrets Revealed

2006-01-19T15:18:00.001-08:00

Today, all kinds of peeps are coming together to celebrate.
Everyone who's anyone will be here!
Afterall, it's the 1 year and 2 day anniversary of this blog: Up the Creek without a Platypus!

I know for a fact that gnomes of all (well, quite a few, at least) socio-economic backgrounds are on their way. Three nationally-recognized coalitions of retired military nymphs are currently catching the bus in L.A., a few of the most respected aardvark advisors will be arriving shortly (after they pick up their pre-packaged Blind Dates on the corner by Paco's Taqueria), and, within the hour, a gaggle of gargantuan gastro-philanthropists from the United Front of Genital Protection and Geographic Insemination will be arriving (just a tip: don't ask them what they do until both you and they have consumed no fewer than 6 dirty martinis).

Then, the party will begin! First a quick, get-you-ready set by the screaming peacocks of an Ohai, California local. Then, the tell-tale wing-flapping of recently-immigrated So 'Cal parrots, and a bit of drumming by my mother's own opossom pals from the attic.

Then, after the dance-invoking, rhythm-expounding gala subsides, we'll calm for a short yet sincere speech, tears and memories:

"One year and two days ago today (sniff, sniff), I was one year and two days younger than I am today. And so was the Sphinx. And the Kelloggs company. And this blog was but a fledgling with nothing but a silly title I intended to change but never did. (sniff) I was living in Japan, had just gotten my first computer EVER, and wanted to learn to write creatively in front of a screen as opposed to a bar napkin. (pass me a Kleenex- this is too much!.. and I wanna jot down some thoughts!) I was mourning the loss of a best friend to soy and cornfields and I (oh, I can't say it!) was realizing that I no longer had the vocabulary or ability to articulate myself in my native language (sniff) without the use of Japanese bows, grunts, head-tilts, and (yes, it's true!) complicated sucking-air-through-teeth maneuvers. So I (sniff, sniff) conceived this Blog Baby to fill the emptiness. And, oh what indescribable pleasure she has given me throughout the year! (whaa!!)

Once tears and wails subside, it will be time for the dirty, behind-the-scenes, never-before-told, unblogged secrets of Up the Creek without a Platypus to be revealed...:

I'm actually not a 27 year-old, female English teacher.
I'm actually a 59 year-old, male, retired schoolbus driver.
I like drinking beer at the demolition derby, sleeping late, and sharing sunsets by my kiddy pool. I'm looking for a like-minded, pre-pubescent girl who's funny, sexy and smart, can enjoy a good boy-band tune, likes to shop for trendy friendship necklaces and who, when grounded by the "'rents", paints anarchy symbols on her backpack.
If you think you're her, please give me a call.
(if my old lady answers, just say you're with the propane inspectors.)

Up the Creek: Happy 1 year and 2 day Anniversary!

Rock-skipping Part II

2006-01-16T21:21:00.000-08:00

Skipping rocks is to flipping pancakes, as:

a) counting books is to mounting cooks
b) throwing grounders is to growing weeds
c) playing tic-tac-toe quick is to laying desperate dick
d) addressing dignitaries is to caressing Bloody Marys
e) eating oyster is to heating a cloister
f) jumbling words is to fumbling catches
g) spilling the beans is to Chilling Supreme
h) none-of-the-above-ing is to the fun of love-ing
or
i) what?! they have absolutely nothing to do with each other

*Note: I grabbed this handy little test question from the International D.A.C.A. (Deep Anals of -c's Absurdity), Vol. 43889. For a full explanation of the correct answer, please go skip a stone, flip a pancake, consult the FAQs and consider going with answer j)

Auto Mechanics of Rock-Skipping

2006-01-14T18:46:00.000-08:00

Are there any rock-skippers out there? (And, no, it doesn't count if you've gleefully skipped through a secluded spring meadow of wildflowers, singing Springstein songs... Nor, does your experience circumnavigating the globe as captain of a marble sea maiden with a few stones rolling on deck...)

I mean, a real rock-skipper. A straight-up, feel-the-essence-and-the-universal-power-of-rock-skipping-deep-in-your-soul kind of rock-skipper. Not a wanna-be rock-skipper who hangs out by the lakeside, holding flat stones like they were fashion accessories and half-assedly hurling them against the wind at the water's deeps. No, no... I mean a real, feel-your-limbs-and-molar-cavities-become-the-tide-worn-curves-of-a-beached-stone-as-you-bounce-across-the-trampoline-water's-surface-still-tasting-the-human-hand-sweat-on-your-matamorphic-dermis kind of rock-skipper. The kind whose thoughtfully-selected rock flies frictionlessly across miles of moon-moved liquid landscapes not entirely unlike (but actually kinda darn dissimilar to) a ping pong ball on an ice table.

Anyway, what I'm getting at saying (eventually, I swear!) is that anyone can be a real rock-skipper. A rock-skipper of a particular trade, that is. I mean, we have our classic rock-skippers of Paleontology, rock-skippers of puppet-design, rock-skippers of prairie dog dentistry, rock-skippers of marital unfaithfulness, rock-skippers of one-liners, and rock-skippers of toothpick architecture.

Unfortunately, I'm not quite sure yet in what area of expertise my personal rock-skipping genius lies (unless it's somewhere in between rock-skipper of the fool-player and rock-skipper of arbitrary connections)
But, I DO know what kind of rock-skipper I am NOT.
And, that is the rock-skipper of auto mechanics.

For the past week, I have spent my days in my worn overalls, lathered in grease and sweat, taking wrench and screwdriver to the tricky bowels of an '82 Toyota hatchback and an '89 Honda accord.
OK, fine, so maybe that's not quite true. Maybe, in fact, that's pretty much not at ALL true.
The truth is that I have spent this week in front of two open car hoods, staring blankly at odd metal thing-a-majigs, funny intestine-looking cables and hoses that connect the odd-looking thing-a-majigs and Tupperware-appearing wine boxes housing Cryptonite-colored beverages. And, all the time standing, eyebrows furled and arms crossed, repeating a meditative and frustrated vocal:
"Hmmm..."

Though I fear it may be a long time before I get my GirlScout's Rock-skipping Badge of Mechanics, I think I'm making steady progress. Afterall, I've already earned one Girlscout patch for replacing countless funny-looking tubes connecting funny-looking moving metal thingies, one patch for removing a fan belt, another for taking off a garter belt, and one for siphoning gasoline without inhaling. Hey, every true rock-skipper of spirit has to start somewhere!!

A-political

2006-01-07T15:39:00.000-08:00

As I sat there at the patio table, debating the death penalty with a passionate Palisades lawyer (residing around the corner from Tom Hanks and Michael Keaton), I wondered how many times this poor man had already had this discussion.

I mean, afterall, I'm not in the business, I'm younger than he, and I've already had this ping-pong conversation nearly 2.7 patrillion times (minus, of course, 1.5 patrillion debates that ended in: "But what if a one-eyed mariner drowned your mother in a swimming pool of vinegar and pickled olives- oh, forget it. Pass me the peanuts.")...

No, but honestly... The thing that astounds me is the magnitude and sincerity of fist-clenching, intestine-raising Passion that accompanies our strongest beliefs,
regardless of the antiquity of the debate.

I mean, no matter how many times I exchange foreign policy discussions or giggle over "Bushisms", I still always get an overwhelming body-clenching anger when forced to discuss the current administration.

And, even though I've pro-ed and con-ed to excess, I still always feel my body on the verge of eruption when arguing the superiority of platypuses, discussing the downfall of dehydrated Tang, and verbally wrestling with my opponents over the inalienable rights of Pineapples as officially-recognized pizza toppings...

I just don't know how to scientifically explain it...
I mean, what kind of biologically-concocted mixed chemical drink aides in the screaming of individuals over the position of toilet seat lids and toothpaste tops? What psychological reasoning explains outbreaks of faith-based hatred, sexual-orientation-platformed disgust, and bar brawls over country music selections?

I guess I'm getting more entry-level, college-style philosophical here than I should...

All I mean to say is that I think it's absolutely wonderful that we homosapiediscohumanoids continue to get riled up about our strongest beliefs despite the repetition of questioning.

And, that discussions- even age-old, been-there-done-that ones- are undeniably excellent.

(PS - non-politically and non-religiously speaking: Dog Damn if I won't take a knife to the neck of a brick if you tell me killing is ever OK.)

The Night the Wind Had PMS

2006-01-04T23:56:00.000-08:00

The current So 'Cal wind- she's a crafty cunt. The way she's been freestyle solo swing dancing from orange tree branch to my roof and back- it's, well... overtly sexual and, quite frankly, obscene!

Now, I know what you're thinking- in most languages and cultures that like to attach a Mr. or Mrs. title to their inanimate objects and naturally-ocurring phenomenon, The Wind is decidedly masculine (i.e. El viento in Spanish, Brother Wind in Native American traditions, Der Wind in German, Il vente in Italian and Otoko no kaze in Japanese... (OK, maybe not really that last one but...-)

But, tonight, as I sit here on the porch listening to the screams of the emotionally-battered oleander against the chain link fence, I can assure you SHE (the wind) is no more a HE than I am an IPod.
(... although... I did once genuinely believe for about an hour that I was a patch of lichen on a parched rock... but, I'm saving that for another post altogether...)

I mean, there's just no way that this sneaky force, scattering thoughts, dry leaves and gardening brochures like they were scribbles in a 3 yr old's coloring book
is anything BUT a full-fledged, irratic raging female!

And, I can say this without being fire-range stoned for breaching unwritten laws of political correctness, because I myself am a full-fledged, irratic raging female... and, I believe in the situationally-based, appropriate use of epithets of all races, creeds, religions and sexes.
And, I'm sticking to that!

So, blow on, ye beautiful, pheremone-fragranced bitch! And thank you! El tiempo oscuro de noche is made extraordinary by your womanly blow!

...er...womanly show... I mean, womanly flow...
...aww, hell, no matter what I write, I can't help but offend even myself :)

Drop a WC Bomb in 2006!

2006-01-01T12:23:00.000-08:00

Wishing everyone a happy New Year!

Being as I'm in the vicinity of Downtown H-glamour, you might expect a bit of glitz and scandal...

Unfortunately, I have no tales of the rich and famous. Instead of hitting the strip, I went out to a friend's ranch where cowboy hats, boots and mud rang in the 12:01am.

The hugest bonfire I have ever seen was fed monstrous logs by forklift as we chatted, drank and danced about beside the bareback bull-riding arena,
and I drummed on a bucket to my beautiful brittle-fingered guitar strummers.
(granted..., my pals couldn't play their guitars, but they sure could fake it, and I played a mean pail, if I do say so myself!... Hey, even the kids and dogs were showing off their hip-thrusting moves!)

The oddest part of the the evening took place when I found myself actively promoting a "Poop Party" with two friends of mine.

"Yeah! I'm gonna go poop! How about you?"
"Oh, I just can't wait! Pooping is so much fun!"
"Yes! I love it too! Let's all fo poop together!"
"C'mon! Quick! Let's get pooping!"

I know it spoils some of my glamorous and mysteriously seductive appeal, but I have to admit that this wasn't actually as kinky as it sounds... The truth is, my friends and I really had no interest in shitting together. In fact, we all found it a rather fascinatingly disturbing idea...
But, we were restroom-bound with a friend's 13 year old, autistic daughter who hadn't squeezed out a log in over two weeks. This poor girl was deathly frightened of letting a little submarine out through the back hatch and into the sea! So, we did as any altruistic group of committed citizens would do... We planned a nice Poop Party!

Unfortunately, December 31st didn't prove to be the day for dropping digestive missiles...

But, I'm not worried.

I'm sure that the New Year will bring happy defecation to everyone!

Happy 2006!

El pueblo unido jamas sera vencido!

2005-12-30T16:00:00.000-08:00

Today I was dressed to blend in with a Columbian insurgency group, or at least costumed impeccably to hit a jungle vine-hung pinata with a few Zapatistas...

I was wearing a pair of garden work-stained cotton pants from Guatemala with pull strings at the heels, an oversized gray thermal top embroidered with dust, cobwebs and bits of insulation, a rubberbanded headlamp and a faded blue bandana around my nose and mouth...

Though I WAS hoping to attract the attention of some cutting-edge Hollywood fashion designers, my only real objective today was to attack back-end-exited rat jewels from my mother's attic.
Obtaining the treasured jewels, though, proved more difficult than I had anticipated. I was immediately ambushed by an army of asbestos soldiers on the piped grassy knoll of rotten insulation. Then, the narrow supporting beams decided to realign themselves on an inside joke whim to watch the attic intruder run the dusty, labyrinthine gauntlet and get stuck hunched in the corner. And, to make matters worse, my nose was flooded with new flu mucous, threatening to explode into my stylish Subcomandante Marcos mask.

Sigh... I'm ready for bed...

Don't worry, though- I'll be bright-eyed in the morning, ready to flaunt next spring's line of dumpster-diving gowns.

Of algae and Turkey Basters

2005-12-27T15:50:00.000-08:00

Every young philosophical mind, at some point, poses the ageless inquiry: Are we alone in the universe?

Well, I made up my mind at about age 9 that we are most certainly and positively NOT alone; that somewhere just past Mike's Meteor Meatball stand before you get to the international headquarters of the Excess Extra-terrestrial Excrement Dump, there is a quaint little pub filled with out-of-work algaes drowning their sorrows in pints of nitrogen, wondering out-loud in slurred algae dialect: "Is this all there IS?"

So, even though I know that this pub exists (afterall, there's a webpage about it!), I still found myself pondering the question throughout the holidays: Are we alone?

Are we the only family, I wondered, that finds it perfectly normal to wrap Christmas gifts in brown paper grocery bags with doodled pictures of homicidal snowmen on them?
Are we the only family that recites "The Night Before Christmas" with added, improvised verses about Prancer's extra-curricular trips to the gay reindeer bars?
Are we the only family that gets turkey baster in our stockings, just so we can "squirt things"?
Are we the only family that has tamales for Christmas dinner and contemplates putting guacamole and salsa on our lemon bars?

Well, anyway, it was a stellar Christmas at home this year!
Next year, I think I'll send an invitation out to the regulars at the little nitrogen pub by the Meteor Meatball Stand... I'm thinking we'll have a lot in common....