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Preview: I do not believe in fate, I believe in irony.

I do not believe in fate, I believe in irony.



I do not believe in fate, I believe in irony. - LiveJournal.com



Last Build Date: Fri, 05 Mar 2004 21:17:36 GMT

 



Rules for being a successful comedian and taking requests

Fri, 05 Mar 2004 21:17:36 GMT

I had just paid my punitive court fine of twenty five American dollars for having my old garage door laying in my driveway. Waiting behind us was a curly-headed bearded guy. A large heavyset young man with a redneck air about him came in through the door grinning and ambled through the metal detector. The buzzer went off and he drawled his one liner of which he was clearly so proud, "Weel I guees it is all theese guns I got on mah!"
Only nobody heard him except for us.

An officer approached at the buzzing and asked the man to step back through. He did so, paused for effect and again gleefully repeated, what in his mind must have been greatest zinger of all time:
"Weel I guees it is all theese guns I gg-."

Only this time he didn't finish.

Like lightning, the officer had in him neck hold against the flickering soda machine and three other officers converged on the scene like swarming blue locust. The curly headed guy ran past us out the door in fear.
The man was screaming with lips smashed against the glowing coca-cola panel in a high pitched girly voice, "I ain't got no guns! no guns! agghhhhghh!"
The other two officers pulled his pockets inside out while he screamed and Paul and I quietly made our exit.
We decided if a joke dies the first time, it is really best to just let it lie.

I casually wondered if Mr. Comedian would be bailed out in time to catch Paul do a solo acoustic set at the Atlanta Motor Speedway before a race. No I am absolutely not making that up. Anyone who has a suggestion for a cover that will be a crowd pleaser for the NASCAR set, we are all ears.



The shiny candy lure of flickering celebrity - a message for Georgia folks

Tue, 02 Mar 2004 17:42:17 GMT

x-posted to church of craft
It must be spring because I am dressed like a freak and ready to crown myself Emporer.
I absolutely adore life's little quick turns in the road. Maybe you will make it, but maybe you will end up in the ditch because you are driving too fast, but either way your blood is really pumping.

Due to some spike in universal novelty, I ended up talking to one of the producer people for Home and Garden Television's new show in production, Crafting Coast to Coast. Specifically she needs people from the Atlanta and Athens Georgia area, who are "hip, indy, crafters" who do funky cool crafts and at the risk of sounding chock full of hubris, I am quite literally the poster child for this endeavor.
I know there are few other poster children out there, I am looking at you (image) lorigami.
Here is how you apply, send digital pictures of you and examples of your craft or you can send a website link containing such objects to this address: LPlotczyk@Wellergrossman.com
Her name is Lorelei and if you need more info respond here and I will email you her phone number directly.
Don't wait, she is in a hurry. Filming starts at the end of this month!

Fly monkeys fly!



A bad wedge of week in three slices - #3

Mon, 01 Mar 2004 17:35:25 GMT

cont...Paul drug me home from the doctor's office with a battlement of drugs and shot in my ass that was causing mildly pleasant swooning.It had stopped the puking in short order, so at that point it could have made me grow thick curly chest hair and I would have been satisfied with it.The next two days were spent in bed with newspapers and magazines spread liberally on the comforter. My first attempt at normal functioning in an upright position was to feed and water my parakeet. I had noticed her attitude had gotten considerably better as of late. There was an incident two weeks ago when she had drawn blood during a cage cleaning, but I took that as moodiness associated with startling her. Had I been suddenly awakened from a dream where I freely soared the skies, by getting hit with a mirrored Chinese plastic pagoda with a bell attached, I would have been reasonably pissed as well.She must have sensed my frailty that day, stepping onto my index finger and gingerly cleaning my cuticles. When I slid the cage door shut she rang exactly like the telephone.The next morning I was enjoying finally feeling like I could walk around without the effect like I had roamed the desert for forty days. Paul suddenly called from the living room that the bird was bleeding. This was beyond stupid. We had her for five and a half years without a single shred of maternal instinct and today of all days she decided to bring her silent gestating to a grape-sized fruition.To be perfectly honest, I thought it was funny... until it got stuck.I made ridiculous calls to avian vets. I followed all sorts of bizarre and slightly revolting instructions to aid her in this miracle of birth. Nothing was working, I was advised to bring her in.While in the waiting room I made casual, "What are you in for?" inquiries. It was an exotic species vet so I nodded empathetically while a young girl showed me an enormous tumor on her giant rat's head, an older lady let me peek at her boy rabbit who was about to lose his manhood and I looked with interest at the biker guy whose ferret was stricken with mange.They called me into the back room and the woman looked terribly serious. I wished suddenly that I merely had a ferret with mange. They gave it to me without fanfare - they couldn't save her, they would have to put her down.I was struck quite unexpectedly with bitter remorse and agony over a nine dollar, four-inch, sky blue bird. The woman tried awkwardly to comfort me, patting me staccato-style while I wailed out useless information, like how the bird knew the first six notes to "Ode to Joy." My faulty reasoning being, notification of this obvious level of talent would spur them to perform a veterinary miracle and then later they could interview me on "Animal Planet" or something. Another woman came in clearly to try to relieve her co-worker from the bereavement duties but only succeeded in blocking the door so the other one couldn't get out. Now I had two strangers patting me and offering soda. They left me alone in the room with my little blue bird huddled into a corner of a fish tank and for the second time in six months I had to explain to one of my animals why I was going to allow some stranger to take their life. It was just as hideous I remembered.They came in to give me my empty cage and attempted to hand me a booklet called, "losing your best friend," which I heartily declined. While I drove through grey slush the fucking bright yellow pagoda ting-a-linged cheerily against the cage bars, so I rolled down the window to chuck it out. The smell of snow slapped me into submission. I tried to get it together and remind myself that the week was over, whatever joys and horrors awaited for the upcoming week were on a different episode and beyond my purview. I would take them as they came. I tried to pay attention to the rare visage of pure white snow tumbling clumsily off the bowed pines and then I remembered at the very least I have a bunch of vanilla frosting left over from the party.[...]



A bad wedge of week in three slices - #2

Fri, 27 Feb 2004 16:25:48 GMT

cont...
1:35AM, flash forward to exactly 24 hours later - incubation time.

I rubbed my eyes, wondering why I had chosen once again to awaken at the exact same time as the night previous. I didn't have any startling dreams yet I was utterly utterly awake.
While I lay there trying to figure it out, an unexpected nauseous sensation washed over me and then a horrid sense of urgency sent me rushing for the bathroom.



I could not help or hinder my fate.
At one point I had puked with such duration and zeal that I would have not been the least bit surprised to see my wallet, shoes, or perhaps Peter the Great's mysterious missing Amber room make a splashdown.
I finally consigned myself to laying prostrate on the bathroom mat in divine reverence to my stern porcelain dictator.
While on the floor in between bouts, I would flip casually through the pages of a Metropolitan Home thinking, "I like the use of wallpaper here..." until my intestines made their vitriolic ransom call and I was forced to genuflect the throne once more.

Around eight hours later, Paul discovered me useless, crusty and attached to the mat like a bathroom barnacle.
He cleaned me up and directed me back to bed, until twenty minutes later when the whole vile process began anew. In-between my exorcist style projections I could hear him talking to the advice line nurse.
Dutifully he put clothes on me and drove me to the Urgent care facility while I held a bucket in my lap.
Paul dropped me at the door while he parked and I trudged through the double doors.
The woman and the rent-a-cop behind the information desk recoiled slightly when I walked in. The woman asked if I needed a wheelchair, and the cop echoed her.
I felt this was an alarmist position, but I thanked them for their concern and assured them there would be someone to fetch me any moment, but I would definitely sit down while I waited. Paul supported me while we waited for the elevator and somewhere through the wall of nausea, I enjoyed the distinct feeling of gravity no longer applying to me, and the major joints in my body seemingly had dissipated and my limbs were being held together with phantom threads.
I stood with Paul at the check-in and when the time came to sign the credit slip, he released his grip on me to take the pen. I recall thinking that the desk was at an improper angle and then seeing the carpet up much closer than I expected.
I was on the floor and had no idea how I had gotten there.
Suddenly there were six nurses surrounding me like oompa loompas, all of them asking me if I was okay and one of them telling me she liked my shoes. The woman from the information desk was there too, she snarled that I should have listened to her in the first place and gotten a wheelchair. Had I been able to muster bile on command, I would have gleefully upchucked onto her ankles.
They immediately put me in a room with a hospital bed and Paul pushed the hair out of my eyes.
"You always know how to get the best service"

to be continued...



A bad wedge of week in three tasty slices - #1

Thu, 26 Feb 2004 22:51:06 GMT

It was Xan's first birthday and I really wanted to do something special. The smash cake was plain as requested so there would be no swaths of red or purple dye to mark the occasion permanently. The rest of the cake was totally up to me, however so in a fit of frenzied confectionary, I built a grandiose cupcake tower of Babel. Four different flavors all with white icing and different colored sprinkles revealed the contents, I actually had a printed key to decode the cupcakes sitting at the base.Yes, I know what that says about me...The real trick was coming up with the tiered stand. Those fancy bastards cost upwards of seventy five bucks and I just didn't have enough cash to blow on something so extravagant.If necessity is the mother of invention, then mild insanity is the estranged father.My cheap (if not well-meaning,) brainchild was three inexpensive clear plastic platters and then hot glue upended fancy plastic cups to the bottom. I covered the platters with festive tissue paper in a decorative cut. The top tier featured the smash cake with tiny flagged glitter swizzle sticks embedded into the icing. To really push it over the top I sent great thick satin ribbons in orange and red cascading down the side.I had done some preliminary disaster testing, placing several cupcakes on only one side to see if it would tumble. Satisfied with the results I loaded up the car.The party was in a park outbuilding near where I grew up. There were scads of little children zipping about and of course once they realized I had cupcakes, I felt like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters entering the alien ship.Standing back looking at the finished assembly, I was generally satisfied with my effort. The cupcakes were definitely tasty if not smaller than I had intended and the display was eye-catching to be say the very least.I popped a red velvet cupcake with white chocolate chunks in my mouth as a reward.Xan's extremely polite grandmother whom I have met on several occasions was wandering about the food table. There is something about her that I can't exactly put my finger on, beside the fact that she inexplicably reminds me of one of the Gabor sisters, it is glaringly obvious she comes from a completely different planet than I do. I don't think she dislikes me, but I sense a severe undertow of discomfort. In her cartoon world I would stand precisely on top of the trap door or perhaps under a giant anvil.It makes me want to know what makes her tick.She was reaching for an Elmo plate when she accidentally made eye contact with me. She stared at my garish confectionary giant. I watched her struggle behind her eyes for something to say, she patted me sweetly and said, "My, isn't that creative?"I took it in the spirit in which it was intended and was complimented. I am fairly sure I wouldn't be an appropriate dinner guest at her house where her friends were attending and she probably isn't the sort of person who tries to make Disneyworld out three plastic platters and 50 cupcakes. The party went along as planned, there was face painting and a parachute and passing the beautiful birthday boy with a pointy hat from lap to lap.The cupcakes had started to thin out in the front so in an obsessive compulsive twitch I decided to turn the entire contraption around casually so no one would notice other than new and fresh cupcakes had appeared as if from thin air, like a ninja Martha Stewart had suddenly struck and vanished.The base wouldn't budge. The tablecloth had caught in a small crack in the plastic cup base preventing it from spinning. With idiot resolve I muscled it to the left not taking the already present crack into consideration. The plastic collapsed into shards on the table and the whole thing came tumbling down like the vanilla sugar walls of jimmied Jericho. I turned around to meet the blank stares of party goers and came to slowly be aware there was a cupcake wedged onto my right thumb and frosting on one of my b[...]



Things I learned in Highschool

Thu, 19 Feb 2004 17:40:08 GMT

I nervously shifted my weight from one foot to another while I stood in the line at the music store.I was just into my fifteenth year and was waiting to get a signature from a band that I was swooning over that month. Paige was with me and I tried for her sake to maintain an icy exterior in my painted leather jacket and used army boots, but I was a spastic teenage monkey.I remained relatively cool through the meet and greet process, but while walking away with my signatures, I paused and ran back to the table to ask for a kiss.The lead singer gladly obliged.Outside in the parking lot we stopped to talk to some people who were in the line ahead of us, they were older kids out of high school and had planned on driving up the next night to see the band play in Athens. Regardless of the fact that I barely knew their names and that it was a school night, I asked if they would take me with them and they agreed.The next night I was in strange backseat staring at the rush of bright stars that rural Georgia generously provided through a cracked rear windshield. My chaperones stopped at a specific brown bag store because apparently the stony ancient who worked the night shift didn't card. They spilled out the front doors with bags and bags of cheap disgusting liquor. They filled a giant plastic cup for me and I took slow sips until we reached our destination and then I poured it out behind the car. Even though the majority of the foul substance had sunk into the red clay, some of it had sunk into me because I had failed to eat anything and truthfully, I turned a little silly.The concert was a screaming, flailing blur of bouncy rock'n'roll. Afterwards a small group made our way to the camp ground area next to the tour bus to wait. The band came out after a half hour and I muscled my way to the front. The lead singer remembered me and soon arms strewn over shoulders, changed to me sitting on his lap, drinking his beer and swinging my legs like the goofy little girl that I was.Giggling kissing sprees ensued with this man, who in retrospect was likely ten to fifteen years my senior. I employed my best and only sexy look, that involved a half smile and one raised eyebrow. I won't lie, its still the only one I have.He combed through my hair with his fingers. He whispered things to me in a slow quiet British accent that went straight from my ears to a low place behind my bellybutton. Consequences buzzed along with the cicadas, but I waved them away. I could see nothing past the all encompassing glare of someone whose face was on MTV daily and had one of my earlobes between his teeth. Clearly this meant I was special, clearly this meant I was important. My senses had packed their bags like a huffy wife and left.The beer now had a solid kung-fu grip on me and I was dancing and spinning with music coming from the bus. There was more kissing, this time with a guy named Dave, a guitarist. Somewhere in the ether, I was vaguely aware it was getting late and I looked around for my ride but they had abandoned me. I felt hands on my hips, it was Mike the lead singer. "You should come on the bus with us. We are going to Orlando tomorrow."To be perfectly forthcoming - I seriously considered this, completely dismissing what I would tell my parents or how I would explain my disappearance from school. I could only see my cheesy teenage fantasy coming to fruition. Then I turned around and I realized the entire band was standing there looking at me. The guitarist piped up, "I think we might go to Disneyland!"Then it all became crystal clear what "on the bus" meant.I took a few steps back and started to stutter like I was eight and got caught fooling with the stereo settings."I, I, I can't. I mean I want to, but you see I have a, a, a .... test in the morning and I can't miss it..."Then I turned and ran. Out of some grand sweeping wave of fortune, an older sister of a girl I knew was hanging out with her[...]



What the hell does THAT mean?

Thu, 12 Feb 2004 17:55:59 GMT

Monday night I dreamt that I was dead.
A bodiless ethereal soul wandering a world lacking my person and due to some unnatural desire, I sought out my own grave.
I stared into the face of my headstone with the stark Roman lettering and read the inscription.

Now when I die I had always planned to be cooked not planted thus making the possibility of snappy comebacks from the great beyond more difficult.
Rather than altering my carefully laid plans or waiting until I shove off this mortal coil, I would like to offer twenty American dollars for this little subconscious blip to be commemorated for me in needlepoint, possibly surrounded by festive decor.
Also if anyone cares to take a Freudian stab at it - I am all ears.

I once was here,
but now I aint.
I left you a brush
and a can of paint.



Where babies come from - sanitized for your protection

Wed, 11 Feb 2004 16:30:10 GMT

When Catie explained that she wanted me to come with her at 8:00 on a precious Saturday morning with six little girls with whom I have no vested interest, then drive for an hour to Cleveland Georgia when it looked like snow...obviously I couldn't say "YES" quick enough. The dangled carrot was of course a bright, shiny jewel in the crown of freaky roadside attractions - Babyland General. For those in the studio audience who slept through the eighties due to infancy or drunkenness, missed quite a run on these squash faced, soft-bodied dolls put out by Coleco. They had bought the rights earlier in the decade from entrepreneur extraordinaire - Xavier Roberts. Xav had sewn these dolls up and effectively marketed them back in the seventies. The lure being that they weren't really "dolls" but "babies." You couldn't just buy one, you had to adopt them, you signed papers, showed ID, received certificates with a clumsy moniker that sounded vaguely Utah Mormon and Xavier's name was cheerfully emblazoned on the ass.He set up a "hospital," which was an old abandoned medical facility on the main drag in town. He fashioned this weird fantasy land where you would shuttle scores of freaked-out children through rooms with large glass windows. Behind which, old scary women in nurse Ratchet uniforms would shuffle around tending to fake babies and yanking them unceremoniously from giant vaguely vaginal-looking fabric cabbages. As we pulled the van into the parking lot, I decided vice squad rules might be best for handling a group of small children under six in a strange town. I commanded that everyone put their hands on the car until it was completely unloaded. I was shocked to my foundation that they actually did it. It looked like a midget bust. Then came the complicated assembly of a chain gang of hand-holding to make it across the two lane road. Old men in even older trucks waved us through with amusement while two pink-haired, pierced girls crossed the pedestrian walk with a line of giggling little girls strewn like a laundry line between us.The woman in a nurse uniform at the information desk advised us which way to start the tour. We wound through room after room of themed nurseries filled to the brink with stuffed, dull-eyed, yarn-coiffured babies.It was deliciously creepy. The BIG room came soon enough. It was a glittering carnival of over-stimulation. While Catie ran the restroom relay with two girls a piece, I attempted to wrangle the others into a general area by taking pictures of their favorite babies so they could make a parental pitch when they got home later. It was then that I noticed the little tow-headed princess who was maybe pushing five. She reminded me instantly of the young movie version of Christina Crawford from "Mommie Dearest."She wore an expensive sweater set with matching shoes and already had a non-Cabbage Patch doll in a stroller that coordinated with her outfit. Her grandparents were falling all over themselves trying to buy things for her. Her father filmed every move, I never once saw him put down the camera while he clutched her rabbit fur coat in the non-camera hand. I couldn't get a read on what kind of kid she was because she was perfectly expressionless, she never spoke out loud or ran or pointed or giggled. There was a placid Mona Lisa smile across her face like she wasn't really even there. When they called her name (Ashleigh - monogrammed onto her purse) I saw her do something that I have only ever seen one other person I know do. My friend Gretchen was a professional model and so as not to muss her hair, she turned the entire upper half of her body if someone called her name behind her. Oddly enough it didn't seem out of place with this little girl, since she already seemed so grown up anyway, so much more than myself.She seemed to be surrounded by a shell, a veneer of crystal clear shella[...]



Villain, thy name be Heidi!

Mon, 09 Feb 2004 17:32:44 GMT

XM radio has music broken up by decades on the first ten stations on the dial.
I switch constantly between the 40's, 50's, 60's and 70's, and due to some bizarre need to humiliate myself I occasionally listen to the eighties hits station when I am alone in the car.
Mostly it is like panning through mud to find the gems I want.
I hit the occasional personal music mines that leave me screaming a horrified little girl scream and clawing at the dash for the mute button, like that one deadly single by Animotion that makes me want to start taking out people with leg warmers from a bell tower.

Lately however I have been glued to the station out of sick fascination with one of the DJ's -
Heidi Selexa.
She is quite possibly the most annoying personality in the history of the radio.
Her voice is high and nasally with a Fran Drescher lilt. She emphasizes inappropriate syllables and laughs heartily at her own cryptic running jokes. When I listen to her I feel as if I am trapped in a crowd of hungry used car salesmen wearing a suit made of hundred dollar bills.
All too frequently she sings off key over the top of songs that are on their last chorus. Sometimes she taunts her audience, "Here is a-NOTHER request for SAmmy Hagar's "I can't DRRRive 55," so I will play IT next -
JUST KIDDING!!!"
Then she cackles while the intro to Tony Basil's "Hey Mickey" starts to play. Just to add insult to assumed injury she then plays Weird Al Yankovic's "Hey Ricky" spoof directly after.

Mute button - activated.

While waiting for the light to turn green, I picture some poor bastard with a fresh perm and a sleeveless zip up shirt he bought from "ChessKing" relaxing in his lazyboy after feverishly typing out his most earnest electronic plea.
He shakes a mighty right fist to heaven for he holds an open Bud lite in the left and screams, "Curse your eyes Heidi Selexaaaaaa!!!"

Wanting for knowledge about this she-devil, I started feeding her name into search engines since understanding one's enemy I felt was the greatest defense against her black radio arts.
I found her domain immediately with an "under construction" warning and the message, "Don't worry, I'll be back - Giggle Giggle Tee-hee" seemingly delivered from giant-headed caricature of her person.
Ouch, barbed again by her vivacious Valley Girl mannerisms.
I finally scrounged up her DJ bio on the XM radio site. The highlights were that Erik Estrada was her step-father and she is really into jazzercising. The final sentence showing her sinister hand, "Just listen.....you'll eventually get her."
Then it all became clear to me. This was a personality construct. Ed Wood did not become the worst director of all time by accident, no he feverishly worked at it. He manufactured his place in history.
This was all part of Heidi's evil plan, like the Cesar Romero Joker who applied his white makeup right over his gaucho mustache, neither care for the trappings of what society foolishly dictates.
Heidi Selexa plays the irritating superficial coquette all the while hatching whatever insidious plan she has for the innocent souls who just want to hear a little Thompson Twins.
She is my Moriarty.

I think I love her.



Like Publishers Clearing House, except with regular sized checks...

Mon, 09 Feb 2004 00:22:03 GMT

I nervously counted the money onto the table for the eighth or ninth time.
I shuffled letters and checks and tried to figure out various presentation methods. Grandiose horrific fantasies where I tripped and all the money went down the sewer or there was a car wreck and a disreputable paramedic pocketed the money while I lay there bleeding consumed me.
I decided unreservedly that I was not cut out to be financier and was sort of glad this whole collecting money effort was over with, then Tre opened the front door and fought off the spastic advances of the puppy to reach us in the kitchen.
I showed her the cash pile and she heartily approved.
Off we went to Lisa's new apartment.
Lisa looked extremely suspicious when she opened the door. She had expected Tre but not us. I gave her the card first and after she read the inscription she looked up to me holding a thousand plus dollars in front of her.
I told her how much there was and counted off all the cards and letters from total strangers, she just stared into the pile and choked out,
"I don't understand."
When it finally sunk in, there were tears and laughing out loud about how she thought we were intending to surprise her with a pizza. Being the uncomplicated girl she is, claimed she "would have been perfectly happy with a pizza..." We all walked across the compound to fetch her remaining drafting table from her burned out apartment since it was so heavy and there was four of us after all. I cursed myself for not bringing my camera so I could snap photos but as soon as the door was opened, the idea completely left me. Any brevity that existed moments prior got sucked right into the literal and figurative black hole in the middle of the floor.
I choked on the cold dank smokiness and let one of my major life-long fears crawl all over me like cockroaches.
The smallest details were the most bizarre and unsettling: the straight black line where the flames broke through the floor, the boot print of the firemen on the front door, and the untouched stack of boxed wooden matches. I circled the draft table to unhook the top and felt the floor groan and buckle under my weight. My stomach fell into my shoes.
We carried the tabletop down the stairs and I was glad to be out while I washed the soot off my hands.
Lisa sat still shocked at the gift through dinner with a glazed countenance while I destroyed a really good calzone.
Suddenly her expression changed and she announced, "Okay, I think I have moved through the stunned phase and have gone to really really happy."

Thanks to everybody for everything, it was all worth it. Expect a posted note from Lisa in the future to offer her gratitude.



Update and well deserved thanks

Fri, 06 Feb 2004 17:53:18 GMT

Update on my girl Lisa:
First I want to thank everyone for helping her out especially so close to the last livejournal plea for fire victims. It was definitely not my choice of timing, but the whims of the weirdo on the ground floor.
(image) robny and (image) spooble have gleefully donated their queen size mattresses so she wont have to sleep on the floor any longer. For those keeping score there is $921.40 in cash/checks and a couple of gift certificates worth a hundred dollars a piece.

I have to tell you, everyone's generosity and warm wishes for Lisa melted my stony heart just like a Cadbury Cream Egg left on the dash in August.
At lunch I will see if Hallmark has a reasonable facsimile of the message,"Sorry some asshat burned your stuff - here is a big wad of money from benevolent strangers on livejournal to make you feel a little better."
Wish me luck.
We are going over tonight to give her what I have gotten thus far and after she kicks my ass for talking about her on the internet, I know she will be overjoyed that she can go out this weekend and maybe buy a new couch.

I would like to offer my most humble and sincere gratitude and for everyone else in this forum who knows her personally.

Please see the next up coming post for your regularly scheduled vitriolic hogwash.



a call to arms and a rare solicitation

Mon, 02 Feb 2004 17:29:44 GMT

My actual real-life friend Lisa, right out of graduate school has just started her first serious job with an architect firm.
The apartment directly below hers has been legally empty for close to a year, except the previous tenant kept breaking in deciding to "remodel." He punched holes in walls and knocked out load-bearing beams.
Lisa's place had started to tilt.
The man had been arrested more than once for trespassing. All the tenants had gone to police, the management company and HUD who owned the property repeatedly, trying to come up with a way to keep this person out.
Finally someone agreed to show up on Saturday to evict this individual once again.
Having caught wind of this he did what any other ambitious psychotic miscreant would do -
the asshole set the place on fire.

Lisa has lost nearly everything.
There are giant holes in the floor where her couch and electronics and architecture books used to be. She lost all of her building models.
She had to throw out her mattresses. Nearly all of her clothes are ruined. Anything that isn't permeated with smoke has water damage. The only insurance she could afford was what someone putting herself through grad school could afford - none.

A more generous, funny and decent person than Lisa, I would be hard pressed to show you. I want to try and get her a new couch or bed and replace a few books if I can, but unfortunately all I could scrape up of my own cash was about a hundred bucks.
She doesn't know I am doing this. She is far too independent a person to sanction such a move, but I cannot let her suffer such a blow without trying to do something other than waiting for the fucker who did this to bail out and have someone kneecap him.

*UPDATE
Thanks to all of your generosity, we have hit the goal I had orginally intended. There is $921.40 in cash/checks and a couple of gift certificates worth a hundred dollars a piece.
I am going tonight to deliver what I have so far. If anyone mailed something late, don't worry everything will definitely get to her, I just wanted her to have some cash to go shopping with this weekend so she get replace some badly needed things like kitchen applicances.
I never expected such a warm and benevolent response from the harsh dark jungle of the internet.

It has changed me just a little.
My sincerest thanks to everyone who has donated, sent warm wishes and prayed for Lisa. I personally cannot thank you enough and I suspect she will not be able to either.
The report of me giving her the money is coming up either or Saturday or Sunday.



I do as I'm told

Fri, 23 Jan 2004 17:31:09 GMT

I found the sticker below in a box of jumbled office supplies. Because it had been separated from it's rightful item, I was left to infer its meaning out of context.

(image)

I have done my best to follow the stickers instructions and have completely avoided jamming my finger into anyone's ass today.

I can't make any promises about tomorrow though.



Can I get a witness?

Thu, 22 Jan 2004 18:07:35 GMT

Usually when the crazies come I am utterly utterly alone and defenseless at say the grocery store or perhaps on public transportation. This time Paul was standing there.
Perhaps our long years together have caused the nut magnet in me to shift his poles accordingly and we now attract the wee touched folk as a single unified crazy beacon.

It was the puppy's first trip to PetSmart and we were discussing whether to stick him in the large part of he cart or not. She must have snuck out between two SUV's from the Toys'R'Us section of the lot to descend upon us. She was older, with big eyes and wild unkempt hair and spoke with a loud urgency - there was no proper introduction.
"YOU HAVE TO TRAIN THE PUPPIES PROPERLY YOU SEE BECAUSE IF YOU DONT THEN THEY URINATE INSIDE THE HOME AND I KNOW EXACTLY HOW TO HANDLE THIS YOU SEE THE FIRST THING TO DO WHEN TRAINING A DOG IS..."
An extensive list of exacting direction as to how not to let your puppy urinate inside your home flowed from her crispy thin lips. She yammered in an unbroken stream of consciousness - a puppy training mantra of sorts. Some of it was sage wisdom, some was questionably bizarre, all was unrequested.
Paul nodded, simultaneously startled and amused at the onslaught.
Finally one of us broke in through the rant to explain that the puppy was already housebroken, thanked her for the advice, said goodbye, and hastily turned the cart towards the doors to make our escape but she was too quick.
She made a juke play and faked us out.
She now stood defiantly blocking the cart, frizzy hair waving in the brisk wind like it was trying to escape from her head. She began again - different topic.
"DO YOU KNOW HOW TO KEEP AN ANIMAL FROM RUNNING AWAY BECAUSE I DO I HAVE DONE THIS TONS OF TIMES AND I HAVE NEVER LOST AN ANIMAL EVER AND BELIEVE ME I HAVE HAD LOTS OF ANIMALS IN MY TIME MAYBE THIRTY..."
I tried to break in again, but this time she would not be deterred from delivering the all important message.
Her expression changed suddenly. She was quieter now and leaned in with a sober directive . "Blow in their ears."

I repeated the instruction, "Blow in their ears?"

"Yes, it gets into their mind you see and then they will always know how to return home." She tapped her temple for emphasis.
I imagined her one bedroom apartment housing fifty or so cats dressed in special outfits or perhaps something vaguely sinister like the check-in desk at the Bates motel with taxidermied pets glaring - each with a single moldy ear from her blowing in them daily.
Upon an extended creepy silence she turned and headed into the store ahead of us.
Ajax began to whine slightly.
We concurred with his discomfort.

After a moment of consideration Paul piped up and asked if I recalled saying a week prior that our puppy was so criminally adorable, that if he(Paul) was single he could pick up literally scads of women...
I nodded.

"That wasn't really what I had in mind..."

View the charming beast at Hypnogun's site



Tales from the bad excuse farm

Tue, 20 Jan 2004 17:20:23 GMT

I have a rather disreputable cousin on the west coast. We will call her "Betty" to avoid any possible litigation and if you knew this person you would realize how little I am joking.
She is fervently religious when it suits her, wildly hypocritical, and generally annoying about 98 percent of the time.
Truthfully I do not know much about her adopted religion, but I have some suspicions that she is making some of this stuff up.

She has a daughter, "Jan" that my mother is close to since none of us has seen fit to provide her with a proper granddaughter. In response my mother had little choice other than to lavish girly gifts unto Jan since she was female, related and on the correct side of the country. We all collectively worried about Jan since her mother has some obvious problems, but she seemed to be turning out fine despite the circumstances.
Jan just turned the bend on her fourteenth year and recently when my mother tried to contact her, Betty explained that no one could see Jan because she had been stricken with a "mysterious illness."
The illness apparently had something to do with her blood and she couldn't be exposed to anyone. Betty had to even take her out of school and is home schooling her currently. Mom said was allowed to speak to Jan over the phone who said she felt fine but was a little tired.
Betty claims the doctors say she will be able to see people again in 8 months.

A blood disease that does not require a hospital stay and runs its course in eight months?

Does the jury have a verdict?



Ruining children's literature one book at a time

Thu, 15 Jan 2004 20:17:14 GMT

I try not to offer many critiques of news fodder here in this forum because I don't like to bore people to death with my useless opinion. That being said, I would like to talk a moment about "Peter Pan" if I may just because I find the whole twisted mass of thread way too damn interesting to leave tangled up.

JM Barrie - the author of "Peter Pan" was the younger of a large family and when he was seven years old his elder brother of nine died rather horribly. His mother was said to have swirled into a deep depression over the death of her undisputed favorite son. It was reputed that the seven year old JM Barrie started wearing his dead brothers clothes and answering to his name in hopes of pleasing his mother.
I cannot speculate as to what weird seeds were sown in such a young boy's mind when exposed to such bizarre circumstances, however it is a fact that JM Barrie never matured sexually and was impotent his entire life.
His marriage was never consummated and he never reached a height above five feet tall.
Quite literally the man never grew up.

Little Jamie(JM) started to gain notoriety for his prolific writing abilities. Even though his genres were diverse his themes remained constant - mother figures adopting lost little children, family units being torn apart, wealthy men having attachments to young boys. Rumors grew of complaints and families paid hefty sums to keep quiet about supposed incidents between Barrie and their young sons, but nothing was ever official.
With the success of Peter Pan, Freudians were champing at the bit to analyze the author whose Oedipal themes had become less obscured as time had passed.

JM became close with Sylvia Llwelyn Davies and her five young boys. As he became an increasing presence in the household, Sylvia's husband grew a strong dislike for the author. When Sylvia and her husband died unexpectedly JM became the unofficial guardian of their sons.
As Sylvia's sons reached adulthood, one enlisted in the army as soon as he was eligible and was killed during the first world war.
Two of the others committed suicide.

Flash forward to nearly a hundred years later.

I am skimming a report on the arraignment of Michael Jackson today.
I can't help but wonder if he knows how he has wound up a creepy reflection of pathological history that ambles across the floor with turn key spinning, while we all stare in ghoulish fascination.
(image)



luckiest

Wed, 14 Jan 2004 18:24:19 GMT

The dogs ran through my legs and down the steps when I opened the kitchen door.
I walked out into the cold and tried to make out the figures of the dogs roaming through the dark of the backyard. The light from the open door cast a weird shadow and allowed me to perform a little mummenschanz right there on the deck purely for my own amusement.
The dogs decided to come back in right about the time I became too cold for much to entertain me out there. I flipped through a couple of magazines on the table and then walked towards the back of the house.
Paul was getting ready to go when I walked into the bedroom.
I know he was talking about something but that little detail has now left me because I was looking past his head at something brown and approximately the size of a plum moving in a pile of clothes.
The moment Paul paused his story to say, "What?" the small brown thing suddenly fluttered spastically and became airborne.
It was headed right for me and I ducked as it landed on the crossbars between my bedposts.
It appeared to be a very small nuthatch, seemingly unconcerned that I was so close to it.
Paul quickly slid open the door to the deck. He folded the curtain back to give our visitor an unencumbered path to the outside hoping he would get the message. The bird seemed to reject this and flew around a few more times before landing squarely on Paul and staying there far longer than I would expect a wild bird to do. I started laughing in earnest.
I was trying to remember what I had read as a little girl about luck being on the wings of birds and when they flew into your house they left bits of it scattered about like diamonds.
It was possible that I had made it up but no matter, I had taken this as an augury for the coming year. A portent for all the rare and exquisite things that were borne from all the carcasses of unpleasant events from 2003.
I was suddenly struck vaguely optimistic about the future and the bird flew out as if his job was now done.

As I went back to the kitchen to lock the doors and turn out the lights, I noticed our lucky visitor had shat three times in my favorite salad bowl.
Well, three is a lucky number isn't it?



I found religion and I wasn't even looking for it

Tue, 06 Jan 2004 16:26:47 GMT

x-posted to (image) found_objects

My brother called to tell me the purging of the garage had begun in earnest.
It was the house I was raised in so I dutifully accepted box after box of familial miscellany - creepy children books from the sixties, my grandfathers plumbing tools and an old shaving kit bag stuffed with various ancient and cryptic objects.
There was an old wallet with a single newspaper clipping carefully folded and wedged into the front sleeve.
The writing in the upper right hand corner reads: "6/18/74 Atlanta Constitution"

(image)

I don't think I need to explain whose shaving bag this was, do I?



Filing old bills for New Years

Wed, 31 Dec 2003 17:16:14 GMT

Due to the impending New Year I have been mentally reviewing old black marks against my karmic credit report. This post is a combination of that and substitute poking me with his electronic quill yesterday and no that's not a euphemism. Sam sat in the back of my design class during my doomed second semester at Dekalb Junior College. Aside from looking vaguely like Paul McCartney he was sort of average looking except for a large solid white patch of hair at his temple. The rest of his hair was naturally jet black and it reminded me of a superhero. I correctly assumed it was a remarkable nature leaking out of the edges of a tight conservative lid.He was quiet and shy, just the sort of oyster I like to pry open and see what interesting stuff tumbles out. We became fast friends and hung out together even after I was unceremoniously chucked out of school do to tragic grades and a "bad attitude."He was in a seven year live-in relationship with a girl named Jane and I was five years invested at the time with my live in boyfriend Christopher. Jane wanted to marry Sam, but he was convinced it would ruin everything. I wanted Christopher to marry me because of the tenuous nature of our relationship. He wasn't interested, which frequently resulted in shouting matches.Sometimes Sam and I would discuss the opposing facets of marriage rationally, the way we wanted to discuss it with our respective partners but we both knew it was impossible without great wailing and gnashing of teeth.I always felt better after talking to him while we sat in the same bookstore parking lot, eating ice cream cones and sitting on the trunk of his 69' Ghia.It was the end of summer on a Friday and Sam had come over to hang out at our place because Jane was working late. Christopher and he made small talk while I got Sam a beer and Christopher left for the night shift at the airport. It was such an ordinary evening, we had a million of them before which is why I used to tell myself I didn't see it coming. Now I think perhaps I was too obtuse to notice the flashing red signals and rail crossing arms falling down all around me.Sam said it was getting late and he needed to go.I remember walking him to the door, I walked ahead and was laughing about a sarcastic sexist remark he had made in the kitchen. I remember saying, "Well, I can certainly see why Jane doesn't want you to get away!" then I turned around to face him leaning against the wall.That moment hangs in my head like it has been smashed between two pieces of glass. Nothing can reach it or change it, not even air. Those 15 seconds will never decay.I remember thinking he looked so serious, like maybe he didn't know I was joking, but then he did it I still don't exactly understand.He went in for a kiss.It was truly the last thing I expected and my ill-conceived instincts flared up in some imagined form of self preservation.I ducked.Sam got a mouth full of light switch.I was horrified and tried to stammer out, "I... I didn't... I'm so sor.." but it was too late. He was gone like flash paper. I never even heard the door shut.I spent the next two days trying to reach him.Finally when I called the house on the third night Sam answered.I explained that I had been trying to get a hold of him but he cut me off. "Jane and I drove to Maryland on Friday night. We got married."I choked out possibly the weirdest congratulations I have ever offered. I pondered the possibility if he had thought of the wedding first or kissing me first and I couldn't decide which scenario was more bizarre.Sam shook me from my extended sil[...]



All is forgiven - as long as you're funny

Mon, 29 Dec 2003 20:04:55 GMT

Christmas eve eve had traffic around the mall flowing like a cretaceous tar pit.
Finally in the turn lane onto the freeway, I knew a pace above ten miles an hour was nearly in my grasp. I watched the car ahead of me pull away and I stepped on the gas in anticipation. Without warning or signal a landscaping truck with a trailer suddenly wedged in front of me and slammed on his brakes.
The grace between our bumpers after reaching a full stop was a scant ten inches and all of my Christmas presents including a couple of purchases from the antique store were now scattered liberally about the car.
I was royally pissed and as the words, "you incredible prick..." left me, the driver of the vehicle read my lips in his rear view mirror.
He held his finger up as if to ask me to wait just a moment and I watched his face searching earnestly in the front seat for something. I became mildly concerned that my photo would be plastered on the 11 o'clock news as the first victim of the 2003 holiday road rage.
I looked around to see if there was an escape route, but there was none - I was blocked in on all sides. I figured I might have a fighting chance if he took pots shots at me from the comfort of his four by four, but if he walked up to the window and took aim I was basically screwed.
I wondered briefly who would get my original 11" 1978 HanSolo action figure still in the box.

Then he stuck a banana out the window.



Thin as wasp wings

Tue, 23 Dec 2003 18:01:12 GMT

My apologies to everyone for being so silent during this month.
I wondered initially if this holiday was more difficult than previous ones because this year has been so ghastly for us, but when I looked back through the previous years journals I have been conspicuously silent during the month of December every time.
The holidays force me to look at the big picture and how my own little niche is carved into the cosmic plan, usually through a fog of Champagne and Chambord. This inevitably leads me to the glaring conclusion about all the different ways I do not fit in and the various clubs of humankind to which I am not allowed entrance.

Weekend before last my maudlin stupor had me solidly by the throat, but I was doing my best to put a chipper demeanor on for the Commodore who was lodging for three days in my spare bedroom.
We sat at the kitchen table listening to Verdi's "Otello" and I watched him eat a bologna sandwich and drink a Guinness and Bass I fixed for him. He was talking about the various circumstances and locations of Presidential assassinations and I was only half-listening. I was mired in a trap of pathetic bindings that I myself had woven and was trying to struggle free.
Pop suddenly announced that he was cold and asked if he could he borrow one of Paul's sweaters.
I explained that Paul doesn't own any sweaters, but I would try to find something that would do the trick.
I stared blankly into the closet and pulled the only thing down that I thought would fit him and be warm enough. I walked back into the kitchen and handed him over a vintage Atlanta Flames jersey which he promptly pulled over his head. I was trying to take the picture in of my father wearing a hockey jersey over an oxford with business casual pants. Then he piped up with his mouth full of bologna, "I wish I had remembered to bring my topi!"

I suddenly realized that even though in the vast social galaxy I (like our own little planet) spin on the furthermost spiral arm, at least I am not out here by myself.
Then I fixed myself a bologna sandwich.


Pop says he might like to have a journal.



I swear we were leaving...

Tue, 09 Dec 2003 21:30:40 GMT

Paul and I stood in the middle of the Cat Room at the Atlanta Humane Society surrounded by forlorn mewing.

I wasn't sure if I was ready for this particular trip but I wandered around looking for a kitten anyway. I would have gladly taken a couple of older cats with me if it wasn't for an 85 pound spastic Labrador already waiting at home for us.
I figured a kitten would do better.
Paul reached into one of the cages and pulled out a tiny silver tabby. She looked so much like Boom I was a bit startled. Paul had her on his chest, tucked under his chin and she purred contentedly. I petted her and she was so very sweet that I was nudged towards the sticky abyss of sentiment until this tiny baby kitten got suddenly and inexplicably pissed.

She bit hard and wouldn't let go.

No amount of cooing or gentle suggestion would stop the knife point teeth assault on Paul's person. If you tried to dissuade her she simply picked a different spot and bit harder, digging in with fierce claws.
I was now desperately wanting to chuck this devil baby into an abyss.
We finally managed to pull her off by the scruff of her neck while she hissed and spit like a furry pot boiling over and slammed the cage door shut with horror.
It immediately curled up into a sweet fuzzy napping ball, dreaming dreamy dreams of satanic ritual. No doubt awaiting it's next hapless victim. Next time maybe it would go for the eyes...

We tried a couple more kittens on for size, but they weren't quite right either. I was wracked with disappointment.
Paul and I agreed to come back at a later date when they got fresh kittens in who hopefully didn't have a taste for human flesh. We also could hit some different shelters around town that might be loaded down with baby felines.

We were leaving and stupidly decided a shortcut through the "puppy room" might lighten our mood.
We are so fucking stupid.

Now we are four.
(image)
It's a boy!




Christmas greetings from the Commodore, subtitle "I told all my friends"

Mon, 08 Dec 2003 18:02:15 GMT

I once chastised The Commodore for already being in the middle of a sentence when I picked up the phone. It was disconcerting to me since there is no telling what subject he may be on about. It would take me a few confused moments to comprehend it was the man who brought me into this world that is rattling on about the Federalists who ran against Jefferson in the 1800 election or the standard amount of space in between railroad tracks.
*it's four feet, eight and a half inches by the way.

He seemingly took my complaint to heart.

When I picked up the phone on Friday there was a long pause and then I hear his familiar voice say in a mechanical tone, "this is me identifying myself..."

We made small talk - well, as small as it can get when speaking to my father. He casually used the word "prolixity" and didn't give me enough context to decipher. I scrambled to look it up before I responded, but he called me on my hesitation and I admitted I didn't know what it meant.
He just laughed and didn't tell me.

Main Entry: pro·lix·i·ty /prO-'lik-s&-tE/ noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French & Latin; Middle French prolixe, from Latin prolixus extended, from pro- forward + liquEre to be fluid -- more at LIQUID
Date: 15th century
1 : unduly prolonged or drawn out : too long
2 : marked by or using an excess of words


Obfuscating prolix bastard.

I asked if he had actually called for a reason and he responded with "Age has taken beauty and sin has left it's scar," While I puzzled on the last non-sequitur he slips in that he is coming to town... this Thursday... and is staying at my house. My brother's house is apparently full of out of town guests and cannot accomodate St. Jerome.
No parent has ever stayed at my house - ever.
My mother won't even sit on my furniture.
I managed to sputter out that was fine with me and he responded with "Contrition is no substitute for talent!"
"You know who said that?" Dad asked, I admitted I didn't.
"Me!" he says, "tell all your friends."

"You bet, Pop."

Holy hell, I have got a lot to do.

1. hide porn
2. buy large bottle Sapphire gin
3. arrange political magazines artfully on coffee table
4. buy coffee table
5. buy coffee
6. borrow projector and obtain DVD copy of "Zulu", "Amadeus", or "Stalag 17"
7. no he will probably look there, hide porn in different spot
8. better make that two bottles of gin



administrative

Fri, 05 Dec 2003 17:57:02 GMT

Okay so the good folks here at LiveJournal have advised me that I cannot have over 750 friends at one time.
This obviously has caused difficulty with trying to add new people who have added me since I hit the ceiling about a month ago.
My only option was to make another journal - (image) zepp0
It is identical in every way and there won't be special posts on one or the other so nobody worry if you get moved over there about missing anything good, bad or ugly.

That is all I got, well except for a tale of remarkable stupidity, but that is coming later because there need to be photos to explain.



Revelations at the Don Taco

Wed, 03 Dec 2003 16:02:57 GMT

The woman behind the counter smiled at me when I walked in and as I pulled a five from my pocket I asked for two Cokes. They were the tall ones in the 16 ounce green glass bottles that they stopped making in this country in the early eighties.
She spoke with a thick Spanish accent, "Is that all you want? Our burritos are really good."
I assured her normally I would be getting burritos because they were really tasty, but right now I just needed the Cokes.
I explained that aside from the farmer's market down the street, they were the only place in the city that I knew to buy them and they were far better than regular Coca-Cola. She told me that they were bottled in Mexico and I nodded since I already knew that and said, "I think it is because they use real sugar."
She shook her head, "No, no, not the sugar. It's the water."
She leaned in like she was telling me a secret, "Mexican water is the BEST water in the entire world."
Just then a smaller woman leaned in beside her grinning with a single eyebrow raised and whispered.
"It's MAGIC water!"

Apparently it is not Montezuma's revenge that assails unsuspecting tourists, but the magic waters that sour in the bellies of the unimaginative, somewhere South of the border.