the Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion

Sunday, January 30, 2005

Current events for the terminally juvenile

Before I start this story, I want you to know I’m not one of those annoying people who pops out of bed at the first crow’s bellow with a song on her lips and a yen for conversation. Those kind of people make me twitch with barely repressed homicidal urges, so don’t think I’m gonna start preachin’ the gospel of early-to-bed-early-to-rise. I used to be a sleep-all-day-play-all-night kind of gal, too, and until I was in my mid-20s, it wasn’t unusual for me to happily snore until noon on a Saturday. That’s figuratively speaking, of course, as I am the picture of feminine propriety and do not, therefore, snore, no matter what Jim says.

That said, my body has become so accustomed to an early first shift that I naturally wake up at hours I’d never thought existed at the beginning of a day when I was younger. These days, sleeping until 6:30 a.m. seems like a luxury. Even then, Jim is usually awake at least a half hour before me, and is up watching TV by the time I stumble out into the living room. Yes, people, this is what you have to look forward to when you get old.

There are some definite perks to watching the tube at that time of the morning, though. I don’t mean the infomercials, because as far as I’m concerned, the people who star in these horrid spectacles are peppy, talkative morning people, and are therefore on my dung-flinging list. What you want to watch at sunrise is a national news program. Sure, it’s nice to be well informed, but I have ulterior motives. Sometimes you see things that only make it past the censors once, and if you look for it later in the day, the best part of the segment will mysteriously be gone.

A number of years ago, CNN ran a piece about a huge gala that was being thrown somewhere in the United States for an international debutantes’ ball. Yes, debutantes. You know when someone brings up debutantes, the conversation can only become more bizarre. The debutantes’ ball was apparently serious business for the scores of young ladies in attendance, as we got to watch them practice their bows, curtsies, and overall Stepford-Wives-in-Training personas. It was completely surreal and riveting, and then they stuck a microphone in a Scottish deb’s face, and things really got interesting.

The unblemished redhead gal in the perfect white dress was jabbering effusively in her Scottish burr, amazed at the scale on which Americans operate.

“Americans do everything large,” she gushed, “When they have cars, they have big cars. . .”

She hesitated, and I wondered if she would go where I thought she was going. Before I could wonder too long, the person behind the microphone couldn’t help but prompt the poor girl:

“And when they have balls. . .?” Oh, yeah, the bastard said it to her. Would she take the bait?

“They have big balls!” she asserted, enthusiastically and cluelessly.

Jim and I looked at each other, affirming that yes, you heard it too, and then laughed ourselves into a useless state. We had the VCR all ready for the next time the spot ran, but unfortunately, someone with a little sense (and possibly fear for his job) had done some editing, and it was gone but for the lovely memory.

We hadn’t seen anything quite as giggle inducing as that again until yesterday morning. It was dawn on a Saturday, so what else would one be watching but some financial program on MSNBC? I was paying more attention, frankly, to my peanut butter toast than to the stock market news, but I was lucky enough to look up at just the right time.

On a perfectly serious and buttoned-down business show, they were running an also perfectly serious story about Procter and Gamble’s acquisition of Gillette. For some reason, I idly looked up as they started showing a slide show of different common P&G products. There was toothpaste, there was soap, there was a cartoon of. . .WHAT?

There, in the midst of the rundown of all the familiar P&G items, on stuffy MSNBC, they showed a cartoon, much like the ones in the old Johnson Smith catalogs, of a man sitting on a whoopee cushion. And just in case you didn’t understand that this was a drawing of a man sitting on a flatulence-simulating device, there was a sound effect coming off the back of his chair, written in bold so no one could miss it: FAAAART!

As soon as the next picture flashed on the screen, Jim and I looked at each other, and once again exchanged that look of Holy Blowdryin’ Jesus, did you see that too?

“Did that just say –“ I started and then began to convulse with completely juvenile laughter.

All Jim could say through the tears of mirth streaming down his face was, “FAAAAART!”

I wondered for a split second if maybe the whoopee cushion was actually a P&G product, but it seems more likely that someone in the graphics department was perhaps enjoying a last day on the job. We didn’t even bother with the VCR, as we’d learned that these kind of things usually only get by somebody’s watchful eye once. You just have to consider yourself lucky to’ve caught it that one time.


Jim’s said it to me a couple of times today, and someone might have to say a prayer for me to mature someday, because it’s still pull-the-car-over, wet-yer-fucking-pants funny!

Saturday, January 29, 2005

Don't worry, vegetarians -- I get mine soon enough

Don’t ask me what the occasion was, because I don’t particularly remember that, but I do remember that the night was special enough to warrant our having dinner at the Redwood Lodge. The name is completely accurate; even though the place is fairly huge, the atmosphere is warm and intimate, as long as you’re not creeped out by the ubiquitous taxidermy. It’s a brewpub with some tasty varieties of beer, and they have a swanky little cigar bar in the back where jazz bands are featured on the weekends. The best part, though, even better than a cigar bar with jazz, is the fact that the RL features different wild and exotic game every night.

Anybody who knew me as a child will probably read that last sentence five or six times and wonder who wrote it. I was terribly meat phobic when I was a kid (oh, I’ve gotten over my fear of meat, nudge nudge, wink wink), and wouldn’t try anything the least bit exotic, probably not even at gunpoint. Actually, for a long time, if it wasn’t pretzels or lemon drops, I wasn’t really interested. My culinary horizons have since expanded exponentially, and I try to give new foods the benefit of the doubt. It doesn’t always work, of course; I never need to have alligator again. The RL, however, hadn’t disappointed me yet.

I was kind of hoping for emu or buffalo when we walked in that night, but the notation of “Kangaroo” on the Daily Specials chalkboard piqued my interest. We were seated quickly, which always seems to be our luck at the RL, even when there’s a big crowd waiting for tables. Do you think they’re afraid to let us mingle with the other potential customers? The waitress took our drink orders, and I snagged the Specials card from the table. According to the card, the wild game dish for the night was ostrich London broil, which sounded pretty irresistible, too. We decided that Jim would get the kangaroo and I would get the ostrich, so we could try both. At that point, I was beginning to feel a little lightheaded, but I hadn’t eaten much that day, and figured I’d feel better as soon as I got some fuel in the tank. We ordered our meals, and some onion rings for an appetizer, and as the waitress left, I started to feel a little worse. It was starting to become apparent that maybe it wasn’t just hunger, and I excused myself to the restroom, just in case anything untoward was going to happen.

After about ten minutes, I figured I was safe and returned to the table. Jim could tell I wasn’t spewing my normally sparkling banter, and that I was even whiter than usual, if you can imagine that, and asked if I was okay. My response was accompanied by one of those weak smiles that just has “I’m going to vomit.” written all over it. I tried to drink my iced tea, and it tasted kind of crappy to me. My head was starting to spin ever so slightly, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d make it to dinner, or if something really, really awful was going to happen in the restaurant. When the nice lady set the onion rings down right in front of my face, I wondered no more.

I pushed the crunchy, battered, normally heavenly aromatic appetizers away from me with a vigor usually reserved for repelling would-be rapists. My eyes met Jim’s, and I didn’t have to say a word, but I did offer up a meek, “I really have to go now.” before I pushed back from the table and made my way across the restaurant, down some stairs, and out the door. When I say “made my way” I’m not really sure what my speed was, or what the expression on my face was, but judging from the looks I was getting as I passed, people knew somethin’ was rotten in Buckyland. I was doing my best to avoid breaking into a full-out run, not only because it would make things even more embarrassing, but because I am inherently clumsy and would likely trip and crash to the ground if I put too much speed on it.

The Goddess Biatch must’ve been looking out for me that day, because I made it to the car, let myself in on the passenger side, away from the restaurant windows, and even had time to find an empty plastic bag in the car seconds before Technicolor symphony began. A car or two drove past me as I spilled the secrets of my lunch, and I did my best to hide behind the car door so as not to put them off their dinner plans. I am nothing if not a polite puker.

When at last I was done, I set the bag down on the ground next to the car, lit up a smoke, and slumped back against my seat like a drunk in the back of a piss-covered taxi. Or is that piss colored? Either way, I figured it would be at least a half hour before the food was cooked, boxed, and paid for, so I settled in for the long haul. Imagine my surprise when, roughly five minutes later, Jim came strolling out the door with one small styrofoam box. He’d been able to stop the order before the kitchen started our entrees, so we were only stuck with the onion rings.

He was kind of laughing, too, and he told me that when I’d made my sudden and obviously distressed exit, people and wait staff alike were shooting all kinds of evil looks at him, like maybe he’d broken up with me or confessed to fathering numerous bastard children. As he walked out with his food, it was through a gauntlet of eyes that said one thing: “You prick! You made your wife run out crying!” For a minute I thought about offering to go back inside and announce, “He didn’t hurt my feelings, and I wasn’t crying – I was pre-vomiting!” Then the thought passed, and I decided it was just easier to let everyone in the restaurant think Jim was a callous bastard with a sweet, vulnerable, defenseless wife.

Of course, the onion rings rode in the back seat on the way home.

Includes badly forged signature, just like in high school

Dear Blogging:

Please excuse Katy's absence from The Cotillion Blog on Friday. I assure you, she had every intention of attending, and even brought a story about a blues singer trying to shag her husband for show and tell. However, between her merry morning commenting on other people's blogs and her evening routine of writing her own damn blog, she succumed to a questionable order of mahi mahi fajitas. Or maybe it was the salsa. Safe to assume the guacamole was not innocent, either.

Blame it on whatever part of the delightful takeout food that you will, her ability to sit up and type was seriously impaired by her repeated dashes to the porcelain god, to contemplate her sin, and to repent for ordering anything called fish fajitas (which is still slightly less of a sin than ordering fish tacos). Katy feels better today, and promises to contribute something of questionable substance to you tonight.

And she will avoid controversial food for the duration of the weekend.

Utterly, deeply, sincerely,

Katy's Mom
(no, really!)

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Poetry fucking corner

This post is probably cheating in the blog world, but to that, my only defense is: Say hello to my little pucker!

I actually wrote this for a creative writing class (unfortunately, not a creating writhing class) in college, and had it posted on my old web site. I felt like diggin' it up, because I'm so lazy tonight. It's kinda long, so feel free to take pee breaks between stanzas.

I've never been crazy 'bout the title, but I had to call it something for class, so I called it Of Bluebirds and Camels. If anybody gives a shit, ask and I'll tell you the impetus for this assignment and its result. Huzzah.

The sun didn't shine and the flowers didn't bloom;
The gaiety of Springtime was lost in the gloom.
Flapping as hard as his wings would perform,
A bluebird named Earl tried in vain to keep warm.
"I shoulda stayed South," he complained to the wind.
"Would a few extra days in the Keys be a sin?"
He staggered in flight and he lost altitude,
And screamed as he plummeted down, "Jeez, I'm screwed!"
But a jutting abutment cut short his descent;
His left leg was twisted, his beak somewhat bent.
Earl lay there a moment and pondered the edge,
For he'd landed on somebody's wide window ledge.
He peered through the glass and his balance gave 'way;
The girl in the room was a bona fide babe
Wrapped in a towel and completely alone,
Chattering into a mauve princess phone.
Earl caught his breath and regained his composure;
Then hopped on his right foot to get a bit closer.
He winced as he tapped on the glass with his beak;
The girl dropped the phone and went flush in the cheek.
She threw on a robe and stormed over to him
With fire in her eyes and a quivering chin.
"What do you want?" she demanded to know.
"I'm hurt and I'm hungry and dizzy and cold;"
Earl said, "Let me in where there's food and there's heat,
And a doctor can look at my leg and my beak."
She slid open the window with consummate grace;
Then backhanded Earl in the side of the face.
She laughed as he windmilled and went off the side,
His beady eyes bulging, astonished and wide.
She shuttered the window and flopped on her bed
With visions of bluebirds all mangled and dead.
Things went Crystal's way in her own private world;
This Crystal was not a considerate girl.
"I get what I want and I won't be disturbed
By some mangy, contemptible, miserable bird!"

The weeks lumbered past like a pregnant parade
And Winter conceded and withered away.
And out of the woodwork the young men came crawling,
At Crystal's back door every one would be calling.
With her drop-dead physique and her dig-your-grave face,
They were panting and drooling and mobbing the place.
With the music on low and two glasses of wine,
She'd invite them all up; well, just one at a time.
She'd just about finished with burly young Craig
When a voice from the window called, "Look at those legs!"
Crystal, astonished, fell out of the bed
When she gazed at the bluebird she'd taken for dead.
"Get away from my room," Crystal sputtered and squealed,
Then launched an attack with her five-inch spike heel.
The shoe missed its mark and the bluebird took flight
But Craig couldn't resume, dammit, try as he might!
So for seven days straight, Earl disrupted her play
'Til she finally erupted in frustrated rage.
She shrieked in a manner both grating and shrill,
"You've distracted my lovers and crapped on my sill!"
She slammed shut the window and sealed it forever,
Then drew in the shutters and nailed them together.
Time for one more - she retrieved a young man
Who was hairy and handsome and rugged and tan.
So between them they shed every last inhibition
And without interruption completed their mission.

Grinning and sweating from energy spent,
He lit up a Camel and lay back, content.
"Get dressed!" Crystal snapped; she was done with him now.
He threw down the butt with a blistering scowl.
She threw him his pants and he stomped down the stairs;
Crystal primped in the mirror and put up her hair.
The evening was over where she was concerned
While deep in the carpet the cigarette burned.
During her sleep the flames woke up and rose;
The acrid remains of his butt reached her nose.
And once she was conscious of flickering horror,
The orange wall had sealed off the room's only door.
"You can't do this to me!" Crystal shrieked at the flames
As she splintered a chair on the shutters and frame.
She swung and she swung 'til she broke through the wood;
Then she shattered the window the best that she could.
She clambered outside to a temperate night,
And her neighbors below laughed and said, "Serves her right!"
No one would help her come down from so high,
For in fact they were betting on whether she'd fry
Or jump to her death from the perilous perch
And be speared in the gut by the budding white birch.
They might have sold tickets and wedges of pie,
For no hearts would be broken to see Crystal die,
When a rustle arose and blue wings were unfurled
And there soared through the sky that same bluebird named Earl.
He flew over Crystal and dipped in the air
And gathered a beakful of Crystal's black hair.
He tugged and his eyes closed and Crystal swung free
As one onlooker shouted, "Don't drop her on me!"
But Earl bore her down just as gently as snow
And a foot from the ground was obliged to let go.
"I won't hold a grudge," Earl explained to the crowd
"She can't help it - she's gorgeous and snotty and proud."
A foot swung an inch from Earl's beak, but it missed.
He looked up to see Crystal, and, boy, she looked pissed.
"You pulled out my hair!" Crystal reached out her hand,
And she snatched from his beak only one brunette strand.
She bore down on Earl and she called him foul names,
And the house fin'ly crumbled, consumed by the flames.
A big chunk of stone caught her square in the head
And delighted the crowd with a fountain of red.
Earl scooted back and his tailfeathers twitched;
And he loudly remarked, "What an arrogant bitch!"

Bucky's Picks: Jamie Cullum, twentysomething

Sometimes I find a new CD and I just can’t shut up about it. So, I figured, why not blabber to the whole Internet about it?

Jamie Cullum – twentysomething

I’d never heard of this cat until last Saturday night. A hockey game (sadly, not NHL) had just finished, and some music program came on. The opening shots were of the artist, Jamie Cullum, strumming his acoustic guitar on the tour bus and expressing his excitement over the upcoming gig. He’s a baby-faced waif, with a hairdo that made me wonder if he’d been fathered by one of the Bay City Rollers, and his outfit for the show was a t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. I figured the music would be of the earnest, folky, earthy-crunchy variety, and I prepared to switch over to my Playstation.

Then the band started in, and I wondered why I was hearing swingin’ jazz. As I pondered that, Cullum came racing out onto the stage, leapt onto a grand piano, dove off and danced some more, then launched into a brilliant, frenzied vocal rendition of “I Get a Kick Out of You.” I was impressed enough by that to freeze with the remote in my hand, and then the little shit sat down at the piano and totally melted my mind with his jazz chops.

The whole show had me mesmerized, as he drove through hard-swingin’ covers and originals, smoothe ballads, hip soul, and an improbable but completely irresistible disco-funk cover of “I Could Have Danced All Night” (yes, from My Fair Lady). I never did get to gaming until the whole concert was done and he’d taken his final flying leap off the piano. He also took a flying leap into my CD collection this week, and if you want something like you ain’t heard lately, y’all oughtta check it out, too.

Monday, January 24, 2005

Yes, there's more than one of us

Mom would be so proud, if we'd just write about something nice for a change.

In any case, the world is just a little less safe now that my brother, Tardist, is blogging:

I learned everything gross I know from Tardist, so consider yerselves warned. Now if we could just nudge Squirl into blogging from her nest, we could embarass the family three-fold!

Monday bitchin' : Jesus saves!

Just wanted to pop in and apologize for the very short posts this weekend (short on content, maybe, but not short on nauseating ideas). I was pretty busy with some other obligations, plus the fact that I was just plain pissed off. See, Friday night, I spent about 45 minutes crafting this absolutely brilliant (in my mind, anyway) post about the Gumby and Pokey figurines I used to carry with me at all times. There were a few turns of phrase with which I totally delighted myself, and which, alas, I shall never think of again.

When I had finished crafting my post, I decided to try out Blogger's preview feature. As I was previewing, I clicked on an external link, to make sure it worked properly. When I had checked out the link, I hit the "back" button -- and instead of taking me back to my preview post, it took me back to the composition window with a blank fucking slate. Nothing I did was gonna get that post back, and the whole neighborhood likely heard my pitiful, enraged cries of "COCKSUCKER!" and "MOTHERFUCKER!" and even a few Nancy-Kerriganesque shouts of "WHYYYYYYYYY MEEEEEEEEEE?" The wailing was followed by the flinging of notebooks, empty Diet Rite cans, and various writing implements. At that point, the migraine monster that lives in the back of my skull woke up and started banging on my brain with a broken, splintered broom, presumably because I was making too much noise. There was no way I was going to type that up again.

Lesson learned: Don't compose anything longer than three paragraphs directly into Blogger. Compose outside of Blogger and save, save, save. If you must compose in Blogger, use "Save as Draft" every two minutes. I never want to feel this particular pain again, and neither should you.

So, I hope to tell y'all that story sometime. Right now, I'm still in too much of a snit to attempt it again. I promise longer posts this week, though. I really need to let everyone know why I should never have a car with a sun roof.

Sunday, January 23, 2005

Let's look for the purple banana 'til they put us in the truck

[ Contains a mild spoiler for Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas ]

Between long hours at work and spending entirely too much time blogging, I haven't had much of a chance to play the game Jim got me for Christmas, Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. This weekend, I've finally gotten a chance to delve into the latest delightfully amoral offering in the GTA series.

I wouldn't normally use this forum to rave about a video game, as there are better places for it, and people infinitely more qualified to comment. But there's just one thing I can't keep to myself, and if you called me childish, you'd be right on the money.

The antihero of the game, CJ, can find different helpful objects hidden around his city, such as pistols, submachine guns, brass knuckles, body armor, molotov cocktails, and the like. Today, I directed CJ into the local police station, where we found body armor in the locker room, a shotgun behind the office, and a special suprise in the showers. The people who designed this game are sick, dirty people, and I'd kiss 'em all on the lips if they were here.

There in the showers, floating merrily in front of the tiles, is a huge purple dildo. Of course I had CJ pick it up immediately.

In theory, this object is a present for CJ to give to his girlfriend, but I'm just having way too much fun with it for CJ to give it to that crack whore just yet. If he stands with it in the hand that's on the other side of his body, it looks like CJ has a giant purple love knob, and the motion it makes as he walks behind his friends looks like he's always tryin' to hustle up a little rump roast.

Oh, and it can also be used as a bludgeoning weapon. I just hope they don't put that on the feller's tombstone.