Tagged on the left, tagged on the right, here I am: stuck in the meme with you. Halfhearted apologies to Stealer's Wheel.
Squirl and LadyBug (happy blogiversary, by the way!) ganged up on me and tagged me with no takebacks. But since this one required very little thought, it doesn't seem like a half bad idea, now, does it?
So here's the rules:
1. Go into your archive. 2. Find your 23rd post. 3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to). 4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. 5. Tag five other people to do the same. (Oh, hell, I never tag anybody. Go ahead and do it anyway, you know you want to)
A dig through my arrrrrrchives yielded the following 23rd post fifth sentence:
"Now maybe apple pandowdy might be a common topic of conversation 'round your house, if you're a Dinah Shore fan, but 'round these parts, it's never been discussed, to the best of my liquor-addled recollection."
That's deep. Deeply retarded. And since one scoop is never enough, here's a second helping of stupid, and this one's especially for Nilbo:
I'm sorry there's been so much whine whine piss piss whine "my poor fucking brain!" around here lately. But I'd like to make up for it, if possible, by using this post to tell a story within a story.
The larger part of the story is that I am a huge dork, and have a real though undiagnosed sickness that makes me purchase, pose, and photograph plastic figurines. You thought it was just Gumby? Oh, no. No no no. You only think that because I haven't yet whipped out my Babylon 5 collection.
But wait, I've found something even more infantile, if possible. They are called Homies, and there is a machine full of them at the laundromat where I go to forget to put soap in my wash.
And now, I will tell the smaller but more interesting story with visual aids. I like to call it Death Crashes the Zoot Suit Riot:
UPDATE: Apparently I am not the only Homies-obsessed blogger, as Mr. Bloggerific Himself has demonstrated with the following photo, which was sent to me of his own free will and not as a result of an elaborate blackmail scheme:
Tonight I feel like I'm wandering through an even denser mental forest than usual, and my mental forest is pretty dense most of the time, if I do say so myself. Do you sense a recurring theme here? Lots of battering of the brain lately. The thing is rubbery and fairly resilient, considering how much purposeful damage I've done to it with varying degrees of alcohol through the years.
But right now, it isn't bouncing back as quickly as once it did. It's a terribly hectic time of year at work, among other things, and add the following ingredients today:
A 4:30 a.m. start time to work
My own inability to nap when I got home this afternoon
One hour of structured stupidity (otherwise known as General Hospital)
Two hours of laundromat
Shake, stir, fold, spindle, mutilate, and do the twist, and you have a pretty good idea of the consistency of my skull mush. I apologize for all the brain talk lately, but I feel the need to speak of it before it becomes totally useless and/or I forget I have it. Given my advanced years, that's not so far down the road. I'll be turkey bowling in the old folks' home before you know it.
Needless to say, my writing here is suffering horribly the last couple of weeks. But I have not lost the ability to make with the stupid in Photoshop, and when I'm not turning my friend's cats into flying monkeys, I do a pretty mean graphic approximation of the state of my brain.
Tired.
Whupped.
Nodding off during self-photo session.
I will endeavor to come back here tomorrow and talk about something that does not involve my brain or a spray bottle full of urine. And what about that urine? Was it mine or someone else's? Would it have mattered to Florence Henderson?
This is your brain. This is your brain on urine. Any questions? Anybody got any paper towels for that urine on my brain?
I'm sure I'm opening myself up to all kinds of interpretation and analysis with this post. And, truthfully, I welcome it. I've always wondered just what the fuck it meant myself.
Gather near, children, as I tell you about a very strange, even by my standards, dream I had about 20 years ago.
In the dream, I was an adult, but I was in my sixth-grade classroom (in the "new" building at Ferry School...yeah, "new" about 30 years ago, and yeah, I said "Ferry School"). The lights were all on, but I could tell it was daytime from the sun streaming in the windows at the back of the room. It was like it had been 1976 in there forever.
Then, in a move that confuses even me to this day, I walked up to the chalkboard and taped up a picture of the cast of The Brady Bunch. There's no tellin' why this was a good idea in the dream, but it was. Once I had surveyed and admired the picture in all its Brady sacrosanctity, I found a piece of chalk and wrote a caption under the picture:
That's the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it, uh huh uh huh.
Why I wrote this is as much of a mystery to me as to anyone else. I hated KC and the Sunshine Band when I was in sixth grade. But it seemed like the only thing to write, and if I really had any control over my dreams, they would all star LL Cool J anyway...now where was I?
Oh, the KC quote under the Brady picture. What the fuck was that about? But wait - there's more!
At that point, Florence Henderson* walked into the classroom and was visibly annoyed with the Brady photo/KC caption combination, and told me so in no uncertain terms. So I did the only logical thing a girl like me could do in that situation. I grabbed the handiest bottle of urine and sprayed the hell out of her with it. Needless to say, Florence beat a hasty retreat. Score zero for Wessonality.
I'm open to your comments and interpretation on this one. What does it say about me that in my dream:
a) I had reverted to my sixth-grade classroom b) I had in my possession a picture of the Brady Bunch cast c) I thought it was a good idea to show off this picture d) I quoted KC and the Sunshine Band e) Florence Henderson appeared for the purpose of rebuking me f) I had urine in a spray bottle handy and did not hesitate to use it
Feel free to discuss my obvious mental illness here in my comments. I rather enjoy that sort of thing. Me, I'll be lurkin' in the bushes, waitin' to attack the mailman with my piss gun.
* Florence Henderson played the mom on The Brady Bunch and was also a slippery spokeswoman for Wesson Oil
Sometimes I hear people say things like, "I don't know what I'd do if I had to retire. I'd probably get a part-time job, I just wouldn't know what to do with all that time." Or you get the folks who win millions and millions of dollars in the lottery, and vow to keep their current jobs.
Do these people not have any hobbies?
Every day when I leave for work, I cast a longing gaze at all the grown-up toys I must leave behind. And I don't just mean the ones on the ones on the nightstand. Well, to be fair, some of those usually come to work with me anyway. Hey, there's a reason there are doors on the stalls in the ladies' room, right?
Flashing butt plugs in the restroom aside, there just aren't enough hours in the day for me to tend to my responsibilites and to make time for all the things I like to do. I can guarantee, though, that I will never be a retiree and/or lottery millionaire who ever utters the words, "I'm so fuckin' bored, I can't think of anything better to do than get a job."
No way.
Not me.
Not in a million years.
Here is a partial list of my plans for my eventual retirement/cashing of the first Lotto check:
Hot millionaire sex, or moldy, soggy, retired-people sex; either way, time for lots of it.
Pursue my painting, which I have neglected for years. But maybe the neglect is a good thing, since I tend to paint shit like this:
Write that novel about the ripped flannel sheets with the love stains in the shape of the 48 continental states on it.
Star in my own one-woman show, the working title of which is "Gravity Done Kilt My Titties."
Further my research into cross breeding humans with Yorkshire terriers. Wouldn't that be fucking adorable, in a windowpane-acid flashback kind of way?
Buy fezzes with chinstraps for all the neighborhood pets and squirrels. Why, you ask? Why not, I counter.
Hand-carve my own small version of the ten commandments, one of which would be, "Thou shalt not put gravy on my mashed potatoes, fucker."
Compose and perform a rock opera based on the secret life of Howdy Doody.
Liposuction.
Finally learn to put on the parachute before I jump out of the plane.
Your overwhelming response to my last post leaves me with no alternative but to conclude that y'all are as unbalanced as I am. 315 comments on that post, out-fucking-rageous!
Please feel free to continue commenting on the movie quotes thread, if that's what flips your flapjacks, because I find it amusing as a dog in silk pajamas.
In the meantime, because I feel so close to you all now, I'll share with you a fresh vision, nay, a breakfast miracle:
Behold the Groucho Grits.
Because, I love you, man. You, the Internet as a Whole.
For my latest masthead, I decided to pay homage to my favorite movie in the whole world, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, my favorite character,Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez as portrayed by Eli Wallach, and my favorite Tuco line from the movie: "When you have to shoot? Shoot, don't talk."
For those who see this in the arrrrchives long after the masthead has changed with the seasons, here's what's up right now:
When that rope starts to pull tight, you can feel the devil bite your ass.
I can scarily quote more lines from this movie than I care to admit, except to You, the Internet as a Whole. I trust you with my secret Tuco fixation.
How many times have I sat through this nearly three-hour movie? Couldn't even say for sure. If I'm channel surfing, and it's on, I'll stop there, no matter how far into the story it is. I do this even though I own a DVD copy. The classic lines are so thick in this flick.
"One bastard goes in, another comes out."
"Don't die until later."
"There are two kinds of people in the world, my friend: Those with a rope around the neck, and the people who have the job of doing the cutting. "
"You see, in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend: Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig."
And as I've come to find out, there really are two kinds of people in the world: Those who read my blog, and those who are dirty bastards with crotch rot.
This whole post has been pretty pointless, so let me close out with a question: What are your favorite lines from Clint Eastwood westerns? Or from any movies, if that trips your hair trigger. Tell me about the lines from movies that you automatically say, day in and day out.
When I was in junior high school, I fell in with a bad crowd.
Okay, it was more like three or four losers drifted together, and cumulatively, we were a bad crowd. A bad, small crowd. There was Sue, really a nice girl who hadn't grown her personality yet, and some blonde kid whose name escapes me, so we'll call him "Phil." But it's neither of them that concerns me here; I feel the need to share a little about the baddest of our bad crowd, Juanita.
What Juanita lacked in common sense, she lacked even more in personality, and you wouldn't wanna have to fall back on her looks, if you know what I mean. Could I pick 'em or what? I had absolutely nothing in common with these people, save for the fact that we were all 13 years old and wanted to get drunk as often as possible. I have a long, ridiculous story about these folks that I will post here sometime, but it's Monday and I'm whupped, so I'm offering up a tale that's shorter, but really, no less weird.
One winter night, the bunch of us were wandering the mean streets of Grand Haven (the town where the junior high school had its own planetarium) with some Southern Comfort and MD 20/20. Juanita, Sue and Phil were sharin' the Southern Comfort; I was much more of a Mad Dog girl. Explains a lot, doesn't it?
Now, Juanita could knock it back pretty impressively for a 13-year-old, but it did nothing to mute her obnoxious streak - intensified it, in fact. On this particular night, I watched her tip up the brown bottle, there under the streetlight, with Christmas-fattened snowflakes wafting lazily onto her shoulders, and I saw the exact moment where she completely lost her sense. I could see the shine in her eyes turn to a glaze, and her expression told me her fragile grasp on reality had succumbed to greasy fingers and completely slipped away. And lucky me, she set her crazed eyes upon me first.
I should mention here that I was lookin' especially spiffy in my poofy, butterscotch-colored winter coat and my little matching butterscotch-colored piss cutter cap. Maybe it was so spiffy that it attracted her insane gaze, but before I had any idea what was goin' on, Juanita had advanced on me, grabbed my arm, and bitten me, fucking bitten me, as hard as she could. And lemme tell you, a drunken, overgrown 13-year-old bitch can bite pretty damn hard.
A shriek issued forth from my surprised lips, and she jumped back with a maniacal grin on her face, and a little bit of my butterscotch coat in her teeth. The three of us kept our distance from Juanita and headed home right about that time, a fairly wise decision for a bunch of drunk teenagers. Further inspection would show human teeth holes in my butterscotch coat, and very defined teeth marks in my arm.
OK, I know I haven't been online one little bit this weekend, so of course, you all jump to the conclusion that I've been beaten and left for dead in the rented dumpster.
Well, nothing could be further from the truth.
Fact of the matter is, I've spent my weekend as the "guest" of some nice little grey men with large heads and shiny black eyes. These dudes are sooooo friendly. You won't even begin to believe how they greet new friends. Let me just say that I pay big bucks for the same results down at Ye Olde Colonic Shoppe.
I swear that I will respond to your cheeky comments soon. I haven't actually seen them, but knowin' this crowd, I'd be willin' to lay the two dollars from my last john on the odds that your comments are, indeed, cheeky.
So as soon as my new grey friend deigns to take the big metal hooba jooba from out my butt, I'll be back atchya, all y'all. And your little dog, too.
Once upon a time, if you'd wandered up to me on a Friday morning and asked me about my plans for the weekend, you'd have gotten an enthusiastic reply that likely included four or more of the following terms:
Beer
Live music
Road trip
Hot Damn! (shut up)
Porn
Shopping
Porn shopping
Beer
Vaseline
Rope burns
Whiskers on kittens (just wanted to see if you were still payin' attention)
Beer
But now, things are different. I've crossed the line from black stockings to support hose, from a pushup bra to a gatherup bra, from thongs to Depends. If you were to get really close so I could hear you in my good ear, and you were to ask me about my plans for the weekend, my reply would center around the fact that we're havin' a dumpster delivered to the house today so we can throw out lots and lots of crap that we just don't want anymore.
I know. If my life were any more exciting, I'd have to thump my pacemaker a lot more than I do now. But I feel a little crazy and adventurous today. After the dumpster is filled, I have half a mind to drink a beer and wet my Depends, right on the front porch.
Then the neighbors will know I haven't lost my edge.
It's gonna have to happen sooner or later. Eventually, someone with more authority than me (which is almost anyone here) will walk into my office, and he or she will make the following points:
We do notice when you "forget" to change from your silver tennis shoes into your black dress shoes all day long.
If you stack just one more piece of paper on your desk, it qualifies as a teepee.
Nobody wants to see a picture of you riding a giant bee as your desktop wallpaper. Change it. Now. (NOTE: Seriously, no one has ever complained about my bee wallpaper. I'm bein' stupid here)
It is not now, nor will it ever be, appropriate for you to play loud music in your office during working hours, especially when it has lyrics like: 1-2-3, who should I kill? Every motherfucker, runnin' up the hill. 1-2-3, what should I do? Get fucked up and fuck up with you.
We've all chipped in to buy you an iron. Someone will be over to instruct you in its use. Yes, it's for your clothes.
You're not fooling anyone with the dye job. Human Resources knows just how old you are. We can make you retire soon.
We would all appreciate it if you would stop screaming "Fuck me gently with a chainsaw!" when you encounter server problems. We'll be happy to fuck you with a chainsaw, but it does not have a "gentle" setting.
If you can't put that bag back over your head, we can send someone over to do it for you, missy.
Lest you think I'd hurt myself and keep it to myself in any kind of dignified fashion, I offer photographic proof that you'd be dreamin'. Even though I wasn't the one who went into the rose bush last weekend, I did manage to jam the bejeezus out of my left palm on a wayward set of box springs. And we weren't even cookin' up a Filipino Box Spring Hog.
This one isn't as bad as the bruise I gave myself in July, but I'm still a big enough baby to take pictures of it and post them on the Internet. You understand, don't you, that the Web is a good enough stage for a drama queen...
Yes, that's also the hand that took the Milk Bone shrapnel. I'm a fuckin' bloody, bruised mess. Maybe Susie's suggestion that I be mittened wasn't out of line, after all.
On a brighter and much geekier note, a curious package arrived in my office 'round 11 this morning (no, I don't mean the UPS guy...no comment there). I opened it to find this strangely compelling creature inside, waiting to call me "mommy" and be joined to my virtual teat.
Mac Powerbook. My first Mac. I'm a Mac virgin. Well, I've fooled around with one before, but never gone all the way. Catholic girls can split hairs better than anybody on that shit, so don't even challenge me. Now I will deal with Mac OSX, Windows XP, and various flavors of UNIX on a daily basis. Is it any wonder I'm always confused?
Just to make sure I love it enough, they sent along this charming yet hypnotic manual to walk me through OSX (I guess they call it "Tiger" 'cause an animal with the ability to tear your head off without breakin' a sweat is less threatening than the cold and clinical OSX). Don't go into the light!
And that's the last coherent thoughts I shall attempt for tonight. Tip your waitstaff, drive carefully, and take the detour around the industrial jizz spill on Pierson Road. You'll thank me, and so will your Goodyears.
Did I ever mention the time I almost got crushed at a big-band swing concert?
I, for one, was a huge fan of the neo-swing revival that took place a few years ago. I'd always been a fan of '40s swing, and newer bands like Roomful of Blues, and then I started to find bands like Big Rude Jake, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Cherry Poppin' Daddies, Lavay Smith and the Red-Hot Skillet Lickers, Royal Crown Revue, the Atomic Fireballs...and cool daddy Brian Setzer brought a whole fuckin' orchestra on the scene!
Brian Setzer has always been ultra cool, and anyone who doesn't think so needs to meet me out behind the gymnasium for a good, old-fashioned rumble. Look at the hair, the tattoos, the Gretsch guitars painted to match his hot-rod cars. Then listen to what he does with the Gretsch. So when rockabilly cat Setzer decided to add a 17-piece orchestra to the mix, how could it not blow my little mind? The Brian Setzer Orchestra (BSO) delivered, baby, and wildly exceeded my expectations.
We had the chance to see the the BSO at the State Theatre in Detroit, and we bought tickets for the floor so we'd have a better chance at some up-close viewing. Yes, it meant we would have to stand all during the show, but we were prepared to tough it out for the love of all that is swingy. One of the fun things about swing shows was that a lot of folks would come decked out in '40s and '50s regalia, I mean, these folks would really do it up. The hairstyles, the vintage clothes, the accessories, the attention to detail...it gave a rockin' visual accompaniment to the music. Sure, I might have to endure some close-quarters Lindy Hoppin' action, but the crowds at these shows were generally all on the same page, and there to enjoy the band, the dancin', the cash bar, and the general ambience.
By the time BSO came on, with giant tikis on the stage and Setzer's sparkly silver Gretsch cranked up, the floor was so packed in that there was little real hope for the Lindy Hoppers. Jim and I were each one person back from the stage, and just as squished and wedged as two people can possibly be, provided those two people wish to continue breathing. It wasn't an uncomfortable, awkward wedgedness, though; everybody was so in love with the music that there was a feeling of camaraderie among those of us crammed against the front of the stage. There was a young couple directly in front of us, and the girl was so tiny that I was extra careful not to crush her; it seemed like the neighborly thing to do.
It was one big swingin' love fest...until The Tough Cunts showed up.
The Tough Cunts were two girls, and I use the term loosely, who looked like softball bitches on steroids. Normally, I wouldn't hold that against someone, and I wouldn't have held it against The Tough Cunts until they shoved the fuck out of me to get to the stage. I was mindin' my own business, havin' a tiny dance in my little, no-arm-movement space, and enjoyin' the fuck out of Hey Louis Prima! when I was suddenly and rudely cast aside like half of the Red Sea. The Tough Cunts wanted to be against the stage, and only the tiny girl in front of me was in their path. Tiny girl held onto the stage fiercely, though, and The Tough Cunts had to resort to their secret weapon: Moshing.
Yes, The Tough Cunts moshed at a swing concert. More particularly, they moshed in the direction of tiny girl, and slammed into the poor little thing so many time I knew she'd look like a California raisin the next morning. Finally, tiny girl snapped and started to shove back. It was a valiant effort, I'll give her that, but it was like a canoe battlin' two freighters. Physics just wasn't on the side of tiny girl. She was clearly going to be smashed into even tinier bits by The Tough Cunts if someone didn't intervene.
I don't know if it was his sense of chivalry, or just the fact that a good concert was bein' fucked up for him, but at that point, Jim bellowed in a voice that can best be described as the voice of and angry, vengeful, Old-Testament God with a bullhorn:
"KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF!"
Tiny girl and The Tough Cunts froze; The Tough Cunts looked almost sheepish and melted back into the crowd, totally un-Cuntlike. Setzer didn't miss a beat, but he clearly heard it and looked down at Jim with a mixture of surprise and amusement. After the show, two other guys who'd been near the stage came up to Jim and commenced with the back patting and the "Way to stick up for yourself!"
The moral of this story? Make sure at least one of your friends can sound really authoritative and annoyed, like God with a hangover and paper cuts.
Between the Tom Waits references in the last set of comments, and the talk of side shows and freaks, I couldn't have titled this post any differently.
All this freak show talk reminds me of the little carnival barker act I used to perform, for the amusement of my parents and any adults who happened to be in the vicinity. FR-eak!
For some background, I should say that my dad's hobby was stage magic, and he had an elaborate carnival-themed stage setup at one point, complete with giant boards that Tardist painted up for him with carnival cliches like Jo Jo the Dog-Faced Boy and the Exotic Dancers (shame on you, Dad) and the Balloon Escapist. He would do a carnival barker act and perform sleight of hand during the course of the rap. He had the red-and-white vest and straw skimmer hat, he had a cane with which to point at the signs as he spoke, he had it all, as far as this five-year-old ham was concerned. It wasn't long before little Bucky had Dad's straw hat on, Dad's vest on, and Dad's pointing cane bein' waved wildly 'round the room. It was an outfit that said nothing so much as: You will not get laid until you are at least 30, and even then, it's iffy.
Obviously, they should have started my therapy then. But instead, they encouraged my freakishness, fully allowing me access to the carnival setup and paraphernalia. My dad even taught me the barker's rap. I don't remember it word for word, but here's what I can remember:
Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, step right up...one thin dime, the tenth part of a dollar! See Jo Jo the Dog-Faced Boy - he walks, he talks, he crawls on his belly like a reptile! and then something aboutThese tantalizing terpsichorians!
I really wish I remembed it all, but come on - I was five years old at the time. That was an awful lot of beers ago. What I do remember is that my carnival barker's voice sounded just like I was the bastard child of Howard Cosell and Fran Drescher. This act was my contribution to the first-grade talent show at Ferry Elementary School. That's right - in Grand Haven, you must train carefully to be a Ferry. Sorry, folks, there are no photos of which I am aware.
Oh, but I didn't just get trotted out at school. Oh, no. One particular night, my folks had some company over for dinner and drinks (in retrospect, the "drinks" part of it makes a lot more sense now). After dinner, during drinks (aha!), I was asked to don my barker's vestments and entertain the semi-tipsy gathering.
A chance to perform? Oh, fuck yeah! Little Bucky was only too happy to make like a monkey in front of anyone who would pay attention (some things do not change).
So, I launched into my little spiel, barkin' and cane pointin', and about the time I got to the phrase "these tantalizing terpsichorians" the cute surreality of it all was just too much to bear, and the company began to laugh out loud in delight.
Oh, I didn't take that in the right spirit, not one bit. I stopped short in my act. Laughing? At me? When I was not trying to elicit laughs? That would not do at all. A child does not realize that this is fond laughter, laughter that says "I'm gonna DIE from the preciousness!" To a child, to little Bucky anyway, this was being laughed AT. Since I clearly was not laughing, they could not be laughing WITH me. 'Twas an affront to my utter seriousness about this carnival barker shit. I reacted like a high-strung, temperamental little diva.
I bellowed, not in my Howard Cosell voice, "If y'all are gonna laugh, I'm NOT GONNA DO IT!" Then I took off my straw hat, sailed it across the room like it was an angry straw frisbee, and stomped out of the room. I was outraged that, after a stunned second of silence, the entire room broke into laughter. The company thought it was part of the act. Mom and Dad knew better, but let's face it - petulant, pissed-off little Bucky was probably pretty fuckin' hilarious.
I believe that was the end of my career as a carnival barker. But at least now I'm used to unintended laughter.
Seems I promised to post more pictures from Detroit and the jazz fest last weekend, and since I have absolutely nothing worthwhile in me to write at this moment, what better time to do a photo tour!
This is in no particular order, which, if you saw my office, would make perfect sense.
The bear was either passed out or recently mugged. I didn't get involved.
Some cities have moose, others have pigs, Detroit has little cars.
Long Tall Marcia Ball
Come on, you didn't think you'd escape another glance at this honey, did you?
It was even worse when we came back.
There's that little Amish boy who can't grow a beard!
Charles McPherson
The Renaissance Center
I've heard of the short bus, but never the green bus.
Marcia Ball's bassist, Don Bennett
I wasn't gonna leave any commentary, but this picture makes me think of a story I recounted to Susie via email last week. Marcia began to play Louisiana 1927, a Randy Newman song about a devastating flood. When she got to the line, "They're tryin' to wash Louisiana away..." a few in the crowd stood and began to applaud. Soon, the entire crowd was on its feet, clapping through the rest of the song and for a couple of minutes after. It's hard to explain here, but 'twas a powerful feeling, indeed. Seemed like Marcia and the band stepped it up even a notch higher after that.
The 2005 jazz festival goes down in my book as one of the best I've attended.
Apparently, I decided that someone besides me should get hurt today, and I was gonna make it happen.
Jim and I are cleaning out the upstairs bedroom so he can have a den in there. We've spent the day moving heavy stuff downstairs (because I'm such a burly girlie). The old air conditioner was a big, bulky bitch, and I figured that surely it would be the worst thing we moved today.
I hadn't counted on the Mattress of Doom.
We managed to get the thing from the second floor to the first without incident, even though I'm not what you'd call an awful lot of help. I was at least an extra pair of hands. We wrestled it out the front door, and I thought we were home free as we guided it down the steps of the porch.
And then I might have sorta guided Jim right off the steps and face first into the rosebush on the side of the house. Good thing we don't keep guns around.
He was by no means the last casualty of the Mattress of Doom (I managed to knock over a big clock and both our bikes in the garage before all was said and done), but he was certainly the only one who had to pick thorns out of his hands.
UPDATED to include a photograph of my horrible, disfiguring injury. Scroll down only if you have a strong stomach.
Dear Diary,
I've always thought of myself as a reasonably intelligent person. I can hold a job, hold a conversation, hold down a Magna Cum Laude GPA in college. I can paint, I understand musical notation up to a point, I've been known to make a rhyme or two in my time, I can even discuss politics if the need arises.
So how is it that Renaissance Woman cut her hand on a fucking Milkbone this morning?
Yes. Milk fucking Bone. Broke the skin on my hand. I yelped. The dog was surprised. The Milkbone was unrepentant.
I hereby relenquish my Mensa membership card.
This is the pad under my left index finger. Isn't it almost impossible to view? I soldiered on, though, and stoically refused medical treatment.
Didn't know I was such a tough-ass bitch, did you?
The style and layout of this post are inspired by Zombie Flyboy, that disturbed motherfucker.
Sometimes it's good to admit things in a public forum. It's cleansing for the soul, maybe even for the palate, and nobody can ever come to you later and say, "You never told me..."
With this in mind, I have more than once confessed here to my childhood/early teens love for the Captain and Tennille. I might even go so far as to tell you that I once had the Toni Tennille doll.
I used to have all their albums, and a good number of their singles, too. I was a member in good standing of the Captain and Tennille fan club, my bedroom was plastered with their posters, I watched their show every Monday night, and I could do a fair approximation of the critter noises in Muskrat Love (though many have accurately described it as the sound of lively farts in the bathtub - hey, I can do that, too!). With their stacks of keyboards and their so-ugly-they're-cute bulldogs, the Captain and Tennille were idols to me.
Wholesome heroes.
Sure, I've talked about that stuff here before, as I thought it might be therapeutic and perhaps kill the nightsweats. Then I was lookin' at my site meter stats last night, and found that I am the #4 Yahoo! search result for the string:
Toni Tennille nude
Well, first, I have to give kudos to the searcher for spelling "Tennille" correctly. Those double "n"s will fuck you up every time, I guarantee. Obviously, someone who is a serious C&T connoisseur wanted these nudie pictures.
But at the same time, I felt like the last vestiges of my memories of childhood innocence were bein' washed down the drain like anonymous, lumpy jizz spat betwixt the rotted teeth and drooping lips of a two-dollar whore. Nobody should want Toni Tennille naked! It's like searchin' for "mother theresa muffdive" - you get an instant ticket to hell, and there is no return trip. It's like takin' the pieces of balsa wood your brother is usin' to build a model airplane, and puttin' each and every piece ever so carefully between your own ass cheeks while your brother isn't around, and then puttin' the pieces back exactly like they were, so that when he gets back to his workshop, your butt essence is all over his airplane. Um, not that I would know anything about that. What I'm gettin' at here is that wanting to see Toni Tennille nude, unless you are the Captain, is just plain wrong.
You'd better not let Toni Tennille know you're searchin' for pictures of her in the buff. She might not take kindly to it, and I hear she's an excellent shot.
On the other hand, I am here to entertain, and part of entertaining is knowin' what your audience wants, and then givin' it to 'em. So, if it's Toni Tennille nude you want, it's Toni Tennille nude ye shall have.
Badly drawn boobs on parade
Some girls have a beaver; Ms. Tennille obviously has a muskrat.
I'm in a complete daze today. Between the weekend at the jazz fest and a 5 a.m. start to my job today, my brain has essentially split in half, and each side is rotating independently. It's like one o' them fancy neon signs that moves and turns in the night, only the lights are burned out on the tubing in my brain.
My brain is Jell-O that never got to harden, then somebody went and threw canned fruit in there, and that ain't right. Now it's lopsided and lumpy, metallic grape here and shriveled mandarin orange there, and what the fuck fruit is that supposed to be? Really?
Someone's obviously had the top of my skull off and made off with important pieces/parts. If you have the missing chunks of my brain, I urge you to return them to me unharmed, and no questions will be asked. Well, okay, I might ask you what happened during the first half of General Hospital today while I was passed out on the couch.
Now I shall stop my typed babbling, and leave you with a photo of me needing a haircut.
It was Jim's birthday, he had beads aplenty, and by gum, he wanted to see some boobs. Alas, the hot mama from Sunday was nowhere in sight, so he had to settle for some familiar ones. Over and over and over and over...
What?
We got to Detroit by 3:30 or so. Dave Brubeck wouldn't be on until 7:15, but we knew we'd need to stake out a spot early. It's a good thing we did, because it was packed by showtime, and people who showed up ten minutes before the show were doin' their level best to mooch in on our space. Some days I'd like to round up all the latecomers, tap 'em with an electric cattle prod, not hard, but just enough to get 'em to drop their corndog, and say, ever so politely, "Planning ahead is a smart idea!"
We were pretty far back in the ampitheater, so my pictures are all via the digital zoom (and by that, I mean blurry). Though we hadn't expected much of a set from Brubeck, considering his age (he'll be 85 in December), he was onstage for about an hour and a half. He might not have been the springiest thing on two legs when he came onstage, but once he was at the keyboard, 85 didn't mean shit.
I'm pretty sure white hair is a requirement for this band.
Truthfully, there's more I could say about the whole weekend, and I certainly will, but I'm still pretty burned out today. So I will leave you with this and promise you more about the experience as a whole (to You, the Internet as a Whole) tomorrow.
But before I go, I just wanna say: wasn't it nice of the lady next to Jim to prop his chin up with her cane like that?
