the Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion

Saturday, April 30, 2005

How many candles can a Squirl blow out?


Yes, it's true, today is the blessed day upon which my sister, Squirl, was brought forth into this world, her furry little tail held close to her body, her whiskers twitching...

I'm only guessin' about the details, of course, since I wasn't quite born yet when Squirl was shot forth from Mom's Tunnel of Love. Squirl, Tardist, you can thank me later for that visual.

A more patient and informative big sister cannot be found, I think. Squirl put up with me when I would run up to every boy she brought home and scream "Are you gonna marry my sister?" She still loved me after I pushed the cat into the shower with her that time. Yeah, Squirl, I know I always told you Tene fell in the shower, but I'm confessing here: it was a shove. And your shriek was completely worth it. Sorry! I'd planned to be nice here.

She made sure I was armed with explicit knowledge about birth control when I was a teenager. Squirl, I have never, ever, ever, not even once, done the dirty without protection of some kind. Thank you for my lack of pregnancy. The last thing the world has ever needed is a Bucky Mini-Me.

I hope this post will make up for the fact that I'm a dreadful little sister and did not get you a card. If, in fact, this post is not sufficient, then I shall expect secret laxative in my next rum cake.

Happy birthday, Squirlie Girlie! I'd tell you I love you, but then people would think we're makin' out and stuff. Aw hell, let 'em think it -- I love you, sis!

Friday, April 29, 2005

In defense of my bosom

Well, if you happened to stumble into Dooce's comments last night, you'd have seen that there was a rash of female bloggers posting pictures of their own bazongas. We won't name names on who started it, but then Torrie jumped bravely into the fray, followed by the erstwhile Lawbrat.

And no, I did not, like my friends, run to fetch my camera, rip open my bodice, and let the flash fly wildly over my exposed or at least nipplified melons. I was goaded and baited, but I kept my hooters safely under wraps and all to myself, selfish bitch that I am.

Now, in the course of this conversation, I claimed exemption by reason of excessive gravitational damage. But I have to confess, this is not true.

The reason, the real and true reason I did not share my mammalian protruberences with y'all, is this: Once you got a look at 'em, you'd never leave me alone. My inbox would be flooded with indecent proposals and offers of cash and expensive consumer items, my phone would ring until it was hoarse, everyone would be bribing Jim for a peek in the boudoir window...people, I just can't handle that kind of intense pressure. I will not be treated as just a sex object! Well, okay, I will, but that's a whole different discussion.

So, there you have it, the titty truth. My cha-cha-bingos, they are just two too spectacular for me to spring on the world. I can't, in good conscience, be held accountable for the chaos and mass arousal that would result.

I am being responsible here.

I'm da man in my Ray-Bans

These are the new glasses I ordered. Not sure what they'll think of 'em at work, but I like 'em. These are such blues shades...

Thursday, April 28, 2005

SPD: Show Us Your Funny Duds (Part 2)

Darth Vader works for me.

I wish we'd done this SPD theme a month or so ago, before I threw out all the funky old clothes I didn't want anymore, including my 7-Eleven smock! So now, the weirdest article of clothing I own (that I will actually publish a picture of) is my vampire/monk/freak robe. It's black crushed velvet and would look right at home as upholstery in a '70s love-on-wheels, shag-carpeted hippie van, or in a cheesy whorehouse. Take your pick.

SPD: Show Us Your Funny Duds (Part 1)

Perhaps the most atrocious outfit I've ever owned.

I wasn't gonna do it, but I felt I needed to defend myself in the Obnoxious Kid Pictures War. Well, I may look like a lime Popsicle, but at least I don't look like Strawberry Shortcake.

Notice how my bro's airplane matches my outfit. The airplane totally shoulda been mine! That dog, Rebel, used to eat the crotch out of my pajamas all the time. No, not while I was wearin' 'em. Just thought I'd share.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

A little softshoe?

Alright, I hope I don't go to hell (any longer than I already am) for this, but I'm gonna include my dear sweet mother in the discussion here tonight. I know, I know, this is no place to bring a lady, but I never said I had any compunction whatsoever about trottin' my "interesting" family out for y'all's amusement.

As I've probably written before, Mom is the nicest lady you'll ever meet. She's a gracious Southern city gal, transplanted to the iceberg on a witch's tit that is Michigan. Mom is an excellent classical pianist, can help with Latin or Pure Castillian Spanish homework, and she bought me many, many grape Pop-Tarts when I gave up cigarettes in '88. I love her with all my heart, and that said, let's get to the good part.

Mom marches to the beat of her own drummer. She dresses how she wants, and fashion bitches can just kiss her refined ass (of course, she'd never say it like that). She thinks how she wants, and especially since Dad passed away, she's become more politically vocal. Mom writes a lot of letters to the editor (on her typewriter - she was a secretary back in the day, and has passed along to me an utter fascination with office supplies and non-bathroom paper products). She's one pissed-off liberal, and she tells it like she sees it in much nicer language than her baby uses.

Mom also acts how she wants. I'd like to share one particular incident that stands out in my mind. A few years ago, Jim and I were visiting my brother's house, and most of the family had also come over. We were all sittin' around in chairs, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Mom was kind of starin' off into space and her feet were sort of...dancing? I watched her for a long time, tryin' to figure out what she was up to so I wouldn't have to ask. Finally, curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned over to her.

"Mom, what are you doin'?"

She came out of her reverie and looked at me, replying, with no hint of shame at bein' busted, "I'm tapdancing to a song in my mind."

Well, that left me, for once, with not a thing to say in response. But Jim, my Jim, did I mention he's so sweet? He came over and sat next to her, and she explained she could think of part of the song, but not what song it was. So they sat there together, shufflin' their feet and piecin' together what turned out to be Tea for Two. It was totally surreal, and pretty cute, too. But that should get y'all started on the road to knowing, if one can ever truly know , my Mom.

Wow, with her actin' like that, it's a miracle we all turned out so normal and wholesome.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

One too many Scooby snacks?

Either the dog's got a habit, or somebody shoved a popsicle up his ass.

Mix CD: Swingin' Chads

Haven't done one of these in a while, so I thought I'd go for the "and now for something completely different" approach and whip out some o' my swing.

And yes, Mr. B, I'm well aware there is no Benny Goodman on here.

  1. Queer for Cat - Big Rude Jake
  2. Blow Me a Fat Note - Lavay Smith and the Red-Hot Skillet Lickers
  3. Pennsylvania 6-5000 - Brian Setzer Orchestra
  4. Brown Derby Jump - Cherry Poppin' Daddies
  5. Better Left Unsaid - Michelle Wilson
  6. Walkin' Slow Behind You - Roomful of Blues
  7. Sweet Georgia Brown - Duke Robillard
  8. Hop, Skip, Jump - Kim Wilson
  9. Drinkin' It Up - Indigo Swing
  10. Walk Right In, Walk Right Out - Royal Crown Revue
  11. 200 Pounds of Fun - Candye Kane
  12. Swing Baby - Big Rude Jake
  13. How Long Must I Wait? - Joe Jackson
  14. Hey, Louis Prima - Brian Setzer Orchestra
  15. Drink, Drank, Drunk - The Atomic Fireballs
  16. Dirty Shame - Sugar Ray Norcia
  17. Big and Bad - Big Bad Voodoo Daddy
  18. Twist Top - Duke Robillard
  19. Kick in the Head - Dean Martin
  20. I Don't Want Nobody (to Have My Love But You) - Candye Kane
  21. Down the Line - Roomful of Blues
  22. Take the A-Train - Duke Ellington
  23. That's the Kind of Sugar Papa Likes - Brian Setzer Orchestra
  24. We the Cats Shall Hep Ya - Joe Jackson

Monday, April 25, 2005

It wasn't me, it was the one-armed poo!

Mr. Hanky, the one-armed poo.

Bad dog Snickers finally became jealous of our cherished Christmas Poo today, and tore one of the arms off of the aforementioned Yuleturd.

Poor little shit never had a chance to defend himself...

April in Michigan

It happens to us all eventually - snow on the bush.

The "delightful" spring snowstorm was especially vicious to my lilac.
Mother Nature does not respect my bush.

You're gonna have to catch me (long song comin')

Warning: This is a long post, and the formatting just might suck, as I pasted it in from a Word doc. Just so's you know.

As Jim and I begin to make arrangements for our summer vacation, I thought I would share some notes adapted from my travel journal last year.

Camping the Porkies, 2004

Jim and I had been stoked for months over our vacation plans. We had rented a rustic cabin on the interior of the Porcupine Mountains state park (this is in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, so far west it's almost in Wisconsin), and would thus escape the usual summer insanity of a child-infested campground. Now, don't get me wrong, I bear no grudge against children; it's just that the last time we camped, my blissful afternoon nap was more than once interrupted by children from the next camp running two feet behind my head and screamin' louder than lungs that size have a right to scream.

We also planned to backpack out one night and set up camp even further into the park. The last week before we left, I could scarcely think of anything else, so anxious was I to live the life of a rugged mountain woman for a week. Those of you who know me, ponder that statement for a moment before you are taken with laughter. Even though we'd known about the trip for months, as usual, we had most of our packin' to do at the last minute. Finally, Snickers was secure at the kennel (I don't think he's ready to have a mellow encounter with forest creatures just yet, especially the big ones with the sharp teeth), Jim wrestled the back seats out of my Cruiser, and we had filled the car with backpacks, daypacks, tent, mattresses, clothes, add-water cuisine, and a cooler. Let the games begin!

Saturday, July 10

Sure, the drive to the Porkies could be made in a day, but why? Our traditional stop on the way up is in Escanaba (in da moonlight or not), at the trusty EconoLodge. It may not be the most swank joint in which I've ever chosen to rest my head, but the room we always rent has a fridge, a microwave, and a decent-sized bathtub, and you can't beat the price.

The motel is next to the Upper Peninsula State Fairgrounds, and the locals were havin' a music festival. I was excited until I found a brochure; the headliner was Shaniah Twin. Not Twain, but Twin.
Yup, their biggest act was a Shaniah impersonator (not even sure it was a woman, but who gives a rat's ass?). The only act I was tempted to see was Reverend Raven and the Chain-Smokin' Altarboys, but the $15 cover was a little steep, so we just cruised around town, were roundly ignored by the locals at their pub, as if by not lookin' directly at us they could make the scary downstaters disappear, and wound up downin' a few beers on the shores of Big Bay de Noc and quite possibly defiling the gazebo there, though I wouldn't care to say exactly how.

We had settled in for the night when one of the bands from the music fest made their noisy way into the motel. Oh, goodie -- they were stayin' right down the hall from us! I believe they had the impression that they were the Who, and not some cheesy classic-rock cover band. Note that I have every right to say that, having been the voice of several cheesy classic-rock cover bands in my day.
In any event, they made a lot of racket and did a lot of drunken shouting in the hallway until at least 4 a.m. Since they were not the Who, Jim and I did not appreciate most of this. The situation was not made any better by my new (very cheap) watch, which I wasn't entirely sure how to control, and which kept soundin' its alarm at all hours of the night (the fact that this watch is still more or less intact is a testament to Jim's love for me). This was, perhaps, not the best night's sleep we'd had recently.

Sunday, July 11

Revenge is a dish best served cold. . .and fleaky. Jim went out to get breakfast while I readied myself for my turn in the driver's seat. When he came up, he didn't have any breakfast, but he did have a mischievous grin lighting up his face. That left me with only one question:

"WHAT did you do?"

Well, it seems the lady at the buffet was keepin' a close eye on the syrup, so there was no swipin' any of that without pancakes. However, nobody seemed to care if he walked away with
a big cup of orange juice and strolled casually out to the parking lot. Seems our not-the-Who boys were all from Wisconsin, which made their cars easy to spot. After a hard night of partying, what red-blooded rocker wouldn't want to grab hold of a car-door handle saturated in sticky orange juice? Normally, I don't condone vandalism, but I was havin' too good a time picturing the weary, hung-over, not-so-pretty-in-the-sunlight poseurs grabbing a handful of sticky metal and swearing up a storm, really I was, to be bothered by ethics. Rock on, dudes.

Escanaba to Silver City (the foothills of the Porkies) was only about a four-hour drive, and it was kind of a foggy day, so we didn't do much sightseeing along the way (we even passed up the rest stop that has its own little waterfall on highway 2). We arrived at the Silver Sands Motor Lodge before noon, and were so early, in fact, that the girl at the desk didn't think I was there for a room reservation, and instead assumed we were there to register for some biker rally that was also happening that day. To be fair, with my black skullcap, wife-beater t-shirt, and big ol' tattoo, I suppose that was not an unreasonable assumption. We finally got the issue straightened out (and the owners were so embarassed that they kissed our asses all during our stay), and settled into our tiny room with a pretty nifty view of Lake Superior.

We went back into Silver City for dinner (you can find good, fresh trout at most of the restaurants up there), and stopped at the Rainbow for ice cream. As we stood against the back of the Cruiser, eatin' our ice cream and lookin' across the street at the lake, someone tipped us
off to the fact that we were missing bears! Sure enough, two black bears had become accustomed to showin' up at the back door of the ice cream parlor in order to receive treats. There was a fence up betwixt the seating area and the bears (is "bears" a correct plural, or is it just "bear"?), but as we soon found out, there was no fence on the other side of the building. A boy of about eight years old suddenly appeared next to the big bear, and at that point, I wondered what the hell his approving parents were thinkin'! I'm sorry, but just because the bear likes ice cream does not make him any less a wild bear! Maybe these folks figured they already had enough young'uns back at the doublewide. . .

At this point, the owner came out, just a little freaked out (Liability! Liability!) and ordered the kid back to the other side of the fence. But not before I'd gone around and had a face-to-face, no-fence-in-between-us encounter with the big bear. He was about two feet from me, and looked at me with a face that said, "Got any ice cream you're not usin'?" Unfortunately, I did not have my camera with me at that moment. It was probably incredibly stupid of me, but it was so cool!
It was time to settle in for the night, as we dreamed of our backpacking fun the next morning.

Monday, July 12

We had breakfast in Silver City at the Foothills Restaurant, where the waitress, Mandi, was totally mystified when Jim ordered his eggs "up" (to be fair, I didn't know what this meant until he explained it to me, either). As almost an afterthought, we purchased some walking sticks from the gas station. After securing our cabin key and backwoods camping permit from the park ranger, we were ready to head back to our cabin, the 2-bunk unit on Mirror Lake (there are three cabins on Mirror Lake: ours, the four-bunk model, and the eight-bunk model). The ranger made sure we knew it was a three-mile hike to get from the trailhead to the cabin. Wow! That sounded like a lot, but we weren't daunted. In fact, so cocksure were we that we decided to make two, count 'em, two trips the first day to bring our
whole week's supply of provisions back. Our frame packs were bulging, my day pack was attached to my frame precariously, and we also had inflatable mattresses and sleeping bags to make the cargo even bulkier. Grippin' our new walking sticks like we had any idea what we were doin', we set out on a hike to our own secluded paradise.

It took perhaps fifteen minutes of hiking for me to decide, almost seriously, that I was going to have a heart attack. I guess the word "Mountains" in the name of the park should have tipped me off that this was to be no cakewalk. Hiking upwards at a 45-degree angle, with an awkwardly full pack and little serious preparation, is at best a daunting task. I also found out that coming downhill just as steeply, even though it takes some of the weight off the pack, will push one's feet into the front of one's hiking boots and cause a new kind of misery. Three miles. And this was voluntary. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.

We were lucky in that the mosquitos weren't nearly as bad as they could've been. This is not to suggest that we didn't have plenty of the little buggers tryin' to find non-DEETEed spots on us, but they didn't come at us in clouds like they do some years (we had our 'skeeter netting with us, just in case, but never had to use it). There were a couple of benches in the course of our trek, and they beat the hell out of resting by leanin' on our walking sticks. Those walking sticks, by the way, were the best money we spent on the whole trip! I managed to spill the contents of my daypack at one point, and with about a mile to go, my sleeping bag came completely undone. I was too exhausted to try to fiddle with it, so I just carried the fucker the rest of the way. My feet were screamin' to be severed, my hips were threatening to secede, and I had a nasty bruise on my right arm from tryin' to take my pack off and havin' the strap slide viciously down my arm. By the time we got back to the cabin, I couldn't even let myself think about the fact that we planned to walk this trail again today. . .two more times.

We let ourselves relax for a couple of hours before attemptin' another round of hiking. The cabin had its own private "driveway" (no vehicles are allowed on the trails, not even bicycles), and thus, unlike all the other cabins on the lake, did not have a hiking trail goin' through its front yard. This was the best isolation in the park, short of climbin' a tall tree, and it was a nifty little place. There were two rooms inside (a bedroom/kitchen and a sitting room with a table and a woodstove), and a bench and a fire ring out front.

There was also our own private outhouse, but after Jim examined it, I decided never, ever to go in there (and I never did. . .we were in the woods, fer chrissake, and there are plenty of places for that sort of thing). After searching the area, however, we found one thing missing that we had for some reason assumed would be available: potable water. We were
on Mirror Lake, of course, and I guess they just expect you to either pack in your water or use the lake water and purify it. Ick. We decided we would just bring back lots of bottled water on our next trip in. Since I'm writing this, you can probably figure out that we lived through hikin' out, packin' up more stuff, and hikin' back in. We figure we hiked at least nine miles that day, if not ten (and most of it in full packs).

My feet were really startin' to burn and cramp, and when we finally made it in for the night, it was after 8:00 (and since the Porkies are on eastern time, even though we're practically in Wisconsin, it stays light really late). By 9:00, I couldn't keep my eyes open any more and retired to my bunk. Aaaaaah, my bunk. There were two bunks, a top and a bottom bunk. Jim, being old and nearly incontintent, claimed the bottom bunk. Fair enough; as I had never slept in a bunk bed
in my life, I actually thought this might be fun. Let me clue you in to something: when they call this a "sleeping platform" they do not lie. It's not a bed. It's a platform. And this particular platform was so close to the ceiling that I couldn't flex an arm without hitting wood. I woke up in the middle of the night, and the darkness is more profound than a city girl is used to, and the slant of the ceiling was right above me, and it felt like I was in a coffin when I reached my hand out and immediately found pine. I'm not normally too claustrophibic, but that combination had me sweaty and freaked awake for a while. And my poor hips were in agony (I'm a side sleeper and I can't change!).

Tuesday, July 13

The final straw was when I tried to get out of the top bunk. In case no one had noticed, I'm not a terribly graceful girl. It took me a full five minutes to get a foothold I felt was firm enough to climb down the ladder. Jim, for once valuing his life, was smart enough not to laugh at me while it was happening (he values his life, and I'm not generally in a great mood upon awakening, even when I've slept on something other than a slab of wood). I had a grumpy morning, exacerbated by the fact that neither of us had thought to bring coffee, but started to feel better after the rain stopped and we were able to explore a little.

Jim attempted to fish in Mirror Lake (no luck, and no trout for dinner). After the failed fishin', we hiked around the other cabins on our lake, which both had better boats than we did (the 2-bunk cabin gets a canoe, the 4-bunker gets a little boat, and the 8-bunker gets two little boats), but much less privacy (the trail is about five feet from the front door of the 8-bunker). The scenery was lovely (lots of brooks and big chunks of rock, and a buck who hadn't started growin' his new antlers in yet, and obliged me by standin' and starin' at me for a while). We probably did about a four-mile round trip hike, and then as it became gloomy out again, we sequestered ourselves in the cabin with the woodstove fired up and a hot game of Texas Hold-'Em (well, it was hot for the first half, when I was winnin' every hand).

I'd enjoyed the hike, but I was still feelin' pretty sore and cranky from the previous day's exertion and sleeping arrangements, and was gettin' just a little, um, bitchy. We gamed by the "glow" of a flashlight we'd hung from the ceiling; the flashlight made a circle of light on the floor, and during the card game, a large black ant began marching round and round in the light circle. Normally, I would have found this somewhat amusing. This night, however, I was not in the greatest of moods, ahem, and after seein' him walk his little walk for the twentieth time, I suddenly leapt off the bench and began vigorously stomping this poor, blameless ant.

Jim, who had no idea an ant was doin' performance art next to me, inquired: "A little softshoe?"
Me: "That ant was walkin' around and around the circle of light and I HAD ENOUGH!"
Jim: (Long pause and strange look in my direction, then chooses his words carefully) "Honey, let's hike out tomorrow, rent a room for the night, and sit in the tub."

I, of course, agreed before he'd finished the sentence. In retrospect, I do feel bad about the ant thing. What kind of karma will this bring? Do ants have a "Wanted" poster with my picture on it? Since I had decided most definitively that the top bunk and I would have no further contact, I used my inflatable mattress on the floor. It didn't exactly inflate to full capacity that night (the instructions, which you don't see until you unroll the mattress, warn that it could take three or four tries to get a proper inflation), so it wasn't much better than sleepin' on the floor. The thought of a real bed and a real bathtub the next night, however, allowed me to sleep through the night as if there weren't white stars of pain shootin' out of my hips.

Wednesday, July 14

Did I mention that this cabin was extra secluded? And did I mention that it's secluded enough that I could look out the window at dawn and see Jim, clad only in hiking boots, answerin' the call of nature in our side yard? Well, it was that secluded, and Jim did look fabulous in his stripped-down ensemble.

We packed out everything we had decided we could possibly do without, so that we'd only have to make one trip out on Saturday. Why, oh, why did I think it was a good idea to bring my PDA out into the woods? I didn't have any appointments that week! Jim packed his air mattress out, as I'd made it clear that there was NO WAY IN HELL I was going to backcountry camp this week. The thought of setting up yet another camp sounded like too much work. Our packs were somewhat heavy, but not as bad as they had been on the first trip in, so I figured that this hike would be a breeze. I didn't know it, but I was about to be scared shitless!

About a quarter of a mile into our three-mile hike out, we were ascending a fairly steep incline that was quite muddy and filled with rocks. About halfway up the incline, Jim had to stop and rest, leanin' on his stick and breathin' hard. We'd had many stops like this in full pack, so I didn't think much of it. I was up the incline a little, musin' over some plants, when I heard Jim from behind me:

"You're gonna have to catch me!"

I turned to see Jim collapsing into the mud. He just plain went down, fell on his pack, and
then rolled and smacked his head on a somewhat flat rock. He was just lying there, his eyes
open and staring at nothing, and his mouth hanging open; I was 100% certain that he'd just
had a heart attack (I did the math: 51-year-old man + heavy pack + steep inclines = bad
idea), and I would have to hike nearly three miles to find help for him. Truthfully, I wasn't too sure it wasn't too late for that already. After involuntarily shouting "JIM!" I managed to keep my cool, but I was having a whole new kind of freakout inside my head. I rolled him over so his pack wasn't all on top of him, and just about wet my pants with happiness when he started to blink his eyes and talk to me. I was able to get his pack off, and when he could stand, we went down the hill to a flat spot where he could rest for a while.

As it turns out, Jim had succumbed in a spectacular way to his low blood sugar condition. I've been with him since early '87, and had seen him have small reactions, but never a full-blown blackout like this one (he'd had a few of those before I knew him). He'd been doing all the right things, stockin' up on protein-rich food (I mean peanut butter, pervs), but he figures he just ran out of gas. Bam! So, we sat for a little bit and I fed him peanut-butter crackers. It was very nearly romantic. After he caught his breath, he decided we should move on, so we put our packs back on. . .and Jim started walkin' back from where we'd come. I thought maybe he thought it was best to just go back to the cabin for a bit, but still I felt the need to ask him where he was goin'. It's a good thing, too, because he was still so disoriented he was walkin' back to the cabin when he really meant to make for the trailhead like our original plan.

Once we got our directions straightened out, the rest of the hike was without incident. Sometimes, boring is good. I later related the whole incident to Jim, and when I told him he'd said "You're gonna have to catch me!" he threw back his head and laughed; he had no recollection of saying it, and the thought of me tryin' to catch him, especially on that incline, was pretty hilarious (I think the best I could've done was let him fall on me).

Back in town, the Silver Sands just happened to have our same room available, so we stocked
up on epsom salts, gorged on delectable trout at the Foothills (where the hostess remembered
me by my tattoo, even though it must have been five years since we'd been there), and spent the
rest of the night takin' turns usin' the tub (unfortunately, the tub would not possibly hold us both, but I'm sure you're all glad to be spared that picture).

Verbatim from my journal:
Got to watch
General Hospital and Jeopardy! Can y'all believe that Ken Jennings? He's a hero to geeks and nerds everywhere (I say this from the heart). They finally got around to having Lila Quartermaine die on GH (the actress died a couple of months ago), so there was really no plot movement today. I didn't care. I was so happy to have TV, I would've sat through an hour of Carly saying "They're tearing my family apart!" over and over again (any other day, though, and I'm gouging out the bitch's eyes).

Did I mention that this was the best bed upon which I have ever slept? I slept until an obscene 8:00 the next morning! Aaaaah, bliss. . .

Thursday, July 15

After breakfast at the Foothills (now Mandi knows what "eggs up" means), we went up to see
Lake of the Clouds (it's a short hike up a paved walkway). It's so easy to get to, and such a breathtaking view, that we see it every time we're up there. It's considered the plum view of the park, and is usually what you'll see on the cover of their brochures. After much picture takin' and pettin' of other people's dogs, we stocked up on liquids and hiked back to the cabin.

This time, however, instead of parkin' at the Mirror Lake trailhead, we parked at the Summit Peak trailhead, which leads to the highest point in the park. I didn't know if this was a great idea, even though it seemed to cut some distance off our hike, but I figured if Jim wanted to do it, I'd go along. Hey, I wasn't the person who became one with the mud just the day before! The initial incline from the parking lot was just killer, but after a certain point, there were (cue trumpets) stairs! Sure, it's still uphill (or up mountain, if you want to be semantically anal), but flat steps up are infinitely better than just a rocky incline. I felt positively spoiled! Once we got to the final platform, I could see why people made such a fuss about getting up here. The view is not quite as spectacular as the Lake of the Clouds Overlook, but it's gotta be second best. We sat on the benches and admired the view for at least 45 minutes, where we met a man with one tooth and zero sense of humor - mister, I was only kiddin' about my wish to drop a cabin in this spot, kiddin', okay? - opted out of climbin' the tower for an even HIGHER view, and made our way down from the peak. The downhill was so steep that we knew we would be in for a challenge when we packed back out.

Two chipmunks had spent the week vyin' for our attention and food in the front yard of the cabin. We finally got to see a real chipmunk rumble happen on Thursday. The long-tailed gregarious 'munk caught sight of the short-tailed shy 'munk eatin' our handouts, and dealt with this immediately. Long Tail ran as fast as his little legs would allow and smashed into Short Tail, who popped straight up in the air -- I swear it was at least two or three feet, straight up. It was almost as funny as watchin' me get out of the top bunk!

We had what Jim calls a "heap good fire" (he can say that with all the Chippewa and Shoshone runnin' through his veins) that night, the best fire, in fact, we'd had all week. Many marshmallows were sacrificed that night. My mattress seemed a little better inflated this time, so my sleep was slightly better.

Friday, July 16

After a hearty breakfast of smashed Pop Tarts (I was gonna chew 'em anyway), Jim and I decided to hike down the Little Carp River trail. With lots of stops along the way for snacks and smokes (because when you're winded on the trail, nothin' helps like a cigar), the hike didn't seem like a big deal at all, and we wound up expanding the hike to end up at the Lily Pond (that made it three miles there). We were catchin' our breath on the bench by the Lily Pond when we encountered a hippie dude, wearin' his jammy pants and carryin' a super-nice camera, who was currently stayin' in the Lily Pond cabin. He stopped and we chatted, and he offered us some water (we had some with us, but that was really cool of him to offer). You do meet some very cool people when you're camping or hiking. There's something about the setting that makes it easy to peel away that layer of
indifference and isolation that one wears in the course of urban life. On a city street, you work hard to avoid eye contact with passersby, and casual conversation is out of the question unless one wants to be considered, um, "special." Out on the trails, you happily greet everyone you see, and often have actual conversations with strangers!

We hiked back to the cabin (our six miles that day seemed like nothin'), and I set about addin' our adventures to the journal that's left in the cabin. People have been writin' in this particular one since October of 2000, so there are some pretty good stories in there (including the tale of the Mirror Lake Monster, complete with illustrations). Not to be outdone, I detailed our story and made sure to include lots of drawings in the margins. The picture of Jim with his head smacked down on the rock is surely one of the best I've done! Our last campfire at the cabin was a little sad, but I wouldn't be lyin' if I said I was also pretty excited about gettin' back to electricity and running water.

Saturday, July 17

We packed up our gear and headed out. We still had a bit of food left, but there was no way we were packin' out anything we didn't have to. Like many others before us, we left what we didn't eat, and then split. I had my whole pack arranged in a much less awkward fashion than when we first came in, and it was a whole different experience this time. Remember on Thursday, when we hiked back in, and I said the last downhill of the Summit Peak trail was gonna be a sonofabitch as an uphill? Well, ding ding ding ding, was I ever right! Steep, narrow, muddy. . .if I said we stopped to gasp for air every five minutes, I wouldn't be stretchin' the truth at all. Killer, killer, killer! If my pack had been done up as badly as it was on the first day, I'd have thrown myself off Summit Peak after this walk.

Once we got to the top and rested (gasped) for a while, we decided to climb the tower this
time. For all the trouble to get up there, I still have to say the better view is down a little further on the platform where we rested our bones on the way in. Oh, well. . .

We made it down the stairs, and there it was. It was a lovely sight, the parking area. At that moment, I so loved my purple car that I would've married it on the spot. We had our final lunch at the Foothills, farewell ice cream and bear photos at the Rainbow, and then made a beeline for the Comfort Inn in Munising (about a four-hour drive).

We'd come up to Silver City from the south (much of it on Lake Michigan's shoreline), and we took
the northern route to Munising (and it also happened to be mostly along the Superior shoreline). I can't really say anything exciting happened in Munising, aside from the fact that I got my monthly helping of pizza and it's never tasted better! Took a shower and two epsom-salt baths, and slept like a drunken crack baby on the crappy but oh-so-servicable mattress.

Sunday, July 18

Nothing from the breakfast buffet was used to vandalize any cars this day. We checked out and headed down the 38 miles or so to Seney, where we drove through the Seney Wildlife Refuge and Jim attempted (again, in vain) to fish. No fish, but we did see three adult osprey and an empty eagle's nest. It's a slow seven-mile drive 'round the refuge, after which we gorged on almost-palatable food at the Jolly Inn in Germfask. Who makes up the names of these places? Drunken Yoopers! What the fuck is a "Germfask"?

My journal does not go into any more detail, so I think I can safely say that nothing worth noting happened the rest of that day. But, obviously, we did make it home, and I am, obviously, glad Jim didn't keel over and die on the trails.

You hear that, mister? I'm glad you're alive! But don't let it go to your head.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Are you drunk, or am I?

And no, I am not naked in this picture. Be glad about that.

Atomic dog

Bow wow wow yipee yo yippe yay

The day Snickers chose us at the Humane Society, I put him in my lap in the Camaro, and Atomic Dog was playing on the radio. I should have taken it as a sign. It's true, so true...

Everybody run, the homecoming queen's got a gun

Who else thinks this is me?

Cherie sent this to me today, and even though she sends me old, drunken pictures of me all the time, I just couldn't for the life o' me remember posin' for this one. I don't think I've ever actually held a real gun in my hand, nor have I handled a realistic-looking toy gun.

But, you know, since Cherie did have ample opportunity to photograph me in various states of inebriation, I wrote her back to inquire as to the source of this shot. She replied that she got it off a Yahoo joke list to which she belongs. So technically, that's not me.

The likeness here just blows my mind. Same uncontrollable hair, same pair of shades I had before the current ones, same leather biker jacket, even the hands look like mine.

Frankly, I'm just a little freaked out by this!

Lick me, I buzz you up

This time of year is one of my favorites, as on a warm night we can see more than a dozen toads havin' pool parties in our koi pond. And really, can you think of better entertainment for a spring night than watchin' toads get all Barry White on their females?

After I obnoxiously leaned down into the pond and took numerous photographs of the amorous amphibians, Jim and I sat back to enjoy the toad show, complete with singing (from the toads, not from me -- hey, I'm no Barry White). As we played voyeur to our little horny pond cavorters (yep, that's a word now), Jim suddenly exclaimed "Oh, my god," in a disgusted voice.

What? I wondered aloud. "We're being watched," he said.

Sure enough, I looked up, and our elderly neighbor lady was in her window, slowly opening and closing the curtains to get a peek at us. I don't really think she can see that far with any clarity, and it was dark out. All I can figure is she saw the camera flashes in the yard and curiosity got the better of her. So, she was watching us as we watched the toads fucking. It would be a delightful double layer of voyeurism if only it did not involve an old woman and some toads. At least this time she didn't call the fire department on us ('nother story, 'nother story...).

I wonder what she thought we were takin' pictures of that made her need to look? Doesn't she know I only take those kind of photos in my basement?

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Self-Portrait Day: Get your flex on

Yes, I'm wearin' a long leather coat, because it's fuckin' cold here today!

Sorry, this is terribly lame of me. I was in a meeting all day, so my hopes of shooting an actual picture of me flexing in the gym was out. Let's face it, though - this is a lot less scary than the other coulda been. And you got to see me on the toilet last week, fer chrissake. Just how intimate do y'all want us to be?

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Fun with divebombing

Jim's mom has a decent-sized back yard, and with several bird feeders scattered 'round, it's a great place for bird watching on a summer afternoon. When Jim and I visit, sometimes we'll all end up in the back yard, loungin' around in lawn chairs and watchin' our little avian friends dart in and out of the feeders.

Doesn't this sound like it's gonna be a nice story? Well, it's not.

On a hot, still, and sunny day some 13 years ago or so, we were similarly gathered in the back yard, and Jim and I were side-by-side in metal fan chairs (I don't know if that's what they're called, but they have the big fan-shaped backs on 'em. Anyone?), both drinkin' ice-cold Coke out of big, tall plastic cups. I was really skinny then, and was positive I looked absolutely fetching in my sleeves-cut-off jean jacket-turned-vest. We were watching some red-winged blackbirds feed, and I guess they decided to let me know that it wasn't polite to stare. I am not exaggerating the next part of this story at all, and I have several witnesses who would be delighted to laugh their asses off while corroborating my version of events.

I watched as the two birds flew off the feeder together, and then they seemed to fly in formation, circling over my head. Of course, I continued to watch 'em, and they circled together, and, in a breathtaking and wholly unexpected maneuver, they flew past me together, inches from me in fact. At the same time I felt the rush of air from their wings beating so very close to my person, I also heard a very loud SPLAT sound, not a tiny splat, but like the godzilla of splats. I looked down to find the front of my too-cute jean vest was now covered in bird shit; the coverage was staggering, from two relatively small birds, and they'd let loose their payloads in perfect harmony. It was the most deliberate, preplanned, evil thing I'd ever witnessed a bird do (until I had a parrot, and then I saw that all the time...'nother story, 'nother story).

We all sat in stunned silence for a split second, and then Jim shook his fist and yelled "Bastards!" before he collapsed in laughter. I was just kind of holding my arms out, in disbelief but with enough sense to not want to dip my arms in it. Then I realized I still had a nearly-full cup of Coke clutched in my hand. It was, of course, full of all the poop that hadn't made it onto my vest.

I could barely finish it.

[okay, so I might have exaggerated the last line a little, but the rest is absofuckinglutely true]

You can see why I've never again completely trusted birds.

Little Deviant, in a plaid mood

Who wants to play some Texas Hold 'Em?

I can't decide if that's a deck of cards in my hand, or if I swiped my grandparents' Winstons. That would not have been out of character for Little Bucky.

Can you spot Squirl in this picture?

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Mr. White Screen, I'm comin' to kick your ass


This worked last time. Lessee if it works again.

Abra Cadaver...

What color is your smoke?

I just happened to be home for lunch today when ABC interrupted The View (okay, no big loss) to show us live coverage of the billowing smoke in Vatican City. Since I didn't feel like changing the channel, I sat and watched the utterly fascinating visual...well, okay, so the billowing smoke in a Cheech and Chong movie is a lot more entertaining to watch, but the new pope was the only show in town at that moment. So I sat and ate and watched the crowd in the square veer between enraptured applause and utter confusion about what color the smoke truly was. Hundreds of people milling about, craning their their necks for a better look at an ugly smokestack and pretending that this announcement would make even a little bit of difference to any real person on this earth. I mean, it's not as if it was something important, like waiting at the stage door for a glimpse of Mick Jagger or something (yes, I'm old, shut up about it).

The whole black smoke/white smoke thing seemed totally wrong this time, though. As far as I'm concerned, it should have been pink smoke, and it should have happened over a week ago. Because, as anyone who reads important news sources like blogs already knows, the new pope was already chosen before all this hoo-hah and fanfare started.

All hail, motherfuckers!

(oh, and by the way: if all this papal pomp and circumstance bullshit is still on when General Hospital is supposed to be taping for me, I'm gonna kick a pope-sized hole in the living room wall. The righteous indignation will spew like an outta control facial)

So why don't you marry it?

If you know me, you know that good food is one of my great joys in life. The mere mention of certain restaurants is enough to make my taste buds throb in anticipation like engorged genitalia awaiting sweet violation. One of these eateries is Badawest, and if you ever crave some fine, fine Lebanese cuisine when you're in the Flint area, I highly recommend you take the time to stop in and savor their culinary delights.

So it was with no resistance whatsoever that I recently accepted several co-workers' invitation to have lunch at Badawest. There were a few of us from different departments there, including one fellow from our sales department (but I like him anyway). The five of us were happily diggin' into our schwarma and gallaba and hummous and such when a former co-worker approached our table. Lisa is a very sweet, bubbly girl, but is given to fits of blondeness (no offense to the blonde among you; I was considered blonde until I was 20 or so). She used to work in our sales department, so she and the current sales guy started conversing in that direction as she stood beside our table.

Invevitably, talk turned to his current/her former boss, a chap by the name of Richard. Lisa was crackin' some good-natured but slightly insulting jokes at Richard's expense (as he was not there to defend himself), and the bunch of us were having a good laugh about it. Then, I guess, Lisa felt the need to let us know that there were really no hard feelings toward her former supervisor.

So, at the top of her lungs, Lisa announced to us and to everyone in the restaurant: "Oh, I'm just kiddin'. I LOVE DICK!"

I was stunned for a second, thinking Oh my fucking god, did she just say that out loud?
Then I looked over at Arjay, and he had his hand over his face. I could see one eye peeking out at me, and the corner of his mouth fighting the smirk that was forming. Everyone else, to their credit, gave no visible hint that they were seconds away from dying of internalized laughter, even as Lisa repeated, for clarity, "No, really, I LOVE DICK!" Everyone in the restaurant was lookin' over at her by that point, and I just hoped she'd go away before I exploded. Arjay started to shake and clutched his hand over his face even more tightly. I took the opportunity to snort into my napkin under the pretext of sneezing.

I was grateful that Lisa was on her way out of the restaurant when she stopped by our table, and as soon as she was out the door, we all looked at each other and then, as one, began to howl with laughter. Some of the other patrons joined in.

I'm thinkin' they need to have some little cards you can fill out on the tables at Badawest now. The cards should say something such as:

I like Dick, do you like Dick?
Check one: ___Yes ___No

Which would you check?

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Snickers' next-favorite person

Bad dog Snickers always demands his uncle Dave's complete and undivided attention. That blur is his very busy tail. He will pretty much blow us off if Dave comes over. Yeah, right through the heart, doggie.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Buds n' beer

Yeah, I'm totally outta control with the posting tonight. I loves me some beer and photoshop. Doesn't my face look like I just found bird shit in my half-consumed beverage?

Okay, Pokey, here's your damn proof

This is a still from Pokey's debut film, Steak Stud Stallion. With this kind of starpower on his side, he would later grow resentful over that pindick Gumby's thrusting himself into the limelight. Pokey was last seen bitterly commenting on blogs and performing amateur gynecological exams. If this horse approaches you with a speculum, contact authorities immediately, and for god's sake, don't put your feet in the stirrups, or you'll be ruined, I tell you, ruined!

For Greatwhitebear

I can see your truuuuuue colors shinin' through...

Jim is so dejected about not having any NHL this season. I'm surprised you can't see the tears falling from his Red Wings tat. This is on his left arm.

I know, fill your bladder with beer then get on a plane!

Yeah, I was in the Cincinnati airport for a while.

It was perfect. I started my book at Bishop airport on my way out, and I finished it on the flight from Cincinnati to Flint. What a nice breather from the tech and business stuff I have to read all the time! And it doesn't get much more ridiculous, yet profound, than this book.

Beered and bored

This'll peg me quicker'n a Rorschach

Here is what happens when I have pen and paper, but no Gumby, with my beer. This should give one a pretty fair idea of how I always filled the margins of my class notes when I was in school (grade school all the way through college). This one is tame, as it does not contain a single penis, exaggerated or otherwise.

Hell yeah, I want some cheesy poofs!

And yet they let me on the plane.

Hey, let's start the countdown to 40 with a musing on my immaturity, 'cause if there's one thing I won't do, it's grow old gracefully.

No matter how old I get, there are some things I simply cannot resist:

Using Cheetos as fangs, popping bubble wrap, swingsets (sturdy ones now, sturdy ones), kites, fart jokes, cats (damn you, allergies), horny penguins, Halloween, crayons, using candy corn as tiny fangs, body-part jokes, play-acting in public for effect (preferably shock), zoos, watching penguins have sex, playing Grand Theft Auto (3 and newer), dogs, Silly Putty, Sugar Babies, bad puns, drawing pictures of bizarrely exaggerated penises, drawing pictures of dudes with pencils stuck through their faces, drawing pictures of hairy men in ridiculous drag, and did I mention penguins doin' the humpty dance?

You know, I meant this to be lighthearted, but after reading back my list, I think maybe I should get some help!

Friday, April 15, 2005

Just before they threw me out of the Sheraton

I think this shirt was made for someone with actual muscles.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Self-Portrait Day: Elvis

I coulda sworn I asked Col. Parker for a refill...

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Do not touch, indeed

Is it just me, or does this kinda scare the shit out of anybody else? The chicken in the middle was whipped into some kind of religious frenzy and could not stay still, no matter how I beseeched him to just fucking stop it for a minute while I took a picture. I took the photo then scurried out of the shop, sobbing like a schoolgirl with poop on her socks.

Y'all are crackin' me up with your comments. I may have to write a post to address them since I've been so terrible at replying whilst I'm bein' worked soooooo hard here. Did I mention I had some hellascrumptious crab cakes for lunch today? Oh, I can feel the waves of pity from all y'all. I may not be on the Cotillion tomorrow, as it is travel all day. We'll just see if my flight really gets into Flint at 7:00 or not.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Ever'body in the club gettin' tipsy

This is why I don't drink often.

This is what happens to me after two, count 'em, two beers. The evil draft was forced upon me by my boss and his wife, so what could I do? Oh, my innocence shattered!

Monday, April 11, 2005

Leavin' on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be frisked again

Yeah, baby, I made the dolphins dance! These fellows live and play at the Baltimore Aquarium.

Yes, I have spent the day traveling. Smooshed into airplane seats clearly designed for undernourished children, havin' my little bit of airport serenity space invaded by middle-aged men in trucker hats who think the li'l lady could use some company, smooshed again the back of the taxi with two co-workers who are also in Baltimore for the conference, finding there is no Soap Net on the cable here (and they call this civilization?), couldn't find bubble bath in the shop downstairs (again, civilization?), eatin' room-service naked wings, now drinkin' a warm Dr. Pepper in my room 'cause I'm too lazy to go get more ice. This all makes me reflect on the subject of travel.

Airport security has always been fun for me, even pre-airscare.

On a trip to New Orleans in 1998, I was stupid enough to leave all the stuff in my pockets. When it came time to pass through security, of couse, I was asked to empty the contents of my pockets, and they gave me this ridiculous little sandwich-sized Tupperware container for the purpose of holding said pocket shit. Ha! Well, I emptied, and emptied, and emptied, the change, the kleenex, the overtuffed-with-inconsequential crap wallet, the lighters (yes, gotta have backups, you know), more change, mints, guitar picks, gum, more kleenex, bass picks, and yes, more change. I think I filled up four of their pitiful little Tupperware containers. I was traveling with Balulah for a conference then, and her parents, to whom I had just been introduced, stood by and watched with a combination of amusement and horror. Since then, I have learned to empty my damn pants pockets before arriving at the airport, and Balulah's parents have learned that I am, in fact, a flake.

I had a bit of a different encounter with security at Bishop when I flew to Chicago in 1997. At the time, I still had some body jewelry in; specifically, I had a navel ring and a ring in my right nipple. I hadn't flown in years, so the thought of the metal detector never occurred to me until I heard it beep its protest as I strolled through. The grandmotherly woman attending to the machine began having me remove articles of clothing that could be offending the machine. Right there in the airport, I stripped. Well, not really, but I had my leather jacket off, my belt off, and my boots off, and to me, that means I've gone to enough trouble to get laid. Grandma began to look a little nervous, and I saw her reach for the scanning wand. Trying to save us all some trouble, I volunteered, "You'll find body jewelry here" pointing to my navel "and here" pointing to my right breast. She looked even more nervous, and she started running the wand over me in a way that is usually only allowed by someone who has just bought me a rather nice dinner and plied me with alcohol. But there was no dinner, no flirtation, no goodnight kiss, not even a fuckin' corsage, as she came at me with that beeping stick in her hand and began to violate my every crease and fold. Sure enough, the warning beeps came just where I'd told her. For some reason, that made her look more distressed than before.

So she felt me up. Somebody's grandma grabbed my tits right there in Bishop Airport. And what did my supportive husband do while I was standing there in shock and a little mortification? Of course, he laughed and laughed and offered absolutely zero support while this little old lady was takin' liberties with his blameless wife. And he continued to laugh, with no remorse or shame, until I was on the airplane. And then probably on his way home, too.

Travel is always an adventure. If you should ever deign to travel with me, it will also be side show.

Sunday, April 10, 2005

Devil dad and devil dog

Devil Dad and Devil Dog
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

I have to go to Baltimore for a conference this week. I'm gonna miss these boys, satanic though they are.

You people have no such luck. My hotel has high-speed wireless 'net, so I shall continue to pester y'all as though I were home. I have a laptop and I'm not afraid to use it. And I'll take really awful pictures of myself for your amusement, I promise.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Rode hard and put up fossilized

Archaeologists have just unearthed this prime specimin of a prehistoric vagina. Lean in close, and you'll swear you can hear it purr, "Feed me, Seymour!"

Friday, April 08, 2005

Cut off...can't breathe...

Yeah, so I didn't participate in Self-Portrait Day yesterday. The theme this week was "O" Face, and I'm sorry, but I save that particular look for frightening my husband and the occasional door-to-door missionary. But not Girl Scouts, 'cause I really do want some of those Thin Mints.

Of course, I might've worked up the shamelessness to do the picture anyway, but it wouldn't have mattered, not one little tiny fuckin' bit, because my Internet connection went from crappy to nonexistent about an hour after I got home yesterday. No bloggin', no Flickr, no commentin', no actual work that I need to do that requires me to be online. But, on a bright note, my Vonage service works. So at least I have my phone to reach out and touch someone (now, don't be squealin', you didn't specifically say I couldn't touch you there).

The connection problems stem from a new wireless router I bought this week, specifically for the purpose of repairing my telephone connection. I think I have it tracked down to DNS problems, but it's so flaky it's hard to say for sure. If I don't get it fixed this weekend, I might just have to sneak up to my office to do some work and to come here and spout at y'all.

On a happier note, I'll be in Baltimore next week for a conference, and my hotel room has a high-speed wireless connection, so I will be away from home, but not from the Cotillion. Now if I can just stay clear of all those full-length mirrors when I'm naked, it'll be sweet.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Just like in the movies

It's no secret that little girls, deep in their unicorn-lovin' souls, all want to live out the best parts of their favorite movies. Of course, as a little girl blossoms into sluthood, the definition of best parts morphs. The little girl wants to have her hand kissed chastely by Ashley Wilkes; the slut wants to be taken upstairs and ravaged by Rhett Butler (yeah, Squirl, I mean you). But whether the silver-screen dream involves ponies and rainbows or ponies and shackles, how many of us actually get to make a reality out of the fantasy?

Well, I'm here to tell you I'm one lucky girl. I recently had the completely unplanned opportunity to act out a scene from one of my favorite movies, and I have my sweet, generous husband to thank for the whole cinematic experience.

Anyone who is forced to spend any time whatsoever with me knows that I love, enough to marry it, the movie Dodgeball. It's impossibly stupid and retarded, just like me, so we're a good match. "Dodge, duck, dip, dive, and dodge!" is our motto around here. If you haven't seen it, get a few beers in you and rent it. If you have seen it, and you didn't like it, then we might just have to discuss that in the sternest of terms.

So yesterday, Jim and I were having our usual after-work chit-chat while I watch the videotape of my incredibly vapid but strangely addictive soap, and he does color commentary. I don't even remember what we were talkin' about, but he said something that set me off, and I started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

And...and...I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

I had to run out of the room, hand over my mouth, still unable to stop laughing.

So my silver-screen fantasy was fulfilled, if only for a day.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Crop it like it's hawt

I, too, am tired of and a little freaked out from seeing my big smiley picture every time I come here, so it must be time for a new post.

You people seem to be awfully interested in the about-to-spit picture I posted here a couple of days ago. That photo is my most-viewed photo on Flickr.

Geez, folks, if I'd known all I had to do was post my nekkid shoulders with a man peeking out from behind me, I'd have done it months ago! Why are people viewing this so much? Are they trying to figure out if we're nekkid? Can't decide what's goin' on right at the bottom of the frame?

Ha! Suckahs! You should've seen it before I cropped the photo. Too bad, though, it will have to remain a mystery. Are they nekkid? Is that a hand? What's he doin' behind her? Where's Gumby? Spit or swallow?

Aaaaah, y'all never fail to disappoint me. Perverts. Don't ever change.

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Weekend whoopee windin' down

I had a really good time Friday night. What?

Before I got on all this anniversary crap, heart-warming blah blah, and keepin' my tits out of the frame, I had the opportunity to meet a friend of a friend who is indirectly responsible for my blogging addiction. She alerted my friend Julia to the fact that a blog called Dooce existed, and that it must be read with regularity, lest one's life continue to be the empty shell of a sham inside a hollow mockery. Julia ran straight to me after reading a post dealing with reconvening the procedure, and I have been hooked since that very moment. And, like a billion other bloggers, I read Dooce and decided I could park my weird shit online and somebody would actually care enough to look at it, and oh, shit, actually comment on it! I've made a lot of what I would consider friends in the blogging community, have forged strong ties with some of you, and have had a whale of a time pickin' at my siblings in front of everybody. And blogging itself, even if nobody came on here and made a peep, has become a better release than I could have ever hoped. I consider the experience overwhelmingly positive.

So, I had the opportunity to have lunch with Julia's friend, Courtney, last Thursday, and I had the chance to thank her in person. She seems like such a nice girl, but I know evil must dwell in some corner of her heart if she is a Dooce devotee. Courtney, if you're lurkin' here, it was very cool to meet you, but everybody also knows who to blame now, too. Just so's you know.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Get the spittoon

Now spit!
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

Could I look just a little more inbred in this picture? Or any more like I'm about to let a mouthful of chaw go flyin'?

My April Fool

My April Fool
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

So, for our anniversary last night, about which I've been yammering for days, we decided to go out for dinner before we hit the bar.

Mongolian Barbecue was packed, so we wound up at the old standby, the Capitol. As we waited for our dinner, I started thinking about that stupid diamond commercial, where the guy brings his in-laws to Italy so he can surprise his wife and re-propose with an outrageously expensive ring in his hand. So I gazed at him in slightly exaggerated adoration, and said (not quietly): "I'd marry you all over again, here, in front of all these people."

Jim looked me in the eye and let loose with a heartfelt belch that was clearly audible all up and down our row of booths.

Then we sat there and laughed like the idiots that we are. I really couldn't have married anybody else. I love you, Jim, you big retard!

Friday, April 01, 2005

Well, how long was that up my ass?

Well, how long was that up my ass?
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

I won't be around much tonight, but since I missed Self-Portrait Day this week, I thought the easiest, laziest thing I could possibly do is post a picture today. In this one I'm, um, practicing for Self-Portrait Day: "O" Face next week. Yeah, that's it.

If you wanna know what's goin' on tonight, beyond dinner, you are a sick motherfucker. Email me.

Yes, I'm lame enough to use the same joke two days in a row. Lame. huh huh huh huh