Jeez! Don't you people have anything better to do? 100+ readers on this page today. Evidently I wasn't the only one slacking off at the office on a lame-ass tired Monday.
Glad you're stopping by, whomever the Hell you all are (hello, anonymous Norway visitor).. The readership is much appreciated and I'll have you all over for ice water sometime. Not just any ice water, but my secret recipe. It's all about putting the ice cubes in first, then the tap water.
Monday, November 7, 2005
Rapture on 11/6/05
a.k.a. Two lives simultaneously at stake. (Followed by steak later that evening)
Was driving down I94 in the Death Star yesterday afternoon on the phone with a dear friend of mine. I had just bought an edging brush to touch up my sloppy paint job in my new place, had a mocha betwixt my knees, and life was good.
Suddenly from out of nowhere, my car started a-rattling and smoking something awful and a red light came on the display with a graphic of a dripping oil can on it. Although the oil can graphic is sort of cute and cartoon-y, you could tell that it wasn't supposed to be illuminated like it was by the sounds the car was making. I pressed down on the accelerator the Death Star didn't seem to take that too well, just rattling more and saying "Fug you! I'm in no mood to get you from Point A to Point B today, Poopie Pants!"
At that same time she exclaimed "OH SHIT!" into the phone (or something to that effect), and alls I could hear was a fierce wind blowing on the other end. I started wondering if she had tied her phone to her car's bumper and gone for a drive. I guess some rather inclement weather conditions had suddenly developed. She was walking her wee pet in a park, and was in the middle of a bevy of tornadic activity laced with zaps of lightning, a downpour of rain, and wind. Lots of wind.
The phone signal was chopping up like an old McDonald's drive thru intercom, and I sort of heard her holla "CAN I CALL YOU LATER?" over the wind. Worried, I said “PLEASE DO!” loud and clear and before I knew it, the display on me smell phone read Call Ended. My eyes fixed themselves back on the red oil light which was still shining vividly. It was like looking into the eyes of Satan.
The Death Star was getting more upset by the second, still vibrating and smoking. I feared it was going to stall on 94 and that I was going to be robbed and man-raped, left for dead, and that friend and her wee pet on the other end were flying around in the air like all that shit was in that tornado movie Twister with Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt.
I began to suck my thumb and make baby noises. Childhood flashbacks were passing through my brain like a subway train blurring past you in a dark station. I only had 2 miles to go before home, but was certain the Death Star wasn't going to make it. Those two miles now were 200, and every time I hit the gas, the car seemed to go slower and I felt like I was actually traveling further from home than closer. Tunnel vision set in. Dollar signs flew before mine eyes, visions of towing and auto mechanic bills shooting past me. I started to miss Frank. I envisioned myself on the side of the highway with my thumb out facing westbound traffic trying to hitch a ride. I wondered if Friend and wee pet were now embedded in a tree like you see in the papers when winds are so strong that they cause nails and other things to impale tree trunks.
Five minutes later I made it home alive. I pulled the Death Star to the curb and smoke was billowing from beneath the hood. It sorta looked like the Delorean from Back to the Future, all silent and smoky with a faint hiss from the engine. I checked a newspaper in a nearby stand just to make sure that I hadn't just entered a tear in the time/space continuum while all that shit went down. Thankfully it was still 11/6/05, at least according to the paper.
I called pops who is an auto mechanic genius, and he's going to come out and take a look at the car for me. In the interim, I live right on the bus line which is quite convenient. Worse comes to worse, I've got the Pinto stored away at Rancho Relaxo and can use that as backup if need be. At least until that starts rattling and smoking, at which point I will start shopping around for a mule.
Friend and wee pet checked in a little later and ended up being okay as well. They suffered severe power outages from the storm and allegedly ended up eating cold steak and brownies at the family dinner, but at least everyone was still alive and well fed.
Myself on the other hand: I went home exhausted and sat down to take a load off. The chair collapsed beneath me and I fell onto the floor and cracked my head open on the oven.
Well, not really, I actually simply crashed on the davenport and watched some tee-vee. But you’ve got to admit, the chair and head cracking open thing would have added an extreme angle of drama and suspense to this story and would have been pretty fuckin’ cool to tell people about some years later, drooling in a wheelchair and whatnot. So let’s just go with that ending instead, shall we?
Was driving down I94 in the Death Star yesterday afternoon on the phone with a dear friend of mine. I had just bought an edging brush to touch up my sloppy paint job in my new place, had a mocha betwixt my knees, and life was good.
Suddenly from out of nowhere, my car started a-rattling and smoking something awful and a red light came on the display with a graphic of a dripping oil can on it. Although the oil can graphic is sort of cute and cartoon-y, you could tell that it wasn't supposed to be illuminated like it was by the sounds the car was making. I pressed down on the accelerator the Death Star didn't seem to take that too well, just rattling more and saying "Fug you! I'm in no mood to get you from Point A to Point B today, Poopie Pants!"
At that same time she exclaimed "OH SHIT!" into the phone (or something to that effect), and alls I could hear was a fierce wind blowing on the other end. I started wondering if she had tied her phone to her car's bumper and gone for a drive. I guess some rather inclement weather conditions had suddenly developed. She was walking her wee pet in a park, and was in the middle of a bevy of tornadic activity laced with zaps of lightning, a downpour of rain, and wind. Lots of wind.
The phone signal was chopping up like an old McDonald's drive thru intercom, and I sort of heard her holla "CAN I CALL YOU LATER?" over the wind. Worried, I said “PLEASE DO!” loud and clear and before I knew it, the display on me smell phone read Call Ended. My eyes fixed themselves back on the red oil light which was still shining vividly. It was like looking into the eyes of Satan.
The Death Star was getting more upset by the second, still vibrating and smoking. I feared it was going to stall on 94 and that I was going to be robbed and man-raped, left for dead, and that friend and her wee pet on the other end were flying around in the air like all that shit was in that tornado movie Twister with Bill Paxton and Helen Hunt.
I began to suck my thumb and make baby noises. Childhood flashbacks were passing through my brain like a subway train blurring past you in a dark station. I only had 2 miles to go before home, but was certain the Death Star wasn't going to make it. Those two miles now were 200, and every time I hit the gas, the car seemed to go slower and I felt like I was actually traveling further from home than closer. Tunnel vision set in. Dollar signs flew before mine eyes, visions of towing and auto mechanic bills shooting past me. I started to miss Frank. I envisioned myself on the side of the highway with my thumb out facing westbound traffic trying to hitch a ride. I wondered if Friend and wee pet were now embedded in a tree like you see in the papers when winds are so strong that they cause nails and other things to impale tree trunks.
Five minutes later I made it home alive. I pulled the Death Star to the curb and smoke was billowing from beneath the hood. It sorta looked like the Delorean from Back to the Future, all silent and smoky with a faint hiss from the engine. I checked a newspaper in a nearby stand just to make sure that I hadn't just entered a tear in the time/space continuum while all that shit went down. Thankfully it was still 11/6/05, at least according to the paper.
I called pops who is an auto mechanic genius, and he's going to come out and take a look at the car for me. In the interim, I live right on the bus line which is quite convenient. Worse comes to worse, I've got the Pinto stored away at Rancho Relaxo and can use that as backup if need be. At least until that starts rattling and smoking, at which point I will start shopping around for a mule.
Friend and wee pet checked in a little later and ended up being okay as well. They suffered severe power outages from the storm and allegedly ended up eating cold steak and brownies at the family dinner, but at least everyone was still alive and well fed.
Myself on the other hand: I went home exhausted and sat down to take a load off. The chair collapsed beneath me and I fell onto the floor and cracked my head open on the oven.
Well, not really, I actually simply crashed on the davenport and watched some tee-vee. But you’ve got to admit, the chair and head cracking open thing would have added an extreme angle of drama and suspense to this story and would have been pretty fuckin’ cool to tell people about some years later, drooling in a wheelchair and whatnot. So let’s just go with that ending instead, shall we?
Sunday, November 6, 2005
Thanks Mom
I just read that a recent Harvard study shows that when a mother eats a lot of fish while a baby is in the womb, the child is apt to be smarter.I'd just like to say: Thanks, mom - you must have been eating a shitload of fish back in '73.
Stream of subconsciosness
Yeah, so there's nothing to write about at this time. But having the obsessive compulsive creative microchip installed in my brain that I do, I feel compelled to write anyways. If I don't make something at least once a day, be it a bunch of typed words, music, or cookies, I get a little batty. Must. Create.
I used to do this a while back and it was always sorta fun and people always liked it: Set the clock at a certain amount of minutes and just type whatever the hell comes to mind, fuckin' fast as I can paying no mind to spelling/grammatical errors and just posting it. This is something our engrish teacher Mrs. Bonfig made us do in 9th grade, was the only thing I liked about that class and a creative tool I still use today. Bonfig, like many others, pulled me aside after I skipped her class for the 2 dozenth time, expressing concern that maybe my home life wasn't so good. I'm sure she thought I was hopped up on goofballs. I know she thought that. Couldn't have been more wrong on both accounts, but I didn't bother defending myself because she was just another person misunderstanding me and I had no reason to prove anything to her. She was my engrish teacher, snot like we hung out and played Nintendo together or anything. Not to mention, she had that morning/coffee breath that teachers get, and she had it something awful.
I digress.. Without further ado:
8 minute 37 second Stream of Subconsciosness
Webcam photos are funny, the way they blur and the persons face is all blue from the monitor and you can see their room in the background. LIstening to guitar and singing music right now, it reminds me of mildew in a good kind of way. THe record player makes a lot of popping sounds. The girl at Caribou gave me 3 beans on my mocha again either she wants me to be extra caffienated or is unaware that 1-2 beans is good enough. No, really. Lady at Antique Mall was glad to see me again, she thinks I stole her glasses but I tell her no, trust me I bought them with my flex spending plan at the time. She loves to talk with me, but they didn't have any dinette tables I liked and had to get to grandmas gave me the puppydog face as I left sauid NO worries, I'll be back when I have more time but only if you have that music on you did last timne! It was the underscore for A christmas Story, Canon something something I think , she told me the name but I didn't write it down. She always asks if I've found a "lucky lady" yet what's that supposed to mean? Like one that wins stuff all the time??I tell her yes, my father's dog, but you don't let dogs in here, she'd knock everything over with her tail anyhowsWHimsical crazy old art ladsy are funny, they scare me sometimes don't make too myuch eye contact with them or they start freaking you out. recently learnedI like peach scented stuff, so long as it's subtle it's weird that sort of surprises me= I don't usually like stinks. This orange is a bit much,we'll see if it grows on me I see some streaks but arms hurt too much for touchup
Baking soda pop can I borrow a tissue paper mache penguin bat man on the running scared with Billy crystal and the other guy Whatever ha]ppend to Paul ROdrigez, he was in Quicksilver. And Yukov Smirnoff, I LOAF THEESE COANTREE! HHEP HEEEP HEEP Imogen Heap The canoe of love, funny story glad it all happened actuallywas tooeasy want to send a thankyou cardMust fix the clock, I broke some spokes off and that's a bummer. NY, NY been on the brain , green eyelids hope the hair dye didnt' sizzle, why can't I run into such spectacularicity at the hot dog rollers while buying a donut. very awesome humanperson behind the green eyelids.I minds me of Tom Hanks, Bacheolor Party was good movie hanky was mom and dad's parakeet and then there was Bob who would wrap his wing around your fingers and his pupils would dialate
AOL Instant Messenger bag brown bag lunchtime whatever the Morris Day and the TIme car keys, string and a double A-battery fixin to make a pan off eggs with shitake fungus and carmelized onionssssssssWOO HOO says the music man, screensaver of pink shoes is cool kicking balloons while playing onstage is a test of one's concentration 5 people can fit in my place last nightas long as they leave their bags and any detachable limbs in the hall Kids in the Hall mthanks for the new profile pic but can I pay you tuesday for a Hamburger next Wednesday Correct as usual King Friady Lady aberlin aberdeen absolut abcess abdominal candy coated thermostat wristband fisher price barn caked with oild childrens hands smudges primer on the perimeter of the basement wall loves having autn Joan here want a new printer got paint on mine and its a piece of shit out house new house newcastle whitecaslte Jerry Casale Mark Mothersbaugh potatohead toilet seat collar glasses with eyebrows french fry in a donut hole great video my shoes is ramblin, got the freight tr
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Time's up! Ah. Time to get on with my day.
Thursday, November 3, 2005
And the dumbarse award of the week goes to.. me.
I've been walking past an article of clothing on the floor of the hallway of my apartment building the past few days. I figured somebody must have dropped it on the way to or from the laundry room.
It sort of became a friend to me, in passing I would say "Hello randomly placed piece of clothing, I hope your owner sees you there and claims you soon." I felt like I should at least pick it up and fold it, or set it aside and out of harm's way. But instead I just left it there. Didn't want to pick it up because ew, what if it was dirty, ya know? And I'm not about to soil my good set of kitchen tongs to pick up somebody's dirty clothes either, so there it sat on the floor for a good 3-4 days.
Last night on the way to the Laundromat, I passed by this article of clothing yet again and gave it the usual friendly greeting. "Hello piece of clothing on the floor. I know somebody out there misses you, just give it time and you'll be home again." I contemplated doing my good deed for the day and throwing it in with my stuff, but my "ew gross" feelings kicked in and I left it there, wondering if anyone was ever going to claim it. Poor thing.
So I arrived at the Laundromat, dumped my clothes in the warshing mat-cheens, and sat and read the CityPages, listening to an episode of Seinfeld on the telly. There's a billiard table in this particular Laundromat that I was sizing up thinking hey, that's pretty awesome, next time I'll have to bring some beer and friends. I'll buy the games, they fold my clothes.
About an hour later, I was emptying the dryers. The dryers there are so big that I'm mighty tempted to climb in one and have somebody throw in a few quarters just to see what the ride is like. Sorry, I digress. So I was standing before the dryers folding my bodily furnishings and noticed that my favorite black tee-shirt that I'd been looking for the past few days was missing. It's sort of a detrimental staple of my wardrobe, as it hugs my arms and trunk just right, is rather soft, and it's not too taut around the boobie area. I love it so.
And then it hit me. On went the often burnt out imaginary light bulb over my head: Aaaaah CRIPES! That's my favorite black shirt that everyone including myself has been stepping over in the apartment hallway.
Well Gall-dammit.
So home I went, lugged alls of my clean laundry back in and up the stairs, all the while wishing I had a mule to do this sort of hauling for me. And sure enough, there it was on the floor in the hall where it had been for the last 4 days: my black shirt. I have been wanting to wear it quite badly lately and couldn't find it. And I had just fed a million quarters to the Laundromat to wash what I thought was all of my dirty clothes. But nope. Not the favorite black tee-shirt, and hell if I'm gonna throw away a $2.25 laundry load on just one tee-shirt. The thrill of having it back and wearing it again just isn't worth it. Even if it's my favorite one ever like this one. So now I have to wait at least another 5 days when things pile up before I can have it smelling all pretty and wear it once again.
Gee wiz, I really hate when shit like this happens.
It sort of became a friend to me, in passing I would say "Hello randomly placed piece of clothing, I hope your owner sees you there and claims you soon." I felt like I should at least pick it up and fold it, or set it aside and out of harm's way. But instead I just left it there. Didn't want to pick it up because ew, what if it was dirty, ya know? And I'm not about to soil my good set of kitchen tongs to pick up somebody's dirty clothes either, so there it sat on the floor for a good 3-4 days.
Last night on the way to the Laundromat, I passed by this article of clothing yet again and gave it the usual friendly greeting. "Hello piece of clothing on the floor. I know somebody out there misses you, just give it time and you'll be home again." I contemplated doing my good deed for the day and throwing it in with my stuff, but my "ew gross" feelings kicked in and I left it there, wondering if anyone was ever going to claim it. Poor thing.
So I arrived at the Laundromat, dumped my clothes in the warshing mat-cheens, and sat and read the CityPages, listening to an episode of Seinfeld on the telly. There's a billiard table in this particular Laundromat that I was sizing up thinking hey, that's pretty awesome, next time I'll have to bring some beer and friends. I'll buy the games, they fold my clothes.
About an hour later, I was emptying the dryers. The dryers there are so big that I'm mighty tempted to climb in one and have somebody throw in a few quarters just to see what the ride is like. Sorry, I digress. So I was standing before the dryers folding my bodily furnishings and noticed that my favorite black tee-shirt that I'd been looking for the past few days was missing. It's sort of a detrimental staple of my wardrobe, as it hugs my arms and trunk just right, is rather soft, and it's not too taut around the boobie area. I love it so.
And then it hit me. On went the often burnt out imaginary light bulb over my head: Aaaaah CRIPES! That's my favorite black shirt that everyone including myself has been stepping over in the apartment hallway.
Well Gall-dammit.
So home I went, lugged alls of my clean laundry back in and up the stairs, all the while wishing I had a mule to do this sort of hauling for me. And sure enough, there it was on the floor in the hall where it had been for the last 4 days: my black shirt. I have been wanting to wear it quite badly lately and couldn't find it. And I had just fed a million quarters to the Laundromat to wash what I thought was all of my dirty clothes. But nope. Not the favorite black tee-shirt, and hell if I'm gonna throw away a $2.25 laundry load on just one tee-shirt. The thrill of having it back and wearing it again just isn't worth it. Even if it's my favorite one ever like this one. So now I have to wait at least another 5 days when things pile up before I can have it smelling all pretty and wear it once again.
Gee wiz, I really hate when shit like this happens.
Wednesday, November 2, 2005
Onion Boy Rides Again
I'm very paranoid about having B.O., exspeshilly living in the area I do which is flourishing with punk rockers that harbor a perma-cloud of onion-esque aroma around their persons 24/7. Walk into the SA on Lyndale at any given moment and you'll smell what I'm getting at. Not so bad now as it's colder out and most wear jackets these days which contain their funk quite effectively. But your nose still gets slapped by it every so often no matter how many layers a person has on.
I ritualistically apply some pit-stick at least twice a day and take great pride in how lovely my armpits usually smell (feel free to ask me to lift an arm to take a huff if we're ever hanging out and see for yourself, they're really quite refreshing). I was a little out of it this morning and am sitting here at work now, just realizing that I had neglected to apply my usual AM coating of underarm protection to get me through the first half of the day. I'm not catching any unpleasant man musk aromas creeping from my pits, but I know I didn't take the usual protective measures this morning and that makes me feel a lil' at risk. And now here I sit developing chronic paranoia of the hygiene kind, my arms firmly planted against my trunk in fear of somebody walking past me and potentially catching a hint of Micycle Musk, thinking "Geez, does this dude ever take a bath?"
I know - sitting with my arms down is only going to make it worse, but at the same time I don't want to lift them, 'cause you, know, what if there actually is a funk of some sort happening? "What you don't know can't hurt you," or so they say.
So I have a few options here:
1) Go home during lunch, run to my precious antiperspirant stash, and relieve the paranoia (this would also include a shirt change as an added bonus).
2) Walk up to the drug store and spend $4 on some. I already have, like, 4 sticks at home because this has happened before and I've ended up buying it in lieu of wasting my lunch break going home. So I don't really need anymore, really. Not to mention I have this firm belief that deodorant goes bad and loses its potency over time. Also, there's better things to be spending $4 on, like bad overpriced coffee.
3) Just put on my happy hat and do nothing but suck it up for the next 6 hours. Ugh, the very notion of that just kills me.
What to do, what to do. I’m looking at my watch and my left heel is nervously bouncing up and down on the floor.
Is it getting hot in here?
I ritualistically apply some pit-stick at least twice a day and take great pride in how lovely my armpits usually smell (feel free to ask me to lift an arm to take a huff if we're ever hanging out and see for yourself, they're really quite refreshing). I was a little out of it this morning and am sitting here at work now, just realizing that I had neglected to apply my usual AM coating of underarm protection to get me through the first half of the day. I'm not catching any unpleasant man musk aromas creeping from my pits, but I know I didn't take the usual protective measures this morning and that makes me feel a lil' at risk. And now here I sit developing chronic paranoia of the hygiene kind, my arms firmly planted against my trunk in fear of somebody walking past me and potentially catching a hint of Micycle Musk, thinking "Geez, does this dude ever take a bath?"
I know - sitting with my arms down is only going to make it worse, but at the same time I don't want to lift them, 'cause you, know, what if there actually is a funk of some sort happening? "What you don't know can't hurt you," or so they say.
So I have a few options here:
1) Go home during lunch, run to my precious antiperspirant stash, and relieve the paranoia (this would also include a shirt change as an added bonus).
2) Walk up to the drug store and spend $4 on some. I already have, like, 4 sticks at home because this has happened before and I've ended up buying it in lieu of wasting my lunch break going home. So I don't really need anymore, really. Not to mention I have this firm belief that deodorant goes bad and loses its potency over time. Also, there's better things to be spending $4 on, like bad overpriced coffee.
3) Just put on my happy hat and do nothing but suck it up for the next 6 hours. Ugh, the very notion of that just kills me.
What to do, what to do. I’m looking at my watch and my left heel is nervously bouncing up and down on the floor.
Is it getting hot in here?
Tuesday, November 1, 2005
A well hung banana is a happy banana
Get your mind out of the gutter, you perv. Okay, now on with today's entry:I've always been an avid user of banana hangers. Bananas are an extremely precious, delicate food and they need to be treated as such. Bananas hanging in the air getting proper circulation = recipe for perfectly ripened bananas.
There's a mysteriously placed plastic hook on my wall in the kitchen above the oven. I couldn't figure out what to put on the hook but it was there, and being the resourceful person I am I felt obligated to make use of it. I invested in some bananas yesterday and placed them on the hook. This is ideal in several ways: I will save on counter space by not using my countertop banana hanger. I also discovered that bananas look pretty awesome hanging on a wall. And to their benefit, there is a very subtle aura of heat always lingering above the stovetop which may serve as a tropical climate emulator and make the bananas feel more at home.
One thing that perplexes me though about banana hangers is what to do when only one banana remains. If you've never used a banana hanger, let me tell you this: you can not hang a single banana on a hook. It's sort of sad, you know. The last banana of the bunch sort of gets the shit end of the stick with this deal. It spends all of its life adjoined to the other bananas and in many cases is just left for dead once it is the only banana to remain. Why? 'Cause you can't hang it. It just sits on the countertop and as each second passes, it ripens faster in the non-ventilated area (i.e. the side resting on the countertop). And in most cases it's already well towards the overly-ripened stage, as it's been around longer than all of the other bananas. Sure, it could go towards a batch of banana bread, but my recipe calls for 3-4 overly ripened bananas, not just one that's extra dark and mushy on one side.
Perhaps it is time for me to invent the better banana hanger. I will take the standard banana hanger and affix a strong clamp upon it with which to suspend the final banana to keep a fresh supply of air around all sides of it at all times.
Attn: Baker's Catalogue. I love your publication and page through it like a dirty old man does to Penthouse. If I were to crank out, say, 200-300 of these new and improved Better Banana Hangers, would you be willing to consign a couple hundred of them? I'd be willing to barter for some good quality King Arthur flour.. Let's make a deal.
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