Friday, January 15, 2010

Who says?

I didn't think it could happen, but it has. It might be a while.  Please know I'll be following you as I can. 

God damn it all to hell anyway.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Miscellaneously Uninspired

Okay, so just a quickie... it's been a dreadful week.

Can anybody:
  • define the word "chuff" or "chuffed"?
  • use it in a sentence.
  • explain why the above photo is the first to appear on a Google image search of the word?

And, entirely unrelated, enjoy this bit of Chicken Techno:

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


So, it's Thanksgiving again.  A time for us Americans to gather in our dsyfunctional family units to celebrate (with food!) the ousting of those pesky natives and the advent of our strip malls, Starbucks, and Wal-Marts.  I asked my sons what they were thankful for today.  My five-year-old is thankful for his cats (I think he might be the gay one!  Yes!), and his three-year-old brother is thankful for his bus driver, Mrs. Harrington.   In the spirit of the day, and because I truly am an appreciative soul, I offer my list of what I am thankful for:

1. My family, my home, the food on my table, the scotch in my glass, etc...
2. My therapist (Are you beginning to see a stereotype here?  I know!  I'm disappointed, too.)
3. My job, which is my freedom.
4. Bev, who has gone missing... (Actually, her husband just left for a one-year job in Afghanistan so pop in and drop her a line if you can...)
5. One-month-old Halloween candy which my children have lost interest in.  Score!
6. Wal-Mart
7. Starbucks
8. My new shoes, which my mother-in-law calls my prostitute shoes, a confirmation of their wonderfulness.
9. Bev's new shoes -- I'm hoping she'll blog about them.  I hate her freakishly small feet.  But this is about being thankful...
10. Windex
11. The natives, or what's left of them... or the noble and stoic oil paintings of them that hang in the restaurants.  I don't think I've ever met one, come to think of it.  But a friend of mine is 1/4 Cherokee... Does that count?  I'm distracted again.
12. Distractions
13. Moby Dick
14. Poetry
15. Barry Lyndon (the film) and Schubert's piano trio (op. 100)
16. Brad Pitt's butt
17. Porn
18. Mai Tais and Kung Pao chicken
19. Bacon
20. That I don't have to wear hats or shoes with buckles on them... unless I want to... and I can... because I'm an American... because the Pilgrims came and ousted....  Oh look!  Shoes!

Monday, November 16, 2009

Pulling a Scarlet

I know Halloween has passed and I know it's over six minutes long.  But I adore this and I want to share it with you.  And I need a distraction until I can think of something to write. I have decided to affectionately call this "pulling a Scarlet."  Sure, it won't warrant 35 comments, but I have hardly done the time or the work she has to deserve such a following.  But I can hope.  And one day, with God as my witness....


Monday, November 9, 2009

Waxing Prosaic

Having not much else to say at the moment, and feeling good about myself for being back to weekly posting, and desiring to continue in this vein for the foreseeable future, I offer you an admittedly lacklustre post on my experiences in my "professional training" today on a commonly-used internet product.

Depending on when you're reading this and on the type of computer you're using, I can assure you there is no need, as of yet, to intentionally spill coffee (or vodka) on your keyboard or to unceremoniously yank the plug from the socket in an attempt to escape the clutches -- nay, the vice-like grip -- of the mundane (to which I was cruelly subjected in toxic quantities for a seven-hour period....  where are my tissues?!  Where is that damn scotch?!.... ).

First, such "training" is normally held at swanky, albeit suburban, hotels with marble-tiled bathrooms and foamy carpet whose patterns wander off, to borrow from Charlotte Gilman Perkins,  in "a kind of 'debased Romanesque' with delirium tremens."  So, when I signed up, I had visions of these ammenities, along with buffets of fresh danish and hot coffee and fruit salad, and they were of some comfort to me.  Late last night, when I actually looked at the registration slip, I discovered that I would actually be sitting in a high school, albeit suburban, the very institution I had hoped to escape. 

The next morning, putting all thoughts of what had been irrevocably lost behind me, I climbed in the 'Ho and tried to relish the simple pleasures... coffee... iPod....the masculine hum of the engine... the pleasant vibrations of the road beneath me... no children screaming in the background...And then I had to pee.  Not one of those, "Oh, I'm going to have to pee soon" pees, but rather an "I have to pee right now" pee.  RIGHT NOW.  So, off the exit (once I got to it... traffic jam...).  No McDonald's, no Dunkin Donuts, not even a run-down Mobile station.  And now I'm running late, which makes me have to pee even more urgently.  Thankfully, just as I was about to ransack the car for a Goldfish-encrusted diaper, I spotted a dry cleaners.  The woman was nice.  She told me she has to go like that all the time.  I don't want to talk about the bathroom.

Upon arrival (after signing in at the front office, fruitlessly wandering the postered halls (Damn Yankees! November 12 throught the 14th) in search of the overheated, starkly bright computer lab that offered no sensual carpeting or fruit salad), I was overtaken by a poisonous cloud of gag-inducing musky perfume.  Now, I use perfume daily -- just a dab, you know, because I fear the lingering odors of smoke and cats and small children -- but mine is quite nice... floral... or fresh... or something bright and light, like the breeze off a beach hemmed in by rose bushes guarded by watchful Cupids torn directly off children's valentines.... you know, like that.  This smelled more like cat ass, or perhaps the odor to be found under the left breast of the Whore of Babylon following an apocalyptic battle.  Rancid.  And it has given me a cough, which has made smoking a bit of a chore tonight. Will the disappointment never end?  I ask you.

There's not much more to tell.  I've grown tired, as you surely have as well.  Goodnight, then.


Tuesday, November 3, 2009

The Injured Party

What happens when Bev and Ana throw a party?

Well, on one hand, not much.  There are no-shows. The hall is entirely too large.  One band comes down with the swine flu.

On the other?  Ana learns that, given a can of black spray paint, a dozen pumpkins, and some glitter, Bev can make the dreariest of places seem glamourous.  Bev learns that, given one month to plan and gallons of scotch, Ana can make a go of anything.  Things we all learned: cold meatballs taste horrible; old, haunted, Polish literary societies could use some funding for electrical updating; disco balls require more than one spotlight; people like prizes; good music, booze, and darkness make for a good party; we have some really great friends.

Will we do it again?  Probably not.  I can't speak for Bev, but I have decided that it's better by far to attend a party and criticize it than throw one.  But if you need a good band or some leftover decorations, let us know...

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

In Defense of Lucifer

I love the devil.  Not in the bow-down-to-the-dark-lord kind of way.  I'm averse to sacrifices and midnight meetings in the forest -- who has time for that?  No, I love him aesthetically and philosophically.  He can be found on my kitchen wall, on my keychain, on my vehicle (as a she), and if I ever decided to finally get that tattoo that Bev is always on about, you would find him just above my left hipbone.  Yes, he's scary-sexy, but it's more the idea of him that compels me to hang him about.

I'm not much a fan of the sodomizing, Bosch-inspired devil or the three-mawed, frozen-in-hell devil of Dante.  I like the pitchfork devil, the bifurcated-tailed devil, but most of all, the winged devil.  Lucifer.  The fallen angel.  I like him because he had the balls to balk at the idea of being given life simply to worship someone else.  God called it pride when Lucifer challenged him and cast him out.  Maybe there was something in him God hadn't counted on. Ultimately, Lucifer was creative.  Maybe that's what pissed God off.  Like Dr. Frankenstein... there's nothing more irritating than when your own creation gets a mind of its own. 

Next week I'll have a little to say about Cain and Ham and other biblical shaftings.  But it's almost Halloween.  So I'm giving the Devil his due.