Monday, October 31, 2005

The Last Halloween

I was eleven years old, and it was a perfect night for trick or treating: clear sky, vivid moon, temperature hovering around sixty. My friend Geraldine, a heavy-set, beautiful red-haired girl from Ireland, a year and some months older than myself, was not only my Halloween companion, she was my costume designer -- it was her direction, I believe, that was the means to an end, the cause for what was to happen to me later on that initially magical night.

Geraldine meant well, I suppose. Being that she was almost thirteen, about six inches taller, and Irish, I admired her, trusted her worldly ways, valued her opinion. If she’d suggested that I cover myself in brown Magic Marker and go as a giant cow patty, I probably would have. I was desperate for suggestions, as my parents were otherwise occupied that year, too busy with everyday frustrations, cuckolding, holding on to their sanity by any means possible. -- you know, typical grown-up stuff -- and they hadn’t a moment to help me with something so trivial as a Halloween costume. And there it was, six o’clock p.m. on October 31st, and me with no costume. I was hastily putting together a suitable disguise when the doorbell rang.

Geraldine was appalled. She whipped the white sheet with crude cut-out eyes off my head, took the scissors from my hand before I could finish the jagged mouth, and said, “that’s retarded.” Perhaps, but at least it was a costume; Geraldine, voluptuous Geraldine with her freckles and too-short skirt, sunset-pink lips and blue-shadowed eyes, was dressed exactly as she always had, albeit a heavier application of lipstick, a tad more eyeliner, a trashier than normal lower-cut top. “Where’s your costume?” I said to her cleavage. She waved her hand across her navy blue leather skirt and said, “I’m wearing it.”


“I’m a hooker.”

Well then.

Geraldine immediately began her hunt, plowing though my closets, investigating my mother’s makeup box. It was getting late, and all I really wanted to do was put on my old sheet and hit the streets running. But no, Geraldine had other plans. “Here,” she said while holding out my mother's peasant dress, circa 1970, Cover Girl cosmetics, and a sombrero. Sombrero? Where the heck did you find a sombrero? She ignored me. “Put this stuff on while I run back to my house -- and take off your glasses!” I dutifully did as I was told. She returned shortly wielding a long black wig, the synthetic fibers fuzzy with age. It smelled like basement. She plopped it on top of my head, tucked my blonde hair up under the mesh cap, parted the back without aid of a comb, and braided the two halves into thick ropes. She then slipped a fabric rose above my right ear, applied my mother’s Scarlet Secrets lipstick with a heavy hand, poked my eyes with the mascara wand more times than I’d like to remember as she transformed my lashes into spidery appendages, set the sombrero at a jaunty left angle, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Hmmm. Something’s missing...Something...” Something called boobs, apparently. She shoved handfuls of Kleenex into my pitiful training bra until my figure took on the form of an unfortunate Playboy Bunny dwarf.

I scrutinized my metamorphosis, awestruck by the vision staring back at me from my Barbie-stickered mirror; I truly was a butterfly. I was beautiful, horribly beautiful, a stunning otherself with gigantic breasts and pouty red mouth, a Mexican whore just coming off a three day bender. “All right,” Geraldine said. “We're ready!” I wasn’t so sure.

The first half of the night was uneventful. We visited the usual neighbors, received the usual candies (as well as the always disappointing apple), and generally had the usual good time. Until, that is, Geraldine mentioned the fact that since our parents were busy either supervising our younger siblings or skulking about in some seedy motel parking lot, we were basically free to stay out as late as we wanted. This would be the year we would visit The Forbidden Zone, a tract adjacent to our own, but one that was off limits in our younger, ten-year-old days. Breathless with freedom, we giddily ran toward The Forbidden Zone, laughing, swinging our sacks of loot at one another. It was a fine time. The people of The Forbidden Zone gave out better candy, bigger candy -- no apples, no miniatures or skimpy sticks of powdered sugar -- they gave out full-size Snickers and artfully designed party bags chock full of candy corn and wax lips, Charleston Chews and Junior Mints. We hit the motherlode, baby.

Then we came to a house toward the end of Nivens Road, a dark, foreboding house that whispered go away, leave nooooow with its stark dead trees and patchy lawn. We wouldn't have bothered to knock had we not noticed the glow of television streaming though the front window. Someone was home, and that meant the real possibility of more candy.

After what seemed ages, the door opened, and a pleasant-looking middle aged woman greeted us, bowl of treats in the crook of her arm. Slowly, though, the pleasant expression on her face gave way to one of distaste, her brows turned down, mouth set into a grim line. Uh oh.

“Aren’t you too old to be trick or treating?” She said this to me. Me!

I said, “Um…I‘m eleven?”

“Liar! You should be ashamed of yourself! Go home! Just get out of here and GO HOME!” Then she slammed the door on my crushed spirit, tears blurring my vision even worse than it already was without my glasses. Geraldine called her a bitch and kicked the door before we ran away, but it didn’t make me feel better. I wept all the way home, not only because of that woman‘s heinously inappropriate reprimand, but because I realized that the Halloween I always knew and loved was lost to me forever.

My oldest child just turned fifteen, and she’d debated whether or not to go trick or treating this year. “I’m not too old, am I, Mom?”

I not only encouraged her to trick or treat this year, I demanded it.

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Attention Parents: Avoid Party City Like the Plague

Mommy, Mommy! I wanna be an asshole for Halloween! Please, please, please may I be an asshole?

Thursday, October 27, 2005

The Ass-Flaps of Evil

Fine, how about this, then:

Does that offend you?

(Click to enlarge flappage.)

The Sweet Face of Evil

Please read the following lyrics -- I sincerely hope you are able to so without (A) upchucking on your keyboard, or (B) poking out your own eyeballs with a searing-hot Star of David, or (C) both:

He fought so strong for our race. We're finally back in our place. It took his life, my dear son, and now it's over the war is won. Our Race was saved because the lives that were sacrificed: those men that died...

Sacrifice , they gave their lives. All those men who have died. Sacrifice, they gave their lives, all those men who have died.

Warrior poet, I sing his songs. Ian Stuart, with his voice so strong. Remember his words, as we sing along.

Rudolph Hess, man of Peace. He wouldn't give up and he wouldn't cease, to give his loyalty to our Cause. Remember him and give a pause.

Robert Matthews knew the Truth. He knew what he had to do. He set an example with Courage so bold. We'll never let that fire grow cold.

Dr Pierce, a man so wise, helped so many of us open our eyes, and see the future for what it could be: a future for our Race’s eternity.

Sacrifice by Prussian Blue, lyrics by Lamb Gaede

Okay, still with me? Eyes still intact? Well then, allow me this:

Do you find this offensive?

How about this?

Guess which one offends me the most. That’s right, the second image. The one that depicts two angelic-looking little girls dressed in traditional Austrian garb. That picture, ladies and gents, symbolizes the new face of evil. Those two beautiful faces represent bad parenting in the utmost form, the highest level. To the nth degree. And their “music,” cloaked in beguiling good looks and youthful innocence, is the swastika-covered vehicle that delivers their message of hate.

Lynx and Lamb Gaede, thirteen-year-old California twins, are the darlings of white supremacists across the globe, dutiful puppets dangling on neo-Nazi razor wire who spew filth and depravity even as they sparkle like clean little snowflakes. Together, under management of their mother, April Gaede as well as the diseased minds of those who market and support their cause, Prussian Blue are making some poisonous waves. (Caution: Clicking on preceding link may induce acid-like pain in soul, a.k.a., deep despair.)

Here is a sample of what to expect:

Please tell me the significance of the name Prussian Blue.

Part of our heritage is Prussian German. Also our eyes are blue, and Prussian Blue is just a really pretty color. There is also the discussion of the lack of "Prussian Blue" coloring (Zyklon B residue) in the so-called gas chambers in the concentration camps. We think it might make people question some of the inaccuracies of the "Holocaust" myth.

The forum at Prussian Blue’s website has been taken down, ostensibly due to right-thinking rage, according to an affiliate blog (linked on the site), so as far as I‘m concerned, it's a useless visit, but if you feel the need to poke around the bowels of Hell, I present to you Satan’s Little Helpers.

Monday, October 24, 2005

Luigi the Irritable Poop-Throwing Monkey Claims His Next Victims

Hi. I’m Luigi the Irritable Poop-Throwing Monkey, Ms. Lori’s guest blogger for the day. Ms. Lori wants to appear important by having guest bloggers, like all the “bigtime” bloggers do, so she asked me to contribute a little something. I apologize in advance for the scatological nature of the following post, but I am, after all, a monkey.

The Victims and Their Crimes (Because I Like Contradiction):

Fergie of Black Eyed Peas -- She and her lady humps sicken me. Shut up, shut up, shutupshutupshutupshutthefuckup you revolting humanoid from Planet Plasticine. Please do Earth a favor and go back home -- and take your creepy man-things with you.

She’s a four-turder.

Anne Rice -- I respect this woman; “Interview With the Vampire” is sheer brilliance, though I admit it's the only Rice novel I do find brilliant…Okay, the only one I‘ve managed to slog through (which should impress the hell out of you regardless, considering I can‘t read). Also, her strength and courage while living through virtual hell on earth is inspiring. I mean, I have a nervous breakdown if the zookeeper is ten minutes late with my lunch -- I can’t imagine the pain she’s endured. And I’m happy that she’s found peace through her faith, but,shutup,shutupshutupshutuppleaseMs.Riceshutup!

One and a half turds for milady.

Madonna -- Check your “But I really am Jewish!” proclamations, your Carl Saganesque speech pattern, your socially retarded friend Britney (who I am ashamed to admit is related to me by marriage), your five dollar bottle of “special” water, your pedestrian literary efforts and Gestapo-like mothering into rehab and release yourself from the demons of self-worship. Get thee back to your gritty, fun-genius-maverick roots, “Esther,” before you overdose on your own mediocrity. Definitely a five-turder.

Six if she continues wearing her current hairdo.

The entire Bush administration -- There aren’t enough bananas in the world that would allow me to produce adequate turdage.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

A Few Things That Kept Me Awake Last Night…

1) The giddy feeling of knowing that someone else gets Stephen King’s “Hearts in Atlantis” as much as I do. I mean, really gets “Hearts in Atlantis.” I’ve been singing this novel’s praises ever since I first read it in 1999, urging, cajoling, threatening others to read this book, dammit!

As I stated in this meme, it’s one of my all-time favorite books, but it’s been a solitary passion - despite my recommendations, my cajoling and brute threats, I’ve not succeeded in recruiting other admirers to my lonely, lonely Hearts In Atlantis Club Band.

Ah, but there are other Club members, even if they don’t realize it-- well, at least one, anyway. The purveyor of good sense, the Doctor of All That is Groovy, Poppy Z. Brite, extols the many virtues of this significant, beautiful book, and does so with proper sound and fury:

“I suppose a certain kind of person will think I'm an idiot when I say I think it's one of the most important novels of the nineties and probably the single most important, or at least the truest, novel written about the seventies…”

So there, ignorant haters.

2) The fact that Post Golden Crisp and Honeycomb cereals have serious identity issues. As a consumer, I am dismayed by these cereals’ many incarnations (Sugar Smacks, Sugar Crisp, Super Golden Crisp), as well as the exasperating indecision on the part of Post’s ad execs regarding mascots -- Bear, Frog (my personal favorite, because that‘s what I grew up with -- diggum!), back to Bear, and inexplicably, the present mascot representing Hioneycomb, The Unidentifiable Thing That Should be Skinned, Rolled in Flour and Fried to a Succulent Golden Brown, which replaced the loveable Hideout Club Kids.

See, Lar does the shopping every Saturday, and I am in charge of list making. When I crave nostalgia in the form of crispy sweetened unwholesome grains, it would help ever so much if I knew what the hell to write down on that list so as not to confound my easily confounded husband. I’ve a mind like a sieve (what exactly is a sieve, anyway?), and never fail to forget the dastardly cereals’ current names and mascots. If I write “Frog cereal,” Lar will invariably return with some marshmallowy concoction that tastes like solidified lip gloss; if I write “club kid cereal” I get a psychedelic box of Kaboom, featuring the iconic club kid of all time, The Clown -- and if I write “Sugar Smacks,” well, let’s just say that I might as well have not bothered at all, because Lar will show up empty-handed. “There’s no such thing as “Sugar Smacks” he will say, and then I am forced to slap the confounded expression off his face.

So, to the good albeit idiotic people of Post Cereals, I ask this: Bring back the Frog, even if a frog has no business promoting cereal, call a spade a spade and title the cereal as was intended -- Sugar Smacks. Despite your deceptive promotional efforts, your cereal is indeed sugary, and it does inspire much lip-smacking. I also ask you to consider tossing the grossly inarticulate Honeycomb Craver and reinstating the Kids. Not only would this eliminate consumer confusion in my demographic, thus increasing sales, I‘m confident that the rate of domestic violence would go down considerably. Thank you.

3) Halle Barry’s feet.

Now I don't feel so bad about the vagina on my back.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

"What Do You Do all Day?" by Amy Scheibe

Jennifer Bradley, at first, did not appeal to me. In fact, after reading the first couple of pages, I’d decided, prematurely, mind you, that she was not to my taste; she, on first meeting, appeared to be one of those ladies who lunch, one of those irritating, tight-lipped, speaks through their teeth New York types who have nothing better to do than fuss with their million dollah (sic) brownstone and sigh about how hard it is to find good help. Let me clarify that statement by saying Scheibe doesn’t play her character like that, oh, not at all. ‘Tis my own envy/prejudice/sick-of-wearing-outlet-quality apparel that formed my initial opinion. I hate broads that can afford nannies.

And she’s mean. Thinks bad, mean thoughts about other folks’ homely, lisping children.

What an unlikable bitch, I thought. But I kept reading despite my animosity. I couldn’t help it. The narrative is much too compelling, and by the second chapter, I realized that Ms. Jennifer is not what she first appeared to be. Yes, the woman is well-to-do. Yes, she is mean, but it’s a fitting, funny, sarcastic, honest kind of mean, not a back-biting, snooty, Wal-Mart patron-hater kind of mean. She thinks (and for the most part, behaves) the way most intelligent, funny, feeling-trapped, confused young mothers would. When I came upon this simple six-word declaration on page eight: "And so, my life is hell.” I realized the error of my thoughts. Hence my immediate change of heart regarding Jennifer Bradley.

This is not a book about ranting stay-at-home mommies, per se, but a story with many layers and twists that happen to involve ranting stay-at-home mommies (and gay daddies). It is a story filled with much warmth, truth and a touch of sadness, and it is, quite simply, insanely humorous. I laughed out loud many times during my read, found myself grinning like an idiot at Jennifer’s witty repartee, her honesty and wicked internal dialogue. Also, I very much enjoyed many of the other characters in Jennifer’s life, especially their imperfections, how Scheibe doesn’t shy away from portraying Jennifer’s friends and family as flawed, sometimes annoying human beings. They are flawed, occasionally annoying, occasionally clueless, as is Jennifer, but that’s what makes them seem all that more believable. Human beings are damn annoying, unfortunately. I did, however, come to dislike two of the characters -- in fact, I felt angry by the selfish (in my opinion) and seemingly nonsensical actions on their part that are revealed toward the end of the story. Jennifer doesn’t get mad enough (again, my opinion). I want her to scream at these people, show them, as well as the reader, that she finds the whole scenario ludicrous, infuriating. I want her to be as pissed I feel. Alas, she uncharacteristically tales it all in, appears to accept what has been tossed in her lap with a shrug. She deals with it, and she does so without drama or self pity; her acceptance of this revelation, although unsatisfying on first impression, may be the catalyst for how she deals with what lies ahead.

Now that I think about it, perhaps that is the whole point of this story…To accept things we cannot change, to appreciate what we have. To do away with contempt and envy and self-doubt. To embrace loved ones, flaws and all. To not sabotage our own happiness by stewing in wrongs done to us. To not judge.

Yes, on third thought, I do believe that may be the whole point.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Nemo Must Die

I bought my boy a goldfish last night because he pooped in the potty. This is the fifth "prize" he has received for pooping in the potty. My boy doesn't like to poop in the potty, but he will if there is a prize involved. I figure, hey, better to spend a buck or two than face another diaper full of nightmares. Problem is, it's only a one time thing, the pooping in the potty gig. The day after the poop prize has been given, my boy decides that it is no longer necessary to perform for the folks.

I don't mind, really, that my son has me trained like that. I'm not one to freak over small things such as delayed potty training. Boys are slow, I hear. Boys have a weird relationship with their poop, one that girls can't even begin to understand (nor do we want to). Besides, my son has an unhealthy obsession with sea creatures, and I aim to enable him 100%.

But, see, I do freak out over things like having to repeatedly tell my boy not to touch his Nemo, (stop putting Doritos in the bowl, Brandon), and then, not more than three minutes after the last scolding, hearing the heart-stopping sound of a goldfish bowl being knocked off my bookshelf and smashing to the hardwood floor in my living room. And I honestly do mind the way the fish water splashes all over my books, seeps into the cracks of the built-in entertainment center and oozes all over my DVDs and stereo equipment.

And I must admit that I hate the little blue stones mired in fish feces that litter my now warping hardwood floor, as well as the shattered fake coral, reduced to dust now, that powders my velveteen couch.

Oh, and let's not forget how sick I am today, what with my horrible, deep cough and broken back. I loathe how I must crawl on my hands and knees and wipe-Windex-wipe-Windex-wipe this goddamned mess, all the while shrieking in agony if my spine moves even a smidge to the left.

The goldfish lived through this, unfortunately. I have named him Fucker.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

In the Arms Of Being

And the alien said, I don’t belong here
Not in this place, this place made of ghosts
And barriers, secret societies that gather behind gates
All free to enter and exit as they please, easy as smoke
Slipping through cracks; not me, the only one made of blood
Too clumsy, too thick, too heavy with knowledge
I don’t belong here
Not this place, full to the curious blue sky with whims
And dangerous purpose, paper acquaintances, hollow in their
Breast, like their guarantees, origami-beautiful, devoid of substance
I don’t like this place, strange silent mouths floating
All around me, talking, talking, but not to me
Eyes, graphic, base, myopic, fiery, cold even as they look
Right through me; I am tired of shivering against the heat

And the alien said, I want to go home
Where truth is like water, fluid, effortless, essential
And empathy is wrapped around our souls like silk
I want to feel Mother’s embrace, deep within, deep within
As it should always be, like it was before the beginning, just
A spark, an idea, a good thing, a glowing universal thought
Mysterious yet familiar, a massive cloud of creation, she loves
The genius of it all, how there is no reason, the beauty of
Ignorance regarding time, chance; she lets it be
I want to go home, where we are alone but not lonely
Not us, we who never will need the validation of another’s words
Or direct stare, neither of which matter in the arms of being
No gates of exclusivity, or templates constructed of smoke
Burdened by their own nothingness, so desperate to become real

Friday, October 14, 2005

Question For the Electronics-Savvy...

Can anyone tell me why my television enjoys freaking me out each morning by greeting me with the hideous inanity of QVC instead of the channel I was watching prior to falling asleep the night before?

Here is some background regarding this bizarre situation:

1) I like to fall asleep with the TV on. It drowns out the voices in my head.

2) I generally fall asleep anywhere between 11:00 p.m. to 1:30 a.m., and I may wake during the night, oftentimes catching a minute or two of whatever show is on before falling back to sleep.

3) Apparently, the channel is switched only during a relatively long block of uninterrupted sleep, say three hours or so (weekdays, I rise at 5:30-6:00 a.m. 'cause, like, it's my job to suffer), but there have been times when I'll wake after only a short doze, and the channel is on QVC. It’s also occurred during the day, like the time I wasn’t feeling well and spent most of the day in bed. When I’d returned from one of the many trips to the bathroom, the channel had been switched from CNN to QVC. My boy was napping at the time.

And from what I can tell, there is no continuity regarding the switch, no set time, no rhyme or reason. It just switches whenever…or simply chooses not to.

4) This is not a constant occurrence -- it began sometime in mid-September, continued every night until last week (can’t recall which day it stopped, as I’m in a dreary fog most of the time), but started up again last night.

5) The volume is also hiked to a much louder volume, presumably to make sure I hear every single sickening squeal (oooh, alliteration!) of the QVC folks pimping their shit.

6) The remote is nowhere near my sleeping hand - I keep it on my nightstand so that I don't accidentally roll over and suffocate it.

7) I’ve checked menu and preferences, searched for possible “presto-chango” options, to no avail

8) I have Time-Warner digital cable, and the box in my bedroom is not the master box -- the master is in the living room.

9) The channel doesn’t spontaneously switch in the living room.

10) I am the sole bedroom remote-toucher because I am an isolated woman as of late with no nighttime company (Note to my male readers: I'll be taking applications shortly). Also, I keep it on my highboy during the day so my little phlump doesn’t get to it

So, anyone have a clue as to what‘s going on here?.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Texas Hold 'Em

Laura Bush defends her husband’s choice of Harriet Miers for Supreme Court Justice and attempts to deflect criticism from her own party by playing the ol‘ sex card

Why, how very “liberal” of you, Madam Bush. Nice try, but your shrill accusations, although based on some evidential whispers and grunts (your party is, unfortunately, rife with sexist, racist pigs, which is why many left-leaning and middle-of-the-road individuals oppose certain aspects of twisted extreme-right dogma, but that’s neither here nor there), doesn’t ring true. Defend hubby’s blatant cronyism all you want, but the fact remains that both Democrats and Republicans, those that aren’t invited to George’s weekly poker games, that it is, are a bit bemused, nay had it up to here with his King of the World tactics and eerily autocratic-like appointments.

Yes, Ms. Miers is an admirable woman in many respects….
* In 1985, Miers was selected as the first woman to become president of the Dallas Bar Association.
* In 1992, she became the first woman elected president of the State Bar of Texas. Miers served as the president of the State Bar of Texas from 1992 to 1993.
* She played an active role in the American Bar Association. She was one of two candidates for the number two position at the ABA, chair of the House of Delegates, before withdrawing her candidacy to move to Washington to serve in the White House. Miers also served as the chair of the ABA's Commission on Multijurisdictional Practice.
On numerous occasions, the National Law Journal named her one of the nation's 100 most powerful attorneys and as one of the nation's top 50 women lawyers.
Miers also has been involved in local and statewide politics in Texas.
* In 1989, she was elected to a two-year term as an at-large candidate on the Dallas City Council. She chose not to run for re-election when her term expired.
* Miers also served as general counsel for the transition team of Governor-elect George W. Bush in 1994.
* From 1995 until 2000, Miers served as chairwoman of the Texas Lottery Commission, a voluntary public service position she undertook while maintaining her legal practice and other responsibilities. When then-Governor Bush appointed Miers to a six-year term on the Texas Lottery Commission, it was mired in scandal, and she served as a driving force behind its cleanup.
Miers came to Washington, D.C., in 2001:
* She was appointed assistant to the president and staff secretary on Jan. 20, 2001.
* In 2003, Miers was promoted to assistant to the president and deputy chief of staff.
* Miers has served as counsel to the president since February 2005.

But does anyone notice some glaring omissions, experience, perhaps, related to actually sitting on a bench? Have I misread her biography? Oh, I must have. Surely, if a person is going to rest on the seat of our land’s highest court, a seat which will oversee, contemplate, dictate the laws of our land, she will have garnered a hefty bit of knowledge due to hands-on judicial practice during her career, right? Am I just billowing hot air here? Am I insane for thinking it would be mega giga sweet to have experienced, worthy persons take the paramount judgeship? Folks who know what it feels like to put on that robe, knock that gavel, make crucial decisions that will affect the lives of their countrymen?

Sure, nothing new here, same old, same old as regards to placing unqualified, mysterious beings in critical governmental positions, but….

I don’t know. Could be that I’m just a raving lunatic, but I’m really, really starting to feel more like an outsider in my own country, like I don’t belong here, like I have no friends, only acquaintances, shadow acquaintances at that, slips of two-dimensional promise-makers and dark phantoms who rule from behind their cloaks of secrecy with Biblical vengeance in mind. There are no checks and balances, no “others” to demand democracy, ensure basic civil liberties stay intact, slap down imperialist idiom with a resounding, effective “enough already!” And you know why that is? Because they’re not allowed into the weekly poker games, despite their royal flushes -- no, because of the potentially winning cards they carry in their hands; we may have elected those card-carrying senators and representatives, but there’s not much they can do when all four doors of the Oval Office are slammed shut on their faces, or worse, when some of the highest-ranking players resort to treason and corruption in order to instill fear in those whose rightful chips were stolen away from the get-go...

We all are being cheated, and we’re not even allowed at the round table by way of surrogates we elected. The frontrunners are decided not by skill or real love of the game, but by nepotism, intimidation and segregation. Ladies and gentlemen, I fold.

Monday, October 10, 2005

More Fascinating Tidbits About the Queen of the Universe

Because the Egyptian (by marriage) princess says it must be done, it shall be done.


I was living in a different house, one that was infected by toxic mold (maybe -- we were always sick, and there was black shit on the basement walls, so…) and an old man who smelled of B.O. Don’t get me wrong -- it was a lovely home, thanks to the magical powers of Lar and his handy hands, not to mention my divine taste and spectacular cleanliness, but the old man who’d died there previous to our moving in just wouldn’t leave, and I think he was a bit evil, truth be told. Hid in my daughters’ closet, reeked up their freshly laundered clothes, caused HUGE flies to appear on Christmas Day (I live in Western New York, so that should give you some idea how fucking wrong that was), among various other horrors. Oh, and I gave birth to my third child, December 12, 1995, which was a beautiful, glorious thing regardless of what the old man thought.

We sold the home the first day it was on the market in the spring of ‘99. Since then, it has deteriorated to the point of being unrecognizable, and has been inhabited by no less than three different families. Like I said, the old man was evil.


I was just getting acquainted with the internet, beginning my journey into obscure (to the point of being invisible and sad) writerly fame, and my boy was two years from being a twinkle in my eye.


I was happier.


My fingers blew up like sausages, as is the norm lately, and I moaned in pain for most the day. Also, I ate an enormous amount of meatloaf.


“Vincent” (Starry, Starry Night) by Don McLean
“Surrender” by Cheap Trick
“God Save the Queen” by Sex Pistols
“So What” by Anti-Nowhere League
The entire album “The Wall” by Pink Floyd

5 SNACKS ...

Lays potato chips and Bison onion dip
Bison cottage cheese
Bison (I consumed the sacred White Buffalo last year, which pissed off some Native Americans of a certain age, thus the perpetual rain cloud over my head).
Russell Stover chocolates
Sandwiches. God, how I love sandwiches...Ham and cheese, bologna, tuna, meatball, mayo (yes, you read that right -- Hellmann's mayo on white bread makes me crazy-nuts), sandwiches of every kind. Except liverwurst.


Buy a Lamborghini, hire Brad Pitt look-alike to chauffer me
Open safe house for abused women and children
Purchase clothes, toys and assorted luxuries for said women and children (Godiva chocolates, perfume, makeup, at least one piece of fine jewelry for the women, game systems and starter savings accounts (which will go toward college education) for the kids.


New York, New York
London, England


A vest, especially a crocheted one
A sweater with holiday appliqués
Granny panties


“Hearts in Atlantis” by Stephen King is but one out of hundreds of favorites. I love anything by Toni Morrison, T.M. Wright, Harlan Ellison, John Irving, Joyce Carol Oates….I could go on and on.
Most Haunted (Travel Channel, Friday night, 9 EST -- I laugh, I cringe. Good stuff)
No Reservations (My boo)
My current read, which I will be posting a review of soonishly, “What Do You Do All Day,” by Amy Scheibe


My heart, my reason for living: Veronica Starr, Sarah Rose, Ariel Grace, and Brandon Robert
Writing/publishing something that moves someone -- anyone, no matter if it’s only one person.
Feeling pretty (which, to be frank, ain’t happening all that often lately)

My whore, though she’s still slow despite her youth -- I have the worst luck with computers
Um. And that’s about it. I possess very little.

Tag, Peter, you’re it. Only if you want to, of course. But if you truly love me, you will.

And tag to you, Joshie, 'cause I see you're loving the meme lately (and I, in turn, love to read anything you write... with the exception of pooped-up sneakers, that is.) ;-)

Friday, October 07, 2005

Boo-ooo-ooooo ***cough*** oooooo-oooooooo!

Was doing some research for a story (which may or may not be completed -- depends on my hatred level), and came across this intriguing site: Rochester Paranormal of Western New York

Lots of spooky stuff for your Halloweeny pleasure, pictures of ghosties, creepy audio, and some interesting video, all captured during local investigations.

Love it.

I, along with a few members of my family, have experienced odd happenings in the past, things that I rarely, if ever, share with those I don't know extremely well. I'm talking weird, man. I won't go into detail for fear of seeming kookier than I already do, but suffice to say, I am a believer, y'all.

Anyway, I'm very much surprised that I'd not heard of RPoWNY before, especially considering they're located only a few miles from me. If'n I get my gumption up (and wangle a prescription of valium from Dr. Feelgood), I may just make an inquiry to these fine folks regarding my tagging along on one of their hunts.

How about you? Experienced anything supernatural? Seen the bogeyman? Have an intimate moment with Elvis? Breakfast with Satan? I'd love to hear about it!

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Oh, James, You're So Droll

Because Anne said it must be done, it shall be done...


What's your favorite word? - Quixotic
What's your least favorite word? - Maw, as in “gaping maw.”
What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? - Good food, booze, serendipity, a beautiful pair of male buttocks, irony, kindness, empathy, poetry or prose that makes me swoon with its brilliance, wildlife
What turns you off? - Hypocrisy, liars, back-stabbers, back-handed compliments, cruelty, Madison Avenue, bigotry, stupidity, people who have no sense of humor, the 21st century
What is your favorite curse word? - Fuck.
What noise or sound do you love? - Baby laughter
What noise or sound do you hate? - Amplified drooly, gacky, smacky-smooch kissing sounds in film.
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? - Film-making. I want to write, direct and produce a film that kills, man. I want to create something so special, the academy would have to invent a new category just for me. Unfortunately, I know squat about screenwriting, directing and producing, and I’m kind of old now, so I’ll just dream…
What profession would you not like to do? - Nurse or doctor. Too many body fluids, cooties, and bad smells involved there. I don’t know how they do it, frankly.
If heaven exists, what would you like to hear god say when you arrive? - I’m sorry.

Tag, Ms. Olivia, you're it.

Monday, October 03, 2005

The Hamster Whisperer, Part Three

In your realm, in yourself, light thoughts
Sent aloft on wisps of woody snow
And cathode-blue glow
Chase a path made of dropped apple and
Almond slivers, spectral lovers and dew
But the things you imagine, contained in glass
Skip along the walls, sniff in corners
Tangle up in the spinning wheel, yet
They give you meaning, they
Taste of sky, of sun and dirty rain
Smell of wind rushing through alien trees
Feel like divinity, like the reason for everything
Canned laughter dances along, electric comfort
For your aging soul
As you make your way through this life, alone
Save for the power of dream

For those who don't know what the hell I'm babbling about