I do not believe in fate, I believe in irony.

Batus Interuptus

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 16:13:41 GMT

No spoilers about the Dark Knight because technically I didn't get to see it.

We waited around in line with dustyskinandall for a little less than two hours at the Regal 24 Cinema.
The first half of the movie was beyond brilliant, scary and perfect. I was entirely absorbed in the picture to the point when something completely incongruous happened in the film it took me a few minutes to realize externally that people were leaping from their seats and bounding down the stairs and yelling "stop the film!" I could hear someone banging on the glass in front of the projector trying to get them to stop. I looked at Paul completely confused and he explained it quickly, "They skipped an entire reel - they just jumped to the end of the film." We estimated we missed about 45 minutes of the movie.

At this point I did what any self respecting geek would do I clapped my hands over my ears and shut my eyes singing "lalalalalala" so no more of the movie would be ruined for me.
Finally the house lights came up and the screen went blank. Rogue popcorn kernels and flying candy boxes expressed the extreme anxiety of the room. A girl one seat in the row ahead turned around and glared at me and said aloud, "what is going on?!," I told her a reel was missing and she gave me an extreme bitch look as if I was personally responsible. I fantasized about holding a 9 volt battery to her lip piercing.
The manager came out to announce that the movie has been "misassembled" from the source and to make up for it they would give us two tickets each. A great ruckus came up from the crowd, it wasn't like 2 Fast-2 Furious part III just got cancelled - this was Batman - this was important.
I became concerned briefly that a riot would ensue and realized my desire for the perfect middle row seat had screwed me entirely in case of an emergency. I made a mental note that if fists started to get thrown that I would clamber over the head of the bald guy directly in front of me since I could probably get some traction there. He was also one of the main ones ranting and swearing so I wouldn't mind having left a converse print across his brow.
A guy stood up in the back to address the manager and said, "Please, can't you just roll another copy of the film for us after it is over in one of the other theaters? We will stay until five in the morning if that is what it takes! We just want to see the movie” He was sounding forceful, but I detected a quaver under that bellow that seemed to me he might just burst into tears at any moment.
The manager was unmoved by his pleading and now became visibly angry. She must have felt vulnerable because suddenly there were two extremely beefy guys behind her while she handed out the tickets.
We filed out disappointed only to hit the packed lobby, the theater next to us had the exact same thing happen. People were madly dialing other theaters on their cell phones to see if they could get into the 3:00AM or 6:00AM showings only to get told they were already sold out.

At least I got to keep my $4.00 Butterfinger pieces.

A short list of things I did not say

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 15:26:41 GMT

during my visit with my family in Florida over the weekend.

scenario#1
my brother asks me while in the drive through what I would like to have. I say, "a Chick-fil-a and a lemonade please sir." To which my sister-in-law replied "a sugar-free lemonade would be better for you."

what I did not say: You know what would be better for you? Some sugar-free shut up.

scenario#2
The server at brunch sets down a plate of eggs over easy, sausage and potatoes in front of the Commodore. The Commodore picks up his eating utensils and pronounces gleefully, "You know paranoia is its own reward!"

what I did not say: If that were true your son would be the richest man in the world.

scenario#3

The Commodore is sitting at my sister's kitchen table discussing the fact that even though two of the immediate family members were missing, the rest of us were here together now and that is better than "being beat with a piss elm club."

what I did not say: I am not sure that is correct.

footloose

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 16:24:53 GMT

I find this very satisfying.

pipe cleaner

Enigmas

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 13:55:24 GMT

One of the reasons that Paul and I tolerate our corrupt and dilapidated hamlet is a store called "Enigmas." It sits quietly across the street from the rail station. It is basically a Catholic mysticism shop, but that is hardly a comprehensive description. You can also get voo doo dolls, muertos statuary, Chinese lucky frogs, statues of Ganesha and Lakshimi, Santeria supplies and African fetishes.
If you were sitting around one afternoon wondering how you could replenish your supply of anti-curse candles and dehydrated rattlesnake sperm - Enigmas is the place for you.

So when I was tasked with sending a birthday card off to a friend of a friend who is a Marine in Iraq, I figured I would add a little something extra in the envelope just aside from my well wishes.
Off I went to Enigmas. The woman I usually deal with wasn't there. Instead it was the older matriarch of the family; I tried to ask her a question but she spoke no English at all and called her granddaughter over. A pretty thirteen year old who spoke flawless English asked what she could do for me.

I said, "I have a friend who is in Iraq right now. I wanted to send him something he could wear or keep with him for you know for protección."
The girl stared at me blankly for a few moments and then began translating to her grandmother and then they both broke into hysterical giggles.

The girl then turned back to me with a confused smile, "How did your friend come to be trapped inside of a rock?"

Fish-Fu

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 17:52:50 GMT

On my fourth birthday I got a goldfish as a present. He came with one of those standard round fishbowls and I promptly named him "Harry." I was very attentive towards Harry and in return he would gnaw the tip of my pinky when I dangled it in the water.
He lived for nearly five years, a fact I was very proud of and felt compelled to tell anyone who would listen. One adult who I had told this to had decided it was wrong for me to be deluded and explained that my fish had not in fact survived for so long but had likely died five or six times and my parents had replaced him with an identical fish while I was sleeping or something.

I paused for a moment and laughed right in their face; my parents were not ones to give into such sentimentality nor were they shy about having their children avoid toxic life lessons like their favorite pet had just gone to meet their maker.
The day Harry died in fact my parents did not hold back the information, they asked flatly if I would like to bury him or flush him down the toilet. I chose the latter thinking a burial at sea was more appropriate. My parents were more apologetic at the fact that they chosen to put Harry in with their other fish in the big aquarium thinking he would be happier in a bigger place. The other fish promptly ate him.

Flash forward to autumn 2003, during the refurbishing of my office I decided to set up a small ten gallon fish tank. Having had experience with fish before I knew that before you spend money on expensive fish you have to get the starter fish first to get the tank all good and fishified before the fancy expensive stuff start coming in. So when I bought my ten gallon tank I also asked for one of the 12 cent goldfish.
Now it is nearly five years later and for whatever reason never really bothered to go get any fancy fish. The 12 cent goldfish that originally was named "Bialystok" and then came to be known more simply as "Zero" has seemed to have benefited from my sole attention.
He was originally about 3/4 of an inch long:

Now he is coming in at a little over nine inches and I had to buy a 30 gallon tank this weekend just to accommodate him.

Curiosity got the better of me and I zipped over to the Guinness World book of Records to see if there were any fishy record holders. There is a record breaking gold fish in the Netherlands coming in at 18.9 inches.
I have always wanted to get into that damn book and now I am half way without even trying hard.

On days when I am made of win, I dress like Cherry

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 14:19:47 GMT

I have found my older, maler, and Canadian fashion doppelganger!

Long may we reign blinding strangers.
For more obnoxious outfits of the fabulous Don Cherry click here.
For more obnoxious outfits from me, well you will just have to come see how I roll.

The Game

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 15:22:17 GMT

I sat in my car outside a house off Memorial drive; the porch was festooned with long wavy balloons. They kicked at each other in the pre-storm breeze that had rushed in.
I huffed with resignation, grabbed the gift in the pale blue bag and went inside. A bunch of Rollergirls were there, mostly from my old derby team the Apocalypstix. They greeted me with surprise and I was genuinely glad to see them. I added my bag to the huge pile of pastel colored packaging and fixed myself a drink. I parked myself at the end of the kitchen counter over the lemon squares with little baby booties on them.
Slampira was milling around in her black pregnancy dress and tall chunky heels. I can't wear heels like that on a normal day let alone great with child. She has greater pregnancy-fu than I.

I wasn't sure what I was expecting from this particular baby shower. As a general rule I sort of hate them. It feels like such a weird bastion of Victorian-style mores about women packed into an overly saccharine afternoon. I assumed this one would at least be refreshingly different since it was hosted by, in honor of and almost exclusively attended by Rollergirls. Since derby women are a fucked up lot, maybe this one wouldn't be so excruciating for me.
I made note of the liquor availability, which was a good sign. There was considerably more swearing than generally occurs at your run-of-the-mill baby shower and there was an upbeat extended discussion of snapped bones, popped ligaments, and torn rotator cuffs that would have made an orthopedist cringe.

Just when I was feeling mildly relaxed the announcement about the "game" was made.
I considered bolting for the door but there were a half dozen people in my way. Half of them I have literally run into into before so they know how to take my hits.
I optimistically thought one game won't kill me; perhaps it was the benign 'identify the baby object by feeling it through a bag,' or more annoying but acceptable 'guess how fat my belly is,' contest. As long as it wasn't THE bad one, the revolting symbol of all that I despise about baby showers all compacted into a single scarring experience known as the "poopy diaper game."
Bloody T-bone held up a basket with diapers sticking out of the top and I knew in my heart there was nothing I could do.

The "game" goes like this, some twisted individual microwaves candy bars in a diaper, you then have to open the diaper look at the mess inside and determine what candy bar it used to be.
So what ensues is a bunch of grown women staring into diapers with mixed expression of confusion and disgust, reluctantly bending their heads down to sniff it. The only people I have determined who like this game are the people who force us to play it.
All it does for me is put me off chocolate for about a week. I moved purposefully behind Bloody T-bone just out of eye shot who was wandering with a fist clutched full of purple papers with people's answers on them to make sure everyone had played. Without warning she spun around and caught me, "Susan B. Agony! Have you played the game?" and motioned towards the basket.
I immediately lied right to her face, "Yes, I have done it.” She shuffled through the papers and pursed her lips, "NO you didn't!" she took my arm and dragged me over to the basket and stuck a pen in my hand. Bloody T-Bone was one of the most talented players on my team, not that she was far more skilled than anyone else but she was utterly psychotic and completely without fear. Had I been at a normal baby shower and explained to the host that the poopy diaper game was one of my least favorite things in the whole world she may have relented instead of physically dragging me towards it. I recalled at an awards ceremony a joyful T-bone running at me and leaping into my arms with legs wrapped around my middle while I was at the time still on crutches. Although I adore her, empathy is not her long suite.

So I tried to rush through this revolting process with a placid smile on my face when in fact there was a screaming inner monologue running that sounded something like this, 'Dear God if you intend to smite me for past sins can you do it now because... what is THAT?! A milky way? A zagnut? Someone please have mercy and kill me where I stand, as God is my witness I don't want to see anymore peanuts!!! I will never eat coconut again... ahghhhhghhhhh' I refused outright to smell anything and started making random guesses as no door prize was worth such profound horror.
Unsurprisingly I did not win.

Presents were finally being opened. I sat dutifully while tiny blue baby things were held up. My gift was next to last, the onesies with puppies embroidered on them was straight off her registry but tiny blue hi-tops weren't and they were the bigger hit. My card to her was very carefully written. She put her hand up to her mouth while reading it - SCORE! I can write really good cards, it is one of my super powers. I could make Genghis Khan well up if I felt genuine sentiment for him.
Outside in the bright sunshine I felt a little release; I had survived another baby shower. I was saying my goodbyes and having conversations with other retirees about what post derby life is like; it is quieter and your knees don't really work right anymore.
One of them popped a piece of gum and offered me one, "Thanks, as long as it isn’t a milky way!"

Jimmy Chek

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 17:03:54 GMT

Most vintage VW owners know the painful truth which is if you can't fix your own car, you will burn through mechanics like you are speed dating. I can fix some things on my car, but things like brakes I leave to people who I can reasonably sue if they screw up. I cannot unfortunately sue myself so if I wreck because I was singing that catchy new Discovery Channel theme song instead of bleeding the line properly; best case scenario I am out of luck and worst case - deceased. So I like to keep competent professionals around.

As far as mechanics go I did get lucky for a long time. Just down the street not more than two miles away lived Jimmy Chek in his grey saltbox house with his itty bitty wife. Not that she was disproportionate; Jimmy himself was barely 5'1" with his boots on. Jimmy had a thick iron curtain accent and fingernails that were permanently black. He had a round face and a fabulous smile that made you grin right back at him; even though you didn't really know what anybody was smiling about since you were standing next to your precious bug that was smoking like the gates of hell were somewhere behind the fan casing.

Anytime I would bring him my car he would just smile and say, "Oh this is no trouble! You come back two days!"
I would come back in two days and there it was sitting outside Jimmy's house. I would get in and notice the thick black smudges all over the cloud white vinyl seats and car doors, but I didn’t care about that as soon as I turned the key. I am not sure how it happened but somewhere in there, picking my car became less of a business transaction and more of a social call with Jimmy and his wife. She would offer me tea and I would bring them homemade cookies. Sometimes they would give us sage advice like the secret to staying married for nearly sixty years. Paul happened to be with me one time and Jimmy sat us both down and looked very serious. "Here is the secret - you ready?" We both nodded.
He points at me, "YOU need to learn how to cook!" I nodded and Paul smirked. Then he turns to Paul with equally serious demeanor and says, "If she make something you don't like, you eat it anyway and you say NOTHING!" and wagged his finger back and forth demonstratively. Then he smiled big as the moon and said "That is all you need to know! You want to stay for supper?"
Jimmy would hug me like I was his granddaughter and tell me to come back soon which was always funny to me since that meant in essence he wanted my car to stop working again. I would go home and happily wipe the black smudges from my face from Jimmy patting my cheek in a paternal fashion.

One day we were kicking around the garage and he was telling me how he wished he had a crystal ball about the oval windows bugs being worth so much money. He said when he lived in New York in the 70's he must have sent a hundred of them to the crusher because everybody considered them junk. Then he casually said something about working on bugs since he was fifteen years old. This confused me, I knew Jimmy to be a very old man, and I wasn't really sure how old but I knew the math wasn't right since beetles didn't get sold commercially in the US until the fifties. I asked how that was possible. He looked down at the ground then and shoved some oily rags around with his boot. He explained quietly how when he was fifteen years old he was in a Nazi concentration camp. The stormtroopers used VW beetles the way the military uses jeeps and they forced him to repair the vehicles. He was smiling when he said it but his eyes were dark. We stared at each other for a moment while I processed this information, Jimmy broke the silence grinning and said, "Anyway I met my Anka there!" He described seeing her through the fence and how she was just thirteen but she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. He said he got information about her while in the camp and after the war was over he went to Poland looking for her. When he found her he married her quick so no one else would snap her up and brought her to America.

As Jimmy got older he had trouble remembering things. At first it was little things like forgetting to turn off the cabin light and letting the battery drain, but then it turned into forgetting to bleed the brakes or that he left a wad of paper towels in the clutch assembly. He was now firmly in the "unable to sue" category and with great hesitation and regret I found another mechanic. I would stop by the house occasionally to say hello but eventually it was just their older creepy son who would answer the door. He seemed uninterested in conversing with me. Eventually the number of cars dwindled and the garage got boarded up.
The "for sale" sign came down about two years ago but no one seems to have ever moved in.

Last Thursday I drove my car past the zoo to a guy who does body restoration work. He came highly recommended from my latest mechanic and while he was examining the front fender to see if he could save it, I rummaged through the glove box so see if there was anything valuable I needed to take with me.
There was:

A rare but heartfelt rant (subtitle: People from New York may get all up in my koolaid for this)

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 16:38:35 GMT

Allow me to bring you up to date on the subject of my tirade.
A construction worker who was part of a team of workers were commissioned to pour concrete for the new Yankees Stadium. The man being a Sox fan took the opportunity mid-pour to sink a Davis Oritz #34 Boston Red Sox jersey into the wet concrete, supposedly with the intent to "curse" the Yankees.
Now let me confess a few things, although I enjoy the baseball I have no particular bias towards either team, also my job for several years used to be pouring concrete so I consider myself fairly competent when speaking on the subject. I want to say without reservation that sinking a piece of fabric into a pour like that will in no way cause structural damage to the concrete itself unless the concrete is already damaged or the abandoned concrete begins to deteriorate in several hundred years from now.
I can say I have never been to a large pouring where something didn't end up in the pour we couldn't fish out: a screwdriver, a can of skoal, a whopper from Burger king.

Randy Levine, the Yankees president directed workers to dig the jersey up; It took five hours to do so.
Now here are the ways in which I think he could take action if he was really truly bent out of shape about this - which he obviously is.
He could ask the contractor company to cough up for the time and expense of digging the damn thing up, if that wasn't good enough for him, he could ask for a public apology from the dude or get him canned from the company. If still he lay awake at night roiling with anger, he could maybe take the guy to civil court for emotional distress, or not strictly doing the job he was asked to do.
All of these options seem a touch bitchy to me but everybody has their battlegrounds and this is his so he can go for it with my blessing.

However Randy has not taken any of these avenues. Instead he has asked the district attorney’s office to file CRIMINAL charges against this goof.
Criminal charges for placing a curse? Is there some ancient "non-smiting" law that I was not familiar with? How much is it going to cost the New York taxpayers for the DA's office to pursue this matter? I haven't been to New York in several months but I am pretty sure there has been a murder or two since I left that may need more attention than two yards of fabric sunk into several hundred cubic yards of concrete.

Randy Levine - ease up brother.

What to get the man who has everything?

Fri, 04 Apr 2008 16:38:23 GMT

Paul is turning a milestone age and at a loss as to what kind of gift to get him it finally dawned on me -

So I whipped that right up.

Sticky

Mon, 17 Mar 2008 14:56:44 GMT

A long while back I was fortunate enough to stumble across a set of deco era set of steel dressers at a Salvation Army.
I took them home where they sat rusting for more time than I care to say.

When I finally was motivated to refinish them to go in the new bedroom, it took far more elbow grease than I had anticipated. They turned out nice enough save some drawer sticking that couldn’t be solved by a little beeswax on the runners.

That is if I had bothered to do that. Instead I kept telling myself I would do that nearly every time I went to fetch clean underwear and I had to grab the drawer from underneath to yank it open.

Sunday morning Paul and I lay in bed discussing domestic matters, like the fact the house was so dirty that it was reaching Collier brothers proportions. After we both decided that the day would be spent in an optimistic cleaning frenzy, I hopped up to fetch some clothes. This required me traversing the giant piles of dirty clothes that were on the floor. So I balanced predominantly on one foot while I opened my drawer to grab some undies. The drawer stuck of course and I reached underneath to give it a good yank. This threw me off causing me to free fall forward onto the drawer front, slamming two of my fingers in the heavy steel.
Yeah they are broken.
Now I am walking around giving everyone the papal hand wave.
Pax vobiscum my children.

self realization #3644

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 18:52:40 GMT

I spend a lot of unsuccessful time scouring malls, thrift stores and vintage shops for clothes and accessories that will make me look exactly the way I want to look in my head.

Turns out 75% of the stuff I want is available at your local costume shop.
I am not sure if I am embarrassed about this or not.

Neccessity is the mother of invention

Tue, 26 Feb 2008 20:29:25 GMT

If that is the case then my business ventures are the red-headed stepchild.

See I need some cash for my thing, if you don't know about my thing here is the exhaustive essay explaining it.

Quite by accident a couple of weeks back I came across my father's self-rendered coat of arms. He has an extensive knowledge of heraldry and I suppose I have some peripheral knowledge that I must have gotten by osmosis or something.
Anyway his version of his coat of arms was a little too quickly rendered so I took it upon myself to do a cleaner, more cohesive version. He was extremely pleased and then I decided to whip one up for my household.
I decided that I really like doing these so I am starting a little capital venture called "Low Brow Heraldry."
I will create a coat of arms for you or your family or your imaginary country or your dog or whatever. I can make it historically accurate if happen to have descended from royalty or I can put a Darth Vader helmet on there for you, or your cat in an attack position - whatever you like.
You will have something unique to place on the mantel and at the same time knowing you are supporting the dream of a person who is enthusiastic and hardworking and not quite right!

$75 for a nice digital version or a hard copy sent to you on archival photo paper
$100 if you want me to research something for you and do one based on your family name or something similar
$200 if you want me to paint it up nice on a canvas, maximum size 24"x36"

Here is mine
here is the commodore's (yes that is a Korean War Helmet)

Email me here

The favor Barack Obama did for me

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 20:40:15 GMT

A couple of Saturdays ago it was late and my brother and I had managed to make it all the way through San Antonio on I-10. We had been driving since three in the morning in a 28 foot truck packed with all of our parents belongings and we both were recovering from the flu. It was my turn to get the room, so we stopped at a solid two star hotel chain.
The lady at desk asked me to wait since she was helping someone else so I wandered into a little fake living room area with a crappy TV that had the magenta turned up too high. ABC was posting primary results and they had predicted a winner and were prepared to announce. I was standing right next to a man about four inches shorter than I was, he had a mouth full of gold teeth and the name "Guillermo" was neatly embroidered onto his hotel employee uniform.
The TV lady rattled off the states that Barack Obama had taken and when I raised my hands in excitement Guillermo did the same thing and we looked at each other frozen for a minute as if we had both been caught in some subversive secret.

He gestured to me and whispered "You, uh uh... Obama?"
"Yes, yes, como Obama! Yo Tambien!" I patted my chest as I struggled through my crappy Spanish.

and then in a surprising swell of recognition Guillermo and I just hugged each other and jumped up and down a little.

When I went up to the desk I asked the lady for a non-smoking room with two double beds and while she tapped into computer she said with confusion in her voice, "Do you KNOW Guillermo?"

"Nope, we just met."

A Christmas tale two months late.

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 17:06:43 GMT

The Buford Highway Flea Market/Holiday Mall is at once magnificent and completely scary.
Back in the day it was your standard antique mall, where there were some folks selling genuine antiques but mostly it was people renting a booth to empty out their garages. It has since mutated into this strange landscape of seediness and a mishmash of the prevalent cultures around my neighborhood: Korean, Indian, Philippine, and Latino.

I love just walking around there; it feels as if I stumbled upon some mercantile train wreck.
Today however I had specific business. After I parked a little far out since it was so busy, I noticed the weird limping guy staring at me. My raisincake senses started tingling so I briskly cut around a Lincoln Continental with an airbrushed Tasmanian devil to make it to the front doors unabated.

After you walk through the creepy breezeway where people with big eyed babies just sit and wait endlessly for taxis, the music hits you like a punch in the face.
Bright beautiful sambas blare from stereos where the treble is turned up to nightmarish.
The stores selling "high fashion" are chock full of clothing that any God fearing mother would gladly throw herself under a moving vehicle as long as her daughter promised never to wear any of it. One of the proprietors taped false boobs to the already shapely mannequin to emphasize their higher end stuff. Nothing says haute couture to me like a headless mannequin with peach colored birthday balloons taped to the chest.
This is of course right next to the stand where you can get your photo taken in front of an peaceful skyline and then they will digitally alter the photo so you are shown holding hands with Jesus.

There is more than one accordion store.

My favorite place closed unfortunately after a long run - "Oooh-weee Lingeree." No, I did not just spell that phonetically that is exactly what the sign read right over the size 64 underpants hanging from a flagpole.

This day shortly before Christmas I had to make a special trip to the lovely lady, who runs the Chinese import store, she is right across from the guy who sells stolen car parts and pickled eggs from a five gallon jar on the counter.
Anytime I hear one of my close friends is pregnant, I go and visit the lady to purchase Chinese brocade outfits. She is the only person I know in town who sells them in infant sizes in all itty bitty color and style combinations.
This day I was buying three and she whispered to me that I was one of her best customers so she was giving me free lucky golden pig banks. I gratefully accepted them and headed straight for the door instead of lingering over near the tattoo parlor where the big dude with the one eye sits and reads the bible.

As I headed towards the car I looked around to see if the weird limping guy was still around. He was casually resting against a car opposite the row and down a space from mine. I judged the distance to be too great even if the limping dude had lunging speed but I moved quickly anyhow. Just as my key was turned and my door was ajar, the limping guy is suddenly right behind me speaking in Spanish very loudly. His arm was outstretched and I flung myself into the front seat and slammed and locked the door behind me missing his fingers in the car door by inches.
He turned and walked away with no limp still yelling and gesticulating wildly. He goes angrily back to the car where he was originally, removes his left leg and waves over his head it at me in frustration.

After relaying this story someone said they hoped that in response I had driven by him, grabbed the leg and drove away with it cackling; hindsight is 20-20 I guess.

Quality time with the Commodore

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 15:14:14 GMT

"You want me to do what, Dad?"
Despite his beret tipped jauntily to the side the "Commodore" looked sheepish, "I need you to uh... cut my toenails."
I took a deep breath, "Yeah, okay."

I knew why he was asking me, the man is just a tick off eighty years old so suffice to say he is less flexible than he used to be plus, he is diabetic and cutting your toenails can be a very serious matter if your aim isn't just so.
I set him up on the recliner with a drink and some of his railroading magazines.
My grandmother passed away just after I turned 21 so it has been a while since I done any elderly pedicures but my memory was clear about what I was in for. I pulled off his socks and stared for a few minutes to assess the situation.
Initially it was exactly as I assumed, hard yellow nails growing far past their comfort level and beginning to twist like weird calcite daggers.

There was however a bizarre surprise.

Perfectly shaped holes pierced through some of the nail and in other spots the holes breached the edge of the nail creating a kind of decorative Moroccan style outline along the edge.

I was unable to contain the alarm in my voice, "Pop, what the hell happened here?"

He went onto explain that he tried to do it himself a few months before but couldn't reach so instead used some sort of moto-drill instrument hence the perfect round holes.
The gouges in turn had managed to rip off thready sections every time he removed his socks, went traipsing through shag carpeting or spent any amount of time on the bathroom rugs. Long colorful strings were impossibly wedged into the circular grooves of his mutilated toenails, like curtain tassels from the seventh level of hell.
It was if a tiny Muppet was found brutally murdered and his little desiccated paws were frozen in horror with creepy little talons exposed.

The job took about a half hour and I slipped his socks back on feeling a tad unsteady from the whole experience.

He wiggled his toes, crossed me Papal-style and said "pax vobiscum my child." Hey you want to see how I beat the computer at blackjack? We spent some time on the computer and he pestered me again to do an oil painting of him Napoleonic style, posed in front of his vast library wearing his Nehru coat and medals with a globe and perhaps some crossed swords or something. I explained again that perhaps he has too much faith in my artistic abilities but maybe I could whip something up by Christmas.

Later after he fell asleep in a chair, I started using his scanner for some of the older family photos that I wanted to have copies of and while pulling them into a folder I came across a file entitled "In his study."
Apparently the Commodore painted his own Napoleonic portrait in this digital age.
I am framing the damn thing.

Zeppo coping mechanisms issue #2

Tue, 27 Nov 2007 15:37:15 GMT

In Vancouver I could feel the stress beginning to take hold like an invasive poisonous vine. I was so tired, one morning I put a stack of mail into the refrigerator next to the milk and stared at it for several moments trying to determine what was amiss.
My oldest brother's weariness was beginning to show as well. Though he and I have been estranged for a long time it was obvious to me that our emotional management methods were no longer working for either of us; we needed a break.

I made an executive decision that the two of us were going out for a couple of hours.
I programmed the GPS unit to take us towards north Portland and the two of us rode in silence while we crossed over rivers and sat in the overcast gray of afternoon traffic. When we turned onto Twenty Eighth Street, it looked just as I hoped it would: hip, gay friendly, sprinkled lightly with non-scary homeless but the original residents still lived there in tidy little bungalows. I wanted to move in.
We parked on the street and walked towards the "Velveteria" Portland's original Museum of Velvet Paintings.

With great anticipation I handed over my three dollars to Caren who met us at the door, her smile was bright and her enthusiasm infectious.

To say it is startling to walk into a room that has velvet paintings from floor to ceiling would be a gross understatement. I noticed right away if you blurred your vision one whole wall melded into a kind of nightmarish mural. The kind that would be on the wall in the only open bar in hell. They had loosely connected sections of velveteen subject matter: Polynesian, Afro, panthers and women who were naked from the waist up, some were delightful combinations. The hobos however plentiful, did not appear to merit their own section, nor did the obligatory Elvis paintings although there far fewer of the King than I expected.
I experienced lovingly rendered matadors, cigar chewing banditos, and an unusual number of poodle based work that initially made me recoil but I later found appealing. I was not quite right after I left the “black light” room.

Caren asked me if I had any paintings and I admitted yes, I had a single velvet painting in my home and it was so fabulous that I felt bringing in another would do it a disservice. I described the enormous San Francisco skyline painting I own, done in a crooked non-proportional modular style and as an extra special touch - the bitch lights up.
Caren piped up excitedly, "Was it signed by someone named Lee?!" I nodded and she told me that she had come across only one other of those in her long searches and confirmed what I already knew; I had a real velvet treasure on my hands.
I had a moment of silence for its original owner whose new wife took one look at it after they were married and pointed towards the door.
Dave G, I reached Mecca my friend. I am sorry you were not with me

My friend Diana whose decorating taste is so remarkable and superior to my own I couldn't possibly begin to describe it here, owns several velvet pieces. My personal favorite hangs on the sinister side of her fireplace and inexplicably represents the devil sitting on the toilet holding his own tail while he completes his business. Aside from the subject matter being deliciously bizarre I assumed foolishly that this was a one of a kind masterpiece. Shockingly the Velveteria not only had one, but had a mini section of random characters all sitting on the toilet. There was another devil although this one's BM was not as peaceful as Diana's Satan as this one was issuing all manner of expletives. The truly fascinating one just next to it was the Pink Panther on the toilet coolly holding his own tail. I was disappointed to find it unsigned.
At the desk I decided on the woman turning into a unicorn t-shirt since they were out of the one of a Chihuahua in a flower pot.
I ran to get money from the ATM and when I returned my brother who suffers all manner of social liabilities was speaking in an animated fashion to Caren and Carl about anything and everything. We hung out for at least an hour talking and I felt clarity of vision that only hundreds of velvet paintings and interesting company can provide. Being suddenly aware of the time my brother and I headed towards the door but agreed that we had both been moved by art.

As we were leaving I caught the gaze of one of the seventies paintings of a beseeching giant eyed little girl with the ubiquitous single tear rolling down her cheek – you said it sister.

My hands fixed into devil signs are for circumambulate for pointing me to the best Museum I have been to since the Museum Of Bad Art in Dedham, MA.

Zeppo coping mechanisms issue #1

Mon, 12 Nov 2007 16:51:17 GMT

Step 1: Stumble across unused "bubble spa massaging bubble mat" in my parent's spare bathroom cabinet
Step 2: Pour half a bottle of Mr. Bubble into bathtub that is a little too hot
Step 3: Get into bath, pull shower doors closed
Step 4: Turn off machine when the bubbles hit the ceiling
Step 5: Pretend you are lost in fog
Step 6: Dig a tunnel until you reach the faucet and say it is Shangri-La
Step 7: Build a castle with gravity defying spires
Step 8: Give yourself foamy fins and knock castle down Godzilla style
Step 9: Touch yourself
Step 10: Decide that is boring
Step 11: Cover yourself entirely with suds and say you are a malevolent Michelin Man
Step 12: Blow dying bubbles into the air and sing "Baby it's Cold Outside"
Step 13: Get out, dry off, put on robe three sizes too big.
Step 14: Knock back two very strong martinis and chase it with chocolates meant for Christmas
Step 15: Replace the very big looming worry with the mild concern you will get a urinary tract infection from putting too much Mr. Bubble in the bathtub.

The world has been cruel to me as of late. I don't think I want to talk about quite now as I can't see the whole arc of the situation yet to see what sort of lesson the universe is teaching me. In the meantime look for more exciting coping methods in the weeks to come!
Maybe I should make trading cards.

*A special message or those cats and kittens in the Portland OR and Vancouver WA area - I am currently on your doorstep. Any recommendations on places to go and things to see would help me considerably.

TMI and the ways in which I ended up right

Fri, 26 Oct 2007 15:18:36 GMT

I have had several people talk about their children's specific difficulties on my friend's lists, they run the gambit from high sensitivities to full blown autism.
I do not have any children and cannot imagine the myriad of emotional trauma of having a child with these problems causes.
To all of those people on my list, I have remained silent not because I do not care but am at a loss as how to comfort you at all since I have no experience with children and would not be able to offer anything that would not sound arch or false.

One thing I thought I could do, however clumsy an effort is explain what it is to be a kid like that because I was one.

I had been labeled with lots of things. They did not yet know about ADD or else I am certain that would have been the first pronouncement. Some said I was autistic, emotionally disturbed, a sociopath, and one said she was 100% certain I was mentally retarded and needed to be removed from the public school system. She said this to my mother this in front of me assuming I did not have the capacity to understand what she meant.

I found out recently from one of my sisters that as an infant I had not spoken at all by the time that supposed to be happening. People were mildly concerned about it until one afternoon I rattled off an entire television commercial for "Cascade" from start to finish including the jingle.

I had to smell and touch EVERYTHING. This one is still with me although I try not to do it front of other people.

As I developed cognitive abilities I had my own world in my head because the real world brought terrors and discomforts that were hard to articulate.
I couldn't stand the newspaper, I loved blank paper because I was in control of what went on that but paper so large with a language all over it was threatening to me and I would cry in horror as my father rattled it loudly on Sunday mornings. My mothers love for thick shag carpeting caused me no end of consternation. When I stepped on it, it would curl around my feet causing me not to be able to see my toes. I interpreted this as literally disappearing and so refused to walk on it. I would get around this by begging people to carry me around the house or lining the floors with safe objects: clothes, books, paper, toys became ultra important paths of safety. Being left alone on a twin bed every night in a room with shag carpeting was tantamount to leaving me on a dinghy in the middle of the ocean.

My mother constantly washed her hands and then did not dry them all of the way. They felt cold and dead like meat and I did not want them touching me so I would run from her anytime I saw her coming from the sink.

I did not like large spaces, I was not safe there. So I spent a lot of time in boxes, cabinets and closets. I would bring flashlights with me and whatever I planned to do, read or draw or plan. A small enclosed space was the only place I could really breathe. I remember my mother discussing some news item about jailed parents who had locked their children in the closet. Her anger seemed strange to me since at the time, that seemed the safest place to keep one's children in my mind.
School was a major pain in my balls. The structure was confining and a lot of things that teachers did made no logical sense to me. I would respond in kind with things that made no sense to them. Sometimes I would perform experiments that I felt were crucial to me understanding how the world worked instead of the regular curriculum; like emptying the paper hole punch into the air conditioner to see if it would emulate snow when the box would switch on at exactly 2:15.
During a third grade recess I sat still like a stone on the edge of the black top even though it was ghastly hot and I felt like I was baking just sitting there. Eventually the group of brown finches I had my eye on hopped out of the bushes and bounced around me like I was invisible, just inches away. One hopped onto the tip of my red Keds peeping and pecking at my shoelace. The other kids had taken notice since I was entirely surrounded by birds and they all ran over causing the birds to scatter. When I refused to respond to questions about how I had managed to get the birds to come to me Chris Johnson kicked pebbles at me and called me a "witch."
My long years have now taught me that in response I should have leapt to my feet, confirmed his accusation and with pointing finger claimed I was now going to chant an incantation that would cause his pecker to fall clean off.

Thus began my long and winding road of getting transferred from one school to another.

My worst problem was noise. I was ultra sensitive to loud noises but especially white noise. It is still difficult for me to put into words how certain noise would send me scrambling for safety. I would try and explain to people as the noise made by a single object repeated many thousands of times, as if I could hear every instance of it. I would clap my hands over my ears and yell that I could hear all of the blades of grass growing at the same time or all the bees all over the world buzzing at once. This led to most adults rightfully labeling me as "creepy."
When things became too overwhelming I would simply shut down which would result in me refusing to respond to touch or verbal commands. I would sit with eyes transfixed forward concentrating on a single spot refusing to speak or move or blink until they would either ignore me move me frozen in my desk while the legs scraped loud against the linoleum. They would often push me all the way into the hallway like a piece of petrified wood.

I am now past most of the strange obstacles that I had to live with during my single digits. I admittedly have some residuals that will never leave and some newly manifested quirks. There are some things that I experienced as a child that I still cannot explain, some of them are terrifying and some are majestic and some are both.
I can still hear conversations in white noise if I pay attention. I still can't stand very high frequencies to the point of occasionally carrying around a small can of WD-40 with me in case I come across squeaky wheels. I only eat tic-tacs in multiples equaling prime numbers.
I love people in my life so deeply that when I really think about it I can see colors and my leg muscles cramp up.
When life becomes stressful the urge to shut down is distant but compelling.

When I look back at my childhood, external environment not withstanding I know that I was different and things were hard for me but I cannot say for a certainty that things were any more difficult for me than any other regular kid - the rules were just different. There are rare and exquisite things about being off center. My specialties were and are considered my super powers even though I was the only one who knew what I could really do. Additionally when you are labeled as broken there are zero expectations of you socially and that is a beautiful thing in many ways. If you aren't required to act like everyone else because you "ain't right" that frees you to experience and perform amazing feats that are blocked for regular folks because they have invisible shackles on them. One of my fourth grade teachers had me by the arm at the High Museum explaining to a security guard about me after I had tripped the alarm from leaning in to smell a Van Gogh.
The humiliation was an acceptable payment since I now knew what the Van Gogh smelled like and nobody else did.

To the people reading this, I am not trying to engender sympathy because I don't really think I need any.
Also I am not trying to be all Mary fucking sunshine about people who are dealing with these kinds of issues nor am I implying that it is harder to be a kid with problems than it is for the mother because I honestly don't think it is. I guess I want to say that I am now so appreciative finally of who I turned out to be that I would not give up the abuses at the hands of kids or the discomfort that I caused adults for a single second if I thought it would change me substantially.

My mother likely thinks otherwise.
Hang in there everybody.

I would like some cake without so much rat in it.

Tue, 23 Oct 2007 16:49:33 GMT

It is possibly the greatest of my numerous flaws that I will enthusiastically agree or grandly pronounce my intentions to do something when I have no appreciable experience or knowledge on how to accomplish it in the first place.
Fortunately for the world at large I am not by trade a brain surgeon or an accountant with this weakness or I would surely be writing this from prison.

My friend Diana's upcoming birthday had lit a thematic fire under me. Since we had decided to throw a surprise birthday party for her at a Chinese restaurant, obviously I would need to do something spectacular in regards to the birthday cake.
Pouring over Chinese zodiac sites I discovered she was born appropriately in the year of the black rat and her element is "metal." Since she has all but gouged out her ear drums listening to Cradle of Filth over and over recently this all seemed synchronistic.
So I set out designing the perfect cake for this most auspicious occasion.

I took the shape of the Lucky Cat, (yes I know it is a Japanese thing not Chinese) and modified it so I would have a rat standing upright with one clawed paw up making the devil sign and another paw down clutching a silver medallion that read "G.B.H."
Of course this really wouldn't be enough, the inside would have to be devil's food and I think the eyes should glow red.
How difficult can it be to hardwire a birthday cake?
I printed out some directions on how to structurally support massive wedding cakes and started whipping up layers of devil's food like a mad scientist. The interior needed a chocolate punch - my home made chocolate mousse was the answer and I spent some hours whipping and folding and "testing" the chocolate and butter mixture more often than I needed to.
I made a hollow chocolate heart for the slice that would be given to Diana, inside it had a raspberry sauce made with fresh berries, Chambord, vodka, a little sugar and lemon juice. It was fabulous.

I carefully stacked all the layers, embedded the heart carefully in the rat chest. I wired up 3 volt LEDs and sank them into those plastic bubble containers that you get out of bubblegum machines and hooked it all up to a lithium battery. I covered everything in foil and set the cranium oh so carefully onto the very top.
It was the eighth hour I had been at this and I was getting a little punchy.
The crumb layer of black buttercream frosting was the first to go on. I carefully smoothed on the layer and had cleared out the beer fridge exclusively for it to set up overnight so I could put the finishing touches on the next day.
Once I carefully picked up the board it was attached to, I discovered the chocolate mousse had made the lower layer structurally unsound, I scrambled desperately to keep it upright, but there was no saving the body of the giant rat cake. I managed to scoop up the head before it tumbled altogether.
Paul came into the kitchen and stared at me for several moments while I stood there with arms out like Christ crucified except that I had buttercream frosting in my armpits.
He smiled "I have an idea."

So we rode up to Little Szechuan with an enormous bowl of crumbled devils food cake, chocolate mousse, raspberry sauce and frosting with a giant rat head perched ominously on top. I made a special birthday card with the Hindenburg on the front and the step by step process how her cake had been a seventh culinary wonder until the tragic moment where the chocolate mousse had betrayed me.
At least the damn eyes still lit up.

Comedic Genius or Brain Damage - you decide

Wed, 03 Oct 2007 15:59:03 GMT

I don't like to talk about my day job in this forum because A. it is desperately boring and B. it is desperately boring.

Basically I order stuff all day for people. I don't ask a lot in return, just tell me the basics - Who are you? What do you want to buy? Where do you want it shipped and who is paying for all this crap?
It really doesn't need to get fancier than that.

So when people really struggle with any of the above questions it makes me wonder how it is they manage to hold down a job where they make more money than I do. Every once in a rare while however I get a precious gem.
I just sent an email to a woman and tell her I can't place her order without a quote since I don't know what she wants to buy or how much it costs.

She sent me back a photo of a bar code.

Meeting the Neighbors

Tue, 18 Sep 2007 16:58:05 GMT

One of the things that I love about my giant chunk of land is that every weekend when we go up there, nature has shaken the great Etch-a-sketch and drawn an entirely new picture for us. When we arrived Saturday morning and I unlocked the gate, the whole place was yellow with wild coreopsis.
I made mental note that I really need to sand the metal gate down and repaint it. Less as a preventative measure and more for the fact that every time I unlock the gate I want to ride it while it swings to its destination and yell "yahoo!" cowboy style.

We had made the questionable purchase of a GPS unit earlier in the week so we could trace the dozen or so logging roads that exist all tangled up with each other. superactiongo (Paul) wanted to create an official map so we could start assigning names and so I would stop referring to the path that runs parallel to the West border as "Scary Tree Road."
The GPS unit turned out to be invaluable as we kept coming across intersections that we would mark on the unit and be able to swing back around and go the other way when we came back through. There were quite a few that went absolutely nowhere and I think I will keep these little spurs that dead end into "projects."
Somewhere around the center of the property we realized that there was a fairly deep drop off. We marveled at the mini view for a moment and then decided we really needed to head home so we could make it in time to let the dogs out. So we did a hairpin turnaround if what appeared to be a small clearing, the truck ran up into some scrub trees and stopped.
It wouldn't go forward, it wouldn't go back, and the wheels were not spinning.
After a lot of wedging of things under the tires, yanking of aforementioned tree and LOTS of swearing we grabbed our bottles of water started walking towards the road.
We knocked on the door of the house across the street and introduced ourselves to Cyndi. She invited us in and listened to our tale of woe. She tapped her chin and looked straight at Paul and said, "You know how to drive a tractor?"
Paul shook his head.
"No problem!" she smiled and got on the phone to the next door neighbor Troy to see if any of his sons were around, Troy said they weren't but he would be glad to come help us out. He drove right over and while we explaining to Troy I saw an animal come bounding out of the woods, I honestly thought for several moments it was a bear.
It was Troy's Akita. I have never in my life seen an Akita that large and when he came galloping up I took a few steps back. He circled me three times, licked my kneecap and then urinated on Cyndi's car with a mighty yellow flood cascading down the fender.
Cyndi shooed him away, "That dog just LOVES to pee on my car!"
We all got into the truck and forayed into our property; we located our vehicle thanks to the GPS and hooked up a big fat chain. After a couple of hard yanks Paul was able to throw our truck into the low gear and back it out.
We all rode back up to the front of our driveway. Troy's wife had heard the new neighbors were in town so she drove over to meet us. It was like a weird little party in the middle of nowhere.
We gained quite a bit of knowledge, Cyndi's husband drives a semi and they have 13 year old twins in Junior high. Cathy works over at the school and Troy likes to hunt, fish, drink micro brewery beer and play WOW. A kid named Alex went speeding by on ATV and I got informed that "Alex was the one who cut crop circles over in Ben's cornfield last month but his momma didn’t believe it cause, you could show Alex's momma video of Alex doing wrong and she would say you doctored it."
Cathy blurted out that as soon as we moved in she could finally have a block party she has been wanting to have, even though our street has no blocks... or asphalt. It began to dawn on me that us moving in was a big deal and in a town with a population of 181 I guess it would be.
Everybody was as generous with us as I could have hoped for and I even though there is a lone bamboo pole with a red handkerchief tied to it marking where the house is going - it feels just like home already.
When I got home I sent everybody a box of mailorder meat in thanks.

Here is the website.
http://www.gardenfantasma.com/
It is nowhere near finished and a lot of the project pages only have place holders there. If you want more info about a specific project just ask me. I LOVE talking about it.
Allow me to offer up my apologies, I did the website myself and since I am not a web developer it is clunky and weirdly designed - much like its author. Paul is generously fixing the site for me so if things suddenly disappear while you are digging through that is why.

three graces

Fri, 14 Sep 2007 19:01:15 GMT

Be forewarned the threat level of this post going all "Frank Capra" is orange.
The idea that one human can leave indelible marks on other humans ultimately altering their paths just captivates me. Despite the indelible stain of cliché it is as remarkable to me as a huge natural occurrence yet foreign, like a crater formed from a meteor. One of my favorite layers of this complex social dessert is the touch and go interactions between complete strangers.
These people will likely never meet again yet one or both of them walks away forever changed and all took was less than 60 seconds. You can't get that kind of service from a microwave.

Here are a few of my personal favorites:

My car was broken down in Tom's Run Virginia and while I sat in the car with the door slightly ajar so I could get a breeze in I watched a man walk his three legged dog in front of his truck. Just then a gust of wind came through and blew my door towards his truck passenger door and I narrowly caught it less than an inch before it hit. As he walked towards me I apologized profusely for the accident and tried to examine the door for any hint of a dent unsure if I had caught it in time. He grinned wide and said “I reckon a miss is as good as a mile." He gently tossed his pup in the side window, got in himself and drove away.
I think about this guy all of the time. I think it is because I want to be that guy, the person who doesn't get caught up in the weird variables that I love to torture myself with. I need to pay attention to now because a miss is just that.

Shortly after I had bought my VW bug a million years ago I was gassing it up at the local station. I get a lot of VW stories at gas stations and it nearly always involves some variant of they 'used to have one but then their (insert persons name here) made them get rid of it because it wasn't running.' This guy appeared to be in his early forties, a little beefy with shaggy surfer blonde hair and a matching 5 o'clock shadow. It became clear to me he wasn't merely nostalgic for his now missing VW; it was like piece of him was missing. His eyes were glassy when he spoke of it and as he ran his hand over the curve of the pale green roof of my little car he choked out. "It is pretty stupid when you end up breaking your own heart."
Amen. There are plenty of people walking around this planet willing to do this for you, this was my little reminder to not be retarded and do it to yourself.

There is a really skanky convenience store across the street from the art supply place I frequent, so when Paul needed his Mountain Dew we pulled over. I sat in the shadiness of the neighboring lingerie model establishment with the neon sign blazing the letters "O P E N" inside a pair of parted female lips. An elderly man sat on the concrete outside talking the talk of street crazy. When Paul came out of the store the man asked for some money and Paul handed him a ten. The man seemed startled and called out after him, "wait, wait sir, please!" Paul turned around and the man held up his closed fist "Give a brother some bonk!" Paul touched his fist with his own and we drove away.
That old man did not in fact say "brother" he used the "N" word which I am admittedly not edgy enough to say, but I changed it to "brother" because I believe that is what the man intended to mean and that is what we intend to mean when we say it. This is a common household exchange with us now because when you don't have anything else to give - you can always give a brother some bonk.

The Master Plan

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 12:05:52 GMT

I watched the clock intently as the long arm ticked closer to the 3:00PM mark.
The bell usually rang at 3:15 but Ms. Walters, my second grade teacher would always stop class early.
One of us would get chosen to read from our favorite book for 15 precious minutes while the rest of class looked bored enough to die right then and there. I recall Sheila reading aloud from "Where the Wild Things are" and a kid named Earl brazenly reading from his older brother's "Mad magazine" until it was quickly confiscated.
The day it was my turn I brought my copy of Alice in Wonderland that was disintegrating from wear. Ms. Walters was thrilled at my choice and said that once everyone in class had their day to read, that I could continue every day after reading a little bit from that book. She confided to me it was her favorite.
After I got entirely through with Alice, Ms. Walters lent me her threadbare copy of "Through the Looking Glass" to read that aloud to a sullen crowd of seven year olds at Jim Cherry Elementary.
As I read through chapter eleven a weird little seed was planted and my obsession started as simply as that.
Every night I went to sleep dreaming of a large garden; an exotically beautiful place with a creepy undertow. It would be something mysterious that would belong entirely to me and keep me safe from precarious outside forces over which I had no control.

I would of course require a very very large chessboard, just like in the book.

After school I escaped unnoticed into the woods behind my parents house where my very own "house" stood. It was an empty Kenmore box with holes cut out for cathedral windows and plastered with glued bits of foil paper and flotsam. I had squirreled the box furtively from the garbage pile a few weeks earlier and it was beginning to wilt from the moisture of a weepy spring in Georgia. I knew I would need to "build" again soon.
Undaunted I crawled inside with my horse head writing tablet and markers, shooed away the silver fish and began to crookedly draw my future.

I can't say exactly when the other projects came to mind or were modified again and again like honing an enormous stone to its final shape. I only know when they became cooked all the way in my head. It is at once liberating and mortifying to be so in love with your own art. I would often bother my father's drunken coworkers who came to the house for the odd martini. It always turned out much odder than they anticipated. "See? The giant concrete Pegasus goes here..." I would tap on the paper containing my elementary school blueprints and stare into red rimmed eyes waiting for the recognition of my little demented genius.
I wanted so badly for somebody, anybody to understand and appreciate my madness even just a little.

Somewhere in my late teens I began to consider the real world challenges associated with being compelled to make something that everybody else will think is entirely retarded. I didn't even have a good excuse. Historically most people who built strange giant things tragically lost a family member or had God giving them directions or like the man in Mexico who built his alien landscape using ceramic bits and pieces of glass said the butterflies had whispered instructions to him. I was pea green with envy as I had no outward mental illness on which to rely as a plausible excuse, perhaps in a way that made me slightly crazier than they were.
One thing was for certain - I would need a LOT of property.

When terrible awful things would happen to me I would retire emotionally in my place that didn't exist yet. My poorly rendered drawings and half-assed engineering gave me shelter when I had not a soul to turn to. Mentally I could always float in my own lake in my personally built rowboat with the cheery fiberglass head of the lochness monster at the bow to lead me though troubled waters.

After years of being reasonably happy and yet piss poor as an artist for hire, I felt my long term garden goals were not being met. My internal voice would not be silenced. I quietly got a respectable job about ten years ago. I hated it and still do but I knew that sometimes you have to give up everything to get everything. So I socked away twenty five percent of my pay, I wore Salvation Army clothing and used shoes like I intended to in the first place. I drove a vintage car and pretended it was because I was cool instead of not wanting to dig into my cache for a down payment.
During this time I worked and reworked my ideas, sometimes bringing books of my weird sketches to inappropriate places like parties or bars.
"You see? the bats fly out of the nose here."
I would stare into red rimmed eyes and tap the pages for emphasis.

Eventually I stopped telling most people about my plans.

Fast forward to today.
Today I drive two hours to my NEW PLACE, the one I sign the papers on - my precious and bizarre garden that has been waiting so patiently for me to build it finally has a physical place for it to be born into. The import has welled up in me. The gravity of what I am doing is at once astounding and completely and mercifully ridiculous.
My place is 50.73 acres with a creek bordering on two sides. I called the county extension office to see if the creeks have a name, they don't. I get to name my two orphan creeks.

Now I have to build a house where I can go wash up after a hard day of building the weird stuff. I will likely have to sell everything I own to do it.
Here is the view from my future front door.

fucking huzzah.

DIY - Rage control

Thu, 07 Jun 2007 20:00:37 GMT

Tools needed:
A large piece of uncooked meat, you may also use a large flat vegetable, but is should be very juicy (firm tofu also works well)
A George Forman grill or two pans, one slightly smaller than the other.
Assorted spices, sauces - pick your favorites

Directions:
Heat up grill or larger pan with some oil until it is very very hot.
Throw meat or vegetable onto the grill or pan.
Close the lid to the grill or put smaller pan on top of meat/vegetable
Lean on grill lid or use force to weigh down top pan.
Over the loud sizzling noise scream the following at the top of your voice:

"Oh my God I cannot take the horrible horrible burning!!! Please [insert your name here] please make it stop!!! I am so sorry for the transgressions I committed against you! I should have known better, the pain is terrible; I may die from the shock!!!
The pain - the excruciating pain!!!!"

Check your enemy's hand for doneness.
Remove from heat.
Season to taste.
Enjoy.

*On an unrelated note, everybody go vote for my Jones Soda label entry if you dig. Those are my grandfolks during a retirement "roast" circa 1968.

**I will post an update about Kathy from the previous post - she is doing okay and is no longer compelled to stand on roadsides with signs. Thanks to everybody for your excellent advice.