Elvis is My Michael Jackson Anti-Drug

I don't know if you're aware of this or not (since it's hardly gotten any press coverage at all,) but Michael Jackson recently died. I know -- right?! I was shocked when I learned of it, too. I hold some very strong opinions of The Gloved One, who was previously known as "Wacko Jacko" for years in the tabloid press. Not that I think that reputation was necessarily undeserved or anything, but I don't want to pursue that line of argument here. We'll never know if he really wanted to buy The Elephant Man's skeleton (which is one of the few things he's ever done that I can identify with because -- Honest Injun! -- I think bones are cool; ) or if he truly slept in a hyperbaric chamber. There's no sense speculating at this late date on that hooey, and in spite of my strong convictions otherwise, I am not even going to dwell on the idea that the man was, in my opinion, a pedophile. I'm only going to say that if I happened to be a tax paying resident of the city of Los Angeles, I would be showing up at every city council meeting asking what, if any, steps had been taken in legally demanding that NAMBLA kick in a little scratch toward the expense of burying him.

But that's just how I roll -- I have my opinions. I am choosing not to focus on that ugliness, here. No, I'll focus on something else, entirely... the true reason Dead Michael Jackson burns my ass better than a three-foot high fire, and how hearing his name every five minutes for weeks on end like I was trapped in an episode of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents" filled me with an awe-inspiring rage that I had to come to terms with; because, friends... it's been touch-and-go for me and my not committing the sort of horrific, violent act that lands you as the lead story on CNN, with the down-the-street neighbor whose dog shits on your lawn claiming there was "always something off" about you.

And not that I am denying there is anything "off" in me, either.

After the first 72 hours of All-Michael-All-The-Time Television, I realized something had to give, and I realized (given the public's fascination with lewd, lascivious or even just simply abhorrently aberrant behavior,) it was highly unlikely that the world was going to change simply because of me. As an aside, I have a faded, near-crumbling Frank & Ernest comic strip that I clipped from the newspaper back when I was in 7^th grade, wherein Frank looks at Ernest and says, "I don't want to change the world. I want to stop the world from changing me." Know this: I have lost the original copies of both of my children's birth certificates. I have no clue where my passport is. But that little cartoon has traveled with me for better than 26 years. I told you I was "off," but I'm trying to convey something more to you in sharing that: I recognize that, no matter how annoyed I am by people, things and events around me -- I don't want to change the world. But I am certainly all over changing myself in order to make my stay here among you mortals a little less painful. I am neither yardstick nor arbiter, and I have no answers as to why, in the grand scheme of things, Michael Jackson garnered the attention in life (and death,) as he did (and does.) It seems to me that the world, at large, would be better served by joining a bowling team or perhaps learning to knit rather than expending so much energy on this, but who am I to judge? It's simply up to me to find a way to exist amongst the madness, since I am seemingly a lone voice in the wilderness of excess and "golden coffins."

Then again, that's just me, and I've had my own celebrity obsessions of late to deal with, of the flavor and sort that absolutely befuddled those who know me best. John & Kate Plus Eight? Couldn't get enough of that train wreck and I embarrassed myself once when I realized I could have no more have crowed at Kate Gosselin's fall from grace than if I'd stood on my own roof and shouted, "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" at the top of my lungs. I, like everybody else, enjoy a good public comeuppance and the gory, little details that are inherent to fame and celebrity.

Whatever.

But the scope of the public's fascination with Michael Jackson has always -- and I mean, ALWAYS -- left me scratching my head and wondering if maybe everyone else on the planet is high. Please remember, too, that around the same time I was clipping comics out of the daily paper, MJ was moon walking his way to immortality (except he didn't, because he's dead. Just wanted to bitchily point that out.) I was the "target demographic" for his schtick, for I am fully a member of The MTV Generation. I, like most of my peers, was front and center and watching, waiting, as the seconds ticked down to the premiere of the Thriller video. I think the argument can be easily made that it was a seminal moment in history, much like a previous generation's claim to watching The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Like knowing where you were when Kennedy was shot or when the World Trade Center was attacked, most of my peer group has a Thriller memory...

Except that mine ends in a vastly different way from theirs.

When the credits rolled, I distinctly remember turning to my friend, Amy (whose house I was visiting because her end of the cowtown we lived in had cable and mine -- the hoity-toitier section -- did not, due to the rich asshole who represented my end's interests insisting that, "Cable TV is a passing fancy. People won't pay for television!") Amy was awash in what I assume beatific splendor looks like; there was almost an Old Masters' glow to her skin. I looked to my other friend Amy next: same damned thing. Even Deanna, who also had cable at her house but wasn't the sort to allow herself to be left out, was swooning.

And there I sat, a solitary island unto myself on the burnt orange and lime green shag carpet of Amy's parents' rec room, trying to figure out what the big fucking deal was. So... there you have it: I didn't "get" Michael Jackson, and my long standing hatred of him is not borne of my own ignorance to his genius, it's just that I didn't -- and still do not -- get what all the damned fuss was about.

I don't believe that Michael Jackson was the greatest entertainer that ever lived. I will buy that he was extremely talented, but I don't see that his talents overshadow those of any one else. I tend to think that he was the "force" he was because, like a tornado or an unplanned pregnancy, conditions were right. You might be able to make the argument that I don't have enough respect for him because I don't grasp the scope of his talents. I won't disagree with you actively, but I will say, "ENOUGH ALREADY!"

Because I am absolutely burnt out and fried with the near-constant mention of the man... and his mother... and his kids... and that Debbie Rowe chick who is as painful to put up with as chewing tin foil... and what makes me sad is that Tito is no where to be found. In all of this, Tito is further relegated to the back-burner of Jacksons who, to my cynical eye, are going to milk this for every bit of bullshit publicity they possibly can, because they are attention whores who like to show their boobs at the Superbowl and then say, "Oops!" with an almost defiant glee.

But I digress... but I also afford you a rare glimpse into how my mind spins out of control when I start to get sucked into this shinola. In a way, I should be grateful to Michael Jackson (and to an equal extent, Madonna,) for taking up the burden of ruining radio in the '80s. Had they done anything worthwhile that I could have listened to at that time without being overtaken by an urge to flush my ears with Clorox, I might have never known of The Sex Pistols, Lou Reed, The Ramones or The Smiths. For that -- and only that -- I am thankful the world had a Michael Jackson.

Balancing that out, however, is the fact that to this day, as a 40 year old woman, I know every word to the song, "P.Y.T," but I can't remember what the Pythagorean Theorem is, much less how to apply it usefully to anything. I know that Billie Jean was not his lover, but I cannot remember the name of an ee cummings poem that I desperately loved and have sought out fruitlessly since 1986. I am also well aware that the song, "Human Nature" is some of the crappiest pablum the world has ever swallowed and asked for seconds of.

I hate that song.

So, the last two weeks and a day have been absolute, painful, stinking Hell on a cracker for me, what with people blaring the Michael Jackson in their Escalades at the gas station (Poor, forgotten C-Murder! I remember you, dude!) and the way that every newscast for awhile was signing off with, "I'll Be There" (which he won't be because he's dead, I point out twice as bitchily again.) And we are not discussing that song further, either. I have children to raise; I can't take the time out of my life a conviction for felonious arson would bring.

And through all of this pain and sadness brought on, once again, by the fact that the rest of the world is fucking high and I am the only one with any sense, I had to find a way to cope. I happened upon it in a fit of pique and happenstance at my local 7-11, when "Rockin' Robin" was blaring on the -- swear to god -- transistor radio behind the register, and my local 7-11 clerk was singing along like Bubbles the Chimp... if Bubbles the Chimp had mainlined a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew and snorted some Poprocks.

The cure for what ailed me, dear friends, is this: Elvis Presley. Or, more specifically, my brand-new, refillable, Elvis Presley lighter. That's right: I purchased some sanity for a buck-forty-nine, alongside a half gallon of milk and a cream cheese and jalapeno taquito.

Let me be perfectly candid with you: I freely admit that Elvis, as far as hypocrites go, was a capital H - hypocrite. But... and this is a big but... who BUT Elvis would we accept dying from drugs on a toilet, even though we KNOW he wanted a badge from the Drug Enforcement Agency? That's right -- nobody else could get away with that sort of stuff without being vilified and mocked. But we don't make Dead Elvis jokes -- no! We have Elvis sightings and stamps and a furor over whether he should be young or fat on them (for your edification, he's pleasantly plump on my lighter, because when it comes to Elvis -- it makes no difference to me.) We commemorate his birthday and people dress up like him and multiple Elvii show up in movies because Elvis was so goddamned cool.

AND he could sing... and dance... and act... and didn't some of you people swoon when he was on TV? I thought so. So, there you have it -- an explanation as to why you can almost always find me humming "Marie's The Name (Of His Latest Flame)" under my breath (it's also like garlic to a vampire when it comes to banishing both "Beat It" and "Bad.") It's why, when people start to go on and on (and on and on) about those "poor kids," I reach into my pocket and wrap my hand around the true King -- because Elvis Presley is my Michael Jackson Anti-Drug; because Elvis could kick Michael Jackson's ass, with all that Karate and shit he was into. Do I need to point out that Elvis died WITH his nose on his face? I think not.

So, if the non-stop coverage of the now-dead Dancing Machine ever gets you down, do what I do: Sing a few bars of, "If I Can Dream" and Elvis your TV set.

Works every time.

10,000 Points For Jesus

That was the title of the article that I spent an hour and a half writing this morning. Gather ate it. I hate you, Gather. I hate my cluttered, fucked up page. I hate the way you keep pushing this "Friend Set" thing down my throat. And I hate that, like a dumbass, I fell for the concept of Friend Sets hook, line and motherfucking sinker. I accepted a whole bunch of people thinking I could just filter them out. But I can't and do you know why? Every time I visit my Friend Sets page, I get a SCRIPT ERROR warning. Oh, and let's pretend like I don't have six imaginary friend requests twisting in the wind, and that my sets don't scramble themselves. Let's pretend that everything around here hums like a well-oiled machine. Why don't we all take a few minutes and enjoy some mass-delusion? Yeah, baby. That feels good.

But seriously -- eating my article was Phail; I'll be nursing that grudge for a very long time.

* * *

I have, in scientific measurements, what is known as a "shit ton" of hair and it is naturally curly. I keep it in pretty good shape, but for the regular trims (because those cost money and my damned kids are all spoiled with this "eating regularly" craziness.) Yesterday, I pulled a section of my shit ton of hair back and was rocking a really pretty cascade of curls completely by accident, which made me happy. In an instance of what can best be described as "Joy's WTF?! Luck," a guy sat down next to me at the Tavernacle and started talking to me. This shouldn't be freaky, but it was because he was wearing a necktie at 6:30 on a Sunday. I think we know what sort of people wear ties to bars on $5 pitcher Sundays -- that's right: Crazy People... people who Love Jesus... people who want to tell you how much they Love Jesus... people who want you to know that Jesus Loves you, even if you are sucking down draft beer like somebody's going to take it away from you. But then He really started laying down the Weird.

He said, "Wow! You have pretty hair. Can I touch it?"

Let's pretend for a second that isn't creepy. Let's pretend that it's perfectly normal to walk into a bar, sit down next to a woman, talk to her for five minutes and then ask if you can touch her hair.

IT'S NOT POSSIBLE BECAUSE THAT IS TOO FUCKING WEIRD FOR WORDS! I didn't even know the guy's name... and when I pointed that out, he extended his hand and said, "I'm Randy. Now, can I touch your hair?"

I wanted to say, "No you cannot touch my hair, you nutjob," because that seems like the most rational response in the face of such oddness, without having to resort to kicking someone in the junk. But before I could get the words out, my friend Chris took the option away from me by standing up and looking menacing. The Tie Guy moved three seats down and looked sad. I didn't much care because, seriously -- that's like a prelude to ending up in a dumpster. In pieces.

* * *

I saw a strange Burger King ad last night, with what appears to be the shifty Burger King from the future hanging out with people who are dressed like sperm. Okay, maybe I'm remembering it wrong, but I know it was all futuristic and it really disturbed me. You can't advertise cigarettes on television, but a puppet-y looking guy wearing some sort of festish gear can show up in a bedroom, passing out breakfast wraps and that sends an okay message to the young impressionable minds of America. Really?!

* * *

My stalemate with TV Land continues. They're no longer forcing High School Reunion down my throat 22 times a day because they had to make way for something called, The Big 4-0. This is a show about people turning 40 (der,) and to be honest -- it's retarded. The first episode was about some never-was former football player who was turning 40 and wanted to do something to mark it and make it special. I have no idea what he wanted to do because every time I attempted to pay attention, lights started to flash and I could no longer feel the bottom half of my face. I'm pretty sure he did whatever it was he set out to do because the final scene (which I saw, once I regained consciousness and my motor skills,) was him with some balloons and a cake. I doubt anybody celebrates much if you fail to meet your birthday goals.

Unless they pity you.

* * *

If you're going to go to all the trouble of writing your Gather Armageddon article under your way cool new alias of "Crusader on a mission" (with just that sort of dubious capitalization,) you probably shouldn't out yourself three-quarters of the way through by referring to yourself by your name -- unless you want James Bond to storm into your trailer and kick your ass out of fear that you have somehow superceded him in espionage tricks.

* * *

Draft beer out of taps that haven't been cleaned since the Clinton Era is something akin to drinking Satan's urine. "Cheap" doesn't do anything to improve the experience, either. I'm probably culturing some weird bacteria in my mouth right now that you normally don't see north of the Equator. My tongue feels swollen and, let me tell you -- that's not a pleasant sensation.

* * *

One of the points made in the Armageddon article had something to do with enemies of the United States on Gather. Does Osama Bin Laden have a Gather account? (HINT: If he doesn't, he should. Ditto Kim Jong-Il.) Can you redeem Gather Points for 72 virgins or some plutonium? I wouldn't know since I can't actually get into the redemption area, even using everybody's cool tricks of creating a diversion and then sneaking by the system.

Also, the rest of you can settle for being in a Gather Gutter Gang or whatever. I saw "Overlord" mentioned and that's what I want to be. I'll bet the uniform is nicer, with plenty of gold braid and epaulets. Admit it: Nothing says "class" like some nice epaulets.

What I Learned While Watching TV Last Night

We are all going to die. The Mayan Calendar ends, abruptly, on December 21, 2012. Apparently, the Hopi Indians also foresaw great calamities and the End Time happening around this same date. I figure that gives us all a little under four years to smoke 'em if we've got 'em, get ourselves right with the Lord and kiss humanity's collective asses goodbye.

While I was freaking out in my Archie Bunker Chair, imagining all the things I won't be doing, FOW #1 was busy, pointing and laughing at me. He wanted to know what, if anything, I could possibly do to guard against an apocalypse. The truth is -- I got nothing. See, this whole thing is bigger than the lot of us, and if the polarity of the earth changes (Edgar Cayce's prediction,) well... we are totally fucked. All manner of Nasty occurs then. I don't remember all the details, but I would recommend visiting Florida ASAP if you've got any desire to at all.

If the Blue Star comes (The Hopi,) we begin the Fifth Age and I have to be honest: I'm not really clear on what happens then. There was a hieroglyph of two groups of stickmen. One set was happy, and had some Stick-Corn, and the other set was walking up a set of "W"s. I think it might have something to do with divorcing ourselves from agriculture, and that is a big no-no according to the Hopi. I should have paid more attention, but my friend, M., was having boy-trouble so I was in the middle of a flurry of text messages. I suppose I might seriously rethink my priorities when it all goes to Hell (literally and figuratively,) but again -- the History Channel was not exactly offering me a primer on what to do in case of Rapture. I did get a giggle when the overall, ending message was one of hope and an insinuation that we have the proverbial snowball's chance. I think that only happened because The History Channel didn't want to be mentioned in multiple suicide notes.

By the way... my abject fear of the End is not a new thing. I clearly remember a day in junior high school when the world was supposed to end. It was a day filled with terror and panic. Of course, the sick, sadistic bastards in Administration thought this was the perfect day to throw a Fire Drill, too. Was it any wonder that I broke down in Home Ec, my tears soaking the cheap polyester of my day-glo, skateboard pillow that actually ended up looking more like a deformed, irradiated hot dog, due to my questionable-at-best embroidering skills? I had everything to live for, then. Or, at least, I thought I did; Journey and REO Speedwagon hadn't begun clogging the airwaves yet, and life still seemed to hold some hope and promise.

Of course, I lived through that day and the many days after that were predicted as being the "end." After confiding in my grandmother that I truly feared the death of the time, she told me that people had been insisting that mayhem and destruction were just around the corner since she was a girl. This gave me a small slice of comfort but, see -- my grandma probably didn't know about the Mayan Calendar. I keep trying to convince myself that they just didn't get around to finishing it or their Alien Phone rang and when they were done with the call, there were Conquistadors at the door and the calendar was abandoned.

Wait. It wasn't the Mayans with the Conquistadors, was it? Well, whatever -- maybe the Incas invited them to go bowling or something. Or the Hopi needed to borrow a cup a sugar. I don't know, but I do prefer to think that there's a really good (if unknown reason) why their timekeeping just stops and it has nothing to do with fire raining out of the sky and incinerating me.

I also tried to watch a true-crime show about Madelyn Murray O'Hare, but I dozed off ten minutes into it and when I woke up, I found out that there are ShamWOW imitators out there and that I should "beware" of them. I can't imagine that imitating a super-chamois is all that lucrative (especially since, if you call within thirty minutes of seeing the commercial, you can get eight ShamWOWs for the cost of one,) but -- hey! I never thought a fat guy pretending to be Elvis would go over well, either. I'm short-sighted that way.

And so, I started wondering... how serious is this threat of Imitator ShamWOWs? Are they stealing my identity? Shilling real estate pyramid schemes? Washing my car when I'm not looking? See, there's a problem: I can't think of another use for a chamois except for washing my car. The ShamWOW people claim you should keep on in the bathroom. This led to some... interesting conjecture on my part. Should I towel off with a ShamWOW for that lustrous, high gloss shine? Thumb my nose at the Cottonelle Folks? Please don't suggest that I wipe the tiles down after a shower. That would be like preventative cleaning or something, and would rob me of my way-cool, weekly Tilex high. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine a bathroom scenario involving a chamois, but I promise to be vigilant in making sure no imposters show up there. In case you are worried too, the genuine ShamWOWs are German. If your chamois isn't yelling, "Achtung!" or attempting to take over Europe, you've probably got an imitator.

If I didn't have enough to worry about with Armageddon and fake ShamWOWS, I watched The Rock Of Love Bus, too. I have to ask -- I can't help myself: Brett Michaels, really -- what the fuck?! What is your fascination with empty-headed skanks? And I have to wonder why young girls with fake breasts seem to favor clothing that is mammogram-tight. Where do these chicks come from? What do their moms think? I'd be horrified if FOW #2 had a head injury four years down the road and decided to be a drunken whore on television. Speaking of drinking, I really feel much better about mine, having watched this show. I was already smart enough to know ingesting anything with tequila and/or Red Bull is sort of the same as asking Satan if you could have a little nip of his urine, but it turns out that as long as I don't end up on VH1, I'm probably still able to call myself "functional."

[Author's NOTE: In copying and pasting from Word, Gather saw fit to ignore my italics and bolding. I'm pretty pissed... what, pray tell, is the sense in having the "ease" that function within the editor if it's just going to fuck everything all up, anyway?!]

Being A Girl

If you are the purveyor of a penis and you are squeamish about girl things in any way, stop now. I don't know how graphic I'm going to get just yet, but knowing me... well, yeah.

__________

Monday morning, I woke up and realized the bed next to me was empty. After a moment of the dis-remembered panic of "Sweet Jesus! What has he gotten himself into, now?!" everything came flooding back and I was relieved and delighted and able to squirm around in my bed looking for perfect combinations of warm, sleep-snuggled spots and cool, untouched sheet. Just about the time my left foot was reveling in the chill and the rest of me was purring with the contentment of warmth, I realized I had to pee.

Bad.

I was able to successfully put that off for approximately fifteen seconds longer, but there was a growing urgency to the situation, so I threw the covers back. momentarily mourned the evaporating of stored warmth and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I blindly grabbed for my glasses on the desk and stumbled into the bathroom. Since I tripped over neither child, dog, cat nor discarded article of clothing, I was thinking this was going to be a great day.

Except that when I sat on the toilet and let fly, I felt the unmistakable sensation that has plagued me, with some regularity, nearly once a month since I was fourteen years old: the woosh of tissue breaking free from my now-useless uterine walls, sliding down through my vagina and into the toilet bowl beneath me with a defeating and cruel certainty.

And I thought, Shit.

I have never enjoyed being a girl. It is ridiculously over-rated and full of pressures that, frankly, I just don't feel like rising to the challenge of meeting, let alone exceeding. I was totally hoodwinked by the romantic ideal of "becoming a woman" when I was younger. Now that, my friends, is a marketing campaign of unparalled genius. I was under the impression that once I hit "that" level of maturity, I would have cleavage, confidence and feminine wiles.

Didn't happen.

What I got, instead, were uncontrollable mood swings, pimples and and the sudden inability to ever wear white pants again. But I did, at least, expand my my wardrobe elsewhere: I got two sets of underwear (the "pretty ones" and the ones in the "I don't give a shit what happens to these" category.)

So on Monday morning, when I realized I was in for six days of complete and utter apathy shattered only by clumsy episodes, cotton-headedness and intense desires to set something -- anything -- on fire, I made one of those small gestures; one of the sort that will unravel the entire fabric of a day with a gentle tug.

I scratched my nose. And in doing so, I felt it: a small pimple. I leaned in, closer to the mirror to get a better look at this newest development and then realized I had other business to take care of, namely switching out of expensive panties and into the sort that may or may not end up looking as though they were used to tidy a murder scene -- you never can tell with me. That accomplished, I returned to face my whiteheaded adversary.

You know, God damn it, I am almost 40 years old and the presence of this thing on my face was almost too much to deal with. Actually, the fact that I am almost 40 years old makes me think that I am too old to have to deal with this sort of thing -- I should be able to trade plucking the disgustingly thick, single black hair that insists on sprouting from my chin once a month for zits. But, you know what? Life isn't fair, and I probably should have stopped my self-inspection there. But no! I am nothing, if not a glutton for punishment.

Speaking of the aforementioned chinny-chin-chin hair, I figured I might as well do some Re-con. It's been a couple of months since I yanked one, but I was able to give an all clear. I was surprised, but honestly -- I'd still rather deal with a monthly pluck than the bullshit of a break-out. And that should be good news, right? The idea that I am not turning into a man one whisker at time should be enough to put a smile on my face and send me staggering off to the kitchen for my much needed coffee and cigarette.

But, I figured, while I'm here and thinking about how old I am and about how all these crazy changes have overtaken my once youthful body, why not catalogue all of them?

And, see, here's the thing: One part of my brain was all for that, while another part was thinking that this was probably the worst idea I'd had recently, at least since the time I'd thought a Jagerbomb followed by a Burp and some shots of well whiskey were a fine way to spend a Saturday night. Yet still another part of my brain was just sort of begging me to go get some coffee. I knew the third part of my brain was trying to distract me and get my mind on something -- anything -- else, knowing my short attention span would effectively erase any intentions of returning to my inventory of What is Wrong With Me. The first part of my brain, the S&M side was all hopped up on hormonal waves, though, so it effectively kicked the crap out of the other two thirds and thus, the self-torture began.

In the span of about thirty-five seconds, I realized I need a haircut, I have visible and disgusting roots, as well as gray hairs that have multiplied like rabbits on Viagra. I have soft laugh lines around my eyes that I have never noticed before, and I seriously need to do something about my eyebrows before I earn myself the nickname, "Borgnine."

I was wicked high on hormones, and I wasn't going to let me get in my way of stopping the self-abuse. I went for the gold -- a full frontal assault on my own self-esteem. Without giving you too many details, let's just say that it almost seemed like I might have Tina Turner in a headlock, while sitting on Buckwheat's shoulders. I was also in the running for winning "Who Wants To Ruin a Razor" with my sexy Yeti-legs. Between a case of mild depression brought on by living with Satan's retarded younger brother and it just being winter, I had seriously let myself go. I fought my shame and called a day spa/salon combo a few blocks from my home, prepared to erase as much of the horror as possible.

Did you know there is no such thing as an emergency leg and bikini wax? I didn't. I thought the fact that I was completely irrational on the phone due to the extreme presence of extra femininity and a distinct lack of any kick-starting chemical substances bespoke of a person in severe need of the relaxing spa experience of having hair forcibly ripped from the most intimate and tender places on their person. Apparently in the dementia caused by the above two factors, I merely sounded like I was raving and I was hung up on. Repeatedly.

Well, whatever. Anything they can do for me, I can do half-assedly on my own. But first I needed coffee. Little known fact about making coffee when you are in the throes of absent-mindedness brought on by your period: without some Maxwell House in the handy-dandy brew basket, you can only make a pot of really tasty hot water. I tried again and got it right. But immediately after my first sip, I felt the toenails of a desperate Yorkie combing the lush locks of my calves and I almost cried when I realized I needed to put pants on. Putting pants on seemed like more of an effort than I could muster at that time, and I thought about just figuring out a way to trap him in the cat's litter box for fifteen minutes or so. I would like to tell you that I immediately dismissed this out of hand, but I have to admit that if I could have figured out a way to get it done that involved less effort than putting on pants, the title of this article would have been, "How I Litter Trained a Yorkie."

Monday was cold here on the prairie. It was gray and the sky spit rain on me and the damned dog decided that he was going to sniff every blade of grass, every tree trunk and every hubcap in the parking lot until he found the the one that met his descerning and exacting specifications and was deemed worthy of the four tablespoons of piss he'd stored up.

Five minutes into this process, a robin took a shit on me -- I suddenly had a quarter-sized dollop of warm, white bird-excrement dripping down my arm.

I did what any reasonable person would do: I threw up in the bushes.

The maintenance guy saw me. I think he thinks I drink all the time now.

I don't even know if the dog did his thing or not. I leaned down, picked him up and carried him back inside. I turned the shower on full blast, stepped in, rested my forehead against the tile wall and cried. It was a good cry, though. It expelled a lot of anger and frustration and it really did take the edge off of the hormonal high. Between the tears and the incredible amount of reconstruction work I had to do make myself appear like something less simian, I was kind of tired, so I got back under the covers thinking about a little nap.

Then the phone rang, and I ignored it. It stopped.

It rang again, and I ignored it. It stopped.

It rang again, and I ignored it. It stopped.

Hey? Are you guys picking up a pattern here? Yeah -- me too. I thought it was a pretty easy one to catch on to, myself. I wasn't going to answer the telephone no matter how often whomever insisted on calling back. I've admitted this before: it practically takes an Act of Congress to get me to answer a ringing telephone and this instance was no different than any other. Then my cell phone went off, and I glanced at it. My older sister was calling and I thought, It figures. It just fucking figures. She's gotten herself into some easily avoided mess like she always does and now I'm supposed to fix it. For your edification, "fixing it" usually involves throwing enough money at a problem until it disappears. This seems to be the bulk of my inheiritance from my parents. And this instance was no different than any other time: In spite of the fact she has a fully functioning gauge on her car, could I please go to QuikTrip and get her some gasoline and bring it to her?

Oh, and she'd pay me for it on Friday.

Getting a can of gasoline requires pants, too. You'd think, of all people, I wouldn't have such a problem or issue with pants, but that's just my Internet Persona. In real life, I'm big on oversized tee-shirts and slouchy shorts. I basically only wear pants if I'm leaving the house. So I searched the laundry pile for a pair of pants that were suitable for wearing to the convenience store when your dumbass older sister runs out of gas and strands her moronic self in her own driveway. The sort of pants required for that, by the way, are vastly different than the sort of pants you wear to walk a dog until a bird shits on you and you throw up. Dog/Robin/Puke pants are yoga pants with a two year old coffee stain on the right leg that refuses to give up the ghost no matter how often you wash them. And I wasn't going to put on CLEAN pants for a simple run to the QuikTrip. I finally found a pair of jeans that didn't have any beer stains and pulled them on. That's when I realized I was bloated.

I was Dora The Fucking Explorer in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Bloated. I was distended and extended and while I could get them halfway zipped, no way was the button going to function as a button. So I pulled a trick I haven't pulled since I first moved to Kansas and was lying to myself about gaining 20 pounds. I found a ponytail hickey (I hate to use such technical terminology without a footnote, but if you don't know what is, ask a girl. Just makes sure that you ask again if the girl you choose to ask immediately says, "Scrunchie." This is not a Scrunchie. This is a ponytail hickey. Any girl who isn't really a post-op tranny knows the difference.)

So, I found the ponytail hickey and looped it through the buttonhole of my jeans. I then stretched it over and around the button of my jeans enough so that my pants stayed in their correct place and I was not "ghetto dippin'." I put on a really big sweatshirt I appropriated from Mr. Right , 1999, grabbed my purse and ran to the car.

Except when I started the car, I realized that I'd left my cellphone on the bed when I'd hung up with my sister. So, I left the car running and unlocked, with my purse splayed open on the passenger's seat and ran back into the apartment, grabbed my phone and ran back through the apartment, hoping I still had both a car and a purse. But when I opened the door to leave my apartment, a funny thing happened. Time stood still while I (even more ungainly than usual,) went headlong through the breezeway outside of my door. I watched, fascinated, while my not-quite-six-month-old and uninsured Motorola Razr flew in slo-mo through the air, landing with a gunshot crack of doom on the cement approximately five feet from where I stood, confuddled and confused, and trying to figure out why I had hurled my phone. I glanced down and discovered that in the space of time that it took me to fetch my cell, some mainstreamed IDIOT had delivered my new YellowBook directly in front of my door -- and just in time for me to stumble over it in my haste, too.

My groan and muttered, Fan-fucking-TASTIC echoed in the empty breezeway as I crouched over my phone, knowing it was too late for anything other than maybe a priest. I grabbed the battery, the battery cover and went to grab for the body of the phone, except that I tried to stand up all at the same time and when I did, I forgot my pants-issue. The teeth of the zipper bit into the tender flesh of my bloated belly and I gave a yelp and jerked, phone sailing through the air and then skipping across the concrete of the front sidewalk five times before coming to rest not all that far from where I'd hurled earlier.

Honestly, if I could have just curled up in a ball in the breezeway, I would have. I really wanted crouch in the shadows like an abused and abandoned dog, snarling and growling and snapping at the maintenance guy who thinks I'm a drunk. But I had to get my sister her gas and now I had to go to the phone store, too. Again, I point out to you: Life isn't fair.

I got my sister's problem dispatched with relative ease, especially after I informed her she was returning the loaner gas can. This almost became an argument between us, but when she started to whine about how long it had taken me to get there and how she was late enough for work as it was, I merely raised my sweatshirt and gave her a glimpse of shining white menstrual pooch and she shut her mouth, fast. I started to pretend that my bloated belly had superpowers, after that. For the entire ride to the phone store, I had crazy fantasies of using it (only for good, mind you,) against anybody that got in my way yesterday. It probably made me more assertive, to a certain extent, while I was dealing with world's oldest T-Mobile Employee who was under the misguided impression that he was the crankiest thing in pants in the KC Metro. I argued him down on cost, but the old coot wouldn't budge on letting me have the rebate, too. I thought about using my Bloat Power, but there were young children -- girls, no less -- around. I didn't want to take away from the anticipated & mysterious joys of becoming part of the Woman Club. So I took my new Nokia phone and I drove home.

Once I was pantsless again and situated in my office (my bed,) I logged onto Gather and with one glance at my front page, it all came clear again. I am a mere mortal, forced to suffer the whims of the machine. But this isn't the best week to fuck with me too hard. You never know when I'll put on some pants and fuck back.

First "Ferryman" Installment

Sometimes, I can do nothing more than close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing as the veil rends and lifts away. Rarely is that ever enough to stop my tears. In truth, they are your tears, and the tears of your loved ones as they leave you. I am neither angel, nor demon; not heaven sent nor hell-bound. I simply am, in a way your earthly mind cannot grasp and worse still, chases away as Impossible.

My own time in your world comes only to me in fragments -- the scent of a perfume, heady with orchids, dabbed seductively behind the woman's ear in my embrace, music swirling languid around us. It is the scratch of a father's beard, the smell of earth and worry, heavy upon him. And sometimes, it is the solid sureness of a three year old frightened and curled against me like a cat, wild curls tickling my chin. I often wonder if these are my memories or yours, and I honestly cannot remember. I fear if I knew of my own time, the heartbreak of memory would be too much to bear. But the flashes I get seep into me like cool water and warm light as I walk the Dead away from all they've known and into a dark where they've never been. It is my charge to keep them safe, to tamp down their choking panic and, most importantly, brush the wisps of your grief and loss from them. If I did not sweep clear the cobwebs of you, the separation would be incomplete, and they would move neither forward nor back. Worse, still -- you would be trapped, as well; manacled and immobile in a world where you do not belong.

The Dying see me in whatever form their security takes on; a prairie grandmother dead for decades, with floured hands and a tired smile; the dog that scampered in the creek with their childhood selves, catching crayfish and feeling free in the way only children do. A middle-aged man once whispered into my embrace as I pulled him from a wrecked Saab, "Are you The Silver Surfer?" and I felt him, long ago, alone and lonely, beneath a blanket in a bunk-bed, while a drunken mother raged a room away about a faithless man and fairness. Thus I became for him what he believed in, the aegis of safety he'd desired when the surge of his emotions was at its strongest. Miles away, and in the present time, his wife felt the change in the air, immutable and implacable, that nothing would ever be right again.

Yes, The Dying see me, but you -- the living -- feel me, and for the many years I have done this duty, that has been the worst of my regret: that my presence muddles time, makes it feel slow and sodden, impossible to navigate for the grieving. Your clocks seem to move slower as time stretches, bleak and barren, along a path of grief, of hurt. I wish there was something I could do to ease that, for of the few emotions I can feel, Compassion is chief among them. While my priority is the Dead, I must also be careful of the living.

You must know this: No one dies without being mourned. This is something you do not believe -- maybe cannot -- because, in earthly terms, there are such things as "evil" and "wrong." But on the other side, well... every murderer had a mother, just as every sainted mother has a son.

SQOTD: 2 November '09, Rules and Randomness

Well, that was as much fun as I remember it. But things have changed in SQOTD-Land. It is with a heavy heart and crippling sadness that I must inform you that eBay has made it so that I can no longer right click copy the pictures of the prizes and post them in the body of the article (not that I even know that Blogger would let me... or how I would go about doing that on the off-chance that the technology exists here. I'm not what you would call, Freakin' Amazing when it comes to UIs and such. I sort of muddle along and, like a really autistic pig, happen upon a shiny truffle.)

Where were we? Oh, yes. I was about to announce our winner and provide you with the link to the prize. Since we can't have a picture and I are one of them writers, for fun, sport, profit and brain exercise I will describe the prize to you before I link the eBay posting in. This way, you don't have to to visit the link unless you want to, and I take another baby-step in my 40 (so far) year plan of staving off Alzheimer's Disease.

We all win, no?

Okay, the first official winner of the New Stupid Question of the Day (Now 50% SQOTDier!) is...

[Drumroll here]

Aniko! I think she's going by Aniko here. Whatever; Aniko wins... and this is a doozy of a prize, if I do say so myself.

We have, for the lovely Aniko, according to the item listing a "Snoopy an Duck Popato." For our purposes here, let's absolutely assume they mean a "potato." I am currently flipping between the editor tab and the picture of the prize, and I have to tell you something... I fucking HATE myself for offering to describe this prize first. Fucking Hemingway would be at a loss for words -- if I'm lyin', I'm dyin'.

Okay, here goes... the "Snoopy" half of this dynamic spud duo looks nothing like Charlie Brown's beloved canine companion -- and it's kind of strange to describe him that way, 'cause you rarely see Snoopy anywhere near Mr. C. Brown. Isn't that weird? Did anybody else ever notice that? Is this some sort of, like, "dog ownership of convenience" -- maybe Snoopy is Canadian but needs to be in the country so he and Charlie Brown have struck a deal. Or Charlie Brown adopted Snoopy and after they spent some time together, they just discovered they didn't have much in common, but they're used to each other; you know, like every relationship I've had in the last ten years. They aren't great, but they're better than sleeping alone?

I don't even know. I'm now all wrapped up in the dysfunctional relationship Charlie Brown and Snoopy have and that ain't describing the damned potato. Whatever. Just trust me -- that potato looks nothing like Snoopy. It looks like two potatoes stacked on top of each other.

Now, the other potato does look, remarkably like a duck-shaped potato, and that's kind of cool.

And, once again, my plans are somewhat foiled, because I was gonna be all, like, stealthy and cool and award this to Aniko as a super-special prize; it would be like giving her both Doyle and Duckie (DUCKIE!!)

But the stupid not-Snoopy potato ruined it. Dammit. Here -- see for yourself.

Enjoy your potatoes, Aniko -- and everybody should, like me, get all wrapped up and entranced with the description the seller has left ("Here is a Snoopy and a duck popato.")

God, I hate people. Go to the trouble of photographing a not-Snoopy-looking-potato and a pretty decent Duck-looking potato, but don't fucking proofread yourself. Somebody's been dipping in the Dumbass Jar.

Anyway, all yours, Aniko!

_______________________

It occurs to me that we might need a refresher course on Stupid Question of The Day Rules and Etiquette. First of all, using your brain is perfectly acceptable. Failing to answer the question is also completely kosher. Hell, like threadjacking, it's freakin' encouraged.

Being Stupid is not -- and bitching about how "not nice" an answer is or "how mean" someone is will get you nothing but ridiculed. If you're looking for "gentle" or "polite," you'll probably want one of those blogs with kittens on the page or something with "scrapbooking" in the title. That ain't my bag, dolls and daddy-os.

Don't piss people off. The best you could hope for in that instance is being ignored. The worst, well... just don't do it. And if someone hurts your wittle feewings, don't come crying to me. I'm no Jean Dixon, but I can tell you right now that I won't care.

DO NOT NECROMANCE A POST WITH AN ANSWER! I can't stress this enough. First of all, you'll look like the biggest Douchey McTool ever (Hey -- look at me! I'm entering a contest that's over!!Eleventy-one!!!) and secondly, if I have to wander back somewhere for something other than the continuation of a good conversation, I'ma be hella pissed. Review that: Continuing conversation = Great. Answering When It's Over = DUMBASSERY.

No over-use of 'net speak. LOL, ROFL, and the like are fine in small doses, but if you're relying on them to be your entire comment, you're in the wrong place. Use your big boy/girl words -- and we're a grown-up group, so you can drop an F-bomb, if it makes sense to. Cussing a blue streak for the sake of cussing a blue streak is kind of, um... Stupid and you should save that shit for your two minute break between English and P.E.

As always, winning answers are chosen using a super-secret, scientific method (i.e., in a completely, random, arbitrary fashion. It's my fucking questions and while I'll entertain your suggestions, ultimately -- if I'm tickled, you win.)

Prizes generally are culled from eBay, but I'll accept suggestions from the audience if you PM the to me somehow (I think you can do that here; I don't know.) Prizes should be SUPER-WTF?!-flavored. If I can't find anything sufficiently odd, I've been known to hand out titles (which is why we have Official Ninjas, Bell Ringers, Moonshiners, a psychic and... uh, does anybody remember their title? If so, weigh in with them, please.) I'll also accept suggestions for SQOTDs. I don't repeat (or I try not to -- no promises, though. I've done a fair amount of these in the past, so...)

Finally, brand new SQOTDS generally happen Monday through Friday, and less often if I don't feel like it. We'll see -- again, no promises. One of the most important things to remember is that the comment threads are often more entertaining than the actual slop that I toss out (unless I get a jalapeno stuck in my nose, or something happens at the Casa D'Pants, but we can't always count on that.)

I think those are all of them. If you old timers can remember any that I've forgot, leave 'em in a comment.

___________________

And your latest SQOTD, which is an oldie but a goodie and more "suggestion" than "question:

Lay a crazy non seqitur on me now. Whatever -- something completely random. Bonus points awarded randomly.

____________

GODDAMMIT! Just as I was about to post this, I popped back over to the popatos, and found out bidding had ended. Trust me -- that fucking potato looked NOTHING like Snoopy. To make up for it, I will offer this to Aniko:

It's the best I could do since eBay jacked me. *Sigh*

Ahh, business as usual at the SQOTD!

SQOTD: Halloween '09 Edition

By popular demand, I'm gonna trot this old pony into the ring and see if it still knows any tricks ... No promises, but I'll entertain the idea of resurrecting the daily Stupid Question of the Day and myself in the process.

I don't know that I have an actual article to wrap around a Stupid Question today. For the first time in a long time, let's do some Hangover Math: Beer(Granola Bar + 4 Crackers) + Suddenly Shitfaced = Rookie Mistake.

Let's just hit up a question.

___________

As a kid, what was the one kind of candy you hated to see in your Trick-or-Treat haul?

And, GO!