Cops and Knives
Current mood: thirsty
Category: Travel and Places

 COPS AND KNIVES

About two weeks ago I was assigned the task of delivering my in-laws to the airport.  They were about to embark on their annual trek across the pond where they would pick up their dilapidated RV and spend two months tooling around western Europe.  Despite their misgivings about the absolute worthlessness of the U.S. dollar, they loaded their 8,000-lbs of luggage into their white 2000 Grand Marquis and tossed me the keys for our 2-hour trip to Logan Airport in Boston.  I spent the earlier part of the day driving from New York City to western Connecticut, battling traffic on I-95 in New Haven, then cruising north to Hartford and taking a right to the easternmost portion of the Nutmeg State, arriving just in time to change cars and continue my drive to Boston so I could immediately turn around and drive back home so I could collapse and dream of driving some more.   I offered to pack them and their luggage into my Prius but they didn't want me to waste my gas on them.  They would much rather blast a few extra tons of carbon into the atmosphere since they won't be around much longer anyway.  I was too tired to argue so we all slid into the white whale and headed off toward Beantown. 
 
Now I must admit, the Grand Marquis is a luxury automobile.  Big, sleek, smooth, and powerful, like my ex-sister in-law (except the car is clean and white, and she isn't so smooth!).  The major drawback about driving this machine is my father in-law.  It's not that he's a back seat driver or anything like that, I love the guy to death (I have more than once, we're very close)..  It's more due to the fact that he is what you might call a "pack rat".  By "pack" I mean he collects all kinds of junk, and by "rat" I mean, constantly.  To put things in perspective, think of some item or object, anything at all in the entire universe.  Chances are pretty good that he either has one, or at the very least he has some pieces of whatever item you're thinking of (or several pieces of various ones).  He keeps this vast collection on display all over Connecticut, down the eastern seaboard to Florida, and most likely spread across most European countries.  This includes a two-car garage that nobody has been able to get into for several years since it has reached maximum capacity, several small boats that are apparently only used to store stripped bolts, screws, miscellaneous fasteners and broken bungee cords, and a fishing vessel that nobody has seen for many years most likely because it sank under the weight of scrap pieces of lumber and defunct coffee makers.   And for some reason, he seems to leave a trail of toothpicks wherever he goes.  Every time I drive his car I reach to change the radio station or to pick up some spare change and immediately draw back my injured hand to reveal something impaled underneath my fingernail.  It's always quite an adventure, and this trip was no different.

The drive to the airport went seamlessly enough.  Despite the usual bickering between the two of them about what airline they were flying and if they were serving food or not, and then almost leaving their plane tickets at the highway rest stop, we managed to make it to our destination, relatively alive.   This was despite the nerve wracking drive through the airport tunnel which, shortly after its completion three years ago, a portion of the ceiling collapsed upon a passing motorist crushing them in a most unfavorable way (it killed them all the way dead).  No matter.  We ignored the GPS-prompted instructions which were directing us to turn into the Charles River, and I pulled the modern machine up to the curb for the unloading area and deposited my in-laws with their luggage, watching as thousands of toothpicks and stray shards of Styrofoam spilled out of the car in the process.  We said our goodbyes and such and I was quickly on my way again.

Since I had been on a steady intake of caffeine for the past 23 hours, I decided to try for an alternate means of staying conscious for the return trip.  Luckily I was able to locate a package containing a set of books on tape amongst the myriad of printed receipts and bottle caps.  It was Nevil Shute's, "In the Wet" read over what appeared to be a series of 48 cassette tapes.   The tape set looked like it was lifted from the Tampa Library and was several years overdue.  I battled to get the tape oriented in the car's cassette deck, dodging stray toothpicks in the process, and various flashing dashboard lights screaming at me to add washer fluid, and one that I swear was calling for a top off of "Metamucil".  Shortly after sitting through the 10-minute scratchy audio introduction, the narrative began and I came to the realization that despite the provocative title, this was not going to be an erotic thriller.  Damn you, Mr. Shute!

Soon I found myself travelling back through the ill-fated tunnel whilst struggling with the cassette deck once again as I had already become bored with the audio entertainment endeavor.   As I approached the first bend, I peered up from the entertainment center out over the dashboard of my travelling retirement home just in time to see a State cruiser parked in the shoulder and a trooper, complete with that hilarious hat, pointing a radar gun at my hand and using his free hand to motion at me to pull over to the side with the other half-dozen motoring flies he snagged in his little web.  Apparently, despite being a fucking highway, the speed limit is only 45-mph through the tunnel (for my non-US friends that is the metric equivalent of 72 parseks, or whatever unit of measure you freaks use now).  As I eased the white whale over to the breakdown lane I immediately knew that my adventure had just begun.  As I waited for the funny-hat-wearing-officer to approach the car, the fear crept up from somewhere below my pancreas up through my esophagus and eventually lodged in my frontal lobe.  I wasn't concerned about getting a ticket, even though I drive about 60,000-miles per year (that's 890,000 gravulams per drixel to you non-Americans), often at high rates of speed, I rarely get pulled over, so one ticket wasn't too big of a deal.  My major item of consternation was the fact that I was going to have to trudge through the glove compartment to search for the registration and insurance card without being up to date on my tetanus shots.  As the cop man approached, I could hear my heartbeat race and hoped that he didn't notice the hot copy of "In the Wet" splayed across the passenger seat.  That would be a tough one to explain in the joint, getting picked up for grand theft audio book.  There's nothing bad-ass about that.  The cop sauntered up to the driver's side and I reached for the power window button to roll it down.  I only winced a little bit and nonchalantly removed the freshly installed toothpick fragment from under my fingernail.  As I applied pressure to stave off the bleeding, the uniformed authority figure offered the inevitable request, "license, registration, and insurance."  I didn't attempt to point out that he didn't, in fact, ask a question or request the aforementioned items; he merely uttered a random list of things.  Finding my license was no problem, although the long-haired bearded person in the photo did not resemble the recently sheared, clean shaven, exhausted individual currently residing in the travelling junk show caravan before him.  I silently groaned as a leaned across the seat to open the glove compartment, praying to Buddha that the latch wasn't somehow wedged on a stray fishing lure or other random object preventing it from opening.  Much to my surprise, the compartment popped open with ease.  My surprise immediately turned to horror as the avalanche began its uncontrolled assault on the car's interior.  It was as if the glove compartment was able to hold more volume than the entire trunk, rear seating area, and Poland combined!  Amongst the flotsam and jetsam that exploded from what surely must have been packed in the engine compartment, a complete set of carving knives spilled onto the floor and front seat, followed by an opened package of steak knives!  Why the fuck does he drive around with a complete set of butcher's cutlery?!  Perhaps it is in case he hits a deer and needs to carve it up and cram it into the glove compartment piece by piece.  As I tried to cover the sharp implements with stray papers, books, and articles of torn clothing, I was amazed that I was able to locate the insurance card relatively quickly.  As I spent what seemed like the next three weeks rummaging through random receipts, post-it notes, and "2 for 1" coupons, I stumbled upon what looked like it could be a registration card.  I handed it over to the growingly impatient officer with a silent smugness of victory.  I had dodged a bullet.  That sense of relief lasted a little more than a nanosecond when he handed it back to me and informed me that it expired over a year ago.  Godfuckingdamnit!  Now I had to venture back into the fray and use up my potential for winning the lottery for luck on finding a second, current registration amid this Hiroshima on wheels.  Two leap years later, I found it.  As I passed the data sheet over to the officer, my hands were shaking uncontrollably and were now steadily bleeding having been transformed into a sadist modern art sculpture of toothpicks and raw flesh.  Something worthy of a German museum, and not a reputable one.   The cop took a cursory glance at the card and handed it back again saying, "this one's expired, too".    "That's inconceivable!" I said.  "Why would I have two of the same expired registrations in the car?" I was losing a lot of blood at this point and things were starting to go blurry.  For a split second I thought of reaching for one of the larger knives buried six inches away from me, waving it a the cop, and burning out of there.  Fortunately the officer had failed to notice the cache of weaponry and was transfixed on the amount of inventory still flowing out of the glove box.  I knew I didn't have enough energy or plasma left to move that quickly.  After debating with the officer for a few minutes, I was able to convince him that the registration actually stated that the expiration dated was January 2009, not 2008 as he had stated.  I pointed out that the "9" was just smudged to look like an "8" because someone had apparently bled all over it.  The officer was either convinced, or had given up waiting and he carried the card back to his cruiser, holding it by one corner at arms reach as if it were a recently used diaper.  As I waited for him to return with my door prize, I fought of the urge to pass out and used my time to check under the brake pedal for a tennis ball or some other item that might result in another incident down the road.    After a few moments (much less time than it took me to located the registration), the trooper returned to my window and presented my with my $200 fine (I think that's the equivalent of about 3 Euro at this point).  I took back the registration and insurance cards and crammed them back with the expired ones.  I left the knives out until I got away from the law man.  As I pulled back out onto the 45-mph highway, exhausted, bloody, broke, and dizzy, I thought that I'd give Nevil Shute another chance.  It didn't get any better.

3:15 PM - 61 Comments - 50 Kudos - Add Comment

Another Tag, Another Hit of Mescaline
Category: Music

Another Tag, Another Hit of Mescaline.

Once again, I’ve been hit with the MySpace virus that is known as "tagging". This time I’ve been challenged by Ms. Montana Montana-Dana, (aka Alicia Billings) to reach into my dark, belligerent past and spew out my favorite top 5 albums of all time. Since I am committed to honoring at least one out of every 6 tags that is sent my way, I figured I had an obligation to at least attempt this one. For this exercise I forced myself to be locked in a room with my entire record/cd/cassette/reel-to-reel collection with nothing else but a small pre-school type stereo, a bottle of Wild Turkey, and a colostomy bag. The following list is the result of an in-depth analysis of all things musical.

Now I know upon first inspection everyone has pretty much pinned me as a super rolling Gospel music freak, and of course you would be correct in that assertion. My musical tastes are not entirely limited to Gospel, however. I enjoy a wide array of melodic stylings from Gregorian chants to Swedish Yodeling to the bass-thumping urban angst-filled rhythms of John Tesh. Which brings me to my number 5 pick:

BUTCH YELTON and UPBOUND – SWING THAT GOSPEL AXE

Upbound has seamlessly joined two of my favorite things: An undying devotion to the spreading of Christ’s good Word through the miracle of song, and the gruesome intolerance of non-believers resulting in the inevitable bloodbath that is the purging of all non-Christians. You can’t miss when your axe is guided by the Almighty. Highlights on this album include "Crackin’ Skulls for Christ" and "Bleedin’ for Jesus". This album really got me through some hard times, although their live show gave me recurring nightmares for years.

In keeping with the axe-wielding theme, this next album is definitely among my all-time favorite "Desert-Island Discs". It is of course the penultimate masterpiece of that truck-driving, harmonica playing, working-class hero, Huey Lewis:

HUEY LEWIS and the NEWS – FORE

To quote Patrick Batman’s most articulate music review, "Their early work was a little too new wave for my tastes, but when Sports came out in ’83, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically. The whole album has a clear, crisp sound, and a new sheen of consummate professionalism that really gives the songs a big boost. He’s been compared to Elvis Costello, but I think Huey has a far more bitter, cynical sense of humor."

Why don’t I just let Mr. Bateman explain it.

This next album needs no explanation as I am sure it is on everyone’s list of favorites, no matter what your musical tastes, shoe size, or lubricant preference.

PADDY ROBERTS – SONGS for GAY DOGS

I’ve had to replace my copy of this album on more than one occasion due to extreme overplaying. Here’s a little known fact, this album syncs up perfectly with the movie "Natural Born Killers", it’s truly uncanny!

My next choice for top albums is yet another with a spiritual theme. This one features the velvety crooning of none other than Mr. Oderus Urungus, supported by the sensual picking of Flattus Maximus and the dulcet rhythms of Beefcake the Mighty and Jizmak da Gusha. Of course I can be describing none other than the beauty know as GWAR:

GWAR – SCUMDOGS of the UNIVERSE

This album will always be held in a special place in my heart, lodged between my love for Pez and my left ventricle. "Scumdogs" is easily Gwar’s most varied musical creation, a true panoply of imagery ranging from the playful "Maggots" to the slightly reticent "Black and Huge" to the Everyman epic "Sick of You". If I may quote from Alica’s blog of the same subject, "I’m 75% sure I lost my virginity to this one." If you haven’t had the privilege of attending a Gwar show, it can only be described as a religious experience. Here is but a taste of one of their pastoral Psalms.

Now the above list is not in any particular order, and I do realize that there are only 4 albums listed, however, this exercise has done the following:

1) left me completely and utterly exhausted;

2) resulted in me questioning my choice of upholstery for the den; and,

3) made me realize that I am out of Wild Turkey.

As a result I will have to leave the list incomplete, perhaps to be revisited at another time. As for the people that I am tagging, I have sent your tag notices either telepathically or by small letter bombs. Enjoy.

-MaltedAlgae

Currently listening : Heaven Is for Easy Girls By The Awkward Stage Release date: 10 October, 2006

7:57 AM - 61 Comments - 48 Kudos - Add Comment

Fun Things To Do On a Ski Lift
Current mood: pirate
Category: Travel and Places

  FUN THINGS TO DO ON A SKI LIFT

My recent ski trip started with a long drive up through Vermont on unlit back roads to located the rental house set far enough off the beaten path where one could conduct regular ritual sacrifices outside without any fear of the neighbors complaining (we all know what a hassle that is).  Anyway, it gave me a chance to meet the group that I would be skiing with the next couple of days.  I had only met 1 out of the 7 previously so we immediately proceeded to consume mass quantities of Scotch and VT-produced ale.  The next morning we headed off to the mountain still unfamiliar with each other, at least in a semi-sober state.  After a couple of runs I found myself on a chairlift with 3 other people that I had just met the night before.  We were getting along great despite my penchant for foul language and I decided to use the situation to make everyone uncomfortable and have some fun.  The lift takes about 8.5 minutes to reach the summit so I had to move quickly.  Once everyone had sufficiently caught their breath from the just completed run and the heavy breathing had died down, I made my move.  I looked around at everyone and announced in an entirely serious tone,

"Now that we have these 8 minutes together, I wanted to take this opportunity to talk to all of you about the wondrous joys and grand experience that is found in Scientology." 

The faces of my skiing companions immediately exhibited the look of sheer terror as they struggled for comprehension of what had just happened and they searched my face for any sign of gravity.  I realized that any extended silence would cause me to break out in hysterical laughter so I plodded on. 

"I know you may think that Scientology is some crazy Hollywood cult headed by Tom Cruise, but that's just the result of constant media attacks because they are afraid of what the Scientologist know.  We are the holders of the ultimate truths.  L. Ron Hubbard was a visionary, a true leader and a remarkable spiritual entity.  He captured what happiness consists of and made us all aware that depression and sorrow were brought about by outside forces that we and the Church of Scientology could ultimately destroy.  I have some literature back at the house and I was thinking tonight we could site around the fire and discuss." 

By now 2 of my chair mates looked to be considering the option of leaping off the lift and risking the 50 foot fall to the icy surface below.  It took every ounce of intestinal fortitude that I had to keep from snorting out a mighty guffaw.  It wasn't until their panic stricken faces turned to countenances of nausea that I let them off the hook.  Just in time to be greeting by the arctic winds and ice pellets that found every uncovered part of our face while unloading from the lift at the summit.  "I'm just fucking with you, I'm really a Satanist."

For the record, I have pulled this stunt on other occasions as well, sometimes with subtle changes like, "I'd like to talk to you about Jesus".  It works particularly well on gondolas with 8 people or so since they are forced to site directly across from you and have trouble looking away.  I found that an 8.5 minute ride is the longest timeframe in which you can pull this off without injury.  Any longer than that and people's self preservation instincts tend to kick in and then you have a full fledged flying mutiny on your hands.  Although, with some careful wording and nuance, you can try this out on an airplane since it's another vessel that people can't leave.   Just make sure you have the aisle seat and can keep them trapped by the window without access to a parachute or a firearm. 

Currently reading : Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health By L. Ron Hubbard Release date: 01 September, 2002

11:01 AM - 51 Comments - 44 Kudos - Add Comment

Outing People on MySpace
Current mood: Melba

It's been a while since I've posted anything. I'd like to say it's because I've been too busy lately, but that's only partially true. The real reason for this lack of on-line ramblings of a desultory nature is the fact that I'm not very fond of any of you. There, I said it. We all know that the internet, MySpace in particular, is a tool that people use to hide their true identity and masquerade as someone, or something else. In some cases people go so far as to develop several different identities on different home pages, a true case of electronic multiple personality disorder syndrome. Then there's the classic case of the fat, bald, middle-aged man cloaked as a sex-starved 18-year old girl who seeks pleasure in luring other balding losers so he can feel better about his lack of social (or any other) intercourse.

My point, you're all a bunch of phonies. I include myself in that description as my profile pic (and this may come as a shock to you all) is not actually an accurate depiction of myself. Also my listed age changes on a day to day basis to fit my mood. So, now that I've bared my soul to you all, I thought I'd take this opportunity to share some information about some others. At the risk of pulling a Kitty Kelley, or even a Truman Capote on my inner circle, I view it as my responsibility, nay my duty as a MySpace citizen to expose you people for what you are. Brace yourself for the utter truth, warts and all, about your fellow on-line gawkers you refer to as "Friends".

Next up, Rev. Joseph Qelqoth. Having convincingly fooled everyone else by his blogs that he is a sadomasochist, coprologic, autoasphyxiation enthusiast, he has not pulled the proverbial wool (with skin attached as it was savagely ripped from a barely alive ovine) over my eyes! The Rev. is in actuality an over-stimulated 12-year old girl who, in addition to being a latch-key kid as a result of a broken home, also bears the stigma of a rather gruesome harelip. The Rev. spends her nights cruising the internet for companionship after making sure her step-mom is sufficiently incapacitated having fixed her nightly cocktail of chloroform, Flintstones vitamins, and wheat germ.

Currently reading : Jonathan Livingston Seagull Release date: 1970

5:14 PM - 63 Comments - 56 Kudos - Add Comment

My Big Toe
Current mood: calm

I broke my toe. Ow, ow, ouch, fucking OW!  That hurts.  Fuck!

Currently listening : Flamejob By The Cramps Release date: 11 October, 1994

3:46 PM - 14 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Bag It, Tag It, Sell It To the Butcher In the Store

Fucking Tagged.

 
I have been bestowed upon the honor of being "tagged" by the Queen of the Termites herself, Ms. ~PATRICIA~.  After repeated attempts by her to coerce me into these inane MySpace high jinks have been met with my flippant denials, I feel that I must oblige her with this simple request.  Her house was just fumigated, for fuck's sake and she's probably still tipsy from the bug poison. 

Apparently since I have been tagged I must provide a list of 8 random things about myself or else a pox be upon me until the end of my days.  I subsequently must infect 8 more people with the tagged virus so they may curse my name and place a hex on me.  This is a no-win situation for me.  But I digress, as I am prone to do.  That dog has a curly tail!

So, let us begin.  The following list is being submitted for the purpose of complying with the aforementioned tagged request.  Enjoy:

Now, for the other 8 people, you know who you are.  Go forth and wreak havoc.  But first have some green tea.

Don't trust whitey.

-MaltedAlgae

Currently listening : Chant By Gregorian Chant Release date: 15 March, 1994

4:05 PM - 16 Comments - 13 Kudos - Add Comment

Mullets and Cretins

As I said, the trip wasn't all bad.  I will refrain from the actual travel portion at this time for that is an entirely different kettle of fish (and who keeps fish in a kettle?).  When traveling to the Tampa area I usually take the opportunity to visit the Salvador Dali museum in St. Petersburg which is enjoyable even without the benefit of LSD (although I do recommend the latter, even if you don't go the museum).  And it's also customary to get violently sunburned on the first day of the trip so as to not be able to move any joints or sit down for fear of leaving large amounts of skin behind resulting in a body-wide Gorbachev-like birthmark.  Also, it is always fun to travel on the Florida highway-system since it seems that the roads and interchanges were designed by an Alzheimer's patient in the throes of an ether binge.  They are not so much lanes as much as they are general suggested directions of travel without the benefit of information signs, or even exit ramps.  There motto seems to be, "if you don't live here, you won't get to where you're going, and if you do live here, please clear the intersection."    

What struck me as most enjoyable on this journey were the many comical and inane signs that we saw while traveling on the aforementioned sinuous helter-skelter merry go round that is the Florida highway system.  These observations were inevitably followed by my wife and I turning to each other and simultaneously asking, "Did that sign just say what I think it said?"   Then we would dismiss it by thinking that surely it said something else only to pass by later and say in unison, "holy fuck, it does say that!"  We often say things in unison much to the chagrin of everyone else in the general vicinity, including ourselves.  I've taken to saying things at random for the sole purpose of avoiding our collective statements.  For no apparent reason I will shout "James K. Polk" or "Gay Bikers on Acid" just so we don't blurt out the same thing.  I fear that one day she will say the same random phrase and I will be forced to murder her with a herring. 

Let me just point out that it would be useful to have pictures of the signs and other things from our trip but alas, that is not our custom.  We have a routine where we meticulously check to make sure that we have the camera to bring with us, plenty of charged batteries, cords, etc.  We go out of our way to ensure that the camera is in the car and/or travel bag wherever we go for the sole purpose of not taking any actual photos.  It's something that we have become rather proficient at.

But I digress, as I am prone to do.  There were two signs that struck me as particularly odd when coupled with the immediate visual imagery.  The first was a hand-painted sign in front of a generic storefront alongside a main road which, I kid you not, in big black and red block lettering read the following:

 "MULLETS FOR SALE"

Again, a photograph would be helpful but as I stated earlier that is far outside of our belief system.  Anyway, it took a few moments before I realized that they must have been referring to the fish, of the family Mugilidae, a habitant of temperate and tropical waters which looks something like this:

Of course, my initial image was that of the popular hairstyle sported by such 1980's superstars as Billy Ray Cyrus, and, well, rednecks. (If I've offended anybody by that label then fuck off, you're a redneck!)  That's why it momentarily puzzled me to see that they were offered for sale, for fear that they may be in style again.  Actually, I never verified that they were, in fact, pedaling fish, perhaps they really were selling mullets.  (This is now my nightmare, replacing Elmo sodomizing Ruth Bader Ginsberg to the tune of "Rio".)  Imagine you too could walk into this unsuspecting edifice and strut out sporting this fashionable coiffure:

Looking good, Jethro!

The other sign was one that we passed more than once per day on our way to and from my brother in-law's house.  It stood atop a pole adjacent to a basic brick and mortar structure which apparently housed some type of reception hall.  An illuminated board with one-foot high black lettering advertised the following:

 "CRETAN CULTURAL CENTER"

Again, it was a few moments before my cough-syrup addled brain settled upon the spelling of the word "Cretan" enough to realize that it referenced a pleasant sect of Greek descendents.  I was much more focused on the "Cretin" spelling which reflects a similar pronunciation.  I mean, who needs culture more than a group of cretins?  One might think that the proprietors, for fear of avoidance, would change the name to "Greek Cultural Center", or something with a less dreadful visual connotation.  What kind of cultural center would a Cretin attend?  I for one would avoid the valet parking, although the mixers might be entertaining.  Once again, a photograph would offer proof of its existence, so you'll have to trust me, or not.  Screw you.  Now please excuse me while I attempt to peel a piece of sunburned skin off my leg which appears to be the exact size and shape of the California 48^th Congressional District.

Currently listening : A Night with Don Ho By Don Ho Release date: 12 June, 2002

1:26 PM - 12 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

the Text Message

I received a text message on my phone today.  This, by itself, was not out of the ordinary as I commonly receive text messages regarding items that could just as easily be addressed via a phone call.  The beauty of the text approach is that it can be accomplished at an additional nominal fee.  A cursory review of this particular message forced me to reread it as I was almost certain that I had processed the string of typewritten characters incorrectly.  A second pass through brought me to the realization that this message was not meant for me.  It was soon readily apparent that I had inadvertently intercepted a text message clearly intended for another cell phone user, of which there are more than a few.  The message read as follows:

 "Need to get new shirt I just made a big mess give me a few xtra".

I did not recognize the number of the enigmatic sender, but this did not stop me from trying to decipher what the meaning of the message was.  A few xtra?  A few xtra what?  Minutes?  Shirts?  Dollars?  Kicks to the groin?  And what was the cause of the "big mess"?  Perhaps it was massive blood staining from a stab wound, or a platypus autopsy.  Or maybe, just maybe it was the result of a case of Worcestershire sauce falling off a passing truck onto the texter.   That would certainly be messy, and also potentially bloody.  Maybe that's why it stopped abruptly at the end, since they were sure to have passed out after suffering such traumatic blood loss, combined with an overdose of Worcestershire sauce.   I'm starting to think that was the only possible scenario.  Although the platypus autopsy also has its merits.

Whatever the reason, and whoever the intended recipient was, I simply don't care.  I had other more pressings items on my agenda that required my unrestrained, focused attention, such as "where did Karen put the coffee filters?" and "who's office was I standing in at that moment? "  Whosever it was reeked of curry and pine needles.  But despite the chaotic battle of the universe taking place in my head, I felt compelled to text a reply to the originator of this cryptic scribble.  (Note the use of italics as I am still not fully comfortable using the word text as a verb.  I can almost use tivoed now in a sentence without suffering from an acid reflux episode.)  No, I had an obligation to counter as I'm certain the sender was eagerly waiting a reply.  After mulling it over for a total of 16 nanoseconds, like a giant typing out a memo on a miniature typewriter, I punched in this response:

"Take all you need, money is no object.  By the way, I just found out this morning that I have Herpes, you should get yourself tested."

I pressed "Send".  After a number of flashes and incoherent dots and graphics, the little screen read "Message Sent Successfully".  I found the coffee filters and received no other text messages the rest of the day.  I assume they are long dead now.  That poor platypus.

Currently listening : 5,000,000 By Dread Zeppelin Release date: 07 May, 1991

8:01 PM - 17 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

41 Days

There are times, rare as they may be, when all seems right with the world.  Today is one of those days.  First, after eighty-seven straight days of rain, according to my calculations, we are having a precipitation free day and the floodwaters are beginning to recede.  The mud is not as deep, the horses are not sinking, and the weather is dare I say, pleasant.  Second, I escaped from the office early today and retreated home to complete my workday (translation, no more work is getting done today, by me anyway).  Third, our esteemed Attorney General got his taint handed to him yesterday by a bipartisan group of Senators which included the 1,827-year old Arlen Spector.  The panel seemed to provide him with 4 options: resign from office; have the President respectfully can his ass; commit suicide; or, release him to the angry mob gathering outside.  I would be satisfied with the combination of any 2 of the above scenarios.  The Virginia Tech massacre does take away from the glorious day when my conscience catches up with me, but that will still be there tomorrow.  For the time being I can sit on my deck and watch as the birds fight over the available real-estate in my backyard, and smoke crack.  Light 'em up!

Currently listening : The Woman I Am: The Definitive Collection By Helen Reddy Release date: 02 May, 2006

12:54 PM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

the Box

(A schmaltzy one, I know.   Part of a short story in progress, so you can respectfully fuck off. )

 
As I looked up from my plate smothered in mole sauce attempting to ignore the fact that this lunch was going to cost more than my first two semesters in college, I glanced out the window down from my aerie onto 9^th Avenue.  A myriad of people marched along in a sort of orderly chaos as they traipsed to and fro in front of Lincoln Center, a cultural beacon jutting out of the surrounding concrete jungle.  People watching is a time honored, tailored art.  The viewer must keep a casual eye upon the crowd and be careful not to linger on any individual for too long lest they be mistaken for a stalker.  There is a fine line between a casual observer and the piercing stare of a psychopath.  Direct eye contact is instant death and can mark you as a sex offender for the rest of your natural life.  The fact that you were merely trying to read the slogan on someone's shirt is immaterial and would never be admissible in court.  From my perch, however, I felt my anonymity was relatively secure.  What I noticed immediately were more than a few people carrying various instruments, individually, not as a united group or band.  It took me a few moments to realize that the entrance to the Juilliard School was in Lincoln Center and that a concentration of violas and oboes in this region was not an odd occurrence at all.  What was most fascinating was to see multiple cellos being carted across town.  From my observations I surmised that there is no casual way to carry a cello on the street.  The owner can attempt to be as laid back as possible, but in the end they might as well be dragging a dead mastodon down the sidewalk.

As I watched the various people going about their business on this Friday afternoon, my eyes happened upon a woman pushing a stroller with two small children accompanied by a young boy.  I followed this little family outing as they approached the intersection of 9^th Avenue and West 62^nd Street.  The little boy was carrying a cardboard box, approximately 6-inches by 15-inches in size, which from my vantage point appeared to be devoid of contents.  Despite its lack of cargo, the boy cradled the case as if it contained something of great value or highly volatile in nature such as plutonium.  Where would he find plutonium in this neighborhood, I wondered?  I'm not sure why I found this quartet interesting, but my attention remained focused on them as the advanced to the crosswalk.  As the woman, presumably the mother, collected her children as they waited for the 3-second walk signal, a fascinating piece of street theater commenced.  Suddenly, without any visible warning the woman snatched up the carton away from the toddler.  She held it up and dangled it just out of reach of the boy, now visibly distressed, as he jumped after it like a puppy springing after a ball.  The woman carried the box while she dragged the stroller backwards toward the trash can as the boy bounced after her in protest.  The debate continued around the trash can as the boy attempted to reason with his tormentor.  I had already violated the three-second rule but didn't care.  I knew I would have to follow this play to the final scene. 

It was then that I began to wonder what could have possibly been the chain of events which led up to this stand off.  Was the boy somehow using the carton to taunt pedestrians as he traveled along the sidewalk?  Was this denial of box possession something that was alluded to in previous discussions between the mother and child?  Was there some previous warning or was there some previous deal the articles of which the boy violated?  And where did the box come from and why was it obviously so important to this now nearly hysterical child?  Did it previously contain something dear to him such as a loved pet?  Were they coming back from the park where they had released his turtle to the wild?  Or were they returning from the vet's office after putting down his pet hamster that had developed a rather large tumor?  Or was it a box that he found during their Friday afternoon stroll and had some grand plans for it?  Was it going to be a storage vessel for his various precious mementos that he had collected over his short lifetime?  A box to hold his baby teeth, trading cards, the crisp new ten dollar bill he got from his Aunt for his birthday?  Perhaps in later years used to house his increasingly perverse collection of pornography?  What a sick little bastard!  To amass that much German dungeon porn at his age, honestly!

The argument, now imaginably quite heated, continued on the sidewalk around the garbage can on the busy New York street.  For a moment the child seemed to have placated his mother with his discerning reasoning.  Somehow he was presenting a cogent argument as to why he and he alone should be the keeper of this corrugated bin.  As he presented his counterproposal to the discarding of his precious box, she stood with arms akimbo, still clutching the carton as the two girls in the stroller attempted they own production of the wave as the stroller bounced precariously close to the edge of the curb within inches of the M11 bus route.  It was difficult to determine if the girls were upset or joyous as they flailed about like two seat-belted carp out of water, gasping for oxygen.  Quickly the tables turned and it appeared that the boy was now on the losing side of the debate as the woman resumed her suspension of the prize out of his range.  But then just as suddenly, and most unexpectedly, she relented.  Slowly she lowered the container and spoke briefly, but with noticeable conviction, before she slowly handed the box over to the boy.  What had won her over?  Did the young lad cede to a string of promises such as cleaning his room everyday, being nice to his sisters, forgoing his allowance for a month?  Not doing that disgusting thing when company was around?  (The Wendells have not even spoken to us since then!) Did he blindly agree to any demands or conditions his mother had laid out as long as he was allowed to keep his beautiful cardboard box? 

I'll never know what kind of deal was mediated between them.  I witnessed as the boy carefully reached out to accept his prize from his adversary, cautious as cradled the box to his chest.  His countenance of contempt and anger was immediately replaced by utter joy and elation.  He paused for a moment to cherish his treasure and inspected it closely for damage while his former torturer turned her attention to the flailing toddlers in the bouncing stroller as it teetered on the curb seconds away from certain death.  The family, united in harmony once again, resumed their stroll toward the intersection and immediately continued through the crosswalk and past the Fordham entrance and seconds later was assimilated into the melee of the city street traffic.  My last view of the boy showed him utterly euphoric as he pondered limitless possibilities of his future with the box.  It is quite possible that this was one of the happiest moments of his life so far and potentially on of the happiest moments he will ever have.  All was right with the world, he and his box together in perfect harmony.  I imagined what would become of the box.  Would it become lost among the flotsam of his room after he rescinded his previous oath to keep it tidy?  Would it be stored under the bed and forgotten only to be found a year later or would it not even survive as far as the upcoming weekend.  Would the argument resume before they reached their final destination and despite the boy's logically compelling argument, would his cretinous mother follow through with her threat of destruction before the Friday sun even set?  Or would the box shelter something so precious to the boy that he retained it into his final years and held it in his bed as he exhaled his final breath and left this material world?   I don't know.  I tried to remember back when I reached for my box, at times victorious and other times crushed by the cruelty of my tyrannous mother and the hate-filled world that surrounded me.  My attention returned to the interior of the restaurant and back to my half-eaten enchiladas and looked around in search of the fire exits.  Finding none, my pulse quickened as I realized that a "dine and dash" scenario was not likely to be successful.  I glanced back at the street hoping to witness another dramatic episode but the stage was now too busied to focus on any one event.  Too many actors were overlapping each others scenes.  The sky was overcast, threatening rain as I mapped out our escape route from the city.

Currently listening : Always Was, Is, and Always Shall Be By G.G. Allin & The Jabbers Release date: 30 April, 1998

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