"Disbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business."
-Tom Robbins
I wonder...a lot. Questioning everything, including my own questions. Scrutinizing the left-brain reverence handed to me by the people before me. Does rational thought take you to the end? Does status-quo satiate? Do I fall in line not knowing where the front of it is leading, or do I take myself there, letting others jump on and off as they dare like a cable car.
New thought struggles to form beneath the murky dirt of conscious concepts. It fights, squirming through the debris of societal manure heaped upon us with the belief that its mass-approved logical makeup fertilizes our minds. And it does, though therein lies the problem... it feeds the flavorless, chewed up and indistinguishable yak clogging our engagement with a reality just outside the grasp of rationale. Break free! Push through the layers of murk to rise and meet the sun... let inspiration drip from your brow and adventure breath through every pore.
Any thought that's not disruptive is plagiarism (I plagiarized that) yet we slather brick upon brick with repetitive thought and box ourselves in to avoid tipping over the glass and disrupting the party. Tip the glass! In fact chuck it altogether and promise to only gulp mouthfuls straight from cold mountain streams. That's where the only true thoughts exist: floating sediments suspended in watery motion, dislodged from the earth's womb and thrown into the world for us to catch on our tongues. To taste. To savor. To consume will unbridled anticipation and wonderment of something bigger then we can ever begin to imagine or explain away with that dirty word "logic".
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Hi Kettle...Pot Here...You're Black.
Dating is mired with double-standards. Do as I say not as I do'isms. Flirting is not "flirting" when it's you who innocently chatted up some random,inadvertently sharing dirty jokes with him at the bar. But heaven have mercy if some gal bats her eyelashes within a mile of your man or some jerkoff has the nerve to buy a Duck Fart for your lady; faces flare red as blood boils and steam comes out the ears, head nearing combustion.
My personal get-the-hackles-up grievance of the moment is the female-focused misanthrope, who tosses a good ol' double scoop of double standards onto the fairer sex. And by "fairer" I don't mean more socially just, because it's often other women who are the first to persecute their own sex. Classic case of mindlessly swallowing the Adam and Eve parable, where by "that woman", with one fell swoop, ruined man's life.
In dating it's an annoyance, but in marriage it takes on a whole other realm of unpalatable. Take this example: married man engages outside of his marriage with a single lass in flirtatious conversation. So who bares the scarlet letter? Well, it doesn't go well with his sports jacket so we're gonna go with option number two, Bob. Who incidentally isn't the one who made the vow of monogamy. But, after all, he has a penis and was drinking. For those of you who failed math, let me map out the mathematically proven equation for you: (Penis + drink x uncontrollable lust)+ attractive female = Homewreckin' Harlot (also know by Santana as "Black Magic Woman").
My favorite regurgitated line is "Well, he didn't really want to get married to begin with". OH! I forgot about the finely printed infidelity due to unhappiness clause at the bottom of the marriage contract.
If I hear one more friend padding their male friend's/partner's behavior with another lame ass excuse relinquishing him of personal responsibility, I think I'll feed myself that tempting poison apple. After all, I'm a woman. I have a whole bushel of 'em.
My personal get-the-hackles-up grievance of the moment is the female-focused misanthrope, who tosses a good ol' double scoop of double standards onto the fairer sex. And by "fairer" I don't mean more socially just, because it's often other women who are the first to persecute their own sex. Classic case of mindlessly swallowing the Adam and Eve parable, where by "that woman", with one fell swoop, ruined man's life.
In dating it's an annoyance, but in marriage it takes on a whole other realm of unpalatable. Take this example: married man engages outside of his marriage with a single lass in flirtatious conversation. So who bares the scarlet letter? Well, it doesn't go well with his sports jacket so we're gonna go with option number two, Bob. Who incidentally isn't the one who made the vow of monogamy. But, after all, he has a penis and was drinking. For those of you who failed math, let me map out the mathematically proven equation for you: (Penis + drink x uncontrollable lust)+ attractive female = Homewreckin' Harlot (also know by Santana as "Black Magic Woman").
My favorite regurgitated line is "Well, he didn't really want to get married to begin with". OH! I forgot about the finely printed infidelity due to unhappiness clause at the bottom of the marriage contract.
If I hear one more friend padding their male friend's/partner's behavior with another lame ass excuse relinquishing him of personal responsibility, I think I'll feed myself that tempting poison apple. After all, I'm a woman. I have a whole bushel of 'em.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Gift Horse
"Don't look one in the mouth," my mother always instructed, referring to the infamous gift horse that as a child I always wondered when it would arrive. Would it be wrapped in a bow at my door? What about a pony--do they come in gift ponies? Where the hell would we keep it? The garage was packed to the gills, full of left-over pieces of wood from deconstruction projects my mother never finished, an old refrigerator that housed her boyfriend's agricultural "experiment" and two roll-away tool chests.
The pony/horse never came. But as time passed and bitterness shed, I came into a deeper realization of her intended meaning. Gratitude.
Which leads me to the subject of the homeless. I've heard grumbles and complaints, funnily enough from those with houses and jobs and not from those without, preceding wishes that they'd be eradicated from our city streets. Perhaps relocated to a more fitting (read: not in my way) setting.
But these street sleepers and corner panhandlers are my personal gift horse. Their unrestrained compliments, sometimes hard to decipher through the slurs, are like sweet nectar to a parched heart.
Like the charming gent who popped out from behind a dumpster to tell me that he wanted to call my mother. "OOOO, girl...I need to call your momma and thank her for your sweet ass." Then he snagged a piece of french fry stuck to his fro, popped it in his mouth and disappeared like a angel sent only to wish me well.
Or the old man who sat by the bus stop and watched me pass every morning as he breathed heavily through his lengthy labyrinth of tubing hooked to a portable oxygen concentrator. "Yer the girl who was here yesterday in that green dress," he remembered as I stood there, waiting.
"Good memory," I praised.
"Outstanding legs," he said with a lingering up-down eye sweep.
I beamed. Outstanding legs, god dammit--I have them!
Yesterday I rushed out the back door of my office building, exiting into the alleyway. "Busted!" declared a jovial voice. I peeked in the doorway kitty-corner to mine and I'll be damned if there wasn't a gift horse sitting right there, this one baring weed.
"Busted smoking reefer and drinking Guinness," he chortled, waving his right hand towards a dark brown glass bottle of beer while the other hung on loosely to a half-smoked joint. "I may be homeless but I still have class!" He pulled his sunglasses down his nose and peeked out from under his blue and white striped conductor hat, staring at me. He narrowed his eyes, the weed making them almost already shut as it were. "You want some reefer? It's good stuff...just sitting here, watching the clouds. Enjoying the good life, ya know."
Yah, I did know. And it never leaves you without a gift horse, the good life. There's one every where you look. Just refrain from looking in its mouth.
The pony/horse never came. But as time passed and bitterness shed, I came into a deeper realization of her intended meaning. Gratitude.
Which leads me to the subject of the homeless. I've heard grumbles and complaints, funnily enough from those with houses and jobs and not from those without, preceding wishes that they'd be eradicated from our city streets. Perhaps relocated to a more fitting (read: not in my way) setting.
But these street sleepers and corner panhandlers are my personal gift horse. Their unrestrained compliments, sometimes hard to decipher through the slurs, are like sweet nectar to a parched heart.
Like the charming gent who popped out from behind a dumpster to tell me that he wanted to call my mother. "OOOO, girl...I need to call your momma and thank her for your sweet ass." Then he snagged a piece of french fry stuck to his fro, popped it in his mouth and disappeared like a angel sent only to wish me well.
Or the old man who sat by the bus stop and watched me pass every morning as he breathed heavily through his lengthy labyrinth of tubing hooked to a portable oxygen concentrator. "Yer the girl who was here yesterday in that green dress," he remembered as I stood there, waiting.
"Good memory," I praised.
"Outstanding legs," he said with a lingering up-down eye sweep.
I beamed. Outstanding legs, god dammit--I have them!
Yesterday I rushed out the back door of my office building, exiting into the alleyway. "Busted!" declared a jovial voice. I peeked in the doorway kitty-corner to mine and I'll be damned if there wasn't a gift horse sitting right there, this one baring weed.
"Busted smoking reefer and drinking Guinness," he chortled, waving his right hand towards a dark brown glass bottle of beer while the other hung on loosely to a half-smoked joint. "I may be homeless but I still have class!" He pulled his sunglasses down his nose and peeked out from under his blue and white striped conductor hat, staring at me. He narrowed his eyes, the weed making them almost already shut as it were. "You want some reefer? It's good stuff...just sitting here, watching the clouds. Enjoying the good life, ya know."
Yah, I did know. And it never leaves you without a gift horse, the good life. There's one every where you look. Just refrain from looking in its mouth.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Nice Shoes...Where'd You Get 'Em?
I walked into my floor's bathroom at work the other day. It's 10am and of the two stalls, one is occupied. I always feel a small wave of pity for the person who thought they'd perfectly time their toilet usage, squeezing between the 9:30am post-coffee rush and the 11:30am making-room-for-lunch herd. It's not hard to guess the scenario--the dead silence from their frozen frame (because if they're veeewy, veeewy quiet you'll never know they're squatting behind the stall door) paradoxically heightens their presence tenfold. The feet planted firmly on the floor as if they're bracing for a biggun don't help either.
I think they even stop breathing at this point, like I'm the toilet Gestapo about to make an arrest and one false move could mean death by humiliation. And depending on my mood, I either try to help them out by peeing fiercely fast, no dallying around or anything to extenuate their misery and potentially lead to their own asphyxiation, or -- if my evil side is at the wheel -- I pick my teeth in the mirror or hum while carefully folding a swath of toilet paper into a crane, enjoying my right to breath loudly next to them.
Then I'll mentally entertain conversation starters to volley over the stall wall.
"Do you know a good doctor by any chance?"
"So this 80 year-old man and a platypus walk into this bar, you see..."
"Wow, who would have thought Red Bull and Indian curry didn't mix well!"
"I'm stuck on 23 across...What's a five letter word for 'Montezuma's Revenge'?"
"Hover or sit--which is it?"
Which ever way you slice it, I feel wrong not saying something. Maybe it's the awkwardness of sharing such intimate space with someone whose name you don't know, let alone whose face you can't see. It's like having sex with someone without even having shaken a hand first. Cart before horse kind of situation. That's why I'm going to start stuffing my pockets full of business cards. I'll casually slip one across the cool linoleum floor, the smooth flourish speaking to my ease and grace. Just in case you wondered who you were shitting next to... By the way, I just love that shade of toenail polish. What is it--vermilion?
I think they even stop breathing at this point, like I'm the toilet Gestapo about to make an arrest and one false move could mean death by humiliation. And depending on my mood, I either try to help them out by peeing fiercely fast, no dallying around or anything to extenuate their misery and potentially lead to their own asphyxiation, or -- if my evil side is at the wheel -- I pick my teeth in the mirror or hum while carefully folding a swath of toilet paper into a crane, enjoying my right to breath loudly next to them.
Then I'll mentally entertain conversation starters to volley over the stall wall.
"Do you know a good doctor by any chance?"
"So this 80 year-old man and a platypus walk into this bar, you see..."
"Wow, who would have thought Red Bull and Indian curry didn't mix well!"
"I'm stuck on 23 across...What's a five letter word for 'Montezuma's Revenge'?"
"Hover or sit--which is it?"
Which ever way you slice it, I feel wrong not saying something. Maybe it's the awkwardness of sharing such intimate space with someone whose name you don't know, let alone whose face you can't see. It's like having sex with someone without even having shaken a hand first. Cart before horse kind of situation. That's why I'm going to start stuffing my pockets full of business cards. I'll casually slip one across the cool linoleum floor, the smooth flourish speaking to my ease and grace. Just in case you wondered who you were shitting next to... By the way, I just love that shade of toenail polish. What is it--vermilion?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Pole cat
I determined, 18 hours ago, that I could not be famous. Not due to lack of ability or amazing talent *ahem*, but for the pure simple, undeniable physiological reason that...I'm a bruiser.
Lord knows why but, despite my staunch belief in high standards of mental stimulation, I succumb to shit journalism on a regular basis (celebrity buzz mostly). With such regularity, in fact, it's like I'm mainlining Metamucil. While undertaking such mind-dumbing research with the senseless commitment of a crow pecking at a shiny scrap in the middle of the road, I noticed a common trait in all these covertly taken snapshots: perfection.
A scratch, scabbed-over wound or blue-hued bruise were all but impossible to find amongst the star-studded shots. Then there's me. I walk to the fridge to refresh my drink and stumble back to the couch, knee nicked from whacking the coffee table and arm scratched by a piece of plastic jutting from the fridge when I unsuspectingly reached into its vicious mouth. So this begs the question: What are these people doing? Do they sit, frozen in fear, knowing that one false move could mar their blemish-free epidermis and lower their box-office draw? Is that the real reason behind their personal assistant's existence? Not laziness or an over-inflated sense of entitlement as we'd believe, but because they are victims of their own stature, forced to use daily stand-ins for life's blows? "Man, you should see poor Jennifer Aniston's assistant--bruises all over the girl! You'd think she was beaten for buying Aquafina instead of a SmartWater!"
This weekend I also learned that stripper is not in my career cards. And definitely not, as I established, a famous one. Mid-Saturday morning hike, following a brief spin on a pole the night before (another story for another time), I halted and looked in horror at the now solid blue of my inner left leg. My mind raced. Had I brushed against a blue-painted post? Cut off circulation to my leg? Squashed a smurf?
No.
No.
And only that one time I did 'shrooms.
It was seven bruises merging into one giant representation of why I am not a dancer by trade. Not about to be defeated by a pole of any sort, one week later I try my hand with one of the fishing variety. Small and wielding to my desires, this was one pole I would defeat. Until a fish bit. At which point the rod spurred its butt into my left hip, bracing against the halibut on the line, my face melting into an interpretation of Munch's "The Scream" as my reeling arm generated enough heat to melt the butter I'd later cook the fish in. I knew before even landing the damn creature that my capillaries were bursting under my skin, hatching battle plans to launch the impending bruise that would consume my left side.
Two nights later, a sauced yet curious gent at the bar inquired if I smoked pole. I looked him square in the eye and said that I would not, in no uncertain terms, touch any pole, lest of all with a ten foot pole, lest of all consider smoking it. God only knows what that would bruise.
Lord knows why but, despite my staunch belief in high standards of mental stimulation, I succumb to shit journalism on a regular basis (celebrity buzz mostly). With such regularity, in fact, it's like I'm mainlining Metamucil. While undertaking such mind-dumbing research with the senseless commitment of a crow pecking at a shiny scrap in the middle of the road, I noticed a common trait in all these covertly taken snapshots: perfection.
A scratch, scabbed-over wound or blue-hued bruise were all but impossible to find amongst the star-studded shots. Then there's me. I walk to the fridge to refresh my drink and stumble back to the couch, knee nicked from whacking the coffee table and arm scratched by a piece of plastic jutting from the fridge when I unsuspectingly reached into its vicious mouth. So this begs the question: What are these people doing? Do they sit, frozen in fear, knowing that one false move could mar their blemish-free epidermis and lower their box-office draw? Is that the real reason behind their personal assistant's existence? Not laziness or an over-inflated sense of entitlement as we'd believe, but because they are victims of their own stature, forced to use daily stand-ins for life's blows? "Man, you should see poor Jennifer Aniston's assistant--bruises all over the girl! You'd think she was beaten for buying Aquafina instead of a SmartWater!"
This weekend I also learned that stripper is not in my career cards. And definitely not, as I established, a famous one. Mid-Saturday morning hike, following a brief spin on a pole the night before (another story for another time), I halted and looked in horror at the now solid blue of my inner left leg. My mind raced. Had I brushed against a blue-painted post? Cut off circulation to my leg? Squashed a smurf?
No.
No.
And only that one time I did 'shrooms.
It was seven bruises merging into one giant representation of why I am not a dancer by trade. Not about to be defeated by a pole of any sort, one week later I try my hand with one of the fishing variety. Small and wielding to my desires, this was one pole I would defeat. Until a fish bit. At which point the rod spurred its butt into my left hip, bracing against the halibut on the line, my face melting into an interpretation of Munch's "The Scream" as my reeling arm generated enough heat to melt the butter I'd later cook the fish in. I knew before even landing the damn creature that my capillaries were bursting under my skin, hatching battle plans to launch the impending bruise that would consume my left side.
Two nights later, a sauced yet curious gent at the bar inquired if I smoked pole. I looked him square in the eye and said that I would not, in no uncertain terms, touch any pole, lest of all with a ten foot pole, lest of all consider smoking it. God only knows what that would bruise.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Bailout Fail
Interesting lunch excursion to WAMU, now known as Chase. They were renovating. The question “Why?” crossed my mind. Here we have a financial giant who begged for a bailout and now they’re hanging new drapes (figuratively, not literally since that’s not part of the “look”). Was something wrong with the building? No, a WAMU representative confirmed. It was just time to give it the Chase stamp and an ol’ heave-ho to the WAMU layout…to the tune of half a million dollars.
So I try to wrap my head around this bailout spending plan. Chase was given a $25 billion bailout. Assuming they’ve kept all 2,239 WAMU branches they obtained and will rebrand each branch at $.5 million, this equals $1,119,500,000. That’s $1.1 billion spent on redesigning a building that was renovated by WAMU in recent years and had NO structural or electrical problems. In other words, $500,000 wasted, per branch, on changing the layout so it has the Chase “look and feel”.
This is like your daughter borrowing $800 to pay her rent then going to the mall and buying a new pair of jeans because she needed something to match the top she got a month ago...when she has five other pairs in perfect condition stacked in her dresser drawer.
Frankly, I’m not sure establishing a bank is Chase-owned is the best route at the moment. I might be more inclined to hand my money over to a guy with a handwritten sign saying “Bank” taped to his Dodge van. And he doesn’t even require I write out a deposit slip.
So I try to wrap my head around this bailout spending plan. Chase was given a $25 billion bailout. Assuming they’ve kept all 2,239 WAMU branches they obtained and will rebrand each branch at $.5 million, this equals $1,119,500,000. That’s $1.1 billion spent on redesigning a building that was renovated by WAMU in recent years and had NO structural or electrical problems. In other words, $500,000 wasted, per branch, on changing the layout so it has the Chase “look and feel”.
This is like your daughter borrowing $800 to pay her rent then going to the mall and buying a new pair of jeans because she needed something to match the top she got a month ago...when she has five other pairs in perfect condition stacked in her dresser drawer.
Frankly, I’m not sure establishing a bank is Chase-owned is the best route at the moment. I might be more inclined to hand my money over to a guy with a handwritten sign saying “Bank” taped to his Dodge van. And he doesn’t even require I write out a deposit slip.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Waiting
My doctor's waiting room cracks me up. I can't help it, and even though I know it's perverse to find a place where the sick and miserable congress "funny", it's like the beginning of bad joke. So a guy with an eye patch walks into a doctor's office...
Squeezed in between the medical posters reminding us to wash our hands and get our shots, the drab walls are covered with giant images framed in white oak: rolling hills with fading red barn, flowering meadows with glacial creek, and crisp waterfall crashing on mossy rocks. Below this sits a young girl, black stocking cap pulled tightly over head as she slumps in the chair with her belly hanging over jeans, scratching madly at her forearm. The beautification attempt stops with the hung art, as if the interior decorator froze mid stream, throwing her hands in the air, crying "I cannot vork in dees mizerable conditions!" fleeing in artistic anguish. The nurses would have shook their heads and clucked their tongues at such delicate sensitivities--she didn't even get past the waiting room let alone step near a bed pan.
The second part of the joke is the budding social scene that withers before it blooms. Think! All these people in one room, elbow to elbow, and not one word is said to your neighbor or is one number even exchanged. I've gotten in more conversations while waiting in line with my legs crossed after eating a sausage that didn't agree with me, praying I didn't shit my pants before the second quarter started, than I do here. I can imagine the social hour enfolding as we idly wait for our appointments. Gentleman A leans over to gentle lady B, coughing lightly to rouse her attention, which the undiscerning ear might hear as only an attempt to clear the phlegm. "Excuse me," he starts. "I couldn't help noticing that your eyes, behind the puffy red exterior, are exquisite." She flushes -- perhaps flattered, perhaps feverish -- and after agreeing to connect post lab results, Cupid puffs his chest with pride. Another match made!
Instead of plundering this treasure trove, we as a group unanimously choose not to acknowledge the person wheezing next to us. Though I've never donned camo fatigues and picked ducks from the sky in my life, my nose is buried in "Gun Dog" magazine with unbreakable concentration. The man next to me is studying "Good Housekeeping" with such fascination I'm compelled to do a nut check. Just to make sure. But really it's all luck of the draw in the reading material rotation. There's always the magazine that we all want to read but won't because the guy who put it down as he trudged his way towards the nurse calling his name from a clipboard didn't look too good. So there sits "People Magazine", its cover's promise of a tell-all "Who's sleeping with whom in Hollywood" teasing us as we eye it from afar, seeing if anyone else dare approach it. Then in walks a newbie, fresh from the elevator. She can barely contain her look of triumph -- the Holy Grail of waiting rooms, there for the taking! She has something we don't. Yes, we all concur in silence. Yes, you do. A nice case of hepatitis B with onset Molluscum contagiosum compliments of the leper who just left the room. We smirk into our magazines that we secretly wish we weren't reading, and I snuggle deep into my hard, merciless chair, contentedly flipping the page of my clean copy of "Gun Dog". Any why I do declare! If this wasn't the best damn article on coon hound training tips I ever read, I don't know what is.
Squeezed in between the medical posters reminding us to wash our hands and get our shots, the drab walls are covered with giant images framed in white oak: rolling hills with fading red barn, flowering meadows with glacial creek, and crisp waterfall crashing on mossy rocks. Below this sits a young girl, black stocking cap pulled tightly over head as she slumps in the chair with her belly hanging over jeans, scratching madly at her forearm. The beautification attempt stops with the hung art, as if the interior decorator froze mid stream, throwing her hands in the air, crying "I cannot vork in dees mizerable conditions!" fleeing in artistic anguish. The nurses would have shook their heads and clucked their tongues at such delicate sensitivities--she didn't even get past the waiting room let alone step near a bed pan.
The second part of the joke is the budding social scene that withers before it blooms. Think! All these people in one room, elbow to elbow, and not one word is said to your neighbor or is one number even exchanged. I've gotten in more conversations while waiting in line with my legs crossed after eating a sausage that didn't agree with me, praying I didn't shit my pants before the second quarter started, than I do here. I can imagine the social hour enfolding as we idly wait for our appointments. Gentleman A leans over to gentle lady B, coughing lightly to rouse her attention, which the undiscerning ear might hear as only an attempt to clear the phlegm. "Excuse me," he starts. "I couldn't help noticing that your eyes, behind the puffy red exterior, are exquisite." She flushes -- perhaps flattered, perhaps feverish -- and after agreeing to connect post lab results, Cupid puffs his chest with pride. Another match made!
Instead of plundering this treasure trove, we as a group unanimously choose not to acknowledge the person wheezing next to us. Though I've never donned camo fatigues and picked ducks from the sky in my life, my nose is buried in "Gun Dog" magazine with unbreakable concentration. The man next to me is studying "Good Housekeeping" with such fascination I'm compelled to do a nut check. Just to make sure. But really it's all luck of the draw in the reading material rotation. There's always the magazine that we all want to read but won't because the guy who put it down as he trudged his way towards the nurse calling his name from a clipboard didn't look too good. So there sits "People Magazine", its cover's promise of a tell-all "Who's sleeping with whom in Hollywood" teasing us as we eye it from afar, seeing if anyone else dare approach it. Then in walks a newbie, fresh from the elevator. She can barely contain her look of triumph -- the Holy Grail of waiting rooms, there for the taking! She has something we don't. Yes, we all concur in silence. Yes, you do. A nice case of hepatitis B with onset Molluscum contagiosum compliments of the leper who just left the room. We smirk into our magazines that we secretly wish we weren't reading, and I snuggle deep into my hard, merciless chair, contentedly flipping the page of my clean copy of "Gun Dog". Any why I do declare! If this wasn't the best damn article on coon hound training tips I ever read, I don't know what is.
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