A couple of weeks ago I told Ken that we are having a weight loss contest. See, we both joined WW last year, but havn't been really serious. We've decided that it is time to get focused, so I issued the challenge.
Drum roll please…..
Ken: Loss of 3.4 lbs
Vicky: Loss of 3.6 lbs
And, I’m winning….
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Toes... Toes... Toes...
Can I just start by saying that the word looks wrong? "Toes." Is it really spelled that way? I mean, if someone tows your car, they...
Okay. Okay. Fine.
Anyway, I figured I should come clean. I mean, my 41st year has been the year of the loser, so far and, as my mom asked when I called her this morning, "How could it get worse?" (A rock, that woman.)
The thing is, Vicky is sure that I've broken something. I, on the other hand, am sure that we cannot afford medical bills, which means that I most certainly did not.
So, then, why are my toes all black and blue (two of them, at least) and why do three of them not want to move so much?
... Iranian terrorists?
... probably not.
Seriously, I'm thinking it's soft tissue damage. I learned a lot about medicine during my 15-year incarceration and I know my toes are moving enough to show that they're probably still in one piece. I also know that the day after an injury always looks and feels worse than the day of. Anyway, it could be a lot worse. The way I fell - which was pretty much straight down like a cut marionette - I could have dislocated, broken, smashed, or just generally fucked up a lot of parts. Three toes (again, that just looks wrong) ain't so bad!
What Vicky hasn't thought about - and here's my real concern - is how could my leg have been that much asleep? I mean, I got a big, old ham for a leg. What could have put it under?
The obvious answer: blood clot. Yep. Blood clot. I figure I'm due for a massive aneurysm inside of a week. That's it. It's traveling up my body right now, laughing all the way to the cerebral cortex, empowered by every girl I ever dated and their subsequent disdain. If my last word is "Rosa", you know who to blame.
Anyway, Vicky is threatening me with a doctor's visit - just like as if I was eight years old, I swear - if I'm not up and hobbling in the next few days. So, I've decided to start some serious icing. No, not like on a Cinnabon (drooooooooooooooooooool!), I mean like ice-cold icing. I did it this morning. Actually got freezer burn. My middle toe was frozen solid and, when I flexed my foot, I flipped myself off.
I wonder if it's trying to tell me something?
Okay. Okay. Fine.
Anyway, I figured I should come clean. I mean, my 41st year has been the year of the loser, so far and, as my mom asked when I called her this morning, "How could it get worse?" (A rock, that woman.)
The thing is, Vicky is sure that I've broken something. I, on the other hand, am sure that we cannot afford medical bills, which means that I most certainly did not.
So, then, why are my toes all black and blue (two of them, at least) and why do three of them not want to move so much?
... Iranian terrorists?
... probably not.
Seriously, I'm thinking it's soft tissue damage. I learned a lot about medicine during my 15-year incarceration and I know my toes are moving enough to show that they're probably still in one piece. I also know that the day after an injury always looks and feels worse than the day of. Anyway, it could be a lot worse. The way I fell - which was pretty much straight down like a cut marionette - I could have dislocated, broken, smashed, or just generally fucked up a lot of parts. Three toes (again, that just looks wrong) ain't so bad!
What Vicky hasn't thought about - and here's my real concern - is how could my leg have been that much asleep? I mean, I got a big, old ham for a leg. What could have put it under?
The obvious answer: blood clot. Yep. Blood clot. I figure I'm due for a massive aneurysm inside of a week. That's it. It's traveling up my body right now, laughing all the way to the cerebral cortex, empowered by every girl I ever dated and their subsequent disdain. If my last word is "Rosa", you know who to blame.
Anyway, Vicky is threatening me with a doctor's visit - just like as if I was eight years old, I swear - if I'm not up and hobbling in the next few days. So, I've decided to start some serious icing. No, not like on a Cinnabon (drooooooooooooooooooool!), I mean like ice-cold icing. I did it this morning. Actually got freezer burn. My middle toe was frozen solid and, when I flexed my foot, I flipped myself off.
I wonder if it's trying to tell me something?
Iran so far away...
(Don't I wish!)
At a time when Shrub seems intent on making WWFucked into WWIII, news that Iran has been trying to prevent this conflict probably comes as no surprise.
However, there it was, reported by the BBC, news that as early as 2003 Cheney has been telling Iranian peace envoys to go fuck themselves.
Meanwhile, Shrub's talking about killing as many more Americans as he can, this time on Iranian soil.
Makes you feel all.... RAPTUROUS, doesn't it?
At a time when Shrub seems intent on making WWFucked into WWIII, news that Iran has been trying to prevent this conflict probably comes as no surprise.
However, there it was, reported by the BBC, news that as early as 2003 Cheney has been telling Iranian peace envoys to go fuck themselves.
Meanwhile, Shrub's talking about killing as many more Americans as he can, this time on Iranian soil.
Makes you feel all.... RAPTUROUS, doesn't it?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
And this from the Ministry of Silly Walks…
My left leg was asleep when I woke up this morning.
… I sure wish someone had told me that.
The thing was, it wasn’t tingling or feeling at all asleep. It wasn’t numb. It was just dead.
So, I rolled out of bed like I do every morning. I put my feet down like I do every morning. I stood up like I do every morning.
… and I fell on my ass screaming like a little girl. Most mornings, I don’t do that.
Vicky came a’running at the sound of my pleas but there was little she could do… except, perhaps, laugh.
So, I guess I won’t be calling her a klutz for a while…
Friday, January 26, 2007
This is what insomnia with Ken is like…
There are times when my mind goes so fast, I feel like yelling, “Stop the ride! I want to get off!” This afternoon, it was tearing donuts in my head, a combination of lack of sleep from the night before and the misfortune of having “all you can eat pancakes” from IHOP. (The pancakes weren’t bad but what was I thinking with all that syrup? Sugar in a hyper mind? That’s nuts!… um, scratch that.) Tonight, well…
See, my brand of insomnia is what I call “busy head”. There’s no rhyme or reason. My brain just throws up everything I’ve experienced all at once and random selections pass into view. There’s a song from Moonwash. There’s that girl from the TV show, F-Troop. There’s some algebra. And all the time, the librarian in my mind is cackling relentlessly.
It’s pretty exhausting… you think it would make me tired!
Well, it does, of course. It just doesn’t let me sleep.
And as for tonight, well, insomnia kind of feeds on itself. Once you start – or once I start, I’m on the ride for a couple days, sometimes for as long as a week. I just have to ride it out.
Or take melatonin. This beautiful discovery was Vicky’s doing and it works like a charm. The only downside is it works too well, hits me like a sledgehammer. So, I think I’m going to pass on the sledgehammer tonight. Instead, I figure I’ll go do a little jogging at the gym and see how tired that makes me.
Sleep tight!
See, my brand of insomnia is what I call “busy head”. There’s no rhyme or reason. My brain just throws up everything I’ve experienced all at once and random selections pass into view. There’s a song from Moonwash. There’s that girl from the TV show, F-Troop. There’s some algebra. And all the time, the librarian in my mind is cackling relentlessly.
It’s pretty exhausting… you think it would make me tired!
Well, it does, of course. It just doesn’t let me sleep.
And as for tonight, well, insomnia kind of feeds on itself. Once you start – or once I start, I’m on the ride for a couple days, sometimes for as long as a week. I just have to ride it out.
Or take melatonin. This beautiful discovery was Vicky’s doing and it works like a charm. The only downside is it works too well, hits me like a sledgehammer. So, I think I’m going to pass on the sledgehammer tonight. Instead, I figure I’ll go do a little jogging at the gym and see how tired that makes me.
Sleep tight!
Thursday, January 25, 2007
A progress report – six months later…
Mid-August I got canned.
This is where I am now. Right here.
No. Here.
I suppose it would be the summit of Mount Obvious to say that I’ve had a bit of misfortune in finding work. Actually, it stinks. Many employers have told me how impressive my portfolio and my experience is but none will tell me that I’m hired. So, I keep looking. Vicky had been awe-inspiring in her support; given a reversal of roles, I probably would have started freaking out sometime in September. But she has a certain quality that allows her to see a positive outcome in all of this… sheer stupidity, I’m thinking. But I love her for it, all the same.
We’re sending out With Eyes to See and I’m assembling material to begin submitting Love of Your Life. She just completed proofreading No More Blue Roses and I’m almost 33% complete with the new book. So, the writing is moving forward with all the certainty of an glacier – certain to do what, I’ll never know.
Speaking of the new book, it’s become an amalgamation of fiction, memoir, and philosophy. I’m following almost a literal timeline of when I lost my job until Megan’s death but I’m ignoring certain truths. For instance, there’s no mention of this blog in the book. So, blog entries have become one-sided conversations. I have no problem making them into one-sided conversations because, when it comes to discussing philosophy, I often find myself in one-sided conversations. I’ve just reached the first of two philosophical deconstructions; this being Plato and Aristotle and the achievement of the impossible. After that last sentence, you can probably understand why such conversations are often one-sided.
I’m keeping my wits about me and my sanity in a plain, brown wrapper. It gets a little sunlight now and then but mostly I store it in my inside coat pocket, its assuring heft reminding me that I’m not quite crazy…
I think the strangest thing about being out of work all this time is the distance I feel from who I am and who I used to be. I used to be a guy who wrote every day but that grows more distinctly separate, like a museum display behind thick glass so close you imagine you can touch it, with every rejection.
Fuck, I want a job.
This is where I am now. Right here.
No. Here.
I suppose it would be the summit of Mount Obvious to say that I’ve had a bit of misfortune in finding work. Actually, it stinks. Many employers have told me how impressive my portfolio and my experience is but none will tell me that I’m hired. So, I keep looking. Vicky had been awe-inspiring in her support; given a reversal of roles, I probably would have started freaking out sometime in September. But she has a certain quality that allows her to see a positive outcome in all of this… sheer stupidity, I’m thinking. But I love her for it, all the same.
We’re sending out With Eyes to See and I’m assembling material to begin submitting Love of Your Life. She just completed proofreading No More Blue Roses and I’m almost 33% complete with the new book. So, the writing is moving forward with all the certainty of an glacier – certain to do what, I’ll never know.
Speaking of the new book, it’s become an amalgamation of fiction, memoir, and philosophy. I’m following almost a literal timeline of when I lost my job until Megan’s death but I’m ignoring certain truths. For instance, there’s no mention of this blog in the book. So, blog entries have become one-sided conversations. I have no problem making them into one-sided conversations because, when it comes to discussing philosophy, I often find myself in one-sided conversations. I’ve just reached the first of two philosophical deconstructions; this being Plato and Aristotle and the achievement of the impossible. After that last sentence, you can probably understand why such conversations are often one-sided.
I’m keeping my wits about me and my sanity in a plain, brown wrapper. It gets a little sunlight now and then but mostly I store it in my inside coat pocket, its assuring heft reminding me that I’m not quite crazy…
I think the strangest thing about being out of work all this time is the distance I feel from who I am and who I used to be. I used to be a guy who wrote every day but that grows more distinctly separate, like a museum display behind thick glass so close you imagine you can touch it, with every rejection.
Fuck, I want a job.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Nature flips off religion yet again...
After all, if lizards can have virgin births...
(Don't sweat it, ye of little faith. The concept of the "virgin birth" is metaphorical and is not meant to be taken literally... unless you're a dragon, of course.)
(Don't sweat it, ye of little faith. The concept of the "virgin birth" is metaphorical and is not meant to be taken literally... unless you're a dragon, of course.)
Drunken Vicky II: Electric Buahshoelnghzxoi
I couldn't help but include part two... especially since Jenn went through all the trouble of writing it!
So, what did Vicky do once she got nice and blotto? She IM'ed Jenn, of course! Read all the fun over on Jenn's blog.
So, what did Vicky do once she got nice and blotto? She IM'ed Jenn, of course! Read all the fun over on Jenn's blog.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Drunk to Bush…
“I was going to write a blog about drinking games you can play with the State of the Union,” I told Vicky today as we watched the pre-game show before Shrub took the podium. I doubted I’d make it for very long. And then, I turned off the television.
But Vicky had other ideas. “Come on! Let’s do that!”
“Pardon?” I asked her, the way you’d ask a mailman who offered, “Would you like fries with that?”
She turned on the television. “Let’s play! It’ll be fun!”
Now, I’m no one to refuse Vicky and when it comes to getting her drunk and the possibilities that arise from that, well, I’m less than no one. I had the rum out and she got the shot glasses.
“Okay, when do we drink?”
“Whenever he says terrorism or refers to 9/11,” I suggested.
“Or when he says Iran or troops,” Vicky added.
“Or when he says freedom.”
Excitedly, she finished our list with, “Or if he says augmentation.”
So, we had our list.
What we didn’t realize was just how many times he’d say those things. We couldn’t pour shots fast enough. We started missing shot. We had started taking a shot at any mention of terrorists but eventually waited for the exact use of terrorism. Our shots got smaller and smaller as Vicky got drunker and drunker.
She started leaning. Then, she held herself up on the counter. (For some reason, we did this all standing up.) Then, she started dancing and getting, well, silly. Eventually, she got completely out-of-control, blotto and I had to put her to bed.
And Shrub never said augmentation.
But Vicky had other ideas. “Come on! Let’s do that!”
“Pardon?” I asked her, the way you’d ask a mailman who offered, “Would you like fries with that?”
She turned on the television. “Let’s play! It’ll be fun!”
Now, I’m no one to refuse Vicky and when it comes to getting her drunk and the possibilities that arise from that, well, I’m less than no one. I had the rum out and she got the shot glasses.
“Okay, when do we drink?”
“Whenever he says terrorism or refers to 9/11,” I suggested.
“Or when he says Iran or troops,” Vicky added.
“Or when he says freedom.”
Excitedly, she finished our list with, “Or if he says augmentation.”
So, we had our list.
What we didn’t realize was just how many times he’d say those things. We couldn’t pour shots fast enough. We started missing shot. We had started taking a shot at any mention of terrorists but eventually waited for the exact use of terrorism. Our shots got smaller and smaller as Vicky got drunker and drunker.
She started leaning. Then, she held herself up on the counter. (For some reason, we did this all standing up.) Then, she started dancing and getting, well, silly. Eventually, she got completely out-of-control, blotto and I had to put her to bed.
And Shrub never said augmentation.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Peanut Butter and Jelly… Oatmeal…
Strangely enough, I tend to think of things sometimes that Vicky finds, well, offensive.
And so it was this morning while we were at our Weight Watcher’s meeting. I would have much rather been just about any other place in the world, so I figured that was mostly just wasted time… and I began to look at some of the WW food they had. The good thing about WW is that you don’t have to buy their food but this is supposed to be a capitalist country, after all, so…
Vicky said the oatmeal was supposed to be good, and I could help notice the flavors: Apple & Cinnamon, Maple Brown Sugar. Pretty much your standard flavors.
“They’re not very inventive with oatmeal flavors. You ever notice that?” I asked Vicky.
She did what she usually did when I start asking strange questions. She ignored me.
“You never see Orange and Peanut Butter, or Chocolate and Peanut Butter.” For some reason, I was on a peanut butter kick.
Vicky kept ignoring me… so I continued.
What would go with peanut butter.
“Peanut butter and jelly oatmeal!” I exclaimed. “Of course, it’s so simple!”
It is. Really.
And here’s the recipe:
1 package of plain, instant oats (or one bowl of plain oatmeal)
1 heaping teaspoon of peanut butter (crunchy or creamy, you choose)
1 heaping teaspoon of jelly
Make the oatmeal, stir in the flavors. It’s that simple!
Now, I’m just dying for someone to try it!
And so it was this morning while we were at our Weight Watcher’s meeting. I would have much rather been just about any other place in the world, so I figured that was mostly just wasted time… and I began to look at some of the WW food they had. The good thing about WW is that you don’t have to buy their food but this is supposed to be a capitalist country, after all, so…
Vicky said the oatmeal was supposed to be good, and I could help notice the flavors: Apple & Cinnamon, Maple Brown Sugar. Pretty much your standard flavors.
“They’re not very inventive with oatmeal flavors. You ever notice that?” I asked Vicky.
She did what she usually did when I start asking strange questions. She ignored me.
“You never see Orange and Peanut Butter, or Chocolate and Peanut Butter.” For some reason, I was on a peanut butter kick.
Vicky kept ignoring me… so I continued.
What would go with peanut butter.
“Peanut butter and jelly oatmeal!” I exclaimed. “Of course, it’s so simple!”
It is. Really.
And here’s the recipe:
1 package of plain, instant oats (or one bowl of plain oatmeal)
1 heaping teaspoon of peanut butter (crunchy or creamy, you choose)
1 heaping teaspoon of jelly
Make the oatmeal, stir in the flavors. It’s that simple!
Now, I’m just dying for someone to try it!
Friday, January 19, 2007
Got my WoW on...
I figured it's been a while since I did any steady "blogging" hereabouts and I thought that, just in case our readers were wondering why, I should explain things.
And to both of you, let me just point you towards WoW: The Burning Crusade! It's addicting. It's pointless. It's mine!
Don't worry, though. I plan to start blogging again regularly... just as soon as I'm... done...
And to both of you, let me just point you towards WoW: The Burning Crusade! It's addicting. It's pointless. It's mine!
Don't worry, though. I plan to start blogging again regularly... just as soon as I'm... done...
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Because I know you'd want to know...
Two "news" stories struck me as interestingly ironic as they sat side by side on Yahoo today.
First, we've come to learn through the auspices of the UN - you remember, that organization that Shrub's folk are sure doesn't exist - that we Americans, the good guys, only killed 34, 452 Iraqi civilians last year. (Were they our bullets? Did we fire? By starting the present atrocity, we are just as guilty.) Now, if this was the yearly total for the past few years, I'm sure there are a whole lot of Americans who would be happy - nay, sexually slaked - to know that we're raining down a 10 to 1 payback for the deaths of 911...
... oh wait. That's right. They had nothing to do with 911, despite Shrub's remaining insistence to the contrary whenever it's convenient.
Too, the supposed attacks on 911 were in no way about a missile striking the plane (missiles posing as planes is another story), and yet the idiots in charge are prepared to spend billions to equip commercial planes with anti-missile technology. (Which probably won't work.) Good going guys... now how about some anti-stupid technology.
Just more examples of just how stupid they are and how stupid they think we are.
First, we've come to learn through the auspices of the UN - you remember, that organization that Shrub's folk are sure doesn't exist - that we Americans, the good guys, only killed 34, 452 Iraqi civilians last year. (Were they our bullets? Did we fire? By starting the present atrocity, we are just as guilty.) Now, if this was the yearly total for the past few years, I'm sure there are a whole lot of Americans who would be happy - nay, sexually slaked - to know that we're raining down a 10 to 1 payback for the deaths of 911...
... oh wait. That's right. They had nothing to do with 911, despite Shrub's remaining insistence to the contrary whenever it's convenient.
Too, the supposed attacks on 911 were in no way about a missile striking the plane (missiles posing as planes is another story), and yet the idiots in charge are prepared to spend billions to equip commercial planes with anti-missile technology. (Which probably won't work.) Good going guys... now how about some anti-stupid technology.
Just more examples of just how stupid they are and how stupid they think we are.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Never too many pictures of us...
So, remember that wedding we went to in November? Well, thanks to my terrific mom, Blanche (I've known her TOO long for her to be just a "step"), we have some great pictures to share.
Now, the baby is my nephew, Hayden - Richard and Teri's kid - but you can just imagine what we're going to look like in (fill in your guess here) when we have our own kidling!
Now, the baby is my nephew, Hayden - Richard and Teri's kid - but you can just imagine what we're going to look like in (fill in your guess here) when we have our own kidling!
Friday, January 12, 2007
How dare we act appalled…
By now, everyone’s heard about the rocket attack on the US embassy in Greece.
But how many have heard that the attack was on our toilet?
And as shitty as that might sound, it’s just as bad as how overblown the American reaction has been. A day after we attacked the Iranian embassy in Kurdistan, how fitting is it that someone attack one of ours?
And how equally fitting that they hit us in the crapper? Just another way of reminding us that we’re full of shit.
But how many have heard that the attack was on our toilet?
And as shitty as that might sound, it’s just as bad as how overblown the American reaction has been. A day after we attacked the Iranian embassy in Kurdistan, how fitting is it that someone attack one of ours?
And how equally fitting that they hit us in the crapper? Just another way of reminding us that we’re full of shit.
Strange Juxtaposition...
G'morning folks. I'm just about to head off to the gym - don't you envy me?!
Anyway, I just remembered something from yesterday and it was so strange, I thought I'd tell you.
I was on the treadmill. Benny Hinn (televangelist extraordinaire) was on the TV in front of me and Frankie Goes To Hollywood was singing RELAX on the radio that was being broadcast!
It was a lot like having your eyes pulled out and your ears lovingly fucked (as if such a thing is possible)... while thinking, "Am I almost done with this treadmill?"
Anyway, I just remembered something from yesterday and it was so strange, I thought I'd tell you.
I was on the treadmill. Benny Hinn (televangelist extraordinaire) was on the TV in front of me and Frankie Goes To Hollywood was singing RELAX on the radio that was being broadcast!
It was a lot like having your eyes pulled out and your ears lovingly fucked (as if such a thing is possible)... while thinking, "Am I almost done with this treadmill?"
Thursday, January 11, 2007
And now a bedtime story
As you know, Ken is working in a temp position and, well, he was rather bored today. So being the good wife that I am, I suggested that he write a short story for me to read later. You know, something to keep him busy, nothing too involved. I provided a topic...Suki (our dog)...and our baby (not yet conceived)...and well here it is, hope you enjoy it as much as I did...I actually laughed out loud...
I was walking Suki this morning when we ran into little Vicky. (I call her “little Vicky” because the name Vicky and I have picked out for our baby is a carefully kept secret – lest someone steal it….)
Little Vicky was time traveling from 2015, a time when people regularly do such things (in, at least, an alternate universe), and she appeared from behind one of our neighbor’s apartments with a blinding flash.
It didn’t bother me. As far as I knew, I was just hallucinating again.
“And who,” I asked, “are you?”
“My name is Vicky,” she replied without compunction, “and I’m traveling from the future.”
“Great,” I said – and by this time I was sure I was hallucinating. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.”
“I could have told you that.”
At this point, Suki had grown interested in the little girl and, just like she always does, walked up to her and stood ready for attention. Little Vicky complied – we humans are powerless. “Is this Suki?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“She looks just like our Suki – I guess that’s why mommy named her that.”
“Who?”
“Mommy.”
“Excuse me. I need to go get a very large drink.”
“Oh. Right. You probably still drink during this time.”
“Probably,” I told her. “Want proof?”
“That’s a pun!” she exclaimed.
“Pardon?”
“What you just said. It’s a pun.”
I squinted, trying not to appear too annoyed. “Little girl. Let go of my dog.”
“She’s my dog, too.”
“No, she’s not.”
“Yes, she is. Mommy let me keep her! She’s in my room! Stuffed!”
“Ewwww…. Don’t tell Vicky that.”
“She already knows.”
“Not now, she doesn’t.”
“No, but she does later.”
As much as I like word games, this sounded like something I’d write. “You mean she will later.”
“Right.”
Now, I wanted a cigarette, a martini, and several hits from a hash pipe. “Am I hallucinating you? Or are you real?” Her hair was long and straight like Vicky’s and she was also a girl, just like her mom. But she and I had nothing in common.
“Yes and No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I am real but I’m not presently –“
“Stop,” I told her. “Enough.”
“You hate it when other people do that to you but you have no problem doing it to others.”
“That’s because I’m good at it,” I said. “You only have the benefit of having traveled through time… wait a minute. What do you mean, she’s like your Suki?”
Little Vicky was, by this time, sitting in the grass, with Suki on her lap… she put her there. “Mommy names every dog Suki.”
“And does she name every cat Harley?” I asked with a grin.
“No. Harley’s still alive. She’s just very, very old.”
“Great.” I wasn’t overly fond of the image of owning the world’s oldest cat. “I guess I am, too, huh? And fat?”
“No. You’re thin when you’re old. But you lost all of your hair – I mean ALL of it – in a freak video game playing accident.”
“Well, that’s nice to know. How’s your mom?”
“She’s much taller in my time. She had a problem losing weight so she gained height. They can do that in my time.”
“Really? How tall am I in your time?”
“Ten foot six.”
I was walking Suki this morning when we ran into little Vicky. (I call her “little Vicky” because the name Vicky and I have picked out for our baby is a carefully kept secret – lest someone steal it….)
Little Vicky was time traveling from 2015, a time when people regularly do such things (in, at least, an alternate universe), and she appeared from behind one of our neighbor’s apartments with a blinding flash.
It didn’t bother me. As far as I knew, I was just hallucinating again.
“And who,” I asked, “are you?”
“My name is Vicky,” she replied without compunction, “and I’m traveling from the future.”
“Great,” I said – and by this time I was sure I was hallucinating. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.”
“I could have told you that.”
At this point, Suki had grown interested in the little girl and, just like she always does, walked up to her and stood ready for attention. Little Vicky complied – we humans are powerless. “Is this Suki?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“She looks just like our Suki – I guess that’s why mommy named her that.”
“Who?”
“Mommy.”
“Excuse me. I need to go get a very large drink.”
“Oh. Right. You probably still drink during this time.”
“Probably,” I told her. “Want proof?”
“That’s a pun!” she exclaimed.
“Pardon?”
“What you just said. It’s a pun.”
I squinted, trying not to appear too annoyed. “Little girl. Let go of my dog.”
“She’s my dog, too.”
“No, she’s not.”
“Yes, she is. Mommy let me keep her! She’s in my room! Stuffed!”
“Ewwww…. Don’t tell Vicky that.”
“She already knows.”
“Not now, she doesn’t.”
“No, but she does later.”
As much as I like word games, this sounded like something I’d write. “You mean she will later.”
“Right.”
Now, I wanted a cigarette, a martini, and several hits from a hash pipe. “Am I hallucinating you? Or are you real?” Her hair was long and straight like Vicky’s and she was also a girl, just like her mom. But she and I had nothing in common.
“Yes and No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I am real but I’m not presently –“
“Stop,” I told her. “Enough.”
“You hate it when other people do that to you but you have no problem doing it to others.”
“That’s because I’m good at it,” I said. “You only have the benefit of having traveled through time… wait a minute. What do you mean, she’s like your Suki?”
Little Vicky was, by this time, sitting in the grass, with Suki on her lap… she put her there. “Mommy names every dog Suki.”
“And does she name every cat Harley?” I asked with a grin.
“No. Harley’s still alive. She’s just very, very old.”
“Great.” I wasn’t overly fond of the image of owning the world’s oldest cat. “I guess I am, too, huh? And fat?”
“No. You’re thin when you’re old. But you lost all of your hair – I mean ALL of it – in a freak video game playing accident.”
“Well, that’s nice to know. How’s your mom?”
“She’s much taller in my time. She had a problem losing weight so she gained height. They can do that in my time.”
“Really? How tall am I in your time?”
“Ten foot six.”
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
A picture of you in the world
Next time you think that your life is difficult, get some perspective.
Throwing money at a problem won’t fix it…
That’s the old Republican battle cry. Hunger? Throwing money at a problem won’t fix it! Ignorance? Throwing money at a problem won’t fix it! Disease? Throwing money at a problem won’t fix it! Environmental devestation? Throwing money at a problem won’t fix it!
But now that Shrub has wasted billions in Iraq, now that he’s sacrificed thousands upon thousands of lives, we see just what he’s been saving all that money for… Hey, asshole! Throwing money at a problem won’t fix it!
They can waste lives and money and time and resources on killing. They can dump the surplus we once had into the laps of their wealthy friends and family. The can call those who work for peace traitors.
But ask them for a penny for a hungry child or ask them for a book or ask them not to pollute…
But now that Shrub has wasted billions in Iraq, now that he’s sacrificed thousands upon thousands of lives, we see just what he’s been saving all that money for… Hey, asshole! Throwing money at a problem won’t fix it!
They can waste lives and money and time and resources on killing. They can dump the surplus we once had into the laps of their wealthy friends and family. The can call those who work for peace traitors.
But ask them for a penny for a hungry child or ask them for a book or ask them not to pollute…
Kinda Working…
The job saga continues. I’m still applying, interviewing… looking…
But now there’s something new in the mix. I’m working temp as a copywriter this week and, maybe, next. I work for a trade association that represents aftermarket auto parts.
Exciting stuff… really…
But, at least, it’s not unemployment.
But now there’s something new in the mix. I’m working temp as a copywriter this week and, maybe, next. I work for a trade association that represents aftermarket auto parts.
Exciting stuff… really…
But, at least, it’s not unemployment.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Jesus in a tree trunk…
Vicky sent me a link to this story today, telling me how much she wanted to write something about it.
Let’s face it, it’s easy prey for humor. Anyone who would call a tree holy because it was marred, as if every tree – every living thing – wasn’t holy, deserves to be laughed at. It’s like the old joke about the Hi-C Fruit Punch-spitting Madonna or the cash-eating statue, which is to say there is none.
More than that, though, this does nothing as efficiently as show one of the fundamental weaknesses in religion as a whole. The desperation these people feel, hoping beyond sense and reason that this defaced tree is the son of god, is akin to the angst those feel who believe that there’s an old man in the sky with a special list of those people who will be saved and those who won’t and that it’s the same old man who granted all of us free will or the desperation felt by those who believe there’s a god at all.
We live in a time when desperation rules – look in Iraq, look in the White House, look in the schools and on the streets – scientific analysis is undermined by desperation for things to be otherwise.
It’s easier to believe that a tree can be a sign from God or God him/her/itself than to believe that the tree is just misshapen. It’s easier to believe that earthly deeds will be rewarded in some spooky afterlife. It’s easier to believe that somewhere, anywhere, things are going to be all right.
But it’s just not so. This is the world we live in and that’s all. And that’s just a fucking tree.
Let’s face it, it’s easy prey for humor. Anyone who would call a tree holy because it was marred, as if every tree – every living thing – wasn’t holy, deserves to be laughed at. It’s like the old joke about the Hi-C Fruit Punch-spitting Madonna or the cash-eating statue, which is to say there is none.
More than that, though, this does nothing as efficiently as show one of the fundamental weaknesses in religion as a whole. The desperation these people feel, hoping beyond sense and reason that this defaced tree is the son of god, is akin to the angst those feel who believe that there’s an old man in the sky with a special list of those people who will be saved and those who won’t and that it’s the same old man who granted all of us free will or the desperation felt by those who believe there’s a god at all.
We live in a time when desperation rules – look in Iraq, look in the White House, look in the schools and on the streets – scientific analysis is undermined by desperation for things to be otherwise.
It’s easier to believe that a tree can be a sign from God or God him/her/itself than to believe that the tree is just misshapen. It’s easier to believe that earthly deeds will be rewarded in some spooky afterlife. It’s easier to believe that somewhere, anywhere, things are going to be all right.
But it’s just not so. This is the world we live in and that’s all. And that’s just a fucking tree.
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