I Love My F2


This is what my Nikon F2 would look like if I had bought it brand new the year it came out, 1971. Having just been born, I had very little money in 1971, and, being a baby, if I had had the money, I probably would have spent it on something brighter and shinier. My second or third hand F2 is "gently used," a phrase which means "everything still works, but it looks like crap." My F2 is covered with scratches, dents, and dings, and brass is showing through where the chrome has worn off. Any used camera dealer will tell you, however, that this isn't "damage"; it's "character".

Yes, to look at my camera, you'd think I'd lived a life of savage, Indiana Jones-esque adventure. My camera says I'd not think twice about dangling from a helicopter skid over an erupting volcano with one hand, while snapping one Pulitzer prize winning photo after another with the other. It says I'm drawn to fiery explosions, lurid crime scenes, and stalking elusive cannibalistic tribes through lush Amazonian rainforests, scoffing at the notion of "personal risk" as I squint rakishly at hell on earth through a split-image/microprism type K viewfinder.

My camera is, of course, a liar. I have no idea what dashing millionaire playboy/photographer rogue owned it before me, but the back yard is as exotic as my photo shoots have gotten. I don't know what sort of thing my camera was used to, but it now spends its days waiting for one of the dogs to sit still and look toward the camera, which can be hell on earth in it's own, less fiery, way. To a dog, a camera is a potentially tasty snack treat, so keeping them far enough away from the lens to take a picture is an effort in itself.

Sometimes I worry that my camera is bored. I worry that groans each time the shutter opens to reveal Dougal holding yet another tennis ball in his mouth. I worry that it makes snide, sarcastic comments to itself. "Oh look, another shot of the doggie. Way to go, Ansel Adams! You rock!" It could have once belonged to a private investigator and spent hours attached to a zoom lens, waiting in nondescript cars parked outside seedy motels to catch the twilight exodus of well-to-do philanderers with suspicious wives. It could have frozen in time the last death rattles of soldiers in 'Nam, or plumbed the murky depths to discover sunken Spanish galleons. Sometimes, I worry that my camera sits in the darkness of its deluxe padded camera bag dreaming of days of glory long since past and plotting to throw a spring or a gear to end its suffering. It hates me, I just know it.

But then, like a dog adopted from the pound, there's no way to really know where the camera came from or what's its seen in its past life. It's just possible that it acquired it's scarred, swashbuckling facade from being hauled around in a Midwestern grandmother's purse. Or it could have belonged to a clumsy wedding photographer, in which case the camera would be an embarrassment to me. It could very well be afraid of dogs, and lie awake trembling in its padded bag dreading another toothy close up of Dougal, in which case it would still hate me. We may never know.

Regardless of its feelings for me, I love my F2. Until it develops the complex motor skills and intelligence to file a restraining order, it will just have to live with me. Why do I love it so? To attempt to describe it's many attractive attributes would be to attempt to describe the beauty of Helen of Troy, or the vastness of space, or the flavor of Dr. Pepper. But I'll give it a go anyway.

Nikon has recently announced that it will stop making all but two of its film cameras, and completely discontinue making manual focus lenses. For a company that revolutionized photography, this is big news. Not only did Nikon invent the body style that is now typical of all 35 mm cameras, all Nikon lenses fit all Nikon cameras; Nikon is one of the only camera manufactureres that ever thought to do this, and it's one of the major reasons they've gained such a loyal following. A Nikon lens from 1959 will still work on a $4,000 Nikon digital model manufactured last month. Likewise, a new $6,000 autofocus lens will still work on my F2...only it won't focus automatically.

This is bad news, because it means if I wanted a new lens for my camera, I'd have to buy an autofocus lens. The autofocus feature won't work, but it would make the lens three times more expensive than it's manual focus counterpart. Since I've never really been able to afford new equipment anyway, this isn't really much of a tragic blow to me, but it does reinforce the notion that film cameras are going the way of the 8-track.

And that's why I love my F2. It embodies everything that's completely obsolete about film photography. It thinks a pixel is a woodland nymph, and attaching a flash to it is a hopelessly complex procedure that requires three cables and renders the camera inoperable with less than 4 hands. While most digital cameras are about as heavy as a travel pack of Kleenex, my F2 is over two pounds of solid neck fatiguing brass, and its near indestructibility has earned it the nickname "The Tank" by those in the know.

Any idiot can point and shoot a digital camera and end up with decent pictures. But there's no skill involved, no talent, no art. Likewise, any 35 mm film camera made after 1980 offers the same soulless ease. With an F2, there's no such thing as "point and shoot." By the time I've lined up a shot, there's often nothing left there to shoot. And that's the way I like it. We manual camera fanatics refuse to let our cameras do the thinking for us, even when it's to our benefit.

Take, for instance, the science of light metering. Modern built in light meters are ridiculously accurate and make knowing how to calculate exposure times and apertures a science as obsolete as Phrenology. So why do we refuse to use cameras that use them? It's all about control. A camera with a built in light meter will automatically adjust your shutter speed or your aperture, or, in many cases, both, and the user can't override these settings. What if you want a slower shutter speed for a slight blurring effect? What if you'd like a darker, moodier picture? The only way to go is manual.

Sure, you could digitally enhance a digital picture and get a picture that's both moodily lit and slightly artistically blurred, but that's cheating and we all know it. You'll find purists like me squinting at the dial of a Bakelite light meter hanging around our necks. We'll point the meter here and take a reading. Then we'll point it there and take a reading. Then we'll average to two readings and come up with a baseline exposure and aperture setting. Then we'll look up at the sky, stare at our subject, and scratch our heads. Then, after minutes of agonized soul searching, we'll recklessly decrease the f-stop without adjusting the shutter speed and snap the picture. Ha ha ha! The anarchy!

And did our settings work? Well, we can't tell you. At least not right away, especially if we don't have our own darkroom. If, by chance, we happen to be using black and white film, it will have to be sent to the one lab in America that still processes it. We'll know how everything turned out in about 2 weeks. We want none of the cheap, instant gratification of digital. It simply won't do. A good picture is worth waiting for because it's more than a good picture. It's confirmation that you finally know what you're doing.

With the passing of film cameras, so too goes the passing of an era where people were truly amazed by pictures. Nowadays, everything can be added or subtracted digitally, and being in the right place at the right time is now just a matter of aiming your camera phone. It's too easy. You don't have to know your subject. You don't need an appreciation of the way light behaves. You don't have to take the time to really see what the camera sees. And so the pictures we take now really don't say anything about us.

But not so with my F2. Every picture, regardless of how it comes out, is a labor of love. The fact that I've taken 20 minutes to set the shot up tells you that there's something in there that's pretty important to me. And the time I've taken waiting for the right photgraphic moment has given me a deeper apprectaion of the moments in between. Well, except the one time I was hanging out the window of a rental car, taking random shots of people on the side of the road. Those didn't say much about me. But they were funny. And blurry, too.

Eau De Cologne Por Homme
When Shawn hinted he wanted Dolce and Gabbana cologne for Christmas, “the kind with sandalwood in it,” I went online to discover what the name of this woodland cologne might be, and where it might be obtained for a reasonable cost. My own home-made cologne, brewed from leaves, roots, and assorted cactus parts, all of which could be found free in my back yard, mixed with the sporty, chlorinated essence of aged pool water, was likely to disappoint because there wouldn't be much time for it to ferment. Doubtless it would be ready for Valentine's Day, but that was no help now. Plus, I still hadn't come up with a name for it. Because it tends to fizz and froth when first applied, and because it was created by me, Bud Tocks, I thought of calling it "Pop Tocks." Then, because of the "mild tingling" sensation it produces, I thought of calling it "Bud's Fire Water." Now, however, because of the dark, earthy hue it's acquired, I may just call it, "Bud Tocks From The Black Lagoon."

But for now, I had a mission to track down Shawn's cologne. My first obstacle was discovering that "Gabbana" isn't spelled like "banana" with a G. Well, excuuuse me. The second obstacle was discovering that Wal-Mart, which does sell "Curious" by Britney Spears and "Spirit" by Antonio Banderas, doesn't sell anything made by Dolce and Gabbana. Neither does Big Lots (!) or my neighborhood Walgreen's. Who ever Dolce and Gabbana were, they couldn't be too popular if their cologne didn't share shelf space with the Olsen Twins or Jennifer Lopez.

Why doesn't anybody wear "Old Spice" anymore? It's a classic, and easy to find, too. Frankly, I don't think Americans need this much choice when it comes to personal odor. And since when does every woman semi-capable of shrieking into a microphone inspire a "fragrance?" Does anyone really want to smell like Celine Dion? Can she really smell any better than a $6.99 half quart of Jovan "Musk"?

Defeated, I returned home empty-handed and began to look for the cologne online. I found that for such an unpopular cologne, Dolce and Gabbana certainly thought a lot of themselves, price wise. What in the world could justify the price of this tiny bottle of smelly fluid? Luckily, I found answers. Most of them came from Epionions.com, a site where you can rate any product based on your own personal expectations, realistic or otherwise. If you're ever bored, I strongly suggest you visit this site and just read some random product reviews.

Dolce and Gabbana, it turns out, received the highest possible rating (5 stars) from a number of unique users. Join me now as I revisit some of the most convincing reviews.

"Zoorpa9" volunteers the following opinion:

Pros: It's nice warm undertone-base layer. More sophisticated than most.
Cons: Hard to find in rural America, if you live there.

This one is the core cologne of my arsenal of colognes. I wear it for day or night. It has complex top notes and a warm sensual base. I use Dolce & Gabbana regularly and the experience is great every time. People regularly complement me that I smell really good. It is great for upscale events as well as clubbing at South Beach hot spots. It may be a little more expensive than others out there, but it is worth it. I bought this on a whim while on vacation two years ago, it was that nice. I get positive vibes from most people anyway wearing nothing, but I like the positive reaction especially that I get from wearing it. There is not much to hate if anything.

Zoorpa9 sounds like a real "arsenal". Let's all send him some "good vibes" and move on to the next, no less compelling, review.

"gdog1982" wants the share the following:

Pros: Spicy scent, Designer, unique
Cons: Sprayer sprays very little

I have used this cologne many times and it has been excellent. The smell is very unique and would not be mistaken for any other type of cologne. I wore this all the time and would only need to use very little to have a nice smell. It is very lasting and can stay on for the whole day without reapplying. I got many compliments when using this cologne and i myself loved smelling it. I think it is a little pricey but that is expected because it is put out by a big designer brand. The bottle is basic shaped and does not have any special decorations. The box that it comes in has a velvety feel to it and is a very nice package. The cologne sprayer only sprays out small amounts when using it but a couple of sprays should be sufficient. The smell of this cologne is not overpowering like other lower priced or over priced colognes. If you are looking for a way to wear designer cologne and not drain your wallet this is the cologne for you. This cologne will also not annoy others who smell it because it has a spicy and pleasant smell. I recommend this cologne because it is unique when a lot of the other colognes out in the market have very similar smells.

He, himself, loved the smell. What more can one want? Let's read on and find out.

"Desimishu" says:

Pros: SEXY APPEAL!!
Cons: can be expensive

This is a great mens fragrance. An awesome olfactory experience for me when I first smelled it in a sample.The fragrance starts out with a beautiful freshness, with particular citrus notes or oils of bergamot, tangerine, orange and lemon. Hints of sage, tarragon and cardamom work beautifully. The ending smell or dry-down is very woody and rich created by the notes of sandalwood, cedar-wood, tobacco, musk and tonka-bean. A very romantic and sexy fragrance sure to attract the ladies.

This guy know the secret recipie...for attracting "the ladies." If, however, any one out there remains unconvinced of the tonka-bean's powers of magnetism, I offer this final, uncredited review:

5* - When I was in elevator, three girls came on other floor, they had detected my cologne. They told me they wanted to do me because of this cologne that drived them crazy.

Convinced that this complex, fruity, and sophisticated cologne was well worth the price, I bought Shawn some. After all, we all the know the axiom, "Be careful what you wish for." I'm not sure what Shawn will do with all the ladies this cologne will attract, but at least he'll have a "good smell" while doing it.

Love Thy Neighbor
“...Thou shalt Love thy Neighbor as Thyself.”
-Matthew 22:39

“I used to be with it, but then they changed what it was. Now what I’m with isn’t it, and what’s it seems weird and scary to me. And it’ll happen to you, too!”
-Abraham “Grandpa” Simpson


When I lived in an apartment in Boston, I had a downstairs neighbor who would call me up at 7 p.m. and whisper hysterically, “I can hear you sweeping!”
“Excuse me?” I’d say.
“You’re sweeping your floor. I can hear it.”
“And?”
“And I’ve recently had surgery, and I need my rest.”
“And?”
“Would you please stop sweeping?”
“No.”
I’d hang up on her, and continue sweeping. Then she’d begin to pound on her ceiling. Then I’d practice tap dancing in a pair of steel toed work boots. My phone would ring again, and then I’d grab the silverware drawer and empty it onto the floor. She’d resume pounding with a violence shocking for a woman recently incapacitated by surgery. Then I’d tiptoe very quietly into the kitchen and grab my one pot and a wooden spoon. When all was calm and quiet for a minute or two, I’d put the pot upside down on the floor and perform a percussion solo I called, “My Downstairs Neighbor is a Pathological Liar.” For over two years this woman claimed to have “just had surgery” and needed to rest, which means that either she was having major invasive surgery every two days or that she was, as my song asserted, a complete pathological liar. Everything I did kept her from “resting,” including showering, washing dishes, and walking on the floor. If anyone anywhere in the building was making noise, she’d call me, day or night. The phone would wake me from a dead sleep and a tiny voice weak with agony would demand that I turn my stereo down.
“My stereo isn’t on,” I’d say. “You just woke me up.”
“Someone is playing a stereo very loudly.”
“It’s not me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Well, who is it then?”
“How the fuck should I know?”

I hung up on this woman more times than I can count. I also slammed my door in her face more than once, after inviting her to call the authorities to have me hauled off for having pizza delivered after 10 p.m. Once I attempted to actually talk to her, and to calmly state that she couldn’t reasonably expect to never hear me walking on my floor or flushing my toilet. I assured her these were things I simply had to do. When she asked how I expected her to cope with it, I suggested she move far, far into the country, into a vine covered cottage nestled in a shady glen at the end of a long unpaved road. It was our one and only chat.

So I know that neighbors can be troublesome. I also know that one can reasonably expect to be inconvenienced by them from time to time. I am not what I would consider an “unreasonable person,” and I don’t expect the world to bend itself to my will every time I feel like whining. I wouldn’t mind if it did, of course, but I don’t expect it.

That being said, I must also say this: I hate our new neighbors.

I’d hate them even more if I knew who they were. It’s impossible to tell which of the dozen or so 15 to 20 year olds constantly coming and going at all hours of the day and night actually live in the house next door. They come on bikes, scooters, and skateboards. They come in tricked out Cadillac Escalades with neon running boards and Ford Escorts held together with duct tape. Spot any kid within a five mile radius of my house wearing a knit cap, baggy clothes, and a smart-ass smirk, and it’s a given that they’re headed to the house next door to hang out in the front yard, smoke, drink cheap beer, scream obscenities and be cool. Occasionally, they enjoy climbing up onto their roof to pass a pipe around while having a witty 3 a.m. conversation, every word of which can clearly be heard from my bedroom window less than 20 feet away.

Boy 1: “Hey dude, are you going to get food?”
Boy 2: “Yeah, so?”
Boy 1: “Will you get me a burger?”
Boy 2: “Where’s your money?”
Boy 1: “Come on man, don’t be a dick.”
Boy 3: “Ha ha ha.”
Girl 1: “You’re so sexy.”
Boy 3: “Thanks.”
Boy 1: “Where’s Damien?”
Boy 2: “Who the fuck cares?”
Boy 3: “Dude, I like totally had art with Damien.”
Boy 1: “Yeah, I know. Me too.”
Girl 1: “I totally love your art.”
Boy 1: “Thanks.”
Girl 1: “It’sexy.”
Boy 1: “Yeah, I know.”
Girl 1: “I, like, totally love Damien.”
Boy 1: “Yeah, he’s cool.”
Boy 2: “Me and Damien like totally threw up once.”
Boy 3: “Dude, I remember that! That was sick.”
Girl 1: “Damien’s awesome.”
Boy 1: “Dude, give me a cigarette.”
Boy 2: “Fuck no.”
Boy 1: “Come on man, don’t be a dick.”
Girl 2: “Ha ha ha.”
Boy 2: “Dude, I’ll kick your ass.”
Girl 1: “I totally love you. You’re so sexy.”
Boy 2: “Thanks.”
Girl 1: “Who’s car is that?”
Boy 2: “Is that Damien?”
Boy 1: “I’ll go see. How the fuck do I get down?”
Girl 1: “Ha ha ha.”
Boy 1: “Seriously, I don’t remember.”
Boy 3: “Just jump.”
Boy 1: “Fuck you, bro.”
Boy 2: “I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass.”
Girl 1: “You’re so sexy!”


If people want to drink, smoke whatever, engage in profound conversation and fall deeply in love, it’s really none of my concern. I don’t have the time to evaluate the motivations or personal choices of complete strangers unless they’re amusing. So why do I hate them? It could be because our dogs aren’t used to such goings on next door, and respond to every slamming car door and every scream of “Dude, I’m so wasted!” with a window rattling barrage of barking and snarling. It could be that I hate them because of the empty beer bottles left in our mailbox, or the trash that blows over from their yard into ours. It could be because a few of them actually live in a tent pitched in the back yard, or that our trash collection bins are always full of empty beer cans and covered over with old, stained mattresses. I could hate them for the nonstop noise, the cars parked along the front of our house, or for any one of inconsiderate, un-neighborly things they do that would have made my past downstairs neighbor collapse into the fetal position, whispering over and over “I’ve just had surgery...I need my rest...I’ve just had surgery...I need my rest...”

Or, I could hate them because I find myself saying, “Those damn kids next door are at it again.” Or because I find myself hanging out my bedroom window and shaking my fist, screaming, “You goddam kids better quiet down over there!” Goddam kids? Since when do I use the term “goddam kids?” Have I actually arrived at the point in my life when I let a pack of rowdy teenagers get the best of me? Am I actually old enough now to consider an 18 year old a kid? Have I become the uncool and grumpy old man who lives next door, constantly telling them to “knock that racket off,” “harshing their buzz,” and pooping on their party?

The oldest I’ve ever felt is when I found myself on the phone with a police dispatcher reporting that “those damn kids next door are being too loud and probably doing drugs.” I felt even older as I lurked by my darkened window, waiting for the cops to arrive so I could watch them bust up the party. Imagine my giddiness when not one, but two squad cars pulled up. Imagine the delicious satisfaction of suddenly hearing everything fall so quiet that I could hear “Shiiiiiit” being muttered under someone’s breath. A-ha! Take that, you punks! You hooligans! That’ll teach you to be young and free-spirited! Not on my watch, bucko!
While I was sad that the oleander hedge completely obscured my view of the two uniformed officers approaching the party now quietly assembled on the gravel of the front yard next door, I was, for once, glad I could hear every word.

Officer 1: “You kids having some kind of party over here?”
Boy 1: “No officer.”
Boy 2: “We’re just, you know, hangin’ out.”
Officer 1: “Is there a reason you need to be hanging out outside? It’s after 3 a.m.”
Girl 1: “We were just waiting for my friend.”
Officer 2: “And you weren’t climbing up on the roof there?”
Boy 1: “What? No, officer.”
Officer 2: “Then why did we get a report saying that there were people up on the roof?”
Girl 1: “Oh, well, they were up on the roof, but they were just waiting for me.”
Boy 2: “That was, like, just one time.”
Officer 1: “Are you kids doing drugs out here?”
Girl 1: “What?”
Boy 2: “What?”
Boy 1: “No officer.”
Officer 1: “Do you all live here?”
Girl 1: “I do.”
Officer 1: “You realize this is a residential neighborhood. Your neighbors don’t appreciate you outside being loud this time of night.”
Girl 1: “Oh my God! I’m so sorry. I had no idea we were being loud.”
Officer 1: “Why don’t you move the party inside?”
Girl 1: “Oh, God, we totally will.”
Officer 2: “If we get called back again tonight, you’re going to the only one in trouble since this is your residence. Understand?”
Girl 1: “I’m so sorry.”
Officer 1: “Keep it down now. We don’t want to come back.”
Girl 1: “Thank you, officer.”
Officer 2: “You all have a good night, now.”


I was disappointed. Clearly the punks were lying. Why weren’t batons smashing some skulls? Why weren’t pockets being turned out, evidence confiscated, and perps being wrestled roughly to the asphalt? No one even searched the house or looked into the back yard, where a beer can pyramid had toppled at the entrance to the tent. Where were the handcuffs and the Miranda rights? Where was the mace and tear gas? Where was the justice?

As the squad cars pulled away, Boy 1 said to Girl 1, “You totally played that off awesome.”
Girl 1: “I fucking hate cops.”
Boy 2: “Assholes.”
Girl 1: “How did they know about the pot?”
Boy 3: “Dude, they can totally smell that shit.”
Girl 1: “I hate cops.”
Boy 2: “Man, this one time? These cops were totally trying to hassle me and my friend, and we were all like, Fuck you man!”
Boy 1: “Man, I had the cops after me in Montana, and in Colorado, and in fuckin’ Oklahoma, but I was all like, Fuck you, man!”
Girl 1: “Oh my God! That’s so sexy!”
Boy 1: “I wonder who fuckin’ called the cops.”
Boy 2: “Assholes.”
Girl 1: “Fuckin’ neighbors.”

There was more, but it was much quieter, and it was hard to hear. I waited for a little while for one of them to do something loudly, so I could summon less forgiving authorities, but nothing happened. After a while I gave up. It was late and I needed my rest.

Nickelback Annoys Me
You might be asking, "Just what the Dickens is a Nickelback?" If you are, it can only mean that the rock you live under is heavier and more secluded than mine. You have my jealousy. It also means that you have less exposure to popular TV and radio than I do. That's no easy task. Without cable, my channel selections are limited to five Spanish networks, five Christian networks, and two home shopping networks.

Sure, these stations can be entertaining, but never intentionally. The best Spanish station features a dead-eyed and stoned-looking Latina chick bending over a used Hyundai in a miniskirt and stiletto heels while a leering mariachi band plays in the background. These are ads for La Familia used car dealership, and they go on for hours. The Latina chick wanders from car to car in the lot, suggestively stroking stick shifts and steering wheels, followed by a fat man with a mustache and a microphone. The production qualities are pathetic, but not as pathetic as the Latina chick's occasional attempts at erotic dancing. Raising her arms above her head, the Latina chick makes a feeble attempt at wiggling her hips but comes dangerously close to falling off her heels. Then she stares expressionlessly at the cameraman until he decides to shoot an extreme close-up of her belly button jewelry. And the band plays on.

My second favorite station always seems to be airing the same game show, also in Spanish. This show both fascinates and perplexes me. I just don't get it. True, I don't speak Spanish, but I still feel that I should be able to get the jist of what's going on. It works with Spanish soap operas, so why not a game show? The show features two Latina women, scantily clad and heavily made up. They are joined by a man with a silver cape and a microphone. They exchange a few words, and then music begins to play and the women dance. Then a man is pulled from the studio audience. I gather he is the "contestant." The contestant stands between the two women on stage, and exchanges a few words with the man in the sliver cape. Then the women begin to dance again, making sexy cooing sounds as the camera zooms in on various jiggling body parts. The dancing is interrupted by a fat man who runs onto the stage in a dress, and pretends to cry. The women run over to comfort him/her until someone in a gorilla suit appears and threatens him/her with a plastic novelty mallet. The gorilla chases the man in the dress off the stage, the man in the silver cape shakes the contestant's hand, and the women begin to dance again. The end.

When I tire of not being able to understand what anyone is saying, I turn to the Christian stations. While they do speak English, I still can't understand what most of them are saying. Or, more precisely, I can't understand why anyone would want to listen to what's being said. Did you know God doesn't want us to eat fatty foods high in carbohydrates? Did you know that Bible is not only the word of God, it's a cookbook? It's true. The televangelist I heard it from lost three inches from his waistline following a diet outlined by God. I also enjoy the frequent appearances of "celebrities" like Mr. T, Tracey Gold, and Kirk Cameron, all of whom claim to have been led to the brink of damnation by sinful Hollywood...as if any of them would know anything about Hollywood.

And then there's Jan Crouch, darling of the Trinity Broadcasting network. Aside from hosting Christian liposuction seminars and speaking in tongues, she travels the globe terrifying sick and underprivileged children in the name of charity and ratings.

From there, it's a short surf to the Home Shopping Network. It's easy to get the shopping networks and Christian networks confused, because they both feature scary women who urge you to get your credit cards ready and call now. The great thing about the shopping network is how unbelievably fake these women are, and I don't just mean their "youthful" appearances. One minute they're featuring Helga and her fabulous Goat Cheese Cold Cream, and the hostess says, "You know, Helga, I just love this product! I never use anything else!" Then Helga leaves, and Suzanne Somers comes on with her Seaweed and Raspberry Cold Cream. "You know, Suzanne," the same hostess shrieks, "I just love this product! I never use anything else!"

Given the options available to me, it should come as no surprise that I don't watch much TV. The radio stations down here are pretty much the same mix. Half Spanish, lots of country, several Christian stations, and a few top 40 stations. When Lindsay Lohan, Kelly Clarkson, and Ashlee Simpson start competing for air time it's time to tune out. I am proud to say that I have never knowingly listened to song by any of these "artists" all the way through. In fact, I can't listen to the radio at all anymore. It pisses me off.

Sometimes I'll forget myself while I'm in the car on the way to work, and I'll unconsciously turn on the radio. I'll hear a line or two of a song, get disgusted, and shut it off. Lines like, "If I could fly into the sky, do you think time would pass us by?" send me into sputtering fits of outraged ranting and steering wheel pounding. "Fly into the sky?" Where else would you fly? Flying underwater is called swimming, flying underground is called tunneling, and flying on the Earth's surface is called falling. Is the singer in an airplane or flying under their own power? Either way, flight has no effect on time; the two aren't related, except that "into the sky" and "pass us by" rhyme, albeit at the expense of logic. The question "If I could fly into the sky, do you think time would pass us by" is asinine. Who the fuck cares? Who wrote this song? Who decided to play it? Who's buying the album and why? It sucks! Doesn't anyone see that? Has the world gone mad?

So, anyway, for the last several weeks the line I always catch when I forget myself and switch on the radio goes like this:

"Look at this photograph,
Every time I do it makes me laugh."

It's innocent enough until you ask yourself this question: When was the last time you called a picture a "photograph?" I'll tell you when: never. Nobody says, "Excuse me, will you take a photograph for us?" or "Gee, this is a great photograph of you." No one calls their photo album a "photograph album" or a picture frame a "photograph frame." The word was obviously chosen for its rhyming capability with "laugh," but it's so artificial I can't stand it. It makes me crazy. Seriously. I fume over it. Why couldn't they have just gone with:

"Look at this picture,
Every time I do I snicker."

Refusing to turn on my car (sorry, automobile) radio no longer keeps me safe. In an innocent attempt to watch the Simpsons on TV (sorry again, I meant television), I was assaulted by the fist two lines of this damn song (oops...musical audio recording ) in a Verizon cellular ad (I mean, a Verizon Cellular Communications Corporation advertisement). It seems the music video performance of the song, called "Photograph" and performed by the band "Nickelback," is now available for viewing on your cellular telephone.

I'm familiar with the idom "you can't have too much of a good thing," but when "too much of a bad thing" becomes inescapable, it's time to head on out into the desert and look for a cave with a nice view. And that's why Nickelback annoys me. The end. That's it. I'm done.

Send in the dancing Latinas.

The New Year is coming at me faster than a sack of potatoes dropped from considerable height...say, from the top of the Stratosphere Casino, or off the Golden Gate Bridge. Actually, the chances of me being under the Golden Gate Bridge when a person or persons unknown decided to fling a sack of potatoes off of it are pretty slim, especially since I'd have to be in a boat. I am seldom found boating nowadays, and I've never been to San Francisco. (Did you know that Arizona has more boats per capita than any other state in the union? It's true!) I've been to the Stratosphere Casino in Las Vegas, but the only thing that fell on my head there was rain. Actually, the whole "being struck from above by a sack of potatoes dropped from considerable height" scenario isn't very likely, which makes it a terrible metaphor for inevitability. I guess I'm just not on top of my game today, which isn't surprising, considering my mood.

I've discovered last year's list of New Year's resolutions. There are quite a few resolutions I haven't kept, each one a broken promise to myself and a personal failure. Some of them, like "Give more to charity" and "Eat healthier and exercise more," aren't significant blows to my ego. Everyone writes these down, but few of us really mean it. I know I sure didn't. I just felt like no list of resolutions would be complete without them. In fact, according to a recent survey, those are two of the top 10 most popular resolutions. Other top resolutions include quitting some unhealthy habit or another (smoking, drinking, voting Republican), getting organized, getting out of debt, getting educated, and the ubiquitous "enjoy life more." Whether someone who's just given up smoking and gone on a diet is going to enjoy life more while organizing the garage to make room for exercise equipment is doubtful to me, but perhaps that's just the negative attitude that's kept me from keeping so many of my resolutions.

What resolutions did I make? Which resolutions did I keep? Which fell by the wayside? I'm so relieved you asked. Frankly, if you hadn't, this blog would have ended awkwardly, and I'd have yet another personal failure on my hands.

The following is a list of resolutions I made late in 2004:


Be crowned King of somewhere or something.

Consider thinking about possibly maybe deciding to quit smoking sometime in the future.

Give up false modesty. I'm lousy at it anyway.

Stop snapping "Don't you tell me what to do! You ain't the boss of me!" every time my boss asks me to do something.

Respond to that jury summons.

Appear on cover of The National Enquirer, along with headline including the word "romp."

Sue The National Enquirer.

Give more to charity.

Eat healthier and exercise more.

Dust ceiling fans.

Buy Microsoft and change name to "Crazy Eddie's."

Stop flinging sacks of potatoes off tall buildings and bridges.

Remove "Kill Whitey" bumper sticker from van.

Stop ending blogs awkwardly.


Excepting the bumper sticker resolution, this list was simply carried forward from 2003, and most of those were carried over from 2002. I've been working with the same core list since I was 27. Perhaps my resolution this year should be to come up with new resolutions. Or, I can just add it to the list.

I'm not going to sweat it too much, though. After all, when all is said and done, cantaloupes and bananas.

Love Plumber
Ah, the words of love... Je t'adore. Ti amo. Te quiero (Taco Bell y tu, Senorita mucho caliente!). If you were Swedish and in love, you'd say to your beloved, "Jag aelskar dig." Isn't that sweet? It's almost like, "I dig you." If you were Srilankan, you'd probably say, "Mama oyata arderyi." Serbians and Serbocroatians say, "Volim te," but if you were Slovak, you'd say, "Volim ta."

If you were Thai, you'd say, "Khao raak thoe." I'd be careful to sound affectionate when using that one-it sounds insulting to me, kind of like, "You rank ho!" In Japanese, the words your heart are searching for could be "Watakushi-wa anata-wo ai shimasu," but you've got to talk fast if you want to cram that toe-tingler into a tender moment. You Klingons out there can get right to the point with "SoHvaD vIghajtaH," Germans have the efficient "Ich liebe dich" (I ain't touching that one), and Bavarians have the creamy "I mog di narrisch gern."

In any language, love is indeed a splendid thing. However, when love turns not-so-splendid, it's the stuff of some spectacularly bad language. And I don't mean swears (although they are, I've discovered, an intricate part of it). I mean poetry.

Any writer will tell you that when emotions are running high, words flow fast from the heart to the pen, completely bypassing the brain. Luckily, most writers have the sense to erase those words once they've calmed down. Others, however, do not. Others post them on the internet.

Today, I offer you a selection of poems written by angry young men who've had their souls cleaved by the icy blade of betrayal. Treachery, thy name is woman! And woman, thy name is...well, never mind. I'll let the poets themselves tell you.

Is every break-up poem "just another somebody done somebody wrong song?" Certainly not. That would be like saying every angry young man is like every other angry young man, which would only make them all angrier. And then they'd write more poetry. And none of us wants that.


While these poems were all posted on line and signed by their authors, I have abbreviated their names to keep it all from getting too personal. After all, if a poem is good, it speaks for and to legions.



Suicidal Cunt
By D. D.


The Beautiful Bitch is Depressed and
Seeing a Psychologist.
Maybe suicidal.


Oh, well,
Goodbye!
Have a Nice Slice.

When she forgot I existed,
I already imagined myself
drowned beneath a pond
and thought it was Beautiful and somewhat
Romantic,
in a weird way.

So if she kicks the bucket
I will also think
that's Beautiful
and clip out her Obituary
for posting on my Bulletin Board.

When guests comment on the strange artifact,
I'll say Oh
that was some crazy bitch I once knew...
playing Cool -n- Non-Chalant...

but black flowers will blossom in my mind
as I remember her
and it will actually be Classical and Timeless
like the Crypt of the Vampire Queen.


Wow. Give me a moment, my breath has been taken away. Such passion! It's clear this poem is far deeper than the pond the author imagined he'd "drowned beneath." Like that pond beneath another pond, this poem is multi-layered and impossible to grasp using only common sense. On the one hand, he denies the extent of his his anguish ("playing Cool -n- Non-Chalant..."), but on the other hand, he knows his bravado is a farce, and he is eternally enslaved to his "Vampire Queen." This "Bulletin Board," then, must be the battlefield on which his warring emotions are broadcast to the world. In fact, the poem itself becomes that "Bulletin Board." Yes, this one is sure to haunt you, "like black flowers" blooming in your mind.


Two Years Later
By A. S.


Life is a battlefield
Of choices made
And choices waiting
To be made,
Even if your choice
Is not choose.

And I have made
Some choices
That I sometimes regret--
Like opening up to
A total stranger,
Pretending to be
An aspiring writer,
Who took my heart
And stepped
All over it,

While I tried
To believe that
There was
Something greater
Between us.

The only thing
That I found is
That some people
Do not live
Their lives in the open,

Hiding some dirty
Past secrets that
Bring on guilt
And shame.

And they try to flush
Their past
Down the toilet, but
The lies just keep
Building up
And the toilet backs up,

And the plunger won't work
This time.

I wanted to be your lover,
Not your plumber to help
Your lies from interfering
With your social life.

Even back then
You kept saying
That you loved me
But referred to me
As some friend of
Your nonexistent
Norwegian husband,
And you never wanted
Anyone to know about
Your fatherless children,

As if your children
Are a source of shame.

And all I wanted was love
And openness.

But all I got were lies,
Lies and more lies.

Well, it's been two years
Now since you wrote me
That love poem, calling me
Your soft and wild
Lover and a clutter in
Your pink laws.

But all the softness
And wildness have gone
Somehow, after I returned
To Connecticut, dissolved
In all the fantasies
Of some ideal love.

And all I have are just
Old love letters and
Pictures of you and
Your children on my PC,
Fading in hollow dreams
That I could ever be a part
Of your family.

Well, go ahead and
Pretend that we never met,
Cringing about my
Bad breath, dandruff,
Receding hairline,
And social awkwardness,
While hiding behind the name
Of your nine years younger
Adolescent husband.

I suppose he's good at
Fixing your computer
Troubles because all your
Big writing career
Revolves around
Internet gossip and
All the things
You'd like others
To believe.

Well, I don't take
Myself as seriously--
I once believed in us
And our future together
Only to have my books,
Dedicated to you,
Thrown in the garbage
And have you deny
Ever knowing me.

As Bill Clinton
once said:
"I did not have sex
With that woman,"
Even though the
Evidence pointed
To the contrary.

Well, it's been
Two years since
I've been "that man"
That you choose not
To acknowledge,
And I'm taking my
Life back piece
By piece, refusing
To trash whatever
Tender moments
That we had together.

And we did have them,
Darling.

So, go ahead, and
Pretend that you
Never loved me,
Creating more
Lies and fictions.

It doesn't matter.

All that matters
Is that I'm true
To myself and to
My heart.


December 15, 2005


This poem saddens me, most of all because I wish the title had been "Love Plumber" instead of "Two Years Later." I can almost smell the salty brine of Norway...or is it the author's "bad breath?" Quoting a former President in a poem is always risky, but in this case, I'm sure you agree the risk paid off. What a tangled web we weave with "a clutter" of "pink laws." I think the moral at the end of the poem is good, if not a bit trite. It's not as haunting as "Suicidal Cunt," but it's definitely more revealing, and scores points for including the date it was written.

Well, that's all the time we have for today's "Angry Young Man Poetry Round-Up." Keep your eye out for our future feature, "Whiny Women Writing About Lost Love and Rain."

Auf Wiedersehen!

Burn, Baby, Burn
This captivating femme fatale is known in Marvel Comic circles as Dark Phoenix. But, at the same time, she is also Jean Grey (a.k.a. Marvel Girl). Jean Grey is a telekinetic telepath (she has the ability to move objects with her mind and the ability to read the minds of others), and she's one of the original founding members of the X-Men. Jean Grey becomes Dark Phoenix when The Phoenix Force takes over her body and consciousness. Just what the heck is a Phoenix Force, you ask? From whence does it come, and what does it want? And why's it picking on Jean Grey? I'm not exactly sure. I looked on line for a cohesive explanation, and this was the best one I could find:

"The Phoenix Force is the nexus of all psionic energy which does, has, and ever will exist in all realities of the multiverse. During its time as a sentient entity, it was known to possess the psyche of mortals (particularly those who happen to be telepaths) and thus amplify their psychic abilities to a cosmic (and in some cases, nearly incalculable) scale. Its primary form is that of a gigantic firebird."

Do you get it now? No? Me either. This is precisely why comic books only work as comic books. If the terms "psionic energy" and "multiverse" are part of your everyday vocabulary, chances are you're male and spend lots of in your basement bedroom wondering why more women don't wear spandex bodysuits and why none want to accompany you to next weekend's Sci-Fi convention.

"Hold on just a second," you might be thinking. "How can you judge these people when you, yourself, are blogging about things such as psionic energy and multiverses? Doesn't that prove that you're just like them? Aren't you being hypocritical?" And my reply would be, "No, I'm not. Now shut up."

I am not an expert on things such as psionic enery, multiverses, or the X-Men. In fact, up until about three years ago, I was oblivious to them. So why am I writing about these things now? What's changed? The answer isn't a what but rather a who. Shawn is an X-Men fan. And, being the warm and sensitive soul that I am, I like to take an interest in Shawn's interests. It began with the X-Men movies, and then came all 5 seasons of the X-Men animated series from the 90's, which Shawn has on pirated DVDs. Then there were a few reprints of the first of the X-Men comic series, to see where it all began. And then there were the two X-Men Legends video games. Regular readers of this blog will know that finding a video game that Shawn and I both enjoy playing is cause for some celebration. Yay. And, finally, there came the collection of X-Men Legends action figures.

None of this means that I'll be moving into a basement and sealing all my reading material into little plastic bags. I reject the ideals of the comic enthusiast and their sweatpants-wearing, Taco Bell-centric lifestyle. I have no desire to see the She-Hulk and Wonder Woman wrestle in a tub filled with radioactive pudding. In fact, I feel only pity for the cripplingly large breasted comic book super heroines whose creators send them charging off into battle with nothing more than an enchanted corset and thigh high boots (and, for the very last time gentlemen, a cape is not a daytime accessory). I, personally, don't have an "ideal woman," but if I did, the ability to lift a tank wouldn't be a part of that ideal. I also reject the notion that I'm perpetuating a negative comic book enthusiast stereotype. Have you ever seen a Gay Pride March? I'd be happy to swap stereotypes anytime. I'm not passing judgment here anyway. I'm just saying that spending my weekends playing Dungeons and Dragons in the smoke-free back room of a comic book shop, slaying evil trolls with my magical elf, isn't my idea of a good time. If it were, I'd attend more Gay Pride Marches.

About now, you might be thinking, "While this is all enormously fascinating, I'm not quite sure where this blog is going. Do you really expect me to sit here and waste my valuable time reading about some fictional flaming schizophrenic and Gay Pride Marches? Have you gone mad?" I'd probably reply, "I'm trying to set something up here, so just be quiet and let me think." And then you might say, "Well, I just don't find this kind of thing very interesting." And then I'd say, "So go write your own blog then." And then you might say, "Fine, I will. Your blogs suck anyway." And then I'd say, "Oh yeah? Then why do you bother to read them?" And then you wouldn't be able to think of a comeback right away. You'd think of a really good one hours later, but by then it would be too late, and I'd have already won this round. So there. Nyah.

Anyway, "The Phoenix Saga" began in 1976 and has since become one of the most recurrent, rehashed, revised and convoluted story lines in comic book history. You'd be surprised how much trouble a bird-shaped nexus of psionic energy can be, and how difficult it's made life for Jean Grey. In a nutshell, when Jean Grey is left to her own devices, she's Miss Pretty and Perfect in classic comic book do-gooder sense. But when the Phoenix Force possesses her, she becomes Dark Phoenix and a heck of a lot more fun- kind of like Olivia Newton-John's transformation at the end of Grease, only darker. Dark Phoenix is arrogant and vengeful and says things like, "I am fire and life incarnate." She can destroy an entire planet and its billions of inhabitants with a thought. She has the power to unravel the very fabric of existence, and has come close to erasing the entire universe more than once.

The photo that begins this blog is from "Phoenix:Endsong," a series of four comic books that endeavors to end The Phoenix Saga once and for all, thirty years after it began...even if it had to bring Jean Grey back from the dead to do it. Jean Grey's died a few times, but then, which of the X-Men hasn't? She's also had her mind controlled or wiped blank, spent several years at the bottom of the ocean in a cocoon, and been repeatedly dragged back and forth through both space and time. How else could she fight evil, side by side, with her daughter from an alternate future? All in a day's work for the X-Men.

And now we enter the very Nexus of this blog, where all things converge. Jean Grey, Dark Phoenix, Shawn, and Christmas (not Gay Pride Marches, though, we're done with that...for now) will all come together in a neatly gift wrapped blog package.

I mentioned that one of Shawn's hobbies is collecting X-Men action figures. Another hobby of his is having no response to the question, "What would you like for Christmas?" This is a direct contrast to the lists I have prepared for just such an inquiry, lists that leave no room for doubt, creativity, or frugal price-taggery. But this isn't about me, it's about Shawn. While we're out shopping, he might point to one or two things he sees in the store and might want, only to later change his mind and say, "You know, it's just not a fun thing to get for Christmas." Meanwhile, the item had already been bought and is sitting wrapped in my closet, and I begin to think of murdering him. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

And so, I began my Christmas shopping with no helpful input from the intended recipient. I also began it quite early, before Halloween. I began early because I had decided to get him an X-Men figure. What could be more fun than a spanking new figure to add to the collection? But I wasn't looking for just any figure. I was looking for Dark Phoenix. Since her first possession by the Phoenix Force, Jean Grey has taken to calling herself Phoenix. When she's being actively possessed, and therefore evil, she's Dark Phoenix. Shawn already has the Jean Grey/Phoenix action figure, so I figured he needed the Dark Phoenix action figure to complete the set. Since both figures are essentially Jean Grey, you may be wondering what the difference is. How can you tell if Phoenix is naughty or nice? Well, it's easy. Jean Gray/Phoenix wears a green outfit, and Dark Phoenix wears a red one.

The green Phoenix is relatively easy to find. Dark Phoenix, however, is a "variant." This means that there fewer of them made. Where does one go to find a rare Dark Phoenix? eBay, of course.

I will spare you the details of the fierce bidding war in which I soon found myself, assaulted from all sides by rabid collectors attracted to the phrase "mint in package." (It appears that these collectors prefer their action figures come to them in a virginal state. How creepy and old fashioned.) It was hell, but I persevered grimly, all the while reminding myself to make Shawn promise he wouldn't pose his figures like they are in this photo I found on the net. Just what kind of pervert poses his dollies and takes pictures of them? And what other pictures did he pose them in that no one else will ever see? Ewwww!

But it was about to get worse. Much, much worse. Remember when I said that I had started looking for the figure on eBay before Halloween? Are you wondering why I'm bringing it up again? The answer waits on the other side of the following empty space, but I must warn you. What follows may shock you. It may appall you. It might make you say "What the fuck?" It did all those things to me, and more. It inspired this blog.












Turn back now!
















It's not too late...save yourself!


















This is your LAST warning!

















OK, this is REALLY your last warning!

Ta-da! Yes, that's right; you, too, can be Dark Phoenix for Halloween. Or any other day of the year you've teased your hair and are feeling feisty. Bidding on this item began at only $399.99. Size: Petite. The ad stated that the outfit had been worn only once, "with undergarments, for picture taking purposes." Um, yeah, right. This thing just happens to be the perfect size for the woman wearing it, but it wasn't made for her? That's an interesting coinkydink. The ad also stated that there was a "hole in the feet for the heel of a shoe," but that "shoes were not included." So, ladies, you'll have to come up with your own pair of gold spiked heels.

For some reason, I think the line "I am fire and life incarnate" would be far more disturbing if it was coming from this version of Phoenix. I mean, we've already got a Phoenix and a Dark Phoenix...do we really need Kinky Suburban Housewife Phoenix? Don't get me wrong, this woman does scare me. Deeply and truly. To what nefarious end will she put the wall outlet there behind her? Does she have a Dark Electric Hand Mixer? A Dark Hoover? Somehow, it's just not quite the same, is it? Just for fun, let's do a side by side comparison, shall we?

Having a hard time telling which is which? I'll give you a hint: Marvel's Phoenix is the one that doesn't look like your mom on crack. I almost feel bad for mocking this poor woman, but at the same time, what was she thinking? As a 35 year old man with Simpsons sheets on his bed, I often feel hypocritical when I suggest someone might be too old for something. In this case, however, I'm fearlessly chucking stones from the front steps of my glass house. There is an almost enviable self-confidence in a person who's willing to have photos taken in this get up posted on the net, but then History is littered with the wreckage of misplaced confidence. Doesn't she realize there are people like me about, who thrive on mocking anyone foolish enough to make themselves an easy target? Speaking of targets, what, may I ask, is she attempting to accomplish in this next pose?

If her ass is a secret weapon, she needs to do a better job keeping it secret. But I will admit it's got powers. I can feel myself being repelled by a powerful force even as I write this. "Noooooooo!" I can't help but wonder if she came up with these poses all by herself, or if there was someone on the other side of the camera coaching her. "Come on, baby, you're Dark Phoenix! You're powerful! You're sexy! Show me powerfully sexy!"

After the shock, fits of uncontrollable laughter, and eventual dry-heaving had subsided, I began to think of the marvelous adventures Kinky Suburban Housewife Phoenix could have (and probably already did have, before she decided to sell the suit...ewwwwww!). This is what I came up with:

My verdict? Close, but no freakin' cigar. This Phoenix is going down in flames. Burn, baby, burn! In the end, the outfit never sold. I wonder why? Maybe photos of the outfit simply hanging on a clothes hanger would have improved its chances, but we'll never know. And in case you're curious, I did indeed win Shawn's Dark Phoenix action figure on eBay. It now sits beneath the tree, mint in package, awaiting his childlike glee come Christmas morning. The worst part has been keeping this blog to myself. I am dying to get it out there, to share my pain. It's almost too much to bear alone. But to post this before Christmas would spoil the surprise I've suffered silently to keep. I just hope Shawn appreciates the hefty price I've paid for his Dark Phoenix-not in money, but in nightmares.

Wrap This!
Manufacturers spend millions of dollars annually on developing packaging for their products. The packaging must be lightweight and inexpensive to produce and ship. It must also catch the consumer's eye as well as withstand the consumer's in-store poking and prodding and attempts at theft. No detail is so minute that focus groups and marketing committees haven’t hotly debated its virtue. Thermoformed plastic clamshell or injection molded plastic boxed insert? With or without a hang tab? Cardboard? Bleached chipboard or sleeved corrugated? What about Mylar? What kind of environmental impact will it have?

Fetching photos of the product must be taken. Models (hand, child, other) must be photographed handling and enjoying the product in attractive ways. Safety hazards must be considered and disclaimers positioned in very fine print. Graphic Designers spend feverish, sleepless nights agonizing over fonts, knowing that one misstep could open the door to one of thousands of other graphic designers clogging an overcrowded job market. Sensitivity committees must analyze every aspect of the finished design, searching for inadvertent sexist, racist, or Nazi-related undertones.

Whether it’s Pop Tarts or a plasma TV, a multitude of livelihoods turn on getting products in a box that arouses desire in consumers while preserving freshness. The line between functionality and seduction is mighty fine, and I wouldn't’t want to be the one walking it. It’s a thankless task to be sure, for who among us gives the box a second look once the Pop Tarts are gone? Do we stop for a moment to consider that what we’re discarding is someone else’s ultimate career accomplishment? We’ve taken the blood, sweat, and tears of these artisans for granted for far too long.

Why then, especially in this season of brotherhood, must we heap insult onto injury by gift wrapping all of these works of art? Would you hide a Picasso under gaudy wrapping paper tied off with a bow? (Don’t talk to me gift wrap designers...they’re no more artists than greeting card writers are poets.) Would you cover a sunset with, um, well, let’s see…

OK, fine. The truth of the matter is that I toss Pop Tart boxes out on a weekly basis with nary a second thought. This whole blog has been a farce, a desperate charade. The truth is the only thing I hate more than the psychological and financial strain of choosing and buying a gift is the epic struggle of wrapping it. When a simple chore evolves into a savage attempt to twist the laws of physics and geometry, I get cranky. How can it be that the scissors I was holding not two seconds ago have now vanished into oblivion? Why is losing the tape a condition of finding the scissors? Why can I only find the dull scissors that rip and tear at the paper instead of cutting it, especially when there are no less than four good pair somewhere in the house? When did they start limiting the tape in dispensers to approximately 3 inches? And why do I never buy more than one roll of tape?

I realize my results may not be typical. My epic struggle may be your whistling walk in the park. The fact that the finished product will ultimately end up in tatters only further dampens my already soggy enthusiasm.

Paper selection, or the lack thereof, is always a problem for me. Is there really much call for NASCAR wrapping paper? Why is Coca-Cola attempting to trademark the polar bear? Since when does Batman deliver gifts on Christmas Eve? Usurper! I refuse to pay a premium price for wrapping paper. It may look nice all rolled up, but it will very soon end up tightly wadded in a landfill. It's garbage. I refuse to pay $5.00 for a 10 yard roll of garbage just because it's sparkly.

This year I chose an elegantly understated Scooby Doo themed paper, and not just because I could get 300 square yards of it for less than three dollars. I feel that society needs a mythical cultural icon that embodies the jolly spirit of the season, around which traditions can be established and passed down among generations. It should be someone children adore and adults find charming. Who better than Scooby Doo?

And so it was, having chosen my paper, bought my one roll of tape, and located the dullest of our household scissors, that I sat down with a fairly good sized box at the coffee table and prepared to make some gift wrapping magic. I made a conscious choice to be as jolly as one can be while still retaining power of attorney.

I unrolled some wrapping paper, face down, on the table and placed the box, face down, in the center of it. I pulled one edge over the box and attempted to estimate how much paper would be needed to cover it entirely. I reached for the scissors, when suddenly our cat, Tuesday, heretofore known as the Lighted Receiving Tree Tipper, leapt from under the table where she’d been lurking and sank her claws into the paper overhanging the side of the table. As the box and paper slid off the table, she pounced on the roll, shredding it with her claws and teeth.

“You are a very naughty cat,” I said. “Now go away.” Or something like that. I don’t remember exactly. What I do recall is that the cat fled the room immediately. I was left to pick up several yards of newly “distressed” wrapping paper. I contemplated still using it, but I knew that accusations of being cheap were certain to follow, especially once the paper was removed and the gift was revealed. So I spooled out the damaged paper and scrapped it.

It was with a slight decrease in jolliness that I unrolled some fresh paper, face down, on the table and placed the box, also face down, in the center of it. Again I pulled one edge of the paper over the box and set to work measuring the proper amount of paper. I reached for the scissors, only to find that they were, of course, no longer there.

I knew they couldn't have gone far. Like most scissors, they had poor eyesight and little if any money. Yet they were gone. How? How? While I tore the cushions from the couch and upended the coffee table, I began to dwell on the purple handled scissors.

The purple handled scissors are the Holy Grail of scissors, at least in this house. Shawn uses them for cutting cloth, and he's said that they are never to be used to cut paper, which would dull them. Naturally, those were the scissors I looked for first. After a search of the entire house failed to turn them up, I began to suspect that Shawn had purposefully hidden them from me. Now, knee deep in couch cushions and loose change, I was convinced he had hidden them from me. I was convinced that he didn't trust me not to use them, and had them squirreled away somewhere for safekeeping. That bastard probably hid them in the trunk of his car, or rented a safety deposit box, or brought them to his office. They could be hidden anywhere.

A mental image of Shawn formed in my mind. There he was, under cover of darkness, burying the purple handled scissors in the back yard in an old mayonnaise jar. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, and he was laughing, laughing, laughing. He was also slightly taller and dressed as an organ grinder. And if he was the organ grinder, who was he implying was the monkey? Me? It was, after all, his present I was wrapping. That bastard!

I was just about to return his present to the Dollar Store when I spotted the scissors I had lost, sitting inexplicably on top of the TV. I had no memory of putting them there. It was then that I noticed the purple handled scissors, sitting next to TV in plain sight.

Feeling slightly guilty, I reassembled the sofa and gathered my materials for another crack at wrapping the gift. I retrieved the scissors-the dull ones, not the purple handled ones which are not for cutting paper-and sat on the couch. Unfortunately, the roll of wrapping paper was also on the couch. I heard the crunch beneath me and knew immediately what I had just done.

So much for my economical Scooby Doo wrapping paper. So much for my gift wrapping magic. So much for my jolliness. Why, oh why was wrapping a stupid gift so complicated? Why must everything be a hassle?

It occurred to me then that the people who designed the package the gift was in had all put a lot of effort into it, and....

The War On Annual Gift Receiving Day
I don’t celebrate Hanukah. I don’t celebrate Kwanzaa. I don’t celebrate National Glaucoma Awareness Month, National Handwriting Analysis Week, National Home and Sports Eye Safety Month, or Western Samoan Independence Day. I refuse to wish anyone “Happy Honda-Days.” While these are all very fine Holidays, they don’t speak to me as an individual. I don’t celebrate Christmas, either. While I have nothing against celebrating the birth of Christ (after all, he’s the one getting his Christmas loot cut in half), the Catholic Church has told me time and time again that I’m not welcome at their reindeer games. If that’s they way they wanna be about it, fine. I’ll just take my myrrh and go home.

I am, after all, an American. Not only do I have freedom of religion, I also have freedom from religion, even if the President of these United States insists on calling non-Catholics “sinners.” It’s the least of his faults, and I don’t want to get caught up Bush-bashing; there’s no sport in it anymore. For all intents and tax purposes, I am a single white male between the ages of 21 and 35. While you will hear me whining about paying taxes for public schools and family housing subsidies I’ll never be able to use, you don’t often hear me whining about persecution. Until now.

As a productive member of American society, I demand that my beliefs be acknowledged and respected. It is especially important this time of year, when those celebrating conventional “Holidays” seem hell bent on trampling the rest of us. Catholics may have their Christmas Trees. Buddhists may have their Buddha Bush. The National Home and Sports Eye Safety-ists may have their Pointed Conifer of Many Hazards. So why do you refuse to acknowledge my Lighted Receiving Tree?

What’s this? You don’t know what a Lighted Receiving Tree is? Could it be you’ve never heard the story of Annual Gift Receiving Day? I’m not surprised. Annual Gift Receiving Day has, I imagine, been suppressed by The Man and bureaucratic fat-cats since its inception a few weeks ago. Yes, Annual Gift Receiving Day may be new, but it’s here to stay. Just look how fast Kwanzaa caught on. I assure you; our numbers are growing, and our voices shall be heard.

Since those celebrating Annual Gift Receiving Day are all about receiving gifts, not purchasing them and giving them, boycotting stores that refuse to acknowledge us may at first seem futile. But those giving us the gifts we receive have to purchase them from somewhere. With the high-end, big-ticket items we demand to receive each year, that adds up to some pretty big bucks. Frankly, there are too many relatives, significant others, and friends who will feel obligated to buy for us, no matter how obnoxious we are, for Madison Avenue to continue to ignore our outcry.

We realize Rome wasn’t built in a day. We must give retailers a chance to educate themselves on the ways of the Receivers. Therefore, we cannot outright boycott all retailers that refuse to wish their shoppers who may be browsing for gifts to add to their lists a Profitable Annual Gift Receiving Day. Those of you shopping for an Annual Gift Receiving Day gift for an Annual Gift Receiving Day Receiver must remember our cause. A panel of founding Annual Gift Receiving Day Receivers has, after much deliberation, issued a list of retailers approved by the Annual Gift Receiving Day community. To purchase a gift from any retailer not on the approved list is to undermine our cause! If you’ve already purchased a gift from, oh, say, Wal-Mart or the Dollar Store, which are not on the approved list, you should return it at once and inform them just why you are returning it. Don’t be shy, make a scene! The approved retail store list is as follows:

B&H Camera and Photo
Foto Forum
Macy’s
Saks Fifth Avenue
Best Buy
Robinson’s May/Filenes
J. Crew

The following stores have an “on item approval” status:

Target

Also acceptable:

Cash


Without solidarity, the very spirit of our season of joy is threatened. I urge you to preserve our fledgling way of life. You wouldn’t kill a puppy, would you? So why surrender to these Holiday fascists? Yes, the war on Annual Gift Receiving Day has begun and we are, all of us, on the front lines. Some of us are just a little further back than others. After all, someone’s got to plug in the Lighted Receiving Tree.

The 24 Days of Anticipation
Well, once again I seem to be guilty of infrequent blogging. To this charge I have but one response; What am I? Your bitch? I don't think so.

When last I blogged, the dogs had been fighting like dogs. What canine compulsion caused such calamitous commotion? Like foot fetishes and Ashlee Simpson's career, it will forever remain a freakish perversion I just don't understand. Or when advertisers refer to their products as products...I don't get that either. "Save on these exciting products!" Products, you say? I love products! Or the Flip Flop Shop. Can you really build a footwear empire selling cheap rubber sandals? I was at the mall the other day and the Flip Flop Shop was packed with Flopper Shoppers. Do flip flops really make great gifts? I don't get it. And why are people buying video games, t-shirts and toys based on Peter Jackson's new King Kong movie when all anyone has seen of it yet has been in car commercials? Are movies really anything nowadays other than commercials for video games, t-shirts, toys and cars? I just don't get it.

Speaking of getting, can you believe there are only twenty-odd days left until Annual Gift Receiving Day? Where has the time gone? I find myself in a state of crazed anxiety, making last minute preparations and lying awake at night and wondering if I've forgotten anything. Have I cleared enough closet space for the gifts I expect to receive? Is there enough room under the Lighted Receiving Tree for all my gifts, or should I remove more of the lower branches? Have I dropped enough subtle hints about what I want? Have I been too subtle? Is there anything about which I've forgotten to hint, with subtlety? I hate leaving anything to chance, which is why I've even rehearsed what I'll say as I open my gifts. I'm comfortable with my "Oooh's," but my "Aahh's" seem forced, and, for some reason, I can't seem to put an ounce of sincerity into my "You really shouldn't have's." My repertoire contains 35 responses for delighted surprise, twelve less delighted responses that nevertheless convey some form of satisfied acceptance (for gifts such as socks and undershirts), four vaguely dissatisfied reactions (including the standby "It's very nice, but I just don't know when I'd ever use it..."), and one flat out all-purpose "Where's the receipt?" The stress of improvising the additional exclamations of delight I shall doubtless require is almost enough to make me wish the day was over and I was standing in line at a returns counter. I'm really not demanding, you know, I'm just often misunderstood.

I try to relax. I try to enjoy the simple pleasures that go hand in hand with this special time of year. I put on my CD of Annual Gift Receiving Day carols and sing along with my favorite carols, "What? That's it?" and "Die, you cheap scumbag, die!" while I run through a mental checklist of all the errands and tasks I've already accomplished. My Annual Gift Receiving Day cards have already been mailed, with heartfelt tidings of peace and joy filling every postage due Fed Ex overnight envelope, along with pages from upscale catalogs on which I've thoughtfully marked items I want with cheerful Post It notes indicating the correct size, color, and quantity. I've emailed all of my casual acquaintances links to online stores with "Hint, hint" as the subject header. I've sent out memos at work with subliminal gift suggestions lurking in the clip art. What more can one do? Nothing but relax and watch Annual Gift Receiving Day specials on the Home Shopping Network. My favorite one is called "The 24 Days of Anticipation." It's about Raoul, the Annual Gift Receiving Golden Retriever, whose tail just won't wag on any other day of the year. The townsfolk learn a valuable lesson, though, when Raoul saves Annual Gift Receiving Day from an evil vanload of hippies talking about the true spirit of some communist holiday no one's ever heard of being all about love and togetherness. Realizing how close they'd come to being drawn into a sinister cult, the townsfolk rush to their telephones and apply for low interest Home Shopping Network credit cards so that they can shower Raoul with gifts of brand name electronics and designer sheets year round, thus making his tail wag happily ever after. It's a beautiful story.

But still, I can't get over the nagging feeling that the more something is built up, the more likely it is to disappoint. Just take Friday the 13th part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan. Jason's only in Manhattan for like 8 minutes. All the disemboweling takes place on a stupid dimly lit boat on the way to Manhattan! What a rip off! It upsets me so much I can't stand to watch it more than two or three times a year. Say, for lack of a more random example, that Shawn accidentally buys me less gifts than he intended. I'm sure his disappointment in himself would far outweigh my disappointment in Jason, and that's really saying something. I'd feel so awful seeing him struggle with all that disappointment that I'd have to have the locks changed, just to make sure he had enough alone time to heal. He'd be torn apart....emotionally. Imagine, blowing this one annual chance to show his profound appreciation for me with durable goods and preloaded gift cards. I assure you it would destroy him.

Luckily, however, Shawn has me around to give him constant reminders of mall hours and convenient ATM locations. But what about you, gentle reader? According to the counter, there have been over 1,600 hits on this website so far this month, which can only mean you're studying my personality and interests, looking for just the perfect thing to get for me. (P.S. Joanne, 34 SWF from PHX, AZ....I don't need any more topless photos of you straddling a Jeep... I might suggest that there's a rather lighthearted and jolly theme to this website that's escaped your notice.) Don't wait til the last minute to send your gifts! I can only get about 200 medium sized packages into the van, and I don't want to have to make 10 trips to the post office the day before Annual Gift Receiving Day. Such a thing would be a victory for Terror, which is now apparently an organized entity rather than a basic emotion. I'm looking forward to the War on Stupidity myself, but that's probably a long way off. Til then I'll have to content myself with organizing the gifts which should start to arrive any day now (HINT, HINT) under what's left of the Lighted Receiving Tree.

Love Bites, Love Hurts, Love Occasionally Necessitates a Tetanus Shot and Antibiotics

Dear Faithful Blog Readers,

As both of you may have noticed, it has been quite some time since my last blog. The reasons for this are intricately layered and richly textured, much like fine lasagna or an episode of Matlock, only not as cheesy (note to self: write a blog about cheese). First and foremost, the blame lies heavily on the shoulders of Cox internet service. In a nutshell, they blow big time. It is virtually impossible to update a website you cannot access. The technicians we entertain on a nearly monthly basis are reasonably attractive and well mannered, but I still don’t want them in my bedroom, which happens to be where our landlord had the cable jack installed. Tool belts and sagging jeans do nothing for me unless I’m the one wearing them. Every visit reveals a new service-interrupting culprit, and lately they’ve run out of wires to strip, change out, or bury, and so suspicion has shifted onto our equipment.

“Your modem’s confused,” a technician informed me last weekend.
“I see,” I said, struggling to decipher this highly technical jargon. How, exactly, was the modem confused? Was it trapped in a body of the wrong gender? Did it think it was possessed by a paperweight? Why was it thinking at all? The last thing I need is a modem with an intellect and an attitude problem.
“But,” I countered shrewdly, “this is the tenth time you’ve been called out here, and the problem has never been with the modem.” A-ha! Take that!
Completely unshaken, the technician un-holstered a Motorola 475 Magnum Modem, plugged it in, and smiled smugly as all the little lights lit. Touch?! “See? It works with my modem. You guys should really have one of these Motorolas.”
“But,” said Shawn, “you sold us our modem.”
“How long have you had it?” The technician asked.
“About a year and a half.”
“Oh, well, there’s the trouble. We only guarantee them for a year.”

Since then, we’ve been muddling through with our “confused” modem, which has sporadic moments of lucidity, usually very late at night when it thinks no one is looking. I’m afraid to buy a new modem because I refuse to be held accountable for my actions when the new one is diagnosed with confusion as well. For all I know, the technician’s fancy Motorola could have been rigged to light up even if it was connected to a toaster with string and a wad of gum. (Note to self: invent a toaster/modem.)

Second and not so foremost, it’s hard to type effectively without use of your left hand. Yes, I suppose true dedication would have found me single handedly hunting and pecking, or even hunched over the keyboard with a typing straw clenched in my teeth and look grim determination etched on my face, but why persevere bravely when you can lie about uselessly and complain? Oh, the pain! Oh, the trauma! Oh, the perfectly valid reasons to not show up at work! Why? Why? Why?

Perhaps you, like my modem, are feeling a little confused. Perhaps, like my modem, you are feeling a profound lack of incoming information, and are sitting there with your lights not lit. What happened to my left hand? Oh, nothing. No, really, it’s nothing. Hardly worth mentioning, really, although it was very painful, and perhaps permanently disfiguring. Really, I just don’t want to talk about it. O.K., fine, if you’re going to insist I guess I’ll just have to tell you.

I remember it like it was two weeks ago, although it was actually three weeks ago, which just goes to show you how fresh the horror of it all is in my mind. Shawn was in Kentucky on business (Yeah, sounds fishy to me, too. Who goes to Kentucky on business? Nobody, that’s who. I have always suspected that Shawn has been harboring a hidden fetish for slight men in stirrup pants, and the Kentucky Derby t-shirt he brought back for me isn’t so much a gift as it is damning evidence. Oh, betrayal most foul...possibly.), and the dogs and I were settled in for the evening, watching one of our favorite shows, Reno 911.

Suddenly, the dogs, who had been lying peacefully and drowsily on the floor, were up and snarling. It took me a second to realize they were snarling at each other, and less than a second later, they were literally at each other’s throats. They do fight occasionally, usually over toys or who gets the honor of chewing up yet another oven mitt, but I was confused because there wasn’t an oven mitt or squeaky bone in sight. To this day I have no idea what started it, but it was quickly escalating into the most vicious dog fight I’d ever seen. Yelling at them wasn’t helping, and when Dougal actually managed to lift Mesa up off her feet by her scruff and throw her into the coffee table, I knew things were getting very bad indeed. Dougal outweighs Mesa by a good 15 pounds, but Mesa is fast and she was up again in a second with her jaws clamped down on Dougal’s muzzle.

Since yelling was doing absolutely no good at all, I did what I usually do when they fight, which is to grab them both by their collars and pull them apart. It usually works. At least, it had until then. The moral of this story: Never, ever, attempt to break up a serious dog fight. I must admit I had heard this advice before, but I was convinced if I didn’t so something one of them would wind up dead. I don’t know which one of them bit me, but I got bit and I got bit good. I’m sure neither of them was even slightly aware of me, however, and they thrashed around the room, knocking into furniture, rearing up on their hind legs and knocking each other over. So I tried kicking them. Then I tried punching them. Then I tried throwing an ottoman at them. All no good.

I went into the back yard and got the hose, and dragged it back into the house, and I blasted them, along with everything else in the living room. This confused them for a second, and I was able to get them apart and put them in separate rooms. This also got them soaking wet, and it was hard to check them over through all that wet, matted down fur. I satisfied myself that both each had their eyes and ears intact and no one was limping, and then I washed off my hand. My thumb had three lovely punctures, one of which definitely required medical attention. The living room was dripping and wrecked, and I lost no time cursing Shawn for having the nerve to be away while all hell was breaking loose.

I saw my doctor the next day, who diagnosed the bite as a “boo-boo” and set his decade of college into expert motion. “Can you feel this? How about this? Does this hurt?” My doctor’s name is John Williams, and he is completely humorless about sharing a name with a famous composer. However, this doesn’t stop me from humming the theme to Star Wars while in the exam room. The bite, it turned out, was too deep to stitch, so instead a round of heavy duty antibiotics was prescribed. The bone was “probably” bruised and would “probably” remain tender for a while. As I was getting ready to go, however, he asked, “How long has it been since you last tetanus shot?”

I had to admit I had no idea, and I didn’t like where this conversation was headed. I hate any needle that isn’t loaded with tattooing ink. In short, I left the hospital feeling worse than I went in, which is usually the case, which why I don’t like hospitals. Not only did I have a swollen left hand with a purple thumb that was in perpetual hitch hike mode, but now it hurt to move the arm it was attached to. Again, I cursed Shawn as I drove home and then later via email and cell phone mailbox.

The hole in my thumb is almost closed now, and I can type comfortably once again. This doesn’t change the modem situation, however, and I have no idea when I’ll be able to get this blog posted. I still love my puppies, of course, and since they don’t actually understand human speech, attempting to make the feel guilty is futile. “Look there,” I’ll say. “See what you two did? You bit that hand that feeds you! That’s so clich?! I’m very, very disappointed in both of you!” Any conversation not involving treats or the words “outside,” “walk,” or “car” goes completely over their heads and I could see them losing interest before I had finished my second sentence. Instead, I have to go to Shawn, stick out my thumb, and say “See there? See what happened while you away on ‘business’ in Kentucky?”

Now life is going along as usual. But there are a few upcoming events, both here and at work, that will be supremely blog worthy. Stay Tuned!

Save Tellie!
When I’m not working on “One Man Is a Village,” my one-man Village People themed show that showcases the songs of Peter, Paul and Mary destined to be a huge hit in Vegas (once I get my changing times down, overcome my prudish habit of putting pants on my Indian, and work through a few kinks in the choreography --“Lemon Tree” is a particularly difficult song to choreograph from the Cop’s point of view, but would excluding the Cop from the routine only make him more conspicuous through his absence?), I like to “surf” my internet. If you don’t have an internet yet, I highly recommend that you get one. I bought mine for $600.00 from a guy outside a Circuit City and it came with literally dozens of websites. He came to my house and set it up and even removed several items from my home that might cause “electronic interference” with my new internet (such as TVs, stereos and DVD players) free of charge. I’d recommend him to you but he never did tell me his name. Over time, I have found websites that did not come with my original internet. I’m not the kind of person who would steal internet or even cable, but I figure the only reason I can get these websites is because no one else wants them, so what is the harm?

Anyway, one of the websites I stole was a poetry site that had some poems by a woman named Rose M Wise. Rose M Wise is a very, very lonely woman. She claims she can speak to “spirits” and writes really awful poetry about her encounters with them. She claims to “channel write;” the spirits speak through her as she writes, and she can do the same with drawings. Here is a sample of some of her work:


This is what a spirit drew for me
Through my hand for me to see

I know theres a meaning behind this scene
But I don't understand what it means

He tells me hes a man and hes 32
But I don't know if this is true

It looks like the drawing of a child
The lines the curves it looks so wild

He tells me hes my spirit guide
When he comes through hes by my side

I feel a sadness behind this man
I want to help him if I can

I want to tell him what is right
To go to the light and be with GOD tonight

So if your not my spirit guide
And your just a spirit that wants to hide

Listen to what I've had to say
Go to the light and you'll be okay

So I took this drawing this spirit drew
Colored it in to bring out the meaning in you


Why a spirit would choose Ms Wise as their “channel writer” is, I suppose, between the sprit and Ms. Wise. Even among the dead, there seems to be no accounting for taste. I am quite content to mock Ms Wise and her spirits from afar. Her poems, such as “They Are Here,” “Crying Spirits,” “Lost Souls,” and “I Will Find Them A Way” give me hours of high-spirited amusement. I have not been able to ascertain whether or not Ms Wise has been successful in leading any of these tortured souls to the Light, but you can’t fault the old gal for trying. The only real victims of the charade, it seems, are Ms Wise’s credibility, the world of poetry, and her helpless spirit victims.

That was until I ran across her poem “Tellie My Cat.”

I have a cat her name is Tellie
She has a big furry bellie
When she get's ready to eat
She end's up sitting down on her feet
She's getting so big she can hardly run
She look's like she could weight a ton
When you call her to come to you
You'd better be able to feed her to
She's playing with something in the air
But there's nothing ever there
It takes all she's got to jump in your lap
But that's okay she's my tellie the cat


I do wish one of her spirits would guide Ms Wise’s hand in writing, “I must take my obese cat to the vet. I must put my cat on a diet.” This isn’t so much a poem as it is an admission of neglect and animal endangerment. But Tellie’s woes don’t seem to end with obesity. No, it gets much worse. The following poem by Ms Wise is entitled “My Cat and the Spirits.”

I notice one day my cat was acting strange
She come running down the hall
Bang she hit the wall
There was a spirit behind her then she ran in to the door.
I couldn't believe it I thought I was going to fall to the floor
But then she ran back in the hall
I found her in the bathtub up against the wall
I felt so sorry for her I didn't know what to do
I just called her name tellie and said I'll help you
I know these spirits just wanted to play with her
They wanted to pet her and play with her fur
Cats can see things that we cannot
This happens to her everyday
So I know its the spirits just wanting to play


This woman is sick. Her cat is sick. Incensed as I am, I feel some poetic retaliation is warranted, for it seems to be the only non-invisible medium that speaks to Ms Wise.


If I were a spirit I would not haunt you.
I would not jump at out you and say Boo!

I would not give your cat a fright,
Or have you lead me to the Light.

Your poetry is really bad.
No wonder your spirits are sad.

Everything you write sucks,
That much is true.
Do not blame the spirits;
The lousy writer is you!

You’re a schizo-lady
With a schizo-cat;
Dumb as a post,
Mad as a bat.

Don’t write any more of this crap
That you call “poetry.”
Leave it to talented people,
Like Whitman and me!

You can’t have tickets
To my Vegas show.
To the psychiatrist
Is where you ought to go!

And put your damned cat on a diet.






http://www.paintedperfectly.com/modules.php?name=Your_Account&op=userinfo&username=spirits20

The Mysterious Purr Padd

“CATS LOVE THEM.”

Well, enough said. If cats love them, then my cats must certainly have them. I’m not the kind of person who lets $12.99 stand between my cats and love, nor am I the kind of person who would hold the sacrifice of two packs of cigarettes and a 2 liter bottle of Dr. Pibb against them, especially when I can whine until Shawn buys them for me. The mystery, of course, is what is so darn lovable about a 20” X 20” square of combed polyester fibers that looks suspiciously like the air conditioner filters we buy at Home Depot for $2.00. Frankly, I don’t see the appeal. The fact they are “electrostatically charged” is a rather dubious enticement. Apparently, they “trap hair, dust, and dander,” which would explain how they “attract cats like a magnet.” After all, besides indifference, what else is a cat made of?

When we got the Padds out of the boxx, I was expecting the cats to fly helplessly through the air toward them, like iron filings to one of those U shaped magnets you never see outside cartoons and 5th grade science class. This was not the case. Tuesday had to be retrieved from inside the toilet bowl and introduced to the Padd without subtlety. She shrank from it as though it were on fire, and fled to another haunt of hers, on top of the dog crates, where she dangled her paws down through the bars to tease the dogs. It became immediately apparent that the advertised luxuriousness of a Purr Padd was wasted on this toilet dweller, so I went in search of Wednesday.

Being of a certain age, Wednesday’s tastes are naturally more refined. She eschews the toilet entirely, and instead hangs out in the bathtub with her head under the leaky faucet. Now that’s class. The problem, however, was that at that moment Wednesday was comfortably settled under the bed, and could not be lured out. So much for the Padd’s magnetic trapping ability. I placed the Padd where she was likely to stumble over it on her next trip to her food dish and checked back periodically, eager to see her sprawled on it and purring helplessly. That was three days ago, and so far it hasn’t happened. She was, however, sprawled on a shoe very near the Padd and purring helplessly, so I’m confident that Purr Padd love can’t be very far off. Tuesday has also resisted the Padd’s magnetism, even when it’s been draped on top of her.

In short, the Mysterious Purr Padd remains a $13.00 mystery to me, and especially to the cats, who seem hell-bent on making a liar out of the happy kitty on the bright pink Purr Padd box. I bet you’d never catch that cat in the toilet. By the way; Shawn, if you’re reading this, I’m out of cigarettes and Mr. Pibb.

My ultra deluxe funky retro dinette table was ruined...mauled repeatedly by my canine's canines...chrome trim torn asunder, deco laminate tabletop chewed away and bleeding pressboard...oh, what to do? My once "funky and informal Crate and Barrel exclusive" now looked like a “tired and defeated Goodwill reject.” Would I have to go through the horror, inconvenience, and expense of buying a new table? Was there no end to my suffering? With the back of my hand slapped firmly against my forehead in woe, I staggered about, grief-stricken and inconsolable, until Shawn suggested we tile over the ruined tabletop. This was a terrible idea, and I told him so. But then I had an idea. What if I simply tiled over the ruined tabletop? I daresay it was one of my more brilliant ideas, and for someone with as many brilliant ideas to choose from as I have, that's saying something.

Speaking of brilliance, I realized that my idea could benefit multitudes of people facing the same dilemma. I'm sure lots of people have ugly surfaces that could benefit from a good tiling, whether it be a table or even a different kind of table. I knew at once what I must do: I must use this experience as an illustrated tool to help others. What's that you say? That I've already given so much of myself, through my guides to desert wildlife, photography, and anti-terrorism? That I've spared many the horrors of reading The Mill on The Floss or inadvertently purchasing an evil “Bratz” product, not to mention the sheer goodness that exudes from my blogs, lifting spirits and brightening the days of weary internet travelers? What’s that? There is a “Rainbow Connection” after all, you say, and it’s here, in my blogs? I cannot deny that all this is true, nor can I deny that none of this would be possible without great personal sacrifice, from me, personally. Do not cry for me, Argentina; some of us are simply called into a life of service (Fig. 1). It's what I do. I know of no other way of life.

Fig. 1

The first step of any home improvement project is to create a mental picture of the look you're trying to accomplish. Do you want something lighthearted and gay or something overwrought and gay? Although gay is versatile, it's not for everyone. Some find the overabundance of cushions and billowy fabrics overbearing and impractical. Perhaps you're into classic lines and simplicity of form. Or maybe you think pipe cleaners and finger paint are still ultra chic. Whatever the case, you must first clear your mind and allow the creative energies to flow. Sitting quietly in the Lotus position while listening to a Yanni CD is supposedly perfect for this, unless it leads you down a meditative path to Linda Evans, and that whole Rejuvenique mask thing (Fig. 2).

Fig 2

I myself invented a similar mask-based beauty system inspired by Linda Evans and a PBS special on the regenerative effects of acupuncture, but the FDA refused to even test the "Beauty Quills System" (Fig. 3). They claim that they "hope it is a seriously unfunny joke, the likes of which mock the efforts of sincere inventors attempting improve the quality of people's lives." Hooking your face up to a car battery is good, but acupuncture is bad? Since when? I tested the product myself, and suffered no adverse tapioca pudding pudding pudding. It just goes to show that unless you can get a celebrity spokesperson, there's no room in big business for the little guy. Pam Dawber's (Fig. 4)reaction to my "system" was equally as unenthusiastic, so there was no help there. I still have the prototype, though, just in case anyone with friends in the FDA and influence over Pam Dawber tries to steal my idea. It's in storage gathering dust and looking suspiciously like "outsider art." What I'm going to do with 600 pink and lavender galvanized roofing "quills" I don't know, but what I do know is that Linda Evans is an awful, awful source for creative inspiration, which explains why Yanni's music sucks like a black hole wrapped in a vacuum and then flushed down a toilet.

Fig. 3

Fig. 4

Once you?ve got a clear idea of what you want, it?s helpful to sketch it out. This will give you an opportunity to examine the harmony of your design and detect any clashing color schemes and patterns before your idea is set in grout, so pay close attention and make your sketch as detailed as possible. My sketch took over a week to complete, and I had to take several days off from work to remain focused. (Fig. 5) Don?t just copy my design, though; use this opportunity to really express yourself!

Fig. 5


Take some vague measurements of the area you wish to tile, and then forget them while at Home Depot. It won?t much matter anyway, because you?ll soon discover that all the really cool tile is very expensive, and you'll have to rethink your whole design anyway. Soon you?ll find yourself gravitating away from the glass mosaic tile toward the bathroom flooring tile and saying to the person with you, ?This will look fine on a tabletop. Don?t you think this will look fine on a tabletop? I think it?ll look fine on a tabletop. Don?t you think it will look fine?? After the tenth time you?ve asked, the person will likely agree that yes, it will look fine. This is a very important step, so DO NOT SKIP IT! Now you?ll have someone?s bad advice to blame should the project fail (Fig. 6). The only real drawback now will be the lack of a wide range of color choices. You can go with black, white, blue, green, or the sickly yellow ?buttercup.? Blue, green, and ?buttercup? are about three bucks a tile and will clash horribly with your kitchen?s color scheme, which, ironically enough, you?ve built around the now defunct dinette table. Red, which would go perfectly, will be a special order item available in bulk quantities only, and cost about eight bucks a tile. The black and white tiles are forty-seven cents each and they will have stacks and stacks of them. In the end, I chose the black and white tiles (only, of course, after securing a second favorable opinion), not because they were cheapest, but because sometimes working with limited options forces one to be more creative.

Fig. 6

Once you've got your tile home, you'll have to go back to Home Depot and get some grout and sealant. I discovered that tile doesn't stick to tabletops without grout. Spread the grout on the tile with the back of a spoon or a butter knife and stick it on the table. When you've got about half the tile down, you'll probably notice that things aren't lining up the way they did when you fist set the design out...probably because the side pieces have shifted back slightly in the grouting process. Now, quickly, start shifting the grouted tile to approximate where you think things should end up. Quick! The grout is drying! My design used alternating balck and white tiles that eventually formed what resembled a checkerboard. It's pretty unique, and I'm thinking of having the design patented. Once you've got all the tiles more or less in place, it's time to grout between them. I used an expired credit card for this, and it worked beautifully. All that was left for me to do was to custom cut some side pieces. Cutting tile is a difficult task. Simply dropping the tile in the driveway in hopes that it will break to exactly the proportions you want seems not to work...at least it didn't for me. It was at this critcal juncture when...

Fig. 7

....the ceiling caved in over my workspace. Wet drywall (is that then wetwall?) and a few feet of wet insulation suddenly covered everything in the room, including one of two couches I had scrounged from the roadside that Shawn had just finished recovering. There was nothing in my sketch or mental images about this, so I was unsure how to proceed. The landlord was summoned, and, after she called me fat ("You've put on weight...good for you!") she began to have a nervous breakdown about the how much a new roof would cost.

So my project is incomplete and on hold until such time as the ceilings have been replaced and the old roof has been removed and then replaced. At the moment, I still have tar between my toes from when I accidentally stepped into a puddle of it while attempting to put a tarp on the roof. (Fig. 8) Do you know how hard it is to get tar off? Maybe I should have used that insetad of grout.

Fig. 8

And there you have it, a step-by-step approach to home beautification. And, it seems, while Linda Evan's stupid electro-shock mask is winding up on clearance tables at drugstores across the nation, the "Beauty Quills Sysyem" may actually get some active duty up there on the roof. Even Joan Collins couldn't have gotten better revenge.

I'm a Photog!
pho•tog•ra•phy: n. (1) The art or process of producing images of objects on photosensitive surfaces. (2) The art, practice, or occupation of taking and printing photographs. (3) The surreal, indescribable, or unknowably profound, captured in images by a gifted person with a camera.

It has always been clear to me that I am far too talented to “focus” on one particular art form...painting by number, interpretative dance, abstract string art....these are all talents of mine that “developed” naturally, without outside influence or instruction. When you’ve got as much to say as I do, you’re constantly on the look out for new, innovative ways to express what you see in the world around you, good and bad. For there is beauty in everything, you know; it just takes an uncommon eye to extract it from its mundane surroundings.

I know my work is good because of the reactions people have when I show them my pictures:

“What’s it supposed to be?”
“Oh, well, that’s very...um... interesting.”
“However did you manage a self-portrait from that angle?”
“You know, they have auto-focus cameras now...ever tried one?”
“I don’t get it. What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“Sorry, I forgot that I usually wear glasses...we’ll have to do this another time.”

Those of you familiar with my website have already seen examples of my work...from the lively, action packed sequences of the dogs, to the majestic, moody pieces with the cats. The range I have may well stagger you...it does me! Nothing can quite match the satisfaction so clearly sharing such fleeting visions of beauty.

What you may not know, however, is that aside from the pictures I take exclusively for the website, I also have a portfolio of “serious” work...which I have finally decided to share with you, knowing that had you known they existed, you certainly would have been pounding down my home page, demanding to see them. As an added bonus, I will be including a brief write up for photos whose purpose may not be immediately evident. Like magicians, photographers are usually reluctant to share the “tricks of the trade,” but, having seen absolutely nothing in the mainstream world of artistic or commercial photography that even comes close to resembling my work, I am confident that my vision is unique and impossible to imitate.

"Mystic Journey, Part VI"

Does she know where she's going to? Does she like the things that life is showing her? Where is she going to? Does she know? Does she know what she's hoping for, when she looks behind there's no open door. What is she hoping for? Does she know?

This series ended apruptly at part XXII when the subject became suddenly and inexplicably hostile toward the photographer (me).

"Woman in Ironic Sweatpants Checking Mail"

This one speaks for itself... As luck would have it, I was stopped at a red light and happened to be retrieving my camera from the car floor when this dramatic scene unfolded.

"The Photo the Pentagon Doesn't Want You to See"

"Guy Wearing Sunglasses Enjoys His Last Cigarette"

"Hidden Beauty"

The beauty in this photo is so well hidden that even I can't find it.

"Unhappy Hour"
This photo was listless, uninspired, and comletely without buoyancy until I digitally turned it into atmospheric black and white and gave it a poignant title. Now, as you can see, it's art. You may send me $4,000 for a signed digital copy, suitable for framing or use as a demotivational AA poster. Do NOT just right click and save, because that would get you the picture for free and I'd never know it.

And there you have it...a brief introduction to the exciting possibilities of the wonderful world of Photography! Future installments will follow when I have time, since my email inbox will be flooded with accolades and orders for prints.

Sidewalk Rage


This evening, Shawn and I were out walking our puppies when we passed a woman who was also out walking her dog. She was purposefully ignoring her dog, looking the other way while he was squatting and defecating on the sidewalk. When she noticed me watching her, she yanked the dog’s leash and started walking again, so the dog had to finish answering nature’s call while attempting to hobble forward, still squatting. I could tell she was evil long before she began to walk away, so I couldn’t resist calling over to her.

“Are you going to pick that up?”

She half turned, and then I could see her actively decide to ignore me. She kept walking.

“Excuse me,” I called after her.

She kept walking. Taking Dougal with me, I crossed the street and called after her, “Excuse me! Hey!”

She kept ignoring me, so I started to follow her, Dougal in tow. Every now and again I’d shout “Excuse me!” and she’d take quick, nervous glances back over her shoulder and walk faster. That was fine, Dougal I kept up without breaking a sweat. I hummed a merry tune to myself as I walked, and after we got about half a block she turned and yelled over her shoulder, “Stop following me!”

“I’d like to talk to you about picking up after your dog,” I said.

She continued to walk and make a show of ignoring me. So I continued to follow, humming. I could sense her mounting nervousness, and she kept glancing back over her shoulder at me in spite of herself. I smiled brightly and continued along behind her.

“Stop following me!” she yelled again. I could tell she was getting scared, so I relented. I stopped following.

“Do you think it’s fair that everyone else has to deal with your dog’s shit?” I yelled after her. “That’s rude! Very, very rude!”

I wanted to add “Die! Die! Die!” but I was standing in the middle of a neighborhood street, and didn’t want to look too much like a raving lunatic, which also ruled out picking up the feces and throwing it at her. But I really, really wanted to. I hate people like that. They’re the same people who throw bags of trash out their car windows and don’t say thank you when you hold a door open for them.

I got home from the walk, fuming and cursing, but hatching a devilish plan. I’d see her coming out of her house at some point, and I have a back yard full of dog crap I’d love to scatter on her front lawn, driveway, and doorstep. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow...but someday, when she least expects it. Funnily enough, shortly thereafter I received a comment about one of my latest award winning* blogs, “Fear My Certificate,” from a friend who said:

“I fear the day someone gives you a badge and a gun. Or even just a badge. If you flip out your NIMS certificate with the slightest provocation, there's not telling what sort of vigilante justice you'd mete out.”


Hmmm. Food for thought perhaps? Or perhaps, just perhaps, I have a few choice comments of my own to leave for a certain blog commentator’s own blogs. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow....


*five time winner of the Bud Tocks award for blog excellence

Beware of Dog: A True Story
The other day, I was standing outside a pet store with my dog Mesa, when a woman approached me.

“Awwww!” she said. “She’s so pretty! Does she bite?”

“Yes,” I said.

The woman then edged closer and put her hand in front of Mesa’s nose.

And Mesa bit her.

The End

Fear My Certificate
What would you do if terrorists attacked your community right now? And I mean right now-Look out! There’s one behind you! Whew! There’s isn’t one really-at least I hope not-but were you prepared? If your town or city came under terrorist attack, what would you really do? If you’re anything like me, you’d stand in your living room listening to the news and watching the ceiling, waiting to see whether or not it caves in. Recently, however, as I was sitting in a hotel banquet room watching a PowerPoint slideshow presented by FEMA, the Federal Emergency Management Agency, I learned that this response was incorrect. As a newly “certified” NIMS (National Incident Management System) “participant,” it is now my duty to play an integral role in managing national incidents...although what role I play and what kinds of incidents I might help manage is still unclear to me. The details were a little vague, even with the presenter’s frequent use of a laser pointer, but let me assure you that this in no way detracts from my preparedness. So, if you’re a terrorist planning some kind of nefarious incident, I warn you that you’ll have me and my certificate to reckon with. I’d advise you to take your incident and git.

True, my certificate grants me no real authority, status, or compensation of any kind. I wasn’t issued a gun, a badge, a uniform, or even a cheap plastic keychain stamped with the NIMS logo. I’ve discovered that Pizza Hut does not offer a NIMS certificate-holder discount, nor, it seems, does anyone else. You may have heard rumors that the only reason I participated in the first place is because my job in a government agency mandated it. But did you know that lunch wasn’t served? I provided my own. Now, would someone not committed to combating terrorism, in whatever form it may take, and no matter how high the personal risk, complain only twice about not being served lunch? I think not. For you see, even though I may have been required to participate, it only reinforces one of life’s great truths; you do not choose Greatness, Greatness chooses you.

I was once like you, without a care or a NIMS certificate, merrily going about my life buying pickles and singing along with Cher on the radio. Now, my life and my priorities are forever changed. If I could turn back time to the day before the day of that fateful presentation, I’d have just one more day where I wouldn’t have to spend every waking moment keeping myself mentally attuned to checklist of incident management objectives:
• Save lives and protect the health and safety of the public, responders, and recovery workers;
• Ensure security of the homeland;
• Prevent an imminent incident, including acts of terrorism, from occurring;
• Protect and restore critical infrastructure and key resources;
• Conduct law enforcement investigations to resolve the incident, apprehend the perpetrators, and collect and preserve evidence for prosecution and/or attribution;
• Protect property and mitigate damages and impacts to individuals, communities, and the environment; and
• Facilitate recovery of individuals, families, businesses, governments, and the environment.

It is an awesome responsibility, I assure you; a difficult task made more difficult still when the general public is unaware not only of the awesome responsibility of NIMS certificateship, but the authority it implies as well. They resist spot-checking and claim not to know the meaning of “incendiary device.” They also imply that certificateship is not a word. Mall security was most unhelpful, which is ironic, since NIMS is all about interagency cooperation. I demanded that they show me their certificates, but all they wanted to talk about was how illegal it is to stand in a crowded food court and yell, “Terrorists!” while pointing frantically at an Orange Julius cart. Sure, they’ll cooperate with the police, but not with me. Stupid mall security hacks; doesn’t anyone know a “preparedness drill” when they see one? Was my clipboard not an obvious sign of my official capacity?

Much later, I was informed that I am not, as I had previously claimed, “Above the law.” It seems that NIMS is really little more than a set of federally approved guidelines, whose real priority is establishing just who is in charge during times of crisis, especially when incidents span multiple jurisdictions. It federally mandates that everyone play nicely and share their toys, like fire trucks and ambulances. It also strives to standardize the meaning of “fire truck,” for one man’s pumper is another man’s hook and ladder. It’s bureaucratic. My certificate, it seems, states only that I am aware that such an infrastructure exists, and does not grant me special permission to use extreme measures to educate the public. Nor, it seems, are the finer points of NIMS “classified” in any way. What fun is that?

It’s too late to complain, though, because I’m already committed and certified. One doesn’t just de-certify themselves because they don’t like the rules and has no idea what they’re certified in. No, that would be quitting. Besides, I’ve had the certificate triple laminated and mounted in a special wallet. There is no law that says I’m not allowed to stop people coming out of convenience stores, flip the wallet open and say, “Excuse me, ma’am, NIMS certified here.” I’m just not allowed to do anything after that, which leads to awkwardness, sure, but it’s also getting NIMS out there, literally in people’s faces. I feel it’s helpful. I like to do my part.

Compare, Contrast, Repeat: A Study in Comparative Art
Part I
An Introduction to the Introduction

I’ve just finished reading George Eliot’s Mill on the Floss. This is certain to impress you, so I’ll just busy myself with last April’s issue of Lutheran Woman Today and give you a moment for quiet reflection as your admiration of my literary prowess deepens. What, done already? You’re sure? You do realize that The Mill on the Floss was published in 1860, and that it’s chock full of proper people sitting down to a proper tea while discussing what is and isn’t proper using convoluted sentences beginning with “I shouldn’t think” and “I shouldn’t wonder?” Much ado is made of Aunt Glegg’s “fuzzy fronts” and Uncle Pullet’s snuff-box; china and linen patterns are discussed at considerable length, and passionate young people frequently gather around pianos in the parlor and “move” each other with their singing. “With thee delight is ever new,” they sing. “With thee life is incessant bliss.” Apparently, “new” and “bliss” rhymed in 1860. It’s a pity “Oh baby” and “Yeah, yeah” weren’t coined until 1863; then some bonnets would’ve really been knocked askew. The book is pretty long, too, yet I endured heroically. Perhaps a few more moments of quiet reflection are in order? No? Fine, be that way; but why you continue to come here solely to antagonize me is something I will never understand. The world is full of postage stamps that need to be steamed off one surface and stuck to another with some degree of organization...perhaps this is better use of your time?

Anyway, I’m impressed enough with myself not only for the both of us, but for the population of Schenectady thrown in as well. So there, too, Smartypants. The mere fact that I continued on with any book that brutally assaulted my increasingly refined literary senses with the unforgivable line “I am in love with moistness” on the very second page is proof enough that I am willing to suffer for the sake of timeless art. For all I knew, the book could have ended up being about a singing milkmaid who enjoys casting aside her pails and flinging herself into mud puddles with wanton abandon, startling the cows and shocking the townsfolk with her wickedly soiled pinafore. In hindsight, I see now I wasn’t far off.

But merely discussing what the book is about simply wouldn’t do, oh no, no, no, no. After all, classic literature is nothing more than recognized standards of certain story types. Academics, book reviewers, and Reader’s Digest editors all know that when the end product is the same, all that’s left to highlight is craftsmanship. If this blog is ever to have more than 2 viewers without stooping to pornography or incorporating “in a blender” in its address, it’s going to have to become a catalyst for radical thinking and intellectual discourse. After all, walk into any blue collar bar and propose the following question: “Which is better: Ford or Chevy?” I wager you’ll see some discourse then. KitchenAid or Farberware? Dick York or Dick Sargent? Compare, contrast, repeat. The more I thought about, the more I knew there was no way to accurately critique The Mill on the Floss without comparing it to something else. But with what should I compare it?

My first thought was to write my own book, publish it, and then compare and contrast it to The Mill on the Floss. I had a spare afternoon, so I figured “Why not?” But then I realized that writing a book simply for comparison purposes was certain to stunt the organic growth of the plot. I’d write “I am in love with dryness” on the very second page, and the rest of the book would essentially write itself. It’s too easy to be contrite. Where was the art? Besides, becoming an internationally acclaimed best selling author and drug-addicted sex symbol overnight would surely take me away from the very thing I would have written the book to accomplish-this blog. Yes, there’d be blurry paparazzi pictures of me scantily clad and playing cribbage on a hotel balcony in Crete, but I’d be too busy accepting Nobel Prizes and granting interviews to Lutheran Woman Today to sue the tabloids, much less blog about privacy invasion.

No, what I needed was...something else. A story set in another place and in another time. Only by exploring the stories in this way could I hope to dispense with the stories themselves and instead focus on the craftsmanship of their telling. This blog was becoming far more challenging than I had anticipated, but I was far from daunted. I used to work in a book store. I have books. Lots of books. Finding one to compare and contrast with The Mill on the Floss would be simplicity itself. Giddy with the thrill of academic discovery, I rushed to my book cases and scanned the titles:

In Cold Blood

Field of Blood

Blood In, Blood Out

Blood Hollow

House of Blood

Blood and Gold

Play Cribbage Scantily Clad: A Guide to Hotels in Crete.

The Tunnels of Blood

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Much Ado About Quiche.

Yep, I had lots to work with. An overwhelming amount, actually, which is only to be expected from a mind softly overripe with literacy such as my own. How to decide? Which to choose? The first logical step, it seemed, was to dissect The Mill on the Floss for key dramatic elements, analyze the characters and their implied motivations, and define the “feel” of the piece.

Part II
Introduction

The Mill on the Floss is about a family whose home and mill lie along the banks of the River Floss. There is a mommy and a daddy, Mr. and Mrs. Tulliver, and their children, a boy and a girl, Maggie and Tom. Maggie is the heroine of the book, as having dark hair seems to be enough to set in motion any number of societal and family conflicts, never minding the fact that she reads books as well. Much of the early parts of the book revolve around Maggie’s parents sitting in chairs discussing how peculiar Maggie is in a “What will become of her?” kind of way. In the middle of the book, we are introduced to numerous relatives, who come to the house, sit in chairs, and discuss how peculiar Maggie is in a “What will become of her?” kind of way. Toward the end of the book, Maggie is surrounded by admirers infatuated with her peculiarity in an “I must have her!” kind of way.

In chapter four of Book II of The Mill on the Floss (entitled “Another Love Scene,” prompting me to ask, “There was first one?”) Maggie says to Philip, her amorous hunch-backed gentleman caller, “I didn’t finish the book. As soon as I came to the blond-haired young lady reading in the park, I shut it up and determined to read no further. I foresaw that the light complexioned girl would win away all the love from Corinne and make her miserable. I’m determined to read no more books where the blond haired women carry away all the happiness. I should begin to have some prejudice against them-If you could give me some story, now, where the dark woman triumphs, it would restore the balance...“

Woefully, this passage doesn’t appear until page 432. Had it occurred earlier, I would have known that shutting the book up as soon as I came to the black-haired girl crying in the attic would have been an action endorsed the black-haired girl herself, for I foresaw that she would do little else but look pretty and cry.

“O dear Luke,” said Maggie in a piteous tone, while the big tears rolled down her cheek...

“I’m so very sorry,” said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast...

Maggie stood motionless, except for her sobs...

She ran to her father, hid her face in his shoulder and burst out into loud sobbing...

Maggie rushed away so that her burst of tears, which she felt must come, might not happen until she was safe upstairs.

“O he is cruel!” Maggie sobbed aloud...

Maggie spoke with more and more sorrowful gentleness as she went on, and her eyes began to fill with tears.

She slackened her hold and burst into hysteric sobs...

Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into a chair with the big tears ready to roll down her cheeks...

With these last words, Maggie’s sobs burst forth....

...as Maggie knelt by the bed sobbing...

“Don’t laugh at me Tom,” said Maggie, in a passionate tone, with an outburst of angry tears...

The tears flowed so plentifully that Maggie saw nothing around her for the next ten minutes...

The sudden joy was almost painful, and by the time her father reached her, she was sobbing...

She slackened her hold and burst into hysteric sobs...

Oh, but Tom,” said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears...

...as she stood crying before the glass...

...smiling through a haze of tears...

With these last words, Maggie’s sobs burst forth....

It is completely without exaggeration that I say Maggie sobs her way through well over 600 pages, giving her all the charm and likeability of a damp, used Kleenex. She even wakes up in the morning “with her eyelashes still wet with tears.” This is one chick truly “in love with moistness,” right up until the soggy end of the book, when she drowns in a flood, but not before emitting a “long deep sob of that mysterious wondrous happiness that is one with pain.” I was sitting on a bench outside on my lunch break when I finished the book, and when I read the line about her sobbing in the midst of the flood, I couldn’t help but say aloud, “Will you just shut the fuck up and die already?”

There’s a plot in the book somewhere, something about bankruptcy, revenge, and forbidden love, but it was all drowned out by Maggie "The Human Spigot" Tulliver's tears and my own cries of, “What, she’s crying again?” It seems "suffering in silence" was also not invented until 1863. It was obvious that the book would end with her death, though, because, frankly, how else does one make someone who?s always crying anyway more tragic? And it was this that kept me going. "She's gonna die," I'd reassure myself, as Stephen, mad with passion, seized Maggie's arm and showered it with kisses, thus making her cry, "It'll all be over soon."

Part III
Comparison

Days, weeks, a month passed since I had finished The Mill on the Floss, and still I was no nearer to deciding on a body of work with which to compare it. "Crying" is an accessible theme; however "Unremitting Crying" is not. I couldn't find anything about anyone who did anything with the frequency and consistency of Maggie's crying, with the possible exception of breathing, which isn't really a very interesting comparative tool.

Part IV
Conclusion

The Mill on the Floss is the ideal book for anyone who would like to add drinking games to their book club meetings. Every time Maggie cries, everyone takes a drink; you'll all be hammered by chapter 4. Someone is bound to stick a lampshade on their head and say, "Oh, boo hoo hoo! Guess who I am?" I'll give you hint; the initials are M. T.

A Morning in a Day in the Life of a Laotian Roof Thatching Romance Novelist Fisherman
The first email I read at work this morning went like this:

“Dear Bud,

You are a remarkable person. I don’t know how you do all that you do, with such style and such panache. You are a pillar of strength to all who find themselves fortunate enough to work with you. Without you, this entire organization would be lost, frightened, and, on the whole, much less attractive. Your proud, firm buttocks inspire me. Oh, and I like your new haircut, too.

By the way, remember that officer Cletus hasn’t turned in his July 7th leave slip, and you have to fax the printers the Form 6. Update the phone list and ask Rhoda where the fax numbers for Yuma are.”

I receive emails like this all the time...from myself. I send myself one at the end of every day to remind myself of the things I didn’t get done the day before, usually because I’ve wasted time writing flattering emails to myself.

I get emails from other people, too, of course, though these tend to be somewhat drier affairs. “I need this” and “Send me that” and “Call so-and-so.” Nobody ever mentions my new haircut, my firm buttocks, or the new plastic cactus cake decorations I’ve just glued to my monitor. Sometimes I wonder why I bother. It seems like every time I go to the office, all I do is work.

Today, though, I received a real email from one officer Barrel Cactus (note: NOT his real name). It read: “Bud, can you print these pictures out and put them in with the rest of the file? Thanks.” Attached to the message were six photo icons. While slurping noisily from my one gallon iced tea mug (it really annoys the girls across the way...tremendous fun) I clicked on an icon and spun my chair around to make sure my printer was on. I love my spinny chair. I have a chair that spins at home, but there’s no room to really build any momentum. So, slurping and spinning, I waited for my printer to stop doing whatever it does to make all its lights blink and gears grind, a process that takes several minutes and ends with a long, loud beep.

I was slightly dizzy when I turned back to the monitor, where the full screen image of dozens of mutilated pigs piled atop one another, their bodies torn open and their guts spilling out, caught me completely off guard. Iced tea erupted indelicately from my nose as I sputtered and clawed for the mouse, trying to send this image back to hell where it belonged. I’m sure I would have cried out, “Jesus Christ!” but my mouth was full of iced tea and I was suddenly unable to swallow. There was so much blood! I abandoned the mouse and instead seized the trash can, and spat the iced tea into it.

Then I sat quite still, listening, wondering if anyone had heard any of that. It appeared no one had.

I turned back to the monitor to deal with the carnage. So many dead pigs. It was utterly depressing. Curly piggy tails and piggy snouts, all tainted with death and gore. Picture after picture. Closeups. Wide angle shots. Headless pigs and pig heads lying open-mouthed in the dirt. Black, swollen tongues, dead, dusty eyes, and cloven hooves pointing up at the sky. Pictures of the pigs loaded onto a flatbed truck. Pictures of the truck dumping the pigs into a ditch.

I’m used to receiving photos via email. They’re evidence. Usually, though, the pictures are of live horses and cows, or of substandard housing or empty water toughs. Occasionally, I’ll get a picture of a pen lying in the dirt to give a size scale to a foot print or tire track that didn’t come out in the photo. Yes, there is a dead animal here or there, but these are usually animals that have simply toppled over and never gotten up.

My disgust quickly grew into resentment. Who sends people pictures of dead animals, especially disemboweled dead animals, without giving a bit of a heads up first? A little disclaimer, like maybe, “By the way, these pictures are gross,” is most certainly in order. I’m sure Miss Manners would back me up on this.

After that debacle, I needed a cigarette. The problem was I had no cigarettes. And so, shortly thereafter, I found myself walking to the convenience store across the street from where I work. As I crossed the street, a woman approached me and asked, “Hey, do you have any crack?”

“Excuse me?” I said. I was sure I’d misheard her. People simply don’t walk up to other people in broad daylight and ask them for crack. It’s just not done in civilized society. Surely she was asking me for the time. Or perhaps some spare change. I slowed my pace and turned to look at her. She stood swaying in heavy black boots, and wore a tattered flannel shirt unbuttoned to her navel, revealing a soiled brassiere and peeling, sunburned skin. One side of her hair was braided; the other was caked in filth.

“Do you have any crack?” she asked again.

“No, I don’t have any crack,” I said. “Sorry.”

One of the many pitfalls of having worked a good long while in retail is that I tend to be overly polite and apologetic to strangers, including, apparently, junkie crackwhores. Regaining a bit of composure, I put on a disapproving face and continued on my way. After a moment, I was aware of someone following closely behind me, just out of my line of sight. I slowed my pace to let who ever it was pass me, but instead an older African American man fell into step with me and began chatting.

“She just askin’ you for crack?”

“I guess.”

“God DAMN! That shit right there is crazy!”

I smiled politely and quickened my pace. The man beside me kept on talking as if we’d been friends for years. I missed most of what he was saying, but I did notice that what few teeth he had left were as yellow as corn kernels, and just as small. After that, I kept my eyes focused on the convenience store just up ahead. So close!

“Oh hey, man,” the guy said. “You got a dollar?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t carry cash.”

“Oh, ok. That’s cool.”

We parted ways as I entered the convenience store, and took my position tenth in line behind haggard men and women buying lottery tickets and single 45 ounce cans of beer with fistfuls of change. While I waited, the man who had been talking to me entered the store. All of us in line watched as he openly stuffed his pockets with Cheeto’s and Aunt Freshly’s iced honey buns. The young Latina cashier was preoccupied with attempting to pick change up off the counter with her four inch long plastic fingernails, which were orange and glittered.

He was still there when my time at the counter came, his pockets absurdly stuffed and rustling and he waved a dollar bill over my shoulder at the cashier and asked for change.

“I have to make a sale first to open the register,” she said. I asked for a pack of cigarettes, and handed the girl a five dollar bill.

“I though you said you didn’t have no cash,” said the guy behind me.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any money,” I said.

“Motherfucker,” he said.

“Oh, fuck you,” I said.

I thought he might follow me out of the store, but he didn’t. When I last saw him, he was trying to make room in his pockets for the change the cashier had given him and swearing to himself.

I crossed the street and attempted to enjoy a cigarette while sitting on a bench outside in 115 degree weather. I was sweating profusely from the walk and I wanted my iced tea. I put the cigarette out and went to the key card lock by the door to the building. I keep my badge clipped to my front pocket, which is level with the key card slot. I can usually run it through the lock without unclipping it, which is what I was attempting to do when my boss suddenly came out through the door. My apparent intimacy with the lock confused her, and she asked, “What are you doing?”

"Oh, hey," I said, startled. I slipped past her into the building. “Just getting back to work,” I said.