radio killed the sleeping star

I must have been about 5 or 6 years old. I asked my dad what made my ceiling fan turn, and just what he meant when he spoke of electricity. He went on to explain that the fan was powered by little green men on little green bicycles, and this was the power that ran the fan on a pulley system.

His plan worked.

I spent the next several years forgoing simplicities that I had never even considered before. I turned off the fan before going to bed (if I was going to rest, it was only fair to allow the little green men to rest), I turned off lights any time I left a room (so that the light bulb sergeant at arms could take a break), and I ate cold food (so that the little green aliens that powered the microwave wouldn't have to make special trips to my home to heat my broccoli).

However, the one thing I would not give up was radio. If I could only stay up all night long by listening to the radio, then I wouldn't die in my sleep if the house caught on fire.

This idea was abandoned when my brother burned our house down in late afternoon on a Thursday.

Since it happened once, it didn't seem likely to happen again any time in the near future. I got over the fear and got over trying to stay awake at night listening to the radio.

Yet, this did not keep me from listening to the radio during daylight hours. I still did feel guilty about it, since I knew that the artist was forced to go into the recording studio to belt out my favorite song just to let me hear it on the radio. I later forced myself to leash in my selfish listening demands and cut down on my radio hours. Musicians had better things to do with their lives than to just spend the day waiting for me to turn on the radio to hear their voices.

I think I knew more when I was a kid as I do now as an adult. At least, I had better ideas then.

I may never hear frogs croak again

I can only tie two types of knot on fishing line. Yet, somehow, I still became certified as a Master Angler by Texas Parks & Wildlife. It was at that training that I met Scott #2, quite possibly the craziest human that has ever come into my life. Good crazy. He'd wake me up in the middle of the night with his unusually large, excited eyes, saying things like, "Hey, get up! We're going climbing at Reimers Ranch in our underwear. I just finished packing. It doesn't open for a few hours, so we'll stop at the 24 hour Mexican place to have jalapenos and shots of tequila for breakfast." I also recall that he would order a bowl of cut lemons after every meal, then suck on each as if they were some magical little batteries that kept his mind blazing and eyes oddly, widely open for days on end. "Scott, you know that acid is harsh on your tooth enamel." "I know, but they're so good. Want one?"



Damn, I miss that guy.

So, once I started volunteering with TPWD as an angler educator, I chose to lead the topics of ethics and habitat for fishing day clinics. Some kids would produce chaotically colored and complicated underwater worlds for the rather simple channel catfish, while others would include in their drawings domestic staples such as a cozy twin bed in a quaint room with curtains and a desk complete with a charming little lamp (which somehow did not require any sort of electricity for its illumination) for their marine creatures.

It was during the ethics sessions that I came to realize the peace and innocence we as adults all too easily forfeit in order to gain convenience and selfish gratification. These kids lived in worlds painted with hope and laughter. The few precious moments I got to go behind their eyes and see life's glowing fireflies and croaking little green frogs on water lilies was refreshing, effortlessly captivating.

So, when I went to the salon yesterday, I was struck with fear and guilt that I may have done something to disrupt this enchanting world where frogs croak. Ruckus the beta had died.

As I found myself once again being placed below the alien mind reader that my stylist Amy calls a dryer, I looked next to my cushioned vessel at the small table with stacks of hair magazines, and it seemed to cry aloud for something with more vitality to hold than glued slick pages stained with strange coloring chemicals that held hairstyles seen nowhere but a fashion show. Terrified, I looked up at Amy, "Where is Rufus?" Amy corrected me, "Ruckus. He died." It was me. I did this. "Amy, how did it happen? That is awful news." Amy looked at me with what I imagined curiousity to my questioning of a beta that I had somehow channeled the alien mind reader powers to kill. "I don't know. It was a few months ago." Which neatly placed me in the time frame of the crime scene. I wanted to ask if they kept his fishbowl, if they'd had a funeral for him or if his tormented little body was let go in the Mississippi River (or maybe the Missouri River, since Amy lives in Illinois), or if they planned to get another fish so that the table wouldn't have to go through life with nothing greater to look forward to than more collections of pages of eccentric hairstyles. But I didn't ask.

My certification to teach maritime recreation activities should be revoked.

dogs we housed

Growing up, we always seemed to have an open-door policy when it came to animals. If it meandered onto our taxed property, we would feed it. This is not always a good thing to do with wandering animals, as one might belong to a devoted owner... and all we were doing was teaching it that s/he could find a meal at our home. Nevertheless, we did it.

Among stray dogs, we also had pet-store purchased pets. I had a fascination with hamsters that my dad allowed me to indulge in. I didn't like the idea of these furry little creatures locked up in a plastic cage, so I would let them run free in the house. This resulted in furrowed brows of my parents, and a few hamster fatalities.

In an effort to show them how much they were loved when they were forced to live in their little plastic cages, I would wait until everyone was sleeping, then sneak to the scary plastic cage and pluck my little fuzzy creature into the world and into freedom. I figured God made them fuzzy because he knew that they wanted to be cuddled, so I would take them to bed with me. Unfortunately, God forgot that I was a heavy sleeper... so, I ended up rolling over my fuzzy little friend(s) in the night. It wasn't long before hamsters went on the list of animals not likely to ever enter the house again.

Growing up in Louisiana and Texas, we rarely had the occasion to light the fireplace. But, with the combination of begging for a fire and 60°F weather, we were able to get a fire going one night. My dad opened the flue and found a charming little nest of chimney swifts. This immediately became more interesting than a fire. I told him that we had to keep them. All they knew was the chimney, and surely it would be much too shocking to let them into the wild. We had to keep them until the fire was gone, then they'd go back.

We got a cardboard box, and placed the nest of anxious birds into it. I talked to them for hours, and I really don't even recall if we had a fire that night. Even when there is no fire, a chimney just strikes me as a warm place... so, with this thought, I felt sorry for the cold little birds. I only had room for one, so I again waited for everyone to go to bed, then gently took one of the baby birds back to my bed. Surely a bird sleeping with a human in a human bed (rather than in a nest in cardboard box not in the chimney) would have a greater chance at life. Except that I rolled over this one in my sleep, too. The chimney swift family -1 was returned to the chimney the next day.

Seeing as I could not be trusted with small animals, my family moved on to dogs and cats. One of our first strays was a dog that appeared to be part pitbull. He came along, he ate well, and he seemed to like us. So, we had a family meeting on what to name the dog. We all wrote out our chosen names for the dog on pieces of paper and decided that the piece of paper chosen would be the dog's name. My brother's suggestion of "Boner" was chosen.

Years later, we adopted a greyhound. This has since become my absolute favorite breed of dog. He exhibited excruciating anxiety and bad breath. The GPA had named him "Storm." I demanded that we rename him "Greyhound." It stuck. This dog was so fascinating... he was more nervous than coffee, and he could run and play to no end.

My brother wanted a yellow lab for hunting. He found one, but failed to train her. This dog ended up being the most spoiled fat lab ever. Ty. She ate a slice of pizza on Fridays, followed by a scoop of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla. She lived a very happy 11 years, and her passing still makes everyone in the family cry. She had such a laid back, easy-going personality... and, she loved everyone. The world would be a better place if there were people like Ty.

We had other dogs. This is not in chronological order.

Rex was a Doberman, and I think he had some intestinal issues. He was loved and caressed by all members of the family on a regular basis. And, a little more. Despite any family troubles going on, Rex always brought us together. However, he did seem to exhibit some digestion problems. When a dog farts, s/he usually just raises an eyebrow or two and waits for the audience response. When Rex would fart, he would moan and leave the room. As if the smell was so foul that even a dog should not endure it.

We had other dogs with other stories. Rest assured, all dogs were treated well (often better than the human children) while under the Gamble care.

equal pie

I went to the store today for kale and to stare at the doughnuts. Upon entering the store, I saw an elderly woman smoking a cigarette and sitting on a bench. She had lots of wrinkles. I reminded myself to use my wrinkle cream when I got home.

I had just dropped off my load of plastics and metals and glass at the recycling place, so upon my arrival at the store, I hurried to the restroom to wash my hands. Just before elbowing open the restroom door, I noticed a number of quarter machines. One of them held little plastic monsters made in China. I made a note to visit this coin-operated thing after washing my hands. I entered the restroom, and to my excitement, they provided foaming soap. It seems that public facilities are using this more and more. I like that. Something about it just seems more cleansing than liquid soap. The restroom was blessed with a white porcelain sink, so I was able to easily see my dirty suds rinsed away.

I went to dry my hands and noticed that the paper towel dispenser was not a sensor dispenser as I am used to at work. I had to touch the little lever to dispense a paper towel. I cursed myself for not dispensing the paper towel before washing my hands as I usually do. I dried my hands, then let out a couple more towels and washed my hands again. This time, I didn't have to touch a thing.

As I used the paper towel to open the restroom door, I was filled with excitement about the little monster quarter machine. As much as I do not like to handle coins, I dug into my purse in an eager search for two quarters. Found them. I put them into the machine thing, turned the lever, and was greeted with a little pink monster that looked like a bunny. I opened up the plastic capsule with a car key and smiled. I went back to the restroom again to wash my hands since I'd handled coins and that lever. This time, I thought to dispense the paper towels before washing.

I walked out one entrance/exit to enter the other entrance/exit. The second one is closer to the handheld grocery carts, and it's the entrance I pretty much always use, so I had to go out the odd entrance/exit and go into the regular entrance/exit to equalize things and cancel out my entrance to the odd exit. The elderly woman was working on another cigarette. She was sitting in the same position. I told myself that I shouldn't stare, but I did.

I picked up some kale and cursed those damn produce water-sprayers. Is that really necessary? What good does it do for the consumer other than to try to show just how "fresh" something looks? I have my own idea that it is done to add just an ounce or two of weight to per pound of produce.

Then again, maybe the produce has some sort of rinsing complex. I can understand that (even if it doesn't include foaming soap).

I'd done what was most important: getting kale. So, I moved onto gazing at the glazed doughnuts. On my way there, I was stopped in my counted steps by something I saw in the baked goods area. I saw a sign that read, "EQUAL PIE."

I frowned and looked around for an "INEQUALITY PIE," but I could not find such. It seemed all-too American. HEY! It's 2009, so let's pretend that there is no such thing as inequality... so need for an inequality pie.

I don't even know what an inequality pie would look or taste like, but I was upset that I didn't see one. I squatted down to see just what was so great about the "EQUAL PIE," and upon reading the ingredients, discovered that the "EQUAL" part was referring to the ingredients. "EQUAL," as in the artificial sweetener.

I left with a full basket of kale and a yearning for an inequality pie.

the coupon binder is back

The coupon binder is back. The last time I was faithful to this binder and the practice of couponing was when I was in Austin (2005, I think). I belonged to a coupon club... we'd meet up for coupon happy hour (that just sounds pathetic), where we'd enjoy drinks and pass around our coupon inserts that we'd already dissected, but always left much for others, as we all have different shopping wants and habits.



For the most part, I really had not used coupons in the last few years, as the majority of food I consume = fresh vegetables. Well, and tuna. Seafood here in Missouri really sucks, so packaged tuna is about as good as it gets (with the exception of spending all too much dining at a fresh seafood restaurant).



Eventually, I realized that my fascination with cleaning and beauty products was getting a little overboard... so, a coupon intervention was necessary. I have recently gone back to buying Sunday papers (some places allow you to buy them for $0.75 - $1.00 on Mondays) and clipping coupons.



For those of you assholes who say, "I don't have time for that," I would just like to remind you that we all have 24 hours in the day, and we spend it as we wish. I do not own a TV, so I do not waste time on stupid fucking drama, comedy, or CSI shows. I spend about 60 minutes a week clipping and organizing coupons while listening to the news on radio. The majority of my used coupons are for household/cleaning and beauty/body products... those markets are always coming up with new products, so coupons are rather common and easy to use for consumers of long-branded items.

My 60 minutes a week averages about $20 savings a week. And, again, this is really on household and beauty items. So, if you have a family and use other items in coupons, you could do really well with savings.



If Walgreens decides to do their "Free After Rebate" deals again, I'll write on strategies for that. With the exception of a few salon purchases, I have not paid for shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, toothpaste, etc. in about five years. The FAR is a good thing, so I hope it comes back.

In addition to hygiene products that are of use, there are always a number of products from Walgreens' FAR, as well as nearly-free foods from grocers, that you can collect and donate to women & children's shelters. When I moved from TX to MO, I had a couple of kitchen bags of (new, unopened) hygiene products and other good stuff to donate to Phoebe House. They were grateful, and it felt good to give something that I didn't even have to spend money on... just a few minutes of shopping.

counting monsters

I do not count sheep; I count squares of toilet paper on a roll. You would be surprised at how the number of squares varies from roll to roll, even among the same brand.

My sometimes-overwhelming habit of counting everything reminded me of something more important today. I may very well be able to tell you how many steps of stairs there are in various buildings of the cities in which I've lived... or just how many florets of broccoli may be found in the average 16oz. bag (again, variances among brand... and per brand).

When I was growing up, I thought that I wanted to be a banker. Not that I knew what a banker did, but I imagined that it was a job that required counting money all day long. I really do not like to touch money in paper or metallic form, but the idea of getting paid to monotonously count something- anything- all day long just seemed too perfect. Maybe they would let me wear gloves. I'm still not sure what type of gloves, as the powder in latex gloves always freaks me out. Maybe I could wear my long yellow plastic home-cleaning gloves. Although, I imagine that might be frowned upon, as it may appear strange to some customers. But if they could only put me in a little green box with my long yellow gloves and things to count for 9-10 hours a day, I think we'd have a deal.

Other jobs I wanted when I was growing up: flight attendant, butcher, laundry folder (is there such thing?), dog walker. And, perhaps my longest-held and most cherished: catfish farmer. I went to school for marine fisheries for two years to pursue this. After two years of study and two volunteer positions as cephalopod lab tech at UTMB and as a docent and renovator assistant to the new curator of the Houston of Museum of Natural Science Malacology Hall (my time there is another story), I chose otherwise. But, I still dig marine creatures. The smell of such work leaves much to be desired, yet I do miss it. As I type this, I am reminded of my stranded dolphin necropsy experience, though that is another life account.

Regarding counting, monsters are another thing. Strange how they can have as many eyes and arms and other appendages as the illustrator designates. They seem to elude all that is normal and regular and counted... but, I suppose that is why they are in a category of their own. It must be freeing to be a monster, to not have to feel the pull to conform to any standard or have any sort of expectations to which it should meet in life, love, community. On the other end of the spectrum, I suppose that could lead to apathy, loneliness, and a sense of indirection in general. But, I like to think that monsters are on the more cheerful side of that rainbow.

You could even call a monster an artist of sorts. No real form, only imagination may interpret just what they are. As friendly or sinister as they may appear, they ultimately choose their own life's will. Better than any other creature, they understand acceptance for their own selves, appreciation for their strengths and concessions for their weaknesses, and recognition with which how they may change this world, for better or for worse.

I think we could all learn something from monsters. In fact, I cannot even count the ways.

16 pennies

The coffee after dinner was not a good idea. 12:36am. I am sitting on a porch swing with three cushions of some sort of outdoor canvas-type fabric decorated with palm and yellow and pink flowers at my dad's house in Houston. The humidity down here is a welcoming reminder of being back; it's pleasantly mild and a little breezy out this evening. Earlier, I had seen a thin raccoon balancing on three legs, holding his left front paw up and sniffing the air in anticipation of catching the odor of whatever it was he would find to eat this evening. We were both awake at the same time in the middle of the night. He looked up at me and we had a staring contest that didn't last all too long; I won. He was likely distracted by his growling raccoon stomach at the precise moment that he was finally able to catch the aroma of his next meal.

I got up and walked to the edge of the faded blue wood slats and found a new little perch for myself. Looking down at the weathered 2"x6" over which I hung my legs, I noticed 15 equally weathered pennies scattered about in an unsettlingly random manner. Knowing that it would offer me some easement when I organized each into a neat series according to year, I set down the book that I had grabbed the last few minutes before leaving home for the airport, at which time I had cursed myself for forgetting where I'd placed the book I had really wanted to read. As I started to read off the years on the pennies, I spotted a 16th penny on the porch floor, and was relieved to know I'd be working with an even numbered collection of unshiny goodies. On the third penny, I came to the realization that these pennies had been sitting out for sometime in the rain (I wondered if they had been here to see Hurricane Ike), there would be ones- like the one in my hand at that moment- that would require more effort on my part than merely glancing to read the year. I was gripped with my all-too familiar (and perhaps irrational) fear of touching bare metal things, knowing that this would be worse: I'd have to lick a finger and rub some of these pennies that guarded their cast-on years with indeterminable layers of dirt and grime and maybe even mosquito footprints. What would mosquito footprints look like? I'd have to look that up later. I'm sure they are not even called "feet" when referring to an insect, but that was pushed to the back of my mind for later research.

I licked my right ring finger, which was least sensitive to my fear of metal things, and rubbed at the year. This wasn't enough. I struggled to find the greatest potential source of incandescent light on the porch, and was finally satisfied with the angle. I think I saw Lincoln snear at me in his clever way as if to say, "I'm hiding something that yoooou can't see." I rubbed more. Alas! The year 2000. The year I was supposed to graduate with my B.S., but didn't due to my changing of majors from marine biology to microbiology to food science and a minor in political science. Again, I quietly thanked my dean for substituting American foreign policy for accounting when I confessed to him that I really didn't care for it, and that I was too cheap to buy what I'd discovered was the rather necessary textbook. I neatly placed the second year 2000 penny next to the other, pointing Lincoln's head westward. I returned the snear to let him know that I was now in control of him. I continued through my recently discovered treasury of metal things and found that there were quite a few pennies that were minted in the last decade.

Funny how a word such as mint, which brings to mind something so refreshing that it can sometimes be irritatingly so, would also loan itself to the term used for process known as minting, a word describing something that involves bare metal things and paper that would later be passed around in strangers' hands and put in places where people would not even think to dust or steam or wash or otherwise clean. A 1933 penny! I don't remember what these are called, but Billy and I used to call them "One Cent Pennies" as they were marked as such (well, without the penny part) on the back, hugged by two bird feathers of exacting size. At least they appeared exacting. I wondered what the job title of the person in charge of seeing that the formatting of pennies was as exact as possible (if that was, in fact, the goal) was called. The first that came to mind was that of a graphic designer, but I'm not sure what "graphic designer" would be translated to in 1933 lingo. I don't like the word lingo, but it reads better than talk. Done. One 1933, one 1980, one 1983, one 1994, one 1995, one 1997, one 1998, two 1999s, three 2000s, two 2004s, two 2006s. All were proportionately spaced in chronological order by earliest (farthest westward) to latest (farthest eastward) year. The overall design of my efforts looked like something out of Star Wars. Or some sort of futuristic robot that would go into combat against other futuristic robots in a battle over something I didn't care to continue spending time thinking about.

I smiled and went inside to indulge in the delightful treat of handwashing that was required once I'd allowed enough time to pass... and this time promised to be especially exciting since I'd just handled filthy metal things. As I walked inside, I was greeted with the soothing sound of an old wooden floor creaking beneath my feet. I found the restroom, turned on the four-pronged hot water (which was actually just lukewarm water) faucet handle, wet my hands, squirted an adequately-sized dollop of liquid green Dial soap that smelled cleansingly citrusy, then rubbed my hands together and awaited the greatest moment of handwashing: watching the newly discolored suds drip from my hands onto the white porcelain sink belly. This is in my Top 10 Things That Never-Fail-to-Make-Me-Smile-List. After a thorough rinse, calmness overcame my senses, and I wrapped four fingers around the four valleys of the four-pronged faucet handle and turned off the flow of the water.

I walked back outside onto the porch one more time to verify that the pennies were still in their orderly fashion. They were. I gathered my book and plastic cup of tap water and decided it was time for bed. Well, bedtime after washing my hands one more time for the evening, since I'd have to take the door knob into my hands (along with the key to lock the door into my fingers) after passing through the threshold on my way back inside my dad's house in Houston.

sky turtles

In the clouds yesterday, I saw a whale eating a turtle. He was going directly for the turtle's head at the moment I spotted them. Just a generic toothed whale. Not anything unusual like a narwhal. I don't even think a turtle could survive in the Arctic, anyhow (well, not that there would be much surviving to do if a narwhal was after it). I imagine that a horse and a narwhal on Noah's Ark crept off together and had an affair, then one of them (I have never been able to decide which) later gave birth to a unicorn. Noah got pissed, since this wasn't part of his plan, split the two up... and since there was only one unicorn, it died without a mate to further the species, so that's why we don't have unicorns anymore. Anyway, the cloud whale looked like a cartoon whale I'd drawn a year or so ago.

Seeing that sky turtle reminded me of something I'll get back to in a minute. Writing "sky turtle" sounds funny to my mind. That would be a magical turtle-creature with wings. Since it would be called a sky turtle, I suppose it wouldn't be fitting for it to be a flightless turtle. However, a turtle's anatomy is just not built for flight. I guess it still can tuck it's feet into the shell body to make it more aerodynamic. But it'd certainly take more genetic engineering to make it's frame and center of gravity capable of any sort of flight that would take it up into the sky.

The sky turtle reminded me of my former belief that a turtle's shell size was a constant, while the turtle itself grew. I think this idea came from my fascination with hermit crabs when I was growing up. When hermit crabs outgrew their borrowed shells, I pictured them walking around with those hand-scribbled signs you sometimes see at airports (or, more likely, movies with airport scenes), held by guys dressed in crisp uniforms standing in front of recently polished cars, reading, "siyez XL shell" (hermit crabs are poor spellers). Or perhaps they visited hermit crab funeral homes to look for their new homes. Discussing a sensitive issue as a "new" replacement shell with grieving fellow hermits would be a difficult, stressful situation for a hermit crab due to his lack of social skills and awkward personality around others.

The idea of a naked turtle wandering his environment in search of a better-fitting shell made me giggle, so I drew a picture to reflect what I was thinking. He wore a frown and had a protruding pot belly. He had spent so much time outside of a shell in the way that I've heard about people who work in a job that requires scrubs sometimes gain weight with little initial notice, since they spend most of the day in very forgiving clothing, then come to realize they can no longer fit their regular clothes, and get a little depressed. I think that's why he was frowning. And, I'm pretty sure he was an emotional eater. Unfortunately, the little drawing has since gone lost... maybe it wandered off to look for another place to reside.

About a minute later, I looked back up at the feeder and feedee clouds and saw that the turtle's head was then detached from it's body, growing closer to the whale's mouth. I wondered if the lost drawing of my naked turtle would find this now vacated shell (well, vacated once the sky turtle's body rotted away or was eaten by some other cloud animal). I hope so... though, he'll likely have to do his fair share of sit-ups to fit into it.

smoke

My daydream was interrupted by the changing of the upcoming stoplight from green to yellow to red. Well, it wasn't really a daydream, as it was night... but, I wasn't sleeping, so I suppose it could be classified as a daydream. Perhaps an after-hours dream.

As I write this, my first thought was that I was on my way home from the gym, but then I recalled that I haven't been to the gym in the evening in a long time. I get unreasonably upset when I walk in and see someone else on my favorite elliptical, and this happens all too often right after work. It's much easier to use insomnia to my advantage and head there at 3:30am. There are often none or one or two other people there at that time, and those who do show up at that time seem to have a strange quirk or behavior or characteristic to him/herself. This kind of makes it more fun, like a game of people watching. But, not really watching, since it'd be rather obvious given that there are so few of us there early in the morning.

I really don't recall where I was going home from. But, that doesn't really matter. As I pulled up to the red light, I noticed a strangely slow, glowing - yet nonetheless translucent - stream of smoke in the vision of my lower left eye. I looked down, but saw only my left shoulder. No smoke. I looked back up to the still red light, then saw it again. This time, I moved quicker. But it still wasn't there. I returned my eyes to the light, but using my peripheral vision to slightly glance to my lower left. The smoke again. I moved my head carefully, slowly this time, in hopes to not startle the smoke to disappear, but I still was unable to catch it in its ghostly presence. I felt defeated and looked back at the light. It was glaring red, as if reflecting the embarrassment I felt from beginning to think that I was seeing things.

The left arrow turned green and I cursed the elusive smoke that may or may not have been there. I saw it two more times on what seemed to be the otherwise inexplicably forgetful 3/10 mile home.

The smoke came back the next day, but with a faintness to it that was not there the night previous. I have not seen it since.

to the asshole who stole my purse

Hi! Just wanted to send a quick note to let you know I'm finally getting all of my shit replaced. I tore apart my home trying to find my Tiffany gold-embossed stationery that was blessed by Pope John Paul II, but I am at a loss. I hope this blog serves as an acceptable means to express my gratefulness to you, and my wishes for your shiny, bright future. And, alas, I cannot even spritz my great grandmother's cherished perfume on this blog, but please know that you are in my thoughts as well as hers, God rest her soul.

I hope you rot in hell. Actually, no. You will rot in the toilet in hell. And, much like Saddam Hussein, the Devil has multiple bathrooms. The toilet in which you will rot is really not even a bathroom at all. It is the overflowing hole in the ground that Mr. Devil only relieves himself into after he has had a liter of tequila and a baker's dozen Salmonella and E. coli O157:H7 ridden breakfast burritos. Hey, it may be fast food, but by the time UPS gets it down to hell, the ubiquitous population of pathogens characteristic of fast food have generated more than the parents of Baby Boomers. Enteric, isn't it?

Mr. Devil knows just how foul of a so-called toilet in which you live is, so he rarely asks even his filthiest inmates to clean it. In fact... Dahmer declined. Berkowitz backslided. Rader refused. Bundy banned the idea. Manson mooted it. Gein was too green. Gacy was so gregarious that it freaked out Mr. Devil. But, in the end, Henry Lee Lucas confessed to cleaning the so-called toilet 3000 times, so Mr. Devil was pleased.

Don't believe Mr. Lucas. Your toilet home is never cleaned. You are as filthy as the urine and crap that was excreted into your home 16 months ago. You smell. And, I hope you continue to rot. You deserve it, asshole who stole my purse.

straws

It just seems wrong to use a straw more than once. Unless it is one of those solid plastic ones that are dishwasher-friendly. I don't even know what kind of resins are used for those. I once received a gift of a package of silly straws from a friend who said he'd gotten them from a dollar store. While they were attractive, I opted to not use them. They came from a dollar store, which led me to wonder if they were sold to the store from the original manufacturer or distributor because they were on a recent recall list due to high levels of lead, but the dollar store buys stuff like that sometimes because I don't think they read the news. Or maybe they don't care. But, if a store did knowingly buy something that was recalled, that's pretty shitty to buy it and try to sell it to un- or underinformed shoppers. Or maybe they know that people know that the junk is there for single uses, like decorations for a party. With this in mind, perhaps they think the person acknowledges this and feels that the tradeoff of minimal exposure to the risk posed by the product is worth it for the low price.

I didn't know if they were recyclable or not since there was no resin id code on the rather vanilla package, so I just threw them away.

ruckus the beta

ruckus the beta

She sat me below their second dryer as the distinctive smell of the bleach on my hair seemed to clear my nasal passages. Except she didn’t turn the dryer on, which I found pleasing. The bulbs always smell funny when they are alight and the red-orange glow casts an all-too-obvious artificial tan glow on my skin. I don’t really believe that the bulbs are piercing my mind or that aliens are penetrating my thoughts when I sit beneath that glow, but it does come to mind. Eerie brightness. I embarrassingly laugh and remember to not consider it next time. Although I will.

I am glancing at her two-toned hair that she has confessed to me is actually a wig, then she smiles at me and I ask, “What is the fish’s name?” She tells me that the shop has had him for a while and that his name is Ruckus. I smile back and think of all the hairstylists and their perfectly imperfect hair, and wonder how they came about their own cuts and colors. I wonder who named Ruckus, and suppose it might be the girl with the pin in her hair that looks like a combination of a jewel-encrusted dragonfly flower. Not that I know of a flower called a dragonfly flower, but if a flower and dragonfly were to breed, her hairpin would be the offspring. Would the act be called sexual pollination?

I open my book that I’ve marked my place with an old utility bill that has my unit identified as FN (first north, I think), and recall sitting with my dad as my car pulled a U-Haul from Texas to Missouri, calling to set up my utilities and internet and power. I tried to explain to the customer service representative that it was unit A. I didn’t know why it would be called any other letter(s). She shared with me just what FN stands for, but I have since forgotten and have replaced it with what is likely what I made up in an effort to make some sort of abbreviation that makes sense to me and perhaps even others, if it is even front and north of something or anything. The book gets better and I soon run across what is now in my Top Ten Favorite Lines in a Book. It is in “A Wolf at the Table” by Augusten Burrroughs, page 34. “She might have been mad at me because earlier she had let me lick an envelope and it was so good so I went into her study and licked all the envelopes in the box.”

I look back over at Ruckus and wonder how often the girls clean his fishbowl. I can see rings on the glass that once represented the water levels before it evaporated to the level at which it now sits. The water looks foggy and I wonder what it smells like. I had a friend also named Kelly who had a turtle for a pet. Kelly was really skinny and ate Little Debbie Swiss Rolls everyday. Her sister was Marsha and once left Kelly a note on her turtle’s cage-bowl that read, “Clean this… it smells like cow ass!” I think it was in all capital letters. I didn’t smell the water that seemed to magically suspend Ruckus, but did begin to wonder why this fish seemed so content to sit in the same spot. Since he had just a tiny bowl for a home and the creepy dryer lights for his sun and appeared somewhat neglected (due to the water and rings visible from my chair), I thought he might be depressed. I ran my fingers along the glass just above his predominately anterior eyes, but he did not move. I really started to believe that he was depressed, so I stroked circles on the glass following his head and tail and back, hoping for any sort of reaction, but he showed nothing.

My left index finger met with the cool water and I reached down to soothe his back and dorsal fin. Movement. He shot forward several fin strokes in his tiny bowl then just sat. And sat. I know fish don’t really blink, but his eyes just seemed so fixated on something that just was not likely there. Maybe Ruckus could see something with his tiny fish eyes that I could not see with my human eyes. I started to wish that I could, for just a moment, have the visual acuity of an ostrich so that I might see what Ruckus was staring at. I don’t know if it is quite possible to achieve fulfillment of such ideas as that, but I do often wonder what sort of prayer or karma or whatever it is that it may take. Then, he slowly started drifting backward. It appeared as a strange vision of a dead fish floating upwards. I wondered how large the air bladder of a beta was versus its body size and if it would be possible that they took time to turn upside down upon death. Or maybe they had recently fed him, so his stomach somehow weighed him down temporarily. That would explain some of the cloudiness in the water. And, if he truly was depressed, perhaps he was an overeater.

Did my touch give him a fish heart attack? I had made a concerted effort to lower my index finger down slowly so as not to startle him. But, nonetheless, he may have not been used to touch from a human. I thought of the rings on the glass and wondered again at just how long it had been since it had been cleaned and how long it had been since he had been handled.

Though his pelvic fins remained motionless, his pectorals began to twitch like some sort of monkey undergoing experiments with methamphetamines. I was sure this was all the sign of a heart attack of a fish his size. I am unsure as to whether or not fish can have heart attacks or not. Perhaps they do not live long enough for such things to be studied. After a few seconds that seemed painful to the both of us, he stopped. His eyes returned to their familiar fixation, but somehow seemed a bit more alive than last he and I had spent such time together. I saw some motion in his tiny red-purple body, then my stylist appeared and cheerfully announced that she was ready to wash my hair.

ride 05.03.09

terrible little poem about today's ride:

rode from home through downtown

anticipating the rain in which I might drown.

made it to the Riverfront Trail

saw birds, but not a single snail.

some small hills and a light wind,

saw a guy peeing and grinned.

got lost on the way home,

around downtown I did roam.

then met a fellow cyclist at a stoplight

with directions, she was quite bright.

we rode together on the streets

she even had some funky socks on her feets.

made it back home with smiles

got in 54.38 good miles.

here

I reach out trembling fingertips to feel my every movement through the abandoned house. Any fragment of illumination has been absent for months. It is night. The sky holds a new moon; not even a shadow is cast here.

There is a window open, maybe two. It lets in a slight breeze that feels strangely calming as it passes across my body. I breathe it in as if I am consuming the spirit of lost friend. The tiny hairs on my forearms raise up, standing like green soldiers awaiting inspection. A musty presence of the empty dwelling becomes apparent as a quiet, comfortable smell comes to my welcoming senses and passes into this soul, hesitantly exhaled as if letting go of the only forgiving life force it has known.

There lies no understanding in just how I got here, or how I became upon this moment. But it is good. I recognize a distant familiarity within these walls, but I cannot place it. I belong here somehow. Now.

I take another breath.

being green

Earth Day is April 22. In an effort to be a better earth person, I have tried to come up with some ideas of how I'll use less. Or be more earth-friendly. Or whatever the hell you want to call it.

attempt to be more green

line dry at least ½ of laundry
ride bike to work (more often)
shower at night (no hairdryer in morning)
download albums instead of buying CDs
use library instead of buying books
unplug appliances when not in use
bring lunch to work instead of going out to eat
continue to buy from Goodwill instead of buying new
sew market bags for friends & family (instead of plastic bags)
use towels more than once before bleaching/washing
use rechargeable stuff rather than batteries
collect rainwater to water plants

The towel thing is going to be difficult.

she

she

upon dreary and lonely eve
she comes as a swan calls
broken, she wears her dress
and silently she falls.
she keeps the all in
indulging in every fear
she knows only anger
emptiness lives here.
she robs a memory
just to replace hers
give in to the loss
euphoria, your mind blurs.
it shall all clear soon
don’t struggle in her grip
she has you now
away you slip.
no longer may you feel
you surrendered to her pull
now you are empty
she leaves you, for she is full.