My favorite form of punctuation is the ellipse. Because so...much can happen betwixt those three little dots...
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
A burrito named Larry
Yesterday I was taken to the following places with the following people enduring the following conflict:
Shoe Land--A land of shoes. All different shapes. All different sizes. People lived in them, wore them, feared them, dined with them.
Mr. Busy--A shoe maker in Shoe Land and owner of a shoe shop.
The former residence of Lady Lace--A giant ladies boot where the esteemed Lady Lace used to live.
Old Mr. Busy is chased around town by the former residence of Lady Lace who was really ticked off with him about something undisclosed. She tried to stomp him to death. He almost dies, but at the last minute... he makes it.
Parlor Tricks
Remember how I played a lesbian caddy a couple weeks ago? I'm expected to perform that same play this evening...in someone's parlor...in front of everyone's spouse that was unable to make the initial performance.
There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to begin.
Let's start with the clubs.
Throwing clubs around a rehearsal area or a giant stage is one thing, but in someone's parlor? Around their china nick nacks and artifacts from Brazil? Oh dear... Let's recall how I dropped a club on an actor's foot and made it swell and made it bruise.... Let's recall how I got knocked upside the head when an actor threw a club at me that I was intended to catch... Now let's put everyone's loved ones on a sofa 3 feet away from that action.
This is a bad idea.
Now let's talk about the kissing.
When one must stage kiss another's spouse, it is forgivable when it is on a stage, for that is the name of the beast. Stage Kiss. People have tickets in their hands and are seated a comfortable distance away. You are obviously acting. It is forgivable to kiss another's spouse when on the stage. In their parlor? The next room over from their bedroom and wonder woman themed bathroom? 3 feet away from them? Oh dear....
They promised me dinner. I'll do it for dinner. I'm cheap like that.
I know I'm going to break something precious... I can just imagine the putter...going straight through the TV screen... ZZZZZZT! Smoke.
Sentence of the Day 5/30
"Stop asking questions! We have to respect the surprise and wait..."
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
New Favorite National Anthem
My new favorite national anthem is Israel's. For those of you keeping up...
Musically, it is just brilliant. It sounds so full of pain and respect and humility.
"So long as our hopes are not yet lost--"
The minor key? The recognition of the ephemeral nature of hope. Breaks my heart. "Not yet"? Gracious...
If you need me, I'll be in my car...
I'll stop talking about my new car soon, I promise. I just left you before I actually got it, so I thought I'd complete that story before moving on.
I picked up my new car in the pouring rain on Friday, promptly drove him home, (he is a him. I haven't decided on a name yet, but the gender is male. So much manipulation of his...stick and all... It makes sense.) parked him in the driveway and ran squeaking into the house. I then proceeded to look out the back windows at him to make sure he was still there and to sort of visually pinch myself.
I was too scared to drive him anywhere. I didn't want to break him. Mess him up, wear him out, taint his new car goodness with....me.
Saturday I ran a few tentative errands and picked up the new Springsteen album and Prince's greatest hits as I needed good driving music. Prince is perfect driving music for I am a sexy motherfucker driving my car around. It's true.
Saturday night I got my first parking ticket just to make things official.
I went to see a play, but was too scared to drive us downtown, so we went in their car. Yes, I go on dates with married couples. Shut up.
Sunday I got over it and drove to Newport and back just because I could.
I am currently sporting the dorkiest car burn known to people-kind. The entire left arm and shoulder bright red. Right side? Alabaster. I am so cool.
Yesterday I met the doctor and her friend at the beach and was all pansy ass about getting sand on my new floormats.
Driving to work for the first time, making that commute for the first time... without that previous stress?
I'm going to get a speeding ticket.
A light turns green? I am helpless. Shifting. Accelerating. The voice of a madwoman rings in my ears, "Eat my dust, suckers!!!"
Anyone have any errands they need run? Drive throughs to be driven through?
Sentence of the Day 5/29
"Sorry, I'm now distracted by the limping seagull."
Monday, May 29, 2006
Sentence of the Day 5/28
"We ate a lot of pizza, drank a lot of beer and gave exactly zero thought to the possibility of someday being anything other than young, single, unfettered consumers of pizza and beer."
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Sentences 5/26 & 27
5/26
"Like, if you're shopping at the mall all day and you come out into the parking lot and forget where you parked, you just push that button and the lights will blink and the horn will sound." *
5/27
"Is it big?"
"Ummm...yeah. Isn't that what 'space ship' means?"
*This really bothered me. I should let it go, but it really pisses me off. I was asking little car salesman man what the red button on my keyless entry thing did. This is what he responded with. First of all, I hate shopping. Second of all, I avoid malls at all costs. I break out into hives when I enter a mall. Thirdly, what the fuck? This is his example for me? He would not give that example to a man buying this car, would he? Pisses me off. Maybe I'm over reacting, but no. That's lame. The MALL?! If I lose my car in the parking lot at the MALL?! Grumble.
Friday, May 26, 2006
zoom ZOOM zoom
I bought a new car. Isn't it sassy? It is sporty and fast and scrappy and just my size and a manual and gets good gas mileage and has a peppy little engine and...oh!
I've never bought a car before. I feel like an adult.... sort of...
The woman who played my mom in the last play I was in did all the haggling for me. She truly has a gift. She is so bad ass. The whole affair was incredibly histrionic and silly. We walked out once because the price was just too much and then we went and stood by our cars and I made large hand gestures and rubbed my head and looked all frustrated and at my wit's end. Then our little dealer man came out to us and counter offered. We went back inside...
I ended up getting the car for $500 over what the dealer paid for it. I'm told this is very good. Yay.
To get in a vehicle. To turn the key. To know that it will get you to your destination without exploding. Is a wonderful thing. No more clinched jaw, white knuckles while I drive my dangerous tractor through the town. I don't have to be embarrassed at stop lights or drive throughs anymore. I get to be a real girl. Free. It's just a car, but damn. What it symbolizes? Is so much bigger than that... I am free.
I'm scared though, you guys. The commitment. The responsibility. 5 years of paying that much every month? The thought of being 32 and finally making my last payment. The year will be 2011. It's huge. It's longer than any relationship I've ever been in. I just don't know how it's going to affect...how I live. It's scary. It's big. It's a new car. I hope I can do it.
What's funny is that they didn't give me jack shit for my trade in. When we got to that part, our dealer man looked at us and kind of laughed.
Nothing? You can't give me anything for my tractor?
"No, sweetie."
Could you take it off my hands for me?
"The benefit would be greater for you if you donated it."
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! I've had bad luck with donating vehicles.
"Sure. We can take it off your hands for you."
Because my insurance on my tractor wasn't comprehensive, I didn't get to drive my new one home last night, so it doesn't quite seem real yet. They gave me a rental to drive today. It is a giant SUV. As morally opposed as I am to SUVs, I must admit, I feel like a bad ass driving it around. People get right the fuck out of my way.
So the whole thing feels like a big deal. A mile stone. A turning point. Ding! I am safely mobile again. I want to share my victory with those I care about, right?
I can't call my big sister because she is in San Francisco and doesn't own a cell phone.
My parents are in Russia.
My little sister won't answer her phone.
My grandparents are in bed.
I almost cried...but I didn't.
I went out for a drink instead.
I just bought a new car, she says to the man at the bar. "Really? That's exciting." I know. I'm excited. You're in software development? How fascinating. And from Haiti originally. Do you speak French? Why yes. Yes you do. Can you buy me a drink? Urmmmm...I still have plenty in my glass, but thanks. Oh, Jonathan. You are quite a handsome hunk of man with your muscles and your strong arms that I can imagine could hold me tight. You have a nice timbre to your voice and you're well spoken and made me laugh twice and... I bet you're an amazing lover.... And you smell really really good, but..... I just can't.... bring myself to... go home with you this evening. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go outside and make a phone call...
zoom ZOOM zoom.
Sentence of the Day 5/25
"No, I think you should be picky about what theatre companies you audition for. Even though you keep getting cast in these great roles, it just seems that... How do I put this? You're bigger than the plays, than the productions you get cast in. I mean, do you feel like you're being challenged?"
Thursday, May 25, 2006
PROVOCATIVE
I wish I were more provocative. I want to provoke thought and action and dialogue. So far I've just provoked a few "Euuuggghh!"s here and there. I want to do better than that. I want to piss people off. I want to make people cry.
I wish I were more provocative.
I'm not sure that provocative is something that one can strive to be, or simply what one must already be.
I think it is because I am too scared or guarded. Because I care what people think of me. Because I want to be liked. Because I want you to like me.
Poop.
I used to think I was provocative. I would tell people I had a big dick. I would go on and on and on about my enormous cock. This would usually take place at a bar of some sort. I would usually mention my dick when hit on by men I did not particularly wish to fuck, but wanted to continue talking to. Wanted them to treat me like a person instead of an object. Wanted to continue a dialogue. Wanted to shock them and put me on the same level or higher. I'd tell them that I had a huge dick. It worked. I'd grab at my crotch area for emphasis. They were usually partially drunk and the initial reaction was ha-ha-very-funny-you're-a-crazy-little-bitch,-aren't-you-honey? Then I'd continue. My dick could eat your dick for breakfast. Show you? I really don't want to embarrass you, dude. Just take my word for it.
Then they'd tell their buddies at the end of the bar, "This chick says she has a dick." A crowd would gather. I was very convincing. Maybe I just like attention... and wanted control over the type of attention I received...
I don't talk about my dick so much anymore... Then again I haven't been out to a bar by myself in a while either... I used to think I was so bad ass with my giant penis in my pants.
Sentence of the Day 5/24
(sung) "You make it hard for me to forget. I haven't stopped loving you yet."
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
The Bald Monkey must go
I've been not telling you this because I'm ashamed of it, but it's to the point of consuming my thoughts, so... I'm going to try to talk it out.
My stupid cat, the Bald Monkey, has done over $600 worth of damages to my landlady's property. I can think of 503 other things that I would rather spend $600 on than a new ugly floral and especially tailored couch cover. Not that one can put a value on life, but the Bald Monkey is not worth $600. He's scratched up other things too, but they don't need to be replaced just yet. Fuck.
I don't know what to do. I've been waiting on him to die for a while now. I've had him since my junior year of college. He has OCD. He licks his fur off. He is the most vocal cat I've ever met. Persistent, constant, annoying "REEOWR? REEEOWR? REEEOWR?"
I asked a friend if she wanted him. No. I put him outside yesterday hoping that he'd get run over or something. I returned to him REEOWRing at the top of his kitty lungs in the bushes. I've looked up animal shelters. I figure I can just say that I found a stray. They'd kill him though. No one wants an old loud obnoxious cat who licks all his fur off and will destroy every piece of furniture you own. Fuck.
We've been through a lot together, the Bald Monkey and I. 7 years is a full life for a cat, right? I could just strangle him... Or poison him... But we know my history with keeping animals alive. I need to break the cycle, but... $600 fucking dollars?!
I could drop him off in the woods somewhere... Or take him to a different neighborhood and leave him...
I don't know what to do. I've tried every scratching post and new fangled kitty claw grater known to man and he still rips antique arm chairs to shreds.
Does it make me a bad person if I give him to an animal shelter? Probably. I'd have to deal with that guilt...the bald ghost of him....joining Simon...following me around for the rest of my life.
REEEEOWR? REEEOWR? REEEOWR?
Sentence of the Day 5/23
(sung) "There are no bananas in the sky (in the sky)."
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
People vs. Plant
I often hear as I scuttle around my life the following, "There are two types of people in the world. The kind that do ______ and the kind that do ______." I'm not sure that these sayings are ever spot on. I'm not sure that humans are so easily separated into two categories. That being said, I have a new one.
There are two kinds of people in the world. The kind that notice people and the kind that notice plants.
I had a spontaneous visit from my oldest east coast friend, Sally, this past weekend. Sally and I are very very different people. It is somewhat unusual that we actually hang out and enjoy ourselves together as much as we do. Perhaps it has something to do with Herb... Herb. What a guy.
So, we're driving around piddling the day away and I keep commenting on people I see walking around. This one's butt. This one's tits. Apparently I am a tits and ass kind of person. I am sort of disappointed in myself by this because it is predictable and boring, but it's true. I enjoy watching people. How they move through their world. Their posture. Their clothing. Their countenance. The manner in which they get to where they're going. I make up stories about what they're thinking, where they've been, their favorite ice cream flavor. I love it. So, I see a little old man slowly wobble across the street in his Mickey Mouse socks and I voice to Sally how he has to be the cutest little old man I've ever seen in my life and I want to put him in my pocket and take him home with me. Sally just kind of says indifferently, "Yeah. He's cute."
Meanwhile, she's getting all excited about some bushes. "Look at those GORGEOUS rhododendrons!!!! OH, they are the color of orange sherbert. I want some." or "Did you see those violets lining that sidewalk?! They're so delicate and beautiful. I want some." Back to me, Check out the ass on that guy. Damn. or She is totally not wearing a bra. I could get lost in her bounce-a bounce-a bounce-a.
After an hour or two of this, we recognized a pattern. Sally notices the plants we pass. I notice the people.
I kind of like that. That there are people around to notice the plants. I'm certainly not giving them enough attention. And they're doing such a good job...
Sentence of the Day 5/22
"I try to think about nice things, like hockey. And boobies. And boobies playing hockey."
Monday, May 22, 2006
ANNOUNCEMENT!
Go here for a not very exciting exciting announcement about my next project.
Ps. I'm guest blogging for the sweet and luscious and vacationing Trista all week, so visit me there too...or not. I don't really care. Do what you want.
I fucking hate schmoozing
My career would probably be in a much different place if I were better at schmoozing. I fucking hate schmoozing, and it's such a big part of the...(am I actually going to use this word?)...business. The Bizz-nass.
After my little debut on the big stage as a lesbian caddy, there was a party for all the trillions of people that participated in the all day theatre event.* Schmooze fest. How do you say? Ah yes, "networking possibilities". Ugh. I'm so bad at it. I am a social disgrace. I end up standing in the corner with the artistic director and the playwright and company members looking around the room and talking shit about people. I'm horrible. Or I end up hugging my favorite jolly critic and asking him to tell me stories about this burlesque theatre that was downtown in the 50s and how ladies used to get naked there. Or I go to the snack table and eat cheese. People say, "You were the caddy, weren't you?" Munch munch...yes. "Nice work." Thanks. And then I walk away.
This is going to sound like an oxymoron, but... I have problems being fake around people. Insincere. Ok. On stage and acting is one thing, but in real life? If I don't like you or have nothing to say to you, I'm not going to pretend like I do and start making up things to talk about. I'm going to ignore you and stand in the corner eating my free cheese. I wish it didn't have to be such a big part of the whole acting career thing, the schmoozing. There's this guy last night, and I'm on his Email list, right? He Emails me whenever he's doing anything in this town. Staged reading? The latest musical? Public appearance at the WalMart? He Emails me, and 300 of his closest friends, to let us know about it. He's there last night. Does he speak to me? No. Does he recognize me when he sees me in public? No. Don't put me on your fucking Email list, dude, if you're not going to recognize me in public.
Fucking actors.
And they always want to touch you too. Freaks me out. I have my personal space, people. Why you gotta go hugging and kissing and rubbing your hands all on my back when you're talking to me? Euuuggghh... Get the fuck away from me. I don't know you. Why do we have to hug?
But...you know what? I don't really want to get better at schmoozing. I don't think I ever want to be good at it. Because I see people that are good at it...and they make me sick. I'll just stick to pretending to be someone I'm not when I'm on stage. Otherwise? I'm not putting on a show for you people.
*For those of you that are keeping up, I didn't drop anything. Woo hoo. I caught all clubs thrown in my direction as well. The audience seemed to enjoy it. They laughed a lot and who knew 3 girl on girl passionate golfer kisses in a row would produce such a reaction? What should have been someone else's sentence of the day was when we were back stage waiting to go on and the play before us was coming off and there are these two men wearing nothing but loin cloths and I say to my fellow actors, "Nothing like seeing a couple of naked men to get you in the mood for some lesbian golf." Ha. Sometimes I am funny.
Sentences-o-weekend
5/20
"You're so cute when you ramble vehemently."
5/21
"Fuck this, I'm getting a chalupa."
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Patrick McSquishy Strikes Again...
Remember Patrick? Yeah. I thought he got removed, but apparently he just got moved...to a corner of the park. Yesterday Fluff Bucket found him...and rolled in him...repeatedly. This lady and her dog with a mohawk, Spooner, were with us in the park. We let Spooner and Fluff Bucket off their leashes to run around. Fluff Bucket zeros in on this corner by the fence and starts rolling. I was expecting her to be rolling in something bad, but not that bad. Patrick is super McSquishy these days. We've had quite a bit of rain. Nasty. Nothing like having your dog roll in dead squirrel.
There was this great moment between dog owners where Spooner's woman is all, "Wow. I can't believe Spooner didn't roll in it too." And I reply with a grumpy angry I-have-to-go-home-and-give-my-dog-a-bath-now "Yeah. Lucky you."
So, we're walking back to my house and I am disgruntled and she smells so so very fowl and from across the street I hear a "Fluff Bucket!!! How's my girl?!!" coming from a man I don't remember meeting. I'm struck with images of Fluff Bucket's secret neighborhood life that she keeps from me where she goes over to this guy's house for poker night and barbecues. I immediately present him with my warning. She just rolled in dead squirrel, you don't want to pet her. And people, I swear, the power of my dog's cuteness that she possesses astounds me. This man cared not about my dead squirrel warning. He said he was just on his way to the store and he could wash his hands when he got back and proceeded to pet the Bucket with neighborly gusto. I was stunned. He then starts back across the street and sniffs and says, "Hey. I smell dead squirrel." I warned you, buddy. I warned you.
You know. I felt really close to Patrick. I walked by his corpse every day and watched him decompose. I took his picture and mourned his death as much as one could, but... I never wished to get THAT close to Patrick. To scrub his juices from my dog's mane. To get him underneath my fingernails. Ick.
Sentence of the day 5/19
"Yeah, I'll think about you.......some."
Friday, May 19, 2006
Crotch Shot
So, I got to go to the big girl theatre downtown and get on the big girl stage for tech last night. I want to live on that fucking stage. Set me up a little tent, get a hot plate, hire someone bring me hot dogs and water. Home. Walking out there, standing smack in the center, arms out, lights hot, designers murmuring in the audience. Hell. Fucking. Yeah, motherfuckers. Hell. Fucking. Yeah.
So, we were just supposed to go cue to cue which... Do I really have to explain that? I guess so. Let's say... Hmm.... Ok. The first cue is usually music down, lights up, actors enter and say a line, right? Then, let's say there's a moment in the play where it thunders. You skip straight to the cue for that, right? So you just go to the line before the thunder sound cue. Then you skip to the line before the rain cue which is also the cue for the lights to dim. And so on.
So, (This is how I start all paragraphs in this post I've discovered.)
So, we had what we were wearing on our tops just sos our director could see how the color looked in the lights, but I just threw my shirt on over my sundress that I was wearing. Oh and I put on my visor. Did I tell you about my cool caddy visor? It is powder blue and has a skull on it because I am a tough caddy and all must fear me.
We were just expecting a cue to cue, not a full run. They were teching about 50 plays total, so they didn't have time to run all of them.
We go through some cues, where to place our putting green, where we enter and exit. I'm whipping putters around working through the choreography. I start to go over when the other actor blindly throws the putter to me as she's walking across the stage. We go over it a few times... Then I hear, "Ladies?" from my director in the audience. I turn toward my director. BAM! The putter hits me upside the head. Ouch.
Then the designers are like, "Ok, folks. Let's do a run." What? Fuck. We weren't planning on doing a run. We're not prepared. We're not wearing our complete costumes. I forgot the poncho and my crib notes in the trunk of my car. Fuck fuck fuck.
It was the worst run ever... On the best stage ever... One of the actors forgot her lines and we all stood there stupid for what seemed like an eternity. That is the worst feeling I have ever felt ever in all my life of the world. Stuck... On stage... With nothing to say...
So, there's this part in the play where I squat down next to my golfer and we have a little private chat about some stuff. Store that in your head for a minute...
We somehow make it through to the end and it was horribly anemic and awful and I was ashamed that such a sucky piece of 10 minute trash had just tainted that beautiful stage, but I didn't drop anything during the run. I caught everything and manipulated my clubs perfectly. It was just tech. And we have a rehearsal on Sunday before we perform. We should be fine.
The stage manager comes up to me and in confidential tones asks me if she can give me a "little hint". Sure, lady. I like hints. "You know that part in the play when you squat down next to your golfer?" Yeah. "The entire audience can see your panties. Be careful how you squat. It's quite the crotch shot. You were going all Sharon Stone on us there for a minute. Just thought I'd let you know." Wow. Thanks. Shit. Yeah. This isn't my costume. Just the shirt and the visor. I'll be wearing pants, but gee. I hope the experience of being faced with my crotch wasn't entirely unpleasant for everyone here this evening...
Smooth. Bashed upside the head with a putter. Gave everyone a crotch shot. I am the smoothest actor....ever.
No one's sitting there
Pin stripe suit.
Coffee? This is a martini bar.
2 cream
2 sugars
make it like a priss
20
-3
___
$16 scotch
People's lives around her.
So interesting.
So fake.
"We're going to New York for the weekend."
"Yeah you're easy...an easy lay. Oh ha ha ha hum..."
Her. Bloated in a flowery dress.
No one's meeting her here.
Waiting for a sentence fragment from Chicago...
that may or may not come...
an elevator
the back of a cab
Rushing to finish her scotch before curtain...
It's best just not to mention him anymore. To anyone.
"I'm a nanny by day."
"We need to have another karaoke night."
Yes. I have a rash. On my face.
20 minutes. 20 minutes before the show starts.
Why does this particular theatre company persist in casting my exboyfriends?
"It just goes to show you the level of commitment, you know? I worry about people who don't call off the wedding at least once."
"You know who I'm talking about. Kevin! No stage presence Kevin? Bumbling Kevin? You know..."
"Yes! She's playing Juliet."
"Lord Capulet's a new guy and...who else? Oh, that cute guy you like is Tybalt."
Buzz buzz buzz.
She sits...eavesdropping...writing....
No. No one's sitting there. It's all yours.
Sentence of the Day 5/18
"That's more than a whore makes in an hour!"
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Rash
I had other things to talk about today, but I can't seem to concentrate because of this rash on my face. I have no idea what's going on. I woke up and my face felt tight and hot. I looked in the mirror and it's all red and puffy. It doesn't itch or anything, it just feels hot to the touch and hot from here on the inside. My ears are hot too. As though I'm in a constant state of blush.
I'm reminded of my itchies. I had this mysterious constant rash that I called simply, my itchies. The first outbreak was in Middle School and the doctors were so confused, they put me in the hospital overnight for observation. I had these huge welts all over my body, especially on my stomach, and boy oh boy they itched like hell. I felt fine, just itchy. My mom and I played Nintendo and watched The Sound of Music and ate ice cream to pass the time in the hospital. They gave me these little purple pills that just knocked me out so that I wouldn't scratch. (They would grow when I scratched.) That was all they could think of to do. I felt sort of proud in a way of my mysterious rash that no one could figure out.
I constantly had at least one itchie on me for about 10 years. When they would break out on my butt was the worst. Scratching one's butt is never the most positive of social behaviors. I haven't seen itchies on me for a few years. We never found out what I was allergic to.
But today, I don't know what the hell is tormenting me. It keeps getting tighter and...I think it's growing. Swelling. I look like a mutant girl. Maybe its leprosy. That would suck. I really hope I don't have leprosy... Ooooooo, or maybe... Maybe I'm one of those cases where I was really supposed to be a twin, but when I was in the womb, my fetus ate the other one, but I still have all its DNA inside me and now she's trying to come out from the inside. That would be cool. Tomorrow I'll be a different person. I hope it doesn't hurt.
I really look like a freak today. This sucks.
**Update**Ok people are taking one look at me and telling me that I should call my doctor. I must look hideous... I feel like a balloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving parade.
Sentence of the Day 5/17
"Bo comes across a stuffed leprechaun and remembers a happier time with Hope."
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Mom's hole
Saturday night was the night designated to the washing of the three Plimco girl's hair. We had long long curly hair down to our butts. One cannot run a brush through curly hair, so the rat's nests we built up in a week were impressive. The combing process was lengthy and painful. We'd take turns sitting in front of mom on the floor while she ran a comb through. Jerking. Snagging. Finding snarls. We'd watch The Love Boat and Remington Steele and Moonlighting. When we were properly combed and our ringlets began to dry, there would be a small amount of gloating in front of the remaining snarl heads. We'd make pop corn on the stove and drizzle it with real butter and when the chore was finally done, we'd all pile in mom's hole.
That's what we called it. Mom covered herself with the Snugglie. The Snugglie was this ugly brown blanket that was a sleeping bag at one point in time although we never used it as a sleeping bag. The only hint that it was one once was the occasional snap and zipper. The Snugglie had a brown calico patchwork pattern on top and a solid cream color underneath. A big ol hippie blanket. We loved that thing. We used it until it was so threadbare, the stuffing started leaking out like war wounds.
Mom would cover herself in the Snugglie and we'd ask her to make a hole. She would lie on her side and make a crook in her legs. A question mark for her girls to fill. I can't imagine being that small that all three of us could fit in there, but we did. We'd eat popcorn in mom's hole and squirm around and watch Pierce Brosnon and Stephanie Zimbalist on TV all full of mystery-solving charm and witty banter. The occasion became especially exciting if mom had gas. There was no escape in mom's hole. Boof! EEEEEKKKK! MOM!!!! Mom would chuckle, "Sorry, girls".
One particular evening post hair washing and combing I remember relaxing in mom's hole all sore headed and sleepy and full of corn. My butt hole itched. Really really really bad. I remember sticking my hand down my pijama pants and into my panties in order to scratch it better with my index finger. Scratcha scratcha scratcha. What was up? Why was it so itchy? I withdrew my scratching hand and viewed my slightly bloody index finger.... and there... underneath my fingernail... was a writhing little white worm. Mom? What's this? I presented her with my finger containing my unidentified animal friend.
I think it was ring worm. Not tape worm, those are long like noodles, right? The fairly common worm that little girls that play in mud and dirt tend to get. I got medicine the next day and was better, but... That particular evening with a damp head in mom's hole with the Snugglie tends to stand out in my memory for some reason... Afterall, it's not every day that you scratch your butt and find an animal living there.
Sentence(s) of the Day 5/16
"I'm curious. I'm active. I garden and I write and I drink martinis."
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
David Sedaris has something to say
I keep having these dreams that...
This is so embarrassing.
That...David Sedaris leaves a comment on my blog.
That's so stupid, but. But. You know how real dreams can seem? OH. These are the best dreams.
I love David Sedaris. He is my hero. He has such a fucked up family and tells such lovely and gross and moving and hilarious stories about his fucked up childhood with his fucked up family and.... I wish I could do that. Better. As well as. Him.
I imagine him in his little willage in France...waking up, making a cup of coffee....going to his computer in his stylish and modest robe...selecting Bumbershoot Casserole from his list of favorites... Turning in his chair to read an excerpt to his hopelessly handsome boyfriend, Hugh. Hugh doesn't find it funny. David turns back around in his chair...and then... Leaves. His first. Comment.
It would make sense, sort of. That David Sedaris would be into reading blogs. Ok, maybe not. I don't know what I'm talking about, but HOW COOL WOULD THAT BE?!
Oh just shut up all you boring and unimportant people. A girl can dream, can't she?
Room for Error
My little golf play opens and closes on Sunday. I've been rehearsing. It's 10 minutes long, people, but the room for error is...large. I have to catch a golf club blindly thrown at me from across the stage. I have to deal with balls. I have to go to my bag, not look at my bag, and grab a specific club, whip it around and expertly place it in the palm of my golfer's open hand. I have to pretend like I'm handing a club to someone and then jerk and slide it swoomp! back in my hand. I have to do this left handed. I am not left handed. I have to put a poncho on someone in 3 seconds.
I am a klutz. I have already dropped a club on an actor's foot causing bruising and swelling. I am terrified that I'm going to fuck this up so bad...on the biggest and best and newest stage...downtown...in front of hundreds of people.
I just have to believe, you know? I cannot doubt for a minute that I am a brilliant and perfect and graceful caddy. That I do this all the time. That clubs are extensions of my fingers, as familiar to me as picking up a pencil. I have to totally and completely be someone I am not.
We haven't done a run through yet where something didn't go horribly awry. Where I didn't knock my golf bag over or hit myself in the face with a club.
I'm so screwed.
I love you, sushi
Sushi. Oh sushi sushi sushi sushi. I love you, sushi. I love it when you come to me like so many pretty tongues laid out on a plate. I love your flop. How you're the temperature of the table. I love the bite sized beauty that you possess...how one could ask for nothing more in a bite. The firm squeak of your seaweed. The colorful pinwheel mosaic. I love the eel, the octopus, the crab, shrimp, the spicy tuna (OH! The spicy tuna!). Wasabe, you, my potent friend I will dance every dance with. Green wad of ecstasy. The plop in the soy, the sticks in my mouth and oh! Sake. I love you for different reasons. Your spreading warmth and alert drunk. Your doll sized cups.
Sushi, I wish you were not so expensive for I would surely eat you every day. Except the fish eggs. The fish eggs freak me out. Especially when I think about them inside me...in my tummy...bobbing around... But everything else? Ahhh...exquisite.
Sushi....will you marry me?
Sentence of the Day 5/15
"I had a cat that sounded just like Edward G. Robinson. Meow. Meow."
Monday, May 15, 2006
Night Sweats
I have been plagued by night sweats lately. I wake up drenched, heart racing. Wet. My jammies totally wet. It's gross. I don't know what my problem is. I just did a search on WebMD and apparently I'm going through menopause. Great. I can't be going through menopause. I'm not even 30 yet. The other option is tuberculosis. Great. I may have TB. I saw nothing on actual dream-induced night sweats although I am an intense dreamer and that would make sense to me.
It seems likely that my sweats are hormonal. Which brings me round to....
Hey Plimco! Why are you taking birth control?
I honestly have no idea. I'm certainly not getting laid. If I did, though...happen to get laid again...someday.... I certainly do not wish to have any babies...
Ugh. This always happens to me. I start dating some dumb ass. A month goes by of fucking and stressing about whether or not things worked properly and then there's the fear of getting pregnant and I'm like, fine. Fine, buddy. I'll start altering my natural cycle by shoving pills down my throat* in order to be certain that I will not get knocked up. A week after I'm on the juice, he dumps me. I swear. It's happened at least 3 times. We don't even get to enjoy the stress-free fucking.
Then I stay on the pill or whatever for another extended period of time being all optimistic at first that I will be getting it on again soon enough...nothing happens...I get sick of paying for the stuff and how unnatural it is to do that to my body...and stop taking it. Then I get laid. The cycle repeats itself.
I guess that's the upside. The "then I get laid" part of the whole cycle. Hmmm...
*Or rings in my cooter. I was on that Nuva ring thing for a while. Weird. You stick this bendy plastic tiny bracelet thing inside you and it just sort of stays there...and hangs out...and releases hormones. You take it out after 3 weeks. Bleed. Pop in another one after a week. It sort of freaked me out having something inside me all the time. Not to mention the fact that it's not exactly smooth to be all, hold on a second and reach up into your cooter and shloop out a mysterious...often lubricated...little plastic alien ring.
Sentence of the Day 5/15
"Consequently, the process of "becoming what one is" is certainly not a passive one in which the individual in the throes of the tragic "joy of becoming" is merely battered about by the storms of fate, embracing whatever pain or delight, failure or success, may come her way. A playful orientation to self-creation involves actively questioning old structures and interpretations and developing and trying on new ones out of the multiplicitous and contradictory capacities that is a human being." -DJ
Sunday, May 14, 2006
I made my grandmother cry
We speak on the phone fairly frequently, my grandmother and I. She usually doesn't press me like that, but...yesterday... She pushed me.
She said last weekend at Dr. J's graduation, she picked up on a sadness from me, a melancholy. I said, yes, Gramma, April was a pretty hard month for me, but... I'm getting better... I think... She said, "you know if you'd listen to me and go to church, that is the place to find a good, Christian man. If you found a church up there, you'd be happy. I know you would be." Gramma, first of all, why do I need a good Christian man to be happy? Why must a man be part of that equation at all? We've been through this. It is not a priority, for you it seems to be, but not for me. "But I worry about you up there alone in the big city. Dr. J has Chet to take care of her and The Big E is close enough, but she has her lover too, but you? You've got no one." (And here she calls me by my full name. She is the only human on earth that can get away with calling me by my full name. Throughout this, you have to be giving my Gramma the thickest sweetest liltingest hypnotizing southern accent ever.) Gramma, I'll be ok. I don't need a man to be ok. I don't need a man to be happy. I don't need to be happy. I can be productive and engaged in life and knowledge and discovery and not be happy. It's ok. "You remember when I came to your confirmation?" Yes. "I will never forget what you said that day, (full name). You said that you would die before you rejected Christ." Did I really say that? "Yes you sure did." Huh. Reject is such a strong word.
"I just worry about you so much and you should really find a church up there, full name, then you will find happiness and I don't think I want you worshipping with those Jews because they don't believe in Jesus." Gramma, Jesus was Jewish. "No he wasn't, Jesus was a Christian." Actually, Gramma, Jesus was, very much a Jew. "Anyhow I wish you wouldn't worship with those Jews because they're not Christian." What if I was Buddhist? Or an atheist? Or a Scientologist? "Full name, I love you unconditionally, but...I just....worry and...." (Here she starts to choke up.) Gramma, I have so much respect for you and your faith and I'm so glad that I was brought up in a loving, Christian environment and that you were a part of that and it means so so so much to me to hear you say that you love me unconditionally because I love you unconditionally too, whether you're a Muslim or a Hindu or a Mormon or an Agnostic, but I just don't want you to worry so much about me, ok Gramma? It breaks my heart that you worry so much. "Oh, it's not so much worry, it's concern. I don't want you to go to church to make me happy. I want you to go to church because you want to go to church. Well, it was nice talking to you...(choke choke spurtle snot) I guess I'll let you go now." I love you, Gramma. "I love you too, full name."
My Gramma thinks I'm going to hell. She's living with that right now. Fuck. I hate making my Gramma cry. I don't want her to die thinking that Dr. J and I are going to be roasting in a hell of eternal suffering while she and the rest of the family are cloud hopping and singing hymns, but... I just can't deal with it anymore. Her rationalization makes me sick. Go to church to meet a man and therefore attain happiness?! Maybe I'm just being selfish. It is Mother's Day after all. I suppose I could just lie to her...
Fuck. I hate making my Gramma cry.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Sentence of the Day 5/14
"Why do you like him?"
"Because he has a round head...and he's mysterious."
WARNING: I wrote this when I was half drunk
Watching your grandma in a fetish show...is an odd thing to do. For the record.
Am I dressed as a whore? Probably.
One's handwriting looks foreign.
That font doesn't.
Brady polyester dress with...houses? What the hell is that? Cottages in the pattern? Green and white and orange. Teeny rectangles on my short. So very short. When I wear that coat I look like a flasher short. Skirt. It hugs my curves nicely. Nicely I'd say. Cow girl boots. Hair down. Thong. Whore? But I'm here at this place that has fetish nights, so really.... I look like quite the nun.
The numbers 54 stamped on my hand. This place is cool, but....it's really not THAT cool.
No one seems to have anything to say to me. I don't really have anything to say to anyone.
I used to wear the strangest shit. I still do. But.... I wore silver combat boots to my high school graduation. They weren't going to let me walk. Silver butterfly dress. I was stoned too. Delicate silver grandma glasses. Gracious. I'd wear these enormous polyester affairs. Salmon pink with giant lime green leaves the pattern on the polyester. The full full full skirt went to my ankles. Long sleeves. High neck. The day-glow daisy wrap around halter dress. The tight tight dark blue bell bottom jeans. The black velvet dress and the black lipstick. The red silk Chinese print corset. The overalls with no shirt on underneath. The bright blue tights. The watermelon dress. The strawberry dress. The fruit suit. Wait. I still wear those. I had my grandma, my real grandma, make me a skirt out of my granddaddy's old ties. It's probably my favorite piece of clothing. Short. Pointy. Granddaddy round my waist.
Tonight I'm wearing cottages... I may be having a brief Brady night, but....I'm still in my 50s house wife stage. 50s dresses. That waist. That neckline. Pleated skirts. Those buttons. The occasional pocket. I love it. Not flattering at all, but.... Feminine? (I wouldn't say I'm feminine be my panties lacy and cute...) I have this green gingham 50s short sleeve dress. I've gotten cast in plays because of this dress. It is that incredible. The paisly one.... The brown... The one with apples on it...and we're back to fruit, folks. We're back to fruit.
Whoah. He just asked me a question regarding the location of the bathroom "because you have a piece of paper in front of you". He came back. Shit. Do I really have to talk to you? You're a banker? Fascinating. Oh, I couldn't afford what you sell? How presumtuous, dick head. Oh, you do improv? And you're a writer "too" wow. We have so much in common. Your friends told you to come talk to me? Maybe you could go back and hang out with them. Yes. That's a great watch you have. Laser inscription? Fascinating. My name? You want to know my name now? What's yours? Pete? Oh Jesus. I'm sorry I just laughed in your face, Pete. I don't know why....I just.... Find your name to be..... Hilarious..... Ok. Bye now.
Pete. HA!
I should really avoid all social situations...at all costs....as much as possible. Sheesh. That's not nice, you know? To laugh in someone's face when they tell you their name. Effective in getting him to leave me alone, but... Not very nice. Not very nice at all...
Dear birds,
Hey. Do you guys know any other songs? Must you always sing in a forte Tweet? It would be nice if I could start my Saturday morning just a tad later...and be brought into it just a bit more gently than your barrage of forte Tweeting. Oh no! Please don't be offended. Your song is really quite lovely, Mr. Bird, please. Keep up the good work, it's just that...I was having such a nice dream about ghosts and dirty sheets and...I like sleeping....but. I understand. It's ok. When you gotta sing, you gotta sing.
With sincere respect,
Celia A. Plimco
The Pianist
Lights up on a crowded club floor. The club has been transformed into a theatre for the evening. Rows and rows of folding metal chairs under a disco ball in front of a small, but functional proscenium stage. A girl in an rusty orange trench coat and a very short skirt sits in the third row from the stage. Center. On one side of her is a man in a fedora. On the other, a guy with short dark hair and many...many freckles and moles...all over his face...making it somewhat difficult to find his face. Seated beside him is a pretty Korean girl.
Before the first act, chatting occurs.
Trenchcoat girl: My grandma's in this play.
Mole guy: What?
Trenchcoat girl: Well, not really my grandma. She played my grandma in the last play I was in.
Mole guy: Oh.
Trenchcoat girl: Yeah. It's probably going to be a pretty weird night for me. I think her character's name is "Syphilis".
Mole guy: That's hilarious.
Trenchcoat girl: It's more disconcerting than anything...
Mole guy: So you're an actor?
Trenchcoat girl: Sort of.
Mole guy: I'm a musician.
TG: Really? What do you play?
MG: Piano.
TG: Let me see your hands.
MG: (presents hands)
TG: They don't look like pianist hands...I mean...no offence. They're way bigger than mine. Look. I'm a mutant. My hands are so small it's creepy.
MG: What? They're totally pianist hands. It doesn't really matter anyhow. I've seen Asian women with hands smaller than yours play the hell out of the piano. It's how quick and deftly you work them that is the important thing. I teach at the Music Conservatory.
TG: Really?
MG: Yeah.
TG: Huh.
First act of the play involving lots of glitter and make up and drag and feathers and singing and dance numbers. Fabulous.
Intermission. Trenchcoat girl gets up to go pee. She gets another gin and tonic and muses over the cute gay boys. She thinks she should be reincarnated as a cute gay boy. She returns to her seat with her gin and tonic.
Mole guy touches her arm. She winces.
TG: AAK! Why are you touching me, dude?
MG: You're cold. You seem cold. You have chillbumps all over you.
The pretty Korean girl to his left sort of sighs and is wringing her hands. Trenchcoat girl notices this behavior.
TG: Yeah. I'm always cold. Hey. Is that your girlfriend?
MG: (Pause...sigh...) Yes.
TG: You should really be paying more attention to your girlfriend.
MG: She's so quiet. She never talks. Besides. She's going back to Korea in a couple of weeks anyhow.
TG: You should talk to your girlfriend.
Trenchcoat girl gets up from her very good seat in the middle of the third row back from the stage. She walks to the very back of the audience where there is standing room only. The house lights begin to go down... Trenchcoat girl looks at her very good empty seat far up in front...she sees Mole Guy's head...lean slowly over...and whisper something in his pretty girlfriend's ear. The curtain rises...
Sentence of the Day 5/12
"Based entirely on your writing, I'd still, um, befriend you. Naked."
Friday, May 12, 2006
Remembering April in May
April was my mom's Appaloosa horse. She was huge. Riding her was like riding a big spotted continent. She was gentle though and safe. The tiny 6-year-old Big E would ride her around the field bare back. A speck on a mountain.
April got pregnant. It must have been intentional, that breeding though I don't remember the details. To have something with hooves growing inside you? Sliding around? Someone made the comparison to a grappling hook. Giving birth to a horse would be like giving birth to a grappling hook. April got fatter and fatter.
We would take turns feeding them in the winter. A rotation amongst the three of us. We'd pull on giant crusted muck boots and wear one of my father's giant brown Carhartt coats or my mother's trench coats. Mud. There was always lots of mud.
I'd schlop down to that barn in larger people's clothing. We all dreaded the chore. At least I did. The barn was red and old and rickety and dangerous and shaped like barns from story books. The mud would occasionally suck one of my boots off. Muddy Cinderella suspended between steps. Sock exposed. We'd step in the pre-formed frozen footsteps of the one's before us. Schlop schlop schlop to the trough. We'd have to break the ice. Stir it round. Hands chapping. Then up to the hay loft to untie a bale with numb fingers, the twine cutting in, and hurl the bale out the little square window and into the metal feeder below. Stale hay smells and mold. The cracking of ice. Horses snorting and stamping cold and hungry. The stinging that came with the return to the warmth of the house.
The end of December. April wasn't due for another month or so. We decided we were going to confine her to a stall and continuous supervision after Christmas.
Christmas day. Seems like the good will toward men (and fellow sisters) bug had bitten us and we all decided to help that day. Special Christmas apples for our ponies. 3 girls tromp through the mud.
I remember seeing her...lying on the dirt floor at the back of the barn. Her body twisted, distorted. The blood mixed in the mud. Her baby...half way out. Tiny hoofs. The stillness of that shock. The stillness of them. The mass of them. The tragedy of the dual death. Mother and baby. The pain on her face. She must have gone through so much pain... So so much while we... While we were opening presents.
One of us ran to get Dad. It may have been me.
We had to call in a special trash pick up, animal disposal to come and get them. It took a couple days because of the holiday.
The pain on her face...
That image...with me...forever.
Empowerment
You know what feels really really powerful and really really good?
Carrying around a bunch of golf clubs all the time. Opening your trunk. Throwing them back there. The clank. Shinging one out of the bag. The potential danger. Walking around with your shiny weapons on your back. I fucking love it. It commands respect.
I deserve to be respected.
Respect me.
Sentence of the day 5/11
"Ummmm.....Why are you dressed as a golfer?"
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Stuck in an Elevator
My great aunt Kika was an amazing woman. She never got married and grew very old and lonely and grouchy in her little house where she squirreled away everything anyone ever gave her. She was a pack rat. She had little dachshunds named Gretchen and Mistletoe that she would dress in little sweaters to keep them warm. She traveled the world. She would bring us tchotchkes from Egypt, Israel, Prague, Turkey. Once I became old enough and patient enough to listen, her stories were some of the best I'd ever heard.
She was gorgeous when she was a young woman. I like to think that she had many lovers, although she could very well have died a virgin.
Aunt Kika did have a "boyfriend". He was a man that was her friend. He was a rich man that lived in a mansion in Memphis. He would give her expensive gifts like pear shaped golden earrings, full length mink coats, and giant diamonds. I never saw them show any physical affection toward each other save the quick kiss on the cheek upon greeting. Everyone thought he would eventually propose; he had been her "boyfriend" for so long. He never did. He died before she did.
We were instructed to call Aunt Kika's boyfriend "Uncle ____". Shit. I can't remember his name. Uncle.... What the hell? I'm drawing a blank. Not Ernie. Dude? Uncle Dude? Well, that's what we'll call him today.
One weekend the summer I was around 10, Aunt Kika decided to take all of her grand nieces and nephew to Memphis to visit Uncle Dude and stay in his mansion. Uncle Dude had transformed his basement into a grand bachelor's pad complete with pool table and leather recliner and big screen TV to watch his game shows on. He never left his basement. He had no reason to.
He had all these scary killer watch dogs, I remember. And a big electrical sliding gate to enter his fortress. The first time I ever saw a gun was in Uncle Dude's basement bathroom under a yellow hand towel. I felt something hard and metal under there and turned up a corner of the towel. I may have screamed. I ran out of the bathroom and told Dr. J. She explained that if I were a rich old man in a mansion by myself, I would want a gun to feel safe too. Then she snuck in to look at it. I learned later that it was loaded.
So my sisters, my cousin, and I were to stay on one of the other well-preserved floors of the mansion. There must have been 4 floors total. There was an elevator connecting them. It was a small 2-person rickety affair with one of those metal accordion gates you had to pull shut before it would go. Elevators are cool though, when you are a kid. They are curious and fun. We rode it up...and down. Up...and down.
Uncle Dude had a baby grand piano in the parlor. Aunt Kika made me and Dr. J play for them. I remember feeling like girl in a Victorian novel. Playing the piano and being polite for our rich relatives' entertainment in the parlor.
We set off his security alarm the first night. Accidentally. Dr. J and I shared a room with a giant hard dusty bed. The windows were doors which went out to this balcony and...we just wanted some fresh air... I can't remember if the police came or not. I think they did. Aunt Kika was pretty put out with us.
Dr. J and I were going to the basement to play some pool or pet the dogs or something. We could have very easily used the stairs. But to have an elevator at one's disposal? Hell yeah we're using the elevator.
That elevator had been used more in that weekend than it had in the past 5 years. I think we got the order right. The closing of the accordion metal. The pushing of the button. Something went horribly awry. There was a jolt and and a stop and an alarm.... No more movement. The door half slid open on a wall between floors. At first it seemed funny. Extremely funny. We had already gotten into so much trouble that weekend and now this! We laughed and laughed over the loud protesting of the alarm.
Time passes...
We stopped laughing. We were stuck. No one was coming. We started fantasizing our death...getting hungry...imagined our starving...wrote our eulogies. It seems like it was hot and stuffy and one of us had gas. It became not much fun at all.
We eventually got out. The details are fuzzy, but I remember thinking at the time how it would be a great story to tell our kids one day.
Aunt Kika had an enlarged heart and became obese. The pressure of her weight made it hard to breath. She was slowly suffocating every day. Each breath was a challenge. She died the day after Thanksgiving a few years ago. My flight hadn't left yet. My mother, father, and I drove to Alabama to see her body in the hospital. We stood around her still and quiet mound of a body in that hospital room. Me in the middle with my arms around my parents' waists. Holding each other up. The only family she had left. Aunt Kika no longer struggling for breath.
Her house was impressive. Mounds and mounds and stacks and stacks of years and years of collection. Autographed books of poetry, paintings, sculpture, letters, photographs, dog sweaters. She had been telling me for about 3 years about this hat that she got for me in Turkey, but she couldn't find it. She said it had flowers crocheted on it and I would love it, but she just couldn't remember where she had put it and she would find it and give it to me the next time I saw her. We went to her house to pick out a suit for her to be buried in. There was the hat. The most hideous ridiculous flowery hat set out special on an arm chair. I promptly put it on my head. I wore that stupid hat all the way home...Alabama to Tennessee...following my parents in her white Lincoln alone...listening to the radio stations she had programmed in...looking in her rear view mirror at my ridiculous reflection...crying.
Sentence of the Day 5/10
"Plimco, Will you marry me?"
Honorable mention:
"It's not like I'm eating handfuls of fire ants."
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
O Canada!
Can I just say that I covet Canada's national anthem? It is waaaay better than America's. It's just plain better written, from a musical and poetic standpoint. It fills me with the feelings that I suspect one should be filled with when one hears one's own national anthem. Mmmm...to hear that song at a baseball game? Or a hockey game! That is the best place for it. The smell of the ice... Gosh. It just fills me with so much pride every time. I really should move to Canada...
O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide,
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
Stuck in the Dryer
Once upon a time there was a girl who received some gaudy rayon pijamas for Christmas from her great Aunt Kika. Gaudy means that they were slightly offensive to the eye. Swirls and boxy twinings of hot pink and teal and yellow and purple. Many would simply refer to the jammies as "ugly". They were in the shape of a man's big Oxford shirt.
The girl had a little sister who occasionally needed to be sat. Not sat upon, but babysat. To babysit is not to sit on a baby, but to care for one younger than one's self when their caregivers are out. What an odd term. The one who does the "sitting" is usually paid money. The girl's parents were out for the evening at a disco or a steak house, I'm not sure which.
The little sister was called The Big E. She was called The Big E because when she wrote her name with her fat pencil in first grade, she would write a GIANT E...followed by the rest of the many letters of her name. It was big, that E, and so that became how people made reference to her.
The Big E had a little friend spend the night with her making two babies for the older sister to sit on. The babysitter suggested a game. All good babysitters suggest a game or an event such as dying one's dog green instead of plooping everyone in front of the television to gape unblinking like a zombie child. The babysitter suggested hide-n-seek.
The babysitter had the most ingenious idea. "Aha! I will hide in the dryer!" she thought. The babysitter stuck her bottom into the yawning mouth of the white and warm dryer. Schloop! She slipped in like a letter into an envelope, her silk-ish/rayon pijamas creating a slippery slidery surface for such fitting-in of oddly places.
She waited....
And waited...
And waited in that dryer. Bottom in, legs out. It was getting warm in there...
Eventually she heard a scampering of babies. "We found you ho HO, you cannot run away! Tag! You're it."
"Well, that was a fun game kiddos, please help me out of the dryer."
The Big E and friend each grabbed a sitter's arm...and pulllllllllled....and pullllled...and tugged....and grunted. Oh dear. The gaudy jammies had become warm and clammy in there and were no longer the best surface for easy slipping into or out of. She was most certainly stuck. In the dryer.
Hours they tugged. They thought it hilarious to have a sitter so indisposed. They went to the kitchen and got colas and popcorn and candy and came back and ate all the naughty stuffs in front of the stuck one's face because they could. The situation became less and less hilarious for the girl who's bottom was hopelessly stuck in that dryer.
The Big E and her friend went to watch TV. "Hey? You guys?! What are you doin' in there?" ... sound of a television show ... she watched a pile of dirty pants ... doing not much more than a pile of dirty pants can do ...
Eventually the mom and dad returned from their evening at the rodeo. There was great ceremony in the re-telling and presentation of the stuck. The mom and dad laughed harder than either of their children had ever seen them laugh before. That part was nice. What wasn't quite so nice was when the dad, who was strong, took both hands of the stuck girl in his and pulled a mighty dad pull and scrapedly squished her out of the dryer causing her to squeak.
She had dryer-shaped bruises for the next week.
Moral of the story? Don't don your gaudy pijamas while playing hide-n-seek. Save them for a special occasion...
Sentences of the Day 5/9
It's a tie! I'm telling you, folks. Yesterday was one of the best days for sentences all year. They must be in season...
"I guess I'll just have to go around smelling like soup."
"On Sunday I was charged by a groundhog."
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
In order to tell a good story, one must...
I was talking to Dr. J over the weekend how Bumbershoot Casserole has sort of taken a turn in a direction I did not intend to steer it. For some reason I've turned it into this very Diary/Journal type style and you people end up knowing way too much about what's going on in my life...currently. For instance, I just deleted an entire post about the phone call I received late last night from someone from my past. I don't need to tell you all about that stuff. Honestly. I did not intend for this to become Plimco's Life: Blow by Blow Commentary. Sheesh. What happened?
I have a notebook. I write in my notebook. I often write in my notebook lists of things I want to write about here. Here is a list of things I've been meaning to get to. I want to check them off because that is satisfying...to check off items on a list...or maybe just the act of making a list itself, I'm not sure...
-Stuck in the dryer
-Stuck in the elevator
-What if I made this persona up?
-Sex as a defense mechanism/a default way to communicate
-Canada's National Anthem
-Serial Killer Story
That's all I can decipher out of there right now. So, this is me... making an attempt to stay on task...
Shit. They know where I live...
Fluff bucket and I trotted up to our mailbox yesterday afternoon to see what the paper printed world had to say to us. Inside the box was an envelope of horror. A plain manilla envelope addressed to Celia Plimco. Holy fuck! They know where I live! Celia Plimco is not my real name. No one calls me Celia Plimco except you people. Celia Plimco is a little illiterate (ha!) Cockney housemaid I created who worked for a better family than the Vanderbilts in 1891 at a mansion in Newport. I played her every day for 9 months. People that met Celia sometimes talk to me about "her", but other than that, we are separate...except here.
Horror. Absolute horror. What scary blogger found out where I live? I look around my street in a panicked fashion. Then it dawns on me...
Oh yeah. I bought a pair of socks for $50 from that blogger. Mac is her name and she is awesome and she swore she wouldn't stalk me. Whewph. Scared me there for a minute...
Yes, 50$. Yes, socks. Shut up. I like socks. And these are special socks. She knitted them with her very own hands. They are blue and green stripes and look like this. Fine. I must admit it was fairly difficult to rationalize spending $50 on a pair of socks when I don't even own a DVD player and sometimes can barely afford dog food, but... Socks! Blog Socks!
I may have a problem... Sock addiction. I was going to do an inventory of my socks over the last vacation and report back to you, but I ended up convincing myself how nerdy and embarrassing that would be and did something else instead. I wonder how many I have... Socks. They are all exciting. For instance, today I am wearing socks with black, red, two shades of purple, yellow, orange, and two shades of green stripes on them with black kittens in the back ground. My Dad gave them to me. My sock drawer doesn't close when they're all clean I have so many. My precious foot niblets.
$50 is by far the most I've ever paid for one pair. I could only wear them for about 5 minutes last night, in clean foots...fresh from the shower. I do not wish to taint them. They confuse me though because they are shaped like shoes. How do you wear shoes with socks shaped like shoes? Maybe I'll just dance around the house in them, but... BUT! I paid 50 stupid dollars for them, I want to show them off to the world. Maybe I could hold a viewing party. I'll get a little velveteen pillow with tassels and prop my feets on them and people may come...and see...the glory that is my stripy blog socks...
Sentence of the Day 5/8
(a toast) "Here's to nipples - without them, tits would be pointless".
Monday, May 08, 2006
Lindsay's Labia
I was reminded of a few things about myself when I was hanging out with my family this weekend. It's nice to have the burden of remembering shared amongst a group of people.
I used to hate mirrors. I hated them because of the Bell Witch. I took down the mirror in my room and put it face down on the carpet. See, I'd accidentally begin the ritual in my head whenever I walked in front of a mirror..."I hate the Bell...." and I'd accidentally turn around and then I'd have to turn around way more than the three times you're supposed to turn around and...it was a mess. Somebody, I think it was Vonnegut, refers to mirrors as "leaks". Leaks in the universe, in reality. I like that. It seems accurate.
I also used to not sleep because I was scared Freddy Kruger would come and get me in my dreams. That is some smart scary right there. Have your killer get you in your dreams. No escape. Everyone has to sleep at some point. Ugh. I was terrified. I was way too young to be allowed to watch that movie. I came home from spending the night with this girl named Lindsay all frightened and shaking and not wanting to go to bed. My mom was pissed at her mom for letting me watch it.
Lindsay and I got into trouble for buying a bunch of Viverin at the Kwik Sak. We wanted to stay up all night of our sleep over and needed chemical assistance to do so apparently. I don't think we ever took it, but I remember getting into big trouble when her mom found out we bought it. Plimco the little girl on speed.
Lindsay also introduced me to the brilliant musical renderings of the group Salt n' Peppa. My mom confiscated that tape from me seconds after she listened closely to the lyrics of "Push it".
The other thing I remember about Lindsay was her labia. They were unusually....long. She showed them to me and I thought I was deformed because mine didn't stick out that far...hang that low... She would stretch them out proudly and sort of fold them over her fingers. I was jealous of her labia.
She had this gorgeous claw footed tub in her private bathroom in her attic. It had this small window right next to it that flooded the tub in sunshine. Lindsay told me that you can masturbate in the bathtub by scootching your butt down there and wrapping your legs round the faucet and letting...the water...fall. She said I should try it. She turned on her faucet of her beautiful tub and left me and my little labia alone. Mmmmm... Sunshine. Claw footed tub. Trouble. Lindsay and I sure got into a lot of trouble...
Cymbalism
A girl with binoculars watches graduates sleep across a stadium while the president of the university is giving them advice regarding their future.
I had a dream that I was on American Idol. I wasn't as stressed as everyone else. My voice seemed a bit off. I stuck out my tongue and looked in the mirror. I pulled a roll of foreign coins out from the back of my throat.
8 couples, a 12-year-old, and I attend a barbecue. The evening winds down. The twelve year old and I begin throwing the uneaten veggie burgers at people.
Back in a city far away from anyone I know. Walking up the darkened street to my car. Suitcase wheels rattling behind me... I pass a man... A man from the past. A man from a fishing village. He has a fuzzy red beard and dancing eyes. We hold eye contact as we pass and a slight grin is shared. He's carrying fishing poles on his shoulder. He walks with purpose in the direction of the sea.
The 30$ parking ticket on my car.
Golf clubs received from a boy with no last name who lives at an imaginary address.
A goodbye involving the discovery of chocolate ice cream....melted down the front of my shirt.
A hello involving the re-telling of the consumption of a tray of 3 pounds of frozen sausages by my dog. Family barbecue delayed.
Feather and bone on a sidewalk.
A miniature Gumby face down on the ground...
I have no idea what it all means... A very human desire, to make meaning. Perhaps it's a bunch of applesauce. Or perhaps... Perhaps things are changing, are about to change. Shift. Switch. Not better or worse, but... Different. Imminent. Hold on tight.
"You"
I was jolted awake and made immediate eye contact with you as you were walking down the aisle on the airplane.
It wasn't you.
"You" went back to your seat where your girlfriend rested her pretty head on your shoulder.
You reached for her hand...
I squeezed my eyes shut again.
Heart racing.
Sentences 5/6 & 7
5/6
"I made a film about a dog that got so lonely she committed suicide."
5/7
"Fluff Bucket ate an entire tray of frozen sausages."
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Live pre-graduation blog...
Mom is zipping and unzipping compartments of things on the guest bed. Dr. J is putting on her pretty new skirt and doing the tiniest bit of primping, I suspect. Chet, The Big E, and the Big E's lover have gone to the grocery store for a head of lettuce and some hamburger dill pickles. Bruce Springsteen's new album of folk covers is playing. Two dogs are jingling and tromping and wagging. Dad is outside yacking on his cell phone to someone in Russia. I'm sitting here with stinging eyes from the onions I cut up for the salad.
So exciting...
The anticipation...
I hear a comic book guy is going to be the commencement speaker...
I slept for shit last night on that inflate-a-bed. Tossing...turning...jostling the snoring E...
Maybe it was the duck I had for dinner. Quack quack.
Found out the Big E doesn't brush her teeth before she goes to bed. Gross.
Mom just hugged me and started to cry... She stopped herself. She's glad I'm feeling better...
Me too.
Sentence of the Day 5/5
"Tweedle dee dweedle de deet!"
Friday, May 05, 2006
Dr. J gets hooded
People, this is such an event. We've all been waiting so long. She's been in school for 27 years. People have been driving her crazy and asking, "Are you done yet? When are you going to be done?" for the past 10 I think.
"J, it just seems like you'd be smart enough by now." --Granddaddy Plimco, 2001
How neat to write a book, to have written a book...a 241 page book (longer with bibliography, of course). I am in awe of her and have been throughout her journey. I'd like to think that I was there and played a bit of a role in its beginnings....the discovery of her passion for poetry....her quest for more and more (and more) knowledge.
When we were little girls we would spend a Saturday playing school. "School". Dr. J would be the teacher, I was her pupil. She was given an upright chalkboard, the kind teachers use, for Christmas the year she turned 8 I think it was. I would sit at my desk and she would teach me. She would give me homework. My homework would be to have this poem memorized by school the next "day". "Days" when you're playing school are about 2 minutes because you go home and go to "sleep" and then get up and have "school" first thing the next morning. Dr. J is the reason why today I am able to memorize pages and pages of text verbatim for a play with no problem. I still remember one of the poems she made me memorize. Ready?
Way down south
Where the banana plants grow
A grasshopper stepped
On an elephant's toe
The elephant said
With tears in his eyes
Why don't you pick on someone
Your own size?
I was instructed to stand in front of the "class" and recite it. I think she had me do it several times because I was not quite capturing the mood of the piece.
We studied geography, science, literature. She would have me write short stories. And we would read, oh how we'd read. I remember sitting on the couch side by side and reading Where the Sidewalk Ends cover to cover. We must have been small because I remember the spine of the book being in the space where our legs met and then the one half of the book covering our laps completely. She read all the left pages, I read all the right. We read that entire book out loud to each other.
Then as we got older I remember her discovering other poets. The Emily Dickinson phase, the Plath phase, Sexton, ee cummings, WH Auden, Szymborska, Hejinian, Ammons, Harryette Mullen. Whatever she read, she told me about or read to me or I read.
I remember when she was in high school (I was in middle) she was going through the Dickinson phase. We found out Emily was a recluse and were talking about how on earth a recluse could write so much and so well about life when she was essentially hiding from it. One night, we had a book of Dickinson's poems and were reading through a few aloud to each other. We started making fun of her vacillating subject matter. It was silly. One poem would be about a particular flower in her garden or grass or frogs and you'd turn the page and the next would be all morbid and dark and centered on death and her own mortality. We were in the piano room. We were inspired. J grabbed her acoustic guitar and we wrote the following brilliant song:
The grass, the grass, the grass, the grass
The grass, the grass, the grass, the grass
The grass, the grass, the grass, the grass
The grass, the flowers, and the trees
The grass is green
The trees are brown
The flowers are any color they want to be
Except for black
Cause black is the color of....
DEATH!!!!! EVERYTHING DIES!
EVERYONE DIES!!!!
BLACK IS THE COLOR OF DEATH AND MOURNING!!!!
But green is the color of......
The grass, the grass, the grass, the grass
The grass, the grass, the grass, the grass
The grass, the grass, the grass, the grass
The grass, the flowers, and the trees
We have to sing that song for you some day. It is very dramatic.
The first time I got drunk was when I went to visit J at college her freshman year. The next day through painful hangovers with shades drawn, we read to each other Anne Sexton's fairy tales.
She's shared with me a love of words. Words by themselves or placed with others. Sound, cadence, plosive pop and taste. She's taught me the art of meaning-making. She's given me an appreciation for the written word both read alone and read aloud. Voice. She's taught me how to appreciate voice. My written voice and others.
Getting a hood seems silly to me like covering up a baby, a blanket from the cold, but maybe...maybe not. Maybe it's more of a protection. A recognition that the brain under there is precious. My sister's brain is precious. It is big and important and has shaped me into the person I am today. Even though this whole ceremony seems like some sort of stamp of completion, so much is beginning for her and it's scary and exciting and I can't wait to see what she'll do next....what she'll be thinking about next...what she'll be sharing with the world next....
I'll leave you with the final paragraph of her dissertation which also reads less like an ending and more like a beginning....an emerging.
Thank you so much, Dr. J. For everything. I'm so proud of you. You better not forget to pick me up at the airport this afternoon...
In a theoretical climate that views bodies most often as surfaces inscribed by culture or performed by individuals, poetry’s radical empiricism of phenomenological experience and the body’s depths can seem naïve or belated. Reading these poetic revelations alongside cognitive theories of embodied consciousness, however, rescues the genre from these charges. The brain becomes the complex, emergent, shifting, but material, embodied site of poetic making whose vicissitudes resonate throughout the poem, both in its form and content, and in the reader’s own acts of meaning-making. “Gray Matters” thus “explodes” the traditional lyric “I,” but not into an empty semantic marker within a sentence. Instead, it delineates a new, non-lyric “I” behind much contemporary poetry, an “I” that is unlocatable in the shifting play of connections in the brain, but that is grounded in the entire embodied cognitive system, an “I” that is not linguistically-determined, but deeply embodied, not essential, but emergent.
I smell poop
Do you ever have those days when you smell poop and you can't find it but dag nab it you KNOW you smell poop? I'm having one. The smell has been following me. I've checked and double checked the bottoms of my cowgirl boots. No poop. Pollen. No poop. Not in the floor mat of my car or stuck in the wheels of my suitcase.... Damn. I smell poop.
I really really really hope it doesn't follow me on the plane. That would be embarrassing. Everyone sniffing.... Surreptitiously checking the bottoms of their shoes.... Me sitting there in my window seat....guilty.
Shoe we.
Sentence of the Day 5/4
"He doesn't believe in himself, but she believes in him, so she has to prove it in order to save the kingdom and all of his super hero friends too."
Thursday, May 04, 2006
My plan...the embryonic stage...
I've been having a plan cooking in my brain for a little while. It all began with a map of the United States and where I suspect most of you may live....and the fact that I will hopefully have a new car soon...
So, I get a new car, right? This enables me to drive from my coast to the other one. Maybe I should be a bit more specific there. East to West...and back. In one piece. So...ok...I'm getting all excited... So I ploop Fluff Bucket in the back seat and the three weeks off I have toward the end of the summer we go blogger hopping. That is so so stupid and nerdy, but hear me out. I've always wanted to drive cross country...with my dog and...if I had places to stay for free along the way and maybe you guys would let me use your shower and where the bloggers are scarce there is family and the whole thing can be a documented adventure and I'll be like Jack Kerouac born several years too late...and with a car and I can stop by, drink your beer, sleep on your sofa, Fluff Bucket will poop in your yard, maybe you'll let me take a shower and then whooosh! I'll be gone with the dawn leaving you scratching your heads and wondering, who was that masked Plimco anyhow? And then you'll blog about it. And I'll blog about it. OOOoo! And maybe some of you will have sex with me and let me hold your babies and...and...I'll discover the meaning of life! Or...maybe at least see a lot of the country that I'm growing to despise and maybe...find a different place I'd want to live or...get arrested or....something.
Woo Hoo! I love this idea. Ok. Utah. Check. There's a dry spot after I'd leave St. Louis...and then I'd have to get some of my silent California people to introduce themselves, but... I think I can do it. Why not? The nerdiest road trip ever.
Ok. I can't sit still I'm so excited right now...
Last week in July, first two weeks in August. Who's with me? Come on people. Don't be all prissy. It's just your couch for goodness sakes. I'll tell you bedtime stories...
Wait. Did I not tell you about the next play I'm in?
I keep forgetting to. It's just a little thing. Part of a 10 minute play festival, but. BUT. It is on the big ass stage down town. One of the biggest newest most fantastic stages in the city. THAT is reason enough to do this play. Besides that though I get to play the caddy to a lesbian putt putt champion. The play takes place on a putt putt course. There is action and violence and kissing and comedy and references to gnomes. It should be fantastic...
Post Show Depression
That has to be the worst case of PSD I've ever had...I mean, am having. Gracious me. It's weird, isn't it? How our bodies can sometimes be like, "hey....hey...can we get sick yet? Nope? You're still busy? Now? Hey......hey.....now? How about....NOW! Take THAT beee-yatch!" Ugh.
I ate solid food last night. A solid meal solid food. Yay. Today I woke up with that Mac the Knife song in my head, "Now that PlimcoOOOOOOOOOOOOO's.....BACK in TOOOWWWWWN!!!"
Seems like when a show ends and things slow down and I have to go back to being myself every day I start questioning things. Really big questions. Why am I here? What am I doing? Is this where I want to be? What is the meaning of life?
I am able to view my present circumstances in both extremely positive and depressingly negative lights. Let's start with the positive.
-I have been doing professional theatre and consistently getting cast in plays since I graduated from college.
-I get paid to do what I love to do...my passion.
-I have made a bit of a name for myself in this city's theatre community.
-Critics have given positive feedback on my performances.
-I keep getting cast in lead roles/the roles that I want.
-I have a day job with excellent benefits that pays really well and gives me an amazing amount of paid vacation time and allows me to hang out with some pretty cool people every day.
-I live in a house alone with my dog and my cat.
-My family loves and supports me and I speak to at least one of my family members every day.
-I have no ties. I have no furniture. No lease. No contract. I could pack up and leave this weekend if I wanted to... Giant dog. I have a giant dog, though. And a cat...
Now the negative...
-I have no friends. I'm a recluse. When I was sick, I was faced with the question from my mother, "is there someone you could call who could bring you some juice or some soup?" The answer was no. No one. No one I would feel comfortable just calling up and asking a favor of. A string of ex-boyfriends or boys who have expressed an interest that probably WOULD bring me soup, but no way in hell I'm calling them up.
-I've been working the same dead end job day in and day out for 4 years. I could do something different. I could get paid more to do something different.
-I hate the winters here. Every year I tell myself that this is my last winter here and then the next winter rolls around.
-I feel stuck. I have no ties, I could just pack up and leave and go....where? I've always had this gypsy wander lust, so why have I been stuck here so long? To what end? I don't want to be sitting behind this desk every day doing mediocre "professional" theatre until I'm 60.
-I'm not making a living doing theatre. I'm getting paid peanuts. A symbol. Just so I can say it's professional. Every play I'm in I feel like I have to push people. Push them up to a certain level. Directors don't direct me. I give them ideas, ask them tough questions get them to view the play as... They direct others to meet a middle ground so that I don't stick out like a sore thumb. I consistently work with unprofessional inexperienced actors whose hands I have to hold through the process and it's draining.
-I want to be pushed I want to be pressed I want to learn more, discover more, I want it to be harder. I want to be...great.
-My car is going to explode any day now.
-If I'm going to buy a new car I'm going to have to have a job so that I can make payments.
-I don't know where I would go if I left. London. Edinburgh. Used to be goals. Still could be, I suppose, but...money. Why does it always have to come back down to money? Seattle? Argentina?
-Stupid fucking Steve is coming back to live with me until the summer whatever the hell that means. Why am I 27-years-old and in a living situation where I have to say, oh. Ok. Sure. I'll live with a 65 year old man now. I have no other option. This is your house. You let me live here. Let me know when I can walk around topless again...
-Debt. I'm in credit card debt. I only have 1 card, but I owe it money. Lots of money.
-I haven't gotten laid since December 2005.
Whewph. If you sat through all that, bless your cotton socks. I'm not sure if I feel any better about anything now, but... Oh me. It's so ugly in writing. It's all so so ugly. There are people my age that have jobs that they half way enjoy. They can afford SUVs and have BBQs with their neighbor friends. They have babies that they are teaching how to walk and talk. They have their own houses that they can redecorate how they like. They have scads of people to call if they are sick and need someone to bring them soup. They are happy. They are not alone. I am not them.
Sentence of the Day 5/3
"Sorry. I had a lagoon in my brain there for a minute..."
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Shakes fist at sky
This is my new favorite gesture. Try it. Wad your fist up super tight and then crook your arm up like you're making a muscle and then look at the sky with furrowed brow and angry eye and shake and shake your fist at your misfortune.
I think this is my theme for 2006.
Shakes fist at sky.
It's how you'll recognize me should you be passing me on the sidewalk. That's me. Shakin' away.
Not dead yet...
Ugh. Well that was no fun. Whatever it was was some sort of virus and could not have been caused by my own cooking, so that at least is good news. I'm fairly certain the whole thing had something to do with that kid who threw up by my desk last week. (Shakes fist at sky.)
I have a word to say about the state of PBS kid's programming today. I watched PBS through a feverish haze the other day and let me tell you, I have no idea what the hell is going on over there. Granted I was shaking uncontrollably and sweating under 5 blankets, but this is what I'm fairly certain I saw. Aliens. Cartoon aliens doing math problems with children. This little alien guy had a boat, right? He needed a boat for his larger friend. The kids were going to help him build a boat. They asked if they could use his belt to measure. They took off the little alien's belt. There was also a bird with an antennae with an eyeball on it that scared me. THEN they went from the cartoon world to the "real" world where there was this girl who was applying for a job at Kinkos. That manager of that Kinkos has to be the worst actor on television today. Anyhow. The girl ended up doing a job for them where she took a picture of a king and had to make it life size. She messed up a few times and wasted a lot of paper, but imagined how wonderful it would be to meet the actual king when he arrived to get his life-size picture. Success! Then the king showed up. He was really this gross sweaty man eating a burrito wearing a King's basketball jersey. She was disappointed.
Then there's Buster. I think that was his name. Buster the bunny. Buster travels all over the world with his dad and other bunny rock star friends. He records his adventures on his camcorder. Buster looks like a bunny. His dad looks like a dad. Like a man with fleshy limp nodules coming out of his head. He is the stuff nightmares are made of. Buster went to Indiana in the episode I saw, so it was good practice for me this weekend. He went to a 4-H fair and met a guy with a tattoo of the world and a compass on his arm. He asked his dad if he could get a tattoo like that. His dad said no. Tattoo guy was in this jug band. At the jug band concert they bashed pickles with wooden mallets on this table. Buster saw baby goats with their heads stuck in a fence. It was all very confusing. Buster and the other man-bunnies were cartoon, but everything he recorded with his camcorder was real.
THEN there's Clifford. Clifford the BIG red dog. I'm almost certain he used to be big. He's not anymore. He's tiny.
What the hell is going on with PBS these days?! What happened to Square One and Sesame Street (that wasn't taken over by Elmo the diva) and 321 Contact and The Electric Company and hell, I'd even settle for that woman with her weird lamb puppet or that over excitable jelly bean lady.
I swear that's what I saw. Aliens, Kinkos sketches, bunny-men, and Clifford the teeny. What's next?
Sentences
4/30
"I cannot and will not live the life of a lady."
5/1
"Self pity is an extremely unattractive quality."
5/2
"I was just calling to check on you and see if you were feeling any better."
Monday, May 01, 2006
