Monthly Archives: September 2006

Daring Male, 2 inches, Seeks Companion With Bulging Eyes

Have you ever read the book Jonathon Livingston Seagull? It’s my favorite book. This seagull, a creative, driven, fly-outside-the-box kind of bird, outcasts himself among the dump-duck set by exploring beyond the limitations of flock societal rules, thereby achieving the truest heights of passion and joy.

I’m going to write the sequel. It’s called Jonathon Livingston Goldfish. It’s about this kid’s fish, this tiny little wriggly shiny dude, who just swims around and around his tank the first two months they have him, and then he just starts flipping out, literally, swimming to the very top of the tank, then doing a breakneck nose-dive (though goldfish don’t really have necks, do they? Or noses) and plummeting toward the bottom, pulling up only when he’s succeeded in causing his concerned human companion (my wife) a near heart attack. “WHY IS HE DOING THAT??” she keeps saying.

I think it’ll sell like hotcakes. Or gruel in a poorhouse.

In any case, Ru and I have done all this research now that the neighbors have gifted our daughter with this charming little kamikazi. I, being the Mother Protector of All Earth and Especially Small and Helpless Things, spend all of my weekly earnings providing my family pets (and the wife and kid) with the most natural, healthful food and environment I can afford. As it turns out, goldfish are not meant to live in bowls the width and breadth of their bodies. As it turns out, goldfish do not like to be kept all alone with nobody to help them keep a bulging eye out for the numerous dangers of the fishtank. As it turns out, Pocket is going to cost us another $200. You know, so he can have a friend and a 30-gallon tank. That’s almost the size of our apartment. We’ll be living in the back of the truck from now on, so if you want us, you can send us a letter by passenger pigeon, since we’ll be giving the phone and internet and TV remote to Pocket and his new companion, who I think I’ll name “Sushi”.

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Quote of the Morning

“Mama, you’re welcome to take my diaper off.”
-Rocky, my 2-year-old daughter

My Life in Headlines

“Maine Girl Born Yesterday”

“New Study Shows Teacher’s Pet, Even For One Year, Despised, Reviled by Classmates”

“New Reality Show, ‘Brattleboro Retreat’, Reveals Life in Psyche Ward”

“Massachusetts Student, 19, Charged by Bull Moose; Blames it on Rutting Season”

“Stormy Weather Forecasted for Mass. Woman Dumped by Girlfriend”

“Former Roommate of Pop-Star Jewel Reveals Secrets to World”

“Woman, 30, Recovering From Difficult Labor in S. Austin; Says Friends Must Change Crotch Ice-Pack”

“Local Lesbians Decide, for Seventh Time, Not to Divorce”

And, today’s headline:
“Woman Driver, 32, Reaches for Frito, Almost Collides with City Bus”

DO BLOGS GET ANY BETTER THAN THIS? Seriously.

Once again I find myself sitting here, body twisted into a comfortable non-ergonomic artists’-model-sitting-in-a-chair pose which I know will make my back hurt later, looking at the clock, thinking, I should really go to sleep now I have to work tomorrow and then care for my bouncing toddler-child and shop for food and make dinner, what should I write about? Oh Goddess, don’t let it be another Famous Birthdays Nite. Because today it’s really dorky people like Mark Hamil, or really boring people like Michael Douglas, or really dead people like Christopher Reeve. Sorry, S.Man. I hope people don’t make jokes about me when I’m a stiff gray corpse.

Speaking of corpses, I want to be cremated. See that it happens.

Because I’m just naturally an on-the-ball, pay-my-tickets-before-the-court-date sort of person, plus I tend to focus on things like Doom, I have set forth and writ, as ittwer, my Last Holy Testament and Will Upon Dying. All of my money (all $2), my antique musical instruments, my jewelry, etc. etc., goes to Rocky, my Beloved Daughter and Tiny Lord of All. To my Highly Respected and Doted-Upon Wife I bequeath my car and those undies you like – go ahead, give them to another girl, SEE WHAT I CARE, I’ll just go get with some other hot … dead person. The rest of you, feel free to take a lock of my hair; I’ll probably need a haircut, anyway. As I’m often heard saying, by the rich and famous with whom I daily hobnob (as I’m cleaning their perfumed poo out of pearlescent potties), “another day, another hairstyle”.

When your writing sucks, there’s always Famous Birthdays

Scott Baio. September 22. 45. I can’t effing believe I forgot your birthday, man. Sheesh. I mean, who could forget Chachi? I personally wish I could.

Jesus. Time to wipe that image out of our minds. With someone I think we can all agree on. September 22. 46 years old. JOAN FREAKING BADASS JETT. Meet Blue I-Want-To-Lick-Your-Boots Ox.

My Family: Where Germans, Hippies and Criminals Come Together to Dance the Hoe-Down

My mom recently got a storytelling bug, and filled in more of the holes in my knowledge of family history, and gave me permission to post it. Of her side of the family, she wrote:

“My paternal grandparents came from Ireland and Germany, but I never knew I was German until I added up all the peices–the German words and phrases I knew, the German food that was always available at family gatherings, my grandmother’s fabulous German name. They hid their German descent to avoid reprisals from the American government during and after WWII. My grandfather used to terrify and delight us with stories about “Jake The Plumber” (a coconut mask that lived in his basement) so that going downstairs to get a chocolate bar became an adventure. My grandmother made $15 dollars a week when she and my grandfather got married–more than my grandfather. She encouraged me to enjoy my sexuality and not to take shit from anyone. They lived in Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan until my father and uncles were in high school.

When I first met my maternal great grandfather, he was walking down a dirt road in Arkansas wearing a placard and carrying a gun. He slept with the gun under his pillow. My great Uncle Dennis and Aunt Lara Mae had no front door on thier house. They came and went through the window. The had a thousand-acre horse ranch in Arkansas. My mom and her nine brothers and
sisters had to share shoes so they could go to school. They left school to pick cotton every year for my sharecropper grandfather. When they went swimming, someone had to stay on the shore to keep an eye out for snakes. They had an old car with no reverse, so when they went somewhere in it, the smallest kid would crank it, then lay down flat real quickly while the car rolled over her. My mother could dance a mean “hoe down” and would say odd things (odd to me) like “It’s clabbering up to rain”, or “I’m fixin’ to plant me a garden”. My mother claims there is Cherokee in my blood, but of course there is no record of this because it would have been a scandle. She refused to go to the Catholic Church herself and saved me from the nuns.”

In the next email:

“I forgot to say that my paternal grandfather (the one who told the stories about Jake the Plumber) also was a bootlegger and made “hooch” in the bathtub. [My own stories] mostly revolve around being a hippie and doing lots of drugs, but there are some funny and interesting vingettes. Another interesting thing about your ‘other’ family is that they are a bunch of criminals. Don’t mention any names.”

Some interesting things you probably didn’t know about me and also may not care

I have a fear of toilet paper rolls. There might be a tarantula lurking inside the cardboard cylinder.

I think Regis Philbin is cute. I was sad when he stopped hosting “Millionaire”.

I like rats. I would like to have one as a pet. They’re very smart and affectionate, when they’re not giving you rabies.

My worst fear of dying is of being trapped in a tiny space all alone and unable to move. I will not be watching that 9-11 movie about that dude that got trapped.

My favorite swear is son-of-a-bitch!!

My family came from England and Wales, made their fortune as privateers (pirates under royal employ), kept a plantation, and eventually split off to settle down – some in Barbados, some in Canada and some in New England.

My family was homeless for a while. We lived in a tent village.

My father was, at different times, a firefighter, a truck driver, an electrician on the Navy’s Aegis Cruisers (big boats with guns), and a soldier at the end of the Korean War. He used to be friends with Yoko Ono. He’s a gentle old hippie. Now he takes disadvantaged kids up into the New Mexico mountains on horseback for a living.

I have a Korean half-brother.

My grandparents were blacklisted.

I won’t eat lobster because they’re boiled to death, and anybody who says lobsters don’t experience some kind of pain just doesn’t want to stop eating lobster.

I like McDonald’s french fries.

My mother is my hero and one of my best friends.

I helped my grandfather through his passage out of this life, held him while he fought for his last breath, and then had to undergo an exorcism with a Chinese acupuncturist so he’d leave.

My brother and I got chased by a UFO. I am not making this up.

I also once got chased by a bull moose. I’m not making that up, either.

I once stood up to the CEO of Dow Chemical Company, in person, for polluting the Great Lakes.

I once built a lean-to next to a stream in the Pelham Hills of Massachusetts and stayed in it overnight to overcome my extreme fear of the dark. I woke up before dawn to the sound of the water singing in a human voice.

When I was little we used an outhouse and bathed in a metal tub with water heated from a woodstove.

I have never wished that I weren’t queer.

Last night I dreamed that my goldfish was joined by nine other goldfish and the tank was getting crowded. Then they all turned into small, brightly-colored underwater-people, and I fed them fish food.

I sometimes wish I were Johnny Depp.

I’m very happy.