Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

You sit, waiting for the Senior Manager to interview you.

It has been a long couple of weeks, applying for jobs, sniffing around Craig's List. At a certain point, you just started sending out resumes for everything...including the employment for which you have nary a skill. Like Part Time Zookeeper, or Temporary Sleep Analyst.

They sure sound like fun.

After a flurry of applications and phone calls, an email arrived at your inbox...from The Great Steak and Potato Company in the mall.

"Did I even apply there?"

A quick look through your sent items declares that, yes, you did. And even included a note in the body of the email declaring your "superior customer service skill" and "ability to multitask in a fast paced environment". Apparently, you are just what the Great Steak and Potato Company is looking for.

So here you are now, dressed to impress, at a booth in the front of house at Great Steak and Potato. You are to meet with the Last Tuesday in June, and the little twerp at the checkout counter (with a name tag reading Dan...but taped under the plastic text is a hand written note that says "McLovin".) said she'd be right with you.

You fidget with a Ketchup bottle.

Footsteps approach and a petite voice from behind pulls you from your examination of the embossed 57's.


You turn and move to stand but something stops you. Standing before you is LTiJ. She is about 5"4' and every second's worth of Sixteen.

She is holding your resume in her hand. She smiles and the aluminum coils of her braces emerge through her lips. The two of you stare at one another in a stew of hatred, pity and awe.

She is sixteen. You are thirty-six.

A moment passes and she plops her straight-A ass in the seat across from yours.

"So," she begins, "Tell me why you'd make the best addition to our team here at Steak and Potato."

My friend J. recently posted a few songs of summer on his Facebook page and I am now ripping one off. Thanks, J.

When I was I was in High School, I was the singer in a short lived cover band called "11". Why "11"? You guessed it. We were one louder.

We were kind of terrible. No. I should strike that to say I was terrible. These days, I could probably pull a Debbie Harry and bloom late into some rock n' roll fantasy. But in those days, I was awkward and doughy and completely unprepared to exude any sort of "non-character" stage sexuality. I was no rock and roll goddess.

Honking out songs like "Sqeezebox" and "Blister in the Sun", tunes not meant to be sung by a heterosexual woman, didn't help.

We had one gig. The band never met again after that.

This is a shame because I never got to sing the one song I think I would have liked to belt out. We were still rehearsing for "Here Comes Your Man" by the Pixies, but thought it underprepared.

Alas, I never got to sing it that summer.

But I listened to it over and over again on my brand spanking new CD player (which, then, I had to record onto tape so I could listen to it on my Walkman.). The whole album Doolittle is pretty fantastic and sounds just like Summer to me.

Maybe someday, I'll live the dream and sing it at live band karaoke or something.

Monday, June 29, 2009

How utterly dreary.

Photo by Andrew Huff

This is one of the most depressing ads I have ever seen.

That's it? After "Changing the World", all you have to look forward to is getting a job, retiring and dying?

On top of it being so completely depressing, I also find it in support of a pretty hardwired status quo. Like at the end of your city year, they hand you a grey flannel suit with a name tag reading "Willy Loman".

I need to lie down I think.

Friday, June 26, 2009

How the Glittery Glove of Pop Culture Touched Me This Week.

What a strange landscape this week has been.

So, I went to see The Transformers movie.


It. was. AWFUL. By now, the critics have let their opinions be known, so this is no secret.

I'm not a fool. The Transformers Movies have no pretensions to art and so my expectations are pretty low. And even then, EVEN THEN, friends, my desires were thwarted.

You know what I wanted to see?


What I got was two and half hours of my life stolen as we watched the most ridiculous "plot" and "dialogue" force its way onto the screen and call into question English as an effective form of communication. A six year old could have written it. But they didn't, because a six year old would have done a better job.

I did my share of hooting and hollering. It's like a reflex. I can't help it. But it left me exhausted - spent from the roller coaster of aching disappointment and overweening enthusiasm.

Ef you, Michael Bay.

Also this week, if you are just waking up from your Lunesta/Captain Morgan bender, Michael Jackson died.

The King of Pop has not been on my radar for many years now. Once my Thriller madness wore off, I never regained my interest. At a certain point (after jumping about 36 sharks) he cemented himself in my mind as one of the most repulsive examples of public excess. His decrepitude made me lose my appetite.

I will say though, that the monstrous being we all pointed to and laughed at seems so separate from the Michael Jackson of old. I watched a few videos on the yootoobs and that kid was a genuine talent. Is it possible for anyone of watch these old clips and not shake their heads with "Boy, what a shame"?

I remember wondering as a kid (whilst in the throes of my slavish love), what the world would be like when he died. What a desolate, hopeless hunk of rock we would inhabit. The thought twinged my heart with urgency, I may have even cried over it. Please don't die before I meet

Needless to say I never met Michael Jackson. And it is a peculiar feeling to be alive on a day you imagined as a child and have it be so different than what you expected.

Finally, I was made aware of this little item on Wednesday:

W. T. Fuck.

For serious? A gigantor hamburger loaded for bear at a mouth of a woman suspiciously made up to look like a dead-eyed blow up doll?

Look. I know sex sells (I should again iterate that I have no problem with sexual practices - orthodox or un - between consenting adults.).

It would appear oral sex sells even more. Why would that be? Because, Christ knows, if you shove seven inches of beef in its mouth you certainly don't have to hear it talk.


Thursday, June 25, 2009

Random Thoughts

1. Is there a word for this:

The use of a 3-Dimensional object in tandem with a 2-Dimensional image in order to highlight the 2-Dimensional image's inadequacy at expressing a whole idea.

For instance, in downtown Chicago there are ads up for the Field Museum's Pirate Exhibit. I noticed one the other day that appeared shattered by a cannon ball (These ads are up in glass cases). The over all effect subverted my preconceptions about the "stodgy" Field Museum with an attempt to show the "thrilling reality" of nautical fire power.

I know it's not a synecdoche. That's different.

There's gotta be a word for this concept. The first reader to give me the word gets a prize.

(And, no, you can't make it up.)

2. I wonder when the first use of the phrase "By Myself" was. There must be a first time in the written word that this notion was scrawled.

What a brilliant and terrible day that must have been: Wow! I am a completely autonomous being, separate from the tribe with my own ideas and feelings!...oh. Wait. Fuck.

3. This gives me great pleasure:

4. Favorite word this week:


[twee] Show IPA ,
–adjective Chiefly British.
affectedly dainty or quaint: twee writing about furry little creatures.

1900–05; appar. reduced from tweet (perh. via pron. twiʔ), mimicking child's pron. of sweet

5. Least favorite word:


Wednesday, June 24, 2009


Every so often the Kerpatty! boys and I will venture out and do a little something we call Kerpatty-Oke...which is basically just karaoke.

Last night was such a night.

The place we normally go to, the Avenue Tavern, no longer does karaoke on Tuesdays. This is a shame because it was usually dead-ish and they had a pretty good selection. (Also, the kid who spun the karaoke would to an AMAZING version of Britney Spears' "Gimme More". While I am not a fan of the song, his mastery of it was something to behold.)

The three of us stood, dejected, in the sweltering heat and mulled over our options. After some hemming and hawing, we landed on Trader Todd's as our only choice.

Trader Todd's. Ever been? Charming establishment.

Upon entry were smacked in the face with some poor soul muddling his way through a Bare Naked Ladies song. He was one third of a pod - three guys in black "tuxedo" tee-shirts and sports style lettering on the back, two of which read:

We took a table behind a couple out on an early term date. What a truly strange notion, to bring a date out to Karaoke. New couples are baffled enough by one another, why compound the puzzlement by volunteering to sing "You Oughta Know" or Bel Biv Devoe?

Maybe it was a "test" date.

My initial thought was to get a simple well drink and be done with it. But, no. Instead - and I'm not sure if it was island-themed decor or the musk of twenty-something desperation - I ordered one of these:

In fact, I ordered three of them.

The point with Trader Todd's drinks, as I'm sure you've figured out, is not so much to enjoy the act of drinking it, as one might with a good craft beer or a nice Pinot Noir. The point is to get as much alcohol down your gullet in as short order as possible. This enhances the fun. It sparks your enthusiasm to cheer on any macho dude who takes the stage to sing "Dead or Alive" or some strappy dressed chick who sings "Love is a Battlefield".

This has its dark side, too. At one point a young Asian woman in a white dress was called to sing Jewel's "Foolish Games" (which rests easily in the "I got something to say, I hope you're listening, Boy Who Will Never Understand Me" genre of karaoke). The song started and rather than sing, she took the opportunity to bark into the microphone just what a Jerk-Faced Dick-Wad the karaoke DJ was and how he totally treated her like dirt and never had she been so insulted.

Everyone in the bar watched with pity and awe as she stormed off the stage into the arms of her jittery boyfriend. The song continued to play and a pack of girls took over for her, singing with unbridled pathos:

Well in case you failed to notice,
In case you failed to see,
This is my heart bleeding before you,
This is me down on my knees, and...

These foolish games are tearing me apart,
And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart.
You're breaking my heart.

(This song makes me want to hurt someone.)

To be fair, the DJ was a jerk. But I can't say I blame him. If I had throngs of drunk girls showing up at my table and demanding to sing "Since U Been Gone", I think I'd get a little cranky, too.

My name was called. I had requested a standard: Total Eclipse of the Heart. this is one of those that could go horribly right or beautifully wrong depending on how you spin it. I spat it out with gusto and blew my voice out in the process. Somewhere during the instrumental, one of the Jewel singers (the "good" singer among her friends) said:

"It's -j-j-, right?"

I leaned out and narrowed my gaze at her. "Uh-huh."

"You don't suck."

"Oh, okay."

"One of those guys over there said you suck. But you don't suck."

"Oh...well I probably do suck. That's what this is all about right?" I then shrieked even louder into the mike.

What on Earth? I appreciated the support, but I'm not sure what her motivation was.

Once I finished, I was high fived by the Pod.

Ten minutes later I was subject to video footage of my performance.

I used to do karaoke all the time. There was a time when it was assumed that's what we did on special occasions. Some of the luster is off it these days...especially when you go to a place like Trader Todd's

There's something about it, though. I am consistently amazed that people are willing to take their bedroom lip syncing into a public forum. There is a reason they choose the songs they do. Sometimes the choice is just for fun, but others carry an odd "sideshow" quality. We look on as our friends holler boozy renditions of "If I had a Million Dollars" or Three Doors Down. I always wonder what they want us to hear.

I just want everyone to know that "I'm living in a powder keg and giving off sparks."

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

The air conditioning in your office was on for a grand total of eight minutes yesterday. Then it shut down. Word from various supervisors and managers is that "some guys from the building are working on it", but you have your doubts. They seem a little too ready with an answer.

Now you sit with Andy, Mike, and Steph in the Easy Bake Oven of a conference room, waiting for First Hot Summer Tuesday to show up for the meeting that HE called. He's been late before. In fact, every time he calls a meeting, he's late for it.

The four of you are in varying states of discomfort, a thin film of unattractive perspiration glazes your skin. Sleeves are rolled up. Limbs are spread out a little more than normal to keep from touching other areas of flesh. There are itches.

With no white noise to masks your coworkers wheezes and glirks, the conference room is a symphony of the human body. Steph sniffs at regular intervals.

Sitting next to you is Mike, a nice enough fellow, but not much help around the office. His pen scratches across his pad as his eyes dart over his work. You strain your peripheral vision to catch a glimpse of his project. What you have long suspected is true. There are no notes on the paper. He is signing his name over and over down the page.

If it were just you and Andy in here the two of you might have a decent conversation. You have always liked Andy, and have considered asking him to get a drink after work. Steph sniffs another measure and the two of you exchange a look. If she sniffs again, Andy might shove his pen up her nose.

Storming down the hallway is FHST, dressed in his usual short sleeved white shirt with yellowed pit stains. He crashes through the door and stands at the head of the conference table.

"Damn elevator, you know?" He says with hot, smokey breath. "So, who's got what? Who's got what?"

Mike turns a page on his pad and begins to scrawl again.

"Um...", you begin, "Is there any word on the Air conditioning?"

FHST stops his idle stepping, and with hands on hips and a look at the ceiling, he says, "Some guys from the building are working on it."

Remember the days when MTV played music? I sound like such a granny when I say these kinds of things, but seriously...remember that?

I once got into a tiff at a bar with a 22-year-old when I made the assertion that MTV doesn't play music videos anymore.

"They do SO." He said, tossing his curly head my way with a scoff. He glared at me, taking my comment as a slam on youth culture (Which will kill your dog. I thought it wasn't true...but it is. Beware.) "It's on every night between midnight and four."

"Oh. Yeah. I was so totally wrong." I didn't feel like having this conversation with him any longer so I changed the subject.

It sucks that they don't. I remember when MTV was THE cool-maker. Now it's just a neon panderhole overflowing with rich teenager excess porn.

Back in the day, when MTV first started out, no one - and I mean NO ONE - knew what they had. The result was a mix weird churn-and-burn art films and cobbled together crap which amounted to little more than home movies of a band's parents. These were the wild west days of MTV when bands like Madness, Human League, Men without Hats, After the Fire, and New Order populated the airwaves with unapologetic pretension and not a scrap of self-awareness in sight.

Enter Art of Noise (Created, as a matter of interest, by Trevor Horn - whose 1979 hit "Video Killed the Radio Star" was the first video played on MTV.). This arty, sampling electronic band combined synthesizers and audio samples in order to experiment with the pop music genre. Shrouded in ostensible anonymity, Art of Noise took their name from a Futurist essay and put themselves out as an anti-group, shying away from the culture of appearance pervading music at the time.

And boy are their videos arty-farty. I seriously doubt something like this would make it to MTV's broadcast today - unless heavily festooned with irony.

Watching this makes me long for the days of not knowing what we had. When smashing instruments was still transgressive enough to get you noticed.

Monday, June 22, 2009


Friday, June 19, 2009

Here it is...

The new Lip Dub.


(I think the quality will improve once the processing is done. Time will tell!)

Thursday, June 18, 2009


When you Google the average number of words a person speaks in a lifetime, this is the number that comes up. To my surprise, this number did not stagger me. Seems a little modest.

(That's a sign of the New Age, isn't it? That a number so high as 370,110,001.3 wouldn't shatter perceptions of time and space? My Nephew R., can barely count to fifty and the very IDEA that there can be a number so high as fifty, FIFTY, causes his soul to cry out just a little bit. I remember how high one hundred seemed at that age and how, if I ever made one hundred dollars, I would make sure everyone in my family was taken care of for the rest of their lives. What opulence we would enjoy. Some day, by God, I WILL make one hundred dollars.)

Some time between the ages of seven and ten, I came up with a theory that every human being has an allotment of words to use in a lifetime, and with every remark, death inches closer. It was a flash theory and could in no way withstand the slightest scrutiny. For one, does this include pre-verbal man? Does the allotment change with varying definitions of language? What about non-English speaking peoples whose word counts may, on average, be higher or lower than the Anglos? What about Dogs? Does everyone have the same word count or does it vary? It must…what about Preachers or Salesmen who spend most of their time talking? Once they reach maturation, they’d be dead in a matter of weeks.

(This is far more articulate than my ten-year-old brain could muster. I think my process must have been “Wouldn’t it be cool it…? Nah, that doesn’t make any sense.)

I had all but forgotten about this idea. Until a couple of nights ago, while I was lying in bed.

I’ve been reading and coaching a lot of writing. Most of my students are young and don’t have much of a grasp of “How people speak”. They understand the text of it, the actual words – I am going to the store. - but when it comes to layering the text with metaphor, subtext or emotion – I am GOING. TO. THE. STORE. – they are baffled. What could someone mean beyond the simple fact that they are going to the store?

This is not uncommon. I doubt anyone without a background in dramatic writing could navigate tone with ease or understand that how a person speaks is just as important as what they say. Or apprehend the economy of metaphor.

The result in this is a lot of overwriting and on-the-nose dialogue. Sure, their characters announce their feelings and intentions, but without the layers of subtext and metaphor their creations are doomed to an eternity of trying to explain themselves using only the blunt instrument of literal syntax.

Imagine a seven-layer bean dip, unlayered and spread out on the table. It will take you quadruple the time to eat it and it won’t be nearly as satisfying.

Which is why I encourage them to use metaphors in their writing. You only have two hours to get your point across. Don’t waste it with over-explanatory dialogue. You don’t have time!

And this brings me to the word allotment theory. I was mulling all this over in bed (this and worrying over the fact that I had been talking full stop all day. When did I become such a bigmouth?) and wondering, do we, in real life, layer our speech? Do we economize our “scenes” with other people? We don’t just have two hours, we have a lifetime - a lifetime to suffer through our own on-the-nose dialogue and unconcealed explanations that lead absolutely nowhere. What does all that get us?

And if we lived in a world in which we only had a certain amount of words we could say before our strings are cut, would we waste so much time on this useless talking?

Probably. None of us humans are much good at abstinence in any regard. We’d find a loophole.

Like blogging.

I’ve wasted a lot of my word allotment on useless chatter. Chatter to impress. Chatter to fill the silence. Chatter to avoid.

I used:

987 words hurting Jennifer Murphy’s feelings.

1, 894 words lying to my parents about who I was with and when.

10, 473 words speaking on subjects about which I knew zero.

14,406 words fighting over my fair share.

20,987 words complaining.

8,123 words breaking up with someone under false pretenses.

65,999 words talking smack.

These, I’m sure, are conservative estimates.

I wonder if I’m coming to the end of my word ration.

(I will read this out loud and see if anything happens.)

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

There will be much Kerpatty!

Tomorrow night Kerpatty! will be performing at the TBS Just For Laughs Festival as part of the "Best of Sketchfest" evening. I have heard tell that Bob Odenkirk (of Mr. Show and, if I were to invite ridicule, my favorite of the two) will be there.

The show will serve as a "Best of" and we will be premiering a brand new Lip Dub.

Here is sort of a mish-mash of what our shoot day was like. (The pewling you hear in the background is me giggling.):

(Video quality might be better over at yonder YouTube. I think you can click on HQ)

Come check out the Show!

Thursday, June 18 @ 9pm at iO!

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

It's been a long day. Nearing the end, your muscles begin to ache and a weariness invites you to sit in a squeaky wooden rocking chair.  Whenever were you this tired?  Is it that you're getting old?  

Nah.  Not yet.  

The chair grouses in time beneath you as you rock and you gaze into the living room.

Surrounded by about six wooden undone puzzles is June's Third Tuesday.  His dark hair is matted to his oily little forehead.  He glares at you, the wooden outline of a cow clutched in his stubby hand.  

In a faint, near whisper you say,  "And where does the cow go? There...on the puzzle...."  Your finger sort of points, though your hand never leaves your knee.

He sputters out half a lung of air.  His eyes narrow, threatening to cry.

"No, no, swee- look...just there..."

This kid doesn't like new babysitters.  It has been a tense effort all day to keep him from wailing. And there was the interlude in which you learned his mother had left her cell phone on the kitchen counter....by "accident."


Now, the day draws to a close.  The two of you are shivering from exhaustion. He might just whip that wooden puzzle piece right at you.  

"It goes in the - the cow thing...there..."

He looks down, and with a quivering hand puts the puzzle piece on the pig shape.  When it doesn't fit he pounds it with ever increasing force.

You sigh.  "Yes...whatever..."

God knows when his mom will return.

Monday, June 15, 2009


Okay, so, this is Kimberly...from this thing here.

Has anyone seen -j-j-, or anything?  I showed up this morning to help out with a few things and she wasn't here, so I went to the Starbucks.  I'm just, you know, a little worried.  

Especially after all the texts I've been getting.  

8:45am - b there in a sec
9:03am - running L8. 
9:52am - Whatevs.  going to see UP.  b there L8er.
12:45pm - OMG. most beautiful thing i ever saw. effing dogs!
1:44pm - want anything from taco bell?
2:36pm - uhoh. had bout 7 hard lomenads.  where u @?
4:12pm - r u @ the air pot?  i am

Sooo.  If you see her around or, you know, if you work at the airport (Midway?  O'Hare?) tell her I'll try back tomorrow.  

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Break Time

Every six weeks or so I think it's in everyone's best interest to take a break from something.

It can be anything.  It doesn't have to be a job.  It can be listening to an iPod on the EL, Facebook, No checking email after 6pm, etc.  I'm quite a fan of the old "Eureka in the Bathtub" story.   Time away helps to focus the brain on other things, so you can remember where you put your glasses. 

(And really, this is why I keep taking breaks.  I walk around half blind most of the time. [regardless of what some people think about my prescription...I do need the durn things.])

If you are hard up for reading, please check out the Prize Heifers from posts past.

Or definitely check out any one of my links here, for some brain prods.  

See you next Monday!

Monday, June 8, 2009

Conversations Have I Imagined

(NOTE:  None of these were actually overheard.  They are what occurs to me when I see couples, singles, or triples standing outside smoking cigarettes on Michigan avenue or strolling through the park. Sometimes, the conversations are what's being said ABOUT them.)

GREG: Did you see Adam wearing those white sunglasses?

JEFF:  White sunglasses?

GREG:  Yeah, he had' em on today.  What a dork.  

JEFF:  (sluggish laugh)  Heh.  Right.

GREG:  I bet he doesn't even know what a dork he looks like - walking around like he's all pimp or whatever.

JEFF:  Heeeyeah.

GREG:  Pathetic.

(A beat. JEFF drinks a sip of coffee)

JEFF:  So where do you think he got 'em?

GREG:  What?

JEFF:  The sunglasses.

GREG:  Like I would know where he got that poser shit.

(A beat.)

JEFF:  Right.


JESSICA:  I love Lynne to DEATH, right, but I wish she'd quit hinting about her hysterectomy to we have to ASK about it.

MINDY:  I know, right?


A:  I'm sorry.

B:  Huh, Isn't that the big "Oh, well" of the universe.


ANDREA:  God, I'm so bored.

JIM:  We can do something, if you want.

(ANDREA lets out a long. protracted. sigh.)


(The three of them, out in a field at night.  They are young-ish.  GABE and ANNE are on bikes.  LISA is quite a way from them.  GABE has ANNE by the arm.)

GABE:  Ride over to my apartment with me.

ANNE:  What...stop it.  Lisa's right there.

GABE:  Do you care if she sees you ride to my place?

(LISA turns  and calls from afar, GABE pulls his had away.)

LISA:  Are you guys coming or what?

ANNE:  Hang on! (To GABE, hushed.)  It's a Monday night.  I can't ride over to your place.  I think Lisa likes you.

(GABE's looks at the ground.)

GABE:  Yeah.  I know.

LISA:  GAWD, you GUYS...come ON! Whateryou in lerve or something.

(GABE sighs and pedals his bike away from ANNE.)

GABE:  Keep your pants on...we're coming.

(He pedals forward. Not looking back at ANNE.  She huffs at herself, shakes her head and pedals forward at a slower pace.)

Thursday, June 4, 2009

My Name is Optimus Prime. YEAH, IT IS!

 There are some things that exist inside of us that, despite every pinch in our psyches, we cannot squelch.  Nor can we reason them away. 

We may be afraid to reveal these dark spots to other tribe members for fear of reprisal, but they won't be contained for long.  Not when they operate on such powerful and involuntary instinct.

Which is why, for reasons I can't identify, I AM SO EMMER EFFING EXCITED TO SEE THIS

I've watched this trailer, like, 427 times and I'm still about to pass out.  

Some of you had the dubious honor of seeing the first Transformers movie with me a couple of years ago.  My reaction was not dissimilar.

Yeah, I KNOW it was a horrible movie.  The script totally sucked and, as pointed out by a couple of members of our party, the mechanics of the transforming were implausible.

I. Don't. Care.

Sure, I liked the Transformers as a kid.  My friend up the street, Brett, had a shit ton of action figures (I never had any except that poor wretch Cassette Tape Ravage - or was it Rumble?)
God, look at him.  So pathetic.  

I watched the cartoons in a casual way.  I was not a passionate follower.

Then, in 2007, I saw a preview for the first Transformers movie and I totally flipped the fuck out.  I've tried to reason it away.  I've tried to take apart my own machinery to figure out why, when those emmer effers transform and chase and blow shit up I CAN BARELY CONTAIN MYSELF.

I will be there on opening day.  You can come if you want.  But know this, I will embarrass you.  I can't help it.  It is not ill meant.


Wednesday, June 3, 2009


Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

What the hell is going on here?

It is cold.  It is crappy.  Sure, it's Tuesday, but, for Crying Out Loud, it's JUNE.

First Tuesday in June just sits on the edge of the sofa, her arms folded.  She glares at your belt.

"I never promised you anything."

The tone in her voice curdles your blood.  Nope, she didn't.  She never promised you a damn thing.  Not in so many words.  But it certainly felt like it. 

She stands, dousing you with blame and shoulders her purse.

"You need to get it together.  I'm Outie."  Her heels click on the parquet floor as she makes for the door.

In a burst of vengeance, you shout "Why don't you grow up?"

Maybe she heard you.  Maybe not.  Either way, you're suddenly relieved that she's gone.

Monday, June 1, 2009

A Partial List

Colors Worn (in order of frequency)

1.   Blue
2.  Black
3.  Grey
4.  Green
5.  Red
6.  Purple
7.  Yellow
8.  Pink
9.  Lime Green
10.  Hot pink

Celebrity Dream Appearances (In order of frequency)

1.  Tom Cruise
2.  Ron Howard
3.  Robert Sean Leonard
4.  Sandy Duncan

Items Stolen (Either Accidentally or On Purpose)

1.  My Little Pony Pendant
2.  183 Pens
3.  3 Shirts
4.  1 lb. Raw Hamburger

Features Noticed on Others (In descending order)

1.   Eyes
2.  Hands
3.  Hair
4.  Mouth

Philosophical Discussions Had and (mercifully) Abandoned

1.  Is Hitler in Hell?
2.  Should a dying culture assimilate to preserve what is left or die pure to its heritage?
3.  Why is Art necessary?
4.  What is Deja Vu?

Items Consumed (Voluntary)

1.  42 Generic Dog Kibbles
2.  4 oz. Chewing Gum (12% Freshen Up)
3.  3 unprescribed Ritalin tablets
4.  3 oz. Pig Brains
5.  .045 oz. Earwax
6.  3 gallons Prego pasta sauce
7.  47 Salisbury Steaks
8.  3 Cups Sand (wet)

Items Consumed (Involuntary)

1.  Approx. 3 Tbsps. Rubbing Alcohol
2. 1 Nickel
3.  Approx. 6lbs Chewing Gum (32% Big League Chew)
4.  4 Grasshoppers
5.  Hair

Add to Technorati Favorites