Yesterday morning I woke up and there was a slug on my bathroom floor! My first reaction was, That is a slug. My second reaction was, Huh, I guess I'm not that bothered by it. I mean, slugs are not known for speed. I had plenty of time to pee and think about the slug situation before I actually had to deal with it. It was then that I decided I wanted to save it.
This was new territory for me. I'll be the first to tell you that I'm a big wuss when it comes to creepy crawlies. I have genuine arachnophobia. The very sight of even a fake stuffed Halloween spider sends electric currents down my back. It's something about the legs that freaks me out. Ew, just writing about it gives me shivers. Okay. Deep breaths. So whenever the spiders find me--and they always do--my two options are to either drown them in Raid or alert my roommate, who, being the adult person that she is, will calmly handle the situation and take the spider outside to let it live and procreate and GAH GROSS!
Okay, enough with the spiders. Back to yesterday's slug. I felt instinctively that since I did not recoil at the sight of it, I was emotionally equipped to handle said slug disposal myself. I've always had a theory that since leggy insects bothered me, I could handle slithery things like snakes and worms. This was my chance to prove it.
My plan of action was to get a piece of paper out of the printer, lay it down on the ground, and wait for the slug to creep its way onto it. It didn't take as long as you would think. The slug was actually pretty keen. Maybe because the piece of paper that I grabbed had a recipe for West African peanut soup on it, I don't know. Anyway, phase one of slug removal was completed. Phase two was to transport the slug paper through my bedroom, around my bed, through the hall, through the living room and out the front door. At first I thought I would wear gloves, but then I realized the thing about slugs is that they will cling to anything for dear life. Once that became evident, I did not worry about the slug sliding around onto anything, namely me.
Phase three was to put the slug outside, thereby releasing it into the wild and hopefully saving its life. This proved slightly more challenging due to the aforementioned slug grip on the paper. I tried to angle the paper so he would just slither off, but he kind of went into a ball of fear, so I just set the paper down outside the door and figured I'd check back later to see if he was gone. I then proceeded to accost my roommate in the middle of her getting ready for work with the tale of my heroic slug rescue. It went something like this: "Omi, there was a SLUG in my BATHROOM and I saved it! Me! I saved it!!!" Oh, the humility.
She was suitably impressed and wrinkled her nose at the prospect of the slug in the apartment. She, Savior of Spiders, is not so much a fan of the leg-lacking creepies. I told her I put the slug outside. She opened the door to go to work and saw the paper. Omi: "Why is there a recipe outside our door . . . OH. EW!"
We are a great team, don't you think?
Wild Gratitude
Tonight when I knelt down next to our cat, Zooey,
And put my fingers into her clean cat's mouth,
And rubbed her swollen belly that will never know kittens,
And watched her wriggle onto her side, pawing the air,
And listened to her solemn little squeals of delight,
I was thinking about the poet, Christopher Smart,
Who wanted to kneel down and pray without ceasing
In everyone of the splintered London streets,
And was locked away in the madhouse at St. Luke's
With his sad religious mania, and his wild gratitude,
And his grave prayers for the other lunatics,
And his great love for his speckled cat, Jeoffry.
All day today—August 13, 1983—I remembered how
Christopher Smart blessed this same day in August, 1759,
For its calm bravery and ordinary good conscience.
This was the day that he blessed the Postmaster General
"And all conveyancers of letters" for their warm humanity,
And the gardeners for their private benevolence
And intricate knowledge of the language of flowers,
And the milkmen for their universal human kindness.
This morning I understood that he loved to hear—
As I have heard—the soft clink of milk bottles
On the rickety stairs in the early morning,
And how terrible it must have seemed
When even this small pleasure was denied him.
But it wasn't until tonight when I knelt down
And slipped my hand into Zooey's waggling mouth
That I remembered how he'd called Jeoffry "the servant
Of the Living God duly and daily serving Him,"
And for the first time understood what it meant.
Because it wasn't until I saw my own cat
Whine and roll over on her fluffy back
That I realized how gratefully he had watched
Jeoffry fetch and carry his wooden cork
Across the grass in the wet garden, patiently
Jumping over a high stick, calmly sharpening
His claws on the woodpile, rubbing his nose
Against the nose of another cat, stretching, or
Slowly stalking his traditional enemy, the mouse,
A rodent, "a creature of great personal valour,"
And then dallying so much that his enemy escaped.
And only then did I understand
It is Jeoffry—and every creature like him—
Who can teach us how to praise—purring
In their own language,
Wreathing themselves in the living fire.
-Edward Hirsch
Showing posts with label roommate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label roommate. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
"I'm going to the nut shop where it's fun!"
So there's this grocery store in my neighborhood. I used to drive past it every morning when I worked in Century City. It's on a stretch of Pico Blvd. that houses mostly kosher shops and restaurants. It also happens to be next to an establishment called the Nut House, which is I think what captured my attention in the first place. Also, the Nut House looks like this:
Nuts, candy, ice cream and wine??? This place must be heaven. And it always makes me think of You've Got Mail when Steve Zahn's character says, "This place is a tomb. I'm going to the nut shop where it's fun." For years I've wondered, what nut shop? Why is it fun? What do they do there? I guess this would be the answer.
Anyway, it's really the grocery store next to the Nut House that has intrigued me for a while. The grocery is called Elat Market. It was rumored to be this magical land full of the freshest of fresh and the cheapest of cheap produce and meats. It supposedly housed all sorts of Middle Eastern delights and spices. I'd read about it on food blogs. I'd stalked its page on Yelp. And now that I live about 5 blocks away from it, you might ask why I haven't ventured in yet. Well, just like every hero must have a weakness, this shop supposedly has crowds of cutthroat old ladies with big carts. I'd read horror stories of people stealing out of each other's carts, arguments erupting in Farsi, and customers elbowing each other in the face over iceberg lettuce. Let's just say I've been psyching myself up to visit for a lonnnnng time.
Suddenly, my intrepid roommate decided that today was the day that she would venture to the Elat Market. She returned about 45 minutes later, eyes wide and veins pulsing with bloodlust. No, I'm just kidding. She loved it. She took a detour to the Nut House and made friends with Amir who worked there. Then she skipped into Elat and bought sugarplums. I'm not even kidding. In case you needed further proof: Coward = Me.
A Poem, on the Supposition of an Advertisement Appearing in a Morning Paper, of the Publication of a Volume of Poems, by a Servant-Maid
The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set,
The candles were lighted, the ladies were met;
The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle,
The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle:
The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan,
And thus the discourse in an instant began
(All affected reserve and formality scorning):
“I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning
A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said
They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.”
“A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom:
“Pray what is the subject—a Mop, or a Broom?”
“He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see
An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?”
Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart?
Perhaps Tom the footman has fired her heart;
And she’ll tell us how charming he looks in new clothes,
And how nimble his hand moves in brushing the shoes;
Or how, the last time that he went to May Fair,
He bought her some sweethearts of gingerbread ware.”
“For my part I think,” says old Lady Marr-joy,
“A servant might find herself other employ:
Was she mine I’d employ her as long as ’twas light,
And send her to bed without candle at night.”
“Why so?” says Miss Rhymer, displeased: “I protest
’Tis pity a genius should be so depressed!”
“What ideas can such low-bred creatures conceive?”
Says Mrs. Noworthy, and laughed in her sleeve.
Says old Miss Prudella, “If servants can tell
How to write to their mothers, to say they are well,
And read of a Sunday The Duty of Man,
Which is more I believe than one half of them can;
I think ’tis much properer they should rest there,
Than be reaching at things so much out of their sphere.”
Says old Mrs. Candour, “I’ve now got a maid
That’s the plague of my life—a young gossiping jade;
There’s no end of the people that after her come,
And whenever I’m out, she is never at home;
I’d rather ten times she would sit down and write,
Than gossip all over the town every night.”
“Some whimsical trollop most like,” says Miss Prim,
“Has been scribbling of nonsense, just out of a whim,
And, conscious it neither is witty nor pretty,
Conceals her true name, and ascribes it to Betty.”
“I once had a servant myself,” says Miss Pines,
“That wrote on a wedding some very good lines.”
Says Mrs. Domestic, “And when they were done,
I can’t see for my part what use they were on;
Had she wrote a receipt, to’ve instructed you how
To warm a cold breast of veal, like a ragout,
Or to make cowslip wine, that would pass for Champagne,
It might have been useful, again and again.”
On the sofa was old Lady Pedigree placed;
She owned that for poetry she had no taste,
That the study of heraldry was more in fashion,
And boasted she knew all the crests in the nation.
Says Mrs. Routella, “Tom, take out the urn,
And stir up the fire, you see it don’t burn.”
The tea-things removed, and the tea-table gone,
The card-tables brought, and the cards laid thereon,
The ladies, ambitious for each other’s crown,
Like courtiers contending for honours, sat down.
-Elizabeth Hands
Nuts, candy, ice cream and wine??? This place must be heaven. And it always makes me think of You've Got Mail when Steve Zahn's character says, "This place is a tomb. I'm going to the nut shop where it's fun." For years I've wondered, what nut shop? Why is it fun? What do they do there? I guess this would be the answer.
Anyway, it's really the grocery store next to the Nut House that has intrigued me for a while. The grocery is called Elat Market. It was rumored to be this magical land full of the freshest of fresh and the cheapest of cheap produce and meats. It supposedly housed all sorts of Middle Eastern delights and spices. I'd read about it on food blogs. I'd stalked its page on Yelp. And now that I live about 5 blocks away from it, you might ask why I haven't ventured in yet. Well, just like every hero must have a weakness, this shop supposedly has crowds of cutthroat old ladies with big carts. I'd read horror stories of people stealing out of each other's carts, arguments erupting in Farsi, and customers elbowing each other in the face over iceberg lettuce. Let's just say I've been psyching myself up to visit for a lonnnnng time.
Suddenly, my intrepid roommate decided that today was the day that she would venture to the Elat Market. She returned about 45 minutes later, eyes wide and veins pulsing with bloodlust. No, I'm just kidding. She loved it. She took a detour to the Nut House and made friends with Amir who worked there. Then she skipped into Elat and bought sugarplums. I'm not even kidding. In case you needed further proof: Coward = Me.
A Poem, on the Supposition of an Advertisement Appearing in a Morning Paper, of the Publication of a Volume of Poems, by a Servant-Maid
The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set,
The candles were lighted, the ladies were met;
The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle,
The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle:
The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan,
And thus the discourse in an instant began
(All affected reserve and formality scorning):
“I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning
A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said
They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.”
“A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom:
“Pray what is the subject—a Mop, or a Broom?”
“He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see
An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?”
Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart?
Perhaps Tom the footman has fired her heart;
And she’ll tell us how charming he looks in new clothes,
And how nimble his hand moves in brushing the shoes;
Or how, the last time that he went to May Fair,
He bought her some sweethearts of gingerbread ware.”
“For my part I think,” says old Lady Marr-joy,
“A servant might find herself other employ:
Was she mine I’d employ her as long as ’twas light,
And send her to bed without candle at night.”
“Why so?” says Miss Rhymer, displeased: “I protest
’Tis pity a genius should be so depressed!”
“What ideas can such low-bred creatures conceive?”
Says Mrs. Noworthy, and laughed in her sleeve.
Says old Miss Prudella, “If servants can tell
How to write to their mothers, to say they are well,
And read of a Sunday The Duty of Man,
Which is more I believe than one half of them can;
I think ’tis much properer they should rest there,
Than be reaching at things so much out of their sphere.”
Says old Mrs. Candour, “I’ve now got a maid
That’s the plague of my life—a young gossiping jade;
There’s no end of the people that after her come,
And whenever I’m out, she is never at home;
I’d rather ten times she would sit down and write,
Than gossip all over the town every night.”
“Some whimsical trollop most like,” says Miss Prim,
“Has been scribbling of nonsense, just out of a whim,
And, conscious it neither is witty nor pretty,
Conceals her true name, and ascribes it to Betty.”
“I once had a servant myself,” says Miss Pines,
“That wrote on a wedding some very good lines.”
Says Mrs. Domestic, “And when they were done,
I can’t see for my part what use they were on;
Had she wrote a receipt, to’ve instructed you how
To warm a cold breast of veal, like a ragout,
Or to make cowslip wine, that would pass for Champagne,
It might have been useful, again and again.”
On the sofa was old Lady Pedigree placed;
She owned that for poetry she had no taste,
That the study of heraldry was more in fashion,
And boasted she knew all the crests in the nation.
Says Mrs. Routella, “Tom, take out the urn,
And stir up the fire, you see it don’t burn.”
The tea-things removed, and the tea-table gone,
The card-tables brought, and the cards laid thereon,
The ladies, ambitious for each other’s crown,
Like courtiers contending for honours, sat down.
-Elizabeth Hands
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
bgbm
So my roommate and I decided that Oscar weekend was the perfect time to venture out and see a film that received only a 6% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. That film was The Roommate. While we love bad movies, it's not often that we pay to see them in theaters. Usually we and some other friends relegate them to something called bgbm. The "bgbm" stands for "bad girls, bad movies" and while I'm still a little unclear about the bad girls part (maybe because we make rude comments?), the bad movies began in 2007 with 50 First Dates and have gone on to include It's Alive, The Room, I Know Who Killed Me, Troll 2, Gymkata, Leprechaun 5: In the Hood, and even one called The Oscar.
Some were not so bad (Death to Smoochy, Spice World). Others were so terrible they could only be categorized as mind-numbingly dull and not even worth making fun of (*cough Glitter cough*). And yet others were remarkable because of the discovery of people who are famous now but at one time were attached to schlock like this (google The Apple and Nigel Lythgoe).
While we're on the subject of bad movies, might I also suggest that there is a fourth category which could be labeled "Movies I Am Ashamed to Admit I Love"? These are movies that I acknowledge are not paragons of cinema, yet every time they are on TV I have to watch or record them. You could also call it Jurassic Park Syndrome, but that movie is EXCELLENT.
For me, probably the best example of MIAATAIL would be Where the Heart Is. That movie . . . where do I even begin? It has everything: an all-star cast, babies born in Wal-mart, tornadoes, kidnapping, children named after snack foods, bad southern accents, librarian alcoholism, deadbeat dads getting hit by trains . . . and I love it. It fascinates me. I will never get tired of watching this movie. The only reason I would ever change the channel when it's on is if my roommate walks into the room, and even then I usually make her watch about 10 minutes of it, depending on if Natalie Portman had the Wal-mart baby yet.
So there you have it. If you, too, would like to start your own bgbm (or bbbm), email me and I'll give you a starter list of movies free of charge.
Oh and hey! Today is Dr. Seuss's birthday! Enjoy:
Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons, and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn’t a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one, and calls out “Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!” she doesn’t get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves’
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn.
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O’Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate…
But she didn’t do it. And now it’s too late.
Some were not so bad (Death to Smoochy, Spice World). Others were so terrible they could only be categorized as mind-numbingly dull and not even worth making fun of (*cough Glitter cough*). And yet others were remarkable because of the discovery of people who are famous now but at one time were attached to schlock like this (google The Apple and Nigel Lythgoe).
While we're on the subject of bad movies, might I also suggest that there is a fourth category which could be labeled "Movies I Am Ashamed to Admit I Love"? These are movies that I acknowledge are not paragons of cinema, yet every time they are on TV I have to watch or record them. You could also call it Jurassic Park Syndrome, but that movie is EXCELLENT.
For me, probably the best example of MIAATAIL would be Where the Heart Is. That movie . . . where do I even begin? It has everything: an all-star cast, babies born in Wal-mart, tornadoes, kidnapping, children named after snack foods, bad southern accents, librarian alcoholism, deadbeat dads getting hit by trains . . . and I love it. It fascinates me. I will never get tired of watching this movie. The only reason I would ever change the channel when it's on is if my roommate walks into the room, and even then I usually make her watch about 10 minutes of it, depending on if Natalie Portman had the Wal-mart baby yet.
So there you have it. If you, too, would like to start your own bgbm (or bbbm), email me and I'll give you a starter list of movies free of charge.
Oh and hey! Today is Dr. Seuss's birthday! Enjoy:
Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons, and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn’t a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one, and calls out “Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!” she doesn’t get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves’
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn.
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O’Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate…
But she didn’t do it. And now it’s too late.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The human condition
I have to dedicate a post to my roommate, who, upon hearing I was feeling under the weather, took it upon herself to learn how to make fresh ginger tea. It is seriously the best thing in the world. It tastes a little like ginger ale but with more bite. Plus it's hot. And there's lemon in it. So, thanks, Omaira Galarza. Now I'm not so scared to go see The Roommate with you.
I asked Omi what kind of poem she would like dedicated to her today. She said something about the beach. Then I found this poem and we both had a good chuckle over it:
The Beach in August
-Weldon Kees*
*Note the last line in his bio: " It is not known whether he killed himself or went to Mexico." Omi thinks he went to Mexico to lay out on the beach.
I asked Omi what kind of poem she would like dedicated to her today. She said something about the beach. Then I found this poem and we both had a good chuckle over it:
The Beach in August
The day the fat woman
In the bright blue bathing suit
Walked into the water and died,
I thought about the human
Condition. Pieces of old fruit
Came in and were left by the tide.
What I thought about the human
Condition was this: old fruit
Comes in and is left, and dries
In the sun. Another fat woman
In a dull green bathing suit
Dives into the water and dies.
The pulmotors glisten. It is noon.
We dry and die in the sun
While the seascape arranges old fruit,
Coming in and the tide, glistening
At noon. A woman, moderately stout,
In a nondescript bathing suit,
Swims to a pier. A tall woman
Steps toward the sea. One thinks about the human
Condition. The tide goes in and goes out.
-Weldon Kees*
*Note the last line in his bio: " It is not known whether he killed himself or went to Mexico." Omi thinks he went to Mexico to lay out on the beach.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
That'll teach me to avoid the whites.
Today I finally found the jeans I've been looking for! And no, I wasn't shopping. I had ordered 2 pairs of jeans off of a Groupon deal at the end of November. I was pretty excited about them since they ended up being only $24 each, and I got in on the deal right before it expired. The jeans took about a week to ship, but during that week we moved apartments and I went out of town. My poor roommate was overwhelmed with everything going on, and, though she did tell me the jeans had arrived, she stashed them someplace so secure and secret that neither of us could figure out where they were once we started unpacking from the move.
Cut to: almost two months later. Pretty much all the boxes have been unpacked. The only ones left are the ones from the garage that are stacked in a storage closet. I figured once I tackled those, surely I'd find the missing jeans package. There was no where else to look! So I thought.
Today I decided would be a good day to get some laundry done. I was home when no one else in the building was, which meant no fighting over the one and only washer and dryer. I was so optimistic about the amount of laundry I could do that I even tackled a load of whites. I hate doing the whites because they're made up of a lot of little things like washcloths and socks and they're a pain to fold up and put away. I'll usually do three loads of darks and towels before I'll get around to the dreaded whites. Anyway, I schlepped my linen bag of white laundry out to the machine. I unloaded everything into it and then I noticed a plastic bag at the bottom. At first I thought it was a bag of dirty clothes that I had forgotten to unpack from a trip. But then eureka! It was the missing jeans! So I guess sometimes adults still get rewards for doing chores?
This poem is not really related to any of the above, but it is kind of related to clothes, and I like it.
Old Coat
Dressed in an old coat I lumber
Down a street in the East Village, time itself
Whistling up my ass and looking to punish me
For all the undone business I have walked away from,
And I think I might have stayed
In that last tower by the ocean,
The one I built with my hands and furnished
Using funds which came to me at nightfall, in a windfall....
Just ahead of me, under the telephone wires
On this long lane of troubles, I notice a gathering
Of viciously insane criminals I'll have to pass
Getting to the end of this long block in eternity.
There's nothing between us. Good
I look so dangerous in this coat.
-Liam Rector
Cut to: almost two months later. Pretty much all the boxes have been unpacked. The only ones left are the ones from the garage that are stacked in a storage closet. I figured once I tackled those, surely I'd find the missing jeans package. There was no where else to look! So I thought.
Today I decided would be a good day to get some laundry done. I was home when no one else in the building was, which meant no fighting over the one and only washer and dryer. I was so optimistic about the amount of laundry I could do that I even tackled a load of whites. I hate doing the whites because they're made up of a lot of little things like washcloths and socks and they're a pain to fold up and put away. I'll usually do three loads of darks and towels before I'll get around to the dreaded whites. Anyway, I schlepped my linen bag of white laundry out to the machine. I unloaded everything into it and then I noticed a plastic bag at the bottom. At first I thought it was a bag of dirty clothes that I had forgotten to unpack from a trip. But then eureka! It was the missing jeans! So I guess sometimes adults still get rewards for doing chores?
This poem is not really related to any of the above, but it is kind of related to clothes, and I like it.
Old Coat
Dressed in an old coat I lumber
Down a street in the East Village, time itself
Whistling up my ass and looking to punish me
For all the undone business I have walked away from,
And I think I might have stayed
In that last tower by the ocean,
The one I built with my hands and furnished
Using funds which came to me at nightfall, in a windfall....
Just ahead of me, under the telephone wires
On this long lane of troubles, I notice a gathering
Of viciously insane criminals I'll have to pass
Getting to the end of this long block in eternity.
There's nothing between us. Good
I look so dangerous in this coat.
-Liam Rector
Monday, January 17, 2011
The sound of silence = the sound of my own paranoia
Have you ever heard of those sensory deprivation tanks where you sit in water in the pitch black with absolute silence around you? At first I thought that would be kind of a cool experience, but now I'm not so sure. I think my imagination is not cut out for something like that. It would be kicked into overdrive. After two minutes I would convince myself that I'm going to be stuck in there forever, that I am being punished for something, that the people in control of the tank are at any moment going to release a shark or a piranha or killer squid into the water to see how I react.
What brought about these thoughts was the electricity going out on our block tonight. Being in a new apartment, my roommate and I are not entirely sure of where everything is. We just kind of sat there in the blackness for a minute before launching into action. Usually in the past when this happened it was because we overloaded the circuit or blew a fuse. In this place, I don't even know whether it uses circuit breakers or fuses. All I knew was that I was going to have to step over a lot of crap between where I was in the living room and where my flashlight was next to my bed. And I cannot even begin to tell you where I packed the candles. Anyway, my imagination kicked into gear as I was sitting there- it was really dark! When my roommate ventured into the kitchen to find her flashlight, I sat there in the dead silence and imagined this was all the effort of a serial killer targeting me specifically. Once I brushed off the serial killer scenario, I focused on the noiselessness and that freaked me out even more. That's because it amplifies smaller sounds like rodents skittering.
Look, I know I sound like a crazy person with a bunch of neuroses. Maybe I am, but that rodent thing is legit. One time we had a rat loose in our apartment, and when we thought we had it quarantined, we all went to bed. Guess whose room it ended it up in. I woke up to the scratching sound of rat claws on the wood floor. When I turned on the light, it ran across my wall. I didn't know rats could do that! And that is why I sleep with earplugs.
Beach Walk
I found a baby shark on the beach.
Seagulls had eaten his eyes. His throat was bleeding.
Lying on shell and sand, he looked smaller than he was.
The ocean had scraped his insides clean.
When I poked his stomach, darkness rose up in him,
like black water. Later, I saw a boy,
aroused and elated, beckoning from a dune.
Like me, he was alone. Something tumbled between us—
not quite emotion. I could see the pink
interior flesh of his eyes. "I got lost. Where am I?"
he asked, like a debt owed to death.
I was pressing my face to its spear-hafts.
We fall, we fell, we are falling. Nothing mitigates it.
The dark embryo bares its teeth and we move on.
-Henri Cole
What brought about these thoughts was the electricity going out on our block tonight. Being in a new apartment, my roommate and I are not entirely sure of where everything is. We just kind of sat there in the blackness for a minute before launching into action. Usually in the past when this happened it was because we overloaded the circuit or blew a fuse. In this place, I don't even know whether it uses circuit breakers or fuses. All I knew was that I was going to have to step over a lot of crap between where I was in the living room and where my flashlight was next to my bed. And I cannot even begin to tell you where I packed the candles. Anyway, my imagination kicked into gear as I was sitting there- it was really dark! When my roommate ventured into the kitchen to find her flashlight, I sat there in the dead silence and imagined this was all the effort of a serial killer targeting me specifically. Once I brushed off the serial killer scenario, I focused on the noiselessness and that freaked me out even more. That's because it amplifies smaller sounds like rodents skittering.
Look, I know I sound like a crazy person with a bunch of neuroses. Maybe I am, but that rodent thing is legit. One time we had a rat loose in our apartment, and when we thought we had it quarantined, we all went to bed. Guess whose room it ended it up in. I woke up to the scratching sound of rat claws on the wood floor. When I turned on the light, it ran across my wall. I didn't know rats could do that! And that is why I sleep with earplugs.
Beach Walk
I found a baby shark on the beach.
Seagulls had eaten his eyes. His throat was bleeding.
Lying on shell and sand, he looked smaller than he was.
The ocean had scraped his insides clean.
When I poked his stomach, darkness rose up in him,
like black water. Later, I saw a boy,
aroused and elated, beckoning from a dune.
Like me, he was alone. Something tumbled between us—
not quite emotion. I could see the pink
interior flesh of his eyes. "I got lost. Where am I?"
he asked, like a debt owed to death.
I was pressing my face to its spear-hafts.
We fall, we fell, we are falling. Nothing mitigates it.
The dark embryo bares its teeth and we move on.
-Henri Cole
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Harpy! Harpy! burning bright
For some people, the world exists only to complain about it. The woman downstairs is one of those people. In Greek mythological circles she might be termed a harpy. She is constantly trying to snatch everything good and reasonable out of the air.
First she complained she could hear us talking too loudly with the windows open. Valid. We shut the windows. Then we were stomping around too hard on the floor when we walked. She called my roommate Lady Minotaur, spitting the words at us as if they were some great insult. Can you imagine what it would be like if we actually wore our shoes indoors? Then her issue was with the fan my roommate had set up in her bedroom during one hot week of summer. Apparently it was shaking her walls. Our apartment is on the top floor and has so many windows it's like a greenhouse up in here. My roommate tried all sorts of ways to rig the fan so that it was cushioned from the floor. That wasn't enough. The harpy demanded that the landlord install a ceiling fan. He did but also suggested that maybe apartment living isn't for her.
Now it's effing cold and I have a space heater turned on during the hour or so before I go to bed. I close the door and my room becomes a hotbox and then I turn it off until the morning (fear of electrical fire). This teeny tiny heater sits on a portable table on top of a rug. Guess what. It's causing a "humming sound" that's disturbing her highness. The landlord sent me an email today with the subject line "Help." He asked if I would mind putting a pillow underneath the heater or something. Because I like him and don't want to cause him trouble, I said sure. But what I really wanted to say was to tell the wicked witch that I'm only living here for 8 more days, so suck it up. Better yet, tell her to come up and ask me herself.
There is a happy ending to this story. I call it divine justice. The landlord informed me that our apartment has been rented by some very nice people. A family. With two kids. God, I hope those kids wrestle and scream and jump up and down on the floor. What can you say? They're just kids.
A Poison Tree
by William Blake
I was angry with my friend.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe.
I told it not, my wrath did grow;
And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles;
And it grew both day and night
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole.
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
First she complained she could hear us talking too loudly with the windows open. Valid. We shut the windows. Then we were stomping around too hard on the floor when we walked. She called my roommate Lady Minotaur, spitting the words at us as if they were some great insult. Can you imagine what it would be like if we actually wore our shoes indoors? Then her issue was with the fan my roommate had set up in her bedroom during one hot week of summer. Apparently it was shaking her walls. Our apartment is on the top floor and has so many windows it's like a greenhouse up in here. My roommate tried all sorts of ways to rig the fan so that it was cushioned from the floor. That wasn't enough. The harpy demanded that the landlord install a ceiling fan. He did but also suggested that maybe apartment living isn't for her.
Now it's effing cold and I have a space heater turned on during the hour or so before I go to bed. I close the door and my room becomes a hotbox and then I turn it off until the morning (fear of electrical fire). This teeny tiny heater sits on a portable table on top of a rug. Guess what. It's causing a "humming sound" that's disturbing her highness. The landlord sent me an email today with the subject line "Help." He asked if I would mind putting a pillow underneath the heater or something. Because I like him and don't want to cause him trouble, I said sure. But what I really wanted to say was to tell the wicked witch that I'm only living here for 8 more days, so suck it up. Better yet, tell her to come up and ask me herself.
There is a happy ending to this story. I call it divine justice. The landlord informed me that our apartment has been rented by some very nice people. A family. With two kids. God, I hope those kids wrestle and scream and jump up and down on the floor. What can you say? They're just kids.
A Poison Tree
by William Blake
I was angry with my friend.
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe.
I told it not, my wrath did grow;
And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles;
And it grew both day and night
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole.
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Rich man's problem
Somehow I have amassed a collection of aprons. I say "somehow" because it is not something I ever thought of doing. It just happened. A couple of years ago my roommates and some friends of ours decided to do our very own version of Top Chef, except it was more like Iron Chef and The Next Food Network Star all rolled into one. We called it Next Top Iron Chef. There were two teams of two and I was the sous chef on my team. My chef friend and I took it very seriously. The secret ingredient was egg, and my team won. During the competition my chef friend had let me borrow one of her aprons so we could look all business. When it was over she let me keep it. This is what it looks like:
Simple, straight-forward, practical. I used this apron consistently when I made dinner, especially after coming home from work so I wouldn't mess up my clothes. Over the course of the next year, my friend who had given me that apron moved to New York. I was sad to see her go because she is awesome and I missed her. On my birthday, she surprised me by sending me a new apron. What?! I was so excited to have such a wealth of aprons. This one had a little more pizzazz:
I tended to gravitate more to it for cooking and the other for baking. I didn't want to get flour all over my new apron. Then on my birthday this year, a different friend gave me a brand new home-sewn apron that was a little more girly and frilly than the others. It's so pretty! I couldn't believe my good luck. I wear it when cooking for guests:
But now, my dear friend Angela has upped the ante. She embroidered me an apron that is so darling that frankly I don't know what to do with it. I'm actually afraid to use it. It's dainty and reminds me of those old-fashioned pinafores that women used to wear. I hate the thought of getting grease or chocolate all over it (don't you want to know what I'm cooking). I even had trouble figuring out the best way to photograph it in order to do it justice. I'm still not sure I did:
My apartment is from the 1920s, so there's an old ironing board built into the wall in the kitchen. I thought it would be a nice match for the apron. Now I just need to figure out the perfect occasion to wear it (the apron, not the ironing board).
Why I Am Not a Painter
-Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
Simple, straight-forward, practical. I used this apron consistently when I made dinner, especially after coming home from work so I wouldn't mess up my clothes. Over the course of the next year, my friend who had given me that apron moved to New York. I was sad to see her go because she is awesome and I missed her. On my birthday, she surprised me by sending me a new apron. What?! I was so excited to have such a wealth of aprons. This one had a little more pizzazz:
I tended to gravitate more to it for cooking and the other for baking. I didn't want to get flour all over my new apron. Then on my birthday this year, a different friend gave me a brand new home-sewn apron that was a little more girly and frilly than the others. It's so pretty! I couldn't believe my good luck. I wear it when cooking for guests:
But now, my dear friend Angela has upped the ante. She embroidered me an apron that is so darling that frankly I don't know what to do with it. I'm actually afraid to use it. It's dainty and reminds me of those old-fashioned pinafores that women used to wear. I hate the thought of getting grease or chocolate all over it (don't you want to know what I'm cooking). I even had trouble figuring out the best way to photograph it in order to do it justice. I'm still not sure I did:
My apartment is from the 1920s, so there's an old ironing board built into the wall in the kitchen. I thought it would be a nice match for the apron. Now I just need to figure out the perfect occasion to wear it (the apron, not the ironing board).
Why I Am Not a Painter
-Frank O'Hara
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
Friday, October 29, 2010
A procrastinator's guide to Halloween costumes
Halloween is in two days, but most celebrations will be taking place Saturday night. That doesn't leave much time for costume planning. If you're like me and wait until the last minute every year, here are some tricks I've learned that I pass on to you.
1. Take inventory of what you have in the house. Even the most basic household items could be repurposed as props. One year at the West Hollywood Halloween parade, I saw a woman dressed as a dinner table. It was a 3D costume, complete with food and dishes, and even a romantic candle.
2. Read up on the news. What stories are getting the most coverage? Are there any colorful characters that you could impersonate? Last year my roommate went as Balloon Boy, and her ingenious costume really came down to poster board, an umbrella, and some silver fabric.
3. Don't discount the advantages of make up. Even a hefty application of bronzer could get you halfway to being a Jersey Shore cast member.
4. When all else fails, go to Rite Aid. This is what I did last year when I was supposed to go to a party and had no idea what to be. I wandered the aisles hoping a blue wig or something would pop out at me and give me an idea. Luckily, a light bulb went off over the board game section, and I went home feeling confident in my new purchase of Twister. Any board game could work, really. All you have to do is turn the board into a hat by duct taping it to a head band (the soft, sporty kind). And for the rest of the costume, you could either dress as a character from the game or use the playing pieces as accessories. With Twister, I wore the mat as a dress and the spinner as a hat. I cut a hand out of a piece of orange construction paper and taped it to one of the dots on the mat. Bingo. Interactive outfit. You could do the same with Clue or Monopoly and simply dress as Miss Scarlet, Professor Plum, or that guy in the top hat who gives away money. I promise you will make lots of new friends this way.
Happy Halloween!
Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I
(Round about the cauldron go)
by William Shakespeare
The three witches, casting a spell
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights hast thirty one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
1. Take inventory of what you have in the house. Even the most basic household items could be repurposed as props. One year at the West Hollywood Halloween parade, I saw a woman dressed as a dinner table. It was a 3D costume, complete with food and dishes, and even a romantic candle.
2. Read up on the news. What stories are getting the most coverage? Are there any colorful characters that you could impersonate? Last year my roommate went as Balloon Boy, and her ingenious costume really came down to poster board, an umbrella, and some silver fabric.
3. Don't discount the advantages of make up. Even a hefty application of bronzer could get you halfway to being a Jersey Shore cast member.
4. When all else fails, go to Rite Aid. This is what I did last year when I was supposed to go to a party and had no idea what to be. I wandered the aisles hoping a blue wig or something would pop out at me and give me an idea. Luckily, a light bulb went off over the board game section, and I went home feeling confident in my new purchase of Twister. Any board game could work, really. All you have to do is turn the board into a hat by duct taping it to a head band (the soft, sporty kind). And for the rest of the costume, you could either dress as a character from the game or use the playing pieces as accessories. With Twister, I wore the mat as a dress and the spinner as a hat. I cut a hand out of a piece of orange construction paper and taped it to one of the dots on the mat. Bingo. Interactive outfit. You could do the same with Clue or Monopoly and simply dress as Miss Scarlet, Professor Plum, or that guy in the top hat who gives away money. I promise you will make lots of new friends this way.
Happy Halloween!
Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I
(Round about the cauldron go)
by William Shakespeare
The three witches, casting a spell
Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights hast thirty one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Am I becoming a misanthrope?
It all started last Thursday around 6:30 pm. I was in my bedroom getting ready to go out and meet some friends for dinner when I heard five rapid gunshots. No one else was around, so I took a moment to think. First, were those really gunshots? Sometimes the neighborhood kids set off fireworks, and the two can sound remarkably similar. But I didn't hear any other fireworks. Second, where did the sound come from? I went to the living room window that looks onto the street and peeked out. I didn't see anything. I went back to my room upon the realization that if they were gunshots, maybe I shouldn't be standing next to the window.
About five minutes later I started to hear police sirens and a helicopter. It's not that unusual to hear those sounds in my 'hood. In fact, almost nightly I shoutat my ceiling at passing helicopters to hurry up and find the perp already because their noise is drowning out my TV (this is either misanthropy sign #1 or a sign that I'm turning into an old person). So upon hearing these sounds, I said to myself, if the cops drive past and the sirens fade away, then I'm going to assume it was fireworks. But they didn't drive past. The sirens stopped at the southern end of my block. Great.
It was at that point I wished that my intrepidly curious downstairs neighbor was around. He would have gone outside with me to see what was going down. I was too scared to go alone in case some gang war was taking place. About a half hour later, I had to leave the house anyway to meet my friends. I saw cars coming up from that end of the block, so I decided to drive that way. When I got to the cross street, there was a cop car blocking the way and one entire corner was roped off with police tape. Yikes. I turned around and drove in a different direction, but that shook me up.
My roommates always tease me because it's actually kind of common for me to think I hear gunshots. One time I was so sure that I made everyone get down on the ground and belly crawl, but that one turned out to be just a firework. This was real.
I thought back to the walk I had taken to the bank the day before. There had been some MS-13 tagging I passed along the way. Was it new? We always joke about our neighborhood being up-and-coming (at least for the last 3 years since we moved here), but what if it had suddenly gone the other direction? This was the first time I had ever felt unsafe.
Cut to this morning when I was working on some writing and someone buzzed the doorbell three times. I peeped out the peep hole. No one inside the building (meaning it wasn't maintenance or my landlord). I looked outside. If it was UPS or FedEx, I would see a truck. No truck. The doorbell rang another three times. Well, who the hell could that be? None of my neighbors were home. My imagination was running away with me. I thought back to a news story in Memphis when I lived there about a local DJ being shot in the head just because she opened her apartment door to a stranger. Again the buzzer rang three times. I decided not to answer it. What calm and logical solution did I come up with instead? I turned on the shower. And then I decided to get in. There. That was my excuse for not answering the door. If anyone asked later, it was because I was in the shower.
Later I had to go to the police station to take care of a traffic violation, but while I was there I decided to get some serious info. I told the very friendly desk officer that I had heard gun shots on my street but I couldn't find anything about what had happened. Was there a shooting on my street? He looked at me and said, "Probably." Probably?! According to him, "It happens a lot. You're at home and you hear something and you think, was that a gun? In this neighborhood, chances are it was."
Well, that's just dandy. I am going to become like Emily Dickinson and never leave my house and never answer the door. I already rarely answer my phone (that's another story), so this won't be that big of a leap for me.
I never hear the word "escape"
I never hear the word "escape"
Without a quicker blood,
A sudden expectation,
A flying attitude.
I never hear of prisons broad
By soldiers battered down,
But I tug childish at my bars, --
Only to fail again!
-Emily Dickinson
About five minutes later I started to hear police sirens and a helicopter. It's not that unusual to hear those sounds in my 'hood. In fact, almost nightly I shout
It was at that point I wished that my intrepidly curious downstairs neighbor was around. He would have gone outside with me to see what was going down. I was too scared to go alone in case some gang war was taking place. About a half hour later, I had to leave the house anyway to meet my friends. I saw cars coming up from that end of the block, so I decided to drive that way. When I got to the cross street, there was a cop car blocking the way and one entire corner was roped off with police tape. Yikes. I turned around and drove in a different direction, but that shook me up.
My roommates always tease me because it's actually kind of common for me to think I hear gunshots. One time I was so sure that I made everyone get down on the ground and belly crawl, but that one turned out to be just a firework. This was real.
I thought back to the walk I had taken to the bank the day before. There had been some MS-13 tagging I passed along the way. Was it new? We always joke about our neighborhood being up-and-coming (at least for the last 3 years since we moved here), but what if it had suddenly gone the other direction? This was the first time I had ever felt unsafe.
Cut to this morning when I was working on some writing and someone buzzed the doorbell three times. I peeped out the peep hole. No one inside the building (meaning it wasn't maintenance or my landlord). I looked outside. If it was UPS or FedEx, I would see a truck. No truck. The doorbell rang another three times. Well, who the hell could that be? None of my neighbors were home. My imagination was running away with me. I thought back to a news story in Memphis when I lived there about a local DJ being shot in the head just because she opened her apartment door to a stranger. Again the buzzer rang three times. I decided not to answer it. What calm and logical solution did I come up with instead? I turned on the shower. And then I decided to get in. There. That was my excuse for not answering the door. If anyone asked later, it was because I was in the shower.
Later I had to go to the police station to take care of a traffic violation, but while I was there I decided to get some serious info. I told the very friendly desk officer that I had heard gun shots on my street but I couldn't find anything about what had happened. Was there a shooting on my street? He looked at me and said, "Probably." Probably?! According to him, "It happens a lot. You're at home and you hear something and you think, was that a gun? In this neighborhood, chances are it was."
Well, that's just dandy. I am going to become like Emily Dickinson and never leave my house and never answer the door. I already rarely answer my phone (that's another story), so this won't be that big of a leap for me.
I never hear the word "escape"
I never hear the word "escape"
Without a quicker blood,
A sudden expectation,
A flying attitude.
I never hear of prisons broad
By soldiers battered down,
But I tug childish at my bars, --
Only to fail again!
-Emily Dickinson
Monday, October 18, 2010
Cannibals and pineapples
Because it is Monday, and I think we all need a bit of a pick-me-up, I'm going to share my second favorite joke with you. It goes like this:
There were three men who were lost in the jungle. They were captured by cannibals. The cannibal king told the prisoners that they could live if they pass a test. The first part of the test was to go into the jungle and get ten pieces of the same kind of fruit. So all three men went their separate ways to gather fruits.
The first one came back and said to the king, "I brought ten apples."
The king then explains the rest of the test to him: you have to shove all ten fruits up your butt without any expression on your face or you'll be eaten.
The first apple went in...but on the second one he winced in pain, so he was killed and went to heaven.
The second guy arrives with ten berries. When the king explained the test to him, he thought to himself that this should be easy. 1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...but on the ninth berry he burst out laughing and therefore also was killed.
The first guy and the second guy met up in heaven. The first one said, "You almost made it. Why did you laugh?"
The second one replied, "I couldn't help it. I saw the third guy walking up with ten pineapples."
It's silly, but I can't help but giggle every time I read it. Two things made me think of that joke. One was that my roommate challenged me to write about pineapples, and the other was that I found an old email (yes, my favorite past time) with this poem attached:
Fork
by Charles Simic
This strange thing must have crept
Right out of hell.
It resembles a bird’s foot
Worn around the cannibal’s neck.
As you hold it in your hand,
As you stab with it into a piece of meat,
It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird:
Its head which like your fist
Is large, bald, beakless and blind.
In the email, my friend said he thought of me as soon as he read it but that he wasn't sure what that said about me or him for that matter. I think it says that I love a good cannibal joke.
And in case you were wondering, my number one favorite joke goes, What did the fish say to the concrete wall?
"Dam."
There were three men who were lost in the jungle. They were captured by cannibals. The cannibal king told the prisoners that they could live if they pass a test. The first part of the test was to go into the jungle and get ten pieces of the same kind of fruit. So all three men went their separate ways to gather fruits.
The first one came back and said to the king, "I brought ten apples."
The king then explains the rest of the test to him: you have to shove all ten fruits up your butt without any expression on your face or you'll be eaten.
The first apple went in...but on the second one he winced in pain, so he was killed and went to heaven.
The second guy arrives with ten berries. When the king explained the test to him, he thought to himself that this should be easy. 1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...but on the ninth berry he burst out laughing and therefore also was killed.
The first guy and the second guy met up in heaven. The first one said, "You almost made it. Why did you laugh?"
The second one replied, "I couldn't help it. I saw the third guy walking up with ten pineapples."
It's silly, but I can't help but giggle every time I read it. Two things made me think of that joke. One was that my roommate challenged me to write about pineapples, and the other was that I found an old email (yes, my favorite past time) with this poem attached:
Fork
by Charles Simic
This strange thing must have crept
Right out of hell.
It resembles a bird’s foot
Worn around the cannibal’s neck.
As you hold it in your hand,
As you stab with it into a piece of meat,
It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird:
Its head which like your fist
Is large, bald, beakless and blind.
In the email, my friend said he thought of me as soon as he read it but that he wasn't sure what that said about me or him for that matter. I think it says that I love a good cannibal joke.
And in case you were wondering, my number one favorite joke goes, What did the fish say to the concrete wall?
"Dam."
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
No animals were harmed in the making of this poem.
There is a car outside my window that needs to be dealt with. Whenever it gets turned on, it makes a horrible ear-piercing screech. The sound doesn't end. It goes on for ten minutes. What is the driver doing? Is he checking to see if the sound will go away? It's not going away, sir! I keep sitting here at my desk/dining room table waiting for the car to drive off and leave me and everyone in a five-block radius in peace.
It has been three weeks since I first heard the sound. At first I thought maybe it was someone visiting our across-the-street neighbors, the ever popular alleged drug dealers. Those lovable thugs, they get so many visitors. I'm sure every neighborhood has its own variety. Ours take themselves literally in every sense of the word. They are content to blast music but not just any music. If it's Sunday morning, they will blast Easy Like Sunday Morning. On repeat.
Anyway, it wasn't them. I know this because last week I ran to the window after a particularly long session of acoustic bombardment. I was intent on discovering which car it was and . . . after that I'm not sure what my next step would have been. My downstairs neighbor once confronted a woman a few houses down who was laying on her horn for a good 15 minutes. This was because she was too lazy to get out of the car and ring the doorbell for her friend/boyfriend/kid/whatever. They got into a pretty good fight that nearly came to blows but luckily didn't since my friend is a dude. The moral of the story is, think twice before you pick a fight in da hood. So I ran to the window just in time to see the offending vehicle pull away from the curb. Aha! I thought. I've got your number.
The next time that car started up, I was ready. I feel it's necessary to give you some sense of what it sounded like:
Imagine a bird, perhaps a canary.
Singing its sweet little song,
it gets to the trilling of a particularly
complex arpeggio when
an evil child plucks the bird
right out of the cage, mid-note.
The child holds the bird
in such a way that it can only tweet
the same note
in terror
over and over and over again until
the sadistic youth
swaps the birdcage for an electric fan.
The bird is dropped in its new prison,
the fan turned on so that now
the bird is shrieking
two variations of the same note
back and forth, back and forth
while the fan blades batter
its poor little organ.
The evil child then extracts
a cricket
from the depths of his pocket.
The poor thing clearly
has been through the ringer,
but it's not over yet
because now
the devil child
feverishly rubs together the cricket's wings,
chirping faster, faster
as if making fire.*
The bird and the cricket,
trilling and chirping,
shrieking and burning.
That is what this car sounds like.
My roommate happened to be around when the car screamed to life. "Why doesn't he get that flippin' car fixed?" "I know," I said. "Let's see if he drives away." Five minutes . . . six minutes . . . seven minutes . . . "ARGGGGGGHHHHHH I WILL CALL TRIPLE A MYSELF IF IT WILL TOW YOUR ASS OUT OF HERE!"
We ran to the window. There it was, rattling, heaving. The hood was up. The driver stood before it, trying to solve the puzzle. He tinkered. He got back into the car. He shut it off.
"Huh," I said to my roommate. "I guess he's aware of the problem."
*I do not condone the torture of animals. Do NOT try this at home.
It has been three weeks since I first heard the sound. At first I thought maybe it was someone visiting our across-the-street neighbors, the ever popular alleged drug dealers. Those lovable thugs, they get so many visitors. I'm sure every neighborhood has its own variety. Ours take themselves literally in every sense of the word. They are content to blast music but not just any music. If it's Sunday morning, they will blast Easy Like Sunday Morning. On repeat.
Anyway, it wasn't them. I know this because last week I ran to the window after a particularly long session of acoustic bombardment. I was intent on discovering which car it was and . . . after that I'm not sure what my next step would have been. My downstairs neighbor once confronted a woman a few houses down who was laying on her horn for a good 15 minutes. This was because she was too lazy to get out of the car and ring the doorbell for her friend/boyfriend/kid/whatever. They got into a pretty good fight that nearly came to blows but luckily didn't since my friend is a dude. The moral of the story is, think twice before you pick a fight in da hood. So I ran to the window just in time to see the offending vehicle pull away from the curb. Aha! I thought. I've got your number.
The next time that car started up, I was ready. I feel it's necessary to give you some sense of what it sounded like:
Imagine a bird, perhaps a canary.
Singing its sweet little song,
it gets to the trilling of a particularly
complex arpeggio when
an evil child plucks the bird
right out of the cage, mid-note.
The child holds the bird
in such a way that it can only tweet
the same note
in terror
over and over and over again until
the sadistic youth
swaps the birdcage for an electric fan.
The bird is dropped in its new prison,
the fan turned on so that now
the bird is shrieking
two variations of the same note
back and forth, back and forth
while the fan blades batter
its poor little organ.
The evil child then extracts
a cricket
from the depths of his pocket.
The poor thing clearly
has been through the ringer,
but it's not over yet
because now
the devil child
feverishly rubs together the cricket's wings,
chirping faster, faster
as if making fire.*
The bird and the cricket,
trilling and chirping,
shrieking and burning.
That is what this car sounds like.
My roommate happened to be around when the car screamed to life. "Why doesn't he get that flippin' car fixed?" "I know," I said. "Let's see if he drives away." Five minutes . . . six minutes . . . seven minutes . . . "ARGGGGGGHHHHHH I WILL CALL TRIPLE A MYSELF IF IT WILL TOW YOUR ASS OUT OF HERE!"
We ran to the window. There it was, rattling, heaving. The hood was up. The driver stood before it, trying to solve the puzzle. He tinkered. He got back into the car. He shut it off.
"Huh," I said to my roommate. "I guess he's aware of the problem."
*I do not condone the torture of animals. Do NOT try this at home.
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