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Does anyone know anything about humankind’s ability to “see” things while we’re sleeping? I’m in this habit of waking up at almost exactly 7:00 every single morning (I’m sure some of you are simply appalled), and I think it has something to do with the fact that I can actually see the clock from where I’m laying in bed. Like, yesterday, when I’d rolled over (extremely unusual, BTW) to face the other side of the bed, I totally overslept, but this morning, I was looking right at the clock, hopped out of bed at 7:00 sharp, and stolled briskly around the corner to meet our transgender contractor just as she was descending from her heavenly Ford F150 XLT….

But it’s just me, right?

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As I sat here blogging rainbow pumps and she of the erstwhile sunflower-laden hats, my boyfiend sauntered over to my side of the room (which he normally avoids on account of my voluminous collection of garish, plastic Happy Meal toys), sat on my lap, and asked me why, oh, why do I never blog him. So here goes…. xoxo };>)

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File: Random
Sub-folder: Vaguely irritating things to say about other cities where I’ve got friends

So is it just me or does the name “San Francisco” sound really, um, well, gay? I mean, when I say to people I know–as I often did yesterday–“I’ve got friends arriving from San Francisco,” I always feel as if I’m coming out all over again. Like the person to whom I’m speaking suddenly has visions of magenta-haired beauticians swinging from the chandeliers in my living room and swagging everything that doesn’t move. Like they suddenly suspect me of owning a chifforobe full of rainbow-print lycra dresses and matching pumps. Like I’m going to bust out the quiche and the good china and start calling everyone “Mary.”

Well, I’d like each and every one of you to know that I associate with no magenta-haired beauticians. (At least, not since 1995.) And there’s no swinging to be done on my chandelier–in fact, it would probably come crashing down altogether if it weren’t so hideous that no one wants to touch it. And FYI, I already call everyone “Mary”–although I did go through a brief period last year of trying to change my nom de choix to “Fatima.” Unfortunately, though exotic and therefore humorous, “Fatima” doesn’t roll off the lisping tongue like the bi-syllabic “Mary.” So I go with what works. Feh.

P.S. Apologies to John for everything above. Will someone please let him know that I understand “New Orleans” is synonymous with alcoholism, poverty, and everyone’s favorite Southern tradition, racism? Chacun a son croix, je suppose.

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Anyone need another reason to deplore circuit fags? I mean, I’m all for inclusion, but, hey, I’ve got my limits. I don’t even care about the stupid URL, frankly, and the design’s okay (though have I shared with you my hatred for the shorthand use of “trust”?). I think the fact that it’s both vapid and insipid is what pushed me over the edge.

Oh, and the fact that they’re doing the wifebeater thing.

And to all those who prefer non-negative blogging, my apologies. I’m not your type, anyway.

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Stupid hippie programmers. Could they get any more boring? How hard would it have been to add a couple of lines of code here and there so that it writes the damn thing for you? I mean, what good’s the Internet if we have to all the work?

I want my butler robot and I want him now.

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Ha! Maurice Chevalier can talk all he wants about the international language of love, but I’m here to tell ya’, lust don’t translate so damn good. Process my eggs, indeed. (Although the thought of someone having “a piece of splendor in the trousers” is kinda poetic, no?)

Thanks Alta Vista for giving me such delightfully clumsy translation tools.

P.S. If you wanna see the whole filthy page (in its original language, of course), be my guest.

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Okay:

Imagine for a moment that you and your buddies are walking along, taking a nice, leisurely stroll somewhere in the vicinity of the Rio Grande or maybe over in hill country–anywhere, really, as long as it’s under the w‘s jurisdiction–when all of a sudden you feel a sharp pain in your leg. And another. And another. Little lightning bolts are shooting through your body and you quickly look down and see that you and every single one of your companions are being rapidly covered by a raging swarm of KILLER BEES!!

Would you know what to do? Well, would you?

I would.

While my friends would probably be all like “Ouch!” and “Holy Shit!” and “Fuck this, I’m outta here!”, I’d have a battle plan. First, I’d run like hell; fat lot of good it does me to hang around and get stung to death when I could at least get my ass a few feet closer to the emergency room. Then, I’d look for some sort of indoor shelter: a Circle K, an abandoned cabin, or a clean and fully functioning rest stop (anything in a pinch.) If I couldn’t find a place to hide, I’d do my best to distract the bees by running through tall grass, or perhaps I’d make for the nearest herd of cattle–I mean, if I’m being chased by thousands upon thousands of toxin-bearing insects, I’m thinking I’d probably have enought adrenaline to outrun the bovines, and I’m gonna assume that the bees themselves wanna go after the easiest prey. So, sorry Bessie, but if it comes down to you or me, I’m afraid our Africanized friends are gonna get a thorax full of steak Tartar, not homo erectus man meat.


(Here’s an artist’s rendition of what I’d look like running from deadly bees. Note my eerily serene demeanor–I’m in the survival zone!)

Of course, no matter how fast I skeedaddle, I’ll probably wind up with at least a sting or two, so when I feel the first poisonous nip, I’m going to do my damnedest to scrape the stinger out by raking my finger across it in a sideways motion. (Pulling at it works to my disadvantage, since that actually can squeeze more noxious poison into my already delicate system.) And no matter what my friends might think, I’d certainly know that jumping in a pool or other body of water is probably a bad idea, since those pesky bees will probably be waiting for me when I surface! I bet even MacGuyver couldn’t handle that fierce killer bee science!

Now, if you’re as impressed as I hope you are, you’re asking yourself, “What on earth has this child been ingesting that would make him think of such things? And how did he manage to lend such an air of authority to a topic that, at first glance, seems positively ludicrous to those of us living in the first world?” Well, I have good answers to both those questions.

I got to thinking about the whole matter of freakish, life-threatening events while watching that repulsive-yet-riveting new CBS series, Survivor. You’ve got all these losers in a quasi real world/Real World setting, trying to make do with their wits and their latrine-digging abilities alone, and while they’re arguing about the lean-to, you see shots of venomous vermin wandering around in the background and you think, “Well, yeah, they’ve got a camera crew and some walkie-talkies nearby, but if one of ’em gets his ass bit while taking a morning swim, what’s the action plan, yo?” You can see how the thought of killer bees came to mind, can’t you? Can’t you?

Well, okay, maybe we’re not on the same wavelength. But to be honest, I go through those sorts of fantasy/vanity/rescue scenarios in my head on a daily basis. I think to myself, “Like, if someone were to walk in my office right now and throw out some anthrax (a disease that met with dizzying popularity among terrorists not long ago, but which seems to have recently fallen in the polls to e coli), how would I make it out of here without, well, kicking the bucket? And how could I save everyone else and maybe wrangle a raise out of it? And what will I wear when CNN comes a-knocking to do their feature story on my courageous acts?” I hope I’m not the only one with those kinda thoughts. Tell me I’m not alone….

(Side note: a couple of years back, there was someone here in town who acted out his own vanity fantasies, setting fire to his place of employment, then returning to put out the blaze just in the nick of time. Of course, he did it one too many times and the fire went out of control and the second and third stories of the building burned down…but maybe I’ll save that tale for another time.)

Oh, and as for the startling level of authority I demonstrated with regard to our pesky little friends from south of the border, I must give credit to the most recent addition to our overstuffed bookshelf: The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook. I’ve got much more to say about this really freeeky, really yellow little book, but since my carpal tunnel’s starting to act up, for now I’m just gonna give props to the little minx for honoring us with a copy of it. He’s flying back to Nueva Yorka tomorrow–y’all take care of him, now, y’hear? He’s nothin’ but a little bitty ol’ thing (though he’s on a rather impressive little gym routine, I must say).

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Okay, so I’ve been gone for a while. Big deal. It was a holiday weekend. I didn’t really plan to stay away from my beloved beige box for so long, but, hey, sue me. Unlike my boyfiend, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a power blogger….

So what exciting adventures did I get up to in my extra free time, you ask? Why, nothing, of course–somebody fire up the snake pits! Frankly, I spent most of the weekend working at Cheng’s or showing the Little Minx about town. (Actually, I’ve got some pretty nice pics of the Barataria Swamp, which we visited on Monday. I’ll post ’em soon. Maybe.) Oh, I guess I spent a few precious minutes thinking about the house, too. And later, I thought about it some more. Then I decided that I was going to stop thinking about it altogether. Which lasted until about 4:00 this morning, when it crossed my mind again and stuck there. Frankly, I’d be willing to take Don back….

And BTW, does she really need a website?