Props to Me!

Having come to fully appreciate the genius that is Storchy's Swingin' Hullaba-log, my friend Chuck (shown here in his natural habitat). . .

Chuck

. . . was inspired to write a poem about it. I shall post it here for all to enjoy.


Storchy Street
by Rod McKuen


Oh, Storchy Street is a magical place
where ravenous insects bite off your face
And Arbor Day lasts all the year 'round
And toast comes up thru' a hole in the ground.
It's just at the end of Daisy Dog Road
Come along with me, and thence shall we go!
We'll eat quail eggs from a can, with a spoon
'til our big blue bellies turn round as the moon!
Then we'll dance to the Bee Gees and shout "Holy
Balls!"
'Til Sweet Lizzie Borden puts an end to us all.



Ain't that a beaut? I weep every time I read it.

Would that I had the time to spend gushing about Chuck's many excellent qualities. In the interest of brevity, however, I will just point out that, 1.) Chuck and Rod McKuen are actually the same person (you heard it here first!), and, 2.) Chuck is a fan of Terry Anderson and the Olympic Ass-Kickin Team.

Those two things alone make Chuck cooler than Elvis. Hell . . . props to Chuck, too!

Mmph.

Today I had to get up at 5:30 AM to make it to a 7:30 trigonometry test. Do you know what else is up at 5:30 in the morning? The fucking moon, that's what.



I'm going back to bed.

12 Things I Learned From An Evening of Watching "The Kids Are Alright" and Led Zep's "How the West Was Won" Back-To-Back

1. Keith Moon was by far the coolest member of The Who.

2. Keith Moon and John Bonham were both crazy-phenomenal drummers. If I had to choose between them, though, I'd pick John Bonham. Keith Moon's constant reliance on cymbal crashing makes him a tad more busy than I like, though his style was an integral part of The Who's sound. There's a real art to Bonham's instinct to keep it simple. What he chooses not to play is just as important as what he plays.

3. Les Pauls are wonderful guitars that really shouldn't oughta be smashed.

4. Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant both shopped at at Vulgar Trouser World.

5. Roger Daltrey wore Garanimals shirts, but Robert Plant wore his mum's blouses.

6. Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant are both equally annoying, yet equally necessary.



7. At times, both Roger Daltrey and John Paul Jones wore outfits frightfully similar to 1970s ladies' office fashions that were inspired by "Little House on the Prairie".


8. Pete Townshend's guitar playing seems cute and amusing compared to that of Jimmy Page.

9. Led Zeppelin's lyrics are best ignored. The Who's lyrics, on the other hand, could be quite pithy on occasion.

10. Jimmy Page had fabulous taste in footwear.

11. The young Robert Plant was really just a big nerd who liked Tolkien way too much. If Led Zeppelin had formed in the '70s instead of the '60s, all of their songs would've been about Star Wars.

12. I'd like The Who a whole lot more if they had broken up in 1968.

Blow It Out Your Ass, Kid.

Jeez, you’d think this poor bastard would’ve taken his aversion to play into consideration prior to choosing a career as a giant toy. A little vocational counseling would do him a world of good, as he's clearly not a hopeless case. For example, his passive-aggressive smile would be well suited to a career as a Bergdorf Goodman retail sales representative.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid your credit card has been declined."

And his 5'5" height would make him a shoe-in as a jockey, although he'd have to work on his flexibility some. Of course, that cold, hard stare could set him up for a highly successful career in interrogation, or perhaps hypnotism.

"Resistance is futile!"

It pains me to see people wasting their lives in dead-end jobs. The world is your oyster, little man. Follow your dreams.

National Arbor Day Foundation Helps Planet by Distributing Recycled Paper Products Like There’s No Friggin’ Tomorrow

Yesterday I received the following solicitation from the National Arbor Day Foundation:



Note the words “STATEMENT ENCLOSED” and the block of X-ray-specs-proof squiggles that make the envelope appear all official-like. Now, I am not a member of the National Arbor Day Foundation (nor have I ever been), but my knee-jerk reaction to the “STATEMENT ENCLOSED” label was to wonder whether some identity-thieving jackass was running up my charge account with membership dues for do-goodery organizations such as this one. Upon examining the STATEMENT that was indeed ENCLOSED, I noticed that I, Storchy, was listed as a “Member,” and that the organization wanted me (a lousy deadbeat member, apparently) to cough up my “Annual Membership Dues” of $10. Having dismissed my initial identity theft theory as asinine, I fretted that I might in fact have purchased a National Arbor Day Foundation membership the previous year, after getting shit-faced on Mad Dog at my annual Arbor Day cookout and tire-burning party. I get a little emotional at those things, especially when I’m hammered.

However, I forgot my worries once I explored the contents of the envelope.




Holy balls! There’s enough recycled paper in that pile to constipate a large goatherd. It seems the National Arbor Day Foundation wishes to show its gratitude for my nonexistent support by showering me with the following gifts:

1.) Two Give-a-Tree greeting cards, with envelopes
2.) An 11 x 17 Rainforest Rescue Wall Calendar
3.) A book about planting and caring for trees
4.) Return address labels
5.) A bimonthly newsletter

A recycled paper product, another recycled paper product, yet another recycled paper product, a sticky recycled paper product, and a bimonthly recycled paper product. But wait! There’s more!

6.) A dozen 10-ounce bags (recycled paper bags, presumably) of their Arbor Day Specialty Coffee “that matures slowly in the shade of tall rain forest trees . . . and is produced without burning the forest to grow sun-loving commercial coffee.”

A nice idea on the surface, granted. However, I suspect the description neglects to mention that Arbor Day Specialty Coffee trees are fertilized with the freshly squeezed blood of baby lemurs, and the coffee tastes like bonobo ass with a hint of powdery mildew.

As part of my member benefits, the swell folks of the National Arbor Day Foundation will plant two trees for me free of charge. They kind of have to, really. When the world runs out of recycled paper, the National Arbor Day Foundation will need to use those trees to make more paper products that will eventually be recycled and distributed across the globe in bulk mail.

Ah, but I kid the National Arbor Day Foundation. Truth is, I’m glad I received this solicitation from such a fine, fine organization. It has taught me a great deal about protecting our environment.

Props to Donald Trump!

Donald Trump is a big, important business tycoon. He is very busy. I am not a big, important business tycoon. I am not as busy as Donald Trump.

The View is a show on television. It is on during the day when most people work. It is a show for ladies. I am a lady. Donald Trump is not a lady. He is a man. A very, very busy man, who runs casinos and stars in his own TV show and has affairs and builds shiny, pink marble skyscrapers that blot out the sun. So busy.

I have only watched The View once for about ten minutes. It was because Little Richard was on. He played a song and then he showed us everything that was in his makeup bag. Oh, Little Richard, you loveable freak show. There were many ladies on the program, but I could not tell you who they were except for Barbara Walters, who has been on television since the days when TVs only had one channel and were powered by raw potatoes.

Today, Donald Trump was on CNN. He was talking about The View. He knew the names of all the ladies on The View. He knew about each lady’s personality foibles. He knew that one of the ladies had been in a relationship for twenty-five years. He knew details about a disagreement that two of the ladies had recently.

I can only name two of the ladies who are currently on The View. One of them is Barbara Walters. The other is Rosie O’Donnell. I only know that Rosie O'Donnell is on The View because Donald Trump said so on the TV a few weeks ago. Plus, you can hear her yelling even when the TV is off and your head is in a bucket of wet sand. I do not know anything about any of the ladies’ private lives. There are many, many things that I do not know about The View.

But Donald Trump knows everything about The View even though he is very busy and is not a lady. It is nice that he can still find the time to watch a television program he enjoys. If I were a big, important business tycoon and I had a favorite TV show, I would also want to tell the world about it on CNN. MSNBC and Fox, too.

Thank you, Donald Trump, for keeping me abreast of what’s happening on a TV show that I can’t seem to find time to watch. You go, girl!

Excess Body Fat is Pissing on My Good Time

No, that isn’t Mars. The above is a satellite photo of my gut. A team of NASA scientists has gleefully classified my gut as the newest dwarf planet in our solar system. Not just another one of those puny, half-assed Category-3 “small solar-system bodies,” Storchygut (as NASA has dubbed the new dwarf planet) is in orbit around the sun and has enough self-gravity to maintain its nearly round shape. The new dwarf planet even has its own moon, which was mercifully omitted from the above photo.

In light of my gut’s new dwarf planet status, I can no longer ignore the fact that I’ve gained several hundred pounds over the winter. As I sit here, the seams of last year’s summer clothes are stretched so tightly around my torso that my own mother would readily mistake me for the Michelin Man. Over the past few months, part of me (the part of me that likes to eat, which is most of me)has been tickled by a sort of morbid curiosity every time I step on the scale and find that I’ve gained another couple of pounds. We have little conversations, that part of me and I:

ME: [steps on scale] HO-ly CRAP!
THE PART OF ME THAT LIKES TO EAT: Wowee! Heh-heh!
ME: [steps off the scale and back on again, peering over her gut] Shit! . . . . Shit! Shit! Shit!
TPOMTLTE: HOO-doggie! Now, ain’t that somethin’?
ME: But . . . I . . . how?
TPOMTLTE: Eh. What difference does it make? Hey, do you want a bacon sandwich?
ME: Hell, yeah.

So, after a months-long hiatus, I got back on the exercise wagon. Since I do not wish to become the target of my neighbors' ridicule, I generally do all of my exercising after dark. I load up my iPod and walk/run (mostly walk) until I get tired, which on a good day is usually around the 5-mile mark. However, because I’m in the worst shape of my whole life, I don’t have good days just yet. In fact, I currently have all the aerobic stamina of septuagenarian coal miner (which might actually be a slight overestimation of my abilities).

This past Saturday, on my maiden voyage, I strapped on the wrist weights and walked a little over two and a half miles before I started getting shin splints and a knot in my shoulder. I’d forgotten the part about muscles and the stretching of them, you see. I woke up on Sunday feeling like I’d been bludgeoned repeatedly with a sack full of grapefruits, but that did not deter me from taking another walk that evening. Apparently, once I finally manage to peel my dusty old carcass off the couch, I’m practically bionic. So, Sunday night I was feeling great. It was a beautiful night, I had walked half a mile, and a particularly good NRBQ song (“Green Lights”) that popped up on the iPod had spurred me into a sprint. Whee! But, then . . .bzZZzzzzZZT! THWACK! Something flew straight into the corner of my eye and stuck there. I couldn’t exactly see what it was, the thing being in my eye and all, but the telltale buzzing and rapid-fire stinging that occurred during my desperate attempts to swat it away have lead me to positively identify the perpetrator:



What a stroke of luck it was that the offender’s mug shot was on file due to his previous criminal record. The result of this dipteran brute’s handiwork is shown below.



Note the painful, debilitating swelling and redness just below the tear duct area. Tragic.

Your average person would probably come away from such a traumatic experience having learned rudimentary lessons like these:

1.) There are a lot of bugs out at night.
2.) When there are a lot of bugs out, it’s maybe not the best time to run.
3.) If nighttime running is necessary, maybe some kind of eye protection would be nice.

While the validity of these conclusions is arguable, I feel they are frightfully shortsighted. Having completed nearly two years of part-time study at Durham Technical Community College, my insight into such matters is far more fine-tuned and forward-thinking than that of Joe Q. Schlub’s. Therefore, it is my duty to share the valuable life lessons that I, Storchy, have gleaned from this experience so that others may benefit from them as well. These lessons are as follows (ahem):

1.) Giant insects are after me (and perhaps all of us).
2.) Giant insects want to eat your head, and they will, too, unless their god calls them away suddenly, in which case they will just leave a big sting-y mark under your eye that seems really conspicuous to you even though nobody else probably notices it.
3.) Giant insects do not want me (and perhaps all of us) to exercise.
4.) Exercise must be avoided at all costs or giant insects will eat your head, and what’s the point of having a washboard stomach and buttcheeks like two ripe cantaloupes if you don’t have a head? (Hint: No point. No point at all.)

Be safe out there, people.

Mountains Rock

Just spent a long weekend in the mountains of western North Carolina. I can't write worth a damn these days, but my shutter button finger still works. Apparently, its muscles are the rare few in my body that have not entirely atrophied due to lack of physical activity. It's amazing, really, that I am still able to hold my head upright. Ah, but I digress. Behold . . . the mountains.









Kind of purty, ain't they?

A Note to Those of You With Mothers

Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
And when she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty-one.


For those of you who feel a bit challenged when it comes to gift giving, I'd just like to point out to that "forty whacks" is never an appropriate Mother's Day gift. No, not even for the mother who has everything. Consider instead a nice pair of Isotoner slippers, or a coffee mug with your photo on it, or some leather chaps, or an economy-sized container of Metamucil, or a set of metric socket wrenches. Any one of these things would be a far better gift for Mom than forty whacks. Trust me on this one.

Stay tuned for my installment on Father's Day gift giving.

She's Still in School . . . .

Ah, yes. . . . a glimpse back at the days when Storchy had nothing better to do than to take photos of her feet next to random household objects. But those days are gone, now, as I find myself sloshing about in the cesspool that is midterm season. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I decided two years ago enroll in the university transfer program at the local community college, but I now know better than to make decisions like that when I’m drunk.

Since I don’t have a lot of time to fool around today, I’ll just update you on a couple of things:

1.) Trigonometry blows. I don’t know what Poindexter at UNC decided to make trig a requirement for all liberal arts majors, but it was obviously someone who strangles bunnies and slaps the elderly just for shits and giggles. I’m majoring in history, not science. The only time I’ll ever use information about sine waves again is during the opening credits of Outer Limits reruns.

2.) I recently wrote this sentence for a midterm paper in my American lit class:

“By repeatedly using realism to shatter romantic notions in The Awakening, Kate Chopin parallels the manner in which realistic literature thrust aside romanticism in the late 19th century.”

When I say things like this, I don’t really mean them. I pulled every word of that sentence out of my ass. I will continue to write wretched drivel like this as long as my instructor rewards me for doing so. This, I feel, is teaching me the wrong lesson.

3.) I love nuts. Especially pecans and cashews.

4.) I love the Bee Gees. Especially the late-'60s albums.

5.) Lately, when I'm not working or studying, I am usually listening to the Bee Gees with my mouth full of nuts.

Oi! Check Out Me Bloomin' Orchid!

Darn thing looks like a stick with flippers 9 months out of the year, but then it goes and does this . . . .

Miracle on Hound's Ear Road

I have some very good news. I, Lisa, have found the answer to the world’s hunger problem. “How?” you may ask.

Go on . . . . ask.

Excellent question. Well, it’s like this, see? Me and my two dogs, Daisy and Lebowski (shown below), take regular constitutionals up and down Hound's Ear Road.





Lebowski is the indignant-looking one, and Daisy is the pretty one who looks a little D-U-M.

So, I’m out with Daisy last Tuesday afternoon when she trots onto my neighbor’s lawn, sticks her nose deep into some hole, and drags a mystery item out of it. I am well familiar with such occurrences, so I ready myself for the worst. Is it a cat turd? Is it a dead vole? Is it one of those tiny, crunchy gray lobster-looking things that are sometimes for eating and sometimes for rolling in? Panic ensues as I envision myself having to fish a mouse carcass out of Daisy’s clenched teeth with my bare hands. “Drop! Drop!” I yell. As do this, I notice with dismay that I really do sound like a chihuahua when I shout, just like my good friend Jeff pointed out about fifteen years ago at the Los Lobos show, the bastard.

“Drop!” I yell again, while knocking on the top of Daisy’s bowling-pin-shaped head. Something rattles between her eyes, like a BB in a tin can. Having at last processed the command, her ears flatten grudgingly. Her jaw goes slack, and out falls . . .

toast.

It's a perfectly good piece of toast, too -- lightly golden brown with nary a hint of char. Why, I almost want to pick it up and eat it myself. But, since consistency is the key to dog training, I stand my ground and pull Daisy down the block while trying to ignore the “But. . . but . . .” look in her eyes and the growl of my own stomach.

A day passes and this time I’m out walking Lebowski. I’ve got some Randy Newman going on the iPod and I’m singing along, “We’re reeeeed-necks, we’re reeeeeed-necks . . . don’t know our ass from a hole in the ground . . . .” I suddenly remember that Storchy Street is located well below the Mason-Dixon Line, and make a mental note to avoid singing that song aloud anymore, at least not where anyone can hear me. Just then I turn around and see that Lebowski, with his back to me, is sticking his head into a hole in my neighbor’s lawn. Crap. Having forgotten about the toast incident, I truly think that he has found actual crap and I yell, “Drop! Drop!”

Lebowski never drops, though. He never chews, either; he swallows everything whole like a bulimic hyena, so I have to be quick. As I run up behind him his head swings around and I expect to see the dangling legs of a dead frog slapping him in the face. What I see instead, however, is toast -- a golden wheat-bread slice that has been uniformly browned to perfection.

“What the fuck?” I say, abandoning Southern etiquette entirely. I yank the toast out of Lebowski’s mouth and fling it far into the woods. Or at least I attempt to. Apparently there’s a good reason why the outer hulls of aeroplanes and rocketships are not fashioned of toast.

The rest of our walk is uneventful, but for the fact that I’ve begun to sing Todd Rundgren’s song “Slut,” replacing the word “slut” with “toast.”

“T-O-A-S-T! You may be some toast, but you look good to me . . . .”

Not a perfect fit, but it worked well in a pinch with a forced syllable squeezed in here and there. I defy you to get that song out of your head now.

Well, I surely thought I’d seen the end of the Lawn Toast at that point, but later that day Daisy pulled some more of the stuff out of that same damn hole. At this point, it became obvious that the Lawn Toast Hole was a modern day miracle -- a small rift in the space-time continuum that produced an endless supply of delightfully crispy, golden-brown toast.

After all, it certainly wasn’t the first time a miracle had presented itself in toasted form.



The more I think of it, the more obvious it seems that the Miraculous Lawn Toast Hole is Version 2.0 of the Miracle of the Virgin Mary Cheese Sandwich.



It’s just like that old saying: “If you give a man a Virgin Mary Cheese Sandwich, you'll feed him for a day. But if you guide a man to the Miraculous Lawn Toast Hole, you'll feed him for life.”

Quail Eggs

One does not want to eat quail eggs straight out of a can.




I'm not sure when or how one does want to eat quail eggs. But straight out of a can ain't it.

That is all . . . .

Area Woman Declares Durham Fire and Rescue Worker a Fire Hazard

An area woman had planned to make a quick stop at the North Pointe Kroger grocery store for a few winter storm necessities on Wednesday, when she encountered an unexpected obstacle. The woman, who would only give the name "Storchy," claimed that a Durham fire and rescue worker of unknown identity insisted on getting in her way everywhere she went.

“At first I thought he was deliberately harassing me,” said Storchy. “But then I realized that he just had his head up his ass.”

Storchy, 36, first encountered the fire and rescue worker in the soup aisle. “He was just standing there in the middle of the aisle, staring at the top shelf with his mouth hanging open. Then he calls out to his buddy, he says, ‘Hey, where’s the chicken noodle at?’” said Storchy.

“If he’d been any closer to that chicken noodle it would have poked him in the eye,” Storchy added.

Storchy attempted to walk past the fire and rescue worker, but could not. “He just kept wandering from one side of the aisle to the other, and he was swinging his arms all over the place,” Storchy said. “I was like, what is with this guy?”

Storchy said that she gave up trying to walk around the fire and rescue worker, and instead walked back down the aisle the way she had come.

“It took longer to get to the pickles that way, but I figured it was faster than waiting for the guy to realize that he wasn’t the only person in the store.”

Storchy had a near miss with the fire and rescue worker in the baking/spice aisle. “I’d just started walking down there when I saw the guy wandering around in circles near the cupcake sprinkles,” Storchy said. “I decided I didn’t need popcorn salt that bad and I high-tailed it on out of there.”

Storchy later collided with the fire and rescue worker when she turned down the cereal aisle. “You know how the aisles sort of have those traffic flow lanes like when you’re driving? Except in the grocery store you can’t see them but you know they’re there, right? Well, he was coming down the up side when I came around the corner and we just smacked right into each other,” Storchy said. “There was no way I could have avoided him.”

Several witnesses at the scene of the collision confirmed that the fire and rescue worker was entirely at fault.

Storchy later encountered the fire and rescue worker in the bread aisle. “I just wanted to grab some hot dog buns and go home. But there the guy was in the bread aisle,” Storchy said. “I thought about leaving the store right then, but I really needed those buns.”



Storchy tried to predict where the fire and rescue worker might walk next, but said it was impossible. “He just kept picking up random loaves of bread and squeezing them,” Storchy said. “He’d put a loaf of wheat bread in his basket, and then a few seconds later he’d put it back and grab rye instead.”

Storchy added, “He sniffed one of them. I don’t know what in the hell that was all about.”

At this point, Storchy decided she’d had enough. “I just remember saying, ‘Christ, this guy’s a fire hazard,’” Storchy said. “It was out of my mouth before I knew it.”

When asked whether she had the authority to declare someone a fire hazard, Storchy admitted that she did not.

“I felt so powerless. I guess I just panicked,” Storchy said. “I just wanted to get my hot dog buns and go home, you know? Something had to be done.”

“Anyhow, I don’t think anyone heard me,” Storchy added.

The Durham fire and rescue worker could not be located for comment.

I Am the Anti-Weegee

After spending a week knocking around Manhattan during the holidays, I came home to discover that almost none of the photos I took have any people in them. How in the hell does that happen? And what does that say about me? On second thought, never mind. I don’t want to know.

My relationship with NYC has always been a complicated one. If I’d taken up photography during the two and a half years that I’d lived in the city, I suspect that most of my photos would’ve featured hobos, crack whores, and suckers like this . . .




But if the latest batch of photos is any measure of my nostalgia level for my former home, it seems that a few years of living in the comparatively reasonable setting of Durham, NC have made me go all warm and fuzzy on New York City in retrospect. Heck, if anyone had told me eight years ago that I’d ever get all misty about NYC, I’d have told them that they were flat-out weasel-nuts.

Moving from my hometown of Milwaukee to NYC was a transition that was tantamount to whiplash. To me, life in New York seemed completely ass-backwards. Roaches were enormous, lived right in your house, and many folks acted as if they had a perfect right to be there. People insisted on calling them “water bugs” as if they were fat, chortling babies in bumble bee suits awaiting a Kodak moment in a wading pool. In contrast to the giant roaches were the shoebox-sized grocery stores, which were dirty and stank of armpits and rotten potatoes. Occasionally fresh produce from one of these stores would reveal unexpected bonuses, like the praying mantis that once rose up from a package of cilantro and began prancing about my cutting board like a Fosse dancer. Its tiny head was cocked coyly to one side and became even more so when I bashed it in with a meat hammer. This was an action that I immediately regretted, and one that was indicative of how big city life affected me. I’m not the type of person who kills tiny creatures just for shits and giggles. Since I’ve lived in North Carolina, I’ve cupped many a moth in my bare hands and shuttled it outside, away from the evil eye of my living room lamp. But, as Jackie Wilson once sang, “There’s no pity in the Naked City” and some poor bastards just have to learn that lesson the hard way.

The worst part about living in the city was that everything just seemed so damned complicated. There were no quick errands. If I wanted to shop for dinner, I had to walk 20 minutes to Astoria’s shopping district and spend two hours muscling my way through several different establishments (grocer, butcher, bakery, produce market, maybe another produce market if the first one didn’t have what I needed). Then there was another 20-minute walk back home with fifteen pounds of groceries. And laundry? Don’t get me started. Since the laundromat closest to my apartment consistently dirtied my clothes rather than cleaned them, I had to drag them to the laundromat eight blocks away and waste half a day sitting there, plugging quarters into machines that would either tie my delicates into sailor’s knots or incinerate them.

To the city’s credit, I found New York residents surprisingly friendly and helpful unless they were getting paid to be so. I had more than my share of pleasant conversations with folks on the subway platform or in grocery lines. All bets are off when New Yorkers are on the move, though. I was walking down Madison Avenue at rush hour once when someone bumped into me pretty hard from behind. I stumbled forward and accidentally caught the back of some woman’s shoe with my foot. The woman was in her late sixties, and obviously well-to-do. I apologized profusely to which she responded, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you idiot.” The Milwaukee Me probably would’ve slunk off into a dark alley and burst into tears, but new-improved New York Me replied, “Well, f*ck it -- I’m not sorry, you crazy old bat.” It’s a good thing there wasn’t a meat hammer handy, or I might’ve bashed her on the head with it.

But I spent this past week bopping around New York with the sugary optimism of a teenage girl who goes to see Christian rock bands for fun. When I walked down a block that smelled of urine and rotting trash, I grinned and said, “Ah, yes! That’s the New York I remember.” I turned on the shower to find that there was no hot water for the second morning in a row. “Ha! Good ol’ New York livin’,” I said, as I splashed ice-cold water from the sink onto my shivering torso. I made eye contact with homeless people. I accepted fliers from giant hot dogs on street corners. I sat right next to the stinky man on the train and didn’t budge.

New York City, I discovered, is quite a wonderful place when you know you don’t have to stay there. It’s kind of pretty, even.

Picture book / Pictures of yourself / Taken by yourself / A short time ago . . .

I have to do this self-portrait project for an art class I'm taking. I'm supposed to take a bunch of photos of myself, make a collage out of 'em, then draw the whole damn thing. After fooling around with the camera all day, I'm beginning to suspect that I'll be wearing Depends before I finish this project.

Ever tried taking a picture of yourself? Well, don't, because it's damn near impossible and you'll waste half your damn day.







Besides that, you'll wind up looking like a sociopath.

Another One Bites the Dust

One day you turn around and it's summer
Next day you turn around and it's fall
And the springs and the winters of a lifetime
Whatever happened to them all?

-- from “September of My Years” by Frank Sinatra

*****************************************

There’s this blue sundress I’ve had for over ten years now. I think I was around 24 when I bought it. I’d say it’s the oldest article of clothing I own, were it not for the fact that there’s probably a ratty pair of underpants in the back of a drawer somewhere that’s been waiting around for twenty years just to prove me wrong. Ratty underpants have nothing better to do, after all, and if there’s one lesson I’ve learned over the past 36 years, it’s that one should never allow underpants to gain the upper hand in life.

So anyway, at the risk of sounding all girly and crap, I really dig this sundress. But as I turn another year older today, I can’t help but suspect that sometime during the upcoming year (or maybe the next), I’ll put on this dress and discover to my horror that it makes me look like this . . .



Guess I’ll have to keep you posted.

*****************************************

The man in the looking glass, who can he be?
The man in the looking glass, can he possibly be me?
Where's our young Romeo, the lad who used to sigh?
Who's the middle-aged lothario with a twinkle in his eye?
He seems so much wiser now, less lonely but then
Could be he's only pretending again
Man in the looking glass, smiling away, how's your sacroiliac today?

--from “The Man in the Looking Glass” by Frank Sinatra

Public Notice to All Dogs in My House

It is unacceptable to wake the Master at 6 AM by snorting and chuffing in a vexatious manner.

When snorting and chuffing fail to wake the Master, it is equally unacceptable to attempt to raise the Master by licking the floor covering until gagging ensues. The Master knows that you are just being a devious little bastard and are not really choking on carpet fuzz.

When the Little Dog’s snorting, chuffing and gagging fail to wake the Master, it is unacceptable for the Big Dog to dance around the bed whimpering and pounding her tail on the box spring like a Taiko drummer on Bennies.

Upon raising the Master with your desperate snorting, chuffing, gagging and drumming, it is unnecessary to follow the Master into the bathroom and sit two inches away while wearing the hard stare of a prison warden. The Master has never forgotten to take you outside or feed you. The Master has no logical motivation to climb out a second-story window in effort to avoid taking you outside or feeding you. Furthermore, the Master is a little pee-shy.

Upon leading the Master outside into the freezing cold, it is unacceptable to ignore the business at hand in favor of staring intently down the street as if anticipating an Apache ambush. This is not a John Ford film. It is a time when you are robbing the Master of precious sleep with your Rin Tin Tin tomfoolery. To expedite matters, I suggest that dogs imagine themselves in a John Waters film. By performing bodily functions on cue, dogs will earn top billing and a breakfast befitting of such artistes.

After breakfast, it is unnecessary to express your appreciation by jumping up on the bed and sneezing kibble bits onto the Master’s face.

While preparing to settle in with the Master for another few hours’ sleep, frantic digging on the Master’s belly should be avoided. The Master’s abdomen is not made of such materials as can be burrowed into or shifted about.

Upon settling in with the Master, it is undesirable for dogs to compete to see who can get the largest square footage of dog-on-human body contact on either side of the Master. This makes it impossible for the Master to move or breathe. The Master is not a cocktail sausage and does not wish to be tied up in the bedclothes like a Pig in a Blanket.

W. Daniel Furst, DDS

Some of you may recall a blog installment I posted a month ago in which I described my first root canal appointment. In that installment I introduced the fortuitously-named Dr. Furst, who is the first dentist I’ve liked since I’ve been living in North Carolina. This is no small matter to me, as I have harbored the big daddy of dentistry phobias since I was a wee lass and had several of my baby teeth pulled in one visit without being as anesthetized as I might have liked.

Three weeks ago, I had to go back in for another 2-hour appointment during which Dr. Furst did the build-up for my crown. Having survived my first appointment under the good doctor’s care, I was considerably more relaxed. While I may have been tense and trembling a tad, I at least wasn’t making the floor vibrate this time around. During the two hours of my second appointment, more unpleasant drilling, grinding, and scraping occurred. This time, however, I felt fully confident that Dr. Furst was giving the matter his full attention, and that he would not allow the drill to slip off the tooth and pierce my cerebellum. Best of all, there was more humming. This time it was the Beach Boys’ song, All Summer Long, which solidified my opinion that Dr. Furst was, in fact, a true genius of dentistry.

So yesterday was the final phase of the process. No drilling or scraping this time. All Dr. Furst had to do was to pop in the crown and send me on my way. As this would be the first time I’d seen him without my face full of Novocaine and slobber running down my neck, I looked forward to interacting with him like a normal human being instead of like a patient at a state mental institution. I’d planned to thank him for getting me through the experience in one piece. Of course, there’d be some fond reminiscing as well. “Remember that one time when I was all scared of the needles and drills? HA! Good times . . .” I’d say. Then we would laugh and laugh.

But what really happened was this. I arrived at the office and was ushered to the chair by Thelma, my favorite dental assistant. Just before she pulled my temporary crown off, she said, “You heard about Dr. Furst, right?”

Well, I hadn’t heard about Dr. Furst. Did he get in a fender bender? Did he win the lottery? Was he conked on the dome by an errant golf ball?

“No, what happened?” I said.

“He died.”

Ah, shit.

That’s right. Dr. Furst, genius of dentistry, died in his home at the age of 60, apparently of heart failure. I’d only met him a few times, but after having his hands in my mouth for four hours I’d grown pretty attached to the guy.

But what did I truly know about Dr. Furst? Well, not a whole hell of a lot, but let’s see what I can piece together.

1.) He loved to play golf, but probably would never have qualified for the Senior Tour.

2.) He liked a lot of elbow room when he worked, and preferred a workspace that was uncluttered by patients’ spectacles.

3.) He was liberal with the Novacaine, but was a real hard-ass about Percocet. I don’t know what procedures would warrant a Perc prescription, but a root canal, in Dr. Furst’s opinion, was not one of them. (To his credit, I didn’t actually need them. Not even a little bit.)

4.) He liked to wear a sombrero on occasion, as shown in a photograph behind the reception desk.

5.) He had a nice little hum. Over the course of my visits, I heard a wide range of Dr. Furst’s tuneless avant-garde humming, along with his chipper renditions of Speak Softly Love (The Theme from the Godfather), and the aforementioned Beach Boys song, All Summer Long. Oh, and let’s not forget this one . . . .

Oh when the saints go marching in
When the saints go marching in
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

And when the sun refuse to shine
And when the sun refuse to shine
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in . . . .

Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh when the trumpet sounds the call
Oh lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm, Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm,
Hmm hmm hmm hmmm, Hmm hmm hmm hmmm,
Hmm-hmm hmm hmmmm hmm hmm hmm-hmm hmm hmm
Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm hmm hmm hmm hmm. . . .

Thanks for the root canal, Doc. I hope you’re up there kicking Sam Snead’s ass.

What the Hell?!

Behold the first loaf of bread that I have ever baked . . .



Clearly I have been replaced by some evil alternate universe me. I don't bake bread. I don't bake, period. Not much for cooking in general, although I did successfully prepare a meal of Spaghetti-O's the other day that I was rather proud of -- not too chemically, with just a hint of aluminum.

I may be hooked on this bread thing. It was kind of fun, and I'm a sucker for good bread, which is somewhat scarce here in North Carolina. From what I can tell, many southerners have a mysterious aversion to any bread with a crunchy crust. This is just one more reason why I keep my door locked at night.

This particular bread recipe hooked me with phrases like "knead the prosciutto into the dough," "brush the crust with bacon fat before baking," and "brush the crust with bacon fat and allow to cool." I strongly believe that if all food were prepared like this, the world would be a much happier place.

Incidentally, if any of you other folks feel similarly overcome with the urge to bake bread all sudden-like, I highly recommend The Bread Bible by Rose Levy Berenbaum. It is extremely rube-friendly.

While you're at it, check out Breadbasketcase, a highly entertaining blog in which Marie Wolf describes her experiences as she attempts to bake all 82 bread recipes in The Bread Bible in one year. Go, Marie, go!