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Onward toward victory, thou bravest dogs

Mon, 1 Sep 2008 | 20: 11

I've just discovered a native ritual heretofore unrecorded in the study of Georgia Bulldogs fans. I came about this discovery quite by accident and with more than a little help from my sidekick, Nick the Knife (who will soon be getting her own cartoon show with someone else playing me, of all the audacity -- I'm the lead here, damn it). It seems that the mascot of the UGA football team is a white bulldog. It also seems that the Friday before a game, the natives begin their drinking and noisemaking ceremonies to call down the gods for a good game. Based on my observations, I surmise that the eyesight of the natives begins to blur at some point in the afternoon.
 
As usual, I walked Nicki outside the motel near traffic, but this observation day was different. The occasional passing car honked at us. Nick swore she was not making obscene gestures. Still, every time we went out, someone honked at us. Finally, much later that night, the honking was accompanied by the ritual yelling of "Go Dawgs!" Another truck passed, honked and a bleary-eyed woman leaned toward us and yelled, once again, "Go Dawgs!" Aha.
 
Well, this is exciting. What seems to be happening is that the inebriated cult members are seeing a white dog, which immediately triggers the post-hypnotic suggestion from their leader to loudly invoke the spirit of football victory. All over town, the natives are sacrificing the peace of white dogs to the football god. It is truly a high culture town in which I live.

music: Rawhide Chew in C Major
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Covert operation

Sun, 31 Aug 2008 | 23: 36

The nightmare is almost over. What nightmare, you say? Man, do I have to tell you the whole story, beginning from the last time I posted? That sounds labor-intensive. The story does have drama, intrigue, drama, horror, drama, and will make you gasp in shock (unless you already have an ex like mine and you know how this crazy bullshit lays down). But I've heard the story way too many times myself. How about I just catch you up to the present and leave you confused? That sounds like more fun.
 
Currently, I am on the run with my naked sidekick Nick the Knife. We are motel-hopping, moving from one place to another in a football town that's already booked up for the weekends. While I am completely devoted to my sidekick, having heroically saved her in a dawn escape from her tormentor (i.e., I nearly wet myself sneaking her away), the mere mention of dear Nicki means we are banished without mercy from the havens of continental breakfasts and free wireless access. We are sadly relegated to those secret establishments using the code "pet-friendly" to signal their willingness to be bribed with great wads of cash in exchange for a place for Nicki to lay her little naked head.
 
Nick the Knife earned her name by being a fearless bug-killer. If it has six or eight legs, she's on it like a slashing blade and she's too tough to care how it tastes. But our last weekend motel was a battleground worthy of Nick the Nuclear Arsenal.
 
Picture this if you can. Way overpriced motel room smelling of mildew. Refrigerator isn't working, microwave has been burnt up, TV is reduced to static every five minutes, holes in the bedclothes, mattress coils can easily be counted. Not clean. At all. At first the air conditioner is working and there is no other place to stay, so we bed down for the night. Lights off except for the nightlight's soft glow from my alarm clock. Something feels tickly-scratchy on my arm. I look. I panic. I spike a huge cockroach across the room and leap out of bed. Lights come on. Smaller cockroaches are on the walls. I kill them just in time for my next nervous breakdown.
 
I actually stay two nights in this place. I sleep in my clothes and stay up until I'm too exhausted to care. Much.
 
Tonight Nick and I are at the glorious Microtel. It was not glorious last week, but this week it is somehow fabulously comfortable and wonderful and I so look forward to sipping the weird tang of foodservice orange juice in the morning. So clean! So fresh! Here, take my money, you lovely people with your crisp, clean sheets.
 
Why are Nick and I hiding out instead of sleeping in our own beds? (Actually, she has her own bed. Half the stuff I'm hauling around from motel to motel is Nicki's. Girl has a lot of damned stuff.) The Thing That Wouldn't Leave is still in my house, you see, and is getting more deranged by the day. The Thing's lease is up on the 8th and she refuses to go anywhere, despite having had more than a year to make arrangements. A little abuse here and there and some threats to both Nicki's life and mine, and presto, we're gone.
 
The eviction will take either three weeks or three months, depending on how The Thing wants to play it. She's already told me she's stealing my stuff and past performance indicates she'll destroy what she can. Whee.
 
 
music: Nocturne with Window Air Conditioner

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Donnie from the National Geographic special "Genius Dogs"

Sun, 3 Feb 2008 | 15: 10

Donnie is a Doberman who lines up his toys. Not only that; he categorizes his stuffed animals by type and arranges them in different geometric patterns. Sometimes he turns the stuffed animal where the eyes show and sometimes he turns the toy where the eyes are hidden. He may line up the toys, alternating face-up with face-down and connect them by their appendages so it appears to us as if they're holding hands.




Still pictures can be found on Dr. Smuts' page.

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But what I'd really like is a day off from the human race

Fri, 1 Feb 2008 | 9: 05

Working twelve to fifteen hours every day, seven days a week sure does cut into one's martini time. But, after a month of solid work, I finally have a day off tomorrow, during which I shall remain awake and pleasant. Yes, I shall be pleasant, even if no breaks are allowed at home. I shall be nice. It's possible. They have drugs for that, don't they?
 
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

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Shooting mistletoe out of the trees

Sun, 6 Jan 2008 | 16: 54

I haven't written in a coon's age so there's a lot of catching up to do. Hope everyone had a great Christmas and sobered up quick enough to make it to the church pageant. We had live donkeys at our pageant. Which would have been all right if they'd remembered to feed them after the play. As it was, Florine Pody's obnoxious little girl (who was playing Mary) slipped on donkey doo and fell right off the stage with her dress over her head. She hollered like the bobcats had got her and we all tried really hard not to laugh. Later, I brought Florine a sweet potato pie by way of apology, but she wouldn't come to the door.

We need a new auto mechanic because Cooter Robbins has been run out of town for having unnatural relations with one of his neighbor's goats. It wasn't the animal abuse to which the townsfolk objected. After all, the men have all been country boys themselves. It was the fact that Cooter had chosen the billy goat and had treated him to a sit-down supper beforehand that got everyone riled. Now y'all know that is just wrong.

New Year's Eve was the usual Tallapoosa Possum Drop, but it wasn't as much fun this year, what with all those snooty Atlanta folks in attendance. Cleavon kept shooting off his mouth about how he knows for a fact they used to drop real live possums because he was the official possum catcher. So he and his dogs got escorted down the street to stay until the fireworks were over.

Earlene, her sister Raylene, their dad Earl, and their handyman Ray came over for peas and greens on New Year's. This is the last year I put up with Ray's stupid hot sauce prank. He puts a jar of corn liquor in front of the victim, then says he's mixing ketchup into their peas and cornbread. When the victim takes a bite of "ketchupped" peas and their eyes bug out like a stomped-on toad frog, they naturally grab for the only liquid within reach. This year he did it to the baby and, well, that is just too much.

Happy New Year. Hold tight to your blessings and your beer.

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Dear Santa,

Sun, 25 Nov 2007 | 22: 40

I want a retractable glow-in-the-dark Skee-ball alley, a countertop crematorium with HEPA filter, a voice recognition grocery list organizer, and one of these:



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Game

Wed, 14 Nov 2007 | 22: 50

When you live with someone for many years, you learn the intricacies of their bullshit games. We all have our own bullshit games, but we're usually too mired in them to notice we're playing. It's much easier to break down the plays of another and place silent bets on the next move.
 
There's the pause. Next is the look that precedes an especially convoluted rationalization. Ah, there is the outright lie swept under the arrogant posturing. Ten to one the pre-emptive brickbat will be landing on my head in four, three, two-- and there it is. Bullshit game well-played. Let's have another go, shall we?

Mapping out a breathtakingly illogical, unethical bullshit game becomes more than academic once the stakes are raised to real estate, livelihood and possibly life. When someone you know to be remorselessly self-serving begins making offhand comments about the detectability of insect poison, you should probably pay attention. A new version of an old bullshit game might be in play.

music: Alabama 3 -- "Sweet Joy"

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The Follow-up

Fri, 2 Nov 2007 | 0: 12

I want you to tell me it's neurological.
That it's hard-wired,
not something I can change.
That I've fought so hard for so long
without changing it
because I can't.
Not because I'm a perpetual failure.
Not because I'm taking up space
a real person could use.
 
I don't want you to tell me
from the papers on your desk
in your expensive argot
that I should concede.
That I've worked and bled
and battled for nothing.
That I am nothing,
after all.
 
I want you to tell me I'm different.
That I can find worth in that difference.
That I can find an alternate route,
a truer way to be.
To succeed.
 
I want you to tell me I'm different.
Not defective.
I want you to tell me I belong in this world.
 
I want you to have the answers.
I want you to be Superman
and save me.
 
I want
to live.

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Hippo birdie two ewes

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 | 18: 42





Whose underbite? In honor of Nicki's first birthday, I've uploaded a few images into her gallery.

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Bite-size Brats

Thu, 11 Oct 2007 | 21: 17

Cupboard raiders' tiny hooves flitter-patter,
musketing blueberries stenciling splatter.
Miffed at the mess, mother merry turns around
from rainy day gaming to storm-tinted frown.
Flipping lid, whiffling belt, striping the thighs
of zipping kids screaming fear, sudden in flight,
propelling up quaking walls, launching down stairs,
caroming 'cross yardage slick sucking the wares
of mud-weighted, tenny-tossed bipedal hares
who stumble and stack, heaped inside concrete drain,
laughing echo-quick lightning-ripped sewer main.
Penumbra pentacled slithering their bane
sighted by one whose alarm digit arrowed
shadows, not mass, of hunter for fresh farrowed.
Three little piggies gnawed down to the marrow.

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Sigh of relief

Tue, 9 Oct 2007 | 12: 46

Whew. I get to keep my job. The boy I call Mr. Shortcut finally passed all four parts of the CPA exam after several years and an ungodly number of tries and is now moving on to greener pastures in Atlanta. His last day is in about two weeks. Yay! Woo hoo! I mean, ahem, I did remember to say "We'll miss you" instead of "Hot damn, may I have your desk?"
 
With the firm's billable hours deficit, my awkwardness with people, and one accountant already fired, I've felt extremely insecure about my job for months. I was certain I was the next to go and kept seeing signs that I was on the way out. When the boss ordered one fewer license for our new backbone software than we have employees, I assumed that to be the most obvious cue to update my résumé.
 
But last month, I was included in the network overhaul and new programming plans. I got a new computer. I was consulted on disaster recovery. A glimmer of hope began to shine as I threw myself into workstation setups, backup implementation and hardware and software configs. (Gods, I love hardware.) I started working long days and weekends, feeling a bit of the old dedication returning, like maybe I'm staying after all.
 
This morning I was informed that Mr. Shortcut has resigned. Now I know that no one is getting fired, not even me. I took a deep breath and exhaled a lot of the fear I'd been hauling around.
 
Man, I actually feel lighter. Light like feathers on my dancing shoes. Why, I feel a song coming on: "I get to keep my jo - ob... yeah, yeah, I get to keep my-- " Oh, shit, I'd better get back to work.

music: Lyle Lovett -- "If I Had a Boat"

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Digging holes under the fence

Sat, 29 Sep 2007 | 18: 32

I went AWOL yesterday and took a seven-hour vacation. Other people take an honest week or two for a vacation; I steal seven hours.
 
I skulked around downtown talking to crazy people, sucking in the art at our kick-ass alternative-leaning comics store, listening to cock-eyed local music while pawing through used indie CDs, and whatever else I could fit in. This may sound as exciting as driving through Amarillo, Texas with a broken stereo, but it was an uncommon, clandestine treat for me. I am still not single yet, so my interests and chosen activities are still frowned upon by my current housemate/parole officer. Other people sneak around for illicit sex; I sneak around to see The Simpsons Movie.
 
Wow, I have just reached a new level of Pathetic 2: The Game Continues. If I can just get my avatar to drink more, I'll win.
 
music: Cowboy Junkies -- "It Doesn't Really Matter Anyway" ∞

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Join now and get a free tote bag

Fri, 21 Sep 2007 | 16: 45

Every few years, some geek I know or some psych-type I'm paying will suggest that I join Mensa. This I find mildly insulting. It sounds like "Hey, you're a socially retarded goon with arcane interests and a pedant's penchant for precision. Bet I know where you can find flakes just like you!" Um, thanks.
 
Every time someone has this idea, I selfishly question how membership would benefit me. What I'm hearing is that I could add it to my résumé and I could pay a lot of money to play board games. My, yes, that does sound exciting. Do tell me that I may also purchase a lapel pin that will identify me as a pompous ass.
 
I usually say, "I'm not much of a joiner," and let the matter drop. The truth, however, is that I am a joiner. I'm a big ole joining slut. Send me newsletters. Tell me I'll be eligible for scholarships. Invite me to conventions with other weirdoes. Make me a secretary yet again. Publish my stuff. Come on to me and then forget my name. Hell, yeah, here's my check. I've joined, volunteered for and drifted away from so many organizations of so many different categories, I couldn't possibly remember them all. Partly because I have a fantasy of finally fitting in somewhere. And partly because I can be a bit of a sucker.
 
All it takes is a few magic words to get me to sign up and start working. Words like "help enact change," "save animals," "educate [whomever]," or "support [alternative arts]" are good. "Advance your career" works. Also quite effective is "Come fly your freak flag with us." "... and us." "... and us." "... and don't forget us." "Yo, over here." My eyes grow large with the illusion of political progress or personal acceptance.
 
When I was eleven years old, I sat in an Assembly of God church listening to the Protestant membership appeal. Apparently, I was quite a nasty person already, having been born that way. The members and this God entity could help me be better in a bunch of ways and then I'd get this Heaven reward. I missed most of the insipid gold streets details as my attention was on the sloping pattern of pews in front of me and the money-green carpet leading brightly down to a low fence structure keeping the recruiter in his pen. It looked like a good place to tie a horse. And then the recruiter said the magic words. "When you get There, all of your questions will be answered." I immediately straightened up. My mouth dropped open and my eyes grew large at the thought of gaining all knowledge in an instant. So I signed up.
 
It turns out that this Heaven place can be reached without joining a club. Under certain biochemical influences, it can even be visited without the inconvenience of dying. It also turns out that the clubs who purport to help one get to this mythical Heaven place are goddamned expensive.
 
You'd think I would have learned my lesson about sales pitches a long time ago. I thought I had. But as the Mensa geek was pitching, he happened to say, "You'll be with people who will get your jokes." My eyes grew large...
 

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Asshole Day

Tue, 4 Sep 2007 | 18: 05

A three-day weekend is often followed by the only recurring holiday of the year -- Asshole Day. This is the day when the worst of the assholes are compelled to forcefully assert their dominance. Not that they don't keep the asshole spirit alive all year long, but Asshole Day is their very own special day. This is their day to party.
 
I have helped several of my clients celebrate their special day in their own boorishly special way. I'm only too happy to grab my ankles for those special, special assholes and squeal my appreciation for their special, special asshole talents. (I know what you're thinking, but I'm not going to make that joke just now, you pervert.)
 
So far I've paid a penalty out of my pocket for an asshole client's mistake, I've busted my butt to complete reports for an immediate payroll audit that a nascent asshole has known about since 20 July, and I've been subjected to caustic nit picking by the Asshole Parade's Grand Marshal, who leaps at any chance to appear as if he has two cerebral neurons to rub together. These are merely the most notable assholes of today's veritable cavalcade of assholes. And this blessed day is not over.
 
I have errands to run yet. Oh, what heady joys may crouch in wait for me this night? I don't want to be a jerk (After all, it isn't Jerk Day.), but I'm thinking of meeting my next asshole with a grin and a euphonious wish for a beautiful evening. "May you be blessed with love and showered with kindness," I will say. And then I will duck.

music: Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey -- "Muppet Babies Get Lost at the State Fair"

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You might be an accountant if...

Tue, 28 Aug 2007 | 16: 12

A four-item receipt is found with a date of five months ago. It is a personal sales receipt having nothing to do with business. Two of us save all of our receipts and both of us inspect said receipt for signs of ownership. We both shop at that store. We both buy those products. Oh, but wait. "I would never pay $7.49 for a floodlight when I know where to get it for around six bucks. The receipt must be yours," I say.

music: Lyle Lovett -- "Penguins"

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Is this deductible?

Sun, 19 Aug 2007 | 18: 47

The boss's daughter is getting married and one of the politely insincere invitations showed up in my mailbox. According to Etiquette for Idiots, this is a call for gifts which I am required to oblige. I bought a cookware set on the gift list because it was what I could reasonably afford.
 
Any normal person would have had the store wrap the cookware and called the job done. But not me. Oh no, I have to personalize it by adding the new version of a cookbook that's been useful to me for twenty years. Then I have to wrap it just right. I have to visit five stores and spend almost as much on the wrapping paraphernalia as the cookware. I have to take two hours to wrap it and top it with a handmade bow wired together with a tiny rose.
 
The well-tucked book is precisely square on top of the cookware box, the tape lines are parallel and the silver mesh ribbons are perfect. But -- who bleeding gives a shit?! I swear, I drive me crazy.
 
By the way, no, this is not a legitimate business expense. And yes, I actually researched it.
 
music & video: Fatboy Slim -- "Weapon of Choice"

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Not exactly Donne's "The Flea"

Wed, 15 Aug 2007 | 9: 35

The background music at my place of employment is corporate country. It is piped throughout the building, at mercifully low volume. One can make out song lyrics or the bigoted morning disc jingo's words if one is standing near a speaker. While I like what's amusingly termed "alternative country," I despise corporate country. Happily for my sanity, the speaker above my office door died some time ago. I swear I didn't kill it, unless it was via evil thoughts.
 
Occasionally I'll misunderstand lyrics in a way that makes a song more tolerable, nay, even enjoyable. "I may hang myself in the morning, but I'm gonna luv yew tonight" gave me weeks of entertaining video ideas. When I learned that the singer was only planning to hate herself in the morning, all the fun drained out of it and now my ears only hear the twanging. (All of these songs sound alike, I don't know if anyone has noticed.)
 
Recently I was making coffee under a stereo speaker and thought I heard some guy offering to check a woman for ticks. I laughed, but assumed that a lifetime of pulling at the nasty little bloodsuckers made me hear it wrong. I had paid no attention to the anti-suave lyrics back when the song first came out. Given that corporate country stations only play twelve songs a day, I had many opportunities to loiter at speakers and hear the whole song:
 
"Ticks" (the honest-to-God title) by Brad Paisley on free.napster.com or just the lyrics here.      
 
It is a genuinely funny song. Not funny clever, however, funny gross. Funny anaphrodisiac. Funny bizarre juxtaposition. But then I like bizarre juxtapositions. 
 
Having been to a bar alone exactly one time in my life, I'm unfamiliar with the broader range of pickup lines. I can only imagine what kind of person would offer to take the target into the tick-infested woods and then groom her.

Ticks will attach anywhere, but they especially like the scalp. If one is really going to check for ticks, one must flatten the fingertips against the scalp and methodically feel the entire head, carefully gripping and sliding the fingers through the hair. And then there's the problem of finding a tick. Ooh, baby, that's some sexy right there.
 
Hopefully, the tick song won't be playing in my head all day. You never know where one might be. There's lots of places that are hard to reach. Skanky. But funny skanky.
 
music: We got both kinds. Country and western.

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The delightful scent of hazardous substances

Tue, 14 Aug 2007 | 10: 11

Thanks mostly to unrelenting allergies and sleep deprivation, my olfactory system is screwed. Between the phantosmia (olfactory "hallucinations"), parosmia (olfactory misidentification) and anosmia (smeller ain't workin'), my brain sometimes correctly identifies an odor. It is truly an exciting few moments when I smell something that actually exists and can even -- oh, the giddy thrill -- track the odor to its origin. 
 
Most of the phantom or mistaken odors are rank or at least unpleasant. This morning's dominant odor is formalin. Formaldehyde and methanol would probably be unpleasant to most people, and would be to me if I focused on the "bad" lab memories. But I'm choosing to use this phantom odor to evoke only the best memories from the bio labs and not my protests, confrontations and conscience pangs.
 
I see the aluminum trays and feel the thick, blue pads squishing under the specimens. I hear the snap of latex gloves. I become one with the scalpel.
 
I remember looking at all of the specimens hanging out in formaldehyde solutions in every bio lab. I would sneak into the labs in the early morning, opening up cabinets and taking down jars. The marine specimens were probably my favorite, since the drab, lifeless bodies of more familiar herps and other animals could get depressing. I'd say "good morning" to the Laticaudid sea snakes, but "I'm sorry" to the fetal pig, who looked like a dead puppy. I knew exactly how the fetal pig got there.
 
Maybe it's gross. Maybe it's toxic. But I kind of like the smell of formalin.
 
music: David Byrne -- "She Only Sleeps"

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Mousetrap

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 | 13: 40

My soon-to-be ex shot me in the chest in this morning's dream. I responded to a call for help in the middle of the night and got blasted as I opened the bedroom door. Right before I died in the dream, I realized that the police would have no trouble believing an "Oops, I thought she was an intruder" story from the distraught handicapped.
 
I wasn't surprised. I was disappointed that I hadn't thought of it first.

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What, me hurry?

Tue, 7 Aug 2007 | 18: 37

This morning I had to run to the vet clinic to drop off a stool sample (Nickimonster has chronic colitis of as-yet-undetermined origin, but that's another story.). The location of the vet clinic gives me an excuse to pick up a Mexican Mocha at the Jittery Joe's relatively close by.
 
I zip into JJ's drive-through and make my usual six-word order. The guy at the window says, "You look like you've already had coffee." I laugh, not wanting to admit that actually, no, I had not even begun today's caffeine drip. Why do people say these things to me?
 
The barista behind the window guy grins mischievously, all the way up to his Christian Slater eyebrows, and says, "Would you like a second shot?" Holy pulse rate, Batman, is this my lucky day or what?
 
"Yeah!" I say, as if I'm cheering for the home team.
 
When the window guy hands off my double-shot cup of joy, he says, rather solemnly, "Be careful." I laugh, not knowing whether to take that as a comment on my perceived mental state or a poison warning from some guy who thinks he's in a remake of Heathers.
 
I dart back into traffic, wondering what it could be that makes strangers think I'm so caffeinated. It isn't as if my eyes are spinning. Are they? I don't check the mirror. I check the speedometer instead and see that I'm already doing 65 down a 45.
 
I'm first in my lane at the red light. In the next lane is a beater F-150 whose driver gently touches the accelerator so I can hear the rumble of a decidedly non-beater engine. My old, tricked-out Toyota SR5 was frequently challenged at stoplights, but my unassuming Tacoma (with twice the power) just doesn't merit that kind of juvenile attention (Neither did my SR5.). However, reminded of past stoplight drags, I blast straight up the hill at the green light.
 
The F-150 eventually rolls in beside me at the next stoplight. When the light turns green, he roars ahead while I watch, laughing myself silly. I did not know we were playing. One more stoplight is between me and my office and I chide myself for being so dangerously asinine to even remotely consider-- and the light glows green and I beat the thundering F-150 to the turn.
 
Flying into my office with my full cup of coffee, I check the time on my computer. Dang, over twenty-one minutes. I still have not bested my nineteen-minute record.
 
A co-worker returns a few files and drops them in one stack on my guest chair. Augh! I immediately separate the files into years and then alphabetically, lining them up at the front of my desk. The co-worker offers the quotidian suggestion that perhaps I'm "wound a little too tight." 
 
I sharpen my red pencil, flick a lint speck off my keyboard drawer and take a sip of the most delicious non-alcoholic coffee beverage locally created. Ahhhhh. Now I've had my coffee.

music: David Byrne -- "Dialog Box"

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