Me: It’s an old wive’s tale.
Her: So?
Me: I expected you to know that.
Her: Why?
Me: Well, you being an old wife and everything.
A sound not unlike all wildlife being slaughtered is heard.
Me (screaming for my life): It was a joke! It was a joke! It was a joke!
Things go black after that. All I know is that my testicles hurt. How she did that, I don’t know. We were on the phone.
In my defense, she's not even close to thirty yet. I thought she'd see the humor.
I was wrong. Very wrong.
That won't happen again.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Speechless
That’s what I am. I have nothing to report, nothing to discuss and nothing with which to even amuse myself.
I am bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored.
If you have ever processed manuscript for a textbook, you know the boredom of which I speak. Colon crushing boredom. You sit there with the fruits of your year-long labor in front of you and think, “wow, I have to go through that and do really boring things to it. Yay.”
So, what’s going on with you? Nothing? Good. Keep it that way.
The only thing I have to report is that I’m looking forward to this album.
That and a Flaming Lips EP that’s due out soon. It has a new Christmas song, so I’ll definitely need that for “A Very Gary Christmas 2003.” I have a ton of new songs for this year’s version, but nothing I’m terribly excited about.
Wow. How bored am I? I just brought up Christmas in October. I’ve become one of those people.
I could tell you about the squirrels I’ve seen in my back yard. They seem to be having a good time lately. Either that or they’ve turned murderous. I can’t really tell.
I can confess that I suddenly desperately miss reviewing movies. It’s been about three years since I’ve done it. Recently I’ve gotten the twinge to make snarky comments about bad movies. Not that I have the time to go to screenings like I did when I worked at the failed dot com. (Though those mid-day press screenings were fun. I’d sit with a variety of local radio guys and make fun of movies with them, in the hopes that they’d start sharing free CDs with me. They never did. Jerks.)
I’ve been trying to figure out how I can sit at home and review DVDs and make snarky comments. Thing is, I want to get paid for it. I’ve had the opportunity to do it for online people, but I don’t want to. That’s a time donation thing. Somehow when I get paid, and am told not to be snarky, I get better results. Plus, a great teacher once asked me if I considered myself a writer. I told him yes. “Are you getting paid?” Nope. “Then you’re not a writer. You just happen to be writing.”
I wonder what happened to him. He used to write theater reviews for the RFT before it sucked. He’s disappeared.
Oh well. I’m going to be bored now. And explain to John why I hate Chicago (the band, not the town).
Oh look. Something shiny!
I am bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored.
If you have ever processed manuscript for a textbook, you know the boredom of which I speak. Colon crushing boredom. You sit there with the fruits of your year-long labor in front of you and think, “wow, I have to go through that and do really boring things to it. Yay.”
So, what’s going on with you? Nothing? Good. Keep it that way.
The only thing I have to report is that I’m looking forward to this album.
That and a Flaming Lips EP that’s due out soon. It has a new Christmas song, so I’ll definitely need that for “A Very Gary Christmas 2003.” I have a ton of new songs for this year’s version, but nothing I’m terribly excited about.
Wow. How bored am I? I just brought up Christmas in October. I’ve become one of those people.
I could tell you about the squirrels I’ve seen in my back yard. They seem to be having a good time lately. Either that or they’ve turned murderous. I can’t really tell.
I can confess that I suddenly desperately miss reviewing movies. It’s been about three years since I’ve done it. Recently I’ve gotten the twinge to make snarky comments about bad movies. Not that I have the time to go to screenings like I did when I worked at the failed dot com. (Though those mid-day press screenings were fun. I’d sit with a variety of local radio guys and make fun of movies with them, in the hopes that they’d start sharing free CDs with me. They never did. Jerks.)
I’ve been trying to figure out how I can sit at home and review DVDs and make snarky comments. Thing is, I want to get paid for it. I’ve had the opportunity to do it for online people, but I don’t want to. That’s a time donation thing. Somehow when I get paid, and am told not to be snarky, I get better results. Plus, a great teacher once asked me if I considered myself a writer. I told him yes. “Are you getting paid?” Nope. “Then you’re not a writer. You just happen to be writing.”
I wonder what happened to him. He used to write theater reviews for the RFT before it sucked. He’s disappeared.
Oh well. I’m going to be bored now. And explain to John why I hate Chicago (the band, not the town).
Oh look. Something shiny!
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Skeeze Alert
Why is this news? Courtney Love had drugs? NO! Get out of here.
It seems to me that a newsworthy item about Courtney Love would be, "Courtney Love found with only a pack of Beeman's and some Tic Tacs. Sources also indicate that she may have actually showered. Film at 11."
It seems to me that a newsworthy item about Courtney Love would be, "Courtney Love found with only a pack of Beeman's and some Tic Tacs. Sources also indicate that she may have actually showered. Film at 11."
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Spam! Spamity Spam!
I apparently have to act now. Quickly. The decision needs to be made now. While supplies last. My penis is too small, my house payment too big and I need prescription pain killers. Jessica is a 24 year old who saw my profile online and would like to meet me. I’m not sure if she wants to meet me because of my new, bigger penis or because of my connection with the online pharmacy that will hook me up with Vicodin. Maybe she’s impressed with my house payment. That I’m married doesn’t seem to bother her.
But I can learn how to please my lover and make her (or him) beg for more! I can make her scream and moan all night long!
Actually, I don’t need help with that. When I put my ice cold feet on her back while she’s sleeping she usually screams and moans. Hits too.
But I can also get Viagra, which my new bigger penis will probably need. Or, if my bigger penis still doesn’t satisfy my lover I can get Xanax or Valium from a reputable online pharmacy to help me deal with my depression. I can medicate myself into a large and unhappy mass of fat and hair.
With an unusually large erection. And out of debt, thanks to the debt experts. (Because of historically low interest rates, of course.)
The one I haven’t figured out is from Woodrow Orozco, who makes this offer: “aiza hisporiography og c addaqphfqvj n.”
Don Corleone couldn’t make such an unrefusable offer.
“David R.” is offering me “racing stuff” while Taylor Tapia is offering to show me how to “crack into pr0n sites.” (Spelling changed to keep out Googlers.)
Herman David claims, “discounted Rx Valium husbandmen”. I don’t know if the Valium is discounted or if it’s the husbandmen. I’m not sure if I’m even in the market for husbandmen. Am I? Maybe with my bigger penis I’ll need one. Or maybe my wife will need one because even with the Viagra in my blood, I’ll be doped out from the Xanax, Vicodin and Valium.
Louie Weber offers “cheery gravvn”, which I may actually check out because my last load of gravvn was anything but cheery.
Effie Rudolph asks me a very valid question, “Why waist your time at doctors office!attica” Or maybe Effie exclaims that. I think “attica” is where she works and lives. I think I’m going to go with Effie because she offers me a wide variety of drugs that I need no prior prescription for! Here’s what she offers:
“Trim your waistline, eliminate arthritic pain, relax all your muscles, improve your sex life, eliminate your depression, get birth control, skin care, enhancements & more, quit smoking, prevent hare loss, impotence & more, sleeping aids, allergy protection, heartburn relief and MORE!”
Thank GOD. I was so worried about “hare loss”. Fluffy ran off yesterday with the squirrel and weasel, but we found her. If I had lost my beloved hare, I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe relax all of my muscles. Except my penis, of course.
I don’t know where I’m going to get the money to pay for all of these things. The refinancing, the prescription drugs that I don’t have a prescription for, the penis enlargement, my 24 year old girlfriend named Jessica and all of my sex enhancements.
Maybe I’ll take up Mjube Inbote on his offer to transfer $13 million to my bank account. It’s all perfectly legal! His dictatorial government just won’t let keep it. He needs my offshore account to legally transfer his money out of the country. It’s pretty sad because his father was assassinated in 1997 in a government plot. He just wants to get his family and their fortune out of their oppressive country so they can live a safe and happy life. And he’ll share 10%! I could use that money to keep my 24 year old girlfriend Jessica drugged up on Vicodin. And my erection going in my house, with low monthly payments. It’ll certainly protect my hare.
You know, I can see you thinking that all of this is not a good idea. But I wouldn’t mess with me. Because Courtney Swanson is selling a banned CD that will help me ruin you, if you piss me off. According to Courtney, “you will be able to investigate your friends, enemies and lovers in just minutes using the Internet. You can track down old flames from college, or you can dig up some dirt on your boss to make sure you get that next promotion! Why are they so upset? Because this C D gives you freedom. And you can't buy freedom at your local Walmart. You will have the freedom to avoid c reditors, judgments, lawsuits, IRS taxcollectors, criminal indictments, your greedy ex-wife or ex-husband, and much more!”
It’s true. You can’t buy freedom at Walmart. All they have is oppression, repression and two drafts of the Patriot Act in aisle 11.
So when you see me coming down the street, with my ten percent of $13 million, Jessica on my arm and a huge bulge in my pants, don’t say anything. Because I can destroy you with a banned CD.
Not that I’ll care. With the Vicodin/Xanax/Valium mix I’ll be taking I’ll probably be babbling like Elvis at his last Vegas concert.
Thank you! Thank you vermy munch! Gimme a popsicle.
But I can learn how to please my lover and make her (or him) beg for more! I can make her scream and moan all night long!
Actually, I don’t need help with that. When I put my ice cold feet on her back while she’s sleeping she usually screams and moans. Hits too.
But I can also get Viagra, which my new bigger penis will probably need. Or, if my bigger penis still doesn’t satisfy my lover I can get Xanax or Valium from a reputable online pharmacy to help me deal with my depression. I can medicate myself into a large and unhappy mass of fat and hair.
With an unusually large erection. And out of debt, thanks to the debt experts. (Because of historically low interest rates, of course.)
The one I haven’t figured out is from Woodrow Orozco, who makes this offer: “aiza hisporiography og c addaqphfqvj n.”
Don Corleone couldn’t make such an unrefusable offer.
“David R.” is offering me “racing stuff” while Taylor Tapia is offering to show me how to “crack into pr0n sites.” (Spelling changed to keep out Googlers.)
Herman David claims, “discounted Rx Valium husbandmen”. I don’t know if the Valium is discounted or if it’s the husbandmen. I’m not sure if I’m even in the market for husbandmen. Am I? Maybe with my bigger penis I’ll need one. Or maybe my wife will need one because even with the Viagra in my blood, I’ll be doped out from the Xanax, Vicodin and Valium.
Louie Weber offers “cheery gravvn”, which I may actually check out because my last load of gravvn was anything but cheery.
Effie Rudolph asks me a very valid question, “Why waist your time at doctors office!attica” Or maybe Effie exclaims that. I think “attica” is where she works and lives. I think I’m going to go with Effie because she offers me a wide variety of drugs that I need no prior prescription for! Here’s what she offers:
“Trim your waistline, eliminate arthritic pain, relax all your muscles, improve your sex life, eliminate your depression, get birth control, skin care, enhancements & more, quit smoking, prevent hare loss, impotence & more, sleeping aids, allergy protection, heartburn relief and MORE!”
Thank GOD. I was so worried about “hare loss”. Fluffy ran off yesterday with the squirrel and weasel, but we found her. If I had lost my beloved hare, I don’t know what I’d do. Maybe relax all of my muscles. Except my penis, of course.
I don’t know where I’m going to get the money to pay for all of these things. The refinancing, the prescription drugs that I don’t have a prescription for, the penis enlargement, my 24 year old girlfriend named Jessica and all of my sex enhancements.
Maybe I’ll take up Mjube Inbote on his offer to transfer $13 million to my bank account. It’s all perfectly legal! His dictatorial government just won’t let keep it. He needs my offshore account to legally transfer his money out of the country. It’s pretty sad because his father was assassinated in 1997 in a government plot. He just wants to get his family and their fortune out of their oppressive country so they can live a safe and happy life. And he’ll share 10%! I could use that money to keep my 24 year old girlfriend Jessica drugged up on Vicodin. And my erection going in my house, with low monthly payments. It’ll certainly protect my hare.
You know, I can see you thinking that all of this is not a good idea. But I wouldn’t mess with me. Because Courtney Swanson is selling a banned CD that will help me ruin you, if you piss me off. According to Courtney, “you will be able to investigate your friends, enemies and lovers in just minutes using the Internet. You can track down old flames from college, or you can dig up some dirt on your boss to make sure you get that next promotion! Why are they so upset? Because this C D gives you freedom. And you can't buy freedom at your local Walmart. You will have the freedom to avoid c reditors, judgments, lawsuits, IRS taxcollectors, criminal indictments, your greedy ex-wife or ex-husband, and much more!”
It’s true. You can’t buy freedom at Walmart. All they have is oppression, repression and two drafts of the Patriot Act in aisle 11.
So when you see me coming down the street, with my ten percent of $13 million, Jessica on my arm and a huge bulge in my pants, don’t say anything. Because I can destroy you with a banned CD.
Not that I’ll care. With the Vicodin/Xanax/Valium mix I’ll be taking I’ll probably be babbling like Elvis at his last Vegas concert.
Thank you! Thank you vermy munch! Gimme a popsicle.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Is That My Spleen?
What a strange weekend. I had Friday off, so the girls and I spent the day at the zoo. Matilda had a very important set of specifics that we had to accomplish by the time we left. Monkeys. Lions. Bears. Penguins. Train. Apes. Not necessarily in that order. I’m happy to say we accomplished them all.
We arrived at the zoo shortly after it opened. We would have been the first people through the gates, but they decided to rip up every road leading to the place and not tell anyone that there is only one possible way to get to the zoo. So I tried every route I knew. Naturally, the fourth one was successful. Then the line for parking (it’s free because we’re members) was insane. It would take the attendant five minutes to check in each car. Moron.
Finally we were able to get into the zoo. It was deserted. We immediately went into the Monkey House. Almost every species was in its habitat sleeping. When we came upon the Ring-Tailed Lemurs, they were all huddled together in one sleeping mass. Matilda nearly exploded because of the cuteness. She sat down in front of their habitat and started cooing and stroking the glass. The words “Aw how cute” were used at least 372 times in less than one minute. Within seconds Gertrude was out of her stroller at her sister’s side cooing at the lemurs.
The last time we went to the zoo with Gertrude, she was somewhat uninterested. This time, with an intense interest in all animals, she was going nuts with excitement over everything. As we passed the giraffes, one came up within two feet of us to eat leaves. Again, she nearly passed out with excitement. “Jiaf eating leaves,” she said. “I eat them?” I couldn’t figure out if “them” was referring to leaves or the giraffes. Figuring we’d get in trouble if my two-year-old hopped the fence and was trying to bite a giant-necked mammal that is quite possibly endangered, we decided to move on.
The girls fell in love with the penguins, so much so that I ended up spending $20 on stuffed penguins. They stroked and loved them for the rest of the day, until Gertrude lost hers and tried to steal Matilda’s.
One of our last tasks was to ride the train. Gertrude had seen many trains on her way to Meemee’s house, but had never ridden one. As we waited in line, the two girls stood there holding their penguins, cute as can be. Gertrude kept asking, “Train comin’?” I picked her up and was showing her where the train would come from and she watched intently, patting the back of my head. The mom in front of us gave me that “Oh how cute an incompetent daddy is trying to care for his children and I bet he cried when his wife left him alone with them” look. I resisted the urge to tell her how huge her ass looked in those running pants. It was probably for the best.
Once the train arrived, Gertrude crammed herself between Matilda and me and waited patiently for the train to go. The entire time, with other kids screaming and getting out of their seats, little Gertrude sat quietly with her hands in her lap and a giant grin on her face. As we went through tunnels the grin grew wider. Better yet, she would wave at passing pedestrians.
Only one bad thing happened the entire time. Matilda managed to get her sister hooked on “poptorn”. Now, if you ask Gert what she wants for dinner she’ll say “poptorn” (if she doesn’t ask for her old staples eggs or bacon.)
Saturday was spent tying up loose ends and getting ready to go to a massive family dinner. The dinner was great and I ate so much Italian food that I probably wouldn’t have had to eat for a month. I said probably.
I woke up at three in the morning not feeling well. I wasn’t nauseous. Just feeling strange. I went into the bathroom and violently puked my guts up. When I say violently, I mean with a medieval force heretofore unknown to man. Each retch woke up another neighbor. Each time Captain Vomit reported for duty, we’d get calls from surrounding counties asking if I was okay. This repeated itself every ten minutes for 90 minutes.
I didn’t drink that much, so I knew it wasn’t the beer. I doubt it was food poisoning, unless the seven pounds of prosciutto that I ate was drizzled in e. coli. The next morning my wife noticed I had a rash on my face and chest. Must have been allergic to something I ate.
I feel better now, especially after laying on the couch all day watching every Planet of the Apes movie in order.
Now I will forever associate puking with Cornelius’ life story.
Get your filthy paws off me you damn, dirty prosciutto ham!
We arrived at the zoo shortly after it opened. We would have been the first people through the gates, but they decided to rip up every road leading to the place and not tell anyone that there is only one possible way to get to the zoo. So I tried every route I knew. Naturally, the fourth one was successful. Then the line for parking (it’s free because we’re members) was insane. It would take the attendant five minutes to check in each car. Moron.
Finally we were able to get into the zoo. It was deserted. We immediately went into the Monkey House. Almost every species was in its habitat sleeping. When we came upon the Ring-Tailed Lemurs, they were all huddled together in one sleeping mass. Matilda nearly exploded because of the cuteness. She sat down in front of their habitat and started cooing and stroking the glass. The words “Aw how cute” were used at least 372 times in less than one minute. Within seconds Gertrude was out of her stroller at her sister’s side cooing at the lemurs.
The last time we went to the zoo with Gertrude, she was somewhat uninterested. This time, with an intense interest in all animals, she was going nuts with excitement over everything. As we passed the giraffes, one came up within two feet of us to eat leaves. Again, she nearly passed out with excitement. “Jiaf eating leaves,” she said. “I eat them?” I couldn’t figure out if “them” was referring to leaves or the giraffes. Figuring we’d get in trouble if my two-year-old hopped the fence and was trying to bite a giant-necked mammal that is quite possibly endangered, we decided to move on.
The girls fell in love with the penguins, so much so that I ended up spending $20 on stuffed penguins. They stroked and loved them for the rest of the day, until Gertrude lost hers and tried to steal Matilda’s.
One of our last tasks was to ride the train. Gertrude had seen many trains on her way to Meemee’s house, but had never ridden one. As we waited in line, the two girls stood there holding their penguins, cute as can be. Gertrude kept asking, “Train comin’?” I picked her up and was showing her where the train would come from and she watched intently, patting the back of my head. The mom in front of us gave me that “Oh how cute an incompetent daddy is trying to care for his children and I bet he cried when his wife left him alone with them” look. I resisted the urge to tell her how huge her ass looked in those running pants. It was probably for the best.
Once the train arrived, Gertrude crammed herself between Matilda and me and waited patiently for the train to go. The entire time, with other kids screaming and getting out of their seats, little Gertrude sat quietly with her hands in her lap and a giant grin on her face. As we went through tunnels the grin grew wider. Better yet, she would wave at passing pedestrians.
Only one bad thing happened the entire time. Matilda managed to get her sister hooked on “poptorn”. Now, if you ask Gert what she wants for dinner she’ll say “poptorn” (if she doesn’t ask for her old staples eggs or bacon.)
Saturday was spent tying up loose ends and getting ready to go to a massive family dinner. The dinner was great and I ate so much Italian food that I probably wouldn’t have had to eat for a month. I said probably.
I woke up at three in the morning not feeling well. I wasn’t nauseous. Just feeling strange. I went into the bathroom and violently puked my guts up. When I say violently, I mean with a medieval force heretofore unknown to man. Each retch woke up another neighbor. Each time Captain Vomit reported for duty, we’d get calls from surrounding counties asking if I was okay. This repeated itself every ten minutes for 90 minutes.
I didn’t drink that much, so I knew it wasn’t the beer. I doubt it was food poisoning, unless the seven pounds of prosciutto that I ate was drizzled in e. coli. The next morning my wife noticed I had a rash on my face and chest. Must have been allergic to something I ate.
I feel better now, especially after laying on the couch all day watching every Planet of the Apes movie in order.
Now I will forever associate puking with Cornelius’ life story.
Get your filthy paws off me you damn, dirty prosciutto ham!
Thursday, October 23, 2003
I Forgot to Mention . . .
Matilda won an award for an essay she wrote on why she won’t use drugs. We read it last night and it was very nice. But it was eclipsed by the brilliance and insightfulness of one of her classmates’ essays. I swear I am not making this up:
“I don’t use drugs because using drugs makes you have a thing on your credit. When you have a thing on your credit you can’t buy no things. If you use drugs you can’t find no work. I don’t want no thing on my credit.”
Now there’s a winning example of just the type of man I want my girls to marry. A man who can’t find no work because he’s a lazy bum, not a crackhead.
“I don’t use drugs because using drugs makes you have a thing on your credit. When you have a thing on your credit you can’t buy no things. If you use drugs you can’t find no work. I don’t want no thing on my credit.”
Now there’s a winning example of just the type of man I want my girls to marry. A man who can’t find no work because he’s a lazy bum, not a crackhead.
Hi Kids
I’m in deadline time again, so daily ramblings will probably be a pipe-dream at this point.
Tomorrow I’ll have both kids home. I think we’re going to the zoo. Might leave Gertrude in the monkey cage. Haven’t decided yet.
Kids are doing great. They’re both adorable and increasingly brilliant. Last night was Matilda’s parent teacher conference. She’s getting the highest grades she’s ever gotten and is quite an accomplished reader and writer. I was quite pleased to find out that she’s also excelling in math and shaming the other students with her work in science.
A powerful argument could be made her on nature versus nurture because, biologically speaking, Matilda’s mother is the only one who could have genetically passed along any intelligence. Since I’m not her bio-dad, that’s all I have to say about that.
So, yay nurture!
Gertrude woke up at 4:30 with a bad dream and requested daddy cuddling. I was so sound asleep that I wasn’t aware of this. All I know is that I was being patted on the shoulder to the refrain of:
“Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Puppies nip. I go poopie on the potty. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. I eat Wiggle nocks. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Want bacon? Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. I have a bad dream. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Look! Kitty. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad.”
I recall patting her, saying something about sleepy time and falling back asleep to have a dream about a monkey who bowled a perfect 300. I was his manager. We lived in Utah and we became very rich on the PBA circuit. But it all fell apart so we started a Monkey/Man wallpaper hanging business.
No more garlicky dinners.
Tomorrow I’ll have both kids home. I think we’re going to the zoo. Might leave Gertrude in the monkey cage. Haven’t decided yet.
Kids are doing great. They’re both adorable and increasingly brilliant. Last night was Matilda’s parent teacher conference. She’s getting the highest grades she’s ever gotten and is quite an accomplished reader and writer. I was quite pleased to find out that she’s also excelling in math and shaming the other students with her work in science.
A powerful argument could be made her on nature versus nurture because, biologically speaking, Matilda’s mother is the only one who could have genetically passed along any intelligence. Since I’m not her bio-dad, that’s all I have to say about that.
So, yay nurture!
Gertrude woke up at 4:30 with a bad dream and requested daddy cuddling. I was so sound asleep that I wasn’t aware of this. All I know is that I was being patted on the shoulder to the refrain of:
“Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Puppies nip. I go poopie on the potty. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. I eat Wiggle nocks. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Want bacon? Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. I have a bad dream. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad. Look! Kitty. Daddy. Dad. Daddy. Dad.”
I recall patting her, saying something about sleepy time and falling back asleep to have a dream about a monkey who bowled a perfect 300. I was his manager. We lived in Utah and we became very rich on the PBA circuit. But it all fell apart so we started a Monkey/Man wallpaper hanging business.
No more garlicky dinners.
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