Drop Dead Cute

Cute people annoy me. By "cute" I mean anyone who gets away with horrifying crap because they're adorable.
This starts out in school. There was always at least one kid who suckered the teacher into thinking thet were bright when, in fact, they were just cute. He or she was rarely punished for bad behavior or poor work. The teach gave the bastard a pass because how could such a darling creature really be dumb or naughty?
The rest of us toads had to hustle to do well in school and stay out of trouble. The cute people glide through school and then life, giggling and mooching off people who can't get enough of them.
Cute offenses include:

• Getting out of work by pretending to be too dumb to know how to do it (and acting impressed with the skills of the sucker that does it for them.)
• Rationalizing atrocious deeds as innocent mistakes or worse, examples of how funny-crazy-cute they are.
  
• Saying "cute" things that, if said by anyone else, would label them a jackass.
• Baby talk.
  
• Prima Donna histrionics that would get us mere mortals shunned, arrested or institutionalized
• Suddenly being your best buddy when they need money
• Gossip
  
• Murder

You think I'm kidding about murder? Ted Bundy played it cute all the way to the electric chair. His friends (and up to a point, his victims) thought he was the nicest guy ever. So funny, so charming. Meanwhile he's on a murder spree that would freak out Jack the Ripper. Mr Cute sometimes kept their severed heads as trophies.
Okay, I suppose your typical cute person isn't killing people. They're smarter than that. Why kill someone when it's so much easier to fleece them? A dead guy won't help you move, get you a job, give you a place to stay, or lend you fifty bucks.

Note- Yeah, yeah, I know it's considered uncool to use the Comic Sans typeface in the speech balloons. This says "I'm an amateur , I'm not very original, and I'm too ignorant to realize what a lackluster typeface this is." Then again, I'm not getting paid for this and few people read it. I'm considering getting buying custom typeface software to look a bit more savvy. Then again, when you put a designer sweater on a dog, it's still a dog.

The Namowal Show

At work we have a Toastmasters club. Sounds pretentious, but it's just an informal speech club. Many of the speeches are done on the fly and get hilariously silly. It's not like we're debating the cultural aesthetics of modern vs. postmodern interior illuminated signage and the societal aesthetic blah blah blah...
Trying to attract newcomers, one member sent an email to everybody. She added details, including "Namowal's speech is 'My Goofy Life'".
Uh Oh, I thought, feeling shyness creep in. Now everyone knows I'm giving a speech about myself. What if people are curious and I have to give the speech in front of a big audience? What if I'm boring? What if they walk out...?
I didn't have to worry. Lets say we almost had to postpone the meeting due to low attendance and leave it at that.

Dolphin Games

When I was a kid I lived near Marineland. It was a common family outing. I remember playing catch with dolphins. Some lived in a tank surrounded by an outer wall. The dolphins had a basketball and would fling it our way. We'd catch it and toss it back.
Half the time the dolphin's toss landed between his tank and the safety wall. We'd have to fish it out with a stick, coaxing it up the wall untill we could grab it. The dolphin watched, tipping his head and body so he could view our struggle. I think he liked that. He was strong enough to toss the ball beyond the wall. He wanted to see us sweat.
"Isn't he cruel," his tankmates probably observed, "The way he keeps teasing those dumb animals!"

Head Cheese

Head Cheese: Rogue of Luncheon Meat.
Most cold cuts are dull. Baloney, ham, and turkey are homogeneous. Olive loaf is a bit goofy, like someone in a pop art shirt. Head Cheese steals the show. That crazy mosaic of flesh and tongue, suspended in dishwater gelatin. Look up close and you can see skin layers and taste buds.
It's the one meat product (the other is octopus) that kids giggle about at the butcher counter.
Head Cheese is honest. You can see exactly what you're eating. Some people get grossed out by the tongue, but I figure, there's already one in your mouth., so it can't be that alien.
Baloney and hot dogs grind their contents into putty. How do I know the grinders aren't adding stuff that doesn't belong as a goof?
The gelatanous element also disgusts people. Meat chunks seem out of place in Jello. At least toss in some pineapple rings, one thinks. But, technically, gelatin comes from skin and bones. A home-made head cheese actually uses the head if the pig to derive the gloop. Who knew a pig's head could come in so handy? Again, it's honest. The gelatinous element isn't masquerading as fruity goodness. It's saying "I'm not ashamed of my origins! Behold: my fellow pieces of pig."
Do I eat the stuff? Not much, but if I had to choose between a slice of head cheese and a slice of baloney, I'd pick head cheese.
One final thought:
Head Cheese comes from the pig's head. Baloney comes from the other end. Take your pick.

Down for the Count

The party had an open bar, but I didn't drink. I had to drive afterwards and didn't want to risk it. Others drank instead.
Guess who passed out? Me.
Once in awhile I feel faint for no reason. Maybe once or twice a year. Nothing's wrong with me. It's just one of those things.
There's a few places where one should never pass out:
1. Behind the wheel
2. On a tightrope
3. At a party with an open bar
I remember chitchatting with friends. The lightheadness came in waves. The room grew quiet, muffled by a hiss. Reality seemed rolling and dreamlike.
No! Not now! I told myself. Sit down! Find a chair! Find a chair!
The house was crammed with people. Even if I spotted a chair I wouldn't have been able to get to it.
Maybe this feeling will go away... I thought.
The hiss grew louder, my vision tunnelled
"Oh my God" a friend said....
Minutes, probably seconds later the world returned. I was on a couch, surrounded by curious party goers.
"It's nothing," I said, feeling stupid. "This happens all the time. Probably low blood sugar."
Someone shoved a bread slice at me and another handed me the phone. 911 was on the line. I told them I was fine. No, I wasn't diabetic or anything else.
"You sure you don't want us to come check you out?"the man on the line asked.
Yeah right! I thought A freaking ambulance visit! That'd be completely embarrassing to have the paramedics wailing up to the door, while party goers and neighbors watched. Even worse, I'd look like a double dip jerk when it was confirmed that I was fine. No thanks! (I also wasn't insured and didn't want to pay the bill.)
I convinced them I wasn't in danger, hung up, got up, and the party continued.
"Guess you had a bit too much," another friend joked, days later.
I didn't get it. "Huh?"
"You know," he said, mimicking someone drinking.
"I wasn't drunk! I didn't have anything to drink!"
"Sure," he laughed, convinced otherwise.
That was years ago.
To this day he thinks I got hammered and passed out. Ouch.
Another witness later accused me of faking the whole thing for attention. That was nice of her.

Wackyland

I was a weird kid. At recess I'd spend half my time wandering bizarre worlds I dreamed up. Ramps, arches, glowing vats of liquid, dinosaurs, and whatever craziness I dreamed up. Some characters I concocted included a lemon on wheels who squirted enemies with lemonade out of his nose,

an evil yam with spaghetti hair, a robot ladybug, a set of rogue set of flying knives who cut off every left foot they could find, monsters, and more. I didn't actually see these things. I knew they weren't real . When you're a kid who is shy and laughably uncoordinated recess is boring if you don't spice it up with pretend stuff.

Note
After I drew the second pic I realized that since he's rolling, his spray shouldn't be linear. I'm pretty sure. Then again, since he's a freaking lemon, he shouldn't have a face or wheels either.

Tell it to the Plant (Baloney Cubed)

I don't know how these catalogs find me.
This one offored "Holistic" courses and workshops. In my experience, when you see a word like "holistic", you're going to see a lot of half-baked sillyness nearby.
Sure enough, for a few hundred bucks you can take classes on "talking to the spirits", alleged past lives, and general mind-body voodoo.
Including this workshop:
"Tree Whispering^TM
Coming from the plant's point of view"
Plant's point of view? Huh? Do trees get embarrassed when their leaves turn red and fall out? Does the Chrismas tree feel sad when he's shown the curb? Do weeds feel persecuted? I'll bet bonsai have issues.
"Come from the plant's point of view by expanding our heart-oriented perception to feel tree growth energy and experience connection with nature's life force."
Tree growth energy? What are they talking about? I thought trees got their energy by converting sunlight energy to glucose. Silly me.
"Brief lessons in 'new' sciences and ancient wisdom..."
This sounds like the same crowd that thinks afixing an "ologist" to their idea makes it scientifically valid. Ancient Wisdom? Isn't that a positive spin on "folklore?"
The discription continues:
"lay the foundation for mediditive and sensory excercise that activate or validate our mutual collaboration with trees..."
I think this is fancy talk for :"we'll do stuff to help us appreciate trees." Maybe the inflated language helps justify the $280 price tag.
Curious as to what "mutual collaboration with trees " entailed, I looked them up on the web.
This is an actual quote from their web page:
"You’ll feel the Life Force energy of plants and know them as powerful, complex (yes, even intelligent) living beings."
Intelligent? Gosh on a platter, I thought you needed, maybe, A BRAIN for that?

I think I'll pass on this course, but I might contact them to see if they'd let my cactus audit it.

p.s. For those curious on why people think plants can think, read your mind, and tap dance when you're not looking-- and why it's a load of fertilizer, click here.

Calf Eats Chicken

I always thought the world was screwy, but if this is true, it just got screwier.
A family in India who raised chickens couldn't figure out why they were vanishing. Theft? Preditors? The mystery was solved when someone caught their pet calf eating them.
Supposedly he sneaks into the chicken coop and snatches them up with "the precission of a jungle cat." Huh? What kind of cow confuses live poultry with the lawn? That's nuttier than a Snickers bar.
If he was my pet, I'd be afraid. As a calf he's chomping chickens. What happens when he's a full grown bull? How do I know he won't sneak into my house and eat me?
Lucky for him, he's in India, where eating a cow is as unthinkable as eating a horse is to Americans. It's probably just as well that nobody eats him. With his diet, he'd probably taste like chicken.

The Haunted Toilet

I was in the tub at my parents house when it happened.
Thud! A big jug of bubble bath flew from the toilet tank and hit the floor.
Startled, I leaned out of the tub and replaced it. Seconds later, it fell again, as if it had been thrown.
Was the house, nay, the toilet, haunted?
My imagination spun to concoct a scenario that would cause a toilet to be possessed.
Had someone been playing with a Ouija board on the can? Was a body in the sewer trying to make contact? Was the porcelain in the toilet made from sacred bones?
And why was it throwing bubble bath at me? Did it have a problem with the "Cucumber 'n' Mellon" scent?
Maybe the haunting would escalate. The lid would slam open and shut! The walls would bleed Tidy-Bowl Blue! The plunger would attack anyone who entered the room! Maybe that hag Sylvia Browne would come in and do a toilet reading. There'd be a televised exorcism where a plumber/priest combo could flush out the demon. I'd get paid for the story! I'd be rich! Rich!
Except there was one problem. Closer examination showed that the lid on the tank sloped slightly. Anything you put there would slip off. The trick to keeping the bubble bath where it belonged was to tuck the bottom of it in the bottle into the space between the back of the tank and the wall, which worked like a shelf.
The other problem is, if ghosts exist (which I find hard to believe), do they really have nothing better to do than to throw things, slam doors, and make the walls bleed?

Dingy Girl Magazines

I used to subscribe to magazines aimed at 20-40 something women. Then it hit me. What did any of this have to do with me? This was for someone who spent way more time and dough on her hair and clothes than I ever would. In fact, this gal doesn't seem to have any hobbies aside from shopping, decorating, looking pretty, and fishing for Mr. Right.
I'm not someone who touts ratty clothes and uncombed hair because I'm too enlightened to be obsessed with appearances (or "societal paradigms of beauty blah blah blah"). I shave my legs, wear lipstick, and avoid junk food to keep my weight down. The similarity ends there.

Typical articles (and my responses)
Fab Fall Fashion Finds!

My Response:
200 bucks for a pair of pants!? Are you out of your mind? That's 100 dollars per leg! For something I'll eventually spill coffee on. And do you really think Mr. Right (or anyone not in the fashion industry) is going to reject you because you're wearing last season's pants? At least get the cheap knockoff at Target, which will fall apart by the time it's out of style. And if I see "fab fashion" (or "luscious lips", "silky skin") one more time.

New Hairstyles For You!
My Response:
For me? Most of these take twenty to forty minutes of fussing with the blow dryer, the curling iron, and or a straightener. Who has time for something so frivolous? Besides, when I run my hairdryer it blows a fuse and I have to go outside with a head of wet hair to flip the damn switch. No thanks.

Our Most Scintillating, Steamy, Hot Fiction Romance Read!
My Response:
I can't stand these. They're about as romantic as overhearing neighbors fooling around. I don't like kissy kissy stories and movies anyway. Next.

By These [insert season here] Shoes!
My Response:
Why? I already have shoes. What's the point of more? I don't get it.

Your Horoscope!
My Response:
A fortune cookie is more credible. At least I get a snack with the cookie. I find it mildly disturbing that grown, college educated women read something like "Venus is retrograde brings trouble on the 15th" and take it seriously. Trust me, the only way Venus will bring trouble is if you mistake it for an UFO and drive into a tree because you were watching the planet instead of the road.

The Editorial about Woman's Rights.
My Response
I'm for womens equality, but considering that 95% of the magazine focuses on clothes, shopping, beauty and hair, these editorials stands out like a duck shooting article in a vegetarian magazine. Equality? With what? A Barbie Doll?

Happy Meal

I found a cute plush toy in the back seat of my brother's car. I'm not sure what it was- it looked like a hybrid of Spongebob and a rottweiler.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Oh that-" he said. "It's a Happy Meal toy."
A Happy Meal toy? I thought. That thing would retail for $12.99!
I couldn't believe it. When I was a kid, Happy Meal toys were crap. Maybe you'd get a flimsy riddle book book or a mini-frisbee with the structural integrity of the coke cup lid.
I did some online research. Today's kids have it sweet:
Transformers. Wind up toys. Dolls. Legos. Play Doh. Hotwheels. Beanie Babies, and in a few cases, electronic toys.
What a rip! Today's kids get a mini video game and all I got was a Grimace pencil or a crude chunk of plastic with the Hamburgler embossed on it?
O.K., when I was a kid the smallest video game was the size of a dishwasher and I suppose it'd be tough to squeeze it into the little box. This was back in the days where the phone had a dial, the T.V. had a knob, and the phonographs (remember them?) could be set to 78 or 16 rpm. Tapes were 8 track, the wallpaper was foil, and Chicken McNuggets hadn't been invented. Primitive times.

Smeared Science & The Boring Truth

I like science and history channels: Discovery, Animal Planet, History channels etc.. but it drives me up the wall and through the ceiling when they present nonsense as serious documentaries. This includes, psychics, ghosts, alien abductions, UFOs, Bigfoot, and so on. It's entertaining, but it's about as scientific as me saying I got bad luck because I walked under a ladder. Sometimes they bring in a good skeptic like James Randi or Joe Nickel to counter the nutballs, but typically this footage is edited down to a "That's not true..." leaving out the explanation as to why it isn't true. I suppose the boring truth isn't as exciting as some yo-yo talking about his torrid affair with the Loch Ness Monster.
Then again, considering the way human beings behave, the boring truth isn't important to them.

The Big Game

Sunday night means I'm visiting my folks and it's time for us to go to King Cole's for a round of gin and tonics.
Distant sirens wailed as we parked.
"That'd be funny if it was coming to King Cole's" I joked, "Frank's cooking got another one!"
It wasn't funny when it did come to King Cole's. The ambulance pulled up. EMTs ran in.
"I guess we'll have to go somewhere else," I said.
"Nah," said my dad. "I don't smell a fire. We can still go in."
"With an emergency going on!?"
"Hurry up," My mom said. "It's cold out here."
I was sure we'd be thrown out at the front door, but the waitress flagged us in. The place was packed with Super bowl watchers and only one table was available.
The former occupant of the table sat ten feet away, surrounded by medics.
"They think she's having a stroke," the waitress said. "Three gin and tonics tonight?"
EMTs and a crowd glued to the superbowl screen. blocked my view of the victim. Collapse anywhere else and you draw a crowd. Collapse in a bar and no one notices. She probably had to call 911 herself. Even the paramedic guys were stealing glances at the T.V. Not that I was any better then them. Football bores me. I was gawking.
It was weird. A few months back it was my mom being hauled off in an ambulence with a sroke. Now she with us, back to normal (mostly), in the same seat of someone else who'd just been yanked into a their surprise medical crisis. Tessts, needles, procedures, paperwork, pills, physical therepy, disability and possible mortal danger awaited. Meanwhile Mom was squeezing her lime into her drink, chit chatting and blending in with the world of Everyone Else.
Fate can be such a smartass.

Mahagonny Mutant

A few years ago I feel in love with a wacky opera from the early 1930s called The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny. A cynical spoof about greed and disillusionment. The characters are shameless bastards, driven by pleasure and money*. Several self destruct. One is excecuted because he can't bay his bar tab. His friends, while sentimental , won't lend a dime to save him. A murderer bribes his way into a "not guilty" verdict. Stuff like that. It has a crass and cartoony element that keeps it from being too preachy or depressing- but it does make one think about the ugly side of human nature.
A two minute clip can be found here. Note the "Seek the truth and ye shall be dissapointed" sign.
In 2005 I bought the cd and played it over and over. In time it became my own personal soundtrack, associating songs and musical passages with things happening in my life. When I discovered the Los Angeles Opera was producing it, I was over the green moon. My parents and I catch a few operas each year, and I told them they just had to see this one!
I waited over a year for it. Yesterday we went.
The opera house was packed. The orchestra started. I couldn't' believe it. I was really here! I was seeing my favorite show. My show!
I watched the first act like a giddy kid in a fun house ride. They'd done a good job! Singing, staging, acting, costumes, casting.
"So howdja like it?" I asked my folks, at intermission.
"It's okay," my mom sighed, "I hope the second act is better"
"Me too," said Dad.
As the lights dimmed for the second act, I noticed conspicuous clusters of empty seats. People had walked out! Were they crazy?
Maybe I was the crazy one. The cackles at the funny parts came from sparse corners of the audience, including a few souls behind me that were having fun. Everyone else stared in silence.
My mom kept up the "is it over yet?" nudges. I tapped her at the final note and she clapped with enthusiasm.
"You liked it?" I asked.
"No!" she said. "I'm glad it's over!"
"Yeah," Dad added. "I was about to climb up on stage and kill the protagonist myself. I don't usually agree with the Nazis but I'm with them on banning this! I couldn't wait for it to end"
"The people behind me liked it," I said,
Mom disagreed. "They probably were just pretending to like it, to look sophisticated."
I felt like a mutant. How come I fell in love with a show that most people disliked, if not hated.
Why was I so out of step with everyone?
If anyone out there likes this show let me know. We can form a support group.

*I don't buy into the "capitalism = bad" notion that this show hints at, but agree that people can be greedy jerks, using the system to cheat and exploit others.

Nothing is Certian but Death and Crackers

"All my friends die or go crazy," observed Frank, a friend, as he and another friend, Lila, waited for our burgers.
It was true. He'd buried many, and watched others self-destruct. The current crazy-goer was Coco, his desert dwelling pal who'd gone from manic to incomprehensible in recent months. We had discussed the uncertainty of the future. Where would our next jobs be? Would all the work go overseas? What would we do? That lead to the uncertainty of Coco's future.
Self absorbed slob that I am, I couldn't shake the "all my friends die or go crazy," line.
I was his friend. Was I doomed?
To sweeten the irony, Lila was in between chemo treatments for cancer (not to be confused with my other pal who survived lymphoma. What going on!? I must be a carcinogen). We'd gone out for lunch because this was a day she felt well enough to enjoy food. She was responding well to her treatments, which meant that the cancer had been evicted but endless side effects and secondary infections had replaced it. Some cancer treatments are like swinging a bat around a china shop to kill a fly. You kill the fly, but you take half the inventory with it. Was Lila doomed?
Or maybe we'd go crazy. Both of us had loons perched in our family trees. Maybe our crackpot potential (crackpotential?) was what attracted him in the first place. Our budding lunacy. I'm certianly a bit wacky alreacy. Uh oh.
Will the prophecy come true? What's in store for me and Lila? The reaper's scythe or the kook catcher's net?
p.s. to "Frank" and "Lila": Thanks for permission to tell this!

Chicken Strips

As I dipped the tip of my fried chicken strips into the ranch dressing, it occured to me. Was said chicken strip, in life, from a girl chicken or a boy chicken? Note that this didn't stop me from enjoying them. I'm sure if I were the size of a bug and crossed that chicken's path, I'd be chicken chow.
I asked a few other people (who knew I was no vegetarian) if they pondered the gender of their meat dishes, but the looks I got back suggested this wasn't good small talk. Whoops.

Photo credit : www.flickr.com
Thanks, Pinprick

Bouba and Kiki

Show someone two shaps like this. Ask them which is a "Bouba" and which is a "Kiki." Almost everyone says the curvy one is a Bouba and the sharp one is the Kiki.
What is going on? No one knows for sure. Some say it's because the letter "B" is bloblike and the letter K is sharp. Or maybe "Kiki" sounds sharper than "Bouba". Interesting how we associate concrete properties with abstract things like sounds and letters.
Something just occurred to me.
Like a lot of people, I associate colors with words, letters and numbers. If I actually saw these colors when I looked at text, I'd have what's called Synesthesia .
I don't have it.* On paper letters look black (or whatever color they're printed.) It's different in my mind. B is a warm green and K is a a cold blue. Look what colors I happened to choose for Kiki and Bouba.
Come to think of it, the green scheme of my blog is similar to my mental color of the name "Namowal". Are all my artistic decisions actually being run by a mental quirk? What other decisions (aesthetic or logical) are steered this way?

edit 9/11
*Actually, it seems I do have it. According to the now expanded wikipedia article, you don't have to actually see the colors- association counts too.

Confessions of a Weirdo

There's two kinds of weirdos. Kind one is the one who goes out of his way to be weird. He's the one who deliberately dresses and acts nutty. Perhaps for fun, perhaps to make a statement. Then there's the sap who doesn't try to be weird but it happens anyway.
I'm the second type. I never go out of my way to say or do something strange. It just happens. It's like I lack the normal meter (normalmeter?) in my head that knows what's socially acceptable and what's not.
For example, it wasn't until I was in my twenties where it finally clicked that when someone asked how I was, I was supposed to answer and then ask them how they were. It wasn't that I didn't care. In my head I was answering a question. I figured they'd tell me how they were if they wanted to. What a charmer I was. About ten years ago I learned that you were supposed to look someone in the eyes when you talked to them.
Not that I'm an outcast. I get along fine with others. Except I'll say something that I think is normal and get feedback like this:

• "What a thing to say!"
• "You're a trip!"
• Rolls eyes and gives a can-you-believe-this-idiot look to friend
• "Huh?"

I'm not trying to be crazy, crass or goofy. It just happens.

Dear Friend

Most of my mail isn't mine. At least 3/4 of it is junk for former occupants. One of them, "Joe Smith", gets official stuff too. I spend more time writing "please forward or return" on his mail than I do writing my bills. Either Joe is in jail, in hiding, or in the ground.
A glossy card for Joe caught my eye. The mailbox equivalent of a pop up window.
"Dear Friend," it says.
Yeah right. Anyone who calls you that via mass produced, mass mailed cards is not your friend. More original than "Dear Valued Customer". Still, "Friend?" I don't get it. Even your enemy will take the time to write a personal note to attach to the rock he sends through your window.
I suppose when "Dear Friend" gets old it'll be "Dear Best Friend", or "My Darling".
Who was Joe's ersatz friend? What does he want?
Why, it's Philip Morris, hawking Marlboros and Virginia Slims.
One never knows, but there is a chance that Joe is missing their "special offers" because previous special offers helped do him in. Some friend.
I don't know what happened to Joe. Still, I wonder how many people who lost a spouse to smoking got this card?
"You're still eligible to receive special offers so keep an eye on your mailbox for the future," it says, I don't know which is more ironic- "still eligible" or "the future". Tacky!

Doodling in Dreamland

I had fun last night. Wacom tablet in hand, I sketched and tinted a cartoon for an upcoming entry, listening to act 2 and 3 of Madama Butterfly. I'm not being sarcastic here. When I get "in" to a drawing, even if it's one of my crap cartoons, I'm in another world. Same with music I like. I was half way to Fantasyland, watching Cio Cio San, Pinkerton, Goro and the rest of the Madama Butterfly gang have it out.
Later the irony hit me.

1. It was Valentines day
2. I wasn't on a date
3. I wasn't unhappy about this
4. In fact, it didn't occur to me.

In other words, everyone else was out having fun with someone else and I was geeking away at my computer listening to music that nobody else listens to and was not even aware that something was wrong with the picture. At least I could have been unhappy, perhaps commiserating with Cio Cio San who waits in vain for her love to return. Not me. I'm so clueless. I'm doodling in dreamland.
Does this make me a loser? Am I a loser if I don't feel like a loser?

An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump

I'm fussy about art. I never cared for landscapes, portraits or bowls of fruit.. I want some action. A story.
Like this Joseph Wright painting:
In the old days there was a brief fad of putting small animals in a bottle, sucking the air out, and watching them die. Entertainment's half way point between bear baiting and the Jerry Springer show. This was technically a science demo, the same way that "COPS" is a public safety show.
What prompted this family to do this to their pet? Were they sitting around bored in the drawing room when Crazy Uncle Willy jumped up and said "I know! Let's play Pookie-in-the-Bottle! Sarah, fetch me the air pump. Eddie, get Pookie out of his cage."
I like how everyone has a different agenda. Uncle Willy has the woo-look-what-I'm-doing look. The young girls are horrified. Dad is probably telling them, "Pookie is asphyxiating. Can you say 'as-phy-xi-ate'?"
The lovers on the left aren't concerned about Pookie or the wonders of science.
The story ends with a question. Will Pookie live? Will they let the air back in? He looks like a cockatiel, which had to be an expensive import in those days. Couldn't they have sent Junior out to catch something more common? A mouse or a frog? Maybe Uncle Willy specializes in destructive science demos. He probably blew up the barn last week.


To me, this painting is like fate. You're Pookie. You're in the bottle and Uncle Willy and friends are running the show. Most bystanders don't care what happens to you and the few who do are powerless to help. What will happen to you....?

Grasshopper Charlie

A few weeks ago I wrote that the Grasshopper and the Ant fable was hooey. I know too many people who do everything right yet get crushed. Ants. I also know a few people who break rules and laws, yet thrive.
Grasshopper Charlie, a relative, is one such fellow. He has more balls than a pachinko parlor. Charlie doesn't bother with such trifle as "laws", "honesty," or "other people's feelings." That's Ant stuff.
I first learned of his mischief when he lost the house he shared with his wife and kids thanks to gambling binges. Of course it wasn't his fault, he said, because he was an addict. He straightened out, got religion, and even wrangled a new home for his family.
It an act. He'd found new suckers to leech money from and was gambling (and partying) on the sly. When his wife caught him, he said it wasn't his fault. In fact, it was her fault, he said, because she was a nagging, annoying wife (whom no one else would want) who drove him to it. She bought it.
A few incidents later she barred him from her checking account. He called her, from work (so he claimed) begging to have access again. He truly needed just a little bit to save his business, he claimed. She agreed, telling him to go easy, as she needed most of it to pay their daughters school tuition.
Guess who couldn't pay for her daughter's tuition that month? Charlie drained the account. What's worse, he spent it at a strip club. When caught, Charlie shrugged and said it he was "entertaining clients." She threw him out.
My brother and I figured he'd scheme his way back to her. Perhaps he'd feign religion again. We joked that he'd probably come to the door dressed as a minister to enhance his credibility.
Almost.
He showed up at her door clutching a bible the size of a phone book. A thick gold cross hung from his neck. He'd gotten religion for real this time, he claimed. She bought it.
After a few more rounds of getting booted from the household and crawling back, Charlie picked up a new hobby: DUI collecting. It's not his fault, he explains, it's his mean nasty awful wife (whom no one else would want) who drove him to it.
At least he's getting caught! I thought. One thing that steams me about Grasshoppers is their ability not to get caught. At last, one would pay.
Or will he? I hear he hired a lawyer to who specializes in getting people out of DUI charges. If the scheme works, Charlie won't be punished, nor will he have it on his records. In a way, he's buying himself out of trouble. Amazing. His lawyer must be a Grasshopper too. What kind of guy earns a living by making sure repeat drunk drivers stay on the streets? How many Ants will get killed thanks to him? Scary stuff.

Tosca

This is my cockatiel, Tosca.
He's pretty. He sings. He's an evil little bastard.
Tosca bites. For fun. These aren't love nibbles. He'll grind his beak into you and draw blood. He'll eagerly climb on my hand and tear into a pinch of skin. If I make him perch on a stick he leans over and bites my hand. For awhile I thwarted him by curling my hand into a fist so the skin was too tight to pinch, but he discovered softer skin say underneath.
I'm pretty sure his dream ambition is to put out one of my eyes.
I used to have a civilized cockatiel named Quasi. I bought Tosca so he could have a friend. This new "friend" was such a brute that I had to get him a separate cage. During out-of-the-cage playtime Tosca's favorite game was to sneak up on Quasi and peck his tail. He persisted at this even though it typically resulted in Quasi whipping around and chasing him off the perch. Quasi kicked Mr. Bucket last year. Now I'm stuck a pet who threatens me each night when I have the audacity to put my hand in his cage and change his water cup.
Why do I feed him and keep his cage clean? I don't get it.

Leper Legs

"C'mon," my friends urged. "Lets get pedicures,"
I didn't want to at first. Why pay all that dough to paint nails that spend most of the day stuffed in old Keds? The lure of soaking my feet in warm soapy water changed my mind.
"Sit here," the lady said, gesturing to the padded chair with a foaming moat at the base. I obeyed, feeling like a princess (or at least a duchess) as I rolled up my jeans.
Then I remembered what was under them.
Last weekend I'd stomped around outdoors in shorts and flipflops and came home riddled with bites from the knees down. Scratch-or-go-crazy bites. My calves were splattered with sores and scabs. The lady did a backwards double take- the kind where you see something startling, catch yourself mid reaction, and pretend there's nothing wrong. I'd gone from princess to Leper Queen in three seconds.
Afterwards I rolled my jeans down and was a princess again. Or at least someone in a princess costume.

B.S. 2600

"Order a bottle today!" the radio blurb says, "B.S. 2600 helps you lose weight and feel great. Feel the burn. B.S. 2600 is used by athletes and models!"

Let me dissect this.

"B.S. 2600..."

Twenty years ago this would be called something like VitaWow, Fit'n'Trim or MiracleSlim. Cute names. Not B.S. 2600. It has that scientific, medicinal ring to it. I'm supposed to think Sounds like serious stuff. It must really work!

"...helps you lose weight and feel great..."

Please tell me someone wasn't payed to come up with that line.

"...Feel the burn..."

Or that line.
Where, exactly do people who take this elixir feel this burn? (I'm not sure I want to know.)

"...B.S. 2600 is used by athletes and models!"

Oh, athletes and models. People well known for their intelligence, discretion and judgement. People who also happened to be fit and trim long before B.S. 2600 came along.

I don't think I'll "order now" any time soon.

Kim Chee

I wasn't impressed at first. It was 1990. My friend Jake slurped a bowl of what looked like bloody weeds. Or the gunk that lines the bottom of the sink when the garbage disposal backs up. It smelled like of garlic and cabbage fields.
"It's Kim chee," he explained. "I think it's Korean."
Jake was the guy who had to order the weirdest thing on the menu. Stuff like duck feet , blood pudding, escargot. I think he wanted to look sophisticated. An "I'm so worldly that I think this stuff is regular food, unlike you uncultured slobs" kind of thing. Ever the show off, he also drank Bacardi 151 straight up, but not after making sure everyone in the room knew it was flammable.
I never cared for duck feet , blood pudding or 151 (I never tried the snails), but I did grow to love kimchee.
Mmmmm Kimchee. Spicy, salty garlicky goodness freckled with red pepper. I like the crunch of the white chunks and the dark stringy leaves dripping with the brine.
There's always a jar or two in my fridge.
It probably feels so common, sitting next to the peanut butter, ketchup and the mustard. Yellow mustard, I might add. I never much cared for Grey Poupon.

p.s. I'm aware that "regular food" is a relative thing.
photo credit http://www.flickr.com/photos/arifm/sets/72157594443903111/

NUTrition

What is it with nutrition books? They claim to be "sensible"or "common sense" guides, but usually between the covers is some whacked out malarkey based on limited studies, selective logic and or whatever axe (food processor blade?) the author has to grind. Lose weight! Cure disease! Grow hair! Live forever!
I'll call this book Skinny Twit, as this bestselling(!) book doesn't deserve direct publicity. I agree with the authors that whole wheat and veggies are better than processed food, and that one should cool it on sugary and fried stuff. It's their veganism-will-save-you that I don't get. Saying "I don't like animal products because it's unfair to the animal and hard on the environment" is one thing, saying "Animal products will kill you" and supporting it with poor arguments are another.

Sample statements (and my comments):

Skinny Twit- Milk is toxic! It's for the baby cow, not you!

Namowal- Soy Milk is derived from soy beans, which are for the baby soy plant, not you.



Skinny Twit- Cheese is toxic! There's pesticides in cheese!


Namowal- Pesticides? What the hell do you think they're spraying all over fruits and vegetables? Unless you're getting organic produce, you're getting pesticides.



Skinny Twit- There's yucky stuff like pus in milk


Namowal- You can't escape yuck. There's yucky stuff like bugs and worms in your produce.



Skinny Twit- Artificial and animal-derived products could cause allergic reactions!


Namowal- Almost anything could cause allergies. People are allergic to pollen, grass and wheat, soy and peanuts for example.

And while I'm on my rant, I don't get the notion that natural = healthy and unnatural = dangerous. Rattlesnake venom, poison ivy, strychnine and smallpox are all natural. Purified water, flush toilets, live saving medicines and surgical procedures are unnatural.

Skinny Twit- You must an organic vegan diet unless you're"an idiot who wants cancer"-*


Namowal: That's crap! I had a roommate who ate only veggie organic stuff. He was eventually diagnosed with
lymphoma. Where'd that come from? Did someone slip him a beef bullion mickey? Oh, I know! His tofurkey was so meat like that his body mistook it for meat and flipped the cancer switch.

Ironically, my pal started eating meat (when he felt up to it) during treatment and is still alive, six years later. Did veggies cause the disease? Probably not. Did meat cure him? Of course not. I trot out this example only to show that, while veggies are healthy, they won't protect you from everything, nor will meat (in moderation) destroy you.




*actual quote(!)

Cheap Smell of Success

The red book on the bargain shelf at Barnes & Noble caught my eye.
Unexpected Strategies for Success! Promised the cover.
That's for me! I thought. My climb to the top has been more like a dash up a down running escalator. Expending effort, yet sliding backwards and looking foolish.
Perhaps this book would steer me to the right escalator. Or a stairs. I could learn how to be more productive! Indispensable! Worthy!
I bought the book.
The irony hit me as I pried away the discount label.
If this author knew so much about success, why was her book in the discount pile?
Whoops.

Why is this Cow Laughing?

Their cheese is bon et bel. Their mascot is tres terrifiant.
Imagine you're enjoying an alpine meadow. Maniacal laughter erupts behind you. Turning around, you see a devil-red, floating cow head.
She looks deranged. Like she's ready to stomp your head and chew your brain for cud. Or watching you in a meat grinder. Perhaps you're slowly being lowered to drown in a vat of special sauce? Whatever she's up to, it's trouble
Or maybe it's not her fault.
In Victor Hugo's Le homme que rit, the protagonist always grins thanks to some wacko surgury his handlers subjected him to as a baby. Maybe the cow had the same operation. A nuetral expression-ectomy. That way the farmer doesn't feel bad about branding her or zapping her with a prod because she always looks happy. Either that or he wanted to scare the neighbors.

Big Ben: Lock Up

That's no cowbell.
It's Big Ben, the famous bell that gongs out the hours for the London clock tower also known as Big Ben. * For clarity, I'm talking about the bell
Look closely at the picture.
Unlike the the other bells, Big Ben is in a cage. I wonder why?
Protection? Anything that's been getting slammed with a mallet the size of a stove for the last 150 years has to be sturdy.
Does it have a history of running away? Getting drunk and ringing off key? Sneaking up on unsuspecting people and going "BONG!" I hear it cracked some years back. Some blame metal fatigue. I say it was in a bar fight.


*Technically the clock tower has another name

Rant of the Ant

Remember that Aesop Fable about the Grasshopper and the Ant?
The ant works hard all summer. He gathers food. He builds a winter home. While he's sweating away, a grasshopper goofs around.
Winter comes. The ant has a warm home and plenty to eat. The grasshopper freezes or starves.
I have a problem with this story- it's a lie.
I know too many successful grasshoppers. They break all the rules, yet prosper. They drink and drive with impunity. They cheat in their relationships. No one finds out. They lie, they gossip, they backstab. A few of them steal. And it pays off! They're never caught. They bounce from one indiscrestion to another like a pinball, enjoying the ride. Maybe they'll roll over a few ants along the way. That's okay. We're only ants, right?
I've heard that Aesop was blind. I belive it. He didn't see what was really going on.

Lobster Causes

Poor supermarket lobsters. All the other animals have gone to the happy hunting ground, their remains stylishly displayed amidst lemon wedges and fake garnish.
Not the lobster. He's stuck in a dingy tank. No plants. No castle. No plastic clamshell clapping out bubbles... Not even colored foil on the back.
Then there's those pincer bands. Do they give the lobster carpel tunnel? Maybe if you're scheduled to be boiled alive, numb body parts aren't a bad idea.
Those things look like activist bracelets. What cause would a lobster champion? The top concerns of the crustacean community?
I have a hunch it's something like this:

Freezer Burn

That's not dust on my windsheild, that's ice.
Los Angeles isn't supposed to get this cold. This was the wrong morning to accidently hose water up my sleeve when I filled the bird bath.

60 years ago today: The Black Dalhia...

author's note: post was written in 2007
January 15th, 1947, Los Angeles.
Her body was discovered in a vacant lot, right next to the sidewalk..  She'd been cut in two at the waist and was posed with spread legs and her arms raised behind her head  Her mouth was slashed.  There was no blood- apparently the killer had drained it elsewhere.
Here's a then and now pic of the crime scene .


The victim was Elizabeth Short, 22..  .Popular lore depicts her as a would-be actress or model, but it's likely that's a bunch of  "Lure of  Hollywood Stardom Destroys the Innocent" nonsense.   I'm not sure what she wanted to be.  Maybe she didn't either.  She tended to drift from place to place- a few weeks with one friend, a few weeks sharing a room with other girls, a day or two mooching off a kind stranger, etc.  Except one stranger, or perhaps "friend," wasn't so nice.

The press  named her "The Black Dahlia" (her nickname). Rumors spread. One suggested she was a prostitute (she wasn't).
The murder was never solved.
Like the Jack-the-Ripper case, theories pinned the crime on mad doctors, vindictive women and famous people. Every few years a new book roles in about who "really" killed her.

A list of  (paraphrased) titles includes:

• My Dad Did it!
• No, my Dad Did it!
  
• A Creepy Guy did it but Whoops, the Evidence Burned up.
• A Famous Celebrity Did it.
• A Famous Rich guy and a Famous Mobster Did it.
• A Surrealist Artist did it. Surrealists have People in Pieces, Right?
  

I think it was some unknown creep with a vicious streak.
Her killer wasn't the only one to exploit her. She's inspired in books, movies, video games, and remarkably bad folk art.  On eBay I saw a snowglobe of the crime scene (no, I didn't buy it). 
Wait a second- I'm blogging about her. I guess I'm guilty too. Whoops.  Sorry.

Notes- photo of Short has been artificially colored.  All three photos have been snagged separately from the internet, so I can't promise they haven't been tampered with.  I included the Wikipedia link for a general overview, but remember this is wikipedia, so its vulnerable to any mistakes (or pranks) from its collaborators...

Two Namowals at the Blood Drive.

I have two sides. Good Namowal and Bad Namowal.
Good Namowal is responsible, loyal, hard working and kind.
Bad Namowal is selfish, childish, petty and mean.
A recent blood drive got them fighting.

Bad Namowal: Blood drive!? What a waste of time. You never get rewarded for good deeds!
Good Namowal: It's not about rewards. It's about helping people.
Bad Namowal: Like they'd help you!

I ignored Bad Namowal and went to my appointment.
Awaiting the needle, I reclined on the cushion and caught my reflection.

Bad Namowal: Wow. You look like a dead person on a slab.
Good Namowal: What!?
Bad Namowal: Someday you'll be a dead person on a slab.
Good Namowal: Will you knock off the morbid crap? What a thing to say!
Bad Namowal: You'll bypass the slab if you got eaten by a lion or sharks.

The nurse came. The needle went in with the usual mild pinch. This time the pinch lasted and intensified as she yanked it around.
"I'm having trouble," she said. "Your vein's slipping around." She kept at it, pushing, yanking, with the gentleness of someone unlocking a car with a coat hanger.

Bad Namowal: She's a butcher! Ouch. Is she using a fishhook or something?! A shrimp de-veiner? A corkscrew?
Good Namowal: Are you the world's biggest baby? Stop complaining. Hey, I think she got the needle in. All you have to do is wait a bit. The blood will help someone, and you'll get crackers. Win win.
Bad Namowal: They'd better have Cheez-Its. I want my blood back if they don't.

About five minutes into my good deed, the butcher checked on the blood baggie. "Hmm... it's stopped flowing." she frowned. "Maybe I can adjust it..." Push. Pull. Yank. Twist. Nothing. She called another nurse over.
"Needle's clogged" she said. "Has to come out. At least you got half a bag."
"Can you actually use half a bag?" I asked.
She wrapped up my arm. "Ah, not really. No. Sorry."

Bad Namowal: Ha! You wasted an hour and got your arm jackhammered to extract blood that's going down a drain. You and your good deeds!

Looking back, it wasn't a total loss. They blood guys still let me have a bag of Cheez-Its. Nothing shuts up Bad Namowal like Cheez-Its.

How was Rehab? (the stroke, part 12)

I'm back at home, back at work.
Most people didn't know what happened- how my mom was hospitalized for a stroke, recovered in a rehab hospital (where I sometimes stayed over to keep her company), and how until recently it took both my dad and I to keep her out of trouble.
Most co-workers don't know what happened. I kept my mouth shut except for a few friends. The two or three who did know asked me for updates.
"Hey Namowal!" one guy said. "How was rehab?"
I almost replied "How'd you find out about that?" until it hit me that he was kidding around, as if I'd returned from drug rehab. Had I said that, I'd have "admitted" to cooling my heels in a dry out clink. In front of a bunch of coworkers. That would have been... awkward.

Happy Quakeversery

I took this pic on a flight from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. It's where the San Bernardino Mountains meet the desert. Note how linier the boundery is. That's because the San Andreas Fault devides the two.
150 years ago this month, it ripped itself a new one. Known as the Fort Tejon Quake, it measured 7.9 to 8 on the Richter scale and may have been more powerful than the 1906 San Fransisco shake up. Centered in cenral California, it cracked the ground for 200 miles. Rivers slid off course (in one case, backwards). Waves threw fish from lakes. Trees uprooted. Near the epicenter the fault moved thirty feet.
The death count? Only two (known). Almost nobody lived near the epicenter. In 1857 it was the middle of nowhere. The few who did live nearby had bizarre stories to tell.
Lots of people live in the danger area now. Parkfield, Wrightwood, Palmdale and possibly San Bernardino are in for a beating if that quake repeats itself. And I can't be to smug- the southern leg of the San Andreas (including this picture) hasn't jumped for centuries. Plus, like a crime boss, it has a network of underlings running through Los Angeles to help wreak the place.
Excuse me while I put on my crash helmet.

Your Lights Are On

It's happened. Christmas has oozed into January. I knew it had leaked backwards into October, but the January breach caught me off guard. It's almost the middle of the month and I'm still seeing wreaths, bows, reindeer, Santa, snowmen and lights. An occasional inflatable ornament too, although some lie flat. I can understand leaving the decor out through January first, or even the fifth if you want to do the epiphany thing, but what's up with lighting up your house on the eighth? Are they a head start for this year?
It's not that I hate decorations. It's a marginal utility thing. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are nice to look at too, but only for so long. I'd rather look at my own severed head with a bad haircut than see those two again.
The light thing puzzles me most. I understand leaving the ribbons and garlands up a bit long- it takes time to take that stuff down. But the lights? Leave them up all year if you want, but why, oh why are you turning them on in the middle of January?
If you leave your car lights on you get a buzzer or a voice telling you to turn them off. Maybe Christmas lights should be equipped that way. Turn them on off season and you get a recording:
Ding Ding! "It's January eighth and your lights are on."

*apologies to Karen Lise Klein for ripping off I mean borrowing her light photo trick.

Evil Hamsters

There are two kinds of hamsters. Good Hamsters are mellow and like being handled. As long as they're not abused, they're gentle.
Then there's Evil Hamsters. Attack Hamsters. The ones who think fingers are chew toys. Hold a treat in front of an Evil Hamster and he'll ignore it and bite you.
One I worked at a pet store. It was an animal-friendly* place where cages, water dishes and food bowls were scrubbed daily. Sick animals were treated by a vet. Even disabled creature s were cared for, even though they wouldn't sell. Only one creature wasn't welcome: Evil Hamster
I met my first one when I cleaned his cage. The other hamsters let me gently scoop them into a temporary cage, but Evil Hamster had other plans. He pierced my finger with his teeth and bit down, hard.
My boss saw the blood. Whenever he encountered an Evil Hamster, he explained, he let it go in an overgrown park behind the shop. Oddly, there were never Evil Rats or Evil Mice. Not even an Evil Guinea Pig. Just hamsters. Every few weeks a new one got the boot, joining his Evil brothers in the city wilderness.
The shop is long gone, but I wonder about those hamsters. Since only the nastiest of the nasty were let go, there's probably one vicious hamster colony in that park. Maybe they've got tougher and meaner over the generations. Do they ambush picnickers? Pounce on joggers and drag them to their death? The next time I have to drive by that park I think I'll take a detour. It'd be real embarrassing to have to explain to my insurance that a band of hamsters hijacked my car.
*Unlike many pet stores in the early 1990s, this one disliked puppy mills and refused to sell dogs. They sold a few kittens, but only unwanted ones from shelters.

That's Macaroni Salad! (The Stroke, part 11)

My Dad, my brother and I are word manglers. When we're talking, sometimes the wrong words come out. Nothing's officially "wrong" with us. Everyone screws up words now and then and we're within the normal range, just close to the edge.
For example, my dad looks at our grapefruit tree and remarks about all the onions on it. I'll say something's "full" when I mean "empty", or refer to the refrigerator as the sofa.* Yes, I know the difference between a refrigerator and a sofa, but I open my yap and the wrong word flies out. We're not constantly doing this. Just enough to get the occasional odd look or the "being on something" accusation.
My mom was articulate one. The one who corrected our flubs. Then her stroke screwed with her speech. At first she couldn't say anything. Then came words that made little sense. To add to her frustration, my dad and I didn't make much sense either. Household conversations sounded like Abbot and Costello's "Who's on first"
Namowal's Mom (wants to say we need to go to the hardware store): We need to get, you know, the thing you wrap around your neck, a tie- no wait, not that. We need to go to the place across the street from Ralph's.

Namowal (wants to say the shop down the highway): Oh, you mean the shop down the sideway?
Namowal's Dad (wants to say hardware store): You mean the houseware store?

In spite of this nonsense, her speech improved. The other day we were in a restaurant and my dad returned from the salad bar with a plate of macaroni salad.
Namowal's Dad: I got myself some spaghetti.

Namowal's Mom: That? That's macaroni salad!
This was good. She'd turned another corner. She's correcting us again.
*I really said this a few days ago. I suppose I should be glad I'm not putting milk in the sofa and sitting on the fridge.

Bumper Stickers

I don't understand bumper stickers. Who cares where I've been, who my alma mater is, what I ♥ or whom I voted for. Some are funny, but it's the automotive equivalent of wearing the same funny T-shirt day after day. The joke gets old.
I really don't understand the political and controversial ones. Who changes their mind on an issue because of a bumper sticker? Who thinks, Hmmm, that's a swell slogan. I guess I was wrong all along? If anything, someone who disagrees with my sticker will think I'm a fool, a jerk, perhaps a fascist. If he happens upon my message in a parking lot he may feel morally obligated to slash my tires.
Then again, a bad joke or a tacky banner from a radio station might elicit damage too.
This chart sums up how bumper stickers appear to their target audience.
You have been warned.