Posts Tagged ‘blah blah blah’

Be careful what you wish for

Friday, December 10th, 2010

Or offer up.

Or open the door to.

Or making blanket statements of “analysis welcome.”

We're all such pessimists, aren't we? Why can't we just wish it and have a happy ending for once?

But make no mistake, I am grateful for the tough love and the unflinching mirrors and the harsh artificial bulbs highlighting my every wrinkle and flaw. In truth, I am sharing this in the most impressed and humbled manner: not only is this analysis of my dream thoughtful and intelligent, but it’s rather on-point…which again reinforces my feeling that I should not start a blog about my dreams unless it’s anonymous and I only read the feedback once a month when I’m feeling invincible and entirely convinced of my own convictions.

Let’s face facts: some of you are just too damn smart for your own britches.

ANALYSIS OF MY “SATAN STEALS MY SCISSORS” DREAM BY THE OBVIOUS REINCARNATION OF DR. FREUD OR SOME EQUALLY ILLUSTRIOUS AND INSIGHTFUL SOUL.  (***slight edits made to protect the innocent***)

If ostriches were wishes, this beggar would feast on giant eggs.

You are out (free…?), but in a destroyed world. Something terrible has happened around you, obviously, but you seem to be well. At least, alive…

The worst is over (!), and you have to move elsewhere. Begin again. You´ve lost almost everything, but you have carefully prepared for your next steps, you have everything you need with you (not much), and the company and of your good friend who is there to support you.

So there you go, and ready to “face the problems” and with “good chances to make it” (interesting, whatever you meant with “it”…)

This is quite seemingly your life.

Ok, but just when you start to face your new future, YOU walk into the devíl´s house. YOU do, my friend. He´s not stepping out that much, to stop you. Actually, you spend three lines justifying yourself of doing so.

Wouldn't it be cool if genies were real? I don't care what you say: I think it would be cool.

“I (FIRST PERSON) recognized the little lean-to shop owned by the devil (yes, THE devil) and we (LESS; BUT STILL FIRST PERSON) decided to stop. I honestly can’t remember why (YOU ARE EXCUSING YOURSELF). I don’t know if my friend wanted to (NO SHE DIDN´T: IT´S YOUR DREAM) or if I suggested it (SO IT SEEMS).”

Let´s talk about “the devil”. Let´s face it: it was NOT an accident that you met him. You consider his presence not your decission, but fate. Something BAD (your words), probably for the simple fact that in his presence you are NOT FREE. You are his puppet, and just can´t go on with YOUR life. There is a certain attraction to him, but rationally you know you should keep the distance.

“know you shouldn’t return his calls or let him keep coming around”.

But you´d be waiting, if there were no calls, or presence, right? There is an attraction. A knot. A robe that is keeping you tied up to that bad influence. (You must know….)

I chatted with the devil for a while and he was both teasing and flirtatious”, while cooking for you…

Attraction. He´s got a power to keep you interested. He KNOWS (he´s free from the kind of uncertainties that bother you). He knows about your friend’s future, and about yours! That´s why you are afraid to ask, and he laughs.

I love despair.com. Some funny people, those.

Interestingly enough, the questions you make about your future seems to be about love. And your point is interesting: if you are in love “enough”, you won´t notice your unhappiness.My goodness. You feel so unsure about your future that you accept to be a puppet as long as there are some strings keeping you up. Not letting you down.

There is a “devil” keeping you alive, and you are afraid of cutting the strings. But you know you are trapped. and YOU, the real YOU, wants the strings cut. So you need scissors….

Surprise, surprise! Who took the scissors from you? The devil puppeteer!!!! The truth is that you consider the cutting tools ”critical items for the journey ahead“. Your “main memory from the dream was my desperation to get this stuff back.” You were “DESPERATE to get at least one pair of scissors and the knife back. I began searching frantically through his shop, but couldn’t find them anywhere. I even started snooping through drawers and in piles of clothes looking for them, and nothing.”

This became a nightmare. Unfortunately, J couldn´t help you to recover them (she was helpless too against YOUR devil…), so solving the problem was YOUR own job.

Icky celery sandwich

I'm going to wish for the opposite of this: and I'm going to take my chances as to whatever that will manifest.

Not only your puppeteer (whoever/whatever you think they are) was impeeding your freedom, but also, remarked his power on you, playing with the strings. I was so angry at him for toying with me. I knew he didn’t need both the scissors AND the knife, but that he took them just to upset me and hinder us on our journey.

You KNEW you had to leave, and you hated to be a loser. But you cannot take your freedom without cutting the strings. So you bargained. YOU LOST!!!!!!! I knew he had me and there was no argument to be made. I could see it on his face that he was delighted to be both fulfilling my request and yet screwing me over so significantly.

The point is: now you can sew, but that´s not what you need. Bad deal. Now you are on your way to freedom (as at the beginning of the dream), but you KNOW you are still controlled by your devils. So when you finally have to decide which way to go, the fear chills you, and make the WRONG decision: I think YOU believe that walking is not the way to go. It is a compromise, not a choice. You have no option. Can´t chose the GOOD way to go (the river, difficult but challenging, fun and exciting, you know it….) because somehow you NEED the knife and good scissors to feel free enough to swim on the rapids. But with strings all around, the puppet will sink, helpless (as the devil/puppeteer is not really in the river to save you). Soo those strings kill your freedom, but aren´t really helping.

I have no idea what this is. Nor whether the sentiment is true as my luck centers more around coin tosses and door prizes.

So you started walking and took your chances on land leaving the river aside. And your choice was so boring that you prefered to wake up…  : P

I agree with this on many levels, except to say that the river was actually a certain death, so that decision I stand by! The rest of it (and whether or not we’re talking about a mere dream or my entire life here notwithstanding)….errrr….check back with me in a few years on that, okay?

Until then, enjoy your weekend, kids.

Hope none of you are in the throes of near-death sickness or if you are, at least know the comfort of a large idiot dog and a full bottle of Nyquil Cold and Cough and with those companions by your side, are able to keep on keeping on…

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A little something for the lady readers

Wednesday, November 17th, 2010

Because once in a while I get a sign of life that you’re actually out there.

Tony Bourdain naked

This kind of makes me wish I was a man.

Oh, and apologies for the assumption that you’re straight, ladies…or that there aren’t gay men out there who would also appreciate this ummm…. moment with Tony Bourdain. I believe this was taken early in his success, and his excuse was that the photographer got him drunk.

(***Note to self when fame finally hits: while with professional photographers, take it easy on the Jack Daniels and stay away from butcher shops.***)

Jack Daniels on the rocks

Ice is for pussies.

That reminds me, while talking to my brother the other day we got onto the topic of things that can only be loved or hated (New York City, Las Vegas, marmite) and he brought up tequila. Now believe it or not, I fall down the middle on tequila – I’ve never had a horrific hangover experience such that I hate it, I’m happy to drink it on occasion, but I don’t seek it out either. So there you go.

This is probably why no one calls me anymore: I’m contrary. (***Second note to self: Be less obnoxious.***)

Anyway, my own dangerous drink is mentioned above: Jack Daniels. Not so much because I’ve gotten sick on it (although there have been a few rough mornings here and there), but because it makes me mean. Seriously. It does. If things are going to get volatile or I’m suddenly going to remember some old business that I never quite forgave you for (even though in my ‘regular’ life I am not a grudge holder) or flip a pool table and get in a fist fight, it’s going to be the Jack talking.

So anyway…

My brother then waxed on about Scottish whiskies and Canadian whiskies and the thing is, that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the Kentucky bourbon that’s the beast, and I’m wondering if it doesn’t have something to do with the people making it?

Irreversible Decisions in a bottle

I don't like Jager at all. Yuck.

Bear with me here. Did you ever read Midnight’s Children? Or Like Water for Chocolate? And in both of them, food was a medium of people’s emotions or character: the wedding cake was ruined by tears or the chutney of someone good and kind was perfectly sweet and soothing.

Booze made in the Appalachias makes you crazy.

It’s true.

Take it or leave it.

When I saw Dave Attell a year or so ago (or whenever that was), he asked the people in the crowd to name their drink, and he’d tell you about your upcoming night. One woman yelled out Jack Daniels and Coke. “Coke?” Dave asked, “What kind of Coke?”

“Diet Coke!”

He shook his head sadly, “Jack is the wildest horse in the stable. Why do you have to go saddle him with that?”

Papa Ewok Star Wars

This has absolutely nothing to do with anything except that I saw it and it made me laugh, so there you go.

And for those still doubting me, listen to this little insight from a bartender that I just randomly found online while trying to prove my stupid point: “Jack does turn people into assholes. I think the thing is about Jack, is it is double distilled over charcoal AND aged in charred oak barrels. This double distillation is called the Lincoln county process. Regular bourbon and most brown liquors are only aged in charred oak barrels. Curiously and also backing up this idea that Jack makes people crazy is the fact that Lincoln county Tennessee where they make Jack Daniels is a dry county, no alcohol can be sold.”

In conclusion to my completely worthless rant, let me add that Jagermeister makes people wildly inappropriate or even violent…with no memory of it afterwards. That, I would say, is par for the course for the Germans with their Third Reich and “showers” and magical mystery herbal liquor so secret that no one knows what’s in it.

I rest my case.

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One Man’s Trash

Monday, November 1st, 2010

Back off the wagon again, kids. Sorry about that. I’m afraid the extreme downside of living a highly boring life is that I have almost nothing to tell you…so I don’t. I’m not sure what the upside is, but when I figure that out, you’ll be the first to know.

At any rate, I’m kind of interested in finding an old Silvertone, Kay, or Hagstrom electric guitar – the budget guitars from the 60s – on the cheap. There are a relative abundance of them out there, it’s just that I’ve never seen them cheap. Thus, I figured (hoped) that from my location here in South Central Pennsylvania (somewhere between Gettsyburg and Harrisburg, specifically), that this might be doable. I’ve seen that “American Pickers” show: you have to go rural to get a bargain on a treasure.

The issue, it seems, is that I may have gone too rural.

It’s kind of like that scene in Tropic Thunder when Robert Downey Jr. warns Ben Stiller that he went too far. “Everyone knows you don’t go full retard.”

I clearly went too rural.  I went to a local flea market, and it was full retard. It was like 50 people woke up that morning and said to themselves, “I feel like hosting a really shitty garage sale full of utterly worthless crap!” However, instead of confining the sale of their junk to their own neck of the woods, they chose to load up their claptrap refuse, drive it across town, and pay ten dollars to proudly display it alongside like-minded optimists of the same ilk.

But don’t just take my word for it: take a gander for yourself.

Horrible taxidermy kitsch

What craftsmanship! Not all taxidermists are thoughtful enough to include both the feet AND a mirror.

Ceramic beer steins

Every day can be Oktoberfest!

Rock stars you never heard of

Classic album. The Beatles, Frank Sinatra, Spanky: it just doesn't get much better than this.

Ridiculous bedspreads

You can actually buy these blankets in any town with a large enough white trash population, but they never cease to bowl me over with their hideousness.

Depression glass makes me depressed

Someone robbed my grandma's tomb!!!

Beautiful woman driving

On my way there: hopes soon to be dashed.

Old cell phones for sale

I was too young and too poor to afford a cell phone when they first came out, but it's good to know that I can still get my hands on one - or seventeen - of those babies.

Taxidermied ferret

Without a doubt, the highlight of the flea market. To quote my friend Rob, "Is that a weasel in an aquarium, or are you just happy to see me?"

William's Grove Amusement Park roller coaster

The flea market is held on the grounds of an old, now defunct and otherwise abandoned amusement park. When I was a little girl, the Catholic school used to take us there one day a year: even then it totally sucked. You know it's bad if a seven-year old kid knows it's bad.

Holographic "art"

This isn't just awesome art: it's HOLOGRAPHIC awesome art.

Chucky doll in box

The problem with this doll is the horrible, mean face it's making. I might have bought it except the evil grimace makes me wonder if it might come to life and try to kill me.

flea market guitars

Martin guitars are made in the area, but do you think that made a damn bit of difference? In accordance with their surroundings, the two available instruments were complete and total crap. But of course.

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This is beyond overdue

Tuesday, October 12th, 2010

And yet, I still kind of have nothing of any real import to share, so here is a generic list o’ stuff in no particular order.

  • I have been writing the new book. It’s gone relatively smoothly minus the ever-present slight concern that where I’m taking things plot-wise is maybe too far or too slow or not quite perfect, but that’s the way it goes, I suppose. Today I will cross the 100-page mark, which is the clearest sign that an actual novel will come out of this in the end.
  • It’s cold as hell, and yet it’s as warm as it’s ever going to be for quite some time.
  • I’m another year older tomorrow, and yet I’m as young as I’m ever going to be…especially today.
  • My Sims2 have been neglected, but not forgotten…especially not on Saturday night. I’ve created a family based on myself and my dog, except they don’t have dogs in The Sims2, so he is represented by a young black child with white hair named Smelly. Smelly is a lot more useful than the real case study upon which he is based because he’s able to wash the dishes, do yard work, and order a pizza. Hmmm… Maybe I should look into adopting a young black child? Madonna and all them make it look so easy…

    Malamute in city

    Give him a kingdom to oversee, and he's happy.

  • I know it’s $2 or $3 or even $4 a cup, but lattes are so much better than any French press or drip coffee I make myself. And they don’t act as a colonic delivered via my mouth. One more reason I need to get rich…and soon.
  • In the same vein, I realize I’ve got to get my hands on a baby monkey, get it it to ride my dog (backwards being fine, if not preferable), have someone write a catchy and stupid tune to go with it, and become a YouTube sensation. He also does a great thing where he smashes his face against glass doors and rubs his tongue all over it. Hilarious stuff, that.
  • I love Top Chef but I don’t give a rat’s ass about Top Chef Just Desserts. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, and TV is already overcrowded with people making ridiculous cakes and swords out of hard candy and copulating swans out of chocolate. Yawn.
  • I’m headed back  to the east side of the state in a couple days as a very good friend is getting married and then I’m off to Pennsylvania for a couple weeks to watch my dad’s kitty zoo while he’s on vacation. In theory, I will keep up my  book writing momentum, although I plan to do just a few pages tomorrow in honor of my bday and again on Thursday because (as I just told you if you were paying attention) I have to drive across the state and that takes a long ass time during which I cannot (unfortunately) write. Actually, in the spirit of accuracy, I COULD write during the drive, but I would likely also die in a fiery car crash for the effort.
  • The parade of Housewives never ends. I’m happy to report I disconnected from the DC wives and have no idea what happened or who they are or who’s insane, but I am ashamed to share that I did watch about 20 minutes of those godforsaken Atlanta Housewives. Damn it all to hell! And what did Kandi do to her hair with that red section on top? And does anyone else think Kim is a man in drag? And why didn’t Dwight take a single lesson from the plastic surgery mistakes of Michael Jackson???
  • Looking at the clock, it’s about time to go boil some water for some of that colon-cleansing coffee and get my write on.
  • I kind of want to go see that Jackass 3D movie. This is the same part of me talking that misses Crank Yankers and owns the Rob & Big DVDs. The part of me that’s a 12-year-old boy.
  • Having walked the dog and witnessed – and more often that not, picked up – his every bowel movement for three weeks, I can tell you two things definitively:
  1. Think twice before owning a 100-pound dog in a city. Not only will they yank your arm out of its socket over the sight of a Pomeranian in some lady’s arms two blocks away, but they make bigger dumps than those of a horse.
  2. Not all poop can be scooped. Case in point, the mess this morning looked shockingly akin to chocolate cake batter, and I didn’t even get a bag out and fake it for fear of getting too close. Besides, the flies were apparently given advance warning and started swarming in almost immediately. My new attitude toward certain poop scooping scenarios: I really don’t need tourists handing me Wet Ones baby wipes after I take a hit for the team; so watch your step, and wear rubber soled shoes. It’s a jungle out there, and my canine provides the quicksand.

Good luck,  happy sightseeing, and enjoy your smooth expensive coffee, you rich bastards.

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At least I have my limits

Friday, September 10th, 2010

I’ve been very annoyed with Bravo and the obvious spell they’ve cast on my common sense. How else can I justify knowing not just the names of the Orange County housewives, but the New York City housewives, AND the Atlanta housewives but (God help me and God save the queen) the New Jersey housewives?

There was a point in my life - roughly age 13 - where getting embroiled in girl fisticuffs was pretty much my biggest fear.

I can’t.

Bravo is a wily sorcerer, and I the obvious prey.

Before you go making excuses for me or offering up that you watch Hoarders or Pawn Stars or American Pickers…at least that stuff is semi-educational and a good morality lesson on throwing out old magazines…unless they’re first edition Playboys with Marilyn Monroe on the cover. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m not even watching this crap as part of a female bonding and wine extravaganza or some somewhat acceptable and explanatory social event or while inebriated out of my mind and could thus claim I didn’t know what I was doing…I’m watching it in the kitchen all by myself while making my eggs or  washing the dishes or when I should be doing something useful or creative or that doesn’t destroy brain cells.

Theresa flipping table

Combining the strength of King Kong with the hairline of King Kong...wait, was King Kong actually a real ape? And did he have an illegitimate daughter?

It’s like a drug and alcohol addiction, but more embarassing.

Anyway, I have been double-dosing on New Jersey horribleness (and don’t get me wrong: I like New Jersey. I have many happy childhood and  more recent memories of New Jersey and it’s sheer proximity to New York City renders it not all bad. Granted, they complete STOLE Pennsylvania’s beach opportunities much as Florida did to poor Alabama (look at a map. It’s true.) – and did the Philly area not at least deserve South Jersey??? – but we won’t get into that now.)

So as I was saying, between Jersey Shore (thanks MTV for contributing to my social astuteness, but general dumbing down) and The Real Housewives of New Jersey, I’ve been wasting way too much time and drinking way too much cawfee with the TV on while the dawg sits at my feet, and wondering how anyone spends thousands of dollar buying clothing for little girls. Really, it’s shameful.

However, this horror story has a glimmer of a happy ending: last night I saw three minutes of shrieking and screaming and childish mimicry that may have finally broken the spell.

The preachy exasperatedness of the redheaded one wears me out. Why agree to be on these shows if you don't want to deal with crazy? Right???

If you caught even an ad for the “RHoNJ Reunion show” you know of which I speak, and specifically it was the moment where the whorish one with the weird plasticized face (okay, okay. Her name is Danielle. Pretending I don’t know this when I’m writing a whole blog post about it obviously isn’t fooling anyone) was basically being called a husband-stealing slut by the other two (Teresa of the cro-magnon hair line and the holier-than-thou one who I’m happy to realize I don’t actually remember the name of. The one who’s married to the brother of the two sisters? And has the teenage daughter who looks older than her? Anyway, whatever.) and Danielle actually remained very composed and said “One at a time.” and Teresa shrieked in her horrific stereotype voice with a level of mockery not usually seen outside a second-grade girl fight, “ONE AT A TIME!!!” and I moved on.

I did.

I couldn’t take it.

Humanity has sunk low and our culture has managed to find a comfortable bottom several stories below that, and apparently I get some pleasure out of observing all this nonsense and misbehavior…but grown women shrieking at one another with what is obviously real loathing and ill will?

Well, I’ll switch to Lifetime and watch Project Runway, thank you very much.

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