Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Ban? Feeled.

Thank you, know it all lady who used to write printer drivers for Windows 95 (according to her statement to the customer ahead of me in line) at the second ubiquitous, yet feckless branch of a drive-thru veterinary office I attempted to go to today. 

Your simple assessment of the situation: peering at my dog's bothersome ass and stating "this will take more time than we have" saved me from returning to the closer outpost of the nonhelpful drive-thru vet branch office and unleashing a Basil Fawlty-caliber explosion of sarcasm and screeching on the bint who, on the phone, and then in person, when I shambled forward with a clearly very nervous animal in my arms, demanded "proof of rabies," which I could not produce.

Let's lay aside the fact that what you were actually demanding, in correct English, was a demonstrable case of frothy mouth and erratic possible lycanthropy. What you meant was, did I have a metal tag proving the dog had been inoculated against such. I did not. It has been lost to time and the woefully unkempt back yard of my hovel. 

My anger at this demand is many-hissing-headed. First, in a long history of animal ownership and various veterinary providers, I can't recall ever being asked for this before. Second, when I went to the other incarnation of the same place, they didn't mention a rabies diploma at all. Third, if you wanted to deal with sheer mathematics, the likelihood that this particular dog was rabid is so near to zero as to be, well, it's zero. Fourth, I'm certain this was a mere stalling tactic because you had only an hour and a half before closing and wanted to be certain you did as little as possible within that time. Fifth, it had nothing to do with the complaint I was presenting. Sixth, you have posted policies, both in cyberspace and in the harsh beast-laden realm of reality stating that sick and injured animals are seen first, and that you are "always accepting walk-ins," without any addendum of "unless you can't answer our irrelevant entry questions" or "invalid in case it's too close to closing and I'm unwilling to deal with you." I and my ailing animal walked in, and out again, without getting any assistance. Seventh, and perhaps most importantly, you, lady, aren't standing there with a tag around your neck, and yet we all accept as given the fact that you aren't rabid. Yet WHERE'S THE PROOF?

The dog wasn't rabid. She was uncomfortable, she did need medical attention, that still isn't solved. You know who's feeling rabid now? Me.  

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"You'd better stay away from him. He'll rip your lungs out, Jim."  - W. Zevon

Sunday, April 06, 2014

Sausage Commercial


I just walked away from the television set, where a commercial for SomeHobbitTown sausage had created a quaint vision, that I was to enter on a silver strand of hickory smoke. Within it, I traveled to a well-appointed kitchen with a wall-sized chalkboard, where a master sausagesmith neatly prints 

onion
garlic
jalapeno

on a black chalkboard in pristine white chalk, alongside a folksy drawing of the finished product, gleaming handsomely beside some tasty rice and healthy carrots upon some apron-clad, grandmother-cooked plate. In this kitchen, benevolent sausage recipe stewards impart a time-honored, lovingly curated mix of ingredients into kindly exterminated fleshbits in a large copper bowl, with a wooden spoon. 

I am meant to believe that, as I, in my own scullery, slide the simultaneously phallic/scatalogical meatstuff from its plastic sleeve, that some earnest culinary artist has delivered it into my lucky hands.

I am not meant to think of the fact that OGJ/MSG spicepowder was muddled into glops of mechanically separated gobbets, which were then sucked up into a conveying tube and later rocketed from a nozzle into an eternally extending condom of reasonably gutlike genetic material before being packaged and frozen.

Sometimes, I feel insulted.

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"I'm gonna give you every inch of my love. I'm gonna give you my love." - Page/Plant et al

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Mum's the Word.

  
I've never been a mother
In the societally accepted manner.
And yet, 
I've born lots of things, borne others,
Taking in seed, growing, passing it out and unto
Acting as surrogate when others faltered
Cooperatively shaping smooth new marble into model citizens
Nuzzled even animals through their whole life cycle

Earth goddess written on even my deceptive flesh
Too abundant and myriad, ugly, nurturing, not sleek, yet providing
Sustenance of hungry souls.

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"Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry." - Pink Floyd


Saturday, February 08, 2014

Everyday Comedy

The drive-up ATM line is a clusterfuck as usual, here in this sudden population boom suburb, so I pull around to the front. The drive through lanes all having proudly displayed in red how closed they were, I figured the inside was, too, so I swiped the ATM card through the spy slit in the side of the brass-framed glass to reach the lobby ATM, to make my deposit of half the rent I was owed, finally received. I waited to hear the click of the spy slot rendering my security clearance valid. I didn't but I still yanked at the thick handle and wide it swung, some greeter cheerily saying, "Hello!" as I, within milliseconds, felt foolish to have done the thing you do when the bank is closed, when the bank was clearly open. 

Chuckling very small to myself, at myself, I approached the kiosk where the tethered pens, one always missing, somehow, exposing some hole in writing utensil security because all their eyes are on the money. Signing neatly (for once) and dutifully writing the appropriate digits that spell my name in bank language on the back of the money order, I strode forward to one of two tellers, who started the transaction, not annoyed, but not altogether thrilled to see me.

"Do you have one of those smart phones?" she asked me, like I'd just arrived from a quonset hut in some rural village and might not be aware they existed. "Yep," I replied. "Have you downloaded the app?" she pressed. "No," I answered, beginning to see where she was going with this conversation but nonetheless determined not to assist. "Yeah, you can just take a picture of these and make the deposit," she said, out loud, to me. "Thereby rendering your job completely unnecessary," my always defensive brain spouted off. 

Somehow, common sense intervened with my mouth this time, and I just nodded and left. Shut up, Overanalysis Girl, no one wants to hear your logic.

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"Perfect weather for a streamlined world / There'll be spandex jackets, one for everyone." - D. Fagen


Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Spirituality in a Walmart Bathroom

You know people have delivered babies in there
Probably even died
Yanking on the oversized roll of industrial toilet paper
Dispensed across every state line
Delivered by the truckers who pray for a titty flash on their way
Under the auspices of Arkansas
Somehow vaulted to an international comptroller of commerce
Of the destinies of families, employed or forced to shop there, 
Or molding the plastic dreck Americans require in some foreign land,
Their necessary evil, or needed good.

And on that trip
Bowels working, oblivious to the outside anything
You have to make that stop, not wanting to, dreading it
And yet, like the world's cathedrals, it waits for you, with open arms
Pure white porcelain ready to receive your most animal of offerings
Whether you believe in evolution or not.

The question is there, though, do you know the good news?
Do you know the freedom that is ready for you,
As long as you're willing to chain yourself to the one path?
Unwavering, determined?
Sin passing out of you like yesterday's Froot Loops, bleached, sanitized
and three for nine today to nourish you again like loaves and fishes
Dispersed among the People of That Place
We're better than them, aren't we?


Sunday, December 15, 2013

Zappadan Adventure

It's Zappadan, that time of year between December 4 and December 21, when we gather together on the warm tendons strung between us (internets) to celebrate the life of Frank Vincent Zappa, delivered to us at precisely the right time, then taken too soon.

During the summer, I purchased this poster, which to me is sublime for a number of reasons:
1. The cheap Chroma-Key? background
2. The partly dead plants
3. Those shoes, which some stylish gent would covet nowadays
4. Peter Max socks
5. The jaunty neckerchief
6. Unapologetic smoking
7. Leopard-print Speedo flocked by generously untrimmed pubes 
8. The smoky, sardonic glance

I'm sure there are more. Turned out, I procrastinated just long enough for the hanging up of this poster to coincide with Zappadan. Unintentional brilliance.

Anyway, because it's just for me and not for the prying eyes of others, I wanted to laminate it (so I could use tape to hang it on the back of my closet door, so that I could go in and look at it when I needed a laugh or confidence or courage or acceptance, so that I could gaze upon one whom I regard as a bodhisattva of sorts). For this, I'd need to hit the Christian bookstore, home of the thickest, cheapest plastic coating machine in the land (25 cents a foot! Thick!)

I strode into the Christian bookstore, thronged round by dogma, strode to the back of the store, past the homeschooling dreck, to the waiting, already warm laminator. Into its primed maw I thrust the raw image, sexual, hilarious, unflinching, using my ample body as a barrier between it and any virginal gazes. A few times, believers approached, yet the dark force of my will and determination must have turned them back. Finished, I cut the smooth plastic, rolled up the rock and roll, and headed to the register, where a predictably prim woman jockeyed competently. "Is that all?" she asked, her hand starting to unroll the edge. "YES, just one poster," I said, a little too loudly, moving it deftly back. I paid the 81 cents and left, heart beating faster.

If I'm truly the jaded rebel that I think I am, why did this feel so dangerous?

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"Look here, brother, who you jivin' with that cosmik debris?" - FZ

Saturday, November 23, 2013

A Sack of Slightly Sad

Sometimes, when people ask how I am
I give the real answer
Instead of just mumbling "fine"

I might say how I'm content to survive
Stay in line
And out of trouble
Never far behind.

I might bend an ear
With a rant on why
I try not to cry
But the more I see and know
The more flow.



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