Overthunk

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, dete

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

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.

It seemed like New York, but on Dream, it could've been any other grotty conclave of run down shops and restaurants and tenement houses, dirty, with big windows, swirling painted letterforms of old, damp, grimy streets, but the sun was shining. I walked along, seemingly lost, past one window and another, until I reached a bike shop. From the front, it looked closed , so I continued walking, around a round corner. The back was open and inside stood a bald man, Gandhi-esque but gruff, in a dingy white shirt, white Van Dyke bristling slightly, skin like creased umber leather, maybe a cigarette burning somewhere in the background.  Somehow I convinced him (though it was closed? I don't really know) to let me clean the tires of a red bicycle. He let me borrow it, take it for a spin. I rode, freedom on wheels, through the dingy alleys, wind fanning my hair out behind me, lost in the fun of it, the remembrance of being a kid and doing just this thing, but in some suburban settin

Eleven years ago, except for when I was a kid, I'd had nothing but cats. I'd moved out of a roommate situation, amicably, but into my own space, the first apartment I'd had just to myself. My cat, a fluffy Himalayan, had passed a few months ago, and I decided I wanted a dog. No one I knew had a dog. All my friends were cat people. Yet the idea persisted: a black pug was the dog for me. "Dogs take so much attention," the cat people warned me. "Are you sure?" Yet I searched on. I found a breeder. I kept thinking, overthinking, agonizing. It became a calling. The trepidation increased: was it the right thing to do? Could I give him enough attention? Would I walk him enough? Still, I decided on a name. Pugs are rather hobbitlike - stocky, focused on creature comforts, independent, second-breakfasting - so Pippin was perfect. In Lord of the Rings, a life manual of sorts for gamer nerd girls like me, Pippin was the mischievous one who did things his own way, y

Being different: first it's a torture, a singling out, a wall built by the other typical small humans to isolate themselves from the diseased, the weak, the different, that will be picked off, and we find ourselves on the other side, alone, awaiting the wolf, hoping we have some defense against him. Later, we own it, we choose it, it morphs into our identity. It becomes, not embarrassment but bailiwick. We jauntily don our red riding hoods and await the wolf, confident, unafraid, knowing what makes him tick, knowing we have something just as fearsome within us, this weirdness, our weapon. In young adulthood, we believe ourselves superior, better than the common. Why would I want to participate in your old, outmoded, crusty ways? I am, we are, above it. We study radicals and hope we can ally ourselves, somehow. Then middle adulthood arrives. We've fought the battles, wear an armor of mirror-polished cynicism, and yet at some level have cooperated with the world and its wa

A few weeks back, I had some idea that I'd create a tumblr for tracking wines I'd tried or liked or just drank, but that turned out to require some small amount of effort, so after some consideration (15 minutes), I decided I'd post it here.  Tonight's Offering:   Once Upon A Vine, The Big Bad Red Blend  Price: $12.99 Varietal: Unspecified Origin: Diageo Wines, Sonoma, California Flavors (according to the maker): Berry, chocolate My thoughts: Obtained from the local liquor store when the original objective was bourbon. The label was highly persuasive, but doesn't match the wine. I sense no malice towards grandmas or anyone in this, really. Light, drinkable, easy. Almost too easy. Would I drink it again? Yes. ------------------------------------------------ "You're everything a big bad wolf could want..." - Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs

Not too long ago, James Stafford, master blogger of the stellar Why It Matters , invited me to do a guest post . I've reprinted it here for your enjoyment or amusement or mere curiosity. Please do visit his halls of memoir and chronicles of music, as every minute not spent there is one you would have enjoyed! "Greetings from the briny depths of the internets, where I inflict my octo-schtick. Here are eight tunes my suckered arms embrace, reflecting eight life obsessions. INFORMATION The Cars, “Double Life”     “Lift me from the wondermaze, alienation is the craze.” Programming streams of foul language in Basic as a kid on a Commodore 64 only paved the way for my taking up residency on the internet round about ’95. When it was pay by the hour AOL, I signed on for a volunteer position to earn time, because I couldn’t finance my habit any other way. These days, I’m awash in social media and virtual worlds, and it draws a line, forms a language I

You say this fat is laziness, I say it's dedication to pleasure. Perseverance of sensuality, Disregard of the magazine-cover worldview, Elevation of the self against the onslaught of conformity, Punk rebellion in adiposity. This fat isn't mere sloth. It's passion. The road of excess, mapped out for all to see. The palace of voluptuousness leads to me. ----------------------- "You say you want a..." - Len/McC

Tears streamed down my face this morning. "You could've let me say five more words, you know, just five more words." In my head, I was complaining to Dream. Outside, I was sobbing quietly. In the previous scene, I was on other business, with some somehow familiar friends, when I had a feeling my mother was about to go, and I'd better get over there to see her. I left where I was, and went somewhere else. I thought she might be gone, as if she were very ill somehow, but she was there, on a low bed, in an odd situation, bunking up with someone, as I'd never allow her to be in real life. As I opened the door, she woke up, and I felt relief she was there. She was sleepy, but alert, in her right mind, as she sometimes wasn't during our lives in this realm, looked better than she did at the actual end. Her hair was in her usual updo, messy from sleep, blonde and wild like mine, wearing a bright fuschsia gown with colorful piping at the sleeves.  I knelt down to