Overthunk

The dreaded terminal busyness has eclipsed the effort of this blog, of late. Apologies. I am thinking good thoughts and drawing and writing and (drinking) and I haven't, haven't given this up. Summer she's a-comin'.

Being the latest is capital when you're on television or vinyl, but being befuddled and all a-muddled, so entrenched in a puddle of your own morning stupor that you go three miles east when half a mile west was the required span, And in east Dallas, down in the grove you drove and drove Turning and turning to find your way back to the hackensack street That you somehow went past in your lack of directional aptitude. Finally back on track, not intending to slack but time keeps on slippin', your lid is flippin' thinkin' of how an H street Can turn into a B avenue in your mind's eye and in your eye's mind, even though you checked it time and another time, thinking it fine. You can't turn left on the one way H so you make your way down to another rue name of C, now you really gotta pee but soldier on you must for in work we trust, even if only to pay the wage. Cursing advancing age, you go past the churches and carnicerias, old ladies and all the taquerias dow...

Sure, you know and I know that astrology is dumb. I know that I am risking being labeled as a DBB* for even posting this. But I still go here and check compatibility with people I'm interested in, just for fun alright??? I'm not saying I run my life by it, or that I read the daily newspaper horoscopes (I think those are made up and shite, incidentally -- oh, the irony). It's just fun, kind of like people watching. Predicting what will and won't be true. So I'm nosy and interested in people's characteristics. It's not my fault really. My mom kept a stack of books of all sorts, but namely Linda Goodman's Sun Signs and a whole bunch of cheaper offshoots lying around. She read them, analyzed everyone we knew according to them, from my youth to my middle age, and passed her knowledge on to me. I studied with the diligence of an acolyte. As for my dad, not only had he listened to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon countless times and taken my sister an...

Hello and welcome to our mostly affiliated with a holiday except this time recipe feature. Today's recipe is the creatively titled CHICKEN RICE-A-RONI DISH! It was one of the few surviving recipes that my mom made consistently over time. I have no idea where she got this recipe, but she did not make it in my childhood. She began making it in my teens I think. Before she passed away, I had started to collect her recipes as she made them. Traditional Southern staples such as fried chicken or roast (she never called it pot roast -- it was just roast) were all cooked from her culinary knowledge and never written down. Foolishly, I thought that there was a treasure trove of eating goodness in her rooster-emblazoned recipe box, but I never checked and discovered later to my deep chagrin that it was mostly full of stuff I'd never eaten. This one, though less significant, managed to survive -- rather like a pair of fossilized chopsticks found on a hunt for Ming vases -- useful, but no...

While I was thinking about making a post about people who plaster their faces on billboards, I snapped this photo near downtown with my new camera phone. Though many might be pissed at the poor quality of the photo, it was taken at some distance, and I rather liked how it turned out. You can still make out the Big Brother-like face of the realTOR (yet another irritant -- those commercials touting realTORs) on the sign. He works them there M streets. He isn't all that attractive. So why plaster your face 25 feet high for all to recoil at? Is it gaining or losing you customers? I'd bet on the latter. There's another one of this guy, ESPN radio host Randy Galloway, a round the corner from my house. I get a shock every time I round the bend and see it. Geeg. It's got to be ego-driven. There's no other good reason. And if I can't paint my garage door magenta, why in blazes is this allowed?

for Charles Bukowski At a "professional" "development" day of exceeding boredom I had a few moments of blessed solitude I walked much farther away than required to relieve myself Alone in the stall I huddled Away from lines In blessed quiet, I sat Meditatively on the black enamel seat. "HEY ROY!" some entering professional female cried Her braying bouncing off the tile. "IF YOU HEAR ME GO 'PHHHBBBFFPHHHTTT!!!' YOU'LL KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!! IF YOU DON'T, YOU'LL KNOW I'M JUST PEEING!!!" she hollered to the "empty" bathroom. At the same time as this, I, of necessity, blew my nose. "OH MY GOD, ROY!" she went on. "THERE'S SOMEONE IN HERE AND THEY HEARD ME SAY THAT! I'M GOING IN ANYWAY!" she uttered, proceeding to the seat to make the aforementioned noises. Outside, Roy, a forty-eight-something man clad in t-shirt and trucker hat, cornered me. "How's it going?" he said, push...

I have spent all weekend listening to The Killers and Hot Hot Heat, with a light dusting of Rihanna (featuring Jay-Z). Wow. I am closer to 40 than any of the ages of any of these people in these bands. I couldn't give less of a shit about being hip, I just think I was emo when emo wasn't cool. That doesn't explain my affection for the hook in that "Umbrella" song, however. Also, go Amy Winehouse. Regardless of her plethora of problems, she is deserving of recognition just for having the guts to do what she has done musically. And with eyeliner. ----------------------------- I got soul, but I'm not a soldier. -- B. Flowers

I don't know if everyone's family is like this, but when I go and continue to go to family gatherings over a period of years, there is an expected level of prosperity that one is expected to attain and exhibit. After any given holiday, the judgment of the family may change depending upon the success or failure of attaining certain life goals. A representative slice of my own family-judged prosperity can be seen above. While I clearly excel at some areas, others are deeply in need of improvement. All I can do is continue to try to meet these family prosperity goals, I suppose. Or not. After all, my own graph would look something like this: So I reckon I'm doing alright. ------------------------------------------ I've been tripping from sipping the dripping dirty water tap I've been thinking of drinking too many drinks all by myself -- Hot Hot Heat ("Bandages")

1. Getting first angry, and then mocked, for not understanding the elegantly engineered system of numeration (in complete opposition to that of the standard Arabic/customer-centered system) present at a McDonald's in Irving, Texas when I was told to pull through to the second window. Starting from the ordering menu and intercom, I counted windows.... 1.... 2... A paper-hatted teenager then waved me down while I was at (by my reckoning) window TWO. "Hey! HeLLO!!!" he shouted, indicating that I should have paid at WINDOW ONE, which in this trans-fat-dealing bizarro world was apparently window two. I tried in vain to explain why that numbering system made no sense and they were all rank fools. From the way they looked at me while I was conveying this seemingly universal wisdom, I might has well have been dancing the Chiquita Banana dance with a big ol' turban full of hot-glued fruit on my head. I drove away, mystified as to how none of them had yet reached into the frye...

That title, in a nutshell, is why I've been absent from these hallowed halls the past 14 days -- the inherent duality of the universe has been completely and utterly evident in that space of breathing and blood flow that I occupy, trapping me inside an existential yin-yang constructed of both ouchy mountains and comfy clouds. Carpet A fortnight ago, my bathroom toilet decided to plot its revenge for my continual assaults and quietly overflow while I was at work. Of course I didn't discover it until several hours later, so I returned home not only to my usual floor-full of already-stained, beige, tract housing carpet, but with the added bonus of squishy sound effects, and after a few days, unbearable stank. All the carpet in the house had to be pulled up and industrial fans had to run for about a week to dry the place out. I suppose it's not so bad. I wanted laminate anyway. Honor Though nominated last year, this year, I was elected Teacher of the Year for my particular sch...

Sometimes, I entertain random messaging on the interwebs. Sure, I know it's foolish but I sometimes do. I think it has something to do with ongoing research about what percentage of the human race has anything interesting to say. By current estimates, data approaches approximately 1.2%. And you, of course. The other night I was bantering boringly with some random jackass. The conversation wasn't moving along very swimmingly at all. He kept quizzing me about general life info: what do I do, kids, family, hobbies, sorry your parents are dead, blah, blah, etc. Then after about 40 drawn out moments, in which I was giving halfass answers and chatting with two other (interesting) people, reading Wikipedia or some such at the same time, he says, "So do you want to be my gf?" Hmm. GF. Garden Funder? Grappling Fondue? Gargoyle Foot? He also refused to send any pics at first, asking, "Is my appearance all that important to you?" and then when he did, it looked like he...

Do you ever just come home from toil and go and lie down, not sleeping nor waking? "Who has time?" you may ask. I don't have time either, but I do it anyway. Always have. It's a need, sort of. When I do this, odd stuff floats to the surface of my consciousness. Just now, this thought emerged slowly from the unformed ether: "If I die tomorrow, I will at least know this about myself:" A few seconds later, a rough-edged, unvarnished truth emerged: "I live more in the world of ideas than in the real world." It's true, I say. ----------------------- "Say hello." -- Deep Dish (Angello & Ingrosso remix)

I don't get Lou Reed. By "don't get" I mean I don't understand what the big deal is about him and why he's considered so influential when the majority of folk have only ever heard one song. With a lot of crusty, bleak, grim artists (see Pink Floyd), maybe I don't like their stuff but I get it, I fathom their influence; however, with Reed, no. Just no. I'd rather listen to Skid Row's "I Remember You" and be called a musical cretin than sit through just one more time of "Walk on the Wild Side." Ugh. Sebastian Bach up. If you do get him, please explain.

When at Starbucks, I have a moral, jingoistic, and/or Texan instinctual thing going in which I refuse to order in Italian, as posted on and imposed by their menu. I also don't order a latte, or half-caff anything. I just say "a large coffee with cream and Equal." The other day when I did this, I actually had to explain what I meant by large: Baristo: "You mean venti?" Me: "Uhmm, yes. ::thinking to self:: " We're still speaking English. You are officially brainwashed, you clueless cog in the international corporate machine, you." -------------------------- Being part of a huge, lumbering, mammoth, inefficient school district, I occasionally have to attend trainings which seem virtually pointless. I had to do this recently. While there, someone corrected my drawing of a multiplication array. I drew this: 3 X 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Her contention was that I should've drawn this: 3 X 5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My assertion is tha...

Man, isn't that idyllic. I like this picture for its mixture of turkeyscat pseudo-history and potential for inventive captioning. Pilgrim Matron: Well, that makes sense! Dark meat for thee! Pilgrim Padre : (thinking to self) O, when shall the festivities make way for the after-feasting footy? King Lear (beruffed): I scent a treason and turning against upon the winds. Earl of Kent: I shall eat no fish. The venison smells sweet, however. Miles: Priscilla, I lay awake last eve with thoughts of thy sweet corn pudding! Priscilla : Mind your countenance, Miles! I mayn't stand closer than two feet to thee -- our elders condemn the wicked thoughts of handholding such proximity shall produce! Etc... Please! Add thy own! But most importantly, know that I am thankful for each of thee, dear blogpals, and PLEASE, enjoy thy feasting and football, and have a -------------------------------------- "You ever notice you never seem to get laid much on Thanksgiving? I think it's b...

During my tenure of nearly a decade spent in the Crimson Limbo above Walmart and K-Mart and below, say, Macy's, I worked most of my time at the customer service desk. Working every single holiday of my life was de rigeur during that time, as was donning the horrid color combo of red shirt and khaki pants -- there's nothing like a pair of khaki pants to make me run (slowly) screaming, even now -- only black pants can camouflage flab effectively, which is why it is now de mon rigeur to wear black pants 99.4% of the time. To this day, you will never catch me, even if all my other clothes have been burned up in a fire, wearing red and khaki together. Ugh. At Tar-zhay in the 90's, there was a "no-hassle" return policy -- we accepted virtually any item we had ever sold at any time in the past as a return, as long as we could string a few numbers together to make that identifying number and some semblance of a selling price. I have personally refunded money on leaking ...

Back in 1988, "Ask me. I like to help." was printed on a white plastic card in large Arial script on a ground of thin red-lined grid. This card was fused in some fashion to the large, uncomfortably identifying name tag which is the universal badge of shame of the retail store employee. I would have preferred, as at the telemarketing job that I held for one day when I tried in desperation to quit the red-walled retailer, to have been able to use an alias emblazoned above the lofty plastic claim of undaunted helpfulness, but it was not to be. From the first time I pinned on that promise of unqualified assistance with ANYthing the customer might need, it galled me daily. I started my training far earlier than that first week of employment. As a kid, we took weekly trips to Target, complete with the obligatory two-foot tall bag of popcorn. Once, when I wouldn't obey my mom, I got my ass flat-out busted in front of the shopping carts, to the amusement of the whole store, it se...

Cashiering would seem to be the province of the swift, friendly, and accurate. Yet today, I was checked out at my town's new Super Target by a mostly silent older woman, name of Nadine, who likely lived a previous life as a good and moral sloth, and thus earned reincarnation into a higher, yet not any speedier, form. I felt like my blood itself might have turned to vinegar between the time that she asked me for my ID because I had dared to purchase a bottleful of Yellowtail Shiraz (pedestrian, I know, but it has a nice bite and does the trick besides of fuzzing and furring the sharp edges of consciousness) and the time when she finally, with a lethargic stuffing of bananas into concentric-circle-dotted plastic, completed my purchase. As she sloooooooooooooooooooowly scanned and dragged my merchandise across a filthy rectangle of glass, I had time to rate and rank every male person within a 50 yard radius according to level of attractiveness to my peculiar likings. I also had time t...

I've been paring down the amount of makeup I carry around with me at all times. Currently, I am at the following purse totals: Three eyeliners -- brown-black, purple and blue One mascara -- brown-black Three lipsticks (including one that doesn't come off unless scrubbed) One clear lip gloss Concealer (although the one I have is old and I've already bought a new one) AND, this is only what I carry around... I have two makeup cases full of brushes, nail polish, eye shadow, glittery dust and other stuff, not to mention the dozens of tubes and packets I have shoved away in drawers. It's foolishness, I know. How much makeup can one person wear at a time? (Well, woman I mean, as I'm sure drag queens can wear significantly more.) I cannot really explain this other than feeling that I have to have a CHOICE. I do the same thing with shoes. I have probably 30 pairs. And oddly, I have noted that $6.00 Chinese-made shoes from Dollar General can smell like gasoline (making me w...

The origins of this unholy, calorie-laden concoction go back twenty years or more, to the kitchen of my aunt, where my cousin was inspired by the ghost of William Howard Taft or somebody to mix two incredibly rich substances: peanut butter and syrup. Whether anyone else does this, I don't know. Today's version was somewhat halfass in it's pantry-product indulgence, because rather than Skippy peanut butter and Griffin's Waffle Syrup , I had to use Simply Jif (reduced fat) and Karo, hardcore corn fructose confection of our grandmothers and a pillar of all true Texan pecan pies (which I didn't even like until this past year). Anyway, here's the recipe, if you and your pancreas can handle the deliciousness: 1. Purchase, then slam a can of cheapass white biscuits across the kitchen counter a few times until it pops, remove and bake according to the directions on the package (spend no more than 40 cents per can). 2. Put about 2 tablespoons of peanut butter into a bow...