Freud is Choking on His Big, Fat Hog

Brother only seems to have road rage when there's a car in his way. A few weekends ago, when we were on our way to watch vintage motorcycle races at Road America, a pokey driver finally moved over to the right lane when he was good and ready and my brother grumbled, "Fat lop of....look at him! Smokin' a big, fat hog!" Having not looked up from book two of the Twilight obsession, I burst into laughter and inquired, "WTF is a big, fat hog??" Apparently the man was smoking the biggest cigar Brother had ever seen. Another simply put phrase that had me cracking up and now I must use ad nauseum. Sorry. But the story below does tie in with Freud. You'll see. Though I don't get the whole cigar thing...

* * *

When we of the Kuj Tribe were much younger, there was a time when us siblings engaged in the truly Polish/German sport of bowling. Every Saturday morning, hanging out in a gloomy, smoke-filled bowling alley, participating in the kid's league. I sucked. I considered it a good day if I managed to keep at least one ball out of the gutter. Little did I know that once I was old enough to drink (in pub-lick, anyway), I wouldn't give a crap if I threw the ball behind me, because bowling had become an excellent excuse to spend time with favored friends and co-workers, and for swilling mass quantities of beer.

Of course, Brother was better at bowling than me. He of the plaques, trophies, patches. Naturally, when one of his birthdays approached, the decision was made to have a bowling birthday party. My mom hired a Superman to show up at the party with balloons for the b-day boy and to do party tricks. Oh, how much damage this would do.

This "Superman" was a short, skinny, hirsute guy with a gold chain and a porn/cop mustache. He wore a near-accurate version of Superman's red and blue costume, except that I'm fairly certain the real thing didn't have a padded suit. PADDED. Padded biceps, pecs, thighs. Mental damage enough, you say? Sure. Cheesy? Most heinously. He told jokes, made balloon animals, did a little prestidigitation. I hope that, at the time, he at least entertained my brother and his friends despite the blatant misrepresentation. Otherwise, if I run into him again, I WILL demand he pay my mother all the money she shelled out for his cheese. I figure I just have to stand over him and flex my Pilates-hardened thigh muscles.

* * *

Trish (you remember her....she used to blog too?) has been my best friend for so many years, she deserves some kind of award. Or maybe I do. I think we met in high school marching band, but the specifics escape me. Despite a handful of years apart, we reconnected a few years ago and, again, talk to each other in one format or another nearly every day. Before I moved away and her gorgeous husband stole her from me, WAAAAY back in the mid 90's, Trish had asked me to stand up in her wedding to said gorgeous husband. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm the one who deserves the award. That dress. That's a whole other story.

I was invited along with the other bridesmaids to the requisite bridal shower and bachelorette party. I apparently have a gift for memory recall. I've been incredibly astounded, as proven through Facebook, by my ability to remember bits and pieces of events as far back as high school. Unfortunately, this is one particular event I just can't get rid of. I would've hoped it had disturbed me enough to repress. I'm not so lucky.

After opening her gifts, we were interrupted by a knock on the door and the cry of the hormone, "Ooo! The stripper's here!"

* * *

Male strippers. That has got to be the most disgusting form of entertainment known to woman. Now before you formulate and postulate about my er, orientation, please understand that I'm like any other red-blooded, all-American heterosexual woman. Me likey man. But I'm picky on the visual. Just as any man on the street will pull a Pavlov when a hot woman walks by, I also like to observe male hotness in its most natural state: mowing my lawn. Okay, mowing any lawn. Okay, really, doing anything the Brawny paper towel man would do. But, specifically, manfully. Not outfitted in a bow tie and cuffs, women's thong underpants and...jiggling.

The image of the male reproductive anatomy, in my poor opinion, does not inspire grand, sweeping anthems of brass and bugle. It does not shout out in a growly, "Yeeeesss!" It's more of a "wah, wah." Yes, I realize this could be construed as mean, but the specific equipment is utterly and completely functional. There are far more important parts of the male gender that kick-start the furnace, if you know what I'm saying. I realize the human body is never perfect, but even on the scariest looking human being, there's something of incredible visual quality (my eyes, thanks for asking). Sure, his eyes might be hopelessly smoldering. It might be the small of the back. Maybe it's the ab muscles. It could be the graceful arc of a deltoid. It's possibly the broad muscular span across the scapulas. It's definitely that little indentation between the pelvis and gut muscles. Whew.

This? As Alanis Morrisette (the rotten bitch) once sang, "You are a slice of God on a platter..."

I could stare for days. Is he a deep thinker? I don't care. Does he love puppies? Big whup. I prefer my eye candy still...posed, not doing the electric slide with Grandma on stage. Stand still Chippendales, and I will perv out.

So you see where I stand on the whole stripper thing. If your purpose in life is to entertain women while barely dressed, it's far classier to me to just hand out pictures of yourself, than to parade around on stage with Fabio hair (gech) and s-pulse your meat and two veg at my face.

* * *

Hue and Cry. "The stripper's here!" Ugh. I see through the throng of ladies, a polyester cop uniform. "Hello ladies. I hear there's a bachelorette here who's been naughty..." Ugh again. A flash of a plastic badge (I'm welling up right now at the horror). The crowd of women makes way for the focus of our attention....and it's the FREAKIN SUPERMAN GUY!

I'll pause here for the collective outburst....

Seriously. The very same short, skinny, hairy guy (with the gold chain still). As a stripper cop. I remember wishing I could fart wings and fly. I shrink into my chair hoping against hope that, as he sets down his boom box and "Party All The Time" (who cares what song it was, really) blares from the twin speakers, I can will myself to be one with the powder-coated steel and vinyl.

This probably wouldn't be such a big deal if he was just a craptastical stripper, I understand this. As it was, he really was bad. Easily torn off pants and shirt (which is good, because as skinny as he was, I doubt he'd get through a real button), boxers, bikini, thong (really? Three pairs of underwear isn't overkill?). Climb up on a chair and shake his junk two inches from Trish's face (take that, alleged BEST FRIEND! Put me in this multi-color, poofy, organza-coated dress, will you? Karma! AVENGE ME!).

And yet, he still never got completely naked. The hair suit stayed on for some reason.

One wonders if this is the first thing one should share with a therapist upon first session.

Reintarnation

I don't use the bathroom much at work. It's not that it's skanky or anything, I just kinda don't stop to go. Get it? So on the rare day when I have one too many Dr. Peppers or the lunch went in sideways, I'm in there, staring at the little radiator thingy on the wall near the floor and I take stock of the frequent inhabitants, i.e. spiders. I don't know what the deal is. We aren't surrounded by woods at the shop. It's in the middle of an industrial park, but the spiders that somehow get in are radioactively enhanced. The kind of spiders you see on a boat as the sun sets, or the kind that thrive in the forests. Big, meaty spiders. And for some reason, they set up shop in the floor heater of the women's bathroom.

Normally, it doesn't bother me because if I do happen to need to use the facilities, there's really never any activity. Just evidence. And once, as I was staring at the carcass of a recently departed insect, I thought to myself, "What's it like to come back in the next life as a bug?" I haven't looked into this too much, but I thought that Buddhists believe that reincarnation is a series of evolutions toward enlightenment. Meaning, you come back as a new being in each life, correcting your past karmic errors until you achieve perfection of being. I might not be correct on that, but that's how I remember it. So, coming back as a bug. You'd live, like, a day. In the grand scheme of the Universe, human lives are but a blink of a cosmic eye. Imagine the nanosecond life of an insect. Eat, poop, make more of you, die. Short, without complications, hobbies, money, likely not even enough mind to experience the shock and horror of such a brief existence.

I don't think I'd mind coming back as a bug...as long as it counted, anyway, due to its sucky nature. Dung beetles should get to knock off credit for two lives. I don't think I need to explain why.

Vern, My Muse

I've struck up an entertaining back and forth with one of our customers based in Fort Collins, Co. Sometimes people don't realize what spark they light in the cockles of my brain. My friend on the West Sigh-eed brightens my day with his friendly, pointy wit and the odd pop-culture speak we share. Recently we were sending emails with Latin phrases in the subject line, until he actually pieced one together, thwarting my easy Latin-to-English Googling. Here's a sampling of an email I started and realized it made a better post.

"We've finally got sun today after clouds and rain the better part of the week. I've got a screamer of a headache and I think it's this smelly-ass perfume I'm sampling. I smell like a half-dead old lady. That discussion we had about smells that make you sick? As far as perfume is concerned, instead of sucking you in with an initial lovely scent when dabbed at the neck and wrists, if a scent has the potential for making you ill later on in the day, someone should manufacture some kind of chemical reaction that causes it to smell like fart or rotting corpse upon instant contact with skin. Then you'd know and it would save you giving yourself a whore's bath in the sink at work. Because you KNOW my boss's brain is reeling away trying to figure out why the tips of my hair are wet after I've exited the bathroom.

Also, I should refrain from shaking hands with anyone this weekend. I know, you're thinking I'm wary of swine flu. I'm really not. It's just that my brother's girlfriend took it upon herself (a nice thoughtful thing to do) to purchase poo tickets for the household and somehow managed to find ONE-PLY. I'm not one for ripping through the RPMs when unrolling the T.P., but, since I'm a wadder, I'm fairly sure that's twice as much coming off the roll so as to further distance myself.

Yes, WAY more than you could possibly ever want to know. Meh. I figure, we're both human, we both excrete, along with everything else. Hey, wouldn't it be fun if we were like plants and just expelled a gas instead of dropping the kids off at the pool? Think of the chunk of the planet we'd save. We could all start peeing around the yard like the pets (except for the winter)..."

Valiant, Brave Trish

Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside. - Mark Twain

Ah, the flu. I only had one dance this year with the plague and it was all...um, below. That was after Brother had the two-way flu. For me, it only lasted for about 12 hours, but food was so unappetizing after that, it was a few days before I actually started eating solid food again...and it was Guinness, unholy stout of ubiquity. Blech. I've have apparently depleted the Chippewa Valley of all Beamish, and there's really not a lot around to begin with. Oh yeah, I forgot about my first Sonic burger. That was my second round of solid food, post-pipe cleaning.

I haven't had the flu for years and I avoid the shot. For some reason, I thought I had read somewhere that you should really only get the flu shot if you are elderly, very young or have a compromised immune system, which doesn't sound right. Whatever. No flu shot for me.

By comparison, it seems to me that Trish and her family are sick constantly. It took my mom to point out that two little boys and two school teachers make for a fluish window of opportunity for exposure.

A few days ago, I start receiving a stream of text messages on my cell from Trish. Does she abbreviate? No. Is she laconic? No. I get a blog post's worth of feverish outpouring from the wordy one. Blah blah blah, "I'm dying." Schmala schmal, "Everyone's barfing." Yadda yadda, "What does a spleen look like? Is this my spleen?" Jeez.

If you read Trish's last post, I'm sure you imagine a svelte, young mother in designer shoes, standing on a thoroughly defeated, giant microbe, with her hair, cape, and Chanel Tyvek suit blowing in the wind, her jaw set with determination under her bio hazard mask, and wielding a bucket and hand sanitizer.

Sure, so did I. Until the flood of text messages was finally punctuated with this (no, I didn't rotate this picture):

"That's a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion." So says old Billy Shakespeare. Oops, no that's not a flea on that lip. Ugh...breakfast...eggs...uuurrp. Ack. Excuse me...gotta run.

Don't do it in the dark

Yeah, getting ready for work without turning the light on invites chaos. Take the other morning, for instance. I went through the entire day before I realized my drawers were on inside out.

Or when I overslept this morning. I hit the off button instead of the snooze and woke up with 10 minutes to spare before Fahjah arrived to whisk us away to work. I threw on a nearby "cleanest, dirty" pair of jeans. I was trying to avoid the pair I wore to the Japanese restaurant on Sunday night and the pair I wore out to the bar in Menomonie Saturday night. They had a non-odor so on they went. Now I'm sitting here and I can distinctly pick up the smell of Japanese restaurant. Awesome. At least this hair-do I'm currently sporting can fly with just running a brush through it.

Of course, getting dressed in the dark doesn't help or hinder your sense of smell, but...what the hell...? My underwear's on inside out AGAIN?

Today's the day I meet the man of my dreams, isn't it...

S.A.D. is B.A.D.

I think I have S.A.D.

Granted, I'm not much of an outdoor person. Not that you could go outside and play when the wind chill will knock you unconscious. On the sunny, warm summer days when there's a light breeze and the scent of freshly-mowed lawn fills my nose, there's nothing finer than enjoying all that through the open window behind my computer monitor. I do, occasionally, venture out, but I find it difficult to do so when, shielding my sight with my hand as the tears squeeze out of the corners of my blinded eyes, Brother stops what he's doing outside and declares, "Wow, I didn't know skin could be that white." I hate the sun, or at least the being directly in it. My legs resemble the color of those cave-dwelling, blind salamanders; devoid of all pigment. Toothpaste has a healthier glow.

I've never really enjoyed anything athletic. Marching Band was my only extracurricular activity in high school. The most exercise you'd get is the 12 minute run-through at the end of rehearsal and the occasional run-the-perimeter of the football field for running your mouth constantly (not me...much). By joining band, I got to go places, learn a little discipline, develop some personal pride, be a part of something bigger than myself, and sure, get outside some. However, during the two weeks in August for Band Camp, it felt like I had been abandoned in the desert on some forced march. I tried gymnastics at a very young age. Too flip-floppy. Soccer later on...I swear to you, the rest of the girls were HUGE DUDES. I didn't really like either.

I always tell people I was built for comfort, not speed. I like yoga and pilates, but not weight lifting or cardio. In fact, if you mention the word "exercise" in front of me, I will likely stab you with a spoon. My idea of enjoying a summer day is stretched out in my hammock in our three-season porch, reading a book (or at least the first few pages) until I doze off.

My attitude about "outside" seems to have changed over the last summer. I think it started with the purchase of my motorcycle a couple of years ago, or maybe it was the yoga classes I signed up for a year ago, but I think it was the purchase late last summer of my sweet, sweet beach cruiser that may have turned the tide. The local supply of Ben & Jerry's and Dove ice cream is two or three blocks away at the gas station. Hey, if you bicycle to the place to buy the ice cream, it negates any and all calories and/or fat grams. So sayeth I. After buying the bicycle, I ended up riding around Eau Claire 30 miles one day with Mostly Naked. Offroad too. Then there's the semi-annual "tubing" that we do on the Chippewa River when my mom comes up to visit. I say "tubing" because it's really, "The river's so slow, we're actually moving upriver, and Kuj's attention span is only good for two hours, so she pulls the four laziest of family members downstream." I'm canoeing next time, you f**kers.

Getting back to the S.A.D., I try to sit in the sun in the big picture window when it's out, though these days the sun is purely decorative. I even resolved to steal my dad's snowshoes and go tramping around the Lowes Creek County Park where Brother and Mostly Naked like to hit trees with their bicycles in the summer. But this year, the weather has been so commonly below the normal range for this area, that I just really can't bring myself to want to go out except to the mailbox on the house right near the front door to get my Netflix.

But I can't wait to go off-road on my sweet, sweet beach cruiser with the boys. I'm going to buy one of those GPS trackers so they can come back hours later and try to find me. Maybe I should bring somebody with me to eat, in case I don't get rescued right away. Or has that become too trendy?

Undiscovered Cerebral Territory

I've been rolling this thought around in my head for some time. I believe that we all have some hidden talent that could possibly go unfound if we don't think outside our conscious creativity. I know I'm not interested in creating most types of artwork. That is a talent my brother, mom, aunt, and cousin seem to possess and, most importantly, they enjoy it. I'd rather look at it. My dad has an incredible artistic ability too, though he's really more of a genius at creating something out of nothing for the purpose of a solution. He came up with the design for my camera mount, just by sitting down and sketching out a design. And he's really good at this. The proof is in the coupe he's building. I know I can ask him very nearly anything and he knows the answer (or at least it's very convincing).

So, a month or two ago I announced to anyone who would listen that I decided I was a pinstriping genius. That was my latent talent. When Christmas arrived, my dad gave me a pinstriping kit, thus making it a sort of "put up or shut up, JEENUS." With that, and in the spirit of the following formula, I present:

Big Mouth + Pinstriping Kit + A Most Convenient Canvas + Jump. Both Feet =

Clearly, there is still a latent talent in the brain somewhere. I'll just have to keep working on this one. I expect people will be lining up to have their toilet lids striped by me within hours of this post. /end sarcasm

Carrots behind your ears, fruit in your armpit

I went grocery shopping last week, a requirement that I absolutely HATE to do, no matter that I'm eating marshmallows for dinner. I only do grocery shopping when the poo tickets dwindle to within two squares.

I had to pick up some deodorant and, I just want to know...what the hell happened that caused the Secret deodorant manufacturers to get the idea into their head that I'd want to smear ASIAN PEAR scent under my arm? Vanilla chai?? Really. If they were smart, they'd manufacture underwear instead. (insert naughty grin here).

Let me whisper sweet nothings in your ear...

As in, I'm doing sweet nothing today.

I may have the best boss ever created by man. Thus, I am on vacation today. Short story...not that important.

Anyway, things of observation...

Remember that recipe I made with arborio rice and (GAG) tarragon? Well I still have the rice sitting in my pantry so I experimented a little last night. Chicken stock instead of water. A little butter. The rice. Follow the directions on the rice package. A little lemon juice and the only thing missing from my favorite Greek lemon-rice soup is well...soup. Sprinkle some Parmesan on it and delish! I used all chicken stock, which made it a little salty. You could probably ratio water and chicken stock for less salt. Tarragon, leave this home and be gone from my sight!

***

I'm still in bed, watching "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer" episodes on dvd, and this particular episode revolves around the school talent show. Which just reminded me of this skit I did in a talent show at our grade school with a then best friend of mine. We did that old phantom arms thing with a makeup demonstration. Kristie stood in front and spoke to the audience while she held her hands behind and I applied her makeup with my own arms...pretending they were her arms. Get it? If I remember it right, we got some good laughs. All right, this is how I remember it. We ROCKED. In my head.

In junior high and high school we started hanging out with decidedly different groups and eventually we drifted apart. Then, back in 2002, my mom noticed an article in the local Illinois newspaper. Not sure how I feel about it. I had forgotten about it until I was just watching this Buffy episode. I recall when I first read about it, how I really didn't have much reaction to it then either. Which makes me think I'm damaged or something. It was something of a "Meh" reaction. RIP, Kristie. I miss our friendship, brief though it was.

***

I've started reading Dispatches by Michael Herr. I think he's the guy who wrote the screenplays for "Full Metal Jacket" and "Apocalypse Now." He writes as a war correspondent while in Vietnam. You can tell in the writing. The point of view speaks volumes of a man exposed to horrors no one should ever see, and written by someone with a decided "dialect" of the 60's. All he left out is "man" after every sentence.

BTW, any guesses on why "Apocalypse Now" would be perpetually unavailable on Netflix? I still have yet to see the movie in its entirety.

***

I had a lovely list of things to do today: clean the house, whittle down the pile of excess belongings in my possession, clean the bike in prepration for bringing it in the house for the winter. In the immortal words of Dana Carvey as George Bush, "Not gonna do it." Shortly, I'll be moving into "Command Central (where we keep the BIG computers)" and playing video games till my butt falls asleep. Shower be damned!

Miss Crankypants

I went with Fahjah for the monthly Sam's Club run to pick up paper towels and poo tickets in bulk the other day. I also purchased chocolate in bulk, and while eating my weight in flavored chocolates typically will soothe my winter ravaged soul, this time it's not working...the cold weather is settling in...my S.A.D. is kicking into high gear, and I've started stocking the fridge with Beamish and the bathroom with Nyquil.

No more Stretchy Pants Sunday (strutting our stuff from garage to front door clad in black, snug Underarmor). No more watching MN mow our lawn...MN. No more using cars as moving pylons. No more sweet, sweet beach cruiser. No more hammock in the three-season porch.

Only things we'll have for the next half a year (whimper)? Beer, bonfires, fluffy white snow, chili (with beans, of course...ammo) and flannel sheets. And the crankiest of residents at La Casa de Gasa. I'm escaping for a week in Tampa as soon as the New Year hits. Once I let her know, I'm sure my mom will be excitedly planning to do all my favorite things as soon as I get off the plane...Go to a Florida Wal-Mart, grocery shopping, bicycle 50 miles on the bike trail, check the mailbox for snakes, etc. I'm hoping if I show up at her house with a case of her favorite Leinie's (and bulk chocolate (Dove, Momma)), I might get off easy.

After my first hardcore season of motorcycling, I'm looking forward to winter this year with all the joy and silliness of a Silkwood shower.

...But I'd STILL rather live here than in Florida. We Cheeseheads may be a more weather-worn, hardy people, but at least we're laid back and delightfully redneck. Worst thing that happens here is somebody lights his friend's balls on fire.

I SWEAR I'm clean

Not a single illicit drug has ever entered my bloodstream. All I had to eat a number of hours before bed last night was McDonald's Surf-n-Turf.

So explain this red-headed stepchild of a dream...

I'm queued up for a flight at a very small terminal. Turns out the terminal is part of a university. Turns out the plane is a fancy LearJet...corporate-looking. It's a neat charcoal gray with red and white striping. Turns out I have to run back to my "dorm" for something. The flight attendant is chilling in a chair in the terminal..she's cool...she says, "Eh...we'll wait." Well, yeah, there's only 8 passengers or so...

So I take off like OJ in the old Hertz Rental Car commercials. And I can leap and run and not be winded. In almost any dream I have, I move like I'm stuck in mud. It's terribly frustrating. But not this dream.

I'm sprinting to my dorm in bare feet and as soon as I approach the next building on the campus, there are people lying on the pavement in random places, all of them are black. The people. And they all have telltale projectile vomit spray patterns on the pavement coming from their open mouths where they lay. One black guy in a red jogging jacket lays on the sidewalk with his vomit pattern, but there's a big pool of blood and another vomit pattern near him, presumably from two other people.

I keep running, and now have to steer myself in my bare feet AROUND another vomit pattern (without a person), and watch as two black people get up and walk away, both with their mouths wide open, both projectile vomiting as they casually wander off. I recall yelling something out to them...something mundane, like "Hey you barfers! What the hell?"

Then I wake up. 15 minutes before my alarm comes on. Damnit. Or yea...because..well, vomit.

The Tribe's Version

If you know anything about Harleys, you might have heard of "The Legend of the Bell."

Story goes there's "Road Gremlins" that love to ride along on motorcycles and cause mechanical troubles. But, they can't stand the sound of bells ringing. So, installing a small bell near the bottom of your motorcycle makes them fall off. It's a fairly lame legend, but the idea is kind of amusing to me. Reminds me of one of those "Amazing Stories" episodes (if I remember it right), where some guy is on an airline flight that's flying through a bad storm and every lightning flash shows a gremlin out on the wing laughing wickedly and yanking wiring out.

Anyway, that legend of the bell thing is fairly specific to Harleys. I'm so happy to have found something similar (yet thoroughly different) to start with just the Tribe, regardless of two-wheeled make and model. Feel free to let me know if you other family members would be interested in hanging one on your motorcycle/bicycle...I think it really personifies the love and sense of humor in the Kuj Tribe.

Yes, it's golden poo...but it's LUCKY!

Turns out the Japanese kanji for "lucky" is eerily similar to a shortened version of the word "poo." Yep...sounds like us. And it's GOLDEN!

I've never been more excited waiting for the arrival of poo...

Suck it, Thoreau!

I've been hard pressed to come up with a viable post this past week or so...I have new purchases to share and still need to blog about the big club party, but I can't sit down and type much more than this at the moment.

Mainly because I am struggling to read every last word of Walden. I am fighting tooth and nail against using the book during the early morning hours on weekends for target practice on those GOD-BLESSED NOISY ASS CROWS. Because Walden? Totally sucks. Please, SOMEBODY tell me why this is a classic? Is there a deeper meaning in the discussion of growing beans? Should I do complex math in order to see the "Aha" moment in the ridiculous lists of expenditures and profits? I can't even find a meaningful line to add as my signature in the sportbike club forum so I look all pretentious and smarty. BTW, the current signature is one of my own quoting, "In the end, there can be only one. Two usually requires some stretching."

I'm becoming more and more worried that my comprehension is shot, because I thought a "classic" book was loosely defined as a beloved story passed down from generation to generation. What's with this book? Is it me? Is there some adult version of a reading comp test? Fahrenheit 451? That was a great book. I deem it a classic.

Walden has been in the "library" next to the "throne" for the past week, and when I realized we were down to our last roll of poo tickets, I glanced in the direction of the book and yes, just briefly...

"Will it hurt less if I wad it or fold it?"

Excerpt from the Sneaky Mother's Manual

I'm totally blaming my mother for my bravery at trying new and exotic foods, because she used low-down, mind-warping, down right subterfuge to get me to eat weird stuff as I was growing up.

Squid.
Your average American would recognize squid as deep fried rubbery rings typically known as calamari. One night, though, after returning home from school, I find my mother in the kitchen cooking up what looked like breaded, flat sticks. "What's that?" I ask. "Fish sticks," my mother replies. Love fish sticks. Hell, I love anything deep fried.

Let's clear something up here. I'm a flippin' sucker. If you can pull off a convincing act when reeling me in, I'm on the hook, wriggling right along with your con. Am I at all curious as to why they're approximately 2" x 4"? Of course I am. Do I say anything? No-oh-hoh. I believe what my mother tells me. Those are fish sticks.

I can imagine her sitting there, watching me eat "squid sticks" with a smug sense of satisfaction, but I can't, for the life of me, figure out how that woman can keep the punch line to herself. When I took a bite, and immediately realized that it wasn't quite the same consistency of an over-processed fish stick, I'm sure my face just slightly registered the oddity, but I hope that I didn't do that "EWWW, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?" face. I imagined a spotlight popping on and shining down on my mother, sitting at the end of the table. I hear a chorus of angelic voices in the background, holding a single note, as she patiently awaits my response, "They're good."

"They're squid."

***

Goat burger.
Many years ago, my mom worked with an Indian man who introduced her to an Indian restaurant in Chicago (on Devon or Milwaukee, in the same neighborhood as Superdawg, if I recall correctly) called the Standard India Restaurant. Back then, I was a fairly picky eater, and the thought of Indian food was terrifying (don't they eat dogs?). So when I was dragged, against my will, to this restaurant for an evening of weirdness, I remember sitting in the dark thinking, "I'm too young to die...particularly from food poisoning." But, as it turned out, Indian food is the same stuff, just different prep. No dogs (I think). Tandoori chicken is basically just skinless chicken coated with some spice that makes it turn bright red. Nan is just flat bread. Wha...? They have burgers?

Mom: "Wanna try this burger?" <---notice the lack of "ham." Do I know that Indians who are Hindu believe the cow to be a sacred animal? Yes. Do I realize that Hindus would not EAT a sacred animal? Of course. So why is my heinously slow-functioning brain not firing off this message to the alive part of the gray matter? SUCKER <--ME.

Me: "Okay." The consistency? Kinda mushy. But not bad. Tastes like meat, anyway.

Me: "It's all right."

Mom (spotlight/angelic note): "It's goat." Damn it.

***

Golden brown.
This is just the Tribe's failsafe excuse for over-cooking food.

Me: "This looks burned."
Mom: "No, that's golden brown."
Me: <-- SUCKER "Mmm, charcoal-y." My mom's cooking has gotten so good over the years that I actually MISS "golden brown." Luckily, my stepdad loves me enough to make sure anything he cooks on the grill is golden brown. Love you back, Stepdaddy.

Thanks, Momma. Without you, I'd still be eating snakelips and hamster belly.

Roger "Wilco", Hawkeye Slob-san

The boss man found an internet station that's pretty good...WNEW, from New York. It's commercial-free, and I've heard everything from Marvin Gaye to Death Cab for Cutie, with some Depeche Mode and even School of Fish thrown in.

The only bizarre thing, is that I've now memorized a 2-3 minute piece from one of their DJ's broadcasting "live" from the Bonnaroo music fest in Tennessee. Which was last month. And if I could count the number of times this guy uses the words "audience" and "artist" in his spiel, they'd make up about 90% of the words spoken. It's been played so much that when I was working over by our intern, I said out loud before the DJ did, "Do the artists have the audience in the palm of their hand?" I was promptly answered by said DJ ("The artists here have the audience in the palm of their hand") and our intern stared at me...I thought I detected a little witchcraft fear in his eyes.

That audio quirk hasn't stopped me from listening, though. They even play Wilco...maybe two of their songs. And I just cannot stand them. I feel a little bad...some part of me should automatically like the band because long ago I marched with the drummer, right (I just realized what a dork that makes me...I didn't DO the drummer, I MARCHED with him)? There's a connection and I should honor it by snarfing up all their music...legally, even. Right? Agh...I just can't get into them. I give.

Mostly Naked had never heard anything by Wilco (a trend I'm finding all too familiar, even though Mostly Naked likes just about any music you could name), and asked me to describe what they sound like. I came just short of writhing on the ground in the fetal position, trying to come up with a fair but clear description. Finally, as I sat there sweating with cerebral effort and squinting my eyes as if in physical pain, I blurted out in a Tourette's-like manner, "Pussy Rock."

Sorry, Billy. If it makes you feel any better, I really like that one Son Volt song...

How could I forget this??

On our club website has a page for pictures of member's rides. You can really post up anything you want...motorcycling-related or not. One of our officers with some admin privileges will give new members about 24 hours to post up their own photo...after that, if you are sorry enough to leave the "No Picture" template up, you're at his mercy.

We had a newest member sign up this past Sunday...surprisingly, AFTER we had a crash-and-drop. And he's probably my dad's age. And, (sigh) faster than me. I'm fairly certain he had 24 hours...and I watched quietly, and not without a little panic, waiting for the noob to post a picture. I'm fairly certain THIS is not the photo he wanted posted up:

If you want to view it in all its glory, go here and look for "SVBrad", then click on the image. Enjoy.

There are no taste buds down there

Hah. You thought that was dirty didn't you? 'Snot.

I just wanted to publicly announce that I am eating a mashed potato bowl from KFC for lunch. It's mashed potatoes, corn, gravy, breaded chicken bits and cheese. And, so far, I've managed to keep it down.

While this isn't newsworthy in most cases, I am an exception in that my entire life (so far) has consisted of consuming food as if it were perpetually served on a sectioned Chinet plate. I do not mix my food. There is never corn mixed with the mashed potatoes and gravy. There are NEVER cranberries touching the green bean casserole. Barf noise.

I am constantly forced to respond to the statement, "It all ends up in the same place," with a scathing, "I don't have to taste it once it's down there."

Here I am, eating a mishmosh in a bowl...frankly it's not bad. But if there were cranberries in it too, I'd have to draw the line. Barf noise. Guess I'll check this off my list too; right up there with skydiving and track day.

Everyone out there in the food-mixin' USA, have a great 4th of July. Mind the fingers and toes.

How Come I Don't Get to Have Parosamia?

Topic: Things that are stinky.

Stinky: "Escape" by Rupert Holmes
Shortly after I moved up to Eau Claire, I bought an XM radio. Why? There are roughly 11 mainstream radio stations in this area (after eliminating the Christian rock, NPR, talk, and college stations). Aside: college stations play music that reminds me of that scene in "Animal House" when Otter is picking up dates at the nearby women's college. That song playing in the background while he waits in the lobby of the sorority...yeah, that one...the "I haven't washed in three days, my armpit hair is long and braid-able, I'm hanging out here in the coffee shop with the book "On The Road" sitting on the table (unread), and I'm rambling on about curing the world's hurts, but darn if I don't sound intellectual" song. We get a lot of that up here in Collegeland. Sometimes I like to hang out in the coffee shops with a highfalutin book I actually am reading, and scoff at the pretentious little twits. And who gave permission for white boys to grow dreads?

The eleven radio stations can be boiled down to FOUR genres: Top 40, classic rock, country, rock. Ergo, XM. I have a sort of A.D.D. love of music. Not too much of any one thing, but never enough of everything. Oddly enough, my A.D.D. does not include the above mentioned four genres, other than a few hardly-played numbers.

My employer is a definite late 70's/early 80's child of rock. He naturally chooses the classic rock station. With all the machinery noises in the background at work, I can almost drown out the music with the monotonous clicking of the press and my usual busy-headedness. Unfortunately, the station of choice is an internet no-name that, I've discovered, is fairly limited in scope. I have heard "Escape" at least once a week. Now, I KNOW none of you dear readers can claim that. And how is that "rock" anyway?

Last week, the song finally intruded on my conscience, and I was forced to listen to the lyrics. The story goes like this: couple is bored. Man of couple reads personals and finds intriguing mystery woman. Insists he must meet her. Turns out Man of couple re-meets Woman of couple. They laugh, they like pina coladas. Now, would this happen in real life? If you were bored with your girlfriend, and you go combing the personals, find someone you want to meet and it turns out it's your girlfriend after all, would there really be laughing? Or would there be stabbing? Does this do damage to the trust of a relationship? What kind of strength of will is necessary to overcome that terribly awkward realization that your significant other went sneaking off to look for someone new (or had already posted a personal ad doing same) without the common decency to come clean first? I digress. This song still stinks. Brother can come up with better songs thinking about toilet activities.

***

Stinky: Lawn clippings
Leave eight bags of last year's lawn clippings out in your backyard. Then move them to your dad's house. Try not to vomit. There is no way to describe the smell of decaying grass cooking in the sun in a black plastic garbage bag. For 12 months. Does it smell like cow manure? Nope. Feet? Not even. Guinness farts? No. More like all three together.

I had returned from my Saturday morning yoga class to find the back patio cleared of all the black bags, but there lingered a frightening odor that I couldn't pin down. Until our newest roommate wandered into the garage and made the barf noise. And described, all the while moving aforementioned bags, the number of times he and Brother made the barf noise. While I was making the barf noise. And when Brother returned from dumping the bags behind my dad's house, he resumed the barf noise. All day, waiting for the patio and garage to air out...the barf noise.

Now, we go bagless. It helps that Roommate finds mowing the lawn to be "therapeutic" if he's not forced to mow the lawn. I find this acceptable, though he, by no means, is required by us to mow. Frankly, I HATE mowing the lawn. I've mowed once this season; Brother may not have at all. Roommate does this regularly; also, mostly naked (yea for me). And darn if he doesn't mow on an angle. Our lot looks like someone dropped a dilapidated (read: scraped of exterior paint) ranch house in the middle of Fenway.

***

Stinky: Painting a house
Warm weather up here in the Northwoods is slow to appear. It really never hit 70 until early June this year. So when April rolled around and we discovered the exterior paint hanging off the soffit in chunks, and huge bubbles on the siding, guess what took priority while waiting for a suitable temperature to paint? Realistically, we could use new siding and windows, but painting was more financially feasible at this point. The last paint job on our house is crappy at best. No prep at all, it appears. So, perfectionists that Brother and I are, we've been pressure-washing, scraping, filling, and slopping on primer for the last, oh, 2 months. Mind you, I'm inherently lazy. If there's labor to be done, I can come up with all manner of seemly reasons to not labor. My cells are busier than I am.

Brother works two jobs and when he's not at either of those, he's working on the house. I feel bad, but...labor. The last couple of weekends and a couple of weekdays after work, when I'm done eating dinner, and it's not hot, and the sun isn't beating down on me, and I'm properly hydrated, and the hammock in the 3-season porch is not calling me, and I get to use the non-rickety ladder...I've done some work. Mostly because I can't stand looking at our awful Alabama swamp hut anymore. So we've been working in shifts. Brother sands during the day, I primer in the evening. We might get done before we start piling up bags of grass clippings again. Barf noise.

The house-painting highlight so far was last night. I was in the backyard, slapping primer on the bare wood spots when Roommate returns from his "run" (he doesn't, much), grabs a lawn chair and parks it in the grass (mostly naked again; yea for me) to watch me paint. Granted, this was to have a conversation while I was (ech) laboring, but in my head it was totally amusing to watch a woman up on a ladder painting and a mostly naked man in a lawn chair watching. I'm surprised men walking in the neighborhood didn't come up and congratulate Roommate on his achievement.

***

Stinky (but infinitely funny): Farts
Now that there are two dudes living in this humble abode, the farting has increased exponentially. I'm sure you can imagine the giggle factory I've become. Yes, farting is disgusting. Yes, it's socially unacceptable. However, if you constantly laugh at every toot, fweep, and BLAAAAT, you are unconsciously allowing the behavior to continue. It could be worse. We could have cats...and hairballs. Besides, I like to laugh. And now, I do a lot of it.

Brother, as I have stated, will drop a single BRAP and the deadly cloud spreads. Without warning. The rotting gas bag. He has convinced me that he likes the smell of them, even while making the barf noise. "Sniiiiff. Oh. Baaad. Sniiiiff (as if to confirm). Oh yeah. " Fun for him, not for us.

Roommate, on the other hand, makes me laugh, every time. Damn him. Melodic and tonal with a definite longevity. Not a hint of odor (not that you would catch me within 10 feet of him post-symphonic outburst. But, while Brother's has a way of filling the room, Roommate? Non-stinky.) We've determined he's made up of "sunshine and farts." Last night, while we were enjoying our non-cable TV (Public Television, I heart you) in the 3-season porch, I sat curled up in a chair and Roommate was sprawled out (mostly naked) in the hammock. At first I thought a random animal had passed by the 3-season and left a distinct "GTFOOH" mark on the air...then I realized it was the poo-lecules of my fellow human being.

Me: "Hey, you're not supposed to stink."
A pair of eyes peek out over the hammock.
Roommate: "I think I might be lactose-intolerant."
Me: "Why do you think that?"
Roommate: "My dinner of cheese and crackers, chips and dip, followed by cheese and crackers?"
Me: "I suspect it was your 'run'. That's why I don't."
Roommate: "Anyway, it's starting to hurt."
Me: "Want some ice cream?"
Roommate: "Does your pillow smell funny?"

Roommate and I went out on a ride Sunday night after our usual sportbike club ride. He has years of experience at riding (and a few more experiences than me at crashing) and I've improved much piloting my own bike while following him. But, I couldn't help but think as I watched him crest a hill into the sunset and lean out of sight into a left turn, "Is he farting right now? Would I be able to smell it back here? What does he mean 'Does your pillow smell funny?'"

Oh I Wish I Was A Waterlogged Weiner

Friends: people who borrow my books and set wet glasses on them. - Edwin Arlington Robinson

Trish and I are enjoying a fit of nostalgic turd slinging between our blogs. A recent post of hers prompted me to leave a cryptic comment. Which she dutifully answered. And then, as if to say, "Oh Yeah?!?", she left an equally cryptic comment on my last post: drowned hot dog.

In the spirit of relaying embarrassing stories, I offer my return shot...

Long, long ago, in a suburb far, far away a good mutual friend of ours was celebrating a birthday. I decided to throw a surprise party for her at my house. It was hot, we had a pool, a grill and no booze. That's right. No alcohol. Please keep in mind, we were all in high school and either in Marching Band or were National Merit Scholars. Some of us were both, as evidenced by the complete lack of common sense.

No sir, this was booze-free because it was a parent-aware party. Besides, we frequently went to another house to drink Bartles & Jaymes, Bloody Brains and room-temperature tequila shots (Mom? Remember when I slept over at Becky's? Not so much.). Anyway, my mom had full disclosure of this party at her house and willingly co-hosted, but that didn't stop us from acting like drunken monkeys. It started out harmless enough...all of us running around in the pool until we generated a fairly strong riptide, playing chicken, trying to drown one another, grilling burgers and loading up on junk food, all while jamming to "Pour Some Sugar On Me" and "Talk Dirty To Me"...when they were new songs.

As night fell, well, that's when the debauchery began. Popping balloons on the grill, flinging raw meat and launching flaming marshmallows at the townhouse behind us, your standard party fare. I'm fairly certain that night was the first (and possibly only) time that the Hanover Park po-po had to respond a call of "a hailstorm of beef and firebrands." I'm so proud.

I recall my mom answering the door while a uniformed officer of the law struggled to keep his composure and ask that we refrain. In turn, my mother ventured out to the back yard to report same issue...while struggling to retain her composure. And so was born the phrase that wandered the halls of Lake Park High School for many months, as uttered by my dear mother, "It is not nice to throw raw meat at the neighbor's house."

While a good time was had by all, there inevitably came the dread clean-up, which, unfortunately, had to be carried out by daylight...maybe 3 or 4 days later. After scraping the burned rubber off the grill grate, running the lawn mower to suck up the remnants of hamburger and marshmallow goo out of the grass, the time came to pull the solar cover off the pool and perform the weekly ritual of skimming and vacuuming. Found in the cool waters...one lawn chair, mildly rusty; one pair of sandals, leather, but more importantly, not mine; and...get this. A full-on hot dog.

The slogan goes, "They plump when you cook 'em." Well, look here, Mister. I can tell you for a fact that they plump when you leave 'em floating in a swimming pool for 3 days. There it was, floating serenely in the crystal clear water, surrounded by a slick of greasy pork/beef/turkey effluvium.

Take a peek in your fridge at the average hot dog. Now picture it about 3 times that size. We're talking humiliatingly large when compared to most men. It gave John Holmes a run for his money (so I've heard).

Despite the metamorphosis that took place in our pool, that wasn't the gem of this story.

So I get the skimmer. You know, the flimsy plastic-framed window screening on the end of an equally flimsy aluminum pole. And I went fishing for the meat stick. I watched with horror as I lifted the skimmer under the huge tube steak and it proceeded to bend the skimmer at a frightening angle, roll right off, back into the water and....fall apart. Try not to throw up in your mouth a little.

Also, I think our dog peed in Mike's shoes. Looking back, he deserved it.

Mother Nature Evidently Tripped....

...On acid and decided to skip summer.


Instructions for viewing this photo:

1. Stare at photo.
2. Realize that photo was taken on APRIL FREAKING 28TH, 2008.
3. Bang head on keyboard.
4. Repeat as often as necessary to pass the time.

Caution - Tangent Ahead.

Would eating cookie dough from a plastic tube that reads, quite prominently, "COOKIE DOUGH CONTAINS RAW INGREDIENTS. BAKE BEFORE CONSUMING," be considered a sort of Russian Roulette?