Poetry Friday: The Word is PINK

The lovely and talented Maggie has offered up the Poetry Friday Word for today...PINK.

Whaddya know, my mind immediately took the 'dirty' route on this, and it took a damn long time for me to think straight, without images of body parts flashing around in me brain.

Feel free to sprinkle the word Pink in your blog posts today, in whatever form wets your whistle...story, poem, photo, butter sculpture, recipe for world peace (or whirled peas).

Me, I have one list...and one thing, well, one thing I'm doing on-the-fly before the guys all get in to work this morning. I'm gonna type and type and then hit Publish Post without proofreading it. Could suck. Could suck well. Like me.

Have a good weekend, y'all!


Mona Thinks of Ten Things Pink

1) I pulled up to a stoplight last night, and the Beemer in front of me had vanity plates that said, “Dr. Evil”. Then I noticed a pink children’s car seat in the back. Pink? You can’t be pink and be evil.

2) The underwear I have on is pink. In the half-dark, I thought at first it was taupe. (I know, it’s a silly girl thing.)

3) In elementary school, my “favorite colour” was pink.

4) The processing center at my workplace uses pink highlighters to convey information on certain forms. We’d use it as a verb…”Can you pink this?”

5) Pinking shears are neither pink nor shear.

6) Long ago my girlfriends and I figured out, Anglo skin is either of pink or yellow undertone. Pink burns…yellow tans. I am not pink. And I have a constant tan spot where no one but my husband can see.

7) I also have pink areas that no one but my husband sees. (Oh, and my gynecologist.)

8) Yesterday I had to see said OB-GYN for what’s known as a uterine ultrasound. (Fibroids are one ‘bonus’ of getting older, apparently.) I stripped from the waist down, and the lab tech inserted what amounted to a camera-toting-dildo, wrapped in a condom, into my cooter and took pictures of my pink insides. Somewhere in my blog archives I’ve praised this procedure, not for the amazing medical evidence it can bring to light, but for the fact that a condom-wrapped-dildo-like-device being rotated and slid in and out of one’s Area 51 is not exactly an un-pleasurable experience.

9) The band XTC did a song called, “Pink Thing”, which lead singer Andy Partridge claims was written about his newborn son, but which we all know actually refers to a penis. Or so I’d like to think.

10) “Pink”, the word “pink”, always reminds me of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, wherein Tim Curry (aka, Dr. Frank-N-Furter) sings “I Can Make You a Man”. YouTube has the video, and I’ve watched it several times already this morning, and it’s not yet 7 a.m. The site of Curry in drag makes me, ohhhohhhohhhohhh…shake...my pink thing.


And of All the Colours of the World, The One that Brings Your Breath in Hard

The sheets,
being old and soft,
slid down my hips as your
fingers commanded
The curve of bones
the sweet sweep of flesh
the sound of velvet stroked
the sound of deep echoed purrs
furnace kicking
skin pink with flush of
the warm wave coming in
rolling top to bottom to top
what's soft, what's hard
what comes together
tangled in limbs
tangled in sheeting
lifted up
sus-
pen-
ded-
gently unrolled down the curling
edge of the salty sea
treading
slowly
back to shore

How Adam Ant Made Me Sexy, and the Poetry Friday Word for Tomorrow

First thing’s first…the lovely, sexy, and talented Maggie has chosen the Poetry Friday WORD for tomorrow. Go to her site. Go there now. Make sure no one’s looking over your shoulder as you read. Please remember to wipe down your equipment after usage. Maggie…damn, girl…and I’m s’posed to “work” now that I’ve read that? Daaaaamn….

Speaking of sexy…and I was…I had that ‘lightbulb-over-the-head’ experience yesterday. I was Amazon-ing (a new verb, just made it up, you like?), and put a cd in my cart from my younger days, my impressionable teen-college days…my sex-ay days. Got the cd yesterday and ran around the office like a drunken freshman showing all my cool pals. Popped that sucker in the cd player and immediately flushed with excitement. Because it hit me…this was the cd that made me SEXY.

“Kings of the Wild Frontier”.

It’s not just that Adam Ant (or Adam and the Ants, as they were) gender-bent with makeup and that Pirate/Native American garb kick.

It wasn’t just the accent (if I could, I would make a lover of The British Accent).

It wasn’t just the thumping drumbeat or the “oy-oy-oy” of the British Working Class.

It wasn’t just lyrics like, “I want your roughhouse baby/I want this night in your ear/Let me feel your danger/I want to make this feeling clear/I want the touch of your charms/The heat of your breath/I want to say all those things/(those dirty things)/That would be better unsaid…” (Nine Inch Nails covered this song as a ‘hidden track’ and that made me gooshy all over again in a different way.)

It wasn’t one or another of these things.

It was ALL these things.

It was me disrobing in a dorm room with beer and vodka in the background and youthful fumblings aside. It was new grinding and groping and things whispered in ears whilst moaning. It was stifling screams, and sometimes not. It was not being afraid.

(Lightbulb…A-ha!) So THAT’S the stuff I remember turning me on to my own sexuality…Adam Ant prancing around in pirate boots and eyeliner.

Go figure.

Dammit, Madge!

I had to stop at Halloween Stupor-store yesterday to find a sumo wrestler wig for Boy-child (yeah, talk about specialty outfits). Whilst walking through the life-sized motion-activated Freddy and Jason dummies, and the buckets of Real Fake Blood with the dripping decapitated head on a hook overhead, I heard this ethereal music over the loudspeakers and Local Radio Station started playing “Like a Prayer”. Y’know when you hear a song and you get this…well…”feeling”…like something happened sometime when you heard the song and you’ll go the rest of your life with that ooky feeling whenever you hear the damn thing?

I couldn’t figure out why the internal hubbub, bub. Then it hit me. OH YEAH. That’s the Madonna song that spawned the video with lit crosses, and The Church Powers condemned her to holy burning hell, and didn’t Pepsi or someone boycott her somehow? Oh and some furor over her kissing a black angel man? (What is this, 1950, fer chrissake?) I didn’t get the turmoil. It’s art. Art is whatever you want it to be. ("Ars Gratia Artis", meaning "art for art's sake", is MGM's slogan with the lion.). "Piss Christ"? Well, it's not my cuppa tea, but okay, if people really want to see that, sure, it’s art. Thomas Kinkade, the "Painter of Light"? No thanks, but it's your dime...go ahead and buy it. We still have Free Will, and if you know you’re gonna be offended, just stay away. (One thing that offends me…those Mondrian colour ‘compositions’…dude, they’re squares of primary colours. Big deal! My 6-year old can draw a dog, his house, AND his bone…she passed the “blocks of colour” phase when she was 3…pffffft.)

Back in the early 90s I went to the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit in Cincinnati, y’know, the one that caused So Much Ruckus that hardliners picketed outside, and inside was a ‘special room’ where you could see lovely photographs of men in bondage gear fisting and such. They really were lovely photos. Not just the fisting ones. Still lifes, self-portraits, Laurie Anderson, flowers. "Thomas"...oh, I love that. I bought a t-shirt after the show that said, “Censorship is obscene”. I wonder where I put that thing?

I do tend to ramble, early morning, with not much caffeine in me. Where was I?

Oh yeah, Madonna.

So I’m shopping for wigs in cavernous H’ween store listening to Madonna and feeling ooky, because I just didn’t care that she chose that imagery, I didn’t care, it didn’t bother me, but it seemed to bother other people, and THAT bothered me. So I left H’ween store with sumo wig and an ooky feeling that chased me through the night, and I woke up singing “Like a Prayer”, and Madonna, darling, would you just get the HELL outta my head? Please?

(I had a momentary reprieve, I just stopped for more coffee, and as I walked under the Muzak speaker, I heard, “Gimme a beat!”, and Janet (Miss Jackson, if yer nasty) came on. But, alas, Madonna kicked her ass to the curb, damn echolalia.)

Who knew I could be so militant, so early in the morning?

Soup Dragons

1) I have found myself in a love affair. With jerky. Beef jerky, especially. My Farmer Friend makes his own jerky (beef, turkey, venison) and I have a standing order with him for “as much jerky as you can spare”. I now have a lovely smoke ring on my upper palate and tongue. My breath would knock you over. Totally yummy.

2) Boy-child gets to be in a homecoming parade. You’d think the kid won the lottery.

3) I actually told Guilt to “take a hike” and I bought myself clothes this weekend…For No Reason At All. I can’t seem to get away from ‘sexy librarian’ clothing, though, as everything shows my décolletage in one way or another. The boss will have to deal.

4) The Forbes “400 Richest Americans” list came out, and this time you had to be a billionaire to qualify. I just ran down the list of names, and why doesn’t my name show up there? (eyeing checkbook balance) Oh. That’s why.

5) So whazzup with Project Runway, anyone know? Last week they were *supposed* to have the finale, but instead it was repeats of previous shows. What gives?

6) Studio 60 is on tonight. I will watch. And drool.

7) Go get ‘em Tigers!

8) “PC” from the Mac vs. PC commercials has a book out. A funny book. I loves me some smart-ass mens….

Poetry Friday: The Word is MORNING

I’ve been earning my dollah-no-hollah this week, to the detriment of blog posting and blog reading. Some days are like that…even in Australia.

Today’s Poetry Friday Word came about because of Frank Sinatra. His voice ran through my head at 5 a.m. as I pulled my sleeping bones to the bathroom, in the dark, contemplating calling in sick just because I could, just because work has been hell and my body felt like a heavy, heavy sack of wet cement. What was I doing up? Geezy-creezy, mornings are ridiculous. Then somehow Frank’s voice interrupted, “In the wee small hours of the morning, when the whole wide world is fast asleep….” Such a pretty song, so mournful, so perfect.

I am expecting another hellish day of work today, and I’m rushing to get this in before all the guys descend upon me. Got 2 things...one script-ish thang (because I think in she-said-he-said conversations) and Frank's song.

"Morning”…please feel free to sprinkle this word liberally in your blog posts today, however it opens your oyster…poem, story, photo, audio, recipe for world domination….

Have a good weekend, y’all!


Act II, Scene 1

Scene: Early morning, bedroom. Cut to:


Woman: (sitting up suddenly in bed): William H. Macy!

Man: (stirring beside woman): Hmmm?

Woman: Macy.

Man: Yeah?

Woman: Oh. William H. Macy.

Man: What about him?

Woman: In my dream. Wow. (checking bed) Wait. Uh. Oh. Hi.

Man: Hi.

Woman: You’re in my bed.

Man: Last I checked, yeah.

Woman: Huh. We weren’t drunk, were we?

Man: No.

Woman: That’s good. Did you seduce me, or…?

Man: Oh, it was definitely you who did the seducing.

Woman: Mmm…I don’t think so.

Man: I’d like to think so.

Woman: We have a show today.

Man: Mm-hmm.

Woman: Crap. I didn’t get those scene changes to Brad. He was pretty drunk last night, wasn’t he?

Man: Let’s see…he kissed Alec Baldwin on the mouth. He mooned a group of nuns. Fell in the lobby fountain…I’d say, yeah, pretty drunk. Sara got pictures.

Woman: Oh yeah? God I love that girl.

Man: It’s not blackmail if you’re not asking for anything.

Woman: It’s…journalism.

Man: It’s sketch comedy writing itself. “Inebriated Network Executive Man.”

Woman: Don’t tell him that, he’ll open next week’s show with it.

Man: You okay?

Woman: What? Yeah. Okay. You?

Man: Okay.

Woman: Is this supposed to be the awkward ‘morning after’?

Man: Not so awkward.

Woman: No. Not so.

Man: It’s still early, ya know.

Woman: We could sleep some more.

Man: Or you could put those boots back on.

Woman: See, this is all the boots’ fault.

Man: Dirty little things.

Woman: Mm-hmmm…dirty, nasty, sexy little things.

(Fade out.)


In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

In the wee small hours of the morning,
While the whole wide world is fast asleep,
You lie awake and think about the girl
And never, ever think of counting sheep.

When your lonely heart has learned its lesson,
You'd be hers if only she would call,
In the wee small hours of the morning,
That's the time you miss her most of all.

(Musical interlude)

When your lonely heart has learned its lesson,
You'd be hers if only she would call,
In the wee small hours of the morning,
That's the time you miss her most of all.

It’s your money that we want and your money we shall have

1) It’s Talk Like a Pirate Day! This day always reminds me of Adam Ant. Am I the only one who remembers “Kings of the Wild Frontier”? If I had any html sense, I'd find a way to put an mp3 of "Jolly Roger" here, but…aaargh, I be a scurvy wench....

2) I watched Studio 60 last night. Whatta cast! I realized as I watched it that I knew one of the actors…we’d partied (like it was 1999) years ago, back when I was more theatrical and we were all much, much younger. I’m several degrees of separation from past Fantasy Boyfriend, Bradley Whitford. Wah! I wanna be on a show like that…wahwahwah!…write snazzy dialogue for ME, Aaron Sorkin!

3) I’m taking Pisser’s advice and buying some of that gorgeous silk material for a scarf. I did go by the fabric store yesterday to touch it. There was some chippy eyeing it, though, she better not have bought the entire bolt, or I will have to track her down and cat-fight her for it.

4) I think I’m eating too little to lose weight. Which doesn’t make ANY sense. I figured out yesterday how many calories a day I usually consume and, according to several online articles and reports, my body is prolly going into starvation mode and refusing to drop lbs. Much like my stubborn 6-year old refusing bedtime by hiding behind the couch and emiting that scream-whine that gets on Your Last Nerve. What gives? I mean, calories is calories, right? 3600 calories make up a pound, if you eat that many less or burn off that many, you should lose, right? What’s with the ‘starvation’ thing, man? Haven’t we transcended that, as humans? Doesn’t my aging flesh realize that in five minutes, I can be at any number of restaurants that would be glad to serve me high-calorie entrees and that decadent chocolate thingy for dessert? ‘Starvation mode’ is NOT something I presently need to worry about…isn’t there a toggle switch somewhere I can flick off? Drrrr…or, rather, ARGHHHHH.

Do your chain hang low

1) When my mother put me through the domestication process, one of the things she taught me was how to sew. (I also did the whole 4-H/County Fair Exhibit thing too, those blue ribbons are collecting dust somewhere.) Thing is, as an adult, I hate sewing. Well, hate’s pretty strong…I don’t WANT to sew. It takes too much time. I always sew over my fingers. Plus I can find it easier on sale at Target or Kohls or wherever my butt finds clothes. Thing is, I still go into fabric stores for crafty stuff, and whilst in there last week, I stumbled across this GORGEOUS silk fabric, Asian green with sweet little butterflies on it, I did a literal !GASP! when I saw it, like, I had to buy it or bad karma would find me. But it’s $15 a yard, and I’m not about to drop that kinda money on material that I’ll probably never use. Although I’m considering taking my old sewing machine in for a tune-up as an excuse to get the material. I’ll be going to the fabric store again today to touch it and make myself miserable.

2) So I put on my new “progressive lenses” (aka, bifocals) last Friday and nearly puked. Seasick. Blurry here but not there…whoops!...now blurry there…. I had to learn to walk all over again. Stairs suck. It’s getting better. I look like a sexy librarian.

3) I’m losing track of sleep, like, I went to bed around 12:30 a.m. this morning, Girl-child woke up at, what, 2 a.m.?...something like that…with a mysterious pain in her leg (thank you Children’s Motrin), and I stumbled back to bed a bit later. The alarm went off at 5 a.m. I’m gonna have Sergei conk me on the head every night about 9 p.m. so I can get some quality ‘out’ time.

4) Is anyone except me anxious to check out “Studio 60” tonight? I have a mad crush on Bradley Whitford, and hey, Mr. Perry ain’t so shabby….

5) Tofu. I will be experimenting with tofu. Damn you, Iron Chef America!

Poetry Friday: The Word is PENNIES

The luscious and artsy arnheim Lieber from “Is “Is” Is?” has offered up the Poetry Friday WORD for the day.

That word is…wait for it…PENNIES.

Feel free to sprinkle this word in your blog post today, in whatever form teases your hair…poem, story, audio post, embarrassing photo from 8th grade sleep-away camp, butter sculpture, etc. Me, I have two offerings (the second one rushed because the boss nearly busted me, dammit he wasn't supposed to BE HERE today) and the overwhelming urge to dump out my purse and run my fingers through my loose change. Ahhhhh….

Have a good weekend, y’all!


221 Herbert Street

“You’re putting ketchup on my latte?”

The barista smirk-smiled. “Always freaks ‘em out,” he said with a wink, as caramel flowed out of the red squeezable ketchup bottle onto the pillows of whipped cream.

Julia laughed. She needed a smart ass.

She threw three pennies into the Penny Dish and turned into the dim light of the coffee shop. The “Open 24 Hours” sign in the corner highlighted an empty table and she slid into the padded chair. It was really too cold for shorts, but she hadn’t planned on meeting that guy, hadn’t wanted to go to a party, and certainly had no intention of getting lucky that night. But there it was. 3 a.m., skulking back to her apartment, the dampness of frantic sex clinging to her legs, the stale metallic taste of weak beer, the regret nothing more than beads of sex sweat.

College boys are so easy, she thought, as she licked a foamy overflow from the rim of the cup. Not that she minded, as their bragging fumblings fell in two categories…funny and satisfying. The funny ones she laughed about with her girlfriends. The satisfying ones held the fantasies that accompanied her to bed.

She watched the barista move behind the counter, his head bent, a comment and a smile for the guy in the trenchcoat, the couple still drunk, the mom in a jogging suit panting her red face through “something cold and caffeinated”. The sqoosh of the steamy milk nozzle drowned out the corporate attempt at funky ambience music...The Fabulous Thunderbirds, James Brown, Duran Duran. Julia stared at the huge muffins in the display case, the thick slices of lemon loaf, the biscuits and tea cookies. She tried wrapping her brain about what she’d done for dinner, and realized it had escaped her. The beer that Kevin...or was it Keith?...seduced her with did little to bed down the hunger. She’d left for her run with a fiver in her pocket and the latte ate up most of that.

What if…what if I kiss the barista, or hell, even go down on him…that’d be worth a scone, she thought. He was cute, in a snowboarder kind of way, curly lengths of hair in his eyes, the long-sleeved shirt, the tall teeth. He looked like all the others, here for a party and random classes before going to work for Daddy.

Julia waited until he looked her way. Then she smiled, lifted her chin in a nod, and held up her pointer finger, in that “hold on a second” code, and made her way to the counter, smiling that smile that the boys always ate up.

A scone, she thought. Maybe a muffin. Blueberry, I think.



Lincoln, Lincoln, Everywhere

First it was a mayonnaise jar,
Then a gallon milk jug,
Then a 5-gallon plastic tub that lard once came in.

It sat in the corner
The lid clinging on
The copper level tingling and rising

I’d run my fingers through the pile
I’d rub them on my face
Sometimes I’d lick them

I couldn’t ever count them
That would break the spell
That would ruin the surprise

I kept my eyes on the ground
I kept my fingers in couch cushions
I never used exact change

Thirty years later
The row of tubs won’t move
Not without a small crane or several strong men

Pennies to the bank? No.
Pennies to the poor? No.
Pennies all for me?

Yes.

An Open Letter to Bruce Campbell

You snuck up on me, man. Like, blindsided.

I’m a…moviephile?...whatever you call someone who loves movies. (Filmophile? Gah.) I’ve watched you hundreds of times…I’ve seen “Evil Dead”, I chuckled my way through every episode of “The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr.”, I watched and re-watched “Army of Darkness” so many times that the phrase “First ya wanna kill me, then you wanna kiss me…blow” is part of my vernacular. (Along with “Gimme some sugar, baby”, and “Clatto Verata Necktie”, which I was repeating Rain-man-like this morning when my countenance was trying to assimilate 5 a.m. Chanting like, perhaps, invoking the spirit of some some groovy space-alien who would dissolve into the room, zapping me with sleep rays, so my brain wouldn’t feel like the slippery insides of a can of creamed corn. “Groovy” was also MY catchphrase before you used it in the movie. I am both hip and totally out of date. But I digress.)

I know who you are, and yes, I squeal your name aloud when I see you in some cameo role. The phrase, “Hey look! It’s Bruce Campbell!” is well-worn in our household.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I was casually wandering through the bookstore, catching some graphic novels and comic books for the kiddies, when on the table full of anime and Death-Metal art, I saw a familiar face leering at me from a book cover…”Make Love!…the Bruce Campbell Way!”

“Hey look! It’s Bruce Campbell!”, I yelled to my husband.

Seeing that the kids got something, and needing something "fun", I grabbed said tome and headed to the cash register. I had a weekend where a book would fit in just fine, thankyouverymuch, and this juicy little steak would be most satisfying. I took that puppy home, plopped down in a comfy chair…and got sucked in. (To the book, not the chair, I do NOT live in a horror movie.) I read. And read. Madedinnerputthekidstobed…and read. Slept. Got up. Read more. Read the end. Stared at the book jacket. Opened to page 1 and read the first 30 pages again.

Thing is, and forgive me for being so simple, but I was surprised.

The.
Book.
Was.
Good.

Funny, witty, twisted…it fit me like that old denim shirt I refuse to throw away, the one with the sleeve coming off and the mysterious stain on the left boob. Reading it was like eating my favorite dessert…a handful of chocolate chips thrown in my mouth, followed by endless squirting of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, dripping down my chin, my naked body, making a puddle on the floor for the dog to lick up as I swallow chocolate and chocolate and chocolate. (Wait…that’s part of a different fantasy. Well, the analogy will have to stand as read, because chocolate and nakedness are just about as happy as I can get.)

Then it hit me…Bruce Campbell is not just a B-movie actor…Bruce Campbell is a smart guy, an interesting guy, a talented guy, a guy who can laugh at the twisted machinations of us squishy skin-bags called 'humans'.

I pulled out our box-set of “Brisco County Jr” and pored over the episodes. I bought the other book, “If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B-Movie Actor”. And the ultimate…I Googled “Bruce Campbell” and found a myriad of links (a website, man? Oh lawd, be still me heart!).

Yeah, baby, you could say I’m hooked.

I have no stalker-ish instincts (I mean, puh-leeze, I can’t even stalk myself to the gym), but I will admit to now pondering adding the name “Bruce Campbell” to my Fantasy Boyfriend list. (Brendan Shanahan, as much as I love you, you deceived me, and you must go.) Pondering. And will decide for sure later. After I finish this bottle of Hershey’s syrup and get dressed.

Bruce. You rock.

Sincerely,

Mona Buonanotte

Same thing we do every night, Pinky…try to take over the World!

1) Happy Birthday, Chris Garver! (I had a little sexual fantasy re. him this morning, I hope he felt that. And I was gooooood.)

2) Happy Belated Birthday, Colin Firth!

3) I just realized two of my Fantasy Boyfriends have birthdays one day apart.

4) My Fantasy Boyfriend list is in flux, due to the fact that it’s college football season and Kirk Herbstreit always rotates into Floater position but I’m thinking Kirk may be TOO pretty to be on the list anymore but I can’t really ditch him, can I? AND Brendan Shanahan must be purged from the list (sonofabitch, man, leave the Red Wings? You suck.). Chris Garver is moving to temp Fantasy Boyfriend in place of Shanny, ‘cause, well, tats and attitude turn me on.

5) Y’know that post I did last week about how magical early mornings are? Well, I’m fulla shit. Driving to work at 5:30 a.m. this morning all I could think was dammitfuckdammitshitdammit. I gots ta get more sleep or I’ll be dangerous. (More dangerous than the outfit I’m wearing today, which is threatening to slip down like silk boxers on satin sheets, and expose my lovely ta-tas. I look down at my cleavage and mutter, “Damn, girl! Might as well wear pasties!”)

6) My husband’s neck smelled like soy sauce last night when we were DOIN’ IT. Either he splashed some behind his ears when he was dishin’ out lunch sushi, or his girlfriend works at House of Wok. Doesn’t really matter. Salty is as salty does.

7) For the last week or so I’ve been especially eager to wear skirts and shorts (my friend commented on how she’d love to have my legs with all their muscles and stuff, and I’m egotistical like dat). So yeah, then what happens? Canada decides to get medieval on our collective asses and dump arctic air down our pants. I still wore a skirt today, but I look like a total goof, ‘cause everyone else has wool pants on and sipping cocoa. Durh.

8) Last Tuesday I started my yearly Diet to Look Good at the Holidays. I lost 4 pounds in 4 days. BUT. I know it’s not fat. It’s POOP, people. Poop and pee. Water and crap. Maybe Tom Cruise would like to get me an in-home liposuction machine, seeing he’s so fond of Special Doctor Machines for his own use. I’m a peevish dieter, in case you haven’t guessed that already by my scintillating morning conversation starters.

9) Pinky and the Brain is one of the greatest cartoons of our generation. NARF. So imagine my delight upon finding this video of PinkyandBrain…and then this one with Orson Welles from the original outtake that the PinkyBrain episode was based on! Ohjesusbabyyes! Gititgititgitit!

10) Miriam-Webster Online's Word of the Day is "rechauffe"...a pretty high-falutin' way of saying 'rehashing the same damn thing'. Like this list.

Poetry Friday: Uncle Ted says, Wango-Tango!

I was just a kid in the hippie-love, free-love, love the one you’re with days. Dammit. Days before AIDS and HPV, when a little shot of penicillin would cure that nasty itch ya got down there, Cletus. I romanticize it, of course, as I only saw this in movies and newspapers…my parents and extended family were decidedly NOT like that (au contrare, mon frere, and yes, my French sucks), but still…I like the fantasy of Free Love and dancing in the park with hippie fringe and beads, like in “Hair” (with Treat Williams, who yes, I still crush on). Sitting with a hooka pipe listening to Ravi Shankar, eating handsful of whole grains, sleeping naked on a park bench to show ‘one with nature’…I could eat that up with one of those giant wooden spoons my mom used to display on the dining room wall.

Here my mind wanders, and what was the point of this post?

Oh yeah…it’s Poetry Friday, and there is no WORD for today upon which to expound. So I leave y’all to your dirty pretty nasty devices to come up with your own word, and hopefully I’ll get my proverbial shit together next week to offer one up (I have a few ideas from some o’ y’all’s posts already).

I’m at work all too early this morning, having to make up some time from this doctor appointment and that one, and trying like hell to avoid the night computer operator guy, who does a fantastic job but is a bit (understatement) lonely and just wants to talk to SOMEONE, and who’s the only one here? ME. So I’ll post this now, and post something else later.


No One Ever Writes Songs About Dawn

The traffic lights all blink yellow at 5:30 a.m. They, too, are tired, and really, what’s the point of the green/amber/red circuit if there’s no one there to watch?

It makes for a lovely drive. The sky not yet purple-pink with the rising sun, the air still damp with dew forming, the quiet deafening inside your ears. It’s like swimming in a gigantic cave, one of those in Mexico where the fresh water meets the salty, and you’re aware that other people must, somewhere, exist, but they’re never as lucky as you, paddling slowly in the quivering light with the dark water swirling in patterns underneath your flippers.

I hate getting up early. I sleep fitfully, and the last thing I need is to interrupt beautiful REM by the buzz of a 5 a.m. alarm clock. The only saving grace, besides no wait for the bathroom, is the drive in.

You know who’s driving at that hour? Infrastructure. Yeah, okay, there may be one or two still-drunk college guys maneuvering the streets coming back from a tryst with that girl they met at Woody’s party, or a girl returning home from boning that hot guy at the bar, or perhaps a thief finishing a good night’s work. But I don’t see them. Instead, I see the guy in the blue truck, who very politely let me take my turn at the amber-blinking stop light, and I watch him in rear-view pull into the power station. There’s the red van, a woman with a scarf around her hair, who pulls into Ye Olde Donut Shoppe (“time to make the….”). Two cars following me turn into the medical plaza. Streetsweeper, moves patiently along the curb. A cop in Big Parking Lot sits drinking coffee, his radar detector nowhere to be found. A car here, a van, a Bud Light delivery truck, moving somewhere, doing something, on their way to or from a warm bed.

We are, at that moment, Kings and Queens. Rulers of the streets. We go. We do. We look forward to cups of coffee and heavy sighs. We own the dawn.

Rumours of My Demise

I’m here. Rilly, I am. See, I pulled a selfish prank and took a vacation where internet access was some futuristic idea read in old issues of Popular Science magazine. Upon return to the civilized world, having been gone for days and days, my boss thought it best to pay me for ACTUAL work, not just work I thought about doing. Of course, this happens to be our busiest time of year. The endless calls of “Mona, we NEEEEED you in this meeting!”, “Mona! Thank god you’re back! I have a REALLY tough problem for ya.”, “MOOOOOOOONA!!! Got a minute?”

No.
No I don’t.

I need trees and a lake and a frig full of beer, topped with chips.

I did a leeetle bit of trolling your blogs, but not enough to qualify.

I DID have several dozen “Great Ideas!” for blog posts that may, eventually, materialize. One of which involves a potential Fantasy Boyfriend, who is inserting himself repeatedly in my daily life.


If I were to do a post today, it would look something like this:

I.
Am.
Old.

I went to the eye doctor this morning before work, and after the exam she exclaimed, “Wow! You qualify for bifocals!”

She’s my age.

We wept together, then threw up, then I went to the outer room to talk with Fabulous Ryan about new frames and seamless bifocals.

Sergei will tease me endlessly. No doubt. Right after he counts today’s gray hairs on the top of my head and laughs knowingly at my creaky knees attempting to lift my carcass from the living room floor.

I like to think I’m “experienced” (the answer is YES, Jimi). And that bifocals are the New Fashion Trend. And that older women are sexy. And we ARE, dammit. But bifocals? Sheesh, what’s next, age spots? Dentures? Replacement hips? I’m still not finished getting tattoos, and eyeing those stupidfukking legging that all the college girls are wearing (one fashion trend that should be banished, IMHO), and thinking I’m so hip/cool/bomb by quoting lyrics from college radio bands.

Ah…now I’m just a cranky old woman.

As for Poetry Friday tomorrow…just remember what “Uncle” Ted Nugent said…”It’s a Free-For-All, baby!” Do what feels good. Let us watch.