As Mayoress Reputa (the Beauta) makes out the list for the upcoming Cuyahoga Falls Business Association Ball she wonders if she’s the only rational person in this town. In her opinion, there is not one denizen within a ten-mile radius born with all the right chemicals. She has always felt like this is one of those places inhabited by strange and intriguing characters one always reads about in books. But of course she knows that this place and these people are as real as the setting sun. Or even God, Himself.
30 March 2006
29 March 2006
Althaea Officinalis
Marshmallow candy was not invented in Cuyahoga Falls. It was also not, as insisted upon in a popular cruise along the Fowl River, invented in Mobile. I pant undeniably at the beauty of the marshmallow. Why do I love it so? Ah yes, it’s because they are good to me. They fill me with sticky sweetness.
What can I say to conjure up unusual facts and trivia? What is a usual minded person and why must he always exist among the red rose bushes? Can man truly succeed in the plethora of mindless activities he is forced to perform day after day? Is Lawrence Welk really dead? I had a cow once, has it been eaten?
In a dark corner of a dark restaurant sits the man who knows you well. He looks like everyone you’ve ever known. Looking the other way when it happened is the woman who is all things to all people. When they get together things are mentally devoured until only the skeletons of what once was remain.
What can I say to conjure up unusual facts and trivia? What is a usual minded person and why must he always exist among the red rose bushes? Can man truly succeed in the plethora of mindless activities he is forced to perform day after day? Is Lawrence Welk really dead? I had a cow once, has it been eaten?
In a dark corner of a dark restaurant sits the man who knows you well. He looks like everyone you’ve ever known. Looking the other way when it happened is the woman who is all things to all people. When they get together things are mentally devoured until only the skeletons of what once was remain.
22 March 2006
Tippy Solvidol Solves It All
Armand Van Helden makes me feel like a whore. Fuck yeah!
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.
21 March 2006
No Escape
Stopped at a light on my way to the grocery, I flip on the stereo to whatever CD is in current rotation. After only a few minutes, though, an overwhelming urge to switch to the radio comes over me. It's an odd urge. Normally I don't listen to the radio, seeing as how most of it is crap. But today I must. My soul requires it.
I click on the presets, but I get no satisfaction. What am I looking for? I click on the auto-seek button. It goes through the local stations, stopping for a moment on each one. Do you like this? No? Okay... Do you like this? No? Okay...
Then, after a while, I hear it. It is the Sirens' call. It is Escape (The Piña Colada Song). My soul is soothed.
The Piña Colada Song has long played a role in my life. A friend and I used it for many years in a series of psychological experiments on my sister. We'd find it - no matter how well hidden among her CDs - on a compilation disc. (Thankfully, I've forgotten which one.) We'd stick it in the stereo, press endless repeat and wait. Her reaction would range from disgust to humor, depending on her mood. There was one time, however, when the situation got violent.
My sister, eight months pregnant with her first child and very hormonal, was asleep on a chair. Beads of sweat dripped down her face from the lack of air-conditioning on this very hot July day. Gristle from the large steak she had just eaten lingered on the corner of her gaping mouth. We should have known. We should have... We put the CD in the stereo and out came the first fateful notes of The Piña Colada Song.
I've blocked out much of that day, but every now and then I'll wake up screaming from a nightmare of blood, tears and arrests. Needless to say, that was the last time we ever did it.
Today I'm not screaming. I'm realizing that I've never actually listened to the words. So here, at the light, on my way to the grocery, I finally do.
What a stupid song.
The guy was "tired" of his "lady" (and really, who says that?), so he starts reading the personals as she's asleep right next to him. Whatever. Then he responds to one. No surprise. Then they meet, and guess what? It's his lady! Yay! They laugh. They drink (Piña Coladas, no doubt). They escape.
I don't, however. The Piña Colada Song is in my head and it won't go away. I remember now why I should never heed the Sirens' call. I am drowning in a swirling blender of 3 oz light rum, 3 tbsp coconut milk, 3 tbsp crushed pineapples and ice. I'm sorry, sweet sister, for all those years. Please, please, just pour me into a Collins glass and let me die. And thank drinksmixer.com for the recipe. Thank you.
I click on the presets, but I get no satisfaction. What am I looking for? I click on the auto-seek button. It goes through the local stations, stopping for a moment on each one. Do you like this? No? Okay... Do you like this? No? Okay...
Then, after a while, I hear it. It is the Sirens' call. It is Escape (The Piña Colada Song). My soul is soothed.
The Piña Colada Song has long played a role in my life. A friend and I used it for many years in a series of psychological experiments on my sister. We'd find it - no matter how well hidden among her CDs - on a compilation disc. (Thankfully, I've forgotten which one.) We'd stick it in the stereo, press endless repeat and wait. Her reaction would range from disgust to humor, depending on her mood. There was one time, however, when the situation got violent.
My sister, eight months pregnant with her first child and very hormonal, was asleep on a chair. Beads of sweat dripped down her face from the lack of air-conditioning on this very hot July day. Gristle from the large steak she had just eaten lingered on the corner of her gaping mouth. We should have known. We should have... We put the CD in the stereo and out came the first fateful notes of The Piña Colada Song.
I've blocked out much of that day, but every now and then I'll wake up screaming from a nightmare of blood, tears and arrests. Needless to say, that was the last time we ever did it.
Today I'm not screaming. I'm realizing that I've never actually listened to the words. So here, at the light, on my way to the grocery, I finally do.
What a stupid song.
The guy was "tired" of his "lady" (and really, who says that?), so he starts reading the personals as she's asleep right next to him. Whatever. Then he responds to one. No surprise. Then they meet, and guess what? It's his lady! Yay! They laugh. They drink (Piña Coladas, no doubt). They escape.
I don't, however. The Piña Colada Song is in my head and it won't go away. I remember now why I should never heed the Sirens' call. I am drowning in a swirling blender of 3 oz light rum, 3 tbsp coconut milk, 3 tbsp crushed pineapples and ice. I'm sorry, sweet sister, for all those years. Please, please, just pour me into a Collins glass and let me die. And thank drinksmixer.com for the recipe. Thank you.
13 March 2006
I Could Play With My Words
What is this noxious odor called New Orleans? The streetcars and their sparks flying about ready to strike an unsuspecting fool such as myself... Or perhaps the stench of beer from too many fuckin' frat parties on one block? A plastic bag from a cab.
A red truck, car, van, whatever the hell kind of vehicle that is, sits idling on my front lawn. Yet it's not my front lawn. It is, in fact, an amazing replica of an English garden in the Spring.
11 March 2006
Coffee and the Single Girl
Just today I was sitting at a café in Hollywood. I stared at the traffic while sipping my black coffee when, suddenly, Mr. Joaquin Phoenix came into my line of sight.
We had met a few months before at a poetry slam in Albuquerque. I was trying to lay low, but a friend insisted I get up on stage. Not surprisingly, the impromptu performance of my environmental impact study of a new cell tower in the historic neighborhood of Hyder Park made the crowd go wild. Joaquin was there, and he noticed me. We talked. We laughed. We drove around and beat up treasure hunters at a nearby archaeological dig. Finally, we parted. Though we spoke on the phone, I didn't see him again until now.
"I missed you the other night."
"The other night?"
"At Elton John's party."
"Ah. It completely slipped by me."
Mr. Elton John (excuse me, Sir) had thrown a post-Oscar bash/AIDS fundraising event at some famous Los Angeles eatery. Naturally, I had been invited. But I didn't go. I couldn't. And I didn't have the heart to tell Joaquin - sensitive that he is - that I had recently decided to protest sprawl. Therefore, I would not attend any function I couldn't get to by public transportation. Now I know that in the scheme of causes AIDS probably ranks higher than sprawl, but a girl's got to pick her battles.
Anyway.
Joaquin sat and grabbed my hands in his. (I'll admit that I went quite tingly when he did this.) He tried staring into my eyes, but, well, I'm just not into that. Very disconcerting. I stared at my coffee and lost all brain activity.
"I wanted to see you again. You know, when they announced my name at the Oscars I looked right into the camera and said 'I Love You.' That was for you. Did you see it? Why won't you look at me?"
"Yes."
"What? Is there a problem? Why won't you look at me? Why are you making that face?"
"Yes, you, uh, no problems."
"I don't understand. You have such a way with words. The Carver Court Housing Project MOA Implementation brought such tears to my eyes that I couldn't help but drive to it a number of times to stare at its beauty. The cops were called on me twice. M. Night is turning it into a film."
"Just stop staring at me, please. I don't like it."
"Oh."
So he looked away, thankfully, and I came back to reality. I remembered that report - a survey I did in Orlando. It was a good one. I squeezed his hands, sincerity oozing from my fingers, and told him it could never be. I kissed him chastely. He bowed his head and sighed. As I walked away I realized that I hadn't finished my coffee. It was damn good coffee, too. Oh well.
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