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Zilla, Pabst, and Jose

10 Nov

If you’re new here, you might want to meet my alter-ego before proceeding.

Channeling her inner Houdini, she managed to escape some time ago.

Evidently, she roamed all over God’s creation with a supply of Pabst, a friend of hers, and my temperamental time machine.

They also stole a bottle of champagne, but at this point, that is neither here nor there.

She’s been in my ear all morning attempting to explain herself.  Twiggy arms flapping in excitement, stomping her tail to provide the occasional soundtrack, miming the actions of what is either an ancient tribal ritual or a story about being trapped in the middle of an Hermes sale (I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually)-regardless, she’s got a long way to go in describing her whereabouts these past months.

She wore herself out in the middle of a tale about Jose (the buddy of hers I mentioned), and so in an effort to get her to quiet down a bit, I asked her to write you all a note about how this adventure got started in the first place.

As you can see, the handwritten explanations leave much to the imagination.

Just thought you should all know that I have verified the expiration date of her rickshaw license.  Early 16th century, though it looks like she could have extended if she hadn’t missed the deadline.
She’s slowly piecing it together for me, but I’m sure I’ve just hit the tip of the iceberg.  I’m debating giving her access to my password on here, so if you see an occasional drawing sans explanation, rest assured, it’s Zilla.
Rawr.
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If it’s major, hit me on my pager

9 Nov

I am going to get real with you today homies.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Today it’s 1996.  I am 15 years old.  I have a Meg Ryan inspired haircut-which I am not-repeat NOT pulling off well, I weigh 90 lbs, and I’m wearing jnco pants.

To clarify, that would be these:

In my case, my feet were never visible, which I assure you, made me hip. I am lacking boobs and an ass at this point.

Also, I live in the suburbs of Seattle.

So you know, practically Compton.

I have taken up the habit of cruising around in my best-friend’s car, attempting to smoke cigarettes (first time encountering this to be a later post-but let’s just re-emphasize that I am attempting, not really succeeding in smoking said cigarettes), and I have become temporarily obsessed with hip hop.  I have started referring to my friends as my homies, I’m convinced that one can never wear enough eyeliner, and if I could figure out how to slick my hair back into a tight ponytail with just two spirals hanging out on either side, you can bet your ass I’d be doing it (aforementioned haircut-an unfortunate side-effect from my previous punk phase despite my desperate desire to become a ganster-excuse me-gangsta).

I am in 10th grade, I am unpopular, and I have acne.  I also have been ordered by the orthodontist to wear headgear 14 hours a day, which I am rebelliously not doing (and yes mom, I still defend that decision).

So, I’m in my jncos, with a baby-toll tshirt which shows off my belly-button piercing (which I did myself-again, later post…), in my friend’s car, and we are cruising around parking lots in search of anything interesting.

By interesting, I mean boys.  Specifically, cute bad boys.

It says something about the male libido that they’d find me attractive, but the fact that they do works well for me.

This is not prep school readers, this is the ghetto.

Ok, so maybe we all saw Dangerous Minds one too many times, but regardless, here we are.

In a parking lot.  In a car.  Coughing cigarette smoke and trying to chat up boys.

Our vessel is her 1982 Honda.  It was at one time white, it is now various shades of dirt.  The driver door does not open so we both have to enter and exit the vehicle via passenger door.  We have slurpees instead of alcohol because we cannot get our hands on anything more adventurous than sugar-soaked ice.

We are listening to e40.  Specifically, we are listening to this song:

Which is of course, the song of my tenth grade year.  The song which inspired the months of begging my mother for a pager.  To page, to be paged, is the epitome of cool and I desperately want to be involved.

The song is reminding me that I don’t yet have a pager, but it’s also working in my favor because I know all the words and can bob my head slightly along in a bad-ass manner I learned from movies.

I will sit in that parking lot, in that car, in those jeans for the next three months before I decide I’m a rock girl.

A rock girl with a pager.

Passports, sandwich-wrappers, and monster love affairs

7 Nov

She’s baaaaaaaaaack…….

That’s right.  After sending me on a wild goose chase that would have given Sam and Frodo a run for their money, Zilla returned this morning.

She’s been snoozing since eight, but I suspect I’ll get an answer as to her whereabouts later this afternoon.

Here’s what I know:

-She’s wearing parachute pants that are neither worn out enough to be vintage, nor from this decade.  I suspect foul-play with that busted up time machine of mine.  It would also explain the armor on her right arm, which is either from a Gladiator television prop chest, or the real-deal.

-Her passport has stamps from various countries, including a short-stint in Pakistan earlier this year, which I can assure you-I have some questions about….

-She appears to have acquired real-estate, scuba, skydiving, pilot, taxi, and rickshaw licenses.  Two of which expired in the late nineties.  One of them appears to have expired at some point in the early 16th century, but the bite marks make it hard to tell for certain.

-She has a tattoo indicating a romance has transpired between herself and what appears to be a mythical creature yet to be identified.

-Her backpack has sandwich wrappers from at least five different airports.  There is also an unopened bottle of pickles inside.

-I can’t be certain, but I think she’s lost weight.

-Her journal is hard for me to read (those twiggy branch fingers of hers to blame), but it seems she has either won the lottery in the past, is planning to do so in the future, or has drawn up an assassination plan for JJ Abrams.

I’m going to be having long chats with her in the upcoming days to get her stories and find out why on earth she found it acceptable to leave for such an extended period of time.  Unacceptable, I assure you.

Regardless, I wanted to let you all know as soon as she got in.

Obviously, we have much to discuss.

I’ll be traveling around to your blogs in the next weeks to catch up on your news.

Feels good to be back.

Rawr.

The nighttime goldfish ghost.

24 Feb

In eighth grade I briefly owned a goldfish with a deflated eyeball sack.

I know, he was pretty awesome.

At night he’d swim around his tiny bowl and hit the side with his face.

Vision was a little hard for Ralph with that droopy eyeball.

He wasn’t long for this world, and after about a week in my lair, I offered his body to the porcelain Gods.

 

Since I was a big fan of the little guy, I’ve decided to immortalize him here, both sacks re-inflated.  I figure he’d want to look presentable to the blogging community, I know fame was always a big aspiration of Ralph’s.

So here he is.

Your nighttime goldfish ghost.

Surfing the blogosphere, one pumped eyesack at a time.

G’night bloggers.

The Golden Corral, a boot mug, and my childhood dream

12 Nov

When I was four I wanted nothing more than to join the rodeo.  My grandfather took me to my first one in Eastern Washington, and from that day forth I ran around the backyard in a blue t-shirt bearing a cartoon bull crossed over with an x.

No-bull was my motto.

My grandfather at one point in his life had been a dentist, but had grown up on a farm, and in later years would breed ostrich.  With bow-legs, pointy boots, and a big roaring laugh-his very presence sparked my cowboy interest.  But it was the first trip to the rodeo that really sealed the obsession.

Sitting next to my broad shouldered gramps in the stadium, coke in one hand, hot dog in the other, I witnessed the event with complete fascination, and vowed to myself that one day-I too would be a great cowboy.

Lone ranger. Image of all things awesome.

It didn’t occur to me that I would make a better cowgirl.

After that trip to the rodeo, I set about lassoing various objects in the backyard with my jumprope.  The old stump next to the fence, my tricycle, and on occasion our snoozing german shephard all fell victim to my hand.  Sticking a long piece of grass out of the corner of my mouth, I tromped about the lawn riding imaginary horses, bulls, and tipping my baseball hat at passing wildlife (birds, flies, and once again-our dog).

One evening my grandfather showed up to take us out to dinner.  I was ecstatic because:

1. My grandfather was a real-life cowboy.  Perfect for studying so I too could master the art of bad-assery.

and

2. Eating out with Gramps meant I could order soda.  The forbidden fruit of my childhood, I would have sold my soul on any given day for a swig of Coke.

On this particular eve, I asked my him what his favorite restaurant was.  His response would rock my already cowboy-infested mind.

The Golden Corral.

Where real cowboys fill up.

The dark walls, the western theme, and the good-old fashion American cuisine made this establishment my grandfather’s favorite restaurant.  So of course, I was happy to pretend that I too, had spent my four years on Earth loving the Golden Corral.

It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with the cowboy themed restaurant.  The emotion was hastened by an item that would become a part of my upbringing. An item filled to the brim with that delicious, sugary, caffeine-infested cola my young brain so desperately desired.  An item that was refillable, gloriously shiny, and best of all-mine to take home after the meal.  Let me introduce you ladies and gentlemen, to the boot mug.

Beverage receptacle of choice for the true cowboy.

For anyone unfamiliar with the joys of drinking out of a glass mug when your four year old mind has already convinced itself that you are a real-life cowboy; let me sum it up in one word:

Perfection.

Sitting there at the table, I could barely wait to get the mug home and drink everything I would EVER drink in my future out of this mug.  I vowed that all milk would miraculously taste better out of the boot, that juice would never be so glorious, that even water would somehow become exciting.  Picturing myself sitting on the lassoed stump in the backyard, backwards cap, no-bull -shirt, and mug in one hand-I was sure to send a cowboy message to the neighborhood.

Flies and birds beware, there was a new sheriff in town.

Begging my mom to clean it the next morning so I could use it, I quickly discovered the greatest feature of the boot mug.  I had failed to notice at the restaurant because I had been swigging my Coke from a straw.  The next day in the backyard however, the mug sang to me.  That’s right-it sang.

Well, burped really.

I discovered as I casually meandered the lawn in search of wandering cattle, tumbleweeds, and bad-guys; that when I drank from the side of the glass with the handle-the mug would loudly bubble.  Which, when I closed my eyes, could easily be interpreted for the sound of gunshots.

Instantly the boot-mug became my joyous dinnertime companion.

Bubbles of milk spattered my freckled face as I chugged for the satisfaction of hearing the pop.  Gasping for breath at the end of each swig, I’d giggle in delight as my parents sat sighing at the dining table.

It was the missing piece to my cowboy persona, and from then until six months later when my profession of choice changed (that’s another post), the boot mug was my best-bud.

I haven’t been to the Golden Corral in years, but for the sake of all young budding cowboys, I really hope they still give away the boot mug.  It is truly the accessory of choice for anyone willing to repeatedly lasso their tricycle.