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.

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

2 Mar

It looks like Zilla has escaped.

One of her friends showed up, and my little alter-ego is now roaming the blogosphere in need of sandwiches, spelunking gear, and fortune cookies.

I know this because they left a to-do list in her cage.

It was sitting there beside an empty bottle of champagne, a carnage of Pabst cans (also empty), and what may or may not have at one point been a pizza.

They leave big teeth marks, so until forensics gets here, it’s hard to know for sure.

I believe the friend in question is this guy:

he's been after her for years

 

Needless to say, I am going on a hunt.

Well, first I’m going to go sweat my guts out in yoga, and then I’m going on a hunt.

If she stops by your blog, please don’t mention either Dave Matthews Band or beets.

Her epic hatred of these two topics can cause some serious damage.

The great Auntie-Anne’s pretzel stand incident of ’07 is still a fresh memory for half of Washington state.

Rest assured, I will catch her soon enough.

Godspeed dear bloggers, Godspeed.

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.

Sweat, testicles, and my inability to move gracefully

21 Feb

Last week a stranger’s naked testicle came alarming close to my face and I found myself thinking:

‘Is this really worth it Menace?’

But then I reminded myself of Jennifer Aniston, and why I started this in the first place.

Allow me to elaborate.

I think we can all agree-that body is incredible

A normal person may stumble across this advertisement and think to themselves:

1. She’s hot

2. I’m thirsty

3. She’s hot

But what do I think when I stumble across this?

1. She’s hot

2. I could look like that (seriously?!)

3. Yoga.  Yes, I should take a yoga course.  No wait, I should TEACH yoga.  But first I should take a course.  Or maybe a few.  Or maybe try out the various different kinds of yoga and then I will look like that and people will pay me to stretch about and teach my moves so they too can look like this.

4. I need to buy a book on yoga.

So it was in late January that I set out to the bookstore.  Fifteen minutes later I was reading a novel written by a woman from Seattle who fell in love with yoga.  Approximately two hours after that, I had located a hot yoga studio down the block from the apartment.

I’m fairly certain that a normal person who stumbles into a hot yoga studio would not agree to sign up for something called the 30 day challenge in which one agrees to complete 30 courses within 30 days.

But by now I’m sure you know how normal I am when it comes to grand ideas.

So without hesitation, I agreed to complete the challenge.

In order to really understand my genius in this decision, let me explain hot (bikram) yoga to you.

90 minutes of Hatha yoga stretches conducted with strangers in a room that is heated to 104 degrees F.

They really aren’t kidding about the heat.

Also, there are a lot of rules.  These include sobriety, coming in hydrated, and staying inside the room for the full 90 minutes.

To recap, I pledged my allegiance in the basement of a Soho studio to maintain the willpower to remain sober, H2O soaked, and dedicated.

For 30 days.

Twenty minutes later I found myself lying half-naked on a mat in an ungodly hot room awaiting my first session.

Two minutes into it I looked like this:

Yes, sweat actually drips of one in this fashion during a session

I’m blue here to emphasize how incredibly soaked I was during the first breathing exercise.

Basically I’ve been blue for the past 30 days.

Against all odds, I completed the challenge.

I got used to the heat.  I did not get used to some of the outfits chosen by my peers.

Hence, the naked testicle.  Uncomfortably close to my mat.  Granted, it being in the room at all is uncomfortable.

But come on man, no one needs to see that.

Rogue genetalia aside, I’m hooked.

Though I now want to study other forms.

Preferably one in which I appear graceful, stoic, and stealth.  While practicing bikram yoga this red-tomato wet girl with horrendous hair kept reflecting back to me in the front mirror.

I assume it was faulty.

The mirror, not the girl.

Regardless readers, this is the latest in my serious of ‘Greatest Ideas Ever’.

Stay Tuned, only a matter of time before the next one strikes.

sleep deprivation, birds, and ninja masks

21 Feb

I have one thing to say before bedtime.

I think Hitchcock would agree.

That is all.

Nighty Night Bloggers.

 

The curious case of an orthodontist, Kid-Ginger, and fungus

20 Feb

Puberty is rough.  Orthodontists are scam artists.  My mother is a sadist.

In 1996 these three truths collided to create the perfect storm.

At 14, I looked like this:

Simultaneously, my 10 year old bro looked like this:

The cool kids on the block, we were not.

What we lacked in trend-setting however, we made up for in mediocrity.

Naturally, neither of us ever wore our headgear.

And yes Mom, I know you are reading this and already getting irritated that you lost that battle, but I ask you to look at those two faces and feel pride.

Can’t do it, can you?

Anyway, let’s get back to the story.

As a result of never wearing our headgear, neither of our overbites were improving.  I was in the onset of my teenage rebellious hayday so this did not bother me.

Kid-Ginger however, had other problems.

At only 10, he was still anxious to please my parents and all figures of authority.  Every month on the night before our visit to the orthodontist, he’d strap the shiny apparatus into place and hope against all odds that one night of donning the robotic creation would fix his face.

Deep down however, he knew this wouldn’t work and so he’d get nervous.  Pacing around his room, he was always trying to think of ways to alleviate the oncoming argument between himself, the orthodontist, and our parents.

Nothing ever worked.  Every month, the morning would arrive, and we’d troop into the appointment like lambs to the slaughter.

Not one for privacy, this particular orthodontist had one giant room with several dental chairs in a row.  It was a Fordistic haven for the humiliation of  American youth and their teeth.

Kid-Ginger and I were usually seated next to one another.

It was during one such morning while I waited for the assistant to come and hook my head up to the Matrix and disassemble my mouth; that I chose to glance over at what was happening on my little bro’s end.

The orthodontist was just leaning over to take a look in Kid-Ginger’s open mouth.  Sweat gathering on the little guys forehead, he looked up in fear as Dr. Iago’s face twisted into pure disgust and he backed several steps away from my brother’s chair.

His eyes scanning his assistants in fear, he loudly announced:

“Someone get me the manual, we’ve got a situation here.”

Then, cautiously re-approaching the redhead’s chair he took another repulsed glance and said:

“Son, is that hurting you?  How long has THAT been growing in your mouth?”

Kid-Ginger’s cheeks now the color of beets, he shook his head nervously and asked:

“how long has what, is this about the headgear, I don’t know, I wear it, well I try to wear it, what is happening in my mouth?!”

My dental chair at this point had gone from seat of doom to the best seat in the house as I watched this melodrama unfold.

“Kid, your tongue is black.  Did you eat licorice for breakfast?  Do you brush your teeth? Where is that darn manual Peggy!!!”

(Peggy was the assistant I had been awaiting, so her scramble to locate the manual containing all mouth diseases did not bother me in the slightest)

Kid-Ginger, rapidly approaching black-out mode shook his feet and insisted he had not eaten anything for breakfast because he had been too nervous.

By this point all of the assistants were peering into my brother’s mouth in order to identify the problem.

Each of them looked horrified.

Booming over the intercom I suddenly heard the words:

“Would the father of Kid-Ginger please come into the workroom immediately please.  The father of Kid-Ginger.”

Enter in one sarcastic lawyer of a father.  My father.

“Sir, we need to show you the situation that is your son’s mouth.  I’m afraid we can’t work on him today.  Until we identify the fungus, we can’t associate our tools with it.  As of right now, it appears to be something called Black Hairy Tongue.”

I watched unblinkingly as my father glanced into his youngest offspring’s mouth.  His own jaw fell open, he stopped breathing, and he demanded of my brother:

“What in Gods name have you been eating?  Good lord do you ever brush your teeth?  Son, your tongue is absolutely black.  How long has it been like that?!?! What do you mean you haven’t noticed?  How on Earth can you possibly not have noticed?!?!? How many times do I have to tell you to USE YOUR HEAD?!?!”

The room went silent.

All eyes fixed on Kid-Ginger as he stared at my father like a deer in headlights.

Silence.

Slight ruffle of pages as the various assistants found new diseases in the manual and peered nervously into the gaping hole in my brother’s face. Shaking their heads no, the shuffling of pages continued.

More silence.

Finally, my father ordered the two of us to the car.  On the ride home, he continued to question my silently shaking brother.  Staring out the window in sheer terror, it appeared Kid-Ginger had gone mute.

Ten minutes passed.  Tension in the vehicle was high.

Then finally, the trembling voice of one 10 year old redhead announced:

“Well, I did drink a lot of Pepto Bismol last night, I was so nervous about today”

My father turned his head and stared at his son in disbelief.

“You were so nervous about the appointment you drank that stuff?  You hate that stuff.”

“I know Dad, but I didn’t know what else to do”

Later that evening it was discovered via prehistoric internet searching that Pepto Bismol can turn your tongue black if drunk in excess.

Turns out Kid-Ginger never had a fungus after all.  By dinnertime, he was fine.

My stomach was not so great though.

Having laughed so hard through the entire ordeal, my tummy ached for days.