labmonkie (lab' muhng-kee) n., 1. A series of experiments distinguishing living organisms from dead organisms and inanimate matter such as reality show contestants. 2. Your personal guide to Nothing in Particular. Enjoy.
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mom: "Yep, that's what he'd say every time...blonde, blue-eyed, with big boobs..."
me: "And don't forget deaf."
mom: "Oh-ho yes, that's what he'd say to me and everyone at The Knife and Fork Club, when I'd tell 'em that I wish I hadda married a gay man. Your Daddy'd say, 'Well yeah, I wish I hadda married me a li'l ol' blonde with big, blue-eyes, big boobs, and she'd be a deaf-mute."
me: "You keep forgetting the 'and she'd be a deaf-mute nymphomaniac whose daddy owned a liquor store' bit at the end."
mom: "Remember when he brought Noel Hunnicutt's Playboy into the house, and I found it stuck up in his closet?"
mom: "Oh sure you do, remember, it took me 3 or 4 days to color all the clothes on 'em with Magic Markers, on all those nasty women. I even drew turtlenecks on some of 'em. Made him s'mad because he had to return it to Hunnicutt since he'd 'just borrowed it', yeahright. Honestly. I mean really. The very idea."
me: "The liquor store part always sounded pretty good to me."
mom: "That's because your Papaw hid in a utility closet to drink God Knows What outta his ol' brown paper bag...bless 'im..."
me: "I'm beginning to understand why. And you had kids? Thanks a lot."
mom: "Well. It wasn't on my mind at the time."
me: "Hey, you're not throwing me with that one anymore. It took me until I was 28 to do the math on this: two babies, born 3 years and a day apart, March 25th and 26th. Daddy's birthday was June 19th, and you couldn't have just gotten him a nice tie or a book instead?"
You do know that at night, when you have the light on and the blinds are open, I can totally see you talking gibberish to your cat while you change your pants, right? If not, then oops. If so, then dude, you've sullied my porch time. You have to know this. I've thrown marbles at your window. We've been through this. Dude. Seriously. For real?
From the very beginning, Stephen Merchant and I had a mutual, standing agreement to "keep our options open". But I'll admit, I've been spending a dangerous amount of time in Chokeville with Joshua these days.
Suffering through three megalomaniac houses of horror like this, I could contribute and compare battle scars and chunks of years lost, but instead I'll just read along and shake my head in sad agreement and newfound gratefulness for escaping these gaping, yawning maws of hell.
"It’s incredible how the wide range of life situations, feelings and emotions can be expressed and conveyed by simple nails. Power of art add Genius of creator, making up the nail art from Vlad Artazov. "
me: I think it's pretty. I think it's really, really pretty.
me: And. I think it's the perfect example of one of these 1940s Craftsman-type Bungalowish -- oh hell, I don't know what I'm talking about, you know, but I know what I like-type houses with all these hardwood floors here, redone, nice....but nothing here is too redone, y'know. Spacious rooms, big tall ceilings, ooo-hoo with fans that will stay on until next year, all french double-doory and blah blah, glass doorknobs, most of the original glass in the windows because it's cool and wavy lookin', you can see there....front door beveled and etched and stuff, with stained-glass windows all around the place, like up there, see, and, no cracks in the ceiling, upstairs or down, and you saw all three bathrooms, right, with that one giant bathtub that looked like it may not have too much lead in it, and I checked: actual closet space if you can believe that, and, looking all around, the fixtures are great, crystal chandelier over there is nice, looks damn near original, all pretty much perfect, structurally sound, kitchen's awesome, not too moderned up, all the original cabinets with glass, and no trace of chewed up baseboards or sticky drawers --
him: Ha ha, you said "sticky drawers."
me: What are you, 5 years old?...basement's not terrifying...at all.
me: Ha ha, I said "sticky drawers."
me: And...I'm fairly convinced that I could actually get that somewhat typical Midtown smell of deep fried mothballs outta here with a little Orange-Glo, maybe a bit more new sheetrock....
him: Those are plaster walls.
me: Plaster walls. More expensive likely, yeah, but. Whatever. And I'm fairly certain that all the wiring has been redone even though they kept the old button switches, see? Pipes are all good, I was told. Third time I've been here. I'm just telling you what I know. You know, the guy who buffed this place up, realtor said, is a carpenter.
me: Yes. By trade.
him: Good price, too.
me: Great price. Yep.
him: It's The Ghetto Shack, isn't it.
me: I named it "The Voodoo House" myself. But, hold on. If you look out of every other window in this house and none of the front ones facing directly across the street, you'll never see what I'm guessing started off as a crocodile painted in purple and blue on the door just behind the bottle tree that really isn't a bottle tree at all but more of an evidence-of-industry, a timeline-of-excessive-boozing. Why would anyone sane paint a snake directly onto a tree? I'm asking you. I thought I saw the humor for a second, but now I'm just asking: how is anyone even able to paint an upside-down chicken on a screen porch door? Or, is that a naked woman? And that's either a pile of rusty, kicked-in paint cans or a slumped dead body behind that stack of tires. Either way, obviously, according to a certain yellow-and-blue vibe picked up by the witch doctor across the street, the land surrounding just this corner of the block is an angered burial ground of fallen warriors past that surely must have been razed and built upon, desecrated. No problem: get a real priest in here and have the place holy-watered, sanctified, goofus-dusted. No problem, but...
Look at it. It looks like John Wayne Gacy, Jr., stepped out onto the front porch and exploded.
him: You wanna go get a beer?
me: No. I want two. And then, I want to move to Oregon. Or definitely Europe.
him: Did you know that hydrangeas are the litmus plant of the botanical world? If your blue hydrangeas are blooming pink, or your pinks are purple, you may want to adjust the pH of your soil to get the desired color. Acidic soils turn hydrangeas purple and blue. Alkaline soils leave hydrangeas pink. What you should know is that you can't turn an already pink hydrangea blossom blue or the other way around. But you can make a difference now while the flower buds are forming for next year.
Update, 05/23/09: His name is Mareno, he lives in Guatemala, and he just fell into a goldmine of care packages to be sent his way from "some nice lady in Mississippi." Hope he really meant it when he said he liked soccer.
Thank you, for at least closing your mini-blinds. I was becoming a little too concerned as to why you hadn't made your bed up with sheets in well over a week. And to be honest, I've been growing more apprehensive by the day that you might decide to lounge about in your unawareness and your allness. But you've drawn closed the blinds now, which is great a success as this is a step in the right direction for you and mainly for me. But let me introduce you to the ancient art of shadow puppetry.
It is an ancient form of storytelling and entertainment using opaque, often articulated figures in front of an illuminated backdrop to create the illusion of moving images. It is popular in various cultures. At present, more than 20 countries are known to have shadow show troupes, and I believe you are unwittingly starring in your own performance in your own country known as Nakedmanland.
What I'm suggesting to you is pants. Or perhaps a table lamp instead of the overhead lamp, which is very, very bright. And you are very, very frightening me. Once again: maybe a can of Slimfast every now and then, and a bit more decorum, and pants will do very, very nicely. It's just a thought.
I may just be dead and walking the earth in one, long week that never ends. It's felt like that the last few weeks. Hmm. More thoughts on that later after I sleep, which is like, what, in 3 days from now I think. I'll check my calendar. And why can't I stop thinking about Paris...?
I know, how frustrating. I've got a thousand excuses, but I'm changing the sparkplugs, wheeling in the crash cart, climbing from the foxhole, shaking the dust from my sandals, pulling the weeds, fixing a hole where the rain gets in, busting out windshields with baseball bats, and throwing out bags of junk.
Newseum's Today's Front Pages:The website for the Newseum, DC's interactive news and journalism museum dedicated to"free press, free speech and free spirit for all people," provides virtual visitors with a comprehensive, eagle-eyed view of world news with a feature that links to the brick-and-mortar institution's Today's Front Pages exhibit. Every morning the front page news from over 700 newspapers across the globe is submitted for consideration for the TFP exhibition, but only a small fraction (about 80 front pages) make it to the exhibit. However, all submissions, including those that don't make the initial cut, are included in the online version of TFP, where sources can be sorted by region or visualized geographically on a world map. While there is a substantially larger concentration of American publications, the site states that "with exception of student newspapers, any daily with an interest and the technological capability of transmitting their front pages can be a part of the online exhibit."