the darkness

today i'm wearing a huge knit poncho thing that's probably just an afghan with a hole in it. regardless, it's warm, and my office is not. i'm quite content - it feels like i never got out of bed this morning. small problem, however - i'm a devout sitter.

you see, i have a toilet in the office bathroom that i'm pretty sure is mine exclusively. (remember pop up videos? how about the episode that features jewel in the bathroom? jewel and vh1 taught me that the first toilet stall is the LEAST used, thus it has become my favorite. without getting into specifics, i've devised experiments to determine my ownership of this toilet, and it is unquestionably mine and mine alone on MOST days.) as i am the only regular user of this toilet, i like to sit on it. none of this squatting bullshit - if i want to squat, i'll go to the gym. when i have two minutes to myself in the bathroom, it's like a zen moment to collect my thoughts and cease the swirl of bad energy created by unrelentingly cranky media folk.

sounds nice, right? so i stumble in slowly around 7 this morning, coffee having not yet kicked in, and i realize that i am very nearly about to dip my poncho fringe into the holy waters. oh hell no. thus, i do what any rational human being would do - i flip the back of my poncho over my head and settle in. the overall effect of being encased in a tunnel of black alpaca is similar to the feeling of waking up with a VERY full bladder in the middle of the night - turning the bathroom light on would push you to TRUE wakefulness, and no one wants that, so you manage in the darkness and wander back to bed. it's just a pause in the program.

so now here i am, the first one in the office bathroom, a pile of black sweater sitting on my private toilet, listening to the arcade fire on my ipod, and pondering the rest of my day. the stall door opens, and a woman from the neighboring ad agency screams (who else starts their workday at 6:45?). i fall on the floor, entangled in sweater mass, pantless, and thrash, whacking my grey matter on the tile.

somehow i can't find the motivation to continue this day. someday i will blog about something important. my toilet is no longer my own, and i hate my sweater. that is all.

halloween consultant, part deux

per usual, the morning news provides...what ARE you going to be for halloween? the non-expert gives new life to your everyday household objects. (who takes care of you, baby?)

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Question: You guys have any Halloween costumes I can put together? Last year my boyfriend and I went as a bus full of nuns in a car accident—so not happening again.—Katherine B.

Answer: We hate to hike old trails. How about costumes you can build with three items available in the typical American household?

Ingredients: Sunglasses, a white dress shirt, men’s briefs
Costume: Tom Cruise

Ingredients: Sunglasses, a white dress shirt, boxers
Costume: Truman Capote

Ingredients: Three cardigans
Costume: Edith Bouvier Beale (Grey Gardens)

Ingredients: Car battery, a pair of googly-eye glasses, and a Steve Gutenberg poster
Costume: Johnny Five (Short Circuit)

Ingredients: Pipes, more pipes, a ringing telephone
Costume: Danny Boy

Ingredients: White pants, white T-shirt, a bucket of red paint
Costume: A house painter

Ingredients: Black pants, white T-shirt, a bucket of red paint
Costume: A newspaper

Ingredients: Tuxedo shirt, dead body, ketchup
Costume: Vampire

Ingredients: Tuxedo shirt, dead body, Worcestershire sauce
Costume: Waiter in a vampire restaurant

Ingredients: Black turtleneck, black stretch pants, white face paint
Costume: Mime

Ingredients: Black turtleneck, black stretch pants, pixie appeal
Costume: GAP commercial

Ingredients: Three pairs of socks
Costume: A dog

Ingredients: Karate top, tube socks, Maglite
Costume: Luke Skywalker

Ingredients: Three footnotes
Costume: Mark Foley (because they come on the bottom of a page)

Ingredients: Two bungee cords and a blond wig
Costume: Marilyn Monroe

Ingredients: Bandana, cowboy hat, toy gun
Costume: John Wayne

Ingredients: Bandana, clown make-up, real gun
Costume: John Wayne Gacy

Ingredients: Three pairs of contact lenses
Costume: Steve Buscemi

Ingredients: The truth, three chords, red guitar
Costume: Bob Dylan

Ingredients: The truth, three chords, red iPod
Costume: Bono

Ingredients: Bone, thugs, and harmony
Costume: Bone Thugs-N-Harmony

Ingredients: Black shirt, black leather pants
Costume: David Copperfield

Ingredients: Black shirt, black leather pants, concho belt
Costume: Sexy David Copperfield

—Published October 20, 2006

so listen, the river's four feet deep, and you could take a ferry...

...which you should do, because as you found out at age eight, your oxen are shitty swimmers. ALL DAY i've been consumed by the thought of finding a version of the classic oregon trail to play. (whatever, i'll make up the eight hours of work sometime.) ayudame?

i sporadically claim alliance with wake forest, thus i snicker...

funny, because i don't know how i feel about my alma mater...via the onion

Tim Duncan Releases Decade Worth Of Pent-Up Emotion After Spurs Preseason Loss
October 19, 2006 Issue 42•42

SAN ANTONIO—Star Spurs center Tim Duncan has issued a public apology for his "unacceptable, inexcusable behavior" last Saturday night following a preseason loss to the Orlando Magic, saying that frustration and disappointment with his low-scoring, six-rebound performance caused "ten years' worth of unexpressed emotions to burst out of me like… like something I don't even know what."

An "agitated" Duncan responds to reporters' questions in a brusque tone of voice at a slightly elevated volume.

No criminal charges, police reports, or even complaints have been filed against Duncan, who was last seen leaving the Alamodome after giving what reporters are terming "mildly animated" answers to their post-game questions at a "slightly elevated" volume.

"I simply lost control during my post-game comments, and I did not give the press the full half-hour they are entitled to," said Duncan, who is on record as calling the Spurs' play during the game "bad," "real bad," "awful," and "very, very bad indeed" several times over the course of the 28 minutes he spent with reporters. "Anyone who knows me knows I never use language like that. I can only ask the city of San Antonio to forgive me for my outburst and give me a second chance."

"I was angry," Duncan added. "I even felt mad. I never want to go through that again."
Duncan claims that, after speaking to reporters, he was filled with a level of emotion that caused his memory to become unclear. However, Duncan is fairly certain that he turned away from reporters after insufficiently thanking them for the interview, walked to the parking lot with unusual briskness, and climbed into his car in a blatantly agitated fashion.

Witnesses' accounts bear out Duncan's version of events, with several onlookers saying Duncan "slammed" the door of his 1992 Buick LeSabre closed before driving off. Spurs guard Tony Parker, whose car was near Duncan's, denied rumors that Duncan was muttering grumpily to himself, but said Duncan did exhale audibly twice while getting his car keys out.

"Looking back on it, I think he was sighing in a frustrated or even exasperated manner," Parker said. "I thought about saying something, but I didn't know what. I'd never seen him like that. Frankly, I was a little scared."

"I should not have driven in that condition," said Duncan, who has implored the children of San Antonio not to emulate his actions or regard them as "cool." "I know better than to operate a motor vehicle while upset or in a highly emotional state of mind, but I did it anyway. I only wish I had exercised the self-restraint to let it go at that."

Traffic cameras tracked Duncan traveling from the Alamodome at up to seven miles per hour over the speed limit, twice driving through yellow lights, to a convenience store near his home, where the store's security cameras show him purchasing highly caffeinated beverages and several unhealthy snacks. A clerk at the store says Duncan consumed three of the soft drinks in his car while listening to barely audible music on his car's radio before driving off several minutes later.

Duncan's mid-'90s four-door sedan was found in the parking lot of his nondescript apartment building Sunday morning, having impacted a tree at what insurance company investigators say was an "extremely low" rate of speed, inflicting almost $140 worth of damage to the car during what they say seems to be an abortive attempt to park while slightly jittery from an excess of mild sugar stimulants.

"I do not wish to discuss that at this time," Duncan said. "I'm just glad no one was hurt while I was experimenting with Coke, or Pepsi, or root beer, or whatever it was. I just remember going into my apartment, turning on the television, unblocking Showtime, and calling up a few girls from church to say 'hello' and 'how are you doing.' Frankly I'm mortified, and in light of my actions, I wouldn't blame them for being cross with me in return. I was brought up to respect women, not to place telephone calls to them at what might possibly be well past their bedtimes."
Duncan recalls nothing else until 9:30 the next morning, when he woke up two hours late, unshaven, and dressed in unusually brightly colored clothing. Duncan immediately contacted the police, and was relieved to find he had in fact broken no laws.

Duncan has assigned himself 120 hours of community service working in hospitals, neighborhood improvement projects, and on highway-beautification crews for his "reckless endangerment" of the people of San Antonio.

"I promise you," the dry-eyed Duncan said in an unusually well-modulated voice, "you will never see anything like that from me again."

girl, you cannot make this shit up

ew. i love me some natalie dee...

the disco queen, the octopus, and the compulsive counter

“If you create round characters,” said Dr. Gambone, my creative writing professor, “they may not do what’s expected of them. I’m just warning you. They’re manifestations of your subconscious mind. Let go. Relinquish your hold on them. Let them make the story – a plot borne out of character. Breathe some life into them, inflate them, let them become people that you can know.”

I inwardly rolled my eyes. Brilliant as my professor is, it didn’t seem feasible that I, control freak extraordinaire, would develop a tribe of imaginary friends to draw into my assigments for Intro to Fiction Writing E-25. Dubious, I read the two chapters on characterization, and began taking notes. At the beginning of the class, we were instructed to pick out a notebook that suited our individual needs, and carry it with us at ALL times. Kathryn assisted me in this arduous task. I wound up with a very Harriet the Spy-like red leather bound piece, pen contained neatly within, and I began to observe. Notes from the coffee shop, notes from the office, notes on the train. Conversations from the supermarket. Bizarre names overheard at the bar.

Then it happened.

While reading business publications for work the other night at the kitchen table, I pushed my glasses up and rested my eyes on my palms. What the hell? Behind my eyelids, I could see a small girl in an octopus costume. How bizarre. Later on, as I grew more tired, my inner monologue seemed to be stemming from an ex-disco queen, languishing on a couch in sweatpants while smoking a cigarette. While reading an old art history essay from Wake on a particularly splotchy Picasso pen-and-ink, a character in my head began to consider the painting, touching the spots under the glass while moving her lips quietly to herself – OCD, of course. She’s about fifteen. Now these three have taken up residence in my head. They can’t live together – how could they? But they’re currently homeless. I have no idea what to do with them, but they’re coming into their own and won’t stay put for long…here we go.

Plotline suggestions are more than welcome.

six degrees

so as i was galloping down the stairs at the harvard square t station last night, i almost flattened a girl. i put a hand on her arm to apologize, and she turned - long dark hair streaked with raspberry, olive skin, black plastic eyeglasses, requisite earth-tone hued jacket. i looked at her curiously - maybe she'd gone to notre dame? i certainly recognized her.

"i'm sorry - are you okay?" i asked.

"yeah, i'm fine, don't worry about." she smiled.

we parted ways - she went back toward boston, i hopped the braintree train, and it dawned on me - jill carroll, the christian science monitor reporter who'd been kidnapped in iraq. huh.

interestingly, when the news of her kidnapping broke, i'd looked up carroll on our media database at work, but CSM had removed her, probably to prevent an influx of email. now she's back, reporting for the monitor and studying at - you guessed it - harvard. go figure.

livening up family parties, one chest rumble at a time...

scrabble's getting old, you say? not digging the world war II stories the seventy fourth time around? how about some laser tag, grandma?

"Bonding in the Battlemaze" by Christopher Monks, via The Morning News

I shot my Aunt Maureen first. She had her back to me, waiting for Uncle Dick to walk by—big mistake. Unfortunately, before I could celebrate, my mother appeared out of nowhere and popped me in the shoulder. Bright colors flashed everywhere. My chest rumbled.

Laser tag was a lot harder than it looked.

It was my mother’s 59th birthday, and her friends and family were laser-shooting the hell out of one another. I hadn’t participated in an activity that involved pretend shooting since I was a child, when I played army games with my friends. We’d run around the yard doing our best Rambo impersonations—until my hippie parents found out about it and gave us a guilt trip for glorifying war and trampling their azaleas.

Now, many years later, I am the father of two young boys, and far more lenient when it comes to imaginary violence than my parents were. Both my sons have an uncanny knack for turning any found object into a sword or bazooka, and I’ve decided that praising their ingenuity is more important than quelling their desire to make-believe kill each other.

However, it seems that my parents’ attitude toward violence has become as lenient as mine over the years. One only had to witness my mother’s glee as she took down her brother and then her best friend with successive laser blasts to see this was true. While her chosen codename, “Aquarius,” lacked the aura of intimidation, she more than made up for it by kicking laser butt all over the Battlemaze. She shot me five times in total, twice in the chest. Me (codename: “Rambo Blade”), her only son. I had hoped we’d team up and go after my father. Once and for all, we could teach him a lesson for years of bad table manners and showing up 10 minutes late to every non-sports-related event in our lives. But from the get-go it was apparent Mom was on a solo mission of her own. Thus I resolved to take down Dad (codename: “The Lone Ranger”) all by myself.

But after one sight of him, it was clear he’d be too easy a target. His giant chest pack fit clumsily over his torso, and he seemed to have trouble figuring out which end of his gun the laser shot out of. Upon hearing him call out, “Have we started yet?” a good two minutes into the game, I decided there were bigger fish to zap.

My next target was my wife (codename: “The Shadow Keeper”). She did a lot of trash talking in the lobby, just as a group of eight-year-old boys from another birthday party looked on, bewildered. “I’m so going house on you!” she taunted.

I didn’t quite know what “going house” meant; she teaches high school and is more up on slang than I am. Still, I refused to let her bully me and suggested we wager on the battle: Whoever had the lowest score at the end of the game would have to change our younger son’s diapers for an entire month. I was pleased when she accepted, imagining 30 days off from listening to our two-year-old critique the size of his bowel movements. But unfortunately, just like Aquarius, the Shadow Keeper proved a challenging foe, or better put: She was way more awesome at laser tag than I was. Whenever I thought I had her cornered, she’d bounce a laser off a mirrored wall and nail me. It totally sucked.

Just as he did, my wife and mother jumped out from behind a wall and fired at him merrily, sending his target lights into a red blinking fury. I hadn’t expected to be so bad at this; my peacenik upbringing must have stunted my laser tagging skills. All that time pretending to be Rambo was spent in vain; those azalea bushes died for nothing. Worse yet was seeing the delight my wife and mother took in going house on me and everyone else. It was like they’d been waiting for this all their lives. Toward the end of the slaughter, the two of them joined forces, taking out four cousins, two significant others, and a sister-in-law. I desperately wanted to join them, but I knew that chances were they’d just add me to the body count. Again. So I reset my sights on the one opponent I was sure I could vanquish: Dad. He was the guy who taught me non-violent opposition and the words to “Give Peace a Chance”—and for this he would pay.I found him alone, readjusting his chest pack in a dimly lit section of the Battlemaze. I refused to feel sorry for him, no matter how helpless he appeared. Dad was mine. I would house him big time.

Stealthily, I waited for the right moment to pounce. Shooting Dad in the back would be too easy; Lieutenant John Rambo wouldn’t go out like that. So I shouted my dad’s name, prompting him to turn, but just as he did, my wife and mother jumped out from behind a wall and fired at him merrily, sending his target lights into a red blinking fury.“Thanks a lot,” Dad said, convinced I had set him up. And then, just like in some dumb war movie, he raised his gun and shot me.

Over the rumbling of my chest pack I heard him shout: “Yahoo!” Then he gave my mother and wife low fives, and they all fired on me again. As the lights on my chest whistled and flared, I vowed revenge—or at the very least, a sequel. And next time, I’ll bring my sons, who can be on my team. I only hope the Battlemaze has a changing table.

hi readers. remember sometime around january 1st when i vowed to do only what makes me happy? guess what - i lied. i've done a crappy job sticking to my resolution, and now i'm entrenched in a little bit of muck. i'm going to think about it, and i'm going to get back to you. i read over my old posts today, and the voice was strong and good and quirky and fun. i'm mulling it over, but i want my voice back. more later.