Thursday, December 31, 2009

Three Things You May Not Know About Me: #s 2 & 3

Hi-dee-ho! I have received several comments from busy readers who say that my posts are too long to read. Normally I'd advise them to piss off and learn how to take time to observe greatness, but as it is the last day of the new year, I decided to post two more tiny tidbits about me in a second entry, to make it a little more bite-sized for you of the internet generation who have the attention span of a gnat. As the sign said over my grandparents' toilet, "I aim to please." Of course, that was followed by, "You aim too, please!" Ah, punctuation! You slay me! Anyhoo, without further a doo-doo -I couldn't help it, since I had already started with the toilet humor- here are two more things about me:

#2: Knot Hot - Yesterday, all day, I wore I neckerchief tied in a fetching knot because I thought it looked jaunty. In the evening, to look a bit more festive, I wore it in a band around my head. This tells me I am officially too old for hip things, like my aforementioned kicks (see previous post for more than you ever wanted to know about my kicks.) Modern cool kids don't even know what a neckerchief is, never mind the joy of a jaunty, fetching or even rakish accessory. I am only cool if you have a fetish for Braniff stewardesses circa 1962 or for Daphne from Scooby Doo.

Actually, Daphne's still pretty hot.

#3 - Cheese, Glorious Cheese! There are few things more satisfying on a cold winter's day than cheese and cheese -based products. Cheese is the little black dress of food; it can be dressed up or down, depending on the occasion. It goes smoothly from: "Wine and cheese, monsieur? Can I interest you in an amuse bouche of baked brie and pear?"; to: "Hey, Loritia! Don't be hoggin' all the nacho cheese with yer finger! I gots to have some left fer my chip!" or, "Fire Hot Cheetos rocks my world, yo!" Cheese comes out of a cow, sheep, goat, soybean or a can. It's ubiquitous. It represents nations (Swiss or American); home (cottage cheese); love (nothin' speaks of a mother's love like home made mac & cheese), and a beautiful melange of the elements (tuna = sea, melt=land and sun, the way I inhale a tuna melt= air.) Cheesecake, Cheezey Poofs, Cheese burger, Queso, Fromage, cream cheese, Cheese logs, Broccoli Cheese soup, Stuffed Jalapenos, Fried Cheese, Blue Cheese, the stinkier the better, cheese, cheese, are you ready for your close-up , I say cheese, I LOVE YOU CHEESE!

That was the third thing about me. I really like cheese.

Here is a picture I took of cheese in France. It has gray fur on it and oozes a beige, pus-like substance. I still ate it. That's how much I like cheese.

Three Things You May Not Know About Me: #1

Hello, hello! Since today is the last day of 2009, I figure it is time for me to offer my loyal fans a little benefit (Oooh! Fans with benefits! Yay, you! Please form an orderly line to the down a little...back to the right a smidge, will ya...but wait, I have unwillingly been consumed by a Scrubs-like fantasy, ridiculous, over-the-top, and mildly disturbing! Sorry! My bad!) I will now reveal some of my secret secrets, for your eyes only. Here we go!
Haystacks in Provence, by Vincent Van Gogh Early Hay, by Mandy Budan*
*For more of Mandy Budan's work, please see: or

1.) They Call Me Haystack: So, a while back, a friend of mine gave me some super-fly shoes. They are brown and cream suede Pumas, a brand so cool that they make me feel slightly unworthy, like they will allow me to purchase them, but if I wear them, they will scream that I am pretending to be an at ease hipster, when really I should be wearing the kind of clunky athletic shoes that senior citizens use to speedwalk through the mall. My Pumas are so wicky-woo that I took to calling them 'my kicks', and, one casual Friday, I finally screwed up all of my courage and wore them in front of the harshest of all fashion critics, my 3rd period sophomores. Oddly, they didn't notice my footwear at all, so I decided I was definitely cool enough to sport my hepcat new look, and I wore my kicks proudly all that day and into the night.

The next day I noticed that they had made my right foot roll out, which put pressure on the outside of my little foot, on the meaty part opposite the arch. (My arch is high and aristocratic, much like Cinderella's, in case you were wondering.) By the end of the week, I could no longer put my heel flat on the ground. Every morning when I awoke, I would hear the Pulp Fiction line, "Bring out the gimp." Soon my foot hurt even when I was lying down. Fearing I had done some irreparable damage to my little tootsie, I hobbled into the podiatrist.

Dr. Gabriel poked and pushed on my sole. This was not as deep and meaningful as it may have seemed, if you had heard that sentence aloud, as opposed to having read it yourself. I tried to put on a brave face, but yowch! my dogs were barkin' with his every digital manipulation (his words, not mine, and again, not nearly as intriguing as it sounds.) He nodded a lot and said "MMM-HMMMM", and then took some x-rays and sent me back into a little cubicle to wait for the results.

"What I believe has happened," he said as he posted the x-rays up on the light screen, "is that you...Oh my God! Did you know that you have a foreign body lodged inside of you?!"

"I assure you, sir, I do not!" I replied, perhaps somewhat haughtily. I am always the first to know when a foreign, dare I say even a domestic body is lodged inside of me, and I must admit I resent the implication that I would fail to notice; yet that is exactly what happened. According to the x-ray, I have a large sewing needle embedded deeply in my foot.

I wanted to show you the x-ray itself, because I know that this news is as incredible as it is shocking, as it is distressing. However, my state-of-the-art printerscannercopier died this morning. RIP, HP. You were a good and true all-in-one home/business infotainment unit, gone much before your time, but ever so slightly after your warranty. Anyway, even though I have provided you with helpful visual aids, you will have to use your imagination a bit.

Okay, look closely at Fred's right foot. Imagine that he has an arch to his foot, and five toes instead of three. Now, in the side of the foot that is the closest to you are two almost equal fragments of needle jammed way inside the footmeat (my word, not Dr. Gabriel's), closer to the bone than the sole. Up in the second metatarsal (ooh, fancy word!) the tip of the needle has migrated to the tip of my toe. In the x-ray, you can see the eye of the needle. As far as I can tell, it is too small for either a camel or a rich man to go through (read yo Bible, peeps!) and there are no angels dancing on the head of it. Dr. Gabriel rubbed and kneaded my little piggie (again, could have been better.) He said he could feel the needle through the thin toe flesh. Gnarly, huh?

So, how did it get there? I don't know. My grandfather was a tailor, but I don't think he stuck one in there for safekeeping. I got acupuncture once, but those needles were in my back and look differently. Not being a junkie or a doctor, I don't hang around hypodermics much. I don't remember any needle stepping, poking, or stabbing, and it really does seem like I would. It's a mystery. All I can say is, I see the needle and the damage done, a little part of it in everyone, if, of course, by everyone, one is referring to my foot.

Dr. Gabriel and I have decided to treat my foot problem as a foot problem, with the metal in my pedal a coincidental, but not causal factor. In other words, no needlectomy. Instead, my kicks have brought on Plantar Fasciitis, an irritation and swelling of the thick tissue on the bottom of the foot. I am against fascism of any kind, and am particularly saddened to find that this nut, whom I have loved and supported in the past, has turned on me. Please enlarge and print out this image on your functional and useful HP copierprinterscanner. Then, draw a Hitler or Stalin mustache on him so people will know he is to be feared, and post the pictures up all over your neighborhood as a gesture of support for me and my needle foot. Do it. Don't be yet another prick in my life. I am tender.

Friday, December 25, 2009

This is, by far, my favorite Christmas song of all times. You know it, you've seen it, but in the spirit of the holidays, go ahead and click on it. You'll be glad you did. I raise a glass of sweet-assed wine to you all, and hope that everyone is having a terrific holiday season, and at least one, if not three, very healthy ho's.
By the way, if someone could help me to embed videos, that'd be a real fine gift.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Riddle me this, Riddler!

Q.: How can you tell Miles Davis and Sammy Davis apart?
A.: One is "kind of blue", and the other is "kind of Jew."
Get it? I just made that up right now.
Clever, huh?

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Will you do the Fandango?

I know you don't really click on these video links I post. I try to be discerning, I try to keep the videos brief, but still, I guess it just takes too much effort to push that little key and then sit there and watch for 90 seconds. I'll bet if I posted this on Facebook, you would. Whatever. Your loss. If you can't be bothered to behold brilliance, I can't help you on your path to enlightenment. Still, because I believe we should all try to better ourselves, I won't give up. Here's another chance for you to explore one of the tools I use to meditate and discover my inner pimp.* Check it out:

* When the kids use this phrase, it always sounds like something I want to be, like the Mack Daddy or the shizz. I hope being a pimp is a good thing...