My moms be FAMOUS!!!! Listen to her poem here: http://bonniem.podbean.com/2010/02/02/pineapple-memories-for-carmen-by-liliane-richman/
Read it here: http://bonniemcclellan.wordpress.com/2010/02/02/pineapple-memories-by-liliane-richman/
Cool, huh!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Pineapple Memories - For Carmen
My moms be FAMOUS!!!! Listen to her poem here: http://bonniem.podbean.com/2010/02/02/pineapple-memories-for-carmen-by-liliane-richman/
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Snippettes
Xenophobia - (n.) An unreasonable fear or hatred of foreigners or strangers, or of that which is foreign or strange.
Xenafabiophobia -(n.) An unreasonable fear or hatred of Xena, warrior princess, and Fabio, romance novel model, author, and "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" spokesman, both of whom are foreign and strange.
Xenafabiophobia -(n.) An unreasonable fear or hatred of Xena, warrior princess, and Fabio, romance novel model, author, and "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" spokesman, both of whom are foreign and strange.
1. I was thinking about the concept of seeing one's life flash before the eyes, right at the point of death. It seems a shame that one's last moments would be spent watching a re-run. I'd hope for one last new ep, even if it was a cliffhanger.
2. Speaking of xenophobia, the New York Times ran a story about the graphic art used in modern propaganda. http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/17/arts/design/17abroad.html?scp=1&sq=when%20fear%20turns%20graphic&st=cse If you click on the link, check out the slide show to the left. The graphics are cool, but the content is disturbing. Anyhoo, fascinating and timely as the article is, the observant reader will notice that this blog brought you news and commentary of said propaganda on November 29, 2009, ALMOST A FULL TWO MONTHS before the NYT! Finger on the pulse, baby, finger on the pulse!
This poster is from the British Neo-Nazi Party, which just won two seats on the European Parliament.
3. Another real fine book: Sum, by David Eagleman. Eagleman is a neuroscientist by day, fiction writer by night. I love Sum; it's forty different versions of the afterlife. Some are funny, some scary, some poignant - all of them made me think. It's especially great to read on the terlit (pronounce that like Archie Bunker would), because each story is about a page and a half. Perfect timing! He also co-authored another book I am really interested in reading. It's called Wednesday is Indigo Blue, and it's about synesthesia, which is a weird - and kind of wicked cool - cognitive disorder in which separate senses join together. Here's how the medical journal amazon.com's product description describes it: "A person with synesthesia might feel the flavor of food on her fingertips, sense the letter J as shimmering magenta or the number 5 as emerald green, hear and taste her husband's voice as buttery golden brown. Synesthetes rarely talk about their peculiar sensory gift—believing either that everyone else senses the world exactly as they do, or that no one else does. Yet synesthesia occurs in one in twenty people, and is even more common among artists." Vladimir Nabakov was a synesthete, and so is his son, Dmitri. My friend Reed, a physicist, has read the book, and he loved it. Usually, if the book is science-y and Reed loves it, I don't even consider reading it, but this one just might please us both.
This poster is from the British Neo-Nazi Party, which just won two seats on the European Parliament.
3. Another real fine book: Sum, by David Eagleman. Eagleman is a neuroscientist by day, fiction writer by night. I love Sum; it's forty different versions of the afterlife. Some are funny, some scary, some poignant - all of them made me think. It's especially great to read on the terlit (pronounce that like Archie Bunker would), because each story is about a page and a half. Perfect timing! He also co-authored another book I am really interested in reading. It's called Wednesday is Indigo Blue, and it's about synesthesia, which is a weird - and kind of wicked cool - cognitive disorder in which separate senses join together. Here's how the medical journal amazon.com's product description describes it: "A person with synesthesia might feel the flavor of food on her fingertips, sense the letter J as shimmering magenta or the number 5 as emerald green, hear and taste her husband's voice as buttery golden brown. Synesthetes rarely talk about their peculiar sensory gift—believing either that everyone else senses the world exactly as they do, or that no one else does. Yet synesthesia occurs in one in twenty people, and is even more common among artists." Vladimir Nabakov was a synesthete, and so is his son, Dmitri. My friend Reed, a physicist, has read the book, and he loved it. Usually, if the book is science-y and Reed loves it, I don't even consider reading it, but this one just might please us both.
Also, Eagleman is kind of cute. I'm just sayin'!
I'm actually finished talking about this, but I can't figure out how to get my pictures to all line up horizontally, and I figure I owe you a little sumpin' - sumpin' if you're still scrolling... 
...Ayup. That's about all I have for now. Keep those cards and letters comin'!Saturday, January 23, 2010
Snippets
Harvey Richman (c) 2010 "Bad News"According to my interpretation of a definition from Dictionary.com of the word, 'news' doesn't have to be interesting or important. That's good, cuz interstin' an' potent, ain't really my thang, if you feel me, blood. What, what! Holla! Look at my shoes!* That being said, here is all the Smaller Adventure News for this moment in time. Enjoy!
*This is how an ex-student of mine, Deonte, used to talk. He was HI- larious with a capital HI. One time he came in to class right after getting a new hair cut. He stared at himself in a little mirror he always kept with him and couldn't concentrate on anything that was being said, which was not even remotely unusual. After about 45 minutes he began to wave his hand around wildly. I was pleased that something I said had finally triggered some academic curiosity in this - I kid you not - three time freshman. "Miss! Miss!" Though I had Deonte in class a total of 5 times - again, no shit - he never manged to learn my name.
"Miss! Do my head look like a butt?"
I miss Deonte.
1. 2010 has started off with a bang! I went to a great wedding and became, for a short while, that middle aged lady at the reception who can only find one shoe. Yeah, I like to party!
2. I installed a program on my blog that let's me see a map of from where people have accessed my blog. I am proud to report that Tulsa, OK, Glen Mills, PA and Dayton, OH have all checked in. California, Connecticut, New York and Alabama have recognized my brilliance. Ontario, The British Virgin Islands and Viersan, Nordrhein-Wesfalen, Germany have also represented. I think they took a wrong turn in Googleville and ended up in a strange and frightening land. I am most popular in the Lone Star State, with fans from Sugarland to San Angelo, Austin to Arlington, and Lewisville to Laredo. (OK, not really Laredo, but I was doing a poetic licence kind of thing.) Don't think that all of this TRANS-GLOBAL attention is going to my head, though. I remain the same, humble, down-to-earth genius you have come to depend on to brighten your mundane, Kafkaesque lives. It's what I do, people. Also, did you notice I have a new counter at the top of this page? I don't pay any attention to it. It's just a number, not a mark of my popularity or vast readership. However, I have noticed that when you go in and out of this site multiple times in any given day, a fabulous prize is delivered to your home within 7-10 business days! It's totally amazing! Try it, why don'tcha!
3. I am reading this book called Let the Great World Spin, by Colum McCan, and I lovelovelove it! I also like the name Colum. If you give your son that name, he will be destined to become a pillar of society. It's true. I once knew a girl named Velvet Vulva, and guess what she turned out to be...
4. My niece and nephew have created their own television network that you can only get on ImaginationTV. It's called SPL, which stands for Simplicity of Potty Language, and features the hit new series, "There Was a Boy and Then He Farted." I would totally tune in, if I had an imagination.
5. Spoon has come out with a new cd. Spoon is wicked cool. I think the lead singer, Britt Daniel, ( Hello, group. My name is AVR, and I'm a name dropper...) has a crush on me.
Oh yeah. The name of the cd is Transference.
6. Some of you may recall that my mom, a woman as elegant and sophisticated as she is intellectual and talented, is prone to mangling words and phrases in the English language. She's French, but that's no excuse. She loves to sing, but never knows the words, and the chorus to all of her favorite songs, from Brel to the Beatles, is "lalalalala." She calls me every morning to make sure I am awake for work. (So?! You use an alarm clock, I use my mom! Same diff!) Here is a recent morning conversation:
Mom: Good Morning! Rise and Shine! How are you?
Me: Mmmpff.
Mom: Oh yes! I did sleep well! Really well! Exceedingly well, in fact! Like a - how do you say it? I slept like a raccoon! A beaver? One of those animals that smells?
Me: Did you just say you slept like a beaver, Mom?
Mom: No, you know, an animal that sleeps peacefully!
Me: You slept like a lamb?
Mom: No! Don't be stupid! Why would I say that?
7. Em is a hero. Chm Chm is a writer. Denichiwa is rewarded for excellence and soaring once again. KB is a soon-to-be-frequent reader. Yay! E.D. is refusing to follow the god of rock flute any longer. Wise move. McAdams made it to the home of Furniture World, Nebraska, and is reportedly cold. Paul is in Switzerland, skiing. Wheeee! Eduardo is...well, you know what you are!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
You say Goodbye, and I say Hello
The end of the year. The close of a decade. A taking of stock and tallying of accounts, and a time to measure regrets against moments of pride, no matter how fleeting or inflated they may be.
I love the idea of a clean slate, of opportunities abounding, of seeds being planted. New Years is always a time of optimism for me. I even like the way that memories of things that may have seemed momentous just a few months ago begin to take on the warm patina of nostalgia in the bright light of the future. Every year I get the feeling that the next year is going to be a great one, and so far, I've always been right.
One of my ongoing resolutions is to tell the people I love how much I appreciate them.
Here are some New Year Shout Outs :
To Mollie and Robert, JR and David: Ok, so I know that you guys probably won't read this, but hey, what do I care? Sometimes I just write to hear how fast I can type. Turns out, not so fast. But that's not important. This is: I wish you all those things that come from having a partner, like someone who is always on your team (and who would pick you first if he/she was the captain of said team, even if last time you fell down in the outfield because you thought a bird was flying too low and might inadvertently run into you, and touch you with its gross dinosaur bird skin that is just crawling with mites, and then, from your flat-on-ass position, you noticed that the bird was gone but the ball was coming awful close, so you covered your head and ducked. That's no reason not to pick a person first for a team if you're the captain, right?) A partner always tries to think of what can be done to make your load lighter, and thinks pretty much everything will be more fun if you are involved. A partner supports and encourages you, and is proud of your victories. A partner kisses you when you are sad and tries to make you feel better, and a partner learns what it takes to make you, with all your idiosyncrasies and quirks, feel better. I wish you strength, patience, a sense of humor, and trust. I am glad you found each other and am glad I get to share in the dawn of your new lives together. Congratulations!
To McAdams: Please don't go! I will really miss you, because you are one of a kind (I won't say what kind, exactly...) and I love you so. I can't wait for our next adventure. Take care of Big Poppa, and call me all the time.
To the Losers: What a fabulous tradition we have going on! These are the good old days, for reals! I promise to never be tardy for your party!
To Big John: Last year kind of sucked, huh. I am so sorry for your pain and loss. You are a good friend, and I wish you joy. Oh, yeah - thanks for sharing.
To KB and Mr. Simpson: I don't know what I have done to deserve you! K, you are my forever friend. You've watched me grow up, laughed at my jokes, wiped away my tears, encouraged my talents, tastes and efforts, and are always, always there for me. Mr. Simpson, you're a treasure I never expected to find. Being with you guys makes me feel lucky, lucky. J'espere pour beacoup pleus rendez-vous dans la prochaine annee. (If that was incorrect, it's not because I can't speak French. It's on account of it's l'heure de happy in Paris, and I like to celebrate. Don't judge!)
To Lurleen: Someday in NYC, right? Until then, I am happy being with you anywhere. You are the Nancy to my Ann Wilson, and I am crazy on you. You put the flick in my bic and the slumber in my party. Thank you for your candor, your constant support, your dance moves and your willingness to try new things and always take me back.
To Biskit: Where are you? I think about you.
To X and Glis: As Freddie Prinze says, "Chicano, things will get better!" Hang in there. I am rooting for you! I've loved you both for years, and you can count on me now.
To Patrick: Some are silver and the others gold. You are both.
To E.D.: How fortunate I am to have you! I am ashamed I waited so long to discover what so many others already knew. That's what I get for holding grudges. You are special and beautiful. You make me laugh and think. I appreciate you more and more, and I think we will be friends forever.
To Alisa: I would travel across the time-space continuum for you, but you would have to tell me how to get there. Do I knock three times on the ceiling or click my red shoes together? You are wonderful. No, really.
To Denichiwa: Yummy. Tushy. 'Nough said. Thanks for the sush, and here's to many more fabulous soirees. And also, thanks for checking on me. And calling even when I've annoyed you. And telling me about your kids, both human and exceedingly furry. You are funny and nice. And you have a nice ass. I'm just sayin'.
Charles: You were my new friend last year, and you are the gift that keeps on giving, even when I use the special shampoo. Thanks for that.
Trixie: If I had a lucky star, it would be you. Shine on me forever. You make me grow. You make me sing, and then you don't ask me to stop. You introduce me to chicks and talk lady business with me. You read my stuff and show me beauty, and you inspire me. It doesn't get much better than that.
To Mom: My first. My best. The most. My favorite. You are all superlatives. A lifetime of love and gratitude to you.
To Dad: I'm so glad you found this blog! Welcome to my world! I thank you for all the things you have passed on to me; you gave me some of my best parts. (Not my rack, though. That's all Mom's side of the family.) You are one of my greatest influences, and I love you because you are you.
To REL and Ed: My everyday joy. Without you...I can't imagine. You are so much to me that even I am speechless. Also, thanks for the kids. Took a lot of pressure off. Let me keep my girlish figure and allow me to nap every day. Also, I look forward of you taking care of me next year when I am old. Sincerely, I adore you.
This list is not complete, and I apologize to anyone I have left out. I have said it before, and I'll say it again; I'm the luckiest girl ever. Thanks to all who make my life exciting, interesting, lovely and grand. Thanks to you who read this blog. It is indulgent, I know, but it's fun for me, and knowing that someone cares to read it makes me feel important. Happy 2010, everybody!
I love the idea of a clean slate, of opportunities abounding, of seeds being planted. New Years is always a time of optimism for me. I even like the way that memories of things that may have seemed momentous just a few months ago begin to take on the warm patina of nostalgia in the bright light of the future. Every year I get the feeling that the next year is going to be a great one, and so far, I've always been right.
One of my ongoing resolutions is to tell the people I love how much I appreciate them.
Here are some New Year Shout Outs :
To Mollie and Robert, JR and David: Ok, so I know that you guys probably won't read this, but hey, what do I care? Sometimes I just write to hear how fast I can type. Turns out, not so fast. But that's not important. This is: I wish you all those things that come from having a partner, like someone who is always on your team (and who would pick you first if he/she was the captain of said team, even if last time you fell down in the outfield because you thought a bird was flying too low and might inadvertently run into you, and touch you with its gross dinosaur bird skin that is just crawling with mites, and then, from your flat-on-ass position, you noticed that the bird was gone but the ball was coming awful close, so you covered your head and ducked. That's no reason not to pick a person first for a team if you're the captain, right?) A partner always tries to think of what can be done to make your load lighter, and thinks pretty much everything will be more fun if you are involved. A partner supports and encourages you, and is proud of your victories. A partner kisses you when you are sad and tries to make you feel better, and a partner learns what it takes to make you, with all your idiosyncrasies and quirks, feel better. I wish you strength, patience, a sense of humor, and trust. I am glad you found each other and am glad I get to share in the dawn of your new lives together. Congratulations!
To McAdams: Please don't go! I will really miss you, because you are one of a kind (I won't say what kind, exactly...) and I love you so. I can't wait for our next adventure. Take care of Big Poppa, and call me all the time.
To the Losers: What a fabulous tradition we have going on! These are the good old days, for reals! I promise to never be tardy for your party!
To Big John: Last year kind of sucked, huh. I am so sorry for your pain and loss. You are a good friend, and I wish you joy. Oh, yeah - thanks for sharing.
To KB and Mr. Simpson: I don't know what I have done to deserve you! K, you are my forever friend. You've watched me grow up, laughed at my jokes, wiped away my tears, encouraged my talents, tastes and efforts, and are always, always there for me. Mr. Simpson, you're a treasure I never expected to find. Being with you guys makes me feel lucky, lucky. J'espere pour beacoup pleus rendez-vous dans la prochaine annee. (If that was incorrect, it's not because I can't speak French. It's on account of it's l'heure de happy in Paris, and I like to celebrate. Don't judge!)
To Lurleen: Someday in NYC, right? Until then, I am happy being with you anywhere. You are the Nancy to my Ann Wilson, and I am crazy on you. You put the flick in my bic and the slumber in my party. Thank you for your candor, your constant support, your dance moves and your willingness to try new things and always take me back.
To Biskit: Where are you? I think about you.
To X and Glis: As Freddie Prinze says, "Chicano, things will get better!" Hang in there. I am rooting for you! I've loved you both for years, and you can count on me now.
To Patrick: Some are silver and the others gold. You are both.
To E.D.: How fortunate I am to have you! I am ashamed I waited so long to discover what so many others already knew. That's what I get for holding grudges. You are special and beautiful. You make me laugh and think. I appreciate you more and more, and I think we will be friends forever.
To Alisa: I would travel across the time-space continuum for you, but you would have to tell me how to get there. Do I knock three times on the ceiling or click my red shoes together? You are wonderful. No, really.
To Denichiwa: Yummy. Tushy. 'Nough said. Thanks for the sush, and here's to many more fabulous soirees. And also, thanks for checking on me. And calling even when I've annoyed you. And telling me about your kids, both human and exceedingly furry. You are funny and nice. And you have a nice ass. I'm just sayin'.
Charles: You were my new friend last year, and you are the gift that keeps on giving, even when I use the special shampoo. Thanks for that.
Trixie: If I had a lucky star, it would be you. Shine on me forever. You make me grow. You make me sing, and then you don't ask me to stop. You introduce me to chicks and talk lady business with me. You read my stuff and show me beauty, and you inspire me. It doesn't get much better than that.
To Mom: My first. My best. The most. My favorite. You are all superlatives. A lifetime of love and gratitude to you.
To Dad: I'm so glad you found this blog! Welcome to my world! I thank you for all the things you have passed on to me; you gave me some of my best parts. (Not my rack, though. That's all Mom's side of the family.) You are one of my greatest influences, and I love you because you are you.
To REL and Ed: My everyday joy. Without you...I can't imagine. You are so much to me that even I am speechless. Also, thanks for the kids. Took a lot of pressure off. Let me keep my girlish figure and allow me to nap every day. Also, I look forward of you taking care of me next year when I am old. Sincerely, I adore you.
This list is not complete, and I apologize to anyone I have left out. I have said it before, and I'll say it again; I'm the luckiest girl ever. Thanks to all who make my life exciting, interesting, lovely and grand. Thanks to you who read this blog. It is indulgent, I know, but it's fun for me, and knowing that someone cares to read it makes me feel important. Happy 2010, everybody!
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.
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.
#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 left...now 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: http://www.abstractlandscapepainting.com/ or
http://www.blog.mandybudan.com/
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.
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.
Haystacks in Provence, by Vincent Van Gogh
Early Hay, by Mandy Budan*
*For more of Mandy Budan's work, please see: http://www.abstractlandscapepainting.com/ orhttp://www.blog.mandybudan.com/
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.
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