My proscrita del norte shared this with me. Not sure whether it was because of the UTexas loss or because I hate stupid people. But it's nice to be reminded every once in a while that not EVERYONE is an idiot.
60 yard pass
by Charles Bukowski
most people don’t do very well and I get discouraged with
their existence, it’s such a waste:
all those bodies, all those lives
malfunctioning: lousy quarterbacks, bad waitresses,
in-competent carwash boys and presidents,
cowardly goal-keepers inept garage mechanics
bumbling tax accountants
and so forth
yet
now and then
I see a single performer doing something with a
natural excellence
it can be
a waitress in some cheap cafe or a 3rd string
quarterback
coming off the bench with 24 seconds on the clock
and completing that winning
60 yard pass
which lets me believe that
the possibility of the miracle is here with us
almost every day
and I’m glad that now and then
some 3rd string quarterback
shows me the truth of that belief
whether it be in science, art, philosophy,
medicine, politics, and/or etc.
else I’d shoot all the lights out of
this fucking city
right now
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Jazz Hands!
One of my thoughts upon moving to California was that I could use the transition to drop a few (well-earned) lbs. My Beloved has a company gym which has spousal privileges (snicker) and they offer a bevy of classes to pique your fitness interests. Since I’ve noticed that my cardiovascular condition has been somewhat lacking, I wanted to do something aerobic in nature. I actually have fond memories of aerobic classes from the 90’s, but those all seem to have been supplanted by Krav Maga or Cardio Kickboxing or HipHop Dance. And seriously, you DO NOT want to see a fat bald white man in his late 40’s bustin’ a hip hop move.
After looking over the schedule, I chose something almost as comical. Jazzercise. That’s right, bitches! Motherfuckin’ JAZZERCISE!!! I mistakenly thought this would be some sort of contemporary retelling of the genre, but I was woefully mistaken.
In walked Chris, our perky instructor. Based solely on her age, I had to check the door to see if she had brought her walker along. But sister was fit, fit, fit. Mostly because, as she shared with us, she has been teaching Jazzercise for 25 YEARS!!!
The first thing I noticed was that this room obviously employs funhouse mirrors to motivate you. Surely I have not actually let my body morph into something resembling an Idaho potato. But I pulled up my leg warmers, adjusted my braided Olivia Newton John headband and began doing my headrolls, shoulder rotations and other warm-ups, all the while pretending I was about to audition for So You Think You Can Dance.
I wasn’t really intimidated, since the small class seemed full of newcomers. Then in walked the willowy thin fella WEARING HIS JAZZERCISE T-SHIRT. Seriously. I would have been intimidated if I hadn’t fallen on the floor and laughed so hard I farted.
Chris introduced her prize pupil to the class and informed us that HE had been doing Jazzercise for 15 years, so if we had trouble following her, we could always watch him. Wiping away my tears and fanning my flatulence toward the skinny fit girl to my left, I prepared . . . to MOVE.
Chris was appropriately perky and had me wheezing like the fat old man I am in a matter of seconds. Soon, the sweat was pouring down my bald pate, with only my sparse eyebrows to fend off the torrent. Unsuccessfully I might add. My eyes began to sting as my lungs began to burn, which I’m sure is what caused me to falter on the choreography. And just as I was about to give up and go sit in the locker room and watch guys change clothes to get my heart rate up, I decided to watch Mr. Jazzercise himself.
OMG, he sucked! He was completely uncoordinated and graceless. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe I was . . . JAZZERCISING. I managed to make it through the hour without a cocktail or a coronary. And I realized that everyone else had taken the class in the spirit of good fun. We all sucked. But none of us cared. We bounced and stepped, sometimes heading the right direction, sometimes not. And yes, we even occasionally used our jazz hands.
Now I’m just waiting for the dryer to finish. I’m going to need that headband again tomorrow night.
After looking over the schedule, I chose something almost as comical. Jazzercise. That’s right, bitches! Motherfuckin’ JAZZERCISE!!! I mistakenly thought this would be some sort of contemporary retelling of the genre, but I was woefully mistaken.
In walked Chris, our perky instructor. Based solely on her age, I had to check the door to see if she had brought her walker along. But sister was fit, fit, fit. Mostly because, as she shared with us, she has been teaching Jazzercise for 25 YEARS!!!
The first thing I noticed was that this room obviously employs funhouse mirrors to motivate you. Surely I have not actually let my body morph into something resembling an Idaho potato. But I pulled up my leg warmers, adjusted my braided Olivia Newton John headband and began doing my headrolls, shoulder rotations and other warm-ups, all the while pretending I was about to audition for So You Think You Can Dance.
I wasn’t really intimidated, since the small class seemed full of newcomers. Then in walked the willowy thin fella WEARING HIS JAZZERCISE T-SHIRT. Seriously. I would have been intimidated if I hadn’t fallen on the floor and laughed so hard I farted.
Chris introduced her prize pupil to the class and informed us that HE had been doing Jazzercise for 15 years, so if we had trouble following her, we could always watch him. Wiping away my tears and fanning my flatulence toward the skinny fit girl to my left, I prepared . . . to MOVE.
Chris was appropriately perky and had me wheezing like the fat old man I am in a matter of seconds. Soon, the sweat was pouring down my bald pate, with only my sparse eyebrows to fend off the torrent. Unsuccessfully I might add. My eyes began to sting as my lungs began to burn, which I’m sure is what caused me to falter on the choreography. And just as I was about to give up and go sit in the locker room and watch guys change clothes to get my heart rate up, I decided to watch Mr. Jazzercise himself.
OMG, he sucked! He was completely uncoordinated and graceless. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe I was . . . JAZZERCISING. I managed to make it through the hour without a cocktail or a coronary. And I realized that everyone else had taken the class in the spirit of good fun. We all sucked. But none of us cared. We bounced and stepped, sometimes heading the right direction, sometimes not. And yes, we even occasionally used our jazz hands.
Now I’m just waiting for the dryer to finish. I’m going to need that headband again tomorrow night.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Quick! Someone Call a Wedlocksmith
GRRRRRRR. I thought we were done with this shit when President Bornagain left office. The link to the Ticker on CNN said, “WH Aide Admits Out-of-Wedlock Child.”
What is this, Ye Olde Shoppe? Give me a fucking break. “Out of Wedlock.” I feel nauseous. Especially after reading that basically the guy had a baby with the woman he had been in a long term relationship with, but unfortunately they broke up before the baby was born and now he’s engaged to someone else.
The right squawkers will I’m sure use this as further “evidence” of the faulty moral compass of the President.
I’m just like, “Do you people NEVER leave your house? Do you not know ANYONE? Do you not get cable?”
Of all the scandalous goings-on in our government, this isn’t even a blip. It’s unfortunate that the parents’ relationship didn’t work—for THEM. It has nothing whatsoever to do with our country. Or US. It’s none of our fucking business.
So, why oh why is CNN suddenly getting all FOXy on us? I blame Kathy Griffin and her New Years Eve potty mouth. Oh, and the guy is now engaged to an ABC correspondent, so there could be some professional monkeyshines at the network as well. I’d be curious to see if the CNN reporter had any history with the ABC fiancée.
But mostly, I’d just like for us all to grow the fuck up and get our noses out of other people’s business.
What is this, Ye Olde Shoppe? Give me a fucking break. “Out of Wedlock.” I feel nauseous. Especially after reading that basically the guy had a baby with the woman he had been in a long term relationship with, but unfortunately they broke up before the baby was born and now he’s engaged to someone else.
The right squawkers will I’m sure use this as further “evidence” of the faulty moral compass of the President.
I’m just like, “Do you people NEVER leave your house? Do you not know ANYONE? Do you not get cable?”
Of all the scandalous goings-on in our government, this isn’t even a blip. It’s unfortunate that the parents’ relationship didn’t work—for THEM. It has nothing whatsoever to do with our country. Or US. It’s none of our fucking business.
So, why oh why is CNN suddenly getting all FOXy on us? I blame Kathy Griffin and her New Years Eve potty mouth. Oh, and the guy is now engaged to an ABC correspondent, so there could be some professional monkeyshines at the network as well. I’d be curious to see if the CNN reporter had any history with the ABC fiancée.
But mostly, I’d just like for us all to grow the fuck up and get our noses out of other people’s business.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Silicon Valley of the Dolls
So my first day as a Silicon Valley housewife is off to a good start. Put the offspring on his first ever solo flight (back to Austin). Cried. Dropped my Beloved off at the office. Didn't cry, but welled up a little. Now I'm back at the casa getting ready to clean up from the weekend and prepare for our first house guest in the new quarters. (Yay, Gardog!).
Looks like all I'm missing is a box of cheap chablis and a variety of prescription pills. Although i think I'm far more like Edina Monsoon than Neely O'Hara.
I'm chanting as we speak.
But I do like to sparkle now and again.
Looks like all I'm missing is a box of cheap chablis and a variety of prescription pills. Although i think I'm far more like Edina Monsoon than Neely O'Hara.
I'm chanting as we speak.
But I do like to sparkle now and again.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Tagging the Turd
Yesterday, I met the Mighty Mandrax and the Godson for breakfast. They had generously offered to keep the Offspring for New Year's Eve, giving both him and us a welcome respite. Not knowing what would be open early on the 1st of January, we opted for the Bob's Big Boy in Burbank. Huge menu with something for everyone. Sort of like an authentic prototype of the Cheesecake Factory.
After the meal, I dashed into the men's room. With all other receptacles taken, I was forced to use the handicap stall, which I normally avoid. Creeps me out for some reason. But today, it was obviously meant to be. For there, on the handicap railing, was a graffiti tag. You know, the scribblings that are completely indecipherable unless you're a retarded middle school dropout with a gun and a bandana and an anger management problem.
Tagging was originally the province of street gangs, who used the marks to claim their turf. Sort of like Columbus and the West Indies. But I digress. the marks were intended to tell a rival to steer clear of the area or risk great peril
But now, in a perfect emasculation of the entire phenomenon, someone had claimed the handicap stall as their own. Ohhhh, SNAP! "Watch out bitch! This is MINE!! Get the fuck out of the handicrapper at the Burbank Bob's Big Boy. I own this shit."
You're kidding right? I laughed so hard. What a nice start to the New Year. It was so misplaced and so juvenile. I just kept thinking it was probably some young LA Stephen Hawking type, trying to be street.
After the meal, I dashed into the men's room. With all other receptacles taken, I was forced to use the handicap stall, which I normally avoid. Creeps me out for some reason. But today, it was obviously meant to be. For there, on the handicap railing, was a graffiti tag. You know, the scribblings that are completely indecipherable unless you're a retarded middle school dropout with a gun and a bandana and an anger management problem.
Tagging was originally the province of street gangs, who used the marks to claim their turf. Sort of like Columbus and the West Indies. But I digress. the marks were intended to tell a rival to steer clear of the area or risk great peril
But now, in a perfect emasculation of the entire phenomenon, someone had claimed the handicap stall as their own. Ohhhh, SNAP! "Watch out bitch! This is MINE!! Get the fuck out of the handicrapper at the Burbank Bob's Big Boy. I own this shit."
You're kidding right? I laughed so hard. What a nice start to the New Year. It was so misplaced and so juvenile. I just kept thinking it was probably some young LA Stephen Hawking type, trying to be street.
Surrounded by Newness
So, I'm sitting at the dining table in my BRAND NEW APARTMENT in California. I've followed my Beloved to his new place of employment at the epicenter of the high-tech universe. We drove 1700 miles in 4 days, including a New Year's Eve pit stop with some of the LA peeps. Gracias para todos, y'all!
Based on what I've seen in my first 24 hours, I'm sure the blog posts will be coming fast and furious. Let's kick 2010 off to a big, fat stupid start, shall we?
Based on what I've seen in my first 24 hours, I'm sure the blog posts will be coming fast and furious. Let's kick 2010 off to a big, fat stupid start, shall we?
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