After Dark

I am floored by the Twilight phenomenon. Twelve theaters under one roof for the 12:01am show, all sold out by 11pm. I've never ever seen so much estrogen in one place. You could smell it (really . . . it kind of creeped me out). And the movie was soooo bad. But funny. Funny funny funny. The good thing about seeing a movie like that late at night is that you're likely to have a better sense of humor about it sucking (no pun intended). It's like being drunk, you know, when your date starts to look not so bad. Still, I'd rather read the books again. And that says a lot, considering . . . As far as I'm concerned, Lost Boys still rules the teen vampire movie genre.

Seriously though, the movie bored me. I'd rather watch something like True Blood, or that horrible Lifetime based on a vampire book series TV show instead. I want my vampires having sex, people! What good is a vampire if you can't have hot vampire sex with him? And maybe get bitten. (Don't go getting any ideas G-man).

Ode of the day: To dead folk who have sex with the living (and not, deep breath, the other way around). What is that makes vampires so sexy? And for real, if ghosts can make it with a humans, more power to them.

(But I'd still rather do it with you G. Hands down.)

Shizzing and Shazzing

Next to me, to my right, on an ever growing pile of discarded paper, is a box elder and a beetle. They're walking in head-spinning circles around each other beneath the light, wiggling their wiggly things furiously. I sort of wonder what they think of each other . . . whether they're sizing each other up, or just lame to the fact that they're inches apart. Sort of like people. Either dumb or oblivious. Or maybe they just don't care. Or maybe they like each other.

If they mated . . . would they make little BEELDERS or BOXTEELS?

The beetle is lazy. Boxy probably gives him a complex, what with being so much brighter and bigger and alien and all. But Boxy seems like he's high on speed and he if walks in one more circle I think I might get a headache from watching. He's baiting me. Or maybe the beetle.

You know if I smooshed the beetle, it'd leave a orange stain. I wonder if Boxy would find that interesting.

They both seem to like my pile of quarters. And the cutty-things quite a bit. I'm really glad I'm not an insect. If I ever thought my life was boring. But seriously. It's weird. Whatever it is they're doing.

So that's it. I took the kids to see a doggie movie that I shall not name — mostly because I found it entertaining — and came home a stared at bugs, while they (the kids) ran round me shizzing and shooting. And then I thought of you, and how we barked at your voice, and I wondered if you ever still read this. I don't write. Because I don't usually have much amusing to say. But I wish I did.

Then I talked sternly to the children because . . . well, it's a long story. And now, even though we had a very nice night, one of them thinks I'm mean.

Whatever. Now that the kids are in bed, let's just say I'll be shizzing my own way through the internet. Bet you wish you were here with me.

ODE O' Day — To the Scorpions. They remind me: There's no one like you. And I'm still loving you. And I imagine the things you do (under big city lights on the wings of a dove). And I just want to be loved by you. In all sorts of ways, baby.

Atomic City

Goodbye tamales, and soppapias, and red and green chillies. Goodbye aliens, and ruins, and volcanoes and cheesy chilly ice caves. Goodbye Jackalope, and strange humming noises. Goodbye atomic bombs, and creepy gated cities. Goodbye scary ladders, and huge rocks, and switchback trails down the sheer side of the canyon. Goodbye curious glimmery stars, and lavender, and wild jagged rocks and mountains. Goodbye Indigenous, Native American, Indian peoples, and all your wonderful art and stories. Goodbye El Morro — this week, as last, my best friend.

Hello you. It'll be really nice to see you again. To hold you again. To hear you again. Your voice, which I know better than my own, has been sorely missed. Nothing beats the package in person. The package — if only it could have been here to watch the arroyo fill and the Plaza lights, and the stars over the mountains. And well, for the sex.

But then . . . there's always tomorrow.

Ode of the day: to my dear El Morro. One lonely patch of geologically stunning, historically intriguing, culturally significant, incredibly romantic land. In the middle of nowhere. Waiting.

Devil's Highway

Funny, I felt a little . . . err, off driving down highway 491 toward Shiprock today. Thought maybe it was just the current lack of a warm body over 60 pounds in my bed, but turns out, I was driving The Devil's Highway — Hwy 491, formally known as route 666. Supposedly one of the worst, accident prone highways in the Southwest (though truth be told, that probably has more to do with the fact that the bulk of the highway cuts through several large reservations). New Mexico and Arizona residents and the res hated it, so they pushed to rename it, and rename it they did. But there's still a wasteland of crash memorials and crosses along the roadside, and that's a little creepy. So I don't know — maybe the devil still gets his way.

Also, about Hwy 191 (which intersects 491), well . . . what's with all the dog roadkill? And in odd states of rigor mortis. I passed at least three dogs frozen on their sides in the road, as though still standing in the back of a big 'ole pickup truck waggling their goofy tongues in the breeze. One of them, a big bulldog, had his paws straight out in front of him and his mouth open wide as if he were just running down the road after a rabbit, then froze up on the spot and fell on his side in the roadway. More creepy. Actually, that sort of popped the creepy meter, I'd say.

Next, down 600 hundred very steep feet we climbed to the bottom of Canyon De Chelly. And yes, back up again (like what comes up must go down only backwards). And yes it was hot, near 90 degrees. And yes, at least one of my small children complained allll theee waaayyy (but usually in tandem). It was a stunning site. But I'm pretty sure I'm temporarily insane.

Ode of the day: To Cortez, Colorado. Where for some bizarre reason, I was very pretty. Prettier then in Minnesota, and about as pretty as in LA (except it's in the middle of nowhere, which makes pretty more like a novelty and less passe). Oh and the town's neat too, as long as you don't stay at the Rodeaway.

Mind Freak

My alien friends are back, which prompted me to write, even though its been months since the last entry. My head feels like someone scooped it into a microwave, which makes me wonder if there's a connection — you know, some kind of mind control thing.
Too bad they don't want me to like, clean the kitchen or do laundry or something. At least it'd be productive.

And the hive — we saved one of its victims, dragging itself across a teal frayed sea like a wounded combat soldier. It gonna die anyway, but seeing it struggle made the boys sad, so I picked him up and put him outside. We were all better off pretending.

I also built a fort. Pretty nifty. Except I'm not allowed in. Such is an architect's life it seems.

A storm passed though an hour back, so black, trailing low clouds that looked like disembodied tentacles. Long and fuzzy, like threads pulled through a loom. I know the house won't really blow away, but I still wish you were here.

So this is it, my ode today: To hornets, who never seem to be anything but curious. Too curious for their own good. We should all be so lucky.

And She Said . . .

I should be asking, like, what the fuck is wrong with the world (or at least, the good ole’ USA — except it’s not so hard to answer that question). But instead, all I really want to know right now, and I mean this, is what the fuck is wrong with Minnesota. It’s fucking 40 degrees out — fuck, fuck, fuck — I’m all full of bad language about it, and for good god-damned reason. And yet, it doesn’t do me a shit of good.

Not only that, things aren't looking much better until after the first week of May. Umm, hello, mother nature, I’m not particularly amused. And like, you know, it’s way, way past April 1st. I’m sick of being fooled. Heeheehaahaa, look I'm totally tapped out. Please, please make me stop laughing.

I’ve been gone a while. Too much to do not enough time to rant and rave. It seems like I sat next to that stupid couple like, yesterday. Yesterday, not fourtysomethingicantrememberdays ago.

Question: So, is it all right to keep a blog, if I blog out of it for weeks on end?

Answer: Who cares, and I guess it is if you keep reading . . . you, well, you know who you are (yes you g'sexy).

Ode of the day: Ode to nothing. Because without sun, well, I’m not feeling particularly gosh darned odey. And nothing seems as good as anything. And anything isn’t very specific. See, at least I’m a little discriminating.

White Trash + Airplanes = Free In-Flight Reality TV

Okay, so I really have to talk about this couple that sat one isle over from my seat on my flight to LA last night. I hate to be like this, but seriously, I think I had my first encounter with real, honest-to-goodness white trash.

This couple boarded the plane, looking kind of wanna-be hipish, but with some serious not so hip giveaways. Like the woman had rhinestones down the seam of her otherwise not so bad pants. And the guy, well, his nasty trucker's baseball cap just eclipsed his distressed leather jacket and hipster jeans. Oh, and he had that look – the one that kind of shouts, ‘I’m really stupid.’

The couple seemed really sweet when they boarded the plane. They were definitely young, maybe early twenties. And they had tons of electronic gadgets to keep them busy. An IPod, a portable PSP, what looked like a Blackberry. But all techno knowledge aside, they seemed really kind of lame in general. Like maybe they’d had just a few too many sips of contaminated well water.

Anyway, the flight attendant had to show the guy how to buckle his seatbelt, and then, and I swear, even after her demonstration, he asked the attendant how to unbuckle. Later, Ms. Trash had it out with the flight attendant, because though the attendant had already announced she couldn’t make change and asked for exact cash only, Ms. Trash didn’t have anything smaller than a twenty and wanted her alcohol. When the attendant told Ms. Trash she’d come back after she sold a few drinks and had change, Ms. Trash waited for the attendant to leave and then complained up a thunderstorm to her equally challenged counter-part.

Later, the two got in a fight and Ms. Trash yelled at Mr. Trash so loudly, about half the rows from 20 on back turned around to stare (on a very quiet red-eye).

During the flight, Mr. and Ms. Trash took down their carry-on luggage, and barricaded their isle in, by shoring up the empty isle seat with two suitcases. During the descent, even after the attendant’s announcement, they left their luggage there on the seat and floor. Then a flight attendant came by and told them to stow it above.

Pop quiz. Did they?

Not a chance. Mr. and Ms. Trash kind of stared at the attendant blankly. About five minutes later, the same flight attendant came back, clearly unhappy with the couple, and spent a few minutes loudly chastising their stupidity. She spoke to them like two-year olds and I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from giggling. It took the couple another few minutes after that, to figure out what to do.

To top it off, a woman two rows up on the isle, kept turning on her cell-phone to check the time. That even after a flight attendant personally asked her to keep it off during the flight when she caught the women checking her voice-mail. And a group of men from Japan occupied the row of seats two rows behind me. They talked in Japanese at an unbecoming decibel level the whole flight, at one point arguing about who-knows what. If you’ve ever heard men argue in Japanese, you know what I’m saying.

Anyway, I’ve been on hundreds of flights, and though I definitely have some stories to tell about almost dying it on a few of them, I can’t say I’ve ever been as entertained by the company. Disgusted . . . well, there was that one flight to Japan next to some poor guy with the worst gas imaginable. Fourteen hours of holding my breath and looking longingly at the barf bag. Bust intellectually disgusting, never.

Ode of the day: To the unsung chance taker. Like people who finally fly, or leave their state (if not city) for the first time in over twenty years. I don’t get it, but I’m not them. And initiative at any point is better than a lifetime of unmerited complacency.