I am intrigued by the giant frog that lives in lake Titicaca in Peru. Partly because it is giant and breathes through it's skin, partly because it is called the 'aquatic scrotum.'
Picture from the National Wildlife Federation website
Traveling, Dogs, Traveling Dogs, and Other Musings.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Aquatic Scrotum. Badass frog.
I am intrigued by the giant frog that lives in lake Titicaca in Peru. Partly because it is giant and breathes through it's skin, partly because it is called the 'aquatic scrotum.'
Picture from the National Wildlife Federation website
Monday, November 23, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Scratching Nuns are Not Polite
fiction (crappy)
She never wanted to be trapped in an elevator with a 300 pound man who (apparently) had just gotten through with a rigorous workout and who (apparently) didn't utilize the shower in the locker room afterward. She also never wanted to be stuck on an elevator with a pack of decrepit old nuns who has a propensity for itching random places on their warped little bodies. She especially never had the yearning to be stuck on an elevator with the creepy guy who lives in the apartment four doors down who smelled of old fish and had the muddled appearance of Alf and Blanch from The Golden Girls. But there she was. She eyed the lit up buttons with scorn. They taunted her. They indicated that soon they should be approaching floor number four when in fact they were stuck in a state of oblivion between floors one and two. She was convinced the fat guy caused them all to outweigh the maximum weight capacity that was legally required to be posted in every elevator ever created.
The fat man began to stretch. He lifted his sausage arms over his head, further revealing the large pools of sweat that had accumulated in his armpit region. His dingy purple headband dripped with perspiration, and she had to shuffle to the left to avoid it hitting her shoe. Fat Man moaned slightly as he attempted to touch his fingers to his toes, and she had to resist the urge to throw up at the sight of his half-naked ass bulging up from his too-tight running shorts.
The nuns were talking quietly to themselves, while itching loudly almost in perfect unison. She inadvertently overheard a little of their conversation, catching a few words here (popcorn, scaffolding, nunchucks) and a few words there (passion, Klingon, picnic). She didn't care to know too much about the secret lives of the chronically itchy nuns.
She never wanted to be trapped in an elevator with a 300 pound man who (apparently) had just gotten through with a rigorous workout and who (apparently) didn't utilize the shower in the locker room afterward. She also never wanted to be stuck on an elevator with a pack of decrepit old nuns who has a propensity for itching random places on their warped little bodies. She especially never had the yearning to be stuck on an elevator with the creepy guy who lives in the apartment four doors down who smelled of old fish and had the muddled appearance of Alf and Blanch from The Golden Girls. But there she was. She eyed the lit up buttons with scorn. They taunted her. They indicated that soon they should be approaching floor number four when in fact they were stuck in a state of oblivion between floors one and two. She was convinced the fat guy caused them all to outweigh the maximum weight capacity that was legally required to be posted in every elevator ever created.
The fat man began to stretch. He lifted his sausage arms over his head, further revealing the large pools of sweat that had accumulated in his armpit region. His dingy purple headband dripped with perspiration, and she had to shuffle to the left to avoid it hitting her shoe. Fat Man moaned slightly as he attempted to touch his fingers to his toes, and she had to resist the urge to throw up at the sight of his half-naked ass bulging up from his too-tight running shorts.
The nuns were talking quietly to themselves, while itching loudly almost in perfect unison. She inadvertently overheard a little of their conversation, catching a few words here (popcorn, scaffolding, nunchucks) and a few words there (passion, Klingon, picnic). She didn't care to know too much about the secret lives of the chronically itchy nuns.
Unlucky
"At least I'm not pigeon-toed" he told her in a fit of rage. She threw a basket of mini muffins at him in retaliation. He ducked, and fortunately the basket flew over his head. Unfortunately the muffins cascaded out of the basket and rained down upon him. They laughed together, momentarily forgetting. But then they remembered, he realized he had blueberry crumbs embedded in his hair, she remembered how embarassed she was about her inward facing feet. One by one a whisk, a potted plant, a "Volcanos Rock!" magnet, and a small tabby cat were hurdled across the room. One by one a whisk, the broken shards of a pot, a "Volcanos Rock!" magnet, and a very disoriented tabby cat were hurded back to where they originated. Fortunately for the cat it landed on it's feet, as would be expected. Unfortunately it found nowhere good to hide after it's second ascent, so it resorted to crouching by the toaster, which was shortly thereafter flung towards the muffined man, who wasn't so fortunate this time around.
Poison Berries
Cornelia didn't like raspberries. She always got an extra-big slice of the raspberry pie that Aunt Joy bought from the shabby fruit stand on highway 5 but she couldn't stand the taste of raspberries. I think she just liked being the one with the most. The most eye shadow, the most pairs of high heels, the most phone numbers of random guys named Clint met at dirty dive bars, the most raspberry pie. She's not fooling anyone, though. We all know she scribbles the numbers herself and throws them indiscriminately around her room, and her thick application of eye shadow merely makes her look like a three-dollar hooker.
I watch Cornelia sit at the table, eating the crust off her raspberry pie. Cal sits next to her, looking like an ant next to her elephant size. Cal is smaller and paler than everyone in his grade, he doesn't go outside much. I think maybe Cals having the hardest time because he just pokes his food around on his plate, not eating at all. We have all taken a hard blow these past few days. I mean, we all thought dad was in good health but one day it's bam and he's on the floor. He had a heart-attack, I guess he didn't take enough Bayer.
So he we all are, sitting around the table at some restaurant that has menus on the table that show neon colored drinks with umbrellas in them that come in glasses shaped like pineapples. Instead of a funeral where everyone wears black my father wanted to have a party. He didn't tell anyone this, we all just knew. Cornelia wore black just to spite him, he had severely grounded her two days before he died. Cornelia begged mom to let her off since dad was no longer around to enforce the restriction, but mom said dad's death didn't nullify the fact that she got a giant tattoo of a pink snarling Doberman one drunken night in the city. Cornelia tried to claim that the tattoo was enough of a punishment (who wouldn't want a giant tattoo of an atrocious pink dog on their forearm?) but mom wouldn't budge.
Cal looks at me, momentarily making eye contact before forcing his gaze down at his Americanized burrito again. I sometimes wonder if poor Cal will ever hit puberty, if maybe his body is void of any testosterone, and now with dad being gone I worry that us girls will prevent him from ever making that leap into manhood.
"Rudy was always a good man," I hear my Uncle Hank begin a toast, "a kind man, loving father and husband. And he never got mad when I complimented that horrendous style of his. I mean, socks with sandals, come on!" Uncle Hank knows good fashion, it is in his blood. Uncle Hank, in his past, dated beefy men who wore muscle tanks and always looked unwelcomingly greasy. Recently, however, he has settled with a nice accountant named Larry who, though quite beefy himself in an odd way, is dramatically different than anyone we've seen Hank with before.
Larry sat next to Hank, sipping his glass of red wine. He became introduced to the family about a month ago but seemed to melt right in, and I'm not afraid that if I touch him I will have trouble opening lids to jars for the following week.
I realize suddenly that Cornelia is staring at me with eyes slathered in too much eyeliner. "I said, are you going to finish that?" she says, pointing with her fork to my own slice of raspberry pie. I look over at her plate, noticing that while her crust is gone there is a gigantic pile of raspberry ooze covering her plate. "No, it's yours,' I reply and reach for the menu of neon colored drinks.
I watch Cornelia sit at the table, eating the crust off her raspberry pie. Cal sits next to her, looking like an ant next to her elephant size. Cal is smaller and paler than everyone in his grade, he doesn't go outside much. I think maybe Cals having the hardest time because he just pokes his food around on his plate, not eating at all. We have all taken a hard blow these past few days. I mean, we all thought dad was in good health but one day it's bam and he's on the floor. He had a heart-attack, I guess he didn't take enough Bayer.
So he we all are, sitting around the table at some restaurant that has menus on the table that show neon colored drinks with umbrellas in them that come in glasses shaped like pineapples. Instead of a funeral where everyone wears black my father wanted to have a party. He didn't tell anyone this, we all just knew. Cornelia wore black just to spite him, he had severely grounded her two days before he died. Cornelia begged mom to let her off since dad was no longer around to enforce the restriction, but mom said dad's death didn't nullify the fact that she got a giant tattoo of a pink snarling Doberman one drunken night in the city. Cornelia tried to claim that the tattoo was enough of a punishment (who wouldn't want a giant tattoo of an atrocious pink dog on their forearm?) but mom wouldn't budge.
Cal looks at me, momentarily making eye contact before forcing his gaze down at his Americanized burrito again. I sometimes wonder if poor Cal will ever hit puberty, if maybe his body is void of any testosterone, and now with dad being gone I worry that us girls will prevent him from ever making that leap into manhood.
"Rudy was always a good man," I hear my Uncle Hank begin a toast, "a kind man, loving father and husband. And he never got mad when I complimented that horrendous style of his. I mean, socks with sandals, come on!" Uncle Hank knows good fashion, it is in his blood. Uncle Hank, in his past, dated beefy men who wore muscle tanks and always looked unwelcomingly greasy. Recently, however, he has settled with a nice accountant named Larry who, though quite beefy himself in an odd way, is dramatically different than anyone we've seen Hank with before.
Larry sat next to Hank, sipping his glass of red wine. He became introduced to the family about a month ago but seemed to melt right in, and I'm not afraid that if I touch him I will have trouble opening lids to jars for the following week.
I realize suddenly that Cornelia is staring at me with eyes slathered in too much eyeliner. "I said, are you going to finish that?" she says, pointing with her fork to my own slice of raspberry pie. I look over at her plate, noticing that while her crust is gone there is a gigantic pile of raspberry ooze covering her plate. "No, it's yours,' I reply and reach for the menu of neon colored drinks.
I am not well balanced...I am a balancing act.
Read this. Write that. Fix this. Do that. Get up. Come here. Go there. No, not there! Feel like I'm failing. Dropping the balls, not juggling at all. Putting things in a list in order of importance. Stop. Sctratch that. Erase. Priotity number one: getting my priorities straight. Ducks in a row. I think someone shot all mine and hung them in windows in Chinatown.
I'm lookin' towards the sunny side. Or at least the ray of sun that comes down through the momentary hole in the clouds. Looking and hoping I don't get blinded by the brightness. Wishing I was blind when the rain pours down. Where'd I put my fucking raincoat?
Inspiration and self-doubt come hand in hand. Great idea! But it's been written all before. Same shit, different--Words--Syntax--Diction--Direction. I've lost my map and I have always been bad at differentiating North from South. West is where the water is but that's about all I know.
Try as I may. Try as I might. Sometimes I need a finger pointing me which way to go. Sometimes I need a finger, because I've lent all mine out to other people. They take them and run. HEY THAT'S MY THUMB!
Gotta: Spend a little more time paving my own road. : Learn to be blind to that which I do not want to see. : Stop worrying that 'my best' seems to still be not what it should be. : Have a little more fun. : ?
I'm lookin' towards the sunny side. Or at least the ray of sun that comes down through the momentary hole in the clouds. Looking and hoping I don't get blinded by the brightness. Wishing I was blind when the rain pours down. Where'd I put my fucking raincoat?
Inspiration and self-doubt come hand in hand. Great idea! But it's been written all before. Same shit, different--Words--Syntax--Diction--Direction. I've lost my map and I have always been bad at differentiating North from South. West is where the water is but that's about all I know.
Try as I may. Try as I might. Sometimes I need a finger pointing me which way to go. Sometimes I need a finger, because I've lent all mine out to other people. They take them and run. HEY THAT'S MY THUMB!
Gotta: Spend a little more time paving my own road. : Learn to be blind to that which I do not want to see. : Stop worrying that 'my best' seems to still be not what it should be. : Have a little more fun. : ?
Friday, November 6, 2009
Coming Home
It had been eight years since she had been home. Eight years, two months, and sixteen days.
The air in Milwaukee felt moist and heavy, like she was breathing water. She was used to the dry air of the desert and the heavy air made her feel lazy—sluggish.
She walked up the steps to her mother’s house. She missed the funeral. She told everyone she had work that she couldn’t get out of but really she just couldn’t bring herself to go.
She had sat at the Jungle Inn just a few blocks from her childhood home, dressed in the black dress she bought at a half-off sale. Her sunglasses covered her dry eyes. After driving to the funeral parlor and sitting in the car for twenty minutes, she decided she couldn’t be around her family—couldn’t pretend to be sad when all she felt was—nothing.
Her mother had died a long death, the reason not quite known though the doctors did all they could to find out. And she hadn’t visited once, not since before her mother got sick. After that day in the Hotel Wisconsin, not after what her mother had done.
The air in Milwaukee felt moist and heavy, like she was breathing water. She was used to the dry air of the desert and the heavy air made her feel lazy—sluggish.
She walked up the steps to her mother’s house. She missed the funeral. She told everyone she had work that she couldn’t get out of but really she just couldn’t bring herself to go.
She had sat at the Jungle Inn just a few blocks from her childhood home, dressed in the black dress she bought at a half-off sale. Her sunglasses covered her dry eyes. After driving to the funeral parlor and sitting in the car for twenty minutes, she decided she couldn’t be around her family—couldn’t pretend to be sad when all she felt was—nothing.
Her mother had died a long death, the reason not quite known though the doctors did all they could to find out. And she hadn’t visited once, not since before her mother got sick. After that day in the Hotel Wisconsin, not after what her mother had done.
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