A few months ago, I played a game of monsters that conjured Lamenta, a new and odious character to add color my life. I love Lamenta, but she's basically like the caricature equivalent of rain on your parade.
Monsters, in case you are not acquainted with the practice, involves a community composition of a monster portrait. The game is divided into rounds, depending on how many players are available. During each round, players are responsible for adding a portion of a monster body. In a game with four players the rounds are traditionally head, torso, legs and feet. Each player gets a piece of paper and drawing utensil at the top of round one. Drawing monsters ensues.
When a player is finished drawing the particular monster bits of the round, the page is folded over so just a hint of the drawing is revealed. Everyone passes their page to the left (because any good debutante or stoner will tell you its good etiquette), and the next round begins. Lather, rinse, repeat. At the end of the four rounds, there is a great reveal of an oddly pieced together monster. The results are often quite amusing. As an added bonus, you can follow the game with a monster naming ceremony.
Lamenta was borne unto me one rainy Portland night at My Father's Place, a dive where the air is thick with smoke and the waitstaff serves up cheap, greasy spoon breakfasts to be washed down with whiskey in the wee hours of the morning. Sure, playing monsters seems like a childish barroom activity. I have to admit there is a great amount of overlap in the venn diagram of life comparing drunken friends and kids I used to babysit. Indeed, playing monsters was a favorite babysitting activity.
I don't remember exactly what Lamenta looks like, but I remember her to be a bit stodgy. I think she wore a bowler hat with a flower and wellington boots. Her face was contorted with misery and her jaw slack. She looked every bit like a wretched, self-loathing sourpuss. We added a caption of "Lamenta says..." and a speech bubble of an epically proportioned, "WHY?" Now, my friend Ben and I prompt each other:
"Lamenta says..."
"Whhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"
Lamenta's voice sounds much akin to Marguerite Perrin, in case you have not heard this exchange. If Marguerite is a God Warrior, Lamenta is a Soldier of Misfortune. She's coincidentally a great scapegoat. Forget Aunt Flo coming to town... when Lamenta comes to visit, you can be certain the apocalypse is nigh.
Today I've oft been reminded of the plight of Lamenta. Sure, I'm not crying out with threats of doomsday, but I'm on the verge of a major crank-a-thon.
The day started out with a 5:15 am phone call. It was a wrong number. Which is particularly annoying when you are awakened with blaring thoughts of bad things happening to important people. Nothing like a good flash of panic to start your day! I spent most of the morning feeling jumpy and wound up. Needless to say, I didn't need any coffee this morning.
As an added challenge, the overnight overnight showers exacerbated my fall allergies. Being relatively new to the hay fever phenom, I refuse to do smart things like taking an anti-histamine before I leave for work or avoiding the urge to itch your eyes. Now I've busted up my left eyeball. It hurts, and it looks as if there is a big air bubble between the white eye bits and the film that rests on top of it. It's gross and uncomfortable.
While I'm nowhere near as miserable as Miss Lamenta, I'm still reserving the right to bitch and moan as I please.
28 September 2007
24 September 2007
Badgers
Perhaps you were not aware, but Crows and Badgers are good companions. True, the two are probably not convening for an inter-species tea party. I don't even think these two animals keep the same hours (though that doesn't prevent me from keeping up with certain company). Nonetheless, once every couple of blue moons/fortnights/ten minute intervals I need a badger to get this Crow back on track.
I believe my Crow-Badger connection was forged in my mind while I was quite young. I can hear the masses now, "Uh oh, Crow! I smell dangerous Freudian-fodder!" Unfortunately for you drama mongers, I am one of those bastards with an idyllic childhood in the suburbs. In fact, I substantiate my claims of Corvidae-Mustelidae companionship with folklore. Or, more specifically, with a coffee table book gifted to my parents some time in the 1980s. The book, Crows by Heidi Holder, took the old rhyme "One for sorrow, two for mirth..." and illustrated it with crows, weasels and badgers. It was one of those picture books that makes young eyes cross as one considers the somewhat hazy difference between artist and illustrator.
To be completely honest, the connection stems from the fact that in my younger days my mother routinely had to badger me to do just about anything that wasn't on my personal agenda so help me, Freud. Now I'm somewhat convinced that some sort of nagging, prodding, and beleaguering is necessary encouragement for my most fruitful endeavors. Now I'm not lazy (refutable), but I am needy. Thanks, Mama Crow!
Anyway, a thoughtful badger (we'll call him Mead Hunter because that's his name) stumbled upon this blog did what figurative badgers do best (i.e. figurative badgering). I had every intention of picking up the blog again, but I was stuck like a sheep on the edge of the cliff. A sheep just waiting for a the slightest nudge before taking the plunge.
I've decided not to abandon the old format of 250 word prose/plays, but rather expand to include my daily adventures. Though my life has fewer groped-by-Listerine-guzzling-man-on-bus adventures than it used to, I find my vanilla flavored existence to be delectable. Luckily for you readers, I've missed writing as means to procrastinate and, I'm relatively self-obsessed, which provides good fodder for bloggery. So sign up for my RSS feed already because as of today, you officially have my permission to badger me about any and all of the following:
- writing this blog
- applying to grad school
- flossing
- watching less PBS
23 April 2007
No Title.
We sit at opposite ends of an old storefront—in its current incarnation as a neighborhood bistro. He is an elderly man who looks like he will never be accustomed to the blue jeans he wears. He makes me think about a book I read with an old man with an imaginary best friend. The book is one of my favorites and my face relaxes into a gentle smile at the recollection.
His own companion is quite real, but to me he exists as a gold-threaded voice reflecting off the opposite wall. The old man cocks his head to listen and together they drink hibiscus tea, red and steaming. They talk, as friends. They talk as allies when words do not come as quickly as they should.
“Rita Bullock is a remarkable woman,” he says. He is resolute in his statement, and the words stay perched for a moment before he continues. She is a music professor from Florida. She is woman who made it on her own working in Germany. The man’s friend makes a comment about money.
I busy myself rustling through old receipts with half-illustrated alphabets, not wanting to seem like I am paying too much attention. But my focus is constant— I want to be called a remarkable woman.
Soon, I realize these words are familiar. Someone already has spoken these words to me: An old man, an architect. A good friend.
Quickly, silently, I feel the heat on my face, the saltwater stains on paper.
His own companion is quite real, but to me he exists as a gold-threaded voice reflecting off the opposite wall. The old man cocks his head to listen and together they drink hibiscus tea, red and steaming. They talk, as friends. They talk as allies when words do not come as quickly as they should.
“Rita Bullock is a remarkable woman,” he says. He is resolute in his statement, and the words stay perched for a moment before he continues. She is a music professor from Florida. She is woman who made it on her own working in Germany. The man’s friend makes a comment about money.
I busy myself rustling through old receipts with half-illustrated alphabets, not wanting to seem like I am paying too much attention. But my focus is constant— I want to be called a remarkable woman.
Soon, I realize these words are familiar. Someone already has spoken these words to me: An old man, an architect. A good friend.
Quickly, silently, I feel the heat on my face, the saltwater stains on paper.
20 April 2007
15 February 2007
Joan
“What am I going to do for the next 26 minutes?” she unintentionally thought aloud. Stevie and his little friend had just settled down for another installment of Dora the Explorer, and Joan needed nothing more than a few minutes of solitude as far away from that animated little bilingual cunt as possible.
Four years away from the corporate sphere and Joan was still regretting her decision to leave behind the two martini lunch for the three martini play date. She speared another pimento-filled olive and haphazardly dropped it into her glass. Swapping Post-Poller reports for Pull-Ups would be a godsend. Data analysis and micromanaging would sure beat picking up scattered toys and microwaving another bowl of Spaghetti O’s for Stevie’s lunch.
Joan knew it was time to go back to work. She was ready. She was over-prepared. Of course there would be challenges along the way; obstacles set her four years out of the race. Her husband would be a hard sell. He had invested wholeheartedly in the idolatry of Republican Family Values. She could hear his laments now—it was his plan to have her out of work until Stevie started school. Even then, he would only afford her the luxury of a part-time gig. Please! What sort of marketing exec ever works part time? But, if anyone knew how to plead a case and close a deal—it was Joan.
She could not fail.
Four years away from the corporate sphere and Joan was still regretting her decision to leave behind the two martini lunch for the three martini play date. She speared another pimento-filled olive and haphazardly dropped it into her glass. Swapping Post-Poller reports for Pull-Ups would be a godsend. Data analysis and micromanaging would sure beat picking up scattered toys and microwaving another bowl of Spaghetti O’s for Stevie’s lunch.
Joan knew it was time to go back to work. She was ready. She was over-prepared. Of course there would be challenges along the way; obstacles set her four years out of the race. Her husband would be a hard sell. He had invested wholeheartedly in the idolatry of Republican Family Values. She could hear his laments now—it was his plan to have her out of work until Stevie started school. Even then, he would only afford her the luxury of a part-time gig. Please! What sort of marketing exec ever works part time? But, if anyone knew how to plead a case and close a deal—it was Joan.
She could not fail.
14 February 2007
Miss Valentine
Her candy apple ass lay exposed on the bed. Ray let out a sad sigh. He could recognize her from this angle, even though their relationship was strictly professional. No one could mistake those Valentine hips.
Still, seeing her lifeless body—naked and discarded—was a shock to Ray. He knew she had had a rough life, and from the looks of the abrasions and bruises that marked her dead body, she had struggled in the end, too. Elise was a call girl. It could’ve been a John who got too rough. But her ties to the Holman case were too strong. There was no way this could possibly be an accident.
Ray picked up her purse and took out her little black book. He recognized the bag. It the same one she had carried years ago when they first met. At the time, he was a lowlife PI—snapping photos of secret rendezvous, exposing countless marital affairs for mere peanuts. Later he’d call a few of her clients to see if he could find any leads. He’d call a few of her better customers to let them know she was gone.
She was gone. That was the harsh reality of it all. Ray took another solemn exhale. Today, he had lost one of his best informants. Today he lost his best friend.
Still, seeing her lifeless body—naked and discarded—was a shock to Ray. He knew she had had a rough life, and from the looks of the abrasions and bruises that marked her dead body, she had struggled in the end, too. Elise was a call girl. It could’ve been a John who got too rough. But her ties to the Holman case were too strong. There was no way this could possibly be an accident.
Ray picked up her purse and took out her little black book. He recognized the bag. It the same one she had carried years ago when they first met. At the time, he was a lowlife PI—snapping photos of secret rendezvous, exposing countless marital affairs for mere peanuts. Later he’d call a few of her clients to see if he could find any leads. He’d call a few of her better customers to let them know she was gone.
She was gone. That was the harsh reality of it all. Ray took another solemn exhale. Today, he had lost one of his best informants. Today he lost his best friend.
12 February 2007
The Migration
Chuck considered the migration pattern of birds. He looked up toward the empty sky, perched between the months that had past since the autumnal departure and the weeks that remained before spring’s return. After careful deliberation, Chuck concluded that birds, on the whole, must accomplish a great deal more than he on any given day.
He looked up through the brown brick facades and steely twists of winter branches, anticipating the day when his winged friends made their return. “Will I see the terns this year?” Chuck wondered as he waited at the bus stop. “If not the terns, at least let me notice the geese.”
Lulled to his standard tempo of complacency by the din of the morning traffic, Chuck reviewed his list of accomplishments for the day, meanwhile dismissing the lint from his pocket. The list mostly consisted of his oral hygiene routine, but he was happy to concede that he did in fact let the dog out before leaving for work. It was a short list, so he included “de-linted pockets” as an addendum.
He looked up the road, catching sight of the bus that was due to arrive three minutes prior. Stepping on the bus, he began his own daily migration, amid his own flock of stationary birds.
He looked up through the brown brick facades and steely twists of winter branches, anticipating the day when his winged friends made their return. “Will I see the terns this year?” Chuck wondered as he waited at the bus stop. “If not the terns, at least let me notice the geese.”
Lulled to his standard tempo of complacency by the din of the morning traffic, Chuck reviewed his list of accomplishments for the day, meanwhile dismissing the lint from his pocket. The list mostly consisted of his oral hygiene routine, but he was happy to concede that he did in fact let the dog out before leaving for work. It was a short list, so he included “de-linted pockets” as an addendum.
He looked up the road, catching sight of the bus that was due to arrive three minutes prior. Stepping on the bus, he began his own daily migration, amid his own flock of stationary birds.
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