Quiet on the Settee

My business is closed today, but I’m here working because someone got it into his head that he wants to film a commercial here. It’s a car commercial, although the car will not be putting in an appearance. Maybe the car is too good for us. No, it’s not, it’s a used car with pretensions. There are about thirty people wandering around the shop, doing stuff. I have no idea what, nor did I suspect it would take thirty people to make a fifteen-second commercial. They are noisy. I am in the back room, keeping out of everyone’s way and eating a chocolate chip cookie. If I could spend every day pursuing those activities, I would be fatter but happier, like a Buddha. The kind of Buddha that issues proclamations. My first proclamation is that all of my disciples—oh, yes, I will have disciples—must wear capes. As it is not advisable to defy Buddha, I expect someone will be placing an order soon for a bundle of capes. Tim Gunn is in town today, and perhaps he could be approached for his input. Sadly, he is not in the commercial. I love Tim Gunn for his ability to say the most devastating things in a way that is honest yet sensitive. He may have something to say about the whole cape idea, but not even Tim Gunn can stand in the way of progress.



I go on and on about the stuff I can’t remember, but the stuff that stays in my mind is almost as frustrating as the stuff that doesn’t. I can’t remember what I’m doing at any given moment, but I can’t forget how the hosts of the Home Shopping Network in the nineteen eighties would toot a bicycle horn to indicate approval. “That deserves a toot!” they would gush about a product testimonial. Toot toot! Or people would call up to buy a hideous Capodimonte figurine and say, “Can I have a toot for my mother-in-law, Bernice?” and off they’d go again. I know this because my mother was obsessed with shopping via television in that primitive era before the world wide web came along. Do they still call it the world wide web? WWW? Wicked Witch of the West? Wimbly wambly wobbly? See, now I don’t remember where I was going with all of this, but I can’t get the song “Pufnstuf for Mayor” out of my head, which I have not heard since nineteen eighty-two, nine years before I was born.


Friday Chupacontemplation Blogging

I would like to understand the mechanism by which my trying to help someone infallibly comes back to bite me in the ass. This is a universal law that bears serious rumination.

But I don’t have that kind of attention span anymore, so here’s a chupacabra.


Show Me What Is, Then Show Me What Isn’t

I was recently looking through some photos I took in junior high school—photos I probably haven’t seen since they were developed—and came across one of a boy I had a crush on. Back then, he made me weak in the knees, whereas today, he looks like an obnoxious twelve year old. All twelve year olds are obnoxious, so that made coming up with an adjective easier. I was obnoxious; good lord, the few things I can remember from that antediluvian time make me want to bury my head under a pillow. I don’t know when I changed my ways, but the fact that everything before last Friday is a hazy dream gives me plausible deniability. Was I obnoxious this past August? I have no idea. I yelled at someone, but I think that was in July. I don’t even remember starting to yell, I just sort of encountered myself yelling. Hoo boy, wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.

Today was my day off of work, and I spent it working on my business web site and watching reruns of “Project Runway” from the third season, when they must have dragged the casting couch into a psycho ward. Everything looks different in retrospect, and even though I can’t remember who won the challenges, I have some vague sense of the trajectory of their madness before it makes an appearance. I hoped Jeffrey would be retroactively voted off for the dress that made Angela’s sob-sister mother look like Gargamel, like Heidi from the future would appear in a puff of smoke and set things straight. Angela was just the sort of disaster I would encounter myself yelling at one of these Julys, but she was not as bad as I remembered, whereas Robert and Kayne were a hundred times worse, and it was amusing to see Vincent get even kookier when he realized he had risked his entire future to enter a competition where he was out of his league.

Wait, who are these people and why did I sit on the couch all day watching their every move? I don’t know, it was just an impulse. I feel gross and bloated since my demon lungs have forbidden me to go to the gym. “Do not go to the gym,” said my demon lungs. “Or else.”

“Eat that whole bag of corn chips,” my demon stomach chimed in. “Or else.”

As my acupuncturist always says to honor what my body is telling me, I suspect I do not have to paint the rest of this picture.



Today, I went to the dry cleaner to pick up some shirts. I am well known by that dry cleaner for paying and then leaving my shirts hanging on the rack while I drive merrily away. Today, I said, “I’m really going to take them this time.”

“I wonder about you,” said the dry cleaner.

“Well, the truth is, I don’t come here for my shirts at all. I just come here to see you.”

The dry cleaner tittered like a schoolgirl. “What a thing to say!”

Kill them with kindness, that’s my motto. That is, if you don’t have a cornfield handy.


Today, I went to see the mad scientist. This was at the recommendation of my dracula and my other health care professional for whom I have not invented a pithy name. I dumped a lot in the mad scientist’s lap, and he dumped a lot in my lap in the form of dramatic diagnoses and a prescription. I don’t know if I can deal with more prescriptions in my life. The antibiotics are bad enough, and my prescriptions never say anything like, “Smile more!!!!!!!!” If a little piece of paper told me to smile more, I really would. Instead, they tell me to imbibe demonic-sounding compounds that contain either too many or too few vowels. “A,” I’ve noticed, is a popular vowel around the prescription pad.


I turned down an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Now I expect the cement shoes.
But the funny thing is that the blues
I got months ago when I first heard the news
Sort of went away.


Oh Croppy Day

Wow. I feel like everything I’ve written here for five years has been a thinly veiled cry for help . . . and my last post is what you guys react to? I mean, wow. That’s really nice, but where were you when my nervous breakdown started? J/k! OMG. I wuv you.

I think it was an old “Twilight Zone” episode, where the little boy with the weird powers would magically transport the people who irritated him to the ground under a cornfield. If I had omnipotence and a cornfield, there would be no stopping me for sure.

(Present company excepted, of course.)


I Can’t See the Stars from the Gutter

I have barely written a word in weeks. Wait, this is not quite true… before I got a hideous summer cold last week, I had begun work on an extensive analysis of my years as a self-help ghostwriter and their complicated legacy in my life to this day. And then I got sick, and then I went and bought some new pants at the mall, so my energy for a clever turn of phrase has been thrown out with the bathwater. I now lack energy and bathwater, but I found a great pair of khakis at Banana Republic, and if I turn my head at just the right angle, I can even get my sinuses to drain a little bit. Who said life isn’t good?

In other news, there is information I have that I wish I didn’t and information I need that seems as if will never come. There are things I’m assuming that may either bring me, or hold me back from, vast success depending upon whether I’ve discovered an unfortunate cosmic truth or an ass has been made of u and me. I need to work out, and there is stuff I need to work out, and there is stuff that is not working out.

Stay tuned.