Friday Chupagoblin Blogging

Post-surgical Goblin resting at home with the soft clown collar that’s supposed to be stopping her from chewing on her staples. Yes, she has staples. Rob says the collar makes her look like the poison-spitting dinosaur from Jurassic Park, but I think more of a satellite dish or a blue sunflower.



1996: A Retrospective

Today is my birthday and those of you following this yearly saga may be interested to know that even I am having trouble keeping track of which one. Suffice it to say I am over twenty and under one million. I am also under twenty-two. It’s not my fault; time just flows differently in my dimension, somewhat like Narnia except without the Jesus Lion there to keep things in order. In my dimension, there is very little order. I haven’t paid a bill in three months because despite the most advanced pharmacology available from the mad scientist, I have suddenly developed a fear of envelopes. This means you will have to deliver the birthday cash in person, wrapped in clear plastic, although you will have to slide it through the mail slot because I’m also afraid of answering the door. You would be, too, if you saw the parade of mamarrachos that flounces through this neighborhood. It’s usually just the guy who wants to wash the windows, but why take a chance? In any case, the shades are always drawn and I can’t see how dirty they are.

The best part about my birthday is pretending it’s not my birthday. Also, remember that beard I told you about? I totally have to shave. It feels as if someone is pressing a hedgehog into my skin twenty-four hours a day. As you might imagine, this is pleasant neither for myself nor the hedgehog.


I Am Not the Walrus

I knew I was not destined to be a rock star when I read Boy George’s autobiography Take It Like a Man and saw the price such a lifestyle would exact. Dressing up in outlandish costumes, staying out all night, and crashing in random squatters’ lairs is not exactly my cup of tea although I have always had an intense and inexplicable interest in Boy George and would arrange to meet him for a late lunch if he were so inclined. Boy George was twenty-one when “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” became a worldwide sensation so I suppose all of those squatters’ lairs paid off in the end. I am going to be twenty-one on Monday so I’d better get cracking.

Here’s what’s new with me: I grew a beard, I bought some new carpet, and I found out I’m related to Marie Antoinette. Also Goblin is going to have an operation on Thursday and will have to stay at the vet overnight. I am very worried for her because she hates the vet and will be alone and scared and she won’t be able to sleep between me and Rob like she usually does. She has a ruptured ligament on her back leg and will need a cast and one of those Elizabethan collars but perhaps this will be an outlandish enough costume to get her into the rock star clubs.

Also, I know I missed a couple of chupacabras, but it’s the holidays and ho ho ho. Instead, I will leave you tonight with images of Walrus Man. I told Jwer that an orange turtleneck was not quite the thing with those blue tights, but did he listen? Then again, perhaps he and Goblin are preparing for their new album.



I’d LOL if it weren’t so 🙁


And It’s Marching All Over Your Face

I haven’t done any serious writing lately, which is to say I haven’t spent much time on attempting output of higher quality than the occasional Google search for a chupacabra, not that I’ve had no desire to yuk it up. It’s been a difficult few months at work with a lot of employee turnover and hasty preparation for the holiday season, but I’m now almost caught up. One associates December with ringing cash registers and all that, but a retailer’s really busy time, behind the scenes anyway, is September through November. If you did it right, December should be just coasting.

Of course, I have made no preparations for any personal holiday celebrating. Long-time readers know that I’ve never exactly been a Christmas fan, and the stretch between my birthday and New Year’s is always particularly anguishing. I suppose I’m lucky that I get to have all of my “time marches on and what have I accomplished” angst conveniently condensed into one week, whereas some people have to roller-coaster through it twice annually. I don’t think we’re getting a tree this year since we aren’t having any guests and don’t have to put on airs; I have no idea what anyone wants as a gift; and as usual, our Christmas cards will probably not get posted until Groundhog Day. Also as usual, everyone else seems to be more on the ball: there are colorful envelopes peeping out of the month-old stack of mail inside the front door. One day, I’ll get around to opening them (oh, and paying the bills).

Lastly, I’m taking three medications whose actual efficacy seems to be minuscule, whereas their side effects are legion. The mad scientist just doubled the strength of all of them and said they have until the first week of January to produce results, or else Santa won’t bring them any presents.

I’m supposed to report any suicidal impulses immediately. It’s a wonder I haven’t had any.


Friday Chupacabra Blogging: With Special Guest Star Greedo!

Cheese and crackers! I’m running out of chupacabras! Well, it’s not as if there are six billion of them running around sucking up the atmosphere. Chupacabras are rare and special beings, sort of like honest Republicans. Anyway, I’m having trouble adding to my collection of eyewitness photos, which is why this week’s chupe is sort of pink and spindly. But he is not to be disregarded for those traits! He could still give you a nasty scratch with those pointy nails, probably.


What ever happened to Greedo? I mean, I know what happened to him: Han Solo killed him on his big screen debut. But did he get a funeral? Was Mrs. Greedo sad? Greedo, we hardly knew ye.



Goblin has been limping for two days and I don’t know why. Also last night I was abducted by aliens. They don’t do anal probing anymore in case you were wondering. Anal probing is very last century. What they really needed was a fourth for a game of Uno. I zapped them all with Draw 4s and I was all, like, take THAT aliens. The next thing I knew I was in my own bed and Goblin was limping around.

My birthday is in less than three weeks.


The Foo Tattoo

My step-common-law-father-in-law, Paul, was fascinated with my decision to get a tattoo: “I just want to know what makes people want to mark themselves permanently.” He is the one who took the photo I posted, back when the Goblin Foo Tattoo was fresh and glistening. “I just want something to remember this time in my life,” was my quick answer, and this turned out upon reflection to be true. For over seven years, a period of time in which I met and married my husband, moved from Baltimore to New York City and back to Baltimore, bought a house, started this blog, and started a new business, the one constant in that transformative whirlwind has been my sweet little dog.

My acupuncturist says that people get tattoos when they change on the inside and want to reflect that on the outside.
Amanda George says that the tattoo was there all along, and the sharp, sharp, buzzing needle just uncovers it.

Amanda George’s father says that people don’t get tattoos because they’ll always want to be branded with a particular image, but because it will remind them of the time when they did want it.

To all of which I say, “Yes, and more.”

Life doesn’t happen in a vacuum. I can’t control whether the rising sea levels will flood out my business, whether George W. Evil is going to escalate a war or an economic depression that destroys my way of living forever, or even whether my own body is going to respond in the way I want to those countless hours in the gym or my (preternaturally slow) aging process. But my Foo Tattoo is one of the few things I do have control over: I arranged for the design and the placement, I picked the artist, I paid for it with money I earned, and it will be where it is until the flesh falls from my bones. It is mine, and it is me in a way that nothing else can be.

I like it.


Are You There, God? It’s Me, Satan.

Chapter One

The other night, I had an unusual dream that most likely owed its genesis to an unholy marriage between Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto and Stephen King’s The Mist. In it, cavemen and -women were milling around at the ocean shore one morning when a fog rolled in. You knew they were cavemen and -women because they were dressed in tattered skins and, in a shout out to the creationists, there were dinosaurs milling around with them. As you can see, there was an awful lot of milling around going on but you have to understand that this dream was set before they invented TiVo.

Anyway, from out of the fog and waves emerged civilized people from the future! No, not today, not 2007—I said civilized. They were from a time after mankind conquered its primitive instincts, ended the miseries of war and poverty, fed the hungry, healed the sick, reversed global climate change, and all that good stuff. (They were from January 2009.) The cavemen and -women didn’t know what to make of the sudden arrival of these enlightened beings, but the future people were from a time after the economy recovered and could see only one thing: cheap real estate. So they moved in and gentrified the neighborhood.

Cut to a few years later, after a lot of temporal immigration and interbreeding between people with such different outlooks, and the ocean shore started to look more familiar—like downtown Baltimore, in fact. War had broken out, crime was rampant, and the homeless wandered around in packs. Most of these unfortunate souls were pure-blooded cavemen and -women, who for some reason had traded in their tattered skins for elaborate Victorian costumes that inhibited their movement when they were forced to clean windshields for spare change.


Chapter Two

The other morning, I went to the dentist. I wasn’t aware that I had an appointment, in fact I was quite sure that I didn’t, but they called me up and said I did, so I went. The hygienist was a surly woman I had never met before, who startled me with bad news on the enamel front, then while I absorbed this, knocked me for a loop by tilting the chair back and forcing me to look at the children’s drawings that were taped to the ceiling above. These had always been there, and most of them were scribbled admonishments to properly brush and floss, but I noticed the addition of a new portrait of a squinty-eyed troll wearing a necktie. I found this disconcerting enough but was really horrified when I finally noticed the caption: “George W. Bush.”

Under this hateful supervision, the surly hygienist jammed sharp metal instruments into my mouth.


Chapter Three