Friday Chupacabra Blogging

Bigfoot and chupacabra are running neck-and-neck in the winning search keywords for this site, although hippopotamus and long finger pointing and moving you are also contenders. I just read the past year’s archives of the Savage Love Letters of the Day, so I realize there are all sorts of imponderable desires out there. If you want to learn about a chupacabra, Google will send you here; if you want to learn about a common by-product of anal sex, Google will send you there.

Falling somewhere on this saucy spectrum are the numerous hits I have been getting from, which redirects to a European gigolo website with this enticing copy: “Would you like to have an affair? Maybe you don’t have enough time, or feel you don’t have the opportunities to meet exciting men.” This is perplexing because I don’t know if they are trying to mock me or recruit me into their harem of beautiful stallions.

I will throw this chupacabra into the mix.


A Change of Heart

OK, OK, I like daffodils now. You can stop tagging me in your Facebook photos of that particular flower. To my jaundiced eye they are still hideous, but my heart now perceives their inner beauty, which transcends their outer ugliness and shines like an anus-shaped sun upon the swan-infested landscape of your soul. There is also a rainbow.

Honestly, I have never seen so much carrying on about a flower! Flowers are there to feed bees, which are there to make honey, which are there to feed Winnie-the-Pooh. And Winnie-the-Pooh is there to feed licensing deals and lawsuits. Scientific analysis of this food chain reveals that the daffodil to be an insidious tool of the One Percent.

This was intended to be a semi-apology, but I see it is going south. Dianne says I should DECLARE things instead of being all namby-pamby about them. I declare that the daffodil is still ugly except when it is pretty.



Good evening. I used up my quota of commas elsewhere today so don’t expect to see any here. Also look at this video and tell me what you see.

I will tell you what I see: hope for humanity. This is not typically what I see when I walk down the street mostly because it is not in evidence but also because I get distracted by calculating odds and rearranging my mental to-do lists and scowling at daffodils and checking out hot guys—and if I am with Goblin there is poop to tag and bag. I should really look harder or with a more forgiving perception because I’m sure that hope for humanity can manifest in some people just as getting out of bed in the morning but that is more subtle and not in convenient YouTube format.

I will explain my rationale. That skinny boy on the spray-painted bicycle is not merely getting from point A to point B. Well he is getting from point A to point B if you consider point A to be the sidewalk and point B to be the top of a roof. But my point is that instead of doing something useful he decided to do something impossible. Why would it occur to him that he could or should make death-defying leaps onto or off of ledges or handrails or parking garages or trucks—the whole time balanced on one bicycle wheel? Because he’s an idiot. Yes. But also because at some point he imagined that the laws of physics and the limitations of anatomy might not be as rigid as they appear . . . and since it is unlikely that the first time was the charm he probably tried a thousand times before he even got the slightest hint that he was on the right track.

I don’t know. People expect Olympic athletes to be able to do incredible things because they have thighs like cement mixers and the treasure troves of Coca-Cola on their side but this looks like an ordinary suburban kid who figured things out for himself without world-class training. Maybe he is an android or a dracula or a CGI artist with time to kill. If he is just an ordinary kid then imagine what any of us can do if we decide our oddest dreams are worthwhile and our perceived limitations are illusory—and try again and again to prevail against all evidence that we were wrong.

Also today I read an article about some guy who got a face transplant so that’s pretty good.


My Weekend, By David

Oh dear. According to the traffic statistics page I obsessively frequently sometimes almost never consult to see if anyone likes me, China has been viewing this blog every few minutes. It’s not as if I don’t love and cherish every one of the 1,350,000,000 Chinese people—I have spent years of my life studying their medicine and my penmanship looks suspiciously as if it has origins in their language—but when foreign countries come a-callin’ so insistently, I wonder if I have either attained Hasselhoffian popularity or am about to be the victim of another tsunami of comment spam. “我喜欢你有什么说,” the comments will say. “点击这里购买 Xanax.” Or, “Er, der die Bucht schaut in Ordnung ist in unserem Buch. Wie wäre es mit Lexapro?” Fame is so exhausting.

I spent today thinking about maybe beginning to plan to prepare for this thing I am doing on Monday. The thing I am doing on Monday is “presenting a patient” to Bob, the founder of Ye Olde Acupuncture School, so in return he can tell me what a terrible acupuncturist I am. Sike! He’s going to tell me I’m the bees’ knees. This little passion play, a traditional and terrifying rite of passage for clinic-level students, is called Bobservation. These are usually witnessed by thirty to fifty people; mine will be witnessed by thirty to fifty people plus an investigative team from the organization that periodically reviews and renews the school’s academic accreditation. So no pressure or anything, but the entire future of the institute is on my shoulders!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!






My bedroom smells like Goblin’s feet.


Friday Chupacabra Blogging

You will be as disappointed as I was to learn that the once-thriving chupacabra movement has languished in my absence. Here, I resort to depicting a paper chupacabra until the species replenishes itself.

Meanwhile, almost every search term that has directed people to this newly relaunched blog involves the word bigfoot, so at least there is some semblance of sanity in the world.



I forgot how much I love writing, by which I categorically do not mean hunching over a keyboard and squeezing letters out onto a screen through a narrow and unforgiving sphincter in my brain. Writing is the worst part of writing; the best part is having things in the world strike me in a certain way that relates to other things in the world. Juxtapositions evoke words and turns of phrase that can bounce around merrily, reproducing and evolving, for days until the moment comes to type them out and I forget them all.

Facebook has bastardized this process for me, because for the past few years I have been able to capture ideas closer to the moment of inception, however this quick hit has robbed the world of my delightful ruminations and has generated other trouble besides.

And thus we come to the Great Daffodil Controversy of 2012 (as distinct from the Great Daffodil Controversies of 2006 and 2007). That daffodils are the most hideous thing ever has been well documented here and here and here, and I blame the mainstream media for keeping the population in the dark—although, because I am nothing if not a unbridled optimist, I assumed my Facebook Friendsies would share my evolved views on this subject.

Remember how Fonzie could never say he was wrong? He would be all, “I was wr–  I was wr–,” and Potsie waould say, “You were wrong, Fonz?”, and Fonzie would say, “Yeah, that thing.” Anyway, I, too, have to admit that I was wr–. I mean, I was wr–.

Well, the thing is, I overestimated my audience. Two days ago, while on walking Goblin Foo through the neighborhood, I encountered a specimen of the vile flora and posted, “Daffodils are the ugliest flower.” I arrived home minutes later to at least five indignant responses, which increased to dozens over the course of the day. Even at school, my sacred space was violated by numerous unprovoked challenges to my hastily expressed but commonsensical opinion.

Had my blog been active at that time, I might have been able to expand on my initial impression and juxtapose it with thoughts on the cultural implication of werewolves or the over-prescription of statin drugs, and everyone would have been too dazzled by my brilliance to go scrounging around for the pitchforks

But I suppose prophets are never appreciated in their own time.

DENNIS: That’s a nice gourd.

BRIAN: What?

DENNIS: How much do you want for the gourd?

BRIAN: I don’t. You can have it.

DENNIS: Have it?

BRIAN: Yes. Consider the lilies…

DENNIS: Eh, d– d– don’t you want to haggle?

BRIAN: No. …in the field.

DENNIS: What’s wrong with it, then?

BRIAN: Nothing. Take it.

ELSIE: Consider the lilies?

BRIAN: Uh, well, the birds, then.

EDDIE: What birds?

BRIAN: Any birds.


BRIAN: Well, have they got jobs?


BRIAN: The birds.

EDDIE: Have the birds got jobs?!

FRANK: What’s the matter with him?

ARTHUR: He says the birds are scrounging.

BRIAN: Oh, uhh, no, the point is the birds. They do all right. Don’t they?

FRANK: Well, good luck to ’em.

EDDIE: Yeah. They’re very pretty.

BRIAN: Okay, and you’re much more important than they are, right? So, what are you worrying about? There you are. See?

EDDIE: I’m worrying about what you have got against birds.

BRIAN: I haven’t got anything against the birds. Consider the lilies.

ARTHUR: He’s having a go at the flowers now.

EDDIE: Oh, give the flowers a chance.



The Return

A Chinese healer who lectured at my acupuncture school taught that the secret of remaining healthy was never to blame anyone for anything, so it is in my best interests not to blame the illegal Xanax and Lexapro pushers who deluged this blog with two hundred thousand spam comments for knocking it off the Internet in late 2009, and in any case it is just as well because I have been occupied with poking surgical steel into people’s flesh, and it would not do for me to be distracted with pointy objects in my hand.


Since we last left our intrepid hero (moi), he has not really done much of anything except complete eight ninths of a graduate program at Ye Olde Acupuncture School, sign up for (and drop out of after the first week) a second, concurrent program at Y.O.A.S., and monitor with increasing alarm the deterioration of his house around his ears. He also acquired a roommate, a roommate’s cat, and approximately eighty thousand dollars in student loans; his dog acquired and divested herself of cancer, twice; and his husband has still not divested himself of the stubborn notion that some sort of leprechaun moves the dirty dishes and recyclables he leaves in the sink to their prescribed destinations. That leprechaun (moi) has the patience of Job, but, no, he does not blame.

What’s new with you?