Friday Chupacabra Blogging

This chupacabra comes to you live from The House That Is Collapsing Around My Ears. Built in the 1870s and renovated in the 1970s, my house has seen it all. Right now, it is seeing plumbing leaks, mirrored walls, and kitchen cabinets that look like they were installed by werewolves. I spend months addressing one domestic atrocity, and another arises to take its place. “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine,” say the pastel yellow walls. I believe them. I used to think I would like to renovate an old house, but for fun and not out of encroaching necessity and with zero budget. Now I think I would like to build a new house to my exact specifications out of 100 percent adamantium, the indestructible material that Wolverine’s bones are made out of. If adamantium is too fictional, it can be titanium or something. I am not fussy.



Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water, more technical difficulties. Honestly, I can’t swing a dead cat. Well, I could, but then I would get such letters! The daffodil people pale in comparison to the cat people.

How are you?

I have been doing various things over the past ten days, including trips to Undisclosed Locations. One thing I did on the trips to Undisclosed Locations was read the Hunger Games trilogy, which left me wishing I had heeded my overwhelming intuition not to read the Hunger Games trilogy. In case you have been living in the same ignorant cave I was until two weeks ago and do not know what I am referring to, I will tell you. Hunger Games is about a barefoot Appalachian girl living in the future who everyone is in love with even though she is secretly sort of hateful. She goes on a reality TV show that is similar to “Survivor,” except instead of getting voted off the island, she has to kill people with her bow and arrow. Over the course of three books—the first of which is good enough despite being contrived, the second of which features less goodness and even more contrivance, and the third of which is so eye-rollingly preposterous that I wanted to snatch myself bald-headed—she sleepwalks her way along to becoming the most important person in the universe. This is apparently not as difficult as it would seem, since she also finds much time in her busy schedule of killing people to swan around wondering who she should be in love with.

Something I do appreciate about the series is the portrayal of the role media celebrity plays in the political and economic subjugation of the masses, and how this is aided by a misguided obsession with stylistic frippery. In this unholy alliance between the politicians, the media, and the stylists, an appropriate proportion of the blame falls on the former two, while the latter generally come across as at worst empty-headed fawns and at best as manipulators of public sentiment for good cause. For me, the best cause of all was the casting of the gorgeous Lenny Kravitz as Cinna in the movie version, so I am giving them a pass on that one.

The worst thing about the books is the writing, which is terrible both stylistically and as storytelling. Actually, while the style (first person, present-tense!) is bad, the storytelling is fine in the first book, which is how they hook you into reading the second, which lurches gracelessly—almost randomly—from scene to scene. The third is written so indescribably poorly that the only motivation for continuing is the faint hope that something redeeming will happen in the end, a hope that, for me, grew fainter and fainter as I watched the remaining pages dwindle. By the last page, almost nothing is resolved, no one is happy, and only the “ever after” quality of the epilogue is reassurance that that author won’t try to pull a fourth book out of her ass. I think it is fine to write a novel with an ambiguous conclusion, and (SPOILER ALERT) I, myself, am in the process of getting around to possibly doing that one day maybe before I die; it is another thing to not work toward that conclusion in any way and just end the book because you have apparently run out of ideas or patience or time, or think it probably won’t matter anyway because you’ve already made millions of dollars off of the others and the cliffhanger in the second book has already guaranteed sales of the third.

Well, anyway. I’d continue but the pipe under my kitchen sink is broken and I need to turn my attention to that. I shall click on “Publish” fearing that the Hunger Games people are worse than the daffodil and cat people combined.



“Hasten slowly” was Octavian’s motto; mine is going to be “close enough.” Throw it all together in a pot and you get today’s chupacabra. Please realize, I understand that this is not a real chupacabra; it is a cat with antlers. I also understand this is not a real Friday; it is a Thursday night. But these things are close enough. I have a final exam tomorrow, and a haircut. I will not have time to update my blog and conduct DNA testing of mythological creatures for your viewing pleasure, no matter how much you clamor. Let them feast on cake. Let them feast their eyes on a cat with antlers. A sorta cross-eyed cat with antlers, I’m just now noticing.

I am so glad that I am finished studying. You may think I’m yammering on about studying now, but just you wait until I can be bothered to sign up for the national board exams for acupuncture. When I pass, I am going to throw a big party, and you will be invited. There will be cake and a very special guest.

How was your week?



Remember Max Headroom, that stammering 1980s-shaped head that would pop up on video screens? What ever happened to him? I wish he would pop up on my iPhone screen and give me the answers to this final exam. “The-the-the-the-the answer is: D-d-d-damp-Heat in the Bladder!” The phone could technically do that without Max Headroom’s involvement, but I am doing my part to bring down the unemployment rate one washed-up icon at a time. Knight Rider is my scullery maid.

OK, we have now reached the end of what wit I have to spare for you. Tune in on Friday for a chupacabra.



I am playing hook hook hooky between studying these patterns of disharmony: Phlegm-Fluids Obstructing the Lung and Damp-Heat in the Large Intestine. Let me assure you that my hypochondria is not flaring up AT ALL. Sike! I have everything! Luckily, half of the patterns I am studying seem to feature “poor memory” as a symptom, so I can use that as an excuse if I fail this final exam this Friday. By Saturday, I will be all “Phlegm What Whozis?” Maybe I am aging backward like Merlin, and I can never remember anything because I haven’t encountered it in the timestream yet. Of course, I do remember the adorable little songs we learned in elementary school, like the one about the grandfather’s clock that fell over and crushed the life out of him and then stopped working itself in a textbook murder-suicide case study, so there goes that theory. Also, I am drinking a lot of kombucha with chia seeds in it, and I think it is time for some more.


Into the Shower

Last night, I saw Into the Woods a documentary about how wishing for impossible things leads to either short-term material happiness or blindness, although sometimes the blindness is reversible, and it can also lead to getting squashed. There was a witch. I don’t know. I liked it, but in the bright light of day, I couldn’t tell you what exactly happened on that stage. It is bright today, isn’t it? I haven’t looked out the window yet.

In other news, Goblin is off having acupuncture as we speak, and I should take a shower and shave so I look vaguely presentable when I perform acupuncture on someone else later. And there is studying to do, etc., etc. Honestly, I am feeling a bit of malaise. I don’t think the things I wish for are impossible, which is even more frustrating than if my greatest dream were to wake a sleeping princess in a tower surrounded by thorns. But I may be blind already.


Friday Chupacabra Blogging

Oh my stars, has it been a week since my last chupacabra? I cannot imagine what the problem is lately. I have to get the lead out. Not posting chupacabras is just one aspect of my life that is derailing; I am also not studying Patterns of Disharmony, not writing vital vital essays, and not flossing my teeth. I am weary. I am caught between a chupacabra and a hard place. I am caught between the moon and New York City.

What’s new with you?

Enclosed, please find one chupacabra (male).


Oh, Brother

The play we saw last night was about Grigori Rasputin, that madcap monk whose machinations within the Romanov dynasty inspired the Russian Revolution, uncertainty in the outcome of World War One, and probably the Gillette Turbo razor. This extravaganza was actually not a “play,” but a “rock musical.” I asked Rob what made it a rock musical as opposed to a regular old musical, and he pointed out that the orchestra featured a guitar, an instrument that did add a certain zing to the production but was not quite loud enough to drown out such lyrical atrocities as the rhyming of diphtheria with Siberia. Students of history will also be keenly interested in the revelation of Rasputin’s wild love affair with Grand Duchess Anastasia despite being himself pursued by a miscellaneous prince who looks like Boy George and who later shoots him, stabs him, cuts off his penis, and throws him in a river to drown. Rasputin, of course, survives these indignities thanks to his lifelong pact with famed witch Baba Yaga and goes on to purchase a Che Guevara tee shirt, start a theater troupe, and make a number of existential monologues on the nature of something I would be able to report if I had been paying attention.

The play starts slow, runs off the rails not long after it gets interesting, and lasts two and a half hours. It has gotten critical attention of a sort that called it a “smoldering train wreck” and “a stylish heap of hooey,” but I actually didn’t mind it much. It’s not that I’m easy to please, but I don’t get out much anymore, and the delicious White Russian I got at intermission and a brief shirtless scene went a long way in this instance.

Brother Russia is playing at the Signature Theatre in Alexandria, VA until April 15. If you see it, I recommend getting your White Russian before the show starts, and you can even bring it in the theater with you in a plastic cup.


You Just Might Find You Get What You Need

Well, I didn’t win six hundred million dollars and prostitution is still illegal, so I don’t know how I will afford to replace my ghastly kitchen cabinets and failing appliances. It is true that necessity is the mother of invention, but why can’t necessity also be the mother of my winning lottery ticket? In other news, it is the day of fools and pranks and hoaxes, to which my skeptical nature renders me generally impervious—although if I had a dollar for every time I gave someone a dollar because they found themselves stranded on Charles Street without a bus ticket, those shiny new kitchen cabinets would already be mine.