Contactus Orbitus

They say that making good eye contact is, well,... good, indicates healthy self-esteem and respect for others. I've been told I make good eye contact, however now I'm beginning to question the logic in that. I don't think people REALLY want good eye contact. It may be a generally espoused concept in the "This is how to get a good job" or "This is how to win friends and impress squirrels" handbooks, but the slovenly, heathen, heaving public in their deepest of deep places doesn't really want to make or have made at/with them good eye contact. Those that don't make eye contact, good or otherwise, are appellated "shifty-eyed" which connotes a world of meanings. Not only the obvious, eyes maniacally struggling to escape their sockets to avoid intercourse, but the implication of dishonesty, not "meeting the eye". It is said that rapid blinking is fair indication of fibbers, or maybe the speaker is merely trying to dislodge the great whelping calumny that is desperately clinging to his sclera. To disrupt the painful construct poinking desperately into the gelatinous, moist sphere through which here peers into this dis-reality ripe for his manipulations.


So, what is too much, too little, too extended, too penetrating, too contact-y good eye contact?? When I am playfully yet oh-so-tenderly situating my orb 'gainst yours.... Oh, you mean I don't actually touch my ball to yours??!! Well, hell... no wonder folks having been giving me the evil eye. Maybe my good eye contact has been a tad too painful, rather like the little man that comes to poke you in the eye. You know him. The dapper one that shows up at your door the morning after you have snorted just a bit too much coke, and you wake to the light like a thousand tiny needles trying to edge themselves 'neath the delicate margins of your thin eyelids. As you stumble about for water, the little man knocks lightly and you answer knowing he will be there with his wee pointy finger or jabby small stick. A quick poo-hoo to the eye and he smartly turns and retreats leaving you to gasp painfully, slapping palm over socket, in full knowledge that you have deserved every prickly nanosecond of that poking. But now you can relish the rest of the day, saunter lazily to Mi Michoacan, order up three tasty 30peso taquitos of your favorite carne - be it barbacoa, carnitas, o bistec - a dollop of runny refrieds to adorn along with some finely chopped cilantro, a dash of real red picante and a few slices of pickled jalapeño (o habañero as is your wont to abuse yon colon). A steady trickle of baby beers should round off the meal while I sit on the sidewalk and gaze at the passers by waiting for the sun to zenith and sink to the horizon signalling another day past and another night of frolicking. Hmmmm.... I digress, but so pleasantly indeed.

As for eye contact...overrated in so many ways. In much the same way that the gurus of polite and gentile society demand that we make our eyes contact pleasantly and our hands shake ever so simply and our Thank You's quite so sincerely, yes, all good in theory but the practice makes the normal folk so very, very nervous as do most of the things I propose and pursue. The conundrum of the not normal.

Oh Allright Then

I'm as much a fan of the mythical as anyone - look at my delusional and hypothetical life! But there is a line to be drawn, not in the sand, but a firm line in the scientific mortar twixt evolution, the realms of "Middle Earth", and the creative minds of Creationism. Hence, the application of "hobbit" to earthly hominid remains (oh sorry... singular... remain) is completely, utterly, and solely a condescension to and a diminution of not only the language that we vulgarly call "English" but of the discipline we arrogantly claim as science. Nevertheless to use the idiomatic creations of Tolkien (regardless of his literate brilliance) as descriptors of proposed hominid species, sub or otherwise, is evidence of the lunacy and inability of current "learn-ed" society to separate real from unreal.

Hobbit, my ass. It's ONE for Chet's sake and can we leave the politics and Peter Pan egos at the airlock?????

Dervishing Whirls

tarantism (TAR-uhn-tiz-uhm) noun

An uncontrollable urge to dance.

[After Taranto, a town in southern Italy where this phenomenon was experienced during the 15-17th centuries. It's not clear whether tarantism was the symptom of a spider's bite or its cure, or it may have been just a pretext to dodge a prohibition against dancing. The names of the dance tarantella and the spider tarantula are both derived from the same place.]

Is it wrong that this happens to me in the produce section of my local organic grocery store? Just the other day I found myself jiving to Sting whilst sifting through the haricot vert, and shuffling to some reggae while sampling the last of the pixie tangerines. Given the crunchy-granola-earthy types that hang out there, punctuated with the occasional yuppie-upper crusty-starchy types slinking about guiltily with clueless expressions , I don't think anyone either cared or noticed that I gayly torque and twist my way through the tortuous paths. Somehow I am joyful when I go to my grocery. The mere act of procuring organics for myself and the animules is one of my small pleasures, my small modicums of control in a world of terrorism, injustice, ignorance and just plain ol' mean spiritedness.

Extend that to my little dream, eventually one might find me hustling through a small garden all natural and wiggly; weeding, picking, gazing lovingly at 'maters on the vine, my own haricot vert on the string, and perhaps some squush reposing about waiting for a lovely braise with some butter. Envision livestock and poultry fat and happy living off my little parcel of land and a chipper house in harmony with its environs. Idyllic, no? To me, yes. Not to all. Maybe I kid myself with the simplicity, as it is complexity that can really turn me on and stoke my internal furnace. However at the end of the day, it is Clyde's warm feathers against my hand, Chauncey's little furry body pressed into my armpit, the sweet smell of aired sheets, a quiet evening on the patio, a well-made meal, and conversation with loved ones that keep the flames burning.

Am I Hallucinating???

Came across this picture and wondered if it looks like me. I wish it did, but how can one be objective about one's own visage that one gawps at each day? Maybe you guys can... all two of you who stop by.

Helpful links in the Gallery to the left under "The Royal We"

If this Don't Make Ya Drool...

Look at your tongue closely. Get right up close to the mirror, in fact, get one of those stick-on magnifying mirrors so you can really see in there. Stick out your wiggly mouth muscle** and take a long gander at the little bumps thereon. If you are vigilant and have darn good eyesight you will observe the little papillae (taste buds/bumps), and you will also observe that they vary in shape and size depending on where they are located on your tongue. You'll have to stick your tongue way, way out - Gene Simmons style - to see the ones way back there. These are the little guys that let us taste our food and they are arranged in specific zones for tasting specific tastes. But funnily enough they only come in five categories (when I was in school it was only four) all combining to produce the myriad of flavors that we relish when we stuff our gobs with the yummies in which we delight.

Silly me was laboring under the falsehood that sour was already a given, perhaps because we tasted it we just assumed, however now we know the exact receptor. Nevertheless, sour is one of my favorites, if not my very FAVORITE, and as I read the above cited article my little mouth juicers (read that salivary glands) were really working it. My mouth filled right up with spit as if I had just eaten a slice of lime, sipped a tangy margarita, or crunched a lively salt-n-vinegar potatoe chip. The only confounding aspect, and little mentioned I might add, of that report was the confusion as to why a sour receptor/taster might have had any evolutionary validity or why the need.

Well don't you need to be able to tell acid from base when the enemies are trying to get you, when you are mixing one with t'other, when deciding red or white?? Sheesh, these scientists... a little sophistication please!!!

**which, did you know, is the strongest muscle in the human body [or alien body for that matter (I happen to know. They told me after the probing)]

Real Relevance

“There is no reality except the one contained within us. That is why so many people live such an unreal life. They take the images outside them for reality and never allow the world within to assert itself.” -Hermann Hesse

This Will get Ugly

As part of my new leaf, here's a little opinion that I have about a fairly hot topic. Maybe not so hot now as it was in the 90's but still can rankle a nerve or two. But take a gander at this article. Short and to the point but brings up some lovely points of contention.

HIV... AIDS... Voluntary drug use/abuse... Afghanistan... Why do I give a flying rat's reticulated rosey ass through a rolling multi-colored, sprinkle-covered, chocolate glazed, raspberry filled, fried donut??!!!!!!!!! About people who come to MY country, refuse to speak MY language, lap up MY benefits, kill MY neighbors and friends and compadres, use up MY natural resources, stink up MY breathing space, and just generally ick me the eff out??? Well, I don't. And they can all just sit over there and shoot up with blood-encrusted, camel poop- encrusted needles, filled with inferior brown Mexican heroin mixed with cockroach powder until the goats come home and I will be glad to buy it for them. In fact, I will fly my tasty, white, AMERICAN, red-white-n-blue, yuppie hiney over there in business class to pound their little emaciated forearms or necks or groins to raise up a scrawny vein in which to inject a large bolus of mind-numbing, toxic narcotic to which they can mumble their last salaam or salaat facing towards Mecca. I'll even be so kind as to whip out a nice rug and bend 'em over it.

Yep, no need for clinics, or free clean needles. No need to warn anyone of the dangers of contracting potentially fatal diseases via sexual congress. Feel free... go on... boink in the streets. Mohammed would. He's a lascivious bastard. In fact, get all your treats in a one-stop-shopping spree. Boink and shoot-up all at the same time. Maybe even practice a little sodomy while you're at it just to make sure it takes.

Have I been perfectly clear on this one?

Love's Liabilities

You WILL end up here... sooner or later. It is the uneasy truth. I have wrestled with this from the beginning of the blog-era and the recent "doocing" of MrFab has pinned the tail on my donkey of indecision, and I have decided that my days of self-censorship have come to a screeching, yowling, nails-on-the-blackboard, forehead-into-the-dashboard halt y alto!!!! Despite my squirmy, colonic reticence at being dissected for the honest and brutal thoughts I am definitely going to write from now on, my overwhelming need to be heard is driving me more insanely batty with each passing f-bomb I drop inside my wee, little, scrawny, child-sized pate. (Just now I can hear "Texas Tom's" rather prodigious jaw hitting the floor as he wonders just what parts I have been censoring o'er the last decade.... things that make you go "Hmmmmmm????")

However, as thinly veiled as they may be, all will be monikered as I see fit. Not necessarily to protect the innocent, but to prevent the massacre of the stupid, insipid and deserving. Also be aware that much of what appears here may one day make it into some local venue as material in an act, fodder for the local riff-raff. Exposed wounds in which to jab digits, to rub minerals, and with which to silently commiserate.

Make no mistake, in the paragraphs and prose to follow, blood will be let. Oh yes, you will suffer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




(I am such a weinie)

Nature, Go for the Eyes!!!

Have I mentioned that I have a zoo?? Eight rescued parrots of varying species, sizes, demeanors and colors; and three rescued dogs from two different countries. Anywho, they all have an overabundance of toys. The favorites being little stuffed animals and anything made of raffia (this mostly for the birds). However, herein what I would like to address are things with eyes - painted, plastic, cotton, whatever. True to nature as the cobra spits his venom at the eyes of his hapless victims, as the tiger claws the eyes of its chosen prey, as the goat gores out the eyes of the unknowing grasslet, and the bunny gnaws out the eyes with its big, nasty bunny teeth. So am I surrounded by the limp and eyeless bodies of lavender T-rexi, blinded and de-moo-ed cows, the unseeing globes of Nemo's floating over the tiles of the great room. Even the lobster with its large, snappy claws has fallen victim to Chauncey's clever de-eyeballing pranks, not forgetting to remove the back-up sensory antennae [technically termed the "corollary Cheetohs" (I'll provide photographic evidence when I get my camera back from work)]. Even now, Mr. Pants has proudly presented the most recent de-eyed victim, a purple Nemo, all other parts perfectly intact except for the two eye polyps now exploded atop his head.

Instinct embedded firmly in the frog brain, the Nature-Nurture controversy rages.

Priscila, Reina de Mis Labios

Current idiomatic expression in the vernacular suggests that some people "wear their emotions on their sleeves." Meaning that they are transparent in the display of their feelings. While I, on the other hand, being a twisted and misshapen example of the human genome, seem to "wear my feelings on my lip." Yes, I have a fever blister on my lip (Superior Maxillary Dexter to be exact), and I am now calling her "Priscila". Not because she is particularly pretty or lovely or feminine, but for precisely the opposite. A big, obnoxious, suppurating fibre on my most sensitive lip, feeling for all the world like a giant pulsating advertisement of my contagion, should have an ethereal and graceful moniker to adorn it.

Now it is on the wane, retreating into its dendritical terminal hidey holes to await the next onset of a super stress event. The ever-present threat of a maximum critical mass event just out of sight over the event horizon. Ah.... the thrills that await.

Empower Thyself, Woman!

I once knew a woman who reeked of, was perhaps the embodiment of, empowerment or something very similar looking. It may just have been a very clever illusion, in fact now that I think about it, this is probably the inherent case-in-fact of empowerment, mostly illusion - smoke-n-mirrors, disappearing Statue of Liberty thing... Anyway, I digress.

The night in question, a torrid yet breezy Mexican evening in the caldera hills outside of Guadalajara as we all sat bloated postprandially round the terraza, I watched in abject, drop-mouthed revulsion and dribbling awe as this diminutive, child-sized woman related her triumph over another in a verbal dual. At the climax of their exchange she screeched horribly at her rival, ".....ram my fist up your aaaaasssssssshhhhhhhhhooooooollllllleeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" while she pistoned her tiny, skeletal fist in the air repeatedly ramming her virulent empowerment up the poor adversary's already ravaged colon. Her "Devil-May-Care" attitude struck fear and amazement in my wimpering, cowering heart. Where does one come by such cojones??? Such naked entitlement to yours, theirs and mine?

I need some of what she is having, Garçon!

Equus Multi

A stable is what I am going to have. No more of this "one" business. Not one to buck the system now, whether it be termed "cougaring"" or not, I am in for the long run. I will have mudders and trackers, goers and finishers. There will be young 'uns with fire but no know how, and there will be mature charmers with panache. I will have my choice from a panoply of flesh ranging from firm and sleek to ripe and full. And I will do none of my own training. Nay, none of that here at my horse farm. There will be a professional on hand to train these fellas up. I have put in my time and trained my fair share only to have them serve up the win for other fair damsels. No, this time 'round it is the roses for me and for me alone.

Let the races begin!

I don't Exist

except in a book or perhaps in 19th century France or Italy. While driving home this morning, ears bleeding and in a fat-induced haze (a completely different story altogether), I finally came to the conclusion that the bundle of attributes of which I am concocted could only be found in the imagination of a writer or possibly in a person of a different century. Many of us labor under the uncomfortable suspicion that we have been born in the wrong century, the incorrect social "time" because we can't seem to fit in, to "groove" with the current sociopolitical milieu. And usually that is a case of being too lazy or stubborn or stupid or obtuse as opposed to truly a rare combination of attributes.

But...in MY case, it's true! Examing the facts we can only come to the conclusion that I am indeed a social misfit. Somone who has so many contradictory, archaic, sensitive and divine sensibilities that it makes it virtually impossible for me to be absorbed into the fold. I present:

1) Always been told I'm smart. Not just by family, not just by teachers, not just by the tests. But I excel at nothing. Work at the family post. Making "B's" in grad school, no famed literary achievements, no movie roles, no scientific awards, no immense brainiacal expellations. So what am I doing with all these smarts???

2) I am the most insanely naive person on the planet. After 40+ years of frustration, lying, abuse, deceit and general stinky behavior on the part of those with whom I interact, I still labor under the misconception that folks will act in a manner that is consistent with a wholesome and honest approach to life. I get burned by this every day. It blows. I am unrealistic and I am positively and absolutely unwilling to abandon my need to believe that we are all fundamentally good despite the mounting evidence to the contrary.

3) Chivalry and nicety should be a way of life not something we should have to read about in a book or see in a Merchant/Ivory movie and recall as "quaint". Sex is not the end-goal, but romance and passion are. Yes, I am the more delicate gender despite the fact that I am self-sufficient and can operate power tools. Just because I can, doesn't mean that I want to, ALL the time.

The list goes on but I think you can see where this is going. I feel like a jigsaw puzzle with some of the pieces missing and some of them jammed together just to try to get the damn thing finished - but the edges don't really match up. Just the other day I mentioned to some friends that what I really wanted to be when I grew up was an Italian goat farmer. They laughed. I was serious. I imagined myself on the lush hillsides of a small township in Italy, singing gaily to my goats as they munched yummy green grass, milking them for their fat-laden milk and then hand churning it into delicious goat cheese to sell at the local market or restaurants. Feeding my goats the finest herbs and flowers to effect a flavor to their milk and cheese that would be unparalleled. I've got it all planned. I'm a big chicken for not picking it all up and following my goaty dream. I could even learn to drive a moped.

Or maybe it's just the new medication.