Saturday, December 26, 2009

metaphors are the crutches, pain killers, and blindfolds of those too terrified of and easily beaten by the literal

While waiting for an appointment with my hobo psychiatrist (story for another day) I was doing a little web-logging. Everyone knows the pain of waiting rooms, but only a dozen or so of us know the frustration of sitting on a rotting log while waiting for your hobo psychiatrist to finish beating a can of fruit cocktail against the sharp edge of a rock so that he can then, much too slowly, savor its contents. I know that most, if not all, of his patients have gifted him a can opener. I know in my case he mumbled thanks only to then ramble on for hours about his "roots," "sense of identity," and the practice of "communing with nature."

Finally he, with a slick of fruit syrup from chin to navel, emerged from the shanty and waved some busted lumber in my direction. I noticed he seemed more frustrated than usual with me. I asked, while disassembling the desktop computer, modest desk, and generator I had brought along so that I might kill time while waiting, in what matter I'd peeved him. He just looked at me and pointed at the sun, which is his way of indicating the unwanted passage of time. Message received I began to pack up so that I could enter his office with my belongings safely in tow. Within a couple of hours I had the machines reduced to the most easily transported modes, another twenty minutes and those pieces were inside a series of duffel bags. Sometime during my leisurely packing he'd retired to his shanty-office so I entered hoping the invitation hadn't gone stale. The intensity with which he was now banging the jagged end of a 2x4 against the syrup and fly slathered sheet of tin that functioned as his desk led me to believe that his frustration had increased considerably, so I decided to pay for the session up front. By the time he'd finished hammering his payment against a rock and eating its contents it was night and I feared leaving the shanty town during the moon's reign, as the hobos in this particular pack* are enraged by the night, and even some that aren't feral will jump out from behind trees/shanties/other more docile hobos and bite at you while begging the moon for a reprieve from making its bloodthirsty demands a reality. So I hoped to stretch this session till sunrise, when I could toss a length of sausages downwind and easily slink out of the shanty town while the hobos circled and snarled. I thought I might pad the session by trying to extend the "silently staring each other in the eyes with menace" portion of our session beyond the usual quarter-hour, so I was greatly disappointed when he cut that short by five minutes and began asking about the mysterious devices (the computer/generator/duffelbags/sausage grinder I was carting around inside the old timey popcorn trolley that I was also carting around). He didn't relent, so eventually I explained this web-log and its purpose.

Then he barked a profanity and we backtracked and I explained, as best I could, about computers, the internet, electricity, and how, to the best of my knowledge, certain super-large chain grocers provide the world with this electricity by harvesting ghosts** and rendering the mystical ghost-meat. Eventually he came to the conclusion that this web-log is a waste of resources and time, and that I would be better serving the world by doing some hard labor and better serving myself, if I insist on doing so, by revealing in a stupid metaphorical sense, the things stuck in my mustache. So instead of informing the world of the brussels sprout that spent a relaxing weekend in the hair hotel, I'd type about how frustrated I was with energy costs or the disposable pen industry or airline food. And that, he claimed, could be "What's stuck in your mustache." I informed him that only two of those items had ever been lodged in my mustache. He re-explained the metaphor concept again. I started to say a polite goodbye in the shanty town fashion, but I'd barely kicked any dirt over the customary corner urine deposit when, in what was both a bewildering and terrifying turn of events he lunged at me and produced well-kept can openers in each hand. He held one to my throat and then, with the devil's glint burning in his eyes, another to my mustache and made me promise that I'd list what's metaphorically stuck in my mustache, or, as he was forced to explain again, anything that's been bothering me recently. He claimed that his would be good for my "overall mental health, and he swore that if I didn't comply he'd "give kindly Mr. Moon the dessert it deserves."

The point is, I won't be doing that. He'll never know anyway since he's never near a computer or source of electricity and totally oblivious when it comes to rendering ghost meat***.

*No offense to any hobos that may have stolen a computer and stumbled on to the internet and stumbled on to this web-log, or if you've stolen a wallet and used the ID within to obtain a library card and then used a computer at a public library and read this. I'm sure most of you are fine people and your misfortunes are the products of a cruel society and crueler circumstances. It just so happens that this pack of hobos tends to get a tad rowdy, please don't feel stereotyped.
**not sure if this is true, I panicked
***not sure if this is relevant, but I'm panicked and must console myself

December 20-December 26

A partridge in some sort of tree (apple?)
two turtle doves
and another freakin' partridge in a tree

December 13-December 19

scotch tape
Scottish Terrier
long faded polaroid photographs

Thursday, December 17, 2009

tool awards

I've been instructed to peruse some of the Web 2.0 award winning websites and to then comment on them in this web-log. Needless to say I lost several days of my life poring over these websites, never leaving the computer and subsisting only on butterscotch candies and a bowl of ice that quickly became water. Eventually I roused myself from this stupor (shout out to some of America's finest medics for their help), but not before incurring what's likely to be a hefty carpet cleaning bill accompanied by horrified looks from carpet cleaners. Somewhere in my daze, suitably alarmed at the stubble beginning to diminish the gorgeous contrast between my mustache and normally freshly-shaven face I attempted a rectification. Unfortunately the computer monitor wasn't as reflective as I'd prefer, and a pocketknife just doesn't cut it, it being facial hair. Someone must have heard me wailing, because a quick trip to the emergency room and several dozen stitches later I was back at home and ready to report what I'd learned in my perusal of award winning websites.

What I've learned is that there is a website dedicated to cocktail building. "Of all the useless stupid crap put on the internet," I thought to myself without irony. Still, despite the gleaming ball of hatred rocketing from heart to head that this inanity provoked I was intrigued. The website allows you to enter ingredients (scotch, ice) and then see what drinks you might be able to make if only you'd add another blasphemous ingredient to your cabinet. In fact they'll often suggest buying TWO more ingredients so that you might further mar the goodness your scotch so profoundly offers. For those of you that enjoy a wide range of alcoholic beverages I'm sure this website will be of great help in ushering you into the life of a booze-soaked vagrant.

December 6-December 12

gerbil skull
fake mustache
insincere season's greetings greeting cards (4)

November 29-December 6

post it note reminding me to post list of what's stuck in my mustache
butterscotch candies

Friday, December 4, 2009

dream perchance to...SCREAM! (dream journal vol. 114)

It's a dream as ubiquitous as the one where you're falling or being chased or where you've sold your sinister and unforgiving great auntie's prize mare for some candies, the taste of which make you grimace. But I'm compelled to recount it anyway, even if everyone's experienced it, because I was so thoroughly unnerved that sweat seeped through my eyemask and perhaps sharing it will alleviate some of the terror that still, as I type this, makes me unsure of my control over my excretory systems.

So there I am, wearing my typical Monday tuxedo though oddly missing my 2nd Monday of the month cummerbund (and welcome to the twilight zone! I dreamt this on a Thursday night!). I'm strolling down the street, tipping my cap and twirling my cane when the peppermint siren call of a barber's pole arrests my eyes. I doff my cap one last time and enter the establishment already anticipating the smell of barbicide and sight of disgarded hair that make me feel so perfectly at home. I'm the only one in the shop, and the barber welcomes me a little too hungrily. I'm apprehensive, because I never trust anyone with both a British accent and no mustache but my legs drive me to the chair in that uncontrollable dream-fashion. A few snips here and there and I have a fine haircut, if a little too British. "And your mustache sir?" he quieries in that terrifying accent.

I want to scream, to push my self from the chair and flee the establishment, a wadded up twenty dollar bill (though I'm sure the sick ponce will prefer pounds) flung madly in the direction of the cash register, never stopping for the change or even to inform him that he's undeserving of the tip my fear and urge to flee have rendered unto him. Instead I say, voice shaking, "No need good sir, I'll give it the ol' comb and snip myself later in the eve."

He cackles. "Oh no, I don't think you will."

I insist, voice slightly firmed up, "I assure you I must certainly will." I expect him to cackle some more, instead he turns to his work station and eats a hunk of some monstrosity that I am informed is "Kidney Pie" after I shreik "What devils have forced you to eat this monstrous concoction?" Still unsure of what devils have forced him to eat this evil meal I manage to find my legs and begin to rise from the chair. Still chewing his foul curse he places one surprisingly strong hand on my chest and pushes me back into the chair and holds me there. I hear the evil scream of his barber's clippers, and knowing what's about to happen I say a silent prayer for death. Instead of dying I'm forced to witness him, with one distrubingly practiced swoop, slice off my mustache. My dream ends with a scream and I wake up still screaming and didn't stop until I had to answer the phone several minutes later. Phone call concluded and neighbor assured that I didn't need the police or a "looneymobile" I retired to my grooming room and stared at the mirror with the highest magnification powers until I felt assured my mustache's presence and fortitude was undeniable.

Yes, I know, old hat, but thanks for letting me share anyway.

November 22-November 28

lazor pointer key chain thingy