Erica, the Drunken Debutante

"I have money, but it can't buy me contentment."

Ice-Cold *BEAR-CHUG*

Because you demanded it...and because I was real busy this week--I give you MORE *BEAR-CHUG*!!!

Enjoy:

UPDATE: Per Leah's request, I give you:

How to Make Your Very Own Googly-Eyed Seashell

Step 1: Acquire A Seashell

Perhaps the easiest way of finding a batch of seashells for your craft-making session is to start outside. Hopefully you will have chosen to reside in an area near a beach, seeing as seashells rarely make their way to places like cornfields or prairies. If you do not live near a beach, fear not; maybe this is a perfect opportunity to go on that trip you’ve always wanted to take to see your imprisoned uncle on the West coast, or maybe you have a friend with more money than you do who can bring seashells back to you from somewhere exotic. Whether you’re the one collecting, or someone else to whom you will now be indebted, make sure to gather an assortment of shapes, sizes, and colors. Seashells, much like fingerprints or tumors, are never exactly the same; still, you should look for pieces that cover a wide range, as you never know what situation might demand a handmade googly-eyed seashell.

Step 2: Assemble your accoutrements

Once you have your seashells, bring them to your crafting area. A crafting area can be something as ordinary as a kitchen table or, if you are homeless, as simple as a sheet of cardboard butted up against the side of a building. Regardless of where you’re at or how much protection you have over your head, this is your place, where you will be free to create exactly as I tell you to. Obviously the most important part of making a googly-eyed seashell (besides the seashells) are the eyes, which can be found almost anywhere. Craft fairs are breeding grounds for googly-eyes, which can be spotted and procured randomly beneath display tables. Don’t be afraid to look like a crazy person, rifling around beneath an elderly couple’s folding table; however, be careful not to accidentally knock anything over, as people tend to get angry when the twelve-inch hand-whittled garden gnome they’re selling for forty-eight dollars cracks his rather rushed-looking nose on the ground. I’m talking about you, Mr. and Mrs. Borthausen. If no craft fairs are gracing the surrounding area, don’t forget about craft stores. Even major department stores may have a special craft area with some. For “low-income” crafters, these are excellent places from which to steal.

The next thing you’ll need is glue, or some other adhesive substance. While it may be tempting to spring for a superglue, it is really unnecessary, unless you have the intention of giving a googly-eyed seashell to someone under the age of five, in which case, go for it — and smooth out any jagged shell edges to avoid any resultant cries of pain. Avoid using a glue stick, as they tend not to be strong enough.

Step 3: Get to work!

Now that you have everything together, place two drops of glue on the narrow end of the shell; this will be the top of your seashell. Now, take two googly-eyes (preferably mismatched sizes) and place them on the drops of glue. Press and hold for about three-and-a-half seconds to help ensure that they won’t fall off. The only thing worse than demonstrating for everyone just how crafty you are and having your creation fall apart as you hold it up is being raped and mauled by a bear.

Step 4 (optional): Bring it home

Sometimes, when I’m making googly-eyed seashells, all I need are the eyes and I’m satisfied. However, if you think your seashell needs a bit more personality, here are a few things you can do: a) use a magic marker to add features to your seashell’s face — maybe your shell’s having a bad day and wants to hit his children, so why not express that with a pair of intense eyebrows and an intimidating slash of a mouth? or maybe your shell’s forgotten her prescription anti-anxiety meds and is feeling a little … edgy, so what would be better than a zig-zag mouth to convey that encroaching dread? b) name your seashell. Personally, I prefer using names of famous people, such as Shelly Long, Shelly Duvall, Shelly Winters, or Shel Silverstein, but you can use anything you’d like. c) lastly, if you’re still not feeling as connected to your seashell as you’d like, go all out! Make an eHarmony profile for your seashell using its given name and a photo. While you’re at it, make one for yourself and hook yourself up with your newly created friend!

Congratulations! You’ve just finished a super fun, crafty project for which all your friends will secretly judge you!

Guns N' Dinos

The other day, Leah and I were talking about how little boys like guns. She was talking to me about some people who were very strict with their children's media consumption (i.e. no violent TV or film) and how one day they were shocked to see their boys running around pretending that something (innocuous) was a gun.

I'm not what you would call a "gun person," and yet I too exhibited some of this behavior growing up. And so did all my friends. We'd pick up sticks and run around going "bang! bang!" I'm not a pussy or anything, but I'd never shoot a person (or an animal for that matter). Still, I like playing violent "shooting" video games. Why is that?

Comedian/Philosopher had a theory about this. He contended that bullets and guns are phallic, and that war is really just a form of penis envy. Carlin believed that the arms race was really just to see whose "missile" was bigger.

Maybe Carlin had a point.

Regardless, as a child guns WERE fascinating. Another thing that little boys all (usually) tend to like is dinosaurs. Unlike guns, I still love dinosaurs today. Dinosaurs are great because they're these huge, alien monsters. Monsters that REALLY existed. Growing up I had all sorts of dinosaur toys and books. In fact, the book that really pulled me into reading was JURASSIC PARK.

So naturally, with an affinity for both guns and dinosaurs--I was fucking bananas for DINO-RIDERS. Before I explain what DINO-RIDERS was, I want you to look at this picture:

Drink it in. I mean really look at it:

Isn't that bat-shit crazy?

DINO-RIDERS was a toy commercial disguised as a cartoon show for kids. There were only 14 episodes, which aired in 1988 (I was 5, the perfect age for guns-blazing-dinosaur-action!). I remember nothing of the TV show except that the first time I saw it, I thought HE-MAN had landed on Dinosaur Island (see, kids aren't THAT easily fooled). Of course, I do remember the toys much better. I distinctly recall owning a nasty-looking T-REX armed with those little tiny hands...and a missile launcher. I also had a Diplodocus that was armed to the teeth--it had this strange trailer-thingy on it's back that was full of bombs.

Of course, the Diplodocus was basically a giant cow, not very scary on it's own...but with $1,000,000,000 worth of futuristic military hardware? Well, let's just say, I wouldn't mess with it for all the tea in China. I mean just look at this thing:

You can't tell me something isn't about to die.

I realize that not all boys like guns and dinos, but if I had a kid and he/she pretended that a twig was a .44 Magnum...or that a rock was a Diplodocus-tank--we'll I wouldn't worry. At least, I wouldn't worry TOO much.

I mean, it's just a natural part of growing-up, right?

Ode for Jason's Funeral

Goodbye, Jason, my good friend,

A real funny guy you've been.

Never will I feel the same

When playing that Phase 10 game.

When drinking a cold Woodchuck,

I'll think how this really does suck,

Because you'll be in the ground

Where you shall not make a sound

Unless alive you've been interred . . .

But I doubt that's to be inferred.

We'll mourn and weep at your graveside,

Leah, Rusty, Spencer, and I,

Until we all just go crazy

And our worlds become quite hazy.

Your corpse we will then unbury!

(We, your friends, are kinda scary...)

Funeral Arrangements (Is This Too Morbid?)

It’s going to happen, sooner or later. Someday, hopefully many years from now…I’m going to die. Like all Good Americans, I don’t like to dwell too much on death (just kidding! Yes we do). When my soul shrugs off this bulky, pale husk I have a few requests about what comes next. As I am too poor and lazy to get my “final request” transcribed by some sort of legal entity, I’m relying on this blog post to act as a sort of message-in-a-bottle.

As many of you know, I’m not very religious. In fact, I’m not religious at all. For this reason, I don’t want a traditional “service” before I am laid to rest.

What I’d like instead, is a bit simpler:

1. Everyone in attendance is to receive 4 ounces of red Play-Doh (or similar modeling clay). This clay is to be opened and played with during the “ceremony.”

2. All parties in attendance are to not wear ties or jackets/blazers. Casual attire is to be worn.

3. Bagpipe music** is to play ten minutes before the “ceremony” begins.

4. My eulogy is to be delivered by a male relative (preferably my eldest son). If no male relatives can be found, find a dog (Labrador preferred) and have him sit before the mourners (nothing will be said).

5. Please display a variety of photos/odd video clips that you have of me. Try to mix it up and show a wide selection of my life, but when in doubt—go with the “Young Jason” rather than the older, fatter, “Vegas years Jason.”

6. Once the photos have been displayed, allow ten minutes for everyone in attendance to get up and say something (anything) about me. Please do not allow anyone I’ve slept with to speak (with the exception of my wife).

7. After the recollections of those in attendance, a selection of my various writings can be read (but please, not this post).

8. The ceremony is to be capped off by a rousing musical number! Please play the entire B-Side of ABBEY ROAD. If using a CD or MP3 file, please note that the medley begins at “You Never Give Me Your Money” and ends with “Her Majesty.” This should be played at the loudest possible volume.

9. Dispense cheap lighters.

10. Play “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin (use lighters)—this will conclude the “ceremony.”

Of course, there are other things to consider: like what happens to my body once the “ceremony” is complete.

Because I have married someone with a religious preference, our bodies will not be allowed to be buried together. As in life, I will be the one to compromise on this issue. Since this Pharaoh will not need his bones in the next “whatever,” just cremate my remains and sprinkle them atop my wife’s grave. Hopefully she will still be alive longer after I am dead, so just save them. If sprinkling my ashes is somehow offensive to her faith, and is not allowed…fuck that, do it anyway. If you have to sneak around to do it that’s okay. In fact, sneak around anyway. I’m all about respecting people’s faith, but I think it’s bullshit that a religion would actively try to keep a married couple apart—especially in death.

That’s not so much to ask is it? Play-Doh, ABBEY ROAD medley, cremation, desecration of a Jewish cemetery. I’ve tried to keep it nice and simple.

** "Mull of Kintyre"

Love Letter

Dearest Darling Bonnie,

I daresay I had the loveliest time dancing with you at Weatherford this past evening. My heart surely skipped ten score beats when I glimpsed you across the crowded ballroom, dressed as you were like the most enchanting lady of an evening I’ve seen in all my adult years.

At first, my dear, my hopes were dashed when, making my way through the crowds, I saw you hand-in-hand with that dreadful Lord Pennybody. The man can barely stand on his own two feet, seeing as his heft could rival that of a boulder! What, dearest Bonnie, could you have seen in such a man?

Crushed, I averted my eyes and instead settled my focus on the hard touch of a gin-filled glass against my lips. Oh, what sorrow I felt! To have the briefest promise of such beauty, and then to have it taken so suddenly away! Drinks chased drinks as I attempted to quell the brooding dread, and when I was at last too much an inebriate to follow my own rationales, I took a walk outside in the famously expansive Weatherford gardens. The night was still and the sky shining with the lights of millions of tiny jewels, the beauty of which would never compare to yours!

Oh, the woe!

Such sorrow!

I must admit, the consideration crossed my mind that I might simply retire home, but then I caught the briefest sound coming from behind one of the hedges. Scruples being drowned as they were in spirits, I stumbled over to the greenery and pushed — quietly as I could — through to see the other side.

Thinking you were still inside, spinning the twirling like a ballerina with the celestial body of Lord Pennybody, imagine my surprise when I saw you there, kneeling before Lordy Pennybody in the grass! I wondered why on earth he would make you kneel (to make you pick something up, I assume, seeing as his bending over would result in his rolling away!), and even in my drunken state I was abashed to discover that the night’s party had taken his modesty! His trousers were sitting at his ankles!

Incapacitated I was, my shock was so great!

Lord Pennybody, the abhorrent creature, didn’t even offer to help you up, even as you gripped his sides, struggling back and forth, back and forth to regain your footing and arise. The beastly man!

In his hand, glinting in the silvery light, I spotted an assortment of coins, which he then tossed down upon you, laughing like a maniac!

You being a woman in want of a husband, obviously a state of wealth eludes you, but to so forthrightly throw at you such pitiful currency! What kind of man would do such a thing?

I tore myself away, intending to regain my composure before proceeding to swiftly defend your honor, but when I returned moments later, my jacket removed and my forearms bared, the two of you had vanished.

I set about searching through the sea of smiling faces for yours, figuring that after suffering such humiliation, yours would surely be one not smiling. But, to my astonishment, there you were, making boisterous conversation with Sir Alvin Tummock, heir to the royal throne. What resilience! I thought. And, as if had before, my heart paused for the nearness of you.

I simply had to speak to you, dear girl, and all this without yet knowing your name! The crowds started up again with a waltz the energy of which had never been matched before, and I dodged dancing couples, skirting the crinoline of dresses and twisting out of the way of flinging coattails. My eyes, dear Bonnie, never left your stunning visage, even as I nearly sent aged Lady Fitterly to the ballroom floor. I professed my apologies but continued on.

The memory of Lord Pennybody, his pale flesh gleaming in the night light, spurred me on, to rescue you from another bout of humiliation. At last, reaching you, I awaited your acknowledgment, my hands fidgeting like anxious children on Christmas morn. The seconds passed like hours, and when Sir Alvin inquired, “May I help you, good sir?” I could not suppress my smile.

“Might I have one dance?” I asked you.

Your grin, brighter than the torches on the wall or the stars glowing through the great windows, made me lightheaded, even more than my brief cholera scare years ago!

As Sir Alvin disappeared into the crowd, I reached for your hand, and how soft your skin felt! You asked my name, and when I told you, you gave me yours. Bonnie. So much like “beautiful”! Upon hearing your voice, I suddenly found myself unable to speak. You were like an angel, dear girl, and I imagined you descending from the heavens to grace us with your beauty. Oh, had I been able to express these thoughts with you!

What bliss those moments with you were, and what laughter marked the moment you quoted me a specific number of pounds and shillings for an array of rather raucous activities! What jesting energy you have!

Shakespeare said that parting is such sweet sorrow, and so it was when I laughed at your bawdy humors and you tore away to disappear, once more, into the throng of dancers who, might I daresay, will never consider you as I shall.

Eternally yours,

Sir Preston Buttleby

Horoscopes & The Fifth Moon of Vesuvius

Even though I know that no good will come of it, I read my horoscope nearly every day. I’ve been doing this since I was a “night-watchman” back in Kansas City. Then, at the end of my shift, a large truck from the Kansas City Star would lumber down the street and fling a stack of newspapers near my guardhouse. I’d shuffle out, Camel cigarette firmly clenched between my lips, and gather them up for all the big-wigs.

Of course, before they got their papers I’d read the sections that interested me. The front page, A&E, and the daily cartoons. This was how my day began and my night ended.

I’ve always found it a bit insulting that the brain-trusts who run the newspapers think the horoscope belongs next to the cartoons. Horoscopes are bullshit whereas the latest “Foxtrot” is not. Sure they’re both for “entertainment” I suppose…but come on they’re not even in the same league.

Horoscopes suck and are pointless.

Like all good "psychic" cons, horoscopes contain vague generalities that could mean virtually anything. They’re the prognostic equivalent of a Rorschach blot. Or, if you fancy STAR WARS—the scary cave on Dagobah where Luke faces his demons (and a vision of Darth Vader).

“What’s in there?” Luke asks before entering.

“Only what you take with you,” Yoda replies.

Still, I can't help but read them every day.

I guess I read the horoscopes because at heart I’m an eternal optimist. I keep thinking, “today’s the day there’s going to be something in here I can use.”

But there never is.

Anyway, I’m a Cancer--whatever the hell that even means.

Here’s a typical Cancer horoscope:

The crab seeks to hide in his/her shell today. The Fifth Moon of Vesuvius enters your Love House this week, so expect a great surprise that may not surprise you all that much. Enjoying fine food and friends coax the hermit-crab, but only briefly! If you aren’t in a committed relationship you soon will be! And if you are in a committed relationship expect to stay in it for some time to come!

Now let’s examine this, shall we? First off, someone a long time ago decided that people born in June are crabs. I don’t get this at all. Is June Crab-Month? Has it really always been Crab-Month and no one’s told me? Because crabs are seen as "loner" creatures that carry shells around, Cancers are somehow supposed to all be anti-social and like to stay home (so far this is fits me, actually). I refuse to believe that ALL people who are “Cancers” really fit this description.

Then this “fifth Moon of Vesuvius” thing comes ups.

Always some large galactic body is swooping into one of my “houses” to create either trouble or love (and sometimes, troubling love). I think this feeds our need to be the center of the universe (literally). The Fifth Moon of Vesuvius is entering MY house! Please, give me a break.

This next part, “expect a great surprise that may not surprise you all that much” is truly classic horoscope writing. This says nothing if you read it carefully (and are awake and paying attention as you read it). The next line talks about food and friends “coaxing the crab” out, which of course must happen—people run out of food and must go get more.

I wish I had a cheeseburger garden in my backyard so I wouldn’t have to leave the house, but I don't...nice predicting there horoscope!

But it’s the last bit that pisses me off because it’s so ridiculous—the horoscope itself is supposed to be written for Cancers, and yet this thing can’t decide if I’m in a relationship or not. So the horoscope covers its bases by saying “heck! If you are, then this…and if you’re not, then this!”

This is lazy predicting/forecasting/prognosticating of EPIC proportions.

Just for once I’d like to see a super-specific horoscope. Sure, it wouldn’t appeal to as many people…but the people that it DID apply to would be astounded.

For example, here is a horoscope that I would write:

John, you shouldn’t have eaten that burrito last night! You’re going to fart in the elevator and Melissa is going to smell it. Melissa, the cute girl from accounting! Take the stairs John, take them ALL DAY LONG. Also, your goldfish Andy is sick because the Fifth Moon of Vesuvius is in your Pet-Sickness House. Pick up some Goldfish medicine after work for him! Also, you’re not in a relationship and you won’t be until you shave that stupid mustache.