YES, FOR BEHOLD, 'TIS I....'THE PUPPET MASTER'. - PART 1

First day in I dunno when without my beloved java.  It's a little sad but I'm gonna make this travesty WORK for me, dammit.  Hopefully, it'll pay off in improving my sleep patterns AND in my not having to take a whiz for what feels like every 5 minutes lately... but that's enough with the sharing, and on to a different KIND of sharing...

My previous BLOG regarding grammar school daze jogged another memory from that magical place in time.  A memory not nearly as angst-inducing.  (Well, maybe SLIGHTLY sort of angst-inducing, or it just wouldn't be ME writing it)  This particular chronicle pretty much marks the cornerstone period of my life when that ole'  Show-Biz Bug... came a-buzz-buzz-BUZZIN' my way....

I do believe it was during my stint in the 5th grade that our school decided to hold a TALENT SHOW.  Right away, I perked up at the sound of this.  I felt sure that I could do SOMEthing, I just wasn't certain what it could be.  I knew of only ONE thing that was a proven crowd-pleaser, but I also knew it just wouldn't be a good idea to stand up in our jam-packed school auditorium and read aloud from my old issues of "MR. IZZO - THE NOSE NOSE."  I just HAD to think of something else...

The accordion was out.  I had already previously played "Spanish Eyes" on accordion in auditorium once before, and I swear I can't remember why exactly.  But I'd shot my load with that one - I didn't have a decent follow-up (or even comparable) accordion number, so just forget that.  But the footlights were calling...

Hmmmm...I did like to sing and had been told that I had a good voice.  Back in those days, THE SOUND OF MUSIC was a big hit record in our house and I could manage a pretty spot-on impression of Julie Andrews belting out Edelweiss in my parent's echo-y concrete basement.   But somehow the thought of standing up ALONE in that auditorium and bursting into my phony-British accent (....EV'RY MOOORNING YEW GREEEEEEEEEEEEET.....MEEEEEEEEE....)  was enough to make me want to projectile-vomit my Captain Crunch. 

However, in a last-ditch effort to enter my hat into the singing portion of the program, I enlisted a classmate (we'll call her Lydia here) to join me and make it a duet.  Now, I knew she was nowhere in MY realm of vocalization expertise, (ahem, ahem...) but with Lydia on board, it seemed like it could be a do-able and much less terrifying undertaking.  BUT, ALAS - during try-outs, poor Lydia was SO scared that she went COMPLETELY tone-deaf and damned if that poor little bitch didn't drag me right the hell down into the gutter along with 'er.   I was slightly disappointed, but essentially pragmatic.  Lesson learned:  When in doubt, FLY SOLO, baby.   (As I'm sure Sinatra would agree!)

Next brainstorm:  THEATRE!  Why not?  Ever since (at the age of 6 or so) my sophisticated staging of overly-maudlin performances of KIMBA THE WHITE LION (again, in the family basement), well - DAMN!  Theatre it just might be!  Let's see...perhaps a "PEANUTS" piece!  Perhaps I could even write the script myself! 

So I did, I wrote the script and everything and then I went ahead and cast Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Linus, Peppermint Patti and Sally, while taking the helm myself as - naturally - Lucy.  Everyone got their scripts and we held a total of 3 rehearsals before I was forced to declare the whole thing HOPELESS.  We never even made it to the talent show try-outs.  These kids were just not actors.  And honestly, neither was I. 

But there was still time to plan.  The try-outs were still in effect until the end of the week and I would not be deterred. 

I was walking home from school, remembering that I had a babysitting job for the kids next door that same night, when it hit me like a lightnin' bolt.... 

To be CONTINUED.....



* * * LAND OF THE FALLEN DINOSAUR * * *

Walking thru' Forest Park this morning, surveying more of the tornado wreckage:

Where once you stood, massive

You now stand no more

In the land of the fallen

Dinosaur.

As a girl, I climbed

Your growing branches

Not once to consider

What were the chances…

That a mighty wind gust

Would one day take you down

Bringing your majesty

To the ground

No more to shade

No more to shelter

No more to shield

From the hot summer swelter

Every trace of you gone now

Yet, the wounds remain raw

In the land of the fallen

Dinosaur.

But what noble demise

The vast CRACK…

Your last ROAR…

In the Land of the Fallen

Dinosaur.

* * * 

* * *

CHOOSING MY WORDS CAREFULLY

I was a sensitive kid.  Took things to heart.  Had a tendency to sit alone and ponder things way too much for my own good.  School was living hell for me from day one of kindergarten. 

I was just never cut out for it.  I couldn't get with the whole institutionalized, prison-esque atmosphere.  I wanted to be home with my huge, stuffed-animal snake (Snakey), alternately playing FETCH with my best friend (which was our next-door neighbors' amiable German Shorthair Pointer dog, Petey), and munching peanut butter sandwiches while engaging in marathon, solitary games of hopscotch in our little driveway.

But of course, I had no choice but to get with the program and buckle down.  And I did okay.  I really took to reading and drawing - yea yea yea,  the 'artsy type'.  I remained quiet and introspective until about the 4th grade, when to my utter mortification, I began growing tits.  Yes, I was one of those unfortunate EARLY DEVELOPERS.  By the end of 4th grade, between the re-distribution of baby fat and blooming boobage, I found myself sporting a B-cup.  NOT FUN at that age,  my friends - FAR FROM FUN.

Suddenly, attention was coming my way - AND HOW - in the form of 4 or 5 of  the most obnoxious boys in class finding extreme hilarity in SCREAMING OUT such lovely odes in my honor at the quietest classroom moments:  "Lynn has TITS!" or  "I-WUUUUV-WOOOOOU,  WYNNIE!" or, probably the most popular and economically succinct, simply: "LYNNIE'S TITS!"

I began to withdraw further into my own world.  As far as I was concerned, this was just about the most horrible thing that ever could have happened to me.  I was well aware of the fact that I was far from womanhood, from the time when I could actually appreciate these  bazoombaz  o' mine.  The thought of having to endure this crap from these pre-pube dopes for the remainder of my grammar school imprisonment was beyond unacceptable.  

It was right around this time that we got a new music teacher, one Mr. Izzo.

Mr. Izzo played the piano and sang.  He was soft-spoken, with moist, soulful brown eyes, a neatly trimmed moustache and a little goatee.   Between his musicality and his facial hair, I think I may have been a little bit in love with Mr. Izzo.  He also had one of the largest noses in creation.  It was really quite something, poor fellow.  Obviously, Mr. Izzo was a soul who knew plenty about the pain and suffering inflicted by the relentless tauntings of thoughtless idiots.

But for the hour a day spent in Mr. Izzo's class, the chorus of goading shit-heads was suddenly directed 100% of the time on Mr. Izzo.   For that hour at least, I was "safe".    One would think I'd be grateful and leave it at that.  But no.

One day, during Mr. Izzo's class, I doodled a cartoon likeness of him in my notebook with a little balloon caption over his head, saying something retarded like: "Nose-body  nose  the trouble I smell."  Something ridiculous and mean but a little funny, too, I guess.  Well, Mike Catalano, the biggest buffoon and class clown going, happens to glance over and see this doodle of mine.  (I'm sensing a pattern here....)  And he just about hits the deck - falls off his chair, nearly in tears thru gales and hiccups of insane laughter.   And damned if I don't feel more than a little pleased with myself.

Voila!!  I have become "Entertainer" rather than "EntertainMENT"!   I quickly take my new position to extremes.  I don't seem able to help myself.  I begin feverishly generating full-length comic strips featuring MR. IZZO.  They are clever and well-drawn, without a doubt comical, but essentially mean-spirited.  (Hey, I may be a kid but I know my audience and these guys are major fuck-heads in training.)

I briefly (and not a little guiltily) enjoy my newfound popularity based on these organic little comic strips, until the dark and mournful day that Mr. Izzo gets his hands on one of them.  Time stands still for me as he leans against his piano at the front of the class, peering at my creation in hurt disbelief.   He looks up: "Whose is this?"  All hands in the classroom point to me unanimously.

The way Mr. Izzo looks at me fills me with a sick feeling I can't quite describe.  The way he looks at me says: "YOU, I had some hope for out of all these morons.  YOU, I found somewhat gifted.  And THIS is what you think of ME."

Oy, the shame.  I want to cry, beg him for his forgiveness.  I want to scream: "PLEASE!!! I LOVE YOU, MR. IZZO!!!  THESE OTHER BASTARDS DROVE ME TO THIS!"

But instead, trembling, I try to hold my face frozen in a mask of indifference.  I am sent to the principal's office, clutching my comic strip, having been told by Mr. Izzo: "SHOW it to him.  YOU can show this to the principal YOURSELF."    It doesn't help much that when the principal looks at my handiwork, he can barely conceal a snicker OR a furtive glance at my boobs.  Gee, seems HE'S an even bigger asshole than ole' Mike Catalano or any of the other boys in class for that matter.  Wow!  Life's only gonna get BETTER!

Yes, the Universe has been throwing crap at me left and right for as long as I can remember.  And to this day, I can't think of dear Mr. Izzo without feeling a twinge of sadness and self-loathing.   So I learned a lesson that day, too, and to put it as simply as possible, that lesson is:  NO MATTER HOW TEMPTED I AM TO DO OTHERWISE,  TO ALWAYS USE MY POWERS FOR 'GOOD'. 

Believe me, with the state of the world being what it is, and all of the jackasses I'm constantly exposed to on a daily basis, I'm always being tempted to use my words as weapons.   It's sometimes TOO EASY and just plain difficult to censor myself.   But ultimately, it's really lousy karma to do so in order to get yourself off the hook or for the mere sake of venting.   

And the BLOG thing can be dangerous, I see that more and more.    Many times I've been tempted to blast off about something or somebody that wouldn't be able to properly defend themselves.  There's a responsibility and a required self-censorship involved here, and thanks to this little "Mr. Izzo" memory of mine, I intend to observe, monitor and edit myself with the utmost respect for my fellow human in mind.  No matter how big an asshole I think they are.

Because as Mr. Izzo would probably tell you, I'm also very capable of being quite the Connoisseur in the asshole department.

BEHOLD, THE SWELLS OF AUTUMN

The trees upon our mountain shone

So crisp, ablaze and golden -

Such beauteous, pure magnificence

My grateful eyes to beholdin’….

Yet, t’was not this sight to which I woke –

Tho’ it’s beauty could stop one’s heart…

No, t’was not this fine, fall foliage,

Instead, t’was my wee Corgi’s fart.

Ahhhh, the leaf, like jewels and gemstones –

In shades of scarlet, lemon, peach…

O, sigh, says I, it should come as one...

With my dear, (tho' gassy)

 Beetch. 



"You know you love it, Mama!"



GERALDINE SPRINGER - PT. 2 !!!!!

Ok, so we last left off together with a little poem, a preclude if you will, to the following account.  As always, my account comes to you pristine and untarnished, as it actually occurred, here in sunny Queens, Noo YAWK.  Because you really can't make this shit up.

Over the years, parking on the residential streets has become a real pain in the ass.  Our neighborhood used to be one of the better ones with that, but now it’s “catch as catch can” all the way.  Over-crowding and general retardation as far as a lot of these morons being, basically, spatially-challenged parking pigs.

Me and my husband rent a modest ground-floor apartment in a small multiple-dwelling.  Directly in front of our abode is a fire hydrant, and directly behind this hydrant is a parking area that is JUST big enough for 2 mid-sized cars. 

You can NOT BELIEVE how that friggin'  FIRE HYDRANT throws these idiots for a loop.  They are terrified of being, like, within 1,000 FEET of this thing, and inevitably they take up BOTH parking spots just to MAKE SURE they are FAR ENOUGH from the dreaded HYDRANT.

Now, some days I can handle this nonsense.  I just go look for another spot and that’s it.  But then there are these other days when I come home from work, my boss has chewed off my last nerve and spit it at me, my bum leg is killing me, I have to pee, I am 5 seconds away from getting my period AND I can hear Herman trying to gnaw the door handle off from inside. 

And it was just such a day, my friends,  JUST SUCH A DAY…that GERALDINE SPRINGER (not really her name, but I will explain later) decided to pull a real dipsy-doodle with that fucking parking space in front of our domicile.

This day, there were NO available spots on the entire block or within the two block radius.  I pull up at my house to see this teeny-tiny, oh-so-shiny, cobalt-blue CORVETTE convertible TAKING UP BOTH PARKING SPOTS.  Given the miniscule size of the car, how they even managed this was amazing to me, but manage they did.

I seen plenty of other drivers pulling this crap before.  As I mentioned, sometimes I’d just shrug it off.  Other times, I’d leave nasty post-it notes on their windshield.  (“LEARN HOW TO PARK, EINSTEIN”)  (“DID YOU REALLY NEED TO TAKE UP TWO SPOTS???)  (“NEXT TIME, BACK IT UP 10 MORE INCHES, PLEASE”).  You get the idea. 

But something about THIS park-job irked the living shit out of me.  I figured out that if I parked THISCLOSE to the ‘Vette, with * maybe * enough space to slide a dollar bill between cars, I’d JUST make it so that I wouldn’t get a ticket because of the hydrant.  And so that’s what I did.  After I parked, I surveyed my handiwork.  Hmmm…it looked like I MIGHT be SLIGHTLY TOUCHING the Corvette.  But just barely.  I considered moving my car up an inch, but then thought: “Oh, SCREW THEM.  LET ‘EM COMPLAIN.  MAYBE NEXT TIME THEY’LL LEARN HOW TO PARK PROPERLY.”  Then I went inside and forgot about it.

Chris gets home from work about an hour later.  Dogs have just been fed and I’m typing away, as usual.

Chris: “Well, honey – ya really got up in that little sports car’s FACE out there, din’tcha?”

Me: “What?  Oh – yeah.  Jackass, parking like that.”

Chris: “Yeah.  But you’re reeeeally close to him.”

Me: “I know – too close?  Think I should move our car?”
Chris (looking out the window, considering):“Nah, hell with it.”(Looks again)“Fancy car.”

Me: “Yeah, fancy-pants ASShole.”

A short time later, we’re getting ready to watch a movie.  The bell rings. Someone is at the front door. 

(Kindly insert horror-movie music here: )

                                DAHM-DUM-DAAAAAAMHHHH!!!!

Now, Herman loses his mind barking whenever the doorbell rings, and this time was no exception, so even tho’ our front window was open, I could only vaguely make out a female voice saying something to the effect of: “Is this YOUR car ovah here?” and then Chris answering Yes, it is.

And then, as the Great Goddess is my witness,  the decibel level of this broad’s voice sky-rocketed so violently and so rapidly that it defies categorization.  It was like – the TYPHOON of raised-voice gymnastics.    My blood runs absolutely FRIGID at the sound of it and Herman nearly FALLS ASS-BACKWARDS off his bay window perch, for once in his pain-in-the-ass life silenced, now just staring in complete shock.

“YOU AIN’T GOTS  NO  RIGHT   BEIN’   ALL   UP  ON   MAH  CAR LAK  D’AT!!    D’AT    CAR    IS    MINES  AND NOBODY BEST BE THINKIN’    HE GONNA BE   DISRESPECTIN’  MAH   MUTHA   FUCKIN’ CAAAAAAAAR….”

Let me just tell you this, my dear friend.  Any POSSIBLE delusions I may have had about being ANY kind of a bad-ass have been completely dispelled and obliterated FOREVER AND EVER from THAT MOMENT FORWARD. 

I was seriously soooooooo fucking terrified by this woman, I really could not believe it.  Me and Herman stood together, huddled behind the curtains, just trying to catch a glimpse of her.  It was twilight and rapidly darkening outside, but I could see (and hear) that she was a black woman, had major BLING going on, too-tight designer jeans and some kinda fancy, also too-tight spandexy-ho’-shirt.  Also sporting a weave. 

Spittle was flying from her heavily-glossed lips as she continued screaming to beat the band.  There was NO WAY IN HELL I was going out there.  I just remember thinking: “If I take one step out this door, that bitch is GONNA SNATCH ME BALD-HEADED or WORSE.”  I believed that THEN and I believe that NOW.   

Anyhow, Chris was really calm about the whole thing.  I don’t know how the hell he does it, but he just comes off so reasonable and sane in the face of things like this that HE scares me sometimes.

Chris: “Well, is your car damaged?”

Geraldine: “THAT IS NOT THE POINT.  THE POINT IS THAT MY CAR HAS BEEN DIS-RESPECTED.”

Chris: “Oh.  Ok, well, if it IS damaged, just get an estimate for the damage and bring it to me.”

Geraldine: “AAAAGGGGG ! ! ! ! !   MAH   CAAAARRRRR”…….

She ended up being ushered away by some of her surly thug friends who live all the way down the block.  They meandered over, drawn by the ruckus no doubt, since this bitch could be heard within a 50-block radius.   Seems she was ‘visitin’ from Bushwick and d’at car is all she got’, as explained to Chris by one of her more conversational pals.   

Now, I’m not an idiot.  When the Universe provides lessons for me to learn, I try to pay attention and learn them.  And I definitely learned a lesson from this occurrence.  And this particular lesson would be as follows:

That no matter how clever, or how ballsy, or how JUSTIFIED I think I am in a given situation, I NEVER REALLY KNOW exactly WHO it is that I’m dealing with.  And this goes for friends and strangers alike.   If you catch THE WRONG PERSON on the WRONG DAY, at the WRONG MOMENT, you may just get A LOT MORE  THAN  YOU  BARGAINED  FOR.

Oh, and I dubbed this babe GERALDINE SPRINGER because when Chris came back inside, the first thing he said was: “Wow, she’d be a perfect guest on the Jerry Springer Show!”

SO!  Live and learn!   While this happened a few months ago and we haven’t seen (or heard) Geraldine Springer (or her caaaaar) since then, I have stopped parking thisclose to the idiots who get on my nerves by the HYDRANT SPOT. 

And I’m proud to announce that I’ve also tapered off quite a bit with the post-it note action.  But sometimes I just can’t resist.  Baby steps. 

P.s. – Weekends off for me, my loves!  It’s in my contract!  Have a great one!

GERALDINE SPRINGER - Pt. 1

Well, howdy!  This BLOG thing can seem high-pressure to produce, you know?  But then, just when I start thinking:  Oh, GOD, what in hell is there to write about TODAY?  - BINGO!    NEW MATERIAL!  

Today my yarn comes courtesy of a friend's hostile FACEBOOK post about various car-parking situations that are giving him MAJOR AGITA.    (Thanx a mil, Joey!)

I have decided that on days when I have too many other endeavors percolatin',  I will try to - at the very least - compose a poem.   A sonnet.  A wee ode.  Whatever.  (It's high time I work on my poetry again, anyhow - dust that shit off!)

But please rest assured:  The actual, factual mis-adventure that will remain emblazoned now and forever in my memory as THE GERALDINE SPRINGER INCIDENT will be presented ASAP here on the BLOG thing.

And so without further adieu, Ladies and Gents, I humbly present for your examination and speculation:
 

GERALDINE SPRINGER

Geraldine Springer,

What is your deal?
You got no bid’ness  

Bein’ behind the wheel -

How dare you take over

Not just ONE spot, but TWO…

With your tricked-out pimp car

How-fucking-dare you?

And THEN with your vile self,

Come knockin’ at my door

Geraldine Springer,

You're one ghetto-fab whore!!!

    * * * * * * *  To be continued......

END OF SUMMER NEEDN'T BE A BUMMER!!!

Just about every weekday morning, me and my husband take our dogs to Forest Park for a little nature walk before work.  Today was no different.  Well, except that today happens to be the last full day of summer and it’s 84 degrees outside and positively GORGEOUS.  Waaaaay too gorgeous to spend it sitting at my desk taking orders from some raving, certifiable lunatic.

Anybody who knows our area of Queens knows that Rockaway Beach is perhaps half an hour from the park (a mere 20 minutes if you manage to avoid every light).  Just straight on down Woodhaven Boulevard!

Usually, after our dog walk, I drop Chris (husband) off at the train station on Crossbay Boulevard,  then I drop the dogs off at home and then I go on to the insane asylum where I earns me bread n’ buttah.

Today, however, on the way to the train station I launch into my FUCK THESE JOBS  routine.  My fella knows this shtick pretty well.  After all, I’ve been performing it for him pretty regularly for nearly 15 years now....

Me: “Come on, honey!  FUCK THESE JOBS!  Let’s just keep goin’ –  drive straight down to Rockaway!  Beat it on down the line!”

Chris sits in stoic silence.  BUT INCREDIBLY, The Dead kick in on the car stereo, WFDU: ‘Goin’ Down The Road Feelin’ Bad’.

Me: “Oh, MAN!  HONEY!!!  Just listen to Jerry and the boys, Sweet-Pea!  They WANT us to keep goin’ down the road!  GOIN’ DOWN THE ROAD -  FEELIN’ GOOD!!!” 

Chris: “I’m ignoring you.   Can you tell?”

Me: “Awww – c’mon!  LAST DAY OF SUMMER!  Let’s bang it in – call in sick!! We’ll buy a 6-pack!  Hit a clam bar!  Bonnie and Clyde – that’s me and you, honey!  And the dogs, too!  They can be the Bonnie and Clyde of the dog world!  Look! They already look EXCITED!” (Well, they do.)

Chris: “Lynn, stop it.  You know I can’t do this.”

Me: “You CAN!   Honey, together, we can DO this thing!   What’s to stop us?  These stupid  JOBS?”

Chris: “Yes, that’s right.  These stupid, idiotic, RENT-PAYING jobs.”

 Me: “You know, when we first got together, we did that kinda stuff all the TIME!  If this was THEN, we’d just bang it in.  Gas up the car and be on that boardwalk in NO TIME...”

Chris: “No.  If this was then, YOU’D be collecting UNEMPLOYMENT and instigating ME to fuck with MY job so I could bum around with YOU all day.”

Me (sulkily): “Same difference.”  

Chris: “Yeah, same difference.  Right.”

Me: “Come on…you know it was FUUUN….”

And……BA-DUM!  End of routine!  The hubster exits the car and hops on his train, but not before he buys me a nice iced coffee from Dunkin’ first.  He really is such a good man.

And I’m a bad influence, I know it.  It’s just my nature.  I used to do the same thing all thru school – find a reason to cut out and drag any and all likely suspects along with me.  ‘Cuz let me tell you, if I was still in school, I would NOT be attending on a day as glorious as this one.  Hey, you know what – maybe I’m a GOOD influence!  Ever think of it THAT way????  What the hell is wrong with getting as much enjoyment out of life as possible, I ask you??

So, thoughts of old school daze lead me to recall a poem I wrote back in ’78 or ’79.  I was always writing poetry back then.  Anyhow, I had scrawled this poem on the back of one of my notebooks.   A sullen, cute stoner-guy I use to call ‘Tony Baby’ who sat next to me in homeroom noticed it one day and he asked me if he could copy it onto HIS notebook.  (Well, SURE, Tony Baby!  Blush!  Blush!)

And then, before I knew it, I started seeing MY poem scrawled all over the school.  On notebooks.  On  dungaree jackets.  On blackboards and desk-tops.  In chalk on the sidewalk underneath the bleachers.  ALL OVER THE PLACE!

Following is my poem, entitled simply: “Teacher, Teacher.”

Teacher, teacher – Tell me why

You don’t realize

I’m High.

See, there’s music in my head -

And I can’t hear what’s

Being said.

Even tho’ You’re talking loud,

My brain is soaring

In a cloud.

Ask me a question, you always do –

When I’m stoned, and don’t know

Black from blue…

I pause and I stutter

You think me a fool

But YOU must be one

To work in this school!

So if I’m slow,

And not too clear

In what I say

Or what I hear...

Or, if I look

Like I might die -

Well, teacher,

It’s because

I’m High.

 * * *

At the time, seeing my poem in rampant school-wide circulation gave me a thrill, as did having strangers approach me to ask if I was indeed the “Teacher, Teacher Girl.”    But it also filled me with some degree of terror:  The fear of being exposed as THE ULTIMATE INSUBORDINATE, smearing my mutinous nature all over the freaking school in the form of a poem that exalted the joyous liberation of being out of my mind.

Kinda how I feel when I’m writing this BLOG thing.  Only now I’m all grown-up.  A responsible adult.  Sorta.

SEA KELP IMMEDIATELY

"Good morning, Law Office."  On any other Tuesday morning, it would be me dejectedly uttering those words.  Oh, how I long for those simpler times. To be slouched at my cluttered, godforsaken desk in my boss' disheveled, godforsaken office answering his annoying, godforsaken phones.   Oh, the irony that this is my wish - because instead, I am preparing to leave for THE DENTIST.

Actually, what am I - INSANE?  Fuck that office - if anything I'd rather be swinging in a hammock somewhere quaffing a green-apple-martini and nibbling chilled lobster meat dipped in a cilantro-infused butter sauce. 

Crazily, the damn tooth doesn't even hurt today.  But alas, the dentist it must be...

* * * ** * * * *

Later that same day....

Back from the dentist.  Had to have that sucker pulled (wisdom tooth).  Not bad at all, really.  I think I'm getting braver as I mature.  Unlike SOME individuals I know....

Judging from the "greeting" I received from Herman upon my return, I think the boiler dude must have been here while I was getting my tooth pulled.  Or even possibly something worse, tho' it's hard to say exactly what that would BE since there hasn't been a tornado blowing thru here (yet) today.  As I pull up outside my house (my mouth stuffed to the brim with bloody gauze, head already beginning to throb just like Doc Friedman promised it would "within the hour") Herman is bellowing uncontrollably and hurling himself against our large bay window.  (Great to see you, too, Herm!) It's as if he's angrily shouting at me: "How could you LEAVE me here - ALONE - without ACCESS to my DOPE????"

But he's ok now, I gave him a triple-shot of PET CALM and a couple of slices of American cheese and he's come off the ledge.

Anyhow, on my way home I had stopped at CVS.  While perusing the shampoo section, I came across a bottle of Organic Sea Kelp Conditioner and it brought back memories of Carmen.  Carmen is this adorable little Latina woman who used to cut my hair many years ago.  She was a feisty, glamorous little thing with dark smiling eyes, long chestnut hair and a real sweet face.  Very thick Spanish accent, but also possessing a fine command of the English language.

One day I was sitting in Carmen's hair-do chair getting a trim, and Carmen brandishes a bottle of milky, greenish liquid at me.

Carmen: "I like to try sump-theen new I get on you hair today - I think it be good!"
Me:  "Oh, yeah?  Sure, sounds great.  What is the stuff?"
Carmen: "Eets SEA KELP.  From dee OCEAN.  Very nice, very good I theenk for you."
 Me: "Ahhh - Sea Kelp!  I hear it's a favorite hair-care product for psychiatrists everywhere... You know- 'Sea Kelp....SEEK  - HELP'...."

Carmen smiles pleasantly and nods her head, continues to trim my hair for a minute or so and just as I'm thinking to myself: "Wow, THAT little quip really fell flat..." this broad just BUSTS OUT laughing herself sick.  She doubles over, repeating: "Seek help!!! Seek help Ahhh-hahahahahahahah!" 

Suddenly I feel like I'm Jerry Seinfeld or Joan Rivers sitting in Carmen's chair.  All thru the remainder of my haircut, Carmen suddenly errupts in crazy giggles at my stupid little SEA KELP joke. Alarmingly so, even. I began to get a tad nervous about losing an ear or suffering an accidental nick near my jugular.

But I gotta tell ya, man - I've been around the block.  I know a thing or two about great audiences.  And holy crap, Carmen was one great audience. 

And that sea kelp wasn't half-bad, either, as far as supporting players go!

OKAY - I gotta go lay down - my head is exploding... But...

THANK YA, GOD BLESS YA -

YOU'VE BEEN A GREAT AUDIENCE!

  

ALL YEE WHO DAREST FOLLOW ME...

Wow, 3rd day at the BLOG thing and I have 2 - count 'em - TWO "FOLLOWERS".  Ya know, I don't want to seem like a megalomaniac or something, but I've always suspected that one day I'd have some FOLLOWERS and now this blog has finally given me that proof.  I feel downright drugged with power.  I am feeling like goddamn She-sus right now.  Wait, that's too much responsibility.  Let me relax for a minute.

It was a rough nite with the tooth.  So first thing this morning I call my dentist, Dr. Friedman on 65th Street on Myrtle Avenue in Glendale.  I'm terrible about keeping up with the dentist, I'll admit it.  The last time I went I was almost dying from pain, and this time is pretty similar to that time.  I don't even have Dr. Friedman's telephone number on file at my desk.  But who needs a file when you have the internet, right?

So I look him up online.  I find him right away, and I'm pretty impressed because there's even a photo of him beaming confidently right there next to all his contact info.  Only it looks nothing like what I remembered him looking like last time I saw him, which was only about a year ago.   He looks at least like 20 years younger in this photo and, honestly, like a completely different man altogether. 

But I figure, fuckit, ole' Doc Friedman must be vain about his online profile so maybe he put his son's picture up instead, who the hell cares.  I call to make an appointment, get his answering service and wait for a callback, which comes almost immediately. 

Lady:  "Hello, this is Pam at Doctor Friedman's office calling for Lynn."
Me:  "Yes, this is Lynn."
Lady:  "Doctor Friedman can give you an 11:15 appointment today."
Me:  "Ok, great.  I'll be there."
Lady:  "If you can make it a little early, it would be appreciated since you're a first-time patient."
Me: "But I'm not a first-time patient.  Doctor Friedman is my dentist, and he's my parent's dentist as well."
Lady: "What is your parent's name?"

I tell her.  She goes: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Am I sure of my parent's name?"  (Pretty sure....)
Lady:  "No, are you sure this is the Doctor Friedman you are looking for?  There's another Doctor Friedman on 65th Street."
Me: "There is?  Right on the same block?  And he's also a dentist?"
Lady:  "Yes.  Only two doors down."
Me:  "You gotta be kidding me.  So this is the wrong Doctor Friedman?"
Lady: "Well, maybe.  Can you describe our waiting room?"
Me: "What?"
Lady: "Do you remember if we have teal carpeting?"
Me: "Do I remember if you have...oh for christ's... WHAT?  Listen, forget this. This is insane."

But then I actually make a tentative appointment with this Younger, Alternate-Universe Doctor Friedman.  I already know that he's the wrong guy because now the online photo of a young, gifted doctor makes a little more sense.  

But honestly, after careful soul-searching, I come to the conclusion that I don't want this young whipper-snapper.  I want my old, shlubby Doctor Friedman.  He's like a Woody Allen/Richard Dreyfuss who wields sharp, frightening instruments but somehow makes it all seem like it's gonna be okay in the end.  And it usually is.  I mean, I'm still alive.

So anyhow, turns out MY doctor Friedman can't see me until tomorrow.  But I'm the loyal type.  Also possibly the stupid type, the next 24 hours will determine that.

BLOGGING HELL. ALREADY.

This BLOG thing, I don't know.  It feels a little competitive.  Like, I've been checking out other blogs just to see what's going on out there.  And so far, there seems to be a dominant common thread based upon the various bloggers' INCREDIBLE JOURNEY(S)  OF SELF-DISCOVERY.  Come on, give me fucking break, will you please?  Am I that jaded?  I'm thinkin' yeah, but I'd rather be jaded than sound like some of these nuts.

And yet, I read on, until I finally throw up my hands at the musings of this little white holy-roller lady who regularly travels to Uganda to adopt orphaned refugees and shit.  I mean, who can compete with something like that?  Who in hell has the finances, much less the stamina???

Oh, well.  Guess I'm a little cranky. It's been a long weekend with a growing toothache and horrible cramps combo goin'.  Plus, my dear husband just made me some nice egg salad since I can't really CHEW anything...and I turn my back for one second only to find my cat Billie with her face plastered into my bowl, inhaling it.  Wow.  Nice one, Bill.

Time to grab my tube of Ambesol and hit the sheets, maybe put on an Eckhart Tolle CD and partake in some ego-annihilation brainwashing.  After all, I should be PROUD of my sister doing her thing for the Uganda kids, for chrissake.

But as far as all these OTHER blogging jackasses...

P.S....<-- I'll bet she doesn't eat HIS fucking egg salad!!!!

GET A JOB!

So last nite, I dream that I'm basically just hanging out with Steve Carrel and various other members of the cast of THE OFFICE.  (I know, I know, I'm DEFINITELY watching too many of those episodes at a clip on streaming NETFLIX while at work.  It's practically become my background music.) 

Anyhow, at the end of my dream, me and my new pal Stevie C. are romping side by side down a giant mountain of big, soft, fluffy reclining chairs.  We're pouncing  from chair to chair until we get to the bottom, which is when I wake up.   Curiously joy-lessly, and I say curiously because while we're doing this, I'm thinking: "This should really be alot more fun than it is."   
My waking thought:  "Well, thank god THAT'S over with." 

Now, I'm no rocket scientist but I AM a professional dream interpreter.  Well, actually I'm not a professional dream interpreter, either.  I'm just a gal tryin' ta hold it together.  Keepin' it real.  I'm just a wacky ole' babe with her own point o' view, be it right (write) or wrong. 

BUT....if I WERE to attempt interpreting this particular dream, I'd have to say that I'm not feeling especially thrilled or challenged about my job.  Hey, WOW - I'M GOOD!!!

We all need jobs, tho', don't we?  Unless we're Paris Hilton or some other species of non-job-needing individuals who to me are like martians.  Who the hell are these non-job-needing individuals, anyhow??? Keep them away from me because I have no point of reference and I don't know how to relate to them.
I guess the challenge in life is to find a means of making a living that brings you joy and fulfillment.  Good luck with all that, I say.  I never stop trying, but it's not an easy thing.

In any case, I do enjoy my life immensely.  Even the job part.  You have to find the humor or forget it, just go kill yourself.  I think unless you work on one of those slave galley ships when the dude is whipping you and screaming ROW FASTER, YE BASTARDS or perhaps you find yourself lurching in chains around that giant wheel contraption,  like the poor dude in MIDNIGHT EXPRESS, you honestly don't have all that much to complain about. 

So getting back to my nightlife, after I went back into another doze, I had another dream.  It centered around my teeth.  I'm sure this is because I am fostering a toothache right now which I will have to take care of tomorrow but I don't want to think about that, ok? Argh.  And THIS dream was a verbatim replay of an actual event that actually happened to me.

For many years I was a working musician in various bands.  One evening I was on my way to the rehearsal studio, driving along happy as a clam.  Alone.  It was a chilly winter evening, and I was wearing this colorful fleece jacket that had some sort of rope-belt fashion statement going on.  Well, I'm halfway to the studio and I'm making a right turn near Juniper Valley Park and suddenly the steering wheel won't turn and I almost crash into a tree.

I'm in shock after hitting the breaks just in the nick of time.  I look down at the steering wheel and it takes me a second or two to process that the fucking rope-belt from my jacket has become completely wrapped around the base of the steering wheel, tangled so tightly and insanely you would not believe it unless you saw this mess.  And then it also hits me that the jacket feels REALLY TIGHT around my waist now, because of this whole tangled situation. I have become one with my steering column.  I'm like Ray Miland and the steering column is Rosie Greer. 

I ended up having to CHEW my way free.  It's difficult to describe, but it seemed to take forever and my teeth were filled with little pieces of rope-belt and my jaws were fucking killing me afterward.  Also, my neck was killing me too because I had to bend it really unnaturally in order to get at the rope-belt.  So I re-lived that whole thing in my dream last nite.  And you know what?  I enjoyed THAT dream better than the first one!  Now, I'm no rocket scientist.....

WOLF-DOG HOOKED ON HOLISTIC DOPE

So I have this dog, Herman.  He's gigantic.  He's like, 3 parts wolf and 1 part REALLY BIG DOG. 

Herman is like, really good-looking.  Seriously, he's the best-looking dog I've ever met.  If I were a female dog, I'd definitely marry him.  Well, maybe not marry him right off the bat but definitely date him.  Until I found out he was castrated, at which point I'd STILL use him as arm-candy.  Or paw-candy.  Or pawk-choppy.  Or whatever it is that good-looking dogs call each other.  But let me not digress further, because this is sounding a little odd, even to me.

As attractive as my boy Herm is, he's a bit of a mental case. Poor guy, he did come from rough beginnings.  Meaning: I adopted him when he was barely 7 weeks old, proceeded to spoil the living shit out of him and treat him like a beloved and treasured child.  Herman rewarded my efforts by completely losing his mind when he realized that occasionally I have to leave the house without him in order to go to work or perhaps even see a show or go to a restaurant for a few hours.   Oy, the chaos.  The destruction.  And of course, the incessant BELLOWING.  I should also mention that this is one of the loudest fucking creatures on God's green earth.

Now 4 years later, the separation anxiety is somewhat under control but Herman is still a very special lad.  He can't take much.  He's the jumpy type.  He gets real frantic over seemingly insignificant things.  Like the sight of a really small pitbull puppy on our block that resembled a bald, white baby pig.  When the little neighbor kid brought the clueless little thing over to make its introduction infront of our house, Herman nearly had an epileptic seizure.  He's never quite recovered.  And that's just one example. 

So you may just well imagine what thunderstorms or unfamiliar visitors or people in wheelchairs or kids on skateboards to do his nerves.  None of it is pretty and all of it can be pretty mortifying, from an owners' (that would be me)  point of view. 

But I've been rescuing animals since I could escape my family's backyard as a toddler, and despite Herman's extraordinary needs, there's no way I'd ever give up on this guy.  Plus, he's got a heart of gold.  He's a true champ.  He's smart as a whip and his love for me and my husband knows no bounds.  I know he'd lay his life down for me, just as sure as I know that he may one day possibly do me in with the very same unsuspecting enthusiasm.

I'm always on the look-out for helpful, CALMING remedies for Herm and praise She-sus, I think I may have found us a cure.  Now, I don't want to get too excited about this because it's only been two days since I began dosing the big guy, BUT...I discovered a product over at our local K-9 KATERER's store called: "PET CALM", made by a company called Richard's Organics.   It comes in a dropper bottle, and it's specifically made for 'Stress and Anxiety'.

On the day I brought this stuff home, we had a tornado here in Queens.  (Man, that sounds so strange, even on paper.  Well, even on screen.  On blog screen.)  Anyhow, I gave Herman his first dose of this PET CALM right before this tornado hit.  Mind you, I had no idea this was gonna be a TORNADO - I don't think anybody did at that point - it just seemed like there was a bad thunderstorm brewing and that was good enough for me to give this product a try.  Let me tell you something - shocker - it really seemed to work. 

During an awful storm, Herman's usual modus operandi is to hurl his lanky, 120 lb. frame directly at me, wherever I happen to be.  If I'm seated, I'm pretty much squashed and nearly suffocated until I can crawl out from beneath him.  He then claws at me, crying, barking, claws frantically at the floors, the doors, claws the furniture, gnashes his teeth and rolls his eyes like a horse trapped in a burning barn.  And this pretty much continues for the duration of said storm.

Anyhow, Herm got his first dose about 20 minutes prior to this freaking TORNADO hit.  Astoundingly, while he was definitely neither happy or pleased about this turn of events, instead of exhibiting his usual behavior - uh - quirks - he simply went into the kitchen and plopped himself down on the floor.  He looked worried, yes.  But that was it.  He just SAT THERE LOOKING WORRIED and THAT WAS IT.

The ingredients in this stuff is as follows:  Valerian, Chamomile, Hops, Passion Flower, Scull Cap, Fructose and Deionized Water.  Even after the tornado I really dared not believe that our solution could be this simple.  Until today.  Herman was completely losing his mind this morning because the boiler dude was working in the basement.  Whenever the boiler dude works in the basement (i.e: clanging of wrenches, various unfamiliar voices accompanied by BOILER sounds, etc.) Herman goes into a nearly catatonic state of panic which is comprised of him salivating incontrollably, moaning and  pacing the entire apartment, jumping from chair to sofa to chair.  Oh, and also clawing at my arms as if to say: "DO SOMETHING WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.   A MONSTER IS IN THE BASEMENT AND WE HAVE TO EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY."  Mind you, Herman has MET the boiler dude.  He has seen him, he has smelled his hand and been patted by the boiler dude.  And it doesn't matter ONE BIT, once they begin working, all bets are off and it's MONSTER TIME.

So I lunged for my trusty bottle of PET CALM and dosed that sucker faster than you can say LOBOTOMY.  And do you know - it worked AGAIN.  Nearly INSTANT CALM.  This was hours ago, and Herman is still laying at my feet, snoring. 

Man, o man - I will never be without this stuff again.  I only pray it doesn't  lose effectiveness like, you know, when you need more and more dope to get high or some shit.  Not that I know anything about that, because I don't but I've heard the rumors and I watch movies.

It was only a matter of time...

Ya know, I've been resisting this blog thing for years.  I fancy myself a champion of literary verbosity, a stream-of-consciousness sort, a wordsmithy-type.  A slinger of shit, even! 

And yet, I resisted this internet phenomenon.  This BLOG thing. 

I have resisted the proddings of friends, family and enemies alike to start this thing: "Lynn, YOU of all people!  You'd be so gooooood at that...."  (Oh, you think so, huh?)

Truth be told, the very thought of it ... the utter ENORMITY of possible actual WORLD EXPOSURE...Well, suddenly - after years of writing, pontificating, posturing-on-paper and opinionating - I CLAMMED UP.

BUT, today I have come to a sudden, oddly casual decision to begin my own blog.  I can't tell you exactly why, except to say simply: "It's time".   It has also just occurred to me that  today's date happens to be 9/18 and both of those numbers have weirdly significant value in my somewhat chaotic, self-fashioned, numerologically & lunarly-ruled home-spun spiritual perspective.

Ok, well - be all that as it may - HERE I AM! 

Thank you for your patience, friends, fans and (fr)enemies alike. 

Be seein' ya!

Le`Bubs