Welcome back, Grosse Pointe Blank

Ok, I've had something rattling around in my brain for a few weeks now, and I need to release it into the wild.

First, let me say I have no issue whatsoever with bumper stickers in general.  In fact, I get a kick out of matching the stickers with the type of car they are on and forming, like, a whole personality for the person behind the wheel - it helps pass the time while sitting in traffic. 

But one bumper sticker drives me freakin'  nuts.  In my opinion it is the most pointless, stupid bumper sticker on the planet.

"Ask me about my grandchildren."

What type of person thinks this sort of conversational gambit belongs on their car?  Do they really want someone asking them something while they are driving?  Are they really so lonely that they want to make a personal connection with a complete stranger between traffic signals?  And are their grandchildren so dull they can be summed up in the 45 seconds it takes for a red light to turn green??

Seriously, on the road with a stranger is not the time nor place for a convo about Sally and her upcoming ballet recital.  WHAT ARE THESE PEOPLE THINKING??

I can just see some guy in an Audi S80 with a V8 engine and illegally tinted windows doing some crazy-ass lane change from behind an old man, zooming up next to him and gesturing to get him to roll his windows.  The old man will be, like, "What is going on?" and then the light turns green and he guns it to top out at 35 mph in six seconds flat, only to hit the next red light where the Audi is still trying to engage in meaningful dialog and is now much more animated about it.  And the old man totally freaks out and pulls a sharp right into the Safeway parking lot, breathing a sigh of relief until he realizes that the Audi whipped in behind him and the driver is now advancing on him, shouting because the old man won't roll down his windows, "I JUST WANT TO ASK HOW YOUR GRANDCHILDREN ARE!" 

HELLO, McFLY! 

Here's a tip: THIS IS PERSONAL INFORMATION AND SHOULD NOT BE SHARED WITH STRANGERS.

If you have such a bumper sticker on your car , I HOPE to high heaven that you are standing in line at the grocery store some day and a greasy-haired creepo sidles up to you and asks, "Boys or girls? What school do they go to? How old are they? Do they like candy?"

Also, I'm pretty sure your kids, their parents, do not want you telling a stranger who followed you into the parking lot ANYTHING about their children. In fact, it's clearly outlined in The Grandparents Guidebook as immediate grounds for dismissal.

Ok, I'm done.  I feel much better.  Now, to answer the question of where I've been for the past few years, "I freaked out, joined the army, went into business for myself. I'm a professional killer."
 

A Thought on Thoughts...

I was discussing the nature of a subconscious with cobweb; that is, a storage closet in our brains for thoughts that are not fully formed. He seemed surprised to learn he has rooms in his brain...

Subconscious thoughts, of course, drive many of our unjustified fears and unreasonable reactions. Evaluating the thought brings a certain clarity that gives it a bit more substance, perhaps identifying a purpose, benefit or applicable use; until that's done, the thought is really not much more than a half-baked notion.

Subconsious thoughts reside in a storage room in our brains typically not much bigger that a broom closet. Some well-balanced folks get by with a junk drawer. A few rare individuals live predominantly in a half-baked frame of mind, so their subconscious storeroom becomes overcrowded in time until those illogical thoughts flood the closet and leak out into the hallway, basically ruining the carpets. Folks who allow this to happen generally ignore the issue until their neighbor downstairs files a complaint because their ceiling is damp.

Typically, subconscious storerooms are a bit messy; half, old and inconclusive thoughts are shoved together forming tangled lines like Christmas lights stored after the hols, until needed the following year when an enthusiastic effort is made to untangle the jangled mess. This often results in frustration reaching a peak until the effort is abandoned altogether and a trip made to Fred Meyer's to purchase fourteen new sets at $7.95 each. (Tangled Christmas lights are what keeps Freddy's in bizness, and tangled thoughts keep therapists similarly employed.)

It's not uncommon, then, for the subconscious storage unit to get a bit disorganized, and thoughts therein quite frequently are forgotten. And then one day you don't have multiples of $7.95 and something nudges at your memory and you recall stashing an old string of thoughts in a closet somewhere. So you put on your waders and strap on an LED headlamp, and set out to check your subconscious closet which you can't quite remember the location of.

After a few wrong turns followed by several more and one embarrassing moment when you accidentally walk in on a couple of fantasies you didn't know were living in your brain, you determine you'd much rather clean toilets than look for a storage room you aren't even sure exists.

The effort to find and organize the room is beneficial, however, and well worth it. We actually do need subconscious thoughts. Kept organized, clearly labeled and appropriately identified, these thoughts allow us to respond in certain situations with alacrity. They hone instinct; increase RRT. First, though, we must determine if the thought is of practical use, or if it is better recycled, as thoughts are 100% compostable. Be green, not mean.

It isn't uncommon for subconscious thoughts to span decades and become so forgotten that we don't know why we are afraid of the moon. We've forgotten that first subconscious thought when we were six and a full moon was shining on our sleeping face when the witch tried to gouge out our eyes, that night the magic covers slipped off the bed.

Regular maintenance, on the other hand, leaves us with a tidy subconscious that feeds us healthy thoughts. It's well worth the initial investment of time, then, to wade in with both feet, spend a couple days getting reacquainted with some long-forgotten thoughts, throw some away, think some through, and store a few others for a rainy day when we have finished tidying up the wordroom.

Once the closet is neatly organized, it's easy enough to keep it that way with the help of a p-Touch labeler and some inexpensive guerilla racks. Regular visits are less time-consuming and yield some enlightenment - like learning that the moon is there to light up witchy sillouettes so our Dream Angel can knock them off their broomsticks with a few well-chosen words and some candy kisses. At this point, we become a well-balanced individual with far less fears and much more energy for tracking down those visiting fantasies for a quick...em, well, chat.

Oooh, wait, I just remembered where THAT room is...sorry, gotta go!

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words...

I don't know why, but every morning I wake up with a different song in my head. They aren't related to whatever dreamwebs are lingering in my fluffy brain, nor are they inspired by any current events. They are just songs. In my head.

Weirder than that, though - I hear music whenever I look at those around me, my family and friends and people I love. It's kind of what I would imagine "aura" to be if I saw auras.

When I walk into the seed and see my friends, I hear music unrelated to whatever selections Brent has paid for, and infinitely more moving. Sometimes the melodies are known, sometimes no one has ever heard them but me nor will they ever. On occasion they are sad, most times they are happy, and sometimes they are rockets to the moon and fast-paced plunges to the earth that pull up at the last second and level out to skim the surface of my heart with a soft and gentle touch.

I hear this when I look at the irish, at Danny and Amy and Diana, when Karen walks up to me in the airport, when someone scores a goal in soccer, when I pick up Jody and when Josh plays with Lucy, when I see Zap sign into IM. I hear one around Linda and one around Gerry and one around Linda and Gerry that is new and SO exciting to hear :)

I have no explanation for it, I have no desire to fully understand it, I am completely content to have this phenomenom in my life. You know why?

Because your song is beautiful. It has rich timbre, perfect pitch. There are trills and tonality and a key signature that is unique to you. It makes my life sweet and fills it with color than can never be measured by a colorimeter.

And sometimes, when you are together, in all or part, the notes blend together and their resonance creates a phantom note that lingers in my mind long after you've gone home or moved away, a perfect note that I wake up to in the morning, and the start of that day's song.

Stay Awake, Don't Nod and Dream (or a tree might fall on your dream house)

There is nothing quite like a good dream, you know? And I can't find one to save my frikkin' sleepy ass.

It's not that I'm having nightmares; those stopped when I got over my fear of spiders. But my dreams are a tad stressed these days, something to do with several louds CRACKS in the middle of the night, and plummeting branches and whatnot.

For instance, I dreamt I was parachuting from a plane in the middle of a dogfight. The red baron was shooting tracers from his "big guns" at my tiny little dream angel who was swinging calmly from a trapeze anchored in a cloud. My dream angel was returning fire by laughing delightful little "ha ha's," each landing with unerring accuracy on the tip of the red baron's bulbous nose, leaving him with silver kisses on his splotchy red face.

I knew to mind my own bizness, the red baron was hers and mine was landing upright on the fast-approaching ground. But it's a little difficult to concentrate when you have bullets and silver laughs whizzing by in all directions, and really, you think it's a gentle drift to earth from a parachute, but it's more of a gentle plummet than drift...at least in dreamality. And a plummet's a plummet, IMHO.

Last night, I dreamt I was standing in a fairy circle trying to remain in the exact center of the circle which is in sanity. I was concentrating hard because the draemons were doing their best to unbalance my self-confidence, dancing all around the perimeter of the fairy circle and laughing their hellevil laughs (which are NOT delightful little "ha ha's"). They were stretching their hairy arms into MySpace in an effort to snatch at (or at least rake their poisonous black claws down) me. And my dream angel (who was dressed, by the way, in a fabulous Vera Wang chemise) was floating just above the fairy circle, holding a slender willow wand that was showering iridescent sparkles that cascaded in a perfect parabola to form a shimmering bubble of dream-state protection over and around me.

This was irritating the draemons no end because every time they came in contact with the magic bubble, the hair on their arms would whisk away leaving smooth and ageless skin, which is not a draemon's desired look (although I'd love to have such myself!). And they were, then, each laughing at their fellow draemons, calling them sissy girls and smooth bottom devils and whatnot, and they were becoming increasingly agitated with each other and, thus, me, the object of their malevolent intent.

And even though I knew my dream angel had the situation well in hand, I was terrified because, really, have you seen the face of a draemon up close and personal? It looks a tad like Ger's bitter beer face, except misshapen. But then, of a sudden, I noticed all these dandelions springing up outside the circle and all underfoot of the draemons, and I suddenly determined that I would NOT be afraid for my dreamy life, and I stepped to the edge of the fairy circle till I was nose-to-nose with the magic bubble. I gave a nod to my dream angel who gave me the sweetest smile that said, "I am so very proud of you," and she shook a final drop or two of angeldust from the end of the wand, and the bubble dissipated, and I said to the draemon that I was now nose-to-hairy-nose with, "a weed is but a flower yet unnamed."

And the draemon howled in pain and the other draemons joined, and they covered their eyes and ears and began dancing like the ground was burning their feet. Then they turned en masse and fled to their hidey-hole in the bookcliffs.

And my dream angel stepped lightly to stand next to me, where she smoothed my disheveled hair and, setting a vase full of bright yellow dandelions on the bedside table, pulled the magic covers over my head and bid me gentle sleep. So I cuddled up to my super-soft blankie named ghe-ghe, and did just that.

Death in Crisis

Death is so fucking weird. I mean, he holds life in the palm of his bony hand, and he gets all googly-eyed over a puppy.

Yeah, Death got a dog. A bichon frise.

"It's bēshō frēzā."

"Really? You sure?"

"Fluff, I'm a tad bit more universal than you..."

"So you can say, 'Time's up, big fella' in 6,000 languages. It's still just a kickpup."

"I dare you."

"I'll pass. So, first the glasses, now a dog. What's up with you?"

"I think it lends a bit of winsome to my overall bonhomous persona, don't you?"

"Dude, you're Death. A puppy ain't gonna make folks any happier to see you."

"Well, that's hardly fair. I'm a very likeable haunt."

"The puppy just peed on your shroud. Look, I know you're having a bit of a rough go these days..."

"Why do you say that? I'm doin' awright."

"Hm. Well, first, there's the spectacles. People don't really expect Death to be concerned with appearances."

"THEY MAKE ME LOOK OLDER."

"I REALIZE YOU THINK THAT. That's not all, though - there's the whole wallpapering incident."

"What do you mean?"

"You wallpapered every room in your house with floral print."

"So? Can't a spectre like flowers?"

"It's...a bit cloying. And then there's the sleepovers..."

"You don't like it when I pop over unannounced?"

"Think about it. Death shows up on my doorstep at 1:30 in the morning and tells me to grab my PJs and the makings for cosmos. Who's gonna say "No" to Death?"

"I really thought you LIKED it..."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I DO like it. But, it's indicative."

"Of what?"

"Really? You don't know?"

"No, I don't. I may be universal, but I'm not very well socialized."

"That's just it, Death. You're lonely."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"AM NOT."

"Yes, yes you are."

"WELL YOU'RE STUPID! YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO SAY BICHON FRISE!"

"Sigh! Come in and sit down; I'll make you a cup of hot cocoa. And for chrissake, hold that damn puppy still!"

"Can I have a chai?"

"Only if you say it in iggpay atinlay."

"What's that mean?"

"Universal, my ass."

"Cat." "Fish."

I was playing cards with Death last night; he was having trouble sleeping and thought he'd pay me a quick visit. We got to chattin' about one thing and another, and finally decided to make it an all-nighter with a rousing game of Go Fish.

"Got any twos?" he said.

"Go fish," I replied. "Sixes?"

He slapped down three cards with a bit more vehemence than I would have preferred, but then, he's Death. He doesn't really know how to be subtle.

"Hey!" said Death.

"What?" I squeaked. It's best to show a little fear when Death is shouting at you.

"I HEARD that comment."

"What comment?" I was puzzled as I hadn't actually spoken.

"The comment about me not being subtle!"

Point taken.

Anyway, so I was winning at Fish and he was getting agitated at my winning, so I started cheating to lose, and he looked at me over the top of his bifocals and asked me if I really thought it was a good idea to cheat Death. So I quit cheating to lose because we all know how that feels from playing Ger. I tried a different tack.

"So, Grim," I said.

"Yes, fluff? Please don't ask me about love again." He seemed resigned, I have no idea why. I seldom, if ever, talk to others about love.

"What's with the granny glasses?" I asked.

"You don't like them?" he asked, seeming a bit surprised and...well, insecure.

"YOUR EYE SOCKETS ARE EMPTY," I pointed out.

He snorted and replied, "I don't wear them for vision, goof. I think they make me look older!"

"Really, dude? What on earth could possibly be older than death??"

"Hm...good point. Sevens?"

I slapped down a card.

"Really? he said a bit snarky. "You wanna check your hand again?" I put another seven on the table, looked at him for a split second, then quickly laid down a third card with an apologetic look. He placed one very cracked and bony finger atop the three cards and slid them quite eloquently across the table. Death has savoir faire.

"Since you brought it up," I said.

"No," he replied most emphatically.

"Fine. TENS." I said with a bit of what I would call a sharp edge.

"You wanna see sharp?" he said, fingering his scythe.

"Stop reading my blogmind!" I shouted.

"Threes." he replied.

"IT'S STILL MY TURN! TENS!" I persisted.

He chuckled then, and laid down a card. I gave him a fluff's version of the empty-socket look, but he refused to budge, so I picked UP my measly one card and added it to my hand.

"What's with all the dead cats in his brain, anyway?" Reaper asked.

"Yeah. I don't know. You'll have to ask him." I replied.

"Hm. He and I don't really have a good relationship," he responded. "Is it some sort of experiment?" he asked.

Now, considering he is the one that said "no questions about love," I was a bit taken aback that he was enquiring. This line of questioning was eventually going to lead to the other and I wasn't quite ready for a pajama party with the harbinger of doom. But I generally try to answer any questions he asks expeditiously, as Death has places to go and people to see, and the clock is ticking for some of them. Best not keep Death waiting or he just might take someone closer.

"I think so," I replied, "Maybe he thinks that, if he keeps repeating the experiment, it'll turn out different?"

"HIS BRAIN IS FULL OF DEAD CATS." he said, stating the obvious.

"I KNOW." I replied, matching his tone, which got me yet another bi-focused look. Talk about hoping for different results; Death doesn't miss a trick, not a single frickin' trick. "Jackass," I said.

"Apology accepted," he replied.

Bunnies and Bears

For those who think I'm a tad off center, AMY HAS SEEN THE FAIRIES TOO.

I was laying in bed the other day when I heard this piteous mewing outside my bedroom window. My room is on the second floor and the birch girls are about 100 feet tall, and the mewing was coming from above, up amongst their tender leaves.

So I parted the sheers and boldly looked out into the night (it's ok to look out bedroom windows at night as long as it isn't October), and there stuck in the trees was a little black bear cub.

I quietly slid the window open so as not to frighten the poor thing, and said in a gentle voice, "Hey, little fella, you ok?" And a voice boomed from the darkness below, "Yo, human, what the fuck you want?" I was startled, to say the least.

I looked down and there on my patio was a mama bear and two other babies. She was looking up at me with agitation. "And shut your pie-hole, it's not polite to gape," she growled.

With a great deal of effort, I shut my pie-hole, then opened it to speak, thought better of it and shut it again, then opened it yet again to squeak out a bit of mewing myself.

"You're talking," I said. I am eloquent under pressure.

"No fucking duh, moron," said the bear in what I considered an extremely rude tone of voice for something that has just spoken of politeness. "Now, mind your own bizness and go back to your little fluff-headed sleep."

"But your baby..." I started.

"Gr," said the bear.

"But your baby is stuck in a tree!" I rushed the words two octaves above squeak.

"You think I need you, a human with marginal intelligence, to tell me, a talking bear, that my baby is stuck in a tree? Do you think I'm deaf? Cuz clearly YOU are - I said MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS."

"But I can help," I said, thinking, "Yeah right, you don't have a ladder that works, you don't have a cell phone that works, and you clearly don't have any negotiation skills or Sir Thinks Alot would be laying next to you and you would be doing something vastly more entertaining than talking to a swearing bear."

"You can help," said the bear with sarcasm.

"Yes, help get your baby down!"

"Fluff," said the bear with the smallest inkling of impatience, "Did you know bears could climb trees?"

"Yes," I replied, puzzled by the question.

"Have you ever seen a bear skeleton hanging from a tree?" said the bear with slightly more than an inkling of impatience.

"No," said I, suspecting I was about to have my intelligence insulted.

"Do you know why you never see a bear skeleton hanging from a tree?"

I considered a smarty pants answer but couldn't actually think of one, so I replied, "Because they don't stay stuck in trees?"

"Very good, fluff, now go back to sleep before I break your kitchen door down and eat you."

I replied as instructed by Ms. L, "Jackass."