Sunday, October 26, 2008

Somebody We Know

We are driving in a car, through a lovely suburban neighborhood, to attend the wedding of a family friend.

DOB: Doesn't somebody live in this neighborhood?

TCG: I suspect that many people live in this neighborhood.

WISAIM: His suspicion is based on the fact that there are so many houses on each street.

DOB: (Impatiently) No. Somebody we know.

TCG: Can you give me a clue?

DOB: (Long pause). I have no idea.

WISIMH: This is what passes for conversation here in the Fortress of Attitude.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Short and Not So Sweet

Short Belligerent Person: Bump your shopping cart into me again and I’ll punch you in the knee.

UCC: I said I was sorry. I didn’t see you because, well, because you’re short.

SBP: Well, next time look, asshole.

WISIMH: Well, surely my good little man. Although, perhaps you should wear a red flag on a long bendy stick - like kids attach to their bikes - to catch the eye of normal people. Asshole.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Menu at the International House of Boredom

TCG: "Another chance?"

UCC: "Always.
You know I love you, right?"

TCG: Yes. I love you too.

WISIMH: There’s worse ways to go than this. Peacefully, in one’s sleep, tossed in restless slumber. Bored to death.
And I do love him so, the sweet loving man.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

It’s All About Trust

Went to Blood Bath and Beyond (next door to Holy Christ’s 99 cent store) today to buy a new blade for my scythe. While waiting in the checkout line, I overheard the customer behind me say:

Checkout Line Lady: I would never trust him again, Mom. He did steal your TV, remember?

Mom: I don’t know. Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt.

WISIMH: I’d put my money on distrust, Mom. As G. B. Burgin once said, it is much more comfortable to be mad and know it, than to be sane and have one's doubts. As I once said, distrust is da best trust dere is.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Let's Try to Use our Words

TCG: I’ve got the round one.

UCC: What?

TCG: What you just told me to do!

UCC: Again. What?
(Upon subsequent clarification, it was revealed that he was referring to the context of a prior conversation in which I suggested he take leftovers to DOB – the leftovers being in a round container)

WISIMH: While brevity may be the sole of wit, I find that muttered meaningless monosyllables aren’t particularly amusing. A better metaphor would be that if silence is golden, then I’m a fucking millionaire.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Seeing Things

Yesterday, I made pomegranate juice and when I dumped the seeds into the juicer, some of the splashes stuck to my glasses. Later, I started seeing these red spots before my eyes.

UCC: I’m seeing red spots before my eyes. (closing my eyes) I can’t see! I can’t see!

TCG: What’s the matter? What’s the matter?

UCC: My eyes are closed! My eyes are closed!

WISIMH: One of the all-time best insertions of a Three Stooges skit into a conversation. I knock myself out sometimes, I’m so funny.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008


DOB: When I… whatchamacallit…
TCG: Can you be more specific?
WISIMH: It seems to me we have in the attic a sufficient number of old boards? (Baudelaire)

Monday, October 6, 2008

Just Do What?

UCC: I have to go and do the laundry.
TCG: I'd be more impressed if you'd just do me.
UCC: I'd be more impressed if you'd just do some laundry.
TCG: If you did me more often, I'd do the laundry.

WISIMH: If you'd do ANYTHING more often, I'd do you more often.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Get Your Tool On

TCG: Always use the right tool for the job.
UCC: Wow, I didn’t think of that.
WISIMH: Then I’ll need a chainsaw, a bathtub, and a case of Liquid Plumber.

dramatis inpersona

Fortress of Attitude
The too-big old house were UCC, TCG and DOB live; across the street from the meth lab; around the corner from the poorly fenced yard with the three pit bulls. The Fortress is the usual location where the cast of characters wage their own personal war on the terrors of growing old. The Fortress is where we all go to escape the Actual World.

Crazy Stew
It's what's for dinner. The ambient atmosphere here in the Fortress smells like a savory crazy stew of paranoia, passive agression and delusional behavior. (It actually smells like urine, peppermint, and cheap dog food that's been left in the bowl too long and become black and crusty.) The recipe? Knead several pounds of satire and frustration together in the pizza dough cycle of your bread machine; add a generous pinch of profanity and some beer; Shake the mixture together in a bottle corked with rage, and break it over the head of someone you love. Just do it in the Fortress, and not the Actual World. (We can't go back there any more. Jesus Christ).

The Actual World
The stage most of us inhabit when not in the Fortress. These days in the AW, it feels like mysterious forces stronger than Capitalism are creating disquiet, making us pause, in civilization's march upward to wisdom; and in the S&Ps march upward toward unspeakable wealth. Currently, when I venture into the AW, I am transported to a postmodern shabby truck stop where people say things like: "Alas, how is't with you/ That you do bend your eye on vacancy/ And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?"

Thursday, October 2, 2008

trinity of follies

Whether or not you believe in god, I do. Here are my hold trinity of gods:

Existential Clown
First among equals in the Trinity of Follies. A composite of all childhood imaginary friends: nice people in the Actual World who remain reasonably sane, and attempt, from time to time, to talk other characters down from the ledge before it crumbles and buries us in the rubble of our dreams.

Plastic Jesus
The Imaginary Higher Power, the one true son of the one true god (who was a single parent, apparently). PJ was incarnated as the mutant offspring of 21st century global capitalism and brainwashed, unwashed masses. (Note to the Damned Anarchists and other atheists: this character is real to a lot of people who believe so strongly in his existence that they would kill you). PG is as real as the other existential clowns and imaginary super-friends in this blog.

Imaginary Superfriend
The final member of the Trinity of Follies. Amorphous composite of all known existential clowns and madmen. IS has various powers, like the ability to draw a perfect circle freehand, say, or burp the alphabet, or drive drunk but safely home in the rain, or make good fudge without using a recipe, or leaping tall buildings in a single bound.

dramatis persona

All happy families resemble one another, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way (Tolstoy). Each crazy family has its own cast of characters. Here's mine.

Unnamed Co-Conspirator
The once overly sensitive and delicate waif who grew up and fell in love and grew up some more. The character in this comedy of errors who most needs a place to say all the things clapped behind her hand, burning her tongue, and thereby adding to the already robust spice of the interpersonal relationships in the Fortress of Attitude. The only difference between UCC and a madman is that UCC has no penis.

The Couch Garden
So much more than a mere couch potato - an entire garden! UCC's roommate who, unless he's watching TV in his recliner, is probably lying on the couch resting up from a session in his recliner. TCG is as endearingly crazy in love with UCC as ever, but has long since dropped out of the race. The second laziest person in the world, and the love of UCC's life.

The Gardener
The bitter old woman that UCC will become soon unless soomething happens soon (Purposefully redundant). This character spends most of the time cultivating TCG and DOB. In any time left over, TG functions as the Ghost of the Future in this blog, appearing without warning and scaring the crapp out of UCC. 

The Demented old Bitch
The third roommate in the Fortress, living in a back room with her faithful canine companion Old Fat Dog. DOB combines the fun of paranoia with the wisdom of delusion. She has one tooth, and frankly, communicates more by smell than meaningful sound in this performance. Daily, DOB and FOD endeavor to create olfactory symphonies composed of various smells of mysterious origin. You never know who has contributed to what part of the olfactory bomb that explodes in your head when you enter their room. Now well into her dotage, her personal hygiene skills are eclipsed only by the wit and subtle nuance of her repartee. In her prime, it is unlikely her personality would have won her a place on the cheerleading team, and now.... well, let's just leave it at fucking old bitch.