The meerkats are vacationing in Orange County.

But they don't call it The OC.

This one's for the children.

Three years ago when I moved to Minnesota, I fervently completed the initial chapters of a children's story, but quit the project abruptly. I couldn't let children read anything so bitingly sarcastic, yet those who did taste of the lucsious fruit of my endeavor still, to this day, beg for more! More narrative to satisfy our rotting little hearts, swift writer of children's stories! More characters we love to hate and hate some more! More, more, more! To them, I say, "Please contact me at work no more, no more. You're all starting to creep me out. Why don't you get on with life? You're missing out on childhood. Look--there it goes. I don't think it even likes you...so, uh, did you get anything nice for Christmas?"

If children are make-believe children, as featured in the above paragraph, then mean comments made about then can surely be excused.

Petula Clark, Downtown!

The song swims merrily into my mind each time my bus nears Nicollet Mall, the heart of downtown Minneapolis. Featured several nights of the week between Thanksgiving and Christmas is the Holidazzle Parade, a procession of costumes and props lit with holidazzling holiday lights. I happened upon it after work a few times and was astonished by the masses of people huddled along the sidewalks and packed in the skyways like cans of lamb and rice dog food. If you like those kinds of things--bumbling snowmen wagging oversized candy canes at you in public--then this parade is for you. Otherwise you could just observe the crowd as you're walking to your rerouted bus stop (thank you, street-hogging parade). Some kids are playing patty cake with a sidewalk that got a summer's worth of spit and cigarette ashes stomped into it. Damn, that's nasty.

Day After Christmas Cheer

For today I have marked on my calendar, "You will not miss Christmas songs," and indeed I do not.

Hey, here's a fun idea. Let's all chime in and post how much weight we've each gained since Thanksgiving. That way, none of us would feel so bad about our weight gain. Misery loves company, right?

No, misery doesn't love company. Misery wants to be alone the day after Christmas to eat a mayo-slathered sandwich in peace. Misery has had enough of songs about unrealistically pleasant family gatherings and a winter that holy-crap-no-way! doesn't make your face hurt, and Misery thinks if more Christmas songs aspired to be as uplifting as the catchy ditty by Wham!, Misery might entertain the thought of company.

Hey man, go away, but come again another day.

Come back after December 20th.

No, thanks.

Dont mind me, I'm just going through the motions.

Ryan Adams was inspiring the other night, and he's not even Jesus. I walked out of the theatre in such a daze that I hopped on the wrong bus. It was inspiring to see that my purpose in life was to write creative shit, but without a guitar, and Ryan Adams helped me to see that, although Ryan Adams couldn't point out what a bombastically long sentence this has been and how people often trivialize their accounts of spiritual awakening by transforming them into fluffy bunny shit.

Anyway, what a contrast that was to the soul-sapping catch-22 I live: dragging myself to work each day in order to afford grad school, while grad school promises to afford me happier work one day. To this, I say, Creative shit. That's the way!

So, when I saw how uninspired Ryan Adams appeared on stage and how his sycophantic fans cheered and laughed with overdone ambition at their vision of rock and roll divinity, I sat quietly, stewing in my venomous distaste for the whole situation. Just play your songs, then, goddamnit.

Too flip about my devotional duties, I was eventually asked by nearby people if I knew him. What? Ryan Adams. If I knew him. Of course I know him. (We just don't know each other.) Flattered by the association between me and my rock star, I considered a marriage proposal to the pretty little ash tray.

Oh yeah, Happy Thanksgiving!

Complete Authorship

Aunt can also mean unimaginative author of low blows. I recently finished a manuscript featuring these well-timed tidbits, carefully perserving the exciting tone of her hell fiery derision. The manuscript? My diary. Maybe I'll get the bitch to autograph it at the Thanksgiving table. I'll ask her to make it out to "Sylvia" and tell her what an inspiration she is to me, that she's inspired me to live by the kind of family values she lives by.

Keepin' It Real

At my wedding reception: Thank you for your generous gifts. Now get the hell out. I'm renting by the hour.

Thanksgiving: A Happy Holiday

The judgment and passive aggression at past family dinners have caused me to run out in tears, choking on dry turkey chunks lodged in my esophagus, while fidgeting with car keys, dropping them on the frozen Minnesota ground, and screaming, finally, in all my indignation. This year, I'd like to say I'm rather rehabilitated and ready to face the Midwestern family values again. I'll even bring a goddamn pie.

Belaboring a Labored Point

So, I guess I'm going to jail. Copyright infringement. Copied everything from this "Sylvia" in Minneapolis. She said she was a regular reader of my blog, but never expressed any opposition to my "borrowing" habits. Then on November 1st, she freaked out and said she had writer's blocks--yes, plural--and they'd multipied to such a great number that she constructed a mighty stairway, believing it would take her to a special place. When she got to the top, God said to her, "What are you doing? You were supposed to build a generous home for the homeless or something noble like that. Instead you built a useless stairway. What for?" Sylvia stated humbly, "To see you, God. To see you." God was a bit turned off by her answer. He said it was too "ABC Afterschool Special" for his taste and asked to be unsubscribed from her blog. And that's when Sylvia flipped out and threatened to sue me. But I think she was just frustrated because of the whole misunderstanding with God about the writer's blocks--I'm sure it was a bit embarrassing. I told her we've all had writer's blocks. We're just not as constructive as she is with them. Get it? Get it? Constructive?

As I said, writer's blocks.

Reduced

I hate it when people pester me about writing. Keep writing, Syl-vee-ah. Oh my God, Syl-vee-ah, have you written anything lately? Syl-vee-ah, are you still doing your writing? No, I have not! Granted, having this blog helps me to write through my creative constipation, but have you a clue how painful this is? Damn it! The embarrassment! Gross metaphors, uncontrolled language. Oh great, now it's gone from constipated to diarrheic. Don't look at me! Don't look at me!

Look here instead:

• If I Only had a Brain
• Like, Oh My God!
• What's with all the bitching?
• What I Think of my Readers
• My Childhood, a tad fucked

The Weiner Corner

Welcome to the weiner corner. Don't laugh--there's nothing funny here anymore. What do they say when there's nothing to say?

THIS WEB SITE IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

If you think life is funny and have something to share, please e-mail some of those other weiners with "random thoughts" in the titles of their blogs. I notice they've been kind of desperate.

(Do note the separate words of web site and that e-mail includes a hyphen. Do not feel compelled to follow these rules, for I would not take well to your finger wagging. The author of this website wishes not to be considered a hyprocrite, but if you feel she is, please consider emailing her.)

Hence, I Have No Playmates

If it were not for these headphones, my fingers would have to come to the rescue. The girl across the way talks too loud, as if her cell phone were hard of hearing. Everyone is polite--Minnesota Nice precludes a rancorous pastime: the knowing glance. Here it appears that nothing can disturb.

Chattanooga Choo Choo--Now Serving Smiles

Too much dancing on the Soul Train. The Chattanooga Choo Choo takes me where I need to be--without all the stretch denim and hip gyration.

I Saw the Light, and the Light was Flourescent

The light illuminated. I stopped in my tracks and shouted, "I'll be! Moral Values! In bulk!" There was nothing to do but to stock up while the gettin' was good. There was no way anyone was going to criticize me ever again for having no M.V. That's why it caught me off guard when the people at the checkout line gave looks like they were disenchanted with me or something. Called me an M.V. hoarder. Said I was an M.V. showoff. Asked if I had enough M.V. and told me to save some for the rest of 'em. Well, I wasn't going to take that kind of abuse. I said right to their faces, "Go straight, then go right! THAT'S where you can find the M.V.!"

Referenced Question

The answer to your question: Billy Corgan.

Word of The Day: Morals

This is a new word for you, gentle Democrats, because you were not included on the Republican Party mailing list and therefore were not informed of President Bush's mandate to redefine the term morals. But unless a well-informed morals monger is willing to impart the definition as dictated by our fortunate president, I shall remain ignorant. Or would I be right in stating that morals has now quite the opposite of its traditional meaning?

On the bright side, this new excuse to shirk moral behavior sure is going to make life easy. Maybe tax cuts will make me rich too.

Feelings, Nothing More than Feelings

Disappointed, dismayed, disheartened, disgusted...

The Apotheosis of Useless Americans

Paris Hilton, George W. Bush--pretty useless people, agreed? That's why I thank Dick Cheney and his missioners for their intervention. Because of their exciting and inspiring efforts, W. is now a useful American, serving well his saviors.