Concept Car as Pictured on Some Other Planet

My buddies and I test drove the Mazda concept car, the Nagare, which in Japanese means "flow". It looked like a shoe horn, but hell it moved fast--like a shoe. As you can see, we took it for a spin on the planet Venus, where it's hot like a sauna. I thought my buddy was going to boil out there, but we turned on the a/c, which mercifully responded right away. The heated seats were not used at all that day. I think this car is pretty dope. I would definitely recommend it to anyone, but epecially people in L.A. because they're so image-oriented and think they should be on an elitist planet.

Upside Down and Hungry

I am clinging to the underside of a gigantic autumnal leaf, and insects don't exist, so I don't have to worry about being eaten by one or--worse yet--having to eat one myself. I stay out of palm trees--the wild parrot community still hasn't decided whether the trees should serve as playgrounds or toilets. The parrots send me a lot of e-vites for their arbitrary parties: "Gathering at 2:48pm at the palm overlooking Ocean Breeze Apartments. See you there!" I'd rather crap on my own monkey bars, if you catch my drift. Those punks don't know what it's like to be caged and told when to sing. And I'm not making a work-in-a-cubicle analogy. I'm a human clinging to an enormous leaf, thinking about insects, but not about what they'd taste like. I often crave honey barbeque wings though. C'mon! Not the parrots--I don't eat that un-FDA-Certified stuff. I do things right: I call my mom up on my cell, and she brings over some KFC.

Two Words: Carpal Tunnel

Next to my desk are windows I never open. Fresh air...it's not like oxygen is going to make my job any better.

Coming Soon: Essay on a classic Boston tune

More than a Feeling

I looked out this morning and the sun was gone
Turned on some music to start my day
I lost myself in a familiar song
I closed my eyes and I slipped away

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away

So many people have come and gone
Their faces fade as the years go by
Yet I still recall as I wander on
as clear as the sun in the summer sky

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away
I see my Marianne walkin' away

When I'm tired and thinking cold
I hide in my music, forget the day
and dream of a girl I used to know
I closed my eyes and she slipped away
She slipped away

It's more than a feeling (more than a feeling)
When I hear that old song they used to play (more than a feeling)
I begin dreaming (more than a feeling)
'till I see Marianne walk away

Jesus is the new pink.

I've already blasphemed with that title. God help me. Damn it, my fuckin' uncontrollable mouth. Don't be sending me bars of soap for Christmas. Funny joke. I won't laugh, and neither will you when I whack you across the head with it, provided it's the kind with the rope attached. Speaking of attachments, please quit forwarding shit to my email box. I don't really want to look at pictures of creepy babies (or was it creepy pictures of babies?) with antlers growing out of their skulls. There's no point to this post either.

You Judge Sylvia's Past: Literal or Not?

I told him I used to stare down bottles of ketchup in trailers with Axl Rose sitting across from my hashbrowns and eggs.

You and I talk about Christmas songs.

Hey readers, what are your favorite Christmas songs? Although I am fond of the Bing Crosby-delivered classics, I must say I am particularly fond of the more contemporary holiday tunes, especially the ones where Christina Aguilera oversings songs like Silent Night and God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. She is my favorite Christmastime oversinger.

I dressed up like a skank for this?

When I think back on our recent office Christmas party, I am reminded of the time I received a hole in the head and oh the joy it brought me! The vision of my usually unsociable co-workers chatting beside the Panasonic copier reminds me that it takes nothing more than a good attitude to achieve this mindblowing level of jubilation. Party on, my comrades whose job categories are separate from mine! Enjoy one another! Smiles are as plentiful as the cheese and cracker platters which I gleefully waited for in line at Costco behind a family-owned convenience store owner! This party is for you, though not for me, but I get lots of different kinds of "joy" out of it as when I make napkin pinwheels only to be snapped at by a receptionist (or shall we say, a perfectionist) whose duty is to measure by god-given precision of vision my layout of these pretty paper stars in relation to each other on the buffet. There is no other time than the holidays when I truly believe that giving is much more satisfying than receiving, and so logically I did not feel unsatisfied when I did not receive any door prizes. I thought about giving more this year, like giving everyone the finger before I walked out of the room, but I thought I'd keep that bit of joy to myself.

I Rock! (around the Christmas tree)

The year was 1987, and I was rockin' around the Christmas tree when I tripped on the extension cord and fell on my hip, flattening some very nicely-wrapped gifts. I blamed it on the cat, though—poor Herbert can be so clumsy. My brothers were so upset to unwrap their brand new dismembered action figures that they cast the useless toys into the fireplace, screaming Herbert's name with tears in their eyes. I, however, was too enamored with my Jordache jeans to feel bad about what I'd done to Herbert—and my brothers too, I guess. I rushed into my bedroom to model my new jeans in front of the mirror. I was so pleased that I decided to write a thank-you letter to Santa. Months passed, my jeans were still great, and Herbert died, so there was no real point in feeling sorry for him anyway. In June, when my mind was furthest from Christmas, Santa wrote back. He informed me that I'd been named the 1987 Sellout of the Year. I knew exactly the outfit I'd wear to the ceremonies...

Experienced Tree Decorator Seeks Tree

This year I was not invited back for Christmas tree decorating at the home of a longtime acquaintance. Last year it was all light stringing and glass ornaments in Redondo Beach. Bows were also used to decorate the tree. I was thanked for my efforts. It went a little something like this: "GEE, THANKS FOR JUST TOSSING THE BOWS AT THE TREE AND HOPING THEY'D STICK."

I have to admit, I had become weary of all the meticulous ornament placing 15 minutes into it, but when he said that, I was re-energized! I immediately grabbed a fistful of red bows and slammed them into the tree like God would a powerful snowstorm. And, yes, bitch, they all stuck.

I will eventually think of a title for this post but right now I cant even punctuate

Carmen De Boheme

Sinuously winding through the room
On smokey tongues of sweetened cigarettes, --
Plaintive yet proud the cello tones resume
The andante of smooth hopes and lost regrets.

Bright peacocks drink from flame-pots by the wall,
Just as absinthe-sipping women shiver through
With shimmering blue from the bowl in Circe's hall.
Their brown eyes blacken, and the blue drop hue.

The andante quivers with crescendo's start,
And dies on fire's birth in each man's heart.
The tapestry betrays a finger through
The slit, soft-pulling; -- -- -- and music follows cue.

There is a sweep, -- a shattering, -- a choir
Disquieting of barbarous fantasy.
The pulse is in the ears, the heart is higher,
And stretches up through mortal eyes to see.

Carmen! Akimbo arms and smouldering eyes; --
Carmen! Bestirring hope and lipping eyes; --
Carmen whirls, and music swirls and dips.
"Carmen!," comes awed from wine-hot lips.

Finale leaves in silence to replume
Bent wings, and Carmen with her flaunts through the gloom
Of whispering tapestry, brown with old fringe: --
The winers leave too, and the small lamps twinge.

Morning: and through the foggy city gate
A gypsy wagon wiggles, striving straight.
And some dream still of Carmen's mystic face, --
Yellow, pallid, like ancient lace.

--Hart Crane

Video Games Ruin You!

Obviously, the term "ergonomic" wasn't a very important one in the 80's when the Atari joystick permanently damaged the joints in my hand. Look, I don't really want to talk about it okay? It was a wonderful Christmas surprise, and Moon Patrol was terrific, but all joy was lost the morning I couldn't hold a spoonful of the de-fuckin'-licious Pac Man cereal to my mouth due to the overuse of my thumb. As I said, I don't want to talk about this. I get so angry at technology.

The Company's Paying for It

Great balls of fire. We're going to have a raffle at the company Christmas party. Gee, I wonder what we're going to win. Perhaps a free pass to get out of next year's party. Oh. Oh. Maybe even just a free pass to sit with people I'd actually recognize from work. Hey, maybe we'll be able to upgrade our company logo mugs and plastic tumblers for better middle management. Now we're really thinking.

Teach them well and let them lead the way.

Hear the children clanging their china and silverware. In five minutes I will have to tell them to keep quiet. The naughty ones won't obey because, of course, I am not their parent, and, also, because I failed to tell them about the Noise Control Unicorn waiting to be released from the pantry to stab naughty kids in one eye (right or left, your pick) with, what else, its uni horn. I have to work on more effective means to deal with youth.

Sick and Paranoid

Several people were asking about me yesterday when I was absent from work.

I was sick at home--where did you think I was? Shopping at my local grocery store for steel cut oats to feed my new pony at my ranch nine hours away in Arizona? Uh, no, my pony does not have a name because there is no pony! Ponies only exist in science fiction. And Arizona's not real either.

Unfortunately, the moment has passed...or has it?

I waited too long, and now I have no stories about working with fools. I came to understand that these people I work with are not fools. They are not even foolish. They are simply passive aggressive people and can be found eating lunch among us, the sane. I study them at lunch. And when I have no other choice but to share the same table with them, I make small talk. Fill inthe facial expressions yourself:

"So, you like carrots, huh?"
"I like them, yes."
"What else?"
"What else what?"
(awkward silence)
"What else...what else do you have on tap for today?"
"Pardon my boldness, but in my humble opinion, I believe you are implying that I have a problem with alcohol."
(awkward silence)
"Just an expression. Got anything going on today?"
"What makes you think today's any different from the others?"
(silence)
"Sorry. Didn't mean to get philosophical."
"Oh, you weren't being philosophical at all."
"You know what I mean."
"Not always."
(pause)
"What do you mean not always?"
"I don't know. I'm not the whiz with the expressions."
(pause)
"Boy, I can't wait till this day is over."
"Why? Don't you like your job?"
"Sure, it's okay, I guess."
"Well, I love my job. Angie (boss) says chemistry at the workplace is important."
"Are you trying to hit on me? Ha. Ha."
(pause by co-worker this time)
"I really don't think it's wise to joke like that at work. There are people who are very sensitive about that kind of thing."
"Sorry. I'll stop now. Please, continue with your lunch. I'm sorry I interrupted. Eat your fucking carrots and have a fantastic day."

I Work with Fools

I Work With Fools Dot Com

(my stories to be published later)

I'm a big kid now! (That is, I wear underwear-like diapers.)

Thanks to the Write Source, my creative juices flow like mad rhymes! I am now writing at the Grades 4-5 level:

A special secret place: Last year when I was still in the 3^rd grade, none of the kids believed that trolls lived down by the creek behind my house. The kids came over to prove me wrong. On the way home, I showed them the scratches on my arm, proving to them that the nasty trolls were indeed alive and living in proximity to my bedroom. A few kids, like Joanne the pony-cat killer, got scared and headed straight home with tears in their eyes. The curious and the brave stayed with me. We got to my house, dropped down our knapsacks and entered the gate to my backyard. A few kids hushed the noisy ones. I said, “Eh, trolls don’t care about noise,” and led them to the creek. When we got to the creek, the kids bunched together, their eyes darting every which way, fearing that a troll would attack from behind. We stood out there for a long time, and no one saw any trolls. The kids left and I felt like such a sham. That evening, I sulked at the dinner table. My mom said, “What’s wrong, Sylvia? Don’t you like your elk steak?” I said, “It’s fine. The kids came over. They didn’t believe that trolls live in the back.” My mom put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, Sylvia, the trolls hurt a baby and were forced to move out of the neighborhood. It’s good for all of us, Sylvia. You’ll learn to accept this in time.”

Doing homework: When I’m supposed to be doing homework, I start to think about what outfit I’ll wear the next day. What can I wear without people saying I’m a skank? What can I wear without people saying look stupid? What can I wear without people teasing me, saying I still listen to Michael Jackson? Definitely not my Beat It t-shirt with an iron-on Michael Jackson and his pelvis-to-the-camera pose.

When I was upside down: When I was upside down, I wasn’t on the monkey bars. I was in the zoo, in the monkey exhibit, participating in a human-monkey integration program. I walked out when the monkeys started to sling their poop at each other. I’d rather play Crossfire…THE BOARDGAME.

A song that means a lot to me: Nothing gets me going more than that song that starts, “Blinded by the light. Revved up like a deuce. Another runner in the night.” What is the song about? Anyone know?

My most embarrassing moment: I was sick and tired of the mean kids making fun of me for being so quiet in school. One day, to win over these asswipes and gain their friendship, I targeted another quiet kid in my class. I announced to the rest of the students that this girl fell on her ass playing hopscotch during recess. If only I’d noticed who she was playing hopscotch with while I was sitting by myself on the other side of the yard. Turns out she was the leader of the mean kids, so I got my sewn-on jean pockets ripped off after school.

Talk about being scared!: For Halloween, I went out as Strawberry Shortcake, the girl with the cute red hair and freckles. When I turned the corner on 5^th Street, the leader of the mean kids thought I was publicly mocking her, so I got my Strawberry Shortcake mask dented—a lot.

A terrible storm: A terrible storm brewed in the eyes of my teacher after I told her I wasn’t following her math lesson…for the ninth time. Even though I was sincere, she felt I was disruptive and formed a storm in her eyes. Then she cried like torrential rain.

This school really needs . . .to stop using beige paint. The color is so unappetizing that I end up skipping lunch most days. Then I get sent to the nurse’s office because they think I’m sick. More beige. I get so depressed in the nurse’s office that the nurse brings in this woman to talk to me. I cheer up and tell her about caterpillars turning into butterflies. She thinks she has cured me, but it was really her uplifting chartreuse dress that made me excited about school and learning and participating with teacher-types. Was she a teacher? I don’t know, but she should be.

Wacky Lunch Hour Fun

I'm standing in one of the aisles at Trader Joe's over my lunch hour, trying to find a box of the exact kind of tea the receptionist gave me on Friday. That day, the kitchen was out of tea bags, so I thought she'd have one to spare. I was right, but as she handed me her very last tea bag at 4:13 in the afternoon, 47 minutes till the end of the work day, she said, "Will you bring me another tea bag on Monday? It has to be this kind," she pointed at the box before dropping it into the wastebasket. I nodded, "Yeah, okay" and accepted the tea bag, not knowing I had just entered a serious contract. I intended to give her a replacement tea bag, but the weekend was long, and I had nothing to give to her on Monday. She said nothing, so I thought it would be lame of me to bring it up and make her feel stupid. "Hey, about that tea bag...I'll have it for you tomorrow." Tuesday is today, and I was the one who felt stupid because she did ask me for the tea bag. "Did you remember to bring the tea bag?" I looked at her water-filled cup and said, "No, I'm sorry. You don't have any, do you? I'm sorry. I'll go to Trader Joe's on my lunch break and get you some." She said, "No, that's okay. Don't worry about it." But did I believe her? No. It was not okay, and she made me feel it. Anyway, I got back from the grocery store with a slightly nicer version of the tea she had. Same ingredients, only more fragrant. Flavor remains. Antioxidants, the same. I showed her what I'd gotten and she looked at me with a slightly deranged smile--skeptical, but too polite to roll her eyes and sigh. Having picked up on this, I said, "Would you like to try it at least?" She said, "Do I have a choice?" I threw the tea bag on her goddamn keyboard and walked off in a huff.

When things cooled off, I got an email from her, saying, "So, are you going back to the store to exchange these?"

Role Model

Face it, biotches, you can't handle how cute she is. Yeah, she just signed a record deal and will be promoting the new line of junior fashion at Kohl's. She's also the new sponsor for Nutella because wha? Because she's wholesome. (Photo of some dog eating a biscuit out of some person's hand is provided by Sylvia.)