Recent Exchanges with Two Friends I Made in Minneapolis

My friend Susan decided to have a birthday last week. I told her to have a happy birthday, but she knew I was lying because I'm the jealous type. It's not fair that she gets to have a birthday and I don't. To celebrate the lovely occasion, I went to the mall and got a really stylish dress and sent Susan digital pictures of me looking fabulous, hoping she would be jealous. She wrote back, complimenting me on the new threads. Of course, this incited even more animosity, so I went out and bought a new Corvette and sent her digital pictures of me in my dress inside my new Corvette. She wrote back asking me if I was okay. I said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Did you get the Chris Daughtry CD I sent you for your BIRTHDAY?" She said, "Not yet. Who's Chris Daughtry?" I said, "I don't know...some American Idol contestant! Happy birthday, you bitch!"

My friend Jonathan and his hot wife (whose name I won't say) had a baby last month. Normally, babies don't increase my life enjoyment levels, but this one is very Cabbage Patch Kid-like. I knew what had to be done, so I FedEx'ed some papers to Jonathan and the missus. He e-mailed me back almost immediately. Truly, my heart was beating with anticipation as I waited for my $5.95 dial-up ISP to take me to the next page in my e-mail box! Jonathan said, "I got your adoption papers! What is this? A joke?" I had resourcefully dug up the Cabbage Patch Kid adoption papers for my 1982 acquisition of Timothy Alastair and made a photocopy of it, whiting out Mr. Alastair's name and inserting the name of my friends' new child. I e-mailed Jonathan back saying that yes, it was indeed a joke, but it wasn't a funny one, no.

Latin Lover

Mediocria Firma!

(Thanks for contributing to Mediocrity, SSR!)

What Would Ramona Do?

Wedged between volumes of Ramona books was the very first diary I ever kept, and I found it this weekend while digging through my old closet. Paging through those early days, I noted what weird and wobbly handwriting I had a penchant for, but I was only 7 or 8 years old, trying, with limited skill, to detail my life before details eventually became too mundane to record. For instance, I wrote about the day I nearly succumbed to a powerful flash of capitalist desire, rescued only by my fortunate undiagnosed bi-polarism: "Mom went to the shopping mall to buy the coat. I went with her. I saw a Cabbage Patch Kid that I wanted to buy. But we didn't buy it because I said I didn't want it."

What's in your closet?

Cleaning Lady

Knock, knock!

Who's there?

Sylvia!

Sylvia?

Sylvia, your daughter!

What do you want?

Didn't you ask me to come home and clean out the closet in my old bedroom?

Oh, yeah, come in. But make it quick. Did the neighbors notice you? Where did you park? You still driving that thing? You're not staying for dinner, are you?

On Wikipedia

Fun article in the Wall Street Journal this week.

Free Verse

Before my high school graduation, my classmate Angie, who had purchased a half-page "look at me and my friends so cute and loyal" ad in the yearbook, said to me, "You write poems, right, Sylvia? Would you write a poem about friendship and graduation for our ad?" I'd never before been commissioned to write a piece, and I was not going to let this opportunity slip through my prematurely writing-cramped hand. After about six or seven sleepless nights, I realized I knew nothing about friendship, nor graduation (because it hadn't happened yet), and that I was no one's friend--just a lot of people's poet. I was the People's Friendless Poet. And I said to dear, sweet Angie, "Wha? You weren't going to pay me?"

Your cake for my birthday today.

Sound Aborning

(Thanks, Mark.)

"I'll probably never produce a masterpiece, but so what? I feel I have a Sound aborning, which is my own, and that Sound if erratic is still my greatest pride, because I would rather write like a dancer shaking my ass to boogaloo inside my head, and perhaps reach only readers who like to use books to shake their asses, than to be or write for the man cloistered in a closet somewhere reading Aeschylus while this stupefying world careens crazily past his waxy windows toward its last raving sooty feedback pirouette." (Lester Bangs, "A Quick Trip Through My Adolescence," 1968)

My first story is due tomorrow...

and I have nothing.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/21RobertHinderliter.html

Sylvia's Girl

I can take or leave a lot of people, but boy did I love this dog. A week to make myself conscious of her absence, its permanence, I note the now deadened impulse to consider her in the ordinary context of my days.

Hi, my name is Alfredo.

Patrick called me last night in the middle of the night where he was. He sounded pretty sober, even as he told me otherwise. I asked if he was about to tell me he loved me because it would be a pretty funny joke. Just then we both went silent. Moments later I realized the awkward silence was the direct result of my dead cell phone battery. The next day I thought it would be funny to send him an email that read, “You are dead to me. Ha! Ha! Also, I don’t like your cigarette habit and you drink too much. Ha! Ha!” I can’t wait to see his response.

This Blog (and its Author) Talks

Really, no need to thank me for the amusement you get out of this blog. You'll notice I can go a long time without writing anything amusing. When you're amused, I'm probably unhappy, in between jobs, misguided in life (again). When you're not amused, I'm still unhappy, between jobs, and misguided, but I keep posting so as to declare, "I'm enjoying life, I am! I'm enjoying life just enough to keep up with a blog!" When I stop posting altogether, you can be assured I'm busy getting fitted for new pants to wear at my ultra-conservative new job which will boost blog amusement as my own soul deflates, so stay tuned! Same time, same place! Just like work.

I'm 'cared.

Watch this.

Celebrate with Administrators!

There was, at one of the largest research institutions in North America, an academic library that dangled decrepit elevators in rotting shafts. The top floor housed me and a bunch of old books and maps and a coffee maker whose on/off switch a co-worker of mine claimed she was too weak to traverse a reading room to turn on, therefore causing both of us to settle bitterly for bitter Folgers crystals at our desks most of our embittered days at work. A year after I decided I'd had my last drop of Folgers and quit my job to move back to this shithole Los Angeles, I learned from another library denizen that he was hastened out of his real estate on the basement level to make way for a new barista-equipped coffee house. Hardly expressing much sympathy for him, I was eager to brainstorm with the best and offered these potential names for the new addition: Coffee Rings, Ye Olde Wilson Coffee Shoppe, Basement Beverages, Sober N' Safe Buzz, Hangover Headquarters (or just HQ to save money on signage), Dregs Not Unlike Yourselves, Don't Spill or We'll Charge You Processing Fees to Replace those Periodicals, and Magazines Ain't Coasters. My bitter former co-worker on the top floor came up with the brilliant Undergrounds. Even my basement buddy, who had every reason to resent this coffee house, offered The Incunabula ("The Ink" for short, he adds) to the administrative minds who would ultimately dub the long-awaited coffee palace: Academic Blend. At last! Pour me a sloshing cup of that Academic Blend and let its utterly inspired genius flow over my blunted nerves!

Oh My Kosh!

When the waitress told me I could sit at any table I wanted, I chose the one farthest away from the one with the most children. As I scanned over the menu, I became sad. I noticed that my favorite entree--Tastee Liver N' Chips Platter, Piggy Eater Sized--was discontinued after a mere 2 month appearance on the menu. But I also became sad because I knew that no matter what I did in life, there will always, always, always be children around me.

This is not to say I disdain children. I find it impossible, however, not to turn my nose up at the ones who think howling will draw food closer to their mouths--and the ones who morph into Osh Kosh Cantankerous trolls when strangers, how dare they!, accidentally make eye contact with them. Strangers such as myself prefer much more meaningful experiences like listening for their names to be called by restaurant hostesses than to establish some dull exchange with a self-muting child. Yet these children always seem to think that all adults are interested in cajoling them into smiling or saying something innocently clever (the chances of which are exasperatingly low). Such childish presumption, I stress, should never be rewarded by parental attention! Parents should simply inform their children that the adult has little interest in anything but herself. A cheerful pat on the child's back may follow to ease the child's deserved embarassment.

I was a bit of a troll myself, as you may have guessed. I was also one of these children who did not enjoy children-lovers. I hated answering questions about my teacher's name, what grade I was in, if I did well in school, and if I could tie my shoes all by myself. Even at the tender age of 6, I recognized a lame question when it was posed to me. It was worse when I answered factually, and the children-lovers patronized me further. How unbearable! I couldn't wait to grow up!

As an adult now, I make a conscious effort not to betray Trollish Sylvia by being a silly-toned, dumb-talker-to'er of children. Recently I watched a woman my age ask little Hannah who her teacher was and then lie to the little Hannah by saying that so-and-so was the best teacher around. That day young Hannah equated "best teacher around" with "giver of Ds and Fs on dictation tests". If only Trollish Sylvia fought off Liar Liar Woman-My-Age's Pants on Fire in time. Hannah says your love is whack, lady!

Be Mine Forever and Ever, Will You?

I shrieked when I opened up the envelope you set on my adjustable office chair with the stained lumbar support. I wish you would have given me the entire perforated sheet of Leonardo DiCapprio valentine cards, but I can't be so greedy. I get greedy only when it comes to you. My name's Sylvia, not Slyvia, but you lost only a few minor points from that. Can you get me a job at the student ID kiosk at school?

Fantastical Deer Dream

Last night I dreamt of tiny white tailed deer that sprouted from the ground. My dog, the brave husky, pounced on them. I got nervous. I almost barfed. Actually, I did, and all the deer scattered. My dog turned into a deer and ran off as well. I am the lonely barfer with nothing to write about today.

Superbowl Sunday

My dog tapped me on the shoulder to wake me this morning, alerting me to her desire to piss in the leafy ground covering that separates my apartment complex from my neighbors'. I got out of bed and my dog led me to the back door. She escaped outside on a short leash, looking for a spot to piss on. I stayed behind. I was unfit for public presentation and half awake. Someone said hi to me, I think. I don't find it appropriate for neighbors to acknowledge folks when they're trying to hide, so I ignored her and hoped she'd learned her lesson. When I was fully awake and my dog content, I decided to wash a couple of loads of stinky clothes. These clothes are made stinky from the damn skunk that lives under the building. But that's another story. I fell asleep while folding the first load of clean clothes. I woke two hours later and found another lady in the laundry room. She had taken my clothes out of the dryer. I apologized. I knew it would be a bit much to explain that I'm usually extraordinarily conscious of these things. She said she wanted to get her stuff clean and get out of there. Later I remembered it was Superbowl Sunday and that she was probably off to a party to get happy. Football makes me lose my appetite.

Fake as they come!

The titles for my last two posts are so desperate sounding. Those exclamation marks, they're so telling! Not only am I without emotion, but I am without wit. I rely on exclamation marks to feign feeling, which, upon this third offense, makes me a feigner of feeling. It's like when you're at a poetry reading and some acclaimed somebody is reading a lot of her poetic words--more than she needs to, if you ask me--and you are saying these other words in your head: hackneyed, cliched, trite, pedestrian, tedious, uninspired, and toilet paper. In these situations I become a regular feigner of feeling, an shameless exclamation-mark-abuser, one who applauds and nods in a yes, yes, this imagery is so fresh! fashion. Liars stink, but at least I shower every day and use deodorant.

Whazzzup, Cottage Grove, MN!!

This season of American Idol kicked off with the Minneapolis auditions (whazzzzup, Minneapoluss!) to show the world that that part of the country is only successful at breeding Red Bull and Vodka drinking Saturn drivers and HOT vegan burger flippin' hippies. Take for instance Jewel Minor from Cottage Grove who thought talent by osmosis was really possible. I think she needed to sneeze.