u s e y o u r h a n d s

His body twisted in a corkscrew as he streaked through the sky. He ducked around wisps of cloud, enjoying how the wind felt rushing through his fur. For a few moments, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds, smells, and sensation of flying at night.

When Falcor he opened his eyes, the village appeared below. Just a smattering of houses decorated the small hills and inside them, Falcor knew kind people were going about their sweet, simple lives. The place made his heart swell. If a Luck Dragon of 100 feet ever had a home among humans, this for sure was his. He and swooped down into the town square, landing softly among the twinkling streetlights.

“Falcor!” said a stern voice behind him. Falcor turned his doglike head to face the voice. His floppy ears traced a line in the dirt. It was Inigo, the mayor. When Falcor saw him, he flashed back on the long conversations they had, some lasting all night. But tonight Inigo looked stern.

“Inigo, friend. I am pleased to see you,” said Falcor with a kind smile. It failed to crack Inigo’s grimace.

Inigo strode up to Falcor, but he did not approach the Luck Dragon’s nose and place his palm on it, as was his usual greeting. He kept five feet between them and in one hand, he kept a tight grip on a hatchet.

“We have heard tell of your time in lands far from here,” spat Inigo. Falcor had never heard him speak like this and it broke his heart. “We have heard you befriended a village not unlike this one and then destroyed it.”

Falcor reeled from these lies. His head jerked back and dread hummed through his blood. It was happening all over again. The rumors, the fear. He began to get to his feet and take off. Inigo would never believe him, and would never trust him the same way again. And how could Falcor blame him? Of course he must protect his town.

“I did not do these things, Inigo. But I will go and not trouble an inch of your lands again. I vow it. And, through our many talks, I hope that you would trust that I keep my word.” Falcor said the words he’d said before to different men holding different weapons.

Other figures emerged from the darkness. Men, holding rakes, hoes, swords, bows, surrounded him. Sadness welled up in his heart and extinguished the last flicker of hope. This time, he would not run. Falcor believed he would run out of spots to hide. Towns of men littered the hills in greater numbers all the time. He was never accepted for long.

As the men ran toward him, he locked eyes with Inigo. The mayor had begun to weep, and Falcor saw the tears snake down his face and drop to the ground. Inigo’s hatchet dropped from his hand. He stared deep into Falcor’s eyes, trying to convey how sorry he was, how confused. Falcor saw all these things and let Inigo knew he forgave. This was not his time or place. Perhaps when he woke, after the hacking stopped and the pain fell away, he would be home.

Whoa. The death of Falcor? What am I all about today? Oh, who knows. I’m rather peppy, too.

Having the Lady Bloggers over this wknd. Making desserts. What should I serve?

So I was all set to write a story from the point-of-view of a pirate’s fake eye, but I wanted to use PI, like Magnum PI, but then I realized that “pirate’s eye” was really PE, and that means something else entirely. I’m going to have to rethink the whole concept. However, I think it’s a good concept.

Is the whole thing about getting older that you constantly feel like there’s no time in the day? Because if it is, what’s the point? Or is getting older discovering a love for coffee? Even now, dear reader, I am savoring a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee (sans donut, mind you!). The cream is creamy, but not greasy. The coffee flavor does not smell of that certain potty smell, like coffee can do when it is bad coffee. This coffee, very, very hot when acquired, is now perfectly drinkable. It is the balm for my weary soul. Oh, coffee! We’ve wasted so many years.

From McSweeney’s Letters Page. I must preface your reading of this hilarious snippet to tell you that I don’t read McS anymore. It just got too-too for me. However, occasionally I like to click through the ungodly Web site.

Dear McSweeney’s,

Down at the Astor Place subway today, same dude, looking a little better, singing “Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore,” and then bam!, parlays it right into “Riders on the Storm” again.

Yours,
Josh Engel

There’s a big lesbian dance party on Friday. Who wants to come with? Think about what the line for the potty will be like!

Recently, I’ve put a lot of thought into going into that business called law! I’ve always thought about being a lawyer. I’d have to take the LSATs again, get accepted to law school, then go. But after that, cha-fucking-ching. I have this silly plan to work for a decade, then retire. Is this a good plan? Yes, lawyers are bad. Yes, work hours. But all jobs are not good. I hate all my jobs. So what’s the difference?

Midday update: Okay, so I just finished this story about college Republicans on Salon. They found the three most ridiculous, retarded, cartoony college Republicans ever. I mean, I’ve got no love for the GOP, but vavoom! It’s like Joe McCarthy and David Duke drinking Fuzzy Navels after a Karl Rove speech.

Well, I know that many of you have been wondering when Phineas and Shylo were going to take the plunge, so to speak. This weekend, we took a deep breath and just did it. Some of you will be pretty shocked and others might say, “It’s about time!”

We discussed it for a long time, argued even, but in the end, we decided that it was meant to be. Right before we made it final, Phineas and I had a long talk, last-minute promises.

And then we did it.

We bought a TV.

We hoofed it to Costco early on Saturday and picked up a 20″ flat-screen model with a built-in DVD-ROM. We got an excellent deal. We also got asparagus.

You didn’t think we’d gotten married, did you? Suckaz! We’re not even getting cable.

It’s just another Manic Monday! AJKKFHSDH! What do you do for a “case of the Mondays”?

If you are a girl and you want to get picked up lickety-split, take a stack of cookbooks to a bar.

Missed Connections! This week, I picked out ads from the Austin Chronicle, the Chicago Reader, and one from Craig’s List. Several people have suggested I take ads from Craig’s List, but they are a nightmare to go through. Note: The Reader ad? Fucking genius golden brilliant.

DAPHNIE WAS YOUR Stage name, Rico was mine. I enjoyed your company, let’s do it again in the real world. (Austin Chronicle)

Love is not often found on the go-go dancers’ platform, but it’s another story for Daphnie and Rico. He’d danced with a lot of bikini-clad women painted gold, but not one quite like Daphnie. She was kind, offering him water and complimenting the way he ground his pelvis into her rear. She will call him because of this ad. They will date, marry, and then open their own nightclub.

GREAT KHAKIS! JOHN Barleycorn, my favorite bar. We’re both fifth generation Irish. We talked about work. Beer: you like Bud, I’m into Guinness (more exotic). Wonder what you look like without the baseball cap. Can you handle this wild chick? I’m Poi Dog Pondering the possibilities! (Chicago Reader)

(Proprietors’ Note: I swear I did not make this one up.)

Nobody really knew who was behind The Project, but Naomi supported their aims. The reputation of the Irish people had been besmirched by movies, books, and bars. And the time had come to destroy. Naomi was sent to John Barleycorn on a busy Saturday night after a Cubs game with a purse loaded with dynamite. But something unexpected happened. She had a good time. Naomi had a beer (on special!), a chat with a cute boy, and then she threw the purse away. But when she got home, she did burn a copy of Angela’s Ashes. For priciple’s sake.

DEPORTED TO CANADA. You are being deported to Canada. My friends and I were thought is was a big joke and were saying funny things like Get ooooooooot of America. But then you sang America by Neil Diamond and you danced like you were walking on cotton candy and you earned our respect. It looked like a lot of people turned out for your deportation party. I wish you luck up north. Come back real soon ya hear. (LA Craig’s List)

“Kate,” said Marion, putting down the scrap of paper Kate had asked her to proofread. “You can’t put this up.”

Kate’s heart sank. “Why not?”

Marion rolled her eyes and read aloud. “‘Danced like you were walking on cotton candy’? Kate. What is that? How can you both dance and walk and what does cotton candy have to do with either? And he’s gone. Back to Canada. Why would he be surfing Craig’s List?”

Kate didn’t bother to tell Marion how she felt. That that night was the best of her life and she was scared nothing would eclipse it. That it was a lovely, joyful moment and she wanted it to last. She nodded, took the piece of paper, and then placed the ad.

Because I listen to NPR and because I am fascinated by the confirmation process, I’ve been paying close attention to the hearings of one William Pryor, a Bush nominee for a Court of Appeals gig. Everyone’s all up in arms because 1) He’s a very devout Catholic and Orrin Hatch decided to thrust and parry with him about that and 2) There’s some serious ethical questions around his involvement with a group he founded called the Republican Attorneys General Association (RAGA). Every time I hear Nina Totenberg talk about RAGA, “Rock the Casbah” by the Clash gets stuck in my head and I want “to let that RAGA drop.”

Every time we go to one of the series of staged readings of bad movies by the Neo-Futurists, I develop a crush on some member of the cast. Last week, I flipped for Steve Walker the gravel-voiced star of last year’s Hellhound On My Trail. This week, Merrie Greenfield of WNEP won my heart with her turn as a drunken narrator. Fabulous! There are two more shows left in the series, including the finale Tron.

I want to be a hard core rap star. Here is my effort:

Cristal, bitches, and hoes
These are a few of my favorite foes
Killaz, muggaz, playa hataz,
I will smell you all lataz.

Going to work to get my scrillah
But I’m dreaming of my pillow.
Fuck the Man and fuck my job.
Want to be a capo in the Mob.

Quittin’ time, Miller Time
Later, gonna be Cristal time.
Quittin’ time, Miller Time
You know you wanna feel my phat rhyme.

And thus.

My rap name will be either MC Shy-B or something involving the words princess, goddess, or panda. My costume will involve track suits, eye patches, and maribou.

The seasons, they are like the phases of a party. Spring, you are for planning. Poring over cookbooks, listmaking, advance prep. Spring is for purchasing Japanese lanterns and fresh flowers. Oh, but Summer! You minx! You are the party. You’re a ton of fun and everybody laughs! These are the days, but the party wears toward goodbye. When the first leaf falls in Autumn, people begin to file out of the apartment, a little tipsy and still smiling. “Wasn’t it a marvelous party?” they say as they stumble down the stairs. You turn back to face Winter and spend the season gathering up bottles and crumpled napkins.

Your favorite summer dessert: share!

We went to Ravinia last night. There is something slightly unnerving about a sea of well-heeled white people chugging chardonnay. Or was that just me? Anyhoo.

In the middle of the movie, Chloe pulled out a small pair of scissors and began to clip off her hair. Thin strands fell to the floor with each of her furtive clips. Her date did not notice what she was doing, but did enjoy having the popcorn all to himself. When the movie was over, Chloe gathered up the pile of hair from the floor, stuffed her scissors back into her bag, and followed her date into the lobby. Half of her head was still covered in the long, honey-colored hair he loved so much, but the other half was spiked and patchy. People stared as tears dripped down his face.

The other day, I woke up and started calling Phineas “Bandit.” This name makes him giggle and color charmingly. Each time I say it, he says, “I’m not a bandit!” Last night, as he tucked me into our futon, I looked up at him and asked, “Hey, where’s our copy of Huckleberry Finn?” He turned to me quizzically and then smiled and said, “Bandit.”

I’m growing a few pots of tomatoes on the back porch and they’ve begun to really kick out the ripe fruit. They are the most amazing tomatoes we have ever tasted. The skins taste sweet, sort of like a pluot, but inside they’re meaty and tomato-y.

Tonight the Neo-Futurists, Andersonville’s own improv/theatre company, is performing the latest in their series of staged readings of forgotten classics. Back Street is about adultery, fashion, and New York City! $9, Ashland and Foster.

I’m listening to the new Harry Potter on CD while at work. The part that’s most tickled me is a little lesson about “study aids.” In their fifth year, Potter’s gang is sitting for their OWL exams and everyone is scrambling for what seems like Ritalin or Vivarin. Hermione checks out the stuff and figures out that it’s really fairy shit. Always know your dealer, advises J.K. Rowling.

The other day, I was driving home and noticed that the pick-up ahead of me was slathered with Pipefitters’ Union stickers. I couldn’t help but giggle. Yeah, yeah, I know that’s highly immature and all, but I think most would have done the same. Then I thought of this snippet:

Perfect Fit
Edition 22, Volume 3
“A Chat with New President Gill”

The Gay Members of Pipefitters’ Union #204 have elected a new president. George Gill has been in the trade for over twenty years and recently served as the group’s secretary.

Gill, 44, hopes to live up to the office and serve the members with exceptional skill. “I’m pleased to have been elected and I’m going to give ‘em all I’ve got,” he said beaming. “After all, many members have bent over backwards for me.” Gill became a pipefitter after a short stint in the navy and was initially unnerved by his profession’s moniker. “Everybody laughed - said it sounded gay,” chuckled Gill.

After a year on the job, Gill partnered with Gary Power a wiry, Titian-haired pipefitter. Sidelong glances turned into awkward confessions and Gill realized his choice in career reflected a deeper issue. “I fit pipe. It’s what I do and it’s who I am.” They’ve been together for 20 years.

Perfect Fit sends our best wishes to George Gill!

I’m still coming down from this weekend’s burlesque high. What’s your guilty pleasure?

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