Why would I eat a peach for peace

Some people spend far too much time wondering on their place in some metaphorical pond. All that big fish, small pond bother. I've never really spent much time ruminating on such matters. Not that it would really matter much around here anyway; I'm not sure we rise to even the most liberal definitions of "small pond." Perhaps, backyard puddle is more apt. Understand, the anonymity our size brings doesn't seem to bother me or any of my fellow citizens all that much. The suicide rate around here is rather low.

But if I was given to such ruminations I suspect I'd find my place even lower on that particular totem pole than previously thought. Throughout my life the mail has been a pretty good barometer of my importance. I realize everyone gets the occasional bit of junk mail addressed to "resident" or "occupant." Unless you're Navin R. Johnson, this is hardly a feat worth celebrating. I must admit, however, that sometimes I do give a triumphant fist pump as I deposit such letters in the nearest waste receptacle. Today, I even received a letter addressed to Andy, et al. I suppose this means I'm moving up in the world. Alas, Andy hasn't lived anywhere near me for nigh on 20 years so I suspect that progress in being outpaced by some common slug. I love you, junk mail.

All of this is probably why one of my biggest delights during the Christmas season is getting Christmas cards at work. Being as she's quite popular and powerful, the EPJ gets them in bunches. Big bunches. Sometimes 2 or 3 a week and requires help with the arduous task of opening them. As her somewhat devoted assistant, I sometimes lend a hand. And I'm always glad when I do because nothing warms this Christmas heart hotter than opening a card addressed to EPJ and "staff." That's when I know it's from someone who, in fact, did care enough to send the very best and to only the closest of the close, at that.

Much like the army's slogan, I am a staff of one. But I do appreciate being remember, however nameless. I suppose there's something fitting about getting a generic card with a generic scene of yuletideness with a stamped gold foil "Seasons Greetings" from some outfit that I didn't know existed either. Were I not well-versed in being overlooked, I might develop a complex.

Or at least a bigger one.

Growing up my family used to get those state-of-the-family letters every so often from various relatives. Being as we never bothered to give our phone number to most of those folks this was really the only way we could keep up. One would think by our withholding of phone numbers and precise location, they would get the message that we perhaps didn't care all that much. I suppose that is beside the point.

These wonderful letters were quite popular with us during our luddite phase, however. The type of letter that was little more than an advertisement for how incredibly amazing and good life was for the particular writer's particular branch of the family tree. Five pages of how Little Bill now has his PhD in Nuclear Physics, Jim John is rapidly developing that cure for cancer and the prince of some small Arabian country has come a courtin' our dear, sweet sister Sue (fingers crossed she's already knocked up), epilogued with "but how are you all doing?"

Sometimes the epilogue would be more than a P.S. though. These were the times we really lived for. Especially for me. Confirmation that even though we'd not put forth any effort, we still mattered to someone somewhere in our family.

Oftentimes, I was disappointed. On one such occasion, after pages of detailed questions on the minutiae of Andy's life and how awesomely awesome he was, the author inquired as to how "that other one" was doing. Were I the wooing sort, I would have had a new favorite relative from then on. In fairness, the author did remember that I was a "one" and not a "ones" so that was awfully kind. I can't remember if the author apologized for not remembering my name. Perhaps she honestly thought my kind parents had neglected to name me way back when at the hospital. That was a hectic day, after all.

I always hoped my mother would write back that things were looking up for us as well. Something like how the flood gave our house a much needed cleaning, all that detention really helped Andy get to know the school staff better and we think he's finally kicked for good this time. And, oh yeah, "that other one" is finally eating something other than glue. Our life wouldn't be any sweeter if our asses pooped sugar.

She never did though. A shame.

Adorableness pt. 1

What better way to debut a new feature. I suspect most of the adorableness post will contain Baby Zeigler in some form or fashion. Here's he's doing his best Mussolini. If Il Duce had been this cute, we'd all be fascists.

The only things I'll read are faces

Last night, my A-#1 pal, MB, sent me a story from The Age (Melbourne, Australia) regarding hipsters and the glasses which they are required to wear. In addition to being confirmation that they have newspapers down there, I suppose the more depressing development is that hipsters have invaded Australia's fair shores. I'm not sure of the solution or even if there is one since this problem is apparently so widespread. Thanks for nothing, Obama.

After North Korea starts Global Thermonuclear War for real, I suspect the only survivors will be Kafka-reading hipsters arguring whether Vivian Girls really are worthwhile. After all, what's the point in surviving if the music sucks?

I suppose now would be as good a time as any to mention that I've got some new glasses. Predictably, they are of the super-fab, uber-stylish black variety that probably give off precisely the too-cool-for-school-vibe to which the author of the above column is referring. That is, if I were living in a place where there was a reason for giving off such a vibe. Or for using such a word as hideous as "vibe".

But I'm not.

When people talk about Deerhunters around here, they're referring to the real honest-to- God Bambi killers, not the band of which only readers of Pitchfork have heard.

And that's just as well.

Though I have the glasses and have long found the underground and its myriad sub-cultures the place to be, I'd just as soon avoid most hipsters. I've never been too keen on making any scene and having such longings at the advanced age of 35 would just be embarrasing. Which is why the bulk of my wardrobe consist of t-shirts for obscure bands, record labels and record stores.

Of course, if there's one thing hipsters love more than horn-rimmed glasses, it's irony.

I guess that means I hate myself. At least I've already got all those Cure records.

Laugh yoga

At last, a reason to celebrate Bastille Day. Hot, holy damn!!!

Don't be a square. Laugh. God commands you.

Please shop where you park

Since school is getting out all over and rugrats are searching for loitering holes, the EPJ figured she'd do her part and grant one lucky local classroom a swimming party at Rancho Relaxo. (I know, and it's not even an election year. What a gal.) The blessed event went off last week without much of a hitch, i.e. no rain fell, no cramps were had and no one drowned. In terms of a kids swim party, that's pretty much my definition of success.

To point out that only 2 of the 35 attendees actually knew how to swim would probably be picking nits. The deep end was therefore roped off meaning there was more danger of cramped conditions and suffocation than actual cramps or drowning . But that's beside the point. I'm sure it was a bang-up time for kids to get to stand in a pool of water at the home of someone they didn't know. For a couple of hours. Memories that will no doubt last a lunchtime. Similarly, I'm sure the parents will remember the EPJ's manganimity come election time. Her slogan next go round? "A kid in every pool."

Really getting into the spirit of all the do-goodness and not wishing to exclude any potential voters, the EPJ has now turned her attention to helping the furthest reaches of humanity. She's decided that being able to reach anyone at anytime via one's cell is rather nice. One never really knows when the need to strike up a thoroughly useless conversation make come. "Ooh, honey did you see what she was wearing? Indeed." The EPJ doesn't actually talk like this but I like to imagine she does. When I'm not working dilligently for the good people of this county, of course.

Like most technological advances, however, these cellular phones have brought about a whole new set of problems for us, oh-so-connected moderners. Specifically, having to fumble for that confounded phone as it blares some ringtone that seemed clever at the time--Kenny Loggins, how do you sleep? So to combat the embarrassment of these unfortunate social situations (silence, vibrate or shutting the damn thing off is not an option for one so esteemed), she's decided it would be gear if one could wear one's phone on one's wrist. The phone rings and with the flick of the wrist and a simple "talk to me" one is able to annoy innocent bystanders with incessant talking even quicker. Gee, thanks.

When I pointed out that Dick Tracy has had such a device for years, (we all know where that's gotten him--a crappy Hollywood bomb with Madonna and Warren Beatty) she accused me of being a smart ass.

Ouch.

I then told her about my idea for an invisible jet.

The laws have changed

It's funny the way life happens. Actually, that's not true. It's usually pretty darn depressing the way things turn out but I suppose that's neither here nor there for my purposes right now. Just last night I was chatting with Seth about all manner of things. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Seth informs me that he thinks his mother (KW, to longtime readers) is possibly a meth addict. As I already presume most of my close acquaintances are using various mind-altering substances at any given time, I did not ask for proof. Nevertheless, he provided proof for this particular pudding: her teeth are falling out.

Not being up on the specific side-effects of tweaking, I had to take him at his word. In an overabundance of caution I have already contacted the folks from the A & E's show, Intervention. We all want to be on TV. Getting there on the back of circumstantial evidence of the drug addiction of one of my closest friends is as good as any, says I.

But in a staggering display of the divine omniscience of God, knowing that I would be writing the above words this afternoon, He saw fit to have me lose a tooth of my own. Or at least part of a tooth. Oh, God. You rascal.

Though I practice good dental hygiene with regular brushing and occasional flossing, I've been blessed with the teeth of the average Britain circa 1908. (Apologies for the lazy, obvious British teeth joke) To the best of my knowledge there is not a single tooth in my head that does not have at least one filling. Some have multiple fillings, which is really quite sexy when you think about it. I'm not really sure why but it just is. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

What all this means to you, dear reader, is probably nothing. Sure, I may get another post out of it if my completely competent dentist accidentally drills my gum, or I hear a particularly annoying song on the office sound system. Hopefully that won't happen.

This is the second occurrence of a tooth breaking off all of sudden. And though I'm quite certain I'm not currently using meth, all this tooth decay does have me wondering just what's up. I suppose the 5 gallons of Mountain Dew I use to wash down the multiple packs of Oreos each day probably don't help. Oh well.

Nevertheless, it has gotten me to thinking about checking into false teeth or at least some badass grillz. Pretty much since I first started seeing them on my fave ballers, I've always thought that was an avenue I'd eventually be heading down. Not really wanting to get street cred through that whole prison route, I figure dropping a few benjamins on some gold plates would do the trick. I know it's popular to get something really street engraved on one's grillz--high rolla, thug 4 lif or what have you--but I don't really think that's my personality. I'm pretty hard, understand, maybe even occasionally thug. But 4 lif just seems a little much. I don't know that I have that much determination or stamina. So instead I think I'll probably just get "I ♥ friends" across the top and maybe two hands clasping across the bottom.

Or maybe I'll just get the dentist to pull them all and accept a life of gumming oatmeal and weeping silently.

Decisions, decisions.

Hand me the crayons instructions, please

I had presumed that the highlight of last week would be the arrival of Baby Zeigler since it's not too often we get additions to our family. I'd like to think that's more to do with being the perfect size for global domination. Of course, we may be such awful people no can stand to be around us for very long. That's probably a judgement others ultimately will have to make.

Anyway, while the whole Zeigler episode was quite grand, I was pleasantly surprised to get back to work and find that it was time for a little sprucing up around here. Not sure if the powers-that-be found some extra scratch in the sofa cushions or it was just a touch of spring fever, but upon my return, I found approximately 32 painters gathered around the windows, doors and overhangs doing some touching up.

Ordinarily this is not really the type of thing I pay much attention to. I appreciate the building looking nice and take pride in gleaming columns and such. How it gets/stays in such condition is not given much thought. Sort of like hot dogs. I enjoy them and am grateful for the workers who provide that frank goodness but I need not see what's behind the curtain. I think I have sufficiently mixed enough metaphors to move on.

So these painters did their thing and seemed to do it quite well. Trimming, etc. is indeed much brighter than it was this time last year. I've no idea how much we paid them but I suppose we tossed in a little extra to get the deluxe treatment. That additional spending bringing all manner of song and conversation in addition to stellar painting.

Not really expecting a breakdown of the new Lars Von Trier flick, I can't say I was entirely surprised when the topics ranged from women/men and sex to men/women and sex. Unfortunately for me our painters seemed to forget that the window that separated them from me wasn't soundproof so I got some fo the good suff. On a Friday night, such talk is no doubt hot, hot, hot and somewhat important to the hard-working man/woman painter (yes, they were co-ed), but unless you're beautiful/famous I'm fairly certain no one really cares about your particular situation as much as you. Certainly not me on a Thursday afternoon.

Madeline across the hall got it even worse since, unlike me, she actually keeps her window blinds open. In addition to the bawdiness, she also got an eyeful of butt crack and the physique only the old lady of a painter can love. She was smitten.

Riveting though such discussions were, they were lacking something. Some ineffable quality that would push my enjoyment over the Zeigler peak. In short, a song. My unsent prayers were answered when suddenly I hear "She's My Cherry Pie" from outside. And then again, "She's My Cherry Pie". And then once more, "She's My Cherry Pie" Those of a certain age will recognize the lyrics as part of the chorus to Cherry Pie, a song by the thoroughly unnecessary hair metal band Warrant. For those lucky enough never to have heard the song in question, imagine the worst song you've ever heard, move up six notches on that list and pretend you're in a strip club.

20 years ago when this passed for popular, I didn't need to hear the version that was honed to a radio-friendly sheen by allegedly professional and somewhat competent musicians. Today, I certainly do not need to be bombarded with an off key holler of it by a dude, cancer stick dangling from his lip, painting outside my window. I take my work seriously, you know. I'm not one to crush anybody's dream so if my singing painter envisions a world on which he sits atop Mt. Rockulus I wish him godspeed.

But.

I would advise him to learn the lyrics. For you see although it's pretty hard to top the all-around simplistic genius of "She's My Cherry Pie", there are in fact, more lines to the song. Warrant were a lot of things--shitty, worthless, lame, kitten haters--but wordsmiths they weren't. Nevertheless, they were capable of stringing several words together to form lines, lines to form verses, etc. just to make sure the point got driven home with a suitably rollicking backbeat. The point being, as you've no doubt surmised, beloved all-American dessert as metaphor for 'lady part'; Shakespeare this ain't.

Now one might argue that the was the proper venue, version and performance for such a meisterwerk. That it deserved nothing less than to be mangled some 20 years gone by a fellow passing the time until his smoke break. But Warrant, like me, was proud of their cleverness and repartee. The writer in me found it heartbreaking. I almost wept. To see all that hard work and verbosity reduced to a bare bones hook seemed as criminal as it was annoying. Much like the crimes against music Warrant themselves had committed some 20 years previous. In fairness, I suppose that any still remember them 20 years on is some consolation. I can't imagine any readers hereof remember anything I write even 20 minutes after the fact.

Of course, people still remember Jack the Ripper.

Am I comparing Warrant to Jack the Ripper? Indeed I am.