The Barsky's Hit The Road A While Ago - OR - What I Wish I Did Over My Summer Vacation Rather Than Play POGs With My Ugly, Stupid Neighbors

The Barsky Family, Nina, Howard, Michael, Benjamin and Daniel Barsky, took a road trip in 1969. They traveled across the U.S. in a TravelAll and an Airstream trailer, from L.A. to Maine and back through Canada. I don’t know them, but I am jealous. I stumbled across this journal of the trip, mostly written by Nina, the wife and mother of the clan. It has been a source of inspiration to me; to drive to the horizon, to see the wonders of the road, to meet new people and amaze the ones I already know, to fall back in love with the world and to have… dare I say it… a family to do crazy things with. I hope you enjoy this as much as I have.



http://bigtrip69.blogspot.com/

PowerThirst

Why is this somewhat believable?



Powerthirst 1 is here.

There Is No "I" in "Sunday Supper", Or; Why Did The Duck Sauce Cross The Road?

Every Sunday, there is a meeting of the minds. It is at a friend’s house, it alternates which friend hosts, but they are the kind of friends that own matching plates, more than four wine glasses for each kind of wine, have coat racks, welcome signs and shoe mats, and have family pictures on the walls and guest bedrooms and untuned pianos in the living room. The kind of friends with dinner tables that have leafs. They are good friends, no matter what they own, and they own all this stuff. Every Sunday, my friends and I eat a home cooked meal, drink a lot of wine, and let the week behind us melt away with talk of movies, weather, theater, art, music and wine. At least that is what they say they used to talk about before I started coming to dinner. I have a way of obscuring the lines of decency with the lines of a more unrefined manner. As an example, the second dinner I attended was at an American Baptist Minister's house, he goes by the name Tripp, he’s the mandolin player in an Irish band that I’m in and here is a link to his blog. He and his wife hosted a dinner that included the following items; an appetizer of an assortment of eight exotic meats and cheeses with table crackers, then the main course of gluten free lasagna and flattened chicken breast in a light brown sauce with capers served with whole broccoli heads, and for dessert a chocolate frosted chocolate chip cake (also gluten free), all accompanied by more than seven bottles of wine throughout the meal. At one point, the conversation brushed the topic of the gentrification of Andersonville, my neighborhood. Someone noted how it was nice to see my neighborhood getting safer due to local businesses demanding police attention to gang fights in the alleyways. Someone else noted how they noticed that the shops were beginning to only focus on very specific items which seem almost useless to the general public; an exotic imported olive oil shop, a healing rocks and dream catcher store, a furniture shop called White Attic, which only sells tables and dressers that are painted white, designer pet food stores, and my (least) favorite, Sir Spa, a men’s only day spa, “Where Men Get Their Go”. Barf. The point was made that this type of lucratively expensive, obnoxiously specific type of business was driving out any sense of diversity in the community and forced rents up or renters out due to the construction of “Condo-Land, Chicago”. That’s when someone noted how hard it was to get American- Chinese food anymore. “Not real Chinese, there are restaurants serving Authentic Chinese Cuisine everywhere. I’m talking about the take out stuff that comes in folded paper boxes with fortune cookies and plastic packets of duck sauce and chop sticks that give your tongue splinters. Where everything comes with an order fried rice, no matter if you want it or not. You know, the kind you order by memory.”

And this, my friends, is when I chimed into the conversation.

I’ve been living in Andersonville for three and a half years and I’ve watched it change. I’ve had to move out a huge $900, two bedroom apt with a huge dinning room and an even larger living room with tons of natural light, where heat was included and there was a roof deck and back porch. It was converted into $475,000 condo units. I got the first option to buy a unit due to the fact that my apt lease was being broken. I passed it up but not without snickering at the fact that I had been living in a half million-dollar condo for over a year. I’ve seen the building since they renovated it, there are two bathtubs in each unit and each of those bathtubs is about four feet long. My 6’4” body and I preferred the old six-foot cast iron tub with the lion feet and wrap around shower curtain to the two “foot baths” that replaced it.

But, alas, the point that I just made here was not my response to the conversation at the dinner table.

I have seen the shops in Andersonville change from that of a cute little Swedish neighborhood, to that of a fun loving 'lesbian response to Boys-Town' neighborhood, to what it is now; an affluent, mostly white folks, extra-starch, dry clean only, now-that-I-have-a career-I'm-too-busy-to-be-an-activist, "Hey! You just hit my bumper while you were parking!", small-dogs-wearing-sweaters-in-the-summertime, Christmas-decorations-up-before-Thanksgiving, I-don’t-stop-for-pedestrians-because-I-drive-a-BMW-SUV-with-GPS-and-XFM and-I’ll-honk-at-you-if-you-cross-infront-of-me, gay friendly... but not too friendly, prudish, uptight, over polished, uninviting, materialistic community complete with expensive restaurants on every corner, condos down every block, with fences around every tiny front yard, and people who don’t say hello, with all the day spas, coffee shops, tax offices, investment bankers and furniture stores than you can shake a stick at, and I can shake a stick rather well, thank you very much. And, of course, every business has a “Please turn your cell phone off while shopping with us” sign on their door.

But this isn’t what I talked about at the dinner table either. What I said after someone mentioned the lack of take-out Chinese in Andersonville was…

“That reminds me of a joke. A small, old Chinese man says to his wife as they are lying in bed one night, ‘How bout a little 69?’ And his wife says, ‘Why you want Chicken and Broccoli now?’”

Super Pissed Off

Last Night's Fun

It’s another Friday night and I got nothing going. So I’m doing what I did on New Years Day; cleaning my apartment in random, spastic bursts, while writing down some thoughts and listening to a random mix of music that includes everything from INXS to Otis Redding to Public Enemy to Shostakovich. I know what is going to happen tonight, because it is just like New Year Eve. I’m going to be cleaning the bathroom with some previously-unknown-to-me passion for cleanliness and grout free bathroom tiles and, just at the climax of Dark Side Of The Moon, just about twenty minutes before midnight, the ajax covered toothbrush I’ve been using to clean the hinges of the bathroom mirror will get tossed into the pristine blue water of my spotless and sparkling toilet bowl and, like an abrasive-cleaner-covered, attention-depraved janitor from hell, I will descend onto the dive bars of Chicago armed with a blue rubber glove, toilet scrubber and a bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles. Until then, I will alternate writing a sentence and Mop-and-Glowing my living room. At midnight on New Years, I was three sheets to the wind thanks to a warm 11:45 pm welcome the bartenders gave me with Jameson and Jim Beam, and the PBR that was basically thrust into my hand upon entering, and the multiple shots from the plastic bottle of Mango Vodka that the bar owner dusted off and decided to give to the revelers at midnight. Some one was making newspaper hats, tons of newspaper hats, and everyone was wearing a newspaper hat. The really wild thing was that each of those hats was a totally different style. There were sailor hats and waiter hats and dreadlock hats and dunce caps and top hats and captain hats and pirate hats and pope hats. I didn’t know there were that many varieties of paper hat, this guy was prepared. There was a young couple dressed in shiny black leather jackets and pants, with jet-black hair and thick black eyeliner (the guy was wearing more than the girl), doing interpretive dance to Auld Lang Syne, which involved flopping around on the floor of this dive bar like fish out of water and then knocking over some drunk people doing shots of Mango Vodka, then striking a disco pose and finally making out on the pool table. That night was good, unpredictable, down and dirty fun. The kinda stuff you just can’t make up and it was the kinda night that you hope to have once in a while. I just finished doing my dishes and washing the kitchen counter while listening to Tom Wait's The Piano Has Been Drinking,when my buddy, DA called. It’s only 11:22pm, but that’s close enough. Let’s see what tonight brings. Cheers.

To the LINKS!

If you like me, if you trust me, then follow these links and digg them.

1) David Sherman's new music video, "If I Were President." He's a great musician, and he picks up the bill when we go to breakfast. I'd vote for him.

2) An addictive vocab game called Free Rice. My pops maxes out at level 51. I'm no where near as good but like going down to level 1 and defining the word, "chair."

3) Ask a ninja. Really, the name says it all.

4) Despair.com, my favorite place to shop and live. Someday I'm gonna cover my office with the motivational posters. Sure to be a cult classic

5)And, finally, a list of members of the coleus plant family, offically named Solenostemon scutellarioides.

Cheers

Hats Off to the Holidays

I like presents. I have always liked presents. I like getting them, and I like giving them. Of all the kinds of presents that I like, Christmas presents are my least favorite kind of presents. I don’t like Christmas because you don’t have a choice about it, you just have to give presents and if you don’t give presents, you are a scrooge… or an asshole. That being said, I still like presents. I still like getting them, and I still like giving them. A monkey-head car air freshener and a box of evil duck band-aids was a present I once gave to a girl I was courting. A big slab of thick sliced bacon was a Chanukah present to one of my non-Jewish friends; a Kosher gift to those who love bacon and aren’t Kosher. I once gave a second grade class a plastic penguin and most of my first houseplant. I even gave the worst boss I’ve ever had, a pillowcase with a picture of me looking a touch mentally unstable, a bit chemically unbalanced, a little nuts. Right above my face, it read “Sweet Dreams!” I wanted it to give her nightmares, night after night after night. She laughed and foiled my plans by, upon receiving this pillow case, immediately giving it to the girl I later gave the monkey air freshener to. I guess neither of those gifts worked out the way I wanted. I’ve gifted books and music, wine and flowers, shoes, coats, sunglasses and scarves, to all types of people for all kinds of occasions. I really like presents.

My brother, Adam, and I have a little ritual with our gift giving. Our gifts to each other must amuse both the gift giver and the gift receiver. I think I unknowingly started this ritual as an eight-year-old. I bought a dinky $1.99 soccer ball key chain and put it in the biggest cardboard box I could find in out basement. I filled the box with foam peanuts and bubble wrap and put the key chain at the bottom. It took a whole roll of wrapping paper to cover the refrigerator box I used. I think the card said something like, “Good things come in small packages.” This obviously wasn’t a small package, or a good gift. By the time he found the key chain, there were peanuts all over the floor and he looked at me with a tiny key chain in his hands and a look on his face that said, "what the...?" And so it began. I had given him an annoying prank present that wasted more raw materials and created more of a mess than the idiots in the parking lot of a Phish show could creat (I hate Phish), and I thought it was hilarious. Years later, he got me back and it solidified our little ritual, the traditional brotherly giving of gag gifts. At this point in my life, I have whole-heartedly, and almost tenaciously, latched onto it.

The tradition really took its current shape one Christmas when Adam was in Scotland while the rest of the family had gathered to celebrate together in Vermont. He had mailed a package with gifts to each of the three of us. He might have given my mother a framed photograph that he had taken, and it's possible that he gave my father a book about Scotland. Those would seem like appropriate gifts for my brother to give to our parents, but in all honesty, I've totally forgotten what he gave to them. But I will never forget what he gave to me; a mullet wig. I big, black, tangled, itchy mullet wig. The card read, “To My Redneck Brother. Yeeeehaw!” On the box, which was a bag, there was a picture of a guy with bad teeth wearing a plaid flannel shirt and overalls, chewing on some hay and drinking a can of beer. I promptly donned my new coif, stuck out my jaw, slapped my knee, slapped my boot, slapped my imaginary pregnant wife, Amber, then slapped her sister, Crystal, and started tromping around the house talking like a hillbilly. “Christmas is saved, God-damn-it-all!” Adam had hit the nail on the bulls-eye of the donkey-tail with this present. And so it continued.

For my birthday, some years later, when I was living and working in downtown Boston, he gave me a camping thermos that could keep coffee hot for hours while being exposed to the most extreme cold conditions; a tundra proof coffee pot. It came with a shoulder strap... you know, for traveling. There were three Dunkin' Donuts on my ten minute walk to the subway. There were also two Dunkin' Donuts across the street from my office in downtown Boston. In fact, there wasn’t a street corner within the Commonwealth of Boston from which you couldn’t see at least four of those distinct orange and pink logos. Dunkin' Donuts are as commonplace in the Commonwealth as people with bad attitudes; you can’t flip the guy off in the car next to you for no reason without practically running into one. Point being, I was constantly surrounded by fresh brewed, liquid-frickin’-magma, melt-your-soul-it’s-so-damn-hot coffee, but now I had a way to keep coffee hot for my next ascent up Mt. Kilimanjaro, and it had a shoulder strap... you know, for traveling. Later that year, I gave my brother, who works in the wilderness for months at a time, a fancy fountain pen that would only have broken and covered all his possessions with ink had he actually brought it out on the trail with him. He, knowing this, left it at my parent’s house without ever opening the box, let alone filling the pen with ink. For my birthday last year, he and his fiancée, Kassy, gave me a one-gallon jug of Tabasco Sauce. I laughed for a good hour when I opened that present. The expiration date says 2009. I’m about an eighth of the way into it. I’ve got some work ahead of me. I have a picture of it on my cell phone to prove to people how cool Adam and Kassy are.

This year, my folks and I flew down to the Grand Canyon to celebrate the holidays with Adam and Kassy on their home turf. The plan was for the five of us to celebrate Christmas together and then meet Kassy’s parents who were flying in the next day. It was going to be the very first time anyone from either family had met the other. We were all a bit nervous about this, especially my brother. My parents embarked on this trip at 4am Eastern Time. They had to drive from Vermont to the airport in New Hampshire, fly to Chicago to meet me, the three of us would then fly together to Albuquerque, then Phoenix, only to drive five more hours in a crappy rental Pontiac to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, dodging elk all the way. Our plane landed, the car was there and red and crappy and, after a long drive with a quick recharge stop at Denny’s for Moons Over My Hammy and a chat with a jaded waitress who was originally from Maine and hated Arizona or at least the Denny's there, we reached the Grand Canyon, or as my brother calls it, “The Big Ditch.” We got in at 1am, Mountain Time. My parents had been traveling for twenty-three hours. They have never been to China, but that is how long it would take to get there. Maybe next Christmas.

Regardless
“This year, our Christmas gifts to each other will be spending the holidays together after so many years. We don't need to buy things for each other. This trip is gift enough.” This is what each member of my family, including me, said at some point during the planning of this holiday reunion on the rim. We made that single rule together, everyone agreed on it. Then we all broke it individually.

These were my Christmas gifts to my family.

This is what we did with them.

And this is the Obsquatch-Theoman-Sherbald Memorial, known as Mount Big Ditch; commemorating the 2007 alliance between the United Obsquatch Rebellion, the Holy Embassy of Kassy, and the People’s Republic of Adam. Behold it’s glory.


The bottom line of this story is that the hats were a big hit. The other good news is that Adam and Kassy are still going to invite me to the wedding, even after I gave both of Kassys parents, Deedee and John, their own present. I gave John a plastic king's crown. He is honestly the Pork King in my book. I gave Deedee a pink, sparkly cowboy hat. Now she could drive the tractors and combines around the farm in style; pink, sparkling, cheep plastic style. At one point, she hinted that she should put on some "hot pants" and make Adam some money. That just floored me. Although I doubt any of those hats will ever be warn again, there was a beautiful two hour time span where the Village People were nothin' compared to us. Happy Holidays.

Why I Hate The Holidays

George C Scott is one of my favorite actors. He is highly accredited, having won Oscars and Emmys and the like. He is the epitome of intensity on screen. He is a rock, he is an island. He built this city, he built this city on rock and roll. I didn’t really notice him until I saw Dr. Strangelove Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb. In this very dark comedy, he plays a military advisor to the President during a cold war nuclear fallout / doomsday scenario. At one point, he pretends he is a B-52 bomber and “whooshes” around the Presidents situation room, bombing the Russian countryside with reckless abandon. Although pretending to be a B-52 bomber is fun, this is not why I like George C Scott. It is not his gruff sandpaper voice, or his wheezy laugh, although I do always try to imitate that laugh whenever I have a sore throat, which might be the only good aspect to being sick, you sound like George C Scott when you laugh. It’s not the awards that he has won either. The reason I really like George C Scott is because of his monster mutton chop side burns as Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Those things are B. A. D., bad I tell ya’. And not “Michael Jackson Bad,” or “Gleaming the Cube Bad,” or any kinda bad where you don’t know right away how bad something is until you upset some delicate internal balance and release some pent up monster that takes the law into their own hands before realizing the follies of their ways and ends up crying in a corner. That’s not the kind of badness that these sideburns exude. I’m talking about blatantly, out-right, in-yo-face, obviously-gonna-mess-you-up-at-any-given-second-for-no-particular-reason bad. Samuel L. Jackson bad. Sgt. Bosco “BA” Baracus bad. Shaft in Africa bad. Dolph Lundgren bad. George C. Scott’s mutton chops are the definition of bad. If those bad ass mutton chops were a person, and you accidentally bumped into the mutton chops’ parked car, and he saw you do it from inside whatever store a personified mutton-chop being would shop at, you’d get your butt kicked. Those things are bad.


Why do I care so much about George C Scott’s side burns? Because I have no choice. They demand attention. It’s the holidays and I will see those bad mofo’s over and over for the next few weeks as every TV station plays “A Christmas Carol” and “How The Grinch Stole Christmas” and “Jingle All The Way”. I like George C Scott, but I didn’t want to see him and his bad mutton chops out of the corner of my eye while I was sipping gloog at the local pub after a long day of work. You have to be prepared to see mutton chops that bad, and I wasn’t prepared. As a result, the friend I had gone out for a drink with thought that I was being a jerk and went home. Thanks a lot, George. You and your bad ass mutton chops pissed off my friend, not me. That’s why I hate the holidays.

My Buddy The House Plant: A Soliloquy

This is my obsession. This is my harem. These are my spirit guides. No wonder I’m so flapin’ lost. Get a freekin’ GPS system, stupid spirit guides.


Calathea Ecuadoriana

This persnickety temptress of the night is one of my most recent acquisitions. Possibly the hardest plant in the lot to care for, Calathea has a tendency of letting her lowest, youngest, most naïve leaves die off without even a hint of remorse or regret. No matter how I try to nurture her, the slaughter continues. Even if these smaller tendrils hold nothing in their little plant hearts but love, and dedicate their whole existence to Calathea's impromptu whimsies and fancies, they scarcely stand a chance against her wrath. It seems a game to her, a cruel and manipulative rouse meant to provoke some drastic action, some dire accomplishment, but I know not what she wants of a wretch like me. As I cut away the rotting corpses she leaves at the base of her sacrificial temple (aka, the pot that the plant sits in), I can’t help but be taken in by her majestic beauty. The pinstriped pattern of her leaves, her crushed velvet texture, her slow, sodden pleads for “more water, more water” are too much for my weak will. She has beguiled my heart and I am nestled deep in rapture, in awe of her power. I offer all I can to her; only in the finest pottery will she sit, only resting in the most nutrient rich potting soil shall she grow, only of the finest filtered city water my kitchen spigot will offer does she drink. And of her perch, one could wish none higher or better lit; with sweeping views of the neighboring Thai restaurant and the corner day spa, with it’s neon sign of a smiling sun, continuously beckoning passers-by to escape the brutal winter air and indulge in the decadence of an electronic bed made of sunlight and cancer. What being of this Earth would renounce such handling? Such tenderness? Such an attentive servant? I beseech her; “Tell me what you desire, and I will search the world of it for you!” But she remains silent and the death drums continue and the leaves fade and wither and die away as they have every night and will continue forever more. And now I sit, alone in the dark, in my penance, my reparation to her. All my possessions I bade her take of me, and still she scowls upon my meager existence. Oh, tainted heart, will you not beat once more? Is twice thrust upon the alter of love, lust and bile too great an extent of one man’s witness? I beg you, heed my warnings and be wary the temptress of the night, the one they call Calathea.

Bearhead Performs 11/9/2007

Do you like your face? Do you want your face to be noticed by more people? Do you especially want your face to be noticed by cool people? If you answered “YES” or “NO” or “WHY THE HELL AM I READING THIS” to any of those questions then I have a simple 3 step program that you need to follow.

Step 1: On Friday, November 9th, bring your face and any of your cool friend’s faces to Frohmans at 1316 N Western Ave, in Chicago. Be there before 10 o’clock.
Step 2:Point your face at BearHead as we take the stage for the…very first time, ever, in the history of the world.
Step 3:Have your face melted by the ensuing sonic madness and sheer facial-blow-tourch-osity of our premier live performance.

Join us as we publicly and shamelessly give birth to Zach's 3 year old brain child. Here's what he had to say about Frohmans and the Gig.
"Frohmans 1316 N Western (1 block north of Division on the west side if the street), 10pm, 6bucks. RaceCar Melody HEADlines at 11, doors at 8. 80 people is the max for this small intimate rock and roll joint. In the future, Frohmans will be the site of the $20 dollar all you can drink rock and roll show....it will be awesome.

We are also rocking at The Mutiny , 2428 N Western (Western and Fivision, across the street from Quenchers) on Tuesday the 13th for Free!!!! Cheap ass beer at this infamous rock n roll bar, Styke Team opens and Sound Writers play second. Show starts around 8ish. More info later.
Love, Zach"
So, people be good to your face and give it what it wants, which is obviously BearHead.

My Buddy The House Plant: Don't you come around these parts asking those kinda questions, cause I'll slice ya face up.

This is my obsession. These are my scapegoats. They are part of a small group of living things that don’t say, “Your life is a sham of a train-wreck, Obsquatch. A real train wreck involves a lot less alcohol.” Thanks for being there for me, house plants.



Coleus: Gays Delight
Family:

The Notorious Coleus Family, no connection to the Pointer Sisters

Nomenclature:

Yes, Gay's Delight is it’s official name, and not a day goes by that it doesn't piss GD off. Being the strong, silent type, Gay's Delight has been known to break the legs of those who ask him for fashion advice.

Fun Facts:

Gays are actually not that delighted by this strain of Coleus. In fact, the overwhelming majority of gays that were polled (1 out of 1) were exponentially more delighted by an assortment of flavored vodkas.

Interests and Hobbies:

Chainsaw Art, Knife Fights, Leather Shoe Repair, Interrogation with a Tire Iron and Calligraphy.

Coleus: Sloppy Painter
Family:

The Notorious Coleus Brothers

Name:

“Sloppy Painter” is actually an alias for this variety, as it is now wanted by the Feds for a rash of bank robberies in Southern New Jersey in early 2006. Known as "The Slop Man" within the inner circles of the Coleus Family, this variety is known for it's colorful green-in-purple leaf coloration and it's unmistakable short temperment.

Favorite Color:

“Whatcha looking at, ya pin head?”

Favorite Food:

“I aughta kick you in the teeth”

Favorite Movie:

“Hey Frankie! Come over here and put some pain on this scumbag!”

Favorite Music:

“Now get outta here, ya good for nothin’ punk.”

BeHold BeArhead

BEARHEAD

I've joined the "tour de force" that is Bearhead, a once solo project of my buddy Zach, now a skull vibrating sonic wrecking ball power trio. Of all the projects I've been in, my projects with Zach have always made me bleed the most. We are gearing up to unleash Bearhead upon the masses. Check out the bearhead myspace page, add us as your friend (we'll pick you up at the airport if you ask cause that's what friends are for) and then watch us musically rip your face off live. Here are some dates we've booked. Write them down, spray paint them on your ceiling, write it in lipstick on your mirror, carve them in you arm or use this as a way to finally make use of your iCalender.

11/1 we will be "rehearsing" in a plexiglass cube at the Museum of Contemporary Art at 1pm. This is part of an exhibit.*
11/9 we open at Frohmans (Western a block north of Division) doors at 8ish.
11/13 we headline at the infamous Mutiny, show begins around 9.

More details to come. Join the friend list and get all the news plus new ultra low-fi recordings that the concrete layers union says are a more than suitable replacement for a sledgehammer. Beware the Bearhead.

* later that night, a band that Zach got kicked out of, is opening for a band that I got kicked out of, is opening for someone else at Sub-T's. Dejected art kids vs unemployed emo musicians in a no holds bared cage match of flailing skinny kids.

My 4 Wheelin' Brother

My Brother is getting married next year. He and his future wife, Kassy, live a mind boggling lifestyle; a wild ride of hiking, camping, rock climbing, ice climbing, fly fishing, white water rafting, and together, they have been confusing dieters from around the world. They are vegans with a plus, the plus being a full compliment of pork. They live on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and get regular visits from Black Widow Spiders, curious Elk, Long Horn Mountain Goats and the occasional Bear. This life they lead is awe inspiring to me, mostly because I am currently sitting in my underwear at 1pm and am amazed by anyone who wakes up before 10am. Each of them have probably hiked a good 2-3 miles up a glacier or down the Grand Canyon before I've even slapped the snooze button for the first of 12 times. They posted this video on their wedding site. It's a high speed tour of her parents pork farm and I think it's one of the funniest things I've ever seen. Enjoy!

My Buddy the House Plant: This Lily's no Pansy

There’s no culture like Horticulture like no culture I know.

This is my obsession. These are my buddies. They mean more to me that you ever will. I am making trading cars for my house plants, this is the first.


Spathiphyllum: The Peace Lily

Name: Spathiphyllum
Pronounceable Name: The Peace Lily
Nick Names: Monkey Dick, The Green Peace Monster, Steve
Age: 5 1/5 years
Number of times re-potted: 5 (6 including a freezer bag, which isn't a pot)
Other facts:

This is the one that started it all, this exact plant. It was a gift from a heart-breaker who thought that my pig sty apartment needed something to brighten it up. Over the course of it's 5 1/2 year life, this Peace Lily has lived in 7 different apartments, has been split in half to be donated to a kindergarden class along with a plastic penguin, has traveled over 1600 miles in shotgun of my (down deceased) pick-up truck while planted in a plastic freezer bag of dirt, and has been brought back from the brink of death multiple times. At it's most meager moments, it was only 5 semi-healthy/semi-dead leaves in a large coffee mug which was it's home after living in the plastic bag. Now, in all it's glory, my Peace Lily has the largest pot in the house, is a whopping 3'6" and takes up an entire window by itself.

Interest and Hobbies:

Architecture, WWII documentaries, Mini Golf, Women with missing toes, Turkish folklore.

CLP #9: - Semicolons Are For People Who Don't Get Enough Fiber

Craig's List Project #9
Well, that was a surprise. The ladies that responded actually impressed me, they had complete thoughts and complete sentences and twisted senses of humor, just like me. I assumed that anyone reading my most recent post would be tempted to write back to me, they might write two or three sentences before realizing that it would 'be a gross miscalculation of self preservation to allow that many red flags to go unheeded.' That's what buzzes though my head when I think of talking to me. Actually, that only buzzes through my head after I've ordered and eaten multiple shinny, sweaty hotdogs that have been rolling for God-knows-how-long in the local 7-eleven's hotdog roller. Regardless. What I didn’t assume was that these people would be cool. Here are some highlights, now etched in e-stone for all freak shows to see.

“Your post gives me hope. [It] was so horribly refreshing that I couldn’t resist responding...that, and you are tall and lanky which I love.” At this point in my life, I’ve figured out that I could scream to the world that I am a baby-seal-beating, puppy-eating, Scientologist, Republican, clown-suit-at-the-gun-range-wearing scum bag and there would be someone winking back at me, whispering “I think that’s hot, baby.” I’ll never understand it. Onward! “Why am I on CL? For the same reasons you are. It’s easy to look at it as a last ditch effort or a place for all of the a-holes…” Ahem, very easy. “…but maybe not. I will be happy to continue this interaction after I am off of work and at home in my sweats and having my left-over Chinese food.” And just like that, I’m interested. It’s not the standard, “I’m smart and sexy and love to wear a silk teddy while making bacon for my lover’s breakfast at 3pm,” bullshit. That is the standard, right? This is a down to earth, “deal with it” type of response. The exact kind I wasn’t expecting. This lady has prioritized cold, left-over Lo Mein before me, and that’s a good choice. Being lower than Lo Mein means you can only go upwards, so I decided to write her back.

After sending her this picture of me head first in a snow bank, which is a result of Shawn's blizzard-shopping-cart-driving skills, while still reserving the right to “crush her dreams like I would a sandwich made with Wonder Bread,” she respond again. “Who has time to put with mornons? I don't. I will now go and fester in my cube, which is really more like an icebox. My office could double as a meatlocker. You are welcome to squash my dreams like wonderbread. I prefer [you] to tear off the crust [of my dreams] and roll it into a tiny ball of [crushed dream] dough.” Either she has called me a moron and is a butcher, or she thinks I’m a genius and likes playing with her food, or both, all of which turn me on in some strange way which I’m sure has an abbreviation in the Casual Encounters section. Regardless. I don’t think I’ll hear from her again, as I had to work in Rhode Island for the week and received this discouraging message while I was out of town and not responding to the world outside of my national touring wedding band. “Did I become a Wonder Bread Sandwich?” No. You are not an easily crushable, porous, starch based vending machine product that no one really wants but will buy in a heartbeat for $1.75 during lunch hour delirium. You are so much more than that. Onward!

Here is my favorite response.
Lady - "I have no interest in dating you, but i think i love you!"
Obsquatch - "I love that you love not dating me. We are so good not together and just perfect for ourselves. I'll always wonder about what we never thought about sharing with each other."
Lady - "I think that you are going to be the best relationship that I have never had! I think it is better for you to know now, that I drive a REALLY fast car, and I only date men that have lots of money and own a condo with a rooftop deck so i can watch the cub games. Thanks for trying though!"
You will plague my dreams, woman of my plagued dreams. Onward!

”Dear A-hole (as you've not included any sort of name)
I must say, your post def[initely] brought a smile to my face. Although, what a naughty trick to play! I just thought I'd drop a line and say thanks for making my otherwise soul sucking morning a lil more entertaining.

-[Expletive Deleted, and by expletive, I mean her name, which is Jessica]
P.S. As a fellow truck driver, I can sympathize with your loss...I can only imagine the heartbreak that would follow the loss of such a great machine.”

I wrote her back, stating that she, as a fellow truck driver, might be the only person who correctly perceives my new car as a ture and dear loss. By some mystery of time and space, Jessica and I started discussing alternative weight loss programs. Including the following:

The Inferno: Dante’s Diet. Like in the 8th circle of hell, dieters/falsifiers are forced to run in a river of shit while being whipped by demons for eternity. This targets the abs and the hamstrings while strengthening the core and gives you a great cardio work out. Loss of soul and eternal damnation are potential side effects.
The Prometheus Weight Loss Program: The Stolen Fire Of The Gods Burns Away Your Blubber Overnight. Eat everything you want, carbs, sugars, fats, everything! Never work out and still lose weight due to a giant eagle ripping out your digestive track every night while you are chained to a rock. Act now, supplies are limited. Call in the next 10 minutes and get a second intestine-eating, giant eagle free!
Drinkin’ Drano: A Time Tested Cult Classic Weight Loss Program Are you not a rocket scientist and still want to lose weight? Well, you don’t need a degree in aerospace engineering to understand the fluid mechanics of this program! Drink Drano, lose weight. A nice spin on the traditional laxative method.
Honestly, I came up with these by myself, Jessica didn't provide much support for my breakthrough weight lost ideas, but she was trying. And that’s what counts here, public humiliation. Onward!

Durring this whole process, my true love did reveal herself to me. Grace plucks my heartstrings completely unlike anyone else has ever plucked me before. She is elegant and feminine, yet stern and probably able to pummel me. We had a fleeting romance, sweet nothings posted on the wings of butterflies and then it was over. My “dirty skanky-ness” drove her from me and in a fit of passion and rage it was declared that, “you [meaning I, Obsquatch] be dumped, bizzo.” Grace, I’ll win your heart yet.