Fun fact! Did you know that if you take 1 percocet every 4 hours, as prescribed by your physician, for two weeks your body will become, for lack of a better word . . . And because it’s the word that should be used, addicted? Me neither! So, if your physician tells you to take 2 pills every 4 hours for 6 weeks, um, yeah. Don’t do it.
I have been taking percocet off and on for the past 6 weeks. Not at the dosage prescribed by my doctor, thank God. Nope, I’m a little soldier who attempts, if possible, to suck it up. So, I’ve been taking maybe 2 a day. I haven’t had much pain for the past 2 days so I haven’t taken any. And, hence, therefore and thusly I woke up after the 2 hours of sleep (5:30 - 7:30 AM) that I was able to get (you try sleeping in a neck brace and see how well you do) with wicked spasms in my arms. I, being me, went immediately to the bad place and thought that I’d managed to break my neck in my sleep…even though I hadn’t moved. But then I thought about the fact that I wasn’t in much pain so, really, what are the odds that a broken neck wouldn’t hurt? Slim to none. Second bad place I went to? Percocet addiction. DING! DING! We may have a winner. Apparently, when your body is trying to rid itself of the demon opiate it spasms. DT’s, anyone?
Now, after waking up and going to multiple bad places (they don’t call me Dark Fury for nothing, after all) I went and read my prescription hand out for the valium which I was also given in case, and I quote, “you start getting muscle spasms.” How, I have been wondering, would Valium help with that? Well, kids, Valium is used to treat symptoms of detox. So, either I’m supposed to be spasming as part of my regular recovery or they bloody knew that I would need them to get through tossing the Percocet. Great. I feel good about that. Wait…not so much. If they knew I’d be spasming during my recovery should they not have told me why? Or, if they knew I’d need them to get through pitching the opiates should they not have told me that as well? Apparently not. Super.
Let us be clear, I am not in any way a Percocet junkie. Opiates are good for pain management and that’s about it. How people get high off this shit I have yet to figure out. It cuts the pain in half and makes you go to sleep. Woo Hoo! Party time? Nope. Not so much. Sleepy time? You betcha’. And, as an insomniac, I can understand the appeal of that but, seriously, it only put me to sleep for about an hour. Big whoop. Not worth it. Tylenol PM is a better sleep aid. But, I digress! I took the Valium and now the spasms have subsided. Also, I may be able to catch a nap if I’m quick about it. I have a finite window for drug induced sleep as for some reason the drugs don’t work so well for me. I blame my hippie gene pool. My father smoked so much dope, dropped so much acid (even though he always had a bad trip . . . the man ain’t right in the head) and took so many pills (no, so many, seriously, he used to go and pick them out by color combination…as in yellow and blue make green so I’ll take 3 of each…what? We’re artsy people.) that I’m convinced that I have opiates and THC permanently embedded in my DNA making it almost impossible for me to get any sort of wacky effect from pain meds. Go, father, it’s your birthday. Hopefully his other kids have inherited this trait as it makes surgery so much easier. Of course, on the down side, he loved morphine and that crap makes me sick as a dog. Oh, well, we can’t have everything in this life.
So, whether or not you decide to follow your doctors orders, if ever you should , God forbid, have a need for pain management is up to you and, let’s face facts, if it’s a fatal disease or a truly horrific incident you shouldn’t worry about the addictive properties. But, as one pal to another, if you can do without it then I advise you to do so. Thus ends my PSA for the day. . . .
Of course, it may just be that after the surgery my muscles and nerves which were injured by the condition which needed fixing are regenerating or attempting in some way to right themselves….Who knows? But why go to the good place when bad is so much easier and I don’t need GPS to get there?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
“Look in a mirror and one thing's sure; what we see is not who we are.” Richard Bach
Brushing your teeth shouldn’t be a mine field. It should, in fact, have no emotion attached to it at all. Tooth paste on the brush. Brush up. Brush down. Brush side to side. Brush the back teeth. Brush the tongue to avoid halitosis. Be thorough because anything worth doing is worth doing well…especially when it helps you keep your teeth. Teeth are important. Important but not an emotional battle ground. No, brushing your teeth shouldn’t make you reevaluate your life. And it wouldn’t either if it weren’t for that damn mirror.
There it is. Morning and night . Every morning and every night of your entire life staring back at you. Showing you every change. Whether you want to see it or not. And, as you get older and your mother starts leaving bridal magazines around the house when you drop by and suggesting names for your future imaginary children while knowing full well that you don’t know, in point of fact have never known, any man you’d like to spend a month with let alone a life, the mirror can be a friend and a foe.
It can be a bastard setting you up for the big fall when you come home at two o’clock in the morning when your face is showing the wear and tear of a good time. Mascara streaks. Lipstick fades. Powder settles. And then, Mr. Demille, you truly think your mother is right. You’re not getting any younger. You are, as it happens, getting older every minute. This minute, this one right now, is the oldest you’ve ever been…until this minute…and then, of course, there’s this one. Well, it may be better than the alternative but it doesn’t feel so hot at the time. The mirror isn’t to blame. It’s just a reflection of what is. But, as every woman knows, there are good mirrors and bad mirrors. Mirrors that flatter and mirrors that solidly tell what may be the truth and may be a grave insult. And none of the good mirrors are on duty at two o’clock. You think the wicked witch in the fairy tale must have had a two o’clock mirror. You brush your teeth and you go to bed.
In the morning a mirror can be magic. It can reassure you that despite the sins of last night or a lifetime that you still look pretty damn good in the morning without makeup or even a hair brush. You wish you could take credit for it but you know that that’s all down to genetics. When do you ever remember to moisturize? You don’t. And, sin of sins, you usually, despite purchasing all manner of expensive facial cleansers, wash your face with regular soap. The horror! The only contribution you make is SPF protection on a semi-regular basis. So, clearly, the good moments have nothing to do with you and may, now that you think about it, be the mirror giving not you but your mother a compliment since she’s the one who gave you the good genes to begin with. But a compliment is a compliment and you’ll take it. And, after the two o’clock mirror of the night before when you thought that you would have to immediately check yourself into an upscale “spa” in Mexico City for a quick “freshening up” the eleven o’clock mirror is your pal and your coconspirator. It assures you that no matter what anybody might say, including yourself, you are not in fact the hag of the western world. That there are still good times to come and to be had. And that, if the Lord be willin’ and the crick don’t rise, you’ll have the face you see staring back at you for a good five more years at least. You believe in genetics and SPF. You can face the world. But first you brush your teeth because fresh breath is important.
There it is. Morning and night . Every morning and every night of your entire life staring back at you. Showing you every change. Whether you want to see it or not. And, as you get older and your mother starts leaving bridal magazines around the house when you drop by and suggesting names for your future imaginary children while knowing full well that you don’t know, in point of fact have never known, any man you’d like to spend a month with let alone a life, the mirror can be a friend and a foe.
It can be a bastard setting you up for the big fall when you come home at two o’clock in the morning when your face is showing the wear and tear of a good time. Mascara streaks. Lipstick fades. Powder settles. And then, Mr. Demille, you truly think your mother is right. You’re not getting any younger. You are, as it happens, getting older every minute. This minute, this one right now, is the oldest you’ve ever been…until this minute…and then, of course, there’s this one. Well, it may be better than the alternative but it doesn’t feel so hot at the time. The mirror isn’t to blame. It’s just a reflection of what is. But, as every woman knows, there are good mirrors and bad mirrors. Mirrors that flatter and mirrors that solidly tell what may be the truth and may be a grave insult. And none of the good mirrors are on duty at two o’clock. You think the wicked witch in the fairy tale must have had a two o’clock mirror. You brush your teeth and you go to bed.
In the morning a mirror can be magic. It can reassure you that despite the sins of last night or a lifetime that you still look pretty damn good in the morning without makeup or even a hair brush. You wish you could take credit for it but you know that that’s all down to genetics. When do you ever remember to moisturize? You don’t. And, sin of sins, you usually, despite purchasing all manner of expensive facial cleansers, wash your face with regular soap. The horror! The only contribution you make is SPF protection on a semi-regular basis. So, clearly, the good moments have nothing to do with you and may, now that you think about it, be the mirror giving not you but your mother a compliment since she’s the one who gave you the good genes to begin with. But a compliment is a compliment and you’ll take it. And, after the two o’clock mirror of the night before when you thought that you would have to immediately check yourself into an upscale “spa” in Mexico City for a quick “freshening up” the eleven o’clock mirror is your pal and your coconspirator. It assures you that no matter what anybody might say, including yourself, you are not in fact the hag of the western world. That there are still good times to come and to be had. And that, if the Lord be willin’ and the crick don’t rise, you’ll have the face you see staring back at you for a good five more years at least. You believe in genetics and SPF. You can face the world. But first you brush your teeth because fresh breath is important.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
"Compassion is not weakness, and concern for the unfortunate is not socialism.” Hubert Humphrey
"“In Obama’s worldview, our trust is in government not in God. A denial of how God designed and created our economic and social systems to actually work in the real world."
Minnesota Family Council PresidentTom Prichard
Why is universal health care such a scary concept? Is it because it’s sometimes called socialized medicine? Why is that frightening? Because it contains the word social which makes people think of Socialism which, in turn, makes them think of Communism…which is dumb.
If people without access to health care are given access that doesn't mean that somebody is going to goose step into your home and start taking your stuff…unless they’re a National Socialist*. . . in which case you have bigger problems than who’s taking your TV. So, calm down and start thinking of ways to fake a Prussian family tree. But! I digress. Universal health care, at it’s core, is a very Judeo/Christian concept. The strong take care of the weak in order to hopefully turn the weak into the strong some day. It’s a do unto others kind of a deal.
And this is why the "religious right" are wrong. They stand there in their two thousand dollar suits and pumps and talk about family values and Christian ethics while proudly fingering their WWJD? bracelets and, basically, flip the bird to the poor. Hell, to the middle class! And if, God forbid, you’re gay? Get right outta’ town!
No.
Seriously.
Go.
They don’t want you in their town. Unless, of course, you’ve been to a “reprogramming” camp or seminar and men /women no longer hold any sway over you…except for in public bathroom stalls…and then they’ll elect you to congress. I digress. Again. Sorry.
How can people say they abide by and have no faith in any teaching but those of Jesus Christ (Yeshua Bar Yoseph…look it up.) behave in this way? It maddens me. They quote and they quote and they spout their hate for every kind but our kind till their faces turn red. And, the funny part, if there is a funny part, is that these people have, in fact, studied the bible. All of their quotes come from the bible. But they skipped some important stuff.
Blessed are the peace makers: for they shall be called sons of God.
If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.
It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Love thy neighbor as thyself.
These are the rocks of the faith as I understand it. let’s face facts, if Jesus was alive today they’d want him deloused before being allowed into their eminent presences. And then, after he gave the sermon on the mount, they’d call him a dirty, hippie, commie Jew…well, they’d leave out the Jew bit. . . But, come on, they’d think it.
My point, if I may be permitted to believe I have one, is that a true person of God, any God, doesn’t turn their back on the infirm. They don’t pull themselves above the muck and then kick the people down who are trying to pull themselves up as well. They try to help those people. Why? Because that’s what a person does. Anything else makes you a schmuck.
So, the question is simple, my fellow Americans, do you want to help your fellow man? Or do you want to be a schmuck? And if you, just for a minute, look down at that shiny little bracelet of yours and actually think about the question I think you’ll find the right answer.
*FYI - not Socialists but Fascists
Minnesota Family Council PresidentTom Prichard
Why is universal health care such a scary concept? Is it because it’s sometimes called socialized medicine? Why is that frightening? Because it contains the word social which makes people think of Socialism which, in turn, makes them think of Communism…which is dumb.
If people without access to health care are given access that doesn't mean that somebody is going to goose step into your home and start taking your stuff…unless they’re a National Socialist*. . . in which case you have bigger problems than who’s taking your TV. So, calm down and start thinking of ways to fake a Prussian family tree. But! I digress. Universal health care, at it’s core, is a very Judeo/Christian concept. The strong take care of the weak in order to hopefully turn the weak into the strong some day. It’s a do unto others kind of a deal.
And this is why the "religious right" are wrong. They stand there in their two thousand dollar suits and pumps and talk about family values and Christian ethics while proudly fingering their WWJD? bracelets and, basically, flip the bird to the poor. Hell, to the middle class! And if, God forbid, you’re gay? Get right outta’ town!
No.
Seriously.
Go.
They don’t want you in their town. Unless, of course, you’ve been to a “reprogramming” camp or seminar and men /women no longer hold any sway over you…except for in public bathroom stalls…and then they’ll elect you to congress. I digress. Again. Sorry.
How can people say they abide by and have no faith in any teaching but those of Jesus Christ (Yeshua Bar Yoseph…look it up.) behave in this way? It maddens me. They quote and they quote and they spout their hate for every kind but our kind till their faces turn red. And, the funny part, if there is a funny part, is that these people have, in fact, studied the bible. All of their quotes come from the bible. But they skipped some important stuff.
Blessed are the peace makers: for they shall be called sons of God.
If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.
It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Love thy neighbor as thyself.
These are the rocks of the faith as I understand it. let’s face facts, if Jesus was alive today they’d want him deloused before being allowed into their eminent presences. And then, after he gave the sermon on the mount, they’d call him a dirty, hippie, commie Jew…well, they’d leave out the Jew bit. . . But, come on, they’d think it.
My point, if I may be permitted to believe I have one, is that a true person of God, any God, doesn’t turn their back on the infirm. They don’t pull themselves above the muck and then kick the people down who are trying to pull themselves up as well. They try to help those people. Why? Because that’s what a person does. Anything else makes you a schmuck.
So, the question is simple, my fellow Americans, do you want to help your fellow man? Or do you want to be a schmuck? And if you, just for a minute, look down at that shiny little bracelet of yours and actually think about the question I think you’ll find the right answer.
*FYI - not Socialists but Fascists
Monday, August 24, 2009
15 Books in 15 Minutes
Rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes.
1. To Kill a Mockingbird
2. Good Omens
3. A Christmas Carol
4. The Poetry and Short Stories of Dorothy Parker
5. Without Feathers
6. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale
7. The Selected Poems of Federico Garcia-Lorca Bilingual Edition
8. The Scarlet Letter
9. War & Peace (because I hate it so much)
10. Pride & Prejudice
11. Persuasion
12. The Color Purple
13. Daughters of Decadence: Women Writers of The Fin De Siecle
14. Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal
15. Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture
And, because you know I can’t just list 15 books…
Bonus Round!
16. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
17. The Handmaid’s Tale
18. The Ode Less Traveled: Unlocking the Poet Within
19. Right Ho, Jeeves
20. I, Claudius
1. To Kill a Mockingbird
2. Good Omens
3. A Christmas Carol
4. The Poetry and Short Stories of Dorothy Parker
5. Without Feathers
6. Maus: A Survivor’s Tale
7. The Selected Poems of Federico Garcia-Lorca Bilingual Edition
8. The Scarlet Letter
9. War & Peace (because I hate it so much)
10. Pride & Prejudice
11. Persuasion
12. The Color Purple
13. Daughters of Decadence: Women Writers of The Fin De Siecle
14. Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal
15. Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture
And, because you know I can’t just list 15 books…
Bonus Round!
16. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
17. The Handmaid’s Tale
18. The Ode Less Traveled: Unlocking the Poet Within
19. Right Ho, Jeeves
20. I, Claudius
Saturday, August 22, 2009
What Heaven Might Smell Like
First, you should know that I took pictures for this post. 9 pictures. From mise en place to finished product! Sadly, I can’t find the damn cord to connect my I-Phone to my laptop. Damn. Damn. That’s right, double damn! Oh, well.
I found this recipe on NPR. I haven’t tasted it yet but if Heaven has a smell it smells like this cake. Make it. Now.
Lemon Pound Cake With Rose Water Glaze
CAKE:
1 ¾ Cups All-Purpose Flour
1 Teaspoon Baking Powder
1 Teaspoon Baking Soda
1 Cup Unsalted Butter At Room Temperature
1 Cup Sugar
3 Large Eggs At Room Temperature
1 Tablespoon Grated Lemon Zest
2 Teaspoons Lemon Extract
1 Cup Sour Cream
Preheat oven to 350.
Grease & flour a 12 cup bundt pan.
Sift the flower, baking powder & baking soda together into a small bowl.
Set it aside.
In a medium bowl beat the butter & sugar together until light and fluffy. If you have a stand mixer (it’s the only way to fly!) put it on medium high, set a timer for 1 minute & let it rip. After 1 minute scrape down the sides. Set the timer for 3 minutes & let it rip again. Golden.
Scrape down the sides of the bowl.
Add the lemon zest, rind and eggs. Beat for 2 minutes.
Scrape down the sides of the bowl.
Add half the flower & beat on low speed just till combined.
Add half the sour cream & beat till combined.
Scrape down the bowl.
Add the rest of the flour & beat on low speed just till combined.
Add the rest of the sour cream & beat till combined.
Scrape down the sides.
Spoon (the batter is way too thick to pour) the batter into the prepared bundt pan. Smooth it out and make it as even as possible.
Bake for 35 - 40 minutes.
Test cake with cake tester/tooth pick/uncooked piece of spaghetti (what? It’s what my grandfather used…of course, we had a lot of spaghetti in the house.). If it comes out clean it’s done.
Let it rest for 10 minutes in the pan then turn it out onto the plate or stand you’ll be using. The plate or stand must, I repeat must, have lip.
GLAZE:
2 Tablespoons Rose Water
6 Tablespoons Fresh Lemon Juice
1 ½ Cups Powdered Sugar
Sift the powdered sugar into a medium size bowl.
Add the juice & rose water.
Whisk until there are no lumps & the glaze has come together.
Poke holes in the warm cake with a cake tester/tooth pick/uncooked piece of spaghetti (agin, what?!).
Spoon or pour all of the glaze over the cake.
It will look like it’s entirely too much but the cake will absorb it, I swear.
Leave it for 5 minutes.
Go back to spoon the glaze that’s left on the plate & in the center over the cake again.
Leave it for 5 minutes.
You thought there would be glaze to spoon over it again didn’t you? Wrong! It’s all basically absorbed.
Done, chief!
Let the cake cool completely.
Sift some more powdered sugar over the cake.
Serve
Eat.
I found this recipe on NPR. I haven’t tasted it yet but if Heaven has a smell it smells like this cake. Make it. Now.
Lemon Pound Cake With Rose Water Glaze
CAKE:
1 ¾ Cups All-Purpose Flour
1 Teaspoon Baking Powder
1 Teaspoon Baking Soda
1 Cup Unsalted Butter At Room Temperature
1 Cup Sugar
3 Large Eggs At Room Temperature
1 Tablespoon Grated Lemon Zest
2 Teaspoons Lemon Extract
1 Cup Sour Cream
Preheat oven to 350.
Grease & flour a 12 cup bundt pan.
Sift the flower, baking powder & baking soda together into a small bowl.
Set it aside.
In a medium bowl beat the butter & sugar together until light and fluffy. If you have a stand mixer (it’s the only way to fly!) put it on medium high, set a timer for 1 minute & let it rip. After 1 minute scrape down the sides. Set the timer for 3 minutes & let it rip again. Golden.
Scrape down the sides of the bowl.
Add the lemon zest, rind and eggs. Beat for 2 minutes.
Scrape down the sides of the bowl.
Add half the flower & beat on low speed just till combined.
Add half the sour cream & beat till combined.
Scrape down the bowl.
Add the rest of the flour & beat on low speed just till combined.
Add the rest of the sour cream & beat till combined.
Scrape down the sides.
Spoon (the batter is way too thick to pour) the batter into the prepared bundt pan. Smooth it out and make it as even as possible.
Bake for 35 - 40 minutes.
Test cake with cake tester/tooth pick/uncooked piece of spaghetti (what? It’s what my grandfather used…of course, we had a lot of spaghetti in the house.). If it comes out clean it’s done.
Let it rest for 10 minutes in the pan then turn it out onto the plate or stand you’ll be using. The plate or stand must, I repeat must, have lip.
GLAZE:
2 Tablespoons Rose Water
6 Tablespoons Fresh Lemon Juice
1 ½ Cups Powdered Sugar
Sift the powdered sugar into a medium size bowl.
Add the juice & rose water.
Whisk until there are no lumps & the glaze has come together.
Poke holes in the warm cake with a cake tester/tooth pick/uncooked piece of spaghetti (agin, what?!).
Spoon or pour all of the glaze over the cake.
It will look like it’s entirely too much but the cake will absorb it, I swear.
Leave it for 5 minutes.
Go back to spoon the glaze that’s left on the plate & in the center over the cake again.
Leave it for 5 minutes.
You thought there would be glaze to spoon over it again didn’t you? Wrong! It’s all basically absorbed.
Done, chief!
Let the cake cool completely.
Sift some more powdered sugar over the cake.
Serve
Eat.
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Play's The Thing
As you all know (you do keep up with my life religously, don't you?!)
I've been doing some community theatre lately. I'm really quite
pleased to have gotten back into it. I am...big but coming in 5 4 3 2
I've been doing some community theatre lately. I'm really quite
pleased to have gotten back into it. I am...big but coming in 5 4 3 2
But! Being on stage, even a community theatre stage, makes it
extraordinarily hard for me to care about my job. I know. I know!
Everybody has to get the bills paid & I'm lucky to have a job where I
get to help people. Hell! I'm lucky to have a job! I get that. I do.
And, as long as I had absolutely nothing to do with the theatre in any
way, shape or form, I was content with that. Now? I'm a malcontent. I
don't want to be but, sadly, I am.
There's only one thing I ever wanted to do (OK, fine, when I was 3 I
wanted to be a paleontologist. So, sue me!). But, due to a long
boring, daft story, I, for lack of a better term, crapped out & let it
go. But here's the thing - I'm over all that boring daft idiot crap.
The past, as somebody once said, is prologue. I'm concentrating on the
next act. The kid is trying to get back on track...I don't know how
yet but I'm inching my way forward, feeling my way along in the
dark...and other cliched phrases as well!
So, let's make a deal! If you catch me back sliding give me a kick in
the ass (it's quite close to the ground so this shouldn't be
strenuous) and, in return, I'll try to give a crap about my day job.
Because, if this isn't love it'll have to do until the real thing
comes along. Sound fair? Keen.
Yours In Christ,
Dark Furt
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Three (3) Random Things
I’m trying to blog more frequently. I hope you appreciate this sacrifice on my part. You probably don’t though…you selfish bastards….
1 (one). Do Not Revisit The Past
On Friday night/Saturday morning I went to see an old (to me) movie. It was Evil Dead II: Dead By Dawn. Wow. I remember seeing it when I was a kid. My friend Julie and I would watch it all the time and laugh like drains. Needless to say it was not as we remembered it. Now, possibly, it had something to do with being drunk as a lord (that night not as children). But, generally, I think it just isn’t the same when you’re allowed to be watching a horror film, you’re not jacked up on all the sugar you can find and, oh, yeah! You aren’t ten anymore. Ah, well. It was still good to hang out with Julie and, bless her, she fell asleep so that I could make the let’s get the hell out of here call.
2 (two). Most Random Conversation Ever.
Yesterday I went to Burlington Coat Factory (Fancy!) to get some presents for my friend Elisa’s baby shower. While I stood in the longest line ever (always an issue at that place) I heard a voice behind me say “Excuse me.” I turned around and there was a rather lovely British gentleman standing there. He held up a mask and asked me “Would you say this is African or Asian?” I looked at the mask. “Asian.” I turned away. He then tapped me on the shoulder. “Well, are you sure? It was with all the African masks but it looks a bit Asian to me.” I looked at the mask. . . Again. “I believe it’s Asian. I may be wrong.” As I was turning I saw the made in sticker on the mask. “Especially since it was made in China.” I turned away. “Actually,” he said, “I believe that says Ghana.” I turned and looked at the made in sticker. Sure enough it was made in Ghana. “Oh, sorry. No glasses!” I turned away…yet again. “No worries,” he said, “where is Ghana?” I turned back to the Englishman, “Africa, I believe.” “So, the mask is African.” “Apparently.” I turned around. “So, excuse me,” he said. “Yes?” “What about these?” He held up the other two masks. “Would you say these were African as well?” I looked at the masks. They looked exactly the same as the first one. “I’d say they all come from the same place. Why? Is there a theme?” “Yes, there is a theme.” “Well, I don’t think anyone will notice if it’s wrong unless you’ve invited a lot of art historians and then, of course, there may be a problem.” I laughed. He laughed. “I don’t think I know any art historians.” “Then you’ll be fine.” “Do you think so?” Then it was my turn to check out. I completed my transaction and turned back to the Brit. “Yes, I do.” Then I walked away.
3 (three). Speaking Of Bad Movies….
I’m currently watching “Journey To The Center Of The Earth.” It’s crap. Absolute twaddle. But, the worst part? Brendan Fraser is going bald…quickly. And they’ve put him in the worst rug ever. It’s horrible. I can’t look away! It’s hypnotized me. I’m startled and confused by this piece of foolery. Brendan Fraser is, I think we can all agree, an attractive man. He will always be an attractive man. That is if he stops acting the fool and rips that rug off. Why can’t he/his agents/directors just accept the facts? The man is going bald. Big whoop. Did that hurt Bruce Willis? No. No, it didn’t. What hurt Bruce Willis? The bad hair plugs. There is a lesson there. Learn it.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tipping, It Ain't Optional
Short But To The Point
Folks, tipping is not optional (unless, of course, you receive crap service). And tipping doesn’t mean two percent. Or three. Or even five. For restaurant service you tip 15 - 20%. I don’t care what Rachel Ray does. She’s friggin’ wrong. . . as usual. For personal services (hair, massage, mani/pedi) you better tip 20 - 30%. Why? Because those people have to physically touch you. Also, you should tip them well because, who knows? Maybe next time they might just leave that peroxide solution on a few minutes too long. Perhaps your spine just won’t align properly. Possibly they may forget to clean that nail file. And, honestly, what‘s less expensive? Tipping properly the first time or buying wigs, chiropractic appointments and fungal cream? Do the math. Shocking, I know but, hey! This is America. You get what you pay for.
Also, gents, never cheap out on the tip in front of a woman. It’s a bad idea. It’s like trash talking your mom. Big red flag! Just a tip from me to you.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
So, Long Time No Blog...'Sup?
I apologize in advance. I promise to blog more tomorrow so that you can have a fun & frothy blog. However, in the mean time, I had some photos taken and I am not photogenic. This is not Earth shattering. This doesn’t effect my life in any major way. However, it does mean that every time I see a picture of myself I want to vomit up my lungs. Seriously. Because then I wouldn’t need to look at the picture anymore as I’d be in surgery (at minimum). Also, hopefully, the picture would be ruined by the lung goo. Sorry. That’s gross. But I think you got my point.
I think maybe I don’t know what my face looks like. Although, it should be said that in a few rare photos I do look like me. At least I look like I think I look…if that makes sense? Probably not. But, mostly, I look at a picture and think, wow. Is that my nose? Are my eyes that small? Are my lips that big? Good Lord! That’s not a forehead that’s an EIGHTHEAD!
So, why is that? Why do I recognize myself in some photos (even bad photos) but in most I could walk right past them & not know it was me unless I was told. I’d know they were related, obviously, but me? Nah. That ain’t me! That’s my aunt. That’s my cousin. That’s my ma. That ain’t me. Hu. Maybe it’s because we all look alike? And, from different angles, I look like different people?
Hu. It takes a village to raise a Fury. Perhaps it also takes a village to make a face. In that light it’s not so bad. In that light I can accept it. I still don’t like it but I accept it.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
It's My Birthday (Almost). It's My Birthday (Almost). We're Gonna' Party Like It's (Almost) My Birthday.
Dear Friends,
Tomorrow, the aniversary of my birth, I ask you all to party like it's your birthday. If you could also drink Bacardi like it's your birthday, I'd appreciate it. Ya' know? I don't give a fuck it's not your birthday. And neither should you!
So, on what may prove to be your un-birthday, jump around. Jump around. Jump up. Jump up & get down.
Yours In Christ,
Dark Fury
Tomorrow, the aniversary of my birth, I ask you all to party like it's your birthday. If you could also drink Bacardi like it's your birthday, I'd appreciate it. Ya' know? I don't give a fuck it's not your birthday. And neither should you!
So, on what may prove to be your un-birthday, jump around. Jump around. Jump up. Jump up & get down.
Yours In Christ,
Dark Fury
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I'm Not Sayin'...I'm Just Sayin'....
Um...awkward! But, hey, ya' don't ask ya' don't get!
If anybody is wondering what to get a certain special Fury on their shopping list (May1 is right around the corner, people...don't judge me.) might I suggest tickets to the DC Improv to see Brian Posehn?
Again, I'm not sayin'...I'm just sayin'....
If anybody is wondering what to get a certain special Fury on their shopping list (May1 is right around the corner, people...don't judge me.) might I suggest tickets to the DC Improv to see Brian Posehn?
Again, I'm not sayin'...I'm just sayin'....
Monday, March 16, 2009
Bad Jew, No Mitzvos For You!
I forgot Purim. This is not shocking. I am not, let us face facts, what anyone would call observant. Hell, I don’t even believe in organized religion. I mean, obviously, I believe it exists. I just don’t think it has anything to do with me. I don’t happen to think that G-d, omniscient and omnipresent deity that He is, needs you to be in a specific place at a set time to know you believe in Him. Call me wacky, if you will! I’m not a big proponent of prayer. Again, He’s omniscient (look it up) so He should know, well, everything. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not putting the knock on it. If you feel better after attending services or praying then go for it. I do, however, knock those who complain that G-d didn’t answer their prayers. Maybe He has bigger fish to fry (war, famine, plague…ya’ know, the big three). Maybe the answer was simply “No.” Who’s to say? I do know that I, personally, have been waiting on the right lotto numbers for years. So, get in line.
All that being said, Purim has always sounded like a fun holiday. I’ve never celebrated it. . . Except for hamantaschen. You have to love a religion that’s based on a system of fast and feast. We should be endorsed by Bulimia. But, that’s as may be. I never dressed up as Queen Esther. I never read the Megillah. Well, not for Purim. I have read it but just for fun. I know. I’m weird. I read Mishnah for fun. Don’t judge me, or I will turn this blog around & start quoting The Lubevitcher Rebbe! But, I digress. . . .
I like the story of how one woman, with the help of a few good meals, saved her people. It’s good stuff. She was a brave broad that Hadassah. Xerxes was not a man to annoy…just ask the Spartans. I, contrary to my mothers misguided opinion, would have lain low. That’s just me. In honor of my (probable) cowardice I close with the following atrocious poem (bit of a doddle, really).
When someone calls you a kike
then that is the time to strike.
When legions call you a Yid
go run and get yourself hid.
For it might be hurtful but it’s still true
that you’re just as dead when you’re martyred. Nu?
A (belated) Freilichen Purim, everybody.
All that being said, Purim has always sounded like a fun holiday. I’ve never celebrated it. . . Except for hamantaschen. You have to love a religion that’s based on a system of fast and feast. We should be endorsed by Bulimia. But, that’s as may be. I never dressed up as Queen Esther. I never read the Megillah. Well, not for Purim. I have read it but just for fun. I know. I’m weird. I read Mishnah for fun. Don’t judge me, or I will turn this blog around & start quoting The Lubevitcher Rebbe! But, I digress. . . .
I like the story of how one woman, with the help of a few good meals, saved her people. It’s good stuff. She was a brave broad that Hadassah. Xerxes was not a man to annoy…just ask the Spartans. I, contrary to my mothers misguided opinion, would have lain low. That’s just me. In honor of my (probable) cowardice I close with the following atrocious poem (bit of a doddle, really).
When someone calls you a kike
then that is the time to strike.
When legions call you a Yid
go run and get yourself hid.
For it might be hurtful but it’s still true
that you’re just as dead when you’re martyred. Nu?
A (belated) Freilichen Purim, everybody.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Rollin', Rollin', Rollin', Keep Them Wagons Rollin'!
I am officially moved into the apartment. And I will say this about the move - I will never, as G-d is my witness, move without the help of movers again. It's so bloody choice you wouldn't believe it (unless you too have used movers but then, obviously, I'm not speaking to you).
However . . . and I'm not here to judge . . . I'm just mentioning it . . . really it's fine . . . have you ever semlled something so foul that you're afraid it will stick to you? No? Just me? Fine. I'm the weirdo. What else is new?
In addition to all my stuff the movers left a BO stench that wouldn't die. Liv said it smelled like "old sweaty ass crack and feet." I believe that, though to my knowledge neither of us have ever sampled that particular perfume before, this is quite an accuaret description. I would just add that there was a wee drop of ten day old dead skunk in there but, then again, I have superior olefactory senses. But whatever the source, in the ass or the shoe, the reek of those gentlemen almost killed this Jew (sorry, I went a little Seusse). It was so bad that I had to immediately tell Liv, "hey, that is so not me!"
After they left I opened the windows. That didn't help. So, I Febreezed the entire apartment . . . including my own face. This seemed like a mistake at the time but I quickly realized that it was, in fact, the best idea I'd ever had. The smell, if such a force can be called a mear smell, is gone now and everything is fine. But it was a close call.
However . . . and I'm not here to judge . . . I'm just mentioning it . . . really it's fine . . . have you ever semlled something so foul that you're afraid it will stick to you? No? Just me? Fine. I'm the weirdo. What else is new?
In addition to all my stuff the movers left a BO stench that wouldn't die. Liv said it smelled like "old sweaty ass crack and feet." I believe that, though to my knowledge neither of us have ever sampled that particular perfume before, this is quite an accuaret description. I would just add that there was a wee drop of ten day old dead skunk in there but, then again, I have superior olefactory senses. But whatever the source, in the ass or the shoe, the reek of those gentlemen almost killed this Jew (sorry, I went a little Seusse). It was so bad that I had to immediately tell Liv, "hey, that is so not me!"
After they left I opened the windows. That didn't help. So, I Febreezed the entire apartment . . . including my own face. This seemed like a mistake at the time but I quickly realized that it was, in fact, the best idea I'd ever had. The smell, if such a force can be called a mear smell, is gone now and everything is fine. But it was a close call.
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