dreadcrumbs

Grotesquerie in Denial

I've never thought of myself as "gross." I don't wander around with snot smeared on my hands, I don't urinate in non-sanctioned receptacles, and I don't leave vomit on the sleeve of my sweater (I'm looking at you, Eminem. For shame.).

Though now that I'm thinking about it, I do recall a predilection in high school, during cold season, to offer my used snot rags to whatever friend happened to be nearby. Sometimes during lunch I would just casually place a snot laden tissue on someone's lunch tray while everyone was mid-conversation. I don't think anyone found it funny but me.

And since I'm plumbing the depths, I also remember a time in late adolescence that I was getting a lot of nosebleeds, and took the opportunity to use the tissue crammed in the leaking nostril as a pen, writing the word "blood" on the inside of the toilet bowl I had been using to drain my excess nose blood into. Worse still, it was in the public restroom at a church, and I left it, unflushed, for someone to find. So, yeah. Gross. And probably inappropriate. But I still can't help but chuckle when I imagine the baffled horror experienced by the person who inevitably found my scarlet potty-message.

So, alas, even though I use words like "alas," I suppose I must bow to the evidence (much of it in this very blog) and admit that I am, in fact, gross. Wannabe highbrow language does not a cultured person make, it seems.

Hm. I hate the word "wannabe." Feh. I disgust myself. I didn't think it was possible, but there you go.

Waiting for the Other Three Horsemen

So, in summary: My son got sick, my wife got sick, my son got better, my wife stayed sick, my son got sick again, my wife started to get better, I got sick. I suppose it is good that at least one (me) of my little family was healthy during Christmas proper, but having to be at work now, while diseased, really bites. I can't really concentrate enough to be truly effective, and can't really rest enough to recuperate.

And to compound the problem, I forgot to bring some sort of soft tissue paper product to use to blow my nose. It's interesting the things you consider blowing your nose on when you're desperate. I've found that tape and mouse pads don't work so well, but if you crumple up a sheet of normal printer paper, uncrumple it, and then repeat the process 15-20 times, you can create something that you might actually be able to wipe your nose with. The inside of your shirt also works in a clinch. I suppose the outside would too, but clothing with visibile smears of dry and not-so-dry snot on it tends to dramatically alter one's social standing. Not that I would mind being left off the list of invitees for this year's Debutante Ball, but still. It's all I can do just to keep the people at work believing the glistening trails on my desk and phone are due entirely to a localized snail infestation.

The Pants of the Sugar-Plum Fairy

I will be leaving the wasteland of the workplace today (Just for a few days. They haven't fired me yet). I believe I am one of the last to do so, as I can hear the clickety-clack of my keyboard echo in the vast emptiness of the labor hall. Everyone, save for a few people scared of their homes, is gone. I am morally obligated to stay because I exhausted my vacation with a little jaunt to England earlier in the year. I'll still leave early, though, if only to minister to a wife and son who have contracted some sort of non-fatal scourge that causes them to cough and moan a lot.

As such, there may be fewer updates here in the days to come. Alas, I will be stricken with the Dread Time Devourer of Yuletide. That Plague of Joy has no respect for blogs, nor indeed computers at all, so I doubt I will have much of a reprieve. Though I imagine if you are also drowning in the greens and reds of pine and blood holly, it is likely you won't be reading the blog, anyway. So, chin up. The holidays are great fodder for malaise, so there might be a future yet.

Little Man Eddie

There is a guy at work that looks like Eddie Munster. For those of you unfamiliar with the Franco-Prussian War allegory that was "The Munsters," Eddie is pretty much a kid with an old-school Dracula widow's peak. And there's this guy I see scuttling about the halls of my workplace that looks like him. About 4'5", 100 lbs, with short black hair that terminates in an equilateral triangle at the center of his forehead.

I don't think it's a fashion statement. And he isn't flamboyant in behavior, as all Eddie Munster impersonators I've known have been, so that's likely not his night job. It's hard to know whether to be sorry for him or not. I mean, hundreds, maybe thousands of the disaffected and geeky have spent good time and money trying to look like vampires. And this guy, he's just born with it. Sure, he's short, but still, hooray for him. Maybe on weekends he puts on the cape and make-up and has a good time creeping about the goth clubs.

But being disaffected and geeky myself, I am familiar with many of the behavioral tics of such dress-up people, and he doesn't seem to have them. I think he doesn't know. We all know people like that. The neighbor lady with the hair-sprouting mole, the bald guy in denial, the mustachioed female grocery clerk, anyone over 175 pounds wearing spandex (except superheroes). It's an uncomfortable experience seeing these people.

And so, because I don't want to feel uncomfortable and embarrassed every time I see this guy, I'm making up a backstory for him. His name is Vasilios, and he is the Greek Government's top spy.

Born to Gypsy-descended parents in Athens, Vasilios' growth was stunted when, at age 7, he drank three liters of lamp oil at his Uncle Esklepios' funeral. Because of this unfortunate mishap, Vasilios can still occasionally be seen trying to spit out the persistent taste of oil with a "Bu-Bleh!" noise. He was recruited into his Government's "Spartan Hammer" program after a particularly spirited performance as Puck in a neighborhood production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream."

Oh, be assured that his past is a rich one. He's a very interesting character, and not at all pathetic. One day I'll have to tell you about the full year he spent dressed as a panda, investigating the underground Bamboo Cult "Dark Hootenanny." Gripping stuff.

Pee Pot Pontification

Last night, as I paid the price for a late-evening repast of water with a side of ice, I was reminded that I hate the odor of standing urine. Fresh urine doesn't bother me that much as long as it comes from a healthy bladder and is well encircled by porcelain, but pee that has been sitting in a toilet or chamber pot for more than a couple hours creates a kind of stench cloud that I abhor.

And it isn't just disgust. It's less of a Mom -> Messy Room thing than it is a Vampire -> Crucifix thing. I am to aging pee pools as Superman is to Kryptonite. Or Green Lantern's ring is to yellow (Wait. Pee is yellow. Hmm...).

I mean, sure, standing urine is disgusting, but it also repels me, hissing (me, not the pee), from its vicinity.

And now comes the point where the question "Why are there standing pools of urine in his house?" becomes too strong to be ignored.

And, well, I think I'll just let it stand. The question, I mean. The possible answers your fevered brains might come up with are probably more entertaining than the truth.

The terrible, terrible truth.

Microstory Monday

The Kringle Embargo
Ever since Mom and Dad died, he's ignored me.
But I was good all this year. I was. No kidnappings. No poisonings. No live experiments.
I was good, you fat, arbitrary cur. And still you leave me nothing under the tree.
Curse you and your ridiculous beard, Santa. By this time next year, I'll see you dead.

Strength of the Bear, Speed of the Puma

One of the games (also known as "alienation tools") I used to play with play with prospective mates was the "What Animal Would You Be" game.

This usually consisted of asking the question, as I'm sure you suspect by now, "What animal would you be?" This would then be followed by discussion about the difference between what animal you want to be versus the animal you actually would be if your essence was somehow distilled and transformed. It was actually one of the better ways I've found to determine compatibility. If I got a blank stare, an emphatic "A horsie! I want to be a horsie!" or "A basilisk. I AM a basilisk," I knew this was not the woman for me.

I actually can't remember what Shannon, my current wife (AND ONLY! AND ONLY! FOREVER AND EVER!), originally said, since we've had the conversation several times over the years, and has become more about the idea of distilling one's nature into a beast than anything else.

It was always interesting to hear what other people thought I was, too. I've gotten cat, bear, horse, ape, and dog. Probably others. Nothing really cool. Usually bear. To people's credit, I am possessed of a vaguely ursine appearance, but that does go a little counter to the whole "distill your essence" thing. I mean, I don't even really like fish that much.

In any case, I now think of myself more as a cuttlefish. And no, it's not because they look like the offspring of an ancient evil, though it doesn't hurt. We just share a common soul is all. Wikipedia says cuttlefish "cannot tolerate abrupt changes in light levels, they cannot coexist with other animals, and rarely ever with other cuttlefish. All other animals of comparable or smaller size, including other cuttlefish, are instinctively seen as food."

Yes, my tentacled brothers. I understand you.

I am the Soul Bismark, Filled with the Jelly of Funk

Dancing is not my thing. Apart from wanting to protect people from that strange feeling of shock and disgust one feels when seeing a quarter-ton creature flail about with unaccustomed energy, I'm just not very good at it. When I tried out for OKLAHOMA! in High School (which is astonishing unto itself, since I can't sing. At all.), they taught all the would-be warblers a basic dance routine to see who could carry it off well enough to be in one of the dance numbers. I...well, let's just say it was uncomfortable for everyone. I did get cast in the show, based I think on the simple fact that those of my gender were not well represented, but I wasn't in any dance numbers. And any singing I did was mercifully "ensemble."

There was a brief period of my life (probably 1995-1996) where I was so desperate to establish marital prospects and flee the horrors of "The Singles Scene" that I found myself at dances and clubs. At such events, I did dance, sort of. The contortions and leaps I undertook really were more of a mosh pit for one than actual "dancing." Good exercise, though.

Given all this, it seems strange to me that I dance now more than ever. Never in public, but almost every night in my living room with my wife and two-year-old son. It feels a lot more tribal than anything I ever did in a club, especially since my son prefers to dance in an ever-repeating circle around a footstool, but maybe that's why I like it. No choreography, no moves, just improvised primal leaps and jiggers. Oh, it would probably still shock, disgust, or frighten onlookers, but my son seems to like it. When I don't fall on him, anyway. Tiny people are just too easy to squish. I'm glad kid bones are so rubbery. I wouldn't handle it well if something that weighed ten times as much as I do (like a truck) fell on me. I certainly wouldn't hug it and laugh afterwards.

The Avatar of Scorn

I want to relay a conversation I just heard between a technical support person who came to fix the computer of one of our business analysts. Because I want to protect the innocent, I will be calling the Technical Support person "Shaman," the business analyst "Supplicant," and the computer "The Totem."

Shaman: "I am here."
Supplicant: "Oh, thank you for coming, I am worried tha..."
Shaman: "Let me see The Totem."
Supplicant: "Yes, of course, here it..."
Shaman: "This is a Tiger totem."
Supplicant: "I guess so...I..."
Shaman: "I was told it was a Leopard."
Supplicant: "Is that a problem?"
Shaman: "YES, fool."
Supplicant: "Should I..."
Shaman: "Quiet. I am reading The Totem's aura."
Supplicant: "..."
Shaman: "Have you spoken any taboo words in The Totem's presence?"
Supplicant: "No, I..."
Shaman: "Have you sacrificed any rodents to The Totem?"
Supplicant: "No, no rodents."
Shaman: "I can see no problem with this Totem. Why have you lied to me?"
Supplicant: "I haven't...it...it just doesn't work."
Shaman: "If you're not lying, then the fault must lie with you. Have you been cursed by the blood of the dead?"
Supplicant: "No! Nothing like that!"
Shaman: "So be it. Cleanse The Totem daily with the sweat of the frog, and pray I do not have to return."

I went by later to find the business analyst systematically pressing the escape key in some bizarre attempt to purify her computer.

As it turns out, The Totem's hard drive just needed to be defragmented. I went ahead and helped her do that, and tried to explain what was happening in clear terms, but I still think she thought it was voodoo. I just hope she doesn't tell the Tech Support people that I was infringing on their congregation. I might come in one morning to find a headless chicken on my keyboard.

And nobody wants that.

Microstory Monday

First Day at The Plant

"But why do we hang them?" I asked, unable to pull my gaze from The Gallows. "Does it preserve the flavor in some way?"
"No, no," He said. "Flavoring comes later, when the corpses are spun in the Pricking Spheres."
"So..." I started, confused.
"We hang them as punishment for their sins." He said. "We hang them because they're naughty."