Family Tree

I thought that maybe I should take the time to introduce you to some of the people that make my life go 'round.

I know, I know. I'm pretty darn classy. I took a few liberties with this drawing (i.e., the red hair, the waist size).

That smile... That gorgeous hair... It could only be one person in the world... I mean, just look at those loving eyes!

Now you know where I get my good looks. And my fat carpenter fingers. Notice the hipsterly hip, backwards hat. He also occasionally lapses into only half-intentional gangster lingo. At times like that, I don't know whether to laugh or cry and then shoot him with a shotgun.

Armed with a Whopper in one hand and an alcoholic beverage in the other, there's no stopping this kid.

I met her when I was six, after my dad almost hit her in his truck while she was rollerskating down the road. My bestie bestest friend 'til I'm old and gray. Giving workers trouble in the nursing homes, we will be.

Another one of my closest girlfriends. She has a much better fashion sense than me.  She's basically a stick figure with a stomach, like in the picture above but a lot more attractive.

One of my obligatory Asian friends, so no one can call me racist. He constantly acts like he's on crack. Or how I imagine one would act on crack. I wouldn't know. I'm a good egg.

Obligatory Asian friend #2. She's obsessed with pants. And pineapples. And wombats. But that's understandable.

He claims to be of Asian heritage. But I think he might be faking it to earn some right to be a ninja.

So easily ruffled and shocked. Such a darling person. Even when she lands me a detention for sneaking into the library on my hallpass, she's still adorable.

The coolest dog on the block. He puts up with my baddancing, even partakes, and thinks cows are really scary, even though he looks like one. And I don't think he ever pooped on our nice carpet! Just barf. Lots and lots of beautiful barf. 

Our resident fat queen cat. Okay, so she's not that fat. But she looks and acts like a 500 pound raccoon. She eats and sleeps all day. She sits on us and makes us carry her around like a baby. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Therefore, she is fat.

My bestest friend and/or little brother. He was sitting behind me on the couch, looking over my shoulder as I drew this.


Mousse: Stop making me look like a dumbass.


Me: Well stop acting like a dumbass.


Mousse: How exactly am I acting like a dumbass?


Me: BY NOT MAKING ME A SANDWICH. GET IN THE KITCHEN BITCH.

NYC, I love thee

New York City. Capital of the Empire State. The city where dreams are made. Until yesterday, I'd never been there. Well, except for passing through the Bronx in a van packed with eleven other people on our way to the Rally to Restore Sanity in D.C. But that doesn't count.


My dad was driving down to see his sister, my long-lost aunt whom I hadn't seen since age five. She's an artiste, and had an art showing on a seedy, dirty street near the Hudson River. I don't know. I'm not really into that kind of stuff.


We live a few hours away, so I saw the trip as an opportunity for adventure, excitement, procrastination, and a whole lot of eating empty calories like the fatass I know I secretly am.


Plus, I knew I would get to laugh at a ton of weird people.


Haha.


Anyway, we breezed down the highway to the city in a blaze of awesomeness, our father-daughter dream team astounding the onlookers. I made funny faces at the drivers of adjacent cars during traffic blockage. It was great. Of course, until I started laughing so hard at their reactions that I began snorting and spraying milk all over my father and his beautiful truck (Yes. I drink milk on road trips. Not to impress you, or anything...)


The whole ride to the city was a lot like the paragraph above, so I won't bother repeating myself. But as for the rest of this entry, I shall cut it up into small, digestible pieces and puree them in a blender so you won't hurt your delicate teeth. And by that I mean this post is going to be of UNGODLY PROPORTIONS.


We arrived in New York City! Poof! WAHAHAHAHA!


1.
So first, I encountered a man on the subway, holding a bouquet of pretty flowers. He was looking at them meaningfully and repeatedly muttering, "Do I LOOK okay? Are YOU okay?" Then he got off the train.


2.
My father and I meandered around the streets looking for some thugs to rough up. We got bored of that and decided we were hungry. We ran into a place called Burger Stack... or maybe it was Stack Hut, or Stackdog... or whatever. 


We ordered our "Bird Dogs," which were sausages in a bun that were supposed to come with delicious apple slices. They ripped us off, though, clearly recognizing that we were Massachusetts country hicks, and withheld their apple slices. Those bastards.


I don't know. The sausages were really rubbery and mine had gross gristle in it, so I'm guessing that no amount of apple slices would've made them any better.


It wasn't all for naught, at least. I did see someone in line that bore a startling resemblance to one of my heroes, Nils Lofgren. If you don't know who he is, go here and be enlightened. You should become well-acquainted with this man, as I will probably be frequently mentioning him in the future. 


Anyway, me being my creepy, nosy self, I went over to get a closer look just to make sure I wasn't missing out on my favorite human being buying a burger. I sidled up next to him and promptly began to inspect the packets of mayonnaise, trying to look casual and nonchalant. It was clearly the wrong move, seeing as selecting mayonnaise for a sausage is serious and suspicious business. 


He gave me a weird look, and I smiled then went back to examining and analyzing the ketchups and mustard dispensers.


Nope. Nils is a lot more attractive than this dude.


3.
My dad was all like, "Can we please go up the Empire State Building? Please? Can we? Can we? Please please please pretty please with a cherry on top???"


He sometimes gets really excited about things.


I said yes.


We managed to drag ourselves to the majestic building, after asking for directions from many locals who were obviously judging us for our status as country hicks who don't know how to find the Empire State Building.


And I tell you, that place is CLASSY. And really really big. Almost unnecessarily big. There is a ton of empty, classy space in there. And about 500 floors. Wowee. We (My dad) paid our (his) hard-earned $42 for tickets and went to the 86th floor via elevators that travel faster than a speeding cheetah.


Dear Father was bubbling nostalgically about how he hadn't been up there since he was a kid, and how you could see the Something-Something Bridge, and Something City across the Something River. And about how his dumbass friend once threw a paper airplane attached to a nickel off the top.


Fun stuff. The view was wicked, and I even got to see the Statue of Liberty from up there. But let me tell you: BIGGEST DISAPPOINTMENT OF MY LIFE. I always pictured the Lady Liberty as this massive behemoth of ungodly proportions, towering over the entire state of New York with her mind-blowing girth of flowing green robes. Don't blame me. Blame the media.


My dad pointed to a tiny blip of a building from the observatory. 


Dad: See? There's the Statue of Liberty.


Me: What, that there? You're kidding. Haha...


Dad: ...No, really, that's it.


Me: *dramatic stare into the distance* Wha... *Double take* THAT'S THE STATUE OF LIBERTY? THAT MERE SPECK? THAT TODDLER?


Dad: What do you mean?


Me: It's... so small...


Dad: Of course it's small! How would you expect the French to move a thousand foot statue across the Atlantic? They had to get it here somehow! You see...


Ah. Logic. The preferred weapon of my Gemini father. This has  permanently marred my childhood dreams of grandeur with failure. Pffft. Statue of Liberty... 305 feet tall... what a sappy loser of a monument. Pfft.


4.
We still had some time to kill before my estranged aunt arrived at her gallery, so we hit the streets looking for a bank to rob. However, we couldn't find one with challenging enough security, so we decided to start shopping instead.


We ambled into a gift shop, to peruse the sophisticated wares. I wasn't planning on buying anything. Must have been some of my Red Sox pride leaking through. Also, I didn't have any need for a model police car or a keychain with my name on it. The latter doesn't even exist.


There was a mystical doorway in the back of the store that led to something downstairs. It looked magical. The stairs were all creaky and they brought us to a wonderful bronze sculpture and crystal chandelier emporium. The crispy old guy selling the stuff promptly began following us very closely around the shop.


Crisp: *Breathing down my neck* See anything ya like?


Dad: Thanks, we're just looking.


Crisp: *Breathing down my dad's neck* Everything's 75% off.


Dad: Thanks.


I think the cheapest thing there was $20,000. And even if we had wanted to purchase one of the mammoth bronze hawks in flight, how would we possibly move it up that narrow, creepy staircase?


The crispy guy kept following us at arms' length, repeatedly asking us if "Anythin' was catchin' our eyes." He seemed almost suspicious.


What did he think we were going to do? Just stick one of his bronze statues in a pocket while he wasn't looking and walk out with it? AND he followed us up the stairs as we left. Just to see us off, I guess.


Also, we met a vulture-ish guy with an accent in some hat shop. I really didn't need a snobby hat with a six-foot brim and plumes of feathers springing off of it, but it looked interesting to gawk at. The dude in there kept trying to reel us in with bargain prices, but I was getting kind of creeped out. Plus, a rack of matching hats and suits was blocking my view of the outside world, and I couldn't be sure that this shop wasn't a front for the mafia. The hat-selling mafia.


5.
Am I rambling yet?


We went to the art gallery, blah blah blah. I met my alienated aunt from Seattle, blah blah blah. Then we hit the road back home and my dad explained what a Rodeo Burger was. 


I really need to quit muttering about my wondrous trip to New York City, because I just developed an extreme desire to warm my ass by the pellet stove. Thanks for listening.

I'm notoriously good at having a good time.

I wish I could be some sort of productive during my week off from the prison of hell high school.  I mean, I still have an essay about the Holocaust to write, a massive lab report to edit and "polish," and an ingenious play to come up with.  

On the first day of vacation, I was all: Yes! I have a week off! I am going to get SO much done! But first, I recharge energy.

Saturday: Woo hoo! This is awesome! I'm sleepin' in and sitting on the couch all day, LIKE A BOSS!

Sunday: Sweet. Tomorrow's not going to suck like it usually does!

Monday: Relaxin', yeah! I should probably do some work while I'm at it... But NAR! I have a whole week! WAHAHAHAHAHA

Tuesday: Hmm. I really should work on that stuff now... seeing as I'm going up north to see the folks this Friday.... Oh well. I do some of my best work under pressure. Sort of.

And now it's Wednesday. Or is it Thursday? Shit. I should get on that essay. But it's still early... maybe I'll work on it later.

And so on.

Problem is, I just can't seem to get into a motivated, up-and-at-'em kind of mindset. That's always the trouble. Why can't every human mind be programmed to be all like, "Work rocks and I love it and I want to do it all day"?


I meant to do something productive yesterday. I was going to get up at 7:45 in the morning and everything.  I was going to eat some fruit and yogurt for breakfast, put on some real clothes, walk the dog, and sit down and plunk out an award-winning Holocaust essay. Then I was going to do push-ups and wall-sits for an hour to get the ol' muscles workin'. Then, I was going to volunteer at the Soup Kitchen and donate to some orphanages. Really. I had it all planned out.


It didn't work out like that, though. I got up at 7:45... for about two seconds... then I opened my eyes again and it was 9:45.  Not my fault! It's a conspiracy against me!! 


I sort of put on some real clothes. A tank top and pajama bottoms is getting close, right? I thought about all the wonderful, heart-healthy things I could eat for breaky. I just decided on a granola bar of some kind from the back of the pantry. We don't stock edible cereal or anything in this household. Just dirt and twigs and stale, whole grain ant colonies in boxes in the cabinet.  I told Sir Reginald I'd walk him later.


I made some killer cookies that tasted like butterscotch and heaven. My mom had bought this bucket of cookie mix about two months ago from some little kids holding a fundraiser for dying puppies, orphans, and amputees. Or something along those lines. I guess she felt guilty. Anyway, I finally made them and they tasted just like the joy of saving a orphaned malnourished puppy with two legs.


I decided I must kill some time and watched 80s music videos on VH1 Classic (BEST CHANNEL EVER) for a while. I secretly wished I could muster up the inner strength needed to whip out a Word document and rustle up some good old fashioned Holocaust insights. But to no avail. I was too busy being seduced by the gravity-defying hair and innovative wardrobes of the 1980s.


I soon tired of the music videos, however. I was waiting to see my old standbys ("Sledgehammer" by Peter Gabriel, "Word Up" by Cameo, "Whip It" by Devo, etc.) However, they were no where to be found. So I decided to find something else useful to occupy my time with.

I thought about it. This is a perfect day to waste all of my time and not write about the Holocaust. I might as well take advantage of it. What is my favorite thing to do when I am alone at the house?


AHA!


I SHALL WATCH OLD BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CONCERTS!


My obsession with this musician often wins on boring home-bound days. I have my mother to thank for that, and all her rock and roll brainwashing. You must understand that the event of simply watching a concert becomes much more than that to me. It becomes a special occasion. A massive undertaking. Try not to judge me for it. I'm sensitive. 


Stop it. I can just feel you judging me.


In any case, the first big question is which concert to watch. I picked out one from the 80s (Yes I have a large collection of concerts spanning his career). Stay with the general flow of things today.


Then, I had to change into appropriate Bruce-watching attire (Stop with the judging). This all depends on who I want to pretend to be. Should I dress like an obsessed fan? Naw. Too easy. 


Yup. I could sport my blue jeans and a white tank top, throw a bandanna around my head and pretend to be Bruce himself. But I've done that one before.  Or I could go with one of my head scarves and pretend to be Stevie the guitarist. Or I could just tie scarves and bandannas all over myself and pretend to be Nils, the other guitarist. My hero!


Hell yeah!


Then I've got myself a battle plan, and I watch my concert, dancing and playing air guitar like nobody's business. I sing too. Sometimes I even sing a harmony, but I think those sound better in my head than they do out loud. But it doesn't matter that I don't actually own an electric guitar, have never written a song in my life, and that I am not actually the person I'm pretending to be. In my head, at that moment, I couldn't be freer. 


I AM A ROCK STAR.


Of course, across the woodsy clearing in her little mushroom-shaped hut, the Sentinel Lady watches me through her big picture window with calculating eyes, probably wondering if I've finally gotten into my mom's expensive tequila that's "hidden" in the pantry.


IT'S CALLED FUN, WOMAN. 


It's okay, though. I don't let things like that get in my way of a good time.

I know I'm a failure.

Oh, how I wish I could figure out how to successfully blog.  As my Web Design teacher might say, "[Blogging] is a sea one could swim in forever without reaching the shore." Sniffle. What a poet.


Of course, these words of wisdom are coming from the creepy, questionable man who teaches very small classes in a sinister, dark classroom located in a suspiciously isolated corner of my high school just far enough away down the hall so that no one will hear your screams. 


AHAHA JUST JOKING. AHAHAAHAHA. 


But not really. If I ever find myself in that corner of the school alone, I walk a little faster.


So anyway. The pointlessness of posting things on this blog is increasing with exponential dejected sadness. After a brief hiatus due to watching old music videos and getting fat eating cookies alone my raging social life, I came back to this page thinking, Ooh, ooh, it's been a few weeks, my blog must be famous by now!


Not quite. My blog sidebar bitchslapped me with a "There are no followers yet. Be the first!"


My confidence crumbled. I had started out so strong, so sure. I was certain I was going to become a superstar of blog. No followers? There must be some mistake! No one following me? And yet there it was. The truth was looming over me and blocking out my sun of hope and dreams. Where was I now? In my soul was burning a mere iota of my former poise and glory. No followers. I am finished.


So it had come to this. It embarrassed me to no end that I was failing at blog-writing. ME? THE ACCLAIMED STAR BOOK REPORT WRITER OF LEVERETT ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, SIX-TIME WINNER OF THE TEACHER'S PET AWARD, DUKE OF ALL THAT IS REMOTELY LITERARY?


No. It couldn't be. 


But it was.


And it is.


How can I come to terms with this? As of today, I am still the single solitary reader of this blog. My mom won't even read it. My friends won't even read it. What a failure I am. 


...At least those damn teachers seem to like me.

Totem Animal

First things first.  


I can't go on with this account of my life until we get one thing straight.  This is something vital to the understanding of me as a person, crucial to the acceptance of my opinions, and generally essential to know before we interact in any way.


My totem animal is the moose.  


Well... that's probably not a legit totem animal, because it seems to me like one should go through some sort of spiritual ritual to discover their totem thing.  However, since I am clearly the self-appointed Master of the Universe, I reserve the right to assign my own totem animal.  And if I want the moose as my totem animal, I'm going to damn well have the moose as my totem animal.


I guess what that really boils down to is my unnecessary obsession with the largest member of the deer family.  I can't recall exactly how I got to the point where my bed has a steadily increasing pile of stuffed moose in one corner, or how I dragged a $35 iron winged moose doorstop home, or how my claim to fame in my traumatic eighth grade year was a stupid doodled moose.


The weird part is, I have this strange distinct memory, rife with fear and panic, from a party a long time ago...  


You see, my parents brought me with them to this get-together with a group of their friends, because they had all met when they had children and bonded over it and never parted since, blah blah blah.  At this time, I must have been about four or five, maybe even three, without a care in the world except who was going to play with me and where my next cookie was coming from.


I was merrily bouncing along around a dining room table laden with amazing bundles of sugar and chocolate, trying to sneak a brownie or cookie away like some deprived little crazed child while an adult wasn't looking.  Suddenly, I paused in my pursuits of sugar long enough to notice a curious open door at the back of the room.  I became mesmerized by the glorious, magical stream of light pouring forth from the mysteriously ajar portal (the memory must be slightly skewed by the sugar high I was on).  Approaching the door, full of wonder and probably tracking mud and dribbles of cookie crumbs on the nice carpet, I peered into what was surely a world full of magic and fairies.


It was actually their basement.  
Surprised by the lack of pixie dust in the air, I looked down the stairs, and instantly locked eyes with a monster. A huge, ferocious, furry brown monster.  It had big, evil eyes and scary looking horns. It was also wearing a blood red scarf.


I looked fearfully back towards the living room, where the adults were chatting and laughing and sipping wine. Surely, someone knows about this monster and will do something about it.  But they were all focused on their chips and salsa, totally oblivious to their impending dooms at the hands of a vicious brown monster.  


I was thinking, "OH MY GOD HOW DO THEY NOT KNOW THERE'S A MONSTER DOWN THERE?!" 


At that moment, things became very simple in my mind:


1.
I could run to my mom and tell her about Monster.  She would think I was just hyperactive from desserts and make me go play with the other girls. 


Result: Monster destroys the universe. Cookies destroyed as well. I lose.


2.
I could tell my dad about Monster.  He would go investigate but find nothing because clearly Monster has adult-senses and can become invisible at will to assist it in universe-destruction.  


Result: My dad laughs and then eats all the cookies because he is really a fat person disguised as a skinny person. Cookies gone. Then universe is destroyed.  I lose.


3.
Or...I could attempt to valiantly tackle the malicious beast myself, focusing all my pent-up sugar energy into a monster-killing hyperbeam.  


Result: If I perish, I will die a hero and everyone will put flowers and cake on my grave to celebrate my awesomeness.  And if I aim my hyperbeam well enough, Monster is vanquished. Universe saved. Cookies saved. 


I WIN.


It was decided.  I would take matters into my own hands.  With remorse and deep resignation, I selected what could possibly be my final, delicious piece of edible heaven.  I took one with extra chocolate chips.  One of the adults eyed me suspiciously so I crawled under the table to hide behind the long tablecloth.


After savoring my cookie and taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for the battle and before I could change my mind, charged down the basement stairs, relying on my surprise tactic to give me the upper hand against Monster.


At the bottom of the creaky stairs, I faced the chilling, dank air and the grim reality of my situation.  Monster was but a mere few feet away from me, staring into my soul with its cold, heartless eyes.  


And there we stood, like two Wild West gunslingers waiting for the perfect moment to attack the opponent.  Monster was using some sort of psychological battle strategy, glaring at me contemptuously, trying to make me flee.  I glared back.  The suspense hung thick on the air.  The tension was tangible. 


I could stand it no longer.  With a terrible battle cry and a final, loving thought for the cookies of the world, I launched myself at Monster.


I knocked it to the ground and it dealt a nasty blow to my head (the result of me colliding with the wall in my attempt to vanquish Monster).  I counterattacked, throwing Monster against the far wall of the basement.  Its scarf unwrapped and Monster fell to the ground, on its side, obviously in its death throes because the scarf was actually its soul contained in a scarf.


I waited. Monster remained still.  I was seized with the desire for more sugar.  Suddenly satisfied that I had killed it, I ran back upstairs and rewarded myself with another cookie.


I win.


Anyway, to make a long story short, I later discovered that this "Monster" was actually a giant, somewhat creepy stuffed moose.  


Thus, I have possibly clarified my long-winded point:  


Since I vanquished Monster and saved the entire universe and all of its cookies, clearly I am the Master of the Universe.  And since I vanquished a moose at the ripe age of five, clearly, I reserve the right to damn well name it as my totem animal if I damn well please.

Awkward First Post

Hello all!


So...um...that greeting sounded way too chipper for my usual boring self. I'm new to blogging, but I recently felt the unimaginable urge to start.  I have things to say, you know?  So, regardless of your desire to read these posts, I am going to write them. So, uh... As you can see, I have gone right ahead and foretold the awkwardness of this first post.  


You should also probably know that I am going to use the word "awkward" a lot, as there is no better word to describe me and my stupid actions.  I apologize in advance if you're one of those people who really hate it when others overuse the word "awkward"... but really, that's just too bad for you.  Sorry.


I know I am the ultimate underdog of blogging at this exact minute, with precisely one reader (myself), but I feel I must share my inner dilemmas and foolish memories or I am going to just start vomiting up dangerous radioactive energy from the extreme pressure of them bouncing around my small soul and stomach.  Yeah....I do believe it's that serious.   


But in any case, I will try to amuse my small, insignificant crowd (at this precise moment, myself) with my often arbitrary and incoherent ramblings about the good ol' days and the time my pet bullfrog ate a sparrow alive.  


So... buckle up?