Recipe for the absurd.

What happens when you mix Bollywood Superman with hours of caulk removal, Plexiglas cutting, and replacing gaskets to make a shiny new storm window? Last-minute Halloween costumes for my babies, made at 3AM the night before they were to go hitting up the family for treats. You may already know I'm a crazy cat lady, you may already know I have access to scissors and glue, but you still may not be ready for this level of crazy.
 


First up, Macadamia the mysterious, predicting the future. She helped make her costume, you know. She picked the feathers off a few toys she found in her brother's beds. She loves feathers.


0.8 seconds later, she predicts..."Get in my mouth!"


Are they birds? Are they planes? No, they're the Supercat twins! I'm not going to be the one to decide which of the guys are more super than the other. The Fluffy One has the power to land on 2-inch wide doors and tame the wild sticks in the grass.


The Slinky One can do the dance of enchantment and is able to hover for minutes on end. His Kryptonite comes in the form of Nabisco graham cracker boxes.


I went as a rather pasty-looking pirate. Really. You could tell by my earring and occasional yell of, "Arr!"

Recipe for the absurd.

A tale of Halloween.

Deep in the mountains of the Adirondacks, a set of jars sat on a table, arguing.

"If you would have just avoided that bear trap," The head sneered at the feet, "we wouldn't be in this mess."

The feet said nothing.

"Oy, and what about us?" asked the hands. "We can't do anything in here but swim around and scratch our glass!"

"Shut up, all of you!" gurgled the digestive tract, which was in a rapidly darkening jar.

The head tried to close its eyes, but it was too late. Luckily, the throat had not been preserved, and so there would be no vomiting that day.

OR WOULD THERE?

Happy Halloween, peeps, it is my favorite holiday of all, and were I able to share my orange PEZ with you through the internet...I'd have less PEZ.

A tale of Halloween.

Why be interesting when I can watch other people do it?

This weekend, I saw The Crazies, the story of our government at work in a crisis. No, really, stock up on syringes. Checking it out on IMDB, I see that next year a remake of The Crazies will be release, called The Crazies. I'm marking my calendars.

I also saw Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest or whatever the hell it's called. It was wonderful. I have no idea how I can love those movies so much when I still have yet to retrieve my head from the ride, but I do. Can't wait for the third, and if you've seen the movie, you know why. I now called The Puppy "beastie," you know.

Dead Man, a 1995 movie starring Johnny Depp and directed by Jim Jarmusch, was also incredible, but Jim Jarmusch is the director of Down By Law and Coffee and Cigarettes, so of course it's bloody great. I liked it, anyway. The soundtrack started to annoy Nan, but because of the end of Daylight Saving Time, I have no idea what the hell time it was, but we were all really tired.

I'm really tired now, actually. I've been making things. The front of my house no longer looks like one of those "what's wrong with this picture?" things. Well, at least the front door is back together.

Why be interesting when I can watch other people do it?

Riddle me this.

If a Blogger smashes her head into a doorknob, and the Internet isn't there to see it, does the doorbell laugh at being called a relic of the analog age?

Riddle me this.

One from the vaults.

Back when all I used a computer for was playing Summer Games with myself, I used to buy a magazine called Song Hits. It had the lyrics to most popular songs at the time, along with articles and pictures and charts and ads. Had the Internet been available to me for lyric searches back then, I would have missed out on a defining moment of my life.

I watched a lot of music videos in the '80s, and as a result of seeing many of them over and over, I ended up making fun of every video I saw. The funniest ones to me were usually the serious videos that told stories about people breaking up, like Missing You by John Waite. Damn that Sesame Street Live tape he was listening to, anyway.

One night in late 1986, I saw the video for the Steve Winwood song Freedom Overspill, and my mind would never be the same. It was artsy, of course. I had no idea what the video was about, some sort of eye test gone wrong, maybe, but being 12, one scene entertained the hell out of me, and that was the three-second scene of Steve Winwood standing on a chair.

Why was Steve Winwood standing on a chair? This question burned in my mind for days, until I got the December issue of Song Hits, and whose picture was in the magazine? England Dan Seals, but I'm getting to that. Steve Winwood's picture was in the magazine, and so I drew a little thought bubble next to him, with a chair in it. I wrote "chair" over all the instances of "love" in the lyrics that accompanied the picture, because I was convinced that what Steve needed was a higher chair.

All the other photos in the issue then took part in the mystery of what Steve Winwood was doing on the chair. Phil Collins was going to call Steve, Annie Lennox was afraid Steve would fall off the chair, and eventually, El DeBarge took perverse joy in announcing that Steve had, in fact, fallen off the chair. How did this happen, asked a man in a guitar ad. Klymaxx didn't do it, so who did?

England Dan Seals should never have worn his "I'm a chair kicker" hat. He was pronounced guilty by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and Freedom Overspill hit #1.

It was, I'm sure, a Saturday. I'm sure lots of sugar had been involved. I know it was after midnight.

I recently found the video for Freedom Overspill online, and it doesn't make any more sense twenty years later, but I wouldn't really want it to. However, having a computer capable of more than 16 colors, I was now able to do a screencap and make wallpaper. I went all Bob Ross with the smudge brush. I'm totally using this right now. If anyone asks what it's about, I'm just leaving it at, "I like Steve Winwood."

Because I do, you know. That man can do things with a synth.

(Oh yeah, and the whole tree thing...I did it 'cause, like, trees, they take over everything if you let them. Yeah. Nevermind that it has nothing to do with talking too much. Trees might talk too much, I don't know.)

One from the vaults.

One quarter-century of Rainbow goodness.

I have just disapperated a pie full of glorious actors from the United Kingdom, mainly Scotland, bound for a rather significant woman. It is a large-ish pie, and should it arrive just as the drugs are wearing off, tell them I meant well.

Happy birthday my friend, hope it's a good one.

It's also the birthday of John Cleese, a British person I wouldn't mind finding hidden in a pie. Coincidence? I THINK NOT.

...I hope that floo powder I bought off eBay is fresh.

One quarter-century of Rainbow goodness.

The flecks were rather artsy, maybe I should have kept them.

I like to celebrate this date every year, it's the day I had the metal picked out of my eyes back in 1988. Believe me, if you went around for over a year with metal constantly getting in your eyes, you would remember and celebrate the date that it finally stopped, too.

That incident--with the metal, and the eyes, and the rusting because of the eyes watering and all--is what lead to my Etsy shop being called "Through My Rusty Eyes," because "Through My Scarred Corneas" just didn't have the same ring to it.

That brings me to what I really want to bitch about. My "art." I was wandering by Nancy Grace last night (she's on, and she's not cooking or redecorating) and she was ranting about auction sites that make loads of money off the art of serial killers.

The general public's fascination with serial killers is not something I've never heard of, but considering all of my heroes are not serial killers so far as I know, it's just something that weirds me out a little.

However...I am beginning to wonder if my drawings, like Thanksgiving, would become a hit if I did something really horrendous. I'm not entirely sure I want to kill or injure anyone, because that's not really my idea of art as much as it is being a disruptive little maniac, but I have a family to support, so maybe I shouldn't be so quick to rule it out. I guess I could always pretend I did something, I'm good with the Paintshopping, but then I'd probably have to talk to Larry King, and I'm sure he's a dear man, but I fear I'd get the giggles when I think of the days when I saw a resemblance between him and Zorak, The Lone Locust of the Apocalypse. I don't want to go down in history as the person who asked Larry King to recite Chubby Chubby Choo-Choo.

(Larry King on the left, Zorak on the right. Got gum?)

The flecks were rather artsy, maybe I should have kept them.

We laugh at your puny blizzards!

A while back, someone broke the glass in our storm door.

The recent weather, as most people in the northeastern US will tell you, is getting cooler. Today I thought I'd pop down to Home Depot to pick up a replacement glass for the door, as well as a replacement storm window for the bathroom, because the one room in the house where most people go bare-assed should not be the one room in the house that is the same temperature as the backyard in the middle of January. The whereabouts of the original storm window for the bathroom are unknown. I believe it--along with seven other storm windows--fell victim to the great decrepitude of our previous shed in 1996.

Home Depot took over every local hardware store. We have one place to go for screws, for paint, for wood, for tools, and for soil, by mere absence of choice. Home Depot decides what local residents need for the maintenance of their homes, and you may already be getting a feeling about what Home Depot feels no one in The Bronx needs.

Two guys who are paid to do things at Home Depot were standing in the door and window department. Mum and I approached, and Mum asked where the storm windows were.

The young men's brows creased. They'd obviously never lived in a world where glass broke. "Storm windows?"

"Replacement glass for storm doors, that you change out with the screens," I elaborated.

"We have storm doors, and replacement windows."

I thanked them for their time and started edging towards the Plexiglas.

"Nyack (22 miles away) carries storm windows," one of the men said.

"Okay," I said. I've learned the world doesn't care about my driving customs.

"Poughkeepsie (71 miles away) has them too," the man called.

"Okay," I called from underneath a pile of cracked Plexiglas. The security-grade Plexiglas is about $75, the price of an entire new door before installation costs. The cheaper Plexiglas is just as bloody heavy, and the sheet that we took home was a good three feet taller than me. We plan to render it into the two storm windows we need--I will of course write about the experience at great length.

The two men in the Home Depot aprons standing in the door and window department obviously did not think Mum and I were alluring enough to offer to carry the Plexiglas to the register. Bah, their loss.

We laugh at your puny blizzards!

I got the hookup.

A while back, I lamented that I never got to be part of the legendary CBGB, even though, y'know, I'd probably suffer a fatal overload within three minutes of stepping inside any place more hopping than the Thruway Diner.

However, a station on Sirius aired Patty Smith's show, and I got to hear it from the relative safety of my backyard. That was neat.

I don't remember if I ever detailed exactly how a strapped shlub like me happens to have a headphone radio through which satellite radio plays. So far as I know, there aren't many people walking around with 18" dishes bolted to their skulls, and if there are I haven't met them yet, therefore they do not exist.

My family's last remaining luxury is the Dish satellite service, which offers Sirius satellite radio, along with their own music stations. Take one receiver hooked to a VCR, and route the output to a PCTV input, and suddenly my computer becomes a really tricked out radio.

I went through a rather selfish bout two years ago in preparation for the onslaught of 24-hour holiday music on five FM stations, after I realized I had to have something else to listen to or people were going to die of a wave of gloom emanating from my head. I bought myself a rather cheap FM transmitter that, when plugged into the speaker jack of the computer, turned any FM radio in the house into a satellite radio. I had to sacrifice WEBE 108 for this, and considering I didn't listen to the station since the addition of the Delilah show--or as I like to call it, the "Why aren't you married to your baby's father?" request hour--it wasn't really that difficult a choice to make.

I didn't stop there, of course, because I'm a maniac. I bought a cheap (I'm a stingy maniac, remember) RF remote control and transmitter, which allows me to change stations through walls. If anyone was ever meant to be a mutant, it was me.

Now, the remote itself is the size of a 1980s-era cellphone, but because I'm a driven little bastard when it comes to things that involve going outside with a radio, I figured out a way to keep the remote with me on my swing without breaking the neighbor's windows: a Ziploc bag with a hook through it. High-tech, I know. I love the looks the remote gets when people come in and see it sitting on my desk, still in its bag. Oh yeah, she's the one with the remote button issues. Then again, the bag might be getting looks because it has bite marks in the bottom corner from the time I thought it would be cool to take The Puppy outside while I was on my swing. Or maybe it's the duct tape down the edge of the bag. Maybe it's the five holes in the top of the bag from where the hook keeps ripping the plastic. I've used that same plastic bag for two years now. Somehow I think this rules out any cleanliness issues I might be accused of having.

I got the hookup.

My blood is stomach acid, my stomach acid has been replaced by Folger's crystals.

I started drinking coffee around the age of 8. You know the story, you want to fit in, but you throw up when you drink the harder stuff like tea with milk in it, next thing you have a three-cup-a-day habit heading into its 25th year, and you start to wonder where it all went wrong.

I drank my grandfather's decaffeinated Sanka for a long time, because he was the coolest person I knew, and he didn't go into coffee-fueled rages and take the closets apart looking for a pair of shoes. Oddly enough, I still took the closets apart. I never did find that last Crystal Barbie shoe. In my teens, I switched to that fancy International cappuchino, and I don't remember much of that time. I think I called someone "bitch" because she didn't like my hat.

Black coffee has no calories, so at the height of my retention problems, I switched to the drink I compare to my cats--hot, black, and easy. I drink Folger's instant coffee as that's what we have in the house and I have no interest in trying other coffees after the Eight O'Clock cup of feet episode, plus my sense of adventure can only manage getting me out of bed each day before it gives up and goes back to reading Highlights.

Today, my 37,894th cup of coffee was unlike any other. The Puppy was walking around on the table stealing napkins and playing Godzilla as she likes to do when she noticed my cup of coffee. I reached for the cup, but warm Corelle and cold vinyl placemats create fusion, so picking up the coffee while The Puppy's foot was on the placemat was not as easy as one would expect.

I am happy and rather grateful to report that the flavor of coffee does not change after having a dog's snout submerged in it.

My blood is stomach acid, my stomach acid has been replaced by Folger's crystals.

Too much beauty to quit.

This weekend Cinemax premiered the 2005 Ewan McGregor movie Stay, which I'd been waiting to see since I first heard about, and I wasn't disappointed. Not just because Ewan McGregor is fun to watch, because the whole cast was good, the camerawork was artsy and fascinating, and the whole thing impressed the hell out of me.

I suggest not reading a thing about the movie before seeing it, because it's not entirely about what the taglines say.

Too much beauty to quit.

This will remove entire hours from your day.

As it has mine since 2002.

BEJEWELED

As for me, I've just been rejected for being too creepy--it's a welcome improvement.

Happy weekend!

This will remove entire hours from your day.

I started out just like everyone else before I turned evil and bitter.

I used to go down to the playground in my Strawberry Shortcake skates, and I rode my bike in the park. One time, I even jumped up and down on a discarded matress with some other kids--that was a little egdy, man, I can't believe I survived that.

I knew all the words to the anti-drug PSA songs, and the cat food songs, and the themes to television shows. Okay, I made up to words to The A-Team.

I bought Barbie and she didn't give me inferior body issues...although I was jealous of that Twirly-Curl bitch's hair. Why did I have to buy "Hispanic Barbie" to get a doll with dark hair, anyway?

I liked Pac-Man, but I had an inappropriate relationship with Pitfall Harry. Oh, Harry, if only I'd taken as much time to learn a foreign language as I took to learn the pattern of the rabid bats we had to get past to get you home with your neice and all that junk.

I used to worry that President Reagan would get us all blown up, but I had hope because Sylvester Stallone single-handedly took out terrorists by dressing up as Lindsay Wagner.

Sometimes I miss those days.

I started out just like everyone else before I turned evil and bitter.

Limiting my area of expertise.

Having curling, billiards, and table tennis as favorite sports makes it difficult to rave about sports publicly. After all, they are not easy to follow from home due to crappy network coverage. ESPN shows billiards, sure, but I have no idea which tournament is which, and how well any of the players are doing, I just make fun of the pink 7 ball when it's in use.

What I'm trying to say is that I am aware that the New York Mets have a chance to get into the World Series, but that is as far as I'll allow myself to get into baseball. I have a Mets hat, but I also have a Yankees hat, because I'm from New York, and I'm related to fans of both teams, and I can assure you that the Subway Series of 2000 gave me enough of a nervous condition that I would not need to watch another baseball game ever in order to fully experience life.

However, because I'm a weird date fiend, it's been 20 years since the Mets won the first World Series I ever watched, so, hell, let's go Mets, or whatever you all shout these days.

Limiting my area of expertise.

No rest for the wicked.

At what point do people who work from home get to take the day off? It's not when they fall down because all the world's gone green and quiet, and it's not when there are no words coming into or out of the brain which is the rather important part of the work in question.

Being punched in the eye by a puppy is not an acceptable reason for a break, either, as she did not get both eyes.

There is a mosquito eating my monitor. I had no idea it had blood in it. I should not be surprised, computers have taken more than a pint of my blood.

No rest for the wicked.

There is no hope for us.

I'm sitting within a few feet of a television. Oprah & Gayle's Big Adventure has gotten to New York. Mum has stopped on the station because they're crossing the George Washington bridge.

Gayle, Oprah's BFF, thinks it amusing to mention that something is messed up with her vision. This happens on national television, and everyone is laughing and no one is getting a ticket and luckily no one has plunged into the river because while that would boost Oprah's ratings way up over the moon, I think New York has eaten enough celebrities this season.

This worries me, this driving while visually impared. It worries me because I have to do it, and if I have to do it, and Gayle King does it just to mess with Oprah's head...who else is doing it?

I do not drive across bridges, or at night, or during times when I cannot form a coherent sentence if I can help it. Of course there are times when my brain sort of slips out on the floor of a packed supermarket, and who wants to pick that up and put it back into my head? Not me, that's how you catch E. Coli of the temporal lobe.

Now, with my particular...issue, all cars, even the burnt-out heap with no tires on its side wrapped around the pole up the corner, appear to be moving. Sometimes I'm able to reason that I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing and move on. Other times people may hear, "We're going to fucking die," wafting out of the open car window as I'm stopped at a light.

I dearly want to believe I'm the only person out on the road who has this problem, but I doubt it. There are documented cases of people being ticketed for driving with migraines, and while I imagine the NASCAR Imitrex 500 (if that ever really comes into existence I want a check) would be hilarious, setting us loose on the open road may be the most dangerous thing since Toonces got a cellphone as a prize for drinking the most beer.

What I think is even more dangerous is--just like with drinking--not thinking you have a problem seeing things, or not admitting it, or having passengers who won't admit it because they're afraid to die and too comfortable to ride with anyone else. Because if you know it's going to happen, you can at least let your passengers know that they should pipe up if, say, a man is quickly approaching the front of the car with a surprised look on his face.

As for me, don't worry, I am not out on the road today. So far I have always made it home alive. So you say that only proves that I'm insane? You may be right.

Oh, Billy, Billy, Billy, my friend...why do I always invoke you while talking about my driving?

There is no hope for us.

I had no idea the sound of Alpacas Orgling could be so good.

L.E.O. sounds very much like E.L.O., and that is what they were going for. It's no secret that I have an unhealthy love for the movie Xanadu, and if forced to pick a reason why I like the movie so much, I'd say it's the music, which was 75% Electric Light Orchestra.

L.E.O. is made up of members of other bands which I will probably now get into, because I love this new collection. Goodbye Innocence and Distracted have been played on WFUV, and once again I find myself hoping some mainstream stations pick up on their music, because it's bloody great.

I had no idea the sound of Alpacas Orgling could be so good.

One less thing I'll never do.

Whenever U68 used to run announcements of upcoming concerts, there was always a rundown of who would be at CBGB's that week. I used to joke to myself that I wondered if The dB's and the Bee Gees ever played there.

The Bee Gees may not have played there, but TMBG, and AC/DC, and so many others did.

That club, as it was known for 33 years, will close on October 31. The last show just started, and I am not there.

One less thing I'll never do.

What's the worst thing you want to hear at an insect rave?

This is a raid!

Ah...ha.

Final Days of Planet Earth is not unlike a three-hour remake of the idea of V, but without the whole Nazi-esque vibe the visitors had, starring Darryl Hannah. She's got no flippers and both eyes and seems very normal at first. This is what I am watching.

Last night I watched Plan 9 From Outer Space and Bride of the Monster on TCM Underground. Yes, Ed Wood movies have made it to Turner Classic Movies. I'm sure he'd be very happy, were he still with us.

What's the worst thing you want to hear at an insect rave?

Happy Friday the 13th!

Hey, some people dig it. Like...people with black cats.



I could totally crawl up in there right now. RAWR!

Happy Friday the 13th!