November 24, 2004
When you're right, you're right, and you're right.
Last night I watched The Secret of NIMH for the first time in a while. I'd forgotten how much of the Lad's idiosyncrasies are lifted directly from that film, but I realized it all over again when, towards the end, a concrete block is magically lifted from a mud puddle and hangs in the air, shining like the second coming of Christ. It seems to call out to the audience, "I am good. I am sturdy. Combine me with hefty wood pieces to make furniture of me." I can just imagine the five year old Lad viewing this scene for the first time, his face suddenly lighting with the inner glow of epiphany as visions of concrete and plywood bed frames, TV stands, and window seats dance through his mind.
Posted by didofoot at 09:46 AM | Comments (2)
November 20, 2004
Happy Birthday, Lad!
Happy birthday to you,
You live with my zoo,
You look like Vaughn from Alias
And you smell like him too!
Dee dee chu, love, Kris.
Posted by didofoot at 09:14 AM | Comments (7)
November 15, 2004
Our lives in comic form
Posted by didofoot at 03:44 PM | Comments (10)
November 12, 2004
I don't want a take-back
Last night, the Lad got us free tickets from KALX to see Minnie Driver perform at the Great American. If you're wondering whether she can sing, I'll tell you: it is decidedly so. Are her songs interesting at all? Well, outlook does not look good there. Sure, she's tall, she likes wearing shorts, but can she hook-hook dunk-dunk a hit single? More importantly, will she really work on her music skills or will she just play off her celebrity status? A charmingly catty reference to "Matt, you bastard" suggests the latter, but I say she should use every advantage she can. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, and her dog is winning.
Her band included members of such light-the-world-on-fire groups as the Wallflowers and Pete Yorn's ensemble. I like to imagine that they were at first put off by her Hollywood status, but were eventually won over when she whispered, "I don't want a Grammy. I just want you to come to California with me."
After the third melodic, cookie-cutter ballad of a broken heart, I was ready to leave or start drinking, especially with the guy in front of us puppet-jerking along to his own internal white boy rhythm. "Bring me another mai-tai!" I shouted, but garnered only dirty looks from the crowd. Unable to face a possible Harrison Ford or John Cusack reference without a drink in me, I grabbed the Lad and hightailed it out of there. Still, I'm glad I went. Even though I knew it might be horrible, I just had to go see about this girl.
Posted by didofoot at 08:42 AM | Comments (11)
November 10, 2004
Didofoot Reads The News, Part 3
Hotel Strikes Interrupt Sleep Of White Children: Neighborhood Outraged
"With psychological warfare, they are driving the neighbors nutty,'' [a neighbor] said. "That noise is not helping their cause, and it's only destroying the life of a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old. Why do they do it? To what end?''
Fireball Erupts From Construction Site in Walnut Creek, Killing Two
"I thought I was in Fallujah for a moment," [a witness] told The Chronicle, her voice trembling.
The Peterson Case: Infanticide Not As Shocking As Juror's Hair Color
Alternate Juror No. 1, a mother of four, is expected to start her first full day of deliberations today. Her dyed pink-and-red hair, nine tattoos and sparkly personality have captured the attention of courtroom spectators. [...] She has also been seen crying during portions of the trial -- specifically when autopsy photos were shown of the Petersons' unborn baby.
Posted by didofoot at 08:51 AM | Comments (1)
November 08, 2004
The Unbearable Triteness of Being (in a relationship with me)
When we first moved in together, I frequently pretended to be a hedgehog (in order to demonstrate to the Lad what a fun pet a hedgehog could be for us). From there I moved on to being an elephant, a goat, and a yeti. I also sometimes walk up to him soberly like I have something important to say and then when I have his attention I explode into the Snoopy dance. I occasionally make up cheers, or run around our circular apartment like a track star. One time I declared myself to be Sister Mary Posterior, a nun in the service of Our Lady of the Bottom. What I almost never do is pretend to be myself, because I have to do that all day at work as it is. So basically, he thought he was moving in with me but he actually is rooming with a bunch of animal crackers.
On top of this, I get worried every six or seven minutes that he doesn't know how fond I am of him. Then I have to draw him a cartoon about our beautiful love and fold it into a paper airplane and fling it at his head, so he knows we are still doing fine. Or sometimes, for variety, I rush up to him as fast as I can with a panicked expression, as if he were on fire, and fling myself on him like a limpet and shriek "I glove you! I glove you, pumpkin bread!" He especially likes for me to do this while he is programming or on the phone.
Sometimes I start to worry that he will leave me, because he never displays his true love for me by pretending to be an animal of any kind. Then I have to follow him around the house, clutching the voodoo doll I made of him, and chanting under my breath, "Don't leave, don't leave, don't leave, don't leave..." Then I nag him about doing the dishes. So far, it's all working.
Posted by didofoot at 08:59 AM | Comments (11)
November 03, 2004
See Holohan's title. Rinse, repeat.
Another election come and gone. I console you Bush haters with this thought: America can survive this. We survived the Reagan years, after all. (Though much of Central America, tragically, did not.) Just be sure that for the next four years you are careful not to be gay, poor, a woman, or of color. And if you are all of those things, well, clearly you have bigger things to worry about than who's president.
Speaking as a member of one of the four prohibited groups, I, too, feel the pain of this election. I haven't been this upset since Oz left Willow on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. By the time we get a new president, I will be 29, which as you know is almost 30, which as you know is the end of life as we know it. So basically I will be living with this president until I die. I will continue to write term papers and take vacations and work on this heady, difficult thing the poets call true love, but fundamentally my life will be...well, the same life it's been for the past four years.
In all seriousness, I hate that my tax dollars will continue to be used to piss off part of the world and slaughter the other part. But you know this too shall pass. All I can suggest for the interim is this: use your money. No one is going to listen to your voices, or pay attention to your bodies blocking traffic on pre-arranged Sunday marches. These things are tools of the past. But find a group or a person you can believe in and give them your money. Your time too, if you have any: most places can use volunteers. But the most effective megaphone in America is cash, and that is what you have to give.
Tens, twenties, fifties. Ulysses S. Grant is my only president now.
Posted by didofoot at 10:12 AM | Comments (4)
November 01, 2004
Wait til I tell you what the Smurfs were about...
"What most people don't realize," I said, "is that Strawberry Shortcake is the modern version of an ancient Roman fertility goddess to whom strawberries were sacred."
"I thought it was a doll named after a dessert?" said whoever I was talking to.
"Sure, they had to mainstream her," I said, "but think about it: dessert? Baking? Bun in the oven? Fertility. Do you think it's a coincidence?"
"Uh..."
"And consider the significance of the strawberry," I said, warming up. "If this were a body part, what would it be? Small, red? What body part has been compared to rosebuds and cherries and so on? I'll give you a hint: Eve Ensler would know exactly what I'm talking about."
"So, Strawberry Shortcake is..."
"A cunt goddess. That's right."
"So what about My Little Ponies? What's the story there?"
"Well, I'm glad you asked..."
Posted by didofoot at 11:44 AM | Comments (8)
