Melted Pop Stars and 2K Tunes

The first bit of music I ever got was a Kool and the Gang audio cassette. It was the golden nugget in my Christmas stocking. One of my other siblings got Billy Joel's Greatest Hits, which I borrowed indefinitely. Up until then, the only music I had was the grainy stuff slipping out of the car stereo and the wonky notes I generated with my accordian.

By the time compact discs started taking up shelf space in Tower Records, I had amassed a decent collection of audio cassettes. 15, maybe. Why would I want to buy a dumb ol' CD when I've invested so much in reams of thin, glossy tape? I asked myself. I wasn't going to give into the doggone allure of those little silvery music pies.

And then Billy Joel melted in my Volvo. He wasn't the first to go, you understand. Others had been fatally gnawed upon by my greedy cassette player. Still others had been hopelessly cracked. But Billy Joel's demise was cataclysmic. It was time to wake up and join the '90s.

Then I met the man of my dreams. He could also sing (but in tune) all of the lyrics to "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant." AND HE COULD PLAY THEM ON THE PIANO! We decided to get married and become one CD collection.

That's exactly what we did. Eventually, we had so many CDs that we needed to invest in a CD tower. And then a CD binder. Thank heavens for the miracle of 8 cm. polycarbonate plastic discs, we thought. We reckon these audio-encoded wonders will never become obsolete! How were we to know that iTunes would open up it's brilliant little shop on the world wide web?

By the time I purchased my first iTunes AAC file, my honey and I had enough CDs to panel a room. Most of them were playable. But more than a few of them obstinately refused to get past one word or phrase so that the effect was something like this: Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . Hey, hey, sha-la-la . . . . Too many of my compact discs were in the twilights of their lives, and I knew that the others were at least beginning to ponder retirement. Instead of luxuritating in the experience of listening to the musical stylings of Toad The Wet Sprocket while wearing my Dr. Martens and sipping my new-fangled beverage called "Starbucks latte," I was apprehensive that this play cycle might usher in the CD's irrevocable downfall. (I had come to understand that a CD's lifespan was not dissimilar to a chihuahua's.)

So here we are, 2000 digitized audio files later. My iTunes library is so expansive that navigating down the list of songs makes my middle finger hurt. (It's my scrolling finger.) I've still got a cabinet full of un-MP3ed CDs, and a somewhere-in-the-garage stash of audio cassettes in various stages of decomposition. But my iTunes page is currently where the audiophile in me resides. And for now, I feel safe from travesties of the melted pop star sort. They say digital files don't degrade. They say my songs will outlive me and my pets.

I really hope so because there's got to be a lifetime limit on how much a person can spend on "Only The Good Die Young."

Main Course: Goat Manure

I've made some impressively inedible meals in my time. But, because we are a resourceful clan (read not affluent enough to discard even the most heinous wokful of slop), my family has unremittingly and solicitously eaten more than several unpalatable meals. I've whipped up, for example, pizza'n'egg breakfasts, noodles-over-rice lunches, and let's-all-sniff-the-meat-to-see-if-it-has-outlived-its-expiration-date dinners. But tonight's supper extravagantly eclipses even those sad plates.

A few days ago, I bought a package of tofu at the local Chinese supermarket. My self-imposed rule, generally, is that all foodstuffs I purchase from there must have some discernible bit of English printed on the label. And I'm not talking about something like Packaged in El Monte, CA or 250 calories. I mean that the item's title needs to be in a non-中國 font. This shopping principle has spared me from making the culinary embarrassment of purchasing such things as, say, Bird's Nest Soup (whose main ingredient is an actual nest constructed primarily of the spittle of the industrious Asian Swiftlet bird), congealed pork blood, or thousand year old eggs. (More power to you if delight in eggs circa the Song Dynasty, by the way. But I've an intractable fondness for eggs recently laid.)

The tofu I willingly paid for earlier this week was proudly labeled Spicy Tofu. "Good," I thought. "I don't even have to season the stuff. The flavor's built in!" It certainly is. Trouble is, so is a prominently malodorous oil whose insidious power reveals itself only when spooned into a heated wok. "Yaargh!" is about all I can say. A most hearty yaargh, indeed.

You know that unfortunate aroma that emanates from the sole of your shoe after you've gone and tread into a fresh mound of dog relief? That fragrance is the not-so-distant cousin of the substance sitting in my best wok. Clearly, today is the day I bid adieu to that wok. And maybe my stove.

Chinese cuisine, it's true, is home to an infamous dish known as chou dofu (stinky tofu). I've heard that Chinese street vendors who sell the more potent versions of the stuff are routinely fined for exceeding air pollution limits. And this is in China. Where you can grab a ruddy wad of air and toss it around like a hacky sack.

So it's chou tofu on the menu at my house tonight. But since my nine year-old son compared my dinner's pungent bouquet to goat manure, I'm thinking about granting my loved ones supper clemency.

How about some carne asada burritos?

Restroom Tourism

I've noticed something quirky about my brother-in-law: every time we patronize (in a good way) a public establishment, he feels compelled to have a look-see at the men's facilities. I've never asked him why he insists on investigating public restrooms (I'm too shy to ask), but I'm pretty sure his guileless answer would be something like this: "I just had to see."

I think Bro-In-Law is onto something, though. I'm sure you remember that syrupy adage that drips right off the pages of altogether too many self-help books: Show me your friends and I'll tell you who you are. Well, I say Show me your restroom and I can see right through you. Try it. It's true. I've tested it. You can deduce oodles of things about a person's very nature by peeking at his or her loo.

Let's give my theory a whirl, shall we?

The restroom at my Kung Fu school is a spartan 9X9 gray-tiled space with nary a photo or a plastic plant to gladden the room. You've got your privy, your sink, your stainless steel waste receptacle, and your paper towel dispenser. That's all, folks.

What does this say about the people who train at my martial arts facility? That we Kung Fuers are a bare-faced, practical lot who don't need nothing sprucing up our walls because we're way too busy thinking about kicking your butt. Also, we need a bathroom as big as your guest bedroom so we can cartwheel our way over to the toilet.

Another noteworthy restroom I alighted on once said something like I'm so glad you've come to call. I got all dressed up in my Sunday finery when I got word of your arrival. Oh, do try one of my shell-shaped soaps.

Another: We eat spicy refried beans here. Lots of them.

Tour a few restrooms on your next outing, will you? Restroom-based character analysis simply doesn't backfire. (Did you see the pun just there?) You won't be bummed. (I did it again.)

An Avalanche For Royalty

I was never one of those pink and fluffy lasses who dreamed of, one shiny day, acquiring a sing-songy prince with product-saturated hair. Princesshood, you understand, would have wiped out my priorities: Rubik's Cubing, fig picking, and bike riding to 7-11. Plus, high heels gave my ankles the tweaks.

Now that I'm 38, though, I'm going to give crown-wearing a go. I get fitted for one tomorrow, in fact. It'll run me about $1,100 (give or take an arm or a leg), but it should last me until I'm interred. Alas, my crown will be made of porcelain and will reside in the back corner of my mouth, but let's all agree to admit that I'm, nevertheless, getting a coronation--of sorts. I shan't expect a parade, it's true. But a post-procedure bean burrito would neatly suffice.

What prompted this fortuitous turn of events? Last week, as I was wishing out loud for summer to hurry up and arrive already, I experienced my first dental avalanche. One of my molars (aided by the meagerest of sound waves bouncing 'round my gums) up and broke in half. The dislodged piece slid serenely away from the rooted portion and settled in the valley under my tongue. It didn't hurt. There were no dangling nerves. Mostly, having a cleanly cleaved tooth felt--well--expensive.

And that it is. Tomorrow, I'll trade my dentist an entire paycheck for a molecule of porcelain and a Dixie cup of filtered water. But I demur from complaining since Do-It-Yourself Dentistry isn't something I've warmed up to yet.

Denticular doctoring sure is pricey. I may be getting the crown but, if you ask me, madam Dentist is the one who's looking like royalty.

Ob-La-Di Blah Blah Blah

Imagine there's no Heaven
No thanks.
It's easy if you try
Don't wanna.
No hell below us
But where will short shorts go?
Above us only sky
And the International Space Station.
Imagine all the people
Give me a minute.
Living for today
Short-sighted narcissists.
Imagine there's no countries
What would I do with my passport?
It isn't hard to do
You try it.
Nothing to kill or die for
What a drag.
And no religion too
Eee gads!
Imagine all the people
Done.
Living life in peace
Umm . . . what?

You may say that I'm a dreamer
That's not the name I was thinking . . .
But I'm not the only one
There are more of you?!?
I hope someday you'll join us
Ice cube, hell. Monkeys, butt.
And the world will be as one
ZZzzzzzzzz.

Imagine no possessions
How 'bout soap for your pits, hippie!
I wonder if you can
Can. Won't.
No need for greed or hunger
Greed this, sasquatch!!
A brotherhood of man
@#$%&!
Imagine all the people
You can't make me!
Sharing all the world
Senseless cat farts !

You may say that I'm a dreamer
Flabby turkey gills!
But I'm not the only one
Toenails growing on tree stumps!
I hope someday you'll join us
Camel juice! Lips in gravy!
And the world will live as one
Soccer balls.

(I like the Beatles; I really do. But this post-Beatles tune by ex-Beatle, now-deceased Lennon is an empty wish bomb on saccharine wheels. Go ahead and Eleanor Rigby me instead. Hit me with a Paperback Writer. We Can Work It Out, as long as you don't make me Imagine.)

Japanese Poetry For Bloated Tonsils

I was/am sick. The kind of sick where I haven't the gumption to reach for a tissue or three. The kind of sick where clothing becomes a nuisance and all food tastes like salted dirt.

So here I slump, warmed only by the motor thingy in my laptop, looking for whatever silver lining might be lurking 'round my viral self. Gee willikers . . . those Advil gel-caps slid surprisingly easily past my bloated tonsils doesn't sound cheery enough to line this grey cloud of sickdom.

So I think I'm going to have compose for you a few lively haikus. Because haikus are about nature. And, despite my supreme disapproval of the timing and disposition of this illness, the filthy microbes that have hunkered down in my face are part of nature. The sordid, sullied part of nature--but nature just the same:

Chicken soup tastes like
a gulpful of sea water
with some chunks in it.

Hot then cold then hot
then cold then hot then cold then
hot then cold then hot.

The latin word for
the influenza must be
germus stupidus.

Play me a sad song
on your violin because
I am languishing.

After sleeping late,
my hair looks like modern art--
minus modern/art.

Hand me a tissue
before I must resort to
using my own shirt.

The English romantic poet William Blake had the right idea about writing sickness poetry, too. He wrote a little ditty called "The Sick Rose" about (you guessed it) a rose that is sick. I guess this makes Illness Verse a legitimate genre. It also makes me a literary non-innovator. Figures.

Poisoned Dreams and a Cheese Curl Conflagration

Last night I dreamed that Shawn and I were in the backyard foraging for weeds. We were planning to eat them. Problem was, Shawn was being a diligent, basket-carrying weed collector, while I was eating (raw and dusty) every piece of greenery I laid my eyes on. Until, of course, I polished off an entire stalk of oleander which, as soon as my tongue began to tingle, Shawn reminded me was one of the most toxic plants in the world . . . .

But dreams are mercifully brief when death is imminent, so I promptly woke up with nothing more serious than an arid mouth.

The rest of my day, though, copycatted my dream. No, I didn't surrender to the allure of lethal vegetation, but I did eat myself silly. Actually, it's not so much that I ate massive amounts of food, but that the food choices I made were decidedly unconventional.

My morning dawned on an almond milk latte with two shots of espresso and a tablespoon of powdered Mexican chocolate. So far so good. But then, within the hour, I decided that the caffeine I'd already ingested was lonely and needed--oh--another pot of coffee.

Whilst java fogged, I reasoned that a cereal bowl filled with veggie chips amounted to a near-perfect breakfast sequel. (My first breakfast was a fruit 'n' nut bar with a side of hot cereal).

You see how this is going. By midday, I'd lunched on a couple of gluten-free vegan pizza slices and a handful of hot Cheetos. And then, to douse the conflagration of cheese curls in my gut, I paired a dark chocolate Kit Kat bar with a ten-ounce cup of carrot juice. I think there were some grapes in there somewhere too. Probably next to my second (but comparatively modest) helping of veggie chips. Dinner was equally embellished.

I don't know that there's a bigger lesson to be learned from my day of off-beat gastronomical activities. I'm not typically an emotional eater, so I don't fear I'm headed down some food-lined road to ruin. But I reckon that if there is something to be surmised here it is this: dreams really can come true. Especially when you've got a pantry filled with mismatched snacks.

Chuckle Bats

For reasons I'd rather not expound upon, I found myself--at about 9:30 in the evening--in an undecorous state of panic. Things undone during the daylight hours were beginning to loom large on my to-do list, and I had mere minutes before total nighttime shutdown. (You may not know this, but no later than 10 o'clock every evening, life's incidental tasks cease to make sense to me. I become an utter buffoon.) So, without so much as a hint of feminine calm, I began barreling from room to room whooping day-end orders at my two children: "Brush your floss! Wash your teeth! Saran Wrap is good for broccoli! Homework? Answer me, for sooth!!"

My children, meanwhile, had settled into audience mode. They were watching me with the curiousity/pity hybrid they typically reserve for tantrumming toddlers and substitute teachers. And then they began to laugh. Apparently, my disintegration had become more than a little amusing. Being a relatively capable parent, I paused mid-bellow and considered how best to respond to my children's blatant nonchalance. Here's what I came up with:

"Okay! Hardy har har, you . . . chuckle bats!" I said this with as much vim and volume as I could muster.

And then I heard what I'd just uttered and my sensible morning self broke through my late-night crazy person. "Chuckle bats?" I repeated.

"What's a chuckle bat?" Scout snickered.

I had no answer for Scout just then, but I think it's fairly safe to say that Chuckle Bats are beastly nocturnal critters with semi-sane diurnal mothers. They may or may not be distantly related to bears who shed their skins--but we'll save that story for another day.