About Face

Made a brief stop in the bathroom stall of a local Mexican restaurant sometime back only to find I was being watched. (Recall the once-blogged-of fork find? Yep, the very one!) Couldn’t take my eyes from the face ingrained in the faux wood laminate paneling on the door.

Don’t quite see it? Let me help. Looks a bit like this guy even.

Yes, my dad’s fairly fixated on that particular restaurant at the moment. It began just after the overhaul to his diet in the quest for optimal health last February. By mid-March, he raved regularly over their tortilla soup, a dish he’d once found “too”. Too spicy! St. Patrick’s Day rolled around along with an invitation to accompany him to dinner for the holiday’s traditional fare. Tortilla soup? He frequents their establishment a little more than frequently these days. A recent dinner there, found the entire staff stopping by our table off and on throughout the meal, my dad greeting each by name, and they in return. Love that! It speaks to the sense of community I wish to reside in now and always. Inside jokes and bits of prior conversation ensued and it was more than good to get a glimpse of the spell he casts when foregoing his hermit-like ways.

• One greets him with “welcome home!” each and every.
• Another brings “the usual” without asking.
• With Thanksgiving and Christmas, came sincere invites to join yet another’s family for the holidays.

And, at last, he understands the joy of spicy food. A cohort! (Insert “ode” here.) Months and months ago, he’d be found inevitably hacking away at some point during the meal, the heat found in the broth having built to a point where it’d catch him up. Now he constantly says, “It’s just not as hot as it once was, it needs more heat,” to which I continually respond with something to the affect of, “It’s one of two things: the cooks’ve learned already, having long since tired of your hacksome displays and now forego the addition of any and all heated elements. Or, you’ve acclimated. Congrats!” In a semi-related item, I want THIS! I swear, that little deviled monkey winked at me as I walked by at the grocery store a few days back.

Other found faces? Try this one. A little “yikes”, right? That poster creepeth me more than a little out. Bean once displayed it on her closet door in order to take advantage of this very fact. Le yelp! Adore the beloved Lecter, a perfect man, he is, more or less- wry and witty, cultured and culinary, perceptive and analytical, calm and collected, thorough and impassioned, those drawings- extraordinaire!- and an obsessive fixation for one woman like no other. Problem: serial killer? No. Fictional. That’s one staring contest (the only), I’ll not be winning any time soon.

Lame scare of the week, a face lurking at the bottom of the coffee cup. My cup. My face! Jumped even. Jiminy. Suppose you’d jump, too, though, were you to find my face at the bottom of your coffee cup, yes?

Gifts bestowed from Bean and Shane’s recent travels included this here looking glass. Ha. Looking….. glass…..

Through all of October and much of November, the following face could be viewed just across the way. Existing purely of a tassled curtain and the blinds which twisted themselves in such an odd way as to produce, well, that, at some point, curiosity found me enquiring of others, did they see what I saw? Affirmation came quickly in Shane’s response, “You mean that insane scary-ass death skull cackling in the window?”

Lastly, was entirely egg faced a while back now. Huevos rancheroed! Sitting at a 3-way stop on a 2-lane road, I pulled up to the line as the car to my right drove straight on through. My turn! Began to accelerate and instead tromped on the brakes as the next car on the right appeared to piggy-back on the tail of the first guy, but was instead turning left. Into me! Nearly. I squinted my death ray vision in his general direction and the choice word of “Assssho-” began its escape from my mouth in finding my turn so rudely skipped when I suddenly realized, hey, I know that guy. Johnny! The way-friendly, super awesome dude who sells me far too many movie tickets. We often talk it up, exchanging opinions and recommendations. I then see that there’s an entirely separate turning lane making his assumed piggy-back really just a slow-to-start perfectly rightful turn on his part leaving me the one in the wrong. Bad enough it was, wronging someone, but then to actually know the person that I was delivering such a term of disaffection to on top of it. Headed to the movies the very next day in need of apologizing pronto. He wasn’t there. In fact, for one seen so regularly, over three months passed before another encounter occurred. Upon the occurrence, noticed Johnny’s so-nice longish hair was all buzzed off. When commented on, he mentioned that he makes a habit of growing it out and chopping it off for charity. Meanie, miney, me!

Lesson learned: see beyond all the hunks-a-metal on wheels out there on the road to the people inside, the faces, remembering there’s always a heart n’ soul in there, no matter the offense given, whether it be merely perceived or the real deal. ♦

It’s All Happening… I Do Believe It’s True

It’s been said that polar bears are on their way out. And not just like out of town. Like out of life as we know it. Extinct. That’s all folks. Au revoir and goodbye. This will not do! And nor would it do to be taken along as an accompaniment for one of them on such a journey…..
There he stood, strong and sturdy, tall and furry as just such a bear should be, atop a flat marbled patch of rock. Easing down into the water from his post, he began a routine swim around and about in a long n’ lazy figure eight from one end of the the water’s edge to the other. Deviating abruptly from the established pattern, he suddenly headed straight towards me all bite and no bark as he bared a mouthful of angry teeth in a fitful snarl while swiping out with an enormous clawed paw lunging the brunt of his massive body- paper bag, please- at me! He then thumped off the glass barrier, the only thing keeping me from having been certain lunch. Stumbling back more than just a few feet, I stood in awe and a twisted kinda honor of sorts. Was it something I said? Guessing no more jokes about the bear, the priest and the rabbi…..

Though a trip to the zoo turned up no further phenomenal attacks, it did yield an odd image, or two, for the sharing. Birds, rather, their skeletal little legs and creepy-claw feet tend to freak me out a bit at times. A distant childhood brings forth memories of friends allowing their pet birds to roam about the room uncaged only to land on a shoulder (me) or ponytail (mine). So, when crossing paths with the budgie exhibit, a mild case of apprehension arose.

Walked into a large room containing various trees filled with all kinds- parrots, parakeets and cockatiels. Purchased a wooden popsicle stick covered in many little seeds and held it straight out and up into the air. Soon a bird alighted on the stick and voila!- a front row seat to nature at its finest. My fine feathered friend wasn’t content to stay upon his wooden perch and instead eased up onto my finger. Creepy-claw-foot-skin-on-skin contact and I survived to tell of it! Found it a delight, in fact. Funny, my sister’s experience went a bit differently. Her budgie found her fingernails, her polish specifically, to be of great interest. Metallic yellow with a black criss cross pattern led the little bird to peck repeatedly at those nails more so than the provided snack. Ha! Made me sooooo glad to’ve stuck with the safe n’ sedate in-the-buff-stuff over the prior week’s pink polka dottage.
Caught a glimpse of emu bum. Almost as good as duck butt, but more mobile and located at a higher altitude. Only thing better? Synchronized duck butt!

Well, ding dong bell, is this not the oddest bit of ick one can happen across at the zoo? Was enjoying a hippo here, a potamus there, when a quick glance down revealed a pair of wings framing a natal star. A closer glance found the remains of what look to be the paws of a rodent amidst several other ratly bone fragments and a matting of fur. Think it’d make a- if not lovely, at least a conversational- brooch. Thought the aminals were supposed to be alive at the zoo…..

In further death and decomposition, we arrived in time to view an eagle making mince meat out of a quail. Down dipped the beak, in for a moment, out and back up again with a mouth full of red while bits of innard trailed from beak to corpse below. Next stop? The snack stand.

Um….. what’s this all about, I wonder? One can only imagine there’s a rogue baby that’s up and taken to the trees bound to emerge years later via news report as a sighting of yet another Saskwatchian yeti. ♦

Ball, Car, Pavement. Repeat. A Chicken and Bubbles to Boot!

Quite frankly, I’m astounded. Have made it through many (!) a month now without the occurrence of what I deem a “Lucy antic”. Apparently, the viewing of far too much I Love Lucywhile growing up has had an adverse affect on life’s happenings, causing many the wacky and fantastical happening, occasionally reported here in times past. Did I mention that my grandmother’s name is Lucille? Locating some wood…..

When locking one’s keys in the car, it’s best to recognize the positive. In calling Bean with a need for the other keys, she offered not one groan or grumble, at least to the hearing of myears, just something along the lines of, “Alrighty, we’re on the way!” Then, when walking out to the main road to meet up with my rescue’s arrival, I received seven “hello’s and how are you’s” from passersby. Semi-ominous clouds above held off on a potential downpour and I was able to finish two chapters in my book at the time, Shutter Island, recommended by who else- Bean. Life’s too good, despite an unexpected locked car door, or two. Point in case, this bit of pansy-ness flourishing mid-sidewalk spotted along the way. This pansy’s no pansy, having grown up through a crevice amidst the grey, grey pavement of the sidewalk, and though likely set to be squished by the wheel of a passing bicycle all too soon, offered up hope, joy, and a smile in the meantime. Near re-bolstered my dimmed moxie from some months back now. Thrive on, little asphalt flower!

Speaking of owning a pair, pardon the crude reference, but behold Bean’s car balls. They follow me around the car, I swear. Up front? Car balls. Backseat? Car balls. Roof rack? Car balls! Swingin’ to, swingin’ fro.

The lovely Autumn weather (J’adore!) finds me frequenting the car wash, more often than not. Brushes buff, bouffant, primp, polish and poof every bit of my little car as I happily snap away at the sudsy soapfest capturing a play by play of the waxing on and waxing off. Never fails to remind me of the fun I found it to be in accompanying my dad through a similar car wash as a munchkin of four.

My favorite blacktop find as of late was this here melty crayon. Sure, it’s not my beloved Crayola, but all’s forgiven as it’s very nearly the color of my bedroom! Kingfisher Teal.

My favorite olive-green-shaggy-rug-on-carpet-how-I-wish-you-were-really-hardwood-floors find would be these here pink fuzzy-slippered feet. Mine! The quest to be part Muppet lives on…..

Once blogged of the pint-sized rubber chicken that adorns my car dash and its unfortunate popping due to an all too friendly warming of the super-hot sun. “Popping” resulted in the liquid-filled, squishy yolk substance lying within to ooze out and down said dash. Enter replacement chicken! Via Christmas stocking stuffer. Alas, more poppage. So, imagine my glee to encounter that there unhoused, as-of-yet, chicken-free yolk at the store recently. Now, how to get it into the chicken….. slingshot, please!

Thinking that bubbles must be a close relation to bunny wabbits in their ability to reproduce in droves. You walk away for the quickest of moments and- GAZUNGA! Stay Puft. ♦

Nine Times Out of Ten

“People who become artists often share strikingly similar traits with those who become criminals: abusive parents, traumatic childhood events, and marked scarcity of the brain chemical seratonin. In some cases, being good-looking cancels out the above misfortunes, but throw ugly into this already precarious mix and nine times out of ten, you get an artist or a criminal.” -The Starving Artist’s Survival Guide

It may be wrong that I take pride of some sort in that statement. Yet, wrong or not, that I do! An artist, I am. And though the desire to delve into any criminal mischief never quite took its hold, an utter fascination with a certain unsavory branch of the criminal world most definitely did. That of the serial killer. Of the “organized” classification variety, that is. A mastermind gone greatly awry.

The exploration of what compels one possessing great intelligence to bypass their conscience (what conscience, some may ask) and take that first step off the ledge of sanity to make their wicked imaginings a reality- highly engaging! In conversation, I always wonder at those who say they could never commit such acts themselves. Anyone who’s felt love to the depth it should be felt at, and in turn been hurt by it, has learned that there’s a thin line between love and hate, and were that hate to be overindulged and fixated upon, the rage to build and ensue contains a capacity to enable nearly anyone to potentially falter (understatement) and kill another. Such people may be the most scary and dangerous of all, as they’ve not yet experienced the full recesses of their own mind to know the lows to which it can go and how to then reign it back in once there.

So, fascination, criminal, mastermind: Dexter! In catching up on viewing season III, that show all about a forensic blood spatter analyst who moonlights as a vigilante serial killer, several quotes struck me, giving voice to thoughts I think I’ve thunk in times past.

“My life has always felt like an unanswered question. A string of days and nights waiting for something to happen, but I didn’t know what.”

And still, I wait. Life doesn’t currently offer up anything concrete in the way of the definitive answers I’m continually seeking. That “something”. A purpose I do possess, but it needs further defining, a honing and fleshing out in setting a course to follow filled with the substance required to carry me on through to what I’m meant for. In likening life to a photograph, it’s begun to feel as if the often blurred elements of the background are at last working their way into place to provide a solid basis for which the foreground image- the crisp, clear, vibrant, technicolor subject still to come- may rest on.

“A dinner party.
Washing dishes.
It seems so mundane.
But it’s oddly….. soothing.
Maybe this is what belonging feels like.”

That one actually made me cry. Thank you dear and lovely screenwriters for such a relatable bundling of composed wordage! Truly, the times I’m among a handful or more of others, whether loved ones, liked, or just-met perfectly good strangers, whenever we find ourselves teamed in preparation and consumption of a meal, a rhythm sets in to which all move and belong by simply sharing in the tasks of the everyday-ordinary. It’s mighty fine to feel on the ins and not the outs, from time to time.

“We see two things in people: What we wanna see and what they wanna show us.”

What a ponderous declaration! It’s a wonder that the existence of love could ever stand a chance at being genuine in light of such words, as it would seem sure to be rooted in the mere imaginings of another, a skewed perception, a desired fabrication. That’s an entirely separate post, I’m thinking, not easily compacted into a sentence or two, nor even a tangent. Really, just a dismal theology for batting around before dismissal, playing into the facets of love being blind. As for what others may wanna show us, if only more would show….. more. I do tire of those not apt to show much of anything, closed off (nearly down!), quick to take, but slow to give. I’ve had quite enough of those, and that’s all I have to say about that.

In further and final Dexter-doing, a few photos of a dining room designed to conceptually embody the elements that comprise the show. The best bits- the blood-filled vials acting as centerpieces down the table, the plastic covered floor and the blood-splattered dining chairs. Purveying of mayhem! ♦

Found Out What Terror Smells Like…..

This past May, several of us Ugly Bug Balled (charming little song, it is) it down to California- Disneyland specifically- in celebration of my sister’s birthday. The Land of Disney may not be my Happiest Place On Earth, but hey, it wasn’t my birthday, and as it is the Happiest Place, I went gladly!

Was mildly bummed at first to locate my seat just above the plane wing where I feared the blockage of various camera shots, but soon found its presence helpful in gauging perspective in the view seen far, far below. Multiple shots exist with the typical fare: clouds, a mountain or two, vast bland land and blue, blue, blue.

Nubu, our dolly accompaniment (well, one of them) mentioned in posts long prior, hung out on my serving tray complete with teeny tiny pretzels and Relevant reading material.

Eerily enough, in the seat behind me Bean’s tray had a similar resemblance, only with Boopenny, Shane’s British Boo. Yes, we gave him his own dolly. And he’s resigned to, I mean, fine, with that. Really. Ask him. Go ahead.

ASIDE: Matching eye attire was truly an unplanned occurrence made possible by one of the two of us here owning far too many pairs of sunglasses. I’ll let you decide which one.

Once arriving at the John Wayne airport, we dined at Mrs. Knott’s Chicken Dinner Restaurant concluding with a little pie and sassafras.

Main Street U.S.A. was a dream what with all its vintage this and vintage that. Caught a movie for a penny in the aptly named arcade, drank a soda under some fine lighting, and was soon off to the first thrill of the day in the form of a ride on Space Mountain. Rode it for the first time several years ago, only to find it more than a little unpleasant due to the fact that with each swoop up and then back down again through tunnels and around bends, I felt fairly certain that my block would be knocked clean off. Regular and involuntary ducking makes for a tedious time, that’s for sure! The ride had been revamped this time around, allowing for all tedium to fall away leaving only the sensation of careening through a host of many, many stars at a most delicious speed! Briefly stopped in at the bathroom soon after, nifty signage!

In the way of more nifty signage, found this noggin advisory in Tarzan’s Treehouse.

And confronted a childhood bully. See that whale there?

Not a very nice fella, at least the way I remember it way back at the age of five. Sure, I’ve returned mulitiple times since then, but always made it a point to avoid the overblown beast residing at the entrance to the Storybook Land Canal Boats. This time, he topped my list in wants for doing. Apprehension- more than a little- got my heart a pounding as our boat idled up to his gargantuan mouth leading us straight down his massive gullet. Made it a point to not close my eyes and instead looked straight up at the row of those even teeth awaiting above. There they are now…….

Wouldn’t have minded plopping down and lending an ear to these fellows doing their thing down in New Orleans Square. Spiffy shoes, too!

This trip around, I was all about noting the many little details that made up each attraction, each land created and embodied within Disney. Found that the props, the interiors, the posh and paint didn’t capture my interest nearly as much as all the landscaping. Perdy, huh?

Though lacking a proper photo to share, a favorite example would be the Haunted Mansion in which a selection of drab and dreary dead-like plantery was chosen to convey a sense of decay all about the “residence”. Yet all were very much alive and thriving. It’s like they painted, but with foliage!

Discovered the best time to attempt enduring a ride on the It’s a Small World attraction. Night, late-ish, while dark out. Lines were minimal which was combative in keeping the mind numbing at bay brought from the oh-so repetitive song played….. repeatedly. Once in our comfy little boat, we rode through scene after scene of chummy little dolls, nationality after nationality, only to enter the last room where a doll representative of each country was found dressed in an all-white version of their attire in an attempt to appear cult-like. I mean, unified.

Disney’s California Adventure was instantly liked on my part if for nothing other than their Paradise Pier. Love!

However, Mickey’s Fun Wheel nestled right amongst all the pier carnival fun, while appearing harmless enough, in actuality, has been renamed Frickin’ Minion Mickey’s Dastardly Death Wheel by moi. For a ride that very much resembles a ferris wheel in design (ferris wheels have worked their way to the top of the scary list in that most often, one sits on a little bench-like seat in the open air only to end up at the very tippy-top stopped and inevitably rocking, ready to flip over and out at any moment), at first, one may find comfort in the fact that the seats are actually enclosed, with a door to boot. Comfort not to be taken! The “gondolas” as they’re called, sway back and forth along tracks located within the wheel’s spokes. One may request one of the few non-swaying gondolas, but really, no terror, no fear-facing fun, yes? There are no seat belts. No restraints. No apparent door latches. Did I mention the door slides open as though on a track greased with butter-flavored Crisco left out in the 90 degree summer sun? (Not while en route, of course.) No handles, bars or gripping devises of any kind. Oh, the trauma!

Once our turn, we took our seats only to find that the couple accompanying us were just as terrified. Well, the woman was anyway. Her boyfriend on the other hand, broke out the camera and proceeded to film her shaking, quaking, tremor-filled existence. To be fair, he did offer up a little comfort from time to time. A little. Up we went around and around again, rocking up so high as to lift off the seat a bit staring back down at the couple facing us on the other side of the cab with the ground and all that was sane behind them in the far distance, far too many feet out of reach. The grating on the windows contained mesh holes too small to put one’s fingers through for grasping, so thankfully a friend was kind enough to allow me the use of a hand and knee for need of something to cling to desperately.

In continuing the serendipituous situations that seem to frequent my life, I was happy to take a seat in the Muppet Vision 3D theatre and await a little entertainment. A mixture of onscreen antics and animatronic Muppetness left me wishing for an encounter with a real live Muppet (this may sound familiar coming from me and I believe I’ve now reached my Muppet mentioning quota for the year, right after the conclusion of this story). It then happened! What to my wondering eyes did appear, but a long frocked monster that I did much revere! Sweetums. The very one! Out he ran down at the front of the theatre fulfilling his part to bring the show to a close. I hoped for a quick moment that he may be a greeter at the door in saying goodbye to all guests and therefore allowing me a potential hug opportunity as desired in the post preceding this one, a clear example of the serendipity I so often enjoy. Alas, it was not to be. This time…..

The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror was thoroughly formidable with its once-luxurious-now-vacant hotel atmosphere, creepy bellhop attendants and the mad 13-story drop in an old elevator shaft. Note: Found out what terror smells like….. flowers. Who knew? The scent permeates all those awaiting hotel entry.

The Animation Academy was a huge, ahem, draw for me in particular. A room filled with dozens and dozens of people, many stating their complete inability to draw or sketch worth a darn soon introduced to an honest-to-goodness animator who then proceeds to walk all through a simple lesson on the provided clipboards, paper and pencils. Voila! Some stellar results on behalf of the audience! Me, I wanted to follow that animator back to his office and ghost him for, oh say, a month.

California Screamin’ was the best thrill had! A steel roller coaster containing many a twist, turn and upside downing. Braced myself for a bumpy ride as any and all coasters I’ve been on in the past few years have been a jar to the system to say the least. The ride began, carnival music accompanying (yay!) in true blast-off fashion and once I began screaming I didn’t stop. Love a good excuse for attempting to wake the dead and that was a worthy one! Smoothest ride eva! Not a bump or jar to be detected. Need one of those in my backyard. Need a backyard. Wouldn’t ya know it though, all that bloody screaming did a number on my lovely throat and by night’s end a soreness from hell was working its way into place. Awoke the next morning terribly sick, opting to stay in bed, delirious and dopey (drugstore NyQuil) the entire day through. Ordered in takeout late that evening. Vietnamese. Bad idea.

Found that I was uneasy much of the trip and didn’t clue in as to exactly why until returning back home. For all the many, many people walking here and there, face after face, row after row passing me by, not once that I can recall, did anyone make eye contact. Not even by accident. Found this odd. A mass of folks, and not many smiles either. Tired, determined, always-moving people, parents, there to push and park strollers, nothing more. Not Disneyland. Zombieland. Once home, people appeared relatively human again and the regular looks and smiles I receive while out and about in public resumed, and I again found that connection that I hadn’t realized I count on to brighten my life from all the nameless masses out there in the world. ♦