The Password’s Lasagna.

Enjoy the simple things.    For example, I just noticed my ceiling is white.   I t is a ceiling, and it is white.   That is the simplest thing I can think of to enjoy.   I am now enjoying it from behind my eyelids.  

This is a poem about people who don’t know their turn signal is on. “How  Do I tell you Your turn signal’s on? (On, on, on, on, on, on, on) I want you to turn it off Because I am confused. You are deaf And blind Why are you driving. Why do you turn it off  Finally After the anguish of my anguish overwhelms me Flooding my heart After five miles of straight road (Did you hear not the clicking?) Why do you turn it off, right, right, right, right Right before you  Actually turn?”

Have you ever gone to a dance by yourself?   No?   You annoyingly popular human, you.   Fine.  Just pretend that you have.  Imagine what it’s like.  Picture this:   You’re walking down a dimly lit street, trying to look purposeful and also as if you’re going to an enjoyable event and not a  crime scene investigation or your own execution.  This is difficult, as you are alone.  If you walk slowly, you appear up to something.  If you walk quickly, you seem frenzied and paranoid.  If you smile, or, worse, if you laugh and chat to yourself, someone’s sure to call the police.  If you frown or gaze steadfastly into the distance, someone’s sure to call the police.  The point is, it’s not easy.   Finally, you see figures ahead of you and your ears pick up the first lively notes of a polka.  This may be different for you, depending on where you live, but I happen to live in a town that enjoys polka music in the streets.   You slide surreptitiously between dancers and elderly watc

Here’s where I offend all of my readers except my mom.  Oh, wait...

The world is full of pain.   People ask me, “why can’t you be serious?  In a world full of doom and despair, do you really think it’s appropriate to be so gleeful?”   Okay, nobody has ever asked me that.    But in case someone ever does, here’s my answer.   Yes, the world is a terrible place and without laughter it would be even more terrible, so I feel like I’m contributing to the greater good by sacrificing my dignity for a few yuk yuks (note: all comedians, humorists, cartoonists, and even mildly funny people are actually just super lazy from a philanthropic sense.  The easiest thing we can do is make people smile a little, so we usually just settle for that instead of raising millions through global charities and saving lives and stuff). Also, who says I don’t acknowledge pain?  In fact, for your edification, here’s a scientifically proven list of the top ten most painful and traumatic experiences a human can suffer through, from least to most devastating.  

Today I wore cut-off jeans.  They had been cut directly above the knee, and, when unrolled, sported a casual fringe.  A fringe of varying lengths.  A fringe that, casually, brushed against my knees at intervals of twenty-three seconds throughout the entire day.  To put that in perspective, that’s approximately 1,252.176 times over an eight hour period.   You’d think I’d get used to it.   You really would. It really seems like I could figure it out and desensitize my squeamish little self. But, no.

Okay.  Back to what’s really relevant. 

I’ve got Spinach in my freezer I’ve got Spinach in my freezer I’ve got spinach in my freezer Yes I do... I’ve got kale in my fridge I’ve got kale in my fridge I’ve got kale in my fridge Yes I do... *key change* Iiii’veee gooot... Beets and bananas I’ve got Beets and bananas I’ve got beets and bananas Yes I do..... I caaan Make so many smoothies I can make so many smoothies I can make so many smooooothieeees Yessss Iiiiii caaaaan. Disclaimer:  I do not recommend surviving solely on leafy greens and smoothies.  HOWEVER, during a heat wave, I pump smoothies and other frozen plant materials directly into my veins, and it’s great. Note:  It’s not professional to end a sentence with “and it’s great”, because it’s lazy and sloppy and unspecific, BUT I was momentarily distracted by a dude walking past.  He was unremarkable except for an cloud of energy that shimmered about his person like heat rising off blacktop.  He must be hard to live with in close quarters becau

Maybe people aren’t so bad after all.  Here I am, sitting in front of the library, watching people come and go, expecting and desiring no human interaction, perfectly content to remain a silent, invisible watcher.  Creepy?  Yes.  Stress-free?  Yes.   Anyway, one older lady shuffled by, in an oversized t-shirt and crocs.  Ten minutes later, she shuffled out again, a plastic bag of books clutched tightly in her hand.  She walked past me, did a double take, and came back.  The following conversation ensued: Lady:  “I would have said hi to you on the way in...” Me:  “?” Lady:  “...but I was too busy thinking about BOOKS!” Me:  “Chuckle chuckle.” I don’t know if you could call that a conversation, actually.  But you know what?  It doesn’t matter.  Even the crocs don’t matter.  That lady and I now share a common bond, which will remain unbreakable through the ages!  (At least, until one of us dies and/or the digital age renders books obsolete.)  (Which will happen over my dead

Ooh la la. Before I begin today’s story though, I have to tell you that I just saw someone using a shop-vac on a cow, who was clearly enjoying itself.  God bless small-town county fairs. Kay.  Back to the mist.  And the romance.  And stuff like that. Last night, I was standing on a retaining wall. (That is like, the most romantic place to be standing, like, ever, like, you know?) But actually, the location didn’t matter so much, because I was looking out over a misty river, flowing like glass under the moon and the street lights and the nearby bridge, silver and black and partly hidden under its moonlit scarf of opaque humidity. I may have been grinning like a total moron as I surveyed the scene, because I react in strange ways to beauty.  I was also trying to see out of the back of my head to keep an eye on my bike, which was placed in an absolutely perfect position to be stolen by the shadowy young man who was walking across the bridge toward me. As he came closer, I was t

It’s hearing someone whisper the words “hot and spicy pizza” out of context while your back is turned to them and what they’re saying is literally none of your business and three inch long unidentified bugs are landing in your hair. But that’s beside the point.  Today is all about the cartoons, after all.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any prepared except one which might possibly be the most subversive cartoon I’ve done to date.  Again, most unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to shock and offend at this exact moment, so I’m going to take the easy road and publish this completely unnoffensive little sketch of a cute mushroom-hatted person.  (Psst, it’s not funny, it’s just cute and I don’t know why I expect you to want to look at it, but just humor me.)

Go kiss a flower.  Yep.  That’s an order. I mean, what’s all this about smelling the roses?      Would you want someone’s oily nose down in your hallowed inner chambers of sweetness?   Why does that sound so inappropriate?   Ahem. Let me try this again. If you were a flower, would you really want to be sniffed at by someone with acne and inch-long nose hairs?   If you were a lily, would you rather be smooched or snorted? If you were a rose, would you rather be kissed or snuffled upon?  If you were a good writer, would you end a sentence with a preposition?  If you were God, would you have made noses less oily to begin with?   If you were an artist, would you have drawn a slightly more dimensional image of a flower?

Hello world, welcome to the dumbest thing I’ve ever written.  It helps if you sing it with gusto.  (Hint: UIKEYINPUTDOWNARROWgive “favorite” and “chocolate” three syllables.) Dun dun dun... ...If you’d rather eat spaghetti  With butter, And if petting armadillos makes your bitty heart flutter, If you wear twenty-three inch plugs  And you snack on creepy bugs, And you turn off the radio before  Your very favorite song ends, If you dance to rapping only  And you never just be lonely, Then I think we cannot ever quite be friends.   If you like to play the tuba And get thrills at going scuba Diving with a pack of grumbly-tumbly sharks, If you stick Q-tips up your nose  And knit socks for all your toes And deface all the bathrooms in the parks, If you get joy from picking peanuts  Out from every tin of mixed nuts And don’t laugh at jokes that center on Depends, If you run away from cats And feed chocolate to bats, Then I don’t think we can

....Werewolves of London. Aaaoooo...... Werewolves of London. Either you hate me right now and will never, ever, ever, EVER come back again, or you’re wondering “what the heck”.  If the latter, you can choose to remain blissfully, beautifully, splendidly unaware and happy, like I was for my entire life before 2 pm yesterday afternoon when I innocently turned the radio to the oldies station, OR you can go on YouTube and search for the first three words of this post.  Your fate is in your own hands now.  And you know, I never thought I’d say this, but ignorance is underrated.