Strange Creatures at My House

it's a strange world, no matter how you spin it

going through photos deleting.
i see some i've saved from various times.
many are strange and wondrous tableaux i've run across in my daily here and there-ings.
i have no idea where i got this. i ganked it from somewhere. i think it might be yours. is it?
the drawings look a bit like they might have been done by kids and hung in the halls of a school. you know how schools do that: to make the kids feel like real artists. when really it's all just shit and the kids will grow up and work at a laundromat part-time if they're lucky and dfacs will take their kids until granny can get custody because larry wasn't watching the meth lab close and blew the corrugated tin roof clean off him and doreen's double wide.
sometimes life looks light and flavorful but is really just so very heavy with sadness.


why did i take this photo of shopping carts and sign at big lots? let's hold a contest to see who can guess. i haven't a clue, so i'll enter the contest as well. i go to big lots for gardening needs: super cheap pots and trellises and what not and so forth.

oooh. i didn't take this one, though. it's somewhere in nebraska, i believe. very intriguing. charismatics are such mysterious people. i'm about convinced that they are sending each other secret messages through their crazy church signs. they don't make sense sometimes. though that could be because charismatics are really stupid and don't have sense enough to make sense.

i kinda like the idea of their thinking they know something we don't though. like they're chosen special, blessed, as it were. though they are not meek nor are they merciful. brash and judgmental, sure. neither are their hearts pure nor be they makers of peace.

and look at this mixed-up mess of a sign.

Immanuel--from two hebrew words meaning God be with us.

yeah, okay, and then JESUS ONLY below.

what paradoxical bastards these nebraskan churhgoers be!

temple, too, heavily implies a jewish place of worship. where, you might think, jesus probably wouldn't be found. alone.

to add insult to injury, though, i figure this was an abandoned state farm insurance office where the Immanuelists (i.e. a lone Jesus) squatted.

don't miss the jaunty balls atop ca. 1963. cuz church is just one great big celebration.

also: note side door. you'd think maybe jesus, being a carpenter by trade, might have measured first before cutting a t00-big hole in the blindingblue concrete, forcing the use of particle board to fill in gaps.

frozen delicacy from a london grocer

okay, i took this at a nearby convenience store. somebody always capitalizing on somebody else's misfortunes, right? but in their haste to get this gem on the market asap, the "makers" of this poignant tribute to the king of pop listed these dates across the bottom: august 29, 2009-june 25, 2009.

meaning mj has yet to be born.

i debated: is this something that is going to be worth of fortune (you know, like those wrongly minted pennies.....what was that one with a date in the future or something?) or will it remain the piece of convenience store TRASH that it is.

conclusion: the latter.

see close up below. poor quality photo from phone.

i'm not making fun of this grave. it's in a cemetery on a backroad between athens and hull. no trees around, the grounds always look just baked hard in the sun. big fire ant hills everywhere. but i noticed this marker while driving by one day.

while i do think there's something kitsch about it (obviously), a part of me really likes the concept of a gravesite conveying a bit more about the INDIVIDUAL buried there as opposed to the generic grey.

i gather that justin had a real love for cars.

surely he didn't die in a wreck, though. that would be too crass to have the cars around (b/c the one on the ground looks a little like it was wrecked....)

in short, though, i can imagine that something like this would be a comfort for family/friends esp since it's public. so i like the idea even if the toy car is a little creepy.

requiescat in pace, justin.

just as i was gathering together this little collection, who popped in with another goodie but bloghoNYC. here jesus is spotting a young aryan prepping for the 1940 Summer Olympics (needlessly, natch). later jesus coaches a disappointed Ernst through a fairly satisfying career in musical theatre and helps him find his special someone, Helmut. little mashita (affectionately known as "mash") keeps in contact with ernst through adulthood, never really understanding why he rebuked her constant advances. later she befriends helmut as well, and the three of them finally catapult to fame with their yummy frozen food line (see above). Secret's in the sauce...

next figurines in series: "jesus is my couch"--introducing a new line of godly furnishings for the chruschun home.

***

and finally......did i show you this already???---this is the massive root system/tumor that was in my septic tank. all four toilets ceased to flush one day about the same time that something of a faint odor was detected (i.e. HOLYFUCKINSHIT what the FUCK is that smell???)

I made phone calls.

A septic tank service arrived

started draining the tank.

"John" was da man. Just a young bloke with a shitty job.

Here's what he found.

really the photo doesn't do it justice.

did i say all this already?

Caveat Emptor, Part 3

Never been a huge fan of Domino's.

Or any pizza chain, really.

So when I saw reviews online for the new (well, to me. I'm always rather blissfully behind. these came out in Jan, I think) American Legends line of pizzas at Domino's, I read the thumbs-up kudos with a bit of skepticism. But the reviews were so glowing and so enthusiastic that I thought that maybe just maybe Domino's had burst out of its lackluster pizza-baking and created something halfway divine.

These new pizzas go by the admittedly mouth-watering names of:

Honolulu Hawaiian

Philly Cheese Steak

Pacific Veggie

Cali Chicken Bacon Ranch

(this one has a trademarked name so don't get any ideas)

Fiery Hawaiian

(likewise on the TM)

Buffalo Chicken

Memphis BBQ Chicken

After a ludicrously lengthy hostage-negotiations-quality discussion with Mr. Button, exploring the possible pros and cons of each of the six, we finally agreed to order the Honolulu Hawaiian, as it tied with the Memphis BBQ in top (i.e. perfect score) reviews.

So how was?

Let me say that I was STARVED (see overlong deciding discussion above) and was ready to gnaw on some shoe leather by the time I picked it up.
Actually, I should have gone with the shoe leather.
The. worst. pizza. ever!
WTF?

It tasted EXACTLY like: if you took a communion wafer and slapped a over-dry chunk of pineapple on it while imagining pizza sauce as you took a bite: that's it.
And bad bacon.

Ebonic Jesus

Gotta click for a good look at sign!

Found: Mt. Pleasant, SC

Walking with a Camera

At dusk. About a month ago.
Walking around the yard taking photos with no flash makes for some ethereal scenes.
Why is the yard pink? Not sure. Lightening the darkness compromises color sometimes.


View through the trees down the driveway.

Okay, I LOVE this effect,below, entirely accidental. I was photographing Widdles but, like all cats, she marches to the drum of her own whim, refusing to stand still for a nice photo. So when she began to walk in the low light, the image smeared and made her look transparent!

how does it feeeeeeeeeel???

this song makes me buoyant.
i heard oxford scholar sir christopher ricks lecture on bob dylan years ago. his: the best opening line of any literary lecture EVER: "I would boil my grandmother in hot oil for Bob Dylan."

i love that!
(no offense to granny ricks)

I declare....

"Mother May I?" to be the dumbest game ever.

a poem about my parents

Helen and David Meet in the Afterlife

We rush, astounded, to fill the blanks—
clearances of silence, of empty space—
to crowd the page’s edge with curls and vines;
to whistle away the dark,
and assuage the unbeknown
with tales of doors,
of coming, going, of in between.

I want to imagine them there—
an ideal afterplace so unlike their lives—
approaching one another in my mind’s soft-focus
through a heaven-worthy field of lovely impossible blue.
My father walks toward my mother
in the uncertain watery light,
wary now that his hard-earned peace
might slip right straight away.
And she, newly dead, unsteady on her feet,
and understandably confused,
squints toward him,
released at last from gravity into grace.

I want to believe that somewhere,
in that phantom ride from life to death to this,
our wrongs burn clean
and pluck us down like myths
that make it all make sense
and we are then what we could have been
except for this, or that, and that.

Their songs are sung, revised, transposed—
these people I could never fix.
Their lives and deaths rise huge in me.
His exit quick, without complaint—
Her leaving: hard and long and mean..
The lessons of absence we learn in snatches—
Bits of a tune played far away.

----
Their faces now are stars.
They disappear
the more intent I look—
I shift my gaze, and there they are.

But this is what I know:
Codas, couplets, credits, the flourish
the curtain, the gesso, the fall, the bow.

And this:
That they are there, my mother, my father,
and side by side in grave’s grey sleep.

Perhaps that silence will be enough,
Perhaps a benediction enough.

Bending to Reader's Demands

Okay, Tania asked for it, and I'm delivering. This pic was taken July 28, actually before I went to the ER. It got quite a bit more swollen than this before it got better.

Now, what else can I do for my readers? Anyone up for last summer's SPIDER BITE??


School starts tomorrow. Bah!
I could actually use another coupla months vacay. Seriously.

Or I'd be fine never working again. Either way.

Oh, I'd be busy; don't get me wrong. Just not busy doing shit for other people.

Luv to all!
Miss Ann Thrope

Family Story #1

I had a crazy (goes without saying if I'm speaking of a family member on my mother's side; forgive the redundancy) great-aunt who was having a yard sale. Among the items for sale was a print of Thomas Gainesborough's Blue Boy. I emphasize the word "print." This reproduction was dusty and ensconced in one of those tacky rococo frames, as was the wont for those wanting to appear "riche" and well-heeled. Clayton, the aunt, could not decide upon a price for this prize and settled, finally, upon one hundred American dollars. Her daughter was somewhat appalled and said, "Don't you think that's a bit much for a nasty faded print like this, mom?" Clayton countered by declaring that she had, in her possession, NOT a print but the ORIGINAL Blue Boy. Which, obviously, would fetch quite a pretty penny more than a C-note, so there was no logic whatsoever to her pricing.

Well, this little ditty made the family rounds. My mother, in particular, gleaned a great deal of pleasure in retelling this story about her culturally-disinclined aunt. The very idea of the original Blue Boy popping up for a hundred bucks at a yard sale in Rogersville, Alabama, was just too wonderful for us all.

My mother was telling this story to her two sisters, sitting in the kitchen one day, when the topic arose questioning where, then, WAS the original Blue Boy? I was in another room, but listening, and when she called out, "Lisa! Where is the original Blue Boy??" I didn't know, but said, "Hmmm, the Louvre, maybe??"

"DULUTH!?!?!" she screamed. "Duluth, MinneSOta??? Are you KIDDING me??"

Like *I* was crazy.

The painting (original) does not hang, incidentally, in the Louvre, by the way, but in the Huntington Library in San Marino, California.

Updating

So what have you been doing with yourself?

I haven't a great deal to report. I've been a bit of a shut-in by necessity.

My moral today is: don't fuck with your eyes. If you have a situation that isn't clearly understandable as something minor, get thee to the doctor, and fast. My little situation got better, then worse, leading me to one morning take off to the ER for help . The numbing drops were to die for, but lasted all of 20 minutes. Before leaving, the pain was back full brunt, so I asked for another dose to get me home. They'd already thrown the bottle away! Why not wait till I'm gone, yo? Nurse said "we'll have to charge you for opening a new bottle." Aw, poor insurance company. I said "go for it." She put in two drops and threw the bottle away. I wanted it, but no. That can't be given out because it will mask the pain (sounded good to me!).

Anyway, when the pre-bill came (the one that says you owe nothing awaiting insurance payment) those two drops were $166.


But we don't need health-care reform, nosiree!



So I left the hospital with instructions to go see an opthalmalogist about my newly-diagnosed corneal abrasions (which was later changed to corneal infiltration and later still to corneal ulcers) (and were not, I found, caused in any way by the poison ivy, go figure). I got Vigomox drops but they weren't working to the doc's satisfaction in a week, so he ordered a special mix from a pharmaceutical lab (one Vancomycin, strongest antibiotic available and one Tobramycin). The doctor was forming words that included "blindness" and whatnot that alerted me to the fact that this situation was somewhat serious.
When I drove out to fetch these potions, JUST LOOK at what was in a case in the lobby of the lab!

Why, great big canisters of BUTTONS, that's what!

I took this to be a good sign.

Eye, Left, is finally a bit better. Slow going, though.

The worst is that I haven't really been out doing anything much because the drops have to be refrigerated and I have to put them in every hour, so that doesn't really allow much travel-from-home leeway.

===================

Who doesn't need a pair of these titty slippers?

This will never do! I've let the blog fall into such disrepair. Foreclosure was imminent but I was able to refinance with cash out, so I'll be back in business before you can say....


who?



Jack Robinson.