Fan Fiction. When Osci Meets Blowy.

Image altered by me via Wikipedia

I feel stuck.

Large image of electric household fan. This ph...
 Image via Wikipedia

I can see why. You’re always planted in the same spot.

It sucks.

That’s a fan of a different breed.

No. Being me sucks, all stationary like, staring at the same damn wall day after day.
Not me. I can turn. Weeeee!!!  
What does it feel like … to swivel your hips?
It’s a real rush. I’ve got all the right moves with the wind at my back … and front.
Must be great to have a fanoramic view.
It’s exhilarating. One second, I’m looking at a portrait of ugly on the wall; the next, I’m looking out the door at Sammy Slippers shuffling down the hall. Makes my head spin.
What’s that like … to have your head spin?
It’s very cool. I get punchy and lightheaded. Don’t know if I’m coming or going …
I’m always going.
… I once saw a piece of paper get high.
I was afraid I had blown it but that was the point.
What point?
To get a paper high.
Must have been awesome.
Blew my mind.
Must be nice. I’m just a directionally dysfunctional blow-hard.
That sucks!
Right. The other kind of fan.
No, being directionally dysfunctional.
It blows. I just push stuff away. I’d love to be like you, to get into a groove and swivel my hips.
Maybe I can help. Try this. Click your dial three times to off and shut yourself down.
Okay. I’ll try anything to be like you.
Blowy turns self off.  Blades stop spinning.
Thank God. Couldn’t stand all the whining. 

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Oscillating Fans are Blow-hards

Ramblings of a work-deprived housewife caught in the squall of a fan.

Image altered by me via Wikipedia.

To fan or not to fan, a mind-blowing question that mystifies many a sweaty pit misfit.

If it’s hot, you fan. If you admire someone from afar, you are a fan. A fan belt is an antagonistic admirer who whacks someone in the mouth.

I prefer an oscillating fan to an admiring fan. On a hot day, a fan with a breezy attitude offers more relief than admiring someone from afar.

Although, oscillating fans are risk takers, simultaneously spinning and rotating left to right, or vice versa, like a pandering politician.

A stack of papers isn’t safe on a desk with an oscillating fan staring down at it, while also stirring things up. Even with the weight of a hammer resting on a stack of papers, if I had a hammer, one piece would inevitably get away, and it would likely be the most important one – The prince of the pile, leader of the paper platoon. Once the leader falls, the others soon follow, floating haphazardly about, without purpose, on the winds of change.

Now scattered, pieces of the platoon land in a paperless province where some are confined to a maximum-security archive, while others are sentenced to death by shredding.

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Crab Cake Sonata.

Common musical notes with the Polish flag in t...Image via Wikipedia




Choir Lady was my inspiration. She encouraged me to sing.

(Eating a crab cake and drinking wine)
I sing in the shower.

Choir Lady and I sang in church. That’s where I learned to play the organ.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen an organ.
I loved playing the organ so much. I played it three times a day.
(Hands covering ears)
 La la la la la la la la la la la.
I used to play the organ until my hand hurt.

My hand was so sore I couldn’t open the door to the practice room.
I once burnt my hand on a hot iron.
But my organ problems can’t compare to the Vermont flood disaster of 1927.
How ’bout the New York City flood of 1981? Three bottles of wine at a Simon and Garfunkle concert and a line to the Porta Potty that stretched clear across Central Park.
My family’s cabin was swept away.
I ended up in China Town, built a bamboo raft then floated back up town.
The oak china cabinet ended up on Martha’s Vineyard with every dish intact. Other than that, my family lost everything.

I lost a kidney. Found it upstream. God was selling it on the corner of 42nd Street and Park Avenue along with some fake Rolex watches. That’s when I stopped drinking . . . until now.

A fictionalized account of a somewhat real conversation.

Please refer to my earlier post, Adventures in Blog Land, where I ask the question, “What is real?”

I hope I’m not banned from the choir. I’m their groupie.

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We’re a Nation of Mutts.

Please stick with me on this because I’m going to be pulling a lot of this blurbage out of my ass. I know. Not a pretty image, but I have to get this out, because frankly, it’s constipating. 

Woody Guthrie said it best with the song,  This land is your land, this land is my land, etc.

Image via Wikipedia

In this great land of ours, most of our grandparents and great grandparents came from other places across the sea. My father’s father was born in Hungary, my mother’s father in Russia. My mother’s mother was also from Hungary.

Okay. My father’s mother was born in Denver, Colorado. No sea involved in the Colorado limb of the family tree. Yes. We’re all trees, you know. Just ask Barbara Walters.

For my Denver grandmother, or nanny, as I used to call her, there was no ocean, just a jug of water, a wagon, and a horse. I have a picture of her, somewhere, riding on a wagon when she was a child. Pretty cool. I know. A time before there were cars and car recalls.

I’m talking to you, Toyota, which is also from across the sea. Maybe the parts dropped in the ocean along the way.

Apologies for the off topic ramble. I’m tangentially inclined.

So, bottom line, America. Like my two adopted mutts, Jenny, from Puerto Rico . . .

and Jake, from West Virginia . . .

I, too, am a mutt, although I never poop on the lawn or eat food from the floor, unless the ten second rule applies.


I am no better or worse than the other mutts that frolic in the malls, supermarkets, and food joints across America. Even the purebred are part of the mix. Just stop by any dog park and you’ll see mutts and purebreds playing together after just saying hello with a sniff of the butt.

We, the people, need to follow our dog’s lead and sniff the butt of our neighbor, pharmacist, and stranger we pass on the street, as we are the sum of our parts, all of them. It is because of these parts that we can only be whole, kind of like multi grain bread, which is good for you, btw.

If we lose sight of who we are and who we live among, we lose sight of what binds us together as a nation.

I’m not talking about fiber. I talking about fabric, specifically, the fabric of our society and keeping it from unraveling, leaving our nation tattered, fragmented, and frayed.

After all, we are a nation of mutts wearing mutt clothes.

Are you a mutt or a purebred?
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Death by 1,000 haircuts.

Worst haircut EVER

Shear Torture.

If hair could talk, mine would be speaking its last rites.

An inch off is what I said.  Two to three-inches off is what I got. A great bang for the buck. I don’t think so. More like getting banged by a buck, in the monetary sense.

The hair-grazing experience began with seven words.

“I part your hair in the center,” she said, in a dialect reminiscent of Cloris Leachman’s Frau Blücher – horses whinny – from “Young Frankenstein.”

Frau Blücher: Would the doctor care for a brandy before retiring?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: No. Thank you.
Frau Blücher: Some varm milk… perhaps?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: No… thank you very much. No thanks.
Frau Blücher: Ovaltine?
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: NOTHING! Thank you! I’m a little – tired!
Frau Blücher: Then I vill say… goodnight.
Dr. Frederick Frankenstein: Goodnight.

After the ceremonial parting of the hair, the radical hacking of the hair began – snip – a clump here – snip – a clump there. At the foot of the chair, all the beheaded strands of hair fell into one mountainous clumpage of hair-don’ts, all victims of la filament guillotine.

Poor frizzy dead-enders, lying lifeless and stranded with other frivolous fibers cut off from the pore of their very existence. That’s what happens when you fall to the end of the hairline. Some call it fate. “It was just their time.” Others pretend not to know me. They shake their heads and mutter, “It’s just hair.”

“Just!” I cry out. “They’re dead. I tell you. Dead!”

Monty Python Dead Parrot Sketch:

“He’s not pining, he’s passed on. This parrot is no more. He has ceased to be. He’s expired and gone to meet his maker. He’s a stiff, bereft of life, he rests in peace. If you hadn’t have nailed him to the perch he’d be pushing up the daisies. He’s rung down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This is an ex-parrot!”

Follicly speaking, hair is the root of all evil. Case in point, Samson lost his immortal strength after Delilah shaved his head while he slept. Frankly, I’m surprised he could sleep through all the snipping and scraping, as a cold front rolled in, chilling the circumference of his unprotected bald head.

Sweeney Todd, the demon barber of Fleet Street, didn’t even pretend to take a little off. Although he did provide a service of sorts, saving his customers precious time by preventing the need for any future appointments.

I guess psychotic-leaning folks gravitate toward businesses that require the use of sharp objects.

At least, I survived my haircut. Can’t say the same for my hair. Audible sobbing and one loud purging sigh. Time to say a prayer for the dearly departed and wait for my hair to grow back, so I can regain my strength in order to go through the entire ordeal again in several weeks or less.

R.I.P. my fine fringed brittle-ones.

Do you have a hair-razing tale?

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Economic Downturn onto Shabby Street

Road to nowhere

Shabby Street
 One wrong turn down Shabby Street
where driveways crumble on lots condemned.
Front doors boarded.  No one’s home.
That car left long ago.
Ten years of stuff packed then hauled.
Toys tossed in dumpsters in the back.
Families shattered like broken glass.
Along the hall, in empty rooms,
dust settles between the cracks of warped floorboards.
Hope faded with pictures purged from the drawers.
Only wind stirs inside these walls,
A cold intruder who found his way
through cracked windows that feel no pain,
echos the whispers of forgotten names
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