somebody, please send help.

I am writing this on my iPhone from a dark cave.

The men have kidnapped me and are making me watch football.

In all fairness, though, they are no longer aware of my presence. So I am soon going to make my escape (thank you, Romo).

Seriously, though. I could be standing here in Frederick's of Hollywood's most scandalous ensemble and I'd still go unnoticed.

Football is amazing like that. It has magical powers beyond biology.

Oh! Game over.

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 2

Months passed. Santa spent the majority of his time gathering raw materials for toy production and watching daytime soaps. Just for grins, Santa would keep track of his purchases and discoveries with a spreadsheet that he created.

"This will help during tax season," Santa chuckled. The great thing about being Santa, everything is written off.*

As Santa was adjusting font sizes and colors, a window popped up.

"There are updates available for this computer," it said.

Santa clicked the window. The computer started downloading software.

"Neat," Santa thought. "It's working out."

Santa continued his spreadsheeting/databasing.

Every few days, Santa's computer would update itself. Everyday, Santa would enter important information into the computer.

Days turned into weeks which melded into months which lead Santa to October. Crunch time.

Santa cursed the day that department stores started prepping for Christmas in October. It totally butted in on his and Ms. Claus' Halloween fun. (This last Halloween, Santa went as Hugh Hefner and Ms. Claus went as a bunny. True story.)

Throughout October, Santa began building templates for lists of children:
Children who were good
Children who were bad
Children who were good last year who are now bad
Children who were bad last year who are now good
Children without parents
Children who have siblings
Children who have no siblings
Children who have pets
Children who are twins
Children who go to inner-city schools who have overcome huge obstacles despite society
And all other things vital to determining how many presents, if any, a child deserves.

In November, Santa researched all the hot new toys and gadgets for the following holiday season. He made more lists.

Then, December came 'round the bend. And Santa was ready.

He put names into lists. He spell-checked them twice. He was filing and editing who was naughty and nice. Santa Claus was fully online.

He'd cross names out when the presents were made and labeled and put in proper places. He'd move kids around from list to list. He'd have incoming messages from children go to one folder and messages from family members go to another folder. As for spam? He'd put those people on his very-naughty list.

Santa was amazed at what all he could do with the awesome machine.

Until it froze.

...


*Santa doesn't pay taxes. After all, you can't fill in the number forms on a tax form with "cookies" and "glasses of milk."

Last year, Santa got Microsoft Office for X-Mas. Part 1

Back in the old days, Santa used to get hundreds upon thousands upon hundreds of thousands of hand-written letters from children during the winter holidays.

Then Santa started dropping computers down chimneys (I know cause he left my sister and I one) and children began typing their Santa letters. Jolly ol' St. Nick really liked that because as we all know, children's penmanship is sometimes difficult to read.

Some years later, homes became web-enabled. And children would send Santa emails.

The problem? Santa didn't have internet access. After all, there's not much in the North Pole besides a barn full of reindeer and some elves. So Santa would have to send elves down South to public libraries and print shops where the elves would print out all of the emails and bring them back to the North Pole. This, of course, made last-minute requests difficult to fill.

Sometime back in 2005, one of the major internet providers installed some cables near ninety degrees latitude and Santa's workshop was online! To celebrate, Mrs. Claus bought Santa a computer for Christmas (or "elves made Santa a computer;" whatever).

"A computer! For me?" Santa asked. He was so used to giving them to video-game-obsessed tweens that he never even thought to get one for himself.

But with emails being so easy to send, Santa got even more letters than he had ever gotten before. Not to mention that some children would email him daily! So the amount of letters that Santa was receiving nearly quadrupled.

Santa didn't sleep. Santa didn't eat. Santa would spend all night checking his email and printing out letters and making piles of "good" and "bad" requests.

So the next year, Mrs. Claus gave her husband the latest and greatest version of Microsoft Office because that's what big, American companies used.

"It has a spreadsheet so you can sort your lists electronically," Mrs. Claus told her husband. "And all those emails you get? They'll automatically be filed into good and bad!"

Brilliant! This computer could automatically sort and create charts and make schedules! Santa could focus more time on toy quality like in the old days before the population boomed (so many naughty children having children).

So sometime in February of 2007 (Santa spends January vacationing in Florida because he's old), the elves and Santa set up the new computer.

...

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It usway antasticfay.

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Eestersay, isthay's unway* orfay ooyay*. Onglay enispay Essicajay.

Oodgay ightnay.


*Elledspay oneticallyphay.

Holy crap, I suck!

I took a holiday hiatus from the ol' blog and was supposed to write last night.

And I totally forgot.

Instead, I wrote my new holiday outgoing voicemail. I guess that's a valid excuse.

If you know my number, feel free to call and listen to it.

The gnome wouldn't take gno for an answer.

There was a little house on a little street in a little suburb.

The little house had a little yard with a little garden and a little lawn gnome. The little gnome stood to the right of the path next to a bird bath. He stood there for three years with a lawn flamingo, a metal dragonfly and a key-hiding rock.

Then one day, one life changing day an old four-dour Ford something drove by with speakers blaring. The bass shook the leaves in the little yard in front of the little house. The highs made little animals flee from the little garden. The music shook the little lawn gnome to the very core.

With every pulsing beat, the gnome wiggled and vibrated and scooted around. What a rush! The gnome could only hope that something similar would happen again.

He looked around at his yard buddies. They weren't so amuzed by the sudden burst of sound in their garden. The flamingo had fallen over; the rock had opened up to reveal its key, and the dragon fly rung with the sound of a tuning fork.

But the gnome, oh the gnome was filled with the urge to dance.

"You can't dance," the flamingo said. "You're a lawn gnome."

"Yeah," chimed in the rock. "Your purpose in life is to be stolen by teenagers."

"And photographed in comprimising places," the dragonfly dinged.

The gnome could only laugh at his cohorts. Their words hung in the air like treble clefs so he twirled and swayed to them. He do-si-doed to the sounds of jogger's MP3 players. He tapped his toes to TV jingles that escaped from windows.

For weeks, the gnome danced to the sounds of his little street. And one day he heard a familiar sound.

The car! With the music!

The gnome felt as if he were being lifted into the air. He flew over the yard. He ... wasn't where he was supposed to be. Something wasn't right.

The gnome was tossed into a trunk. He wasn't dancing at all! He was being kidnapped!

He traveled around the greater part of the large city near his little suburb. And now he resides in a little, music-filled office on a little shelf next to a little lamp.

This is a blog. This is not a diary.

Dear Blog,

I'm so glad I have you. You force me to write something five times a week. And that's so good for me. Because no matter how tired, irritated or drunk I get, I must take at least ten (or five) minutes and type out what must be shared.

So thank you, Blog.

I feel like I can tell you anything.

Well, almost anything.

Okay, not everything. You're Google searchable (right?) and I have no idea who all is reading you. So I can't really type about work cause that could end my job. And I can't really talk about stupid crap my friends have done, cause they might see it and know that I think they're stupid. And I can't type about all of the prostituting I've done, because Lord Allmighty, if my dad saw this! Whew-wee! How embarassing would it be for him to know about that one time I snuck all of that black tar H across the border in my butt!*

But I can type make believe stories into you, Blog. And that's great. I haven't been able to think of any make believe lately. Perhaps the muse will sing in me tomorrow and I'll tell the tale of Pinnoccio's half sister. Or the two-holed bowling ball. Or maybe I can come up with something about a catepillar who was raised by snakes.

Heck, that last one writes itself. I might have to go ponder that one for a bit.

Until tomorrow, Blog!

-Q of A



*Just kidding. That story is false. It was really tabs of X!

My lungs weren't working right.

I started feeling light-headed and dizzy. I realized that I wasn't breathing. Not because I couldn't, but because the little part of my brain that keeps me breathing wasn't working.

My lungs would not start burning and my brain would not tell my diaphram to drop.

So I inhaled deeply because that's what I needed to do. I exhaled slowly. And I didn't do it again. I waited to see if I would just do it because that's what normally happens. Because my body usually breathes without me having to do anything.

Some time elapsed. I started feeling light-headed again. So I inhaled and exhaled a few times. I was fine.

Why wasn't this simple, involuntary bodily function working?

Since I couldn't tell if and when I needed to breath, I just started to do it constantly like in yoga.

I noticed that the windows in the car around me started to fog up. Obviously, I was breathing too much now.

So I stopped breathing before anyone else noticed that I was fogging up the windows. Why wasn't my body self-regulating my breathing? Why was it suddenly a conscience effort?

A voice floated around the car. "The windows are fogging up," it said. Crap! They noticed. Would they know that it was me who fogged up the windows?

How long had it been since I last inhaled? Was it time to breath in again? Because it was a bad time. The windows were still foggy. If I breathed, they'd get worse. If I didn't breath, I might suffocate.

Where was the balance? This beathing is too big. This breathing is too small. Couldn't find the breathing that was just right.

Maybe I needed my inhaler. But that didn't seem right. Breathing wasn't diffcult. I just required thought.

Breath in. Count to five. Breath out. Count to five. Breath in. Out. In. Out.

I soon exited the muggy car and was hit by the cool, night air. It shocked my body back into its old ways. And again I could breath without thinking.

Not a moment to soon, too. Because walking and trying to regulate my oxygen intake at the same time would have been too much.

I need time.

I need time.
I need lots of time
to heal.

There are wounds,
deep wounds,
that simply need more time
to knit themselves closed.

There are bandaids over scratches,
over stitches and staples.
The bandaid is ripped off
only to reveal
a scar.

Scars serve as reminders.
Reminders of these wounds
and the things
that caused them.

And as long as the scars
remain,
the wounds will never heal
all the way.

So until time can erase scars,
I will remain damaged.

Hey, public schools, teach the kids things they can use.

Sam, 22, has his first job interview. It's for a sales position at a window manufacturer. Sam is wearing a new suit, carrying a freshly printed resume and sporting a new hair cut.

He sails through his interview with no problem at all. The interviewer loves him. They have great raport and Sam has all but been offered the job.

"So, Sam, one last question for you," the interviewer says. "In the U.S. Presidential election of 1904, who was the Republican candidate?"

...

Lisa, 23, has just finished art school and has a sweet, new gig at some fancy design firm. She has a desk, a drawer full of colored pencils and a phone. HR calls her on that phone to schedule her benefits introudction.

So Lisa heads to the HR department and is handed a folder chalk-full of paper. That night, Lisa stares blankly at a W something form. She can tell anybody the RGB and CMYK values of colors and what inks work on what kinds of papers and how to most-efficiently lay out a brochure. But for the life of her, she doesn't know what "head of household" means.

Lisa feels she might have to quit her job.

...

Jeff, 18, has just gotten his first apartment. His portion of the rent is $515.00. In order to pay the rent, Jeff must write a check.

So Jeff sits and stares at his new checkbook. What is a memo, anyway?

...

The point is that Christopher Colombus and commas and chemistry are all very cool, but unless you're planning on being a history teacher, an editor or a cancer researcher (and let's face it, not many of us are any of those), then most of us are wasting our time in public schools.

Too many of us look at tax forms and go dizzy. Some of us can recite Shakespearian sonnets but can't balance a checkbook (thank you, online banking). And a good chunk of us can't grocery shop worth a damn.

Instead of learning life-relevant things in school, we colored maps of Africa and memorized songs in Castillian Spanish. Side note: Why did we learn Castillian Spanish? Last I checked, Spain was an ocean away while Mexico is a car ride away. Teaching Texas children Castillian Spanish is like teaching kids in Mexico the English language with a British-English accent.

Oh, but schools overfill brains with all of the history, political history, chemistry, physics, biology, algebra, geometry, European literature, African literature ... Some of this stuff is very relevant. The problem is that different things will be relevant to differnet people.

I write for a living. My job is to make things understandable and perhaps make boring things slightly more entertaining. I don't need the quadratic formula. I'll never need the quadratic formula unless some crazy dude holds a gun to my head and demands, "Tell me the quadratic formula or this bullet's going between your eyes."

And if that does ever happen, this is a world I don't want to be a part of any longer.

So is there a way to change the education system? Probably not. And if there is, none of us have the mental tools to figure it out. After all, schools were too busy teaching us to standardized tests.

The Woeful Tail of Jacob the Christmas Tree

Jacob the Evergreen Tree stood rooted in his little lot with the other trees.

They had all been planted with the intended purpose of being chopped and shipped and decorated for Christmas.

The trees were all so excited.

"I hope I get decorated with angels!" one tree exclaimed.

"I want red lights," another said.

"Look how long my trunk is," a tall tree added. "So many presents will fit under me."

But Jacob the tree couldn't joyously contribute to the conversation. He couldn't get excited about living in some home for the holidays.

Because Jacob was Jewish. And who's ever heard of a Jewish Christmas tree?

As the trees grew taller and the weather grew colder, as summer turned into fall and fall turned into winter, radio stations across the US began playing Christmas music, Jacob could only think of the saw that would rip through his trunk so some family could decorate him with ornaments of the baby Jesus.

Jacob shuddered as a particularly cold wind blew through his branches. It was November. He only had weeks until he'd be taken to some tree seller.

And that day did come.

Every tree in the little lot shook with excitement. The Christmas season was here! Soon they'd be tied to the roofs of minivans and tossed into trucks. They'd be on their way to lavish living rooms and frosted windows.

"Oh, fantastic. I'm so full of joy," Jacob sarcastically thought as a squirrel ran up his trunk and knocked off some snow. Minutes later, the lot lumberjack approached Jacob the soon-to-be Christmas tree with his saw.

But the lumberjack did not start to saw at Jacob's trunk. Instead, he dropped his saw and fell to his knees. He started inspecting the ground around Jacob.

There were stars of David imprinted into the snow. Everywhere snow had fallen from Jacob's branches from moments ago, to be exact.

The lumberjack ran to the buyer and quickly told them that he, Jacob, wasn't for sale. That Jacob had been sold to someone else.

Jacob the tree was confused. He didn't remember being sold or promised to anyone. Later that night, he was chopped down, loaded onto the roof of the lumberjack's car and taken to his home.

As Jacob woefully entered the house, he heard familiar music.

"But that's ... could it be ... dradle?" It was. Jacob the tree heard a Jewish song.

Over on the mantle, he noticed a menorah above the Christmas stockings.

"This family is half Jewish!" Jacob rejoiced.

The lumberjack set Jacob up in the corner of the living room. Children emerged and decorated him with small candles, dradle ornaments, little stars of David and other Hanukkah/Christmas hybrid items.

Jacob was a Hanukkah tree! And he lived happily ever after until he was set out on the curb to be hauled to the dump.

Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox live above me.

The first six months I lived here were relatively quiet. The next six were punctuated by loud bangs from above at random hours. And the last month, well, my neighbor has decided that night time is the right time for noisiness. And now he seems to have a dog that's just as lead-footed as he is.

What is that guy doing up there? Is he walking around with cement blocks strapped to his feet. Is he wearing a scuba tank and doing jumping jacks. Is he poorly juggling anti-matter?

I'm half tempted to say something, but that guy would probably answer the door wearing a suit of armor and carrying a baby hippo. And I'd say something to the office, but it would be quite obvious where the noise complaint came from. It's not like there are fourteen apartments below him (just me). And you don't want to piss off a noisy stranger.

Maybe the guy is a Dance Dance Revolution phenom. Only he's gotten so great that his competition makes him wear handicapping weight belts like in "Harrison Bergeron" by Kurt Vonnegut.

Maybe he has an extreme infestation of giant spiders and he must continually smash them. With a lead mallet.

Maybe he's just a really really really big dude. With bones made of the heaviest of metals. And skin made of the heaviest of metals. And he's got 18 pounds of necklaces on.

Whatever the case, the dude is loud. I might have to declare war. I'm going to need at least a dozen ten-inch sub woofers and an amp that can power an IMAX movie theatre. And a bullhorn just for kicks. And a trampoline. And some babies- lots of babies. Screaming, angry, gassy babies that haven't had their nap time.

And a howling coyote! And a police siren.

Or just enough guile to figure out who this guy is, befriend him and then coerse him into moving into another apartment.

He can take that freaking spider on my door with him. Yeah, that bastard is still there.

Forget carrying mase. I'm going to carry Raid.

You, reader, are afraid of something. Lurking in the shadows or around some random corner lies something that terrifies you.

Whether it's the blackness of night, the sharpness of blades, the roars of lions or the size of mushrooms (mycophobia).

My heart attack trigger? Spiders. I've a crippling case of arachnophobia. And tonight, it almost cost me a warm place to sleep.

I approached my apartment door at around ten thirty PM. I was about to raise my arm to unlock the door when I saw a grey spider inches from the lock.

I froze. Literally. I could not move. All I could do was stare at that spider. The evil arachnid who was keeping me from my home.

"Veronica," I told myself," you are a grown-ass woman. That is a spider. He's the size of your pinky nail. You've literally got like 140 pounds on him. Just smash him with your shoe."

But I couldn't listen to myself. Because I might have the size advantage, but that little creep had the appendage advantage. And the ocular advantage. And the web-spinning advantage.

"Okay, you," I said to myself. "Just back up a bit."

So I took a step back. Then another. I looked down the hallway to my left. Then to my right. I wished for someone to walk by so I could ask him/her to knock the spider off for me. Or lie and say my lock was being fidgety.

"My lock is being fidgety. Could you give it a try?" Then the kind stranger would let me into my apartment. I wouldn't have to risk touching the spider, and I could go to sleep.

Alas, the hallways were souless except for me. And that spider.

Side note: I think spiders are souless, evil things from planet Scary As Fuck.

Since waiting wasn't working, my next option was to telepathically plead with the spider. "Hey, you, spider. Could you please just, I don't know. Move about 20 inches to the right? That'd be great."

He didn't budge.

I tried being a little more forceful. I thought, "Move your hairy ass over to the right!"

He actually creeped closer to the door handle. The jerk!

So I started pleading aloud. "Please, Mr. Spider. Could you move to the right so I can get into my apartment."

Nothing. I probably screwed up by calling it Mr. It was probably a Ms. Spider.

Next, I blew at the spider. It moved! I blew again. He/she was about six inches away from the lock and handle. Oh, happy day! Except I remembered that some spiders can jump. And if I reached for the door, this spider might jump on me. Then I'd faint and die.

That's what the fear is all about. The potential of touching those horrid things. It makes me shudder now just thinking about it. I'd rather be close to drowning. Seriously. If someone offered me a thousand dollars to just touch a spider with my big toe, I would not be able to do it. I would probably try and then have an asthma attack from thinking about it. And then my heart would do that weird hurting thing it does when I'm really stressed. And then I'd die of fear.

By this time, I think about ten minutes had gone by.

So now I'm panicking a little at my front door. I walk away and pace a bit. Should I call someone? Should I knock on a neighbor's door? I can hear a TV in the apartment across from me. Hell, they weren't watching TV but looking through the peep hole and snickering themselves silly as a woman transformed into a little girl infront of their very eyes.

I decided that I'd keep blowing at the spider. Perhaps I could get him far enough away that I could at least unlock the door. Plus, I could do that from a safe distance.

A minute or so later, I was wheezing and the spider was a further away. But I got another one of those damning thoughts. It, the bug from Hell, was still on the door. The door opens inward. That spider could jump off the door into my apartment. Then I'd have to abandon all of my worldly possesions and move.

I paced again. I tried to convince myself that the spider wasn't going to touch me. That he wasn't on my door because he was plotting to kill me. That he just was cruising around the apartment complex and was taking a rest on my door. He could care less about me and my tasty tasty flesh.

I didn't really believe myself. So I spent the night in my car. And I typed this blog on my cell phone.

Okay, not really. But that makes for a better ending, doesn't it? I eventually got the spider a little further away, then I dashed inside as quickly as I could and shut the door as fast as I could. Then I ran to the shower and scrubbed myself like I'd just fallen in feces.

And now, everything is okay. Except now I'm afraid to leave my aparment in the morning. I just know that spider is building a web over my door. He's clogging the gears and cogs and bits in my door lock so I can't escape tomorrow. Then he and his spider buddies will continuously poke me with their stabby, pointy spider feet.

Oh god. I'm going to go find some prozac or something now.


NEXT DAY UPDATE: That eight-legged bastard was waiting for me in the morning. On the door! Needless to say, I ran to my car this morning. Who knows if I locked my front door or not. I'm not even worried. Super Arachnid will keep the burglars away.

Little Miss Muffet ran away with Humpty Dumpty.

Nursery rhymes need some updating if you ask me.


Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet
Eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider that sat down beside her
And quickly became a blob of pastey protein after Miss Muffet went postal on his thorax with her wooden shoe.


Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the kings men
Couldn't put Humpty together again because none of them were Mr. Dumpty's primary care physicians, or on his HMO plan at all for that matter.


This little piggie went to market.
This little piggie stayed home.
This little piggie had roast beef.
This little piggie had none.
This little piggie had bacon. Pork bacon. And he got mad pork disease and is now living in a padded room.


Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And Jill collected a heap of money from Jack's life insurance and now she lives in a mansion atop the hill.


Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep
And can't tell where to find them.
Leave them alone and they'll come home
Dragging their asses behind them. They'll all be pregnant, strung out on the nose candy and toothless. Should've been a better sheep watcher, Peepsies. Do you know where your lambs are?


Old King Cole was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he.
He called for his pipe
And he called for a bowl.
And he called that dude that hangs out by the Jack 'n' the Box cause he's the one with the good stuff. Go slip him some Benjamins and tell him the king sent you. You'll be a merry old soul, too.


Jack, be nimble.
Jack, be quick.
Jack, jump over the candlestick.
Hmm. Perhaps I should have told you this before you busted yo' punk head rolling down a mountain for some water. We have indoor plumbing, ya fool.


Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened,
They all began to sing.
Now, wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the King who had hella munchies. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!


I love little pussy,
Her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her,
She'll do me no harm.
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But pussy and I,
Very gently will play.
(Yeah, I'm not going to touch that one. It's already screwed up enough.)

"I wish I weren't in this museum," thought the T.Rex skeleton.

Once upon an ancient time, I was king of the world.

I was a big, powerful T.Rex. All life on earth feared me.

And now I'm just a glorified puppet in some natural history museum.

Like all of the other prehistoric creatures, I have no idea what happened. One minute I was alive. The next, I was being compressed between layers of sediment.

Then I was discovered, dug up, disassembled, reassembled, polished, preened, supported and put on display.

All for little kids to stare into my empty eye sockets. I can see you, you slimy piece of meat. And if I didn't have my feet nailed to the floor (and I still had all of my muscles and skin), I'd eat you. I'd crunch your little bones like dry leaves.

You'd think my appetite would be gone, seeing as I have no stomach. Or brain. But thousands of years of not eating will make you a little famished, you know?

Some people gawk at me in wonder. I like this. I like it when they marvel at my size and my strength. They usually make comments and stare harder after looking at that little pedistal in front of me. It tells the museum patrons of my habits. For the most part, the scientists were quite right. I was mean and pissed off most of the time (you try lugging around such a huge head!) and I ate tons of meat. But let's get one thing straight, I never liked eating other dinosaurs. I was a carnivore, but not a cannibal. Plus, dinosaur skin was quite tough. It needed barbequing. And with these puny, little arms, I wasn't a very good chef.

Yeah, the museum life is nothing compared to my days of terrorizing the planet. I used to run through the trees and across the fields roaring at everything -- the sun, the moon, rocks, clouds, shadows, water. Now I'm sitting under an air vent with rods shoved into awkward places and posed like I'm trying out for Broadway.

Over to the right of me, there's some other dinosaur skeleton with another dinosaur's skeleton dangling form it's mouth. Why couldn't the museum people pose me like that? Instead, I'm bowing like a supplicant.

I don't look as badass as I used to. Not having skin can do that to a fellow. They should have done something cool, though. Like give me gold teeth. Or play gangsta rap behind me. Then I'd be revered the way I deserve to be.

Instead, the scientists named me Teddy. There's nothing scary or terrorizing about "Teddy the T.Rex." They could have named me Grave Digger. Or Pulverizer. Or even Chomps. Something. Name me after a monster truck or blender speed. But Teddy? That's about a scary as a filtered glass of water.

(After)life could be worse, though. I could have been discovered by some future species of huge dog. I'd be dug up, ripped apart, slobbered on and reburried all over some giant dude's lawn.

Oh, look. Some old guy is wearing a T-shirt with me on it. That's kind of cool. Maybe this museum thing isn't so bad afterall.

Tonight, I'm blogging with my eyes closed.

That's right, kids. I'm typing this with my eyes closed. Let's hope I don't put my fingers on the wrong keys (I am periodically looking to make sure).

So why with closed eyes you might be wondering. Well, I just felt like being blind for a short amount of time. And let me tell you that it sucks. I'm only sitting on my couch thing with my computer in my lap and already I'm over it. Because not seeing what I'm doing is a royal pain.

I really admoire blind people. Because they hav eto do way more than just type.

I think i sfr s trslly bsf yyp. zoh, vtsp. yhid idn'y hoof, id iyz/

Wow, one wuick look (cheating, I admit_ and I notived that my hands were on the wrong keys. Damn. That sentence was supposed to be about a previous typo that I felt. Then an 'oh crap, this can't be good." It wasn't. As you saw.

So vision-impaired computer users have all kinds of nifty tricks to help them surf the web. Well, I only know of one nifty trick. There's this screen reader program callede JAWS. It reads the screen, hence the name 'screen reader.' But it sounds like a soulless robot from planet 'I'm going to eat your soul.' Seriously. The thing is scary sounding. JAWS is a perfect name for it.

I thinnk, no, I know that losing my eyesight would be the worst thing that could happen to me. I enjoy reading way to miuch. And I know that there's braille and books on CD. But they're not he same. Take my smell, taste, hearing. Just don't take my eyes.

I bet typing without looking is easier with an actual non-laptop keyboard. Actually, I know it is. I do it at work all of the time. It's easier to find the keys since they're raised.

Oh! You know what I just just JUST really notived? Thos little nubs on the jome keys. I can't tell you which keys they are, cause my fingers just kinda of know where the letters are )kind of know_. But if my jand slips off, I can just find the nubs with my pointers and be back in business. For the most part, at least.

You should try this typing with out looking thing. It's kin of fun.

And by kind of fun, i mean it's killing me. When I write, I usually go back and reread what I've already written a few times. Then I cahange things, reword things. Sometimes move sentences or strike entire paragraphs. That's no the case tonight. Now you get every erratic thought, typos and all.

Better stop now, then. For my own pride and safety.

Angels are perverts.

Literally, twenty seconds ago, I noticed a new freckle. I looked down, saw something on me, tried to wipe it off and discovered that it was permanent.

I have a cute little freckle where there wasn't a freckle before.

(If you must know, the freckle is in the chest area and it can be seen with clothing on. Perverts. Although, I'm not going into specifics of the types of clothing.)

It got me thinking about something my dad used to say. Freckles are angel kisses. He'd tell this to my sister cause she was a freckly kid. I, on the other hand, wasn't a freckly kid. So I felt that angels just didn't care all that much.

So I told the angels they could kiss my ass. Later, I noticed a freckle on my posterior. True story. I'd show it to you, but it's kind of my ass and not yours to see.

Believe me, though, it's totally hot.

So now in my less-than-innocent, not-quite youth, I can't help but rethink the whole angel kisses thing. What if freckles really are angel kisses? I shouldn't speak for everyone, but I'm going to anyway. People have freckles everywhere. Literally, everywhere. On all body parts including parts in the bathing suit area.

Somewhere, there's a homeless, smelly dude with a freckle on his sack. And some angel was just crap happy to give it to him.

Angels are dirty perverts.

Think about it. I mean, telling kids that angels kiss thier noses and elbows is cute. But you don't know every place that a kid has a freckle. You might be horrifying a child. Some kid might cry himself to sleep thinking the angels are going to return in the night to molest his bellybutton again.

When I was a kid, the eye doctor told me that I had a nevus (mole, freckle or other skin anomaly) in the back of my eye (apparently, that's pretty common). What I wanted to ask the doctor was how in the hell did an angel get my eye out of my head to suck on the back of it. That's the kind of thing you see in foreign porn, right? Ugh.

And are the freckles and moles dependant on the kind of kiss? The pressure applied? The suction used? Are light spatterings of freckles from soft, rapid-fire pecks? And are moles like celestial hickeys? What about birthmarks? Are they caused by angels licking a person labrador-style? These are important questions. I need to know if this mole that's been on my neck forever is something I should sue over.

Again, most of us have moles and freckles in various places all over our bodies. So are angels just going around planting their lips on any exposed skin while we sleep? It's enough to make me want to sleep in a jumpsuit with a padlocked zipper. No angel is getting any of this ever again! At least without permission, first. I mean, I don't want some homely angel puckering up to my neck. If the angel is totally hot, well, that's another story all together, isn't it?

My little cousin is cooler than your little cousin.

Yeah, you heard me. No matter what your funny, clever, charasmatic little cousin can do, my little cousin can kick his ass.

Because my little cousin is a Guitar Hero god.

This kid can play GH III on expert with the guitar behind his back. I've seen it.

This kid can play GH II with his eyes closed. I've seen that, too.

This kid can thrash and rock to songs that are three times his age. (Heck, some of the songs are older than me!)

I give him a week before he sets the guitar on fire. He's that awesome.

If there were a Jimmi Hendricks of Guitar Hero, he'd be a little dude from a Dallas suburb named Johnson*.

Today, he loads up GH III on his Wii. He then informs me he's going to be playing a total stranger (oh, the wonders of the internet). Little dude totally held his own in battle.

I can only imagine who the other player was. I'm guessing it was a guy, early twenties, taking turns with a buddy. He (the current player) was the bettter of the two, a little skinny, and in a sparsely-furnished college apartment.

If only he knew he was getting owned by a kid. He'd probably laugh and tell my cousin that he rocked. How could he not? My cousin is undeniably kick-ass awesome.

He can also throw a ball, draw, play the piano, and cook. Rock on, little cuz, rock on.




*I ain't putting my kid cousin's name on the internet ... yet. We're gonna make YouTube videos soon. His mom, my aunt, gave me permission.

The emperor knew he was naked.

Hans Christian Anderson wrote a well-known story titled "The Emperor's New Clothes" (also known as "The Emperor's New Suit).

In this story, the emperor is had by swindlers. They tell him they can make a magical suit that's invisible to those not fit for their office and the incredibly stupid. The emporor upon not seeing the bolts of fabric (which didn't exist because they belonged to swindlers) claimed that it was the most beautiful fabric he had ever seen. Everyone in his company claimed the same, for if they admitted not seeing it, they were admitting to being terribly dense and unfit for their jobs.

So everyone in the kingdom fawns over the emperor's new clothes, although none of them can actually see it. Then, a small boy proclaims, "But he has nothing on at all!" And admitting the truth dominoed.

The untold story, though, is slightly different.

...

The emperor entered his private quarters and ordered his chamberlains to leave. No sooner had they closed the massive doors did the emperor drop his restrictive clothes to the ground. He raised his open palms skyward and stretched his naked body as long as he possibly could. He took a deep breath, scratched his exposed belly (and a few other exposed parts) and strolled to his favorite chair by the window.

The emperor plopped his naked ass upon the seat cushion and reached behind a pillow for his favorite magazine: Starkers Quarterly.

Before reading, the emperor realized he was still wearing his stockings. He peeled them off with a laugh. It felt so good to be totally bare. For you see, the emporor was a closet nudist.

The emperor opened his magazine and read about nudist-friendly resorts, beaches and cities. He pored over profiles of happy nudists who lived open lives. He became absorbed by one ad in particular.

"Are you a closet nudist," the ad began, "forced to conform to a closed-minded society?"

"Yes, yes I am," thought the emperor.

The ad continued, "Are you afraid that you will be shunned by those who admire you if they find out you prefer to be au natural?"

"I do fear that," the emperor said quietly.

"Are you a king overseeing a kingdom of heavily-clothed prudes?"

"Yes. Yes! YES!" shouted the king, perhaps a little to loudly for someone outside shouted back something quite lewd.

The emperor continued to read the ad's copy. Two men claimed they could solve the very problem the emperor faced - being a closet nudist.

The emperor tore the ad's send-in form and lept from his arm chair to find the nearest quill. He filled out the form, sealed it tightly and foxed it that afternoon (before the days of internet, mail, phones and faxes, foxes were used to send messages because they were fast and cute).

Three very agonizing, suit-clad weeks later, two men arrived at the castle. They claimed to be the finest tailors in all the land. Although the chamberlains weren't expecting any specific tailors, they found nothing odd of these men. The emperor, so they thought, had an odd obsession with fashion. He had tailors and seamstresses coming and going all of the time. He changed outfits several times a day. Everyone just assumed the emperor wanted to be trendy. In actuality, he was just vainly seeking something wearable that was as comfortable as his own skin.

The chamberlains led the alleged tailors to the emperor's quarters.

"We are from Jay Bird's, your majesty," they told the emperor.

Naked as a Jay Bird! He instantly knew they were the men from the ad. The emperor anxiously participated in the just-for-show conversation about cloth, colors and stitching styles. Then, the tailors told a tale of a magical cloth that was invisible to the incredibly stupid.

The emperor cocked his head. "Invisible, you say?"

"Invisible," the men of Jay Bird repeated. They pulled a clothless rod from their bag. "Just feel how exquisite that feels."

The emperor giggled. There was nothing there! As he mimed fingering cloth, he waxed poetic about the beauty of this textile, about the silkiness of it and about how he desired nothing more than a suit of it.

His chamberlains were in a panic. They could not see this cloth. They were surely unfit to work in the castle! So they praised the fabric that they didn't know didn't exist so they could keep their jobs.

The emperor ordered a suit from the men of Jay Bird. He gladly paid them a fortune for air and theatrics. He stood in front of his mirror for hours as they pretended to tailor a suit to his every muscle.

He was going to be able to walk around stark-ass naked. And no one could or would say anything about it for fear of seeming dim! It was perfect.

The emperor was so thrilled at finally being able to walk around in the buff, he planned a parade. He would prance down the main street of his land as his people watched.

The day of the parade, the people gathered and the musicians played.

The emperor emerged from the castle and felt the warm sun on his bare shoulders. He felt the cool breeze softly blow against his nether bits. Nothing felt greater than being out in the open while he himself was out and open.

"Oh, would you look at that amazing suit," the townspeople lied, unless they were referring to his birthday suit but no one would dare.

"That is the finest fabric I've ever seen," people would tell one another.

"If only we all had clothing so fine."

"The emperor looks smashing."

"You're all plum loony," a teen shouted. "He's as naked as the day he was born."

The crowd hushed and the music ceased. The emperor and his procession haulted. The emperor approached the teen and looked him in the eye. Then he winked and continued on with the parade.