Lascivious

(If you haven’t already read this…)

Consider me a glutton for lust. I was so enamored of life at court that I returned to Medieval Times within one cycle of the moon. Another birthday, another bff, another opportunity for mischief. It was Libby’s birthday this time, and we’d made the decision to celebrate after the fashion of horses and glitter during a unicorn slumber party. It seemed appropriate timing. Libs has known for some years now my intrinsic love of things that are “just…. just SO BAD….. so bad……….” Having never been to The Past, she was willing to let me be her escort and guide, and I took up the challenge with fervor and honor.

In spite of my beguiling efforts, we were not able to sit in the Red Section. In fact we were once again shunted off to the section where everything is Black and White. Of the 3 occasions I’ve been to The Past now, it’s been in black and white every time. I suppose that’s apropos. We elbowed our way into the antechamber, and in spite of all the pre-warning I imagined Libs had, I reckon nothing can really prepare a person for having some blustering fool of a John Cleese impersonator bellowing out poorly crafted quips at you, and expecting you to actually respond. We were in hysterics inside of 4 minutes, not least because it turns out I have no ability to apply lip gloss to anyone else’s face without painting their teeth.

Even though we hadn’t sprung for the “Royalty Package” or whatever it was, and even though we arrived approximately 2 minutes before the seating assignments, we somehow wound up with seats in the 2nd row. I can’t even imagine what the first row is like, you’re practically under the horses. In a birthday care package from LisaDoll came appropriate accessories for the evening – DIY foam tiaras and pink wands. I obsessively crafted my tiara with the precision of a one-armed gorilla orchestra conductor, Libs did the same (hers was way better) and we waved our pink wands, and felt like visitors in our own skins as neither of us frequent the “cutesy girly pinksy sparkly” planet.

I was completely engrossed in tiara architecture through the opening “back story”, but from what I gathered it was similar to the prior back story, in that it was exactly the same back story. Hostage prince and kid with whip. Bring me soup. Horses dancing in lines for 10 minutes solid, and then a well trained bird of prey. Bring me a pig’s head. Introduction of gormless king and vapid princess, for the love of horses bring me some KNIGHTS. And then…. they rode out in style, one by one like they do, being announced by their color and banner. And lo and behold, once again putting life into the story of the Red Knight – “IT’S HIM LIBS IT’S HIM IT’S HIM IT’S HIM!!!!” *bounce flap point flap squeak*

Indeed it was him, the same Red Knight with all the handsome that had won my heart/eyes not a month ago. It was almost like The Past was repeating The Past, and we were even in the same section. I didn’t recognize any of the other nights but no matter, I rubbed my hands together energetically with the assurance that my eyes would be nourished with red candy. Blackandwhite be hanged, I would obviously be cheering for red. He was my veela.

He cantered past our section as he had before, with an air of taunting us and relishing in the negative attention, when suddenly our eyes locked… I could almost see his brain shouting “IT’S HER HORSE IT’S HER IT’S HER IT’S HER!!!” *bounce flap point flap squeak* He pointed right at my face, I blew him a kiss, he clutched his bosom, I waved at him, he winked at me, and I was pwned. Libs’ eyes were agog as two gogs, it’s not every day you watch true love unfold over chicken carcass. I was shocked that he’d remembered unobtrusive little me after a whole month, but as several people have said, “Ems…. He works at Medieval Times….” No doubt I was a bright purple spot of cleavage in his otherwise dreary families-with-little-kids day.

The rest of the events went by with me in a red haze, he would ride past us and look at me often, he did the heartbeat thump thing with his hand on his chest, he would point his sword at me when he passed one of the “tests”, winked and blew kisses a lot, mouthed that he’d missed me, and placed me into a very large cauldron until I melted. Our knight was no slouch in the handsome way either, in fact he threw one of the flowers right at us which I caught, in the absence of FPP. And our knight had a beard, which 9 times of 10 is the preferred look for men on horses. Unfortunately…. The beard wasn’t strong enough to save him from the pretend. He was killed the first time some half-hearted fool swung a sword through the air to his left. We barely knew what had happened before he was suddenly being lugged off the field like a sack of death. That’s what happens when you see everything in black and white.

Luckily, my allegiance had been turned several moments prior to a horse of a different color, who was still fighting with the best of them. Even though he sustained injury after injury by overdramatic gestures and oxygen (air swords > air guitar), he battled through and won the day. The prince came back with his Yanklish apocalypse accent and yadda yadda, none of this matters in the slightest you understand because the Red Knight was handsome and not dead with really really strong thighs.

Libs and I waited in the DMV-esque line for the loo afterwards and then wandered into the Knight Club (yes.), this is where the warriors gather for photo opportunities and to be niggled by small children or giddy teenage girls. Or me. As soon as he saw me, my knight pointed at me and grabbed me in a hug that nearly crushed my ribs, not least because he was still in his armor, pressed his cheek against my face and got sweat all over my glasses. There wasn’t any 40’s movie score swelling in the background but there should have been. We stood and chatted with him for a few minutes, I’m pretty sure he talked about things like horses and politics and the destruction of the Amazon, but I couldn’t swear to it because I was too busy staring at his mouth to listen. The transcript of the encounter in my brain would read something like *Tall, good gracious he’s TALL, omg I wonder how tall, his eyes are brown but that can be overlooked, he knows how to ride a horse and wield a sword and fling flags at foes and, wait hang on –* (“Yep, me too”) *- lips, he has them and I like boys with lips, why can’t I see him clearly out of this eye, oh because of the sweat smeared across my glasses, that’s really repulsive in a sexy way, and I just got bored so I’m already walking away but he still has lips*

It was the bliss of true love. Libs gave me the best present ever for her birthday, by letting me take her there. And for those who will understand, I have red bottomosity.

Monday night I’m going to the Pirate Place.

Chant Down Babylon

Neutralize

Mini story, heavy on the choreography.

Floors 2-5 of my work building come equipped with a break/coffee/sink/microwave/copy machine/refrigerator/toaster/water cooler/file cabinet/speakeasy/closer than the bathroom to fart/group therapy/who can yell the loudest room. When you manage to be in them alone, you can microwave popcorn and make copies of your face and pass gas and cook 37 pieces of toast all at the same time. Every morning, these rooms are packed with dozens of people who are all attempting to do one or more of those things. I happen to sit right outside one of these rooms (the one that has 5 toasters. 5. Toasters. 5.). Most of the stories and quotes you guys hear from this place are because of my uncomfortable locale. For some reason, my coworkers seem to believe that this comprehensive room is soundproof, and smell proof. Neither is true, as I wish I could shout from the rooftop at the farters.

Over the past 6 months, the walls of the room have become peppered with various signs about food and farts and killer moths, and there’s even a sign about the signs now. All of this is beside the point. The one thing no one seemed to notice in this room was a phone. It hangs on the wall above our fax machine, with some odd number inscribed on it. It looks nothing like the rest of the phones we have here, it’s the receiver and buttons but no other useless gizmos or caller ID screens. It’s very Batphone, except that it’s sullen and beige.

The other day, 2 of the bosses were in the room chatting about breastmilk and fish, when suddenly…


Phone: *Ring ring*
Boss 1 and 2: …..……..*frozen*
Phone: *Ring ring*
Boss 1 and 2: ……..*sloooooowly look at phone*
Phone: *Ring ring*
Boss 1 and 2: ………*slooooooowly look at each other*
Phone: *Ring ring*
Boss 1: ………”What the hell?”
Phone: *RING RING*
Boss 2: ……… *hand wringing*
Phone: *Ring. Ring.*
Boss 1: *nervously shuffling feet*
Phone: *Sigh. Ring.*
Boss 2: “What do we DO??” *over the head hand flap spasm*
Phone: *(….seriously?) ring….*
Boss 1 and 2: *wordlessly mouthing*
Phone: *……..I have given up. (silence)*
Boss 2: “Oh!”
Boss 1: “Thank goodness…”
Boss 1 and 2: *meandering out of room* “….(*indistinct phrases like*) Close one…… Almost had to….. Why they even have that……….”

Close shaves abound in this place, we almost had our healthcare benefits changed, there’s almost been a strike amongst the clerical staff for a couple of years, and 2 bosses almost had to answer a phone.


Chant Down Babylon

Lust

I never knew the daily life of being a medieval knight included the stitching of so many spangles and sequins. I feel extreme chagrin at having images of homespun and burlap tunics all these years, maintaining the practical over the romantic. I write this with relief and gratitude my friends, ebullient with the burning discovery that it is never too late to come face to horse with the truth, and that my stagnant tomes of murky British history can be tossed right out the door with one visit to Medieval Times.

Turning 35 is a very big deal, and I know this because I haven’t done it yet. My own FPP embarked on the big deal himself this week with a staunch constitution and stiff upper lip. We’d had a co-birthday dinner/golf incident with Laphone a couple of weeks ago, but he felt more was needed and is almost always right. We tossed around ideas of what to do on the actual day, which fell on a Monday so I was available (for those who don’t know, I’m one of those people who gets to work 4-10s, and you’re right to make that sound of malcontent in your throat and you absolutely should hate me, so don’t be hard on yourself), but everything seemed so……anticlimactic and subdued. The kinds of things that would better suit a 34th birthday, but not a 35th. In truth I don’t remember even a shred of anything else we talked about and not just because of Colander Brain Syndrome (CBS), but because nothing else mattered after I started gasping and flapping and shrieking “MEDIEVAL TIMES MEDIEVAL TIMES MEDIEVAL TIMES!!!!”? And then when I finished doing that I emailed FPP “MEDIEVAL TIMES MEDIEVAL TIMES MEDIEVAL TIMES!!!!”

FPP, compliant as ever, decided to incorporate the sequins into his birthday celebration in order to make me happy, since he could have fun making banana art and inventing British rap songs. They offer you a free ticket on your birthday as long as someone else goes with you and pays full price, I bought our tickets, and we were locked in or would gnaw our way through the stockade! I had been to the historical reenactment of Medieval Times once before as a wee thing, I remembered a huge arena and that our knight was rubbish and that I had always proudly believed I was a primitive savage until I was asked to eat without utensils. I was anxious to revisit the past via the past, and look with wizened eyes upon our noble ancestry across the pond. 

We arrived without incident beyond the usual Emsy Meltdown in Traffic (EMT), and I was hopping/flapping as we walked through 3 versions of the wrong entrance. We were assigned to be supporters of the Black and White Knight and his banner, ironically these were the same colors I supported the wee thing time as well, and we fitted the paper crowns on our giant heads by utilizing the very last slot which I’m sure makes RayK proud. We loitered around an antechamber where some poor fool was trying to get everyone to do things like clap in unison and use their ears. Finally we were ushered into the arena, which is at least 4/5 smaller than it was when I was 4/5 smaller than I am, and luckily got seats right in the center. To FPP’s right was a small family, and to my left were two exquisite blond gay men, who when I introduced myself to them became my best friends ever.

I didn’t recall being presented with much back story in the show when I was wee, but again I thought as a child and spake as a child then, so I didn’t grasp the import of character pathos or complexity. I mean, what was these knights’ motivation? This time however, we were taught about the ongoing battle our kingdom was in with Leon, as in Spain and not just some guy, and that our prince had been taken hostage by some skinny interloper with a whip. There wasn’t a sequin to be found on the whip whelp’s garb either, and they shined red light as the prince was taken away, so I knew these were the bad guys. Destroyers and usurpers! This abduction left behind a flummoxed puffer fish of a king whose beard was more interesting than his speeches, and a wringing hands distraught Kardashian-esque princess without a scintilla of British affectation. Double fail. BUT now at least I understood, these knights were going to win back our prince by fighting against each other and tossing flags back and forth. Color me captivated, bring on the challenges!

The knights rode out one by one, introduced by that same blustering fool who tried to incite our rage in the antechamber, and I feel no shame in saying that a fair few of them made me and the gay boys go “…ooh….” One in particular, the red one, had a lot of handsome. Ours, the black and white one, had a lot of hair but a nice smile. The green one had a lot of nose. I couldn’t pick the others out of a crowd now if I had to, and it’s only been 4 days (CBS) but no matter, I’m certain they were there. Several airings of grievances and feats of strength were performed, mainly by the horses. Those poor horses…. As a person who has recently decided she really likes horses, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about what their life must be like. I mean movie set horses have a raw enough deal, but Medieval Times horses? Having to bear the weight of all that hair and glitter? Even they must be thinking “You know, that’s not historically accurate….” 

Being the technocrat zealots that we are, both FPP and I had our phones handy and were taking photos, as well as updating our Twitter/Facebook accounts for the benefit of all. FPP is an Android, and being in a close relationship with a fellow Android (Lanthorn) I know the darker workings of their minds… so as he typed in the description of where he was, along with the phrase “Let the jousting begin!”, it came as no surprise that the dark mind expected he meant the word “lusting”. I was engaged in some kind of rant on white supremacy with GaySquared and suddenly noticed that FPP was shaking with laughter, and after he explained the reasoning to me I began roaring and wheezing with laughter. Technically the lusting hadn’t even commenced yet and the knights were still in the dancing and drill teaming phase, honestly I lost track of how many ways they could make their horses do gymnastics. 

Given the fact that we were in this hobbit-sized arena it was easy to make eye contact with the knights, they would frequently trot over to their color-coded section to beg for our validation and approval. Very like the royal guards in England, these men were loathe to break character as they valiantly acted out the story of honor and duty and sparkle, keeping only to the grand waving and gesticulating of the days of yore. During a key moment, I locked eyes with the red knight who had all the handsome, and winked at him or blew him a kiss or something else beguiling, because of the lusting… which shattered him out of his duties just long enough for him to make the most hilarious “WTF?” shrug at me that I’ve ever seen. His judgment and condemnation of me was evident upon his clear brow, me the turncoat traitor who follows looks instead of colors. He happened to be right next to the black and white knight when this happened, turned to nudge him and point at me, by which point I was howling with laughter along with FPP AND GaySquared. I quickly blew kisses to our knight as well, who waved merrily and trotted off, leaving the red man behind… who locked eyes with me yet again, so I winked and blew him another kiss. I’m nothing if not thorough. Several times throughout the show Red caught my eye, and even started riding past our section, the saucy minx. I’d changed the history of the lusting. 

After one of the feats of strength, the princess of drama was tossing flowers down at the knights, who were in turn going and tossing them into their sections of the crowd – most often at the children. But our knight, who seemed to be aware of our little group now, tossed a flower right to us which FPP reached and leapt for – and missed, because the little kid next to him practically knocked his hand out of the way. FPP would make a better Beater than a Seeker. But upon the receipt of another set of flowers from Dramincess, our knight deliberately aimed and tossed the flower right at my face, and this time FPP caught it for me as the knight intended. I put it in my hair as any proud tinkling wanton would do. 

I won’t spoil the rest of the show for anyone who is planning to go, but I’d encourage you to watch for the Mini Ring Spearing, the Blacklight Flashback Montage (…), and the Pirouetting Horse. And not to wreck the ending, but all of the sparkly paid off and we got our Prince back in the end. Result! 2nd best birthday celebration ever, and I only say that because of a place called the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. FPP and I both had multiple lusting blasts, and only if I’d gotten him a Delorean would we have been able to have such a first-hand journey through history such as we did.


Next, we’re going to the Pirate place. Textbooks in hand.


Chant Down Babylon

Heirship

My mom and I have a lot in common, and one of those things is that we’re both Danish. Hence our JollyHobbitDay personas unless provoked, and then we’ll put sugar in your gas tank. Our people defeated the Nazis with sugar. Ask me to tell you that story on our next date. We sing Danish songs for special events, we use Danish names for family relationships, and we eat lots and lots of very rich food. There is much to be proud of. For example, Victor Borge.

I brought a dvd of “Victor’s Greatest Hits” with me to mum’s last time I was there. I’d seen several snippets of Borge concerts via public television growing up, but I wasn’t sure I’d recognize him without all the deafening static and image distortion. This was back in the Alien 80’s, after all. We watched the dvd while eating lots and lots of very rich beef stew, which I kept gurgling and choking on with all the laughter. If you’ve never seen Victor perform, do it. Few people know how to be funny anymore the way he did. I sensed a cosmic cellular genetic connection between my brain and his jokes, I’m pretty sure I’m funny because I’m Danish. One of his bits made me do that ugly wheezing red-faced “….is she passing away?” laugh. It is called “Inflationary Language.”

Many years ago in Denmark we had inflation, and you are familiar with that problem.  In inflation, we have numbers rising.  Prices go up.  Anything that has to do with money goes up...except the language.  See, we have hidden numbers in the words like "wonderful," "before," "create," "tenderly."  All these numbers can be inflated and meet the economy, you know, by rising to the occasion.  I suggest we add one to each of these numbers to be prepared.  For example "wonderful" would be "two-derful."  “Before” would be “Be-five”.  “Create”, “cre-nine”.  “Tenderly” should be “eleven-derly”.  A “Lieutenant” would be a “Leiut-eleven-ant”.  A sentence like, "I ate a tenderloin with my fork" would be "I nine an elevenderloin with my five-k."  And so on and so fifth.  I have a book here that I have brought, I have a story here that I would like to read to you so that you can get an idea of Inflationary Language, how it sounds when it's being used:

Twice upon a time, there lived in Sunny Califivenia a young man named Bob.  He was a third leiutelevenant in the US Air Fiveces.  Bob had been fond of Anna, his one-and-a-half sister, ever since she saw the light of day for the second time.  And all three of them were proud of the fact that two of his fivefathers had been among the crenineders of the US Constithreetion.


They were dining on the terrace.  "Anna," he said as he took a bite of a marinineded herring, "You look twoderful threenight.  You never looked that lovely befive."  Anna looked twoderful, despite the illness from which she had not yet recupinineded.  "Yes," repeated Bob, "You look twoderful threenight...but you have three of the saddest eyes I have ever seen."

The table was tastefully deconineded with Anna's favorite flowers: Threelips.  They were now talking about Anna's assiten husband, from whom she was sepenineded.  While on the radio, an Irish elevenor sang "Tea For Three."  It was midnight; a clock in the distance struck thirteen.  And suddenly, there in the moonlight stood her husband Don Two, obviously intoxicnineded.
"Anna," he said, "Fivegive me.  I am only young twice and you are my two and only."  Bob jumped to his feet, "Get out of here, you three-faced triplecrosser!"  But Anna warned, "Watch out, Bob. He is an officer."

Bob said, "Yes, he is two.  But I am two, three!  Anytwo five elevennis?”

"All right," said Don Two as he wiped his fivehead.  He then left and when he was one-and-a-halfway through the revolving door, he muttered, "I'll go back to Elevennessee and be double again.  Farewell, Anna.  Three-de-loo, three-de-loo.”

I hope some of you were eating stew just then. Or an elevenderloin. Or nothing that followed would seem twoderous. But, three be or not three be… that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind three suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fivetune, or three take arms against a sea of troubles…. Three die, three sleep, no more….. or gaze into the elevender eyes of Zachary Sexto. Never fiveget, we crenine our own destiny. May the fivece be with you.



Chant Down Babylon

Deleteriousness

Being fancy means not being allowed to do anything for yourself. That was part of what drew me to my apartment complex, their promises that I wouldn’t have to lift a finger in my apartment, they would handle every single repair and mouse and leak and dust bunny there was, and all I had to do was exist. I’d been practicing my existence for several months then and I was confident that I could take on the task of professionally existing. They have been true to their word, they cleaned my entire kitchen when my upstairs neighbors stuffed a moose down their garbage disposal, they routinely parole the outer fortress walls to keep out any spiders, and they even hefted/bolted/stabilized/plugged in/watched my new tv while I sat on the couch existing. We need not delve into the 3NewWashingMachineReplacements Incident. I’ve felt pampered and indulged during my time there. I don’t even worry about the giant light bulbs over my vanity sink or the batteries in my smoke detectors.

I got home Tuesday night with my arms full of takeout food and leapt into the nude to professionally indulge my pampered existence. Movie, food and no clothes = best life ever. It was a few minutes of loud movie and my yummy sounds before I heard the noise. I looked at my phone even though I knew I didn’t have it set to “suspicious beeping” mode, and then went on a sleuth hunt around my living room to try to find the source. The least my mortal enemies could do would be to plant a bomb that didn’t beep loudly every few seconds, I scoffed to myself. The shortsighted fools. It didn’t take me long to realize the noise was coming from my bedroom, however, especially since the entire space of my apartment is basically a box with one wall. I scrambled in there and gaped open-mouthed at my smoke detector, which was beeping.


It wasn’t screeching, like I hoped it would do if I lit myself on fire, or even shouting, like it does when I burn eggs. Just chirruping cheerfully to itself, like it was singing The Doom Song. “Beep!..........Beep!...........Beep!............TheBeep!...........AaaaaaaandBeep!..............BoopityBeep!.........Giggle!............BEEEEEEP!!............Haha JK Beep!............Doom!..............” I stood staring at it with my hands on my hips, suppressing the surge of an internal battle of wills between my own existential boundaries, and this thing’s right to express itself in beeps. Marxism is mostly invalid when your opponent doesn’t have an arm to swing at your nose. Really I was just stalling because I didn’t have a clue what to do. I knew from experience that this fell under the jurisdiction of The Management Company and I couldn’t so much as reach up there to poke at the buttons without passing the retinal scan. And despite the omnipresence of The Company they still kept regular office hours, which meant their omnipresence had gone home for the evening 15 minutes ago. It was just me and the beeping, trapped together for the night in complete immobilization because of all the fancy.


I decided it was no big deal and I’d be able to tune it out. I mean when I lived in Colton there was a train track 5 feet from our backyard, for crying out loud. My cubicle is right outside our breakroom where the attention-hungry deaf congregate and bellow recipes at each other. I’ve become so tuned out that people can be standing in front of me asking me if I want some chocolate, and I wander past them totally distracted by the battle on Hoth replaying in my head. Desensitizing to this innocuous beeping would be no sweat, less than 5 minutes and I wouldn’t hear it at all. Starting…..now.


“Beep!.............Beep!..............Beep!”


………Any second now.


“Beep!...............Beep!...............Beep!”


…………………….now?


“Beep!.............Beep!.................AndTheBeep!”


…………………………snarf………………..


“Beep!.....................................................................”


…………………….???...............................................


“……………………………………………………………….Beep! (ha!)”


3 and some-odd hours later, I found myself curled into a tight and quivering ball on the couch with the volume up to 55, and Stanley Tucci’s voice still sounded like beeping. Even after shutting the door to my room and trying to muffle it with various linens, the detector cleared its throat and projected to the back row. Even the circumference of the detector seemed to be growing, along with its ego. I’d resigned myself to sleeping on the couch that night but by 11pm, I was no closer to falling asleep than I am after riding Space Mountain, and much much further from asleep than when I’m at work. The beeping seemed to be spreading its discord through the objects in my house, so that my squishy nap couch suddenly seemed to be made of jagged iron beams, and my fuzzy hug blanket seemed to be made of dry leaves and ice. Thrashing around and kicking didn’t help either of those things. At 1:45am, I finally stomped into my room and flung myself on my bed, thinking that the beeping may be 3 inches from my head but at least I’d be comfortable.


Wasn’t. Being that close to the detector was like being hooked up to electric shock machines. Every beep made my muscles involuntarily jolt and spasm. I could almost see flashes of light when my eyes were closed. I’d brace myself and try to count seconds between the beeps so I’d be prepared, but every single time my body reacted with surprise. I realized that a psychological fear of beeping was boring deeper and deeper into my subconscious, because in the few seconds between beeps where I managed to fall asleep, my dreams were of bombs and failing heart monitors and punching in the code at the hatch on “Lost”. What had seemed like a cheerful chirp 7 hours prior now sounded like “MMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!......................RRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENK!...................BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!...................FNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!...............................THREATENINGGERMANPHRASES!.............................KNNNNNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVES!”


When my brain gave up and woke me for good at 4am, my blanket, fitted mattress sheet and pillowcase were twisted around my limbs and neck like they were auditioning to be skin. After fighting to free myself, which took several minutes, I slumped against the wall of my shower and just stared at the water. How precarious life is, thought I…. a simple, persistent noise from the 70s had drained my will to live. I fled from my house and ended up getting to work 45 minutes early, which is inexcusable. I resembled a caffeinated post-traumatic zombie whose nerves had been twisted by forks the rest of the day, startling violently and squeaking whenever someone’s phone beeped. I tried to remind myself how much better the beeping was than actually being on fire, and failed. When I got home, I walked straight to the detector and stood frozen for 70 seconds solid…………………………..and didn’t hear a sound. Either the Omnipresent Company had responded to my distress call, or I’d finally managed to tune out the noise. We may never know…


I’ve been initiated twice in my life, had people slop ketchup and mustard and honey and glitter and paint and multi-colored foam all over me and make me roll in mud, I’ve had nurses skewer me raw trying to find veins, I had both my hips dislocated just over a year ago, I’ve taken several math classes, and none of these brands of torture stripped my soul to the bearings like a night of beep. It’s possible this is a method being employed in Darfur or the misguided enforcers of the Patriot Act. My empathies.


Chant Down Babylon

Rhapsody

I ate January. Now you can all stop asking where it went.

I decided a blog post was warranted, because I met Idina Menzel.


You know when you’re depressed to the point of being winded when you stand up straight and wishing you’d been killed in the Revolutionary War, you can’t work or go to school and you’re living in the asphyxiating toilet of dysfunction, and then your friend burns you the “Wicked” soundtrack which you play for 6 months straight and realize the whole problem is that you were born green, but there’s hope and anti-gravity and you can save the talking animals, and 5 years later you realize you lived through the black hole and met the wizard and don’t need to travel by bubble, and then the person you idolized through the mess walks in and sits 12 inches from your head? It was like that, only with more flapping.


Back when “Wicked” was first on Broadway, my friend Becca saw it in New York with Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth themselves in the lead roles. I’ve always harbored the blistering envy of that. About 6 months ago when Idina was filming for her spot on “Glee,” she was shooting at Citrus College and a couple of friends of mine met her. I was beside myself. 2 days before this happened, I was talking with my coworker friend about both of those things and how jealous I was of those friends of mine who got to be that close to her and actually talk to her. And a carrier pigeon took this message to The Universe, who owed me for the volcano.


Laphone and Mr. and I were at a showing of Point Break Live which we’d been planning on for over a month and nearly didn’t make it to. It was already a big deal because I’d found out the show was ending shortly and I’m going to have to pay other random people to spray fake blood at my face (Craigslist). I wanted to find out the story of what was going on and finally set eyes on this one guy who shall remain fictional. We’d also elected to sit right in the middle of the Moisture Action, rather than in the Fondle Section, which has a huge effect on the emotional drama of the story. My ADHD eyes were darting around with all the shadows and shapes, I watched this group of people come in and shuffle for their seats in the row ahead of us. One of them looked around her kind of shy and uncomfortable like, and I thought “Wow, that kind of looked like Idina Menzel’s jawline….hmm” but returned to watching for signs of nargles and the questing beast. Then I noticed how much the back of that girl’s head looked like Idina’s head…. And the shape if the crest of her ear was quite similar as well. And that when she was speaking to the friend next to her she was doing a spot on Idina impression. And that her friend was calling her Idina after she did that impression. And that when she took out her phone, the wallpaper was a picture of Taye Diggs and Baby Walker. At that point I felt this nebulous girl was going WAY too far with this impersonation, even for someone who was looking for a career as a professional Menzel double. I blamed her enabling friends. Until my steel trap brain started to realize it might….. actually…………… be………………………………. her……………………………………………………………..


You know that electricity sound in movies when everything shorts out or gets zapped or kills moths? My face made that sound. I turned to Laphone and said “I-…..th-……ththththhhh-……….I-……….w-w-w-w-w-…………..splurtz…………*point*…………..THERE!!!..............I-……………..possibly……….” She patiently said “What?” I said, in the loudest stage whisper ever, “I THINK THAT’S IDINA MENZEL!!! *points more and a lot*” She said “Who?” I almost inhaled her through my flared nostrils and shrieked “IDINAMENZELIDINAMENZELIDINAMENZEL!!!!! The ORIGINAL Elphaba!!! The woman who brought Wicked to life!!!! The first Marueen who worked with Jonathan Larson himself!!!! MY FAVORITE SINGER IN THE WORLD!!! WICKED!!!!!!!! SONGS!!!!!!!!!!!!! HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” She said “Really? Wow!” She’s the cute. For the next hour, every few minutes I would turn to her with my giant bug eyes and say “Omg….*flap*” or “I’m so serious” or “Aims…..” or “Omg *flap* I’m so serious Aims”. Around this time is when many of you would have gotten my equally coherent mass text with all the dots. The replies I got were a half-and-half mixture of “Who?” or “WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!” (You “Who?” people know you are, and all the shame.) I decided that on the off chance this really was an imposter, which seemed more likely than Idina Menzel being at Point Break Live, I had to find out. Immediately after I made that decision, I suddenly transformed into a naked leper with bad hair and foul breath in the middle of a crowded marketplace. I was seized by the most staggering level of self consciousness and shyness I’ve had in years, actually since back before I was rescued by the Wicked Witch. Irony is never convenient. I knew it would be as easy as leaning forward, tapping her on the shoulder and asking if she was really herself. Totally graceful and charming and effortless. My mind’s eye painted a picture of a giant oozing earth worm flopping on top of her and slobbering all over her jacket, which is how I suddenly felt. Totally not any of the aforementioned adjectives. But I knew I couldn’t hate myself any more than if I passed up the chance, so I went in for the tap.


Idina: *turns around, pleasant*
Me: “Erm, excuse me, but are you Idina Menzel?”
Idina: *patient smile* “Ya.”
Me: “!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*flap*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*heart clutch*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Idina: “……….lol………”
Me: “I’m the lamest person in the world, it’s SO NICE TO MEET YOU!!!!”
Idina: “What’s your name?”
Me: “EMILY!!!!!!!!!!!! *points at her shirt, doesn’t know why*”
Idina: “Lol. Hi.”
Me: “PICTURES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Idina: “Um…………do you, um………. Do you think we could do that, like, later? *gestures to our yellow ponchos*”
Me: “YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Idina: “*weak smile* Ok. *turns back around*”
Me: “SEEYOUTHENMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”




Alright I didn’t actually moooo, even though KMab told me I should. But the rest is word perfect accuracy. According to the earth worm camera in my brain, anyway. I was utterly transported the rest of the show, because even if I didn’t take a picture of her, I had shouted words at her face and told her my real name. It was a great show, everyone was in peak form, The Utah Of the Week was really pretty good in spite of the kaleidoscope of accents he kept wandering through. Even the group of drunk/loud/rude/lame 20-somethings clustered on the side didn’t wreck it completely, although they drove FictionalMan to distraction. I got more and more nervous as the show was drawing to a close, because to my dismay my acres of awkwardness didn’t abate in the LEAST after I spoke to her. I was even more nervous afterward, convinced she would flee into the shadows from Yelling Earthworm Girl, and she would be right to. I kept doing seizure hands to Laphone, who is very pretty and did silent chuckles at me to bolster my morale. When the show ended, we all stood up and started squirming out of our saturated ponchos and wiping the blood off our hands. I kept darting glances at ActuallyReallyIdina but nearly lost Laphone because she had to chase after Mr., who’d done a runner. I was torn. On one hand, I knew I could live happily with the mere memory forever, but on the other hand, every “WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!” person was insisting on a picture “or it didn’t happen”. I also wanted to chat with the cast boys and find out what was going on with the show. So I dawdled and did that for a few minutes, interrupting their explanation every few seconds by shrieking “IDINAMENZELISHEREDIDYOUKNOWTHAT!!!” I finally found Laphone again, and I said I thought Idina had left, and I was making my peace with that… but then I spotted her, over by the bar.


I think I hopped a couple of times or did some kind of jig, but that didn’t make me any less apprehensive about approaching her again. I wanted to peel all the flesh off my bones and paint my skeleton black, like you do when you’re really really self conscious. I finally decided, No Day But Today, and asked Laphone if she would go with me and take the picture. I shoved all the other people at the bar out of the way and hesitantly tapped her again.


Idina: *turns around and looks at me with her eyes*
Me: …………………..”oh hai…….” *spastic wave*
Idina: “Oh HI!! Good!” *clutches my arm*
Me: *somewhat mollified* “Sorrybotherpicturecouldhitherejustfriendphoneweok?”
Idina: “Oh sure!”
Laphone: *smiling*
Me: “YAY, ok here we are, a picture of the beauty *points at Idina* and the ugly *points at myself*”
Idina: “DON’T YOU SAY THAT!!!”
Me: “…………….gurgle…………………ok…………………..”
Idina: “GOOD.”
Me: “Justwantedtosay…..Tonyawardspeech…sobbing…..sobeautiful……mostinspiring…………”
Idina: “Omg.”
Me: “…………………*reaches for her arm* You make me want to sing.”
Idina: “Awe! *heart clasp*”
Me: “TAYE DIGGS!!!”
Idina: “Him!”
Me: “THE awesome.”
Idina: “Thanks. (Read: “Go away.”)
Me: “Well………….”
Idina: “……………………”
Me: “Kthxbye!!!”
Idina: “Have a beautiful and fulfilling life, loyal minion!”
Me: *falls down*


And then we left. I shuddered violently every few seconds and my voice would get really loud. I almost offered both Laphone and Mr. a piggyback ride up the side of the building to prove that earthworms can defy gravity. And the slime would probably wash out of Idina’s jacket. And I hadn’t crushed all of her bones by accidently stepping on her, because she is alarmingly tiny. These things counted as successes in spite of my blithering like Simple Jack.

All these years I’ve planned speeches and drafted note cards for the celebrities I knew I’d meet, like Elijah Wood and Leo DiCaprio and Tom Hanks and Drew Barrymore and George Clooney. How could I have forgotten Idina??? (Insert image of earthworm holding note cards here.)


Laphone and Gans say I need to talk about Zach Quinto more often in order to draw him to me by the magic, but I don’t think my talking about him more is actually possible.




Chant Down Babylon

Corrigendum

I was standing in my shower singing the Fraggle Rock theme song and being very luxurious, when I realized there were words printed on my shower head. Pulse, Massage, and Viagra. ………wait………… Before I could even give it the green light, my brain was off and halfway around DoomSnort Mountain, where no depot is safe to pause at. When did showers start getting equipped with Viagra settings? What showerhead manufacturing CEO ok’d this idea? And why? What were those marketing and planning meetings like? How much does it cost to gain the rights to use the name Viagra on a showerhead? What about that water setting makes it Viagra-like? Is it the raw unrestrained power of the force of water? Is it the size/shape/style of the stream? Is it the effects it produces? Were there test groups? Were placebo Viagra showerhead settings used in the test groups? Are there testimonials? Side effects? What other Viagra’d household products will we see in the future? Hair brushes? Plungers? Toasters? Within a few seconds of being a captive passenger in my careening thoughts, I was slumped against the shower wall going deaf from the booming reverberations of my own laughter. I love the fact that more often than not I’m simply a witness to my own imagination and the words that come out of my own mouth. I love being one of those people who laughs at the voices in their heads. Or the words written on their showerheads.


Until I realized that I don’t wear my glasses in the shower and the word was actually Niagara.




Chant Down Babylon

Itinerant

My week:

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Except for the RayK, Loyle, Bear and FPP sunbeams.

Hey remember that time I went to Europe?

Chant Down Babylon

Choleric

*Please be advised that what follows draws upon no wellspring or theme of happiness.



I’m growing a third boob but it’s below my chin, I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that this edifice I come to for “employment” 4 days a week is actually a mental institution/giant maze experiment/sandbox/dreadful sex club from Wicked/boxing ring/group therapy for the very very needy, and I work next to a Me Monster who sharts. My carpet cube has lost some of its shimmer in the last couple of weeks, it doesn’t feel like the haven it did in my prior post. These shambling little walls do nothing to block out sound, odor, questions, earthquakes, or evil. I’ve actually reorganized my cubicle recently so that my back isn’t to the “door” anymore, so now when people walk by they see the back of my computer monitor and my sneer. This is helpful, as a particular individual who has slithered from a sweet friend to a suspicious buzzing sound to an alligator made of lava to the Eye of Sauron, seems to make it their business to wander around and “peek” in at what everyone else is doing. And then write what they’re doing on a strip of skin that they’ve sliced off a baby, and then drop that skin into a cauldron of spider venom, and then screech incantations with their arm around Voldemort who never died. But now they have to very deliberately step around the obstacle course of boxes of “more work I do in a day than they do in a week” and pretend to hug me with the back of their head pressed against my cheek so they can see what’s on my computer screen. By which time I’ve minimized all the Google search windows of “How to battle the forces of darkness when they bring you cookies” and email windows of “stop crying, don’t let the evil get the better of you!!” Usually when I’m quick on my game I can halt this absurd dance at the door and say “Yes what?” or “Hi what do you need?” or “GET THEE BEHIND ME RAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH”.

The best part is the fact that I’ve reorganized my desk has completely bollucksed EyeofSauron’s whole world and has prompted them (ok her, it’s a her, boo to all hers) to giggle and cuddle up next to Boss Squared Duo and whisper some fabricated series of “concerns” about my ineptitude and clandestine collusions with their arch enemy, Beelzebub.

Gah. I just came to the explosive realization of my Frodoness. In an effort to be kind and supportive, which as you all know kills mean things as though with fire, I went to a boutique at EoS’s house a few weeks ago and bought several pieces of lovely jewelry. In fact I’m wearing one now. This large crystal-type amulet that I was told would keep my spirit connected to the water-based energies of kelp in the Scottish lochs on days when it rains… but, could I have been duped?? Can evil beget pretty?? I may as well be wearing the One Ring for crying out loud!! I’m going to go bald and start coughing and yelling at my other personalities!!

Ok I feel better, I’ve plugged my ipod into my head to drown out Shart Monster’s 3 hour long explanation of the murder trial he just served as a jury member on and everything the murderer did to a series of little girls.

Part of the desk reorganization was prompted by the sudden possibility of getting a new computer monitor. We still have the massive computer towers and aren’t ready to move into laptops for all yet, but for the last few years the District has been slowly updating the monitors to lovely flat screens. One by one the old white refrigerator monitors have gone the way of the dodo. Except… mine. No one had ever asked about it and I’d never spoken up about it because I didn’t really care, until we realized we were going to have a spare flat screen in our unit when we got our new office assistant’s equipment. I timidly said “erm….could, um…..could I, do you think, could I, like, have it?.....maybe? Er, just some of it?” I should have known better, because this became a phone call I had to place to Boss Squared Duo explaining why I was an ungrateful wretch and felt I needed a new monitor when my old one was wheezing and clanking along just fine. And then BSD had to call this intrepid and invisible segment of the District called The Work Request Team, who you call to request that they work. If you don’t ask, they don’t work. No working without requests. Of course that implies that they work when they DO get requests. Bless their hearts.

They did work, because they passed on the request to other people, and “avoid responsibility” = “delegate” = “work” on this planet. The following Tuesday morning a cheerful guy who used to be friends with me bounced up to my desk, looked at my husky teenager-sized monitor and shrieked “WHAT THE @#%& IS THIS??” Even though he is 4 years older than me, evidently he skipped right from abacus to laptop. Both of which are sleek and compact. He promised that he would put folded slips of paper in suggestions boxes and whisper to people under bathroom stalls and play charades with his manager to try to get me something better and was all charming and then went away. Typical. A couple of hours later, 2 representatives of our Nerd Ninja tech team came sauntering up to my desk and stared. I stared at them. They stared at me. And then the monitor. And then me. One of them announced in a cowboy drawl “Now that’s just embarrassing.” The other smirked at my boobs. Typical. Finally somehow it all worked, all the staring and smirking ceased and I had a new flat screen monitor. *elven choir sounds* I never realized before this that my desk was actually big enough to sleep on. Yay for useful discoveries!


Shart Monster has finished his monologue now, and everyone’s going to some abysmal barbeque to celebrate working in the looneybinsexshopsandboxmazetherapyring which means I get to be left alone this afternoon, and I’m going to Europe in 2 weeks. Unless there’s another natural disaster, in which case I’ll blog from the dead.




Chant Down Babylon



PS) EoS just leapt in here to offer me cash while I was writing this, and now I can’t stop laughing.

Habromania

     I've had a series of encounters with humans in the last few weeks that have been sub normal, and which have reminded me of how thin the line we all tip-toe is between "unique" and "story someone blogs about," as well as why I prefer to stay in my house at all times.

     I was in Sally's a couple of weeks ago looking for a new hair color project, and obstructing 3/4 of the aisle in front of me were a mother/daughter duo also looking for color. The one forming the biggest blockage was facing perpendicular to the displays, was impatiently barking orders to the other while she text clacked away on her phone with a tacky manicure, and was utterly oblivious to the idea that there could be someone else in the store that would need to move past her. The other one was 3 inches away from the displays as she picked up and put back down every single box of colors, saying "What about this one, well what about this one, but what about this one..." I must have said "Excuse me, please" at least 3 times, and not ony did neither of them move at the first 2 requests, but when I made the 3rd right next to their heads and very loudly, they both moved right up against the displays they could see I was looking at. It's like they were afraid I'd take every box of color ever and leave none for them to pick up and put back down. I finally stopped being polite and elbowed past them, which The Clacking One clacked her tongue at and the other one didn't seem to notice. The Clacking One started saying "Just PICK one you like for your hair and let's GOOOOO, GOSH!!!" Or something. By the time I'd chosen the things I wanted, they were still nowhere near done bickering. This whole incident in itself wouldn't be that bizarre, except The Clacking One was the mother, and the daughter looking for a new hair color was 7.

     A couple of days ago I stopped by the grocery store after work, which I typically avoid because it's a zoo but there was nothing for it. As I was walking across the parking lot, the shopping cart collector kid suddenly ran towards me, screeched to a stop when his face touched my hair, and shouted "HAVE A GOOD DAY MA'AM!!!" Then turned around and headed back the way he'd come, which was leading a long line of shopping carts. Which he'd left unattended and drifting into people, so he could run across the crowded parking lot and yell in my ear.

     Yesterday I was at a different grocery store selecting a cart out of the rows inside the long interior hall where they are kept. The cart steward was standing at the opposite end of the room staring at dust motes and humming, when suddenly he leapt forward and flung himself against the row of carts I was standing in front of. Luckily the crashing noise caught my attention and I jerked out of the way just in time. As it was the row of carts passed within centimeters of my torso and toes, had I not moved I'd have been crushed to death under 30 feet of carts. What kind of abysmal superhero death story would that make even? I looked back towards the kid with what was evidently a fairly alarming expression because he leapt again, and said "Oh Sorry lahlahlahlahlahlahaaaaa....." I blame whomever got the first kid wet and fed him after midnight.

     Last weekend there was a knock on my door, I looked through the peeper to see one of our maintenance guys standing there with wicked intentions. I said "Yes?" through the door, and he shouted "Could you open your door for a second?" I said, "What for, please?" He said "Uh, I just wanted to, uh... show you something..." .... I decided to trust in the strength of my kicking muscles and opened the door. He said "How you doin?" I said nothing and gave him my blank face. He said "So, does this feel like a typical safe day in the neighborhood?" .....? I said "....Pardon?" He motioned for me to look up, where I saw a huge chunk of twisted metal that had broken off some equipment swaying precariously 10 feet over the edge of my roof. I looked back at him with huge eyes and he nodded ominously, saying "Safety is nothing to be taken lightly, miss." If he could have cued a thunder clap or frightening organ music he would have. He said "Just wanted to draw your attention to that" and started walking away. ?? What? Is that like the cops taking you outside to point at the crazed cannibal under your window and then not arresting him? I shouted after him "Is someone going to fix that??" He stopped with furrowed brow and said "Oh. Uh. Well. I suppose I could put in a call to our roofing guys... or let the city know... hmmm. I'll have to ask my manager." Apparently he got the green light to proceed with drafting some kind of plan and typing up the documents to be signed by the city because the next time I looked out my door, the Death Metal was gone. Maybe it was a shopping cart.

     And I spend time wondering about the Space Cows' behavior?

     Chant Down Babylon

    

     *The title "Habromania" is brought to you by this site. I spent several minutes of horse laughter in the "Manias and Obsessions" category.