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November 26, 2005
FIVE MUTTS, THREE CHICKS, AND ONE SEMI-FAST MAVERICK
There's nothing more satisfying than corrupting the innocent. And there's nothing more riveting than watching an innocent new friend being introduced to five barking-growling-pooping-snapping-drooling-shedding-ear-plug-eating-
Big-Time-Wrestling dogs. Canines of all sizes, shapes, temperaments, appetites, and degrees of snippiness. It's definitely not for the meek. Luckily, there are those who step up to the proverbial plate, and try not to act too horrified. That being said, I must give kudos to our good pal, the Semi-Fast Maverick Man, for not running screaming from my sister's house last weekend. It WAS hell in a 2-bedroom box. If it weren't for the sizeable shot of tequila he was forced to down immediately upon arriving, I'm not sure the outcome would have been the same. As a matter of fact, it could have been downright ugly.
Yes, it was another fun-filled weekend of cocktails and Milk-Bones, as Cinderella and I joined Jill the Bimbo for what turned out to be a rollicking "no-I-don't-want-to-sleep-with-any-of-those-gassy-farting-mutts" pajama party. Actually, we spent the better part of the evening yelling at the television, and biting our nails, while the Fresno State Bulldogs put up a valiant fight against the USC Trojans. Or as my dad says, the University of Spoiled Children...whatever does he mean? Now Cinderella doesn't do football. She doesn't like it, doesn't care for it, doesn't see the excitement, doesn't understand the attraction, and basically thinks it cuts into "America's Funniest Videos" time. But I have to give her props for maintaining some level of interest, even though she kept asking if the bases were loaded, and where the free throw line was. Unfortunately, even after giving it the old college try, Fresno State got tossed into the dog pound, where they sadly licked their wounds, then triumphantly returned home to a hero's welcome. Hey, at least our marching band members don't wear gigantic toilet brushes on their heads.
http://www.usc.edu/dept/band/#
http://www.csufresno.edu/marchingband/picts.html
Now watching big burly men in tights tackle the crap out of each other takes a lot of energy. That, and sustenance.
So before the testosterone-induced mayhem began, Cinderella and I decided to take a chance, and visit an establishment we'd only heard about. The tales were like campfire stories; "you can't believe it....it's amazing...it's mind-blowing...it's stupendous...it's almost better than sex." Better than sex? Well, if memory serves, that would be pretty hard to beat. However, since my love life has been like an African drought lately, I could only take this claim at face value. And so, with the Boo dog happily panting in the back seat, we took the 5 minute trip over to one of Fresno's most celebrated restaurants; The Chicken Man. Now come on, you know the name just MAKES you want to go. It's worth it just to snag one of their business cards, which has a giant green flying chicken with CHICKEN MAN emblazoned across his chest, sort of a la Superman. You know, an establishment with the motto "Don't Heat the Pan, Call Chicken Man" has to be good. And it was. Great crispy, crunchy fried chicken that's made fresh while you wait...and on time, I might add. Tasty smokehouse baked beans, big fat fries, and toasty slices of garlic bread...now if that ain't football fare, I don't know what is.
So after our Chicken Man feast, and the mad rush of blood to our brain cells from much living room cheerleading, the four of us felt perky enough to head across the street to "Nick's". As you may recall, it's a favorite dingy dive bar of ours, with pool tables, an ear-splitting loud juke box (on which someone is ALWAYS playing some head-banging metal band...ugh), and some really frightening regulars. You know, leather chaps and sausage casings are just NOT pretty at 1:00 a.m. after several smart beverages. And since the Semi-Fast Maverick had never been there before, well, we felt compelled to give him the full-on Saturday night treatment. We figured if he could survive the Casa Cornell menagerie without several tranquilizers, well, surely Nick's would be a breeze. And I'm happy to say, he came through, just like a professional. You have to realize, The Maverick is the shy, quiet, sedate type, who has really good hair, and doesn't imbibe much. Why, the first time we dragged him to the Brig, it took a couple Purple Hooter Shooters to even get him mildly interested in the dance floor. But I have high hopes for him, now that he's officially stepped over the threshold and into the spunky world of "Girls Gone Wild". I dunno, maybe it was the tequila, or the leftover Chicken Man, or the 47 chocolate chip cookies that kept him going until closing time. Perhaps it was just the face-that-traffic-with-confidence thought of attempting the long drive home. Or maybe it was just the terrifying idea of having to actually RETURN to Casa Cornell Cujo-ville. Um...wait, it's not closing time, is it? Can't we get ONE more round here?...help me Mr. Wizard...
*And for anyone who knows me very well......you'll know the importance of these lines today:
The fairest bloom the mountain know
Is not an iris or a wild rose
But the little flower of which I'll tell
Known as the brave acony bell
Just a simple flower so small and plain
With a pearly hue and a little known name
But the yellow birds sing when they see it bloom
For they know that spring is coming soon
Well it makes its home mid the rocks and the rills
Where the snow lies deep on the windy hills
And it tells the world "why should I wait
This ice and snow is gonna melt away"
And so I'll sing that yellow bird's song
For the troubled times will soon be gone
-Acony Bell/ Gillian Welch
Posted by Wendy at 9:24 PM | Comments (0)
November 15, 2005
A Blog About Nothing
I've been informed recently that I'm severely lacking in my blog entry status. I apologize. Unfortunately, for the past few weeks, I've been channeling George Costanza on Seinfeld:
Hey, it's George. I got nothing to say.
- George, leaving a message on Jerry's answering machine, in The Chinese Woman
Actually, I DO have plenty to say, I just don't know that it has any relevance. So seeing as how I can't seem to get my feeble brain around any sort of theme, here are some musings and episodes lacking in complete and utter importance:
There are certain people who are just deviant by nature. Let's say, my roommate's mother, for example. We attended an entertaining production of "My Fair Lady" at Roger Rocka's a couple months ago, and she arrived stocked with an entire mini-bar in her well-appointed handbag. Which, by the way, always feels like a very large bowling ball has been sewn into it's interior. Apparently, Margaret had attempted to open a lovely bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, only to have the cork splinter and wedge itself into the neck. Completely unfazed, she located an empty container of Jose Cuervo, filled it with her chilled vino, and capped it with the handy screw top. Thus, our bar bill at the show was almost non-existent, and Margaret got the official sneaky-by-design award for the evening.
People with no cell phone manners, and women wearing WAY TOO MUCH bad cologne should just stay home. There, I've said it. And speaking of smelly stuff, I must admit that I have the bravest roommate on Planet Earth. Not only will Cinderella pick up a gigantic, rotating-head praying mantis with her bare hands (yikes!), she will courageously perform the ugliest, scariest, hair-raising chore that humans can possibly imagine. No, I'm not talking about plunging the clogged toilet, emptying the mice trap, or sucking up 3 month old cobwebs with the Hoover (bleah). I'm talking about dog poop, and lots of it. We only have 2 mutts in our household, but they do manage to crank out an exorbitant amount of doo-doo on a weekly basis.
When Cinderella unexcitedly announces she's going on poop patrol, you know it's not going to be pretty. As a matter of fact, it's going to be downright toxic. Sometimes, those precious packages take on a life of their own, and turn into horrifying science projects reminiscent of "The Fly". I volunteer to help out every once in awhile, but quite honestly, I just don't have the stomach for it. Those moldy piles of dino-dump just freak me out (Dino-Dump(d-EYE-no D-uh-mm-p) Noun: Having the appearance or utility of a six foot tall steaming pile of shit). Not to mention the juicy ones our friend Katie lovingly refers to as un-done brownies....they look harmless on the outside, but break them open and WHAM! Those creamy chocolate centers are just evil. Grossed out yet? Stomach getting queasy? Revolted beyond belief? Then my day is complete.
We have the bitchiest neighbor in Fresno. Actually, Fresno, Clovis, Madera, and the surrounding metropolitan areas. I don't know what her story is, but she hates us. She really hates us. We tenants at "Cowpoke Alley" do our best to be affable, personable, likeable folk. We say hello, how are you, and sometimes (when we're feeling REALLY daring) even howdy to our fellow Sherwood Forrest dwellers. They reply, conversations ensue, and life is all lollipops and moonbeams. And then there's Crabby Mary. She's short and mousy with bad frizzy hair, big bug-eye glasses, and a nasty attitude. Even when she's just taking out the garbage, she strides with such a clipped purpose, you'd think they were handing out blue ribbons for the fastest trash can slam.
This humorless, pint-size peon thinks we're too loud and boisterous, even at 8:30 on a Saturday night. We think she just needs to get laid. She's been known to swagger out onto the front porch, hands planted firmly on her bony hips, and giving us her best shut-the-hell-up-I-loathe-you-because-you-have-a-life-and-I-don't stare down, before returning to her hovel with an ear-splitting slam of the door...KA-BLAM! But what really makes her blood clot, is the Boo dog. She absolutely abhors the Boo dog. Especially when he whizzes on her potted plants. She thinks he's the devil incarnate. He just thinks she'd make a good appetizer. Crabby Mary's favorite phrases are, and I quote, "That dog should be on a leash!", " Why isn't that dog on a leash!?", and "GET THAT DOG ON A LEASH!!!" We've decided to go ahead and bite the bullet, buckle down, and invest in a nice leather leash...a 50 foot one.........just long enough to reach those potted plants......
Posted by Wendy at 5:07 PM | Comments (0)
FRESBERG FOLLIES
I've been informed recently that I'm severely lacking in my blog entry status. I apologize. Unfortunately, for the past few weeks, Ive been channeling George Costanza on Seinfeld:
"Hey, it's George. I got nothing to say."
- George, leaving a message on Jerry's answering machine, in "The Chinese Woman"
http://tvsothertenpercent.tripod.com/seinfeld.html
Actually, I DO have plenty to say, I just don't know that it has any relevance. So seeing as how I can't seem to get my feeble brain around any sort of theme, here are some musings and episodes lacking in complete and utter importance:
There are certain people who are just deviant by nature. Let's say, my roommate's mother, for example. We attended an entertaining production of "My Fair Lady" at Roger Rocka's http://www.gcplayers.com/rockas.html a couple months ago, and she arrived stocked with an entire mini-bar in her well appointed handbag. Which, by the way, always feels like a very large bowling ball has been sewn into it's interior. Apparently,MargaretEhad attempted to open a lovely bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, only to have the cork splinter and wedge itself into the neck. Completely unfazed, she located an empty container of Jose Cuervo, filled it with her chilled vino, and capped it with the handy screw top. Thus, our bar bill at the show was almost non-existent, and Margaret got the official sneaky-by-design award for the evening.
People with no cell phone manners, and women wearing WAY TOO MUCH bad cologne should just stay home. There, I've said it. And speaking of smelly stuff, I must admit that I have the bravest roommate on Planet Earth. Not only will Cinderella pick up a gigantic, rotating-head praying mantis with her bare hands (yikes!), she will courageously perform the ugliest, scariest, hair-raising chore that humans can possibly imagine. No, I'm not talking about plunging the clogged toilet, emptying the mice trap, or sucking up 3 month old cobwebs with the Hoover (bleah). Im talking about dog poop, and lots of it. We only have 2 mutts in our household, but they do manage to crank out an exorbitant amount of doo-doo on a weekly basis.
When Cinderella unexcitedly announces she's going on poop patrolE you know it's not going to be pretty. As a matter of fact, it's going to be downright toxic. Sometimes, those precious packages take on a life of their own, and turn into horrifying science projects reminiscent of The FlyE I volunteer to help out every once in awhile, but quite honestly, I just don't have the stomach for it. Those moldy piles of dino-dump just freak me out (Dino-Dump(d-EYE-no D-uh-mm-p) Noun: Having the appearance or utility of a six foot tall steaming pile of shit). Not to mention the juicy ones our friend Katie lovingly refers to as un-done brownies ..they look harmless on the outside, but break them open and WHAM! Those creamy chocolate centers are just evil. Grossed out yet? Stomach getting queasy? Revolted beyond belief? Then my day is complete.
We have the bitchiest neighbor in Fresno. Actually, Fresno, Clovis, Madera, and the surrounding metropolitan areas. I don't know what her story is, but she hates us. She really hates us. We tenants at Cowpoke Alley do our best to be affable, personable, likeable folk. We say helloE how are youE and sometimes (when we're feeling REALLY daring) even howdyEto our fellow Sherwood Forrest dwellers. They reply, conversations ensue, and life is all lollipops and moonbeams. And then there's Crabby MaryE Shes short and mousy with bad frizzy hair, big bug-eye glasses, and a nasty attitude. Even when she's just taking out the garbage, she strides with such a clipped purpose, you'd think they were handing out blue ribbons for the fastest trash can slam.
This humorless, pint-size peon thinks were too loud and boisterous, even at 8:30 on a Saturday night. We think she just needs to get laid. She's been known to swagger out onto the front porch, hands planted firmly on her bony hips, and giving us her best shut-the-hell-up-I-loathe-you-because-you-have-a-life-and-I-don't stare down, before returning to her hovel with an ear-splitting slam of the doorE.KA-BLAM! But what really makes her blood clot, is the Boo dog. She absolutely abhors the Boo dog. She thinks he's the devil incarnate. Especially when he whizzes on her potted plants. He just thinks she'd make a good appetizer. Crabby Mary's favorite phrases are, and I quote, Why isn't that dog on a leash!?E That dog should be on a leash!E and GET THAT DOG ON A LEASH!!!!!!E We've decided to go ahead and bite the bullet, buckle down, and invest in a nice leather leashE.a 50 foot oneE.just long enough to reach those potted plantsE
Posted by Wendy at 11:33 AM | Comments (0)