I Just Don’t Know What to Say

Let it not be said that the Universe has lost the knack. It can still render us speechless, force us to ponder the wonder it all. Yesterday, I encountered such a gift from the Universe while checking packages as part of my “warehouse duty,” my parent company’s way of making sure that we all pitch in and help during the busy season. I reached into a box and pulled out this:



Words fail me, but I think we should all hum “Also Sprach Zarathustra.”

I’m Baaaaaack (Well, for about Ten More Minutes)

Ugh. Little Sassy Schmoozer dragged me off to San Diego for a conference, and she didn’t let me go anywhere. I was able to fit in a few moments with Fluff in the Gaslamp Quarter, but that was it. What an exhausting trip. Successful, from LSS’s point of view, but exhausting for poor me.

My connector flight from Denver was delayed by over three hours, two of them spent on the plane. Originally, we were told that it was due to a mechanical problem, and we were grateful that the airline wouldn't send us hurtling through space in a broken tin can. Later, however, it came out that we were parked at the gate for hours because an unoccupied seat in first class was a bit “dirty.” Our pilot decided to pull a publicity stunt by delaying the flight until corporate headquarters cleaned it up. He handed out fliers and encouraged passengers to contact the media. If he’d handed one to me, I would have delivered this story, Don’t Fly United Airlines: They Suck. Thanks to a dirty seat, I was stuck next to a chatty real estate agent for nearly six hours. Fuck the dirty seat, I wanted to go home.

What that flight delay means for you is that you will have to wait for the few Fluff photos and the story of my brief fling with McNeighborBoy. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a rerun, the story of my freakshow Thanksgiving.

Off to New Hampshire, for a quiet (I hope) holiday. Happy Turkey, or as I call it, Happy Vegetable Pigout Day! Back soon.

Going to California: My Heart Aches

OK, I’m awake and alive. Life went into whirlwind pattern again (shows, work, brief fling with a neighbor, etc.), and I just haven’t been able to get to this blog. And now Little Sassy Schmoozer is dragging me, kicking and screaming, to California. Truly, I have an aching in my heart. The good news is that Fluff will be joining us, and I think I can give Little Sassy Schmoozer the slip long enough to get some photos. Wish me luck. Miss you all! I'll be back just before Thanksgiving.

Woooooooooohooooooooooo!!!!!!!

And how! My heart's still pounding from that close shave in the bottom of the ninth.

Sleep. Finally. Wooooohooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!

Close One

Holy shit, my nails are a ragged mess. I can’t believe we actually won that one. Curt Schilling’s politics be damned, he settled in and did some fine pitching in what might have been his last game wearing a Red Sox uniform. I heart Hideki Okajima and Jonathan Papelbon—way to pick off Holliday, Pap.

Thanks to Jacoby Ellsbury (Eddie Munster’s way cuter cousin) for winning America free tacos by stealing a base. Can I redeem mine at Taco Loco, please?

Oh, and Manuel, my Blog Friend in Belfast, you rock. Way to cheer on the Sox!

What Will They Think of Next?

When I spy bizarre products, I often think about what it takes to get them to store shelves. Not only did someone think, Hey, garlic is a wonderful thing. It wards off colds—I bet it would help stave off hair loss. Let’s make shampoo! but they also convinced an entire group of people that it would be a good idea to produce it. The mad inventor successfully pitched the product idea to a company, who then went out and sourced “unscented garlic extract” and formulated Garlic Shampoo.

The company then turned the product loose to a marketing team, and they figured out a way to get desperate people to buy it. Judging from the spam I get in my inbox, the only thing worse than a tiny penis is a bald head, so I guess the balding population might be an easy target. (Why is a mystery to me, as bald can indeed be beautiful, provided that comb-overs aren’t involved.)

Marketing teams are comprised of professionals, but in case they need some help, I’ve envisioned a few snappy campaign ideas for them:

Toupee a little too obvious? Garlic is the answer! Don’t worry—it’s unscented! They’ll never know!
Hair Club for Men? Don’t be a joiner! Try Garlic!
Don’t have money for laser treatment? Try our Garlic Shampoo! Cheap and effective!
Garlic Shampoo: Have a Full Head of Hair AND Ward Off Pesky Vampires!

Do you have any new product ideas? I’m sure we could convince this company to go with them. They did make Garlic Shampoo.

Oh Hell Yeah!!!!!

World Series, baby!

Wow, it was looking bad last week. All I can say is that the “triumvirate” (as Fresh Hell—baseball is her life, hee hee— put it) of Boston blog women must have worked some magic for our beloved Sox. Whatever it was, man, what a triad of games.

Scout, I did think of you when I saw the sad faces of the tribe. I’m sorry. They played some great baseball.

OK, off to collapse into bed.

Go Sox!!!!!

Do the Whirlwind

It all started Friday night when Roommate had a date night so I went out to watch the Sox That all went fine until after the game when this guy kept buying me drinks I wound up making out with him a bit As I recall he wasn’t a good kisser I woke up the next morning with that feeling that it’s best that the details are hazy I had a killer headache Roommate laughed her ass off when I recounted the evening’s events in my little girl doesn’t feel good voice Had some water and prayed for death Rallied Made it out to the store to get a wedding gift for friend’s wedding the following day then went to the park so that I wouldn’t waste a beautiful day Bought a very cute dress for wedding as I have learned that looking good takes the sting out of spinsterhood Once shopping was completed I went home and collapsed on the couch for a time before rallying yet again to see Architecture in Helsinki Talk about a killer show Fun fun fun fun dance dance dance whirlwind blast Couldn’t stop smiling Got home Sox in bottom of the tenth Had bad feeling Collapsed into bed Woke up next morning to hear the score was thirteen to six What the fuck Got dressed and went to Friend’s wedding and had a genuinely delightful time I guess that can happen at weddings Caught up with old friends ate some food drank some wine came home Collapsed into bed Woke up and went to work Left work and drove to New Hampshire to see friend from England of original Fluff fame at her mom’s house Had wonderful time visiting with her and other friends That is until I found out the Sox lost yet again Drove home Collapsed into bed Woke up and went to work Long day Exhausted Got home and took off for hair appointment Ah the joy of having someone massage one’s head Exchanged drinking stories with hilarious and talented stylist Bought too many hair products Took train home Arrived just in time for the game to start Roommate and I swore at the television as the Sox lost yet again Collapsed into bed Got up and went to work where a monstrous index awaited my loving ministrations Long long day Got home Popped laundry in washer Fixed dinner Collapsed on couch and nearly fell asleep while watching the Grey’s spin off though I like it when Roommate came home We watched it together Put extra concert ticket up on Craigslist Sat down and typed this thing Will promptly collapse into bed Tomorrow am getting together with Fresh Hell and Andraste for beer and Sox Then off to Stars and then Vermont Sometime around Sunday I can get off this crazy thing for a bit Then it starts again Whilwind indeed

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

A week went by? Seriously? Yikes. Guess I was busy.

The calendar tells me that it’s time to do the Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical, and so behold, the Sassy Sundries:

The Red Sox swept the Angels. Watching Manny Ramirez launch the ball out of Fenway Park erased the shame of spending Friday night in front of the tube. And then the Yankees needed their hankies. It was a beautiful week for baseball. Tonight, it’s Scout vs. Sundry, as Robyn’s Indians and my beloved Sox face off for Game 1 of the ALCS. October rocks. Plus Five

W comes out against a Congressional resolution calling the Armenian genocide a genocide, saying that it will harm our relationship with Turkey, a “key ally in the War on Terror.” Would he call the Holocaust an unfortunate incident if Germany hadn’t recognized its past and supported the Iraq War? Minus Three

California became the first state in the nation to pass a law prohibiting landlords from acting as immigration officials. Let's hope the nation follows. Now before everyone goes off in my comments box, I strongly suggest two things. First, read up on US activity in the regions where most of the illegals come from. Just as the positive results of our actions endure, so do the consequences of our negative actions. Second, put your money where your mouth is and start supporting organizations that work to give people a reason to stay home. I support and can recommend several. Plus Three

British writer Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Not only does she deserve the honor, The Golden Notebook being one of the great novels of the last century, but her victory also upset the British bookies betting on the prize. For some reason, that last part makes me smile. Plus Three

The National put on an amazing show Saturday night at the Roxy. Music can take you to another place, and I’m still smiling over that performance. Plus Two

I made a new friend at the National show (not that kind of friend). Actually, I’ve been branching out a lot lately, and I’m enjoying my social life. There’s more to life than dating, and a woman needs friends. Plus Four

Hats off to Al Gore, for sharing the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to raise awareness about climate change. Plus Three

Total Plus: 17
Total Minus: 3
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +14

Last Week’s Total: +3

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Goddamn, it’s still lovely out. It may feel like August outside, but it’s October, baby, and the Red Sox are playing some baseball! Life is good. Well, actually life could be better for me. I’ve been a bit down this week, but hey, with wonderful things afoot, things are bound to improve.

It’s that time again. Time for me to tally up the week’s events, personal, political, and nonsensical. Without any further ado, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

A little celebratory cake, surrounded by Chester A. Arthur memorabilia

A very Happy Birthday today to Chester A. Arthur, the Ultimate Blank Years President. Today also marks the anniversary of my first comment from Robyn. Glad to know you, Blog Pal. Plus One

Hypocritical homophobic Senator Larry Craig fails in his attempt to reverse his guilty plea to a charge that he solicited sex in an airport men’s room. He’s still determined to stay in the Senate until the end of his term in January 2009. Yeah, good luck with that, Senator. Minus One

The Boston Red Sox, with help from the scrappy Baltimore Oriels, win their division for the first time since 1995. There’s a long row to hoe, but the hometown team’s performance in Game One was a great way to start. Oh, and Satan's Minions lost their first game. Plus Five

Congress initiates legislation to hold American contractors operating in Iraq accountable in US courts after reports emerge in Septmeber that employees of Blackwater USA opened fire and killed Iraqi civilians under questionable circumstances. With the administration strongly opposed to the proposed legislation, I doubt anything will pass, but the effort counts for something. Even

W delivers on his promise and vetoed the S-CHIP bill, stating that it would lead to socialized health care. Oh, no! Not a healthcare system where everyone’s covered, people live longer, and the infant mortality rate goes down! There’s been some talk about how this bill would be funded, but the way I see it, if we didn’t have an illegal and unnecessary war draining billions and billions of dollars a year, coming up with $35 billion to insure children wouldn’t take much doing. Minus Five

I finally got to see the Mountain Goats Sunday night at the Middle East. Fantastic show. Am looking forward to the National this weekend and Architecture in Helsinki the next (other shows to follow). October isn’t just for baseball. Plus Three

Total Plus: 9
Total Minus: 6

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +3

Last Week’s Total: +4

You Might See a Ghost, Dummy

Now that it’s October, our thoughts can turn to goblins and ghouls, to things that go bump in the night. And to more book proposals from people of questionable sanity. We recently received a two-thousand-page manuscript, in all caps, about spirits and ghosts. In case you didn’t know the difference, be enlightened:

DO NOT MISUNDERSTAND, SPIRITS THAT HAVE TRANSFERRED CORRECTLY MAY RETURN OF THEIR OWN ACCORD. THESE ARE NOT HAUNTINGS. DON’T CONFUSE THE TWO. A SPIRIT MAY COME AND GO TO CHECK ON LOVED ONES AND DO THEIR OWN BUSINESS HERE. A HAUNT IS THE EPHEREMAL AND PARANORMAL EQUIVALENT TO PSYCHOLOGICAL DISORDER IN HUMANS. THEY ARE STUCK WHERE THEY ARE, DON’T KNOW THEY ARE DEAD, AND ARE USUALLY TROUBLED IN SOME WAY. THEY NEED TO BE TOLD THEY ARE DEAD AND WHERE TO GO, OTHERWISE THEY WILL CAUSE INFLUENTIAL AND EMPATHICAL AFFECTS ON THOSE HUMANS WHO DWELL IN THE SAME OVERLAPPING DIMENSIONAL SPACE. HUH? I MEAN, YOU MIGHT SEE A GHOST, DUMMY. BOO.

Boo indeed. Beware of insane spirits. They turn into ghosts.

What the Fluff? Dispatch from the 2nd Annual Fluff Festival in Union Square, Somerville

Fluff’s still giddy from Fluff’s adventures at the 2nd Annual What the Fluff? festival in Union Square, celebrating the 90th anniversary of the invention (should we say “discovery”?) of Fluff in Somerville, Massachusetts. Fluff was still talking about last year’s adventures at the fest, but this year just flipped Fluff’s little red lid.

Today, not only did Fluff get to consort with other Fluffs, but (insert favorite Fluff gender here) also got to meet Archibald Query, the man who brought the gooey marshmallow goodness to the masses.

Fluff really wanted one of those prizes for the cooking contest.

Fluff, however, really hoped that Fluff’s friends weren’t hurt in the Fluff bowling.

There were Fluffernutters, Ice Cream, and a “Fear Factor” wheel (where contestants had to eat something with Fluff).

Prospect Hill Tower (a local tower) was re-created in Rice Crispy Treats

Fluff checked out some music in front of the Independent, a watering hole with an excellent beer selection.

A little controversy broke out when some people called attention to the absence of Strawberry and Raspberry Fluff at the festivities. Was it possible that What the Fluff? wasn’t being inclusive? Oh no!

“I beg to differ,” Strawberry Flufferette said. With Fluff’s flavored friends represented, peace was restored.

Everyone ate “Fluffy things,” and a grand time was had by all.

Fluff's exhausted.

To catch up with Fluff’s other adventures, click on the “Travels with Fluff’ link under “Favorite Posts,” and start at the bottom. Fluff may be from Somerville, but Fluff gets around.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Summer’s last hurrah continued to defy the crisp fall banshees, making it almost impossible to go into work this week. While the beach tempted me all week, I stayed away. This weather cannot last forever, and if I get back into summer mode, the cold weather will be that much more soul crushing.

So instead, I’m sitting inside (the sun has just begun to stream through my open window), tallying up the week’s events. Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (Warning: Contains Grey's spoilers):

Tuesday had me boozing it up with Andraste and Fresh Hell (missing her favorite TV show’s premiere), and we had ourselves a time. Old Knudsen and Dive, we so talked about you. We also shared stories of drink, music, baseball, men folk (I know what SPOUSE’s name is!), gabbing and gabbing until we were drowned out by the karaoke performers—and then we laughed. The rest of you Boston blog friends missed a great time. You know who you are. Plus Ten

Protests led by Buddhist monks challenging the military junta in Myanmar turned deadly, and things look like they’re going to get worse. Minus Five

The Red Sox pull their heads out of their asses (until last night, that is), preserving their lead over Satan’s Minions. Can they do it? Even

Grey’s Anatomy returns. I’m with Terroni—what was up with Bambi? And, worse for me, what was up with that pun at the end (Alex hands Cristina some money from his patient’s innards just as Meredith starts the voiceover with “Change…”)? Still, it’s a soap opera, I know it’s a soap opera, and M and I had a grand time watching our interns learn how to be residents and debating George’s love triangle (I'm for Izzy, M's for Callie). Who knew that George would be the stud of the show? Plus Two

W has no problem throwing billions and billions of dollars down the drain in Iraq but can’t bring himself to sign off on an extension of the S-CHIP program to cover uninsured children. Compassionate conservatism much? Minus Three

Avalon and Axis, two music/dancing venues that attracted drunken throngs of Boston’s music fans and club kids for decades, will be closing down to make way for a bigger music hall. Having spent a great deal of my misspent youth at Axis and a fair amount of my misspent adulthood checking out shows at Avalon, I feel a twinge of sadness. Minus One

One of the Jena Six students has been released on bail prior to his trial as a juvenile. Plus One

Total Plus: 13
Total Minus: 9

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +4

Last Week’s Total: -29

A Note about My (Lack of) Commenting: I’ve said this a couple of times, but I wanted all of you to know that my silence does not reflect my feelings for you. My place of employment has gone all Big Brother over internet usage, and I could get fired for blogging. Since I’m not much of a morning person, it’s either post or comment. So, sometimes I’ll post, sometimes I’ll comment. I will check out your blogs when I can, and please know that I still love each and every one of you.

Grey’s Anatomy Is Back!

Warning to Irish fans: Contains “spoilers” from last season

Wow, it seems like only yesterday that my dearly departed (for the Promised Land of the West Coast) coworker Carissa, Friend M, and I gathered in M’s apartment for the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy.

What a blood bath! Burke leaves Christina, George’s love triangle came to a head and then the poor guy failed his board, Bailey fails to make chief resident, and McDreamy and Meredith appear to be “over, over, over.” Oh, and Alex realized too late that he loved Ava. And Meredith’s sister McSlutty turns out to be a new intern at Seattle Grace.

Now Burke’s gone, Addison’s gone, and Webber’s staying after McDreamy refused to take the chief job. Our favorite interns are now residents.

I’ve seen a couple of previews, but I have to admit that I’m at a loss for ideas as to what’s going to happen. Last season’s premiere required the plague and a dying baby to remind us that this is a “medical” drama. What will they need this time?

There’s really only one way to find out, and so tonight M and I will be sitting in my living room, possibly knitting (it is beastly hot out, so I don’t think I can bring myself to do it—maybe a condom cozy or something?) and heckling the TV. An evening of TV is just thing to help my convalescing liver after Tuesday night’s blog bonding.

Carissa, you will be missed.

Blog Friends and Beer: An Excellent Mix

Now THAT was fun. Andraste, Fresh Hell, and I had a grand time over beers last night in Harvard Square. Fluff agrees.

Today, however, is going to be a long day.

I'm with the Folkie?

I don’t normally pick up Stuff@Night, the “hip” little guide to Boston nightlife (the Dig’s Media Farm usually sums it up nicely), but I grabbed the “Welcome Back” issue on Saturday en route to Chinatown after I realized that I had somehow forgotten my book.

As I perused the contents, I spotted an article on thirty ways to shake up one’s nightlife routine. Being of the never-go-home-the-same-way-twice school of life, I decided to check it out. You can read the tips on how to get arrested and/or die of alcohol poisoning yourself, but I would like to focus on the advice for how to become a groupie for an evening.

Night 28: Become a groupie. Channel Kate Hudson and the Band-Aids in Almost Famous, then choose an up-and-coming local musician as the new object of your obsession. Arrive early to secure your front-row spot, and after the band’s set, flirt, schmooze, or buy your way backstage for a personal meet-and-greet with your new favorite. We suggest starting small at more intimate venues like the Paradise Lounge(969 Comm Ave, Boston, 617.562.8800), Johnny D’s (17 Holland Street, Somerville, 617.776.2004), or Club Passim [Ed: Click on the link] (47 Palmer Street, Cambridge, 617.492.7679); you’ll probably have more luck, and lesser-known artists will be more appreciative of your affection.

Now, I have nothing against getting up close and personal with the band. If that’s on your life-experience checklist, then go for it. As with risqué dancing in public, however, there is a place for everything. Somehow, I suspect that a venerable folk club where nary a word is spoken during a performance and where the strongest drink you are likely to get is a very virginal raspberry lemonade is not the best place unleash your inner Pamela Des Barres.

I realize that Stuff@Night probably did not intend to send its readers to the hospital after they binged on alcohol from brunch to dawn (see Night 17), and that many of these tips were given with toungue planted firmly in cheek. With this little gem, however, I wonder if Stuff@Night had other, more sinister, plans up its sleeve. I know that I for one would certainly pay good money to see befuddled folk musicians fending off throngs of tarted-up young things determined to seduce them.

At least, I hope that Stuff@Night is filming a comedy instead of just demonstrating complete and utter cluelessness.


In other local news, tonight Andraste, Fresh Hell, and I will be meeting up for drinks. Should be a great time.

And the Winner Is…

My boss. For the most appallingly rude personal comment directed at me in years.

Here’s what happened. On Friday we received an outstanding résumé from a potential freelancer. It turned out that she had freelanced from us years about fifteen years ago and had since gotten her PhD. From the looks of things, she had not been able to find work in her field and was trying her hand again at freelancing. This is certainly common enough, and my boss, my coworker, and I were talking about the lack of work being a major deterrent to getting an advanced degree.

“I thought about getting a PhD after my master’s,” I said, “but I looked down that lonely road and saw years and years spent in my head, forming no real attachments and not having a real home, only to have to find a job outside the field. I decided that for me, it just wasn’t worth it.”

My boss looked at me and said sarcastically, “Well, you had all that time. Do you have any real attachments or a real home?”

Well, you know the answer to that one, Bitch. My life is completely meaningless, and I spend every night home alone with my fifty cats, eating ice cream out of the carton and plotting how to foil the neighborhood children.

I checked that reaction and used my schmoozer skills to take the “high road.” “Tell me when to stop,” I said, laughing and waving my fingers in the air. I then explained what I meant, which didn’t have anything to do at all with finding a man or buying a house but instead about living in a place and forming a community of my choosing. I didn’t love my subject enough to sacrifice the best years of my life for it—and that’s not to say that other people couldn’t decide to make those sacrifices and have it be the right decision for them. We joked for a few more moments, and then she went into her office.

And that’s when I started crying. I’d like to say that digs about my single life don’t hurt and that I’m just able to laugh them off, but they do. I know that I have a full life now, and I am enjoying it, but still. This isn’t my first pick. I really don’t need my boss’s judgment to remind me that it isn’t my first pick.

My young coworker, who was part of the conversation and was just as shocked as I was, offered a lot of support, and I managed to recover myself enough to enjoy my weekend anyway. In fact, I’m sure I had more fun. Single people get to go to parties and go off on their own adventures without any guilt whatsoever. Still, her words came to me this weekend, and I did think a lot about how this wasn't what I really wanted.

And now I have to go in today and face the winner of the prize for most appallingly rude personal comment directed at me in years. Wish me luck.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Ah, how I cherish these last warm days before The End of Summer. One almost feels instant nostalgia for these last t-shirt days, when walking home after an evening out brings joy instead of the urge to flash the cabbie in order to make him stop and drive you away from the cold disaster of New England winter.

It is on one of these days that I sit here, beside an open window, tallying up the week’s Sassy Sundries (idea stolen from Boston's Weekly Dig). After I pound out this post, I’m going to forget why I’m happy, rather like my reaction after the first cold snap hits. Which should be any day now—we are all entirely too chipper in this part of the world.

Behold, the Sassy Sundries:

First things first. What the fuck is going on with the Red Sox? I mean, I know. I get it. I’ve lived here nearly all my life. I’m starting to fear that the curse was not reversed, but that instead we were allowed to finally win so that losing again would be that much more painful. I believe this and yet, like any true Sox fan, I still hope that our beloved team can pull it together and maintain their scant lead over Satan’s Minions for a few more days. Please! Minus Five

The Democrats in the Senate fail to restore Habeas Corpus rights after the Republican Senate voted last year to suspend them for “enemy combatants.” Joe Lieberman votes with the fascists, and Susan Collins of Maine shows why she’s still with the fascist party. Minus Five

The weather has been unbelievably lovely this week. It nearly takes the sting out of events of the world. And impending winter.Plus Three

Governor Deval Patrick comes out in favor of casino gambling in Massachusetts under the delusion that casinos will solve all financial woes. It’s not casino gambling that I have a problem with, as the Commonwealth already profits from lottery and Keno (available everywhere in my less-than-well-to-do neighborhood), and at least casinos require some travel and offer other entertainment. It’s that no one has the guts to say that running the government costs money and that taxes are required to fund it and then propose a tax structure that requires everyone, including the wealthy, to pay their fair share. Minus Five

OJ Simpson is in legal trouble again. The media eats it up, hoping for another gazillion-month show trial. Snore. Minus One

Reports of blatantly racist events in Jena, Louisiana, sound like they should be from another era. They’re not. The obvious motivation behind the charges against six black students reacting to nooses hung by white students from the “white tree” after a black student dared to sit under it only serves to expose the underlying racism that still plagues this country. Minus Ten

The Senate fails to pass a measure requiring that soldiers spend as much time at home as they do in Iraq or Afghanistan. Somehow supporting such a measure was cast as “anti-troop.” Although they know they don’t have the votes to pass it, Congress is taking up another measure to limit the war in Iraq. Frustrating. Minus Five

Total Plus: 3
Total Minus: 31

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -29

Last Week’s Total: +4

Out of the Mouths of Young Coworkers

The other day, my young coworker announced that she had seen the strangest thing right outside our office.

“What was it?” I asked.

Full of breathy wonder my coworker proceeded to describe a bizarre anthropological phenomenon akin to a primitive religious ceremony, or the Monolith in 2001. “There was this truck, and it drove up really fast and parked in front of the building. A bunch of people gathered around it. And then! The silver flaps of the truck opened up, and there was food! And pizza! It was kind of like a miracle!” Her eyes dazzled as she contemplated the mystery of it all.

The miracle in question? The lunch truck that comes every day around noon. She’d never seen one before.

If you haven’t seen one before, the Miracle Truck (as it has come to be called) is something like an ice cream truck for adults. The Miracle Truck has all kinds of strange foods for sale, including Fluffernutter sandwiches and egg salad. We’re still trying to figure out why if Fluff is food, pizza is not. The pizza may or may not be a miraculous non-food, but for $1.25 a slice, it’s pretty damn good.

Ah, the joys of watching a young person learn about the working week.

On the Road to Creativity

I first heard about Jack Kerouac in high school. It was the thirtieth anniversary of On the Road, not that my high school celebrated it. I don’t really want to talk about that, suffice it to say that fundamentalists ran my school. Still, they couldn’t escape it. The syncopated clickety clack jazz beat of drifters and poets smoking cigarettes and marijuana and having sex with girls they met on the road and (gasp!) men ran counter to the idyllic fifties my school portrayed as the last hurrah of family values before the terrifying plunge into promiscuity and drugs that was the sixties. This was the twentieth anniversary of the Summer of Love too, and our leaders attempted to indoctrinate us against the era from which they all sprung. They were Jesus People after all. Perhaps the road to freedom didn’t tempt my fellow sheltered classmates, but the pull of intellectual freedom, of Nietzsche’s quest to become who you are was irresistible to me. I picked up On the Road at the library, but my mother found it under my bed and took it away and it was years before I finally read the book. By then I’d become tired of the imitators, of the lazy attempts to replicate cool. All those anniversaries of freedom howls merely highlighted my own generation’s lack of creativity. All the cool jeans and tee shirts or the hippie skirts we wore to stake our claim to individuality made me wistful for a time when we would break free and be original. I made myself avoid the Beats as an attempt to keep myself pure, but eventually I broke down and read the damn book. By then I’d already taken to the road, and like Kerouac I’d come back home. I am still wistful for a time that doesn’t exist, when I will have a creative voice all my own and won’t sit here with at a computer with its muted clickety clack and have something original to say.