Conspiracies, Dems, and K-Fed

Michael Ian Black is a god-figure, undoubtedly, whose capricious devilishness creates a terrific web of eerily entertaining fan responses...

Here, a recent to response to his blog "Strep Throat" in which life begins to make sense at last:

What I want to know is what the Democrat's plan for Kevin Federline is. Simple. They don't have one. All they can do is bash Britney and call for a "timetable".

If any one of them had shown any leadership, they would have demanded a quick withdrawal before K-Fed created not one but TWO insurgencies in Britney's womb. Now all we can do is try to find a way to mitigate the obvious threat that Sean Preston and Jayden James pose to our freedom.

All I know is I'm gonna git me some big-ass plastic flags to fly from a huge SUV and strap my children to the top.Otherwise, the Federlines have already won.

P.S. Michael, I have credible British intelligence that proves that your strep throat was contracted by a fake fan letter laced with biological agent from K-Fed's evil mobile bio-terror trailer. I wish you luck in your war on global strep.

*posted 11.15.06 by one "The Naomi Star"

Hot Apple Cider

Headache and listlessness proved the exact recipe for a craving for my favorite fall beverage - cider. (though mulled wine is another list-topper).

Benefit of overcommercialized America? Starbucks is a mere two blocks away. Grabbed my stack of Chinese philosophy and hit the pavement, hate to use the term "brisk" (cliche, really) but that is an appropriate description of our sudden autumnal turn in the weather. A clear November night in Indianapolis, and the sidewalks of my typically downtown/gay scene/urbanite digs are populated with... baby boomers? Pleated khaki-sporting gray-hairs and trophy wives? Gaggles of suburbanite Desp Housewives clones?

A later perusal of the neighborhood newpapers informed me that James Taylor* was tonight's headliner at the theatre next door. Aha. Perhaps that is why the ticket-hawking drones didn't pay me as much attention as usual.

*Note: I love James Taylor. He joins the ranks of Simon/Garfunkle, Dylan, and CSNY in the realm of musical ass-kicking. You've got a friend, indeed.

Filled my head with the Tao for a couple of hours, which led to natural Western sense of unworthiness. Realized the research is going to be heavy for this next paper, and immediately resolved to resume study of the Buddhist meditations. (Seventh Dalai Lama - excellent).

An image reflected in a mirror, a rainbow in the sky, and a painted image

Make their impressions upon the mind,

But in true nature are other than what they seem.

Look deeply in this world, and see

An illusion, a hallucination, a magician's creation.

- Song of the Immaculate Path

Eventually sufficiently distracted to set aside the text in favor of local dish from NUVO and the Urban Times. Extensive articles on local chefs and culinary creations made me realize that I had forgotten to eat today. Never thought that I could possibly fall into that horrific category that I always scornfully classified as being fit for the likes of teen anorexics and bobbleheaded plastics. (You know what they say about assuming). Quelle horreur! Felt like such an ass. And hungry as hell once I came to realize the real cause of my plaguing headache. But really, at 11 pm there just isn't much point, with the obvious exception of drunk eating.

Tomorrow is another day, Scarlet.

Realized today that am only 3 days away from holiday treats and sass at Crunksgiving, the most genius social event of the season. Leave it to my friends to pair a kegger with altruism: price of admission to said soiree is indeed canned nonperishables to be donated to a local food pantry (or the traditional cash, obs). And I don't have to work until 1 pm the next day. Is going to be delightful and shameless. Uber-excited.

Also had the eye-opening revelation that it's almost December, aka the end of the fall semester, aka retail workers' hell. There is already a Santaland set up at Castleton. For the record, Santa is creepy. Under any other context, would you really like to place your cherubic little ones on the lap of an overweight older man in a velvet bodysuit parading around with zoo animals and circus performers, aka "elves?" I think not. Obviously a pedophiliac's dream holiday. I must have inferred the truth at an early age, as there is photographic evidence of me red-faced and screaming on the lap of one department store Santa in Michigan. Or maybe that was my brother. Either way, we were on to something. He's frightening.

Autumn Thoughts

elaborate signings

(for Joy)


"women are the sweetness of life."

poets can build galaxies from pebbles
& breathe the word of life into brief glances,
but one must be careful with the power of creation
so i scribble an obligatory, struggling to keep from
staining the page with the exaggeration of new passion,
unsure if i am simply the writer who lives downstairs,
plays his coltrane too loud & likes thunderstorms

i take a trip one flight up
where your eyes escort me to another country,
your touch becomes a wet kiss on the horizon
of a birthday in a warm july
i travel to your smile to hear stories of
wrecked trains parked in your dining room

but the past is a vulgar thief
it steals the laughter from your eyes,
tosses the broken edges of yesterday's heartache
into this remembrance
i dream of erasing painful memories with lingering
caresses from a steady hand

i rearrange the jagged stars of your past
i am the young boy smiling at you with love letter eyes
i carve your name into the soul of graying trees
i am your first slow dance, a trembling hand teetering on your waist
i replace the melancholy prayers on your lips with urgent kisses
i swear an oath to your beauty, become holy in your embrace

traveling tall miles through years of distance,
i arrive, wet from your tears,
my only tool—a poet’s skill
i mend your smile,
emancipate your eyes,
& together
we ride that wrecked train from your dining room
to the horizon of your birthday in another country.


© Kenneth Carroll 10/2/92

Falling...

Because things are never quite normal.
Because we are defined by our mistakes.
Because our karma ran out.
Because it's us...

Telephone call, early Friday evening. Elise, stranded at work, "I'm so sorry... would you mind picking me up at seven downtown? I'm so sorry!"

a) Elise, stop apologizing. We're family.
b) Of course I'll come get you! See you at seven.

Puttered off around 6:45, the dusk having settled into darkness on the Indianapolis horizon and the weekend hum just starting to kick into the city. Chatting with Reefer on the phone. Winding in a slow spin around Monument Circle, craftily eyeing parking possibilities. Hurrah! Vacant spot directly in front of Hilbert Theatre! Sign: 2 Hour Parking, except between hours of 11 pm and 6 am.

Me: Do you think I can park here?
Reef: Oh, I'm sure it's fine.

Park and strut to salon, the prance of high heels being an operative concept on a Friday night downtown... inspire confidence, set energy, avoid sidewalk cracks. Ascend elevator into fantastic art deco buiding - black marble, gold metallic figurines, oddly comforting "ding" of elevator command button. Enter Studio 2000. Lights dim, array of new age painted walls and mirrors, product, product, and more product. Elise, receptionist extraordinaire, busying the time with end-of-day tasks. Middle aged woman in downy elementary-school-teacher-style winter coat enjoying last of her manicure by stylist with chestnut brown pixie cut. Sounds of final client in hair station just around corner from waiting area, where I am enjoying the vast collection of lady magazines and gossipy hair publications promising celebrity look-alike styles for all.

The time ticks on. Manicurist and client exit. Cash tips dispensed from labelled plastic files as stylists head for home. Drink styrofoam cupful of green tea with honey. Chatty dye-job client remains... and the time ticks on.

What had promised to be a 10-15 minute ordeal has now stretched beyond 8 pm and I have read the bulk of the nearest magazine stack, including several glossy manuals for how to create the best blow-out or shine treatment. Finally left in peace with Elise approx quarter past eight. Sigh of relief. We exit the building, nodding vaguely to the silent doorwoman who has not yet taken her eye off her reading.

Chatting, laughing, bitching, judging... 50 yard walk to car. Stare along line of vehicles for recognition of blue beem. Absentmindedly realize do not see it anywhere.

Me: Elise, I parked it right here.

Jaunty young police officer happens to stroll past.

Me: Excuse me, sir, but I can't find my car... I parked right here?
Officer: Oh yes ma'am, that's because I towed it. I waited as long as I could, really dragged my feet, but this was a permit area only. I wrote you the cheapest ticket I could find, but you'll have to go down to the city building and get it released. Do you know how to get there?
Elise: Oh yes, I've been there before.

4 block walk down East Market, the click of our heeled boots not quite matching the somewhat canine howl of the wind rushing round us. Series of "oh my god's" and "this is so funny" and "only us" complete most of the conversation.

[Side Note: East Market is not an entirely lovely street at such an hour. Esp. for two twenty-something ladies (one in fishnets, no less).]

Enter building, get in line for metal detector. Which I set off a total of 6 times before dismantling my ensemble enough to realize that my stilettos were causing the problem. Reach mealy gray corridor of auto office, stand in front of speaker window and watch the ladies working idling themselves between desks and filing cabinets, as if on permanent reverie in which time/space/tow trucks do not exist.

Informed I am not allowed to retrieve my car without the express consent of the title holder (my father, it happens). Given blank consent form to be signed, documented, notarized and returned before car may be released. Time is now 9 pm.

Return to lobby to find Elise and inform her that we are stranded.

[Background: Elise was unable to drive her own car because her starter died... while she was parked on Butler's campus in a 24 hr tow zone. Thanks to the connections of an ex-bf, the football team managed to push her car home for her.]

Begin calling any friend within driving distance. Realize that all of our friends are drinking (it is Friday night, after all). Also realize that should we get picked up we still are lost without automobiles and possibly in need of getting home to Kokomo to retrieve Elise's now-fixed car.

Which we realized was still locked up at the repair place. Also realized that we could in fact walk home to my place with little trouble other than miserably cold weather and sketchy downtown path crossing all manner of bail bondsmen, the jail, and several dark and lurky alleys.

Head for home. "If our parents ask," we proclaim, "we tell them that we took a cab." Managed to get home relatively hassle-free, all things considered.

Burst into flat, filled with the nervous sense of dread that only a phone call home with bad news can create. Hello, Mom? Ummm, well let me just say that everyone is fine, we're safe... but ummm... my car got towed and we can't get it back.

Needless to say, Diana was not pleased. Lengthy debate ensued over just how, exactly, we would remedy this situation with the notarized statement and my father's signature. Diana: you have to get to Kokomo. Me/Elise: that is a bad idea/we still won't have the car/it is late/we can't get anything notarized until tomorrow. Diana: you have to get to Kokomo.

Decide that this cannot continue without a gloriously large chalice of red wine. (thank you, Charles Simic).

Come to the conclusion that a) we are ridiculous and cannot be trusted amongst the real world and its perils and b) within 24 hours were are going to be the butt of every joke in every church/country club/doctor/lawyer circle... again. Also realize that we are not going out and might as well make the most of staying in and enjoying the fact that we can share clothes (miracle). As it is clear that we cannot drive to work in the morning, I make a frantic call to the store and manage to switch for the noon shift instead of the 8 am opener.

Lots of giggling. And photographs of Elise in her black bodysuit/my patent leather belt/blue stilettos holding the auto release form provocatively. Inspired future caption: How Elise and Allison Really Got the Car Back.

Giddily forced to explain situation several times, as the calls trickle back from everyone we had originally contacted. Pajamas. Red Wine. Decide to watch Reality Bites. Late night cravings kick in, yet sadly my pantry yeilds little more than a few boxes of instant soup and some canned tomato sauce. Discover frozen spring rolls in freezer. Yesssss.

Heat has by now been turned off, as the furnace has the same personality as the one in the basement of Home Alone. It rattles, it furies, it vibrates and shakes the walls. Thus it is turned off at night.

Temperature drops steadily, despite Elise and I wearing sweatpants, hooded sweatshirts/fleeces, and several layers of down feather blankets (which, unfortunately, Elise is naturally allergic to). Drowsing through movie, decide to call it a night. Huddle together for warmth under covers. Spoon. Shiver. Swear loudly. Shiver.

Elise: If Matt turns that goddamn heat off next time I'm here, I'm going to fucking kill him; I don't care if he vibrates into the next century!

A sleepless night. Elise in agony over mix of allergies and repiratory infection, littering the room with used kleenex (well, ok, toilet paper. Like I fucking have real kleenex). Neither of us rested, the dawn breaks and we realize it's time to arise and walk back downtown to work, where it is the plan that I fax the form to Kokomo, where my father with sign and have it notarized and faxed back.

Don't worry, the salon fax was broken. So I traipse off to Kinko's. Within little more than an hour, things are settled. [Apparently the bank notary wasn't working, yet Bob/Diana managed to have her make a special trip to work for her services. Community First Bank, I love you. You have no idea.]

Return to salon with enormous black coffees for Elise/me. Then retrace path to city buildling, where the credit card machine was broken and I was forced to withdraw from ATM using an account whose PIN I didn't know. Managed to remember, miraculously. Then walked what seemed like miles across East Market to Last Chance Towing, where the beem was once again restored to my custody.

And that was only the beginning of what was to be a most interesting and memorable Saturday...

It's Cold

Colder than the frost on a champagne glass
Colder than the hair on a polar bear's ass
Colder than the nipple on a witch's tit
Colder than a pile of penguin shit

*Thanks, Grandpa. What a lovely song to learn at age 4.