Back in the Pie Pan

So its been two years since my last post. I moved to New York City, made a few friends, got an old car, got rid of the car, got a new car, moved across the city, lost a few friends, had my new car recalled by Toyota, and now I'm blogging in the waiting room of the service department. Such a wonderful life, isn't it?! Thank god they have a coffee dispensing machine that has no self-immortalized barrista looking deer in the headlights at you when you ask for the "smallest coffee" available.

"A small coffee. So, you mean a tall coffee?"

"No, I mean a short coffee. Tall is the opposite of small, isn't it? I want the palm size cup that's somewhere between a thimble and a mug, but not one of those soup-bowl sized mugs, a regular mug, and not a tall mug either... the short cups are usually on the left."

"...So, you mean a tall then."

"No, not tall. Not medium, not small, not venti, not grande, not in a memorabilia cup, and definitely not the size of a jar that says 'tips' either. It's the antithesis to all of those."

Dumbfounded, they look at me, "I don't know if we have that size, sir."

"Of course you do, silly! It's probably in the back, special ordered for people in the know, like me. It's probably about, oh... Gary Coleman size. You know, I need a short cup of coffee."

"What chu talkin 'bout, sir?! We don't have any Gary Coleman size cups... How about an Emannuel Lewis size?"

"Hmmm. That's the Facts of Life, so I guess in a pinch that could work. But what about the cup? All you are holding is the cardboard sleeve for the short cup..."

"Oh, you're right. I guess we do have them." I glance curiously at them to assess any burning smells, as they continue working their mind overtime, "Ok, a short cup. That will be $1.56." The barrista turns around and whispers ever so softly my short cup order. As we all know, anything less than tall is small... and not a large order.

"Beautiful. Thank you." I walk down the line.

Now, coffee machines don't have these kinds of conversations thankfully. Indeed not. All you have to do is push the button and automatically buzzzz fwoosh shoom, your short order is up!

I'm going to go sit down now and wait for the car to get done, readers. It's good to be back. :) Yay coffee!!

Explosive Animals and Bottle Rockets

Halloween in New York is a subversive mix of colorful, buoyant, and suggestive culture. Especially in the annual parade, you'll see outlandish creations such as "Mother Africa" - where a politically suggestive (yet mentally deranged) white man paints himself black, and extravagantly becomes a Xhosa African circumcision ritual, complete with a thatched-hut-inspired dress, with young African boys prancing around him painted in white clay, dancing to tribal techno music composed by a Japanese DJ, and all choreographed by a casino-owning Native American tribe. How's that for mixed identities?

Then, there's the creative costumes of BP. Last year, I was going to be my own religious onion, in the form of St. Basil's Cathedral. However, getting an architectural behemoth like that through airport security would have taken god's good graces, and multiple circumcised Xhosa boys to assist. Needless to say, I abandoned the idea all together.

This year, GoAskAlice wanted me to be her police escort. As fate would have it, I arrive in New York not as an officer, but costumed as an aggravated tourist with too many large dufflebags weaving into yellow taxicabs due to broken wheels. Yes, dear readers, it has finally happened - I moved to New York City. Instead of being baked daily by the sun, I will now be salted and freeze-dried by the ocean.

It's a grey afternoon in the apartment, two days after Halloween. It's messy. Satchels lie mangled, scattered across the floor. Articles of clothing sinfully intermingle with wads of paper. In the corners, strands of black hair are deliciously enjoying afternoon tea with dust bunnies... Not an attractive site to wake up to.

After spending $90 on a multitude of cleaning products and latex gloves, I tackle the 9x15 Room of Doom I now call home. Moving the armless couch to the middle of the room, i notice small black jelly beans, about the size of pants-pocket lint, forming a trail along the wall edge. I follow the tell-tale trail, and low and behold, JUMP BACK! There's a mouse... that isn't moving...

I grab a chopstick and poke at the mouse. As the bamboo shaft touches its head, it crumbles to dust. Miffed, I look around it, and notice a deeply shaded circle of maroon haloing the mouse. I poke at the maroon; it's stiff and flaky. I then realize that the mouse had been happily running around shitting everywhere, then decided to stop under GoAskAlice's couch for a breather, where it exploded due to internal hemorrhaging. I remark to myself, "Wow, that sure was one out of shape mouse: it just stopped there and POPPED!"

Throwing bleach onto the mini police scene, I allow it's disinfecting properties go to work and finish the rest of the apartment. I turn the oven on (NOT TO COOK THE MOUSE!) so I can make dinner after I'm done cleaning. As I'm scraping the final remains into a bio-hazard bag, I hear a gunshot, and stand up. The oven starts to volcanically rumble and fizz like a rabid squirrel. It starts vibrating toward me across the floor, pouring alcoholic smelling liquid onto the freshly mopped floor. I move to make an escape, but the small iron oven psychically anticipates my every step and adjusts it's vector.

Then, as quickly as it started, the oven sputters to a halt, and I hear another loud gunshot. The oven door flies open, vomiting bottles of fizzing wine onto the floor. Apparently, while pre-heating the oven, I'd forgotten that GoAskAlice put wine in there for storage since she doesn't cook. Being under high pressure, the bottles started to boil and only had one way out - through the neck of the bottle and cork. Gurgling to the floor are various international wines that I will never taste... but the smell is terrific!

I clean the war-torn apartment again, and GoAskAlice arrives at home commenting on how she lived in such squalor. Upon offering to show her the spot where the mouse exploded, she shrieks like a banschee and runs out the door. Good thing I didn't tell her about the war-oven attack... she'd have nightmares.

Cyranose d'BigO

"Hey, BP, can you come pick me up," says a tired and strained voice on the other line as the sun rises. Getting a mental grip on the nauseatingly early hour on the clock face, I grumble out, "Ugh... OK, sure, BigO, where are you at?"

"I'm at 19th Ave and Grant." Doing my best to bolt up, I quickly roll over and say, "What are you doing over there?! That's the ghetto warehouse district! I didn't leave you out that way last night, did I?"

"Um... yeah... you kind of did... but that's ok, I have a really funny story to tell you when you get here. How long do you think it'll take?" I focus on the clock again and stifle out, "Um... give me 3 minutes to throw on my clothes and then 18 to drive there." The brightening voice responds, "Ok, cool. I'm at the Circle K on the north-west corner."

Arriving at a rusty, dusty gas station, I pick up BigO from the curb. "Ok, so start telli- OH MY GOD! What happened to your face?!" Sparks of laughter erupt from my morning-breath mouth.

Big-O laughs as he pulls a dried tissue from his nostril. His spiky head and Ambercrombie clad torso turn toward me, "haha, I know, right? I'm so hungry, let's go get something to eat, and I'll tell you on the way, but it was a crazy night, BP." We head off toward Palatte, and he continues, "Ok, so last night, after you dropped me off at Flex, I wandered around inside for a little bit and then found this totally hot guy, and we go back to my room."

Flex is one of two resident "alternative gyms" here in Phoenix, the other being Chute. I don't think either would be described as athletic Olympic arenas, but rather... entertainingly lubed-up adult male jungle gyms. As they say, 'different folks, different strokes', right?

Big-O continues, "Yea, so we're there in my room, and the guy's on top of me, right? He leans back to take off his shirt and his head bumps a black fan, which starts a tragic series of events." Looking at his nose, I laugh and tell him I'm all ears. "So his head hits the fan, and this nut falls off, the screw pops out, the fan gets unhooked, and swings toward my alcohol-dazed face. All I could do was think to myself, 'oh, this is going to hurt.'"

In a scene somewhat reminiscent of the movie, Titanic, where the ice burg hits the nose of the ship, the black fan deftly approaches at BigO's nose and lands dead on. *POP* Blood starts gushing everywhere, and the mysterious hot man loses interest in the now circumvented sexual tryst. BigO's face lights up as he explains, "'Ummmm... I think I should go now', the hot guy said, and he struggled with his shirt and stumbled out the door. So I'm left there with blood gushing everywhere, still trying to dodge the Rocky Balboa fan, while looking for some Kleenex, and then my left eye contact pops out and races to the dirty floor."

"HAHAHA, oh my god! That's funny! The funniest stuff happens to your nose. Wasn't it broken before or something?"

"Yes, yes it was, when I was thrown out of a car by my sister when I was little. But anyway, I drop to my hands and knees and start looking for my lens..."

"Are you sure you wanted to find it?"

"You know, BP, that's EXACTLY what I thought, and figured it wouldn't be good to put it back in my eye... especially in a place like that. So I decided to use my shirt to stop the bleeding, and then I passed out and here I am now." Big-O starts laughing and his nose starts bleeding again. Laughing, I hand him a handkerchief and say, "Ok, Cyrano, calm down and get your appendages under control."

The Flight Path

I've only had to run to catch a plane twice in my life. The first time happened two years ago when I flew to San Francisco on a knee-jerk weekend caper with a moderately disturbed, slightly unshaven, bi-polar, bear of a real-estate agent, some dental floss, one torn contact lens, and a portable computer. The second time was in 2006, after I'd finished making a mad dash across the urbanized concrete schoolyards of Chicago's western suburbs in a black Buick Lucerne. Had I been in my tank of a car, TastyCakes, I would have gone though the school buildings themselves while sputtering Algebra equations at school children dodging my tires. Imagine Cruella de Vil, only eons younger, and aptly named Butterfingers Coupe De Ville.

But... I digress from the real story at hand. It's late Saturday night; there's a group of us sitting in one of four seance dinner rooms at the Chinese Cultural Center in Phoenix. Perusing the menu, I suggest M sprawl out and spin atop the Lazy Suzanne to be fed stir fry tidbits by our dinner companions via chopstick insemination. To my demise, that doesn't occur, but we all laugh and order.

Sitting across the table is the aggravatingly punctual, undeniably flaky, yet smolderingly sexy, and bewitchingly gorgeous Y, with her lively fiancee, Mr G. "So, R-Baby, you're flying back to Montreal tonight? Is it a direct flight," Mr G asks S's husband, R-Baby. Responding in a very French-Canadian accent, R-baby says, "No, actually. I have a stop-over in Chicago, and then my flight to Montreal in the morning."

Looking up from his yellow curry beef tips swimming in broth, Mr G's cheeks queerly light up in a flash of memory. "Oh, I thought you had a direct flight. I remember one time I was on a flight back from Asia, that connected in LA." The table turns toward Mr G as he continues, "We got in a little bit late, so I was running and running and running as fast as I could." Interrupting his train of thought, M playfully says, "Could anyone catch you, Gingerbread man?" Y slyly looks over her wine glass toward M, who then curdles into her chair.

Not hearing her valid question, Mr G gleefully goes on, "Yes, so I arrive at the gate with messy hair, clothes hanging out of my bag, one shoe untied, and grasping for dear life to my ticket. I give it to the ticket lady and proceed into the gate. When I get inside the plane, the stewardess tells me there is a seat in the rear, and gives me a look like this..." Mr G proceeds to pucker his lips while exhaling in an exasperated manner. His brow furrows and lines form around the edges of his eyes as they squeeze together slightly, and his head slowly shakes from left to right. He looks kind of like he's experiencing both a mild bout of flatulence and an episode of empathy indicating "I'm sure glad I'm not you right now".

Zooming to the edge of his seat, S blurts out, "Oh, what happened?!"

"Well, I walk down the aisle, and notice people start snickering at me. Others give me the same look as the flight attendant. Some just grimace and shake their heads at me." Mr G takes a sip of wine, and clears his throat, bound in his retelling, "I approach the back of the airplane; the looks of desperation become more and more dreary. Then, I see it."

"What'd you see?" I say, absentmindedly burning myself on fragrant tea.

"At the back of the packed aircraft are two people but no available seats. I look at them and ask no one in particular where to sit. They look at each other in a meager frown. I realize then, the seat the stewardess was referring to is sandwiched from view between them. I mean, these people were so big, you couldn't fit a piece of paper between them, much less me."

"Oh my god! So what did you do, sit on top of their laps?"

"Actually, it was pretty cool. I got to sit in the jump seat the whole way, but man... to be launched into that other seat, I'd need Crisco and a wrecking ball!"

Big Brother's Freezer

I love food with holes. I love bagels... and cherish Lifesavers, Cheerios, and pitted olives. I relish peach rings, onion rings, and angel food cakes. But most of all, I'm enchanted by glazed yeast doughnuts. Those light and airy golden rings of heaven are a delicious symphony of candied, feather-pillowed bliss in my mouth. If I could control my oral urges better, I'd propose by slipping one of these sugary bands on the proposed's finger. Alas, that can't happen because the engagement would be off in the morning when my new fiance finds a lightly crumbed plate and dear john note on the night stand. It would read something like, "I just couldn't help it..." This is where we introduce MsBlonde.

MsBlonde is my daily companion in the remote and glacial northern reaches of the New Hampshire woods. With a firecracker personality exploding from an array of various caffeinated white pills, weekend parties of tight, brightly colored disco clothes, and impassioned soirees in the library book stacks, MsBlonde was my colorful, unscrupulous scamp. She too, loved eating round, syrup rimmed foods. We often made multiple late night dashes across the back wood tundra to the local upper valley Dunkin' Doughnuts.

It's 4:20am, April 20th, and I need a sugar fix to sustain the all-night cramming necessary for the upcoming two weeks of college exams. In a short e-mail exchange with MsBlonde, we decide to make a mad dash for a little obese and diabetic goodness.

Entering the bright and cozy bakery from the damp and crisp darkness, we place our order for gallons of high octane coffee, a few scalloped muffins, and an army of fresh doughnuts. We notice that the DoughnutBoy is more than convivial, so we ask if we can see how the doughnuts are made if we give him some of our "jungle mix". He agrees with a broad smile and tells us to enter through the side.

Stumbling in, he instructs us to sit on a Volkswagen sized sack of flour. While imbibing himself in our offering, someone comes up to the drive through. He listens to their muffled order over his headset, "I want three sugar free doughnuts, one latte grandé with half and half, two shots hazelnut and caramel. I also want one breakfast sandwich, no cheese with bacon and double eggs, two small coffees, one blueberry bagel with cream cheese, and napkins." Starting our journey into the heart of darkness, the Jungle begins affecting our senses. MsBlonde and I watch in awe as DoughnutBoy ingests more, stops, repeats the order back verbatim, and then exhales with a large smile. We break out into silly, boisterous laughter at his performance.

DoughnutBoy tells us to quiet down as he goes up front to fulfill the order. MsBlonde, the mischievous munchkin, stands up and starts sniffing around the back, with me in tow. We come across a large metal door labeled "Freezer".

Slipping inside, we explore the cavernous confines of the refrigerated dough mausoleum. Everywhere around us are various floured, buttered, and sugared pastry carcases ready for the doughnut baking crematorium. I encounter a second door inside and enter a dark room known as "Super Freezer". MsBlonde looses me among the catalogued articles of fossilized glazes and icings.

Leaving Super Freezer, I encounter an ancient button which I push and hear a small click and rumble. I become locked inside the Arctic icebox and start banging ferociously on the door for what seemed like hours. Fortunately for my cyanizing hands, MsBlonde opens the door, then falls to the floor in fits of laughter. "HAHAHA, BP! The door was never locked! I was holding it shut and made it sound like something locked on you." I start to fume, but MsBlonde abruptly stops laughing. She points to the wall and petrifies, hinting me to look at the government camera installed on the wall.

My eyes go big as my nostrils flare outward. My ears pull back like a scared puppy, and my mouth forms a gaping cave on my lackluster face. Going white as a sheet, my arms slump to my sides, and my neck becomes a wet noodle as I collapse to the floor atop MsBlonde (reinactment here). Conspiringly, I tell MsBlonde on the ground, "Do you think they're watching us? I think if we stay here on the ground, they won't find us." We remain frozen and motionless door stops.

DoughnutBoy comes around the corner, gives us a quizzical look and asks what we're doing. All we can do is widely eye the wall mounted video camera. Lieing belly down on the floor, and crawling to us in military fashion, he whispers, "Psst! You know what? Those cameras in here don't work."