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."

Beggars Can't Be Choosers

I shuffle past the Arizona Center and encounter a black, salt and pepper bearded man, dressed in a torn t-shirt and rumpled, dirt clogged blue-jeans. My cel phone is in my mouth, a Styrofoam food container in my left hand, my wallet and $20 showing in my right. Looking at my sordid state of affairs, the lonely beggar asks, "Do you have a dollar or some change so I can get something to eat?" Not quite hearing him, I do my best to muffle through my overpriced plastic transceiver, "What did you say?" He asks again if I have spare pocket change.

Realizing that I had cash boldly displayed in my disarrayed hands, I couldn't lie and say, "Oh, no, I have NO MONEY." He would have looked down and seen it, and how would I respond? Would I say, "Are you going to believe me, or your slowly cataracting eyes, old man?" Honestly, that's just plain mean.

Instead, I remove the small monolith from my teeth and say, "You want food?" He stands there, trying to decipher my question, and looks a little lost. What he heard linguistically: instructions on how to construct a Rube Goldberg Machine with mini-chopstick shaped tweezers in the vacuum of space while contained inside an artificial womb made out of grape jello. Responding to his embarrassingly long silence, and to make my question less convoluted, I shove the container of food into his hands and say, "Here's some food."

Scrunching his nose at my abundant offering, he says, "Oh, I can't eat shrimp. Do you have money?" Impulsively tilting my head toward my shoulder and jutting out my jaw in slight confusion to his response, I respond, "There's no shrimp in there. It's pizza. Look at it." He peeks inside and registers that its ok to eat. Disregarding this new information he asks, "Oh, well can I still have a dollar for something to drink?"

Pointing at the Big Gulp in his hand, I raise an eyebrow and unbelievably say, "Um... You already have something to drink right there." The beggar shakes his cup and says, "Well it's almost empty." I shoot right back, "Ok. Well, take it inside and ask them to fill it up with water for you. If they won't, there's a fountain around the corner." Rebuffed, he says, "I can't just have water. I NEED something FIZZY AND SWEET."

Standing there, my jaw hits the pavement at a ridiculous speed. Becoming instantaneously annoyed with his refusal of life-giving water (which I drink like it's going out of style), my face turns a brilliant shade of tomato, "Look, you asked me for food, you have food. You have a cup for water, and it's available around the corner. You have what you need, now GOOD NIGHT!"

Stomping away, I hear him huff about how audacious my mannerisms were with my apparent refusal to lay myself at his feet. I can understand tastes and preferences, but honestly, as far as I'm concerned: beggars can't be choosers. Maybe next time I'll instruct him to practice the art of gracious living by ruminating around the park and discovering rubberized curiosities he can thoroughly enjoy without any lubricating assistance. In other words: "Piss off if you're not going to be thankful for gifts of food and water."

On a lighter note, I don't have to worry about a high calorie lunch today, since I no longer have any leftovers. Thank god for choosy beggars... those bastards.

Our Next Game Is Called 'Feel Up'...

"Ok, now for our next game, you have to be very, very, VERY comfortable with your partner. We need three couples, or pairs of people, ok?" Mumsy Hyphenatie sweetly curves her cherubic lips, displaying her lustrous pearly whites. "We need to move the chairs out of the way and create a little bit of space to play. Let's move them to the edges of the room." She starts moving chairs and the party guests follow suit, moving their chairs toward the peppermint striped cream and rouge walls.

As the rules are explained, I reach for and open the gallon-sized Ziploc bag marked "FEEL UP: 6 PEOPLE". If that isn't an open invitation, I don't know what is.

I walk around and start blind-folding the baby shower participants, and Mumsy continues, "Ok you are now being blindfolded. We are going to attach five clothes pins to each person's clothing. The object of the game is for each person to find the clothes pins on their partner and collect them in their hands. The first team to do this wins."

Tieing the last stretch of blue/black fabric with gold sparkles, I look over at Mumsy and say, "Ok, they're done. Should we spin them around, beat them with bats, or just let them go at it?"

"Let's spin them around a few times THEN let them go at it, ha ha ha," Mumsy guffaws loudly and continues to naughtily chortle as she starts turning one of the couples in circles. In the playing field, we have six dizzy people: a married couple, a pair of twenty-something women, and an elderly man and woman who had just met an hour prior.

Like a sassy, breast feeding Julius Caesar dressed in black, my sister sticks out her thumb and says, "Let the clothes-pinning begin!" As "I'm A Little Teapot" starts playing, we attach wooden clamps to the participants' neck collars, underarm area, backside, behind the knee, and at shoe level. The music stops, we say, "Get ready, Get set, Go!" Immediately, "The Simple Bear Necessities" starts playing and the couples lunge at each other like large football players.... ROAR!!!!! the crowd rumbles and bellow in support of the now blind participants.

The two girls bonk heads and the married man accidentally gropes his wife in an uncomfortable spot. The senior woman stands there, frigid, as the old man leaps toward her shoulders in search of his woody prey. The perplexed husband stops his wife's giddy fondling and says, "What are you doing?! Here, turn around!" At which point, the wife smiles broadly, shoots her arms straight up, starts turning around and around screaming, "aaaaaaahhhh!"

He stops her by grabbing her waist, they bump each other's torsos and fall to the ground in comical snorts. Meanwhile, the two girls discover that they have ticklish spots they never knew existed. The crowd thunders louder with laughter. I turn my attention back to the newly familiarized older couple.

In a semi-dignified manner, the older man bashfully frisks his new acquaintance with two open palmed hands. She's still motionless, and we're not sure if she's suffered a heart attack. Out of the blue, she grabs his head and pushes it downward toward the floor. He pats down her leg, causing her to yelp in a Pollyanna-ish manner. Jumping, she kicks up her heals, and becomes a youthful school girl. "OH! No one has touched my leg like that in eleven years," she laughs out loud. Meanwhile, the two girls have worked out a scheme: one kneels and searches the lower levels of the other, while the woman standing searches around the kneeling one's head. They end up winning, but not without a few camera flashes displaying blindfolded blushed faces in vicarious positions.

The older woman, taking off her blindfold and gesturing to her partner, says to the group, "I knew where that last one was on him, but I didn't want to touch him there!" The clothes pin she was just referring to? It was behind his knee. Distribute the presents for winning, and give the older woman a thong for modesty - that's what baby showers are all about.

Sleep... It Keeps You Regular

Every now and then, there are those sweet dreams we cherish for decades after we wake. Perhaps it's about a perfectly peeled, cartoon style banana we harness in our hands and devour with strawberry lips. Perhaps it's about a stapler adorned in gold, attaching a winning lottery ticket to the mammoth check that was just issued to you. Maybe it's about having a little too much coffee and taking a taser gun to your annoying neighbor's nipples. Whatever it is, we all have those luscious, delectable dreams we savor forever after.

On the flip side, we also have nightmares. They may stem from a culturally induced sleep disorder involving nighttime breathing. Maybe your parents painted an ugly face on a helium balloon, and said they would "summon the floating head of death" to appear outside by attaching the balloon to a string and floating it from a first-floor window below your second floor bedroom. Maybe it's about someone giving you a bad haircut. Whatever it is, we all also have those devilish images that frighten the bejesus out of us when we're sleeping.

Lastly, there's that "other" category. You know those dreams and memories that fly through your psyche from left field at the speed of undecipherable meaning? Yes, we've all had occurrences where we wake up going, "Huh? Where the hell did THAT come from?!" My dream fits into this third category. It grew from the fertile bed of insanity and blossomed into the greenhouse of my mind.

I walk into a pumpkin orange lecture hall. There are wood desks in semi-circular auditorium style seating on multi-levels of grey carpet. In the front of the 200 plus instruction suite, is a large green chalk board that slides up and down with a long, table like podium in front. Perched atop are various academic paraphernalia like books of philosophy jokes, Renoir paintings, lasers, and strings of rock candy.

I take my seat in the front row at the right edge of the room and take out my notebooks, preparing for the lecture. The professor enters, adjusts his brown glasses and begins. At that moment, I have a most unholy urge to poo. It's an inhuman feeling, really. I look around out of explosive fear, and notice the doors have locked and I can't leave the room, then I look down...

In a rather auspicious manner, my padded chair had morphed into a porcelain temple, ready to accept my offering of internal prayer synchronized through throttling movements. My pants found their way down my legs and lay there, smiling at me, from my ankles. Salvation at hand, I look up and notice that I'm still in the lecture hall surrounded by my classmates and they can smell me. A most unusual feeling encumbers my chest. *Plop* *Ker-Plunk* *Splash* The avalanche starts.

The room gasps; some of the filled desks chuckle at my predicament. *glop* Another bomb drops. I switch focus to the professor who's face looks like he had just sucked on four lemons and had motor oil shot into his eyes. Apparently, he doesn't like what's happening. Dropping my head into my hands out of embarrassment, I remind myself that this isn't the end of the world, and I look back and say, "I'm sorry, guys, but I do have to wipe now." I lean to the side, grabbing the newly materialized toilet paper on my left, fold it and dip into dingle berry jungle. Everyone groans out of partial disgust and delight that it's almost over.

Standing up for more leverage, I gain an ounce of confidence and turn around exposed, and say, "Look, just because you're jealous that you don't even have the balls to poo in front of your dog in your own home doesn't mean that you have any right to belittle me because the doors are locked and my chair is a stool collector. Besides... it's convenient." I finish, pull my pants up, flush, and tell the professor to continue his lecture. At this point, he grabs a Febreeze air freshener and continues talking.

Waking up, I look around to see what's a mess, and thankfully, nothing is, so I hit the snooze button for another 15 minutes of a different dream.

Mr Toad's Wild Ride

"New Girl? Can you come outside and give me a jump?" I wistfully say into my phone.
"Oh no, what's going on? Is it Tasty Cakes? I'll be right out." She hangs up the phone and I wait in the 100 degree parking lot sunshine near the hospital.

Walking by, New Girl laughs at me and pulls up her maroon chariot and continues laughing. I attach the jumper cables and tell her to rev her engine. Bbbbbrrrroooom brrooom! Tasty Cakes starts up. "Hey! Stop draining my engine! My car is going to die," New girl smartly cracks a stab at my predicament. "Ok, ok, geez. I'll be back in a lil' bit." I go to a lunch where my friend Ms. V has already eaten her meal, having waited a whole extra four minutes for me.

"MY GOD, BP, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN MY WHOLE LIFE?!"
"Um, I was just jumping my car before I got here. I'll need a jump from you before we're done tho." She watches me finish my small dog sized burrito, and I get jumped for the second time that day and head home to obtain THE BOX for my return trip after work.

I jump my car in the parking lot after work and get on the road. Buzzing along, I turn out of the parking lot onto the street. put-put-put-putter out, and the car dies. AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!! I motion people to go around me as I connect THE BOX to my battery terminals... fifteen times over the next 30 minutes in the middle of traffic. Word on the street is that every time I'd sit down to turn the key, the clamps would fall off and I'd methodically jump out of the car to re-attach them in the same place and start over... again... and again... and again. We all remember that the definition of insanity is repeating the same actions over and over despite consistent failure, right? Enter BP.

I head home, and inform Muscle Calves and CW I'm going to get a new battery 20 miles away since it's still under warranty. I head out of downtown with THE BOX, past the ghetto, past the warehouse district, across the dry river, pass the cows and cornfields, past the landfill being covered over for new housing developments, and arrive. After exchanging my ill-fated battery and connecting the brand new one, I smile snugly and attempt to start the car. Nothing. Scheista! I break out THE BOX again and jump my car three more times. Each time THE BOX becomes disconnected, the car dies. Great!

I walk back inside and hastily start berating the quality of goods at Walmart to one of the managers. The white chonga girl brushes back her excessively gelled hair with her three inch Lee nails press on. While raising her eyebrows in surprise and pushing out her lips like they'd been stung by a bee, she attempts to remove the elephantine bracelets dangling from her ears in preparation to brawl with me. As she's about to remove the bedazzled chonkla from her feet, the other manager jumps in and explains to us it's probably a dead alternator. Damn

Beating a retreat back to my car, I have a clever idea and cackle to myself. I secure THE BOX inside my engine and connect it to the battery. Using three zip ties to keep my hood down while I drive, I hop into the driver's seat, start the car, and throw the shifter into drive. Tasty Cakes lurches forward and starts heading out the parking lot.

Traveling down the road at a reasonable pace, I get stuck behind a van going 10mph, so I attempt to pass it. Gaining speed, and laughing loudly as I pass the van, the hood opens up in front of me, obscuring everything in sight. I slam on the breaks, THE BOX flies out of the engine, the car dies, and I come to a rolling stop in a corn field on the side of the road. The van passes by with whoops of laughter. This time I get out, find the lightly road-scathed BOX, re-attach it, pull a shoelace off my sneaker and secure the hood down again. I just want to get home.

I gain speed, confident that the shoelace will not melt like the zip ties. However, I noticed earlier that when I press on the brakes, the engine starts to putter out, so I stop using the breaks. I come screeching around the corner at lightning speed and am on the final homestretch. Just then, a truck going in the opposite direction turns in front of me and partly stalls. I honk, not wanting to have my engine die for the umpteenth time, and they don't move. I swerve and look over at the crazy people. Just then, I notice that they were turning into an Auto Zone, where I needed to get my alternator checked. I hang a hard right into the parking lot, and come to a screechy puttery halt. One of the managers looks at me with wide, stony eyes and isn't sure what to say as I step from the black bat.

The manager checks my alternator as I regale him with the details of my journey, and a homeless man approaches. The manager goes back inside, and I grab a crowbar from the backseat of my car to serve the dual purpose of fixing the new dents in my freshly aired hood and to scare him away. I get a new alternator, secure THE BOX to the engine and head home at a brisk pace.

Two miles from my destination, I notice I just passed four police cars, I'm going 20 miles over the speed limit, and it's quota time in Phoenix. Wonderful. Using some rather racy moves, I outrun their detection and arrive at home... only to have the car stall when I get in the parking lot. Such love.

Baby TJ

Oh, the dutiful pain of eating for two, and then having to push something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon. What could be better than having a new baby?! Everyone loves babies. That is... everyone but me, and my four year old niece. I don't like them because I think I'll break them. She doesn't like them because, like all older childhood siblings, she doesn't get as much attention.

The new baby is her brother, TJ. Welcome to the world, little one, just don't anyone get close to putting him in my hands, I might spontaneously combust. However, hand me a margarita, and I'll spontaneously start smiling at suddenly attractive strangers. I prefer the latter to the former.

Apparently, he looks like me when I was born - with long black hair smothered all over his little head. I still haven't seen him, since I have this natural, and rational fear of flames erupting from my pores. My mom has seen TJ, however.

While visiting my sister in the hospital, Mumsy Hyphenatie was crooning over the little guy, admiring his closed eyes and little mouth. She exuberantly remarks, "He's so handsome!" My niece, Little S, looks up, face covered with dismay and says, "He's NOT HANDSOME! He has NO TEETH!" Little S then lets out a room vibrating laugh and toddles over to the group. Apparently, Little S is becoming more rambunctious around everyone since she's starved for attention since people now look at and talk about baby TJ in front of her. Life must be really hard.

Now, on the other hand, kids grow up. Even tho parents and grandparents usually love their kids and grand kids without bounds, reality eventually sets in. GoAskAlice sent me a text message the other day. She said, "You know how people talk about their kids and croon over them even when they're ugly? My mom used to do that. Now my mom says, 'You used to be so cute, what happened?' She doesn't play." Ah... remind me to never have kids, and if I do... to be a little more gracious with my words. Just keep the babies away from me.

Canadian Abduction

"Hey, don't we know that girl?"

"Um, what girl?"

"That girl right there, BP, that Native Girl taking a stroll down the road!"

"Oh yeah... she does look vaguely familiar. Shall we stop the car and throw her in the trunk?"

"I think we should!"

I slow Ethel Mertz down to a crawl and pull along side the mottled black haired girl. She is looking up in confused disgust at the buildings around her as she walks with a school-issued map in her hands. Ms Iowa rolls down her passenger window, and I jokingly yell out, "How much?!" The girl whips around to witness our shaded faces. Lowering my eyes over the reflective midnight sunglasses perched on my nose, I gauge her expressively fearful face and say, "I asked how much?"

Stepping back a pace, then two, the Native Girl is speechless under the yellow, green, and red fall colored trees on the side of the library. Ms Iowa opens the blood red car door. Stepping onto the side walk, and slipping off her wool scarf followed by lifting her sunglasses, she states states, "Didn't you hear what I said, Native Girl? Get in the car NOW. We're taking you to Canada before classes start on Monday. Consider this the beginning of the end."

Native Girl, realizing we're from the same school releases a pent up sigh of relief, then climbs into the back seat. I ask her, "Where is your dorm? We're leaving now; you need three sets of clothes, a credit card and ID, plus a little naughty streak." I wink at Native Girl in the backseat.

Cheering up and relaxing, Native girl gleefully asks, "Oh, can I bring a friend along? He's so much fun." We agree, and we pick up pleasantly plump Montana Boy, then head north toward the canuk boarder. Once we're past the inspection station, I tell Ms Iowa to dig in my bag and find a red wig I had used for Halloween once. Immediately Montana Boy grabs it, securing it messily on his head. Passing a trucker, he proceeds to blow the corn fed delivery man juicy kisses through the window. It's going to be a wild night.

Arriving in Montreal, we promptly find an overpriced hotel room with 1/2 walls. Apparently, the French Canadians are more into the communal theory of sleep enhancement. Frolicking among the denizens on Rue Ste Catherine, we approach a drag queen dressed as Celine Dion (whom just happens to be the savior of Canada).

Looking at her dress shaped like the titanic, we greet the misshapen pop star, "Bonsoir," and hand her a flier to an underground party. In garbled french, she starts pointing with her lipstick down the street, esophagealy hacking out directions for us like she'd smoked for the last 80 years. Just then, in a drive-by icing, a midget in drag puts a large blue cardboard item shaped like a heart covered in rhinestones into the drag queen's hands. Someone throws more ice onto the Celine Dion look alike and starts chasing her with a shark. The drag queen puts a whistle between her lips and starts blowing, holding the blue heart above her head. Someone flips on a copy of "My Heart Will Go On", and the drag queen skips down the street lip-syncing.

Apparently, we had just been the victims of a random and brutal street performance. Looking at each other with curious faces, our mouths ajar, we all start laughing, and start looking for the underground party again.

Intestinal Fortitude

"Did I ever tell you about my dad and his eating habits?" Dr Aquarius looks at me with reckless abandon, his curly black hair slightly moving above his shoulders.

Turning down the speakers on my work computer, I smile broadly and say,"Um, no, not that I remember."

"Yeah, he's really interesting. Like he'll fly in from New Mexico and he'll say 'lets go eat', and I'll ask, 'where', and he'll say 'oh, anywhere is fine.' So I'll suggest something fun like Thai, and he'll go, 'WHAT?! What's Thai? No, that won't do!!' My dad is a very meat an potatoes kind of guy, you know, a lot like those people from the 1950's with June Cleaver, where boy's are boys, girls are girls, and the only meat you eat is steak."

"Hmmm. I see. He's even more meat and potatoes than Dr H?" (Dr H is our resident Midwesterner, hailing from the corn fields and cheese factories of Minnesota. If you get anything containing more than 1/2 a teaspoon of non-starchy vegetables near him, he hisses and jumps on the wall in a vampiric manner.)

"Yes, very much so." Dr Aquarius's eyes grow a little. He plays with the pens in his pocket protector and continues, "Like one time when I was a young boy, I was talking to this one girl at my school. She looks at me and says, 'my mom is a vegetarian'. I had no idea what a vegetarian was, so I asked. The girl told me, 'oh, it's someone who doesn't eat any meat.'"

I grab a handful of organic popcorn and tell Dr Aquarius to go on.

Provokingly throwing both of his hands up in the air, Aquarius continues, "and so I was mystified with this whole vegetarian thing, and I asked the girl why her mom doesn't eat vegetables. The girl said, 'well, my mom was jogging one day and she saw a dead cow on the side of the road, and it scared her. She swore off meat from then on.'"

I finish the popcorn and take a sip of bottled water.

"So I went home," Dr Aquarius huffs about the front of my desk, switching his medical coat from one side to the other, "and I told my dad all about this fascinating new way of eating. You know what he said to me?"

"I have no idea. What did your dad say?"

"My dad snorts and says to me, ' Well, lord forbid the woman come across a rotten potato - she'd starve to death!'"

There Are Indians... And Then There Are "Indians"...

Infamous words to be wary of: "I made a new friend today." Now, depending on the situation, those can be the most horrifying blend of words a parent can hear dribble out of a child's smiling mouth. Or, the parent can smile and ask, "Oh really? Tell me more." Thankfully, I'm not a parent. But... I did make a new friend the other day, so consider me a kid.

Meet Curly, a slender, 6'1", happy-go-lucky immigrant from India. Having moved to the Phoenix area from Kansas, he focuses his skill in the IT field. Because he's from so far away and lives on the skirts of civilization (instead of downtown), he has not made many friends in the past two years. He likens the reasons for not meeting other Phoenicians to the insurmountable wall of desert heat that suffocates his voice anywhere but outside the air conditioned confines of his house. As we all know... "If you don't go out, you can't have them come in!"

Besides his fingers and hands, Curly doesn't get much cardio. Being the self-proclaimed athlete I am, I invite him on a short walk. The leisurely stroll gives him a side cramp, seemingly from uncontrollable heavy breathing due to excessive overexertion. Who knew? He's a good soldier though, and sucks it up. Becoming hungry, I suggest we go to the grocery store.

After leaving the grocer, we're at a stop light waiting to turn. Curly tells me about his colorful culture, from Bollywood films, to the interesting 3-somes he becomes involved in, to the 28 languages of his homeland, to the intricacies of the IT department. He asks me what my heritage is. I respond, "I'm Native American and European." Driving forward, he responds without a second thought, "Oh. Well, I'm Indian." Not missing a beat, I glance over, "Oh, really?! That's wonderful. I always wondered what you call people from India!" I raise my index finger and shake it, continuing, "I'll have to remember that one." We both laugh at the absurdity of the moment and arrive at our destination.

At the dinner table, Muscle Calves and CW join us. CW works in IT as well. "So, you're from India, huh? Didn't you kind of do it backward?" The table looks in puzzlement at CW. He continues, "Well, I mean, you know, all of our jobs are going over there, and you came over here." Muscle Calves blinks, then squints in disapproval at CW. CW goes on, "So, do you ever have to call Tech Support?" I laugh loudly and cut in, "No. What happens is he calls, they hear his accent and say, 'Holy sh*t, we have a live one on the line! Hurry, route him to an American!'" The table bursts into laughter.

CW picks up a cup full of Juniper berries and asks Muscle Calves what they're used for. Muscle Calves exasperatingly explains to him what it's for. "Well, how do you know this," CW rebuttals. "Because I've read about it and researched it. Duh." Raising my right arm in the kitchen, I add, "And because I'm Native American. I know all about nuts and berries. Curly wouldn't tho; he's not the right kind of Indian." Like a lightning bolt, it occurs to me: India Indians own 7-11's and hotels. American Indians own casino's.

Road Conditions

Phoenix is unique among the large cities of America. It's relatively easy to navigate where you are in the 515 square miles of concrete grid lines. Many times, my friends from the east coast do not believe me when I tell them our street hierarchy grid (super block) is a mile (5,280 feet) on each side. By comparison, Manhattan is only 24 square miles in size, and city blocks there are 264 ft x 900 ft. In other words, about 117 city blocks from New York City can fit into one Phoenix city block.

There is constant construction taking place wherever you drive in Phoenix. Many times, they will close off a freeway in the middle of the day with a sign saying, "Thank you for your patience" or whatnot. After being closed for a week, they open it up, but you're still not sure exactly what kind of work was done until the next sign saying, "You're great, Phoenix! We just finished resurfacing the 5 storm drains on this 50 mile stretch of highway. Stay tuned for more exciting closures."

So I'm driving to work the other morning two months ago, and traffic is backed up from downtown to the state border 150 miles away. Aggravation trickles in. Inching along the freeway asphalt, I wonder what kind of construction they're doing. Slowly, I get up to the bottleneck, and I discover half naked people from southern California had pulled haphazardly to the side. They were running around on the freeway chasing after a black dog that kept running away from them. No amount of bacon would get that dog off the road. Perhaps the dog was a vegan. I swear, crazy people from SoCal in bathing suits running after a homeless dog on the freeway. I would have just sped up...

Yesterday, I was driving back from another hospital when I noticed everyone swerving out of the way. Naturally, I'm a fantastic driver, so I get into the lane everyone is swerving into. As I pass the swerve spot, I look over and notice a guy in a wheelchair racing traffic in the middle of the road. Amazed that there were no Californians around trying to help him, I mentally transport myself back to a story I read a few months earlier about another traffic incident involving a guy in a wheelchair. I fondly remember the tag line from the article, "Why did the 21 year old cross the road?" Passing by and heading back to work, I secretly think to myself two things. First, 'I wonder what homeless race he's training for', and second, 'is there going to be an uprising of wheelchairs in the near future?'

Etiquette Lessons

Earlier... I was lunching at Durant's- an upscale eatery in uptown Phoenix, with Subway Man (who is not Jared, but has met him).

Durant's is kept upscale mostly by pricing - one shrimp cost $4. But, the dated building resembles a seedy dive joint from 1940's Las Vegas, and looks like you could speed off with any number of shady fishnet stocking characters in knee-high leather boots. However, there are three saving graces for this place: 1) their mashed potatoes, 2) the bronzed shoes of a singing mobster, and 3) the old as dirt women in bow tie tuxedos. We're sitting in the blood red dining room with a plate of food in front of each of us. Subway Man's phone rings. He deftly snatches it off the table answering the small piece of plastic, and starts taking copious notes on the palm of his hand.

From the environs of the dimly lit corners of the velvet walled restaurant, one of the ghostly tuxedo women materializes next to our table. "Sir, could you please put your cellphone away," the old lady in bad drag asks Subway Man. He looks up from his telephonic conversation, and opens his mouth to respond...

What SHOULD have happened:
My eyes open wide as a gasp of horror escapes my draining lips. I look at the peeked plastic manican woman with a toupee made of bleached flour polyester, and say, "Oh, no no no, baby! With that makeup job, you'd best run for cover, Girl!" I stare at her in awe as I sell my first born child so I can afford another shrimp - which swiftly gets plugged into my gaping pie hole. The woman flaps wildly about the table, emitting violent sparks over my flash of the indisputable Fashion Police Badge, and spontaneously combusts. We order more bread, and continue our lunch undisturbed.

What COULD have happened:
Subway man, responding to the interruption of vital information, tells the caller to hold on. As he places the palm of his hand over the microphone, he flaps his eyelids like a Hollywood starlet. "It's already loud in here. If you see these people around me, why don't you go take a survey and see if any of them care. Here, I'll get you started." He hands the woman an invisible questionnaire tablet, "Look, the first page is already complete, the answers are 'no'." She starts to respond. Subway Man holds up his index finger in front of his mouth then shakes his head twice, and says, "No, no, that wasn't a question." He promptly gets slapped by the bony hand of bad taste. Recoiling from the momentary touch of ghostly love, and realizing he has motion sickness, he orally donates his partially digested lunch to the table next to us.

What ACTUALLY happened:
Subway man asks, "What?"
"I have to ask you to put your phone away, sir. You can use it in the bar area, but the dining room is cellphone free." The cronies face cracks in multiple places as she attempts a devilish smile.
"Oh, ok, I'm terribly sorry." Subway man puts his phone away. Looking like a hurt puppy, his head goes down in shame and he immediately stuffs the last shrimp down his gullet.

Needing to use the restroom, I stand up and question the retreating tuxedo woman, "Excuse me, sir, could you please show me to the men's room?" Subway Man gaffs and nearly requires the Heimlich maneuver.

The Fallout

Ever have those days where you wake up in the wrong bed? You know, the kind where after a long weekend of friendly mishaps, it's Monday and a cascade of miniature melodramas just keep streaming your way? That was the life of BP yesterday and this past weekend. What?! You mean the cliche is "waking up on the wrong side of the bed"? Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle...

Since my gym membership expired on Sunday, I had to find another way to burn off all the calories I consume in a normal day, so I decided on using a free public place. While listening to GoAskAlice's problems in New York and San Francisco, I meandered about Margaret T. Hance Park (built over I-10) near downtown Phoenix. In between her story about the underage pharmaceutical rep and the evil doctor, I happen across a small traffic violation in the middle of the sidewalk.

I closely study the curiosity. Lying on the ground was a small, arrow head shaped yellow nub. I cautiously step on it, it's partly squishy from the atomic heat radiating skyward from the sidewalk, and kick it down the way. It bounces. Realizing what it is, I immediately unleash a howel of laughter into the evening air.

"Oh, my god, GoAskAlice, you would not believe what I just stepped on!"

"Huh? Are you listening to me, BP?"

"Of course I am, but my foot isn't. It's recoiling in fear, honey child. I just stepped on a butt plug here in the middle of the park, in open air on the sidewalk. I mean, I thought I was having a bad day, but obviously not as bad as this poor person who apparantly lost their constrictive powers while they were walking home or whatever. haha"

"Oh, my god! That's so gross! Wait... how do you know it's a butt plug?"

"Oh, I just do. I've seen them when I was in Montreal."

"Mmmmm-hmmmm. Riiiiiiiiight."

"For real, puddin' cup. That is pretty gross. Maybe I should take it back to the hospital and wash it for 15 seconds, following OSHA guidelines, put some alcohol rub on it, then put it up for bidding on e-bay in one of those 'mystery bags'."

As I continue to chuckle over the small, puckered-orifice sized road cone, I remember how ridiculous bad days are. Thinking about all the arguments with my friends over the weekend, being asked to move out by my roommates, not having my medical education speech ready, getting rejected for a new position, and being temporarily broke - none of those could have been worse than having such a wonderful conversation piece slip out of my rosey cheeks in public. Compared to that, my struggles are rather modest. Using this little bit of chocolate humor to put me in a good mood, I move on and develop new plans with GoAskAlice for New York.

Sensory Overload

I'm in the driver's seat of Mumsy Hyphenatie's stealthy, yet understated white passenger car. Brother is in the front seat, Mumsy is behind me, and Step Dad is next to her, gently caressing her hand.

"Blah, we just checked three places, and none of them are open. Are you going to eat with us," I ask S over the phone as our gas conscious 4-cylinder auto weaves in and out of traffic. My spicy frustration thickly glazes the air - we can't find a reputable Mexican restaurant to enjoy this late at night.

"Oh, well I don't care where we eat. Mumsy says that she wants pizza now," Brother tries to allay my seething emotions. I shoot him a searing look of acid - I simmer a little when people change their minds in the middle of a spectacle.

As I listen to S ask his co-workers where tasty places are, Mumsy H bubbles up from the back seat, "Oh, let's just go eat at the casino. They're always open 24 hours, and you can have all you can eat, and we can play and everything!" The whites of my eyes tidal from left to right through my sockets, as I roll my head toward my right shoulder and matter-of-factly say, "We're not going to eat at a casino, mom. I'll find a place, just hold your horses, ok?"

4-1-1 becomes a knight in shimmering silver, and I start aggressively driving through construction zones and freeway traffic to a restaurant open for 30 more minutes. For some reason that I haven't determined yet, my mom was yelping about my skill of deftly dodging the barricades and cars around us. Must be a parental quality that I will never know.

We meet S, and place our order. Mumsy Hyphenatie leans in toward us, her eyes ablaze in excitement. "So, I was at Cliff Castle the other day a few weeks ago, and I was playing my favorite game, Top Gun! And this native lady sits down at the penny slot next to me to get into her fighter jet." Mumsy lifts up her hand to salute to no one in particular, and takes a sip of her unsweetened iced tea, then continues, "Anyway, this lady put in $5 and spins a few times, then gets the bonus!" Mumsy jumps up slightly, reveling in the firecracker passion of her story retelling. We all look at her and smile.

"Yes," she continues, "and the old grandma didn't know what was going on! So, I lean over and tell her to push the buttons, 'Fly left! Fly left! Fly left!' I screamed, and the woman got a bonus, then I told her, 'Go up, Go up, go up!', and she hits the up button." Another sip of iced tea. "And this grandma starts breathing really fast and then she has to shoot down the other fighter planes on the screen, so I tell her to 'hit it, hit it, hit it!' and she does, but she misses the second one, and then her tun is over."

"Oh really? What happened next," I ask, noting that Brother throws a small tantrum by leaning back dismissively in his chair.

"Well, the lady made about $80 off of her $5, on a penny machine."

"Wow, that's really good, especially on a penny machine."

"Yeah, it is. But anyway, the old grandma cashes out, and says to me, 'oh, I can't play this anymore. I'm afraid of heights, I better go.'"

The table laughs, and I say, "Um... she didn't leave anywhere, besides her winning machine."

Mumsy impishly looks at me, "I know. Her whole trip on the computer screen was all on the ground in the seat next to me. Crazy lady."

Lift Off

"Bbbbbbbrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmm" Ethel Mertz hums down the black asphalt, steady as a sun chariot. Outside my car window, there are untold legions of freshly laid crop circles, cow tippings, and opal tornadoes. Since it was darkest night, I could not have made out the Woodsian landscape, even if I had infrared military spy ware - I was driving too fast after being warned a few hours earlier in Oklahoma. I really should have paid more attention to the police officer, I suppose.

Let me welcome you to the Kansas Turnpike, 230 miles of Midwest buffalo range pavement. Against my will, I am drawn in, whirled round, blinded, suffocated, and at the same time filled with giddy rapture about the music pumping through the sound system. The whirr of the tires, and rush of broken air add to my cocoon as I drive. There's no one else on the road and as I settle into an enigmatic trance, I set the cruise control at 118 mph.

Time passes, and then down the road something quickly approaches my vehicle. I have enough time to respond, but I don't. Instead, I grab some cheese-its from the plastic bag in the empty passenger seat and think to myself, "Oh, I'm going to hit that large lump of metal in the middle of the road."

Remaining calm, I then ask myself what would someone on a plane do? They would check their seat belt buckle, then put their heads between their legs and kiss their ass goodbye. Unfortunately, the car was too small, and my mouth was too full of cheese crackers, to risk getting close to my neither regions that had been in the same position for the last six hours.

bbbbbbuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzz. KA-BOOM!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the large silver object in the middle of the four lane expressway. Mysteriously... almost magically, we both reenact a scene from ET. The only difference between Hollywood and my trip were: my moon was wrapped in plastic, covered in chocolate, and filled with marshmallow; my extra terrestrial was the flapping of a towel hanging out my window to dry off as I feistily prodded down the freeway. Everything else was the same.

I look out my window. I didn't see the ground anymore. I lay my ear against the clear glass, and I no longer hear the sounds of my tires interacting with the pavement. The rush of wind and the hum of the engine, however did seem more pronounced. I look out the windshield, and notice I can't see the road lines anymore either, it's pitch black ahead of me. Moon pie, please deliver me from being launched into the stratosphere.

Several seconds pass, and just as I get used to the flying sensation and my intestinal butterflies, the captain indicates our return to earth, and to prepare for landing. CRACK!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the pavement and bounces violently up and down like I just had new hydraulics installed. Sparks come flying out from behind me and on the sides, lighting up the expressway in brilliant flashes of yellows and reds. I hold onto the steering wheel for dear life... Talk about white knuckle driving, right? Eventually, the bouncing stops, and a shaky scraping ensues, but I drive onward to Kansas City.

In the morning, I check the alignment, and nothing is wrong, but I do find the arm of a gremlin, and detach it from the bumper, and set off toward Iowa. Next time, I'm going to ride my broom through Kansas.

Thank You, Come Again

Mr Glove is a tall, ambrosial, blond real estate agent. Mr Glove is called Mr Glove because he moved here from the mitten state, where whitetail deer roam free.

Although I haven't asked Mr Glove to indicate where his hometown is on the palm of his right hand, or if his snow blower had more miles on it than his car, I did ask if he's ever experienced the phenomena of deja vu. I experience deja vu on a random yet predictable basis. My experiences are usually due to the temporary symptoms of death I spurt out while popping a squat over the lou after having eaten something just a touch too spicy the night before. I won't bore you with recurrent detailed events, however.

Episode 1: Deja Visite: He picks me up at my condo, and as I get into the car, remarks, "Oh, I used to know someone that lived here in this exact same complex." "Oh, really? That's interesting. I noticed you were parked right outside my window. You're the first person to have ever done that. Are you ready to go rock climbing?" And we head for the freeway.

Episode 2: Sixth Sense: Mr Glove and I arrive at the rock climbing gym. At that precise moment a colleague of his arrives in a sporty 3-series with a blue-eyed muscle boy I vaguely recognize from the gym in a different city. To the best of my knowledge, it was through a random act of mechanical combustion and impeccable timing that they came to the same place without knowledge of our arrival. Introductions pass around the circle like a hot potato, and I pencil the names of two new people into my mental Rolodex, only to misplace it later.

Episode 3: Deja Vecu: After rock climbing, we head back to my condo, and I usher Mr Glove in. He wanders around as I burrow around for sustenance. Looking at me, he asks, "How long have you lived here," his arms crossing his chest. "Oh, since April. My roommates have been here longer, but I don't know how long," I smile toward him over the steel fridge door. His face clouding over, he responds, "You remember how I said I knew someone who lived in this complex? This is the exact same condo they lived in. I remember putting in that lamp, and hanging that ceiling fan, even this flooring- I installed it." I laugh, thinking he's joking, but notice the grim expression afflicting his brow line. "Oh, do you want to go somewhere else? You don't look like you feel good." "Yes, I think that would be best."

Episode 4: Deja visite: We head down the way to an eatery disguised as a flower shop. Inside, we seat ourselves, and our waiter is Mr Flake, someone I had met two years before. He recognises me but doesn't say anything, although he is extra attentive. Mr Glove asks if I know Mr Flake, at which I shrug my shoulders - all I need to know is he's serving us at the moment. Then Glovy says, "I know him from somewhere. I'm going to ask." Mr Flake returns briskly to our table with water. Mr Glove asks him,"Hey, have we met before?" Flaky blinks, leans in, and doesn't recognize Mr Glove, "Um, not that I know of. When was the last time you were here?" "About 3 years ago." "Oh, I've only been here for about 4 months. Maybe you saw me at a party. Do you know so and so?" "No, no I don't. I bet you're just the pretty face in the corner." "Yeah, the pretty face passed out in the corner because I've had too much to drink." At that moment, I learn that Mr Flake isn't only a flake, but also an alcoholic.

Episode 5: Deja Vu: The next day, I drive northward, onward, and upward toward Flagstaff. On the road is a procession of hippies in vans. I pass one pink cream one, and nothing of note, just smoke billowing out the windows. The next van is painted on the back, a picture of the San Francisco Peaks with two UFOs and the words, "Deja Vu" painted above it. I think to myself, "Haven't I had enough already?!" As I pass the van, a man that looks like Jesus with sun glasses looks at me through the window. It's time for a weekend.

Equivalent Conundrums

T: Haven't seen you for a while. Did you find someone to date or something?

BP: Would you be jealous if I did?

T: I would be happy for you. Jealousy is such a wasted emotion. *smile*

BP: Ok. So if it's true that you are happy for me when I am dating someone, then that's equivalent to being non-happy when I'm not dating someone. So, are you happy or non-happy?

T: Ugh, BP, you're too analytical. If you're dating someone, chances are you want to date someone. Either way, you should be happy - single, or attached. It's about being satisfied with who you are. I hope you have a good life.

BP: HAHAHAHA, geez, T, don't take it so personally. It's a joke. Laugh a little. Anyway, I asked if you were happy or non-happy; besides, the answer to your question is no, I'm not.

T: Then I'm happy. *smile*

In the beginning

Ah, the corporate card. I love that little silver sliver of plastic. It fits so snugly into my hand and on the wings of angels, gracefully flies out of my fingertips when I approach any slitted machine with a magnetic eye. And the cash register blinks, "Let there be purchases", and there was purchasing. And I saw the products, that they were good, and divided the perishable from the non-perishable. And I called the perishable edible, and the non-perishable storeable, and the plastic and paper were the first bags that day.

Really though, when I use the card, it's not that prolific, and I only use it sparingly. *wink* Today tho, the Directator offered the plastic bank so that I may buy New Girl and myself lunch. I wonder if he's Greek... However, I threw the book down and rejected the piece of plastic since lunch today is going to be comped by B-Boo's Chef.

Even tho I've never met this mysterious man of the burning stove, Chef loves me because I love delicious food. I love sumptuous food so much, that one day during brunch, I picked a slice of ham up off my plate, closed my eyes, and used it to caress my cheeks as I whispered sweet nothings to my fried potatoes while inhaling the nearby sweet baguettetty aroma. Totally kidding. What actually happened was I had a lemon pastry that I stabbed at. Escaping my clutches, it flew across the table only to land in the nape of M's elbow. I immediately pulled on her hand to pop her buttery joint toward the ceiling and choreographed an Oscar-worthy chewing of the tart in mid flight.

But really, If I were to have to choose between giving up good food or sex, hands down I'd give up sex. After all, you can have good food in public (even in groups in public) without getting into legal trouble.

So, without the Directator's corporate card, New Girl and myself pile into one of the fifteen cars people trust me with while they're flying around the country. We arrive a du Jour and order drinks, soup, bread, an entree, and dessert. New Girl had never experienced a four course lunch; I had never heard New Girl give murmurs of pleasure over what she ate. In other words, she subsists off of Styrofoam Mexican peppers, deep fried cardboard chicken nuggets, waxed covered Chinese MSG, and plastic encased cubes of sugar encrusted hamburgers. Not the tastiest of food choices.

The soup comes. "Mmmmm. Oh, mmmmm. Wow," New Girl lets out a gasp of excitement. I ask,"Is it good?" "Yes. Oh my god. I mean, you said it was going to be good, but I didn't think it would be this good." I smile as she continues, "I don't even like asparagus, but I'd pay $18 just for that bowl of asparagus soup!" She pats her mouth dry of saliva.

"Well, I'm glad that you enjoy it. Interesting sounds you're making there, by the way." She looks up, soup drops on her uniform, which she says, "Oh, see here? I love it so much, I'm already taking some home with me." I hand her a slab of ham to wipe off her cheeks after she finishes sponging the soup off her shirt. She continues to let out little puffs of sheer joy in the form of high pitched squeaks as the meal goes on. It's begun - I've ruined New Girl for life on all other food.

Caution: Hot

Ever experience those beastly people in restaurants who are obnoxiously loud? You know, the hyena pack that cackles around a fresh dinner meal. You peer at the troop from behind plated garnish leaves, across taupe savanna carpeting, and your own neatly camouflaged white table cloth just to examine what's going on. "Within ear shot," for the loud group means being able to communicate across any expanse of $200 bottles of wine, of which there are many. Then, did it finally occur to you that this same legion of raucous supper personalities, with their hungry outbursts of laughter, and colorful displays of celebratory bags and boxes is a birthday dinner party?

Here we are at Elements, in Sanctuary, Paradise Valley. Guess who's birthday it is?! Yes, it's mine. Woo-hoo! Like the cattle we're assumed to be, we're herded to our seats and given some grass and fresh water. Oh, the grass is to refresh your breath, you say? That's interesting. And we're paying how much for it? Fantastic, I love when money grows on trees!

Our chic group settles in, and I reach for the card labeled: "Caution: Hotness Inside!"

...I really should have paid more attention to the warning...

Asking the table for a non-existent letter opener, and not thinking to manhandle my butter knife through the envelope, I seductively slide my keys between the sheets of paper, and work open the seam, exposing the card with my fingers.

At that precise moment, the manager of the restaurant comes to our table with a waiter in tow to greet us before our meal, all the while I slide the card out of it's crisp sleeve. "OH!" I exclaim, to which everyone anticipatingly look toward me. Peering down at my hands, the waiter chokes on a gulp of rapidly entering air, and the manager grabs her stomach like she'd just been punched.

On the front of the card was an attractive, yet marginally... no, that's the wrong word... extremely excited model with a ginormous pink member poking toward his chin gingerly smiling back at me.

Caution: Hotness exposed.

I don't think that's something they see every day in a restaurant on top of the hill. "Could I have some more water, please," I ask the disturbed waiter, who had spilled his pitcher on the table from focusing on my paper friend. Looking around, and noticing the manager had disappeared, I say, "And, looking at the menu, I'm glad you don't have sausage on there for appetisers. I do see that you have fish tho. How wonderful."

Duck and cover, pass the card to your left, have some water after viewing, and then remember to thank your friends for their sense of humor.

Older than 12

In celebration of my birth-week, here is an adaptation of an oldie but a goodie:

In the first gift of birthday, Angel sent to me: a meditation CD.

In the second gift of birthday, little S sent to me: two coffee cups, and a meditation CD.

In the third hour of birthday, cell phone rang to me: three messages, two coffee cups, and I was meditation needy.

In the fourth gift of birthday, a pharmacist gave to me: four small muffins, three messages, two espresso shots, and I was meditation needy.

In the fifth act of birthday, New Girl threw in the air for me: fiiiiiive pounds confetti, four small muffins, three texting lines, two espresso shots, and meditation on my knees.

In the sixth hour of birthday, my mother woke me with: a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiiive pounds confetti, four tasty bakes, three texting lines, two sugar packs, and meditation on my knees.

In the seventh sin of birthday, my friends all bought for me: seven shots a liquor, a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiive white little lies, four tasty bakes, three cell phone buzzes, two sugar packs, and a re-alignment of my chi.

In the eighth joke of birthday, Muscle Calves should a seen: eight balloons a poppin', seven shots a liquor, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive white little lies, four muffin films, three cell phone buzzes, two ounces cream, and a re-alignment of my chi.

In the ninth gift of birthday The mail girl gave to me: nine ounces chocolate, eight balloons a poppin', seven kamikazes, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive paper packages, four muffin films, three happy birthdays, two ounces cream, and something elementary.

In the tenth act of birthday, the doctors stole from me: ten low-fat cookies, nine ounces chocolate, eight blow-up dolls, seven kamikazes, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive paper packages, four gooey treats, three happy birthdays, two sniffs of coffee, and something elementary.

In the eleventh hour of birthday, I should've given me: eleven work days off, ten low-fat cookies, nine chocolate chips, eight blow-up dolls, seven scooby snacks, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive present filled bags, four gooey treats, three "we love BP", two sniffs of coffee, and one super happy BP.

In the twelfth happy birthday, what I wished for me: twelve smiling faces, eleven work days off, ten reimbursements, nine chocolate chips, eight batteries, seven scooby snacks, six more massages, fiiiiiive present filled bags, four brand new tires, three "we love BP", two less shots of coffee, and one super happy BP.

Greatest Common Animal Crackter

Dr. G is training to run a marathon; she runs about 10 miles a day. Measured in metric time, that's 8 million miles a month. I'm lucky if I can cover 30 feet of office floor with my desk chair in a year. According to one of the Laws of Fractions I learned in 8th grade, 1/2 of you don't understand what you just read, the other 3/4 of you just don't care.

Now, because of her long distance training, Dr. G is constantly eating. For example, she'll be in a face to face meeting, when all of a sudden, this blank stare will curtain down her face; her nose will start twitching in anticipation of her next meal - kind of like a mouse looking for a block of cheese. Her head will follow her darting eyes looking for any morsel that she might pick up with her heightened olfactory sense. Below her name on her gold office plate, and etched out of teeth indentations, is the phrase, "Are you going to eat that?" Her assistant should have informed Dr. G that it wasn't a golden wrapped chocolate bar before she so gracefully bit into it.

So, here we are at dinner, Dr. G, Dr. L, Mr. Detective, and myself. We had just finished a meeting regarding medical education and how we'll train students successfully while giving them a run for their money. Dr. G surveys the whole table, remarking on our fish dishes, "Oh my! This is good fish. You know, I wish my cat ate more kinds of fish. She only likes one type. My cat weighs about 18 pounds. Poor thing."

I finish chewing a piece of spinach, swallow, and turn to Dr. G. "Wow, that's a big fur ball. That cat weighs as much as... a 9 month old child! What kind of fish do you feed your cat? I mean, is the only kind of fish your cat eats deep fried and beer battered fish sticks or something?"

Mulling over her poached sole, Dr. G continues, "Oh, heavens no! haha. I guess she takes after me, I'm constantly eating since I'm training for a marathon."

Dr. L looks at Dr. G. "Oh, that's interesting." Dr. L asks for a to-go box, and puts 1/2 of an appetiser, 1/3 of his chicken, 1/4 of Mr. Detective's dinner, and an ice cube in the box. He looks up at us, and remarks, "Oh, this is for my dog. My dog is very particular with his food. He's a Chihuahua Doberman mix. Here's a picture of him." He asks Mr. Detective for his phone, and an electronic picture of a bat looking household pet appears before our eyes. "Oh, that's wonderful! It's a little bat dog," I exclaim. "Yes, yes it is," Mr. Detective chuckles, "A hungry bat dog."

Dr. G laughs at the picture, and continues about her cat, "Well, yes, just like your bat dog, my cat is picky about what she eats. I'll offer her vittles of salmon, shark, mahi mahi, and other exotic fish. She snubs me. But I open a can of tuna, and SHOOM! my cat is right there at my ankle."

I look down at my lap, lamenting about the fact I don't have a pet, but start in, "Listening to your animal stories makes me kind of sad for the dog at my house. Poor thing is allergic to everything - no soy, no fowl, no lamb, no rice, no wheat, no dairy, no fruits or veggies. He basically has to eat puffed air. What's even more tragic is that he's allergic to most things in air too, like smoke, general allergens, and smog."

Dr G's head sympathetically turns toward me, "Oh! Poor thing, he must be miserable!"

Getting a bite of food from my plate, I respond, "You know, I forgot to ask him how he's been feeling recently, but thank you for reminding me." Mr. Detective's eyes light up, and he bowls over from laughter, noticing that my comment went over both doctor's heads. I smile politely and look at the dessert case.

Houston, We have a Problem

I always thought that your gag reflex is less reactive in the morning. Ok, maybe I didn't always think that, but at least for the last few years.

Perhaps I just haven't had enough practice swallowing chokeable size objects... Maybe I just haven't really had the desire to teach my body to dull the explosive lunges when something too large and foreign gets mixed in the milieu of what enters my pie hole. I mean... c'mon, there's a reason why we have such a reflex - it's to save our life in times of crises and such. Besides, it's not like I'm some kind of daily carnival sword swallower or fire eater - although some of my friends may disagree from time to time - just in very different circumstances. (Watch your dirty little minds there! That's not what I meant!) I've also determined that I don't have GERD, anorexia nervosa, or anxiety issues.

So, on the same note, I also love brushing my teeth. Don't mix up the previous paragraph with this one - I don't enjoy swallowing vibrating power toothbrushes either.

Now this morning, while cleaning my pearly whites a second time, I learned something new. Apparently, heavy caffeine ingestion decreases gag reactionary time, while increasing the intensity of your forward lurch. These are two things you should never mix, especially when you're in a small doorway, going down stairs, in front of a wall, or a mix of all three.

I had gotten a little carried away 1/2 an hour earlier while stirring my cup of artificially sweetened motor oil, and accidentally splashed some coffee onto my shirt. I go home to change, and brush my teeth the second time this morning. *bbbbbuuuuuuuzzzzzzzz* the electric toothbrush sings as I walk around the house looking for a new shirt. The vibrating head touches the side of my tongue, and BAM! Gag reflex!

Silly me, I forgot there were things like walls at home.

I careen forward and smack my forehead on the painted surface, then, ambulance lights quickly flashing in front of me, I stumble backward from the 3rd Newtonian Prophecy out the doorway. Right next to the doorway and bruised wall, there's a staircase. Losing balance, I practically tumble down the staircase, but grab the hand rail in the nick-of-time to prevent a brutal six o'clock news story.

Learning from a previous experience, I quickly apply toothpaste to my forehead to prevent any bruising. Time to head back to work... just remember to wipe the toothpaste off before going through the front door, and preferably before I step out of my car. Although... I might be able to pull the look off if I had cinnamon toothpaste.

Stress Tests

I used to have a fear of my teeth exploding. You know, from extreme temperature changes. Like when you have a mouthful of lasagna straight from a hot oven and then grab a glass of ice water and chug it - that's an extreme temperature change. I figured that my teeth would shatter, much like a hot glass in cold water or soda can experiment. Very frightening stuff, when you're a spitefull youth, and even worse when it's (warning - this link has a popup) reinforced by cartoons! As everyone knows, cartoons always tell the truth.

So, when I was at my dentist last, I looked at the hygienist very seriously and asked her straight up, "Will my teeth shatter? Be truthful with me, because my teeth are very important to me." She give me a curious look, "Um... what do you mean, BP? Why would your teeth shatter?" I sit up in the pseudo leather operation chair and throw my hands to high heaven, "You know, like when a glass that's hot and then gets cold really fast, aren't teeth the same way? I've never mixed hot and cold foods because of that. I don't want my teeth to burst!"

She looks at me again like I've had too much morphine, and I'm seeing Elvis in my refrigerator. "No, BP. I don't think that's possible I've never had anyone schedule an appointment, or show up emergency wise with teeth that have exploded from hot coffee and ice cream." I ask her if she's serious, and then if I can ask the dentist to make double sure - it's always important to get a second opinion, especially if there's a chance of a mushroom cloud emerging from an oral detonation.

The dentist gave me the same 'you should be placed in a padded cell and viewed through a small window' look when I asked her. Even tho I feel a little better about their answers, I still don't mix hot and cold foods. Kind of funny how some fears aren't ever really vanquished.

On the other end of the spectrum are fears of external babbles. My friend Muscle Calves has an incredible fear of balloons. I didn't know this until I brought out my latest purchase - a fuscha box labeled "Super Loopy Balloons". It's a kit that shows you how to make balloon animals, which has always interested me, even tho I'm not part of a circus or a random person selling my skills to patrons of local restaurants during dinner.

I walk out into the dining room, bag in hand. "Hey guys! Look what I bought today! Isn't this so fun?" I pull the cardboard box from the bag, and Muscle Calves instinctively jumps up and out of the way, knocking his chair over. Even tho I'm across the room, fear wells up in his eyes, and he screams, "Get that thing away from me!!!!"

I take a step back. Then I hold the box up to him. He winces. "Are you ok, Muscle Calves? It's just a box of balloons." "BP, I've always had a fear of balloons. Sometimes at work, they have these shindigs where the room is full of balloons, and they're floating down the hallways. I go through the offices on those days, and take the stairs. I can't stand balloons. Keep those away, or I'll have to strangle you."

I rub my chin, considering options. I figure it's best to leave well enough alone, tho I'll leave the box next to my door if I don't want Muscle Calves in my room.

Hot Cross Buns

"Did you know the other day I got spanked?" HB says to me while picking up an ornamental trinket off the department store display table.

"Um... what?" I reply, my head crooning around at breakneck speed.

Putting the knickknack aside and promenading along the aisle, HB continues, "Yes. It was rather interesting. I've never tried it before, and I figured, 'why not'?" She flashes me a dazzling bleached smile.

HB is a fascinatingly beautiful and brilliantly educated woman. Surrounded with a cool air of accomplishment, she has a world class demeanor and oceans deep enjoyment of new indulgences (read: she's humorously kinky at times). Much like Samantha on Sex and the City, HB has the kind of self-confidence to schmooze and canoodle with anyone, and also possesses the farcical self-delusion to actually attempt it. Yes, HB's all that, and can even eat a bag of chips... usually because she'll run a few miles afterward.

"Oh realllllyyyy? Do go on, my dear HB. Do go on," I prod, knowing it's going to be a doozy of a story.

"Yes, so there I am, in a little role play. Apparently I was a school girl being punished for something, or maybe I was being initiated into a college meat mixer, or risque sorority. I really can't remember." We stroll along, and I notice other shoppers are giving us sideways glances, since HB doesn't whisper. "So, I'm being spanked with Mr. S's hand and he stops and gets what I figure is a frat-boy paddle. Anyway, he starts using his 'paddle'," she holds up her fingers to mimic a quotation by twitching them up and down,"and I'm playing along, making sure it's not too rough, because as we all know, if any one's going to be brusque, it's going to be me." She twinkles her eyes at a family passing by.

I pinch my lower lip between my fingers and look away, but tell her to go on. "And I'm calling out my hail Marys and such, then I look back and notice something is amiss. I had one of those 'what's going on back there?' moments."

"Oh, what happened?"

"I say, 'Wait, wait wait, stop!' and ask Mr. S, 'Is that a bread board you're spanking me with?'" HB smiles broadly, "He looses a little bit of color and gives me an affirmative answer. I give him this incredulous look. Then I smile and tell him I'll be right back."

I chuckle a little, knowing that HB was about to do something clever, and imagining HB tapping Mr. S's nose then walking out the bedroom door. I ask, "What did you do next? And how did you know it was a bread board?"

"Oh, BP, you know me and cookware;" nodding toward me with raised eyebrows, "Who else would know a breadboard when they see one - even if it's in the bread, I mean bedroom? So, I went straight to Mr. S's kitchen and grabbed a wooden spoon and a stick of butter from the counter and walked back. I look him straight in the eye and boldly say, 'Here, why don't you just butter up my buns next? But, my dear, that bread board in your hand isn't cutting it.'" HB tilts back in laughter and places a delicate hand over her chest, "He stopped immediately because I could not stop laughing at how ridiculous it was. Honestly, a bread board? Come on! If you're going to do kinky things, at least get the right equipment, or someone is going to call you on it."

"Hahahahah! I can't believe it! What happened next," I expectantly inquire.

"Well, since I couldn't stop laughing, I had to leave. After all, you know what they say," HB holds up the sleeve of a man's suit, "clothes make the man, leather makes the daddy; novelty breadboards just make you hungry."