Sometimes, I think I Should Blog About Weightier Matters

But, my new house is full of dead bees. On the floor, like little balls of thread or lint, seeming innocuous until I look closely. And I have to force myself to pick them up because what if they're just playing dead in order to sting me? And they must be coming from somewhere... what doors have I not opened yet? Perhaps they're hiding in the washing machine or the cabinet over the stove that's too high for me to reach?

My not sure why bees bother me so. The last time I was stung by a bee I was 13, and it really wasn't that bad (I believe I used it as an excuse to get out of whatever tedious gym-class activity we were engaged in at the time), yet I'm still terrified. No doubt the movie My Girl is somewhat to blame, and my loathing of bugs in general. Also, when I was a small child we went to a nature preserve which featured a beehive that had one wall of clear plastic, so you could see them all inside, buzzing around, crawling all over each other. My father assured me they couldn't get out and picked me up for a closer look... but once up there I saw that the top of the hive was open and the bees were free to fly in and out as they pleased. All the way home I was convinced there were bees in my hair.

Yet at the same time, I'm often attracted to fictional characters with an affinity for bees; Idgie (of Fried Green Tomatoes), Chuck (of Pushing Daisies), and of course the dogs with bees in their mouths.

Anyway, here is a Sunday Poem about bees:

The Arrival of the Bee Box
Sylvia Plath

I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.

Favorite Finds

I'm a daily Found visitor, and keep a folder of delightful finds on my hard drive, to look through when I need cheering up. I never thought I'd find one better than this:



But then, this happened:

Top Five Things I will Pay to See in a Movie

1. Dinosaurs
2. Immaculately Stylized Quirkiness
3. Adaptations of Shakespeare
4. Vampires
5. Magical Otherealms

List-making. Is there anything more satisfying?

I feel like the stuff mentioned yesterday ("Catholic-themed creepiness" "Edwardian costumes" "people trapped on a spaceship with mysterious evil") would fall around #15 on the list... and in between somewhere there'd have to be space for Musicals set in the 19th Century, Knights, Ireland, Witty But Slightly Inept Criminals, Moody Loners in Northern Climes, Self-Destructive Yet Brilliant Artists, Zombies...

Honestly, there really isn't a lot I wouldn't pay to see in a movie... that list would probably consist mostly of actors I hate.

Anyway, there was going to be a point to this, but I'm distracted by how awesome a movie featuring all five of those things would be.

Perhaps Wes Anderson could direct a film, loosely based on The Tempest, in which a shipwreck lands our plucky heroine in a mysterious world of vampires and dinosaurs.

Some Randomness

We used to have one of those cheap plastic piano-rugs when I was a kid, and I could totally play the first dozen notes of Fur Elise on it, but then ran out of keys. If I were ever rich enough to be utterly ridiculous, instead of a bowling alley in my basement I would have one of these, with a full-sized pianosworth of keys.

(the "pianosworth" is a fabulous new unit of measurement I just made up, and might also double as my butler's name. Should I ever be rich enough to be totally ridiculous).

Also, enjoy some bug porn.



Finally, while browsing e-cards for various neglected friends and family members I came across this:


Which is totally true, as I dislike both Dan Brown and Tom Hanks with a pair of fiery passions, but also amuses me because I rather enjoy movies that rely heavily on the occultish aspects of Catholicism for eerie atmosphere. I was never more proud of my Catholic heritage in my goth days (though back then I was officially a pentagram-wearing pseudo-pagan). In grad school, I wrote many a paper on anti-papist plays and pamphlets of the 16th and 17th centuries. Basically, on the list of things I'll pay to see in a movie "Catholic-themed creepiness" comes just after "Edwardian costumes" and before "people trapped on a spaceship with mysterious evil."

I should actually make that list someday. Number one is definately "dinosaurs." But is number two "adaptations of Shakespeare" or "immaculately stylized quirkiness"?

Food for thought.

Seen in Michigan, part III

4) What looked like a pile of dead fish on the side of the highway. It has been suggested it may have been a dead pig.

More About the Crazy Teenagers

Apparently, they like to hug.

That's all well and good, I suppose. When I was in high school, we didn't go around hugging every five minutes, but I do remember feeling that even our mild level of hugging was a little much, so I suppose if I were a teenager now I would have many more words of annoyance to spend on the subject.

For the purposes of this post, however, I want to direct your attention to a quote from possibly the Worst Mother Ever:

“Maybe it’s because all these kids do is text and go on Facebook so they don’t even have human contact anymore,” said Dona Eichner, the mother of freshman and junior girls at the high school in Montvale.

Can I get a WTF?

It would be one thing if this was a quote from say, a "local crumudgeon" or "radical neo-luddite sepratist." But there is something very Not Right about the parent of a pair of teenagers complaining about the socially alienated little creatures she's housing.

Maybe, as a human being, you might be able to provide some of that 'human contact' your kids are so lacking in? By which (I suppose) you mean physical contact, since obviously the internet is not the real world and all relations that occur thereon are void of meaning.

Which, when you think about it, makes you wonder why 'sexting' is such a big frickin' deal. Maybe it's not about prudishness at all. These freaked-out parents just want their kids to get together in person and do it the old-fashioned way.

For No Reason

Drew this while I was on the phone.

Seen in Michigan, part II

3) Girl in bikini (despite 60-degree weather) attempting to climb onto the roof her her townhouse to rescue a frisbee while a crowd of three fully-clothed guys cheered her on.

A Rambling Post (sort of) About Sexting!

This is too, too hilarious:

Top 50 Text Acronyms Parents Need to Know

1 8 Oral sex
2 1337 Elite
3 143 I love you
4 182 I hate you
5 459 I love you
6 1174 Nude club
7 420 Marijuana
8 ADR Address
9 ASL Age/Sex/Location
10 Banana Penis
11 CD9
or Code9Parents are around
12 DUM Do You Masturbate?
13 DUSL Do You Scream Loud?
14 FB F*** Buddy
15
16 FMLTWIA F*** Me Like The Whore I Am
17 FOL Fond of Leather
18 GNOC Get Naked On Cam
19 GYPO Get Your Pants Off
20 IAYM I Am Your Master
21 IF/IB In the Front or In the Back
22 IIT Is It Tight?
23 ILF/MD I Love Female/Male Dominance
24 IMEZRU I Am Easy, Are You?
25 IWSN I Want Sex Now
26 J/O Jerking Off
27 KFY
or K4Y Kiss For You
28 Kitty Vagina
29 KPC Keeping Parents Clueless
30 MorF Male or Female
31 LMIRL Let's Meet In Real Life
32 MOOS Member Of The Opposite Sex
33 WYCM Will You Call Me?
34 MOS Mom Over Shoulder
35 MPFB My Personal F*** Buddy
36 NALOPKTNot A Lot Of People Know That
37 NIFOC Nude In Front Of The Computer
38 NMU Not Much, You?
39 P911 Parent Alert
40 PAL Parents Are Listening
41 PAW Parents Are Watching
42 PIR Parent In Room
43 POS Parent Over Shoulder or Piece Of Sh**
44 PRON Porn
45 Q2C Quick To Cum
46 RU/18 Are You Over 18?
47 RUH Are You Horny?
48 S2R Send To Receive
49 SorG Straight or Gay
50 TDTM Talk Dirty To Me

via The Hater

This chart could actually save teenagers a lot of time. Now, instead of texting the cumbersome "FMLTWIA" they could increase their sexting efficiency by just sending "16!"

Back in my day, when my friends and I were making sketchy plans over the phone (the landline, mind you... cell phones and internets were not readily available until my college days) and a parent sidled into the room, the accepted thing to do was loudly go "Um, excuse me! Privacy!" which signaled to your phonemate that an authority figure was present, so they wouldn't be baffled when you followed it up with something innocent-sounding like, "What did you get for number 22?" or "Wanna get together at the malt shop after the sock hop?"

But, seriously, are there parents out there unaware that by the time something filters down to a scare story on your local news you can pretty much garauntee your kids got over it at least 6 months ago?* Sometimes I suspect these things of being some sort of teenage conspiracy to makes sure their parents are looking exactly the wrong way to catch them in shady doings. Though, this one seems destined to lead down an uncomfortable road:

"Did you just text OMG? What does that mean? Openly Masturbate, Girl? Opulent G-spot Massage? You can tell me, I'm hip. Let's talk about contraception!"

Despite finding the presence of teenagers anywhere I want to be incredibly annoying, I'm somewhat proud of myself for being able to maintain some sympathy with them in theory.

I remember when I was about 15, I was all fired-up about the injustice of R-rated movies (the theatres in my town had just started enforcing the R-rating. The first film I was turned away from was The People vs. Larry Flynt, which I cannot now imagine wanting to see, but hey... youth). Why, I demanded of anyone who would listen, should I have to pay the "adult price" of $6.50 (and thems 1998 dollars!) when I was not allowed into "adult movies"?**

The overwhelming response of anyone over 17... "Meh."

At which point I would launch into speech about how nothing was ever going to get better because on one cared about the plight of the youth, even those who had been denied access to Larry Flynt right alongside me, but had their birthday the very next week, David!!***

And be met once again with a resounding "Meh."

But now, even though I just turned Twenty(cough) years old, I still totally think that anyone old enough to get to a movie theatre by themself should be allowed to see whatever they damn well please. Or that under-17s should have a special "no-good-stuff" rate.

I mean, I don't care a lot. But I'd provide a "right on" to any kid who wanted to rant about not being allowed into a movie. If I were put in the unfortunate position of having to talk to a teenager, that is. Which I hope does not happen.

I've had a lot of coffee and can't think of a way to end this post now.

Uh, TTYL!

(Does that mean "Taunting with Titties, Young Lover"? You can tell me, I'm hip!)

*Unless it's pot, kids never get over that. Your kids are totally smoking pot right now.

**A theory, I now realizes, which implies that adults are paying extra for extra profanity, which might not be a bad strategy for movies to adopt in These Tough Economic Times. If you don't want to pay $10 for your summer blockbuster, you could pay $5 for the edited-for-TV version where Samuel L. Jackson is constantly saying "Mellonhugger!"

***That's totally his real name! I wonder whatever happened to him? Good ol' purple-haired, bisexual David. Perhaps he has kids now...

Gay Companions Updated!

What have those crazy kids been up to, you ask?

Find out for yourself.

Maybe I Should Call Them Monday Poems?

This time I have the excuse of having just moved, and having no internet at home yet.

Plus I picked a Memorial Day themed poem.

The Sleeper in the Valley
Arthur Rimbaud

It is a green hollow where a stream gurgles,
Crazily catching silver rags of itself on the grasses;
Where the sun shines from the proud mountain:
It is a little valley bubbling over with light.

A young soldier, open-mouthed, bare-headed,
With the nape of his neck bathed in cool blue cresses,
Sleeps; he is stretched out on the grass, under the sky,
Pale on his green bed where the light falls like rain.

His feet in the yellow flags, he lies sleeping. Smiling as
A sick child might smile, he is having a nap:
Cradle him warmly, Nature: he is cold.

No odour makes his nostrils quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
At peace. There are two red holes in his right side.

Seen in Michigan (an ongoing series?)

1. Going north on I-90, a billboard for some sort of animal attraction (that did not identify itself as a zoo) which appeared to depict an elephant being sodomized by a giraffe.

2. The "family planning" section of the Standale Walgreens: a single shelf containing nothing but pregnency tests. Way to plan, yo.

Sunday Poem (late again!)

Instructions
Neil Gaiman

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never saw before.
Say "please" before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the
green-painted front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat nothing.
However,
if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the undergrowth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman.
She may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle. Inside it
are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the
twelve months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them
where you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry.
The ferryman will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he
will be free to leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble
from one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have
helped to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower;
that is why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the
place your journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden
gate you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.

Or rest.

19th Century Illustrations of Dinosaurs

Henry de la Beche, Duria Antiquior

(If you look closely, you can see that many of the dinosaurs are pooping.)



And here's what they looked like when not eating each other:
Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkings, Teleo, Ichthio and Plesiosaurus



I love how sneaky this one looks:
Megalosaurus



Iguanodon

This one doubled as a lovely spot for dinner

Bamboo Art

Made on my Bamboo

Who Hasn't?

If you have ever yearned to own a Victorian shopfront, an old tin chapel, or a box of glass eyes (assorted colours), then an auction in the Forest of Dean could be too tempting to pass over.

Victorian Museum Auction

Tuesday Poem?

This Sunday I was on a whirl-wind Mother's Day visit to Dubuque, IA ("The Masterpiece on the Mississippi"), where I scored some wonderful remembrances of my grandfather who passed away this November, including a copy of Carl Sandburg's Harvest Poems.

So in honor of Grandpa John, here's a belated Sunday Poem.

They All Want to Play Hamlet
Carl Sandburg

They all want to play Hamlet.
They have not exactly seen their fathers killed
Nor their mothers in a frame-up to kill,
Nor an Ophelia lying with dust gagging the heart,
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders,
Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers--O flowers, flowers slung by a dancing girl--in the saddest play the inkfish, Shakespeare ever wrote;
Yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad and to stand by an open grave with a joker's skull in the hand and then to say over slow and over slow wise, keen, beautiful words asking the heart that's breaking, breaking,
This is something that calls and calls to their blood.
They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet.

Doodles

In addition to being my birthday, Thursday was also National Doodle Day, which means I get to enjoy a little glimpse into the minds of celebrities and semi-celebrities, and it doesn't feel like weird fame gawking because it's all for a good cause.

My favorites are Steve Martin's ode to the famous arrow gag which my grad school professor would disown me for not mentioning first appeared in 1607 in Francis Beaumont's The Knight of the Burning Pestle:




And this one, by Cat Mihos, who I guess works for Neil Gaiman in some capacity:

Overrated

Nothing gets my goat more than the following sort of exchange:

Me: I'm totally obsessed with _____'s new album!

Other Guy: I always thought _____ was overrated.

Oh, really? Why? By whom? How does that invalidate my enjoyment? Rarely does Other Guy know the answer to those questions. Calling something "overrated" seems to be hipster code for "I feel that I am too cool to like that."

However, this is entertaining. I'll let them explain themselves:

Have you ever wanted to be smart and sassy like Christopher Hitchens, without having to sacrifice your liver or your dignity? Well, here’s your chance!

According to a 2006 New Yorker profile, Hitch once declared, apropos of nothing, “that the four most overrated things in life were champagne, lobsters, anal sex, and picnics.” Like all of Hitch’s opinions, his List offends everyone, for different reasons. Still, you can’t help but admit there’s something to it.

Here's mine:



(illustration brought to you by my new birthday toy).

Birthday!

For my birthday, my friend and I made a cake that looks EXACTLY like my cat.

Behold:




Which is cake and which is cat? Only some sort of magical genius could figure it out!

Coincidental

During my nap-time internet-ing around (after I got pissed off at like the thousandth instance I've seen this week of "freedom of speech" related foolery) I happened to check and see what those crazy dinosaurs were up to.

It turns out, they were expressing the very sentiments I used to justify getting my first tattoo. Which I gave myself as a birthday present, nigh on 5 years ago today:




My actual words were: "Look, mom, if I ever become the sort of person who doesn't want a mermaid tattooed on her thigh, I don't want to know myself."



Half a decade and two degrees later, it's still true.

Just a Little Note

Dear denizens of The Internet,

Please do a little research to better understand your right to "freedom of speech."

Someone expressing an opinion contrary to yours is not infringing on your human rights, even if that expression includes advising you to shut the fuck up. 

Other things that in no way threaten your freedom of speech include having your comment blocked, pointing out that your language is racist/sexist/anythingist, not finding you amusing, calling you a jackdouche or an assbag or whatever the kids are calling each other these days.

I, a random internet user, have no power to prevent you, another random internet user, from expressing your idiocy. So don't worry, fartnozzles. Your voices will always be heard.

Love,

Kitty Pimms

Sunday Poem

Where the Sidewalk Ends
Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.