Tag Archives: animals

A Park Play

12 Oct


I am on vacation… sitting onna park bench, with a quad latté, watching a crow and two seagulls fight over a trash can.

…We’ll call ’em Ed, Vincent, and Jane…

…When I first arrived, Ed, (the snow white seagull) was lording over the lip of the can, not so much interested in exploring it’s contents, as being seen as owning them. He just stood there constantly looking around him to make sure the others were watching. “The others,” including a group of Mallards who were too busy picking at bugs in the grass, and what are apparently his arch nemeses: a Crow (Vincent), and brown speckled Seagull (Jane), who were watching closely from about five feet away.

…At first I thought it was an exercise in manliness on behalf of Ed for the benefit of Jane…as if owning the goods Vincent couldn’t, made him the better man. Especially as Vincent circled the can behind, and Jane began a yordle-yell, holding Ed’s rapt attention.

“Yeah, I got this, babe,” Ed seemed to wink, as Jane’s scream lowered to a sultry growl, “You got more than that, hot stuff,” she purred…until suddenly—!

–Vincent attacked from behind! It was immediate and vicious, as he shoved Ed from the top of the can with a body slam, leaving him dazed on the ground, flicking his head, with Jane immediately erupting into shrill laughter.

…”It was a whole Bonnie and Clyde set-up!,” I thought to myself in wonder, as Vincent nodded Jane’s way and began picking at the contents of the can. Ed, meanwhile, humiliated and bruised, yelled “Fuck you, Vincent!,” as he wobbled off on his own…away from the Mallards and past my table…where I wasn’t totally sure but I thought I heard him mumble, “…I hope you choke onna used rubber…”

…Naturally I had to laugh at this, spewing Cosmonaut coffee out my nose, and pulling Vincent’s attention for a half a second…

…Which was all Jane needed, to clear the distance ‘tween her and the can, jump up on its lip, and facing Vincent, let out a giant scream…biggest yet…which startled him so much he backed off the can into mid air and sorta hung there…like in a cartoon. When he came-to and tried to re-land, he got another yell from Jane…and then another.

“…But baby, I —”


“…But honey you said–”


…And then, I swear to you…she started reaching into the can and flicking trash at him…


“…What? What? I don’t understand…??”


“…But you said you liked the toilet paper roll. You said it would look nice in the front nest…”


…After this final shriek of Jane’s refuse-flinging outburst, Vincent ceased his attempts at regaining his ground. He looked around assessing the damage of his rejected personal items strewn across the lawn, while the Mallard neighbors watching slyly from afar tried not to make eye contact, as they gossiped amongst themselves.

“…Janes finally doing it…I knew she would, I knew she would–”

“–Poor bastard, isn’t that just the way of it? She just had to do it on a busy Monday lunch break too…no privacy at all…”

“I always said it would never work: those two…”

“–Don’t be racist, Delphine…”

“– I’m not! It’s a matter of religion and temperament!”

…And so on…as Vincent, all alone, took flight, leaving all his mess of things and broken heart, behind.

I’m not entirely sure what the moral of the story is, as Jane continues to work on her trade-goods alone. Maybe it’s about how being a woman of independent means is infinitely more satisfying than settling into a life of “making due.” Maybe it’s a commentary on middle age crises and the need to reinvent oneself to reinvigorate life-purpose.

…And maybe it was just: Jane is a giant bitch.

…We may never know.


Dear Waterfront

21 Mar


A walk after work, to let go of the week.  Second day of Spring, sun is out, wind is nippy. And because I can’t just walk to walk…I take in the people and things sharing it with me…composing notes along four miles of ocean front.

Dear Kid Learning To Ride A Bike,
You’ve got this buddy.  Dad’s got your back, and Mom’s waiting for you with open arms.  I hope this is true for you, forever.


Dear Twenty-Something Beach Bod Shirtless Skateboarder Whose Lapped Me Three Times,
Without sounding letchy…thank you.


Dear Stroller Brigade,
Kudos, super Moms in matching tracksuits.


Dear C.I.Shenanigans,
So much garlic and butter smell, wafting.  You teasing asshole.


Dear Middle-Aged Couple Making Out On Grass Knoll,
Winning! Kinda gross…but, winning!


Dear Epic Wonder Runner,
I didn’t know there were that many different individual muscles in a calf.  You freak of fitness.


Dear Cocktail Hour Seniors Lolling Into Harbor Lights,
I’m so jealous of you bastards.  Have one for me.


Dear Construction Workers,
Heh, heh. (winky wink.)


Dear Fat Man With Tiny Dog,
Casting gold.


Dear Clam Diggers,
Dudes, don’t eat ’em.  It’s the goddamn waterfront.  You know what’s in that water?!?!?


Dear Tandem Runners,
It’s cute how you can talk, run, and breathe at the same time.  But you don’t have to rub it in.


Dear Awkward Rollerbladers,
Most people learn how to do this in a less public and embarrassing atmosphere…without thru-traffic and extending dog leashes everywhere.  But apparently,you’re not “most people.” So good luck with that.


Dear Dog Daters,
I dunno how your dog sniffing her dog’s butt opens up meet-cute conversation flirtation…but whatever works for yuh, I guess.


Dear Random Tweaker Dancing Fosse Moves To Silence,


Dear Emo Gay Boys,
Listen: you’re friends, one or both of you wants to be more, so stop walking with hands in pockets, three feet apart, like accidental physical contact would set you on fire. One of you assholes, just take the other one’s hand, and get over it.


Dear Old Man Onna Bench,
If I was playing waterfront bingo, I would have just won, for which I hypothetically thank you.


Dear Handsy New Daters,
You’re not ready to be in public yet. There’s a society line at 4pm in public where children are hanging out. That line doesn’t include cupping, squeezing or dry humping.


Dear Chick Putting Off Script Study To Write A Blog Entry,
Cuppa tea number 300, turn off the computer, and get to work…slacker.


Behind The Scene Beaverfications

3 Dec

So you’ve never been a beaver before. That’s cool, I mean we were all there once.  But I know stuff now that might come in handy, should you ever undertake playing one…(or becoming cursed or otherwise enchanted into it.)

…First: little-known truisms:

* Beavers secretly have the best butts in the whole of the animal kingdom. And legs of steel.  This is because squatting and waddling burns so many calories per hour that you could eat a whole Giant Red Sequoia and still come out lookin’ like Suzanne Somers from the 90’s Thigh Master years.
(How everyone NOT in the Beaver lineage, keeps it fit.)

* Beavers aren’t big on the “animal soundtrack” album.  They are still frankly pretty pissed about not being offered a contract with the “See n Say” recording studio.  But that’s okay, cuz  little-known-fact is: (and by “fact” I mean “we totally made it up”), Beavers sound alot like Chewbacca. Expecially when angry.
(Only the “popular animals,” my ass! Beavers are the cheerleaders of Narnia, bitches!)

* Beavers know all the answers to every plot question ever known to man. And all the secret forest pathways. In fact, Wizards have been studying them for centuries, cuz they only WISH they were as awesome. This is why you have two all-powerful pointy-hatters in those “Lord of the Ring” books and it STILL takes 80 years, two generations, ten or twelve armies, and three months of constant video streaming time, to climb one fucking hill just to throw a stupid ring off the top…and why our show is currently clocking in at an hour and a half.

(“I got this.”)

* Beavers are the sole of discretion. Especially if you accidentally-on-purpose run away to join in cahoots with a White Witch, and decided later (when she tries to kill you), that maybe that wasn’t the best idea. No questions asked, you can rejoin the good-guy team, whenever you want to. (Also, we won’t say anything about how you accidentally tooted while waddle-running in battle that one time.)

(Honey, what I know could fill a book, but buy me a drink: and we call it even.)

* Beavers have a certain sophistication which most forest animalia lack. Where the horse may have some powerhouse elegance, and the birds: a certain designer-label-born beauty…the Beaver can muck around, sweating and rolling all over the stage (or forest floor) all night long, battling Russian wolves and evil she-creatures galore…but their favorite way to unwind end-of-the-night, is still a decent sized cocktail, while watching Once Upon A Time on bluray.
(Some “me” time, end-of-the-battle day.)

* Beavers are masters of disguise and stealth. In fact, they can hide in plain sight while overhearing stage conversations for whole scenes at a time. Their secret is keeping super still. And the fact that apparently every other animal is really really nearsighted with terrible senses of smell.
(The famous “statue” pose, figuring largely into our specific production.)

* Beavers like to argue. A lot. They’ve placed first at every International bickering convention since 1902. Mostly tossed up in a good natured way, the bickering is how the Beaver shows their over-protective love. Kinda like your Mother. (And other alternatively aggressive ethnic family.)

(“For Chrissake Ralphie, you lazy bastard! Did you mud over that last layer yet?! You want we should all die in a hut cave-in or what?!”)

…In short, when undertaking to portray one of these fine, noble, classy bastards…have some respect for the Mob Boss of the forest. Cuz they’ve got this animal kingdom shit tied up ’round their little finger. Truth.


The WHS Pimp Tampon Revolution

13 Nov


This is a real story:

WHS Pimp was taking a poop. It was at home, on Monday…(which isn’t really important, but I’m all about the “details”)…and anyway, he looked around for some reading material (like you do), finding only a box of Tampons.

…So, he read it.

…And he kept reading it.

…And he read it again.

…And then, he came in today, after fuming over it for two days, walked into my office from outta nowhere, and said:

WHS Pimp: “…First of all: I’ve been buying and looking at Tampon boxes all my life. Right…?”

Me: “Sure.”

WHS Pimp: “…I mean: I’ve grown up with two sisters, a mom, there’s The Ex…it’s not like I don’t get the idea of them.”

Me: “Okay.”

WHS Pimp: “…But what I’m saying is: These Tampon people are fucked up.”

Me: “Sure.”

WHS Pimp: “You wanna know why?”

Me: “I wish you would tell me.”

WHS Pimp: “First of all: it says on the box that all brands use a universal measurement of absorbency…”

Me: “Okay.”

WHS Pimp: “…And they color code it accordingly. Like: ‘Supers’ all equal ‘green’…”

Me: “Right.”

WHS Pimp: “…Now, they figure on the absorbency in measurements of grams. Which, I dunno ’bout you, but I find just weird.”

Me: “Sure.”

WHS Pimp: “First of all: who measures in grams? That’s like metric system kind of bullshit. And what kind of panel or research people has the job of figuring out the amount of grams that people bleed anyway? And also: how does that information help you at all? I mean: how’s a lady supposed to know how many grams she expels? What…they want you to like squat over a cup or something for several hours at a stretch to gauge the general weight? And also: that changes almost daily, and according to your activity…am right? I mean: you have heavy flow times and NOT so heavy flow times…”

Me: “Correct.”

WHS Pimp: “…But then they say a ‘super’ absorbs such-and-such grams or ‘heavy’…and ladies are different, so YOUR heavy time might not be HER heavy time amount and so on. So how’s a poor pre-teen, in like a family of all men with no mother, supposed to figure that shit out?!”

Me: “I never really thought about that…”

WHS Pimp: “Yeah! Right?! So here’s what I think…”

Me: “Bring it.”

WHS Pimp: “First of all: You ladies take a whole lotta shit.”

Me: “We do.”

WHS Pimp: “…They shouldn’t be adding, ‘how many grams am I bleeding right now’ onto it.”

Me: “Right? Those fucking bastards.”

WHS Pimp: “…And also: you’re super badass. I mean you BLEED out of your VAGINA. EVERY. MONTH.”

Me: “It’s true.”

WHS Pimp: “…So I decided, I should open up my OWN Tampon factory and just totally revolutionize the whole system. We’d ax that whole grams/’super’ size crap and just go with ‘simple.’ And market it better. Like with awesome animal names or something.”

Me: ”I’d be down with that.”

WHS Pimp: “See?!”

Me: “And none of the ‘Have a happy period’/ ‘fortune cookie’ bullshit that Tampax pulls. That just enrages me. I’m hurled over a toilet bowl, ralphing from cramps, while bleeding, and when it’s time to change-out, some snarky-bullshit-condescending-marketing-asshat has printed that crap all over the wrapper I’m trying to get the fuck open, and it just PISSES ME OFF. Really? ‘Practice makes perfect?’ Really?! I’ve been a fucking EXPERT at this shit FOR 21 YEARS NOW, thank you…!”

WHS Pimp: “…Oh, I hear yuh! Yeah. There’ll be NONE of THAT, in MY Tampon company!”

Me: “Good…”

WHS Pimp: “…And ALSO: Lets just take the math and measures out of the whole mixture. We have one product, one box, one size: done. Why even waste your time with different sizes to begin with? It’s just confusing. Why not just a one-size-fits all? I mean, wouldn’t you rather just use the ‘super’ …or in MY product line’s case: ‘Panther’…all the time, and be done with it? Less changing. Less mess. Less hassle. PLUS: it’d be like, ‘Hey, you gotta Panther? Yeah I got one. You need one? Yeah, thanks.’ It’s that awesome.

Me: “Ah. And here, we hit the snag.”

WHS Pimp: “…The final animal names are totally negotiable…”

Me: “No, it’s not the ‘Panther.’ You’re right, that is badass. It’s that the amount of flow DOES in fact matter.”

(He blinks)

Me: “Okay…cuz like, you have your ‘Panther’ days…and sometimes your ‘Polar Bear’ days…but you eventually wheedle down to like your ‘small-rodent-Chipmunk’ days.”

WHS Pimp: “Right.”

Me: “Well like…where you can get away with a ‘Polar Bear’ on a ‘Panther’ day…you can’t wear a ‘Panther’ on a ‘Chipmunk’ day. Or a “Deer.” On a ‘Chipmunk’ day, even a ‘Rabbit’ is pushing it. Cuz getting that thing IN is a whole lot different then getting it OUT again.”

(He blinks)

Me: “…There’s…it’s…you have to…there’s dry yanking involved. Maybe like an un-lubed prostate exam. In reverse.”

(He winces.)

Me: “Yeah.”

(He winces again.)

Me: “…BUT, I applaud your efforts ….in concerned study and thought…on making our monthly Mrs. Johnson visits more badass and streamlined and less condescendingly douchey.”

WHS Pimp: “It’s just cuz I care.”

Me: “I know you do, buddy.”

(Long silence as he goes back to his desk.)

Me: “That was a very detailed pooping.”

WHS Pimp: “Yeah. Tell me about it…”

The end.


The One Where They Start Throwing Money

11 Nov


Strange how much not like a whore I feel today, being as Corporate finally folded and started throwing greenbacks our way to get us to stay.

…It is a small amount, but larger than we realistically thought they would offer, is set retro-active to the day Boss walked out, and will be the FIRST of a PHASE of raises, impending this year, as the office continues to restructure.

…Which means: I don’t have to keep looking for a job anymore (the worst second full-time job EVER) and I’ll be able to actually pay ALL my bills now, (instead of just running a bastardized Lotto system every month to see who wins all the bucks THIS time.)

Huge giant leaps in the world of less stress…I gotta tell yuh.

…And not only THAT, but the WHS Pimp (acting head of OPS) decided we should split the branch bonus every month instead of just accruing it himself…so a certain someone might even be able to stuff some bucks away now…or like, you know, opt into a retirement plan again (which I haven’t had since my young 20’s.)

About. Fucking. Time. (Says I.)

About. Fucking. Time.

…So, that happened last week.  Along with the usual other work shit…which strangely is a lot less stressful in retrospect with a couple of bucks in your pocket.

In Other News: Inappropriate Beavering continues. I have my first Beaver fitting on Wednesday…which (I have to admit) is slightly terrifying. You guys, they took circumference measurements of my head. And also: we have tails.

…In my brains we look something like adults in furry footie PJs, and those knit beanie caps topped with animal ears, with a four foot plastic shovel sewed to our ass. During fight call last week (wherein I was given a weapon of a rolling pin, that I obviously haul around with me always and merely need to pull outta my Beaver pocket to use as needed), we discussed the concern of tail room in general. With the 30,000 children in this show, the possibility that it WON’T be stepped on (and thus rip my whole butt off at some point), is pretty slim. They had thought of this ahead of time, I guess, as we heard that we will have amended, smaller tails, which just changed the pictoral in my head to look something like a gopher with a giant cling-on poop coming outta his butt.

…Which reminds me…

…At some point we elder Beavers were like, “Um…what the hell kinda noise does a Beaver even make?” So, naturally, I went home and YouTubed Beavers. Which pulled up a whole PLETHORA of range in info…not all of which has to do with Beavers at all. And no, I’m not just talking about sexy stuff. I’m talking about the worrisome amount of adults WORLDWIDE who don’t know the difference between an Otter, a Groundhog, a Ferret, and a Gopher. Seriously. Most of these people were at Zoos…with their children…where the animals are LABELED in various languages. And yet there is clip after clip of Moms and Dads talking to their three-year-old about how cute the Beavers are, when any idiot can read that they are (in fact) Prairie Dogs.

…But after I was done worrying about the poor and utterly misinformed children of idiots, I spent the rest of the time watching National Geographic clips and fucking hilarious Canadian beer commercials.

…Meanwhile…never once finding out the kind of noise that a Beaver makes.

Apparently, it is an unsolved mystery.

Science may NEVER find out.

…So, I think I’ll just make some shit up and go from there.

…This is what we call “Improv.” And is a totally legit thing to teach our Baby Beavers. Unlike the stupid people who scar their children for life by taking them to Zoos and calling Giraffe’s “cows” and shit.

The end.


%d bloggers like this: