Monday, February 27, 2006

bananas rich in association

Lately I’ve been eating a lot of bananas.

My grandma sent me e-mail containing a list of nutritional facts about the banana. I seem to have deleted the message by mistake or I would include it here. At any rate, the banana seems to be good for just about everything. What I remember: regulating mood (here, here! let’s hope so!), sharpening brain function (hot damn!), and tempering a hangover (bring it on!), a lot of vitamins B.

I eat the bananas at my desk at work. People look into my office as they walk by and suddenly I feel like a dirty girl exposed, like I’m sitting there, boobs falling out the top of my shirt (if I had the kind of boobs that do this) and thighs exposed, making gestures with my tongue, when really I’m just trying to enjoy my healthy banana.

The banana lends itself to easy metaphor and innuendo as it is, but I wonder if it might be an earlier association twined up in my inflated image. Once upon a time, while trying to open a banana, I said to the guy I was dating, "I am not very good at peeling bananas." He offered to teach me how to handle the banana.

Is that why I see speech balloons above the heads of passersby (Cock! Cock! And look what she’s doing with it!)? Maybe.

Two other objects are all twined up in personal association in my mind, each based on utterance from someone else.

The Sharpie. Someone once told me he had fantasies about poking Sharpies into his butt. Since then, I can not hear Sharpie without imagining it as a butt-toy.

Batteries. Once I said to my friend, "I need to get batteries." He prodded, "For a vibrator?" This same friend made the same connection with regard to another girl at a different time. Since then, when I hear batteries, the first image in my head is a vibrator.

I suppose we are all formed by associations, some of which are easily trackable and some of which are not. What a rich package of bold loops and color-code we all must be.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

crito crinkled the memo cacophonously

The difference between word and deed is mammoth.

I hope I have not been behaving like those people I complain about.

As far as I know, human language did not originate in frogs, despite a theory erected by one French swimmer and thinker. coac coac.

Dart injuries are on the rise. Don’t try this at home. Or, try this more frequently at home in order to improve performance to your liking.

Healthy candy bars, CocoaVia bars. Duh, in moderation, like with everything else.

Ricky Gervais podcast goes commercial. That is, Ricky Gervais of The Office brilliance.

Thank you, Axl. The name of my first book will be
T.W.A.T. I’ll change what it stands for, of course (perhaps Tiny Wankers Are Telepathic, Then Wonka Ate Tofu, Tipsy Waitresses Align Tires).

It’s the headline that attracted me: "Surviving Bee Gees Reunite for Charity." It essentially says, "Those Bee Gees Who Aren’t Dead…". Maybe better to kill the "surviving" part and address it in the article. But I’m no expert in journalism.

Thursday, February 16, 2006


Recently bathrobe discussions have been lacing the airways. What the hell good is a robe? Why does someone need a robe? Who wears robes?

My mom bought me a robe this past Christmas and I wondered these things, which again arose during a brief K-S conference in the haunted mansion. My mom had bought me a robe years earlier and I had to struggle to use it. I had to plan to use that big green thing just wanting to serve purpose in the world. And I was failing.

My grandma always wore a robe after her bath at night. She had all sorts of robes: silky ones, thick cotton ones, terry cloth. I remember bright red.

I shower, I get dressed, I get on with my day or night. There isn’t time or purpose for a robe.

This equation, however, seems too simply exclusive. There must be a stress-free way to include the robe in my lifestyle.

I have visions of fanfare and decadence associated with the robe. The robe fascinates me, so I did some research.

First, a definition: A loose-fitting robe worn before and after bathing and for lounging. Included in this definition is timeframe and purpose.

Learn by example. Here are recorded instances of people wearing bathrobes:

Robert Moses: "He'd phone ahead, throw a bathrobe over his swim trunks, hop into his big black chauffeured limousine with the ‘NY 2000’ plate, and be delivered within five minutes to the waterfront home of old friends Rogers and Mary Howell, who lived on the same creek but a half-mile away, where the water was cleaner."

Thomas Clarence Larson: "A bathrobe presented him by Frank Gotch, onetime wrestling champion of the world, is a prized possession of T. C. Larson, 1913 South College street."

Archimedes: "The word ‘eureka,’ which means ‘I have found it!,’ was allegedly first uttered by the philosopher and mathematician Archimedes, who figured out the solution to a vexing scientific problem while in the bath and was so thrilled that he ran into the street shouting about it, sans bathrobe."

J. Anthony Lukas: "He returned in the afternoon to his Upper West Side apartment and hanged himself with a bathrobe sash."

Art: "The Oberlin work is an early example of Dine's use of the bathrobe (always empty, volumetric, with hands on hips) as a ‘friendly signifier’ of common, vernacular use and personal possession." Dine stated, "I probably visualized the axe, the log, and the bathrobe as an extension of myself--a self portrait."

Archaeology: "Bathrobe and shower clogs , Small mirror, Cloth line and clothespins…Liquid detergent in a plastic bottle, Flashlight, Small canteen: We provide water in the field, but you might find a small canteen useful, especially on weekends." These things are listed as needed for an excavation expedition.

What can be deduced about the robe from these instances?

-The robe is an acceptable cover if you need to cross town for a swim, so that you might transport yourself to the swimming venue, already dressed in your swimming gear. No need to change clothes. The robe is efficient.

-The robe is not a practical piece but a souvenir, a memento.

-The robe represents grounded presence of mind—too grounded, in that a mind concerned about such banalities as putting on the robe to cover oneself might not be loose enough to happen upon a great discovery. Sometimes we must make choices.

-If we suffer from crippling depression, we might want to remove the sash immediately from the robe and burn it. Then, however, the robe will hang open, defying its purpose, in which case we might not be a good candidate for a robe.

-The robe can be used to make artistic statement. Get in touch with yourself; draw a robe and flank it with pieces of your psyche.

-Apparently, if you are an archaeologist, either amateur or professional, a bathrobe is a necessity. You could throw on a pair of shorts and/or a big t-shirt, but that would not be the same. The robe must somehow prepare the digger for what is about to be dug.

Duly noted, in my quick research I found many more instances of men wearing robes than women. Furthermore, the first site I found containing information about a woman in a robe mentioned pubes. For reasons cited as 'obscenity' I was not allowed access to this site.

I have been unable to find a solid history of the robe—I work, after all. However, Wikipedia confirms that the bathrobe is worn in instances where one does not need or want to dress immediately and can remain in the nude yet keep warm during this time. In this respect, the robe is sexy.

Comedian Jim Gaffigan adroitly points out that when we see people wearing bathrobes outdoors we think they are crazy. They stumble outside in the early morn, fumble round for the newspaper. They look displaced yet cushioned in both mind and body.

The robe: decadence indoors, lunacy outdoors. When I make use of the bathrobe, I will have made inner peace.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006


Happy slappy day of felt-tipped hearts and chalk candy.

Chirp chirp chirp goes the hallway.

A long silver day.

Photos of volcanoes excite me. Really excite me.

So do photos of tornados.

Science shows it true: North Americans, in general, have no rhythm. Apparently it is, all puns intended, beaten out of us.

No, no chip, passive or otherwise, will be implanted in my body, for work purposes or otherwise.

This morning NPR told me about designer dogs and why, scientifically, we are attracted to them. I cannot access NPR at work, so here. Puggle, Labradoodle, Cockapoo.

And then Frankensteinapoo saw light and gnawed off the woman's limbs like newspaper rolls.

Monday, February 13, 2006

tuna-head on the house and other tales of freedom during a snowstorm

This weekend was temperature nosedive and multi-inches of snow. A mighty wind blew and the brain was discovered.

Friday night was a surreal dinner at a Korean restaurant. "Happy birthday (pause), my friend…" cycled and cycled through the loop of electro-pop versions of both electro-pop songs and otherwise. There was a dire communication barrier between seven of us and the wait staff, which was not simply a language barrier but rather some amorphism of sound occurring between mouths and ears.

E.g., I ordered the one spicy dish listed under the barbecue section of the menu so I could try out the grill planted into the center of the table. A waiter came out with a large bowl. None of us owned up to having ordered it. The waiter left and returned seconds later with a menu in hand, pointing. "Numba 9. Who ohdahed numba 9?"

Well, I had ordered number 9; however, number 9, I attest, was not a bowl full of noodles, various meats and sea creatures. Such a concoction cannot be barbecued. I took it anyway. A surprise party for my taste buds and digestive system.

The highlight of mishaps was the egg roll. B ordered a sushi roll for an appetizer. She also ordered a couple of egg rolls. A small tray arrived, holding one tasty-looking roll and two bizarre looking rolls, seaweed and rice enclosing something yellow. Ba-dum-bum. Egg rolls.

Then the wait staff came one after another and many at a time, bringing bowl after bowl, until we had approximately 30 bowls and plates of stuff before us. The final non-entrée dish: head of tuna. One for each side of the table. "On the house," said the waitress. Tuna-head on the house.

As we drove away from the Korean restaurant, B, M, and I whim-stopped at the sex shop down the street, where the frumpy male employee who looked like he had enjoyed a lot of lonesome sci-fi features (not that that’s bad) approached as we made our way down the first wall of dildos. What complicated contraptions some of them are.

In response neither to our interest nor our asking, the guy was eager to explain the history of The Rabbit and how it works. He explained the difference between the plastic and metal beads that gyrate. He brought his hand forward from behind his back. "I happen to have one with me right here." How about that.

Afterward we drove to a bar and talked developmental idiosyncrasy and neuropsychology over some whiskey & diets in front of the dart board. Throw caution to the wind.

Saturday night I watched Eraserhead for the first time. What I learned: in heaven, everything’s all right. Even if your cheeks have acquired spongy growths. Possibly there will be worms or mutant babies that the doctors aren’t even sure are babies there. Good god, Grandma could toss a salad. Despite her stupor. Grind my gears, man.

Then snow feet snew.

Friday, February 10, 2006

still there is no paper in the god-machine

The fax machine in my office ate itself this morning and the hospital has cut the midget budget. It’s that sort of day.

The machine claims, "Paper Jam". Says, "Open Cover, Remove Paper."

I open the cover, find no paper.

The machine commands, "Close Cover." I do.

The sequence repeats.

I have acquired Exploding Head Syndrome* of a new color, Incredible Hulk-like strength in riling ire.

*Check out the Kundalini side effect mentioned in the Wikipedia article. Bizarre.

I think all of this is quite funny.

Meanwhile, some music news excites me:

Sing-Sing, comprised of one of the members of Lush, Emma Anderson, has a second album that will be available in the US this Valentine's Day. I like Sing-Sing songs ok, but never paraded around naked singing along; however, because of Emma Anderson's facial expressions and fascinating demeanor I am faithful.

Built to Spill will finally be releasing another album and
beginning a tour. Some day Doug Martsch and I will eat pizza together.

His Name Is Alive has a new album out that apparently is the best ever.

The Fiery Furnaces delight me and
they will continue to delight me, or my name just isn't.

Meanwhile, other news excites me too:

Headless Sphinx unearthed.

The Odyssey is over.

Greek shipwreck from 350 BC revealed.

The World’s First Laptop.

There is an academic journal on
cereal science.*

*A sample title and abstract:
"Analysis of heat-damage indices in breakfast cereals: Influence of composition"
Cereal-derived breakfast products are increasingly consumed because they are an important source of energy both for adults and children. Although the earliest breakfast cereal manufacture was based on boiling then drying, extrusion has become a well-established industrial technology with beneficial effects on the nutritional properties and texture of the final product (xxxxxx, 2004). The pleasant flavours and colours of breakfast cereals are produced in the drying and toasting steps (xxxxxx, 1998). The chemical reactions involved in their generation are essentially the Maillard and caramelisation reactions, both depend on the type of substrate, temperature, water activity and pH.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

that silver thing lives in a tree

Driving to work from Brooklyn, a little sleepy but chipper enough, I was glad there was little traffic. My last few trips from Brooklyn to Edison in the early Monday morn put me to work late due either to construction or highway accidents or both.

A green Neon, a young brown-haired girl as driver, was two lanes to my right. When it drove ahead of me, I saw its poor damaged back end. Total accordion concentrate. I wondered how long it had been like that and why the girl hadn’t gotten it fixed.

Eyes back to the road I noticed all the cars with dings, scratches, dents and paint-smears. I was glad I didn’t have any of those. Seems to be a given in this part of the country. But my bumpers were clean and I aimed to keep them that way anyway.

As I neared the split for the Goethals Bridge and the Outerbridge Crossing, traffic got thick. Usually it’s thick way back, but not here. Still, it was moving. The sun shone bright from behind me.

The silver Mercedes in front of me came to a quick stop. I stopped and then we all crawled.

The silver Mercedes in front of me appeared to be moving very slowly.

The silver Mercedes actually had come to a stop. Bright sun on silver simulates motion, I guess.

I hit the breaks as fast and hard as I could. Grace’s middle arched up as she tried to stop. Ouch head to concrete. We hit.

The silver Mercedes and I pulled over, we exchanged information. The kids were young, late high school age Jewish kids living on Staten Island. They’d never been in an accident before. We fumbled our way through.

I looked at Grace--Fuck!--got mad and freaked out.

The back bumper of the Mercedes was smeared with Grace’s blue saliva. I squatted in front of Grace. Her mouth was bent, the top of the license plate torn upward, and the front part of her hood v’d in. Violence. I don’t like to see her hurt.

A sort of "lucid freaking out," like lucid dreaming. That is, I only began to freak out, I think, because I thought I should. Also, the situation sucked. Then it occurred to me that everything is highly in flux, and this instance was insignificant in the big frame and bound to happen, statistically, when one drives and particularly in this part of the country. I was not hurt. The kids were not hurt. It was just a morning disrupted by something unexpected, after which I would have the opportunity to deviate from the cardboard path. Freaking out was unnecessary; I decided to be calm.

The police didn’t take long to appear. Two young guys in uniform, probably my age or a little younger, stepped out of the car and walked over. I was prepared for an impersonal encounter during which I would be made to feel lowly. At least that’s what most every other encounter I’ve had with a cop has been like, even when nothing wrong has gone on.

The blond who wore dark sunglasses looked me right in the face. "Are you ok?" And when I mumbled uh-huh somewhat dismissively, he asked again. "Are you sure?" And then the other one asked the same—of all three of us involved. Warm.

We walked to the cars. The blond cop said to me, "It’ll be ok." Was I being set up? No cop had ever shown real live human warmth. Saying that required intuition, insight and compassion. He looked at my car.

"Do you think that’s going to be expensive to fix?" I asked him.

He looked at me sympathetically. "This happened to me, too, and my car looked about like this. It wasn’t as much as I expected."

The cops looked over the cars, took our information, and returned to their car, lights flashing above it, to write the report. When the blond came back to my car, he apologized for taking so long, handed me my license, insurance, and registration cards. Told me I would need to visit the precinct the next morning to get the accident report for my insurance company. He handed me a little piece of paper having been ripped out of a small notebook, where he had written the phone number and address of the precinct.

Then he asked me again if I was ok.

As I was driving away I realized he hadn’t given me a ticket. I thought rear-enders got a ticket about 99% of the time.

Yesterday morning I rear-ended a car for the first time.

Expectation erased, the thing is alive.

* * * *

Are bottled-water drinkers being duped? I have wondered why people drink bottled water at home. Makes more sense out and about, but that too could go.

Obstructive potatoes, loose kebabs. What will your car insurance company believe?

For the football family's sake, the Rolling Stones agreed to be censored. But since when is the cock too explicit for the family? When I was a kid, my family used to gather at the fireplace and pretend we were like the Smurfs, only we would replace key words with "cock" instead of "smurf."

New species found in Papua. Tree kangaroos, and egg-laying mammals and smurfs, o my. And there are many species there yet to be identified.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

the pads and dregs of 'pure thought'

Last night I dreamed I was playing hockey on a football field. Teams were guys against girls, and then I was the only girl on a team of guys against guys. Passing and strategic maneuvering were not my forte; however, when I received the puck I shot it clean in.

Some doctors address their colleagues as "Dude" because they think it makes them seem young and hip. Those same doctors listen to the most recent Green Day album loudly in their offices for the same reason. Those same doctors also make crass jokes and draw sexual innuendo into hallway conversation to show that they are risky, which they feel also demonstrates youth and hipness.

I am speaking of one doctor in particular.

Dr. B, do you have more prescription pads for the front desk?

It occurred to me this morning that until I worked in a hospital I didn’t think doctors were real people. But first there were mud puddles, acne, college, then med school, then residency, or some similar order of events. At some point these real people were given prescription pads and (hopefully) looked their patient in the face, after scribbling on the pad, and said, "Take one of these twice a day for ten days." That’s a heap of responsibility.

I don’t know if I could be a doctor. I might constantly be too aware that I was just a real person and that the science was not exact and that possibly my patient was not afflicted with what I thought and that those pills were prescribed erroneously, or possibly the patient had some unique allergy to said pills and as a result of taking them turned into a gila monster or died.

I’d be in a constant state of wonder-worry. My cape would jitter nanotatively.

Or I’d decide it wasn’t worth all the worry, play the role, and prescribe with a caricature-smile and confident toss of the arm. Until the malpractice allegations poured in.

Then I would retire and play hockey professionally. On a football field simultaneously surfaced with ice and grass.

My head is full of snot. It’s difficult not to say this when people in the office ask me how I’m doing. My response instead, as I pass a doctor with my tea on his way to retrieve coffee is that of a southern-accented deaf girl turned through a bent mirror: The City of the Lost Children of Georgia.

My range of hearing is this bubble. Here’s some news:

Meditate your gamma waves high; teach yourself the skill of being happy. It’s all part of the future because the Dalai Lama and neuroscientist/friend of Ram Dass, Richard Davidson have been exploring the neuroscience of meditation.

"In the end, Einstein felt that in his own field he had, like Mozart, succeeded in unraveling the complexity of the universe."

Soon you can get your ass both heated and sprayed down after it spews. A nice picture of a clothed woman seated on a toilet demonstrates.

Have a look over at Whateverland (via Benjamin).