Oh, What Tangled Webs We Weave ...

I was reminded last weekend of a horribly tragic situation that exists in my family; such is the horrific nature of it that I have obviously stowed it away deep in my subconscious, ignoring that ugly little piece of reality, so that I might try to make it through each day without questioning the motives of whatever deity might exist in inflicting such cruelty and losing whatever tenuous grip on sanity I might have in the process.

My nephew, you see, is afflicted with syndactyly.  That's right ... webbed toes.

I write this not to elicit pity, nor sympathy, but to describe the heroic bravery with which he deals with his malady.  Imagine a young lad, being told that the school district had declared him ineligible for the swim team, citing “unfair advantage,” due to a condition completely beyond his control.  Imagine a boy having to learn that someone yelling “DUCK” was simply warning him of an object rapidly approaching his head, and not poking fun at his fused podial digits (luckily, his noggin is quite solid, and no permanent damage seems to have resulted from those miscommunications).

One can easily understand how such a condition would be difficult to deal with, at best.  My nephew, however, refuses to let it affect his well-being, knowing that if life gives you melons, you might be dyslexic if life gives you lemons, get some vodka and make lemon drops you might as well make the most of things.  With that in mind, then, take a look at the tattoo he had done a few weeks ago:

Above:  The awesomeness scale now goes to 11.

The suggestion has been made that on his other foot he get a person on a surfboard … get it?  Surfin’ the web?  Huh?  Huh?  Is this thing on?  I know you’re out there … I can hear you clicking the “Next Blog” button!

I, of course, being the self-serving weasel that I am, attempted to use his condition to my own advantage, and ventured down to the Department Of Motor Vehicles to apply for a handicapped parking permit:

DMV Woman:  “Can I help you?”

Dead Acorn:  “Yes, I’d like to apply for a handicapped permit.  My nephew has the webbed toes.”

DMV W:  “I’m sorry … did you say that your nephew has webbed toes, so you want a permit?”

DA:  “That’s correct.  I could catch it at any time, and I’d rather not have to walk across a huge parking lot when it happens.”

DMV W:  “I’m pretty sure that’s a genetic anomaly, and not something that you catch.  Also, it really has no effect on people who actually have it.  In fact, it can be quite the conversation starter, as well as being an incredible opportunity for creative tattoos.”

DA:  “Oh yeah?  Well, look what happened to my dog since we got back from visiting him!”

I showed her a picture I had taken of Indy the night before:

Above:  Oh, the humanity caninity …

DMV W:  “You … ummm … taped her toes together with masking tape and taped some hair on top of it.”

DA:  “Nuh-uh.”

DMV W:  “Next!”

As she was obviously deaf to my pleas and oblivious to the suffering of others, I walked out.  Slowly.  And limping.  I could almost hear her eyes rolling.

This world can be so cruel.

The Buck Stops Here

Being the staid, boring schlub that I am, I have a very set routine in my everyday activities.  My morning schedule of events is unwavering, as is that of my afternoon.  I leave work at 4:00 pm, arrive home between 4:15 and 4:20*, and give the hell-hound big belly rubs upon entering Casa de Acorn.  I’m well aware of the chaotic world around me, and the constancy of my day-to-day behavior is quite comforting, providing an almost zen-like serenity against the background din of The Outside.

Things do come up, however, that require straying from the well-trodden path, and a few days ago, I found myself needing to run home at lunch.  “What a pleasant surprise this will be for Indy!” I said aloud in the car.  “Normally she waits patiently by the door all day in anticipation of her beloved belly scratching!  Her joy at this unexpected additional round of scratching will be quite amusing to watch!”

Imagine my shock, then, when I walked through the door to see this:

Above:  I’m not really surprised by the interspecies aspect, but based on her crotch-sniffing behavior around human females, I would have guessed she was a lesbian.  Whatever.

I was, of course, quite taken aback, as was she, apparently, for she just stared at me like a deer in the bed-lights.  After several seconds, I started stammering.  “I … I … oh god.”  “Roh, rit …” she mumbled.  Finally, I said something about going to the computer room for a few minutes to check my email, thinking that I’d at least be providing an opportunity for her to show her guest out in the least awkward manner.  After what I felt was a sufficient amount of time, I went back to the bedroom to have what would surely be an uncomfortable conversation at best, only to find this:

Above:  Ole Buck’s got a lot of chutzpah, I’ll admit.  And Indy can really give the stinkeye when she wants to.

I kind of snapped at that point, screaming something about venison steaks and deer jerky and going all “Bambi meets Godzilla” on him.  He must have taken the hint, because he hopped up and bounded past me out the door.  I turned to the whore-hound, and red-faced, seething with anger, managed to say “Not in my bed.  NOT.  IN.  MY.  BED.”

We haven’t really spoken about it since, and while it’s perhaps not the healthiest solution, I imagine that we’ll just bury the whole incident deep in the dark recesses of our minds.

You can bet your ass I’ll never walk into that house unannounced again, though.

* Duuuuuude ...

Yeah, Well, I've Been Kicked Out Of Nicer Places Than This!

I’m not often mistaken for other people – oh, sure, there’s the occasional “hey, check out Bozo The Clown there …” comment, but in general, I’m not one that’s confused with someone else.  Last Saturday night, however, proved to be an exception, and one with most unfortunate consequences, as it turned out … I was apparently mistaken for someone who had over-imbibed.

A couple of friends and I had ventured downtown to take in a musical concert, one in which several bands were to play, the third being a group called Cash’d Out (who performed faithful renditions of Johnny Cash songs) and of whom I had heard very positive reviews.  I’d like to be able to confirm that the entire show was a magical re-creation of a true legend; unfortunately, I can only authoritatively say that about the first four songs, as we were inexplicably asked to leave the venue around that time.

I’m still not quite certain what events led to our ouster; normally, such things happen when one, oh, say, stumbles into a large table of state-level politicians, spilling their cocktails every which way (umm … hypothetically speaking, of course).  And while two of us were enjoying many a tasty beverage that evening (and, admittedly, after something of a lengthy “pre-funk” that day), our fellow concert-goer maintains that we held to acceptable public behavior, and even now remains somewhat baffled at the night's goings-on.

Disirregardless of the lack of grounds for ejection, ejected we were, after a somewhat comical series of events.  One of my friends and I had gone to the bathrooms, and upon exiting, I found her in a discussion with one of the employees.  “Well, good evening, sir!” I said as I approached them.  “A fine show it is, don’t you agree?”  It was at this point I was informed that alcoholic beverages would no longer be available to us (though he could provide no rational basis for that decision), and he proceeded to try to shame us by drawing large Xs on our hands.  As my friend and I were there primarily for the music, we weren’t overly distraught at this, and we returned to where our other friend was waiting, after finishing what drinks we had left (the gentleman was kind enough to grant that request).

In retrospect, we really should have known that they just might keep an eye on us, because when my friend picked up the spare beer she had strategically placed under our table (she’s deservedly regarded as something of a professional in social drinking circles), several seemingly displeased gentlemen quickly descended upon us and escorted us toward the exit.  We had a brief conversation with the manager, received another hand stamp (apparently being disallowed from drinking and being asked to leave are coded differently), and found ourselves out in the cold evening, marked and musicless, but giggling nonetheless.

Above:  It’s like living in a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel.

We decided to make our way over to the Neurolux, a bar where they don’t have such puritanical standards – this is the conversation I had with the bartender when we got there:

Bartender (noticing my hands): “What’s with the X?”
Dead Acorn:“Cut off.”
Bartender: “What’s with the Idaho stamp?”
Dead Acorn: “Kicked out.”
Bartender:  “Nice. Well, what can I get you?”

So that was the evening – plans derailed by a tragic case of mistaken identity, but enjoyable anyway, and good for a chuckle.  One never knows what will happen when one ventures downtown.

[UPDATE]:  It occurred to me that I was wearing my cowboy boots that night, which I haven’t worn in years, and that my choice of footwear may have been a triggering factor in being flagged as a potential rabble-rouser.  I’ve included a side-by-side comparison below – I don’t think either really says “here comes trouble,” but I’ve been wrong before.

Above:  She really can wear anything and make it look good!