I'm Fit To Be Tied

I recently underwent a major life-changing event of such magnitude that I find myself questioning such things as the very nature of my existence and the assertion that a balanced Major League Baseball schedule is impossible without daily interleague play now that Houston is in the American League.

Actually, it’s nothing very earth-shattering at all; simply that I am now employed with a different state governmental agency than I was previously.  In fact, the only substantial change (other than the job itself) is that the dress code is that of Business Professional, rather than Business Casual, meaning that I had to learn how to tie a tie (my appearances during the first week, wearing, on consecutive days, an ascot, a cravat, and a bolo were met with disapproval.  I would have gotten away with the clip-on were it not for the fact that it was a remnant from my pre-teen parochial school days and only reaches to mid-chest now).  Even complying with the explicit direction that the tie be one conforming in length, width, and pattern to the prevailing societal norms, my experimentation with various types of knots has resulted in the policy manual being updated to require a Half-Windsor.

I walked across the street yesterday after work to say hi to a friend*, and we had this exchange:

Friend To Whom I Was Saying Hi (walking down the stairs and before even so much as a “howdy!”):  “Wow, you look like a cartoon character.”

Dead Acorn:  “Umm … nice to see you too.  Why do you say that?”

FTWIWSH:  “Well, you have your nice jacket and tie, and your nice long dress coat, and then your goofy looking ski hat and gloves, and you’re riding a wooden bicycle through the snow.”

DA:  “That’s stupid.  No one would watch a cartoon like that.”

FTWIWSH:  “I didn’t say you looked like a popular, critically acclaimed, and much-watched cartoon character.”

DA:  “Ouch.”

One disheartening aspect of having to get all dolled up is the realization that people really do treat others differently based on subtle variances in appearance.  It would be nice if we were able to avoid making assumptions about our fellow (wo)man based on our initial encounters, but such is the nature of our species (based on the evolutionarily advantageous categorization of novel stimuli into “types” based on neural “hard-wiring” and one’s personal experiences; while this attribute can have negative consequences, such as various types of prejudice, it still helps, survival-wise, that we don’t have to individually assess every charging tiger as to its intent).

On the plus side, I’m getting a lot more winks and ass-grabs from Marlene down at the Gas’N’Go (she’s surprisingly fiesty for a nonagenarian) … maybe Ossie Davis’s character in the movie “Joe Versus The Volcano” was right, and clothes DO make the man.

Or maybe she just likes cartoons.

* No, I don't think it's weird or creepy at all that this friend, with whom I spend quite a bit of time, as we seem to enjoy each other's company to some extent, was the one who alerted me to the open position, which happens to be located right across the street from where she works.

I Haven't Had A Toddy This Morning, But ...

I got tolly lit up over the holidays.

Literally.

I was inexplicably invited, once again, to the EMDAMOTLA’s* Annual Open House Extravaganza/Illegal Fireworks Display a couple of weekends ago.  I suspect that it has something to do with providing evidence as to how one can make monumental mistakes in life and still recover and move on.  In any case, I always consider it a kind gesture and a great honor.  The crowd invariably comprises various dignitaries, politicians, heads-of-state, and other members of social strata that I do not generally encounter in my otherwise low-brow life.

On occasions such as the AOHE/IFD, I make every effort to appear a civilized and well-bred individual, feigning erudition and taking great care to ensure that my shirt buttons are aligned properly.  In other words, something other than my everyday self.  One would think that going to such lengths would preclude me being set ablaze by the hostess.  One would be wrong.

There remains, as I write, a debate as to whether she was actually trying to murder me or just burn my clothes (a third explanation, that it was an accident, is simply laughable and need not be further discussed).  I suppose there is a foundation for the latter argument, as evidenced by this transcript from the courtroom during our divorce proceedings:

Judge:  “What reasons can you give, MDAMOTLA, for wanting to end this sacred union?”  (This was, of course, prior to the addition of the “E” at the front of her acronym.)

MDAMOTLA:  “umm … Your Honor, have you even looked at him?”

Judge (to me):  “What … what … what the hell are you wearing?  Is that a robe?”

Dead Acorn:  “Why, yes it is, your eminence.  I see that you’re wearing one as well.  They’re quite comfortable, aren’t they?”

Judge:  “First, this is MY COURTROOM, and my robe is a centuries-old tradition befitting my noble calling.  Second, mine is NOT pink terry-cloth with Hello Kitty patches sewn all over it.”

DA:  “Well, I can’t help it if your boring tastes lead you to wear such uninteresting crap.”

Judge:  “THIRTY DAYS!  Bailiff, escort this man to jail.”

On the other hand, I distinctly recall her threats during the birth of The Live Acorn:  “YOU!  YOU DID THIS TO ME!  I WILL KILL YOU!”  I did not take that as an idle threat then, nor do I today.

Anyway, I was standing in the dining area with The Person With Whom I Was Attending (And Likely The Real Reason I Was Invited), leaning against a table, when I detected a foul odor, as if someone wearing a loose knit sweater had backed into a votive candle and had caught fire.  “Sugar pie babykins,” I said to TPWWIWA(ALTRRIWI), “do you detect a foul odor, as if someone wearing a loose knit sweater has backed into a votive candle and has caught fire?”

It took a few minutes of discussion concerning whether the smell was more likely due to the burning of wool or of a synthetic fiber, and what color of dye was used that would result in the particular scent, as we were trying to deduce who would be stupid enough to back into a votive candle, before TPWWIWA(ALTRRIWI) noticed the flames climbing up my back, lapping at the ceiling, threatening to ignite the entire house, and which would have undoubtedly eventually left the entire city in a pile of smoldering rubble:

Above:  A little duct tape, and it’ll be good as new.  And yes, those ARE delicious homemade popcorn balls!

There was precious little actual concern among the partygoers after she bravely risked her own life to pat it out; on the contrary, there was mostly coughing and laughter, with perhaps the loudest laughs coming from the city Fire Chief**.  I’m glad I could be of some amusement.

I suppose it was a productive evening … The Live Acorn got another “yeah, that’s my dad …” moment, the EMDAMOTLA got rid of a 15-year-old sweater, and I am virtually guaranteed an invitation for next year’s AOHE/IFD, as the rest of her societal guests will certainly ask if she’s going to have the clown show up again.

There’s got to be an asbestos-lined ugly Santa sweater on the internet somewhere.

* Ex Mrs. Dead Acorn, Mother Of The Live Acorn
** Not true.  He was there, but he only chuckled mildly.

G ... G ... Giving Th .. Th ... Thanks ...

I don’t travel much, and don’t read much about the goings-on of the world outside of my house, so I’m not sure if other areas have a holiday known as “Thanksgiving.”  For those readers whose cultures don’t participate in the celebration, it’s a day of “Giving” of  “Thanks” for the things one is blessed with (or has earned through hard work and hard work alone, thankyewverymuch, depending on your religious/political views) in life.  The “Giving” of “Thanks” generally takes the form of stuffing one’s face with food from the moment of waking and watching three games of American Football, before rushing to Walmart for the holiday sales.

I spent a few days with friends a bit north of home, which was delightful.  Our gracious host had created an announcement/invitation for the event on a social networking site, which allowed updates and comments and general discussion to take place.  As I was unaware of the competitive nature of participation, I was a bit taken aback when he posted this graph a week or so prior to the big day, tallying attendees’ “Spirit” and “Traditionality”:

Above:  I can only assume that offering to bring corned beef and Li’l Smokies fell outside of the operational definition of “traditional.”  Also, I’m pretty sure that this was the host’s first attempt at using bar charts in MS Excel.

I eventually finished with positive points by offering to bring six folding chairs, but still in last place, which, unbeknownst to me (else I would have made a greater effort), carried no small consequence.

The host’s house, while quite comfortable, is not palatial in terms of sleeping area, and the number of people requiring bed space exceeded the capacity of his home, necessitating that I, as the low point scorer, and the unfortunate soul with whom I was attending, sleep in the overflow quarters:

Above:  I believe that by spending the night here, I can now increase my percentage of Native American lineage from 1/1024 to 1/512.

The tepee did have a small wood stove, which, while offering little in the form of actual heat, at least introduced the possibility of death by asphyxiation, which would presumably solve the problem of being cold once and for all.  (A particularly humorous event was the lighting of the stove, which was done by a guest who was a firefighter, who insisted upon performing the task, and who was extremely intoxicated, and who proved far less adept at starting fires than at extinguishing them.  At one point, I thought "well, it's going to be spring soon, and we'll warm up then.")

After a long day of revelry, we finally felt bombed out of our gourds enough to pass out it was time to retire, and crawled under our stack of 30 or so blankets and nodded off.  I must say that I was far more comfortable than I had expected to be, despite being woken several times by the unfortunate soul with whom I was attending; once to take her shivering dog inside, once to retrieve her barking dog from the house, and finally, as she was attempting to re-light the fire, which had apparently gone out.  As I recall, we had a conversation along these lines:

Dead Acorn:  “Sugarplum snookums, what are you doing?”

Unfortunate Soul With Whom I Was Attending: “Tr … tr ... trying to st … st … start the fire …”

DA:  “Gee, you look really cold!  I’ll keep the bed really warm so that when you get it going, it’ll be all cozy!  I know if we both do our parts, we can get through this night!”

USWWIWA:  “I fu … fu … fucking hate you.”

Anyway, we made it through relatively unharmed (and the dog was fine, so don’t go all SPCA on me), and were even promoted to the house the next night.

The entire trip was pretty dang fantastic … the Thanksgiving crowd for the meal comprised an eclectic mix of city folk, hill people, between 5-8 dogs (ranging from an 8 lb. Chihuahua to a monster golden Labrador) and an extremely vocal cat, with plenty of champagne, beer, rum, whisky, and who knows what else for the bipeds (and one of the dogs).

By the way, the corned beef was devoured, and is, I would argue, well established as a tradition, so I have high hopes of at least getting to sleep in the garage next year.

Time To Vase Reality

I recently celebrated lamented noted, with existential neutrality, the occurrence of the sun making another orbit around me (in the spirit of those who deny that climate change is occurring, I likewise maintain that there is insufficient evidence on the relative movements of celestial bodies to draw a conclusion one way or another, at this point.  Suck it, Galileo).

As is the custom around the North End of Boise, Idaho, I spent a good portion of the day with friends in a locale that offered spirits (well, beer, at least), with the group growing louder and more boisterous as the evening progressed.  (To those of you outside the area who may find this a tad foreign, just try it … there are no hard-and-fast rules, and you may soon find it a practice that need not be limited to the anniversary of your birth, nor to that of your friends.  Go on - try it!)

There was even (at my advanced years!) a bit of the traditional “gift-giving,” and this year, I was especially touched at the thought behind a particular bouquet that a couple of very good friends presented to me.  One’s first reaction might well be “isn’t it a bit odd for a man to receive flowers?” and if so, one would properly be chastised for maintaining outdated and sexist stereotypes.  Why do you hate progress in the realm of social equality?

Anyway, this was no ordinary bouquet, as you can see:

Above: Spatules magnifique, non? Très touchant …

For those who are unfamiliar with the fact that I reside with a demon dog: I reside with a demon dog.  One of her demonic characteristics is an unbridled lust for spatulas, and the transport outside thereof, and I awake each morn and immediately concern myself with whether I will have a spatula with which to stir my daily hash browns or not.  “Has she made off with yet another in the dead of night?” I ask aloud.  “I heard not the tell-tale tapping of toenails, yet her secretive stealth should not surprise …”

And so you see the reason for my somewhat emotional reaction to the gift.  No longer was I to be a victim of her ravenous habit.  Let her steal a spatula!  I would care not, for I now possessed a plethora of these magnificent utensils!  It … it … it was the gift of rest, of serenity, of mornings of awakening to calmness, free of trepidation.  (Also, the Necco wafers as baby's breath?  Brilliant!)

At least for a week or two.

[UPDATE:]  Oh sweet jeebus … I was looking at some of the other photos I had taken of the bouquet, and saw this:

Above:  Nothing different, except it’s lacking the tasteful arrangem OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD! …

Here’s an enlarged version of the section at the top, above and to the right of the black spatula:

Above:  Well, there goes my peaceful sleep.

The absence of a camera to my eye discounts the explanation of it simply being my reflection in the plate glass window.  No, the only possibility is that I’ve caught the very image of whatever minion of C’thulu is possessing poor Indy.  O sweet puppy, I shall try to understand your torment and swear to rid you of it …

I’ve yet to hear back from St. Mary’s on scheduling a priest.

Ahoy, Polloi ...

I hob-nobbed with the 1% a bit a couple of weeks back (technically, I AM part of a 1%; just not the 1% ... probably somewhere around the 30th percentile or so).  It was an interesting experience, to say the least.

A friend of mine was getting married (and since has, costing me $20 in my ill-advised wager overestimating the persuasive skills of the lovely and seductive Bambi, who was “catering” a pre-nuptial "luncheon"*), and I was invited to participate in a round of golf at a local private country club in advance of the big day.  Boy howdy, I was as excited as cousin’ Hoss before the pie-eatin’ contest down to the county fair!

I was heading out with another friend of mine, whom I believe has more experience in interacting with that stratum of society, and I have to say write that I was a bit insulted by the fact that he felt it necessary to send me a few orders suggestions via text message concerning the afternoon:

Friend With Whom I Was Heading Out:  “So, umm … it’s sort of required that you wear a shirt …”

Dead Acorn:  “Well, duh … I’m not completely white trash.”

FWWIWHO:  “Let me finish, please.  You need to wear a shirt with a collar.”

DA:  “No problem!  In fact, I don’t even HAVE a collar-less Hawaiian shirt.”

FWWIWHO:  “*sigh*.  Ok, I guess.  And you can’t bring a case of Schlitz hidden in your bag like you usually do, as the club pro is playing with us, and we, you know, might want to show just a BIT of respect and gratitude for them providing this opportunity.”

DA:  “This is a fucking joke, right?  RIGHT?”

As it turns out, it wasn’t a joke, but I supposed that I could suspend my fiscally responsible approach to golf course hydration for just that one day.

So we pulled into the parking lot, and removed our golf bags from the back of the car.  To my astonishment, it was no more than a minute before two young hooligans, obviously gangsta ruffians, judging from the fact that they wore similar colors, approached us, and attempted to steal our clubs!  Their cocky nonchalance was unsettling, as they aggressively said “Good afternoon, gentlemen!” and began to walk off with our property.  They may as well have said “it’s OUR shit now, right?  You got something to say, old man?  Yeah, didn’t think so.”

Luckily, my friend is quite a large fellow, and has obviously dealt with this type of situation before, because, sensing my befuddlement and anger at such an outrageous act, he said (with well directed intent toward the thieves) “Hold on, there, Dead Acorn.  These young men are just carrying our clubs up to our cart.  Isn’t that right right, gentlemen?”  They both nodded nervously, and sure enough, I watched them load our bags onto a golf cart near the clubhouse.  Having a large friend can be handy.  (The young thugs were obviously impressed with me as well, as I could see them looking at the various clubs in my bag in awe – they almost seemed to giggle uncontrollably in their amazement with regard to my eclectic assemblage of hardware.)

On the other hand, I can’t say he’s absolutely virtuous, because we walked in to sign up, and he grabbed a handful of tees and a divot-fixer-thingy from the counter and walked off without paying!  His explanation of "no, dude, it's free.  Trust me on this." did little to assuage my associative guilt.  I know that it doesn't sound exactly like a Brinks robbery, but I still felt a little uneasy.  My guilt was only compounded by the fact that we drove over to the driving range and he seemed to have no issue with hitting a bag of balls that someone else had obviously paid for and had left on the range while running off to the loo or the snack bar.  I’m still struggling with my mixed feelings concerning his behavior.

Criminal acts aside, the afternoon went very well, and the repressive elite overlords that ran the club pulled off their required act of appearing to be extremely nice and accommodating to the commoners with admirable skill. The next time I storm a palace in an attempt to reinstate fairness and justice for the bottom 99% of the population who actually do the things that make the world work, I will do so with fond remembrance of that day.

The golfers among them shall die the quickest.

* Tolly not true.

Just Another Day In The Life ...

There have been some strange goings on lately around Casa de Acorn.  I walked out of the house the other morning to find this li’l speedster on my driveway:

Above:  Behold the mighty THUNDER!

He was over a foot across, and he certainly had some attitude about him, as you can see from his expression.  My first thought was that I was suspected of being a replicant and that this was one of the tests:

Dead Acorn: "I've never seen a turtle... But I understand what you mean."

Holden: "You reach down and you flip the tortoise over on its back, Dead Acorn."

Dead Acorn: "Do you make up these questions, Mr. Holden? Or do they write 'em down for you?"

Holden: "The tortoise lays on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over, but it can't. Not without your help. But you're not helping."

Dead Acorn: [angry at the suggestion] "What do you mean, I'm not helping?"

Holden: "I mean: you're not helping! Why is that, Dead Acorn?"

Luckily, he had a dog turtle tag with a phone number on it, and his person only lived a few doors down (which means he must have been wandering for days), so I was able to convince myself that I'm not a manufactured worker-bot.

I’ve also been trying to get a little work done in the hellscape behind my house backyard.  It’s essentially hard-baked ground in which nothing can grow but the hardiest of weeds.  While I can respect them for their tenacity, it was time for them to go.  So I start to pull these out (remember the shed project?  As you can see, it’s coming along right on schedule for completion around 2014!) …

Above:  After the nukes fly, it’ll be just the cockroaches and my backyard foliage left.

… when I discover this:

Above:  Perhaps the toughest fruit/vegetable that’s ever grown.

I assume that the seeds blew over from the neighbor’s yard, because I’ve certainly made no efforts at active cultivation.  There’s just the one cherry tomato, about an inch in diameter, having grown with absolutely no water or care of any sort.  I’m not a fan of tomatoes, but I think I’ll squish it into ketchup.  The corn dog that has the honor of bearing it will be one proud Pronto Pup, I’m certain.

Lastly, I believe I’ve mentioned that The Live Acorn has secured gainful employment, which, as it turned out, was excellent in terms of timing, as she was able to use her first paycheck to pay a fine for her jaywalking ticket, which she received as she was trying to goad her friends into crossing against the light as well.  We had the following text message exchange:

Dead Acorn:  “Way to go, outlaw.”

Live Acorn:  “Yeah, I’m a badass.  How many times have you jaywalked?”

Dead Acorn:  “Jaywalked?  Thousands.  Ticketed?  Zero.  I generally try to not make a show of it.”

Live Acorn:  “Dad, it was a motorcycle cop!  I couldn’t even see him!”

Dead Acorn:  “You should tolly plead not guilty.  The judge will buy that, I’m sure.”

Live Acorn:  “Shut up.”

Other than things like this, life is normal.  Not sure if that’s good or bad.

We Tried So Hard To Raise Her Right ...

The Live Acorn spent last weekend in the rugged heart of Idaho, listening to a bunch of hippy-folk play some twangy-ass music volunteering at/attending the Sawtooth Music Festival, which is a “festival” with lots of “music” that takes place near the “Sawtooth” mountains, which are apparently appealing to some people:

Above: Meh. Whatever.

I’m led to believe that she thoroughly enjoyed herself, as evidenced by this text message exchange we had prior to meeting at Boise’s “Alive After Five” weekly musical extravaganza last evening:

Live Acorn: “Father, will you be attending tonight’s “Alive After Five” musical extravaganza? I do so look forward to seeing you.

Dead Acorn: “o hllz ya 4 shr. Blugrass band. C U l8r!”

(I love modern technology and how it affords us the ability to communicate meaningfully disirregardless of our differences in expressive style.)

Live Acorn: “O Father! I truly am excited, for bluegrass music has literally changed my life!”

Dead Acorn: “Do u have any clu wat “literally” means? Dnt thnk so.”

Live Acorn: “Of course I do, Father. I refer to an incident in which I was struck in the head by an errant banjo at the Sawtooth Music Festival, which rendered me left-handed and speaking with a Sudanese accent!”

Dead Acorn: “Mad propz 2 the Boise skool sys.”

Actually, she’s always had very good taste in music, even though she’s had her short spells of listening to horrific Top 40 (it never lasts long, thank jeebus). After her profession of love for the bluegrass genre, I posted something along these lines on teh Facebook:

My daughter came out and told me that she loves bluegrass music today. I told her that there’s nothing wrong with that, and that she was born that way, and that even though haters gonna hate, the only thing this changes is the radio station.

It’s really too bad that Earl Scruggs didn’t live to see full acceptance of the gut-bucket as an instrument equal to others, but someday, Live Acorn … someday.

As it turns out, she’s learning life’s hard lessons about discrimination in more ways than one. She had recently applied for employment at a downtown ice-cream parlor, only to be told that the purple streaks in her hair are at odds with the image the parlor is trying maintain. I’ve only been into the establishment a time or two, but it’s apparently a Barbie-Doll-Stepford-Wives-Chik-Fil-A-Only-With-Hair-Dye-Instead-Of-Gay-Marriage kind of place fostering purplephobia, and even if they had a liquor license and gave away free Ouzo, I wouldn’t set a foot ‘cross their threshold. (Sure, I might have someone sneak me out some, but you know what I mean.)

On a positive note, she did land a job at a ceramics/art place, which has far more social value than a bunch of look-a-like bimbettes-in-training schlepping overpriced “artisan” ice cream to the overstuffed Americans gorging …

Ok, you know what? This may have more to do with me projecting my own experience at being forced to take out my 4th earring back in my days as a line cook. I should address the inner demons of my past openly and honestly.

On the other hand, what else are kids for?