Wednesday, May 31, 2006

They Like Me, They Really Like Me!


If you recognize the title of this rant as a throw-back to an academy awards speech given by Sally Field, then you are old.

I find myself doing some "middle aged" things lately and, although some might argue that it's about damn time, I have very mixed emotions about this transition. I find that I am having frequent struggles within myself. It's high school Liz trying to talk some sense into middle aged Liz. I think these conversations might make an interesting short story or book.

When I was in high school, I was grunge before the whole Seattle thing happened. I was queen of flannel and holey tennis shoes. I wore an army jacket, went all winter without shaving my legs, and I didn't stress if I needed sleep in lue of makeup. Don't confuse this with being dirty or being a hood (another reference you don't get if you're under 25). I was on student council and Ms. Senior Class and blah, blah, blah... I just didn't care one lick about what the rest of the world thought about the way I looked. I was happy to be a little off center. I did what I wanted and others were welcomed to come along for the ride if it sounded like fun. I mocked conventionality. I loathed conformity. Now... I have almost completely converted to the conventional conformist I hated and it's driving high school Liz crazy!

I no longer feel free to wear a bleached out t-shirt and Hawaiian print shorts to the bar for drinks. It's clicky sandals and froo-froo hair. Decked out in something that sparkles, carrying a purse instead of a backpack, planning a trip in June to Amish country... what the fuck? This isn't even familiar to the core I had 17. Hell, I've almost become exactly what my parents wanted. What's wrong with me?

I miss some of the old me. I used to be really compassionate and care. About a lot of things, I cared. Social issues, freedom for the masses, animal testing, sweat shops, the environment. Now I'm more worried about how much I'm paying in taxes and if my eyeliner and shadow clash. I'm interested in fewer people now too. If I don't particularly care for you, I don't want to be bothered with the pettiness of your sad life. That's awful, but it's true. You're annoying? Then go away. I don't necessarily want you dead, or at least not to have to suffer a painful death, but I sincerely want you out of my space. Unless I like you, I don't want to know about your problems. I don't want to help with your problems. Put on your big girl panties and suck it up. What happened to smiling on your brother and everybody getting together and trying to love one another?

Dude, it got replaced by a one-day-only sale at Belk's.

I refuse to believe that this is "maturity". You can be a free spirit and be mature. You can hold a job and be an individualist. You can contribute to a 401k and not have to sell your soul. So what switched in me? Some how my formula got off balance and I've morphed into a middle-aged, respectable woman who might even vote for a Republican in the near future! I worry about whether or not my supervisors like me. I know the folks I'm training like me, I know most of my co-workers like me, I know my neighbors like me, I couldn't have better friends... high school Liz would say, "That's more than enough, if the some dude sitting behind a desk doesn't see you as an asset, that's HIS loss. Let's go out and party!" middle-aged Liz says, "You need to face facts and start sucking up to the people that matter. You never know when they're going to have to downsize or when you might need a reference!" See? That's just WRONG but the thoughts are there. I used to pose questions like, "Did Adam have a belly button?" Now I ponder issues like, "How many years do I have left before bladder control or cataracts become an issue?"

I'm being drawn to the dark side. I think I need a weekend that involves a kegger and a sunrise, some time cruising just for the Hell of it, and some sort of event that involves waterballoons. It's time to get back to the things that really do make you interesting.

If you're in jeporady of becoming a stiff suit too, join me in my new cause! We can do a middle aged revolution together. It might not be as pretty of an assembly as it would have been 20 years ago, but it's not too late! I'll even wear something stone washed.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Balls of Meat Make Me Nervous

From the title you'd think it was Killer writing:

Well I've done it now. I've been talking up my homemade meatball subs for over a year to some friends and now the day has come for me to put my meat where their mouths are. (I'm already sorry for electing to put that sentence in writing.) You see, I do a pretty mean homemade meatball sub sandwich. I mean, it's always turned out really, really good... at least to me and to Kim, who happens to have the same tastes in her meatball subs as I do. But now I'm freaking out because in just a few hours I've got to concoct these "famous" meatball subs for a large crew of people- some of whom I work with and will surely have to see in the immediate future. I feel like I'm in the Pilsbury Bake-Off; my hands are sweaty, my stomach is churning, I'm worried about if the judges are going to like my presentation- it's too much pressure!!!

Here's the root of what is bothering me. Some of the guys coming over still eat like 8 year olds. They don't "do" vegetables. The KEY to my meatballs is the glorious ground onion and mushrooms that I lovingly fold into the ground chuck. The bell peppers add the color and flavor that make you want to slap your momma. The freshly minced garlic penetrates the sauces and takes you to a culinary happy place. I can't leave these things out and be true to my balls but if I add them I will surely not "meat" their expectations. This is like Sophie's Choice!

The one consolation is that they will be drinking. And, since tomorrow is an off day from work, I imagine they will be drinking a lot. Maybe the guys won't notice the chunks of veggies floating around in the sauce. Maybe the cheese I add to the meatballs, the sauce, and bake onto the bread will be enough to disguise the tastes from the garden. At least one of them hates mayonnaise (I know... what a freak!) which is another of my signature sub items... maybe I can actually alter the process and let him have a mayo-free sandwich.

Remember the Seinfeld where Kramer convinced Frank to cook again after his rancid meat fiasco in WWII? THIS is the pressure I'm feeling!

I've learned a lesson here that I hope you will benefit from. It's not the subs- they will be as they always are- it's the BRAGGING. I've actually read off "rules" to people before they've put the first bite in their mouths because I know the sandwiches are pretty darn good and I want to play it up. Rules like, "You will think you love me after you eat this sandwich. It is not me you love, it is the sub." "You will contemplate leaving your wife after tasting this sub. Do not. I do not want you." and "You will want a replay of this meal. Do not ask or you will be banned from the sub forever." I've done it in jest, but it's become like "a thing" and now I'm expected to satisfy this range of eaters? What if they say, "They were ok, but they can't touch what Subway does."? Can my ego survive this test?!

Sitting here typing away isn't getting the job done. These delicacies take about and hour and a half to put together and I like for them to simmer a minimum of 3 hours before serving, so I'd better get in the shower.

Looks like I'll be doing the Kroger strut today.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Rock stars come in all shapes and sizes.

Proudly proclaimed by Killer

I have never really understood why my camera has a phone, until now. This past Monday I was finally making use of one of my few days off work. I went to see the Strokes in concert. They were good, but not great. You could not really understand what the lead singer was saying, even when he was just talking between songs. I don't even know for sure if he was speaking English. It was loud, but incomprehensible.
The opening band was a interesting ensemble from Denver, I think. Their name is Apples in Stereo. They were okay, but every song sounded like another, more popular, song. We spent a good bit of their act commenting on who the lead singer looked like. The final decision was made that he looks like the gay guy from Sex in the City. Once they finished, however things got more exciting because the lead singer decided to blend into the crowd and watch the Strokes play. He walked by us right after his set. Gatewood, who was one of my concert companions, shook his hand and then yelled, "I am never washing this hand again!" He was more than a little drunk and rambunctious.
Shortly after the Strokes began playing Joey, my other musical compatriot, Got my attention and pointed out that the lead singer from Apples in Stereo had chosen us to stand beside us in order to enjoy the show. I guess he was impressed with Gatewood's apparent excitement to meet him.
I whipped out my phone and snapped off a shot of Joey, first trying to draw my attention to our new viewing partner, and then one of him celebrating the new arrival.

In case you are thinking, "hey, where is the rock star?" He is the one drinking the beer over Joey's right shoulder. His name is Robert Schneider. To be fair to Apples in Stereo, they actually were surprisingly good for an opening band. You can check out their website: and hear some of their music. It is an interesting website and also and interesting song that plays when it loads.

When they become famous Joey will be able to pull this picture out and show his grandkids. Gatewood, however who can not go more than fifteen minutes without washing his hands, has probably already ruined his only memento of this magical moment.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Yellow Mucus Eye

Liz writes:

I think going into the television or advertising business would have been a good match for me. I've always enjoyed writing and I'm fairly good at coming up with little jingles or catchy phrases. My new term is "strut". You may use it. As in, "I'm about to do the Wal-Mart strut," meaning that you're going to Wal-Mart. Or, if you're in a heated conversation you can simply say, "Strut!" as you pop your head and walk away. It's a multi-faceted word. I got the idea from a friend of mine who attended the "Chitterling Strut" in South Carolina. SERIOUSLY. I figure if you can strut a chitterling, you can strut anything.

So, being one who enjoys the complexities of my native tongue, I have found myself increasingly disturbed by the titles of some of the shows that appear on Discover Health Channel. It started out innocently enough with titles like "Born With Two Heads" "Face Transplant" and "400 lbs. Tumor". But last week I saw on my channel guide "Baby No Skin." OH MY GOD. BABY NO SKIN? Why? What happened to this baby's skin? I'm simultaniously saddened (deeply) by the name of the show and disgusted beyond belief. I don't want to know that babies can have no skin. At the same time, I think this "nick name" is cruel and not appropriate. Can you imagine the parents? They're grieving while waiting on a skin donor for their kid and some Hollywood producer calls and pitches the idea for a Discovery Health segment. "It will be great! We'll spread the word about Jonathan and his unique condition!" And the parents get all excited and agree and they tell everybody to watch the show and when friends ask, "What's the name of it, so we don't miss it?" The parents have to answer "Baby No Skin." This hurts my feelings.

This, for some odd reason, reminds me of a friend of mine (I'll use fake names to protect the child) whose 5 year old (OK, it's Kim's daughter) once took a gigantic crap. It can be surprising how much poop a child can hold. Darryl and I were talking about this at work one day and he was sharing stories of his kid's occasional extraordinarily large turds when they were little. Anyway, Kim's husband is in the bathroom with their daughter and he yells, "KIM! COME IN HERE QUICK!" She thinks something is wrong by the urgency in his voice. When she gets into the bathroom, he is pointing to this giant shit coiled up in the toilet and he says, "Look what your daughter did!" So Kim, being the most excellent mother she is, is talking with her 5-year old (trying not to make a big deal out of it or laugh) and making sure the child is all wiped up and ready for the bathtub and when Kim turns around, her husband is standing behind her with a camera! He was going to photograph this shit!!! To share with friends!!!!

I think that's hilarious.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Can I impress women in bars with my 401K?

Offensively Orated By Killer

There comes a time in every young man's life when he must except the fact that he has finally made the jump from frisky young lad to dirty old man. I don't believe there is anytime to actually enjoy just being a regular guy. It apparently just goes straight from one to the next. Sitting in a bar enjoying the lovely ladies walk by is expected of a young virile man. People might think you are a homosexual if you don't check out the ass of a good looking gal as she strolls by. Suddenly, one day, you look up from a lingering view and the bartender is giving you a look of disgust. Is it the graying, receding hairline? Is it the elastic waist banded pants pulled up around my arm pits? Maybe it is the dentures I have soaking in my beer glass. (beer just tastes better when it savored by your stinky gum holes.) Somewhere, somehow, I have passed my sexual expiration date, and I think I might be starting to smell funny.
Part of the problem could be the locations that I choose to belly up to the bar. I think the older people usually drink in seedy hotel bars, often located near an airport. But I enjoy drinking around the young folk. I need to feel the energy provided by a group of newly legal drinkers trying desperately to do as many shots as possible. It is nostalgic, and when one inevitably passes out in the bathroom you can defray the cost of your own bar tab by taking all the cash out of his pockets.
The socially acceptable age of my love interests is constantly on the rise. I can actually remember when I would not think of dating a 28 year old, because I did not want to date someone who's biological clock was rapidly approaching zero like a bomb about to explode. Now a 28 year old is bordering on being too young, a 24 year old would be a trophy wife, and an eighteen year old could, theoretically, be my own child. If only I had been cool enough to have sex at fifteen.
I guess it is official that I am a dirty old man. It is probably too late to change it, and I am not sure if I really want to anyway. Even if I did manage to find the only single, non-divorced, woman my own age who did not have kids, and she was willing to put up with me long enough to establish a respectable relationship, I would just show my true colors in the end when I asked her to wear a catholic school girl costume to bed.

Friday, May 19, 2006

If I were wealthy I could write more blogs.

Richly Written by Killer

My motivation to become independently wealthy is at an all time high. My ability to become independently wealthy appears to not be keeping up with my motivation. This is very unfortunate.
I need to devise new methods of obtaining wealth, but it needs to be quick. I don't know how much longer I can continue the rat race. My legs are getting tired and there seems to be no cheese in sight.
Plans for obtaining independent wealth:

1. Sell body parts on the black market.
I am fortunate enough to work around
a lot of injured people. I could probably score the occasional kidney, lung, or
brain. People are losing things around here all the time. I could just claim
ingnorance to the loss. Better yet, I could just say they did not have it when
they came in.
2. Become corrupt politician
I love to talk, and I love to
debate politics. I just have to convince one of the many big political
organizations, ie., Oil Companies, Pharmaceutical Companies, Labor Unions, etc.,
that for the right price I will do whatever they want to whoever they want. Once
elected, I get to fly around the world, live in a posh Washington D.C.
apartment, and date lots of young interns. All paid for by you, the tax payer.
3. Become a Gigolo.
Get paid to do sexual favors for rich women. I have
been hanging out in high dollar martini bars trying to set this plan into
action. Believe it or not, this is actually harder than it sounds. Most rich
women have personal trainers, so they can hit really hard.
4. Travel the South as a faith healer
Poor, uneducated people are gullible. Add an illness
or injury and they get even more desperate. Just put up a tent, throw together a
good choir, and start speaking in tongues and smacking sick folk in the head. By
the time their adrenaline wears off and they realize they are still sick you can
have the tent down, loaded and be fifty miles away. Just make sure the donations
are collected up front.

The good thing about all these ideas is they can be carried out simultaneously to maximize my wealth potential. I will keep you informed of my progress. If it goes really well, my personal assistant will actually keep you informed of my progress.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

The Book of Wookie

Reverently Rendered by Killer

Chewbacca is my hero. If you don't know who Chewbacca is then go straight to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. I try to live my life in a manner Chewie would approve of. When everyone around him was talking smack and fighting to be the boss, Chewie just sat back and let events take their course. He does not need other people to lord over in order to feel powerful. He had the confidence to know that he could crush everyone in the Millineum Falcon with one giant hairy fist. That was enough for him, and I can appreciate it. In my job I work with a lot of females. Now, I don't want to get you ladies out there in a feminine hormone induced frenzy, but you are difficult to work with, especially in large numbers. Women love to make every issue dramatic and over complicated. It is at these times that I look at my What Would Chewbacca Do bracelet, let out a soft, unintelligible moan and don't say a word. I just think to myself, "Oh yeah, I could squish you like a bug, but I won't."
Chewie is also my hero because he represents large hairy creatures every where, and he does it with pride. You won't see Chewie embarrassed to take his shirt off at the beach. Hell, he never even wears clothes, that is how comfortable he is with his luxurious body hair. I only wish I had the courage to walk around with nothing on but a bandoleer strapped across my chest. Feeling the breeze ripple through my back hair on a cool summer day would definitely be a liberating sensation.
Perhaps what I envy most about Chewbacca was everyone respected his decision to be a bachelor. You never saw Princess Leia or Han Solo trying to fix him up with other single mammals. They never commented on his age and the fact that he was still unattached. I guess they appreciated his desire to keep his options open. Sure he might hit on a hot chick dancing at Jabba's compound, but next week he might meet a sexy Ewok that sweeps him off his feet. A guy needs to be available whenever love comes a callin'.
I am going to set out to put together a collection of inspirational stories and quotes from my main man, Chewbacca. I will then start a small worship service out of a strip mall somewhere near the airport. We will gradually increase in number until we raise enough money to build a temple in the shape of the Millenium Falcon. We will meet a couple of days a week and roar like a collection of happy Wookies. It will be beautiful. It will be inspiring. It will be a guaranteed income boost to myself. L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of Scientology, once said, "The only real way to become famous is to start your own religion." It is apparent from Scientology and many other religions that they don't have to make sense in the beginning. You just have to stick to your guns until every one else believes you.
All hail Chewbacca, or I will squish you with my big hairy arms.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Forget Nurses, How About Organizational Development Specialists?

Liz agrees to disagree with K-Man:

So! Killer has his comfortable stretch panties in a wad because I forgot to send him a present for nurses' week? He thinks HE has it bad because his comatose patients didn't take up a flower collection or the paraplegics didn't sign a card for him with the pen someone placed between their teeth? He's mortified that no one said "thanks" after he changed the channel on their TV to the show that HE wanted to watch? I can't have pity. I DESERVE all the pity!

Where is MY thank you for all the PowerPoint presentations I've had to labor over? How come I'm not celebrated because I give my participants a break "EVERY HOUR" so that they can go and get their nicotine fix? Just one accolade for having the manuals neatly placed on the table upon their arrival might be enough to lift my spirits, but do I get that? NO. I DO NOT. Do you know how tired your ass can get from sitting down all day? I've probably got CLOTS in my legs. And do you realize how dangerous it is to surf the internet at my company? ONE person sees me on YouTube and I could get a verbal reprimand!

Killer, there is no week set aside for recognition of Organizational Development Specialists. We're the ones that have to give out the crappy nylon tote bags- we don't GET them. We provide snacks, they do not get provided. Granted, I don't have to work in an environment that smells like urine, but the spray used to clean the Dry Erase boards is LOADED with stinky chemicals.

I, for one, think that YOU should consider yourself LUCKY.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

You Ungrateful Bastards

Peevishly Penned by Killer

Nurses week just ended and I received neither cards nor gifts from any of you. What is the point in having an entire week dedicated to my profession if it does not culminate in a celebration in my honor? When I worked in California we would receive useless trinkets and snacks from the hospital administration. I have many ugly hand bags, pen lights, scissors and even calculators from various hospitals. I have received nothing from this hospital in Memphis.
I realize many of you are probably thinking to yourselves, "Killer, there is no week long holiday celebrating my profession. So I don't feel to sorry for you." Well, screw you! Certain professions are so obviously under appreciated by society that they give a special week to blow smoke up their ass and pretend they are special. Teachers get a week, Secretaries only get a day, Black people get an entire month. Now, I realize being African American is not really a profession, but they do get an entire month, the shortest month, but it is still a month. I bet if you ask many African Americans they will tell you it does not feel too sincere. I doubt anyone is giving them an ugly tote bag that says, "Good Job, Black History Month 2006".
In an attempt to allow many of you to feel better about yourself I am going to officially extend Nurses week for another few days. Feel free to send all your cards, gifts or cash prizes to me. I will disperse it to the other nurses as I feel appropriate.

Monday, May 08, 2006

Just Raging Against the Machine

Liz simmers:

I'm in a pissy mood. I feel like work is targeting my dress code compliance and it's annoying. But I shouldn't be upset- this weekend I won $200 playing cards. Not bad! I went the very next day and spent every cent of my winnings on work clothes so that I could best adhere to the policy. I bought 4 shirts that are the exact same style and 4 pairs of kakhis. Today I was again called on the carpet because I was wearing tennis shoes. As I walked through the administration portion of my place of employment, I noticed all sorts of people out of "spec". Talk about pissed! It's just so ridiculous!

I probably shouldn't have told my boss's boss's boss that he was welcomed to come over to my house and help dress me since I was obviously too stupid to dress myself- but I did. Without smiling. And, if that's not enough, I invited my boss's boss to do the same.

I love my job. I love where I work, who I work with, and what I do; but DAMN! They will let you wear capri pants (dressy only) but you have to wear shoes with socks. You can't wear any shirt without a collar, so sweaters are out as are company issued T-Shirts and fleece pull overs. No sandals- unless you're wearing socks with them- which I'm not doing. God, I still have my dignity to consider! Sleeves must be at least 4 inches long and no brand on any clothing unless it's the company brand. The goal? They say that they want us to dress more professionally. That's hard to do in lesbian shoes.

I'm thinking about having a yard sale. Any size nine feet out there interested?

I thought typing this out would make me feel better. It hasn't. I guess I'll be deleting this soon too. I'm sure there is some sort of BLOG policy out there. And don't think they're not watching!

Saturday, May 06, 2006


Liz's mane focus:

Those of you fortunate enough to have experienced the blog I once commissioned know that I have a drug-addicted, serial screwing, hepatitis-having, no longer licensed hair dresser. It seems like enough to make you go out and look for someone else to cut and color your hair, doesn't it? But, and women may understand this better than men, having someone that UNDERSTANDS your hair, communicates to it, has its best interest in her heart- that hairdresser is necessity. Like a musician cherishes his old beat up guitar, a woman with ample locks forms a bond with a good hair dresser that has a spiritual meaning. This relationship is the focus of this blog posting.

Since my hairdresser no longer has a place of employment, I had to go to a friend of her's home and have my hair done this week. Ummm... scary. I haven't been in a house like this since I was in college. Nothing matches, everything is a hand me down from a dead relative or the salvation army store. There are two cats living in the house and they don't look very healthy. Even though there were no drugs laying out on the table, I have a 6th sense for knowing where there is dope. Trust me on this: in this house there was stuff. I'm not able to sense exactly what drugs are stored in the wooden box on the coffee table, taped behind the toilet tank, laying in the sock drawer, or stored in a ziplock in the freezer, but I know that there are some highly potent and illegal substances in this house.

I'm also convinced that all of these substances had been consumed exactly 32 seconds prior to me walking in the door to get my hair done.

The "roommate" of my hairdresser is, by the hairdresser's standards, a loose woman with a revolving bedroom door. On this evening a trucker was at their house to get him some. He comes by whenever he's in town and hangs with the roommate until it's time to haul his load to the next town. There is tequila on the table when I walk in. By the time I leave, the bottle is empty.

Getting my hair done took almost 3 hours. Some of that time I was forced, against my will, to watch TV with my hairdresser. I was also informed of the relationship the roommate keeps with a local police officer. In exchange for keeping an eye on the house and not organizing a raid, he gets to come in periodically and watch the roommate while she... ummm... pretends he's not there and entertains herself. I kept watching my purse.

The roommate and trucker went out and got groceries for cooking dinner. While I sat at the kitchen table with foil all over my head, they drank and cooked and grinded on each other, locking lips and smacking ass while I tried to stare at the closed blinds that lead to the backyard. That lead to freedom. I was there to get my hair colored back to brown from the blonde that has creeped in after years of highlights and has turned almost platinum in places. I walked in as a blonde, left as a dark-haired brunette. The trucker said, "Your boyfriend is gonna want some tonight. He'll feel like he's getting some strange." It made me feel unclean.

When it was time to rinse, I stood bent over the kitchen sink. There was an unwashed bowl of chili next to me. It made me feel unclean too.

So what do I do? She's GREAT at doing hair. I'm entertained by her trashiness. But, I don't want to be there when they're busted, when another lover comes in with a gun, or when the GodSmack starts playing and the needles come out! Do I break the bond and find a lesser hairdresser- how important is comfort? What do I lose by staying inside the lines and not putting myself in mildly dangerous situations. MILDLY dangerous. They're not going to rape me or anything. They're just trashy and low class. Is that so bad, really?

I will say this. When I had to use the bathroom, I lined the seat with toilet paper before I sat down. I'm not sure if that will prevent the crabs or not, but it gave me some mental comfort none the less.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Stop, Drop and Roll

Written on the Run by Killer

I am at work and the fire alarm is going off. I am not sure where the fire is supposed to be because when they announced it over the intercom I was not paying attention. It could be anywhere. I have serious doubts in my patients ability to make a swift get away in case of impending doom, and this puts some serious moral and ethical dilemmas in my path. If a fire breaks out on my unit do I stay with my patients and face possible incineration, or do I cut and run like a little girl, screaming and waving my arms frantically over my head?
There are consequences to both options. If I run away shrieking and knock over everyone on my way to safety, I could possibly lose my job. But I am in a sellers market and could quickly find a new one, probably across the street at the VA. The VA does not concern itself so much with customer satisfaction or customer safety, they just need a warm body. I could run screaming from our front door, continue across the street (stopping to look both ways for frantic fire trucks) and go straight to the human resources of the VA hospital. I could probably have the entire application filled out by the time the fire men determine it was a false alarm.
If I decide to stick by my patients side during this dire time the outcome still appears bleak.
For starters my patients are all on high flow oxygen. That creates a really flammable environment. There is also a distinct possibility that I might be the only person who does not abandon ship. In that situation I could get ostracized by my fellow staff members for trying to be a hero and making them look bad. I am a very social person and don't want everyone to hate me. We all know, everyone hates a brown noser. Even if the brown noser ends up with 3rd degree burns over 60% of his body.
I really am in a pickle. I hope they find the fire while it is small enough and put it out before it spreads to my area. I feel the only option at this point is to wait and watch what everyone else does. I really don't know which outcome is worse. Suffering the excruciating pain of 3rd degree burns, followed by multiple infections and difficult rehab, or working for the VA.

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Ass Flowers

Artistically posted by Killer

I spent this past weekend in Oxford, MS., at the Double Decker Art Festival. It was a grand old time. My best friend is an artist and has a booth there on occasion, so I come to town to help pimp his work. The problem with art festivals is that you only get a few actual art buyers, but a whole lot of art lookers. It is the art work that brings in the people, but it is the crappy crafts that get purchased. By crappy crafts I mean when a person paints a flower on a small mirror and then glues some fuzz around the edges and sells it for five dollars, etc. The crappy craft folk end up making a lot of money by selling hundreds of trinkets to the local yokels. I don't really begrudge them this fact, it just irritates me because I can't bring myself to buy a bunch of crocs sandals ($35 a pair), paint some pretty flowers on them and then resell them ($45 a pair). This was another crappy craft item available.
Are people who paint pretty flowers on crocs or mirrors any less of artists than those painting pictures or making pottery? Maybe my view of art is skewed. I tend to appreciate art that I could not create myself. I could paint pretty flowers on random objects, I just don't have the drive to do so. Maybe my problem is not with crappy craft makers, but with myself, subconsciously. Perhaps I am angry at myself on some deeper level for not getting my ass in gear and painting more pretty flowers on objects. I could support myself by flowering found items and not have to support myself by wiping people's ass. I am going to start immediately.
Here are some items that I have decided to flower.

This first item is a CD. It cost me about 80 cents, and I could sell it for 10 dollars, huge profit potential.

This next item is a tortilla that was in my fridge. It was probably too old to actually eat, which makes it's cost even lower. Cost about 25 cents, and I could sell it for 10 dollars. Even bigger profit potential.

This last item is harder to figure out the market potential. It is my own ass. I was born with it, so it cost nothing. The only problem is I guess I could only sell it once. Maybe I can use it as a performance piece and have people pay just to look at it.

The art work is more rudimentary here because it is actually very hard to draw flowers on your own ass. I suggest trying it sometime. I will point out however, "permanent marker" does not wash off. I will keep you informed on how long it takes to wear off.
I hope to see you at the next art festival. Just look for my ass.