Thanks to a load of snot rags, I'm able to pass this wish along to you..

Barrel of Monkey

Almost every day I drive by a strip joint called "Shotgun Willie's," an active little booby bar where the parking lot's always packed and bright, illuminated by a glowing billboard topped with a giant shotgun hanging decidedly limp, I suppose having shot its load.  I don't have a picture of the object at hand, although I hope to post one eventually, so for now you'll have to settle for the erotic shot of the Love Pig's growth, which, for some reason, I find appropriate. My question/observation deals mostly with this giant, floppy firearm and whether or not it's appropriate. Not appropriate appropriate, but accurate appropriate. Would a stiff double barrel be more to the point? Or do potential customers see the lame cartoon steel, smile, and think, "That could be me," neglecting to imagine the wet spot seeping across the front of their jeans like a not-so-secret sea. Why not two guns? One stiff, one limp? And why, when you go to the Shotgun's website, are you presented with a far more disturbing image, a caricature of an old cowboy holding an animated double-barreled shotgun, the holes at the ends of its barrels shifty and expressive? Why would patrons wish to make eye contact with a double-barreled phallus? As for its double-barreledness, that's another question entire. 

I was walking a trio of wiener dogs (two Oscar Meyers, one Ball Park Frank) today, minding my business and theirs, trying to keep the little furry cylinders happy, letting them investigate a patch of ripe grass, when someone begins to frantically rap on a window from the inside of their corner house. It was difficult to see anything, what with winter glare, so, thinking someone was saying "hello," admiring the dogs or perhaps my lovely dog-walking sweatpants, I smiled. The four of us continued down the sidewalk through the slush when the tapper bursts from the front door with eyebrows the shape of evil and scolds me for not picking up after the dogs. "Aren't you gonna pick up after your dogs?!" she screams, pointing her finger at the grass the dogs were roaming moments ago. I explain that they didn't go to the bathroom, and that, even if they did, the tremendous pile of Great Dane-style dog shit in plain view could not possibly have come from them, these tiny creatures I have leashed to my hand. She says something along the lines of, "Well, I wish you'd pick up after your dogs," obviously still blaming me and the Daschunds for the mess in her yard, and slams the door on me as I attempt to resolve the issue. 

Just a few weeks ago, almost the exact same thing happened: an oldish woman comes out of her house to get into her car while Ruth (yes, Ruth), a beagle mix, is peeing on a strip of her lawn. The woman asks me if I'm going to pick up after my dog, and I tell her that the dog didn't poop, she peed. "That's not what I saw," she said, and, as I invited her to point out the imagined pile so I could pick it up, she huffed, got into her car, and slammed the door.  

I can't figure old ladies out. Even semi-old ladies. Many of them seem to have the same rotten prerogative, always wanting to get riled up, start something, then walk away, still riled up, from whatever it is that got them riled up. What I want to know is if anyone gets old ladies; that is, if old ladies can be gotten. Maybe you have a helpful hint or a taser I can use the next time some old coot wrongly accuses me and refuses to talk about it. I just hope they don't force me to whip out the old incontinence insults. I'd hate to surprise one in such a way that she wastes a perfectly good diaper.

Term of the Month

Friday morning, driving Levi to a coffee shop before heading off to walk a bunch of dogs, I told him my head didn't feel quite right, that I thought maybe my body wasn't ready to be doing anything.  Yet there we were, driving around doing things, getting ready to do more things.  It seemed likely to me that my brain was still a post-coital nebula, which I imagine to be a sort of purple fog with a few hunks of glitter suspended here and there as inadequate stars.  Or maybe something like this:

When your brain looks like that, it's not to be rushed.  It's a state that must exit as it pleases, choosing when your puddle of a thinker may retain a cortex of taut, gray bundles.  Those pappy auroras, those wisps of pure sense, must melt softly, like a mold of warm Jell-O, off the plate and onto the floor where they can harden once again.  After we've diagnosed my problem, Levi turns to me and says, with the austerity of a well-seasoned physician, "You have Hump Head." 

I encourage you to practice using this new term at holiday gatherings around close friends and family.

Me Want French Kiss!

It was cold enough on the mountain yesterday to merit the old neck warmer. Levi's sweet and kind, so he let me borrow his gaiter, an item that was clearly born in the eighties of dysfunctional polyester and cotton parents.  It quickly became hot and damp in there, the moist blue fuzz chafing the lower half of my face, revealing to me, finally, what it'd be like to make out with Cookie Monster.  In case you've forgotten, I also know what it's like to make out with the following things...

Levi:

David Letterman:

A Domestic Rouen:

I wrote/cut-and-paste and essay for the Westword's New Year's contest and won both a cheap bottle of champagne and a mystery item.  If you can guess what the mystery item is, you win something off of Levi's desk. The essay's composed mostly of infamous Newsletter material, so if you receive Newsletter (and read it), my essay/collage will be very much a retrospective.  But, if you go to the site, you can read pretty bad essays by other people who are either drunk, horny, or missing a cervix.  Look for "Bon Voyage, 2007" (not my title) in the actual rag, or, if you're paper-training President Bush, you can find it online: 

http://www.westword.com/2007-12-13/calendar/why-i-m-ready-to-kiss-2007-goodbye/full

Today I stopped by a Michael's craft store, as Levi and I are gifting a framed photo of ourselves to my parents (read: "Mom") for Christmas. We plan to Photoshop a newborn into the thing.  Anyway, got to a register manned by the 106 year-old crank ball who yelled across fifteen check-out counters at a younger clerk who had, earlier during my line-waiting, borrowed from the hag what appeared to be the only writing utensil in the store.  Probably twenty people, all of us visibly infected with the virus of holiday retail, were waiting in various register lines, our arms heavy with plastic roses, puffy paint, gobs of yarn, and buy-one-get-one styrofoam cubes, witnessing this old lady starting shit.  If you didn't already know, there's nothing like a cat fight in a thick haze of cinnamon spice potpourri to get you in the Christmas spirit.  

Meggo sent me a link to a fine holiday video---a bigger, better Twelve Days of Christmas:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Fe11OlMiz8

Excuses, Excuses

During my stint as a graduate teacher of creative writing at CU, I had a student, one I saw maybe three times during the entire semester, who communicated with me only via email, presenting nothing but excuses for his continued absence from class.  I saved most of his emails and came across them the other day, thought I'd share some of his most creative work with you, original misspellings and poor punctuation included:

- Sorry I didn't attend class on Friday I got food poisoning from the dorm food Thursday night.  I read the Steve Martin article and have my two pieces from the books.  What should I do to be prepared for tomorrow's class.

- Tuesday night i had the bloodiest cough, which kept me up all night.  I took way to much nyquil at six in the morning and slept until four, which sucked cause that left my two hours before my differential equations exam.  Anyways, I hope i can make up the work i missed and be prepared for the class on Friday.  I completed my page on imagery and my journal.  would you like me to e-mail that too you?  Sorry for my absense.  Thanks

- I had court for a stupid ticket way down in Castle Rock at 2:00 on Wednesday.  I have the poem with the ten made up words and took notes on the workshop poems from my group.  if you'll accept either of these i can run them by your office today or class tomorrow.  What will prepare me for tomorrow's class?  Thanks

- Sorry about class today.  I left my parents house in south denver at 8:30 and didn't get up here till like 11:40.   Not really an excuse, i should of left yesterday.  I have my author presentation on Wednesday and have no idea on what to do.  Would you like to schedule a meeting or you can just send me an email on what your looking for in the presentation.  Thanks

- Yesterday morning some kid in Libby got to the power box and turned the power off then back on.  This happened at like five, neither me or my roommate woke up, and obviously my alarm never went off for class and I slept till one.  How can i be prepared for class tomorrow. Thanks

- As i told you before break, my grandpa died and i had to fly out to tennesse to attend his funeral on Thursday and i missed your classes on wednesday and Friday.  All last week my family and i had to help my grandma pack and move all of her belongings to Georgia where my aunt and uncle live.  In general, i have had the shitiest week of my life, missed my trip to Cancun with my  buds, and am now writing a five dollar email from the atlanta airport.  Our 6:40 flight was cancelled and i have to stay here another night and won't be on one until 10:20 tomorrow.  This means i will be missing your class yet again.  I'm so so so sorry for the inconvenience.  Please inform me of what i have to make up for Wednesday my author presentation is already to go and to be performed.  Thank you for your support, and i hope i can make up what i miss.  With grateful appreciation, X.

- i am having the worst week of my life.  My favorite relative dies, i sleep through the only f-in class i have to go to (yours), sleep all the way through your office hours, and now i'm going to get a strep culture because it feels like bacteria is eating away at my throat.  Missing your class in unexcusable, but i have been having the worst week of my life and i really just want to get out of this place.  I will do my presentation next Monday for you in office hours, I did my character sketch, now I just have to go to class.  Sorry i'm writing you all this shit cause it has nothing to do with anyone but me, but i have had the worst week of my life and now i'm getting sick AGAIN!  F dorm life.  Sorry, i'm going to go home till Friday and see how i feel, but can you send me the assignment for Friday.  Have a nice day, I wont

- I have been OVERWHELMED with work, but things are turning out alright(except for the five hours of sleep i barely get a night).  On Monday after class, I would like to make up that quiz, give you my author presentation paper, my character paper, and the re-written "little red riding hood".  Sorry this has taken so long but I have been OVERWHELMED (understatement).  Is there anything else i can do to salvage some more of my grade?  Extra Credit possibly?  Completely understand if not.  I will bring in the folder of all the work i have done for the class and maybe receive some credit for that?

- I have had a two months from hell like no one could imagine.  I have worked my ASS off in my other classes and have risen my grades, but i know i'm failing your class.  Would you pass me if i turned in all my make-up working (I mean EVERYTHING) in my portfolio as long with editing my work and completing the portfolio.  I have had such late nights and overlaps that have caused me to miss your class.  Just want this semester to be over

And you thought Presidentin' material only came from those Ivy League joints. 

Where's Becko?

Logan

Logan's my nephew. 

My twenty month-old nephew who cries when he sees me.  I don't think he hates me, I just think he needs to get used to me.  In an effort to save our relationship, I've been having the kid over.  We engage in captivating conversations over cigars and booze.  Still, though, he seems a little leery. What it might take is a little weed. 

Letter to Denver Parking Violations Bureau

I received a parking ticket not so long ago. I parked in a "Truck Loading Zone" for three minutes to grab something from a P.O. Box, actually brushed against the beady-eyed meter maid on my way into the UPS Store. I was most displeased upon returning to my car, which was tagged with one of those awful yellow envelopes. It was tucked under my wiper with the precision and malice of a Nazi. Alright, the guy who put it there, the guy I brushed against on my way into the store, was black. But still. Anyway, since the Parking Violations Bureau is always so picky [you park in a two-hour space for a two hours and one second, and you've got a ticket; you park in a 1st Tuesday zone at 8:01 AM, and you've got a ticket], I thought I'd be a little picky, too. The letter didn't work, by the way. They sent me a reply that said something like, "We received your letter, considered your argument, then used it to wipe our ass with."

Denver Parking Violations Bureau

P.O. Box 46500

Denver, CO 80201-6500

To Whom It May Concern:

I received a parking violation (citation #107496712) on May 8th, 2007, at 1500 Larimer Street and choose to dispute. Please allow this letter to serve as my argument against the ticket I received.

The officer's comments on the ticket note that a passenger vehicle was parked in a zone for which it had no permit. My vehicle was parked in a zone marked "Truck Loading Zone." Perhaps this sign is not as specific enough, as, according to standard American definitions of the word "truck," my vehicle is a truck---the first definitions of "truck" in each of the following dictionaries are as follows: "a wheeled vehicle, in particular" [Oxford American Dictionary]; "any of various forms of vehicle for carrying goods and materials" [Webster's Dictionary]. Because my vehicle is wheeled, and because it was carrying goods and materials at the time of ticketing, I must presume that the reason I received a ticket is because my vehicle is not the right kind of truck. If this is the case, your parking sign must note the particular kind of truck it means to allow; for instance, "Commercial Truck Loading Zone." Since your sign is not specific in what kind of truck is allowed to park in its zone, since the word "truck" is not specific enough to encourage me from parking my vehicle in that zone, and since there is no mention of requiring a permit, I don't believe there are logical or just grounds for my receiving this parking ticket.

I hope you understand how your sign at 1500 Larimer is misleading. Thank you for your time, and please consider making that sign more specific.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Kraft

NogNogNog, NogNogNog, NogNogNogNogNog

Screw the Pyramids of Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and the Temple of Artemis; seems to me that nog is the only substantial wonder of the world.  The most mysterious substance of the holiday season, nog breaks down racial barriers, feeds starving children, and hangs Christmas decorations in no time.  And it's much talked about.  Here's what a few famous people are saying about nog:

"Too noggy."

Roger Ebert

"I did not...have...egg nog with that woman."

-Bill Clinton

"Doesn't really fit down my throat." 

-O.J. Simpson

"Fucking great shit!" 

-Mother Teresa

Let's take a closer look at nog, shall we?

When the egg met the nog:

[standard-size white chicken egg dressed in formal party fare (tuxedo, bow tie) introduces itself to nog, who is draped in holiday table runners tacked with a variety of tassels and occasional pine cones.]

Egg: Hi, I'm the egg.

Nog: [Steps to the left, shakes tassels.]

Egg: So, you're the nog, right?

Nog: [Steps, again, to the left, shakes tassels, a pine cone falls.]

Egg: I think we're going to be working together.  How about that?

Nog: Eeeeeeeeeee! [Detaches a pine cone from its chest and eats it.  Runs to punch bowl, sticks head in and blows bubbles.]

Alright, I admit that I know exactly what nog is: a drink consisting of milk or cream, sugar, and eggs beaten together.  Fine.   It's well-defines and tasty as hell.  I just wanted to write about nog in my blog. 

Inverted, Pre-lit Values

I heard that, for Christmas this year, people are opting for inverted trees.  Why?  Because it's a 12th Century Central European tradition?  Perhaps.  But, more likely, because it "[allows] more room for the accumulation of presents underneath."  The tree, which comes pre-lit so that you can maximize on your mall hours, goes for $600 at Hammacher and Schlemmer.  But you're out of luck if you want one this year; their site notes that the upside down holiday accoutrement is sold out.

Are you kidding me? 

I thought we Americans, during the holidays, spent all of our money on giant lawn ornaments.  If we start spending our money on inverted Christmas trees, how will we buy our animated acre-sized snow globes and generator-powered seven-foot Santas?  And, if I do end up purchasing an inverted Christmas tree, will I also be able to buy the appropriate tree top/bottom decorative angel decked in a blood-smeared robe, of course, the angel having been impaled and pinned to the ground by the tree's tip top?

This is all terribly upsetting.  I think I'll turn to food therapy and go gnaw the ears off of my chocolate Jesus.

"I have to have a talk with you."

"I have to have a talk with you," is what my mom said after I told her that, no, I had not been cooking for the man in my life.  Not to say this never happens, the cooking, but I was eager to discourage what I think she was implying: "If you don't cook for him, it's all over."  

Maybe she's right.  Maybe cakes and casseroles foster the finest relationships.  Maybe, instead of talking with him, trying to understand him, doing my best to know his heart and his mind, I should fashion some sort of food chute through which I might send these cakes and casserole directly to his stomach.  That way I'll never take the chance of faulting during conversation, and he'll always be full.  

[In the photo you see how my mother answers the door.]

Speaking of full, if you didn't yet know, Pamela Anderson has co-penned (i.e. selected the font for) a novel entitled "Star Struck."  This book can be found, oftentimes faced, in the fiction corral of your local bookstore.  

The first chapter: You Shook Me All Night Long

The first line: "Why do my nipples hurt? was Star's first thought as she woke from a strangely deep sleep, her hands gliding along her naked body to the tender nipples that had awakened her." 

Pam Anderson has big boobies.

Pam Anderson writes about boobies, probably big.

Big-boobied Pam Anderson gets her novel about boobies, probably big, published.

Creative writer with little boobies suspects big-boobied Pam Anderson got her big-boobied novel published because Pam Anderson has big boobies.

Creative writer with little boobies wishes, just for a second, that she had big boobies.

Creative writer, in subsequent seconds to wish for big boobies, is satisfied with having bigger words than boobies.