Sunday, November 20, 2011

Dances With Corpses

Sometimes while strolling the Internet I come across news items that appear to be truly unbelievable which turn out to actually be true.

Just the other day I read about the arrest of a forty-five year old historian in central Russia after police discovered 29 corpses of women, dressed as dolls, in his apartment. Dolls? I would assume they were more Malibu Barbie than Raggedy Ann or Cabbage Patch kid, but then again... maybe they were dolls of famous women through the ages such as Queen Isabella, Catherine II, or Ethel Merman.

I imagine the corpses dressed in beautiful evening gowns, seated around the dining room table with a feast of Russian inspired food served on the historian’s late mother’s finest china. I see candelabras burning scented red candles to keep the flesh stench from overpowering the historian’s nasal cavity. And the wine? Must be red. One never serves white wine when there’s a corpse in the room.

And after dinner I imagine the historian, dressed in the finest suit his meager income could buy, dancing with each of the corpses as the candles burned to their bases.

Moonlight serenade on the balcony.

The music. The romance. The necrophilia.

Aaah... just another night for a forty-five year old historian with nothing else to do on a Saturday night in central Russia.

Maybe someone should teach him how to play Solitaire.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

The Mr. Coffee Coffeepot Dilemma

In the production office where I work we have two Mr. Coffee coffeepots.

The expensive one has all the bells and whistles but it fails to keep the non-flavored coffee really hot. It’s lukewarm at best and I always have to slide my cup into the microwave for thirty seconds to give it the heat it needs. I want brewed coffee, not microwaved coffee, damn it.

In the second Mr. Coffee coffeepot, the cheap one, we brew flavored coffee. This coffeepot has no bells and whistles but it keeps the coffee nice and hot just how I like it.

Some mornings I prefer flavored coffee.

The problem is the second Mr. Coffee coffeepot spills when it pours. If you pour quickly you get a puddle. If you pour more slowly you get a mini-puddle. And if you pour as if you’re pouring honey you still spill drops.

I have poured from that coffeepot at all speeds - briskly, moderately briskly, slowly, extra slowly, and at a snail’s pace and still it spills. Because I have impeccable manners I always grab a napkin or paper towel to wipe up the mess I’ve created. It’s gentlemanly of me to do so, and I expect everyone else to do the same.

Who wants to come into a kitchen for a cup of coffee and see a puddle of coffee on the table with who-knows-what (our office has fleas) swimming the breast stroke or doing the doggie paddle in the brown colored liquid? Not me.

The other day I happened to be in the kitchen when a woman came in and helped herself to the flavored coffee. She pour briskly and created quite the puddle on the table. She calmly put the Mr. Coffee coffeepot back on the burner and sashayed out of the kitchen without wiping.

Oh, oh, oh I saw red. I wanted to grab her by her cheap hair extensions and drag her cottage cheese ass back to the puddle and stick her nose in it like you’d do a dog that’s peed on the floor. Bad woman! Bad woman! Bad woman!

Instead I kept my cool and did the gentlemanly thing. I wiped it up.

I’m not feeling too gentlemanly for this week... I’m feeling revenge.

Tuesday, November 08, 2011

For the Love of Fry Bread

Sunday morning I awoke to the sound of rain against the windowpane. (I hate rain)

Sunday morning I wanted to stay in bed underneath the warmth of my covers. (I hate cold)

Sunday morning I wanted just a few more hours sleep. (I hate being overtired)

But Sunday morning had other plans for me... Fry bread and the Native American Marketplace at the Autry Museum in Los Angeles.

Oh fry bread oh fry bread how I love thee!

So I dragged my weary ass out of bed and put on layers of clothing and ventured into the cold and rainy morning for the love of fry bread.

The marketplace was full of Native American artisans selling their paintings, handmade jewelry, blankets, pottery, and sculptures. I stood in awe at everything that surrounded me. America the beautiful beats in the heart of Native Americans.

I talked with painters about inspiration. I chatted with a woman who creates the more glorious blankets and afghans. I bought myself a beautiful silver feather pendant created by the talented New Mexican silversmith Mark Calladitto.

I could have wandered and talked forever but “it” was in the air. So I followed “it” to Auntie’s Fry Bread truck and ordered myself fry bread topped with shredded beef and cabbage. I was dizzy with desire as I held the precious fry bread in my hand. It was almost too beautiful to eat.

I savored every bite, every morsel of that fry bread. I could’ve eaten more but I knew a second fry bread might fill my tummy too much and I didn’t want that overstuffed feeling where I’d regret having more than one.

One was enough. It keeps me hungry for the next time.

Fry bread and me. The perfect Sunday experience.