Hey! What in the seven kinds of sam hell is wrong with my goldfish crackers?!?!?!
What are those cracker lumps? Did my goldfish swim near a nuclear reactor? WTF?
Basketball shapes? BASKETBALL SHAPES!?!?!?!?
WTdoubleF?
Aw fer crissakes, Dwayne, keep your gear out of my snack food!
I don’t like nobody messing with my goldfish. I like ’em just like they is.
And also…
HEY YOU KIDS! GET OFF MY LAWN!!
You ever have those moments where your monkey brain isn’t working on anything in particular, and when given free rein, it jumps around from topic to topic? There it hops along and suddenly you end up in some crazy neighborhood in your mind, and you are unsure how you got there.
And at that point, it’s best to just back out sloooowly.
Yeah. This happened to me the other night.
I was really, really tired. I hadn’t been sleeping well and my fatigued brain wasn’t making coherent thoughts. I oh so needed to get some work done at home, but couldn’t get my head into the game.
Instead, I lay down in my bed figuring hell, I’ll just sleep. Things will look better in the morning.
As I lay there trying to get to the REM’s, I thought “man, wouldn’t it be great to have one of those oxygen tents like Michael Jackson? I understand that a boost of oxygen can help you be more alert and think more clearly. That would be so rad.”
So *then*, my untethered mind, thinking of oxygen tents, remembered that episode of Seinfeld where George and The Bubble Boy got into a big fight.
And so of course I laughed.
But THEN, The Bubble Boy reference made me think of that TOTAL made-for-TV movie, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble which oh yes I totally watched after school.
Which then made me think to myself, damn, who was that actor who played the boy in the bubble? Dark hair, kind of cute.
So then the other side of my brain hollered in response, “Robby Benson!”
And ta daaa! My brain was now stuck on, “So whatever happened to that guy?”
So there I am, trying to sleep but instead thinking about Robby Benson. You know, circa “Ice Castles” and “Ode To Billy Joe“?
Young, cute, all soft focused and baby faced? Quiet voice and acting chops suited for made-for-TV?
Yeah! That guy! Where the hell is he now?
And that’s how I went to sleep.
Only trouble is…in the light of day, I realized. The Boy in the Plastic Bubble wasn’t Robby Benson, it was John Travolta. You know, circa “Welcome Back, Kotter” and right before “Saturday Night Fever.”
So I spent all that time pondering Robby when I should have been pondering John.
Damn. What a brain. Ain’t worth the price of headcheese with mayo on marble rye from Molinari (a deli in North Beach, for my out of town friends).
I really gotta learn how to do Sudoku or something…..
So there you are, at home alone in your second story apartment doing whatever it is single ladies do at home at night. (I’m thinking eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough, but that’s just me.)
You hear a rattle, rattle outside on your fire escape and realize someone is climbing onto your balcony.
What do you do?
Well you call the damn police, that’s what.
And that’s what a German woman did in this situation.
Problem was, the assumed burglar was her boyfriend, bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine in hand, trying to do something romantic.
Ah, ok, no harm no foul, right?
The police all have a good laugh and let the young lovers have their peace.
Whoops, seems the boyfriend had an outstanding warrant.
So when the police arrived, he jumped down from the balcony and tried to flee, only to be tackled by the officers on the scene.
Star crossed lovers, or something….
Bonus points to the guy for giving the arresting officers the bottle of wine.
Hopefully his Juliet has a good sense of humor.
I’m thinking chocolate chip cookie dough and a Netflix movie is one heck of a lot nicer way to spend the night than bailing your boyfriend out of jail…but that’s just me.
Oh man, I can’t *believe* I forgot to blog about this… I think I Tweeted, but 140 characters does this no justice.
So picture it if you will. Las Vegas Boulevard just a week or so ago.
I’m over at the Mirage because I was hungry and wanted the fare offered at the Carnegie Deli***.
I swear, I am a New York Jewish girl, because I gotta have their chopped liver salad. Just *gotta* have it!
So after finishing my meal and losing a few bucks to the slots, I decided to walk.
I always have to take some time to walk Vegas Blvd to see how it has changed. Plus, you get a whooole different view of The Strip at street level.
There I am walking north on the strip headed toward Fashion Show Mall with a destination of the Trump Hotel nestled in behind the mall, when I see a little alcove-like thing in the wall around the Mirage.
People are lined up there and I figure, well, it’s some Vegas thing, a mostly naked show girl, an “amazing double” dressed up as Michael Jackson (only I just saw him a couple hours ago back at the Bellagio) or a Three Card Monte game, who knows.
I was not prepared for what I saw.
Not. Prepared.
I come around the bend and see this lush green inset in the wall with a railing.
Ok, you know when you go to a cathedral or a really large Catholic church and they have the Virgin Mary Grotto? With the statue and the railing and the somber tones?
Yeah. It was like that.
Only the statue people were worshiping was this (click for full size):
If the imagery isn’t immediately clear to you, that’s a golden rendition of Sigfried and Roy and a white tiger, festooned with fakey shards of crystals shooting out of the cement moorings.
Oh man, everyone was snapping photos like the red carpet. They’d put the kids in front of this thing, or the lady would get in front and the guy would take the photo then the guy would get up there and the lady would snap away, and then the whole family would crowd in there.
People were beside themselves to get photos with this statue.
In a non-ironic way.
Well, I found a break in the crowd and grabbed a couple iPhone photos so I could show The Good Man and we could look at this later and ponder just WTF.
I have no answers.
Other than that’s Vegas, I suppose…
***Not intentionally, but we ended up having an “old home” week in Las Vegas. We went to Garduños to fulfill longing for the food of my youth, then later I took The Good Man, a Brooklyn boy, back to the Carnegie for a monster Reuben (corned beef, if you please).
Yup. I waited and waited and finally the persimmon I’d picked and brought inside became ripe. “Like a soft tomato” I’d read was the desired state.
I sliced it open, and gave ‘er a shot.
It tastes something like a creamy melon. Normally, “melon” wouldn’t be a flavor I like.
But in this case, I found it to be delicious! Still a bit of tannin, but not uncomfortably so.
Nice!
And *then* I read that eating too much persimmon can cause something really fun called a bezoar! Hooray!
