Van Wilder is NOT Down by the River

Have you ever gotten that creepy hibbity-jibbity panic kind of feeling, for no discernable reason at all?

This evening, as I walked out of the store, I noticed that a suspiciously creepy black windowless Rape Van with Oregon plates had parked [i]right next to my car[/i] while I was inside shopping…

He could have parked anywhere. The side parking lot was virtually empty.=! Weird that he’d park so close… I assume it was a he. It looked like a Man Van. Ugh. It gave me the creepities. I couldn’t get my ass into my car and the doors locked fast enough.

Honestly, I worry more about bears going through my garbage cans at night than I do about Windowless Wandering Weirdos, but it was not cool. I don’t know why it wasn’t cool, but… You know? I don’t need hugs. I just need the Anti-Van… or an Ativan. Or both. Maybe Ativan is the Antivan.

Have you ever noticed how vintage vans have that van smell? It’s earthier than New Car Smell. Worn, and weathered like vinyl, cigarette smoke, and shag carpeting.

I don’t like vans much. A minivan is only amusing because Wesley Willis wrote a song of praises to the sturdy and staid Ford Windstar. Some vans are good… my grandpa drove a full-on Uncle Rico van. The Orange Majesty was a 1973 Ford Econoline Camper van, complete with a non-functioning sink. Grandpa drove it faithfully until 1993 when he traded it in on a Dodge Dynasty (also known as the Die-Nasty). I guess he was moving up in the world. The Orange Majesty was a large part of my childhood… as were it’s brakes that would pause for a moment and contemplate the concept of stopping when the brake pedal was pressed. “Hmmm… I know I’m supposed to stop, and while I agree with it in principal, I feel morally opposed to it.” That was always fun while riding in the back… with bales of hay… and a dog… or two.

Goddamn fucking country folk… Why hast thou tormentedeth me so? And drenched me in sorrow and Toby Keith-laden woe?

I’m glad I didn’t get grabbed by a van snatcher. I think if it had been local plates I wouldn’t have thought too much about it, you know?

I go with my gut. I’m not the most psychic person out there, but intuitively, when the guts have something to say, they are never wrong. Ever. I was doing myself a favor by getting the fuck out of there.

Vans. Only good for Burners, Uncle Rico, Wesley Willis, and only then if they’re down by the river.

It Itches! It Burns! I Need… A Road Trip.

It’s been a while since I’ve taken a good road trip. I get fidgety if it’s been too long since I’ve hit the road. Personally, I prefer either coastal or desert. I feel the need for Nevada, New Mexico, Arizona, and West Texas surging through my veins. It is one of those activities that is more than just getting to a destination for me. The act of doing so is almost spiritual in execution.

I will definitely drive across the country a few more times in this lifetime, yet for now I need a little glimpse of that. Winnemucca, maybe. Oregon. Maybe Santa Barbara? I need to drive somewhere, just a little bit far.

I need to feel what is promised, or hinted at along the next turn. I crave the unfamiliarity. Strange signs. Delapidated buildings. Tourist traps. Truck stops. The smell of burning rubber. The friendly site of Waffle House, which I loathe yet is comforting. The feeling you get as you drive into western Arkansas, Southern Missouri, Amarillo Texas, Coos Bay Oregon, Carson City Nevada. None of these are particularly fabulous or exciting places, but they evoke a feel that is different due to the roads that run towards them and through them.

I’ll never fully be able to describe it, but I am missing it. Jack Kerouac isn’t the only guy who gets it, which is fortunate. I hope to get back on the road while a little bit of what I miss is still left, uncomplicated by stripmalls and housing developments.

The empty rows of foreclosed mini mansions kill me. But… if they stay empty… maybe they’ll be interesting in another twenty or thirty years.

I think I need a vacation.

poetry? fork poetry! bwaahaaha!

Poetry? Fuck poetry! Haahaahhahahahah… I am bored.

All in green my love went riding… on a big ol’ donkey with testicles the size of softballs, which looked like some kind of veterinary emergency. I was all like “Dude… there’s something wrong with your ass!” but he totally took it the wrong way. Sadly, he went home and burned those green velvet breeches…

Because I could not stop for Death… I kindly apologized next time I ran into him in line at Starbucks. Apparently he’s a triple soy no-foam sugar free hazelnut latte kind of guy. I never would have thought. I thought he was more of an black coffee and cigarettes kind of guy. I never thought the suburbs would corrupt him like this.

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons… but then I realized how pointless that whole enterprise was. Fuck coffee spoons, man! I’m moving up in the world… forget coffee spoons. These days, all the kids want their Jonas brothers and their crack pipes instead. So, I’m designing a line of Jonas Brother’s crack pipes. I’m gonna make a ton of cash. Jealous much, beetches?

My candle burns at both ends. It will not last the night… But Sweet and Holy Mother of Fuck in a Pickup Truck… I’m getting sloppy drunk tonight!

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–I took the one less traveled by… and… well… I don’t really want to talk about it. Let’s just say that I had no idea that a human being could do that with a squid. There are some places that tentacles should NEVER EVER EVER go, and some things that people should NEVER EVER EVER talk about. I’m in therapy. With time, I’ll probably be able to love again…

I have eaten the plums that were in the ice box and which you were probably saving for breakfast… Sorry about that. How would you like to suck on these plums, bitch? Bwaaahaahaaa!!!

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan- A stately pleasure-dome decree… Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a… really big neon sign that read LIVE NUDE GIRLS, DONUTS & CHICKEN!!!  Thanks Kubla Kahn… thanks to all of the time that my husband spends at your stately pleasure dome “gentleman’s establishment”, we’ve relocated to a van down by the so-called sacred river. Thanks a-fucking-lot.

And… I’m done. I’m tired and I can’t think of any other poems to bastardize up with my Heidiness. I need fodder for my amusement. Maybe I’ll rewrite the 9 Satanic Statments(!!!) into something more outHeidilandish. That’s gotta be more fun than describing my family vacation to Uranus.

I’ve heard an astrologer (not my buddeh Jeremy Jebus) refer to it as yur-in-us rather than your-anus. Urine-us. Haw-haw! It’s still funny. Maybe we should just rename it Mortimer and be done with it, eh?

And… my nonsense is done here. Please enjoy the refreshments, but remember… byob. These are hard times, mthr fckr. (I am trying to conserve vowels)

Obama: I’m Too Sexy For the White House?

So… I’m going to come right out with it. (This is totally inspired by a thread. Elsewhere. In Space. Somewhere. It got me to thinking… BWAAHAAHAA!)

Obama is pretty good looking for a President. Immanently doable some might say?

What says you? To do, or not to do? That is the question… unless you can think of  better one.

Obama ups the ante on presidential hawtness, but my Heidisense tells me that he probably wouldn’t be that impressive in bed. He seems like the type of guy who’d get really detached and distant if he had too much on his mind. Like right now. He’s just too reserved for me. I just think he’d be boring in bed.

Bill Clinton is more my style if I am gonna tap some presidential ass. Yeah, he’s not handsome but he puts out some major charisma, and you can tell that he’d be fun in bed. I like those unapologetically dirty boys! What he lacks in the eye-candy department he’d totally make up for in personality and enthusiasm. Hil-Dog is a  smart lady… and even she fell for his wiley charms.

And… This is gross… but… My Heidisense also tells me that G-Dubs is probably a HUGENORMOUS freak. COLLOSSAL! We’re talking rubber chickens inserted places not found in nature kind of freaky. ICKY!!! And now I feel dirty for actually giving this some thought.

Let’s go back even further… I’m not including George Bush Sr, or Ronald Regan. I’m certifiably sure that contemplating the sexual habits of Mr. Voodoo Economics would render me as frigid as Sarah Palin at a Beltaine ritual… at a nudist resort… taking bong hits… while reading Richard Dawkin’s “The God Delusion”… in esperanto. (Sarah Palin does not find esperanto as sexy as I do.)

Actually, she’d probably enjoy that. Again, I’m thinking she’s a closet freaky-deaky-doodle. If it involves riding naked on a pony, a la Lady Godiva, brandishing an American flag, and a saddle with it’s own built in… erm… how can I put this delicately? Well… I can’t. A saddle with it’s own built in butt plug…

How’s that mental image for you? You still with me?

She’d probably enjoy that quite a bit. Obama would shake his head and roll his eyes at such childishness. He and Michelle would probably share a quiet laugh together over such ridiculousness. Bill Clinton might be a bit horrified initially, but in the end he would laugh and cheer her on, and definitely tell all of his buddies about it. “Dude… she did all that… on top of a pony! Dude! A pony!”. Al Gore would reply “Bill… I have an inconvenient truth for you. You already told me that story. Twice. Did you know that the methane gas emitted from ponies is bad for the environment?” G-Dubs would throw on his trusty man-thong-pantaloons, crocs, and a hunting vest, pack a toilet plunger and a pack of Mentos, and get ready to go around town! He’d get lost on the way there, and would probably end up wandering around the swamp. I’m not sure how this will all work logistically, but I am certain there would be a swamp nearby.

And Dirty Dick Cheney…

Dirty Dirty Dirty Dick Cheney…

Dirty Disgusting Dick Cheney…

He would hide behind the sidelines. In the shadows with all of the other Evil Men of Evil Means. And he’d watch. Emitting a low, yet sinister chuckle to himself here and there as he voraciously devoured a five dollar footlong meatball sub from Subway, stuffing his porcine visage with deliciously drippy meatstuffs. (I am feeling wordy. I haven’t used the words “porcine” or “visage” in aeons!) Wishing that he would have taken Sarah up on her offer to dress him up in a pony costume.

But Dirty Dick is a busy man. He has evil busy work to do. So he can one day take over the world. Why? Because he’s a dick. That’s what dicks do.

And… hmm. I guess this descending into debauchery and horror right quick! It’s nice to know I haven’t lost my touch. I am vindicated! Woohoo!

Shame? What’s that? Maybe I need a Shame-WOW. Or a Slap-Chop.

You’re gonna love my nuts!

Toilet Mongoose: The Winds of Change are Ill and Strange

I realize that change is inevitable. The Erisian in me revels in it. Things cannot stagnate… why not let a gentle breeze stir them up a bit? Or a hurricane? Change is a fickle and indiscriminate mistress. Change doesn’t care if it’s good change or bad change… sometimes change is needed, so that is precisely what happens. I can’t “Let Go & Let God”. I can’t “Live and Let Live”. I’m more of a “What the fuck? OH FUCK! Hmm… this is fucked. Well… fuck! Fuck this shit… I’ve got a solution. Fuck yeah!” kind of a girl. I roll with it. I am like the goldfish whose been flushed down the toilet a few too many times, only to float up from the plumbing listlessly, gills still kicking. I’m a goldfish, motherfucker. Wanna go toe-to-toe? Bring it on. You might want to consider using stronger toilet cleaner. Toilet Mongoose, not Toilet Duck, you dig?

smack my bitch up, gently…

I am stressed. At work. My boss can be a bit of a tool, you see. He’s not always toolish. Just sometimes. But when it’s Tool Time…

Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. Total tool bag from Planet Tool. Raging Tool. Tooley McToolboy III.

I’m about ready to start smoking. I finally understand why nicotine soothes the savage beasties. I take  lot’s of walks, but I’d rather kill my lungs instead. It’s a better form of catharsis, and less problematic than drinking.

It also makes me want herbs. Badly. I haven’t had herbs in close to a year. I need them now more than ever.

My industry is in a tizzy right now with all this crazy economy stuff.

My boss is a tool.

I need ativan…

But I’ll settle for Bach Flower Rescue Remedy and a metric shit ton of caffeine.

Things are overall good, but I seem to have more stressful days at this job than my previous gig. I get rattled easier.

Fucking tools.

Maybe tools are the ones who need herbs. No one understands me! Mwaaahhh!

I keed… I keed… I figure it’s just Eris darkening my doorstep. Homegirl has been quiet lately. She seems to get louder in spring. So be it. I could use a little chaos, even if it makes me desire copious amounts of coping chemicals.

FUCK STICKS! I’m okay. Just tired with cranky pantalones.

This too… shall pass… my ass… fnord. Damn it’s good to be a ganster.

Have I mentioned lately how much I rock? Because I do. Rock, that is.

Piece out…

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all paths up the mountain lead to goats.

“There are hundreds of paths up the mountain,
all leading in the same direction,
so it does not matter which path you take.
The only one wasting time is the one
who runs around and around the mountain,
telling everyone that his or her path is wrong”- A Hindu Teaching

I read this somewhere a while back. It might have been on a forum somewhere, but I can’t be pressed to remember it. Hell, I can’t even be pressed to remember what I had for lunch today. For the record, I’ve been sick with this cold from Hades for the third time since September, and my body needed sleep. Glorious sleep! Beautiful sleep! Yay for sleep! I didn’t have lunch, technically, because I didn’t get up until 1:00pm. I ate some toast at 3:00pm. Holy Fuck a Crispy Duck! I live a very exciting life.

Oh yes. Where was I? I don’t remember.

Erm. Yes. That thingy I quoted. Simple, but undeniably true.

The path I walk is a very unorthodox one, and I know that. I’m not going to kid myself into thinking it’s something it’s not. This past year of looking deeper and more open about it has been good for me in a lot of ways. I don’t have all the answers… but I’m enjoying the hell out of the climb. I don’t like mountains because I think that it entails Flatlanders wearing North Face Jackets in a non-ironic manner. Stay on the plains, Flatlanders. Get your ass off my mountain! And stop molesting my mountain goats! They’re sensitive creatures.

I don’t know what any of that means, but assume that it is either silly, profound, or a mix of both.

I like beer and cold medicine. Wheeeeee!

oh… hai.

I never thought I’d go so long without writing.

Almost two months.

You’re not mad at me, are you?

I don’t like feeling so disconnected and uninspired… but… it’s not changing. At all. I feel like I’ve written everything that I can write.

Twitter is much easier for me, and I’m glad to see some of you there.

I also still haunt Y!A R&S quite a bit. It’s replaced blogging for me as my favorite form of online entertainment. I’ve found that I write for the interaction. On wordpress I feel like I’ve moved from Manhattan to Connecticut, and I never see any of my city friends any more. There is definitely interaction on R&S. It’s addictive. I’m glad I stumbled on to it. I don’t miss the good old bad old days quite so much that way. The trolls are great too. I like trolls. They are great accessories for bridges.

Blogs are rare beasts. I think they have limited shelf lives. There is only so much you can write about in this format, unless you have a very exciting life.

This isn’t the end. This is just me saying hello… I’m not gone for good, even though I’m not really here. I think I still write just to say hello.

I just wonder when my heart will be in it again. I’m not depressed. I’m actually rather contented at the moment. Perhaps that’s the problem, even though it’s not really a problem at all.

So… hello. How you doin’?

I’m sure I’ll get over this. I’m just surprised at how persistent it’s been.

Guide to Being Awesome Like Heidiland Lesson #1

I’ve decided that since I’m not blogging too much of late, that all’ y’all are probably suffering from some kind of adverse Heidiland Deficit.
We can’t have this. No, no! Not at all. The less I blog… the more the markets tank. A coincidence? I think not, good Sirs, Madams, and Mad Men! This is all my fault. I’ve not equipped you all to weather the storm in my absence. I take full responsibility for this.

I can do better. I will do better! How? Simple. I will show you how to be AWESOME like ME in 101 Easy Steps.  We shall have to do this together, you understand. There will be a lot of hard work and dedication on your part, but I promise your success as a Student of the Heidiland Method of Heidi Studies will be guaranteed.

You’ll walk down the street, and people will say… “Gee… that person personifies awesomeness. They must be a friend of Heidiland. I’m sure of it!”.

I’m not starting a cult or anything… yet.

Now, for…

Lesson 1…

Next time you’re out driving, or riding public transport, be sure to shout the most creative obscenities you can at other drivers or passengers when they are doing something stupid or ill-advised. The more insulting yet peculiar your utterance, and the more drama with which it is delivered, the better…

You will get extra points for somehow incorporating the phrases “Fucksticks!”, “Corn-Hole Monger”, “Clown Fondling Freak Biscuit”, and “Coming to you live, from the Short Bus Lounge” or your own colorful variations of all three.

This method is particularly effective for invoking your inner Heidiness while driving near tourist shopping destinations on the day after the dreaded Black Friday, with your blood sugar raging in dire need of a spinach and brie omelet as a line of Bay Area-ians (totally different from Bay Aryans, or so I’ve been told) in North Face jackets sit in front of your favorite breakfast haunt, waiting to get their tofu scramble on… With no regard to the fact that you are a local who just wants some damn breakfast.

Now… go forth! Practice! Impress me! You shall be rewarded in the Heaven of your own choosing, whether that’s Hooter’s on No-Top-Tuesday or one of a more Abrahamic sort.

Amen? Yay-men! It’s not raining men, halleluliah. It’s raining Jimmy Choos. Squeee!!!