Prose and Kaa

Friday night, I drove over to Wetumpka, Alabama, to visit my mother. Early today (Saturday; it's not tomorrow until I sleep), we got up and I drove us three hours north to Huntsville, Alabama, to visit my aunt Peggy (my father's sister) in the nursing home. She has Alzheimer's (or something like it), and really enjoys visitors.

Meeting us at noon were my other aunts from Tennessee and Birmingham, AL, my uncle from Austin, TX, and my cousin (aunt Peggy's son) and his wife, who live in Huntsville. We actually met at a Logan's Roadhouse restaurant near my aunts' and uncle's hotel. Next door to that was a Mexican restaurant, and I wistfully commented that I would rather have gone there. My mother concurred.

["But Kaa!" you are no doubt lamenting at this moment. "What does all this have to do with your subject line?" To which I reply, "Suck it." No! No, I meant, "Patience, Grasshoppah."]

We had a nice visit at the restaurant, adjourned to the nursing home, had a nice visit there, and left around four. I had to stop and get gas, and then when we got back on the interstate, a wreck had occurred in the fifteen minutes we were stopped, and we were backed up another good fifteen minutes waiting on them to clear that.

When we finally got moving again, my mother and I chatted about the family gossip and how my aunt in the nursing home was doing. Around six o'clock, I was getting hungry, so I asked my mother, "Are you hungry?" We had had lunch at noon in Huntsville; we were now just north of Birmingham.

"Well, I could eat." In my mother's native tongue (The Ozarks), this can be loosely interpreted as anything from, "I'm as full as a tick on a hound dog, but if you're going to eat, I'll have a bite with you and visit," to "I'm as empty as a poor man's pockets and may just pass out at any moment from hunger."

I took it as the latter and after a very brief discussion fueled by our earlier exchange ("How does Mexican sound?" "It sounds really good."), we decided to stop in Birmingham and eat.

I remembered that there was a really good Mexican restaurant that a local friend (JP) and his family (Jennifer and Emerson) had taken me to a time or two before, but couldn't remember where it was beyond a loose vicinity, or what it was called. No problem! I have a smart phone. I have the INTERNET. <insert melodramatic chord here>

I pulled off the interstate at an exit near where I thought the restaurant might be and as my mother talked to her friend who was watching her dogs for her, I Googled for Mexican restaurants in the vicinity. I thought seriously about calling my friends and asking, but it was just so late, we figured they had already eaten, and we were tired, etc. And I'm going to see them tomorrow (Sunday) anyway, so . . .

I found it quickly. And it was only about a mile and a half from where we were. Off we set.

We arrived at the restaurant, and as we were driving through the parking lot, I laughed. "Heh! Wouldn't it be funny if JP and Jennifer are actually here?"

[That, by the way, is what we in the writing biz call 'foreshadowing.' Pay attention when you see it, because it means something's about to happen.]

We go in, get seated, and a few seconds later, we hear, "Oh, my GOD!" and Jennifer is standing at our table.

Yep. Jennifer was there with a friend, and she got on the phone and called JP and Emerson, and soon we were having dinner with them anyway. We greatly enjoyed it, and it could not have worked out any better. It turned a quick, rushed dinner into a leisurely meal with good friends and good conversation. And margaritas, which I'm told were also good (I did not partake).

So, all the things that had to come together to get us to that spot at the right time were:

• Lunch restaurant next to Mexican restaurant (to prime me)
• Stayed late visiting at the nursing home
• Got delayed by the wreck
• We were hungry
• Both wanted Mexican (Chinese was discussed after I couldn't remember the name of the restaurant)
• Jennifer and her friend eating at the very same restaurant at the particular time

So, even though it would be an even larger coincidence (hence "Small World") if this had happened somewhere that was not a few minutes from my friends' house and not their favorite restaurant, we deem it a pretty large coincidence nevertheless.

And that's my story. Thanks for sticking with me and having patience, Grasshoppah. :)

Note: According to Jennifer, the conversation at their table when we came in was, "Heh, that kind of looks like Kaa . . . and that's his mother!" at which point she leapt up and ran over to our table.

Also amusingly, the car we parked next to in the parking lot? Jennifer's. :)

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I have several personalities, each of which I've let come out to play on my journal, from time to time.

There's Skippy the Skeptic, the personification of my inner skeptic. When he comes out, it's usually in the form of—

Really? We're going to do this again?

<sigh> Yes, Skippy.

I still loathe you for calling me Skippy, you know.

How well I do. Because you keep telling me. Over and over. And over.

So, after Skippy came Bradford, the personification of my inner child. I made a joke that my inner child is a 4-year-old brat. Later, he got a name.

WANNA 'NOTHER COOKIE!

Bradford, you can't—

BUT I WANNA!
He's just going to keep shouting until you give in, you know.

I'm nominally in charge, here, you know.

You would be if you'd ever bother to grow a pair.

Aaaand that would be Preston, the Procrastinator. Who is pretty much responsible for my epic ability to procrastinate. And who, for reasons unknown to me, insults me a lot.

I believe that a better word for what you do is 'perendinate,' which certainly describes your actions far better than 'procrastinate.'

Yes, Jürgen. As you probably already figured out, Jürgen is my inner grammar nazi.

You should capitalize 'Nazi.'
What if he doesn't feel like it, you Hitler-loving—
I'M BORED!

Shut up, Bradford!
Be quiet, child!
Waste of your time, Gentlemen.
Why did you capitalize 'gentlemen'? It should not be cap--
I did it just to annoy you.

What-evs. I'm outta here. There's, like, stuff to do. Tomorrow. Or maybe Sunday...
'Outta' is not a word!

<watches them all go> This is what it's like inside my head, some days.

You know, the days where I don't have a stuck song.

I believe you meant 'on which' instead of—

I will hurt you.

Everyone (raised under the umbrella of a Christian or Jewish heritage) has heard of Sodom & Gomorrah.

Sodom lives on in words like sodomy and sodomite. But what about forgotten Gomorrah?

This was originally going to be a post about how Gomorrah got nothing, and was going to propose that we make 'gomorrahmy' be the same thing as sodomy, but when corporations do it figuratively to the little guys. "Wal-Mart is often guilty of gomorrahmy when they open a store in an area and drive all the mom-and-pop stores out of business." Or, "Instead of paying Mrs. Smith's medical bills after she broke her coccyx slipping on their unmarked wet floor, Best Buy gomorrahmized her by suing her for the cleaning bill to get the blood stain out of their carpet."

Then I decided to look it up to make sure before I posted.

And lo! I found a word that claims to have tenuous ties to Gomorrah: gonorrhea.

Here's the entry from EtymOnline about it:

also gonorrhoea, 1520s, from L. L. gonorrhoia, from gonos "seed" (see gonad) + rhoe "flow," from rhein "to flow" (see rheum). Mucus discharge was mistaken for semen. In early records often Gomoria, etc., from folk etymology association with biblical Gomorrah.

I still think we should totally make 'gomorrahmy' a word, though. I am going to willfully ignore the entry on Urban Dictionary for this word. I suggest you do the same.

[Note: I do not have access to the OED, so if there are any other actual references, do regale me/us.]

Last week, coming home from my Tuesday night critique session, I had an idea for a story I've been working on. It's the time travel novel I wrote for NaNoWriMo last year and then finished in February of this year.

I keep a DVR (Digital Voice Recorder) in the car with me at all times so I can record notions that come up.

But recently, I also discovered an app for my Droid^x that allows it to be a DVR. So I've been using them interchangeably. The phone was lying on the seat, so I grabbed it, thumbed over to the screen where the app is, and ran it.

It came up and I pressed "record" . . . and nothing happened. I thought. :)

I am transcribing my notes, right now. I hear myself saying "Come on, piece of shit. Record!" and then a few seconds later, "Fine. I don't have time . . . " and then a lot of fumbling while I get the DVR and key it. I then hear myself make the voice note into that.

And then . . . talk to myself. For several minutes. I don't even remember doing it. It's just . . . weird to hear yourself candidly. I then listen to a podcast for the entire rest of the ride home. I hear myself pull up to the house, shut off the car, pocket the (still-recording) phone, unload my crap from the car, and go inside. The garage door grinds closed. I have a muffled conversation with my cats.

There is then a lot of jumbled noise as I apparently change clothes and come back downstairs, where I then plug in my phone to its charger and put it next to my recliner. Where I proceed to rock the chair (creeeeak . . . croaaaak. creeeeak . . . crooooak.) and play pinball, listen to podcasts, type, and so forth . . . for another hour. All faithfully recorded by my phone.

Including me talking to myself. The whole time. Not a constant stream of consciousness, but just intermittent remarks every few minutes. Stuff that is completely out of context.

"Wow, that's interesting . . . .dammit . . . oh, great . . . heh! . . . Oh, Matt, stop—Matt! Ugh! Cats . . . come on come on come on, left! . . . Oh, seriously? You're going to do that, now? . . . Crap, I need water . . . "

It goes on and on and on. For another hour. At the end, I suddenly say, "Oh, crap! It's been recording all this time? Greeeaaat."

There's then a muffled thump and the recording ends. :)

Now I'm self-conscious. Every time I open my mouth, I'm acutely aware of it, and of what I'm saying/about to say.

I wonder just how much each of us talks to ourselves every day when no one else is around to hear it. And how much sense it would make if anyone did hear it.

I was just talking to a friend of mine (bigmeanie, to be precise) about this and I was wondering if we're just weird¹ or if others have this same hang-up.

When I'm at home, I drink pretty much nothing but water, whether from the tap or filtered through my refrigerator's filter. Usually at least one fairly large (~25 oz) glass every night, if not two of them.²

But the minute I get to work, I have to have something flavored. I try to drink water, here, but it just doesn't "take." I take a few sips, but then I'm downstairs getting tea or soda. And I've tried both the stuff straight from the tap and from the water coolers, which is bottled. Same thing. I drink a few sips, then I want something with flavor. It has nothing to do with caffeine, or at least I'm fairly sure it doesn't. Orange juice, Sprite, lemonade, or V-8 works just fine. As long as it has flavor.

When I'm at my mother's house in Eutaw, I drink record-breaking amounts of soda (Coke Zero), but I don't count that because I've seen what's in the water in Eutaw. Seriously, you do not want to know. I wish to hell I didn't. <shudder> Anyway, that shouldn't be a problem once she's moved to Wetumpka.

So, I was just wondering: Do any of the rest of you have this same "hang-up"? If so, do you have any idea why?

---

1. Speaking solely for myself (I take no responsibility for bigmeanie's weirdness factor, one way or the other), I may be weird for other reasons, but for the purposes of this post, I'm referring in specific to the topic outlined below. Keep reading. :)
2. Not counting the one(s) Matt simply must taste and/or turn over.

Samples of lyrics from some of the songs that have been going through my head, today:

Rah, rah, ah-ah-AH-ah
Ro, ma, ro-ma-MA-ah
Ga, ga, ooh-la-LA-ah
Want your bad ro-oh-mance

Gitchi Gitchi Ya Ya Da Da
Gitchi Gitchi Ya Ya Here
Mocca chocalata Ya Ya
Creole Lady Marmalade
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?

Gliddy gloop gloopy
Nibby nobby nooby
La la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba
Nooby abba dabba
Le le lo lo
dooby ooby walla
dooby abba dabba
Early morning singing song

Jeez. Next thing you know it'll be...that guy. You know the one. <shudder>



You know, actually, that guy—Eduard Khil—is pretty cool. Listen to his recent address to fans of the video on YouTube (subtitled in English, translated from the original Russian):

I've been waiting several days for this to make sense, but it hasn't, so I'll just post it. For the humor, if nothing else. :)

The other morning, I woke up from a very strange dream.

Now, realize that when I say I had a strange dream, I'm not just putting words down for effect. My dreams tend toward the strange, weird, bizarre, or downright surreal (unfortunately, I have not posted any of the truly surreal dreams...until now), when I remember them.

But this one.... Wow.

Take one part The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (Fantasy element, plus snow), heat gently over a low flame, then add The Swiss Family Robinson (Stranded element, plus Scandinavia) and just a touch of The Shining (Snow element, plus trapped in the snow for months on end and can't get away and there's palpable evil and it's driving me crazy and all work and no play make Kaa a dull boy. All work and no play make Kaa a dull boy. All work and no play...). Stir vigorously.

Then remove from heat and transport all the action to some Scandinavian country where everyone is blonde. And pale. And blonde.

Oh, then add Angela Lansbury (aged about where she was for Murder, She Wrote) and either Bruce Willis (Die Hard time period) or Jerry Doyle (Babylon 5 4th season vintage); I don't know which because they kind of look alike. But Angela and Bruce/Jerry were just window-dressing. They weren't main characters. I think they were customers of the book store. Oh, did I mention there was a book store? There was. And it had a spiral staircase leading up to a loft, and there were floor-to-ceiling book shelves.

Did I mention blonde? Because there was blonde. But Angela and Jerry/Bruce were not blonde. Or at least no more blonde than their normal blondness. Because when I say "blonde" in the context of this dream, I'm talking blonde, baby. Like Malfoy blonde. Like Zsa Zsa blonde. Like Storm (from the X-Men) blonde. Like Morlock blonde. That kind of pale, corpse-like, bleached, ashen....<shudder>

I was walking down the spiral stairs talking with Angela Lansbury and Bruce/Jerry was at the bottom, waiting for help. And I was blonde.

Serve. (This concludes the "recipe" motif, which ceased making sense a long time ago, but since you've stuck with me this far, we're going to finish it, by gum!)

I couldn't tell you any of the actual stuff that happened in the dream other than that there was 12 feet of snow, which had us all trapped; very pale, blonde people; and Scandinavian accents.

And we might have been on an island. The island was not blonde. But it was snow-covered, which might be construed to make the island, itself, look blonde. Hmm.

---

You may be asking yourself right now why I remember all this from several days ago.

It's because when I woke up, I consciously tried to remember as much of it as I could, so I kept repeating certain things to myself to remind me what was in the dream. And then, while I was in the shower, I wrote them down.

"But how could you have written them down while you were in the shower?" you might ask.

And lo! I would answer: AquaNotes :) They are as advertised on their site. Try 'em out if you're a "Shower Thinker."

Or blonde.¹

---

1. Did I mention? There was blonde.

Y'know...I've heard some strange and wondrous stories in my time. And I've also seen some horrible stories that turn my stomach.

But I don't think I've ever been more baffled by a story.

The headline is: Kansas Police: Woman Pried from Boyfriend's Toilet After Sitting on it for 2 Years

Now, make no mistake: this is a real story, and that is not a typo. The article is here or you can read the text ( behind the cut. )

However, this story doesn't stop here. Oh, no. No, indeed. You see, it seems that the ever-lovin' boyfriend who mysteriously left his girlfriend sitting on the toilet for two years has won the lottery not once, but twice, this year. As before, the article is here or you can read the text ( behind the cut. )

Clearly, most of us are doing something wrong in our lives. I mean, besides my not playing the lottery, I mean. :) Maybe I could win it twice if I, you know...bought tickets, like, ever. :)

But it just seems like the Universe is out there laughing right now. Just to prove some cosmic point.

And it also goes to show writers that no matter how bizarre you think some plot you've dreamed up is, it can't hold a candle to the real world when it comes to sheer, baffling weirdness. If I had written those stories, none of you would have believed them. "That's preposterous!" you would have cried. And rightly. Because they are.

Today's stuck-song medley is:

From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done

and

I've been misunderstood
I've been mistreated
Somehow I knew you would not
Take back what you said
I've been misunderstood but
Your wish is granted
By daylight I'll be gone
By daylight I'll be gone.

That is, of course, the opening lines of "Circle of Life" by Sir Elton John from Disney's "The Lion King" and then the chorus from Jon Secada's "Misunderstood." Interwoven in a very bizarre way by my brain.

Tune in next time for more adventures in my cerebellum.

First of all: I finished it, so I'm back online, now. And I didn't have to shoot anyone with a bazooka for spoiling it, nor did anyone who looks like Luna Lovegood rush up to me on the street and gush "OMGOMGOMG!" the way I was fully expecting, so all in all, a positive experience. :)

But that's not the point of this post. The point of this post is that I have one of the most annoying stuck songs I've ever had stuck in my head, and I can't for the life of me figure out why it's in there or how it got in there, or how to get rid of it so it won't be in there, anymore.

The song: "The World's Greatest Criminal Mind" from the Disney film "The Great Mouse Detective."

Yes, you read that right.

I like the movie, but I haven't watched it in years. I have no idea what set it off, nor do I have the slightest idea how to dislodge this one. It's not annoying on the same level as, say, "Dance With Me" by Orleans; I can live with "Oh, Ratigan! Oh, Ratigan! You're ooooone of a kiiiiiiind!" better than...the other. And it's drown-out-able by other music. But it's been lodged in my head, rattling around off the inside of my skull for about five days, now.

Weird.