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Just a few more vacation photos....

Beach

***updated to say: Look at these fantastic vacation pictures! My extremely clever brother-in-law, Stefan, took them with his iphone. Can you believe that? He even had it inside a ziploc bag, what is up with that?!?!?! If I put my phone inside a bag I probably couldn't even use it to swat flies, and here he can take pictures I'd give Lloyd's right arm to be able to take with a big fancy camera.

***also, we are back from vacation, yay!

Nikki Sixx is a Genius

Wow, now there's a sentence I never thought I'd write. If you don't know who Nikki Sixx is, you can read about him here. He's the bassist for the band Motley Crue. Yes, all you headbangers, I am well aware that there are supposed to be umlauts over the 'o' and the 'u', but I have no idea where to find such a thing on here. This is the 106th post on here, and Stories from Korea has 453, and not once before today have I ever had to use an umlaut or any other symbol that is not readily apparent on my keyboard. I find this deeply troubling and feel that I need to broaden my horizons and my vocabulary right away. Send me a note if you know how to find the symbols on blogger, will you? Moving on, Motley-Crue-with-umlauts is a loud, angry, prolific and popular band, known for their outrageous antics nearly as much as for their music.

I was a big fan of the Crue in high school- they use a pentagram for a logo, and I would put one on my arm in blue eyeliner. Oh yes, I was a real badass. The star within a circle went nicely with my deck shoes, acid washed jeans, and pink polo. I also frequently accessorized with duct tape; I had this one pair of 501s that were ripped all the way around one of the thighs. They were my favorites. I would duct tape them up and wear them until they simply had to be washed. Then, unless I hovered over the washer and dryer and snatched them up as soon as they came out so I could pick off the hot, sticky, balled-up tape and start over, my mother would take them and throw them in the garbage. Then I would have to fish them out of the trash, wash them again while standing guard, then begin again with the elaborate taping operation. And sometimes I would put a safety pin through my pierced ear. True story: if you are going to do that so you can look all tough, you need to file the end of the safety pin down until it's dull, because if it's sharp it will stick in the flesh instead of going through the hole. See? BADASS.

I sort of lost track of what the band was doing until recently, when I saw the sign at the Tacoma Dome advertising their upcoming show. I googled them up and saw that they were pretty much still raising hell, and that Nikki Sixx was writing books and taking pictures. I went shopping for blue eyeliner (they still sell that stuff; can you believe it??!?!?) and then picked up both the books: The Heroin Diaries and This is Gonna Hurt. I read 'Heroin Diaries: a Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star' first; it details Christmas 1986 to Christmas 1987 and describes his life as a heroin addict and the beginnings of how he got clean. The book includes wrenching passages from his journals during that time in his life and harrowing stories from his difficult childhood, along with his present day reflections and those of his family, friends and bandmates. Fascinating, painfully honest, and deeply inspiring. And even if that touchy-feely stuff holds no interest for you, the book is worth reading for the tales of total debauchery alone. Just a little warning, you might want to skim parts of it if you have a tender constitution, as the stories of sex, drugs, and rock and roll are pretty graphic. Luckily for me, I have a high tolerance for drunken ridiculousness. The thing I found the most alarming was that of the list of junkie rules of personal hygiene he shares, I religiously adhere to at least one. As an added bonus, proceeds from the book go to Covenant House.

This is Gonna Hurt: Music, Photography and Life Through the Distorted Lens of Nikki Sixx is also inspiring, and somewhat hard to describe. His photography is stunning, compelling and disturbing, all at the same time, and celebrates what some people would consider ugly. He makes the same point, over and over, sometimes with a wrecking ball, and sometimes with a laser: everyone is different, and that's good. People deserve to be who they want, and to do what they want with their lives. We don't have to be what our society has decided everyone has to be to be accepted: thin, rich, and conventionally beautiful. No one measures up to the airbrushed ads that are constantly jammed down our throats, among other things, so we should all just tell the man to kiss our collective ass and do what suits us. To me, he seems to speak to artists in particular, though I'm not at all sure that's his intention. He even bashes the glossy soul sucking magazines and says he keeps them out of his house. I harbor a deep hatred for those rat bastard rags for their generous contribution to our self-loathing, too, and wrote about it here in a post about how hard it is to be a man. See how smart he is?? He thinks just like me! BRILLIANT. Another definite must-read. The Nikki Sixx Facebook page is also outstanding; lots of good discussion and photos, so check it out, and ROCK ON, dudes! I totally just wrote 'duds' instead of 'dudes'. Does that ruin my ending? DAMMIT.

Circuitous

I feel like I need to write something; we've had a pretty eventful week or two, and there's a lot coming up, too. But I don't usually like to write just to report just the facts; I get cross with myself unless I actually have a point of some kind. Dumb, I suppose. I've noticed I never just post on facebook about just what's going on, either- I always have to have some smartass remark or I won't even bother. I feel like I have a million things I COULD write, and sort of want to, but I don't know if I have the energy for it. Plus, no one wants to read a bunch of dreary crap here; you can get that anywhere. I mean, the only reason to come here is for funny stories and the occasional rant, right? You can get your depressing garbage 24/7 on CNN. Or Fox, if you're not boycotting them. I am. Too bad, too, because while I despise their toxic right wing slant, they are consistently ahead of the pack on breaking news. That's probably what Rupert Murdoch got in exchange when he sold his soul to the devil. Up until pretty recently it was working out pretty well for him, too, yes?

Well, since I'm here, clicking away, I might as well make a report. I guess if you don't like it, you don't have to read it; it's a free country and all that.

Want to know something weird? I have had the preceding paragraphs written for DAYS, and all this blank white space has just been sitting here waiting. Waiting, waiting..... I just couldn't make myself spit it out. Sometimes, though, if you can't do something by barreling straight through, you can come at it from the side. I have to do that all the time at work; it's usually pretty successful, if annoyingly and unnecessarily circuitous.

So! We are going to the beach next week. It will be super fun. First, though, we have to stop by the cemetery for my mother's burial service, and my grandmother's. Also my grandmother's dog, but that's not quite so traumatic. They've been cremated, of course, so no need to get all creeped out. The relatives will be out in full force; feel free to get all creeped out! Since all three of the decedents will be buried at the same cemetery but in different spots, only Grandma and Tiger will be buried at that time. We'll stop back by on the way back for my mother's actual burial. I have to say, I wouldn't recommend this dragging out of the festivities. The next time I have a shopping bag filled with friends, relatives, pets, or any combination thereof, I am definitely getting rid of it as soon as possible.

Speaking of dead people, there is also some depressing business going on at my office with some co-workers. It's not my story to tell, but it has been quite distressing for the entire staff, and the response has been underwhelming at best. Hmmmm, I guess that is all I have to say about that.

There, look! I did it. I only left out a few things, like our recent visit to the ER. Everyone is fine now, not to worry. Everyone except me, that is. Weston weighs 68 pounds; I know this because the only time I put him down was to place him on the scale, so they could figure out how much to dose him for the excruciating and inexplicable neck pain he was experiencing. It's gone now, but I still haven't figured out how to dose myself for the excruciating lower back pain I will probably be experiencing for the next month.

See? Circuitous. But done.

Rasputin, Revisited

I know everyone has been waiting breathlessly for me to tackle a weighty topic in a mature, thoughtful manner. I've been ruminating like mad, and as result, I'm pleased to bring you this treatise on naughty chickens. This, of course, is a subject that's near and dear to my heart, and one I've recently been reminded of. First, by The Bloggess' brilliant story of Beyonce, and then again just yesterday by the tale of my friend Cheryl's bad bird, Peaches. If you have known me for a long time, or if you used to read Stories from Korea, you might remember the story of Rasputin. Mischievous poultry, must, of course, be approached with the appropriate gravity, but as we all know, I am very lazy, so I am presenting here the reworked story of Rasputin for your reading pleasure:

RASPUTIN

When we were living in Pensacola, Lloyd used to buy quail and plant them in the bushes and then take Ranger out to train him to sniff out birds, or whatever it is hunting dogs are supposed to do. Besides fart and snore, I mean. One day when he was buying his quail, the redneck he bought them from asked him if he wanted a rooster for free, because it was fighting with his other chickens and he needed to get rid of it. We lived in a subdivision with a no-chicken rule, among other foolish requirements. No fireworks, no yard sales, no campers, and most especially, no chickens. It's a wonder anyone wanted to live there at all. But, there we were anyway, in all of our chickenless despair. In any case, Lloyd, being a chicken lover, or a giant sucker, whichever, brought the thing home in a box along with the quail.

When he got home, he got out of his truck and heard a huge racket coming from the bird box, and it sounded like the rooster was beating up on the quail. Lloyd is a huge fan of the underbird, until he puts them in some bushes for a dog to eat, so he opened the box and grabbed the rooster. The rooster went crazy, and Lloyd swung him around, accidentally bashing his head against a tree. In our front yard. In the no-chicken subdivision. The rooster went limp and finally Lloyd started to think. He thinks, "Hmmm, Anna's going to be home soon and she is not going to like this dead rooster situation. I know! I'll throw him over the back fence and she will be none the wiser!" Behind our back fence was a strip of woods about 75 feet wide, and it ran the length of our chicken-free street, and there was another, presumably also chickenless, neighborhood on the other side.

The next day, I was laying on the couch hopped up on pain pills with my leg propped up on some pillows. I should mention here that I was on crutches from falling through the attic onto the garage floor. As a public service, I should also mention that you should never, ever, walk around in your attic unless it actually has a floor to support your weight rather than just sheetrock ceiling panels. Lloyd was outside messing around and he came tearing into the house yelling that I had to get up and look on the back fence. As you can imagine, getting up and trucking myself to the back yard was not an easy task, so I hollered at him that whatever it was had better be good. I heaved myself up and hobbled into the back yard, muttering under my breath the entire way. To my surprise, there was a brain-damaged rooster sitting on the back fence with his head all cocked over, making a sort of demented warbling noise. At that point, Lloyd had to fess up to the whole story, and we named the rooster Rasputin, for he who could not be killed. Or, he who was difficult to kill, at least.

Pretty soon, Rasputin got his crow back, and he started to crow bright and early every morning, annoying the neighbors in the no-chicken neighborhood. One day, we had a visit from animal control. Some of the neighbors had complained of a rooster crowing in the neighborhood and they thought it was coming from somewhere around our house. Had we seen it? And could they check our back yard? We glanced nervously at each other before assuring them that of course, we didn't have any chickens. We would NEVER have any chickens! Goodness, they are against the rules, we said. And certainly, we would be pleased to have them inspect the yard. Come right in, officers! Luckily Rasputin had some street smarts because he stayed out of sight and kept his gob shut. The chicken cops, stymied, left and didn't come back. Then Lloyd started thinking again, and we all know how that turns out. He decided that Rasputin might be lonely. You know where this going, right? Yep, one day he came home with two hens, and promptly chucked them over the fence, this time with their glorious chicken brains completely functional. And for all I know, all three of them are there to this day, living in polygamous bliss.

Again with the gastropods

I swear to you, I am not trying to copy shitmykidsruined.com; lately it just seems that every time I turn around my kids have ruined some more shit. Right now there is a big pile of wet dirt on the front walk, the unattractive remains of a vinegar/baking soda/red kool-aid volcano on the porch, a web of fishing line strung around the living room, mud spattered on the front window, and a snail running wild in the kitchen. Currently, it is clinging to the corner where the cabinet meets the ceiling. I have no idea where it came from. I don't even WANT to know, because it probably has friends and a large extended family.

Truly, I have a million other things to write about, and some of them are even important. Well, okay, that's probably a lie. But you never know; don't count me out! I might surprise you yet with a deep thoughtful analysis of some serious, timely issue. Fine, another lie. So sue me. But do it quick, before the debt ceiling default because about 23 milliseconds after that my net worth will consist solely of gastropods, empty kool-aid packets and wine bottles. That'll learn you. Either way, I even get tired of myself if I post too much of the yuk, yuk, look what my crazy kids did now/I'm a bad mommy schtick. It's just that it's so, so easy: this stuff writes itself. And also boggles the mind. Look, here's a video! Just a short that chronicles one of the afternoon's approximately 43 googol similarly insane activities:

See what I mean? What's a girl to do, right? Sigh.

The Boss, and Other Tales

Shane: I'm the boss of you, and you're the boss of me.

Weston: What? What does that mean?

Shane: I said, I'm the boss of you, and you're the boss of me.

Weston: Okay, get me some water.

Shane: No.

Weston: But I'm the boss of you, so get me some water.

Shane: No. I'm the boss of you. You get ME some water.

Weston: No.

Shane: I'm NEVER going to get anything for you, EVER!

Weston: I'm going to get my own water, and NONE for you!

Shane: Okay. Let's play robots!

Weston: Okay.

I hope you have all had a pleasant week and a great weekend. I know it has been blazing hot all over the place but here in the Pacific Northwest the weather has been fantastic. We have been picking raspberries, and Lloyd and the boys have been fishing and crabbing like crazy. The garden is growing nicely now after a slow start from a cold and wet spring and early summer. We finally have some green tomatoes and will have some broccoli and zucchini to pick in the next few days.

In bummer news, one of the pilots we knew in Korea has died, leaving a wife and three children. A memorial fund for the kids has been set up, and you can find information about donating by clicking here. I did not know Paul well, but he was a nice guy with a lovely family who always had a smile on his face, and he will be missed by his entire Air Force family.

And that is my Sunday evening report. I have elaborate plans for scintillating posts in the near future. Ta-ta for now!