My random ramblings now have a new home: thunderlutz.wordpress.com.
There I will continue to learn, be unrepentantly foul-mouthed and weird, and hopefully get better at this writing gig. Stop in and say hi.
P.S. I love you.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
beautiful 'burbs
The tentacled grasp of corporate America is tight around Overland Park, Kansas, a Kansas City suburb that has become famous not for any geographical wonders or architectural achievements but for its dull landscape populated by strip malls, big box stores, churches, and chain restaurants.
Given the city's inability to offer any shopping or dining experiences outside of what was tested on target demographics in focus groups (with a few fine exceptions), it's easy to dismiss the whole place as soulless, and after a day spent interacting with the other humans only while sitting behind a windshield, waiting in line at Target, or asking for your ranch dressing on the side at Applebee's, odds are you'll be hungry for anything genuine, no matter how fleeting.
Having grown up in Stilwell, which is just south of the OP, I spent the majority of my teenage years bumming around the 'burbs looking for beauty, and I'd find it in unexpected places: the picnic table in an office complex courtyard; a mosquito-filled neighborhood park; an abandoned farmhouse still filled with the former residents' furniture, curtains, and documents.
Granted, the farmhouse was bulldozed years ago to build a Wal-Mart, but on a lazy Sunday afternoon this spring I went out again in search of beauty in the 'burbs, and here's what I found. From a distance it may appear mundane, but sometimes you've just gotta look a little closer.
A sassy, windswept tree
on the soul-crushing median of a four-lane suburban street.
Given the city's inability to offer any shopping or dining experiences outside of what was tested on target demographics in focus groups (with a few fine exceptions), it's easy to dismiss the whole place as soulless, and after a day spent interacting with the other humans only while sitting behind a windshield, waiting in line at Target, or asking for your ranch dressing on the side at Applebee's, odds are you'll be hungry for anything genuine, no matter how fleeting.
Having grown up in Stilwell, which is just south of the OP, I spent the majority of my teenage years bumming around the 'burbs looking for beauty, and I'd find it in unexpected places: the picnic table in an office complex courtyard; a mosquito-filled neighborhood park; an abandoned farmhouse still filled with the former residents' furniture, curtains, and documents.
Granted, the farmhouse was bulldozed years ago to build a Wal-Mart, but on a lazy Sunday afternoon this spring I went out again in search of beauty in the 'burbs, and here's what I found. From a distance it may appear mundane, but sometimes you've just gotta look a little closer.
A sassy, windswept tree
on the soul-crushing median of a four-lane suburban street.
A puddle of spring rain
in the joy-melting parking lot of a mostly abandoned strip mall.
Greenery and new life
amidst the hope-destroying landscape architecture of a former chain restaurant.
Charming wind chimes
hanging on the decaying patio of a long-closed Thai restaurant that is surely the harbinger of doom.
More to come...
Sunday, September 25, 2011
the worst kind: part II
I’ve always gotten hung up on ugly women. As a general rule, no woman is exactly like another, but an ugly girl is special -- her lack of looks has forced her to fine-tune the ability to make a man feel like much more than he is.
My last ugly girl seemed to embrace it like she was trying to win. I’ve never met another woman who owned so many baggy jeans and flannel shirts, as though by wrapping herself in layers of fabric she could bury her flat chest and barrel of a ribcage. And she never took off the yellow-tinted sunglasses that hid the dark circles beneath her eyes, the memento of an old meth habit.
But she had this way about her. She was so shy she rarely made eye contact, so everything she said took on an ethereal quality, as though she were speaking to some invisible entity, almost pleading, hoping that angels would hear.
She seemed to think that if she just ignored me hard enough the effect would backfire, and I would boomerang back and bust down her invisible walls. Though by nature she seemed aloof, she wanted nothing more than for someone to just sit with her, someone who didn't want to be anywhere else. I felt honored to be in that audience.
She seemed to think that if she just ignored me hard enough the effect would backfire, and I would boomerang back and bust down her invisible walls. Though by nature she seemed aloof, she wanted nothing more than for someone to just sit with her, someone who didn't want to be anywhere else. I felt honored to be in that audience.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
beach thoughts, part II
As a kid, thanks to repeated viewings of the old western Gunsmoke, I always had a grand ol' idea of Dodge City, Kansas, so I was nothing less than thrilled the first time my family decided to visit. The occasion might have been a family reunion, but it could also have been a wedding or a funeral; these things all tend to blur together in my mind.
I expected to find handsome sheriff Matt Dillon keeping the law, shooting the bad guys off their horses with a pistol from a hundred feet away. I imagined saloons with swinging doors, dusty cowboy hats, busty women in lacy dresses, and flame-haired Miss Kitty slinging suds behind the bar. I imagined boozy ne'er-do-wells sweating it out for the night in lockup while doofy Deputy Chester paced around the police station, ignoring the drunkard's taunts.
So I was disappointed to find just another lazy, humid, impossibly sunny Kansas town, a west with all of the wild tamed out of it by phony old-timey storefronts and a watered-down imitation of Boot Hill. There might have even been a staged gunfight in the dusty streets, the excitement of which was quenched considerably when the men who just got "shot" stood back up and dusted of their trousers only moments later, sporting not so much as a bloodstain.
But I do remember having lunch at a dirty, divey bar/grill with my family, which even then was the kind of place I felt at home. This was the first time I encountered a functional shuffleboard (unlike the relic in my grandmother's attic that had been weighted down by decades of dust and junk), and though I didn't know the rules I derived endless enjoyment from sliding those metal pucks across the lacquered wooden plank dusted with sand. It was also the first time I ate a patty melt, and I still remember the way the white sandwich bread, heavy with butter and grease, squished like a wet sponge between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I've still never had a bar burger so delicious.
I also remember my aunt's backyard, where there was a single cactus standing tall amidst a patch of dead, brownish grass, a gnarly old plant that was deep green and almost menacing. I had never seen a cactus that big before, only the little ones sold in grocery stores, the kind with thin, almost soft needles that my mom had to dig out of my back a few years earlier when, without considering this particular consequence, my dad brought one home as a present for my brother and me. I wanted to touch it, but I knew it would hurt me, so I regarded this cactus with something approaching reverence.
And that summer in Dodge City, that cactus was as wild as the west got. Whenever possible, I always did like for things to be exotic.
I expected to find handsome sheriff Matt Dillon keeping the law, shooting the bad guys off their horses with a pistol from a hundred feet away. I imagined saloons with swinging doors, dusty cowboy hats, busty women in lacy dresses, and flame-haired Miss Kitty slinging suds behind the bar. I imagined boozy ne'er-do-wells sweating it out for the night in lockup while doofy Deputy Chester paced around the police station, ignoring the drunkard's taunts.
So I was disappointed to find just another lazy, humid, impossibly sunny Kansas town, a west with all of the wild tamed out of it by phony old-timey storefronts and a watered-down imitation of Boot Hill. There might have even been a staged gunfight in the dusty streets, the excitement of which was quenched considerably when the men who just got "shot" stood back up and dusted of their trousers only moments later, sporting not so much as a bloodstain.
But I do remember having lunch at a dirty, divey bar/grill with my family, which even then was the kind of place I felt at home. This was the first time I encountered a functional shuffleboard (unlike the relic in my grandmother's attic that had been weighted down by decades of dust and junk), and though I didn't know the rules I derived endless enjoyment from sliding those metal pucks across the lacquered wooden plank dusted with sand. It was also the first time I ate a patty melt, and I still remember the way the white sandwich bread, heavy with butter and grease, squished like a wet sponge between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I've still never had a bar burger so delicious.
I also remember my aunt's backyard, where there was a single cactus standing tall amidst a patch of dead, brownish grass, a gnarly old plant that was deep green and almost menacing. I had never seen a cactus that big before, only the little ones sold in grocery stores, the kind with thin, almost soft needles that my mom had to dig out of my back a few years earlier when, without considering this particular consequence, my dad brought one home as a present for my brother and me. I wanted to touch it, but I knew it would hurt me, so I regarded this cactus with something approaching reverence.
And that summer in Dodge City, that cactus was as wild as the west got. Whenever possible, I always did like for things to be exotic.
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| South Padre sunrise |
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| South Padre sunrise, a few minutes later |
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
beach thoughts, part I
I'm on South Padre Island with my brother. Today while lying on the beach I recorded the following boozily meditative thoughts. Or perhaps meditatively boozy. Or maybe just drunk and sun-soaked. (Most likely the latter.)
_____________________________________
Before you get old enough to know better, you might consider it a good thing to be strange; I know I did. "Why be like everyone else?" I might have said, and then I might've sucked down another mustard packet and insisted everyone join me for a fifth shot of Jager.
But I'm 28 years old (only three weeks away from 29), and I just mistakenly stuck my hand in a coil of seagull shit thinking it was a auger shell. Lemme tell ya: Slowly becoming strange is not for the faint of heart.
I'm cooking in the sun while visiting South Padre Island with my brother, who is enjoying the waves and is the most relaxed I've seen him in years. It's 2 p.m., and despite having vowed never to drink again a mere 24 hours ago, I'm already half a bottle of pinot grigio in. Lacking a corkscrew, I was smart enough to make sure it was screw-top.
And every day I can feel myself growing stranger. At times I think personal choices have fucked me out of the status quo; at times I think it's bad luck; at times genetics. It's most likely a combination of the three. And there is not a day I don't wish I could sear it right the fuck out of me.
To be stupid and happy; oh, to be stupid and happy.
_____________________________________
An older couple playing in the water. And yes, they are playing, splashing and riding the waves and all. I like to think they're here as a last resort because she's a drunk and he's a pervert: "Honey, if this doesn't save us, nothing will." And I think it just might save them. It just might.
_____________________________________
Out in the water my foot came down on something unnaturally squishy and smooth, the same between-the-toes squish as the wad of used toilet paper I smashed with my bare foot in a bathroom stall while camping one time (or maybe it was St. Patrick's Day). I don't know what the ocean squish was, not even a little bit. It didn't move enough to be a fish. Then again, I don't know what most of the food at Korma Sutra is either, but I still love it. Sometimes it's best just to go with things.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
a very shiny bedguest
I've been working my ass off since July, and while my constant companions have been stress, anxiety, and the strange creatures who inhabit coffee shops after 10 p.m., I've finally managed to quit my day job and strike out on my own as a freelance writer. It probably will not be sustainable long term (I'm neither naive nor a dreamer), but I'm going to take advantage of it as long as I can. Which means, for one thing, the return this silly blog.
Today I will share this new phrase I just made up: shiny bedguest. Its Urban Dictionary entry would read: "A beautiful individual with whom you share your sleeping space. Can apply to lovers, pets, hookups, friends." Such as: Last night I hooked up with this chick; this morning I discovered she was a very shiny bedguest indeed. OR I have a shiny bedguest this weekend, so I will probably need some more Oreos.
I also spent some time in San Diego last weekend feeling very lovey-dovey toward the beach and the sunset. But now I'm home and will get back to being generally bitchy and strange; in other words, the regularly scheduled programming.
Today I will share this new phrase I just made up: shiny bedguest. Its Urban Dictionary entry would read: "A beautiful individual with whom you share your sleeping space. Can apply to lovers, pets, hookups, friends." Such as: Last night I hooked up with this chick; this morning I discovered she was a very shiny bedguest indeed. OR I have a shiny bedguest this weekend, so I will probably need some more Oreos.
I also spent some time in San Diego last weekend feeling very lovey-dovey toward the beach and the sunset. But now I'm home and will get back to being generally bitchy and strange; in other words, the regularly scheduled programming.
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| Sunset over the Pacific Ocean |
 |
| Happy tree on Coronado Beach |
Friday, July 8, 2011
the worst kind: part 1
Today my neighbor will learn that she lives next to a criminal, an unrepentant, lifelong criminal – the worst fucking kind.
She never should’ve left her door unlocked. Or rather, she never should’ve let me know she left her door unlocked. She should’ve slid her key in the lock and twisted it half a turn clockwise. She should’ve made a show of it, holding the key at eye level as though to say, “Don’t even think about it.”
Instead she nodded at me from down the hall and said, “You might want to bring an umbrella.”
She’s a heavy-set, middle-aged woman, the oldest person in the building by probably 20 years. She’s always giving this type of advice to the rest of us. If it’s going to snow, she’ll tell us to bundle up; if it’s going to be hot, she’ll warn us that “it’s a real scorcher.” I don’t know whether she has any kids of her own.
“I don’t mind getting wet,” I said.
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She never should’ve left her door unlocked. Or rather, she never should’ve let me know she left her door unlocked. She should’ve slid her key in the lock and twisted it half a turn clockwise. She should’ve made a show of it, holding the key at eye level as though to say, “Don’t even think about it.”
Instead she nodded at me from down the hall and said, “You might want to bring an umbrella.”
She’s a heavy-set, middle-aged woman, the oldest person in the building by probably 20 years. She’s always giving this type of advice to the rest of us. If it’s going to snow, she’ll tell us to bundle up; if it’s going to be hot, she’ll warn us that “it’s a real scorcher.” I don’t know whether she has any kids of her own.
“I don’t mind getting wet,” I said.
Friday, June 17, 2011
reasons i'm not going to my high school reunion
The self-appointed "committee" keeps spamming me via Facebook and e-mail, so I know it's coming: My ten-year high school reunion, something that in my mind is akin to the ten-year anniversary of my narrow escape from being forced to shank someone in prison.
Granted, I hated them all at the time (or at the very least 85 percent of them), but I stopped caring about them approximately nine years ago and began devoting my energy to more important things, like popping zits and brushing my cat.
Here are the other reasons I'm not going to my high school reunion:
1. I can live without chugging a bottle of champagne, smashing it on the ground, brandishing it like a weapon and screaming, "You're all cunts, all of you! I still hate you all!"
2. What will I wear? If I dress too formally, it will look like I'm trying too hard; if I wear flip-flops and jorts (read: dress how I normally do), everyone will assume I live in a van down by the river; if I wear a simple, casual dress, it won't fit quite right and my black bra will hang out because it always does, and everyone will assume I bought it at Target. And they'll be right -- I will have totally panicked at the last minute, purchased it at Target on my way to the venue and put it on in the parking lot. There is no way to win.
3. I don't remember most of my junior and senior years of high school. Confession: I smoked a lot of pot. But also I'm not sure I want to remember -- I was in a fucked-up relationship with a real sorry excuse for a male human at the time, and I'm afraid returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, will cause long-dead emotions to rise from their graves like zombies, gnaw my flesh and slurp my brains like spaghetti.
4. Some of my former classmates are going to be fat and ugly now. Some of them are going to be bald; others are going to be wearing mom jeans. Due to excessive tanning, others are going to resemble a leather handbag that was left in the rain, then the sun, and then rediscovered in a dumpster by a homeless lady who uses it to haul around aluminum cans and bits of wadded-up tissue. Still others are going to be smoking hot, and I'll probably want to check out their asses. Do I care who falls into which category? Not especially. I'd much rather use my imagination.
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5. I have nothing to say to these people. I haven't seen them in ten years. I don't want to see pictures of their kids. I don't care where they work, if they still live at home, or if they, as sheltered Midwestern kids from the suburbs, tried to make it in the "big city" and either failed or were wildly successful. At this point, it's the same as hearing this shit from some stranger I just met at the grocery store who won't shut the fuck up when all I want to do is go home so I can put my ice cream in the freezer.
6. Facebook. Enough said.
Granted, I hated them all at the time (or at the very least 85 percent of them), but I stopped caring about them approximately nine years ago and began devoting my energy to more important things, like popping zits and brushing my cat.
Here are the other reasons I'm not going to my high school reunion:
1. I can live without chugging a bottle of champagne, smashing it on the ground, brandishing it like a weapon and screaming, "You're all cunts, all of you! I still hate you all!"
2. What will I wear? If I dress too formally, it will look like I'm trying too hard; if I wear flip-flops and jorts (read: dress how I normally do), everyone will assume I live in a van down by the river; if I wear a simple, casual dress, it won't fit quite right and my black bra will hang out because it always does, and everyone will assume I bought it at Target. And they'll be right -- I will have totally panicked at the last minute, purchased it at Target on my way to the venue and put it on in the parking lot. There is no way to win.
3. I don't remember most of my junior and senior years of high school. Confession: I smoked a lot of pot. But also I'm not sure I want to remember -- I was in a fucked-up relationship with a real sorry excuse for a male human at the time, and I'm afraid returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, will cause long-dead emotions to rise from their graves like zombies, gnaw my flesh and slurp my brains like spaghetti.
4. Some of my former classmates are going to be fat and ugly now. Some of them are going to be bald; others are going to be wearing mom jeans. Due to excessive tanning, others are going to resemble a leather handbag that was left in the rain, then the sun, and then rediscovered in a dumpster by a homeless lady who uses it to haul around aluminum cans and bits of wadded-up tissue. Still others are going to be smoking hot, and I'll probably want to check out their asses. Do I care who falls into which category? Not especially. I'd much rather use my imagination.
6. Facebook. Enough said.
Friday, June 10, 2011
congratulations, you melancholy fuck, you fucking made it.
Today I received an invitation to a bridal shower in honor of a good friend of mine. And that's fantastic -- she is a smart, sexy, funny woman who has found a wonderful man to share her life with, and I couldn't be happier for her.
But then, like the ants that keep coming back in my kitchen despite my repeated attempts to murder them with bleach, the word "single-ism" crawled all over my goodwill like those 20-times-their-body-weight-carrying sons of bitches on a forgotten cupcake.
I couldn't shake the feeling: It seems unfair that individuals who have already found the loves of their lives also get rewarded with lavish showers, parties and tax breaks.
As a single, 28-year-old girl who is not -- and has never been -- engaged, my only option if I want a new sheet set, accent rug or non-stick frying pan is to buy it myself. I don't get to walk around Target with a scanner gun ticking expensive household items off my wish list. I don't get to invite friends over for mimosas and cheese cubes and be presented with gifts from said list. Instead I -- with my single income -- get to live in an apartment where people fuck hookers outside my bedroom window and I routinely find empty bottles of gin and women's earrings in the parking lot -- true story.
And I know this sounds bitter; it's not supposed to. I never thought I'd still be single at 28, but here I am, and it's really not as bad as I'd imagined; in fact, I like to think of it as an adventure. Is it possible that I'll still be single at 38, 48, 58? I suppose, and my thoughts and feelings about that possibility revise themselves every day. Regardless, I know I'll survive (and hey, I might even be awesome).
But I still cannot abide a society that not only punishes but seems to frown upon people who, through choice or circumstance, end up remaining single. Case in point: Ever notice that when discussing someone who's maybe a little "different" or possibly "crazy," one of the first things people say is, "Well, he/she has never been married," as though this indicates some sort of fucked-up personal failing?
And this greater societal belief, that there's something inherently wrong with being single, has rubbed off on our traditions so that we reward people for finding love and companionship and ignore people who do what takes some real goddamn courage: Slog through life, deal with plodding day-to-day bullshit, solve problems, overcome sadness and insecurities, grieve, cry, scream, laugh and never stop trying, all on their own, with no one to rely on but themselves.
That's not to say that if the opportunity for love and a shared life presented itself, I wouldn't jump on it. (Another thing that takes some fucking balls: Loving again after you've been burned.) But in the meantime, I propose that once a year on -- what's today? -- June 10, single people should get wasted with all their single friends, pat each other on the back and say, "Congratulations, you melancholy fuck, you fucking made it."
And then the next day, we'll all get some goddamn coffee and go print off our friends' registries at Target.
(Note: I do not intend to make it sound as though I believe marriage is a solution to one's problems, and I would much rather be single than in a fucked-up relationship. I am simply tired of being made to feel that I've somehow failed because I'm not married.)
But then, like the ants that keep coming back in my kitchen despite my repeated attempts to murder them with bleach, the word "single-ism" crawled all over my goodwill like those 20-times-their-body-weight-carrying sons of bitches on a forgotten cupcake.
As a single, 28-year-old girl who is not -- and has never been -- engaged, my only option if I want a new sheet set, accent rug or non-stick frying pan is to buy it myself. I don't get to walk around Target with a scanner gun ticking expensive household items off my wish list. I don't get to invite friends over for mimosas and cheese cubes and be presented with gifts from said list. Instead I -- with my single income -- get to live in an apartment where people fuck hookers outside my bedroom window and I routinely find empty bottles of gin and women's earrings in the parking lot -- true story.
And I know this sounds bitter; it's not supposed to. I never thought I'd still be single at 28, but here I am, and it's really not as bad as I'd imagined; in fact, I like to think of it as an adventure. Is it possible that I'll still be single at 38, 48, 58? I suppose, and my thoughts and feelings about that possibility revise themselves every day. Regardless, I know I'll survive (and hey, I might even be awesome).
But I still cannot abide a society that not only punishes but seems to frown upon people who, through choice or circumstance, end up remaining single. Case in point: Ever notice that when discussing someone who's maybe a little "different" or possibly "crazy," one of the first things people say is, "Well, he/she has never been married," as though this indicates some sort of fucked-up personal failing?
And this greater societal belief, that there's something inherently wrong with being single, has rubbed off on our traditions so that we reward people for finding love and companionship and ignore people who do what takes some real goddamn courage: Slog through life, deal with plodding day-to-day bullshit, solve problems, overcome sadness and insecurities, grieve, cry, scream, laugh and never stop trying, all on their own, with no one to rely on but themselves.
That's not to say that if the opportunity for love and a shared life presented itself, I wouldn't jump on it. (Another thing that takes some fucking balls: Loving again after you've been burned.) But in the meantime, I propose that once a year on -- what's today? -- June 10, single people should get wasted with all their single friends, pat each other on the back and say, "Congratulations, you melancholy fuck, you fucking made it."
And then the next day, we'll all get some goddamn coffee and go print off our friends' registries at Target.
(Note: I do not intend to make it sound as though I believe marriage is a solution to one's problems, and I would much rather be single than in a fucked-up relationship. I am simply tired of being made to feel that I've somehow failed because I'm not married.)
Friday, June 3, 2011
better play it safe around power lines
This isn't a joke, she said. This morning I saw a squirrel on the power line, and it ran halfway across and then part of the wire must have been exposed, or something, because it got cooked. I mean, like, singed alive. You could smell it on the air, that rotten smell of burnt hair and cooked flesh -- there's no other smell like it. Like if a fire could come on as quickly as a rainstorm, or if running your nails across a chalkboard had a smell, it would smell the way this smelled.
You're drunk, he said. Or you're high, still, from last night. There wasn't any squirrel getting cooked alive on any power line.
She slammed the curling iron into the sink. The sound of the hot metal barrel against the cool ceramic bowl was startling, and several water droplets hissed and then evaporated, vanishing as though vanquished, as though forced.
I saw what I saw, she said. Don't tell me I'm wrong.
You're drunk, he said. Or you're high, still, from last night. There wasn't any squirrel getting cooked alive on any power line.
She slammed the curling iron into the sink. The sound of the hot metal barrel against the cool ceramic bowl was startling, and several water droplets hissed and then evaporated, vanishing as though vanquished, as though forced.
I saw what I saw, she said. Don't tell me I'm wrong.
Monday, May 16, 2011
best and worst: pre-made hangover cures
THE BEST
Amy's cheese enchiladas
+ purple-flavored Gatorade
If your dad was anything like my dad, he definitely had a stockpile of questionable frozen food, mostly those ten-for-ten-dollars Hungry Man dinners and perhaps a stash of "Mexican" dishes, including those oddly brownish enchiladas with the super-gooey cheese that you had to scrape off the sides of the wax-paper container with your fork.
But here's the real secret: If you were anything like me, you looked forward to the days when Dad was responsible for lunch and he would dig the enchiladas out of the freezer and shove them in the microwave. You knew Mom would hate it that he was feeding you that crap, and really, that was part of the fun, like a weird junk food alliance forged between the two of you.
Today I can no longer justify eating the frozen enchiladas of my youth, but that hasn't satiated the craving, especially after a night of boozing. Fortunately, Amy's cheese enchiladas exist. They're supposedly "organic," or at least as organic as frozen food can be, and they have the same brown sauce, puddles of grease and gooey cheese as the ones I remember from childhood.
Pair the enchiladas with purple-flavored Gatorade (because sports-drink flavors defy all description except their respective colors) and two Tylenol, and you'll be on your way out of bed in no time. Because even though Eugene Mirman's way of saying "thank you" is to get drunk and not go to work, in most of our cases it will not express gratitude; it will just get us fired.
THE WORST
Simply Asia spicy kung pao noodle bowl
+ milk
Make no mistake about the Simply Asia noodle bowls: Despite the slick packaging featuring photographs of yummy-looking, restaurant-quality noodles garnished with shit like cilantro and orange slices, that shit is nothing but dressed-up Ramen. Seriously, imagine a homeless guy putting on a brand-new shirt from, like, the Gap but not taking the time to shave his beard, comb his hair, brush his teeth, put down the bottle of Old Crow, etc., and you will have an idea of what the Simply Asia brand is all about.
And it wouldn't even be that bad -- because let's face it, there's a time and place for Ramen (it's called "college") -- if it weren't 90 percent sodium. Think about it: You're hungover. You're already dehydrated. You need something that's gonna fill your stomach and distract your body from the fact that you spent all of last night poisoning it, not sap your remaining moisture, which is your lifeblood and the only thing preventing your brain from banging against the sides of your skull like the dried-out husk it has become.
Pair this bowl of nasty with a glass of milk (yes, I've actually made this mistake) and you'll find your innards twisting in weird, violent ways, and then you'll find yourself hugging the toilet and begging it to stop. I didn't puke, but that's only because I have an iron stomach and could probably eat a live iguana without puking. But you don't have to take my word for it...
Amy's cheese enchiladas
+ purple-flavored Gatorade
If your dad was anything like my dad, he definitely had a stockpile of questionable frozen food, mostly those ten-for-ten-dollars Hungry Man dinners and perhaps a stash of "Mexican" dishes, including those oddly brownish enchiladas with the super-gooey cheese that you had to scrape off the sides of the wax-paper container with your fork.
But here's the real secret: If you were anything like me, you looked forward to the days when Dad was responsible for lunch and he would dig the enchiladas out of the freezer and shove them in the microwave. You knew Mom would hate it that he was feeding you that crap, and really, that was part of the fun, like a weird junk food alliance forged between the two of you.
Today I can no longer justify eating the frozen enchiladas of my youth, but that hasn't satiated the craving, especially after a night of boozing. Fortunately, Amy's cheese enchiladas exist. They're supposedly "organic," or at least as organic as frozen food can be, and they have the same brown sauce, puddles of grease and gooey cheese as the ones I remember from childhood.
Pair the enchiladas with purple-flavored Gatorade (because sports-drink flavors defy all description except their respective colors) and two Tylenol, and you'll be on your way out of bed in no time. Because even though Eugene Mirman's way of saying "thank you" is to get drunk and not go to work, in most of our cases it will not express gratitude; it will just get us fired.
THE WORST
Simply Asia spicy kung pao noodle bowl
+ milk
Make no mistake about the Simply Asia noodle bowls: Despite the slick packaging featuring photographs of yummy-looking, restaurant-quality noodles garnished with shit like cilantro and orange slices, that shit is nothing but dressed-up Ramen. Seriously, imagine a homeless guy putting on a brand-new shirt from, like, the Gap but not taking the time to shave his beard, comb his hair, brush his teeth, put down the bottle of Old Crow, etc., and you will have an idea of what the Simply Asia brand is all about.
And it wouldn't even be that bad -- because let's face it, there's a time and place for Ramen (it's called "college") -- if it weren't 90 percent sodium. Think about it: You're hungover. You're already dehydrated. You need something that's gonna fill your stomach and distract your body from the fact that you spent all of last night poisoning it, not sap your remaining moisture, which is your lifeblood and the only thing preventing your brain from banging against the sides of your skull like the dried-out husk it has become.
Pair this bowl of nasty with a glass of milk (yes, I've actually made this mistake) and you'll find your innards twisting in weird, violent ways, and then you'll find yourself hugging the toilet and begging it to stop. I didn't puke, but that's only because I have an iron stomach and could probably eat a live iguana without puking. But you don't have to take my word for it...
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
opening my mouth and removing all doubt
Last night instead of dinner I decided to buy wine and colored pencils. If you assumed I was a total dork before, the following booze-fueled illustrations should confirm your suspicions.
1. In the bathroom of my new apartment, you can hear EVERYTHING. Not exaggerating – entire conversations (and other stuff) that occur in the bathrooms of my upstairs and downstairs neighbors are mine to behold, even the upstairs chick imitating her cat’s good morning meows and guffawing at sitcoms and the downstairs dude singing “Sweet Caroline.” Sometimes, however, when I’m in the bathroom and they’re, say, in the living room, the conversations are audible but muffled, leaving me to ponder weird, loose interpretations such as, “Granny Smith’s in the foyer.”
2. Last night I went to pilates, and I’ve been doing it for at least six goddamn months (granted, not religiously), and this was the first night it actually clicked. Afterward I was so high I didn’t want to do shit except chug a protein shake, buy some colored pencils, drink wine and draw crap. And it took me a delightful 20-minute car ride to arrive at the conclusion that these were the absolutely perfect evening plans. So here’s the journey I imagine my endorphins took:
3. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love Harry Potter. But, um, they kind of cut off the series before the juiciest years of his life (and then awkwardly fast-forwarded to after them), and left out his stranger-fucking, jungle-juice-chugging college years. (I mean, come on, butter beer? That can't be as good as it gets in the wizarding world.) So, here’s a little preview of the book written about Harry when he went to college as an exchange student at Mizzou:
4. There’s not much to say about food anymore. And that is sad, because I love food, especially cheese, Indian food and hot shit that punishes my face. But lately I haven’t felt much like eating anything, for the reason this helpful diagram will illustrate:
5. Okay, so the sun morphed into a giant, stoned Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, and then it penetrated my brain and shot its rays of forgiveness* down onto everyone who needed or deserved them:
6. And in conclusion, I generally find rituals of personal hygiene pretty boring. With the exception of oral hygiene, which is the absolute fucking coolest. If I could brush my teeth and floss 10 times a day, I probably would.**
*I am embarrassed to admit that I recently watched the romantic comedy “Eat, Pray, Love” starring Julia Roberts and that it made me cry. I generally dislike romantic comedies or any movie that comes out of the gate with the intention of manipulating me, but this quote really did it for me: "So miss him. Send him some love and light every time you think about him, and then drop it."
** I don't really pee in the bathtub, because that is disgusting.
1. In the bathroom of my new apartment, you can hear EVERYTHING. Not exaggerating – entire conversations (and other stuff) that occur in the bathrooms of my upstairs and downstairs neighbors are mine to behold, even the upstairs chick imitating her cat’s good morning meows and guffawing at sitcoms and the downstairs dude singing “Sweet Caroline.” Sometimes, however, when I’m in the bathroom and they’re, say, in the living room, the conversations are audible but muffled, leaving me to ponder weird, loose interpretations such as, “Granny Smith’s in the foyer.”
2. Last night I went to pilates, and I’ve been doing it for at least six goddamn months (granted, not religiously), and this was the first night it actually clicked. Afterward I was so high I didn’t want to do shit except chug a protein shake, buy some colored pencils, drink wine and draw crap. And it took me a delightful 20-minute car ride to arrive at the conclusion that these were the absolutely perfect evening plans. So here’s the journey I imagine my endorphins took:
3. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love Harry Potter. But, um, they kind of cut off the series before the juiciest years of his life (and then awkwardly fast-forwarded to after them), and left out his stranger-fucking, jungle-juice-chugging college years. (I mean, come on, butter beer? That can't be as good as it gets in the wizarding world.) So, here’s a little preview of the book written about Harry when he went to college as an exchange student at Mizzou:
4. There’s not much to say about food anymore. And that is sad, because I love food, especially cheese, Indian food and hot shit that punishes my face. But lately I haven’t felt much like eating anything, for the reason this helpful diagram will illustrate:
5. Okay, so the sun morphed into a giant, stoned Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, and then it penetrated my brain and shot its rays of forgiveness* down onto everyone who needed or deserved them:
*I am embarrassed to admit that I recently watched the romantic comedy “Eat, Pray, Love” starring Julia Roberts and that it made me cry. I generally dislike romantic comedies or any movie that comes out of the gate with the intention of manipulating me, but this quote really did it for me: "So miss him. Send him some love and light every time you think about him, and then drop it."
** I don't really pee in the bathtub, because that is disgusting.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
"POISON"
For the last three weeks, while getting ready to move into my new place, I've been staying with my parents in the KC 'burbs, and this is, hands down, the most consecutive time I've spent with them since I moved out ten years ago.
For the most part, they're normal folks, but I'm starting to notice some of their quirks.
For example, my mom's morning routine includes drinking coffee and watching the weather while brushing the cat, and at least once a week my dad brings home leftovers from his neighborhood hangout, announcing to an indifferent audience, "I've got livers and gizzards. Who wants some?" He has also been known to enjoy the occasional episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (though he'll tell you it's my mom).
Last night after brushing my teeth in their bathroom, I found them stretched out in their respective recliners watching Dancing with Desperate Former Celebrities, or something like that. I had discovered something peculiar that demanded an explanation.
Me: "Do I even want to know why there's a giant Tylenol bottle by the sink labeled 'POISON?'"
My mom, who throws away everything on the exact date it expires, pointed to my dad, whose advice for eating past-prime foods is "just cut the mold off and it will be fine."
Dad: "That's mine."
Me: "Why do you have poison in the bathroom?"
Mom: *shakes her head* "Your father..."
Dad: "It expired, and your mother was going to throw it away. I told her I'd keep it."
Me: "So it's not really poison?"
Dad: "Your mother thinks it is."
For the most part, they're normal folks, but I'm starting to notice some of their quirks.
For example, my mom's morning routine includes drinking coffee and watching the weather while brushing the cat, and at least once a week my dad brings home leftovers from his neighborhood hangout, announcing to an indifferent audience, "I've got livers and gizzards. Who wants some?" He has also been known to enjoy the occasional episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (though he'll tell you it's my mom).
Last night after brushing my teeth in their bathroom, I found them stretched out in their respective recliners watching Dancing with Desperate Former Celebrities, or something like that. I had discovered something peculiar that demanded an explanation.
Me: "Do I even want to know why there's a giant Tylenol bottle by the sink labeled 'POISON?'"
My mom, who throws away everything on the exact date it expires, pointed to my dad, whose advice for eating past-prime foods is "just cut the mold off and it will be fine."
Dad: "That's mine."
Me: "Why do you have poison in the bathroom?"
Mom: *shakes her head* "Your father..."
Dad: "It expired, and your mother was going to throw it away. I told her I'd keep it."
Me: "So it's not really poison?"
Dad: "Your mother thinks it is."
Monday, April 11, 2011
splitting molecules
Yes, I know I will be fine. Yes, I know it gets better with time. Yes, I know I can be strong blah blah; I don't need someone else to be happy blah; it was probably for the best blah vomit blah; and I'm gradually moving on with my life blah blah facedesk, but the truth remains: Getting dumped by someone you love fucking sucks, and I'm not going to pretend like it doesn't.
Three years later,
you fit in a box.
I taped you shut
while I wait
for a blanket to become
just a blanket again,
or a necklace
just a necklace.
For now these
once-comforting
once-loved
cold metal
paper postcard
hard plastic
relics
whisper
remember,
combing through my hair
with the rigid fingers
of ghosts.
I’ve been trimmed away like fat,
but you’re still in the
water I drink.
Three years later,
you fit in a box.
I taped you shut
while I wait
for a blanket to become
just a blanket again,
or a necklace
just a necklace.
For now these
once-comforting
once-loved
cold metal
paper postcard
hard plastic
relics
whisper
remember,
combing through my hair
with the rigid fingers
of ghosts.
I’ve been trimmed away like fat,
but you’re still in the
water I drink.
Monday, April 4, 2011
mud rock
Note: Know how I know this shit you're about to read is insane? It is pretty much the exact plot of a sleep adventure I had last night after taking melatonin, which boasts a side effect of "vivid dreams or nightmares." Seriously -- you gotta try it.
_______________________________
Beneath the town of Easton runs a long, underground tunnel called Mud Rock Run. The name comes from a local legend: The tunnel runs flat and dirty for several miles with a thin, sludge-filled stream cutting through the silt-covered floor, ominously calm, as though stalking invisible prey.
Then the pathway gets narrower – we told Billy that might be a problem for him, being such a fat-ass – and the water starts spewing from above with the strength of ten trains. If you can find your footing on the sharp, slippery rocks and forge upward through the waterfall, you’ll reach a plateau at the top, and there’s the Mud Rock: shimmering, ten feet tall, made of solid gold and balanced on its edge like a ballerina en pointe.
We would call it a natural wonder, if it weren’t so obviously a mistake.
_______________________________
Beneath the town of Easton runs a long, underground tunnel called Mud Rock Run. The name comes from a local legend: The tunnel runs flat and dirty for several miles with a thin, sludge-filled stream cutting through the silt-covered floor, ominously calm, as though stalking invisible prey.
Then the pathway gets narrower – we told Billy that might be a problem for him, being such a fat-ass – and the water starts spewing from above with the strength of ten trains. If you can find your footing on the sharp, slippery rocks and forge upward through the waterfall, you’ll reach a plateau at the top, and there’s the Mud Rock: shimmering, ten feet tall, made of solid gold and balanced on its edge like a ballerina en pointe.
We would call it a natural wonder, if it weren’t so obviously a mistake.
Friday, April 1, 2011
strange days
I'm naturally a depressive person, but even though these are dark days in the life of Lutz, I'm working on it.
These things help (and seriously, if you have no room in your heart for cute cat pictures, I have no room in my heart for you):
These things help (and seriously, if you have no room in your heart for cute cat pictures, I have no room in my heart for you):
 |
Little Lady Phoenix lends a hand.
 |
Bubbie is real serious about cleaning his belly fluff.
 |
Like a lazy junkie, Fifi spends the whole damn day in bed.
 |
"Runaway train, never comin' back..."
Yeah, I was a teenager in the 90s.
Yeah, I was a teenager in the 90s.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
deep comedy
One Saturday morning
post-whiskey binge
we snapped awake as
my cell phone alarm
shrieked the arrival of sun-up.
We were entwined,
hungover as usual,
cursing the cacophony that was
like God chewing glass in our brains.
You said
the alarm tone
must've been
composed by a
Swedish
minimalist
torture
artist
whose other
greatest
hits
include
“Neighbor's Vacuum in A-minor”
and
“Car Alarm Quartet in B-flat.”
You were always so hilarious
in the morning.
This one, I'd remember it later,
shopping for heirloom tomatoes
at Whole Foods,
giggling while running my fingers across
the improbably colorful fruit:
red, yellow, purple, orange,
some striped,
some still caked with dirt.
But for a moment I lost myself,
I squeezed a green one too tightly
my thumb piercing the delicate skin
the juice oozing out
settling into the creases of my knuckle
stinging in a fresh cut there, still red.
You called this deep comedy.
post-whiskey binge
we snapped awake as
my cell phone alarm
shrieked the arrival of sun-up.
We were entwined,
hungover as usual,
cursing the cacophony that was
like God chewing glass in our brains.
You said
the alarm tone
must've been
composed by a
Swedish
minimalist
torture
artist
whose other
greatest
hits
include
“Neighbor's Vacuum in A-minor”
and
“Car Alarm Quartet in B-flat.”
You were always so hilarious
in the morning.
This one, I'd remember it later,
shopping for heirloom tomatoes
at Whole Foods,
giggling while running my fingers across
the improbably colorful fruit:
red, yellow, purple, orange,
some striped,
some still caked with dirt.
But for a moment I lost myself,
I squeezed a green one too tightly
my thumb piercing the delicate skin
the juice oozing out
settling into the creases of my knuckle
stinging in a fresh cut there, still red.
You called this deep comedy.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
valentine's day from A to Z
In honor of Valentine's Day, I figured it was only appropriate to compile a whiny, self-loathing list about why I'll probably die alone in a silver bullet trailer surrounded by my 35 cats, who will then proceed to eat me.
Altercations with authority figures: Sometimes I have them.
Blankets: I hog them.
Cats: They are my best friends. (Pictured below: Bubba Lee Kinsey licks Phoenix's face.)
Desire to travel: The only reason I want money.
Energy level: It is generally low.
Food: I suck at cooking it.
Generalized social anxiety: I have it.
Hairbrush: I'm not sure where it is.
Intuition: I base important decisions on it.
Jewelry: The weirder, the better.
Kansas City Royals: I'm going to keep taking their shit.
Lies: I suck at telling them.
Modesty: I have none.
Nudity: Sometimes it accidentally happens in front of the window.
Openness about thoughts and feelings: It's only achieved when drunk.
PMS: When I have it, you will know.
Quiet: I am, excessively.
Random and socially inappropriate things: Sometimes I do them.
Shyness about farting: I do not have it.
Twenty-three-year-old, creepy, balding sociopath: He proposed to me when I was 16.
Underwater creatures: They're neat, and one day I will live near them.
Very tall coffee sleeve tower: It is my pride and joy. (Pictured below: Containing coffee cup sleeves from Starbucks, The Roasterie, Muddy's, Einstein Bros. and 7-Eleven, my three-foot-tall coffee tower is nearing the ceiling of my office.)
Whiskey and wine: I like them.
Xavier: He's my godson, and he's more important than you.
Yoga: Without it, I'm a bitch.
Zack Grienke: He's on my shit list for marrying a supermodel and moving to Milwaukee.
Altercations with authority figures: Sometimes I have them.
Blankets: I hog them.
Cats: They are my best friends. (Pictured below: Bubba Lee Kinsey licks Phoenix's face.)
Energy level: It is generally low.
Food: I suck at cooking it.
Generalized social anxiety: I have it.
Hairbrush: I'm not sure where it is.
Intuition: I base important decisions on it.
Jewelry: The weirder, the better.
Kansas City Royals: I'm going to keep taking their shit.
Lies: I suck at telling them.
Modesty: I have none.
Nudity: Sometimes it accidentally happens in front of the window.
Openness about thoughts and feelings: It's only achieved when drunk.
PMS: When I have it, you will know.
Quiet: I am, excessively.
Random and socially inappropriate things: Sometimes I do them.
Shyness about farting: I do not have it.
Twenty-three-year-old, creepy, balding sociopath: He proposed to me when I was 16.
Underwater creatures: They're neat, and one day I will live near them.
Very tall coffee sleeve tower: It is my pride and joy. (Pictured below: Containing coffee cup sleeves from Starbucks, The Roasterie, Muddy's, Einstein Bros. and 7-Eleven, my three-foot-tall coffee tower is nearing the ceiling of my office.)
Xavier: He's my godson, and he's more important than you.
Yoga: Without it, I'm a bitch.
Zack Grienke: He's on my shit list for marrying a supermodel and moving to Milwaukee.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
the snowplow stalks its prey
A fearsome, reviled predator prone to extended periods of laziness and indifference, the snowplow is not dead; it is only sleeping.
(Created on the third day after the Blizzard of Oz dumped a foot of snow on KC and they still had not plowed my street.)
Friday, February 4, 2011
boredom
every day
mid-afternoon
sunlight pressing against window
at top of wall
(too high to see out)
never penetrating
(no golden shaft, heavy and hazy with dust;
i will die of rickets in here).
at this point i'm certain
i've lost my mind.
shoulders slouch.
head hangs
turns when forced
in response to a cough, a knock
rotates on creaky hinge
rusted joint
piece of forgotten equipment
battered by extremes.
(what if i smashed face into desk,
drove nose bone into brain.)
skin is slack, falling off face.
mouth hangs open
releases indifferent string of vowels
and occasionally: "fuck."
lunch pulled from plastic bag
corporate-mandated portions
250 calories
devoured facing forward
six browser windows open.
eyes bloodshot
always bloodshot
ten hours sleep, still
bloodshot
lifeless glass doll eyes
popped out
new ones snapped in
still bloodshot.
weight is dead
and cold.
every nerve
in body, pinched.
stay the fuck young.
drive too fast into sunset
arm out window
cool air conducting tiny hairs --
electric body singing
horizon spitting pink, purple, orange
covering you in luminescent fibers.
avoid coming back
for as long as you can.
mid-afternoon
sunlight pressing against window
at top of wall
(too high to see out)
never penetrating
(no golden shaft, heavy and hazy with dust;
i will die of rickets in here).
at this point i'm certain
i've lost my mind.
shoulders slouch.
head hangs
turns when forced
in response to a cough, a knock
rotates on creaky hinge
rusted joint
piece of forgotten equipment
battered by extremes.
(what if i smashed face into desk,
drove nose bone into brain.)
skin is slack, falling off face.
mouth hangs open
releases indifferent string of vowels
and occasionally: "fuck."
lunch pulled from plastic bag
corporate-mandated portions
250 calories
devoured facing forward
six browser windows open.
eyes bloodshot
always bloodshot
ten hours sleep, still
bloodshot
lifeless glass doll eyes
popped out
new ones snapped in
still bloodshot.
weight is dead
and cold.
every nerve
in body, pinched.
stay the fuck young.
drive too fast into sunset
arm out window
cool air conducting tiny hairs --
electric body singing
horizon spitting pink, purple, orange
covering you in luminescent fibers.
avoid coming back
for as long as you can.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
using celebrity names as verbs
A brief dictionary of fictional and real celebrity names that can be used as verbs:
Homer Simpson:
Syn: Peter Griffin
Shane MacGowan:
Syn: Charles Bukowski, Amy Winehouse, John Frusciante
Tom Cruise:
Syn: Lindsay Lohan, Charlie Sheen, Paris Hilton
Mischa Barton:
Syn: Britney Spears, David Hasselhoff
Syn: Kim Kardashian, anyone on American Idol, Sarah Palin, Ashton Kutcher
Jay Leno:
Syn: Jim Carrey, Robin Williams, Adam Sandler
Tracy Jordan:
Homer Simpson:
- to gluttonously and unceremoniously shovel food, especially junk food, into one's mouth
Syn: Peter Griffin
Shane MacGowan:
- to repeatedly overindulge in booze and/or drugs with disregard for one's own mental and physical health and hygiene
- to defend one's appalling drug and/or alcohol-induced behavior by citing the eccentricities of the artistic temperament
- to go on a lifelong bender
Syn: Charles Bukowski, Amy Winehouse, John Frusciante
Tom Cruise:
- to walk around with a false sense of entitlement (coll. "douchebag")
- to demand respect without earning it
- to assume one is above the trivial societal rules everyone else must follow
Syn: Lindsay Lohan, Charlie Sheen, Paris Hilton
Mischa Barton:
- to inexplicably make gains or advancements in one's personal and/or professional life, despite having no discernable skills or talents
Syn: Britney Spears, David Hasselhoff
\
Heidi Montag:
- to desire constant attention (coll. "fame-whore")
- to outstay one's welcome
Syn: Kim Kardashian, anyone on American Idol, Sarah Palin, Ashton Kutcher
Jay Leno:
- to be the only one laughing at one's own jokes
Syn: Jim Carrey, Robin Williams, Adam Sandler
Tracy Jordan:
- to be consistently and unapologetically hilarious and awesome
- to be just self-centered enough not to notice your obvious shortcomings and possible mental illness
eg: "After dinner she seemed bored, but then I started tracy-jordaning. I was all, 'vampires are the world's greatest golfers, but their curse is they'll never have the chance to prove it.' She ate it up."
Syn: dolphins, Zack Grienke, Kara "Starbuck" Thrace
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