Monday, June 21, 2010

Charity Begins at Home

Charities exist for every conceivable purpose: to bring food to the hungry, shelter to the homeless, clothing to the threadbare, medicine to the infirm, sanctuary to the displaced and help to the helpless.

Charity is good. I encourage people to enthusiastically champion a cause. But you needn’t wait for a disaster or look to a third-world country to do your part. I’m a firm believer that charity begins at home.

In keeping with that philosophy, I’d like to introduce you to my favorite cause.

It’s called Charity: Me.

By donating generously to Charity: Me you can sponsor your own Starving Artist.

The Starving Artist is an endangered breed. They can be found living in garages, crawl spaces, garden sheds, Volvos and other seemingly uninhabitable places. They hoard expensive art supplies that they afford by shopping in thrift stores, begging leftovers from friends’ refrigerators and busting up vending machines for spare change. You’ll often catch glimpses of them scurrying through the darkness on the way from Starbucks back to their hovel. They are rarely seen in the daytime. They care not where they live or what they have to do to survive, so long as they are free to indulge their creative spirit.

Starving Artists aren’t like other people. An inborn compulsion to immerse themselves in creative work renders them completely unable to function in normal society. They are not capable of holding a ‘real job.’ They are unable to show up on time, work in cubicles, play well with others, tolerate incompetence, feign affection for co-workers, or stomach office politics. They are prone to doodling in the margins of company reports, making copies of body parts on the Xerox machine and drawing unflattering caricatures of their bosses during staff meetings. They cannot be domesticated enough to be saddled with routine or a regular schedule. A Starving Artist is therefore largely unemployable, leaving them to survive solely on their god-given talents.

You, and Charity: Me can help.

Your monetary contribution can sponsor a Starving Artist, providing them with food, clothing, shelter, horse expenses and their daily infusion at the Starbucks Medical Center.

Many levels of participation are available.

$100 per month will ensure your Starving Artist a daily ration of medicinal beverage from Starbucks. This is critical to the creative process! The vast majority of bad art is the direct result of an improperly caffeinated Artist.

$175 per month will provide the basics of water, electricity, ultra-high-speed internet access and premium cell phone service with text messaging and multi-media capability for your Starving Artist. An additional $30 for cable TV will afford them dozens of channels filled with mind-numbing reality shows (which are the only respite an Artist gets from the incessant demands of the creative muse).

Starving Artists have a congenital defect that makes operating kitchen appliances impossible and, very often, dangerous. $350 per month will provide your Starving Artist delicious, nutritious food from the prepared foods section at Whole Foods while keeping them safely out of the kitchen.

$500 per month will pay your Starving Artist’s over-inflated insurance premiums, ensuring that they can afford prescription drugs to combat their multiple neuroses, the occasional Pap smear and, for more ‘mature’ Artists, the inevitable colonoscopy and menopause supplements.

Horses are a necessary form of therapy for the aforementioned neuroses, critical to the Starving Artist’s well being, and are not covered by the aforementioned medical plan.  $750 per month will ensure that your Starving Artist’s horse has shelter, food, veterinary and farrier care and an endless supply of carrots and beer (don’t ask).

$900 per month will pay for a nice converted garage-studio in a suitably funky neighborhood and will keep your Starving Artist from wandering the streets, sleeping in public parks and showering at Wal-Mart. For an additional $120 you can put gas in their car, eliminating their need to push their vehicle into a no-parking zone, hide inside it, and wait for it to get towed to get from place to place.

In return for your generous contribution, your Starving Artist will provide you with photos, weekly email and Facebook updates, and most likely requests for more cash, since Artists rarely have any concept of numbers or spending. You’ll be kept apprised of your Starving Artist’s progress and given additional opportunities to fund their projects which will come to you in the form of pleading, begging, requests, demands and, eventually, threats and notarized legal documents.

You can be assured that 100% of every dollar you give goes directly to your Starving Artist. All operating costs for Charity: Me are covered by….well, there ARE no operating costs. Nevermind.

Remember, your Starving Artist’s rent is due on the first! Respond with your email address, credit card and bank account numbers and start contributing to Charity: Me today.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Twittering Through Time

Like most of the internet-enabled world, I’ve been swept up by the whole online communication craze. Take Facebook, for example. Facebook has put me back in touch with friends I’d lost track of and feared I’d never find again. I can passively peek at their lives to check in (and up) on them, and can choose to interact often, seldom or never. It’s kind of a friendlier version of “Big Brother.” I get it.

The whole Twitter thing, though…that I don’t get. Oh, I suppose it’s useful for instant dissemination of critical information to the masses…such as a meteor hurtling toward Earth or a George Clooney sighting at Starbucks. But beyond that, people’s fascination with what others are doing, eating, thinking or feeling at any given time creeps me out. I don’t want to be ‘followed’ on Twitter any more than I want to be ‘followed’ in real life (unless it’s by the aforementioned handsome movie star). Nor do I think that my daily comings and goings would be of any interest to the rest of the world.

But it set me to thinking…what if instant, worldwide communication via Twitter had been available since…say, the beginning of time? If we looked back at the Twitter Archives, what historical events would we discover had been unknowingly foreshadowed?

To that end, I offer the following, which I’ve titled:  

Famous Last Tweets: 

“I am so exhausted! Those stupid Greeks can’t build worth shit – the wheels on that wooden horse are crap! We’re all spent from hauling it through the gates. Man, am I gonna sleep good 2nite. Will deal with it in the morning."   sent by TroyBoy at 10:43pm 4/23/1184

 -------------------------------------

“Show sucks but can’t sneak out. Tired of weirdo across the theatre that keeps staring at me. Think I’ll flip him off…”  – sent by HonestAbe at 5:20pm  4/14/1865

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“Damn! Stuck on crow’s nest duty while there’s a party below deck! Nothing 2 look at up here and it’s FREEZING! Guess I’ll play some Farmville on FB...”   – sent by TitanicDude at 11:32pm 4/14/12

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“OMG, I am like soooooo stoked about kicking some ass at Little Bighorn in the morning!” – sent by GeneralC01 at 9:00pm 6/24/1876

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“Arrgghhhh! I finally get a chance 2 take an afternoon nap and that stupid rumbling wakes me up! The weather 4casters suck, they said nothing about thunderstorms…Going to put in earplugs and go back 2 sleep!” – sent by PompeiiPaul at 1:10pm 8/24/0079AD

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“Thanks 2 my buddy 4 the suggestion to vacation on Oahu, soooo much nicer than the ‘big island’! Man, it’s a beautiful morning on the Harbor! The sky is so clear. Wow, I can see airplanes waaaaay out over the ocean….”  sent by HonoluluHal at 7:44am 12/7/41

 ------------------------------------- 

@Moses2U: “Look, you’re really starting to piss me off. If I let YOUR people go, I have to let EVERYBODY’s people go…give me ONE good reason why you think you’re so special...” – sent by MePharoahUnothing at 2:15pm 6/12/1890BC

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@Adam01: “Seriously, are all men so helpless? I don’t care what you pick, just bring me back something from the garden that I can make in to a pie already!” – sent by EdenEve 3:45pm 00/00/00

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“Weird weather day, must be big storms someplace nearby! Guess I’d better hop on the old broom and get a ride in befor”     transmission interrupted, sent by WitchOTheEast  12:14pm

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“Airships suck! No smoking rule all the way across the Atlantic is bullshit! We’re finally about 2 land, but I can’t stand it any more – I’m sneaking out 2 lite up! Shhh!” – sent by BlimpRider – 7:24pm 5/6/1937

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“WTF??? Idiot neighbor is still out building on his stupid boat even though it’s pouring down rain! What a maroon…” sent by Matt24:39 2:15pm  1/14/2300BC

Monday, May 24, 2010

Horse Show Trainer's Diary

This blog is dedicated to the few, the proud...the horse trainers.

Get up at dawn of crack. Fumble in dark, pull on mismatched outfit and head for horse show. Finally appreciate that Starbucks opens at 4am.

Arrive at showgrounds, get exhibitor numbers from office, try to organize riders and schedule for the day.

Have advil and coffee for breakfast.

Where are my riders?

Find riders for warm-up hunter class. School riders. Holler same three instructions fifteen times. Each.

Realize this is day one of five-day show. Enthusiasm wanes.

Get to in gate. 27 people ahead of you. Go to kiddy ring to school riders for crossbar class. Chew off what’s left of your fingernails praying nobody gets killed.

Go back to hunter ring. 29 people ahead of you now. Don’t ask how this happened.

Pop more advil and one of those little white pills that you hoard. Say silent prayer of thanks that they only drug test horses, not trainers.

Pass porta potty for the 18th time. Make mental note to stop next time.

Have 22nd cup of coffee. Look at watch. It’s 9am. Resolve to stop looking at watch.

School equitation riders. Realize your feet are starting to hurt.

While watching rider in equitation ring, hear announcement that hunter ring is holding gate for you and your rider. Run like hell to ring. Make rider jump two fences in warm-up area and send her in for her round.

Rider goes off course.

Bang head against railing. Spook pony next to you. Apologize. Pony rider’s trainer gives you understanding, sympathetic smile.

Great, now your head hurts too. Pop more advil.

Did I pee yet?

Bad news: Wind speed measured at 45 mph. Good news: nature’s facelift.

Run to horse show office to put rider in class she forgot to enter. Pain from aching feet beginning to eclipse headache.

Frantically attempt to be in three places at once. Fail miserably.

Stop at beer tent. Who cares if it’s 10am?

Run back to barn to organize riders for medal class. In a spastic fit of poor judgment, tell 15-year old rider she can braid her own horse. Feet are now killing you.

Make mad dash for pony arena.

Say… that’s a nice bike.

Ride bike to ring to school pony riders. Discover your pony rider has painted her pony’s hooves with purple glitter.

Attempt to find solvent capable of removing purple glitter.

Kid who braided her own horse shows up at in-gate.

Attempt to find braider to re-braid horse.

Finally get to use porta potty. Pop more advil and check to make sure your breath doesn’t smell like alcohol.

Ignore loudspeaker announcement re: missing bicycle

Head back to hunter ring to watch rider in adult amateur class. Try to maintain composure while Run Dobbin, Run! plays out in front of you.

Attempt to explain to pasty-faced amateur who hasn’t two brain cells to rub together why it was NOT a good idea to leave a stride out of the outside line.

Covet thy neighbor’s beer.

Make panicked attempt to locate rider called back for medal class workoff. Find her in photographer’s tent watching video of World Cup Finals.

Run to jumper ring to school rider for jumper class.

She wins!

Thank your mother, your teachers, the Academy, and God. Reaffirm your confidence as a horse trainer.

Run to hunter ring to school kid for children’s hunter class.

Explain for the fifteenth time why purple and pink saddle pads are NOT a good idea for hunter classes.

Watch rider chip all 8 fences.

Make mental list of occupations you could still go to school for.

Get to exhibitor barbeque late. They inform you they are out of barbeque.

Must. Control. Fist. Of. Death.

Go back to beer tent and drink dinner.

Return “borrowed” bicycle.

Go back to barn, make sure horses get legs wrapped and are fed and blanketed for the night.

Look at watch and are horrified at time. Make mistake of mentally calculating how many hours sleep you will get. Make bigger mistake of mentally calculating how much you actually make per hour.

Resolve to check out your options next time Starbucks has a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window.

Spend half an hour looking for car keys in barn office.

Find car keys in coat pocket.

Get home after midnight.

Repeat above scenario for 4 more days.

Realize that this is only the first horse show out of 8 this summer.

Take more pills, drink more beer, yank alarm clock out of wall, threaten husband and children with bodily harm if they wake you, and go to bed.

Resolve to look into witness protection program on Monday.

Monday, May 10, 2010

When you care enough to send...



Like anyone with an entrepreneurial spirit, I’m always looking for the ‘next big thing.’ You know, like pet rocks or mood rings or some equally useless item that, regardless of the fact that it serves no purpose, everybody simply has to have. All it takes to be a gazillionaire is one good original idea. You sell a few hundred million of whatever-it-is then take the money and run. Hello, retirement on a private tropical island! What could be easier?

Okay, there are a few flies in my get-rich-quick-scheme ointment. I’ve had no shortage of good ideas, but I’ve got zero investment capital and little marketing savvy. Executing my grand notions has always proved logistically or financially infeasible. I needed a product that was simple, inexpensive, and – since I’m keen on keeping business in the USA – home grown.

It took much consternation and gnashing of teeth before I realized, one day while I was at the barn, that the answer was right in front of me. It’s uncomplicated. It’s abundant. And it is home-grown. Literally.

It’s the
Manure-o-Gram.

There endless ways to Say It With Manure.
“My new job stinks.” “Sorry you got dumped.” “Just dropping in to say hi.” “The muck stops here.” “Heard you feel like crap.” “So…it finally hit the fan?” Or the ever-popular, all-purpose “Shit Happens.

Manure is amazingly versatile. Individual nuggets occur naturally in a variety of sizes, shapes, colors and textures, depending on the size of the horse and the particulars of its diet. Manure sculptures can be crafted for any occasion. Manure makes an ideal football
(great for Superbowl parties), a terrific scale replica of Mt. Eyjafjallajökull for science projects (add water for optional lava flow effect!), and, for all those Star Wars theme parties, an eerily realistic likeness of Jabba the Hut.

Want to make a truly unforgettable impression? Consider the
Flaming Manure-o-Gram. Manure is in itself an incendiary device and easily combusts into a variety of fragrant, flickering colors. Firm manure also makes a fabulous receptacle for birthday candles, making the Birthday Manure-o-Gram a great alternative to those boring store-bought cakes. Individual nuggets also fit perfectly into standard cupcake wrappers.

Manure completely retains its character when flattened and compressed, so you can even slip it in to birthday cards and standard envelopes. Try it with your favorite-shaped cookie cutters! Never mind those pesky postal regulations that prohibit mailing of organic matter…what the post office doesn’t know won’t hurt it.

The applications are infinite, limited only by one’s imagination and/or tolerance for horse crap. While they may be received with varying degrees of enthusiasm, one thing is certain: no matter what the occasion, a
Manure-o-Gram will be one gift that’s never forgotten.


Manure-o-Grams are completely green, organic and natural. And since horses are strictly herbivores, Manure-o-Grams are 100% suitable for your most pretentious vegan friends. Horses roam freely and aren’t fed hormones or other unnatural substances, making Manure-o-Grams perfect gifts for animal rights activists. Environmentalists will love that Manure-o-Grams are completely biodegradable – just toss them in the yard when you’re finished with them. Or, put them in your flowerbed and you’ll have the best looking pansies in town. A Manure-o-Gram is literally a gift that keeps on giving.

Best of all, production of Manure-o-grams requires little overhead and zero cash output. You don’t even have to own your own horse to be a distributor. All you have to do is find the nearest equine and follow it around for five minutes. Voila! You've got your quota for the day. There’s not a horse owner alive that cares if somebody else carts off a wheelbarrow full of manure; we don’t care what you do with it as long as we don’t have to pick it up ourselves. You've essentially got an endless supply of free raw materials.

Next time the doorbell rings on your birthday, anniversary or mother’s day, you may be lucky enough to receive your very own Manure-o-gram.

Give someone crap today. Just call us at 1-800-GET-POOP.

Manure-o-Grams: When you care enough to give a shit.





Monday, May 3, 2010

Skirting the Issue

Women are endowed with innate weaponry. Weapons we can choose to conceal or reveal, but that we don’t need a license to carry. Weapons that must be used responsibly and judiciously, and that must be wielded with care. Because, like guns, women are always loaded. 

Every once in a great while, I bring out this natural arsenal. Like the time I volunteered to build new bridle and saddle racks for the tack room at the barn. I had an impressive collection of tools and an equally impressive ability to use them. But there’s one thing I didn’t have: a vehicle big enough to carry uncut lumber. None of the hardware stores cut lumber for the customers anymore; it didn’t matter how much you begged or pleaded. At the time I didn’t have an available friend with a pickup truck.

But I had something better. 

Cue the ZZ Top song She’s got Legs.

I arrived at Orchard Supply Hardware wearing my little short skirt and spike heels, calling upon years of theatrical training to convey complete helplessness. This was the kind of place where people (mostly men) shopped in jeans, sneakers and overalls. The moment I stepped through the door, I looked like a fish out of water. 

Eggggggggggggsellent. 

I tippy-toed about the store in my stilettos. They clicked on the concrete floor, echoing across the aisles. The ears of every male within a 200-foot radius immediately perked the way my horse’s ears did when he heard the sound of a snapping carrot.

Click click click click. Pause at a tool display and stare at it like it’s an alien life form.                                                                                                     

Click click click click. Pause in front of paint display and look at all the pretty colors.

Click click click click. Pause in front of lumber display and adopt expression that is both vacuous and pensive (try this, it’s not easy, I had to practice in front of the mirror). Reach out and gently stroke lumber. 

Five young men sporting OSH uniforms appear out of nowhere and surround me like they are Pit Bulls and I am a pork chop.

All five say in unison: “May I help you?” while vying for the coveted me, me, pick me! position.

Me: Big sigh followed by big, more vacuous, doe-eyed stare. “Well…..I need four pieces of lumber, but I know you don’t cut lumber here…” (employing my best I just lost my puppy tone) “…and it’ll never fit in my little car.”

They run into and over each other grabbing lumber for me. Boards fall over domino-style. Two of them grab the same piece and I fear a fistfight will break out over who gets to carry it for me. It looks like a Three Stooges movie.

“We’re not supposed to cut it,” one of them winks, “But we can do it.”

“I’ll get the hacksaw,” another one says, lighting up like a Christmas tree. 

“I’ll get it,” the third one says.

“No, I’ll get it,” the fourth one says.

The fifth one was ahead of them all and had already split to claim the sole hack saw they kept hidden in the back room.

Click click click click. I followed the lumber, which was being borne with all the pomp and circumstance of an emperor in a rickshaw, to the workbench area, where I stood and watched in vacuous fascination as they meticulously measured and drew lines and cut. The hacksaw was a tiny, old thing and took a lot of manpower to chew through the two by fours. There were four boards and five employees; one of them didn’t get to cut anything. He seemed wholly disappointed. He did, however, get to carry the lumber to the register and to my car for me.

Click click click click. The other four stood vying for position at the door with goofy smiles on their faces as I left. It didn’t matter that I was old enough to be some of their mothers. Their eyes never ventured any further north than the hem of my skirt. Not a one of ‘em could have told you what color eyes I had.

I drove off, waving at them.

The second I got home I doffed the stilettos and skirt and put on jeans, a tee shirt and my work boots. Then I hauled out my own tools and started building. Before you could say Dude Looks Like A Lady, I’d built and painted three bridle racks and two saddle racks.

The skirt and the stilettos are still in my closet, patiently waiting, like magical talismans, for their next assignment. Someday, I’ll need to build something again. And I know that if I need to build it (and if I wear the skirt and shoes), they will come.

Monday, April 19, 2010

The Asphalt Jungle

It was the first spring after I’d moved into the little garage studio in older, rural West Petaluma. The neighborhood gardens were ablaze with color in the form of wisteria, lilac, daffodils, tulips, roses and innumerable wildflower species. Some of them had been purposefully planted and lovingly nurtured. Others just grew with abandon at nature’s whim. They adorned the yards of the beautiful Victorian houses like living jewelry and infused the air with a symphony of scents.

I had just taken a stroll through the neighborhood, gathering a bouquet of wildflowers (okay, and some not-so-wild flowers, but the neighbors had plenty and wouldn’t miss them). As I walked home down my old asphalt driveway, something caught my eye. In several places along the retaining wall that separated my driveway from the neighboring property the asphalt was starting to crack and buckle upward. Continental drift? Tectonic plate movement? I hardly thought so.

I stepped on a few of the cracks and tamped them back down with my foot. I promptly forgot about it, until a few days later when I noticed the asphalt was once again cracking and buckling…and that something had emerged…no, something was growing…from beneath it.

I looked more closely. I wasn’t hallucinating…a plant was growing up through the asphalt. THROUGH the asphalt. I found a dozen breaches where spiky little spears were pushing their way through the driveway.

WTF? What kind of weird-ass alien plant life form can grow through three inches of asphalt?

It looked just like the plants on the other side of the retaining wall – a stand of bamboo trees the neighbors had planted along the property line.

That’s what it was. Bamboo. Their bamboo was growing through my driveway.

Bamboo doesn’t propagate like most plants. Instead of dropping seeds, it sends out underground shoots. Said shoots eventually burst forth to form new plants. They grow at an amazing rate of speed. Turns out the spiky little bamboo shoots can grow through just about anything. Rocky soil. Clay. Asphalt.

Flesh.

I’m not kidding. The ancient Chinese used bamboo as a form of torture. Victims were suspended over or tied to a bed of bamboo shoots. The rapidly growing spikes tunneled right through their flesh, muscle and internal organs.

I saw an episode of the show “Mythbusters” that addressed this phenomenon. They had a human torso made of ballistics gel (a substance that approximated the density of human tissue) that they placed over a bamboo bed. Sure enough, in a matter of a few days the shoots had grown right through poor old Buster.

You may at first think this gruesome. But if bamboo can grow through flesh and asphalt, imagine the useful applications. Like planting a bed of bamboo underneath the furniture cushions in your living room. That oughta get your couch-potato boyfriend’s lazy ass off the sofa. Similar tactics might also encourage your neighbor to move that eyesore junker Oldsmobile off your side of the street. Use it to encourage the guest that won’t leave to get the hell out of your favorite recliner. Slip the stuff under a mattress and it’s pretty much guaranteed to get even the most un-motivated teenager out of bed before noon.

Bamboo cannot be conquered via normal plant warfare. You can’t just pull the shoots up like weeds, they are far too firmly rooted – hell, they’re still connected to the mothership. And they’re tough. I couldn’t break them with my best Tae Kwon Do side kick (I could hear the voice of my Tae Kwon Do instructor, Grandmaster Kang, in the back of my head, chiding me “You let bamboo beat you? Weakling! Go run fifty laps and then try again!”). Pruning shears? Bamboo will destroy them. And bamboo is unaffected by my very best ‘wither and die’ look, which normally kills all plant life within a 10-foot radius. The only way to rid my driveway of bamboolings was to employ weapons of mass destruction.

I’m sure my neighbors wondered what I was doing in my asbestos chainmail overalls brandishing a machete, flamethrower and spray-tanker of Roundup. It was the only way to knock the things down and keep them down. But I knew my efforts were temporary; only buying me time, only postponing the inevitable return of my spiky nemesis. Even as I was dispatching them to oblivion and tamping the asphalt down around their remains like a concrete casket I could hear them, in their best Austrian accent, as though reciting a line from a plant-version of an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie (The Germinator?) promising me “I’ll be back…”

Yeah? Well, I’ll be back too. I’m ready for you. When you burst through the asphalt next spring, I’ll be waiting.

So go ahead. Make my day.