Sunday, October 30, 2011

Banned for Life by NYC Tarot Reading Practice Club : The Triumph of my Ejection

To date, I haven't been kicked out too many times. One time I was kicked out of the Madison YMCA but it was really a passive-aggressive sort of ousting. It was like a dip in lake lackluster. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to get my ass forcibly removed, I'd prefer more of a chuck norris roundhouse kickin' what the fuck cowboy kind of thing then a moment mostly defined by pointed glares and fingers tapping on clipboards.

Another time, I got kicked out of the Bubble Lounge in TriBeCa. Unfortunately, I was not the manager's focal point, merely a somewhat less than innocent bystander unworthy of specific attention. This Bubble Lounge turmult was a take two of the first time I proved myself lousy at disorderly conduct. In the early '90s, Carrine cleaned the clock of a drunken, drink-tossing Asian shortie and Tom somehow got thrown out for getting in the middle.

I couldn't even manage to get kicked out of the Girl Scouts like Nikki for "inappropriate dress and foul language" despite the fact that I excel at both. I'm always the bridesmaid, never the one who gets shoved out the backdoor on her petard.
But yesterday, I had my day in the sun. I got kicked out of the NYC tarot reading practice club. Granted, it went down beneath the impersonal shroud of the internet, but nonetheless, I found the whole affair really rousing.

Here's the play-by-play:
  1. The new club president, this long-haired velvet-wearing chick named Chea, starts charging $40 for meetings, promising arcane learnings well worth the cash outlay.
  2. Nobody, for the most part, comes to her meetings.
  3. Chea sends out a series of nasty emails berating club members for not coming to her meetings and begging someone to tell her why
  4. I succumb to her plea and send her an email articulating, among several other things:
    • my indignation for clearly believing that I am so retarded as to not recognize that this "club" is now a for-profit business venture.
    • my resentment at being held accountable for her success as a business owner, as evidenced by the chastizing tone of her lengthy and frequent emails.
  5. I receive an email stating that I have been "banned for life from NYC Tarot Club."
Ho ho! Look at me feeling the door banging my ass on the way out.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

At Least I Can See The Crazed Woodsman Clearly

It's been a weird couple months for me and medical professionals. After so recently chatting up my PCP in the dark, I am largely serene about yesterday's peculiar eye exam. My appointment started out normal enough. Dr. W asks me if I had done anything fun over the past couple months, and I reply that we had "gone hiking." 

Immediately, the doctor slides back in his eye doctor stool in slackjawed disbelief. "Hiking?" He pauses, shaking his head. Unable to form the words to express the gravity of his message. Finally he manages to say, "And were you armed?"

I mumble incoherently because it's tough to talk with that giant steampunk double monocle optical contraption locked up under your chin.

The doctor is unconcerned about my lack of concrete response. "I want you to know that whenever I go hiking, I always carry a small Beretta which I conceal in my backpack. There are crazy people out there in forest," he says. "Read the last row please."

"Very good. Now the other eye. My brother-in-law is an E.R. physician in Tennessee. It's so horrific. Do you want me to tell you this? It's always tragic with the woodland events." Dr. W gravely taps his black plastic eye patch spoon on his leg. 

"Ok, I'll give you just one example. This couple went camping. Two sex offenders wielding heavy logs attacked them. Luckily, the husband had a twenty-two and he shot the criminals dead. If he hadn't had the weapon... Look down and to the left, please."

"If you don't want to carry a pistol, I recommend a blowdart. Look to the right now and keep your head still. There are blowdarts you can pick up for about forty bucks at Fairly accurate targeting. With practice, you could definitely hit an aggressor on the neck or head from a range of approximately ten to fifteen feet. Which can you see better, one? or two? One? or two?"

I notice Doc W has fresh outdoorsy breath when he gets in tight to dilate my pupils.

"Very good. Hey, when you go on Do you want me to write the URL down for you on my prescription pad here... I saw a blowdart model that appears to be an innocent walking stick. But the handle comes off and it's really a blowdart."

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Really Awesome Marmot Victimized by Hoary Squirrel : Episode 1.1 : Real Rodents of the Savannah

Terrible news swept the valley recently after a Marmot was forced from his burrow by a knife-wielding Hoary Squirrel. The marmot was incensed by the unprovoked and grievous encounter. No one was physically harmed, but the resulting mental anguish left the marmot no choice but to ditch his marmot children and seek refuge in the nest of his longstanding paramour.

"So many hardships afflict me," intoned the middle-aged marmot, often referred to as a martyr of biblical proportions. "If it's not rancid berries, it's some other booby trap. The other rodents have always been out to get me, that's why I need to own a lot of expensive sweatsuits and other things."

When asked what he will do with his future, the marmot shrugged, a picture of indulged tranquility. "Luckily," he sniggered, looking quickly over both shoulders, "I'm kind of a trustfund baby."

Responding to an inquiry into the veracity of this claim, the marmot replied simply that he "deserved someone to pay his way and fix his problems." Further probing revealed this belief justified by several incidents where the townspeople had, groundlessly, chased him around with torches.

"Let's put it this way... no one has ever told me I can't take what I want, even if sacrifices need to be made on my behalf. No one thinks it's a problem if some other marmot goes a little hungry to keep me in the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed. I'm me! These are the good times, just ask my two-thousand dollar sunglasses!"

Sunday, October 09, 2011

Swedish Club Minutes 10-8-11

Meeting called to order at 16:30

Thanks more than much to Fredrick for hosting our club meeting yesterday evening, and it's not just the brännvin talking when I say it was a five-star crowd at a five-star venue.

For the first time, we had a quorum of norsk talare who kept busy removing the Rs from words. The Danes really need to pick up their game, as once again, Allan was our sole red and white flag waver. Luckily that flag he has is pretty big and he's got excellent wrist strength.

Aside from the mountaineers attempting to summit the building next door, the risk of bodily harm was kept to a minimum throughout the evening. The same cannot be said of the little kid's birthday party on the other side of the courtyard wall which, judging from the shrieking, was a snakepit of Machiavellian antics.

I can't even remember how many cute little chocolate pies and hallon cupcakes I managed to put away. All I know is I collected a sizable pile of toothpick flags and I know I wasn't the only one. Thanks much for your baking prowess, Haley!

Thanks again to everyone who came and I look forward to seeing you next time, even if Leah will not be in attendance because she's ditching us for a friend's wedding. (we'll miss you!)

Meeting adorned 23:30

Saturday, October 08, 2011

It's like the Scapel of Flashlights

I figured something out which you may already know. I fixate erratically. This problem of mine predicates a cornucopia of odd shit.
For example, a couple days ago, I mentioned to Tom that right after Hurricane Irene in August, I went to our family doctor to review some routine bloodwork. The doctor’s power was out so we went into a pitch-black exam room and huddled around a Coleman camping lantern to discuss my cholesterol levels.  He was having some trouble reading my patient chart in the flickering darkness so I told him he should feel around for his little ear lamp thingie and use it like a precision reading torch.
Anyway, Tom got this bushy eyebrow look about him and was all incredulous that I didn’t see fit to mention this incident earlier. I’m sure he was just retroactively worried since I could have easily tripped over the exam table and crashed to the floor tangled in a roll of crinkly exam table paper and wedged up behind the EKG machine and no one might have found me for three days despite extensive search-and-rescue spelunker activity.
But in my defense, the Blair Witch Doctor Affair did not strike me as worth mentioning because at the time I was fixated on this organic Vicks vapor rub stuff that says on the side of the bottle you’re supposed to rub it under your nose with your pinky finger.
Why your pinky finger instead of your index finger which is much stronger and more dexterous as a rule? And why are they legislating which finger to use? Does it really impact the clinical effectiveness of the product?

I spent about five days actively sticking my fingers in my nose assessing the pros and cons of various options. Ultimately, I might advocate the knuckle of the index finger for reasons of sanitation, fingernail safety and general appearances. I can send you the spreadsheet if you’re interested in seeing the results of my seven-prong evaluation methodology.