Okay, it's officially 2008!
Well, now that's out of the way...
I had to work on New Year's Eve this year, so I'm just recently in from it and, having scarfed a little bite to eat, I'm now kicking things off webloggingly before I pack it in for the night.
Keltie, of course, has already started off her new project over at 365 Masks. Being a lover of masks (and knowing this, one would think that a certain talented mask-maker would have given her dear old friend a gift of one at some point, but I suppose one would be wrong), I am rather enthusiastic about keeping tabs on her work this year.
In response to Keltie's inspirational project (indeed, her inspirational nature), I've mounted my own little project: A Year in Haiku. That's right, annoying little three-line poems for (hopefully) each day of the year.
Have a wonderful 2008!
Showing posts with label Keltie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Keltie. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
V is for Vomit
In deciding what I could possibly write about for the letter V -- violins? the victrola? vehemence? -- I thought of something which could very well have been part of my seven random things list. Vomit.
Fear not, this won't be a post full of gory details about the act of puking. I won't talk about the sweat that breaks out on your brow as you lurch fitfully down the hall towards the bathroom, each step rocking you with another clench of your esophagus as you seek to suppress your aching need to expel the contents of your stomach. I won't get into the moment when you realize that the act is not going to be denied any longer, when you throw your face into the gaping maw of the toilet bowl, hearing the rasps of your throat and the gurgling of bile echo all around your ears, amplified by the acoustics of porcelain and water. I won't even begin to discuss the way you finish off, hacking like a hairballed cat, expectorating, expectorating, and expectorating again, trying in vain to rid your mouth of the foul, sour residue of your experience.
I won't discuss any of that, because I don't vomit.
That's right.
I.
DON'T.
VOMIT.
It's been over twenty years since my last barfimonious experience, and I anticipate going considerably longer yet. I sometimes feel nauseous, I sometimes feel ill, but I do not vomit.
To shift gears just a little, my dear friend Keltie once sent me a short academic essay which analysed and compared the manners in which humans and cats vomit. It was one of the funniest things I've ever read, and I'm sure that those who were walking by my dorm room on that afternoon as I sat inside and laughed aloud more enthusiastically as can be called "cool" were wondering, but it was pure gold. Somewhere in the catacombs of my life, I have that essay packed away somewhere. I'll probably be 98 and in a home and some dear loved ones will come to visit and, through a haze of scant recognition, I'll hear them say, "Jerome, we found this in a box of stuff we're selling on eBay. We thought you'd like to read it." They'll hand me two typewritten pages, stapled together, and I'll read it quietly to myself and, through my own drool, I'll start to laugh my raspy old guy laugh, then it'll grow and grow until my frail frame aches and quakes uncontrollably in my metal-frame bed. Somewhere a little beeping alarm will start to sound, and my room will be set upon by young, patient nursemaids who will try to settle me down, strapping my arms and legs to the frame for my own safety, but it'll be too late and, as tears of joy, memory, and laughter stream from my eyes, I'll bellow my last laugh with more strength than I will have mustered in years, my chest will arch up towards the ceiling, and I'll expire before their eyes, a toothless grin upon my face and Keltie's writing clenched in my hard, cold fist.
Thanks a lot, Keltie. You're going to be the end of me.
Fear not, this won't be a post full of gory details about the act of puking. I won't talk about the sweat that breaks out on your brow as you lurch fitfully down the hall towards the bathroom, each step rocking you with another clench of your esophagus as you seek to suppress your aching need to expel the contents of your stomach. I won't get into the moment when you realize that the act is not going to be denied any longer, when you throw your face into the gaping maw of the toilet bowl, hearing the rasps of your throat and the gurgling of bile echo all around your ears, amplified by the acoustics of porcelain and water. I won't even begin to discuss the way you finish off, hacking like a hairballed cat, expectorating, expectorating, and expectorating again, trying in vain to rid your mouth of the foul, sour residue of your experience.
I won't discuss any of that, because I don't vomit.
That's right.
I.
DON'T.
VOMIT.
It's been over twenty years since my last barfimonious experience, and I anticipate going considerably longer yet. I sometimes feel nauseous, I sometimes feel ill, but I do not vomit.
To shift gears just a little, my dear friend Keltie once sent me a short academic essay which analysed and compared the manners in which humans and cats vomit. It was one of the funniest things I've ever read, and I'm sure that those who were walking by my dorm room on that afternoon as I sat inside and laughed aloud more enthusiastically as can be called "cool" were wondering, but it was pure gold. Somewhere in the catacombs of my life, I have that essay packed away somewhere. I'll probably be 98 and in a home and some dear loved ones will come to visit and, through a haze of scant recognition, I'll hear them say, "Jerome, we found this in a box of stuff we're selling on eBay. We thought you'd like to read it." They'll hand me two typewritten pages, stapled together, and I'll read it quietly to myself and, through my own drool, I'll start to laugh my raspy old guy laugh, then it'll grow and grow until my frail frame aches and quakes uncontrollably in my metal-frame bed. Somewhere a little beeping alarm will start to sound, and my room will be set upon by young, patient nursemaids who will try to settle me down, strapping my arms and legs to the frame for my own safety, but it'll be too late and, as tears of joy, memory, and laughter stream from my eyes, I'll bellow my last laugh with more strength than I will have mustered in years, my chest will arch up towards the ceiling, and I'll expire before their eyes, a toothless grin upon my face and Keltie's writing clenched in my hard, cold fist.
Thanks a lot, Keltie. You're going to be the end of me.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Visitations
If you have already read Keltie's Weblog (or if you wrote it) then you already know that the two of us got together yesterday for a smashing visit and dinner. She is not kidding about Useless Waiter.
Still, the food was pleasant and the company delicious, so I was very pleased with the evening. Not only did I chat with my dear friend and see her new home, but I also met (at long last) the cats. Both were charming and inviting hosts who welcomed me into their home and spent a little time getting to know me. My only complaint would be the stress of parallel parking in a small space on a dark street.
Tomorrow morning I have a production meeting (yeeha) and the first rehearsal with the director, so that should be a joy and a treat. It'll be a busy week of reahearsals as we start to take the choreography we've been working on and start building it into the scenes as they're developed. By next weekend, I should be aching again.
On an unrelated but dreadfully unpleasant note, Book the Thirteenth of A Series of Unfortunate Event has finally been released and I picked it up today. Though I am horrifically anxious to learn the final, and surely miserable, outcome of the Beaudelaire's misadventures, I am also somewhat disheartened by the knowledge that The End marks the end of this Series of Events of the Unfortunate variety.
Still, the food was pleasant and the company delicious, so I was very pleased with the evening. Not only did I chat with my dear friend and see her new home, but I also met (at long last) the cats. Both were charming and inviting hosts who welcomed me into their home and spent a little time getting to know me. My only complaint would be the stress of parallel parking in a small space on a dark street.
Tomorrow morning I have a production meeting (yeeha) and the first rehearsal with the director, so that should be a joy and a treat. It'll be a busy week of reahearsals as we start to take the choreography we've been working on and start building it into the scenes as they're developed. By next weekend, I should be aching again.
On an unrelated but dreadfully unpleasant note, Book the Thirteenth of A Series of Unfortunate Event has finally been released and I picked it up today. Though I am horrifically anxious to learn the final, and surely miserable, outcome of the Beaudelaire's misadventures, I am also somewhat disheartened by the knowledge that The End marks the end of this Series of Events of the Unfortunate variety.
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