Postcard

I got this postcard from my parents today. This is the first postcard I've gotten from someone before they arrived back home. They are up there for a seminar or something.

By now, they have been to Pike's Peak and something called the "Garden of the Gods". I have no idea what the latter is, but it sounds breathtaking. I'm thinking it's a large hedge maze, with a minotaur at the middle. Or maybe it's a small, hidden garden with a wooden door that you need a very old key to get into. I would buy a plane ticket right now (or Amtrak ticket, I do want to try that sometime) if I knew it had large animals cut out of bushes like I saw once in Edward Scissorhands.

I want to send my parents a postcard of Florida. They live here, but I'm sure they haven't seen everything yet. I think they'd like a postcard of something exotic, like this:

Stop Light

HBO was boring tonight, I realized, as I sat topless in my second apartment. After an hour or so, I decided to drive back home.

At the red traffic light, I looked over at this brown Corolla waiting next to me. A black lab had its head sticking out the back window. Driving was a guy with intricate facial hair. He probably spends a good hour in the mirror grooming to perform in his R&B trio nightly. His brunette girlfriend/significant other was perched in the passenger seat. Both of their hands were locked either in embrace or on the brink of playing Mercy, but I think it was the former. They were probably listening to the Postal Service.

The dog, with its head out the back window, was staring at me. I stared back into his wet, infinite eyes. I couldn't tell if he wanted something to eat, or someone to pull him out of that car.

And then I drove home and drank a bottle of white zin while watching Fargo on DVD, before I painted this thing -

Handwriting

Meg Jefferson, a friend and co-worker, was pulling on her long, dark hair and she said to me, "Your handwriting is like a murderous old man's!"

I crossed my arms and marched home after saying "Hmmph!"
I don't write like an old man, not even a murderous one. So, I set out to prove her wrong. But where to begin? I've never really analyzed handwriting.

I started by writing what I would consider to be that of an old person:

As you can see, the writing is all shaky, as all old people shake and this would go on a lot since they write really slowly. Also, notice the archaic lowercase A's that only certain fonts make use of now. That's really old. Don't mind the tilt, I'm a sinister lefty. This sample is exactly how an old person writes, and probably a murderous one too.

Then it was time to analyze my own handwriting.

Exhibit A: My hurried, all-capital handwriting. The sample exhibits grotesque, overly-masculine block letters, but the slant of the apostrophe almost makes the sample playful. I don't see anything creepy in this sample at all.

Exhibit B: My slower, everyday handwriting. The sample exhibits similar characteristics, with sloppy lowercase A's that look somewhat cursive. The letters are close together and jumbled, but not murderous. Again, what is creepy in this sample?

Exhibit C: My cursive handwriting. The sample shows a lack of use since the third grade. There are plenty of misguided letters, like the R's. Generally though, innocent like the other samples.

There, I rest my case, nothing suggestive, creepy, murderous or old man-esque in my handwriting. Right?

Night Classes

I had just finished some late night reading, when I came across my Grandpa Lloyd's gift to me. Two things came into my possession: his Shriner watch (he was good at driving small vehicles, I presume), and his soldier's handbook (he was also good at warring).

I thumbed through the pages, learning how to wear gas masks properly, where to hide in a machine gun fight - important, everyday things I may need to know. It even explains clearly that first aid treatment for a snake bite is simple: "Do not give the patient liquor." I learn something new daily, in this world of electricity and automobile.

I got to the back of the handbook and stopped. I found the Last Will and Testament of soldiers for WWII. It's a fill in the blank sheet. It's a Madlib for departure preparations. My Grandpa Lloyd left his blank.

I can imagine him kissing his new wife Mary, with her tightly curled brown hair and tears streaming down her face. She's standing there, with gloves on, they loved gloves in the 40's, and she probably says: "Lloyd, what about a will or last testament? You know, the back of the handbook?" She was both a worried and prepared person.

I can see my Grandpa Lloyd, taller than he actually was, finishing a cigar and replying: "Mary, I'm just going for a little trip. Don't have no time for dying," or something equally bold. Grandpa, I wish you could have shown me your war scars.

Matinee

During the storm, I went to go see the new 1408 by myself. I generally liked the movie and it reminded me that I enjoy John Cusack, and sometimes I wish I was Samuel L. Jackson. It also made me want to write a movie. Just one. Perhaps it'll be a comedy that only I can laugh at.

While I was waiting for the movie to start, I was thrown into an old memory, probably since I was alone. Dad needed to get underwear for my mom at the mall, and he took me along. I was too young for Victoria's Secret. He dropped me off at the K*B Toys and I watched him enter the adult store nearby like it was a burlesque show. When he had completely disappeared I realized the toy store was completely empty. It was going out of business and the only things for sale were Styrofoam pool toys. I didn't want to leave though. I wanted Dad to come back and find me. I walked down the aisles. I ran down a few. There was only one clerk playing GameBoy at the counter. I pretended that I had already purchased all the other toys and they were waiting in my car, I just had to wait. Eventually, I gave up and sat on an empty metal shelf, pretending I was a toy for when my dad came back.

Now that I think about it, hotel rooms are creepy like in 1408, but so are empty toy stores where you are the only customer.

Storm

Lightning struck a dead oak tree on my way home from work. A loud crack resonates and I look over my shoulder to see the oak tree split at the waist and collapse, snapping power lines. The tree and its branches had completely barricaded where I was just walking.

I turned back around and finished my walk home.

In the Distance

Some people were drinking and bidding farewell to my friend Hayden Curtainer. Here, though, I was feeling awfully underage. I wish her a wonderful trip!

At the home front, I woke to the sound of screaming and murder. Realizing no one actually dies in Florida this side of Boca, I got up to fix myself Cracklin' Oat Bran to feel a bit more grown up. The roommates were watching 28 Weeks Later pirated illegally on a laptop. I remember it being a good, wholesome flick. It sounded like a 70's horror classic because it was on a laptop down the hallway and to the right and I could have sworn I heard Shelly Long screaming.

The movie finished and my Polish roommate Wyckzirkerski (pronounced "Andy") decided to dance around and sing the song "Zombie" by the Cranberries. I giggled slightly and realized they wrote that song so many years ago exactly for this purpose.

Honest Biker, You

I came across a man on a bike at the intersection. He looked at me, saw my jean shorts, sleeveless workout shirt, my LA Gears (yes, my edition still light up in the heel), and wealthy upbringing. He said: "Can I get like 60 cents? Man I could use me a beer."

If I had a dollar, I would have given it to him for the honesty alone. Sadly, I had to shrug him off.

It's interesting to note that I'm never taken for whole sums of money. A lady on University Avenue asked me for $.45. I thought, maybe she is preparing for McDonald's Wednesday, when the burgers are extra cheap. Or buying 90% of a pay-phone call. Then I thought about where there are still pay-phones, and by this time, she had walked away.

I know I've seen her before, and I feel really bad about not being able to get her a burger.

Hairy What?

In my small, cave-like work crevice, I was processing dictations as usual, when I came across the client name of "Harry Accius." I found this completely normal until I realized that the name is actually pronounced Harry Asskiss. What a wonderful name. How could I have not gotten such a blessed name when I was born?

His wife's name is "Immacula" and I'm sure the two still have a wonderful love life, and when Harry comes home to dinner, it's not Hamburger Helper every night. I'm sure Mrs. Asskiss' Meatloaf is wonderful.

The Asskiss's before their honeymoon: