I'm Not Dead Yet...

I know that it's disrespectful, classless and somewhat tacky to speak ill of the dead. Even more so to flat out mock traditions and whatnot. But...disrespectful, classless and tacky are right up in my wheelhouse....so here we go. (And plus- I don't really think this even counts as mocking...just commenting on that which I find interesting)

I fancy myself a pretty observant person. I watch. I listen. I notice behaviors and details. And more often than not, I mutter childish commentary under my breath about said observations. The more obnoxious the detail, the better the chance that I have noted it and quipped some snarky response just quiet enough for the evil-doer to think that I said something....but not be 100% sure. I'm a child. This is no secret.

One thing I just plain don't get is the roadside memorial. I can't speak for the rest of the country, but it seems a pretty common occurrence driving around town, at freeway ramps, busy intersections, etc. Wherever there has been an accident, the victims family and friends often build a makeshift shrine out of a black and white photocopied picture, clear plastic slip cover, twig cross and a half melted candle. I understand feeling the desire to remember a life lost. But the roadside? Right where it happened? In the wind and the rain? Never to be revisited or tended to? That I don't get. Not only does it seem like a huge bummer to force yourself to remember the location of a horrible accident every time you happen to drive that direction.....but to halfway go to the trouble of making a memorial and then just leaving it there to erode and fall to pieces just seems lame. Worse than not doing anything, in my opinion. Actually, a certain friend (who shall remain nameless, but will be linked to) and I have discussed this at length. If either of us do get off'd in an accident, there will most certainly be a twig shrine, complete with a grainy photocopy of our picture, protected by a plastic slip cover.....but with the opening of the cover up so the rain can get in and smear the picture even more. Cause ya know, that the sort of thing I live for ...snarkiness and irony, even in death.

Point is, we suck at death. The weeping. The wailing. The gnashing of teeth. More often than not, I envy the guy who gets to sit this one out (if you know what I mean).Funerals are horrible, cemeteries suck, and those half-assed roadside markers are the absolute worst.

You know who does death right? Mexico.

And bienvenidos to you to, thankyouverymuch. Way to be welcoming! Sad, depressing cemetery....I think not. I'm 90/10 certain that if I swung a stick around this grave site, I might end up with some candy or maybe a little toy. That's an afternoon of mourning and remembrance I can get behind.

However, while the welcome wagon is ready and rolled out, I didn't get a solid sense that anyone was really certain where it was goin'. I think she's holding out hope for San Francisco. Why else the flower(s) in her hair?

Seriously, this is just amazing. Absolutely beautiful.

Wherever we do end up when we die, I take peace in knowing that I won't have to worry about reaching things on the top shelf.

What's that, you ask? I'm not completely sure....but the 'woman' had a very impressive goatee.

And all of that nonsense about 'heaven for the climate, hell for the company.' We can go ahead and put that to rest right now. It was a beautiful evening and Johnny Ramone was there. Myth...busted. Score one for climate and company.

Moving into the Question/Answer portion of the evening...

Yes, all dog's do, in fact, go to heaven. Suck on that you, "Oh no.....you can't bring that dog in here," people. 

And just for the sake of a good time, in this mausoleum, there were skeleton cheerleader's celebrating death through interpretive dance, and a blue velvet Jesus with blown glass googely eyes, hung on a Celtic cross of bones....because anything else just wouldn't make sense. 

                                   

Granted, Dia de los Muertos seems to be quite a production. That kind of hulabaloo has got to be hard to keep up. When I die, I don't want to put anyone out. I don't expect a golden shrine to be erected in my honor, emblazoned with lights, decorated with flowers, diet Coke, and Dorito's. Nor do I expect a seven skeleton salute....but that would be nice.

No one needs to go to all that trouble. I don't need the pomp and circumstance.....but someone damn well better post a midget to stand guard.



Cause this is where the party's at. Just sayin... 

*photos courtesy of the Good Doctor

Viva el Dia de los Muertos....See ya when ya get there, if you ever get there.  

Fair Weather Friend

At the risk of beating the same old drum, I wouldn't exactly describe this past summer as exciting. Most of this is my own fault. For some reason, I thought buying a house was a good idea. Now I realize that while I can proudly claim to be a 'home owner,' I really am just broke and have to pull weeds. Seriously, total bonehead move on my part. But another reason for the drastic lack of excitement stems from the fact that I don't live in a city known for it's thriving social scene. (Again-why did I buy a house there? Ele-phino) Add that to the fact that we Morm's don't really get down much on drunken revelry...that shrinks the opportunities to swim in the 'fun pool' dramatically.

Needless to say, I am not just a little bit happy that The Good Doctor has decided to move her beautiful mind back to the Sunshine State...and within simple driving distance, no less. By my math, this relocation project has increased my single, Mormon friend count to a whopping total of 2. That's a 100% increase, if anyone is keeping track. (Yeah- I can do math. What?)

She went nomad and stayed at my place just long enough to realize that living in the desert sucks exactly as much as you'd think it would, came to recognize that herds of sheep lose their novelty when they make freaking sheep noises all night long and between her and her sister, completely ruined my dog. Since their departure he has done nothing but look at me with pity, boredom and disdain for the life of the single spinster. I refuse to be judged by a creature that licks his own butt....so whatever. Get over it.

We engaged in some hijinxs on the 4th of July, which can loosely be translated to....hung out at her grandma's, went to the beach and (I) was reminded that the downfall of Carlsbad beaches is that there are no public restrooms. (This is where that story about walking three miles, hopping over a rod-iron fence, sneaking into a hotel bathroom and getting a 'talking to' from the local sheriff about j-walking comes in.)

Anyhow- as if that wasn't enough excitement to stem the tide of yearning for a social life that extends beyond the reach of my DVR, we decided to tie a bow around the summer with a visit to the L.A. County Fair. I have been born and bred around all things fair related. Grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, siblings have all worked at the fair at one time or another. I've placed bets on the horses with my grandpa more than once, wandered around delivering ice to the beer stands, and my brother and uncle have hatched all sorts of plans to scalp tickets to events from the rodeo to the Winter Nationals. (I have yet to come to a solid conclusion as to whether or not this officially makes us 'Carnie-folk,' but retrospection has kind of got me thinkin' maybe, yes.)

It's always fun/ny to bring a newby around something that is normal and second nature to you. Pretty much opening the doors and throwing some sunshine onto your particular brand of crazy. Unfortunately, in this case, I was totally a bad friend. I got a late start on the day, so we missed all of the standard county fair schenanigans like the pie eating, pig racing, ridiculous whointhehellwouldeverspendmoneyonthatcrap demonstrations, and this...

But we did manage to catch the trapeze/ribbon/I would kill myself 16 different ways if I tried this/whatever it's called, show.

And because we like to do it up international style, we didn't just stop with the Russian mail-order trapeze artist. We also rolled up on the Beijing Circus performers.

 
It was around this point of the night that I thanked the Lord in heaven that I was born in America, land of the free, home of the fat. As it turns out, I am way to chubby/lazy/clumsy to ever have survived in any country but this. The timing of this realization was actually kind of apropos for the evening. It was shortly thereafter that got a corn-dog the size of a toddler's arm, a bowl full of fried Kool-Aid (no joke-google it) and discovered what I want my final resting place to be.

About the inevitable"Dying Dodgers" cracks....bah. Keep 'em to yourself. Don't take the easy joke.   

A Time Long Gone By

Obviously, if you know me, you know I have no children of my own. However, I find a great many things troubling with the youth of today. They most certainly don't get "it." "It" being any number of things. For instance, they will never understand the art and beauty behind the mixed tape. With all that they have, there are so...SO many things the ipod generation will miss out on. The mixed tape is not ANYTHING like a playlist you can slap together with three mouse clicks on itunes...that is, if you even bother to do it yourself and not just let Genius do it. Mixed tapes took thought. Planning. Commitment.  Which songs do you include? Which do you leave out? What order should they go in? Start out with the best song? Close with it? Build to the highlight in the middle and then wind down from there?

Then came the business of handling the play/record combo button pushing just right.....with enough down time between songs, but not too much dead time. Finally realizing the pause button would keep you from hearing the play key snap back when you stopped the recording to switch songs.  If you were recording from the radio, and the DJ stomped all over the opening or closing of a song with inane chit-chat, I'm 90% certain that burning down the radio station would have been a viable and reasonable response.

Trying to hit the 30 minute mark without cutting off the last song or ending with a bunch of wasted tape? An absolute exercise in futility if there ever was one....but a valiant and never ending quest.

Ahhhhh the good old days...when men didn't use hair products, women were the only ones who dared to/could pull off skinny jeans, mixed tapes meant love and vampires didn't sparkle.