In a village not so long ago (maybe the 1960s) and not very far away (somewhere around Cleveland) there was a brave adventurer who decided to buck the centuries of oppression by cruel dinosaur overlords. Lacking true tools with which to fight, he engendered a cunning way to turn the dinosaurs into fossils using only eggnog and holly branches, thus leaving the Great Pumpkin Holiday in peace and theoretically guaranteeing the sheeplike populace a full month of stress-free retail shopping between the Festival of Halloween and Jewish Guy's Birthday.
Amidst the swirling autumn leaves, St. Nicholas of Cleveland stopped off at a restaurant to give Arlo Guthrie some weed (thus inspiring the 17-minute opus "Alice's Restaurant" in his honor) before going off to do battle with the dinosaur overloads. The cruelest and meanest of them all, the dreaded fanged Turkeysaurus giganticus, were known for their amazing ninja fighting skills.
Faced with poor surroundings (hello, Ohio?) and an encroaching tide of eggnog, the last few remaining Turkeysaurus giganticii retaliated with only the weapons they had on hand. They stitched projectiles out of skin left over from the wild boar they had devoured earlier in the day, threw thorn-studded corncobs, and set off sweet potato bombs.
After destroying the last army, St. Nicholas of Cleveland placed the head of the defeated Turkeysaurus general on a pike and marched it down a town square the villagers built in his honor. In the center of the square he roasted the general on a pike, ripping out the wishbone to prove that humankind would be oppressed no more.
Here endeth the history lesson.
]]>I'm happy to provide this condensed version of the handbook for your reading pleasure:
]]>I'm happy to provide this condensed version of the handbook for your reading pleasure:
Is the target actually physically capable of responding to your advances? (The crucial difference between stalking and necrophilia.) Do not Stalk inanimate objects like phone cords or small rocks. They do not cuddle. Acceptable targets are multicellular in nature and feature a stable core body temperature.
Not all targets are created equal. Maximize the likelihood of a successful Stalking Outcome by seeking potential targets with attributes that enhance the possibility of success. You've already chosen a living, breathing member of your own species. Consider subjects who are currently single. There are unsubstantiated rumors in the Stalking Community that, despite previous teachings, current attachments on the part of the target may hinder success at Stalking.
Consider tailoring your effort to the target. Don't waste your best efforts on a substandard target! Targets with a mediocre 'yum' factor and/or moderate unavailability should receive efforts proportional to their desirability and/or possibility of success. If target quality is questionable or availability is spotty, consider tried-and-true efforts:
Save the thousand-mile, diaper-wearing drives only for Targets Of Serious Hotness.
* * * * *
Seriously. (Is someone who works dragon*con allowed to say "Stalking is bad!" without the peanut gallery cracking up?) There's a moral to the story of Lisa Nowak. Only stalk the hot and available. Don't strap on a diaper and drive a thousand miles to stalk the other not-quite-girlfriend of a fellow astronaut—who is married to yet another woman—unless he's the hottest and greatest thing since manned spaceflight.
Any less? Stick to phone calls, honey. We geeky women have a reputation to uphold.
Anyone else think this guy's gonna have a long, awkward conversation with his wife over the dinner table tonight?
"Hi, honey … yeah, one of my not-quite-girlfriends decided to stalk my other not-quite-girlfriend and pepper-sprayed her. Made the national news. Love you, honey. Pass the potatoes?"
Break's over. Back to work…
]]>Me, I've listened to this radio show before.
]]>Me, I've listened to this radio show before.
The airwaves crackle with static. It's the sound of a faraway AM station bouncing over hills and trees to get to your ears. It's the sound I remember from my childhood years, the almost subsonic thrum and whistle of the faraway train coursing through Traskwood, a sound so faint that even the quietest of breathing or rustling of hair would make me question if I'd actually heard it at all…and then, that voice. Familiar, achingly so: the deep russet-polished contralto that sounds like every comforting voice you've ever heard, rolled up into one.
"Good evening, caller." In the background, before the audio switches away to the caller, the clink of spoon on china. Coffee's on. "You've got me. I'm listening." I put my ear next to the phone and my mouth comes within a breath of spilling it all, but the lump in my throat means that nothing comes. "Hello, Amy."
(In the end, we ache for nothing more than recognition.) "…Hello."
"I'd ask if you were supposed to be in bed, but we both know the answer to that."
"Two hours ago." In my hands, I hold a cup of tea. Its warmth strengthens me. I sip.
"It's funny to hear you silent like this, Amy. Usually, when you call, you're far more opinionated." A sip, a contemplative breath. "I think your usual tactic is to start off with something like 'I assume you've got a point and a reason for all this, and I'll eventually figure it out.'"
There it was, bald and clear and shining. "Yeah. That's what I keep hoping, because sometimes it's all I've got, and the only thought that can help make events make sense in my mind."
"Then hold to that." Silence, hung delicately from period to capital letter, served as emphasis. "It's quite a laundry list you've got."
It was something in the sentence—the acknowledgment of frustration, the acknowledgment of helplessness—that finally made the words come. "You're right. I don't understand. My grandmother falls and breaks her hip. My college roommate's parents lost their home to a tornado this Sunday and came out with little besides their lives and their health. One of my closest friends saw his mother sent off to prison, and another just learned today that his mother must have a bone marrow transplant. These are decent people. Good people. And …"
…and the words failed me.
"Sounds like there's a little more there. I'm listening."
The words burn; the tea is soothing and cold in comparison. "And. I. Can't. Help. I have no power and I have no words, and it isn't enough and I don't know what is."
"Caller, have you ever considered that maybe that's not your place?"
"If not me, then who?"
Laughter. "Now, I wouldn't want to sound presumptuous, but for someone whose thirtieth birthday is creeping up on her this year, you've still got lots of things to figure out."
"But what do I do?"
Another sip, another stir. "What you've always done."
"But I don't understand what that is."
She sighed. "You always were a challenge. You like things spelled out. Delineated. I keep hoping that someday, it'll really sink in for you that it's not a black-and-white business. I could give you a blueprint, but you'd lose sight of the endpoint while getting lost in the machinations of detail. The checklist you want isn't what you need. You have to try … and fly blind … and trust that it will be enough."
"It always comes back to that, doesn't it?"
"Someone, once upon a time, did write to me that faith is what you must rely on when the compass of reason fails you."
I sat. Thinking.
"Put down your compass, Amy."
* * * * *
Silence. In broadcast terms they call it dead air; here it would be an intentional, reflective silence, punctuated by the sound of coffee being slowly sipped. "We always seem to get those calls between three and six a.m. People don't always call in to get the answers; sometimes they call in just to get a bit of reassurance that they're still capable of finding the answers on their own.
"Normally, we'd need to take a break for station identification purposes, but we all know who we are and what we're listening to."
Silence again. In the background, a line is switched, a connection opened.
"A good night to you, caller. You got me. I'm listening."
]]>I pounced on her as soon as she came in from the kitchen. You should have smelled her shoes! They were fabulous! I know she was wearing them when she left last week, but when she brought them back tonight they smelled totally different - like a place I've never seen or sniffed before. They also smelled a little like those cats she visits while she's in Atlanta (I heard her say "Freya likes me," but I don't know this 'Freya' - is that even a cat's name?) but mostly it was that strange, far-off smell.
I followed her into the bathroom, because she seems to think that she can pee without my help, and I'm afraid that if I let her pee by herself the toilet will eat her. Toilets do that, you know. They make rumbly noises, and are kinda scary - I don't care what she says. I don't want her to be eaten by the toilet, so I stand guard by her while she sits on it and talk to her to reassure her that she's not going to fall in.
She reached down and scratched me - oh, bliss! how I have missed that! - while she was there, and made those funny not-meowing sounds she makes that she seems to think we understand (even though it's total gibberish) and then we went back to the living room.
I got so excited about her being home that I chased Tenzing around the living room and meowed a lot. Really loud, too, because it feels good when I let loose like that. It helped me take the edge off of the excitement. It was either that or I was just going to burst. Instead I yelled it all out and let my tail go all puffy and bottle-brush-y and it was all good.
…until she brought in The Box, and I honestly thought my little kitty brain was going to explode. It was the most sniffylicious thing I've ever sniffed in my life. The box smelled sorta like her shoes, but stronger, like it had been there longer. She started pulling out things she called 'sweaters' and oh oh oh were they soft and none of them smelled like the box, or her, or anything else I've ever smelled in my entire life.
It was like when she brought all those clothes home from a place she called a 'thrift store.' I don't know what a 'thrift' is, but I know it's soft and feels like laundry and each piece smells different from the last one and it's all so exciting that I barely know how to make my paws type fast enough to describe it before I just pass out.
Tenzing can't wait for her to take the 'sweaters' out of the box. I want to sleep in the sweaters; he wants to sleep in the box. Just because we're brothers doesn't mean we agree on anything, after all.
I just hope she stays this time. She was gone, and then she was sick, and then she was gone again. I'm afraid to hope. Will she be here when I get up? I hope so. I mean, Jeff feeds us and all, but she gives us scritchies.
I've missed my scritchies.
]]>This trendy homemaker Barbie is available with your choice of Lexus SUV or Ford Wind star minivan. She gets lost easily west of Reservoir Road and has no full time occupation. Traffic jamming cell phone sold separately. Available with or without tummy tuck and face-lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with "augmented" version. Optional matching tennis outfit.
]]>This trendy homemaker Barbie is available with your choice of Lexus SUV or Ford Wind star minivan. She gets lost easily west of Reservoir Road and has no full time occupation. Traffic jamming cell phone sold separately. Available with or without tummy tuck and face-lift. Workaholic Ken sold only in conjunction with "augmented" version. Optional matching tennis outfit.
This recently paroled Barbie comes with a 9mm handgun, a Ray Lewis knife, a Chevy with tinted windows and her own meth lab kit. This model is available after dark and can be paid for only in cash. Preferably small, untraceable bills. Unless you're a cop. Then we don't know what you're talking about.
This yuppie Barbie comes with choice of a BMW sports car or a souped up Hummer 2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, credit card and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. But you can't afford them anyway.
This pale model comes dressed in her own Wrangler jeans two sizes too small, a NASCAR shirt and has a tattoo of a Tweety bird on her shoulder. She has big, stiff hair, a six-pack of Coors Light and a Hank Williams, Jr. CD set. She can spit over 5 feet and can kick mullet-haired Kenny doll's butt when she's drunk. Purchase her pickup truck separately and get its Confederate flag bumper stickers absolutely free.
This collagen injected, rhino plastic Barbie wears a leopard-print ski outfit and drinks cosmopolitans while she entertains friends at the club. Percocet prescription available.
This doll is made of actual tofu, has long gray hair and archless feet, sandals with white socks, no makeup, and a mutt. She prefers that you call her "Willow."
This doll comes complete with a built in voice recorder that plays "I'm not from Benton, I'm from Bryant." This doll is somewhat mysterious and doesn't fit in with Barbies from other cities. She is still attending her Narcotic Anonymous meetings to kick the cocaine habit she formed in high school. Comes complete with derrière tattoo that peeks out over her low-rider jeans and the latest "Chronic" CD.
This tobacco chewing, brassy-haired Barbie has a pair of her own high-heeled sandals with one broken heel from the time she chased her beer-gutted boyfriend out of Bryant Barbie's house. Her make-up is dark red lip liner with your choice of lips covered in a sparkly pink or no fill-in at all. Her ensemble includes low-rise acid-washed jeans with assorted colored G-strings that stick out the back and a white see-through halter-top. Accessories include: tape player equipped with Bon Jovi and a 1989 Camaro with T-Tops.
This Barbie is the same model of Barbie that was released in 1982. She comes with shoulder pads, dark polyester skirt, white panty hose and a bad haircut. Comes with a boom box playing Kool and the Gang. Optional Brock-abrella available for days at the ballpark.
This Barbie comes in brown or black with fourteen interchangeable hair weaves, seven sets of multi-colored press on nails and hoop earrings. Complete with her 1985 Cutlass Supreme Limited in primer gray or speckled purple and spinner rims, and includes her mo-fo Kenneth, Big K Anderson, and optional bling bling accessory kit. Barbie-cucita can come with 3 up to 7 children and gold teeth with the "Yo Momma" accessory kit.
Comes with either Chevy Tahoe Limited Edition or Toyota Camry with child seat, Stoby's cheese dip and a church of your dominational choosing bumper sticker. Wal-Mart Super center play set sold separately. Commuter Ken is stuck in traffic and will not be available until Fall 2005.
Comes with Mazda Miata or Toyota 4Runner, CAC window decal and a chip on her shoulder. Suburb Ken is included with golf clubs and Chevy truck. Psychotic private school children sold separately. Edge Hill Barbie comes with 500 S Class Mercedes, Mikimoto Pearls and round trip airfare for herself a Dr. Ken to New York. Miniature Terrier comes attached to passenger seat. Botox and Collagen maintenance kit required. Currently the Edge Hill Manor play set requires escrow service for purchase. Credit check will apply.
Comes with double-wide trailer play set, 3 dogs, and a Polaroid of Kenny Ray who is currently serving 3-5 for meth possession, drunk and disorderly, and urination on a government vehicle. 1985 Ford Taurus with no hubcaps sold separately.
This Barbie comes with a Ford SUV (with Texas plates), a knife to stab other Barbies in the back, and tons of makeup. Carnivore Ken sold separately.
* * * * *
]]>Eleanor sent me this. I have no idea who wrote it. Blame the copyright infringement on them, not me. As an ex-central-Arkansas resident, I spent a good five minutes howling at this listing. Nothing like a good warm stereotype on a cloudy day…
"This is the all-night request line, for those of you awake enough to know we're closer to daylight than midnight. Got a request? A dedication? Something on your mind?" A pause. If there was such a radio show, playing at an hour like this, on a night like this, I could imagine a speech like that hanging on a pause and finishing with "Give us a call. We'll see what we can do." The hiss of dead air would be followed by the the shuffling of notes and fingers, followed by shunting the current phone call to the live audio feed.
After all, a show like this one wouldn't exactly need a tape delay.
* * * * *
"A good night to you, caller. You got me. I'm listening. Talk to me. Tell us who you are."
"I'm Amy, from Huntsville. I've been trying to call in for ages, and just couldn't ever get through."
]]>"This is the all-night request line, for those of you awake enough to know we're closer to daylight than midnight. Got a request? A dedication? Something on your mind?" A pause. If there was such a radio show, playing at an hour like this, on a night like this, I could imagine a speech like that hanging on a pause and finishing with "Give us a call. We'll see what we can do." The hiss of dead air would be followed by the the shuffling of notes and fingers, followed by shunting the current phone call to the live audio feed.
After all, a show like this one wouldn't exactly need a tape delay.
* * * * *
"A good night to you, caller. You got me. I'm listening. Talk to me. Tell us who you are."
"I'm Amy, from Huntsville. I've been trying to call in for ages, and just couldn't ever get through."
Laughter; cool, amused: "I know. Lines are kinda busy around here."
"You're rather popular these days, it seems."
Rich, throaty laughter. "You and I both know why you're calling, but it'll help if you spell it out for yourself. It'll help you see things a little more clearly, and you know what I say -"
A laugh from the caller; wry, a little unsure. "God helps those who help themselves."
"You bet, darlin'. I hate having to tell people that one all the time."
"I'm kinda worried. So many people I've got on my mind; it's hard to balance all the worries and the well-wishes with knowing that no matter how much I wish or hope for the best, that events are, in the end, always out of my hands."
"Anyone in particular?"
"So many people. A little girl out in Atlanta who is probably going to be born in the next week or so…" The caller trailed off for a moment, silent, the end of the sentence more a question than a statement.
"Ah, yes, little miss Elizabeth."
"And a little boy out in Texas who will be arriving in a month or two…"
"Aidan. Still think he's going to look like his mother?"
The caller laughs. "Yep. But I was wrong about Danny; I figured he'd look more like his father. So maybe I'm wrong on this one too."
"You gotta trust me on this sort of thing. My plans are a little more devious and convoluted than you give me credit for sometimes."
"I know." A soft, liquid sound slides through the speakers; it takes her a moment before she recognizes the sound: coffee being sipped.
"You gotta trust me on this. I have a plan."
"But there are all these people I care about…"
"Quite a list you've got going there, I'd think. Ever noticed you've got more worries than shoulders to carry them? You ought to consider setting a few of them down every now and then and trusting that someone else might pick them up and tend to them for a little while." Silence. "Well, I should've known better than to suggest that. You never were that way."
"Still, I don't suppose you can tell me that they're all going to be okay?"
"You know that question doesn't have an answer."
The caller sighed. "Can I ask it in a different way?"
"Sure. But I've got some other people on the line that I need to get to pretty soon."
"You keeping an eye on all of us?"
"Did you doubt?" he asked.
The response, when it finally came, was slow and hesitant. "Not really, but sometimes it helps to just hear it from the source."
"Makes it a little easier to comfort friends when they need it, hmm?"
"It does."
"Good night, caller."
"Good night."
* * * * *
Silence. In broadcast terms they call it dead air; here it would be an intentional, reflective silence, punctuated by the sound of coffee being slowly sipped. "We always seem to get those calls between three and six a.m. People don't always call in to get the answers; sometimes they call in just to get a bit of reassurance that they're still capable of finding the answers on their own.
"Normally, we'd need to take a break for station identification purposes, but we all know who we are and what we're listening to."
Silence again. In the background, a line is switched, a connection opened.
"A good night to you, caller. You got me. I'm listening."
]]>