“This Ain’t No Austrian Folk Song!”
Hallo. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Sagely old punks. I want to sit around all day spewing profound rubbish. For example (Of what? It is all relative.) – I had to check on IMDB to see whether it was “Inigo” or “Indigo” Montoya – and I thought – what if they decided to just flat out LIE to us? I mean – well, look at it. If you were Donald Duck, and you had Chip and Dale in a nice little house on your railroad track, would not you get bored of harmony, and want to shake things up a bit? Don’t lie – you know you would. There is something inexplicably delicious about Chaos, and Mischief, and Treachery. And it is not entirely in contrast-spect. Ars gratia artis: “Just as you are, Bridget.”
What does this have to do with anything? Well, precious little. It is that time again. I feel the itch to re-design the blog. Usual reasons. I fix the superficial to comfort the churning depths (har-har). AND, Brother Wonk Web Server Administrator has installed something called Word Press that is a lot like Blogger – and I’m tempted. I recall feverish nights enthralled by the sight of the little “< ” and “;” and “‘” squirming about like little fleas on the page, until voila – there is my little circus, decked out in All The Glory Of Giang. All me, baby. All me. But then, of course, it would mean that I would have to work. Yeah. There’s the rub. Tune in later, to see how it will end up. If it looks different, you’ll know I won(/lost. It is all relative.) Today, I was washing dishes, and I saw a hand poke over the brick wall that separates our backyard from the street, and throw a Coke bottle into our backyard. It was weird. I actually saw the hand kind of think about it – like, “Should I? Should I not? Am I an asshole, or what?” And then ka-thunk, kunka-kunk. And it’s in my backyard, tip-toppling halfway inside of a planter. I stare, and screech (totally uninspired), “What the hell is going on?!” I am convinced it is moments like this that define us. See me, for example, charging outside like a mad monkey, dishwater hands in fists at my side, grabbing the bottle and lobbing it back over the fence, calling out in cursive to the bottle interloper. But, hold your horses. The real me is between the thought and execution.
Giang (within): Goddamn asshole son of a bitch does this look like a fuckin’ trash can? I’m going to throw it back at you, asshole! Bean you right in the face!
But he’s already walked down the sidewalk.
What if it’s a gangster, and he and his posse come and shoot up the house? Eee. And I can’t throw it too far – because it’ll land in the street, and if there is a policeman driving by, can they charge me for littering? Throw it just far enough to land in the sidewalk in a threatening, retaliatory manner.
Exeunt Bottle, Over Stage Wall.
(aloud) Fuck You!
And there it is. Protect your children from me, I’m a menace. That is, as long as the police don’t track me down for the littering.
I would have a marvelous time as God. Because, though an active conscience and an over-active guilt complex do have a play in how I behave – mostly, it is fear that I will be hurt. If I were God, I would lay down my mighty smite with impunity. I would bar assholes from buying bottled beverages. I would snap my fingers, and the over-thrumming bass stereo in the 1992 Honda Accord next to me would short and I would speed off, cackling with deific glee. God, too, must have joy.
I did not sleep last night. I do not recommend it. Long gone is the childish delight in having cheated sleep of her wages. She is a bitch, and will send her ruffians to collect. Speaking of collecting. Either today – or yesterday (is that relative, too?), I found out that someone has been using my credit card number. Apparently, they got it online. Here’s to you, whoever you are: Beware. I am God. I’ll Get You, And Your Bottle Throwing Dog, Too!
Bugger fucks. There are another set of people I would put in hell, to burn with the rubber-neckers and the people who talk during movies.
…
Aren’t I all aflame with fire and brimstone tonight? Let’s leave that behind; I am cuddly, and made for love. (Obviously.)
2. The Last Starfighter. No, seriously: Alex Rogan is my hero. This movie is like, Giang 101, Basic Watching. There are so many parallels! So many, it boggles the mind. My mind is…boggled.
468. Peas in mashed potatos. I like to bury them in there. And the mashed potatos are from a box. Mmm: I am a processed-food whore.
547. The cello part of “Waltz of the Flowers”, from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker. It’s what made me want to play the cello. Not that I do.
629. The main theme from Dances With Wolves. It’s what made me want to play the harmonica. Not that I do. Also makes me want to sleep in a field. But, nevermind that.
Hmm – real quick: what keeps the sun in place?
273. Ryan Casas. Who called me Giangy-Wangy, left me a voice mail on my cell phone that I never check, and who will never see this – but I adore you! :)
894. Astronomy at UCSB. Not just because of Geller – but that one night where I stayed out till 1:00 AM, on a trashbag on a street in Santa Barbara with a pair of binoculars, trying to locate Cepheus. And, of course, Geller. ;)
And that is it, for the night. Farewell.