Sunday, February 13, 2011

IN THE DREAMHOUSE: the Winchester Mystery House

          Last night I dreamed about the Winchester Mystery House YET AGAIN.  I dream about it probably once a month, and have done so fairly regularly since I first visited there with my parents when I was about 7.
          I had been staying there, like it was a hotel, and was actually crying about having to leave it.  There was wallpaper with a pattern of weeping cherub's faces in relief, and I kept running my fingers across their faces.
          In the dream, Anthony and I were staying there with my stepsister and her husband and sons.  Our beds were on this broad second-floor gallery, and our last morning there a sinister man with a black mustache served us brunch.  He obviously hated us, and I was afraid he might be slipping poison into the food and drink.  I glanced up and noticed a procession of ghosts serving themselves from a sideboard along the wall.  I eavesdropped on their conversations, and discovered many of them saying perverse and obscene things.

          Somewhere along the way my stepsister and her family turned into the cast of I Love Lucy.  Anthony and I were moving furniture with them, and of course hijinks ensued.  But the hijinks element was incongruous with the spooky setting and huge unwieldy gothic Victorian furniture.
          Part of my dream was also the story of two children, a brother and sister, who were trapped in the Winchester House, and only the girl survived.  She had to fight an evil ghost woman who wanted to trap her soul there forever.  The ghost lured the girl up into the highest reaches of the house, even a vaulted attic.  But the girl managed to trick the woman and cast HER into the heart of the house forever. 
          When the girl finally escaped the house and walked along the seashore, she came across a crab that had her dead brother's face, and realized he had been reincarnated.  This was like a happy ending to their story, though, because she was glad his soul wasn't trapped forever in the Winchester House.

Friday, February 11, 2011


          (Obviously these are the Devil Days of February...)
          I go through periods where I'm pretty disciplined about working out.  But then something interrupts my groove and it's a sudden mudslide into donuts, cookies, and lots of cheese and other carbs.  On my way down I grope for something to hold on to, to keep myself from sliding to the very bottom, but all I manage to grab are chocolate bars and extra pounds.
          Lately I've been grimly determined to correct my many wrongs by spending time on the treadmill.  Once I worked up to it, my daily goal became to burn 666 calories, according to the treadmill's readout.  (Maybe not entirely correct, but possibly close?)  I grit my teeth and think of it as "burning the Devil's calories."
          I feel very accomplished every time I reach that goal, which has been a lot lately.  There is much at stake.  But I'm not sure who the triumph is for or against.  Am I keeping the Devil AWAY by burning 666 calories?  Or am I HONORING the Devil?  I figure it's a good thing either way I imagine it.  Maybe if I only burn 665 and 1/2 calories, the Devil wins my soul and drags me to Hell?  By reaching my goal I either please him or defeat him, and either way I'm safe, right?
          The flaming pit yawns hungrily beneath me and I MUST reach 666 calories or the treadmill will bang open like a trap door and down I'll go... 

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


          We watched M. Night Shyamalan's "Devil" last night.  (Netflix)  I'd really been looking forward to it.  I would also like to mention that I just checked the spelling of his name and I got it correct on the FIRST TRY.  Gold star, please. 
Stuck in an elevator with the Devil!
          Anyway, when it was over Anthony made a dismissive "meh" sound to illustrate his opinion of it, but I was like, "Well, I liked it!  I thought it was pretty good!"
          Anthony had guessed the "twist" about halfway through the movie, and was unimpressed with the way events played out, and the lackluster devily effects.
          The more I thought about it, the more I realized that when I said I "liked" it, and that it was "good," it was by my new and evolving Shyamalan rating system, which isn't really based on how good the movie is, but rather how much or how little I'm disappointed in it.  Because I know going into it that I WILL be disappointed. 
          Shyamalan started out strong with "The Sixth Sense," and "Signs," the latter being only mildly flawed but forgivable because of some really freaky and effective scenes in the first half.  But it was all downhill from there, hence my new rating system.  For example, I was tragically disappointed by "Lady in the Water," and seriously pissed-off with disappointment over "The Village." 
          "The Happening" left me cold, but was of a less furious disappointment, more of a mildly frowning, "Hm.  That's it?"
          So "Devil" actually had a pretty cool concept and a few creepy scenes that might have been chilling if you didn't know you were going to be let down by the end.  If Shyamalan had perhaps turned the concept over to better writers, it could have been very interesting.  Therefore, for a Shyamalan film, it was sort of good.
          But somebody better make a REALLY good Devil film soon, one that is seriously scary.  Is that even possible in this jaded era?

Monday, February 7, 2011


"Cupid VS the Bee of Hate"

          For this month, even though I'm not a fan of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd go all out with the pink and the hearts and the angel wings.  Not sure why I drew Cupid as sort of a koala/Care Bear, but it made sense at the time.
          Naturally there has to be a yang to Cupid's yin, hence the Bee of Hate.

          The casual observer might ask, "Are they pooping hearts and death's heads?"  I perceive it as more of a being propelled by a stream of hearts, and being propelled by a stream of hatred

Thursday, February 3, 2011


Here is the current state of my hair, my right foot, and my fat ass:

          I'm actually kind of proud of this.  Last weekend I got fed up with my hair being too long in back, but knowing that every time I go to an actual hair stylist and tell them what I want, they deny me.  I just want it left long in front, and short in back.  The stylists always tell me that you can't do that and make it look right, but I'm gay.  I have my own ideas about these things.  Can they not just humor me?!
          Anyway, I started thinking about it, and a cutting plan formulated in my mind, involving sectioned-off locks of hair, cutting each section a certain way.  So I did it.  I used my little-girl barrettes to do the sectioning, because I like the absurdity of a 39-year-old dude with little kitties, balloons, and plastic daisies clipped to his head.  By the time I was done I was quite pleased.  Even my detail-oriented husband approved, although he did have to even up a little bit of the back.

          Yesterday as I was leaving work I kept feeling what I thought was a sharp rock in my right shoe.  It hurt like a mutha, but I didn't want to have to take my shoe off at work, or in my car.  I just wanted to get HOME.  By the time I got home and in the door, it REALLY hurt.  I took my shoe off to find my sock had a bloody hole torn in it.  I was whining and moaning, so Anthony took my shoe and discovered there was a piece of BROKEN GLASS wedged into the sole on the inside.
          I could have DIED.  But he pried the broken glass out, so I guess I'll survive the next time I wear those shoes.

          In the mirror this morning before work I discovered what is undeniably my fattest angle.  It had a lot to do with the pose, too, and the fact that I was wearing unfortunate khaki pants, with a light blue dress shirt tucked in.  It's my ugliest work outfit.
          I found that by turning to sort of a 3/4 angle, and keeping one foot behind the other, and kind of slouching and letting it all hang out, I could make myself look truly bloppy and horrendous.  Just a big beige sack of potatoes on a stick.  With fabulous hair.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011


          I keep noticing this stray packet of Fire Sauce in the floorboard of my truck.  It's on the driver's side, right by the door.  Who knows how long it's been sliding around there under my feet.  It's definitely an accident waiting to happen. 
          Yesterday I arrived at work with my man bag and a big box full of books from the used book store for the library.  Normally I don't even think about actually throwing the Fire Sauce away, but for some reason it occurred to me while my hands were full that I should probably do that.  I poked at the packet with my foot, and sure enough it was full.  (I don't even use the stuff)  But since I didn't have any extra hands, dealing with the Fire Sauce was beyond my problem-solving abilities.
          So there it sits, waiting for me to accidentally burst it and then curse myself for being so lazy.