Pet Cobra

40/40

Today I turn 40. I will be celebrating my 40th birthday by reading the eulogy at my grandmother's funeral. I had a few notions as to how my 40th birthday - the actual day - was going to go down. This was not one of them. You would think that I'd be depressed over this. I'm not. It's a wholly unexpected gift; for my birthday, I get to do something that matters, to pay tribute to someone who shaped my life in ways that I'm only just beginning to fully appreciate. Yeah, I'm reminded of my mortality. But, really - have you seen my picture? Read any of my blog posts? Do I look/act 40? My grandma listened to Phish and the Dead and was taking trips to Hawaii in her 80's. 40 is a number. It's as relevant to me as my hair and eye color. Still, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a wee bit reflective this week. Mortality's been on my mind.

So over the course of my 40th year, I'm going to be working off my 40/40 List. 40 things that I want to have accomplished by the time I hit 41. Nothing grandiose - I will not be attempting to scale The Nose on El Capitan. I won't go skydiving. Fuck that. I want to live a long life, one that doesn't end with me plummeting through the roof of a barn tugging desperately at a nonfunctioning ripcord, and I want to stuff that life full of things. Just things. For instance, I've never eaten steak tartare. Or walked the length of the Golden Gate Bridge. I've never played golf. That seems odd - I'll watch Tiger Woods whenever he's on TV, but I've never played a round of golf. I haven't read War and Peace. Or watched an entire episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I've never surfed at night. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that a while back Beth and I had an argument about whether or not it's possible for an Average Joe to make honest-to-God cheese at home; thus, cheese-making is on the list. I've never had really, really expensive  - you know, like $120 a shot - tequila. Ok, that seems kind of stupid. But still. Can you imagine being on your deathbed and thinking, damn, you know what would have been nice? That $120 shot of tequila. I'll do that one last. 

Born With The Strength of A Black Tiger

To put it mildly, there has been much hub-bub going on at Casa Avant lately, and if you've ever had to deal with hub-bub, you know just how draining that can be. I've tried to handle the stress in various ways. I've gone surfing twice. The first session resulted in me putting a one-inch crack in my new board. The second resulted in me screaming at the waters of my Home Break, telling my Home Break that it's stupid and it sucks with it's inconsistent waves and lame longshore current that makes paddling out a bitch, and fuck YOU, California brown pelican, what the hell are YOU staring at? I started running again and that has resulted in a nagging pain in my left calf. People have called and written me expressing their concern, and my dog keeps giving me That Look. (I am sorta freaked out by all of the animals that stare at me. It's like I'm The Beastmaster, and frankly I have two kids and a wife and I don't need the added pressure of Beastmaster duties and responsibilities; plus, I was thinking that if I do have a supernatural ability that enables me to commune with our animal friends, I'd rather it be with the sea creatures, like Aquaman because around here the cool animals, like dolphins, are in the ocean. On land we basically have dogs, cats, and skunks. Lots of skunks. Then again, The Beastmaster could probably kick Aquaman's ass because I'm pretty sure that tigers can swim and a swimming tiger would be pretty useful in an aquatic battle, just as I'm equally sure that if Aquaman's dolphin buddies got into the fray on land they'd be useless, flopping around like fish, or like mammals that bear a striking resemblance to fish, squeaking helplessly as The Beastmaster and his Skunken Allies point and laugh.) I wish to assure you all that despite recent sadness, I am fine; for like the one true Beastmaster, I was born with the strength of a Black Tiger. 

"The Transforminators"

I cannot wait to see this.

Gramma Day

Until now I never noticed how tranquil the valley is. Los Osos sits at the western end, and to get there you take a long, meandering road that goes between green pastures and low hills. You pass cows lounging, content to watch the occasional car pass by, faces turned towards the ocean, catching a breath of cool salty air. The low clouds sometimes wreath the hilltops, and there are birds circling overhead. It is a place that exudes peace, a rarity anywhere, especially in California. It occurs to me that the next time I make this drive, it will be to attend a funeral. I roll down the window and reach out, letting the sun warm my arm. The breeze causes gooseflesh.

The machine that pumps the oxygen through the tube that goes into my grandmother's nostrils sounds like a train, and brings a memory to the forefront: I am 6, or 7, and I am having a Gramma Day. She takes each grandkid out for his or her own special day and this is mine. We are at Balboa Park, there to ride the miniature train that weaves through the trees. There are plywood cutouts of animals: a giraffe, a lion, a zebra. There is a tunnel - it goes for maybe 10 yards, but it takes me and Gramma to the center of the earth, and if I look at the walls hard enough I see dinosaurs and Morlocks and all sorts of amazing things. Do you see them, Gramma?, I ask her. Of course I do, she says.

They replaced her bed with one from a hospital; it can be raised and lowered and has bars on each side to prevent her from rolling out. It allows her to view her backyard, which is a garden. The ground is carpeted by vines bearing bright orange flowers. There are small palms and ferns and everything is green. The daylight shines through trees that my dad calls pin oaks; their trunks twist upward, the branches reaching towards the sky, spreading out like hands that have fought long and hard and earned the right to feel the sun. I sit next to her, and I fix my burning eyes on those trees, and I think that if I look long and hard enough, I will be able to somehow see them grow. Watch them live.

(ETA: Doris Avant passed away in her sleep, on May 16, 2009. She lived a life as big as her heart, and she will be deeply missed.)

Luis Scola, Meet Derek Fisher. And The Floor.

I was ecstatic when it was announced that Fish would be returning to the Lakers. I'm pretty sure I could watch this all day.

Taco Tuesday: Special Kafkaesque Cinco de Mayo Edition

(Previously, on Taco Tuesday.)

The baby eyeballs the boiling meat atop the stove and then gives me a furtive glance. She knows as much about large hunks of graying boiling pork as I do about the proper use of the word "furtive". She is a sneaky one, though. She's eating pretzels like the world's unfolding according to her plan. The boy sleeps on the couch. I check the pot. The rendered fat floats atop the khaki-colored water like a 6th grade Science Fair version of the Exxon Valdez disaster. (Yeah, it's khaki-colored. It's like Calda de La Gap.) Ice cubes form in the freezer. The tequila abides. Outside the dog barks at air. In about two more hours the water will have evaporated or been absorbed, the orange peels and the cinnamon stick will be removed, the meat will awaken from it's oily watery slumber like Gregor Samsa to be shredded and fried and find itself transformed, only instead of a giant mealworm it'll be tasty, tasty carnitas. I've yet to try mealworm so I don't judge; don't send me hatemail. For all I know mealworm tastes like pumpkin pie, but I'll never know 'cause it's Taco Tuesday.

A Meme From Black Hockey Jesus Whose Name I Shamelessly Drop

True: I just got off the phone with a reporter from ABC News. Look at me! I'm kind of a big deal. And frankly I'm done with being coy about it. If other bloggers can casually mention how they had lunch with Norman Mailer or played squash with Prince or sat right next to Brian Wilson as he gingerly lapped at a bowl of split pea soup then I can name-drop Black Hockey Jesus. He dropped The Meme Gauntlet; I pick it up.

What are your current obsessions? 

I'm taking an Xacto knive and cutting the following into my forearm: the amazing album "Now We Can See" by The Thermals (here's a piece); Key Lime pie; obscure microbrews; chips and salsa; the ocean; getting past that third Panzer; the mystery of my itchy eyes; and The Catalina Wine Mixer. 

Who gave you the best oral sex of your life?

My parents, my in-laws and my sister all read this blog, so to avoid embarrassment I'll just go with "my old cellmate".

What's for dinner?

Beef. By the way, did I mention that I once went skeet-shooting with Robert Mitchum?

What is your greatest fear at the moment?

My fears are deep, as ingrained in me as my chromosomes. They flow through me like a particularly virulent strain of cancer, an infliction that the antibodies of hope and faith and love are merely a bandage, a catalyst of a remission that's doomed to wane. If I had to give shape to these fears, they'd look like a midget with a monkey perched on his shoulder, riding a giant spider. And the spider would be watching The Real Housewives of New York on his iPod.

What are you listening to right now?

Justin Timberlake...that one song, you know, with the video that has Scarlett Johansson in it. 

If You Were A God, What Would You Be?

Here. Rather then tell you, allow me to show you:

 

What are your favorite holiday spots?

I have to say that the ones I get at Christmastime when I eat figgy pudding are my favorite. Yes, they itch and burn, but they don't ooze that clear fluid, like the ones I get at Eastertime, when I go on my annual and sadly inevitable three day Peeps-and-mescal bender.

What are you reading right now?

I'm reading what I just wrote. It's very Meta. Speaking of Meta, did I mention that I once played Mumblety-Peg with Thomas Pynchon?

What are four words that describe you?

Zesty, tangy, hearty, and prick.

What is your guilty pleasure?

Anything that is of or related to Michael Bay.

Who or what makes you laugh?

Currently, I find the whole swine flu thing hysterical (in the funny sense, not in the "stupid people are becoming hysterical over swine flu" sense). I also think Crying Glenn Beck is awesome. Whenever I feel down, I watch Crying Glenn Beck. Here. You seem a little down yourself.

 

What is your favorite spring thing to do?

Two words: Slinky. Escalator.

Where are you planning to travel next?

Palm Springs for my 40th. Speaking of Palm Springs, did I ever tell you about the time I went skiing with Sonny Bono? "Fuck the groomed runs! Go through the trees, you glorious mustachioed bastard!", I screamed at him. 

What is the best thing you ate or drank lately?

Smoked fish dip in the Florida Keys. Holy pogo-stickin' Jesus, that stuff is the kind.

When was the last time you were tipsy?

When I was a thirteen year old girl. What the fuck kind of question is that? "Tipsy"? Speaking of hardcore drunks, did I ever tell you about the time that I went dynamite fishing with Cormac McCarthy and we ended up shooting a Federale?  

What is your favorite ever movie? 

Star Wars. The OG cut. Han shoots first.

What's the biggest life lesson you've learned from your kids?

Everything contains wonder.

What song can't you get out of your head?

That one. You know the one. And now it's stuck in yours.

What book do you know that you should read but refuse to?

Infinite Jest. I really like David Foster Wallace's essays. Let's leave it at that.

What is your physical abnormality/abnormal physical ability?

My giant penis. Speaking of which, did you watch that Glenn Beck video? How fucking funny is that? He cries while Chuck Norris looks on!

Why do you think you were called into the realm of the living?

To chew bubble gum and kick ass. And I'm all out of bubble gum.

YOU DON'T KNOW FROM EPIDEMIC, YOU SWINE FLU PANIC-STRICKEN WACKOS: A Special Guest Post from Randall Flagg

Hi all. I was on vacation last week and have been trying to get caught up with a bunch of bloggy stuff this week, so I've asked the Dark Man himself, Randall Flagg (aka The Walkin' Dude, Legion, M-O-O-N that spells Antichrist), to do a guest post. Naturally, he's been following this whole Swine Flu thing closely, and offers some insight.

Hi! I laughed when my good friend Jason asked me to do a guest post; he and I go way back and we share the same sense of humor, especially when it comes to the Christians. I like the Christians. They're always surprised when they find out that Hell is cold, but I suspect that they know this, which is why so many of them live in the South. Do you know, reader, that I can smell them on the wind, I can smell their special fears like one might smell ribs cooking on the barbecue? And those fears smell like the Disco Duck, baby. Crispy and deeeeeeeelicious!

So I was on Twitter (@howsyourpork) and I found this picture:

She'll be dead within the week, as will so many, many others. The funeral pyres will been visible from Jupiter. And it'll be my time, the Magic Man will be back, and he'll be leading a dark, dark parade...HA! Got ya! See, I know a thing or two about plagues. If you think that the Swine Flu Panic is scary, you really should take a gander at this informative video. Love the sideburns.

 

Betty kinda reminds me of Nadine Cross, but without the white hair. Also, if you cue up that Underwood song "Baby, Can You Dig Your Man?" (I know, I can't stand that shit either, but you have to admit that he sounds a hell of a lot like Justin Timberlake. Eerie!) and press play on both the YouTube vid and your iTunes, it synchs up perfectly, like Dark Side and The Wizard of Oz. 

My point, and I do have one, is this: I get it. I do. Fear. It's something I know all about. It's the echoing sound of bootheels on a dark desert highway. It's a crow on the fence, looking at you for maybe a bit longer than seems right, eyes seeing through you like you're already a ghost. It's your Boogie Man, doin' what it can. You guys have been shovel-fed fear for going on 9 years now, and you're like the smack addict after "cleaning up"; it's there inside you, a phantom limb, and that itch you feel is that fear, spiking your blood like cheap hootch in your prom punch, causing that blood to simmer and push against your veins. You've reached a saturation point, and you thought that you'd be purged, free and clear, with a new guy in the White House running things. Well, meet the news boss. It's the same as the old boss, and it's Fear. 

Good luck with that. I'll see you around.

R.F.

(P.S. This guy was all wrong. I'd have gone with this guy as Me.)