It’s Mindless, It’s Senseless …


Thought I’d give Zobmondo a go. Zobwhat, you may ask? It’s a “would you rather” game. Questions, often fairly grody questions, where you’re asked to choose between the two options provided. Show me your sickness. which of two evils would you choose, and why?

Phrases such as “I won’t choose either”, “Neither one”, “Who cares?”, and “I would rather die” should never be uttered in a given answer. The questions are meant to be nonsense, mindless semi-entertainment. Hey, at least they aren’t in a bulletin post with a threat attached stating that your third child will be born with no forehead if you don’t reply in 0.8 seconds, yes?

Let the fact that this is just a game of questions, and not a game of dares to complete nasty, nasty tasks in reality, maybe make your day a bit brighter. You gotta go with the choices presented, no altering. And any fun to be had lies in not only choosing, but in telling WHY.

I’ll post two questions. One tame, one not. Answer one. Or answer both. Will post more if there are responses. Will still love you, if there aren’t. :)

1. Suck the white dried spit off the edges of a speaker’s lips after a two-hour talk


Suck the crud that gathers in the corner of a cat’s eye?

2. Be stupid and rich


Be smart and poor?

Who Knew?

I am an Asian Mafia of one.

Who knew? The other night, a weeknight, there were four boys, 15-ish-years-old, out in the courtyard making the ruckus of the century by whooping, literally, saying “Whooooop! Whooooop! Whooooop!” at the top of their lungs to badly projected music playing at top volume from the family mini-van, of all things. Over and over and over and ooooover again. Started at 10:30pm-ish. Grr. This particular night was just another one in a series of nights, all equally loud.

After about an hour, the woman across the hall opened her window and bellowed down, “Shut up, already! Some people gotta get up in the morning.” Ironic, because she leans over the stair railings and screams like a banshee for her kids multiple times, day and night. Karma, anyone?

Needless to say, the “whoooooping” ceased. Only to be replaced by Krump dancing. Badly, I might add. And still a ruckus. I’m often up into the wee hours of the morning, as it is, so the noise wasn’t keeping me up per say, but the total disregard for the existence of other human beings sure was. Shoulda got dressed and traipsed down the three flights of stairs to where they were and

A) asked if I could join them. They teach me to Krump. I teach them to Charleston.


B) played the ditsy-impressed-female role of “Golly gee, boys. Y’all do that so well. Love to see you perform in the daylight sometime, but ya think ya could maybe let a girl get some rest tonight and wrap it up-blah-dee-blah-blah-blah” … yeah, not happening.


C) enlightened them by demanding actual responses as to what made them so very special as to be the uninvited vocals disturbing other folks drifting off to dreamland. Would have left me to feel like an overly stern wretch of a woman. Ms. Butt-Inksie, I am not.

All the while, there was a family of five unloading a large U-Haul truck into their newly rented apartment from the courtyard. One of them approached the boys asking if they could keep it down, casually pointing out that it was disrespectful. So, save dancing with them, I saw my two options more or less, tried and tested. And failed.

Sometime after 2 am, hours later, I was sitting in the Spare Oom at the computer in the dark. The light of the monitor had gone out as the computer slipped into sleep mode upon finishing up some work. In the dark, I reached for my nearby camera and snapped a shot out the window in their direction. Ha! Such wonderful dorky fun. One of the boys says, “Whoa! What was that? You guys see that?” His three friends went on totally ignoring his observation. I giggled to myself. Snap! Took another shot. The same kid says, “See?! Oh my God, what was that? You see that red light? And a flash?!” to which his friends said, ” … yeah … yeah! What WAS that?”

His friends all ran in the opposite direction scrambling up the short hill to the cover of the roadside trees.

Now all four boys are standing side by side staring up at my window, and I grew quiet thinking surely, their gonna come upstairs and check it out. I’m thinking I’m not quite sure what the heck I’m gonna do. Ignore them, answer the door, etc. My short-lived dorky fun is at its end. Snap! Took another photo! The first guy, the observant one, shouts out, “Asian Mafia!” leaps up into the air, his body splayed out in an “X” formation as though he’s in a suspended jumping jack. He lands well behind the parked U-Haul truck hidden from sight. His friends all ran in the opposite direction scrambling up the short hill to the cover of the roadside trees.

And I thought my fun was over. Too funny! Over the next minute or two, all four crept back into the courtyard area and proceeded to loudly say things such as, “Man, crazy how some people gotta take all the fun outta a guy trying to be positive, do the right thing, and have some innocent fun. We ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.” After their statements of angelic purity, they sat themselves down on the stoop near their own apartment and QUIETLY talked on. The family of five gathered around the back of their open U-Haul where one proceeded to tell the others, “Those kids leaping all over the place out here just a minute ago all scared themselves silly thinking the Asian Mafia is out to get ’em. Dumb-asses.”

I think I like the new tenants! And the boys? They haven’t been out at night since. Too bad, I really wanted to teach them the Charleston. ♦

Illuminated Nipples

Bean and I went to see The World’s Fastest Indian at the Grand Cinema in downtown Tacoma awhile back. I love, love, love quaint independent movie houses. How I’d yet to pay a visit to the Grand is beyond me. (Best theatre goes to the Harvard Exit off of Broadway & Roy in Seattle with its creaking staircases between floors, musty curtains, old piano and gorgeous tree-lined sidewalk easily viewable from the large foyer windows.) The Grand has an aqua blue velveteen-covered scrapbook in the lobby. It contains all the articles written about them over the years. They’re missing at least one, though. Bean did an article on them back in school and now plans to send them a copy to add to the book. Neato! Did I mention that the Grand serves REAL butter for their popcorn?

Her coy suggestion was that they hang tassles from each light’s knob in homage to Ms. Page.

So, cut to us sitting in the theatre awhile later, chatting about this and that. My gaze falls to the light fixtures. Installed are a series of round lights along the perimeter of the room every few feet, or so, near the ceiling. Definitely looked like glowing boobs. A brass knob jutting out from the middle of each orb-like fixture serves as the nipple. After commenting on them, Bean said Matt, her boyfriend, had also noticed them on a previous occasion. Conversation between us continued, and then off to the left, an older couple was sitting quietly eating their popcorn, when the man loudly proclaims, “Why, I see there be illuminated nipples for our viewing pleasure!” in his gravel-tinged voice. Ha. *Smile* I love old men, they’ve had time to develop character and therefore have great entertainment value. Bean’s wonderment was whether they’d be showing the new Betty Page flick. Her coy suggestion was that they hang tassles from each light’s knob in homage to Ms. Page.

I was out and about tonight. Was driving through a neighborhood, rounded a corner, and lo and behold, there stood a group of teenagers wearing black top hats and dancing with canes in cabaret style smack in the middle of the road, apparently rehearsing for a performance. They were gooood, too. Crisp in their movements, in sync, smiles on their faces. Life is too good, it’s true that you never know what’s right around the corner … ♦

Smitty’s Demise

Goodness gracious, me-oh-my! Let me tell you what has transpired going into this past weekend …

Last Thursday afternoon, I’m driving along up the road on the way back to work. This tremendous sound, an out-n-out ruckus, begins. Like a piggie-squeal. UUUUURRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! I look over to my left at the Bronco next to me, thinking, “Sheesh, that poor vehicle has some issues!”

A few minutes later, I roll up to a red light. UUUUURRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! It’s back! Look to my left again. Yeah, no Bronco. Look forward. POOF! Large grey puffs of smoke are billowing out from all sides of my hood. MY hood. Look to my right. People are staring aghast at me in my little car. I slowly slide the sunglasses on my forehead down to over my eyes. Must hide. The light turns green. No one in any lane moves. They hang back allowing my dying car to lead the pack one last time. Lead, little car, lead.

I managed to pull into the parking lot of where I work, still squealing, all the while. The car, not me. The day passes and then after work, I call my dad who lives nearby and let him know I’m gonna attempt to head over to his place where the car can rest in peace free from fear of being towed away until I can call to have it junked (Waaaaaaaaagh).

Upon turning the key, UUUUURRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! Without a moment’s hesitation. I head out to the main road, only to find myself coming up on the rear of a black SUV, real quick! My brakes are ceasing up, the clutch is useless, it’s a total melt down! What to do?! Luckily, I veer off to my only out before impact and pull into an open spot in a large parking area. Call my dad to please come pick me up.

So, this means that SOMEONE, some nut, has stolen my beloved, though dead, little car.

It’s all about timing. You see, the week prior, plans were set in motion to purchase a new car. To be purchased and picked up Friday morning. Yeah, the very next morning! YAY! Big-time YAY. The next day, I’m on my way to work, and I pull into the lot where my little car had died just the evening before. Hhhmmm. No car. Double. Triple take. Once at work, Bean and my Dad call, as they often do, and I mention the car being gone. We detemine calling the towing company posted on signs outside is the first course of action. Thing is, there are no signs posted on the other side of the building in the lot where my little car died. All the same, I call only to be told “Nope, no record of a lightish, greenish, little car with a giant daisy on the hood!” So, this means that SOMEONE, some nut, has stolen my beloved, though dead, little car. Smitty. He was such a good little car. Now he’s probably been stripped and sanded, buffed, and redistributed as mere parts to only God knows where. Smitty lives on as a patchwork amongst many other little cars now. He always wanted to travel …

And so here I sit, smugly enjoying the last laugh with my brand NEW (used) little car. What to name him. Or her? ♦