catasaurus REX

Is.. Is anybody out there?

Who: Me, Mom, Native/Oriental Lady, African Boy, Grandma

Where: Cranbrook; West Creston

What: Started out with Grandma Willicome and I discussing something while I looked at a sponge cake being made in the kitchen sink.

Next, I am doing something at the edge of a river with a native/oriental lady and my mom. We are dressed in full-on winter gear, doing some kind of research or hunting from a plateau about 3’ above the river’s surface. Below the plateau, there is a boardwalk of frozen river water, and it is too thin to support the native/oriental lady. She breaks through the iced boardwalk and gets soaking in the river, but is quick to get back on to the snowy embankment.

I also get soaked in the river, when I walk to the edge of the embankment and slip. My momentum leads me into the river where I am submerged, so I deperately cling to the surface of the plateau and cry out, “HELP!” Somebody drags me onto the plateau.

Later, an African boy appears and he teases me until I splash 1.5 litres of water on his back and neck. My mom is furious at me for splashing the boy and I want to cry out a defensive protest. I am so worked up, I actually yell, “YA-OWL” in the real world, though I was trying to say, “yeah, but he was…” in the dream.

Dream over.

Tumbleweed.

Illustration by Tumbleweed; June 2010

Key of Awesome video of the week!

Homework of the week: Practice your Guitar face:

Today’s layout is dedicated to clowns everywhere.

One of the many wonders of nature; clowns have proved throughout history that they can both amuse, and strike horror into the hearts of many.

Where one innocent, daft-looking clown can make some chuckle, others would reel in fright at that tufty wig, pasty white make-up, and hungering grin. This is what makes clowns so intriguing to me.

I never had a connection with clowns as kid (negative, nor positive); but I have a distinct memory of one particular clown doll by the name of Walde.

I have reason to believe it was of French design; with his little cone-cap, crumpled neck frill, tiny triangles dabbed above and below his eyes,  and heart-shaped rouge for lips. His cheap imitation-satin jumpsuit was a shade of non-threatening powder blue, and his soft yellow yarn hair fell from under either side of his hat. 

He moved too. When you wanted him to, of course; by spinning the metal key embedded in his back. He would produce a very pretty yet melancholy tune; achieved by the standard clockwork music box. The only thing that put me on edge was when the music played, his head would loll in a gentle, yet impossible circular motion. Why did he move his head like that? He wasn’t dancing. No human being could actually twist their head in such a way. It was absurd. And a little off-putting.

As big as my imagination could get as a kid (not much has changed), I never let this bother me too much; as I could simply avoid winding him up. Upon bumping or moving the toy, the music box would let out the last couple notes it had leftover from the previous play; logic nobody could escape. 

As I got older, I would visit Walde less. He sat up on the shelf, in a static position of his head cocked almost behind him; towards the corner of the room. The shelved toys would suffer weeks of lack of attention, and the clown dreamed eagerly of singing again. 

I knew this, because every week or so, very late at night, he would let out a couple notes. His lust to play was hard to ignore, because when 3am began to roll around, his head began to roll around too. It would wake me instantly, and his head would turn on that disturbing angle; only to look to me. “Why leave me up here?” His glassy eyes would say, and his lonely music-box tune would chime gently. I never took my eyes off him as I left the bed, and made my way over to the shelf. I stepped up on my tiny plastic picnic table to reach him.

He sang with joy; the last remnants of life in the tiny music box tinkled gratefully as I carried him over to my bed. Walde’s head pivoted softly to the music -looking up at me, then nuzzling his head into my shoulder.

We both slept soundly through the night; with no arguments from Walde. The next day he stayed silent, even upon removing him from the bed. I took him to my dad and told him that Walde needed to find a little girl or boy who needed him to sing for them. He obliged, and we took him to the local Salvation Army. 

I realized that he had a better chance of being chosen by a child as a new, beloved toy. Otherwise, he’d sit in the abandoned-toy bin for the end of his days; hopelessly awaiting to sing again. 

But that’s what you get for being fucking creepy.

Dating videos from the 80’s. What ever happened to all of the sensitive, fun-seeking, stache-sporting MEN??

Han Solo

It was a series of flashbacks, told to a group of grade-school children at my old elementary school by a well-aged version of myself. I was sharing a story with the little kiddies, who sat cross-legged in a semi-circle before me, of a time only 10 years prior to that present day, when I was 27. It was quite unusual as I was incredibly old-seeming for 37, sporting a bonnet and sitting in a rocking chair with one of my great-grandmother’s quilts across my lap. I remember feeling confused as to why I had aged at the rate I had, but quickly settled on the fact that my decrepit appearance was simply due to drinking WAY too much coffee.

Now, before I continue, I must first explain my affinity with the number 27. Ever since I was a little girl, I would chatter to myself. I think it is fairly common for young children, with their vivid imaginations, to talk to themselves. I talked to myself a lot. And sometimes I would talk to Bob; my imaginary friend, but that is another story.

Anyway, I eventually discovered that one of the best places to talk to yourself was in the shower. Nobody, for the most part, could hear you, so you could talk about ANYTHING you wanted. To this day, I find myself venturing off to Talk-To-Yourself Land, where I chatter and chatter about nothing and hardly ever remember what I was saying. It is not until I say something in particular that I snap out of my zombie-like state and realize that I have said this to myself before. What is that particular thing, you ask? Well, it is this: My response to an imaginary interview given by a mystery person (really, I can’t even begin to picture who this interviewer is) who is asking very boring, personal questions. It begins with “what is your full name?” and immediately goes to “how old are you?” It is to this question that I reply, “27.” 27! Every time. Without hesitation.

 I am always 27 in these interviews (or daydreams, rather) and I have no idea why. Is it because something significant is going to happen to me at that age? Maybe I will be famous and am being interviewed by some journalist that was just caught snooping around in the garden in my backyard. Or maybe I am in trouble for something and am actually being asked these questions by a judge or a police officer or something. The latter seems more realistic, but regardless.. I’ve no idea who is asking me these questions and why I am always 27 years of age.

The number 27 appears frequently in my life, especially when I dream. Either I have 27 minutes to get to a bomb shelter across town before the entire state of Illinois explodes or I have to pick 27 flowers to pay ransom to a lady who has just stolen my car or simply.., I am 27 years old. I digress..

In the case of this dream, I am a well-worn 37 year-old, reflecting on a time when I was 27.

So let’s get back on track here..

My good friend, we’ll call her Vankman, was due to be married, I recalled. Ross was still her suitor and for some reason, they had waited nearly 5 years to actually exchange vows. I hadn’t seen Vankman for a long time, I explained to the kiddies, but it was VERY important that, at her wedding, I announced my plan to move into an underwater cave beneath the ocean and raise a specific species of glow-in-the-dark birds. Talk about stealing Vankman’s spotlight, eh?

Everyone at the wedding, most of whom I did not know, was very supportive… So much so that they proceeded to throw flower petals and rice at me in excitement upon hearing my announcement. Vankman was throwing them too, so apparently she was just as stoked as everyone else was.. That or resentful, because I just HAD to announce my life-changing plans on THAT particular day.

At this moment, I flash to the dream’s present (37 year-old me in a rocking chair) and explain that I never went and lived in an underwater cave. I had made the entire thing up, because I was concealing my real plan to move to the mountains with a wolf I had raised and domesticated. You see, everyone disapproved of my pet wolf and so I was forced to lie about my sudden disappearance.

Flash to a scene in the mountains. It is snowing and I am kneeling before a fire with some previously gathered kindling to my left and a pile (yes, a pile) of newborn baby wolves to my right. In distress, I was individually picking up and rubbing each baby wolf’s back to keep them warm and then proceeding to place them back into the pile. I remember feeling frustrated because the mother wolf, which I had raised and cared for like a child, had left me alone to care for her one-hundred-and-some offspring.

Flash to a few months in the future. I am still in the cave, sitting in front of a fire with a pile of kindling to my left, but only three young wolves at my right. I had ridiculous names for the three of them, but don’t recall what they were.. Where had the other 100+ wolves gone? They had simply vanished.

It was during this moment of contemplation that a shadow was cast over the interior of our space. Looking up and out to the entrance of the cave, I see MY wolf, the original, domesticated one… Only she didn’t seem domesticated at ALL! She was snarling and drooling with her back arched, displaying a mouth full of teeth that looked like a set of freshly-sharpened knives. I was terrified, but only slightly.

See, before she had abandoned me to tend to her wolf-children, she held the appearance of any old wolf - greyish in colour, furry, naturally walking on all four legs… Now, upon her return to the cave, it was not only her aggressive demeanour that had changed. She had somehow, over the span of her short absence, obtained the ability to walk on her hind legs (with the assistance of a cane, mind you) AND she was wearing denim overalls. Also, she had a slight limp and stood hunched over from age.

It wasn’t anything at the time, her new human-like traits, but thinking of it now, two things pop into my head. One: A wolf in denim overalls is a pretty freakin’ awesome sight to see.. And two: She had aged quite rapidly, a fate I would also experience in only 10 short years!

Flash ahead again to the present, where I am grannied-out and in a rocker. At this moment, I begin unravelling a bandage from around my wrist that wasn’t there before. I think I was getting ready to show a bite that I had received that day in the cave when my once-tamed pet wolf returned wild-eyed and angry. I guess it was one of those wolf bites that, even after 10 years, has not completely healed.

The children began screaming and crying because they didn’t want to see the bite, but ignoring them, I continued unravelling what seemed to be miles and miles of gauze. The screams grew louder as I kept unwrapping my bandaged arm to display my wound. It was then that I awoke from my slumber sweating, but feeling very relieved that I had woken up before having to look at my disgusting, mangled arm.

The moral of this dream? Kids, don’t think you can tame wild animals. It is only a matter of time before they will leave you with the responsibility of caring for their 100+ babies and then return a few months later, snarling, ungrateful and wearing human clothing, only to give you a vicious bite that will never, ever heal.

Oh, and it must have been the wolf-bite that aged me, not the copious amounts of coffee. That at least kind-of makes sense.

Han Solo

Story? Well we had a cardboard cut-out at the ‘mansion.’

The mansion was a poorly kept 9-room house I lived in for 6 months during the summer last year. It was probably the best summer I’ve ever had. I don’t know where they got Mr Murray from, but he’s been through a lot. What a trooper. 

venkman

• venkman : "i'll punch you in the ovaries"
• kelsay: :O
• kelsay: "ur a dirty pirate hooker and i'm gonna slap u in public"
• venkman: HAHA, fuck please bring that movie
• kelsay: haha k i will. i'll bring all my dvds
• venkman: good
• venkman: and bring your virginity too

Decent parodies are hard to come by, in my opinion. Thankfully for me, there’s the Key of Awesome. 

venkman

Han’s intro made me hungry.  

Shall I explain Catasaurus Rex then? I guess nobody has a choice because I don’t hear any objections from my empty computer room. (It’s not completely empty because I’m in it…and my computer…and for some reason a cast iron bathtub lying askew on the floor…)

I went to visit Han one weekend, and she had decided to foster a ridiculously adorable beagle puppy called Bandit (working title). He was surprisingly calm and collected for a little puppy - until one of us would leave the room. I have to say, he had some serious separation anxiety.  This was bittersweet because it was very irritating when we wished to go out and he would throw a tantrum, but even though it probably had nothing to do with us, it served as a fairly decent ego massage. 

Bandit was pretty incredible with other animals. He would approach them gently, sniff them, and hope to god they could be friends. Unfortunately for him, Han’s cat Amity didn’t approve. Upon first contact, Amity ended up losing a claw in Bandit’s face; who thankfully came out unscathed and un-phased. 

Over the course of the weekend, we developed a system which involved shutting the dog in Han’s bedroom with us while we socialized, and keeping Amity outside to patrol the corridor. Any transfer of the puppy from her bedroom to the exit of the apartment down the hall had to be handled very sensitively. I believe it involved Han holding Amity in a corner, and me trying to herd Bandit down the hallway whilst trying to avoid any further conflict. 

Han and I decided it was time to eat one afternoon. Well, to be honest, I decided we had to eat. I get hungry, and shit get’s real. After realizing that leaving Bandit in his kennel wasn’t going to work, we came to our senses and decided that fostering a puppy over the weekend meant we actually had a responsibility. 

I know you’re probably wondering why the hell we would foster a puppy when Han already has a cat. This verdict still hasn’t been confirmed - but I trust it has to do with Han honestly believing that Amity would have warmed up quite a bit quicker than expected. On our way out to the door, Amity watched cautiously from the shadows. He really had a grudge against this dog; and unfortunately for Bandit, Amity wasn’t the only one.

Upon opening the front door, there was a rather handsome ginger cat sitting on Han’s doorstep. Because I’m one of those people who doesn’t realize that I’m talking to an animal until someone looks at me funny, I greeted the ginger and introduced myself. He seemed nice enough, until Bandit made his appearance, and as suavely as a puppy can, attempted to introduce himself as well. 

This didn’t sit well with Ginger, who immediately decided to body slam Bandit. I pulled him back, and tried to shoo the cat away, who wouldn’t back down. This concerned me a bit as my past experience with cats proved shooing as a very successful tactic. Instead of backing off like I hoped, the ginger actually jumped at me and took a good chomp down on my arm. To add to our horror, Amity realized this was an opportune moment to get in on the action. He darted for the dog’s behind.  I decided there wasn’t much else to do but throw myself onto the dog and serve as a meat shield. Han was trying to control Amity, but as luck would have it, another cat rounded the corner and jumped into the fray. Now I know we’ve all seen the cartoons, and I don’t think I have to explain any further of what this looked like; but I will. A churning ball of claws, teeth, yelping, scratching, flailing, upturned dust, scrambling, tangling and screeching. 

I somehow pulled Bandit to safety in the corner. Han pulled Amity out of the chaos, and the last two mystery cats were left duking it out on the doorstep and out into the night. (It wasn’t really night time, but that sounds cooler)

The entire debacle seemed to happen in a split second before Han slammed the door shut; leaving us in a wake of a communal chorus of panting, shivering, and much cursing on my part. 

I don’t even know if we learned anything that day aside from evil fucking cats will wait on your doorstep and then attempt to assassinate you when you open your door. It was like being attacked by velociraptors. Small adorable velociraptors. They came at you from all sides, and attempted to eat us alive.  

Long story short, (I don’t know why I would say that, because I just told you the entire story) we ended up handing Bandit over to a great new owner who reminded me quite a lot of Jack Johnson. Also I didn’t get rabies! Horray!

venkman