We're famous! Ok, not really...

Billy the Blogging Poet has highlighted Legwarmers as Day 52 of "100 Blogging Poets in 100 Days". Check it out here. But please note the disclaimer: 100 Blogging Poets is by NO means a "top 100" of sorts -- so don't go thinking I'm all special or anything... we all know better, don't we? :)

While perhaps I am neither famous nor talented, thanks, Billy, for bringing a whole new set of fresh meat to Legwarmers. I'm nothing if not lucky. :)

I may be the host of an upcoming Poetry Carnival... so watch for that. In the meantime, check out the last one here.

Never ever ride the bus late at night.

Whoa... Were my self-esteem directly tied to the emails I recieve after each post, the last post would have sent me into a complete me-loving frenzy. I would, in fact, be under the impression that I'm only a lyric away from signing a record deal and riding off into the sunset in a tinted-windowed tour bus surviving only on my ability to write mediocre verses. Which would mean I definitely need to go shopping for a leather jumpsuit and an entire wardrobe of sequins.

In short, thank you for your kind words. And message recieved. More to come, as soon as I'm struck by incredible boredom/self pity/love at first sight.

::steps off soapbox::

You remember that magical bus story from when you were little? What's it called?

::googles::

Aaah. "The Magic Schoolbus". Remember it? And Ms. Frizzle taking the kids on these crazy magical bus rides through the galaxy or their intestines or the deep deep scary-glowing-fish-who-look-like-aliens sea? I sort of felt like I was on the grown up, cracked-out version on the bus home last night.

I stayed out late after work with a couple co-workers. Saw a foreign film. Ok, it was an action flick.

::shifty eye action, lip biting, finger twiddling::

FINE. It was "In Her Shoes". Whatever.

The point is, after the movie I had to hop on a bus to get home. The stop I needed to use was the one on 3rd street, just up from the market, in a sketchy retail part of town. Stores close, freaks and gangsters come out, and the transients go to bed in every doorway.

So I'm waiting at the bus, and this guy who smells like he's never wiped in his life keeps walking by me and referring to a "sweetie" (which I sincerely hope wasn't me) and scratching all over and licking his lips. The 10 minutes I spend waiting at the bus stop were some of the longest minutes ever. THEN, I get on the bus, open my book, and begin to plug those uncomfortable little I-Pod headphones into my head when I (well, everyone on the bus) notice there's the quintessential meth-head on the bus, scratching and talking exactly one million miles an hour to what appears to be herself. Well, at first that's what I thought, until a pair of very loud African American women near the front engaged her in an argument.

Turns out My Friend Meth was saying 3 things over and over: "I'm native american!" "I just can't believe how black you are!" and "look at black curly black ness I can't believe gurgle gurgle..." or something. Anyway, lots about the blackness of the black hair of these women with curly black hair and brown skin. Meanwhile, the two ladies seem to have completely forgotten that this woman is clearly under the influence of the demon of drugs, and decide they'll get upset about crazy's comments and start yelling and threatening her. Well, at this point, all book-reading is futile as I'm devising a survival plan should things get ugly. Namely duck under the significantly large man sitting next to me. While I'm busy having escape fantasies and pretending I'm invisible by averting my eyes and ocasionally squeezing them shut and counting to ten, the bus driver begins to yell at the already yelling ladies, only worsening the problem and causing everyone on the bus to increase the intensity of their practiced eye aversion.

THEN, as if we all weren't WAY uncomfortable enough, some stressed-out passenger just can't wait and LIGHTS A CIGARETTE AND PROCEEDS TO SLOWLY AND DELIBERATELY SMOKE IT ON THE BUS.

Well, this drives the bus driver (heh heh) nearly off his rocker -- which is a bad, bad thing, as he's driving the bus that is supposed to deliver my ass safely home.

Which is where I eventually wound up, after we pulled over on Hwy 99 and threw a couple passengers out.

So it was an eventful night. Tonight, I think I'll watch "Lost" and maybe even pop some popcorn if I'm feeling crazy. Or illegally download a Metallica song. Oooooh. I've really turned over a new, brave, live-life-on-the-edge leaf, haven't I?

Aaw fuck it. I was always a good girl. No amount of piercing, swearing and drinking will cure me of that. Hope you're not dissapointed.

Today's soundtrack -- funky latin and old jazz, sung new:
"Mariposa (en Havana)" by Si Se
"Waters of March" sung by Jane Monheit
"Reflejo de Luna" by Alacran
"Don't leave me now" by Amparanoia

The untruth

You told me I was a hurricane, once;
sucking people up out of their lives
like frogs from their cool, happy creekbeds
and dropping them, shaken, somewhere hopeful and bright.

You told me I felt as natural as rain,
like soap on your damp body.
You said I left you cool but sweet;
I was proud of the traces me on your skin.

You watched my eyes burn but didn't tell me I was beautiful.
I forgot what to do when a man doesn't say that.
Each day you cleared your throat and didn't say it
I blinked and began to believe I was gone.

You called me a contradiction one day at the fair,
pointing out in my hair the chewed pencil that held it,
then breathing softly on the silver and diamonds
embedded proudly in each of my ears.

You said I spoke like a shotgun at three in the morning
after our talk left me pale and raw,
and I envied your aim; your sharpshooter hand so steady
it almost didn't hurt as I bled birdshot words.

You watched my eyes burn but didn't tell me I was beautiful.
I forgot what to do when a man doesn't say that.
Each day you blinked, cleared your throat and didn't say it
drove me closer and closer to gone.

You watched my eyes burn.
For you I was beautiful,
but I'd forgotten what to do when a man says that.

That day I didn't blink,
and when you finally said it

I was gone before you cleared your throat.

Chop, Chop...

Tonight is the night! Giant Panda and PUTS at Chop Suey. Last time I was there, the opening act (Byrdie) was significantly better (in spite of a sound crew who acted like they'd never seen a monitor before) than the headliner, who shall remain nameless. So I'm looking forward to an all-around strong show tonight.



Currently listening to:
Nikka Costa -- Push and Pull

Keep your warm buns to yourself, please.

I am a regular (twice daily) user of public transportation. Being in Seattle, I'm lucky that I've got access to a really good transit system (and one that runs partially on bio-diesel, no less).

I quite like the bus: it's regular, it's much much better than spending my life savings/beer money on gas that's so expensive it makes me hyperventilate, I don't have to park my bus, and my dog can ride with me. All these are good things.

But I have one major problem with riding the buses -- it's the invisible menace that has increasingly become a source of some anxiety for me each and every time I lower myself into one of the dozens of map-pattern upholstered buckets.

Warm seats.

I hate them. There's something so creepy and gross about sitting down on a bus in the morning and feeling the heat from someone else's ass radiate into your pants until your butt is, in a sense, being heated by the left-behind energy waste of some stranger's derrierre. Call me crazy, but it just seems dirty... if there's heat left behind, there must be germs. Same concept as smells.

If you can smell something, that means there are tiny particles of that something in the air that are going into your nose and mouth. So if your roommate is the chili-eating kind, DO NOT under any circumstances use the restroom within 30 minutes of their exit or you'll be ingesting whatever is left stinking the air up.

Same goes, I think, for hot seats on busses.

It's just that my butt-heat is personal, you know? And I don't need any of yours, thanks.

This month, I'll rollerskate while sarcastically collecting stamps and popping seafood flavored popcorn while flossing.

In the weeks since "Talk Like A Pirate" day, I must have developed an accute sensitivity to bizarre "appreciation" days and "awareness" months and whatnot, because everywhere I go I am bombarded with cute little ribbons people think I should buy to support "herpes awareness week" or "MILF appreciation day".

I don't know... maybe it's just me, but everytime I see a poster commemorating some nasty disease prevention month, I just get the ickies. It really doesn't help the hypochondria. I mean, these awareness campaigns actually work. I'm now really, really aware that there are many diseases out there I had never worried about before. I'm buying little rubber charity bracelets like they're going out of style (well, you know what I mean) and I'm still spending large amounts of time teeth-grinding, feeling itchy, and obsessing over tiny moles. This is not. a. good. thing.

So, in an attempt to educate myself out of my thoughts of certain death, I turned to the Internet. This turned out not to be such a good idea either, as my first search resulted in me clicking on a page containing material that was not only not work-safe, but also went in to FAR too much detail about the methods by which many diseases are transmitted. Mucus membranes galore. Don't judge me... it was an accident.

Anyway, the search was ultimately fruitful and a little funny, as I discovered that there really IS a National Prune Breakfast Month (January)-- that's right, folks -- someone is actually suggesting that we ALL eat prunes for breakfast the whole month of January. And spend most of the month supressing gag reflexes and standing in line for the one dirty bathroom in an office building full of people with gas. Pleasant.

Now that I am fully armed with information on what precisely I (and you) should be aware of every day of every week of every month of every year, I deliver to you... the month of October:

AIDS Awareness Month
Breast Cancer Awareness Month
Crime Prevention Month
Disability Awareness Month
Energy Awareness Month
Fire Prevention Month
National Book Month
National Chili Month
National Construction Toy Month
National Cookie Month
National Dental Hygiene Month
National Popcorn Poppin' Month
National Roller Skating Month
National Seafood Month
Sarcasm Awareness Month
Stamp Collecting Month
UNICEF Month

This just in: Men like to pee on stuff. And singing Indians are funny.

A friend emailed me this photo today. The caption reads:

"In Amsterdam, the tile under Schiphol's urinals would pass inspection in an operating room. But nobody notices. What everybody notices is that each urinal has a fly in it. Look harder, and the fly turns into the black outline of a fly, etched into the porcelain. If a man sees a fly, he aims at it. Fly-in-urinal research found that fly etchings reduce spillage by 80%. It gives a guy something to think about. A perfect example of process control."

Apparently this clever little story has been considered an urban legend and has been floating around the ether for around a decade. But an engineering professor, Kim Vicente, wrote a book called "The Human Factor" (Routledge, 2004) and asserts that it is, in fact, true. Go to Amsterdam for the beer, the bridges, the scenery, and the impeccable urinals with tiny fake flies in them. He writes:

"..you may notice there's a fly in the urinals. So what do you think most men do? That's right, they aim at the fly when they urinate. They don't even think about it, and they don't need to read a user's manual; it's just an instinctive reaction. The interesting feature of these urinals is that they're deliberately designed to take advantage of this inherent human male tendency."

My question: why a FLY? Why not a flower or a fish, or a dot? What is it about a fly that makes men driven to pee on it? Are they trying to kill it? I wouldn't be suprised. Animals.

________________

So I know you know the little couple on SNL who do the funny covers of pop music under the premise that they're elementary school music teachers. Until today, I thought that skit concept couldn't get any funnier. But clearly, I had forgotten how fantastically ridiculous most things sound in an East Indian accent.

Because this skit actually caused me to *snort* while laughing (which I almost never do, because it's unladylike -- lie lie lie...) I would like to introduce to you: Happy Tabla & Singer Guy!!

Please tell me they're drunk. On the upside, 'One-Two Step' has never sounded better. I think these two sunglassed, cross-legged indian guys can easily take Ciara in the talent department. And they clearly have rhythm. My money's on their dancing, too.

Have a good weekend!