Frangible

Frangible. It's a real word. I had no idea. I just thought it was a spelling of "fragile" used to mimic incoherency.

I found my blog post to be frangible. I dropped it, and is split up into a few dozen pieces. Here are some:

***

I could see the cop inside. I was standing next to her car while in line to get in. The cop was counting people to be sure the fire marshal's occupancy limit was not exceeded. It looked friggin' crazy in there. A high energy place.

The woman at the door was checking people. Folks would walk up, and say a name. The woman would check her list, and say, "Okay, you're in." Or, not. Like to me, out in the cold next to the cop's car. I've never really been part of the "in-crowd."

"How many in your party?" the door woman asked me.

"Two," I told her. "But we don't need a table."

She whispered something into the mic at her breast. "Nope. Can't let you in until a table frees up." Shoot. Why not just go home and play video games instead. Pick up a frozen pizza...

I thought of slipping the door woman a couple Lincolns. I mean, after all, this was just Chuck E. Cheese on Saturday afternoon, not a NYC Club with Alica Keys trying out new material.

Outside so long made my kid's ears so cold. He nestled into my neck. Fine. We'll wait for a chance to win cheap plastic crap.


***

The books and magazine articles stress writing in a journal every day. And, a cheap journal, one I didn't have to worry about the cost of the page I was spoiling with drivel.

I picked up a journal a week ago. Still, I can't think of any cheap drivel to put into it. I may as well just sneeze into it. It was cheaper than tissue.

Shoot, I can barely think of a Facebook status every day. What the heck am I going to write in a journal.

The journal's got a pocket, though... That's cool, right? I can't think of a thing to put in the pocket, neither.

***

My boy said, "What's that song playing on the playground speakers?"

"I have no idea."

"It sounds like something from Sesame Street," he mused, "Sounds like it from this angle."

***

I lost my glasses again. I feel stupid. You'd think, seeing being so important to me, I'd remember where I put my eyes.

***

Where's the web site that feeds ideas to bloggers who have nothing to write about, but still have a nagging desire to just keep bull-sh*tting to hear themselves grumble?

I found a book of writer's prompts, but it's all fiction prompts. Nothing like, "What are your five favorite karoke songs and why?" Or, "When was the last time you laughed at someone else's pain?" Or, "Why do you wear the underwear you do?" Or, "Have you ever connected on a different, subtle plane with an animal at the zoo? Like it was talking to you?"

Sh*t. What the hell am I going to blog about?

***

Happy birthday! You know who you are.

***

I can't keep Facebook's "Live Feed" and "News Feed" straight in my head. I don't know why this bothers me.

***

I can feel nostalgia creep into me like Vaporub's pungent sting on the surface, seeping through my pores to suffocate today's reality in a soft, pessimistic gloom that is hard to shake. Then, my family smiles, and I remember I never lived in the 30s.

***

I don't like potato chips much any more. But, I still eat them.

***

Why doesn't Sasha Cohen have her own reality show yet? Or, maybe a video game? Damn. Still can't get a hold of her on Twitter. It's like she wants privacy, or something. Why crave privacy, when she could have thousands of pompous, obsequious armchair figure skaters telling her how she should do a triple Salchow in 114 characters or less? Or, tell her how we, too, felt her pain as she under-rotated and fell on her ass, but soared with her on her spirals. Geez. Privacy. So overrated. Um, not like I'll be friending you on Facebook anytime soon...

***

Yeah, well, like I said. Frangible.

Up and down and side side side

So, two of the three parking spaces in front of my dentist's steps are handicapped spaces.

My dentist office has TVs in the ceiling. The hygienist asked if I wanted the headphones and the remote. I declined. I'd rather not have the TV there at all. First, I don't want my dental hygienist to worry if the super-bright spotlight she shines into my mouth is blocking my view of the TV. Get all the light you need to do your job. Second, I keep imagining the TV falling onto my face.

My hygienist is very nice. I don't envy her job AT ALL, scraping goo off strangers' teeth. It'd be nice to try and cheer her up a little. Someone needs to invent a Dental Patient Translator. How many times has your hygienist asked a question, but all you can say is, "Huurgh, huh-urhgh," with her fingers poking around in your mouth?

Instead of "hurgle-gawk-sthpit," it'd be great to say, "Why do dentists have the highest suicide rate? Because they're always looking down in the mouth."

Or, instead of "gaaah-rhh hherh gak," she'd hear, "Did you notice I wrote 'Wash Me' on my front teeth?"

Or "nawnghr ahgk SH*T!": "Say, do you Facebook? I have a son, single, who's your--OW! THAT FRIGGIN' HURT!"

Or, "hmmmmmmmmmmmmm er, um, awgk," translates as "Is that your breast on my forehead? I'm not sure I should be comfortable with that. Does my insurance cover that?"

All I'm saying is, a Dental Patient Translator would improve patient/hygienist relations a lot more than having a TV waiting above to crush their skulls.

Minor Home Improvements

Here are five things I'd like to have in my house, but I don't have a place to put them:

#1: Tina Fey. Oh, it'd be great to have Tina Fey in my house. I could walk into her office, and say, "I'm feeling peckish today. Could you please update my Facebook status for me? Something wisecutefunny." That'd be so cool. And, if she spilled some wasabi on her shirt, she could borrow something from my new walk-in closet where I'd keep--

#2 The entire fashion archive of Christian Lacroix: This man can mix patterns and colors in so many bizarre ways and make it look freaky-awesome! Then, I'd invite all my friends to come over and try on the clothes. And, for the friends who couldn't care less, we could saunter to the back of my house where I'd have--

#3 An Irish Pub: Complete with Guinness on tap, and live Irish Music four nights a week. On the nights without the live music, I'd wander off into my backyard where I'd keep--

#4: Ireland. What's not to love? Pubs, music, rolling bogs, friendly people, horse racing, celtic history, a snazzy stone to kiss for luck. And, Ireland probably comes with a nice hot tub, too, from which I would watch--

#5 DVDs of all of Gong Li's movies. Really, my movie binder is running out of slots.

I Need More Buttons To Push

There are five buttons I wished I had installed on my car's dash.

#1: The Block All Cell Phone Reception in a 1/2-mile Radius Button. That'd get the idiot in front of me to shut up and drive. And, don't tell me we don't already have this technology. The government won't tell you about it. They got it from the UFO that crashed into Area 51. (The aliens had been flying while texting.)

#2: The Alien Detector. Then, I know to which cars to follow so I can pull the alien driver over and ask for some of that secret technology.

#3: The Cut the Tailgater's Gas Button. You know the car you see speeding up behind you at 80+ mph, then hangs on your bumper? This button sends a signal to the jerk's car's computer to automatically slow it to 40mph. Oh, yeah. This technology exists, too. Ask the aliens that work at OnStar.

#4: The Pardon Me, I'm Late For Work Button. This would send a radio signal to the car ahead of you who is driving 10mph under the limit. Their car radio would then tell the driver, "Please move to the right lane so the car behind you may pass." This technology exists, too. Aliens tried selling this to the police and paramedics a couple years back.

#5: The Sandwich Button: 'Cause, sometimes while driving, I could really use a fresh veggie sandwich, with a little dressing, maybe some provolone... Drive-thrus just don't cut it. They never have good food, and they take too long. Shoot, I was in a Dairy Queen drive-thru for 45 minutes. And, not for a nice sandwich.