Where?

I went this-a-way:
tinkguy.posterous.com

The Plot Needs Thickener

So, how's this for a plot.
This guy wakes up, taps the alarm clock before it rings off the third snooze. No word of the day text on his phone yet. He pulls his pants on, fumbles for his glasses, and shuffles into the kitchen. His dog can hardly sit still for the leash to be snapped on. The man grabs a roll of doggie bags and a dim flashlight, and heads outside. Overcast. No stars this morning. A sprinkler drones against a lamppost down the street.

Ok. That's all I could come up with this morning. It's pretty much every weekday morning for me. Except for seeing that UFO. That's not every weekday.

What's that smell?

I accidentally stumbled upon my blog today. I haven't looked at it in so long. Like Chinese take-out at the back of the fridge. It's a bit ripe

It's getting close to autumn, the time of year when I rethink not writing that novel I'll never write again. I've not written about three books. Not-blogging must be a great way to keep not-writing. Even if I don't end up with not-a-book, I can get to know my iPad's auto spell features.

But what to write? I don't have a plot. So, back to whining.

An Islamic center, 10 stories with a mosque, is going to be built near Ground Zero in New York City. If they build that mosque in NYC, they'll be seeping their metric values into our communities, our schools. Islamic countries use the metric system. It's downright unAmerican. Soon, you'll go to the store, and all they'll sell is liters and milligrams. How the heck will I be able to determine what a serving size is? How cold is it when Hell freezes over, in Celsius?

I'm confused how this NYC mosque became an issue. The Freedom of Religion and all. Or, is it only freedom of YOUR religion? Sure, violent extremist Muslims brought down the towers. But, I'm doubting their families are members of the new Islamic center. I read it's a more moderate type of Islam. Not like the type of Christianity that literally crucifies a Wyoming kid for being gay, nor bombing the Olympics because they promote abortion--or however the Christian Identity idiot explained the antimultinationalist voices in his head--nor claiming earthquakes are their god's retribution for the country's "evil" behavior, nor stockpile weapons in their sheds for their god's militia, because the end times are upon us again.

Politicians this past week were all over this nonissue, like spitting brimstone at it would create more jobs. Shoot! Lindsay Lohan is more an issue. She's moving to NYC. She'll be looking for work, like a huge percentage of Americans. Maybe she can get one of those green energy jobs I hear are supposed to be coming 'round. Get some retraining about the weather stripping and insulation blowing industry. That's what her new movie, Inferno, is about. Efficient heating with stripping and blowing. That's what I've heard, anyway. If Lohan can get another job, there is hope for the rest of America!
Anyway, I better get some sleep if I hope to work up a plot to wrap my whining around.

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.