flotsam friday!

First of all, a day of cleaning and show music worked wonders. While I’m still not sure what to do next with my life, I am quite sure it remains worth living. Shall we dance? (One, two, three and…By the way, I used to keep a postcard of this photo of Yul Brynner on my bulletin board just ‘cause he was so damn hot.)

So, let’s get flotsam!

* Last night I saw a TV ad for a re-release of the Disney classic 101 Dalmations, which was touted as a perfect Easter gift. Um, since when is Easter a gift-giving occasion? Peeps. Peeps and chocolate bunnies. Those are Easter “gifts.” Let’s nip this in the bud right now.

* Product news release of the week:
Before you go to the restroom spray - POO POURRI

You think I could make that up? No, my friends, this genuine new product (being promoted by “Pillowcase PR—we’ve got you covered!”)

Basically, you spray this stuff into the bowl before you foul it and, "...essential oil proprietary formula creates a film on the toilet water surface, effectively trapping embarrassing odors.”

"Imagine . . . Not only not leaving odor behind but also not experiencing any odor while using the restroom. Could it get any better than that? People have said that this product has actually transformed their bathroom experience, and you know what we’re talking about."

Actually, the young woman in the photo here looks like she trapped her embarrassing odors by slamming the lid down and sitting on it. Or, considering the hat, it’s entirely possible her shit don’t stink.

* Which brings me to my next flotsam, this article about a young man in South Pasadena who managed to initiate a No Cussing Week in his town for the first week of March.

You may have noticed that I really enjoy profanity. Sure, lots of people consider it refuge for mini-minds but I can live with that. I’m comfortable with the size of my vocabulary and my intellect. But I enjoy “bad” words. I just do.

I have my standards—I’m not fond of motherfucker but I will toss out an occasional mofo, just for fun. I’m not crazy for cunt, but if I use it you can bet I really hate the bitch. And I do try to restrain myself in company who might be offended, although Mary assures me that my “screwed things up”—tossed out at dinner the other night with a bunch of her church friends---didn’t ruffle a feather. I think that’s the worst I spewed that night…

* How ‘bout these animals, competing in Amsterdam’s stiletto run. I can barely walk in those things…

* I enjoyed this column in my paper today about soul-killing teachers.
Man, who hasn’t had one (or more) of those? I love that this writer dared call them out.

* And finally, apropos to nothing, here’s a fascinating NYT article about the décor in therapists’ offices.

One of my longtime shrinks had a generic print of a Paris street in her office that was poorly framed and slipping in its frame. This picture framer’s wife could barely stand looking at it. Another, who I ended up breaking up with for various reasons, had framed on her wall the famous Saul Steinberg New Yorker magazine cover, View of the World from 9th Avenue. The print came up when I was ending our relationship because, I pointed out, this was a type of parochialism I left New York to escape. It just annoyed me. (So I moved to Texas, where no parochialism exists...)

My last therapist had hanging by her window what, after many months in her office, I realized was supposed to be angel wings, not lungs, as I’d always thought without giving it too much thought. She also had a quietly burbling fountain somewhere in the office. I always thought it was plumbing somewhere deep in the walls.

Well, that’s it for now. If any other flotsam drifts through my mind, you’ll be the first to know. But really, I should get something done today.