Chinese Baby Saga
I just won a Chinese baby and I can’t wait until it gets here. (Ebay has made the whole adoption process MUCH easier than it used to be. You just need a credit card and a few good testimonials on myspace.) I don’t know if it’s going to be a boy or a girl cause I just ordered one of whatever they had left in the Baby Grab Bag. If it’s a boy, I’m going to name him Leon and if it’s a girl, I’m going to call her Leon. I just hope it gets here soon because my place is a mess and I’m starving.
Just kidding of course. I’ll give Leon a day to settle in before assigning chores. There’s a lot of misinformation on the world-wide intercomputer about raising kids and fortunately for me, I know that nature takes care of a lot of it. I mean how would these Chinese babies survive in the wild? By pluck and good old gumption that’s how.
Well, that’s how shit’s gonna run in our house. I’m not spending money on diapers, figure out the toilet or clean up as you go. If anyone’s getting diapers around here it’s me. I don’t like having to pause a movie to go take a leak and I work for a living.
Also, none of that special lazy baby food. There’s the cereal, soy milk’s in the fridge and after you wash the dishes, you can use the bowl. The faster you figure out chewing and how to forage the better your chances of surviving.
If anyone is interested in a pair of well-made sneakers in the next few months, please send me your shoe size and color preferences and I’ll get Leon working on it.
Part II My Chinese baby is lazy as hell!
I got Leon today via UPS and man, is this baby a slacker. I set out the vacuum cleaner, pointed out the Windex and left a detailed “to-do” list and she hasn’t even gotten out of the shipping box yet and it’s quarter to six! How did these people ever build a TransContinental Railroad?! Must’ve been at night. All I know is if this place isn’t spotless by tomorrow morning, she’s going right back to the baby store. Anticipate delays with your sneaker orders.
Part III My Chinese baby is the bomb
I awoke this morning to breakfast in bed courtesy of Leon, my Chinese she-baby. Pancakes, Belgian waffles, bacon (rare, like I like it), sausage, eggs over-hard, hash browns, biscuits-n-gravy, cantaloupe cut in the shape of stars, blintzes, steak, raspberry danishes, bagels, ham, toast-n-jelly, cereal, a dozen home-made donuts, breakfast burrito, large juice and an orchid in a skull-shaped vase. Ordinarily, I’m a raging asshole if I’m woken up in the morning, but I couldn’t help, but be moved by the efforts.
Also, the apartment was immaculate. Leon cleans like the wind. i was flabbergasted. I heard some rustling during the night, but figured it was the cat. Nope. The kitchen’s so sterile, you could assemble semi-conductors. (Actually, that might make a good “Leon project”…) I needed to take a piss, but I held it out of respect for the cleanliness of my bathroom which she also re-tiled and repainted. My work clothes were freshly laundered and there was a brown bag lunch packed and ready to go in the fridge.
Stunning. It’s like moral of that Aesop fable about the 4 dwarves and the magic cow, “You think you got a Chinese baby all figgered out and then they surprise the shit out of you.”
Part 4 My teats are sore from my Chinese baby
Apparently, babies need milk so I’ve got to oblige. They’re raw and red.
Part 5 I think my Chinese baby had a party.
I went away for a few days. The Big Apple. When I returned and drove my car up to my building, I could hear Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” (an excellent song and album incidentally) from half a block away. I had no idea it was being cranked through the thoroughly trashed remains of my speakers. As I got closer to my apartment, I could see black smoke pouring from underneath my door.
Hieronymous Bosch would have shit sparkly egg noodles. Leon, my hardworking Chinese she-baby, being tea-bagged by Leonard Nimoy (uncircumcised) as he mounted a wheel of cheddar cheese. Nimoy was wearing sheer burgundy nylons and a bowler hat while inserting his Spock cock in a rut-hole he had hollowed out with an acetylene torch and lubricated with honey. He flashed me the “Live Long and Prosper” hand sign without breaking rhythm. His eyes, the red slits of the damned.
20 assorted lingerie clad hippie chicks, bikers, and a tall black lady in a Darth Vader helmet with a shotgun were screaming, hollering, and gambling on some aspect of the copulation. With the music, I couldn’t understand anything.
The smoke was coming from a still smoldering furniture campfire set in the middle of my living room. Passed out next to it clutching a half-full bottle of mint Listerine/ Tequila and a bag of marshmallows was a nude monkey who had dried, buzzing-fly puke next to his mouth. There was corn in it which I wasn’t aware monkeys ate.
There were 40-some holes punched/kicked/shot in each and every wall in my apartment. The holes each contained a carnal diorama of sorts: used condoms, semi-full bottles of liquor, a strap-on rubber cock with the tip bitten off, empty prescription bottles and baggies, a Pope hat, crack pipes, urine-stained crotchless XXXXXL panties (which I could only assume belonged to the dead fat clown nailed upside-down to the linoleum floor of the kitchen), a few D-Cell batteries, piles of melted candle wax, turds with Froot Loops stuck in to make surprised “oooooo” faces, and a couple of action figures from some aquatic Disney movie.
The 8 foot pentagram on my ceiling had been painted in blood (again, probably the dead fat clown’s) and “Illegitimi non carborundum” scrawled in the middle with a Sharpie. Someone had built a bong out of a mannequin leg, broken it, and attempted to fix it with drywall joint compound. There was a brand new drumset in the corner.
The acoustic guitar next to it was filled with hamsters glued to popsicle stick crosses.
There was a half-barrell grill and 4 empty kegs in my kitchen. Meat rotting on the counters and about 5 inches of standing water/fluid with an oily black slick and a Chutes and Ladders gameboard floating on top surrounding the island of dead fat clown.
One side of the bathtub had been extended into a quarter pipe and Dallas Raines, the weatherman from FOX 11 here in LA, was doing roller skating tricks for two men in sombreros one carrying a briefcase, the other a bag of golfclubs. They looked important. Dallas’ pupils were the size of pie plates and he was clearly on the LSD. His body was covered in Magic Marker penises and offensive slogans probably from being passed out around mischevious people. And my sink was on fire.
I tried to maintain my cool. “Leon, did you have a party while daddy was gone?”
“MMmmffphh…” Leon tried to answer with a mouthful of the hairiest, most logical balls I’ve ever seen.
“LEON…DID you have a party while daddy was gone?!”
Everyone got quiet and someone turned down the stereo.
“No, daddy.”
“Well, I think you’re lying young lady.” It’s important to call kids on their bullshit.
I read it in a book on parenting on the flight.
“I didn’t.”
“Where are the sneakers you were supposed to make?”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot or you were too busy having a party with your friends to make sneakers?”
“I forgot!”
After reading his chest, I asked a shirtless, tattooed biker next to me, “Lightning Gary, was there a party here?”
“No, Mr. K. We were just studying.”
Everyone started chiming in. “Yeah, studying.” “Books.” “Homework.” “Learning.”
I tried to be stern, “O.K., but everyone needs to go home. Your parents are probably worried sick.”
“Aaawwww….Mr. K……..”
“No, no, go on. You can go study at the library. Leon will be by later after she’s had a bath.”
“Bye, Leon.” “See ya, Leon.” Everyone filed out except for Spock who wasn’t quite done yet.
After he wiped his seed on my curtains and left, I gave Leon the miniature Empire state building paperweight I had gotten for her and I think she liked it. We’re bonding.
Squirrels in the Mist: Noble Monkeys of the North
This journal is dedicated with warmth and admiration for the recently and surprisingly violently deceased Hampfner Rothenstein
My thanks to the National Geographic Society and
Professor J. P. Hardingstonlivebenshenbergionsonwulevershireshipshou
of The National Squirrel Preservation Collective for their support both emotional and financial.
—————-
Oct. 30th, 2005
Tomorrow, Leon (my Chinese she-baby, please read previous Leon blog before proceeding if you are a first time reader) and I are off on safari. We are journeying to Pasadena by caravan in order to study the endangered California gray squirrel (Sciurus griseus). Although it is 2:30 in the afternoon, I can barely sleep with anticipation of our trek. Our guide’s name is Mukumbwe’ and he is a stalwart fellow, weighing 16 stone, who smiles a great deal and speaks little broken English. He refers to me as “Pretty White Lady.” I have spent the last 2 months raising funds for this expedition and assembling supplies. There is no way to anticipate all of our needs in the wild and no doubt a good deal of improvisation will be necessary for our survival. The area of Pasadena we are going to is notably hostile and the indigenous people are a war-like people who often kill outsiders without compunction. Our provisions list includes: stone cookware, 14 eggs. a circus tent, a choppy-chop knife, photo equipment, various lab stuff and complicated science things for base camp, a compass (not the pointy kind), yellow mustard, Cheetos, D-Cell batteries, a Trapper Keeper notebook, pens, crayons, spicy brown mustard, a totally cool water bottle, snake-bite kit, a crate and a half of dynamite, a copy of the Complete Works of Shakespeare – Illustrated by Marvel Comics, leather chaps, sleeping bags, and mustard. I also have a faboo crimson silk jumpsuit. Leon’s is pink and has a green cursive ‘L’ on the left breast like Laverne from Happy Days. We are as ready as we can be. If only we could sleep.
Oct. 31st
I awoke this morning with an erection which could possibly be the excitement of the trip or more likely the result of a full roll of quarters put into the Vibrato-Bed before retiring. Leon was already up and finishing a pair of crimson safari sneakers she’s secretly been making. They were two sizes too small, but rather than be an ungrateful shit, I thanked her and hugged her. It’s always the thought that counts when dealing with loved ones.
Our route today is at the link below:
http://maps.yahoo.com/dd_result?newaddr=Olympic and Western&taddr=&csz=Los Angeles, CA&country=us&tcsz=Pasadena, CA&tcountry=us
We’ll be going by river raft and we’re anticipating a week’s journey.
Mukumbwe’ is in the kitchen preparing our breakfast mustard and encourages us to eat up as we’re in for an arduous float. (Where that mother-fucker picked up a word like arduous, I’ll never know.) I can’t eat from nervousness and “Pretty White Lady” has recently become followed by tender squeezes to my ass which is a bit disturbing.
The natives load up the raft humming “Diggity-Dang My Boom-Boom, Daddy!” which is supposed to be good luck. It looks like rain, but Mukumbwe’ assures me his trick knee isn’t forecasting precipitation.
As we board, Leon throws up. The river in this area reeks of Lysol and rotten fish chunks. We administer a poultice to her head for something interesting to do and set off into the heart of darkness.
Nov. 1st A pack of lips now.
I awoke to Leon smoking a joint and listening to Purple Haze with Mukumbwe’ and a young Lawrence Fishburne . I must have slept in because they told me about killing a crazy Colonel named Marlon and then having some deer jerky, bran muffins and apple jelly. Damn my sleep schedule.
We all strip down to off-white muslin loin cloths because it’s gotten hotter and more humid. I have some French’s yellow mustard and some soda which unfortunately has gone flat. I pour the rest of the can overboard and commence to read the last act of Othello to Leon. We’re right at the part where Iago fights Lex Luthor’s chain gang with a Tiffany floor lamp when Mukumbwe’ finally spots land.
We’ve arriven in Pasadena! The trip was 6 days quicker than we thought as traffic on the 210 river was light. Leon can’t contain her excitement or the bran muffin and shits runnily on the front of the raft. We tie her to a rope and throw her behind the boat for drag-rinsing. Mukumbwe’ squeezes my ass and calls me “Pretty White Lady” again and I punch him in the dick with an antique Petrographic Microscope. I can smell the nature. And the danger.
Nov. 3 We set up base camp ..1
We land in Pasadena and kiss the ground. It seems so long since we’ve touched terra firma.
What? I’m sorry. It’s Tara.
We set up base camp at something called a Circle K mini-mart. Mukumbwe’ has fashioned a fort out of loaves of white bread and duck semen. Leon has passed out from an insulin OD after eating 40 some large bags of candy corn. There is a pool of yellow, orange, and white (in that order) vomit by her head. Children look adorable when they’re comatose.
A bearded man who has sustained some sort of head trauma is putting orange 99 cent stickers on our fort and I sense something is awry. It’s my science premonition tingling. By late afternoon our fort is 1/2 gone and I’m left to change behind a 3-loaf high wall. Mukumbwe’ gets “Pret-” out of his mouth before I power staple his cockhead to the spinning disc on the Mountain Berry Slurpee machine. He orbits the tiny psychedelic ferris wheel screaming in pain until the artist formerly known as “weird ambisexual symbol”, formerly known as Prince pulls him down with a pair of pliers.
(Sorry, it’s Dave Chapelle pretending to be the artist formerly known as “weird ambisexual symbol”, formerly known as Prince.)
Mukumbwe’ is sobbing holding his member by the Doritos display and Leon has stopped breathing looking even MORE adorable, if that’s possible. Dave says he knows of a garage where we can set up base camp. We administer crystal meth to Leon to help her “walk it off” and give Mukumbwe’ a dinosaur band-aid and Pep-O-Mint LifeSavers for his ding-ding.
Nov. 15th – Mario Andretti and Striped Grass
We’ve been walking for 12 days. Dave Chapelle is bad at map reading. My feet are blistered, but it’s the good kind of blistered.
It’s noon when we arrive at his fat friend Roger’s house and walk around to the garage in back. Roger is Hispanic, bearded and shirtless. He offers us the Cherry Chapstick he’s been compulsively applying and we all decline graciously. Dave leaves soon after to collect “some money from some bitch-ass hippies”. We hug, bid fond farewell and popsicle stick figurines are exchanged.
The bunkbeds are spartan, but shaped like race cars. Checkered flag headboards and so on.
Mukumbwe’ jumps in the top one and starts making “Vroom! Vroom!” noises simulating shifting through about 17 gears and Leon suckles on a bottle of French’s yellow mustard while laying on an El Toro lawn mower.
Roger undoes his belt and goes inside to watch the end of “Booty Call” and I set about digging a makeshift toilet in the backyard.
I squat down to relieve myself and notice that a group of village school children have gathered and are staring and laughing at me. I smile and wave back. They are likely not familiar with modern sanitary practices and just shit whenever, wherever. They make it hard to concentrate, however, and the last choco-turtle pokes his head out and goes back in his shell for a later time.
Lacking toilet paper, I drag my spread ass cheeks across Roger’s lawn. The village school children run screaming.
When I return, Mukumbwe’ is fast asleep and the mustard has passed through Leon virtually unchanged into her silk jumpsuit. I apply a poultice to her head and lay down for some much needed rest.
Roger has promised to guide us to the squirrels tomorrow and I resolve to wet the bed to express my thanks.
Nov.16th – Pancakes and Death
Gunfire fills the morning air.
A rebel army is attempting to take control of this part of Pasadena and our science experimencing team is caught in the cross fire. Tanks, BOOOOM!!!, heliocopters, smoke, KAPOW! KAPOW! airplanes, SHRUUUH!! K-k-k-k-k-, jeeps, kayaks, paddle-paddle, guns, Rat-at-at-at, grenades, BLAMMO! BAMMO! WAMMO! jungle vines, smoke, charred corpses, a USO show, boobs-song-and-dance-more boobs, some crazy guy named Sarge, bayonets, knives, muskets, Pilgrims, cannons, boobs, hollerin’ Indo-Chinese madmen, Grover Cleveland in ceremonial robe, trenches, sand bags, people carrying signs and protesting, Nazis, galloping horses hard on the plain–the only good Injuns are dead, famine, pestilence, and some other war stuff.
A mortar shell rips through the roof of the garage and lands on a box of Foreigner LPs and soiled blankets. It was a dud, but we won’t be lucky for long.
I grab Leon to my breast and run screaming down the alley. “Not without my daughter!!!!” Leon attempts to nurse, but my teats are dry. Dry with fear!
It is then that I realize I am nude except for a Belmont Racetrack green shady visor.
(It’s the only way I can sleep.)
I look back and Mukumbwe’ is chasing after me yelling, “Inga-Binga-Bunga-Boog…” when his head gets blown off by an exploding burgundy penny-loafer.
Truthfully…it was pretty funny.
But then all of a sudden…
