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01/04/01
I get a little obsessed...

I didn't update yesterday because I had an appendectomy.

No, not really. It was because I had a run-in with a gang of street turks.

That didn't happen. Okay, I was mugged by a woman who claimed to be my nephew.

The Hell...?

Okay, the real reason is that I was damned proud of the Terribly Happy Year 2000 Quiz-o-Rama and I wanted to let it bask in some semblance of mutilated glory. That and I'm going away for the weekend starting Thursday and I knew I wouldn't be able to update again, so I spread the Omar Cheese a little this week, all thin on the cracker like that.

Is it tasty? You tell me.

There is one more reason, though, one so sinister and dark that I'm afraid to reveal it because, well, this is a very private fear and I don't want to scare anybody or cause anyone to feel the same anxiety that I feel.

I am afraid and strangely mesmerized by this woman:

Just watch her for a few seconds. It's okay. She won't mind. I don't know why she bounces like that. I call her "Bouncy Girl." She wants me to win a laptop, but she also wants to go to the bathroom very badly.

Is she wearing those new Nike "Boing!" shoes? Is her hair caught under the computer? Does she love me? Does she know where she's going to? Does she like the things that life's been showing her?

I don't understand her, yet I cannot look away. She appears, right on the upper left-hand corner of the screen, every time I go to look at my stats for this site. Every time I want to see how many hits I've gotten or where people are coming from, she is there.

Bouncing.

I can't get her out of my mind. I haven't felt this kind of strange fascination with someone's bouncing since Kris Kross' "Mack Daddy."

What does she want?

Who is she?

Bounce. Bounce.

I wrote a poem for her, inspired by William Blake. It reads:

Womyn! Womyn! bouncing light

In the banner on the right

What immortal foot or hand

Could frame thy fearful bouncing mind?

 

It's poetry because it almost rhymes.

I'm very into the George Foreman Lean Mean Grilling Machine. My parents got me one for Christmas and so far I have cooked two chicken breasts and a gardenburger. I think I need to spray it or something because the garden burgers stick and the chicken ends up with a brown slightly crusty patch on it.

Rebecca got one from me, not because I thought it would be a touching gift, but because she has literally been asking for one for years. And not just any Lean Mean Grilling Machine. She wanted the one with the bun warmer on top. Now we can both grill and have cooking deathmatches like on The Iron Chef.

But damn, it's easy to use. It has two buttons. ON/OFF and MIN for the number of minutes you want to cook. It even has this cute little spork-looking spatula that comes with it. Every time I use it, I haul out the box just so I can see George Foreman's smiling face.

He's saying, "Hey, Omar! Eat something, boy! You're all skin and bones!"

And I tell him, "But I weigh almost 175 pounds. I think that's over what I'm supposed to weigh."

George: "SHUT UP, BOY! Don't you EVER disrespect me! If I say eat something, you're gonna go put some Heinz 57 on a goddamn pair of Doc Martens! You hear me?"

"Yes, I --"

"Now, here, son, have one of my juicy mountain burgers. I want you to taste it and see the sweet smile on your face."

Now George is smiling, his sweet little innocent smile, and although I want to flee the kitchen, I am planted by my fear and by my fascination with his violent mood swings. I am suddenly very in tune with Tina Turner's early years.

He makes me cook and eat a burger that is four inches thick. The grill will barely close on the patty. Grease overruns the little tray and all the while George is laughing maniacally. When it's done cooking (12 minutes on the Lean Mean Grilling Machine), he makes me place it on a slice of Texas Toast that is immediately flattened by the weight of the burger.

"What are you waiting for, bitch!" he screams. "Put some ketchup on that motherfucker!"

"George, I don't think I -- "

"Uh, uh, uh," he says. And then he is very quiet. His angelic grin has turned into a very serious, blank stare. He is looking up at me from the box, his lips pulled down in a hangdog expression. "You're gonna eat my burger, little man. And you ain't gonna wipe your chin because there's no fat left in the meat, ain't that right?"

"I -- "

"I SAID AIN'T THAT RIGHT YOU LITTLE PORK RIND-LOOKIN' FUCK!?!?"

I look down dolefully at the sandwich. The bread has been soaked through. The paper plate is now invisible underneath the burger. I take a long sigh. "That's right, Mr. George, uh, Mr. Foreman."

"You know I love you, right George VII?"

"George VII?"

"I have six children by my lovely wife," he says. The smile is back. "And one child by Divine Providence. You're my George VII."

"Okay. Uh. Thanks."

"Now eat up."

And it actually doesn't taste that bad. I love George. He's a good Dad. He's just looking out for me, you know. He just wants what's best for me. Sometimes I fall down by accident or I do stuff wrong because I'm stupid. It's okay. I know it's my fault that he hurts me sometimes.

Oh, hey, if you hear something late at night -- a kind of lean, mean, grill-based kind of fright? Don't ask me what it was, okay? Just don't ask me what it was.

I know I'm totally flaking out on you for Friday, so here's what you do. Read all of the above Thursday, and then come back Friday to read these:

Terribly Happy's Greatest Hits!

A collection of four memorable entries inspired by Kenny Rogers!

Act now and you'll get "Spankie!"

"Spankie... You're my sock in scratchy cotton... and I love you."

Who could ever forget the entry about Krispy Kreme, now called "Every Time Two Holes Collide."

There's even the entry about hugging a writer, renamed especially for this collection as, "The Coward of the Keyboard."

And as a final bonus track, you can read about Omar's financial advising, or as it will forever be known, "The Gambler."

Kenny Rogers rules. That's all I have to say.

Have a great weekend!

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