The next chapter of my autobiography—the most thrilling yet!—will be upon you soon. Please gird your loins in preparation, if you haven’t already.
In the meantime, you can catch up:
Also, nothing.
The next chapter of my autobiography—the most thrilling yet!—will be upon you soon. Please gird your loins in preparation, if you haven’t already.
In the meantime, you can catch up:
Also, nothing.
I’m still alive.
That is all.
“Boink” is an onomatopoeia.
Some pervert writes:
“Boink”? Yeah, it’s onomatopoeia for sexual activity!
Dear Pervert: WRONG. Sexual activity does not sound like that… I mean, it does if you do it right, but few are that skilled. Boink is the sound of getting hit on the head with an animated object of some kind (which, incidentally, is also a description of correct sexual activity—that may be where the confusion comes from). Get your mind out of the gutter.
For my non-pervert readers, here are some more of my favorite onomatopoeias.
Try using one to spice up your bland, mind-numbing, everyday conversation. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by the result.
Dear San Francisco,
Yesterday I had one of those epiphanic moments, like in movies, when the protagonist’s life floats past his eyes and he realizes he’s been in love with his best friend all along. Everything he’s ever wanted has been right in front of him the whole time. You know, Hollywood bullshit like that.
I love you, San Francisco. But the timing is all wrong. We’re so different… at such different places in our lives. After almost two years trying to make it work, I think we should take a break.
Oh, let’s not kid ourselves. This is it. The end. Sure, we may see each other again, in casual passing, but it’s a safe bet we’ll never again be together in that special way. We’ve got to stop lying to ourselves. It’s not fair to either of us.
Of course there were good times. It felt good to be together. Comfortable. Without another friend in the world, there were moments—flashes—when I wanted nothing but you. Listening to music, riding the N Judah to the wind and waves of Ocean Beach. The sunny grime of a bench on the Panhandle. Wide-eyed tourists, stinking of chocolate ice cream, at Aquatic Park. Coffee and a book on Union Square. Coffee and a computer at Caffé Trieste. Coffee and a book at Bean There, Coffee to the People, Duboce Park. I’ll even look back fondly on the nauseating Golden Eagle. Everything about you was exciting. I always got a thrill writing my return address. “San Francisco, CA.” Yes, that San Francisco.
Remember the time we got wasted and watched It’s A Wonderful Life? The next day, you puked for 12 straight hours. You hadn’t seemed that drunk to me, but that might be because I was drunk.
You gave me the best live music I’ve ever seen. New Pornographers at The Warfield. The Submarines at The Independent, Slim’s, and Café du Nord. Architecture in Helsinki at Bimbo’s. The Comedians of Comedy at The Independent. Tilly and the Wall and The Pipettes at the Rickshaw Stop.
And then there’s your sweet, sweet Muni. Where would I have been without it? Others might complain about its ineffectiveness, but I say, if it only ruins your day one in 10 times, that’s still an A-. And that ain’t too shabby.
You’ve got the best weather. Almost always sunny, and with a breeze. Occasionally a chill that allows for killer accessorizing. I’m sorry I didn’t accessorize more. I just don’t have it in me. You deserve better. You deserve scarves.
That’s just one of many things that I can’t give you. We knew it all along, but we liked to pretend, didn’t we? We teased each other with little hints, like drunken text message confessions: ultimately inconsequential, but endearing nonetheless.
Now that I think of it, you seemed to be under the influence fairly often. I’m not trying to be vindictive when I suggest you reevaluate your lifestyle a bit. “Pride” should not be a euphemism for drunken stupidity and public nudity. But for you, everything is a euphemism for that. You’re 173 years old, for crying out loud, but you act like a city half your age!
…I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to turn bitter. I want us to remember the good times. The fun we had together. I’ll never forget 2007, my friend. The summer of love.
Love,
Conlan
A reader:
Dear Conlan,
Are the rumors true?
Hee haw,
Sam Wainwright
Almost always. Especially if they’re about someone being a slut.
Thanks for writing, Sam.
Nicole, from Undisclosed Location, writes in a comment:
Why don’t you ever answer MY questions. What am I? Chopped liver?!
Hi, Nicole. Thanks for your queries. The question “What am I?” has puzzled philosophers for centuries. Around 10,000 years ago, it was finally answered: “A person. Duh.”
The answer to your other question: “And onions, no thanks!”
Thanks again, Nicole. Everyone, keep those questions coming, and I’ll keep the answers flowing. I literally have nothing better to do!
Last time (look it up), with my dreams of clown college and clowning dashed, I found myself emerging from a haze of debauchery.
My face hurt.
You see, that first banana split in Denison was laced with banana roofies: a secret Jamaican extract that renders the victim extremely impressionable and unable to remember anything that happens while under its influence. Also, I was drunk.
Over the years, Granny Peterson (proprietor of the ice cream saloon) had drugged upwards of eleven unsuspecting travelers, sending them to unknowingly perform obscene acts in an Amarillo burlesque show. She kept us under her control by feeding us daily spiked banana splits.
We were only able to break free when, during the national banana recall of aught four, she was forced to substitute plantains in the splits. Unbeknownst to Granny Peterson (no grandchildren, liar!), the enchanted plantain contains magical enzymes which neutralize the hypno-hallucinogenic effects of the Jamaican extract. Not many people realize that the plantain was botanically and supernaturally developed to aid against the voodoo of the Caribbean and its horticultural precursor, the banana (AKA “the devil’s banana”, AKA “the kitchen-counter banana”).
Reality came crashing upon me like a kick in the face when the bearded transvestites of the burlesque show were kicking me in the face. That was the gimmick: truck drivers and stay-at-home moms paid a quarter to watch men dressed like bearded ladies kick me and two other guys in the face for 20 minutes.
When I realized what was happening, I knew I had to escape. I waited 17 minutes until the show was over (after all, these low-class prostitutes and postal workers paid good money to see the show, and who was I to rob them of their only joy in life?). On the way to the after-party, I pulled aside the other faces (Tom Tom and The Other Guy).
“Hey, you guys,” I said. “Like, crazy, right? We should totally split… Ha ha, split, get it? Bananas. What do you think?”
“Oh, I get it,” said The Other Guy. “It’s not funny, but I get it.
“I think it is funny,” said Tom Tom, “but I don’t get it.”
“The banana splits were obviously drugged,” I said. “But ‘split’ also means to leave. So we should ‘split’, like leave, but also it’s funny because of the banana splits.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Tom Tom.
“Are you stupid?” asked The Other Guy.
But Tom Tom wasn’t stupid. He was just dumb. After 10 minutes, it was clear that Tom Tom hadn’t been drugged. He’d volunteered for this, because he liked getting kicked in the face. He skipped off towards the party trailer yelling “Beer!”, leaving me alone with The Other Guy.
“Are you an idiot, too?” I asked.
“I hope not,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
At that point it was well past midnight, and under cover of darkness, we crept to our rooms behind the abandoned warehouse, and gathered our things (which mostly consisted of bottles of whiskey and our stamp collections; I had some leftover clown paraphernalia; The Other Guy had a hat). After brushing our teeth, we cartwheeled toward the train depot, toward freedom.
When we got there, The Other Guy held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “How can we go out into the world like this?”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Look.” He pointed to our moonlit reflections in a window of the train station.
Unfortunately, months of “You’ll Get A Kick Out of This” shows had caused our faces to become mutilated and malformed. But that’s how I looked already, so no one would be able to tell the difference. The Other Guy wasn’t so lucky.
“It’s not so bad,” I said, swallowing back some bile. “Who needs a nose, anyway? I can fix you up in no time.”
I whipped out my clown attaché case and began applying face paint liberally (mostly blues, whites and oranges, to complement his complexion and downplay the Phantom-of-the-Opera/Mel-Gibson-in-that-one-movie aspects). By the time I was finished, he looked better than Gary Busey—far from passable in normal society, but good enough for a train ride through the desert.
We’d already missed the midnight train to Georgia, but at the far end of the yard, nightshift workers were loading up a 3AM train to Barstow, CA. I knew that was our ticket out of there. But it wasn’t. We didn’t have tickets. But we snuck on the train anyway.
Hiding in a boxcar, under a pile of doggie chew toys, I overheard one of the loading crew ask another, “Did you hear about that kangaroo in Colorado(?!)”. The bellow of the train whistle drowned out any reply. The wheels screeched and onomatopoeia’d to life, and The Other Guy and I were on our way to California—the land of dreams and waking up.
Still to come: Choo-choo, animated assistance, dirt, cacti, the Grand Canyon, The Other Guys dies (to me), and 2005. Don’t mess with Texas.
