Magnet

The only bit of color I remember in my grandparent's house, besides the clown nose the stuffed deer head would occasionally wear, was my grandmother's magnet collection. I remember when I was in middle school that the few dozen she had had on the freezer door suddenly mutated into several hundred. They filled two sides of the fridge, all different images imaginable. My grandfather hung a piece of sheet metal on the wall of their kitchen so she would have more space to continue her collecting. We would play a game where I would have to scour the magnets and find a new one she had just acquired. My favorite ones were shaped like different colored Crayolas.
I'm not sure what happened to them after she died. I like to imagine they're all clumped together in boxes somewhere, slightly affecting the Earth's gravitational pull.

Brontosaurus

So the Brontosaurus has gone through something of an identity crisis. Apparently, I missed the memo that went around explaining that the Brontosaurus was no longer named Brontosaurus. It is now to be referred to as an Apatosaurus. I say, after all this time, why bother? We'll still call it a brontosaurus. It's not like they're around to step in and correct us. And the new name is Latin for "deceptive lizard." Doesn't that say something right there? This whole name change thing could be a hoax. Maybe they used to be the Madonnas of the Jurassic period, reinventing themselves every few years.
All I know is that they were my favorite of the dinosaur toys to play with because you could wrap your little fist around their long necks and carry them that way. Like a toddler caveman with a club.
Eff science, let's call a sauropod a sauropod. Apatosaurus sounds like the bastard cousin of a platypus. Or some kind of punctuation. I know, let's give it a new name entirely. Henceforth, we shall call the Brontosaurus...Bruce. All hail Bruce.

Ziggy Marley

Last night was the Ziggy Marley concert at the Music Hall. It had been sold out for the last few days, and on Saturday the phone would ring every three minutes with people looking to get tickets. I can't get over the dumb things people say when you tell them "I'm sorry, the show is sold out."
"All the seats?"
"Are you sure?"
"Can't you make an exception?"
See, sold out means just that. If there are no seats left available, then WE AREN'T SELLING ANY MORE! We don't have secret seats that come up out of the floor for people who ask over and over. (We have swings that drop from the dome.)
The place was mobbed last night, people crowding into the lobby and out on the streets. My window had a huge line of people who would ask one after another "Can I get tickets?" Did they not just hear me say it was sold out to the twenty other people who were in line in front of them? I had one stupid lady who asked me to upgrade her seats, something we'll normally do if we have any seats still available. When I told her the show was sold out, she said "Well, can't you just put me in different seats anyway?" Where? On someone's lap? I hate people who think they're entitled to things. Don't be pissed at me just because you drove from Rhode Island for a sold-out show and couldn't get in. You had three weeks to purchase tickets, plenty of time to get them.
Bozo of the night award goes to the guy who asked me, when picking up his tickets, "This is Bob Marley's son, right?"
As for Ziggy Marley himself, I never laid eyes on him. After the wretched time we had in the box office before the show, we scattered at the first available opportunity. You know what they say, familiarity and all...

Armadillo

Added to my list of things I want for my birthday, which includes a morphine drip, Eddie Izzard, and a back hoe, is an armadillo. They're like little dinosaur mammals with a hard candy-coating. They have a stuffed one at the Texas Roadhouse in Methuen. It's lying on its back with a beer bottle tipped up to its mouth, getting its drink on. When I was at the Dallas airport years ago, I bought an Armadillo in a Can. No, it wasn't armadillo pieces soaking in high fructose corn syrup. It was an actual can, like one that soup or botchulism comes in, and if you were to open it with a can opener, you would find a little stuffed armadillo. I didn't open mine, because then it would no longer be an Armadillo in a Can. It would be false advertising. It would be the Artist Previously Known as The Armadillo in a Can. Like when you play with a Jack-in-the Box? That term is only correct ninety percent of the time.
I think it would be fun to have an armadillo as a pet. Like having a cat, with full body armor. And you could paint things on its side, like "Stop Global Warming," and "O'Doyle Rules." I imagine it making little grunting noises, and I would leave little things around the house for it to root around for, like pieces of apple and pears and Peppermint Patties. I would name it Don DeLillo, the armadillo. I'd put a cat door in, so it could go outside and burrow, because apparently it's how they like to spend their time.
I looked up information on Wikipedia about armadillos. I know lately we've been told that trusting Wikipedia to give us correct information is like getting medical advice from George Clooney, but it sounds pretty true to me. I learned armadillos have the ability to stay underwater for up to six minutes, which is a good thing, because they will sink due to the weight of their body armor unless they inflate their stomachs to use as a kind of inner tube. And armadillos will jump straight in the air when startled, which would make it fun to throw them a surprise party.
If anyone in Texas is reading this, especially the southern part, you have armadillos around like we have squirrels. I would be happy to pay for shipping if you'd send me one. Please test out the jumping straight in the air aspect before you send it, I don't want a faulty armadillo. And don't forget to poke holes in the box. I don't want a dead one, either. At least, not to start off with.

Spatula

So I came up with the idea for this blog as a way to make myself write more. I thought if I could make little entries about nothing it would be good practice. So, here goes. The idea is I take a noun suggested to me by someone and write a few words about it and hopefully entertain some people in the process.
Today's word is spatula. It has to be spatula, and here's why: on my way home last night, I was trying to think of what word I would pick to start out with if I were to choose one myself. The first word that came to mind was spatula. It's a fairly innocuous item, friend to stubborn grilled cheese, helper of pancakes. But I dismissed it, as I wanted someone else to pick the word for me.
So this morning, I went to brunch with Significant Dave and Associate Matt at Isis. Oh my god was it yummy. Many foods that required the aid of a spatula were consumed. And so, I'm explaining the idea behind my blog to Associate Matt and he said,"So, you just need a noun, like any word, like, spatula?" I nearly fell off my stool. How did he know??! That is too amazing to be a coincidence. He only could have read my mind. He must be some kind of psychic. A psychic with limited capabilities. If he was a full-fledged psychic, he would have known the olive in his Bloody Mary had a pit in it. But still, it was amazing enough to me that I made a mental note to check for Associate Matt under my bed next time I retire at night. Maybe he heard me say it in my sleep. (He could hide under my bed, you know. He's quite slim.)
So, spatula. I, myself, am not a friend to spatulas. Having the attention span of soda fizz, I tend to wander off when I'm making eggs, leaving the poor spatula lying defenseless against the side of the frying pan, where it acquires melt-marks on the handle. I could remedy this with a metal one, but I am an overeager spatula user. I scrape the hell out of the teflon if I use a metal one and it gets all in my eggs. I'm not entirely sure if teflon is part of a balanced diet.
Bill Murray tickles a girl with a spatula in Stripes. He calls it the Aunt Jemima treatment. And you know who loves spatulas? Weird Al. He mentions getting a spatula tattoo in one of his songs. And he has an advertisement for Spatula City in his movie UHF. You know who loves Weird Al? Me.
So, in conclusion, me + new blog + Weird Al = spatula tattoo needed on my ass. Or I'll give someone the Aunt Jemima treatment.