2003 Musings (leaning against one cheek)
3.01.2003 Writers like to suppose their heads are full
of interesting thoughts which must be shared and preserved. When time
comes to prove this true in actual fully constructed sentences- woefully
this earlier vanity is proven false. Hence the web is littered with
boring tedious blogs. Ha! If you are interested in these
miscellaneous scraps of thoughts which would normally languish in the
wrinkly folds of my fat lined walnut of a brain, browse below. Otherwise
you can just read my purple penguin story below.
berkeley shoebox: http://geguri.net/shoebox/
A penguin's life is hard. After
seeing footage of chinstrap penguins having to brave crashing waves to
hop on to precipitous cliffs in multiple
attempts all the while nervously watching for predators, I was
utterly grateful to be born into a cushy domestic life of a cockatoo. If
I were a penguin, I'd convince one of the hapless biologist couples-probably
from Manitoba- roosting out on the islands to host me back in their home.
I would insist on a seat of my own on the airplane of course. After a
few tedious pot-luck parties being introduced to their biologist university
friends, I would forgo the polite guest routine and do just as I please.
I would eat full sticks of butter, hog up their tub, and crank
up their air conditioner to the max luxuriating in the fact no other penguins
were around to constantly elbow and jostle me. But after a week, I
would start missing the unreliable beauty of ice floes and the gluttony of
squid. Then after a few days more, I would begin to miss
even those irate penguins reeking
of pre-digested mackeral always snapping in your face. How I would pine away to return to the glorious scrappy
existence of an Antarctic penguin.
Sensing my loneliness, the lady biologist would bring home an orphan
duck so I would have another web-footed companion. Despite the duck being
a cheery good-natured fellow named Foster, a duck is no penguin. Of course
a penguin is no duck. We would make the best of it trying to earn
a bit of spare cash by singing and delivering birthday flowers to a nearby
retirement home. Of course sidewalk singing in front of the neighborhood
ice cream joints would net more money until the cops came. I would not
be sorry for that. It's extra hard work having to shampoo nightly after
being repeatedly petted by children with sticky fingers. Eventually
Foster and I would resort to the humiliating but admittedly more steady
income job of hanging pizza flyers on doorknobs. When things were going
swimmingly, a bearded man in a red plaid shirt unexpectedly would open his
door knocking Foster out who was bedridden for many a day afterwards with
a nasty blue bruise on the forehead.
Even though I would have been such a hassle to my human hosts- all
the wet spots on their wall to wall carpeting, and their freezer malfunctioning
and full of feathers from the many times I tried to sleep in it, the lady
biologist would cry when I announce I finally have the money to go back
home as a dishwasher on a Norwegian freighter which would only take me
as far as Argentina. I would have to swim the rest of the way home. Her
mother would knit me a nice toasty red wool vest and matching hat as good-bye
present. Even Foster would use his savings to buy me two giant 20 pound
bags of licorice to eat on my long long journey back. I don't really like
licorice, but he's still a good guy. I would surprise Foster with a farewell
present of my own: a fuzzy tennis headband to protect him against the unknowable.
Even the husband biologist would be quite sorry for the ugly time
when he threatened to sell me to the zoo. That man has no sense of
gratitude, I would have ordered those 80 pounds of raw clam lips from the
neighborhood sushi bar to impress his pot luck guests. Let it be known I
would have fully and honestly repaid the debt. We would shake hands to set
things even again. Everybody would promise to visit, and even I will
get teary eyed at such farewells remembering that no matter where one is,
a penguin's life is hard.