tall girls

It's hard to tell a woman from a tall girl, but with men and boys it's easy. Men are the ones dragging the grizzly carcasses behind their tanks. A moose, buffalo, or kodiak (the animal, not the boat–inflation is a faux pa) will also suffice. The species isn't important; it's a simple question of weight ratios. A seventy-pound boy cannot pull an eight-hundred-pound bear behind his bike–a duck maybe, but nothing suitably ferocious. And you'll never see a boy driving a tank; tank driving requires a special license.

That unsoldierly grunt in California who drove a stolen tank over all those parked cars had a license. That's what made it ok. Just like it was ok when the LAPD put a hollow point through the open hatch, into his head, after he high-centered on a highway median. The prerogative is in the fine print.

You don't need a special tank driver license to be a man, though; it's more of a formality. I tried to buy one once, but I didn’t know where they were sold. I went to Home Depot, but they wouldn't let me through the door. There is a callous quota, and I have piano player fingers. Good for playing the piano, but I was kicked out of band. Nevertheless, musicians are surprisingly often men, but only insofar as their affected moodiness helps them get laid.

Men are also recognizable by their masks made from the skulls of wolves, Sabertooth tigers, and other appropriately toothy predators. Stuffed, teeth bared, beady eyes glazed thick, posed threateningly–not icky at all. A necklace of human scalps is also a pretty good sign–too good of a sign, actually, but still better than a boy’s mask, which is usually given away by its self-conscious construction from plastic, felt, and excessive sequins.

Do not confuse sports mascots with men. They seem to be giant carcasses with oversized heads, paraded around on the backs of their captors. But if you look closer it's just foam; the grin is permanent and not that fierce at all; the eyes peeking out from the mouth could belong to anyone: a woman, a tall boy, even a well-trained ape. Never trust mascots. It's not a trophy unless the owner is there to tell you so, just so. A Just So Story for Adults, hardly any man's burden.

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This morning I went on a hunger strike against hunger strikes. It lasted 15 seconds. This means it was either a spectacular victory or an abysmal failure (always a fine line). The product with which I conquered hunger strikes (or which ruined my hunger strike) was “I can’t believe it’s not I can’t believe it’s not butter!”, which is also known as butter. Said butter was slathered on English muffins, which are the second staple in my breakfast diet, behind staples. This should not be confused with my breakfast diet behind STAPLES, which is mostly garbage, since the only thing behind STAPLES in Prince George is a grimy parking lot.

And, thus, Infallible Plankton regained his title as the least informative poster in the blogosphere, the narrator mumbled drowsily.

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I have a feeling that this is going to be a good year. Given that 2007 is the year of the James Bond, how could it not be? My job turned out to be only about 1-month long, but that’s fine. It was a good start to the year as it improved my confidence, health and financial status. Also, I have made a brainstorm-format list of things to do next, and it has a whale doodle on it. Therefore I will succeed.

It would be nice to stay in Prince George with Roxanne for the next few months, but I might also go back to Asia (if it’s still there) and teach ESL again. Plans are tenuous to non-existent at present.

It was Roxamazon’s birthday on Tuesday, and now she is 23. Unfortunately, I was still in Chetwynd so I missed it. Moop. I always forget that she is 3.5 years younger than me because it feels like we are the same age. Speaking of forgetfulness, Roxanne doesn’t have any. Now, I have a pretty good memory. For example, you owe me $50 dollars—please send it in the mail. But Roxanne’s is much better; it’s like … photogenic. Case in point: she bought me a Wassily Kandinsky calendar from the calendar store down in the calendar district because they were having calendar sale. I said: “wow, he’s one of my 3 favourite modern artists.” Then she said: “yeah, the other 2 are Picasso and Malevich.” Then I was like: “how did you know that?” Apparently I had told her this during the second week we were dating, which was about 1.5 years ago. Anyway, this is just a random note about her abundant specialness.

To right you will see a pride of lions feeding, please stay in the vehicle—except you, I don’t mind if you get out, just sign this insurance waiver. To the right of the lions you will see that there are 2 new links on the untitled link field. Both are for friends of mine from school who have recently started blogging: Andrew Kurjata (pronounced … well, I think it’s something like a combination of “cur” and “regatta”) and Petra Gentleman, who is not a gentleman. Confusing last names notwithstanding, you should check out their blogs.

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