Popple in the Wind: An Innocence Lost

The 80s were a simple time. Bugs Bunny was still racist, neon was popular, inflatable airbags were in kids’ shoes instead of cars, and seat belts were merely a suggestion for children. Danger and ignorance was the culture. My childhood was great…for the most part.

The 80s were a simple time.  Bugs Bunny was still racist, neon was popular, inflatable airbags were in kids’ shoes instead of cars, and seat belts were merely a suggestion for children.  Danger and ignorance was the culture.  My childhood was great…for the most part.

I used to play with stuffed dolls just so I could join in with my older sisters.  Even though I was often too young to understand, I always followed their lead.  My eldest sister once grabbed a doll, placed it under her shirt, and jovially exclaimed “I’m pregnant!”  With a doe-eyed sibling idolization, I leapt for the nearest doll, jammed it on my belly, and cheered “Me too!”  She pummeled my endearing naivety with laughter.  I was probably 4 years old when I learned that boys weren’t allowed to be pregnant.

Having been raised by a busy single mother who spent all of her time earning food for our table, my sisters were my closest available role models.  They taught me multiplication and division when I was in the first grade, how to shave my face, and the quickest way to fetch them food and drinks from the kitchen.  Heck, just about all of the things I’ve come to not understand about women I pretty much learned from my two beautiful sisters.

Everything changed when I lost my Popple.

Prior to Alf crash-landing into mainstream culture, Popples were among the most popular children’s toys.  These dolls were flamboyant plush marsupials that looked like Frankenstein’s Care Bears stitched from a medley of highlighters.  Their charming novelty was that each one could tuck itself inside their pouch.  My sisters and I each had our own and loved flipping them into balls and then back into their freakish half-bear form.  We made our Popples dance, sing, and occasionally shut their dumb booger face because somebody was the youngest as well as the only boy of the three.

Our favorite place for Popple tomfoolery was inside the family Toyota Wonderwagon.  The tubular van was a staple of the decade’s flagrant disregard for safety standards.  It was made of tin, infamous for toppling over in beach winds, and had windows that opened wide enough for children to leap out of.  My mom often tested the sturdiness of the van’s engineering by reaming into cement dividers and smashing into fellow commuters.  Even today, she continues to perpetuate the stereotype that pediatricians can’t drive.  I don’t know how any of us survived.

We brought our Popples everywhere.  We especially made certain to bring them along for every arduous van ride to church.  One woeful Sunday, a brilliant idea enraptured my eldest sister.  What if we opened the windows on this bitch and dangled our Popples over the freeway?  With no hesitation, my sisters flung the windows open.  A torrent of high speed winds consumed the van.  They both jutted their Popples toward on-coming traffic and giggled in whole-hearted glee as the air violently thrashed about their dolls.  Their joy was infectious.  I needed to taste the fruits of such jubilant reckless abandon.

I stepped into the headwinds like a lemming approaching the cliff.  The wind thrust back my fine-chiseled 5 year old biceps, but my desire to be like my sisters awoke the determination of my inner crane-kicking Daniel Larusso.  I was getting out of Reseda with a rich blond girlfriend.  Bonzai.

My hand swept out the window and my Popple caught ferocious turbulence.  I tried to believe, though the going gets rough, but I couldn’t hang tough to make it.  I was losing.  Sirens blared.  The emergency doors blew open and oxygen masks were deployed.  The mission was failing faster than my attempts at swooning women.  My Popple went through rapid seizures due to the sudden change in cabin pressure as my grip grew frantic, desperate, and feeble.  I had never trained for a moment like this.  If only I had listened to my mom…  If only I had eaten more spinach…

All hope was lost.  My Popple shed a single tear and then let go.  No matter how much I tried to stretch my reach, I couldn’t go-go gadget it back into my arms.  I watched my childhood fly off into the depths of the highway.  It collided onto speeding windshields and vanished beneath the soot of busy tires.  The entire time, my Popple somehow bravely held its innocent grin.

Blindly idolizing my sisters left me hollow.  I cried for months, delved into a soulless Berenstain Bears addiction, and drowned my sorrows in root beer.  My sisters did their best to console me, while gratefully clutching their own Popples that continued to tirelessly return from the trenches of battle unscathed.

Our family traveled the same highway for years.  And every time we approached the scene, the three of us would gaze out the windows in silence with a tinge of hope that we might find my Popple like a missing Mousekewitz.  But, my story has no happy ending.  I am now an old popless man forever pained with the thought of my beloved being found by another and betraying me in the embrace of some paup’n homeless child.

…Rosebud.

Fun with Faye

Faye may have an innocent face, but I swear she’s dastardly. I have the scars to prove it. Her sweetest moments are the interrupting naps between me and my keyboard. At least my dog lets me ignore her.

Faye may have an innocent face, but I swear she’s dastardly.  I have the scars to prove it.  Her sweetest moments are the interrupting naps between me and my keyboard.  At least my dog lets me ignore her.

I bought a bucket of toys to keep her distracted.  Still, I’m her favorite prey.  I can’t put on my socks in the morning without Faye gnawing and dangling at my toes.  There are new holes in all of my clothes and my precious pale skin is riddled with scabs.  I’m living in fear…cute, cuddly, fear.

Pet stores stock everything imaginable for dogs.  The cat aisle’s only got two choices – it’s either a laser pointer or some catnip.  I could give Faye one groovy psychedelic trip by purchasing both, but I’ve got ethical problems with drugging a kitten.  Anyways, I’m not really a fan of trance music or dubstep.

I love to write.  My mom insists I would be successful with drafting stories about cats.  But what the hell does she know?  She’s only a doctor.  My writing skills have waned from lack of practice over the years.  A pen is clearly worth more between Faye’s paws than my mitts.

I have no interest in a career with cats.  Faye’s my only orphan.  I’m not raising a middle-aged woman’s platoon.  The furthest I’ll go involving felines is putting one in a sock, then in my shoe, snap a high definition picture, and later share it publicly along a corresponding video contained in a blog entry like a normal person.

Whatever the future holds, I’m happy with just one young pussy.  ~teehee

Everyone needs the occasional break.  The freedom to separate at times is healthy for any relationship.  To help Faye learn some independence, I let her doze off while listening to her favorite song.  I feel like it helps her fantasize through her murderous instincts rather than act out on them.

It’s My Grand Re-Opening!

Let’s break a fine bottle of champagne on my forehead! I’m finally ready to show off my new website design! =)

Let’s break a fine bottle of champagne on my forehead!  I’m finally ready to show off my new website design!  =)

I spent the last couple months designing and coding a new layout for my website.  Your pupils be blessed.

It’s not the prettiest design.  This new website will have its bugs.  Even though I’m far from a professional, I designed and coded the entire thing all by myself.  I might be flaunting an ugly baby, but I’m proud to have built this house of cards with my own two hands.

There’s a lot more content coming around!  I’m looking forward to bringing you stuff on a more regular basis.  Feel free to subscribe to any link at the sidebar on the right.  ===>

John

My Guilty Pleasure…Maybe

I’ve got to admit, Carly Rae Jepsen’s song Call Me Maybe is very enjoyable. It makes me want to ovulate and write Mr. John Beckinsale everywhere inside a notebook. I’m going to shave with a steak knife to feel like a man again.

I’ve got to admit, Carly Rae Jepsen’s song “Call Me Maybe” is very enjoyable.  It makes me want to ovulate and write “Mr. John Beckinsale” everywhere inside a notebook.  I’m going to shave with a steak knife to feel like a man again.

How can you not like this song?  I once read of a psychological study where participants were given a list of movies to watch.  The list of movies consisted of some light stories (e.g. something fun like “The Avengers”) and some heavy stories (e.g. a little “Schindler’s List”).  Nearly all of the participants started with the light movies and held off on the heavy stuff until the end of the study.  People prefer to start with the things that are easy.  It’s a lot less of a commitment to sit through anything that is certainly going to be easier to digest.

The amount of satisfaction a person gets from enjoying deeply emotional and thought-provoking art could be much greater than breezing through something bubblegum pop.  I totally go d-bag hipster for some Heart of Darkness.  Art can demand that you open up, dig deep, and journey your way up to a new perspective.

But most of the time, I’m honestly not in the mood for a life changing.  I want orange soda, not whiskey.  Did I ask you to make me cry?  Not today Clapton.  Jerk.

My previous guilty pleasure was Katy Perry’s “Firework.”  She doesn’t have a voice I particularly care for…but she’s got boobies.  Seriously, the song is simply fun.  No one pontificates about the lyrics or the notes that are played.  The only thing that demands to be appreciated is the sight of fireworks igniting out of Katy Perry’s boobage.  I can sit through that.

So, I Finally Found a Friend

I named her Faye. It was April Fool’s Day and windier than the space between my ears. A feral cat was raped a few months earlier and then gave birth to a litter of Snows in my abandoned dog house. When I found her bastards, the mom panicked and started moving the nest.

I named her Faye. 

Faye on lap

It was April Fool’s Day and windier than the space between my ears.  A feral cat was raped a few months earlier and then gave birth to a litter of Snows in my abandoned dog house.  When I found her bastards, the mom panicked and started moving the nest.

My goal was to find the mom’s new nest, feed the family until I gain their trust, and then catnap everyone for a good ‘ole fashioned spay/neutering.  The kittens were so young that I felt it was better for them to stay with their mom for a couple more weeks, despite her possible psychological fragility from the earlier sexual assault.  Sadly for everyone, I couldn’t find where she relocated to.  There was one baby left by the time the sun started setting.  I waited for hours and the weather kept getting worse as the last kitten kept getting cuter.  So, I decided to adopt.

Have you ever bottle-fed a kitten before?  It’s like cuddling a cute and fully stocked needle cushion.  Faye would drink milk until her belly bloated bigger than her head. It freaked me out, so I took her to the vet for a wellness check.  She turned out to be okay.  But, I found out kittens can’t poop on their own.  It was now my job to molest her genitals with a moist cotton swab until she cleared the plumbing.  I was not fond of the daily doody duty.

Kittens are dirty.  They are messy eaters and can’t preen themselves well.  Faye particularly likes to spill milk all over her front half, and smear poo all over her back half.  When a wipe down with a damp cloth wasn’t clean enough, it was bath time.

Faye taking a bath

It’s cute when animals are wet.  I think it’s the transformation of going from a fluffy fatty to a soggy skinny.  Some cats even enjoy being in water.  I’ve seen videos of cats playfully pawing around during warm baths.  Faye is not one of those cats.

Faye screaming during a bath

One important fact I’ve learned is that very young kittens can’t regulate their own body temperature.  They need help keeping warm.  Usually, kittens snuggle up against their mom and siblings for warmth.  Since Faye’s a lone orphan, she’d settle for my lap, my dog, a nice blanket, or…

Faye sleeping on power adapter

I’ve got other really fun pictures and stuff of Faye.  I’ll share some of it in another post later.  =)