Monday, November 25, 2002

Hi, The Bunny:

After serious consultation with three different people, the Supreme Council On Stuff, Intl. has decreed that when referring to bunnies--any bunny or bunnies at all--one need only speak of "The Bunny." This is because, like The Unicorn, there is only one Bunny.

If you understand The Bunny, then you know exactly what I mean.

Ex. 1.: You're browsing in Marshall Fields and you come across some baby-blue fur stoles. You assume they're fake, only to discover on examination that they're real dead bunny. You say to your mom: "That ain't right. In this day and age, there is no need to kill The Bunny."

Ex. 2: You're walking on Harriet Island with a friend, and you see a bunny hopping across the front lawn at De La Salle High School. Then you turn the corner and you see a frog waiting for the Cuzzy's Bus, and you also see another bunny crossing the street. You say something to your friend like, "The Bunny, he gets around."

Think of it like "The Guitar": "Do you play the violin?" "No, man, I play The Guitar."

Please make a note of the new rules.

(Sorry for the inside jokes there. Harriet Island is an island in downtown Minneapolis, in the Mississippi River, where there is a Catholic High School, where Jim Walsh went, and a really quaint neighborhood of Victorian houses. The Cuzzy's Bus is seen prowling the area at night. The Cuzzy's Bus is a shuttle that takes you to Cuzzy's, the roadhouse-like bar near City Pages, in the warehouse district. One time I really did see The Bunny on Harriet Island, and a frog sitting on the curb, presumably waiting for his ride.)

So, last night I was tossin' and flossin', tryin' to fill the void heartbreak brings.

Yo, that's an Aretha Franklin song.

How old is the phrase "flossin'"?

See, these phrases are usually like 110 years old, but the white people up north only hear about them at a certain point. Example: "Props." I heard "props" the first time in 1996. But by that point it was 97,000 years old. At the very least there's Aretha saying" Give me my propers when you get home" on "Respect," but I'm sure this phrase can be traced well back to the 19th Century.

If I were a linguist, I would specialize in African-diaspora English dialects, because they have the most supreme slang. I mean, it's true that white people have some great slang too, but come on.

Now, back to my night of tossin' and flossin'. I wasn't really flossin' but I was tossin'. Maybe it was the onset of the Santa Ana winds, which seem to be back again today. I dunno. I woke up around maybe midnight and totally couldn't sleep, total mini-panic attack. It was a terror/war panic attack. Do you ever have these?

I tried singing to myself, which worked last time. I tried singing "Good Morning Starshine," which was fun, except I was having a little bit of nervous asthma, and I was wheezing: "Good mornnneeeenngghhhh starshine, the Earth says Heloggooohggh." (That's supposed to sound like a wheeze.)

Finally, The Becherovka came to my rescue.

Sort of. I finally got back to sleep, but then I kept dreaming about ghosts.

You see, my problem is that I live most of the day in complete denial about the state of the world. You have to do this, or else you will just hate life. But the problem is that you build up all this unexpressed fear and anxiety and shit.

So my plan is eight-pronged:

1. yoga (this clears out the fear a little, I don't know how)

2. get a puppy

3. keep drinking

4. play guitar as much as possible, and sing

5. make up jokes about how horrible everything is

6. boy-actions

7. harass my congresspeople (I know this doesn't do much, but it's a nice way to get back that oh-so fresh-feeling. Eventually it'll turn into something better.)

8. No TV

In this way the Beast of Fear will be castrated, and the Flaming Monkey of Joy will be sustained.



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