I've contributed to perhaps the best humor compilation I've ever read. Available now on Amazon!

My second chapbook, "The Second Book of Pearl: The Cats" is now available as either a paper chapbook or as a downloadable item. See below for the Pay Pal link or click on its cover just to the right of the newest blog post to download to your Kindle, iPad, or Nook. Just $3.99 for inspired tales of gin, gambling addiction and inter-feline betrayal.

My first chapbook, I Was Raised to be A Lert is in its third printing and is available both via the PayPal link below and on smashwords! Order one? Download one? It's all for you, baby!

Friday, February 19, 2010

You Know, That Stuff Will Ruin Your Paint

The days absolutely fly by, don’t they? One minute you’re up on the 48th floor, on the same level as urban birds of prey and the oddly scary and precarious-looking helicopters outside your window and the next minute you’re on the 47th floor, where you, uh, pretty much see the same thing…

If there was a point to any of that, it’s been lost. I think it’s best we just move along.

But where to, we ask ourselves? I’m tired of making my own decisions, being all self-determining and all that, aren’t you? Why not just consult Pearl’s iPod as she makes her way into work this morning?

It’s Friday. I’ve got my portable tunes, I “get to” wear jeans to work, and the playlist on this morning’s commute is about to tell me what I can expect. Here we go:

Straight to Hell by The Clash
Cult of Personality by Living Colour
Tukka Yoots Riddim by Us3
Outta Space by Billy Preston
Wild, Wild Life by The Talking Heads
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger by Daft Punk
Downtown Train by Tom Waits

So that about answers that, huh?

And now, we return to our other Friday diversion, the serial posting of the Jefferson Hillbillies, the lurching humanoids who moved in four houses down and who quickly became a topic of neighborhood bewilderment.

As a precursor, I live in Nordeast Minneapolis, a neighborhood of artists, working folk, retired people, people who walk their dogs and plant flowers. Our lawns are small, and, for the most part, neat. There are bars and restaurants and churches and various shops in walking distance; and in a land that became a state in 1858, we are proud of the houses in our neighborhood having been built between 1898 and 1904. We are secretaries and writers, musicians and plumbers, machinists and delivery men.

And we’re a fairly tolerant group.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this week’s installment (the fifth?) of The Jefferson Hillbillies.

Today’s episode?

The Mysterious Egg Meteors of ’08.

It was a summer’s day like any summer’s day in Minneapolis. In other words, it was warm; and we were thankful. We’re a pathetically easy group to impress from April to August, whereupon it gets ridiculously hot and we lose our perspective.

We had not yet reached that point.

I live across the street from a park; and on the weekends, I feel it behooves me to pop over there, pick up some garbage, check for bums, that sort of thing. We don’t have a big bum problem in our park, although I did once throw away the world’s smelliest pillow.

Don’t ask.

So I grabbed a plastic bag, my trusty stick-with-a-nail-in-it, and set out to rid the world of unsightly trash.

And who should I run into, just four houses down, than Boris, Number One Square-Headed Son in a family of square-headed sons. He was sitting on the hood of a car.

“Hey!” he called.

“Hey,” I said.

“You got any money?” he called.

“Yes,” I said.

“Can I have some?”

“No.”

“Pssssss,” he hissed, as if my failure to share with him was an unbelievable turn of events in his life.

I kept walking.

“Let me know if you find anything interesting,” he called out.

Yeah, sure, I thought. I’ll call ya.

Now, I’ve found on these walks, as has been previously disclosed, the world’s smelliest pillow. I’ve also found an iPod engraved “To Olivia, with all my love, Daddy”, large numbers of beer cans, plastic cups and plates, and a cell phone.

But I’d yet to find eggs.

And there, less than a block away, I found them. Dozens and dozens of eggs, most of them smashed on cars, some on houses. Some were splattered impotently in the streets, others lie crushed and gooey on the sidewalk.

I was furious.

I called the police, who, in bored tones, told me there had been several calls already. They were on their way out.

I cut my garbage-walk short and went home the way I’d come. Boris was still on the car.

“Find anything interesting?” he sneered.

“Not really,” I said. I was so angry I was dizzy. I’m a scary person when I’m angry, and I thought it best to keep moving.

“Nothing?” he pressed. He was smiling in a this-neighborhood-is-mine sort of way.

He thinks he runs this place.

I stopped abruptly.

“Well someone did a really crappy job of making breakfast,” I snapped angrily, “but most likely that person’s got some sort of mental defect and won’t be around much. Ya gotta feel sorry for people that stupid.”

And while he stared, I turned and walked. And when I got home, I sat down in front of the computer and told Willie I was going to contact their landlord, just as soon as I could figure out who it was.

We’re a tolerant group, not a stupid one.

23 comments:

Pat said...

Have they moved on to a neighborhood of folks like themselves yet? Maybe one where it's cool to do yard art with eggs?

Pearl said...

Pat, yes, they have; and it was a matter of a Community In Action. :-)

savannah said...

what a smug little piece of work was he, sugar? i don't even live near all y'all and i'm happy they moved on! xoxox

De Campo said...

So I take it you didn't give Borris his pillow back?

Pearl said...

Savannah, I'm sure he is standing on a corner somewhere, I'm just glad it's not MY corner anymore. :-) That's right. MY corner. :-D

De Campo, :-) Stuffed it in the garbage can in the park. Honestly, seems to me all those guys moved in was TVs and mattresses. Yuck.

SparkleFarkle said...

Like Thomas Paine once said, "These are the times that fry men's eggs." Nah, that's not right. But when straits were dire, my Aunt Mildred (She raised chickens for their eggs... and companionship. Although she was married and had four children, plus two live-in, hired-hands, she openly "joked" she "didn't like the lot of them.") would say, "When you're dealing with a bad egg, for Godsake, DON'T you be makin' no scrambled eggs." I'm just saying. For what it's worth.

shadesogrey said...

“Well someone did a really crappy job of making breakfast,”...great line. Have a good weekend.

Deborah said...

I think I fell in love with you a little bit just now.

Secretia said...

You are a strong woman for being able to cope with all that shit.

Secretia

"Julie" said...

grrrreat taste in music!!! and you go girl!! can't wait to read more of you!

CatLadyLarew said...

Boris is such a cretin. Good thing he didn't ask you to make breakfast for him.

Mary@Holy Mackerel said...

What a waste of good eggs.

Seriously though, that just sucks. I hope you can maybe scare them outta town or something...

Madame DeFarge said...

Were there chickens too? Or just the eggs? And if so, which came first?

DevilsHeaven said...

It just blows my mind that he keeps asking you for money!!! And I'm glad you had the presence of mind to put him in his place.

Green-Eyed Momster said...

Maybe you should start packing heat, Pearl. Your life sounds dangerous at times.

Thanks for visiting me today. Hope you have a wonderful weekend.

Hugs!!
P.S. I'm singing Cult of Personality to myself! Great music list!

Douglas said...

Some day, in the not so distant future, Boris will meet and marry a square-head girl and they will have their square-head children and they will move into a house on someone else's block, perhaps in a neighborhood of square-head folks. And there will be eggs everywhere.

And it will be good.

Or not.

mapstew said...

What a tool!

Least he's gone now! :¬)

xxx

darsden said...

next time you go out take a camera...take pictures and be sure to take one of him...watch how fast he disappears!

Jayne Martin said...

What you have to put up with! I'm tellin' ya, you're a freakin' saint.

The Retired One said...

Funny.....he found money for eggs, didn't he???

Ann's Rants said...

FREAKS!

But I must tell you that your urban-birds reminded me of something I learned in one of Almost6's library books about Redwood Trees...

There are ENTIRE HABITATS in those trees that never in their whole life come down.

Talk about workaholics.

p.s. thanks for really truly laughing. your comment made my night sparkly.

Christiejolu said...

Thanks for stopping by! I loved your playlist. In Arizona we call the helicopters ghetto birds. The first time I heard some one call them that I thought "WTF?"

troutay said...

Pearl Pearl, it makes me want to move to Nordeast.
I live north of you (just) and I never have such excitement. Except for the fender benders at the 4 way stop.