Our upstairs neighbor recently added a woman to his apartment. I state it this way because a.) I never see them together, and b.) she's always home. How do I know she's always home? Because the woman vacuums like rabbits fuck, constantly. She's vacuuming now, as I type this. She was vacuuming last night from 11:30PM until close to 1:00AM. In fact, this lunatic woman has vacuumed every single day for the past two weeks, some days, nae, most days, she vacuums two to three times a day. What the fuck is she vacuuming up there? Does the man who lives upstairs not find this behavior odd? Why doesn't he try to stop it? Why doesn't he tell the bitch to just put down the god dammed vacuum cleaner? I'm so tempted to march right up there, knock on the door, and say to the woman, "So, what's up with the nonstop vacuuming crazy bitch?" I mean, what the hell could it be other than a medical condition of the crazies? I feel like Tom Waits in that song...
Last night as I lay sleeping a male robotic voice announced itself to the darkness, "I am updated." My eyes flew open and as I turn to Adam he whispers, "What was that?" I whisper back, "I don't know", and as I glance at the clock it reads half past one AM. My mind races with thoughts of malicious robots who somehow broke into our apartment with their fancy gadgets leaving behind no trace of forced entry, I expect that when Adam and I hastily get out of bed and go on the search for whatever produced that sound, we'll find one standing in the darkness of the living room, updating itself on the details of the humans whose house it had just unwelcomely entered. And then I thought, maybe Adam's dream has finally come true, maybe we're having a Toy Story moment and his Transformers have at last come to life. Won't he be so happy! I wonder what Sludge is really like... So we tiptoe through the apartment, looking, waiting for the moment of clarity, and as proof my mind operates in classic horror movie fashion, I check behind the shower curtain just to be safe. There's a moment that I turn the light on, you know, to see better, but then I quickly turn it off with a sudden fear that I am alerting the intruder that we're on to him. I suppose maybe a minute has passed since we woke in the darkness to that robotic voice, and perhaps a little more coherent I turn to Adam and ask, "What did you hear it say?" and Adam replies, "The database is updated." Of course hearing it come from him, and taking the "I am" out of the statement, it no longer seemed like such a threat. We immediately go to the computer and Adam says, "It's my Anti-virus update notification, I thought I turned the volume off." Ah, technology, succeeding in scaring the hell out of sleeping humans everywhere.
Old goatherds swear how all night long they hear The warning whirr and burring of the bird Who wakes with darkness and till dawn works hard Vampiring dry of milk each great goat udder. Moon full, moon dark, the chary dairy farmer Dreams that his fattest cattle dwindle, fevered By claw-cuts of the Goatsucker, alias Devil-bird, Its eye, flashlit, a chip of ruby fire.
So fables say the Goatsucker moves, masked from men's sight In an ebony air, on wings of witch cloth, Well-named, ill-famed a knavish fly-by-night, Yet it never milked any goat, nor dealt cow death And shadows only--cave-mouth bristle beset-- Cockchafers and the wan, green luna moth.
My birthday is soon, The Birthday, and if I were a Friend's episode it would be called "The One Where Heather Gets Old". That's right girls and boys, it's the big 3-0 here to represent, um, oldness. To be perfectly honest though, I'm actually looking forward to it (!). Though my 20's were terrific I feel ready now to embrace the next decade of adulthood and all the newness that it may offer. Silver hair, owning a house or a business, maybe finally learning how to play piano or to speak another language, maybe I'll make it a personal goal to bench press a Honda, who knows! The world is my (nasty fish smelling) oyster. Of course there's still the fact that I read comic books, play video games, watch horror movies, drink my weight in wine, and swear like a sailor, but hell, that just makes it all the more cooler that I'm turning 30 with my internal 13-year old boy intact. Yes, I said boy. An alcoholic, cussing, penchant for violence teenage boy, what of it?
So what will I be doing with my big fat birthday you ask? I have no idea. Not a clue. Maybe sink down to the bottom of the ocean and see if I can swim myself to the surface before I drown. That sounds fun. Or maybe I'll play hide and seek with a grizzly bear and a can of mace. Or, maybe I'll spend the entire day in bed under the covers with Archie comic books, a dozen donuts, and a vat of coffee. That's right, a vat, because that's how I roll. And what do I want for my birthday? Oh, you really shouldn't get me anything, but since you ask... I wouldn't mind a pair of roller skates, old school style with the break in the front, a fat bulldog dyed blue, a nice treadmill, a paddle with spikes, some diamond stud earrings, an interview with the Cloverfield monster, a trip to Russia, the complete Ally McBeal series on DVD (yes I know it's only available in Europe, it's okay, our DVD player is region free!), a Chihuahua names Carlos, old Joni Mitchell albums, every David Bowie album that I don't own, an entire new wardrobe complete with designer jeans, and a rocket launcher. Now, I know it's not much, but it'll get you started.
