The Dubious Potato

Natalia Rahlia was lounging around her bedroom, reading one of the thirteen novels that comprise the Series of Unfortunate Events. It was a lazy Sunday, the type that makes a person wish they were elsewhere, perhaps wrangling goats or feeding tigers in some faraway exotic land. Unfortunately, Natalia Rahlia was trapped in desert suburbia without even a mini-vacation in the previous months to make up for such boredom. As she read, some part of her brain worked on the issue gnawing at her conscience.

It appeared to Natalia Rahlia that she'd spent her summer doing a whole lot of nothing besides the things that were immediately urgent. Some of those immediately urgent things included summer school, emptying her backpack of all the rubbish that had accumulated in its dark and dusty depths over the course of an academic year, feeding the cat - who appeared to not have been fed since the previous August -, cleaning her shower, and buying an aluminum water bottle. Needless to say, summer assignments were handled with care as well, and Natalia Rahlia was now busy at work on her second assignment. She was not too worried; by her estimation, she could have this particular assignment completed within the span of two long weeks, and that would be if she was lazy.

But when she looked back at this summer, what would she remember? What great change had she made to benefit mankind? What mark had the heat-filled and heady months of summer left upon her living quarters?

The smell of Brazilian Carnival, certainly, courtesy of the folks at the Febreze factory. A few more inexpensive sheets of paper that were passable as decor, perhaps, and at least two new pairs of shoes.

It didn't seem like enough.

Natalia Rahlia frowned down at The Penultimate Peril, deciding that, in these penultimate weeks of summer, something must be done. Drastic measures should be taken. Things should be painted, laundered, and shaken of their cobwebs if the Earth were to continue spinning on its axis, if winter were to come, if Natalia Rahlia wanted to feel accomplished in anything besides painting her toe nails yellow.

And with that, it was decided. It was decided that Natalia Rahlia was a sort of idle dwarf and that no steps would be taken to change her status as lazy short person. She didn't even care that she was getting her kicks from taking photographs of dubious potatoes - changing things was too much effort, even if she was uncomfortable with her own status as dubious potato.

THE END.

Compay Segundo

Do you know Compay Segundo?



He's a Cuban dandy. He wore an immaculate suit every day. He smoked cigars for the majority of his life - and died of kidney failure.

About a month ago, I decided if I was ever a man, I'd like to be a dandy, just like Compay Segundo. I'd smoke myself silly and be generally AWESOME for all my years of life. That's the type of man I would be. AND NOW YOU KNOW.

While day-dreaming about being a Cuban dandy like dearest Compay, I came across an article on writing - specifically, why is it that most every athlete/rock star is allowed to gloat, boast, and have huge levels of arrogance, while writers are not?

Needless to say, I was most intrigued.

And I agree with the writer. Writer's should be allowed to gloat like billy goats over their achievements and shoot for the stars. IT'D BE FREAKIN' AWESOME. To quote the article:

So come on. Where's our literary Muhammad Ali telling us that he and Rushdie are going to get it on, cos they don't get along? Where's our Mr T yelling from the podium of the Booker stage: "I pity the fool who reads Naipaul! I pity the fool who reads Updike!" Where's Noel Gallagher's natural literary heir casually stating that they've done more for English-language fiction in the last five years than Bellow and Roth in the last 50?

YEAH. Where is some random wannabe writer somewhere stating, with obvious bravado, "The Catcher in the Rye? PUH-LEEZE. Catch-22? WHATEVER. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? DON'T EVEN TRY, BUDDY. My new novel will blow all of those out of the water. It will be the book that defines a generation, NAY, A CENTURY. It's the best thing since THE BIBLE."

I think it'd be funny, you know? Also sort of annoying, because part of what makes writers so interesting is the fact that they tend not to act like their shiz is the shiz.

Losing A Bet

Guess who got this little fucker to read a book?

THAT'S RIGHT. ME.

I know, it's astounding. My younger brother, notorious non-reader, actually reading? It's like the earth just split in half. It's like Mexico won the World Cup. It's like my hair's turned blonde. It's like pigs have flown. It's as if America has ceased to be the beautiful.

ALL THINGS THAT WILL NOT HAPPEN.

But he really is reading. I'm quite clever, see. I made a little bet, and this kid is money hungry. Remember how I said my family would do anything for money? It's obviously true. I bet $15 that he could not read HP&Sorceror'sStone and The Westing Game in the month of August. He begs to differ. And, though I'm obviously going to lose $15 (kid's actually quite determined), I'm ecstatic. Finally, I get him to read a book!

It's like Christmas. Excuse me while I go wipe the happy tears from my eyes.

Shrimp Cocktail

I'll bet your curious little mind is wondering, "What exactly did Natalia Rahlia do yesterday?" I'm almost certain you spent all night thinking about it, tossing and turning on your 1000 thread count sheets, shaking your pet cat/dog/emu/zonkey and demanding an answer, or perhaps even consulting the celebrity gossip blogs that fill the internet like so much semen in search of quenching your thirst for knowledge of my whereabouts. I'll just bet your life is in ruins from not knowning.

(Imagine how crazy the above paragraph would be if it were real? HOLY SHIZ!)

WELL FRET NO MORE. Drop your pet zonkey RIGHT NOW and direct your attention to your brightly lit monitor.

Yesterday was my uncle's birthday, and the family decided to celebrate his existence by making shrimp cocktail and getting together at a house with a pool in the shadow of the Tramway.

My cousin's dog, Pikachu, refused to love me at first. However, he soon fell victim to my ladylike charm, and we became the best of friends. We're meeting for girl's night out tomorrow, even if he is male. (He's kinda gay, though. He sorta started humping his own brother... and last party, his mother. INCEST.)



Some good ol' palm trees. As if I really need any more of them.



I swam and was merry. I ate and was fatty. And then, I decided to play SRS PHOTOGRAPHER and take "artistic" pictures. Obviously, my effort was wasted. Nevertheless, we had fun.

SOUL TRAIN

That's artistic. Do not doubt, do not question.

That Daddy Long Leg's also joining in on Girl's Night out. We told him we'd meet up with Black Widow - he was happy to hear it. Says he'll be there to comfort her after her tragic loss.... Oooh, romantic!

Bokeh on the way back. It was effing hard, as I was in a moving vehicle.

Pocahontas - The Drug Dealer of Yesteryear

"AW HELL NAW! Homegirl DID NOT just call me a drug dealah! Bitch, prepare for an ass-kickin'!"

From my US History Summer Assignment:

Through the forceful leadership of Captain John Smith and the establishment of a tobacco industry by John Rolfe, the Jamestown colony survived. Rolfe and his Indian wife, Pocahontas, developed a new variety of tobacco, which became very popular in Europe and brought financial prosperity to the colony.

What have we learned today, children? Well, according to this, Pocahontas was a hustler. She was out there, on the corner, peddling her wares. (No, I don't mean she was a hooker. You dirty minded hobo.) She had the pre-Industrial Revolution equivalent of the meth lab. Homegirl was developing NEW VARIETIES OF TOBACCO.

That's drug dealing at its absolute best. If anything, it may just be America's oldest tradition, besides killing Native Americans.

GO HISTORY.

THE HUNT

Those are my feet, wrapped in things I like to call shoes, which I purchased today. They already look about 20 years old, mind you.

Today, Sunday, me and the family went out to hunt for bargains on back-to-school clothing. After eating the breakfast of champions - by that, I mean pizza, cake, coffee, and fruit punch - we donned our safari hats, painted our faces with hunting paint, and grabbed our rifles and bullets.

We was gonna kill us a steal. If that makes any sense, please have your head examined.

The family of KILLERS arrived at the hunting grounds at I dunno what time. With coupons in hand, we scoured the shoe shelves for the most affordable/comfortable shoes we could find. AND FIND THEM WE DID. Eventually we moved to follow the herd. Oh, those bargains didn't know what hit them. Like a tornado, a hurricane, a monsoon, a regular ol' rainstorm, or some other weird natural phenomenon like obesity, WE ARRIVED. We left in the same manner, meaning we left in a whirlwind of price tags and colors.

I bought a pair of pants that are the exact violent shade of lime green that I'm sure JK Rowling would absolutely love, if only for their odd description and the many possible ways she could use it to describe something wizardly. And another pair of jeans are the exact shade of brightest blue that the Dumbledore family eyes have come to be recognized by.

Or were. I think only Aberforth the Goat Fondler is left now.

Goat fondling besides, I left with pants that don't really fit lengthwise and must thusly be tailored. POO-POO PLATTER. I hate being short.

I also ate more food, as I usually do. Without it, I'd be grumpy and annoying and whiny and absolutely wretched. Without it, I'd be your worst nightmare.



That's a sign on the window of Taqueria Ixtlan. It's my favorite taco place in the desert, mostly because I haven't gone to any others in YEARS. I'm a loyal customer, dog. Loyalty like mine can't be bought. Actually, maybe it could. Over dinner, we discussed the things we'd do for a million dollars. Apparently, my family would do practically ANYTHING for money. We're whores.

Do you like the America team? Cause the owner REALLY FREAKIN' DOES.

I salute you, Cuatemoc Blanco. I salute you!

You too, Memo. Because you are 100% EAGLE. I'm only 25%. *sadface*

America's arch nemesis on the opposite wall. GO CHIVAS.

The most badass team in the Mexican Republic. DO NOT DOUBT.

Oh, deer!

I'm a little obsessed with fish tacos right now. They're sort of amazing.

Bah Humbug!

Who here's ever read a fashion magazine? Chances are, you've at least read ONE. If you haven't, you're un-American and you should probably shoot yourself in the face.

Just kidding! Only not really.

WELL, me and my mother were glancing through fashion magazines recently and we sorta thought that some of the stuff in the photo shoots MADE NO SENSE. They were telling us to wear 5 bajillion belts in 5 bajillion colors with 5 bajillion bangles, two layers of socks with tights, and pom pom furry things on our heads.

And large gloves. And lumberjack vests. And faux fur jackets.

The list of ridiculous apparel goes on and on and on and on. It's like the Energizer bunny, only in varied hues.

So my mother goes off to change after we discuss the level of RIDICULOUSNESS in magazines these days, while I'm left sweeping the kitchen. And the nonsense she returned with made my day.

OH BOY!

Isn't that just the most darling thing?!

Obligatory model-with-messed-up-Polio-legs/I-really-gotta-pee pose!

Wow! Fashion!

I mean really.





And that stuff is tame. I'm just too lazy to go look for the really crazy stuff. Besides, you get the point. (Second picture is still within the realms of wearability, however.)

Mostly: I don't like how fashion magazines try to make me buy clothes I can't afford. Or how their "wearable" clothes aren't really all that wearable sometimes. I LOVE their photoshoots - but the magazines need to stop kidding themselves. They're photoshoots, and not accurate representations about what people should wear. Which is what they pretend to do, but ultimately fail at.

Still, I hope they keep putting out those ridiculous things for me to look at. They're fun. They made me and my mom bust a gut, a second stomach, and maybe a spleen. In a way, it's like vicarious living - we wish we could layer our clothes in fantasmic, fairytale ways, but sometimes it's impossible. ESPECIALLY IN THE DESERT.

That's another thing - they tell me to layer, and I can't. Because I basically live in a furnace half the year.

BAH HUMBUG.