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Posts Tagged ‘Music’

I know I have never finished the first post on the story of how Tomas and I became the parents of a crow, it may just have to go into the memoir section of my web page. Bobby has lived with us for six years, and every day he is up to something new to drive me insane with love or a desire to strangle him. And Tomas, being “The Dad”, never wanted children because deep down, he always knew music would come first. We both knew we would not be good parents to a human, albeit for different reasons.

HOWEVER, as I write this, Bobby is cawing like a madman, I think he is trying to find his girlfriend, and Tomas is wrestling with a difficult cue. But he loves the Bob, and luckily he can tune him out, and Bobby has no interest in marching into the studio and demanding attention.

With all of the disagreements we have, The Bob and I are both in agreement on one issue:

We despise Ann Coulter.

This does not make us unique, but I have an extra added bonus. Ann Coulter looks like my sister Shannon Mahan, and uses her blond leggy sex appeal in exactly the same way as Shannon, whom I am also less than fond of. But I have to kind of feel sorry for my sister, because all of my personal feelings about her aside, she is in with the majority of Americans who abhor this administration. AND SHE LOOKS LIKE ANN COULTER!!!
That is just the Universe being mean to my sister, but the bad devil side of me gets a bit of a kick out of it sometimes. Poor Shannon. How do you reconcile finding something funny, but feeling bad about it? Chocolate?

However, this is not about Shannon, again, our relationship will be covered in memoirs, down the line. I have some great memories of her, and often wonder what happened to her to cause her to be a certain way later in life. A certain way that, from my perspective, was unkind. I have my own responsibilities in our break from each other, which I chose to do, and I will be owning up to them. I will not do a hatchet job on my sister, as much as my anger at her wants me to.

This post is about Bobby the Crow and how politically proactive he is. I was changing his papers the other day, and happened upon a picture of dear old Annie Coltie, she was speaking somewhere, the L.A. times reported, “to wild applause”. Gee, do you think it was her legs and hair, or her putrid spew that was causing such enthusiasm? Go fellas!
Everyone knows that most men (and this is not a bash, even they admit it) hear very little of what women say when they are flashing you with whatever “come-hither” ammo they have at their disposal, and Lord knows, Annie the Republican Stick Chick has LOTS to work with. Very pretty, very smart, very hateful, and very wily.
She is not special, either, and she has every right to laugh at us. But someday, poor Ann Coulter will have cellulite, saggy breasts, crows feet, (sorry Bobby, it’s just an expression, your feet are cute) all of the swell stuff that happens when we get OLD!
Ann will have enough money to plastic surgery away much of this, but then she will look weird, as everybody does when they try too hard to stay young.

I have nothing against a little here, a little there, to make one’s self feel better, but when a person relies on her beauty to get the attention he or she needs, they usually go too far, and just look odd, sometimes kind of scary.

I have the sense that Ann Coulter is smart enough to know that if she wants to keep this nonsense up, she has to stay beautiful, and she will most likely go overboard with the plastic surgery. Then what she says will be in the spotlight, not her body and her hair. She will fade into the sunset, and be forgotten before the finale, where she gets to talk to her particular brand of Jesus.

I probably won’t live long enough to see it, but……let the silly twit enjoy her time. In the big picture, she is as meaningless as Paris Hilton.

SO, speaking of silly twits, here is how Bobby and I are proactive in our beliefs. I put the picture in the paper of Ann Coulter down right where he poops the most, and enjoy watching her image slowly fade away under a pile of bird shit.

Totally petty, totally silly, but dammit, I make myself laugh.
And to quote Craig Ferguson, “If it makes me laugh, that’s half the battle.”

Bobby D., Political Crow.

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About six years ago, my husband, Indie film composer Tomas Hradcky (He went by Tomas Hart back then) and I were stuck in five o’ clock traffic in Santa Monica, hot and hungry and tired and inching along so slowly that at one point I closed my eyes and imagined the future, right on 26th and Arizona Ave, looking just the same, except with all of the cars hosting mummified corpses a la Stephen King’s “The Stand”. We were just trying to get to Quizno’s, the entrance to the parking lot was a mere ten feet away, but we were going to die of hunger before we got there. (Los Angelinos, you KNOW I am not exaggerating).

Out of the corner of my right eye, as I was sliding down towards an ugly death, I noticed a crow on the ground, rummaging about in an overturned garbage bin, then stalking away, his left wing dragging at an unnatural angle.

I had once tried to catch and help a hurt crow – their wing(s) might be hurt, but their Lance Armstrong legs are formidable. I was alone when I tried to catch the first one, and he could outrun Jackie-Joyner-runner-lady.

(No, I do not watch sports, shut up).

He was dashing across very busy Venice Boulevard, and nearly got hit twice. I gave up, with great regret. I was just making the situation worse.

So, when I saw this Santa Monica boy, I just felt sad and helpless and didn’t say anything.

Tomas piped up.

“Did you see that poor guy? We should – ”

I shook my head, explaining that it was impossible.

“But there’s two of us,” my normally worst-case-scenario husband said hopefully.

All the while Mr. Hurt Crow was marching west down Arizona Ave., away from us.

“Any ideas about how to get out of this mess and down to Santa Monica Boulevard, make a right, then another right, to come up Arizona, and do you really think he is just going to be walking down the street?”

Tomas’s eyebrows lowered, but strangely, not at me.

“Yes, I do,” he said, teeth gritting.

Before I could make another tired, semi-sarcastic remark, we were driving on the sidewalk.

My always-on-his-best-behavior-driver husband was on a mission. His quiet insanity had finally exploded.

I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut for a change and see what was going to happen.

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