(Brainless) Chicken on a Hill

Today I was hoping to post A-Fooze's photos of Our Lady of Perpetual Sobriety all decorated for the festival of Our Lady of Guadalupe, but she still hasn't sent them to me. So I will post a story for the Once and Future Banjo Player, if she hopefully reads this:

Yesterday Banjo Player and I met for coffee, and she asked me about Hoodoo Head. I had no idea he was such a fascinating topic! She told me a coworker of hers is doing a study on social networking sites, focusing on teenyboppers on the Teenybopper Site who post about getting puking drunk on weekends. Banjo Player then asked her teenage son what he thought of Teenybopper Site, and he said, "It's for weak-brained losers." Banjo Player told her coworker the results of her extensive survey of people of that demographic, and let's say her coworker did not exactly disagree. The reason I found this so funny is because Hoodoo Head, as you may remember, moved from MyFace to Teenybopper Site.

Here's where it gets really entertaining: last night I had a dream that it was Pentecost (no idea what that signifies), and we were having a Pentecost Brunch at OLPS. Tiffy sang me a song that went like this:

Chicken on a hill, got no brain!
Chicken on a hill, got no brain!
Chicken on a hill, got no brain!
That was a brainless chicken!

If there is any demand for it (which I highly doubt), I can make this into a VERY short music video. Anyway, I'm not saying Hoodoo Head is a chicken on a hill with no brain, but possibly my subconscious is thinking it. Why a chicken? Because it seemed like he was trying to get me to contact him instead of just contacting me himself, if in fact this isn't all my imagination. And what woman wants a guy too cowardly to pursue her? Why no brain? Because he's on Teenybopper Site! Why a hill? I have no idea. If you have an idea, feel free to post a comment.

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Curses Again! (Or, How I Got Hoodoo'd)

There is a huge storm here today, so I skied into work with Hardingfele. That took a little longer than I expected, even minus the break to get coffee and a croissant. I figured on brownie points for just showing up, but wouldn't you know that everyone else was here too, and on time! So here I am in an old hoodie emblazoned with the name of a state I have never lived in (another thing left to me by the former owner of Sylvia and the electric mandolin) and slippers, since I didn't want to wear ski boots all day, and everyone else looks like their normal selves. And why did I bother fixing my hair??? Hardingfele was laughing at me because my mascara ran in all this driving snow. "You look like Tammy Faye Baker!" she said.

(That's for Rich, so he knows what he's missing over there in Japan.)

In the electric Mideastern band I play in, we do an Arabic-tinged version of "I Put a Spell on You." (We also do this great flamenco version of Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit.") And do you know, I have had a spell put on me! If you remember my post about curses, people often put curses on other people without thinking about what they are saying. I had completely forgotten that this had happened to me.

Some terminology: there is probably a technical difference, but in popular parlance, "voodoo" refers to an actual religion that is an amalgamation of Catholicism and African spirit possession, while "hoodoo" refers to folk magic which is often malicious. So as opposed to Voodoo Head, the benevolent little doll that improves peoples' careers (he is currently hanging out with a busmate, improving hers), I will refer to my ex as Hoodoo Head. This would be the boy I was madly in love with in college. You see, ever since returning from visiting my family for Thanksgiving, I kept having romantic dreams about him. I thought, is this payback for talking smack about that acquaintance pining for four years over a guy she dated for a month? I have always maintained that you should not mourn longer for the relationship than it actually lasted, but here I was all googoo once again about a guy I hadn't seen in three and a half times as many years as I'd actually dated him! If a child had been born the last time I'd seen him, that kid would now have to pay adult rates at the movies! So what was my problem?

To remind myself of what a jerk he was, I reread my diary entries pertaining to him. However, that was a mistake because I thought, "Hm, maybe he wasn't as big a jerk as I remembered. Maybe some of it was me being a jerk." Which is true for everyone, I suppose, when they look back at their younger years, but in my case there was a specific reason which I will discuss in a subsequent post. (To add insult to injury, he ended up with someone who was very similar to me but without this particular reason for being a jerk.) Then, to my surprise, I found where he actually once said to me, "I hope you never get over me." He done hoodoo'd me!! And I had completely forgotten about it.

I think Hoodoo Head put this curse on me without much thought, and probably at a time when he thought we might end up together forever, in which case it would make a little more sense. However, it was a cruel thing to do because he did end up with someone else, so why would he even need me to never get over him? Honestly, he would probably be a little creeped out to know that I even think about him at all after all these years. (But since he doesn't read this blog, all my readers can feel free to agree that he has nobody but himself to blame. Don't hoodoo your girlfriends if you don't want them obsessing over you! D'uh! First rule of hoodoo, if hoodoo has any rules. Maybe I should make some up so this doesn't keep happening to other unfortunate lovelorn maids.) The irony is that Hoodoo Head is one of those skeptical humanists, or "brights" or whatever they call themselves these days, in the mold of Dawkins and Hitchens, so he would never even believe that he had put a curse on me. I am too decent a human being to curse him back; all I want now is to find out how to break this curse. (Hopefully it is not as powerful as the Curse of the Bambino, or, God forbid, the Curse of the Billy Goat! Right, Hardingfele? Look for the Cubbies to take the pennant in 2035 if it lasts as long as the Curse of the Bambino.) So does anyone know how to reverse hoodoo curses? If I'd only known, I could have asked around down in New Orleans.

Famous Hat

Seeing You in Profile

Like so many people, I have a profile on a social networking site (let's call it MyFace), which I was talked into creating by two co-workers. (I've got to stop listening to people - that's why I have a blog!) While the blog has turned out to be fun because it is so simple - you write, you publish, maybe you stick in a picture or two - I find MyFace somewhat intimidating. Every time I log in (which, admittedly, is not all that often), I am faced by a bewildering array of messages:

"Iconostasia has invited you to her virtual slumber party. To accept her invitation, just invite 2,000 more friends."

"JoJo has SuperSlapped you! To SuperSlap your other friends, just allow the SuperSlap application to take over your life, use your credit card, and drive your car."

"Capolito has kidnapped you to join his Pirate Army."

"Richard Bonomo is wondering where the bottle of Mexican vanilla extract on his dining room table came from." (As someone replied, "Mexico!")

I don't know what I'm supposed to do about any of this, so honestly I usually ignore it. Then there are the people from the dim, distant past who see your profile and request to be your friend... and of course the random people from Australia who request to be your friend. I generally accept the friendship of people I know, so now they are added to my list of friends. And, sadly, that's usually as far as it goes for me.

Yesterday my officemate said she found her sister's ex-boyfriend on MyFace, and it suddenly occurred to me that I had never searched for any of my own ex-boyfriends. The first one I looked up was Ubi Caritas, the one I almost married. (True story: during Rich's birthday party one year, one guest jokingly wrapped a streamer around his neck to make a noose, and when I said, "No! Don't do it! You have too much to live for!" my boyfriend said, "Like what?" and the erstwhile suicide victim said, "Well! Mr. Ubi Caritas!") Though we both realized it was not going to work out after all, I was the one who ended it and who didn't want to stay friends. Perhaps an overly hasty decision; we have mutual friends so I have a vague idea what Ubi Caritas is up to these days, but do I really want to see him again? It was a moot point anyhow, since both his first and last names are incredibly common, and I did not want to wade through pages and pages and pages of MyFace profiles trying to figure out if one of them was his. This may give you some idea of why our relationship ended: we were given two books by the priest to read, and he had a brief one about the structure of the nuptial Mass (e.g., do you want to memorize your vows, repeat them after the priest, or simply respond "I do") while I had an incredibly deep and beautiful book about the theology of the sacrament called Three to Get Married by Fulton Sheen. Two days later he wanted to swap books and couldn't understand why I wasn't ready yet. Once upon a time we were inseperable, so when we broke up, everyone expressed surprise - and, I couldn't help noting, relief.

So I looked up the boy I was obsessed with back in college, since both his first and last names are unusual. I found him right away, but who knows what he is like now? He was in his mid twenties the last time I saw him and now he is forty. Instead of a picture of himself, he had a picture of some little kids on his profile. His kids? I don't know, and what's more, I don't really care. The reason I never looked him up before must have just been because there was no point. The woman I am now would have no interest in the boy he was, and I have no idea what the man is like. Or what he looks like - maybe he's fat and bald now. Why else would he have a fake picture up? I have a very recent picture of myself on my profile, because so what if I've gained a few pounds? This photo prominently features my prize possession, a taterbug mandolin which is a family heirloom. It has been with me through thick and thin, through Renaissance and mariachi bands, through bluegrass and Mideastern music. I often play it while wearing my Famous Hat!

Don't think I'll bother looking up my high school sweetheart. He has a common first name and an unusual last name, so it's hard to say whether he'd be easy to find or not. But what would I say to him after all this time? Guess I could SuperSlap him and kidnap him for my Pirate Army...

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