Last Saturday a couple of friends of mine - friends who prefer anonymity to the social flogging that would result if people discovered that they hung out with me - and I went to 2nd Saturday. For those outside of Northern California, 2nd Saturday is a gathering of local artists who converge on the streets of downtown Sac to celebrate yet another month of not having a real job.

So there we were; Maria, Lori and I (I only guaranteed anonymity until the second paragraph ladies), walking around minding our own business when I spotted a bicycular contraption that looked like it had been pieced together by Dr. Frankenstein himself. Never having been one to avoid something interesting even at the risk of communicable disease, I moved closer to investigate and discovered that the thing was basically a makeshift plywood chassis lashed together with bungee cords. In true homeless hippie fashion, it had been loaded up with an ice chest, easel, mismatched handlebars, bag of recyclables, mongrel dog, bucket seat from a Dodge minivan and - inexplicably - a car battery.

“You want I should take your picture?” The owner materialized out of the crowd. Dude had the hard scrabble look of someone who hadn’t seen the inside of a bathroom since the Ford administration.

Still, the guy seemed friendly enough as he stood there smiling, oblivious to the fact that I plan on voting for McCain. He held his hand out expectantly and I handed him my camera - my brand new Canon SLR that had been purchased with the blood of my children - without so much as a hitch of hesitation.

Had he been there, my husband would have immediately gone into cardiac arrest. But he wasn’t there and the homeless dude snapped a pic and returned my camera and all of us went on our merry way.

Our neighborhood is a fair amount diverse. This means two things; the first is that liberal white university types with overdeveloped guilt complexes are moving here in mother-fucking droves.

The second is that being slipped my neighbor’s mail by mistake yields results that are way more fun than some dogawful J. Crew or Pottery Barn catalog:

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run this nextdoor and check to see if the neighbors have my issue of Honky.

I’m sick with something. I’m not sure what bug hit me but it’s chewing at my throat and making every muscle fiber in my body sore and achy. I’m pretty sure the damned thing is gunning for my sense of humor as well because I just puked on my husband’s side of the bed and I haven’t been able to muster the energy to properly savor that moment the way I should.

At any rate, I can barely sit up so I’m just going to post photos and try to come up with something to go along with them. Sound good?

Alright, here goes: 

Ok, so let me explain; yesterday was our new housekeeper’s first day (yes, I am quite the spoiled bitch) and while I was taking a bath last night I noticed that not only did she manage to get the hard water stains out of the toilets and sinks, the woman made spotless our soap savers. 

I have no idea if she scrubbed them or soaked them or dipped them in a substance that will eventually eat my face off but who really cares, really so long as they look good. After seeing this I proceeded to throw the contents of my refrigerator on the floor before letting my children lick the tile clean. Just because I could.

This carving was a gift from a friend of mine who was gracious enough not to kick me out of her house when I ran rough-shod over her southern sensibilities:

It’s called “Love of Learning”. Isn’t she adorable what with her books and no face? And totally unexpected since just two days prior I had the audacity to ask my southern girlfriend about her rib recipe which, apparently, is grounds for justifiable homicide where she’s from. Even when the southerner in question is a white woman who threw off enough of her old-fashioned southern upbringing to marry a black man.

Went to Tahoe the other day: 

There was no real reason for the trip other than the fact I was about to kill and eat my offpsring if I spent one more day cooped up with them. In the end the pile of gold kugrands required to fill my gas tank was worth getting out of town for.

I helped out with a jog-a-thon at my kids’ school: 

Quite a few parents turned out, which was nice since it meant we didn’t have to jump through hoops for permission to beat students when they got out of line.

I finished up finals, but not before I snapped a few photos inside the Winchester Mystery Trailer: 

You know what I love best about this photo? The fact that right next to the infant casket is a Costco-sized package of granola bars and a sign admonishing people to pay fifty cents before taking one.

I received straight A’s by the way. Not that anyone really cares, but I figure what’s the point of getting straight A’s if you can’t lord it over everyone? Oh, and there’s more funeral education photos here.

I’ve been growing stuff: 

It’s large and loud and orange and therefore I am totally in love with it.

Ever see a wind farm?  

This is a photo of the wind farm on the Altamont Pass taken during the drive between Sacramento and Santa Cruz.

A friend of mine made the trip up to Sacramento to participate in the Sac State Alumni recital:

He’s an incredibly talented musician and I can’t think of anything smart to say about him although trust me - I’ve really tried to come up with something. Since we grew up together I try to tread lightly since he’s the only one who can produce photographic evidence that I’m a total tard and not at all as cool as I try to portray myself on this blog. He leaves for Kansas next month to earn his doctorate.

…and since this post doesn’t have nearly enough photos to destroy the bandwidth of most of my readers, how about another photo of the Winchester Mystery Trailer?

Yup. That just about wraps it up. Sorry about the loading time.

If you’re like 2% of the population you woke up this morning and thought, “Hey! This is the day that Mexicans everywhere will be celebrating the outcome of the Battle of Puebla. Let’s turn on the History Channel!”

…but chances are that you’re like the other 98% and woke up with the fuzzy notion that Cinco de Mayo beats the crap out of gas prices as an excuse to get hammered on a Monday.

But not so fast gringo. Before you go belly up to the bar at your local Chevy’s there are a few important items you’ll need to remember in order to  keep your celebration of Mexican Independence Day authentic. Like the fact that Mexican Independence Day is actually on September 16th and has nothing to do with Cinco de Mayo. Then again, if beating up on the French military isn’t as good a reason as any to consume horse-killing amounts of tequila then maybe you shouldn’t be celebrating anyway.

Anyway! It is because of such common misconceptions that my nextdoor neighbor and I put together a handy guide to Mexican Authenticness to enhance your enjoyment of Cinco de Mayo this year. Sure the sarape and ersatz sombrero may be culturally insensitive but we figured the occasion warranted their use as visual aids. I mean, if this post keeps even one white person from ordering whole wheat tortillas this Cinco de Mayo the embarassment of putting on this get up was well worth it. Especially since I wasn’t the one wearing it.

#1 - Taco Bell: Two thumbs down.

Maria: I think it’s safe to say that I speak for all Mexicans when I say that Taco bell is not real Mexican food. Hell, it hardly qualifies as food at all. So stop agonizing over the proper pronounciation of chilupa and go eat some lengua already.

#2 - George Lopez: A sideways thumb and look of amused indifference. 

Maria: When are Mexicans going to get with the program and encourage Carlos Mencia to kill and eat this guy? 

 #3 - People who ask me to translate the menu at El Pollo Loco: two thumbs up. 

Maria: Where would I be if I didn’t have people who believed me when I told them that “dos” means “fried bull testicles”?

#4 - Budweiser: Two thumbs up and a bottle of tequila. 

Maria: Save the Corona for the hordes of effeminate frat boys spending spring break in Cancun. Budweiser is what real Mexicans drink… when Natural Light’s not on sale.

…but mostly odds. Did you know that when you cremate a person their brain boils inside their skull? Makes sense seeing as how afterburners are used to cook corpses at around two thousand degrees.

Also, when the pressure inside the skull becomes too great it cracks open with a loud, and very distinct, pop. Obviously this could be pretty disturbing to those who choose to witness a cremation and aren’t accustomed to hearing a head explode violently. 

There are certain groups though - such as our Hindi and Sikh neighbors - who will hang around a crematory until they hear that skull crack and are thus assured that the soul of the deceased has been released from within.

Neat huh?

Oh, and Pirate? I never forgot your question from a year ago; we here in the golden state torch our humans using clean-burning natural gas.

Also, from the desk of Try working that into your garden variety college course! comes this exchange:

“Cremations don’t smell bad. They remind me of a campfire.” Says Student A.

“Or a barbecue.” Says Student B.

Yes. A classmate actually uttered that phrase. And another one concurred.

And then the instructor further corroborated with, “Well, we are made of the same stuff that you’d throw on a barbecue at home.”

I’m never eating meat again.

Oh! And I’d like to say hello to Jen with one “n”, Chalet and Kara who are but three of my classmates who have exercised amazing restraint and tolerated my over-energetic ass when really? I’m pretty sure they would very much have liked to have stuffed me inside our classroom’s casket display wall. 

Despite the fact that I whore this blog more often than I inhale I’m always surprised to hear people tell me that they actually read this thing. Especially people that I go to school with because honestly? Spending several hours a week with me in the Winchester Mystery Trailer has to be somewhat less pleasant than wearing bacon-flavored earrings while manacled to an angry chihuahua.

…or perhaps this post should be titled, “This is the post that results when my readers e-mail to tell me what they want, what they really, really, want.”

First of all, let’s give a hand to Barrister Mobutu Sese-Seko. I, for one, truly appreciate him taking time out of his horrendously busy schedule bilking old people for their pension checks to help tie up a few loose ends around here concerning Those Hit Generating Schemes That Shall Not Be Named. So thank you Barrister, may you have long life and health in whatever third world hellhole you are practicing your art of scammery from.

Secondly! This is where I answer this guy’s and this other guy’s questions about the tuberculosis. Yes, I was really, truly, actually exposed to TB. I’m taking pills for it until September (originally my doc recommended nine months but recently reduced my sentence to six.) No alcohol, processed cheeses, raw sushi, aspirin, hookers, Malawi nationals or anything more fun than red flavored Jell-O until I’m done with the meds.

You read that right. No alcohol. And it’s only April. Don’t come near me or I’ll stomp on your toes.

Thirdly, I can’t be the only participant in the 2008 Northern California Invitational Celebrity Death Prognostication Challenge who was absolutely pissed to read this.

Fourthly, I would like to publicly thank Blondie for sending me a link for a local freelance job writing web copy for a Davis-based company that makes eco-friendly burial containers. I submitted my resume last week and if I somehow manage to land the contract I’m sooo sending you a bottle of wine.

Fifthly, I would like to whore Jay out. Again. Just because he whores me out so much and I fear a breach in our informal mutual pimping agreement might result in bad juju.

Sixthly, I would like to thank Cranky Prof for being so cranky. And professorial. I love you. And your blog.

Seventhly, an update on the funeral sciences program. Life has been busy on the back forty of American River College where the FSE headquarters are housed in the Winchester Mystery Trailer. We’ve quizzed. We’ve tested. We’ve grilled our professors for gory details about stuff like purge, skin slip, and anal leakage. We’ve covered areas of the funeral business in deliciously gruesome detail that makes the Faces of Death people look like amateurs.

…we’ve even moved bodies around. Ok, not real bodies… fake ones. Like the mortician’s equivalent to those plastic dummies that you practice CPR on.

Classes have been great, especially considering that I’ve spent the entire semester sitting next to the Men of Mortuaries calendar boy Mr. February. No joke.

So anyway, Mr. February is an apprentice embalmer in San Francisco and has more good death industry stories than you could shake a dismembered arm at. Oh, and he also does a mean cha-cha with our program’s permanent resident, Senor Esqueleto:

Need I say more? This semester’s been the best time I’ve had in school since starting Kindergarten as a wee Death Lass.

Dearest readers of THE DEATH CHIC(K),

You may be surprise to receive this posting since you do not know me. I am the son of the late president of Democratic Republic of Zaire, President Mobutu Sese Seko ( now The Republic of Congo, under the leadership of the son of Mr. Laurent Kabila). I presume you are being aware of a meme dispute between my most affectionate American sponsor (THE DEATH CHIC(K)) and the present civilian government. I believe this is based on the bad and corrupt governance on my late father’s part. Or perhaps the DEATH CHIC(K) is not so able to producing six words to describe herself or in want of posting E for excellence photographs.

THE DEATH CHIC(K) is tantrum throwing and is refused to return to computer until I assist sorting out her problems with the meme-ing. To this end I have a business proposition:

As you might have heard how a lot of THE DEATH CHIC(K)’s bank account in Switzerland and North America have been frozen. Following the above named reasons, I am soliciting for your humble and confidential assistance to take custody of THIRTY Million United States Dollars (US$30,000,000.00), also to front for THE DEATH CHIC(K) in the areas of business you desire profitable.

These funds will be released to you based on my recommendations, on that note, you will be presented as THE DEATH CHIC(K)’s partner who will be fronting for me and my family in any subsequent ventures. Myself and THE DEATH CHIC(K) have decided to give 20% to you if you are able to help us claim this consignment.

This opportunity is being available only to special readers of THE DEATH CHIC(K) who have taken her into their bosom for most friendly contests of the memes. Therefore it is with pleasure that I am in tag of the following meme in which I will be needing of those individuals to first give me their mother’s maiden name and bank account number before I can be completing their memes:

To MW, may his family be blessed by a rain of fattened goats for endowing my most affectionate American sponsor THE DEATH CHIC(K) not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES on this post, please be displaying this badge proudly on your blog… and send the desired information to THE DEATH CHIC(K) so that she may be sharing your due share of the THIRTY Million United States Dollars (US$30,000,000.00): 

Also, I would be liking to return the warmest affections of THE DEATH CHIC(K)’s other FDIC insured associates:

Lee, you have been a faithful friend to THE DEATH CHIC(K) who tagged her here and I would like to be with you sharing a portion of my family’s fortune thereof so that you may being able to buy industrial-sized snow blowers. Please display the above badge proudly.

…and remember to send THE DEATH CHIC(K) your mother’s maiden name and bank account number.

Aspergantus, THE DEATH CHIC(K) was shocked that you would include in her for your meme but despite her protestations, she is truly and warmly having your friendship pressed upon her. For this, THE DEATH CHIC(K) and myself, Barrister Mobutu Sese-Seko, would like you to display the above badge before we are taking it upon ourselves to do the meme.

Lori, THE DEATH CHIC(K) is tearing at her head and rending her clothing, so flattering is she finding your tagging her with a meme. She is also being yelling something like “Link whore”, that is an honor to be called such in your country, no? Therefore I would be impressed upon myself and on behalf of THE DEATH CHIC(K) if you would be displaying the above badge on your website.

Grundir and your human keeper the Diesel, in THE DEATH CHIC(K)’s past incarnation as QofD (or was that when she was pygmy goat? No matter.) you promised to dispatch memes and then did not come when she displayed the bat signal. For this she was mildly vexed but is now sufficiently recovered to have regained her generous spirit and be sharing with you her vast fortune. Please display the badge and comply with the directions to receive your share of THIRTY Million United States Dollars.

Also, I would be liking to “tag” as you westerners call it, the following for the purposes of - when I consulted the entrails of my morning sacrificial chicken - it was revealed that these bloggers were considering in their thoughts jumping the dogpile of the meme-ing upon THE DEATH CHIC(K):

The Butt of the Lightning Bug, The Bastard Cynical, The Pirate, The Honorary Leetle Brother of THE DEATH CHIC(K) By Name Of Travis, The Coroner For Whom THE DEATH CHIC(K) has much affection by their common love of corpses, The Honorable Father of The Travis, The Sparrow Person, The Blondie Formerly Of The Clark Street, and finally The True Brother Of THE DEATH CHIC(K) Whose Information She Has But Didn’t Want Him To Cry Like A Little Girl At Being Excluded.

THE DEATH CHIC(K) and myself appreciate the confidentiality and secrecy that is highly required, although not so much for the badge, which we would be pleasing to have you display prominently in order to be perpetrating the “link whorage” that my affectionate American sponsor is very presently fond of. But the other stuff please be keeping on how do you American’s say? The “down low”. Especially from the FTC.

All correspondence must be by my email address elkgroverunner@gmail.com and you can also call me on the Swiss telephone number 0031-630-855-056 for more information on how we can proceed in this transaction.

I sincerely will appreciate your acknowledgement as soon as possible.

Warmest regards,

Barrister Mobutu Sese-Seko

Six? Are you f-ing kidding me people? How come the blogosphere suddenly feels like it’s populated by the internet’s version of Amway salesmen?

Did y’all get together and decide this was as good a time as any to drive me over the edge and into the arms of some scruffy group of Montana-bunker-dwelling-separatists?

…because I would totally go that route if it meant ducking the whole cursed meme thing.

Fine. I’ll play. But it’s going to be a few days (which I suppose makes it a couple months for you MW) and you’re not going to like it.

Bastardos! All you you!

Ok, so first off I should apologize to Lori for being so late in getting this out. She was the one who had originally suggested I post a letter to my body as part of a larger BlogHer thing and then I was the one who said “Sounds great!” and didn’t do it and didn’t do it, and then? Didn’t do it some more.

So here you go Lori, although I think I’m going to let this post stand alone and outside of the whole BlogHer thing. 

Dear Body,

Hey, how’s it going? Pretty good I hope? Things are going pretty well here too, but I guess you already knew that.

So, um, anyway. I was kind of hoping to tell you thanks. You know, for like, seeing me through the last 34 years. I mean, it would probably have been easier for you when - during that last stint in Mexico - we were faced with a dozen beers and horse-killing amounts of tequila to simply say “forget it” but you didn’t. (Not to say you didn’t exact your revenge the next day as I spent several hours dragging you by your forearms to the bathroom while wishing I was dead, but in the end you decided to keep the lights on and let me live to see another day even though I probably didn’t deserve it. Viva la gringa indeed.)

Uh… yeah. So thanks for not killing me back then. Also, thanks for not quitting on me throughout the many abuses I’ve heaped on you over the years. Like that time in college when I wrecked my motorcyle in the middle of Fair Oaks Boulevard. Yeah, if I were you (which I am, kind of) I’d be pretty pissed about the fact that I managed to pitch you over the handlebars and get you run over by my then-unmanned bike. At least you and I were able to get the number of that nice waiter who ran out of Piatti’s to help you get out of the street.

Thanks too, for putting up with my dumb ass during those college years when I experimented with stuff that - as my friend Denise often said - “was made in people’s bathrooms”. I shudder when think back to all the chemical garbage I subjected you to even as I’m simultaneously relieved to have a justification for having spent those years as a registered Democrat.

You know what I’m most grateful for body? You’re energy levels, your strength, and your ability to endure.

You sustained two pregnancies and let me keep running well into the second trimester both times. You delivered two healthy and happy babies with nary a complaint and then gave me the energy to tend to them. Your ability to replicate yourself within my children is something that gives me pause whenever I see my son’s blue eyes or comb my hands through my daughter’s impossibly thick blond hair.  

You have completed eighteen mile “fun runs” and pushed your way up Hurricane Point. You never seem to mind slopping around in 10 kilometers worth of mud. Sometimes you object when I drag you into a one-hundred-and-five degree room for yoga, but only a little.

Body, you have been patient with me in every endeavor I have undertaken whether it be diving into the ocean, throwing myself out of an airplane or hiking up the back of Half Dome.

I am very lucky to have you. You have not betrayed me by developing cancer, debilitating diseases or other chronic ailments. You have equipped me with the energy to properly care for and enjoy my family. I have eyes that see, ears that hear, and a mind that works tolerably well (depending on which of my family or friends you’re asking.) Sure, there was that time you threw in a hamstring injury for giggles but now that that’s over I think we can be friends again.

I have to say that after 34 years I’ve got no complaints.

…but first I need several more gallons of coffee. Or crack cocaine. I’m not picky really, so long as it’s a substance that will keep me up for several days on end without making my heart go splat inside my ribcage. So maybe I should nix the whole crack cocaine thing. And maybe even let the Starbucks go and just stick with the watered down Folgers in front of me that isn’t strong enough to enliven a laboratory rat.

So what do we have here?

#1 - First off I apologize to all my Canadian readers for that last post. I never meant to insinuate that bloodthirsty hordes of Canucks were waiting to swarm down and force their funny-looking money on us. (But I still suspect that under all that politeness lurks a nation who is secretly annoyed with being America’s hat.) I even apologize to the wannabes who aren’t really Canadian but moved their silly asses to Manitoba. Although I must admit that I narrow my eyes at a people who - by choice - spend their winters in a place that involves snow, de-icer and this thing, I believe it is called a wind chill factor? 

(shudder)

Just writing that makes me want to go lather myself in Coppertone.

#2 - Secondly! MW, of DWSUWF, which happens to be my favoritest political blog ever - even when I vehemently disagree with him (which I never do in a public forum because me taking on mw over foreign policy would look something like a bowl of pudding challenging James Carville to a debate. And not even a particularly bright bowl of pudding at that.)

…but even when, ahem, he’s wrong and I’m right MW has the virtue of always being entertaining. Except when he tags me with memes because anyone who has been hanging around since my last blog knows that I hate the *%$#@! memes so much that I banned them. MW seems to have found a loophole however; he tagged me with not one, or two but THREE of the vile little bastards just after I moved into my new digs but before I could install an effective anti-meme device or even break out the cootie spray. 

Yeah, I’m getting around to your memes MW but you’ll have to give me a day or two to recover from this slashing knife wound in my back.

#3 - Thirdly, Lori is spreading her own bloggy virus in the form of a “letter to my body” post which she had great fun writing here. I really liked her post and figured it would be fun to take her up on the suggestion of writing my own until I realized that a letter to my body would read like the amend portion of a twelve step program. So Lori, I promise I’m working on this but it’s gonna be a few days until I’m able to adequately research the statute of limitations on, uh, a few things.

#4 - My brother, you know, the guy who digs up dead people for a living and keeps human heads in jars on his desk? Yeah… he’s finally decided to get away from the lame blogging tool on myspace and head into the murky waters of Blogger. As in an actual blog. On Blogger. So! If you want to read the awesome effort that is my brother’s insistence upon waking up everyday with the singular goal of being perpetually annoyed with his fellow man then hop on over to Anthroslug: The Much Put Upon.

Oh, and nobody can grow a wicked Viking beard the way my brother can. Who doesn’t want to read a blog by a guy whose facial hair makes him look at home in a helmet with horns coming out the sides?