CozyJamble

I was going to write about the frailties of life. It was going to be sincere and thoughtful, a foray into the depths of human feeling and mortality.

Instead, I’m going to talk about the cow-stripper sign.

Yesterday, as my family was driving out of Payson, Arizona, we were quietly talking about the aforementioned frailties of life. It had been an emotional weekend, draining us of our natural optimism. Never had the universe seemed as cruel to me before, nor life as so accidental. “How can I take comfort,” I asked to my mother, brother and father as we quietly drove along, “knowing that good, beautiful people grow ill and pass on just because they were unlucky? Where is the justice in that? Where is the meaning? Are our lives are nothing more than–is that a cow?”

We all whipped around in time to pass by the sign for an Adult Cabaret, complete with a plaster cow on top. It was a pretty cow, milky white and sandy brown, perfectly proportioned and perfectly affixed to the sign. Unlike our own place in this random universe, the cow’s ultimate purpose was clear; it was meant to be part of the sign. They were a pair, Cabaret and cow, cow and Cabaret, the model bovine complacently smug, sure of itself.

We were silent for a moment, then demanded my father pull over so we could take a picture.

“No! We have a plane to catch!” he responded.

“Life is too short for us not to have a record of Pamela Heiferson,” I told him.

“I think it’s a Sign!” my brother said.

“It’s clearly a sign. An Adult Cabaret sign. With a cow on it,” Mom observed. “Actually, don’t stop. That place is probably full of very lonely cowboys.”

“Or the fattest strippers in the world,” I countered.

“Why can’t it be run by very lonely cows?” Dad wanted to know.

And then we laughed until we cried, because the world is a random, uncaring, chaotic place, but it is also a place where strip-joints have fake cows hanging off them. Bad things happen, but so do silly things, and funny things, and good things, and neutral things, and cow-related things. Life is absurd…but that absurdity makes the rest worthwhile.

We lingered for a moment, acknowledging the Sign. Then we stepped on the gas, because it was getting dark and we did not want to meet the people who thought “cow” was the natural thing to indicate an Adult Cabaret.

This is for you, Aunt Kathy, who always laughed at the cows, even at life’s darkest.

Dear America,

As President of the Society of Things That Crawled Out From Underneath a Rock, I want to present you with my deepest, deepest apologies for the recent actions of one of our members. This is a rarity for us; normally we delight in making you squirm, alternately disgusting you and angering you until you demand that we “Crawl back under the rock we came from.” But sometimes there are actions that even violate our oozy, many-tentacled code of ethics.

To cut to the quick: we apologize for Dick Cheney.

To be fair, when he first joined our society back in the Nixon years (solid Rock-Crawling years), he was a model member. He quietly lurked in the background, oozed into positions of power, icked out all the First Ladies–everything required of a Society candidate. But he has now overstepped his bounds, coming out in public, demanding his moment in the sun.

We shun the sun. It blisters us. We hide under rocks for a reason, oozing out of the shadows to make people want to avoid being in a room with us ONLY when there is an acceptable climate. Like overcast skies, the internet, or the dark gloom cast by a Republican administration. And while some members do cling and insist you listen to them and only them, they do it in a slimy low-key sort of way. By becoming increasingly vocal, dominating airtime, and all-around demanding we give him our undivided attention, he has violated our sacred precepts.

We love making you shudder when we speak, don’t misunderstand us–but we think it’s wrong to creep out a whole nation.

Also, waterboarding? Come on, even we admit that’s torture.

Mainly because when we torture someone, we want them to know. “Oh,” they might say now, “You’re using enhanced interrogation techniques on me.” To which we will reply, “No, that’s straight-up torture,” but they won’t be listening anymore because they’re convinced we’re the CIA.

See how difficult life is going to be for us now?

So in conclusion I, on behalf of The Society of Things That Crawled Out From Underneath a Rock, herby apologize, and promise you that this is the end of our association with Mr. Cheney. We also humbly nominate him for a position in the Society of Crazy Old Coots Who Somehow Still Have Way Too Much Power.

Signed and witnessed by the Board Members:

President: the Oozing Blob

VP: Sandy, Donald Trump’s Hairpiece

Acting Secretary: a bunch of snakes and ooky hairy spiders

Treasurer: Your ex-Boyfriend

Member-at-large: Donald Trump

As a girl, I prided myself on my reasoned, logical responses to things deemed icky by the rest of my peers. Lizards, snakes, spiders–especially spiders–fascinated me. I knew from nature programs that they were our friends, eating the bad bugs and vermin we hated and generally avoiding humans at all costs.

“Spiderspiderspiderspiderspider!” the other girls would scream, pointing to the arachnid on our woodpile.

“Ho ho ho,” I’d chortle, perching jauntily next to it. “Don’t you know? Spiders are our friends!”

No, spiders outside did not bother me–nature was a thing to admire and lord over your more squeamish friends. So I was completely prepared when, as I was driving down the freeway, I looked down at the steering wheel to see a giant, giant spider staring back at me.

Ah! I thought to myself. Our friend the spider! Eater of bugs and other vermin we don’t like! Sitting on my steering wheel! Right next to my hand! Logical, rational part of my brain, tell me what I should do in this situation!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! replied my brain.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed as I hit the emergency blinker, alternately swerving to exit the highway and staring at my hand where the spider was inching ever closer. “Spiderspiderspiderspiderspider!”

To be fair, this wasn’t some delightful woodpile spider. This was an albino monster, looking basically like this:

So this clearly wasn’t going to end well.

I finally made it to a side road where I parked, jumped in the backseat of my car, and began throwing trash at it in a futile attempt to make it leave or die. All that accomplished was to make it crawl into my A/C vent on one side of the car and exit out the A/C vent on the other side. The one closer to me.

Of course.

After a fun half-hour of watching it crawl into the vent, blasting the hot air to make it come out, miss it entirely with my shoe, and watch it crawl back in, I finally succeeded. Springing forward, the battle cry of “spiderspiderspiderspider” on my lips, I managed to smush it flat with a handful of gas receipts. But just as I was about to throw it into the trash, I stopped. My adversary who looked so mutantly large while menacing my hand, now, flattened like a pancake, looked no larger than a pinprick. It was no threat, just a misplaced creature, our friend whose whole existence did nothing but make mine more pleasant and bug-free. In my panic I had reduced it to the two-dimensional monster image I scorned in my youth; in my panic, I had reduced myself to the two-dimensional role, the icked-out girl, that I thought myself above.

I was quiet as I picked up a friend later that night, deep in thought about the matter. Suddenly, my friend pointed at the windshield.

“Oh, cool!” he said.

“What?” I replied.

“There’s a giant spider on the outside of the glass! I think it crawled out of that air vent there! Man, there’s another one! Isn’t that neat?”

The moral of this story is don’t turn on the A/C in my car, because I’ve sprayed as much raid as possible into the vents and it’ll probably poison you if you turn it on. Also, I need a ride.

Last week I talked about my competitive family to the delight of everyone…but my competitive family.

“What?” I demanded as all three of them looked at me, stone-faced, via webcam.

“Josie,” said my brother, rolling his eyes, “You got the facts wrong.”

“I may embellish my stories a little,” I responded, “And for any parts you think were hurtful, I apologize. I love you all, and think the world of you, and am just given to hyperbole in my posts. You all aren’t as competitive as I make you out to be–in fact, all three of you have always tempered your actions with compassion, and supported me whether winning or losing. So, I’m sorry. I truly, truly am. Is that what you mean by getting the facts wrong?”

“No,” scoffed Luke as Mom and Dad laugh at me in the background. “We don’t care. You got the sport wrong. Mom was on the HOCKEY TEAM.”

So, my aplogies for an incorrect post. My mother wasn’t thrown off the football team for excessive use of force, she was thrown off the hockey team. Again, aplogies for confusing my facts. You may all return to your regulalry scheduled lives.

I’ve never equated travel with sexiness. Fatigue, delays, cancellations, motion sickness, and exhaustion yes, but I’ve never thought any part of traveling is particularly lusty. Even when you’re at a vacation spot my thoughts tend towards sleep, resting, relaxing on the beach, reading a book. Unless you’re a US Marine on a Thai tour, sex never enters the picture. But driving down La Brea this afternoon here it was (or, here THEY were) bold as brass: a brassier telling me to watch the Travel Channel. Not a woman, just two Kong-sized knockers stuffed in a Fay Wray-sized bikini-top. This was total objectification in it’s grossest form–cars swerved as they gazed upon breasts utterly detached from any context or (god forbid) humanity. The Travel Channel is selling itself with sex at it’s most blatant, any threat of seeing a person in the billboard woman washed away by monolith mammaries, boobs able to take over a building in a single supergraphic! It’s a good thing Travel C. saves its ad from being really crassly stupid by giving it a witty tagline:

“Have you been EXPOSED?”

Get it? Get it? Clever, get it? Because there’s boobs!!!! On an unrelated note, it’s policy of the Travel Channel to have their copy written by  14-year-old boys.

So, bravo Travel Channel. May you continue to advertise at a level of mediocrity designed to drive off half your audience in the name of titilation for something routinely boring.

Stop snickering over the use of the word titilate, Travel Channel, and go do your homework for fourth period. Stop laughing about that word too.

In 3rd grade, my teacher gave us a pop-quiz on percents. She graded them, then announced the highest score (not me) and congratulated the student. After she finished, I stood up and announced I would crush the winner through any means necessary.

Our teacher nervously tittered, then quickly steered the class towards Arts ‘n Crafts. I stayed behind and checked out every math text I could find. It was when I did a victory lap around the former Percent Princess after beating her in the next pop-quiz that my teacher took me aside.

“Education isn’t a competition, Josie,” she told me.

“My name on the Top Class Spellers list says otherwise,” I replied.

And thus began my childhood quest for being the best ever in the whole wide world forever. If elementary school was a competition (which it totally was) then I would win. This went for everything else too. If there was a way to keep score, no matter how much of a stretch you had to make, I would do it. Gold stars in class, the amount of toys I got at Christmas, which side of the car I sat on,  how many blades of grass I could count while running through a field, the number of braids I could put in my hair versus the rest of the girls in my class (379 to a pathetic 57), who had to breathe more–all were up for contest.

This philosophy doubled if it was against my brother. No hero every had such a tricky foe as Luke, and no UN peace treaty could ever compare to the amount of wheedling and cajoling our family did to try and get us to get along. My father even attempted to curb our fighting by imposing the Solomon Solution; one sibling cut the thing we were fighting over in half, the other choose which side they want. We did this once, very carefully cutting a cookie into two equal pieces, then furiously punching each other until one was left in tears while the other made off with both halves of the snickerdoodle.

Looking back, we solved a lot of problems that should have been solved through decency and maturity, with punching.

Despite all this, I never thought of myself as especially competitive. That’s probably because I was comparing myself to my parents: my mother, for instance, who at 5 foot 2 and 90 pounds in middle school and the only girl on the football team, was kicked out for “use of excessive force.” Or my father, a mild mannered scientist who wouldn’t hesitate to demolish you, a 6 year old, in monopoly, or snarf the food off your plate if he felt you were “too slow”to finish. No, if there was a way to win it, or punch through it, the Camaione-Campbells were there.

This didn’t mean we actually WON. Oh god no. We were terrible at winning things, which only prompted the second Camaione-Campbell hereditary trait to emerge: complete and utter apathy. My brother and I quickly dismissed athletics, physical exercise, or tasks requiring us to do more than coast on innate skill. Academics we excelled at, which just confirmed how much better we were than everyone for all time. Anything and everything else didn’t count.

Now, being an adult in the real world, I understand things don’t work that way. Some things you win, some you lose, sometimes you’re the best and other times you’re just not. At times like the latter, I like to turn to the rules of my favorite sport and think on them as an analogy for life. Something to remind me to keep going, even when it seems I’m stuck in a losing streak.

That sport is Calvinball.

I win the blog! You lose! Now, you all have to sing a song about how great I am! Also, add a stanza about tigers.

Ok WORLD! I’m calling you out! Yeah, that’s right,  Cozy Jamble has a few bones to pick with you! Where to start? Oh, I’ll tell you where to start:

RADIO. Here’s the deal RADIO. You stop claiming songs you’ve been playing on loop for over a year are “New Music” and I’ll start listening to stations other than NPR. Also, stop naming all your goddamn girl DJs “Kat.” I’m sick of sassy ,yet extremely boring, female voice personalities screaming their name is “KAT!” and that they “LOVE the new Carolina Liar tack!”

It is not new, and your name is Heidi. If you must DJ it up, then it can be Kheidi.

Shut up.

Hey, speaking of shutting up: DICK CHENEY. You are no longer the shadow President of the United States. This means I shouldn’t have to hear your speak on matters of national importance ever again.

Case closed.

And while I’m at it: TAZO TEA! Your Wild Sweet Orange Tea sucks! It’s like drinking warm Tang. Shape the hell up.

At this point of my rant, I will take a moment to address the problems facing the world. They can be summed up in two words: DISEASE and CAPITALISM. Now, I will fix them.

Hey Capitalism! Knock it off!

Hey Disease! I’ve been playing Pandemic 2 online and really think I understand where you’re coming from. Knock it off!

There! Solved! Blam!

And last on my agenda: MAKERS OF THE ONLINE GAME PANDEMIC 2! Your game is really goddamn addicting! I greatly enjoy it! Good work!

There, done. You may now all go back to your regularly scheduled lives. Except those of you playingPandemic 2. I will see you after I wipe out Madagascar.

Josie’s Positive Note of the Day: After playing Pandemic 2 for several days, I have come to the conclusion that if the Swine Flu actually does turn out to be a global plague  and not just a viral exposé of Mexico’s health care system, Madagascar is the place to go. Way to go DJ Dictator! Please do not name your first lady Kat.

Check out the latest video from the Burbank Historical Preservation Society! Can’t hear well at normal, everyday functions? Well try:

Operators are standing by. Enjoy!

It has recently come to my attention that I treat every serious conversation like an intervention.

I’m not sure if I’m ok with this.

You ask me for advice on how to talk to someone about your feelings or your goals or hopes, and I’m most likely to tell you to sit the person down, keep sharp objects away, and reiterate before and after every sentance that you love them no matter what.
“It helps if you have others tell them the same thing, maybe even sitting in the same room,” I’ll clarify.

“I should have others come with me and also propose to my fiance?” my friend asks, confused.

I nod. “Also, hide the alcohol.”

It bothers me that looking back on every truly serious or important event in my life, I can see this pattern emerging. Go in, tell them you love them, break the news, then pat a hand and run from the consequences like hell has been my motto for confrontation of any kind.

“I just want you to know that I love you no matter what, and you’re a fine person. Grandma’s dead. ADIOS!” was how I broke the news to my brother. “You’re a good person and a wonderful human being. Your band sucks. SEE YA!” I hollered at a friend. “I think you are nice, and you always have good sweaters on. I quit OK BYE!” I shouted at my old boss, rounding the corner of the office.

This, for 22 years of my life, has been my system for interacting with other humans. This script, the wording changed slightly for different people at different times. Genuine depth of feeling baffles me in ways that it should not so, stumbling, I revert back to the worn but true method at hand.

But can you blame me? Who wouldn’t want a formula for life, a blanket equation for dealing with our peers? Isn’t that what every self-help book and guru, every soul searching vision quest, every look at yourself and others is about? Finding that golden balance you can stick with for the rest of your life–writing the script that defines who you are versus the outside world?

So if I ever take you by the shoulder, tell you you mean a lot, and then reveal I think you need to pay rent and run, don’t take offense. I’m just following my script for life.

Please do your part now, and fly into an inconsolable rage before cutting off ties to family and friends you suspect are in cahoots with me. It’s the only civillized thing to do.

Hey guys! My comedy troupe and Preservation Society of Burbank now has a website! It is:

www.thebhps.com

My site was hacked a day ago, so I’m having some troubles–thanks for staying with me while I figure it all out!

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