Stuff I Noticed: Musings from a Boy Raised by Elk

Hooray for Polytheism

2007-03-09T20:16:00.000-08:00

My elk brethren are godless souls who graze greenery and suckle fresh air with nary a thank-you to the mighty heavens above. I, myself, was a selfish parasite living off the glory of the woods. But now, here in the non-woods, I’ve discovered there are many glorious gods to kneel before. My ignorance has been enlightened by the exclamations of reverence I hear from those all around me. The gods, holy be thee, are the following:

Oh My God, who appears to be among the most powerful of the band of almighty. I suspect Oh My God is a matriarch, as I most often hear Her name called by young women masked in makeup and expensive outerwear, either giving thanks for wondrous things, like handsome shoes, or in prayer to save them from evil perils, like mud and broken fingernails.

God Damn It, who seems to be the omnipotent patriarch of the heavens. God Damn It is prayed to by both men and women, and appears to be the one whose mercy is called upon most often. I’ve subscribed to the Church of God Damn It, often calling His name for help when the line at the place where food is purchased is too long, or when a foul-smelling creature approaches me on the street in search of a quarter. Also, I once invoked His name when a bird pilfered one of my twig antlers. If I should ever find that bird, I pray he too has a god to cry out to. May his wings carry him to a fiery nest in hell. To date, God Damn It has yet to answer my prayers, but I keep the faith.

God Speed, clearly one of the lesser gods, as I only rarely hear His name. However, his speed intrigues me, and I’ve often pondered whether he is the god responsible for creating cheetahs. I recall one of the spotted demons who ran down an elk cousin and feasted on his entrails without saying grace first. This is a god wearing the devil’s horns.

God Bless, who is apparently going through divine hazing. I most often hear His name in regards to the release of gooey nose matter, which seems to be some sort of cruel joke, like when I neutered that gazelle. Though I am uncertain why anyone would thank this god for nasal slime. I hypothesize this a young god working his way up, and prone to having his lunch money stolen.

In my learnings I have also discovered the lord’s name shall not be uttered in vain. He hath commanded it. Praise God Damn It!

An Open Letter to the Inventor of Glue

2006-07-17T12:15:00.000-07:00

Dear person who made glue:

As a youth, the only adhesives I had access to were natural. There were many times I wished to leave a message for my elk family and sought a better option than what I discovered in my nose. But whatever my finger found in the northern region of my nostrils was the best I could do.

Here, in the city, I’ve been enjoying wondrous alternatives, like glue. Glue is similar to what I produce in my nose and penis (I only discovered that option after my voice got deep), but it comes in a bottle and requires little work to extract it, even though squeezing the bottle is less pleasurable than making it myself. Still, when you’re in a pinch, glue is quick and very handy. Do you make glue the same way I do?

I’ve made many fantastic pieces of art using macaroni, colorful paper, and glitter. I was able to mail some of the art home to the woods, though my elk family doesn’t really appreciate art of any sort. Still, it spruces up the place. I’ve also amused myself by pouring the super version of glue on subway car seats and on the ears of loud cell phone talkers (they got mad though).

In my research, I’ve found that glue enables creativity amongst children, holds posters up on construction sites, keeps stamps on letters, and keeps filthy mouths shut.

I wish to thank for making such adhesives adventures possible. Thank you for the glory of glue.

Also, how do you make so much of it?

A Plea: Stop Eating the Spam and Leave My Penis Alone

2006-05-12T07:41:00.000-07:00

Recently I got an electronic mail account on a computer machine. However, you can only send electronic stuff through this mail. I had hoped to electronically mail cabbage and berries to my elk friends. They would have enjoyed that, unless a grizzly found it first.

So far, I have received a lot of mail, but most of it concerns my penis. It seems there are many companies vying for the opportunity to enlarge my urine thing. Some promise me better sex with pills like V I A GR A and Ci aLi S, but they offer no help finding an Elk Girl for me to have better sex with. Others wish to make my penis really, really big. Like an antler. But I probably couldn’t use it to fight, unless I used the V I A GR A to make it strong and hard. Then I could attack up high with my antlers, and down low with my penis. I would be an unstoppable juggernaut, except against a gun.

I never respond to these messages—they’re called “spam”—yet they keep sending them. I suspect there’s only one reason: someone is answering. Lots of someones—lots of poor someones who need help with their penises. If no one said, “Dear V I A GR A, Thank you for contacting me, I would love your product,” then the companies would stop sending them. Who are these people and why do they trust this mail? If I had trouble with my penis, I would prefer not to seek help from electronic spam, but from a nice moist chunk of food spam. Or better yet, from a female with boobs.

Chirping Gets the Bird

2006-04-18T07:48:00.000-07:00

Back home, the sound of chirping was the song of birds. Mother Nature’s house band. Here, in this place that’s not the woods, people have little chirping devices they hold up to their mouths. They say things like, “Where you at?” Then it chirps. Then there’s some form of garbled language I cannot decipher, but I doubt it’s meaning is of importance. Unlike my elk brethren, I don’t have super hearing, yet I can hear this chirp from a block away. I don’t like it.

I’ve decided this atrocity is an insult to birds, and moreover an insult to nature herself. This calls for retaliation. Now, whenever I see a person using a chirping device, in the good name of all birds, I thrust my middle finger at them.

Unfortunately, it seems “the bird” has not been effective in quieting the chirp. Apparently, these sinners are used to getting the finger and have grown accustomed to it. Therefore, I must find a new form of vigilantism. I will consult my local police person to learn whether or not impalement with pointy antlers is legal.

On the Qualifications to be Called an Expert

2005-04-29T11:32:00.000-07:00

Having been raised by elk since my wee years, I consider myself somewhat of an expert in elk behavior. I know the ins and outs of mating season and I know when and how often they poop like the back of my hand. I’ve got diagrams drawn if you’re interested. I also know lots about berries and ticks.

I think when one spends a lot of time studying and experiencing something, one’s earned the label of “expert.”

Earlier this week I was watching a morning television show with experts on things like weather and traffic. But the most intriguing expert was featured in a segment on women’s hair brushes. The “expert” was a bald man (though he talked like a woman).

Now I’m no expert on experts, but isn’t that like an elk being an expert on the intricacies of astrophysics?

Interview With an Enraged Youth in an XXXXXL Shirt

2005-04-29T08:28:00.000-07:00

Society is full of people wearing shirts and pants. The former cover the top parts and the latter the bottom parts. Both serve a dual purpose of keeping the body warm and expressing a fashion sense. Very clever.

But one fashion sense I’m perplexed by is the XXXXXL shirt. I’ve noticed many male youths wearing them, but none stand tall enough to require such a size. The shirts go down to the knees, almost like a dress. I thought perhaps this was the boys’ way of showing their feminine side, because they were embarrassed to wear a pretty dress. I remember when I first tried on a slinky black dress (that showed off more than a little leg). I was mocked and stared at repeatedly throughout the day. I soon learned the sexy garments were only for women.

To test my dress theory, I stopped a hooligan wearing a long, red shirt and baggy pants to ask him about his choice of clothing. Our conversation went something like this:

ME: Hello. I was raised by elk in the woods and I don’t understand why your shirt is so long. Is it meant to be like a dress?

HIM: What happened? Whatchoo want bitch?!?

ME: What happened was I asked if your shirt was meant to be like a dress. Do you want to look like a pretty girl?

HIM: (Waving his arms around like the wings of a startled bird) Aw shit! This freaky muthafucka’s ‘bout to get his ass kicked yo!

ME: Pardon?

HIM: A’ight, lissen you antler-wearin’ muthafucka, I ain’t tryin’ to look like no girl, you punk-ass bitch. I be wearin’ this long shirt because it covers my ass so I can wear my pants down low. That okay with you “elk boy”?

ME: Yes, it’s perfectly fine with me. I’m used to being around a bunch of naked elk, so this is all new to me.

HIM: Da fuck you talkin’ about?!?

ME: But why do you wear your pants so low? I wear mine at my waist. That way my pants cover my butt and my shirt doesn’t necessarily have to.

HIM: You about to have a foot up yo’ ass. How’s that for coverin’ yo butt?

ME: The pants do just fine, thank you.

HIM: See, it’s like this, I wear the pants low because, uh, shit. Man, fuck you!

Then he walked off looking angry and shoved an old man who was slowly walking nearby. I still don’t understand the long shirt. Strangely enough, I don’t think the people wearing them understand it either.

Why Are My Boogers Blessed?

2005-04-20T09:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was trotting down the street when I suddenly sneezed. A handsome woman nearby heard the burst from my nose and said, “Bless you!” I asked her if she was a clergywoman in a church or synagogue and she said she wasn’t. Then she crossed the street. I was left pondering why I had been blessed for my sneeze. Elk seldom bless each other.

With the woman long gone, I turned to a man standing against the wall with a sign about not having a home or something and asked him about the blessing. He muttered an unintelligible response which was of no help and he smelled foul, like a day-old carcass in the sun. So I left to seek my answer elsewhere.

I stumbled upon an elementary school and entered their computer machine lab so I could ask a computer machine my question. A class was in session and several children asked me why I was wearing antlers. I answered them and then asked the teacher if she knew about the blessing. The teacher, who looked old and feeble, explained that in ancient times the phrase was intended to protect the soul from demons entering the body or to protect the soul from leaving the body. The security man escorting me out said that was probably true.

Today I wondered if the same theory held true when gases and air were blown through other orifices. So I returned to the same spot of the sneeze yesterday and farted loudly. It was certainly heard by the many people nearby, but no one blessed me. I did get a few dirty looks though. Very puzzling. I guess hellish creatures never came out of the ass.

People today aren’t concerned with soul or demons, this blessing tradition is merely a way to acknowledge others in a polite manner. But the same does not hold true for a fart. A fart is regarded as a lesser bodily function I suppose. Yet the fart only makes noise and smells. A sneeze also makes noise and can actually spurt yucky nose stuff onto others, endangering them with horrific germs. A fart does not emit such gooey matter. All things considered, it’s much more friendly toward others.

I’ve decided I don’t care about not being blessed after a fart. I think I ought to be thanked.

Sports Fans and Nonsensical Fashion

2005-04-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

Sports are something I didn’t have growing up. Sure, I ran a lot with the elk, but there was no prize for getting to the stream first. Although I suppose staying alive was a prize for getting away from the cougars. And the only balls I ever played with were between my legs.

Here in society, what’s been more striking to me than the actual sporting games are the fans. I can understand rooting for a particular team to play well, but I’ve been confused by fans who root for all the teams. Many young, fickle fellows wear hats or jackets or even pants featuring logos from every one of these basketball, football, or baseball teams. The logos seem to be thrown on the garment in a haphazard fashion, perhaps designed by a plucky squirrel. I think it looks like the entire league vomited in a sweatshop.

What’s the fun in liking every team? Aren’t rivalries what make games interesting? Who cares who wins if you like both teams equally? These fans appear to either be wishy-washy or they actually enjoy the look of logo vomit.

As for me, I haven’t gotten into balls with baskets, feet, or bases. I’m just a fan of my own balls. And no one else’s.

In Search of Mr. Busboy

2005-03-18T07:06:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up with the elk we had no family name. We were simply known as "That Group of Elk Over There" or "Those Elk Up Yonder." But here in society everyone has a family name. Some examples I've noticed are Smith, Johnson and Wiggins.

I understand that hundreds of years ago these names came about due to a person’s occupation, such as a blacksmith for Smith, or as a descriptor, such as the son of John for Johnson. I don't know what a Wiggins is.

I wonder when people decided to start using these kind of names. And once they did, at what point did they simply stick? In other words, at what point did Johnson stay Johnson, instead of changing with John's son's son? If John's son was Mike (Mike Johnson), shouldn't his son's last name be Mikeson? The same question applies to occupational names. Where's Mr. Livery and Mr. Busboy?

Back home we didn't need names. After all, we didn't get paychecks or monograms or jury duty. But now that I'm here I wish to adopt a family name. Maybe a first name, too.

Hygiene and the Surprising Survival of the Human Race

2005-03-16T14:33:00.000-08:00

One thing that’s nice about people is that they smell good. I didn’t realize how wonderful a thing this was until I came across someone who didn’t smell good. He was a disheveled creature who smelled worse than fresh droppings.

Modern innovations in soap and deodorant are largely responsible for people’s pleasant aromas. Without them, places like armpits begin to stink within hours. Particularly on men. But any person who doesn’t bathe for an extended period of time smells worse than leftovers from a carcass after a cougar makes a kill.

This got me thinking, before luxuries like the aforementioned deodorant, how dreadful did people smell? I drew a timeline of humankind’s existence and noticed that these good-smelling things are fairly new to civilization. So for the majority of time, people stunk.

Today, when bad odor surrounds a male or female, it’s hard to attract the opposite sex. Men prefer women who smell good, and vice versa. Was this true a few hundred years ago? If a wretched stench were emanating from a man’s armpits and groin, what women would go near him? And if this were the case for the majority of people, how did they overcome the stink’s force to get close enough for mating?

Perhaps this is a testament to the power of human libido. For if the libido were unable to overcome the stink, I very much doubt the human race would’ve survived more than a generation or two.

The Fork’s Mighty Rule in the Kingdom of Etiquette

2005-03-03T08:30:00.000-08:00

While eating lunch the other day I marveled at how civilized civilization is. Until leaving the woods, I had never seen the metal thing called a “fork.” I always used my fingers to grasp food and put it in my mouth. Among the elk, who ate directly with their mouths, I was the most “civilized.”

This fork is quite curious. For some reason the use of one became an etiquette standard. The absence of a fork can immediately alter one’s opinion of another. For instance, if a brilliant scientist were caught eating a steak with his fingers, his status as “brilliant” would immediately plummet to “heathen.” The fork truly has power beyond its tines.

However, I’ve also noted that there are exceptions to the fork’s rule. Such immunity is given to designated “finger food” like fries and pizza. Both foods could be eaten with a fork, but seldom are. Isn’t this hypocritical? A teenager at the mall mocked me as I ate my fries with a fork. I returned the mocking by pointing out his acne and insulting his mother.

I called the fork company and inquired about its domination over the eating industry, but was told to talk to the spoon people. So I did some investigating of my own and uncovered some historical facts on the fork. For instance, until the 1700s, the fork was looked down upon. Rather, proper etiquette demanded food be eaten using only three fingers (this kept two clean!). Only savages ate with all five. Religion was also a force behind the damnation of forks. Clergymen believed that God had provided men with natural forks—fingers—and to use metal instruments and substitutes was an insult to the Almighty. One such Italian clergyman backed up his argument after a woman in his presence refused to eat with her fingers and died shortly after.

These religious concerns soon faded. Had they been true, we’d all surely be dead by now (except us elk and our four-legged brethren). Or, maybe they were right and we forkers are all on a silver platter to hell.

Appreciation and Puzzlement at the Urinal

2005-03-02T14:07:00.000-08:00

I’ve been temping at a turtle breeding company for the past few weeks and have had the opportunity to enjoy the men’s room urinal. It’s a lovely contraption that whisks my urine away from me, to some place I can only imagine is a like a giant yellowish sea plagued with a foul stench. I wonder what sort of creatures could thrive there.

When I was with my elk family, we would pee and then leave the area immediately. With the urinal, I can stay put.

But what I’ve found most interesting is the little puddle that accumulates beneath the receptacle. How does this tiny pond get there? Last Tuesday I sat there for 15 minutes watching the urinal to see if it leaked. It did not. I had to leave when a co-worker entered the bathroom and informed me that he was uncomfortable with my watching him urinate. I believe his words were, “What the hell are you looking at Twig Head?”

After a few minutes, I felt it was safe to enter the bathroom once again. The puddle had grown! The leaking came not from the urinal, but from my co-worker. I was sure of it and felt no need to confirm with a sniff. How could this be? The urinal is designed so that your thingy can be very close to it and is wide enough to catch urine even if you shake around a bit. How could anyone miss? Clearly he wasn’t the only one contributing to the puddle. Is it laziness? A complete lack of penis-eye coordination? Puzzling.

But perhaps the puddle needs to be there. It serves as a constant reminder of the urinal’s value, a microcosm of what might be if our urine wasn’t flushed far away. And it keeps the janitor busy.

The Unnecessary Confusion from Simple Questions

2005-03-02T07:41:00.000-08:00

To wear my prosthetic antlers, I glue two pen caps to the side of my hat, then I place a twig in each one. Today the caps broke off my hat, so I went to a drugstore and asked an employee where the super glue was. The dull-witted girl responded, “What happened?” I explained to her that I had just asked her a question regarding the store’s placement of super glue. She smacked her gum and pointed to the back of aisle 3.

This was not the first time someone had asked me what happened after an inquiry. Had I startled them? Were they simply inexperienced in answering questions? I grew up speaking Elk (which is fairly easy if your lungs allow for loud shrieking) yet I understand when I’m being asked a question and do not need the situation explained to me. It seems that these people say, “What happened?” when they mean to say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand what you just said.”

During a recent junket down south (I was temping at a turtle breeding company) I noticed a similar communication complication. When asking a slack-jawed youth which way the boiled peanut stand was, he replied, “Do wha-?” Puzzled, I said, “No my friend, I didn’t ask you to do anything, except tell me a direction.” He pointed up yonder.

English appears to have regional difficulties with simple clarification responses. Yet, if I’ve mastered the art of talking after being raised by elk, it makes me wonder what excuse these poor, confused people have. What happened, indeed.

The True Genius of Bottled Streams

2005-02-27T23:31:00.000-08:00

Out in the woods, we elk quenched our thirst from the cool, running stream waters. In this society place people have bottled the streams to take it with them. Initially, this seemed like a grand plan. People carry their bottles of water, large and small, everywhere, providing constant refreshment. What a time saver to not have to run to a stream whenever a tongue gets parched!

Eventually I discovered these bottles for sale, which I found alarming. Stream water was always free, and these portable streams cost more than other beverages. Perhaps the cost was to due the heavy labor of removing bugs and dirt from the water, though it never really bothered me back home.

I considered purchasing a bottle with the $2 I earned from posing with a tourist, but then I noticed something even more ingenious. According to a mall security guard I asked, it was called a water fountain. At the push of a button this fountain provided bug- and dirt-free water, for free! These fountains appeared to be everywhere.

So why do people pay for water? I scanned through an archive of microfiche on the subject and discovered that prior to the 1980s very few people paid to drink water from bottles (some may have put their own free water in bottles themselves). Perhaps there was a serious health advantage to this “special” expensive water. Yet, I noticed that there was a healthy population of octogenarians even in the 1970s. For that matter, even a hundred years ago people lived to ripe old ages. So apparently free water wasn’t a mass murderer.

It seems to me that bottling a stream isn’t genius at all. Convincing people to pay for it, now that’s brilliant.

An Observation for the Obese

2005-02-27T20:30:00.000-08:00

Trampolines should be avoided.

Fashion and a Fearful Future for Children

2005-02-15T07:00:00.000-08:00

People seem to wear a variety of things to cover up their top and bottom parts. Some of them are quite attractive. I like “shirts” with stripes. But one style I’ve noticed recently has been quite troublesome: camouflage. I find it disturbing in general, but especially for children. Camouflage is designed to blend into the environment, yet I can see these ridiculous people with little to no effort. Enemies would have a field day.

After much thought and a lengthy trip to the library, I’ve concluded there are only two explanations for this choice of children's clothing. The first is preparation for war. Patriotic parents are apparently developing their children into soldiers for future combat. Once these youngsters grow to like the camouflage, they’ll be anxious to wear it as adults. And where better than the army? Seven days a week!

The second conclusion I’ve reached is that parents are preparing to abandon their children in the woods. Possibly to be raised by elk, like me. However, I wore no camouflage, instead I was dressed in a faded “Foghat” concert tee-shirt and blue jeans when I was left on my own. I suspect that the camouflage is intended hide them from search parties. Since elk rely more on their sense of smell, they’ll find the poor children without difficulty. Although I’ve seen some children wearing blue camouflage, which can only mean they’ll be thrown into the waters to be raised by fish.

I wish these children well.

The Curious Magic of the Blue Mailbox

2005-02-14T08:12:00.000-08:00

Walking about town I’ve noticed large blue box-like beings on numerous street corners. Curious as to what they were, I decided to take a break from my search for fresh, non-poisonous berries and study one. For five minutes it did nothing. But then a female approached it, opened its mouth, and dropped some papers in. This seemingly dead creature apparently still required feeding.

Later, a male also dropped papers in the mouth. Still hungry for berries, I decided to settle on some nearby paper to see what all the rage was about. I found it bland.

Soon another female walked toward the blue box and I stopped her to inquire about the papers. She asked me if she was being filmed for a TV show and I told her I wasn’t aware of TV shows. Then she asked me why I was wearing antlers and informed me that Halloween wasn’t for some eight months. My eyes lowered and I noticed she had nice boobs. She saw me stare and to regain my attention she answered my question and explained the system of “mail.”

I found her tale amazing. People simply drop papers in a box colored blue at a corner, and within days an entire group of people they’ve never met, and know nothing about, pass the piece of paper along some sort of nationwide conveyor belt until it reaches its destination. In a way, it’s kind of like magic. Why weren’t more people excited about this? Back home, if I wanted to send a nut to an elk friend, I had to run it over there, sometimes crossing through a cold stream and tip-toeing past sleeping coyotes.

I plan to buy the necessary stamp and stuff some fresh lettuce in the mail for my elk mom. I think she’ll like that.

The Significance of the Insignificance of “How Are You?”

2005-02-11T07:17:00.000-08:00

Today I was in a store and I heard a person working there greet people with the question, “How are you?” Coincidentally, all of them were “fine.”

I was surprised that all these people -- tall, short, fat, thin, crippled -- described their well-being in the same manner. Is it just a necessary formality? I suspect she didn’t really care how the person was doing, but is required by law to ask in order to appear polite. Yet, I also suspect that the people being asked don’t care to share their feelings and emotions with the asker, but would feel offended if they weren’t given the opportunity. It seems to be a silly societal game played to keep civilization happy. I prefer checkers.

The work person soon spotted me as I was trying on a shirt and got it stuck over my antlers. “How are you?” she asked me. I answered more in-depth.

I explained to her that despite the tangling of the shirt with my antlers, things were going relatively well since leaving the woods. I told her how much better I’ve been eating and how great the climate control of heat indoors is, as opposed to the night cold outside. I also told her that I would soon need to locate a bathroom, and would be feeling even better afterward.

She smiled and walked away.

Grazing Never Came With Fries!

2005-02-09T07:53:00.000-08:00

Fast food is a fascinating phenomenon. I always had fast food as a youth, it was mainly anything I walked on. We elk just drop our heads and graze from the ground. But there were never any promotional toys. No plastic goodies like at the fast food joints. Well, once I found a syringe in the field, but that wasn’t any fun.

The food here is much tastier, too. And it’s never frozen to the ground in winter. I like having a wider variety to choose from—not just grass (which takes weeks to be “supersized”). I love the way a delicious leaf of lettuce comes with a piece of meat and two pieces of bread. And since it comes wrapped in paper, no one can leave droppings on it (I think.)

Fast food seems to be a great way to fatten up, as I saw many large males and females eating at the establishment, some requiring two, even three seats. However, these larger people would stand less of a chance of escape from hungry, lunging mountain lions. The cats would have a feast.

Cologne: Territory Marker or Lazy Man’s Shower?

2005-02-08T07:21:00.000-08:00

Cologne is a curious liquid, much like gasoline. Both smell interesting, but taste awful. At first I thought the bottle was to be used for marking territory. This seemed brilliant. Elk usually rub their chins on saplings to mark their territory. The little spray bottle is certainly easier on the chin. I knew bulls (male elk) who had harems of up to 60 cows (female elk). I figured with the cologne bottle -- in a crowded area -- I could mark 60 females in just minutes! That’s when I got into trouble and learned it was meant to be used on myself. To smell good. The judge said I’m not allowed to say anything more about it.

This cologne is confusing. Isn’t soap the thing people use to smell good? I like the feeling of cool stream waters rushing against my body, stripping away the muck and filth (unless a floater gets in the way). Using soap makes it even better. But with cologne, I could just spray it on and cover up any stinky smells. Easy, but lazy.

However, I’ve noticed that by spraying a hefty portion all over my body, people stay away from me. Too much pleasant smell becomes unpleasant. Sometimes this is good for privacy. Or when I’m on a crowded train and there’s no place to sit, people will move to get away from my strong scent. Then I get a seat. I guess cologne is a clever way to be like a skunk. A less-foul skunk.

The Environmental Effect on the Acceptance of the Bikini

2005-02-04T07:08:00.000-08:00

I recently came across a very sandy and sunny place called the beach. It’s like the area near a stream, only with less trees and a much bigger stream. And no elk.

Instead, people of all shapes and sizes lay on the beach doing nothing. At first I thought they were dead. Then one flipped over and went back to doing nothing. So I layed down and did nothing, too. Basking in the warm sun felt so peaceful! Other people were in the water, but not drinking it.

The females here are almost naked, like female elk. I’m not sure why they bother wearing anything because their bottom garment is like a string being yanked up their behind. It seemed very uncomfortable. But I liked the way it looked for some reason. I’m going to look for my own piece of string to wear.

However, this attire made me curious. For some reason, it appeared normal for women to bounce along the beach wearing nearly nothing. Yet, I haven’t seen such flesh-revealing outfits anywhere else. It seems like it would make other places more fun to look at.

I asked a skinny, large-breasted woman if she’d ever wear her bikini at a sandwich shop or a bank. She said I was cute and that people would think she was a slut if she did that and the males would harass her. Then I asked her what a slut was and she said it was when a female mates too frequently.

Apparently scantily-clad women are accepted on the beach, but considered sluts on the sidewalk. Society sure is fickle.

On the Brilliance of Socks

2005-02-03T08:32:00.000-08:00

Growing up in the woods I generally walked around barefoot. The ground was filled with obstacles, such as sharp stones, droppings, broken twigs, and crunchy insects. None of them were comfy to walk on, except the fresh droppings -- they were soft, but left a bad odor and a layer of crust between my toes. On occasion I managed to fashion a temporary shoe from the bark of a tree. Nothing fancy, but they did have a pump.

Out here, the people all wear shoes. But what I especially like are the socks. They’re like a soft, flexible shoe. Soft, cozy, and no laces to learn how to tie. There appear to be all kinds of styles – stripes, dots, triangles, and lots of colors -- yet, they’re hidden by shoes and pant legs. One exception I’ve noticed is the adult male on the weekend working in the yard to make the grass shorter. I’ve seen many such men with black socks prominently displayed on white legs showcased by short pants. This is a man who appreciates his socks.

I’ve also noticed that people have determined that socks are only for the feet. However, after an afternoon of experimentation and a few light snacks, I realized that socks could also be worn on the arms and hands. I made a few calls and consulted several local elders who all agreed that there no was law against this. The sock is like a light mitten, but goes beyond the duty of a mitten by warming the forearm as well (if the sock is a long one). In this sense, the sock is also much more versatile than the shoe.

If everyone gets tattoos to be different, aren’t they all like everyone else?

2005-02-02T13:32:00.003-08:00

Elk are distinguished by their antlers. In this people world, “tattoos” are used to stand out. Younger females often mark themselves just above the rump. Usually with a pretty butterfly or flower. The males seem to like scary dragons and tribal designs. Children’s names are often emblazoned on the flesh of both sexes, which apparently serve as reminders for forgetful parents.

I’ve also noticed that many people get tattoos featuring Asian symbols. But they’re not Asian, they’re pale skinned -- like myself. I asked one woman about her tattoo and she claimed it said “princess.” But when I flagged down someone who could translate Chinese, we learned it actually said “prostitute.” Then the lady got mad and kicked me in the shin. It hurt.

There are so many with tattoos, it seems that the unmarked people are the true individuals.

Are elevators purely mechanical or simply dim-witted creatures?

2005-02-02T11:36:00.000-08:00

I came upon something in a building yesterday that was some sort of amazing people transporter with delightful music playing lightly in the background. A nicely dressed female informed me it was an “elevator” and then her eyes rolled in a funny way. She smelled pretty. The only way elk can reach higher ground is by walking. Sometimes it gets tiring. And when it rains the ground gets slippery so I always use caution.

This elevator machine worked by simply pushing buttons indicating “up” or “down” and the available floor numbers one could reach. Pushing it once caused the button to light up like a firefly. This was a lot of fun to do.

But what really struck me was that people would enter the elevator with people already inside, see a button lit up, then press it again. Or in some cases a person would push the button multiple times, usually quickly. These people were usually dressed in suits and ties and held little machines called Blackberries close to their faces. I think the Blackberries may be poisonous.

Did these people believe the elevator had a consciousness and would react quicker to its buttons being pushed faster or more frequently? Perhaps they believed the elevators were dumb and needed extra encouragement. Like an obese woman stuck to her couch.

I asked one of the suited, silver-haired males about his actions. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Excuse me, why did you push that button three times?

Him: Huh?

Me: Doesn’t the elevator respond after just one button pressing?

Him: Who the hell are you?

Me: I’m new here.

Him: Why the hell are you wearing twigs on your head?

Me: Oh, these? They’re my prosthetic antlers. See, I was raised by elk and I’ve never been able to grow my own antlers. So I created my own from trees.

Him: How lovely. I’ll let security know.

Then he got off at the 14th floor. I kept riding upward, closer to the sky. Then a man in a blue uniform got on the elevator and chained my hands together behind my back. It was really uncomfortable. We went downtown which was neat because I’d never been there. There were lots of mean-looking people there. They reminded me of wild boars. Dangerous, ugly, and smelly. I explained the elevator situation to the bluish man and he agreed there was no need to push the button multiple times. Then he complimented my antlers. I thanked him, but told him I don’t swing that way.

The Great Mystery of Belly Button Lint

2005-02-02T10:57:00.000-08:00

How does every color shirt leave bluish lint in my belly button? I’ve been tracking the color of my lint and the color of the shirt producing it every night for the past three weeks on a handsome chart made from posterboard and an old antler (one my elk dad once shed) dipped in ink. Yet, the mystery only deepens. I’ve heard detectives are good at solving mysteries, so I placed several calls to local sleuths. None have been returned.

What amazes me is that I can wear a white tee shirt and by nightfall my belly button has collected a nice clump of bluish lint. It’s soft, fuzzy, and oval in shape. But why is the lint not white? Colored shirts frequently end up in lint with the same bluish color. On occasion, I’ve noted, a red shirt will leave red lint. Red seems to be a standout color. Perhaps its association with fire gives it the strength and power to out duel the bluish will of the lint.

Once my chart is properly marked, I store the lint in a pinecone-sized jar. After 365 days have passed, I intend to take the accumulated lint and recreate it into a shirt, thereby bringing the entire project full circle. This is the way of nature. My elk mom always taught me to return to the earth that which I take. This is why she left droppings up to 20 times a day.

Has anyone else pondered this fascinating phenomenon? If so, please email me your findings and photos of lint.

Why are these boob things so darn attractive?

2005-02-01T10:46:00.000-08:00

I’ve noticed that the females here have longer hair and larger chests than us males. Though I’ve seen some “men” with long hair and that initially throws me off. The fat ones often have large chests, too. But they’re saggy, not perky or proud. Unless they also have hair on the face, like elk, it’s sometimes hard to tell if they’re ugly women or ugly men.

On occasion I see a woman whose chest is similar to mine in size. But they’re never happy when I point this out. It seems these boob things come in all different shapes and sizes, like antlers. But for the most part, these chests are much larger than mine. And I like them. Why is this? What are they? So soft and round. Like fleshy pillows – which would beat the pants off the pointy rocks I slept on back home. The female elk don’t have such boobs but the males sure seem to like their white-haired rumps. I’ve yet to discover if the females here also have white-haired rumps and if I would like that, too.

The more attractive boobs have a physical effect on me. This usually happens when it’s sunny outside and the females show off a large portion of boobs. Usually it’s just the top part. They get pushed up and outward. They heave. They practically yell at my eyes to stare at them. And my eyes always listen. Yet, the women just walk right by without stopping for me to take a better look. Sometimes my pee thing straightens up, too. It’s very alert. Other soft, roundish things don’t have this effect. Not even a ripe peach.

Why do only women purchase them? I’d like to get a pair for myself.