Phrembah (a potato-like mystery) (phrembah) wrote,
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
phrembah

Have I ever . . .

. . . chronicled the concept of Rodential Living here in the hallowed pages of this blogger dill?  I'm thinking not (though the older I get the less that means).

Anyway, what I mean by "rodential living" is living like a rodent.  Rodential Living is essentially living in a hidey-hole, or if you're lucky, a warren of hidey-holes.  Hidey-holes are, sort of by definition, small, but it helps if they are also quite dark.  In the ideal hidey-hole you can't see a fuckin' thing without a flash light.  You can see to walk around, but if you want to know what it says over the buttons on the front of the TV, you've got to get down on your knees with a flash light.  If you unplug one of the cables between the DVR and the TV, there's no fucking way you're going to get it back in the right hole without lifting th 90-pound TV off the shelf and getting a flashlight.  Nothing is convenient in a rodential hidey-hole.  Convenient?  Hah!  You'll be lucky if it's fucking possible!

There are, it turns out, many people who like living in hidey-holes.  It makes them feel cozy and secure.  It makes me feel cramped.  I have a three bedroom house to myself, but, being built in the halcyon days of Eisenhower and Leave It To Beaver, everything is in such close proximity to everything else that I can't take more than one normal-size step in any direction before I have to shorten my step to keep from running into something.  My mom has a much larger house and she has maybe two hallways where you could take four or five normal steps in a row, but as soon as you enter a room, you're going to be doing the Geisha Shuffle again.

Just another entry in the panoply of Power-Ball luxuries:  Buy a house the wide open spaces in which would make a rabbit nervous indeed.

. . .

And then there's the business of performing austerities.  I read that a contemporary of Ramana Maharshi moved to Arunachala (the holy mountain near Tiruvannamalai) because he thought it would be a good place to "perform austerities."  Perform austerities?  Like?  If he was like my spiritual acquaintances here in New Mexico, his austerities may have been akin to farting without a net.

One austerity my friends do perform regularly is preparing and eating tasteless food.  Like polenta completely devoid of salt or seasoning that tastes a lot like thick water.  Another favorite is funny tasting food.  None of the food ever has a strong or distinctive taste, it just tastes a little off---not rotten or spoiled or anything---just strange, but not in a pleasant way.  Cilantro, which tastes to me a little like mildew smells, is a perennial favorite.

Can I sell tickets, do you suppose, for people to come watch me perform austerities?  "Here's a favorite, folks:  Watch as I fail to salt these eggplant fries (that were actually baked on a dry cookie sheet)!  And then eat them with ketchup from the new age vegan market that tastes vaguely of parsnips in unflavored yogurt---but only vaguely---mostly it doesn't taste like anything at all!  I'll be here all week; tell your friends!"

. . .

This just in on the Direct Line From God:

I am to name my daughter Carrie Nevada.  It will be a two part name like Mary Louise.  I hear that Mary Louise Parker will cut your ass if you call her anything but "Mary Louise."  No Mary, no Louise, no Mare, no Lou---both names in the proper order in their entirety.  It's Mary Louise or the highway.  My daughter can select her own custom diva-hood intensity level, but it's going to say Carrie Nevada Wong on her questionable Hawaiian birth certificate.  We want to make sure she's delivered in Hawaii so that if she runs for president someday, The Donald will be spazzing out in his grave.  Remember, you heard it here first:  The third woman president of the United States was Carrie Nevada Wong.
Tags: brain fart, compelling chronicle, dream transcription, profundity extraordinaire
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