Many Asians regard all cheese, from processed American slices to Stilton, as utterly disgusting—the equivalent of cow excrement.

Hmmm. And I turn up my nose at bird poop soup. Maybe it’s the same thing. I mean really, what is cheese? Rotted, fermented animal juice. And my wonderful Velveeta? The cast-off waste product of rotted, fermented animal juice.

Food for thought.

And speaking of head scratchers, I humbly submit the following for your consideration:

.....?

The stuff of nightmares.

What a silly looking outhouse

The Soooooooooooooousa Train

"...and you'll stand there until you get it right."

Now that is bizarre. There's a barber pole painted on the wall.

Have a lovely day, fiends.

Come fly with me.

Is this for real?

Check it out. Arrive at the front gate, and you’re greeted by the Pale Horse of the Apocalypse, complete with glowing red eyes. Pass through the doors, and morbid murals and nightmarish paintings, depicting dead children and scimitar-waving, green-faced man-monsters line the interior walkways. Otherworldly images and mysterious symbolism pervade the space, skyrocketing the “ooky” factor.

Where are you? A bizarre funhouse in a rural carnival of horrors, straight out of a B-movie? An abandoned, haunted Soviet munitions factory? Hell?

No; you’re at the Denver Airport.

Honestly, I don’t know how I have gone the last 15+ years not knowing about this. Definitely weird. But hey, it’s a nice place and it’s art, so thumbs up. Still, I’m not sure it does any favors whatsoever for my, you know.

Are you happy today? I am. Go ahead, ask me why. Well, silly, because I get to see my family and close fiends tonight for dinner! Everyone’s coming over for pizza and birthday cake. The Thriller has held back a birthday present for me, preferring to give it to me tonight (instead of last Thursday, which was my actual b-day). Fun! I just hope it’s not a blue pony with red eyes…

Last night, I ran across the site I Write Like. Bizarre title for a writing site, but…anyway. It’s supposed to tell you whose style your writing resembles most. So I thought, hey, this sounds like fun; I’m curious, so I’ll give it a go.

I collected ten blog posts from the archives, basically at random (I looked for length, not subject matter). According to the results I received, I’m either quite the eclectic writer, or my every post is a schizophrenic shot in the dark. Think Jackson Pollock with a pen. So who do I “sound like” when I write? The results from their script’s analysis of ten different posts indicate that I Write Like:

1. Dan Brown
2. Cory Doctorow
3. H.P. Lovecraft (twice)
4. Douglas Adams
5. David Foster Wallace (twice)
6. J.D. Salinger
7. Stephenie Meyer
8. And on the last try: Stephen King (yay)

But then I got to thinking, I cannot possibly resemble all these famous people — two of whom I’ve never even read. They’re just randomly selecting names. So I tried something different. While glancing around my desk, at Facebook, at a couple of websites I had open in tabs, and about the parlor in general, I simply typed whatever words caught my eye:

Donkey cat whistle black finale charming sugar brother charlie watch eraser earrings

The result? James Joyce.

HahAAhaaa

So much for thinking I’m a writer, ja? Pshh….

OK, so I’m not really afraid of clowns. That’s more a nod to my good fiend Stoney. But back to me.

Of the aforementioned, I’d say only two are bona fide “phobias,” meaning that I have a persistent, unrealistic, irrational fear that causes me significant anxiety. That would be my fear of suffocation and fear of heights (although a more accurate description might be bathophobia — fear of falling from a high place).

Are you surprised that aviophobia didn’t make the short list? That’s because while I hate, hate, loathe flying, I will do it if I have to, on occasion. That is, if there is absolutely no other remotely feasible way for me to reach my destination other than going 30,000 feet in the air, I’ll take a plane. But you’ll never, ever, ever in your long-legged life get me to walk a ledge, or even get close to one. Been there, done that, hated it.

I’ve jerked to consciousness from dreaming about it, and I’ve shaken off thoughts of it while awake. It’s insane.

I came across a collection of awesome old photos from New York City this morning that pretty much illustrate my fear. Check these out:

1932, 800 feet up -- workers resting during the building of Rockefeller Center. Image by Bettmann/CORBIS

Man waving from the Empire State Building construction site, 1930. Image by Hulton-Deutsch Collection/CORBIS

Ew. I also hate crossing suspended bridges, which I suppose is an extension of the fear of falling from high places. I’m not as bad as this poor gal, but I do not enjoy the experience.

Some people have giggled at my weirdness, saying things like, “Hey, when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go,” and “You could fall from three feet up and still die.” Yeeaaaaaaaaaah BUT…I have no interest whatsoever in aiding and abetting the eventuality. Knowm sayin’?

All right, I’m off to breakfast with Mavis. At Friendly’s, where everything’s at ground level.

Happy Sumday!

I know that smokers can relate

Slogan says "Your throat protection against irritation, against cough"

Remember when smoking was allowed everywhere? When people smoked on airplanes, in movie theaters, in the grocery, the bank, and in schools? When doctors smoked in their offices?

This isn’t a nicotine bashing, and I’d prefer it not turn into that. Lots of people I love have been and still are smokers, so please temper your comments about it; we all know it’s an unhealthy habit. Rather, my point this morning is to illustrate how long it took for modern medicine to figure out that smoking was bad, especially since folks have smoked for over 200 years.

So that is what I wonder this day. Forty-eight more hours, forty-eight more hours, forty-eight more hours…

I know, I know. Men have an inherent weakness for pointy heels, and maybe that affinity leaks over into pointy toes as well. Personally, I see machete-sharp, leather outcroppings jutting from underneath dress slacks (or worse, jeans, ugh) and I think, “Ew. Antithesis of sexy.” Don’t get me wrong: I like to wear sassy, smart shoes and boots. But I fail to see how these monstrosities could be considered even remotely feminine or flattering. I wear a size 5, and they’d make my feet look gargantuan. I can’t imagine them on a size 9 foot. Just write PT-73 on ‘em.

But hey. If you want fancy leather cake servers sticking out from under your pantaloons, you just knock yourself out. I’ll be over here, relaxing in my moccasins.

Hoo-ah. Had a great night with Justin and Jake last night. Justin’s still sawing logs, and Jake is relaxing with Dora the Explorer at the moment, so Grammie is taking a few minutes to read and write. Later today is the marathon candy-making jamboree at the Fink house, where I will be joined by Helen, Hannah, Mavis, Jane and Simone. Fun will be had, and chocolate will be taste-tested. Yay for Chocodiles. We won’t have the heavy yellow cake, but Twinkies will do the trick, I’m thinking.

We know that once you buy shoes that are scientifically fitted, you will shop at <<STORE NAME>> all of the time.”

I’ll bet. Of course, we’re talking about the Shoe Fitting Fluoroscope — a contraption into which a customer slid his feet to view the bone structure inside a new pair of shoes. Children and women used it most, along with the salesmen, all of whom were blissfully ignorant of the dandy effects of scatter radiation.

The latest use of this gadget predates me by about 10 years, but I’m surprised that I never heard about them from the adults in my life (especially since I lived in Milwaukee, where many of the things were manufactured). Mavis, do you remember anyone ever talking about them? I don’t.

Anyway, the salesperson would fill out a card on each customer, thereby enabling him/her to recommend the right shoe. Again, brilliant marketing. If you could get a Fluoroscope in your store, the trap was set. All you needed to do was wait for the fish to take the bait.

Many of the comments I’ve read about them come from people now in their 60s and 70s, who thought it was fun as kids to line up in the shoe department and play on the Fluoroscope while Mom shopped. I imagine it would have been a hoot back then to look into the viewfinder and see your foot bones — like you were Ray Milland in The Man With the X-Ray Eyes, a movie that scared the snot out of me when I was ten years old.

Fortunately, by the time that movie came out, the medical community had wised up and the FDA banned the Fluoroscopes.

Interesting, ja? Now I’m going to be ooky for the rest of the day. Ray Milland. *shudder*

Images: Oak Ridge Associated Universities Museum (orau.org), Wisconsin Historical Society

Submitted for your approval:

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The Romance of Proctology. There is a reason for the absence of a photo on the cover.

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Just what you need: your fears leaping out at you.

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He was seriously awesome.

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I would seriously buy this.

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Sometimes, you'd just rather not know.

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Note to self: Jake's birthday is coming up.

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OK, everybody get to work.

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Possible addition to your research library, RD?

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Yes indeedy!

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Glad I could help. Happy Sumday!

I have referenced my long-ago post about clowns on several occasions over the last two-plus years, for various reasons. I know my fiend Stoney agrees with my oft-restated opinion: to me, clowns are neither happy nor funny. They are, in fact, among the most sinister and nightmarish-looking creatures to ever walk the planet. It matters not what kind of clowns they are, or how many pratfalls they perform, how talented they are at making balloon animals, or how goofy they act. They are macabre, suspect beings who seemingly never fail to leave small children caterwauling in abject terror.

Like many birds of a feather, they also have their own cult. Clowns are like the Branch Davidians, only without David Koresh and all the killing and stuff. They are understood by few outsiders, although you’re welcome to join us in the clowning world anytime…

Thanks all the same, but I’ll pass.

Perhaps the creepiest is the curious and bizarre art form of clown eggs. Once you join the “society,” you are entitled to have your visage recorded for posterity — on an egg. Your face is painted on an egg. For rill. Some of them are actually beautiful; not all are skeevy. (But most are.)

And speaking of inexplicably weird, we go from clowns to Basil Marceaux. A brave patriot for sure, but governor material? Not so much. Or cripes, maybe he’d be great — I mean, the political gene pool isn’t too rich with flora and fauna right now, knowmsayin’?

Speaking of clowning around — today is Justin & Jake Overnight day. Play Doh, sidewalk chalk, sand box, trucks, the park, hide and seek, Dairy Queen and a long bath are the orders of the afternoon and evening. Grammie and Grandpa Thriller just might survive it.

Anyway, on one of many random searches, a particular venue caught my eye. It could possibly top a list of The Most Depressing Theme Park in the World. Flippin’ awesome.

It’s Dickens World, a multi-million-pound venture situated in an old dock yard in Kent, England. Wow! Take a day to experience the filth, disease and hopelessness of Dickensian England, with actors portraying the dregs of hard-luck Victorian-era society. What a thrill for the kiddies. According to the website, you can also ” jump on board the Great Expectations Boat Ride for splashing good fun, take a trip back in time to a Victorian School complete with nasty schoolmaster or get spooked in The Haunted House of 1859.”

And look — the place comes with its own streetwalkers, ready to sell the kids their…um…yeah. Heh.

Seriously, I think this is fantastic. I would love it. I’m just not sure I’d take my children under the guise of having a cracking good time at an amusement park. History lesson — similar to, say, Colonial Williamsburg? Yes. Yee-haw, that-was-awesome fun? Nope.

OK, so Oliver Twist doesn’t float your boat. How about Grutas Park in Lithuania, where you can revisit the finer points of Stalinesque dictatorships, and, as Foreign Policy magazine puts it, “experience the joys of Gulag life, immerse yourself in the warm embrace of totalitarianism — and when you get a bit peckish, enjoy a tasty meal of ‘Nostalgija’ borscht, ‘Deer’s Eye’ cocktail, and ‘Reminiscence’ starch jelly in the cafe”? There’s also a train ride and a playground for the kids.

No? Sheesh, party pooper.

To be fair, some of these parks are not intended for children in the “entertainment” sense, but rather as an educational experience.  But when an American hears the term “theme park,” he likely thinks of amusements — roller coasters, a midway, food courts and the like. Hence, the confusion.

Still, I think I’ll stick to searching for the “yee-haw” element when planning an outing for the Toddlers — at least for now — before stressing to them the finer points of picking a pocket or two.

Photo credits: Daily Mail Online; Petras Malukas/AFP/Getty Images

Fellow crusties will remember typing class in high school, where we used old manual Royals, Olympias, Smith-Coronas or Olivettis to hone our mad skills. f-f-f-space, j-j-j-space. I loved those exercises because they had a definite rhythm. I remember trying to get the “tempo” of my typing as fast and rhythmically correct as possible. I never wanted to miss a “beat.” Is that music-geeky or what? But it served me well; learning to type fast on a manual helped me immensely on the easy keyboards of today, and even on electric typewriters back in the olden days (remember that old Selectric we had in the office years ago, RD?) I learned from the ground up.

Some of my friends and family like to poke fun at my typing style. I’m like Beethoven; keyboards don’t last forever with me. I type the way I play piano: forcefully, and without a single iota of finesse. But I get the letters and papers written, lemmetellya. Love it. (The secret:  in both playing piano and typing — never look at your hands. Well, almost never.)

Anyway. I was looking at some old typewriters this morning, and saw a few memories. I typed on a Royal manual, pictured above. The typing classroom was loud, loud, loud, as you might imagine (or remember, if you’re old enough).

Then came the portable manual — made of plastic instead of metal, so they were easy to carry around. But it was the IBM Selectric (pictured at left) that made everybody go positively mad. It had a little golf-ball-lookin’ typing head mechanism that you hooked onto the carriage. You could switch it out when you needed a different font, which of course meant that you had to buy a whole box of them to get the ones you wanted. But it was awesome at the time, heh. Progress.

Our mom had a portable electric — similar to the Selectric, but, again, made of plastic instead of metal. I remember typing a paper or two on it in high school, just to be fancy (back when typing a paper was almost never a requirement, except in typing class).  It was all cool and new and impressive.

But get a load-a THIS…

You really got to love the throwback to drop $350+shipping to have one of these crazy thangs. It looks kind of fun, though…

Anyone got a spare iPad on ‘em? I’d like to try this.

So, Mad Men star Vincent Kartheiser is in the news — for getting rid of his bathroom commode, and almost everything else. Living off the fat of the land, as it were, on a nondescript street in LA, Kartheiser has given away his car, dozens of expensive gifts, and every mirror in his house (a place he describes as “just a wooden box”). I am not making this up. Since he has thrown away his own toilet, he is relegated to using his neighbor’s, “for now.” [warning: profanity galore]

What the…?

But no matter. I still love MM, and am looking forward to 25 July, when Season 4 drops. Yay! I’ll be in San Bernardino that night.

The Wigwam Motel had better have AMC…

FO

Image credit: AMCTV.com

I’ve been in and out of consciousness since 1 a.m. I awoke with a start at 4:35 after having this dream…

I was at my Dinner Theatre. For those who don’t know, DT takes place in a large-ish cafeteria that also has a stage, so it’s perfect for that kind of show. The weirdness began immediately because:

a) I was sitting in the audience and not at the piano in the pit
b) There were no tables with food; only rows of chairs

So I’m sitting there with people I don’t know, enjoying the performance. Then, one of my 7th grade boys walks onstage to do his feature number, which is bizarre, because my middle school students aren’t even allowed to audition for the cast. As he begins singing, he is joined onstage by a band full of the weirdest-looking people I have ever seen. (Think Mos Eisley cantina scene from Star Wars.) They began playing behind this kid, and actually the sound was good. They harmonized with him. But I was still shocked that this 12-year-old boy brought his own band and didn’t ask or tell me. I sat there, embarrassed and doing a slow burn.

Then the movie started.

It was a montage, beginning with scenes from The Wizard of Oz. Then it flashed to other scenes, each one darker and more gruesome than the last. (Think original Willy Wonka movie, bad-acid-trip boat scene: Not a speck of light is showing, so the danger must be growing. Are the fires of Hell a-glowing? Is the grisly Reaper mowing?) The singer and his band were nowhwere to be found now, but the movie montage went on and on and on and on…

After what seemed like an eternity, I got up and walked to the back of the room, ready to storm out into the hallway, go backstage, and stop the madness. I ran right into one of the guys from the kid’s band, leaning against the wall. All I could do initially was stand there and gawk at his face. (Think Hervé Villechaize morphed with Marty Feldman. Except tall.) Anyway, I told him how utterly disgusted I was that he hijacked my production, not to mention using copyrighted cinematic material without permission. He nodded and apologized; then, this exchange:

Him: It’s all in Jacksonville.

Me: What? What’s in Jacksonville?

Him: I thought maybe you and me…

Me: Oh my G…

*jerking awake and looking at clock*

And there it is. Nightmare on Sandusky Street. And now, the shower, the bakery, the school house, the 3-hour tech rehearsal — and hopefully, no creepy folks wanting to go to Jacksonville. Ugh, I need me some coffee.

FO

Photo credit: CBS

Russian singers from the 70s — awesome. Russian singers lip-synching a vocalise on Soviet television, complete with gorgeous set tricked out in week-old mustard-colored backdrop and tattered fence-like apparatus — incomparable.

Watch it twice. It’s Finkday, after all. Treat yourself.

Daryl Hannah, semi-recently and now

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Hopefully, it’s just one of those weird-angle pictures, when the paps caught her off-guard, because that’s the only way I can reconcile this thing in my mind. Wasn’t Splash a fun movie? So many facelifts ago…

Another snow day, and we are out of DayQuil. This could be dangerous. Time to call in the reinforcements (snow plow guys).

FO