schplog

Wow, Schlinky. I was really moved by your sad yurt-related break-up story. That’s rough, man.

Of course now they’re getting kind of passe anyway now that everyone in the pacific northwest has a yurt in their backyard. Good grief, who ever thought that a semi-portable, cloth-covered, wood-framed home would become a yuppie trend?

My buddy Jim D. was saying the other day that nowadays having a big ole tent/sauna/meditation room in your backyard is pretty much the same as owning an SUV.

I was like, yurt telling me.

Speaking of yurts, my sometimes-boyfriend Steve and I took a yurt-building course together a couple of years ago. He’s a born perfectionist, a total stickler for doing everything according to the rules. And I’m more of the “let’s be creative and innovate our heads off” school of thought. So, to put it mildly, we didn’t really agree on the finer points of yurt building.

And after that we kind of pretty much went our separate ways. He joined some off-the-grid ashramified community and I took off for South America to visit some ancient ruins and get inspired.

Later though, we decided we could still be friends, and he even took a trip down to visit me so he could check out the tent houses I was building, and give me back my favorite sweatshirt and a couple Bob Dylan CDs.

Of course he completely freaked out when he saw what I had built and was furious that I had “done away with” what he called “the traditional Mongolian way of life.” I mean, as if. I took the sweatshirt and the CDs of course, but I was like, “Dude, what’s not Yurts is Mayan.”

That’s funny that you should just write about yurts. I must tell you about the all-time best tagline for a yurt business: “If you are not in a Yurt, you must be Square.”

(I’m not making this up — www.yurts-r-us.com)

Boy, are they clever. We should hire them to schplog for us. Or at the very least to come up with a better tagline for the schplog. How about, “If you are not a flirt, you must not be Baudelaire.”

Whaddya think?

You can build your suburban sprawl til the cows come home.

But I’m going to build my Yurt til the Turtle comes home.

Overheard in St. Louis . . .

“I betcha you’ll never come up with a name for your ice cream parlor.”

“Oh yeah? I sure as heck will!”

“You couldn’t come up with a name if ya tried.”

“Oh yeah? Can too.”

“Go on, try it. I double dog dare ya.”

“That’s it. The Double Dog Dairy. Thanks.”

I am the agualrus. GOO GOO G’JOOB!

One always feels one loses some of one’s macho edge, as it were, when one is outwittified by someone else’s clever mockery. Some clever and slinky young thing with shockingly red lips and stiletto heels makes a cutting remark and one is undone by this fountain of  feminine facetiousness. One feels most inadequate, if you will, when such a creature uses her willfully witty wiles against one.

All I’m saying is, don’t sarcastrate me.

Taking six apples, they are cut into very small parts. Then, using a needle and thread, connect them together and hang them from your Christmas tree before the party. After being dangled, the tree looks party-pretty. You see, that is how you make dangling parties-apples.

Do you want to come over and try out my new favorite aerobics/lifestyle video? It’s got Jane Fonda, purple leotards, Malibu sunsets and it’s called “Wait! Way-cool ways to lose weight with whey!” It’s like, you get to eat as much cheese as you want, as long as it’s melted and you keep moving.

No way! I mean, no whey! No can do! I mean, no fondue! How sleazy is that? I mean, how cheesy is that?

I can’t believe you think I shouldn’t try out for the obstacle course team.

You’re hurdling my feelings!