He Is Risen!

Since I did such a good job cleaning the closet, I thought I might's well do under the bed. I was surprised: it wasn't nearly as bad as it can be:

That's not the "can be," by the way. That's "not as bad."

Aside from your standard dust bunnies, empty Diet Coke bottles, cat toys, used tissues, and random bits of newspaper, there are really only a few things that merit explanation. This, for example:

It's a book called Paper Lion, by George Plimpton -- in which he signs up to quarterback the Detroit Lions "to find out what it's like from the inside." I don't normally go for sports books, but I bought three or four football ones in a fuck-the-Giants fit after the Pats lost the Superbowl in 2008. The scoop on this said it has been really popular ever since it came out in '66, "even among people who don't read." I figured that meant it was fluffily entertaining, so I gave it a shot despite the fact that it's George Plimpton. Who can usually, you know, suck my fusty old imaginary balls.

I don't know if it was just that I read Roy Blount Jr.'s rollicking About Three Bricks Shy before this one, or if it actually sucks, or if what they meant by "even among people who don't read" was just that it's a decent size and shape for a good Hail Mary pass, but I got about a hundred pages in, said "ugh," and put it down. God, George, yes, we get it: these football players are mostly from poor, black, southern backgrounds and you went to Harvard. Why don't you just pat them on their noble, woolly heads and get it done?

How the book wound up quite so far away from the head of the bed where I dropped it, though, is anybody's guess. Maybe the dust-bunnies find Plimpton insufferable, too.

These, of course, are workout weights (and dust-bunnies, and cat toys):

I forgot I even had the 3-pounders. Obviously. And that's because they are annoying. I mean, the 2-pounders are useless enough, except for times you don't have to be using weights at all (while doing pushups, say, or warming up), but if you were using 2-pounders for working out (because you're Stephen Hawking, say, or Mr. Bill), how big a leap would three pounds really be? Yes, yes: a 50% leap, I understand. But come on. If you can't pick up two loaves of bread without breaking a sweat, then how much difference will a block of butter make?

So I keep the twos for non-weight moments, but I'm ashamed to say I've been using the fives and letting the tens collect dust for quite a while. I ever-so-very-recently picked them back up again, however, (which may shed a little light on my smug attitude above) and I have to say: if you want to know what it feels like to be Mr. Bill, do a set of plank flies with a pair of ten-pound weights and try to follow it with a set of Arnold presses. Oh, noooooooo!!

Speaking of oh, no:

Eh, those cans are cat food. It's a long story and not very entertaining. But that large pink thing in the middle of the picture? That is not -- despite seemingly obvious appearances -- a frighteningly large and fleshy dildo. What it is, is...

 Ask-Me Jeez!

No, no. I don't think it's really called Ask-Me Jeez. I don't remember what it's really called, but it really is a Magic 8 Ball in the shape of the sacred heart of Jesus Christ. And pink, for some reason. You ask it a question and turn it over, and it says things like "Let me ask my Dad," and "Made in China" -- see?

Dr. One Friend gave it to me a couple years ago, but Johnny (go figure) considered it a major sacrilege. So I shoved it under the bed (which is not sacrilegious at all, considering what it looks like), and forgot all about it. Until now.

You know what? Screw Johnny and his miserable Irish Catholic childhood! It's my bedroom, it's my eternal (or whatever) soul, and I say Fleshy Ask-Me Jesus stays!

After all, you never know when a little heavenly bedside consultation might come in handy for a heretic like me.

What?

Oh, yeah!

Happy Easter!