Write me:
skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com

Tuesday, 14 September

For at least a couple weeks now, when walking home from work, I have been subject to the profoundly horrifying experience of hearing The Bangles' "Eternal Flame" in my head, over and over. Whether there is some unknown somatic trigger on my walk that I am unaware of or simply a troubling disorder of organic nature, this cannot continue. Why? Why this suffocating, mephitic song? Strong measures are called for. Tomorrow I will begin loudly singing The Fixx. If that doesn't work, I'll have to call in the big guns, like say Richard Marx, or, God forbid, Rush. I'll do what it takes.


Whenever I walk by my rubber tree plants--which I love, and I always want to give them a collegial chuck on the shoulder for being such classy-ass plants, but evolution has thus far fucked them out of shoulderdom . . . for now--but I also am unfailingly bummed out by the ever-thickening layer of dust that they accumulate on their broad leaves. "Poor bastards," I think. "I should clean that fucking dust off these guys. They totally leave me alone." Then I glare at my higher-maintenance plants and shout, "WHY CAN'T YOU BE MORE LIKE YOUR BROTHERS?" The plants keep their own counsel--smug little fucks, and I can see that smirk, Mr. . . . Viney. (I don't know what the hell some of my plants are.)

Anyway. Eventually, when I'm done mentally castigating my plants, my attention finally returns to the aforementioned dust-coated Good Guys, the rubber trees. "I really need to dust off your damn leaves," I say. And then, because I am extremely lazy, I don't. So I constantly feel bad about it, but yet not bad enough to do anything. Hannah Arendt would probably look at my horticultural misdeeds and describe them as "the banality of schmevil."


Today at work, I found myself quite startled to suddenly be involved in a conversation with a couple female co-workers about "boobs." My halting contribution: "I . . . like boobs." It occurred to me then that I had just brilliantly distilled the entire life work of Norman Mailer down into three small words.

But I had no time to savor this dubious victory, as apparently everyone in the office but me was completely drunk on this Monday morning, because the conversation then turned to "asses," namely male asses. That was when one woman (jokingly) slapped me on mine, saying, "Wow! That's firm!" Then, qualifying: "Maybe I hit your wallet." I replied, "No, that's all me. I have an extraordinarily fine ass."

People laughed, and then there was a brief silence, and someone piped up, "This is of course all going into a lawsuit."

I'm not worried. My ass is still pretty good. I'll take it to a jury.


Today, walking home--Is this burning . . . an eternal flaaaaaame?--I passed a brick apartment building. It had one of those blocky dryer outflow air vents, smelling of old socks and fabric softener sheets. It also had a discarded wig resting over the top of it.

This was possibly the most disturbing set of sensory conditions I've ever encountered. The dryer vent was causing the discarded wig--and "discarded wig" is a hauntingly oppressive set of words just by itself--to blow about and dance weirdly; as if the dryer vent was attempting to seduce me with its whorish behavior. The cloying scent of fabric softener drifted into my nostrils while I stared at the lewd hairdance, and all the while "Eternal Flame" continued to play in my brain, and for a moment, I was transported back to high school prom, and my date was creepy, bewigged dryer vent, who danced like Salome and smelled of that awful Snuggly bear thing, and all my high school friends stared at me and said things like, "Jesus, dude, why did you bring the transvestite dryer vent to the prom, and why does she smell like my grandma?"

Then I thought back to my actual senior prom, and with some dismay, I realized I probably would have had a better time with discarded-wig-transvestite dryer vent.

I assume there's a Rush song about this.

Summary | Skot | 14 Sep, 2004 |

Note: Comments are closed on old entries.


So long as the tune in your head stays positive, and it isn't a collaberative effort between Elton John and Tim Rice.

Comment number: 004197   Posted by: Fissell on September 14, 2004 12:50 AM from IP:

As a matter of fact, there's a little known Rush song about that very thing. It was before Neil Peart, who can use big words and rhyme, joined the band.

I think it went something like "Discarded-wig-transvestite dryer vent/You're so hot/You get hair in my beer/But I still like you a lot"

Comment number: 004198   Posted by: Tigger on September 14, 2004 02:03 AM from IP:

"Lewd hairdance" is the best phrase I have ever heard, and I will now try to somehow maneuver it into every conversation I have.

Comment number: 004200   Posted by: Cordelia on September 14, 2004 07:46 AM from IP:

I love dryer vent smell. It can make even the shittiest songs take on a comforting lilt.

Comment number: 004201   Posted by: lisa on September 14, 2004 08:30 AM from IP:

Something about dryer sheets turn me on. Whenever my wife wants some action, she cleans the bedding. And tosses in an extra dryer sheet.

Comment number: 004202   Posted by: JerudC on September 14, 2004 08:53 AM from IP:

Oh, jesus. Now that accursed runny cheese anthem has spilled into my subconscious. I need something peppy and infectious to blast it out immediately.

Comment number: 004203   Posted by: lisa on September 14, 2004 09:56 AM from IP:

hmm...bangles = bad. may i suggest some herb alpert as the ultimate music-to-walk-by?

Comment number: 004204   Posted by: iLLa on September 14, 2004 10:27 AM from IP:

Or is this burning in eternal Flameeeeeee.e.e.e.eeee
Don't let the sun go down on me now.
I walk the weaping Willow because you're mine Mihihihineeeee...
(Willie Nelson Style)

You are a fantastic audience,

Thank you very much & hard...


Comment number: 004205   Posted by: Pure Pollution on September 14, 2004 10:58 AM from IP:

P.s. my ass is rock solid hard...

Wanna Touch?

Reach out & Touch...
Somebody's ass.
Make this world a better one.
For you and me.

Reach out & Touch...
Somebody's Personal Space.
Make this world a better one.
For you and me.

Okay enough singing. I have to go now.
U was een fantastisch publiek!

Comment number: 004206   Posted by: Pure Pollution on September 14, 2004 11:04 AM from IP:

I can't believe somebody quoted Nick Kershaw, I loooove Nick Kershaw.

Comment number: 004207   Posted by: Lauren on September 14, 2004 01:47 PM from IP:

I don't know how big your poor dusty rubber plants are, but if you can lift 'em, toss 'em in the shower. Weekly watering + dusting all in one! (Wrap a plastic bag around the pot-top if you don't want to overwater)

You may resume singing along now.

Comment number: 004208   Posted by: MaddestMonk on September 14, 2004 02:20 PM from IP:

You may have the Bangles, but I, *I*, have had the Bee Gees' "How Deep is your Love" in my head for the past several days, and it was REINFORCED on me today while in a local drug store.

I am cursed.

Comment number: 004210   Posted by: caoil on September 14, 2004 05:53 PM from IP:

You're lucky.
For me it's "Ainn't Nobody Humpin' Arouuuuuund" by Bobby Brown.
I have no idea why.

Comment number: 004217   Posted by: dayment on September 17, 2004 10:54 AM from IP:

Jeebus, Skot, I nearly woke up the entire household with my laughter.
I guess I'm the last remaining person who has an irrational fondness for "Eternal Flame." However, as this entry has gotten the song stuck in my head, I expect that said fondness will weaken rapidly.

Comment number: 004238   Posted by: CG on September 25, 2004 12:17 AM from IP:

Post a comment