Scratchy Glitter

Observations for the easily irritated.

Tag: rock music

Dreaming is Free

…to quote Blondie. Speaking of which, the song “Rip Her To Shreds” always reminds me of Nikki the Tragically Hip. I can just picture her being in a band and singing that.

WordPress is inviting me to attend a “Word Camp” near me. That sounds scary. Luckily, “near me” is defined loosely.


First topic of conversation: What you should trade your PS4 in for. The fact that you should trade in your PS4 was not open to question. (Note: I only know what a PS4 is because of South Park.)

Second topic: “I think Cambridge Analytica should be in trouble, not Facebook.” (Note: Spell-check says “analytica” is not a word, and I agree.)

Third: “The only reason they had so many Ewoks was because they couldn’t put in that many Wookies, because of the expense for the costumes.” (Note: I have never seen a Star Wars movie.)


I’m sitting here feeling daring because I’m wearing a tank top. Yeah, it’s 56 degrees, but I’m inside.



Seen at CVS–fake succulents. Just grow some facking succulents! It isn’t hard.

And…”Sour Neon Night Crawlers.” As you know, Sour Neon Crawlers is the name of my imaginary band. “Night Crawlers” would be a good name for our second album. People would know what the band was about by then, and we could just stand there on the cover wearing leather and looking ironic.


I dreamed that I was about to die, and they told me, “We have technology now that can bring you back to life, but only for 24 hours, and you can only do it once. You’ll need to wear makeup, because you’ll still look kind of greenish, and you’ll have to wear perfume, because you’ll still smell just a little bit like a dead body.” I chose Avon Timeless, because I thought an old-timey scent would be a witty touch. I’m sure Avon would be flattered. And how did I spend my precious 24 hours? At a party with my former co-workers, and I insisted on telling everyone, “You know, I’m actually dead,” and then feeling hurt because they all looked horrified and backed away from me. It’s not easy being dead.

No, I do not wear perfume because I’m trying to cover up the smell of a dead body.




An Army of Red and Green Laser Snowmen

…is what was promised in a commercial I saw today. “ACT NOW AND WE’LL THROW IN VAMPIRE BATS, ABSOLUTELY FREE!”


Let’s continue our zodiac explorations…now for 1973.

Witchiest Makeup for Taurus: “Green shadow on eyelids, the merest dusting of same for the most intriguing earlobes in town.” Yeah, green earlobes would be the most intriguing in town, I’m pretty sure.

Interior decorating for Gemini: “Start a crystal collection–a disconcertingly placed bud vase with blue silk rose in the bathroom.” I guess a crystal bud vase in the bathroom would be disconcerting no matter where you placed it. I recommend the back of the toilet.

Favorite Aphrodisiac for Cancer: “Clam juice, with a frosting of Mediterranean sea salt, sprinkle of tarragon.” I’m glad I’m not a Cancer, so I don’t have to drink this.


Rom saw a sour neon crawler on the sidewalk. This must be an omen. Of something.


P.J. McBride–vocals and bass guitar. There’s a heartwarming story of how I learned to play bass even though I’m hampered by a previously-dislocated finger.

Romuald McBride III–drums. He learned to play drums to deal with quitting smoking.

Lead and rhythm guitars–two of my brothers-in-law. These guys are real musicians and I was impressed by their performance of Tom Petty’s “You Got Lucky” in my living room. It takes a lot for an acoustic performance to impress me.

Keyboards–my old friend Charles.

With luck (oh, and with work, and you know how that goes), I’ll come up with adventures for the Sour Neon Crawlers, similar to the stories my dear departed friend Suzy and I wrote about our favorite musicians in 8th grade (Bob Dylan, Donovan, Simon & Garfunkel). Yes, I’m regressing. This is what I do when I’m not giving snaky tongues to birds in my coloring book.

I am at war with my coloring book. Every time I turn a page, I think, YOU EXPECT ME TO COLOR ALL THESE THINGS? ARE YOU INSANE?? Then I scribble all over it.


–Little boy playing with his dad at McDonald’s–“Give me back my missile! You are evil!”


Archer (currently 6 years old) is an alien for Halloween. He told Rom that he’s called Extraterrestrial Highway. Rom said, “Is that how you got here?” and he said no, that’s his name. He also has a special way of holding his hands while running (even when he’s not an alien) because “it’s aerodynamic.”

I hope this post meets with the approval of Nick, who was bored by me earlier.

As it happens, my 6th and last post for Feb. ’13 was entitled “Tortured By Boredom,” and described NIMS training as “being waterboarded with words.” Those who have had this training will know whereof I speak.



Remember my whining about lack of material? (“Which time?” they inquire.) Well, I have been informed by a former co-worker (I guess all my co-workers are “former” now) that Nick got involved in a situation on patrol that would make a good story. And so it shall, once I figure out how to Glitterize it. Did it occur to me to ask my (former) colleagues to send me good stories they encounter? No, it did not. “I fear no blogger,” Nick says, but maybe he should.


still dream I show up at work, and then realize, “Hey, I don’t have to be here! I’ll just stay and eat donuts.”


Time to use both boldface and italics? No, time to criticize holiday decorations. Not that I object to the idea of a spider skeleton. It just makes me wonder how many people think spiders actually have skeletons. “Well, I saw it at Walgreen’s, it must be true.”


I never did tell you what I spent my retirement gift cards on.

–Walgreen’s card from Ms. Tragically-Hip–red nail polish, base/top coat for same

–card from Noelle–gave CVS a turn and got a vat of body wash, one of those mesh puffy things (I normally use a washcloth, so I’m Trying New Things), and a tub of sugar scrub. I will be slicker than owl droppings, as Rom so poetically says, although I don’t think that substance is actually known for slickness.

The jury, by which I mean me, is still out on what to spend the rest of the retirement cash on. The longer I wait, the more ideas I get. How about a bright pink pantsuit? Rom will probably try to talk me out of that one. I think I’d look quite sixth-Rolling-Stone, with the addition of my black t-shirt. The ad for the suit says, “You can’t go wrong with slim-leg pants.” You can if you have big feet.


“I’m goin’ away, baby, and I won’t be back ’till fall

If I find me a good-lookin’ woman, I won’t be back at all”

I detect a lack of commitment to this relationship.


Post #2, “How I Got Beaten Up At Work,” (Feb. 2013) is self-explanatory. I see that one person re-read it, so they could envision it taking place at a massage parlor. Make sure you envision it with mirrored walls and red and green shag carpeting. Oh, and 70’s hard-rock radio. “More Than a Feeling,” indeed.


Thanks & Apologies

Thank you to the person who told me the first thing they do every morning is check to see if I’ve posted! Although maybe an apology would be more appropriate.


BEST NAME FOR A ROCK BAND EVER–(courtesy of a candy I saw at CVS): Sour Neon Crawlers. Let’s get that band started! I could write lyrics, I don’t sing any worse than some singer-songwriters, and Rom said I have the personality of an egotistical lead singer, so let’s go!

BONUS: BEST NAME FOR A COUNTRY BAND EVER (courtesy of a sports team I saw on the news while waiting impatiently for Colbert to be on): Normal Cornbelters.

Billboard at Lloyd/St Joe–“Want to know how this works? Call us.” Yes, it’s a billboard advertising itself. And no thanks, I think I understand how they work.


An editorial in the paper recently noted disapprovingly that states have over-extended their pension obligations, “even offering retiree health insurance.” How dare I have health insurance! I should just do without, as punishment for working for the government for 32 years. (Well, 32 years for this government. I worked for 2 others before that.)

I am now in my third  month of pretending I’m independently wealthy and have inherited a small fortune (but only a small one, as befits my lower-upper-class upbringing). Of course, it’s easy to live cheaply when you don’t have a life, as it’s commonly defined.


–stolen from Kurt Cobain, if I understood him correctly.

When did parts of speech become randomized? I hate to bring it up, since it makes me sound pedantic. Not to mention un-creative, which is the worst thing you could call me. (“Wait! Wait! I need to add this to my notes!” Nick says, jumping up and spilling his pink lemonade.) Yeah, I know, language evolves and stuff. But still…

“Enjoy the go.” (Well, that’s wrong for so many reasons, #1 being the idea that using the toilet would actually be pleasant as long as you had the right toilet paper.) (Did you know there’s a commercial out there that SHOWS A DIAGRAM OF TURDS MOVING THROUGH YOUR INTESTINE??! It’s a sign of the end. So to speak.)

“Each child schools differently.”

“Discover your awesome.”

“This is how you Sonic.”

“the big reveal” We already have a word for that–revelation.

I saw a woman on the bus with a t-shirt that said: “American Pride: ‘America’, adj., in or of America. ‘Pride’, noun, a highly opinion of oneself.” Bigly, I say.

Speaking of which, a clerk at Thornton’s complimented me on my tattoo and said, “Is that a cobra? You’re the last person I’d think would have that.” Time for the Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt, obviously.


I read that the autistic brain lacks the ability to automatically prioritize sensory input. I never thought of it that way before, but it makes so much sense. Everything comes at me at once, so no wonder I like to stick to the familiar. It’s mildly disorienting just to go to a McDonald’s location I haven’t been to before, and actual Travel is just overwhelming. (I remember a co-worker asked, “What will you do when you retire? Travel?” and I said, “NO!” with a loudness and vehemence she might have found odd.) Rom has an expression, “It’s like you get on moving day,” to express this state. You know how they say that someone “sees what has to be done and does it?” I have trouble seeing what has to be done. Just issue instructions, please. And hope I’ll follow them. (You can see why Rom has that expression.) The everything-at-once theory also explains why I get a lot of both “I can’t believe you noticed that!” and “I can’t believe you didn’t notice that.”


…for the small spider that fell into my candle. I blew the candle out as a sign of respect, and it is  now entombed in rose-and-magnolia-scented wax.


We haven’t heard about a certain beast for awhile, have we? I heard that he’s gone rogue now that I’m no longer his handler, and was spotted in Orlando attacking Disney characters (now that there’s an app that helps you locate them). But he is no longer my concern, I suppose.



School’s Out Forever

The musically-astute will recognize my I GOT NO GOALS statement in the previous post as a take-off on Alice Cooper:

“And we got no class!

And we got no principals!

And we got no innocence!

We can’t even think of a word that rhymes!”

But they are more clever than you think, given the double meanings of “class” and “principles” illustrated above. Speaking of which, I always remember the different spellings from the trick they taught us in school, “When you mean the principal of a school, it ends with ‘pal,’ because the principal is your pal!” Even as a kid, I thought that was lame. Speaking of which, I remember senior year of high school, standing in the hall during one of the lunch periods (the school was big enough that we had more than one) talking to the assistant principal, who was in charge of attendance and discipline. He pointed out the window to the courtyard, and said, “You see those kids standing around? Half of them are supposed to be in class right now.” I myself was supposed to be in class right then, and snickered inwardly at his ignorance. Of course, I now realize that he was probably perfectly aware of that, and that’s why he brought it up. (And for those of you who are thinking, “Why, World Leader! We didn’t think of you as the class-cutting type!,” let me just say that the class I was cutting was gym, and I didn’t start cutting it until a classmate pointed out that I was failing it anyway, so why bother to show up? It actually hadn’t occurred to me to skip it until then. And you see what a wuss I was even so–I didn’t even leave the school grounds, just prowled the empty halls.)

SPEAKING OF WHICH, after reading my account of meeting up with Nick unexpectedly and not noticing him, Rom said, “You’re a strange person.” But what does he know? He’s only lived with me for 36 years.


For once, I mean that literally, and not as arcane symbolism. Speaking of which, FanBaser and sort-of-coworker T. Rex reports that she knew about me when I started in Police Records, as “the Record Room intellectual.” I guess every Record Room needs one. And it sounds more distinguished than “the one who doesn’t wear a bra,” which I also was.

Disobeying Orders

http:// My Blog School assignment today was to change my blog title. Why would I do that? Instead, I will explain how it came to be what it is.

{Disclaimer: This post will be short because typing with my fingers taped together is making me feel like a mummy and creeping me out.}

–“Crisis in Progress” was already the title of someone else’s blog.

–“Sad Creature,” likewise.

–Scratchy glitter is something that annoys me, and the blog is largely me complaining about stuff.

–Disadvantage: Some people think it’s a blog about crafts.


“Pump It Up” by Elvis Costello.

“She has been a bad girl, she is like a chemical

Though you try to stop it, she is like a narcotic”

Right, Nick?

I just learned to link/embed stuff (“At this late date?” they say scornfully), so I’m hoping the video works when I publish this.


“May cling to nose making breathing impossible.”

Glad my hand doesn’t have a nose.


Freak Show


Rom said he finally told family friend D. about the blog. I said I was surprised he hadn’t already done so, and he said that he  wasn’t sure I would want him to. OK, EVERYONE, FEEL FREE TO TELL YOUR FRIENDS, OK? I’m not just doing this for my health. Or maybe I am. N-E-Way, Writers Like Having Readers is something you can pretty much bet on. (Speaking of which, I keep hearing rumors that some people actually get paid to write, although I believe that practice was actually discontinued in the mid-80’s.) If I was (were? accursed subjunctive, stop troubling me!) just doing this for myself, I’d keep a diary. I’ve tried doing that a couple times, but gave it up because I always wrote as if I had an audience. So there you go.


I am, I admit, actually trepidated at the thought of someone coming in at this late date, and not being able to figure out what the hell I’m talking about (something of a problem at the best of times). I think all of my readers know me personally, and that is a small circle indeed. So others might wonder, “What are these phone calls and radio station of which you speak?” or not know who Nick is and why you should call the police if you find him digging through your garbage. All the advice I can give you is, you’ll just have to keep rooting through the archives to get some idea of the context. From my admittedly-limited experience, this blog appears to be unique, but I’m not sure it’s unique in a good way.

Not much of a user’s guide, was it?


–Because someone is taking a picture of your license plate, and you admit it’s because you’re parked in a handicapped spot to which you’re not entitled.


“Be Manlier,” next to a razor to remove men’s body hair. Pssst, guys–it’s the same razor as the women’s Venus, in a different color–a presumably-manly shade of acid green. But more to the point, since when is removing body hair manly?

DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR, PT. 2: (gritting my teeth and resisting the impulse to go back and substitute Roman numerals for these II sections)…

Kind of like the practice of deciding what you’d name your baby if you had one (yeah, I’ve done that, too) (wait, that’s not a universal human experience?), I’ve decided what I’d name my fantasy rock band. We would be called the Spricketeers, and Rom would have a kick-ass representation of a spider cricket on his bass drum. Sure, we can’t play any musical instruments (I gave up the flute back in the mists of antiquity), but why let that stop us? And sure, we’re “of a certain age,” but that would be a unique gimmick! Most bands have to wait a long time to get this old! But, now that I think of it, the Gerasene Demoniacs would be a good name for a band, too. (Rom says I have the personality of an egotistical lead singer, and he must be right, since I’m already picking names without the rest of the band’s input.)


No Unified Theme

–I’m a fan of Patti Smith, but if I wrote the line “Why must not death be redefined?” I’d have crossed it out.

–Sign inside Marx BBQ: “Emergeny Exit.” That’s because you emerge from it.

–The new CVS is making rapid progress, and looks startlingly similar to the Walgreen’s across the street. I saw the cutest tiny piece of construction equipment, which I yearn to drive in the dead of night.

–Nick is recovering from having a knot jerked in his tail (not by me–why am I always the usual suspect?). Yes, someone finally succumbed to the urge to beat him up which we all feel from time to time. (“That’s not–I wasn’t–” he starts to splutter, but I’m not feeling threatened by him at the moment.) (“You mean you normally do feel threatened by me?” he inquires, promptly cheering up.)


GETTING SERIOUS MOMENTARILY (By the way, “momentarily” means “for a moment,” not “in a moment,” SO STOP SAYING “WE’LL BE WITH YOU MOMENTARILY,” OK?)

I read in the paper that there’s typically an uptick in suicides after a celebrity suicide like Robin Williams’. And I can believe it, since we had a call the other day where a suicidal person actually referred to it. This is so sad, both for the people involved, and for what it says about our society.

I suppose I should finish up on a lighter note, but I have no editor to make me do so, so there you go.

This Just In

Rom’s three-year-old granddaughter Fiona informed us that her friend Bingo Pingo had recently died. We did not know much about him, except that he was large and lived in the forest. The cause of death remains uncertain at this time, but is probably due to a witch or a big bad wolf. (Evidence is sketchy, but these are the usual suspects in such cases.) However, Bingo Pingo’s friends Honn-ghost and Fronn-ghost managed, by the aid of powerful magic, to bring him back from the dead. Unfortunately, a spell with such power can turn on its user, and in the course of the proceedings, Honn-ghost and Fronn-ghost themselves died–and, as it turns out, Bingo Pingo himself is still in peril. Fiona and her brother Archer plan to neutralize this threat, using powerful magic which they intend to purchase at a gas station. (As Rom pointed out, magic is something most people could really use while on the road.) Archer is characteristically close-mouthed about the details of their plan, although he did confirm his own involvement. I wondered how Fiona and Archer could avoid the fate met by Honn-Ghost and Fronn-Ghost, but I couldn’t think of a tactful way of asking. I will keep you informed of any further developments.


You knew there had to be one eventually, didn’t you?

You know you’re in trouble when you not only see, but smell, that the women’s room is occupied. There was a stench extending into the hallway, and multiple flushes were called for. “Oh no! A multi-flusher!” I thought. “Not only will I pass out when I finally get in there and take a breath, but the next person will think I did it!” That was too much to bear, so I quickly slipped into the men’s room.


–The walls are tan and the floor is brown, unlike the women’s room, where the scheme is, I believe, white and gray. (I can’t call it to mind for sure, even though I’ve been in there countless times.)

–The urinal is low enough for even little tykes like the aforementioned Archer, who is also three.

–Most interesting of all, the only functioning condom machine is in the WOMEN’S RESTROOM. How about that, ladies? “MALE SEXUALITY–WE DON’T CARE. WE DON’T HAVE TO.”

At any rate, I transacted my business, then thought, “With my luck, I’ll step out the door, and bump into Nick, who will then charge me with exposing myself in the men’s room, or something.”

Almost. He was around the corner, getting himself a fountain drink, so he’d have something to spill in the car later. He saw me and approached with great caution, ridging his back up, so I’d think he was even bigger. (He’s already bigger than I am, as he reminds me frequently. Yeah, and I don’t have wings and a tail either, so whatever.)

“Are you in mourning?” (I was all in black.)

“Yes, for the breakup of R.E.M.” (I was showing off my recently-acquired 1987 tour shirt, not that I saw them on the 1987, or indeed any, tour.)

He then quoted lyrics of “Losing My Religion” to me, which I believe he got by stalking the “About” part of my Facebook page. Unfortunately, he did not sing those lyrics, which I’m sure would have been worth hearing, for one reason or another.

Long story (as usual) short, I picked up the requisite apple ale for my current vacation, with the assistance of these two intrepid officers. This was a lot easier than carrying 2 6-packs myself, especially since I also had a fountain drink, and don’t have 3 hands. So Nick carried my fountain drink in his teeth (see–he can be gentle enough not to puncture styrofoam–a trick I haven’t completely mastered yet!). Yes, I was carded (I look pretty young, but I’m just backdated), and the clerk thoughtfully put the 6-packs in bags, so people wouldn’t think I was buying booze for the cops. I got into the squad car, thinking, “Tanya, please don’t give them a run…” (Although, in all fairness {well, some fairness}, I feel compelled to add that the last time a ride home almost turned into a ride-along, Nick did not make me beg to be let out of the car, as I’d feared he would.)

Nick pretended he was going to take a drink of my soda (think you’d enjoy caffeine-free diet cola with sugar-free mango spritzer, DO YA, PUNK?) (well, maybe he would–he drinks pink lemonade in public) and said, “Then you’d never throw away this straw,” which is mighty big talk coming from a beast who starts to salivate whenever he sees me. When we got to my house, he cheered me on through the police loudspeaker as I maneuvered my various beverages into the house, offering helpful suggestions as to how this might best be accomplished. And I am the thoughtful type, so I forgot to offer him and Sam banana nut bread with chocolate chips, which I had at my disposal.

I have more to say, including the Scratchy Glitter Guide to Fireworks, but I think I’ve gone on long enough. Apple ale awaits.


Growing Old Gracelessly

I saw a gray-haired, obviously old man on the bus today, wearing a Doors “Light My Fire” t-shirt. “He really should have reconsidered that shirt,” I thought loftily, “fearing not I’d become my enemy in the instant that I’d preach,” as Bob Dylan observed. I mean, have I not, IN THESE VERY PAGES, mentioned similar items I own and wear? Why is it pathetic on the gentleman in question, but on me, just a sign of my quirky charm? After all, I get offered senior discounts all the time (that I didn’t ask for and am not yet entitled to). And while we’re on the subject…


…in search of my “U.S.A.” one the other day, I pulled out the 2-skulls-in-yin-yang-formation one, the Blue Oyster Cult one, and the R.E.M. one, the latter two of which are, I’m sure, mortal enemies plotting each other’s downfall. Also, I own enough work-related t-shirts, received/purchased from various departments/divisions, that I could easily wear nothing but those. (“We would prefer that you also wear pants,” they say, but I don’t believe the dress code specifies that, and you know how I am about dress codes.) So I’m guessing fashion maturity won’t be striking anytime soon.


The Beast is back on the job (more or less), his navy-blue scales buffed and polished. Or they were until the last run I sent him on. Upon his return home, his owner said, “WHAT have you been rolling in now?!” and banished him to the outdoor enclosure, without even a mirror to keep him company. But, after a thorough sand-blasting and detailing (I don’t mean they removed his tail–that would be inhumane), he is now acting as guard beast while his owner enjoys a four-day birthday extravaganza, in an exotic locale where they drink alcoholic beverages for breakfast. I myself have been tipsy in the presence of this abstemious beast, and I can only say, Everyone loves a smart-ass. Oh, they don’t? I’VE BASED MY LIFE ON A LIE!! (I had to take a moment to decide on the number of exclamation points that sentence called for. Is one enough? Are three too many?)

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