Shameless self indulgence, Uncategorized, Writing

Grumpiest Monkey Fiction: Sympathy for Mr. Z (Part 1)

We are not so unlike, you and me.

You are a successful banker with a nice suburban home, a pretty wife and two charming children. A member of the rotary club, the coach of the town’s “squirts” Pop Warner team, and a scratch golfer.

I am the reanimated undead corpse of your next door neighbor, and I have an insatiable lust for your BRAINS.

OK, OK.

I know on the surface that seems like a pretty big difference.

But we zombies and you humans are not so unlike.

Sure, we can’t walk as nice as you, or talk as nice as you, and we might have a little trouble processing complex thoughts and actions.

We don’t have respiratory systems, or circulatory systems, or nerve endings that connect to a highly functioning, absolutely delicious living brain.

But I’m trying. I’m trying to grow as an undead person.

I am trying to say things other than “urrrrrrrrrrgh and “ermmmmmmmmmm.”

I am trying to do things other than just pressing my listless body against the side of your house, and scratching at your windows.

I am trying to figure out how I can get that doorknob to work.

Music, Shameless self indulgence, Writing

If Thomas Dolby was A Slave to Formula

Many of you might not be aware (probably because it’s not true and I just made it up) that Thomas Dolby originally planned on having a career entirely based upon takeoffs of his popular song “She Blinded Me With Science.”

Here are some of the follow ups that he considered but (thankfully) discarded.

  • She Pummeled Me with Physics
  • She Mangled Me with Mathematics
  • She Beat Me with Biology
  • She Crippled Me with Chemistry
  • She Shamed Me with Statistics
  • She Chastised Me with Calculus
  • She Punctured Me with Political Science
  • She Hurt Me with Home Economics
  • She Insulted Me with Industrial Arts
  • She Antagonized Me with Anatomy
  • She Sodomized Me with Social Studies
  • She Euthanized Me with English

In case none of those work for you, here is the original…

Shameless self indulgence, Writing

Memories of a Brown and White Spotted Dog on the First Year of our Acquaintance

It’s been a year since your humble Monkey was fortunate enough to adopt a very sweet brown and white spotted dog.

And OK, so the dog had some trouble with house training.

And OK, so the dog was pregnant with three puppies at the time.

Let’s not start judging.

It’s only been a year, but what a long strange trip it’s been.

Here are some random memories from year one.

  • Working a whole shift at the animal shelter after she arrived and never getting a chance to take her out. But I did walk by her cage at the end of the night and put my hand up to the door so she could touch it with her nose.
  • Sitting in the front seat of the car after getting out of the vet’s office, her placidly staring at me from the back seat while I freaked out about her unexpected pregnancy
  • Bringing her home to my parent’s house for the first time, desperate for her to make a good first impression, and watching her peacefully curl up under the feet of my brother as he worked on his Halloween costume
  • Coming home at “go time” to find all her blankets bunched up in the middle of her crate. Panicking beyond panic at the prospect of delivering puppies
  • Carrying her down the back stairs fireman-style at 5 in the morning the night after she gave birth, while she shrieked in hormonal confusion at being separated from her newborns
  • Sprinting up and down the street at full speed to burn off excess winter energy
  • Taking long walks through the snow tunnels of Medford, glancing in the windows of warmly lit houses and wondering why it seemed like everyone had a home but us
  • The morning she corralled two escaping Chihuahuas by instinctively using her body to block them. Like they were her own puppies
  • The morning we were attacked by a cat and the way she ducked and moved to avoid getting scratched
  • Breaking down on the way home from work when she was sick. Getting home hours later than I was supposed to, bursting in the door to find the crate seemingly shut and empty! Only upon further inspection did I find she snuck out the end door that I had left unlatched was sleeping on her bed in my room
  • Sitting on the sunsplashed banks of the Mystic River watching the baby ducks in the water, then barking at a surprise turtle that was climbing along the shore
  • The night (almost a year into our acquaintance) that she finally felt comfortable enough to rest her head in the crook of my arm