EKPHRASTIC

Entitled Californian is Late For Challenge

Because we’re a “Giver State”, even if I’m not

Ever meet a cool new group of kids living in faraway lands because you can’t help following Raine Lore? It’s happened to the best of us and there appears to be no cure. Trying to break the cycle is as easy as chomping off a pound of fat from your own distant ample buttress.

Ann James is just one of the talented people I’ve discovered through Raine‘s The RvR publication. For some untreatable masochistic reason, Raine and Jaylee Reign indulge my most bizarre creative writing spasms. (Check’s in the mail ladies.)

When I saw the post below, my inner child squealed with delight.

Oh Boy! An art contest! A funny art contest to tickle the folds of my arthritic phalanges (no Raine, it doesn’t mean phallic — not everything does)! My rapidly decaying prefrontal cortex could be awash in color as ironic endorphins all danced in a circle holding hands! I couldn’t resist.

“Can I play?!?” I begged.

“Sure! ‘Calzoncillos’ is Spanish for purple chandelier.” Ann replied. But I think it really means ‘You’re not Australian — kiss off.’ (Sorry Sister.)

Ann may not have realized where my roots are currently rotting.

I pretended to know what Calzoncillos meant because —

• I’m controlled by Lizzie Lizard Brain who’s too cool to admit otherwise
• I live in California and of course I know every other Spanish word
• The image of my Peruvian Chinese Herb Doctor’s poorly laundered pinkish underwear is scalded onto my retinas forever
• I could have fun with a cellist eating cellophane-wrapped calzones

“Me no tienes mal es toya de blue Crayolas pumpkin,” I responded smugly, incorporating Portuguese and Spanish to show how worldly I am.

The nifty thing about Californians (and we’re all Californians despite being born — and newly arrived — from everywhere and anywhere else) is we’re Confident. We know deadlines carry the same relevance as mere suggestions made by waiters hawking $100 bottles of tap water as they prattle on about the catch of the day.

Andrew Rodwin highlighted many of my favorite dishes.

I’m not just mentioning Andrew because he didn’t catch a flight and murder me in my sleep with a lobster trap and smoggy air gun. I suppose he’s used to writers who make “just a minor tweak” (rewrite and add another 2,432 words — in caps) to their submissions. Being the publisher of Brain Labs and an editor at MuddyUm guarantees he has a thoughtful (or medication-resistant) demeanor, right?

Hey Buddy! I hope you’re recovering nicely. Did you get the fruit basket with the hidden bottle of antidepressants, a mix tape of the BeeGees Greatest Hits, and the tequila-soaked pacifier? Fine. Check’s in the mail.

Don’t go to the airport. I had Hector put you on the No Fly List.

I’m afraid I’ve been indoctrinated into the Southern California Club. This is way different than my membership in the Northern Club where we could pass for Wisconsin migrants wearing plaid parkas and snowshoes, or the Central California clubs where we’re learning to speak the native tongues of India, China, and Brazil.

The Southern California Club membership comes with a ghost gun for indicating turns, a special emergency location beacon for the 405 Freeway 3-hour commute to your home 8 miles away, and a crate of minty avocados.

We dress for winter with a slightly larger bikini covering our surgically enhanced not-so-private parts. We hand out Libertarian flyers on biodegradable USB drives with unlimited memory. We greet everyone with an empathetic implied understanding of, like, whatever.

But we do not arrive on time. Anywhere, for any reason. My funeral announcement may say to be there at 1pm but since that’s rush hour and getting my hair just right could pose a challenge, I’ll be there at 3.

I expect you to wait.

Would you like me to describe the route I’ll take?

So now you know why I couldn’t get my art submission in on time. Creating the postcard from the moon with the signpost depicting specific destinations fulfilled all my goals.

Namely, I —

1. avoided meeting with IRS agents hoping to seize $1.82 in my savings account,
2. used the excuse “I may win a million dollars!” to get out of a friend’s karaoke bat mitzvah celebration in Tulsa, and
3. bought another three days to finish the first draft of “Lizzie Gets Impaled by Angry Homicide Investigators/Accountants Wielding Ionizing Raygun Smirks”.

Thank you Ann and Raine for helping facilitate these escapes.

Without further ado, the postcard I promised:

I’ll try to catch the next voyager challenge.

Thanks to Andrew Rodwin for allowing me to impugn his character, and to the readers who made it this far.

The latest from inappropriate Lizzie the Lizard Brain’s Cabbage Patch Dysfunctional Family series

The serious piece from Patricia Jeanne’s AI and tech-related essays that could cause Andrew to give up technology altogether -

The other 18 stories I pretend are funny -