It’s true. I have a picture. But first, let me tell you about my week so far. I’m going to start keeping a tally. The girlfriend’s car broke (twice), our internet router took a shit (the actual technical term), and I knocked over and broke the sixty-year-old Spanish bullfighting statues that belonged to my grandfather.
Dear Week, I hope you puke and then you die.
My thoughts on the car, well, I tell the girlfriend not to take it personally. Cars are made up of rudimentary things, gears and metal and belts. It doesn’t know anything. It doesn’t realize she relies on it. It doesn’t understand that she has to pay for its dumb Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang-ass.
However, the Internet router knows. I’m on to it. All these computer things, laptops, routers, and consoles are self-aware and they’re in cahoots. They randomly decide to stop working for no apparent reason, except to frustrate me.
Well, well, router, I know just what to do. I will just press your little reset button over and over. Then I will unplug you from the wall and plug you back in. THERE. What’s that quote about a fool who tries the same thing over and over expecting a different result?
And then there’s the statues I broke. I’ve held these things like medically-fragile infants through move to move, up and down flights of stairs, placing them gingerly in the safest corner of the house. And then one day, I barely tap them—seriously, barely, like a feather landing on a rug, and it creates a tiny hairline fracture, and the damn head falls off the matador and bull loses a leg.
I’m trying not to feel too terrible about this. I’m trying to frame it positively. What a fight. A bloody bad-ass fight. You see, this is how it actually happened: the bull jumped up and bit the matador’s head off, and as the matador was collapsing, his sword came down and sliced off the bull’s leg. Clean through the bone. Where did he get a sword from all of a sudden? I don’t know. I’m trying to make this okay and swords help.
But who am I kidding? I’ve been taking out family heirlooms at a rate of one or two items per year. The glass in the end table, shattered. Lamps, busted. You’d think I flailed around with my arms out, stomping when I walked, even when I’m getting up to grab a soda.
In fact, our upstairs neighbors must stomp and flail instead of walk. HOLY CRAP. Do they purposely stand on the same floor board creaking back and forth? Do they have cinderblocks tied to their feet? Do they roll barbells off their end tables? Do they galumph to the fridge shouting Fe Fi Fo Fum? Do they hold auditions for the dance troupe, Stomp? What in God’s name are they freaking doing?
Sorry, as I’m writing this, I just feared they might suddenly barge through the ceiling.
There’s always glue. This reminds me of a family tradition growing up, the annual gluing of Joseph’s head. We had a set of porcelain nativity figures at Christmas time. There was Joe and Mary, Jesus and a Donkey. Each December, my mother brought them down from the attic, and placed them on the end table near some garland and a musical snowman candle.
Joseph’s head broke off before I was born, and every year, the tradition was to glue Joseph’s head back on. If Joe’s head stayed intact the entire month of December, my mother proclaimed it the Christmas Miracle. Miracles were easy to come by, a seventh Chicken McNugget crammed into the six-piece box, a potato chip shaped like Purple Rain-era Prince. We survived on cheap miracles.
I looked forward to the annual tradition of gluing the head back on. The donkey had long broke too, but my mother didn’t feel the need to glue its butt back together each year. He was just left out of the scene. Joseph, however, was crucial. Each year, my mother had a different game plan going in. Super glue had failed to hold up last year, so this year it was going to be a combination of double-sided tape and craft glue.
We sat around the table, watching my mother carefully set Joe’s head upon his neck, waiting for the glue to take hold. She let go carefully, and Joe’s head wobbled precariously, but stayed put for now. We clapped. My mother took a bow.
“I am so good,” she bragged.
Christmas 1989 was going to be a year for miracles. I could feel it. Maybe I’d even get the Ghostbusters Ectomobile under the tree.
Perhaps the matador shall become my own Joseph’s Head. But the true moral of the story is that I’m incapable of owning nice things.
At least I own this plush doll of the Kool Aid Man.
Something good happened this week, too. At this yard sale, I purchased the Kool Aid Man doll from a stoner for a dollar. Long dreads, that empty-but-innocent stare, and dingy girlfriend by his side, he couldn’t believe his luck that I showed up, and also bought out his sealed Gremlins 45s, a Barnyard Commandos action figure, a wind-up California Raisin, a skateboarding hot dog bendy toy, and the aforementioned Kool Aid Man doll—all for a whopping $3.50.
They probably thought they swindled me by getting all that money for their old crap. I want to save this stuff for future reviews, but right now, I do want to consider the Kool Aid Man. Wearing his swim trunks, finding the Kool Aid Man in plush form was a nice note to end the summer on.
Now, I want to point out something from this recent rendering:
The Kool Aid Man is getting kind of creepy looking. He has knees. I’m feeling sick just thinking about his bending joints and liquidy fingers. I prefer my anthropomorphic pitchers to have undefined limbs, thank you very much. And then what’s this—no extra pitcher in his hand? The Kool Aid Man only carries a glassful now? That’s not enough for everyone! It’s clearly part of this new Kool Aid Man’s plan to have you all to himself.
And I don’t like it.
However, looking back at some older photographs of the Kool Aid Man, I can see he’s always been “fingery”:
The main difference is they put pants on him now. I hate pants. While digging through Google Images, I also found a quite rare image of the Kool Aid Man FROWNING:
Geez, don’t piss the guy off. You know what else makes the Kool Aid Man frown?
When you don’t clean the Foreman grill.
Finally, you want to see the Kool Aid Man’s butt?