Archive for May, 2012

The Waffle Thief

Thursday, May 31st, 2012

Hello to all fashion models modelling off the coast of Australia, squirrels running up trees, and old National Geographic magazines.

This is the tale of the Waffle Thief.

In a small town in the north, there was seen a boy. His name? Well, no one knows. Where he came from? No one knows that, either. Some say he wandered out of the woods, one stormy night, cloaked in darkness, with his eyes glinting maliciously as he stood at the edge of town– looking. Only looking. For what? Well– I’ll get to that.

It was nineteen ninety-nine. It was a stormy night, and lightning danced across the dark heavens. A man named Jake Green roused himself from bed, lumbered down the stairs, flicked on the light, and opened the freezer. He was hungry. He wanted a waffle– he rifled through the frozen packages, pulled out the box of waffles, and turned it over to empty a waffle into his hand.

There was no waffle to be seen.

In surprise, he turned to look around– for what, he didn’t know– maybe just for an explanation– and he saw a boy, crouching on the railing of his balcony out the rain-streaked window. Lightning flashed, and the boy was outlined, just for a moment. He smiled, a glint of teeth in the dark, and in his raised hand– there was a waffle.

Jake called the police. They scoured the town– but the boy was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared.

Years later, the Waffle Thief struck again. Then, however, he was not known as the Waffle Thief– his title would come in later days, when a select group of people had become aware of his existence. He was crafty, evasive– some claimed he was some kind of demon– and whenever he was seen, even for a moment, he inexplicably disappeared before you could utter an exclamation of ‘The boy has my waffle!’

In two-thousand three, the Waffle Thief came to a diner somewhere in the east. The waitress, the only person working there at the time, said later that she had not seen him, not even for a moment. There was a man, two women, and a strangely human-like ape in the diner at the time, but if the man, the two women, or the ape was the Waffle Thief– well, she didn’t know. All she knew was that six of the fourteen waffles were gone in the morning, without rhyme or reason.  A day later a young man was seen sitting in the park with a stack of waffles. Not eating them. Just holding them in his hands, looking down at them. A man named Cliff Richards out walking his dog, who saw the man, said to the authorities later, ‘I didn’t know what to make of it. He was just sitting there– looking down at the waffles. A little smile on his mouth. I waited to see if he’d eat them– but he didn’t.’

There are more scattered, uncertain accounts of the Waffle Thief since then. It was not until this very week, in the northeastern part of Ontario, that he was seen again. Well– not seen. Since Jake Green’s midnight shock in nineteen ninety-nine the Waffle Thief had never been spotted in the act. But once again, waffles went missing– inexplicably, in the night– and we can only suppose it was him.

The demonic Waffle Thief– what is he? Is he man or beast? Fiction or reality?

I suspect we’ll never know.

Keep your eyes open for the Waffle-Thief.

———————-

A Note On Today’s Bizarre Blog Entry

Greetings, Blog-Reader. Today you’ve read a very strange account of a very real danger– the Waffle Thief. Okay, maybe it’s not real. But why else would the waffles disappear? Without reason? Out of the blue? Out of thin air!

Sincerely yours… Onceabasementdog.

*Thunder clashes. Ominous music plays. THE WAFFLE THIEF IS IN YOUR BACKYARD!*

 

Adventures of the Bike-Riding Girl

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012

Hello to all butterflies flitting through gardens, worms squiggling through the dirt, and cats digging at linoleum floors.

You may have noticed there’s been a long gap between the last blog and this one. I apologize sincerely, but you must know that I don’t take any responsibility for: anxiety attacks due to no new blog entries, costs for psychologist sessions, sudden battles and pneumonia due to wandering around Canada trying to find my house and throw things at my window and scream, ‘YOU TERRIBLE PERSON, WE NEEEEEED A NEW BLOG ENTRY!’

Well, no more worries, Blog-Reader. Everything’s fine now. (Except for the two people in Japan trying to kill each other because they haven’t read a new blog entry in a couple weeks. They might not be fine.)

Anyway, where I live, there’s lots and lots of places to bike. For the last two weeks or so I’ve been in a mad frenzy of bike riding– this year, I’ve absolutely hopped on the bike-riding wagon, and I refuse to stop now. I’ve biked all the way to the south, where the bike path winds along the river and there’s lots of trees to sit in and read; I’ve gone up to the lochs and leaned over the railing and thought, ‘My, I surely do not want to fall in there.’ I’ve biked into the arboretum with all the pretty trees and the ponds, and once I went quite a ways east to my grandparents’ house just to see if I could. I could, but it turns out it’s uncomfortable to walk into Starbucks with your hair all frizzed and sweaty and your earbud dangling out of one ear and your face flushed from the heat just to ask for a glass of water like a homeless person and have a lady look at you like you really shouldn’t be here.

Anyhow. There’s something I really like about biking. You can avoid nearly everyone if you go fast enough, and the distance you can cover is amazing if you know where you’re going– which I never do. The other day I ended up on the wrong side of the canal and I was almost going to be late for my English tutor (oh, NO, THAT WOULD BE THE END OF THE WORLD) but I managed to get back okay. Today I biked around to my usual places, over the bridge, down the canal, around the neighborhood. I stopped by Yaghi’s Mini Mart, a convenience store a few blocks from my house where the one lady always smiles and says how tall and pretty I am, and there’s a cat I’ve named Muffintop for some obscure reason, and he likes to munch on grass while I rub his tummy. I went on the swings at the park for a bit, mainly just so I could get really high and then jump off; I biked down the pathway opposite the arboretum across the water and raced a girl on roller-skates– unbeknownst to her.  I saw a Jewish couple having a picnic in the park, and wanted to take a picture of them, but thought that might be a little impolite. It might be insensitive, but I like their little hats.

Now I’m home and sitting in the basement hoping that my English tutor won’t show up. Fine, I like her, but she talks kind of vaguely and, as much as I do enjoy Shakespeare, I don’t want to marry him like she does. Or at least I assume. Maybe that’s mean– but all right, she’s quite nice. I also do a great impression of her.

In other news, it’s finally warm and pretty in Onceabasementdogville. Yes– that’s what it’s called. The street is all green and the guy who takes care of the property, Julio, was pulling around a leaf-blower for three hours this morning. Jeez, Julio, how many leaves and bits of grass could there possibly be around here? I think he was mowing the lawns just so he could clear off more grass bits.

It’s probably time to go, since my English tutor should’ve shown up six minutes ago. I always hope she won’t come, and just when I’m sure she won’t, she does. It’s maddening, Blog-Reader– just maddening.

Anyway, enjoy your blue-skied spring, Blog-Reader. Until next time, I am yours never insincerely but only sometimes sincerely, Onceabasementdog.

Do Not Sing and Dance to Arcade Fire in Front of a Window

Tuesday, May 8th, 2012

Hello to all burnt-out streetlights, old folks, next-door neighbors, and older brothers.

I’m sure there are many lessons to learn in life. I’ve learned a few of them already, but today I learned a new one:If you’re going to sing and dance along to Arcade Fire, don’t do it in front of a window.

Why? Because neighbors are nosy people, that’s why. The strange painter woman who lives next door was going to her car, I guess, and meanwhile I was going mildly insane in my room dancing to some Arcade Fire songs. Not only was the curtain draw back, the window was also open. So I believe she not only saw me dancing like a lunatic but also heard me singing like a lunatic. Now, I’m a pretty decent singer, at least. I’m sure she enjoyed my ear-splitting rendition of Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels). But am I a good dancer? Er… well, I’m awfully good at ‘improvisational contemporary.’ 

Anyway, when I chanced to look out the window, there she was: staring at me.

Well, look, I’ve seen her painting weird modern art in her living room once or twice. Besides, she’s actually crazy, I think: me, I just looked crazy. And honestly, you see someone enjoying some Arcade Fire songs, you don’t stare at them: this is what I choose to do on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, and who is she to judge me, or gape at me? I’m just a stir-crazy girl finding something to do whilst stuck in Solitary Confinement.

I feel a little silly anyway. It’s probably the birthday cake and enormous bottle of Sprite I had today that inspired that Arcade Fire-dance fest.

But you know, it’s good to be weird. Dancing seizure-like to your favorite songs is cool. Among the other crazy things I do (like biking to the river just to read Frankenstein in a tree), this one isn’t so high on the weird scale. Anyways, I wish you an excellent miserably rainy Tuesday (or how is it where you are, Blog-Reader? Maybe you’re sitting on a balcony in San Diego or lying on a beach in Florida. Want to come live in a bleak, cold climate of the north where it snows in April? Huh? Huh?)

WordPress thinks it’s Wednesday, but WordPress also offered a tag for Mongolia on my last blog post– so it’s not always right.

Yours insert-something-quirky-here, Onceabasementdog.

If You Read Too Much, Reality Becomes Distorted

Thursday, May 3rd, 2012

Hello to all rusted pennies at the bottom of fountains, guitar picks from outer space, and mugs of hot chocolate sitting dangerously close to the edge of messy bed-side tables.

This one’s mostly for my friends, as they share my enthusiasm on this subject: but for the rest of you, read on if you must.

Rick Riordan’s new book came out yesterday. He’s the guy who wrote Percy Jackson, but he’s also doing a myriad of other series that are more or less identical, but still good. In this series, we follow the adventures of some magic-wielding teenagers caught up in Egyptian mythology, instead of some weapon-brandishing teenagers caught up in Greek mythology. Anyway, I love these books, because they’re silly and fun and have little to no substance yet are amazing in their own way. But I have a little problem: I seem to be obsessed with one of the characters.

Come on– we’ve all been obsessed with somebody. Be it a popular celebrity or good-looking baseball player, you all know the feeling of eagerly flicking the channels or flipping through a magazine for that one person. I’ve never gotten obsessed with real life people, but I’m perpetually obsessed with people from fiction and fantasy. I’m sorry, but no real life person could possibly be as interesting as someone from a fantasy novel. Real life just sucks that way.

The fictional character I’m hopelessly obsessed with from Rick Riordan’s “Kane Chronicles’ is the god of death. (My friends saw that one coming. Or at least George Harrison did.) Please, don’t assume I like dreamy dark heroes of fantasy just because they’re dreamy dark heroes of fantasy. This one is more awesome because he wears ARCADE FIRE T-SHIRTS. Holy moly! As if I didn’t love the death god enough already, he had to go and wear a t-shirt of my favorite band. Rick Riordan’s messing with my head– I’m telling you. Once you break out the soft-spoken, kind death gods who wear Arcade Fire t-shirts, you’ve got me hopeless.

Now, thank you for getting through that little segue of ridiculousness.

The main purpose of this blog today is to tell you what happens when you read for seven straight hours. Your mind starts to unravel. The line between reality and fiction starts to waver, and suddenly your dreams are full of Egyptian gods and giant crocodiles and death gods. And stuff. Mostly death gods. Anyway– it’s not good for you. I can tell you that much. And when you wake up and somebody’s saying Ha-di and reciting a magic spell, you know things are way off. 

Not only did a fictional world invade my brain last night, I’ve also been having flashes of imaginary scenes that I’ve dreamed up myself. This means I’ll probably eventually write them down somewhere and maybe upload them to Fan Fiction where all the other people who are obsessed with the death god can giggle together about it. Unfortunately, when you’re a decent writer, you get a whole wave of feedback on your ridiculous little stories if you dare post them online.That’s why I always go incognito on Fan Fiction, but anyway. No one shall ever know that one was mine.

So, sorry you had to struggle through this less-than-mind-bending interlude. I promise next time I’ll talk about the war in the Middle East and American politics and the theory of the universe.

Good-bye, most insincerely yours, Onceabasmentdog.