Dan's Fridge Door

C/LOGS: (creature blogs)

Daniel Weitzman

1 >> Werewolf

Where, O Were, Is My Rabbit Food?

6/15/08:

Welcome back, my earthen types... allow me to fill you in on my latest disappointment - arguably, my greatest ever - even more distressing than the time I "sprouted" my good looks on the 18th hole at Oakdale (I should've known better than to take up midnight golf in the first place) ...

As you probably know from previous postings, I've got a bone to pick with my heritage, and with fulfilling the fate that my forbears have so painstakingly laid out for me.

While my DNA says, "Eat corpses and infants!" (infant corpses being my ultimate undoing), my inclination, my whimsy says, "Let's go vegetarian!"

The problem is that you humans are making my move to a meat-free diet just about impossible! C'mon, people - it's not like I want to go vegan! Do you really think I'm giving up huevos fritos, or fish spawn? I think not! Still, under your indiscriminate human "benevolence," your blind allegiance to the epicurean Status Quo, I sometimes wonder if I'll ever experience even the most rudimentary of salads ...

Bad enough you throw your half-eaten burgers into the garbage bins of our fair community - when you know I have no choice but to seek them out, and scarf them down.

Bad enough you leave the occasional animal sacrifice on my front steps (you may like a deer on your hood, I don't like them on my front lawn!).

Bad enough you've implemented a special salad bar for me down at Sudsie's, one designed for "Today's Carnivore" - featuring a prevalence of white meat. To be honest, if I was so inclined, I would've devoured The Osmond Family a long time ago.

But tonight - I have endured the ultimate indignity. Meg and Bob Swallowmore's yearly "Ho-down Barbeque." For starters, anything that bears the nomenclature, "ho-down" - well, it just shouldn't. But let's talk about more salient matters - like the menu. Give The Swallmores some credit, as I gathered 'round the BBQ pit with the rest of The Boys - a well-heeled gang, I might add (Indeed, I was feeling a bit rag-taggle for my unshaven looks. Another curse to bear, for another posting!) - I couldn't help but feel a trickling of hope and optimism; surely, this forward-thinking ensemble would have made some accommodation for my revisionist thinking - and would-be dining; the likes of roasted fennel, sautéed peppers and grilled corn fairly summoned me into the barbeque pit!

Bill Swallowmore, bon vivant host that he is, passed me an absolutely fab offering, a tender, root-like foodstuff that - to great delight, and greater anticipation - I took for portabella mushroom.

Oh, that first bite. How can I describe the joy, the rapture, the vast torrents of drool escaping my lips as this divinity graced my mouth, my body, my very being! I had waited an eternity to partake of vegetarianism, and now - finally - it was happening! How could I repay the favor? By giving The Swallmore's back their firstborn? Let's just say that if I could've, I would've.

"How do you like that tenderloin?"

Bob's words, while innocent enough, practically stopped my heart - whatever's left of it - on the spot.

"Tenderloin?" I howled.

"A beautiful cut, wouldn't you say? Thought we'd save you the trouble," said Bill, issuing one of his most genteel smiles.

Dear Reader ... while I would like to report that I took sweet revenge on The Swallowmores and Co. by putting them on the menu, I did no such thing.

I ate my tenderloin, and thanked The Swallowmores for their hospitality, using the proverbial fang-ache as an excuse to slip off into this infernal night, a night that finds me more morose than ever.

Shoot me now - with a silver bullet! Then bury me right next to the carrots!

- Lupe Earthwalker

2 >> Gorgon

Snakeover of a Makeover!

9/18/08:

Hello, again, my devout and patient listeners. As always, I begin our dialogue with the heartiest of thanks; without your eyes, ears and e-mail addresses, I would be racking up untenable shrink and pharmaceutical drug fees - most of which my health plan no longer covers.

While I wish I could tell you the weekend was a good one, replete with a relaxing beach getaway or equivalent, I can't. It was just another miserable shut-out of a shut-in; I'm really going to have to do something about all the delivery men I've turned to stone just for showing up at my door. By now, you'd think that UPS and Co. would know enough to inform employees to look the other way when I answer the door, but no. For every throw rug, push-up bra or tuna sandwich delivered, I have a stone worshipper to show for it.

If only that was my biggest issue ... but by now, you know it isn't. The thing that really has me pulling my hair out is ... my hair. While most of you have long and lustrous locks, what do I have for hair?

Snakes, living snakes! Ain't that a bitch? Have you ever tried to go glam with a headful of snakes? I can't even walk into a salon without causing mass ... hiss-teria. Even when you book weeks in advance, and flash your most engaging smile, there's not a cutter in this fair town willing to take on my ... "hair."

"What's the worst that can happen?" I've been known to ask. Paralysis? Look, if the snakes don't bring it on, the stare will. No wonder I've been getting more than my share of cold shoulders from Those Near and - if I were to have my way - Shear. At the rate I'm going, let's just say I won't be a member of the Hair Club of America anytime soon, or its President.

Why, even the most elementary hair tasks are pretty much impossible given my circumstances; can you imagine trying to brush your snakes, or shampoo them? Good luck! As for taming the wild beasts with the occasional ponytail or alike, I daresay you'd be better served trying to pull a sword out of a stone, or figuring out how to assemble IKEA cabinets. As for hats - all I have to say on the matter is; "no." Never been a hat person, not about to start now.

So where does - did - this leave me last weekend, when I would've given my eyeteeth (okay, "fangs!") to get out of the apartment, to paint the town red?

It leaves me in bed, of course; this Gorgon refuses to go out looking like a Gorgon. If I wanted the stares, I would've been born an Amazon, or a Harpie.

There I was, embedded under the covers, the latest Didion alongside to help brighten my day, when I have a wild and random thought - one I can only hope will extricate me from my hair-itage, and bring about a fuller, richer life - best evidenced by some blond frosting, or a set of scatter curls. In a word, the thought was:

Snake charmer. Why it hadn't occurred to me before - well, who's to say? Let's just say Epimetheus and I would make better bedfellows than Prometheus.

Let me say this about Snakecharmer.com - brilliant concept, very forward-thinking. A few words with the sales staff, and my snake charmer was on his way - having been explicitly warned not to look into my eyes when he arrived.

"Ding-dong." For all of you waiting for your Prince to Come - great, terrific. Me? I've been waiting for my snake charmer - and now, finally - he's here.

Even though I know he's been given explicit instructions, I open the door oh so carefully; don't want to alarm. And there he is - no great prize, but at least his eyes are averted - whether to check out the shapely blond walking past in the hallway, I couldn't say, would rather not know.

A few pleasantries, and Mr. Charming is in the apartment, my egregious "hair" fully exposed.

"Oh, My," says my visitor.

"My?" I say, somewhat unnerved. "-My ... answer, solution, panacea?"

"Didn't they tell you, Lady?"

"Tell me what?"

"The charm only works on cobras," says nobody's charm. "You've got asps and adders."

Forgive me, Readers - I know it was just a clerical misunderstanding, not my guest's fault. But I was not feeling very forgiving at the moment, so I did what came naturally.

I gave the snake charmer an eyeful.

Sigh. While my growing stone garden is scant consolation, for today - it will have to do.

As for tomorrow, we can only hope it's a better hair day for moi.

- Monique Slither