Out With the Old Shit, In With the New
It’s that horrible time of year again at ‘Chez TigerRabbit’. That most foul day of reckoning is upon me once more and there is as much chance at escaping it as there would be in escaping from a Tammy Faye-Baker and Jocelyne Wildenstein ‘Celebrity Naked Oil-Wrestling’ match up with your perfect 20/20 vision still intact. Honestly, I would rather submit to a complete rectal examination from Freddy Krueger than I would to repeat this soul torturing and physically draining day of personal penance. But I have no one to blame but myself, so I will have to just put my head down and deal with the situation at hand, no matter how many crusty dinner plates, balled up ‘Financial Questionnaires’ and ‘Court Summons’, or skanky wads of discarded toilet paper stand in my way. Yes, and deal with it i will! I am of course, talking about that fateful day known throughout the ages as the “Tiding of the Room”.
This year after having moved to an apartment, I am only responsible for the personal crap stored up in my own bedroom to sort through, organize, and discard, and NOT for the mega-monstrosity that used to dwell out in the backyard shed and car garage respectively like rugged unscaled mountain ranges of bike frames, rusted paint buckets, and old automobile license plates that date back to Biblical times. No, this year I have only my own accumulation of filth to deal with ~ lucky me. Other people’s shit may be cool, but your shit is not nearly as enticing is it? Nooooooo, during ‘Spring Cleanup’ people can frolic in the streets and sift though other peoples discarded refuse while performing “Garbage Angels” in their wake of waste, but ask that same person to clean out the backs of their own closets and they are likely to cringe like a Girl Scout troop in the Observation Deck at the a gynecologists. It is hard to conceal the terrors that lie within, because YOU created those terrors! You can pretend to imagine that you are really having fun at a magical fantasyland complete with the “Sock Drawer of Fun”, the “Closet of Mystery”, and a real live Flea Circus; but it wouldn’t work, would it? You KNOW what is waiting in there, don’t you?
Besides the fact that Twiggy would have a hard time slipping sideways through my bedroom door due to the vast piles of dirty laundry and sticky outdated editions of Hustler magazine, I have come to be quite attached to each and every little knick-knack, bric-a-brac, and Big Mac container in there; no matter how inconsequential or useless they may seem to anyone else. I am a packrat extraordinaire by nature, and I have managed to quickly acquire a massive menagerie of madness this year ~ a regular ‘Legacy of Litter’ if you will. And now the time has come when I must take broom in hand and attempt to tame this trash heap that has swelled and flourished into a cesspool in my boudoir, like so many unwholesome Adam Sandler movies in theatres across this great nation.
Upon first entry, I half expect a whole tribe of Serengeti Bushmen to come hiking over ‘Mt. Penthouse’ in the glare of the midday sun, having already traversed through the vast mysterious ‘Cobweb Forest’ and through the dreaded ‘Valley of the Dirty Boxers’. My first instinct is to seek out immediate direction and purpose for the cleansing mission by convening purposefully with the ‘Refuse Spirits’. And so, after carefully constructing a traditional sweat lodge with the empty pizza boxes and bundles of dust bunnies from underneath my bed, I meditated and waited to be visited by the inspired visions from beyond the infinite by consuming bunches of plantains that I can only otherwise assume used to be leftover ‘Cheezies’ in another lifetime. But alas, I was only visited by waves of nausea and the incredible creative urge to make pubic hair topiaries from the zillions of hair follicles that are strewn around my bedroom floor like some gross dried out grassland.
What did occur to me was that the very idea of sifting through my prized collection of random tokens, trinkets and treasures for the intended purpose of discarding the lesser important of the ‘crap’ to make way for the more important future acquired ‘crap to come’, is as absurd a notion as another ‘Jaws’ sequel.
I LOVE my crap! I LOVE my overflowing up-to-date shoebox resource library of outdated flyers, adverts, and billfolds. I LOVE my well stocked liquor mini-sample bar and soup-cracker and condiment packet buffet (talk about breakfast in bed!). I LOVE my collection of vintage empty Styrofoam fast food burger containers and classic triple-quilted napkins made from real authentic Chilean rainforest that you can still smell the smeared secret sauce on. I LOVE my mismatched sock puppet nativity scene. I LOVE my ‘lick-n-stick’ bellybutton lint wallpaper. I LOVE my complete bedside selection of scented hand lotions and flavored oil lubricants. And, I LOVE that I have even managed to name each individual ant, cockroach, silverfish, and daddy longlegs that has ever dared venture into my magical ‘Kingdom of Crap’. In itself, my bedroom is a prime example of organized chaos. It serves as a testament to random anarchy. It is ART!
But like all art, it eventually fades and discolors to the point where it becomes just another eyesore to the beholder (c’mon, how long can you REALLY appreciate Warhol’s “Soup Cans” before you think: “Hey, they’re just soup cans!”); and honestly, this beholder is getting rather sick of the vaporous sulphur fumes that have been emitting from my bedroom for months now as if the entire room has transformed into one large compost heap (which in essence, it has). Besides, when I have to start pre-planning and mapping out my path across the room on stable dirty laundry stepping stones just to get to bed safely without drowning in sea of swill on my floor, it is time to reassess the situation. My room has recently lost all its eclectic charm, and has taken on a more sinister air not unlike the Minotaur’s Labyrinth. With everything coming to a nice steeping ripeness lately with the warming of the seasons, all I need now is Kim Mitchell at the door passing out warm bottles of Formosa beer and a Bryan Adams CD skipping on the cheap plastic Sony Ghetto blaster to accurately depict my own little perfect version of Hell.
So, where do I start then? Apart from dousing the room with gasoline and torching the sucker to the round before rebuilding it back to its former garbage glory, I’m baffled as to where to begin. I’m going to need a team of Sherpa’s working around the clock with their lama’s to help caravan out all the accumulated assortment of dusty records, empty plastic recyclables, crumpled candy bar wrappers, tacky yard sale doodads, and enough forgotten product endorsement T-shirts that could clothe an entire corporate nudist colony. This is no easy task you understand! In fact, this project makes Hercules labors in the Augean stables seem more like merely cleaning out the metal ashtray receptacles at the community bowling alley.
The good news is that I will finally be able to pay off all those pesky student loans of mine with all the extra loose change I will no doubt be finding by the shovel full. Perhaps if there is enough left over, I will be able to buy a mansion on a small remote tax-exempt island off the Hawaiian coast where I would be able to live on comfortably with all my personal servants, scantily clad dancing girls, acrobats, jugglers, fire eaters, and harem.
This year after having moved to an apartment, I am only responsible for the personal crap stored up in my own bedroom to sort through, organize, and discard, and NOT for the mega-monstrosity that used to dwell out in the backyard shed and car garage respectively like rugged unscaled mountain ranges of bike frames, rusted paint buckets, and old automobile license plates that date back to Biblical times. No, this year I have only my own accumulation of filth to deal with ~ lucky me. Other people’s shit may be cool, but your shit is not nearly as enticing is it? Nooooooo, during ‘Spring Cleanup’ people can frolic in the streets and sift though other peoples discarded refuse while performing “Garbage Angels” in their wake of waste, but ask that same person to clean out the backs of their own closets and they are likely to cringe like a Girl Scout troop in the Observation Deck at the a gynecologists. It is hard to conceal the terrors that lie within, because YOU created those terrors! You can pretend to imagine that you are really having fun at a magical fantasyland complete with the “Sock Drawer of Fun”, the “Closet of Mystery”, and a real live Flea Circus; but it wouldn’t work, would it? You KNOW what is waiting in there, don’t you?
Besides the fact that Twiggy would have a hard time slipping sideways through my bedroom door due to the vast piles of dirty laundry and sticky outdated editions of Hustler magazine, I have come to be quite attached to each and every little knick-knack, bric-a-brac, and Big Mac container in there; no matter how inconsequential or useless they may seem to anyone else. I am a packrat extraordinaire by nature, and I have managed to quickly acquire a massive menagerie of madness this year ~ a regular ‘Legacy of Litter’ if you will. And now the time has come when I must take broom in hand and attempt to tame this trash heap that has swelled and flourished into a cesspool in my boudoir, like so many unwholesome Adam Sandler movies in theatres across this great nation.
Upon first entry, I half expect a whole tribe of Serengeti Bushmen to come hiking over ‘Mt. Penthouse’ in the glare of the midday sun, having already traversed through the vast mysterious ‘Cobweb Forest’ and through the dreaded ‘Valley of the Dirty Boxers’. My first instinct is to seek out immediate direction and purpose for the cleansing mission by convening purposefully with the ‘Refuse Spirits’. And so, after carefully constructing a traditional sweat lodge with the empty pizza boxes and bundles of dust bunnies from underneath my bed, I meditated and waited to be visited by the inspired visions from beyond the infinite by consuming bunches of plantains that I can only otherwise assume used to be leftover ‘Cheezies’ in another lifetime. But alas, I was only visited by waves of nausea and the incredible creative urge to make pubic hair topiaries from the zillions of hair follicles that are strewn around my bedroom floor like some gross dried out grassland.
What did occur to me was that the very idea of sifting through my prized collection of random tokens, trinkets and treasures for the intended purpose of discarding the lesser important of the ‘crap’ to make way for the more important future acquired ‘crap to come’, is as absurd a notion as another ‘Jaws’ sequel.
I LOVE my crap! I LOVE my overflowing up-to-date shoebox resource library of outdated flyers, adverts, and billfolds. I LOVE my well stocked liquor mini-sample bar and soup-cracker and condiment packet buffet (talk about breakfast in bed!). I LOVE my collection of vintage empty Styrofoam fast food burger containers and classic triple-quilted napkins made from real authentic Chilean rainforest that you can still smell the smeared secret sauce on. I LOVE my mismatched sock puppet nativity scene. I LOVE my ‘lick-n-stick’ bellybutton lint wallpaper. I LOVE my complete bedside selection of scented hand lotions and flavored oil lubricants. And, I LOVE that I have even managed to name each individual ant, cockroach, silverfish, and daddy longlegs that has ever dared venture into my magical ‘Kingdom of Crap’. In itself, my bedroom is a prime example of organized chaos. It serves as a testament to random anarchy. It is ART!
But like all art, it eventually fades and discolors to the point where it becomes just another eyesore to the beholder (c’mon, how long can you REALLY appreciate Warhol’s “Soup Cans” before you think: “Hey, they’re just soup cans!”); and honestly, this beholder is getting rather sick of the vaporous sulphur fumes that have been emitting from my bedroom for months now as if the entire room has transformed into one large compost heap (which in essence, it has). Besides, when I have to start pre-planning and mapping out my path across the room on stable dirty laundry stepping stones just to get to bed safely without drowning in sea of swill on my floor, it is time to reassess the situation. My room has recently lost all its eclectic charm, and has taken on a more sinister air not unlike the Minotaur’s Labyrinth. With everything coming to a nice steeping ripeness lately with the warming of the seasons, all I need now is Kim Mitchell at the door passing out warm bottles of Formosa beer and a Bryan Adams CD skipping on the cheap plastic Sony Ghetto blaster to accurately depict my own little perfect version of Hell.
So, where do I start then? Apart from dousing the room with gasoline and torching the sucker to the round before rebuilding it back to its former garbage glory, I’m baffled as to where to begin. I’m going to need a team of Sherpa’s working around the clock with their lama’s to help caravan out all the accumulated assortment of dusty records, empty plastic recyclables, crumpled candy bar wrappers, tacky yard sale doodads, and enough forgotten product endorsement T-shirts that could clothe an entire corporate nudist colony. This is no easy task you understand! In fact, this project makes Hercules labors in the Augean stables seem more like merely cleaning out the metal ashtray receptacles at the community bowling alley.
The good news is that I will finally be able to pay off all those pesky student loans of mine with all the extra loose change I will no doubt be finding by the shovel full. Perhaps if there is enough left over, I will be able to buy a mansion on a small remote tax-exempt island off the Hawaiian coast where I would be able to live on comfortably with all my personal servants, scantily clad dancing girls, acrobats, jugglers, fire eaters, and harem.
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