Mongrel

Once in a long while, you come across an artistic talent of such immense proportion that to shelter it from the world’s view would be criminal. Such beauty lurks in corners of the earth where it might never be suspected…like Trader Joe’s.

Yeah, he draws SpongeBob freehand. When you least expect it. And he’s rakish.

He also owes me an email with all his newest music, since I burned it all eagerly while we were home…and then left my precious cd in the Battered Beater (aka M’s car). Come on, Mongrel, I didn’t push you around on my knees in your baby carrier all those times* just to be musically bereft. Help a (biological) sister out.

*This is one of approximately 10 (maybe 12?) stories about our collective childhoods that our parents (and sometimes grandmother) like to tell…let’s say “kind of frequently,” to be extremely generous. A smattering of the collection:

6. The above-mentioned baby-pushing, which occurred an old house with a circular floor pattern, and me, on my knees, pushing Mongrelito in his baby-carrier for endless laps around the house, singing to him so that he would go to sleep.

5. The time I got tired of doing the above, and left him in said carrier at the bottom of the stairs, swaddled and with a bonnet on his head, and a Victorian-orphanage inspired note, reading “This is my baby, and I cannot care for him any longer. He is a good baby, please take care of him as if he were your own. God Bless you.”

4. The time we were walking around Venice Beach when he had barely learned to read, and he looked up confusedly at a group of monks protesting China’s presence in their country, and asked them, “Free To Bet on what??”

3. The time my grandparents were taking me to the movies at our local mall (unfamiliar to them), and they stopped to ask for directions from a saleslady, and I indignantly yelled, “I could’ve tooken you there!!” (Unfathomably, this has the highest number of family dinner rehashings.)

2. The time my dad decided baby Mongrel’s desire to participate in all my girl-centered play-dates would negatively affect his burgeoning masculinity and went upstairs to separate him from my Barbies, only to find him gleefully bashing their heads together.

1. The time our grandmother, when asked by Mongrel (in a clearly joking manner) which one of us she thought was better looking, seriously considered the question, and then answered him, “Your sister, definitely. But that’s alright, because you have the music to fall back on!” And then we died.

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Delta Spirit and Dark Chocolate

A blogger with whom I’m basically in love (Heather Armstrong, from Dooce) posted this video earlier today. I feel like the blogger-shared-music that most often shows up in my Google reader is a little too…how you say…Bon Iver for my taste. But these guys are legen (wait for it. I hope you’re not lactose-intolerant cause the next part is) dary. Seriously. I just pranced around my kitchen making cookies to the beat of their drums, and then sent my brother several MP3-laden emails and text messages. What? I never am the one to find cool new music! There’s a duty to milk it here.

And since you were wondering, the cookies are kind of awesome. They might be too chocolatey, if such a thing is possible. (It’s not. Come on, now). I got the recipe from my beloved Health-Bent, but shopping for the ingredients was a little harder than it should’ve been…you try balancing cocoa powder, chocolate chips and coconut flakes in one hand while the other is holding a phone through which Smash is yelling, “Shot in the FACE” over and over again.* If you foresee a laughing stomach cramp in your shopping future, just get a basket. Don’t be a hero.

Sprinkle sea salt on the tops of the cookies before you stick them in the oven. And then lick the spoon while you wait in agony for them to be done.

*This post may need to be removed if you marry him. Or, you know, sooner.