So, first off.
I was pulling together the linky goodness for this post and I did this google search, which proved immediately that Amazon has EVERYTHING. Then, because I am currently under the influence of two and a half happy-making vodka and sodas, I immediately added this vibrator to my Amazon wishlist. Not just because it will make my mother, aunts, and assorted other matriarchal figures feel extremely uncomfortable, but because I totally do want it.
Hint, hint, people.
Anyway.
Speaking of making people uncomfortable, my sister called me this evening and we had this conversation:
Sister: What are you doing?
Me: Watching the notebook and crying hysterically. I've realized the Notebook is like the rabbit vibrator of chick flicks. Except instead of orgasms, it makes you cry.
Sister: . .. .
Me: Am I making you uncomortable?
Sister: No. But you did make me uncomofortable when we were talking to our gay cousin after thanksgiving dinner.
Me: Uh.
Sister: You don't remember?
Me: Um, No.
Sister: Yeah, the topic was anal sex.
Me: Um. Was I speaking?
Sister: Yeah.
Me: Well, right! So, anyway! Nothing to be ashamed of!
Stupid alcohol.
Anyhow.
The topic of today's post is The Notebook -- the ultimate in girl porn.
It is seriously perfectly formulated for hysterical melancholy self-indulgent crying. Which is so great.
If I had the ability, I would mock up an Amazon page that showed the vibrator and proclaimed BUY THIS WITH THE NOTEBOOK TODAY!
Because they're both perfectly designed to please a woman.
I feel empowered to declare this because I am not a typical girly girl -- I tend to be the sarcastic, cynical one in the crowd. Despite my intense affection for shoes and handbags, I also have a very sensitive bullshit detector.
But this movie? It hits all the right notes. It has the following features specially-formulated for her pleasure!
- Ryan Gosling provides the ideal combination of stoic manliness and tender sensitivity!
- There's a war scene where E bites it dramatically!
- Rachel McAdams has the perfect lipstick!
- Alzheimer's! It's seriously sad!
- James Garner has perfected the most intensely grief-striken tearful look anyone has ever seen! (warning, it could blind you)
- Kissing! In the rain! First love! More kissing! WHY CAN'T I HAVE PERFECT LOVE?
OH YEAH! THAT'S THE TICKET! OoooooOOOOoOooOoooooHHHH!
ahhhhh. . . .
Thank you, Nicholas Sparks, you little bitch.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
What's Up, Old-School Emo?
This morning Lisa Labuz was playing the long, emotive instrumental intros to all the songs from Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me as interstitial music after Abby Ryan's traffic reports and before the latest reports of chaos from the Middle East.
My alarm clock was all, "Wake up! It's the late eighties! You've got a lot of work to do to get your bangs to their proper super-stiff height before first period!"
My alarm clock was all, "Wake up! It's the late eighties! You've got a lot of work to do to get your bangs to their proper super-stiff height before first period!"
Sunday, November 26, 2006
I can't wait to go to work and stuff.
DeeP has one of these annoying therapist phrases he trots out this time of year: "One trip home can undo years of therapy."
I cannot take this literally, but I can say that four fucking days in Southern Indiana does leave me crawling out of my goddamned skin. I cannot leave town fast enough. I'm such an asshole, my plane doesn't leave until five, and AAAARRRRHHHGHGHGH!
I love my mom, I would love it if my sister lived in my same town, but constant, twenty-four seven family time is, I think, unnatural.
We spend a lot of time reliving childhood nightmares that you really just can't write about on your public, Internet forum without creating full-on adult-type nightmares, like hurting your mom's feelings. Jeeze, mom, I'M SORRY!
Some amusing bits:
I cannot take this literally, but I can say that four fucking days in Southern Indiana does leave me crawling out of my goddamned skin. I cannot leave town fast enough. I'm such an asshole, my plane doesn't leave until five, and AAAARRRRHHHGHGHGH!
I love my mom, I would love it if my sister lived in my same town, but constant, twenty-four seven family time is, I think, unnatural.
We spend a lot of time reliving childhood nightmares that you really just can't write about on your public, Internet forum without creating full-on adult-type nightmares, like hurting your mom's feelings. Jeeze, mom, I'M SORRY!
Some amusing bits:
- Conducting a vewing of Battlestar Galactica DVDs, Dad says, "I wonder how much it would cost to get one of those chips implanted in your head?
- Dad brings his dog to the airport to pick up my sister. (Not as bad as when he took the dog to my cousin's wedding, but, still.) The security guard says, "Is this a service dog?" Dad really hesitates before saying, "no." Then refuses to leave the dog in the car, instead waiting outside for my sister. Later, he declares that he may just train the dog to be a service dog! Then he can take the dog everywhere. My sister's stroke of level-headed brilliance: "You could. But you won't. That would involve discipline, and you're not willing to do that."
- My cousin stole my cell phone last night during an intense drunken catchphrase tournament and did some rampant evil text messaging. (Sorry, Susan.) I woke up this morning feeling more wine-logged than I have in months. Stupid alcoholic tendencies in the family.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
I Heart Internet Crazies!
Okay, real quick.
Dear Anonymous Commenter:
I have this tool called "sitemeter," and it reveals you to be some person from Plano, Texas, who found this post by searching for "Smelly Stewardesses."
I'm not sure why my post has irked you so, but you're cracking me up right now.
Love,
RJ
Dear Anonymous Commenter:
I have this tool called "sitemeter," and it reveals you to be some person from Plano, Texas, who found this post by searching for "Smelly Stewardesses."
I'm not sure why my post has irked you so, but you're cracking me up right now.
Love,
RJ
Commie Condo
Sunday, I was super productive. Like some a carpenter ant or a bee. Or some sort of insect that is known for its industry.
Anyhow, I was doing laundry, roasting some chicken breasts for soup, and feeling virtuous. I went to take out the garbage, grabbed my newfangled garbage gate key, and walked out the door in my sweatpants and short sleeves. I grabbed the door handle, locked the knob, closed the door behind me, and realized -- I just locked myself out of my own motherfucking house.
It was as if I were watching the door close in slow motion -- watching my own hand reach to undo the mistake I just made -- and the awful click of the door mirroring the awful click my mind made as it registered the fact that I was now underdressed and completely locked out. In thirty degree, windy weather. Wearing pseudo-pajamas and a crazy green headband.
With the oven on.
I walked around to the front of the building, got one of my neighbors to let me into the lobby, and found my front door securely deadbolted.
I saw that a neighbor was hosting an open house, so I went over to seek warmth and a phone. I walked in to a sparsely-furnished, unnervingly similar place to my own, and begged the Eastern European realtor to use her phone. She let me, even though it was clearly dying.
I called my condo association, because I couldn't remember Susan's number (she has my spare) and, um, she was out of town, so, like, I was fucked.
While I waited for them to call me back, I took a look around. The place belongs to a big, lurking dude named Doru, who is from somewhere unidentified -- Romania or Russia or Poland -- a guy with a huge smile and few words.
The Eastern European realtor took some time to show around a couple, explaining, "the man who lives here, he is an artist, he has added many touches."
As it turns out, the touches were as follows:
- he had painted the wall above the granite fireplace a slate grey color, which was alright in and of itself. However, upon further inspection, I noticed that this particular "touch" included copious random halfmoon pockmarks in the wall, as if he had pounded the entire surface with a hammer.
- the opposite wall was painted in broad, diagonal stripes of the same slate grey and a cream color.
- the hallway and bedroom featured squares of crown molding superglued to the walls, spraypainted silver, with silver marker scribbles on the inside. Sometimes going out of the lines.
This particular touch deeply offended my sensibilites -- I felt bad for whomever has to pry those fuckers off the wall.
I also noted a musky, organic smell. While the place appeared clean, it smelled like dirty boy. You know, the smell of a teen boy's room, one where the floor is padded with dirty clothes, where the sheets haven't been changed since he forbade his mom to come in months ago. At first I thought the smell might have been me. However, when I asked the realtor, "Does Doru still live here?" She said -- "Oh, yes. I can smell it."
Nice.
Very few people came in, so the realtor sat down at the kitchen table and started telling me the story of her life -- how she studied law in Romania, how she identified the civil rights the communists were violating by preventing her from leaving the country, how she made herself a target by refusing to be quiet. She told me how her husband had brainwashed and abused her, and how she gained freedom by divorcing him.
She said, "Are you single?"
I said, "Yes."
She said, "Me too."
An hour passed. I called the answering service again, who said my condo assocaition contact wasn't answering his phone.
Finally I called a locksmith.
When he came, a total of two hours in my pajamas smelling boy later, he was a cranky bitch.
I've never been so happy to get back inside.
My chicken was totally burned.
My momentum was shot. My laundry still isn't all done. . .
Anyhow, I was doing laundry, roasting some chicken breasts for soup, and feeling virtuous. I went to take out the garbage, grabbed my newfangled garbage gate key, and walked out the door in my sweatpants and short sleeves. I grabbed the door handle, locked the knob, closed the door behind me, and realized -- I just locked myself out of my own motherfucking house.
It was as if I were watching the door close in slow motion -- watching my own hand reach to undo the mistake I just made -- and the awful click of the door mirroring the awful click my mind made as it registered the fact that I was now underdressed and completely locked out. In thirty degree, windy weather. Wearing pseudo-pajamas and a crazy green headband.
With the oven on.
I walked around to the front of the building, got one of my neighbors to let me into the lobby, and found my front door securely deadbolted.
I saw that a neighbor was hosting an open house, so I went over to seek warmth and a phone. I walked in to a sparsely-furnished, unnervingly similar place to my own, and begged the Eastern European realtor to use her phone. She let me, even though it was clearly dying.
I called my condo association, because I couldn't remember Susan's number (she has my spare) and, um, she was out of town, so, like, I was fucked.
While I waited for them to call me back, I took a look around. The place belongs to a big, lurking dude named Doru, who is from somewhere unidentified -- Romania or Russia or Poland -- a guy with a huge smile and few words.
The Eastern European realtor took some time to show around a couple, explaining, "the man who lives here, he is an artist, he has added many touches."
As it turns out, the touches were as follows:
- he had painted the wall above the granite fireplace a slate grey color, which was alright in and of itself. However, upon further inspection, I noticed that this particular "touch" included copious random halfmoon pockmarks in the wall, as if he had pounded the entire surface with a hammer.
- the opposite wall was painted in broad, diagonal stripes of the same slate grey and a cream color.
- the hallway and bedroom featured squares of crown molding superglued to the walls, spraypainted silver, with silver marker scribbles on the inside. Sometimes going out of the lines.
This particular touch deeply offended my sensibilites -- I felt bad for whomever has to pry those fuckers off the wall.
I also noted a musky, organic smell. While the place appeared clean, it smelled like dirty boy. You know, the smell of a teen boy's room, one where the floor is padded with dirty clothes, where the sheets haven't been changed since he forbade his mom to come in months ago. At first I thought the smell might have been me. However, when I asked the realtor, "Does Doru still live here?" She said -- "Oh, yes. I can smell it."
Nice.
Very few people came in, so the realtor sat down at the kitchen table and started telling me the story of her life -- how she studied law in Romania, how she identified the civil rights the communists were violating by preventing her from leaving the country, how she made herself a target by refusing to be quiet. She told me how her husband had brainwashed and abused her, and how she gained freedom by divorcing him.
She said, "Are you single?"
I said, "Yes."
She said, "Me too."
An hour passed. I called the answering service again, who said my condo assocaition contact wasn't answering his phone.
Finally I called a locksmith.
When he came, a total of two hours in my pajamas smelling boy later, he was a cranky bitch.
I've never been so happy to get back inside.
My chicken was totally burned.
My momentum was shot. My laundry still isn't all done. . .
Monday, November 13, 2006
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I've got some sh*t to say.
It's about Oprah.
I know everyone is talking about this. And, I highly recommend you go check it out.
I mean, as a PR person, I have to say I truly appreciate the brilliance of the Jenny Craig public relations team. Well fucking done, bitches -- whoever was in charge of pep-talking Kirstie Alley into that bikini did a great job of distracting her while you pumped her diet coke with Xanax. She seemed quite relaxed and enthusiastic in her appearance on Oprah.
But Oprah, as someone who is mesmerizing the (female) American public with your brown-eyed judgemental stare, dispensing confident tough love interspersed with hokey spiritualism, I think you have a certain responsibility.
Oprah, I'm begging you, stop being such a fuckwad.
Case in point, the slideshow I linked to, above.
Allow me to reproduce it, below, with my own interpretation:
First, Kirstie Alley comes on to shill for Jenny Craig. I suspect she could lose another 8 pounds or so if she would remove her mascara, but Oprah kindly abstains from commenting on that.
Then, Kirstie comes out, aided only by a flowy wrap and, as I mentioned before, a nice Xanax mickey. Women in the audience are duly impressed at her show of confidence and inspired by her true weight loss story. They cheer.
Here's a nice shot of Kirstie, her celeb pals, and the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard going shopping.
Here Kirstie inspires women everywhere to lose some weight and FIND THEMSELVES.
All fine and good. Kirstie’s all about the positivity, Oprah’s all about “girlfriend! You’re great!” and the audience is all, “WOOOOT!”
But then, it gets a little fucked up. Here, we have a photograph of a very unhappy-looking person and her creepy, creepy dad.
According to the copy, this sensitive man said the following:
See? She’s unhappy because she’s fat. Her dad really loves her and therefore IS ASHAMED TO BE SEEN WITH HER IN PUBLIC.
Is it just me, or does he bear a striking resemblance to John Mark Karr? Let’s see:
Hm. You be the judge.
Anyway, so, then we jump to the miraculous follow up. Guess what, everybody? Unhappy girl had radical surgery to transform her internal organs! Because she was physically unable to eat, she experienced a dramatic weight loss! Now that she is a socially-acceptable human being, she understand that her father’s behavior was not out of hateful, shallow self-loathing, it was out of LOVE! See? She was BAD. Now she is GOOD.
(I have to admit, she’s gorgeous. I think it’s the hair.)
Okay. So, right. Where were we?
Celebrity shilling, check. Unneccissary skin baring? Check. Justification of millions of women’s self hatred and reinforcement of the (false) assumption that if I could just be thinner (richer, sexier, hairier, insert –er here-er), daddy will love me? Check.
What’s next?
Right.
THE HOLOCAUST.
Here, Oprah visits the ultimate fat camp, Auschwitz.
Note her duly concerned, deeply moved, still judgmental stare:
Seriously.
Can you imagine a less appropriate segue?
I was going to put some riff here about the production staff meeting, blah, blah, but nothing I can say is scathing enough for this.
From there, Oprah gives a woman her dream house and moves on to some other forms of genocide.
At this point, the whole slideshow becomes anticlimactic.
Blah blah, Genocide, Blah blah, dream house, then a nice little segment about bras, as part of Oprah’s campaign to ensure American women are sporting the correct undergarments.
Finally, there’s this:
OMG! Bono! I have forgotten about genocide already, because they’re TOTALLY GOING SHOPPING AT THE GAP.
Because there’s this red thing, that Bono is part of, and you can buy things at the Gap.
And it’s charitable.
For something. Something probably to do with Bill Gates but who cares? This shit is cute.
The end.
I know everyone is talking about this. And, I highly recommend you go check it out.
I mean, as a PR person, I have to say I truly appreciate the brilliance of the Jenny Craig public relations team. Well fucking done, bitches -- whoever was in charge of pep-talking Kirstie Alley into that bikini did a great job of distracting her while you pumped her diet coke with Xanax. She seemed quite relaxed and enthusiastic in her appearance on Oprah.
But Oprah, as someone who is mesmerizing the (female) American public with your brown-eyed judgemental stare, dispensing confident tough love interspersed with hokey spiritualism, I think you have a certain responsibility.
Oprah, I'm begging you, stop being such a fuckwad.
Case in point, the slideshow I linked to, above.
Allow me to reproduce it, below, with my own interpretation:
First, Kirstie Alley comes on to shill for Jenny Craig. I suspect she could lose another 8 pounds or so if she would remove her mascara, but Oprah kindly abstains from commenting on that.
Then, Kirstie comes out, aided only by a flowy wrap and, as I mentioned before, a nice Xanax mickey. Women in the audience are duly impressed at her show of confidence and inspired by her true weight loss story. They cheer.
Here's a nice shot of Kirstie, her celeb pals, and the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard going shopping.
Here Kirstie inspires women everywhere to lose some weight and FIND THEMSELVES.
All fine and good. Kirstie’s all about the positivity, Oprah’s all about “girlfriend! You’re great!” and the audience is all, “WOOOOT!”
But then, it gets a little fucked up. Here, we have a photograph of a very unhappy-looking person and her creepy, creepy dad.
According to the copy, this sensitive man said the following:
"Does it bother me when we're out in public that Jill's overweight? It does. I'll be honest," said Kirk, Jill's father. "I'm ashamed of her weight, but I love my daughter dearly."
See? She’s unhappy because she’s fat. Her dad really loves her and therefore IS ASHAMED TO BE SEEN WITH HER IN PUBLIC.
Is it just me, or does he bear a striking resemblance to John Mark Karr? Let’s see:
Hm. You be the judge.
Anyway, so, then we jump to the miraculous follow up. Guess what, everybody? Unhappy girl had radical surgery to transform her internal organs! Because she was physically unable to eat, she experienced a dramatic weight loss! Now that she is a socially-acceptable human being, she understand that her father’s behavior was not out of hateful, shallow self-loathing, it was out of LOVE! See? She was BAD. Now she is GOOD.
(I have to admit, she’s gorgeous. I think it’s the hair.)
Okay. So, right. Where were we?
Celebrity shilling, check. Unneccissary skin baring? Check. Justification of millions of women’s self hatred and reinforcement of the (false) assumption that if I could just be thinner (richer, sexier, hairier, insert –er here-er), daddy will love me? Check.
What’s next?
Right.
THE HOLOCAUST.
Here, Oprah visits the ultimate fat camp, Auschwitz.
Note her duly concerned, deeply moved, still judgmental stare:
Seriously.
Can you imagine a less appropriate segue?
I was going to put some riff here about the production staff meeting, blah, blah, but nothing I can say is scathing enough for this.
From there, Oprah gives a woman her dream house and moves on to some other forms of genocide.
At this point, the whole slideshow becomes anticlimactic.
Blah blah, Genocide, Blah blah, dream house, then a nice little segment about bras, as part of Oprah’s campaign to ensure American women are sporting the correct undergarments.
Finally, there’s this:
OMG! Bono! I have forgotten about genocide already, because they’re TOTALLY GOING SHOPPING AT THE GAP.
Because there’s this red thing, that Bono is part of, and you can buy things at the Gap.
And it’s charitable.
For something. Something probably to do with Bill Gates but who cares? This shit is cute.
The end.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
NaNoNoGo
Hey, everybody!
It's day two of NaNoWriMo AND I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING!
I'm an abject failure, clearly.
Someone bring me multiple glasses of wine.
Actually, fuck the glasses, I'll drink straight from the bottle.
It's day two of NaNoWriMo AND I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING!
I'm an abject failure, clearly.
Someone bring me multiple glasses of wine.
Actually, fuck the glasses, I'll drink straight from the bottle.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
I'm not proud of it, but I sure as hell ain't sorry, either
So, when I fly down to the 'ville to visit my parents, I inevitably end up infuriated at the self-important yet moronic TSA employees. I've chronicled this before.
This time, I arrived at the airport a good half hour before my flight left, and as I was approaching the (only) security checkpoint, they said, "You're going to Chicago? Cuz they're waiting for you."
Okay. So, you just told me the airplane is waiting for me. Will you attempt to get me through security in a timely manner?
Stupid question.
Three people checked my ID within earshot/sight of one another. My bags were put through the xray machine twice -- then a severe woman with thinning gray hair took my purse aside and announced, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to take a look through this.
Okay.
The man at the counter to the single gate behind me was announcing final boarding call. I waved at him and said, "Just a minute!' He waved back amiably as this woman went though all the contents of my wallet.
She searched through until she found a tube of lipgloss. Really delicious lipgloss that I can only get in NYC. That Fauxinca bought for me, special.
She said, "Ma'am, you are not going to be able to take this on the plane."
Me: My lipgloss?
Lady: You can take solid lipstick but not gels.
Me: It's under three ounces.
Lady: It must be in a clear, five inch square ziplock bag in order for you to take it on the plane.
Me: Are you kidding?
Lady: THESE ARE THE RULES!
Me: You're being pedantic.
Lady: . . .
Me: Pedantic. That means overly attached to the letter of the rules without respecting their spirit.
Lady: I have to run your bag through the machine again.
Me: Fine.
She brings back a cop.
A cop.
Because my lipstick IS NOT IN A ZIPLOCK.
Lady: Ma'am, as these are not in a ziplock you cannot take them on the plane.
Me: You think I'm going to do harm to my fellow passengers with my lipgloss? The lipgloss that you would let me take IF IT WERE SEALED IN A FLIMSY ZIPLOCK BAG?
Lady: What do you want to do?
Me: I want you to allow me to take my lipgloss.
Cop: (Looks sort of sheepish and ashamed)
Lady: (Looks defiant and possibly considering a citizen's arrest)
We engage in a staredown.
At this point, another security guy pipes in: WE DO NOT HAVE AUTHORITY TO MAKE EXCEPTIONS! THESE ARE THE RULES AS THEY ARE MADE IN WASHINGTON
At this point I shoulder my bag and stomp off indignantly, once again deliriously happy I don't still live in Southern Indiana.
I'm really sorry, Southern Indiana, but, with the exception of Bloomington, I totally hate you.
Now is the time I reflect and learn:
a. TSA is useless and annoying.
b. I know you catch more flies with honey, and I probably could have appealed to this woman's sense of moral superiority and power hungry-ness and flattered her into having mercy on me and giving me my lipgloss. But I really wanted to humiliate her.
I couldn't help myself.
No wonder Southern Indiana hates me back.
This time, I arrived at the airport a good half hour before my flight left, and as I was approaching the (only) security checkpoint, they said, "You're going to Chicago? Cuz they're waiting for you."
Okay. So, you just told me the airplane is waiting for me. Will you attempt to get me through security in a timely manner?
Stupid question.
Three people checked my ID within earshot/sight of one another. My bags were put through the xray machine twice -- then a severe woman with thinning gray hair took my purse aside and announced, "Ma'am, I'm going to have to take a look through this.
Okay.
The man at the counter to the single gate behind me was announcing final boarding call. I waved at him and said, "Just a minute!' He waved back amiably as this woman went though all the contents of my wallet.
She searched through until she found a tube of lipgloss. Really delicious lipgloss that I can only get in NYC. That Fauxinca bought for me, special.
She said, "Ma'am, you are not going to be able to take this on the plane."
Me: My lipgloss?
Lady: You can take solid lipstick but not gels.
Me: It's under three ounces.
Lady: It must be in a clear, five inch square ziplock bag in order for you to take it on the plane.
Me: Are you kidding?
Lady: THESE ARE THE RULES!
Me: You're being pedantic.
Lady: . . .
Me: Pedantic. That means overly attached to the letter of the rules without respecting their spirit.
Lady: I have to run your bag through the machine again.
Me: Fine.
She brings back a cop.
A cop.
Because my lipstick IS NOT IN A ZIPLOCK.
Lady: Ma'am, as these are not in a ziplock you cannot take them on the plane.
Me: You think I'm going to do harm to my fellow passengers with my lipgloss? The lipgloss that you would let me take IF IT WERE SEALED IN A FLIMSY ZIPLOCK BAG?
Lady: What do you want to do?
Me: I want you to allow me to take my lipgloss.
Cop: (Looks sort of sheepish and ashamed)
Lady: (Looks defiant and possibly considering a citizen's arrest)
We engage in a staredown.
At this point, another security guy pipes in: WE DO NOT HAVE AUTHORITY TO MAKE EXCEPTIONS! THESE ARE THE RULES AS THEY ARE MADE IN WASHINGTON
At this point I shoulder my bag and stomp off indignantly, once again deliriously happy I don't still live in Southern Indiana.
I'm really sorry, Southern Indiana, but, with the exception of Bloomington, I totally hate you.
Now is the time I reflect and learn:
a. TSA is useless and annoying.
b. I know you catch more flies with honey, and I probably could have appealed to this woman's sense of moral superiority and power hungry-ness and flattered her into having mercy on me and giving me my lipgloss. But I really wanted to humiliate her.
I couldn't help myself.
No wonder Southern Indiana hates me back.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Major Milestone?
I just totally forgot how old I am.
I was sitting here?
On the couch?
Thinking about my birthday?
And I couldn't determine whether I was turning 32 or 33.
Seriously.
I honestly could not remember.
I had to do the math, based upon my birth date.
1974?
Oh, phew.
I'm only turning 32.
What does this MEAN?
Oh, god.
I was sitting here?
On the couch?
Thinking about my birthday?
And I couldn't determine whether I was turning 32 or 33.
Seriously.
I honestly could not remember.
I had to do the math, based upon my birth date.
1974?
Oh, phew.
I'm only turning 32.
What does this MEAN?
Oh, god.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Scene From The Lush Counter
I stopped by the Lush counter on my way home from work Monday. Nestled in a corner of Macy's, it's a little oasis of smelly things tended by perky, perky salesgirls. I suspect the cocobutter fumes make them high.
So, I was waiting in line behind a tall, blonde woman with a long black coat. She had a little heart-shaped pin on her lapel and appeared to be in her late forties. Pretty unassuming. She was purchasing some massage oil bars. When I stepped behind her, she turned to me and initiated the following exchange:
Blonde: Oh, what are you getting?
Me: Um, some shampoo?
Blonde: Oh, don't you just love girly things?
Me: Totally.
Blonde: I had some airline stewardesses from American Continental stalking me, and they couldn't understand why I spent money on girly things. They called me a city girl! I think they were jealous. You know?
Me: You had airline stewardesses stalking you?
Blonde: I didn't want to tell you this, but I was raped. By eight airline pilots.
Me: . . .
Blonde: It was terrible. They took turns. And I just think those stewardesses were jealous! They were following me around and taunting me and making fun of me! Because I had nice things and cosmetics! Just don't turn to me and be angry at ME because you chose to be a stewardess and I chose the life of a city girl! Isn't it great being a city girl?
Me: Oh, yeah, totally.
Blonde: So, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but one of the stewardesses, she had both male and female parts. She wanted to live as a woman, but she hated women. That's why the whole thing started.
Me: Um, that's really too bad.
Blonde: I'll never fly American Continental again.
Me: . . .
Blonde (finishing her transaction and walking off): Enjoy your shampoo!
Okay.
That has really stuck with me -- I mean, American Continental? Those are two different airlines, completely.
She must have been crazy, is all I can imagine.
So, I was waiting in line behind a tall, blonde woman with a long black coat. She had a little heart-shaped pin on her lapel and appeared to be in her late forties. Pretty unassuming. She was purchasing some massage oil bars. When I stepped behind her, she turned to me and initiated the following exchange:
Blonde: Oh, what are you getting?
Me: Um, some shampoo?
Blonde: Oh, don't you just love girly things?
Me: Totally.
Blonde: I had some airline stewardesses from American Continental stalking me, and they couldn't understand why I spent money on girly things. They called me a city girl! I think they were jealous. You know?
Me: You had airline stewardesses stalking you?
Blonde: I didn't want to tell you this, but I was raped. By eight airline pilots.
Me: . . .
Blonde: It was terrible. They took turns. And I just think those stewardesses were jealous! They were following me around and taunting me and making fun of me! Because I had nice things and cosmetics! Just don't turn to me and be angry at ME because you chose to be a stewardess and I chose the life of a city girl! Isn't it great being a city girl?
Me: Oh, yeah, totally.
Blonde: So, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but one of the stewardesses, she had both male and female parts. She wanted to live as a woman, but she hated women. That's why the whole thing started.
Me: Um, that's really too bad.
Blonde: I'll never fly American Continental again.
Me: . . .
Blonde (finishing her transaction and walking off): Enjoy your shampoo!
Okay.
That has really stuck with me -- I mean, American Continental? Those are two different airlines, completely.
She must have been crazy, is all I can imagine.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
My Calendar
So, if August was the end of summer, and September was the month of airplanes, I suppose I should continue the designations:
Starting with October. Or, rather, mid-October, but let's not split hairs. October is Sober October. Hear that? That's not the sound of fall leaves underfoot. That's the sound of crispy crackly me as my wino-ism dries on out. I figured my liver could use a break, and I could focus on doing things that are not necessarily alcoholic.
Of course, Sober October just began yesterday (I'm on day two of temporary sobriety! Where's my medal?), and tonight I'm meeting my friends for "drinks," so we'll see how that goes.
I'm feeling strong, people. I won't break. Get me some marijuana. . .
Next is November. Luckily, I'll be back on the sauce by then, because guess what? I'll give you a hint, I've declared it over there to the right -- I'm doing NaNoWriMo. That crazy writer thing where you declare that you will write a novel in a month? YEAH! I'm gonna DO IT!
If you're already scoffing at me, you're probably someone who knows me, and you're probably right, but why not shoot for the stars? Or, at least, shoot for an advanced case of carpal tunnel syndrome.
Starting with October. Or, rather, mid-October, but let's not split hairs. October is Sober October. Hear that? That's not the sound of fall leaves underfoot. That's the sound of crispy crackly me as my wino-ism dries on out. I figured my liver could use a break, and I could focus on doing things that are not necessarily alcoholic.
Of course, Sober October just began yesterday (I'm on day two of temporary sobriety! Where's my medal?), and tonight I'm meeting my friends for "drinks," so we'll see how that goes.
I'm feeling strong, people. I won't break. Get me some marijuana. . .
Next is November. Luckily, I'll be back on the sauce by then, because guess what? I'll give you a hint, I've declared it over there to the right -- I'm doing NaNoWriMo. That crazy writer thing where you declare that you will write a novel in a month? YEAH! I'm gonna DO IT!
If you're already scoffing at me, you're probably someone who knows me, and you're probably right, but why not shoot for the stars? Or, at least, shoot for an advanced case of carpal tunnel syndrome.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Freud Would Be Super Proud
From my dad, who called to chat --
Dad: Hey! I've got great news!
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Dad: I got my penis scoped!
Me: WAY too much information.
Dad: My kidneys are healthy!
Me: That's all you had to say, man.
Do I have to let him know before I just have my therapist send all his bills straight to him?
Speaking of my therapist (I usually am), the second memorable quote of the morning was from him, as I was ranting about the inexplicably assholish behavior of one of my clients --
DeeP: So, how's your ass?
Me: (Glancing at ass) Huh?
DeeP: 'Cuz you're getting FUCKED in it.
Me: Thanks. So very clinical of you.
UPDATE:
In unrelated, but related (She's a PSYCHOLOGIST, for Christ's sake!), but seriously AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH news:
Dad: Hey! I've got great news!
Me: Yeah? What's that?
Dad: I got my penis scoped!
Me: WAY too much information.
Dad: My kidneys are healthy!
Me: That's all you had to say, man.
Do I have to let him know before I just have my therapist send all his bills straight to him?
Speaking of my therapist (I usually am), the second memorable quote of the morning was from him, as I was ranting about the inexplicably assholish behavior of one of my clients --
DeeP: So, how's your ass?
Me: (Glancing at ass) Huh?
DeeP: 'Cuz you're getting FUCKED in it.
Me: Thanks. So very clinical of you.
UPDATE:
In unrelated, but related (She's a PSYCHOLOGIST, for Christ's sake!), but seriously AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH news:
In court papers, McMahan denies that he ever had a sexual affair with his daughter. But he doesn't explain how his and Linda's DNA turned up on a vibrator that Linda's husband uncovered in her luggage.
Monday, October 09, 2006
I'll probably get excommunicated from the family, but, hell.
Since September 1, I have been on 12 planes, and will get on two more tomorrow morning.
I have been to (or through)8 cities and two countries.
I have been to two weddings, but no funerals.
I have played with numerous babies, cooked many meals, laughed a lot, danced a lot, drank a lot, and didn't take nearly enough pictures.
How on earth do people actually work full time? I am fucking busy, people.
Generally, I try not to write posts like this about blood kin, but this is too good.
The first wedding of the month was in West Virginia. Upon my return I wrote the following email to the second wedding's bride-to-be, Sarah:
---------- Message ----------
From: Me
Date: Sep 25, 2006 11:36 AM
Subject: hey
To: Sarah
happy wedding week!
Are you working this week?
So, right, I was thinking of you a lot this weekend at my cousins
wedding. I was thinking that you might want to incorporate some of
these ideas into your wedding:
- for that sense of excitement, try playing some upbeat music as you
introduce the wedding party -- like Eye of the Tiger
- have your cheesy dj (my other cousin's comment "do you think they
have a special catalog for those wedding dj vests?") kick off the
dining portion of the wedding by announcing that whichever side of the
room screams the loudest will get to go to the buffet table first.
then lead the room in a gigantic screaming match.
- invite my dad, who will refuse to leave his dog at home, then sulk
furiously when I tell him "you cannot bring your dog to the wedding."
- serve beer out of a keg -- self-service style
- have some drunk dudes decide it's a good idea to climb to the roof
and then their hysterical girlfriends can stand outside and scream and
people can cry and generally make a scene
- have your drunk, perma-stoned brother as the best man, then give him
a microphone and let him do a speech. End up turning off his
microphone because he's verbally berating the wedding planner.
(apparently, right before his speech, he was pissing in the bathroom
with my other cousin's boyfriend, and he said: 'I don't have a speech,
yet, I'm gonna wing it. how's you're PISSING your life away? HAHA!
Get it!" Then Mike (cousin's boyfriend) came out and reported all so
rachel was able to videotape the speech. I've asked her to upload to
youtube for us.)
_____________________________
I hope to have photographs for posting soon.
I also forgot to mention to her the following exchange at the end of the evening:
Best man is standing next to an older lady, with a napkin tied jauntily around his head. He has his hand resting on the woman's shoulder. She is gazing up at him in annoyance.
I walk up and hear him slurring drunkenly.
Best man: You know you want me to bang your daughter. It would make you so happy.
Me: Uh, hey, what's going on.
Best Man: She totally wants me to bang her daughter.
Me: Do you have a ride home?
Best Man: Yeah! (Points at lady.) She's taking me!
AND SCENE.
I have been to (or through)8 cities and two countries.
I have been to two weddings, but no funerals.
I have played with numerous babies, cooked many meals, laughed a lot, danced a lot, drank a lot, and didn't take nearly enough pictures.
How on earth do people actually work full time? I am fucking busy, people.
Generally, I try not to write posts like this about blood kin, but this is too good.
The first wedding of the month was in West Virginia. Upon my return I wrote the following email to the second wedding's bride-to-be, Sarah:
---------- Message ----------
From: Me
Date: Sep 25, 2006 11:36 AM
Subject: hey
To: Sarah
happy wedding week!
Are you working this week?
So, right, I was thinking of you a lot this weekend at my cousins
wedding. I was thinking that you might want to incorporate some of
these ideas into your wedding:
- for that sense of excitement, try playing some upbeat music as you
introduce the wedding party -- like Eye of the Tiger
- have your cheesy dj (my other cousin's comment "do you think they
have a special catalog for those wedding dj vests?") kick off the
dining portion of the wedding by announcing that whichever side of the
room screams the loudest will get to go to the buffet table first.
then lead the room in a gigantic screaming match.
- invite my dad, who will refuse to leave his dog at home, then sulk
furiously when I tell him "you cannot bring your dog to the wedding."
- serve beer out of a keg -- self-service style
- have some drunk dudes decide it's a good idea to climb to the roof
and then their hysterical girlfriends can stand outside and scream and
people can cry and generally make a scene
- have your drunk, perma-stoned brother as the best man, then give him
a microphone and let him do a speech. End up turning off his
microphone because he's verbally berating the wedding planner.
(apparently, right before his speech, he was pissing in the bathroom
with my other cousin's boyfriend, and he said: 'I don't have a speech,
yet, I'm gonna wing it. how's you're PISSING your life away? HAHA!
Get it!" Then Mike (cousin's boyfriend) came out and reported all so
rachel was able to videotape the speech. I've asked her to upload to
youtube for us.)
_____________________________
I hope to have photographs for posting soon.
I also forgot to mention to her the following exchange at the end of the evening:
Best man is standing next to an older lady, with a napkin tied jauntily around his head. He has his hand resting on the woman's shoulder. She is gazing up at him in annoyance.
I walk up and hear him slurring drunkenly.
Best man: You know you want me to bang your daughter. It would make you so happy.
Me: Uh, hey, what's going on.
Best Man: She totally wants me to bang her daughter.
Me: Do you have a ride home?
Best Man: Yeah! (Points at lady.) She's taking me!
AND SCENE.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Quickly! Quietly! VOICES!
Right now I am sitting in a fourth grade classroom in New Mexico. The chairs are small and the table is short.
My sister is the teacher. She's a hot teacher, I suspect there are some crushes, but she's pretty strict and otherwise badass, so they're probably also a bit intimidated by her.
This month I have been on 12 planes, in 7 cities and two countries.
I have been to two weddings but no funerals.
Knock on wood.
I have lots of fun updates to make but now I have to conduct writing prompts with eight-year olds who like martians, adventures, and football.
My sister is the teacher. She's a hot teacher, I suspect there are some crushes, but she's pretty strict and otherwise badass, so they're probably also a bit intimidated by her.
This month I have been on 12 planes, in 7 cities and two countries.
I have been to two weddings but no funerals.
Knock on wood.
I have lots of fun updates to make but now I have to conduct writing prompts with eight-year olds who like martians, adventures, and football.
My fourth-grade writing assignment
Rachel was napping when the doorbell rang.
It startled her -- she sat up and nearly fell off the couch. The late afternoon light was slanting in through the blinds. She had been asleep for hours. She rubbed her eyes and stumbled through the living room to the door.
She opened the door, but no one was there. There was, however, a large brown box at her feet.
She bent to pick it up. It was heavy, too heavy to carry very far. She thought, vaguely, this must have been a very expensive package to ship. She slid the box into the door and across the carpet so it was in the middle of the room. She sat again on the couch and stared at it through sleep-bleary eyes.
She wasn't expecting a package. She wondered what it could be.
She stood again and wandered into the kitchen to look for scissors. She opened the junk drawer and rooted through balls of string, random loose buttons, batteries, refrigerator magnets with paper clips and small nails stuck to their backs, and eventually found a small pair of scissors with orange handles.
She walked back over to the package and knelt beside it. It was tall, a foot or more, and wide, a large square box with her name and address on it and little clue as to where it was from.
She searched for a return address but found none.
She used the scissors like a blade and sliced the tape that bound the flaps of the box together.
She managed to free the top of the box and open it -- all she could see, at first, was mounds and mounds of packing material that looked like dried grass. It crunched a little when she touched it.
She started to pull the grass out of the box by the handful, making a big messy pile on the carpet next to her. She pulled and pulled for what seemed like a very long time before she found the heavy item in the box. She had a large pile of the grass next to her.
The object was black and glossy -- it looked like marble, only smoother. It was completely smooth. When she touched it her fingers slid along the surface. It was very black, a deep, inky color that gleamed in the light and seemed to absorb the light, to change a little with it, revealing reddish tones.
She slid her hands around it and lifted -- it was very heavy.
She managed to pull it out it out of the box and place it on the coffee table, where she looked at it, puzzled.
What on earth? It looked like the statue of a man. Who would send something like this to her?
It startled her -- she sat up and nearly fell off the couch. The late afternoon light was slanting in through the blinds. She had been asleep for hours. She rubbed her eyes and stumbled through the living room to the door.
She opened the door, but no one was there. There was, however, a large brown box at her feet.
She bent to pick it up. It was heavy, too heavy to carry very far. She thought, vaguely, this must have been a very expensive package to ship. She slid the box into the door and across the carpet so it was in the middle of the room. She sat again on the couch and stared at it through sleep-bleary eyes.
She wasn't expecting a package. She wondered what it could be.
She stood again and wandered into the kitchen to look for scissors. She opened the junk drawer and rooted through balls of string, random loose buttons, batteries, refrigerator magnets with paper clips and small nails stuck to their backs, and eventually found a small pair of scissors with orange handles.
She walked back over to the package and knelt beside it. It was tall, a foot or more, and wide, a large square box with her name and address on it and little clue as to where it was from.
She searched for a return address but found none.
She used the scissors like a blade and sliced the tape that bound the flaps of the box together.
She managed to free the top of the box and open it -- all she could see, at first, was mounds and mounds of packing material that looked like dried grass. It crunched a little when she touched it.
She started to pull the grass out of the box by the handful, making a big messy pile on the carpet next to her. She pulled and pulled for what seemed like a very long time before she found the heavy item in the box. She had a large pile of the grass next to her.
The object was black and glossy -- it looked like marble, only smoother. It was completely smooth. When she touched it her fingers slid along the surface. It was very black, a deep, inky color that gleamed in the light and seemed to absorb the light, to change a little with it, revealing reddish tones.
She slid her hands around it and lifted -- it was very heavy.
She managed to pull it out it out of the box and place it on the coffee table, where she looked at it, puzzled.
What on earth? It looked like the statue of a man. Who would send something like this to her?
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Seattle, Baby
Annevan and I have set our sights on Seattle, where it is already Autumn, all crisp sunshine and gorgeous sweet hay and pine-filled air.
We are visiting a boy named Max.
This picture? Not of Max.
This picture is of Nicholas Beach, who we met at a cafe while we were eating crab- and mushroom-filled omlettes and generally acting goofy.
Together Anne and I become more than the sum of our parts, some kind of endlessly gregarious dynamic duo who make friends wherever we go.
Nicholas was rockin' his second day on the job yesterday, and we salute him and his sassy customer service style.
Anne: Just some constructive criticism?
Nicholas: (skeptical) um, yeah?
Anne: Bring a pen with the check.
Nicholas: . . .
Anne: I'm just sayin'.
Nicholas mistook us for local drama scene divas.
Not so much. See his perfect teeth? He's totally an actor.
Anne says, "Seattle totally wants us to move here, so they can hang out with us all the time."
I totally agree.
Gotta go, there's a baby that needs to be played with.
Max:
We are visiting a boy named Max.
This picture? Not of Max.
This picture is of Nicholas Beach, who we met at a cafe while we were eating crab- and mushroom-filled omlettes and generally acting goofy.
Together Anne and I become more than the sum of our parts, some kind of endlessly gregarious dynamic duo who make friends wherever we go.
Nicholas was rockin' his second day on the job yesterday, and we salute him and his sassy customer service style.
Anne: Just some constructive criticism?
Nicholas: (skeptical) um, yeah?
Anne: Bring a pen with the check.
Nicholas: . . .
Anne: I'm just sayin'.
Nicholas mistook us for local drama scene divas.
Not so much. See his perfect teeth? He's totally an actor.
Anne says, "Seattle totally wants us to move here, so they can hang out with us all the time."
I totally agree.
Gotta go, there's a baby that needs to be played with.
Max:
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
HP Movie Review: The Curve
When I was in college, I spent one summer interning for the local public radio station in my hometown in Southern Indiana. I reported directly to the news director. She was not only the news director; she was also the reporting staff, the editor, and the host of Morning Edition. What I’m getting at, here, is that it was a skeletal staff. So, pretty much as soon as I established myself as capable of forming sentences and otherwise trustworthy with a microphone and tape recorder, I was out doing stories and soon was filling in as a part-time radio host.
It was a pretty cool thing for a twenty-nothing semi-slacker.
Anyhow, there were several sort of generally malaised dudes that worked there, the type of guys who have vague ambitions of being “in radio” but no real motivation to actually do that much. The type of guys who like to talk a lot about how undervalued they are as a way to justify spending most of their days on the dial-up Internet (hey – it was the nineties) researching conspiracy theories.
I loved those guys. They would give me cigarettes and we would sit on the back steps of the big old dilapidated mansion that served as the public radio and TV station HQ and they would tell me all about the in-depth serial killer biographies they were reading. At the time, Andrew Cunanan had just terrorized gay clubs across the country in his manic pursuit of Gianni Versace, probably pissed at all those loud patterns.
(No? Nothing? Too soon? Eh, I digress.)
So, I was just thinking of this period in my life as I nursed my hangover this weekend to the sweet sound of bullshit b movies on tv. As I stumbled through the channels seeking something that would not over stimulate my neurons (fucking electrical activity, ouch), I came upon The Curve (curiously mislabeled on IMDB -- as if they can't even bother with it), an early production of MTV’s stint in movie-making.
This is an exceptionally bad film, starring Felicity during the height of her career, before she gave herself a much-needed haircut and got rid of some of those cascades of butt-ugly dirty blonde curls.
Basically, the movie is about a couple of guys who conspire to kill their roommate and make it look like a suicide so they can get an automatic 4.0 for the semester.
And the way I weave all this rambling together is by saying that when this movie came out, it seriously ticked off one of these cigarette-toting radio dudes. Apparently, he had written a script based upon this very premise! And now? Someone else? RIPPING HIM OFF.
Me: Did you actually try to sell your script to someone?
Cigarette-Toting Radio Dude: Well, I talked about it.
Me: So, like, you didn’t send it out?
CTRD: Well, I might have, when it was done?
Me: You didn’t finish it?
CTRD: Well, I didn’t really write it.
Me: Huh.
We smoked together on the steps in the waning sunlight and I imagined him, holed up in his dreary basement apartment in Southern Indiana, smoking pot, watching TV, and dreaming up film premises.
And, having finally seen this film, I just want to say, maybe it’s better that he didn’t get credit for the genesis of this idea. Because it was total crap.
It was a pretty cool thing for a twenty-nothing semi-slacker.
Anyhow, there were several sort of generally malaised dudes that worked there, the type of guys who have vague ambitions of being “in radio” but no real motivation to actually do that much. The type of guys who like to talk a lot about how undervalued they are as a way to justify spending most of their days on the dial-up Internet (hey – it was the nineties) researching conspiracy theories.
I loved those guys. They would give me cigarettes and we would sit on the back steps of the big old dilapidated mansion that served as the public radio and TV station HQ and they would tell me all about the in-depth serial killer biographies they were reading. At the time, Andrew Cunanan had just terrorized gay clubs across the country in his manic pursuit of Gianni Versace, probably pissed at all those loud patterns.
(No? Nothing? Too soon? Eh, I digress.)
So, I was just thinking of this period in my life as I nursed my hangover this weekend to the sweet sound of bullshit b movies on tv. As I stumbled through the channels seeking something that would not over stimulate my neurons (fucking electrical activity, ouch), I came upon The Curve (curiously mislabeled on IMDB -- as if they can't even bother with it), an early production of MTV’s stint in movie-making.
This is an exceptionally bad film, starring Felicity during the height of her career, before she gave herself a much-needed haircut and got rid of some of those cascades of butt-ugly dirty blonde curls.
Basically, the movie is about a couple of guys who conspire to kill their roommate and make it look like a suicide so they can get an automatic 4.0 for the semester.
And the way I weave all this rambling together is by saying that when this movie came out, it seriously ticked off one of these cigarette-toting radio dudes. Apparently, he had written a script based upon this very premise! And now? Someone else? RIPPING HIM OFF.
Me: Did you actually try to sell your script to someone?
Cigarette-Toting Radio Dude: Well, I talked about it.
Me: So, like, you didn’t send it out?
CTRD: Well, I might have, when it was done?
Me: You didn’t finish it?
CTRD: Well, I didn’t really write it.
Me: Huh.
We smoked together on the steps in the waning sunlight and I imagined him, holed up in his dreary basement apartment in Southern Indiana, smoking pot, watching TV, and dreaming up film premises.
And, having finally seen this film, I just want to say, maybe it’s better that he didn’t get credit for the genesis of this idea. Because it was total crap.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Good Night, Sweet Prince.
I have to say, it isn't shocking that Steve Irwin is dead at the tender age of 44.
When you were the guy who popularized the term "Crikey,", someone's bound to stab you in the chest with a stingray.
When you were the guy who popularized the term "Crikey,", someone's bound to stab you in the chest with a stingray.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Defending Flatland
The US Army today announced that they have discovered yet another way to declare the worth of the human lives they send off as cannon fodder -- taking a page from flim studio marketers, it's FLAT DADDY!
I'm not sure who thought of this idea, but, wow.
This choice bit of journalism is especially compelling:
I'm imagining the dialogue:
Sweet War Wife: Aw, well, yeah, we miss daddy, but we take flat daddy with us everywhere!
Smarmy Reporter: Oh? . . . (insert lecherous pause here) . . . even to the. . . GYNOCOLOGIST??
Sweet War Wife: (without missing a beat) He just thought it was really neat!
Smarmy Reporter: (Sketching his version of the scene in his reporter's notebook) That's SO NICE! So. . . does Flat Daddy. . . vibrate?
Sweet War Wife: What?
Smarmy Reporter: Nevermind.
The thing is, from there, the article takes an even more sinister turn:
Later, when the dog was found vivisected in the woods, Kevin insisted he had nothing to do with it. "It was Flat Daddy! I begged him not to do it, but he said it had to be done!"
I'm not sure who thought of this idea, but, wow.
This choice bit of journalism is especially compelling:
‘‘Any time I get invited somewhere, I take it with me,’’ she said. And the gynecologist? ‘‘He just thought it was really neat,’’ she said.
I'm imagining the dialogue:
Sweet War Wife: Aw, well, yeah, we miss daddy, but we take flat daddy with us everywhere!
Smarmy Reporter: Oh? . . . (insert lecherous pause here) . . . even to the. . . GYNOCOLOGIST??
Sweet War Wife: (without missing a beat) He just thought it was really neat!
Smarmy Reporter: (Sketching his version of the scene in his reporter's notebook) That's SO NICE! So. . . does Flat Daddy. . . vibrate?
Sweet War Wife: What?
Smarmy Reporter: Nevermind.
The thing is, from there, the article takes an even more sinister turn:
Despite his anger at his father, Kevin was able to relate to the life-sized likeness, Sherri Fish said. ‘‘He’d sit at the end of his bed and tell him what went on at school that day,’’ she said.
Even after Richard Fish returned home last October, Kevin continued talking to Flat Daddy while his father was at work, she said.
Later, when the dog was found vivisected in the woods, Kevin insisted he had nothing to do with it. "It was Flat Daddy! I begged him not to do it, but he said it had to be done!"
Is it wrong to get weepy about a hyperlink?
Seriously, y'all. I don't yet have my own Wikipedia entry, but the Career Women piece is linked to from that scourge Michael Noer's entry.
Someday. . . .
Someday. . . .
I've got space dementia!!
You live life only once, you know, so it's important to take every opportunity to enjoy the little things.
Just like that whimsical moment in Amelie when the eponymous Amelie looks all adorable and dimpled and sweet because she's enjoying simple tactile pleasures like sinking her sweet little adorable fingers into a big barrel of dried beans or quirkily delighting in a fly on a movie screen:
Well, you may be saying to yourself, that would be the entire treacly expanse of the film, and you would be totally right. But, still.
One of my great simple pleasures in life, aside from the warm toasty smell of fresh coffee in the morning and the smooth embrace of expensive sheets at night, is the butterscotch stallion.
I just look at Owen Wilson and it makes me laugh. He is reason alone to have Tivo. Delightfully, Tivo knows all kinds of weird, not-Owen-Wilson-vehicle films in which Owen Wilson plays a small part.
Those are staples of the many b-movie channels that crowd the cable lineup.
One of those many great films is Armegeddon. Perhaps you've seen it.
Many people have. Because it was a big blockbuster vehicle for everyone's favorite bald savior of the universe and father of a teenaged girl named Rumer (insert pithy teens-and-rumors-comment here), Bruce Willis.
It's a very important film.
It explores themes of manhood, class, and asteriods.
Ben (father of Violet) Affleck plays the young cowboy oil driller, A.J. He's constanly running off at the mouth and taking crazy risks, and pissing off Harry, played by Bruce Willis, who really flexes his cocky-eyebrow-raising-muscles throughout the film.
There are lots of amazing moments, one of which is when Steve Buscemi starts to get a little nuts while he's on the asteroid, and the NASA pilot says, "HE'S GOT SPACE DEMENTIA!" And they have to wrestle him to the ground.
I first saw this movie with my mother, in a crowded theater in Southern Indiana.
We almost got beaten up, because we giggled uncontrollably the entire time.
We totally blamed it on space dementia.
It's still one of my favorite self-diagnoses.
Feeling cranky? Blame it on the Space Dementia.
Pissing people off? Space Dementia. Not my fault.
Writing long boring rambling blog posts? Sorry. Space Dementia.
Just like that whimsical moment in Amelie when the eponymous Amelie looks all adorable and dimpled and sweet because she's enjoying simple tactile pleasures like sinking her sweet little adorable fingers into a big barrel of dried beans or quirkily delighting in a fly on a movie screen:
Well, you may be saying to yourself, that would be the entire treacly expanse of the film, and you would be totally right. But, still.
One of my great simple pleasures in life, aside from the warm toasty smell of fresh coffee in the morning and the smooth embrace of expensive sheets at night, is the butterscotch stallion.
I just look at Owen Wilson and it makes me laugh. He is reason alone to have Tivo. Delightfully, Tivo knows all kinds of weird, not-Owen-Wilson-vehicle films in which Owen Wilson plays a small part.
Those are staples of the many b-movie channels that crowd the cable lineup.
One of those many great films is Armegeddon. Perhaps you've seen it.
Many people have. Because it was a big blockbuster vehicle for everyone's favorite bald savior of the universe and father of a teenaged girl named Rumer (insert pithy teens-and-rumors-comment here), Bruce Willis.
It's a very important film.
It explores themes of manhood, class, and asteriods.
Ben (father of Violet) Affleck plays the young cowboy oil driller, A.J. He's constanly running off at the mouth and taking crazy risks, and pissing off Harry, played by Bruce Willis, who really flexes his cocky-eyebrow-raising-muscles throughout the film.
There are lots of amazing moments, one of which is when Steve Buscemi starts to get a little nuts while he's on the asteroid, and the NASA pilot says, "HE'S GOT SPACE DEMENTIA!" And they have to wrestle him to the ground.
I first saw this movie with my mother, in a crowded theater in Southern Indiana.
We almost got beaten up, because we giggled uncontrollably the entire time.
We totally blamed it on space dementia.
It's still one of my favorite self-diagnoses.
Feeling cranky? Blame it on the Space Dementia.
Pissing people off? Space Dementia. Not my fault.
Writing long boring rambling blog posts? Sorry. Space Dementia.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Breaking News: Moronic Edition!
I came across this article recently, while I was on one of my many recent pilgrimages to Southern Indiana.
It wasn’t so much as I was browsing through the Evansville Courier and Press as I just picked up the front page. This was the main lead story at the same time that the supreme court was ruling the Bush wiretapping snafu illegal, the same time that Lebanon was getting pounded into the ground by Israel, the same time that – well, right, you get the picture.
This article shared the front page with another article about local dogs being euthanized and, I think, something about the local high school cafeterias.
I really love a lot of things about this hard-hitting news piece. For example:
Just in case you aren’t familiar with the vernacular, y’all, TP is short for TOILET PAPER. If you missed that, you may be befuddled throughout the rest of the article. In that case, there is nothing I can do for you.
Basically, according to law enforcement, this issue isn’t really an issue. And yet, the article? Goes on.
Obviously. Only the best toilet paper (TP) for this particular job. If you would like to purchase your own. . . wait a minute. How did she know IT WAS PURCHASED AT SCHNUCKS? I smell a rat.
Ha. Hm. Ha. HA. HAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAAAAAA!
The crazy thing is, Evansville, Indiana isn’t a tiny town. It’s not a big city, but it isn’t Mayberry, either. And the locals don’t like that implication. They’re kind of defensive that way. But crap like this is where Americans get the reputation of being absolutely insular, completely blind to what’s going on in the world.
It’s silly, it’s shameful, and, I think, irresponsible to allow the focus of your newspaper to become so pedantic.
But, I digress. Let's get back to the important thing, making fun. Check out this poll:
Y’all! “More!” just barely beat out “None, it’s vandalism!” Power to the people!
I hearby nominate this article for Gawker's prestigious Great Moments in Journalism award.
It wasn’t so much as I was browsing through the Evansville Courier and Press as I just picked up the front page. This was the main lead story at the same time that the supreme court was ruling the Bush wiretapping snafu illegal, the same time that Lebanon was getting pounded into the ground by Israel, the same time that – well, right, you get the picture.
This article shared the front page with another article about local dogs being euthanized and, I think, something about the local high school cafeterias.
I really love a lot of things about this hard-hitting news piece. For example:
Early Monday, the toilet paper (TP) vandals struck again.
Just in case you aren’t familiar with the vernacular, y’all, TP is short for TOILET PAPER. If you missed that, you may be befuddled throughout the rest of the article. In that case, there is nothing I can do for you.
Complaints about TPing are "few and far between," said Williams. "We do get them periodically, but a lot of times people don't report them because they know it's been done by friends of their kids," he said.
Basically, according to law enforcement, this issue isn’t really an issue. And yet, the article? Goes on.
"And they are obviously not cheap," she said, holding up an empty bag of Quilted Northern, purchased at Schnucks.
Obviously. Only the best toilet paper (TP) for this particular job. If you would like to purchase your own. . . wait a minute. How did she know IT WAS PURCHASED AT SCHNUCKS? I smell a rat.
Although a popular TP cleanup technique, Williams warns people not to light toilet paper on fire to get it out of trees and shrubs.
"I've heard stories about people catching more on fire than they intended," he said.
Ha. Hm. Ha. HA. HAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAAAAAA!
The crazy thing is, Evansville, Indiana isn’t a tiny town. It’s not a big city, but it isn’t Mayberry, either. And the locals don’t like that implication. They’re kind of defensive that way. But crap like this is where Americans get the reputation of being absolutely insular, completely blind to what’s going on in the world.
It’s silly, it’s shameful, and, I think, irresponsible to allow the focus of your newspaper to become so pedantic.
But, I digress. Let's get back to the important thing, making fun. Check out this poll:
How much toilet paper does it take to properly TP a two-story home?
8
12
24
More!
None, it's vandalism!
Y’all! “More!” just barely beat out “None, it’s vandalism!” Power to the people!
I hearby nominate this article for Gawker's prestigious Great Moments in Journalism award.
Friday, August 25, 2006
HP Reviews: The Illusionist
The film is a rousing mystery period film, full of . . .okay, no. This film is just arousing.
So, right, this movie is all about Edward Norton sporting some finely tailored suits and shiny, shiny shoes. Lots of dramatically lowered, black-bearded chin, brown laser eyes shooting sexy thousand-mile stares with deadly frequency. Lots of gas firelight throwing dramatic sepia-toned shadows on his sexily-exposed forearms jutting from rolled-up sleeves.
The other thing the movie is about is Jessica Biel, and the best review I can possibly give her is that I did not once think of her as the wayward oldest daughter of a preacher, Mary Camden. Girl looked really gooood.
My movie review of the Illusionist, in ten words: Edward Norton, come down off that screen and date me.
This was also my original review of Fight Club. Of course, Ed and I had a total falling out when I felt like he was being pretentious and long-winded, well, almost always.
But, damn, that man.
I cannot resist him.
He must be magic.
So, right, this movie is all about Edward Norton sporting some finely tailored suits and shiny, shiny shoes. Lots of dramatically lowered, black-bearded chin, brown laser eyes shooting sexy thousand-mile stares with deadly frequency. Lots of gas firelight throwing dramatic sepia-toned shadows on his sexily-exposed forearms jutting from rolled-up sleeves.
The other thing the movie is about is Jessica Biel, and the best review I can possibly give her is that I did not once think of her as the wayward oldest daughter of a preacher, Mary Camden. Girl looked really gooood.
My movie review of the Illusionist, in ten words: Edward Norton, come down off that screen and date me.
This was also my original review of Fight Club. Of course, Ed and I had a total falling out when I felt like he was being pretentious and long-winded, well, almost always.
But, damn, that man.
I cannot resist him.
He must be magic.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
LOOK AT ME (no, don't look at me)
Today, following the popularity of my dashed-out photo essay, I watched the stats to my little blog explode. Suddenly, instead off the thirty of you who read this here navel-gazer there were ten thousand people.
I felt a little bit of vertigo while I stared at the lists of domain names -- among the ubiquitous comcasts and rrs, there were NASAs and Cornells and Harvards and Yales and Princetons. There were government people and media people and people with boring jobs who have time to click on things that make them snicker.
All of a sudden I felt just like an obnoxious little girl who has been jumping around in her favorite ruffled party dress and glittery shiny patent leather maryjanes screaming LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME MOM MOM MOMOMOMOMOMOMOM LOOK! and then, suddenly, a curtain raises and there are ten thousand people looking at you. (Including my mom -- hey mom! -- who thinks everything I write is brilliant. So, like, no pressure there.)
Come to think of it, it's kind of like when Cindy went on that quizbowl show. She was all cocky and braggarty about it until that made-from-cardboard looking camera flashed that red I'M ON light and she totally froze.
Then I went to bed last night and dreamed I was at a party with several Chicago bloggers -- that is, people who have blogs I read but not people I know in person. Which may make this like some kind of psuedo-celebrity dream, or just some sort of subconscious stalking. Erin Lady Byrne invited me to come to dinner with Poundy and Drunken Bee. Mimi Smartypants was there, too. It was a grand time, there were other people there who treated me nicely and I had only slight dreamtime social anxiety about the whole ordeal. I was a little perplexed, though, at their choice of venue, it was a Texas Roadhouse, and there were peanut shells everywhere and we all sat at long, picnic-table-type tables with big mugs o' frosty beer.
I woke up deriding myself for being such a goddamn Internet geek that I would seriously actually have a dream about meeting bloggers.
Even though, like, it would be so dreamy.
Oh, God. I've said too much.
I felt a little bit of vertigo while I stared at the lists of domain names -- among the ubiquitous comcasts and rrs, there were NASAs and Cornells and Harvards and Yales and Princetons. There were government people and media people and people with boring jobs who have time to click on things that make them snicker.
All of a sudden I felt just like an obnoxious little girl who has been jumping around in her favorite ruffled party dress and glittery shiny patent leather maryjanes screaming LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME MOM MOM MOMOMOMOMOMOMOM LOOK! and then, suddenly, a curtain raises and there are ten thousand people looking at you. (Including my mom -- hey mom! -- who thinks everything I write is brilliant. So, like, no pressure there.)
Come to think of it, it's kind of like when Cindy went on that quizbowl show. She was all cocky and braggarty about it until that made-from-cardboard looking camera flashed that red I'M ON light and she totally froze.
Then I went to bed last night and dreamed I was at a party with several Chicago bloggers -- that is, people who have blogs I read but not people I know in person. Which may make this like some kind of psuedo-celebrity dream, or just some sort of subconscious stalking. Erin Lady Byrne invited me to come to dinner with Poundy and Drunken Bee. Mimi Smartypants was there, too. It was a grand time, there were other people there who treated me nicely and I had only slight dreamtime social anxiety about the whole ordeal. I was a little perplexed, though, at their choice of venue, it was a Texas Roadhouse, and there were peanut shells everywhere and we all sat at long, picnic-table-type tables with big mugs o' frosty beer.
I woke up deriding myself for being such a goddamn Internet geek that I would seriously actually have a dream about meeting bloggers.
Even though, like, it would be so dreamy.
Oh, God. I've said too much.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
America, Fuck Yeah
Thanks so much to Gawker (I'm sorry I said you were over), and Gapers Block (I love you always) for giving my cathartic top nine list a shout out! Also: Feministe!
Um. . . and. . . Slate! Hey everybody! Wow and stuff!
Um. . . and. . . Slate! Hey everybody! Wow and stuff!
A Slideshow Of My Own
Disappointed in myself for taking the recent misogynist pap published in Forbes so seriously, I have decided, upon some thought, to publish my own photo essay: Nine Reasons You Should Marry a Career Bitch. Enjoy:
1. She won’t be so clingy if she got something to do. I think this is pretty self-explanatory – send her to the office all day, let her feel important, and she won’t be interrupting you every five minutes with needy whining because she’s bored at home. “Wah, I need to talk to an adult, Wah, I need a raise in my allowance to buy shoes, wahhhhh, pick up the drycleaning on the way home.” Useless.
2. She’ll end up with a major guilt complex. Lisen. Even if she is making more than you, no one has to know it. You can take those checks, buy yourself some golf clubs, and exploit her sense of guilt about not being around for her kids to ensure that she’ll spend the whole weekend with them, cleaning the house, and crying on the phone to her mom instead of nagging you to clean out the garage. The result? Tee time, baby.
3. She’s more likely to order pizza. And let’s face it. You married her for her ass, not her cooking skills. Bring on the pepperoni, baby.
4. She’s less likely to turn your son into a sissy mama’s boy. And that kid is never going to be on the varsity team if he’s still on your stay-at-home wife’s apron strings. Sticking him in daycare gives him a chance to get some guts, so what if the other kids are beating him up, gives him goddamn character. You know what happens to sissy boys. They take theater class in high school and they end up light in their loafers.
5. She’s less likely to make your baby girl into a tragic mess. Women who work have way fewer hours to enter their children in little girl beauty pageants, harping in their weight and various imagined shortcomings, and ultimately turning her into a possible sociopath who is going to end up being one of “those girls” in high school, possibly marring your reputation in the community, or, even worse, banging one of your buddies.
6. She will be more likely to wear high heels. Women who stay at home let themselves go. No sooner are you married than your woman is lying around the house all day in sweatpants and dirty socks. Want a woman to keep wearing those hot black hose and stilettos – send her to the office.
7. She’s less likely to question your “business trips,” if you know what I mean. All you have to do is say, “Baby, you’re a career woman, you know what this is all about.”
8. You might be the one to get something out of the divorce. Hey, if she's making more than you, YOU could be the guy living on alimony. Sweet.
9. She won’t notice you’re a douchebag. She will be too tired from trying to do everything, and deal with you, that she won’t have any time left to notice that she's married an asshole.
1. She won’t be so clingy if she got something to do. I think this is pretty self-explanatory – send her to the office all day, let her feel important, and she won’t be interrupting you every five minutes with needy whining because she’s bored at home. “Wah, I need to talk to an adult, Wah, I need a raise in my allowance to buy shoes, wahhhhh, pick up the drycleaning on the way home.” Useless.
2. She’ll end up with a major guilt complex. Lisen. Even if she is making more than you, no one has to know it. You can take those checks, buy yourself some golf clubs, and exploit her sense of guilt about not being around for her kids to ensure that she’ll spend the whole weekend with them, cleaning the house, and crying on the phone to her mom instead of nagging you to clean out the garage. The result? Tee time, baby.
3. She’s more likely to order pizza. And let’s face it. You married her for her ass, not her cooking skills. Bring on the pepperoni, baby.
4. She’s less likely to turn your son into a sissy mama’s boy. And that kid is never going to be on the varsity team if he’s still on your stay-at-home wife’s apron strings. Sticking him in daycare gives him a chance to get some guts, so what if the other kids are beating him up, gives him goddamn character. You know what happens to sissy boys. They take theater class in high school and they end up light in their loafers.
5. She’s less likely to make your baby girl into a tragic mess. Women who work have way fewer hours to enter their children in little girl beauty pageants, harping in their weight and various imagined shortcomings, and ultimately turning her into a possible sociopath who is going to end up being one of “those girls” in high school, possibly marring your reputation in the community, or, even worse, banging one of your buddies.
6. She will be more likely to wear high heels. Women who stay at home let themselves go. No sooner are you married than your woman is lying around the house all day in sweatpants and dirty socks. Want a woman to keep wearing those hot black hose and stilettos – send her to the office.
7. She’s less likely to question your “business trips,” if you know what I mean. All you have to do is say, “Baby, you’re a career woman, you know what this is all about.”
8. You might be the one to get something out of the divorce. Hey, if she's making more than you, YOU could be the guy living on alimony. Sweet.
9. She won’t notice you’re a douchebag. She will be too tired from trying to do everything, and deal with you, that she won’t have any time left to notice that she's married an asshole.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Forbes, you stupid fucks.
This . . . article . . .
Yes, it's likely that marriages where both spouses are career-oriented are likely to encounter rough patches. Is this because careerwomen are essentially not "marriage material?" (Please note that particular sentence was dripping with sarcasm, so don't take too long pondering the answer.)
Careers are time-intensive. Marriages are time-intensive . Understandably, two-career marriages are a huge challenge. Is that because of women?
No. That's because of human nature.
Look -- There are just so many common sense criticisms you can make to an article that, quite seriously, lists "9 reasons not to marry a careerwoman" -- but, to me, it just gives yet another excuse for people who are like my sexist asshole ex-boss to denegrate women in the workplace.
This type of tone -- the idea, even, that this type of tone is acceptable for mainstream business press is horrific -- and unbelievably sexist. And disappointing and hurtful. And sad.
And note to self -- don't marry a man with a subscription to Forbes.
Stupid fucks.
Yes, it's likely that marriages where both spouses are career-oriented are likely to encounter rough patches. Is this because careerwomen are essentially not "marriage material?" (Please note that particular sentence was dripping with sarcasm, so don't take too long pondering the answer.)
Careers are time-intensive. Marriages are time-intensive . Understandably, two-career marriages are a huge challenge. Is that because of women?
No. That's because of human nature.
Look -- There are just so many common sense criticisms you can make to an article that, quite seriously, lists "9 reasons not to marry a careerwoman" -- but, to me, it just gives yet another excuse for people who are like my sexist asshole ex-boss to denegrate women in the workplace.
This type of tone -- the idea, even, that this type of tone is acceptable for mainstream business press is horrific -- and unbelievably sexist. And disappointing and hurtful. And sad.
And note to self -- don't marry a man with a subscription to Forbes.
Stupid fucks.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
A little something for everyone.
Wow. Television is so full of riches. I just made a most incredible discovery. Who Wants To Be A Superhero?
It's just like a regular reality show, only all the contestants wear bizarre superhero outfits. They refer to to each other by their superhero names -- including "Major Victory" and "Fat Momma."
There is a super villian named "Dark enforcer."
The elimination involves a big oscar-the-grouch style trash can.
I just. . . I can't. . . I want. . . Just. . . Look.
Dorks.
It's just like a regular reality show, only all the contestants wear bizarre superhero outfits. They refer to to each other by their superhero names -- including "Major Victory" and "Fat Momma."
There is a super villian named "Dark enforcer."
The elimination involves a big oscar-the-grouch style trash can.
I just. . . I can't. . . I want. . . Just. . . Look.
Dorks.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Look! I'm Putting Something Up Here!
First off, "Scientists invent sodomite robot?" EFF YEAH!
Okay, now, some tidbits:
I took a knife skills class last night from a local cooking school. Where you stand around with other yuppies and try out various fabulously sharp, expensive knives and chop things! I chatted pleasantly with some of my fellow class-goers, and was slightly disappointed that no one laughed when I referred to my knife as "A pretty good shank."
They just looked at me blankly and nodded.
I also got overenthusiastic and took a chunk out of my fingernail. The instructor chirped cheerfully, "That's what fingernails are for!"
Thanks.
I had an awkward job interview, pushed on me by an overenthusiastic recruiter. The job was a Power Job. A Director of North American Stuff for a Huge Fortune Five Hundred Company in the Suburbs. That would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.
A job that there is no way in God's sweet heaven I would want, much less really be truly qualified for.
Me to recruiter: Um, yeah, I have heard bad things about the corporate culture at Big Fortune Five Hundred Company.
Recruiter: YOU NEVER KNOW UNTIL YOU TALK TO THEM! IT COULD BE AWWWWESOME!
Me to recruiter: I'm kind of happy where I am.
Recruiter: YOU GOTTA GO FOR THIS IT IS AWESOME!
Did I mention that the recruiter also told me that the hiring manager for this job was going "under the radar" by hiring a recruiter in the first place, because she was "bypassing HR?"
Those who know me know I'm leery, at best, at the prospect of "bypassing hr."
Subsequent phone interview:
Hiring manager: So, what are you doing now?
Me: Well, I work 30 hours a week, I have time to pursue things I love like writing classes and freelance projects and volunteer jobs.
Hiring Manager: So, why are you interviewing for this job?
Good goddamn question. I just had a huge revelation that I don’t have to go after the big fat jobs just because they’re there – in fact, I don’t want to do anything like that at all.
I’m just saying, life is pretty good right now. Wouldn’t want to jinx it by adding stressful, unnecessary opportunities.
So, right! More time to look at robots Online! And watch this video of Dwight crashing his car from The Office on YouTube:
Okay, now, some tidbits:
I took a knife skills class last night from a local cooking school. Where you stand around with other yuppies and try out various fabulously sharp, expensive knives and chop things! I chatted pleasantly with some of my fellow class-goers, and was slightly disappointed that no one laughed when I referred to my knife as "A pretty good shank."
They just looked at me blankly and nodded.
I also got overenthusiastic and took a chunk out of my fingernail. The instructor chirped cheerfully, "That's what fingernails are for!"
Thanks.
I had an awkward job interview, pushed on me by an overenthusiastic recruiter. The job was a Power Job. A Director of North American Stuff for a Huge Fortune Five Hundred Company in the Suburbs. That would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.
A job that there is no way in God's sweet heaven I would want, much less really be truly qualified for.
Me to recruiter: Um, yeah, I have heard bad things about the corporate culture at Big Fortune Five Hundred Company.
Recruiter: YOU NEVER KNOW UNTIL YOU TALK TO THEM! IT COULD BE AWWWWESOME!
Me to recruiter: I'm kind of happy where I am.
Recruiter: YOU GOTTA GO FOR THIS IT IS AWESOME!
Did I mention that the recruiter also told me that the hiring manager for this job was going "under the radar" by hiring a recruiter in the first place, because she was "bypassing HR?"
Those who know me know I'm leery, at best, at the prospect of "bypassing hr."
Subsequent phone interview:
Hiring manager: So, what are you doing now?
Me: Well, I work 30 hours a week, I have time to pursue things I love like writing classes and freelance projects and volunteer jobs.
Hiring Manager: So, why are you interviewing for this job?
Good goddamn question. I just had a huge revelation that I don’t have to go after the big fat jobs just because they’re there – in fact, I don’t want to do anything like that at all.
I’m just saying, life is pretty good right now. Wouldn’t want to jinx it by adding stressful, unnecessary opportunities.
So, right! More time to look at robots Online! And watch this video of Dwight crashing his car from The Office on YouTube:
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
In Which I Regress to My 19-yr-old-self
So, I read about how you can check for vanity plates in Gapers Block, So I checked on, um, the fantasy plate of my Ween-obsessed 19-yr-old self. Ween is in trouble here, dudes.
And dude, Check it:
I love the look on Jessie's floating head above said plate. Excellent.
And dude, Check it:
I love the look on Jessie's floating head above said plate. Excellent.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Work The Eff (Dobber -- I censor for YOU) Out.
Work Out is the most amazing show.
By incorporating the elements of:
- bizarre, immature workoutfreaks
- akward lesbian dates
- weights, crunches, boot camp classes
- a super christian mom of a lesbian
- a weird little latina named "mimi" who bites a lot
- the sweetest, most sincere main character ever to dominate a reality show
It manages to create the most compelling television ever.
Not to mention, it included the best line of overdubbed narration ever: "After I showed a picture of my boyfriend's penis to Jodi Watley, I knew I was probably in trouble."
PS: Jodi Watley also says, "Hey Jackie, I hear you're looking for a new love." She also wears a shirt that reads "I heart JW." That's for Jodi Watley. She hearts herself.
Jodi watley is so damn crazy.
By incorporating the elements of:
- bizarre, immature workoutfreaks
- akward lesbian dates
- weights, crunches, boot camp classes
- a super christian mom of a lesbian
- a weird little latina named "mimi" who bites a lot
- the sweetest, most sincere main character ever to dominate a reality show
It manages to create the most compelling television ever.
Not to mention, it included the best line of overdubbed narration ever: "After I showed a picture of my boyfriend's penis to Jodi Watley, I knew I was probably in trouble."
PS: Jodi Watley also says, "Hey Jackie, I hear you're looking for a new love." She also wears a shirt that reads "I heart JW." That's for Jodi Watley. She hearts herself.
Jodi watley is so damn crazy.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Brilliant
So, my friend MK and I have a habit of amusing ourselves throughout the day by sending emails to each other.
The emails have no subject line, no text, just a picture cut and pasted from the internet.
Generally, these exchanges will start when one of us sees something that tickles our fancy, perhaps a nice photograph of a dog wearing sunglasses or a cat with a stupid haircut, maybe a man dressed as a giant hotdog. Normal stuff. Usually, the inital photograph or two will set a specific theme, and we'll go with that theme -- photo after photo, for example, of dogs with casts. Or, say, Glen Danzig. There actually have been an alarming number of photos exchanged of Glen Danzig. I might have seen every photo of Glen currently residing on the Internet.
But, yesterday, we really hit, I think, a new high in sophistication with a most excellent theme that started, inoccuously enough, with this photo I saw of a lovely little beauty queen:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 3:58 PM
To: MK
Subject:
MK took this, one-upped it.
From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:39 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:35 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:
From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:59 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:58 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:
From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:16 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:15 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:
From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:31 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:32 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:
To that I say:
Check, and Mate.
The emails have no subject line, no text, just a picture cut and pasted from the internet.
Generally, these exchanges will start when one of us sees something that tickles our fancy, perhaps a nice photograph of a dog wearing sunglasses or a cat with a stupid haircut, maybe a man dressed as a giant hotdog. Normal stuff. Usually, the inital photograph or two will set a specific theme, and we'll go with that theme -- photo after photo, for example, of dogs with casts. Or, say, Glen Danzig. There actually have been an alarming number of photos exchanged of Glen Danzig. I might have seen every photo of Glen currently residing on the Internet.
But, yesterday, we really hit, I think, a new high in sophistication with a most excellent theme that started, inoccuously enough, with this photo I saw of a lovely little beauty queen:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 3:58 PM
To: MK
Subject:
MK took this, one-upped it.
From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:39 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:35 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:
From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:59 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 4:58 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:
From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:16 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:15 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:
From: MK
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:31 PM
To: RJ
Subject: RE:
From: RJ
Sent: Tuesday, August 08, 2006 5:32 PM
To: MK
Subject: RE:
To that I say:
Check, and Mate.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Boobies
So, my work is, like, 98 per cent women. Really girly girls. Super girlish girly mcgirlytons who like handbags and shoes and pink drinks and manicures.
There is, in fact, a manicurist in the office on Fridays.
They know the names of nailpolish colors. (Favorite combo -- Essie -- coat of ballet slippers followed by a coat of madamoiselle.)
Anyhow, lately there has been a lot of talk about boobs.
My boobs.
Apparently, at the last drunken company outing, the merits of various boobs were discussed and, in my absence, mine were declared big winners. Some descriptors include:
Fabulous
Like kittens
Giant
Thanks, ladies.
There is, in fact, a manicurist in the office on Fridays.
They know the names of nailpolish colors. (Favorite combo -- Essie -- coat of ballet slippers followed by a coat of madamoiselle.)
Anyhow, lately there has been a lot of talk about boobs.
My boobs.
Apparently, at the last drunken company outing, the merits of various boobs were discussed and, in my absence, mine were declared big winners. Some descriptors include:
Fabulous
Like kittens
Giant
Thanks, ladies.
Monday, August 07, 2006
In Decidedly Less Tearstained News
Saturday night, Sus, E Money, Danny, John and I went and got all VIP at this VIP party for VIPs.
I am sort of related to this party by work, so I kind of can't say anything about it being lame or poorly run or anything, but they did have hundreds of glasses of free booze. The kind of free booze that you drink copiously, perhaps against your better judgement.
The biggest lapse of judgement (or stroke of genius?) was the decision to drink copious amounts of that alcohol along with big glasses of Red Bull.
Susan, wide-eyed and enthusiastic, announces I LOVE RED BULL!
Then she gets her dance on with extreme predjudice. In a circle of people clapping. That's badass. (Later, she says to me, "In my mind, I felt everyone was probably super impressed. I'd like to keep it that way." Also, later, it is the thing that turns me from helpless sobbing to helpless laughter as I remember her dance, hair flying, so fabulously unbridled.)
We ended up manning the door at the end of the party, stamping hands for reentry, watching people get literally carried out the door by burly body guards.
I am sort of related to this party by work, so I kind of can't say anything about it being lame or poorly run or anything, but they did have hundreds of glasses of free booze. The kind of free booze that you drink copiously, perhaps against your better judgement.
The biggest lapse of judgement (or stroke of genius?) was the decision to drink copious amounts of that alcohol along with big glasses of Red Bull.
Susan, wide-eyed and enthusiastic, announces I LOVE RED BULL!
Then she gets her dance on with extreme predjudice. In a circle of people clapping. That's badass. (Later, she says to me, "In my mind, I felt everyone was probably super impressed. I'd like to keep it that way." Also, later, it is the thing that turns me from helpless sobbing to helpless laughter as I remember her dance, hair flying, so fabulously unbridled.)
We ended up manning the door at the end of the party, stamping hands for reentry, watching people get literally carried out the door by burly body guards.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Can You Dehydrate Yourself By Crying?
My tears taste supersalty concentrated, and the area around my eyes is stinging, dry and prickly and hot and wet at the same time. This, too, I attribute to the salt.
I've been crying all day, big, unbridled sobs, wrenching, wining, keening, whinging. I've thrown myself dramatically on my bed and couch, variously, crumpling and shaking, managed to work the whole spectrum from silent weeping to explosive outbursts.
I'm exhausted, dried out, wrung out, but not done.
See, someone I really really love, someone I adore and worship and who is beyond divine, my gorgeous, perfect, wise, sweet funny amazing grandmother, is being eaten alive by lung cancer.
I know, right, she's almost, ninety, a brood of children, grandchildren, greatgrandchildren, full life, blah fucking blah blah but I DON'T CARE. I'm pissed.
I want to keep her. Forever. I want her to meet my children, I want her to hold my hand and laugh with me.
I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.
Oh, here I go again. Useless.
I've been crying all day, big, unbridled sobs, wrenching, wining, keening, whinging. I've thrown myself dramatically on my bed and couch, variously, crumpling and shaking, managed to work the whole spectrum from silent weeping to explosive outbursts.
I'm exhausted, dried out, wrung out, but not done.
See, someone I really really love, someone I adore and worship and who is beyond divine, my gorgeous, perfect, wise, sweet funny amazing grandmother, is being eaten alive by lung cancer.
I know, right, she's almost, ninety, a brood of children, grandchildren, greatgrandchildren, full life, blah fucking blah blah but I DON'T CARE. I'm pissed.
I want to keep her. Forever. I want her to meet my children, I want her to hold my hand and laugh with me.
I'm not ready. I'll never be ready.
Oh, here I go again. Useless.
Google Knows Things.
email from my cousin, who googled me:
Seriously, I love robots, the internet, and cousins.
Hey Rebecca,
I wasn't sure if this work address I had was still correct, so I hunted
you down and found the blog/gmail one.
I like robots too, some of my favorite people are robot makers. Robots
rock. No joke check out our friend Garth's dynamic biped:
http://www.cs.cmu.edu/~garthz/research/biped/
Seriously, I love robots, the internet, and cousins.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Feeling Breathless?
Yep, that's a blurry cell phone picture of Corin Tucker jamming on her guitar in Grant Park. Third to final show, packed with kids way younger than us, bopping and screaming along to tons of songs from the new cd that Johnny and I glazed over last summer.
The result? Youth went nuts without us in the front row. We bounced a bit and pretended the buzzing in our ears from the billion-decibel feedback loops wasn't annoying us.
I texted Johnny: It's too loud. We're too old.
We pushed out of the crowd and walked the half-mile to the other stage, pushing against the masses of stoned teenagers as they flocked to see Death Cab for Cutie.
We were part of the (significantly smaller) crowd of old people and hippies to see Ween, a classic fave from my college days. Johnny and I knew an embarassing number of lyrics and secretly (or not so secretly) proclaiming this to be the icing on our lolapalooza cupcakes.
The result? Youth went nuts without us in the front row. We bounced a bit and pretended the buzzing in our ears from the billion-decibel feedback loops wasn't annoying us.
I texted Johnny: It's too loud. We're too old.
We pushed out of the crowd and walked the half-mile to the other stage, pushing against the masses of stoned teenagers as they flocked to see Death Cab for Cutie.
We were part of the (significantly smaller) crowd of old people and hippies to see Ween, a classic fave from my college days. Johnny and I knew an embarassing number of lyrics and secretly (or not so secretly) proclaiming this to be the icing on our lolapalooza cupcakes.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Friday, July 28, 2006
Inventory
People staying at my house all week: 4
Number of hours on a plane yesterday: 8
Number of times we've discussed chickens: countless
I have been playing hostess all week to my Southern Indiana clan -- Sally, my stepmom, Laura, my stepsister, Jessie -- the 12-year-old, and Kyle, the 11-year-old.
There are bodies everywhere at night. If you didn't know better, it might look like a sinister scene.
Quote of the week, at Joy Yee's:
Jessie: I'm ordering this pineapple chicken. IT COMES IN A HOLLOWED OUT PINEAPPLE.
Sally: Don't get that, that's gross. No one wants to eat that.
Jessie: If I have the opportunity to eat out of a pineapple, I'm taking it.
Motherfucking hell yeah, is all I have to say to that. I love a kid with a sense of adventure.
Friday, July 21, 2006
backward day 2
On the day we set out for Golden Gate Park it was brilliantly sunny in Union Square. We left the dim, moody hipster wood lobby of our hotel, squinting, temporarily blinded by the brilliant blue sky, crisp whitewashed buildings and sparkly concrete. The air was still cool in the shade, but the sun warmed our faces and forced us to peel off our outermost layers, jackets and sweaters stuffed in bags or tied around our waists for later.
We found a sweet European Café, we felt faux Parisian as we sat around small wooden tables amid stacks of German- and Italian-language newspapers and imported French fashion magazines. We drank rich lattes out of huge ceramic bowl-like cups and ate granola, fresh fruit, eggs and bacon.
(For the sake of keeping it idyllic and romantic, I’m leaving out the part where our waiter fouled up our order several times, bringing Maria scrambled eggs instead of fried, forgetting our coffee and orange juice, and double-charging us on our tab.)
We eavesdropped on our neighbors, a thin, nervous man with a shaved head, long, knotted fingers clutching French newspapers all turned to the sports section. A cycling enthusiast, perhaps, with high, sculpted calf muscles and lean, long thighs. He was explaining complicated concepts to his dining companion – things like “Sports Bars – they have lots of TVs.”
He was speaking to an Asian woman, young, slight, long, black hair and a hat perched jauntily on her head. She nods.
We read the paper, we relaxed, we caffeinated.
Then, we walked.
So much of San Francisco can be hoofed.
I love a city that requires layers. I love it that, any minute, we can be baking in the sun or buffeted by chilly wind. I love it that, as we walk, we enter into banks of fog that masquerade as cloudy days. Cloudy days that can be escaped by cab.
We went to Golden Gate Park, a massive oasis of vegetation that was shrouded in chilly fog.
We had tea in the Japanese tea garden, where young Japanese women serve tourists wrapped in cheesy kimonos, looking bored and resentful.
I was pleased that my fortune cookie, accompanied by some lovely crispy salty snacks, contained a socialite’s dream of a fortune.
Maria’s cookie didn’t contain a fortune.
We chose not to view that as a bad sign.
We found a sweet European Café, we felt faux Parisian as we sat around small wooden tables amid stacks of German- and Italian-language newspapers and imported French fashion magazines. We drank rich lattes out of huge ceramic bowl-like cups and ate granola, fresh fruit, eggs and bacon.
(For the sake of keeping it idyllic and romantic, I’m leaving out the part where our waiter fouled up our order several times, bringing Maria scrambled eggs instead of fried, forgetting our coffee and orange juice, and double-charging us on our tab.)
We eavesdropped on our neighbors, a thin, nervous man with a shaved head, long, knotted fingers clutching French newspapers all turned to the sports section. A cycling enthusiast, perhaps, with high, sculpted calf muscles and lean, long thighs. He was explaining complicated concepts to his dining companion – things like “Sports Bars – they have lots of TVs.”
He was speaking to an Asian woman, young, slight, long, black hair and a hat perched jauntily on her head. She nods.
We read the paper, we relaxed, we caffeinated.
Then, we walked.
So much of San Francisco can be hoofed.
I love a city that requires layers. I love it that, any minute, we can be baking in the sun or buffeted by chilly wind. I love it that, as we walk, we enter into banks of fog that masquerade as cloudy days. Cloudy days that can be escaped by cab.
We went to Golden Gate Park, a massive oasis of vegetation that was shrouded in chilly fog.
We had tea in the Japanese tea garden, where young Japanese women serve tourists wrapped in cheesy kimonos, looking bored and resentful.
I was pleased that my fortune cookie, accompanied by some lovely crispy salty snacks, contained a socialite’s dream of a fortune.
Maria’s cookie didn’t contain a fortune.
We chose not to view that as a bad sign.
airport cuisine
I think, given this particular arrangement, we've made progress. Now, past security, you can get real forks, real spoons, but the ever-dangerous knife remains plastic.
And, yet? In Evansville? I still can't carry on cuticle scissors.
And, yet? In Evansville? I still can't carry on cuticle scissors.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Dear Sarah:
Look what I found! On the street! No efing kidding!
I figure that someone stole your pink hummer when you got out to plan your wedding.
Love,
RJ
I figure that someone stole your pink hummer when you got out to plan your wedding.
Love,
RJ
Instructions
Just a little more on the rented chariot we tooled around it. It was as charming as a child with a British accent asking directions to the loo.
I've already assigned it a gender (female), style (classic, tending toward tweeds and vintage handbags but with a penchant for stiletto heels), and a cigarette addiciton.
I've already mentioned the handy, ultra-addictive temperature gauge on the dash, fascinating when you're in a place with microclimates -- where the same gauge can vary 40 degrees or more in the same hour.
My favorite part, though, is this glow-in-the dark doohickey -- I imagine it as a collaboration between engineers ("let's make a latch that opens the trunk FROM THE INSIDE!", lawyers ("let's minimize our risk of accidental death by trunk trappage") and marketers ("let's make it glow-in-the-dark, so kidnapping victims can easily see it, and graphic, so even the illiterate can easily follow directions!).
I just adore the fact that the little stick-figure kidnapping victim is clearly running to the nearest farmhouse to call the police. Go little man! GO!
I've already assigned it a gender (female), style (classic, tending toward tweeds and vintage handbags but with a penchant for stiletto heels), and a cigarette addiciton.
I've already mentioned the handy, ultra-addictive temperature gauge on the dash, fascinating when you're in a place with microclimates -- where the same gauge can vary 40 degrees or more in the same hour.
My favorite part, though, is this glow-in-the dark doohickey -- I imagine it as a collaboration between engineers ("let's make a latch that opens the trunk FROM THE INSIDE!", lawyers ("let's minimize our risk of accidental death by trunk trappage") and marketers ("let's make it glow-in-the-dark, so kidnapping victims can easily see it, and graphic, so even the illiterate can easily follow directions!).
I just adore the fact that the little stick-figure kidnapping victim is clearly running to the nearest farmhouse to call the police. Go little man! GO!
Back-to-full-frontal vacation
So, on the last day of my vacation, I spent the day driving around with the top down in a rented convertible with a handy temperature gauge that said "It's a fiery 105 degrees out here, bitches," in what I imagine to be a sultry, husky, too-many-cigarettes voice.
Maria and I tasted many, many wines and swooned in the heat and bought ourselves lovely, floppy sun-hats. I was more happy than one should be about my sun hat. But it's made out of ribbons! And it is so very oversized and SPF 50!
This was key, as we refused to put the top up on our convertible. Because, bitches, we had a convertible!
Okay, anyhow, I started this entry with the fetching photograph above, wherein AnneVan is enjoying the dinner show at the crazy restaurant we pilgrimaged to in the middle of the Redwoods.
Those crazy kids up there are doing a barely-choreographed dance to "Take it to tha House" . It involved a lot of fake-slapping-your-own-butt moves and looks of concentration as they counted one-two-three-four moving their lips and twirling about. It was super loud.
AnneVan showed up after work in my hotel room, me fresh from the shower washing off the grime from a day of being buffeted by the hot winds of Sonoma, sipping my eightieth glass of wine. I've noticed that when you drink wine steadily for many many hours, you stop being drunk and start being something else. More Italian, maybe. Expansive in gesture and generous in spirit.
Anne said, "Let's take a drive, go get some food at this yummy place in the Redwoods."
We got in the car, put the top down, and got on the highway, blasting music and barely talking. Anne marveled at the fact that it's so open! And exposed! And Ohmigod!
The wind worked its way around our shoulders and necks, it tousled our hair with invisible fingers and batted us around the head with a pleasing, soft violence.
We felt ourselves leaving the cool cocoon of San Francisco, out into the warmer, dry air of the mountains. We smelled lavender, sweet hay, crisp green scent of pines. We sang pop songs and consulted maps.
Eventually, we found ourselves winding through massive redwood trunks, ears popping from a long, slow climb into the mountains. I leaned forward and gripped the wheel, squinting and accelerating into tight curves. Anne sat up straighter next to me, leaning into each turn as if she could help me steer.
She said, "We're entering Ben Lomand, it's a town with only one stoplight."
I said, "Ben Lomand, that sounds like the name of a kid maybe you went to grade school with. Remember Ben Lomand? Skinny, pale kid? Mop of blonde hair in a bowl cut? Did he have braces? Anyway, he used to shoot rubberbands at me during math class. Jerk."
We passed the single stoplight in Ben Lomand and we ended up here. She hadn't warned me we'd be going to an amusement park/restaurant in the midst of absolutely nowhere, but I should have known. This is Annevan we're talking about. My partner in spontaneous absurdity.
I said, "Anne, there's a powerpuff girl on the roof! point to her and I'll take a picture!"
She's so accommodating.
We were entertained by the entertainment, and later, serenaded in a striking karaoke rendition of "Ring of Fire" by our twenty-nothing hipster/surf boy waiter.
We drank wine and ate pasta and finished with cappuccinos.
Then we got back in the car and wound our way down to Santa Cruz, where we hit the boardwalk. I felt like I had just stepped onto the set of the Lost Boys. Suddenly, everyone around us seemed as if they had been hairsprayed back into the late eighties, dressed in bright colors, slightly seedy and possibly hiding knives under their windbreakers.
I made Annevan ride this rollercoaster, even though she doesn't like roller coasters. Luckily, she bends to peer pressure, and we stood in line with all the teeny boppers and whispered, "we're the oldest ones here," to each other.
Riding roller coasters is best at night, when any menace seems more pronounced, even the ones we inflict on ourselves for fun. We thrilled ourselves, laughing and screaming at the same time.
We wanted to ride the pirate ship, but by then it was midnight, and the boardwalk was shutting down as we walked its length. Lights shut themselves off behind us, taffy stands and hot dog vendors rattled their cages shut, locked for a few more hours before they would sell sugar and sulfites under the sun the next day.
We returned to the car, fighting sleepiness, and drove through the night back to the city. Anne sat with her head on the headrest, staring up at the huge canopy of stars while we blasted Sleater Kinney, screaming along to the IMAGE OF CORIN!! Cause we gotta rock!
And I went back to my cozy hotel bed to sleep a few hours before my long flight and bleary airport day.
Maria and I tasted many, many wines and swooned in the heat and bought ourselves lovely, floppy sun-hats. I was more happy than one should be about my sun hat. But it's made out of ribbons! And it is so very oversized and SPF 50!
This was key, as we refused to put the top up on our convertible. Because, bitches, we had a convertible!
Okay, anyhow, I started this entry with the fetching photograph above, wherein AnneVan is enjoying the dinner show at the crazy restaurant we pilgrimaged to in the middle of the Redwoods.
Those crazy kids up there are doing a barely-choreographed dance to "Take it to tha House" . It involved a lot of fake-slapping-your-own-butt moves and looks of concentration as they counted one-two-three-four moving their lips and twirling about. It was super loud.
AnneVan showed up after work in my hotel room, me fresh from the shower washing off the grime from a day of being buffeted by the hot winds of Sonoma, sipping my eightieth glass of wine. I've noticed that when you drink wine steadily for many many hours, you stop being drunk and start being something else. More Italian, maybe. Expansive in gesture and generous in spirit.
Anne said, "Let's take a drive, go get some food at this yummy place in the Redwoods."
We got in the car, put the top down, and got on the highway, blasting music and barely talking. Anne marveled at the fact that it's so open! And exposed! And Ohmigod!
The wind worked its way around our shoulders and necks, it tousled our hair with invisible fingers and batted us around the head with a pleasing, soft violence.
We felt ourselves leaving the cool cocoon of San Francisco, out into the warmer, dry air of the mountains. We smelled lavender, sweet hay, crisp green scent of pines. We sang pop songs and consulted maps.
Eventually, we found ourselves winding through massive redwood trunks, ears popping from a long, slow climb into the mountains. I leaned forward and gripped the wheel, squinting and accelerating into tight curves. Anne sat up straighter next to me, leaning into each turn as if she could help me steer.
She said, "We're entering Ben Lomand, it's a town with only one stoplight."
I said, "Ben Lomand, that sounds like the name of a kid maybe you went to grade school with. Remember Ben Lomand? Skinny, pale kid? Mop of blonde hair in a bowl cut? Did he have braces? Anyway, he used to shoot rubberbands at me during math class. Jerk."
We passed the single stoplight in Ben Lomand and we ended up here. She hadn't warned me we'd be going to an amusement park/restaurant in the midst of absolutely nowhere, but I should have known. This is Annevan we're talking about. My partner in spontaneous absurdity.
I said, "Anne, there's a powerpuff girl on the roof! point to her and I'll take a picture!"
She's so accommodating.
We were entertained by the entertainment, and later, serenaded in a striking karaoke rendition of "Ring of Fire" by our twenty-nothing hipster/surf boy waiter.
We drank wine and ate pasta and finished with cappuccinos.
Then we got back in the car and wound our way down to Santa Cruz, where we hit the boardwalk. I felt like I had just stepped onto the set of the Lost Boys. Suddenly, everyone around us seemed as if they had been hairsprayed back into the late eighties, dressed in bright colors, slightly seedy and possibly hiding knives under their windbreakers.
I made Annevan ride this rollercoaster, even though she doesn't like roller coasters. Luckily, she bends to peer pressure, and we stood in line with all the teeny boppers and whispered, "we're the oldest ones here," to each other.
Riding roller coasters is best at night, when any menace seems more pronounced, even the ones we inflict on ourselves for fun. We thrilled ourselves, laughing and screaming at the same time.
We wanted to ride the pirate ship, but by then it was midnight, and the boardwalk was shutting down as we walked its length. Lights shut themselves off behind us, taffy stands and hot dog vendors rattled their cages shut, locked for a few more hours before they would sell sugar and sulfites under the sun the next day.
We returned to the car, fighting sleepiness, and drove through the night back to the city. Anne sat with her head on the headrest, staring up at the huge canopy of stars while we blasted Sleater Kinney, screaming along to the IMAGE OF CORIN!! Cause we gotta rock!
And I went back to my cozy hotel bed to sleep a few hours before my long flight and bleary airport day.
Soon, my loves
I will write all about my nocal adventure. Until that time, if you're so inclined, check out the pics, here
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Hello
My name is Cayden, and I just learned how to scream. It totally kicks ass. I'm trying to grow teeth and I will gum the fuck out of your finger if you give me the chance. Then I will scream at you.
I am freaking cute as hell. Look into my eyes.
They're soooo brown.
You love me, don't you?
Huh? Don't make me scream at you.
I am freaking cute as hell. Look into my eyes.
They're soooo brown.
You love me, don't you?
Huh? Don't make me scream at you.
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