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October 31, 2001

nothing to see here

nothing to see here

We made it through another Halloween. No razors in apples, no anthrax in the popcorn, no rebellious teenagers to beat up. Though that last part was a little disappointing. I could have done with a little ass kicking today.

I was over at my cousin's today. All the kids were upstairs, watching a Halloween cartoon. It came time to go, and I went upstairs to pull DJ away from the tv. But they weren't watching tv. They were praying. 6 boys, from ages 6 to 11, reading a prayer to St. Joseph from a scrap of paper.

Astounded, I asked them what they were doing.

"Terrance (one cousin's friend) left this paper here for us," said Cory.

"Yea," said DJ. "He wrote down this prayer and said we should make wishes on it."

They started talking all at once.

"We have to say it for 9 days!" The excitment was palpable.

"9 days out loud and god gets us our wishes!" Screaming glee.

I looked at the paper, and the atheist in me was just a bit horrified that a 9 year old boy wrote this prayer down from rote memorization. It had words I never heard of in it.

"So, explain again to me what happens when you say this for 9 days," I said.

"You make wishes and god gives em to you"

"Ummm guys, gods not a genie, he doesn't grant wishes"

"yes he does. Terrance said this is like magic!"

"So , you wishing for the war to end? For world peace? A cure for cancer?"

They all look at me like I've lost my mind.

"Hell no," said Kevin. "We're whishing for video games!"

I walk out of the room and I hear the 9 year old say as I leave, "man, we're gonna wish so much that a shitload of toys is gonna fall from the sky in 9 days!"

So umm, St. Joseph..I know I'm an atheist and all but do you think if I wish real hard and say this prayer out loud for 9 days I could get something? I mean, if you're gonna send a shitload of toys to some boys on Long Island, maybe you could just make a 50,000 word novel appear on my computer by November 30th, ok? Thanks. You're a pal.

Yes, this was the worst blogging episode ever. I'm exhausted. Nothing to see here, move on. This is not the blog you're looking for.

pop n fresh

pop n fresh

This is me playing around with pictures and pop ups. Be very afraid, because I am going to inundate you with pictures of flowers, cousins. more cousins, and photoshop experiments.

This is me warming up the scanner. You are doomed.

pop goes the picture

pop goes the picture

So I figured out the resizing pictures thing (can you say duh!) and I got the picture up there, but I'm not quite sure how to make it link to a bigger picture. Help me, anyone?

I did figure out how to include a pop up picture, though. Yay me. I'm getting there.

Happy fucking Halloween

happy fucking halloween

Will somebody please explain to me why in bloody hell I got up at 4:00 a.m. today? I could have rolled over and gone back to sleep. I could have pulled the covers over my head and dreamed away another hour and a half at least. Oh, no. Not me. This idiot wakes up at 4, so she gets up at 4. It is now 4:41 and I have already done a load of laundry, put the dishes away and killed some frolicking ice skaters with giant snowballs.

Maybe I can't sleep because I am annoyed. I am annoyed 7 ways til Sunday (my mom used to say that, I have no idea what it means, so don't ask).

First of all, I am annoyed at Fox. Yea, that Fox, the one that seems to have misplaced Futurama and Family Guy. Did anyone catch last night's pre-game love letter to New York? I say this as a New Yorker and a Yankees fan: That was the most blatant misuse of air time I have ever seen. It was a Major League Baseball presentation. It should have been..what's the word...unbiased! Yea, yea, I know New York has been through a lot, I know we are suffering, yadda yadda, but the whole fucking world is not full of Yankees fans. Not everyone and his brother are rooting for New York. It is inconceivable to me that a good 5 minutes before a game would be devoted to the underlying message that New Yorkers, the Yankees included, never quit, never give up and by god they are going to win this game and unite the entire free fucking world. Why not just trot out a banner that says "Major League Baseball wants the Yankees to win. Diamondbacks Go Home!" I know, it's not that important in the grand scheme of things, but this whole "I Love New York" thing is starting to wear pretty thin.

Annoyance number 2: Yesterday, I had the opportunity to be standing next to a group of people waiting for their kids to come out of school. One of the fathers apparently works for the FBI. The mothers were hanging around him like he was Elvis Presley, while he stood there rolling out the rumors and threats for everyone to hear. He informed the mothers that today (Halloween) is the day, it's gonna go down, they are 6,000% sure of it, they just don't know where, and on and on and on. First, he should know better than to stand in a schoolyard frightening already paranoid people into running for cover. And he stood there, whispering conspiratorially (is that a word?) as if he was divulging the world's greatest secrets, when everything he told them could have been found out by watching CNN. I think he was just getting off on scaring them.

Annoyance number 3: Natalie came home from school with a letter from her science teacher yesterday, detailing the class trip planned for this year. Please keep in mind that this trip is for 6th graders. 11 year olds. In lieu of taking the kids to the planned outing at the Virginia Space Center in November, they are instead going to the Montreal Space Center. Montreal. Canada. They want to take my eleven year old out of the country for three days? Are they out of their fucking minds? No parents are allowed. Teachers and spouses will supervise (keep in mind I am having issues with this science teacher for promoting the idea of dating to the 6th grade girls, asking them too many personal questions, and trying to set them up with his son). Kids will be 4 to a hotel room with no chaperone staying in the room with them. There are two days when they are on their own for lunch. Yes, it's educational. They get to sleep in a biodome (pause here to shudder at the thought of Pauly Shore) and they will take a gazillion tours of the space station, but I'll be god fucking damned if they think I am going to let my child run loose in Canada. I hate to sound all paranoid, but how the hell did the idea for this trip get passed by the school board considering that these kids are way too young to be on their own and that..hello?? is our country not under high alert? Would you send your 6th grader across the border when we are being warned every day about imminent terrorist attacks? Am I over reacting in the slightest here? Please tell me if I am because I will not call the school board and tell them to have their heads checked then.

Nothing like starting the day off with a little anger, pessimism, frustration and rage. And tonight brings a full moon and a clock that starts ticking down my days to complete my novel.

Scotch and cigarettes, anyone?

October 30, 2001

the bane of my existence

the bane of my existence

Have I mentioned how much I cannot stand the sound of Tim McCarver's voice? He irritates me to the point where I find myself clawing at him through the television. I've yet to do any damage to his vocal chords that way. I think the most irritating thing about him, besides his pompous attitude and smarmy smile, is his association with the Mets. That just about kills your karma in my book.

So I've turned down the sound and turned up my Halloween music of choice on my winamp, which is all dressed up in its goatee style skin.

I shall defeat you yet, Tim McCarver.

smashing pumpkins

smashing pumpkins

Dear local teenagers,

As we approach the dawn of another Halloween, I would like to take this moment to have a word with you. I will say this once, and only once, and there will be no second chances. Not this year.

If any one of you so much as looks at my pumpkins in a way other than admiration, I will pick your eyes out with a spork.

If any of you dare approach those pumpkins, or my scarecrow, with theft and/or smashing in mind, I will chase you down the street and slice your hands off with a butter knife.

If you have the balls to actually cross my property and touch my festive lawn decorations, I will slice your dick off with a razor blade and feed it to the rather large dog next door.

If I find one ounce of shaving cream, whipped cream, or other cream-like substance on my car in the morning, I will hunt you down and make you lick it off until the car looks like new.

Do not doubt me. Do not make me act upon my words. Just walk on by the house and don't even look.

Thank you.

so...watcha wearin?

so...watcha wearin?

I come across weblogs every once in a while that have a curious trait. The authors all start off each blog entry with a detailed description of what they are wearing. Usually, it's the blog of a teenage girl I'm reading at the moment, but sometimes it's an older, fashion savvy person. The manner of dress usually involves long, flowing black skirts, silk blouses, lace up boots and mood rings. I think the objective here is twofold: to appear alluring and exotic to their readers, and to get you to buy things from their wishlist because you are so dazzled by their wardrobe choices.

So I thought to myself - Hey! I can do that too!

(the italics are for atmosphere) I am wearing purple and blue Old Navy flannel pajama bottoms that are two sizes too big; men's white tube socks; a ten year old Misfits t-shirt with a hole under the right armpit; a men's grey hooded sweatshirt, one size too small, adorned with dried white paint, coffee stains and a cigarette hole in the sleeve. Today's jewelry choice is a rubber band around my left wrist. My hair style is courtesy of a very windy day. I haven't brushed my teeth since 9am. I may have showered this morning, I don't remember.

Yea. You know you want me. Start buying me shit.

who wants to be a novel writer's sidekick?

who wants to be a novel writer's sidekick?

I have two days before I start writing my novel-in-a-month. I have a basic idea of what I'm going to do, but no outline, no discernable plot, and only one character semi fleshed out in my mind. I still can't decide whether to go with a serious fiction angle or dry wit and ironic humor.

I think I'll be better at winging it. Everyone else seems to have a writing buddy to help get them through this, but being the anti-social person I am, I never looked around for one. So it's just me, in my little cocoon, trying to write 50,000 words in 30 days when I am on the edge of a nervous breakdown to begin with.

I'm thinking of putting the chapters on this site as I go. It's not going to pretty. It won't even be strangely attractive. It will be fugly. There will be no editing, no proofreading. Writing 6 pages a day is going to be hard enough to fit into my schedule without going back to edit every typo or syntax error. They encourage quantity, not quality anyway.

So, who wants to be my spiritual guide through this? Anyone want to volunteer to be my sounding board/venting machine? Be warned. Grace under pressure is not one of my virtues. I would ask Justin, but I think he said something about packing up and taking the kids to my moms for the month.

what ever happened to plastic masks?

what ever happened to plastic masks?

Yea, so it's Tuesday and tomorrow is Halloween and I, being the last minute kind of person I am, will be spending today in my office, putting together DJ's Halloween costume. I will probably spend most of the night doing it. Now, I'm not one of those moms who sews her kids costumes, putting together intricate deisgns and twenty pounds of fabric to turn my child into a beautiful circus animal. No, I am the kind who buys them pre-made. Or not at all. This is what DJ has been the last four years: Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Bret Favre and Bret Favre. All I did was throw a jersey on him and dig the proper equipment out of the shed. This year he wanted to be Tony Hawk. Fine. I'd throw some skateboard clothes on him, a hat, let him carry his skateboard around and presto chango, he's Tony Hawk, midget sized.

But no. He had to change his mind. His bright idea this year was to go as half fireman, half policeman. Now, let me explain something about my son. He is very rigid in his thinking. He does not stray from what he considers to be the exact truth of a situation. For instance, he will not eat Sicilian pizza, because in his mind, pizza is triangle shaped and not square. He will not bend. He will not break. What he envisions in his mind has got to be what the final product will look like. And he wants to be half cop, half fireman right down the middle.

Yes, I had weeks to prepare for this. But I had that anniversary party to plan. I had other things on my mind. I figured, how hard could it be? After a fight and some tears in Party Experience last night, I realized this is going to be hard. So now, I have the fake plastic fireman's outfit, and I have a fake gun and handcuffs and badge, and someone is lending me their police hat, I am at a loss how to make the police side of the costume. And how to hold up the fireman's side of the costume once it's cut in half. Somebody save me, please. I know at least one of you is creative like that. Tell me what to do before I end up getting incredibly frustrated and locking him in the closet on Halloween.

There's always that Vinny Testaverde jersey.

Nah, too scary.

from the desk of cheney/ashcroft, evil duo at large

From the Desk of Cheney/Ashcroft, Evil Duo at Large

Ok, so this is how it's gonna go down. Everyone ready?

At some time (but I'm not sure when), at some place (but I'm not sure where), in some manner (but I'm not sure how), there will be some kind of terrorist attack (but I'm not sure which kind). We advise you to take precaution, (yet don't panic). We advise you to act normal (yet be vigilant). We are asking you to please go about your normal business (while we have cancelled all my travel plans). We have a handle on the situation (we are going underground) and you can rest assured that your president is in full control (we are sending George to the Yankee game. He drew the short straw when we ran out of room in the shelter).

And don't you worry about the war. We are taking care of that. It will just take some time (not sure how long) to draw out the enemy (who may or may not be dead or in another country) and do so without killing too many civilians (well at least we don't think so) or any more of our own (we're not sure about that one either).

So Happy Halloween, America. Know your real enemy. The razor in the apple. The plastic He-Man mask that has been recalled. The teenager with a sock full of shaving cream. Those are your enemies. Don't you worry about anything else but that.

October 29, 2001

last moments

the last moments of a life

On our way to the mall tonight, we headed north down Newbridge Road. Newbridge Road is four lanes of way too fast moving traffic. It's hard for a person to navigate across, and the lights are far and few between, so if you have to cross, you do it patiently and carefully. Imagine how hard it is for a dog to try to circumvent that traffic.

As we neared Hempstead Turnpike, we saw a young man darting through traffic, trying to get across. He wasn't alone. In his arms was a rather large dog, possibly a husky. This man was carrying this dog across the four lanes, and we assumed that the dog had tried to cross, couldn't do it, and the young man saw the dog's dilemna and decided to just take him across himself.

Several hours later, I am sitting here, blogging away, man and dog forgotten. Until now.

About one minute after we passed that scene, the young man tried to make his way back across Newbridge Road. He didn't make it. He was hit and killed by an oncoming car. We know this because my father responded to the scene after hearing the call on his fire radio. When he told my mother later on that a man who had helped a dog across the street died, she knew.

And now all I keep thinking is, I saw him. And when I saw him, it was in the last few moments of his life. Neither he nor I knew that by the time I pulled into a parking spot at the mall, he would be dead. I looked into the face of a man totally unaware that he was about to die. It's very disconcerting to know that you witnessed the last act of a person's life. It's going to keep me up tonight.

fuck me

fuck me

Fuck me. I have no scotch in the house. You know, I hate scotch. I think it tastes like medicine. But seeing as that I am suffering from a bout of mallergy (see post below), and the only antidote is scotch, I'm fucked. I wonder if a double dose of vodka would do. Maybe wash it down with some NyQuil.

And fuck me again. Will someone please explain to our fearsome leaders why it is not only irresponsible but downright stupid to announce every week that new attacks are imminent? What is it exactly they want us to do? Build a shelter? Buy gas masks? Get last rites? Or do they want us to go about our normal business of avoiding post offices while we keep glancing at the sky for falling objects? I keep hearing their mantras of "we must not bow to terrorists" and "we must resume normalcy" yet they are the ones who are putting the fear of living into us. I am more afraid of the deadly duo of Cheney/Ashcroft than I am of any threat of smallpox. George doesn't even figure into the equation. I may be afraid of clowns, but I have yet to develop a fear of puppets.

Fuck me yet one more time. I just found out from Chris that the Olsen twins will be covering Weezer's Island in the Sun for the soundtrack to their upcoming movie. I don't know whether to laugh or cry or go to the liquor store and get that scotch.

fuck me explained



Something's wrong. Monday was ok.

There were no calls from angry attorneys or deranged defendants. No missing motion papers. No crude jokes from my boss or matters of urgency that really weren't. I even worked through lunch today, and still the afternoon went surprisingly fast. I had to check my calendar three times to make sure it was really Monday.

And now, I am about to antagonize all that good Karma. I am tempting fate. I am going to the mall. With children.

See, I suffer from something I call mallergy. Basically, I am allergic to malls. Once I enter one of those shopping meccas, I am overcome with symptoms. I break out in hives. My blood pressure rises. My skin crawls. Being in such close proximity to so many screaming, snotty nosed children, bargain hunters, wise ass teenagers and an Abercrombie & Fitch store makes me want to combust. There is no antidote for this sickness, save for leaving the mall, going home and drinking a bottle of scotch.

I know, I can just stay home and avoid the mall all together. But then the school would call social services because my kids would have neither winter coats nor Halloween costumes. And I don't think social services accept mallergy as a real condition.

So if you don't hear from me soon, I either internally combusted while walking past The Gap, or I decapitated a total stranger in a fit of mall-rage.

Perhaps I should drink the scotch before I go.

george, the yankees, and me

george, the yankees, and me

Once again, our leaders are exhibiting their schitzophrenic way of dealing with the issues at hand. On one side of their collective brains, we have the daring duo of Cheney/Ashcroft spouting off reasons why we should be afraid. They tell us that the terrorist are among us, living with us, watching us, stocking up on their car bombs and anthrax, wanting us dead. And that other part of their brain, the Bush side, decides that the president should attend a World Series game at Yankee Stadium to show the country that we should not be afraid. So what is guys? Should we be scared or not? Should we be awaiting another terrorist attack, cowering in fear and stocking up on bottled water, or should we go to baseball games and carry on as usual?

Not that it matters to most of us anyhow, because we are for the most part just living our lives in the usual fashion. But it matters in the long run what they say because who can look to our government for

wisdom, safety and advice when one hand doesn't care what the other is doing? If the left brain trust is telling us to fear for our lives, why is the right brain trust telegraphing the president's schedule to the world?

It's great that George feels he is doing the public a favor by going to the Yankee game. Really, I harbor no thoughts that there will be terrorist activity at the Stadium. It's just the point that they are talking

out of their asses on both counts, and if they don't get it together soon and come up with a joint be afraid/be not afraid united front, there is going to be some serious mistrust of our leadership going on around here.

Besides, the real issue here is that George is on record as saying he roots for whoever the Yankees are playing. If he, for even one second, dons a Yankee cap tonight for the showmanship effort of reaching out to New Yorkers, I will personally go the White House myself and kick his Texas ass. If he wants to be a part of the allure of baseball because he misses his good old Texas Rangers days, let him go to Arizona and put on a Diamondbacks cap. I can only speak for myself, but the Yankees do not need GW, or the rest of the free world, rooting for them out of sympathy. I liked it better when everyone hated the Yankees.

I hate Mondays.

monday rambling

Monday morning madness....

So, what's worse than a Monday morning? A Monday morning where the first thing you see is that the Yankees are down 2-0 in the World Series. And the second thing you notice is you never did turn the washing machine on last night and every pair of pants you own is in there. And it goes on and on like that.

But this is ok. I am pretty much well rested and prepared to kick Monday's ass once again. I will not let the fact that my laundry may not be ready on time deter me from gritting my teeth and wearing a fake smile through most of this day.

The weeks have just flown by, haven't they? Halloween is Wednesday and I still haven't gotten DJ a costume yet. It's a very subdue Halloween around these parts. What is usually a neighborhood dressed to the max with ghouls and witches and a "my decorations are gorier than yours" attitude is suddenly about scarecrows and pumpkins and not much else. Very few houses have the requisite blood, guts and spooky stuff that you normally see here on Halloween. But it could be worse. We could be New Britian, CT., where the bright lights in charge tried to change Halloween to a different day. I kid you not. Every day our nation gets closer and closer to losing its collective mind. Changing the dates of holidays to accomodate potential terrorism is just another sign of that.

Too tired and cynical today to list all my questions and thoughts on our raging war. Hell, I'm not even awake yet.

I'm going to head outside to catch a glimpse of the sunrise and face Monday head on. While I'm gone today, don't believe anything Cheney says. I'll interpret it all for you later with my evil-ometer.

October 28, 2001

Blog Me? Blog YOU!

Blog Me? Blog YOU!

In the interest of fairness, I will report that this weblog received a somewhat less than stellar review on Blog You.

Here's to mediocrity. Mine, of course.


That's what friends' birthdays are for

A few weeks ago, someone asked me what I thought made a good friend. I said:

Someone who is empathetic and sympathetic. Someone who laughs at your stupid jokes and listens when you talk and talks when you want to listen. Someone whom you trust with your secrets and feel free to divulge anything because they are non judgmental. Someone who will laugh with you and cry with you and not tell you everything is going to be fine when you know damn well it's not. Someone who understands when you don't answer their mail or calls right away. Someone who is not necessarily just like you, but who at least listens to your point of view when you differ. Someone who will tell you when you are being an idiot, but be the first to tell you when you're not. Someone who talks you out of bad things and talks you into good things and makes you question your choices at the exact moment you should be questioning them. Someone who is kind and nice and sweet yet prone to bouts of hostility so we can rant and scream and yell together.

I've been lucky enough to find a friend exactly like that. Today is her birthday.

Happy Birthday, Candi. May this year bring less aggravation, more peacefulness and everything you deserve, including a beautiful wedding.

October 27, 2001



Open letter to the waitress we had tonight at Margarita's:

You may be wondering why your tip was so small. Allow me to explain.

It's very nice that your establishment requires their staff to dress up for Halloween. It sure does add a festive touch to the place. And I must say, your slinky cat costume was quite attractive on you. But I do not think it was really necessary to get into full character by swishing your tail at every male customer. Especially when we were waiting for you to take our order while you were doing this. And shoving your tits in my boyfriend's face was above and beyond the call of duty. As much as you may wish it to be the case, you do not work at Hooters.

So while you were flirting with the table near the back of the room, we were quietly sitting, waiting for at least a glass of water to appear on the table. And you may like to know that those two friends of mine you were playing kitty-kat with, Steve and Ellis, are gay. They are just much more polite than me and didn't want to be rude by explaining that your tits and your ass mean nothing to them.

Now, I could have withstood the sexually charged behavior if it were not for the horrible service. Hell, if you did your job properly, I may have even flirted with you. All the times you kept us waiting for your attention, you were giving it to men without girlfriends. I meant nothing to you. I was hurt. You dissed me because I don't have a dick and you dissed my boyfriend because his is obviously being used. You made us wait way too long for our drinks, for our dinner and for the check.

I was going to chalk it up to a bad experience, and just give you the 15% but not my customary 20% and up. That is, until you gave us the check without asking if we wanted coffee (which we did) and proceeded to park your ass on the lap of the mullet-headed man behind and purr in his ear. And then you asked him if he wanted coffee.

I would have let your boss know about your rude behavior, but he was too busy adjusting the crotch on his Santa Claus costume to pay attention to us.

So if you are wondering why you got a four dollar tip on a 50 dollar check, the reason is not only rude, inconsiderate service, it's also because I thought your tits were too saggy for that shirt.

dack is back!

Dack is back!

Why didn't anyone tell me? Dack is posting again! Dack is back! There is joy in blogville....ok, I'll stop now.

no nukes

no nukes

I got three hits today from the International Atomic Energy Agency. I don't know why. Maybe Homer Simpson reads this blog in his spare time?


The Six Thousand Project:

"Our culture experienced a massive shock when the September 11th attacks took place. Since then I have been trying to grasp the immensity of the death and destruction caused by those tragic acts of violence, and failing. Other people I have spoken to express similar difficulties. I am responding in the way that comes most naturally to me: visually.

I am inviting people to join in a collaborative artwork that will attempt to make clear what "six thousand people lost" actually means.."

I'm not much of an artist, but I know a lot of you are. Please check this out. [found at harrumph]

the more things change

the more things change..

I'm thinking about the differences between my childhood Saturday mornings and my adult Saturday mornings. And you know what? There's not much difference. Maybe I just watch different cartoons now, and I'm drinking coffee instead of orange juice, but Saturday morning still means hanging out in my jammies for as long as possible, putting off chores, playing games and fighting with my siblings.

I honed my procrastination skills on Saturday mornings as a young girl, waiting until the last minute to make my bed or do my share of the vacuuming or dusting. I blew off school projects in favor of Secret Squirrel, H.R. Pufnstuf or Hong Kong Phooey. I sat mesmerized in front of the tv when I was 12, playing Pong until my mother threatened to ground me.

So here I am, an adult with my own home, my own children, my own chores to dole out. And what do I do on Saturday mornings?

I hone my procrastination skills to the level of Master. I wait until the last minute to do the dishes or fold the clothes or take a shower. I blow off projects I need to complete in favor of Sponge Bob Square Pants and, (yes!), reruns of Hong Kong Phooey. I blog, I chat on AIM, I stare mesmerized while I play Atomica until Justin threatens to leave me. And I will fight with one of my siblings at some point today, if not my mother.

In a lot of ways, it's the same as it ever was. Back then we had the Vietnam War and air raid drills and fear of Russia. I never remember it stifling my childhood urge to play games and eat cereal in front of the tv. The obliviousness of a child. I want that back.

So if you're looking for me today, I'll be by the television, watching cartoons and eating Quisp in my feetie pajamas. Anyone up for a game of Ants in the Pants?

October 26, 2001

fright fest

fright fest

CNN Headline: Pentagon: 'All of our forces' to be used in war

I really, upon first glance, thought that said "All your forces are belong to us"

And Ashcroft has taken a page from the book of Evil Dick Cheney (you know, that book entitled 'Frighten them Into Submission') by laying on the fright very thick."Terrorists live within U.S. borders plotting, planning, waiting to kill Americans again," was his astute quote this week. Didn't George say something about not panicking? Not giving in? Living normally? Maybe he should call a meeting with is chosen henchmen and discuss the plan, because they are not working on the same wavelength here. Work it out, guys. Telling the nation to treat each other with respect and not mistrust each other on the basis of ethnicity runs directly opposite to telling us that terrorist live among us and want us dead. Ashcroft and Cheney are egging us on while Bush tells us to calm down. Passive-aggresive leadership, anyone?

killing the queen

killing the queen

Price Club will kill me yet. It's not the amount of money I spend. I know going in that if I say I'm going to spend $100, I will drop at least $200. I mean, a bucket of Twizzlers sets me back 6 bucks to start off. That's before I get down the cereal aisle. No, it's not the money. It's the people.

See, wholesale clubs attract a certain kind of person. I'm not one of them, of course. I'm the exception to the rule. But on the whole, you can count on getting aggravated to the point of cart-rage at least 5 times a trip. I've done the study, I know this. I know my enemy. It is....

The cheap lunch date. This person comes for only one reason: the free samples of food. Every day at about noon, the Price Club tray brigade sets up on their corners with their microwaves, tiny cups and napkins. They offer a piece of a piece of a sample of whatever is on special that day so you can taste the goodness of frozen, pre-made food.

The cheap lunch date comes in two sizes; over 60 and coupon queen. Either of them will throw a small child out of the way in order to be first on line for the smidgen of overheated lasagna the tray brigade has set up. If it's a dessert, they will move faster than Dicky Cheney to an underground shleter to get there. The coupon queen lords it over the over 60 sampler, however, because she has kids, and she will send each one of them onto the line to get more free morsels for herself.

I kind of let the over 60 crowd go. I mean, they are probably just killing time until the Early Bird Special starts at Sizzler. They need to maintain their nutritional requirements until it's time to hit the salad bar. If they don't get their free samples, they just might keel over right in the middle of the snack aisle, and then I would have to manuever that large cart around a lot of bodies.

But the coupon queen must die. Not only does she monopolize the tray brigade, but she will take up an entire aisle while doing it. She will leave her cart to the right of her and her kids to the left and there's nowhere to go when you try to turn down frozen foods. You gently try to push her cart out of the way, but out of the corner of your eye you see her claws come out and you back off.

Inevitably, coupon queen meets another queen from her cluster. They stand in the center of the aisle, packed carts and kids in tow, and yammer on about ShopRite's rain check policy. They are oblivious to the fact that there are other people in the store who may like them to get the fuck out of the way. When you next run into the queen, she is standing in the juice aisle, talking into her cell phone to her nail technician while her kids have gotten loose and are ripping open packages of gummi bears. From someone else's cart.

You end up in behind her at the register, and you notice that the seat of her cart is lined up with a smorgasbord of free food. Lasagna, tiramasu, Chicken Marsala, all in little white cups. She wraps each one in a napkin and places them in the diaper bag slung over her shoulder. She sees you looking at her and she smirks and says "hey, it's free, why not?" And you can think of a hundred reasons why it's just wrong to hoard less than bite size free samples of food, hide them behind your baby's diaper cream, and pass them off as appetizers to your husband. But you say nothing.

It is only when her kid tugs on her sleeve and begs for something, anything to eat, just one little taste of that free jello maybe, and she smacks him upside the head and tells him to stop being so greedy that you wish her lasgna sample was coated with anthrax.

But you have the last laugh. Because as she puts the last of her items up on the conveyer, you accidently trip over something, thereby pushing your cart forward, smashing it right into the diaper bag where tonight's dinner lies in all it's paper cup glory. She gasps, looks into the bag, and stifles a scream. You know it's gotta be a mess in there. You apologize with a total lack of sincerity and offer her kid a Twizzler.

All in a day's work.

do you know exactly how to eat an oreo?

do you know exactly how to eat an oreo?

Idenitfying your personality trait according to how you eat Oreos is just too good to pass up. Of course, I had to open that bag of chocolate Oreos and eat a few just be certain I am getting the proper results. You think they got me pegged? (thanks, Melissa, for this link and the extra pounds that ensued from eating the whole bag of cookies)

Twisted apart, the inside, and then the cookie.

You have a highly curious nature. You take pleasure in breaking things apart to find out how they work, though not always able to put them back together, so you destroy all the evidence of your activities. You deny your involvement when things go wrong. You are a compulsive liar and exhibit deviant, if not criminal, behavior.

I swear, I am going to stop blogging and get on with what I am supposed to be doing today.

Was that a lie?

click this

click this

Every time someone new leaves a comment, I go to their site, if they link to it. So today, I clicked on a link and discovered that one of the visitors is Choire's mom. And she rocks. Go visit her.

today's special

banner (3k image)

October 25, 2001



Before I go to bed, I would like to take this opportunity to say that Windows XP is rocking my world right now. Yes, I'm whoring a Microsoft product. Shoot me.

blink and it's over

blink and it's over..

I apologize for the proliferation of kid related posts this week. It's just been that kind of week.

Natalie's romance was short lived. I picked her up from the Halloween Dance and could tell by the look on her face that she was pissed. There was a crowd of girls around her, whispering and giggling and consoling. I got the goods when we got into the privacy of the car. In Natalie's own, somewhat coherent, words"

"Oh. My. God. As soon as I got there all he kept saying was 'so should I make the first move? Do you wanna kiss me' and I was like, uhhh..whatever. I mean, I am ELEVEN. I'm not ready to move that fast. And he was, like, all about kissing and ugh. So all the girls, right, they kept coming up to me and telling me, 'dude, what ARE you doing with HIM? He's like.. a jerk.' Like, they couldn't tell me this BEFORE I went out with him? So I like, ignored him and then he came up to me and was all like 'are you mad at me' and I kept saying 'I don't know, I'll think about it,' because if you say 'yea I'm mad at you' then, well you know how guys like that are, they'll just follow you around going 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry' cause they think you'll feel bad and go, 'ok, you can kiss me.' So I didn't say anything cause then he would leave me alone while I thought about it and I just danced and stuff and then he came up to me and said 'screw you' and I said 'could you possibly be any more of an idiot??' Like I do NOT need this pressure in my life right now."

All spoken in one run on sentence in under one minute.

I promise. No more kiddie posts for the next 24 hours.

what the hell is that noise?

what the hell is that noise?

Please. Somebody. Help me. DJ came home from school with his recorder today. He has to practice 15 minutes every night, until the concert. In June. That's 8 months from now. If I haven't had a nervous breakdown yet, this may be the proverbial straw.

Natalie played the recorder in 3rd grade. At her concert, in addition to the usual folk ditties and the Titanic theme, they played Gangster's Paradise. When played on the recorder, Coolio comes off exactly like Celine Dion.

Anyone got a spare room for rent until June?

the tale of the bad samaritan

The tale of the bad samaritan

I have appointed myself to a new position within our government. No, I am not the official kicker of George's ass. I am now the United States Driving Czar. At your service, performing all kinds of bitchslapping and gavel pounding in the effort to educate those of you who may be less than stellar drivers. You can read all about it at my other digs, bad samaritan, where the sick and demented gather to exchange notes.


a worthy cause

For anyone in the Long Island area, something fun and worthy to do next weekend:

On November 2, the Fraternal Order of Court Officers will be holding a benefit for the families of the three court officers killed while assisting at the World Trade Center. A lot has been written about the firemen and policemen who died, but not many people know that these court officers also gave their lives to help others.

The event will take place on Friday November 2, at the Irish American Center,297 Willis Avenue Mineola.

There is a $5.00 admission which gets you food, soda and beer. There will be raffles and auctions for some great swag, including a Mike Piazza autographed jersey, a Mark Messier autographed hockey stick and all kinds of good stuff. If you would like to just give a donation to the families of the officers, you can get more info at the FOCO website (patriotic midi warning). If you would like to get a raffle for one of the great prizes, contact me and I'll hook you up.


paybacks from a bitch

Today's convo:

I have this boss, one of three bosses of mine. He tends to tell off-color jokes, use a lot of sexual innuendo and pepper his conversations with inappropriate words. It doesn't really bother me, but I act like it does. So he comes into my office this morning and is digging around the Halloween basket on my desk, and coming up only with Jolly Ranchers and Warheads.

boss: got any chocolate?

me: I'll go into my private stash for you

( I dig around in my backpack)

me: hmm. you can have a Reeses Stick or (still rummaging) a.....tampon.

boss: (stunned silence)

his face turns beet red as I hold up the Reeses Stick in one hand and the tampon in the other, asking him to choose. He grabs the Reeses Stick and runs out without saying a word.

I owed him that. Big time.

which way?

which way?

Wow, I really messed up this time thing. The previous post was not made at 9:30 p.m. on Wedensday. Unless I hit a time warp when I ran to the bathroom. Someone help me. Candi, Shel? Can one of you go in and change it for me because my mathematical reasoning seems to have left me.

Due to my effort to stay away from the news, my morning blog is severely diminished. Which is fine because I can't seem to find any news unrelated to 9-11 anyhow, and I know no one wants to read any more of that than necessary. I feel that this blog has become more content-driven rather than link-driven. Maybe I should bring back the amusements page, where I would put all the freaky links? Do you miss the days when I would have a lot of links or do you like the direction this has gone in? Truthfully, I like writing more than linking to what others have written, but I also miss running around the web gathering odd and horrifying things. In which case, the return of the amusement page would come in handy. Do you ever feel like you are watching someone have a conversation with themself? This would be one of those times. Feel free to eavesdrop and/or chime in at any time. Tell me what to do because I damn sure cannot make a decision on my own these days.

I am in a much better place today, by the way. Let's hope I can stay here. All it takes is one bad driver to blow my good karma away.

October 24, 2001

party central

party central..

Despite what the date up there says, it's Thursday, Oct. 25. I'm pretty sure it's 2001. Which means tomorrow is Friday. Which means it is only 3 days until my parents' anniversary party. DO NOT PANIC. It's to the point where I just want this over with, and I probably will not enjoy a second of the party because I will be too busy making sure everyone else is enjoying every second of the party. Thursday also means that tonight is the Halloween Dance at Natalie's school and that was a non-issue until yesterday. Now that she has a "boyfriend" do I need to give her a small lecture before the dance? Christ, when I was eleven I hated boys. I thought they were evil, horrible beings who served no purpose except to annoy the hell out of me. Never outgrew that stage, I guess. But my point is, is it really necessary to give an eleven year old a lecture about appropriate behavior with boys? Come on, did you care about dating when you were eleven? Who put the growth hormones in our kids' milk?



Have you seen the ads for the new movie 13 Ghosts? The movie's advertising campaign revolves around these facts: It has gore, violence, nudity and foul language. The hidden message here is thus: the film has no plot and it sucks, but we guarantee you will see some titties, the word "fuck" will be used a lot and your parents will be horrified that you saw it. Looks like a box office smash to me.

Speaking of movies, I am in the process of rounding up our Halloween marathon. Generally, we watch the same movies every year. Dead Alive, Evil Dead, Cemetery Man and Night of the Living Dead.

This year, we would like to add one to our list. The classic Night of the Lepus. Giant killer bunny rabbits. The worst special effects you could imagine. Laughable in it's sincerity. Quality viewing all around.

So what's your favorite movie for Halloween?

Forward One, Back Two

forward one, back two

I made a vow today to eliminate some of the stresses in my life. No more nightly news; recant my offer to have Thanksgiving at my house; stop entertaining thoughts of buying that handyman's special (piece of crap) down the block; avoid my sister's boyfriend at all costs; write a letter to the parents of all 500 kids in the school telling them that unless I get some help, there will be no reading program this year. I felt better as soon as I made those decisions. Fitter. Happier. More Productive. And I promised not to take on any added stress.

So what did I do just moments ago? I signed up for nanowrimo . What is nanowrimo, you ask? It is National Novel Writing Month. On November 1, I will begin writing a 50,000 word novel. It must be submitted by midnight, November 30. I am so out of my mind. And when I do have that inevitable nervous breakdown, I'm taking D down with me because it's his fault I heard about it.

The Horror! The Horror!

Oh! The Humanity!

I have come across something more frightening than anthrax. More fear inducing than war. It's something that makes me cower in a corner, longing for the days of yore.

Natalie has a boyfriend.

Yes, folks, my eleven year old daughter came home from school today and announced her foray into the dating world. How an eleven year old perceives the idea of a boyfriend, I've yet to find out. She only talks about in hushed tones to her friends on the telephone. From what I could make out, it has something to do with sitting together at lunch and a lot of phone calls. And apparently, the other "couples" in her grade spend a lot of time breaking up and getting back together. With boyfriends come trauma, tears, heartache, secrets and lots of little notes crumbled up in the bottom of a backpack.

She was intolerable before this Bryan kid decided he wanted to attach himself to her. I am doomed. Doomed.



Sometimes all it takes is a hot shower, strong coffee and some kid-sized morning hugs to make everything better. Don't worry, I'm not getting all flowers and butterflies on you. I'm just saying. It's not as bad as a dark 5AM made it seem.

Also, my time on my posts is wrong. I tried to change it, but it won't seem to accept my changes. I do not get up at 3am to blog. It's 6:05 now. Adjust your clocks accordingly, and stop sending me emails about how I would be a better person if I got more sleep.

Fear and loathing in New York

Fear and Loathing

It's Wednesday. Middle of the week, payday, good weather...it should all add up to a big ass smile, right? Hmm...No. Maybe I've just turned into one of those people who are grouchy all the time, no matter what. Maybe it's a NyQuil hangover. Maybe it's the fact that we are throwing a party for 100 people on Sunday and still haven't gotten the whole thing together yet. Yea, I think that's the trouble.

And maybe, just maybe, I should stop looking at the news. While on one hand they are imploring us to act normal, it doesn't make us confident when the other hand is shoving Terrorism Survivor Tips in your face. And it doesn't help that everyone is on personal high alert and god forbid if you are eating a donut or have dandruff because the cops will be all over you in a second. There is this electricity in the air that I don't like. I think this nation as a whole is one Dick Cheney heart attack away from going collectively nuts.

I am trying to act normal. We go about our days as if there is no war waging. We do homework and go pumpking picking and decorate for Halloween. And, hey, we are going Christmas shopping and bought tickets for a concert that won't happen until May, so I can't be too pessimstic, right?

I just wish I could shake myself out of this fog of anger/hostility/sadness/fear that I've been living in. It's getting really crowded in here.

October 23, 2001

sick and tired of being sick and tired

hay is for people who don't have allergies

Your regularly schedule blog programming for this evening has been pre-empted by an overwhelming allergic reaction to hay, mums, daisies, and other assorted nursery type items. The pumpkins, however, are not guilty.

You may resume with whatever you were doing before you got here. We will return to regular programming at approximately 5AM tomorrow.

Thank you for your patience and understanding.*

*This statement assumes that you 1) care and 2) are actually being understanding about it. In the event that neither is true, feel free to laugh maniacally at me. I do it all the time.


Beware the gaze

Converstation of the day:

scene: Person visiting in my office. We are making small talk while he waits for a file.

Person: You have a very disconcerting habit.

Me: What's that?

Person: You don't look people in the eye when you are having a conversation with them.

Me: Eh, it's that whole "Gaze of Death" thing.

Person: hmmm?

Me: Yea. If I look at someone too long they burst into flames. Just a small, weird power I was born with.

Person: You're a....mutant?

Me: Mmhmm.

Person: So....how's Professor X?

Me: Doing good.

Person: Ok, send him my regards.

Me: Will do.

And once again, I evade a discussion about how I don't look at people when I talk to them.


Public Service Announcement

Ok, a self-serving public service announcement. Could those of you who are linking to me, could you please point your links to www.asmallvictory.net/blogger.html rather than the splash page? Just so I can keep better track of my stats. I like to know where y'all are coming from. Thank you and have an adequate Tuesday.

And just so you know:

I AM 47% PUNK.

The intelligent punk. Tuff and Smart. I

may be able to maintain a train of thought

long enough... What the fuck was I talking


Take the PUNK/POSER Test at Fuali.com!

You know, I like Rollins. I saw Black Flag. I love his stand up stuff. I have the DVDs. I read all his books. But two things about him: His music these days sucks ass. And he is one arrogant, self important fucker. He annoys me on so many levels, yet I keep watching the DVDs. I think I'm hypnotized by his neck.

Blah Blah

Yank this, Piniella

It seems that all my dreams lately have one unnerving similarity. The World Trade Center. I am probably in the same boat as a million other Americans here, I know. But it seems that even when the dream isn't about that, it is still there. Last night I was dreaming about, in no particular order, spilled coffee, secret chambers in my mother's house, a woman torturing her son's girlfriend by sending her down a chute and into a spinning clothes dryer, Natalie reverting back to toddlerhood, spilled orange juice and Justin trying to rollerblade. Simple dreams, for me. But the whole time in the background, some wild movie-like images played out, complete with helicopters, gunfire and burning buildings. Like a Jerry Bruckheimer movie, only more believable. And within budget. I was awakened by DJ's hacking cough, which he has had ever since my mother had the bright idea to take them over to Ground Zero.

Happy Weblogging Anniversary to Chris, of Do You Feel Loved. Chris was one of the first weblogs I read and an inspiration in starting my own. I was initially attracted to his blog because we shared a passion for comics (Chris also ran GLIT! which he says he may bring back). He became not only one of my daily weblog devotions, but an excellent friend. So go be excellent to him. Read his wonderful anniversary post, check out the rest of his blog, as well as the rest of his site. Here's to many more years of blogging and friendship, Chris.

And while I'm using my blogging space for congratulations to cover up the fact that I have nothing to say today, let me send out a huge congrats to Jay and Erika, who got engaged this weekend.

And what would today be without mentioning the fact that THE YANKEES ARE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES AGAIN. Bit me, Lou Piniella! That will teach you to keep your ugly, bitter mouth shut. Now. Who the hell are the Arizona Diamondbacks and how long will it take to get rid of them?

I'm off to enjoy my Tuesday, which promises to be a lot more pleasant and easy going than that bitch Monday was. I hope, anyhow.

October 22, 2001

Bio Warfare, The Tour

Ok one more thought. This would be a really good time for Biohazard to go on tour with Anthrax. I bet you could come up with some clever names for that tour!

Just a thought.

Bloggin and Buggin

Bloggin and Buggin

Well those Waffle House chili cheese fries never materialized. Because the bugs did first. We noticed the little things that looked suspiciously like termites outside of the restaurant. But we went in anyhow. We noticed them on the floor when we first got in, but the waitress assured us it was just because the door was open. She led us to a table, as Natalie whispered that she wanted to leave, and I was about to argue with her because I was so hungry and would have eaten bug souffle at that point. Then I saw the bugs on the table. I informed the waitress we would be leaving. She swiped the bugs off the table with her hands and said there was nothing to worry about. Right. We left. We went to the diner and as we were walking in, we saw them outside again. The bugs. Same kind. It's a plague. We canvassed the place before we sat down and were able to enjoy our meal bug free. Bug Free, The Way to Be.

I'm tired and brainless. So in lieu of thinking of something profound or witty to say regarding anything at all, I'll just tell you what I found while blogging around.

Someone buy me this shirt for Christmas. Thanks. [link from red dwarf]

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Dave and I get busy being ironic.

My new theme song

I fucked Jill Matrix. Before Jish did. I don't do sloppy seconds.

That's it. Must watch the Yankees make Lou weep.

Getting even with Monday

Right back at ya, Monday

I decided that if Monday was going to act like a little bitch, I wasn't going to let it get the best of me. So I sat at my desk, entertaining myself with the thought that the Yankees are one game closer to sending Lou Pinniella running home to his mommy like a little crybaby.

I was also entertained at a nice little meeting today where we were schooled in the way of anthrax filled envelopes. The most important piece of advice by far was "Be careful of envelopes labeled suspsiciously, like ones that say 'ANTHRAX' written on them." Ok bucko, thanks for the tip there. Cause all these terrorists are labeling their germ warfare now. My other favorite: "Be aware for anything suspicious in a package, for instance, inappropriate ticking sounds." Are there appropriate ticking sounds, I wonder? The rest of the meeting was drowned out by the buzzing in my ears that derived from the smell of tar infiltrating my brain. Hey, guys? Maybe this isn't the best time to be letting people fuck around with the heating and ventilation systems.

So I returned to my desk, only to be besieged by a barrage of phone calls from arrogant attorneys. One after another, they got on my very last nerve until I was ready to kick the wall in. I decided not to go with the anger and instead, dug into the vast recesses of my brain and remembered my lamaze breathing exercises. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. Breathe. In. Out. I was in a zone, transported back to the serenity of laying on a hospital bed, nurses at my side, getting into perfect breathing rythmn. Then the phone rang, jarring me out of my mental stupor and I think that's when I yelled "EPIDURAL! NOW!"

Unfortunately, no one came forth with any numbing drugs. I'm going out now to see if some Waffle House chili cheese fries will do the trick.

Monday, Monday

Dear Monday,

Hi. It's me again. Seems like only yesterday that we last talked. Can't believe a week has gone by and you're here already. Sometimes it seems like you come around way too much. I'm not trying to be mean or anything, it's just that...well, no offense, but you suck. We are talking major suckage here. Why do you have to be like that? Why do you always have to bring the pain? I mean, Tuesday never gives me shit like you do. Why can't you be more mellow and pleasant like Wednesday?

Listen, I'll make a deal with you. I will try to stop badmouthing you if you try to stop being so hard on me. I'd like you to stop by just once without bringing along your arsenal of bad drivers, lack of sleep, too much work, not enough time and bad attitudes. It's bad enough that I have to face you once a week, but so does everyone else. And when you are giving your bullshit to everyone at the same time, it just makes life a bitch.

I know you have a reputation to uphold. But maybe we can keep it on the downlow, between you and me. You know. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. I'll try to be less aggressive about spreading the aggravation you bring, if you promise not to be so damn hard to get along with.

Let me know, ok?


October 21, 2001

Signs of violence

Death to Death Slogans..

We need to talk. Because I don't know if it's just me, or if there is anyone else out there thinking like I am. I really don't like the way this country is handling the whole bin Laden thing. I don't mean the military; they're just doing their job. I mean the citizens.

Clarify one thing: I do think bin should be dead. I won't argue that point. I have no problem with the thought of him no longer existing. What I have a problem with is the glorification of his impending doom. As I drive, I see cars and vans with pictures of Laden taped to the back windows, targets drawn on his face and bullet holes sketched onto his forehead. I see banners hanging on parkway overpasses, with slogans like "Kick his ass, USA!" and "Death to bin Laden!" I hear them in restaurants and schools and grocery stores, plotting the most evil, violent death possible. But I don't see this alone. My children see it. They hear it. They see this country hell bent on revenge and death and destruction, and they see people waving their death wishes around like flags.

Violence begets violence. We know this. It is the basis of all wars. But it doesn't have to be so consuming. It doesn't have to be so bold and in your face. When they say "make a joyful noise" I don't think they mean shouts of war. I don't like the way we are teaching the future leaders of this country that an almost gleeful violence is the way to confront your enemies. That's what the WWF is for.

Don't get me wrong, please. I am not saying that Laden shouldn't be dealt anything less than death. I'm just asking, can we tone it down a bit? Can we not seem so giddy about taking lives? Can we not be so gung ho about the systematic destruction of another country? Can we not be so glib about revenge and war?

Think about what kids are seeing. Think about the signs and banners and posters that promote spilled blood. Think about the fact that this country already has a problem with hostile, angry kids who do not know how to act upon those feeling without reaching for a gun. Think about the message your slogans are sending.

Just...tone it down, ok?

Nick Cave

Cave in

I have convinced my mother to buy Justin tickets to see Nick Cave for Christmas. We are going to the May 2nd show, same as Chris, and sitting in the balcony, same as him. Hopefully our seats are above his and I can spend the show throwing stuff at his head.


there was a post here and now it's not. I don't know how to make it go away. Ignore. Move on. Nothing to see here. These are not the droids you're looking for.

The Day After

The Post I was trying to make before Dreamhost tanked on me this morning

Two days in a row that I slept passed 7:00. Another day that my schedule is messed up. You know that schedule I have...the one that I never follow but it feels safe to have.

I dreamed last night that none of this ever happened. That it was September 10, and I kept waking up every day to another September 10. But I knew. I was the only person who knew what the next day would bring, if it would ever come. I was the ony one who knew what the people in this perpetual September 10 were escaping, and no matter how I tried I could not convince them that this was the last day they would feel safe. I thought of going down to the WTC and warning everyone but I kept falling asleep, within the dream, and waking up to morning again. And each time I woke, it was with the fear that this Groundhog Day magic had worn off and it would be September 11 all over again. When I finally woke for real, I had to get up and make sure what the date was.

My kids made it home safe from their trip to the city yesterday. They called last night and said their grandmas had taken them over to Ground Zero. I had mixed feelings about this. On one hand, I thought my mother is crazy, why would she take children to see that? But on the other hand, I thought maybe it was good for them to see. Even though it hit us personally, the tragedy is still far removed for them. As children, they are able to distance themselves from things they don't want to think about or comprehend. Once they are out with friends or in front of the Playstation, everything else disappears. Maybe seeing it made it real for them. On the other hand (yea, I have three hands) why do they need to make it real? Why can't we let them live in their little cocoons until they are older and have no choice but to see the world for what it really is? My mother said Natalie just looked and didn't say anything, which is typical as she internalizes everything. She will come home and write something in her journal and never talk about it again. But DJ stared at the remains of Tower 5 for a long time then looked at my mother and said, "They were just working. They were just minding their own business."

October 20, 2001

a perfect fit


I love greymatter. It's delicious. I'm still fooling around with it, so please excuse the mess while we fix the place up. You may now rate an entry in addition to leaving comments. And don't get cute. Only one rate per IP address. You may NOT negative vote me 100 times, thank you. That means you, Mr. Falwell.

So earlier today I was looking for something to do. In order to do nothing, one must have something to do while doing nothing. I can't just sit there and stare at the walls. So I decided to read. I needed something light, which let out No Logo, Fast Food Nation was boring me, and I left Choke at work. And then I saw it. It was in the bathroom, next to yesterday's comics and a skateboard catalog. DJ's book. Captain Underpants and the Wrath of the Wicked Wedgie Woman. This is the fifth in the Captain Underpants series. This is the first one I picked up to read. Well, no wonder he loves these books. The humor is so juvenile, so low class and disgusting, that I couldn't put it down. Fart jokes! Bathroom humor! Comics and flip-o-rama included! And, one of the characters in the book is named Miss Anthrope. I sat outside, smoking and reading and was done with the book in about 25 minutes. It was just what I needed, exactly when I needed it.

I think the whole country could use a few good fart jokes right about now.

Shades of Grey

Well here it is. The Greymattered blog. Candi worked her ass off all day doing this for me. If it weren't for her and Shel I would still be lingering somewhere in Freeserver Hell. Still getting used to things here, so bare with me while I have a look around my new digs and figure it all out.

Homeland Ethnic Profiling Committee

Peggy Noonan: Homeland Ethnic Profiling Committee

I've had just about enough. While half the country is going around saying that we must not start ethnic profiling, we must not think of all "middle eastern looking" people as terrorists, the other half is acting like writer Peggy Noonan. This article only feeds the fire of the idiots who want to round up every person of Arab descent and lock them away for the duration of this "war." (all quotes in italics are Ms. Noonan's)

Suddenly to our right, on the sidewalk, we saw two "Mideastern looking men," as we all now say. They were 25 or 30 years old, dressed in jeans and windbreakers, and they were doing something odd. They were standing together silently videotaping the outside of St. Pat's, top to bottom. We watched them, trying to put what we were seeing together. Tourists? It was a funny time of day for tourists to be videotaping a landmark--especially when the tourists looked like the guys who'd just a few days before blown up a landmark

I don't know any terrorists, but I do know that most of them aren't going to conduct their operations in plain view of people.

My son is surfing Internet chat rooms last Sunday and goes to a conservative site, where he sees an interesting thing. A man or woman has written in to say--again I paraphrase--"The oddest thing happened at work the other day. I work at a petrochemical company, and these two Mideastern looking guys come in and say they want to videotape the inside of the plant for a college course they're taking. They were approached and asked for identification by the manager. They became surly, angry, and left. Later the manager phoned the school they claimed to be students at--and they weren't even registered!"

Yes. I put my faith in stories that I hear in internet chat rooms devoted to conservatives. Can we say "conspiracy theorists?"

I think cell members have been going around taking home movies of potential targets. I suspect they've been downloading them into computers and shooting them off to Osama and his lieutenants in the caves.

I think you've been smoking crack. They take years to quietly plan and pull off the WTC, which our country's intelligence had no clue about, and now they are videotaping their targets in public view and sending the files over the internet?

In the past month I have evolved from polite tip-line caller to watchful potential warrior.

You've become a fucking nutjob.

But you know what? I think we're in the fight of our lives, and I think we're going to need their patience. And I think those who have not yet developed patience are going to have to grow up and get some.

Yes. Let's all go out and do some ethnic profiling and pass it off as patriotism or whatever you are calling your bigoted, arrogant pleas for hatred. Grow up and get some patience? Some of these people you are talking about are actual citizens of this country. Many of them were even born here. They are entitled to all the rights you want to be afforded. That does not mean they have to stand by and take one for the team while they are stared at pointed at and accused. After Oklahoma, were you calling in tips to the FBI every time you saw a young white man driving a Ryder truck?

This is not the time nor the place to be spreading your ignorance. Actually, there is never a time nor a place for those who think like you. Blind mistrust is what got us here in the first place. You should really be ashamed. But something tells me you're not.


This is a test of the emergency blogging system. Do not panic.

Going grey...

Going grey....

In the midst of converting to Greymatter. Well, Candi is in the midst of converting this site to Greymatter. I love Blogger. It has served me well. But ReBlogger was the proverbial straw that finally convinced me to make the change.

So all is quiet here until the transition is complete.