FOX: the new lows keep getting lower
FOX: the new lows keep getting lower
Tonya Harding. Amy Fisher. Fox tv. Boxing.
There's really nothing else to say, is there?
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FOX: the new lows keep getting lower
Tonya Harding. Amy Fisher. Fox tv. Boxing.
There's really nothing else to say, is there?
do not pee in the millenium falcon
Every family has those special sayings. The ones that only the people in their family know the meaning of, usually related to some inside joke or a story that is the family's version of an urban legend.
Yes, we have them. We have several, actually, but this is my most often used saying and my favorite just for the looks I get from other people when I say it.
When DJ turned four (you just knew this would have something to do with DJ, didn't you?) he was a Star Wars freak of the highest order. Ok, we all were. For his birthday that year, he got a whole batch of Star Wars toys, including this humungous replica of the Millenium Falcon, complete with flashing lights and sound effects. He enjoyed this present immensely, often playing with it for hours at a time. He would sometimes take his figures from other toy sets - knights and pirates and cowboys - and put them in the Millenium Falcon. He would then have Han Solo boss them around. It was fun to watch.
So one day I go in his bedroom and I notice a strange odor. I can't quite put my finger on what it is, and I start looking around the room for moldy food or drink cups or small, dead animals. Finally, I pinpoint where the smell is coming from. The Millenium Falcon. I look into it, and see that a small flood has invaded its interior. Han Solo and Pocahantas are floating together in a stream of.....of....what's that? Piss?? Piss in the Millenium Falcon? I went ballistic. I screamed and yelled and acted sufficiently horrified, all the while fighting the urge to let out this maniacal laugh. The laughter that comes from witnessing the absurd.
DJ stood there watching me, a small grin playing around the corners of his mouth. He wanted to smile. He wanted to laugh. Hell, he wanted to do a jiggy dance right there because his little antic served its purpose. He wanted a reaction. He got it. I didn't really know what else to say at the point. So I put my hand on my hip and pointed sternly at him. "Young man," I said. "You do not pee in the Millenium Falcon!" He nodded his head in agreement, still stifling that laugh. I made him take the offending toy outside, hose it down and the throw it in the garbage can. Which, of course, made him cry and realize the gravity of his action.
A couple of days later, we are in Chucky Cheese. They have one of those big, winding tunnels that the kids can crawl through and torment each other. It's suspended about 8 feet above the rest of the play area and it's basically impossible to get to the kids when you want to leave. The kids know this. I read my kids the riot act before they go to play. Coming here is a privilege, I explain. When I say it's time to go, we go. So an hour later it's time to go and they look down at me from the opaque orange tube of kiddie hell and stick their tongues out at me. I go to the end of the tube and yell at them. They laugh. I say something about taking good things for granted. They laugh. I then yell "Do not pee in the Millenium Falcon!" Heads turn, the place goes quiet. Everyone is staring. Two seconds later, the kids are down the slide and in their coats. They knew what I meant.
The phrase has found its place in the twisted lingo of our family. We use it at opportune moments, in our home and in public, and it always makes its point and gets the job done.
Do not pee in the Millenium Falcon. Our family's golden rule.
no sleep til...whenever
Today's personal mental forecast: A shitload of apathy with scattered fuck yous. Possibly a break in the grey, dull cloud lining this afternoon, which will last as long as the paycheck goes from hand to bank. Clouds will resume after that; big dark clouds that will hover over your head like your own personal shitstorm. Look for scattered areas of opposing weather fronts trying to make your clouds go away. Strike them down with lightning.
Horoscope says: Let your emotions play with your imagination today, and feel free to discuss your findings openly with others. Don't get caught up in such a strictly rational frame of mind that you refuse to acknowledge any other way of viewing the current situation. Put away your analytical side in order to disclose a more abstract and intuitive perspective. Exercise that part of your brain that doesn't normally get used.
I say: Kiss my ass, you dumb random nonsense generator. Feel free to discuss your findings openly with others. As if I ever had a problem with this before.
Let's count the hours of sleep I had last night. Ready? Put out your hand. Now put up one finger...that one is fine....now put it down. Make a fist. How many fingers to do you have up now? If none is your answer then you are correct! I slept just under an hour, approximately 40 minutes and in that time managed to have a nightmare of humungous porportions. The rest of the night was spent staring through the slats in the blinds, watching a dying streetlight flicker and come back to life periodically. Once in a while, just for fun, I would pinch Justin when he started snoring.
So I finally get out of bed, do a little laundry and then realize that today is the last day of February. This means that tomorrow is Nancy's birthday. Nancy will be 40 and I will be following in her footsteps shortly.
Yesterday I was feeling all snarky and sexy and ageless, what with my new found tits and all. 24 hours later I am feeling listless, bloated, blotchy and old. I'm hoping it's just the lack of sleep and not a long-lasting phase. I hate phases like this. I hate funks. What I need is for winter to be over and abundant sunshine and warm spring air to be flowing around me. Ok, so I also need a large sum of money and 6 week vacation by myself, but I'm trying to be realistic.
Fuck, it's 6am already. I forgot to turn on AIM this morning and I didn't have Mig to remind me that it was time to get in the shower. Make of that what you will.
This disjointed, rambling, incoherent post has been brought to you by Insomnia - Killing brain cells everywhere since the beginning of time.
tidbits 2.28
Shitty day around here yesterday. Bill got laid off, Dooce lost her job because of her weblog and Elise packed up her shit and moved, leaving no forwarding address.
I brought up Dooce's situation at work and was reminded by someone there that our employment contract specifically states that we will not talk about any aspect of our job to any form of media. He said that should a situation like Dooce's arise, a blog would be considered a form of media. However, I don't think I would ever stop writing about Mr. Coffee man or the cookie bunch because I don't think that's what they had in mind by that contract stipulation.
I'd like to give a big welcome to everyone who came here looking for Tyson chicken meatballs and Sarah Hughes booger! But if you are the one looking for Donald Rumsfeld witty humor, you're better off looking under urban legends.
Over in the hall of infamy today is Bob the Corgi. Not only a great blog, but she's got a super plog as well.
Coffee.
cymbal-ism
So I was driving home from work and I pull up next to a van. I am amazed to see that the wording on the side of the van says "Public Enemy" in bold red letters, about 3 feet high. So I'm just about to roll down my window and yell out "Bring the Noise!" when I realized the sign actually said "Public Energy." Damn. I thought I was gonna meet Chuck D.
So we have Natalie's spring concert tonight. It's not gonna be like past years, where they did songs like Gangsta's Paradise and the theme from Cheers. Nope, tonight it's all God Bless America and America the Beautiful and rah rah sis boom bah. Either way, my daughter will be the finest snare drummer/cymbal crasher in the world.
You doubting me?
cleavage therapy
There's this thing about exercising daily or nightly. Even if you can't see the weight melting off or the inches dropping, it makes you feel good. It gives you a sense of power and might usually reserved for invisible deities.
If you don't feel good about yourself, physically at least, you tend to wear clothes that reflect that. Baggy sweatshirts, baggy pants, the whole sloppy look. You may walk with your head down or stand with your arms crossed in front of you, reflecting the fact that you don't like the way you are looking at the moment.
But when you work those abs, all that changes. After a week on the abslide and doing various attempts at weight lifting and knee-damaging exercise, I looked in the mirror and realized...I have tits. Not only do I have tits, but I have cleavage.
Now, keep in mind that I wasn't fat before I started exercising. I just felt out of shape, not toned right. Ok, I could stand to lose a few pounds, especially noted when someone mistook me for J.Lo from behind. But I was always wearing loose shirts and baggy jeans because I wasn't comfortable in anything else.
Armed with my new found glory, I dug through my closet for the clothes I used to wear when I was a sexy bitch. Well, when I pretended I was a sexy bitch. I found a nice low cut black knit shirt. My black pants that are made out of some material that clings to my skin yet flows at the same time. A nice dainty black sweater to top it off.
I went to work in this outfit yesterday. I didn't walk with my head down or my arms in front of me. I stood tall (as tall as a short person can stand) and walked, even sauntered down the hallways of my office building. I may have even pulled a Shakira and started shaking my ass at some point. And I showed off my tits. Yep, I did. And it paid off.
Fuck the feminists. Every once in a while, it sure feels good to be objectified. Stroke my ego, baby.
tidbits 2.27
The Pentagon has decided to close the Office of True Lies, better known as The Office of Strategic Influence. Do you think they're just spreading disinformation in saying they are closing it? How do we know if an office whose purpose was to tell lies is being honest when they say they are closing?
And once again Bush is touting his brilliant idea that all unwed mothers should get married. Because this will solve all their problems. Because a woman is not capable of supporting herself financially. And he's just perpetuating the archaic notion that "family" life can only be called family when there's both a mother and father present. Sorry, but our little family life was better when we went from mother and father to just mother. And let's not even get started on the other forms of family. I don't want to give George a heart attack by insisting that family can also mean two fathers or two mothers. And it's a bit ironic that this is all touted under a banner that says "Working towards independence" when what he is doing is telling women they have to depend on a man to make their lives better.
For a while people were wondering "what ever happened to Gary Condit?" But I'm wondering...whatever happened to the search for Chandra Levy?
Anyhow. Over in the hall of infamy today is Geoff. After you peruse his blog, which is always snarky and astute and sarcastic, check out his writings and his record reviews and his links to all his published works.
There's a new group blog coming your way. Shel has started Procrastiblog, which will be your one stop shopping source for time wasters and repetitive stress syndrome on the internet. He's looking for authors before the site launches, so check it out and think about joining us.
I saw Ben and Mena on TechTv last night, talking about Movable Type. Chris has some screenshots as well some bobbin head action.
Well, that was supposed to be tidbits. That may have been the whole damn morning blog.
how to win friends and influence cable technicians
Whoever said you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar had no clue.
All you need is PMS and the knowledge that you are right. The death threats, the implied use of a spork in very private places and the the throaty whisper of "Donald Rumsfeld knows where you live" were just icing on the cake.
By the time I got home from work, the cable guy had come and gone and fixed and tweaked.
And all was right with the world.
life on hold
So the cable guy came on Monday. He fixed and fiddled and ran some new wires and we had our fast connection and digital cable back. Everything was wonderful.
Today they came and tinkered with something on the pole outside. Ever since then, our cable has been out.
I call the cable company. Someone crossed some wires. Someone came back to mess with something that wasn't broken. Oops.
They tell me they will come back tomorrow.
I don't think so. I want my cable modem back tonight.
It's too late to schedule an appointment for today, she said.
This is not scheduling an appointment, this is someone fixing something they broke.
We'll be there tomorrow between 8 and 4, she says.
You want me to take another day off to stay home so I can wait around all day for a guy to come and fix something he broke today?
That's the only advice I have for you right now. We have nothing available for today.
You don't have overtime for your employees?
Yes, we do.
Ok, then put the tech on overtime and have him come to my house when he's done.
We can't.
Why not?
He's not available.
Make him available.
I'll have a supervisor call you.
click.
And that's that. Haven't heard back and I'm leaving work now.
I'm sure my tone of voice and the several threatening phrases I left out of the above conversation assured that I will never get quality service from then again.
So bottom line, no modem until some time tomorrow. Yes, I can live without the internet. It's the principle of the thing that pisses me off.
I can live without the internet, right? It's possible?
titanium white?
Quick poll:
I am in the process of redesigning. Well, D is in the process of redesigning and I am in the process of annoying the fuck out of him with my indecision.
I want a simple, two color scheme. But I can't come up with a color that I still like from one day to the next because I'm always talking about what color I feel that day, not what color I truly am. (Yea, sounds hokey, doesn't it?)
So the poll thing is, if you had to slap a color label on me, what would that color be? You know, what color am I?
Catholic Guilt: The Easter version.
It's the season of Lent, that time in between Ash Wednesday and Easter when I feel the most guilt about leaving Catholicism.
Now, guilt comes with being Catholic. It's instilled in you from an early age, honed and perfected until you become one with it. And someday, should you choose to leave the church, denounce its teaching and have nothing to do with any organized religion whatsover, you will still have the guilt. It's forever.
When I was little, I remember the frequently uttered phrases from my aunts. God will punish you. God is watching you. Do you want God to know you're doing that? God is not happy with you right now. All fed to you with pointed finger and clenched teeth and stern eyes.
For a while I was frozen in fear. I couldn't do anything without wondering if God was watching me. I was six years old and picking my nose one day when it suddenly dawned on me that I was probably being watched and I would go to hell for wanting to get a booger out of my nose. I ran into my room, knelt down by my bed and asked God to forgive me.
This persisted through the course of my life, those phrases always ringing in my ears whenever I did something wrong. I laid in bed at night, imagining a stern, cross god screaming at me for everything I did during the day, reviewing it on some huge monitor he had up in heaven.
I've never quite gotten over that. Making the decision to leave Catholicism and religion in general caused so much anxiety in me that I thought I would have a nervous breakdown. On the one hand, I knew that I did not believe in a higher being and I did not subscribe to the teachings of the church, but on the other hand I was still entrenched in this fear of wronging the god I didn't believe in.
Maybe it wasn't god I was afraid of. Maybe it was my aunts or my mother or my grandmother. Perhaps on some level I viewed them as the all-powerful beings and thought that they would be punishing me for leaving the church. And they really are pretty powerful if they can instill that kind of guilt in fear in me as a child and still have it remain all these years later.
I am still raising my kids Catholic, which no one seems to understand. I think kids do need some kind of religion. It's comforting for them to have that feeling that someone up there is looking out for them, that there's someone listening to them and trying hard to answer their prayers. That there is a heaven where all their relatives and puppies go when they die and it is a better place than earth. Basically, I teach them at home instead of sending them to the church for catechism, because I can teach them religion the way I think it should be taught. I can give them the side of religion that is about love and respect and comfort, and leave out that vision of the all-seeing, vindictive god that I grew up with. What they choose to do with their religion later on in life is strictly up to them.
So now it's Lent and everyone has given up something for the season, and they are preparing for Good Friday and Easter and all the things that go on during this season. I don't feel bad that I'm not a part of it, because I don't believe it. I just feel bad that people try to make me feel like I should feel bad about it. Some people just cannot understand the whole concept of thinking for yourself. I must be stupid or blind or inherently evil to not want to repent or kneel down and pray or re enact the Stations of the Cross. And really, that's my problem with organized religion in general. That they (and by they I mean almost any religion) think that their way is the only way. Their choices are the right choices. That closed-minded way of thinking that alienated me in the first place is certainly not going to work if you're trying to bring me back.
So this has become for me the season of guilt. The season of accusatory looks and a "shame shame" attitude for not joining in the festivities. I have my own way of viewing Easter. I look at it as a time of renewal, a welcome to spring and the colors of nature coming back again. I like spring. I like the feeling I get when the buds are starting to show on the trees and impatiens are peeking through the ground and the streets are filled with kids playing hockey. I tend to appreciate life more during spring. I like the whole feeling of renewal and emerging from the darkness of winter.
So why can't people leave that alone? Why do I have to take the joy of this season and have it mixed with guilt and sorrow that I seem to be a failure to my family, that I am not doing right by them, by my kids and by a god that I don't believe in?
And if I don't believe in Easter and all it's trappings, am I still allowed to indulge in Cadbury Eggs without feeling like I've given in?
tidbits 2.26
Well rested and back to normal. What normal is for me, however, may be really different from your definition of normal.
Random thoughts while my coffee is brewing: Does anyone else think that Sarah Hughes looks like the chic from American Pie? Especially when she is giving one of those breathless, giddy interviews. I expect to her to start giggling and saying "One time, at ice skating camp..." Hey, she may be America's underage sweetheart right now but I reserve the right to make fun of her because she's from Long Island. You know...Long Island. Home of biker brawls and schools spying on kids.
I apparently caught whatever DJ had and I'm having a hard time breathing today and I'm thinking that if I had just read How to Breathe a Better Breath instead of articles on how to write a better blog, I would be much better off right now.
Off in the sidebar in today's Hall of Infamy is Phineas of No Commerical Potential. Go for the blog, and then stay around for everything else he's got going on there.
If you haven't checked out this week's QOD yet, you should. It's sexy, it's funny, it's playing all week.
And that concludes this portion of your blogging morning. My coffee's ready.
blog dreams
Yea, I am resting. But I just had to tell you something.
I fell asleep on the couch. I had a dream. And in the dream a small, bald headed man had bullied his way into my house (which was not my house but a rather large colonial) and he had several guns and a tv...yes a tv...that he used as a weapon. He forced the teenage girl who lived with me upstairs and out a window and then he made me sit outside also, daring me to call the cops. If anyone in the house attempted to call the cops, he threw the tv at them.
Well, it went on like that for a while and then there was the disturbing part. I was on the balcony of the house, hands tied behind my back and looked down into my neighbor's yard. And there was a man, supposedly my neigbhor, patting his wife's head, and sayin "good doggy, nice doggy," as if he were in a trance. And then he got up. And his wife was just a head. A head that had obviously been sawed off with something rather craggy and choppy. Her eyes stared up at me, the horror reflected in them.
And then the bully man was behind me and he pointed to the head and said "Now, that's what you get for reading Zeldman!"
You may resume whatever it was you were doing now.
this must be a monday
Well thank fuck that's over. I made it through without having a nervous breakdown or killing anyone.
But (there's always a but)....I am totally exhausted, DJ has strep throat, Natalie has a stomach virus and the my internet connection is still precarious. I wish they had a Trading Spaces for lives instead of houses.
Yea, I know. Bitch, bitch, bitch. I'm done bitching. I'll resume regular blogging tomorrow. Until then, I'll be on my couch calling for my mommy.
Meanwhile, amuse yourself with today's QOD.
suckage and lovage
Today's road rage factor (scale of 1-5): 4.5
Today is going to suck. This is the day when a project I worked on for several months will fail miserably. And of course I spent last night dreaming about just what a spectacular failure it will be, so I am not only nervous and upset, I am tired also. The wonderful thing is, it's a project that will be in motion until March 22nd, so I have a whole month to sit and stare at my failure. And this is a volunteer thing. It's not like there's even a paycheck or bonus or anything in the end to make it worth my aggravation.
Yes, I'm supposed to be doing it out of the goodness of my heart. The end result of the project (making reading a family activity) should be the reward in itself.
Bite me, ok?
I really have nothing else to give you this morning except bitterness and fear of failure, so I'm just going to put a stop to this post now.
On the other hand, there's a new QOD to keep you busy. The responses for the last one (celebrity crushes) were great. I expect good results for today's also (which will run most of the week): Songs to make love to, songs not to attempt to make love to. Go ahead, make me smile.
Today's hall of infamy (in the sidebar) presents Robyn.
bitching in poetry
The cable guy came.
The cable guy fixed.
The cable guy left.
One hour passes.
Modem blinks.
Blink blink
bong bong beep whirr
the sounds of modem death.
Digital cable stops short.
Kung fu movie
playing freeze tag.
Cable company apologetic
but not apologetic enough.
Tomorrow, they say.
8-6
sometime
we will be there.
Tomorrow I say.
Come on over.
If I'm here, great.
If I'm not, fuck you.
Credit my accont please.
You monopolistic dictators.
Thank you.
Have a nice day.
part two
Tomorrow
reading program launches;
big day!
community workers come to school
read to kids
make them excited
coffee and donuts are served,
what a day!
Uh oh, there's the phone again
fifth time today
"Sorry I can not make it tomorrow!"
Don't worry, I tell them.
I wish much death on you.
Bastard.
Nervous breakdown ensues.
Anyone have a cigarette?
Vodka?
Cyanide?
random amusements just to prove I'm not always pissy and serious
morning exstitentialism from the amazing poem generator:
I just come up
and for a good Warning
sign number one. screamed,
no one of grammar and not what
they are full of me But be the fridge.
Takes off her birthday is a
day for many years. I felt my desk for me. and
sit in cold air.
If poems aren't your thing, there's always haikus about a pancake wearing bunny.
If you haven't already done so, fess up to your first celebrity crushes. Or just laugh at everyone else (self included).
And for the many people who have asked me recently, I will be updating, refurbishing and keeping current the banned books project, as soon as the school reading program is over in March. Anyone who wants to help out, participate, *cough* redesign, or offer suggestions please let me know.
This is so me today. Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, here I come.
I don't need commission, make my own decisions. That's my prerogative.
article: How to write a better weblog.
I'm just wondering, can anyone really tell you how to write a better blog? Shel eloquently covered this subject already, but I feel the need to express my feelings about it also.
I suppose it all depends on how you view weblogs. I see them as personal sites. As such, there really can't be a formula or prescribed notion on how a weblog should be presented. Each design is different, the content is different for each one, so how can there be one set of rules?
To tell someone how to write in a journal or diary (which is, for the sake of argument, what a weblog means in this article), borders on the ridiculous. Would you do the same for someone's paper journal? I can't imagine skimming through someone's diary and correcting their usage of grammar and punctuation and descriptive prose. Most people are writing what they feel. They are not writing to hone a craft, or with the intention of handing their writing in for a grade. It's just feelings and emotions and sometimes they come out awkward and clunky, but that's the beauty of it. It's natural expression. It's raw. It's the writer's personality showing through. Sometimes I write the way I talk, because in a journal or personal entry, that is what I am doing. Talking.
It just seems silly to take people to task for writing like amatuers when that's what most of us are - amateurs. I am not a professional writer, I don't write like one. I don't go back and correct my syntax (I do try to correct any glaring typos I have) because to do so would take away from the personal nature of my "talking to you." It would definitely take away from the heart and soul of what I write if I were to go back and refine my words. Displays of emotion should never be tampered with.
And yes, sometimes a weblog is in place to entertain you. And if I want to link to the same news story that a million other bloggers already have, so be it. It's what interests me. I want to talk about what Cheney said. I want to talk about the World Series. I want to write about Lord of the Rings. Yes, so did everyone else, but isn't the writer's credo write what you know? This is the stuff I know and love and enjoy discussing. I'm not going to not link to it just because you did. I don't concern myself with what other bloggers are writing about at the moment. I just know that I have something to say and I'm going to say it. Whether you care to read it or not is your choice. Move on if it's boring or repetitive. No one is forcing you to stay.
I don't know why other people keep weblogs, I just know why I do. Maybe you are writing to the audience and maybe you are maintaining your blog with the sole purpose of getting more hits and more readers and more links. I'm not. That's what makes this a personal web site. It's for me. The fact that you decided to come along for the ride is great. I like having readers. I like that some of those readers have become friends. But I don't write here with the goals of hooking more readers in. I write because I like writing. Because I like sharing. Because I am able to take a bit of my personal world and put it down somewhere and you can either laugh with me or laugh at me . But I'll be damned if I'm going to start viewing my blog like an English 101 project where I have to go back and correct anything that may take my grade down a bit.
And while we are on the subject of blogs and their purposes and all that, I would like to address an issue that's been coming up in my email quite often lately. Links.
Take note of the following please: My link list is large, yes. It doesn't mean it's random and it doesn't mean I'm not choosy about what I put there. I put links there for one reason and one reason only. I enjoy those sites and thought that maybe you might enjoy them too. They are not reciprocal links. I'd say about 50% of the people on that sidebar do not link to me. Some don't even have links on thier site at all. I don't care. That's not the purpose. So please, do not email me and beg for me to put your link there. First of all, it just makes me uncomfortable. What if I don't really like your site or I think there is objectionable material on it? That leaves me in the awkward position of having to email you back and say no, which makes me feel bad. The likelihood is that I will not reply to your email at all if you ask me, out of nowhere, to link to you. Conversely, you do not have to ask me if it's ok to link to me on your site. It's a free world. However, if I end up at your site one day and I find anything that offends me on it, I will kindly ask you to take my link down. If for some reason you used to be on my link list and your'e not there now, please ask me why. Most likely it's just a coding mistake. It would take an awful lot for me to remove a link once I put it up. You would have to either have something horribly offensive and threatening on your site, or you just haven't updated in months.
Do I take blogging too seriously? Maybe. It is serious to me. It's my therapy. It's keeping me sane. Whether I get to tell a humorous story and purge myself of some conflicting emotions or rant about our government, it's good for me. Self-expression is more important to some people than to others. It's serious business to me.
There's been an awful lot of blogging credos running around the web lately. People making lists of what makes a good blogger and what makes a bad blogger and how to blog and how not to blog.
I have a very simple credo: This place is mine. I do what I want. If you like it, stay. Leave a comment. Tell me you like it. If you don't like it, move on. There are a billion other websites for you to go to. No need to stick around just to tell me how much I suck, although that's your right to do so. These are my feelings, my views, my politics and policies. Disagree with me, I like that. I like debate. Just don't be an asshole about it. I will not follow anyone else's rules for maintaining a blog. My place. My rules. If you don't like, don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.
And yea, I quoted Bobby Brown in the title. You can shoot me now.
(the preceding post was not checked for spelling, grammar or punctuation errors. Just because.)
tidbits 2.24
Maybe I can sneak in a few posts during my modem's up times. I've got to wait around for the cable guy who is coming somewhere between 8 and 4. That narrows it down. I suppose I should feel lucky that I'm getting someone to come over at all on a Sunday.
Happy Birthday to Bryan (not Ryan). I hope your birthday is wonderful and that I never call you Ryan again. No offense to Ryan, of course. As a sort of present, Bryan is in the hall of infamy in the sidebar today. Just what you wanted for your birthday, two extra hits to your weblog. Don't say I never did anything for you.
And for the record, for those who asked, I did have a great time with Miss B. and Space and MG. They are the kind of people you are immediately comfortable with. And yes, Miss B. is as gorgeous and charming as she appears on her blog. And we were nowhere to be seen when this went down.
Two second movie review: 3000 Miles to Graceland.
It had Courtney Cox, David Arquette and Kevin Costner as a laughable bad guy. Why was I expecting entertainment? On the suck scale, this was major suckage.
However, we did manage to catch a showing of Never Too Young to Die, starring John Stamos and Gene Simmons of Kiss fame as a shemale dressed in a gold lame bustier. I kid you not. On the camp scale, major campage. Fun for the whole family.
stand by......
What I say: We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by.
What I mean: Cablevision sucks ass. I am now at the mercy of the cable repair man. The modem will not stop blinking and pinging and bonging and working at whim. The digital cable keeps stopping the movie at random intervals, freezing Kurt Russel's face in a bloody grimace.
I love technology, don't you?
a fire inside theater presents: Blogger Noir
(all work herein is purely ummm..fictional. any resemblance to bloggers living, dead or in jail remains purely coincidental)
I knew they were trouble the second I spotted them. Miss B. and Space sauntered down the steps of the train station, dressed to kill and looking like they already did. I could sense the danger that swirled around them like poison.
The said on the phone there would be three of them, but I only spotted the two. Maybe he was lurking. Maybe he had gone on ahead to case the joint. I approached them and asked.
"Where's the third?" They looked at me and then at each other, secrets passing between them like the misty breath of winter. Miss B. threw her cigarette on the ground and stomped it out with her high heel.
"He'll get here eventually. If not now, then later. Time's nothing to a man like him." She spat out these words like tainted food. Space looked at me with scorn in his eyes. "Never trust a man named MG," he said. "Might as well stand for Murderous Guy."
We started walking towards the greasy food joint and the crowd of people milling around the station parted before us as we came near them. They could practically smell the danger that hovered around us. No one would look us in the eye. Could you blame them? We were dark and deadly and ready to meet mayhem head on.
The joint was hopping with all kinds of low-lifes and desperados. I led my compadres over to my usual spot, back in the corner where no one could hear us talk. We were in the business of keeping things quiet. One overheard word and we would all be dead for the rest of our lives.
Our waiter came over and I could see the fear in Space's eyes as he looked the young man over. Space trusts no one, and who could blame him? Bad luck follows him around like a clingy woman. I nodded to Space, letting him know our waiter was ok. Too dumb to be any danger. Sometimes...sometimes they just play dumb to get the goods on you. But not this guy. He had a run in with some Russians at a laundromat in Brooklyn not too long ago, and he's been two bricks shy of a load ever since. Miss B. lit a cigarette and blew a long puff of smoke into Laundry Boy's face. "Bring us drinks. Something hard and large." Laundry Boy turned red and walked away, leaving us alone in our dark corner.
Two minutes later we heard some noise from the rest of the riff-raff in the bar. Maybe we heard a gunshot, maybe we didn't. I just know that right after the ruckus, MG was seated next to me, excitement in his eyes.
Miss B. eyed him suspiciously. "You made it. Congratulations. It's not like you to show up somewhere you say you're gonna be."
"Sayin' and doin' are two different things, darling."
We sat in silence for a few minutes until Laundry Boy appeared with our drinks. Tall drinks of dark beer, foaming at the top like a combusting volcano were put in front of us. "Hard and large," said Laundry Boy. "Just like you asked." He stood there, looking at us as if expecting a reward for doing what he was told.
"Is there something else you need or are your feet just stuck to the ground?" I glared at him. He should know better. Dumb and ignorant are two different things.
He didn't even reply. He knew that those few extra seconds he lingered could mean trouble for him.
We sat at the table for a few hours, blowing smoke and throwing back beer. We talked business, we talked pleasure. But never the two at the same time.
When they finally found the corpse in the bathroom, we knew our welcome had been worn out. We slipped out the back door, leaving some cash and a Polaroid of Miss B. on the table for Laundry Boy.
The cold island air hit us like a bullet when we got outside. We needed somewhere else to go, somewhere where we could conduct business and seek out some pleasure. A place for people like us, people who lived for the dark of night and the dark side of life. We walked back to the train station, and it was Space who saw it first. The soft glow of neon beckoning us into the back alley. No fancy name for this place, just sign telling it like it was. Drinks and Tattoos. We had hit the midnight jackpot.
MG went in first, as always, making sure there wasn't anyone in the place who would want to impede our quest for a night of amusement. Then again, there's no amusement like dead bodies flying around a tattoo parlor.
He motioned that the place was clean and we went in and took seats at the bar. The barmaid, a gal with hard eyes and a soft smile leaned over the bar towards us, giving Space and MG a free show of her goods. "What will it be, guys? Drinks, tattoos or both?" She spoke in a throaty whisper and her words said more than they let on. I realized then that it wasn't Space or MG she was throwing that look at. It was Miss B. I took a long, healthy drag from my cigarette and as I blew out the smoke in the busty barmaid's face, I flicked my ashes down the front of her shirt. They landed in her cleavage, and when she looked up at me to complain, she must have seen the look of a cold-blooded murderer in my eyes because she shut her trap real quick.
"Tattoos," Miss B. said. "Tattoos and shots of your hardest whisky." Busty motioned towards the back room. A hand written sign proclaimed that tattoos were that way. We made our way towards the room and Busty followed with our shot glasses.
Two hours and three bottles of whisky later, we were all marked by the needle and too drunk to care. There may have been more than tattoos done. All I remember is that Busty turned out be real sweet, sweet like a cake full of poison. And she's one cake who won't be making it to the next birthday party. I'm not going to say who it was that cut that cake, but I think Miss B. has one more notch on her lipstick holster today.
As for the tattoos, I'd like to say they were small and tasteful. But no, nothing is every small and tasteful when you're dealing with the likes of Space and MG. I just hope that years from now, they don't regret those "BlogLife" markings on their biceps. But regret....regret is for soft boiled. My night with Miss B. and her cronies proved them to be anything but.
tidbits 2.23
Chuck Jones died at age 89. Some of my favorite characters of his: Gossamer the monster (I didn't know he even had a name), Marvin Martian, Michigan J. Frog and of course, Bugs Bunny.
In the only Olympic event I care about, the U.S. plays Canada for the gold medal in hockey today. It's not as much fun as it used to be, though, before pros played on hockey teams. Back when it was just amatuers, it was country v. country, nationalism v. nationalism. Now, with so many NHL players on the teams, it's more like an all-star game, and you kind of root for the side with the most players from your team on it. Yea, well I know what I mean even if you don't.
Over in the hall of infamy today is Shel. Infamy, indeed.
And the crush-heavy QOD is pretty damn amusing this time around. Go add your comments.
Just so you know, I'm right now listening to Steve and Eydie sing Soundgarden's Black Hole Sun. Strange way to start the day.
Details of last night's mad blogger rampage through Long Island coming soon.
hot date, my ass
Is the world seriously fucked or did I just turn into this horrible nerd-mom?
It's not appropriate to give a 12 year old Sims Hot Date for her birthday is it?
And is it appropriate to give the same 12 year old a "date journal" where she has places to fill in about how hot her date was and whether he was a good kisser or not and a place to keep a tally of how many boys she kissed?
And I know, I don't even have to ask. The " I want your boyfriend" t-shirt was not really a good gift.
It's not me, is it? Am I that seriously out of the cool-parent loop? Am I holding on to that umbilical cord just a bit too long? Please tell me it's not me.
Anyhow, the kids are gone for the weekend and I don't have to be a good parent. So am I off for a playdate with Baz and Space and MG.
Details to follow.
You're all out of order!
And people wonder why I don't watch the Olympics.
First we had the pairs figure skating fiasco.
Then we had Wayne Gretzky being a complete idiot.
Last night, Sarah Hughes won the gold medal in figure skating. Now, there are sour grape Americans all over the place bitching and moaning that Michelle Kwan didn't win. This is all I have seen on the news today. Poor Michelle, sad Michelle, sad fans. Guess what folks? She fell. Hughes didn't. And hello? Hughes is an American, shouldn't you all be happy? Well they are not and it just proves my point about the Olympics not being about pride in your country and togetherness and all that bullshit. It's a bitter, nasty schoolyard fight is all it is.
And that's not the end of it because the Russian judges are protesting Hughes's medal, saying the judging was biased. They have been quoted as saying that they will pretty much pack up their bags and go home if no one pays attention to their whining. All the Russians. Including the hockey team, which is supposed to play the USA tonight in the semi-finals. Basically hockey is the only Olympic sport I get excited about, so this is really pissing me off.
I've pretty much had it with the Olympics. I think they should just stop them once and for all. They don't promote anything that they were meant to promote, they are full of scandals and back stabbing and name calling and bitterness and to be perfectly honest, they're pretty damn boring.
I'm sure we could come up with something more fascinating to sink our competitive teeth into every couple of years. Beer guzzling playoffs? Rodeo clown pageants? Simpsons trivia contests? Hell, if I'm going to watch people fight over sports I'd much rather set up a cage and have Roger Clemens and Mike Piazza go at it. We can have Tonya Harding ref.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe I've just become too cynical in my old age to find any joy in people bickering and complaining for sport. Maybe I just can't understand curling, no matter how hard I try.
Anyone up for a Simpsons Trivia Olympics?
I had a dream last night (download: butthole surfers: I had a dream last night mp3)
I think this dream was this morning, rather than last night. I know I was sleeping on my back, and I tend to have stranger dreams when I sleep in that position.
There was a large, round table. Seated at the table were, in clockwise order, my grandmother (deceased), my mother, D, Billy Zane as the Phantom, and Tie Domi.
Grandma was dealing out cards. There was a hot game of poker going on, and she was cursing like a sailor, telling the other players to pay attention or get the fuck out. Except she was cursing in Italian. The whole slew of her insults came out in Italian and although I don't speak the language in waking life, I knew what she was saying.
Tie Domi, not suprisingly, got pissed. He threw the cards everywhere, and when his cards landed on the floor, I saw that he had a straight flush in his hands. I tried to motion to D to pick the cards up and pretend it was his hand so he would win, but he wasn't paying attention. Because he was too busy trying to reach someone on his cell phone. Or so I thought. Upon closer observation, I saw that it was not a cell phone, but a Palm Pilot, and he was playing Tetris.
Billy Zane was the only one paying attention, and grandma dealt him a new hand of cards. When he turned his cards over, he started shouting "GO FISH!" maniacally and got up on the table and did sort of a flamenco dance, at which point he turned into Antonio Banderas in Desperado. Grandma threw a hissy fit. She kept shouting that Desperado sucked ass (in Italian of course) and that everyone knows that Six String Samurai was the best movie ever.
The floor of the room started to shift and tilt a little and the tables and chairs and people in the chairs slid down to the left, leaving a trail of dust and smoke and poker chips behind them. They disappeared into the wall, which became a portal of some sort. No one screamed, no one yelled. D continued playing Tetris, Antonio continued dancing, grandma continued cursing and Tie Domi, hockey stick in hand, was the only one protesting. He was swiping at the air with his hockey stick as if that would help.
There was a young girl, dressed like Jon Benet Ramsey, but with the face of Joan Collins. She walked over to the portal/wall that the poker players were sucked into and looked down. She made a squealing sound, as if in delight, and when she turned around she was the little girl from Poltergeist and she was grinning an evil, bone chilling grin.
Green smoke started coming from the portal, along with a hissing sound, and I could hear D screaming that he didn't deserve to be damned, at least not with this company. Eventually the voices and the screams of pain stopped and I was left with a ringing in my ears and a big mess to clean.
The room got suddenly cold and I felt my body seize up, as if it were frozen. I couldn't move any limbs; I could barely breathe. The room filled with cold steam, the kind that comes from your mouth when you breathe out in cold air. It was as if a hundred people were in that room with me, all breathing heavy and making puffs of steam. My hands and arms started to crack, tiny little lines moving up and down and across, and my skin began to flake as it cracked. It fell off in little pieces, and the little scary girl was there with a broom, sweeping the pieces of my skin into a dustpan. She kept grinning, looking so cute and charming in her little pinafore dress, but every once in while she would look at me with that evil smile and my skin would crack a bit more.
I woke up to one of those moments where I think I am paralyzed. I choked and gasped and tried to yell and tried to move my limbs but couldn't, even though I was fully awake at this point. Finally, Justin kicked me (in his sleep) and I jolted up, sucking in fresh air and feeling my skin to make sure it was still there.
And how was your night?
tidbits 2.22
New QOD: childhood celebrtiy crushes. Embarassing, I know. That's the point.
Takin' it around town: Billegible is today's hall of infamy victim (in sidebar); I picked up some great "desktop adornments" from Phineas; Voltron joins the war; the Nobel Peace Prize committee must have a real good sense of humor; and coffee can, indeed, kill you. And yes, as always, John Ashcroft is evil.
And I added some stuff to my wishlist. You know. Just in case you wanted to express your appreciation for me appearing naked on the cam every night.
Oh wait. That wasn't me.
Added new blogs to the list. Yes, more blogs to read. I'm going for the world record in link love. Added today (new to me, probably not to you): fantabulosa, neurotic fishbowl, random thoughts, prolific, i love everything and xkot. Enjoy if you haven't already.
Real blog to follow. Still jump starting the brain after last night.
excuse me, have you seen bin laden's arm?
We had the party out, don't know if I mentioned that. They said they would take care of everything. The theme was "mystery" and it was supposed to be a murder mystery and the girls would get clues and find the answer and they would keep it age appropriate and in good taste.
What I really wanted the mystery to be was "which girl here is going to suffer multiple spork wounds tonight" or "which girl's mother is a total and complete selfish moron who is raising her daughter to be the same?" And then they would hand out sporks to everyone and it would end like a horror movie, with Annie writhing on the floor, sporks flailing down on her, and her mother in the background, screaming for her life.
But no, the mystery was something far more sinister.
I should have known when the two hosts were dressed in combat fatigues.
The theme was "find bin Laden's body parts" and there were clues and riddles and in the end when one team figured it all out and went to the right hiding spot there was a skeleton with bin Laden's name on it.
Don't really know if this was age appropriate or in good taste. Don't really care. What matters is I made it through alive. Over two hours with a roomful of prepubescent, screeching giggly girls and I have lived to tell the tale.
Must regenerate brain tissue before my meeting with Baz and Space and MG tomorrow.
Find bin Laden's body parts. I wonder what the parents will say when the kids go home and tell them what they did at the party tonight. At least all the body parts were rated G.
read my crack story at bad sam: next gen. yea, crack. not that kind.
I'll spork your eyes out
Phone call last night. It was Natalie's friend's mother.
"Can Annie come over tomorrow?"
Warning sign number one. Twelve year old girls generally do not have their mother make "play dates" for them.
Well, we are busy in the late afternoon, I tell her.
"Ok, how about the morning, then?"
I think, morning. She must mean mid morning, and that's fine, I suppose. I tell her ok.
"OK, so 8:30 is good?"
Warning sign number two. No one makes arrangements for their kids to get together at 8:30 in the morning.
I mumble something under my breath.
"Oh, good I'll drop her off at 8:30 then. And Natalie's party is at 7, right?"
Sirens go off. I hear bells and whistles. Danger, Will Robinson! She's going to ask for Annie to spend the whole entire day here, up until the party. I say yes, the party is at 7.
"So then....."
I cut her off. I tell her we have plans in the afternoon and she will have to pick up Annie by noon.
"Oh, I was hoping....hmm. What are your plans?"
No. Annie is not coming with us. Frankly, I don't like Annie. She's pushy and shovey and in your face. I tell the mom we are going out with some friends to celebrate our kids' collective birthdays. And that if she wants I will drop Annie off at noon. And then we will see her again at 7 at the party.
"Oh well. I guess I'll just have to find someone else to take Annie at noon. I won't be home until 5. (big dramatic sigh) I guess I'll have to come home from lunch and get her and drop her off somewhere else."
Yes, you will. Because if you wanted me to babysit, you should have just come right out and said it. And because you knew well in advance you would be working. You didn't think of finding someone to watch Annie sooner?
I hang up with her, feeling like I was just made out to be the bad guy. Even though her daughter is coming over at 8:30 on a day where my kids had the chance to sleep in.
Annie arrives this morning at 8:20. She walks around the house. Opens the fridge. Takes off her coat and throws it on the floor. Kicks off her shoes and asks what's for breakfast.
"Geez, your house is a mess," she says. I tell her it's 8:30. I haven't had a chance to clean yet.
"Well those look like last night's dinner dishes to me," she says. I smile politely and clench my teeth. My eyes are saying "you are so dead you little bastard," while my voice is actually defending myself to a twelve year old snob.
It's going to be a long couple of hours. It's going to take all of my strength not to gouge Annie's eyes out with a spork. Would that be rude of me, to blind someone's child while I am babysitting them? I think that under the circumstances.....
barf-o-rama
Americans, we have sunk to a new low. Tonight, for your viewing pleasure, Fox TV presents "The Glutton Bowl: The World's Greatest Eating Competition."
I'm almost speechless. What kind of nation have we become when we have tv shows decicated to one of the seven deadly sins? Well actually, some of them have been done already (See Tempation Island for lust, COPS for anger, and the Denis Miller Show for pride).
But this, this takes the cake, so to speak. I think all the starving people in this country will really get a kick out of this show. "Look ma, he's eating 8 meals in ten seconds! Pass the can of cold beans, please."
There is actually an International Federation of Competitive Eaters. How does one aspire to be a competitive eater? What leads you down this path of life, where you wake up one day and say Hey! I want to go around the country challenging people to eating contests! I'm at a total loss here as to not only why people do this, but why there is a television show promoting it. Yes, I know it's FOX. But, still...
Obesity in this country has hit an all time high. We are a nation of people with very unhealthy eating habits. And now, we have FOX and a bunch of digusting, wasteful idiots trying to present eating as a sport. Maybe one of them will eat so fast and so much that he will puke, and then FOX will air it next week as part of the "America's Greatest Vomiters" competition.
I had a hard enough time accepting curling as a sport. Eating? Not gonna happen. Please do not turn your tv to FOX tonight. Do not watch this show. And if you do, don't tell me about it. I'm going to pretend that crap like this does not exist.
tidbits 2.21
I want to thank everyone for their comments and emails regarding yesterday's post. Contrary to what a lot of people think, it wasn't hard at all for me to put that out there, because I know what kind of people read this site. I knew that I would get support and love and I also knew somehow that I would get a lot of "me too" comments. If I dredged up some bad thoughts for you, I am truly sorry. But for the most part, my email says that it helped to have it out there, to be able to talk about it, so then I am glad for that. I know I say this so often, but it is worth repeating again: this weblog and the people that have befriended me throug it have enriched my life in ways I cannot describe. Thank you for being here for me.
On the note of befriending webloggers, I will be having drinks and dinner tomorrow night with fabulous Miss B. and the always entertaining Spacecheese. So that will make three whole bloggers I have met (Keith being the other) and honestly, that's just not enough. Anyone up for a New York blogmeet?
And then on the note of Spacecheese, he is today's weblogger hall of infamy victim, over there in the sidebar. Check there every day for a highlighted blog.
And then on the note of whoring my friends out, Ian's band is opening tonight for Dillinger Escape Plan and Botch, which is big time stuff, so go over there and wish him luck, or if you're in San Fran, just go to the show.
And then don't forget, there are some really incredible stories over at QOD.
And then on the note of me losing my mind, I have Natalie's birthday party tonight. 20 eleven and twelve year old girls for two hours. If you don't hear from me again, foward all mail to the nearest insane asylum.
confessional
I was walking across the street from my mother's house last night when I saw him. He was standing in front of his father's house, diagonally across from where I was, taking something out of his trunk. It had been several years since I saw him last, and many more since I looked him in the eye. I would not look at him this time, either. I put my head down and picked up my pace, trying to get out of his line of sight before he picked his head up and saw me. He would want to say hello, like the last time. He would want to make small talk about kids and school and old friends, as if nothing bad ever happened. As if all that went on didn't matter anymore.
He's not the only one I see. A few of them stayed in the neighborhood, got married, had kids, got divorced. I see them up at the school sometimes, picking up their kids. I see them in the grocery store or at Little League games and it's always the same. They talk. I nod. I avoid their eyes. I go home and cry.
I can't let those years go. I was small when it started, probably in kindergarten. If anyone ever tells you that little rhyme "sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me," well tell them they are full of shit. Obviously they never had words thrown at them like weapons.
If it wasn't the words, it was the objects. Literally sticks and stones. Back in those days kids walked home from school by themselves. Even at 5. They weren't yet teaching about stranger danger. And they certainly weren't teaching about classmates being evil little bastards. The offenders would hide in the bushes, behind fences, wherever they could crouch unseen. When I walked past, they would jump out, not to scare me, but to throw things at me. And then the names would start.
This went on for many years. I learned how to spot them. I learned how to walk on the other side of the street. I learned how to convince my mother to pick me up from school. But I never learned how to use my voice. How to tell them to stop. It wasn't just the walk home from school. It was walking to to the store. Being in front of my own house. Trying to play outside. They harassed me daily, at first just two of them and then a whole crowd.
It crossed over into school eventually, and I became one of those kids. The kind with no friends and no social life except for what her mother arranged for her. Even then, those play dates were awkward and distressing. Frankly, I didn't want friends. I didn't need friends. I was happy to just go home and sit in my room and read. All I ever needed was a book. At least that's what I told myself.
As we got older, past the point where you could chalk off the behavior to kids being kids, the teasing and name calling persisted. But I was partly to blame at this point. I let it happen. I took it. I actually hung out with them after school and stood there while the belittled me and I convinced myself that I was part of the gang and this is how they all treated each other.
Sometimes, out of desparation to be included or to be liked or to feel wanted, you do things that you probably shouldn't. And those things are taken advantage of. You try to prove your worth, to prove you belong, and you do it in ways that only serve to cheapen yourself. But you don't realize it at the time.
These things went on for years, until I finally left the school system and moved on to private school and turned my back on those people and that life.
And now, all these years later, I wonder. I see these people around town and I wonder. Do they remember all of this? Do they know what they did to me? Do they have any idea of the effect that their words and actions had on me then and how they would effect me for the rest of my life?
I mean, here it is, almost 25 years from the last time I hung out with them, and I still can't get over it. I still can't look at them. What do they see when they look at me and try to make that small talk? Do they see the same person they heaped abuse on when we were little? Do they think at all about those days? I doubt it. I doubt that if I ever brought it up with any one of them that they gave it any thought in the past 25 years. Because it didn't effect them. They went on with their lives and they forgot about me and those days and the rocks and the names and the things that went on in Jimmy's backyard.
I want to tell them. I want them to know that even today, their words are with me. That everything they did back then is still with me, in my fears and my self-esteem issues and the way I view men, and myself on a whole. I bet they don't know that. Because they think they were just being kids. They didn't know they were setting the course for my entire life.
I'll continue to see them around town and I'll continue to avoid them in my day to day life, even though they continue to be part of my nightmares and part of my psyche. There's really no escaping your past. I'd like to say I'm over the things that happened so long ago. But I'm not and I never will be and I don't know if it would make me feel any better to know that they have some guilt over what they did or that they do think about it and feel badly about it and that it stayed with them as much as it stayed with me. It probably would only make me feel worse.
So this is me trying to purge myself of all of this. It's the first time I've written about it, even if the words are very vague and scattered. I'm trying to let it go. Maybe this is the beginning of doing that.
News and stuff first:
There are some very interesting stories to be told over at the QOD, the best blogging boy band in the world breaks up, and I knew all along that the Snuggle bear is evil. And please, every day check over in the sidebar for my weblog hall of infamy.
it's not what you think
Yes, I am well aware that there is an unidentifiable white stain on my shirt.
No, I do not know how it got there or what it is.
I thank you for being the 20th person to point it out.
I also thank you for being the 20th person to suggest that the stain is jizz.
Please get out of my office now.
Have a shitty day.
I will be under my desk for the remainder of the day. In lieu of finding me here, please go answer my QOD, read my new post at Bad Sam:next gen or my dismantling of Scott Stapp at FuckMTV.
This has been a self-serving public service announcement.
Happy Birthday, Molly. I can only hope my own daughter grows up to have your ideals, integrity and passion for everything you do. This is going to be your year.
expletives not deleted
Business first. The winner of the Guess the TV Theme contest (chosen completely at random by my kids) is Leia. She wins, for her efforts, a copy of Saturday Morning Cartoons Greatest Hits, featuring the likes of the Butthole Surfers doing the Underdog theme. And of course, as one QOD ends another begins. Today the topic is otherwordly experiences. Go share.
I've decided to rate my mood for the day in road rage terms. Today's possibility for a road rage incident (on a scale of 1-5): 4.
I'm in avoidance mode. I have things that need my immediate attention this week but I can't seem to bring myself to take care of them. I keep staring at the pile of paperwork for the reading program, hoping some elves will come in the night and take care of it, but it never happens. It's a very busy week, with a lot of papers and phone calls and projects and important things that need to be crossed off my to-do list, but it's gotten to the point of overload so I did what I do best when the warning button is going off...I shut down.
So right now, those papers don't exist. The phone calls don't need to be made. I'm oblivious. And there's a little voice in the back of my head telling me that I am going to pull my usual stunt and save it all for the last possible second and the run around like a lunatic trying to get everything done in time. And it will get done. And it will get done right and it will end up looking effortless.
And therein lies the problem. Because everything ends up looking like it took so little effort on my part to complete with success, I get asked to do these things again and again as if it's no big deal to me. I've had enough of that. It's time to come clean. Monday morning, when the reading program launches without a hitch and everyone pats me on the back and tells me what a great job I've done and how organized I am, I am going to go ballistic. I am going to scream and shout and cry and tell them that it was not easy, it was not without a lot of effort and hair pulling, and god damn it, this whole thing would have been a lot less stressful if had some fucking help! And then I will storm out and swear on a stack of children's books that I will never, ever chair a committee again, I will never volunteer for anything again, I will never even attend another meeting, leaving myself open to being suckered into doing something on this big a scale again. Not gonna happen.
I am not throwing any more parties at work. Not for your babies or your retirement or your wedding. I am not taking on your extra work while you take the week off to recuperate from a hangover. I am not going to drive your kids to and from every event and end up feeding them and helping them with their homework anymore. I will not, at ten oclock on a Sunday night, scan the math homework for your child and then run it over to your house because you can't come out because you are already in your pajamas. I am not going to pick up your slack. I am not going to volunteer for your committee. I am not going to call your wife to break the news to her that you signed up to work on a holiday and I am not going to run out to your car in the pouring rain because you left your lights on and you don't want your expensive suit to get wet. I am not going to say yes ever again.
And well, fuck me. Natalie's birthday party is Thursday night. How the hell did that just slip my mind? How the hell did it get to be the end of February already?
I just want the world to stop for a few minutes, ok? I want some time for me. I want everyone and everything to stand still while I take a hot bath and listen to silence and feel what it's like to be blessedly alone. I want five minutes to do what I want to be doing, not what someone else thinks I should be doing. I want a day without obligations and a moment without pressure. I want a night with a full, dead sleep and no dreams. I want peace and tranquility and the knowledge that there is absolutely nothing pressing on my plate. I want inner fucking peace.
Shit, I meant to just write about the raccoon that lives in my backyard. Don't know where that all came from. And yes, I know I'm not the only person that feels like that. As a matter of fact, I'd say about 90% of you reading this know exactly how I feel. So yea, I'm singing to the choir. But at least it's a choir that knows my song. Let's all sing along.
not to be confused with star trek: next gen
And then there was Bad Sam: next gen. Where I reside in my spare time.
And speaking of spare time, I also can be found over at FuckMTV , which is having a review-o-rama this week to kick off the relaunch of the site on March 12. And the call is open for new reviewers, too. Look for my panning...I mean review...of Creed's My Sacrifice tonight.
And I think that's all the spare time I have. For now.
got to be a chocolate jesus
It was Easter time last year when the idea hit. I had been listening to Bill Hicks and he was ranting about Easter and how the modern symbols of this religious holiday (bunnies, chocolate) don't really speak the meaning of the holiday.
So, being the sacrilgeous atheist that I am, I began devising a plan to bring Easter and chocolaty goodness together in a way that made more sense.
Of course. A Chocolate Jesus.
So I started melting chocolate and figuring out a way to mold it into shape. I stuck a blob of melted chocolate in the freezer and waited until it was not quite frozen and a bit pliable. Then I began working on my masterpiece.
I'm not a very good artist, and I'm sure he looked more like Charles Manson than Jesus Christ when I was done, but lo and behold, two hours later I had myself a Chocolate Jesus.
I had toyed with the idea of making a crown of thorns out of spun sugar, but decided against it. Not because it was improper, but because I haven't the slighest clue how to make spun sugar.
Now, how does one go about eating a chocolate Jesus? With the chocolate bunnies, you generally eat the ears first. So that's what I did. I ate Jesus's ears. The next logical step would be the tail. But of course, Jesus doesn't have a tail. So I started chomping on his lower half. And the lapsed Catholic in me heard the words in my head:
"Body of Christ, Amen."
It was good chocolate. I kept eating.
I ate his head and his arms and the the remnants of his robe.
And then I made another. I decided I would give them out for the holidays. No, no. I would sell them for the holidays. What a grand idea.
But somehow it never happened. I think I ate every chocolate Jesus I made. 20 pounds and one handbasket to hell later, I gave up on the idea.
So now Easter is approaching again. I'm thinking the time is right for a Chocolate Jesus. I just need the right marketing tools. I need a slogan.
Melts in Your Mouth, Not in Your Hymn Book!
Body of Christ: Now available in Krispy!
Sweet Jesus! (courtesy of Davezilla)
If it turns out there is a hell, I am sure I will be there. But I'll be in good company at least.
answering the door naked
So if you have come here through the anti-bloggies via Wired, please note that my acceptance speech, which references anal sex and blowjobs, and is entitled "I deserve a reward cause I'm the best fuck that you ever had" can be found here.
Thank you.
The Skid Row Coaster Collection
Via Prolific (arrived through Chris):
The most embarassing cds in my collection. Some of these I am not even embarassed to own, which is embarassing in itself. You know?
1. Kiss, Psycho Circus.
Technically not mine, but DJ's. But it's in my house so I own the right to be ashamed of it.
2. Oasis, What's the Story Morning Glory.
I don't know what my frame of mind was that caused me to purchase an Oasis cd, but I hope I never experience that kind of insanity again.
3. Brad, Interiors.
I don't know, either. I think it's possibly a side band of someone from Pearl Jam. I don't remember buying it, but it's here.
4. Kid Rock, Devil Without a Cause.
Shudder.
5. Skid Row, Slave to the Grind.
I swear, I don't know how these cds get in my house. But this one is now in my "cds as beer coasters" collection.
6. Metallica, Re-Load.
Also in the coaster collection.
7. Guns N Roses, Spaghetti Incident?
Getting all the mileage out of the term "suckage" that one band can.
8. Vanilla Ice, To the Extreme.
I'm going to cry now, ok?
9. Thompson Twins, Into the Gap (on vinyl).
What seemed so cool in the 80's seems so dorky now.
10. Puddle of Mudd, Come Clean.
This is what happens when you don't send back your monthly CDHQ slip.
The sad thing is, there's more. So many more. Your turn to fess up now.
ping ping
weblogs.com says "thanks for the ping."
I say "You're welcome. Was it good for you? Would you like a cigarette?"
I'm crushing your head!
I swore off online tests. But how could I resist this one?
Which Kids In The Hall recurring character are YOU?
And happy birthday, Jocko!
chemical reaction
I just want to sleep the way other people sleep. I want to close my eyes and drift off peacefully and wake up to a new day feeling refreshed. I don't want what I've had or what I have now.
It used to be just the dreams. The continuous barrage of nightmares and visions and voices that have been with me since childhood. The feeling as if I had been awake the whole time, not in a dream world, not in my imagination or subconcious. I've gotten used to this kind of dreaming and the kind of trance like state I live in during the day because I don't sleep well at night.
It's become more physical than mental lately. I lay down. I close my eyes. Immediately, as always, the dreaming starts before I am even asleep. It's always been that way. But now there's the sensation of my heart beating too fast. A lurching that seems to come up from the pit of my stomach and grab my heart on it's way up and out of my throat in the from of a gasp. I think I am having a heart attack. I bolt fully awake and clutch my heart but it's calmed down, it was just a brief dance out of rythmn, gone and stilled. But I still have that feeling of suffocation, that my lungs are clawing at the air for a breath. I deep breathe. In with the good (inhale) out with the bad (exhale). I'm careful not to do it too quickly so I don't hyperventilate.
The familiar sensation of a panic attack sets in. It's been a long time since the panic attacks came in any kind of frequency. They come here and there and I've learned how to vanquish them so they don't stay more than a minute or so. But these- these come when I am in a daze and already panicked and they are able to grab onto that panic and choke the breath out of me. No breath is deep enough. I could go outside and suck in every drop of fresh air that is out there and it still wouldn't be enough to satisfy my lungs or my head. My heart beats faster and I'm sure that either a heart attack or death is approaching.
Somewhere in my head, while this all is going on, there is a voice of reason that tells me I am not dying. I am not suffocating. I will not die at this moment, in my bed, gripped with a fear that some subconcious nightmare has brought on. I've lived through these before. I'll live to tell again.
But sometime in the past few days the extra large heartbeats and the gasping breaths have crossed over from the bed to the kitchen to the world at large. I sit here now, breathing in too hard, breathing out too little and I am probably perpetuating the whole scenario by unwittingly repeating it.
I wonder if it's too much caffeine. Too much pressure. Too much stress. Too much nutrasweet and additives and preservatives. Not enough sleep. Not enough vitamins. Not enough exercise. I don't want to wonder if it's real. If the valves of my heart are trying to send me a message. I put that thought out with the thoughts of death and suffocating in an imaginary coffin.
So what do I do? Should I try meditation or yoga? Should I go to a sleep clinic? Should I go back to therapy and try to chase out whatever demons are keeping me from sleeping and then making it hard to be awake? There are things I want to lift from my shoulders but they are not things you tell people. They are things you keep under wraps. But I think I would feel better, relieved, more at ease if those things that came to haunt me when I try to sleep were dispelled from my head.
And then I wonder if past chemicals are catching up with me. If things I did over 20 years ago are finally manifesting themselves in my brain cells. Or if they are finally seeping out of my brain cells into other parts of my body. If all that chemical abuse has made my body and my mind finally try to exact its revenge on me. I wonder what has sat there dormant inside me all of these years, only to be triggered by a memory or an over the counter medication that had just the right ingredients to wake the sleeping giant of drug abuse that sits inside of me.
So, anyhow. How's your Sunday going?
