FOX: the new lows keep getting lower
FOX: the new lows keep getting lower
There's really nothing else to say, is there?
FOX: the new lows keep getting lower
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
He's not available.
Make him available.
I'll have a supervisor call you.
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
Have a nice day.
reading program launches;
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.
Nervous breakdown ensues.
Anyone have a cigarette?
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.....
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.
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.
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.
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.
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)
The Skid Row Coaster Collection
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.
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.
The sad thing is, there's more. So many more. Your turn to fess up now.
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?
And happy birthday, Jocko!
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?
words like a song
I know this couple. They have been married long enough to have accumulated children and a complete set of china. They met in college, brought together by the politics and heirarchy of fraternal university life.
I hear them on the phone sometimes. Rather, I hear him. I watch him. He talks into the phone when she is on the other end, but he looks elsewhere. He looks at papers, at the computer while she talks. He looks at his watch and the television and at the stain on the cuff of his shirt. Sometimes he sees me looking and he rolls his eyes as if the person on the other end of the phone was a telemarketer, not his wife. When he ends the phone calls, it's always with a declaration of love, but without the motions of his hands or his eyes or his distraction, his wife can not really know what exactly he is declaring to her.
She doesn't seem to read his voice well. I know, after all this time, the difference in his tones. Sometimes he just says "love you" and hangs up and the words are like machine gun fire, short and sharp. She hears "I love you today more than I did yesterday" because that is what she wants, expects to hear. I hear only the requisite answer to her words, to the "I love you" that she uttered to him with her heart. His words only serve to end a conversation he was bored of having.
Sometimes he says "I love you too," and she hears "I still feel the same about you that you do about me," and my fine tuned ear hears only reciprocal words that are thrown out to close a deal. He is saying "will you shut up already" but she won't hear that. Her heart is not so jaded as one that can hear that frequency. It's a signal only the once-bitten can hear.
He talks about her often, but he never has anything good to say. I wonder what he says to her in the privacy of their own home. I wonder if he tells her to her face that he thinks she is dumb and naive and a bad mother. I wonder if she knows that he thinks she is a nuisance. I wonder if she knows all this and hears all this and chooses to put it somewhere else, where she can't see it or take it out and examine it too closely.
She is a beautiful woman. Not supermodel beautiful or that beautiful that causes a man to whistle at her as she walks by. It's a different kind of beauty. She is pretty like an Ivory Soap commercial. She is crisp and clean and perfect skin and hair and teeth. Looking at her makes you think of mountains and clean air and running through fields of flowers. She could make a man's heart ache just by looking at him, just flashing a sincere warm smile at him.
I look at the pictures that line their walls, pictures of them together from college and the years beyond, down the hallways and up the stairs in timeline order. In every picture, she clings to him like a security blanket. Her hands grip his shoulders. They encircle his waist. She gazes at him with puppy dog eyes, never looking at the camera, just him. There are no pictures of her alone, no framed portrait of her, no snapshot where she is just laughing or playing or not attached in some way to him.
He didn't want to marry, that much is obvious. But his position in his firm was one where a wife and children were a natural extension of your job description. I'm sure that somewhere in the fine print of his employment contract, it says "family man" under requirements. Because family men are good in his field of work. Family men get promotions. Family men get raises. Family men come to the company picnics with their beautiful wives and Stepford children and they get the bonuses.
Sometimes I lie in bed at night and think of her. I think of her being home all day with her young children, doing her best to keep them in line and make them beautiful and smart like trophies. I think of her wasted degree because the wife a family man doesn't work. She doesn't need to. Her brains serve no purpose outside of the home. She keeps her house clean and tidy and the yard green and filled with flowers, and she can bake and sew and go to mommy-and-me and be class mom. She can voice her opinion, but it's usually wrong. She can complain about the way her life is going, about the boredom and sameness of it all, about her loneliness and that place in her soul that is going unfulfilled, but he will only remind her of her stunning waterfront home and her expensive car and she really has no right to complain about anything at all. What more could a woman want besides the perfect family and the perfect home?
She calls me sometimes and she cries because deep down she knows. She says she doesn't know why she is sad, she doesn't know why she is crying. But I think she does, she just doesn't want to know the reasons. She is not a dumb woman. She just thinks she is because she is treated as such. She has let herself become what he thinks of her. She calls him fifteen, twenty times a day. About the car, the school, the plants, the water heater. It's as if she can't make a decision without him. Or she doesn't want to.
And he sits at his desk and marks off his calendar with dinner meetings and weekend golf and holiday brunches, anything to keep from going home, to keep from facing the life he has there that he doesn't want, but has to have. He has sacrificed the heart and soul of his wife for his place in the company. For a few more dollar bills in his pocket, the dollars that go to hookers and drink, he has turned a once shining star of a woman into a cardboard cutout.
He sits at his desk and she calls him and she tells him anything, just to talk to him. She asks him questions that she already knows the answers to, just to get him to talk to her. Just so at the end of the conversation, she can say "I love you," and she can hear him say it back, and it doesn't matter to her what he is really saying because she won't hear it on that level.
I only thought about this so much today because someone said to me "When do the words I love you become meaningless? When can you say them so often that they lose their definition?"
They never do, do they? Those words never lose their ability to throw your heart into high gear and make you smile or shake loose those butterflies, as long as they are true. I just wonder how someone can not know when the words are false. Or how someone can hear the words, know they are false, but accept them as if they were truth anyhow.
chuck knoblauch and garlic flavored titties
Overheard in the supermarket meat aisle this morning:
woman: What should I make for dinner tonight?
man: Big fat titties!
woman: Excuse me?
man: Big fat titties rubbed in garlic and oil!
woman: (rolling eyes) We had chicken breast on Wednesday.
To everyone who has come here in the past few months looking for "chuck knoblauch gay" or "gay knoblauch" please be advised that I not care about Knoblauch's sexual preferences. His gayness or non-gayness does not have any bearing on the fact that he is a shitty baseball player. If I said in the past that Chuck Knoblauch sucks ass, it was meant figuratively and not literally.
While we are on the subject please note that I do not give out birthday blowjobs. And while I can help you find filler bunny or experience my dark muffins or explain why George Lucas is a fuckwad, I will not be able to help you with your bizarre sexual fetishes, especially anything to do with your father or your pet or your wife's boss. Or you father's wife's boss pleasing her pet. Please try here or here and move on, thank you.
Blogger riddle time.
Q: How can you tell when a blogger has nothing of interest to say?
A: They post search requests.
Hahahahaha. I crack me up.
Yea, more caffeine, please.
Don't forget to play the game today. Prize included (no purchase necessary).
today's fun and games
Guess TV Theme by Lyrics. Win a fabulous prize. Show off your couch potato skills. Game lasts only until all 20 questions have been answered correctly, so get there while the getting is good.
Also: moved the links list (newly alphabetized) over to its own page as it was getting a bit unwieldy. If I happened to drop your site as I was carrying my basket of blogs over to the new page, please let me know.
food and song
I made chili for dinner last night. The recipe (not really a recipe, but something I made up in my head) called for flank steak and beer and music. Because you cannot cook without music. It's a tricky thing, trying to pick out the right CD for the right recipe. If you make a mistake with your choice of cooking music, it's like putting in the wrong ingredient.
After standing at the counter for a bit, looking over my ingredients and getting into a steak-and-beer-chili frame of mind, I decided on Danzig 4. See, it's not about the lyrics or the genre, it's about the groove you get into. It's about the flow of the music. Danzig 4 is slow and simmering with just the right kick. Perfect chili cooking music.
It's this way every night, no matter who is doing the cooking. Even Natalie gets into the music selection fixation. She may only be making salad and sandwiches when it's her turn, but she already knows that grilled cheese sandwiches call for Less Than Jake but the creation of the perfect caesar salad needs Nsync in the background(yes, we suffer for our food).
We've got it down to a science now. We should really group our cds according to entrees rather than band.
Chicken Francese gets Nick Cave, preferably Boatman's Call. Any kind of stir fry gets Aphex Twin or Front Line Assembly, depending on the ingredients. Porterhouse steak gets Pantera (but only VDOP) while steak fajitas will get Sublime or early Incubus, depending on how spicy the fajitas will be.
Yep, we have it all figured out. Refused for any kind of lunch time cooking. Portishead for stews or homemade soups. Radiohead for anything with red sauce, but only OK Computer or The Bends. Amnesiac and Kid A work well with a decadent dessert.
Sometimes we will work it backwards. If I am thinking about what to make for dinner, I will sometimes choose the music first and let that guide my meal decision. Usually, a compilation CD works here. I put on any Punkorama or Fat Wreck Chords comp, or perhaps a soundtrack, and let the music dictate the menu (note: the Spawn soundtrack should only be played when making a really complicated dessert. Trust me).
It's a very experimental science. Sometimes the combination of the food and the music doesn't work at all. Sometimes I give up halfway through, cry like a baby, dig out the old Tom Chapin tapes I used to play for my kids when they were little, and order out.
(see that license plate up top there? you can make your own)
Natalie is 12 today.
Natalie, who I was told would never read as well as her peers, but who got a 96 in reading this quarter.
Natalie, who I was told would probably be dyslexic and wouldn't be able to form coherent written sentences, but whose teachers send home letters telling me that I should help her pursue a career in writing, because it's what she was meant to do.
Natalie, who I was told would never be able to do math, but gets consistent B's in that subject.
Natalie, who I was told was "socially retarded" but who has so many friends I can't remember all their names.
Natalie, who I was told had "autistic tendencies" and the most I could hope for was a low-functioning student who would always be in special ed, but who continues to surprise and impress me with her report cards and project grades.
Natalie, who wants to devote her life to cleaning up our environment, but can't keep her room clean, who wants her independence and freedom one minute and wants to be cuddled like a baby the next.
Natalie, who wants to be either a teacher, a basketball player, the manager of the Yankees, a drummer in an all girl punk band, a computer engineer, an artist or a writer and could really be any of those if she wants.
Natalie, who is unorganized and forgetful and a world class procrastinator with a wickedly sarcastic tongue, and who I yell at for being just like me.
Natalie who is at once charming and funny and sweet and a source of pride but who within the bat of an eyelash will turn surly and moody and make me want to pretend that I don't know her.
Natalie, who wants to single handedly save the world but forgets that she has to get out of bed in order to do that.
Happy birthday, Natalie. I'll stop holding your hand in public as long as you still want those kisses and hugs before bedtime, ok?
My daughter has moved from that little girl stage to the pre-teen angst-ridden life of an almost teenager stage. Some time in the past year, she lost any resemblance she had to that little girl who cried for me every day of pre-school. I miss that little girl, but I also like the young woman who has taken her place. Most of the time, at least.
Sometimes, when she rolls her eyes at me for the hundredth time in a day, I want to strangle her. But mostly I am proud of her and the way she has come to view the world. I am proud that she is a free thinker, independent and neither a follower nor a leader, but someone who just walks her own path.
I am, in many ways, dreading this year of her being 12. I have heard the horror stories, I have seen them in action. The social and emotional changes between 6th and 7th grade are frightening. I wish I could hang onto that baby inside of her for just a bit more, but I know I have to let that go. I have to let her make her own mistakes and I have to be there when her heart breaks or when her friends let her down or when she has a zit right before the big dance.
She doesn't live in the world I lived in at 12. It's bigger and wider and not as safe and comforting. But I can't hold her hand forever, can I? The best you can do as a parent is throw your kids out there and hope for the best, and when they come home crying just hold them and listen and hope for better days.
QOD still running
Sometimes when a really annoying person is talking to me, I tune them out and chant "i hate you" over and over again in my head until they are done.
Sometimes, when I am driving through an underground parking garage, I duck my head.
Sometimes I imagine I work in a jigsaw puzzle factory, and I throw away one piece from each puzzle just to fuck with people.
Sometimes, if I have to speak in front of a group of people, instead of imagining them in their underwear like most people do to keep from being nervous, I imagine that they are all dead.
Sometimes, when someone says that the Magnolia is the best movie they ever saw, I want to kick them in their shins. And if they say that Creed is the best band that ever existed, I want to gouge their eyes out with a spoon.
Sometimes, when we are looking for something different to do, I will take all the couch cushions and throw them on the living room floor, put on some old Sepultura and teach the kids how to stage dive.
Sometimes Belle and Sebastian will come on the winamp right after Rammstein and I feel like I want to kick my own ass.
Sometimes I wish life was a musical and that music would come out of nowhere and we would all break into songs that we know all the words to and dance in total synchronization. In an Oklahoma! sort of way, not a Cop Rock sort of way.
Sometimes I find myself watching Nickelodeon even when the kids aren't home.
Sometimes I fall asleep with the remote in my hand, and I change the channels in my sleep and I start dreaming that I am on C-Span.
Sometimes I take the covers off the Sharpies just to sniff them.
Sometimes I think if I try hard enough, I really could make The Force work.
Sometimes I think my time and resources could be better spent.
QOD in progress: music to cry to
so play the violins
Today is something special, right? It's...it's...oh yes! It's my friend Tim's birthday! Happy birthday, Tim. I will be listening to Smashing Pumpkins all day in your honor.
Of course you can't escape the fact that today is Valentine's Day because every television show and radio station and every co-worker with the ultra romantic boyfriend will not let you forget it. I mean, happiness to those who think today is a wonderful day and celebrate it accordingly. I hope you enjoy your day and that you are not let down when that teddy bear your s.o. bought you explodes.
I think Valentine's Day should be a day to express whatever feeling is in your heart. It doesn't have to be good. If Cupid's arrow shot and missed, that's not your fault, is it? And if Cupid's arrow got permanently stuck up your ass, you can't be blamed, right? So let your feelings out. Tell your ex or that girl you stalked that paid no attention to you or that guy who wouldn't leave his wife even though he promised what you really think. Send them a live, beating heart (one from an animal rather than a human is preferable). Send them anthrax. Wait outside their house until they come out to go to work and then spray them with mace. Purge those bad feelings from your heart! Or, if you don't feel like getting arrested, you can always send them one of these cards or one of these. Or umm... these.
On a related note, I am number ten on google for valentine blowjobs, number one for hating valentine and number 12 for star wars litigation. If I could combine my hatred of George Lucas in a post about valentine blowjobs, I could take over the world!
I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. Must be the medication. Or that dream I had last night where my ex was running after me with a cleaver. Or the fact that my head is so stuffed that I can't think straight. I do have a valentine and I made him a homemade card using construction paper and sharpies and condoms.
So I thought I would actually do something nice for Valentine's Day (even though I'm making my kids heart shaped pancakes for breakfast. They don't even like pancakes, but god damn it, they'll eat them anyhow) and send out V-Day love to some blogs I've been reading but have not thrown up in my side bar yet (which is getting revamped this weekend). So umm...be my valentine:
And RIP Waylon Jennings. His music will always remind me of my cousin Billy, back when Billy was a good guy who bought me beer and took me to concerts. Before he let his life fall into the cliche of a bad country song.
So, is it safe to swig NyQuil at work all day? Think anyone will notice?
New QOD in honor of the love/misery fest of February 14th.
yelling with my mouth shut
I was going to celebrate my one year blogaversary all month and then I realized I just didn't want to. Today is the actual day of the anniversary; the first day I sat down at the computer and starting pouring my heart and soul out to all of you. Ok, I had two readers at the time. Me and a friend who I forced to go to the page. And I wasn't really pouring out my heart and soul so much as making fun of Dick Cheney. Some things never change, eh?
I had these intentions of writing a long post about everything that has happened to me because of this blog in the past year. And I was going to pick a few posts as my "best of" for the past year. I was going to do so much until two things happened. 1) I woke up with a nasty cold and lost all ambition to think and 2) I realized - who the hell cares, anyhow?
I do want to say that I made so many good friends over the course of the past year. People I never would have met were it not for this little old weblog have become my nearest and dearest friends. It occurred to me just the other day how much this little community has meant to me when I received an invitation to Nancy's wedding in the mail, and when I seriously started thinking about overcoming my claustrophobia/fear of flying to get down to Florida to see a beautiful woman get married.
I started this weblog to have a space in which to put down my feelings and ramblings and general idiocy that no one else wanted to listen to. One year later, it has become a network - a lifeline of communication to people whom I have come to love and cherish as if they were family. I could not possibly list each person who has done something kind for me or offered their friendship. But you all know who you are because I have made sure to take the time over the year to tell you just what you mean to me.
And thank you to Justin for understanding my obession with my little place here. Thank you for understanding my need to post every day, twice a day or more. Thank you for your encouragement and your ideas and your sense of humor. Thank you for not leaving me when it became obvious that the weblog had become "the other man" and thank you for being the loving, wonderful person you are, the kind of person who understands my need to do something for me. I love you.
It's been one hell of year. If it weren't for this weblog and the people who read it, I may have had a nervous breakdown by now. I hope I've done the same for some of you, that I've given back what you all have given me.
One year and many friendships later, thank you.
we'll sing and dance and we'll find romance
I once was in bed in New York
with a man who had popped his cork
But he popped it too early
Which in turn made me surly
And I killed him off with a spork.
Like you could do any better? You have until the 14th to prove it.
this is getting old and so are you
Not that you need a reminder, what with all the storefronts decorated with sickening pink and red hearts and, as Natalie would put it, small child with weaponry. I hate this holiday. People who do not have significant others do not corner the market on hating Valentine's Day.
It comes down to this: the greeting card and chocolate and floral industries have gotten together and formed this great conspiracy called Valentine's Day. Sure this day existed a long time ago. It was a day set aside to honor a saint. Not a day to buy your wife a black teddy and a garter belt. And certainly not a day to make people who are not in a relationship feel shitty about themselves. And most certainly not a day to make all the people who don't think of being romantic or spontaneous or thoughtful all year long think there is one specific day where they can do these things and then be off the hook for the rest of the year.
Valentine's Day is not a day of amnesty. It is not a day where a guy or girl can say "Well, I've been shitty to my partner all year long, but if I buy them a huge boquet of flowers on February 14th, I'm off the hook!" It doesn't work that way. Me, I'm lucky to have someone who is a romantic fool all year round. But it wasn't always that way. I was once married to a guy who thought that if he took out the garbage instead of making me do it, it was a romantic gesture. Valentine's Day would come around and I would get a box of chocolate ($3.99 at CVS) and it would have at least two pieces with the dreaded coconut, which means I got a cheap box of chocolate of which I could only really enjoy about 4 pieces.
Chocolate is not a good gift. Chocolate says "I would like you to gain a few pounds so then I can say to you in a week or so that you look like you could lose a few pounds." Flowers are not good. Flowers say "Here are some beautiful works of nature that will wilt or dry out and lose their beauty in a relatively short time. Like you. Which is when I will leave you for a younger woman." Sexy lingerie is not good, because that just says "I really hate the way you look naked. Do you think you could dress like a stripper when we have sex so I can pretend that you are Shana from The Raven's Nest?"
So, is there anything that is a good gift for Valentine's Day? Yes. What you should do is find a friend who is feeling lonely. One that isn't currently attached at the hip to someone. One who thinks Cupid should be drawn and quartered. Buy that person a Valentine's Day card. Write a nice note inside, a few words to tell that person what they mean to you, why you are their friend, what you love about them. The point is to let them know that despite the best efforts of Hallmark and 1-800-Flowers to make you think otherwise, one does not need a significant other to be loved. One does not need to have another half to be a whole person.
Valentine's Day is a crock of shit. It does more harm than good. Have you ever been that kid in class who got three valentines while everyone else got 20? Have you ever sat home crying in your beer and eating a pint of Ben and Jerry's while burning pictures of your ex? Then you know. You know how Valentine's Day only causes pain. Even for the guys who have a girlfriend because they feel they can't live up to the expectations that the media has set for them as far as presents go. For the girls who have a guy, it sucks if they have been watching some woman-centered morning television show where some guy pops out of the audience in a tuxedo on Valentine's Day and gets down on his knee and begs his girlfriend, who is a grip or stagehand or something, to marry him. And then Katie Couric sends them on a trip around Manhattan in a horse drawn carraige and the snow falls gently on their heads as he puts a diamond ring on her finger and....well that's not reality for everyone, folks. So don't think it's yours. Valentine's Day only serves to get your hopes up and then have them crashed down on top of you by the end of the night when all you got was a kiss and an offer to let you watch while he plays Grand Theft Auto. Any other day of the year that would have been good enough for you.
I've digressed again. I'm just saying. Fuck Valentine's Day. Make this "tell a friend you love them" day. No flowers, no candy, no crotchless panties. If you love someone, tell them. That's all. And really, that should be every day.
a bouncing little baby
Melly, I can only say this to you:
When people say to you "it goes so fast" they really mean it. It's not just a cliche. One day you will be looking at Mattie in his crib, sleeping so peacefully and suddenly he is walking and talking and before you know it you're helping him with homework and signing him up for baseball.
I'm just saying, treasure every moment. As sappy and obvious as that sounds, I still want to say it. I know you will be a great mother, Melly. You are confident and wise beyond your years. You will be a magical, funny, self assured mom and that makes Mattie a very lucky boy.
have a drink, a pot of coffee
Today, DJ had to write a paper for school. He had to write a list of good things about being the President and a list of bad things. Good things included having a movie theater and bowling alley in your house and getting to meet the Stanley Cup winning hockey team. Bad things included choking on pretzels and having to hang out with Dick Cheney.
Am I raising this kid right, or what?
So, winning an award sure ups your traffic. Which sort of puts pressure on you. You want the new people who are coming to your site to see something worthy. You want to them to say "hey, I'm gonna keep coming back here!" AAnd you want them to say it out loud. With vim and vigor. To the whole office. Yes, stand on your chair and shout it out loud "I'm mad as hell and I'm not..........." Wait. Wrong movie.
Where was I? Oh, yes..the new visitors. You need something besides anal sex to drag them in. You can't reach people with dirty talk and sexual inneundo. It insults their intelligence. It's sinking to the lowest level. I thought I would go with something more refined. Like:
Anyhow, the new traffic will disappear within a day and I'll still have get down on my knees for Davezilla. I should have put in some fine print where it says I only have to give him head if my award-related traffic persists for more than a week.
Have I mentioned that I upped my coffee intake from 8 cups a day to 12 since I quit smoking? It's obvious, isn't it?
I deserve a reward cause I'm the best fuck that you ever had
(in keeping with my theme of faith no more lyrics as titles, I just thought this one fitting today)
I am completely underdressed for the occasion. It's hard to graciously accept an award while sitting here in undies and a t-shirt. Maybe I should at least put pants on....
Ok. Much better. Being named Best Heterosexual Weblog means one thing to me: my charm and sexy smile were enough to bribe Dave with. Heteros are so easy, you know? Ok, I did promise him a blowjob, but if there was an award for biggest liar, I suppose I would get that, too. I would have offered Leia sexual favors too but that would have sort of defeated the whole hetero thing, no?
Well anyhow, I won. Being heterosexual has finally got me something besides herpes. And will you look at this prize? Choire and Philo (I would have offered them blowjobs also, but....), the sponsors of the Best Hetero blog, will be sending me a copy of Anal Pleasure & Health : A Guide for Men and Women. I promise to get tons of mileage out of this book. Gay men do not own the market on anal sex, you know?
I showed the prize to Justin, my significant (but award-less) other and he grinned from ear to ear. I told him that I wanted to make really good use out of this prize and he smiled even wider. I told him that it was my duty, my right, as the winner of this wonderful prize to explore all the options of anal pleasure within the book. He jumped up and down for joy. He then saw me at a sex toy site, ordering a strap on and the economy size K-Y and he ran from the room screaming.
Thanks also for the condoms, guys. Being monogamous and fixed, I really don't have to partake in condom usage, so I was thinking of blowing them up and using them for my daughter's birthday party this week as balloons. You just saved me $1.49. Thanks!
Honestly, I am flattered to win this award, even if the voting process was completely dishonest and arbitrary. And should I be unable to perform my duties as Best Heterosexual Blogger, if I should at some point act upon my crushes on Baz and Bill and no longer be deemed a heterosexual (that girlfriend I had in 7th grade doesn't disqualify me, does it? And that fling with the girl from Connecticut after my divorce?) please pass the award onto someone worthy, someone who could wear the crown of heterosexual blogger as well as I apparently do. But then again, in the words of Weezer, everyone's a little queer.
Thank you to Dave and Leia for putting the anti-bloggies together. And congratulations to all the other winners. Now move on to my QOD.
My cousin Stan came over tonight. Stan is a fireman who lost 19 of his co-workers on September 11th. That's 19 just in his specific house.
Tonight Stan came over with a tape. Apparently, next month CBS is showing a video that two French cameramen made on September 11th. They were filming a documentary and just happened to get caught up in the attack on the World Trade Center. What I saw tonight was over two unedited hours of those tapes. I cannot for the life of me fathom why CBS would choose to show this on tv. No amount of editing or soothing over will make it bearable for anyone to see. The only reason a station would show these tapes is for either manipulation of our emotions or plain old ratings. Either way its abhorable. I'm sure they will throw in interviews and heartwearming stories and it will jerk your tears around.
A lot of the tape was shot inside the WTC, right after the first plane hit. It was eerie and unsettling to watch the firemen, milling about, waiting for direction, totally unaware of what fate awaited them. We were staring at faces we knew. My father's friends. My cousin's co-workers. People you would recognize from their stories being told over and over again in the aftermath of the day. You look in their eyes and you are staring into the eyes of a dead man. It was like watching a horror movie, where you want to scream to the actor to get out of the room. I wanted to shout at the men I saw on the tv. Warn them, tell them not to go back up, not to go into Tower 2.
Most of the tape was madness. Smoke. PASS alarms. Shouting. Firemen running up while people were running down. Darkness. Chaos. And the thuds. We kept hearing thuds, thinking it was pieces of the building falling down and my cousin told us no, most of those thuds were the sound of bodies hitting the marquee outside.
So what is the purpose in CBS showing this tape. Even if it is edited to the point of being almost unrecongnizable to me, I still see no point in it. It will only serve to cause distress and despair. They claim it's to show heroism, but I think we all know all about the heroism displayed that day, by everyone who was there, not just firemen. I don't think we need to have the point hammered home to us by displaying the last moments of the lives of so many people in such a raw way. We do not need our emotions manipulated any more than they have been. We do not need to have death and destruction shoved in our face again so we can keep up our patriotic spirit.
I don't know why I watched the whole thing. Maybe because I didn't want to leave my father's side as he looked in the faces of people he spent so much time with, people who are no longer here. Maybe I watched because this was the only time it seemed real to me, that it wasn't being played out with voice overs and graphics. And I think that's what made it so painful. It wasn't just the nightly news anymore. It was finally, ultimately real to me. Seeing that raw footage made the pain and the heartache that had been floating around in my mind since September finally sit down and take hold.
Who needs that? Who needs to have their pain and tears commercialized and put on display? I wish I didn't see it. I'm hoping you decide not to.
here's how to order
Sometime back in the 70's, there was a commercial for an airline. It may have been Delta or United, I'm not sure. It featured several shapely young women, purportedly stewardesses, all in mini skirts and go go boots, and they each stepped forward one at a time, vamping for the camera and looking straight into your eyes with a seductive stare and said the airline's slogan: "I'm Linda, fly me!" "I'm Kathy, fly me!" The innuendo was pretty clear, even to a young, naive person like myself. Basically it was "fly our airline because our stewardesses are gorgeous and sexy and hey, maybe they'll even bonk you in the bathroom if you're lucky!" Well, that's what I saw anyhow. And I know it's what most guys saw.
My mother, on the other hand, was a little less astute in these matters, because a couple of weeks after that commerical first aired, my little sister, who couldn't have been more than five at the time, was wearing a shirt that said "I'm Lisa, fly me!"
It's not that my mother wanted to set Lisa on the path to selling herself on her looks. She was just a sucker for a slogan. And she instilled this slogan fever onto my poor, unsuspecting little sister.
One summer day, must have been about 1977 or so, my mother asked me get a tshirt for Lisa out of her dresser. When I looked in the dresser drawer, it dawned on me in horror that Lisa's entire wardrobe was bought with UPC labels and boxtops. There, in Lisa's drawer, was an homage to every commercial slogan or jingle or mascot that existed in the 70's.
She had a shirt with a picture of the Jolly Green Giant that said "where have you bean all my life?" There was the Snap! Crackle! Pop! Rice Krispies shirt. Scrubbing Bubbles, Mr. Bubble, Libbyland, Tang, Quisp cereal....there wasn't a single shirt that wasn't an advertisement.
It wasn't just her clothes, either. My mother sent away for every free toy or book available. Lisa's room was filled with a collection of advertisig mascots disguised as playthings. Basically, she was a walking billboard.
It's no wonder that years later, we would joke around by sticking a tv antenna on top of Lisa's head and calling her "the walking commercial." She knew every tv theme, every jingle, every slogan. She was pure entertainment to have around and I often took her out with me (ok, I was forced to take her out with me) and my friends would sit around and ask her to peform her repitoire of commercials.
The thing is, she still remembers it all. And thankfully, her love for all things pop culture has not diminished. Who else would call me when I was having a bad day at work and play a cd she made of sound bites from the Simpsons? Who else could entertain me by singing the theme to Electric Company? We could sit around for hours reminiscing about stupid tv shows and her slogan-filled wardrobe and debate the lyrics to the Facts of Life theme.
But every once in a while, as we are sitting there talking about some forgotten commercial, I could swear I see an antenna popping out of Lisa's head. And I'm just saying, Lisa, I'll blame mom when at your wedding next year you walk down the aisle to the theme from Knots Landing. It's not your fault, really.
Sell the rights to your blight
We just saw I am Sam.
I sobbed uncontrollably for half an hour afterwards. It's not that the movie was sappy or even a tear-jerker. It just hit me in spots that were already sore. It hit me like violent punches that rip open old cuts and bruises.
It takes a special kind of movie to effect you in that way. Or it just takes a special kind of guilt to let a movie effect you that way.
God damn, I can be melodramatic. I think the lack of nicotine is starting to do something to my oxygen levels, causing me to have moments of sheer delusion, where I break down like a bad actress on a foreign language soap opera.
No? How about some virtual road rage?
You're my flavor of the week
I am addicted to TechTV. Over 100 channels and this is all I watch. It's not just me, either. Justin is just as addicted. We sit all day, all night slack jawed and staring at the tv, jumping up occasionally to try out a new tip or check out a website they're raving about.
My addiction borders on obsession, though. I am obsessed with Megan. It's not like I want her. I just want to be her. Hell, sometimes I think I am her. Yesterday, we had on the same outfit! Black shirt, black skirt, black tight, black shoes. I don't know what it is about her, I am in awe of Megan. I think we are a lot alike. Ok, so maybe she wouldn't spit on someone or stab a co-worker with a spork, but I bet she would kick your ass if she had too.
We watch Extended Play, too. But between you and me, that Kate gets on my nerves. She's like that friend you had in high school. You liked her and all, but you just had to hang out with her in small doses. And Adam, well I had a dream about him once. He was floating inside of a balloon and everyone was yelling Look! There's Keifer Sutherland! And of course we watch Call for Help and we love Chris Pirillo and I'm not just saying that because he has a popular blog and someone I like is friendly with him. We really do love him. Like family. Oh god, we are so pathetic. We are just pathetic geeks.
Anyhow, this was about Megan. No, no it wasn't. I swear, I'm not gonna stalk her. Besides, I would have to fight Todd for her. Gotta go, the repeat of last night Screensavers is coming on.
Prepare for a series of comfortable miracles
(the first person who gets the connection between the titles of the last 5 entries wins...something)
Sometimes I wake up and I'm not sure where I am. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed and for a few minutes I'm in a twilight zone where I can't figure out what I'm supposed to do next. It's an odd feeling, like I forgot to do something important or I woke up in the wrong house or the wrong life. I end up in the grips of a panic attack and I have to do a mental recount of my life. I have two kids. They are in their room. And for a second I think...I do have two kids, right? And I get up and go look in their room, which is ok during the week because I will find them there, safe and asleep. But on a Saturday morning, like today, I go in their room and the beds are empty and I'm standing there, still sort of sleeping and groggy and I imagine that they don't really exist or that I've dreamed my whole life up. Part of me realizes I am not fully awake while this is going on, so I crawl back into bed and try to fall asleep so I can wake up again and start the day right.
This happened this morning and the familiarity of it made a little light go on in my head and I was able to skip the whole "who the hell am I and where is my life" routine and just closed my eyes to try to get back to sleep again. It was 4am. Justin was having another one of his sleepless nights and was in the living room, probably playing Monopoly on the computer. I stretched, enjoying the feeling of having the bed to myself. I tried to drift off but only got to that stage where you are half awake and half asleep and you're still not sure which side is going to win.
I think sleep was winning and I felt that heaviness in my head that was a sign I would sink into dreamland in a second. And then I felt the hands on my face. I assumed Justin had snuck into the bed - I must have been closer to sleep than I thought to not feel him. I felt his fingers brush against my cheeks, like he was holding my face in his hands. I turned to look at him, but he wasn't there. No one was there. I panicked for a second and then realized I must have been dreaming. But it felt so real. I closed my eyes and less than a minute later I felt it again. This time I would not open my eyes. I felt what I imagined to be someone's fingers tracing the outline of my face. They touched my lips and my eyelids and my chin. I was wide awake yet my conscious brain was refusing to accept that someone unseen was touching my face. I was just overtired. Underslept. Dreaming even though I thought I was awake. And then the whisper. You're doing ok. Everything is going to be alright. Stop worrying. It was a man's voice. A deep, scratchy whisper that I heard as clearly as if there were a real person sitting next to me, talking to me. My body broke out in goosebumps and I squeezed my eyes shut further and pulled the covers up over my head, the way I did when I was a child and I was afraid of every bump in the night.
And then it was gone and the chill that had taken over was gone and I opened my eyes. The dim light from the hallway allowed me to see around the room and there was nothing except what was there when I went to sleep for the first time. No ghosts, no spirits, no hovering headless body or eerie green light. I laid there for a while longer and as the minutes passed, the likelihood that I imagined the whole thing grew stronger. That I was probably lucid dreaming and just confused it with my waking life.
I don't really believe in ghosts, or spirits or anything of that nature. Or I do believe, but part of me can't fathom how such a thing can be possible so I dismiss it. On one hand, I believe that your dream life is some otherworldly place that actually exists on another plane. Yet I don't believe in ghosts?
DJ often has dreams about his uncle who died last April. He tells me that Uncle Rob comes to him in his dreams, it's not like he is dreaming specifically about him. He just appears; on a street corner, at the kitchen table, wherever DJ's dream is taking place. He just appears out of nowhere and asks DJ if everything is ok and tells him he just wanted to say hi. Could be the wishful thinking of a nine year old who misses his uncle. Or it could be....real? Could it be possible that someone - maybe my old friend Xavier - was just giving me a message or checking in on me? Or are DJ and I just projecting our desire to see people we miss on our dreams?
Nausea, suffering, perversion, calamity
We sat on the couch, Justin on the end sitting up and me at the head of the couch, legs stretched out and feet resting on Justin's lap. I wiggle my feet. Bat my eyes. The signal. He notices and begins to rub my feet.
Now, up until a few months ago, I have never, ever let anyone touch my feet. I hate feet the way some people hate anchovies or flavored coffee. But it just so happened that some time over the summer, Justin forcibly made me experience what a foot rub was like. To think what I had been missing this whole time because I had this revulsion to feet! A foot massage is the most glorious, stimulating orgasmic feeling in the world. Besides earth-shattering orgasms of course. So that's how it came to be that I willingly let go of the "don't touch my feet" rule.
But I am still turned off by feet. Just not my own. So as we sat on the couch last night and he finished rubbing my feet, I sat up. He decided to stretch out and his right foot inadvertently touched my thigh. I immediately broke out in hives. Well, not really, but it felt like it. He withdrew his foot in a panic, realizing what he had done. He broke the rule. His feet, nobody's feet for that matter, can touch mine above the knee. He can play footsies with me under the table and he can rub his foot against my calf while we're in bed, but feet above the knee is an absolute faux pas in my book.
Which all led Justin to remark, not for the first time "I need a rule book to keep up with your weird quirks." And as always when he says that, he began to recite a list of odd things about me that keep him guessing as to whether he can behave in a certain way or not, and I took to defending myself. I told him that I would write that rule book. I would gladly give him a list of dos and donts for keeping me from cringing and we would all be happy. Which only led to a further discussion about those very things, and no book or rule list was ever written. But we did come up with a definitive list of idiosyncrasies that Justin swears puts me in the category of "needs help." Judge for yourself.
The feet thing.
The rubbing of two specific fabrics or materials together. Towel on towel. Sweater on a rug. Broom on a rug. Felt on anything. It all gives me chills and makes my skin crawl. Just thinking about makes me clench my teeth. Oh, and teeth. If you ever put a towel in your mouth in front of me, if any kind of fabric at all touches your teeth or tongue in my presence, I will run from the room screaming.
Seating arrangements. When we go to a restaurant, I have to walk around the table first to see which chair best suits me. If we are given a booth, I have to stand there for about 30 seconds while I decide where to sit. Sometimes I choose the wrong seat, I will get a bad vibe as soon as I sit down. I then make everyone get up and switch seats so I can find one where I am mentally comfortable.
My stuff. Don't move it. Don't ever ever move anything of mine. I don't care if you are cleaning or dusting or searching for buried treasure. Do not touch anything I have left out in the open. That magazine is there for a reason and that cup is there for a reason and those toys are arranged that way for a reason. Touching anything that you do not have express written consent to move will result in pain.
The dishwasher. Don't bother trying to load my dishwasher for me. I will only take everything out and do it again. The right way.
lights. I cannot sleep in total darkness. There must be some light on somewhere in the house. Even if it's just a night light that I can barely detect. I just need to know it's there. This might seem normal to you, even ok, but I take it just a bit farther. I project my fear of the dark onto everyone else. When we go out, I have to leave a light on in the kids room for the frogs. I'm not kidding.
Physical sensitivity. I have sensitive skin. Don't poke me or prod me when you are talking to me. I have such a low tolerance for pain that a slight poke in my shoulder with your pointy finger will leave me with a black and blue. I am also very sensitive to cold. Don't come near me with a cold can of soda or ice cubes or anything that may accidently brush up against me and cause me to recoil in horror. And while we are talking about physical things, I am not a touchy feely person. Don't pat me on the back or touch my hair or hug me when it is apparent I do not want a hug. Also, if the signs are evident that I am PMS, don't make any attempts whatsoever to get within a foot of me. Touch me and I will take a swing at you (Justin has immunity to this rule).
eating. I do not drink any fluids at all with my meals. I wait until after. It's just some kind of strange habit I have had since childhood. I can't eat and drink at the same time. And I won't drink anything carbonated, either. It's water or iced tea, to be drank after my dinner is completely finished. The other thing about food is I never finish anything. I will leave one tiny crumb or piece of everything on my plate. I will leave at least one chip in a bag, one sip of coffee in a cup, one little bite of a donut. Don't ask why. I don't know.
Control. I will not give it up. I will not let go. Once I have control of something you will have to pry it from my cold, dead hands. This pertains to intellectual property as well as physical. If I say I am making dinner, do not come into the kitchen and make suggestions as I am cooking. If I am driving, do not give me directions or suggestions or use that imaginary brake that all my passengers insist is there. If I have the remote, do not attempt to come near me or even make a suggestion that I change the channel. You will die. If I have an idea or am starting a project, don't attempt to come swooping in with your ideas that will make my idea or project more workable. I don't care if it will make my life easier. I thank you for your suggestion, but back off, buddy.
And then there's the little things that people have a problem with that I don't. Let's go over the list quickly, ok?
Yes, I have to pee almost hourly. I can't help it, stop making fun of it. Yes, I wear black every day. All black. Don't buy me pink shirts for my birthday. I won't wear them. Don't suggest a day of shopping together, the kind of day where you will point out all the brightly colored clothes and remark how wonderful they would look on me. Not gonna happen. Don't assume my choice of wardrobe reflects my life. It does not. Just because you wear green shirts and purple pants with your red hair and blue makeup, I do not assume you are a circus clown. Yes, I am extremely confrontational with complete strangers but not with my family. This has been pointed out to me many times and I do not consider this a quirk. It's called self-preservation. The sound of chairs scraping across a floor will drive me nuts. I cannot stand to have more than one noise going on at the same time. I get up at 4:30 a.m. I hate pets. I don't look people in the eye when I talk to them. I feel every milk container before I pick one out to buy because I think that if the container feels like its bloated, the milk is bad. I will never use the first or last stall in a public bathroom. I can only sit in the end seat in movie theaters.
Oh, and I tend to run on and on and on, not really knowing when or how to end a thought.
movie QOD still running
Because the plot thickens every day
As the old saying goes, thank fuck it's Friday. That's what us atheists say, anyhow. And speaking of fuck, please go say fuck you to yardsale. He personally requested it (you can find my picture somewhere towards the bottom).
You may have noticed that the Olympics begin tonight. You will probably notice at some point that I couldn't care less. I think the last time I enjoyed any Olympic event was back in 1980 when the hockey team won. Or maybe when Tonya Harding tried to take out Nancy Kerrigan.
The Olympics have become a showcase for professional athletes. Perhaps at one point the goal of the events was to bring the nations of the world together to promote something. Peace, understanding, togetherness...pick a virtuous word there. You're not fooled by the cover of world unity are you?
The flap over the flag , the way Olympic hockey has turned into NHL all-star games...I just don't get that feeling of brotherhood and youthful enthusiasm that used to be part of the Olympics. It's just another game. Just another marketing adventure. Just another way to showcase your marketable face and fitness for future Nike ads. Hell, they even let Satan in. Guess we know who I'll be rooting for.
George Bush is like the bouncer standing outside some elite night club, staring at the throngs of people who want in and arbitrarily pointing his all-powerful finger at them. "You in the fatigues- Geneva Convention rules! You in the orange shirt...bahaha back to the torture room for you!"
Yea, so I'm having a hard time mustering any sort of decent post this morning. I'm tired, it's been a long week and it's going to be a very long day. I'll hand in my "one free lame post" card now. Don't even tell me I'm over the limit on that. I don't want to know.
So while I'm here I should send out all of that love/thanks/hi do you know I exist/love your site/i want to stalk you/may i have your children/back off buddy/have your blog call my blog type of things I've been meaning to get around to. Basically people who for one reason or another (mostly laziness) are not in my sidebar but whose blogs I read regularly like James and victory at sea, brilliant corners, nutzo, blorg, house of brick, wibbly, southern jubilee, chris pirillo.....oh jesuschristonapogstick, would you believe there's like twenty more? I see what I have to do. I just have to make a separate page for all of you. So I can have everyone together in one giant link festival. And no, I don't read all my links daily, but I get to everyone one of them at least once a week.
Two more things. If you ever hear me say the word fuckwad and want to know exactly what it means, here's a good definition.
The other thing: I am taking suggestions for the QOD. If I choose yours you get the glory of....something or other. So if you have an idea for an good question, email me please or leave a comment. If you want to really get on my good side, email me at work and entertain me during the day. Not having internet access at my computer leaves me feeling out of touch sometimes. Who wants reality? I want to live only by whats going on in that 19 inches in front of me. The monitor, you pervert. As if.
Lame post of the week completed. You may move about now.
life to you is a dashing bold adventure
You know what I hate? When you're listening to a talk show on the radio, and there's a call in session, and Vinny from Ozone is on the line and he says "Long time listener, first time caller!" And they whoop and holler in the background as if this is some great accomplishment.
Because you know what Vin is really saying? He's saying "I sit here every day listening to your show and I am so pathetic and so lame that I have never worked up enough nerve to call you before, cause you are like...my heros, and my palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry and yes, I worship radio sports talk guys." And then the talk show guys ask Vin what's going on and Vinny from Ozone, long time listener first time caller, says "Mets RULE! Yankees SUCK!"
I hate that.
Back to sorting and collating and stapling. Thanks for stopping by. QOD remains until Saturday.
My head is like lettuce
So, how do you take all the parts of you and make them into a whole? How do you take the worker and the friend and the lover and self and reconcile them with each other? I'm wondering if it is possible to take every part of your life and have each part co-exist happily within the others. And I'm wondering if it's even necessary. Perhaps I am attempting too much by trying to cram every person that I am into one neat little package. I like having the little pieces of me floating here and there sometimes, calling on different aspects of the self when necessary, but sometimes think I might like it if I could be all things at all times and never have to take off my girlfriend hat or video game player hat. But I suppose that conversely it would rather suck to have to keep the worker and parent hat on all the time.
Just thinking out loud.
another letter to someone who won't care
I'm feeling better today, thank you. A little pep talk from several people (ok, it was more like an intervention) and I came to the realization that I cannot control other people's actions. I am not responsible for their mistakes, their issues or their apathy. I am only responsible for myself and my own actions and if I could just let go of the notion that everything has to be done according to schedule and to deviate from that schedule would cause the planets to align in such a way that there would be tidal waves and earthquakes, if I could just let that part of me go, everything will be fine.
So, schedule deviated from. Armageddon did not occur. I bought myself three more days to get the project launched. Must combat urge to get back on schedule with heavy doses of Krispy Kreme glazed donuts.
Ok, on with the letter.
Dear Selfish, Lazy Parent,
I saw you yesterday. I pulled up next to you at a light and there you were, in your oversized Expedition, kids in tow. Cute kids. How old were they, ten and under maybe? They were all over the car, the boy in the back bouncing up and down furiously on the seat, the girl wedged between you and the little one in the front seat, trying to reach something on your console.
Do you feel safe in that Expedition? Does the illusion of having a fortress around you make you feel invincible? I've thought about it, but I just can't fathom any other reason that you would have those kids riding around unbuckled. You must think that you are safe from harm, right? That bad things can never happen to you.
How much do you love your children? I know, stupid question. You love them a whole lot, right? Then why? Why can you not take the ten second effort to make sure your kids are either in proper car/booster seats or strapped into seat belts?
Oh, and that charming little girl in the front seat. Cute smile. Too bad if your airbag went off she would probably be killed by it. I'm sure you read the papers and watch the news. Sometime in the past few years you must have read about the dangers of putting small children in front seat of cars with pasenger side airbags. You know that big yellow black and white sticker that came with your car, the one that says WARNING! and explains the dangers of air bags? Did you bother to read it?
I wonder what you are thinking as the two in the back, both of them young enough to still warrant car seats, are jumping around the car. I wonder if it ever occurs to you how selfish your inaction is. Nevermind that it's the law, and the law that says children of a certain age must be buckled up or in car seats carries a hefty fine. I'm sure that you, with your expensive car and fur coat and cell phone attitude wouldn't care abou a sillly fine. But think about how you would feel if you were in an accident. If the car rolled over or was hit broadside, or head on. I wonder how you would feel if your children were thrown from the car or through the windshield and you are lying there in a mess of broken glass and twisted metal and you hear a police officer sadly remarking that it's too bad the kids weren't in seat belts, they may have lived. How could you go through the rest of your life knowing that your laziness and apathy played a part in killing your own children?
Don't tell me I am exaggarating. Your type always does. You cite statistics and say that the claims of death and grave injury in these situations are blow out of proportion. I can tell you they are not. My brother in law has this job where he takes pictures of car accidents. I have lost count of the number of times he has witnessed an accident where there was unecessary injury or death to a child because that child was not strapped in.
How long does it take to snap a seat belt or put a kid in a car seat? How long will you drive around for thinking that you are invincible, that nothing bad will ever happen to you? I am apalled at the selfishness of parents like you. I hope you never have to realize the effects of that selfishness.
I'm done. Thank you.
what are you going on about now?
Watch as I self combust.
Oh, this has nothing to do with smoking, though I suspect a cigarette would go a long way towards calming me down.
This has to do with people who expect to have things handed to them without ever having to work for them.
This is about me eagerly volunteering to do something nice for my son's school.
This is about me being misled as to how much time and work this would take.
This is about me asking 559 people for help and getting a response from 10.
This is about those 10 people bailing out on me a week before the program launches.
This is about me banging my head against the wall in defeat.
This is about me being distressed and angered and stressed out to the point of tears.
This is about people who want to blame and complain but will not help to fix things.
This is all you're going to get out of me for the rest of the day.
If you're looking for me, I'll be the one in the straight jacket, talking to the walls.
But not smoking.
smoke v. me v. the world
I thought the not smoking wasn't bothering me. It was a week yesterday and I was feeling pretty proud of myself last night, commenting on how I haven't killed anyone or broken anything or, even more likely, how my family hasn't beat the crap out of me.
I woke up today realizing that I am beyond agitated. Every little thing is bothering me. Every noise, every perceived slight, every idiot who barges into my office demanding that they drink my coffee without even a thanks. I am so agitated I can feel it in my nerves. My skin is crawling and I am about ready to combust. I just snapped at my kids for no reason other than I felt like snapping. I am impatient and short tempered and sarcastic. Like the usual me, only more of it.
The thing is, I do not want to smoke. Mentally, I crave it. I think about the inhaling and exhaling, the feel of the tar and nicotine searing my lungs, watching the smoke rise into the air. I think about the way a cigartette relieves my stress, even momentarily. But while my mind craves it, my body is rejecting the thought. This is the first time in all the times I have quit smoking that I am not physically craving a cigarette. I think about it. And when I think about actually reaching for a cigarette and lighting and inhaling, my stomach turns. It helps that the last cigarette I had before quitting made me sick. It was probably something I ate, but I associate it with the cigarette and that helps. It helps to feel wretchedly ill every time I think about smoking.
I've started to replace my emotional need for a cigarette with caffeine. This does not bode well for a person who was already drinking 8 12 oz. cups a day. This does not help my agitation or insomnia or tension. It doesn't make it easier to cut down on my road rage incidents or keep from hurling sporks at self-obsessed co-workers.
I am now hacking up a lung on an hourly basis as my body tries to rid itself of years of abuse. I can taste the nicotine as it makes its way up my throat and it makes me want to run to the store and strangle the woman behind the counter who promised me she would not sell me cigarettes ever again. I must resist. I will resist. I will prevail. Because no one believes I can do it. No one thinks I have the will power. So some day, some day soon, I will be standing on top of the pile of people I have run down in a fit of non-smoking rage, and I will call myself King of the Hill and I will smile smugly and say "I told you so" to no one in particular.
We went for a liquid lunch yesterday. We went because I was having a nervous breakdown sort of day and because B. was having a personal crisis sort of day and because my sister just encourages us to behave like idiots.
So we went to Chili's and B. had some Coronas and I had a couple of Margarita Presidentes.
My nickname in high school was "One Drink Michele." That one drink usually referred to half a beer. I have no tolerance for alcohol. Just sniffing a bottle of vodka makes me drunk. Well, I don't think B. has a great alcohol tolerance either, because by the time we left the place we were behaving like 8 year olds and my sister was pushing us out the door in embarassment.
I don't make a habit of drinking during a workday. The last time I did was Cinco de Mayo of last year. I ended up sleeping under my desk until 5:00.
So on the way home, we were laughing so hard we were actually snorting. I don't know what we were laughing at, I think it had something to do with Winona Ryder and Tammy Faye Baker. And at some point, B. said "If you don't make me stop laughing I'm going to either throw up or shit my pants." I never did ask her if she accomplished either of those.
We had to show some decorum when we got back to work because it is highly unprofessional to be snickering and giggling as people file past you in prison-issue jumpsuits and handcuffs. I went to my desk and B. went to hers and we proceeded to barrage each other with bizarre sexual emails. I could hear her laughing out loud from her office down the hall. I could hear the "tsk tsk" noises of the straight and narrow people walking around the building, the people who would never dare to be giddy or drunk at work. Or at home.
It was a fun way to pass a very stressful day, but I will make up for it today when I get to work and realize that I got nothing accomplished yesterday, and the stress level is still there. As that wise philospher Homer Simpson once said: "Alcohol. The cause of and solution to all of life's problems!" Today's lunch will consist of non-alcoholic drinks, and maybe I should just sit in my office and eat and stop hanging around with people who are obviously such a bad influence on me. Although they will tell you differently, I'm sure. Don't listen to them. They lie.
a weblog by any other name
Do a search for a definition of the term weblog and you will find many answers. It's where someone logs other webpages they find interesting. It is "commentaries, individual or collective on their particular themes." Whatever definition you come up with, it will never cover all the bases. Because each weblog is as different as the next.
You can't take one word and expect it to encompass such a disparate group of sites. Just the same, you can't sit and compare all these sites to each other, because while they may all hold the title weblog, they are defined in a separate way.
Let's take beer. You can all brewed hops and barley and malt beer, but they certainly don't taste or look the same. If you sat at a bar and started to compare Schlitz Lite to Sam Adams, you would be laughed at. It's the same with music. You can throw the word "punk" around all you want, but Blink 182 is not in the same league as Black Flag.
The same goes for weblogs. You can't compare them. You can't say weblog A is better than weblog B when A is all links and news with commentary and B is more personal and journal-like. Take, for instance, Little Green Footballs, Bluezfire and Chris Pirillo. Politics, personal and tech talk. And they may at one time or another talk about all three things, they are, for the most part, theme specific blogs. You could lump them into a category by saying that they are good blogs. Or well written blogs. Or entertaining. But that's more of an opinion than a description or a genre.
Why is it necessary to compare and contrast at all? Why pit one weblogger against another? Why draw lines and make competitions out of comparisons?
I've seen way too many blogs in recent weeks debate the merit of one over another. Every weblog, and they number well into the thousands now, has its own personality as unique as the owner of that site. People pour their hearts and souls and so much time into their blogs. We risk our self worth in some cases by putting our thoughts and opinions and attempts at writing out for public consumption. It isn't necessary for someone else to turn around and make a post demeaning another person's feelings, or comparing a blogger's writing skills to someone they think is better. There's no purpose in that. Nothing is gained except someone's bruised feelings.
Sure, there are blogs that I don't bother reading. Yes, some of them are nothing but filler and "what I ate for lunch today." Maybe you think this is one of those. That's fine. If I come across a blog I don't care for, I just move on. I don't spend time writing about its deficiencies or comparing it to blogs I think are better. There's no point in that, especially since some people prefer Blink 182 to Black Flag.
deficit deja vu
Defense and deficit spending. A 2.13 trillion dollar budget, with only 50 billion of that going to education. You think 50 billion is a lot, that I shouldn't be complaining? Well 50 billion out of 2 trillion isn't a whole hell of a lot, especially for a president who gives so much lip service about the importance of improving the American education system.
Want to know why all the president's men (Ashcroft, Rumsfeld, etc.) keep flapping their gums about imminent terrorist threats and the incredible danger to our homeland and the war that will drag on forever if necessary? Want to know why Bush's State of the Union address was filled with exaggerations? It's all about PR and marketing. It's all about getting you scared and frightened and angry enough to not care that the budget calls for 80 billion dollars in deficit spending because we have to spend over 400 billion on defense and homeland security.
Yes, we may still be at war. But I think it's important that they see past the war, into the future, where the students of America are still floundering in a crappy education system. But hey, the terrorists didn't win, right? In these times, that seems to be the bottom line to everything. Things do exist outside of this war. There are other areas in which Americans need help. There are other issues to be talked about. It's as if this administration is looking at the world through war-colored glasses.
Anyhow. Interesting note. While many people are wondering if the Phillipines will be the next target in the war on terrorism, that very country has talked to Rudy Giuliani about becoming a peace adviser for them. Just something to think about.
This week marks crunch time for the reading program I organized for DJ's school. I have to have the 10 page packets copied, collated and ready to go by Friday morning. So basically I've had two months of planning and organizing and pulling my hair out, and the fun doesn't even really begin until February 25, when the program actually gets underway. So please, the next time you hear me say I am volunteering for something, or thinking about volunteering for something, you have permission to come on over here and slap me upside the head.
(have you done the qod?)
a small victory
When you have this fury, this bitterness, this anger living inside you, you eventually get to the point where you want it to subside. You don't relish living with a hole burning in the middle of your stomach. So you let it go, a bit at a time. Or at least you push it down and ignore it until you can ignore it to the point of forgetting.
But it's hard to keep a good rage down. There will be that one thing, that one word or moment that will send it skyrocketing from the depths of your memory where it lay dormant, right through your heart and your stomach and your nerves.
I had a fight with the ex yesterday and we really hadn't fought in a long time because I have refused join in his verbal and mental attacks. But yesterday, on the phone, as we were arguing about the kids and the time he spends with them and the time I don't, as I was pleading with him to please, when he has to work a Friday night or Saturday afternoon to let them stay home for a bit instead of with their grandparents, as I was explaining in passive tones and with carefully measured words that even though I have proper custody of the kids he spends more leisure time with them, I did the unthinkable. I cried. I have never, ever cried in front of him in the four years plus since I chased him out the door. And I hated myself for doing it, hated that I gave him that satisfaction and that I allowed myself to be so weak in front of him. But I hated him more for his response to my very real tears and sobbing. His uncaring, umsympathetic, biting remark that he would get out the violins for me. I said 'fuck you' and hung up the phone I did not feel any better for that.
I live this small battle with him every day. Some days I can get past it and some days I can't. But each battle, and each subsequent victory on my part, reminds me of why I left him in the first place and why I continue to have this simmering hatred for him. No matter what I say to him, no matter how I plead or beg or state my case or my cause or the invite him to take the children's feelings into consideration, it falls on deaf ears.
And that, my friends, is why the name of this domain is asmallvictory.net. That is why this song has been ringing in my ears for many years now. Truer words never rang out for me. Each day I get through without driving a knife into his blackened heart is a small victory. Each day I get through without resorting to the selfish, uncaring way he has chosen with which to deal with me, each day I get through without the spite that he feels, the spite that allows him to treat me the way he does in front of our kids, the spite that allows him to treat the children like pawns in an endless mind game, each of those days is a small victory. And the last lines of the song - well I couldn't have said it better myself.
A Small Victory - Faith No More
Spread out on the nightstand
The spirit of team
Salvation is another chance
A sore loser
Yelling with my mouth shut
A cracking portrait
The fondling of trophies
The null of losing
Can you afford that luxury?
A sore winner
But I'll just keep my mouth shut
It shouldn't bother me
But it does
The small victories
The cankers and medallions
The little nothings
They keep me thinking that someday
I might beat you
But I'll just keep my mouth shut
It shouldn't bother me
But it does
If I speak at one constant volume
At one constant pitch
At one constant rhythm right into your ear,
You still won't hear, you still won't hear
Patriots 20, Rams 17, Terrorists 0!
Congrats to the Patriots and there fans. I've long hated the Pats, but the hate just isn't deep enough to be upset that they won. It was a good game, exciting ending. Basically, I didn't fall asleep and that's saying something.
The commercials weren't exactly thrilling, but then again I was facing the computer most of the time and didn't see all of them. What I did see, however, was enough to set me off for the rest of the night. No, I'm not talking about Britney's scary morphing job for Pepsi.
Did you catch the ads that said "if you do drugs, the terrorists win?" Not that I am a proponent of kids doing drugs, but that ad pissed me off enough to make me clench my teeth. First of all, I am really tired of every political leader, corporate head, marketing executive and anyone else using the war on terrorism and the events of September 11 to push home a point. Do this, behave like this, buy this, wear this, read this because if you don't the terrrorists win.
Remember the war on drugs? We lost that war. I didn't think it was even a battle anymore, or that anyone cared. Our government, at large and local, was completely unable to get drugs off of our streets and out of our schools. So now they are putting the onus on you, dear drug user. Yes, even the casual tenth grade pot smoker. If you buy drugs, you have just bought Iran a bomb. If you buy drugs, you have just planted a mine. If you buy drugs, it is your fault that the World Trade Center blew up. Bullshit. While a lot of drugs to come into this country from other, less civil countries, it is sold to Americans by Americans. Nevermind that your purchase of a hit of ecstacy may help plant a car bomb in a third world country, nevermind that crap at all. Shouldn't we still be trying to educate our youth about drugs rather than guilting them into not using? Is it me or did those ads use the events of September 11th as to make people feel bad? Were they not opportunistic and in bad taste?
And I really have to say this. I am really, really sick of every major sporting event or entertainment event being turned into a drama. Why oh why does every single game or movie premiere or concert have to be turned into a tribute to America and/or the events of September? I am not saying forget about these things. I'm just saying, can we go on and be entertained without constantly being bombarded by images of death and destruction? Can we have one moment where we are not being told to hold our hands over our hearts or have a moment of silence? I'm not asking you to forget. I will never forget. I suffered personal losses that day. I just want to have some moments - a football game being one of them - when I am not being forced to join in the groundswell of flag-waving, slogan shouting patriots. Not every event calls for it. Isn't the halftime show about entertainment? Did we really need the names of the victims scrolling behind Bono's head? Must every single fucking moment of our lives be somber from now on? Oh wait, I know. If we actually have some moment of levity or joy or fun without taking into account our beautiful, free country then the terrorists have won. Right?
Yes, I'm done. Carry on with your Monday. But not before you answer the QOD
who lives in a pineapple on the 50 yard line?
There is nothing sadder than someone who likes football watching the Super Bowl, but having no team to root for. Because invariably that person will have joined an office pool, the kind where you put your name in a box and are assigned random numbers and the team's score has to end in that number. And that person sits there in front of the tv and actually swears and curses and begs one of the teams to get a safety. Nobody roots for a safety. Nobody but a sad, pathetic football fan whose team didn't quite make it to the end of January.
The ads are almost amusing me, but I was amused even more by Dave when he said "that cheese (AIM) icon has been disturbing me for several weeks. What is it?"
So you know what's sadder than a sad pathetic football fan looking for a safety? A person who mistakes Sponge Bob Square Pants for a piece of cheese.
I really shouldn't be saying anything bad about Dave. Not if I want my bribes for an anti-bloggie to work.
Oh, and did anyone catch the singing chimp on the pre-game show? Clever, eh?
ahh, go fuck yourself, ok?
Yes. I know this site does not come across properly in Netscape. And yes, I know that for some browsers, the page does not open up all the way. I know this because I use Netscape (at work) and because I have to resize my own browser (IE5 at home) every time I open this page.
I also know it because I have received numerous emails telling me so. Telling me that I am a snob and elitist or that I just don't care about Netscape users. And then someone tried to take my Froggy award away from me!
So please, stop sending me emails to tell me what I already know. Stop yelling at me and calling me names. I am just using a Moveable Type template here, folks. When I do get a redesign up, and hopefullly that will be sooner rather than later, it will not be complete CSS, therefore making it readable on Netscape. Patience is a virtue. However, not being a very virtuous person myself, I will not hesitate to find out where you live and come to your house and piss in your vegetable garden and eat your pets for dinner should you -anyone- send me another email telling me that I suck.
the blahs, the blues and the bitchiness
I'm having one of those all-emcompassing moments where everything is just boring the living crap out of me. 4,000 songs on my Winamp: I don't want to hear a single one of them. 22 games on the computer: not one of them interests me. Nothing I want to see on TV. I do not want to watch any of our DVDs or videos or play any of our video games. The magazines and books are piled up on the end table, collecting dust. Nothing in the fridge or the cabinets seems enticing. I look over my choices for the day - food, entertainment, chores and whatnot - and I feel choked with the sameness of it all.
I look over my entries from the past few days and all I see is "blah blah blah blah" instead of real words. I know this is all probably momentary, I'm probably just going to have one of those days where nothing excites me, where I can't make a decision, where I just lay on the couch and try to get the motivation to get off of my ass and DO SOMETHING.
Maybe it's winter. Winter tires me. The grey, the cold, the promise of exciting snowstorms that never materialize, the bare trees, the streets void of playing children. I look across the street and see the neighbor's pool, covered in tarp for the winter. There's a swingset that's begging for summer and in my own yard, bicycles that want to be ridden. You walk outside and every day looks and feels the same. Cold, ugly, not dark nor light, but somewhere in between, as if there is a constant cover of gloom over the sun.
At some point boredom gives way to annoyance. Every little thing will bother me. The dog barking outside. The neighbor who drives past the house with his bass thumping so loud I can feel my chair move. A page that won't load up at the lightning speed to which I am accustomed.
And my stats are broke. At least I hope they are broke or just wrong. When I moved this page last week, I went ahead and moved the sitetracker to track this page. I still had the sitemeter up at the old page. Yet when I check my stats, even adding both of them together, something is off. (Yes, I do obsess about these things. I never said I wasn't vain). So instead of the 300 hits a day I am used to seeing, I am now seeing 50 or 60. I honestly can't figure out what's wrong, and in this bored, shallow, annoyed phase I am in, I am throwing tantrums and spitting out curses and totally convincing myself that the viewers of this page dropped by about oh...200 a day or so since the changeover.
So today I will console myself by writing long rambling posts about absolutely nothing while listening to Hayden songs. I will at some point pretend to be interested in the Super Bowl and maybe go food shopping and take some deranged glee in voting for someone in the biggest jerk category of the anti-bloggies and miss my kids. Which is where the real problem lies, of course. That I miss my kids on the weekends. No matter how much I bitch about them during the week, and no matter how much I say I enjoy my free time, I miss them and I miss their whining and complaining and crumbs and messes, and I miss having the opportunity to just laze around the house with them on a weekend morning and I'm really fucking annoyed that I spent a month perfecting Natalie's birthday party to cater to her every whim and bent over backwards making this murder mystery thing for her so she can have the greatest birthday ever and then she calls me yesterday breathless and giddy and saying that yes, she will have the greatest birthday ever because her father got her Nsync tickets and how fucking shallow and selfish am I to be even the slightest bit annoyed by that?
Ok, had no idea that was coming, did you? I sure didn't. In lieu of smoking, I shall now go bang my head against the wall a few times.
oh yea, yesterdays' question of the day still stands
like old 70's folk singers for chocolate
We just watched Chocolat. What a wonderful movie. I love the whole theme of acceptance, and the underlying themes of religion and self-denial and exclusion. It was a morality play, but one that made me want to drive to 7-11 and buy 25 chocolate bars. But I resisted. I settled for the frozen mini peanut butter cups I found behind the 3 year old container of frozen meatballs.
I know what you're saying. Why would anyone have a 3 year old container of frozen meatballs in the freezer? Well, because my grandma made them for dinner one night and gave me the leftovers for the kids. I put them in the freezer to save and then the next day grandma went to the hospital and a month later she died. So tell me, would you throw those meatballs outs?
So I'm interested in the text of this letter that Cat Stevens (remember him?) wrote to the terrorists who are holding reporter Daniel Pearl hostage.
As a message to those who are holding the journalist Daniel Pearl, I ask that the Mercy of Islam be shown. If justice is your goal, then the cause of justice will not be served by killing an innocent man who has nothing but a pen in his hand. It says in the Glorious Qur'an... "And no soul can bear the burden of any other."
Hey, Mr Stevens? I think all those hallucinogens you took back in the 70's really did a number on you. If your buddies really thought that justice wouldn't be served by killing an innoncent man, then the World Trade Center would still be standing, no? And I think their souls are already bearing the burden of several thousand people, so I hardly think that Mr. Pearl's soul is going to weigh very heavily on their minds.
It's just interesting how people from the same religion can interpret things so differently. And interesting why Cat Stevens would think that terrorists would really give a crap about a letter from him. Muhammed Ali asked nicely last week. I don't think they sent a reply yet.
I'm on a roll today. New journal entry: reliving moments through music, or: justifying my obsession with depressing Trent Reznor lyrics
Blogaversary: history of my blog, Part 1
Sometime last February, I can't remember the exact date, I discovered the world of weblogs. They fascinated me, these daily devotions to events and news and all things personal. I can do this, I thought. So I did.
So sometime last February, just about a year ago, I put a cheesy, error-filled page up on Tripod, and when their banner ads and my idiocy collided, I left them and went to Freeservers. I paid a measly sum each month for Freeservers to take their banner ads off, therefore eliminating my prediliction for duplicating such ads by mistake.
The Freeservers portion of the blog stayed up for a while. It went through a trillion redesigns, a myriad of Front Page Express inspired mistakes and crashes, and changes that were more than cosmetic. Somewhere along the line, I became less and less of a link/news/comment blog and started to write on a more personal level.
September 11 came and went, and I posted maniacally. People were linking to my personal stories in droves, and Freeservers took my site down for exceeding their bandwidth. I made the move over to Dreamhost that day. I had just been looking for a reason to get my own domain, anyhow. I installed Greymatter, redesigned the site again, and pretty much left it that way until last weekend.
I look back and see how much my writing has changed in a year. How the flow and direction of this blog has changed. I worried in the beginning that people only wanted links and fun and political rants. And maybe that is what the people still want. But I stopped caring. Sometime during September, I stopped writing for whoever was reading and started writing for me. I really think that improved the quality of what is put down in this space. It certainly has improved the quality and quantity of my readers, I think. I'm comfortable here. I'm at ease with just taking whatever is crowding my head and throwing it down on the keyboard for all to see. I've become more comfortable with putting myself out there, allowing myself to be vulnerable and venting my every emotion. This has been, and will continue to be, my catharsis. The fact that others read it, and comment on what I write, well that just makes it all the better. It's always better when you think someone is actually listening to what you have to say. Even if they don't agree. I've got about 300 sets of eyes "listening" to me each day here, and whether they validate me or antogonize me or rebut me or use their words to wrap their arms around me or even punch me, I am appreciative of all of it.
It's odd in a way that I picked that very year, that very time to start a blog. This was probably the most eventful 12 months of my life in a long time. Emotionally, they ran the gamut. I don't know how I would have held up without the space in which scream and cry and laugh. I've made some very dear friends, some very smart enemies and I can honestly say, weblogging has changed my life in an extraordinary way.
and then there will be wild monkey sex
Don't look for me here tonight. We are turning off the computer, the tv, the DVD player, everything but the stereo. We are going to make dinner together and eat and talk and drink wine and listen to music and play silly board games. No children, no phone, just us.
Nothing to see here. Move along.
saying nothing in so many words
For the past three nights, I haven't been able to fall asleep until around 2am. I then wake up at 3, 3:30 and 4 and then get up for good at 4:30. Needless to say (but I will say it anyhow) I am fucking tired. Not just tired, but fucking tired. The lack of activity going on in my brain right now would rank my intelligence level right up there with Mike Tyson. So no introspective, meaningful post this morning. Just some random links and bullshit and real banal content until I can jump start my brain sometime this afternoon. Carry on.
First order of business. The Anti-Bloggies are ready to go. I forgot to submit my idea for "most passive-aggressive blog" award so I could win something. But you can always vote for me for Biggest Pottymouth or Biggest Jerk.
Second: Don't forget to say "rabbit rabbit" today. It can't hurt, right?
Fourth: Rumsfeld makes another of his patented imminent terrorism warnings this time using hyperbole to scare the shit out of anyone who is still listening to him. At this point, all I hear when he talks is that sound the adults make in Charlie Brown cartoons.
Fifth(for hockey fans only): Theo Fluery is the Mike Tyson of hockey. The man should not be playing a game that involves sticks and blades. He needs to be locked up and put in the Home for Criminally Insane Athletes (now filled to capacity with NFL players).
Sixth: My sister is having her gallbladder removed today. Just thought I'd mention it.
Ever have one of those days where you spend the entire day counting the hours until you can get back into bed?