Deadline extended until Friday afternoon. Better get cracking, I've got some real winners already.
Deadline extended until Friday afternoon. Better get cracking, I've got some real winners already.
fresh stuff, evil stuff, contest stuff
It's stuffy in here.
On the subject of boobies, go name Rannie's nipple ring. I'm thinking Hoopty is a good name.
Things that are evil today:
I think I'll have a contest. Photoshop the above pop-up image to your liking. Send it to me. I'll post the best and award an appropriate prize. You have until 9am tomorrow.
and then i curled my toes so hard i got a cramp.......
Say what you will about the boobieblog, but there is nothing that makes a bad day better than seeing "boobies for you" in your mailbox and it's not spam.
I did get an email asking me to join the group OrgasmDescriptionsFemale. Which I politely declined. Now give me an OrgasmDescriptionsMale, and I am so there.
ATS True Stories
That, my dear friends, is why I worship Laurence.
You know how there's always that thing - a song, a movie, a smell - that you associate with a certain person or time in your life? And you know how sometimes that association is nothing but bad memories and death wishes? And you know how when you see/hear that thing that you associate with that person or time you want to throw up?
Well, if I see or hear Bruce Springsteen one more time in the next 24 hours I will commit an act of violence. Brutal, unforgiving violence.
That is all.
now showing: 34, 35 and 36 at the boobieblog
3am: don't panic
It was one of those nights. One of the nights that turn into day without any real sleep in between those moments.
We had a bit of a scare with DJ. Was so close to taking him to the hospital that I had the car running. And then I stopped. Do not panic. Do not panic. Rinse. Repeat.
It started after dinner when DJ said his heart was racing. I put my hand on his chest and sure enough his heart was going at a ferocious clip. I took it in stride. He spend most of the 100-plus-degree day outside. He played a little baseball, went swimming, ran around like a lunatic. The humidity was intense. There was an air quality warning. DJ is prone to respitory distress. Case solved.
I pulled out the nebulizer and realized we were out of Albuterol. We hadn't had to use it since the winter, so it never occurred to me to get more. I found a prescription bottle of Proventil that hadn't expired and gave him a dose of that.
That was at about 7:00. Cut to 9:00. He's pacing around the house. He's crying. He swears that he is dying. He's taking those big, sucking breaths that I take when I have a panic attack. I know the Proventil makes him a little nuts, but this is different. His face is ghost white, his hands are shaking and his heart is beating out of his chest. I know he is causing most of this distress himself by worrying about the original bout he had after dinner.
I try to get him to calm down. I rub his back, I get him a drink, we watch the Yankee game. When DJ cannot sit still long enough to watch a full inning, I know something is wrong.
He starts crying. He is sure he's going to die. We walk outside, inside, around the house, room to room. He cannot sit still. He will not lay down. I have never seen a child in such an utter state of panic. Of course, this makes me panic.
By 11pm, he is still frantic. Justin and Natalie are both sleeping. DJ and I are camping out in the living room, watching the late innings of the game. He lays next to me and I hear him deep breathing. I want nothing more than to sleep at this point. I want him to sleep.
Midnight and he is still crying. His heart is still racing. That's it, we are going to the hospital. I call my father, because I know my father will talk me out of such nonense. Bring him here, my father says. We walk across the street to my parents' house. Dad talks me out of the hospital trip.
I didnt' call my pediatrician for one simple reason: I knew exactly what he would say. He would say relax, it's just from the heat and subsequent panic when he couldn't breathe, give him some Proventil and Tylenol and he will be fine. And don't panic. Don't panic.
I would have taken DJ to the hospital for one simple reason: It would have made him feel better. He would have seen it me doing something proactive, the doctors would have soothed him (after 6 hours waiting in the emergency room, I'm sure) and it just would have dissipated his panic. Hospital visit as placebo.
But no, I took him back home. Now it's almost 12:30 a.m. My body wants to drop into a coma for the rest of the night. I find some childrens' NyQuil and give DJ a tiny bit of it. Believe me, I was eyeing that bottle of tequila on my counter as if it were a magic elixer. For both of us.
I push the two couches together, because DJ insists he can't not be more than one foot away from me or surely he will die, and I flip channels while he sucks in his breath and cried and while his heart does some wild dance inside his little body. I keep thinking that I should have gone to the hospital. I'm afraid I'll fall asleep and wake up to dead child laying next to me. Don't panic. Too late.
3am and finally DJ's eyes are heavy. We tire of the endless parade of cartoons and infommercials and the 10th repeat of Sportscenter. He finally puts his head down. He closes his eyes. His face is still pale, stained with tear trails. He looks so small. But, finally, he looks comfortable. His breathing sounds better.
He shifts, turns and lets out the hugest fart I ever heard. He giggles in his half-sleeping state. Yea, he's ok. He's fine.
Around 4am, I fall asleep. At 5am, I am up for the day. I'll probably fall asleep at my desk at some point today. After work, it's a trip to the doctor. Lesson learned: always keep fresh Albuterol in the house. And Don't Panic.
It's going to be a long one.
update: The doctor said DJ most likely became dehydrated yesterday when he insisted on staying outside in the 100 degree heat playing baseball for a few hours. The subsequent racing heart that comes with dehydration set him off into a panic (gee I wonder where he gets that trait from) and the result was a night long panic attack. Still, we are headed to the cardiologist just to rule anything out, and we've been supplied with enough Abuterol to get through any more dehydration anxiety. Drink, DJ, drink!
32, 33 and 34 now playing at the boobieblog
The boobieblog has over 4,000 hits so far today. There is so much to be said about that statistic. So much.
Note to anyone who sponsored me in the blogathon. The Daniel Pearl Foundation is having some problems with the donation page of their website. They ask that if you cannot get the payment to submit on the site to please mail it to:
The Daniel Pearl Foundation
c/o Gibson Dunn & Crutcher
2029 Century Park East, Suite 4000
Los Angeles, California 90067
greatest cartoon characters of all time, my ass
TV Guide named 50 of them. Bugs Bunny led the pack. Sorry, but Bugs was a one-dimensional, predicatble rabbit who had not a redeeming bone in his entire scrawny body. Sure, I loved him and I can quote him like crazy, but totally not number one.
While they did include some of my favorites like the new king of kiddie toons, SpongeBob, Homer, Beavis and Butthead and Cartman, they included some questionable choices and left off the cream of the crop. Ok, so hardly anyone who pays any attention to these polls watches or knows what I consider the cream of the cartoon pop, but I don't really care about them. I think if more people should pay attention to me and what I like because I obviously have refined taste in everything.
So their list includes such hilarious stalwarts as Rocky and Bullwinkle, Fred and Barney, Pikachu, Mr. Magoo, and Woody Woodpecker. (Note the sarcasm dripping from the words hilarious stalwarts before you start throwing darts at me).
To their credit, they did include Ren and Stimpy and Space Ghost, but that does not redeem them.
The Greatest Cartoon Characters Ever That Are Not On The TV Guide List of Greatest Cartoon Characters Ever:
Yea, there's more. But you'll have to go excuse me while I rip someone's arms off and beat her over the head with them until she is screaming for death to take her and I happily oblige by kicking her until she ceases to breathe.
Empire Bail Bonds. They take checks, thanks.
play along with the bad day blog
You know it's going to be one of those days when:
You find yourself repeatedly banging your head on the desk.
Your entire morning is spent dealing with attorneys.
You decide it would be better to poke your own eyes out with the pen.
The idea of a liquid lunch is sounding very good.
You forget to bring your cds in the car and the only radio station that's playing music is having a Creed fest.
You get to work and realize you have no idea how you got there.
Three words: bad hair day.
I woke up this morning with blogathy (blogathy: the lack of desire to post anything on your weblog).
However, I still felt the desire to make a post saying how I don't feel like posting.
Maybe I will leave the blogging up to you today. Do you mind?
I need several things.
1. A list of ways to keep cool when even the blast of the air conditioner doesn't seem like enough.
2. A decent name for the boobieblog.
3. Reasons why this band still exists.
4. Confirmation that this is really a joke. They are not making 3 Pitch Black sequel, right?
5. Something to wear to my wedding. Besides a g-string and high heels, thank you.
6. More horroscopes like this: This month finds you seriously contemplating walking away from everything you've ever known, buying a plane ticket and moving to Finland. Sure, you don't know anyone there and can't speak a word of finlandese, but you're a champ at guzzling lousy vodka and watching reindeer fuck. Sadly, just minutes before your flight takes off, you remember how much you hate blonde foreigners - in addition to blondes who listen to Foreigner - and decide to stay at home.
7. My own personal Jesus to help me with Excel.
8. This doll.
9. Boobies. Always need more boobies. (If you sent me pictures and they aren't up yet, they will be up by tonight. Pardon my unmotivated ass. It's the weather).
10. Reasons why I keep doing this.
Ok, wake me when it falls below 80 degrees. Thank you.
30 and 31 up at the boobieblog
I'll never leave your pizza burning
Got another wedding gift in the mail today, a pizza stone and rack that I badly wanted.
I think we are going to save the gifts we are getting through our registry and wrap them and put them on the gift table at the wedding. Is that silly? I feel weird using them before we are even married, and having the gifts there will give the gift givers a presence at the wedding. Right?
And I swear, I had nothing to do with this.
I'll explain the title reference later. Unless someone has an idea what it means
anger directment: a case study
I've been doing a little research on anger management. All this counting to ten and deep breaths seems good on the surface, but I don't buy it. If you repress whatever anger you are feeling at the moment, it will only come out a different - most likely inappropriate - time.
I think the better device to use is something I call Anger Directment. It's about making sure that the rage and frustration you are feeling is directed toward the part(ies) that have caused the feelings in the first place.
Sometimes, you curse and scream at the person driving next to you because you are in a mood. And sometimes, it's just because that person is an asshole. Former bad. Latter good.
Why should I repress my anger? Why should I push it deep down where it will only simmer and fester and then boil over long after the event that put the anger there in the first place has passed?
Let's invent a scenario.
You are at work. A co-worker stops by your office to chit-chat. You really don't like this person and have no desire to talk with them. Your dislike for them is valid; this person is a self-absorbed creep who looks down your shirt when you talk and is crude, demeaning, sexist and racist.
You are trapped at your desk as he stands in the doorway. In the space of two minutes he has managed to offend you three times and question your intergrity, work ethic and lineage.
Now, someone give me a good reason why I should count to ten and take a deep breath in this scenario. Why should I let this person run rampant over my feelings and let it go as if he did nothing wrong? And please, do not tell me to say something like "your words are making me feel angry" because a person like that would only scoff and laugh. And then he would walk away and I would spend the whole day stewing about what I could have said and should have said. By the time I leave work, I will be in a raging frenzy and I will take it out on the poor, unsuspecting souls who are on the road with me, which will only fuel my anger and by the time I get home I am ready to kick the neighbor's dog just to hear it yelp.
The scenario plays out much better if I call the guy a few choice names, tell him exactly what I think of him, and then throw a cup of steaming hot coffee at his crotch. My anger is relieved, my rage has dissipated and I made my point without being wishy-washy about it. And the masses that drive home the same way I do are spared my wrath. Works out for everyone!
Instead of trying to manage your anger, which is only therapist talk for supressing your feelings, you direct it at the right people. I mean, come on, a person who throws a beer bottle out the car window or says disparaging things about your family or assumes you want to crawl under his desk and service him just because you are female and he is male, well that person needs to be told in no uncertain terms how you feel about his behavior. That is called positive directive anger. Whether you kick him in the balls, or chase him down the hall with a flamethrower or hurl a string of curses at him that he has never heard before, it's all good. You are the better for it. When you are done you can sit back, relax, have a cigarette and praise yourself for releasing your rage at the right person.
If you hold it in and mutter some psychobabble to him about how your feelings are hurt and then you do your good breathing exercises, you will only find yourself kicking dogs later, pretending that the poor dog is your co-worker. That is negative directive anger. Bad.
Next time the person in front of you on the express line has 10 items over the expressly stated 6 items only, open up her laundry detergent when she is not looking. Then offer to help her bag her groceries, making sure that the laundry detergent is packed in the same bag as her grapes. You will feel better for it, trust me. As a matter of fact, you will chuckle to yourself all the way home and your good mood will last you well into the night.
Just follow the basic rule: If a person angers you to the point that you feel the familiar stirrings of animalistic rage building up inside you, count to ten. If, by the time you get to ten there is steam coming out of your ears, punch that person in the face. Anger released, situation settled.
Who needs $150 an hour therapy when you have me? Thank me later. Tell your dog to thank me, too.
Perhaps I owe an apology to some of my sponsors. I'm sure my blogathon entries did not turn out to be what you expected. It wasn't the sort of stuff I usually post about. If you found that the entries over the course of the 24 hours were not in taste with either the cause or what your expectations were, please let me know and I will gladly give the money that you pledged to the Daniel Pearl Foundation.
In my own defense, I felt like I needed to do something that would keep people coming in (I did pick up new sponsors during the night) and keep me awake. It was a real effort for me to stay up 29 hours (yes, 29...I got up way too early on Saturday) and the constant emails and comments on both the main blog and the sub-blog kept me going.
I'm sorry if the content offended anyone who sponsored me.
I didn't do this for the hits. I didn't do this for attention. In fact, it (the boobieblog) was completely unplanned.
For those that did enjoy it, I'm glad you did. It will be staying up for a while. For those that hated it, unless you had a vested interest in what I did here last night(i.e., sponsored me), I owe you no apology.
Meanwhile, more people who need to be thanked: Laura, Jenna, Chuck, Shel, Rannie, Bill, Dave, Ann, Aaron, Reid, James, Fredo, Phineas, Jessica, Jason,Jason, Geoff, Todd, Robyn, Hoopty, Choire, KD, Brandy, Jill, Mike, Keith, Chris, Christine, Chris, Kymberlie, Christine, Glace, Chris, ratty, wKen....I'm sure there are more. I'm still sort of brain dead. But you all did your part to help me raise some money. And some of you were doing your own blogathonning at the same time.
i dreamed of boobies
I'm still a bit groggy and disoriented and if there is one thing I learned from all this it is that I am too old for this shit.
Remind of that when the 2003 blogathon rolls around, ok?
In my haste to get to sleep, I never did announce the winner of the cleavage contest, which is ok because I never did pick a winner.
Head over to the boobieblog and leave a comment (give me two minutes to make the official post) as to what your favorite entry was and why. You have to tell me why.
There will be a winner in male and female categories as well as in any categories you can make up. Prizes will be ummm...magic sporks or something. Or lots of attention. I'll come up with something.
I'm going back to sleep.
Thank you, everyone. You have all made this incredibly enjoyable. I'll be back on Monday.
Blogathan by the numbers:
2 packs of cigarettes smoked
drank 2 quarts of Snapple Peach Iced Tea
drank 1 Gallon of Poland Springs water
drank 4 pots of coffee
drank two bottles of Skyy Blue
consumed: two granola bars
one power bar
one bowl of Special K with berries
2 Taco Bell chalupas
2 slices of pepperoni deep dish pizza
12 pieces of gum.
Peed a grand total of 46 times
Took 3 showers
Brushed teeth 12 times
changed clothes 4 times
Got a phone call from Natalie 6 times
Got a phone call from DJ 3 times
went through 3 disposable heating pads for my back
posted 80 entries (with the help of melly)
posted 28 cleavage pictures
took zero naps
30 minutes. Man is this dragging on now. My bed is calling me.
thank you, part 4
My back hurts. My ass hurts. My wrist and hand hurt and so do my eys. I'm listening to Public Enemy. Anything to keep me from falling face down on the keyboard. This last hour is going to be the hardest, I know it.
The big thank you:
To all of my sponsors, thank you. I hope I have lived up to whatever you expected of me. I hope at the very least you were entertained.
There were 36 sponsors who pledged a combined total of $743.00. That's a lot of money. I'm very proud to part of a group who will presenting the Daniel Pearl Foundation with that much money.
I also apologize to the Daniel Pearl Foundation for all the times I wrote Daniel Pear instead. It's been a long day/night/day.
Again, thanks to all my sponsors. It means a lot.
Thanks to my immoral supporters who stood by me during the planning and fretting about the blogathon, hung out on AIM with me or called me on the phone during the wee hours of the night.
Thank you to Justin, who put up with my talking about nothing but the blogathon for at least a week, who gave up a free Saturday with me so I could do this, and who never once complained that we were going to have no time together this weekend. He rubbed my feet and massaged my back and waited on me while I sat in this chair all day and night. He made me coffee and made runs to the store and refilled my water bottle. Thank you babe, I love you and now we can concentrate on the wedding. After I sleep all day today, that is.
I'm having a hard time making this last hour. I feel like I'm in a trance.
8:11. Getting there.
Are we sleeping?
thank you, part 3
Fredo, you have started something grand. Stand up and be proud for leaving your mark on the world!
Did I just use the phrase shout out?
thank you, part 2
It's morning again. I've been sitting here a whole day. There's a fog drifting across the street and looking at it is making me feel sleepy.
One and a half hours left.
3am was the hardest. I wanted to sleep so badly. Once I got to 4am I was ok. Now, I am ready to sleep for the next week.
Thank you to everyone - and there were TONS of you - who hung out with me through AIM. You really made the time go faster and did a great job keeping me company.
Thanks to everyone who sent me links and stories and useful items.
It's getting close now. 1 1/2 hours left. The home stretch. In some odd way, I don't want it to end.
But man, am I looking forward to sleeping all day.
thank you, part 1
I in now way intended for this to become the boobieblog. I was going to just to my regular posting, nothing fancy. Somehow it caught on. And people liked it.
I felt weird at first blogging for the Daniel Pearl Foundation and having it turn into a blog full of boobs, but it brought people here, I picked up extra sponsors and maybe some of the readers clicked on the link up there to find out more about the organization.
I apologize to anyone who sent me boob pictures but they did not get posted. I had some trouble with Yahoo mail at one point and lost some stuff. Please resend them, as the boobieblog will be up there for a long time. Also, if you didn't get a chance to send and want to do so, it's never too late.
I want to thank everyone on the blogathon team for putting this together. It was took a tremendous amount of hard work and dedication to pull this off, and they did so beautifully.
Ok, that's the first round of my thank yous.
Oh yea, I'm awake.
I'm just......resting my eyes.
It's two hours until I can sleep. I won't do my official thank yous until the end, but I have to take a separate post to say thank you to Melly.
Mel, I could not have done this without you. You kept me going, kept me laughing, and gave me plenty of breaks as you masqueraded as Marge.
I know the cause was close to your heart, and that's what made it a bit easier for the both of us to keep going until the sun came up.
Thank you from the bottom of my very tired heart. It meant a lot to me to do this with you.
Love you, bitch.
Mariane Pearl said she met her husband at a party in Paris
and corresponded with him for several months before seeing him again.
At that meeting, he showed up at her home in Paris
with luggage and a shopping bag full of food.
"He went to the kitchen straight and started cooking an omelet,
and really made the biggest mess that I've ever seen, and opened his
suitcase in the middle of the living room," she said. "And I looked
at him and said, 'I like this guy.' That is how our relationship started."
( marge here )
where my hoecakes at?
Okay let's play Marge Do Something. Take a picture of something. Tell something.
I don't know, something! Tell me what something I should do.
I'm dying here.
posted by: thoughtless marge
hot cross boobs!
i think i just swallowed a centipede.
6am: getting punchy
Marge, come to bed.
( unfortunately posted by marge herself )
5:43: jar of boobs
This guy is a little shy, but I let him put his picture up anyhow. Trust me, there are boobs underneath that outfit.
Isn't this the time of night when the zombies usually come out?
5:31am in city other than my own
Marge is in a weakened condition. She's about to start calling somebody, ANYBODY, just to keep going.
Marge is a trooper.
Marge needs a cot.
I am not supposed to talk about being tired. I have talked too much about it. You all know I'm tired. Willing to spill secrets.
Oh Marge, just talk about being tired and stay out of trouble. Also, pinch your nipples a little bit.
Does anybody know who I am?
another set of boobs
This is the time I usually get up, folks. So I've already been up 24 hours and there's still 4 more to go. My paper is here. The fucking birds are singing. My eyes feel like weighted....weighted......oh hell, you make the simile there. I'm dying, I tell you. Dying.
Another pair of boobs for you:
Well guys. We have moved past the dating infommercial. The foot support infommercial. 1,000 furniture ads. 1,500 Ford truck ads. And an exercise in a bottle infommercial. Now we are onto polar bears.
Hold on I have to go throw up.
posted by the great and powerful marge
Christine has boobies!!!
christine with the new domain
who the hell knows what time it is anymore?
Just a little poll, kiddies.
Who is still with us. If you are here and still reading, raise your hand.
No, that won't work.
Leave a comment.
Then raise your hand.
Tickle under there!!!
You still with us? Cause I think Marge and I are no longer on this solary system.
4:30:time for a snack
Oh, I c boobs.
I really can't think right now.
Partly because I haven't slept in nearly two days and because, well kids, this one gets to the ole marge. She gets a bit choked up. She wants to be European. She does her nails. Yes, always will have the soft spot.
( this is when marge sighs)
I hope you are all ready for HooptyBoobs cause here they are:
You know, we're going to die here, and nobody will come for us until Monday when they are all at their desk jobs pretending to work when they'd much rather be sitting at home jacking off.
( this is marge by the way )
I'm telling who Marge really is!! I'm telling! I am!
You pigwhore, making Marge show her boobs like that.
does anyone know what time it is?
it's tool time!
She's getting to be a real bitch:
Propagandhist: forget bunnie and chuck
Propagandhist: make mareg post
Earlier it was,"Ohhh, wait for a couple of hours and then post. I love you! Thank you!". Now it's,"IF YOU DON'T FUCKING POST SOMETHING RIGHT THIS FUCKING SECOND I WILL CHEW THROUGH YOUR SCRAWNY LITTLE NECK, STUFF IT WITH VARIOUS VEGETABLES, ROAST IT A GOOD LONG WHILE, AND SERVE IT AT MY FUCKING WEDDING."
How I love thee.
In other news:
I can't feel my brain.
3:37: this is the part where we start to make no sense
Propagandhist: poo poo
Propagandhist: big poo poo!
melandthebean: doo doo
Propagandhist: big doo doo head!
melandthebean: do you have a vagina?
Propagandhist: let me look
melandthebean: sorry i just spit my dr pepper all over th eplace
Propagandhist: oh yea, i do!
Propagandhist: you know.
Propagandhist: it sort of helps
Propagandhist: to take the post off of HOLD
Propagandhist: when you want to post it.
melandthebean: no it doesn't
melandthebean: it doesn't help at all
Propagandhist: bite me you weiner brain.
melandthebean: how ya doin buddy?
Somebody sent me boobies and I lost them! If you are missing your boobies (on this site i mean), email me!
baby eli, son of chuck pierce
cute baby boobies!
3:00: brain stew
MORE BOOBIES! SEND MORE BOOBIES NOW!
My eyes feel like they're going to bleed
Dried up and bulging out my skull
My mouth is dry, my face is numb
Fucked up and spun out in my room
On my own, here we go
My mind is set on overdrive
The clock is laughing in my face
A crocked spine, my sense is dulled
Passed the point of delirium
On my own, here we go
2 2wy 2 twenty 1
We are now entering the permanent brain damage leg of the race
The quote of the hour, from everybody's favorite Long Island Lolita:
Propagandhist: ok i just posted boobs
Propagandhist: oh nice font
Propagandhist: i can see it
Go ahead, mess with her. It's better than having a little brother.
In other news, I'm fucking tired. This is rough stuff. Especially in the wee hours when the spectator's have all rolled over from orgasm and are away, dreaming of a place that serves roasted marshmallows.
I just keep thinking about boobs now all of the time.
2:34: finger sandwich
I'm hallucinating. I think my Ash bobbin head is talking to me. No, wait. He's talking to Spidey. Whew.
Hang on to your hats, folks. This boob shot may make you ummm...rise up and cheer.
Hey, you! Get your hands out of your pants. Geez, can't take you guys anywhere.
2:20: pooh boobs
The official comic strip of my blogathon, brought you by billybunny:
1:56: crack house
I'm listening to Radiohead and while Tom is singing living in a glass house, I'm singing living in a crack house.
It's that time, folks. I'm about to get all punch drunk on you.
(Sian is a blogathoner, so go visit her and her boobie delights, ok?)
I picked up another sponsor. Thank you, Ron. It's a nice pick-me-up at this stage of the game.
And I figured out (doh!) who my sponsor youngbradford is. Thank you, kind sir.
My times are all screwed up now. I'm posting about every 20 minutes instead. Need cigarettes. Caffeine. Oh, look......
That face. Those eyes. That pouty look.
Could you eat him for breakfast or what?
1:05: i dream of pizza and boobs
I had pizza for dinner. Deep dish with pepperoni and black olives. It's calling me now. But eating several slices of pizza while you've been sitting on your ass all day - and will be all night - is not a good idea.
I'm eating this power bar instead. It's disgusting. I'm gonna take a bite out of Statia.
1am: bend over baby!
8 more hours? 8 more fucking hours? Pardon my french but I am wigging out. Someone get over here and rub my back!
It's is TIIIIIIIME for the freakout! ... which is roughly thereabouts 11:20pm ... which is 12:20, oh fuck it.
Well, what do you know? She let me out of my cage.
If you're curious how things are going behind the scenes. I've got a snippet for you. While Michele appears to be quite together here on the blog, posting tits and ass, the truth is, we are both wired like Farrah Fawcett right now.
margeincharge: what time MY TIME do I post?
margeincharge: does the title go in the head tags?
margeincharge: oops wrong winder
Propagandhist: what time is it there now.
margeincharge: 11 in the P M
Propagandhist: then post at 11:30 in the pm
Propagandhist: ok midnight
margeincharge: at 1130
margeincharge: "ok midnight"?
Propagandhist: youre up
Propagandhist: i meant
Propagandhist: its midnight
Propagandhist: and your boobs turns
Propagandhist: you still post in half an hour
Propagandhist: god we are like two halfs of one idiot
There you have it folks. My "boobs turns".
P.S. Tell her to let me come back soon? I'm not even have as out of my mind as I could be.
posted by: dumb ole marge
12:14:I am the filler bunny!
There's only about 3 entries left! Someone send me boobies quick!
By popular demand, Marge will be back at 12:30 while I go
masturbate take a walk around the block.
midnight:melly is a crack ho
It's midnight here in New York. Things are going to start to get funky from here on in. I'm used to being in a state of unconciousness by now. But hey, no sleep, no bad dreams to look forward to! See, there is a silver lining to everything.
Anyhow, for your boobielicious viewing pleasure, a pure sight to behold, crack for your libido:
11:45:pour some redsugar on me
11:18:that tingling feeling
11:01:John Ashcroft, phone home
First flying squids, and now UFOs.
Perhaps the aliens were finally coming back to take Ashcroft home.
You know how words sound really weird if you say or write them a whole bunch of times? Boobies. Boobies. Boobies. Giggle.
Man, what the hell is this going to do with my google searches?
Yep, ratty's have boobies, too. Nice ones at that.
10:30:the other's insane
Pinky, Are you pondering what I'm pondering?
Uh, I think so, Brain, but where will we find a duck and a hose at this hour?
Pinky, Are you pondering what I'm pondering?
I think so, Brain, but if we didn't have ears, we'd look like weasels.
Pinky, Are you pondering what I'm pondering?
Uh, I think so, Brain, but balancing a family and a career, it's all too much for me.
Pinky, Are you pondering what I'm pondering?
I think so, Brain, but isn't Regis Philbin already married?
Pinky, Are you pondering what I'm pondering?
I think so, Brain, but we'll never get a monkey to use dental floss.
Pinky, Are you pondering what I'm pondering?
I think so, Brain, but me and Pippi Longstocking... I mean, what would the children look like?
thanks to Billybunny for the inspiration
I'm getting tired. My ass is asleep, my brain is fried and atrophy has set in. I'm going to log off of AIM until midnight and start taking walks outside in between posts.
9:30:clarification on the boob thing
It's been called to my attention that this is turning into a Big Boob contest. It's not. It's about beauty, and the natural wonders of the female anatomy. Right? RIGHT?
So please do not be intimidated by the cleavage already shown. Show us what you got. Show us your boobie beauty. Small, medium, large, fake, real, Pamela Anderson melons, it doesn't matter. Because deep inside, under those mammary glands, we are all just people, damn it!
9:20:and the boobs keep coming!
Hey! I made it halfway through! Only 12 more hours to go. Only....12....more....
I thought that as night approached I would want to blog less, I would be bored or tired of it. Not so. I feel like posting more. I'm having tons of fun with this. I had figured on being serious at some points - writing my usual novel length posts about life and the world - but this has been much more entertaining for me. Thanks to everyone who has been stopping by here all day, visiting and commenting and talking to me on AIM. (name: propagandhist. say hello)
It's almost nine and I haven't found a suitable mascot yet. Anyone?
And now, I present to you the husband and wife cleavage coalition of Robyn and Todd:
Dammit. I forget how to do the time. It's 8:25. There. That's the time.
I was supposed to be here at 630 but I had a little trouble finding the room that has this thing.
Now I am watching Big Brother 3. When Roddy laments, they play Monks singing. When, Chiara and Roddy are nestled in the hammock, they play love music with cymbals and shit. When Lisa and that beefcake freak fuck doggy style in her bedroom, well, appropriately they play porno music.
This show sucks balls. So does Lisa.
Now I have to go, I can't hear what they're saying from in here.
I don't know if I'll be back. She only uses me when she needs to go take a crap, or eat pizza, or fornicate.
posted by: marge
8:00:boobs on the spot
for your viewing pleasure:
She's got a nice rack, eh?
Have you had enough boobies yet? I didn't think so. I still have about ten more in the vault and it's not too late to send yours in. Next up at 9:00, a husband-wife cleavage team!
I'm going for pizza and water, Marge will take over at 8:30. Be kind to her, I think she's drunk.
7:30:squids and stool
Isn't that a sign of the apocalypse?
A plague of flying sea creatures shall wash upon the shores shortly before the man who lives in the great white house announces that he is the anti-christ.
They should put the squid to good use. Arthur Treacher's Fried Flying Calamari, anyone?
And speaking of strange but true, now is a good time as any to try out some fecal fortune telling According to this site: A calm and stable forcast is expected, make the best of it. Good thing I waited til today to do this. (odd link from Statia)
6:40: where the hell did that slut marge go?
I think my alter-ego got hung up serving meals to the elderly and infirm in her neighborhood.
Either that or she's drunk in the corner bar with her hand down some guys pants.
So I'm ten minutes late, but I've got boobie bootie for ya.
Now that's what I call cleavage.
Oh, she's doing this time thing. It's 6pm or some shit.
You can call me Marge. You can also call me ...
Hold on I have to go throw up.
posted by: marge
5:41: the boobs of bill
Who wants to wait a half hour for boobies? Here ya go!
Remember, all boob posts move over to the boobieblog after they move down here.
Now, I have a contest for you all. Jenna thinks I need a blogathon mascot. So you have until 9pm tonight to come up with a mascot for the last 12 hours of the blogathon. Use your imagination, but make it something that represents me or my blog. Prize will be awarded. Not sure what yet.
And now, while I shower and walk around the block and have a quickie and get refreshed, my alter-ego will be taking over the 6 and 6pm postings.
5:30: guilt gift
I was feeling a little guilty because here we are on a Saturday, no kids in the house, and my ass has been in this computer chair all day, totally ignoring Justin except for when I ask him for a back rub.
So I did what any good girlfriend would do. I plied him with a present. For his patience and acceptance of my 24 hours spent hunched over the keyboard, I bought him the Wacom tablet he has wanted forever.
Now I can ask for a foot massage without guilt.
I wonder how many quickies we could get in between posts all night?
Some very gracious and helpful people have been hunting up content for me; pointing to interesting links and stories. I thank you all and will use them all in future posts. As a matter of fact, after talking to Jenna, I just had the idea that I will do some posts on the oddest links people can find for me. So go search!
5pm: presenting - the boobieblog!
The cleavage will be posted here first, as always, and then moved over to the boobieblog so you can check them all out for the final voting.
And with Stacy's efforts on behalf of the cleavage contest, I now show you her boobs. Woot!
4:30: that new blog smell
What does your blog smell like? According to bigwig, my blog smells like Original Recipe KFC.
Damn, I knew I should have cleaned up those crumbs.
I thought I would smell more like napalm. Or burning battery acid. Andrea gets to smell like choler and blood. I get greasy food.
What would your blog smell like?
new boobs and a surprise at 5(EST).
4:00: man boobs
For your boobalicious pleasure, and so I'm not accused of sexism or objectifying women, our first male entry. Oh, there's more. There is more.
blogathon plug: the lovely, talented and gracious mizdos, one of my immoral supporters.
I'm starting to get loopy. Staring at the computer screen has radiated my sense of decorum.
3:30:who owns the chiefs?
Does your weblog own you?
That's right. I'm doing online quizzes and it's only 3:30. Bite me.
extra brownie points for anyone who gets the reference in the title of this post.
2:30:those crazy boys
First space monkeys, now mohawks. The boys in the band seem to be losing touch with their fan base. I mean, what 12 year old pre-pubescent girl wants too swoon over a guy with hair from the early 80's?
Mohawks used to be dangerous and taboo. Now they are just passe. Especially on this guy.
I think that's Joey Fat One in the background laughing at him.
(the pre-pubescent remark does not apply to Glace, who so kindly sent me this picture and who is a fan of the more umm...adult kind).]
blogathon plug: Meryl. Meryl is fighting with Laurence, which I already did today. And she's blogging for a great cause.
Send me your boobs. Next one up at 4pm, and it's male boobies. Don't be shy, guys. Come on Laurence, show us your titties!
Back from Taco Bell. Now here come the boobies.
The way it works is this: I have the final say in judging. But I can, and will, be swayed by comments. I'll post them one at a time, in between other posts. Drag it out as long as possible.
If you want in and you haven't sent your cleavage yet, send them to me at afireinsideblogATyahoodotcom. I've got cleavage from guys already. Butt cleavage does NOT count, ok?
contestant number one: KD
1:30:sense of snow (a sort of rerun)
(I'm going to Taco Bell. I hope I'm back in half an hour. When I do get back, the debauchery begins.)
I realized a while back that no one ever read my journal page. I kept writing there, but took it down from public view. I think I made this entry public for a few days and then took the page down after that.
So for the sake of my sanity and for the sake of saving my brain power for debauchery later on, this is a rerun. But a rerun most of you probably haven't read yet.
(cleavage shots up next. send yours now if you haven't already)
sense of snow
We sat in the car, huddled in the back seat underneath a comforter. We were parked in the lot of a closed-down restaurant, overlooking an expansive field of dried out grass. Behind us was the highway, the road that would once again separate us. It was March and cold and we were tired of these short bursts of togetherness. We were sitting there, plotting and planning for this to be the last time I would make the trip home alone. Next time, he would come with me. He would move his belongings, his life, his world into mine. All that planning and dreaming didn't make this farewell any easier. No matter how many times you do it, no matter how many times you throw kisses into the rear view mirror as you pull away, it never becomes easy.
So we put it off for a little while, that kiss. We stayed hunkered down in the car, talking and kissing and not thinking about the long stretch of time between this visit and the next.
We watched the clouds move in and form a wall of threat in front of us. The sky had gone gray and dull since we first pulled into the lot. The air changed, the cold became bitter. Still, we made no move to go. We watched out the windshield as a storm moved in. As we kissed, the wind whistled at us.
The first flakes fell with precision and grace, dancing from the sky onto the windows, where they would sparkle momentarily and then melt and run away.
We both knew I should leave. Driving through the mountains of Pennsylvania in a snow storm was a frightening thought. But it didn't look like a huge storm; just some flakes here and there. So I stayed a bit more. I wanted to soak up as much of him as I could before I left.
The snow started to fall a bit harder, a bit faster. We listened to the sound of the snow; a soft, shuffling sound that pitter-pattered like slippered footsteps on the roof of the car. The flakes that landed on the windows no longer had the luxury of melting and disappearing. Before they could flee, more flakes fell on top of them, piling up until there were millions of them, held captive on my windshield. We could no longer see out. The wind carried the snow around the lenght of the car, and soon we were encased in darkness, buried under a storm that minutes ago had seemed benign.
We made no effort to turn on the wipers and look out. We liked it there, under the blanket, under the snow, under the wintry sky.
Eventually the coldness of our cocoon became too much and we turned the car on. The wipers went to work, pushing the sleet and snow from the windshield. It made little difference. The world out there was white all around. The restaurant and field were gone, replaced by a blanket of falling snow so thick it made me claustrophobic. I panicked at the thought of driving home and gave one fleeting thought to staying, to holing up in the car for the rest of the storm, like lovers on the run.
It would be a long ride home through the bad weather and usual Sunday traffic. I needed to leave. I needed to leave him. We cleaned the car off together, both of us ending up soaked, frozen and breathless. The snow had started to let up a little, enough to see a few feet in the distance. It was dark now, the street lamps had come on and the snow trickled under their lights, sparkling as the tumbled to the ground. We kissed then, underneath the light and the snow. He closed his arms around me and vowed that this would be the last time we would do this. This would be the last time we would kiss with heavy hearts and tears in our eyes.
I drove home with Faith No More's Album of the Year on repeat. I held my breath around the slippery curves of I-80 and I sighed with heartache as I sat in New York traffic. I kept looking in my rear view mirror, as if he would still be there, waving to me. I took the blanket from the back seat and draped it across my lap. I held it up to my face at one point, taking a deep breath and inhaling his scent.
I made it home in one piece, a much longer ride than it should have been. I crawled into bed, exhausted and worn and heard his words in my head over again. His vow that I would never have to do this again. I cried myself to sleep, missing him more deeply than I ever had.
It was the last time. I never again had to make that trip home alone again, I never had to brave a springs snowstorm in Pennsylania on my own, words of good-bye ringing in my ear.
Everytime it snows now, we put on Album of the Year and sit on the couch and listen to the snow falling gently against the house. We close our eyes and we are back in the car, clinging and hoping. Sometimes we go outside and kiss under the streetlight as the snow drops and sparkles like diamonds in our hair.
1:00: kick my ash
Last two weeks worth of movies:
Reign of Fire: Sucked. Can't say much more than that.
The Others: Didn't suck too badly, I just hate movies that are nothing more than thin plot and surprise ending.
Ravenous: Almost got out of the sucky range, but parts of it were just too drawn out. If it was about a half hour shorter it would have been great.
Royal Tennenbaums: For a film that starred three of my least favorite actors (Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller and Gene Hackman) it was pretty damn good.
Moulin Rouge: I fell asleep in the first ten minutes.
Muppet Movie: You cannot go wrong with this film. Timeless classic, always puts me in a good mood. Fozzie Bear tells the best jokes ever.
Follow That Bird: The darkest kid's movie ever. I am not kidding you. Watch it and tell me it's not dark. Poor Big Bird.
Air Bud baseball: Yes, I watched this movie. Blame the kids. Some franchises should be put to sleep before they get feeble, you know? I could have written this script while in a drunken coma. Yea, I know. It's Air Bud. I wasn't expecting Oscar caliber writing but I wasn't expecting such a piece of shit, either. Even the kids predicted what would happen next.
Which made me think. They should make realistic kids movies. Just to let them know the good guy doesn't always win, the nice kid doesn't always end up the hero and people don't always live happily ever after.
I want to see a baseball movie where the kid actually strikes out with the bases loaded and game tied in the bottom of the ninth.
I want to see a movie where the evil tyrant does not get his just rewards; instead he ends up victorious as the kid he stole the money/business/invention from cries himself to sleep.
I want to see a movie where the parents don't get back together or the lost dog never gets found or the bully is never made to suffer the consequences of his actions.
I want to see a movie that says to kids "Hey, reality bites! Life is not fair! Things don't always go your way! Hard work and perserverance will not always pay off in the end! Dude, the bully is ten times your size and meaner than you will ever be. Don't even bother trying to retaliate!"
I tried to get Natalie to watch Night of the Living Dead but she wouldn't sit through it. I told her if she expected me to sit through Crossroads and A Walk to Remember that she was going to have to sit through Dead Alive or Army of Darkness.
This posting every half hour is harder than I thought. Even for someone as verbose as I am.
This is what I'm doing between posts.
Give me links, folks. Give me ideas. Give me crazy news stories. Give me games to try.
Laurence wants to make this day go faster by picking fights. He picked with the wrong chick.
You know that money I'm getting for selling all these cleavage shots to pay-for-porn sites? You're not seeing a dime of it. I'm gonna....I'm gonna (thinks of something really mean here) send it to the Arafat baby wipe fund in your name!
My friends kids left for sleepaway camp this week. She is a wreck. She can't sleep at night. It's a comination of guilt and worry.
When I was in the fourth grade, I was in the Girl Scouts. By force, not choice. We went on a camping trip. The first night I cried like a baby. The next day my mother had to drive out (a whole 25 miles away!) and get me.
I'm a homebody. I never liked sleeping out. When I would sleep at my friend's or my cousin's house, just across the street, I would often get up in the middle of the night and walk home. I like my own bed, my own house, my own things.
I prefer staying home to going almost anywhere. I hate hotels and motels, I hate sleeping in strange beds, showering in strange showers. I'm not a very good guest.
I like home. I like being able to do my own thing. I have this routine that needs to be followed every morning like clockwork, lest my day get shot to hell before it even starts. I don't want to eat breakfast or wake up on someone else's schedule. I don't like your Lactaid milk or your sugar frosted cookie crunch cereal or the way your toaster works. I don't like that you watch Regis in the morning instead of CNN and that I can't hang around in boxers and a t-shirt before I am ready to shower. I want to prop my feet up on my own coffee table while I read the paper and do my business in my own bathroom.
I'm all about having total control over my own world. That night at girl scout camp I was in enemy territory. There was also the fact that I had no friends and spent most of the time by myself, swatting away bugs and tripping over dead things in the woods. This was before there were a ton of movies that detailed all the ways in which people get gored to death at sleepaway camps. Had Jason been around then, I would have refused to come out of my sleeping bag at all.
I still hate Ms. Grippo for pointing out to everyone that I was being a little baby and had to go home cause I missed my mommy. I hate her for making that chasm between myself and everyone else even deeper. I hated her then because her daughters were beautiful and smart and popular and she herself looked like an 18 year old hooker. She probably still does. I'm sure she's a botox queen, wherever she is.
I did miss my mommy. So what. I still miss her when she goes away. Yea, she annoys the hell out of me most times, but she's my mommy, you know?
So when Natalie called me from Cleveland this morning and cried because she misses me, I gave her all the sympathy I could.
She misses her mommy.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to take pictures of your own cleavage?
The entries for the cleavage contest are pouring in. Don't delay. Guys and Gals welcome.
I will start posting the pictures some time in the afternoon and you can begin voting then.
Chris just sent me hers (wooo!) and I'm listening to Jello Biafra and Mojo Nixon doing Are You Drinking With Me Jesus in her honor.
11:00: hot tramp
I'm reading Natalie's new issue of Teen People magazine. No, not for the pictures of Heath Ledger. Well, maybe.
My sister gave the subscription to Nat as a present. It's sort of an inappropriate magazine for a 12 year old. Especially a 12 year old with an overprotective mother who swears that her daughter will never have sex. Ever.
After getting through the 40 pages of ads that precede the actual magazine, I realized one thing. We are raising a generation of whores, pimps and materialistic fashion victims. And they all have really bad taste in music.
Take Natalie for instance. She swears she needs a cell phone. She needs to shop at stores that sell t-shirts for $40 apiece. She listens to Blink182.
The more I tell her she can't have these things, the more she wants them.
So I just went through the magazine and wrote the word "TRAMP" across the faces of all the girls.
No, I didn't really.
I just cut out the picture of Heath Ledger. It's giving me inspiration for a future post about masturbation.
I wonder how many parents sit around hoping that their kids don't grow up to be like them?
listening to: David Bowie, Rebel, Rebel
10:30: fun with telemarketers
Hi, I'm Sabrina and I'm calling because you are spending too much on your Verizon phone bill!
Hi, I uhh...
Just let me tell you...
I'm sort of busy.....
I'll tell you what Sabrina. Why don't you give me your home phone number and then I'll call you when you're in the middle of having sex, ok?
Fine. I guess you don't want to save money on your phone bill.
I just spent $100 for this male hooker. Can you get me a deal on that?
blogathon plug #3: treefen, who will putting up several new site designs. The one there right now is beautiful.
listening to: Far, Man Overboard. still mellow.
10:00: to the Popemobile!
So is it me or is the Pope looking more and more like Stephen Hawking these days?
I'm half expecting him to start talking in an electronic voice.
Come to think of it, have you ever seen those two in the same room? Didn't think so.
Now, Choire says I'm supposed to talk about the giant spider that controls the Vatican. I'm going to have to do some research on that. I always thought that it was controlled by robots.
9:30: little lambs
I'm going to do a pee count for Melly. Just to prove I pee more than she does.
9:17, first pee.
I'm starting off slow, don't want to blow my load all at once. Listening to show tunes before I get to the heavy metal (show tunes in honor of sponsor Bill). Now playing: Gary, Indiana from The Music Man
I grew up on show tunes. My mother listened to them endlessly, in between her doo-wop and rock and roll. I remember one song, Little Lamb from Gypsy. It made me cry every time I heard it. It still does.
Little cat, little cat,
Ah, why do you look so blue?
Did somebody paint you like that,
Or is it your birthday, too?
Little fish, little fish,
Do you think I'll get my wish?
Little lamb, little lamb,
I wonder how old I am.
I wonder how old I am. . .
blogathon plug #2: I bet Laurence post more often than anyone else.
9am: welcome message
I think I'm ready to go. I hope I am. I've got all the supplies I need. The Ash bobbin head is for good luck. I'll just rub his head every time I get tired and I will be granted another hour of wide awake-ness.
Justin says if I rub his head for good luck.......well, nevermind.
There are plenty of things planned for the next 24 hours. Cleavage contest entries have started coming in.
Don't forget I am taking requests on AIM (propagandhist) email (afireinsideblogATyahoodotcom) and Yahoo Messenger (sporktheworld).
It is 9am. Let the madness begin.
blogathon plug #1: Dave has some serious madness planned for today.
Well, I got up at 5am anyhow. Which means staying awake 29 hours instead of 24. I think I have writer's block already.
Thank you also to Laura, who signed on as an immoral supporter. I'm counting on all of you to keep me going.
I am also sponsoring someone, so as soon as the blogathon starts, please head over to Mike's place and give him some support.
And attention cleavage contest contestants: KD has already sent hers in and umm...wow.
Cleavage contest starts at 8pm. All entries must be in before then (mail them to me). And just so I'm not being sexist, if any guys want to enter, that's fine.
Blogathon totals: $50,782.17 raised for various charities.
Thanks to the generosity of my 31 sponsors, $629.00 for the Daniel Pearl Foundation.
I will be highlighting other blogathoners during the course of the 24 hours. Please check out the participants list and visit as many of them as possible.
Much thanks to the blogathon team for their hard work in putting this together.
I will be back at 9am EST for the start.
Well I'm a big giant idiot. Blogathon: 6:00 a.m. PST. P - S - T. That would be Pacific Standard Time. And where am I? Not anywhere near the Pacific. Which means this whole time I was thinking that I am blogging from 6am-6am when I don't actually start until 9am. Right? Ok, so I can sleep a little later in the morning.
Anyhow, I want to formally introduce you to my sponsors and immoral supporters. Please click on their links and visit their websites, if they have one.
Thanks to all of you. I hope I am able to maintain the integrity, stylish substance and maturity that you have come to expect of me on a daily basis.
Did I mention boobie shots and cleavage contests and Melly in a red bra?
travis - jenna - John - Glace - tanya - fredo - steven -
aaron - kevin - anon - jennifer - roe - ron bailey - jon sullivan - chris - treefen -
bigwig - plep - nancy - D - todd - robyn - bonnie (my sexy girlfriend from work) - lisa (my sister) - Simon (a nice guy) - Jo-Anne & Lew (my sister and her husband)
You can still sponsor me.
*update New sponsor: young bradford. Thank you, whoverer you are Mr. Bradford. Step forward and introduce yourself!
press 1 for an endless maze of automatons
If I were the head of a large company - let's say for hypothetical reasons that company is a cell phone company - and it's called Sprint - I would make some changes.
The first thing I would do is to make sure that at least one of the gazillion of phone numbers on our website would reach a real live person. At the very least I would make sure one of those phone numbers with the automated services would tell you exactly how to get a live person.
And when you do get a live person, I would see to it that that person has at least something resembling a brain and would be able to tell you if they can't serve your needs, the person who can. That person, who would clearly annunciate their words instead of slurring in some bizarre drawl, would be able to direct you exactly where you have to go.
And when you do get to the person that the previous neanderthal has sent you to, you wouldn't be then transferred to 18 different people over the course of an hour, all of whom claim that the service you need is located in some other department for which they either don't have the number or the number they give you is controlled by someone named Claire who is virtual in nature and wants you to speak your needs into a computer chip and says things like hmmm and oohhh rather seductively.
I especially would want to see that none of the scenarios above would occur to you if you happen to be a customer who wants desperately to uprgrade their service to something more expensive than the service they currently have.
This is all hypothetical of course.
the pee pee dance
Complete and utter disaster.
I got to work only to be informed that there is a problem with the plumbing. No water, no use of the bathrooms.
Have I ever mentioned my bladder problem? I pee at the least every half hour. Nobody pees more than me. I have to go already as it is.
I'm doing the pee pee dance.
This isn't exactly the kind of neighborhood where you can walk around looking for a bathroom to use.
Must not drink coffee. Must resist bottle of cool, refreshing water. Must not panic.
You know that saying don't have a pot to piss in? I'm looking for one.
They fixed the problem. Pee at last! Pee at last!
It is apparent that some people were actually using the bathroom anyhow and not flushing. Cretins.
The blogathon starts in 24 hours. I'm stocking up on the essentials:
I will be on AIM for most of the night, under the name Propagandhist. I may turn on Yahoo Messenger, where my name is afireinsideblog. How original, I know.
I will be taking requests. If there is something you want me to write about, some antic you want me to perform, some part of my anatomy you want me to show, just instant message me or email me and I will see what I can work up for you.
I'm trying to entice Robyn and a few others into a cleavage contest.
I will also spend time talking about each of my sponsors (see sidebar) who have been gracious enough to either sponsor me with cash for the Daniel Pearl Foundation or lend me their immoral support.
I will be doing Long Distance Requests. Have something you want to say to another blogger? Want to profess your love for someone? Want me to find you a picture of a Christopher Lowell in a dress? I'm here for you.
I will be blogging about other blogathoners, checking up on what they are doing. This is not a competion (even though there are awards) and I think we should all stick together and offer assistance and drugs where needed.
Ok, that should cover the first six hours.
Want me to plug your blog? I'll do that too if you ask. Nicely. Want to share a story or joke or tasteless website? I can help. Just send me a message.
I'll expect comments. Lots of them. The person who leaves the most comments during the 24 hour period will get a prize. Does anyone know of a script that lets you keep track of who is commenting and how many times?
Also, if I can get in touch with Candi and she is free at any time during the 'thon, maybe I can talk her into redesigning the banned books site sometime during the 24 hours. I've already hired her for it, but I just haven't been on AIM at all to discuss it with her.
Now, about the alcohol. I've stocked up, but I'm saving it for the home stretch. I figure some time at around 2am I will start drinking. Stick around if you want to see some really bizarre, embarassing posts.
I'll be archiving the whole thing in case you go to sleep like a normal person and don't want to miss one riveting moment of my inane drivel.
So, any other bright ideas, post them here in the comments. Any suggestions for staying awake, keeping alert or harassing Ashcroft through cyberspace will be helpful.
mo' rodents, mo' problems
Let's get a couple of things straight here:
I will not have a rat for a pet.
I will not have for a pet anything that requires being fed other live animals.
Also, gerbils and hamsters are better left to be owned by friends, where we can go over and visit them and hold them and go home and never have to clean a cage.
I did not stop at the pet store today. The thing is, I think I am more infatuated with having a house full of habitrail accessories than the actual pets themselves.
The voices of reason (that's you guys) were pretty much in favor of nixing the hamster/gerbil idea. And I still don't know the difference between the two, except that gerbils tend to be the butt of Richard Gere jokes. Butt. Get it? Smack me.
So now I'm back to staring at the slimy, smelly albino frogs. I'd prefer the kids had a pet that they could hold or cuddle or play with (please note that I hate both dogs and cats).
And besides, you know what happens once you get a rat for a pet? Michael Jackson starts singing songs about you, that's what.
lies, truth and hot blogs
Should I be insulted that so many people see me as the non-punctual type?
1. I am a registered Republican.
Yes, this is true. It has to do with town politics and nepotism. It pays the bills. However, I do not vote party line (as if) and I have never once voted for a Republican president. Most likely never will.
2. My first sexual experience was with a girl.
Yes. The girl across the street, who tormented me and used me almost my whole childhood decided to take it upon herself to introduce to me to things such as masturbating, oral sex and inserting things where they really shouldn't be. Turns out it runs in her family. I've heard many stories about those girls being the first sexual experience for lots of people.
3. I've had a warrant out for my arrest.
Yes, several times. All parking and/or traffic ticket related, and I always managed to get to the courthouse and take care of the tickets right before they were going to come looking for me. It's a procrastination thing. Right now I'm driving around with license that's expired almost a year.
4. I received a perfect attendance award in 6th grade.
This does not say anything about punctuality, does it? It doesn't say I received an award for being on time every day, does it? So what's with the dissing on me about the likelihood of me getting places on time. I'll have you know that I am early for everything. I habitually early. When I show up, that is. The school nurse was my best friend in grade school. I also made good use of thermometers held next to radiators, homemade puke (oatmeal, mustard, ketchup and alka seltzer), and making up good sob stories. So, let's get this straight. Puntual - yes. Perfect attendance at any school or any job I ever attended. Not.
5. I dated a guy who spent time in jail while we were dating.
Not once, but twice. First there was Frankie, he went to jail for trying to run down his ex girlfriend. He used to call me collect and ask me to bring him cigarettes. I used to laugh and hang up. Then there was Doug, who was in for violating probation resulting from previous drug charges. I went to visit him, saw his ex-girlfriend's name on the visitor list and he never heard from me again.
Now, wasn't that exciting? Maybe I'll do more during the blogathon and make it a bit harder. You people know me too well.
And now I present to you: Is my Blog HOT
I am thisclose to stopping at the pet shop on the way home to buy hamsters/gerbils for the kids (I don't really know what the difference is) and getting rid of our slimy, ugly underwater frogs.
Good idea or mistake?
hair club for congressmen
Things James Traficant has to be embarassed about besides being booted out of Congress:
1. The fact that the only person that voted to keep him was Gary Condit.
2. The hair.
That's why they kicked you out, James. It's not the corruption, it's the bad rug.
Quoted Mr. Traficant: "And there should be no ethics committee. It is dog eat dog. Castrate your opponent."
Consider yourself castrated.
For the record, I don't consider the things Traficant did to be any worse than what most other politicians are guilty of, but not caught at. It's not like he's oh.....strangling interns and leaving them in the woods.
'cause I'm a liar
Yep, I'm hopping on a meme. Sue me. Brain will not start today.
4 truths, one lie:
Which one of the following statements about me is not true?
Guesses below. Feel free to expound on why you chose the answer you did.
note: I'll be posting the answers some time after lunch (around 2pm EST). Also, both of my sisters and my brother in law are ineligible to guess.
Before I commence with my regularly scheduled daily blogging, please pause for a few announcements:
First, go congratulate Philo on being the ultimate blogwhore. He won first place in a long, hard fought contest and now proudly wears the crown of being the greatest whore in the blogosphere. Blogically speaking, of course.
The man who put the whole blogwhore thing together, Shel, is celebrating his birthday today. For Shel, who is a dear, wonderful, eccentric friend, one limerick and one haiku:
I know a man named Shel
I bet he is going to hell
There's no pearly gates;
A handbasket waits
And join him, I may as well.
one who makes me laugh
and comforts me when I'm down
Shel - in a nutshell
Happy birthday, Shel. 28 is not as bad as you think. I mean, it only gets worse from here, so you may as well enjoy it.
where my fuzzy bunnies at?
Also, I made my first post (a rant of couse) at hfsd.com
I'm not dead yet
Movies as metaphor for life:
The part of Large Man With Dead Body is played by Ignorant Miscreant
The part of The Dead Body That Claims It Isn't is played by me
The Dead Collector appears as himself.
The Dead Collector: Bring out yer dead!
[A man puts a body on the cart.]
The Dead Collector: Bring out yer dead!
Large Man with Dead Body: Here's one.
Collector: That'll be ninepence.
The Dead Body That Claims It Isn't: I'm not dead!
Large Man with Dead Body: Nothing. There's your ninepence.
The Dead Body That Claims It Isn't: I'm not dead!
Collector: 'Ere, he says he's not dead.
LM w/ DB: Yes he is.
The DB That CII: I'm not!
Collector: He isn't.
LM w/ DB: Well, he will be soon, he's very ill.
The DB That CII: I'm getting better!
LM w/ DB: No you're not, you'll be stone dead in a moment.
Collector: Well, I can't take him like that. It's against regulations.
The DB That CII: I don't want to go on the cart!
LM w/ DB: Oh, don't be such a baby.
Collector: I can't take him.
The DB That CII: I feel fine!
LM w/ DB: Oh, do me a favor.
Collector: I can't!
LM w/ DB: Well, can you hang around for a couple of minutes? He won't be long.
Collector: I promised I'd be at the Robinsons'. They've lost nine today.
LM w/ DB: Well, when's your next round?
The DB That CII: I think I'll go for a walk!
LM w/ DB: You're not fooling anyone, you know. Isn't there anything you could do?
The DB That CII: I feel happy! I feel happy!
I've edited out the end of the scene because I'm not dead yet. The sun is shining, it feels like fall in summer, I have finally had something to eat and I know that I can look forward to a nap when I get home.
I'm feeling much better now. Just a flesh wound.
ctrl alt delete
I have been sleeping in only fits and starts.
When I do sleep, it's fitful and restless and filled with nightmares. In between those frantic dreams are the moments when I toss and turn or just lay there and stare into the darkness. Sometimes, like today, I just get up for the day at 3am because going back to sleep would only mean going back to the nightmares of lost children, dead bodies, running, running, running.
It's not the good kind of tired where you get all get giddy and goofy and loopy. It's the kind of tired that is wearing me down mentally. I feel sad and angry. I feel like crying. I'm sitting at my desk, listless and bored even though there's a huge pile of work that needed to be done yesterday.
I just want to sleep. I want deep, uninterupted sleep. I want to dream of candy mountains and fields of flowers and fuzzy, frolicking bunnies.
I've received more than my share of email today regarding the below post. If you people were so sure of your beliefs you would post your comments where everyone can see them, right here on the site. Instead, you email me your snide remarks and accusations. You do it every day. Maybe all the emails are from the same person, some rude miscreant who has 8,000 email addresses. Maybe not. Maybe I just irritate everyone in general.
I'm tired of this. I'm tired of feeling like I'm speaking to a wall. The same wall I keep running into head first. I'm tired of feeling like every day is a struggle to find something right with the world. And I'm mostly tired of people who refuse to engage in healthy, grown up debate and instead want to rake you over the coals without giving you a word edgewise.
I know it's the lack of sleep talking. I'm not as lethargic as my words make me sound. I'm not as depressed as it appears. Just....just don't bother me if you aren't going to listen to me talk when I'm done listening to you. Don't write me just to tell me that I'm an idiot or ignorant or I should be hung for treason without giving me factual reasons why this is true.
What's the point in speaking out and writing it all down in a public place if it's only going to get you death threats and name calling?
Being so tired physically makes me exhausted in every other way. People are exhausting me. The news is exhausting me. Just thinking about everything is exhausting me.
I feel like I could sleep for eight days straight. If only I could.
the circle jerk of hate
I suppose it's not a thing a decent human being would do; to feel joy when someone dies. But what if that person was not a decent human being himself? Should I still feel like the world is better off without them? As a supposedly civilized person, am I to mourn the death of someone who brought hate and violence upon the world? Of two people?
The military leader of Hamas is dead. I don't feel sympathy, I don't feel sorrow, I don't feel grief that the life of another human being was taken so violently. Salah Shehade was a terrorist.
Neo-nazi leader William Pierce is dead. Hang on while I go see if I can garner up some mournful sympathy. Checking.....waiting......
I'm glad he's dead. I'm glad his evil black heart stopped beating and I hope his death was long and drawn out and painful. I hope that in his last fleeting moments, angels danced alongside his death bed and pointed at him and laughed.
Suppose there is a god. And suppose that god and the devil and heaven and hell are all very personal. They are your dreams and nightmares and representative of what you did while on this earth. So they are different for everyone.
When Mr. Pierce gets up to those heavenly gates, there's a god waiting for him. This god is wearing a t-shirt that says "STAMP OUT RACISM" and a big grin. This god says "Welcome, Mr. Pierce, I've been waiting for this moment," and then pushes a button that sends him down to his own private hell, where Pierce is surrounded by the very people he wanted to exterminate - blacks and Jews. And he spends his eternity watching these people piss on copies of The Turner Diaries.
( ed. note: it was pointed out to me after I posted this that someone might interpret this as meaning hell is filled with jewish and black people and I in no way meant to imply that. I was just trying to establish what hell would be like for Pierce, if hell was a personal journey)
This would work well for a lot of people.
Jerry Falwell would be greeted at the gates by a god who laughs in his face and tells him he had it all wrong.
Pastor Fred Phelps would be greeted by a bevy of gay drag queens and they would kick his ass right down to Satan's lair, where he would spend forever walking across hot coals holding up a sign that says "GOD LOVES FAGS" while all the people whose funerals he picketed at stood by mocking him. One person's hell is another person's heaven.
I'm not saying that I wouldn't be greeted by some nightmare version of hell that I deserve. I hate the haters. That makes me a hater too, I suppose. I wish death upon people. I want to spit on graves of certain extremist, ignorant murderers. I sometimes want to answer violence with violence.
Is it ok to depsise the people who bring evil and injustice to this world? Or am I part of the problem? Do I bring evil and injustice as well by wanting to wipe certain people off the face of this bleak earth? Perhaps I am just adding to the black cloud of hate that hangs over us. Yet I cannot subscribe to the "love they neighbor" theory because frankly, some of my neighbors suck. Some of them frighten me.
I keep having this recurring dream where the world is being flooded as punishment for what we have done to it. As I furiously swim, trying to find a piece of land to rest on, an ark appears. Guiding the ark is Falwell and Pat Robertson. As they reach out their hands to bring me on board, I go underwater and try to drown myself.
This world is never being saved. We are doomed to repeat cycles of violence because we never learn from our mistakes. We are doomed because hate begets hate and we all despise someone else and it's a big circle jerk of hatred. We all think we are right, we all think our reasons are good, we all think that our side is going to win.
Guess what? We all lose. Every last one of us. In fact, we have already lost. Just take a look around you. What do you see? Racism, sexism, hate crimes, homophobia, ignorance, anti semitism, pollution, litter, corruption, lies, scandal, war.
No matter how much I try to be part of the solution, I will always be part of the problem, because I add to the anger and turmoil that is making this world quake. Even if I am hating the people who bring death and destruction and the eventual fall of the stock market upon us, I am still sending my signals of negativity into the air.
I would try to change, but I just can't muster up any hope.
little raindrop soldiers
(this entry moved to photolog)
temporary empty nest syndrome
The kids are on their way to Cleveland with their father. They will be back Sunday night.
I come home from work to an empty house.
Angry Beavers on the tv, a margarita slushie next to me.
I don't have to make macaroni & cheese tonight.
No one crying for me to help them find cleats or lip gloss or a three day old hot dog they forgot about.
No one is begging me to take them here or there or anywhere but here. No screeching 12 year old girls knocking on the door, no hockey pucks being slammed against the side of the house.
I don't hear the Playstation blasting. I don't hear the sounds of Linkin Park or ESPN coming from any speakers.
No one is asking me to get off the computer so they can feed their neopets or compulsively check baseball stats.
No he hit me, he looked at me, she kicked me, she said that bad word.
The house is empty. And quiet. And peaceful. It will be this way until Sunday. It's what I always wanted.
So then why do I feel like crying?
Holy Fucking Shit Day is live!
This is a group weblog, for lack of a better term. The participants write about topics surrounding September 11th, 2001. Members are free to write about any internet sources or world events that may move them. There is no editorial constraint. Therefore, these writings are the opinion and responsibility -- and copyright -- of those who express them.
Expect much posting from me.
There was Popeye yesterday, turned into a children's ride, a little boat for two where Natalie became his Olive Oyl.
I never liked Popeye. I thought it was a stupid show, thought that Olive Oyl was a passive-aggressive bitch who made herself out to be the victim just to get attention, thought that Brutus should pick on someone his own size. And Popeye, well he was just a wimp who could only stand up for his girl or himself when he had some spinach in him. Please. Spare me. Even as a kid I used to think, what the hell does he want with that Olive Oyl anyhow? She's ugly and scrawny and uses him to no end. Let her go with Brutus and let her find out what happens next time she screams for help and Popeye decides he'd rather kick back with a few brews than eat that godawful spinach again and risk his neck saving a woman who doesn't even appreciate him until his muscles show.
Then yesterday, as I stared at Popeye and his magic vegetable, I wondered if we don't all have our own version of spinach. Something that makes us stronger in situations that call for strength we don't usually possess.
Sure, I have my imaginary spork o' death, and I use it to pretend that I am picking out the eyes of those that want to bring me down. I have coffee, that gives me the adrenaline and caffeine rush I need to threaten to kick in the car windows of anyone who doesn't stop for a school bus or use a turn signal properly.
I have humor, which allows me to make frog-in-a-blender jokes and bad puns about dead people in order to stave off the depression that might otherwise sneak up on me when dealing with death and all things evil.
I think for Popeye, spinach was just a metaphor for the strength one finds when defending love and honor and self. Even if he was a poor misguided soul who never realized he was being played for a fool, Popeye sure had good intentions. You do anything for someone you love that deeply. Lay down on railroad tracks, stand in the way of a bullet, tell them you aren't the least bit embarassed by their bright Hawaiian shirt.
Spinach is love and love is what makes me stronger. Love and passion and I'm not just talking about the love that comes with children and soulmates, but the love of everything you do and the way you live and the way you want things to be. Passion for what you believe in and your right to believe in it. It's what makes you fight the good fight even though you know it might be futile in the end.
Even if Olive Oyl did secretly love Brutus, Popeye did the only thing his passion and spinach allowed him to do - fight out of passion and honor and hope in the end that some spark of justice would prevail.
What's your spinach?
not an addict
My name is Michele and I'm not an addict.
I am not addicted to: video games, silly flash games, buying really bad DVDs, my weblog, cigarettes, Nature Valley Fruit and Nut granola bars, Snapple Peach Iced Tea, all-news channels and toy stores and my camera.
If you are here for the meeting just stand up, say your name and tell us about your addictions.
I'm not here to help. I'm here to enable.
Dick Armey, the SPORKers hero.
"Mr. Armey, chairman of the House Select Committee on Homeland Security, included language in his markup of the legislation to prohibit the Justice Department from initiating the Terrorism Information and Prevention System, also called Operation TIPS"Quote from Washington Times
Thanks to Bill for the heads up.
This does not mean that SPORK disbands, oh no. We have so much work to do. TIPS was just the umm...tip of the privacy iceberg.
Bill, go grab your SPORK spirit award.
crop circles, cleveland and kidneys
The kids are leaving tomorrow morning to vacation in Cleveland with their father. Yes, Cleveland. Not exactly a popular summer retreat destination.
They will be gone until Sunday night. That's six days. Part of me is thinking bliss! No one to take care of in the morning except me. I can actually get to work on time. No one calling me every five minutes. No running back and forth to baseball practice and friends' houses and the mall and the movie theater. Peace. Quiet.
So then why do I have a knot in my stomach? Why do I feel like crying? I'll tell you why: Because my over active imagination and my obession with worrying about things I can't control have taken over.
The what-if monsters came out last night. It all started off as normal parenting worry and then slowly went downhill from there.
What if he doesn't buckle them up in the car?
What if he forgets to give Natalie her ear drops?
What if there is a terrorist attack while they're gone?
What if he loses one of the kids at the Yankee game?
I stuff their pockets with pieces of paper that have a zillion phone numbers for emergency use.
It's not that I don't trust their father, I do. Completely. It's just my nature to think up the worst scenarios possible.
What if they get lost on the way their and end up in a field of whatever it is they grow in Ohio and the children of the corn or wheat or barely kidnap them and use them as a sacrifice?
What if they get lost on their way and end up in a crop circle and they are never heard from again?
What if someone sneaks into the hotel room at night to steal their kidneys?
What if they go insane after their father drags them through the Bruce Springsteen exhibition at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for the 53rd time?
What if they come home looking like Drew Carey and singing Cleveland Rocks?
And what if their father goes completely nuts from being in a car eight straight hours with a pre-teen girls suffering from terminal pms? Better him than me, I say.
Oh. Hey. Six days with the PS2 to myself. Six days with no phone calls from giggling, screeching girls. Six days without hockey pucks being slammed against the side of the house. Six days without the constant soundtrack of "I'm bored!" and "It's too hot!" being played on an endless loop.
Is it Tuesday morning yet?
I once had this bizarre dream and then I wrote a short story about it. Last night, I dreamed the story as I wrote it. The exact story, as if someone had taken it and made a movie of it and played it out in my head.
So I'm not just having repeat dreams anymore, but I'm dreaming about things I dreamed about previously. I'm dreaming about people and places I made up while awake. Crazy.
Here's the story/dream:
They're letting us go back home.
It's been two months.
We stand still on the sidewalk, not really sure what to do. We face the house, face everything we left there and our feet are poised to go left, right, left, right, taking us to the front door, but we can't. I look at my neighbors to the left and my neighbors to the right, and we are all standing there, statues in a wicked game of freeze tag. It's as if we are waiting for a starting gun to signal us to go. Move. Walk. Enter.
The short, squat man who looks like the Monopoly guy but without the top hat or tux, is urging us to go already, get on with it. They want to push us back in there already, when the pain is so fresh and the wounds haven't even scabbed over yet, they are still red and raw and bleeding, and there's pus coming out of them.
I feel sick, my stomach lurching and turning and doing a dance I didn't request. I want to go. I don't want to go. I pick up my foot, I put it down. I hold Merilee's hand, and I hope that she urges me on, but she is standing there, coma-like, blank look and vacant stare and all those cliches used to desrcibe someone that is dead but alive.
I glance over to the right and my neighbors are still there, waiting like us. They are the quintessential American Dynamo family. Perky mom and Handy-Dandy Dad and the blonde-haired, blue-eyed children. Todd is all white teeth and strong arms and the star of his baseball team and Britney is giggles and smiles and long legs that propel her across the lawn during the spring and summer, backflipping and tumbling and dreaming of the Olympics. In a fit of cosmic Americana, they went and got a dog and the dog is named -what else- Spot and he frolics on the lawn and never barks at the mailman. They are nice and friendly, maybe too friendly, in that Ned Flanders "hididily ho neighbor!" kind of way, and Merilee used to swear that there was some kind of evil hidden under the trays of brownies and ripe vine tomatoes they would bring over.
Then there's the couple on the left, Jerry and Connor, the gay couple and their adopted son Ben. They are married. Oh, they are not married in the eyes of the state or in the eyes of god, but they are in the eyes of their neighbors, even the Aryan looking Republican neighbors on my right, and everyone bought them presents and baked and coordinated babysitting schedules when they adopted Ben.
That's when things were right. Before we all stood here like zombies, afraid to go in our own homes. Before, when Britney had two legs instead of one and when Todd was able to talk, and it occurs to me, looking at Britney's stub of a right leg, that baby Ben is only a year old and he will never remember any of what happened. He will only know what is told to him later, in different voices by different people and the story will grow and shrink depending on who is telling it, and he will only have known Britney as having one leg. He will not remember her left leg or her fantastic tumbling skills.
I realize I have to be the first to walk. No one else will do it. I take a step, and it's like the starting signal everyone was waiting for. We all walk. The blonde family and the gay family and the broken family two houses down and the elderly couple across the way and the midwestern family that just moved in on the corner. We all walk. The monopoly man watches us, his staff watches us, the newspaper reporters and cameramen watch us. Our backs are to them. We see only our doors.
Our house is a large, center-hall Colonial, and when you open the door you can see straight through to the back. A friend told us when we bought this house that we should hire someone to move the door because it was bad feng-shui. We didn't know what feng-shui was and he told us and we laughed, but he was not laughing with us. He said our doors should not be lined up because Good Luck would come in the front door and go right out the back instead of hanging around and getting comfortable. It would just come in and whoosh! leave right away. We didn't listen to him, didn't hire anyone for the expensive and intrusive job of moving our back door, and months later we were a bit sorry.
Things happened soon after. Merilee lost her job and then Mr. Cowl across the street landed his dream job the next day. Merilee had a miscarriage - we didn't tell anyone- and the next day the news about Baby Ben was announced. Merilee's mother's dog was hit by a car and killed and the next day the blonde family next door brought Spot home from the animal shelter. We sat in the living room one night, talking about our run of bad luck and neither of us said it but we knew. It was the feng shui. Not only did Good Luck come and go so fast that we never knew it was there, but it ran straight to our neighbor's when it left our house. Its' arch enemy, Bad Luck, must have been milling around the neighborhood, too, following Good Luck around town and through center hall colonial houses, except that where Good Luck went out, Bad Luck decided to sit on the couch and stay awhile. We didn't move the door even then, and maybe we should have, but we shut it and bolted it and put black construction paper over the four small windows in the door and never opened it again. We were going on the assumption that if Good Luck decided to make a repeat appearance, it wouldn't be able to escape.
It was three nights later that we were sitting in the living room, doing crossword puzzles and contemplating another chance at having a child, when we heard the front screen door slam. We thought perhaps the blonde mother had come over with a tray of brownies or fresh cukes from the garden and we got up to greet her like proper neighbors should. But there was no one there. The wind, we surmised, had opened and closed the screen door, which never worked properly. Or....Merilee's eyes said it all. Good Luck had come back for another go! Merilee slammed the wooden door shut and slid the lock into place. Captured! We had captured Good Luck in our very own house! We ran around and made sure all the windows were closed and there was no way that luck would escape us this time. When we were sure the house was fully sealed, we met back in the living room. We waited. We weren't sure how long it would take for the luck to start working. Maybe the phone would ring with a job offer. Maybe Ed McMahon would finally show up at our doorstep with a million dollars. Maybe, just maybe, if we had sex right there and then, with Good Luck swirling all around us, Merilee would get pregnant and we would have our perfect dream child, a child that would rival anything Todd or Britney or Ben could ever amount to.
So we did it. We did it right there, on the living room floor, which for us was a major digression from our sexual routine. We were straight and narrow. Man on top. Fuck, hold, come, sleep. Not this time. This time I fucked her until she screamed at me to stop and when I came inside her I was sure that we had just made the finest baby in the world, because Good Luck was hanging out in our house, watching us in our fit of misguided passion.
Merilee felt sick after, and I thought it was because I treated her so roughly and I tried to soothe her but she just cried face down on the bed and wouldn't even look at me. When I got a terrible stomach cramp as I tried to console her, and spent the next two hours puking all over the bathroom floor, I knew something was wrong. I didn't have to look out the window to know that it was wrong all over. I just knew. But I looked anyhow. Curiosity. Fear.
We hadn't trapped Good Luck in our house, after all. It was Bad Luck and it wasn't even bad at that. It was Horrible Luck. Worst Luck Ever. Evil twin of Bad Ass Luck. It came into our house and took hold of every ounce of energy it could find and when we started fucking, that energy became twofold and then threefold and kept growing until Bad Luck had grown to incredible proportions and it flew out the chimney (we had forgotten to close the flue) and whipped its way around the neighborhood.
Our street became dark like winter midnight and cold as that, too. I heard shutters banging and people wailing and babies crying and dog barking. Twigs were snapped off trees and one twig broke free from its limb and and flew straight at Spot and took his eye right out. Lights flashed inside houses and then lightning flashed outside the houses and there was thunder that for a moment drowned out the screams of my neighbors. At some point we all ran from our houses, in pajamas or work clothes or naked, whatever we were at the moment, we ran from our doors to the middle of the street where we watched a green cloud of noxious smelling gas rise from the sewers. It engulfed our houses and we cringed and cried while we watched.
They had declared it was some type of gas leak and maybe there was an explosion, which would explain the missing limbs and the brain damage and the dead animals. The thing is, we didn't really want it explained. It was just easier to believe the lies and half truths. The monopoly man came around that night, and arranged for us all to go somewhere while they did tests on the air and the water and cleaned up what they could.
Two months later and they're letting us back in. Our houses are clean. The smell is gone. It looks like the same neighborhood it was before I fucked Merilee on the living room floor, before the door banged and Bad Luck came to visit. I'm going to take Merilee's arm, lead her into the house, fix her up on the couch with a pillow and blanket and reach for the phone. Someone is going to have to move that back door.
(from mighty geek: take a picture and tell a story about it)
This is Grandpa Joe. He is my only living grandparent. His wife, my mother's mother, died when I was a baby. My father's father died in 1991, his mother in 1998.
Grandpa Joe lives in a place called The Townhouse. It's an assisted living facility and a nice one at that. It's clean and bright and they have a sunroon with a piano and arts and crafts and ice cream parties and picnics.
But I never go see Grandpa Joe. The Townhouse is ten minutes from here at most. I would only have to stay a few minutes. He wouldn't even remember if I was there or not. But I don't go. I don't like the feel of the place and the smell of the place. Old people smell like death approaching. Most of them have blank stares and vacant minds and are just waiting. Waiting to die. No matter how many posters of kittens and vases full of flowers you decorate the facility with, it will still feel like a purgatory between life and death. A way station for the weary.
Grandpa lived in Brooklyn. He worked in some kind of barrel factory, making barrels for pickles, I think. I remember hearing stories about pickles.
Every Saturday, for as long as I can remember, Grandpa would come over with bagels. 10am he would be there, the bagels still hot and all of us at the table just waiting to slab the butter on. Grandpa would watch us slice the bagels and tell us we were holding the knife wrong. We were going to slice a finger off, he said. Grandpa has only half of one thumb. I think it was a pickle barrel accident.
He would say the same thing every Saturday to each of us. "When are you getting married?" He said this when we were ten and when we were 18 and when we were married.
One day not too many years ago, Grandpa had a car accident on his way to bring bagels. He never drove again. He went from the hospital to a senior citizen apartment complex back to the hospital and then to The Townhouse.
In the beginning it was ok. We brought Natalie and DJ to see him and he would ask them when they were getting married. We brought him bagels. He always thought he was coming home. He asked for his car. He asked about his apartment, which was no longer his. He wanted to know when someone was picking him up to take him home.
Things got fuzzy in his head soon after. He started calling people by the wrong names. He talked about visits from relatives long dead. He told stories about the nurses coming into his room at night and stealing his stuff. He said he had been to Brooklyn during the night. He had been to Yankee Stadium. His dead brother had been to see him.
Last month, he told my mother he went to John Gotti's funeral. They had specifically asked that he come. In his mind, he did go. In his mind, he is not living in a facility, he is not held captive by his wheelchair, he is not alone at night. He cannot remember from day to day if I am still married, if his daughter is still married, or if he ever moved out of Brooklyn. But he always knows if the Yankees won or not.
I stopped going to see him. I went on his birthday last Novemeber and then again on Christmas Eve, when I took this picture. That was the last time I was there. He used to come to family functions and holiday gatherings. My father would go pick him up and bring him to us, but it got to burdensome. He never wanted to stay, anyhow. An hour after being with us and he would plead for someone to take him back home.
I don't know what stops me from going to see him. I should get past my own fears about death and illness and losing my sanity and make the effort to at least go say hello to Grandpa. Some day he won't be here and I won't have any grandparents left alive. Why is it I can go see my father's parents in the cemetary, pleasantly sitting at their gravesides and talking to them, but I can't go see a grandparent who is still alive?
I'm going to make the effort to go today. I'll bring him ice cream and talk about the Yankees and tell him I'm getting married when he asks the inevitable question. Then I'll go home and have a bagel and remember him the way he used to be.
The final whore
I love them both. Difficult choice ahead for the voting contestants. I had a lot of fun judging the game and egging on the players. Now go give support to your whore of choice and watch as the drama comes to a bloody conclusion. Ok, not bloody, but we can pretend.
May the best whore win.
Yes, I know this color looks like a jar of mustard puked all over the site. I'm being indecisive. Would any of you interior decorators at heart at there like to suggest something better?
Do you like the new logo?
Too bad if you don't.
Well I never
Yes, I am still dwelling on the fact that I turn 40 next month. 40 years is such a long time. I've had all this time to develop a skill or find my niche or strike it rich or assasinate a world leader. How long do I have left to accomplish these things? What is midlife these days, anyhow? 40? 45? 35? Did I miss my window of opportunity for midlife crisis? I would have gone out and bought a convertible or had a lesbian affair.
So, what have I done with these 40 years that I've graced the earth so far?
Better yet, what haven't I done?
In 40 years:
I still have not improved upon my housecleaning skills.
I haven't discovered, invented or created anything. Summer camp ashtrays do not count as creations.
I haven't traveled outside the eastern seaboard of North America.
I have yet to kill anyone despite my constant braggings that I will.
I have never been arrested. I suppose that's a good thing. That's not to say I've never been in handcuffs.
I never had a broken bone or been hospitalized for something that wasn't reproductive related. Oh, I had my tonsils out when I was five. I still remember it. The hospital was more like a cage. I was five, where was I going to go?
I've never met a pizza I didn't like.
I've never grown past 5'2".
I never cheated on a significant other.
I never bungee jumped or skydived or participated in a daring, dangerous sport.
I never played on an organized sport team.
I never made an assasination attempt on a world leader. Not even to please a person I was stalking.
I never dove off of the high dive.
I never tried to get rid of my procrastination problem.
I never locked my sisters in a closet. I still owe them that one.
I was never sold to the gypsies like my mother said I would be one day.
I never turned down an offer of a free drink.
But mostly, in 40 years, I have never grown up.
That's a good thing, right?
More real life theater
scene: two women fighting over a parking space outside the courthouse
Woman 1: You better go read your bible, you fucking whore!
Woman 2: I read the bible and you need to ask for forgiveness you dumb bitch!
My record collection can beat up your record collection!
100 Albums you should remove from your record collection, according to a pompous assclown by the name of Wesley A. Kose..
I first saw this at Amish Tech Support and I figured rather than hijack Laurence's comments with my ten page essay I would just do my own take on it here. Imitation is flattery, Laurence. Just remember that.
Now, before we begin let me just say that I realize everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I mean, I sit here and make fun of Eric Roberts and maybe there are some of you that think he is a fine actor. But the difference between Mr. Kose and myself is that I know the difference between thinking that Eric Roberts is lame and thinking you are lame for liking him. I think Kose is one of those people who likes to think he is better than everyone else while he sits in his mother's basement jacking off to pictures of Latoya Jackson and watching Almost Famous 24 hours a day.
Anyhow, on with it. I'm not going to go through the whole list. Just the ones that made me want to smack him with a dead fish.
1. The Clash - Combat Rock
Sure, Rock the Casbah sort of sucked, but Know Your Rights and Overpowered by Funk, while not classic Clash, still got repeat play from me.
2. Nirvana - Nevermind
I'm not a huge Nirvana fan, but this is one of those albums that I will put on every once in a while and play from start to finish. There are about 10 cds in my entire collection that I can listen to in one complete sitting. Says Mr. Kose: This is the record you will embarrass your children with. Oh come on, Wesley. You know that somewhere in your collection is something way more embarassing. Is that a Creed cd I see under your bed?
3. The Police - Synchronicity
Looking back, the album was sort of bland and sucky. But it just would not be 1983 without this album, which was a constant soundtrack to that summer. I keep it just for the memories.
4. Nick Cave - Boatman's Call
Now, it's personal. Says Wesley: Pompous poetics for punks who miss their college lit classes...The music? As hot-aired as the master's musings.
I'm thinking that maybe Wesley just doesn't want to take the time to understand the lyrics. Simplicity may work best for him. I recommend Linkin Park lyrics for Mr. Kose.
5. Nine Inch Nails - Pretty Hate Machine
Mr. Kose: by the time the second song is over, you will be ill with memories of Doc Martens and bad dye jobs. I get it now. You want us to get rid of all our albums that dredge up your own bad memories. News flash, Kose: Not everyone used this album as a soundtrack to their wannabe goth days. You try therapy, and I'll try not to play this cd within 100 miles of you, ok?
I could go on, but I won't. I'll spare you. The bottom line is, after reading through all 100 snippets from Wesley, I can only come to one conclusion: His college years were spent trying to be hip and cool but he failed in spectacular fashion. He spent most of his years alone in his dorm devising ways in which to get even with all the people who were obviously having more fun than him. Most of the albums he hates, he hates because they fill him with envy and hatred for the fellow college students who had a much better time than him because they didn't spend every waking minute over analyzing their record collection.
You may as well pull those black tights and Doc Martens out of storage, Mr. Kose. Elitist Music Critic is the new goth. We're telling jokes about you behind your back.
Don't ever go to a focus group.
They show you tv shows starring Eric Roberts. They make you look at Gap commercials over and over. They ask you silly questions and make you behave like you are 12.
We previewed two shows. "C-16" which stars Mr. Roberts as a grizzly looking detective of some sorts. It sucked. Then there was "The First Gentleman" starring some familiar looking guy as the first female president's husband. He is also a former cop who has not lost his passion for crime solving and gets involved in a Chandry Levy-esque case. The writing was so bad and condescending it made Family Matters look like quality tv. They asked which show we preferred and I wrote "is death an option?"
There were two stand up comics we had to watch. One was mediocre at best. The other, I rated as assclown. One of the choices for how we felt about him was dumb.
Then we had to spend 30 minutes rating a commercial for hair color. My sister and her husband and Justin were no help, as they kept making silly comments and tasteless jokes and we laughed so hard and snickered so much I felt like I was back in school and the principal was going to come yell at us.
Where you were supposed to fill in the part about how the commercial made you feel, and what it said to you, I went into a rant about adrogynous waify models and the attainment of ultimate perfection but then I stopped and just wrote:
And I filled the rest of the survey with the word doom. Except for the part where I really pretended I was in high school and drew the AC/DC logo in the top corner and added a pentagram underneath it. For good measure I wrote Metallica Rules!
So basically, we will never be invited to one of these things again. Which is fine with me, because one should not be forced to look at Eric Roberts more than once in their life.
Oh, yea...just to make sure that this wasn't a subversive plot to weed out the dissenters of America, I wrote "Ashcroft is the Anti-Christ" on the front cover of the survey.
I think someone is at the door.
While I will do it again in a more formal way as it gets closer to the Blogathon, I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who has sponsored me thus far. Please look over in the sidebar there to the right (no, my right...that way!). Visit their sites if they have one. They are fine people, all of them.
Now, see underneath where it says Immoral Supporter? Shel couldn't really afford to sponsor me at this time (the Canadian exchange rate would make even an obscenely large donation look like spare change) so he wanted to give me moral support. In Shel's case, that's immoral support.
So for those of you who would just like to say "hey, I'm gonna hang around and watch you act like an assclown while you try to stay awake for 24 hours straight" or anyone who is planning on sending me naked pictures of Mike Patton to keep my eyes open or if you just plan on dreaming about me while you're sleeping and I'm not (hey, James dreamed about me last night!), then you can be an immoral supporter too. Just let me know if you plan to support me that day and what immorality you plan to bring to the cause.
Real life theater
scene: local conglomerate drugstore
players: 2 college age workers stacking shelves with soda
Guy: Hey, that guy was staring at your tits!
Girl: Nah, I don't think so. I've seen him in here before and I think he's gay.
Guy: Honey, even gay guys like tits.
Girl: No they don't!
Guy: Trust me on this one, ok?
Girl stares at guy for a few seconds. Guy blushes.
Girl: OH.MY.GOD! You're GAY! You are, aren't you?
Guy: I've been working here two weeks and you're just figuring that out?
Girl: Well, I...I...
Guy: As if my obsession with Elijah Wood didn't give it away?
Guy: You're horrified, aren't you?
Girl: Dude, I am SO going to fix you up with my brother. You're coming over my house tonight.
Guy: OH, does he look like Elijah??
I am NOT paranoid
I've been invited to a screening tonight of some new television shows and commercials. They just picked me at random, called me and sent me the tickets in the mail.
They think I'm stupid. I know what they're up to. There's no television show. There aren't any commercials or surveys to note my likes and dislikes. It's a sting.
Operation TIPS has come to get me. I'm going to show up for the screening and some men in black suits and sunglasses are gonna jump up from behind a curtain and shine a bright light in my face and ask me if I am or have I ever been a member of SPORK. They're going to be holding reams of paper with every word I've ever written here printed out on them and they are going to accuse me of being a traitor and a terrorist.
And then they will ask me to name names.
Don't worry. I would never rat out my fellow dissenters. They can torture me with pretzels and pictures of Alan Greenspan in a speedo and I still won't give names or URLs. I'm going to take one for the team.
Then again, maybe it's just a television show screening. But if you don't hear from me for a couple of days, put on your decoder rings and try to track me down, ok?
Fantasy Island or musical nightmare?
What I did not do on my summer vacation:
I did not go to Rock and Roll Fantasy Camp.
I want to know what kind of person spends $5,000 to learn the music stylings of George Thorogood, Sheila E., members of the Billy Joel band, a former member of Foreigner and the lead singer of Styx.
Baby-faced, blond-haired Tommy Shaw has always had varying interests outside of STYX. For example, he's performed the National Anthem at a Cubs vs. Giants game at Wrigley Field in Chicago
So yes, my dear rock music wannabe stars! You can spend "fantasy" hours with the has-been lead singer of an annoying power pop group from the 70's whose interests besides over-earnerst lyrics and singing as if he has no balls include performing patriotic songs for baseball fans.
Oh wait, Vince Neil is going to be there, too! His first class will be called "Sucking in Twenty Different Ways" which will be taught in tandem with "Vehicular Manslaughter in Five Easy Steps."
Other seminars will include:
That's right. For just $5,000 you too can live in the past, party with aged semi-stars, kick out the jams with guys who haven't picked up a guitar in ten years and listen to them bitch about how nobody appreciates real rock and roll anymore.
Personally, my own fantasy camp would have Henry Rollins, Mike Patton and Kylie Minogue. And it would have nothing to do with music.
DJ's first fistfight at Raising Hell
I'm in a hormonal rage today. It's going to be a race between me and my sister Lisa to see who takes a life first.
There are several people already on my shit list. All of them are strangers who have in some way irritated me beyond reason. I'm sure it's better to kill a stranger than a relative, though. If you kill a relative then no one brings you cigarettes and porn while you're rotting away in jail.
It's only 11am and I have spilled coffee all over my shirt, my hair is doing the humidity dance, I have cramps that would kill most men, I've already gone through a box of tampons, my other sister just accused me of blowing the system admin guy so I could get an internet connection, and yes, that really is COFFEE on my shirt.
Don't even think of looking at me wrong today. And should you see Lisa and I together at any point in the next three or four days, I suggest you run like mad because when the two of us are in a cycle-induced mood we make Saddam look like Mary Fucking Poppins.
warning: bad metaphors ahead
Some people are wondering why I worry so much about this world, about this time we live in. They say we've been through all this before, it's just a cycle, this is the way it is.
This is not the first time I'm living through a war or a crisis or a feeling of unrest. I'm old, remember?
I remember air raid drills in elementary school, being forced first under our desks and then they changed that and we had to go out into the hallway and crouch down with our head between our legs, practically smelling our own asses. And all I could think of was how the hell is this going to protect me? And I asked the teacher and she said it was to protect us from flying glass and projectiles and I said, well that's nice. It's good to know that when I die from and EXPLOSION the head of my lifeless body will be glass free!
From the time I could read, and it was pretty young, I read the newspaper. I wanted to know everything about the world around me. I wanted to know why the newscasters on the tv always looked so grim and why my parents and all the other grownups talked in clenched-teeth whispers about war.
I remember the Vietnam War, and I remember my older cousin Fran being involved in protests. I vaguely remember a crowd of teenagers in the parking lot of the local strip mall, throwing things at police and the police forcing them back with fire hoses and threats of tear gas. I remember this made my mother cry, but for some reason it made my adrenaline surge.
I remember the television on every night during dinner and my parents shaking their heads and looking glum. Is that what I look like now to my own children when I am watching yet another news flash about suicide bombers in Israel? Do they wonder, like I did, if it is as bad as the look on my face says it is? Do they lay in the dark at night, like I did, wondering if the world had turned into hell when we weren't looking?
I remember when the Vietnam war ended and everyone went outside and flashed their porch lights on and off in some sort of celebration and the grownups were all saying how maybe, just maybe, this was the last of wartimes that we would see, that they hoped the children would grow up in a world of peace, and all I felt was sadness and a weird feeling in my stomach that it had all been for nothing and that this was not the last war I would see. I was eleven.
I remember the gas shortage and the lines that snaked around the block and the even/odd system of obtaining gas. It was summer and hot as hell and my mother had a convertible. I used to go with her on the day it was her turn to get gas and sit in the back of the car reading magazines and listening to all the people in the cars complain about the shortage and the government and the world at large. And then on Saturdays I would take the little bus to the library and look up all the big words the grownups had used that I wrote down in the margins of my magazine. I looked up all the places and people they talked about and read every newspaper the library had and at night I would read fairy tales and fantasy books to keep my mind from dreading the future.
I remember the hostage crisis and the constant threat of terrorism, even back then, and I think that's when I first became aware of the blanket hatred that too many people harbor for specific races and religions.
I remember that Natalie took her first step on the first day of the Gulf War. She stood up in the living room and took one step towards the tv, tuned to the face of George Bush on CNN and then she plopped herself down, stared at the television and cried and I said, yes honey, I know. He makes me cry, too. She didn't take another step until March. I'm sure she was just traumatized by George.
And here we are now, still being traumatized by a Bush, still facing the prospect of a war in the middle east, still worrying about gas embargos and terrorism. I imagine George the junior sitting in the oval office, staring at a picture of his daddy and wondering how to outdo him and he turns to his cabinet of evil and says Let's kick it up a notch!
So I sit here and worry if soon my children will be in the school hallway with their heads up their asses, safe from flying glass. They know what's going on around them because they don't even have to look for it the way I did. They don't have to run off to the library or scour the newspaper because it's all being played out right in front of them. (Except for the broadcast news stations where a car accident and manhole explosion get more in depth coverage than 7 Israelis dead at the hands of terrorists). War is no longer a dirty little secret. Casualties are badges of honor and playing "spot the differences" with your neighbors and co-workers can get you a bumper sticker and a license to spy.
Maybe it is a cycle and maybe we have been here before. But the heat has been turned up and the ingredients are more potent than they ever were. It's simmering and boiling and I'm afraid someone left the lid on this pressure cooker and we are about to witness an explosion.
(you know I had a bad night's sleep when the only metaphor I can come up with is George Bush as Emeril)
I'm still half asleep. I've got those ugly sleep lines running up and down my arms. I dreamed about doctors chasing me with needles that had been dipped in cherry juice. I dreamed that Nick Cave sang to me at my wedding and that our frogs kept turning into hamsters. I dreamed of a strip club and a lap dancer who had the face of Alan Greenspan. I dreamed I forgot to take my Paxil the day of my wedding and someone pushed me in the pool right before the vows and I stayed underwater, crying. I dreamed that Andrea Harris came to my house to ask if she could borrow some pencils. She was wearing a tube top and the bottom half to a ball gown and claimed that she was sporting Spiderman underoos beneath the gown. My wedding turned into a bat mitzvah and twenty kids danced to a DJ playing Eminem and the doctors came back with the cherry-dripped needles and I ran and ran and ran until I reached the shores of Jones Beach and Ben Affleck was there, and Alan Greenspan was there, and they were both in clown outfits and trying to do this Irish dance. And Robyn and Todd were fighting over who would blog about it first.
And then I woke up and wrote it all down so I wouldn't forget it, though who knows why I would want to remember it at all?
I'm going to make some coffee and shower the remnants of the dream off of me and then we will resume our usual morning blog.
Attention S.P.O.R.K.ies: first mission
What's a fringe organization without a mission? Head over to QOD (the temporary SPORK headquarters) to get started on the first step in weeding out the mental terrorists among us.
Second Mission: Visit Operation Rats. We will be combining our efforts to cause all kinds of havoc and spread misinformation.
Come get some!
I suppose that by publicly displaying my disdain for the Nationwide version of Neighborhood Watch that I have set myself up as one of those to be watched. Now that everything you do is subject to scrutiny and there are all kind of loopholes to be used to invade your privacy, it's only a matter of time before there is a knock on my door and a couple of men with hunting rifles and NRA hats and NASCAR shirts declare me a public nuiscance or a traitor or a dissident and haul me off in the cab of their pick-up truck and we drive down I-95 with Ted Nugent playing on the crappy radio and they turn me in to the Homeland Defense Secret Society for cash and/or tickets to a monster truck rally.
The Homeland Honcho asks for proof that I am, indeed, an enemy of the state. The Citizen Corps duo explain that they heard me tell a joke about pretzels. And in all the weeks they have been spying on me, never once did I wear a "United We Stand" shirt. And "my goodness, she don't even have one of them bin Laden wanted stickers on the back of her car. She must be one of them!"
They're not the shiniest trailer in the park, if you know what I mean.
I thought I would be a good American, a shining beacon of neighborly love and comraderie. I'll just make the job of the good old TIPSters easy. Terrorist Hunters: All you have to do is print this page out and hand it to the Homeland Henchmen and you can collect your just reward. Hell, maybe even Ashcroft himself will hand it to you. Your picture will be in the Bumfuck, Iowa Gazette with the caption LOCAL HEROES AVERT NATIONAL DISASTER!
Ok, just clip below the dotted line and send it off to the
gestapo White House.
(please note, SPORK now has its own page here
Fight fire with fire, I say.
I'm starting my own spy ring. SPORK: Secret Protectors of Revolutionary Knowledge.
You get equipped with a decoder ring, walkie talkie watch, secret handshake and some tinfoil to wear on your head. And, of course, you get a patented Spork O' Death (tm). What you do with it is up to you.
Be a Sporkie. Fight the Power. Do the Right Thing. Umm...I need to come up with a motto.
If you put the graphic on your site you'll get a free alien detector for your tin foil cap.
George W. Bush: America's appetite supressant
I was all set to order my lunch of sesame chicken when I came across this and suddenly felt sick to my stomach. In addition to the Citizen Corps, there's TIPS, as in Terror Information and Prevention System.
I'm reminded of the scene in Frankenstein where the whole town is chasing him. I'm reminded of several scenes in history that I don't even want to think about.
Why not just give everyone carte blanche to apprehend anyone who looks "suspicious" or behaves in an odd manner? What's the next step? Camps? Roundups of anyone who is not a white, English speaking person? How the hell are they going to weed out the crank calls from the real ones? What is going to stop every racist nutjob from calling in lies about their foreign neighbors?
What happened to the land of the free, home of the brave thing? When do we gather on the White House lawn and give the one-armed salute to our all-powerful government?
I need a cigarette.
You've got to be carefully taught
This is not a discussion about my views on death sentences. Maybe some other time. I do want to talk about Daniel Pearl and what he stood for and why I am supporting the Daniel Pearl Foundation in the July 27 Blogathon.
In a statement released today by Danny Pearl's family in regards to the verdict, the family said:
We are confident that around the world people will continue to be inspired by Danny's courage and commitment to truth, humanity, and dialogue, and we call upon them to rise against all forms of hatred and intolerance.
And that is basically what the Daniel Pearl Foundation is all about. To bring people of different cultures and backgrounds together, to promote understanding and tolerance of people who differ from ourselves.
The Daniel Pearl Foundation has been formed by Danny's family and friends to continue Danny's mission and to address the root causes of this tragedy, in the spirit, style, and principles that shaped Danny's work and character. These principles include uncompromised objectivity and integrity; insightful and unconventional perspective; tolerance and respect for people of all cultures; unshaken belief in the effectiveness of education and communication; and the love of music, humor, and friendship.
Just as much as tolerance and acceptance begins at home, so does hatred and fear. If children are taught to fear differences and not accept others who may pray or speak or dress differently than they do, that's where hatred begins.
The school district here has a wide and varied multi-culturalism program. It is necessary to have because this district is no longer the sea of white faces it used to be. Our schools are now ethnically and racially diverse. And we need to embrace that diversity. We need to understand each other and learn about each other in order to live together as peaceful neighbors.
My children have learned acceptance through being submerged in culturally mixed school system. They have learned it at home, too, because I try to set a good example in this matter when so many around them are closed-minded and elitist about their own culture or race or religion.
They have learned through songs and poetry and fiction. They have learned directly from those around them - from the classmates who wear the traditional dress of their nations or religions, from learning the language and customs of those cultures, from having friends who differ in the way they speak and look and even eat.
We embrace the different cultures of our friends and neighbors, in much the same way some children are taught to hate those very people. Sometimes the teachings of hatred are subtle, there are racial slurs used and generalizations made and children, after hearing this every day of their young lives, grow up to believe it as truth. They are taught to fear differences rather than learning about them. Fear is what hatred is borne out of.
You've got to be taught to hate and fear You've got to be taught from year to year It's got to be drummed in your dear little ear You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made
And people whose skin is a different shade
You've got to be carefully taught.
You've got to be taught before it's too late;
Before you are 6 or 7 or 8 !
To hate all the people your relatives hate.
You've got to be carefully taught.....
You've got to be carefully taught.
written by Hammerstein; from "South Pacific"
Our world will never be one of peace until we learn to view each and every person on this earth as a human being, nothing more, nothing less. We need to teach our children to love and respect regardless of race or religion or ideology or sexual orientation or language or dress or class. We need to teach them to not judge a culture on the basis of what one evil person does. Just as much as you do not represent all the people of your race or religion, one madman does not represent all the people of his. One tyrant, one dictator, one suicide bomber, one terrorist, one killer, one hate mongerer does not represent everyone who looks like them or comes from the same place as them.
Conversely, one peace activist, one person who works tirelessly to promote understanding, does not, sadly, represent all who are his religion or race or culture. There is still a lot of work to be done. There is still a long way to go before we are a peaceful planet. As long as we keep combatting the teaching of hatred and fear with the teaching of understanding and tolerance, we are doing our work. We are promoting peace. One voice, one hundred voices, one thousand voices. If the voices keep growing, we can make a chorus of peace.
(you can still sponsor me for the blogathon - all donations go to the Daniel Pearl Foundation)
The invitations have been mailed out. The caterer has been hired. The DJ has been hired.
I find myself strangely detached from all the planning. I'm sort of letting the cards fall where they may. If it rains, it rains. If people come, they do, if they don't, fuck 'em.
I just want a party. People are raising eyebrows when I say it's a barbecue or that kids are invited. Whatever. If you want a 4-star wedding go hang out with some celebrities. If my steak and burgers menu and my "bring your bathing suits" invite and my tequila shots and heavy rock and roll are too much for you, don't come, ok? It's my wedding, not yours.
That's what I feel like saying anyhow. But I don't. I just get aggravated or make a face or shrug.
I hope half these people don't even show. I hope it's my immediate family and some close friends and a keg of beer. We'll party into the wee hours of the morning, after the kids have passed out on the lawn and I will not miss anyone who didn't come because they had other plans and my wedding was just a barbecue, so why should they arrange their schedule around it? I mean, if it's not a 100 dollar a head sit down dinner in a fancy restuarant, it's not a real wedding, right?
Either way, I'll still be married at the end of the day. I'll still be driving out to Port Jefferson the next morning to take our one day honeymoon at a waterfront hotel. I'll still be a bride and the fact that you were forced to eat a hamburger at my reception won't make it any less so.
Anyhow, I just want to thank my sisters:
Jo-Anne, for taking all the planning on herself, for arranging everything and taking over and doing a damn fine job.
Lisa, for not getting upset that I'm sort of stepping on her toes by getting married before her long-ago planned June 2003 wedding.
Oh, and if anyone wants to join us the Friday before the wedding (August 23) for a night of debauchery and celebrating, I'll be hosting a pre-wedding bachelor/bachelorette party. No, there will not be strippers. But there will be jello shots.
Now, I have to go think of new ways to make my relatives shake their head in disapproval at me. I'm thinking having Choire pop out of the wedding cake.
I haven't had a cigarette yet today. I'm one cranky bitch.
* Discussion at Raising Hell: In children's literature, is there a difference between girls' books and boys' books, or are there just great books? What did you read as a child and were your book choices gender specific? If you have kids, do you choose books for them according to their gender, or do they gravitate towards certain types of stories? Answers over there, please.
We watched Reign of Fire yesterday.
When people yell at me for downloading movies and ripping off the film business, I will point to this movie and say "If I actually paid to see that piece of crap I would be on a plane in two seconds, on my way to kick Mathew McConaughey's overacting ass."
Then, because we are gluttons for punishment, we started watching Pearl Harbor on cable.
We made it fifteen minutes before we were both laughing so hard at the insipid dialogue that we had to turn it off. We kept turning it back on every few minutes, again doubling over in laughter either at the forced cliches and writing that seemed to have come out of a Screenplay101 class, or at Ben Affleck's seemingly ever-expanding forehead.
Moulin Rouge was next, which started at 10pm. I was asleep by 10:12, but that wasn't the movie's fault. We'll try that again.
That should be enough to wash the stench of yesterday's movies off of us.
I have revised my latest rankings of worst.movie.ever. It now stands at:
1. Jeepers Creepers
3. 3000 Miles to Graceland.
If you want to be part of my worst.movie.ever. poll, please list the three most horrid movies you have ever seen. And then I'll do something with the list during blogathon.
Around the yard in 80 shades
I've become addicted to taking pictures. I may not do it as well as others, but I still get an incredible amount of joy from it. I consider photography a challenge; to get the camera lens to see something the way my eye sees it, to transfer what my world looks like to an image that others can see. I love the shades in a black and white photo. I love the way drops of water are caught sliding down a plant stem. What may appear to others to be just a dull flower may be a world of wonder to me. Maybe the sun caught a petal just right, maybe the way the leaf is drooping makes me feel some empathy for it. Clouds, rain, birds and trees all hold stories and emotions. I just try to capture them so others can feel it, too. If you don't see what I see - and I admit it's always hard to capture on film what is in your eyes - then I at least hope you enjoy the pictures for what you see in them.
Physically, I'm fine. My body is raring to go, ready to face the housecleaning and running around of another Saturday.
Emotionally, I'm tired.
This was a bad week for reading news about children. Is there ever a good week? Missing children, dead children, abused children, children beaten about the head and dumped somewhere, children killed over a dollar and stuffed in a closet, children lost by the system meant to protect them.
I take it all to heart, and I cry as I read the stories. Why do I always read this stuff when my own kids aren't home for me to hug? And I know it's not just me. If you have a heart, a good heart, you feel it too. Robyn feels it and Stacy feels it and it gets to you. It tears at you.
I don't understand the balance of nature. I don't understand why genetics has to be so unfair. Why there are people who have children and scar them with words and fists and baseball bats, and on the other end of the spectrum there are good, loving people who cannot have children. People who would love and cherish a child and because of some cosmic glitch may never get to do so.
There are women - no, girls - who give birth and then throw the helpless little infant in a dumpster or a lake, or leave it laying on a public bathroom floor as if it could fend for itself. There are people who have child after child after child and don't make the effort to take care of any of them. They leave them home alone to set fires. They don't feed them. They let them sit around in their own filth or send them out into the streets or dump them on relatives who won't treat them any better.
There are women and men who see children as prizes to be won, appendages to show off when company comes over, but don't spend the time to read to them or play with them or listen to them because they are too busy making enough money to move up one more step on the social ladder and still believe in the "children should be seen and not heard" phrase.
There are parents who can't even tell you the name of their child's teacher or what their son's favorite color is or what their daughter's favorite food is. There are parents who don't come home at night and the kids wake up and the sitter is gone and they are alone, all alone with no one to help them get breakfast. There are children who live in shacks and eat cold corn out of a can for lunch and have never gone to school or made a friend or wore a piece of clothing that wasn't used and dirty. And their parents have more kids after them, never stopping to think that if they can't feed one kid they certainly can't feed two or three or six.
And then there are the men and women who spend years going to doctors and specialists and consulting every expert on the subject but still fail to get their one wish - to have a child of their own. They endure years of painful tests and roller coaster emotions and operations and nights of sad, desperate tears in their efforts to have a baby. I can only imagine how they feel when they see another news story about a child who died at the hands of its own parents.
And there are men and women who want to adopt one of the thousands of unwanted children and are told that they are not the right religion or race or their belief system or sexual orientation is wrong. And that's another child that lingers in the system because someone with a clipboard and a checklist never looked past their prejudices to see the person behind the name, the person that would make a damn good, loving parent.
I know life isn't fair. I know we aren't all handed a tally board when we are born so we can make sure we get what everyone else has. But sometimes the inequities make me cry for those people who should have but don't.
I'm not talking about rich or poor, here. I'm not going on about how some people have money and some don't, and some people are born gorgeous and others don't fare so well. I'm talking about the ability or inability to create another human being, and how the ability to do so does not necessarily mean that you should. It all seems grossly unfair.
Just reason #232 why I am so mentally tired.
WWith this decoder ring, I thee wed...
Justin and I have been shopping for rings for our wedding.
I am not a jewelry type person. I don't like spending lewd amounts of money on gold and silver and diamond. Especially not when we are thinking of buying a house.
Factor in the whole vibe of the wedding - casual, backyard, barbecue, mosh pit, drunken bride singing heavy metal karaoke - I found some rings which would be more fitting for our ceremony and vows.
Which one do you like best?
atom bomb ring: because our love is da bomb
batman ring: because after the vows I want to say quick, to the batmobile!
blinking ring: what's morse code for "let's sneak out of the reception and have wild monkey sex?
chex decoder ring: because it's just, you know...cool
devil head ring: this will work only if we wear all black
laser rings: so we can shoot at the paparazzi as they fly overhead in their helicopters
pentagram ring: candlelit dinner, now we're holding hands, I taught you how to draw your first pentagram...we are Pantera fans in love
star wars rings: "By the power vested in me by the Rebel Alliance, I now pronounce you Jedi and wife. May the force be with you."
I couldn't find any Spiderman or Spongebob rings. But I'm sure one of the above will do.
Do not schedule one stressful event (wedding) on the same day as another stressful event (40th birthday).
If you ever need advice on how to be your own worst enemy, I'm an expert.
When I grow up....
I wanted to be a secret agent. I fantasized about wearing cool clothes and carrying neat gagdets and weapons. I would skulk in alleys and hide in closets and tap phone lines. And then I would jump out at the last minute, just before the bad guys are about to destroy the universe for their own nefarious purposes, and I would yell, "FREEZE YOU BAD GUYS!" and everyone would recoil in fear and horror as they realized they were no match for me.
I wanted to be a member of the SWAT team. I wanted to wear a black turtleneck and black pants and a flak jacket and carry guns that weighed more than me. I wanted to peek around the corner of a building, looking for the criminal that had eluded every law enforcement person before me, and I would sneak up behind him as he crouched behind a bush and I would not arrest him, but blast 40 pounds of ammo into his head and watch the blood and brains spray everywhere. And I wouldn't care that I got his insides all over my SWAT clothes because man, that is like a badge of honor.
I wanted to be a villain. I wanted to live in one of those hidden fortresses of doom where all the latest technology and surveillance equipment let me see what was going on in every corner of the world at any time. And I would point to various places on the globe and say "I want that country for my own!" and my henchmen would go out and use their incredible villainous powers to hypnotize the people of that country to obey me. I would threaten world leaders with bombs of amazing power and I would tie up every superhero who tried to thwart my plans and throw them into a bottomless pit and I would get much enjoyment from hearing the endless echoes of the their pleading screams.
I wanted to be a princess, but not your ordinary ball gown wearing, lovesick, frog kissing princess. I wanted to be a princess in a mystical land that was filled with magic and fairies and evil witches. I wanted to explore every last inch of the creepy dark woods that surrounded my castle and find magic talking trees and elves that lived under mushrooms and miniature knights that came riding on tiny horses out of holes in the ground. And when some brave but dumb knight from a neighboring kingdom entered and won a contest that my father set up to find a husband for me, I would tell that knight thanks, but no thanks for I am a lesbian princess and I wish to marry, or at least kiss, that hot chick from the Kingdom across the Sea.
I wanted to be one of those kids in the books I read as a child. Kids who find magic coins that transport them to incredible places, kids who hid out in libraries walked through magic wardrobes or turned into animals.
I wanted to be one of those grownups who carried guns and saved planets and traveled to exotic lands where there was loads of cash waiting for them. And always a hot date.
I wanted to live in the Twilight Zone and visit the Outer Limits and be the host of show about the horrible things that happen in strange, exotic worlds.
I wanted to live in Riverdale and smack Reggie Mantle in the head and kick Veronica Lodge in the ass and get Jughead into a gay support group.
I wanted to be a Charlie's Angel and a member of the Mod Squad and I wanted to be the 7million dollar woman who could kick the 6million dollar woman's butt all over the place.
Those are all things I wanted to be when I grew up and I suppose I have yet to do that growing up because I still want to do be all of these things.
Last night, the kids were outside playing Manhunt, which is similar to SWAT, and it was all I could do to keep myself from running outside and asking if I could play, too.
Anyone want to come over and play kick the can?
Casting couch: Superman v. Batman
We've been sitting around for an hour casting the Superman v. Batman movie. I'm just so afraid that the casting directors are going to fuck this one up bad, that we decided to do their job for them.
So far we have Bruce Campbell as Superman and Christoher Meloni (Keller from Oz) as Batman. Gary Oldman must be a villian. He would be perfect as The Joker, which would also open things up for an appearance by Harley Quinn.
Who are your choices for Batman and Superman? Who would make a good Harley Quinn?
(disclaimer: anyone who says that Freddie Prinze, Jr., Chris O'Donnel, George Clooney, Vin Diesel or Michael Keaton should play either super hero this time around gets their IP address banned from this site)
tonight's dinner conversation starter via kehaar
DJ has his problems. Most of them stem from his unwillingness to talk about his emotions. He holds everything in and he has all this anger from various issues boiling inside of him. Recently, the anger has started manifesting itself in very undesirable ways. We've tried everything to help him deal with his issues, to get him to talk and to make him realize that the way he inflicts his rage on those around him is totally unacceptable.
I think the word that most mental health professionals would use to describe DJ is oppositional. I don't mean oppositional like when I tell him to clean his room, he says no. I mean if you tell him the sky is blue he will tell you eight ways til Tuesday that it is not. I mean that he will defy and go against and butt heads and give smart mouth answers to anyone who challenges him on anything.
Last night he called me a "pathetic mother" because I wouldn't let him turn on the Playstation at 10pm. I always make sure there are consequences for his actions, so I told him that he lost his Playstation privileges for the next 24 hours. He cried, he screamed, he yelled and then he quieted down. I left the room and did some laundry.
Fifteen minutes later he comes into the living room crying and asks me to come into his room. I walk in there with him and it was like someone punched me in the stomach. He had taken all the clothes out of the drawers and threw them all over the room. He threw books and games and crayons everywhere.
And he was scared of himself. He had never acted out in this way before. Not to this extreme. He started crying; real, remorseful tears. Not the usual manipulative tears I get from him. I didn't know what to do or how to react because I never came across this situation before. Well I did, but it was with my ex-husband. And I was able to just walk out of the house at that time. I wasn't going to walk out on a nine year old boy who was in obvious distress.
We cleaned up the room together and talked about his actions. He was sobbing -those deep, breath sucking sobs - the whole time and saying he was sorry. He was sorry that he did that to me, sorry that he can't control his anger, sorry that he made such a mess. Eventually he just collapsed on the floor and begged me to hug him. He hugged me tighter than he ever has.
We stayed in the room for a while, not saying anything to each other. He laid down and I rubbed his back and he asked for a teddy bear to hold, which he hasn't done since he was two. When he was finally ready to talk again, we discussed the whole situation and everything that happened leading up to it.
I don't know if anything got resolved or if he scared himself so much he's going to straighten his behavior problems out on his own, or if he truly learned something. Only time will tell. But I did feel for him. It's not an easy thing to deal with when you know you are out of control. Especially when you are just a little kid.
When he finally went to sleep, I went outside to sit by myself for a while and thought of an email that Aaron sent me earlier in the evening. Enclosed were the lyrics to Bjork's "Scatterheart" and I had written Aaorn back saying that the song made me think of my daughter. But now, I thought, how appropriate this would have been to sing to DJ as I held him and rocked him as he fell asleep.
My dearest scatterheart
There is comfort
Right in the eye
Of the hurricane
Just to make it easier on you
You are gonna have to find out for yourself
All the hurt in the world
There's nothing I'd love to do more
Than spare you from that burden
It's gonna be hard
If I only could
From that pain
Just to make it easier on you
You are gonna have to find out for yourself
Sometimes being a parent means feeling your heart break. And sometimes it means putting aside your own aches and pains to heal whatever hurt your child is feeling. And if you can't heal them, at least you can comfort them.
I don't know where to go from here, except that whatever path I choose to take with DJ, it will be a path of love, not fear or anger.
Natalie turns into a monster at Raising Hell
Oh, those summer nights: pictures that have nothing to do with the words
I've been feeling tired and caged in and I'm just waiting for the light at the other end to come through. It's all you can do to keep your head above water sometimes. I have to find a way to warm myself up when the constant barrage of bad news leaves me cold. Perhaps I need to find a private moment of zen each day, a way to let the aggravation fly away from here.
I don't want to walk around pouting all the time. Yet I don't want to extinguish the flame that burns inside me, because that flame is what keeps me going in many ways. I play this constant game of tug-of-war with myself.
Breaking up is hard to do
Dear Major League Baseball,
Our relationship has spanned almost my entire lifetime. I fell in love with you when I was a little girl and that love has stayed in my heart throughout the years.
Sometimes I feel like an abused lover, taking so much crap from you while I give and give and rarely get anything back but aggravation. Sure, you've given my championship banners and some incredible moments, but lately you have failed to hold my interest in between the days of glory.
You have turned your back on me so many times. Slapped me in the face. Broke my heart. I stuck with you through strikes and high ticket prices and assinine management decisions. I stayed through lockouts and pine-tar and disputed games and steroids. I have sat back and taken the mental abuse each time because you always promised that it would get better again. It would be ok.
You lied. This season has been especially heartbreaking. From the YES Network fiasco to last night's horrid display of complete idiocy and lack of respect for the people who love you most, you have finally pushed me to end this love affair.
I'm not even going to wait around for the next strike or walk out. I'm leaving now, before you break my heart again.
Don't worry about me. I won't be lonely long. The first NFL pre season game is August 9th.
I'm sorry, baseball. This is good-bye.
Your theme song, or: how you are going to help me get through the blogathon
So, I am working on this project that I just thought up about 3 minutes ago. I decided that I need an inspiring soundtrack for Blogathon. And who better to inspire me than other bloggers and readers? Here's what I need from you:
Tell me a song that represents you. It could be your favorite song, or a song that means something to you or says something about you. It's your theme song.
I am going to 1)make a cd(s) of all the songs, 2) post about each person's song at some time during the blogathon and 3) give copies of the cd(s) to the person who leaves the most comments during my 24 hours of blogging.
I have 16 days until the blogathon but you have only today to list your song(s) in the comments below, because I will probably need time to find copies of all the songs, what with the demise of almost every decent file-sharing program out there.
So, give me your theme song, and the reason why it's your theme song. Together, we will rock the blogathon wild.
(You can still sponsor me if you want. Also, anyone who has sponsored me but isn't listed on the sidebar, please contact me)
Be quiet and drive
To celebrate the fact that my car's sub-woofer is working again, I've made a fresh cd of the best driving songs.
Deftones - Be Quiet and Drive
Offspring - Bad Habit
Coal Chamber - Big Truck
Depeche Mode - Behind the Wheel
Jonathon Richman and the Modern Lovers - Roadrunner
Clash - Brand New Cadillac
The Normal - Warm Leatherette
Cake - The Distance
Duran Duran - The Chauffeur
Golden Earring - Radar Love
Possible uses for Ted Williams' frozen body:
1. Bring him to collector's shows so the kids can pose with Ted for a picture.
2. Sell him on eBay and use the profits to buy the Red Sox a championship banner.
3. Collect his DNA to sell to prospective parents who would be interested in raising a future ballplayer.
4. Prop him up in your living room window to frighten away burglars when you're not home.
5. Use him as a Halloween decoration.
6. Forget Bernie: Weekend with Teddy.
7. Two words: lawn jockey
8. Put him in your car so you can drive in the HOV lane.
9. Put balloons in his hand and stand him outside your store to attract business.
Oh please, stop rolling your eyes at me and calling me tasteless. You know you want to add your own on to the list.
Flying fists of rage*
I find myself going back to the old anger, the old fists of rage persona. I'm calmer about it this time, and able to control my anger a bit more, but I realized something. No matter how much modern medicine can do for your cross-wired brain, no matter how much Paxil and therapy you can shove down your throat and brain, the world will still make you hate it. The world will still suck great big, fat balls.
It's a myriad of things that are getting to me these days. It's the hypocrisy of our president. The endless war that seems to have no point anymore. The abuse of power so rampant across the globe. Arafat. Saddam. Ann Coulter.
I should not take these things personally, but I do. It's interesting, because if someone calls me a bitch or their dog shits on my lawn or someone rams a shopping cart into my car, I do not take personally. I get pissed, but I don't bring the anger into my heart.
Things happen around the world, things like some kid starving to death 3,000 miles away from me, a person being opressed in a country seemingly a billion miles from here, someone being beaten by people who were meant to protect him, I take those things personally. I don't consider an insensitive person who won't pick up after their dog an affront to my personal beliefs. But abuse a kid, start a war, dress your babies up as suicide bombers and you've caused me heartache. I digest the anger and store it in my heart and let it fester until I want to scream so loud I break windows on every contintent.
Then there are things a bit closer to home, a bit more personal. You can shit on my lawn, but don't shit on me. I get angry when people pass judgment on me, when they bitch because I am not living thier lifestyle or their standards. I get angry when people think they have some kind of ownership over my personal life, that they can try to direct me and berate me and steer me in the direction they would rather see me go in. And don't give me that "we have your best interests at heart" line. It's not that at all. It's that there are people who think that their way of life, their standards and reasons and actions are the epitome of what the great American life is all about and I should not stray from the path they set before me.
I get angry at people who look at me sideways because I've decided to stray from that path. I get angry that they can't accept the fact that for every person on the face of the earth, there are that many different ways to find happiness. I get angry because they say they accept me for who I am but then question why I chose to be that person.
I'm angry that decisions in my past still haunt me. I'm angry because there are people who cannot and will not let things go and insist on infusing me with their anger just when I was about to let it all dissapate.
I am angry at myself for letting people make me feel this way. The only way you let people make you feel angry or small or insignificant or shamed or pathetic is if you give them permission to do so. You give permission by accepting those feelings as your own when they are not.
If I learned anything from therapy it was to not let other people's issues become yours. I forget that lesson sometimes and take everyone's issues with me and the world and the universe and shape them into a fist and punch myself in the heart with it.
I wrote this on June 10 of last year:
I am through apologizing for who I am. I am through defending my life and my decisions. If it doesn't affect you, then shut up. You have no right to judge me, no right to tell me how to act, how to talk, how to dress, how to behave. You have no right to question my choices and belittle me for them. My life is fine the way it is. I am probably a lot happier than you. Why? Because I followed my heart and my sensibilities. I didn't let other people dictate to me what path to follow. I made every decision the past few years with only myself and my children in mind. Not you. Not my family. Not my friends. Not the world at large. I live with my choices every day, and I have yet to regret any of them. What I do in the privacy of my home, what I do with my days and nights, and who I spend them with are of no importance to you. The car I drive, the clothes I wear, the job I go to, the books I read, the music I listen to, the movies I see, the friends I have, the people I love...they are not open to interjection by you. They are not yours to discuss and dissect as if you have some ownership over me. Concern yourself with your own life. Are you happy? Are you content? Do you like yourself? Do you consider yourself a good person? I can say yes to all those things. Can you?
I have to remember those words. I have to live by them every day.
But what do I do when the things that make me angry are things I cannot control? Where do I put my feelings towards Ashcroft and Arafat and child abusers and water polluters and crazed journalists and corporate cheaters? I cannot take this rage I feel and put it in my heart any longer because it makes me drive like a madwoman and give the finger to little old ladies and kick puppies. It makes me dream every night of war and famine and disease and ugly racism. Last night I dreamed that Arafat was in my living room and wouldn't leave. He smelled really bad.
I want to purge myself of all my bad feelings but instead I embrace them. In a way I suppose that is a good thing. To deny my feelings or push them aside would end up in feeling nothing. Trust me, feeling nothing is a kind of emptiness I never want to know again.
I just wish I knew what to do with all this besides puke it all out here in way too many words every day. I wish I knew how to stop clenching my teeth. I wish I knew how to shut up when the subject of politics or religion comes up, just walk away and not start something that never seems to get finished.
And I wish that Eminem song wasn't so damn catchy.
Cause we need a little controversy. Yeah.
*sorry about the length. I woke up feeling fiesty and wordy today. But if you read this far, you know that already.
The war whisperer
I forgot one part of my dreams last night. There was a man - a tall thin shadow of a man - who whispered in my ear that "war is coming" and I first I thought he was trying to sing a Six Feet Under song to me, but he wasn't doing that death growl. He whispered it again - war is coming - and then slipped off like a shadow does when darkness eats it up.
Later on I read this which reminded me of this and then I watched our fearless leader smirk his way around some questions and say yea, we want Saddam out but it's gonna be a big surprise how we do it. It's not for you to know, you damn reporters! Begone with you! I want to eat my leftover birthday cake!
I think that's what he said, anyhow.
So that shadow guy in my dream may have been onto something or he may have been reciting death metal lyrics and Stephen may or may not have spilled the beans, but honestly, even if he did write classified information on his weblog, this guy should just simmer down and shut up because what are the chances that Saddam's henchmen are sitting around going through their blogrolling links looking for clues as to when the U.S. will attack them?
Eh. I'm tired of thinking. I'm gonna go watch the Home Run Derby and throw things at the tv every time someone mentions the looming baseball strike. Let me tell you, if those guys walk out in August, I am NOT coming back when they do this time. I'll go watch Arena football or something.
Speaking of baseball, July 18 is Arthur Andersen Appreciation night at the Portland Beavers (yes, beavers - go ahead and make the necessary comments) game against Edmonton. Just so you know.
Had two cigarettes today, which certainly is a remarkable change from the 15 or so I normally smoke. Those two cigarettes may have saved the lives of my loved ones. I kid you not.
I've come a short way, baby
The cigarettes are staring at me. I don't throw them out or flush them down the toilet because Justin is still smoking and he would not be happy about that. And only one of us can be unhappy in this house at a time. It's my turn.
They stare at me and mock me and call me.
Come taste my refreshing tar and nicotine.
Come inhale my toxic smoke.
Come soothe your tense nerves by lighting me on fire.
I tremble and shake and lunge for the box. It moves out of my reach, as if some unseen hand has pushed the cigarettes away from me. Perhaps I am just hallucinating. No sleep, no smoke makes me delerious.
I can feel the leftover nicotine rising into my throat. It pushes its taste into my mouth, making me crave the fresh taste of menthol. The only thing keeping me lighting up is this flu. I know the cigarette would not taste as wonderful as I want it to.
I will snap and bite heads off and kick puppies and eat kitties today. I will probably give some old lady the finger and make one of my kids cry. I will stare down the pack of cigarettes, matching wits and strength against tobacco.
Bitch. Moan. Bang Head. Sneer at cigarettes. Puke guts into toilet bowl. Repeat hourly.
This is my Monday.
Is it Friday yet?
It's Monday and it will be Monday all day. I am sick with a summer flu, the kind that moves from your head to your stomach with one quick motion, catching you totally unaware. It stays longer than a winter flu, and latches onto you harder than a spring cold.
I'm tired of the heat, yet tired of the air conditioner constantly whirring. I'm just tired in general. I've been dreaming the dreams of the feverishly deranged, and sometimes it takes me a full day to shake the vibes that the dreams leave.
Last night, the separate dreams all melded togther. Usually, I wake up from one before I start another. But this time they just blended, although I could tell where one ended and one began, because my dream editor used a fade technique.
Dream 1 took place in a mall, where a disaster preparedness seminar was going on. I just wanted to shop, but everywhere I walked, people would shove me out of the way to get a glimpse at the lecturers, who were standing on a podium at least ten feet high. I had a plate of cookies in my hand, and I was balancing a drink on top of the stroller I was pushing. Fade to black.
Dream 2 took place in a school library, where I was supposed to be handing out two books to each child who came in for a school project. A boy of about 12 came in. He was chubby yet stocky and wore a backwards baseball cap. I handed him a book about bears and book about kangaroos and he threw them back at me. Ann Coulter appeared from under the desk and started throwing encyclopedias at me. When I opened up each one she threw, I saw that all the pages were blank. She ran off with the young boy, whispering in his ear a fiendish plot to overthrow the library. Fade to black.
Dream 3, I was in my old bedroom in my parent's house. I was performing oral sex on two men with English accents and dirty hair. My father walked in on us and grinned at the two men. I threw my jeans on and ran out of the house, crying. Fade to black.
Dream 4 (don't worry, it's the last one) was outside of a huge, run down mansion. I was trying to find pieces to a puzzle, like in an adventure game. I had my camera in hand and was trying to take a picture of the full moon, reflected in a tree stump made of black lacquer. A man was leaning out the window of the mansion attic, waving his arms and calling to me. He had no eyes. I woke myself up and stayed up.
Yesterday, I read Coraline, and I'm sure a lot of the last dream was based on that story. And I know where the Ann Coulter thing came from.
No idea where I was going with this, except to say that I am sick, I am miserable and I want to bang my head against the wall repeatedly until I pass out and wake up next week and the house is clean, the food shopping is done, the kids aren't cranky and the wedding is paid for.
I'm trying to quit smoking. That thump-thump-thump sound you hear is me banging my head against any available surface. It's a fists clenched sort of day.
Ann Coulter v. reality
I saw Ann Coulter on one of the hundreds of news shows on cable last night. Might have been MSNBC, maybe FOXNews.
She accused Katie Couric of using her "charm and good looks" to spread lies about conservatives.
She babbled on and on about "liberals" who spend all their time bashing the right and slandering the right and spouting lies about the right.
And then she spend a lot of time bashing the left and spouting generalizations and half-truths about the left.
Listen, I am not a total Liberal. I do not ride all the way to the left. Yes, I'm left of center, but I'm not all the way out there with the Chomskys and Michael Moores of this country. Still, I feel disgusted every time I listen to Ann Coulter spit the venom out of her mouth, every time I read one of her columns that act as a mouthpiece for our current administration.
You know, I was going to list a whole bunch of Ann Coulter quotes here and rebut every one of them. I was going to take her words apart piece by piece. But after reading about 50 of her columns and several interview transcripts and hundreds of quotes from her, I feel sick.
I'm sure this is old news to most of you, but Ann Coulter is whining, sniveling, hate-mongering, racist shrew.
She is another one that thinks she and only she speaks the truth, knows all the answers and can right all the wrongs if just given a chance to close the borders/make everyone Christians/outlaw anything she doesn't believe in. I'm sure if it were up to here we would have mass public gatherings where we all stand in front of our country's leaders - million of us standing shoulder to shoulder - dressed in the colors of our country, giving our absolute leader a special salute as we accept his words and his actions with blind faith and incredible zeal.
Of course, as one of those non-conservative type people, I do respect Ann's right to speak her mind and say her piece and wave her flag of hatred and generalizations at the world. I also respect my own right to refute everything she stands for.
Why am I paying attention to her, you ask? Why don't I close the paper or turn the channel on the tv? Because, unlike Ann Coulter, I like to listen to the other side. I hope to learn things from people with differing viewpoints. I hope to understand where people who sit on the other side of the fence from me are coming from. Unfortunately, Ann Coulter speaks with all the wisdom and fairness of a two year old having a temper tantrum.
Yesterday, as we were getting ready to go shopping, there was a dark, hazy cover to the sky. It looked as if one of those monstrous summer storms was moving in and I flipped to the weather on the car radio to hear the forecast. They said nothing of rain.
Within a few minutes, the haze had deepened and the world seemed covered in an eerie, brownish glow. Then I smelled smoke. Something is burning, I said. Something huge.
Yes, something was burning. It was Canada. Strong winds from 433 miles away had carried the smoke and acrid smell of forest fires all the way here.
On the bright side, the smoke has completely obliterated the sun, and we are no longer baking as if we were inside a giant oven.
But now I'm thinking...isn't there a garbage strike in Montreal? Why not make the most of this disaster and start dumping your garbage in the burning forest? It's like one giant, free incinerator service.
to be updated soon.
My review: The last ten minutes did not suck as much ass as the rest of the movie.
I thank fate that one of the discs was cracked and we were able to return it.
Unexpected endings of horror movies are always satisfying when you are unable to garner any sympathy whatsover for the protagonist. I found myself cheering, but I think it was because the credits were finally rolling.
Some day, when I rule the world, I am going to make a movie where everyone dies, no one gets the girl, the bad guys win, the town is not saved from the meteor and the aliens eat all the kitties.
Kiss and tell
Once again, I am toying with making an about page. Once again, I have no idea what to put there. So, I will follow suit of many bloggers and let you decide what to put there.
Ask me a question. Any question. I will answer them all and use them to make the requisite about page that I get yelled at for not having.
Use the comments to ask whatever your inquiring mind wants to know. No subject considered too offensive or out of line. I am shameless.
But umm..just make sure it would have some redeeming quality on a page that is used by people who want to know something about me, which lets out the "will you give me a blowjob" type questions.
If you get paid in copies, does it still make you a professional writer?
Hey! I'm a published author! And look, my story is right across from an illustration by Evan Dorkin.
Thanks so much to Jessica for sending them the piece.
Saturday photo essay: heat stroke
Heat does not know of holidays. The sun beat down and the banners hung still and limp, waiting for some kind of breeze. The stars and stripes adorned the yard in an attempt to give a festive air to a day where we all just wanted to sit under an umbrella and sleep. Even the flag was thirsty for a cool drink.
While the older people sat around and complained, the younger ones showed us how to have a ball, even in sweltering heat. They were told to go cool off and they gave it a whirl, and created a wave of cool, refreshing fun.
Getting soaked seemed to be the course of the day, even if you had to take matters into your own hands.
By late afternoon most of us just wanted to sprout wings and fly to a cooler place.
Anyone have happy pills?
Just seen on CNN: two women from opposing sides speaking about this case, in which local law enforcement is seeking records from Planned Parenthood to try to find out who dumped a baby in a dumpster.
The interviewer, Leon Harris, asks why Planned Parenthood isn't giving up their medical records to show all the women who came in for pregancy tests. The woman from Planned Parenthood cites medical privacy, the fact that local hospitals aren't being asked for their records of the same, and also that nobody knows if this woman even used Planned Parenthood.
The other woman (whose name was Wendy but I missed where she is from) goes on to state that the reason Planned Parenthood isn't giving up their records is because they are covering up illegal activities and the records will prove that they are engaging in child abuse. Showing the records will blow their cover.
The interviewer, thankfully, told Wendy her statement was ridiculous.
I don't know why it still surprises me that people like Wendy exist, but it does.
And while I'm on the subject of ridiculous people and things, the Nathan's hot dog eating contest disgusts me. Gluttony and a huge waste of food. Is there nothing Americans won't do to claim thier fifteen minutes? Give those hot dogs to some starving kids, ok?
I'm obviously not in a good mood today. The day will only get better when at 1:00 Natalie has ten friends - that's ten twelve-year old girls - over for what she calls a small swimming party, but which is costing me a small fortune in pizza, chips and soda. Not to mention my sanity.
If you don't hear from me by tomorrow, check the local psych wards.
Us, them, we
You would think that the President of a free, democratic nation would distance himself from divisiveness and name-calling. But we are talking about a president that lives in his own little world, so I guess I'm expecting too much there.
Bush appeared in Ripley, Virginia yesterday to celebrate Independence Day. Looked more like "Rally 'Round Religion Day" to me.
The minister that spoke before W. greeted the crowd with these remarks:
"We have ridiculed the absolute truth of your word in the name of multiculturalism," (Reverend) Miller said. "We have been forced to honor sexual deviance in the name of freedom of expression. We have exploited the system of education in the name of the lottery. We have toyed with the idea of helping human life in the name of medical research. We have killed our unborn children in the name of choice." via Newsday
And then W. gets up there smiling. I'm not implying that he finds those words to be absolute truth, but he is aligning himself dangerously by hanging out with people who think that embracing multi-culturalism means ridiculing God or that "sexual deviance" (read, homesexuality) means the same.
"Bush also drew cheers for the freedoms 'granted to each one of us by Almighty God'.." I was under the impression that our freedoms were granted to us by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and those who fought for revolution.
"May we always live by that same trust, and may God continue to watch over the United States of America."
Continue? He was watching over us before? Looks like he was busy watching over some other nation last September. Besides, I thought that it was Bush's job to ensure that real, living people are watching over the United States.
When a leader of a nation says "we" he is speaking for the entire nation he presides over. W. does not speak for me. When he says "we" believe in God and "we" should thank the Almighty for our freedoms, he does not speak for me. His Baptist faith does not speak for an awful lot of people. I wonder how other clergy, from religions that are a little more open and accepting to people of all walks of life, feel about multi-culturalism and homosexuality.
Instead of bringing our nation together on the anniversary of its birth, W. has done more to separate the "us" from the "them."
Let's wave those flags of freedom, everyone. Let's shout about how this country affords us freedoms that no one else has. Free to be you and me, right?
If you're not for them you're against them. If you embrace the cultures of others, if your God is different from the one spoken of in the pledge, if you have no God at all, if you are gay, if you question authority, if you speak out against our leaders, if you believe in freedom of choice, if you think outside the areas set forth by our leaders, if you dare to have a differing opinion about foreign policy, war, education, then apparently you are part of the problem.
The lines have been drawn. Us. Them. For or against. No inbetween, no crossing over lines, no holding hands and embracing our differences.
I am not represented when our president says "we."
I am more frightened of that thought than I am of terrorists.
Lost in new york
I let DJ go into the city to the Museum of Natural History with my cousin and her kids today. I'm one of those paranoid parents.
DJ, take this piece of paper and put it in your pocket.
What is it?
It has my cell phone number, and your aunt's phone number because that's where I'll be.
Why do I need this?
Because. Just in case.
What do you do if you get separated from everyone, DJ? If you get lost?
Mom, I'm nine, I know this stuff.
Humor me, DJ. What do you do if you get lost?
I go into the nearest bar and watch the Yankee game until someone comes looking for me.
Don't worry, I'll just drink Zima.
Thanks, I feel so much better now.
I'm off to my sister's to feast on dead animal carcasses and enjoy the stifling heat. I'll be drunk before 5, asleep on the front lawn by 7. I just hope they move me when they start the fireworks.
Enjoy your day. Play safe.
May the fourth be with you
(Sorry about that title. I couldn't resist)
It's Independence Day here in U.S.A., a day to celebrate freedom and liberty and the pursuit of those things.
I am an American. Do I love my country? For the most part, I do. Do I love everything my country stands for? Somewhat.
The great thing about being an American is my freedom to dissent. I can stand up and say I do not agree with your opinion, I do not agree with your actions. I can stand up and say these things about my own government and not be thrown into jail or stoned to death.
I have the right to say these things, just as much as you have the right to not agree with what I say, and to let me know that. That's what freedom means to me.
I have the right to question my government and their actions. I have a right to not say the pledge if I don't want to. I have a right to not believe in God.
Perhaps some of these rights have had a shadow cast over them since last year. The "if you are not with us, you are against us" attitude has been prevelant recently.
I posted this right here on September 19th:
I do not have a flag on my car. I am not wearing any kind of red, white and blue ribbon. There is a flag hanging from my house, but it's been there since my grandfather was alive and lived there, many years ago. I have been called unpatriotic. I have been called un-American. Because I haven't displayed my colors in support of this country in its time of need.
Honestly, I have not been a big supporter of this country all along. I find many things wrong with not only our politics, but our people as a whole. I spend a lot of this time on this very weblog complaining about the corruption of our government, the hypocrisy of our leaders, the rampant racism, anti-Semitism, homophobia and elitism in this country. I've railed against republicans and democrats alike. Liberals and conservatives. There are a whole lot of things wrong in this country. Please do not tell me you don't know that. Yes, I know I should be happy that I live in a free land. I am. And that freedom gives me the right to voice my opinion. It gives you the right to ignore me, too.
The swell of patriotism that is sweeping this country is nice. But being the cynical bastard that I am, I question it. I question why it took over 1,000 dead people for the citizens of this country to decide they need to be nice to each other. I wonder if you know that while you are out waving your flag and calling for the heads of those responsible, the usual American life is going on. Murders, rapes and robberies are still happening. Gays are still being bashed, and in the national news, no less. Kids are still being abused. Our environment is still being fucked. So pardon me if I don't suddenly whip my flag out and start waving with you.
Don't get me wrong, I'd love to be a part of it. But should I expected to do a complete 360 and suddenly become a patriot? Can't I just quietly feel for the victims and mourn for the state of our nation and feel angry at those responsible without painting my face our new school colors?
I am overwhelmed at the display of kinship and love that we have seen this past week. It brings tears to my eyes. I am part of this, too. I mourn and grieve and a part of me wants to kick some ass. But I would be labeled a hypocrite if I stood out on my street waving a flag right now. Rightfully so. 1,000 victims makes this country a very sad place. Makes it an angry place. It doesn't wipe out its past indiscretions or make me feel like I should forget everything I despise about it and start singing "God Bless America" just to be a part of the whole.
I just find it hard to get swept in it when the same people who are praising cops are the people who were calling them "pigs" last week. That the guys now wearing FDNY hats are the same ones who wouldn't pull over for a volunteer fireman last week. That the people who couldn't be bothered to vote in last year's presidential election are now chanting USA! at passing cars.
Just because there is no flag on my car doesn't mean I am not part of you. It doesn't mean I am rooting for the other team. It doesn't mean I don't feel. It just means I want to do it in my own way, in my own time, on a more subtle level.
I will not be waving a flag today. It doesn't mean that I don't love living here, or that I don't want to be an American. It just means I am showing my freedom to dissent, my freedom to not drape my feelings about my country in a flag, my freedom to question and dissent.
For my American readers, enjoy your holiday. You have the freedom to shoot off fireworks, just as much as you have the freedom to shoot off those fireworks while drunk and blow off part of your hand. You have the freedom to shoot off your bottlerockets and roman candles in front of my house, just as much as I have the freedom to kick your ass when one of them hits my car.
Yea, I love America. I do. I just hate people.
So I've been having these social problems. Mainly, I have no social life because I don't like to socialize. You've heard this all before.
Baz agreed to come out here Saturday night, so we can have a giggly girl's night. My secret makeout girlfriend from work, BonBon, was going to meet up with us and all hell would break loose with the three of us together. Right? Wrong.
Talking to Choire last night, I said to myself "Self, I know it's a girl's night, but what would be the harm in inviting Choire along?" So I asked him. And he said "OHHHH" and imagined that he had that Home Alone face on as he actually said it aloud.
Choire is hosting a party for Ernie and Ming Jung Saturday night. And he was supposed to invite Baz and I. So he did, just then, just as I was thinking about not having to leave Long Island to have a social life.
I stammered. Umm. Hmm. I don't know. I just don't know.
But Choire, the living doll that he is, gave me a quick lesson in how to overcome my fear of meeting a crowd of people all at once. I quote verbatim:
"but it's key to remember this: that you have to pretend whatever party you're going to is for you. they're all waiting for you. they're all just hanging out waiting for your arrival. and you have fascinating things to tell them."
Yea. Yes. I can do that. And then Tracy was talking about Stuart Smalley and I started doing hourly affirmations.
I am fun to be with. Because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and doggone it, people like me. Well, not everybody. But that's their problem. And your problem.
I figured I had to get my mojo going. Bring up the confidence level. I stared into the mirror and tried to build myself up. I tried to list some good things about me.
I don't smell bad.
I don't have an alien growing out of my head.
I don't have a bedwetting problem.
I have nice tits.
I don't walk funny.
I don't talk like The Nanny.
Ok, so the best thing I got going for me is my tits. So: pretend the party is for me; remember that if people don't like you it's their problem; wear something that shows your cleavage. And maybe a push-up bra. Wait, I think there's going to be a lot of gay guys there. But I heard that gay men like boobs. At least Shel does. And I heard that Ming Jung kisses girls. She is gorgeous. I would kiss her. Good thing I'm leaving Justin home.
I can do this. I can hold my breasts up high and flip my hair and have about seven drinks and then get up on the bar and boogie boogie boogie til I just can't boogie no more. And hope that I get home with all my clothes still on.
At some point today or tomorrow (most likely tomorrow), I will break 100,000 unique visitors to this site. That's since October, when I started using Extreme Tracking. (Although my dreamhost stats say I surpassed 100k ages ago, I'll just go with the stats that are easier to decipher)
I just want to say thank you to everyone who has stopped by, read my words, commented, shared stories with me, sent me hate mail, responded with kind words, opened their hearts and minds to me, linked me, became my friend, became my enemy or took my words here to heart and helped me through whatever was ailing me at the moment.
However, I would not like to thank the people who stopped by here looking for Janet Reno sex with donkeys, how to set yourself on fire, pokemon porn or girls with small tits.
Thanks for visiting. You are all like a dysfunctional, deranged family to me.
For Miguel, reasons I don't like tube tops:
1. They are often worn by people who really need to look in a mirror before they leave the house.
2. 11 years old, wearing tube top, neighborhood boys run up behind me and pull top down, revealing the fact that I am even flatter than imagined.
3. 12 years old, tube tops are still all the rage. New sport for boys: running with scissors. Yes, the boys carried scissors or pocket knives on them, grabbed girls in tube tops and cut the back of the tops straight up so you had to run home with your arms across your chest, crying all the way.
4. Wearing an article of clothing that has to be constantly adjusted, moved or straightened out is just not worth the time. If you have to spend your day checking to see whether your nipples are showing, that's a sign to wear something else. That's like wearing a too small thong and picking your ass in public all day.
Perhaps a halter top would still give you the casual slut look you are going for, without the need to jiggle your jugs every time you take a step. Then again, the boys used to untie our halter tops, too.
Bitching and moaning
Yea, I know. Everyone talks about the weather but no one does anything about it. That saying is patently false. Because I am doing something about it. I'm complaining.
As for you people in Florida or Texas or any of those states where the sun is like a giant enemy in the sky, bite me. Just because you suffer the fate of heat and humidity all year long doesn't mean I can't bitch and moan about it when it casts its evil spell upon us Yankees.
Besides, I woke up in the foulest mood possible, after a night of nightmares and restless sleep. I feel like I could possibly kill someone with just the right combination of an evil stare and telepathy. So instead of coming up with something interesting/funny/heartwarming today, I'm just going to bitch about the weather and the stupid things people do in the heat.
This is posted on the weather.com heat advisory today:
The national weather service has issued an excessive heat warning for this afternoon through thursday afternoon... 1. Afternoon readings reaching well into the 90s combined with high humidity will produce heat indices of around 100 to 105 degrees today. This will be the case again on thursday as temperatures rise into the mid 90s. High humidity will result in heat indices reaching 100 to 105 degrees. An excessive heat warning is issued when a heat index of at least 105 degrees for more than 3 hours per day for two consecutive days, or a heat index more than 115 degrees for any period of time is expected. Children, the elderly and people with chronic ailments are usually the first to suffer from the heat. Heat exhaustion, cramps, or in extreme cases heat stroke can result from prolonged exposure to these conditions. Friends, relatives, or neighbors should check on people who may be at risk. Persons in the warning area are advised to follow these safety rules... 1. Stay out of the sun when possible. 2. Avoid strenuous activities, especially during the sun's peak hours. 3. Drink lots of fluids...particularly water...even if you do not feel thirsty. Avoid beverages containing alcohol or caffeine. 4. Try to stay in an air conditioned environment when possible... or participate in activities that will keep you cool, such as going to the movies, shopping at a mall, or swimming at a pool or beach. 5. Never leave your children or pets in the car.
So, #1. Not gonna happen. I have this thing called a job, and I have to drive to this job and seeing as that they have yet to comply with my demands to build an air conditioned tunnel that I only I can use to get to my job and back, I have to venture out into the open air where that nasty sun exists.
#2. Ok, can comply with that one. During the sun's peak hours I will be either sleeping under my desk or in a nice cool jail cell after sporking some rude driver to death. Wait, is sporking someone to death considered streneous activity?
#3. As if. Sure, I'll drink all the water in the world, but I'm going to follow it up with plenty of caffeine. What do you think is going to happen if I wake up in a homicidal mood and then am denied my caffeine? Not gonna be pretty.
#4. This suggestion has been brough to you by the your local merchant's association.
#5. How sad that people have to be told this. Any parent that leaves their child in a car in this heat should be forced to endure the same torture as their kid.
I would like to add my own reccomendations for this weather:
1. Please wear deodorant. Seriously. Don't make me hurt you.
2. Please dress appropriately. I know it's hot out, but that does not give you the right to wear to work a skirt so short I can tell that you were bikini waxed recently. Also, tube tops are forbidden unless you are under the age of ten.
3. Don't touch me. I do not want your sweat smeared all over me. If you brush by me in an elevator or on line in the bank and you are covered with sweat, I swear to the powers that be that I will kill you with my evil gaze if even one drop of your sweat touches me.
4. Please do not announce to a roomful of people that there is sweat dripping down the crack of your ass.
I'm just using the weather as an excuse to bitch, anyhow. I'm too tired and cranky to come up with something interesting today. Sure, I could have just not posted anything at all, but I wanted to waste your time the way I just wasted my own.
I should have stayed in bed, eh?
I got your weather right here, buddy
Today's weather forecast according to weather.com:
THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HAS ISSUED A HEAT ADVISORY FOR TODAY...
HIGH TEMPERATURES IN THE LOWER TO MIDDLE 90S COMBINED WITH HIGH HUMIDITY LEVELS WILL PRODUCE HEAT INDICES OF AROUND 100 DEGREES TODAY AND AGAIN ON WEDNESDAY.
Today's weather forecast according to asmallvictory.net:
IT WILL BE REALLY FUCKING HOT. SO HOT THAT SATAN HIMSELF WOULD NOT SHOW UP HERE. THE HUMIDITY WILL SUFFOCATE YOU AS SOON AS YOU WALK OUTDOORS. THE SUN WILL BURN HOLES IN YOUR SKIN. YOU WILL FEEL LIKE AN ANT UNDER A MAGNIFYING GLASS. YOUR HAIR WILL SINGE. YOUR CLOTHES WILL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST. STAY HOME, YOU IDIOTS!
My advice on combatting the heat? Leave work early, suffer through ride home in car with broken air conditioning, pick up heat-stroked son from basketball camp, get in house, turn on AC full blast, crack open a beer and stay on the couch until September.
Have I mentioned that I loathe summer?
A small victory presents:
Imminent Danger Fashion: your source for color-coordinated protective gear.
Today's terror alert is yellow. In case you want to dress accordingly, we have found the perfect accessories for the discriminating American.
This yellow chemical mask will not only protect you from deadly airborne diseases, but it coordinates nicely with todays imminent danger warning!
There is also this great yellow camaflouge suit, perfect for your terror-coded Fourth of July ensemble!
If you like your gas mask and suit in coordinated outfit, try this yellow chemical protection suit!
Don't even think about protecting yourself without weapons to match your outfit! This lovely yellow gun might not scare away terrorists, but you'll sure look fashionable when waving it in someone's face!
And don't be caught dead without these boots, the perfect completion to stunning protective gear.
Don't be a terror fashion victim! Check the Ridge chart every day to make sure you are wearing the right color when all hell breaks loose. Don't get caught wearing blue when the chart says yellow!
In the next issue of Imminent Danger Fashion: High Alert: What if you don't look good in orange?
Royal canadian kilted yaksmen
It has just been called to my attention that today is Canada Day, and I love all you Canadians, so I in your honor I will have Canadian beer for lunch today and I will stand on the table and sing "Oh, Canada!" to which I know all the words, and just for kicks I will also sing "Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen," to which I also know all the words and then I'll probably be put away shortly after that. But it will have been fun.
Mr. roach and the bic of death
I dreamed of birds last night. They were trying to get in the bedroom window and I was shoving them out as fast as they came in. I couldn't get them all and birds rested everywhere in the bedroom; blue birds and brown birds and birds that could speak. One tilted his head back, his beak pointed in the air like a gun and laughed at me. A cackling, horrifying laugh.
A big fat crow tried to get in the window and I slammed the window down on him, catching him halfway between in and out and his neck twisted like a rope. He begged me to open the window and let him go but I preferred to watch him suffer. After a few minutes I made a move to push him out the window, but my hand brushed by his beak and he bit me. I flew into a rage and held him by his neck, began thrashing him around the room, banging his body into walls and furniture. He screamed bloody murder while all the other birds furiously flew out the door to get the hell away from me before I came for them next.
I woke up and there were crows outside my window, making a racket and causing the other birds to yell back at them. I hate when life pervades my dreams.
Yesterday (and this is real now, we finished the dream sequence), I killed a cockroach. My neighbors have this problem with getting their garbage into the can, I think they just have bad aim or they could be very lazy. I was sitting outside having a cigarette when a roach crawled from underneath my neighbor's garbage can towards my feet. I waited for him to get close to me and then I burned him to death with a cigarette lighter.
I am not an evil person. I only kill crows in my dreams. And I don't make it a habit of killing bugs, much less torturing them with flame. If I see a spider in the house, I take it outside rather than screaming like a sissy girl and then stomping on it. I try not to step on ants or swat bees so hard that they fall dead to the ground.
But this was a cockroach. Sure, I could have just stepped on it, but I was barefoot. I could have just flicked it away, but that would have meant touching it. Oh yes, I could have just let it go. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let a roach get anywhere near my door. Besides, I was in a terrible mood. So I flicked my Bic and touched the flame to the roach's shell and he stopped in his tracks. I suppose if I could have seen it his face it would have been frozen in a look of horror and pain. His legs went first, practically melting under the heat of the flame. His little insect body twitched and convulsed and I think his head exploded. The flame died and I squished the roach with the end of the lighter just to make sure he was dead. I didn't want to leave him there, half baked, half alive, sending telepathic messages to his 10,000 relatives that lived in his one bedroom apartment under my neighbor's garbage can and they would all come after me in the dead of night, making nests in my hair and crawling into my ears to get to my brain.
I really felt awful afterwards. I remembered when DJ was about 5 and he put an ant in the microwave just to see what would happen. I gave him a long lecture about being kind to our fellow earth inhabiters and how I was severely disappointed that he would do something like that and that maybe next time I would stick him in the microwave "just to see what would happen."
I started thinking about Mrs. Roach and Baby Roach and Grandpa Roach and how they were all waiting for Mr. Roach to come home from his trip abroad with news of a fresh new food spill on the porch next door. But Mr. Roach never comes home. And the headlines in the Daily Roach News say something about his lifeless, scorched body found on the stairs next door, a crushed cigarette butt laying next to it. They would use their roach DNA labs to secure the evidence that it was that monster lady that killed their beloved Mr. Roach, who was doing nothing more than hunting and foraging for food for his family. I would be tried and found guilty and I would have to surrender all my cans of Raid. And the roaches would take over my home and make me their human slave and I would have to feed them scraps of leftover Krispy Kremes for the rest of my days.
After I spent ten minutes thinking of that scenario, all while watching Mr. Roach twitch towards his death, I spotted another roach coming from underneath the garbage. I went into the house for the can of Raid, determined to wipe them all out before they could pin the murder on me.