Thursday, June 30, 2005

I'm on the radio on Friday!

Whoo-hoo!

Thanks to a neat opportunity offered to me by an incredibly nice human being, you have the chance to cringe in horror at the sound of my voice coming through your speakers! No, it's not another one of my rambling audioblog entries.

I'm gonna be on the radio, ma!

This Friday, I have a short (as in 3 1/2 minutes) commentary on the show Metro Connection on WAMU 88.5 FM, American University's exceptional public radio station here in DC. Metro Connection runs 1-2 p.m. EST on Friday (it will be replayed a couple of times over the weekend.) My short summer rant will be at the end of the show. If you live in the DC area, you can hear me growling from your radio dial. If you're out of town (or just love your computer speakers), you can hear me on WAMU's live Internet broadcast at www.wamu.org.

About an hour after the show airs, it will be up on the WAMU website, so you can access my little rant-let at your leisure. Just follow the links here. That way, if you live someplace like Coolum Beach, Australia, you don't have to listen to me in the middle of the night.

I know this is just something little, but for me, it's very exciting. This is my first time doing radio. And, more importantly for me, this is the first time I've been paid to be a writer. Small moment though it may be, it still tickles me pink.

So...


Me, plus


A little radio signal, plus


A handful of sparklers, and


A little of this...

Makes for three minutes of rant.

Yee-haw!

Mexico: WTF?

I recognize that Mexico is not the only country that has problems with obvious signs of racism (my first trip to Germany comes to mind, when I found out that the local equivalent of Hostess-style cupcakes had little white smiles on them and the lovely brand name of "N Kisses" - if you get my fairly freaked out drift)...

But, man, you'd think that so soon after Vincente Fox's recent questionable comments, these deplorable things would have been deep six'ed.

Again - Mexico: WTF???

Xenu and the Incident

A few folks have dropped by here via a link from a comment I left on Rosie's blog re: Tom Cruise. For their benefit - and yours, I offer you two links:

1. Wikipedia entry on "Xenu" - the big baddie of Scientology. You know how Cruise has been talking to German media outlets about believing in aliens? Here you go.

2. Operation Clambake - a clearinghouse for information on Scientology as a cult.

Enjoy.

Theater of the Mind

I had an audioblog entry up here about tonight, and I took it down. Hated the way it sounded. Lord, could I have been more wussy-sounding?!?

Tonight in a nutshell:

1. Tried to go to a meditation class (never been before) - I wanted to learn about relaxation and breathing techniques. Didn't make it. The parking lot was overflowing and parking around the venue was totally prohibited.

2. Then tried to go the gym. Enormous storm from hell whips up and the gym has no power.

3. Ordered semi-healthy dinner from Wendy's drive-thru - grilled chicken, side salad, fruit cup, etc.

4. Tried to go home. Fire truck and tree struck by lightening blocked off entrance to street. Sat outside for a while.

5. Noticed that my entire neighborhood was pitch black.

6. Rain stopped. Fire truck left. Finally got home.

7. Watched two transformers blow up in a spectacular fashion directly in front of me.

8. Lit candles all over the place, turned on AM/FM/TV radio to NBC and listened to Law & Order.

9. Opened bag from Wendy's. Discovered I was given wrong order. Chicken sandwich was now a triple bacon cheeseburger. Side salad and fruit replaced by two huge orders of fries, an overly sugary bowl of mandarin oranges, with a Jr. cheeseburger thrown in for good measure.

10. Give up on dinner. Decide karma is bad. Take shower. Try to sleep in slowly heating oven of an apartment.

11. Spend two hours listening to more transformers blow.

12. Finally get power back. Check e-mail. Eat melting sugar-free popcicles for dinner.

Yes, it's been a lovely evening. In between transformer explosions, I did turn the radio off and just enjoyed the silence. A wonderful, palpable silence. But the heat and mugginess made it less enjoyable as the evening went on.

A highlight tonight was listening to "Lost" on ABC, by candlelight. "Lost" makes for an interesting radio drama. This was a great dialogue episode, with Locke telling Jack about the specialness of the island. Locke's always got some of the finest lines on the show.

So, now, everything's back to normal-ish. It'll take a while for the place to cool down, and I hope the transformers don't blow again. For being so close to the Pentagon and the White House, the area has the weakest power grid I've ever seen.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Rush, dude, I thought you were off the Oxycontin...

This got an evil, evil chuckle from me. From DC media website DCRTV.com:

"Rant - 6/29 - Heard on WMAL. Where is Rush Limbaugh's mind these days? In describing President Bush's Tuesday speech on his Wednesday show, Rush blurted out that it was a 'gang bang.' He immediately cleared his throat and corrected himself, re-branding it a 'barn burner'."

Oh, that's lovely.



How Stella got her pre-nup enforced...

Turns out, Stella apparently never got her groove back. Her groove was actually gay and just shaking her down for U.S. citizenship. Oopsie.

And, so dies another dream of hope for the single and 40-something woman...

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Join Me on the 5th Level of Hell

Do you know the surface temperature of the sun? I do.

It's the exact same temperature it was in Washington today.

How hot was it?

Oh, it was "melt your sunglasses to your face" hot. It was "watch the tourists spontaneously combust" hot. It was "don't even try to get to work without becoming a hideous, stinky liquid sweatball" hot.

I had errands to run and places to go, but frankly, all I wanted to do was sit in my air conditioned car with every vent directed at me, full blast. I actually considered gassing up at a full-serve station, just so I wouldn't have to experience the direct rays of the sun.

Today's heat index was 105 F.

Yeah, it was freaking hot.


Downtown DC. June 28, 2005.

So, thinking about the Hades-ness of DC today reminded me of a fun little quizlet I took about a year ago. The Dante's Inferno Test: To Which Level Are You Condemned? I recalled last time, I was consigned to the 5th Level, Land of the Wrathful and Gloomy. My friend MEB tested out at the same level. So good to have company in the afterlife! I just took the test again, and, lo! I'm still holding on the 5th Level. Bring on the wrath and gloom!

Of the 5th Level, the test says:

The river Styx runs through this level of Hell, and in it are punished the wrathful and the gloomy. The former are forever lashing out at each other in anger, furious and naked, tearing each other piecemeal with their teeth. The latter are gurgling in the black mud, slothful and sullen, withdrawn from the world. Their lamentations bubble to the surface as they try to repeat a doleful hymn, though with unbroken words they cannot say it. Because you lived a cruel, vindictive and hateful life, you meet your fate in the Styx.



The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Fifth Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
LevelScore
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Low
Level 2 (Lustful)Low
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Very High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Moderate
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Very High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Moderate
Level 7 (Violent)High
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Low

Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test

Hemadrone, Shmemadrone!

Hemadrones, my ass! This man was being chased by C.H.U.D.!!!


Watch out, California! Here they come!!!

You should click on the picture. Check out the spelling of "cannibalistic". Classic. And they wonder why it wasn't a huge hit??? (Those damn canniblals.)

On the radio... whoo-hoo!

I'm off shortly to the studios of WAMU, the truly excellent public radio station in DC. I hope to not make a fool of myself in the studio, and, if all goes well, you will be able to hear me ramble and rant for approximately 3 minutes, 33 seconds this coming Friday.


Not actual size. Or actual technology.

More on all this when I get back today. Until then, wish me luck.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Something Cool - The Human Clock

Just found this on the aprilwinchell.com Linkapalooza page - the Human Clock. It's a fun idea.

Sasquatch - up for taking some local time shots? I think one with the bear at Ranger Surplus would be nice. Maybe one with F. Scott Fitzgerald's headstone. And, of course, the f'ing Washington Monument. (Of course, we could get cute and take one in front of the White House just reading "Time's up!" but I reckon that's a little cliche, huh?)

Sunday, June 26, 2005

e-Sympathy e-vil

This has been a helluva weekend for some folks.

I've been puzzling over what kind of sympathy card you send to someone that adequately, tastefully, and kindly says, "So sorry your publicly beloved, but mentally unstable estranged father passed away." I just don't think there's a card for that kind of occasion. Even the dignified e-cards I found just seemed wrong. If you've had a death in the family, do you really want to get an announcement reading "You have a card waiting for you at 1-2-3-Giggle.com!" Ugh. e-Sympathy really is kind of tacky anyway, isn't it?

I guess it's time for me to get out the rubber stamps and the embossing powder. I don't bake cookies anymore, so creating a handmade card is how I show a little more appreciation.

I feel bad complaining even a bit about my weekend, in light of the events in the lives of some of my friends and acquaintances. And I feel for each and every one of them, although I'm not in a position to offer more than words of support.

But I've had a real lack of faith-type crisis in my creativity and skill. That may not seem like anything major, but it's pretty big for me. I found myself sitting in my car tonight, weeping buckets over being a flop and being annoying to at least one of my friends, with my need for creative approval. I guess it's the stress of the unemployment thing, combined with my lack of progress with my health/weight, a horrible hair day (considered going 80's ultra short), and me churning out totally boring crap for a project that's meaningful for me. And probably too much caffeine. Yeah. I imagine the caffeine just isn't helping matters.

Dang it.

Here's hoping Monday is a new-and-improved kind of world for us all.

Hope, hope, hope...

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Herding words

Today, I'm re-arranging words I put together for a project. It's more challenging that pulling awful pictures of Britney Spears off Google images and making smartass comments about sheepish ringtones.

I think I suck at this. I think my efforts are stymied by the crappy silicone keyboard I bought yesterday and the fact that the coffee shop is currently playing some awful 20 minute dance track based on the theme to The Price is Right. The keyboard is going back to CompUSA tomorrow. The music I can't do jack shit about. Ugh.

I also think I'm rationalizing my inability to be even vaguely amusing today. Maybe it's the weather. A lot of people I know seem to be cranky or out of sorts or just unhappy with the planet this weekend.


Crap tapping away.

I know I can write better than this. Why is it so hard right now? Grrr.

To all my friends who have had a crappy weekend for one reason or another - things will improve, eventually. Big virtual hug, all 'round.

Good music, streaming to you...

You're planted at the computer. While you take root, listen to some very good new music. (And cleanse your brain of that awful sheep ringtone.) Michael Penn's new cd, "Mr. Hollywood Jr., 1947" will be released on August 2nd. Hear it now, streaming in QuickTime, courtesy of Spin Art Records.

Then, come August 2nd, buy it. You will not regret it.


Eventually, I will convince you all to go buy Michael Penn's music.

Go now and listen. Enjoy.

I weep for Britain (once more, with feeling!)

I have a friend in the north of England. He's a fairly quirky individual, and back in 1986, he introduced me to The Smiths and taught me to appreciate vegetarian Indian cuisine. (He's also the only person with whom I've ever gotten into a political "debate" that got physical. I threw a large bottle of laundry detergent at him. As I recall, he deserved it. Colorful days in Thatcher's Britain...) He grew up in Cumbria - the lovely Lake District, where tourists go to look at the pretty sheep and slip, fall, and die trying to walk the Fells.

Today, he called and we had one of our fine "is your country entirely mental?!?" discussions. One of my harping points this afternoon was the recent UK chart climb of the dumbass Crazy Frog ringtone. Said my friend, "Ooooh, no! It's gotten much worse!" And it's his own part of England that's to blame for this latest bit of awfulness.

In an effort to boost tourism in the Lake District, the Cumbria Tourist Board has built a lovely little website. A fine thing to do, indeed. But you see, the crafy Cumbrians have not stopped there. Creative geniuses they are, they have decided to climb on board the hot ticket express by expanding into the ringtone business. By combining Cumbria's local sheepage with a classic piece of England's musical heritage, the Tourist Board hopes to inspire vacation-seekers to come frolic in their green and pleasant land.

Behold! Sheep "sing" Jerusalem!


Cumbrian Friendship Ambassador and Recording Artiste

It's really awful. I mean, the stupid Crazy Frog/Axel F thing was just stupid. But to reduce the poetry of William Blake to sheep backed up with a Casio keyboard... to play on your cell phone...

Wow, that's really, really awful.

About the ringtone, the Tourist Board site reads in part:

"It is set to become the must-have accessory for hill walkers, shepherds and farmers everywhere – a sheep ringtone! Just as the Crazy Frog craze appealed to the young and urban, it is hoped the reworking of Jerusalem by The Baarmy Sheep of The Lake District, will appeal to those with a love of the countryside and outdoors..."

But of course. Because nothing says "Smell the fresh country air!" like sheep and keyboards and mutated culture pouring out of your LG flip phone...

Just in case you're too young to remember "Chariots of Fire", here's the distinctly, truly English poetry of Blake:

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the Holy Lamb of God
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.

And another poet spins in his grave like an overheated Chernobyl turbine...

Midnight Musical Confession...

I love "Oops!...I Did It Again" by Britney Spears.

I'm sorry. It's fun. It's got an awesome pop hook, the Skankette's processed vocals really work, and it reminds me of something ABBA would have done.

So sue me. It's only one Britney song. If I have to give up my musical hipster charter membership card for this, I will hand it over.


The radiant Mrs. Federline, aka La Skankstressa.

We all have dark musical secrets.

You know it's true.

Fess up.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Chicken Nuggets of the Gods

Had a mall food court dinner with the Sasquatch this evening. Montgomery Mall (home of recent multiple stabbings and an attempted child molestation) has an Apple store, and, as the Sasquatch periodically must go to worship and tithe to Steve Jobs, I hopped along for a look-see. (Kinda like a Catholic attending a Lutheran Christmas service.)

I have nothing against Apple. Were I not all PC'ed up already, I would easily turn to the Other Side. But now, it would be too much of a financial issue. Plus, then I wouldn't be able to amuse myself by teasing my bigfoot buddy with gems like:

"Oh, that's right. You don't have a computer. You have an 'Apple product'."
"Oh, look. They didn't even put the word 'Apple' on the storefront. Just a big, pretty symbol. It's nice that they cater to you illiterate folks."
"It would be great if you could use this software/game, but they don't make it for the Mac."
"That's a pretty paperweight!"

Heh heh heh.

I kid. Honest! I've mentioned before, I've had a helluva time visiting Apple on business trips. Really excellent fun and very cool people. And they let me play with the toys, which was fun. And I got to call the Sasquatch long distance and taunt him with the fact that I had achieved his Mecca. Bwah hah hah!

Sadly, tonight, the Apple store could not satisfy the Sasquatch's shopping needs, but the trip to the mall (aka "America's Lowest Social Common Denominator") was not a total loss. For, you see, the food court has a Chick-fil-A.


The Chick-fil-A Cows. My mom loved these guys. When she passed away, the Sasquatch inherited my mom's treasured Chick-fil-A Cow t-shirt.

If you have not had the Chick-fil-A experience, dude, you are so missing out. I have no idea what sort of addictive narcotic substance is crushed into their chicken nugget coating, but it's like crack. (Wow. Two references to crack in one day. My my my.) It's the damn tastiest chicken in the world. Chick-fil-A also makes the best lemonade ever. I drink their diet lemonade, which is tart enough to make my head partially implode, but incredibly refreshing.

Then there are the waffle fries. I no longer partake of the waffle fries, as I'm trying to be a good doobie - I take the tasty fruit cup instead. (Hey, guys - could you be a little less stingy with the pineapple and orange? I mean seriously - it's all apples and grapes. More citrus, dammit!) But there are people who worship at the altar of the waffle fries, giant soft puffs of lightly fried potato goodness. Others do a better job of waxing rhapsodic about the tuberifficness of these babies, and I'll let them pay tribute. For me, it's all about the chicken nuggets. Holy crap, they're good.

Chick-fil-A is run by a very steadfastly Christian family, so all the outlets are closed on Sunday. And yea, the lord god did say, on the seventh day, the nuggets shall rest. And they did. And it was good. But the pagan mallgoers did weep. Oh yea, they did. For they were consigned to the misery and punishment of Panda Express, Everything Turkey, that scary-looking deli, and Cinnabun.

But on a Saturday night, for a quickie dinner at the freaky mall with my best bud, the Chick-fil-A, well, she doth rock.

Separated at Birth: the TV Trifecta Edition!

I just saw Karl Rove's bulbous and terrifying noggin on CNN. What a scary, scary critter he is. The puppet master with his hand up the president's patoot. Waylon Flowers and Madame on a bad dime bag of crack.

But seeing his oversized melon made me realize something - I'd just seen that face just yesterday, but with a different name attached...

Yessss...

It was a ad in Thursday's Washington Post touting everyone's favorite TV critic... Tom Shales.

Much sadness here. I like Tom Shales, and I don't want to mentally shelve him with that awful Macy's parade balloon secretly running our country. So, I had to expand the spectrum to make myself feel better, on Tom Shales' behalf. And I believe I've found the missing link. Tell me I'm wrong:


The White House equivalent of a possessed Bob's Big Boy statue (minus overalls)


Most excellent TV critic (I really, really miss his reviews of the Kathy Lee Gifford Christmas specials)

Aaaaaannnd...


The Simpsons' own... Martin Prince!

I'd take Tom Shales or Martin in the White House over the Rove-let any old day... Really, really, I would.

Unproductive

I am having a creatively unproductive day. I blame yesterday.

I ended up at my gym, treadmilling away at 8:30 p.m. This is a weird time to be working out, and I think my body rebelled. When I left the gym, I walked over to the auto supply store across the parking lot to buy new windshield wipers. Being on the broke side, I decided to get just the refill blades for $3.99 a piece rather than the whole assembly for $7.99 a piece.

Bad idea.

I cannot be trusted around mechnical devices, sharp objects, and my own feet. I am dangerously clumsy and have the healed bagel knife wounds, bruises, and x-rays of my broken leg and foot to prove it. I should have known that inserting the blade refills would end up in blood and swearing. Amazingly, I waited until the very last second of the refilling process to slice my palm open, but, true to form, I still managed a last minute injury. I drove home with one hand, the other one dripping more blood than I felt was necessary.

Then, after fixing the hand, showering, yakking with two friends and having a tiny dinner at 11-something (bad idea #12), I slept horribly (and only for about 4 hours). I dreamed first that I was in a Russian sports stadium with my mother, standing in line at the snack bar. I was speaking Russian, but it was the linguistic dream equivalent of running slow motion in mud. I was speaking at such a glacial pace, it drove me batty. To quote a friend, "It made my ass chew gum." Ugh.

The dream switched to downtown Bethesda, where, apparently, after an apocalyptic event, pig-stealing, angry mutant zombies were on the prowl. (Don't even ask where you get pigs in suburban DC.) In order to ward off the zombies, you had to raise your hand in a protective gesture and say "Life for your pig." Uhmmmm... yeah. Okay.

It was all very odd. Made getting up this morning fairly easy.


My brain. June 24, 2005.

I ended up catnapping on the sofa this afternoon, trying to get caught up from last night. Woke up to hear Judge Judy harping at someone on my TV. "Listen to me, madame! Blah blah blah Ginger blah blah blah don't pee on my leg blah blah bah..." Ugh.

So, no gymming at 8:30 tonight. No home car repairs in a dark parking lot. And no dinner at 11-something. I sincerely hope to feel more creative tomorrow morning. I have words to put to paper, with an actual purpose. (More on that later.)

Today would have been my parents' 61st wedding anniversary. I just realized that. I hope one of my sisters went out to lay some flowers in the cemetery...

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Outstanding, and yet... not so outstanding...

I have just received a deeeelightful e-mail of rejection for a really good job:

"Dear Ms. X:

It was great to have a chance to review your resume. You were clearly one of the most outstanding candidates to apply. You have a tremendously impressive background in Eurasian issues. However, your educational credentials aren't the right match for us, and we have chosen to interview other candidates."

Outstanding and impressive. But, apparently, not outstanding and impressive enough.

15 years of field experience. Fluent Russian. Attended the London School of Economics. But I don't have that goddamned M.A. that is so important here in DC. Makes one want to buy one from an Internet diploma mill...

"Ooooh! 15 years experience and an M.A. from the Shady Hill Puppy Farm School of Business! You're hired!"

I guess I should have gotten one, a credit at a time, over the past few years. My bad.


Me. June 23, 2005.

Is Borders hiring? I can stock books. I know how to alphabetize. I can learn to make a latte.

Grrr.

Separated at Birth: the Scary-Ass Old Guy Edition

Not that I find anything even vaguely amusing about either of these guys and I hope you won't find me too crass in saying this, but...

Am I the only person who's noticed an uncanny resemblance between the scary-ass fake old guy in the Six Flags commercials:


Fake scary...

And gen-u-ine scary-ass convicted murderer and racist Edgar Ray Killen?

Real scary.


Let's review:


Guaranteed to give you nightmares...


Ditto on the nightmares thing.

Just curious. Perhaps it's only me... Maybe this will encourage Six Flags to get rid of that incredibly creepy ad campaign.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Two Legs Good, Talking Heads Bad

Or, a culinary cautionary tale...

If you ever find yourself in Gaithersburg, Maryland, tooling up and down Shady Grove Road and you discover you are hungry, here are four words to remember: Bugaboo Creek Steak House. As in – do not go there! Avoid at all costs!

It’s not that the food is bad. For a chain steakhouse, it’s perfectly fine. The problem is the disturbing décor.

You see, Bugaboo Creek is what I like to call the “NAFTA Friendship Steakhouse”. It’s the Canadian equivalent of Outback Steakhouse. The Bugaboo slogan is: “The Flavor of the Canadian Rockies”. What Outback has done to ingrain all sorts of silly Australian stereotypes in the minds of American diners, Bugaboo Creek hopes to do for silly Canadian stereotypes. Although, all things – including lingering thoughts of mad cow disease – taken into account, I think that Outback is winning here.

When you walk into Bugaboo Creek, the first thing that greets you is the lifesize Mountie statue that lets you know you’ll have a bit of a wait before you’re seated. The mountie stands next to a 8 or 9 foot tall pine tree. A talking pine tree. With a mouth set into the middle of its bushy branches.

It has lips. And teeth.

Hey, now that’s disturbing!

By now, as you wait in a line of loud suburban families, you realize you’re not in Kansas anymore. Frankly, I don’t think you’re in Canada, either. As far as I know, Canada is not home to talking evergreens. But I could be wrong.

In the bar area, a large owl hovers on the wall above you. Every once in a while, the owl moves. It flaps its wings and hoots. Loudly. The first time this happens, you are forgiven if you pee yourself. After all, restaurant décor is not supposed to move and hoot. But get over it. The owl, you see, is merely a harbinger of what is to come… in The Dining Room of Horror!

Designed to look like a north country lodge, the dining room has a hearty, manly look to it. Lots of dark woods, beer signs, lumberjack-ish print tablecloths… and animal heads everywhere. Buffalo. Deer. Moose. Huge honkin’ fish. It’s Sizzler, a la Norman Bates. Seated, looking over the hearty, manly menu (featuring their signature boozy drink, the “Legendary Moose Juice” - I kept calling it "moose piss"), we became aware of a flapping sound. Scanning the room, my friends and I became aware of the fact that the flapping was coming from the wall.

“Duuuude. That fish is moving.”

Sure enough, a huge bass on the wall flapped its head and tail wildly, its mouth gaping open, as if gasping for air.

Suddenly, fish did not seem like a good meal option.

We started looking at all the animals on the wall, fearing what was coming next. As if on cue, the enormous buffalo head cranked up a few feet away. You could hear the gears, in need of a good oiling, as the head bobbed and the eyes blinked at us. The hinged jaw began to flap open and shut and the buffalo, in a deep rumbling bass began to speak: “You may ask yourself how Bugaboo Creek got its name…” and the buffalo continued to share its tale of the mighty Canadian wilderness. (I started imagining the buffalo switching into a more appropriate Talking Heads mode: “And you may ask yourself – how did I get here???”)

But it didn’t stop there. Oh no, no, no. For, you see, the buffalo then led all the rest of the dearly departed creatures of the forest and the river in a rousing old timey mountain man-type song. God, was it Old Susannah? My Darlin’ Clementine? I think I’ve blocked it out. The Sasquatch might remember, if he didn’t undergo some sort of shock therapy to erase it all.

We ate quickly, in the hopes of missing the next show. We fled as the buffalo cranked into gear for another round. (The fish is apparently your 2-minute warning. Remember this!)

Like I said, the food wasn’t bad, really, as far as chains go. I might go back someday to horrify visiting friends or relatives. A menu point, though. I don’t know about you, but I’m not keen to eat something called “Crater Lake Seafood Dip”. I’ve been to Crater Lake. It’s awfully far inland. I don’t want to know what kind of “seafood” would come from said lake. Perhaps that’s the origin of “krab” with a “k”.

So, there is my cautionary dining tale. If you decide to visit Bugaboo – if only to take pictures or tape the talking buffalo, be sure to bring a foreign visitor. Really. Take a Norwegian. We did. We discovered that Northern European adults, not raised in a Chuck E. Cheese culture, don’t really like to eat in a room full of talking, singing, flapping dead animals. They find it unsettling and more than a little creepy. Buy your foreign visitor lots of “Moose Juice”. It may be the only way she’ll be able to eat dinner without screaming and bolting from the room.

If you’re hungry and you’re in Gaithersburg, just go to Ricky’s Rice Bowl. You can’t go wrong with rice, meat, veggies, and sauce. They have cheesy décor, too, but it doesn’t sing. Oh thank you god, it doesn’t sing.

That's what you get when you buy particle board and plastic...

The runners for the pull-out mouse tray on my IKEA computer table just broke off. Instead of metal runners, IKEA used really lightweight plastic ones - they've been cracking since Day 1. Apparently, I will now have to duct tape the mouse tray into place.

Dammit.

IKRAP.

1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... Seven hookers!

Got this off Wil Wheaton dot Net - a straight-to-DVD "Family Guy" movie is in the works. This will, indeed, be freakin' sweet!

Oh, and Season 5 of OZ is out on DVD today!! Hello, Netflix! (Sasquatch, I assume you have those discs queued up already, no?)

All things serve the beam

It's funny. Just about everywhere I turn lately, I'm encountering folks who are "Dark Tower People". This is a Good Thing. Haven't read the books? Go do it. Take the journey. You won't regret it. Dang good books.


Roland on the edge of the Western Sea... A painting by Michael Whelan. Whelan gets it right.

A little bit of envy

I'm at a point in my life where I don't have any roots and I don't have a real home. Most of my friends are married (or seriously involved with someone) and have a household or at least A Plan. They have a pretty good idea where they're headed. I'm not even sure where the hell I'm really from. And I have no Plan. If I don't have a job by the end of next month, I will likely have to move into one of my sisters' homes back in the Midwest, which kinda feels like emotional suicide at this point. It would never be my home. It would just be another transit point in a rootless existence.

My family moved around a great deal, so most of my brothers and sisters were born in different states, and they dropped off to build their own families along the way, some in the Midwest, some on the East Coast. My parents both came from Depression-era broken homes, and there was no steady base to turn to. When I was little, there were no visits to hometowns for us. No trips to Grandma and Grandpa's place for me. (My maternal grandmother was institutionalized in the 1920's and my grandfather got married to my mom's evil stepmother. My paternal grandfather died of pneumonia in 1929, and my grandmother got married to my father's evil stepfather. Not a lot of warm fuzzy memories there.) Sure, there's a scattering of relatives on my father's side up in Minnesota, and some across the West Coast for my mom's family, but no place that has a solid base and sense of family history for us.

A friend of mine just spent a wonderful weekend in a town rich with his family history. I'm sure he'll be blogging about it. It grabbed at my heart. It just seems so neat to be so connected to your own history and to be able to touch it and see all the people who know your family's history and value. My valued history only goes down one generation, to my parents, and, more specifically, to my mother. And she's gone. And so is my father. Other than their headstones, there just isn't anything tangible for me to go see and witness and feel connected to.

Is it stupid to feel envy over something like that? It's not a bad sort of envy, just a wistful sort. I wish I had that kind of connection to something like that, a thread that's woven from a clear past into your present.

I'm afraid my threads are all frayed.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Now, back to the usual drivel

As you can see, there are reasons why I avoid trying to write about anything political: I suck at it. I am not a big brain. No more political bs from me. (But thank you to the person who liked my nickname for Ann Coulter. You actually have Stephen King to thank for that. "He Who Walks Behind The Rows" was an awesome concept to terrify young people growing up in the cornfield-filled Midwest, trust me. Children of the Corn made for a bunch of lousy movies, but it was a helluva short story.)

So, it's back to my random life and observations. I found out today that my health insurance company hasn't received my renewal paperwork yet, despite me having dropped the envelope at the post office two weeks ago. I got a bill for next month's premium and a letter of intent to cancel together today. I just had to spend $9 to fax all the stuff I already mailed and hope that arrives. We shall see. Not having insurance would just be the capper on a stellar month.

In other news, April Winchell has written up a small bit on her blog about how she spent Fathers Day. Her description of her biological father (Paul "voice of Tigger and the Scrubbing Bubbles and certified nut" Winchell) made me snort iced coffee up my nose. What a lovely feeling. Thanks, April, for sharing the love, as always. (And BIG thanks, April, for your recent professional advice. MUCHO appreciated!)

And, finally, to the asshole running the mobile Volvo chop shop in the street outside my building: dismantle another Swedish crapmobile under my bedroom window at 2 a.m. again, and I will personally smack you silly with a big stick.

That is all.

Ramble, rinse, repeat

This is an entry in desperate need of an editor. Apologies all around. I don’t usually write anything political, and you’ll now see why. My thinking is simplistic, and my writing is not particularly sophisticated. You want sophistication? There are a gazillion talking heads with Ivy League degrees out there. Seek and ye shall find. These are just my opinions. Your mileage may, indeed, vary.



Yesterday, over on Nickerblog, Shane Nickerson wrote an entry about complacency in the United States, and how our government is getting away with some unpleasant and nefarious things, domestic and international, as much of America sits back and watches. It’s a nice, short cautionary message. Shane writes in part: “Do not feel removed or separated from the actions of your government. They are representing you, and by not protesting and not standing up to vocalize your discontent, you are, in effect, condoning these actions. You know, they're counting on our complacency.”

Quite right, Shane. They are. They expect us to sit back and just watch the fun, fun, fun. And that’s not a good thing. I live in the suburbs of DC. Up until three months ago, I worked in a federal office a couple of blocks from the White House. And there is a kinda smirky, smarmy smugness to the White House today. You could feel it radiating out through the overconfident Republicans who ran the office where I worked.

Whether we like it or not – whether we support it or not – our government is the face of our people worldwide. And, frankly, I don’t want people 10,000 miles from here thinking that I’m some paranoid invader with blood on my hands and my neighbor’s stolen personal information in my pocket. (I also don’t want them to think I watch “American Idol” and “Big Brother”, but that’s another post altogether.)

First off, let me say this: in some major areas, I definitely fall in line with Democratic thinking; in others, Republican. I believe in strong borders. (And, thanks, customs and immigration guys for letting the crazy killer with the bag o’ bloody weapons over the border from Canada the other day. Jeeeezus.) After two years working the visa line at the American Embassy in Moscow, I believe in strong immigration policy. I do not find Republicans inherently evil. (Except for Ann Coulter. She may actually be the anti-Christ. I really think it’s a possibility.) I do not find Democrats inherently stupid and un-American. I was raised by one liberal Democrat and one conservative Republican. (My mother had a bumper sticker supporting gays in the military on her car. My father debated nuns on nuclear readiness. Go figure.)

I do not believe you can gauge patriotism and faith in your country by how many magnetized ribbons and flags with which you festoon your SUV. And, sometimes, folks, pride is a misplaced thing. Be proud of our traditions of tolerance and openness – go find a yellow ribbon that prays for those noble ideas to not totally vanish. They’re endangered species now, kids. Don’t be proud of us smacking the living shit out of another country. What we’re doing in Iraq is not World War II. This is not a noble quest. No way. No how. Pray for the youth of America sent to die. And pray for the people of Iraq, dying by virtue of location.

I appreciate conservatives in some ways - but don’t even get me started on pro-life issues. (Want more kids in the world? Make enough money to support ‘em and have ‘em yourself! I’m the 9th child of a pro-choice mom who actively supported Planned Parenthood.) I’m not keen on liberals who call themselves Starr*Fire, stop washing their hair and only come out to make puppets and get arrested at anti-World Bank rallies. That’s not putting your money where your mouth is. That’s just fucking up downtown traffic for the working-class people who have to clean those damn buildings you’ve just barricaded, and they’re gonna get docked a day of pay while you’re Flikr’ing your arrest by the DC police.

A friend says she thinks I’m a Libertarian, but I don’t know about that. I’m just who I am. I never vote party lines, but I do tend to stand to the left. I do not support what we are doing in Iraq. I believe it was done for the wrong reasons and under false pretenses. The Downing Street Memo makes me feel even more nauseated over the whole situation. I personally think it all boils down to one of my “favorite” Bush quotes: “After all, this is the guy who tried to kill my dad.”

Finishing Pop’s unfinished business. Yessiree, bub.

And now we’re in there, and the whole place had turned to shit. We have to have an orderly departure from that place, but anytime I think about how the hell that can be achieved, my head nearly explodes. It’s going to take a whole lotta lives and money and months and years to make that happen. And our goodwill is spent. (While we continue to kiss Saudi ass, mwah!) Saddam Hussein was a horrible, horrible violent autocrat who treated his people like garbage. I really don’t give a shit if he’s stuck in a jail forever in his big, droopy manties, smearing his chest with nacho cheese Doritos dust. He’s an animal. It wouldn’t surprise me if, in the end, the Iraqi justice system decided to hang him upside in a shredder. That’s their business.

As for our business? We weren’t invaded by Iraq. We weren’t attacked by Iraq. North Korea and China scare the shit out of me more than Iraq ever could, frankly.) And we’ve come in and created a whole new level of chaos and turned the streets red with our blood and theirs. This isn’t like the Stones trashing a hotel room. We can’t just throw a pile of USAID money at this in a couple of years and assume everything’s hunkey dorey again. Ain’t gonna happen. No frigging way.

But the problem isn’t just our foreign policy and our current who-the-fuck-cares attitude toward other nations. (Oh – quick point – Dick Cheney, you humiliated us by showing up at the 60th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz by looking like a snowplow driver in your green parka, hiking boots, and fucking Spock-on-Earth ski cap. No class whatsoever. Shame on you.)

The government is not so quietly killing our citizen freedoms, and many people don’t ever seem to notice. Patriot Act, my ass. Wrap up some Big Brother scariness in something with the word “patriot” slapped on it and hope no one notices it’s actually the Fascist Act. How ugly and evil and wrong is that? The party of less government is creating a soul-sucking, dark side bureaucracy that sometimes makes the Soviets look like pikers. (Ask me sometime about my federal office-to-federal office call to Homeland Security once. The one where I was told to “go to hell” and that if I showed up at their office down the street to try get assistance, I’d be thrown out.) All in the name of security, these bastards can look up my library records?



I’ve given up worrying about my travel records. I know that’s a lost cause, unless I just drive my crappy car everywhere. My air travel has been carefully recorded by the USG since the days immediately following 9/11 – and I was traveling on behalf of the USG back then. I herded a group of Central Asians out to a trade show in Vegas just weeks after 9/11 happened. You can image the super fun I had going through airports getting on board with 20 swarthy guys named Hassan and Akbar and Islamov, especially when, despite my best advice, they would clump together near airplane restrooms, chatting in guttural Uzbek. (Great way to get a whole planeload of people silent, nervous, and shitting a brick sideways.)

I’m not going to get into how some of our ally nation guests – including folks from visa waiver countries – are treated like crap when they try to enter our country and put through a hell that would keep me from coming back. It borders on thug culture and police state terror in some cases. All those cases should be very widely publicized. Everyone needs to know about that shit. I’m not kidding.

I myself been pulled aside for so many extra checks, screenings – in some cases, harassment – I can’t begin to tell you. And all on official federal travel. Guv’ment ID and ticket, the whole nine yards. Once I got so frustrated, I said, “I’m flying on a federally-purchased plane ticket. I’m on official travel with a federally-background-checked high-level international delegation. There’s probably a file on me a mile high in DC. Why is it that I get pulled aside for extra checks all the time?” While I was quietly and indignantly getting very upset, someone was stealing money, my federal agency ID, and my Amex Card from my carry-on bag. (I was kept out of visual range of my bag while I was aggressively patted down after asking my question, which clearly pissed off the screener.)

Oh and let me tell you what a fantastic job those screeners do. One year, late making the last in a series of transfers from Almaty to Chicago, I had to carry my luggage to the gate. My suitcase, still packed with crap from Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Kazakhstan, had to go through the carry-on x-ray machine. The screeners were chatting amongst themselves. I panicked as my bag went through the machine – it was chockablock with Uzbek daggers, gifts from my host. I had to have a dozen really sharp knives right there, clearly visible on screen.

The screeners didn’t even look up. They just smiled and wished me a merry Christmas. Holy shit, dudes and dudettes. Holy shit. I wish I could have shared that episode with the Fox News audience. That there’s yer taxpayer money at work!

So, here we are. Big Brother hovers at our shoulder, our soldiers and Iraqi civilians are being blown to hell and gone every day, most of the planet hates our collective guts, and yet most of America is fixated on Michael Fucking Jackson and Tom Cruise getting squirted with water. Where the hell is the outrage? Are we just being complacent, lulled into a permanent Big Gulp sugar high, or do most Americans not even know how to make a difference? (See, I got around to Shane’s post. It just took me a while.)

I think there are a great many average Americans who are not complacent, but don’t know how to - or have the resources to - contribute to change in a meaningful way. There are millions who do not agree with what is going on in Washington, DC right now, but, other than adding their names to petitions, writing letters, and showing up at rallies when work and funds allow, they’re stymied. Most Americans are just concerned with working, getting home, sleeping, and making sure there's enough money for food and insurance before getting up the next day and starting the process over again. It’s hard to be politically motivated when you’re doing well enough to get by, but not well enough to have time to contemplate the big picture.

One of my sisters lives in rural Illinois. She is a nurse and her husband is a pit boss on a riverboat casino. He works a night shift and she juggles shifts at a hospital an hour away. The majority of their time away from work is spent trying to help their kids with homework, keep them healthy, help my ailing brother, feed their chickens, do battle with their plumbing, and keep the mortgage paid. For people with no time to watch TV or read a newspaper and a dodgy dial-up Internet account, they’re pretty well-informed. But they can barely find time to get in enough sleep, let alone be an active voice in the political process of our republic. And I imagine that their days and nights are repeated all over America by overworked, underpaid, and struggling people who hate what’s happening in Washington, but haven’t got the resources – or energy to pursue much more than the basics of life. (My sister’s pretty excited when she gets home with enough time to get the kids and the chickens fed before she crashes on the sofa.)

Let’s face it, most of the more active voices in politics are people with greater income and available time than the average American. Some of them are on the left, some on the right, but they’ve got more moolah than most of us, for sure. On the right, there are a handful of Hollywood celebrities, but for the most part, they represent the corporate sector. Wealthy, less flashy. (Lots of real estate mogul/political appointees out there. And they suck to work with, I can tell you from sad experience. Having donated $1M to a political party doesn’t mean you know jack shit about Central Asia.) On the left, you have a lot of Hollywood folk. And they know how to get press and they have the time and money to invest in putting their message out there. Folks on the right can bitch about lefty Hollywood, but the wealthy voices on the right are powerfully annoying, too. The left rambles on CNN and the right pontificates on Fox News.

Frankly, I haven’t liked CNN since they went through their retooling a few years back. Much of it seems flashy and cheap and crappy, like a Wal-Mart prom dress. Just the other day, I flipped on Headline News only to find the news was being interrupted to present a birthday cake to a staffer. Oy vey. Is it any wonder I get my TV news from The Daily Show? (I do read the Washington Post and a bunch of news sites online.)

Fox News? Not a great thing in my mind. Some scary-ass stuff wrapped up in a lot of red, white, and blue. Sean Hannity? Ucky. Bill O’Reilly? Very ucky. How can anyone take a network seriously when one of their voices of moral outrage is a guy who wants to phone-fuck his staff members and can’t keep a loofah and falafel straight in his shower fantasy? I wonder if the people who think of O'Reilly as a moral compass have ever read any of his sleazy fiction. Al Franken played a snippet of O'Reilly reading one of his own sex scenes from a book on tape the other day – almost drove off the road laughing. Maybe that can be a gift set with his "Kid's Who's Looking Out For You." He bitches about rappers, but writes bad porn. Nice.

Fox News! You decide! I did. And I passed.

I have a lot of issues with many of the dominant media voices of the right. Ann Coulter? She’s the epitome of the lowest common denominator. A long-leggedly troll doll who doesn’t deserve the acclaim she gets. I look forward to the day when her succubus powers fail and she is rapidly turned to a desiccated husk – She Who Walks Behind the Rove.

It troubles me greatly that so many Americans are getting their news from largely partisan sources that do not offer a full picture of the day’s events. With Ann Coulter, it’s particularly disturbing because much of what she says should carry a disclaimer like “for entertainment purposes only” – like Miss Cleo. But it doesn’t have a disclaimer, and people, hungry for news and truth, find her yapping and they believe her.



I worry about my friends and family members that rely on outlets like Fox News to help them form their world view. Some of my older siblings will send me bits and pieces from Fox News that curl my toes and it’s a struggle to not call them and try to engage in “healthy debate”. Of course, these particular siblings also enjoy forwarding ridiculous urban legend-filled chain e-mails as “true news”. So, to my oldest sister and her husband, may I just say, if you’re planning on sending me an e-mail that claims Hillary Clinton eats babies for dinner up at the house in Chappaqua, you’d best have run that sucker through Snopes first, okay?

Sigh.

If the dominant voices of conservatism were all like Andrew Sullivan, there’d be a helluva change in our political discourse. More Andrew Sullivan please, and fewer scare tactics! I only wish that most of America knew who Andrew Sullivan is. If you walked down a street or went to a shopping mall in my hometown in Illinois, most people would assume he runs a funeral home or a rental place for prom tuxes. I’m not belittling my hometown, by the way. Most of my dearest friends are there – smart, savvy, worldly people – and I reckon they’d agree with me.

I sincerely think that most Americans who blindly support the “my country, right or wrong” philosophy have a limited world view and little experience beyond our borders. I genuinely believe that time spent outside our country (outside of combat and bus tour groups, thanks) can be life – and opinion – altering. I've lost friends over this. For me, my time as a student overseas was unfreakingbelievable (and not entirely positive – I still remember the guy running the gift shop in a National Trust site in Wales who told me “we hate you fucking Americans.”) For the record, I’m not some elitist bonehead who thinks that the only way to be open-minded and aware is to have had a college education. (And, hey, all I have is a liberal arts B.A., which is the equivalent of toilet paper here in DC.) But regardless of your education, you have to be able to see beyond your borders and your immediate situation to understand that the world does not revolve around America.

Up until recently, I’ve had advantages that many Americans will never have. I’ve spent a good chunk of my adult life living, working, and traveling overseas, mostly in socialist and developing country situations. I’ve seen firsthand how our foreign policy has affected the rest of the world – and I’ve also seen some pretty fucked up perceptions of America, too. (We haven’t completely cornered the market on ignorance and xenophobia, I will guarantee you, although we certainly are stocked up on it.) I've watched millions of our taxpayer dollars go into the hands of corrupt people and smiling jackasses who take our cash and then give us the finger as soon as our backs are turned. And I've also seen lots of decent and disadvantaged people around the world who need a hand, shake ours in gratitude and pull themselves up by their bootstraps.

In many places, there are pretty twisted opinions of the United States thanks to not only our foreign policy, but our exported pop culture, and I used to spend a lot of time trying to untwist them. But now how the hell can I show my face overseas with what this White House has done and continues to do?

There are some great things about America. We can have a political discussion. (Unless you’re attending a Bush campaign stop and thugs throw you out for wearing the wrong t-shirt.) I can throw this post up on the Internet without fear of arrest (at least for now.) In China, Microsoft has had to filter the word “freedom” out of the titles of posts on its online forum. I can title this post “Monkey Spankin’ Freedom Boobies” and no one will blink an eye.

Heck, we even allow people who enjoy the music of Celine Dion to live among us. The American dream still exists in some form in some places. Especially if you’re a Canadian comic actor. We love our Canadian comic actors. (But we’re ready to give you back Celine, mes amis!)

But we have a truckload of problems and it’s up to us to find the ways to solve them. Shane’s post made me think about this. I genuinely don’t think most people are complacent, but they don’t know what to do in a meaningful way. Let me tell you – most of Washington just ignores rallies and marches. Rallies and marches may make the participants feel all warm and fuzzy, but they achieve very little. The president will plan to be out of town, it drains the already awfully limited DC budget, and the majority of Washingtonians will stay at home, after looking at the traffic info on the local news.

So, how do you motivate people who have limited time and income? And when you motivate them, what do you actually do? What do you ask them to do? And can any action make a difference if at least half our nation actually believes the White House is right? How do you change minds when most people only see what's on Fox News? These people aren't complacent - they're searching for answers. But how do you let them know there are other options, when they think they've already found a good one that swears it's giving you the whole picture?!?

Our nation is based on rule of law, but when law can be tossed around like a cheap bagged salad to showboat over one woman in a persistive vegetative state, how seriously can we take our system? Short of armed uprising, what the hell do we do to make meaningful change happen?

Bueller? Bueller?

Lots of questions. What are the answers?

Monday, June 20, 2005

Coming to this space soon...

...something of a political nature. I generally avoid political discussion because I can't hold my own with my friends (who are rather smart and in the know) and I get utterly frustrated. My arguments usually end in tears (mine), silence, and the grinding of teeth - and this is with the friends I agree with! But as I need to take a break from scrubbing down the bathroom (note to self: clean out the fan vent in ceiling more often - wow, that was gross) and someone has forced me to think (damn them - don't they know I'm saving my brain for that new job!), I'll ponder this some more and post something...

If you haven't sussed it yet, I'm left of center (off of the strip).

TV Recommendation for Tonight

9 p.m. EST on the Travel Channel: Michael Palin's Himalaya.

I love this guy. I have a big-time older man crush on him. And I would travel with him anywhere. He's the kind of traveler I aspire to be. Palin is someone who gets into the cultures and the experiences - with decency and respect and humor. It's great stuff, people. If you're going to watch TV tonight, turn off the network re-runs and see something really cool.

9 p.m.

Travel Channel.

Two episodes back-to-back.

Learn something.

See something pretty and cool and different.

Enjoy the charming traveler.

See the Himalayas without food poisoning or altitude sickness.

Can't beat that with a stick.

The Death of the Mix CD

"The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules..." Rob (John Cusack) in "High Fidelity"



Thanks to anti-piracy software, the death knell tolls for the mix cd. The most effective form of emotional communication for musically-hip but verbally inadequate humans fades. I myself have long relied on the mix cd (and its much beloved predecessor, the mix tape) to speak for me in awkward situations. Christ, does this mean I actually have to tell people I love them???

Read all about the sadness here.

I think I'm gonna go burn me one right now...

Expanding the job search...

I'm so desperate, I've reached the point of applying for jobs for which I'm not particularly well-qualified. Okay. Not at all qualified, actually. It's a matter of taking "fudging it" to a whole new level. I've been looking into temp agencies and discovering that they're not really all that thrilled by the possibility of an overqualified, almost-40-year-old to send out to clients. They haven't even seen me yet. The fat thing will simply send them over the moon.

Yippee.

Sometimes, I think that just driving to the shore and sitting in the sun until I melt into the sand is a better option than fruitlessly begging for work. Sometimes, I really do.

On a totally different topic, why is it so difficult for people at drive-thrus to actually give you a goddamn diet soda when you order one? If I say "diet root beer", I'm not saying it just to be amusing. I want the goddamn diet root beer.

Sorry. Feeling a little non sequitur (and cranky) today.

Back to the drawing board...

So, other than the lovely Suze in Canada, no one seems all that keen on my Celebrity Adopt-a-Regular-Joe Program. Brad Pitt has not called. I am crushed. Really.

I guess I'll just have to turn some "specialty tricks" to cover the cost of my reflexology foot massages. That park at 14th & K seems a likely location for business...

Maybe I have to change my angle on celebrity sponsorships. Instead of going the beauty route, perhaps I can appeal to their sense of creativity. I really want to go to the Mid-Atlantic Summer Writers' Conference up at Goucher College in suburban Baltimore. (Goucher, interestingly, recruited me really hard in high school, touting the value of a "women's college education". For all the attention I got from men in college, I might as well have gone to a women's college - or a convent.) I considered going to this conference several years ago, but I couldn't get the time off from my then-employer, warm and fuzzy nonprofit Ill Will. It would have been laughable to ask for the time off from The Evil Dead over the past six years. And now, of course, I'm counting sofa pennies to get the groceries.

But, hey, maybe between now and the conference dates in August I'll get a job, win the lottery, and actually have stories together to be critiqued.

And monkeys will fly out of my ass.

I think it's time to scale back those goals a wee bit. Let's just go with "get a job" and the rest is gravy...

But, if you are a celebrity (or the little guy from the Monopoly set) with $775 just burning a hole in your pocket, there's a wannabe writer here who would make excellent educational use of it...

(If that were to happen, I think I would pass a monkey. Hell, I'd even take pictures and post them...)

Finally found a bumper sticker for my car...

Unlike with my last car, a crappy 1988 Ford Escort station wagon, I decided to be more restrained with my bumper stickerage with the current vehicle. That last car - damn, I had enough things on the back of that car to make people assume I lived with 40 cats and newspapers stacked to the ceilings. But, with the new-ish car, a crappy 1999 Ford Escort station wagon, I've really been more low-key and classy. Currently, I only have a small, tasteful sticker that reads WASP WWII with silver pilot wings below. (Each car I own has to have some WASP designator on it in honor of my mom. That's just a personal rule.)

But I finally found a bumper sticker cool enough to share space with the WASP stuff and slap on the Crapmobile:


If you get it, you get it. If you don't, you have some readin' to do...

I'll order one of these babies as soon as a new job is in place. This is great. I've found a way to be a geek in such a subtle manner, most people won't have any idea what the deal is. A secret handshake. Heh heh heh. Brilliant.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

eBay Shopping Tip #1

No matter how marvelous the bargain seems, don't buy jack shit from anyone who's received 80+ negative and 90+ neutral feedback comments in one month. I'm usually very careful about this stuff, but I screwed up this time. And I'm pissed at myself for being so inattentive. But I'm more pissed at this creep. How he hasn't been kicked off eBay yet is beyond me.

So, to the freak in Netcong, New Jersey who still hasn't mailed me my damn Dark Tower Concordance nearly a month after I paid for it: I want my bloody book. Now.

I hope Ka kicks your ass, you schmuck.

Oh so bewitching audioblog...

I hope the "Bewitched" movie sucks less than I fear it will...

this is an audio post - click to play


The real deal. (With the real Darren.)

I must be the lucky one...

The luckiest in Luckydom.

Got back from the Mountain Stage workshop afternoon a while ago. In all honesty, I only went for the Q&A with Michael Penn, but, were I a working/aspiring songwriter, I would have gladly stayed all afternoon.

I paid my $5 and went up to to classroom where the Q&A was to be held. There were a couple of technicians at the back, fiddling with recording equipment and an elderly couple already seated in the front row. By the time Michael and Eric Brace (of Last Train Home) arrived, it was 2:15, and we had achieved 5 audience members. (We had 10 or 12 by the time all was said and done.) I was bummed at the low turnout, but also glad for the handful of musicians present who got to ask questions about the songwriting process and musicial influences. I was happy to sit and listen and learn. I felt bad that I couldn't afford a ticket for tonight's show, especially after hearing the evening's host and another of the musicians speak. I think the audience is going to have a great time.


MP. Buy his music. Start with Resigned. I think that's a good introduction, and it's my favorite. If you live in L.A., go see him play at Largo!! What a treat, you lucky SoCal bastards!!

At the end of the session, I met up with Michael in the hallway. He was standing by himself, so I called his name and put my hand out to shake his (I tend to be very guy-ish about introducing myself to people. It's effective and gives people the perception that I'm not just some random nut.) I explained that I was one of the "PennListers" and he smiled, saying, "Oh cool! Thanks for coming!" He was very charming and friendly. For some reason, I was expecting him to be more tentative, but that wasn't the case at all. I reminded him of a silly story I shared with Spencer (the prince of the PennList) about how my copy of "March" was stolen - repeatedly - from my apartment in Moscow. His face lit up. He remembered the story and laughed, saying, "Oh, yeah, cool! So, you really lived in Russia?" He loved the fact that the KGB was stealing my copies of his CDs. He joked about his subtle hand in the downfall of the Soviet Union. It was then that I realized that I'd forgotten the totally tacky piece of Soviet crap I'd set aside to give him, in honor of his work to bring down the Soviets, one stolen CD at a time. Eventually, I'll get that ugly, but heartfelt gift to him!

We talked about his new CD, due out August 2nd. He mentioned that he hoped to have some more stuff from the upcoming disc, Mr. Hollywood Jr. 1947, out on his MySpace page before the release date. I told him I'd opened a myspace account and promptly cancelled it after receiving some pretty freaky e-mail. Said Michael with a laugh, "Ooooh yeah, it's a pretty freaky place."

It was just really cool to talk to him - about his music, about the concert hall (I told him what the Mingus Big Band director had said about the outstanding acoutics and he said he popped his head in and was really impressed by the sound.) After having a nice chat, I felt foolish about the CD I had tucked in my bag, in the hopes of an autograph. He had a sound check to do, and there was a funky-lookin' young local musician who wanted to pick his brain about crediting songwriting collaborators. It just didn't seem like the right time to whip out a CD and a Sharpie and go all fangirl on him. So, the CD stayed in the bag, I waved goodbye, and headed for home.

Thanks, Michael. Nice to meet you. Hope I didn't look too scary when I approached you!

Decided

I'm not going to post the piece I wrote about my father. It was enough to just write it for myself. Maybe I'll share it with one or two friends, just so they understand how frustrating it was to grow up with the father I had. It was important to write it all down, but I'm left with a lot of questions for him that will remain unanswered. I just wish he'd liked me a little bit more than he did. That would have been cool. Really, really cool.


Happy Father's Day to all the dads I know. Remember your kids love you, and they look to you for guidance and approval and a return of that love.

MJ goes to Q&A with MP

Michael Penn, that is. I love this man's music. He's a tremendous (and tremendously underrated) musician, and, as I've said before, y'all should go buy one - or more - of his CDs. I'll even make recommendations for you!

Tonight, MP is on the bill for Mountain Stage, a venerable, twenty-year musical event. Mountain Stage is two-hour public radio music show, usually performed/taped on a stage in West Virginia, bringing together a wide variety of outstanding music and musicians. Tonight, though, Mountain Stage is taping its 600th show in Bethesda, Maryland, at the brand spankin' new Strathmore Music Center. (It's very nice - the Sasquatch took me to hear the Mingus Big Band there - it still had that "new concert hall" smell.)


This is Michael Penn. Go buy his music, please. You will not regret it.

While I'd normally be planted in a seat for this gig, I can't afford it right now. Hmmm... rent, groceries, or concert??? However, Mountain Stage is holding a number of workshops and seminars this afternoon, in advance of the concert. If you have a ticket to the gig, it's free, but if you're not going to the gig, it's $5 to attend the workshops. One is a Q&A with Larry Groce, the Host of Mountain Stage, Eric Brace of Last Train Home (very good stuff -heard them on the radio on Friday), and the mighty talented Michael Penn. So, I'm layin' down five bucks and hopefully will have some decent questions to toss to the man. Just in case he's available (and indulgent) I'm taking a CD for him to sign, along with my digital camera, if I can remember where I set it down on Friday...

Looking forward to this...

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Well, hey, that's disturbing!

There's an animated film on the Planned Parenthood website titled "How Pregnancy Happens". It's in the form of a TV show called "The G-Spot" hosted by talking genitals. Now, I sincerely appreciate the mission of Planned Parenthood, and it's great that they're making sure folks have the right information. But the talking penis... duuuuude... he has a tan line and chest hair. I was not aware that penii had chests. Unless this is just a really hairy penis aaaaaandnevermindIjustdon'twanttogothere.

Obviously, I'm not the intended audience for this "how it works" cartoon. (Got the memo already, thanks!) I had a brief dry heave moment when "Peter" (who looks like someone I used to work with, I'm sad to say) gets excited and, uh... leaky...

I don't know if "enjoy" is the right word, but hope you learn something, kids!

Undecided

Tomorrow is Father's Day. I've written something about my father, but I don't know if I should post it or not. It's difficult for me to write about him, as he wasn't particularly fond of me. I just don't know if I should slap this up on the blog and share. Maybe it's enough just to have written it for myself.

I don't know...

I guess I'll sleep on it.

K-chitsa! Or, My Canadian Content for Saturday

I know y'all must have at least one friend like the K-chitsa. It may be months in between our phone calls, but within five seconds of the phone being answered, we're completely in sync and laughing ourselves silly. The K-chitsa and I both did Russian Area Studies at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota. We made it through Russian classes with the Kinky Finn and Maria-Migraine and George the Scary Guy Who Hit on the Undergrads, and we lived in the lovely, decaying Russian House, on the other side of campus from the dorms. (Once, we annexed the eastern half of the German House, across the alley. The German House people were not amused.)

K. graduated the year before I did. She went off to do the grad school thing, and I eventually went off to work in Moscow, at the American Embassy. I envy her advanced education, but I know I wouldn't trade my time in Moscow for the world.

K-chitsa is one of those damn lefty Canadian types up in Toronto. I haven't seen her for ages now, but that really doesn't seem to have any effect on our friendship. I think the last time we saw each other was at the nuptials of our friend Randi. (That was a trippy weekend and requires its own entry, for sure.) And that was a zillion years ago now. Before that, we saw each other a couple of times when she was the PhD research goddess in Moscow and I was swinging through on business trips. She and Randi (who was also doing her PhD stuff) would come over to my hotel room, we'd get plastered on cheap Russian champagne, order room service on my generous per diem, and watch bad pay-per-view all night. Good times, good times...


K-chitsa, Randi, and the other usual suspects at the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. I was not there. I think I was living in London then...

It bums me out that I haven't seen the K-chitsa for so long. I hem and haw over flying up to Toronto (which is currently a financial impossibility). When I finally get a new job, I will commit to getting my ass up there. This will require me finding my passport, though, and that could be quite the task. I have no idea where I last saw it...

The point of all this? Today is the K-chitsa's birthday! Whoo-hoo! Many happy returns of the day, chiquita! If I understand correctly, Canadians celebrate with human sacrifice, no? Choose wisely! May I recommend Celine Dion? She would certainly count as "Canadian content" and we'd be very thankful down here, for sure.

But really:

Поздравляю с днем рождения, моя дорогая подруга! (И не забудь... Ударники живут очень хорошо!)

If you can read that, thank a Russian teacher. If you can't, I just said "The dog barks at midnight..."

Friday, June 17, 2005

Jeepers Creepy!

Just wanted to share this with y'all. This is potentially the scariest place in Rockville, Maryland:


Jeepers!

I've never been inside (and I'm not going in, thanks), but I believe this is some Chuck E. Cheese rip-off. It's their tagline that disturbs me...


Food, fun, and a monkey!

It's the monkey part that bothers me. I'm praying, for the benefit of all, that it's actually a bored teenager in a monkey suit and NOT a real monkey, ready to bite you and pee all over your pizza. Nuthin' says, "Happy Birthday, Li'l Jimmy!" like a trip to the ER to start that agonizing series of rabies shots!

Yeesh.

At the front of this large, prison-like structure, there is a glassed in area with a spinning, "Scrambler" type ride. I can only imagine all the heaving going on after a bunch of 10-year-olds, gorged to the gills on pizza and buckets of Pepsi, are set in a rapid spin cycle, complete with blinking lights and loud music. (If you're stuck at the stoplight, you get to hear the thumping Britney Spears. Yippee.)

Pity the poor teenager in the monkey suit. You know he's there with the mop and bucket once the kids are out the door.

Interestingly, the Sasquatch and I saw a man urinating in front of Jeepers one evening. This, in of itself, is not that remarkable in the city suburbs on a weekend night. It's the fact that he was walking and urinating at the same time that stuck in our minds. His forward motion meant that he kept walking into his own urine stream. We considered stopping and suggesting he consider walking backwards, but thought better of it.

When in Rockville, do not disturb the urinating men or the monkeys at Jeepers. A mantra to live by.

A little love from the spa ladies

Welcome to...

Scenic Rockville, Maryland...

I'm up at Mayorga Coffee in Rockville today. Got the wifi card cruisin' again (courtesy of Microsoft, something I am loathe to say). Got me a sugar-free iced vanilla latte. Found a GREAT job to apply for (fingers, toes, and eyes crossed, please-oh-please-oh-please). And the "spa ladies" from the Aveda day spa next door have been dropping by to check in on me.


The friendly coffee shop (with free wi-fi) in the overly planned community...

Now, even when I had a job, I wasn't living high on the hog. But, I have learned that an eyebrow wax, the occasional facial, and a fabulous foot massage can go a hell of a long way to making you feel much better about the world. (And lord knows, not looking like Leonid Brezhnev helps on so many different levels.) And, being a member of the Aveda cult from my college days back in Minnesota, I'm totally into the Aveda spa experience. (If you're in San Francisco, visit the Aveda spa in the theater district - that place is awesome.) It's worth a few bucks to feel better about yourself and the world.


Leonid Ilyich: One properly executed brow wax, and he could have brought down Communism by himself!

The Elaj Aveda Day Spa up here in Rockville (in the cookie cutter Stepford Wives neighborhood of King Farm) is all about respect and wellness. I feel like a princess when I go there. One friend told me I glow after I leave the spa. That's entirely possible, I swear. I have decided that, if I ever won the lottery, one of the first things I'd do (after paying all my bills, those of my siblings and my bestest friends) is set up a weekly foot massage and facial regime there.

But with the moolah gone, the happy feet and face sessions are over. When I got my rebate checks from my wireless junk recently, I did go in for a foot massage. It was like Christmas, honest to god. But no more until I get a new paycheck, and even then, I'm so deep in debt from not having a job, those trips will be few and far between. This really bums me out. I like the folks who work there - they are always so totally sweet to me.


The really nice day spa in the overly planned community...

Just now, one dropped by say hello and give me a big hug. She told me they really miss me over there. I send them Christmas cards and give them rave reviews on my little customer service forms. I've seen how some of the snooty, snotty customers treat them - like friggin' servants. I think of the spa ladies as just wonderful people who make me feel better. And, life can really bite at times, so I'm grateful for that temporary escape.

I can't tell you how much I want to go over and get a facial right now. Is that lame? Maybe so. Perhaps I should sell a handful of Russian tchotchkes on eBay and fund one for myself.

Actually, what I'd really like to do is institute a Hollywood Star/Regular Joe adoption program. A Hollywood celebrity applies to "adopt" a regular American - they can request a male or female sponsoree and designate a specific region of the country for the "adoption". The celebrity gets a photo of his/her regular joe/joanne and a monthly letter (or personalized blog entry). The regular dude/ette agrees to watch the celeb's show/movies and make glowing comments about his/her sponsor.

In exchange, the celebrity covers the cost of a haircut/color touch-up every six weeks, a facial and waxing once a month, and sends a "You are super, thanx 4 your support!" note (prepared by an assistant, of course). The celebrity is not required to make any direct contact with the sponsoree, unless a shooting location or press junket brings them within 10 miles of the sponsoree's home. It could be totally tax-deductible for the celebrities, and they get the warm fuzzy feeling of knowing that they're doing their part to beautify America, one two-process color and depilated chin at a time.

I'm ready. Who wants to adopt me?

Customized Terror Levels (Geek Style)

This is something very silly I found via Wil Wheaton's blog today. I may have to install one of these, but I'm not sure which way to go.

One for the Atomic Editor and one for the Sasquatch.

Although, this one is pretty good, too.

I'll consider my options while treadmilling...

Finding Free Wi-Fi

Just a couple of resources for those who seek free wi-fi and don't want to put more money in the pockets of Starbucks and Michael Douglas' wife (in the guise of T-Mobile):

The Wi-Fi Freespot Directory

MetroFreeFi.com

Of course, y'all probably already knew about these things. For a relative wifi newbie (and a broke one, at that), it's a revelation...

Thursday, June 16, 2005

I bet my mom's smilin' tonight

Captain Nicole Malachowski has been named as the very first female aviator to join the Air Force's elite Thunderbirds precision flight team. Says Cap't Malachowski: "The women of yesterday and today's Air Force maintain a tradition of excellence, and it is that heritage that has given me this exciting responsibility of being the first female Thunderbird pilot." You better believe it!

One of my favorite mom stories is about her flying into a coastal base in 1944 with a group of other WASPs. They were ferrying in some new SNJs from a factory for the Navy. Coming in toward the landing strip, the ladies were in really tight formation. Serious precision stuff. Apparently, a Navy officer on the ground watched them approach, boasting to everyone about how he could tell naval aviators from a mile off by their precision and discipline. He went on and on about how good these guys looked on approach, etc., etc. When women hopped out of all the aircraft, this guy turned 50 shades of purple and the ground crew just about died laughing. He was furious that women could possibly fly well enough to be mistaken for naval aviators!

Boy, what a difference sixty years makes, huh?

Into the wild blue yonder, Captain M.

You have a lot of angels on your shoulder. You'll do brilliantly.

Wang Clunk

Reflections on tonight's musical trainwreck on NBC, Smack Me Hard Repeatedly and Make Me Forget This Nightmare (aka, Hit Me Baby One More Time)...

Oh my. I love Wang Chung, but why did they have to cover that gawdawful Nelly song... ugh. That was just wrong. Mr. Wang (or Chung) - you are better than that! You should not be stuck sing-talking "Uhn... It's gettin' hot in here (so hot)... So take off all your clothes..." Christ, that was just so wrong.

And Sophie B. Hawkins - what did you do to Five For Fighting's "100 Years"? It was unrecognizable. In a bad way. ((((shudder)))

On the other hand, Howard Jones was really, really good. I think he was too low key to win, considering that the combined IQ of the audience was probably 5. Irene Cara took the victory - and I think that was thanks to costuming and the fact that she went last. She was really shaky trying to stay in tune. Again, for my money, HoJo was the best out there.

Although, I give Cameo credit - they came out lookin' funky, and the lead singer (Word up!) was even wearing his big red leather codpiece. That takes guts when you're pushin' 50.

May we all be confident enough to wear a big red leather codpiece when we're pushin' 50.

Amen.

On the menu tonight...

Tater Tot Casserole.

I'm a Midwesterner, despite having been born in the so-called Garden State. I grew up in Illinois, the land of the casserole, the hot dish, the Jell-o salad, the taco pizza, and a lot of of other things people on either coast might find unsavory or unhealthy. So, sue me.

The basic Tater Tot Casserole recipe is a four-ingredient masterpiece that can be accomplished by a grade schooler: spread a pound of ground beef in the bottom of a 9x13 dish and cover it with tater tots and a mixture of cream of mushroom (or chicken) soup and milk. Depending on whether or not you've already browned the meat, you cook it for 30-60 minutes on 350F. Then, you serve it with nice healthy veggies and a piece of fruit for dessert. (So you can pretend you're being virtuous.) Yum.


Tater Tot Casserole. Maybe not so good for you, but damn tasty in a very Midwestern way!

I'm making my own version tonight - I'll cook up some onions and garlic, and brown the 93% lean beef in that. Then, I'll do the tots and soup thang, but with a little grated garlic/veggie cheese (from the Amish market) on top. Hopefully it will be tasty. (And will provide dinner for a couple more nights to come.)

I'm not a classy cook, but I can make a decent casserole. Next up, tuna bake with cheese swirls. God, that's good, too. I must be a little homesick - next I'll be making my mom's tamale pie and Norwegian potato soup...

I've just noticed...

My last three posts had "poo", "crap" and "crapmobile" in the titles. This is a trend that must stop.

Gateway's not sure what the dealio is with my wifi card. Drat, drat, drat.

"Virus-Laden Poo" - not a good band name

Warning: scat-focused entry ahead!

Apparently, Mt. McKinley has some sanitation problems. This begs the question, when is REI going to start selling Mountain Climber Poop Scoopers and waste baggies?


Looks pretty clean from up here!

What you bring up the mountain, you have to bring down the mountain. I think that would work, no? Like the planet Bethselamin in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy:

"The fabulously beautiful planet Bethselamin is now so worried about the cumulative erosion by ten billion visiting tourists a year that any net imbalance between the amount you eat and the amount you excrete while on the planet is surgically removed from you body weight when you leave: so every time you go to the lavatory there it is vitally important to get a receipt."

Perhaps Denali should start a National Park Service "Pay-per-Poop" program. Make it prohibitively expensive to leave any souvenirs for future climbers. God, I'd hate to be the ranger who has to verify that shit, as it were.

I promise a more tasteful entry next time. Really.

WiFi Crash! Crap!

Dammit. After making my airport run this a.m. with the Sasquatch, I headed to Mayorga Coffee to settle in with the laptop, an iced latte and the Washington Post Jobs website. Unfortunately, my computer had other ideas. I have a Netgear WGB511 wireless card for my Gateway laptop. I think I paid $5 for it, after rebates. Only once since I've bought the card have I had any problems, until today. This morning, though, was a spectacular flop, with the computer crashing each time it tried to access the 'net and the damned Blue Screen of Death telling me there was a serious error. After forty-five minutes of nonsense, reloading the software, and multiple crashes, I gave up, took my sweating plastic cup of coffee and headed home.

I need to call Gateway, I guess, and see what the problem is. But, as some folks know, I have come to loathe Gateway. (Long story short there - my desktop, under warranty, stopped working last August. I only got satisfaction in November after I sent unpleasant e-mail directly to the president and the board of directors of the company. Funny how embarrassing the head of a corporation will get you speedy attention. I got a new computer out of it, but even that one is crappy and never shuts down unless I do it manually.) So, I'm just not looking forward to an hour on hold listening to the same four songs and the chirpy woman who tells you how much they love you. DON'T BELIEVE IT! NOOOO!

Sigh. It's times like this when I wish I'd just joined the cult and bought a Mac years ago. I've had the pleasure of visiting Apple in lovely Cupertino, California. I am proud to say that I brought the very first delegation from the former Soviet Union to ever visit Apple. A very, very cool woman at the Apple corporate office coordinated the visit for me and my guys. I had a great time there, especially playing with all the new Apple products while my guys listened to technical lectures on product testing. I got to see that ginormous "cinemascope" screen for the Mac before it was released. Man, that rocked. I also got to meet one of the original engineers on the Macintosh. He told me some awesome stories, including how Steve Jobs was such a bastard and rode the Mac design team so hard that they would find novel ways to get even with him. Jobs is a vegetarian, and, when he was a total jerk to them, they'd go out and get a bucket of KFC, eat it in his office and leave the chicken remains scattered across his desk. Now, that's one happy corporate atmosphere!

Right around the time that the engineer was sharing the love with me, someone rolled in the lunch for my group - prime rib and steamed asparagus. Someone passing by freaked out and started hissing, "Is Steve here? Is Steve here today? He's gonna shit a brick if he sees meat here!!" (The coordinator for my visit, an immigrant from Russia herself, had determined that "dead animal" - her phrase, not mine - was the best thing to feed a group of Eurasians. She was right. And I thank her for taking a risk with the boss. Prime rib kept them very happy.)

Okay, time to call Gateway and see what gives. Un-fun. Anyone have a recommendation for a decent XP-appropriate wifi card for my laptop if my Netgear problem can't be solved? (Keep in mind I'm jobless and broke.) Muchas gracias in advance for any advice anyone can offer. I'm a techno-boob. Man, I need a boyfriend who's a nice computer geek...

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Cleaning out the crapmobile

I am embarrassed to say that, since leaving The Nightmare That Was My Last Job in March, I hadn't cleaned the car out until tonight. I had a shitload of stuff in my old office (I'd been there 6 years), and when everything went bad, I just threw everything in the car and left it there. Seriously, it was such a traumatic event, I didn't want to even have to look at anything that reminded me of that place, so I just pulled the little roll down cover over it and tried to forget.

I'd gone to IKEA only a couple of days before The Incident, and I'd bought bags and bags of colored sand to stick candles in. (I got a huge pile of these gorgeous hand-dipped little rainbow candles for pennies at the "after Hanukkah" sale at Bed, Bath & Beyond. I like to plant them in sand and let 'em go - an idea I got from a Body Shop gift set a few years ago.) My back was killing me on IKEA day, so I figured I'll just leave the sand in the car for a couple of days and pull them out a bit later. My mistake! Little did I know my world was going to get turned upside down and I'd be building sedimentary layers of crap in the back of my car.

Had I not cleaned it out tonight, I'm afraid a team from Discovery would be hoofing it over from Silver Spring to "unlock the secrets of the Escort!"

But, I offered to drive the Sasquatch to the airport tomorrow morning, and he reminded me that he was bringing his golf clubs. "And you may recall, they're big," was the pelted wondercreature's comment. I got the message. I think that may have been his subtle way of saying, "HEY, BONEHEAD! YOU OFFERED TO DRIVE ME, NOW CLEAN OUT YOUR DAMN CAR SO MY STUFF WILL ACTUALLY FIT IN IT!" I'm good with subtle. I get subtle. I would make room for the sticks. So, I waited tonight until the sun went down before I went out to haul the junk in to my apartment.

Good God, did I ever have a massive pile of crap out there. Where the hell did it all come from?!?

A short list:

1 leather coat
1 suit jacket
2 winter coats (one long for wearing over nice work clothes, one shorter one for keeping around shoulders and back because my office had a huge window and the heat didn't work)
1 blanket
1 pillow
1 pair oversized fuzzy slippers
1 each: black, brown, and blue comfy right foot shoes (blanket, pillow, slippers and shoes left over from my broken right leg recovery time and subsequent broken left foot recovery time)
2 bags of kitchen-y type stuff (tea, oatmeal, forks/knives/spoons, cups, bowls, Sweet 'n' Low (aka "Pink Death"), peanut butter, granola)
1 box of CDs (I wondered where my 2-disc set of James Bond themes had gone!)
1 box of "Eurasian souvenir crap" (gifts from my delegations)
1 bag from the grocery store that never made it in (thank god, it was just bottles of seltzer water!)
3 bags of really heavy decorative sand from IKEA (buried under the stuff from my office)
1 IKEA bag with a toilet seat in it

Now, it's this last item that distresses me. You'd think I'd be distressed just over the simple amount of crap I'd pulled out, but noooo!

You see, I didn't buy a toilet seat at IKEA. This means that, most likely, the person at the adjoining check-out (and I remember, she was a harried woman, screaming at her kids) popped her bag into my cart, and then I, eager to leave the IKEA feeding frenzy behind, didn't even notice that I packed a toilet seat I didn't buy into the back of my car. I guess I have a spare seat. The guest seat. Super!

I dragged it all in the building, toilet seat included, and I feel better. The major debris field has been cleared in the car, and there is space for the golf clubs. Amen. There's still stuff in the car, but it's the normal stuff one might find in a car, minus the canes, which I need when my stupid arthritis is bad.

Now I have to unpack all this car crap somewhere. So much for my cleared out entryway...

Anyone need an IKEA toilet seat?

Oh, and, for the record, the Sasquatch is actually a very kind and sweet gentleman. Any impression I may give that he's a pain in the ass is entirely for my own (and his, hopefully) amusement. He sometimes wonders what people think of him when they read my entries... Heh heh heh...

Just one thing...

Terri Schiavo:

1. was in a persistive vegetative state
2. had a massively atrophied brain and no possibility of recovery
3. showed no signs of trauma from abuse
4. was BLIND and could not track balloons around her hospice room

I feel bad for her husband and her family, in different ways.

But, now that this is over, may I request just one thing? Will the folks who took up residence outside the hospice and used this family tragedy as a hobby kindly sit down, shut up, and stay out of other people's lives? Get a cat. Take up basketweaving.

Thank you.

And, Happy Anniversary, Yill and Public Radio Guy!

Dang, June is jammed with birthdays and anniversaries and all that good stuff. I send greetings here to my friends, but not to my family, as they have no idea this blog exists. (And I like it that way. I don't want to answer too many questions from my siblings. Especially the nice, but scary religious one. And I think a couple of the older siblings would simply be confused or disturbed.)

So, on a day that already brings birthday greetings to Ms. Grace, I have another reason to celebrate. Today is the anniversary of Yill and Public Radio Guy. These two are hilarious humans and my absolute favorite houseguests. They, in fact, were my houseguests the last time I had a mouse invasion in my kitchen. Except that time, they migrated to the bathroom, where Yill found one showering with her. In fact, that's how I found out I had a mouse invasion. (eeeew) Yet, miraculously, despite that traumatic nightmare, Yill still speaks to me.


Happy Anniversary, kids!

Very sadly, I missed Yill and Public Radio Guy's wedding. I was on some miserable work trip, probably herding Central Asians at a trade show. But they had the coolest wedding invitations ever. Few wedding invitations make me laugh - theirs did.

And, ultra cool people that they are, they brought me back a wonderful gift from their recent trip to the UK: a jar of Tesco's strawberry conserve with marc de champagne. (That's English strawberry jam with booze in it, to y'all.) It just arrived in the mail yesterday, and I plan to consume it in tiny, happy servings on toasty English muffins. Yum. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

So, kids - have a marvelous day today. And many, many more marvelous days and years to come.

Cheers!

Happy Birthday, Ms. Grace!

Today is the birthday of the lovely and talented Ms. Grace. I've known the marvelous Ms. G. since high school, and she's one of the most artistic and well-spoken humans I know. Along with being our resident artiste, Ms. Grace is an accomplished businesswoman and educator - and she drives faster than anyone else I know (and considering my leadfoot tendencies, that's saying something!)

And I envy her greatly because she lives in a real, honest-to-god Craftsman bungalow. I covet her house. I really do. I drool every time I visit...


The happiest of birthdays to you, Ms. Grace!

Everyone should be as open-hearted, kind, and generous as this lovely lady. Ms. G - have a good one (and have a nice glass of wine for me!)

-- MJ

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Putin is a Moron (Warning: Cannibalism)

Update: 7/12/06

This post has received a high number of hits recently, as people have searched for "Putin" and "cannibalism" on Google. Additionally, this post has been linked on a website/discussion site for issues in Ukraine. Welcome to those coming from those sources. This post is more political than most you will find on my blog. It also discusses something that distresses me greatly within Russian culture. (Be certain, there are plenty of things in American culture that bother me, too.) But, as someone whose life/job was focused on the former Soviet Union for many years (including several years spent living in and traveling through the region), I have strong opinions on this and some experiences that are unique for an ex-pat. And, in all sincerity, I don't like Putin. Then again, I don't like Bush, either. :-)

If you want to read a more typical post from this blog (with some heartfelt and historically interesting text), I invite you to read "My Mother Had Wings" about my mom, who was a pilot in WWII. Thank you for visiting. Best wishes to you all.


Original post begins below:
I've never hid the fact that I intensely dislike Vladimir Putin. When I look at him, I always see the dark, dark KGB shadow he throws, and it gives me the creeps. No matter the cut of his suit, he's an old-school autocrat who uses thugs to intimidate rivals, tear down campaign posters, and generally scare anyone who might have a differing opinion. I find him vile. He's Soviet. I'm glad that my four years of living in Russia did not fall on his watch.

And, wouldn't you know it, my least favorite world leader has opened his mouth and rammed his Bruno Magli right in it. This time, it was during a press conference with Tony Blair. After discussing aid for Africa, a reporter questioned Putin on Russia's human rights record. Said Putin: "“We all know that African countries used to have a tradition of eating their own adversaries. We don't have such a tradition or process or culture and I believe the comparison between Africa and Russia is not quite just."

As this article from The Sun reminds us (I can't believe I'm using an article from The Sun as a reference, ugh) Putin is the next president of the G8. Grrrrrreat! It'll be super to have him leading our happy little troop. Always good to have an autocratic racist in charge!

I may have said this before, but if I haven't, there is a MASSIVE problem with racism in Russia. Waaaay beyond anything you might encounter in the United States. Dealing with Russian racism requires a post all of its own. It's vile and shocking how common it is among what we might consider "normal, educated" people. (I remember going to lunch at the home of an artist in Moscow. He and his friends casually started talking about the high number of "monkeys" in the city, referring to African college students. "Of course," the artist said to me, "Those are African blacks. American blacks are different. They're almost human." Lunch over. Everything over. And he just didn't understand why a white American would be offended, which is sad, pathetic, and a lot of other really rotten stuff.)

Like I said, that requires a whole post on its own. (And I will have to take a deep breath and try not to get really, really angry when I write it.)

For now, let's focus on the cannibal aspect of of Vlad's comment. Gosh and golly gee, Mr. Putin, beyond correcting your basic major error of painting all of Africa as having a cannibal tradition, I think you should take a moment to reflect on Russia's long history of cannibalism. Didn't know about it, dear loyal 4.5 readers? Oh hell, yeah! And, duuuude, I'm not even talking about Andrei Chikatilo, the cannibal serial killer. This is more... basic... elemental, societal cannibalism.


Andrei Chikatilo: Cannibal and snappy dresser.

You see, some Russian people survived the dark days of the early 20th century as cannibals. There are some spectacularly gruesome photographs of this - an old couple with body parts for sale at a market... a man pushing a cart, from which arms and legs dangle. (Some of these are on Google images, if you know how to search - I'm not going to spoil anyone's lunch/dinner/day by linking, though.) In the days of the Soviet Union, it wasn't unusual to hear of prisoners, starving in horrific conditions, cooking up their fellow convicts - in fact, I remember reading about more than one case in Pravda.

Heck - when I was a student in Krasnodar, down in southern Russia, we had a "co-op" cafe (one of the first generation of privately owned businesses under Gorbachev) that was serving up more than beef and lamb in their shashliks. Pravda covered that story, too. Some cab driver wandered into the kitchen, looking for his fare as the meter ticked on, and discovered the dish of the day laid out for processing.

The scariest part of that? Before this came to light, several of us had eaten there. Unknowingly, we naive American students momentarily may have been cannibals.

Actually, I try not to think about that very often.

In fact, this is the first time I've thought of that in a long, long time. (And lunch will likely be a salad today...) It's beyond revolting. It really is.

Take. Deep. Breath.

Okay... like I was saying... it happens more than you'd want to think in Russia. I understand the need there was in WWII, when Leningrad was under siege. Decent, normal people had to eat their dead. It was a basic survival need. Horrific, but needful.

But, in other cases, it's just a way to buy booze. Think I'm kidding? There's a tradition among Russian drunks - the troika. You get three people together and they go on a joint bender. Sometimes, though, the moolah and the booze runs out and people get murderous - and hungry. For meat. One heartwarming case I recall back in '91 or '92 featured not only our troika of drunks, but the enabling mommy dearest of Drunk #1. When the vodka ran out, Drunk #1 and Drunk #2 slaughtered Drunk #3. The local market had been short on meat for quite some time, and so, Drunk #1, being an inventive soul, got his mom to cut Drunk #3 into some nice cuts and took the fresh flesh to the market. She sold it, the remnants of the troika returned to their carousing, and Darya Homemaker complained to local authorities about the quality of pork in the market. (Eeeeesh.) A handful of arrests followed.

For your further edification, may I direct you to this edition of "Martin the Satanic Racoon", by Gabe Martinez, which I think does a lovely job of backing up my super terrific funtime stories.

Enjoy.

Pot, kettle, black, Grazhdanin Putin.

Monday, June 13, 2005

And, for those who don't want to read about Michael Jackson...

A few pictures of... Mothman!!


One evening, a couple of years ago, I watched "The Mothman Prophecies" with the Sasquatch and the Atomic Editor... It's not a great movie. I'm not a big Richard Gere fan.


The film was based on true events. The Mothman was a hideous, red-eyed creature that supposedly kept appearing in a small West Virginia town in the 1960's. There's a pile of fugly Mothman "fan art" out on the Internet. Real pretty.


Like I said, the movie wasn't very good. But we're pretty good at making our own fun.


At one point, the Atomic Editor stepped out of the room and the Sasquatch and I started to talk to each other as the Mothman, in halting, monotone Tarzan speech. Don't ask me why.


This, for no good reason, amused us greatly, and we laughed until we cried. The Atomic Editor returned to the room, wanting to know just what we'd been smoking in his absence. We all ended up laughing to the point of near nausea.


Occasionally, Mothman prank calls the Atomic Editor at work. (Sometimes, Mothman miscalculates and calls the Atomic Editor when he's under a publishing deadline. And Mothman's middlewoman cringes.) In our mythology, Mothman lives in L.A. and is vegan. He always wants to "do lunch" and talk about his network deals. "Mothman get sitcom offer. Mothman meet you at Sky Bar to discuss. Mothman not sure about working for Aaron Spelling..."


MJ on MJ

Sorry. I'm going to rant about Michael Jackson for minute. Big Jackson fan? You might want to skip this.

Did he do it? Did he molest that kid?

Well, the world will never know for sure. According to Santa Barbara County, he's clean, and we have to respect the legal system. (I will refrain from making any "California justice/OJ Simpson" comments...) If Jackson did molest this kid, the fact that the kid's mother likes to scam stores and celebrities for cash certainly didn't help him in the credibility department.

If Jackson didn't molest this child - or any of the others - this fact still remains: he is a disturbed adult. Normal adults - at least in our culture - don't want to curl up in bed with other people's kids, plain and simple. Normal adults recognize that as unacceptable behavior open to lewd interpretation. I'm not even going to get into the body dysmorphic disorder or the housecleaning chimps or the marching band costumes. There's no point. He's got a whole pile of loose wires.

He was a talented musician at one point. I will always love the Jackson 5 (I watched the cartoon religiously as a kid), and I have a couple of his cds, back from when he was still recognizably African-American and had a nose. He was good. But I have nothing from recent years. Bupkis. I'm filled with a sense of unease and distaste for him now.

The masks, the chimp, the kids, the surgeries. Lisa Marie Presley. (WTF was that all about?!?)

A grown man with common sense and even half a brain would avoid questionable physical contact - especially of the bed-sharing variety - with strangers' children. I don't care how much you looooove the children of the world. STOP SLEEPING WITH THEM. I refuse to believe that Neverland Ranch was built without guest bedrooms. You need to have someone in your bed, MJ? Call an escort. I'd bet California has more than one discreet service that could provide "legal, but petite" company for you. And, as long as you pay them, they'll pretend to be twelve, put on whatever "guest Underoos" you want and snuggle all night while you drink cocoa and read Little Golden Books. Knock yerself out, bubba.

It's not just Michael Jackson, though. I'm angry with the starstruck, money-hungry parents that allow their children to go, unchaperoned, into this man's playhouse and sleep in his bed. It's NOT CUTE. It's NOT BEAUTIFUL. It's fucked up. And shame on you for using your children that way! If your child is sick, turn to Make A Wish or one of hundreds of other resources available to you. DO NOT approach a man who's been accused of child molestation multiple times. Some of these parents should have their credentials revoked, dammit.

I find it tremendously creepy that he hired a broodmare to produce children for him. I think it's creepy that this woman agreed to produce offspring for him. She must have had one hell of a payday. If he and Debbie Rowe felt an abiding love between them when they conceived the kidlets in question, I will eat one or more of my hats. I'm not buying it. And if you believe those kids were conceived the old-fashioned boot-knockin' way, you are living in your own fantasy world. Pity those children, tragically dragged around with masks and scarves over their faces. These kids will need decades of therapy to recover from their fucked up homelife with a fucked up daddy. I hope he's not doing anything weird with these kids he bought. Dear God, I really hope not.

Yeah, I know he didn't have a real childhood. That's tragic. His parents - especially his scary-ass father - have a lot to answer for. But you're in your 40's now, Mr. Jackson. It's no longer amusing. Maybe you can keep some of these people dazzled with your BS, but you have issues, buddy. You have serious issues. After you've been accused of touching a little boy the first time, you stop creating situations that scream CHILD MOLESTER!!! C'mon, man! Get a fucking clue! (His inability to stop behaviors, despite their detriment to him, speaks volumes of a pathology that isn't pretty. Not pretty at all.)

Did he do it? Yes. No. Maybe. I can't tell you for sure. I know what my gut tells me, but I'll keep that to myself. Regardless, I think it might be a good idea for MJ to pull up stakes and move out of country. Didn't Brando leave him part of his island? Go, Mikey. And, for the love of God, please see a shrink. You need one. Bad.

Grrrr.

Done ranting. A jury has found him not guilty on all charges. I hope he has a clear conscience and the common sense to knock it off and retire somewhere very, very quiet. And kid-free.

Early Evening of the Lepus

Ten points if you get the MST3K-worthy reference.

I'm not sure what the dealio is, but the rabbits in my neighborhood are going nuts right now. I'm guessing there's a thunderstorm rolling in, as there's some distant rumbling to the west. But that surely can't explain the dozen rabbits I just encountered, bounding back and forth across my street. Is there a freakin' cottontail convention? I had to slam on my brakes over and over again. The bunnies out here ain't the brightest critters on the globe.


aka Dumb Bunny

You know, they're cute one at a time, but when you see them swarming near your home, they start to develop rat-like qualities in your head. Oh, now there are deer outside, too. It's Thumper McCrittergully's Summertime Jugband Jamboree. Whoo-hoo!

I guess it's a Happy Creature Convention. I must have missed the memo. Fine. As long as no one takes a dump on my car. (You laugh - we had a deer go nuts a couple of years back and jump on the hood of my neighbor's car and crap all over it.) That hungry owl in my tree is going to gorge itself on bunny bits tonight like a tourist family at a casino buffet...

They must make a helluva Sno-Ball in Mississippi...

According to Fox News, a Mississippi teen blew his daddy away with a shotgun over shaved ice and syrup. Curtis McCray Jr., 16, had been left at home while his parents went out on a Sno-Ball run. Young master McCray went berserk when his parents returned without a tasty frozen treat for him. Apparently, algebra in Mississippi goes something like this:

A cup of shaved ice + Belligerent teen = Capped daddy.


Be sure you know all your flavor options...

Perhaps Hostess, still smarting from that old "Twinkie Defense" thing, should ride this horse like the wind:


Hostess Sno Balls: not yet demonstrated to encourage violence!

Then again, why does it look like they're being held up in an ominous gloved hand???

OJ? Is that you?

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Solo. Shoots. First.

This will only be amusing to you if you're a Star Wars fan. I swear to god, if Bud Light ever gets rid of the "Making Faces" software on their website, I will weep buckets. I can play with this crap for hours and hours and hours.

Silliness.

And a very good night to you all.

Slug-ette

I feel like a terrible slug tonight. My gym is not open on Sundays and I did nothing physical today. Shame, shame, shame on me. Yes, I could have gone for a nice walk through my neighborhood, but, at this point, taking blood sugar issues and the outside temperatures into consideration... well, if I'm going to pass out or fall down, I'd rather do it in an air-conditioned gym with a phone nearby. So, here I am, feeling rotten and bloated. I plan to be in bed by 11 tonight and up at 6:30 tomorrow, ready for the gym. After working my way back up from total apathy after The Incident at my former hellish place of servitude, I'm ready for 60 minutes on the treadmill now. I'd like to do the elliptical trainer, but it plays havoc with my knees, so it's a no-go.


Have you seen me? They call me... The Slug!

I'm not going to say much about my attempts to un-slugify myself. I'm just going to do it. Psychologically, it's a struggle right now. Caring about going to the gym gets caught up in the whole "no money for rent or groceries" thing, and it's just not good. I just have to do it. Just like slogging through the job websites, it's just something I have to do.


Right now, I'm a slug on the edge...

If any of you are struggling with your weight or your self-esteem or your loneliness or your joblessness - you are not alone, my little fellow slugs and slug-ettes. There's a big old forestful of us out there, just trying to slip and slide and inch along on our little slime trails, avoiding the big Timberland boots pounding down the path of life.

So, hang in there, all you wonderful banana slugs. Someday, we'll all evolve.

Weather that could melt a Nazi...

Okay, I officially give up. It's too freaking hot now in the coffee shop. The Hot Sweaty Patron : Cool Air Available ratio has altered as more peeps filter in, and the sun is now smacking me in the face from the west. I feel yucky. Time to retreat to Chez Merde and apply a bag of ice to my head.


Indy and Marion visit DC, June 2005

Audioblogging Experiment #2

In which I test drive using my cell phone with mixed results...

this is an audio post - click to play

A Celebration of Difference

Last night, the Alasko-American and I trekked up to Capitol Hill to see a show called "Tearing at the Seams" at the Market 5 Gallery. The gallery is located in an old red building that bustles on weekends with shoppers and strollers visiting the vendors of Eastern Market. In its earliest incarnation, the building was used for slave auctions, and I can only imagine those auctioneers of old were spinning in their caskets at a rapid clip last night as a parade of black, white, latino, and asian people - skinny, fat, queer, straight, and some I could not identify - performed their hearts out.

A cabaret and makeshift crafts market, the event featured not only performers, but vendors selling t-shirts and jewelry and gynecological self-exam kits (I passed on that, thanks.) There were paintings on display and a very studly young man (in a purple vinyl skirt) being painted. He had to be melting under all that stuff. It must have been nearly 90 degrees in the building. I thanked God every single time a breeze kicked up. (And God bless the Alasko-American for buying me an ice cold Diet Coke from one of vendors. That was like a religious experience.)

Was "Tearing at the Seams" an evening of high art? No. Definitely not. Most of it reminded me of a sweaty junior high school talent show (in a junior high school with very, very liberal policies and worldly, but mostly well-adjusted children). But, clearly, it was all from the heart, for a good cause, and allowed people to express themselves in ways that they might never otherwise have an opportunity to pursue. I laughed and smiled and clapped and hooted a whole lot. And, for once, as a fat chick with funky clothing taste, I didn't feel like an odd duck in a Washington audience. (DC often reminds me of what Jack Nicholson said as the Joker: "This town needs an enema.") What a friendly event this was, marvelously close to Our Constipated Congress™ just a couple of blocks away.

I won't give a full review of the show, but here are some pictures to give you a taste. My apologies for the quality of the images. I was trying to shoot without a flash, so I ended up with mixed results...


Welcome


Our four MCs for the evening. The guy at the left was adorable and funny. You just wanted to go up and hug him.


A young Peruvian (who will become a U.S. citizen on Monday) does some solid slam-style poetry about the destruction of Peru from outside forces. This was really, really good.


An amazing fat belly dancer blew us all away. Sadly most of my pictures of her are blurry. She brought up this nice butch girl from the front row to dance with her.


One of the blurry pics of the belly dancer. I could lie and say I was trying to be artistic here, but I won't. I'm just a bad photographer.


One of the silly, fun musical numbers. A lot of water was spilled on the stage.


The DC Explosives kicked ass with their self-taught belly dance/hip-hop moves.


There were several short fashion runway shows.


Audience participation fashion. There was a lot of polyester in this particular one. (And an unexpected flash of female parts.) And, god, they all had to be melting up there. It was hotter than Hell in the gallery.


And a little more fashion... I question the utility of this ensemble.


A Canadian named Skyler provided us with some marionette-ish burlesque.


Skyler, mid-act.


A little doo-wop from a heartbroken bride and her bridesmaids. (She was left at the altar after her man ran off with the priest...)


The grand finale featured some vocals from this diva, who had a tail and large green mask. You couldn't hear a word she sang - the speakers were maxed out.


Accompanied by TRON MAN! (They ran Tron on the video screen next to the stage. I didn't really understand it, but, hey, it's art, right?)

Driving over to pick up the Alasko-American around 7 o' clock, I had passed the Corcoran Gallery, by the White House. The elite were gathering in black tie for some event. I cringed at people in black jackets and wraps in the near 90-degree heat. Made me ill to look at them. At the MCI Center, people were paying outrageous money to see Mike Tyson lose, plus $20 for parking, plus god knows how much for dinner and drinks... The traffic was horrific.

Tearing at the Seams required no fancy dress, just a donation to get in, the parking was free, and the crowd was friendly. It may not have been high art, but I'll take that community over many snootier ones in DC any day.

Mutha of the Year, San Francisco Edition

Meet Maureen Faibish. Maureen was very worried about the behavior of her two mating-minding pit bulls. She thought they might be a danger to her 12-year-old son, Nicholas. Smart woman, that Maureen.

So, on June 3rd, when she decided to go run errands, instead of taking her son with her, so he wouldn't be alone with the horny anger-beasts, she shut him in the basement. Good mommy that she is, she even propped a shovel up against the door so he couldn't get out and told him to stay there until she got back. Now, where I come from, the only times moms shut their kids in the basement with a shovel against the door and an admonition to stay put is when there are zombies attacking the house, and mom is running to the truck to get the shotgun or the cell phone or the pitchfork or great-great-grandpa's Civil War sword or whatever.

Apparently, Maureen is a little light in the grey matter and the thought of putting the dogs in the basement had not crossed her mind. Hmmm... Let's see... On a summer day, let's stick the 12-year-old with opposable thumbs down in the basement, and leave the dogs - who, unless really gifted, probably can't open doors - to wander the house.

Long story short: Nicholas got out of the basement and mommy's pit bulls killed him.


Maureen Faibish - this mug's for you!

Read more at CNN.com. My favorite quote from Mommy Most Negligent: "It's Nicky's time to go... When you're born you're destined to go and this was his time."

Yeah, sure it was his time. Destiny moves at a faster pace when aided and abetted by stupid people and hormonally-challenged pit bulls.

Maureen. Moron.

I live for the day when pit bulls are completely banned as pets. And when stupid people can't have kids.

Lifestyles of the Idol Roach

It's almost 1:45 in the morning, so a full report on "Tearing at the Seams" will have to wait until later. But let me just share one thing...

First, I have to say, I couldn't care less who wins American Idol. I don't watch the show past the audition portion. But, ooooh, the auditions! This year, a local DC-area girl stole our hearts with her terrifyingly bad audition and her fairly "colorful" response to being canned. Her name: Mary Roach. Don't remember her? Let iFilm refresh your memory...

Scared now? Well, imagine my amazement this evening when one of our four MCs turned out to be none other than...


The one, the only... Mary Roach! By the way, I think that's the same belt she's wearing in her Idol audition...

When she introduced herself to the audience, I immediately turned to the Alasko-American and said, "Duuuude, that's the freaky chick from American Idol!" The MCs asked the audience to introduce themselves to the people around them. Mary took exception to the fact that those of us in the front row did not introduce ourselves to her. (A point she made via microphone.)

Early on, Mary acknowledged her American Idol audition, claiming that she did a bad job on purpose, for the attention. Take that for what you will, folks. Take that for what you will.

At some point, I decided I should get a picture with her, just for pop culture posterity. I even wrote up a card reading "HELLO SASQUATCH!" to hold up in the photo. (Don't ask me why, but I had a blue Sharpie and a pad of paper in my purse. Go figure.) But, in the end, I chickened out. She freaked me out waaay too much, and I didn't want to invite questions or give her my blog URL.

I think it was a wise choice.

More on the cabaret - a very exuberant, happy, and somewhat messy event - tomorrow.

I'm wiped. It was hot and sweaty in the gallery, I forgot about the Tyson fight at the MCI Center (and the horrid traffic it caused), and I didn't get home until 1:15.

I so seriously need sleep now.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Alternative Beauty, or What I'm Doing Tonight...

The Alasko-American called me Thursday night and asked if I'd like to go to an event tonight called "Tearing at the Seams" at a gallery space up at Eastern Market. The event, which will benefit Different Avenues (a non-profit providing assistance to homeless youth and young adults - or those with "insecure housing" - many of whom are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgendered), is an evening of art, fashion, and cabaret, but with a twist. Here's how it's described on the Different Avenues website:

"Tearing at the Seams is a collaborative project that deconstructs the confining and marginalizing notions of beauty and expression. This production will feature designers, artists, performers, models, stylists and artistic production crews who get little exposure in mainstream media. It is a night for underrepresented folks of all shapes, sizes, genders, abilities, cultures and experiences to represent themselves! It is a place for voyeurs and do-it-yourself enthusiasts of all kinds to bask in the knowledge that YES! there are people out there that look like me showing off what they got—and damn are they hot!

The fact is, mainstream media and art does NOT represent the vast diversity within creative communities, nor does the mainstream highlight the potential that all of us have for creative expression and feeling beautiful. The mainstream media replaces our own words, our own shapes, sizes and cultural expression with one, monolithic idea of beauty. The truth is, we have our own ideas!

On June 11th, we will set our own stage and put forth our own notions of what sexiness, beauty and style means to us. There will be craft/clothing vendors, music, raffle prizes, visual/multi-media artwork, performance, runway walks, comedy and a festive environment to meet partners in crime for your own campaign to tear away at the mundane and oppressive conventions of beauty."


Shining, happy, differently beautiful people...

I'm all for this, being a "traditionally visually non-appealing person" myself. (What was that term I heard once? Oh yeah - "appearance impaired"!) I have no idea what the evening will hold, but I think it's going to be very cool and potentially quite uplifting. I'm bringing my camera. If photography is allowed, I will take some shots to post tomorrow.


What is beautiful? I think crow's feet around my friends' eyes when they laugh really hard is beautiful. I also like all the little scars that make up a story of a life.

If you're in the DC area tonight and want to attend, it's at the Market 5 Gallery at 7th and North Carolina, SE, two blocks from the Eastern Market Metro. Doors open at 8 p.m., show at 9. $10 suggested donation.

Until then, I'm off to the gym and Salvation Army. It's another hot, sweaty one here, kids...

Friday, June 10, 2005

Even worse than I thought...

So, Wang Chung wasn't on last night's Hit Me Baby One More Time. They get to suffer in the grand finale next week. As if that wasn't bad enough, I was horrified to hear that another great performer of the '80's - another one I really like and even saw in concert three times - is up on the NBC humiliation block next Thursday: Howard Jones.

Lord, that is so sad. HoJo was no one-hit wonder! He kicked the charts hard '83-'85. And, HoJo has always seemed like such a nice guy. I remember hearing his mom ran his fan club and she sold t-shirts and stuff at concerts. (How sweet is that?) But I guess his following has diminished and his sales slowed considerably since the old days. I see on his website that he's selling a bunch of his stuff on eBay. Yikes. Major bummer.


HoJo, circa Big Hair '80's

But, I will say, Howard has toured and toured and toured his brains out over the years. He's got dates listed for upcoming gigs in Europe, the UK, and the 'States, bless his heart. So, while I would love to see Wang Chung kick some ass, I do love HoJo...

Aaaaah, I am torn. Torn, I tell you!

Damn you, NBC! Damn you and your crappy summer crap!

Thankya very much!

I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy this evening. (That's probably because I haven't showered after the gym yet. Ewww.)

I wanted to give a shout out to KOB of dc blogs for linking to my corner of paradise yesterday. That was very cool, and I appreciate it very much. (And it's very true, KOB. Bethesda is a weirdness magnet. Don't even get me started about fat, sunburned barefoot Jesus, whom I always see on a payphone down on Wisconsin, by Ranger Surplus...) That's the first time someone I don't know personally has linked to me, and it was great to find a site with so many local blogs collected in one spot. Much reading to do...


I must like you. I actually centered this picture.

And mucho thanks to the folks who pass through here and read all this crap. There are only 10 or 11 people who have ever left comments, and I hope they alone don't make up the bulk of the hits on this blog. If that is the case, please, please, please - go outside. It's probably sunny where you are! There is warm weather frolicking to be done!!!

But, genuinely, thanks. Writing here is keeping me sane while I job hunt and, if it entertains someone along the way, that's pretty cool, too. And, my spastic writing style gives the Sasquatch an opportunity to call someone and correct grammar and spelling errors. I know he enjoys identifying my flubs, although they pain him. He is a very precise writer and my "blind spider monkey typing on crack" mistakes make his ass chew gum. (Everyone should have the benefit of a personal editor...)

I'm off to have another exciting Friday evening in suburbia, featuring a dinner of Lean Pockets and one of the myriad showings of Into the West on TNT. Tom Shales says the show is really depressing, but the cast looks really amazing, and the scenery will beat the hell out of whatever re-runs are on elsewhere. Here goes nuthin'...

Saddle up, lil' buckaroos!

It's time for the roundup! The Snakehead Roundup! (2nd annual.)

YEE-HAW!!!

If you live in Maryland, DC, or Virginia and have a TV (or a fishing license) you are painfully familiar with this ugly bastard:


Yeesh!

This is the Northern Snakehead (Channa argus). A native of Asia, it's considered a delicacy on it's own turf (and surf), as well as a component in some Asian medicines. The nasty snakehead is not only an alien species to North America, but also a hungry, hungry predatory species. However, it was still completely legal to bring the critters into the United States in 2002 for sale in seafood markets. To ensure freshness, they were usually shipped live.

Somehow, a couple of these ugly bastards ended up in the water supply here in Maryland.

There are a couple of versions of the story of just how the snakeheads ended up in a pond in the small town of Crofton in 2002. (I love the fact that urban legends have grown up around this in such a short period of time - yes, I can easily confirm the true tale for you, but I like the whole urban legend aspect to this...) In one story, a Chinese gentleman here in Maryland went to a market to procure a snakehead for his sick sister, hoping to make a remedy from the homeland. By the time he brought it home, his sister was doing better, so this gent did what anyone would do with aquatic life that was no longer needed. No, he didn't flush it down the john - he dumped the ugly critter into a local pond.

In the other story, a fish fancier paid a seafood importer in New York for a pair of these suckers, initially to make into a soup, but then, after a change of heart, kept them as his hideous aquarium friends. Eventually they grew too big and expensive to feed, and the ichthy guy dumped the ugly critters into a local pond.

Either way, the voracious, predatory alien fish ended up in a pond in Crofton, Maryland, reproducing and eating its way through the rest of the pond's aquatic residents. A fisherman caught an 18-inch snakehead in 2002, and, puzzled by the strange creature, sent it to the state of Maryland.

Aaaand the state of Maryland freaked out. These things could really mess up the state's ecosystem and eat their way into other states, too. The state wanted these things dead, for the Little Patuxent River, feeding into the Potomac, was just 75 yards from the pond.

Why would this worry state officials so much this? After all, it's not like the fish were gonna get up and walk over to the river, right? Right?

Well, my friends, you see... these Frankenfish can walk.


Maryland prepares to go medieval on their fins...

That means that, after they've wiped out the stock in one big dinner bowl, they can crawl on over to the next one. Evil hungry alien fish... that walk. And, like the poster says, they can survive out of water for several days. So, if that next meal is a hefty walk away, the snakehead's totally cool with that. Freaky, huh?

Despite the state of Maryland thwacking the living crap out of that pond in Crofton, with herbicides and poisons, it was too late. The crafty snakeheads had made their move. Now, the snakeheads are in the Potomac, threatening the bass population. Fishermen, regional authorities, and the federal government are none too pleased.

To locate snakehead populations and to bring greater awareness to the problem and threat, an annual Potomac Snakehead Roundup was started last year. They didn't catch any snakeheads last year. And, today, the 2nd Annual Snakehead Roundup, was a bust, too. Tricky little devils, these snakeheads. The worry is that their predatory habits will badly damage the fishing industry on the Potomac. (I grew up on the Mississippi. I saw what people threw in there. I do not eat river fish, thank you.)

However, the snakeheads have helped another industry here in the United States: the crappy made-for-tv horror film industry!

God bless the Sci-Fi Channel. God bless Bruce Boxleitner and former supermodel Carol Alt. God bless the special effects guys who toiled to make rubbery, bigger-than-human snakehead costumes. And god bless the producers who payrolled... SNAKEHEAD TERROR!


Actually, that pond in Crofton wasn't that deep, but I guess that's nitpicking, right?

A brilliantly awful 2004 movie, Snakehead Terror takes the fishy danger of the walkin' Frankenfish to a whole new level. In this epic, the poison used by the state of Maryland only serves to mutate the fish into vicious man-eating behemoths. It's up to Sheriff Bruce and the aging supermodel to bring these fish to their knees. (Umm... if they had knees.) There's a wonderful review of this cinematic wonder here. Enjoy.


Jesus. Just look at that terror! Look at those rubber fang-fish about to eat his head! Wow! Give that man a Golden Globe!

Perhaps the saddest thing in this whole story is that the Frankenfish have been re-exported to innocent, unknowing countries, like Italy and Russia. Think I'm kidding? Just see below:


Creature of terror, indeed.


This actually reads "Curse of the Dead Lake", which I think may have been a Nancy Drew title. I'm trying to imagine just how bad the dubbing is on this baby.

This may not be as bad as exporting the actual fish to Italy and Russia, but... No. Wait. This is as bad as exporting the actual fish. I wonder if the Maryland Tourism Board knows about this? Visit scenic Maryland, the Free State, birthplace of Babe Ruth and home to GIANT KILLER FISH!!!

AAAAAIIIIEEEEEE!

There's legislation pending to ban the import 28 varieties of snakehead into the United States. Why it hasn't passed yet astounds me. Probably tied to some sensitive trade issues with China. Lord knows we wouldn't want to piss them off and cut off our supply of crappy products. Of course, outside of our Mid-Atlantic region, snakeheads have already been found in the ecosystems of California, Florida, Hawaii, Maine, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island.

Watch out - the walkin' fish may be coming for you next.

I've always wondered what happened to the guy who dumped the fish in the first place. I'm sure the state of Maryland fined the living crap out of him. But maybe it didn't end there... I have this vision of a group of angry fishermen tying him up and going all "Clockwork Orange" on him. To this day, he's probably locked in a room with his eyelids held open, Snakehead Terror screening over and over again in a very evil continuous loop. If he ever gets out, Bruce Boxleitner - you better watch out!

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Audioblog Experiment #1

And a classy start it is. I managed to get the words "hooker" and "slut" into my first audio foray. My family will be so proud...

this is an audio post - click to play

A Horribly Belated Birthday Wish

I am rather mortified to say, I forgot my friend Madame L.'s birthday. In April.

Crap.

This is a bad thing. I admit I was still winding down from the whole workplace trauma of my last job, but that's no excuse.

I've known the lovely Madame L. for a gazillion years - I have a very yellowed newspaper clipping of the two of us together, having won prizes for our individual age groups (she was a grade ahead of me) for the Moline Public Library poster contest. Good god, that had to be 1976-ish?

Madame L. is the mother of the marvelous Miss K., a young woman of talent, brains, and beauty, as is Madame L, herself. And though Madame L. lives in the wilds of suburban Minneapolis/St. Paul, she is always close to my heart.


This is what happens when you leave the candles burning for nearly two months. Smokey and all the rangers are most displeased with me...

So, Madame L., I wish you a heartfelt happy birthday. Very, very, profoundly late.

To the creative woman who wrote Dragonriders of Pern notes back and forth with me in junior high!

To the kitchen adventurer who helped me freeze Han Solo in a Kemp's 5-quart bucket of ice cream and made "Tatooine" milk with food coloring in my mom's kitchen! (That was not pretty.)

To my co-conspirator in the classic (and now sadly lost) cassette adventure, "Dining with Darth"! (Don't ask. Seriously embarrassing. Did you know you can shatter a Corelle plate if you strike it repeatedly with a wooden spoon?)

To a wonderful friend and a lovely human being...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! REALLY, REALLY LATE!!!

Next year, L., I'll greet you on time - I promise!

Love,

MJ

Audioblogging

I signed up for Blogspot's audioblogging thingy today. Unfortunately, the phone number to upload entries is overwhelmed, so I don't know if I'll ever actually post any audio. It's like calling in to save Larry the Lobster back in the day - just silence and then a rapid busy signal.

I have this vision of lonely hormonal kids in Singapore, making outrageously expensive long distance calls to the 661 area code (where is that, anyway), pouring out their hearts and souls to the Internet. Either that, or a ton of really bad singer/songwriter wannabes are using audioblog as a cheap recording studio. Right now, someone is probably sitting in a tiny bathroom in Brooklyn, singing an angsty song about his ex-girlfriend, his failed comic book concept and the anime babes who keep him company on solitary Cartoon Network evenings in the big city. (And the roaches applaud wildly!)


Coming soonish! (Maybe!) A voice to go with the astigmatic eyes!

I'm missing Hit Me Baby One More Time. Must run! If I miss Wang Chung, I'll be devastated. Kinda. Sorta.

Oh, and many bonus points if you remember dear old Larry the Lobster. Good god, that was a lifetime ago...

Bare it like Beckham

Hey, I officially have too much information about David Beckham, courtesy of Reuters!

"Back, sack, and crack"?!?

Okay, first thing - ouch! Second thing - I get the non-hairy back. That's fine, but the rest of that?!? Did this man have an all-over pelt like Cha-ka on Land of the Lost? I mean, unless you are Jo-jo the Very Hairy Footballer, is that necessary? Is it vanity on his part, or does Posh have an alopecia fetish? So many questions.

Omigod. I'm writing about David Beckham's hairy nether regions. I have to go the gym. 45 minutes of treadmill may erase this from my head. I hope.

Aaaaaaaaaarrrrggglllll.

Mall Rats

Don't ask me why, but the shopping malls in Bethesda, Maryland appear to have become a magnet for messed up behavior. For those outside of the DC area, Bethesda is in Montgomery County, one of the most affluent locations in America. (For the record, I do not count toward Montgomery County's affluence. Big time no.) I think, mostly because of the wealth, I didn't initially recognize the county - and Bethesda in particular - as a potential Hellmouth, yet it surely is.

I think it all started with the man who went berserk at a bus stop outside of Montgomery Mall. A bus driver refused to let this gent ride, as he did not have the required fare. The frustrated rider's response was to whip out a big kitchen knife (c'mon - you carry one to the mall, too, don't you?) and go to town on the bus driver. If I'm not mistaken, he stabbed at least one passenger, too, before fleeing on foot. I don't recall hearing if he was ever caught. Fortunately, his victims survived.

This was followed by the broad daylight rape of a 16-year-old in the parking lot of the Wildwood strip mall, just a half mile from the bus stabbing location. Several people apparently just walked and drove right past the open-sided mini-van where a nut had duct taped the girl down while he assaulted her. (You know, when you're in a hurry to deposit a check at the Suntrust drive-thru or you're late to your appointment at the Red Door, you're bound to miss the rocking mini-van, the spilled groceries or the screaming teenager...) Finally, someone realized what was going on and chased the man away. He was caught, and it was uncovered that he had pulled this number at least one time before. Charming.

Now, in a little over a two week period, we've had the following:

1. A woman goes nuts at the customer service counter at Nordstroms in Montgomery Mall and stabs two people repeatedly with a butcher knife before she is tackled by an off-duty FBI agent.
2. Some guy gets stabbed in the parking lot outside Dave & Busters at White Flint Mall (just north of my apartment)
and, just to make it all so much worse...
3. A mom sends her 4-year-old and 6-year-old sons into a food court men's room at Montgomery Mall. When it seems to take too long, she opens the men's room door to discover a man touching the boys innappropriately. The man bolted and was not apprehended.

Grrreat.

I've never been a big fan of shopping malls. If I stay in a mall too long, I get a headache I've dubbed "mall head" and have to leave. I very rarely go to Montgomery Mall - and man, for the record, that mall has the skeeziest movie theater in the area (except for the Uptown with its rat problem). Montgomery Mall did provide me with one of those "man, I wish I had a camera with me" moments a few years ago, though - at Christmastime, I saw Lorena Bobbitt standing outside Chesapeake Knife & Tool. Knife & Tool. I tell ya, that was a million dollar shot. I have to wonder for whom she was shopping. (Heh heh heh.) Never gonna happen again. Sigh.

White Flint is the upscale mall about 2 miles from my place. I'm not upscale, personally, so it has limited appeal. I go to White Flint mostly to meander around Borders and get a tuna sub at Jerry's, but that's it. And even those treks are few and far between - Borders is a dangerous place for me. Too much potential for spending moolah I do not have.

But now, I have even more reasons to avoid the mall. I'm not good around crazy people with knives. (Who is?) In fact, I'm not good around knives in general. Just ask the Sasquatch - I can't cut a bagel without injuring myself. And I think most of us have a secret "beat the crap out of the pedophile" fantasy. I know I do. Mine might get me arrested if I encountered one of those bastards.

I think I'll just stick with online shopping, thanks. No knives. No bathroom loonies. It's better this way.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Genital Insecurity, the Sequel

Back in April, I wrote an entry about this car I saw parked in downtown Bethesda. It was a new silver Mercedes with vanity plates and a metal nutsack hanging down below the bumper. (These abominations are called Bumper Nuts. 'Nuff said.) I wondered who the hell was so insecure he had to hang a big aluminum scrotum on his car.

I found out tonight. Some schmuck pulled a U-turn directly in front of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes and nearly plant my face into the windshield. As this weasel boy pulled past me, he smirked and laughed. He was wearing sunglasses (at 10:00 at night - how lame and Corey Hart is that?)and a baseball cap turned backwards and had a studied "I am sooo hot" layer of stubble on his chin.

What else did he have? Why, a silver Mercedes with vanity plates and metal testicles swinging in the breeze!

Ah-ha!

Damn! At last I've seen him! And he is, indeed, just what expected a Bumper Nuts customer to be: a big loser who wears sunglasses at night and spins turns in front of oncoming traffic. Schmuck.

The evil half of me wants to post his vanity plate, but I know that would be wrong. I'll just have to file it away. Sasquatch, dude - I hate to tell you - I think he lives in your 'hood...

Someone told me it's all happening at the zoo...

Yeehaw! Boy, I can't wait to visit the Tulsa Zoo and see all them there animals that, apparently, didn't evolve from jack shit!


It's all fake, bubba. Just like that dang moon landing...

My favorite quote from the CNN.com article: "I do not like the idea of scripture at the zoo..."

NO KIDDING!

America: come for the scenic vistas, stay for the ignorance and biblical literalism!

Potential media super fun alert!

Russell "Watch out for that phone!" Crowe will be on Letterman tonight, along with Paul Anka. I read about the horrors of Anka's new album over on aprilwinchell.com just yesterday. If we're lucky, maybe Russell will whack Paul senseless with Letterman's mic before Anka starts butchering "It's a Sin" or "Smells Like Teen Spirit".

Paul Anka + Pet Shop Boys slowed down = Bad Thing.

Paul Anka + Nirvana = Living Hell.

It really is a sin.

Watch the skies

Random stuff rains down on us from the heavens all the time. Most of what hits us from the heights is of no consequence, frankly. 40,000 tons of pulverized asteroids and comets - space dust -filters to the earth's atmosphere each year. Most of it vanishes above us before making landfall, but some of it settles on the ground and in the water around us in miniscule particles no wider than a human hair.

Occasionally, the heavens drop something larger on us - an actual meteorite or, by our own hand, a failing satellite. The satellites are usually good for a few days of panic as cable news outlets try to scare the crap out of people who think their house will be crushed by Sputnik's special needs cousin. Generally, they hit unoccupied spaces or oceans. And then the cable news morons have to start looking for another cheap scare to keep America in thrall.

Of course, every once in a while, one of these babies does hit a house. I love the stories of the people who are just watching tv when a small meteorite drills a hole through the roof and plops down on the carpet next to the Barcalounger. "Ah wouldn't have buhleeeved it if ah hadn't seen it with mah own eyes. Dang thing nearly knocked mah beer outta mah hand!"

Occasionally, you hear about "blue ice" slamming into a house. I always feel bad for the homeowners in these situations. First off, how the hell are you going to identify the miscreant airline? (I actually don't want to think about the logistics of melting down and examining the errant skypoop.) Does a typical homeowner's policy cover frozen airline waste? I may have to call Bob, my insurance guy, and ask him that. Just curious...

Sometimes, it's something terribly sad and horrible dropping from the sky. I recall the day of the Columbia shuttle disaster over Texas in 2003. Horrified, I ran to the phone to call my old college roommate who is a professor at a small state university in Nacogdoches, Texas. She and her husband had not turned on the tv that morning, and they had no idea that the shuttle was raining down on their little town in charred and twisted pieces of metal and flesh. "Don't go outside," I told her. I know that people just outside of Nacogdoches found human remains the next day, tangled with a flight helmet with the shreds of a NASA patch.

Just yesterday, Pam Hearne, a special ed teacher from Floral Park, New York, was at home when she heard "a loud crash". She went outside to make a grisly discovery - a sneaker and sock-clad foot lay in her lawn. That would be horrible enough, but let me quote the CNN.com story to give you, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story:

"The leg, with hip and spine attached, dented the shingled roof of her garage before bouncing into the lawn."

Before bouncing into the lawn...

Apparently, Ms. Hearne's lawn was the final destination for part of a stowaway on a South African Airways jet bound for New York from Johannesburg. Another leg was later found in the wheelwell of the plane when it landed at JFK. He was likely shredded when the pilot extended the landing gear over Floral Park.

What kind of nightmare life makes someone do something insane like this? This isn't some idiot UPS'ing himself in a crate from New York to Texas. (That was just really stupid, by the way.) This is someone risking almost certain death (well, certain in this case) to get to New York - and get the hell out of Johannesburg. What must his life have been like? Who did he leave behind to be horrified at the manner of his death?

We'll likely never know. CNN will have moved on to the next headline horror before you blink.

Since 9/11, I admit I watch the skies with greater care. I live on one of the key flight paths for air traffic to the DC airports. At first, after 9/11 happened, there was the unnatural silence. I'd jump when the freight train whistled a half mile away. Then, when the planes reappeared, I'd hold my breath as they flew overhead. I remember standing in my kitchen, doing dishes, when the first plane came through and stopping, stock still. I thought I might pass out. Deer in headlights. Deer in headlights. Deer in headlights.

I would get freaked out in my car as I drove to work in downtown DC, following the C&O Canal and the Potomac down from Maryland, as planes skirted the river, headed to National Airport. An optical illusion as I turned into lower Georgetown gave the impression of planes heading straight for the White House. It messed with my head. It wasn't that I worried for the White House. I worried for my friend - precious and irreplaceable - at work a block away. Call me selfish. But, in the end, I think we're all worried about our friends and not the White House.

Watch the skies. But remember to breathe. And for god's sake, don't stowaway on a plane. Ever. Read "The Cold Equations" if that thought ever comes into your head. Just. Not. Worth. It.

I surrender!

Okay, you know how I went to that Geek 2 Geek dating site today to see what my local, age-appropriate male geek dating options were? When I visited earlier today, my single choice in the 37-42 age group anywhere near my home was a crossdresser into Desperate Housewives. Well, guess what? My dating pool has doubled! WOW! Now, it's the crossdresser into Desperate Housewives and... ready for this??? A guy with a diaper fetish who's also into Desperate Housewives.


Please... kill... me... now...

I'm starting to get the impression that I should just give it up and move to a neighborhood that allows cats. I see lots of Meow Mix and Mystery! on PBS for me...

Forgive me. I must go and smack my head into a doorframe for a few minutes...

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

"Noch einmal, mit Gefühl"

I'm sending out cover letters and resumes. It's the daily ritual. The maniacal lawnmover men of the Parkside Condo Association maintenance office are razing the grass outside the building. I swear they mow every other day. It seems like overkill to me, but what the hell do I know?

I do know that it's hard to concentrate on groveling when the mower's outside the window. So, I rev up iTunes and plop my Logitech headset over my ears (I bought it for Skype'ing - Skype rocks, btw.) Today's jobseeking music is the brilliant Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical, Once More with Feeling. (I was trying to find an appropriate image for this post and ended up with something from a German Buffy site, hence the title of this post. Tomorrow's German phrase that pays, kids, is "Herr Maier hat meinen Pudel vergiftet.")


Noch einmal mit Gefühl, indeed.

Buffy was a fun show. It was also a good show. A really, really good show. Heck, I was a fan before there was a show. I loved the movie. Remember this gem of dialogue between Amilyn (Paul Reubens) the freshly one-armed vamp and Buffy (Kristy Swanson)?

Amilyn: We're immortal, Buffy. We can do anything.
Buffy: Oh, yeah? Clap.

Joss Whedon is a damn genius. I envy, envy, envy him.

I freely admit it - one of my great failings (among many) is my glowing green-eyed envy of people who can actually harness their creativity and make a life out of it. I know I have the attention span of a newt, which means that I have dozens and dozens of unfinished projects lying around me, like little half-formed children, abandoned, before they ever got a full measure of breath and life pressed into them. A small handful of people have told me I have a measure of talent. Maybe it's true. Maybe it's just friends being kind. If I do have any talent, I don't seem to know how to bring it to fruition.

I know of at least two people who read this blog who make their living from their words. Do you have any suggestions or advice that might not only benefit me, but other people who can't make the leap? I find no joy in office work. I don't really want to push papers. I want to fill paper with words and thoughts and stories. Is it too late? I see my birthday this year, ending in a zero, as a major threshold to pass over. I would like to have just one thing published (and no, a blog read by 10 people doesn't count, does it?) before I turn 40. How do you breathe life into your abandoned children?

Arrrrg. "The Sacrifice" is playing on the Buffy disc now. It makes me sad. I'm such a sap. Too old and too young. Where do you fit in when you don't fit in?

When we're out together, dancing geek to geek...

On Sunday, the Washington Post ran a "brite" about a new online dating service geared toward a specific subset of society for which traditional dating websites have proven unsuccessful: geeks. The new dating site, Geek 2 Geek promises that "...whether you're looking for romance or just friendship, this is the place to hook up. There is no appearance information on profiles (no pictures either), true geeks just don't care about looks. Besides, our experience tells us that most people lie about their looks on other sites. Looks are not how our members form relationships..."


Geek love...

"Well," thinks the perpetually dateless, hovering on 40, big geek girl Merujo, "let's test drive this baby..."

Looking for a male... age 37 to 42... 20 mile radius from my zip code...

I get one hit.

He's 37. 20 miles away.

Aaaaaand, he's a crossdresser who loves to watch "Desperate Housewives".

Sigh.

I think I will stick to job hunting this week...

But I'm pathetic enough to bookmark this site. Maybe there will be a non-crossdresser who likes Amazing Race next time.

Who knows?

The heat is on...

I'm taking a pass on meeting Vince and Andy tomorrow. I can't bear the thought of standing and sweltering for two hours on 21st Street to have them sign stuff for me while I stumble over my own tongue for fifteen seconds.

It's pouring down rain right now. The thunder is fading. But it will be in the 90's tomorrow, and, with the downfall tonight, the heat index will hover near 100F. No thankee.


DC Street Life, Late Spring 2005: Sauna of the Damned

Erasure kicked serious ass tonight. The concert was wonderful. "Joyful" is the term the Sasquatch used. I think he's right on target. It was celebratory. If you go to an Erasure concert and leave in a bad mood, you probably have something so severely stuck in your craw, it will require a team of surgeons several days to remove it.

Truly.

Sleep now. Job hunt continues in the daylight...

Monday, June 06, 2005

Do I or Don't I?

It's hotter than Hades today. It will be even hotter tomorrow. 90-ish, and I refuse to discuss the humidity, for it will suck like an enormous open chest wound.

So, here's my dilemma: Erasure is doing an in-store signing tomorrow at Tower Records in downtown DC, from 1-3. The line starts at 11 a.m., out on a hot, sticky DC street. I have this really cool printer's proof sheet from the Chorus cd that a friend purchased for me on eBay a few years back. It would be very cool to have the Erasure proof signed by the boys, but I don't want to pass out from the heat.

What's a girl to do?


Andy and Vince

I'm going to see the boys tonight at the 9:30 Club. I guess I should just see how I do waiting in line tonight. If I fall down in flop sweat and misery, I guess I'll have a good read on my ability to handle the heat tomorrow... Grrr.

Crowe, Schmoe

Can somebody please medicate Russell Crowe? Or duct tape him to a chair when he's not actually doing interviews?

Talented actor? Yeah, sure. Stupid bumblef**k with an anger management problem? Definitely. This time, Crowe is on a roll. After badmouthing "Cinderella Man" co-star Craig Bierko at the end of last week, Crowe continues his lovefest by throwing a telephone at the concierge in his NYC hotel. Oy vey, Russell, buddy. Consider meditation. Seriously.


The bloated head of Russell Crowe

Now, I've personally been in some crappy telephone situations in my life. I've been in Central Asia where you can't get a phone to work across town, let alone across time zones. In Moscow, my phone was probably tapped more times than a truckload of kegs at a frat party. But never did I have a hissy fit about not being able to make a call and use it as an excuse to hit another human in the head with a phone.

I don't care how much moolah your movies make, Russell baby. Other human beings have value. I'll pass on "Cinderella Man", thanks. I have a bad taste in my mouth.

10,000 Years to the Emperor!

Today is the birthday of the Sasquatch.

He is 97 years young.


Quick - before the whole house goes up! Make a wish!

Okay, that was a fib. Well, more like an outright lie. And that’s the last untrue thing in this entry. The rest I will swear to, gladly. Stack o’ bibles, mother’s soul, the whole nine yards.

I can’t say enough about this kind, gentle, wonderful man. I’ve known him for almost twenty years now, and, even when we lived thousands and thousands of miles apart, he’s always had a place in my heart. He is my defender, confidante, advisor, enthusiastic fan, shoulder to cry on, giver of fierce hugs, co-conspirator, and a very good and decent man, to boot. And, may I say, I am profoundly grateful to his beautiful girlfriend for not begrudging me the continued pleasure of his most agreeable companionship. (She is a gem.)

There are so many things I could say about this man, but I think the best and truest thing I can say is simply this: he is my friend.

Khef, ka, and ka-tet,
bubba.

Happy birthday to my friend.

Liked and not liked...

I went to the Technorati site out of some dumb self-centered interest to see if anyone had links to my blog. Not surprisingly, I have links with the Sasquatch and the Atomic Editor. Depending on how you do the search (Merujo vs. Church of the Big Sky, for example), there are a couple of other links. And that's it. Except for this:
  1. Church Of The Big Sky

    35 days ago

    The Church Of The Big Sky has got to be one of the most interesting - yet boring pieces of writing

    Miss Peg Get Conversations 0 links
Arrrg! And that's it. Apparently, Miss Peg is a user on some MSN blog site. But, according to MSN, either Miss Peg is AWOL or access to her page is restricted. I just want to know what's interesting and what's boring from her perspective. (I know what's boring and mundane from my perspective - and that would be most of what I write. I just spoke to the Sasquatch about that very thing this evening.) But, I have to admit some curiosity.

So, Miss Peg, if you're still out there, can you send me a link to your page? Inquiring minds want to know what sucks and what doesn't.

And regardless, thanks for stopping by! I'll try to suck less. That is my aim.

Sunday, June 05, 2005

Woman, observed

She is tiny. Beyond rail thin, yet her face is unnaturally puffy under a frizzy mass of overprocessed hair. As she awkwardly walks toward me on her massively stacked espadrilles, I am amazed by the miniscule piece of fabric that passed for her skirt. If she wasn't so disheveled, she might might seem... elite. Instead, she seems a little pathetic. Whatever aura of prestige she has is tarnished. She plops down in the chair next to me with a nervousness and weariness that must weigh three times what she herself does.

For thirty minutes she rambles about her boyfriend and her father, all the while begging the stylist for advice. Her voice is tiny and high pitched. It makes her sound like a petulant child. A churlish munchkin. She speaks rapidly, and, uncharitably, I am thinking “coke or crack, crack or coke?”

“He says he loves me, but he doesn’t want me unless I lose ten more pounds. I mean, I’m down to 100 now… What should I do? I love him. It’s not that I think my father is right. That I shouldn’t lose any more weight. I will look better thinner. Right?” She nibbles a lunch of steamed broccoli while her hair is blown dry. The smell from the broccoli, mixed with the hair color processing on my head is nauseating. “Broccoli is good,” she says. “It’s okay to just eat a lunch of broccoli, right? It’s good for you. It's got all the nutrients I need, right? This broccoli is really good. My father likes broccoli, so it must be good for you.”

The stylist asks where her father is. “Oh,” she sighs. “New York. He's in New York. I miss him. We have our penthouse in Manhattan, plus the place at the Watergate, and the house in Chevy Chase, you know.” She stops nibbling her broccoli and squints into the mirror. “Some guy called me a sexpot at a party after you did my hair last time. Make sure I look like a sexpot today. I mean, I look good, don’t I? I’m thin and I’m pretty, right? I handed out your card at the party, so you need to make me look good today. Ha ha ha.

I must be radiating discomfort as I sit next to this woman, and the stylist whispers an apology. He keeps trying to cut off her rambling, but it is to no avail. I look up at the clock. I still have twenty minutes for my head to cook, and I’ve pulled a notepad out of my computer bag. I’m trying to write about Uzbekistan, but under the circumstances, I feel foolish trying to write about political unrest while my neighbor continues her chatter. I stop. I write the words “SAD, PATHETIC, INSECURE” on the pad in large letters. I underline them as she continues.

“I’m angry with my dad. He won’t talk to me about my boyfriend. He doesn’t understand. I love him. I love him. He is my world. If I need to lose 10 more pounds, then I have to lose 10 more pounds. It’s my dad’s birthday and I want to see him, but I'm mad at him. He doesn't like my boyfriend. Maybe I should just get on the train and go see my dad. Maybe he’ll call and ask me to come up. Then, I’ll just go to Union Station and get on the train. Unless my boyfriend calls. If he does, I’ll just fly to Miami. I’ll just wait for a call.”

I sneak a side glance. I can’t tell how old she is. She could be 30 or 40. Her skin is overly tan, almost leathery. Her puffy face says “alcohol, drugs, more alcohol…” But I think maybe she’s much younger. Just looks older.

She holds her cell phone in her tiny hands as her hair is blown dry. She stares at it intently. But no one ever calls.

“Am I pretty?” she asks as her hair is sprayed. “I am pretty, right? I am a sexpot. Please tell me I’m a sexpot.”

“I can make you look slutty if you want,” the stylist says. He looks at me and smiles as my hair cooks with bright blond. He laughs. “I can make everyone look slutty.”

“NO!” She is horrified. “Not slutty. Just a sexpot. I need to be a sexpot. I am a sexpot.” The stylist has a long list of wealthy clients. Bitterly, I wonder if they all want to be sexpots or if it’s just the messed up ones.

“Okay,” sighs the stylist. “You are a sexpot.”

Part of me wants to disagree and say, “Oh honey, you are a sickly looking coked up creature from hell.” But I can’t. I hate to say it, but part of me, the part that knows I’ll never be taken for a sexpot or have a penthouse at the Watergate, is momentarily jealous of this sad thing. (And it disgusts me later that I even briefly felt that way.) But then it passes. I may be fat. I may be unattractive. I may be poor. But I’m not drugged out and groveling for attention from a man who wants to torture me over ten pounds.

Finally, her hair is finished. And I am glad. She is still rambling about her weight when the stylist says, “Okay. You’re done. You have a good trip to New York, honey.” He is eager for her to depart, too.

She turns to him, a somewhat desperate look on her droopy face, now framed in soft, straight locks. “Will you come with me? C’mon. I’ll buy your ticket. Come to New York with me?” There is a frightened shrillness to her voice. I imagine she does not want to face her father alone, thin as a reed and clearly altered.

“Ummm, no honey,” the stylist responds. “I have things I have to do.” I am thinking – yes, like get the color off my head. Now.

She wavers in the doorway. “Oh. Okay.” She starts to leave and then asks, “Did he already pay for me?” I find myself wondering if it’s her father or her boyfriend who pays. Her father, I have to assume.

“No.”

“Oh.” She sounds crestfallen. “Well, I guess I have to pay then. I’ll have to take my Visa card and go to an ATM.” I wonder why she doesn’t just pay with her credit card right there and then at the front desk, but I remember that she’s not all there. In her mind, it probably makes perfect sense.

As she totters out, the stylist quietly apologies again. “She’s in her 20’s. Ultra, ultra rich. She has her own suits cut for her at Chanel. She’s been in and out of one of those $50,000 rehab centers. Boyfriend’s on rock. You may have noticed she has a chemical dependency problem. I’m really sorry. Her family pays me huge amounts of money to do her hair.”

I think to myself, they didn't pay today - they must really be pissed off about the boyfriend. Then I shrug and say, “It’s sad. Proof that having all the money in the world won’t save you.”

He says, “Deep down inside, she’s a really sweet girl. She’s just really fucked up.”

I think that’s been written on more than one tombstone. You might even be able to buy that from a headstone catalog. It’s called the Dana Plato model. Or maybe it's the Marilyn Monroe.

She was a really sweet girl. She was just really fucked up.

Well, I’ll light a candle for the really fucked up ones. Somehow, this morning, I seem a bit better off in the cold light of day.

Go with god, little sweet fucked up girls. Go with god.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

Suddenly, Apple and Pilot Inspektor seem like perfectly normal names...

Awww, c'mon, Penn! What the hell were you smokin'?!?

Penn Jillette and his wife Emily have named their newborn baby "Moxie CrimeFighter Jillette".

Jesus Christ in a chicken basket, people. DON'T DO THINGS LIKE THIS TO YOUR CHILDREN!!!


Funny man, dorkwad dad...

I promise, if I ever am blessed with children, they will have normal names. Hell, I have a normal name, and it still took me years to get over it because I felt cheated of an "ethnic" Irish name like all the rest of my 8 siblings. Then, eventually, when I realized my name didn't make me sound like a nun or a parochial school teacher, I was totally cool with Greek and Hebrew monikers. (But, if ya ever call me "Missy", you'll be pulling back a bloody stump, buddy. Forewarned is forearmed, I say.) So, I can only imagine the years of therapy ahead of Moxie.

Ugh.

Good Karma for a Friend


A word of heartfelt thanks...

Sometimes, life feels like you're trying to climb a mile-high pile of mud in near darkness. And then, out of the blue, someone comes along and does something that makes that mudpile seem a whole lot shorter (and less slippery) and the sky a bit brighter. That happened to me today. A friend did something lovely and unexpected and very touching, and I'm really, truly grateful. It was a bright spot in a dark time. And so, to my friend the Alasko-American, may I just say, you'll be paid back in spades, chiquita. Good karma is headed your way by the bucketload. Lots and lots of good karma. And a homecooked vegetarian meal.

You rock.


Theoretically, this says "Thank you", but with my luck, it probably reads, "Go spank a wax tadpole, imperialist American weenie!" But the thought's the same. Thanks mucho.

One more musician to recommend...

Nil Lara. I got hooked on one of his tracks "Fighting For My Love" courtesy of the Scrubs soundtrack (mighty good taste those TV folks have!) Nil Lara's self-titled 1996 cd is really quite excellent, matching some very interesting, edgy, smoky tunes with traditional Cuban and Venezuelan instrumentation, plus some Haitan and Cuban back-up singers. It's good stuff.

Much to my regret (on behalf of Nil Lara's thin wallet), but to your benefit, the excellent self-titled cd is available (8 copies, in fact) for $0.99 on secondspin.com.

Learn more about Nil Lara here.

Friday, June 03, 2005

The Good, the Ignored, and the Undervalued

I've come up with my own meme, for what it's worth. Feel free to snarf it and comment on it. I'm not going to "tag" anyone with it, as I don't like chain letter-y stuff, myself. But, if you like it, take it. It's yours to use. If you do snarf it, leave me a comment so I can go to your blog and read your answers. Muchas gracias!!

Underrated, Unsung, and Deserving of More Credit

We all have our little personal cult items that we feel have been unfairly bypassed by mainstream culture and, therefore, deprived of acclaim, a good long run, and/or lots of moolah. I know I have favorite shows and music that most of the world’s never heard of, and it makes me nuts sometimes. I thought it would be nice to share a list of “favorite underrated stuff” and see what other people might have to recommend, too. This list could have been much longer, but I’m trying to limit what could be a horribly long litany. I’ve skipped books, as I just recently did the book meme I snarfed from Javier’s Live Journal.

Here goes...

  1. Five musicians/bands deserving of greater acclaim:

Michael Penn

The Beautiful South (okay, so they get plenty of acclaim in the UK, but here? Nada.)

Duncan Sheik

Swing Out Sister

Thomas Dolby (He’s writing new music, people!! YAY!!!)

Bonus band: Wang Chung. I said it in my last post – Points on the Curve kicked ass.


Corrine and Andy - Swing Out Sister

  1. Five non-hit movies I’d recommend people add to their Netflix queue:

Buckaroo Banzai

Big Trouble in Little China

Real Genius

True Believer (waitin' for “the great day of the rope”)

Every Terry Gilliam film (except The Fisher King)

Bonus movie: rent “Crazy People” – it’s not that great, but the fake ads will make you laugh your ass off.


Are ya feelin' kinda invincible?

  1. Five TV shows that were wrongly cancelled, ignored, or just had a limited run and you might have missed:

Homicide: Life on the Street

The Tick (both live action and cartoon)

Firefly (here's hoping the movie doesn't suck)

Michael Palin’s marvelous travel shows: 80 Days, Pole to Pole, Full Circle, Hemingway, Sahara, and Himalaya. (I love that man. I want to travel somewhere with him. Seriously.)

Big Train (absolutely hilarious and sick British sketch comedy – I will never think of Florence Nightingale the same way ever again)

Bonus show: Long Way ‘Round (Ewan MacGregor and Charlie Boorman’s amazing motorcycle trek around the world)


Michael Palin, world traveler, enjoys a hookah at the Khan al-Khalili in Cairo

  1. Five places in the United States you probably don't have on your to-do list, but should visit before you take the big dirt nap:

Roadside America, Shartlesville, Pennsylvania

Wall Drug, Wall, South Dakota (maybe they have a new bowling cat by now – and you can see the better-known Mt. Rushmore while you’re out in South Dakota, kids!)

The Gettysburg Wax Museum, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania (Watch the wax figures sweat! Watch Lincoln’s lower jaw flap as he speaks! Try not to get thrown out for laughing at the spinning diorama and Lincoln’s flapping jaw!)

Devil’s Tower National Monument, Wyoming (because it’s so freaking cool, and you can pretend to be Roy Neary, looking for François Truffaut and those rubbery ETs…)

Montana. The whole state. Before Cher and Dennis Quaid buy it all.

Bonus destination: Lolo Pass, Idaho. Too beautiful for words.


It's important. It means something...

  1. Bonus category – something you think people should experience:

Good eats:

Homemade ice cream from Whitey’s or Country Style, Moline, Illinois (try the turtle shake)

Fried chicken at Stroud’s, Kansas City, Missouri (and be sure to buy one of their “We Choke Our Own Chickens” sweatshirts!!)

A real Amish family spread somewhere in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania (pick a place, just about any place)

A hot, homemade apple dumpling (a la mode, of course) at Barbara Fritchie’s Candy Stick Restaurant, Frederick, Maryland (orgasmic dessert – a perfect follow-up to an afternoon learning about field amputations and embalming at the National Civil War Medicine Museum)

An amazing hot dog (or two) at Portillo's in Chicago, Illinois (so very good and so very bad for you!)

Bonus food: A Hungry Hobo sub, Quad Cities, USA. Yum.


Whitey's ice cream is a religious experience. For real and for true.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

NBC's Musical Shame Train

The summer television season is upon us, and while that brings interesting things like TNT's upcoming Spielberg-produced "Into the West", it also means that all the squalid little projects that simply weren't good enough for autumn's Must See TV sensibilities start to crawl up from the dank pit of Network Hell. I'd like to be able to say some of this dreck is worth watching for the humor value, but that would be a lie. What I saw tonight was utterly humorless.

One gem on either UPN or the WB (sorry, other than "Gilmore Girls" and the occasional episode of "Charmed", it all blends together) was some fresh horror called "Beauty and the Geek". This piece of mental waste forces geeky guys to partner up with pretty, but vacuous girls for knowledge quizzes and dance competitions. In the quizzes, the girls have to answer what I would call basic knowledge questions like "Who was president during the Civil War?" (The answer given by our glossy-lipped, smooth-brained chiquita was, if I'm not mistaken, "Robinson".) The geeky guys then have to answer questions about the Hilton sisters and 50 Cent.

I swear to god, I'm not making this up. I lasted about 2 minutes before changing the channel.

I had completely forgotten that this evening heralded a new low in public humiliation, NBC's "Hit Me Baby One More Time!" where aging '80's (and early '90's) bands go to die. Based on a UK TV show of the same name, the premise is this: a passel of musical groups of the past gather on stage to sing about a minute and a half of whatever song they're best known for and later return to do a cover of someone else's song. The audience then votes, and the band with the highest score gets a small sum donated to a charity of their choice. Thank god it's for charity. Really.

This evening's shamefest was the first of three episodes and featured CeCe Peniston (whom I didn't recognize, but did know her song from the "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" soundtrack), Tiffany, Loverboy, Arrested Development, and, god help us, A Flock of Seagulls.

First, I admit, I sadly missed Loverboy's performance. I wanted to see if they still were wearing red headbands and standing in front of big fans, blowing back their feathered hair. I had a friend in high school who thought it was the height of cool, circa 1983, to drive up and down 23rd Avenue in Moline, Illinois on Friday nights, blasting Loverboy out the windows of her father's red Audi. Oh yeah, we were soooo cool...

I remember the principal of our high school trying to quash the trend of wearing tasteless concert t-shirts in 1984. He made an announcement over the school PA system that still sticks in my head today: "Will anyone wearing a Loverboy 'Get it up, keep it up' t-shirt please report to the principal's office..." After the gales of laughter subsided, he never tried that one again. (We wanted to hear him say, "Will anyone wearing a 'If you like my mountains, you'll love my Busch' t-shirt please report to the principal's office...")

And, as usual, I have derailed my train of thought...

Oh yeah - I thought Loverboy had called it quits after one of the band members was swept out to sea by a freak wave off the California coast a few years back. Apparently, I was mistaken. I guess a network paycheck can drag anyone's butt away from a cooler full of Molson's and weekend gigs at Badger McUpchuck's Calgary Music Corral. I would like to have heard them rev up "Everybody's Workin' for the Weekend". That was a serious, bad-ass anthem in small town Illinois, man. I remember that song echoing back and forth across the flooded quarry where my sister and I went swimming all the time (in a tiny rural town known only for a bizarre, bbq-gone-bad icepick murder...)

I missed Tiffany. Wait. Let me rephrase that - I avoided Tiffany. I did see the rest of the performers, though. It appeared that CeCe Peniston was singing live tonight, as she was out of breath, out of tune, and packed into what had to be painfully tight jeans on a middle-aged ass, poor thing. I hope they had a canister of oxygen for her offstage, a la Meatloaf. But CeCe was not the only gravity victim under the lights - time has not been kind to A Flock of Seagulls, either.


I've told them a hundred times: put A Flock of Seagulls first and Puppet Show last...

First off, as the Sasquatch said to me over the phone, as they took the stage, "Oh my god, what total whores." And yes, if the number of times the Flock has been through our area alone in the past couple of years - playing really shitty venues - says anything, I bet these guys would play bar mitzvahs and weddings, if the price was right. Dudes, you had one hit. And it wasn't that good. Have you considered a career in the service industry?

Sorry. That was mean. I think it's because I'm smarting a bit to see that a band I really liked is up on the block next week. And, before you start to smirk. Just. Stop. Now. Who has me all defensive? Well, it's London-based band Wang Chung. (I told you not to laugh!)


Which one's Wang, and which one's Chung?

Seriously people - Points on the Curve is one of the finest recordings to come out of the 1980's. I'm not shitting you. Wang Chung's debut album was brilliant 80's pop. Wang Chung deserved more credit than they ever got. I think everything started to fade after "Everybody Wang Chung Tonight."

I'll always think of Frasier Crane strolling into Cheers for his bachelor party, saying, "You know, on the way over, I decided to listen to a rock station to get into the mood. And I heard a line in one of those tribal passages that I thought was the keynote for this evening. 'Everybody have fun tonight. Everybody Wang Chung tonight.'" Snigger though people might, that song had a great, catchy bridge ("On the edge of oblivion/and all the world is Babylon/and all the love and everyone/the ship of fools is sailing on...")

But, man, Points on the Curve. What a rockin' album, folks.

A handful of years back, I was astounded to see Wang Chung listed for a date at a local club called Jaxx. Jaxx was the kind of place that always seemed to feature Molly Hachet and Great White and Ronnie James Dio. It really wasn't a Wang Chung venue. But, the Sasquatch and I girded our loins and went forth to the wilds of Virginia to see these fine Canadian folks.

We should have known something would go awry before we even went inside.

Jaxx turned out to be a scuzzy little place in a scuzzy little stripmall in the middle of West Bumblefuck, Northern Virginia. We got there around 6:30. I think the gig was supposed to start at 8, and, it was a "school night" to boot. It had to be nearly an hour before the burly, tattooed doorman let us in. We were ushered into a small bar area that might have comfortably held a dozen people. Maybe. They had a table with used cds for sale and a couple of old, torn up diner booths in a far corner. We sat at the bar, waiting to be allowed into the actual music space.

Looong story short: when we finally left Jaxx, around 10 or 10:30, we'd still not been allowed in the venue (the club owner's son was apparently playing with his band, screwing around, and the burly man told us the owner's kid always got to play when he wanted, much to the dismay of the legit bands on the bill.) The only other two potential Wang Chung audience members came and left, and we never got up the chutzpah to talk to poor Wang (or Chung, never figured it out), who sat in one of the booths throughout this goat rope, being told periodically that their stage time was being postponed and postponed. The worst part? Some woman came out and said, "Wang Chung? You were looking for a hotel room in the Crystal City area for $40? Sorry, the best I can find is $60..." Oh, we felt soooo bad for these guys. Seriously. The Sasquatch felt that, under the circumstances, going over to talk to Mr. Wang (or Mr. Chung) was probably just not a great idea. When we left, robbed of our chance to hear "Dance Hall Days" live, the band was being told that they'd probably go on around midnight.

And so, another story of musical glory goes down in flames.

Wang Chung will be on "Baby Hit Me One More Time" next week. I will watch it because I feel some powerful need to support these guys. Wang Chung - go with god.

By the way, Arrested Development won tonight's "event". They deserved it. They sounded pretty tight. They gave their moolah to UNICEF.

Shameful bigotry in our nation's capital

Meet David Schroer. Recently, David applied for a job with the Library of Congress as a terrorism research analyst. How could David not be the perfect person for the job? An impressive resume showed decades of military service and anti-terrorist work as a high-level Army Ranger with direct ties to the current administration. Impeccable resume with impeccable references. Yep. David was the perfect person for the job. An offer was made. A start date set. David was introduced to his new co-workers. And then, David took his supervisor-presumptive out to lunch and told her something that apparently shook her to the core: David was transgendered and would be taking the job under the name Diane.

The job offer was rescinded the next day.

I'm disgusted. It's not as if I wasn't already disgusted with the federal workplace after my recent round with supervisory negligence and ethical bankruptcy at a major federal agency. But this is foul. Read more about Diane Schroer's story here. As someone who faces bigotry based upon my appearance, I can appreciate what she is going through. Reading this article made me very angry, indeed.

As the Sasquatch said to me a few minutes ago, it takes balls (all jokes aside) to go public with this story. And Diane Schroer has got a brass set, I tell ya. I hope the Library of Congress - and this supervisor specifically - gets a major league smackdown for this. Your cowardice, bigotry, and ignorance is all shameful.

Diane - I hope you find one hell of a job. And, not to go all G. Gordon Liddy on you, but thank you for your service to our country.

For the Sasquatch...

I've gone back a couple of entries and changed the title of the hit ABC show from "LOST" to "Lost". I want his graphic designer mind to be at peace.

That is all. You may go about your work. These aren't the droids you're looking for. Move along. Move along.

Ludacruise

People who read my previous, now defunct blog, may remember that I ended up harping about annoying "celebrity chef" Rocco DiSpirito several times. I have a new Rocco.

There had to be a Scientology tent on the set of "War of the Worlds"??? I'm astounded that Spielberg and the studio put up with that. Guys - Tom Cruise is just. not. that. good. I wonder what the other folks working on the film thought. Imagine if your office brought in some hot shot to work on a project, but he insisted that a display on his religion be set up in the middle of your workspace. And your bosses went along with it. Majorly uncool, dude.

And now, the foolishness and weirdness that Cruise has been displaying of late could de-rail the next Mission: Impossible film. I can only imagine that JJ Abrams, who is supposed to direct the Cruise critter in this round, is none too happy with the grumbling and hesitation at Paramount.

Paramount is wondering how much Cruise's recent behavior and comments will affect the box office for War of the Worlds. In truth, it probably won't hurt it that much. There are millions of people in the United States who haven't heard a word he's said, think the "romance" with Katie girl is totally legit ('cuz they saw the looooove on Oprah), and think Scientology is a health drink. I, on the other hand, am torn. It's Spielberg, for god's sake. It's a Spielberg science fiction movie, no less - ET Goes Apeshit. I believe I am required by law to see it. Yet the Cruise factor weighs on my mind. We shall see. I remain undecided.

But I'm looking forward to Batman Begins. That I know for sure. Oh crap. Katie Holmes is in that one. Dammit! There is no escape, is there?

For the record...

I feel a wee bit bad after my last post. I don't want people to think I'm some sort of TV leech with giant saucer eyes from taking in too much boob tube. I'm a child of the TV age, no doubt there - I recall that I wrote most of my high school papers lying on my belly in front of the television in my parents' living room, sucking up all the MTV I could. (Now, I think of that and shudder and wonder how many ibuprofen I would have to take to recover.) Some of you younger folks might be amazed to know that, once upon a time, MTV played MUSIC VIDEOS. I know it's shocking, but yes, it's true.

Let me just say, I don't think that the TV-Turnoff Network is a bad thing. In fact, I think turning the TV off, going outside, and breathing in lots of fresh air is a Very Good Thing. I simply meant that, with my meandering tendency to watch all sorts of TV like the shiny-object-attracted video crow I am, I would be a dreadful candidate to hold any position with them. I'd feel like a total hypocrite. (And can I say that Little Miss Insomnia 2005 just now watched one of the bestest X-Files episodes ever? "The Unnatural" with the beee-yoo-ti-ful Jesse L. Martin as Josh Exley, a baseball-lovin' alien who joins a Negro league team in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947.)

But I digress...


Pretty trees outside my apartment building. Love them, I do.

Turn the TV off now and then. Ride your bike to a park and read a huge book. Drive to the beach and frolic in the hopefully medical-debris-free surf. Take a walk. (And watch out for iPod muggers, kiddies.) Go swimming. Write a story. Listen to great old radio shows on NPR (man, I love those old episodes of Gunsmoke with William Conrad as Matt Dillon.)

There. Now I feel a little better.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

TV-Turnoff Network needs an executive director

It's not that I'm addicted to tv. Far from it. But I do graze on a wide variety of things of a televised nature. And I can't ever see myself interviewing for this job - or any job - with the TV-Turnoff Network. No way. No how.


After the "big one", it'll be the roaches, the rats, and reality tv...
Have a Twinkie, mutant friend! Apocalypse Idol is about to start!!!

My imaginary interview with TV-Turnoff Network:

HR Person: You know our mission is to get people to turn off their televisions and bring communities together. So, uhhhh... do you watch much tv?

Me: Uhmmm... not really. Well, there's Lost and Amazing Race, of course. Love that.

HR Person: Well, sure...

Me: And then there's Law & Order...

HR Person: Oh yes. They won a Peabody, you know...

Me: ...and Law & Order: SVU...

HR Person: Okay...

Me: ...and Law & Order: Criminal Intent...

HR Person: I see, well, let's just move on to---

Me: Oooh, and of course, how could I forget Comedy Central! The Daily Show, Chappelle's Show and Reno 911 and South Park...

HR Person: Okaaaaay, I think we're done--

Me: ...and that of course leads to Family Guy and Aqua Teen Hunger Force and The Simpsons and King of the Hill...

HR Person: Yeaaaah, thanks for comin---

Me: ...oh yeah - and Bravo has reruns of The West Wing when it was good - and Project Runway and Project Greenlight... and my god, we haven't even gotten to PBS and The History Channel and the National Geographic Channel!!

HR Person: Goodbye.

Me: Oh - and have you ever watched "Dinner for Five" on IFC?!?

HR Person: Don't let the door hit you in the ass.

Me: (as security removes me) What Not To Wear... Late Night with Conan O'Brien... Globetrekker...