Tara Reid Keeps Her Boobs in Check
Two thoughts on this:
1) I do this all the time, and no one writes feature articles about me and my obviously-successful boob checkage skills. In fact, there are probably at least 20-30 ladies that each of us knows and sees on a daily basis that fight and win the hard, hard battle to keep their breasts unexposed. How about a round of applause for all of us? It ain't easy keeping these nipples contained, am I right ladies?!
2) The quote, "My boobs are going nowhere again" says a lot. A LOT.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Sometimes, the people in the services department here sound hilarious. I walk past them when they are talking on the phone to customers every day I am in the office. Just now, I heard one of them talking like a robot! It was awesome.
She said, "JUST SEND THE UNUSED PORTION BACK TO US, MA'AM." All in a dull, slightly-metallic-sounding monotone. Classic.
I'm wearing this new fragrance from Bath and Body Works today. It's not some fancy adult thing; it's Apple Blossom body splash from the American Girl (LLC) collection. Trish and I went into a B&BW store back on Patriot's Day and we sniffed all the fragrances that have come out in the past year or whatever (I am not allowed to go in there very often, b/c I invariably buy more lotions and crap I never seem to use up) and we finally settled on the collection designed for pre-teen girls. I can't help it. The shit smells so nice! I am wearing it today and I can still smell it. And it's 3:45pm. That's a heck of a pre-teen body splash.
Whoa, there... better be careful. "Pre-teen body splash" has some connotations to it I am not sure I want parading around on my blog. Well, I will keep it anyway. It will be interesting to see what the search referrals will turn up on the tracker.
And, finally, the BIG news. There will be a BOOK FAIR on October 10th! My job will be hosting a real live Book Fair. Wowee wow. You know I am excited. This is the first "adult" book fair I have ever had the opportunity to attend. And yes, I do hope there are adult books, wink wink, stroke squeeze. I loves me the inappropriate shit at work. But yes, a BOOK FAIR! I saw the sign in the breakroom just now and did a gasp of glee! Remember the book fairs of our elementary days? All the Berenstain Bears books you could want. Maybe a couple of Scholastic kitty-in-the-tree posters, perchance?
For me, the memory of book fairs is clouded by seeing one of the mothers who volunteered to run the book fair standing just outside the gymnasium door, leading to the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. I smelled smoke and coughed and puke came up my throat. I made a big show of telling Kristen "Hey, I almost just puked in my mouth!" I probably bought some stupid book, but I have no idea. But something about that mother, that smoke and that book fair = puke in mouth a little. Weird.
Maybe I will puke in my mouth a little again at this new book fair, just for old time's sake. (I will also announce it to whomever is at this insipid book fair--in a robot voice: "I JUST PUKED IN MY MOUTH A LITTLE.")
She said, "JUST SEND THE UNUSED PORTION BACK TO US, MA'AM." All in a dull, slightly-metallic-sounding monotone. Classic.
I'm wearing this new fragrance from Bath and Body Works today. It's not some fancy adult thing; it's Apple Blossom body splash from the American Girl (LLC) collection. Trish and I went into a B&BW store back on Patriot's Day and we sniffed all the fragrances that have come out in the past year or whatever (I am not allowed to go in there very often, b/c I invariably buy more lotions and crap I never seem to use up) and we finally settled on the collection designed for pre-teen girls. I can't help it. The shit smells so nice! I am wearing it today and I can still smell it. And it's 3:45pm. That's a heck of a pre-teen body splash.
Whoa, there... better be careful. "Pre-teen body splash" has some connotations to it I am not sure I want parading around on my blog. Well, I will keep it anyway. It will be interesting to see what the search referrals will turn up on the tracker.
And, finally, the BIG news. There will be a BOOK FAIR on October 10th! My job will be hosting a real live Book Fair. Wowee wow. You know I am excited. This is the first "adult" book fair I have ever had the opportunity to attend. And yes, I do hope there are adult books, wink wink, stroke squeeze. I loves me the inappropriate shit at work. But yes, a BOOK FAIR! I saw the sign in the breakroom just now and did a gasp of glee! Remember the book fairs of our elementary days? All the Berenstain Bears books you could want. Maybe a couple of Scholastic kitty-in-the-tree posters, perchance?
For me, the memory of book fairs is clouded by seeing one of the mothers who volunteered to run the book fair standing just outside the gymnasium door, leading to the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. I smelled smoke and coughed and puke came up my throat. I made a big show of telling Kristen "Hey, I almost just puked in my mouth!" I probably bought some stupid book, but I have no idea. But something about that mother, that smoke and that book fair = puke in mouth a little. Weird.
Maybe I will puke in my mouth a little again at this new book fair, just for old time's sake. (I will also announce it to whomever is at this insipid book fair--in a robot voice: "I JUST PUKED IN MY MOUTH A LITTLE.")
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Today's headline: "Prostitution Ring Busted; Pimps Escape"
The story is located here: http://www.azcentral.com/news/articles/
0927hookerraid27-ON.html.
The phrase PIMPS ESCAPE works on so many levels.
At first I read it wrong, and thought it said: CHIMPS ESCAPE. Chimps are known to make a run for it from time to time. Sure, sometimes they go into attack mode and tear into people's genitals and such. But chimps are wily little buggers, right? And you can totally imagine them "escaping." Especially, ESPECIALLY if said chimps were involved in a horrible prostitution ring. Talk about one of the ugliest blights on our society: chimps forced to have sex with people for money. My God, this is what Jesus was talking about when he flipped out at the temple that time and yelled at all the sinners. THIS. That's what he was talking about. (If you don't believe me, and wonder where in the Bible it says anything about whore-chimps, I dare you to go read it yourself.)
Then, it hit me: This is funny as-is. Pimps escape! They flee! They hunker down and bust on outta there when the going gets tough. Billy Ocean sang about it: "When the goin' gets tough! The pimps get goin'! When the sex gets rough, the pimps get tough, hey hey hey hey he-hey!" (I should probably refrain from future "singing" bursts on this blog...)
I like the image of pimps escaping. They have a hard time hiding behind dumpsters and cars because the long feathers in their pimp-hats keeps sticking out. Their gold chains clatter together and alert the old lady who's feeding her cats on the porch that they are squatting in her bushes. (Pimps? Squatting? In BUSHES? No!)
I wish there was an old-timey news report on the air right now:
(Sound of old-timey typewriter in the background.) ANNOUNCER: "Be on the lookout! Three very bad men called Pimps are on the streets tonight after a cowardly Sunday escape. These pimps will do their worst to you and your daughters. Lock yer windows! Close up the barn! Whatever you do, do not open your doors to these pimps!"
The Pimps Have Escaped.
The story is located here: http://www.azcentral.com/news/articles/
0927hookerraid27-ON.html.
The phrase PIMPS ESCAPE works on so many levels.
At first I read it wrong, and thought it said: CHIMPS ESCAPE. Chimps are known to make a run for it from time to time. Sure, sometimes they go into attack mode and tear into people's genitals and such. But chimps are wily little buggers, right? And you can totally imagine them "escaping." Especially, ESPECIALLY if said chimps were involved in a horrible prostitution ring. Talk about one of the ugliest blights on our society: chimps forced to have sex with people for money. My God, this is what Jesus was talking about when he flipped out at the temple that time and yelled at all the sinners. THIS. That's what he was talking about. (If you don't believe me, and wonder where in the Bible it says anything about whore-chimps, I dare you to go read it yourself.)
Then, it hit me: This is funny as-is. Pimps escape! They flee! They hunker down and bust on outta there when the going gets tough. Billy Ocean sang about it: "When the goin' gets tough! The pimps get goin'! When the sex gets rough, the pimps get tough, hey hey hey hey he-hey!" (I should probably refrain from future "singing" bursts on this blog...)
I like the image of pimps escaping. They have a hard time hiding behind dumpsters and cars because the long feathers in their pimp-hats keeps sticking out. Their gold chains clatter together and alert the old lady who's feeding her cats on the porch that they are squatting in her bushes. (Pimps? Squatting? In BUSHES? No!)
I wish there was an old-timey news report on the air right now:
(Sound of old-timey typewriter in the background.) ANNOUNCER: "Be on the lookout! Three very bad men called Pimps are on the streets tonight after a cowardly Sunday escape. These pimps will do their worst to you and your daughters. Lock yer windows! Close up the barn! Whatever you do, do not open your doors to these pimps!"
The Pimps Have Escaped.
Bela Lugosi is dead, but sexiness sure isn't!Say a very limp-wristed hello to Greg, my boyfriend. You have heard me mention him before, and now is your chance to see what he really looks like. Yes, this is him all right. Isn't he dreamy in that special vampirish way? Don't you just luv Greg's eye makeup and his choice in shirts? He sure knows how to woo me. (Secret: I think he's a real vampire sometimes, OMFG.)
DISCLAIMER: This is not really Greg.
It just isn't right. How dare my employers give me all this work? It meant that yesterday I didn't update, and it means that I need to update right now with a very palpable quickness. Not fair at all.
But I found something to show you. I have been going through old disks and files lately and I recently stumbled upon a disk of essays I wrote before the blog. In the interest of getting back to my editing tasks, I will paste a kind of dumb one called "Abandoned Baby Shoes" here in case you are bored and have nothing else to do. It's not that good. But it's better than that porn you've been trying to download all morning. That shit will give you viruses. This essay? It's clean! No viral things to download here. Go on and take the condom off and enjoy. (No one gets why you are wearing one right now, anyway, lady.)
ABANDONED BABY SHOES
On the morning of Monday April 21, 2003, a strange sight was found in the ladies bathroom on the first floor of the office building on the corner of 16th Street and Missouri. Upon inspection of the left vanity sink, there was a small pair of toddler shoes resting at the bottom of the sink.
This reporter immediately searched the premises of said restroom for the owner of the shoes. The search yielded no one. The room, as well as both toilet stalls, were empty. In the off-chance a child had been flushed, the toilets were checked but no remaining child-residue could be found.
Perhaps the shoes themselves would offer some clues. They were styled like a small version of adult hiking sandals. They were brown imitation suede, with two straps and a black rubber sole. Positioned neatly next to one another in the white porcelain sink, they looked like they had been intentionally abandoned there.
Later in the day, this reporter re-visited the scene after drinking a full glass of water, and saw that the shoes had yet to be claimed. Nor had anyone else who had used the restroom attempted to move the shoes to a new location, such as the floor, or the trashcan. It was an interesting development, as surely other visitors had noted their presence. It would seem that during a busy rush in the bathroom, both sinks in the vanity would have to be used simultaneously, therefore requiring the use of the shoe-occupied sink. This reporter then felt a little queasy thinking of all the people who had obviously forgone washing their hands because they were afraid of the suspicious child’s shoes.
On the morning of April 22, 2003, this reporter again visited to the scene and observed that the mysterious shoes had been moved. Sadly, they had not been claimed overnight. This time, they rested in the corner on a small shelf near the trashcan, rendering the left sink usable again. The shoes visibly appeared lonely.
At around noon this day, this reporter returned to the shoe scene one more time. The shoes were missing, and it appeared they had been claimed. However, as this reporter was washing her hands, she noted that the shoes were in fact now inside the trashcan, resting atop a pile of wet paper towels. It was at this point when the reporter had a flash of what some may call “inspiration” and what others might call “a cry for help.”
Retrieving the shoes from the trashcan with her bare hands, she giggled and placed the shoes neatly on the floor under the sink, so it looked as if an invisible child was standing there washing his hands. Deeming this concept “not funny enough,” she paused to listen for any approaching footsteps outside the door, heard none, and sprung into action.
The shoes can now be seen resting on top of the sanitary products dispenser in the restroom. They will be appearing there for as long as management allows them to stay.
In the opinion of this reporter, the scene is “hilarious,” “a great visual gag,” and “reminiscent of the Norse god Loki’s legendary mischief in its clever deviousness.”
The shoes are expected to move to a location behind a toilet in one of the stalls in the near future, but no plans had been finalized as of press time.
# #
But I found something to show you. I have been going through old disks and files lately and I recently stumbled upon a disk of essays I wrote before the blog. In the interest of getting back to my editing tasks, I will paste a kind of dumb one called "Abandoned Baby Shoes" here in case you are bored and have nothing else to do. It's not that good. But it's better than that porn you've been trying to download all morning. That shit will give you viruses. This essay? It's clean! No viral things to download here. Go on and take the condom off and enjoy. (No one gets why you are wearing one right now, anyway, lady.)
ABANDONED BABY SHOES
On the morning of Monday April 21, 2003, a strange sight was found in the ladies bathroom on the first floor of the office building on the corner of 16th Street and Missouri. Upon inspection of the left vanity sink, there was a small pair of toddler shoes resting at the bottom of the sink.
This reporter immediately searched the premises of said restroom for the owner of the shoes. The search yielded no one. The room, as well as both toilet stalls, were empty. In the off-chance a child had been flushed, the toilets were checked but no remaining child-residue could be found.
Perhaps the shoes themselves would offer some clues. They were styled like a small version of adult hiking sandals. They were brown imitation suede, with two straps and a black rubber sole. Positioned neatly next to one another in the white porcelain sink, they looked like they had been intentionally abandoned there.
Later in the day, this reporter re-visited the scene after drinking a full glass of water, and saw that the shoes had yet to be claimed. Nor had anyone else who had used the restroom attempted to move the shoes to a new location, such as the floor, or the trashcan. It was an interesting development, as surely other visitors had noted their presence. It would seem that during a busy rush in the bathroom, both sinks in the vanity would have to be used simultaneously, therefore requiring the use of the shoe-occupied sink. This reporter then felt a little queasy thinking of all the people who had obviously forgone washing their hands because they were afraid of the suspicious child’s shoes.
On the morning of April 22, 2003, this reporter again visited to the scene and observed that the mysterious shoes had been moved. Sadly, they had not been claimed overnight. This time, they rested in the corner on a small shelf near the trashcan, rendering the left sink usable again. The shoes visibly appeared lonely.
At around noon this day, this reporter returned to the shoe scene one more time. The shoes were missing, and it appeared they had been claimed. However, as this reporter was washing her hands, she noted that the shoes were in fact now inside the trashcan, resting atop a pile of wet paper towels. It was at this point when the reporter had a flash of what some may call “inspiration” and what others might call “a cry for help.”
Retrieving the shoes from the trashcan with her bare hands, she giggled and placed the shoes neatly on the floor under the sink, so it looked as if an invisible child was standing there washing his hands. Deeming this concept “not funny enough,” she paused to listen for any approaching footsteps outside the door, heard none, and sprung into action.
The shoes can now be seen resting on top of the sanitary products dispenser in the restroom. They will be appearing there for as long as management allows them to stay.
In the opinion of this reporter, the scene is “hilarious,” “a great visual gag,” and “reminiscent of the Norse god Loki’s legendary mischief in its clever deviousness.”
The shoes are expected to move to a location behind a toilet in one of the stalls in the near future, but no plans had been finalized as of press time.
# #
Sunday, September 25, 2005
After a peaceful night's sleep with the help of Ambien(TM), I woke up early and took a bike ride this morning. This is significant, since it was the first long bike ride I have taken since before the 100 degree temperatures hit back in May. I decided to bring along my camera in case I saw anything weird or of interest. Today was pretty tame though-- no crazies or perverts, no old ladies in stupid outfits or people I could feel superior to. Nah...just a decent morning on the bike path. So I changed my frame of mind from "sarcastic" to "appreciative" and it turned out to be a good idea. I managed to take some decent photos along the way. I spend a lot of time hatin' on AZ. But I do live here, and I do enjoy many parts of it. This bike path, for whatever reason, is one of my favorite places within the city. (It's not my favorite path, though-- that would be the path along the fence in Phoenix that leads to Papago Park, since it has a thousand times more consistent shade, and you can see the Papagos through the trees. Plus, it is less crowded and it's quieter... maybe sometime soon I can get my bike over there and take another series of pictures, but that's a lot of maybe.) Either way, in lieu of a wordy and thoughtful blog, here are some images from my bike ride this morning.
This is one of my favorite areas along the path. There are 5 or 6 giant trees like this right next to a small man-made lake. The lake borders a condominium complex. Directly behind me is a golf course. I like this spot because it's nice to find shade out here, even if you can ride your bike through the shady section in just under 8 seconds, and the lake is kind of pretty.
They don't do it anymore, but a few years ago I recall riding past this lake when they decided to add that blue dye to the lake. I saw a bunch of dead fish floating on the surface and after that, I wouldn't even glance down at the lake as I rode past. Today I did look in the water and I am pleased to report that the water was a more natural grayish-green, and no deceased fish were peeking out at me. Nice. Personally, I am glad I got this shot in particular because I have often thought about bringing a camera and taking this picture-- and today I finally did it. Cross that off the to-do list; sign off and forget about it. Huzzah.
But seriously, these trees are really gorgeous and sway quite handsomely in the dry breeze. You'd like them. In fact, chances are you probably do.
A monolith--or something-- that looms over the skate park. The water was sort of green and funktified. But on a Sunday morning, it was a pretty nice place. Only one skater was at the park that early, and he wasn't dressed like a skater. He had on a polo shirt and jeans. I think he was supposed to be getting ready for church. The only other person at the skate park was a park maintenance guy, picking up garbage.
A couple in their early 30s walked past me as I was taking this picture and the guy was telling the woman that "our house is just about one and a half miles from right here." I wonder how he knew that; I mean, I didn't see a tape measure. It's possible I had a close encounter with a human measuring gauge. Fascinating-- oh, the things you can find on the bike path!
He was all alone, while the other ducks were happily enjoying bread tossed to them by a family. Even Grandma was there. Yet, this lone duck was wandering far from the group. I wondered why he was not over with the others, enjoying the bread feast. Perhaps he was driven away by a dominant duck? Or, he has an allergy to bread? Most likely though, this duck is an asshole. The other ducks just can't stand him. They see him coming and they are all like, "Oh, crap, QUACK QUACK here comes QUACK Steve again! QUACK." The point is, Steve came wandering right over to me when I stopped my bike so I took his picture. I was a little heartbroken that I had no food to offer. I wonder if Steve was hungry. Well, if he is an asshole, which I am pretty sure he was, I guess he deserves to be without.
Anyway, hi, Steve. You may or may not suck.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Lani recently posted about a vending machine at her job that dispenses cold Hostess Cupcakes. This made me salivate over my preferred Hostess crap food: Chocodiles! I love them, I need them and they make me sick all at once.
There's a problem though. Chocodiles tend to be elusive little snacks. I know for a fact that you can't get them on the east coast. I went without for YEARS before I moved to Phoenix. (Sometimes I think that the presence of Chocodiles played a significant role in my decision to move here.) Even here though, you can travel to 2 different grocery stores on Labor Day weekend and still have a problem finding them. I know because I recently did this, in order to introduce Greg to their evil sweetness.
If you are wondering to yourself, "But how can one procure Chocodiles?" I say: wonder no more! Because it turns out you can order your very own box of chocolate covered Twinkies by clicking on freshchocodiles.com.
Wow, this is almost as great as the time I found out I could order Cream of Wheat Apples N' Cinnamon on netgrocer.com.
And not anywhere as good as the time I ordered something called KittyFetus Krackers off of that site, nonexistentedibles.com.
There's a problem though. Chocodiles tend to be elusive little snacks. I know for a fact that you can't get them on the east coast. I went without for YEARS before I moved to Phoenix. (Sometimes I think that the presence of Chocodiles played a significant role in my decision to move here.) Even here though, you can travel to 2 different grocery stores on Labor Day weekend and still have a problem finding them. I know because I recently did this, in order to introduce Greg to their evil sweetness.
If you are wondering to yourself, "But how can one procure Chocodiles?" I say: wonder no more! Because it turns out you can order your very own box of chocolate covered Twinkies by clicking on freshchocodiles.com.
Wow, this is almost as great as the time I found out I could order Cream of Wheat Apples N' Cinnamon on netgrocer.com.
And not anywhere as good as the time I ordered something called KittyFetus Krackers off of that site, nonexistentedibles.com.
"Oh, bother." Isn't that what Winnie the Pooh always said? God, WTP was a wuss. I know a lot of people think of Winnie the Shit as some sort of classic for children, but I gotta be honest: he bored the crap out of me. He was always so low-energy and so were his stupid friends in the Hundred Acres of Whining Wood. Eeyore was just all-out depressing. Tigger was a retard and he sort of scared me. I remember having a weird nightmare when I was a kid, and I still remember it whenever I think of Tigger:
In my dream, I was playing in my bedroom when I hear a "woo-Hooo!" noise come from my closet. I open the doors and Tigger is sitting in there, his legs drawn up under his chin and his eyes are made of white paper. He is making little growling noises and woo-hooing and he is shaking. This nightmare haunted me for a long time. When I got older and I knew the word, I think I realized that I was dreaming about Tigger having a seizure in my closet. A seizure that turned his eye sockets to paper.
Nope, in my mind, WTP was a little too dull for me. I preferred fairy tales with people getting attacked by witches and dragons, and professed a certain love for the tales of three rather gruff billy goats and the troll under the bridge. A whiny bear in a red T-shirt who wants honey? Nope. Leave that out of the book pile, please.
My blogging feels shoddy. Shoddy blogging.
So Greg used to be in a band called Cheetah Palomina. They broke up after a performance to benefit a hospice last year. I don't know the details... but the reason I typed this was I have been saying CHEETAH PALOMINA all day for some reason. I drag out the vowels and when I get to the eee sound, my nose crinkles and I make my mouth go all long and exaggerated, Cheshire-Cat style.
I'm not sure anyone in this office likes me sitting here, quietly EEEEing and making toothy smiles to the monitor. Oh well! They are so fucking stuck with me.
Maybe I will blog more later. I am in a weird mood.
Idea for a T-shirt:
ASK ME ABOUT MY VAGINA!
In my dream, I was playing in my bedroom when I hear a "woo-Hooo!" noise come from my closet. I open the doors and Tigger is sitting in there, his legs drawn up under his chin and his eyes are made of white paper. He is making little growling noises and woo-hooing and he is shaking. This nightmare haunted me for a long time. When I got older and I knew the word, I think I realized that I was dreaming about Tigger having a seizure in my closet. A seizure that turned his eye sockets to paper.
Nope, in my mind, WTP was a little too dull for me. I preferred fairy tales with people getting attacked by witches and dragons, and professed a certain love for the tales of three rather gruff billy goats and the troll under the bridge. A whiny bear in a red T-shirt who wants honey? Nope. Leave that out of the book pile, please.
My blogging feels shoddy. Shoddy blogging.
So Greg used to be in a band called Cheetah Palomina. They broke up after a performance to benefit a hospice last year. I don't know the details... but the reason I typed this was I have been saying CHEETAH PALOMINA all day for some reason. I drag out the vowels and when I get to the eee sound, my nose crinkles and I make my mouth go all long and exaggerated, Cheshire-Cat style.
I'm not sure anyone in this office likes me sitting here, quietly EEEEing and making toothy smiles to the monitor. Oh well! They are so fucking stuck with me.
Maybe I will blog more later. I am in a weird mood.
Idea for a T-shirt:
ASK ME ABOUT MY VAGINA!
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
The Nine Inch Nails show was pretty decent, since they played a good variety of music that included a lot of older material. I especially liked that Trent still likes to sing from behind a screen with projected video images splashed across it.
We had a lot of fun, although I am not sure I can ever hear the song “Hurt” again without giggling. Trish and I were laughing so hard because the entire audience sang along, with the lighters and everything. The thing that was so funny was: if you thought about it, it really sounded like a chorus of 11 year old girls. And you could picture this being a campfire sing-a-long. It’s really a decent song for kids. Think about them singing: “You can have it all/ my empire of dirt!” Anyway, once we had that in our heads we couldn’t stop laughing. Plus, there were some girls behind us that were singing along in off-key voices, and to make matters worse they were singing the wrong lyrics. I should also mention the “Willie Nelson dude” who sat a row in front of us who was rockin’ out to NIN—the thing was, he was rockin’ out totally off the beat and he seemed to be “air punching” the band.
The fans were strange. First of all it was not sold-out, which is a first for me. The three shows I’ve seen in the past have been packed, and the audience has been super-charged and passionate about being there. I was hoping for that, and instead was met with a lukewarm, typical Phoenix crowd.
Trish, Kane and Greg saw a woman who looked and sounded exactly like Jane Weidlin. It was probably her. I can see her visiting Phoenix, and attending a Nine Inch Nails show while she’s here. Either way we still don’t know for sure if it was her or not.
But yeah, that crowd was kind of bumming me out. I think it made me feel old, somehow. The last time I’d seen NIN was in 1995 or 1996, when they played with David Bowie and Prick opened for them Great show, by the way. But in those 10 years, I guess the fans have aged and gotten steady jobs. Piercings have been removed and 401Ks have been joined. Sure, we still wear black but it’s a less elaborate black. It’s cotton instead of leather or vinyl.
The people that were dressed up just looked crazy. I think it’s because you can’t be a tortured Goth/ Industrial type and live in sunny Phoenix. Sure, you see those kids around, but for one thing there are much fewer of them here than on the east coast; and the ones you do see really do look incredibly greasy and sweaty. It’s sad—which is probably exactly what they are going for, anyway—but true. The people dressed up at the concert were not the classic city-goths, but were goth by way of trailer park. Know what I mean?
The moment that disappointed me the most was when the show ended, and people clapped and “woooo”-ed for a minute or so, but then just shut up and neatly began to file out of the arena. In fact, I saw a ton of people leaving earlier than that. I was completely expecting to scream, yell, stomp my feet and clap for an encore. After all, at all 3 past NIN shows I’ve attended, that was what happened. We didn’t want the show to end, and NIN came back out and played decent encores. In Long Island, for the show I was in the pit for, Adam Ant came back out at the encore and sang with Trent for a good 8 songs or so. It was really amazing. I am chalking it up to a couple factors:
1) It was a Monday night and all the little office workers had to get home so they could be in the office by 8am Tuesday
2) Phoenix sucks
3) Maybe people didn’t recognize Trent with his newly-shorn head and rippling biceps. Thought he was a gym rat that needed his rejuvenating sleep.
4) This was everyone’s first concert. And they didn’t know that encores are possible.
Despite the shortcomings of the crowd, and the inevitable laugh-fest that became of Hurt (although that was a good time, really), it was excellent to hear NIN live again. Trent is truly a strong performer and I think his voice is getting even better than it was. Go see them if you don’t mind being reminded of the fact that you’ve gotten a lot older than you were when Pretty Hate Machine came out. (And screw it--plan to go into the office late the next day, you little responsibility-laden drone, you.)
We had a lot of fun, although I am not sure I can ever hear the song “Hurt” again without giggling. Trish and I were laughing so hard because the entire audience sang along, with the lighters and everything. The thing that was so funny was: if you thought about it, it really sounded like a chorus of 11 year old girls. And you could picture this being a campfire sing-a-long. It’s really a decent song for kids. Think about them singing: “You can have it all/ my empire of dirt!” Anyway, once we had that in our heads we couldn’t stop laughing. Plus, there were some girls behind us that were singing along in off-key voices, and to make matters worse they were singing the wrong lyrics. I should also mention the “Willie Nelson dude” who sat a row in front of us who was rockin’ out to NIN—the thing was, he was rockin’ out totally off the beat and he seemed to be “air punching” the band.
The fans were strange. First of all it was not sold-out, which is a first for me. The three shows I’ve seen in the past have been packed, and the audience has been super-charged and passionate about being there. I was hoping for that, and instead was met with a lukewarm, typical Phoenix crowd.
Trish, Kane and Greg saw a woman who looked and sounded exactly like Jane Weidlin. It was probably her. I can see her visiting Phoenix, and attending a Nine Inch Nails show while she’s here. Either way we still don’t know for sure if it was her or not.
But yeah, that crowd was kind of bumming me out. I think it made me feel old, somehow. The last time I’d seen NIN was in 1995 or 1996, when they played with David Bowie and Prick opened for them Great show, by the way. But in those 10 years, I guess the fans have aged and gotten steady jobs. Piercings have been removed and 401Ks have been joined. Sure, we still wear black but it’s a less elaborate black. It’s cotton instead of leather or vinyl.
The people that were dressed up just looked crazy. I think it’s because you can’t be a tortured Goth/ Industrial type and live in sunny Phoenix. Sure, you see those kids around, but for one thing there are much fewer of them here than on the east coast; and the ones you do see really do look incredibly greasy and sweaty. It’s sad—which is probably exactly what they are going for, anyway—but true. The people dressed up at the concert were not the classic city-goths, but were goth by way of trailer park. Know what I mean?
The moment that disappointed me the most was when the show ended, and people clapped and “woooo”-ed for a minute or so, but then just shut up and neatly began to file out of the arena. In fact, I saw a ton of people leaving earlier than that. I was completely expecting to scream, yell, stomp my feet and clap for an encore. After all, at all 3 past NIN shows I’ve attended, that was what happened. We didn’t want the show to end, and NIN came back out and played decent encores. In Long Island, for the show I was in the pit for, Adam Ant came back out at the encore and sang with Trent for a good 8 songs or so. It was really amazing. I am chalking it up to a couple factors:
1) It was a Monday night and all the little office workers had to get home so they could be in the office by 8am Tuesday
2) Phoenix sucks
3) Maybe people didn’t recognize Trent with his newly-shorn head and rippling biceps. Thought he was a gym rat that needed his rejuvenating sleep.
4) This was everyone’s first concert. And they didn’t know that encores are possible.
Despite the shortcomings of the crowd, and the inevitable laugh-fest that became of Hurt (although that was a good time, really), it was excellent to hear NIN live again. Trent is truly a strong performer and I think his voice is getting even better than it was. Go see them if you don’t mind being reminded of the fact that you’ve gotten a lot older than you were when Pretty Hate Machine came out. (And screw it--plan to go into the office late the next day, you little responsibility-laden drone, you.)
Monday, September 19, 2005
I lost my bag of baby carrots!
They were there this morning. I know I put them in the brown paper bag, along with the cantaloupe and the milk. I was going to snack on the baby carrots for my 3pm-ish snack at my desk. Lo, when I went to the breakroom kitchen, the baby carrots were missing in baby-carrot-action!
What could have happened to my sweet little carrots? Could they have been eaten up by some unscrupulous refrigerator-bandit? Perhaps they fell out of the paper bag when I took that turn pretty fast when getting onto the 101 this morning-- which means they could be lying in a hot, withered state on my car floor, virtually uneatable.
I have an empty hole in my stomach approximately the size of a Ziploc sandwich bag filled with delicious baby carrots.
The world mourns.
Yes, I am finally ready to partake in Nine Inch Nails tonight, thanks to my new baby-carrot grief.
They were there this morning. I know I put them in the brown paper bag, along with the cantaloupe and the milk. I was going to snack on the baby carrots for my 3pm-ish snack at my desk. Lo, when I went to the breakroom kitchen, the baby carrots were missing in baby-carrot-action!
What could have happened to my sweet little carrots? Could they have been eaten up by some unscrupulous refrigerator-bandit? Perhaps they fell out of the paper bag when I took that turn pretty fast when getting onto the 101 this morning-- which means they could be lying in a hot, withered state on my car floor, virtually uneatable.
I have an empty hole in my stomach approximately the size of a Ziploc sandwich bag filled with delicious baby carrots.
The world mourns.
Yes, I am finally ready to partake in Nine Inch Nails tonight, thanks to my new baby-carrot grief.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
"This is the only time I really feel alive..."
Tomorrow night we are going to see Nine Inch Nails. It has been about 10 years since I have seen a NIN show, so I am very excited. Although I admit to being partial to the thin/tortured look for Trent, I am liking the new, healthier Trent a lot-- so it will be nice to see him. The thing I am struggling with is this: I am just not that into With Teeth. I listen to it, and yet it doesn't really stick like Downward Spiral and parts of The Fragile did. Well, I am still a fan and always will be. Tomorrow night is going to kick ass, even if it's all but guaranteed that they'll be playing mostly new stuff.
Also this week-- Corpse Bride opens. And a new AZ Roller Derby match is playing on Saturday night-- the Surlie Gurlies vs. the Bruisers. So this looks like it will be a nice, dark, funny and bloody week. Lots of entertainment. Entertainment can be good sometimes. (I thought I had something more eloquent to say on the subject, but it looks like it just wasn't in the cards.)
The weather is finally cooling off. I have been walking every single day either early in the morning or at night. Last night Greg and I took a walk in the full-moonlight with the girls. Simple things like that make me unbearably happy.
Today's movie quote: "I put a Norwegian in the boiler room, and when that blew, it set off a pack of thermals upstairs. Some days it's just great to be alive!"
Friday, September 16, 2005
I went to a park today on my lunchhour and I was shocked! Shocked, I tell you!
The playground equipment is all plastic. Whatever happened to wood, and metal? I think the playground experience is incomplete if you haven't gotten a splinter or burned your thighs going down a hot metal slide. And what about having that metallic-pepper smell on your hands after being on the metal swings all day? So you're telling me that kids today don't get these experiences? They get plastic?!
Lame.
Is it just out here in Arizona that they converting the playgrounds to pussygrounds, or is it all over the country? Please fill me in. I'm not liking this.
Also, I shocked myself when I was watching TV as I was falling asleep last night and saw a commercial for "Just Like Heaven" and thought: "Hmm, that might not be all that bad." What the hell, right? I just don't watch romantic comedies. It's not done. But shit, this one's got ghosts, and ghosts are intriguing in that deathy sort of way.
It's been awhile since I've seen a movie with Reese Witherspoon. This is for a reason. When I see her I think of the little pieces of "Sweet Home Alabama" I've seen on TBS-- I only saw a scene of her visiting a "Coon Dog Cemetary" and talking to her dog's tombstone and some guy listening to her and then doing a boring scene of talking once she spots him there. Honestly, something like that doesn't grip me and make me think I am watching a spectacular actress. And I wonder: what is with her chin? It's a funky chin.
Still, today I am back to my normal self and I realize I don't want to see Just Like Heaven. OK, no, wait. Maybe I do. Crap. I am confused.
All I do I know is, this can't be a sexy movie because of the simple rule: You can't fuck a ghost!
The playground equipment is all plastic. Whatever happened to wood, and metal? I think the playground experience is incomplete if you haven't gotten a splinter or burned your thighs going down a hot metal slide. And what about having that metallic-pepper smell on your hands after being on the metal swings all day? So you're telling me that kids today don't get these experiences? They get plastic?!
Lame.
Is it just out here in Arizona that they converting the playgrounds to pussygrounds, or is it all over the country? Please fill me in. I'm not liking this.
Also, I shocked myself when I was watching TV as I was falling asleep last night and saw a commercial for "Just Like Heaven" and thought: "Hmm, that might not be all that bad." What the hell, right? I just don't watch romantic comedies. It's not done. But shit, this one's got ghosts, and ghosts are intriguing in that deathy sort of way.
It's been awhile since I've seen a movie with Reese Witherspoon. This is for a reason. When I see her I think of the little pieces of "Sweet Home Alabama" I've seen on TBS-- I only saw a scene of her visiting a "Coon Dog Cemetary" and talking to her dog's tombstone and some guy listening to her and then doing a boring scene of talking once she spots him there. Honestly, something like that doesn't grip me and make me think I am watching a spectacular actress. And I wonder: what is with her chin? It's a funky chin.
Still, today I am back to my normal self and I realize I don't want to see Just Like Heaven. OK, no, wait. Maybe I do. Crap. I am confused.
All I do I know is, this can't be a sexy movie because of the simple rule: You can't fuck a ghost!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Today's the 15th, so Beware the Ides of 'Tember.
I have been saying that to the dogs all day. I don't think they care.
Recently, Toole wrote a post in his blog about seeing a clown while driving. It is a very similar story to our family's all-time favorite vacation moment. Whenever we talk about this moment, we start the story by just saying this: 'Remember 'Let's Pass This Clown'?"
So it goes like this: the four of us in my family (Mom, Dad and the two daughters that sit in the back of the station wagon with their Walkmans, listening to Erasure and Monty Python tapes for an entire car trip without speaking) were driving to Martha's Vineyard. We had the pop-up Starcraft camper hitched to the Chevy Caprice station wagon and everything. As we were going over some bridge somewhere, the traffic was slowing down considerably, causing my Dad to look for a way to get around the slower cars.
Since it was a bridge with at least two lanes of traffic, one by one the cars began to scoot over to the passing lane and fly down the road. Finally, we came up behind a white van. Just a non-descript, white van in that popular style we often think of as "Kidnapper Van." But Dad couldn't get over into the passing lane, at least not right away. We had to crawl behind this white van all the way over the bridge. And this white van was moving really slow. Dad was starting to sigh loudly and get that "losing my patience" look on his brow.
There came at last a break in the traffic. Dad went for it! As he put on his blinker and hit the gas, he said, "All right, let me pass this clown."
As we passed the clown, we looked over to see who could be driving that goddamn slow the entire way over a major bridge like that. To our collective surprise and extreme amusement, it was a real clown. Rainbow wig, white face paint, the whole thing. We could see some balloons over near the roof on the passenger's side.
The reason we thought it was so awesome was because I really don't think my Dad could have seen that it was a clown driving because of the highly-opaque nature of the white van, and "clown" was one of his standard father-friendly phrases that he used back in those days-- when he didn't want to say asshole or fuckhead or something like that.
What sucks is I always thought this was a cool story, so a few years ago I wrote it up and sent it in to Reader's Digest. Because they often publish shit like that-- sweet, heartwarming Americana stories. What could be sweeter than passing a real clown while saying "let me pass this clown"? I thought I had publishing gold on my hands.
Fuckers. Apparently not. They did not publish my story. Stupid Reader's Digest.
Anyway, that is the Let Me Pass This Clown story. If you ever see my Dad, or any of us for that matter, mention anything clown-related and we will invariably tell this story.
We just don't have that many clown stories.
(Unless you count that time when I was 5 and I heard a lot of loud thumping noises, and went outside just in time to see a pair of big red shoes being dragged through a path of blood. I turned the corner of our house to see my Mom dragging a clown she'd just killed down to the basement. She raised a finger to her lips and went, "Shhhhh... hush now... go back in the house, baby, I got it.")
I have been saying that to the dogs all day. I don't think they care.
Recently, Toole wrote a post in his blog about seeing a clown while driving. It is a very similar story to our family's all-time favorite vacation moment. Whenever we talk about this moment, we start the story by just saying this: 'Remember 'Let's Pass This Clown'?"
So it goes like this: the four of us in my family (Mom, Dad and the two daughters that sit in the back of the station wagon with their Walkmans, listening to Erasure and Monty Python tapes for an entire car trip without speaking) were driving to Martha's Vineyard. We had the pop-up Starcraft camper hitched to the Chevy Caprice station wagon and everything. As we were going over some bridge somewhere, the traffic was slowing down considerably, causing my Dad to look for a way to get around the slower cars.
Since it was a bridge with at least two lanes of traffic, one by one the cars began to scoot over to the passing lane and fly down the road. Finally, we came up behind a white van. Just a non-descript, white van in that popular style we often think of as "Kidnapper Van." But Dad couldn't get over into the passing lane, at least not right away. We had to crawl behind this white van all the way over the bridge. And this white van was moving really slow. Dad was starting to sigh loudly and get that "losing my patience" look on his brow.
There came at last a break in the traffic. Dad went for it! As he put on his blinker and hit the gas, he said, "All right, let me pass this clown."
As we passed the clown, we looked over to see who could be driving that goddamn slow the entire way over a major bridge like that. To our collective surprise and extreme amusement, it was a real clown. Rainbow wig, white face paint, the whole thing. We could see some balloons over near the roof on the passenger's side.
The reason we thought it was so awesome was because I really don't think my Dad could have seen that it was a clown driving because of the highly-opaque nature of the white van, and "clown" was one of his standard father-friendly phrases that he used back in those days-- when he didn't want to say asshole or fuckhead or something like that.
What sucks is I always thought this was a cool story, so a few years ago I wrote it up and sent it in to Reader's Digest. Because they often publish shit like that-- sweet, heartwarming Americana stories. What could be sweeter than passing a real clown while saying "let me pass this clown"? I thought I had publishing gold on my hands.
Fuckers. Apparently not. They did not publish my story. Stupid Reader's Digest.
Anyway, that is the Let Me Pass This Clown story. If you ever see my Dad, or any of us for that matter, mention anything clown-related and we will invariably tell this story.
We just don't have that many clown stories.
(Unless you count that time when I was 5 and I heard a lot of loud thumping noises, and went outside just in time to see a pair of big red shoes being dragged through a path of blood. I turned the corner of our house to see my Mom dragging a clown she'd just killed down to the basement. She raised a finger to her lips and went, "Shhhhh... hush now... go back in the house, baby, I got it.")
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Before I go on to talk about meaningless crap, I want to list a couple of things I am really hatin' on right now:
* High car insurance * Having an expensive car insurance company that fails to mail you the bill so you can pay it on-time and not get cancelled because of no fault of your own (not to mention has a crappy website so I can't seem to set up the e-pay option at the moment) * Not having my car back from the repair shop yet * Wearing high heels to work (yuck, I look like a total girl and I am not liking the look, although the compliments just keep on coming-- weird! So let me get this straight: I look better when I am not happy; when I am uncomfortable? I thought confidence was the essence of beauty. Whoever said THAT has shit between their ears.) * Trying not to eat so much when you are really hungry-- those first few days of a 'diet' (lifestyle change is the phrase I prefer) are so hard.
Thanks!
BALLROOM DANCING:
Here's my story about dancing, ballroom style. In college we had to have 1 credit of phys ed to graduate. My school has since dropped this policy, but when I went there it was a requirement. So, I took two half-credit courses: Yoga 050, and Ballroom Dancing 050. I basically sucked at both of these. I did score A's in both, though, so I am obviously not that much of a tard. Are you surprised?!
When I took yoga, I was still recovering from the heinous back injury of '93, so I was limited in my mobility. The class was taught by an old man in a track suit... my guess was he was a member of the old Phys Ed guard leftover from the halcyon days of perhaps the 1970s; perhaps he was once a coach of something or other-- maybe he even led his team of rinky-dink misfits to a victory over the favored team. But that was long ago. Now, he was stuck teaching a 7:30am yoga class to hungover kids who really couldn't give a damn.
I don't recall much about yoga, except two things:
1) There are several moves in yoga that can be beneficial to someone with a bad back. However, there are a whole mess of them that can make you shit yourself in pain if you do them incorrectly and under the not-very-watchful eyes of an old man who doesn't seem to want to be there anyway. I spent a lot of time just sitting and laying still.
2) Yoga class at 7:30am is a fantastic place to catch up on your sleep. I fell asleep on two occasions during a "breathing time" or whatever they're called.
Ballroom Dancing was a LOT different!
I took that about a year later. By this time, I was starting to form an unbalanced alliance with several of the more off-kilter students on campus. I went to a private college attended by mass quantities of rich dummies. I was in the honors classes-- which weren't really that hard, but did require that you write something like three times the number of thesis papers than the other classes, for no real reason it seemed other than to make the smart kids work harder, not necessarily learn more, per se-- just work more. I dropped out of the honors program when I figured this out, and happily enjoyed the remainder of my college years in the average classes. In the average classes, I met people like Straight-Edge Skater Chad, Curly-Haired Jewish Rachel, Joe "Great at quoting 'Silence of the Lambs' during class" Schmidt, Fast-Talking Theater Chick Vivian, and Ska Punk James. It seemed like we were all misfits in our own way (I was "Is She a Hippie or Not Lisa the Commuter") so we began to band together. Not all at once, mind you. That might have been awkward.
One day around Class Pickin' Time outside the registrar's office, I was sitting at a table with Ska Punk James, quoting "Better Off Dead" and waiting our turns to go in and register for classes. He said, "So what are you taking for your gym requirement?" I told him Ballroom Dancing. He got all excited. "Hell yeah! We are so gonna ROCK ballroom dancing class!" And so began the excitement over ballroom dancing.
It was excitement, to be sure. The class was not am easily-amused bunch, so naturally James and I had to hang out the whole time together. We had some old lady (they must have had a run on seniors in the human resources department on the day they were hiring for the strange Phys Ed department) teaching the class.
We learned the basics: the polka, Foxtrot, Rumba, how to Cha-Cha or something, and probably some other dances I no longer remember. James and I did pretty well at all the dances, because we put a little FUNK into things. We smiled a lot, we added dashes of flair where we could. If a dance move called for a swing of the hips, DAMN we would swing 'em. I have a mental image in my head of the instructor putting on a record of polka music (yes, a record... she used an old LP player on an extension cord to provide the musical element), and seeing James wearing an Operation Ivy T-shirt and a wool hat, saying "POLKA!" and doing the Metal Horns with his fingers and waggling his tongue at the teacher... she giggled in response. I guess she was still hip.
On a nice day, she moved the class outdoors. So we were dancing on the track behind the gym. It was a great time watching her set up the record player and send all of us dancing down the track, two by two. Some students and local residents were on the track, doing laps, and they had to go around the fox-trotting college students.
Thanks to ballroom dancing, I now know that runners can puke if they overdo it. One day as we danced on the track, a girl was doing sprints by herself, going really fast and getting really red in the face, and she had to cut past our class to puke into the garbage can by the fence. I was curiously repulsed. I probably said to James, "Who can dance at a time like this?" That sounds like something I would have said.
Well, that's it. No exciting conclusion. We didn't go on to win a competition; we didn't outdance the rich kids, or somehow overcome the heartbreak of diabetes. Nope. The class just ended, and I got an A.
That's my story. I just remembered today that there was a time where I did ballroom dancing, and I danced with a guy known as Ska Punk James. It's true. Just another fact about the Lisa. I hope you can somehow utilize this fact, if for no other purpose that entertainment. Thank you.
* High car insurance * Having an expensive car insurance company that fails to mail you the bill so you can pay it on-time and not get cancelled because of no fault of your own (not to mention has a crappy website so I can't seem to set up the e-pay option at the moment) * Not having my car back from the repair shop yet * Wearing high heels to work (yuck, I look like a total girl and I am not liking the look, although the compliments just keep on coming-- weird! So let me get this straight: I look better when I am not happy; when I am uncomfortable? I thought confidence was the essence of beauty. Whoever said THAT has shit between their ears.) * Trying not to eat so much when you are really hungry-- those first few days of a 'diet' (lifestyle change is the phrase I prefer) are so hard.
Thanks!
BALLROOM DANCING:
Here's my story about dancing, ballroom style. In college we had to have 1 credit of phys ed to graduate. My school has since dropped this policy, but when I went there it was a requirement. So, I took two half-credit courses: Yoga 050, and Ballroom Dancing 050. I basically sucked at both of these. I did score A's in both, though, so I am obviously not that much of a tard. Are you surprised?!
When I took yoga, I was still recovering from the heinous back injury of '93, so I was limited in my mobility. The class was taught by an old man in a track suit... my guess was he was a member of the old Phys Ed guard leftover from the halcyon days of perhaps the 1970s; perhaps he was once a coach of something or other-- maybe he even led his team of rinky-dink misfits to a victory over the favored team. But that was long ago. Now, he was stuck teaching a 7:30am yoga class to hungover kids who really couldn't give a damn.
I don't recall much about yoga, except two things:
1) There are several moves in yoga that can be beneficial to someone with a bad back. However, there are a whole mess of them that can make you shit yourself in pain if you do them incorrectly and under the not-very-watchful eyes of an old man who doesn't seem to want to be there anyway. I spent a lot of time just sitting and laying still.
2) Yoga class at 7:30am is a fantastic place to catch up on your sleep. I fell asleep on two occasions during a "breathing time" or whatever they're called.
Ballroom Dancing was a LOT different!
I took that about a year later. By this time, I was starting to form an unbalanced alliance with several of the more off-kilter students on campus. I went to a private college attended by mass quantities of rich dummies. I was in the honors classes-- which weren't really that hard, but did require that you write something like three times the number of thesis papers than the other classes, for no real reason it seemed other than to make the smart kids work harder, not necessarily learn more, per se-- just work more. I dropped out of the honors program when I figured this out, and happily enjoyed the remainder of my college years in the average classes. In the average classes, I met people like Straight-Edge Skater Chad, Curly-Haired Jewish Rachel, Joe "Great at quoting 'Silence of the Lambs' during class" Schmidt, Fast-Talking Theater Chick Vivian, and Ska Punk James. It seemed like we were all misfits in our own way (I was "Is She a Hippie or Not Lisa the Commuter") so we began to band together. Not all at once, mind you. That might have been awkward.
One day around Class Pickin' Time outside the registrar's office, I was sitting at a table with Ska Punk James, quoting "Better Off Dead" and waiting our turns to go in and register for classes. He said, "So what are you taking for your gym requirement?" I told him Ballroom Dancing. He got all excited. "Hell yeah! We are so gonna ROCK ballroom dancing class!" And so began the excitement over ballroom dancing.
It was excitement, to be sure. The class was not am easily-amused bunch, so naturally James and I had to hang out the whole time together. We had some old lady (they must have had a run on seniors in the human resources department on the day they were hiring for the strange Phys Ed department) teaching the class.
We learned the basics: the polka, Foxtrot, Rumba, how to Cha-Cha or something, and probably some other dances I no longer remember. James and I did pretty well at all the dances, because we put a little FUNK into things. We smiled a lot, we added dashes of flair where we could. If a dance move called for a swing of the hips, DAMN we would swing 'em. I have a mental image in my head of the instructor putting on a record of polka music (yes, a record... she used an old LP player on an extension cord to provide the musical element), and seeing James wearing an Operation Ivy T-shirt and a wool hat, saying "POLKA!" and doing the Metal Horns with his fingers and waggling his tongue at the teacher... she giggled in response. I guess she was still hip.
On a nice day, she moved the class outdoors. So we were dancing on the track behind the gym. It was a great time watching her set up the record player and send all of us dancing down the track, two by two. Some students and local residents were on the track, doing laps, and they had to go around the fox-trotting college students.
Thanks to ballroom dancing, I now know that runners can puke if they overdo it. One day as we danced on the track, a girl was doing sprints by herself, going really fast and getting really red in the face, and she had to cut past our class to puke into the garbage can by the fence. I was curiously repulsed. I probably said to James, "Who can dance at a time like this?" That sounds like something I would have said.
Well, that's it. No exciting conclusion. We didn't go on to win a competition; we didn't outdance the rich kids, or somehow overcome the heartbreak of diabetes. Nope. The class just ended, and I got an A.
That's my story. I just remembered today that there was a time where I did ballroom dancing, and I danced with a guy known as Ska Punk James. It's true. Just another fact about the Lisa. I hope you can somehow utilize this fact, if for no other purpose that entertainment. Thank you.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Yesterday was September 11, and to celebrate our freedom, Trish and I took a drive "a-ways" out of town to go to... you guessed it... the Crappy Outlet Stores! It was our way of saying FUCK YOU to the terrorists. For, if we stayed home and didn't shop at the C.O.S, they would win.
However, we had a slight adventure when my car overheated in a terribly dramatic manner and we were stranded in a Del Webb Community (TM) called Anthem for several hours. My car is still up in Anthem right now in fact, getting a new timing belt, engine thermostat, water pump and radiator cap. This is the first time my car has broken down since I got it 5 years ago, and it's very strange indeed that it happened about 50 miles away from home, and on PATRIOT'S DAY, nonetheless. If I didn't know better I'd go ahead and say that a terrorist must have been messing with my car, making it extra hot and shit. They love to make saucy American girls sweat; and they really love to wreak havoc with Toyotas, especially. I don't know why.
Anyway, the above picture is quite possibly the best ever taken of my sister. I chose to photograph her (not with any real talent, mind you) in front of a gigantic Nike swoosh because it captured the mood of September 11, 2005: Just Do It, America. Just Effin' DO IT. (I don't care to know what "it" is, just make sure you are doing your own "it", otherwise we are losing the battle for freedom.)
Trish made this face because she was either: mad at the people who didn't seem to notice that there was a large, open sidewalk all around us and yet continued to walk right next to us in an uncomfortably close way; the fact that it was hot outside and we'd just eaten some very bad Outlet Stores food-court-food; so resolved to not let the terrorists win, EVER, that her face was screwed up into a weathered, brow-beaten expression that says, "I work hard, I play hard, and damn it, you are not gonna take it from me, you fucking terrorist bitches. Bring it. We are Americans; our resolve is strong and we believe in the idiom of 'Let's Roll!' You cannot crush us, and we will always prevail, like the corn-fed big brother of the entire world, ready to run out of the house and shoo the bullies away who torment you. I, Trish, am one of the many faces of America. I am an American and I am damn fucking proud of it."
"PS: We Will Not Forget."
No. Seriously now.
She was pissed at the people on the sidewalks. Dudes kept walking right at us! You would have been pissed too if you were there. We also made up a song called "Broken Condom" after seeing a mass of little children running about unattended. We truly despise most people we see when we go out. That's the truth right there.
FREEDOM ISN'T FREE.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Before I go to bed, here are today's random thoughts:
* Four years later, it is still incredibly unreal to see those video images of the towers falling. In fact, it came on the Discovery Channel a few minutes ago, and I had to turn it off and come in to my computer and see what's shaking here... too much devastation these days. No more, not for today.
* Depression sucks. You know what you are doing wrong and want to bitch-slap yourself, but somehow can't unstick yourself from the bad place. Unless, of course, you have awesome people around you who love you and prod you back up and out of it all. Help is good. I'm grateful.
* ENOUGH WITH THE DOWNERS, LISA! On to...
* Last night I saw Batman Begins again. At the $2 theater. And two girls seated behind us were laughing at everything. They also talked all through the first two scenes (young Bruce Wayne falls down a hole; older Bruce Wayne is in some sort of chinese prison) and finally one of them said, "This is like, the longest trailer ever!" and the other goes, "Oh, no wait, I think this is the movie!" To which the first goes, "NO WAY!"
Plus, even stranger, there was a guy with a laugh that was reminiscent of Dave Letterman's "HEHE!" laugh... and he set that fucker off at anything even remotely funny. And sometimes parts that were nowhere close to being in the neighborhood of funny. There's a scene down "at the docks" where Falcone is having the guys unload a shipment. Bruce Wayne is there in disguise, waiting for the right time to disappear and become Batman. He makes it so it looks like he gets sucked into a dark area in the storage area, and he disappears really quickly. Well, the guy with the HEHE laugh lets one laugh loose right there! It was pretty odd. And of course, upon hearing him laugh, the bitches behind us started laughing. Which somehow set ME off. So Greg and I were sitting there laughing, too. I know we were laughing at the audience itself, but it still felt weird to be laughing at Batman Begins. These people in the audience laughed so much that, as the credits rolled, I said, "I had no idea that the Farrelly brothers directed this. Huh."
* I tried really hard today to get into college football, and DAMN did I fail miserably. Fuck, I just don't understand how football is played, even after asking questions. I wanted the game to GO and for them to stop doing things like throwing flags and getting hurt and crap. Just play already! Kick, catch, run, DONE. That's the sort of game I need to watch. Plus certain fans look so idiotic sometimes. For instance, I hate guys who WOOOOO at ear-piercing levels when there's a touchdown. I wish I didn't hate 'em. But I do. I tried to rise above my biases and I failed. However, there is some late-breaking good news here: I have decided to stop beating myself up for this failure, and instead eat some BlueBell ice cream. Damn, that's good ice cream, though! (It's really good to eat while watching "Angel" re-runs, especially. Which was also what I did. Hey, so we can't all be sports fans. Some of us are always going to be "in the marching band" and that's all there is to it.)
* If a certain friend I haven't been able to talk to for over 3 months now doesn't call me soon she is getting a foot up her ass, and this foot is wearing DEATH SHOES. Grrr, call me, bitch, I'm serious!
* One more thing--and I blame all this aggression on trying to watch football today, so bear with me till the memory passes-- say you get an e-mail from someone. At least reply at some point. Maybe you're busy and can't reply right away, but at least write in two weeks' time or something. Don't just make a big, stupid habit of NEVER replying, because the feeling you get as the original sender is that people just don't give a shit about you or your friendship. I'm just sayin'.
* Speaking of which-- have I done that to any of you? If so, I am sorry and this is a pubic declaration of me changing my ways.
* And yes, I realize I typed "pubic" up there.
* It was not intentional when I typed it, but I've since decided that a pubic declaration is, in fact, the way I want to go on this. I mean it from the bottom of my short-n'curly funland. Amen, and holy shit.
* Four years later, it is still incredibly unreal to see those video images of the towers falling. In fact, it came on the Discovery Channel a few minutes ago, and I had to turn it off and come in to my computer and see what's shaking here... too much devastation these days. No more, not for today.
* Depression sucks. You know what you are doing wrong and want to bitch-slap yourself, but somehow can't unstick yourself from the bad place. Unless, of course, you have awesome people around you who love you and prod you back up and out of it all. Help is good. I'm grateful.
* ENOUGH WITH THE DOWNERS, LISA! On to...
* Last night I saw Batman Begins again. At the $2 theater. And two girls seated behind us were laughing at everything. They also talked all through the first two scenes (young Bruce Wayne falls down a hole; older Bruce Wayne is in some sort of chinese prison) and finally one of them said, "This is like, the longest trailer ever!" and the other goes, "Oh, no wait, I think this is the movie!" To which the first goes, "NO WAY!"
Plus, even stranger, there was a guy with a laugh that was reminiscent of Dave Letterman's "HEHE!" laugh... and he set that fucker off at anything even remotely funny. And sometimes parts that were nowhere close to being in the neighborhood of funny. There's a scene down "at the docks" where Falcone is having the guys unload a shipment. Bruce Wayne is there in disguise, waiting for the right time to disappear and become Batman. He makes it so it looks like he gets sucked into a dark area in the storage area, and he disappears really quickly. Well, the guy with the HEHE laugh lets one laugh loose right there! It was pretty odd. And of course, upon hearing him laugh, the bitches behind us started laughing. Which somehow set ME off. So Greg and I were sitting there laughing, too. I know we were laughing at the audience itself, but it still felt weird to be laughing at Batman Begins. These people in the audience laughed so much that, as the credits rolled, I said, "I had no idea that the Farrelly brothers directed this. Huh."
* I tried really hard today to get into college football, and DAMN did I fail miserably. Fuck, I just don't understand how football is played, even after asking questions. I wanted the game to GO and for them to stop doing things like throwing flags and getting hurt and crap. Just play already! Kick, catch, run, DONE. That's the sort of game I need to watch. Plus certain fans look so idiotic sometimes. For instance, I hate guys who WOOOOO at ear-piercing levels when there's a touchdown. I wish I didn't hate 'em. But I do. I tried to rise above my biases and I failed. However, there is some late-breaking good news here: I have decided to stop beating myself up for this failure, and instead eat some BlueBell ice cream. Damn, that's good ice cream, though! (It's really good to eat while watching "Angel" re-runs, especially. Which was also what I did. Hey, so we can't all be sports fans. Some of us are always going to be "in the marching band" and that's all there is to it.)
* If a certain friend I haven't been able to talk to for over 3 months now doesn't call me soon she is getting a foot up her ass, and this foot is wearing DEATH SHOES. Grrr, call me, bitch, I'm serious!
* One more thing--and I blame all this aggression on trying to watch football today, so bear with me till the memory passes-- say you get an e-mail from someone. At least reply at some point. Maybe you're busy and can't reply right away, but at least write in two weeks' time or something. Don't just make a big, stupid habit of NEVER replying, because the feeling you get as the original sender is that people just don't give a shit about you or your friendship. I'm just sayin'.
* Speaking of which-- have I done that to any of you? If so, I am sorry and this is a pubic declaration of me changing my ways.
* And yes, I realize I typed "pubic" up there.
* It was not intentional when I typed it, but I've since decided that a pubic declaration is, in fact, the way I want to go on this. I mean it from the bottom of my short-n'curly funland. Amen, and holy shit.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Yesterday I was baking some brownies, listening to Danny Elfman at a loud volume. It's been awhile since I listened to his old-school compositions, but they still "get me" every time. Beetlejuice is still one of my favorites; "the Breakfast Machine" from Pee Wee's Big Adventure just makes me bouncy-crazy; and the original Batman movie theme is so damn good it made me search around for a possible copy of Batman in my house today (no dice there; guess I just don't own Batman, not even a 'taped off of HBO' VHS version!) and then look up the cheap-y movie theater showtimes to see if Batman Begins is still playing anywhere. It is; and I hope to go tonight if I can, in order to get my Batman fix.
This morning it was raining and thundering at about 7:15am when I went out to walk the dogs. I am so pleased to report than neither of my dogs is skittish about thunder. Malcolm has a good excuse: he's deaf. But Katie can hear quite well, and when a loud burst of thunder shook the ground as we walked "the pee walk" on the way back to the condo, she didn't even flinch. It was really nice to just walk in the rain, seeing sunshine off to the East --when it rains here, the entire sky is never cloudy all at once-- listening to the thunder grumbling all around us and smelling the wet dirt and pavement.
Today's random thought happened when I looked at Robert's blog. (I can't hotlink his blog because of Blogger being a total douche-ass flitty faggot today, just so you know.) He and his fiancee are taking a cake-decorating class at Michael's right now, and he has been posting some of his cakes. I asked him in the comments about what happens to all the cakes in these classes. Surely the students can't eat ALL those cakes! ("Oh yes, they can; and don't call me Shirley.")
My sister's erstwhile godmother, this woman named Aunt Nancy, used to be an expert cake decorator. She once made a cake that was decorated like my Pop-Pop's Social Security Card, to celebrate his retirement. We have pictures of this cake somewhere in the family photo albums. I am normally quite amused by the act of keeping photos of meals in albums, but in this case the work and attention to detail on this cake really made it an exception to the "no food pictures" convention.
Does your family take photos of food at holidays? We sure did. We have a lot of pictures of our Granny holding a ham fresh from the oven, or a roast beef she was particularly fond of, at family gatherings. There are also photos of bakery cakes. Bakery cakes...! What? Why? They always look the same and no one cares. Are we going to be flipping through the albums one day in the future, see the bakery cake from the "Graduation Party" and say, "Oh... yes, I remember that cake. It was a delightful chocolate, with light whipped buttercream icing. It was so delicious. It also brings me back to a simpler time, and a great family party"? No. I really doubt it. Instead, we will flip to that photo and someone will sarcastically say, "Oh, here's a great shot! Remember that cake? Oh, I remember it fondly! (Pause) Now what the hell is this picture even in here for? Here, take it out and throw it away."
The cakes of the Aunt Nancy era were different: a Christmas scene with detailed tree ornaments made of icing; a clown cake with a handful of little scary clowns flippin' and hamming it up all over one of my birthday cakes; some cake that had a frosting-painting of an old LP album on it; and she probably could even pull off a cake that featured a likeness of a woman going to the bathroom. Yes, she was THAT good.
But, alas: Aunt Nancy is not our aunt anymore. She and my uncle divorced when me and Moe were younguns; she left, and she took her fancy cakes with her. Sad, really. I recall really liking her, her red hair, her many dogs (some that had to be kept away from the children because they would bite), and of course... the bitchin' cakes.
This morning it was raining and thundering at about 7:15am when I went out to walk the dogs. I am so pleased to report than neither of my dogs is skittish about thunder. Malcolm has a good excuse: he's deaf. But Katie can hear quite well, and when a loud burst of thunder shook the ground as we walked "the pee walk" on the way back to the condo, she didn't even flinch. It was really nice to just walk in the rain, seeing sunshine off to the East --when it rains here, the entire sky is never cloudy all at once-- listening to the thunder grumbling all around us and smelling the wet dirt and pavement.
Today's random thought happened when I looked at Robert's blog. (I can't hotlink his blog because of Blogger being a total douche-ass flitty faggot today, just so you know.) He and his fiancee are taking a cake-decorating class at Michael's right now, and he has been posting some of his cakes. I asked him in the comments about what happens to all the cakes in these classes. Surely the students can't eat ALL those cakes! ("Oh yes, they can; and don't call me Shirley.")
My sister's erstwhile godmother, this woman named Aunt Nancy, used to be an expert cake decorator. She once made a cake that was decorated like my Pop-Pop's Social Security Card, to celebrate his retirement. We have pictures of this cake somewhere in the family photo albums. I am normally quite amused by the act of keeping photos of meals in albums, but in this case the work and attention to detail on this cake really made it an exception to the "no food pictures" convention.
Does your family take photos of food at holidays? We sure did. We have a lot of pictures of our Granny holding a ham fresh from the oven, or a roast beef she was particularly fond of, at family gatherings. There are also photos of bakery cakes. Bakery cakes...! What? Why? They always look the same and no one cares. Are we going to be flipping through the albums one day in the future, see the bakery cake from the "Graduation Party" and say, "Oh... yes, I remember that cake. It was a delightful chocolate, with light whipped buttercream icing. It was so delicious. It also brings me back to a simpler time, and a great family party"? No. I really doubt it. Instead, we will flip to that photo and someone will sarcastically say, "Oh, here's a great shot! Remember that cake? Oh, I remember it fondly! (Pause) Now what the hell is this picture even in here for? Here, take it out and throw it away."
The cakes of the Aunt Nancy era were different: a Christmas scene with detailed tree ornaments made of icing; a clown cake with a handful of little scary clowns flippin' and hamming it up all over one of my birthday cakes; some cake that had a frosting-painting of an old LP album on it; and she probably could even pull off a cake that featured a likeness of a woman going to the bathroom. Yes, she was THAT good.
But, alas: Aunt Nancy is not our aunt anymore. She and my uncle divorced when me and Moe were younguns; she left, and she took her fancy cakes with her. Sad, really. I recall really liking her, her red hair, her many dogs (some that had to be kept away from the children because they would bite), and of course... the bitchin' cakes.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
I found this photo tonight as I sorted through old photos I took with my "good camera" (Canon Rebel-- that's the name of the camera; I don't mean to insinuate that I, in any way, am a Canon Rebel myself).
This is a metal horse sculpture in Sedona. Everytime I go there, I have to slow down a little to gaze adoringly at this lovely, rusting metal horse. I have no concrete facts to back up my hypothesis, but I do believe that this horse would make a fine Trojan Horse, if you will, to deliver something such as poisoned cheese to a city. I can see this horse stuffed with enticing packages of cheese-products. Can't you? Mmm. Cheese.
But this sculpture makes me think about much more than the potential undoing of a city by way of tainted dairy products. I also tend to turn philosophical. I think about the sculptor who did it: How talented he/she must be; how creative, how visionary an artist. It must have taken many long hours to gather the raw materials; to weld, to shape, to create and give birth to an equine of this power and sheer fluidity of form.
And then I just want to yell out the car window, "GET A REAL JOB, HIPPIE."
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Random things:
• I woke up this past Saturday morning with the details of a very long and complicated dream in my head. By today, I am sad to say I can’t recall the whole story anymore. But it had a title; my dream had an actual title that I learned in the dream: Harry Potter and the Stolen Identity. Apparently, in the dream, Harry and his pals at Hogwarts had to thwart an evil entity that could shape-shift and make it appear that beloved characters—like Ron Weasley for instance—had died. So this evil entity did more than just steal Harry’s social security number—this evil presence apparently could trick you into thinking people were dead, and that it was OK to take their clothes and give them away to the poor who lived outside the Hogwart’s grounds. (Harry did take Ron’s clothes and give them away, only to find out Ron was hanging out with Hagrid the whole time and um, he still needed those clothes! Zoinks!)
Later in the day, I told Greg about my dream and he said, “You better not share that anywhere. I think that dream was copyrighted.”
But the dream did inspire me to get out of bed and go to my computer very early that morning and write a brand-new scene for my book… in which my main character gets a fake ID. Splendid! Thanks, Harry and the Stealers of Identity!
• I also injured my lumbar spine in a heinous manner. I was painting and I guess I ignored my body’s little warning signs that I was in pain, and just kept going like some flaming moron; and now I am still stuck in a relatively hunched-over position as pain knots up my hips and lower back, making it hard to walk. The last time this happened was in freshman year of college, when I ruptured the L5 merely by standing up from the kitchen table to put breakfast dishes in the sink. That time, I didn’t feel better until a full 10 MONTHS later. (I had sciatica on top of it, so that made my healing take much longer) I am pissed at myself because I really knew I should keep exercising and doing my required back stretches and refraining from doing things like lifting heavy objects, bending at the waist (not the knees) and throwing cars, fighting in those cage fights and performing as a stuntwoman in various high-action burlesque shows around town. As Chevy Chase said in Dirty Work: “Hindsight is 20-20, my friend.” And now I look like an old lady awaiting her artificial hips as I wobble down the hallway at work, trying so hard to move at a normal 30-year old pace. My bad.
• I did half of a good deed yesterday. I purchased new shoes, clothes, hygiene items and toys for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina that are staying here in Phoenix. But then I drove over to the Salvation Army headquarters to drop off my donations, and there was a line of traffic stretching a few blocks… so I had to get in the line of cars and hope the line moved fast enough so I could get my stuff dropped off by 5pm. That was the cut-off time to get your good-Samaritan shit delivered. I waited for about 20 minutes, and it got to be 5:10. When I was just 5 cars or so from being admitted into the parking lot, police officers came out and put up a barricade with a sign that said “please come back tomorrow between 9:00 and 5:00 pm to make a donation.” I was so disappointed I started to cry a little. The tears came from a few places: 1) I was really adamant about wanting to help, since I have been all but obsessed with the tragedy since it happened, even dreaming about it almost every night (when I wasn’t dreaming of Harry Potter and Maybe-Dead Ron’s clothes); 2) My back was incredibly sore from all that shopping, driving and sitting, and the pain made me cranky; 3) All that precious gas, wasted as I idled in line! That’s $3.09 a gallon, bitches. Gone; 4) Basically, I just wanted to whine, and the interior of my car made a great, impromptu whining platform.
• So yes, I still need to do the second half of my good deed—I need to find a time to get back to the donation site to drop it all off. It’s all in the back of my car at the moment. (I’m surprised that my company, which professes to be all about “helping other people” has not yet made any announcements whatsoever to help with this. No collective donation drive, no asking of monetary donations that would be matched by the company, NOTHING.)
• I hope no one breaks in and/or loots my car to take this stuff.
• My car is filthy, and I need to go to the carwash.
• Which reminds me of how me and my mother were verbally accosted last night in front of a Fazoli’s restaurant...
• So this car was parked next to hers as we had a quick dinner together at the local Fazoli’s. I couldn’t help but glance into the interior of the car in question as we passed it—garbage and debris was piled so high inside this car that it reached the windows in the front and back seat. It was a mix of clothing, crushed fast-food bags and wrappers, balled-up papers and empty soda cans, as well as a broken baby bassinet and a random smattering of 3 beat-up Bibles in the back window. Even the driver’s seat itself was several inches thick with plastic bags, food wrappers and trash—it had also been clearly flattened down by the driver’s ass, so they were actually sitting on trash to drive. The kicker for me was the bird droppings. Apparently, the owner of this car had left the sunroof open for some time, which allowed some birds to visit the car’s interior and leave shit on the headrest and all over the dashboard. It was pretty disgusting and hard to ignore.
Anyway, we went in and enjoyed what we could of our meal. I looked around the restaurant and spotted a crazy-looking blonde lady and pegged her for the owner of the gross car. She was probably around 50 years old, with longish, thin and greasy hair, uncombed and sticking out around her unwashed-looking, pudgy face. She wore one of those cheap flower-patterned cotton dresses and socks under her clogs.
As we left, the car was still parked there so me and my Mom did one last look at the filth, gaping in horror at the magnitude of it all. I got into the passenger’s eat of my Mom’s car, when we noticed the lady in the crazy dress come out of the restaurant and walk quickly over towards her car. My Mom was still getting into the car, and I heard her say, “Can I help you?”
The crazy lady was apparently standing right outside my window. I could feel her awkward presence there, but chose not to look up at her for fear I might grin and start laughing. My Mom said she was staring into our car with wide, crazed eyes.
She said, “I just wanted you to know what it feels like to have someone staring into your car!”
My Mom said nothing, and got into the driver’s seat. The lady stormed away back into the restaurant.
We started laughing. As we drove away, my Mom said my current favorite sentence uttered by anyone this week: “I bet she lives in that shithole of car, feasting on bird excrement!”
God love ya, Mom!
• I woke up this past Saturday morning with the details of a very long and complicated dream in my head. By today, I am sad to say I can’t recall the whole story anymore. But it had a title; my dream had an actual title that I learned in the dream: Harry Potter and the Stolen Identity. Apparently, in the dream, Harry and his pals at Hogwarts had to thwart an evil entity that could shape-shift and make it appear that beloved characters—like Ron Weasley for instance—had died. So this evil entity did more than just steal Harry’s social security number—this evil presence apparently could trick you into thinking people were dead, and that it was OK to take their clothes and give them away to the poor who lived outside the Hogwart’s grounds. (Harry did take Ron’s clothes and give them away, only to find out Ron was hanging out with Hagrid the whole time and um, he still needed those clothes! Zoinks!)
Later in the day, I told Greg about my dream and he said, “You better not share that anywhere. I think that dream was copyrighted.”
But the dream did inspire me to get out of bed and go to my computer very early that morning and write a brand-new scene for my book… in which my main character gets a fake ID. Splendid! Thanks, Harry and the Stealers of Identity!
• I also injured my lumbar spine in a heinous manner. I was painting and I guess I ignored my body’s little warning signs that I was in pain, and just kept going like some flaming moron; and now I am still stuck in a relatively hunched-over position as pain knots up my hips and lower back, making it hard to walk. The last time this happened was in freshman year of college, when I ruptured the L5 merely by standing up from the kitchen table to put breakfast dishes in the sink. That time, I didn’t feel better until a full 10 MONTHS later. (I had sciatica on top of it, so that made my healing take much longer) I am pissed at myself because I really knew I should keep exercising and doing my required back stretches and refraining from doing things like lifting heavy objects, bending at the waist (not the knees) and throwing cars, fighting in those cage fights and performing as a stuntwoman in various high-action burlesque shows around town. As Chevy Chase said in Dirty Work: “Hindsight is 20-20, my friend.” And now I look like an old lady awaiting her artificial hips as I wobble down the hallway at work, trying so hard to move at a normal 30-year old pace. My bad.
• I did half of a good deed yesterday. I purchased new shoes, clothes, hygiene items and toys for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina that are staying here in Phoenix. But then I drove over to the Salvation Army headquarters to drop off my donations, and there was a line of traffic stretching a few blocks… so I had to get in the line of cars and hope the line moved fast enough so I could get my stuff dropped off by 5pm. That was the cut-off time to get your good-Samaritan shit delivered. I waited for about 20 minutes, and it got to be 5:10. When I was just 5 cars or so from being admitted into the parking lot, police officers came out and put up a barricade with a sign that said “please come back tomorrow between 9:00 and 5:00 pm to make a donation.” I was so disappointed I started to cry a little. The tears came from a few places: 1) I was really adamant about wanting to help, since I have been all but obsessed with the tragedy since it happened, even dreaming about it almost every night (when I wasn’t dreaming of Harry Potter and Maybe-Dead Ron’s clothes); 2) My back was incredibly sore from all that shopping, driving and sitting, and the pain made me cranky; 3) All that precious gas, wasted as I idled in line! That’s $3.09 a gallon, bitches. Gone; 4) Basically, I just wanted to whine, and the interior of my car made a great, impromptu whining platform.
• So yes, I still need to do the second half of my good deed—I need to find a time to get back to the donation site to drop it all off. It’s all in the back of my car at the moment. (I’m surprised that my company, which professes to be all about “helping other people” has not yet made any announcements whatsoever to help with this. No collective donation drive, no asking of monetary donations that would be matched by the company, NOTHING.)
• I hope no one breaks in and/or loots my car to take this stuff.
• My car is filthy, and I need to go to the carwash.
• Which reminds me of how me and my mother were verbally accosted last night in front of a Fazoli’s restaurant...
• So this car was parked next to hers as we had a quick dinner together at the local Fazoli’s. I couldn’t help but glance into the interior of the car in question as we passed it—garbage and debris was piled so high inside this car that it reached the windows in the front and back seat. It was a mix of clothing, crushed fast-food bags and wrappers, balled-up papers and empty soda cans, as well as a broken baby bassinet and a random smattering of 3 beat-up Bibles in the back window. Even the driver’s seat itself was several inches thick with plastic bags, food wrappers and trash—it had also been clearly flattened down by the driver’s ass, so they were actually sitting on trash to drive. The kicker for me was the bird droppings. Apparently, the owner of this car had left the sunroof open for some time, which allowed some birds to visit the car’s interior and leave shit on the headrest and all over the dashboard. It was pretty disgusting and hard to ignore.
Anyway, we went in and enjoyed what we could of our meal. I looked around the restaurant and spotted a crazy-looking blonde lady and pegged her for the owner of the gross car. She was probably around 50 years old, with longish, thin and greasy hair, uncombed and sticking out around her unwashed-looking, pudgy face. She wore one of those cheap flower-patterned cotton dresses and socks under her clogs.
As we left, the car was still parked there so me and my Mom did one last look at the filth, gaping in horror at the magnitude of it all. I got into the passenger’s eat of my Mom’s car, when we noticed the lady in the crazy dress come out of the restaurant and walk quickly over towards her car. My Mom was still getting into the car, and I heard her say, “Can I help you?”
The crazy lady was apparently standing right outside my window. I could feel her awkward presence there, but chose not to look up at her for fear I might grin and start laughing. My Mom said she was staring into our car with wide, crazed eyes.
She said, “I just wanted you to know what it feels like to have someone staring into your car!”
My Mom said nothing, and got into the driver’s seat. The lady stormed away back into the restaurant.
We started laughing. As we drove away, my Mom said my current favorite sentence uttered by anyone this week: “I bet she lives in that shithole of car, feasting on bird excrement!”
God love ya, Mom!
Monday, September 05, 2005
"If the ride's more fly, you must buy!"
Based on my enduring love for Snoop*, I finally decided it was time to share my favorite site for Snoop Dogg news and information with all y'all: SNOOP DOGG HEAVEN.
I don't know, after repeatedly being subjected to the glory that IS Snoop and Lee I. in a golf cart, I think I want to buy a Chrysler. I have the car munchies. Kind of like how I suddenly really wanted to eat some Hostess cupcakes and drink a whole lot of Dr. Pepper after I walked into that smoky basement that one time. OK, it was more like that 4 or 5 times...or 20 times... but still. It's weird how that creeps up on you. I blame the madras.
Do they still make LeBarons? I want one in lime. With hydraulics.
(*I saw "The Wash", in the theater, and at full evening ticket prices. So you can see I am not playing around.)
Based on my enduring love for Snoop*, I finally decided it was time to share my favorite site for Snoop Dogg news and information with all y'all: SNOOP DOGG HEAVEN.
I don't know, after repeatedly being subjected to the glory that IS Snoop and Lee I. in a golf cart, I think I want to buy a Chrysler. I have the car munchies. Kind of like how I suddenly really wanted to eat some Hostess cupcakes and drink a whole lot of Dr. Pepper after I walked into that smoky basement that one time. OK, it was more like that 4 or 5 times...or 20 times... but still. It's weird how that creeps up on you. I blame the madras.
Do they still make LeBarons? I want one in lime. With hydraulics.
(*I saw "The Wash", in the theater, and at full evening ticket prices. So you can see I am not playing around.)
Sunday, September 04, 2005
I have been waiting to find something from Anne Rice regarding the tragedy in New Orleans, so I was really pleased when Trish found this opinion piece she wrote for the NY Times.
I'm not the first person to write about this; in fact, I thought I wouldn't since we all know what's going on without me and my silly little blog rehashing it. But then this Anne Rice article appears and I really had to share it.
I had a dream about the New Orleans looting the other night and woke up sweating. I sincerely pray for everyone there and for the city itself. And for the government to perhaps take this as a very harsh and real sign that resources--monetary and manpower-- need to be reserved to take care of our own in times of need. This is not going to be the last natural disaster; but God willing, we can bring home resources currently fixed overseas and help bring things a little more into balance on the side of "the human right." Such a tragedy.
I'm not the first person to write about this; in fact, I thought I wouldn't since we all know what's going on without me and my silly little blog rehashing it. But then this Anne Rice article appears and I really had to share it.
I had a dream about the New Orleans looting the other night and woke up sweating. I sincerely pray for everyone there and for the city itself. And for the government to perhaps take this as a very harsh and real sign that resources--monetary and manpower-- need to be reserved to take care of our own in times of need. This is not going to be the last natural disaster; but God willing, we can bring home resources currently fixed overseas and help bring things a little more into balance on the side of "the human right." Such a tragedy.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Here's a cautionary list. Please be aware I have never personally used this list out loud, but I have thought most of these things. There's a reason we were given the gift of keeping our thoughts to ourselves when old people talk.
Things you should never tell an old lady:
1) "You're probably going to die soon."
2) "You're probably going to die of a feeding-tube infection when it does happen."
3) "If it's not that, it might be an age-related fall. I heard a lot of old people die that way. You just fall, no one hears you. No one misses you for days. You either bleed to death or starve to death. Point is, you are alone and you can't get up for the life of you."
4) "Hey, can I have some of your halfway-decent stuff after you do die? I don't want any of the crap. Give that shit to the Goodwill losers, not me."
5) "Do you think anyone will remember you after you die?"
6) "Oh yeah? Well, then how long do you think it will take THEM to forget you? Maybe, what... 15 years? 20, tops? My bet stops at 22 years."
7) "It's funny. I am willing to bet you really didn't make much of a difference at all while you were here. Sure, you popped out a couple of kids, but really, who can't do that nowadays? I mean, in the grand scheme of things, you probably were kind of, well... insignificant."
8) "Crying doesn't solve anything."
9) "Neither does the act of continuing to live."
10) "Hey, where you going? Everyone knows that roof is nowhere near high enough to jump off of and do the job right--"
11) "Oh. How about that! I guess it is. Shit. Well, guess it's time to call the relatives. Damn."
Things you should never tell an old lady:
1) "You're probably going to die soon."
2) "You're probably going to die of a feeding-tube infection when it does happen."
3) "If it's not that, it might be an age-related fall. I heard a lot of old people die that way. You just fall, no one hears you. No one misses you for days. You either bleed to death or starve to death. Point is, you are alone and you can't get up for the life of you."
4) "Hey, can I have some of your halfway-decent stuff after you do die? I don't want any of the crap. Give that shit to the Goodwill losers, not me."
5) "Do you think anyone will remember you after you die?"
6) "Oh yeah? Well, then how long do you think it will take THEM to forget you? Maybe, what... 15 years? 20, tops? My bet stops at 22 years."
7) "It's funny. I am willing to bet you really didn't make much of a difference at all while you were here. Sure, you popped out a couple of kids, but really, who can't do that nowadays? I mean, in the grand scheme of things, you probably were kind of, well... insignificant."
8) "Crying doesn't solve anything."
9) "Neither does the act of continuing to live."
10) "Hey, where you going? Everyone knows that roof is nowhere near high enough to jump off of and do the job right--"
11) "Oh. How about that! I guess it is. Shit. Well, guess it's time to call the relatives. Damn."
I have a lot of work to do, but just so I keep this bitch of a blog active, I decided to share the song that is currently REALLY STUCK in my head.
Don't worry, this one isn't "From a Distance" from Bette Midler or anything like that. This happens to be a good, decent, hardworking song from the trailer park! You know you like it. Come on. Admit it:
Stuart by the DEAD MILKMEN
You know what Stuart? I like you. You're not like the other people here
in the trailer park. Oh no, don't get me wrong, they're fine people, good
Americans. But they're content to sit back, maybe watch a little Mork and
Mindy on channel 57. Maybe kick back a cool Coors 16-ouncer. They're
good fine people, Stuart. But they don't know what the queers are doing
to the soil.
You know that Johnny Werzner kid - the kid who delivers papers in the
neighborhood? He's a fine kid. Some of the neighbors say he smokes
crack, but I don't believe it. Anyway, for his 10th birthday, all he
wanted was a burrow owl, just like his old man. "Dad, get me a burrow
owl. I'll never ask for anything else as long as I live". So the guy
breaks down and buys him a burrow owl. Anyway at 10:30 the other night I
go out into my yard and there's the Werzner kid looking up in the tree. I
said, "What are you looking for?" He said, "I'm looking for my burrow
owl." I say, "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! Everybody knows that a
burrow owl lives in a hole in the ground! Why the hell do you think they
call it a burrow owl, anyway?!" Now Stuart, do you think a kid like that
is gonna know what the queers are doing to the soil?
I first became aware of this, about 10 years ago, the summer my oldest boy
Bill Jr. died. You know that carnival that comes to town every year?
Well this year it came with a ride called the Mixer. The man said "Keep
your head and arms inside the mixer at all times." But Bill Jr., he was a
daredevil, just like his old man. He was leaning out saying, "Hey
everybody! Look at me, look at me!" POW! He was decapitated. They found
his head over by the snowcone concession. A few days after that, I open
up the mail and there's a pamphlet in there, from Pueblo, Colorado. And
it's addressed to Bill Jr. And it's entitled, "Do you know what the
queers are doing to our soil?"
Now Stuart, if you look at the soil around any large U.S. city with a big
underground homosexual population - Des Moines, Iowa, perfect example.
Look at the soil around Des Moines, Stuart. You can't build on it, you
can't grow anything in it. The government says it's due to poor farming.
But I know what's really going on, Stuart. I know it's the queers.
They're in it with the aliens. They're building landing strips for gay
Martians. I swear to God.
You know what Stuart, I like you. You're not like the other people, here
in the trailer park.
Don't worry, this one isn't "From a Distance" from Bette Midler or anything like that. This happens to be a good, decent, hardworking song from the trailer park! You know you like it. Come on. Admit it:
Stuart by the DEAD MILKMEN
You know what Stuart? I like you. You're not like the other people here
in the trailer park. Oh no, don't get me wrong, they're fine people, good
Americans. But they're content to sit back, maybe watch a little Mork and
Mindy on channel 57. Maybe kick back a cool Coors 16-ouncer. They're
good fine people, Stuart. But they don't know what the queers are doing
to the soil.
You know that Johnny Werzner kid - the kid who delivers papers in the
neighborhood? He's a fine kid. Some of the neighbors say he smokes
crack, but I don't believe it. Anyway, for his 10th birthday, all he
wanted was a burrow owl, just like his old man. "Dad, get me a burrow
owl. I'll never ask for anything else as long as I live". So the guy
breaks down and buys him a burrow owl. Anyway at 10:30 the other night I
go out into my yard and there's the Werzner kid looking up in the tree. I
said, "What are you looking for?" He said, "I'm looking for my burrow
owl." I say, "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick! Everybody knows that a
burrow owl lives in a hole in the ground! Why the hell do you think they
call it a burrow owl, anyway?!" Now Stuart, do you think a kid like that
is gonna know what the queers are doing to the soil?
I first became aware of this, about 10 years ago, the summer my oldest boy
Bill Jr. died. You know that carnival that comes to town every year?
Well this year it came with a ride called the Mixer. The man said "Keep
your head and arms inside the mixer at all times." But Bill Jr., he was a
daredevil, just like his old man. He was leaning out saying, "Hey
everybody! Look at me, look at me!" POW! He was decapitated. They found
his head over by the snowcone concession. A few days after that, I open
up the mail and there's a pamphlet in there, from Pueblo, Colorado. And
it's addressed to Bill Jr. And it's entitled, "Do you know what the
queers are doing to our soil?"
Now Stuart, if you look at the soil around any large U.S. city with a big
underground homosexual population - Des Moines, Iowa, perfect example.
Look at the soil around Des Moines, Stuart. You can't build on it, you
can't grow anything in it. The government says it's due to poor farming.
But I know what's really going on, Stuart. I know it's the queers.
They're in it with the aliens. They're building landing strips for gay
Martians. I swear to God.
You know what Stuart, I like you. You're not like the other people, here
in the trailer park.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)