I have been thinking about the act of blogging, and what it means. Mostly I was thinking about blogs written by other people, and how very much I love them. Why are blogs so addictively entertaining?

I guess it's just that little glimpse into people's lives; the thing we all like about blogs. I also love to read my list of "regulars" (see right) and follow what's been happening in their lives and just laugh at the random mutterings and stories they tell. I like the strange friendships that have come from blogging. I have never met so many of the people I regularly read and/or comment on, but I would love to. One day after I get sickly-rich I will take a Blogger Tour and go visit the cities where you/ they all live. I will take you out to eat and we can drink or something, and then I promise I won't pester you to come back to your place, where I might clog up your toilet with something foul or pee on your bed. Nah. I know my limits and I won't overstay my welcome. I just think it would be fun to see the bloggers in person. And that also includes the ones I already do know, like Rob, who have moved away to a foreign land. I need to see you again; and the family, the dog, the house...

Well, as for me, I blog because it makes the day go faster. It's a way to just blab about some of the crap that floats around in my head. It's fun and I consider it a hobby. Is that odd? I mean, is "blogging" a hobby or just a thing we do? When I hear the word hobby I think of (Holly Hobby first, but that's not where I want to go with this, right now) doing something like painting, gardening, making model airplanes or something. On second thought, I think I want to retire the word "hobby" from my vocabulary. It feels a little too 1950s for me, and not in the cool rockabilly 1950s way, either. Just the dork way. So, in closing, blog= not a hobby. Just a something I do "for sport."

I have given it piles of thought, and effort, and I have decided that NaNoWriMo is probably not my thing. I was just as excited as anyone when I signed up, and even when I wrote my first chapter and posted it. But when I tried to pound out those crazy word counts on subsequent nights, a funny thing happened: my writing truly sucked. It was dead, it was forced, it was boring to read over and I realized I was cheating this story by going into it with this odd notion of "gotta write a certain wordcount everyday." I was doing something I never did before-- I was writing a few sentences, hitting the word counter. Write a few more, word counter again. This was distracting and not at all the mindframe I needed to be in to have FUN writing this book.

I work well with deadlines. I love deadlines, actually, and I like to do that last-minute crazy writing. But something about the flow of this story, and the way the character's voice needs to develop... it just was not working on the NaNoWriMo mindset. I did think about starting another book, but I think I would run into the same problem. I know other writers of blogs have mentioned they can't turn off their internal editor as they write, and I do that, too. Once I got critical of the new material I was writing, and analyzing it (I drive home from work thinking about the book, what this little detail could have meant and did I want to draw that particular metaphor up, and I really should do Google those names to make sure I am not inadvertantly stealing names and places from anywhere, blah blah blah...), and this meant I blocked it up and the fun slipped out somewhere along the line. I refuse to write fiction for anything else BUT FUN. It's my release and my escape and I have been doing it since I was 9. As cool as it would have been to be able to say "Yay! I finished NaNoWriMo!" when I stopped and really thought about it... it wasn't cool enough. What is cooler is to take my time on this story, accept I have things happening in my personal life that are pretty important and also worthy of my time, and enjoy my free time and let a story tell itself.

That being said, I have been working on the story, but it is going to unravel over the course of several months. I am taking this particular pressure off. And it makes me so happy to say that! Writing is all I have ever wanted to do, and I am aware that I am not the greatest writer in the world, but I really don't care. It's just a good time, and it's what I do. NaNoWriMo for me can't be the validation of that. I am already validated!

So anyway. That's all I have for now. But I do have a proposal to make to anyone who is interested:

What do you think of National Post Your Prom Photo Day? I would love to see what you all wore to your proms. Proms are funny things. Even just saying the word "prom" makes you feel like you have a mouth full of mashed potatoes. I thought we could scan and post a picture and tag other people to do it, too. Or just spread the word and everyone does it on, say, November 17. I don't know. Look at me, all wanna be startin' somethin'. Michael Jackson sang a song about me one time. Mamma say, mamma sah, moo mahk koo sah. (SHIT! That is not easy to spell. As you can see, I went phonetic on it. I didn't know what else to do!)

I have been too busy with a project at work to do much in the way of blog. But I did make some time just now to take the current quiz that a bunch of people I know have been taking, just to see what forgotten 80s cartoon character I am. Turns out? I am nothing but a pink cat.


You are Custard from Strawberry Shortcake! Ahh, you
live the good life. You're cute, loved by all,
and you enjoy simple things - a warm bed, sunny
days, yummy desserts, and a good
belly-scratching.


Which Forgotten 80s Cartoon Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

So there you have it, folks. You are reading a blog written by a person who should be the feline companion of a dessert-obsessed, strawberry-smelling redhead. Interesting.

In case you don't already know, the Armsweat sisters are P I S S E D.

They cancelled the only show that meant anything to us. Arrested Development is being pulled. But hey, don't cry! At least you can still watch shit like "Prison Break"! Or, if you prefer, you can watch the myriad of other mind-dulling shows featuring big-tittied blondes, vapid wannabe models and assholes who stick their faces in a tank full of eels.

Trish posted the news on her blog this morning and I almost spit out my water. I know that TV is supposed to be nothing but ass-swelling and artery-clogging entertainment, and that tons of you all love those shows I hate, and all that. But since this is my blog and my place to vent, I just want to share that I am mourning the passing of what I will always believe to be one of the all-time funniest comedies that's ever aired. They're not even going to do a full third season now. We only get 13 episodes.

Anyone want to join me in a good cry?

Regarding the last post, and the comments section, I started to think about my old Cabbage Patch Kids. I still have three of them. I haven't kept much else from my childhood, except those dolls. And they are in awful condition, too. Their yarn hair is a total mess, their arms are all dirty and markered-up, their plastic faces scuffed and worn out; and worst of all, they no longer have that "Cabbage Patch Kid Smell". You know the one-- it's like baby powder and the Appalachian mountains, or something like that. I can't break down the smell components because I am no odor-chemist, or whatever.

Anyway, I went to my storage room and pulled out Ardella Cheri. She's the Cabbage Patch Kid you see in that picture with Bill Kunkel a few posts down, strapped to my chest. She was always my favorite of all of CPK's, as she was the first one I got. I remember I picked her because she looked the most like I did-- brown hair, brown eyes. (Later on, I took a red marker to her hair in an attempt to "dye" her hair so it had reddish highlights. The evidence is still there on her matted, yarny head.) My uncles called her a mulato, which I didn't know the meaning of but made me cry anyway, because I knew they were making fun of my plastic-headed child, and no one makes fun of a little kid's doll, come on now.

Except for me, when I am 30: I can do that. Sure.

When I brought her into the house today, two things happened: One was Katie tried to take her from me, thinking I had brought a new toy to tear apart. The other thing was I grabbed a camera and thought how blog-worthy a shot of Ardella's ass would be!

So, without further ado, take a look at the Doll Porn below, as I pulled her pants down and took a picture of my old Cabbage Patch Kid's ass. I am pretty sure that people who do this sort of thing with their childhood toys have "issues" that might need "sorting out" with the help of a "professional." (But HEY-- check out that lil' tattooed ass! Hot!)

Quite possibly one of the filthiest pictures I have taken in my life (thus far).

Katie had to get her some of that hot doll ass. (Look how happy she is while she chews on that hand-- that tail is moving faster than the speed of my camera's...shutter speed...)

A brush with celebrity! At the tender age of 8, I was lucky enough to run into baseball legend Bill Kunkel in the camera shop.

My Dad had taken me there so we could get Mom a camera for Christmas. Needless to say, this was a trip I was NOT going to take without my Cabbage Patch Kid strapped to my chest. And my Strawberry Shortcake hat, and fake fur coat. The whole thing left me confused. You can tell by my face I was thinking, "I don't know who this guy is, and I wish he wasn't squeezing me so close. Ehhhh... uncomfortable!"

Over the years, the signature on this Polaroid got a little wet. Must have been all the tears I cried over it. Looking back now, this was probably the best day I ever had. I thought it would get better from there, but... nope. It didn't. That was my peak: The Day I Met Bill Kunkel, Whom I Didn't Know At All, and Still Don't Know Crap About.

I had applesauce tonight. It was my first applesauce since 2003, when I had it to disastrous results.

You know how when you are in the hospital for surgery, and you are in pain and stuff so they give you all sorts of intravenous medications and stuff, and sometimes what they give you has the side effect of nausea? Yeah. Well, I was there, in the hospital, on the pain drip, and I couldn't keep food down. It was the worst ever. When you are in a state like that, they might as well just keep you asleep the whole six weeks of recovery. There's no point in being awake for THAT. And let's face it, the nurses and doctors would probably prefer dealing with constantly sleeping people instead of constantly whining, crying and moaning people. If I was a nurse, I would make Chloroform Rounds every night. And afternoon. And morning.

Anyway, one of the foods I was trying to eat was applesauce. I had liked applesauce. I even bought in by the Mott's six-pack. I actually asked my Mom and sister to bring me applesauce from home when I was stuck in the hospital. They did.

The only problem is you really need to keep applesauce refrigerated. I know it's OK to have it at room temperature-- that is how they sell it, of course-- but it tastes pretty foul that way, in my opinion. I had my applesauce treat there, on the little table, but I didn't feel like trying it right away. I went to sleep. I woke up, whined some more, went back to sleep. By the time I had decided it was Applesauce Time, I think something like 18 hours had gone by.

The applesauce that was once chilly was now warm as hell. But I was starving, and it was 3 in the morning and I couldn't very well call my Mom to bring new, cold applesauce to me. Also, I am one of those assholes who didn't want to bother the nurses too much. I didn't want to be "a pest." Can you believe me? It's their job to bring me food or something if I am trying to eat and hadn't been able to keep food down for 3 days or so. But no, I had to just eat what was nearby. That applesauce.

I ate it. It sucked. But I felt better after I ate. I lay back down in bed and tried to relax. It didn't last long though, because only a few minutes later that nausea came back.

So anyway, that's the night I found out that if I were to puke on myself, I would chose the left shoulder and side of my chest to puke on. (I had been frantically hitting the call button to try to get a nurse, AT LAST, to bring me a bedpan since I couldn't get out of bed, but the bitches didn't get there in time. Instead of handing me a bed pan to do my vomiting in, they were forced to clean up a crying, puke-covered person who kept apologizing and muttering, "I shouldn't have eaten that applesauce, waaa waaa waaa.") I always enjoyed this part of the story, because I thought it was humorous that I turned to the left and not the right in that moment of agonized terror. You don't know until the shit's right on top of you what you will do in a crisis. I guess I like going to the left. Another Neat Fact About Me!

After that night, me and applesauce parted ways.

Until about a week ago. I bought it again. I guess it was finally time again. Getting back to this evening...it's been well over an hour, and no puke yet. Luckily I have already fortified my left shoulder and chestal region with plastic and a bucket. You just can't be too careful with applesauce.

(So THIS is what I do when I am avoiding writing my book.)

I'm thinking about what I might want for dinner, and I can't come up with much. I have imagined some unique dishes, though:

Candied Raccoon Faces
Roll of Toilet Paper Au Jus
Cream of Cement Chips

Here's a tip: When sounding an air horn (especially at dogs, which I was), make sure you don't do it so that your hand is front of the horn-part. This is because it basically is like spraying dry ice on your hand. You wouldn't expect it but those cans get cold when you use them. Ouchie.

One of the many reasons I am already giddy with excitement over the new book, The Shroud of the Thwacker:

A quick bibble in the bobble cost an even sixpence, while a “wet waggle” cost a ha’penny or two. A “fish in the dish, with tartar sauce on the side” was a full tuppence. If someone wanted an all-night “dilly-wonker” or a “triple wraparound digger,” that was extra, and Old Toothless Sally always made it clear up front that she wasn’t into anything weird.

As you can see, with excerpts like this, I think this book is destined to become a timeless classic. And you know something... I mean that statement seriously.

Before you begin reading this, please get the "Sad Charlie Brown" theme music in your head for full effect. (Either that, or "When the Children Cry"--whatever you find sadder.)

I finished reading Harry Potter last night. It really bummed me out. And mostly, because it turns out that the spoiler I inadvertently stumbled onto this summer when I was online was actually true. I was really hoping that the person who died was someone else…not only because I liked the character who died, but more so because I wanted to be surprised and have that spoiler be wrong. I didn’t mean to read that spoiler—it was buried in some random article on Something Awful—and have been trying ever since to think it was someone just being a dork, throwing a name out there to mess people up. Now I know that whoever wrote it was an asshole dork. Which is much worse than a plain old dork.

Either way, that book was quite sad. I will begin something new today on my lunch break, and this time, it’s a comedy. Thanks to Chris Elliott, I will soon be immersed it the world of the “The Shroud of the Thwacker.” Hear that sound? No, not that one. That one was a small fart. The other sound you hear is the sound of me being relieved that I might skip some crying and general depression as I read this new book.

Well, not much else is happening right now. My life is a little consumed in writing the new book. I was totally out of it yesterday though, not only because of the Harry Potter thing, but a migraine hit, causing me to nap repeatedly throughout the day and cover my eyes with a sleeping mask whenever I could do it without knocking things off the wall, or fall down the steps. I couldn’t write my happy new book in this mood, which only made me get more angry and sad. My computer also wigged out, making me lose the internet connection at random times. I had the “I give up” attitude all day. It was a stay in my pajamas and mope day.

However, today I am washed, dressed and I am actually wearing makeup. I deserve a medal for this! NO… OK, the truth is, I don’t. I already have so many medals for all the days I have already washed/dressed/made up my face with attractive colors. I just don’t have room for any more medals! Or framed Certificates of Achievement. Ditto on the little trophies with the small metal “me” on the top. I just can’t take any more of them, so please save your time and effort and just offer me a handshake, and maybe a jaunty pat on the ass. That would be OK, I guess. Let me consult with my boyfriend on that one first. You might have to give him the ass-pat first, and then he will deliver it to me if it is appropriate.

I appreciate your desire to want to celebrate the wonderment that is me. Hell, I even THANK YOU for it. I do! I am grateful, and happy and more than a little jittery as a result of your accolades. But people, I need to remind you once more of how full my home is, and that my mantel, besides being non-existent since I have no fireplace, is also non-existently broken and bowed under the weight of the awards. There is only so much room a girl has for awards.

Now is the time for me to humiliate a loved one!!

Yes, this is what you were waiting for. Get ready to be wowed with the humiliation! Because HERE IT COMES…

(And I apologize in advance to my mother for this one. Sorry, Mom, but today as I was typing this post I thought of this thing you said and I laughed out loud at my desk—which is weird because no one laughs in this office, EVER!—and decided it was something I needed to type about! No hard feelings, a’ight?)

So you know that new book I am writing, The Big Meaningless Quest? My Mom was reading it and she got confused somewhere. She asked me yesterday:

“I am confused. Is your lead character a person, or a chicken?”

THANKS MOM!

I won’t get into the reasons my Mom said she thought that. Maybe there are more of you out there who read this thing and thought, “Why the hell is Lisa writing about a chicken who smokes?” Maybe I need to know where in the story I am giving people this impression. Don’t be afraid to be honest with me, now. Tell me if you, too, think I am writing about poultry. You don’t have to give me the obligatory “Oh, your story is great!” compliment if you honestly don’t think it’s great. I can take it. Go on and let me know if you are like my mother and can’t relate to the chicken-lady (not to be confused with the Kids in the Hall ChickenLady™).

Speaking of chickens, God, I love Arrested Development! One thing I did do yesterday while hiding from the sunlight was watch 4 episodes of my season 2 DVDs. I love that George Michael’s girlfriend Ann “is so cute, she puts a hard boiled egg in her mouth, and swooshes in some mayonnaise… she calls it Eggonaise!” and that no one in the Bluth family can make the chicken sound. “Buh-KAW, Buh-KAW!” If you’re not watching this show, I have to tell you something harsh now: you are a fucking moron. If that hurt, please step back and evaluate why a comment from a person on the internet can penetrate your tough exterior and hurt you. I am just a person on the internet, for crying out loud, how could I really hurt you? Seek professional help, fucker.

Well, I did it. I wrote one whole chapter of my NaNoWriMo book!! You can read it here if you are so inclined: The Big Meaningless Quest.

I don't mean to brag, but... YES, I mean to brag, otherwise what the hell is this blog for?... I wrote 4,634 words tonight. Sweet. I just kept goin' and goin', and if I didn't have to walk the dogs and go to sleep I probably would go ahead into chapter two.

Now I just have to pray and wish and hope and whatever else that it KEEPS UP and I finish this book this month. Still, I had to share it. WEEEEE! I feel like squealing!!

It turns out I didn't take any pictures of myself, Greg, or any of the other partygoers at our Halloween party! I am so bummed out. The thing is, I THOUGHT I took pictures but I think I was snapping them with a full memory card or something. Or, using some other people's cameras. Bummer. Anyway, I did manage to get some shots of the pumpkins Greg and I carved the night prior to the party. The pumpkin above was my absolute favorite. Greg carved Victor and Emily from "The Corpse Bride" in this one. It really looked great when it was lit up, and it kept longer than the others. Hope you all had a Happy Halloween! And to everyone taking part in National Novel Writing Month, GOOD LUCK!

Halloween is super fantastic this year. I want to post some pictures up here but alas, I am at work and do not have the hook-up to do so here. Trish has a picture on her blog though, as does Kane. But for anyone curious in seeing what I happened to take with my camera while I was a little bleary-eyed and drunkish this past Saturday evening… I will attempt to post some photos by this evening if I can swing it.

I went as Tippi Hedren from “The Birds” this year. I got an old suit from Savers, and a bunch of fake birds and attached them all over myself. I used a toothpick dipped in red makeup to simulate scratches and pecks, and did one bigger “cheek abrasion” because she has one like that in the movie. It turned out pretty decent, considering I had to get dressed super fast before the party and everything. And Greg went as “Ash” from the Evil Dead movies, and he looked really great, too. I must say, this holiday solidified just how much I care for him. We meshed really well in pulling this party together and in all of our Halloween thoughts and ideas. I felt giddy all weekend! And I still do…!

Moving on…

Like I said earlier, I am at work at the moment, and I am kind of between projects. Last week I worked my ass off here to get things completed and it paid off, since they are all done. I know I have some bigger projects coming up soon, but I need to wait for more information in order to proceed. I hate that. When you are the quickest little asshole and you need to wait for the other assholes to catch up. Still, it gives me some time to do word finds (I have one of those tiny little word find books they sell at the checkout in the food store at my desk, hiding under a manila folder) and occasionally, when no one is looking, pull out “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” and get a little reading done.

I hate to go all Potter on you all, but damn, this book is good so far. Don’t anyone dare tell me any details because I am only about 2/3 of the way through it, but I have been getting into it in a big way all of the sudden. I attribute my fervor to the fact that it’s so layered and detailed, and I have to keep visiting Harry Potter Facts in order to refresh my memory on ancillary characters from the previous books and events that happened in books 4 or 5. (I never really retain much from these books, from one to the next, so this site has been awesome) I also think I am getting psyched for NaNoWriMo, and it’s so fun to read something like Harry Potter to gear up. I’m noticing more about the way the story is unfolding, and thinking about the question of “why I care” as I get ready to start my new book. JK Rowling is definitely an incredible storyteller, and I am very happy that the younger kids who are reading these books are probably going to grow up with a strong appreciation for fun fiction and in-depth storytelling. I wish these books came out while I was still a kid—maybe I wouldn’t have wasted so many hours reading the Babysitter’s Club books by Ann M. Martin. Who knows the full extent of the damage to my writing skills those books caused. Well… I am trying NOT to think about it, really. But I know this much, Ms. Martin: the first publisher who turns down my book and says my writing is crappy, I am coming after you with a sawed off shotgun. I promise.

One final thought on NaNoWriMo before I head off to lunch: I know a lot of people are stressing out and stuff, worried about what to write about or how to structure the book, and I am wondering if there is something wrong with me that I am not stressing out. Now I know me, and I stress A LOT, about pretty much everything in my life. Yet this is curiously not stressful. I don’t know why! I just know I plan to write at least 1,700 words a day. I can do that since the things I write for work in a couple of hours are usually closer to the 2,000 mark. I just plan to go along for the ride and see what this character comes up with. She has a month of my time and attention, and I have no idea what the hell she’s going to say. I am really excited for her visit, though. I hope my lack of planning or stress is not a negative sign. Probably not. But still… is it true, am I finally learning not to stress out? That would be awesome if it were true.

Now if I can just figure out a way to kill off some Babysitters in my book, the circle will be complete and I can move on with my professional (and personal) development.

I’m down with OPB. That’s Other People’s Blogs. I simply haven’t been caring for my own blog for the past week or so. However, I feel somewhat better because I have been doing the drive-by comments on the blogs of others, so at least some people who read this thing know I am not completely fried or dead or something. I am still here, peeps!

Can’t believe I just called you all “peeps.” I am so sorry.

The trip to Iowa went very well, indeed. It was a pretty state, and the people we met were so sweet and down to earth. Greg’s family was very, very nice and they seemed to like me, which is helpful. It always blows when a whole family hates you. I hate when families kick me out of their homes, lock the doors and call the cops on me. I also hate it when they dump vats of boiling oil down on me from the upstairs bedroom window. Luckily that has only happened once. Once.

I took a bunch of pictures and I plan to post some up here when I can. We went to Pella, Iowa, which was where Greg’s sister and her husband live. It is the home of the country’s largest working windmill, and hosts a tulip festival every spring. It’s a big Dutch town. It’s not very often that I get to say I was in a “big Dutch town”. And yes, I did see some wooden shoes in a store window. The town was really adorable and quaint, in a Dutchy sort of way. The leaves were all yellow and red; the town square was populated with ornate little brick storefronts dating to the 1800s.

We also visited Ames, home to Iowa State University. Greg took me on a tour of the campus, where we saw more beautiful fall leaves and old gorgeous buildings (even a clock tower—and I surprised myself when I found myself NOT yelling “Save the Clock Tower!” at least 8 times. I was probably too cold to quote movies; it was in the 40s and Greg and I are definitely not accustomed to that kind of temperature anymore). I recall being impressed that the students seemed relatively normal and not like a bunch of douchebags. I am thinking in particular of the douchebag college students I regularly encounter at ASU, or the ones I recall from places like Rutgers and other random Jersey schools. The ISU kids were just doing their thing, walking around looking perfectly normal and sane. I found myself wondering how MUCH older I looked than the students. When was that moment when I went from looking like someone who could still pass for a college student to someone who looks like she is exactly 30? I just don’t know.

Finally, we went to the family farm. Greg grew up in a tiny little town, on a dairy farm. His high school is in the middle of the town, and it housed all the grades-- K-12-- when he went there. The farm was really kind of beautiful… they had so much land all around them, and the farm was up on a hill so you could look out and see very far in every direction. A window in their kitchen looked out on a cornfield. We had dinner with the family and then we went to a tiny little bar in town to meet some of his old friends. They were really nice people, too. I felt like I could fit right in when I talked to them. It was funny because there was only a couple of other local people in the bar while we were there, and whenever the door would open we would all turn to see who came in. And they knew the name of every person who came in. Twice, two people we were sitting with yelled out, “Hey, Mom!” when the bar door opened. I liked that the Moms in that town regularly walk down to the bar to see what their grown kids are up to. (There was also a shifty character the guys called “John Rambo” who sat at the bar wearing a NASCAR jacket. Seemed harmless enough, but John Rambo had apparently walked into the bar earlier holding a Bowie knife at his side. Hence, the new nickname of John Rambo. John Rambo is also a known cross-dresser, and will sometimes show up at the bar dressed as a woman. The locals don’t seem to mind, though, and accept it with a shrug and a “That’s just John Rambo for ya.”)

Overall, the trip was just very calm and fun, and I enjoyed going somewhere totally different and seeing where the dude I am all hooked-up with and shit comes from. And it was nice to fly Midwest Airlines. They serve hot chocolate chip cookies on their flights. I really do like me some hot chocolate chip cookies.

Now we are gearing up for the Halloween Hullabaloo. (Anyone from Middletown remember the Halloween Hullabaloo at Croydon Hall every Halloween? I hope they still do that and didn’t rename it the Fall Harvest Festival or something.) Anyone who is in the Phoenix area and would like to stop by our party—in costume, please!—feel free! We would love for you to come by and see our pumpkins and other Halloween refinements.

I better go now. These dead babies are not going to sweep themselves out from under my desk, you know.

This time tomorrow, I will be in Iowa.

I am going to meet up with Greg, who is already there for his school's homecoming... and I am meeting the parents. I have a couple of things to confess: One-- I have never been to Iowa. Two--I don't know much 'bout Iowa, except it somehow spawned a dude who can tolerate the Armsweat babble-n-bullshit mix. This is good. Three-- In anticipation of my trip to Iowa, I have been looking for "Iowa images" online to get some idea of what it's going to look like.

This photo is of "The Jones Family", taken in Des Moines, IA. (That's the city I will be flying into, and hot damn if I ain't excited... well, I am, to see Greg and all, but this is DES MOINES and it promises to be all action, all the time.) I sure hope all the folks in Iowa are as...comely...as these folks. Why do the children look so sullen, yet Mom is laughing it up over there in her pancake hat?

What a strange city awaits me!

Hey, Sir Greg of TuxedoPants, how ya doin' my main man?

WOW, Doughy Community Theater strikes again. I honestly don't know these people; and to be even more honest I don't really care to know them, either. But check out Smug-in-Pink over there on the right. And... that's all.

So you know how when you get in a horrific car accident, and you are in ungodly amounts of blood-gushing pain, and it seems like the morphine drip is just not coming down that plastic tubing fast enough-- it seems like the slowest thing in the whole goddamn world? Yeah. Picture that kind of slow, and you'll have a clue as to how slow I am when it comes to responding to tags by fellow bloggers.

Rae tagged me to answer two simple questions awhile back and I failed to do it. Well, I guess I had other things to do or something like that. Who knows? I don't know. Christ, most days it is a flat-out miracle that I once more narrowly averted a pants-crapping.

Here it is. My response to a "meme" (how is that pronounced by the way? Is it "MEE-MEE" or "meh-MEH"? I really am bad at pronunciation, ask anyone.) follows:

10 Turn-Ons (in no particular order)

1) People who laugh a lot and can make me laugh
2) Water, preferably in nature (rain, the ocean, lakes, streams...)
3) A good novel
4) Halloween
5) Cemetaries and other old, overgrown, ornate places
6) Little notes left under my Transportation Frog statue next to my front door for no real reason, but that feature hand-painted hearts and clues to lead me on a scavenger hunt around my condo for a hidden DVD copy of "The Jerk" (this was so cool when someone did it for me once. Wink.)
7) Jersey produce. (I am pining for Jersey tomatoes, corn, apples...)
8) Getting the "church/ board room/ funeral giggles"
9) Having a dog cuddle up next to you and fall asleep... and then it has a dream
10) Anyone who can come up with a full list of 10 Turn-Ons, because this is kind of hard. Not that I don't have "turn ons", but it is becoming clear to me that this is more a list of things "I just really appreciate"... calling them "turn-ons" feels a little odd. I admire those that can do this, and are that comfortable with their turn-onality.

5 Things You Miss From Being a Kid

1) Swimming every single day in the summer, even in the rain
2) Going to the library on Saturday mornings in the fall to get Dorrie the Little Witch books
3) Going to Granny and Pop-Pop's house and falling asleep on their couch as we watched the Wizard of Oz
4) The first day of school (new school supplies rock!!)
5) Carnivals, fairs and amusement parks were the shit back then!

Oh, father Lord and sonny Jesus, that was good. Now, I must retire for the evening. And these dogs are not gonna walk themselves. What do you think I do, sit around and write blogs all day?

OK, so... I am stressed out because lately my dog and Greg's dog have been fighting a lot, and I have sore feet and ankles and other symptoms that are making me think I am diabetic or something, and I am missing Greg because he left for Iowa today and even though I will join him there on Sunday evening, I already just sort of want to be with him... so blogging just isn't coming naturally this evening. And tomorrow is probably going to be busy at work, so here is my shot to post something up here of vague or at least passing interest!

So, I present a few photos from my father's visit earlier this month, for lack of anything else. Plus... wait till you get to the plaster Indian dude picture-- it might bug you out a little. I know I hate it! I hate it so much I wish I shoved over the plaster Indian dude when I had the chance! In fact, this stupid fucking plaster Indian (face and all) has already appeared in one wigged-out nightmare/dream for me. Yuck.

But screw that, look at that nice shot up at the top of this post first. Featured above, you can see me and my sister giving amiable smiles to the camera in front of a huge fake teepee at a trading post on the way to the Grand Canyon. Inside the trading post we saw a stuffed armadillo, positioned on its back with an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's balanced in its shellacked paws. Just the way nature intended! I would have taken a picture, but the lady who was working in this trading post seemed like she might punch me in the stomach for such an offense. She was dressed in old-west garb, which was funny-- and it wasn't the Whore of the Old West get-up either, it was more like School Marm. And she damned well looked like she was gonna punch someone in the stomach that day. Why take the risk?

Needless to say, Trish and I found it necessary to flee and go outside and poke around the teepee. Mind you, this was only a few feet from Plaster Indian. We are daredevils. But before you scroll down, check out how "Indian" we look here. You can totally tell we are Indians. And if you don't know what I mean by that, well then... go away goddamnit, because I shouldn't have to explain myself to you's guys anyway. Shaddup. Hic.

My father would like to cordially welcome you to the Grand Canyon. Step inside!

Someone call the medicine man... looks like this plaster Indian dude had himself a stroke!

Wood hypnotizes me.

Hey, hope you pick a winner! (What else is one to do when one encounters a large metal bull sculpted from metal, pray tell?)

MEANINGLESS QUEST DOT BLOGSPOT has been launched!

Today I created a blog just for my NaNoWriMo novel project! And it turns out I had a synposis of the book-to-be hiding within my brain, too, so I spit that out as the first post. Check it out by clicking here: The Big Meaningless Quest

The whole idea is to spoof the whole Lord of the Rings/ epic fantasy adventure books, from a female perspective, and from a female perspective that happens to be high a lot of the time and "just doesn't care a lot about who wins", she just wants peace and quiet and decent sales of her tobacco products.

I'm kind of excited, and I wish it was November 1 right now... but I am a stickler for playing by the rules and not posting a word until then. Wish me luck!

Here's another shot from Brianna and Robert's wedding. I posted this one just for you, Brianna-- so that more of your dress is visible. For anyone not "in the know" already, Brianna designed and then sewed her own wedding gown. It was an off-white brushed satin, with a purple tulle underlay. Trish handpainted some purple swirls around the edges of the dress. The total cost was proportedly only about $80. VERY cool, indeed. I never did see the point of spending hundreds or even worse, thousands on a dress. I know it's your wedding day; I know it's special and important, but I fail to see the logic of spending that kind of cash for a dress. Well, Brianna, the point is-- you did an awesome job, you did it right, and your Dad was so adorable walking you down the aisle to the "Ice Dance Suite" from Edward Scissorhands-- I think it was right at this pictured moment that I started to get choked up. Honestly, your wedding was really great. I love you guys. (Sniff!)

Congratulations, Brianna and Robert! October 15, 2005. (The cutest wedding ever, accompanied by the prettiest sunset ever. Well done.)

I live a few blocks from a seasonal theme park called Arizona's Original Scream Park. I must say... it is very cool to be out walking the dogs on an otherwise beautiful and peaceful evening and being able to hear chainsaws, amplified "hacking" sounds and screams wafting through the evening air.

That's all about THAT. That's really too bad, because I am sure the AZ Original Scream Park is a wonderous place and deserves more than a paragraph about its enticing sounds. But I must share something else. I MUST. Allow me to move on to something that I am incredibly un-PC about when I see it:

Lately, I have been really bothered by those among us who are gender-ambiguous. I have seen too many Pats lately. Yesterday in Souper Salad one was giving me the stink-eye; prolly because I was staring like a motherfucker. The most infamous one is a teenager that lives four doors down in my condo complex. Up until a couple of months ago, I could have sworn this child was a boy. It skateboarded all the time, wore boy clothing and had that shaggy mop of unkempt hair that is all the rage these days. But then it went away for the summer. I don't know WHERE young androgynous types go for the summer-- Camp Maybe-Boy?-- but it arrived back in the complex a couple months back.

Since then, it has been skateboarding aimlessly around the parking lot, spooking my dogs and making a stupid amount of noise because not only does it skateboard a lot, but it doesn't skateboard well, so it bangs into things and falls a lot. Yet, you never see it without the board. It also tends to sit on curbs near the road and watch people drive in and out. It is a weird presence.

Like I said, up until recently I thought it had to be a boy. Never even occurred to me that it could be female. But the thing came back from the summer away with BOOBS. And longer hair.

I wasn't sure for the longest time if I was seeing smallish grrrl boobs or the beginnings of some Hispanic Man-Boobs. (Yes, it is Hispanic; and yes, its male parental unit appears to have Man-Boobs too, so you know it would be genetically pre-disposed to that charming characteristic.) The clothes are definitely boy's clothes, or that masculine chick stuff-- and the hair isn't a dead giveaway because even though it is longer, it still looks mannish. Still, this person sits on the curbs and falls down in the parking lot on a too-frequent basis, for my liking. It sat and watched Greg and I taking pumpkins from the back of my car yesterday with the freakish, sad and dead stare of one totally confused about its gender. It was unnerving, and I wanted to go home. But I was already home. And it lives here.

I cannot escape the Genderless Freak-Child.

Someone please either poison it, or spirit me away, before it gets really creepy looking. It reminds me of this famous poem of yore:

YESTERDAY --I LOOKED ON A DARE--

I SAW A GENDERLESS FREAK WITH LONGISH HAIR

IT WAS OUT THERE AGAIN TODAY

I WISH, I WISH, IT'D STAY AWAY.

I nearly spit out my frosted flakes this morning as I read the book review section in a recent copy of Entertainment Weekly. I know this is the second post in a few days mentioning this magazine, but it's been my main portal into the world outside for awhile now (see the No Tv post below this one for reference), so I have to keep name droppin' it.

Why did I almost spit out corn flaked goodness covered in evil sugar? Well, it's simple, really: CHRIS ELLIOTT HAS A NEW BOOK!

This is HUGE news for me. I love this man. Almost as much as I love Mike Nelson from MST3K, Steve Martin's stuff from the 70s, Bill Murray and the current joys that are Arrested Development and Family Guy. The book is called The Shroud of the Thwacker and it is a take-off of the turn of the century crime novels such as the ones written by Caleb Carr, or stories about Jack the Ripper. The review in EW mentioned the killer leaving a dead prostitute's intestines coiled about her head in a beehive hairdo. If that's not good writing, I don't want to know what is. And I mean that.

Needless to say, this is a got-to-have item, I have got-to-have it.

I've been straightening up my place and reading blogs in between the pitiful tries at cleaning, and I have TV on. And I think I have pinpointed what it is I HATE about TV:

The soundtracks! The music! The pandering to our sentimentality! So...umm...grr, what is the word?! STUPID. Yeah, stupid!

First, tonight, as I cooked dinner, I had on "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." First of all what is the problem with that asshole Ty? So loud, so coifed and so fucking annoying. When they had the host auditions, someone actually said, "Oh, my sweet GOD, call Cheryl* in here... this guy's GOT IT! Let's see if he will accept this hosting gig, for we believe he has the charm and personality to rope in a LOT of gullible Americans. Oh, and he has a certain smarmy and parasitic handsomeness to him, which is what the LADIES will go for. And you know those ladies in middle America! They love guys on a megaphone. Can get enough of 'em. Hire this actor. Let's Ty one on. Oooh...One more thing, Cheryl, call marketing and see if we can use that--'Ty One On'-- in our promos. That's good, that's REAL good. I think we have a winner here. Yes. We do. Now. Someone get me a blowjob from a young boy, WHEW!!"

(*PS: No idea who this Cheryl is. Run along, Sid.)

I don't watch a lot of this stuff, so I am sure other people have bitched about this prickly little Ty on blogs before, but damn, it really got to me tonight. I wasn't watching, but I was listening from the kitchen and I HATED the stupid piano-y music they played and I heard an audible sniffle as some woman said something along the lines of "...and you know, THIS is why we do this. It's for these kids. These kids are...SNIFF... angels!" Cue super-sentimental music.

At last, relief. As I ate, I watched an episode of Northern Exposure from my season 3 DVDs. But it couldn't last forever. I turned off the DVD and left the TV on as I began to do the dishes and stuff.

It turns out, "Grey's Anatomy" was on. Again, I didn't do much watching since I was busy, but I heard it. From my limited sensory experience, the whole show seemed to be a bunch of mumbling actors with that retarded "Dum-DUM! Dum-DUM-DUM!" music--I would guess it's some sort of string-section disaster, perhaps synthesized, but I have no fucking clue, really-- going the whole time. I was getting an impression that whatever was happening on screen was supposed to be whimsical and charming at times, with an occassional switchover to "dramatic." And then... and THEN... they started in with some emo-sounding, whiny girl shit music. I was in the other room so I have no idea what was happening on screen, but it sounded god-awful. I noted that the music drowned out any and all real dialogue. This is a phenomenon I have also noted on UPN and WB shows; when they are working extra hard to showcase some crappy new "alternative" band, usually a band that features one of more of those guys with the faux-mohawk trendy haircut and ironic glasses. You can't hear the pretty actors over the music. Terrible! Why, how will I ever know what the fuck Mischa Barton is emoting about with her skinny ass and her old lady clothes with all this... "music" playing?! Tragic, I tell ya.

Yes, I don't like the TV much. I realized how much this is true several months ago, when my semi-free cable ran out. I pay for cable, but I only get 23 channels. I honestly don't miss it. I sometimes miss being able to watch Comedy Central, Cartoon Network, Animal Planet or VH-1. But it hasn't been enough to pay for it. Weird how that works. The only time I miss having cable is when people come over. I feel bad that there are no true options for visitors who want to channel surf. My Dad and his wife were reduced to watching the public access channel and hear about xeroscape landscaping options in the Sonoran Desert during their visit. When Greg comes over, there is no quick checking of ESPN for Iowa State scores while I am in the bathroom. I feel a little bad about it... but then we just go out and do something and the guilt is gone.

Anyway, I don't intend to sound like a self-righteous asshole who is better than everyone else just because I don't watch a lot of TV. Nah. I just can't believe the awful, atrocious and flaming shit that passes for standard programming these days. I think I am sticking to watching DVDs, or silence, and this is just my personal choice. Shove me or leave me.

Wow! I recently read an article in Entertainment Weekly about Elizabethtown, and thought to myself that the very tone of the article seemed to be compensatory; like the author knew in his or her heart that the movie sucked, or would suck, but yet was trying really hard to make it sound like it was gonna be the next Say Anything.

(Which, OK, I gotta admit-- that movie never grabbed me. The soundtrack, yes. The character of Lloyd Dobler, yes. The move itself? ...Hell no. Not sure why, it just didn't pan out for me. So I guess I hereby revoke my memerbship in the Generation X School of Classic Movies.) Speaking of Lloyd Dobler-types this is a humorous little riff on "those type of guys": Whimpsters.

So it was highly entertaining to read this review in today's Arizona Republic about how bad the movie is. Check it out here.

In other news, I have decided after much "hemmin' and hawin'" to sign up for National Novel Writing Month. Starting November 1st I have to write a 50,000 word novel. Georgia has been extolling the benefits of such a forced-writing event, and I have finally heard through the static and noise in my own fictiony-head and jumped on board. Thanks, Georgia! I'll wring your virtual neck later, I'm sure.

This is it! The Weekend of Two Weddings! On Saturday I will be attending Robert and Brianna's wedding, and then leaving a bit early so I can attend Reed and Tricia's wedding. Not Tricia my sister; it's "some other Tricia." That's about all I know, as I have never met the bride. Greg is in the wedding as a groomsman so I am attending to support him. I have to get work finished here so I can go wrap up some very cool gifts and find some outfit to wear that will sufficiently cover my freakshow-wide ass. You know you have a problem with stress-eating when all your clothes are tight and you lament the sight of "waist wiggles" that appear through your T-shirt material. Oh, man. I so have to get my ass to a gym. And yes, stop with the stress eating. I wonder why it can't be "stress writing." That would be so much better!

I just haven’t been in a blogging mood these days. Well, to be honest, I was first too busy to even consider blogging. My Dad and his wife stayed with me at my place for their weeklong visit, and I spent a lot of that time driving around, eating out, and visiting touristy little shops all over the valley and the state. I slept on an air mattress and kept my essential hair, makeup and skin care stuff in a shoebox in my downstairs bathroom, and because I gave up my bedroom, had to do guerilla-style ambushes on my own closet when I had a minute where I could gain access to my bedroom, to grab clothes, underwear and shoes. It was a strange existence. I remember thinking at one point that I might have cracked a rib from the stress of it all. I now know that stress alone cannot crack a rib, even if stress is presaged by a twisting motion made as one rose to get off of an air mattress in the dark when a knock was heard at the door. My aches and rib-pains were probably just the result of lack of exercise and tons of unhealthy eating. Or something.

Either way, I am glad the visit is over and my life can now return to its regularly scheduled bullshitting.

I had a job crisis recently. It boils down to my employers are not very good at respecting the people who work for them, be it in terms of vacation time or quality of work that you do; and me wondering if I should throw it all away and learn a trade or something.

I started thinking about glass last weekend. What I mean is, windows. Old windows. You know how in older homes and buildings, the glass that was made about 100 years ago was thicker, more textured and often has that cool “wavy” effect? Reinforced with metal and old wood. I imagined learning how to make that type of window, perhaps even art-up some of the windows with some colored glass swirled in or designs made around the frame. I think there’s a market for those types of windows. So many people like that old-look to things, and I think if you had custom windows with cool glass it could be even better. Maybe I can apprentice someone and learn to make old-style windows. Old-style windows with a little color and funkiness thrown in. I would like to learn how to do something not everyone knows how to do these days. Make something unique and artistic, have a workshop studio and wear messy jeans to work everyday, and spend my day shaping and molding hot glass rather than shaping and molding my formerly-hot ass into a shapeless turd-shape that fits heavily into an office “manager’s chair.”

I thought this in Jerome. Anyone who’s been to Jerome, AZ, has probably thought at least once while they were there: “I wouldn’t mind throwing it all away to open a little gallery up here or something.” 99% of the time, you think that and forget it in the space of 3 minutes. Because you need to get back in your car and drive down to Sedona to show that off to the visiting relatives, and you need to buy gas and find a unique-yet-accessible restaurant for lunch… blah, whatever. But Jerome has all the older brick buildings, some very ornate iron and steel work on fences and gates, crumbling stone buildings falling into the scrubby brush on the mountainside, all of it pressed down by impossibly blue, dry skies and the lightest and freshest air ever. It makes you want to be there, and create things with a lot of color and organic materials mixed with things you find in the junkyard, and have an airy workshop that overlooks the sheer drop-off of the mountain.

I am not sure where one goes to study the art of glass and window making; particularly, the old-school look. Since it’s still on my mind about a week later, I am wondering about really investigating the possibility. I think I want a simpler existence in a lot of ways. I want to eat less and sleep more, and have my dogs but no cable TV; I want to get married and have a kid that I can read to and walk in the woods with after a rain. I’d like to be known as the Crazy Window Maker Lady Who Writes Those Weird Books. That would be a great name to be known by. Maybe I could get an old truck to throw my bike –and windows—in. I could finally attempt my secret wish of wanting to build a Snow Ostrich in the winter.

I gotta wonder if it’s all nothing but a simple wish we all have, and if it is really possible to attain. I am just like everyone else, trapped in the corporate machine of credit card debt, the need for health insurance, and carefully logging your PTO hours as you find yourself driving, hollow-eyed, to the nearest strip mall to buy something in Old Navy that you don’t really need, but shopping quiets the boredom-beast for just a little while, damn it, so you go… and the cycle continues in a traffic-clogged, slowly sickening word of too-fast and too-bland. But…

Hell. All that matters is that the “but” is there, at all. I hope to gain the courage and determination to go after that alternative and the maybe of “being a little realer.” I know that’s bad English, but in my world, sometimes bad English embodies some of the more-succinct writing.

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alt="Logical Infiltration and Sabotage Android"
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(Thanks to Cate, who turns out to have a much cooler cyborg identity.)

In honor of my Dad being here for a visit, here is one of my favorite pictures of us. It's weird, but since I was about 4 in this picture, that means he is only 32 years old here. Already with the 'stache (which he doesn't have anymore)! I love the wallpaper and paneling, as well as that homemade cake my Mom made. That's her handwriting, all right. Even in piped frosting, my Mom has a distinct handwriting. Oh, and that's Dobie in the middle. She was supposed to be a watchdog at my Dad's shop, but he couldn't bear to leave her there all night alone so he started bringing her home. I loved her and used to crawl into her doghouse and sit on her, or drape blankets over her and 'tuck her in'. I have my Dad to thank for my crazy love of all things canine. Just tonight, we took Katie to the dog park, in fact. Anyway, I'm glad Dad's here for a visit. And that I was lucky enough to have a dog that huge who would wear a birthday hat once in awhile. All kids need that, I think. And paneling, lots of paneling.

First they got the picture of the elusive giant squid, and now we have THIS!

We've all seen the classic movie. But up until now, seeing a real Maltese Falcon in the wild was a rare thing, indeed. As luck would have it, Greg is a skilled bird-watcher and he spotted this tonight. He was wise enough to snap a picture of it before it took flight, where it flew to a nearby school and slaughtered a room full of kindergartners. Luckily Greg carries a large tarp with him everywhere he goes-- he usually does this in case he encounters a wild Gallagher in the forest, but it also comes in handy during Maltese Falcon bloodbaths. Rest assured-- you do NOT need to worry yourself about this Greg fellow.

Returning to the creature at hand: These things are deadly, malicious, mercurial... and goddamn adorable. However! Don't make the mistake of looking one of them in the eye-- they take it as a sign of aggression and will attack without mercy and with all the fury of a thousand unleashed hellhounds. Flying, soft-haired and be-hairclipped hellhounds. Your death will not come quickly enough.

Eeek.

(Good work on this photo, G.)

If there was a church that worshipped my sister, AND beef jerky... this is what I think the stained glass window would look like.

Look, I don't mean to be a bitch, but I have noticed a huge upswing in Breast Cancer Awareness this year, and it is making me annoyed.

What I mean is, there are so many things for sale to promote Breast Cancer Awareness Month that I want to puke. Here's the thing: I am aware of breast cancer, sure. But it isn't because M&Ms put out a bag of all-pink M&Ms, or that KitchenAid has a pink mixer for sale (although I have to admit that is one pretty fuckin' mixer)... or even worse, that Basha's grocery stores are selling ugly quilted totes with the signature pink ribbon worked into its tacky design. I am aware of breast cancer because I read a lot, I am interested in my own health and I go to a doctor. That's how I am aware. I really don't need to purchase "things" so that a few pennies on my dollar will go to some ubiquitous campaign to make women more aware and to promote research.

I'm not making light of breast cancer. I just wish we weren't constantly harassed by companies who are disguising their desire to make a cheap buck off of women under the guise of "awareness."

However. I DO still giggle when I see those pamphlets with the cartoon lady in the shower checking her breasts in a circular motion. "Ha ha, she's touchin her boobies! Dur!" That is something I will never get tired of. Or quoting the neighbor in Office Space who yells to Peter that the breast exam is on TV. So, feel free to keep publishing those pamphlets, and airing breast exam shows. The American public needs an immature giggle.

Well, I brought the car in to get the brakes repaired this morning. Standard procedure; they needed to give me new brake pads and new fluid (no rotor work needed). Then I asked for an oil change. They obliged, and changed my oil.
However, I didn't ask them to tear off my driver's side door.
Yet... this is precisely what the repair shop did.

The story is that they had completed the repair and proceded to back it out of the bay so they could park it outside. But the driver's side door was still open, and it hit a huge pile of tires and bent all the way backwards and fell off. "Tommy Boy"-style. ("What did you DO?!")

I had to laugh, because this is the sort of thing that would happen to me just a couple days before my father gets here for a weeklong visit. However, since it was the error of the repair shop, they are paying for me to have the use of a rental car for two weeks while they fix my poor car. I just picked up a Jeep Liberty-- it's pretty nice, and it will do the trick of shuttling the 'fam around while we tour the wonderous state of AZ. But it's not *my* car, ya know? I have a moonroof, and everything just feels right. This car is tall, smells new (unlike a lot of people, I am not too jazzed with the new car smell thing) and it's not that easy to see clearly when you back up. Either way, at least the shop is paying for it, as well as extra insurance. I don't mean to complain too much, really... but I did feel the need to whine just a little, tiny bit.

The picture above was taken on Sept. 11, when my car broke down the last time. The sunbeams shower down like me and the Rav are blessed; when, these days, it feels like we are anything but. My poor sweet Violet (yes, I named my car. Now shut up about it) is injured and I can't wait for her to come back out of the car hospital with a new shiny door. Without dents. That's the good thing about this: the new door should be dentless. I had quite a few dings and dents in that door from being really unskilled at opening my door near columns and other cars. I was thinking of taking the car in to get those things hammered out, or sucked out, or whatever they do with dents in car doors nowadays, but now I don't have to pay for the removal of dents. Maybe the good lord was shining down on me, after all. Interesting.

Yesterday was an excellent day for mail. Not only did I receive another CMJ Magazine (I cancelled my subscription over a year ago, and recently I started receiving issues again even though I have paid no bill to legitimately do so), but I got 2 items of the 3 I had ordered from Amazon last week.

The first was Oingo Boingo's Dead Man's Party album-- I really needed this one, since I had it on cassette and it broke in my tape player. And I have been dying to hear "Just Another Day" for whatever reason. I am listening to this song right now as a matter of fact! Somewhere, Robert and Brianna are smiling. :)

The second CD was Polaris-- Music from the Adventures of Pete & Pete. I put it on last night when Greg was here and we were pleased with the sound. They are a garage band all the way, but it's fun stuff. I bought it because I was looking on Amazon for proof that Pete & Pete was on DVD (which it is), but there were some promising reviews posted there as well. One reviewer deemed this a "perfect autumn album" and that was just what I wanted to hear. Oingo Boingo is very autumn for me, too-- so to get the two CDs on one day was pretty great.

Now if it would just feel like autumn. I am jonesing for Macintosh apples, wearing a sweater and crunchy dead leaves. All I have here is a high of 95 today, with a chance of "some clouds." No rain. Just "clouds."

Nipsey Russell died. I feel bad about that; I heard he was a cool guy. Truthfully, I have no idea who he was. But I really LOVED his name. Nipsey Russell is an amazing name.

I think the two posts I put up here yesterday are some of the worst I have ever posted here. Meaningless! And the photos are terrible, too. Who the hell wants to see pictures of my washing machine? And the crap on the wall of my bathroom? What depraved levels of self-expression has this blog sunken to? Oh, my.

That being said, I have nothing of interest to say today. It's been a day where my mind is curiously quiet. I haven't taken any drugs or substances that would alter my awareness; I don't feel depressed or anxious; and I haven't been told anything interesting that would make me wake up and get interested in a subject of any kind. It's weird, today. I am definitely more on the "happy" end of the spectrum, but other than that I feel a little emotionless. It's probably because I haven't seen or read anything funny today. NOTHING! The closest thing to funny was when I was in Lowe's on my lunch hour, getting a spare key made. I saw a woman in a minivan ordering around a teenage-looking worker from the Garden Center-- she was telling him how to load the 18 or so buckets of roses she was buying into the car so as to not spill dirt on her rugs. I overheard her say, "Nah, don't TIP'em! No, just put it in straight!" She was also smoking at the time. Dangling it from her lip. She looked like such an asshole.

At least the workday is almost over. I just spent the past couple of hours playing around on the internet, looking for humor or fascinating news of some sort, and writing a long "manifesto" to myself about how to prevent shin splints. (Is THAT funny? It could be funny.) Basically, the point of my manifesto is to shame myself, upon re-reading the manifesto, into boosting my pre-workout stretching routine. Because the amount of stretching I had been doing prior to this was exactly no stretching, which is a LOT of not-stretching. It's the highest amount of not-stretching one person can possibly do-- exactly no stretching. Yes, we are talking "exacts", people. Another area of the manifesto makes explicit mention of "not walking too fast on the first part of the walk; don't let Katie lead."
I always walk with her, and she tends to pull like a maniac for the majority of our walk around my cute little neighborhood. At one point on our route, she likes to hop up and walk in this adorable little balanced manner on the top of a small brick wall that runs alongside the park. She walks faster when she is up there, so I walk faster-- plus it is uphill, and it happens to be in the first 2 minutes of our walk. This combination of not-stretching and pushing myself to keep up with a spastic dog is a perfect recipe for that time-honored classic repetitive-motion injury, SHIN SPLINTS! Yessss. So much fun. And so effective at making me lose my enthusiasm for working out. Pain will do that to a person.

Well, between the non-emotions and the shin splint manifesto, I have a lot of amazing and cunning things to share with the world. Times like this are times when someone should just forcefully take the blog away from me.

This is what happens when you wash your blanket and you THINK you have put enough additional laundry into the machine so the load is balanced...but the load is in fact, NOT balanced at all, and the machine makes ungodly squeals and screams as it lurches out from its place against the wall and makes its way out into your kitchen. Which is a place it has no business being. Damn it, look at all that dog food and toilet paper. I have to get busy using that shit. I'll start with the tp. On to the bathroom, then!

These guys live in my bathroom-- Skull Pezzie, Collapsing Robot Guy, and Viking Duck in Pink.

Go see "Serenity."

I think it's the best movie I have seen since-- well, a really long time. Sure, it's probably not everyone's cup of tea, what with the space setting, the fights and other sci-fi/geekish barriers...but trust me on this one. The writing is sharp, fun, and knows the right moment to suckerpunch you. SO much fun. So emotional, too. Just great. Popcorn movies should always be this fun. I had happy-tears. Happy-tears are really neat.

I couldn't be more in love with Joss Whedon. Sigh. (And just so everyone's clear on what good stock he is from-- his dad, Tom Whedon, was a writer on another of the best shows ever written-- The Golden Girls. This one family is responsible for Rose Nyland AND William the Bloody. Someone fire the Bush family from whatever it is they are doing, because we need the Whedons to be our new white-guy American royalty.)

Well. Off to bed.

Tomorrow's a busy day. I have to buy an air mattress and exchange some darts. I broke a bunch of Greg's darts and so I bought replacement darts last weekend. Only problem was I was too stupid to look closely and realize I was purchasing soft-tip darts and not real darts. This will be my first Wal-Mart return, so wish me luck. The excitement is palpable.

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.

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.")

I'm glad they sentenced that soldier-female-person, Lynndie England, to 3 years in prison for what she did to those prisoners.

She was way too ugly to be on the outside.

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.

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.

# #

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!

Under Thomas Road. This is a nice spot to stop and think. I stopped. I did not think.

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.

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.

"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!

Momsy, Daddums, we're hungry. An' poor Shadow here, he hasn't had a scrap in ages!

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.)

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.

"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!"

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!