Wednesday I am going home. I think it has been almost five years. I also think that the only time I have written in my blog is when I leave town. Well, this time and then the last time. Okay, twice.
Oh, Connecticut. Do you miss me?
Dear Web Log,
how are you? I can't believe how long it's been since I last wrote to you. Almost a month! Time seems to go faster as I age.
What have you been up to? I've been so busy with school and my internship. I meant to check in on you but you know how that goes. If it's not one thing, it's another.
I'm just checking flights to NYC while I wait for friends to figure out what's going on for tonight and for Denver's illustrious own Oktoberfest. One can't go wrong with an eight dollar bratwurst--or can one?
Maybe I'll see you around. You should come downtown with us sometime--it would do you good to get out once in a while.
I am addicted to the sauna at the gym. All of the toxins--gone! The smells of the wood and heat remind me of being a kid. Every year my family would go to Killington to ski. The house we always stayed in had a sauna. After a day of skiing, I would retreat to the sauna for as long as I could until my mom ordered me out. ('You're going to melt in there!')
Anyway, I love the sauna. Save for the sweaty men. And the ladies who insist on doing yoga inside. I'd like it better without them.
: 1:36 PM
I have been up since 4 am. The satellite is wacked out and I don't feel like turning the alarm off so that I can climb onto the roof and readjust the satellite (see: last Saturday's thunderstorm; Dish network's inability to send anyone out until next Sunday to readjust satellite). Plus I would just get sucked into the Lifetime Movie Network. Which isn't bad, per se, it just removes any hope of returning back to bed because I would be riveted to the drama of Kellie Martin, the passion of Lynda Carter or the schemes of Nicolette Sheridan for two solid hours. Anyway, here I am, redesigning my web site. I think I am finished. I may go back to bed. Or watch Pride & Prejudice. A solid 5 hour committment.
Nobody doesn't like monkeys.
On an unrelated note, I went to the gym last night. After two hours of strength and endurance training (giddyup), I decide to unwind in the sauna. Co-ed, by the way. Ick.
This is why Ick: I walk in and there's some man reading a book off in the far corner of the sauna. Good, I think to self. Man is reading. I can absorb hundreds of degrees in peace.
I lay down. I close eyes. I hear man adjusting himself.
I feel self being sprayed with something that is wet while man utters caveman 'moo boo moo boo' as he shakes himself, a la wet dog. I exclaim 'ew!' as I bolt upright and quickly wipe face and body with towel. Man continues to shake self. I move as far away from man as possible.
Man settles down. Sauna is quiet. Everything settles. I resume sleeping position.
Man shakes self again. Sweat sprays across sauna as I get caught in crossfire. I shriek in horror and turn to man.
'Sir,' I ask, 'You keep hitting me with your sweat. Do you want to be alone?'
'Does it BOTHER you that I hit you with my sweat?' man asks in offense.
'Um, no, I guess not,' I answer meekly, 'I just thought maybe you wanted to be alone in here to exercise or something.'
'No,' man answers.
Sauna settles. Man leaves sauna. I leave one song after man has left.
Upon leaving the gym, I relay story to Keith at front desk who assures me that sweat spraying is not common male practice and I should have insisted that man stopped. I warned Keith that if he hears of a girl getting a black eye in the sauna, it was just me, getting sassy.
I just took a message for our CEO today. His secretary isn't in so the call went to me. I wasn't really paying attention because I was reading an email.
Mm hmm, I said. Mm hmm, I said. Not really listening.
Then I hear, 'Well, okay, can you just tell him that I called?'
'I'm sorry,' I say. 'Who did you say you were?'
In other, work-related news, I quit my job. My last day is next week some time. Giddyup because I don't have another job and have little to no plans to find one. I plan on painting, writing, and taking a lot of classes so I can be done with my Master's in December. My plan is parent-sanctioned, even.
Then I don't know what.
I saw The Libertines last night. I love The Libertines. The Libertines are great. Go see them.
: 11:16 AM
Oh dear. I had no idea of our big plans for world domination.
...he [Lawrence Di Rita, a special assistant to Rumsfeld] and other Pentagon officials said, they are studying the lessons of Iraq closely -- to ensure that the next U.S. takeover of a foreign country goes more smoothly.
"We're going to get better over time," promised Lawrence Di Rita, a special assistant to Rumsfeld.
"We've always thought of post-hostilities as a phase" distinct from combat, he said. "The future of war is that these things are going to be much more of a continuum....
"This is the future for the world we're in at the moment," he said.
"We'll get better as we do it more often."
I think we should stop telling George W. that we were wrong to go to war. Dammit, he's going to prove to us that imminent terrorism is a threat if he has to hijack that airplane himself.Let's just let him think we're okay with him--then in the election, we pull the one-two switch. Then he won't be so hell-bent on being heard about how right he is.
When did it become acceptable to display graphic death photos? I'm pretty sure it's still not. I'm pretty sure that it is not okay to show two men, hated or no, at the ending seconds of their life, assaulted and bloody.
But they're our enemies, you say. But we hate them, you say. But they tortured and killed thousands, you say.
I agree that their behavior was awful, despicable, intolerable. However, I remain that it is not okay to release those photos.
My friend was all set to work with a very famous woman in a very famous movie, all contingent on relatively parallel heights. My friend is 5'10". The woman in question is 5'9". It was all ready to go.
Then my friend stood next to the woman in question to discover that the woman in question is actually 5'6".
While an upset that said friend did not secure illustrious job, there is a lesson to be learned.
You can take a beautiful woman, give her an amazing voice, a supportive family, a fabulous body, endless wealth--but wait. She wishes she was taller.
We all want something.
: 2:08 PM
Re: My letter to the drunk guy who harrassed me as I was walking past the Church nightclub's parking lot last week.
I posted my letter on Craig's List. One reader took offense at my letter. So much, in fact, that he thought a threatening, degrading letter to me was an appropriate response to his offense. Sadly, this is an actual reaction to a woman asserting herself in the 21st century.
too bad he didnt just run your dumb self-absorbed 'ooh - as witty as can be' ass over.
next time keep your stupid shit to yourself, bitch. or better yet - bring it, you versus the car - i bet that make CL best of, and it wont be because people cant believe how stupid you are so they hit the button to show all.
---end of message.
Just taking a moment out of research to profess, once again, my disdain for the command to 'smile!'
Here I am, working hard, concentrating, deep in freaking thought. A co-worker walks by, says Good Morning, Rebecca! How are you?
Busy, I answer, hoping to dissuade her from further conversation.
Well, so am I, she replies as she flashes me a deliberate grin, but at least I can smile!
Here's the thing: when I am in a good mood, I smile all of the time. People for miles remark on my smile and its welcome. Children cry to be near me, just to absorb some of my dental glow.
So fuck off, co-worker, because I smile enough to collect, save, and trade off for days when I am lost in thought and don't have time to pick my head up and beam at your passing.
I saw the Hulk last night.
I liked that Danny Elfman did the music for it.
I liked that Stan Lee and Lou Ferrigno had cameos.
I liked the direction. A lot.
I liked all of the action scenes.
I liked the way the movie ended.
I did not like that the Hulk was fed up with being the Hulk after a mere three appearances.
I did not like that Jennifer Connelly was an alleged brilliant scientist yet was helpless and dimwitted when it came to acting on her own accord.
I did not like that Jennifer Connelly was passionless in telling Bruce Banner that he was a passionless guy and she was fed up.
I did not like the poorly unraveled yet oft-alluded to rocky relationship between Jennifer Connelly and her dad.
I did not like the babies sitting in the rows behind me that kept crying during every scene of consequence.
I did not like that parents are slow to bring their crying babies out of the theater when there is a chance said parent may miss a scene of consequence.
I watched a short film on Eli Whitney with my parents last night. Weird. I learned that, around 1890, Eli Whitney pioneered the concept of mass production. He mass produced a musket like nobody's business.
Eli Whitney: More than just the cotton gin.
Nice that it's forty degrees today. Um, M. Nature? It's summer.
I'm going to see the Hulk tonight. I can't wait. I hope I love it.
Dear Driver of White Volvo Stationwagon Parked in Front of the Church Nightclub in Denver on Saturday Night:
I never formally introduced myself. I was so concerned with my personal safety that I wasn't able to tell you how much I wanted to punch you in the throat. I never got the chance to tell you what an embarrassment to humanity you are.
I appreciate your concerns in life. After all, I was walking on the sidewalk that your car was hovering over. Your car's presence did force me to reroute my steps. That may have entitled you to a simple, 'I'm sorry for blocking the entire sidewalk. I don't know what I was thinking.' That would have sufficed.
I am pretty sure that, 'What are you looking at, bitch?' was not the appropriate response to my crossing in front of your car. I know, I know, you had a young girl in your car and you wanted to impress her. I was surprised to see your companion laughing at my expense.
I can't promise that were I in a similar situation, I would laugh at my male companion harrassing a strange female and calling her a bitch. I am pretty sure I wouldn't laugh at all. You must possess some amazing charm.
That charm was further demonstrated when you continued to shout at me. 'Just keep on walking, slut!' was especially poignant. I admire your ability to pass judgement on a girl wearing an ankle-length skirt. Clever.
I think I realized the breadth of your charm when two men tried to calm you down. 'Get in the car,' they requested. 'She started it!' you protested. Mmm. I started it. I did, after all, walk in front of your car. If that's not grounds for verbal assault, then hell, I don't know what is.
It was good that you drove away when you did. Obviously at the height of your inebriation, it's always a good idea to operate a vehicle when you can do the most damage. Lucky for you, you drive the world's safest car--you should be all set. Good thinking, ace.
I guess I am most disappointed in my complicity. I was too sober to think quickly. Had I consumed a drink or five, I would have had the good sense to spit on your car, tell you how ashamed for you I was, and heck--I would have even taken a black-eye for the team just to see the number of men that would have jumped into the fight to kick your ass.
What am I saying--I could have kicked your ass. Regrets, I've had a few. Perhaps we'll meet again.
The Tall Blond Girl Who Walked in Front of Your Car
Eli Whitney entered our discussion last night. We all know him as the inventor of the cotton gin. Thanks to our fifth grade teachers, that won't be quickly forgotten. Naturally, we were led to question what use the knowledge has ever given us.
How has knowing who invented the cotton gin ever helped us?
Who was Eli Whitney, really?
Wait a minute. Wait a minute.
You knowingly allow child molestors to continue working with children, you transfer molestors to new jobs without informing new employers of said molesting history and you hit and kill a pedestrian, drive away and then deny it?
: 10:54 AM
The Hulk movie comes out this weekend.
The first bike I remember getting was a green and purple plastic tricycle. Sure, you might think that a three year-old girl wants something pink and flowery.
Not when she can cruise around in her Hulkmobile, growling and roaring at everything in her path.
And my mom wonders why I am who I am.
I had a talk with my dad yesterday about what I'm planning to do with my life. Our discussion began with my dad saying:
You know, you're not getting any younger.
Dad, look on bright side, I offered. I could be married to an abusive drunk with three screaming kids and an addiction to pain pills.
After a lengthy discussion, we agreed that it was my best interest to continue school. Advantage: even. My dad can proudly announce that his daughter has her doctorate, all the while I get to put off deciding what I'm going to do for another year or two.
I was telling Christine yesterday how much I love drama. I think I learned how to react to situations from watching soap operas as a child.
Today I am sick. The problem is that I can't just be sick and be a trooper and smile through my discomfort. Oh no. I'm not just sick. I am the sickest I have ever been in my life, I am convinced.
I woke up this morning with a horrible fever. I'm dying, I think to self. Barely able to talk, form coherent thoughts or walk without wavering back and forth, I long for my bed, soothing music and an attractive young European man to feed me peeled grapes and Chlortrimeton. Nobody knows the troubles I've seen, I think to self.
Enter: my life, the soap opera. Dramatic hand to my feverish forehead, I promise my fans that I will try my best to get through the day. If you see me lose consciousness and collapse, I warn, be sure to tell the hospital that I'm allergic to avocados.
You know, just in case.
I joined Friendster. I am going make friends online. Giddyup
Last night, Janine was showing my parents some yoga moves. Janine said that yoga will center them and give them peace. My dad put his arm around my mom and said: this is what centers me and gives me peace.
My parents rock.
They're not trying to jury-rig their way into charging us for email and information exchanges, oh no.
Those government kids are so afraid of this crazy Internet--allowing us access to information regardless of our wealth or class. Gasp.
They will find a way to regulate. All in the name of Spam.
: 2:31 PM
I went roller skating this weekend. Memories of junior high flooded my mind as I found myself--once again--awkward and uncoordinated. All in all, it was loads of fun and my head only hurts a little today from when I fell and bashed my skull against the shiny waxed floor.
Last night, Janine and I went out to play trivia. Imagine our vexation upon spotting Janine's nemesis at a nearby table, replete with his sugar-coated grin and a smug appoinment for vengeance. He sees us and we know the game has begun. Our only goal is to beat his team, his smarmy know-it-all team.
Did we ever! Our team of two, Better Late Than Pregnant, came in first--winning us a seventy-five dollar gift certificate to the bar and bragging rights for at least one month.
don't think I forgot, let you slide.
let me ride, just another homicide...
Compton and Long Beach together on this m*therf*cker.
: 11:53 AM
We regret to inform you that we cannot help you with your tribal warfare. There's really little at stake for our country and as you are so far away and pose so little threat to our own safety, we're going to let France take the lead on this one. If only you had oil: we'd be more than willing to lend a hand.
As you may recall from Rwanda back in 1994, we prefer to wait until your casualties number in the hundreds of thousands. Quite frankly, five hundred casualties are little more than a common cold. Let's wait until your situation resembles an epidemic.
Maybe during your next mass genocide? Let's talk then.
The United States of America
Land of the Free
If It Ain't Attached To A Tank, We Don't Want It
A headline in today's Rocky Mountain News:
Cheese More Than Just Topping For Pizza
What? Where? How? Why wasn't I called? I can--gasp--use cheese for more than just pizza? Sakes alive, next think you know, that jewel of a newspaper is going to be telling me that I can do more with eggs than throw them at people on my list of people to throw eggs at.
My bus driver is not on that list. I have a little kid crush on my bus driver. I got on the bus this morning and he said,
'hello stranger! long time no see!'
Taking the bus to work in the morning is much more interesting than driving my car. I get to socialize, observe, relax with a book and a latte. I smile more when I ride the bus.
When I drive, I find myself glaring and swearing at whomever dares to get in my way: thirty-five minutes of slowpokes, morons and potholes. While sour and angry by the time I arrive at work, driving myself does offer ninety extra minutes of glorious morning sleep.
Therein lies the rub.
While in college, I lived in the city of Willimantic. With more Victorian houses per capita than San Francisco and a wide-scale resurgence in the arts, music and poetry, Willimantic has undeniable charm. It's also known as the heroin capital of Connecticut.
To promote tourism, residents have been dressing up like frogs and passing out candy and travel brochures throughout the East.
Come see our frog bridge and thread mills, they encourage.
Enter, my favorite quote from the article mentioning said tactics:
York wants people in other communities to know that Willimantic has a lot more to offer than a reputation for heroin trafficking and prostitution.
I've never been one to follow rules. Protocol doesn't apply to me, I've always thought. I'd rather do things my own way. Occasional offenses aside, my way has always worked out for me.
So why do I get so annoyed when someone else can't obey simple rules of traffic, grammar or spelling?
It drives me crazy when a car doesn't heed its appropriate right of way. Keep up with the posted speed limit and please, for the love of all that is good, take those freaking beanie babies out of the back window of your car. The open road is not the time to assert your quirks while you hinder your driving vision.
I shudder when someone overlooks the difference between a semi-colon and a colon or has no idea that one exclamation point is just as effective as four of them. The excitement of a statement does not grow exponentially with the amount of punctuation marks ending the thought.
Don't even get me started on spelling. To, too, two--recognize that there is a working difference. The power of your word is lost on me when it is spelled wrong.
Imagine my disdain at the email I received yesterday afternoon:
you know that old story about the one who throws the first stone? its the one who has never made a mistake before.. or a bad decision....
you could have just not e-mailed me back...
and if you think that i feel in any way good right now.. you are wrong...
but that is probably what you want...
i wish you well...
Never mind the content. It's just a guy who is angry because I called him out on his devastingly offensive behavior toward a friend last week. In any event, I couldn't even absorb the meaning of his message as I was distracted by all those damned ellipses. Improperly used ellipses, I might add.
Ellipses are three spaced dots, used to indicate that part of a quotation has been omitted. They are not used to connect thoughts. Ellipses are not the lazy man's transitional phrase.
Come on, America. Get it together.
DeVotchka played at the Bluebird Theatre in Denver last Friday night. I can barely describe the involuntary euphoria I felt throughout the show. There were times when the combination of words and music caused blissful tears. Colorado-based and named from A Clockwork Orange, DeVotchka is comprised of four very talented, very versatile musicians.
The show began with the lights dimmed and two powerful trumpets pulsating off the balcony above the audience. Evoking silence and chills throughout the crowd, the trumpets sounded off while an upright bass and a violin played on-stage. As the group finally joined together, the instruments were replaced with an accordian, a sousaphone, drums, a harmonica and a guitar.
With lyrics in English, the band produces a vaguely-Latin-esque musical sound, blended with both Russian Folk and Middle Eastern Arabesque melodies. Pair the impeccable harmony with the 1950s-esque croonings of the sexy lead singer and you have a stunningly unforgettable performance.
[DeVotcka is: Nick Urata--Vocals, Guitar, Trumpet; Tom Hagerman--Violin, Accordian; Jeanie Schroder--Sousaphone, Upright Bass; Shawn King--Drums, Trumpet]
I think I want Colin Powell to be our president. A strong, sensible well-spoken leader. I think we should demand his presence in the next election. Can he switch to the Independent ticket? He knows what is what.
He may not have a Presidential Ego but he his sense of dignity, morality and clarity are enough for me
: 12:56 PM
My high school's ten year reunion is this August. I don't know that I want to go. For what? To score one for victory at the expense of all the girls that got really fat with seventeen babies and a drunk, unfaithful husband? To feel better about myself because I didn't wind up that way? To be hit on by a bunch of lame almost-30-year old men in whom I wasn't interested ten years ago and assuredly won't be now? To laugh at everyone with the friends I still talk to? Okay, okay, so that's the real reason for going. How awful.
I told Stephanie that I would only go if I can get really drunk and swear a lot.
Janine and I went out for a drink on Sunday.
I ordered my usual: vodka tonic with a lime:
waitress: what kind of vodka do you want?
me: well is fine.
waitress: you don't want a particular kind of vodka?
me: no, well is fine.
waitress: you don't want Smirnoff?
me: isn't it more expensive?
waitress: yes, but only 25 cents more.
me: no, really. well is fine.
waitress: okay. i need to see some id.
[i hand her my license. she examines it.]
waitress: hey, we have the same birthday.
me: yeah, but you were born in 1981 or something, weren't you?
me: same thing.
[waitress walks away.]
janine: how did you know she was so young? she looks older than us.
me: because she was convinced that spending 25 cents more for crappy Smirnoff vodka is worth it.
me: if i ask for well, it's because i want well. if i want to pay for vodka, i'll ask for Grey Goose.
janine: good point.
I watched the Bachelor last night. My first ever complete viewing of a reality show, save for The Real World circa Puck. It was gut-wrenching, that final episode was. We were rooting for the nice girl, the girl we could all be friends with. We hissed and booed when that mean old Kirsten entered the scene. If she wins, we told each other, it means we have lost. If that guy, seemingly stable and sweet, picks the spite-filled and catty yet gold-digging primadonna, it means that there is no hope for any of us. It means our years of efforts to be sweet and considerate, educated and well-spoken--that all means nothing. Because we will lose.
Luckily, our television hero did pick the girl on our team, after many a suspense-filled commercial break.
Also to note that since this is a reality show I know something about, I can contribute something to office conversation. Usually I just duck my head and mutter something about not watching television. Not today.
Today I can begin a conversation with, 'Did you see the Bachelor last night? I thought I was going to throw up when it looked like Jen was going to lose!'
Naturally, lively conversation ensues. Finally, since the time when the New Kids were hanging tough, I understand what it's like to be part of popular culture. Giddyup.
: 12:59 PM
Admire our newly colored twenty dollar bill. Are we trying to one-up Europe? That's their thing, not ours.
Countdown to statistics final continues. Imagine me, trying not to collapse from angst. Reviewing everything from the beginning, avoiding all distractions, study, study, study and... nothing. Still not there. Am destined to be a statistics moron. I don't need you or anybody. Stupid statistics. You're nothing to me.
Ha. Give monkeys the chance and they will tell you what is what. They're not going to waste their time on Shakespeare. They'll get down to business.
Recent phone call from dear East Coast cousin vacationing in sunny Las Vegas:
Jenni: Becky, the thing is, the thing is... are you near Adams County?
me: um, I think so. Why?
Jenni: There are tornadoes touching down there. They're headed to Denver.
me: okay. the sky is pretty gray.
Jenni: okay. I'm in Las Vegas. I thought you should know about the tornadoes.
Update: coworkers inform me that we are in Adams County. these tornadoes are buzz of office talk this afternoon.
Update: thunder is shaking building.
: 1:30 PM
Today's Morning Radio Surprise Song:
Down by the water.
come back here and give me my daughter...
The note from my landlord/houseowner last night read: We're getting satellite television tomorrow! I know you don't watch a lot of television... Over 200 channels!
My note back read: I am going to start watching a lot of television now.
Today's Morning Radio Surprise Song:
Rabbit in Your Headlights by u.n.k.l.e.
Performed by Thom Yorke.
fat bloody fingers are sucking your soul away...
This morning saw the continuation of my marathon initiative. Am working toward consistent six minute miles. Am close. Can feel it.
[ed. note: Shawnna has just reported to me that my dream of six minute miles is not as easy as two consecutive weeks at the gym. that can't be so, i insist.]
Today's Morning Radio Surprise Song:
The Whores Hustle and The Hustlers Whore.
Today's Greatest Annoyance: People repeatedly ordering me to 'Smile!' Why do I need to smile so you feel better? What if I want to frown? What, I can't frown?
Why Being Told to Smile Bugs the Heck Out of Me by Rebecca:
P.S. If you tell me to smile and I don't want to, don't challenge it. I've obviously decided I don't want my facial expressions to be commanded and don't want to hear, 'But you're such a pretty girl when you smile!' What the fuck.
After I got back from the gym this morning, I thought I'd see what early morning television had to offer. Mtv had its 21st century edition of Yo! mtv raps or something so I gave that a watch for three or six minutes. Imagine my surprise at the junk being offered our youth at six in the morning. It was awful!
There was this horrifying Jennifer Lopez video, filmed under the guise of an audition, which of course gives her an opportunity to prance around Jennifer Beals circa Flashdance style in a leotard and little else. Occasionally wet. Of course.
Then there was this astoundingly bad video in which three or four very attractive women stand in front of a Las Vegas-style sign lit by lightbulbs, reading DAMN. Cue to the rapper, who would say a word or two. Scroll back to the ladies, who harmonize Damn, then rapper repeats Damn, then ladies say Damn again.
The one morning's redemption was a great song called something like I Can by somebody big but I can't recall who. Not Nelly. Oh! Nas! It was all motivating and telling girls not to dress slutty and telling youths they can be anything and not to do drugs and remember: Africa was once ruled by kings. Africa is where it all started.
I think it's a great trend for rap. Come on, role models. Come out, come out.
If the truth is told, the youth can grow
They learn to survive until they gain control
Nobody says you have to be gangstas, hoes
Read more learn more, change the globe
Ghetto children, do your thing
[ed. note: I see that this video has been released for over two months. Um, I should really try to watch Mtv more often.]
Happy birthday to me.
Every year, I vow to be a beacon of hush on my birthday. I'm not going to tell anyone it's my birthday, I think to myself. I imagine that three weeks from now, someone finds out that my birthday was three weeks ago and exclaims in surprise, "You Didn't Tell Us It Was Your Birthday!" Mystery will surround me.
It never works though.
This morning, the first question posed to me is "Rebecca, why are you so tired this morning?"
um, out late last night, i answer.
"Rebecca, you need sleep. You still haven't adjusted to the time change. What are you doing going out? You're going to make yourself sick!"
um, I answer, [thinking: mystery, mystery...] it's My Birthday! [end mystery.]
And then read this: Israeli Troops Kill 12 Palestinians
I'm not saying any of it is fair. Or right. Or makes sense. But jeez, be consistent. The first article is fairly astounding and second article fails to mention in its headline that the Palestinians were 'masked gunmen.'
Down with media slants.
Oh! A new Yahoo article! Israeli Troops Raid Gaza; Infant Among 12 Palestinians Killed
Compare that story to this one: Chicago Tribune Headline Bias.
Oh, that's right. Here's 200 million dollars that will not go to education.
'If it ain't attached to a tank, we don't want it.'
200 million dollars.
My favorite parts from this article, besides (of course) the 200 million dollars George W. Bush will pee away, concern the leading candidates for the Democratic presidential nomination and their apparent inability to serve as serious contenders in the race to the White House:
...a Bush associate described Mr. Edwards [of North Carolina] as the Breck Girl of politics, a reference to the shiny-hair model for a popular shampoo in the 1960's.
Another Bush adviser said of Mr. Kerry [of Massachusetts], 'He looks French.'
Let the games begin.
I think that this guy probably likes to wear women's underwear but is just too embarrassed to buy them. So he steals them. In large quantities.
My favorite thought of the day comes from police investigator Michael Mason:
[He] is not aware of a suspect having this number of potentially stolen panties in his possession before.Found on Obscure Store.
: 6:26 PM
I don't think this is funny. I understand that poking fun at retarded kids could potentially be funny to some, but the authors go about it all wrong. The way it is written brings the dreadful effects of mental retardation to light. It ends up making me a little sad.
: 1:09 PM
What the hell is this guy talking about?
'Our irresponsible friends' in Turkey?
My goodness. Let's just freaking alientate everyone.
'It's bad enough that the Kurds are not receiving the proper affection and gratitude for all they have done to help topple Saddam. The kid glove treatment of a misbehaving alleged ally, Turkey, needs to stop now.'
Oh jeez. Scathing letter to author will soon follow.
There's a kitten stuck atop a telephone pole outside. He's been there for three days. No one will save him as his precarious positioning fifty feet above and directly between power lines far outweighs general human empathy for small animals. Except, of course, in the customer service department. Their department is planning some sort of group effort to coax the cat down. Evidently a gaggle of females trained in customer relations will help the kitten to challenge gravity.
Ooh, news update. The kitten has been rescued. Our neighboring company has a truck with a cherry picker and was able to reach the ill-fated feline. Alas, there was a group of foxes lurking beyond the hill, watching every move. Waiting.
Odds are against our friend the kit.
I'm now watching the aftermath of the performance. The woman is mortified. It was a surprise from her husband. He asked her where she wanted to go for dinner. Her reply: I think I'm just going to drink my dinner tonight.
Mired as we are in our daily complications, it’s refreshing to hear a smiling voice sing you a straight story. Charming and relaxed, the honey-coated sound of Mason Jennings resonates with a breathtaking clarity that, if only for a moment, makes you forget that you might have had something on your mind.
‘I believe if you fall in love,’ Mason sings with convincing sincerity on his latest release, Century Spring, ‘you should jump right in.’ Mason Jennings signals a powerful message of self-determination: Singing, writing and distributing his music with a declared goal of having no regrets, the songs reflect an undauntedly pure life perspective.
Accompanied onstage by Chris Morrissey and Brian Mcloud, you might ask yourself where you can find a similar elixir to afford such healthy precision. Then you’ll hear the band go off on a guitar-laden, Iron-Maiden-esque tangent and remind yourself, Oh! They’re just three guys, in love with life.
Mason Jennings is currently on tour. Check your local music listings and make an effort to be pleasantly surprised.
Fred Gray was the guest speaker at a dinner I was at last night. Listening to his passion about his career renewed my conviction that my dream to make a difference in education is not futile. I can single-handedly affect change--we all can. Fred Gray made a difference as one of our country's most influentual civil rights lawyer.
Fred Gray represented Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr., and the participants of the Tuskegee Syphilis Study. He's currently the first African-American head of the Alabama State Bar Association. His argument for Gomillion v. Lightfoot laid the foundation for the Supreme Court's 'One Man, One Vote' decision, and later evolved into the voting rights acts.Fred Gray began his career with the sole intention to destroy every instance of segregation. One man. One dream. He made a difference.
Fred Gray offered his ideas on how we can destroy segregation in our lives.
Recognize that we really are not diverse. Look into our schools, our jobs, our temples and our churches, our grocery stores and our coffeeshops. See how homogenous our lives really are.
Devise a plan for diversification. If our government can devise a successful program for space travel, he said, then it can make one to effectively diversify, too.
Get to know each other. Talk. Smile. Be open to change. Make a pointed effort to be friendly to the people you encounter throughout your day.
It sounds hopelessly optimistic. So why shouldn't it work?
A friend of mine grew up in Arkansas in the 1950s. She once recalled what it was like getting ice cream in the sweltering summertime. There was a colorful awning and an open walk-up restaurant with kids lined up and laughing and exchanging change for their treats. She had to walk behind the building, where a little window had been cut out of the wall. You knocked on the opening, it slid open, you put your change inside and out came an ice cream. The window closed. Above the window was a sign that read, "Colored."
While instances like this aren't as glaring, we still continue to de facto segregate with our schools, our neighborhoods, and our politics. Get involved.
: 1:16 PM
Sort of related to my beloved constitution state, I had to buy deodorant last night. Deodorant usually lasts me like three years or so because I buy it in bulk from Costco. Consequently, it's been a long time since I had to comparative shop for anti-perspirant. Yesterday, I ran out. Off I went to Walgreens.
I don't know what it's like for men, but women's deodorants have these wacked out scents. They had Glacier Mist. Ocean Breeze. Tropical Satin. It's just like buying Gatorade. I decided on Mystic Rain. Now, thanks to Secret, every day can smell just like home. In the rain.
Came home Friday evening. Debated whether or not to go downtown. Saw that I had a phone message. Checked message. Was Shawnna, telling me she'd be on Law & Order on Friday night. Called her to tell her I was watching show.
Was worth staying in on a Friday night to watch friend on television while talking to her on phone. Will that thrill ever end? I doubt it.
Also in thrill category: Phone rang this morning.
This is Rebecca.
Hi Rebecca. This is Mason Jennings.
Interview to be written after Friday's performance. If you get the chance, send him all of your money. Or just go see his show. His breathtaking talent is worth the twenty dollars.
Finally. Someone besides myself who does not think that Bowling For Columbine was the best thing to happen to American cinema since the freaking Matrix. Which I still haven't seen, for the Keanu factor cannot be overcome.
Movies like that make people who wouldn't ordinarily crack open a book or observe the media critically think they're on to something big. Something revolutionary. But the thoughts have all been handed to them, so the thoughtful, engaging discussion that is guaranteed to ensue is trite and scripted. Or, quoth my brother regarding the Matrix, it makes dumb people think.
thanks Andre, for the link.
The Onion makes me chuckle:
At this difficult time, President Bush needs my support. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld needs my support. General Tommy Franks needs my support. It is not my function as a citizen in a participatory democracy to question our leaders. And to exercise my constitutional right—nay, duty—to do so would be un-American.
Colorado just approved vouchers. If a child is in a failing school, his or her parent can take money from the state and use that money to send the kid to private school. 85% of private schools are parochial, but the Supreme Court says no matter. Church and state remain separated, the Court promises.
But we're not sure that vouchers work, we protest. No matter. Government action is not about what works. It is about what those in power think should happen (see: current international state). And if it doesn't work?
Eh, we tried...
The one tie that inner-city neighborhoods consistently have is education. Minority groups tend to be politically disorganized. Take away education and you've taken away a viable connection. Vouchers remove the cohesion of neighborhood schools by fragmenting the education concerns of the community... keeps those inner-cities quiet.
Continuing our disturbing trend against public education, Colorado is the first state to consider vouchers at the university level. I can't figure out who that would benefit.
: 11:58 AM
I think I know what I am missing in my mornings--a ritual. There's always coffee, but that's more of a dependency rather than a ritual. I need a media ritual.
When I was a kid, I always had the newspaper cartoons. That progressed into Dear Abby and daily horoscopes. Some years, the morning media ritual is just watching/attempting aerobics on the public television station. Other years, it has been a 6am dose of C.Hi.P.S. on TNN. For a while this year, I had a Wall Street Journal dependency. That has lost its thrill as of late.
I need a daily dose of stimulating yet entertaining media. Finding grammatical mistakes in the Denver Post doesn't count. As I put off writing my paper that is due tonight, will try to find a daily media ritual.
Yahoo news borders on a daily ritual. Though inconsistently riveting, is conveniently accessable.
Homeboy's on to something, poignant at best:
War should not be waged on the whole country due to one man.
Iraq is my country and it is called the Republic of Iraq not the Republic of Saddam Hussein.
We talked about the war last night in my policy implementation class. We were asked to leave out our emotions and just talk about policy. How, my professor wanted us to consider, could our president go from his original campaign claim that America should be more subtle in its foreign policy to... well, to this. No one had an answer. I was hoping my professor would. He didn't. I think he--a brilliant mind in policy implementation--is stumped.
Mike Watt is coming to a town near you.
Today is D. Boon's birthday.
If the fact that Mike Watt's a tremendous bass player isn't enough to bring you out to see him, how about the fact that he takes a few days hiatus off his tour at the end of April to play in the first Stooges reunion in 28 years, at the Coachella Festival. Mike Watt is taking the place of the only missing Stooge, Dave Alexander, who died in 1975. Without question, go see him.
Wow, I want to go to Coachella. Dammit! I have to be in Washington D.C. Arg.
I accidentally set my clock ahead an hour when I was setting my alarm last night. I didn't realize that I was an hour early for work until I was driving to work. I played an April fools joke on myself, I guess.
I saw a man get run over on his bike this morning. He was okay.
Saturday, I had a date and we met for a drink and then halfway through his fifth drink after I suggested that this drink might be his last, he confessed to me that he was an alcoholic and by the way, he had been hopped up on ecstasy for the past 25 hours. Great, I said, as I left the club in disappointed annoyance.
On the news last night, there was a map of Iraq and a bunch of arrows, indicating our attack strategy. It was like a football plan. It got me to thinking, hey! We should bring in Jon Gruden to coach this war. Enough already.
'Our philosophy is to do whatever we have to do to win,' he said [Gruden, of his coaching strategy.]
'If we can run the ball every single play and if we feel like a defense is vulnerable, we’ll do that. We like to be versatile, we like to be creative and we like to distribute the ball evenly, get some balance in terms of our attack, a lot of personnel groupings. There are some plays and formations, maybe that we’ll try to mix up on a weekly basis.'
: 12:59 PM
I think having a zillion cats is neat. I think cat colonies are neat. There is nothing creepy to me about having a zillion cats on your cat colony. But dammit, if you are going to have a cat colony, take care of them.
This story makes me sick:
Animal cruelty investigators who entered an elderly couple's motor home near Cortez [Colorado] this week weren't prepared for what they found: more than three dozen starving, sick and feral cats feeding on the carcasses of at least as many dead animals.
'Inside, it was just filthy black, and the stench was overwhelming,' said Cortez animal control officer Lari Ann Pope, who helped rescue the surviving animals Tuesday. 'We had full-grown cats that weighed 2 to 3 pounds, and so many bones piled upon bones that we didn't do an actual count (of dead cats).'
Snow is melting. Ground is slushy mess.
I had a dream last night that my bank really wanted to hire me. I couldn't understand why.
I want to write a script for a creepy movie. I am trying to think of what gives me the creeps:
Birds, of course. That's been done.
Little kids with twisted grown-up minds: Children of the Corn.
I have it: Birds of the Corn. They recruit little kids to do their evil bidding indoors.
Snow Day, Part Three.
Went to work for three minutes. Had to evacuate building on account of roof's collapse. Probably won't work tomorrow, either.
Two more days off. Then the weekend.
Driving to work this morning was dismal.
The roads are deserted and show early signs of flooding... Misplaced trenches, ridges and gaps dot the barely driveable highways and streets. Giant potholes are found in every lane, though most streets are reduced to only one, on account of the snow's piling.
I looked at the damage and thought, wow. This is nothing.
What's happening in Baghdad?
The radio plays war songs from the 80’s non-stop. We know them all by heart. Driving thru Baghdad now singing along to songs saying things like “we will be with you till the day we die Saddam” was suddenly a bit too heavy, no one gave that line too much thought but somehow these days it is sounds sinister. Since last night one of the most played old “patriotic” songs is the song of the youth “al-fituuwa”, it is the code that all fidayeen should join their assigned units. And it is still being played.
A couple of hours earlier we were at a shop and a woman said as she was leaving, and this is a very common sentence, “we’ll see you tomorrow if good keeps us alive” – itha allah khalana taibeen – and the whole place just freezes. She laughed nervously and said she didn’t mean that, and we all laughed but these things start having a meaning beyond being figures of speech.
..the worst is seeing and feeling the city come to a halt. Nothing. No buying, no selling, no people running after buses. We drove home quickly. At least inside it did not feel so sad.
hope for the best ♥ insallah
Snow Day, Part Two.
Amazing how an incapacitating blizzard with consequent collapsed buildings and thousands of power outages can make local news reporters forget for one second about impending war.
Showdown With Saddam is not receiving its usual top billing.
[ed. note: News 4 Colorado, I know that you're television news and not print journalism, but that's little excuse not to remember that it's is only used as a contraction. Its is the possessive you are looking for. Associated Press, you ought to be ashamed...]
waiting for laundry to finish. watching Reality Bites.
1) Story behind your blogs's name:
When I lived in Brentwood and my roommates and I used to fight over the phone bills, Ben discovered we could itemize our bills by assigning calling codes. I came home and he and Greg had already picked out a code for me.
I envisioned something even and palindromey--484 or 2112. Something big. They told me the code they picked reminded them of me.
What number? What number? I asked.
They answered: Seven.
Seven? That's an odd number, I said.
We know, they answered. But it's Lucky. Lucky Seven. Good things always happen to you. You're really lucky. So your number is seven.
Lucky seven. I liked that.
2) Favorite place to be:
On a sailboat, in the sun.
3) Least favorite place to be:
In an aviary.
4) Type a line you remember from any book:
he used the word gamut.
5) A random lyric:
though in reality you were hardly there, in my heart you were everything.
Now you answer some questions and post them as comments. Idle distractions, ahh, how long you make the day...
grr. my veggie sub from Quizno's had guacamole slapped into it. I scraped off most of it and was hungry enough to forget for one second about my allergy to avocados. An hour after lunch, the allergy's coming back to me...
: 3:35 PM
mmm. Quizno's for lunch and a staunch possibility of a snow day tomorrow. What could be better at this moment for me, who is hungry and tired and doesn't want to work? Food and rest rate high on my hierarchy of needs.
As does world peace. What has happened to diplomacy, Señor W? No one will negotiate so you're resorting to brute force? No, no, no. Did you learn nothing from Hulagu Khan? One either negotiates effectively or one strikes sharply. To succeed, one does not do both.
Ladies, ladies, ladies: If you aspire to spinsterdom and need the accompanying cats, take good care of them. When I am a spinster, my cape-wearing fifty cats are going to live large. None of this A.S.P.C.A. craziness.
I think most Americans who support a war against Iraq are in favor only because they think it will stay over there. Bring the war to their front yard and everything changes. How many Americans would support a war--for which the motivations are vague and ill-explained--if it meant that our streets would be torn up, power stopped, buildings demolished, personal safety threatened...
Chris Rock was on Letterman last night. When guest host Will Farrell asked him how he felt about the war against Iraq, Chris replied that a war was when the opponents could fight back. America's not at war with Iraq, he said. America is jumping Iraq.
Today's radio surprise song is Bjork's Headphones:
...it lulls me to sleep, to sleep, to sleep. What a dream.
[Upon discovering the girl], "we took her aside ... she kind of just blurted out, `I know who you think I am. You guys think I'm that Elizabeth Smart girl who ran away,'" [Officer Bill] O'Neal said.Obviously, the girl ran away. Come on--the girl partied with the couple! That's why she could hear her uncle calling for her from 15 feet away but never responded. That's why the teenage girl and alleged kidnappers always looked so comfortable together:
"They were always very pleasant," said Richard Mason, a 45-year-old homeless man. "She didn't seem like she was kidnapped. She acted like she was part of the family."
[ed. note: Nice that the newspaper refers to Richard Mason as a 45-year old homeless man. I'm sure Mr. Mason loves that, after four and a half decades, a 45-year old homeless man becomes his lone descriptor.]
And what about the man originally under suspicion, held in jail for a parole violation--the man who, while in prison, died of brain hemorrhages? You don't just die of a brain hemhorraging, do you? Doesn't your head need to be bashed against the wall, or something equally horrifying? We hear little mention of this man.
I've just returned from a baby shower at the office. Wow, was it boring. Maybe you have to be a mom to appreciate the Precious Moments figurines. I just smiled patiently through all of the gift unwrapping, thinking about the forthcoming chocolate ice cream.
Must everything be passed through the crowd? I get the idea from six feet away; I don't need to hold those infant pajamas in my own hands to grasp their concept. Ooh, the crowd coos in unison. gag.
I want to start my own collectable line. I'll call it Primate Moments. It will feature devastatingly cute yet hopelessly ceramic monkeys, hanging from trees and bassinets and stuff. The Banana Line will feature them eating bananas. It will be a sensation among expectant-mothers and retired ladies alike.
Monkeys are way cuter than those doe-eyed infants, hanging from crosses. Seriously. She got a ceramic baby, hanging from a cross. That's just weird.
Per my brother's request, I have crossed-out this post because, like so many times over again, it makes me sound like a callous bitch. His words.
: 4:34 PM
An excerpt from a blog out of Baghdad, worth a look, saddening yet encouraging all the same:
Life doesn't stand still every time America threatens war. It gets more difficult, true enough, but it goes on- which, by the way, is driving the foreign journalists crazy. They want some action here and seeing people go about their daily lives is just a waste of time and film, it seems.
I love this guy. I know, I know, he's a dictator.
But he declared himself President For Life! He gives his people free water, gas and power.
I think if you must have a dictator (and free speech is of little matter to you), at least Saparmurat keeps things interesting.
I love Mike Watt. He is responsible for this morning's surprise radio song: Liberty Calls. If you don't know who he is, you should learn. This page offers a nice intro to Mike Watt's influence. Or refer to this interview.
I know about Mike Watt because, years ago, my older brother told me that learning about him would make me a better person. He was right. Every once in a while, my brother will give me some specific directions in life. He likes telling me what to do because he knows that I'll listen. He's always right, so why argue with directions that are just intended to make me a better person?
He helped me to stop saying 'like' all the time when I was in middle school. He said that I sounded foolish and to improve my speech, everytime I was going to say 'like', I should instead stop and think about something else to say. To my listeners, it would sound as if I were taking a dramatic pause: Much more powerful than the ubiquitous like filler.
You can imagine my pride last night when I met up with my brother to give him the present I bought for him last weekend. He looked at it and said, in his perfectly timed pacing:
This is the greatest thing that I've ever seen in my life.
Really, I asked.
Yes, he confirmed, I've never seen anything greater than this.
It's my brother's job to keep me cool. It's my job to buy him stuff. I accept that.
I finished the problem set due tonight. Finally.
My advice to a friend on how to move on after a relationship:
It's entirely arbitrary, you know. You have to flirt with the checkout girl a lot and then one day, say, hey, Susie, do you mind being my grocery store girlfriend? It's just for when I'm in your aisle, you'll be my girlfriend. She'll look at you oddly while she mulls it over and then she'll smile as she thinks the idea is pretty neat and say okay.
Voila! You've moved on. Everytime you go grocery shopping, you'll have a girlfriend. You can tell other people you have a girlfriend and feel good knowing that you are not lying about it.
Find a girl that you see everyday, typecast her into some role, and then request that she becomes your girlfriend for this role. Make the girl in the cubicle next to you your cubicle girlfriend. She'll love it.
I'd like to get paid for this.
Incidentally, I have my first exhibit coming up this September. That gives me six months to hype up my paintings and their significance. I'll price my paintings at $500,000 each. If I just sell one, I'm set for a duration. I need to get on this... after I finish my problem set.
: 4:44 PM
I must start my problem set. It's due tomorrow. I've had two weeks. I don't know what is keeping me. I have all of the answers; I just need to check them. Come on woman, I think to myself, get motivated. No, I answer, you've got time. It's not due until tomorrow, I tell myself. Lazy, I answer back.
Foolish anachronisms make me giggle:
Gladiator made one of the most foolish cock-ups of the lot, putting saddles and stirrups on the horses when in fact they weren’t invented until 185AD (the saddles and stirrups, not the horses).
This has to be beaten only by the crate of oranges under the table in the market scene of The Sound of Music, which are marked up as coming from Israel. Except, of course, Israel didn’t exist back then.
Gas in Vail is currently $1.98/gallon. Eeek. Because of this
Middle East Brouhaha, Denver is approaching record gas pricing heights... despite the fact that Denver gets most of its gas from Kansas.
Obviously, I am listening to the local news right now. Thank goodness because I didn't even know Kansas had refineries. I never thought about it, in any case.
Does anyone care about the cloud and rain patterns sweeping America, or is that just weatherman fodder to put him on the news anchor's financial periphery? Anyway, homeboy says it's going to be 75 degrees this weekend.
That is the end of my news report. Thank you.
: 11:16 PM
What a great weekend. It was super warm and sunny all the days long and--as is occasionally the case--I am reminded exactly why I do love Denver. And the used bookstore currently ten minutes away is moving down the street from me and becomes two minutes away. Walking distance to all the used books I could dream of... they are having a 40% off moving sale now, so I went used book crazy with Papa Hemingway and Bertrand Russell. Go me.
It was the weekend of commerce bargains. Books, dresses, canvases, et cetera. I saw it all! Stay close for future details.
There is no better way to begin any drive than with a surprise radio song. Late this afternoon, I got into the car to the surprise radio song of Les Miserable's Drink With Me. One cannot ask for a greater radio surprise song than that. Dammit, I love Broadway. Follow it up with A Hard Knock Life and really, one can't want for a better weekend.
: 8:36 PM
I went over to my brother's house last night to watch Lifetime Television For Women with my sister-in-law. We watched the Jacqueline Susann story. Like any Lifetime movie, it was mediocre yet strangely compelling. Jacqueline Susann wanted her name in lights from day one. Nothing was going to stop her. It was interesting to see how preoccupied she was with becoming a star. She did it, though. Maybe you have to breathe fame to achieve it...
I'm an attention whore. I would love to be a star, in some capacity. I occasionally fantasize that a famous music producer happens upon me singing and is so overwhelmed by the siren-like quality of my voice that he insists I record an album that very day. In my dreams, I have a good voice. We also still record albums in my dreams.
I also have wandering dreams about mathematics. It's usually seventy minutes into my Statistics class when my attention takes a stroll. I imagine that I can see all numbers and equations holistically. I easily point out that instead of these fifteen steps we trudge through to formula completion, we can just square the original sum to find the same answer. Or something really clever like that. And then I become known everywhere for my genius and people turn to me to solve math problems for them. Oh, I so want to be a math genius. Someday I will appear on seventh grade classroom walls everywhere with a clever quote beneath my image. Someday.
My point is that I've always assumed that some capacity of fame will beckon me. One day, I will find myself in that perfectly timed place. I could always become more motivated to achieve fame, but it's not that important to me. Unlike Jacqueline Susann, I'd much rather be really happy living a fairly low-profile life now, and then *bam*. My mathematical stardom beckons. I'll be ready.
I didn't remember my dream last night, though I am sure it had something to do with my illicit love affair with Kenny Rogers, since I still can't get Through the Years out of my head.
: 11:32 AM
I had the dream about the dead girl again last night. The police were about to arrest me for her murder, though the fact that she was not murdered, nor did I had anything to do with her death, seemed to matter little. My roommate in the dream said that he had a bad feeling it was me that the police were after. He thought that the picture that the newspaper released looked like me. Apparently, it was the electrical tape over my mouth that gave it away. Huh? Twice I was told that my future in Denver was forever blemished and I should leave town immediately.
I can't wait until tonight to see if I skip town.
: 11:27 AM
DJ Muggs from Cypress Hill has a new solo project out. Get it. It's good.
Today I become eligible for our 401K plan at work. I feel so grown up. I was thinking I could invest 75% of my income, live like a pauper now, and then rest easy on my investment laurels well into retirement. Probably not though. Probably I'll invest 2% and then when I am 60, or at whatever age you retire, I can go to Disneyland for a week.
: 10:51 AM
HR from Bad Brains made a solid point when he was on KVCU's morning radio show the other day... he said that were it up to him, he'd give Bin Laden a microphone, a guitar, and some drums and let him put to music all of the feelings he'd otherwise put behind a machine gun.
ed. note: ditto for our world leaders.
: 4:07 PM
I had a recurring dream last night. I was at a picnic, sitting outside with two very attractive men I'd just met. There was a beautiful French girl that everyone loved at first, but once they realized how drunk and uninteresting she was, they walked away from her. The French girl came to sit at my picnic table, though she didn't join our conversation. Eventually, the French girl passed out across the table. I felt her pulse and pronounced her dead. We moved tables, though we left the girl where she had fallen over. We continued out conversation. Time went by. We called the police. When they arrived to see the girl slumped over, they wanted to know why we waited a week to call them. We didn't have an answer.
I kept waking up to this dream, probably five or six times last night. Kim, from work, analyzed it for me. She said I was the French girl who had been hurt for a week and felt like nobody cared about my injuries. Well done, Kim. Where are the two very attractive men who wanted to talk to me all day? I'll exchange my associates' apathy for them.
: 3:47 PM
Wow am I in a foul mood today. I decided to cut the pain killers because 1. I don't want to develop an addiction and 2. I don't like the loop I feel when I'm all looped up. Except here I am sans pain relievers, in pain and going through withdrawals. I have the chills and a fever like nobody's business. Is this all for naught? I am such a baby when it comes to hurt. I'd better become a better person for this. Sigh. A man was in the office this morning, peddling some kind of shipping service, heavily draped in cologne. It made me sneeze, which really sucks with broken ribs. It was like half a sneeze, then I had to force myself to stop because it hurt so badly. I was left feeling empty and unfulfilled. With an achy belly.
While driving to work in the snow this morning (yes, yes, an hour late...), I noticed that everyone on the freeway had their lights on, except for one little car. He was on his cell phone. That phone must give him super powers or something where he doesn't need other cars to see him because he's shielded by safety towers. Come on. If it's snowing and it's overcast, turn your lights on.
Is taking one's coffee light and sweet an East coast thing? We stopped for coffee the other day and my friend asked me how I wanted mine. Light and sweet, I said. What the hell is that, he asked? Exactly how it sounds, I said. As much as I love the freedom to put as much cream and sugar in my coffee as I want here at the midwestern coffee joints with their self-service accoutrement bars, I do miss the Dunkin' Donuts prepare-your-coffee-per-your-exacting-demands counter service.
The company president just drove up in a Malibu. His Escalade is apparently in the shop (he's neither a pimp nor an NBA star; he's a cowboy). Great in the snow, I remarked.
The man at work's son died.
: 12:19 PM
The last to cave to technology, I finally bought a digital camera. See last night's adventures at the grocery store... After a welcome break, am back at work. I thought somebody had moved my computer around until I finally noticed that I have a new monitor, keyboard, and mouse. Giddeup. Class tonight. Am exhausted. Want to sleep....... that is all.
I went to the orthopedic doctor yesterday. He told me that I had a broken shoulder and fractured ribs and would feel better in a month. I'll write you a prescription for a different painkiller, Ultracet, he said. This one won't make you loopy... and it doesn't, although it's not nearly as effective as Vicodin. My entire body itches like crazy. Rumor has it that it's The Opiates. Ugh.
In a related need for painkillers, Erin got hit by a car last week. She was walking through the parking lot at her work when an illegally-parking car backed over her, knocking her to the ground and slapping her face with its bumper. The car finally stopped, although she is not sure if it's because she was screaming "stop your car! stop your car!" or if it's just because the car finished parking. When the couple got out of the car, imagine their disbelief. They offered to buy her a sandwich, as they were on their way into Subway. Erin, dazed and disoriented, said no thank you and walked to the bus stop. The couple let her walk away. Luckily Erin had enough sense to copy down their license plate. It's been a week and she's in a lot of pain. Which bring my story full circle to the Vicodin... she slept over last night so I could bring her to work in the morning. I gave her a pill to help her sleep. It is probably illegal but she was under my supervision. At the mall last night, she also bought one of those foam pillows developed for NASA. She probably would have had a much better night's sleep had we not stayed up giggling until 2:45am.
Now it's mid-Saturday morning. I've already brought Erin to work, drove Mu Son to the bus station (where he caught a bus to the mountains to snowboard alone today), and I am currently fighting every urge to go back to sleep. The good news is that with a broken shoulder, I now have an excuse to drop off my laundry and not feel guilty. I will be sure to wear my sling so that they know that I'm not just dropping off my laundry because I am lazy. Okay, okay. Two parts injury, one part lethargy. I love having my laundry done.
Oh: This morning Mu Son told me a girl at my school died of meningitis last week. That's terrifying. School officials are trying to ease public concern by promising that she had limited exposure to others. How awful.
I can't fall asleep. I get the week off from work and I am restless. Figures. So here I am, entertaining myself with the Internet. I remember when I was very young and couldn't sleep, I would act out plays in my head. In junior high, I would make collages out of old Sassy magazines. As a sleepless teenager, I'd stay up all night, making mixed tapes and listening to college radio. Now I find myself drawn to the Internet. I think of all of the plays, collages and music complilations I am ignoring. For what? For this:
Read this article for the last paragraph. Through mind-numbing quotes from Zora's ex-boyfriend, the article tries to invoke scandal and intrigue while reporting that Zora, the winner of the Joe Millionaire Extravaganza, watched illicit Meg Ryan movies with her ex-boyfriend before she moved to France. "Zora wanted to learn the language in France a little bit better... we didn't watch too much of the movie if you know what I mean," the sly dog confesses, implying that they did more than just watch a movie named after tongue kissing. Forget his implication, though. How about his actual meaning? Astounding: the idea that Zora brushed up on the language and culture of France by watching French Kiss with Meg Ryan! Is she a moron? No wonder the French hate us.
: 2:54 AM
I woke up at five this morning. I ate breakfast, washed my hair (big commitment in the morning), stopped for coffee, took the light rail (and then the bus) to work and had every intention of completing my day. My bus driver said, "Good morning, stranger!" to me. He remembered me! When I was car-less, I'd bring him a blueberry muffin every Wednesday morning. Then I got a car and dropped RTD services like a hot potato. They put in a new shelter at the stop--that was nice to see. Now all they need to do is heat it. Oh, and put in a french bistro next door. There is a new Starbucks across the street. Not nearly the same as a bistro but oh, how things change in three months. Anyway, I made it halfway through the day. Around lunchtime is when I was told to go home. I kept reinjuring myself by walking into door frames and walls and stuff. I think I made everyone nervous; they told me to take the week off. I took the bus back to school, which is where I transfer to the light rail. Once on campus, however, I was able to guilt myself into going to the library to research Colorado Senate Bill 00-186 (school report cards...sigh. I shan't get started on my frustration). I ran into Erin who wanted me to go listen to Michael Moore give some talk tonight but I sensed that gun control and its surrounding politics were not part of the healing aura my co-workers had in mind when they sent me home today. I am 0 for 3 this week in classes. Tonight was the only one that I regret missing because he makes us write essays if we miss class. Eh.
My reliance on pain killers vexes me. I am irritable and incoherent when I am taking them, albeit pain-free (save for when I walk into doorways. The pain killers do nothing for the sting). When I don't take them, I am fully coherent, amiable and consumed with gut-wrenching pain. I was able to get my research done, though punctuated with the occasional "ow. ow. ow." On the ride home, I chatted amicably with a girl about France and French and Je Ne Sais Quel Autre. Were I doped up, I could have managed maybe a "Huh?" with a Parisienne sneer and toss of my hair. I don't know how drug addicts do it. It's driving me crazy. I need the hurt to stop.
I didn't go to work yesterday. I didn't do much of anything. I finally washed my hair and then took the light-rail to school, with every intention of going to class. Alas, I was far-too-drugged to sit through a three-hour class. I told my professor that I was pretty sure that I would cry or confess my love to everyone in class if I stayed. He agreed that I shouldn't go to class. Erin and I went to the library instead and ate the leftover pizza she had in her backpack. Then we took the bus to the 16th Street Mall and walked around. I didn't feel guilty once for not being in class. That's how good the pizza was. Spinach and Pine Nuts. Mmm. I didn't go to work again today. I can't believe how easy it is to sit around and convalesce. I don't feel sorry for myself. I just don't feel like doing anything.
This is the email I just sent my professor for tonight's statistics class:
I am writing to tell you that I can't come to class. I cracked a rib and chipped my shoulder while snowboarding on Sunday. As I am heavily medicated, I am pretty sure it's in my best interest to stay home tonight.
I have spoken with my group and they said that they will give me the notes from tonight's lecture.
Here's his reply:
Feel better soon.
Cracked ribs are painful, I know.
I cannot contain the excitement of my life when I do absolutely nothing. I think I am going to go watch daytime television. I may even walk to the coffeeshop later.
I went snowboarding yesterday. My brother's best friend has been trying to teach me how to snowboard, off and on for the past three years. This is my first dedicated Colorado winter season to learning the sport, so we've been going up every weekend. Still I am awful. Since Mu Son is so much better than I am, we decided to split up in the morning as there was fresh powder and I didn't want my clumsy ass keeping him from having fun. I'm awfully slow and fall all the time. I'm trying to overcome my fear of speed. The next time Mu Son saw me was at the bottom of the mountain, when he was standing in line at the lift. As he was waiting. he happened to look behind him and see me being pulled off the stretcher. Oh yes. It was the moment where I was trying to overcome my fear of going too fast that I went too fast and fell. At first all I could do was make this god awful sea otter bellow noise, gasping for the air that was knocked out of me. Two men immediately stopped to help me, as they saw me clutching my stomach and rocking to and fro as I bellowed loudly. One man went to get help as the other removed my snowboard for me. I finally caught my breath but then exploded into noisy and horrible sobbing. The man tried to calm me down, but once I gained my senses, I realized just how hurt I was. Mike Somebody from New Zealand helped me into a stretcher and skiied me down the mountain. I screamed the whole way. Three hours later, I was a cracked rib and a chipped shoulder hurt. They gave me a sling for my arm and told me to take pain pills as necessary. I'd feel better in a few days, they told me. Now I am all hopped up on Vicodin and trying to find a way to wash my hair while I finish eating this roast beef and horseradish sandwich that is so good. I can't leave its side but I must find a way to wash my hair. It's at times like these when inventions are born... a plastic bag/plate specially designed so that you can eat your sandwich while in the shower. I must have one. I love this sandwich.
I told Mu Son that I wasn't going to give up snowboarding on account of my injury. My brother (who, with his wife and daughter, amazingly drove up into the mountains to rescue my drugged-up ass and Mu Son's driver's license-less ass) said that if I stopped doing everything I hurt myself by, I'd never be able to leave the house. Point taken.
I just got back from watching “Dark Blue.” I had no idea what to expect. Five minutes into the movie, I was reminded of The Black Dahlia, the book I’ve recently finished and love like crazy. Even though the stories were separated by 44 years, I sensed a common pace. It turns out that the movie was based on a book by James Ellroy, who also wrote The Black Dahlia. He must become my favorite author. After I finish Fast Food Nation.
I met a guy after work today. It was my very last Internet date, as my subscription runs out tomorrow and I am tired of trying. We were to meet for a drink at the Rock Bottom Brewery. Lame, but his choice. I walk in the bar at 5:30, not exactly sure what to expect. His trio of online photos varies in appearance, ranging from very cute to horribly awkward. Really it was anyone’s game. As I am filtering through the single men in the bar, looking for the one that is waiting for me, I make eye contact with a man. I think it’s Cory. He smiles brightly at me, stands up, and exclaims, “Oh my god! Are you a model?” I recoil in horror, thinking that if this is my date, I am feigning a headache. At that moment, Cory comes to my side and introduces himself (appearance leaning toward horribly awkward). Man #1 loiters, turns to Cory and says, “You’re a lucky man. Let’s thank god for women like her.” Then Cory said, “God already finished his work on her.” Huh? I thought that was gay. Stupid gay, not sexual preference gay. Man #1 shakes Cory’s hand and says, “Thank you.” Then Man #1 turns to me, shakes my hand and says, “No, thank you.” I was sure to tell Cory that I hired the guy to ease our initial meeting. Wow, though. That could not have come at a better time—the same day where I started polling the office to see who thinks I need to lose weight. Answers ranged from, “God no!” (what I want to hear) to “You’re just curvy. You don’t want to be skinny.” (gag) or my personal torturous response, “You’re tall.” What the hell is that? Ugh. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this—dwell. Fuck you Britney Spears. You did this. You and your damned rock and roll videos.
When I met Cory directly after work, I hadn’t eaten and it was fair game for food. Dinnertime! Two beers and a movie later, food still hadn’t entered the field. Homeboy expects to meet a gal at 5:30, keep her out until 10, and never mention dinner? I dropped hints. Did I ever. But nothing.
Thus ending my rash of Internet suitors and our mildly interesting yet uninspired conversations.
Incidentally, this movie showcased the controversial police politics immediately surrounding the LA riots and consequently, Bernard Parks's exemplary rise to become the first African American Chief of Los Angeles Police. I wonder if Ellroy will write a sequel, detailing the Chief's gross mismanagement and fall from grace following the Rampart scandal.
: 2:39 AM