Question: If Wendy has known Francisco for 4 months, and there are 2,016 miles from her doorstep to his doorstep, how many Valium will Wendyís mother need when Wendy tells her that sheís getting married to a man she met on the Internet and moving to California?
Answer: There isnít enough Valium in the world to make that little announcement go over in a positive manner. Trust me.
As of December 1, I will have known my husband for exactly one year. As of today, we will have been married for exactly 8 months. Can you say ďwhirlwind courtshipĒ? Hell, I would have said it myself, but I didnít have the time.
It began innocently enough. I was moderating on a friendís message board, he wandered by and made a postÖand it took off from there. We moved from casual conversations on the message board to email and then to Instant Messenger. From the first conversation, we were completely in sync. We finished each otherís sentences. It took less than a week to move from IM to the phone. It took a little over a month for a quick trip to Nashville, where we met for the first time. 2 months later, we were married and I was packing up my child and my life and moving to California.
We are obscenely happy. Disgustingly enchanted with each other. And it just gets better every day for us.
My mother, on the other hand, not so much enchanted with the whole thing as she is bewildered and bothered. We're working on that. Slowly. In another 3 or 4 years, she might even start to take this "marriage thing" seriously.
There's always hope, I think. Don't you?
So there I was sitting in Body Images Tattoo Parlor and Cock-Piercing Emporium trying to decide whether I wanted to ďget some ink doneĒ or have a small metal rod shoved through my foreskin.
Long story short (no pun intended), my foreskin was stolen from me years ago by an unscrupulous barbarian of a doctor who convinced my mother circumcision was somehow more hygienic than au natural. This is in spite of the fact that Europeans are never circumcised unless they are also Jews and you donít hear about any great plagues being spread by cheese-ridden pricks. Down with circumcision! Up with foreskins!
I decided to go with the ink, but it had to have meaning.
No flaming skulls with swords sticking out of them for this swinger. No sir. No flowers, butterflies or broken hearts shit either. The only tattoo for me was four letters in perfect Trajan script: ďSPQR.Ē
ďSPQRĒ stands for Senatus Populusque Romanum (in Latin) or Senate and People of Rome (in English). The Romans were as big on acronyms as we Americans what with our BKs, KFCs, VCRs, DVDs, MRIs, EKGs and NASAs.
In addition to the fact that Latin is one of the hardest rocking dead languages since Sanskrit and hence is cooler than fuck, ďSPQR,Ē as part of the seal of the Roman Republic was prominently featured on my favorite T-shirt in high school.
Thatís right, I was in Latin Club. You want to make something of it?
But I swore I would never get something permanently written on my skin unless I could justify it to my mother who worked SO HARD to make all this god damn skin in the first place.
And here is my justification or at least my rationalization.
Of all the civilizations that have come and gone on this crazy planet we call Earth or Terra Firma, the Romans are arguably one of the greatest.
They were not the most original people; they modeled themselves after the Greeks. They certainly were not the kindest of empires; they gave us crucifixion and gladiatorial combat.
But they were great engineers, cooks, doctors, soldiers and scholars. They conquered most of the known world in their time. They owned ALL the beach front property around the Mediterranean and, most importantly, they brought peace to a chaotic world and got rich doing it.
Without the Romans, western civilization as we know it would not exist today. Of course they enslaved millions, killed millions more and eventually defined corruption, cruelty and insanity, but I figure what the fuck, that is just knit-picking.
At its height, the Roman Republic before the Caesars was the pinnacle of enlightened democratic leadership and is the model we follow to this day.
ďSPQRĒ reminds me that sometimes the greatest of human accomplishments go hand-in-hand with the greatest atrocities.
It reminds me of the duality of man. That we are equally capable of good and evil. That each of us is as capable of greatness as infamy.
And most importantly, this tattoo reminds me that ALL of this, our lives, our place in history, fame, luck, wealth, cruelty, art, pain ... everything, no matter how long it lasts, is temporary. And that is OK, too.
Of course, my next tattoo will probably be Dilbert peeing on Osama bin Ladenís head.
I love to cook. I really do. The only problem is I like to make extravagant meals, replete with exquisite flavors and delicate harmonies of color and palate. Of course, this doesnít bode very well for a Poor College Student™ who barely has time to grab fast food. This semester Iíve had so much trouble just keeping up with schoolwork that I have barely had time to make a quick bowl of pasta for myself.
Now, one well-known fact about the culinary arts is that being able to cook is a very attractive quality. Itís a great date-impresser (assuming, of course, that you actually can cook, or can at least fake it.) Ben told me a story of how his three roommates helped him prepare a large dinner one night to impress a boy. When all was ready, they all skedaddled for a bit; the boy came over, oohed and aahed over the spread, and then everyone else walked back in the door like they were just getting home. Thankfully, this trick wonít work on me when we made dinner Wednesday night, I saw he was having trouble just peeling potatoes, let alone trying to boil them to make mashed potatoes. It was pretty sad.
Wednesday night we had a little one-month celebration, just to be extra-sappy. Our anniversary (what would the correct term for a monthaversary? Mensiversary? Lunaversary?) was actually Monday, but the boy had to work. So that night I called him up and said, ďListen. I feel like cooking. What do you want to eat?Ē
About an hour later, I was preparing Cajun salmon steaks and an Indian rice concoction while Ben struggled with potatoes. About the time he finally was successful in wresting all the potatoes into the pot to boil, I began preparing the rice. I rooted around for a proper pot to prepare it in, but to no avail. His roommate, who was helping Ben with the potatoes, handed me a glass casserole dish and said, ďHere, Iíve made macaroni in this before. Itíll be fine.Ē
I bet you can all guess where the story goes from here.
It was all going along swimmingly and I was probably a few minutes from being done, when there was suddenly a little ďtink!Ē and the dish fell apart. For twenty seconds, I stared at the rice, which was suddenly turning into fried rice as it sizzled directly on the burner. It took Ben laughing hysterically at me and the smoke alarm going off to get me to pick my jaw up off the floor and start trying to clean up the mess.
A new culinary masterpiece. I call it Indian Glass Rice Surprise.
At least the salmon was tasty...
an awfully exciting conversation ensues with a cute and disheveled boy with glasses. he's witty but he's met his match. the banter. oh, the banter is good. ridiculous levels of contagious laughter.
cute and disheveled boy asks, "what's your friday special? meet me for a drink at barmacy and we can play pinball and i can watch you drink those disgusting white russians." oh, this could be good. this could be very, very good.
i ask, "what's your story?" (as i often do), to which he replies: "uhm. ok. let me be totally specific. in a general kinda way..." and i'm thinking he's way ahead of me. he's done this too many times. maybe even more than me. so he says: "i can't be a boyfriend, except to my girlfriend?...but i can definitely be 'i-need-a-boy-to-hang-out-with-friday-night kinda thing." you have a girlfriend. but you're asking me out. it's this open relationship kind of thing, he says. his girlfriend sees other people too. i'm not thinking there's anything wrong with this. except that he adds an "i guess" after he says "open relationship". and the thing is, i'm trying to be good. i'm trying to be true to myself. i'm not expecting every potential date to turn out to be my soulmate, but i'd like to think there might be some potential.
but did i mention he's cute and disheveled?
so the conversation continues and the flirting's at an all-time high and, see, it's getting that much more fun by the minute. so, finally, i say, "i'd probably just end up using you for your unavailability." he replies, "you won't fall for me. i promise. i'll never do anything sexy or memorable." i say, "i also sometimes have a thing for boys in glasses." and he says, "i'll wear contacts so you won't dig me too much." why am i doing this? because he's cute and disheveled and this is so much fun. i think i know myself too well. i'd be waiting for him to give up everything. not to mention: open relationship, my ass.
i pause. to create distance. "you know," i say. "this is fun. we'd have a dangerously fun time, i'm sure. i think we might have too much fun. and that would be bad. because in the end, there is a girlfriend." he says, "hey, i totally understand. i think we would have a great time hanging out, though. i guess it just depends on what kind of danger you're looking for." and that's it. ...that's it. ...he's giving me up that easily? why not choose me instead of the girlfriend? i mean, he's known me for all of...thirty minutes. i could have so easily just said yes. my friday night special would have been so much fun. this trying to be good thing is not going to work for me at all.
I donít usually post if I don't have a greater point Iím trying to make, but Iím going to be all typical bloggy today and post a bunch of links since I canít manage to keep one coherent thought going long enough to accomplish anything. Whenever I get started doing something my mind immediately jumps to about a hundred other things, and I go along with them, wherever they take me. I didn't get one single damn thing done today.
It isnít just a mental attention deficit disorder thing going on today, Iíve got all those physical energy, Iíve been bouncing around my apartment, dancing along to songs (for some reason Iím really digging System of a Down right now; listening to aggressive music really loudly and jumping around my living room remind me of me as a punk high-schooler, lo those many years ago). I canít sit still for more than ten minutes. Iíve got ants in my pants if ever anyone ever had ant in their pants.
Anyway, if you run a weblog, journal or e/n (a/c) type-site and you havenít signed up with blogdex yet, what the hell is wrong with you? Currently, Bad Samaritan is the 564th most linked site from the weblogs in their system, tied with, among others, Feral Living, Neo Flux, and Altavista (?).
Iíve taken to religiously checking blogdex to see what if any new sites have linked me, and what my all-time ranking has climbed to. Iím not really sure whatís the point of blogdex, other than to satisfy our collective narcissism. But if feeding our egos is, indeed, itís only purpose, they does a damn good job of it.
So, anyway, if you link to Bad Samaritan, and you arenít already in the blogdex database, add yourself now. If you are in the blogdex database and you arenít linked to Bad Samaritan, add a link to us now. If you arenít in the blogdex database and you arenít linked to Bad Samaritan, first you should link Bad Samaritan and then you should register your site at blogdex. Yes, shameless of me, I know, but I want so desperately to be popular. Not satisfied with Zee List, I.
Whilst we are on the subject of shameless (and downright pathetic) attempts to garner even more meaningless notoriety (though, 15 minutes of blog fame is still better than zero minutes of real fame), I joined up with the Blogsnob thing. Itís basically just a link exchange, but the ratio is 1:1, which means for everyone who sees the link on this site, I get one link to bad Samaritan on someone elseís site. Even if the conversion rate for clicks to views is awful, say 1:500, it means an dozen extra hits a day. Damn, now that I do the math, that doesnít sound so good, but a dozen extra hits is a dozen extra hits, and what kind of hit whore extraordinaire would I be to complain about that?
At any rate, this is the little but of code for Blogsnob thing, it should change every reload, and I guess Iíll just keep it here on the front page until I figure what the hell else to do with it.
Cripes. I say at the end of almost every fifth post, but I manage to say a lot, even when Iíve got nothing to say. This post is already incredibly long and I havenít even mentioned half the bloggy things I meant to mention. Damn. You know what that means, donít you? It means I wont have to come up with a topic for my next post. Woo hoo!
I was on my way back from a cigarette run, at a stoplight that had just turned green, just beginning to accelerate, when it happened. It was so close I felt as well as heard the impact, and the subsequent shower of shattered pieces of light lenses and trim actually did hit my car, but I am as grateful as I've ever been in my whole life that the 1950-s era beat-up pickup truck did not hit me as it bounced off the car in the lane next to me.
I pulled over and watched as the pickup proceeded brokenly down the street, then followed it, rummaging frantically in my purse for my cell phone. It made the next right, and stopped only when it struck a parked car. Another witness, a woman in an older Ford, stopped her car beside the wrecked truck and appeared to be confronting the men in the truck as they got out and milled around, looking a little confused. The men (two? three?) then took off on foot down the street, with the witness in pursuit. She yelled, does anyone have a cell phone? Call 911! I'm thinking, there are people who don't have cell phones? Apparently. So I found mine, and made the call.
So, I'm on the phone with 911 when a cop car pulls up, it was only a minute or so. I told him that the drivers of the truck went thataway, that they were being followed by a woman, and that there might have been two or three. He asked what they looked like, and I said, ĎShabby?í. If you ever are the victim of a crime and need a good eyewitness with accurate recollections, you'd better hope it's not me, because it appears I'm really, really bad at it.
The cop took off, and I hung up with 911. I got back in my car and cruised by the scene of the accident itself, looking for the car that had been hit. I didn't look all that thoroughly, but it would appear that they had also fled the scene, unlikely as that would seem from the severity of the impact. I returned to where the truck was parked, and several other witnesses said the car that was hit was a pink Geo Tracker? How could a little bitty Geo take a 30MPH impact from a truck of that magnitude, and drive away?
One of the other witnesses standing around the wrecked truck, nervously applying chapstick to his lips, said he would have followed the guys himself had he not been on probation (unsure what that has to do with anything, possibly the fact he was high as hell, but oh well). I said I would have followed them myself but... (trailing off here, because who wants to admit they're just plain scared of a group of shabby looking hit-and-run drivers?)
From the time I got my very first cell phone, I've always daydreamed that I would happen upon the scene of some accident and provide aid to the victims that bordered on the heroic, all the while on the line to 911 giving calm, accurate, succinct information, perhaps even saving lives. But in reality, it turns out I'm highly underqualified for that role.
A couple weeks ago I mentioned I had a job interview, my first in months. At the time I said I wouldnít mention it again unless I got the job. Reporting the daily failures of my personal life is one thing, but reporting the demise of my professional life certainly gets a little depressing after a while.
Well, when I said I wouldnít mention it again unless I actually rejoined the ranks of the proletariat I lied. I do that sometimes, get used to it. No, I take that back, I didnít lie. I havenít not gotten the job, Iíve just havenít gotten the job (that makes sense, really).
Today, I went in for my second interview. The person I interview with today just recently got out of the hospital and is still recovering so we did the interview from her apartment. Even though Iím a former dot.com asshole, a strange community entirely devoid of ties, and from whence the term word-day casual was born, I still wear a suit to job interviews no matter where what.
When I was looking for a job last year, right before Iíd graduated, every interview I went on involved me in a suit and my interviewer in jeans and a t-shirt. Almost every single one of them told me I didnít have to wear a suit, but Iím sure if I showed up in a ripped Megadeth t-shirt I wouldnít have been hired anywhere (which wouldnít have been a bad thing since my fall back plan was to go straight into grad school, and Iíd be graduating just a couple months from now, to just as crappy an economy, but at least Iíd be a Masters of something (besides my own domain, and this website, which also has its own domain (name)).
The question is, did I need to wear a suit if I was going to get grilled in someoneís living room? I spent about 45 minutes trying to decide what to wear realized I was running way late, so didnít get the chance to get online and put up a little post asking everyone to send a little positive mojo my way.
I didnít need it, though. Here comes the kiss of death, but I think things went very well. Iím supposed to go in again next week for a second round of interviewing. This time, Iíll pick my outfit (and matching accessories) well in advance so Iíve got plenty of time to blog before I go.
Or, maybe I wont. Things went so well this time keeping you in the dark, perhaps its been you people all along whoíve brought me bad luck, and not the stupid economy, the destruction of the my industry, or my complete lack of marketable skills. Yeah. Thatís it.
For the past couple weeks, I may not be terribly prolific in the writing department, but Iím working it hardcore on the backend. With all my lovely and talented authors, the Internetís Best Content © will continue getting churned out at mind-numbing speeds here at Bad Samaritan. I require my authors to churn out the content at mind-numbing speeds because Iíve found our readerís need to have their mind numbed to find even half of what I write even mildly amusing.
Since they got the totally excellent content department covered, Iím having fun working on code and crap. Well, not so much having fun as experiencing a nice change of pace. Bad Samaritan is going on 15 months now and Iím not saying Iím bored so much as saying that Iím bored stiff. Iíve done such a good job with the writing of the words and the sentences in humorous and thought provoking ways that I donít quite get the same thrill I used to when posting a new masterpiece to the front page.
Maybe that, or Iím so embarrassed at my premature evacuation from the NaNoWriMo thing that Iím ashamed to write anything else. I, however, prefer to blame my lack of prolificacy to having gotten so good at writing that Iím bored with it, rather than Iím so bad at it that I canít bare to write another word.
Writing words that make sense to people isnít something Iím able to do right now, but writing words that make sense to computers, that is something I suck at, which makes programming a worthy adversary and therefore much more exciting.
Iím working on a lot of little projects and if any of my readers are whizzes with PHP, Perl, or XML, you can make me very happy by offering a hand.
Iím no Linus Torvald, but Iíve been hacking away at things. Something I was actually able to make sense of was the ďRecent CommentsĒ code, which I made a small tweak to this weekend. Iím basically done with that bitch, and the code will shortly be available for public consumption.
I also got this little script to show the number of users visiting Bad Samaritan at any given moment. Iím not sure why itís important to know that there are users currently online, but I wanted to know. Actually, it is a completely useless bit of functionality, but uhm, I did it, and now I have to live with myself.
There is also some XML stuff Iím trying to do, but Iím having a bit of trouble. You may think I am a Golden God, but Iím quite stupid when it comes to computers. My limited ability has managed hack together code to make an RSS file to allow people to syndicate Bad Samaritan on their own sites, though god knows why anyone would want to do that.
There is some other stuff, but this couldnít be more boring, could it? So, here is some exciting stuff. Iíve added about ten new sites to the favorites list in the last week or so. Some of those will make it into the daily rotation. I already spend nine hours a day reading other peopleís blogs, so what are a couple more sites to read? Plus, Iím always looking for new reads, so if you want to join the elite few members of the elite list of elite bad Samaritan elite reads, now you can! Iím eliciting email from anyone who wants to get linked. I can guarantee you hits, not slashdot kinds of numbers, but who among you is stupid enough to turn down even a couple extra hits a day?
I keep forgetting to mention it, but Bad Samaritan was named Blog of the Day a couple weeks ago. Maybe I havenít mentioned it because it isnít quite as impressive as being named Cool Stop or added to the Soul of the Web database, but hey, it is something.
There's nothing I love doing more at a show than people watching. Usually I'm surrounded by punk-rawk kids, but this time we're in a sea of yuppies, perhaps foreshadowing my post college indie kid future? Who cares? The important point here is that I'm a sucker for boys with glasses and sideburns and there were plenty of them here to keep my eyes busy.
Anyway, I'm trying to enjoy the show, but this couple directly in front of me is making out. Actually, the guy was drunkenly slobbering on this girl while she cried and passively accepted his gropes and kisses. She'd randomly run from him, crying, but then he'd beckon to her and she'd reluctantly come back to more groping, kissing, and drunken dancing before fleeing again. He even poked her in the boobs until she swatted his hands away.
I know little feminist me would give the guy a kick in the crotch for that, but I have no clue what was going through this girl's mind. Perhaps she likes being treated like a squeeze toy. Maybe she thinks that she can't do better. Maybe it's okay if she loves him. Still, if he's treating her like that in public, I'd hate to see what it's like behind closed doors. That saddens me.
It might not be my business, but if I didn't say anything, I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep that night. Wilco finished their encore. People were filing out. His hand went for her breast one more time and my hand shot out and slapped him hard on the wrist. "Stop it. Just because you're drunk doesn't give you an excuse to treat her like shit." I turned to her and asked her if she was okay. She said yes.
I hope she wasn't lying to me.
After moving to New York 128 days ago, I returned to the tree-lined streets and crowded sidewalks of Lincoln Park - the North Side Chicago neighborhood where I grew up. It felt just as vibrant as I remembered. I could still hear the rumble of el trains en route to the Loop. And the frigid wintry air had already taken hold as it always does by the time Thanksgiving rolls around.
Chicago is bold, sophisticated, daring and complacent. Lost in the shuffle of coast-centric America, the Windy City throbs with vigor, pumping the heart of our country. The last shred of urbanity where rent is reasonable, beer is cheap and culture thrives. Itís all the comforts of cosmopolitan living minus the snobby attitude. But it rarely gets the credit it deserves. Ever since it burned down in 1871, the little-big-city-that-could has always reinvented itself in order to stay strong.
When I packed up and headed for New York to begin my career as a writer, the thought crossed my mind that I was betraying my roots. Was I a worthless Chicago expatriate, doomed to fail and come crawling back to the Midwest? I suppose that is yet to be determined. I guess Iíll keep plugging away at this keyboard to find out.
Every afternoon when I finish work, I always spend a few moments in Union Square, a place thatís become one of my favorite NYC haunts. No longer covered in a blanket of wax - the residue of candles burned in memory of WTC victims - it has reclaimed its role as an urban quad, where skateboarders show off tricks and street musicians strum guitars. After soaking up the scene, I descend the steps of 14th Street Station and hop on the subway. I crack open a book and ride over the Manhattan Bridge. I pause to catch a glimpse of the post-9/11 skyline. When I rise from the tunnels, I walk the tree-lined crowded sidewalks of my Brooklyn neighborhood until I reach my place. I swing open the gate and head up three flights of stairs to my brownstone apartment. I am home.
miss b | 08:07 PM | 11.26.01
look on the bright side, mg. with that post, now you're on top of me.
mg | 08:22 PM | 11.26.01
Great, thanks Miss B. That image is great for now, when I'm on top of you, but now, when Effenhiemer, Snaggle, Space (or whoever) posts next, all I'll be thinking about is being the "catcher" in a pairing I'd rather not even imagine.
- comments from mg's postjohn williams broke my funk.
Now, with comments like that, who wouldn't want to be the first to post?
So you haven't seen me much lately. This is because I am a slacker, a hypocrite, evil-doer, and all-'round bad person. It's also been a pretty hectic time for me, what with school and all. It appears that I've only posted seven times this semester. Seven. That's pretty scary... you'd think I'd be able to find a little more time here and there. However, you'd be wrong.
Anyway. Enough random blabbing. How was everyone's Thanksgivings? Good? Stuffed with turkey or other foods? You non-Americans are missing out - need a way to make gluttony A-OK? Declare a national holiday! Whoohoo! I actually spent my Thanksgiving not with my parents (thank any and every deity there is) but rather in New York City visiting one of my two best friends, Jeffy. Those who've read BadSam for a while have heard mention of Jeffy... he's the one with whom I had quite a Summer of Sin. He's back in the City now and so I decided to take a trip out there for Thanksgiving break since I had a week off of school.
The whole trip was actually pretty low key; one of the best parts (besides seeing Jeffy and spending time with him) was going to the Limelight on Sunday night. For those of you who've never been, the Limelight is an amazing club in NYC that's in a church. The architecture is fantastic, the music usually pretty good, and the boys (at least on Sunday nights) - scrumptious. I danced like a fool and it was mahvelous.
Other than that, the only real event of note for the week was the day I spent with mg. First we went to a fabulous little restaurant called Rice where I had veggie meatballs that were so spicy they even kicked my Indian ass. After some tense moments when we discovered they didn't accept plastic and with a Snaggle that tends not to carry cash, we were saved by mg running out to find the nearest ATM to bail me out (for which I still owe him compensation, as well as sexual favours.) After that we wandered around the lower city for a while, which was filled with an indecisive Iowan not being able to decide if he wanted to shop, have coffee, or pee.
I must say, I love just about everything about New York City - except for the dangers of bodily functions. Coming from Iowa, it's fairly acceptable to stop in just about any store and ask to use their potty. In the City, however, that just doesn't happen. Not that I blame them - I certainly wouldn't want random urchins like myself wandering in off the street asking to use my potty. The Parisians have a rather unique solution to the whole problem: pay public toilets in frequent intervals in the streets. Now, the most unique part to this is that after your two Francs of potty-time are up, the door kind of... opens. This could be a problem for some, but for those of us who just friggin' need to pee like a racehorse, that would be okay. Of course, I tend to be anti-making-people-pay-for-toilets, but sometimes it's the most feasible option. I mean, next you'll be attaching meters to people's indoor plumbing to charge them for how much fluid comes out of their system! Scary thought, that - especially for the small-bladdered.
If you havenít noticed, Iíve been feeling a little blah recently. Iím probably at an all time-life low point, self-confidence-wise. Iíve been feeling really bad for weeks now, getting so bad that the last couple days I havenít wanted to do much more than lie in bed all day.
Its not as if there are a lot of things I have to do. I donít have a job to go to, or a high-maintenance girlfriend to take care of. But there are a lot of little things I need to take care of; working on this website, my occasional freelance work, the design/code Iím helping some people with, and making sure all my bills get paid on time (with money I donít have). Iíve felt no motivation to get those things done recently, and then I feel bad about not doing them, and put them off even longer.
And, it isnít as if the ideas arenít coming, because they are. There are 10 times a day something happens and I think, ďI need to write about this.Ē There are another 10 times when I see something really cool or beautiful and think, ďI need to steal this design for that new site Iím working on.Ē And there are still another 5 times when I have this great idea for a bit of code to make this or some other website run better and think, ďI need to find someone who can program way better than me.Ē
So, Iíve got tons of inspiration. I just canít force myself to carry any of my ideas out. All I want to do is not do whatever it is Iím supposed to be doing, and I feel guilty about that constantly. I do all these little things to punish myself, like not eat a cookie, even though I really want a cookie, or donít turn on my computer, when I really want to waste more time on the Internet (only to waste time in front of the TV instead).
Last night, things got so bad that I even forced myself to watch Star Wars: Episode 1. They say you need to hit bottom before things will start to get better, and last night, sitting through Jar-Jar Binksí ďhilariousĒ hi-jinks and not a single Natalie Portman skin shot, I hit a point so far below bottom that actually I envied Mark Hamillís career, post 1983.
After suffering through what is surely the Star Wars series' worst episode ever, Iím feeling newly motivated today. And, unlike with Hamill, from this point on things can only get better for me.
the other night i took part in a particular conversation about boobs and made no attempt to pretend like i don't like to talk about mine also. in fact, i even have a name for mine. so, here at bad samaritan i'm gonna rant about tits too. (mg should be pleased.)
during that chat i mentioned how horrible fake breasts look in porn flicks. i know that after all it's all for the effect, but exactly what effect are they going for? i mean, do they think we won't notice those nasty ridges and wrinkles waffling back and forth on the sides? do they think we won't care? well, okay, a lot of people won't care, i'm sure. but it really is a god awful sight. it makes me cringe. not in a that-is-so-disgusting way, but in a that's-such-a-shame-because-real-is-so-much-nicer way. (okay, maybe it is in a that-is-so-disgusting way too. i admit i'm nothing if not a little judgmental.) it never really occured to me to ask a boy what it feels like to actually touch fake tits until tonight when i was talking with someone about the recent rolling stone cover with britney spears...
me: are you of the opinion that britney's boobs are fake?
him: i don't really care, since i'll never get to touch them.
me: have you ever touched fake boobs?
him: i have.
me: do they feel fake?
him: have you ever felt shrinkwrapped ground beef?
him: ok...yes, they feel like there's a big plastic lump inside. definitely breaks one's concentration.
him: only women who nursed their babies should get fake boobs. or women who have breast issues otherwise.
me: why *should* they?
him: i don't know.
me: to keep men like you interested?
him: [blush] i suppose so. but one touch is pretty much all it takes for me to lose interest. so i'd prefer pleasant to the touch before pleasant to the eye.
me: you know i'm so gonna write about this.
him: d'oh! well, you should mention that i am the most wonderful, brilliant, dynamic and humble man you've ever met.
me: i'll be sure to say exactly that.
later, another guy i asked likened touching fake breasts to those rubber anti-stress toys. if you squeeze them a little, they take some time to slide back into the original shape. that would definitely throw me off my game if i were in the middle of getting it on.
i'm no prude and i like my porn as much as the next girl (or guy, most of it, anyway), but i don't get it. i can understand why guys like big breasted women. that's fine. but big fake rubbery jugs that barely move a muscle? it almost gives me the willies. i hope i've not offended any women out there. it's a free country and this is just my opinion. if you have implants and you wanna discuss, please, comment away. maybe i'll learn something. why can't they just make implants that move? and actually perfect the implants themselves so that they're virtually undetectable? is that possible? for women who are deadset on being bigger and "better", can somebody just invent something new (not to mention safe) that looks and feels as good as the real thing? i wonder.
for the record, this isn't about an insecurity on my part. my boobs will never be stuffed up. they're quite nice and i enjoy them. as do others. they're not the size of those smooth little delicious, sugary sweet, mouth watering, milk chocolate morsels, but i like to call them my hershey's kisses. it's all for the effect.
"It's not true that life is one damn thing after another. It's the same damn thing over and over." - Edna St. Vincent Milay
Well, I can't speak for anyone else, but I know that I started the month of November with some pretty high aspirations--only to have them come crashing down around my ears around the 4th or 5th day of the month. At the beginning of November, I was an aspiring author with a novel in the works. I jumped on the BS bandwagon as a November author. I also had major redesign plans for my own site. I had a plan, people. A PLAN. I should have known better.
November is nearing its inevitable end, and thereís not much to show for it-on paper, at least. My novel is stuck at around 5,000 words-a far cry from the grand 50,000-word novel I envisioned on November 1st. I think this makes post number three at Bad Samaritan for me-I would have liked to have at least averaged one post per week, damnit. Of course, if youíve been to my site lately, youíll notice that it is still ďBreast-Cancer Awareness Month PinkĒ.
A neck injury, a major move from house to apartment, and (if Iím going to be honest) a major case of stage fright and writerís block have all managed to keep me from my goals this month. Itís like November was some sick, twisted affirmation of Murphyís Law for me.
Iíve decided to lighten up on the whole ďplan-makingĒ approach to life. Call it an early New Yearís resolution, if you will. Starting this December, Iím beginning the ďlow expectationĒ phase of my life. If I manage to get up, take a shower and brush my teeth every day this month, I shall consider the month a success. (Note: If none of the things Iíve just mentioned are accomplished on a daily basis, Iím not going to beat myself up over it. Remember: LOW expectations). If anything beyond basic hygiene gets done, I shall be pleasantly surprised.
I think Iíve finally found a plan I can live with. Besides, what could possibly go wrong?
As I've whined before, the taxi business sucks. Driving one's ok, but owning two? Bad, bad, bad. It was a bad idea from the get-go, but my objections were classified as Ďnegativityí and great offense was taken any time I tried to voice them. The facts are, that taxi drivers are flakes who make expensive mistakes, taxis are ancient, beat-up cop cars that frequently need repairs in the thousands of dollars, and the company that sells the medallions and leases the dispatch service is run by assholes, badly. All of these things became clearer and clearer over the past 8 or 10 months or so, and I am sorry to report to you, I was right about the whole thing all along. Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad.
Over the last month, it's gone from bad to complete shit. How complete, you ask? Well, during the month of November, we actually lost money. Now, this is not a well-funded business suffering a little negative cash flow, this is our livelihood, and it cost us money this month. Can I begin to express to you how bad this is? Bad... oh, you get the idea. So, as the taxi business goes swirling down the toilet, we call the family for some Ďadviceí (note: when grown children call to ask for Ďadviceí, what they really want is Ďmoneyí).
The good news is, they will rescue us. The bad news is, they will go over our finances, and they expect us to make some sacrifices. The things they mentioned, offhand, were my car, and my cell phones. WHAT? Remember, this was not my idea. So, I'm scrambling to come up with ways to avoid the losses of these things, things I worked hard for, which are not luxuries at all in my mind. It's a six year old Buick for cryin' out loud, and the phones are mine, my daughter's, and the one I provide to my ex, as partial compensation for the fact he's not taking me to court for child support, and letting me just help out when I can.
So, I've come up with something I can give up that will save me a great deal of money, and also increase my income: beer. If you multiply the times I'm in the chatroom drunk by the amount it takes to get me drunk, and factor in the mornings I take advantage of the flexibility in hours my job gives me, well, that's a sizeable chunk of change, an amount that would probably take care of one of my car payments. Honestly, I was becoming a little unhappy in general with the whole beer-as-coping-tool thing, too, but if you take away the taxi-related stress that I was drinking to escape, well, I can't help but look at this as a good thing.
I'm not talking about giving it up entirely, it will be a budget item, but a very small one. Perhaps once a payday, if that. I've given up quite a few substances entirely, including but not limited to hard booze (tequila), and more recently liqueurs (amaretto) and before that, well, never mind. Suffice to say my life is much cleaner and more sober than it has been over the past couple decades. I'm also considering giving up cigarettes, but one thing at a time.
Truth be told, my brain is not too happy about this turn of events, but I'll tell you right now, my liver is rejoicing.
I don't know if I mentioned this or not, but I am fat bastard who recently got dignosed with diabetes. So my doctor, Isam Marar, is this rock star endocrinologist who came to Iowa because he was tired of life in the big city and wanted to raise his kids some place nice... except for people like me. I jump ship from Dr. Carter who sucked so bad he told me to drink plenty of fluids like gatorade and fruit juice right after I was diagnosed, but the one thing they both agree on is I need to lose some damn weight. Dr. Carter suggest an intestinal bypass surgery that I am sure would like great on his tally sheet with the hospital. Dr. Marar suggested I try a couple of other things first like exercise and Xenical, a prescription fat blocker that keeps up to 30 percent of all the fat in foods from being absorbed into my system. I lost nine pounds in nine days just by watching my diet. Once I add some hard core stationary bike action, I should be svelte in no time.
Well the bad thing about the Xenical is the side effects. Loud painful gas accompanied by "spotting" and "horribly yellow greasy often uncontrollable shitting." It's worth it to lose weight right? Yes and no. If I watch my diet it is quite easy to deal with the side effects. BUT, if I over do it, that 30 percent fat that doesn't get absorbed has to go somewhere.
So Thanksgiving comes along. I have been a very good boy for a month eating low fat foods, lots of veggies and taking my vitamins so even my doctor knows it will not be possible or wise to avoid Thanksgiving while going on vacation to Hawaii so we just plan on me being bad.
My turkey gravy rocks but it is 100 percent grease, maybe more if that is possible. My stuffing starts off very healthy but once it soaks up 500 grams of turkey fat, it becomes a time bomb in my gut ready to explode.
Luckily for me, I was wearing my VERY colorful Hawaiin shorts when the inevitable came. TOO BAD I wasnt wearing any underwear. You know how chili looks when it is leftover in the fridge and it gets that orange fat on the top. Imagine dumping that in the toilet. Now imagine dumping that in your baggy shorts.
Hang loose and pass the Immodium!
This post is the very definition of filler. Iíve got absolutely nothing to say, and even if I did, I donít think Iíd be able to say it in an interesting way, but I feel the need to say something since Bad Samaritan gets so lonely when no one is posting here, or stopping by and commenting.
Yet, again, nothing to say.
I suppose I could talk about my familyís Thanksgiving but I didnít want to be there, why should I subject you poor people to my misery. I could post up what infectious disease I am, but I already take too many online quizzes. I could talk about all the fun Iím having going out with my friends, but Iíve been a bit of a hermit recently. I could talk about grad school applications, but even Iím bored with that.
Instead, Iíll just inflict you with a list of things I could talk about and then leave without writing about any of them.
Charles finally proposed to Denise. She said yes. Congrats guys, its about freakin time. For a lot of people the spark goes out once they actually get hitched, but I imagine with these two, the felching stories will continue for many years.
My mom, my sister and I spent Thanksgiving in the traditional manner: At the track. Turkey, stuffing, gravy, oh, and, $2 to Place on the six horse, please. That's one of the advantages of having Churchill Downs right up the road. We had a table with some family friends in the upper terrace and had a fairly standard holiday meal between races.
I continued my recent streak of losing when I gamble. I'm up a little betting on the Raiders this season, but the last six months has not been kind to me at any other form of gambling. I only go to the casino a few times a year, but last year I won enough at blackjack to offset everything I lost in the stock market (not that that added up to much on my budget). I liked to joke that I needed to switch investment strategies from what didn't work to what did. Not lately: It hasn't been working the last few months and I've lost on my last four trips to the casino (I'm still way up on the place all told, but it's starting to get disheartening).
Horse racing is in our blood in Kentucky (well, except for the Baptists, but never mind them), but I don't go to the track very often. When I do, I rarely win big - I'm really not much of a handicapper, frankly. My mom and my sisters are part of a group of women who own a few racehorses, so the races are an especially big deal to them. Racehorse owner or not, my mom is an even worse handicapper than I am, but she keeps to her system (betting on grey horses and the ones she likes the names of) with a tenacity that can only be called a triumph of hope over experience.
Except for the Thanksgiving buffet, today went much like any other day at the track. I started with the gambler's prayer ("Please, God, let me break even today; I need the money!") and proceeded to start picking horses. I only took a little bit of money with me, but I've found that even a two dollar bet is enough to get me invested in the race, so I'm easy to please. Besides, I still have bills to pay and I don't gamble with money I need for other expenses.
I didn't do too badly: I cashed a ticket on more than half the races I bet. That's pretty good, but I was slowly losing anyway because a hedge bet on the favourite just doesn't pay enough to cover the cost of the bet that might actually pay enough to be worthwhile. So, even though I left with less money than I went there with, I'm not upset about it. I don't consider leaving the track down 15 bucks to really be losing. Hell, I spent that much to see Harry Potter last week. Besides, it doesn't even compare to the two days' pay I dropped on one hand of blackjack two weeks ago.
This was the third year my mom and my sister have gone to the track for Turkey Day so, for them, it is becoming something of a tradition. It was my first such Thanksgiving (I was in LA the last three years) but I enjoyed it immensely. I think I just might make this a regular thing in the future.
Here's what I am NOT thankful for this Thanksgiving: ants.
The insides of my apartment walls must teaming with them. They come in wherever they can find a crack, and there are lots of cracks. I have been doing battle with them for weeks now.
[I'm brushing them off my skin as I write this, just so you know what a dedicated blogger I am. If I caught on fire and was burning to death, I'd probably stop and blog about how it all happened, and how it felt, before calling 911.]
I can't use pesticides because of my chemical sensitivity, so I've tried all the natural repellents I've heard of: sprinkling cloves where I see ants [smells good but doesn't help, and don't step on cloves barefoot, please]; spraying tea tree oil, vinegar, rubbing alcohol [which works but it bothers my lungs]; even cornstarch to soak up the moisture to which they seem attracted. I bought ant bait but the little monsters weren't interested.
At one point, I found myself taking a bath, sitting carefully in the middle of the water so as not to touch the tub because I was surrounded: the entire rim was moving with a double line of tiny brown ants like a highway, one line going one direction, the other line going the other direction. I freaked and got out the cornstarch at that point.
That drove them away from the tub but they still seemed quite at home in the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I was fascinated to watch them passing each other on the floor in front of me, stopping to touch antennae, then move on. I wondered what they were telling each other.
Then they discovered the toilet seat, which I found out the hard way in the middle of the night. Yes, they bite. I sprayed the toilet with alcohol in spite of my lung problem, and they haven't been back - there, at least.
One morning last week, I woke to discover my kitchen counter and sink alive with thousands of ants. I discovered that I haven't lost my ability to scream.
That's when the idea hit me: tape. They couldn't cross the adhesive. I could contain them and block their entry. So I cut long strips of duct tape and folded it lengthwise to create double-sided tape. I blocked off the entire length of the counter first, then taped up the crevices where I spotted ants coming in. Then I used more tape to pick them up [they were sitting ducks-- er, ants], watching them writhe on the adhesive in what I presumed to be agony, with a mixture of evil pleasure and guilt. What about my supposed nonviolent beliefs now?
Oh hell, enlightenment can wait.
But the worst was yet to happen. Like little Taliban waiting in caves for cover of dark, they found entry again during the night. Last night.
The morning began innocently enough. I woke and began to get ready for yoga, laying out my sticky mat and props on the floor, setting up the yoga tape on the VCR. I sat on my zazen pillow and tried to quiet my mind. A tickling sensation on my neck distracted me. I rubbed it and felt the tiny body of an ant roll up between finger and thumb. Then another one. And another.
They must be on my sweater, I thought, so I took it off, leaving my t-shirt. Then another ant crawled across the hair of my neck. Are they in my hair? I wondered. I decided to take a shower before doing yoga and put on a completely new, clean set of clothes. In the shower, I discovered several ants on my body and quickly rinsed them off, shuddering. I washed my hair thoroughly, dried off with clean towels and put on my nice clean sweat pants and t-shirt.
Back to the yoga mat. But before I even got there, I felt more ants on my neck and arms. I looked down at my pants and there were dozens of ants crawling up the leg. Ants in my pants!
Clark Kent could not have peeled off his clothes any faster. I was running NEKKID through my living room without even thinking that there was a teenaged boy sleeping in the other room, until I passed his open door. Phew. He was still sleeping.
In the bathroom, I grabbed my nightie and examined it closely before putting it on. I tiptoed out, examining every surface with each step. And there they were: thousands of little soldier ants on a six-lane superhighway, marching up the wall and into my closet - my clothes closet. I opened the door and followed the moving line across the top of the door, down the wall, behind my clothes, and saw them crawling down the back wall of the closet to a crack in the baseboard.
My clothes! My underwear! Can you hear me screaming!
I think my son woke up at that point. The two of us stared at the living lines in fear and wonder. We followed them around the corner and found the source of their attention: the trash, where I had foolishly tossed a couple of gnawed chicken bones last night. [Honestly, I hadn't seen the ants show any interest in food until this point. I thought they were only looking for water.] The trash can was teeming with ants.
We didn't know what to do. There were so many of them. Robby suggested that we just leave the trash where it was and not disturb the ants, and go buy some more ant bait and put it in the trash. I didn't think that would work since the bait hadn't worked before. We seriously considered [and are still considering] moving out and letting the ants have the place, at least until building management comes in with the big guns. Spraying with alcohol might work temporarily, but like I said, the smell really bothers me.
Finally, I knew there was only one weapon that would drive them back. I got out the duct tape and went in. First I laid a blanket on the floor and wrapped all my clothes in it, to be examined and washed later as necessary. I pulled out the shoe rack and positioned Robby behind me with a flashlight.
I taped off their exit and they began to go nuts, spreading on the wall.
"Quick!" I yelled, "I need more tape!"
Robby cut the tape and handed to me as I pasted it on lines of ants, picking it up and catching more until the adhesive was covered with squirming little bodies. More tape, and more was used, and still they kept coming. Finally, we managed to catch most of the ants on the wall.
"Robby," I said, like a lieutenant giving orders, "you're going to have to take the garbage out."
We both looked at the teeming trash can and knew it had to be done.
"I'll hold the door for you," I said. "Just grab it by that one end where there aren't many ants and run with it. Put it outside and we'll deal with it later."
I'm proud to report that my son was brave. He didn't shirk his duty.
So the battle has been won but not the war. A few stragglers still need to be picked off with duct tape, one by one. But I know they're in the walls, waiting for night. They've got numbers on their side.
Happy Thanksgiving... from Honolulu, Hawai'i. I know what you're thinking: "What a lucky bastard. I wish I was in Hawaii. I wish I was this guy. Why can't I make sweet red hot monkey love to a guy like this?" Well believe me, it is not all it's cracked up to be... on either account.
What your travel agent never tells is Hawaii is a shithole!" Oh sure, it's technically a tropical paradise, but the reality is this place is a complete fucking disgrace. It looked so cool on Magnum PI, but I've seen parts of the South that were cleaner and more respectable and I've been to Mississippi. (listening to digital radio station Retro Active: the clash-should i stay or should i go?)
It is hotter than shit and so humid my nuts feel like three dumplings in a pot. (yes, three. it is that humid) At this rate I will not be able to go to the "relaxtion parlor" later. what a cute name for a handjob joint... relaxation parlor.
The god damn birds never shut the hell up and my buddy's house is at the bottom of a fucking volcano. You try to sleep with these conditions, it's really intolerable.(the replacements)
There are roads EVERYWHERE and no two of them run parallel so it is this huge mess of streets that make no god damn sense. Half the freaking palm trees are dead, there are Army boys everywhere and
that flight... Jesus H. Christ on a popscicle stick that was the longest 8 hours of my life. I flew through Dallas and apparently in Texas, random searches means they pick the swarthy men with goatees to search their shit. Fucking hayseeds. This bothers me not because I minded being searched. Yes, do random searches, RANDOM searches, but don't pick me out of the crowd because of my appearance then tell me to my face it is random. What really burns my ass is the first thing a terrorist would do is change his appearance enough to fool one of these dumbasses so here, in this situation, prejudice is not only immoral it could easily get someone killed because these crackers are checking the most suspicious people they can spot. A few blonde highlights and Osama bin Laden himself could waltz through Dallas International. (Sex Pistols-pretty vacant)
Jet lag is no problem, but the time difference has thrown off the old diabetes routine. Thank god I can just completely ignor by doctor's advice and do whatever I want and let the drugs do all my work for me. Later on, the drugs are going to help me consume massive amounts of turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes AND gravy, stuffing with liberal doses of gravy on it and my homemade gravy sopped up with a dinner roll the size of your head, chief. (annie lennox)
My buddy, Mark, has somehow not taught his children about the greatness which is thanksgiving. As an army guy he is sworn to protect our American way of life by killing foreigners, but, like a true American, he is too lazy to pass on American culture to his own offspring. He makes me want to puke my fucking guts out frankly and I might just piss on him while he sleeps. So I am here to teach him the fundamentals of Thanksgiving. I made a stuffing that is going to rock harder than Gene Simmons of KISS. Two cans of oysters, garlic, two Fuji apples, two onions, three stalks of celery, two carrots, giblets, this stuffing has everything: Tradition, honor, discipline, bread crumbs. It will rock or so help me god my name is not effenheimer! I'll let you know. (adam ant - strip)
Last night, we went to an all nude juice bar and I got pissed off because because they didn't make smoothies. If you are gonna advertize juice, then at least make an attempt. Now we don't have juice bars in Council Bluffs, our strip clubs are PG-13. So when this stripper shoved her punani in my face last night I was faced with the shocking possibility that I might in fact be gay. Sure, there is nothing wrong with that in theory, but theory doesn't help you out none when you are looking at the biggest clam in the shoppe and thinking, "oh please don't stick my face in it, please don't stick my face in it." Is it just me? I had this odd attraction/repulsion thing going on where I was kind of curious but sort of turned off by the idea of getting too close to it. Where's the mystery, the mystique... the UNDERPANTS?
So just to prove to myself and my buddy that I am straight, I had about $120 in lapdances (two-for-one specials all so that makes about 10 lapdances. WHAT?). Is this rampant Don Juanism or just my natural hetero instincts taking over?
Well, I have a bird to stuff and side dishes to prepare. It is almost 8 a.m. local time and I am gripped by the Fear.
Feeling so unmotivated right now. Got a lot of things on my mind, yet Iím unable to make the effort to express them. I donít know why, but hopefully it passes. But, to ensure that something happens here (seeing as the rest of the staff is suffering through a similar malaise, or us just taking an early Thanksgiving break), I was looking through my folder of stuff I wrote but never posted. I happened upon this list of five songs I canít live without, a meme started by Ipse Dixit way back on October 16th.
I actually wrote this list on October 19th, but Iím not sure why I never posted it at the time. Probably because every time I finalized my list of five songs, I thought of another one to add to the list. Kind of like that scene in High Fidelity when Cusack keeps calling back the hot indie chick who interviewed him to change the list of the list of five songs he canít live without. Or maybe I never posted it because it sucked. Either way, here it is.
Everyone is doing one of these five songs lists. I donít normally jump on the meme bandwagon, but here goes:
I want to marry Liz Phair. Unfortunately, she is already married. Which is a shame, not just because I want her all for myself, but because her music was better (and more frequent) before she got married, back in the days she was living in her parentís basement, depressed, alone, and prolific.
I guess itís a sign of growing up and she is a couple years older than me (though I wouldnít mind getting with that). Itís just, I canít relate to her anymore. When Liz sings Everything you say is so obnoxious, funny, true and mean / I want to be your blowjob queen she is obviously singing it to me. When she sings about her kid, I know Iíll never have her.
Those lyrics are from Flower, a song I like a lot. But Divorce Song is a much better, uh, song. I donít know why I like it, other than because in the ten years since Iíve first heard it, I still canít decide if itís a love song or a break up song.
Not enough bands, outside of West Virginia, play the singing saw. And not enough bands, outside of the 1,001 Arabian nights, play the wandering genie. And not enough bands, period, use the zanzithophone. The point Iím trying to make is that Neutral Milk Hotel is not your normal band. Youíll never see them on Total Request Live and for that, I love them.
If these list were about the five albums you couldnít live without, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea would definitely be on it. But for some reason, the list of five songs I canít live without doesnít include a song from that album. Instead, my choice is Engine, one of the B-sides. Everything these guys have released is brilliant but this song is just a cut above; the lyrics are poetry and the melody is simple and haunting.
Franklin Bruno, lead singer of Nothing Painted Blue is a professor of Philosophy at UCLA. When NPB works, they can write really melodic, indie pop gems. When they donít, well, it sounds pretty much like the music youíd expect from a college philosophy teacherís band. Canít f(x) is one of the songs that works. I mean, the title of the song is a math joke [f(x) = function], and the song is about premature ejaculation, Christ, brilliant is that?
Normally, I hate Christian music. I loathe it. For some reason, no matter what the style music it is, and even if I canít hear the lyrics, I always KNOW Iím listening to a Christian band. I canít put my finger on what it is, exactly, that differentiates Christian bands from, you know, good music, but there is something, and you can always tell.
But, see, Pedro the Lion are actually really good, so you wouldnít know that they loved god and stuff. But they do. Even more importantly, they rock out pretty damn hard. Oh, I shouldnít have said damn. Anyway, I could have picked just about any damn song off any of their albums, but Big Trucks is just about their most upbeat song and its about driving and patience, two things that donít often go together.
Built to Spill are from Idaho. I donít know why, but that makes me happy. I heard about BTS via a cover of their song Twin Falls by Ben Folds Five. Folds wrote about the song and said heíd happily spend his career as a BTS cover band. If I had any musical talent at all, Iíd say the same thing. Twin Falls is a good song, but itís not my favorite.
As with every other damn song on this list, I need to preface my choice by saying I could have chosen any one of a dozen other of their songs. But, the song I choose, You Were Right, is better, if only because it manages to cram quotes all of your favorite Classic Rock songs over a melody thatíd have Neil Young and Mick Jagger rolling over in their graves.
That wasnít so much a list as an essay. Did I ever mention Iíve got a problem keeping things short?
One of the sparkly new extra features of our sparkly new servers is the ability to create subdomains (ie: akickasssite.badsamaritan.com). So, in light of said new feature, I'll be opening the doors to potential hostees. Wouldn't you like a *.badsamaritan.com site of your very own? I know you do. So send me a statement of interest, and we'll see what we can do.
Oh, if the badsamaritan.com domain name isn't cool enough, I'll also be offering my design services and a custom config of GM or MT to all hostees. Now, who wouldn't snatch up this offer?
As Salaam Alaikum. MG may not be working on his novel, but he is busy. He is actually getting on the old job hunt again. He told me he has so little money for staples like beer and food ramen noodles that, like in all those old Three Stooges movies where they are out in the desert, or on a life raft and Moe is so hungry that when he looks at Curley and Larry he sees a rack of lamb or a big roast chicken, respectively. Except, in MGís case, when he looks at people he sees a giant slab of silken tofu and a bottle of Sam Adams.
Anyway, he is a little busy, so he asked me if I could come Ďround and do a little guest posting. The author situation is already pretty crowded around here, but since MG and I go way back, he made an exception for me. Isnít that nice of him?
I told you what MG is up to, but you might be wondering what Iíve been up to. I havenít quite been in the public eye as much as I was a couple months ago. I mean, there was a while there when I was the top story on the news every day. I was releasing new videos faster than Michael Jackson in the early eighties, and getting all sorts of product endorsements.
Where have I been all this time?
Well, you may assume, what with the Northern Alliance taking most of Afghanistan and the Taliban on the run (boy, did I pick a winner with those guys), that Iíve been hiding. But youíd be wrong, you negative nellies. I havenít been hiding at all. I had something very important going on the last couple weeks, I was on line waiting for Harry Potter tickets.
There is only one movie theatre in Afghanistan, the United Artists Caveplex Odeon, so I didnít have the luxury of choosing between any of the near 4,000 theatres showing the movie in the States. And since we donít have telephones, I couldnít just preorder the tickets on Movie Fone like you lazy infidels.
To ensure my families got tickets I queued up back in October, and boy am I glad I did. I was one of the first people on line. They let the first couple of us to queue up wait inside the cave, which is lucky, because the day before the movie opened, an Daisy Cutter fell outside the cave, killing or maiming everyone who had got in line later. Itís a shame really; those people could have died taking out a school bus full of Christian kindergarteners, plus, they never got to see Harry Potter
When the box office opened, I bought the tickets for my seven wives and forty-three children, and filed into the theatre. Lets just say that I was almost as excited to see the movie as the kids were. I remember the awe on the faces of all my dozens of children kids when Iíd read them the books before bedtime.
But, Iíll join the bandwagon of people saying that the movie just didnít have that same sense of wonder as the books. I donít really know what I was expecting; the Sorcererís Stonewasnít bad. I mean, it didnít make me want to run out and blow up a building or anything, but coming out of the theatre I certainly didnít have the buoyancy in my step of a man on his way to meet up with seventy virgins.
Maybe my expectations were too high, but I was a little disappointed. The movie was too true to the book, and since the book was so long, it was nearly impossible to fit everything into the movie without glossing over things. The characters didnít get fleshed out, and everything seemed a little rushed. Itís strange to have a two and a half hour movie seem rushed, but it was. Not that I would want the movie to be any longer; the Taliban lost three more cities just in the time I was in the theatre.
The special effects were great, but there were some things I just couldnít believe. Sure, it was only a movie and I know all about suspension of disbelief. But there were just some things in the movie that didnít make sense. I can buy magic, flying brooms and three-headed dogs, but women in school? Whatever.
As much as the movie didnít live up to expectations, it certainly exceeded expectations for ticket sales. Here in Afghanistan, Harry Potter broke the record for highest grossing opening weekend ever. The movie grossed 218 camels, 179 horses, and 63 pre-teen brides. I read in Muhammad Ebertís column the Kabul Tribune that the movie will probably break the record for highest grossing film ever, Lawrence of Right Down the Block.
Now, some of my kids want to go see it again. Iíll send them with one of their moms, but Iím not interested. While I donít want to go see the movie again, Iíll buy the DVD as soon as it comes out. Iím sure all the extras will fulfill my expectations make me love the movie more than the movie itself did. I really canít wait for the DVD to come out. I also canít wait to get a DVD player, a TV, and electricity in my hut.
This entry can be sung in its entirety to the tune of ďPretty Boy FloydĒ by Woody Guthrie.
Wonít you gather íround me children, hereís a story I will tell. About a day of eating... all the turkey you can hold... down.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It's not so commercial as Christmas, Halloween, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, or even Arbor Day, which we all know is just an excuse for the Man to sell more trees! Am I right people? SCREW YOU, EARL MAY, YOU SUCKA-ASS BITCH!
The word ďholidayĒ literally means ďholy dayĒ and time was all holidays had a religious element and were not just about taking the day off and buying hundreds of dollars worth of shit nobody really needs. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but I like my holy days to be pure, spiritual and, whenever possible, covered in gravy.
Nothing beats the purity, spirituality and gravy of Thanksgiving, of getting together with the family to do nothing more complicated than to have a meal thatís every element drips with tradition, meaning and, of coruse, turkey-fat gravy.
For the last three years, I have spent Thanksgiving either volunteering at churches I didnít belong to or sitting alone in a graduate dorm eating rotisserie chicken watching Clint Eastwood shoot people on TBS and giving thanks for the bounty of Wild Turkey and Pepsi in my 64-ounce Kwik Shop insulated mug.
That isnít half bad either. I mean, if you can't have the warm family shit, you might as well watch TV, it is an American Tradition.
Nothing beats hour after hour of watching Clint Eastwood pretend to kill people on Turkey Day unless it is spending Jesus's birthday watching the ďChristmas StoryĒ marathon on TNT.
Ted Turner, you magnificent bastard, how did we make it through the holidays without you? Excuse me, I promised myself I wouldnít cry, but I tend to get a little emotional around the holidays.
So this Thursday, live it up, give thanks and remember that ďKellyís Heroes,Ē ďTwo Mules for Sister SaraĒ and ďAny Which Way You CanĒ will all be airing on Thanksgiving and if that's not good enough, catch 24 hours of Eastwood Friday on TBS! Happy Thanksgiving!
Hey, has it been sufficiently long since my introduction as a Bad Samaritan contributor to qualify as "fashionably late"? I never really got a firm grasp on those sorts of socially-based nuances or anything, much less when I was dealing with online analogues of them. Eh, what the hell, I'll just start typing. 'Sides, it'll give me a chance to get away from the throngs of child pornographers who've been visiting my site as of late.
Oh, it's not as if I intended for there to be massive quantities of kiddie pr0n fiends beating down my digital doorstep. This is not the electronic existence I envisioned for myself once I started this whole "personal website" song-and-dance. I mean, it's not really the sort of thing you can tell people about in casual conversation; it'd sound decidedly strange if, say, my mom started clucking to her coworkers about it. ("That's my boy's site - he's the top Internet resource of lolita sex and underage felching, don't you know?!?") Hell, I don't even know if my mom knows what felching is, and I'm sure as hell not going to be the one to explain it to her.
Me, I blame Google.
Sure, Google's usually a great tool and every weblogger's friend. What webmaster hasn't been in the doldrums of apathy at one point or another, struggling to come up with even the most mildly interesting of posts for his teeming readers, turning to off-kilter Google searches for some quick-and-dirty inspiration? ("Wow, '+platinum +Pikachu +boobies +feldspar' - how wacky is that, huh? Oh, and look at this one: 'prandial Hottentot get his rocks off' - mere words can't express the zaniness inherent in that bad boy!")
Admittedly, Google searches are marginal content at best - but hey, content's content, right? Besides, the searches have at least some standalone entertainment value. I went so far as to write a log-parsing routine, automagically trumpeting the previous day's search engine silliness for public consumption. This would prove to be a great labor-saving utility. This would also prove, in time, to be the bane of my existence.
Y'see, at some point, Google merrily stumbled upon my page of searches. Not knowing any better, it dutifully entered the contents of that page into its database; much to my chagrin, the contents of that page contained the phrase "underage porn". Just like that, I got all sorts of Google-spawned hits from enterprising seekers of kiddie porn... which caused the phrase to show up on the search page even more... which caused my search page's Google ranking to climb even higher. Positive reinforcement at its finest, to the tune of hundreds of crazed Internet-goers every day.
By itself, the raw influx of underage porn seekers I could handle. I mean, it's not as if they're having a pronounced effect on my day-to-day life or anything. Ah, but there's more to the story than just that: according to the cookie-based visitor tracker, I've seen a palpable uptick in the number of repeat visitors over the last week or two. Not so many that their mere presence is turning the server into a weeping molten silicon slag or anything... but enough for me to notice. Enough to disturb me, anyway.
Now, there's nothing saying that these new recurring visitors definitely the same people as the kiddie porn fiends. Maybe the recent uptick is a completely disassociated anomaly. Maybe I've simply received a quirky combination of random plugs from random places as of late. Maybe a lot of things. But still... well, it makes the mind wonder.
I can just see it now: years down the road, holding a mythical TwonCon, meeting up with some large number of regular readers. We're sharing drinks, talking about good times. The subject of how they all stumbled upon my little online abode comes up in casual conversation; sheepishly, one of them volunteers that it was through a search for child pornography. "Hey, me too!" voices another, and another and another, until I'm surrounded by a sea of folks engaged in animated discussions about 'Lolita sex' this and 'underaged BBS' that, leaving me to quietly whimper in disbelief, pining for the delicious tang of a cyanide capsule to bring an early end to the evening's festivities.
I don't know what I'm going to do about this situation. I suppose the only thing I can do is wait it out, hoping that some other site containing massive quantities of references to underage porn wrests my Google title from me. Massive quantities of references... er, rather like those contained in this very article, come to think of it. Hmm - funny how things ever-so-conveniently turned out that way....
The X-Files began its ninth season last week to a chorus of yawns.
Does anyone care about this show anymore? The X-Files is your perfect example for shark jumping, it fits into almost every category: there have been cast changes, deaths, a return from the grave, a birth, the main characters have knocked boots, a movie was made, and there have been two spin-offs. All they need to seal the deal is do an all singing episode, and bring in an invisible talking alien that only Mulder and Scully can see and hear.
Back in the day each, new X-Files episodes was awaited with baited breathe. I lived in the dorms during the hey-day of the show. I remember the premiere of the third season. The previous year had ended with a cliffhanger (of course). Mulder found a buried rail car filled with alien corpses. Cancer Man caught up to him and had the car, with Mulder still inside, blown up.
Everyone I knew was anxiously awaiting the season premiere to find out if Mulder made it out alive. Every student in the dorms was huddled around a television set that night. Those poor saps that didn’t have a set of their own wandered from room to room trying to find someone who’d let them watch the show.
We had waited all summer for this, and just as the opening credits were rolling, the threat of fire forced us out of the building. We had questions, and we wanted them answered, damn it! Of course The X-Files, didn’t answered those questions then, and haven’t to this day. But, none of us knew it at the time because we were still naÔve enough to think Chris Carter was a genius.
The fire alarms went off on a weekly basis in the dorms. You’d get up from whatever you were doing, go outside, hang out for a while, and then head back to your room, no harm done. It was a nice break from studying, drinking, or screwing your girlfriend. But this night it was different; it was the season premiere of The X-Files.
Well, since the fire department took their sweet time getting out to the dorms, we all missed the majority of the episode. It all worked out for the best, at least for me, because while my questions have never been answered, I did get to see these ( one | two ) naked pictures of Gillian Anderson. Anderson, for those of you living in a cave, plays Special Agent Dana Scully. She has probably been in some other movies and TV shows, but who cares. Anderson’s turn as Dana Scully is how she’ll be remembered for all time. And, really, there are worse ways to be immortalized.
Scully has got to be one of the biggest pieces of ass in television history. I don’t know what it is, the feminine toughness of a sexy Federal Agent (she has handcuffs and she knows how to use them), the character’s intelligence (Scully, is a doctor who knows her way around a corpse), or the fact she’s been knocked up half the seasons of the show (which means she must like sex).
It’s probably a combination of all those things, or it could just be because she has got red hair. And, sure, these pictures are just topless, so we haven’t finally learned whether Scully’s cuffs and collar match, but hey, a naked picture of Gillian Anderson is a naked picture of Gillian Anderson. I may have a piece of the puzzle now, but I’ll keep looking for fully nude pictures, because the truth is out there.
If you are seeing this, that means you are viewing Bad Samaritan on our speedy, shiny, and big ass new servers. We've recently switched hosts, if you experience any weirdness (missing pages, broken images, etc) let me know.
I'll treat this as some sort of confessional, and I must make haste before I second guess that decision and burn eternally in hell. I recanted the story of my reuniting with my baby's father elsewhere. I told all about how at lunch I kept looking at him and not feeling the same way ... blah blah blah ... closure ... blah blah blah ... felt sorry for him. I did, however, leave out a good part of the story. And that would be the part that came between "Let's rent The Mexican" and "See you later". That would be the part where we had a little bit of the sex. Just a little bit mind you. Nothing to panic over.
For the past few months I have thought about this situation over and over. What it was going to be like seeing him for the first time after he did me so wrong. Most of the time I envisioned myself looking very sophisticated and acting very aloof. He'd regret tossing me. He'd think,"Why, this isn't trash at all!"
I had envisioned meeting in the park where we'd talk about the baby and how all of those prenatal visits were going. We'd talk about names. We'd talk about how great I am. Never, never, did I envision we'd eat a couple of cheap steaks, rent a really bad movie, and end up rolling around on his paisley comforter.
I was totally honest about the fact that I had really reached a point where I was no longer even interested in being with this guy anymore, and that the only thing I felt for him across that table was pity. But I will also be honest and say that I really wanted to have the sex. I don't just have sex with whoever's around either. Perhaps that would be the more convenient route, but it's not mine. So I have to admit, to a much wider audience than I'd like to think about, that I, Melissa, used a man for nothing but sexual purposes. What's worse was the cockiness I exhibited afterwards. We're talking on the verge of using Austin Power's speak. Looking in the rear-view mirror and telling myself, "You are a sexy bitch aren't you?"
Worse than that? Tomorrow I'll be at lunch sharing this same story with my best friend, Amy. Only I'll be in a truer melly form. I'll be talking about him like he's a piece of man meat. I'll be talking about how he owed me this one. I'll be joking about how he fucked me and now I've fucked him. But that's okay because just a few miles away, he'll be at Nathan's house talking about how he hit that you know what. You know, we actually had the nerve to hug each other afterwards.
I can think of at least two people who walked away from that hug with a nice, sarcastic roll of the eyes. One of them thought enough of themselves to strut. That one was me. Female-chauvinist melly.
in second grade i had a crush on peter amadon. he had a mouse colored bowl haircut and a perpetual red ring around his mouth, the result of licking his lips too much with an apparently extra long and overzealous tongue.
in school i was the most rambunctious, loud mouthed little babe of the bunch. i got in trouble with my second grade teacher on a regular basis. i was always the girl getting the "indoor voice" warning and the one who often got sent out into the hall after such warnings had gone completely disobeyed. it wasn't that i was defiant. i was always so caught up in whatever it was i was into - playing house or hide and seek or what have you - i tended to forget what i'd been told a half hour earlier. i also didn't always have a sense of how loud i actually was. i still suffer from that lack of awareness sometimes. on my birthday last september, for example, my friends and i got charged double for our drinks at the neighborhood bar we were celebrating in because we were apparently screaming too much. but that's another story.
while i was a wild child half of the time, i was a terribly shy kid around people i didn't know. i'd pray to be able to disappear behind one of my parents' legs in front of strangers and acquaintances. though it may come as a surprise to those who know me now, i was that way with boys too. so imagine how much courage i must have mustered up for myself the day i decided to kiss peter amadon.
i don't remember what it was about that particular day or moment in school that made me want to plant one on him, or even get that close to him for that matter, but once i got the idea in my six year old head, there was no going back. i don't even recall what we were doing at the time, or what was going on around us. i know that i was standing there looking at him with those perfectly straight strands of boy hair hanging down over his eyebrows and that sad, painful looking ring of fire around his mouth. i debated with myself over whether or not i should make my move. i told myself it wasn't that big a deal. why should it be? what would be wrong with giving him a kiss on the cheek anyway? it was just something nice to do. and i really felt like doing something nice.
so in one swift motion, i leaned in and aimed my heart shaped pucker right for his smooth olive stained cheek. his face tasted like clean, if clean was a flavor. i closed my eyes for that split second that my lips met his fleshy face and then pulled back smiling. (it was *not* a "let's-go-roll-around-behind-the-cubbies" kind of smile, mind you.) i should have just turned on the heels of my mary janes and gotten the hell out of there. his eyebrows scrunched up into themselves and the skin on his whole face turned redder than the chafing around his mouth. i knew immediately that it wasn't the embarrassed kind of redness, though. peter amadon was fished. before i knew it, he'd stomped away having yelled at me something about "telling".
when our teacher came up to me i hadn't moved at all. i was still standing in the same place i'd been when i decided to kiss him. in one quiet but firm sentence, my teacher said to me, "leave. peter. alone." i i'd never kissed anyone before except my parents and my cat. whatever happened immediately after that, i'm pretty sure i've blocked it out. it's safe to say that my relationship with peter amadon never went anywhere.
i think my sexuality was permanently scarred after that particular second grade trauma. at least until my early teens. i never, ever kissed a boy until i was fifteen. by all peer accounts, i was a late bloomer. my friends were talking about "going in the bushes" with each other. i didn't even know what the hell went on in there but i knew it must have been uncomfortable. every day until the very moment that i finally made out with a boy (my first kiss ended up being a sloppy, wet, tongue wrestling marathon on the couch in my ninth grade boyfriend's basement while his parents were at a hockey game), i was scared to death at the thought of making another move on some unsuspecting, and probably undeserving boy. that damn peter amadon. (if you're reading this, peter, i bet you wish you'd kept your rashy mouth shut.)
thankfully i've gotten over most of my shyness. i'm probably more of a troublemaker. after all, kissing boys is a certain kind of trouble. but that's another story too.
It was a hot Saturday. The kind of heat that zaps the sweat off your skin before it can do its job. It was the kind of heat that makes you want to sit in a cold, dark room and slowly sip iced tea for hours. And it was only 9.
I had been drafted into a five minute rib eating contest at Bluffs Runís 4th Annual Barbecue Festival set for 2 later that afternoon. The weather man was predicting 95 about the time I was supposed to strap on the feed bag and eat like a fool alongside other small-C celebrities, local TV cameramen, AM radio disc jockeys, Fox anchor Pam Wiese (a skinny, dippy bitch with tight abs and navel ring) and Council Bluffs Mayor Tom Hanafan, the most vicious bastard to dominate southwestern Iowa politics since Councilman Big English John "the Cannibal" Kane shot 150 Mormons for grazing their cattle on city property and practicing a new religion without a license in 1847.
But those were harsher times.
Friends, family and colleagues were watching this spectacle. I had promised a good show for two weeks, but that was bold talk. Inside I was shit-scared. I could have a massive coronary from too much meat, something that doesnít usually happen outside of cruise ship buffet lines, but there you have it.
I could pass out and lose control of all bodily functions while my mother watched horrified shouting ďnot again!Ē I was gripped by the Fear.
I showed before game time with two hipster friends from Ames, IA who drove three hours to act detached. Whatever. They were high on life, diesel fumes and a 12-pack of Zima I chilled back at my squat. Oh and half a bag of the sweetest K.B. this side of the Mississippi that smoked out of a houka shaped like Buddha just to get the appetite in gear for the contest.
Say what you will about performance-enhancing drugs, but when you are a fat man in an eating contest, expectations run high. The pressure could crack walnuts.
The heat, my nerves and low blood sugar were making me dizzy, but I knew I had a job to do for the Nonpareil, for Council Bluffs.
Show time came and the small-Cs were introduced. Besides Pam and Tom, I didnít have a clue who anyone was and they didnít know me. We had one thing in common though, an insatiable desire to destroy our enemies and not choke to death in front of the news cameras.
The ribs were slapped down in front of us, a mountain of steaming tender pork dripping with juices and gourmet sauce. Then they slapped Cookieís "Inferno Sauce" on them to make them taste like warm shit. That dirty bastard from Cookie's was just looking for a little free publicity, but everyone knows that condiment kinds are nothing but shabby whores.
A bottle of water was all that stood between most of us and embarrassing asphyxiation.
The countdown began and we were off. Two breast-implanted bimbos from the local classic rock station circled the table like over-inflated buzzards fluffing the competition and rubbing their hard tits on everyone's back. It was like being assaulted with unripened mangos.
The Cookieís Inferno Sauce had a kick like a Wint-O-Green Lifesaver, but I tried not to let it stop me.
Pam Wiese was pounding down ribs like a wolverine while Mayor Hanafan looked on in horror keeping his fingers away from her mouth.
Brad Devol of Omaha Beef Rump Roasters, a fat bastard with an insatiable appetite for all things meat, was going head to head with last year's winner Mike McGonnicle, a skinny Irish fucker with a hollow leg, a mean buzz-on and no morals. It was brutal. Five minutes can seem like an eternity and 30 seconds into it, we all knew one of these guys already had it. I just had to keep up. Anything less than ten ribs would call my manhood into question.
My vision was gray, but I kept pulling off ribs, shoving them down while gasping for air. The crowd cheered like in Roman times at the bloody spectacle of dismemberment and gluttony.
Brad Devol won with 19 ribs and walked away with a coupon for a free meal. Ironic, I suppose.
I had only managed to eat 14 ribs in five minutes, a sad display that could only get worse as the sweet Iowa pork began to work its way through my digestive system with a mean vengence.
By midnight, I was swallowing Immodium AD by the fistful chasing it with Pepto Abysmal praying to Bacchus, the god of over-indulgent swine and thinking of Icarus, another man who flew too close to the sun and failed with explosive consequences. Next year, I thought, I will detroy those fuckers next year.
next: all about my new disease -- DIABETES! (quite a shock, eh?)
Well, damnit, mg is kind enough to let me in on the blogging action here, I post once, get a spasm in my neck, and disappear for a week and a half in a haze of Naproxen and muscle relaxers. This neck thing has so screwed up the month of November for me. (Novel? What novel?) I think my online time total over the past week and a half might just squeeze above the one-hour mark. It boggles the mind. The really funny part is that I didnít miss it nearly as much as I thought I would. Imagine it. Iíve been spending around average of 10 minutes a day online. I canít remember the last time thatís happened. I usually start to get a little nervous if I go over 2 hours without at least checking my email. Of course, I had lovely prescription drugs to help me through it. That might explain the serenity.
My biggest regret is that my novel is more than likely not going to be finished this month. I really hate to start things and then walk away from them before they are finished. It bugs me. Maybe Iíll make it a personal goal to finish it before the end of the year. If not, wellÖthen, thereís always next November, right?
Believe it or not, there is a point to this post, and my point is this: I never actually sat down and added up how many hours a week I spend online. I know it was a lot. I mean, I met my husband online, I ran my business online for almost a year, and I have probably reached the point that I have more friends online than I do in real life. The number is probably higher than Iíd be willing to admit to...sayÖa therapist or my mother (who is firmly convinced that the Internet is nothing more than pornographers and perverts), but as soon as I figure it out, Iíll more than willingly share it with you guys. So why not share with me, too? How much time do you spend online? How much time is too much time? When does harmless fun become a dangerous addiction? At what point do the relatives set up an intervention and unplug your monitor ďfor your own goodí?
NOTE: The title to this post is from The Tick, which is a pretty damn hilarious show, in my own personal opinion. You should watch it, if you get the chance--but only if you thought Police Squad was pure genius. Or maybe only if you're taking drugs that alter your reality and make EVERYTHING funny. Either way, I'm digging the one-liners they come up with on that show. I think I am, at least. Once againÖit could be the drugs.
First of all, I dye my hair, have for years and years and... never mind how long, ok? From my distant memories, and occasional glimpses of the roots, I know that it is a golden, reddish brown, a nondescript and unremarkable color (in my opinion, which is generally fairly harsh when applied to myself). I use color that brings out the reddish tones, and people tend to think it's real (well, with freshly done roots), because my skin tone definitely suggests redhead. I should have been born a redhead, that was definitely an oversight on Someone's part, if you know what I mean.
It's been a month, or maybe closer to two, since I've done the color. The roots aren't that different, so it's not a big problem, but it's gotten around the time that I start to stress on them. I was in the bathroom, peering intently at my scalp, when I saw it. First I thought it might be a trick of the light, or, well, anything but what it was. It was a red hair with a very, very light colored root. The root, well, it was, uh, kind of not-quite-white. I'm not saying it was grey - it had more of a golden undertone. It did! I swear! So I'm not going grey, I'm just finally turning blonde, which means my airbrained scatterhead tendencies will fit me better.
And that was a a fairly silly thing to say, wasn't it? I was trying to be clever, and falling flat, because I'm freaking out. I'm going grey. I tried to make jokes about it, but not funny ones. Truth is, right now, as I write this, extremely light colored hairs are sprouting out of my head, most of them probably sneakily growing where I can't see them, but as soon as I need to put my hair up, people are going to look at the back of my head and think, oh, look, she's old.
You're thinking, what's the big deal? I mean, it's only roots we're talking about. But let me assure you, it's a whole different deal. Having slightly darker roots is normal. You see a lot of it (especially around where I live, in Southern California, where the sun tends to make blondes of us all, if we play in it enough). But then you see people with really dark hair, and a good outgrowth of white roots and it's just... disturbing. It seems for some reason wrong, or am I equating wrong with old? What's wrong with getting old? It just means I'm not dead yet, right? I've survived! Yay me.
If anyone needs me, I'll be in the corner, sobbing hysterically.
Wow-ness. I feel like a newbie after such a long posting hiatus. It is exhilarating to return yakking here and hereís a hearty poke-in-the-stomach for the fresh new faces of Bad Sam. * jabs * jabs *. Ah, donít mention itÖ.hehe.
Flexing my memory backwards, the past two months were immensely trying and stressful having to endure both domestic and academic stress. Relieved that I can now put them behind me until the next academic year totters along.
My folks flew in from Malaysia to check us out in Christchurch. Such trips are almost inevitable really * makes sad faces * considering that 3/5 of their offspring are in New Zealand. Dad has his stuff to keep him occupied while mom is having a ball exhausting her enthusiasm on the good people of Christchurch. You see, she absolutely adores the place and keeps on Ďmissing in actioní i.e. hardly stays home. Oh wellÖ
Oh, the love for their kids! ( hah! ). They brought over shitloads of Malaysian made yummy goodies for us. We have red bean paste buns * wipes drool *, durian cakes * hold your noses! *, heaps and heaps of preserved products like ginger squares, prunes and such and oh my, endless supply of tidbits. How asian. We brought in more food into the country than any other products because we really miss the yummies back home and dear mother ( like any dedicated asian parents ) would take the whole nine yards to acquire them for our consumption. Oops. Iím touched. * sniffs*
And oh, thanks to the Mister Osama, we were deprived of 10% of our foodstuff which was confisticated by the Customs due to Spartan measures adopted since Osamaís good deed. Damn-ness. Naturally, it annoyed mother to no end.
Officer: Iíll take these tins.
Mother: * refuses to let go * Theyíre just Milo!
Officer: Sorry but they contain dairy substances therefore they are not allowed into the country.
Mother: But we imported them from here! Are you saying that New Zealandís dairy product are not safe for consumption anymore?
Officer: * loss for words *
But we still donít get to keep the Milo though.
Officer seen scrutinizing laboriously over a packet of dried giant lily mushrooms. Those mushrooms rocks in chicken soup.
Mom: What are you looking for?
Mom: * insulted * Insects!
Mom: I think youíre the biggest insect Iíve ever seen.
Gosh mother, behave!
Most of the foodstuff mom got were hard to come by in New Zealand, let alone tiny Christchurch. Not mentioning how frightening cheap they are compared to the ones available locally.
I have yet to reveal this site to my mother but I glad she isnít reading this because we kids admit that we actually love them for the food they brought us. :Ģ
It's happening. Again. Another migraine, another panic.
I can't sleep because my 'bed', if you can call a mamasan chair a bed, is what's causing the headache. It leaks formaldehyde, as does most furniture these days, and I'm sensitive to formaldehyde among other things. But there is no place else that I can sleep. Don't even think about the floor - you don't want to know what's in the carpet.
Yes, I know how crazy I sound. I don't give a shit, not when my head is pounding like this.
So, on the advice of an even more sensitive friend, I wrapped the big round cushion in three layers of mylar emergency blankets, carefully foil-taping the edges to keep the poison gas inside. But there was some seepage, causing daily migraines, so I recently wrapped and taped a fourth mylar layer around the cushion. That made a big difference but apparently, not enough. There's still a leak - or else, as my friend promised, I'm becoming sensitive to the mylar. It happened to her, after all.
I've been feeling this migraine coming on for several days but I was lazy and stupid, telling myself that if I just sleep with my head practically out on the balcony, I'd be okay. Not.
So I'm up at 4 am doing what I should have done when I first noticed the mild morning headaches: laundry - sheets, blankets, and sweaters, because even San Diego gets too nippy on a November night to be sleeping with the patio door wide open, and your 'bed' wedged up against it, unless you're bundled up good.
Last year, I spent a month sleeping right out there on the balcony but it's directly over the parking lot, and we have several nasty polluter-cars that send an awful cloud of carbon monoxide our way every morning. Not to mention the major city street fifty yards away. As it is, I must wake up in the morning and slide the patio door closed every time I hear a car gunning its engine, and then open the door again in a few minutes until the next neighbor heads for work.
So, laundry. Washing removes the formaldehyde that has permeated the bedding, and buys me another week or two of headache-free mornings. If I wasn't so damn lazy and did the laundry every day, this wouldn't be a problem.
Meanwhile, the cushion is leaking poison gas and I'm sleeping in a cloud of it every night because there's no place else to sleep. Well, I do have one place reserved as a last resort: the bathtub.
But let's not go there. Not tonight.
If you havenít heard by now, there was another airplane crash in New York Monday. American Airlines Flight 587 enroute from John F. Kennedy airport to the Dominican Republic experienced mechanical troubles shortly after take-off and crashed into a residential neighborhood in Rockaway, Queens.
A couple people were worried whether I was okay, and obviously, Iím alive. Rockaway (and JFK airport) is about as far away as you could possibly get from where I live and still be in Queens. There were a good 15 miles between me and any danger. I am, and was, safe.
What is a little frightening, though, is that my apartment and LaGuardia Airport are as equidistant as JFK and where the plane crashed in Rockaway. When there is a Mets game out at Shea, or U.S. Open tennis in Flushing, all the air traffic into LaGuardia gets routed over my neighborhood. Planes pass overhead not more than a few hundred feet away.
But, actually, the thought of a plane colliding with my apartment building doesnít scare me at all. In fact, this crash has hardly made it into my consciousness and, Iím sure, the consciousness of most New Yorkers. In light of all the bad things that have happened over the past two months, a plane carrying 260 passengers crashing into a residential neighborhood hardly seems to register.
When I first heard about the crash, my immediate thought was, ďOh my God, it is happening again.Ē I spent the next several minutes flipping between stations, trying to find out as much information as possible (at several points imagining that if I kept the TV on channel 6, Iíd be able to pick up everything that both 5 and 7 had to share).
But, it only took a short time to realize this wasnít another terrorist attack.
A plane headed for the Dominican Republic crashing into Rockaway. That pairing doesnít have quiet the impact as the Pentagon and World Trade Center. These were either very stupid terrorists, or this really was an accident.
New York, just to be safe, shut down. The airports were locked down. All the bridges and tunnels were closed to all traffic. Rudy Giuliani prepared to spring into action, his muscles tense like a jungle cat waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting gazelle thatís strayed too far from the herd. But there was no unsuspecting gazelle.
New York is a strange place to live at the end of 2001. New York is a strange place to live at any time, but now itís just crazy. There wasnít any logical reason to attack Rockaway, so we had to come up with illogical reasons. Remember the Concert for New York? Remember Mike Moran, the firefighter who spoke at the concert? He got up on stage and told Osama bin Laden to kiss his ďroyal Irish ass.Ē He also said something along the lines of ďThis is my face, I live in Rockaway. Come and get me, bitch.Ē
Calling Osama bin Laden a bitch in front of an audience made up of 50,000 New York firefighters and police officers must have been one of the most exhilarating moments of Mike Moranís life. Isnít it strange that only a few weeks later, an airplane crashes less than a mile from his home? Word of mouth and talk radio pundits couldnít help but bring up Moran and turn what would otherwise be seen as an accident into something more.
This is the absolutely the sickest situation weíve got going on in New York. There are conspiracy theories about every event. An insidious plot lies behind every occurrence. The Yankees losing the World Series must mean the Diamondbacks are tools of the Taliban. A coworkerís got a hacking cough and a strange rash; it must mean Anthrax has struck your workplace and youíre next!
For a second, even I started to believe the wild theories being bandied about by my fellow New Yorkers. ďShit,Ē I thought, ďMaybe that bitch Osama bin Laden watched the Concert for New York and decided to go after Mike Moran.Ē Of course, they missed Moranís house by close to a mile, but an airplane isnít a very precise weapon. Crashing a plane into the side of a 110-story building is relatively simple; any idiot can do it, but crashing it into a one family house is a next to impossible.
Eventually, I snapped out my rumor-induced stupor, and soon enough everyone else realized this was just an accident, and everything went back to normal. Sure, more than two hundred people had died and half a dozen houses were still on fire, but there were no skyscrapers at risk, so everyone got back to business.
We got back to work (except for me, who went back to looking at secret nude preteen naked lesbians). We thanked god things werenít worse. Two days later, the crash isnít even the top story on the nightly news. New York may be the city that never sleeps, but it certainly isnít the city that never forgets.
How long are we supposed to fear? How long are we supposed to grieve? How long until 260 lives ending in a horrible accident is not be considered a lucky break?
about a week ago i had the worst lapdance of my life. jesus, ladies, how hard is it to rub your ass on a guy's jimmy? am i wrong? is it just me? am i the only one who gives a damn about standards these days?
so i'm sitting there at mickey's razzle dazzle in scenic council bluffs while "bobbi" is telling me about her kid. i hate it when strippers tell me about their children, it makes me think of my mother and how it would make me puke my guts out if i ever found out my mom had wriggled around on the erections of strangers for $20 and a watered down melon ball shot.
i like to think of strippers as dead on the inside and women as the tabernacles of life. combinging the two is sick.
but so it goes, the dichotomy that is woman confronted by the paradox that is man. call me a hypocrite if you will but i just tend to expect more from women who aren't tweaked out on meth and practicing softcore prostitution.
where was i. oh yeah, donna reed is talking about taking her little boy for his first haircut and doing that "oh, it was so sad and so cute at the same time" baby talk thing while running her hand up and down my inner thigh.
so i figure if i get a lapdance, it will shut this woman up about the kid she had when she was 16 and only is just now getting his first haircut? either this kid had some long-ass hair or... best not to think about that. plausible deniability is a precious commodity in a strip club.
it starts off OK, a little dancy bit followed by a little rubby bit and things are moving along nicely. then she leans into me resting her elbows right on my collar bones. it hurt like hell, but what are you gonna do? as an observer, i don't like to tell a dancer what to do, but mother of god, the PAIN.
i don't even have very prominent collar bones, they are actually recessed so how she is managing inflict this pain over and over again is truly incomprehensible to me. it is almost as incomprehensible as to why i don't say something.
it was OK as long as her back was to me, but every time she turned around... WHAM! when would the hurting stop? it was quite the rollercoaster ride, let me tell you. just as i started to "get into it" properly, bobbi would turn around and strap the pain on me. i couldn't maintain an erection for the life of me and that was very frustrating because my goal as an urban anthropologist in a strip club is now and always has been to achieve an orgasm during a series of lapdances. it would have been an achievement of mythic proportions under those condiditions akin to the immaculate conception, too, believe me.
frankly, there needs to be some kind of return policy
now, i consider myself to be something of a connoisseur of strip clubs. i am not a pervert or a regular or one of these guys who drops hundreds of dollars on dancers and i do not often go to these "gentlemen's clubs" strictly for the entertainment. no, i am more of an urban anthropologist, i like to watch these people, the customers, the dancers, the waitresses, the owners, the endless parade of freaks and desperate souls many of whom are just looking for a little companionship more than anything else.
for me it is about religion as well. not the straight-laced western moralistic "thou shalt not" kind of religion but the eastern zen koan kind of religions where it is acceptable to try and get a nut in a public place and still be a good and decent person of high spiritual standards. while i am not in the lotus position, i do like to sit still and contemplate the contradictions. what is the sound of one hand clapping? a stripper spanking her own ass. if you are at the highest point of a pole can you go higher? creamy certainly takes it up a notch when she climbs to the top and slides all the way down using only her thighs.
strip clubs are sad and lonely places for customers and clients alike and what is really said is most people don't realize just how sad and lonely they are while stuffing 20s in some girls pants who may or may not be legally old enough to work in the club. like i said, plausible deniability... it's a gold mine.
By way of quick introduction, let me welcome Conor and Effenheimer (Greg). They bring the total number of Iowa related Bad Samaritan authors to 5. These two having something going for them that none of the rest of us do; they are professional writers.
Though we all went to school together, I never hung out with these guys. And it isnít that I didnít who they were, (unlike Gordon, who graduated the same semester and from the same department as me). I knew their names, and I could pick them out of a crowd. They wrote for the student newspaper and between them averaged probably three articles a day. Yes, Conor and Greg were big men on campus, a distinction similar to that of being a popular weblogger; we are all famous among dozens.
Actually, as the Publisher of the paper, I was their boss, and now, as they join Bad Samaritan for November (and beyond?), I am their boss again.
Also recently added to the Bad Samaritan staff are two of the most attractive women on the Ďnet, Melly, from Daily Sardonicism, and Miss B. from Slanted / the Bazima Chronicles. Conor and Greg may be professional writers, but Miss B. and Melly will soon be offering Bad Samaritan visitors candy for the eye as well as for the mind.
Iím really excited for them to be joining; Daily Sardonicism has long been one of my favorite weblogs and the Bazima is quickly becoming one of my new favorites. To think Iíll now be able to read their words without ever having to point my browser outside my happy little baby makes me practically cream my shorts.
The last, and certainly not least, person Iíve added in the last couple days is Antwon, of Antwon. ĎTwonís is one of the first sites I started reading when I got into this whole weblog thing, and he is sort of a personal hero. To say what I do here at Bad Samaritan is based on a model created by Antwon would probably be taking things a bit far, but I owe him a lot and Iím absolutely thrilled that he wanted to help out here.
So, there they are, the newest Samaritans. Welcome to the family.
i work at a third tier newspaper in southwest iowa -- swi (swhy) as we professional journalists call it in swi -- surrounded by vicious, uneducated midwestern morons in and out of the office.
not that morons don't exist absolutely everywhere -- they do. the midwest version is particulary nasty, though. why? most of them are germans by descent and we all know what a bunch of strict conformist authoritartians THEY can be when the straight and narrow is not followed. you can't eat with chopsticks 'round these parts without finding yourself trapped in the "hayseed differential."
the "hayseed differential" is what happens when you do something these pointy-headed freaks have not done every day of their lives or if you think in a non-linear fashion. then your grandma or some sloped forehead at work says, "well, that's different" immediately reducing all of your efforts to some idle, ineffectual waste of time of you let them. that's why most of us leave. what these "people" really mean is "i don't understand what you are doing so you probably shouldn't do it and i really hope you aren't gay, please conform."
i wrote a freakin' play with 13 shows and all my father could say was "that sure was different." god damn right it was. WHY DADDY?! WHY?!
meine angst ist verdichlingen gehabst und machen auf gerder wunderkind.
next time: strippers
So, today is a holiday. Not for me, of course, but it is for my babysitter, so i had to stay home for the first half of the day. I knew my new, Incredibly Nervous Clients would be, well, nervous, so i did have the forethought to check my work email from home, sure enough, over the weekend, the INCs sent no less than six panicky emails. I responded to two of them, telling her i'd be at work later to take care of the problem.
So I get to work and find no less than three panicky voicemail messages, to go with the emails. I turn on my computer, and am bombarded with failed network connections. There are, for one reason or another, about five people in the whole building, and none of them are geeks, none of them even noticed the network was down. As I sit there, netless, I swear I can feel the INC's nervousness, and I know it's only a matter of minutes till they call again and I have to tell them I can't do anything for them. I'm afraid they'll spontaneously combust at that point, so I leave some reassuring messages on their voice mail, that I am going home to work, because there is no internet at work, (even though i work for a computer company)... I'm getting Incredibly Nervous myself now.
So I head for home, where I can actually get on the internet. The INCs get back from lunch and call immediately, in a panic, of course. Am I at work? No, I'm at home, working. Well, are you going to work, because we need... I'm at home, but I'm working, because I have internet access here. She becomes confused as I struggle in vain to explain, until I tell her that ordinarily under these circumstances, I just take the day off but I know that they really need things fixed, so I am working. From home. Finally, she understands. Oh, yeah, she tells me that they called someone (?) and got my home and cell phone numbers. They had the wrong numbers, but these people actually tried to track me down this weekend. Yeah. They're really nervous that way.
So I try to trace down the error that has them so upset, a file permissions thing when they attempt to upload pictures of potential egg donors. Far as I can tell, everything's fine, so I try to call the account rep at hosting company - voice mail, offices are closed. I try their 24 hour tech support, it wants me to select my hosting plan type. This is a new client, I have no idea. So I go to the hosting company's website to see what I can see - and it's down.
I give up.
The Bad Samaritanís host was down for a couple hours this weekend. I donít know why they were down, but all I know is that it bothers me. Tons.
Soon, my hostís semi-frequent bouts of downtime wonít be a problem, but for now, they are.
The site was down the first time I hit it Saturday morning and right now is the first time I had all weekend to get online and check it was back up. My friend Kathryn was in New York for the weekend and her visit necessitated lots of shopping. We were out from when her plane landed on Friday night until take off on Sunday afternoon. I had no time until just this minute to sit down and get online.
I spent the whole weekend away from the computer, and it almost ruined Kathryn's visit. Being away from the computer is a good thing, but thinking about my site all weekend is definitely a bad thing. As we walked into Anthropologie I wondered, ďIs Bad Samaritan back yet?Ē When the waiter brought the check for drinks at the Fat Black Pussycat, I couldnít help but ask myself, ďIs Bad Samaritan live?Ē
And it wasnít so much that the site was down that had me worried. Sure, every hour the server was dead it cost me thousands of hits (hits I need to validate my existence). Each of those hits translates to some desperate person craving Bad Samaritan and the downtime meant those people came away disappointed, possibly so distraught as to take their own life in utter frustration.
No, the mass suicide Bad Samaritan's abscence brings isn't what bothers me about the site being down. What really bothers me is that I have the most brilliant ideas about things to do with it when I can't do anything with it. I write the funniest posts in my mind. The most brilliant ideas hit whoring ideas flash in my brain like one of those cartoon light bulbs. I think of all these great ways to improve navigation and design. And all the bits of code Iíve been struggling with all make sense.
But, since the site is down, I canít actually work on anything. Of course, I have the entire site living on my hard drive and I write all of my entries offline before posting them. But if the site is down, how can I work on it?
The flood of ideas while the site is down is so, hmm, flood-like, that they are tough to keep track of. Sure, I could write down all my ideas, but that is so pre-1994. I donít write them down, so I forget them. I spend all weekend thinking about Bad Samaritan, having brilliant idea upon brilliant idea, and now that the site is up, I canít remember a one of them.
I almost hope the site goes down again, so maybe those ideas will re-reveal themselves and I can actually record them this time, but Iím sure itís like being woken from a really great dream and trying to get back to sleep as quickly as possible to try to get back into it. Before waking up you were chilling with the Swedish Bikini Team, but falling back to sleep the best you could possibly do is the cast of Sister Act in a two-piece.
Damn. Considering the flow of ideas I had this weekend and the uninspiration Iím feeling today, Iíd almost settle for Kathy Najimy in a thong right about now.
Only 15 minutes into Richard Linklater's new film Waking Life, audience members were dropping like bombs over Afghanistan. "This is a college class," one woman obnoxiously announced as she exited the theater disappointed. Others seized the opportunity to engage in slobbery makeout sessions with their dates, ignoring the visually stimulating animation flickering on the screen in front of them.
I liked this movie and I can't figure out why. It's one of those love-or-hate films that divides audiences into two categories -- those who like Dude Whereís My Car and those who don't. The director himself has even been quoted as saying he doesn't care if people like it or not. Howís that for true artistry?
If Vincent Van Gogh directed the music video for "Take on Me" (you know Ö the quintessential '80s tune by Norwegian pop group A-ha), it would look like Waking Life. The blurry perspective and sketchy appearance not only fits well with the film's dreamscape subject matter, it feels like an acid trip.
The protagonist in Waking Life can't figure out whether he is dead or alive, or just dreaming. He encounters various strangers who rant endlessly about topics such as existentialism, God, time and destiny. You know the type -- pomo bohemians who make every effort to reference Dostoyevsky or Kierkegaard only to show off.
I admit the movie is a bit slow at times. It's not sugarcoated with all the usual Hollywood bells and whistles. And it's not a film that leaves you with some greater revelation. I left the theater in a refreshing state of bewilderment. Strangely, it was exactly what I needed.
Preface: against my better judgement, he owns two taxis. I would say we, but I do not want to be involved at this point.
OK. So, the phone rings at midnight. A cab driver, let's call her ĎShereení (because that is her name). I field the call, in which she complains that the taxi Ďwon't turn oní. (ĎHave you tried showing it your tits, Shereen?í, I think, with uncharacteristic bitchyness.) Then, she tells me, Ďoh, there it goesí. Ahh, good then.
Fifteen minutes pass, the phone rings again. Shereen. The cab really won't start now, she's got lots of cab drivers trying to help (good girl, Shereen), but alas, there's no starting the taxi. So I have to wake up the stressmonster, Mr. Ulcer. He gets up, dressed, and heads out to revive the errant car.
Thirty minutes (or so) pass, the phone rings again. Another female voice, this one huskier, no name is given. No, he's not here, what's wrong? ĎThe engine just blew upí. (expletive deleted) (more expletives, all deleted) (son of a go*amned coc*sucking mother*ucking bitch, deleted)
I tell her to call Mr. Ulcer's cellphone, as he's already out with the other taxi. That was a good hour and a half ago, no word from anywhere. Just me, sitting here thinking of all my objections to getting into the taxi business, how Mr. Ulcer's mom gave him six, no, seven grand over the past year to get this going, which would have made such a difference, but no, it's all in big yellow broken stupid cars. I kept quiet because my negativity is always strenuously, strenuously objected to. Let's not go into how my opinions weren't listened to, because right now, those opinions were right (again) and the last thing I need to do is have my own rightness on the tip of this tongue of mine. In fact we should keep all the sharp things out of reach.
Update: Mr. Ulcer walks in the door, sets my keys down on the computer table. I ask, Ďwhat happened?í, and he does not reply. I do not think I want to know.
I had a job interview yesterday. It was freaky. Iím not sure how to deal with it, since it has been so long since Iíve been on one. Iíve been sending out resumes almost every day, yet the last time I was even called in for an interview was in July. That, and the fact I donít ever leave my apartment, has led me to believe that the outside world had ceased to exist.
Iíve left the house so infrequently, talked to people so infrequently, and heard back from potential employers so non-existently, that I was starting to believe I was the only man left on earth. There could be lots of reasons I havenít been called in for a single interview in three months:
* The economy sucks and no one is hiring right now.
* The economy doesnít suck, but no one wants to hire me, specifically.
* Every one got me confused with Mike Bloomberg (because we share a first name and I also once told a pregnant coworker to ďkill it, kill itĒ), and they knew Iíd quit as soon as I got elected mayor.
* All the potential employers somehow know about this site and are fans. They realize if I get I job I wont have as much time to devote to badsamaritan and selfishly refuse to hire me so they can continue getting their mg cravings satiated.
And all of those are perfectly logical explanations. But none of those are it (except possibly the last one). No, the real reason I never get called back for interviews is, of course, that anthrax had taken everyone in New York but me. Now that everyone else is dead, there arenít any HR people to hire me. Luckily, since everyone is dead, I donít need a job anymore. Whenever I want or need anything, all I have to do is walk into a store and take it. No security guards to stop me, since they are all dead from the Ďthrax.
Sure, I feel bad for everyone being dead and all, but now that I donít have to waste all my time looking for work Iíll finally get some time alone to read my books in peace. Letís just hope I donít sit on my glasses.
Now, that was a perfectly good explanation. And it made me feel better to believe it. But see, I had an interview yesterday. I left my apartment building and realized everyone was still alive. That totally blew my self-esteem up. I was hoping everyone was dead. Now I had to face the fact that all those people Iíd been sending resumes to are still alive, but they just donít want me.
Anyway, the interview went well, I think. I hope I get it. But, if you never read another mention of it here, donít ask me if I got the job. Iíll tell you if I got it, but wont say a word if I donít. That is because Iíll have wiped all memory of the interview from my mind, and gone back to my anthrax fantasies. Or quite possibly, have created a new scenario in which not just New York is gone, but the entire world is destroyed. So, if you send me an email about the job, I wonít write back because your message must have reached me from beyond the grave, and Iíll most likely be hiding underneath my bed, afraid to touch the computer.
Widowed (not at all recently, mind you) co-worker: [ten minute plot summary of a Star Trek novel]
Me (trying to work): Uh-huh.
Widowed (a long time ago) co-worker: [five minutes on how hot Kevin Sorbo is]
Me (still trying to work):Yeah.
Widowed co-worker: but that's not what my husband thought. . .
Widowed co-worker My husband thought women should stay at home and take care of kids, and when they grew up, they should take care of someone else's kids!
Me: So, is that why you killed him?
Widowed co-worker: [blank stare]
A recent comment that there should be a National Graphic Novel Creating Month reminded me of my own attempt at becoming a pornographer back in my college days.
Word was going around the drama department that the film professor was making good money on the side writing short novels on a contract basis for a local porn publishing house. The going rate: $2000 per book. Sounded good to me, so I asked the prof, who was known affectionately by students as Woody [I swear I never thought that was funny until this very moment], if he could tell me the name of this publisher. He happily supplied me with the address and writing guidelines on a sheet of mimeographed paper, and I went home to write some porn.
It seemed easy enough. I had plenty of fantasies to draw on, not to mention several good memories. I figured that men might like to know what turns women on, so I wrote my favorite fantasy:
The heroine is on a yacht with a billionaire, other assorted rich people and Miss America, and they're all lusting after the heroine who is young, nubile, and bikini-clad. Oh yes, gorgeous. Of course.
Now when I say they're all in lust with her, I mean all, including Miss America who looks pretty hot herself
Uh, sorry - I can't remember any more details because I had to stop writing shortly after that. I got too turned on to type. I'm a two-handed typist.
And that was the end of my career as a porn writer.
ďHow is the novel coming along?Ē you ask.
Not very damn well.
My word count is a mere 3,898, which means Iím on a pace to write a 19500 novel. If this were National Pamphlet Writing Month I'd be set. But, it isn't. It is National Novel Writing Month. But, fak that. This is a stupid faking contest (if only because I, personally, am not going to make 50k), and I withdraw myself from it, again.
I'll still write, but instead of doing 50,000 words in a month, Iíve decided to write however many good words I can in however many days, weeks, or years it takes to write it. What Iíve done already should make a good start. That is, if even 10% of what Iíve written were any damn good. But it isnít. Of those one out of ten good words, most of are ďandĒ and ďtheĒ and ďpants.Ē Those 4000ish words Iíve written really only amount to 400, at best, interesting ones.
But, Iíve still got Bad Samaritan to keep me going. Things canít be better here. In the first 6 days of November, we've already had more hits than in the month of September. That is crazy, but makes me happy, even if it is still just people looking for Osama bin Laden jokes, songs and games.
Not only are things going well hit wise, but there are so many great new things happening behind the scenes. I don't want to talk about them yet, but get ready for Golden Age. Or at the very least a Bronze Age.
All those hits came despite the fact there was some problem with IE 5. People came to the page and saw nothing. For some reason, none of those people thought to email me and let me know there was a problem, but whatever, they'll get theirs in the end. The problem should be fixed now. If it isnít, and you arenít seeing anything right now, let me faking know this time and all will be forgiven.
Not only did I fix mistakes, but Iím also fixing oversights. If you didnít notice, when I put up the new design, search somehow magically disappeared. It didnít exactly fit anywhere, so I decided to not worry about it and just get the stupid design up. Then I forgot about it. But, I remembered it a couple days ago, felt really bad, and figured out a way to put it back. So there it is. Search your little balls off.
Not only was I fixing crap, but I am also making all new crap. If you notice, up there at the top of the page with the search box is a dropdown menu with the most recent comments. I wanted to add this functionality for the longest time. People come across these old entries, either by poking around the site or via search engine and post some of the craziest damn comments. If you donít believe me, check out the comments on this and especially this entry. Unfortunately, Iím usually the only one who ever sees them.
So, I spent about 9 hours last night working out the code to power this stupid little feature, but it works, and it rocks. All in all, it took about 20 stinking lines of code to do it. 9 hours, 20 lines. If I had spent the time writing my novel, I would have probably written 10,000 words.
But it was worth it. This NaNoWriMo thing might be fun, and something I should do. But this website is my baby. My priorities will always lie with Bad Samaritan over any other creative venture I might start, because this site is the most precious thing in my life.
Spending my time on a stupid novel when there is stuff to be done at Bad Samaritan would be like donating a organ to one of those African kids you send 50 cents a day to when one of your own children is hurting for a kidney more than Mickey Mantle at the end of Octoberfest.
Speaking of, Iím going to crack myself open a Sam Adams and celebrate Novemberfest. I deserve it.
So it's 3:45 am and what am I doing? Am I reading the philosophy that I need to have read for tomorrow? Am I working on the graphic design project I have due Monday? Am I sleeping with my snoring boyfriend in my bed? Am I doing any of the millions of things I could/should be doing?
Nope, I'm blogging. Did I ever mention to you I have a Ph.D. in Procrastinatory Science? Or at least I would, if I ever got around to it...
1:45 left. Haven't told you all about my boy yet... I know you're all dying for details (well, those of you who've gleaned the fact that after two years, snaggle is Yes, you read that right. I think, however, that ŗ la mrh I need to come up with a pseudonym for him. Anyway, he's sweet, soft-spoken, studying history, planning on going into PR, tall, gentle, affectionate... and I'm out of time!
Wow. I add a couple new faces, and it inspires the old timers to get posting, too. The front page has entries written by 9 of the 10 current authors (Zia, where are you?). And of the 13 current posts, (not counting this one) only 2 of them are from me. This must to be some kind of Bad Samaritan record.
YouÔŅĹd think I would have used that extra time to actually add to my NaNoWriMo word count. Well, if you thought that, you must not know me very well; I havenÔŅĹt written anything in three days. Damn. I know I can still make 50k. Missing three days only adds an extra 200 words to the daily average, which will now be ~1,800 words a day. That isnÔŅĹt so bad, considering the one day I actually concentrated on writing I hit about 2,500 words. The World Series is over, so all I need to do now is stop playing Sid Meier's Civilization and downloading Libby Hoeler Videos.
Ahem. Since I havenÔŅĹt done it officially yet, let me introduce Skits and Bornfamous. Skits runs the delicious Skittish Girl and has been a frequent lurker in the BadSam comments (as Wendy, her secret superhero secret identity). Bornfamous runs, strangely enough, born famous, and is writing one of the few (if not only) good novels to come out of this whole NaNoWriMo thing. They will be joining up for November, and maybe beyond.
Two new authors, pretty good, youÔŅĹd think. But it doesnÔŅĹt end there. There are three more confirmed new authors, but I canÔŅĹt reveal their identities yet. Well, of course, I could just tell you who the three other new authors are, but I want to leave a little suspense. Also, itÔŅĹll give me an excuse to write another filler post, like this one.
To heighten the suspense and keep you all wetting your Aerons in anticipation, IÔŅĹll give you a couple of hints. One of the new authors is another former Iowan (so you know heÔŅĹs going to be entertaining), another positively glows (and she is damn cute and funny to boot), and the last is God amongst mere e/n (or should that be a/c?) mortals. IÔŅĹll make a formal announcement when they are all set up to start posting.
Five new faces might be a little much, but damn, who cares? If they werenÔŅĹt all brilliant, I wouldnÔŅĹt have added them. Besides, three of those five are also participating in the November novel month thing, which further explains the type of sick individual who would want to write for this site. Those five new faces bring the total BadSam staff up to 13, which is just a little scary for my tastes, but hopefully, that will change soon since IÔŅĹm still talking to two other people. And, of course, I'm still accepting applications.
I performed an experiment Monday... When I woke up, I didn't know who had won Sunday night's baseball game. So, I decided to see how long it would take me to find out if I made absolutely no effort to do so. In fact, I tried to avoid finding out. I figured I'd get 24 hours - tops - before the information forced itself on me.
As it happened, I didn't make it anywhere near that long. And, it was none other than Squee who let the cat out of the bag. At about 5 pm I went through my usual end-of-the-workkday routine of checking for new posts on the blogs I read daily. She had posted on the topic on her own blog, and I was forced to find out that Arizona won.
So, my experiment confirmed my hypothesis: My total ignorance-of-who-won-the-World-Series time clocked in at less than 18 hours (of which I spent a third sleeping). I made it longer than that before I heard what happened to Nicole Brown Simpson.
Since I've gotten sick, for the first time in about a year, I've done a lot of thinking about being sick. For one thing, there is a very significant difference between men and women and how they handle being sick. I don't want to say men are babies, but c'mon, we all know they are. What a bunch of whiners. Chris made this observation when I started getting sick - ďOh no, what if I get sick too? How will you take care of me?Ē Typical. Utterly typical.
A man will crawl in bed and demand full service on the basis of a sniffle, while a woman will carry on even if she has a 104 fever and bleeding from the ears. Ok, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but still, one word: childbirth. You guys could never handle it. The fact that women who have gone through it ever have sex again is a testament to our toughness.
However, there is another difference, that's not often talked about, but if you've ever been in a supervisory capacity, you notice that males and females have completely different calling-in-sick styles. A man will tell you ďI'm sick, I won't be inĒ, and be done with it. A woman, however, perhaps out of the insecurity that comes from being associated with the ruggedness of her gender, will go to great lengths to justify her absence. She will describe to you in full, gory detail the nature and frequency of whatever fluids she is secreting, the color and texture of any diarrhea she is experiencing, and many other things you just don't need to know. A girl I supervised once had ongoing, chronic female troubles, and would call in and say things like, ďI'm bleeding chunks of...Ē I would cut her off at that point, because that information is just more than I, or anyone, needed to know.
Well, I'm no longer in any sort of supervisory capacity, thankfully, so I don't need to hear that sort of thing anymore. When I need to be off work sick, I don't even call. I send a brief, terse email about feeling like crap, offering no details whatsoever. Since I don't get paid for sick leave (a fact I've done nothing but whine about recently), I feel no need to give details - suffice it to say, if I feel bad enough to forsake a day's pay, that is more than enough of a reason. I am pretty tough, but I refuse to be thought of as a typical female.
I just purchased the new Bush CD, ďGoldenĒ. Itís not bad, but I think youíd have to be a fan of Bush to really appreciate it. Itís veryÖ Bush-esque. It sounds like Bush. It doesnít look as though they were trying to experiment with anything new, and I donít think they were trying to expand their musical horizons ó which is why I donít think my husband would be terribly impressed with this CD.
My husband is a music snob. I love him dearly, but he is, and I think he'll admit it if you ask him nicely. He loves popular bands like Radiohead, but he is also constantly on the lookout for new and exciting artists, too. Cruise through his (many) CDs and you'll find everything from Aphex Twin to Brian Eno to Air to Miles Davis... and about 300 other groups in between. I'm not kidding; his CDs are all over the house ó we are overrun with CDs ó what can I say? The man loves his music. On the plus side, there is ALWAYS something to listen to in this house, no matter what my mood is. If I want pop, there are the Pet Shop Boys, if I want to dance, there is Sasha and Digweed spinning trance tunes for me óanytime, day or night. For Francisco, music is more than just a pleasant way to pass the time ó it means something to him. Music inspires him, comforts him. Makes him think.
I love music, too. However, I donít take it as seriously as my husband does ó much to his chagrin. I liked Bushís new CD, because, well, I like Bush. They donít have to try anything experimental to impress me. I like them just fine the way they are. Actually, there are very few ďexperimentalĒ bands that I actually enjoy. To be perfectly honest, I think Radiohead is pretty much an ďokĒ band, but Iím not wild about them. (Please send all hate mail directly to me ó my opinions are not necessarily those of the management here!)
Sometimes, I just donít want to think when it comes to music. Sometimes, I just want to sing along and hey, since I know all the words to ďBreak Your HeartĒ by the Barenaked Ladies and I donít know the words to ďKarma PoliceĒ, well, BNL wins every time.
Iím a child of the 80ís and letís face it, peopleÖ in the 80ís, music wasnít about expanding your intellect ó it was all about hair. So, every once in a while, please forgive me if my standards drop slightly when it comes to what I consider ďgoodĒ music ó because if itís got a good beat and I can dance to it, Iíll more than likely give it a 98.
So, I had a crisis of conscience yesterday.
I was standing in the open door of the refrigerator for a good five minutes, trying to solve it. There was beer in the refrigerator, Bass Ale. I wanted it.
More specifically, I wanted to take it to work for my lunch break. I was so sharply divided on the issue that familiar cartoon characters appeared on my shoulders to debate.
DevilCheese: C'mon, one beer. You're not going to be drunk.
AngelCheese: But it's work. You can't take beer to work.
SpaceCheese (moi): He's right, I can't take beer to work.
DC: Why not? Drinking one beer with lunch is not going to impede your performance. They do it in Europe! It's not like you're operating heavy machinery, for Satan's sake.
AC: But it's just not done. Society frowns upon. . .
DC: Screw that! Do you have any idea how good a beer would taste in the middle of your shift?
AC: I'm not denying it would taste pretty good. . .
DC: You better believe it, buddy.
SC: but people would smell it on my breath.
AC: That's right, they'd know right away.
DC: He can eat a fucking Altoid!
AC: Anyway, you can't set a beer bottle in the refrigerator, people would see it, and talk, and you'd get in trouble.
DC: Let 'em see it? What are they going to do, fire you? You know they need you more than you need them, they ought to make some allowances. You're a good employee, and having one beer at work wouldn't change that. Hell, they'd probably admire you! They'd say Look at the cojones on that guy, bringing beer to work. I wish I could be that confident
SC: No, I can't bring beer to work. I just can't.
DC: Fine. I'm just trying to point out that it's silly that your employers don't think you can handle one beer at dinnertime, and you could show them otherwise. It'd feel pretty damn great, a nice, cold Bass Ale in the middle of the evening, but if you're too chickenshit to take a stand against corporate tyranny, do what you want, I don't care.
AC: You're doing the right thing. And since you're not going to drink that, you don't mind if I take it with me, do you? thanks. . .
Fortunately, I was most of the way to work before I remembered that I own an actual, honest-to-God five-ounce flask. . ..
I don't hate the Yankees. As a matter of fact, I love them. I have been a Yankee fan forever, destined at birth to bleed pinstripe blue. There was a point where you could have called me a fanatic rather than just a fan.
I'm also glad the Yankees lost. Surprised? Horrified? Let me tell you why.
First of all, it's kind of nice when the best team wins. And Arizona was clearly the best team.
Then we have the "God Bless New York and the Yankees" thing. It's been pissing me off for some time. New York does not deserve a baseball championship because 6,000 people died here. We don't need a baseball pennant to bring us out of our depression. Frankly, I had less interest in baseball playoffs this year than ever before. And please, not everyone in New York is a Yankees fans. There is another New York team. I didn't hear anyone saying that God was rooting for the Mets to make the playoffs. And if the case is such that some divine intervention was called for to make angels in the outfield appear so the Yankees could bring glory to New York once again, why not take it one step farther? What about the Knicks, the Rangers, the Jets or Giants? Why are the Yankees more deserving of a championship than them? If some mystical force is handing out good sports karma based on tragedies, then by all rights the Oklahoma Sooners should have won a championship when that state had its tragedy. Following me? Good.
Also, like mg so succinctly stated, what does a baseball championship do for us in the long run? It has no effect on what happened. It's certainly wouldn't make me feel better about everything that happened knowing that the Yankees were World Series Champions. How far does that go, really? How does that work for the Mets fans and for the people who don't give a fuck about baseball? The whole idea of New York deserving to win was ridiculous.
Let's face it. The Yankees did not play well during the series. They got lucky. They made it to game seven on sheer luck and bad pitches. Hooray for Arizona for winning the championship as such a young team.
In a way, I think this whole thing just served to heighten the animosity a lot of people have towards the Yanks. And that's fine. That's the way it should be. Now let's get back to cursing the Jets.
At least I'm not a hit-whore. Well, not a good one, anyway. Mg is the king of hit-whores and kd is his queen. I am a lowly neophyte, groveling at their feet. Bad metaphors, I know, but what are you gonna do?
Actually, I'm a pinch hitter. I'm helping to fill space [not space] here, while mg works on his novel. I too am working on a novel but I'd rather procrastinate by introducing myself to you. Blogging is my way of avoiding writing, working, cleaning, cooking, a social life, and generally everything else to do with RL. So I feel like I fit right in here because you're all a bunch of blogaholics too, aren't you?
Of course you are.
I know I've got that serenity prayer around here somewhere...
I hate the Yankees too.
No, that's not quite an accurate statement. The Yankees themselves are, for the most part, OK. Sure, they seem a little smug; when Derek Jeter went down swinging in the first inning he was smiling as he walked back to the dug out. The look on his face saying, ďCurt Shilling may have struck me out, but it doesnít matter - Iím a Yankee, and it is our right to win.Ē And sure, the Yankees, the most historied team in baseball, it seems as if winning comes at all cost, even over respect for that history; Roger Clemens was given the ball to start game 7 when, only a few years he was Yankee Enemy Number 1.
No, it isnít that I hate the Yankees.
Itís just that I couldnít root for them, this World Series more than any other (and there have been a lot of them).
Iíll admit it is impossible for a New York sports fan to change their loyalties. Iím a New York Mets fan through and through. And because of that, Iíd have a throng of thugs with baseball bats and tire irons knocking down my door if it were ever found out that I secretly rooted for the Yankees to come back and beat the Oakland As in the first round of the playoffs (shoosh, donít tell anyone).
It isnít just cross-town rivalries either; you canít even root for a New York team in the post season if your regular season loyalties lie in a team from another city. Last season, I tried to cheer for the Lady Liberty in the WNBA finals, but the fans knew; they sensed in their very beings that I was really a Minnesota Lynx fan. And man, those lesbians in section G of Madison Square Garden sure pack a wallop; I had 6 broken ribs before some bull dyke broke up the fight.
So, changing loyalties is strictly forbidden by the New York sport fanís code of ethics. It says so right there on page 73, right between when it is appropriate to throw your beer on an appropriate player, and what is the best time of the season to streak across the field nude.
But, you see, despite all that, I was willing to root for the Yankees. I wanted to root for the Yankees. Iíd heard so much about how ďit would be good for New YorkĒ and about how ďNew Yorkers need the Yankees to win. They need this now.Ē I thought, damn, if it will help New York, I suppose the least I could do is root for the Yankees.
But, as the hyperbole grew over the last week, a nagging feeling started creeping into my consciousness. I didnít know quite what it was, but my enthusiasm for another Yankee World Series began to waver. And then it hit me.
If the Yankees winning the World Series is what it will take for New Yorkers to feel good again, I donít want to feel good again. Six thousand people were killed. There are billions of dollars in damages. Our skyline, the most recognizable in the world, is forever changed. The economy is now in a full-fledged recession.
A World Series will make it all better? The Yankees are heroes? Fuck that.
Call me a bad New Yorker, but Iíd rather the economy continue to struggle and people across the city go on feeling terrible and depressed than have to listen to Yankee fans (and bandwagon jumpers) crow for the next 6 months.
The Yankees lost, and man am I happy. And, Iím not just excited that the Yankees lost, but by how they got beat; in the bottom of the ninth, by a bloop single off their best closer. It was the kind of win that only the Yankees have been able to pull off in the last half dozen World Seriesí. Only this time, they were on the losing end.
So, okay, Iíll admit it; I hate the Yankees.
Does this mean it's open season on drunken posting at Bad Sam? Because I am so there for you guys. I am on beer number seven and it's barely 10PM but I have my reasons.
For one, alcohol kills germs. I have this wretched tickle in my throat, and, clinically speaking, my lungs feel just ucky. I usually don't get viruses due to my awesomely twitchy allergies, which ward off everything from common household dust to the plague. Well, in theory... [avoiding obvious anthrax reference at this juncture].
Getting sick is not good. Not now for cryin' out loud! I just got a new client Friday that has a scripting/database combo I've not yet worked with, which is broken, and they want it fixed by... Wednesday! Yes, and they're sending us the access info on Monday. Hey, I do this all the time, but please, don't let me be sick. When I do actually get sick I get really sick, and this right now feels pretty damn real. I don't have time.
So I've decided not to get sick. I'm not going to ache, or run fevers, or go into asthmatic overload and end up huffing the breathing treatment machine. I'm not going to hack up wads of lung-cheese and lay in bed sucking on my inhaler. I'm going to be fine tomorrow. I swear on all that may or may not be holy that I am healthy, and any unwellness that may seem apparent at this time, is merely some symptom of my general paranoia. I am always a little on edge. That's what this is - nothing else.
Besides, all I have is an HMO, and I'm too sick to deal with that crap. I need a nice bowl of soup, some juice, and someone to pat my head while I whine. But isn't that what we all need?
So, just about everyone else has given an account of last nightís shenanigans so I figure itís about time to add my own. You have Spaceís drunken ditation to Shar, who then added her own drunken comments. And here is the account of how last night, in a strange turn of events, I came to know last night that I know mrh.
Iím one of those people who tends to have a social life like Ebola Ė first it hits one person, then by the end of the week everyone you know is dead. Wait. Thatís not right. What I mean to say is that I know a lot of people who in turn tend to know each other who in turn know everyone else I know. Basically, whenever I try to introduce one group of my friends to another group of my friends, theyíve already met, had sex, and/or dated. This makes it even stranger when the online community figures in. Here I was, thinking it was odd enough that Bad Samaritan, started by mg (who was infamous in school) could draw in the likes of myself (infamous in my own right, to some degree) and Shar (who knows everyone. And who she doesnít know I know) and Space (who I think more of less is of the same circle as Shar. I could be wrong.) My running theory is that Ames was used as a social experiment back in the 30s when they could still do experiments on humans. ďNow, letís create a community where we place some cool people on opposite ends of the campus, in completely different fields, and see how long it takes for them to all meet and become friends, have sex, and/or date.Ē Instead of six degrees of separation in Ames, we have two degrees.
Youíd think after this happening regularly for four years, Iíd get used to it. This isnít so much the case, however; whenever my disparate worlds collide, itís like Iíve suddenly realized that my mother and father are the same person and I need to take some time for myself to analyze and reflect on the nature of my being and how that makes me feel. Last night we were sitting around at Thumbs after the Stuart Davis concert (as already has been recounted by all of the above, minus mg.) I had a $3.50 bloody mary, just like mrh, and just like her I will concur that it was worth every penny. It makes me happy that Mondays at Thumbs are bloody mary night Ė instead of $3.50, theyíre $2.50, which makes them even more worth every penny. (I got Amber Bock as my beer back, though, not Leineís.)
Anyway. Back to mrh. I had actually met her over a year ago (I think) but I never really got to know her. She was more one of those that I knew by description. You know, there are always those that you have some type of descriptive name for... ďfunny lookiní kid with the red hatĒ ... ďphysics kid in a philosophy classĒ ... ďweird kid who never gets the hint that you donít want to talk to himĒ ... ďhot guy with leather jacketĒ ... ďcute girl with blue hair.Ē For a while, mrh was ďhottie CompSci girl.Ē When the mysterious mrh of SpaceCheese post fame appeared on the scene, I wondered if I knew who she was, but I never really got around to asking. At some point last night we started talking about blogs and mrh said that she read BadSam. I twitched a bit, as my corporeal and online worlds collided a bit. Space said, ďYeah, you never noticed our little jokes between us of the Ďtee-hee, we datedí kind?Ē
Suddenly, everything was clarified for me and I stared at her and screeched, ďYouíre mrh???Ē She just gave me a devious little smile and said, ďYep. I knew you probably had no idea who I was.Ē Suddenly, I had a face to put behind all the comments on SpaceCheese and it all audibly clicked as I tried to reconcile worlds colliding in my head again.
I hereby propose that everyone should carry around a little card that states who you are, who you know, and who youíve had sex with so I can keep you all straight. Sheesh... people trying to confuse me. So if any of the rest of you know me in the meat world, youíd better let me know or else Iíll beat you when I find out.
This kid, I tell ya. Sleeping away and drooling on my pillow, I bet. I swear, those stains are *not* boy juice.
Anyway, we hit the Stuart Davis show tonight with mrh. Yay for cool-as-shit folk singers.
Speaking of cool-as-shit people, I met some rad kids that live in my building. We took one of them out drinkin' to Thumbs tonight. I've been introduced to this one kid, Cam, about 20 times and I still don't remember his name or face. I'm an asshole. Perhaps one day my memory will gain some object permanence. Until then, I'll be forced to meet the same people over and over again and continually blush as they describe the previous 19 times we've met.
Entries with no point don't deserve to be lengthened. Authors who don't post often shouldn't be writing drunk either. Not that I've ever done that. Ever.
Off to sleep on my couch now. It's comfy. I don't mind.
I'm writing this post from Shar's bed, after I got her to change the cum-stained pillowcase. Actually, I'm not really writing this myself, I'm drunkenly dictating to Shar as she loyally (and drunkenly) types this out herself.
Got a dose of Vitamin Stu tonight. He was wearing a hat and glasses that were reminiscent of Bono. I also got a free beer and managed to pry it open during, "Davis scores, enlightenment wins!" Or something. Shar is confused and drunk.
Heh, I'm dictating from Shar's bed. This is a good life, listening to eels and having someone else type and change sheets for me. Hung out with mrh and snaggle tonight as well. Yay Thumbs. Townie bars rock.
Shar and I are getting married and moving to Japan just to be able to bathe with monkeys in natural hot springs. Shar's looking forward to eating sushi on a regular basis and playing Tekken 5 the first day it comes out.
There's no point to this post, except to point out how awesome Shar is for letting me pass out in her flannel-sheeted bed and writing this damn thing for me.
And then I found five dollars. And Shar and I's former roommate wrote for Bad Sam.
More info as it becomes available.
LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - California Gov. Gray Davis said on Thursday he had received "credible'' information indicating that the state's major Bridges -- including Jeff Bridges -- could be targeted for attack between Nov. 2 and Nov. 7.
"We've received from several different sources threats that the law enforcement community in general believes are credible that between Nov. 2 and Nov. 7 our there will be an effort to blow up one of those Bridges,'' Davis told a news conference.
Davis listed the Bridges under threat as Jeff Bridges (Starman, The Big Lebowski, Tron), Beau Bridges (The Fabulous Baker Boys), Angelica Bridges (Baywatch Hawaii), and, of course, Todd Bridges (Diff'rent Strokes, Court TV).
Davis said it would be up to producers to decide whether or not they wanted to ďdo lunchĒ with those Bridges during the period in question. "The best preparation is to let the terrorists know we know what you're up to, we're ready, it's not going to succeed,'' Davis said.
So I'm thinking about what's wrong with the world today - well, I don't have time to think about exactly how wrong everything is, but I do know this - many of the things that are wrong could be fixed, or would have been prevented entirely, if we just listened to our mothers. I know, I know, you've heard that a thousand times, from your mother, but did you listen? No!
And sometimes, I confess, mothers don't listen to their children. Mothers are driving, trying to remember what else they were supposed to do, worrying about mom-stuff, and we fail to pay full attention to what our progeny has to say. Hence, a week or so ago, when my daughter asked me for a ride to the airport, I only partially absorbed the implications of that request - airport - LA - flying.
I do try not to be one of those overbearing moms, so even though I don't approve of her new boyfriend (Francoise, a real French guy, from France, with the accent and everything) taking my little girl to New Orleans of all places on a plane of all things, well, I didn't object. At least out loud. Because she wouldn't have listened anyway, and what I would have said would have been a rather paranoid version of my opinion of the standard ďgo about your business as if nothing was wrongĒ propaganda that we hear interspersed with dire warnings of ďcredible threatsĒ. I don't think acting as if nothing is wrong is a good idea at all.
Last night, on the news, they said that terrorists were going to blow up a bridge in LA sometime between the 2nd and the 7th or 9th, I forget which. The point is, LA is a mass of overpasses, every freeway gets airborne at some point, including the ones I'll be on this evening. Yes, I am driving to LAX tonight. Against my better judgement, which runs contrary to that ďlife as usualĒ line we've all been hearing.
So if they pick tonight to blow stuff up, and you're looking at live pictures of the smoking rubble and you see what's left of a grey (with purple undertones) Buick with license plates HTTPWWW, well, c'est moi.
It is only November first and already I give up on NaNoWriMo.
Okay, okay, I don't give up. But if today's writing is any indication, man, I really should give up.
The begining of my novel is, in a word, god-awful. Uhm, is a conjunction one word or two? Ah well, just goes to show how little I know about writing.
I did under my average word count for the day, but close, which is really the important thing. The directions said this is about writing a 50,000 word novel in a month, not about writing a good 50,000 word novel in a month. If good were in there, I don't think you'd have had 5,000+ people sign up, I know I sure wouldn't have.
I think I've got the word count thing down. I did my average for today, after writing a post for Bad Samaritan (I guess this would be my second post here today), catching up on email, and commenting on about 10 other people's blogs. I'd have done about anything this morning to get out of starting my novel. I wish I had done more, because it might have saved me from writing something so, I repeat, god-awful when I did finally sit down to write.
So, I think 50,000 words will be no problem. I just don't have to worry about it being good. Just about it being done, which I'm not worried about because 50,000 words is nothing. A sneeze for an Internet Blogging Professional © like myself. I wonder if I counted all the words I posted on Bad Sam last month, how many it would be. Anyone care to take a guess? I bet it is close to, if not beyond 50k. And some of them were even good. Not so for the novel. Itís god-awful.
Well, I think Iíve downplayed it enough (and I'm not just doing this fishing for compliments, the first day's writing really is awful). What I wrote today will probably be the first chapter. It may not be. But, this is definitely the first couple lines wrote today, I actually like them, still, but things get bad fast. Anyway, the first lines:
She put the money in my hand, kissed me on the cheek and told me she loved me. That, I do remember.
But, for some reason, thirty years later, I canít remember her name. I canít even lie and say itís on the tip of my tongue, because it isnít on my tongue, it isnít stuck in my throat, or in the pit of my stomach. It isnít even in the tips of my toes. It is gone and Iíd probably have as much chance of dredging her name up from the recesses of my mind, as I would of finding her even if I could remember it.
Go here to read the rest of it. Donít hurl fruit at me yet, itíll get better, I promise.
So, I was just sitting here thinking how much I hate the Yankees.
And, on a completely unrelated note, I was thinking how Bad Samaritan needs some new blood. Of the eight authors on the site, two hardly post at all (which makes me cry). Three of us will be taking part in NaNoWriMo this month and weíll probably not be posting as frequently (I know I probably wonít). Itís a lot to ask of the other three Samaritans to pick up that much slack, so I am opening a casting call for new Samaritans.
The way this will work is that Iíll pretty much accept any application. Unless I find you so offensive Iíd even refuse your sloppy seconds with Alyson Hannigan, youíre on the team. Those awarded the distinct honor of Bad Samaritanhood will post for the month of November and the best of the bunch will be asked to stay on afterward.
Why should you apply to Bad Samaritan? Well, the prestige, for one. Just think how jealous all your friends will be when you constantly rub it in their face that youíll be consorting with the Internet Rockstars © that make up the current staff of Bad Samaritan.
If that isnít reason enough, just think about the hits. Do you run a website? Does your site get 200,000 hits a month? Bad Samaritan does (weíll be just under that for October). Iím not saying your site will get that many hits simply by you joining the staff here, but if you do join BS, just think about how many times youíll be able to plug your site over the course of a month!
Plus, youíll get a share of the profits. Last month, Bad Samaritan grossed US$18.50. Minus the $20 hosting costs, divided 8 ways (each author), Ö carry the 7Ö Well, letís just say that if things keep up like they have been, youíll make like twenty-seventeen million dollars, just for writing a couple little posts over the course of a November. Forget that 401(k), youíll be able to retire now!
And, most importantly, do it for the kids.
Okay, so if youíre interested (and who wouldnít be?) send me an email introducing yourself. Please include a URL where I can get a taste of your writing. Remember, almost no one will be turned away, so donít fret, just send.