Rollin' on Through...

I realize that back in October I was going to write about the virtues of Katamari Damacy, but I forgot. Well, first, let this be known:

Katamary Damacy is as ragingly fun and adorable as Sci-Fi Channel original movies are ridiculous and laughable. ie: A LOT.

The object of the game:

Emergency! You are the tiny Prince of the Universe! You must use this sticky lump called a Katamari to roll crap up for various dubious reasons! Your father is a buffoon, but he's huge, and he'll make a star out of your lump to replace the ones he broke!

Also, listen to this fantastic music as you roll! Ready-go!




There is nothing quite so satisfying as growing your Katamari to the point that you can actually knock over that annoying kid in the alley and roll her right up! Haha! And those cats! And that guy! And that car! And that elephant! And that building! And that whale! Take that!

Eventually, you get to the size that your mammoth Katamari overshadows the tiny prince many thousands of times over, and you bonk into and roll up clouds and rainbows, enormous oceanic whirlpools, entire islands, massive Gozilla-like creatures and the like...

There's nothing quite like it. So satisfying.

Take me out back and shoot me.

...because, God help me, I can't help being curiously attracted to awful Euro-fluff-electro.

I know it barely qualifies as music. I know that being a musician of sorts myself, I ought to pointedly and publically loathe it. But secretly I go home and download it because the wispy, annoying strains can be addictive LIKE CRACK.

I'm sure this guy understands.

I laugh at the video, and the fact that this young man looks as though his head actually expands and contracts with the music. Then I shamefully find and download the mp3 to play repeatedly until my brain explodes and bursts into flame, purging itself of the addiction 2 days later.

Incidentally, also I find it quite amusing that my search for the mp3 landed me at a google-translated page where, in order to join the mailing list and keep up with what's new, one enters one's email below where it says,

"For always being dawned on the innovationes of the situated one, you enroll yourself to the Newsletter:"

Carpooling with Respectable English Magicians

I'm currently "reading" Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell on my way to and from work. I received an early Christmaas gift from The Boy of a flash player and a subscription to audible.com, and all my wildest audiobook dreams have come true. The flash player is a tiny little thing about the size of the remote I use to unlock my car doors (but it carries something like 16 hours of audiobook). In fact, I carry it on my keychain, and on occasion find myself, arm outstretched, starting and stopping an audiobook rather than letting myself into the car. Despite that minor confusion once and awhile, I adore the little thing. I also adore the iPod, but it is clumsy to use while driving, and I tend to forget to lock the buttons, so I unexpectedly flip back and forth between tracks. Whereas the pod needs to be placed somewhere I can control it, and where it won't fly off the seat at a sudden stop, the flash player stays on my keychain, and I simply plug the cord from the tape deck into it and control it from there. eee!

I find myself humming the refrain from the post-credits wedding sequence in Napolean Dynamite where Kip earnestly sings to his bride, "I love technology/ (reassuringly) but I love you more, you see/ but I STILL love technology... always and foreeeever.

Technology I will take a little longer to completely warm up to is the Bluetooth headset for my cell phone. I like that there are no wires. Ever since Pinnochio, the world has known that "no wires" is quite a good thing. But I find that I clutch at it for fear it will fall off my ear. I find that it takes longer to apply the headset to my ear than it does to simply pick up the phone and make a quick call. I'm sure I will get better at it. Once it's on and I'm chatting hands-free I love it. Eventually I'll adore it like I adore my flash player.

Always and foreeever.

Curse you, Green Horseradish!

Oddly enough, I woke up today without any sense of taste. I have been able to smell as usual, but eating has been a depressingly lacklustre event. The only taste zone that seems to be semi-intact is the "bitter" zone toward the back and sides of my tongue. I had a mint earlier, and rather than cool mintiness, all I got was a weird bitter taste toward the back.

All I can think is that is has something to do with the fact that I ate large quantities of wasabi peas yesterday. I tasted them at the time... or so I thought. One never knows.

The main reason being tasteless (heh) sucks today is that we were taken out on a business lunch today to a really nice restaurant. I got a lovely calamari dish which was perfectly cooked and melted in my mouth. However, I no idea if it tasted nice--I just know it was not gummy like bad calamari tends to be.

darn wasabi peas.

Sudden Bit of Respect for the USPS

Soo... while driving home from work today, I was surprised and gratified to catch a snippet of a song by The Postal Service between news items. Even more interesting, however, was the fact that the next story was a little piece about the fact that the United States Postal Service had discovered that a little electro-indie band on the West coast was using "their name" and sent them a cease and desist letter.

I imagine the exchange taking place between shy indie rocker Benjamin Gibbard and a stern looking middle aged group of postal workers.

Postal spokesperson: You can't use our name you know!

Benjamin Gibbard: Oh? Oh...shucks.

Postal spokesperson: (clearly had been expecting more anger) So..that's..uh,that.

Bejanmin Gibbard: (hands in pockets, kicking one foot a little) ...But I LIKE the postal service.

Postal spokesperson: (quietly muttering out of side of mouth to other postal people - "oh my god, he's so adorable! are we sure about this?")

Other Postal People: (burst out) Fine!! AUGH! You're so cute!! Be our mascot!! We'll make a stamp with you on it!!

Benjamin Gibbard: Ok. Cool.

True: Surprisingly, after the intial contact, rather than requiring the customary ceasing and desisting, the USPS found themselves charmed by the adorablilty of the indie kids, and eventually asked if they could adopt them as the offical USPS band. Apparently the USPS wants The Postal Service's music for commercials, to sell their cds in post offices, and have them play at a mega-conference for postal big-wigs coming up.

Who's your daddy?

Uncle Sam.

Boating Day in the USA

I stood in line with everyone this morning, but the difference is, I was actually being PAID while I was standing there. I love my company.

________________

Boo whines and whiiiines until I fill the cat bowl to an amount he find sufficient. It's different all the time. Some days, he becomes wrathful that there is only a half bowl of chow available for him at any one time. Other days it can dwindle to one or two nuggets before he starts to complain. Today it didn't look as though Nihao and he had eaten at all during the day. The bowl still contained about the amount I had measured out for them when I left this morning.

As I inpsected it, his persistant BEEEEEWWWWWWW??? bbeeeeeeewwww?? got louder and louder, and he actually stood up to tap me on the elbow with his paw. So, like my parents before me, (carefully salting my plate of food when I begged for it--but without turning the salter upside down so anything comes out) I picked up his food bowl and carefully rustled through it with my fingers. "I'm adding brand NEW food for you," I lied.

I put the bowl down and he huffily ate his fill and promptly went to sleep afterward. I must admit I was a little shocked that it worked. I had expected some innate feline sense to alert him. I guess he's more like a little kid than I thought.

En-pea ARRR!!

Am I just the sort of dork who secretly enjoys a good autumn Public Radio fund drive? Why yes...yes I am!
I can't decide if it's the fact that I'd rather hear people begging for money than about politics (quite possible--in fact, probable) or if it's the thrill of meeting the new member challenge for the half hour. Maybe both.

I realized the extent of my dorkiness while I was driving home and found that I'd left the radio tuned to the fundraiser ALL THE WAY HOME. And it's been like that all so far this week. I've been listening to the various hosts and assessing their tactics - I found that the phones rang more for the people who sounded like they were smiling, who didn't apply guilt, and who brought to bear little personal stories that apparently did the trick. C.N. and T. M. are leading the crew for over-all skill with smooth flow and managing to work the phone number 888-258-9866 (oh god. I know it by heart.) into three sentences of dialogue 47 times without sounding awkward or stilted.

I haven't heard her so far this year, but T.C. automatically LOSES if she's been trying to raise funds this year. I heard her last year and it was a disaster. I can barely keep the station on her self-satisfied, snotty nosed voice for more than a few seconds when she's announcing news, let alone when she's personally asking me for money but somehow manages to come off as supercilious and lofty at the same time. I swear she sounds like a parody of someone exceedingly proud that one of my sisters does. ("Hmm HMMM? with upturned nose and bored, half closed eyes, as if you weren't worth the effort to LOOK at.) Last year T.C. and C.N. were on duty together and C pointed out that support could cost as little as a chocolate bar or a capaccino a week (smooth--good move. The phones ring.) Then T cuts in proudly, talking directly through her nose as usual..."Udless you're me, and you eat BELGIAN IMPORTED Chocolate...thed it's a little bid moore expedsive..." Long pause. Phones stop ringing.

Hoookay.

More blog to come, only this will be about the outrageous head-exploding cuteness and crack-like addictiveness of Katamari Damacy. In the mean time: http://katamaridamacy.jp/ (ENG!)

Top Security

Am I the only one who finds this amusing?



It's lasted over a week now, but I expect that any day I'll order my dinner from a misty-eyed BK clerk who will explain of the silent and devastated staff, "Someone stole it. They stole our promo sign. After we put a lock on it an everything."

Rest in Peace, Man of Steel

I was sad to hear Christopher Reeve died.

The REAL problem with America today...

Okay... another PSA from the desk of yours truly:

If you happen to live in Michigan, and you happen to be researching a home equity loan, allow me to save you about 45 minutes of wasted time you will NEVER EVER BE ABLE TO GET BACK BECAUSE IT WILL BE GONE FOR GOOD. This PSA will also be helpful in preventing sweaty palms, grinding of the teeth, and the overwhelming inclination to punch anything within arm's length. My suggestion: do not, I repeat, DO NOT call a place called AIM Lending in Grand Rapids. Particularly if you're a woman. The sensation of simultaneously being walked all over, and having your ass kissed is an interesting one, but definitely NOT enojyable.

Allow me to explain: I called said "business" this week to see what sorts of loans they offer, what sort of rate I might get - nothing specific, mind you. I spoke first to a friendly enough trainee guy. He offered some info on the company, and took down some info so he could get me some quotes. Or so I thought. He called back later to let me know that THE senior loan specialist, Mr. Utter Ass-hat, would discuss the loan with me. "Okay - thanks. Bye trainee-guy," I said, and things just went straight to hell from there. The voice that then appeared on the other end of the line was like a cross between the guys on Car Talk and Howard Dean during his RAAAWRR! speech. He had that used car salesman/motivational con artist way of using my name at the beginning of every sentence. "So Steph - you mind if I call you Steph, there?" Yes. I do. Already my hackles are rising slightly.

What followed was an unbelieveable half hour of this guy raving and raging about how his company is a non-commision company, and "the only thing....the ONLY thing, Steph, that I want to do for you is find you a loan a a great rate! Steph, let me ask you, have you gotten any numbers from people? 'Cause whatever it is, we can beat it because those commission companies are trying to screw you every which way. Pardon my language, but it's TRUE, Steph. All I want to do, all our company is here for is YOU. (somehow I doubt that.) Lemme tell you about our owner. He's worked in this business for 20 plus years. His father worked in the business for 40 years! (pardon my ignorance, but what does this have to do with getting an approximate quote on a loan, and why should I believe that you, a total stranger are running some sort of loan charity for me out of the goodness of your heart?)

When he wasn't stridently informing me of random and entirely unrelated facts about his company, he was yelling about commision based companies, telling me anecdotes about how people's lives are ruined by them and claiming THEY are what's wrong with America today. He yelled this at least THREE times during my conversation with him.

"Now tell me, Steph - have you been reading all these articles in the newspaper about how bad they're finding out commission places really are?" (what freaking articles?) I responded that and that we had researched all the different ways of getting loans before we decided to go ahead with getting quotes. (We're not stupid here.)

"Well Steph, that doesn't surprise me one bit. No sir. She's a smart one. These guys are agreeing with me. I've got about 5 people listening in - training, y'know. Yeah, that doesn't surprise me. You seem like the type who's really sharp."

Don't patronize me, asshole. And excuse me... YOU'RE training people? God help us all.

In the process of the verbal gauntlet, he asked me if I'd been told various (unrelated and random) things about the company. I responded that I hadn't.

Now it gets even weirder and more uncomfortable: Ass-hat informed me that trainee-guy should have known better than to NOT mention all this crap to me. Then he proceeded to turn on poor Trainee for 'messing up.' Somewhere in Grand Rapids, poor new guy trainee was getting berated in front of four other trainees, and a potential customer. Talk about inappropriate. "It's ok," I said. '"We're all been the new guy at one point or another."

Then another barrage of asskissing including such gems as, "You know, Steph. I like your style. You've got STYLE."
Then: "Trainee-guy's ok, right Trainee? TELL THE LADY YOU'RE FINE."

Then: a weak throat clearing from Trainee-guy and, "Um, I'm fine."

The conversation ended shortly thereafter with Ass-hat telling me he'd call tomorrow to let us know what he could do for us.

??? Kind of weird that after 10 minutes of explaining a few facts to any other company, they were able to tell us if they could help us, and what sorts of things were possible. 30 minutes of Ass-hat, and all I'd gotten was the urge to kick the wall.

Poor trainee-guy.

I don't know why I picked up the phone to Ass-hat the next day. Maybe I was hoping that one last ditch effort would help me get the info I needed to compare with potential programs from other companies. Dumb girl. You knew what was coming. Another round of chauvenistic, egocentric, condescending, blustering. And AGAIN, in front of a group of trainees.

When he told me he'd call at the end of the week once we'd made a decision, I (gently) cut him off.

Me: "So you're not going to actually give me any information about loan programs that might help us?"

Ass-hat: "Steph, if someone told you they'd give you a rate lower than X, they're LYING. If they're friends or family, you need to CUT OFF your relationship with them right NOW! "cause they're LIARS, Steph!"

Oh. That's nice. A complete asshole stranger over the phone that I've never met telling me to sever relationships with friends and family.

Ass-hat: "Steph, you need to make a desicion, then we'll talk."

Me: "How can you expect me to make a decision if you haven't given me any information?"

Then, unbelievably, Ass-hat yelling: STEPH, YOU'RE TREATING ME LIKE A USED CAR SALESMAN AND I DON'T APPRECIATE IT!! I'M BEING MR. STRAIGHT AND HONEST WITH YOU, AND YOU'RE TAKING ADVANTAGE OF ME!!

Me yelling back (Utterly dumbfounded, yet completely pissed off): NO! HOW CAN YOU BE STRAIGHT AND HONEST WITHOUT HAVING ACTUALLY CONVEYED ANYTHING FACTUAL??? IT'S BAD BUSINESS TO EXPECT PEOPLE TO COMMIT BEFORE KNOWING WHAT IT IS THEY'RE COMMITTING TO!!

Ass-hat (shouting as fast as he can in front of his trainees) WELLIDON'TCAREIFYOUDECIDETOMAKETHESMARTCHOICEANDGOWITHUS-YOU
CANSTILLCALLWHENYOUFIGUREOUTWHATYOU'REMISSING,BUTIDON'TEVEN
EXPECTYOUTO!!!!! *CLICK*

Like an elemetary school breakup.

Me:.... bye ASS-HAT.

Such a smooth operator.

I Want to Be a Ninja Air Dancer

It makes me mildly sad that I don't see billboards etc declaring, "Otogi - Myth of Demons is the prettiest video game EVER!"

'Cause it is.

It's not so much the beautiful environments and character design as it is the fact that the main character, (a tall slender samurai-type) can leap insanely high, and instead of plunking back to earth, he drifts, like a cherry blossom petal, his hair streaming fluidly out behind him. It's like watching the best dancer ever, in low gravity. If he engages in swordplay mid-air, he actually hovers as twirls and slashes. It's graceful. The environments give a sense of an intricate stage--or some underwater feudal Japan.

Also fun is the ability to interact with almost everything in the environments - mainly by demolishing things into massive mounds of rubble in clouds of dust.

President Kim II Sung is Alive in the Hearts of Humankind Forever!

I've been browsing around North Korea's brand spankin' new web portal, obviously. As much as I know Communism is alive and well in certain parts of the world, it's sort of strange to see it floating around the ether of the internet. Red on the Web!

For those of you know are not aware of Kim II Sung's credentials, I'll quote the website:

"Our leader is indeed the greatest leader of the working class. He personified unusual intelligence, outstanding leadership and lofty communist virtues, which nobody has ever possessed, and opened up and shone modern history with his profound revolutionary theories and great revolutionary practice. He is a benevolent father of the people, who brilliantly covered the whole distance of the prolonged revolutionary struggle with boundless devotion to the revolutionary cause and with warm love for the people."

That says it all, I suppose.

In other news, a fortune cookie I got the other day insists that I will "suceed in my pesant plans."

Well, then.

The Rocket's Red Glare...

It's the night of July 3rd, and from our balcony I can see five different displays of fireworks. The big display is the annual Sylvan Lake show to the southwest, putting out colorful pyrotic pom-poms so huge that the THONK-THONK of the send-ups rolls across the lake and echoes against southern Pontiac like thunder.

The rest are indie displays, made possible in part by Fred the illegal fireworks salesman, and viewers like me. It's been quite lovely. The people 2 doors down have been putting on nightly shows at dusk for the past week. They must spend thousands of dollars. Maybe it's worth it to them since they know the neighbors are all on their porches, balconies and lawns, enjoying it along with them. After particularly flashy pops, one can hear clapping and sometimes whistling from all the nearby streets. It gives me a warm feeling about our neighborhood. The people a couple streets in either direction have decided to give our street a run for the money, with their own illegal displays. Hurrah! More pretties! For some reason our neighborhood is just bursting with either patriots or pyromaniacs. Or both.

I get too excited about fireworks, I think. I find myself grinning and clapping my hands like a 4 year old. Fortunately, I've gotten to see a whole bunch this year. I'm excited for tomorrow night. That ought to keep me til next summer.

It's okay. I'm disturbed by it too.

I just discovered my phone camera could do this. And now Nihao's a surprised looking nun. Nunhao. Blessed be.

When the cat's away, the mice will...sit up behind the tv in a plastic bag.

Just finished reading Patrick O'leary's book, The Gift. It's the most satisfying read I've had in a while. I'd put it into the same category as Robin Hobb's Farseer trilogy etc. That goes to show there's nothing like a well crafted, intelligent fantasy novel. O'Leary's book is perhaps more "traditional" in the sense that it contains dragons and wizards etc, but he manages to make them unlike anything you've read before. All really good fantasies have elements of the real in them, and this is no exception: the significance of Names, how storytelling is essential to our humanity, etc.

One more point in the book's favor is that fact that unlike the woeful majority of fantasy literature, it actually has interesting and beautiful cover art. Not the melodramatic schlock that (God knows why) publishers decide to slap on even the best (i.e. poor Robin Hobb) fantasy books.

____________________________________

The other day I was at the pet store and on my way through the checkout line, I decided on a whim to buy one of those small toy mice made from real rabbit fur for our cat, Boo. Once I got home, I didn't actually remember it was in the bag until I caught him sniffing and pawing where I'd left it on the kitchen floor. As soon as I gave held it out to him he got hunter-eyes (you know--when something enticing is twitching and suddenly your cat's pupils are like dinner plates), snatched the mouse and ran off, joyfully tossing it and worrying it. And this went on. ALL DAY. The next morning I was slightly disgusted to find the ragged husk of what was left of the "mouse" on my bathroom floor. All there was was a small patch of mostly bald rabbit skin with many, many holes in it. As I peered at it, Boo flounced through and whisked it away. Ew. I decided that since the toy had been such a success, I ought to get him another. I found a MEGA pack of them at Meijer for a fraction of what I paid at the cat store, so brought it home, gave Boo one mouse from the package, and carefully wrapped the bulk of them back up and set them up behind the tv.

Let's spring ahead a couple days, shall we? But first let me say this: we are unusually blessed with good cats. They excrete ONLY in their litter box, they scratch only occasionally on our carpet-never the sofas- and they NEVER climb up where they shouldn't be and cause mass destruction by knocking things off bookshelves and mantles and kitchen counters. Our cats are generally the models of restraint (except when it comes to wet food). This is why I was shocked (and highly amused) to reach the bottom of our stairs one morning and find our living room awash in a sea of half-gnawed, bedraggled, colorful mice, with Boo lying, exhausted and slightly guilty looking, on the couch. He had carefully jumped from the couch to a stack of DVDs on top of the shelf, to the top of the speaker (also covered in stuff) to the top of the tv, and without disturbing the plant, had pilfered the bag of mice, gnawed it open, and had a wild party. All this without disturbing any of the precarious piles of stuff that cover that area. Single minded, determined, and only a LITTLE naughty cat.

Gently Drifting Expletives...

I was thinking back to one of my favorite local news broadcasts ever today. The story was dubbed "The Cussing Canoeist" by the press. It seems that a few years ago, a canoeist in a public park paddled over a large rock or something of that nature--whatever it was it caused him to loudly proclaim, "FUUUUCK!!" A startled family was within earshot, and after recovering, the parents marched said canoeist straight to court. Apparently, many states still have laws left over from the good old days that prohibit men from cursing in the prescence of women and children. (Learn somethin' new every day, dontcha?)

Now I don't have a problem with cussing. I do think that people need to curb their mouths in public, though. I'm not making a judgement as to whether I thought "Fuck" Boy needed to go to court or not. I just admitting to being secretly pleased, because as a result of the legal mayhem, the local news took it upon themselves to do their own digital reinactment of the incident.

A straight faced news anchor lady with severe hair explains the situation as, behind her, the scene plays out with a canoe to represent the "cussing canoeist, and little figures of the unsuspecting family around the river bend. Suddenly, the word "Expletive!" bursts from the canoe, and the news anchor solomnly indicates it as it driftes gently around the bend of the river into the ears of the innocents.

HA! Floating cussowrds! ha... Ahem. You may have had to be there. In fact, it's more than likely.

If I could kick Dan Brown in the knee for every book he sold....Well, actually, it wouldn't matter how many times I'd get to kick him, at least I'd feel better. Go to Amazon and read the reviews of people who give Angels and Demons one star. They appropriately explain what I mean. I'd like to gently drift some expletives at HIM.

Post Angels and Demons, I'm not certain if the next book I read is actually a really good book, or just a really good book in comparison to anything Brownian. Darn you, Dan Brown, for temporarily impairing my judgement!

I'd also like to take this opportunity to blame Dan Brown for the major zit I got on prom night in high school.

A Lilliputian Massacre

First of all, has anyone seen the 1939 animated "Gulliver's Travels?" You know--the one with the kindly, bland-faced Gulliver whose first response to an attempted assasination is a slow and thoughtful, "Myy, my." In fact, as I recall, that was his response to just about everything--the swarming Lilliputians creating a new outfit right on him, the bumbling, munchkin-like watchman who inevitably falls off a bridge or some other tall structure (fortunately?) into Gulliver's hand. Myyy, my.

Back to my main point: Well, think about the tiny, bumbling watchman for a second. Think about his annoying, highpitched yelps and gurgles. (Made you want to step on him, didn't it? Or am I alone here?)

Now, if you've ever played the video game "Halo," think about the little Covenant aliens shaped like triangles with bad attitudes. Think about their annoying, highpitched yelps and gurg.... hey.... Don't they sound IDENTICAL to the Lilliputian watchman? Some designer watched the "Gulliver's Travels" cartoon as a child and thought, "This movie would be SO much better if I could run that watchman over with a ATV and then shoot him with his own weapon."

hmm.

Post Script: I'm not necessarily condoning Halo. I recognize the slickness of the design, but I don't particularly like it. The Boy plays it, and from downstairs I get to hear the sounds of space battles and Lilliputian watchmen getting their butts kicked.

Heads and Tails

As a postscript to an already too long post, I'd like to add the fact that I've always thought that my little cat, Boo had the tail of a much taller cat. After measuring, I think I'm right. Boo, weighing in at something like 8 pounds, has a tail that is a majestic 11 1/4 inches long. Nihao, at 13 pounds, has a 10 3/4 inch tail. Does this prove anything? Not really.

But it somehow gives me a weird satisfaction.

Succumbing to the Dork Side

So the past couple weeks at the McW household, have (among other much more important things) consisted of lots of tee-heeing and trying on various Jedi outfits and bragging about how badass in the force one is. Oh yes, padewans, we have been playing the Star Wars video game "Knights of the Old Republic." In fact, not 20 minutes ago, the boy soundly kicked the booty of the Dark Lord of the Sith once and for all. And, dorks that we are, we're probably going to do the whole thing over, so our character can be a total annoying jerk in all the conversations and interactions.

I have been playing Zelda - Wind Waker in between KOTOR stints, and as a result, I've found myself at times telling Ed to just somersault over long distances--it's faster... Oh. Different game.

KOTOR turned out to be a pretty interesting game. I enjoyed the interactions and possibilities for doing it up light side style, being a complete smartass, or simply tossing away your conscience for the dark side. There has been some debate about which answers will actually garner the MOST light side points-- ie: Should I take the reward for saving this guy's kid and thank him? Should I wave my hand and say, "You wish to double that amount you're paying me?" Definitely not. Oh... I should decline the reward and offer to give the kid a piggyback ride. Yeah. Totally most light side.

Though it was a fun game, and we'll certainly play it again, there were things about it that drove me utterly NUTS. For example, it's a game with lots of depth blah blah blah...so why are there only about 3 character models for NPC heads??? It's disconcerting to walk up to someone completely new and see the face of the same guy whose innocence you proved on Dantooine, who tried to get you to smuggle goods off Korriban, who mistook you for someone else on another planet, and who now appears to be a Sith academy hopeful with a squeaky voice. ANNOYING. Especially when the voice is polar opposite of what you expect from the character model.

I did appreciate the reference to "walking carpets," though.

_______________________

Cautionary note:

My children, if you have any interest in actually knowing how much money is in your account, or making deposits that post to your account within a reasonable amount of time, if you are interested in a bank with decent online banking, that shows accurate numbers and makes an ounce of freaking sense, do NOT bank with TCF bank.

I have called customer service several times about a mysterious number that shows up in my online statement... I've gotten a different answer EVERY SINGLE TIME. Not even the people who are supposed to be helping me out have a clue how it works. This particular number is sometimes negative, sometimes positive, and always a mystery. I've been able to deduce that it has something to do with pending transactions. I've been confidently told by customer service that it represents what my balance will be once everything posts, or that it represents the sum of pending balances and has nothing to do with my current balance, or that it represents my actual available balance, etc etc. I was dumb enough to believe a couple of them, and as a result, ended up bouncing stuff, which makes me CRAZY. Finally I decided to ignore them all. Things were going well, until a deposit I made didn't show up in my account a few days later. A call to good old customer service revealed that my deposit had been lost. LOST. I think I'd be better putting my money into a shoebox. As a result of the lost deposit, several things bounced--they were good enough not to charge me overdraft fees. (see? I can appreciate that fact.) However, it meant that my only means of cash--my debit card, (no more credit cards) had been cut off due to "insufficient funds." Another call and I was assured that it would all be cleared up by Mon at 9am...which was good because I coasted to work that morning on gas fumes. A check in call around 11 and the entirely unhelpful rep assured me that everything would be cleared up by..."2 days at the most." So... long story short, I managed to get home, and as soon as I get my next check I'm opening up a National City account.

Lesson learned.
________________________

On the brighter side, we have discovered another incredibly neat place about 2 minutes from our house. Nope--I'm not talking about the rocking HUGE Salvation Army right nearby, or the very cool little Liberty bar in downtown Pontiac... It's actually a greenhouse/nursery. I know that might sound lame, but this place is hands down the coolest greenhouse I've ever seen. It's been there since 1897--the greenhouses are real glass, (thus, smaller than today's plexi ones) and there are a mutitude of rooms through which one can wander, looking at handmade tile amidst the plants, or wrought iron work from around the world, or just staring at plants I've never imagined. There are mysterious and ancient vines that wind their way from room to room. You can tell the concrete has been there for a hundred years--it's aged and mossy, like something you'd see in the secret garden or read about in a George MacDonald book. It's magic.

Out back, if you wind far enough through the rows of trees and shrubs and flowering things, eventually you'll find a picnic table at the base of a HUGE oak tree by the river. Maybe we'll take a picnic sometime.

Of Meds and Idols and Babies

I find it disturbing that marketing people either don't notice, or actively approve certain medical product names. For example, the anti-sinus stuffiness nosespray called...FloNase. Yes. As in...Flow...Nase(l). Makes you want to sniff just thinking about it, doesn't it?

That's certainly not the worst one. What were these people thinking? Was there a marketing meeting about it? Were there people sitting around a shiny table slowly muttering things to themselves like, "okay... it's a medication that helps you enjoy life more....happy... good times...celebrations....cele...CELEBREX!" Or... "Alright....it's a cream that heals hemmroids...it disolves onto your butt...umm...'Ass-pacify?' 'Bootycool?' Or maybe...Anus..ol? ANUSOL! Yeah!"

The boy commented that it makes him worry a bit that there's a tooth medication called Anbusol, or something along those lines. One of these days someone's just going to grab the wrong tube.

It reminds me of the Energizer commercial from years ago with the cowboy leaping from a balcony onto his horse's back. He winces in pain, remarking that he should have used "Sittagin," a hemmroid cream. Then the Energizer rabbit pounds through etc...

Sir Elton John can kiss my Anbusol. Not that I'm a die-hard Idol fan, but if he had a lick of sense in his fancy little head, he wouldn't have made that "American Idol racist" comment. Does he realize that American Idol is not just an enigmatic entity that independantly puts its foot down weekly and kicks another contestant off? Does he realize that he's calling ALL OF AMERICA racist? Has he been watching the show? Does he realize the "TOP three" up until this point has pretty consistantly been made of at least 2 African Americans? The main thing though, is that there were three contestants all offering the same "product"--soulful black diva singing. Good stuff, that. Everyone else fits into their own little niche. There's soulful black diva niche, rat-pack crooner niche, pop-girl niche, whatever the heck Diana is niche, and the rich, raspy, mellow niche. The three divas were splitting the votes of the entire "soulful black diva" segment of the population. It was inevitable that one of them would end up gone. I guarantee that had there only been two of them, they both would have been in the top three. Just ask Ralph Nader. He knows about vote splitting. um... or maybe he doesn't.

I visited a friend in the hospital yesterday--after nine long months of puking and hormones and paralyzing contractions, she finally had her tonsils out.

OF COURSE NOT. She had the baby. Of course, he didn't agree to come out until she had sat for 2 days with a needle in her arm, trying to be induced. Glad he finally made it though. It's nice to see him. Such a little person. I feel a bit guilty that I wasn't able to visit at the hospital again today. M will probably be bored out of her mind by the time they let her go home. I'll try to visit tomorrow, so she's not lonely. I will come bearing flowers--just not roses, which, I think she's allergic to?

It was amusing though-- M and J's personalities summed up in a little exchange while I was hanging with them in the hospital a few hours after the baby was born.

J (videotaping everything, excited and dreamy): Birth and life is so amazing and wonderful! I saved the placenta. I'm going to plant a tree in the yard, and bury the placenta beneath its outstretched branches.

M (hooks the baby expertly onto her breast. Looks thoughtful.): Yeah...and the dog across the street will come over, dig it up, and eat it.

Congratulations, you two! I'm excited to see what this baby will be like in 15 years. Hopefully the perfect cross-section of both of his parents - an excellent musician who is actually really great at math!

I have to admit it.... I have a crush on Hellboy. He's so endearingly....big and red. Ask me why I don't have a crush on the Kool-aid Man. The big question though, is whether I have a crush on Hellboy, or Ron Perlman. I loved the man in City of Lost Children (a gem that you must see NOW if you have not yet). I think playing gentle, hulking weirdos becomes him.

Watched Intolerable Cruelty tonight. Brilliantly written, and without the blood I sometimes associate with Cohen Bros films. "Ah!--" you might say, "But 'O' Brother Where Art Thou' was not a bloody film!" To which I would reply, "THE COWS." (Gore can be as unsettling being heard, but not seen. Anyone who's watched 'Shallow Grave' can attest to that.) In any case, I enjoyed it. It reminded me in some ways of Down With Love. All the snappy dialogues, without the kitch.

The new job is hard to comment on. Part of the reason is that people who read this blog are associated with it. Part of it is that I deal with people's personal medical information every day. Ok. Most of the reason is that. I'm not a bookseller anymore. I'm someone who buys books, or would, if I had the money. The delightful part is that I can feel free to comment on the ignorance and audacity of other customers if I so choose. I... I haven't actually commented, uh, aloud yet, but darn it, I'm free to! For the first time in years, there is no part of my life governed by the rules of customer service. I am content to hide in a basement office behind a computer and communicate with the people I need to solely by email. I'm not the "face" of anything but myself. I don't have to conduct myself on behalf of an organization. Actually, that's not exactly true. The emails I write for work are unnecessarily cheery and friendly. I suppose that counts as putting a friendly face on my company.

The sad thing about the way my life goes because of this job is that, though I make a bit more money than I did selling books, I'm left with as little, since I'm now tied to putting the same percentage toward debt. I don't have debt because I'm a shopaholic. I have it because the car broke down enormously, then I was incapacitated for four months and still had to pay bills, then the other car broke, we bought a house, and the car broke down again, etc etc etc...
It's scary not to have a cushion of emergency credit. But it's the only way I'm every going to get out of this. It also means that I can't take a week off work unless I save up enough banked hours to cover it, or I've been there a year.

Listening to Guster right now, and thinking about the book I'm reading currently - _Future Noir: The Making of Bladerunner_ by Paul Sammon. I enjoy the insights he provides, having been present during much of the filming process and having written more about the film that probably any journalist... BUT... (there's always one.) I get the feeling I got reading _The Man Who Could Taste Shapes_. The feeling is that, deep down, secretly, the books were written as an exciting expose of the author's coolness. Names are dropped like...like flies(?) and certain phrases make me kind of wrinkle my nose. Paul Sammon insists that "this humble writer was not worthy of being in all thse cool places and talking casually to all kinds of huge people you'll never meet in real life," just a little too often. The author doth protest too much. By the same token though, the book is very interesting. Who knew that Dustin Hoffman was almost Deckard? Don't answer that. Especially if you knew.

To bed we go, to bed we go, and Easter will be in the morning.

Which reminds me... I will miss the sad, lardy, milk-chocolate bunnies my dad used to hide under our beds every year. The eyes were the only good part. I'll never forget the year though, when dad bought the bunnies early, and left them in his trunk a little long on a sunny day. As a result, my neatly boxed "hollow milk-chocolate Cottontail Jim" looked as though he'd gone suddenly from zero gravity to the bottom of the Marianis Trench without any protective gear. I only found one eye. The other was probably in the massive melty dent that was his tummy.

Best Easter bunny ever.

Lately, the face of spam has changed. It's morphed from an ugly hairy guy in a dim room going,"heh heh..." as he sends out billions of "Enlarge your Penis" mails... into an ugly hairy guy with a dictionary picking out unlikely words to fool spam filters... THEN saying "heh heh..." as he sends the spam. As much as I LOATHE spam, and get a moment of satisfaction to every time I report a spammer to spamcop.net, I have to hand it to them. Some of these new titles are downright catchy. I'm glad not to see stuff about my manhood enlargment, (?) or getting loans fast. I kind of have to give a sort of grudging credit to whomever came up with the title "Decreeing Billow!" I've started saving some of the most interesting of the titles. I've collected such gems as

polygon griffin (creatures of myth come alive in an old video game!)

cuff referee (surely a ref from one of those grass-stain remover commercials. Or maybe one who monitors other's cuffs for stains.)

blank lignum (what a shame. I prefer my lignum heavily decorated.)

church man (a little known evangelical superhero.)

Decreeing Billow! (still my favorite. It sounds like a character from a William Blake poem. Listen! I'm "the fiend hid in a cloud's" cousin, and I've got an announcement!")

More to come...

Nihao's taken to grooming Boo at length, much to his dismay. I've never known a cat to be as disheveled as he likes to be. His fur is just a little too long to be smooth, and sticks out at funny angles. Then Nihao goes to work, and Boo emerges a few minutes later, his face and head gleaming with wet, slicked down hair like a little Dapper Dan man. He consoles himself by rolling on the wood floor, collecting al sorts of particles and dust, which stand out against his blackness. My feline Swiffer.

It's the sort of thing that makes you think a filmmaker was snorting about when he wrote it. In the film "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," one of the more obnoxious relatives is seen during a get-together relating her completely implausible story: "I was suffering these headaches, and the doctors, they did a scan and found this lump in the back of my head... and when they removed it, they found it contained....(dramatic pause) TEETH. That's right. I'd had a twin sister all these years. INSIDE ME."

Now, my morbid curiousity has assured that I know about many bizzare twists of nature. But I had never before understood what is known as "Fetus In Fetu." I'd heard stories about people having tumors removed with teeth in them. What I didn't understand until last night is that it is the beginning of an actual PERSON that they have removed. Apparently Fetus in Fetu, or vanishing/phantom twins happens at the very beginning of a pregnancy when the cell divides to become twins, and the normal one curls in on itself, envloping the other cell, which actually continues to form inside the first one. The fetus in fetu can form an umbilical cord of sorts to its host--the normally developing baby, and continue to live like that for... well, for years. One of the examples on the Discovery special we saw last night was a seven year old boy who had an enormous lump removed. Not just a lump... horrifically enough, it had limbs, discernible facial features, and loads of long dark hair.

There has never been a documented case of a fetus in fetu actually being conscious--or having a fully formed brain, for that matter-- Most of them have never developed a head to begin with... which makes the whole thing...I don't know...easier to think about? Do I want it to be easier to think about?

Semi-Spoilers ahead:
And now, on to the Easy to Think About section. I played 'Beyond Good and Evil' a couple weeks ago, and my overall impression is that it's a fun little game. It was cleverly designed, the gameplay was challenging without making me repeat parts incessently, and it was satisfying to beat. There are always going to be parts in a game where I rage at the designers, and aside from a couple ridiculous fights (including the final boss, which went on FAR too long) my main complaint is that they couldn't leave well enough alone. The story conludes with a spine-tingling happy ending... but wait. The designers are French. ie: must add on angsty bit after credits roll. I can understand wanting to set up a sequel, but this was over the top: The credits roll, panning along the children's drawings in the lighthouse that was home to the main character... how sweet.... and finally we arrive at the place where the beloved uncle of the main character stands overlooking the sea. (So glad we put in all that hard work to rescue him. ) But the music changes! Suddenly he's hunched over and.... hrrk! A quick flash showing he's been INFESTED with eeeevil!!
Aaaand cut!

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

Advice for the day: make sure you choose a competant insurance company who will bother sending your proof of insurance to people like, say.... the place through which you have your car loan. 'Cause if they don't, you're suddenly slammed with an enormous bill including fantastically overpriced "default insurance." And if you don't immediately pay said new mongo bill, you will be sent incessent collection notices, and your credit will be WORKED. Then people at both companies will do their best to be unaccomodating and shift the blame onto whoever else they can. It is only after you burst into tears and ROAR at them that they will suddenly realize they are completely at fault and rectify the situation. Slowly.

Grrrrrrrrrr.

Tax time is nearing again, and for the third year in row, I'm la-dee-dah, because our numerical genius tax law expert friend has asked if she can do them again. No. You read right. She ASKED. Because she LIKES it. I want to give her big trophy awards for being saintly and able to understand tax codes (the two don't necessarily go hand-in-hand) and get us lots of money back.

Yaaaaaaay!


This is odd... after the better part of four years, I no longer work at the bookstore. I will now be full time at a medical billing type of place, which promises little to no material for good storytelling. Which is maybe exactly how I want it. I still have lots of residual bookstore tales to tell. Maybe I'll just stick to that for awhile.

Now I get to be one of those customers who berates other customers for being a self-centered idiot.

Final story: I was driving with the boy yesterday and looked over to see a lonely, bedraggled wig in the snow at the side of the road. All sorts of questions leap to mind: Was someone driving in a convertible in this weather? Did someone get fed up and rip it from their pate? Did someone get fed up and rip it from someone else's pate? I laughingly pointed it out to boy, who looked at it and then me, blankly. I explained that I was laughing at the wig, and he seemed relieved. "Oh....I thought at first it was a partially deflated dog. Which wouldn't have made you laugh."

I think I want to shake the hands of the developers of the PS2 game, Suikoden III. Then I want to kick them in the shins.

I recently finished what was overwhelmingly a great game. Lots of fun. Beautifully put together. I haven't played any of the earlier Suikodens--I've been told I would have recognized certain characters and had a little more in the way of their back stories if I had. Even so, the game had a story line that was comprehensible whether you've played the earlier games or not.

I wil start with the things about the game that made me want to tear my hair out in painful clumps. I'd rather start with the negative and get it over with. Ultimately, this review is much more about the positives.

1. The first and probably the largest downfall of Suikoden III is that it initially requires lots of patience: I played several hours off and on before I really became interested in it. I know other people who set it down and never picked it up again. Too bad. The game really begins to give you more freedom and get addictively fun after the set of second chapters.

2. Another thing that drove me nuts initally was the fact that there was a pretty steep learning curve, and the game did little to teach me how to use rune magic, up characters in magic and fighting skills, create combos, figure out what people's potential in different areas was, etc. I'm used to the Final Fantasy-type games, where you are bombarded with instructions. It took awhile to understand everything. I realized as I went along that I'd been playing with a seriously underequipped party for a while.

3. There are not many times where you fight numerous long battles and don't have a chance to save, but one is too many.

4. It takes a while to catch on to the "Suikoden Way." In the same way as someone who has never played a Mario game has no clue that spraying open windows with water in Mario Sunshine will produce a gold coin, I didn't have a feel for Suikoden at first. I would occasionally get frustrated with the pace of the story. In that respect it felt a little forced. ie: run around trying to trigger the next plot point. Or try sleeping. Something might happen the next day.

5. This happens a couple times: I hate battles where the player is destined to lose no matter what. "I just kicked your ass. Now you're stealing my stuff and telling me you're letting me go??"

And now on to the positives.

1. All in all, the story line was pretty well crafted. Three nations vying agaist each other under the threat of something that seeks to destroy all three, and you are able to play a character from each. You choose which character you want to play first, then between chapters, you can switch to another person to see the perspective from the point of view of other cultures. Seeing things from three perspectives was enjoyable. Little things that are a mystery from one point of view suddenly become clear when you play the same time period from another perspective. I was pretty even-handed with the characters--I played chapter 1 with all three people before moving on to chapter 2. It's not at all repetative. In fact it's interesting when characters ocasionally overlap.

2. I really liked the way each culture had a very clear identity. The Xexan Federation looked and worked akin to Shakespearean England-- knights and tudor architecture. The Grasslands were a cooperating force of six tribes. Each tribe had a distinct cultural attitudes and customs, along with colors and designs. Beautifully done. It contributed enormously to the atmosphere of the game. Later in the game you work to create a place of neutral ground-- an area where all the cultures can trade and coexist peacefully. Because they were so distinct before, it made it more rewarding to see everyone interacting.

3. Amazing. I just played an rpg and didn't even spend hours leveling characters up so I could beat the final boss. You collect 108 playable characters over the course of the game, and at first I dreaded trying to level them all up to each other. But Suikoden III is not at all stingy with rewards. When you kill something stronger than you are, you get massive amounts of experience. ie: add a level 4 charcater to a group of level 30-somethings, and within a few "just tough enough to be interesting" fights, you're all within a few levels of each other. Another nice feature is that experience is not divided among characters. For example, if only one character survives the fight, they receive the same amount of experience they would have otherwise. Makes it so one person doesn't leap up in front so much, and gives more even leveling up. Also then I don't begrudge the experience to characters I don't prefer. There are also several optional bosses who give enormous amounts of money and rare items in addtition to pretty good experience. A few visits here and there, and everyone is up to par.

4. Every Item in the game has a purpose if you want it to. Example: You begin to find a series of recipes early on--later in the game, a character you recruit sets up a little cafe at your home castle. (one of the many people you convince to set up businesses or move to your castle/town.) The recipes, combined with spices or vegetables you find in different parts of the country, can be used to create foods that are useful for eliminating various status effects or recovering huge amounts of HP. However, none of that is obligatory. I like having choices.

5. The optional side quests are a good fun, and worth your while. I mentioned the optional bosses earlier, but there are also two different card games one can play, a track race one can do for prizes, and a series of really freaking adorable dogs found various places that can be adopted to live at the castle. (only one is part of the 108 stars you're collecting) More very cute things about the dogs, but I don't want to spoil it for anyone who's eventually going to play. You are also able to buy items at a trading post in one town and make quite a bit of money by keeping your eyes open and selling for a profit later. Don't sell too many of the same rare item to one town though, or the value will go down as the market gets saturated. There are several other fun things that shed light on your more mysterious charcters-- a detective who will do funny little investigations into the character of your choice, and a bathhouse/sauna where different combos of characters will produce enlightening and often pretty funny conversations.

My very favorite of the random additonal activities, though, is putting on plays! Hurrah! Once you've acquired a theatre director and some of the scripts, you will have a chance to select a cast from the characters you've collected. Every charcter has acting strengths and weaknesses, and each responds differently according to the role. Let the hijinks ensue! The Boy and I spent an entire evening putting together unlikely casts and producing plays. Sometimes it's very very funny. Many times the audience hates it. "Sir Boris of the Xexen Knights stars as the little match girl! See 'Romeo and Juliet' with an all ninja cast!" Every now and then you get wild applause for something completely unlikely.

SO. I reccommend that if you can find it cheap, Suikoden III is a load of good fun. Lots of detail, and not many negatives that can't be avoided.

- Transmission end -

An additon to the "Bookstore Sections People Think We Ought to Have" list:

Today someone was appalled that we didn't have a specific section for books about "Great Human Achievments of the 20th century."

This afternoon a boy walked up to the counter and said,"I need To Kill a Mockingbird." All three of the booksellers at customer service simultaneously quipped, "Man...What did a mockingbird ever do to you??" (Snort! ....Ok. So it wasn't funny.) The kid was not particularly amused. "Oh....I mean, uh, the book." Boy maintains that his response would have been a solomn, "It mocked me. And now it must die."

Also: when a book is as huge a seller as The South Beach Diet is, it's a pretty sure bet that every person whose trade is books knows whether it's out in paperback and possibly even the exact laydown date that it will be. 2 older ladies today were put out that we didn't have the paperback. (It always kills me when people in fur coats with huge rocks on their hands won't shell out the couple extra bucks for a hardcover.) I began to let them know that the book is not out in paperpack and won't even be printed till the spring, but got cut off by one of the lady's declaring that "Yes it is so out. You can get it at Target for $6.99. You people should know these things." I thought about informing her that the paperback she saw is a little fat/carb counter South Beach book, not the one she was thinking of... but suddenly I didn't care at all that she'd be wasting her time and getting the wrong book. I was even...dare I say it? A tiny bit satisfied.

Bad! Bad bookseller! Sit in the corner! No cookie!

I used to feel sorry for junior high girls.

Well...Some of them I still feel sorry for. Being a junior high girl can be an exercise in rejection, uncertainty and depression. My junior high years were. I'm glad to see some preteen girls today sure of themselves and taking the world by the horns. Except that so many of them drive me nuts. While I wouldn't wish the evils of my preteen years on them, they can bloody well celebrate their adolescence somewhere else, thanks.

Point in case: there is a flock of 13ish year old girls who keep our "hokey fluff-manga" section in business. (Not to be confused with "hokey fight-manga" for boys. Or, for that matter, "freaking amazing and cool manga," which is a much rarer beast than the previous two.) They pull vast quantities of books off the shelves and sit in the aisle, commenting on how attractive various characters are. (ie: "Ewwww! I would never read that! He's totally ugly!" Or "That's not even cute!" They're loud and annoying and wost of all--in my way. The other day during the huge snowstorm, they descended on the store and made nests of books back in Graphic Novels. Their squeals and yapping rang through the mostly empty store. They trooped up to the register with their purchases. There, thanks to the indescribable indescisiveness of jr highers, the poor clerk stood there 20 minutes trying to reverse a transaction one of the girls had made with a Visa gift card. She'd then decided she want to pay cash for so she had the kicks of knowing there was still 30 dollars on her card. (Did anyone mention that the card is the same as cash? You can use either of them anywhere.) But no--the whim had taken her, and she was adamant.

While they waited I heard things like, "The only reason I love Justin Timberlake is that he looks like Orlando Blooooom." Agreeing sighs and oooohs from the rest of the flock. Or "Did you see such-n-such (awful) film? It was soooo cool. Orlando Bloom wasn't in it though. But it was still sooo cool." Tee-heeing and pushing each other around ensues. One particularly perky (used in the worst sense of the word) girl felt the need to loudly comment on how everything everyone else liked was "so retarded." What a jewel. It was when she pulled her hands into her sleeves and started slapping the other girls with them that I began to gnaw off my own arm. One ill-timed slap and a display of Burts Bees's moisturizer in a glass jar smashed from the counter to tile below, shattering. The was a moment of silence, then the princess declared shamelessly, "That's sooo retarded that they had that there!"

Yeah. So stupid that we display merchandise at the counter, where people will obviously be slapping their empty sleeves. Still, a spark of something in me that wants to protect people from embarassment manifested itself. It always does. I pretend not to see if someone trips. I try to make people feel better for some reason. Save their dignity or something. My big mistake was that this girl had no dignity. One of her friends started picking up the pieces of the broken jar, and apologized. Maybe it was for her sake that I said, "Don't worry about it. It was just a sampler." What point was there in telling her that it was a $12 jar and she'd have to pay for it? She didn't have the money. She'd just spent it on fluff-manga. I took over for the dear little friend who was trying to be helpful. Bless her. Find some new people to hang around with, Chica. Princess hopped on one foot and whined while I cleaned the mess she'd made. Then she began to---what??--- slap people with her jacket again. I finally gritted my teeth and snarled, "Considering what you just did, I'm amazed that you're still flapping your jacket around." Apparently my wording was too complex because she looked at me as she slapped and said, "....Huh?" I finally yelled, "Will you STOP IT???" Whereupon she turned a little red (Thank GOD, maybe there is some hope.) and reverted instead to hopping on one foot until the register snaffoo with her indecisive friend was complete.

Book store sections people feel we ought to have :

1. The Anti-Bush Section. "I'm looking for 'Bush Whacked.' You know--anti Bush books? Where are they?"
Let's head over to the entire poli-sci area, shall we?

2. "There's this book, and I don't remember the author or title or what it was about, but it was this greenish color and it was like, this big?" Ah! Fortunately, our Greenish This-Big Book Section was just restocked.

3. The Angel Section. "I want a book for a 12 year old with facts about angels. Where's the Angel Section?" When I questioned more closely, she got testy. "The books of angel facts. Information on them. You know--non fiction!" Not that I don't believe in angels, but facts? Like what they eat? Plumage colors? Mating behavior? Would the bird section do? I led her to inspiration/religion, but clearly she was not interested in Cherabim, Seraphim, their eternal chant of "Blessed is the Lord God of Hosts," and their roles in Revelations. After she haruphed a bit and mentioned Sylvia Brown, I promptly repositioned her in metaphysics.

4. Perhaps this section is right next to the type of Angel Section mentioned previously. I was cornered by an uncomfortably wide- eyed and intense woman recently asking for the section on "Indigos." Umm. I wasn't clear on what an Indigo was, and therefore wasn't much help--even after she declared that she HAD ONE. When I failed to register the appropriate look of awe and jealousy, she caught on, and explained that basically it is a child who is a reincarnated angel: Blessed little beings who see people's auras and predict the future and have visions and are a rainbow of peace to the world. "And then they grow up into total bastards, right?" Actually, I held my tongue. Yeah, I believe kids are special, but what about her other kid, who's not an "Indigo" and can't get away with murder by exuding peace, holding up two fingers in a benediction and saying, "Mother, the time will come when you will see my grand purpose for ordering an X-box online with your credit card." What about him? How fucked up will he be? He looked worked over already, just standing there in all his awkward gawky puberty, glaring at the ground and ocasionally rolling his eyes when his mother spoke. Darn The Indigo section.

Once again… It’s been long enough since I wrote a nice long post and had the computer shut down or the browser close unexpectedly or do something stupid myself to completely negate all the time I spent….uh….where was I going? Oh. It’s been long enough that I forget that I swore in rage that I would never blog again.

Christmas was magic when I was little. There was never a Santa Claus, but it was just fine--though I will certainly be creating some sort of Santa mythos for my own kids. So many traditions. Just as Easter is my mother’s holiday, Christmas is my father’s. All the traditions either stem from his side or the family, or are something he concocted for us.

Christmas Eve: during the day the lucky ones got to go to a movie with my dad. The not as lucky, or “too old” ones stayed home and frantically cleaned and baked and wrapped along with my mom. After the inevitable church service that night, we’d return home and the sisters would exchange a gift or two. My brother didn’t happen along until I was 15. Thus, to this day, the exchange of sibling gifts is still referred to as “Sisters Gifts.” (i.e: "Shall we do Sister Gifts before or after the PJ Hunt?")
As implied by the previous statement, another big part of my early Christmases was the annual pajama hunt. My dad created a series of riddles every year—poetic little rhyming things that led us to various places to find the next clue. At the end of the hunt was a stash of brand spankin’ new pjs for us to wear that night. After running upstairs to change, we all gathered around the kitchen table and dad poured us each a little glass of some sort of cheap red wine, and we solemnly toasted various things, drank the wine while making eeewwww! faces, and were immediately ready to go to sleep. (Clever, Dad….clever.) Then the candles of the candelabra were lit, and we were each lighted to bed and tucked in by candlelight.

Cue visions of sugar plums.

Christmas Day: Inevitably as small children, we woke at unearthly hours and attempted to start the day until the parents decreed one year that no one was allowed down the stairs until 7am. Thereafter, we sisters gathered with hushed giggling at the top of the stairs in the wee hours. It was arranged who would carry the littlest, (inevitably there was someone too small to leap down the stairs with the herd) and as the clock in the hall began to chime seven, we perched in the dark on the top stair, ready to fly down the moment the last chime finished. Those were hazy, magic memories… the tree, lights glowing, with presents mounded impossibly high to my young eyes, and in the light of it, our stockings beneath the mantle, stuffed to overflowing. (To this day, I can’t figure out exactly when Dad and Mom put the gifts out and lit the fireplace.) After a few ooos and ahhhs, we snatched our stockings and ran to the parents room, where we emptied them and opened all the little separately wrapped gifts and candies within. After breakfast we opened the gifts and then it was on to the rest of the day… I think my dad really had fun making things special for us when we were little. I remember his face during our stocking and gift opening. He looked so pleased. He’d done well.

Maybe I’m idealizing. Maybe I’m leaving out the parts where we fought, or got yelled at or otherwise screwed up, but I think it’s significant that of those times, the good is what I remember most. Later Christmas Day is another story. But Christmas Morning was always magic.

As we got older, Christmas morphed into something we did mostly for the younger siblings. We stopped getting the mound of gifts that happened when we were young. Mom tried to turn us into practical young ladies. I realized the year we got actual wooden clothes pins in our stockings and received wrapped gas containers for our cars as gifts that there was no going back.

I think in light of that, that I was ready for the type of Christmas I had this year. Both the Boy and I worked on Christmas Eve and the day after, but it still was lovely. Christmas Eve we had a gathering with his side of the family, and after that went with his mom to the beautiful gothic cathedral, Kirk in the Hills, for the midnight service. The carillon rang through the darkness and snow to announce Christmas Day. Beautiful. The Boy and I did our gifts weeks early, (neither of us could wait for the other to open theirs) and on Christmas morning we slept in luxuriously. The first Christmas in 27 years or so that I’ve slept past seven am. When we finally wandered downstairs, I found that Boy had hung and stuffed my old stocking with things like French cinnamon biscuits and Calamata olives and Swiss dark chocolate and and…lots of other yummy goodies. He vigorously claims that Santa did it, not he. (Thanks anyway, Boy.) We ate yummy things and played video games and called and got calls from people we love. The day was about our own little family and then our families and friends. Later on we had some people over and we drank good wine and talked.

It was a beautiful Christmas.