I humbly admit that I’m addicted to Wapsi Square to the point that I sometimes forget and check it multiple times a day. I’m lame. It’s a good comic though. Not the type that I’m usually attracted to, but it has solid characters and story arcs. Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe a boy writes it. He captures very well the type of girls that I get along with (and boys for that matter). I wonder what that says about me?

We’re having Christmas early this year, so I’m unashamedly getting into the spirit of things early. I’m usually nauseated by people who have their trees up and are humming Christmas tunes before Thanksgiving hits, but since this year’s Thanksgiving is Xmas, I feel somewhat justified. The family is gathering from all over the country and we’re exchanging gifts after turkey. I don’t know what will happen on the actual Christmas day. All I know is that the Boy will have left for work by the time I wake up (Arr… Poor thing!), and only one out-of-town sibling is going to be in the area. I am trying very hard to think of something to keep it from being miserable. Maybe those of us who are in town will have a morning celebration of sorts. I’m so glad to have any Christmas spirit at all this year. It is certainly my favorite holiday, yet there have been years where I would much rather sit in a silent dark closet (on a submerged submarine) than listen to one more carol. I think it has to do with working retail, and overdose of family. This year, I think, is more balanced.

In other news…the cats have gone right nutty, old chap! Though it makes me flinch, I’ve been using the spray bottle on Nihao at the occurrence of night howlings (less and less, I might add. I think Boo is actually keeping her from being quite so lonely—as was the point.) The other day Boo was attacking the curtains remorselessly, though I clapped and hissed and shooed him numerous times. Finally, I gave in and brought the spray bottle into play. However as soon as I raised it to aim at him, Nihao jumped up from where she’d been lounging, positioned herself between the bottle and the blissfully ignorant Boo, and stood there squinting, as though she was waiting to be sprayed.

!!!!

Are cats protective like that? Apparently. I couldn’t think of any other reason for that particular pose in that particular place at that particular moment. And the squinting against the expected water was the clincher. Wow. They must really be getting along. That or Nihao has sudden fits of unquenchable thirstiness.

Sun, Nov 23, 2003 11:50pm

Black and White, and Red…I mean Read all over.

In reference to the couple of posts I’ve made about the outrageously ridiculous case of the murdering millionaire: I may not have been in the courtroom. I may not have scooped the bags of person-bits out of Galveston Bay, but I know a gross perversion of the justice system when I see one. I’ve said my piece.

Surprisingly, the other day I got an email from one of the jurors on the case. I would first like to point out that this is not a widely known or read blog. I’m not quoted on CNN.com or debated over at Reuters. The only way this person could have found me was through Googling her own name. And she was digging deep, too. I tried it and this link turned up 5 pages from the front at the time. Interesting. Uh...but beside the point.

What she wrote was this: “Durst never admitted to killing Black. He admitted to the dismemberment but claimed accident/self-defense.” Oops, I did it again! How does one accidentally dismember a dead body? Or for that matter, how does it happen in self defense? Okay… I know I’m being nitpikcky here. But for crying out loud—if dismembering a body is not an admission of guilt, I don’t know what is. The man’s own brother is horrified the jury didn’t put him away. From what I understand, the defense convinced the jury to completely overlook the dismemberment. Gawd. Quotes from the jury indicate that they were punishing the prosecution for not having one set story as to what happened. (Note to self: if you happen to commit murder, fabricate one implausible self defense story and stick to it. The jury will reward you for not confusing their little heads.) God forbid the prosecution present more than one possibility for what happened. More stellar quotes from the same astounding member of the astute jury: “We cannot convict him based on our thoughts and beliefs.” Then what the hell does one use to convict someone? A Magic 8 Ball?? Or consider this quote, gleaned from an article by John Springer—

“Though it is generally considered risky to put a defendant on the stand, Durst had no choice but to testify if he was going to convince the jury of self-defense. And he testified without apparent emotion, often claiming he could not remember the events following Black's death. Interestingly, jurors said they largely discounted his testimony because of inconsistencies and past lies. Regarding Durst's claim that he never cleaned the gun, for example, juror Lovell said, "We know Morris Black didn't wipe those fingerprints off that gun."”

The jury doesn’t believe the testimony of the man they found innocent.

I was civil in my reply to Ms. Gorgonga, though I find her participation in that particular decision loathsome. I wrote that there was always a possibility that I was wrong, but that I was curious as to what convinced her of Durst’s innocence. If she would like to respond (with something more intelligible), I would humbly post her reply and my apology. No reply yet.

Blatantly basing my decision on my “thoughts and beliefs,” I find Ms. G. guilty of not having a clue of what was originally intended to be right and good about our justice system.

Regarding my September 23rd post...
Just kidding, Mr. Kill-and-chop-up-my-former-friend-and-dump-him-in-the-bay Millionaire. You can do whatever you want, because apparently, there is a jury out there who will find you NOT GUILTY. That cooks my bacon. In explaination, One of the jurors was profound: "I could understand Durst's panic," said juror Joanne Gongora. "I can understand his drug-induced state. I can understand his life."
You can understand his... What the fuck??? So you can understand his drugged out insanity. Hookay-- obviously we have two of a kind here. But you can understand fleeing the police from New York to Texas, MURDERING someone, chopping their body up and dumping it?????? It was Durst's gun that shot the victim. He admitted to the dismemberment. He was wanted for questioning in TWO other disappearances/deaths. His own lawyer admits that "his compass doesn't point north." This is not a man we want running around. Geez.

Looking Forward to Decemberween
I tried to write two posts since the last one. Really I did. They keep getting deleted or programs shut down unexpectedly etc etc. I tried. Honest.

Since last I wrote I've done scraping and painting and cleaning and pulling MORE nails from odd places around the house. I've raked the yard and planted bulbs for next spring--all sorts of hopelessly domestic and settled activities.

Nihao has taken well to the new house, despite the fact that her limited intellect causes her to be confused on a regular basis. She's never lived in a place with stairs before. As a result she managed to get lost downstairs at least twice a day for the first little while. I suppose the stairs could be very confusing to someone that close to the ground. You think you've oriented yourself to the few rooms upstairs, you explore this confusing angular area, and when you look up you're in an entirely different "house." Solution: Howl. Loudly. Now that Nihao has gotten used to the concept of stairs, she howls for entirely different reasons...none of which we are entirely aware. I sometimes think she misplaces me. I'll sit at the computer and she goes downstairs only to suddenly realize that she can't see me anymore. Result: more howling. It can only be good for the lungs, right? One thing's for certain, howling outside our bedroom door at 3 am won't be very healthy for her if she doesn't stop. So far the spray bottle seems to be working--if only because it causes her meowing to recede into the distance as she peeks over the top stair and sings gratingly.

All the research I'd done and people I'd talked to suggest that a feline companion would help her to feel less alone and she'd be entertained more. Sooo... about a week and a half ago, I answered a "free kitten" ad online and drove out to BFE north and brought home a little black cat. He seemed ok at the people's house, though he was pretty quiet and had slightly gummy eyes. Maybe some conjuctavitis? (sp?) No problem. We had some leftover medicine from Nihao's bout. It wasn't until I got into the car with him that I realized that he reeked. Awfully. The people had been running some sort of cat farm, it seemed. The whole area stunk of cat piss. If you've ever smelled it, you know it's unmistakable. The inside of their house stunk of stale cigarette smoke and body odor and lots of cats. When I got him home, the kitten was floppy and gummy-eyed and completely unresponsive. And really really stinky. The revelation hit after I gave him a bath and he suddenly started acting like a kitten-- playful and hopping around-- he had been allergic to himself. It was too hard for him to keep up with the grooming that would have been required in that gross environment. Huh. Whoda thought?

We named him Boo, though we had plans for another name. Boo just seemed to fit him better. He's like a little imp. His legs are too long for him and he's so black that his face looks like nothing but eyes. My brother once owned a rat named Bu, but that was short for Bubonic. As in plague. Hopefully no one will be confused.

Nihao is already taking it upon herself to hold him down with one paw and groom him until he wiggles away. They seem to get along well. Boo follows her around with an air of awe, and she, in turn, is entertained by his leaping and twisting and dancing over little specks on the floor. He's a weird little cat. Really likes to carry things around in his mouth. We have a ribbon on a stick that serves as a fishing pole for them, and when he catches it, he bites the end and then purposefully marches away dragging the ribbon, the pole, and the human right along. Tonight as we were making dinner he discovered that by jumping onto the trash can, he could make it to the counter, where legend has is that untold troves of butter and catnip await. I shooed him a couple times, before looking over to find that---what the fu......??! --- he was casually sneaking along the counter, carrying a paring knife in his mouth. Not just the handle. He was holding it by the blade. Geez-- what do they TEACH cats these days?? Fortunately, some double-sided tape atop the trash can has put an end to his escapades.

So we live in a house now. A real live house that we own. Nutsy! What in reality was two and a half months of sweat and red tape and paperwork, in retrospect seems like a few days of rushing and packing and signing. Not that that's much better. Though I'm confident that it was and will be entirely worth it, I will not look forward to buying a house in the anything-like-near future. I'm sure that if we're able to do it with a regular loan and keep FHA many many miles away from the process, it will all be quick and painless. On the other hand, FHA is the reason we're in a house at this point. An FHA loan is a really pleasant thing for people much more patient than I.

I'm making a mission of recruiting friends to live in our new neighborhood. It's a fantastic collection of houses built in the nineteen twenties and thirties. They're quirky and beautiful and exceedingly cheap--the area is beginning to be built up and older houses are being renovated very rapidly. I love our house. I do not, however, harbor much love toward whoever was supposed to be taking care of the place last. We bought it from an elderly couple who'd lived there since 1969. By the time they sold it they were too feeble to care for the place, but if any of their many, nearby, adult children had given a damn, they wouldn't have had to live in squalor. We are unpleasantly surprised almost every day by some weird and absolutely moronic thing that has been done to the place--- Almost all of the following things we have taken care of one way or another, but even thinking about them burns me up a bit...

Exhibit A - GUM. Yes. Chewing gum. At one point, long ago, there was a brat living here who chewed mass quantities of gum, and stuck it heedlessly in a dozen impossible places. One bedroom had a solid line of ancient gum mashed onto the hardwood floor right along what could only have been the edge of a bedside. I've found gum on the tiles in the kitchen, stuck under windowsills, door frames, and on various pieces of furniture that were left behind. I don't care if that brat is 56 years old now, he or she is still "that damn gum-chewing kid."

Exhibit B - Nails. Yes. The kind that are hammered into things. Except that vast numbers of nails seem to have been hammered half-way into various door frames, stairs, floorboards, etc. Then the hammerer got tired, or perhaps the nail bent a bit, because whoever it was gave up and whacked the rest of the nail to the side and hammered it down that way. As a result there are nails sticking out of wherever you least expect it. I scoured the stairs with a hammer, pulling dozens of blossoming nails. They weren't in anything particular, and weren't nailed in far enough to make a difference anyway. Halfway up the stairs, I had mostly filled a paper cup with nails of a thousand different shapes and sizes. Damn that gum-chewing kid. I imagined him or her attempting to ease the sneaking out at night process by "fixing" the squeaks on the stairs. (didn't work, by the way. The stairs still have that great, creaky, built in 1928 sound.) I just can't see that an adult would be incompetent and stupid to do a "job" that way. But then again, several adults ignored or failed to notice all those nails for years and years. So which is worse?

Exhibit C: "C" is for contact paper, which the previous owners used to cover an entire kitchen--cabinets, counter, back splash--you name it. (in an awful dark "wood" grain.) That layer rested on three other layers of equal awfulness. I peeled them all away to reveal the beautiful original tile back splash, which (perhaps thanks to the contact paper, though I'd never like to admit it) was in almost perfect condition. "C" is also for...uh, other sticky stuff, like duct tape, masking tape, scotch tape and electrical tape, which was used in great unorganized wads to solve perplexing problems like a doorknob that wiggles because the screws are loose. Never mind tightening the screws, just wind some twine around it and then create a monolith of gummy various tapes to hold it in place for the next 34 years. Yes. That is the way of the house.

All that said, I have to grudgingly thank the former owners for never renovating and living like pigs because inevitably, we were able to afford the house because of it. Also, we are fortunate to have ALL the original fixtures. there are some whimsical chandelier-type lights in the dining room and living room, and in every bedroom there are intricate little ceiling fixtures that just need a good stripping and scrubbing. Darn it all, I love waking up and looking at our bedroom ceiling with that pretty little fixture there. We'll get around to reviving them eventually. Lots of "sweat equity" in this house. The Boy refinished all the oak floors, and now they look like silk. The second floor and most of the first floor is now spic and span... and although I managed to tear down the lurid wallpaper and paint the walls, I fear to tackle only the kitchen, mostly because the cupboards under the sink are so full of dirt, grease, hairs, and mouse turds that I shudder to think of it. I'm also avoiding the kitchen because at this point we have about 12 square inches of counter space, no drawers, and almost no cupboard space. I can't unpack because I have nowhere to put things. Again, eventually, we'll tear out the cupboards, which are nothing special, and, saving the tile backsplash, replace and expand everything. That's quite a ways off though. That's lots of money right there.

Mike and Wendy came over to warm the house tonight, and after eating at our favorite Vietnamese place we watched Tampopo. That's a hard movie to watch on an empty stomach. Even full of fantastic curry chicken, I still salivated during the "proper way to eat noodles" scene. Ed had bought a pack of pumpkin ale, and they turned out to be a perfect pleasant surprise to match a film full of the joy of savoring food. At first sip it tasted like a nice light ale, but after a second or so, the full round taste of the pumpkin and spices hit the back of the mouth, and it was like drinking autumn. yum.

It must have made me sleepy, because I'm drifting off right... now.

When Good Millionaires Go Bad.

Reuters had an interesting article on one of the dumbest rich people ever. The following is all true. If someone were to make a film out of it, it would get panned for being completely implausible. What caught my eye is the fact that the article took place in my old hometown of Galveston Island, Texas. (see prior blog about tarred beaches and sting rays) Apparently an incredibly wealthy gentleman shot a neighbor to death and disposed of the body in Galveston Bay. It was consequently found, and pinned on him. He pleads innocent. He pleads self defense.

Point number one: If you happen to shoot an elderly man in self defense, please--for heavens sake--do NOT cut up the body and dispose of it in the bay. It makes your self defense claim look... suspect.

Point number two: If you happen to shoot and elderly man in self defense, and you do cut up the body to dispose of it in the bay, be SURE that you do not leave large gouges from the cutting in your kitchen floor. They could be trip hazards. They also look bad in court.

Point three: But by gum, if you're going to do it anyway, you kill and you cut---make sure that the garbage bags you put the body parts into are brand new, not bags with your receipts and newspapers with your name and address and such in them. It makes the police suspicious.

Point four: Ok. So you ignored my good advice. The kill, the cut, the dump, and now you're being held in jail. When you post bond, which you do, because you're stinking rich...for god's sake---do not flee to Pennsylvania, and get caught stealing a sandwich and a bandaid. People may think ill of you, especially if you have over $500 in your pocket, and FORTY freaking GRAND in your car. Please. Just buy the sandwich. If you're that cheap, just ask someone for a bandaid. I'm sure someone would take pity on an incredibly stupid fucked up millionaire.

My final point is this. If you plan to do any of these things, first be sure that you are not wanted for questioning in the disappearance of your wife in New York and in the death of yet another friend. It is very difficult to prove that you're an innocent, walking streak of bad luck for the people around you. And it looks especially funny if, upon being sought for questioning in New York, you move to Texas, dress up like a little old mute lady and rent an apartment under those pretenses. On a side note, if you do happen to dress up like a mute lady, say, just for fun...be careful in bars when you light up. Those wigs are flammable. I'm not joking. It's for your own good.

One of our registers has a little sign on it that says, "In Memoriam-- the Johnny Cash Register."

You remember the pirate joke? People keep mentioning how funny it is, but I can't take credit for it. Our friend Alexander told it to us. I *almost* peed my pants laughing. I salute you, Alexander!

I finally have Neverwinter Nights on my very own computer. (thank you, Boy!) I've tangled with it a little bit, but not enough to really have a feel for it so far. I'm still in the throes of the overwhelmingly nerdy pursuit of trying to find time to finish FFVII. That convoluded enough for you? My initial impression of Neverwinter Nights is more an impression about my computer than the game. It's......too............sloow. I manage to kill things, but with such skipping inconsistancy to the action that I'm never quite sure how it worked. Or why. I'm secretly thinking that perhaps the ubersimplicity of various Spiderweb Software games like Geneforge and Nethergate have completely spoiled me to new, pretty games like this. "What the f*ck is that camera doing swinging around like that?? Which guy is mine?? Why can't I just use the arrow buttons to move? I killed the enemy--how'd I do that??" I sound like somebody's grandmother. You know-- Somebody's grandmother who plays video games. And gets confused easily. Geez... I'm sure with more time invested, it will be a very cool game.

We have exciting huge stacks of moving boxes around the house full of our stuff. According to Nihao, I built them just for her to leap around on and try to eat packing tape. Silly kitty. Those boxes represent a long excruciating car ride in a pet carrier to a terrifying new strange place, not a fun playground.

The Only Person in Heaven Wearing Black.

Goodbye Johnny Cash. We'll miss you. Please say hello to June.

And goodbye John Ritter...we'll...uh....I'm sure people will miss you. (even if I secretly am annoyed that you died because now there'll be all sorts of John Ritter specials and reruns on tv for the next week.)

While I was at the doctor's office yesterday, I saw a contender for the Coolest Grandma 2003 Award. I sat down to wait for someone to drain a bunch of blood out of me, and across the aisle was a little old lady--bona fide. Frail, elderly, humming in little trills to herself, and knitting something in crayola colors. From the back it looked like a tangle of yarn, but when she flipped it over to tug at something, I realized that it was the beginning of a small sweater featuring a perfect rendering of Spongebob Squarepants. He's not my favorite, but some little person is going to be thrilled. Go grandma!

We are in the process of buying our first house. I realize (over and over) that having a gazillion dollars would be so darn cool. Many of my ulcers come from being frantic about $$--ours and other people's. I had a fantastic dream a few weeks ago in which I had just won an enormous lottery. In the dream I was keeping it a secret, but calling up all my siblings and friends and trying to be subtle about asking what they need or want. One sister's building completed. Another's school paid for. Someone else's debt taken care of. It was all done.

I need to start playing the lottery.

Once we're in the house, everything will even out. It all seems worse when you have hundreds of boxes to pack. I'm really enamoured with the house though. It was built in 1928 and has an "Arts and Crafts" feel about bits of it. And I *love* the arts and crafts movement. I have a crush on Charles Rennie Macintosh. And William Morris. And Gustav Stickley. And that Frank Lloyd Wright guy.

I found a book on building craftsman era furniture and I'm inspired to try some things. I'll be sure to blog if I cut off any of my fingers with power tools.

As long as there is Sin, Yuna will keep on dancing...

Thinking back to FFX... It's a wonder no one cleared their throat and ventured, "Uh, Honey? While we appreciate it and all.... um, you can stop dancing now. Really. Please stop dancing." It was bad enough that all their relatives had died without then having to endure the earnest flippity flipping of Yuna. Why can't they all be like Lulu? Actually the design wasn't bad. It was just those voices. Brrrr! I know it would have been different if it had been subtitled.

Currently I'm playing FFVI with an emulator on the Mac. It hails from 1994, when people had LOTS more patience for tromping around, leveling up, fighting unexpected beasties and earning cold hard imaginary cash. I partake only through the merciful lens of the Game Genie. I never go whole hog on the cheats, but I find that being able to level up more quickly, and thus not need lots of random encounters makes the game a whole lot more palatable. (Since I mainly play for the story. Silly me.) It's different if it's a pretty, pretty game like Dark Cloud 2. Mmmm. Give me eye candy, and I will waste a shameful, shameful number of hours doing whatever.

STARTLING NEWS FLASH: I may not actually HATE people after all. After some trial and error, I have discovered that if I have the proper amount of sleep and health, people---as a broad whole--- are sometimes merely slightly depressing. Taken individually, they can be interesting, and even enjoyable, unless they are the lady who called me a bitch the other day.

I have come to some conclusions, (while I'm in the habit of concluding things): As backward as it may seem, I like some dry red wines chilled. Because dry red wines make my face warm.

Also, I have concluded that if I never again get my hopes up about having a wonderful birthday, I will not be disappointed. It seems so selfish and childish to hope that one's birthday is nice. This year's was okay. Amid all the hubbub though, it just didn't feel like a birthday. I try to avoid saying anything about my it beforehand, because I'm paranoid people might think I'm not-so-subtly reminding them to go get me something. I have had some really wonderful birthdays-- ones where the gifts I got were not fancy or expensive, but instead showed that the people giving them really knew me and anticipated me. There's something that warms my heart about being anticipated. I also really like when people make things for gifts. I really like it, but I still am terrified to give homemade gifts because, my god, how vain do I have to be to think someone might want something I MADE? "Here. I MADE this. You'll love it."

People are right-- it IS the thought that counts. But probably not in the way they mean. Giving the perfect gift is one of the ways I express love. The thought that counts is the thought about the person I'm giving to-- who they are and what interests them. How I know them and what they mean in the context of my life. "The thought" is not giving a generic gift totally uninteresting to the person who receives it.

People remembered my birthday this year though. I didn't have an eighteenth birthday. Everyone forgot it. Even me. This year I forgot how old I was. People had asked, and I replied, (with a sigh that meant, "Only one year from 30...*sigh*" ) "I'm twenty-nine." Later someone, after some thought, pointed out that there was no way I could be 29. I had to be 28. After the initial pause and second guessing, I realized they were probably right. This very moment, I just used the calculator on my computer, and I believe they were right. Ahem. Slightly embarassing. Ok....Really embarassing.

It's Shark Week Again...

I realize that I'm not cut out to enjoy watching people have hunks of themselves bitten off by ocean dwelling nightmares. I have a hard time even watchnig the commercials. I see an underwater shot of the legs of the innocent swimmer/wader/person and the "Jaws" theme springs, unbidden, to mind. And then that shadow that evolves into a shark, and the initial "drive by" nudge before the "WHAM! Your leg is ground chuck!" moment. Not pleasant. I spent 5 years living a couple blocks from a beach where that happened. I'm not sure how much of it was urban legend and how much was fact, but the bulk of it scared me off the beach for good. I recall swimming when we first moved down south to Galveston, Texas from Michigan. Michigan.... where nothing in the wild is going to snatch at your legs from beneath your car or bite you and cause your arm to rot off. (very often) The swimming was awkward already, due to the numerous oil rigs offshore that spewed their tar-like substance into the already brown water, and onto the beach. I grew up thinking it was normal to bring baby oil to the beach to get all the tar off. On that particular day we were floundering happily in the shallows and ignoring the trash around us-- what looked like some paper bags, half sunk, some cans.... tar... We waved cheerily to a couple of guys who came down the beach carrying a picnic cooler between them and politely ignored the harpoon-like gigs with which they saluted back. Then they waded out next to us--- and began stabbing the "trash" in the water around us and coming up with enormous sting rays, whose spastic death throes made them all the more horrifying. That paper bag was no paper bag. After stowing their catch in the cooler, the guys waved and headed up the beach---leaving us huddled in the shelter of the sea-wall, as far back from the water as we could manage, clutching our towels. No shark week for me, as much as I want to be able to not have to peek through my fingers.

What a day. 2 noteworthy stories in one afternoon. I was talking to a friend of mine who lived in Florida who informed me that a young boy had had his arm bitten off by a shark. Even more noteworthy was the fact that his uncle waded in, grabbed the shark, hauled it shore, shot it dead, and recovered the arm in time for it t be sucessfully reattached at the hospital. Later, my dad mentioned that he'd seen a kid in the emergency room who was brought in because of a fainting fit brought on by laughing too hard. Laughing. Nice. Next time I go to the hospital, that's how I want it. No more back surgery for me. Just treatment for the after-effects of a really good joke.

Speaking of good jokes, arrrrr. I must sleep.
Land lubbers.

PS. We're offically a grown-ups. We're not only in the process of buying a house, but we also bought a washer and dryer today. NO MORE coin laundry. (once we get the house.) I'm adult. Condolences can be sent to the email address under "contact."

Yo Yo Ma(ma)

A strange little thing: We have a poster up announcing the availability of Yo Yo Ma's new cd. It has a picture of him, and under it, it says his name, and " cd title-- available this date." Pretty clear, I should think. But the other morning a lady asked me excitedly about what time Yo Yo Ma would be in the store. It took some convincing to get her to believe that it really wasn't him in person, just his cd. She acted as though I were trying to horde him, all to my self. Mine. My precious. My Yo Yo Ma.

Weird.

I realize (not a new revelation) I'm an incurable people-phobe. Fear and hate: that's the name of the game. I'm really not that despicable a person.. I'm just shy around people I don't know, and then there's the fact that the world is blighted by so many stupid buggers who think they're so much better than other people. Ass-hats. That's what they are. Not sure exactly what it means, but I like it.

Another type is the "cell phone ass-hat." There is nothing more dismissive or insulting than someone on the phone, discussing how they fired their gardener, or so-and-so's lipo job while they drop their books onto your counter and flip a platinum card at you, all without even acknowledging you exist. The only time it sort of pays off is when I'm standing at the information desk, and several seconds after the flip of the card, they notice there's no movement, cast an annoyed look my way and flap their hand over the books, as though to make me magically begin the checking out process. ...Except that I'm at the information desk, with not a register in sight, as I'm certainly not going to tell them that as long as they're standing there yawping into their cell about stocks and how hard it is being filthy rich. No... Not until they sigh explosively and hang up, giving me a dirty look. Then I'll slooowly tell them that they have to check out ovvvverrrr theeeeeeere.

People who chat on cell phones in public are fine. Just not at the counter. The other day a guy caught my eye as he checked his caller id and gulped before clearing his throat and answering. "Oh yeah, yup.... great..." He said, "I'm just at the bank right now; I'll be back at the office in a couple. Ok. sure thing. bye." When he scuttled up to the registers to check out I asked, "And would you like to make a deposit, Sir?" Cue red ears and nervous laugh. It's ok, Buddy. I'm not going to tell your boss on you.

The HeARRRRt of it all.

Okay. Only 2 months since my last post. Ummm... Not THAT bad.

I'd like to tell my current favorite joke. Incidentally, it is a pirate joke, affirmed by the fact that we saw Pirates of the Caribbean today. It's not the "a pirate's favorite letter is arrr!" one either. Cut me some slack here, people.

Here you go. Practice well. Astound your friends. Confound your enemies. Make friends and nauseate people.

JOKE:

So a pirate walks into a bar (don't they always?) and the bartender can't help but notice that there is a large wooden ship's wheel coming in with him. (You know, the kind they make ships go with?) Also inescapable is the fact that the ship's wheel appears to be attached to the pirate's crotch. Yes.... his crotch. The bartender clears his throat and nods to the pirate, "You were aware that there is a ship's wheel attached to your... uh...crotch?" The pirate replies, "ARRR! It's drivin' me nuts!"

End Joke
Commence laughter.

On with the show... In the past two months, the boy has gotten a new job where he has to wear a tie everyday. It's amazing how you can wear a tie every day but still make less than some people who wear blazers and name tags every day. HOWEVER, it is a nice upgrade for us, and the potential for him to kick ass and do well there is great, not even considering the fact that he rocks in general.

We have also come to the conclusion that ferrets and sharks are the closest thing nature has to machines. They both live to eat, have no affection for any but the chow, and will, without a second thought, bite the hand that feeds them if they thought it might taste vaguely good. Every time I think about it, I am glad that we don't have ferrets. HOWEVER, we have adopted a 4 year old Bengal cat and named her Nihao. She is a sleek and affectionate joy forever. We found her at an all-cat no-kill rescue league in Warren called "Feline Friends." ignore the name. I recommend it. While they were stringent in their requirements to qualify for adoption, and serious about taking sure you'd care well for your animal, (as well they should be) they didn't have that self-righteous and utterly annoying vibe one gets from animal rescue people sometimes. I grind my teeth while looking at cats up for adoption at various places because of the notes by their cages. Stupid, superfluous notes. If I'm looking for a cat, I want to know its gender, age, health, and temperament. I don't want a scathing judgment and "expose" of whoever gave up the animal to the shelter. (if that person abused the animal, it might make some sense, but how many animal abusers are the ones who actually take the animal in?) Instead, I get self-righteous, first person bullshit. These are actual notes paraphrased. The gist is what's important:

"My name is Fluffy (or equally nauseating un-ironic name) and I'm sad. I don't understand... I thought I had a forever home, but just because she got terminal illness and couldn't walk, my human mother gave me to the humane society--threw me out like an old piece of trash. Didn't she love me? I'm scared... won't you give me a loving home where I can live without fear of being discarded by a heartless bitch?"

Or another of my favorites...

"I'm Sweetie, a 2 year old shorthair. Just because I kept attacking their newborn baby with my snarling teeth and razor sharp claws, my family got rid of me. Now who will love me? What did I do to deserve being tossed aside like a dirty rag (which ought to be recycled anyway) Too bad they didn't understand the meaning of FOREVER and RESPONSIBILITY when they got me. Too bad they SUCK. I mean, most of those myths about cats smothering babies are hardly even true. Now I'm all alone. Won't you let me into your home and your heart? (not recommended for homes with young children.)"

Or

"I'm Snookums, a calico mix of undetermined age, and I just need to be loved! My human mother passed away of old age, leaving me and my 27 feral brothers and sisters all alone in her house full of weird odds and ends. When her son Bill and his family came, I thought, "Oh! A new family who will love me unconditionally and care for me until I go to kitty-heaven, and I bet they even have some couches that need pissing on." But boy, was I wrong, cause they just brought me to the shelter. My mother must be crying in heaven right now to know that she sired such a cruel, cold asshole. Are you going to be my new parent?"

Get the picture? Gawd... it makes me grind my teeth. How does that encourage people to surrender animals they can no longer care for, or even animals they just found? I certainly don't want to deal with that sort of crap if I'm ever in the unexpected position that I can't properly care for my pet. My sister found 2 tiny kittens on the streets of New York. She called to see about surrendering them, and the woman was incredibly rude. "Why don't you keep them YOURSELF?" She explained that she already had two cats, and had no room or money to care for 2 more. Besides, she explained, they were living in converted old factory space, and there were no walls, so if the cats didn't get along she had not way to separate them. "Pff." the woman said. "Just put them in your bathroom." Again, she had to explain that THERE ARE NO WALLS. Just a curtain for the toilet. "You don't have a BATHROOM???," the woman huffed, "I don't believe that for a second!" Oookaaay. Then I'll just pop off and drown them in the Hudson. It'll be more merciful than just tossing them back on the curb. Grrrrrr! I love animals. It's PEOPLE I hate.

Over and out.

But we NEED you, J.F.--You're our best and only friend!

I think that it's high time to point out that the Rochester Road Taco Bell has a garbage can that quite possibly embodies the spirit of Blade Runner's J.F. Sebastian. The humble pause, the heartfelt, "Thuank Yeww." I almost expect it to add, "Pris." It sounds just like him, gosh darn it. What really got me suspicious was that the trash can across the restaurant proclaimed as I dumped a tray, "He say you brade runnah!"

Funny. The Livernois Taco Ball has nothing like it.

Honestly though, it's become a Sunday Tradition. All us pals meet up there, and have gotten to know the staff by... well, the names we give them. There's "Lord of the Nerds," or alternately, "Nerd Lord." We humbly bow before his superior nerdiness. He has that particular longish hair and those particular big eighties glasses and that perfect semi-social-ineptness that all add up to nerdy charm. When we ask for cinnamon twist, he pauses for effect, then does a little dance behind the register, ending with a used-car-salesman type thumbs up... "What about a rhumbaaa?" Much respect to the Nerd Lord.

There's also Cheerful Black Music Guy. He's always in a good mood. Not to be confused with Ineffectual, Grumpy, Furtively Look Around When You Drop Someone's Food on the Floor and Sigh and Start Over When You Realize People are Watching Guy.
(self explaintory) Once, on my way though the drive though, I sat at the first window and watched while Cheerful Black Music Guy sold one of his homemade cds to the drive though customer ahead of me. Impressive. I was tempted to ask for one too, but I'd run out of money. Maybe someday. Another time, my head almost exploded and my universe was shifted alarmingly with the sight of Cheerful Black Music guy chatting with some people at the counter at McDonald's. Stars aligned. Planets crossed paths. Dimesions shifted. As I recovered from my shock, I watched him sell a cd to the people working there. More power to you, CBMG.

There are not many terrible things about a Mac keyboard. I have a rather slick one that's all see-throughy. Except that I can SEE all the dust and crumbs and crap that inexplicably makes its way from all over the house to nestle in the corners of my keyboard. It drives me crazy-go-nuts. I'm always so careful not to eat at the computer etc etc... So I used my can of compressed air to blow all the crap to the underside of the keyboard. There. Better. brrr. My obsessive compulsive streak still whimpers about it sometimes.

At Long Last.
Finally the first review goes up on Of Cabbages and Kings. There should be a review of the PS2 game, Dark Cloud 2, there shortly. As in...uh...within a week. Or so.

Well, I took my bonsai pot home from the ceramics store and sanded it. Carefully. Then I took it back and had it fired. Then I brought it home and painted it with a "crystal glaze," which had bits of multicolored glass in it. Then I had it fired again. Then I picked it up and rejoiced in the glory of its badassedness. Every time I've gone back, Oxygen Tube Lady has been at the same seat at the same table. I was starting to wonder if she ever went home, but she informed me out of the blue that it was "98 degrees in muh trailer last night. Sweated like a stuck pi-- no...just a pig." We chatted while she worked away on some ceramic chess pieces. hiss hiss... wheeze wheeze. She stamped out the last of a cigarette onto a pile of butts, (in a neat looking ceramic bowl) and explained that all the chess pieces were for students. Her daughter offered a chess set to anyone taking a ceramics course she teaches, and had many more takers than she expected. "So I'm sittin' here scrapin' away all day at these dang things. And I goes home at night and..." at this point her left hand, amazingly clawlike, rises to shudder around at table level. "I'm scrapin' these dang things in muh sleep!"

Share My Trauma:
I've played Dark Cloud 2 pretty steadily ever since it came out. That's lots of hours. I don't watch tv. Somehow I feel justified. A bit. When you're extra-uber-nerdy like me, you play to get all those little extras--you know...level up to the most kick-ass weapons, find all the little hidden whatchamhooleys, complete every last side quest.... I was missing a couple things that could only be gotten in the beginning. Fortunately, you can transfer files between games. In any case... I beat the "final" boss. But what's this?? Another chapter? Another boss?? For some reason, I decided that then was the time to begin a new game, get the stuff I missed, and add it to my current stash. Unsurprisingly, after a 150 hours of saving to the same slot, my fingers twitched, and I watched in horror as I saved about 30 minutes of gameplay over 150 hours. Why yes.... yes, I said 150 hours.

Those of you who don't play video games will now think that I'm the biggest loser in the known universe. Those of you who do play video games will have just groaned aloud in sympathy.

Goodnight and thankyou.

Glazed and Confused

I appreciate curiosity. Many of my friends suffer from this rare and interesting condition, and I seem to have caught it early on as well. I remember one summer making a pact with a friend that we weren't going to wonder. We were going to find out. At this point I realize that we were ambitious, but unrealistic. But exploring things had always appealed to me.

I loved books about archaeology when I was little. I still do. I was riveted by the section in Garth Nix's Lirael that dealt with the ancient Library of the Clayr. It consists of room after room of books and artifacts, none alike, winding deeper and deeper into the earth where it's sometimes dangerous to go. No one alive has seen the end of it. Magic.

You know those overpasses on 696 that have trees growing on them? We found out that they're parks, (no roads) so that Orthodox Jews can cross the freeway on the Sabbath.

One Fall weekend in Indiana we heard tales of a lakeside villa Al Capone used to own. So we wandered around with our cameras and sketchbooks until we discovered the place. It had been divided up and made into a gated apartment building. We stood wistfully at the gate and looked though at the building curving around the lake. We imagined decadent gangster parties and concrete shoes and flappers and zoot suits. Finally we decided that we ought to try to get in. We looked at the names on the buzzer. Smith, Johnson, several other boring names, (none were Capone) then.. Love. "Heck. We ought to try," Gabe said. "If Ms. Love doesn't let us in, nobody will." So we buzzed her and explained that we were meek and harmless students-- we just wanted to get in to look around. She laughed, and a minute later the gate opened. It turned out to be one of the nicest afternoons that year, a cool sunny day lazing on the docks telling stories, taking photos, drawing, and exploring the old boat houses...

In Jackson, Liz and I often took afternoon drives, looking for interesting things. We often failed. Lord knows mid- Michigan is not exactly fraught with excitement. However, one afternoon we stumbled over a collection of rundown stone buildings in the middle of nowhere that turned out to be an ancient collection of theaters and art studios. A huge circular stone tower in an overgrown field out back used to be a windmill, but had been concerted into--gasp--living space.... which we discovered when we shoved through the vines over the broken door. A large circular kitchen with a bar along one wall, winding stairs with a bathroom halfway up, and a big round great room completely surrounded with windows and waist-high bookshelves. Above it, a ladder led to a glass topped bedroom. All of it wonderful and magical. All of it in disrepair and ruin. It makes me sad that there's no one to love it.

I tend to get restless if I go too long without anything to discover. I hope that's a good thing. The other day I finally stopped a hole-in-the-wall ceramics store that's been beckoning to me for some time now. Just a grubby yellow little building across the street from the junkyard. I walked into a cluttered maze of shelf after shelf of bottles of paint and glaze and ceramics in various states of completion. Oddly, all over the floor was coiled a thin tube of some sort, tangled around corners, and leading toward the back. I followed it. It led around a corner, up the side of a table, and to the nose of a squat, watery eyed old lady. (I was momentarily tempted to ask what the other two Weird Sisters were up to.) The tube hissed out little puffs of oxygen every couple seconds-- that, coupled with the wheezing of her breathing and the crackle of potato chips as she munched, made it a bit difficult to understand when she gave me a semi-toothless grin, rubbed her beard (yes, her beard) and croaked, "Anything I can do for ya?" I explained that I was interested in ceramics but had never worked with them before... and between wheezes, hacks, and stopping to light up a cigarette, she told me about what was on the shelves and how glazes worked etc.

I expected to pay a reasonable $10 or $15 for a decent piece that I could plant a bonsai in, but when I held the raw pot up and asked how much she snorted, "Buck." Then maybe it'll be expensive to fire, I thought. "Firing's half whatever the piece cost." she wheezed. Geeze. No complaints here.

At that point her equally toothless husband shuffled in, tripping over her oxygen tube and causing her to huff and wave her cigarette at him angrily. He gave a "don't shoot!" sort of gesture. "Woops! I unplug ya?" He asked cheerfully. She muttered and turned to me, still pointing her cigarette, which was threatening to drop ash onto her bag-like mu-mu. "Don't listen t' anything he says. He don't know what he's talkin about." The husband smiled and gave me a little wave, as if to acknowledge that it indeed, was true. They both spent time making sure I understood what I needed to do with the piece, and helping me pick out a glaze, and then waved me out the door when I left.

Curious pays. I'm glad I'm not a cat.

Of Ships and Shoes and Sealing Wax
When I was little I thought it was "ceiling wax." It was very confusing.

So I lied. I'm not starting an alternate blog called A Record of Small Things I realize that this blog, WIDD, is pretty much already that: little stories from everyday life.
Instead, I've made a page called Of Cabbages and Kings from which I will proclaim my (humble) opinions about such flotsom as Detroit area events, film, literature, webcomics, video games, music, and what-have-you. Subjects of my scrutiny will receive a King, (gooood) or a Cabbage, (baaad) depending. If you think some-thing/one has been unfairly kinged or cabbaged, you are welcome to say so. This is a democracy. Except that I am Supreme Dictator for Life.

The link to Of Cabbages and Kings is er...with the links.

I warn you: I have not yet begun to write.

Now Hear This...

This afternoon I received an email from a gentleman who informed me that he was seeking an amputee and has finally found her. I asked if he would mind writing a little something for "When I Drop Dead," and I hope he will oblige.

I've been thinking about announcements, in light of what I wrote earlier...
I became more attuned to overhead pages after I was trained at the bookstore. "You should be calm and professional," we were told. "The page should only draw attention from people who are listening for it." Nonetheless, we've had some interesting overhead pages resound though the store. There was the time that someone picked up the phone, pressed "page" and boomed, "Thanks for calling, this is W. how can I assist you?" Or back when a now-former employee (known for his habit of whining) pressed "page" and asked that a manager call 233, but neglected to hang up when he was distracted by the fact that the manager was within speaking distance. "When can I take my break? (break...)" echoed around the store. "You said I could take it awhile ago, but blah blah whine whine... (echo echo...) Customers paused, staff snickered.

I have a dear friend who has much more in the way of cajones than I. She was amused by the way the pleasant female automated voice announced, "Attention Meijer guests: there is no waiting in...lane...twenty...three." So one day back when she was in high school she made a Meijer page of her own. "Attention Meijer guests: there is an orgy in...lane...sixty...nine." Management was not amused, but all the baggers were.

Not too long ago I was in Meijer late at night on a desperate search for something-or-other. Meijer is a kooky place late at night. Just me, some sleepy eyed parents buying cough syrup, a few questionables circling the liquor aisle, and an army of shelf stockers...
When without warning, a pleasant male voice came onto the overhead:

Booop. "Attention Meijer guests: I am not wearing any pants."

More from the side of the trash can...

"Seeking Pretty Amputee" guy struck again the other day.

Much to my pleasant surprise, one of our managers bought a multipack of art supplies for us to create signage with. We've been doodling with oil pastels and crayons and colored pencils and markers during our break-times ever since.

This time, Mr. Seeking's poster was given the Vermeer treatment-- I washed the background with a nice blend of greens and gave it a nice summer sky. Someone else gave the "pretty amputee" a lovely sunkissed blonde hairdo and well manicured nails. I'm sure that someone will give her outfit the royal treatment as well.

I found myself at Rescued Treasures Thrift Store today after dropping off The Boy's dry cleaning. I always experience a mixture of awe and slight discomfort when I'm there. The place is so huge--aisles and aisles of homeless couches from the seventies, hand-knit sweaters, ancient tuneless pianos, teetering stacks of wooden...various things that, I assume, are meant hang on the walls of a kitchen, tall unwieldy lamps with dented shades, and the baskets...oh God. The baskets. There is a mammoth section of them, strung up from the drop ceiling on unbent metal hangers. Like some kind of forest. Overwhelming. All slightly dingy.

And from overhead, about every 5 mintues or so, there would be a break in the rather syrupy eighties church music for a series of raspy-voiced announcements. Most of them went something like this:

(Booop. Crackle...crackle...thunk) Oops, sh*t! What was I gonna say...? OH. Thanks for shopping at Rescued Treasures...um. Just so you know, every Monday all the clothes are 50% off. And today only, uh...there's a sale on...let's see here... Crap. Where'd I put that? (rustle rustle) .......Red tag items! They're half off. So thanks for shopping at Resc--- oh. I already said that. (clunk)

---end transmission----

The guy at the checkout smelled overwhelmingly of stale cigarettes and...something else. Before I was 15 feet from the register, he croaked loudly in my direction, "Y'hear my announcement??" I paused, not sure he was talking to me, but since there was no one else around, I nodded. "Did it sound okay?" I nodded again. The cashier inspected his fingernails casually. " I know. I always do the announcements here." A young man with a magnificent mullet and a grungy leather jacket strode past me and stopped in front of the cashier. There was a pause as they eyed each other. "Rock 'n Roll," the young man said in a heartfelt, meaningful way. He strode off.

Remember:
I think I'm going to start another blog to record insignificant little things from daily life.

It will be called A Record of Small Things.

In the meantime, what is it about Products??? By Products, I mean, those sleek bottles and tubes and jars with matte glass and shiny bits that promise to "revitalize," "renew," or "refresh" (and a thousand other "re" words) your skin, hair, toenails, and what-have-you.

I laugh in the face of thousands of marketing experts. I snort in the direction of advertising mavens. I point at the font on the bottles and raise my eyebrows at the cunningly worded blurbs. I know what you're trying to do to me. You want me powdered and coiffed and painted with your overpriced goop!!

And yet... knowing all this, I still itch to buy. Somehow, I think, knowing that alpha hydroxy shine beta moisture release strengthening globules are craftily tuned to make me want to buy them somehow excuses the fact that... I do.