That's just WRONG

Here's a free tip. If you suffer from intestinal problems while staying at someone's house (especially family- I'll get to that more later), and you accidentally shart the bed, it's generally considered good manners, even if sick, to say something to the hostess, and at least make a token attempt to clean up the mess. It's very bad manners to continue to sleep in it, and leave it as some kind of secret gift when you leave. Very bad form. Not only will the hostess discover the mess, but she will definately curse you in your absence, and you might not get asked back. This includes family, I would suppose.

Now the parties in question aren't me. But close to me. And I must say that I consider the shitter's behavior downright passively/aggressive and nasty. Just rude. No excuse. And the shittee, well, she's left with a mess and hurt feelings. And I can hardly blame her. I would feel pretty unhappy too. It kind of colors a visit. And personally, I don't really want to see the contents of anyone else's ass- even family. For that matter, I'm not overly fond of seeing the contents of my own ass- but that's the cost of doing business, so to speak.

So, boys and girls, when visiting, if you get sick and make a mess, even if you feel downright nasty, please say something to someone- and if possible make an effort to clean it up. The alternative is just NOT nice.

Stealing again

I just gotta rip this off of the Charlie Parker blog (look in the links- under picture pages). It's too good to ignore:

"People are ambivalently amped-up on celebrities. They wildly worship them. They aim their adolescent adoration at them and get bupkis back. It's depressingly dissassociative. It's idiotic idolatry. Fan magazines fan the flames of fatuous fancy and reinforce the fact that your favorite stars will never fuck you. Scandal rags rip that reinforcement and deleriously deconstruct and deidolize the idols who ignore you. It's revisionistic revenge. It reduces your unrequited lovers to your own level of erratic eroticism. It rips the rich and regal and guns them into the gutter beside you. It fractiously frees you to love them as one of your own."
-- James Ellroy

From the Times of London:

Japan is proud home of Christ's tomb From Leo Lewis in Shingo Village

IN A paddy-lined valley in the far north of Japan is a municipal signpost inscribed: “Tomb of Christ: next left.” Follow the winding path up into the forest and there, sure enough, is a simple mound with a large wooden cross labelled as the grave of Jesus. Nearby is a tomb commemorating Isukiri, Christ’s brother, adorned with a plastic poinsettia Christmas wreath. For two millennia the farming village of Shingo claims to have protected a tradition that Jesus spent most of his life in Japan. The village is the home of Sajiro Sawaguchi, a man in his eighties who claims to be a direct descendant of Jesus and whose family has always owned the land in which it is said that Christ is buried. Mr Sawaguchi emerged as Jesus’s heir only in 1935, when a priest in Ibaraki discovered a document in ancient Japanese purporting to be Christ’s will. This document supposedly identifies Shingo as the location of the tombs of Jesus and Isukiri. The claim is widely believed. About 40,000 Japanese visit the site every year. Two years ago it was presented with a plaque by Jerusalem, and next Sunday it will host the annual Christ festival of traditional Japanese dance. According to the account in the Christ Museum next to the tombs, Christ arrived in Japan at the age of 21 and learnt Japanese before returning to Judaea 12 years later to engage in his mission and preach about the “holy land of Japan”. The official Shingo history is that Jesus’s place on the Cross was “casually” taken by his brother, leaving Christ free to return to Japan. On his return he fell in love with Miyuko, a local girl, and lived happily with his family among the rice fields until dying aged 106. Norihide Nagano, the straight-faced curator of the tombs, says that the theory that the grave does contain the remains of Jesus is supported by several pieces of evidence. There is the local tradition, dating back hundreds of years, of drawing a charcoal cross on babies’ heads; and ancient kimonos made in the area incorporated a Star of David. The upkeep of the site is paid for out of the profits of a local yoghurt factory, and Mr Nagano agrees that The Da Vinci Code will probably boost Shingo’s coffers. The village shop is already doing a roaring trade in Christ-branded saké. “Did you enjoy the museum?” asks Mr Nagano. “If you did, I recommend you go to Ishikawa district. They have the tomb of Moses there.”

My life as a poet

And of course I didn't know it!
In high school, we had a sub for a large portion of junior year, when the teacher had a baby and went on maternity leave. Our sub was a hippy chick. She had the obligitory black stringy hair with a plethora of split ends and grey (because dying wouldn't be natural, doncha know), wore beaded earrings and usually was dressed in flowing crinkly skirty things. In the early 80's this was the height of 70's retro, and not really done. I thought that she was basically an idiot. I had my reasons. Not the least of them was her absolute adoration for A.B. Guthrie Jr.'s The Big Sky. I really hated that book. I hated all cowboy crap at that point in my life. I didn't embrace that part of the MT experience for 20 more years at least, and despised everything that I saw as a reminder of being stuck in a hick outpost.

So poetry. We had a section on Walt Whitman. I really thought that poetry was stupid. Especially nature poetry. And Walt Whitman was pretty stupid in my book, too. She didn't bother to give any background on who old Walt was, and his shall we say, counter-culture lifestyle. Nope. Just the earth-mama schtick.

She assigned us a writing thing. We were supposed to write poetry. I had gone from straight A's in English to strong B's and C's under this woman. Because I thought she was stupid, and didn't hide it well. So I decided to fuck with her mind. I wrote a poem that I based on a Whitman one, for structure. I played with the whole word thing, and made it all about nature. It was total bullshit. I knew it, and figured that she would know it too, and that I would get the requisite C.

Nope. She was rhapsodic in her praise. She thought that I had a true calling. It made me kind of ill. I had really put effort into a bunch of the other papers, and also thought that having an opinion about a book was a good thing. Even if it wasn't her opinion. So here she was, praising to high heaven this total crap poem that I pulled out of my ass, and it really pissed me off. Of course, I got an A. And she left not long later. And I settled down and did well for the rest of the year, and tried to shake her off as an abberation.

But the poem. Damn. I wish that I had kept it- just to see what I think about it today. But I didn't keep any of that crap- and dumped all of my college papers about 10 years ago too. Toting around a box of old papers and blue books just seemed too sad.

So I decided at that point that poetry was bullshit. And upon meeting a couple of poets in particular (one we'll call the cat-killer, and the other we'll call crazy-lady) I figured that it was all fine and dandy to avoid poetry for the duration.

Then came Kenga's job for the Creative Writing department, and exposure to non-crazy, non-cat-killing poets. And I heard a reading of some of Tony Hoagland's poems. And our friend Scott shared his poems with us. The bias was blown. The blush was back on the rose, which is in fact, a rose. And maybe some day, I'll write a poem that doesn't sound like a re-tread Journey lyric. Just don't hold your breath, though.

And the beat(ing) goes on

Just had another interview. Second one in two weeks. Can't say much about it, other than I really didn't get that "I've got this one in the bag" feeling. But then I had that feeling about the last one, and we all know how that went. I'm still here. In my jammies. On a weekday. At 10AM. So maybe I do have this one, and am just not getting my job radar very well. Dunno.

But I will go here to make myself happy. http://www.weebls-stuff.com/toons/kenya/
If you can watch this without sympathetically bobbing your head, you're stronger stuff than I am.

Kenya, Kenya, Kenya....

Cross my palm

Ah, the quest for answers. Isn't that what sends otherwise sensible sorts to psychics, astrologers and the like? Imagine the possiblities- to know the future. To know that it's all going to be all right. To know that someone, somewhere has the actual answers. Lovely thought. And pretty much hopeless, I fear. Because if someone really did have the answers, they wouldn't be operating out of the run-down little house off of the main street in town. They would have money. Lots and lots of money. And they would be famous. Probably on tv, no? After all, wouldn't they use that kind of "gift" for themselves first?

In the news

I hear that Microsoft laid off 1000 temp workers (they call them "contractors") yesterday for a week. Unpaid. Pretty shoddy treatment, if you ask me. And you did- or you wouldn't be on this site!
I know that they tend to treat their permanent employees pretty damned well. But the temps, well. That's another kettle o' fish.
I've decided that the temp world will have to settle for another hero. I'm opting out. Told the ditzy beeitches at the agency that I won't do temp work anymore. I need to attend to finding a permanent job. Enough of this crap. It pays the bills- but only for a while. And then I have to scramble. They have shown pretty clearly that they don't give a shit about getting me anything really good, so fucks them, I say.

And the Microsoft thing- damned shame. I feel bad for the workers who have been shown what their efforts really mean to the bottom line.

New drinking game

Here's a new drinking game that I'm thinking about.

Every time you feel extreme regret over a past decision, drink a shot.
Every time you have a twinge of guilt over inflicting hurt, drink a shot.
If you cop attitude towards someone in the service industry, drink a shot (one per server).
If you are rude to another driver, drink a shot (one per driver).
Drink a shot for every time you made your mother cry.
Drink two shots for every time you made your father cry.

Finally- just drink one for the hell of it.

After the game, enjoy treatment!!! It'll provide a perfect networking opportunity- meet a group of people as full of self-loathing as yourself.

General question

Why does religion- pretty much any religion I've been exposed to, anyway- make people so completely humorless? They seem to typically be unable to see themselves in a humorous way, and their beliefs are totally NOT FUNNY!!! Well, I think that's funny. Not necessarily in a mean light. If there indeed is a god, and if he is at all what I think he's like, he has a pretty developed sense of humor. (I kind of imagine a John Cleese kind of guy) For example- the platypus. And another example- the tapir. A non-animal example- farts. (ok- so that is kind of animal- since they produce them- but it is a gas, which is not an animal.)
I understand sincerity. I understand heartfelt principles. But seriously- lighten the fuck up. You might enjoy more, and might catch a few things left out there to laugh at by a mirth-filled deity.

And then there are those religious ones who are just plain mean. Screw the lot of yous, I say. (you know who you are...intolerant, nasty people...)

We're doomed

I was listening to Day to Day on NPR a while ago (yes, I was. It's part of being a member of the liberal media fan club), and there was a report about how Americans are viewing the encroachment of government surveilance on their phones, email, etc.

What got me was the sheer idiocy of the chuckleheads that the reporter questioned. Almost all of them said something along the lines of, "why should I mind if I'm not hiding anything?" Well, Mr. or Mrs. Chucklehead, let me tell why you should mind- and why it's NOT an acceptable sacrifice to safety.

How about this. In the future, our administration decides (and it could do this without telling anyone initially- check out the secrecy of this administration if you doubt me) that they want to investigate all people who have a certain political leaning. Perhaps they'll decide that people who are members of the Green party are just too closely aligned to Al Quaida. Then they start looking. There is NOTHING to keep them from fishing expiditions if we accept their surveilance as part of doing business. So then they find something incriminating in an email. Perhaps a mention of an illicit substance that plenty of states have legalized for medical purposes. Then they send the homeland security boys into that person's house for a little look-see. Warrantless, of course, because that's an acceptable thing now, right?

What's wrong with this picture? That person shouldn't be smoking something illegal, or voting for the Green party, right? Well. Wrong. That person can vote and be in contact with whomever they want. Period. Part of doing business. And as far as the smoking thing goes- the jury is still out on whether or not the feds can crack down on that or if the states have jurisdiction.

I'm not a horribly paranoid person (well, maybe a little bit), but I don't have anything to hide. I also do not want the government, my neighbors, my family or my friends poking around in my business. I don't even want Kenga reading my emails without my permission. It's part of doing business in my book. It's my right as an American. It's my right as a person. And that I DO mind having chiseled away by the government. That is not ok by me.

Ethically challenged

Now I'm pissed. I found out yesterday afternoon that I didn't get the job that I interviewed for on Tuesday. That's not the problem really. It bloody figures, that's all.
The problem- the agency that sent me to the interview. As I understood it, they were supposed to be helping me find a good job. Not the shit crap that I've been doing for them. A real good job. Basically payback for being a good little worker bee for them.

Well- the woman who sent me on the interview let slip an interesting little fact that makes me wonder about their ethics in the first place. She told me that the person who got the job had industry experience. But was tied to an assignment elsewhere, and would pose some complications getting out of them. Now for the big question- why the fuck are they sending currently employed people on these interviews??? I have a huge problem with the whole ringer situation here. I bet the other 3 people who interviewed and didn't get the position would, as well. Makes me wonder how many of the other interviews they've sent me on have had similar outcomes because they cherry picked the interviewees like this.
I think my days with them just got very numbered. That's all.

Good news, though. A recruiter at the bank where I was working has been working with me on a job that I didn't get. But he called yesterday with another position that I'm very qualified for, and he has said that he really wants me to get it. So there is some real hope.

Creepy coincidence

I don't know why this occurred to me- or why I am compelled to write it down, but that's the way my blogging works.
There once was a serial killer in my home town. He was legendary. My biology teacher in High School talked about him. He was alleged to have killed his girlfriend and dumped her body from a plane in barrels. They found one, I heard- with some jewelery that belonged to her.
Now for the creepy part. He is in the state pen for life after killing his wife and burning her body.
His best friend was (and probably still is) my icky uncle.

The girlfriend was my wonderful Step-father's cousin.

(I met him once- he had the coldest, most reptilian eyes that I have ever seen on a human- and that was before I knew the rumors and stories...he was a nasty one)

What the hell is that bird doing so early.
Why does he sound so happy.
There is nothing to be so pleased about this early in the morning.
Stupid bird.

Where's my shotgun????

Splits

So I hear that Paul McCartney and the newest Mrs. Paul have decided to split. Sad. But even sadder, and quite embarrassing is that they are blaming the media. That is incredible. It's interesting to know that they allowed the media to share their lives so intimately. The media was at the breakfast table with them. The media tucked them in at night. The media held their hands during long walks in the rain. The media was there when they dealt the the minutae of their daily lives.
I call shenanegans. They, and every fucking celebrity out there needs to get a reality check right about now. I, a non-celebrity normal (reasonably) person am calling them all out. Every last one of them. NO MORE blaming the media for their own fuck ups. Face it, Paul and Mrs. Paul- you JUST DON'T GET ALONG anymore. Period. No blaming anyone but yourselves. You're adults dammit. Don't be stupid. It's silly and regrettable. Makes you look like major tools.

Thing of note

There was some kind of bike ride today to draw attention to bicyclists who have been hit by cars. The thing I thought was kind of silly was a bicyclist who said that, "drivers need to know that we have a right to be here too." (I paraphrase)
I thought this was kind of a dumb statement. No shit, buddy. I doubt that drivers would deny that you have a right to be on the road. And I have no doubt that if you didn't sidle up to them in their blind spot in traffic, during rush hour, before they've had their coffee, on Monday morning, they wouldn't run your ass over, either. (there are some incredibly stupid cyclists out there- who don't seem to have much of a concept for the laws of physics. Or of visiblity- not all of them- but a choice few...)
That was a little hostile. I don't think that it's an issue that cyclists should be able to ride safely in traffic. I think it's an issue that roads in this town aren't actually constructed with the kind of visiblity or width to accomodate both cars and bikes. So someone loses. And it ain't the car. Solution- ride on the damned sidewalk. But don't run over the old ladies. They have a right to be there too. (God knows we don't need a silent march of old ladies protesting getting run over by cyclists)
And then there are the idiots who I have seen who are driving whilst reading. No lie. A book on the steering wheel. Betcha they aren't looking for those cyclists with rights. Betcha if they find one, they'll be in for a surprising day.

There's this problem see
Only I can see it
Lives in my head
Makes my heart race at night
when I should be sleeping.

It's like an itch under the skin.
I can scratch and scratch
it doesn't go away.
Gold Bond doesn't help.

It lives with me-
new shoes don't ease the pressure
new sweater doesn't make it go away
they build the guilt which builds the wall that keeps the itch inside.

Someday it might ease up.
That's the small, flickering light that keeps me alive
hoping to find the release valve
that will make the pressure stop.

(this isn't actually my state of mind- just a memory of worse times- and better ones)

Parting shot

Last night Kenga and I went for a walk down by Alki beach. We were looking at the water and the skyline of Seattle, and looked up. There was a bald eagle flying over us- probably only 15-20 feet in the air. I've never seen one so close on the wing. And it was being chased by a screeching seagull. Figure that one out. If there is some kind of cosmic message there, I really can't interpret it. But I suppose that doesn't matter. It was cool nonetheless.

And for inspiration

The ever amazing Elvis Costello- who writes songs like they really mean something-

Don't tell me you don't know what love is
When you're old enough to know better
When you find strange hands in your sweater
When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote
I'm a man with a mission in two or three editions

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book

Chapter One we didn't really get along
Chapter Two I think I fell in love with you
You said you'd stand by me in the middle of Chapter Three
But you were up to your old tricks in
Chapters Four, Five and Six

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
The way you walk
The way you talk, and try to kiss me, and laugh
In four or five paragraphs
All your compliments and your cutting remarks
Are captured here in my quotation marks

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book
Don't tell me you don't know the difference
Between a lover and a fighter
With my pen and my electric typewriter
Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal
I'd still own the film rights and be working on the sequel

And I'm giving you a longing look
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book

Spring cleaning

Ya all mighta noticed the new template. And I finally roused myself off of my lazy ass (metaphorically speaking) and added links. Yup. If you're not included, don't be offended- this took me HOURS of trial and error to figure out. That's why I'm not a programmer. I hate that kind of stuff. Photoshop kills me. And I hate Flash. Makes me almost violent. The sheer frustration of it all. Give me a pencil and some paper, damnit- I'll just draw the fucking thing myself!BRAAAAWWRRR!
Anyway- hats off to the programmers of the world- and the graphics designers who can tolerate working with that kind of crap.

Wing nut neighbors

Well. So there is a variance request posted in the front yard. It has been there for months. The landlady wants to demolish the garage and build it elsewhere. No big deal. Haven't heard a thing about it- should probably remove the damned sign. The meeting was 2 months ago. I've been waiting for the city to do it.

Last night I was on the computer at dusk. And I see someone in the front yard. Mind you- there is a large fence around the yard, and it's pretty obvious when you're in here that you're in the blasted yard. It's a crazy lady from the neighborhood. And she's peering in the garage. I sight her, she sees me watching her, and darts for the stairs. I go out the door, and call out,"can I help you with something?" She stops, and says, "I was just looking- sorry to disturb you." She was embarrassed--rightfully so- it's creepy to be looking in the windows of someone's garage. And downright cheeky. She apologized again, and slunk off into the dusk. Serves her right. Bloody busybody (Ellen!).

Funny thing- she is the one who would always stand at the bus stop and bitch about being late because the bus is never on time. I was always tempted to ask her why she didn't take an earlier one, then. But I figured she liked to have something to talk about. Crazy beeitch.

Don't be alarmed

This is just an observation. NOT an indication that my head is in the oven (hard to type in that position, anyway- and it's convection, which I think makes putting my head in there untenable). But I think that the bulk of my time I've spent on this planet has been from an outside observer's stance. As a rather ill-socialized (betcha that's a bloody revelation), I wasn't what you would call popular. Not to elicit pity- just the facts, M'am. Not by any conception of the word, would I call myself popular. Maybe popular amongst the paper dolls in my bedroom drawer. Or in the stuffed teddy bears in the basement playroom. But not amongst my peers.

So maybe that's part of the whole dilemna that I find myself in today. I sit in my car, drinking coffee, eating a yummy cookie (not right now- but earlier) looking at the Seattle skyline- from an outsider's standpoint. Even when I was inside the buildings I see downtown, I was an outsider- a temp. There is something not only transitional about being an outsider- but it's something that I've grown up being. And I professed to always hate it. Immensely. But lately, I have noticed that it's really not so bad, in a way. I don't mind having lots of time to myself. In fact, if I don't get enough, I get grumpy. Unless I'm on vacation- then all rules change. But I am guessing that going from being a solitary creature by necessity to being a social one isn't the easy, fun-filled leap that I had thought that it was.

And it doesn't really spell out what the problem is. Maybe I've grown too comfortable by myself. And need to re-connect. I dunno. But I just suspect that I'll be one of those solitary non-parent types who grows old and eclectic- and reads a lot, and becomes set in a routine- and who fits fewer and fewer people into that routine. That's not really who I want to be- but it seems to be the pattern that's emerging. Thank God (or whomever) for Kenga- he's the antidote to that reclusiveness. I'm by far the better correspondent to distant friends of the two of us- but I would never leave the house if he wasn't around to prompt me. I consider him a good influence.

I've stolen the philosopher's jacket. He was wearing it the first time I noticed him in Latin class. It has remained in the closet for 14 years- pretty much unworn most of the time. But I wouldn't let him throw it away.

It is olive green courderoy. It is pretty rough looking. It has been worn. He used to keep a rock in the pocket to strike his matches on when he smoked the camels. It has some serious mojo for me- it is our past in a way. And I am going to wear it on bad days. Reminding me that there is a coat for every mood.

Ha Ha! I say. Take that Kierkegaard you depressive Nordic bastard!(who btw was born on cinco de Mayo- Old Soren invokes Coronas, getting fucking loaded and puking in an Oaxaca gutter to me- don't know bout you)

Confessionary zeal

I've always prided on the ability to face problems head-on and solve them. Call it a first-born slight of hand. But now I am beginning to see that what I called problem solving wasn't really accurate terminology. I developed habits of problem resolution that didn't really involve resolving the problems at all. More of an elaborate system of smoke and mirrors, and learning the proper terminology to parrot to keep others off of my back.

So now I have the problem. It's internal. It's not going anywhere. My modus operandi of sleeping it off...of feeding the whining inner child a cookie (or buying her shoes)...of diving off the deep end into a book or movie...all of these and more tricks of the trade aren't solving it. Not at all. It's still there. So. What do I do. Call the fucking WAAAAmbulance. Because I've fallen and I can't get up. Well. Not really. I can and I will. I think I need to harness one of nature's miracles. My enormous capacity to get royally pissed off. That's been the missing element, I suspect. I've let plenty of stuff in the last 2 years kick the shit out of me. I've let all of that determine how I view myself- far too personally. I've let the bastards win- which is antithetical to my father's credo. And it sucks. So.

Now what does a pissed off almost 40 year old do? I do not lean on the parents. At my age, they really have earned a respite. Only go to them when dire things or extremely happy things happen. Don't be a burden. They don't need it. I do however, lean on Kenga a bit. That's his job. And he's done it to me before- it's really ok. What else...wing it a bit, I guess. It's new territory in a sense, and if I don't become productive doing things for myself, how the hell am I going to get anywhere?

Part of the project has been writing this tortured (at times) and ridiculous (at other times) thingy. Keeps me in touch with whatever needs to bubble to the top and get written down (within reason- I do have to exercise some restraint- this isn't entirely private). But now I think I have to take another deep, deep breath (after a lungful of the inhaler) and dive into the life I've avoided really living for some time. No more tip of the toes. No more up to the ankles. Right? Right. As long as there is a lifeguard somewhere in the vicinity.

Skeleton in the closet has these long wiggly fingers. He waves them in my direction, and scrapes his nails along the louvred doors. Just to get my attention. He thinks it's fun.

His clickety, clackety jaws smile openly at me. He knows everything. He sees everything. He doesn't need to have a voice. He just knows.

Skeleton in the closet will keep his day job, and prefers to come out on special occasions. Like dreary wet days in the middle of winter. Or when I'm sick. Or when I'm in the middle of a headache.

The good news- skeleton in the closet doesn't sport any flesh, clothes, or anything resembling horror movie status. He's just good, clean bones. With secrets lying like little hand grenades inside the marrow.

You died with all of your mysteries (and miseries) intact. I never bothered or had the courage to ask about the source of it all. I just stood up to you. I just challenged you. I was your scourge. I was also your pride.

You were never able to grind me under your workboots- like your own children- all in the name of being a "realistic" parent. I never told them that they would fail. You never told me that I would fail. You didn't have the nerve. My daddy could beat up you.

So now that you're dead, burned to ashes and scattered to the winds, I worry this problem to death. I think about your motivations. I think about your pain. I think about the pain you inflicted with what appeared a great deal of forethought on others. The others you were charged to protect and to nurture. Was your inner life so barren, so horribly infertile that you had no other way of functioning? Or were you just the world's biggest ass?

Mmmm. Mexican food.

It's Cinqo de Mayo (apologize up front for the spelling- never took Spanish. Russian, yes. German, certainly. Even French and Italian. And Latin. But never Spanish)

Loverly springlike weather. And in celebration of all things Spanish-speaking, I finished reading a wonderous book today. I have always had a soft spot for certain authors- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carlos Fuentes, etc. Love the boys from south of the border. Really do. The images of butterflies floating around her head...Love Isabelle Allende too. Laura Esquivel also. So the distaff side isn't neglected.

The book I just finished which I can highly, highly recommend was The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Damn. One hell of a story. Seriously. All about books, mystery, growing up, the Spanish Civil War, writing, and lots of other things. One of the best that I've read this year. And that's saying quite a lot. It's out in paperback, and I've seen the hardcover in remaindered bins. So there is no excuse to not read this most wonderful book.

And now the coffee I ingested moments ago is humming through my veins. It's a warm buzzy feeling. I feel the need to not sit at the computer, and to go do something moderately active. I'll even wear sandals. Because it's nice out. And it's Cinqo de Mayo.

(I did get the worst sunburn of my life (and that's saying one hell of a lot, kids) in Mexico. Thought I was gonna die. Probably gonna kill me someday when the melanoma takes over. Stupid Mexican sun. Stupid pasty white genes.)

Up all night

Almost. We went to the Sigur Ros concert last night. It was in a great venue- so I made the executive decision to see them again. It was great. They are good. I was happy. Then I was unable to sleep. Too keyed up, I guess. It also didn't help that I spent a largish portion of yesterday either sleeping or napping. Basically coming down off of the job and all. And having a headache. Brought on, no doubt, by the sleeping and napping.

But Sigur Ros. Let me tell ya. I knew a guy who said that they made him want to open a vein. Silly man. Didn't get it at all. Loverly Icelandic boys and girls (Anime- the girl sidekicks were in the house).

Celebrity sighting- we sat 9 rows behind Paul Allen. I saw him going up the aisle earlier, and thought it looked remarkably like him. He caught my eye in the first place because he has the same body type and hair style as my dad. And he didn't exactly fit the emo demographic that was fully represented. He was with a posse of older-larger guys- one of whom was wearing a shirt suspiciously akin to Hawaiian. And it's not even Hawaiian shirt Friday! But then the confirmation came when a cheeky youngster came up to him, introduced himself and handed off a demo tape. That clinched it. Twas the 5th richest person in the world. Sitting directly in front of us. Enjoying the Sigur Ros. When he shuffled out, he did look awfully tired. My guess is that in order to be the 5th richest person in the world, you tend to go to bed early. But it was really cool to see an old guy out with the kids- enjoying the music n'all. I shoulda asked him for a job, though...

And another thing...

Guess it's gotta be said- what the hell is the problem with having Latino and Asian immegrants, anyway? What about the Canadians? Why aren't people all chapped about the Canadian illegals amongst us? Yeah, they can pass- until they start talking "aboot" something. Then you know. They're our unfriendly neighbors to the north, doncha know.

Gotta go have a Bergman film fest tonight, in celebration of May Day. Nothing like a dour Swede to add a delightful chill to a lovely spring evening...(perhaps I do have a masochistic tendency in there after all)

Gettin the hizell out

Traffic was fuck all bad this afternoon. The big rally/protest was a block from the office. So I left early. There was an exodus of well-paid bankers leaving at the same time. I felt priveleged to ride the elevator with their well-heeled selves. The police had the barricades ready. The news vans were blocking the bus lanes. The buses were crowding the cars. The people were streaming in.

The best one- an older, wirey guy wearing a black leather jacket sewn with numerous grungy patches. He had greyish scraggly hair, was unshaven and looked angry. He was holding a sign saying, "Save US jobs, hire US citizens". Don't tell me he was looking to make friends. Idiot.

At lunch I saw several members of the dirt tribe arriving in the business district. I can only guess that they were coming to participate in some capacity. Since they were all pasty white kids who probably sport hefty trust funds, I can gather that they are hoping for some kinda riot. Whoo hoo. Nothin like breaking the windows at a Starbucks or two to really get the circulation feeling happy. Idiots.

Otherwise, a nothing kinda day. Really. Nothing.