Official Disclaimer of the site

All right. Rather than let my innate paranoia get away from me, I'm going to make something as crystal clear as possible.

I will not (repeat in loudish voice- NOT) be blogging about my employment details. I am not using this as a forum for work-related anything. I am not representing any company, or legal entity other than myself as a private citizen. Period. That stands forever, as long as this blog shall last.

If my emotional state is affected by the job, it might get a discussion. But no particulars, and I will be monitoring myself very carefully. Just like I try to monitor myself when it comes to my family's privacy. I respect all of that too much, and I don't want anyone getting pissy with me over something that is as easily mis-interpreted as the written word.

But back to the job- as of today, it's fine. And that's the safe assumption to make, unless I indicate otherwise. But I probably won't be using this forum. Because yes, Sean, they have a very long reach, and I am familiar with the ramifications of indiscretion. I have gotten and held onto several pretty sensitive jobs at banks over the years, and see this as similar. Gladly, I haven't seen myself as being an indiscreet little idiot since college- and that was related to "dating" two guys at one time. And it didn't end well. So I don't think I'll try that ever again. Being indiscreet, I mean. I gave up the multiple boyfriend thing over a decade and a half ago. It's part of being married, in my book. And I don't regret that either!

And the bad news

I love the Tour de France. I have for a very long time. It rivals F1 in my afffections, which says something. I think it's a profound thing to watch, and have been known to get up at absurd hours, with full hangover to watch. It's important to me.

So the news that the field has been gutted by doping allegations, and team member withdrawals is really bad. Very, very bad. Especially in the post-Lance world. I wanted to see how Ullrich and Basso did without him around. I wanted to see the race, period.

I heard rumors that Tyler Hamilton was also implicated. We have a friend who used to be a professional racer, and he maintains that they all dope. And always have. He named names once. But I won't reveal. It's heresay, nevertheless. I still love the sport, and will start watching tomorrow anyway. It's part of July 1.

But damn.

Washington shitstorm

Seems there is a big debate being played out in the media- including on the NPR chat show that I hear from time to time. I don't know if this made the national news, but it certainly is a dog and pony show round hereabouts.

There was a woman who wanted to try naturalpathic health care for her critically ill little boy. The doctors went to court and got state custody of her son so that they could perform a kidney operation that they said was "critical". She took the baby and ran.

Now here is where the story gets interesting. She gets caught, thrown in jail with a $500K bail, and the kid is returned to the hospital. This was several days ago. They have scheduled the operation for today. Now here is my question- if the child was so bloody critical, why did they wait until today to operate? Not only that, but they stepped away from the whole "this kid WILL die" argument a few days ago, as well. I guess that hyperbole doesn't cut it in court, either, as she was released without bail yesterday.

The debate- where do parental rights begin and end vis a vis medical care. What an issue. She's a single mom, with the father having strictly limited visitation rights. I can only wonder what made her run- probably the biggest fear that she could imagine being played out in front of her- complete and total loss of control over the fate of her boy. And the doctors? I have no doubt that they think that their position is fully justified. And the state? Ditto. So, this is officially a clusterfuck of good intentions at cross purposes.

I have my doubts about the medical arts being always right. I also have my doubts about naturopathic remedies being always preferable. I just don't know what to think about this one- it's troubling all around. From every angle. I just really, really hope that the little boy is ok.

First day down

It went well. The boss lady doesn't have time to really deal with me yet. But I'm pretty sure that'll change rapidly. Which is a good thing, as I can only spend about 1 day figuring out stuff, and then will get bored. The cool thing- it only took me 45 minutes to get there and 45 minutes to get home. That is better than I had thought. I'm still looking for a vanpool so that I don't have to do the driving, but that'll come with time, I suspect.

Another cool thing- I have worked for several Fortune 500 companies in the past, and never experienced this before- even though I lack a phone, I have full access to the computer system- at least it seems that way- in a way that I have NEVER experienced in the past. The tools, and they are a plenty- are right there. And they're easy. And they work. There isn't any of that "you'll get access to that in a couple of days after some IT guy reviews your request" kind of crap. Very nice.

So far, things look fine. I am not letting myself go overboard with praise and relief- it's still young. But I have hope.

Last night

We had dinner with an old friend at a mediocre Mexican place- named- wait for it- wait for it- Cayote's. There. Are you satisfied? I am. And guess what- the logo incorporates a cayote howling at the moon. Did you see that coming? If not, you didn't spend 6 years in college in Arizona. And you probably can still stomach Kokopele imagery as well. Good for you, hero.

Anyway, after the kinda crappy food and even worse service (But I'm pretty, I don't have to be good!) we went for a walk on the beach. And almost witnessed what appeared to be some kind of street fight amongst large (fucking scary big) gansta kind of dudes. They were totally flipping shit at eachother (Go do your fingernails, bitch...etc), and there was a bit of tension in the air. This all despite the cute little chippies with them who were in bikinis playing with a football. Kenga slowed down- he wanted to watch. We sped up- we didn't.

By the time we got back, the group was dispersed, and no fighting was going on. Buzzkill. I am a bad wife, anyway. Kenga didn't get to experience the sweet exhileration that is a street fight. He said that he mostly enjoys the logic that is employed and watching the crowd. I can't argue with that. But it could be that he is self-deceptive, and really wants to see blood. I dunno. Didn't happen.

It's your big day

And after I stress myself out by internally singing that song by XTC a few more times, I will get ready for my drive across the water to the East, where the empire beckons. Yes, she will be gainfully employed again.

So, what does this mean to me? You ask.

Well. It means that I probably won't be quite so compulsively visiting my daily selection of sites throughout the day. And this isn't a bad thing- as I will enjoy the joy of discovery in a more disciplined way. Rather than just spastically hitting keys and mouse to find stuff. (I already admitted to the spastic thing earlier- really- I wasn't totally kidding- but the smaller motor skills do seem exempt from the spaz thing)

It means that I will be bringing homr the bacon. Frying it up in a pan. And never letting him forget he's a man. Cuz I'm a woooomman. Anjolay. (that needed to get out. I felt it pushing against my inner ear, and the pressure was intense. But it's all better now.)

It means that I will actually meet people. Not just people who work at the grocery store and at the library. But real people. And they might tell me funny stories. And then I can write them down. And it will be an experience shared by all. Won't that be fun? Yes, is the answer! Yes, yes, yes.

It means that I get to drive today- and am budgeting about an hour or so for the effort. We'll sacrifice a small chicken to the traffic gods and hope that will be sufficient. I couldn't figure out how to make the bus happen in under 2 blasted hours. Fuck that noise. I'll hopefully find a van pool and dip my toes in that water. Better make it a bigger chicken. Or even better- two.

It means that I will have some self-respect I suppose. At least that's what I'm telling myself. Actually, I am usually pretty content when I have a job. Not too bad without one, either. Those demons have really been put to sleep lately. So, it's all good. And I have to go get myself cleansed and ready to face the day. Nervous- a bit. Excited- I probably will be.

Who eats that???

From MSNBC-

Former diet-pill pitchwoman Anna Nicole Smith is off her diet big time. The pregnant widow has been chowing down fried peanut butter, cheese, and mayonnaise sandwiches.


GAAAKKKK....

(is she Elvis in drag, and we didn't notice?)

Who's the biggest fat cat in the jungle?

I just read an article about the Christian right and some serious infighting about priorities. One of the biggest touchpoints appears to be the idea of an environmental Christian. Seems that there are many in the fundamentalist and evangelical movements who believe in "creation care" which is another way of saying that they believe God wants humans to be responsible stewards of the earth. Seems that there is another group who believe that these ideals are wrong, and part of a leftist, liberal influx. I also read Jimmy Carter's new book, and saw some of the same debate. Very interesting.
What I'm guessing will prevail is whichever side of the debate can pull in the most political financing. Power seems to follow money. I doubt that the 19th century form of evangelical (abolitionist, teetotler, etc.) would see any kind of ascendency- as grass roots movements don't have the ears of the powerful anymore. What I have seen is the influence of the very monied powerful religious aristocracy.
So I plan on sitting back and watching them fight amongst themselves for the bones of the politicians. The politicians will cater to the richest of the pack, and we'll just basically be left to make do with the leavings. And the mess. And the ever-heating earth. And the crappy jobs. And the diminished civil rights. Etc. Etc. Etc.

And what the hell?

What is up with old guys asking me if my hair color is natural? Why do they seem to think it's a topic for conversation? Especially since it's not only creepy to ask in the first place, but seriously- these are strangers! And in elevators! Is this some attempt to get a cheevy kind of answer to the "carpet matching the drapes" question? Am I giving them primo whack off ammo? Or do they expect me to coyly respond, "Well, big fella, I got a hatchback in the garage, let's go figure that one out?" Guess again, hero. No such luck for you today! And for the record, no. It is not. But it ought to be. And until I get bored, it stays this way.

Interesting stuff

For my birthday, I received some wonderful gifts. Really. I am a lucky girl.

But probably the one that I was the most amazed by was the one my Step-mother really knocked herself out for. She is big-time into geneology. That's not been my interest in the past. But I understand her dedication to it. And my Mom has also gotten hooked.

So she gave me one of the family books for my birthday. And it is really amazing. I found out that on one side of the family I am related to over 800 people in my hometown region. I had suspected as much, as Catholic Slavs/Germans tend to procreate with abandon. But seriously...it's pretty impressive in print.

I also found out that one line of the family comes almost exclusively from Slovenia. The towns listed lack vowels, and might not exist anymore. I'll probably pull out the old Oxford Atlas in a bit and check it out. And just to make all the sectarian violence personal, there's the odd Serb thrown into the mix. And then there's the Austrian and German segments.

This completely leaves out the Scottish, Norwegian and Irish stuff that my mother is researching. But it does explain some of the very old country mental states that I've seen on exhibit over my lifetime. We're just not that far off the boat.

I'm just thankful that I never dated any of the very large network of cousins that I have!!! We'll call that kismet- or being careful- or whatever, and leave it at that!

Funny, funny

Rush Limbaugh got in trouble at the airport yesterday for having Viagra on his person, and lacking a prescription. You'd think he would know better. But this is just the kind of arrogance that I find fascinating. Somehow he appears to think that he's above little details- like the law. Big idiot. So, in the future, perhaps he should go on vacation without the boner pills. Besides, he looks like one big heart condition- and probably shouldn't take Viagra....or maybe he should! (BWAHHHAHAHA!)

Ok- I got some splaining to do

The wreck starred three kids- 2 who were 17 and one who was 18. They were allegedly visiting friends in South Seattle, and dropped off a friend in West Seattle. They were driving back home when the accident occurred. I doubt that toxicology tests are back on the blood alcohol levels if any. And they were burnt so badly, that it might be inconclusive. I dunno.

The 18 year old had just graduated. The other two were going to be high school seniors next year. It was at 2:47 AM that the call hit the 911 database. By the time the firemen had arrived, the Scion was rolled and engulfed in flames.They were unable to rescue, and the vehicle was burnt to the point that it wasn't readily identifiable as a Scion.

The point of impact was hit hard enough for the hood to wind up on the 99- which is substantially higher than the bridge and behind the bridge. Other pieces littered the highway below. The concrete pylon that they hit was knocked around quite a bit, and still bears significant scars. The police brought in structural engineers to see if the bridge was damaged, and to ensure that it was safe for traffic.

The police had three distinct crime scenes to investigate once the fire was out. Thus it took one hell of a long time for the east-bound bridge to re-open. I guess it was an unholy mess of a wreck. I've seen pictures and footage online at the Seattle Times website, and it's pretty ghastly.

I have no doubt that speed was a huge factor. There is no way that kind of impact could've been as tragically nasty otherwise. Also, there were no skidmarks or signs of braking. That makes me wonder about possible impairment. But I am assuming nothing. These were no doubt good kids, who didn't deserve the callous disregard of misanthropic bastards decrying the bad traffic. Fuck the traffic. I just wish it hadn't happened. And that assholes like Ezra and the like would just go the hell away. Or keep their stupid, senseless traps shut. Or that I knew what car he drives, so I could slash his tires. Repeatedly. But that wouldn't bring the boys back...

I said I wouldn't rant about this here

But I lied. Apologies if you've heard me bitching about this already- it's just not going away.

There was a horrible car wreck last week. It closed the West Seattle Bridge for 8 hours while the police investigated. There was wreckage on the bridge, on the 99 above the bridge, and on Marginal Way, below the bridge. Three teenagers died. They burned to death in the car.

Yeah, it sucked for those of us in the West to deal with bridge closure for that long. But still...if it was someone I loved, or even if it isn't, I would want the investigation to be done properly...

I ranted about it online:

Hey Ezra Epstein, I saw your comments in the PI about the tragic inconvenience of being delayed in your commute from Vashon Island yesterday due to the car accident on the West Seattle Bridge. Pretty compassionate words, you fucking tool. So sorry that the police made your life a little more unpleasant. Try telling that to the families of the two 17 year old boys and the other as yet unnamed victim. Betcha they are real unhappy about your traffic delay.
Listen fucknugget, next time you decide to bitch and moan about the police being so inconsiderate as to keep you from the office for a little bit longer, consider this- would it be more compassionate and professional for them to pull the charred, unrecognizable remains from the smoldering heap of car, dump them in a shopping cart and shove the whole thing in the Sound? Didn't think so. So get a fucking clue, quit being a total tool, and have some class.

Anniversary

About 2 years ago (give or take a day or two), I had surgery on a stage one melanoma on my back. This wouldn't be a big deal, except that the melanoma is scary shit, manalo. Of course when I got the diagnosis, the first thing I did was hit the internet. Just to see what I had. And I got the crap scared out of me. Luckily I am OCD enough to notice when moles turn to something else. Because if I had ignored it, damn the news is grim. Melanoma, once it reaches stage 2 and 3 is really tough shit. And stage 4 is pretty much terminal- only a 10% survival rate. Those aren't the kind of odds I ever want to contemplate. But I probably will someday, since life is terminal anyway. But who the hell wants to rot away in a bed somewhere of cancer. Especially when pretty young.

So, moral to that story- wear sunblock. Get your sorry ass out of the sun, stupid. It isn't doing you any favors. Especially in higher elevations like MT. And get the moles checked on occasion. My specialist said that if they're funny looking but smaller than a pencil erasor diameter, don't worry about them. But if they are larger, then get it checked out. I think that I prefer the 5 inch scar on my shoulder to being dead. Over and out.

From the junk mail that I receive, I have decided that the majority of people with email accounts are chock full o debt, overweight, very horny, with penises that don't work properly.

And they are looking everywhere for free stuff.

I know, no shit, right???

Perfect weekend

So far it's been kismet. With the exception of qualifying in Montreal...fucking Renault. But anyhow, last year on this weekend we were there- in the nasty humid heat, I sacrificing my left big toenail, and a pound of flesh from my feet, Kenga getting blood drawn on the track by a security fence, and it was wonderful.
Without the filthy lucre to make the pilgrimage an annual event, we are enjoying it on the tv. And since it's in the Northern Hemisphere on this continent even, it's easy to watch live for a change.

So then we went northward to the burbs to hit a couple of chain stores that are unavailable down hereabouts (not Walmart). I got skunked on the things I was after. But Kenga was happy. And then we chanced upon a wondorous thing. A classic car show in Greenwood.

We saw yummy cammed out street rods, some amazing muscle cars- GTOs seem to be the muscle car of choice round hereabouts- I've always been more partial to the early Camaros and the 442s. But, there's room for us all. There were a few really sweet little Alphas- two sporting full roll cages. But the best was a 1940's racecar that had been featured in some South American race circuit. We heard the owner start it up, and if I had the equipment, I woulda had a boner on the spot. Delicious.

Funny, there was a biodiesal booth. Poor deluded souls. Out there pissing into the wind. All of the hot rods roaring by, and the spectators all happy on pretty cars, and they're preaching alternative fuel. I say good luck, boys. But the guys who are getting laid tonight have over 6 cylinders of hot gasomoline action goin on. (especially if they took the trip down from Capital Hill where the annual Gay Pride weekend is a happening)

Ahhhhh. Then on to Dick's for a cheap burger, the best fries in Seattle, and a chocolate shake. It's all cars, all the time today. And I feel fine.

(Oh hey- I did catch part of the Mexico/Argentina game- whatever dude. Viva la whatever. Nationalistic piffle.)

The rules

These aren't about trapping some poor sucker into marrying you. That is an unsavory business of entrapment. Should be illegal.
These are about employment. Now that I'm facing it down again, and planning on staying in a job for a while, I have thought about things that I am willing and unwilling to accept.

-No naked bosses (unless I work for Kenga- fat fucking chance). I saw one of my bosses naked once- we were taking water aerobics (ironic for the water phobic me, I know), and she had no shame. And no muscle tone. Hard to look her in the eyes after that.

-No buddy bosses. None. They are not your friend. They can be a lovely acquaintance. But the power structure must be respected. They might be forced to fire your ass someday, and it could be soooo ugly if they are personally involved. And they can use personal stuff against you if they have it. Fuck that.

-The same rule kind of applies to co-workers. I have been stabbed on several occasions, and have learned to keep certain things to myself. Like blogging. And other aspects of my personal life that might be used against me. A healthy dose of paranoia on the job front can really be a good thing. CYA.

-Team rules- I don't have a huge ego on the job front. That's reserved for when I'm a civilian. (right...unless I'm playing sports- then I'm pitiful) Shit just needs to get done. If I do it, I can make it fit my opinion of doing it right. And if I screw up, I'll fess up. It's better that way.

-Boundaries- they are important. I am not one of those "anything for my job" kinda girls. Not anymore. It never seemed to help. I always felt put-upon, because those who requested more from me didn't reward for same. So fuck that. If it's important for the job to start encroaching on home life and outside, then it's not the job for me. Sanity is more important.

That's all that I can think of right now. More will probably occur to me later. Or not. Depending on how inspired and how keyed up I get before I show up for work next week. I have grown so used to the eternal round of interviews that they don't freak me out anymore. But the actual job is scary...

Some call him ...Tim

There was this guy I worked with in the retail world back in the day. It was the bookstore of a very large university that I attended. I was temp. He was perm. It was interesting. He really made me think about life.
The guy was in the receiving room for the clothing section. We sold more stupid crap with the university insignia and logo than is healthy, even in a capitalist society. Stupid, stupid crap. Cured me forever of wanting to announce to the world that I am an alumni of ...(blank) college. And I would have to choose between two institutions anyway.
This guy was in his 30s and lived at home. He had a cat named Miles. He was in a band. They were tremendous. Very, very good. He was probably the most damaged soul I had encountered and not dated at that point. Very sad. All he did was put clothes on hangers and listen to music. And play music. And live at home. Seemed to inhibit a grey-scale world of low-grade expectations and depression. Only time I ever saw him really live was on stage. And he was quite good at writing songs, too.
I moved on, deciding that the retail world sucked. And I never saw him again. I just remembered him last night. Wonder if he's still stuck in the stock room...or if he has finally moved on.

Sporty Mcsport Sport

The World Cup is on in the background. I know that I totally slammed it earlier, but since I found out that I can watch it at home and not brave drunken revellers, I thought it might be interesting. Funny enough, it is interesting. But not in the way that's intended.

It just drums in why I really hate team sports that involve running around together and trying to get goals. Really hate them. It's personal.

In Junior High, I had my nose broken by an errant soccer ball to the face. Now this would seem to be an isolated kind of occurance, right? Not exactly. I am the world's worst player. Always. Any team sport. Name one. I'm the total spaz that will inevitably be chosen last, after the chick with one leg, and with due cause. I would choose me last too. There really is nothing more pitiful on God's green earth than watching me attempt to play volleyball. Unless it's watching me try to play soccer. Or basketball. Or basically anything.

And the odd thing is that I have amazing hand/eye coordination for things like art. Thus the art degree. But with sports, it's a lost cause. I have accepted this as my lot in life.

And solo sports are ok- skiiing was fully respectable. Not excellent, but not embarrassing, either. Ditto track. (if you leave out the time I hooked a toe around a hurdle and bit it during a meet- minor embarrassment- we'll not count that)

But gymnastics....sigh...that was my true nemesis. First off, in my defense, I am tall. Quite tall. For a girl. And gymnastics is built for the stumpy girls. I can stand flat footed and wrap my hands around the tall bar on the uneven bars. This was not the intent of the uneven bars. So, my question is, "Why ask the equipment to bear an unreasonable burden?" Meaning me, of course. The gym teachers- a stumpy little bunch, the lot of them, weren't sympathetic. It was horrific. I broke my arm on the parallel bars. Seriously. I fell off of them. And had a cast up to my shoulder for 6 weeks. I also cut part of a finger off on the parallel bars- just moving them. I figured at that point that the bars had it out for me. It's hard to just walk off 8 stitches and a permanent sensitive scar (it still feels icky sometimes).

So. That's the saga of me and sports. Why I hate them. Unless there's an internal combustion engine involved, or a bicycle. Or even helmets. I kinda like football. But I never humiliated myself playing football. So no adverse associations there.

Oh- and soccer also conjures up keep away. I hated keep away. Because I was also inept at keep away. Go figure. Lanky, tall, pitiful, clumsy thing...

Maths

Maths

Not really work safe. And kinda long. But lovely.

Ah. And now for something non-birthday related

Done being birthday princess. Back to reality.

There was a grand roadtrip north yesterday. We went to outlet malls. Kenga exercised extreme patience and compassion, and shopped with me. I tried to keep it reasonably short, and didn't try on any clothes. I know that the boy does have limits. As do I in an auto parts store. He even went into the perfume outlet store and helped me pick some fragrances. I love him. He is good. He can discuss top notes and core fragrance without sounding totally gay.

Then we visited Anacortes and Whidbey Island. Very pretty. And Mondays are good for travelling. Not too much traffic, etc. The islands are funny, though. They almost look like they were dropped down from the middle of Flathead lake or something. Not what we expected.

We put our feet in the motherass cold ocean and had rootbeer floats at an A & W drive in with the actual carhops. They don't use the deception mugs anymore (they always looked substantially larger than they actually were). Tasted the same, though.

And then we rounded it up with a ferry ride. I love the ferry rides. I feel like the dog with its head out the window. If I had a big saggy tongue, it would be hanging out on a ferry ride.

Dinner was at the Latona Pub (very good) and we finished with a selection of birthday chocolates and unfiltered saki.

Now back to the business of whatever it is that I do during the day. Which depends.

Buzzed blogging

Yeah. Tomorrow is the big day. 40. Yup.

Coolest event of the day, besides the 1 yr birthday of the daughter of a couple of friends-

I got carded. Yup. Either she was totally coming on to me, or I am deceptively young looking. I am taking it the second way. Because it makes me happy as hell.

And now I have consumed over 2 pints of very good Canadian dark beer. Lovely stuff really. And I am breaking a cardinal rule- blogging whilst intoxicated. Yeah- the proper keys are difficult to manage- lots of backtracking and fixing. Hopefully successful seeing of bad keys and misspellings...

So. I also have a job in 1 week at the Empire. Yeah. Selling out. But the student loans have to get paid somehow. And the lady who hired me seems very coolish. There are certainly worse fates. (ie. what I was facing back in MT) And it's out of the banking world. Not quite so bloody buttoned down. Bit of an ugly commute. But otherwise looks very promising.

Tomorrow, on the big day, we take a roadtrip. Because it's fun. Because I have a new car. Because the Raconteurs are on the CD player. Because so are the White Stripes. And U2. And the Brian Jonestown Massacre. And the Pixies. Life is good my friends. I never, never, never have to be 20 again. Never. I can go onward and be one hell of a lot happier. And allegedly I hit my sexual prime round abouts now. That's definately good news. WHOOO HOOO!

And I've been losing weight. That ton of pounds (figuratively speaking ) that I acquired when I hit the metabolism wall at 27 has been shifting lately. Good news. Helps that I haven't been stuffing myself, and have been taking lots of walks. So. Or it's cancer. But I choose to see it in a positive light, since I haven't had any unattributable pains or fainting bouts.

Back to the drunkism. Getting more buzzed by the minute. Canadian beer. I had forgotten the full extent of alcohol included. Funny. 1 year ago today we were in Montreal for the F1 race. And I was equally as inebriated with the same brand of Canadian beer. Talk about non-meaningful parallels. (I spelled parallel one time and won the 6th grade spelling bee- what a hero).

And that's enough. Stream of consciousness whilst drunk is a stoopid and silly thing. Just keep me away from the fucking phone, and all might be well. So, LX- you should be proud. She is drinking, per your instructions. And Kenga is likewise drinking. Whooo hooo. Road trip!!!

Bloomsday, Bloomsday,
Everyone loves the Bloomsday.
Bloomsday, Bloomsday,
Ye Gods I hated Ulysses!

Gotta admit- that book kicked my ass. The only one to ever do so besides Max Weber(and that was just boring, not difficult). I even stopped 450 pages into Joyce's "masterpiece" and decided that life was just too goddamned short to endure any more. I'll be up front. Reading it was akin to playing the little game, Hey, it hurts when I do this. Or the other perennial favorite game- What the hell is that mole doing- does it look normal? (the answer is no...it's melanoma. Deal with it.) That's how much fucking joy Joyce gives me. And I have never cracked the cover of Finnegan's Wake. I'm pretty convinced that most people who rave about and have Joyce featured in their bookshelves (prominently, I'm sure) are unqualified snobs who don't really know what the hell they're talking about. They've gotta be onto that Emperor wears no clothes track.

I will admit, however, that I like the following quote from the book- just because there's such a rhythm to it:
I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

And who can forget the following?:

British Beatitudes! … Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.

While I'm on a roll

Another piece of nostalgia for the record.

My favorite thing when I was six-

Riding my bike. I would pedal the purple Schwinn as fast as I could, until my thighs burned. Then I would stand on the pedals and coast for as long as I could. The wind would turn my long hair into a flag that flapped behind me. I felt like I was flying. Then I would speed up and repeat. I would go anywhere. All around the neighborhood, and beyond. I could go to the school and play on the swings. I loved the swings. I could go to other neighborhoods and look at the big old houses and think of the people who lived inside. I imagined that they were rich. Or witches. Depending on the house.
The big brick Victorian below us on the hill was full of witches, I was convinced. Mainly because the house was in a glorious state of disrepair (since then remedied), and full of hippies. There were wrought iron crosses on the main chimneys near the tops. I once took out the binoculars so that I could see these crosses more clearly. This was after the house was featured in one of the more graphic and horrifying nightmares of my childhood. I have always been able to remember my dreams...
But back to the bike. It was the kind of freedom that I experienced when I started to drive. And still experience when I'm flooring it down the highway, with music as loud as I can tolerate. My hair isn't a flag in the wind, but the feeling is pretty much the same.

Once upon a time there were two roads. Both were highways going through the small town that coincidentally is also the capital city.

At the intersection of these roads was a gas station and motel. These were built in the 1940's, when the highways were busy, and people were on the move.

The motel featured little western-themed cabins painted originally white with red trim. I remember them as pink. With little cowboys and cows on the front under the eaves.

There was a lawn in the center of the complex with trees surrounding the grass. The lawn and the little planters in front of the units were rimmed by white-painted rocks.

There were rose bushes planted in front of the units. Red roses were prominent, as they were her favorites. I remember in the summer, she would always have a clear glass rose bowl in the living room by her chair with a rose in it.

Across the alley were more rooms, and some garages in the back. These had things in them. I didn't get to play in there.

There was also the linen hut. It smelled of starched white sheets, bleached towels and soap. And dust from the driveway.

I don't remember ever seeing the motel in anything but sunshine.

Under the motel sign, he planted carnations. They smelled a lot. I loved them.

Behind the units there was a small avenue of lilac bushes. These were quite tall, and there was a dusty space under them. It was the perfect place to play with my little matchbox cars that I stole from my uncle. There are probably cars buried under the dirt under the blacktop back there to this day.

It's basically all gone. Every bit. What remains will soon be gone forever too. It only exists in my dreams. And I do still dream of the place. Often. It's always summer. It's always sunny. I'm always safe. And all my dead are alive again.

Hey- I just thought of something!

I was reading a scurrilous tabloid rumor about a F1 driver. Those of you who know me well know that I'm obsessed with F1. Screw the World Cup. I just love me the motor sport of kings.

Anyhow, the rumor concerned a retired driver, some coke, a hooker in Monaco, and crapping the bed. Oh- and a wife giving birth on Monaco race weekend. Now, me being the curious one that I am decided that this was a tale worthy of some investigation.

And I found bupkus. The story is a lie. The only recently retired drivers don't fit the profile at all. One is single and allegedly dating Pamela Anderson- thus killing the pregnant wife giving birth part of the rumor. The other had a baby all right, but in December- thus killing the Monaco race weekend/hooker part. That still leaves the crapping the bed part unsubstantiated, but I choose to see that as most likely also untrue.

I even investigated current drivers, and none of them fit the profile either. And yes, I'm when it comes to creepy investigations, I'm that good. Missed my calling- I should be a PI. Seriously- I do know enough about the F1 world to be scary when it comes to rumors that need debunking.

So what does this teach us? Well, that rumors started by tabloids are very likely a pack of lies. Really makes you wonder about Britney and Kevin, right???

Nothing going on

I stare at the blank page, and have literally nothing going on in my head. Just the buzz of the computer. And the sound of traffic on the West Seattle Bridge (yes, we're that close). Usually by this point, I have at least a half a dozen things that I want to say. But today, and yesterday, no. Ever since the headache. There's a nightmare vision for you- the headache that robs me of my creativity forever...ohhhh....some would say that would be a blessing.

So, rather than beat my still-a-little-tender head against the walls, I will just go do something else. Something like water the plants. Or read a book. Or watch a movie. Or hey, here's an idea, get dressed! Nothing like getting out of jammies by noon to show how very, very motivated I am!

How scary is this???

From Slate magazine:

On June 3, the bodies of two college students were found in a giant helium balloon in Florida. The week before, a 10-year-old in New Jersey collapsed at a birthday party after sucking helium from a balloon. Is helium really that dangerous?

It can be. Breathing in pure helium deprives the body of oxygen, as if you were holding your breath. If you couldn't breathe at all, you'd start to die in minutes—as soon as your body exhausted the supply of oxygen stored in the blood. But helium speeds up this process: When the gas fills your lungs, it creates a diffusion gradient that washes out the oxygen. In other words, each breath of helium you take sucks more oxygen out of your system. After inhaling helium, the body's oxygen level can plummet to a hazardous level in a matter of seconds.

You don't have to worry about fatal asphyxiation if you're sucking from a helium balloon at a party. At worst you'll keep going until you get lightheaded and pass out—at which point you'll stop inhaling helium and your body's oxygen levels will return to normal. Of more concern is the possibility that you'll hurt yourself when you fall down. (The boy in New Jersey bumped his head and needed three stitches.) It's far more dangerous to suck helium out of a pressurized tank: If the gas comes in too quickly, your lungs might burst and hemorrhage.

I had no IDEA this could happen. Silly helium, up there at the top of the periodic table. Noble gases, indeed.

Ongoing list of complaints

I am having a migraine today. So I am medicated, in my bathrobe, and going to ensconce myself on the couch for some movie-watching between naps. Seriously- I thought I was having a stroke this morning when I woke up to the sharp piercing pains in my brain. I could feel every pulse. It was nasty.

Now that I'm sort of human again, I will just sit tight.

No blogging for several days- the computer was fucked up. Kenga spent an inordinate amount of time trying to fix it. But being the heroic boy that he is, he was successful. But there was no access for a while. It was sad. And scary.

And it's raining outside. Which matches the general mood in the house, I fear. So it's probably best that I wrap this up, and go watch something entertaining- hopefully with William Powell or Jean Harlow. (I think I have a couple of those on the Tivo.)

Oh and to add to the list of complaints for today- the F1 race at Silverstone was televised on CBS yesterday. Fucking Derek Daily is a prat. That's about all I care to say about it. The good news- no more CBS coverage for the rest of the year. It's all on SPEED Tv. This is a lovely thing.

Oh- and I turn 40 next Monday. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I guess it beats the hell out of being dead. Somehow. But with this headache, and the accompanying effort to hit the proper letters on the keyboard, I kind of wonder.

Don't worry- the gun stays in the kitchen drawer. I'm just going to self-medicate today and go enjoy the light comedies of the 30's. A time that was economically alleged to be worse than today. Whatever. At least the President at the time wasn't inching us towards Fascism. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Now I remember what I didn't like about The Sheltering Sky- it's one of the fucking most depressing books I've ever read! That's it!!! The movie made me want to open a vein. Even if I did get a close up of Malkovich's winky. Or a winky double. But my money is on the real thingy.

Bowles supposedly hated the movie. I really have to wonder- does an author ever like a movie adaptation of his or her book? Seriously. I think volumes could be filled with the rantings of authors whose books haven't adequately been filmed. It's a crapshoot. And they get the money. But having a book baby adapted by a hack- shudder...

Then there're the authors who are just deluded (if not denuded) into expressing inappropriate enthusiasm for the movie version- Anne Rice, I'm talkin to you, chick- Queen of the Damned pretty much blew ass, and you would know it if you got your head outa your ass on that one. It really, really sucked. Up there with Herbie- Fully Loaded in the pantheon of ass-blowing movies. Really inspired severe lower GI cramps and everything. And food had nothing to do with it. It was all in the movie. Thank you Anne. Glad the movie made you all happy- but I'll sure as hell view anything you endorse with some serious scepticism.

I guess I need to admit right now that Anne was a guilty pleasure for many years. Until she became overweening, and decided that editing wasn't necessary. That every word was sacred. Every word was good. Every word was sacred in her stupid books. Then I got over it. But every once in a while, those silly movies inspired by her books are on the telly. Then because Kenga is a perverse little pill, we might wind up watching them. He loves him the really bad movies. Like I loves me the 30's comedies starring William Powell. Mine are better, though.

And now back to the morning- I'm being short-term bathrobe girl this morning. But I must resist the temptation today- I have a vet appointment for Big Kitty's teef. They look pretty ratty. Poor Big Kitty.

Last night I cracked open the single-malt (for the first time in months- it's called rationing- I can't afford to replace the nectar of the gods...) and finished watching The Secret Agent. Nothing like Robin Williams playing a psycho killer to make for a good finish on the day. Then I cracked open the book itself (Dover edition- $3.00) to re-read it. Last time I read it, I was the TA for a class on Terrorism and Political Violence and had to read it to grade the tests.

The movie-not as bad as they say on IMDB (for perspective, they oughta sit through Herbie- Fully Loaded if they want to experience true greatness of badness). Like I said, I loves me a Robin Williams villian turn. Hates me a Robin Williams good guy experience What Dreams May Come- was unfuckingwatchable in my book. I wanted to gouge my eyes out with a pen whilst sitting through it. And we will not discuss Snatch Adams ( I know I'm misspelling- it's intentional- I really didn't like the guy to start with- met him in college once). Treacly messes, all of them.

So. A Joseph Conrad night. Then I started watching The Sheltering Sky. Gotta say I wasn't a big fan of the book. And the movie isn't all that promising. But I'll give it a shot- Paul Bowles is a narrarator in it, which is interesting. And he sits in a cafe gazing sorrowfully at the actors. Love the sorrowful author turn. Who wouldn't? Imagine Hemingway gazing intently at Cooper and Hayes in the 1930s adaptation of A Farewell to Arms and wondering why Cooper is wearing as much eye makeup as Hayes. At least Adolph Menjou isn't horrible in that one.

And I would pay good money to see Capote in some shot of In Cold Blood- maybe as a prisoner in the jail. That would entertain me.

Anyhew, that's the evening past. Adaptations of novels, and the actual source novels themselves.

Things I want to do

I have a pretty short list of things that I think are essential to do with my life. I was thinking about this on the commute back from Bellevue. Really, I have never been a career kind of person. I have never really jumped aboard the path to a goal way of finding a job. The Law School thing has been the closest that I've gotten- if we disregard the grad school years. And those were unfocused enough to be disregarded. Just learned some kick-ass research skills, got stoned for the first time, and fell in love with Kenga.

The list includes the following:

-go to Europe. Finally. Already.
-pay off my student loans (see what's keeping me from going to Europe)
-see the White Stripes in concert.
-see the Pixies in concert.
-lose about 20 pounds and get into some of my nicer skinny clothes (notice I did NOT say weigh what I did in High School? I'm being realistic here)
-finish writing the project I've been working on for 3 years. It just needs to happen.
-get better at driving a stick shift.

There's probably more, but these are all good places to start. All have meaning to me, and aren't impossible. Well, maybe the 20 pounds part is impossible. But I'll have to give it a try.

Another day...

Today's round of interviews was brought to you by the kind folks at Microsoft. Yup. The empire called, and I answered.

We'll see.

I think it went well, but have learned that I have pretty poor instincts in this area. I generally always think it went well. Almost always.

He spent his life in the margins. Living between times. His real passion, his real life occurred only in the summers. The rest of the year was spent anticipating. And finding financing. Courting the rich with the romance of the past.

The desert stole his youth. He went there to find another past, not his own. His never would've stood the scrutiny. Just a normal youth. School, family, football, cricket, England.

With the tools of the trade- sable brushes, trowels, and shovels, he dug into eternity. Not his own.

The discoveries were made by others. But he read about them and dreamed of finding something that would make every summer spent in the pursuit worthwhile. And that would make all of those anticipatory seasons vanish in the blaze of the glory of eternity.

Everyone remembers Howard Carter, right?

(it's Egypt night on Discovery. FYI)