Awards schmwards

Just watched the Academy's. Love, love, love Jon Stewart. Despite his somewhat tepid reception- I thought he was wonderful.

I didn't see most of the movies. I really don't even know why I care- I just wanted to see Jon be funny.

There is one lasting mystery about the night, however. Why did Tom Hanks look so totally pissed off when he strode out to announce the best director award? He didn't banter, or even crack a smile. And that was after his goofy thing earlier in the night. What happened? Is he a secret dick, wearing his smiles as a mask to inner dickiness? Or did someone really jerk him around just prior to going onstage? Wha happened?

In another life, I want Hillary Swank's body to be my own. But not her face. It kind of scares me.

Or Salma Hyack's body.

Despite my love for him in many movies, I suspect that Philip Seymor Hoffman is a closet jerk. Something about him seems a tad precious. I dunno. It's just a sixth sense that I have for that kind of thing.

Is there a plan afoot for another Speed movie? If not, then why did Sandra and Keanu show up together? I'm very confused. I didn't think that anything spontaneous happened at the Oscars. Much less careless dating. Very mysterious.

That's about all I really have to say about the 4 or so hours of my life that won't come back again. Except that during that time I wrote my second of two personal statements for U of MT Law school. And got my application in an envelope and ready to post tomorrow. And I ate some good cheese on mediocre crackers. And drank a sip or two of wine. And folded a couple of loads of laundry. And watched the kitties play with their new toy- a laser pointer. Endless hours of entertainment there.

Resuming holding pattern

Still waiting to hear about the banking gig. Interview went very well, I thought.
Basically, true to form, no one in this stupid town can make up their minds in a timely manner, and communicate the decision quickly.

Firemen won't let go...

I keep expecting to have my last day, and find out that it has been extended. I went in for what I thought was 2 hours of debriefing this morning. Got home at 4, after a full day. They want me back tomorrow.

I have an interview at the bank tomorrow. I'll still go to that. If the firemen want me badly enough, they'll pay me what the bank is offering. Then I'll stay. Happily. Otherwise, if I get this new job, I'm outa there.

No other big news- just gonna go sit on couch. And be kittenlike. Like the name.

Stoopid firemen

Gave me the flu.

Seriously. And they weren't even around. We were at a station on Friday that was basically empty. Everyone but those on shift (ie., recruits, and trainees) were sent home because of the flu. And now I have it. All weekend. Headache, bodyache, fever, icky throat...

Got to do some movie watching though. Saw a couple of really good ones. Peeping Tom, The 400 Blows, and Ordet were among the highlights. Plenty of Criterion Classics from the library for me to delve into.

We also watched the closing ceremonies yesterday on the Canadian TV channel. They showed it all live, rather than waiting for NBC to show it all very late at night.

What extreme, expensive silliness. The basic carnival premise was good. I liked that ok. But then they got all creative and whacky. Like they were French, or something, no? I understand the Fellini allegory, too- but some of this went a bit beyond Fedrico, and was firmly entrenched in odd.

There was some kind of allegorical development of heaven and hell going on. Angels sang. Then little devil children sang. Then a sinister man with what appeared to be a red tail played a fiery dragon harp. And the devil children gathered around him. Then pyrotechnics. Then some more stuff. Then came what I thought was the goofiest part- and I really didn't get the symbolism at all. There were 300+ brides who came out. I was expecting a possible mass ceremony, a la Rev. Moon. But no. They came out, some Italian pop star with a nasty tat makeuped out on her chest sang some Italian pop song, and the brides shuffeled into various shapes, kind of like a slow-moving and not horribly graceful Busby Berkely production (look him up on IMDB if you need to know). It was odd. Without the mass ceremony, I thought that maybe they represented the only virgins remaining in Turin. And that they were the spoils of war, so to speak, for the Olympians to enjoy later. Or maybe they were just getting married later that evening. Confused the hell out of me.

Then there were more things, and it was finally over. Even the Canadian commentators were getting a little overwhelmed by it all. One of them sighed, "look, there's more..." at one point.

Then they showed the skaters in their little production show after the games. I guess it's kind of a working audition for Stars on Ice. Nice. But kinda boring. I was feeling tired, and went to take a nap. Without Johnny Weir, I didn't care. I love him. He is wonderful. He uses words like, "princessy" whilst talking to the press. This makes me happy. He refuses to answer the gay question, stating, and rightfully so, that it doesn't matter to his skating career. I love him.

And now it's time to retire to the bed again. I have a lovely bio of Jean Harlow from the library to read if I feel like it. I like her. She was good. It's shaping up to be a pretty sad story, but interesting.

Partly cloudy- with chance of sun

Things are looking up.

I got accepted to Penn State.

Now I need to decide if we want to move to Pennsylvania- what will Kenga do? Where will we live? etc.

It depends on the package that they offer. Haven't received the paper copy yet- just got an email this morning.

Also, 6 days of the job left. I'm keeping definate count this time. I think that we'll be done, and nothing will be left to count. And just in time too- my feet are beginning to feel the effects of hours on concrete, despite good shoes.

Well, we'll pick up and try again

Strike one at the empire.

Seems that in my 15 minute interview, the fellow at the empire decided that I lacked passion for the business. I'm not sure how he determined this, since it usually takes longer for me to check out at the grocery store than he spent interviewing me, but oh well.

I'm being put in for another position.

Guess I will be with the current job for the remainder of my 9 days.

Getting the crap kicked out of me

From the inside out.

Something about the Ethiopian food last night was unsettling me pretty badly. So in the middle of the night, I was awake. And as is always the cast, things look very bad in the middle of the night. I was pondering the whole job/law school/ reality thing.

I am pretty convinced that I didn't get the job. It's just a feeling. Hopefully I'll find out tomorrow, and can then try for another one. There has to be more than one opening at the empire.

I got a letter from Seattle U that I'm on the waitlist for law school. Better than turned down cold, but that still might be the outcome. I'll have to see if there's anything that I can do to improve my chances. It's looking not so good, though. At least from the 3:00 AM sick tummy standpoint.

Went to coffee and donuts with Kenga this morning. It was nice. There was a homeless man outside bellowing for coffee. I gave him a couple of dollars. Mind you, all of my money is blood money in a way. I have worked my ass off for all of it. So it was a considered action. Why? Well, I think that he is having a worse day than I'll ever have. Hope he got his coffee. I had a pink, twirly donut. It was yummy. But my tummy hurts again, so it wasn't necessarily a good idea. Either that or it's a tumor. That's the mood of the day. Lucky Kenga. I'll just bury myself in some movies or something. Definately good sometimes to hibernate.

I am getting tired of the ass kicking that I am receiving though. The novelty has worn off. And now it's just getting to the point where I am wondering what kind of lesson I'm supposed to learn from it all. If there is actually a lesson to learn. Or if it's just the reality for the rest of my life. Also ran. Second best. B+ student. I contemplate that all with some amount of humor (oh- the self pity of it all...) but also with some amount of chagrin. Can't deny that it's been a rotten situation on many levels.

Gonna go watch some Lympics, I think. And try not to drown in my own sorrowful morass....poor me. To quote Nancy Kerrigan, "Why me???"

(apologize for the last part- it's pretty much a joke- I would never seriously quote Nancy Kerrigan. Never.)

Good with the bad

Well. I thought that I was over the whole crappy job thing. But it seems our contract has been extended another 2 weeks. ARRRRGGGGG!!!!!

Now we get to inventory the really difficult and specialty stuff. No more easy stuff for us. We're now pros. If I can keep the other two from killing eachother, it shouldn't be too horrible. But that will be an extreme challenge. I am hoping against hope that I will hear from the empire first, and be able to opt out. The inventory superiors know about the interview and possible jumping ship, so it isn't like I'll go to hell for abandoning the grand project. Then I can start re-growing the skin on my hands too. I scrape the hell out of them every day.

Now for something that I enjoyed. All week there has been a funny conversation on Slate about the Lympics. I thought that this paragraph was deeelightful.

Plushenko seems to split the difference with a Jekyll-and-Hyde approach. He looks quite comfortable making those huge spinning leaps, but then between his jumps he puts on an awkward "passion" mask and starts flitting his hands about, arching his back, and lowering his eyelids in rapture. It feels false and weirdly divorced from the world of sport. Imagine the half-pipe snowboarders pausing midway down their run, performing a series of half-assed, overwrought dance moves (replete with jazz hands), and then resuming their shredtastic tricks. This will never happen, with good reason.

This is why I love Slate. I want to work there. But they are in DC, and I don't want to live there. It just sums up the whole thing about figure skating that I think is particularly perplexing. Gay or not? You decide, because they just don't seem to be able to.

No news yet from the empire. The weekend approaches... I have Monday off, so maybe the call will come then...bated breath...(or is it merely belated breath?)

How'd it go?

I dunno. Just dunno. Was very quick- I just can't interpret the whole thing. Didn't have enough face time to really figure much out.

I'm supposed to find out "quickly". Now how they interpret quickly and how I interpret it hopefully are similar.

Went to work for a half day. More drama. Got one of the team members getting uppity. She's decided that she wants to take me down a notch. Silly girl. Doesn't know that she's up against a pro. And that I can see her petty nonsense from miles away. She totally telegraphs her moves. And I can head them off with little effort, all while keeping the smile on my face, and being as friendly to her as I was the day we met. She blanket sprayed the area with petty, but it really didn't last long. Then she pouted the rest of the afternoon. And I was perfectly content to let her. You just can't please some people. That's all I'm sayin.

Too damned tired

Been too tired to write much lately. It got blasted cold here, and it even snowed a touch this morning.

Which sucks.

Anyhew- 3 more days.

The team is getting a little ragged around the edges- two don't like one of the other members, and I find myself trying to soothe hurt feelings. It's stupid for a fucking temp job. But I gotta figure, each of us is a temp for our own special reason. Mine is...I'm a loser, baby. So why don't you kill me....

Got an interview on Thursday at the big company over the lake. Think happy thoughts- it would be really, really good.

Been watching the Lympics in a desultory fashion in the evenings- basically cuz I'm too lazy to fish the remote from between the couch cushions and change it. Also, it's too much of a committment to watch a movie.

I have decided that I want to slap all figure skating commentators silly. Make them cry like babies. They are too bitchy. They are so full of venom that it kills the enjoyment of the event for me. Is it too much to ask to have commentators who offer information without the nasty sidebars of how inferior each competitor is to them? After all, I don't remember ever seeing the nasty Dick Button, or the evil wench commentator on skates. I have a suspicion that if they were in the rink, the current athletes would drop kick them in to shameful silence. Wish it could actually happen. I miss little Scotty Hamilton. He was usually so nice and positive, and forthcoming with the joy of the event.

I have a really hard time, though with the combo of sequins and athletics. It just seems kinda silly.

I dig the snowboarders though. Funny, silly lot. One of the girls had her ipod on while competing. Won a medal too. They seem like the kinda people to do jello shots with, then go out and play in the snow. Who cares if you get hurt? You won't feel a damned thing.

Ah then there are the speed skaters. And their cameltoes. There was speculationat work that the guy who won the 500m event is batting for the other team. Just something about the gestures. I dunno. All I know is that the bare ankles bother me. Don't they get cold as hell?

That's all I want to say for today. I'm gonna go turn on the tv and sit on the couch. And watch others be all athletic.

Time slips

7 more days.

Damn I'm tired. Legs hurt. Too much standing on concrete.

I didn't realize until today that the Olympics start this weekend. Don't really care, though. Haven't cared since I was little and the cold war made it all interesting.

Didn't realize until today that Valentine's Day is next week. Don't really care, though- bad associations with the day. I've been dumped 3 times, by 3 different guys on that day. There is a special hell reserved for a boy who dumps a girl on Valentine's Day. It's a very bad place. With evil squirrels and boiling hot chocolate.

Kenga knows it's just not a big deal for me though. More than anything, I just want to feel like I'm not about to drop over from being sleepy. I probably have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. That's it. I'll say it's terminal. That's why I'm so bloody tired. Or I'm just not sleeping that well. Lately the kitties are deciding that it's fun to wake up earlier than normal. I think it has to do with the days getting longer. And me not being home in the day to keep them awake. So they start their hijinks in the bedroom around 5. Jumping on the bed- playing with stuff on the dresser.

Not much else going on- just counting days. 7.

The revelation moment

We were discussing why I hate this job so very much last night. Kenga made the point that it pushes almost all of my buttons- no fixed location, no space of my own, early mornings, non-demanding-no- almost mindless work, etc. So I was thinking about that some more. And had one of those revelations that can probably only occur after years of expensive therapy.

When I was 20 I had a really crappy job. Makes this look like cake walk. I was cleaning the dorms at the university. What made it really nasty was that it wasn't just one cleaning per dorm. No- they function as a hotel during the summer months. The worst were the football players, followed very closely by a group of elderly bikers. Nasty. The bathrooms were just discouraging.

The particular issue that I ran into was that we were using lots of industrial cleaners and chemicals with no protection, either gloves or respirators. The shit ate through the gloves. So what was the point was the logic. After weeks of that, I developed bronchitis. I got better, but then a week later got another bout of bronchitis.

When I returned, the fat fucker who was my boss (drove around in his pickup everywhere, and looked like a walking heart attack- pox on his home) called me aside. He fired me, saying that it made no difference if I was there or not. I went to the room I was working on, and called my mom. I had never been fired before. I was crying. She said to get the hell out of there. Just stop. Leave the rest of the room for everyone else. She seemed pissed.

Knowing what I know now, I probably should've chalked up my illness to chemical exposure and filed a work comp claim. I was a young dumbass.

The whole experience reigns as my worst job ever. And it really hurt, to boot. So I think that this current job, at least the physical side of it, reminds me of that one. Thus I think I'm tapping into some of that memorial hardship. And I have to just push on through. It'll all be ok- and it's not rocket science. On a really good note- I do get to deal with really wonderful people, and I don't have to bring the work home. Ever.

11 more days.

Forgot to mention

In my rant about the soft wood that we walk upon, I forgot to mention the silly carpet in the bedrooms. I'm never a carpet fan. Despite cold Montana winters, I hate the stuff. I would rather have a hard-wood floor and some throw rugs that don't slip.

Anyway, someone who owns the house put in light beige berber carpet in the bedrooms. Then came the Fluffy. She was the cat who used to live here, if you've been following the plot to date. She was a marker. Bad, bad Fluffy. It took me a couple of weeks, with numerous applications of special enzyme solutions from the pet store to remove eau du Fluffy from the bedrooms. And on really damp days, there is a ghost...of a smell...and it's NOT me.

Pets and carpet are icky. Not to mention that they're havens for the fleas that infest the place. We bombed after moving in too- Sylvester, our foster kitty was infested. Luckily he didn't have worms. So carpet is stupid too. And the light color is even worse- the back bedroom is the walkway for getting into the house..from the garage...now, seriously, how stupid is that.

Back from the abyss

We went to Borders tonight. To spend holiday gift certificate.

On the way, I stopped to put my paycheck in the bank.

Whilst filling out the envelope and preparing to deposit, a man raged into the atm area. He shoved Kenga aside screaming, "get the FUCK out of my way." He went to the door, shouting, "what fucking time is it?" The bank was closed- had been since 2. He hit the door, took his sunglasses from his head, threw them on the floor where they shattered, while screeching, "fucking pieces of shit." Then he kicked the glass doors to the street, and rushed out.

While this was going on, the onlookers sort of huddled away from him. He was tall, and his face was covered in scabs- he looked like he had been severely beaten rather recently. I was preparing to use my ballpoint pen as a stabbing weapon if he came near me or Kenga again.

We left after I deposited my check. He was on the street a ways off, trying to pick another fight. There was a cop car nearby, so we figured that he couldn't get into too much trouble.

Then after we left the bookstore, and were going to the car, we passed a homeless guy rummaging for cans. He didn't like what he found, and shouted, "ARRRGGG...mumble, mumble, mumble....ARRRGGG!!!" We crossed the street, laughing and went to the car. The rain stops, and the whack jobs come out to play.

And finally for today

I know that I'm being shockingly prolific today. It's just the mood, I guess.

20 years ago today, we buried my beloved Uncle. He died at the age of 33 of an alcohol overdose- either intentional, or not- we'll never know. My dad was the one who found him. I'll miss him until the day I die- he was one of my favorite people on the planet, despite being totally screwed up in many ways. He was funny, smart, and very kind. I was always afraid of not lasting past my 33rd year- call it silly superstition. Obviously I did.

We returned from the cemetary and saw that the Challenger had blown up. It was a universal shitty day.

Something we decided last night

Kenga and I were talking while falling asleep last night, and we decided that the bands Asia, Kansas, Boston (saw them live-in the 80's), Toto (also saw them live in the 80's) and Foreigner were all the same. We are unsure as how to classify them exactly- album rock? FM rock? I dunno. But they are the same.

Ones from that period that are slightly different include the Southern rock bands, Styx (their albums had themes and all), REO Speedwagon (Kevin Cronin's voice was nastily original), Journey (ditto Steve Perry) and the really hard stuff like AC/DC, etc.

I won't add Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, or the earlier ones to the list, as I think they have earned some respect for being earlier.

What really hurts, and I mean really, really hurts, is the fact that I know the words to so many of the aforementioned bands' songs. And if you knew how many of their albums I used to own, I would die a little inside. So I'm not telling. Taking that one with me to the grave, I am. Funny though- remember Shawn from the previous post? He used to send me lists of his record collection. I reciprocated. Kinda sexy, no? No.

On a literary note

Last week I read a bio of Aleister Crowley. I am not in the least interested in becoming a follower. Nor do I have aspirations to be a magician. In the tacky showbiz sense or otherwise. I just really wanted to know what the fuss was about.

It was a well-written one, and I got a good sense of who the man was. It made me sad, overall. I thought that in summation, he was an extraordinarily intellegent and talented man. I don't know if the magick actually existed in anything but his head, but he did believe. (there were so many drugs involved, that I wouldn't rule out mass halucinations). I think that if he had focused in a different direction, he could've been great. But he made me sad. He was so ruled by his sexual passions that he let them mutate his character in an ugly way. He would've been much happier if he had been born 50 years later, too. He was bisexual, and spent an enormous amount of energy hiding the homosexual side of his person.

As for being the most evil man in the world, well, we've seen Stalin, Hitler, Idi Amin, etc. since him, and he doesn't even come close. The ritual murders, etc. are dispelled as myths. He struggled. Against drugs after they took over, against poverty after he spent his inheritence, and against himself. Kinda reminded me of Orson Welles in a way. Too bloody smart for their own good, and too arrogant to understand that there are limitations. But then, they both accomplished creative greatness. So who the fuck am I to complain? I just see that both died very unhappy and unhealthily. Reminds me of the Greek philosopher (can't remember who, and Kenga isn't here to ask) who said, "never judge a man happy until he is dead."

General stuff

I have 15 more days of the job. That's it. Then I can do something that maybe actually clicks into more than just my latent OCD.

It's raining heavily again- always makes me wonder if our house will slide down the hill. But since it's been here since 1911, and has a new foundation, circa 2004, not likely.

I've been using the light lamp that my mom gave me a year ago. I don't know if it makes a damned bit of difference, but I feel a little less like putting my head in an oven. But that could also be the effect of sleeping in and leisurely enjoying my tea.

Watched Eric Von Stroheim's Greed last night. Had to use the single fast forward feature on the Tivo control. Too fucking long otherwise. 4 hours to be exact. I don't think I could endure a 4 hour silent film in and of itself. I watched Birth of a Nation probably 15 years ago, and about died.Then, being a masochist, I watched Intolerance. Damn. I enjoy lots of the silents, but lack the patience to deal with any lonnnngggg movie- silent or otherwise. I can just see where edits could be made to make the story flow more concisely. But many of these directors have their egos intact, and don't see where their vision might be flawed by self-indulgence. Being told you're a genius seems to have this effect. Kinda like reading an Anne Rice novel- the early ones are pretty good- great plots, excellent character development, and they move along pretty nicely. But then came The Witching Hour. Damn. I would've cut at least 150 pages from that monstrosity. And reading her discussing her work was unbearable at that point. Every word was sacred. No editing was to be done by anyone but herself. Thus wasn't to be done at all. Damned shame, if you ask me. She could've used the discipline. There again, ego. But she's got the cash in the bank to show that she knows something about her fans. I just won't buy her books anymore- and sneak them out of the library with a strong sense of guilt. The kind of guilt inspired by sittting down to a Sara Lee pound cake and eating the whole thing in one sitting- alone. Not that I've ever done that...I promise!

Renovation tip #1

For those of you thinking of putting in wood flooring- from experience I speak. Do NOT use soft wood. Never, never, never. It's stupid. The people who did our rental used redwood. It scratches like a motherfucker. It's dumb. Cat claws scratch it. It is much like balsawood. Stupid flooring.

Pen pal

Another blog (not my own) mentions Nazareth's Hair of the Dog album. Brings back the 80's memories- heavy. Back in the day I had this friend. Since I haven't spoken to him in over 20 years, we'll call him Shawn. Why the hell not.
I met Shawn at Youth Legislature Freshman year in high school. He was a Junior. He was from another town. He let me hang out with him and his friends. They were cool, older and very funny. We were the Communist party. Not because of the ideology, but to piss of everyone else. Kind of the punk way.
His girlfriend- or ex- or something, was part of their group. She never spoke to me, and spent the entire time with another guy, basically making out. Shawn seemed a little upset by this. He flirted. I was interested.
He went home. We started writing to eachother. Basically a letter or two every several days for a couple of years. Until he went to college, and wrote me a Dear Jane letter.

Funny though. In my Soph. year, I went north to a town near his for a conference my dad was attending. I got to tag along, because dad is pretty cool. I went to Shawn's house. Met his family. Hung out. He had made some pretty strong statements about his feelings for me by this time. I took him at his word. We went to a movie. I kept expecting something. Anything. Anything at all. But nothing. When he dropped me off, I expected a hug at least. Nothing. It was really strange. Confusing. It made me mad.

I actually broached the subject in a letter after I got home. He claimed that he was possibly getting back together with the ex-girlfriend. It was odd again. Because I pretty much knew that this was bullshit.

Then came the kiss off letter. What a little shit. The way I figured the whole thing out, after re-reading the letters, was that he was closeted. And I was the "girlfriend in Canada" so to speak. Great in theory for proving hetero qualities, but inconvenient, not to mention awkward as hell in the flesh. And I wasn't shy about what I would've liked from what I considered to be a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship. (he brought up the whole relationship thing- not me...)

He gave me the Nazareth vinyl for my birthday. Along with Asia's first album. How fucking romantic. The little shit. (actually not so little- the fucker was really tall.) Anyway, a minor pox on his home. Period.

I AM the man

I am now the team lead. Only reason- because I am still there. I am the second longest person on the job from the temp side of things. Funny. Not that the work is all that hard- it's just rough on the body being in the cold and climbing around the stuff that we're counting. But it's funny.
I'm convinced that a trained monkey could do my job. Not particularly well, mind you, but well enough. What makes me so exceptional, you ask? Well, I would say that it's my OCD in full roar. Have to be accurate, or I won't sleep tonight. Actually, it's all about longevity. That's basically it.
The people I work with are lovely. My problem with the job is getting out of bed in the morning. I'm not liking that at all. Very difficult. Hate it, in fact.
Stupid mornings.

Foggy day in kitten town

For some reason it's been rough getting to sleep lately. What with the job (cough, cough) and all, I'm just tired. Thus the not many posts in the last week or so.

Lots of vivid dreams. Not VIVID like the porn studio- but just active. Wake up in a funk. And this morning it's seriously foggy outside. Matches the mental state inside.

All I got to say is that the word for the day is reluctance. I am reluctant to get out of bed. Equally reluctant to go outside into the fog. Reluctant to go do my silly job. What appeals is a nice pot of tea and the bed. Not in that order, and not at the same time. But I'm pretty sure you're smart enough and can make the leap of imagination to figure out what I'm saying.

Nice work if you can get it

Today I was able to work all day indoors. This made the whole think kind of fun. Like, I might make it 5 weeks fun. We'll see. Let's also say that they put all of the really cute firemen in West Seattle. And I found them. I'm holding my breath for naked Thursdays at the firehouse!

On the news today, they arrested a bunch of ecoterrorists. I always get apprehensive- not for myself. I had a friend in college- Kris- who became an ardent Earth Firstie. I always worry that she will have done something really stupid and gotten prison time. She was really great, but tended to get carried away with the passion of the cause. Good news- she wasn't on the list of suspects. She dropped out of school and off the grid years ago, so I have no idea where she is anymore. No Google search finds her. Off the grid. Probably in Alaska- patron state of the terminally damaged.

Crappy job- more info

So I spent 4 hours this afternoon outside. After being told to dress in corporate casual. Fuckers. It was blasted cold. Luckily I had raincoat. That helped a bit. I'll not be wearing corporate anything for the duration of this particular crappy job. So there. I'm going to go get warm. Or drunk. Or maybe even both. Hah HAH.

Not gonna sit here and whine

Just gotta go to a crappy temp job. Didn't get the other one. Was one of the last 2 candidates. Like that counts.

Just am wondering- what exactly have I accomplished in the last 10 years? Bad question to ask this morning, as I prepare for the aforementioned crappy temp job. The question remains- I just can't answer it right now. If I think about it too hard, I will wind up back in bed, and discover that I don't have the fortitude to leave the house.

Something to ponder

From msnbc.com-

Playboy magazine asked Hugh Laurie — a Brit who plays an American on the show House — which American actor had the worst British accent. “I suppose at the top of every Englishman’s list would be Dick Van Dyke in ‘Mary Poppins,’” he replied. “That would have to be construed as a virtual act of war.”


And now I must go. I have an 8 hour job interview at the place I interviewed at on 12/29. I have high hopes on this one. Things could be turning some kind of employment corner....I dunno.

Ripoff- by me!

I love Toothpaste for Dinner. He makes me happy every morning. I had to steal this and share with all of my lovely blog readers. (All 4 of you who are brave, and my beloved shy lurkers out there- I know who some of you are!!!). Anyway, if you want, check out his site- it's delicious.

Remembering this one

In college I had a wonderful advisor. He was funny, very kind and just my kind of older gentleman protector. He was from New Orleans, and full of charm and southern gentlemanliness. Great guy. Retired just as I went into grad school, which was quite a pity, as I could've used his help in that pursuit. In a big way.

Anyway, he had been in the navy during the Korean War. Got his education on the GI Bill- like most of the professors there of that vintage. Really fun teacher. Had a distinct spit zone, though- you didn't want to sit in the front row- a touch impassioned, shall we say.

He told me this story one day- I thought it was really good.

Seems they had some time off in Hawaii during the war. They were told to be good- not to do any damage to themselves, as their bodies were property of the US Government. Warned that anything that made them unfit for duty would be punishable by a court marshal. Seemed kinda extreme, but I don't know what kind of knotheads were in the group- and what they had done in the past to merit that kind of warning.

After about 48 hours of leave, they were trying to collect stragglers. One guy in particular was missing. Seems that he had spent the entire day on the beach. In his swimsuit. Tanning. Seems that he couldn't move. The sunburn was too extreme. The guys were in a panic- he would be in dire straights if the CO saw him in this state. Blistered and in pain. So they came up with a plan. They sent a couple of guys to the drug store. They put him in a bathtub in the hotel. They poured a half dozen bottles of after shave on him to cure the burn. Then they dressed him in his uniform and propped him up to get him to the boat. Seems that it worked, and Johnny burns a lot wasn't punished. Any more than a second-degree sunburn under full military uniform would be punishment, that is. As a pale (very, very pale) girl born in high altitude, where the sun is evil- I can definately empathize.

He told me this story after I returned from a Mexican vacation with the worst sunburn of my life. I blame the tropics, Coronas and Mexican sunscreen. Along with my own idiocy.

I hope he's still around- I sure liked the guy- he also had a wonderful wife, who was an absolute rock.

He feels pretty, oh so pretty, so pretty and witty and gay.

Then he will poop marshmallows for you. And you will rejoice. Because he is miraculous.

Joke du jour

We have this funny white cat. Yeah- HE's a BOY. Pretty, yes. Prettier than you are. I don't care who you are. He's prettier. But he is most certainly a boy. His name is Mika. After the F1 Finnish driver. Not Mika the girl. Mika the boy. It gets to him sometimes. He cries. Because he's secure, but gets down about it.

So the joke is that he's pretty, cute and very white. He poops marshmallows. And they're like the Lucky Charms marshmallows. Magically delicious. We decided that this was the case, that my cat was chock full of elvin magic over drinks. Many, many drinks. See, he's about as masculine as Orlando Bloom as the elf. Delicious, yes. But prettier than any girl, and with better hair. The bastard. Can't possibly do a man with prettier hair than mine. I remember guys like that in Jr. High- they carried banana combs in their back pockets. Rumor had it that they used curling irons in the morning. Hmmmm.

This is the first sweater that I have ever knitted myself. For our leetle niece. It is Japanese wool and Indonesian elephant buttons. It is elfen magic. It is 100% wool and must be hand washed. It is tragically cute, and makes my teeth hurt. Like chocolate covered cherries.

Just some things

Here is stuff that I want to say- just because it occurred to me over the last couple of weeks:

Suffering is not a competition. It's also not a religion. Pain is pain, you can choose to get over it or not, and mine is no worse nor better than yours. Deal.

Ladies, when in a bar, please DO NOT squat over the toilet whilst peeing- I do not appreciate sitting in your piss. Just sit the fuck down. You'll expose others to fewer germs and experience same that way. Idiots.

Finding your first white hair south of the border, so to speak is a surefire way to feel old. Even if you still get carded.

Apple cider drunk is strange, and yields a surprising array of blank spots in an evening. I don't plan on doing that again. Ever.

As far as I'm concerned, and this is my blog, so my rules- if you're still re-hashing a breakup, firing, or any kind of that stuff that doesn't involve death, sickness, or the law, there is a shelf life for bitching about it. War stories need to remain current, or they just become meaningless bellyaching. No one cares about the fish you caught when you were 12. Ditto the job you lost when you were 22 (and you're in your mid 40's).

Humidity + my hair is very bad. And makes me sad. I give up.

That's all that I need to say for now. No doubt I'll have more later. I am, after all, a big old windbag!

And now for the future

I ate too damned much. I put on some girth. Gotta admit it. Too many cookies. It is all in the snacking and the long car rides, and the staying in bed too late in the morning. And the wine. And the dinners.

I refuse to do the New Year's resolution thing. It is only a set up for let down. But it would be nice to lose what I have gained in this instance. So I'll eat like a normal human again, and walk around more.

There was a job interview when we returned- I think I stand a very good chance of getting this one- I just have to play my next step wisely. I do have a plan there. It is a good one. In the same building downtown as the last one. Maybe I should see that as a sign.

Sometime while we were gone, the two cats that hated eachother fell in love. They will not leave eachother alone. They are both boys. Don't tell me that being gay has nothing to do with nature. If you saw them, you would know differently. They are blissfully happy.

Ghost of Christmas present

It was a warm holiday. Plenty of time spent with my darling friends, family, and ghosts. Probably too much drinking, all told, but I didn't make an ass of myself, so can't feel too bad about it.

Good with bad. Fun times with some, and kind of sad times spent with others- my Grandmother is on the strong decline. Not much time left before her mind is spent. It's like a baloon released in the room- all of the air fizzing out of it. We're struggling against one of Newton's laws. Not gravity, or gravitas- but entropy.

It was the time to say goodbye for the last time to my Grandfather's house. Where the past was stronger than the present. Where the future didn't come into play. And soon will never come into play. It will remain a mental time capsule. I dream myself there most of the time. I have been dreaming about him and his home since I came home. Good dreams, not bad. Unsettling that I'm finally having to let go. I'm not good at that. I get nervous at letting those strings loose, and letting the balloon sail off into the night sky. Knowing that I'll never see it again. That it is a finite thing to begin with. But for a while it was mine.

Ghost of Christmas past

I was 5 I think. It was late. The music was loud. The basement, where we all were was warm. There was a fire in the magic fireplace, covered in colored rocks and agate. Everyone was happy. Everyone was laughing. We had opened presents. The old beer signs were on. My dad picked me up and was dancing with me. Neil Diamond's "Cracklin Rosie" was playing. It was perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. The dead were still with us.

I savor that one. Christmas was never that wonderful, magical and warm again. But I have that one to treasure, lock away and keep deep in my heart. Where I can remember all of it. What I wore. The smell of the fire. The sound of the stereo. The feeling of being in my father's arms when I was so small. The happiness of getting presents. Safety, security, and being loved. I can trot all of that out when I'm having a rough day. And know that it happened once.

The hard part is being able to recognize that I am all that is keeping the memory alive- it can't be replicated, and the place itself will be gone soon. It has been falling apart for a long time. But it shouldn't be a sad thing- only something to expect and to make allowances for.

Holidays

I'll be taking the tour of MT for the next week or so. With intermittent time spent off the grid. No phone service for our cells even. Kinda nice. Kinda scary. Always an adventure. So not much for posting during that time, if at all.

In the meantime, here are random thoughts- the kinds of things that I am thinking in the middle of the night, when I wake up. And yes, I have real problems sleeping when I'm drunk. So the other night was full of bleary ideas. They have to go somewhere, no?

When you sell something on Ebay, ship the fucking thing. Don't do something mysterious with it and then claim that it was lost in the mail, here's a refund. I don't want my fucking money back. I want the item. It was a Chrismas present you assmunch. Fuck you very much.

I had a friend in High School who this pertains to- her personal history still haunts me- I wish I had known about it at the time, and had the wherewithal to do something to protect her- Hey Mom of the friend- how about you protect your daughter from the monsters in your fucking house, rather than your stupid, scary porcelain dolls? What do you think your bloody job is, anyway? You're her MOM- you are supposed to keep her safe. And if she's not safe from your creepy sons and horrible husband, you are supposed to get her to someplace safe. Not take their side and call her a liar. You are just lucky I didn't hear about it when I was still in High School. I would've probably told my parents, and you would've lost all of your kids. You bitch.

Sound like I'm a little angry today? Well, maybe. It just seeps out around the edges in the middle of the night, and I felt like venting a bit. That's all. Otherwise, everything is just fine. FINE, I tell you!!! Seriously, all is well. I'll be getting back to the list of things to do before we leave town now. Give all of you I know and love a hug! Have a shiny, happy Christmas (if you believe in such things)!

Rudolph et al

Rudolph's little girlfriend was named Clarice. I looked it up on IMDB once I sobered up and remembered.

The whole thing was directed by a Japanese guy. This makes sense- that movie has some Godzilla-like elements- check out the Abominable Snowman some time. Silly Japanese. Making Snowmen all scary and such. Like making Komodo dragons into movie stars. Silly. Funny joke men.

Yeah- I'm feeling a tad peckish at the moment. My teeth hurt. My head doesn't hurt all that much, but my tummy is rebellious. Gotta go and try and become human. Probably shouldn't have had that last hard cider. Or two. Silly me. Trying to make myself all drunk and such. Funny joke lady.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

You got your celebs shutting down toy stores in NYC to play, you got your santas at the grocery store getting cash for the downtrodden, and you got your Tennessee Williams film fest on TCM. Yeah, nothing says family holiday quite like that dissipated old cynic. Astute student of human nature, sure. But quite a jaundiced view it is. And yes, I am watching them all. Identifying with elements, despite my Northwestern roots, and trying not to let him get me all down n such.

Seems that Kenga was a Williams fan from back in the day. Along with Capote. I don't know if he tried on Faulkner for size too, but I do know that he didn't get into the chicks (O'Connor, Carson, etc.). I can see him. Earnest young man, intent on intellectual folly, in his threadbare green courdoroy jacket, stone in pocket for striking matches, smokes in other pocket, drink in hand, belly up to the bar, Charlie B's on a Tuesday night...astute student of human nature himself. But didn't write it down. Bummer- I would love to read his thoughts back then.

Last night I had on Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, while Kenga was working on the computer. It's the one he dislikes the most. The family dynamics really piss him off. Funny- here's where I can identify with the movie- we had that extended family going on- unlike him. And though I hope that we weren't as ill-bred and obnoxious as the no-neck children, I'm pretty sure that there were plenty of undercurrents between the adults. I think there always are in large families. Rivalry, thy name is siblings. I have no idea how to avoid that- unless you breed only solo children. Then there's another can o worms to deal with. Then there's the spouses brought into the mix, and expected to get along. This is the interesting part. How does the mix work? Will the ladies cut eachother to shreds? Or will they be nice? It probably has a lot to do with middle-class aspirations and little to do with their time if they pull the former out of their handbags. Give them a good calving season and some branding, or a cattle drive, or some kind of harvest, and they'll no doubt get along- at least for the duration of time spent in the kitchen preparing food for the menfolk.

Anachronism. I know it. Most of the ranch girls I knew in school were just as likely to be involved in the physical reality of ranch life as their brothers. These girls wouldn't be in the bloody kitchen working on muffins while Dad and company bucked the bales. These girls were in the thick of it. That's why I really do wonder about the more traditional communities- like the Hutterites and the Amish. How do the women stand it? Is it because they're ignorant of the outside, and their reality is the only one they know? What if you really suck at the women't arts, and are really good at welding and mechanics? Will your Hutterite daddy let you work on the truck? Or will he hang his head in shame, and make you go back to the kitchen and fail at pie crust again?

Mine eyes have seen the glory

Or not. Actually I feel the need to post because of popular demand. ok- I'll admit it, my sister wants me to post.

Friday of last week I scratched my cornea on a plant. Ah, sweet irony, why do you taunt me so? It was a lovely phalaenopsis spike, loaded with buds. About dropped me. Knocked a tiny chunck of my cornea out. Damn. Since Kenga was on the road, I whined around the house, not sleeping, moaning and bitching. Then he came home. Things hadn't improved. We had a full-on investigation of Seattle's emergency care system.

We filed into the U of W urgent care clinic, adroitly avoiding the homeless people, and waited. It wasn't as long as I thought it would be- about 90 minutes. Then the good Dr. saw me, put crap in my eye, looked at it under ultraviolet, said, "yup, there's a scratch there" and flushed it with saline. He gave me a perscription for antibiotic eye crap and sent me on my way. Said that asperin would take care of the pain. Bullshit I say. Oxycontin. Stat. But no.

So I got home, lubed up the eye and took one of my "only in emergencies" migraine pills. And slept for the next 17 hours straight. Woke up grumpy, and hungover. Felt like the bears must in the spring.

Went to bed early Sunday night. Slept in on Monday- still felt hungover. I had forgotten why the pills are for emergencies only. Because they not only take care of the pain, but knock me on my ass for a couple of days. I am so sensitive. Like a little flower. That hits you in the eye and scratches your bleeding cornea.

So now I'm fine. Eye feels better. Sleeping like a normal person again. But since my life was on hold for several days, not much happened to report on blog. Thus the silence. Which wasn't golden, just sleepy.

What's the buzz

Kenga returns at 1:00 AM tomorrow. He's been in Viva Las Vegas for the last several days. Business trip. Then he was supposed to go see a rally race. I don't care for the rally races. He met up with his racing buddy Gern. They were supposed to return on Sunday. Seems that the racing organization didn't post on their website that Sunday's stages were the only ones open to the public. So the boys said, "fuck it." and left. Now they're cooling their heels in Vegas. Scary thought that. I said that they should visit the Liberace museum. They nixed that idea right out.

In the meantime, the bloody cats have been driving me to distraction. I had to sleep in the spare room last night, because Buddy keeps running around and throwing things on the floor. He has been upset since Kenga left. It's hard not to kill him. So I slept in, and feel better for it. Right now he's in my lap, rooting around for his nipple. Go for the nipple, kiddo. Go for the nipple.

I watched a couple of noteworthy movies last night, Warlock, with Henry Fonda (I wish I could like him more, but like Bing Crosby, he was a jerk in real life to his family, so I can't.), and then Moonfleet, a quasi-pirate movie directed by Fritz Lang. That one was lovely. Then I settled down with Hemingway. I'm trying A Farewell to Arms for the second time. First time it didn't take. This time, it's much better. Gotta thank AMP for that recommendation. It helps immensely that I've watched about a half a dozen movies about WWI in the meantime, too.

Now I have to run. I have things to do before Kenga returns, and since I had originally planned them out to spread over 2 more days, I gotta get them done more quickly. No need to budget.

Roadtrips

When I was little (many of my stories start like this), I was taken on many roadtrips around the state of MT. It just happened like that. I think that my parents and grandparents used this as a diversion- not as boring as spending Saturday afternoon watching curling and drinking beer.

I really didn't enjoy them much. Time is so funny to kids- especially in the car where you can't move around and spend energy. I hated the process of getting there. And all small roads in MT in certain parts of the state look the same. Trees. Sunlight laughing through the trees. Rocks. I often wondered what was looking at our car pass by from the trees. I had read lots of books about fairies, Greek mythology, and the like, and wanted them to be true. But MT isn't really the place to transplant those stories. They fit locales with more gentleness of character.

The one destination that I hated above all others (most were fine once we arrived, and I could run around and make noise) was the Big Hole. We went there on some kind of annual pilgrimage with my grandparents. I really, really hated the place. It has bad hoodoo in my book. I swore after one interminable road trip in my pre-teen years never to return. It's where the Nez Pierce were ambushed and killed in their sleep. I was probably exposed to Little Big Man at too early an age to handle these kinds of stories with aplomb. I hated the thought of all that screaming, dying and blood. And then the silence. I hated that there was a visitor's center with a slide show about the history, and exhibits featuring bullets. I just plain hated the place period. I had wanted to be an Indian princess when I was 5. I insisted on wearing my hair in braids and jumping on the bed in some kind of approximation of what I thought an Indian princess would do. I always thought that the cowboys and army men were poor sports, and just plain mean. Guess I was a child of the 70's after all.

And no, I won't go to the Big Hole ever again. Some memories need to fade out.

The Russian

Class was in the history seminar room. Smallish size, so it wasn't going to be normal. When she walked in I was taken aback.

First, she was large. Not fat- huge. Like superhuman. Over 6 feet tall, wearing 3" heels. She had enormous, lively and remarkably, ludicrously messy blondish hair. She constantly was flipping it off of her face with manicured and shellacked hands. She always wore dresses, even when it was 30 below. And an enormous, somewhat ratty fur coat that resembled a bear, but was likely mink.

She spoke with exhuberance and grandeur. Her features were slavic and very exotic. I was terrified of her. She could've beat the hell out of me. Both in a fight, and drinking.

She told the story of what had happened to her that very day. She had had her purse snatched from her. The thief had jumped in a car down the street and drove off. She had chased him for a couple of blocks. In heels. Betcha it put the fear of God in him- I would've peed myself if she was chasing me. Scary, scary lady.

I didn't do as well that year in class- had a better year the last one with the old Irishman. He was easier to read, and I thought a more effective teacher. But she was dramatic, eclectic, and certainly something new for Missoula.

Yesterday's heroes

The name for yesterday was Gregory Peck. I gotta say, if he wasn't dead, I would marry him. Well, if he was younger. And alive.

Watched The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit, where he made adultery look honorable. Then The Yellow Sky, where he was an outlaw, but not a murderer.

Also on the play list, and highly recommended was The Red Shoes, and Out of the Past, with Robert Michum- who has the kind of craggy elegance of Peck, but not the decency.

That's the movie report for today.

Response to friends

Blogger is being a pain in my ass right now. The word verification seems to be broken. So I will respond here.

In regards to my posts from yesterday:

Not to worry, ladies, twas a relatively momentary detour into a kinda dark place. But I do have to venture into those places from time to time. Just trying to shine a little light in there, n all.

Good luck on finals, Andrea!

You're ON for Narnia, Allison!

Songs- continued

From a song- I wish these were my words, but they're where I'm at right now-

I know that we don’t talk
I'm sick of it all
Can you hear me when I sing
You’re the reason I sing
You’re the reason why the opera is in me
Well, hey now
Still got to let you know
A house doesn’t make a home
Don’t leave me here alone

Songs

I was watching the Freeview Direct TV U2 concert this morning. Yeah, I know- we went to it already. But it was good to take a refresher. It made me think about a lot of things. The power of words and music for one. It was funny- that was one of a very few concerts that I have attended where my attention didn't wander off somewhere during the proceedings. I never looked at my watch. The others include Tony Bennett, Sigur Ros and a couple of old Blues guys.

The meaning of all this- just that I was thinking about it, and felt like indulging myself and putting up a somewhat meaningless post. Now I gotta go do some stuff. I'm thinking too many deep thoughts for my own good and comfort.

Confidential

I thought that if I was like you, you would love me more. I tried my best. But it backfired, you see. I am guessing that when you look at me, you see yourself looking back. That can't be comfortable.

So I'm left with me and you inside my skin. I'm told that it's terminal. I'm never going to escape being some percentage you. It's too ingrained. So it's the balance I'm after. I've been working on it for years. Balance, balance, balance. Striking a compromise between black and white and red all over. Finding myself and my own voice inside the mirror that you see. Finding the courage to be part you and wholly me. To look at myself in the mirror, even when I'm mad at you, and know that it's ok. That I can love you and be angry and feel hurt, and carry you inside me and it'll all be ok. That I can be angry at myself, and get over it too.

In the time that we have left, and I hope ardently that it's lots and lots of time, mind you, I hope that we can grow to know eachother better. And that you'll see beyond the mirror image of yourself in me and see the original and unique me parts and it'll be good. And I'll try my best to be brave enough and strong enough to let you see those parts. No more hiding behind masks and mirrors. That's kid stuff.

Stickin it to the man

Friday I had another interview. It went well. Ramping up to it was, shall we say, interesting, though.

I drove. Didn't take the bus- I generally try not to when it's an interview- I want to control all aspects that I can. I gave myself 30 minutes to find parking. Thought this was good. And it was. I found a place, and was preparing to parallel park. Had my blinkers on, and was in reverse. Then a female she-devil tried to poach my spot. She pulled right in behind me, put her blinkers on, and proceeded to honk at me. I kept pulling backwards, threatening her front end. I figured, she has an expensive red car, looks like a rich doctor's wife, and I drive a piece of shit Grand Am that could survive some red paint and another dent or two. Cars were piling up behind her, getting impatient, but I wasn't gonna blink. I kept it in reverse. Then she started easing forward. Brinksmanship, indeed. I'm sure she had some very important shopping to do, and I was getting in her way.

Fuck this, I thought. I put the car in park and started to get out. She got an alarmed look on her face and drove off. Heh, heh, heh. Then I took the spot. I was triumphant. Blond bitch in the expensive car. Stickin it to you, sweetheart!!! Funny thing, I heard later from someone that this is kinda common. But usually people do blink. Pretty sad state of affairs, ifn you ask me.

No brainer of the day

I was just reading that Disney is selectively targeting Christian groups when promoting the new Narnia movie. Well. Shiver me timbers- that's alarming! Really, I'm surprised that this is news. No I'm not- the news industry is bankrupt of ideas, so my cat crapping on the living room floor rather than in the box would probably make CNN if I worded the press release properly.

But I hope that no one who has read the book and is over the age of 8 is surprised by the subtext. I figured that one out when I was in 3rd grade. And I'm no bloody protegy- just was a relatively smart kid. I still plan on seeing the movie- I really have no problem with old C.S.- he seemed like a good enough egg. I had a friend (had being the operating word) who was a bigot. She refused to buy shoes from Sierra Trading Post because it's a faith oriented organization. But, I protested, they have really, really good shoes! For cheap! But she was determined to punish them for having Bible quotes on their catalogs. This really pissed me off. I saw it as just as bad as refusing to do business with a store run by someone Jewish. Or by a Muslim. I tried to explain that I thought that they had a right to their beliefs, and just because they chose to include those quotes in their own literature, they weren't adverse to taking our money or selling really, really good shoes for cheap. She was a bitch. That's about where I'll leave it for now.

But let the headline for today be- news flash, English Christian theologian, C.S. Lewis wrote a series of books with Christian overtones. The movie developed from this series also includes Christian overtones. You are hereby warned. Funny though, the advertising I've seen on the tv has emphasized the fighting/war elements of the movie rather than the magic, religious ones. I'll ponder that one for a while.

Favorite quote

From one of the best film noir movies of all time- The Third Man-

"Don't be so gloomy. After all it's not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock."

Time for me to get all High Fidelity n shit. (didn't really care for the book, was so-so on the movie- must be a guy thing)

Top 5 film noir movies of all time:

Sunset Boulevard (gotta love Billy Wilder- I would put The Apartment on the list if I didn't think someone out there would bitch n moan)
Double Indemnity
The Third Man
M
The Maltese Falcon

They would make an excellent boxed set. Or an equally excellent film festival. But the bestest, most earthshakingly bizarre film festival was one I undertook in Grad school- Kafka, followed by Naked Lunch, finished off with the ever so fine Barton Fink. Warped my mind forevermore. Who needs drugs, people?! This did nicely, thank you.

Another round

Today I have another job interview. This afternoon. I am hoping that it doesn't snow before that- it's supposed to- because this place gets scary when it snows. I can handle snow driving. It's the others who worry me. And we live on a very steep hill, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't get up it if it gets very slick.

I was thinking about the whole snow thing. What I don't miss is the nasty cold. And shovelling. We had a long sidewalk in Bozeman, and it had lots of foot traffic, so we had to shovel often. The city would cite us if we didn't- the bastards. That wet, heavy snow was the worst of it.

But there is something magical about snow at night. In Missoula I lived near a park with lots of old Maple trees. The lights at night would create these orange-tinged halos around the trees. On snowy nights, it would get quiet. Muffled. I would walk to the park, and stand there under the trees and watch the snow fall. It would be so quiet I could hear the flakes hitting the ground beneath me. It was so hushed. I felt like I was alone in the world, and it was ok.

Then no doubt, I would get very wet and cold and have to go home and quit being silly in the snow. The best was walking home from school when I was little, though. What doesn't seem like lots of snow now that I'm a tall girl was pretty deep when I was 6. I would roll in it, and jump in it, and basically make a huge mess in people's very sculpted sidewalks along the way home. It usually took me twice to three times longer to walk home, because there was so much to divert my attention. Bright, shiny things have always distracted me. I also loved to eat the snow. Not the dry stuff- it's icky. But the wet melting snow that makes perfect iceballs was the best. I was a regular connoseur.

And I used to ski. It has been well over 15 years since I've done that- kind of a bummer really. But I'm sure my knees are thankful. They were really starting to suffer. I was never all that good, and the equipment back in the day was pretty unforgiving. I just liked to go really fast down the hill. Sort of out of control. But it was fun. I was too scared to really get good at it- never could take the proper chances, and never really learned to control the momentum. I was also too bloody lazy to approach it from the right level of fitness. This was before I was diagnosed with the exercise induced asthma- so running was really painful, and I avoided it.

I don't plan on getting back into the skiing thing at this late date, but it's fun to remember. And hope that the snow here waits until tomorrow. Then Kenga will take a snow day, and we can watch movies. I have a few more spaghetti westerns keyed up on the tivo, along with Yojimbo, and a couple of 30's gangster flics. He oughta enjoy at least one of those! Maybe. I think he's getting very sick of my western phase. Who can blame him. I plan on starting up with musicals next (see the earlier post to that effect), and he will then long for the days of westerns. Ah, sweet, sweet nostalgia.

Mea culpa.

I erred. It's human, I suppose. I said that my father gives good guilt, and has done it lately. Well, it has been quite a while since he's done so- and I'm the first to admit that when he did it last, I deserved it. So I retract any and all claims that he's been up to guilt trips- he has the power, but I haven't done anything to invoke said power. I'll be planning on keeping it that way!!! Sorry dad!

Black Friday

So named not because it's awful to work it in the retail biz, but named because it's the day retailers depend upon to go into the black for the year. Do we pity them? Maybe. But I pity the poor fools working for da retail man even more. Been there. Done that.

This year I did something entirely different on Black Friday. Yay! I got the call on Wednesday, at 4:45 from the agency. They were in dire need of people to work at the IMAX theater handing out some brochures or shit. I said sure. WTF. They said wear professional attire, a warm coat and they'll see you there.

Friday morning dawned. It was raining. Hard. And I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to do it. I spent a good 30 minutes trying to talk myself into going. Finally I just got ready and went.

I got there and only one other person was there. She was wet too. Holding a bottle of foetid looking fluid. After about 10 minutes the supervisor showed up hefting a heavy box and some bags. We couldn't get into the IMAX until 10. Glad we all showed up at 8:30. We went to the food court and discussed what we were really doing. Seems that we were going to hand out exit polls for the showing of Polar Express. In 3D. Then we would collect the forms. And get 300 by the end of the day. Or else. I never did hear what the or else would be. Probably some kind of sinister Warner Brother's displeasure. I dunno.

We got to the theater and set up in time for the first showing. Most people had what appeared to be at least a dozen squirming, damp, impatient children in tow. Bet they had lots of time to fill out an exit form, right? Especially since the geniuses at Warner Bros had decided that despite only really needing info for 4 of the questions, made the fucking thing front and back of a full sized piece of paper. Right ON!!

OK- let's get this straight- the whole bloody thing was depressing. The smell of the popcorn curdled my stomach, and sucessfully kept me from having an appetite all day. And the people I was working with were FREAKS. Mostly benign, but in one case seriously creepy. And since I hadn't been told what I was really going to be doing, I lacked any kind of reading material for the interludes while the movie was playing. I just closed my eyes, sat on the floor and listened to the others talk.

Team spirit- 2 of them were young, pretty inoccous girls. Nice. But boring. Then there was one middle-aged woman who kept to herself, but seemed fine. Then there were the freak twins. #1 was a largish (think taller Nathan Lane) gay man wearing a scarf that looked like Elmo with glitter. He knitted it himself. Did a fine job. For Halloween he was Glenda the Good Witch. Made the pink tulle dress himself, he did. I watched him get bitchier and testier as the day went on. I am guessing that it was a blood sugar thing. Hope so, because he had another job later at the carousel, where he would be in full contact with more children. He was also the kind of guy who is permanently disgruntled. He told me his professional history, and it was full of persecution and bitterness. I'm a thinking that he is one of those people who is perpetually unhappy at work. Bummer too, because they tend to bring others along for the ride.

Then there was freak #2. Deep breath. She was trippy. Scary trippy. Dead ringer (only a little taller) for the Romanian- Anka. Dead fucking ringer. Even the odd 100 yard stare. And had the same strange way of dealing with conversation- basically not really understanding normal conversation so much as interrupting with non-sequiturs that kind of related to the original topic. She was very tall- over 6 foot, I am guessing. With that odd sausage casing build- somewhat slender, but no muscle mass to add distinction, and no bones showing. She was also happy to tell us all about being a Sister of something something something- they dress up as nuns and wear geisha makeup and pass out condoms at events. I heard all about the way to get into the order, the rules, etc. Ad nauseum, ad infinitum. She also told us a truncated version of her life story. Sounded pretty rough. And she was a witch. And she "cleansed" peoples' homes of bad hoodoo. And she had just broken up with her girlfriend. She followed me around a lot.

Friendly, but creepy. She approached people with the forms and said, "Hello, I have a gift for you." I suspect that they took the forms from her in order to get some space. I saw a few of them sneaking their forms back onto the mother table later on, when she wasn't around.

After a couple of movies, they interspersed it with the Harry Potter film, and I left for the day. Enough pleasure for me, I thought. I decided that I really do HAVE to get a job in some normal kind of place- dealing with broken people really isn't my forte. Interesting, yeah- but they make me sad and tired.

Excavations

Today my mom and step dad were in Helena- they had anthropology students doing some work determining boundary lines for the potter's cemetary on some of their land. The land is being developed, and no one wants to dig up bodies. Fun for the students, interesting for everyone else. So today's subject is digging things up. For fun and profit.

Digging up the truth. Over time I've found out that the truth is in most cases subjective. The winners determine what it is. Ask anyone who lost a war- define a war criminal- mostly someone who followed orders. The crime? Being on the losing side while following those orders. So whose truth is the best? Ask the religious. They will claim theirs. But with so many conflicting opinions in that regard, it's easy to get confused.

Digging up the past. Dicey proposition at best. Distant past is pretty safe. History in particular- that's why many document collections have dates in the distant future for revealing the contents. All the people involved will be dead, buried and untouchable. Good for them. Wouldn't want to actually live with the consequences of what the secrets were. Keep that under wraps. On the down low, as it were.

Personal past? Hmmmmm. There again, question of perspectives. Take any occurance. Run it past the various people who were there. Betcha you'll get any number of takes on what really happened. Add time and shake real hard, and it'll get murkier. Only the really passionate emotions stay pure. Hatred in particular. The reasons for the hatred might be lost, or dissapate over time, but the hatred can stick around very easily. Especially if it's cultivated properly. I think that some people live just to do this. They are the gardeners of a specific crop. It's easier than letting something go.

Digging up reality. Another set of perceptions that not only change with the amount of tequila consumed, but change with age. Kids see things that adults try to ignore. They learn to conceal and not pay attention to those things. They learn about loyalty- to whom over all others. They learn the costs for being loved. What they're meant to do in return. There are always strings attached. Always. Anyone who denies this is either a liar or a fool. Avoid them- they want something.

Digging for clams. Lots of work. Clams are gross. I wouldn't recommend it.

Digging for treasure. Define treasure. I don't have a metal detector, and am not bored enough to go get one and develop a new and slightly creepy hobby. Give me a few more months of unemployment, and it might just happen, however...

Digging for gold. Specific treasure. Makes people crazy-like. Watch The Treasure of Sierra Madre if you don't believe me. In AZ, there was a show on local access cable called Gold Fever. It had a theme song that went "gold gold gold gold fever fever fever fever..." in kind of a mind-numbing drone. It was about how to find gold. It seemed to be a big thing in the Phoenix area. Something about lost treasure in the mountains near Apache Junction. Whatever. I just liked the low production values, and singing the song. Especially after consuming some tequila. Gold gold gold gold fever fever fever fever....

Newly minted obsession

This week it's the classic Western. I've steadfastly avoided the genre in the past- lived in the west, didn't see much to celebrate about it- hated seeing the blasted Charlie Russell exhibit in place of real art every year- hated the faux cowboys I went to school with- they were such narrow-minded little bigots.

But then I guilted myself into seeing High Noon. And my world went all haywire. Now I saw that the really skillful filmmakers in the genre were making all kinds of statements via the Western. Ahhhhh.....

So last night we watched The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence. Still not as satisfying as any of the vengeance instilled Clint Eastwood ones, but pretty fun nonetheless. I love watching Jimmy Stewart act with people who could hold their own with him. John Wayne isn't my favorite actor by a long shot, but he's well used in this one. And I liked the civil rights subtext.

So. I have The Ox Bow Incedent cued up on the tivo, and will likely get through that one today. Henry Fonda said it was his favorite of his movies, as I recall. He was kind of a jerk, so whatever, Henry. But it also stars Frank Morgan, and I liked him while growing up on MASH.

I'm trying to figure out what genre to attach to next if this unemployment thingy goes on too long- maybe the musical? (fucking shoot me if that happens- I really hate musicals...with the exceptions of Sound of Music and My Fair Lady. Oh and Fiddler on the Roof...damn...maybe I don't really really hate them after all...)

Why I hate Thanksgiving

It's such a crap holiday for me. At least it's time off of work. If I had work. But then, that's part of the issue, no?

Historically it was the worst of all holidays. It wasn't redeemed by the happy feelings of receiving presents. So this would happen- without fail.

Spend the day getting all of that food together. Under the pressure umbrella of mom wanting perfection in all things- food, emotional, and otherwise. Put up with younger sister and her bitchiness in its varied forms. Put up with cranky grandparents. Watch evil Grandpa drink. Know with the security of the inevitable what is coming.

Serve dinner very early in the day. (I never really figured that one out. Thanksgiving dinner is more akin to Thanksgiving late lunch.). Then sit back and watch the inedible mass congeal when Grandpa finally lets loose- he's been percolating all fucking day. The shitstorm issuing from his mouth is usually pretty impressive. Especially since I was the target 98% of the time after the divorce, and Dad absented himself from the picture. Make that 100%. I never saw him verbally attack anyone else. Only me. Inevitably I would lose my temper and tell him to go fuck himself. Then leave. And my mother would sigh, with the forebearance of the angels above, and clear the table. Grandpa would go back to simmering, no doubt waiting in anticipation for next year.

Once I hit college I played my only card for sanity. I refused to go home for Thanksgiving. Ever again. I only revoked this standing rule once- several years ago. Grandpa had just died, and I did it as a favor to my mom. I took Kenga along for the ride. And it was a ride, indeed. Grandma was just starting to lose her grip on reality. So it was kinda amusing to see her deal with the half non-white person I married so long ago. The official story is that she really likes him, and thinks he's great. The real story is that they have never forgiven or forgotten his Japaneseness. She usually has to tell me why they still hate the Japanese. The war, doncha know? And she does speak in the "we" tense- not Imperial "we", but Grandpa's still around "we". Creepy.

The good news- I won't be going home for the festivities. I'll be safe and sound with friends. I'll see the family at Christmas. They'll be settled into the holiday mood more securely, and it'll be fine. Any fireworks will be supplied by aforementioned bitchy sister, and easily contained. Mostly cuz ding dong the witch is dead, and he won't be coming back for any more rounds. So that's what I'm thankful for, I guess. Peace on earth, and no more ugliness in the name of family harmony. No more sick tummies afterwards, and reproachful looks from Grandma and Mom. And that's that.

Fact of the day

If this doesn't creep you out a tad, you're sterner stuff than I.

Did you know that Helen Keller had her eyes removed and replaced with glass ones because her real eyes were scary? And when she became a celebrity, it was an issue? EWWWWW!!!

Better than botox, baby!

Also- new book to check out one and all- if you like something interesting- just stayed up til 2:00AM finishing it- because I had to.

The Wilderness, by Karen Novak. I'll probably be inflicting it on choice people on my Christmas list this year. So if you do buy it, or read it before I go shopping, let me know, or you might get a duplicate copy!!!

I also finished The Codex, by Lev Grossman. Fun, but with one of those endings that makes you want to shake him- bit of a let down.

I watched, and highly recommend The Big Country yesterday. Gregory Peck, Burl Ives and of all things, a young and relatively hot Charleton Heston. It was gorgeous. Directed by William Wyler (who also did Ben Hur). I got totally sucked in. It's a western. Not my bag, for the most part (I grew up in the west, hated it, and wanted to leave for more populous parts as soon as I could- but then didn't, and decided that after all it wasn't too horrible- except for my home town- still hate it). But a lovely movie nevertheless. And there's a cool Cold War subtext to it- which is interesting when you consider the Heston inclusion.

Still jobless. Still working on Christmas presents. Still feeding the cats...they would kill me if I stopped...

Crimes and Felonies

Kenga got a book at the library- called Scenes of the Crime- with a foreword by James Ellroy (one of my true guilty pleasures- the man can invoke a time and place better than most- and has taught me more slang words for female genitalia than I thought possible). It's crime scene photos from the LAPD archives. Not all murders/death- some other stuff. It's interesting. They really edited carefully- nothing too horrible- all corpses have their faces, no children, basically pretty straight forward stuff.
Interesting though. Basically I am thinking that the photographers are an odd lot. These guys did some interesting things. While they had to provide a document of the crime that the investigators could use later (since a crime scene is by its nature temporary), they also had to keep some kind of emotional distance from it (probably to keep from cracking up- I met a crime scene photographer once who had cracked- not so good). So they focused on framing the photos in unique ways. There's one in particular of a glass door that had been shot though- and the photographer had taken care to include the reflection of children in the neighborhood gawking at the crime scene. Pretty cool shot.
It's kind of a moving book in a way. I am looking at people whose lives either changed or ended in such a sudden way. Most of the murdered ones were cut down in their prime. Looks like mostly middle to lower class. With the notable exception of Thelma Todd's death (look her up on IMDB- sad story). Creepy side note- I knew what I was looking at in several instances before reading the descriptions- I think I know too much about historic crime in LA for my own good.

The part that gets me though is the eyes. The expression on the faces. Just the abrupt ending of it all. No easing out by degrees. Just a sharp end. Some look surprised. Some just look sad. And they are all (with one exception) pretty young. Though since the crimes occurred mostly in the 20s and 30s, they would be very old or dead by now anyway. Just the permenance of it. Always dead at 25. Or 30. Funny how many of the crimes have to do with bootlegging. Makes prohibition seem silly on that level- it seems to have increased crime, rather than eliminated it. Go figure. But that could be a scewed editorial slant by the book's authors too. They obviously chose these images very carefully. With clear intent. Like I said before- it could've been far, far worse. Uglier. Stronger. More brutal.

I'm also haunted by the privacy that's being broken. Death seems like such a personal thing. That these people's deaths are in a book seems odd. I don't have any personal connection to them- if it was a book of my dead relatives, I would feel much differently. But it's strange to see this kind of invasion. I guess I would call it that- since I can't think of any better description.

Not much to say

Kenga took several days off- so I've actually had someone to spend time with during the day! And since we don't fight incessantly- it's been fun.

Yesterday we had an adventure. I took him on the bus to downtown- it was his first time. We visited the museum, the library and a newsstand that I like. He saw my neighborhood for the first time. It was good.

Now we prepare for house guests. So I can't spend lots of time online. There are things to do- people to see- I get to feel important for a while!

Hey guess what!

It's raining. And cold. And I'm still unemployed.

But now the focus of my life (besides getting a job- I haven't given up- I have not yet begun to fight- I regret that I have only one life to give...whatever) is on Christmas presents for the many varied family members. This year I've decided to try and make stuff for them. And not using cat fur and dryer lint held together with assorted kitchen ingredients (cream of tartar, anyone?). Nope. I know that certain peoples on my Santa's good list read this, so I won't detail. But it will keep me busy, and be happy.

And unless there's a big blizzard that prevents it, we will be going home for the holidays. We lack snow tires, or tyres, so shouldn't be all reckless. Despite what Kenga wants. Kenga doesn't get everything he wants- he's not Lola. At least not today. Maybe tomorrow I'll let him be Lola. But not Lola Lola. She was a bitch. (I'll perhaps give anyone who gets the second allusion a bright shiny dollar! I'm being all esoteric and obtuse- because it's raining, and I'm bored.)

Time to watch the rest of the Joan Crawford movie on the tivo. Then maybe finish up with a delightful Carole Lombard confection. Yummy.

Vanity thy name is me

Part of the ongoing maintenance is the hair. Now we are red again. (such the newsflash- it's fake... real is a nondescript blond, with I suspect by now, tons of white- I am really curious in a morbid way as to how much white- I haven't checked in a very long time.) Funny thing though. For some reason, guys- usually older- insist on calling me "red" Like it's some kind of film noir hell that we've stepped into all of a sudden. And they're Sam Spade. It's goofy. I know that they're being nice, but it's very strange to refer to some stranger by the color of their hair. If I see a nice looking guy, should I say- "Hi brown?" What if he's African American? Then what do we have? An incident, I would guess.

Just gotta thank mom for the white hair genes, though. Shout out mom! Kinda wish I could trade that one for the 20/20 vision, or amazing metabolism that you have that keeps you the same weight you were in college...

Literary snobbism

I read a book recently by an old friend. She is a wonderful short story writer- but I've been consistently disappointed by her novels. She just can't sustain story lines in a convincing fashion. And turns out that she is a literary snob. Standards- yes, important to maintain. But snobbishness is not cool in my book.

Her book was rather autobiographical- which kind of disturbed me to begin with, as it was jarring- there was no logical reason for the bits of herself that she trotted out. I know what she was trying to attempt, but it was surprisingly poorly done.

Then there was the story itself. Part of it was about being a romance novelist. And how horrible that is for anyone who can really write. That's where I got pissed off. Now for a very deep, and dark secret- I have read the occasional romance novel. Was avidly into them when I was around 12. Snuck them home from the library, and was off in another place. Not really good for me at the time- it did probably set me up for some reality checks later- but there were hours of fun involved anyway.

I see romance novels as interesting. They are so easy to decode, and have such a clearly defined formula. And I don't think that's a bad thing. I think of all types of fiction that I've encountered, the romance novel comes the closest to illustrating a certain kind of zeitgeist. These books really pull on archetypes in a clear and meaningful way- for lots and lots of people. I don't feel like it's fair to condemn them for reading them. Not fair at all. Maybe they aren't Balzac, Trollope or even Elliott, but they give the reader something to enjoy. And given how many women probably are one romance novel away from going batshit on any given day, I say, read on, sisters.

The other thing about her book that was rather nasty had to do with a Native American character. I remember a painting that Kenga and I saw at the Heard Museum in Phoenix. For those not familiar- wonderful museum of Native American art, culture and history. The katchina room is as creepy as it gets- chock full o hoodoo that made the back of my neck crawl. Back to the painting. It was modeled on Ingres's Jupiter and Thetis, with a Native American guy enthroned, and a white woman beneath him, with a hand crawling up his neck. She was wearing her obligatory bead earrings, and looking at him with naked adoration. It was one of the most underhanded artistic jabs that I've seen (short of a Diego Rivera portrait that I saw once- about busted a gut laughing at how he portrayed the sitters...nasty...). She was a poser. He was not real to her. He was an image of her rebellion, romantic longing, etc.

So back to the book- the character in it was basically ditto the painting. It was unpleasant. I don't enjoy stereotypes unless there's a way to break them. She didn't pull that one off. The stereotype was full on intact by the end, and the slam on romance authors/readers also intact. I saw this as dishonest. And I'm too much of a wuss to ever tell her to her face...

Somthing to do

Besides babysitting cats, I mean. I watched Kagemusha yesterday. Kurosawa is a passion of mine. Even with the silly scenes, he was breathtaking. Interesting trivia note- Kagemusha was produced for foreign distribution by Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas. Whoda thunk?!

Also on the Tivo were The Bachelor and the Bobby Soxer, with Myrna Loy and Cary Grant. I liked watching the two of them play together.

And the other good one from this week- that ought to be required viewing- The Haunting. From 1963. Lovely movie- taken from a creepy story by Shirley Jackson. It's one of those that stuck with me for quite a while afterwards.

And now back to the kitty babysitting thing- I have to go give Buddy a time out. He's being naughty. (bet you think I'm kidding!)

Bitter Betty's homemaker tips

When you install something with a sticker on it- fucking remove the sticker after it's installed. Immediately. Do not let it stay on the window/toilet/whatever for a lenghthy stay- it will get icky and difficult. That's just lazy and slipshod.

When you have a stainless steel sink, it needs to be scoured out once in a blue moon, or it will get stained by water/soap spots, and need weeks of scouring regularly to get it nice and shiny again. And don't put grout in there, or rusted objects. Stainless doesn't mean bulletproof.

Anything used for cooking food, particularly for human consumption, needs to be cleaned occasionally. This includes stoves and especially ovens. This is not a joke. This is not a suggestion. This is a rule.

Installing black granite shiny counters in a house with perpetual cats is a stupid idea. Always.

White/light beige carpets are never a good idea when cats and children are present. Avoid them.

When you have a cat that likes to urinate to mark territory, please shut her/him out of the bedroom that offends her/him- the smell will outlast her/his stay in the house. And nothing is worse on a humid, rainy day than the smell of kitty behavioral problems past. (luckily our cats haven't decided to follow suit- I don't think I could handle it). And once said kitty has marked, for fuck's sake, clean the crap/urine up!!! Don't be a fucking pig.

And finally, when cleaning the toilet (yes, you knew we would come to this), always scrub under the rim. No one wants to find your hardened, dried, scummy poop on the toilet years after you no longer live there. It is unsavory, unsanitary, and just vile.

(can you tell we're cleaning house today???)

How not to go batty ...

I've made a concerted effort not to go batshit crazy. Why, you ask? Well, it would be a tad inconvenient, and Kenga wouldn't like it much. I don't really relish the role of Bertha Rochester (read Jane Eyre, if you dare- she's in the attic.). Batshit isn't becoming- unless there's a pile of money involved. And in our case, there just isn't.

So. Keepin busy. Scheduling all of the stuff that should be done over the course of a week, so the pressure to get it all done at once doesn't paralyze me. So that the guilt of not getting it done doesn't keep me awake at night. So the self-loathing of feeling inadequate and stupid doesn't eat me alive. All in good time.

And knitting again. Just like Madame Defarge. Sitting at the foot of the guillotine, knitting while the heads hit the basket. Just being careful to keep the blood off of the wool.

It's all good. Really.

Anthropology report

I got this as part of an email, and thought that it was interesting.

Pallu, or the portion of the sari that falls over the left
shoulder, is usually its most decorated region, often picking up
and elaborating on the small motifs on the border or main body of
the drape. Much of the beauty of the garment thus lies in the
pallu, and it is the part that designers agonize over and which
shopkeepers use to clinch the sale.

Further, touching of the pallu by another is no small act, but a
most personal piece of interaction. It signifies an intimacy
which has been described thus: "as if by caressing a leaf one is
able to touch the tree." If someone gets too attached to a
person, they are likely to be teased by having it said that they
have 'attached themselves to the others pallu' (as a television
presenter of a live show said to a fan who kept phoning her
during the performance). In fact, signifying the eternal nature
of their union, the Indian groom during the wedding needs to tie
one end of his attire to the pallu of his bride. Thus yoked, they
then proceed to circumambulate the sacred fire seven times.

Thus the importance placed in Indian cinema on kissing becomes a little clearer.
Intimacy in such a crowded place seems quite prescribed.

You'd think

That since I've got nuthin else to do, I would be blogging my ass off. Well you would be wrong.

Kenga and I have come up with an elaborate calendar that gives me things to do during my long, long, long days. And it helps. The house is finally getting fully unpacked, and very clean. And I'm applying all over tarnation (still in Tennessee Williams land a bit).

But I did spare an afternoon for creepy Halloween crappy 70s movie fest, Year 1. I watched an assortment of Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing confections. Some very, very bad. Some kind of ok. But all very fun. Not scary at all. I don't handle scary very well. So this was a must.

I also watched Wicker Man- allegedly a cult classic about burning some dude up to make the apples grow. Christopher was in it- he had a very poncy hair do. It was funny. Lots of banging in it- and it got an X rating back in the day.

I finished it all off by watching the 40's version of Cat People, which was wonderful. Gotta love the old stuff. Like fine wine.

And today, miracle of miracles, the sun is shining. I'll be outside some. Soon.

Copycat

I'm taking the theme of this post from a blogfriend (thanks Polly) who wrote today about the crazy chick in the press phenomena (Jess, Brit, et. al.). I have a spin on that that I'll share. Just cuz I feels like it!

Well. Shall I say right now that Tennessee Williams had it dead on? "Ah have always depended upon the kindness of strangers." Anyone with a passing acquaintance with Streetcar, knows whereof I speak. Especially the Viviene Leigh version. She was a total nutcase to start with (I love that kind of olde tyme Hollywoode shit), and that role drove her around the bend. Her English belfry was chock full o bats by the time the movie wrapped. Poor Viv. And Poor Larry (Olivier, for those without IMDB on the bookmarks).

Anyhew- I think that there is a certain kind of woman- usually raised with a very overbearing father- who snaps at a certain time, and gets all Blanche Dubois on us. And the ones who do it in the public eye are the most fascinating of all. The non-famous ones just scare the crap out of their families. And make scenes at Thanksgiving (God, I HATE Thanksgiving...sorry...another post there....).

So, let's watch the show unfold, and give Tennessee a tip of the glass for being about as accurate as possible, given that he's dead and all.

And if there were a male version of Blanche Dubois, who would that be? I nominate Jack White. Just cuz I think he's got creepy scary covered pretty well. And I love him despite myself.