Monday, June 30, 2008

Eff You, Happiness

It’s a bit of a pain in the ass, sitting down here to blog after a trying day of existing. Even more difficult is keeping my attention on this stupid computer that I’ve been staring at all the dumb long day when there are park freaks to pretend not to stare at. That’s right, friends, I’m sitting on a blanket in the park. It’s official…I no longer hate nature. Somewhere a gong just sounded. It’s the end of a hate-filled era. All I want to do lately is ride my bike, go for walks, lie in the park, swim…HIKE. No, you did not misread…I said hike. I don’t recognize me either…but there you have it.

Somewhere a house or car nearby is playing Astrud Gilberto. Funny, I always drag that album out at the first sign of summer too. Harry Belefonte as well, but since the gloriously new and functional record player moved out…my LPs sound hollow. Maybe that’s why people stopped listening to them. Anyway, long playing records are not the subject here. Summer is. More specifically…summer and how it pertains to me. And my ability to wear sundresses. And pick strawberries. And drink them in margaritas. Yes. Try it.

This is a dangerous time of year. Normally I’d have to suppress the urge to punch the orange-clad hacky sacker to the left of me in the neck. I’d want to throw something at the hipster couple that just rode by with the fused together BMX bikes just to watch them fall. Well…I still kind of do. I’d want to inform the middle aged woman playing tennis that her time for that skirt is long since passed. I’d want to roll my eyes at the chick in the striped socks and Tour de France cap breaking out the hula hoops. Normally I’d want to do all these things. Today I don’t. Today I’m content to just look at them without expression in between typing these mild mannered sentences. It’s kind of a miracle.

There’s some Ray Bradbury story about a planet that rains every day all day except for one hour every 7 years. Something like that. All Summer in a Day, it was called. I know this because I just looked it up. We had to watch the movie version in Junior High. It made me incredibly sad. Not so much because one of the kids gets locked in a closet by bullies and misses it…but because that planet felt a little too much like my home. I’m genetically predisposed to reject sunlight. My Irish pastiness and fine blond(ish anymore) hair are designed to combat bronzing with scalding and I’ve got battle scars (in the form of unsightly moles and freckles) all over my body to prove it. I should be glad that the weather here prevents me from having to wear some asshole straw hat or scarf every day. But when the sun FINALLY comes out and the air FINALLY gets warm…it’s all I can do to keep from basking in it like a cat. Or one of those hippos you see beached at the zoo.

Oh god. Another chick with hula hoops just showed up…this one on a bike completely covered with faux fur. I think maybe she’s going to have to be taken out.

Close, wasn’t it.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

I'm Feeling Lucky : *Update*

I ate so much Indian food for lunch today that it’s shoving my organs around to make room for itself. I would label that a disgusting mental image if I could even imagine what the event would look like. I never really cared for those health film strips (yeah, remember those?) where you followed the cycle of blood flow or whatever. That shit’s gross, “amazing” or not. I’ll take non-gross “amazing” over gross “amazing” any day. Give me pictures from space or snaggle-tooth fish from the bottom of the ocean or Punnett squares or something. But nothing from the inside. And definitely nothing starting on the inside and ending on the outside. The miracle of birth is never, ever beautiful.

It’s been a wacky week. My home feels like a hotel, I’ve been gone so much. The absence of the Missus (formerly known as “Roommate” until he started doing things like making me dinner and driving me around and asking me how my day was and junk – he’d kill me for this except that he’s in Hawaii and can’t reach me) has forced me to fend for myself in non-grill related ways. So there’s been lots of Happy Hours. One has to attain nourishment somehow. And bars in Portland are required to serve food by law. Good ol’ law. Always lookin’ out for me. Except when I’m jaywalking and it drops the hammer. Then law’s an asshole.

The Company Christmas Party is tonight. There may or may not be hijinx and shenanigans to regale you with tomorrow. Though it's very possible that I could be too hung over to type. It’s happened before. There is a rumor that I ended up standing on a table at last year’s Christmas Party (April 2007), but it is a false one. I stood NEXT TO a coffee table and being so close to midge stature, people couldn’t tell the difference. Life is so unjust.

Anyway, this is just another ‘whut up’ check-in type thing with no real point or structure. The Waif accused me of being a lazy blogger…well, no…she agreed that I was being a lazy blogger. This is me attempting to intersperse some half-assed drivel so you at least have something to look at when checking back every day for the standard comic gold. I do it because I care.


**Update** party. Yeah. I'm really lucky there's no video.

Monday, June 23, 2008

My Spine Is Younger Than Yours

Yesterday afternoon I lay in a hammock for a full hour. I had an ice tea on the ground next to me…blue sky with puffy white clouds floating by…and long green tree branches fanning me like young, strapping, half-nekkid native boys. It was lovely.

At first I stared at the sky and thought about things. All the usual things that one thinks about when one finds the time to think purely selfish thoughts. Eventually all those thoughts narrowed down into one glorious summation. I’m currently very happy. And then I stopped thinking. Which, I think, is kind of like having a stroke.

My weekend was filled with sunshine. Yes, it has finally arrived. I’m in my three month don’t-detest-Oregon phase. I’m also fairly certain this will have an impact on the number of f-bombs used in my writing. I don’t know if this is a good thing or not. Perhaps you can tell me.

Or perhaps you cannot because you’re out in the sunshine yourselves. And that’s ok.

Oh god, I’ve become a hippie. I can already smell the patchouli oozing out of my pores like garlic. Looks like it’s time for a bleach bath tonight. Unclean. UNCLEAN.

Poor George Carlin. I really don’t agree with all this death of late. Something besides age and poor genetics/living has to be causing it. Something even more sinister. Like…bad juju. Somewhere out in the
Louisiana swamps there’s a crazy-haired Creole lady who goes by the name of Marie Lapin using her gris gris to make Tim Russert have a heart attack. Stranger things have happened.

Yes they have.

Speaking of conspiracy theories – I woke up this morning with the cat staring at me strangely. I know it’s possible that I was talking in my sleep, or that I’d just inadvertently slapped her or something, but I really don’t think either of those things happened. I think she was just…looking at me. It made me uncomfortable. Like she knows something I don’t know and instead of telling me what it is in some sort of magical way, she’s just going to eat my face off and live in my neck.

Anyway, I’m hoping that doesn’t happen. My company’s having its Christmas party this week and I really don’t want to miss it. It’s a casino night. I might wear shockingly high heels.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Whats with the up.

I know, I know, I KNOW. I'm sorry. I know it's been a week since I've posted or commented or done anything blog-related.

Do you know...I just apologized for having a life. Look at what you've reduced me to.

Now I have to back peddle with nonsense about the fact that you all have lives too, of course...blah blah blah. I'm not doing it. I just ate potato salad for chrissakes.

What's really sad is that this post will hardly have been worth the wait. Yes, I know you've waited. I'm not going to tell you what I've been doing. I'm not going to express any outrage at the goings-on of any pop culture "icons" or fashion trends. I haven't been to seen a single band or heard any new music that inspires anything but apathy. I'm not even going to go off on a nerdy tangent about why Wes Anderson is a better director than the Coen Brothers.

No, YOU watch it.

I'm just poppin' in to say 'whut up'. And that I'm not going to come back again for a couple of days. Try not to slit your wrists over it. I hear that's an inefficient method of suicide anyway. The internets is a good resource for more user-friendly options. I read that somewhere. Probably on the internets.


Tuesday, June 10, 2008

The Right Stuff

I have some truly disturbing news.


As many, some or none of you know, I recently visited New York City for the second time in my no longer young life. While there, I got tickets to see Conan O'Brien. While in line to get said tickets, less than a half block away the New Kids on the Block sang and shook their geriatric boy band asses for a crowd of...well...sad people. They have reunited. Should it feel good? I don't know. For those of you born after 1985 who don't know what I'm talking about...screw you, utilize Google and get your shit educated.

What I'm trying to say here is that yesterday I saw their new video on dlisted. And was traumatized.

Let me back up. Waif is probably going to contradict this, but she's not the best at history, so just ignore her. I was never really a NKOTB fan. I had exactly one Tiger Beat poster of them. It hung low on the wall because I didn't actually think any of them were cute enough to share the same space as Daniel Day-Lewis, Brad Pitt and Christian Slater. Yes, I said Christian Slater. I know. I was young. Anyway, Laura was the one who was the fan. If she denies it, she's a big fat underfed liar.

All of this, though fun to bring up, is beyond the point. I heard their new song. I watched them lip sync to it. Jordan, Donnie, Joe, Jonathan and Danny. I always forget about Danny. Just now I had to re-look him up so I could finish that sentence. I'll include the video, because I feel it's important to provide visuals alongside any life lesson. least half of it. I need you to.

I'm sorry. Really. But what I'm trying to point out is not how awful their new song is. This comes as no surprise. What was traumatizing about the video will be illustrated in two parts:

1. The lyrics.

And now I'm like,
Hey, girl, don't you know I miss it,
And I wonder if you miss it too,
Never thought it would end 'til it did,
Now, I'm here and I can't stop thinkin' 'bout you.

Please take note of the line "And now I'm like,". This is what is known as the parlance of our times. I take that back, not "ours", but our teenagers'. I only know this because while dating the Ex-Systems Administrator I had a teenager in my life. And he had friends. And they spoke. This sort of thing is also appears on TV and in the moving pictures from time to time. And what the fuck is "it"? Nasty. So that's the first part. And now...

2. Their ages.

Donald Edmond Wahlberg, Jr. (born August 17, 1969)
is 39
Daniel William Wood Jr. (born 14 May 1969)
is 39
Joseph Mulrey McIntyre (aka Joe McIntyre, Joey McIntyre), born December 31, 1972
is 36
Jordan Knight (born Jordan Nathaniel Marcel Knight, (born May 17, 1970)
is 38
Jonathan Rashleigh Knight (born November 29, 1968)
is 40.

I repeat. 40.

And back to the lyrics:

In your strapless sundress,
Kickin' back, no stress,
As long as we was together,
'Cause we were feelin' young love,
And we couldn't get enough.
Baby, I could reminisce forever.

Read those ages again and tell me you don't throw up just a little in your mouth. Don't lie to me.

Now...I fully realize that NKOTB paved the way for people like Justin Timberlake to have a career. Don't think I don't know they were important. Except that I hate Justin Timberlake and want him to get sucked into a tar pit, so maybe they weren't that important. Although I still like that Bringin' Sexy Back song because he sounds like he's choking himself most of the way through it. Gets my toes a'tappin'. Either way, there would be no boy bands if they had never existed. Hell...I don't know that there would be a Britney Spears if they had never existed. Such a utopia is painful to think about.

When I put it that way, maybe they weren't worth an entire post...but then I post about shit like going to to dentist, so maybe they were. You be the judge.

No that was not a tie-in to last week's jury duty story. I'm not that good.

Roommate takes issue with my math. Says that Joey isn't 36 'til December and Jonathan isn't 40 'til November. Fuck that noise. My disgust still stands.

Thursday, June 05, 2008

I'll Tell You What You Can Do With Your Civic Duty...

It's gonna be a long one tonight, folks. I've got wine, 60s European funk and the apartment all to myself. There's a lot to say.

I've been a scooterer for over a year now...could be considered an old hand even...and it's taken me all this time to become comfortable with the Scooter Code. Yes, such a thing exists. It's rarely witnessed and often whispered about. Like the Amish. But it's alive and well amongst a certain set. And by "set" I mean people who own scooters. The biggest and first rule is that scooterists give each other a little wave when passing in the opposite direction. It's kind of a "Hey, I see you're naked to the elements as well. Rock on".

I'm not much for waving at perfect strangers. I show very little affection towards people I actually know, so why would someone who has nothing in common with me but the fact that we're both too cheap to buy a car inspire any different? That's rhetorical. The most I do is that "what's up" nod with my heavily helmeted head. Which can look like bowing if I'm not careful. I don't want that either. But every time I do the head bob and they do the wave, I feel guilty. If they have the balls to wave at me, I should, in turn, grow a nice, if feminine pair and wave on back. But I never do. At least until now. I feel as though I might have turned a corner today. The "what's up" nod action on the way home felt especially shameful today. I think maybe I'm ready to graduate. I'll keep you posted.

Wednesday I had jury duty. It was my first time. Ever.

I reported to the court house at 7:55. I had a laptop, book, iPod and anything else I could possibly think of that I might use to keep myself awake. Immediately upon passing through the heavily guarded doors, I sent my bag through the x-ray scan at security and set it off. Turns out I forgot to take the pepper spray (that has lived in that bag for the last year and a half) out. Apparently this is considered a "weapon" and isn't allowed in the County Courthouse. It's not LISTED in the posted LIST of weapons...but a weapon it is. Qu'elle surprise. I had to go back outside, throw it away and come back through security. With my cheeks BURNING the entire time.

Quick orientation by a judge. Explanation of what "evidence" is. Congratulations on the important role we're playing in this greatness we call Democracy, blah blah blah. The next 20 years (6 hours) of my life were spent fighting to keep my eyes open in what felt like a stationary airplane. Except the rows were longer. I will say this about the Jury Room, it's a great place to meet guys. I mean, I didn't actually meet any of them, but there were several fine looking young lads fighting to keep themselves awake all around me. If only I hadn't been so very ill tempered and resentful about my even having to BE there, perhaps I would've seized the opportunity to make some friends. But I didn't. And now I have to live with that for the rest of my life.

At 2:00 PM the elderly woman that had been calling 15-18 names for different trials throughout the day once again stood at her little podium with an announcement. It's the last trial, and they're requesting 30 jurors. The rest will be able to leave early. Guess who's name was number 28. Fuckers.

Once seated in the court room we learned that the defendant was accused of possession of cocaine. They needed 12 jurors. But they needed to ask us all some questions first. 9 to be exact. So I sat there (next to a Chatty Kathy who needed a right hook in the kisser, I'm telling you) and listened to the life stories of 29 average assholes. I learned their name, where they live, what they do, what their spouses do, if they drive, whether or not they had friends or family in law enforcement, what their degree is in, if they'd been in a court proceeding, if they'd ever been a victim of a crime and WHAT THEIR FUCKING HOBBIES WERE. I spent most of this time staring at the clock or out the window. Once I locked eyes with the prosecution and yawned defiantly at him.

An hour and a half passed and they still weren't done questioning us. Every once in a while a philosophical discussion would break out about the morality behind mandatory sentences or what "guilt" actually means. There were stories about friend's brother's uncle's grandpappys who were treated mean by a cop back in the Civil War and how it's shaped their opinion of law enforcement today. Christ. Then the judge decides that we can all use a break. She sent us into the "jury room". That meant the deliberation room...meant for 12.

So 30 of us stood uncomfortably close to each other around a table in a tiny room designed for the purpose of deciding the futures of dumbasses everywhere by a select few. It was very hushed...except on either side of me. Two elderly (well...oldish middle age) assholes were flirting. FLIRTING over my head. Consequently, she does fused glass and he refurbishes old microscopes or something. I was furiously text messaging my imminent suicide to everyone I knew. 15 minutes of poorly circulated hell.

Back in we went...and some more questions! Do you have a problem with authority? What is your opinion of meth? Raise your hand if you've witnessed injustice. Raise your hand if this might affect your ability to judge the facts of this case. Raise your hand if you've ever been to Arbys. Raise your hand if this might affect your ability to judge the facts of this case. On and on. And on. I yawned at the defense attorney. It was 4:15.

And then...then I heard "Does anyone here think that marijuana should be legalized?" And my hand shot up.


I got out at 4:30. I don't have to go back there for another 2 years, minimum. I expressed my relief as I checked out with the Jury Room clerk. "You didn't want to serve on the jury, then?" She seemed surprised. I explained to her that I didn't feel the defendant deserved my boredom. Not when his freedom was at stake. She laughed. I think she understood. We're kindred spirits, she and I.

Then I went home. Roommate made me dinner. I KNOW! I'm keeping him.

See...I warned you. Lengthy.

But worth

(lie if you must)

Monday, June 02, 2008

Lately It's All About Themes

There are two reasons this post won't be filled with doom and gloom. Two items that brought me back from the brink of bitterness on a sunshiney day.

Firstish - this literally had me laughing so out-of-control loud just now that I'm convinced it could be heard from space (and don't give me any of that "there's no sound in space" sciencey bullshit because I'm not having it):

It's so...mean. And it makes me so...happy.

And then the Waif sends me new pictures of the cuteness that is the Face...which always brightens my day...but let's me know there are some "special" ones from when they were staying at my apartment.

And here they are. Yes...those are my (clean thankyouverymuch) drawers spinning around on his "ogu" (top). This is what happens when you leave children alone with their parents. Roommate (placeholder nickname til one drunken night with Marie & amy g. results in a permanent one) likes this one because it includes a crapload of liquor in the background. For someone who doesn't drink, he's obviously totally obsessed with booze. I have a feeling there's a 'got blitzed in Vegas and woke up married to a 65 year old burlesque dancer/cabbie' story somewhere in his past. Don't'll all come out sooner or later.
Waif - that sweatshirt he's wearing is awful. Burn it. I'm buying him some decent shit this weekend.

My underwears are cute, though.