Going back to Cali

So I leave for California at the crack of dawn tomorrow for a week-long 3 prong vacation (during which you will likely be update-less).

My cousin and I are starting in Lake Tahoe at her parent's lake house, then spending a bit of time at their ranch outside of Sacramento to ride horses and visit relatives, then to San Francisco to see my cousin's new apartment and do the museum thing.

I am very interested in the Cartoon Art Museum... which happens to be located quite close to Beard Papa's Creme Puffs (though I hear one is opening soon here in Seattle). I also hope to cross a few things off of my 101 List while I'm down there, so that should be a good time.

I would be remiss, however, if I failed to mention that I am utterly stressed out about this trip because I have to fly.

I'm not scared of plane crashes or anything- I just hate the whole rush to get there, then wait, getting checked in, dealing with getting luggage into bins I can't reach using 1 working arm and 1 with no sensation and limited strength, sitting by strangers, and getting out of the airport. I'm terrified of not packing the right things, sitting next to a smelly or a chatty, missing my flight, or getting bumped.

Worst of all is the pitifully ineffective but incredibly inconvenient security. Inevitably I am searched. I must be on some list or perhaps I'm just traveling alone while looking vaguely ethnic-ish. I always get hand searched and my luggage always gets turned before it gets on the plane because when I arrive my stuff is always all mangled and occasionally missing.

The second I am out of the airport, luggage in hand, I will be zen- until the day before I have to return.

Run Don’t Walk, Fat Ass

Angry squirrels and I are in agreement that Fridays are the new days not to trust. Saturdays are also no good.

Last Friday I picked up my cousin Jessica and we drove down for my great grandmother’s funeral in Lakewood. We sat directly behind the relatives we are most familiar with, my uncle James (who is more or less my age), his girlfriend, and his sister Meghan and her children. As we installed ourselves in the pew James turned and looked around shiftily. He placed his hand in his jacket pocket and showed us a small blue container. Jess and I stared at it blankly. It felt like the 40’s, that he was trying to sell us prophylactics or porn. [Blogger’s note: I totally did not know how to spell ‘prophylactic’- in the future I should write ‘rubbers’ instead.] This was not a prophylactic, it was a grandma. My grandma. Well, part of her anyway. [Blogger's note: this could be the hip new toy this season: Pocket Grandmas or Pokegrama. Imagine Pikachu, but instead of saying “pika pika,” she could say “eat more eat more!”] Our eyes got big, and James was wondering what to do with his bottle of grandma. All I could think was to throw it in the ocean. No, my granny wasn’t into the ocean, but she was probably much less into hanging out in a random assortment of pockets simultaneously.

Now, I would like this to be understood before God and people who accidentally find my site whilst searching for porn, that when I die and am cremated (as this seems the most sanitary) I do not want small pieces of me to be sent home like morbid party favors.

Then the procession started and the priest came in. He was an older gentleman with a deep and droning voice like a cross between Ben Stein and Dr. Zoidberg from Futurama. He did all his priest-y things and then started the eulogy-esque section with the following: “People have mixed feelings about death. It’s like the story about your mother-in-law who drove over a cliff… in your brand new Mercedes.” Pause for chuckles… chuckles that never came. This would be a good point to mention that my grandma was a mother-in-law to three people sitting in that room to honor her memory. My great grandma was the kindest person that I have ever met, the nicest person ever. The sort of person you would be lucky to bring into your family and life. James turned and looked at me, shock written across his face. My eyes were wide as saucers and Jessica gave me the raised eyebrow stare from behind her hands. The priest’s voice betrayed no traces of humor and his attempt at a joke reverberated through the room before two sympathy guffaws broke the suddenly stagnant air.

The rest of the funeral passed without incident and Jessica and I raced back to her house for vegi-lasagna and Grey’s Anatomy reruns. Eventually I trudged to an office party at my boss’s house. I spent about 45 minutes and started to say my goodbyes. I went to my car and turned the ignition and pulled the lever to put my car in gear, to no avail. There was something amiss somewhere between my gear shifty thingy and my transmission. I returned to the party and my wonderful boss offered to call AAA for me. (This is a great place to mention that I had JUST cancelled my AAA membership after 3 YEARS of not using it.)

I was aware that I require a car between Friday and whenever the hell my car gets done and had to find a vehicle somewhere. I attempted to call my Auntie (who like every other living relative had JUST left for a camping trip), and eventually gave up and called my 12 year old cousin Sean. He skate boarded back to the campsite and Auntie told me that their spare car is in use, but I can take their 4 month old pimped out, crazy expensive mini-van until my car is repaired. Which is great, except that I can’t drive a van for shit, but as I have TWO airport runs to be made, I have to just suck it up.

Finally the AAA guy showed up and tells me it’s my transmission cable, but he can rig it so I can drive to the shop and does so. My very lovely boss’s excellent son offered to ferry me from the auto shop to my uncle’s house. We were half way there and on an extremely curvy road with no shoulder when my car began to rev up to RPMs that it has never before seen whilst simultaneously slowing down. I pulled over into the gated driveway of the local post office and my boss’s son (who no doubt has better things to do on a Friday night) attempted to reach his mother. No cell reception. After wandering around a bit he contorted himself into a strange position half-way on top of his car and called his mom. He explained the situation and we stood there for a few minutes while I apologized profusely (because I am obviously cursed). Unexpectedly the AAA guy showed up and explained that he got worried driving away and turned around to check on us. Nice. He clamped something in place and followed us to the garage, where I abandoned my car (which I later realized was full of things that I needed including my laundry, recent gas receipts (just wait for that section of my suckage), and grad school materials for my Sunday morning meeting.

I arrived at my uncle’s house and sat down to drink a glass of water and regain my shaken composure. After a few minutes I got up and went to the key drawer. And inside said drawer, no keys. This can be noted as the point at which I almost started crying. Instead I called Auntie and after a few moments of thinking she realized that she put them in some other drawer. I grabbed the keys and drove the van home. (2 days later I determined how to turn off the climate control. The button was marked ‘off’ and void of any symbols indicating what it turned off.) If you ever want a good time, watch me attempt to parallel park a van in my neighborhood.

Later that night Addy, Steve and I took a nice relaxing walk around the lake, during which, a car load of teenagers yelled, “Run, don’t walk, Fat Ass.” Surely my ass had had enough abuse for one day.

The next morning I drove my friends to the airport and right about at Boeing Field the gas light came on. After dropping them off I exited the airport to Burien and found a gas station (and dropped about $60 on gas) only to realize that I had no idea of how to find the highway. Luckily my Auntie and uncle sprang for that GPS directory business and I hit the ‘take me home’ button. A calm voice directed me back to the interstate and I cruised up to Cap Hill for a very fun barbeque followed by a viewing of The Night Listener, which I may add actually had me freaking out and saying such things to the TV as “Oh God, don’t go in there!” and “Oh Disaster!” (4 monkeys.)

Yesterday I was so caught up in the film Anatomy of a Murder (3 monkeys and p.s. they used the word ‘bitch’ in this 1960 film, starring Jimmy Stewart.) that I was late to let the dog out to pee and then the cat got out, which resulted in me hysterically searching for it, which resulted in a sweaty, nearly tearful Quiana hustling down to drop some friends off at the airport TWENTY minutes late. 20 minutes is probably greater than the cumulative number of minutes that I have been late to anywhere in the last year. This resulted in neigh on constant apologies to same said friends. On the return trip the gas light of HER car came on as I was just about reaching Boeing Field (hereafter to be known as the Land of the Auto Damned). I made it to the James St. exit and up the hill as the car was having seizures from lack of gas. I put in $10 of gas and consider myself now absolved of all lateness.

Last night I set my alarm for PM instead of AM and if the cat (recently returned from an exciting vacation/man hunt) hadn’t jumped onto my bladder, I would still be asleep at this very moment.

Today I heard from the auto shop which notified me that I am looking at about $900 in repairs (for the cable and for anchors to prevent my engine from oh say, falling out of my car/ busting my cable AGAIN). This is approximately $899 more than I have. Loyal SUCkers will recall that in February I dropped $1182.11 on repairs on my car of Eternal Damnation and Torment. Where is the point at which I should resign myself to new and exciting $300 a month car payments for 4 years and just bag this car? Any advice?

This new information prompted me to make sure that I had plenty of space on my credit card- which I KNEW I did already, but which enabled me to find that some gas station last week charged me $95 on my credit card. And because my car is in the shop, I can’t correct it until Tuesday or Thursday because I keep my gas receipts in my car to track my increasingly poor gas mileage (of doom).

Fucking Ricockulous Attempt at a Silver Lining on the Cloud of the Shit Storm of my Life:
1. My car didn’t break down on the way to my granny’s funeral.
2. My engine didn’t fall out.
3. The cat came back (prior to the very next day).
4. I’m going to very seriously violate the gas station who is trying to rip me off.
5. Last night I had fro-yo.
6. Wendy’s has released a burger called The Baconator- the bad news being that they have 830 calories and now I can’t afford one.
7. The 7-11 at 362 Denny Way has been remodeled into a Kwik-E-Mart. Yes, I would like a squishy.

Idiocracy: The Ghost of Christmas Future.

Today I attended an educational forum about legislative changes in the area of education. Of course WASL was the big thing. So the quick skinny on this issue is that the state is now demanding that you be able to master English, math, and science at a 10th grade level to graduate. The WASL tests what the state believes you should know in 10th grade. It is not multiple choice.

Because parents are desperate for their kids to graduate they have strong-armed their politicians into giving students alternatives to the test and in fact allowing them to walk with a fake diploma, the Certificate of Academic Completion.

A few thoughts:
1. We are not helping kids by catering to their "learning styles." I don't want to be an asshole; but, a college professor or boss isn't going to say, "Oh, you aren't good at tests? Well don't worry about this mandatory exam or licensing test." Or, "Oh you aren't a visual learner, hop in my lap and I will just read these chapters to you." Even in society there are tests; can you imagine the Department of Licensing just saying, "Well Bobby, you can't drive an actual car with out hitting stuff, but I see that you are bomb at Mario Kart, so here you go."
2. I would like everyone's diploma to be equal. I would like all students and all schools held to the same standard, regardless of income and race. And I would like to think that everyone would like their children to actually perform at the 10th grade level. Giving a poor kid a meaningless diploma and a fat scholarship does not help him if he can't read.
3. Graduating unqualified students is dumbing down colleges. Just check out all the remedial math and English courses at state universities.
4. Graduating unqualified students is dumbing down the work force. These days to get a job interview you are required to take specialized tests. Why is this? Because a diploma, college or high school, does not mean that you know how to do anything.
5. If your kid can't perform at the 10th grade level, they aren't ready for college. At today's meeting one concerned mother was worried about what getting a Certificate of Showing up and Breathing would do to her son's chances of getting into college. All I could think was, "Lady, your son shouldn't be allowed to drive past a college without a tenth grade education."

Uhm... so there.

Perhaps a bacon dispenser would improve my day.

I'm too busy moping to blog and blogging my mopes just results in cheerful email from concerned persons.

Instead I will post an amusing (to me) picture.

So, here it is: The Bacon Dispenser.

I am not kidding. Do any of you need a roommate?

Yesterday I was on the phone with my dear former roommate as I let myself in through the second security door and into my hallway. Crazy Neighbor’s door popped open and she waddled out. “I need to talk to you,” she said walking towards me. I waggled my phone at her. “We need to talk,” she said continuing towards me. I just shut my door.

At 8:45 in my post-work out/ post-dinner flush I lay sprawled across my bed indulging in my secret shame- Ugly Betty- when there was a thoroughly expected knock at my door. At 8:45 on Thursdays Monica shows up and we chat until Grey’s comes on.

“Come in,” I called, “its locked; just let yourself in.” And there was no answer. I thought that perhaps Monica has a bunch of junk in her arms and can’t get her keys out. So I hopped up and threw open the door to find Crazy Neighbor.

With no preamble she declared, “I’m sorry to bug you, it’s just that every time I leave my apartment they come in and steal from me.”

Finally unable to contain the look that says ‘oh my gosh you are totally bonkers,’ I stared at her, slack jawed.

At that moment my hallway door opened and an unseen person approached. Crazy Neighbor blocked my door with her considerable girth/ crazy person powers. Monica was unable to enter; also nervous, she hovered a few feet away.

‘It’s just that I can’t leave my things in there because Dan (our apt. manager) will come in and steal them.” She was genuinely scared and wrung her hands furiously. “Can I bring over a few things for you to keep safe for me while I run an errand? It’ll only take 15 minutes.”

I had no idea what to do. Crazy Neighbor was counting on me and all of this was so real to her, so I agreed. I will admit that partially I just wanted her to go away and let Mon in and that I also was a tad bit nervous about possible reprisals if I refused.

Monica came in the second she left and we screamed soundlessly and jumped up and down waving our hands in a panic.

A few minutes later she returned with three carrier bags full of papers- notebooks, loose leaf, envelopes, just paper. I was tempted to examine them, but didn’t want to be accused of anything if she noticed. Fifteen minutes later she knocked on my door, I handed her the bags and stammered ‘thank you’ (which in my mind means ‘we’re done here, now go away’) repeatedly and slamming the door shut.

I immediately declared that one of us (preferably both) has to move right away. I called my apartment manager and left him a voicemail asking him to call me the next day because I have something very important to discuss with him. I plan to tell him that I feel freaked out and unsafe and so should he. That he needs to boot her or I’m out of here.

So, if any of you know someone looking for a roommate- possibly temporarily, I’m looking to move ASAP.

It’s not simply that I’m scared she might crap on my door mat, or yell at me, or chop me up into tiny pieces and feed me to her fish; it’s that I can’t deal with her coming over every time she has a break with reality. I can’t open my door to her and I don’t want to be her enemy. I just want her and her weird cloud gone.

I was planning on moving anyway, this just moves up the time table.

Dear Tommy,

In 1985 you gave me chicken pox. For that I was already grateful, but for you to have given me chicken pox that stowed away in my spinal fluid, then creeped up inflaming a nerve and sprouting pox upon my back, exactly along my bra-line, I cannot be thankful enough.
Tommy, you suck.

My life sucks, and since chicken pox is technically herpes, I am on herpes meds and now my pharmacist will never want to be my boyfriend and it is ALL YOUR FAULT, TOMMY!

I hope you have the real herpes with warts on your man bits.

I should have predicted this would happen when you ALWAYS made me be the Decepticon.

Dear readers,
I have shingles. A quite painful chicken pox related (non contageous) virus... not the zombie plague, as previously reported. (Yes, I am a little disapointed too.)

I am worn out and headed back to bed.

Zombie Plague Alert Level Skyrocketing

Zombie Plague Alert Level was raised to yellow this morning when the creepy geometric rash escaped its square confines and popped up in other portions of my back and a renegade group- and it galls me to say it- under my right breast. These new groups do not seem to care for squares and are in any and every shape.

I cannot express my level of discomfort, but let me say that if I was a dude I would not have even made it into work today. There is no bra made by man (nor, I contend, beast) that can possibly work without touching my fiery and painful rash of damnation.

This is a rash of perhaps not biblical proportion, but maybe of biblical origin; am I being scourged by God? My guess would be that He's ticked about the cursing and the hating everyone and whatnot. Maybe hydrocorisone does not work on scourges. That would explain a lot.

I have now made an appointment to see my doctor today at 3. Undoubtedly, she will then become exposed and turn around and expose countless patients to my horrifying, but very gradual zombification.
Today I'm scratching my back... sometime next year I'm scratching yours.
With my teeth.

News and whatnot

Brides already not self-obsessed enough.
Now they must be princess brides: Disney to offer gowns for Princess brides. You can just file this under shit that makes me want to slap someone and yell.
What happened to weddings in the home with food and decorations made for you by your loving family and friends? I'm sick of multiple showers, bachelorette weekend trips, wedding ceremonies in churches for non-religious persons, followed by hours long receptions with flocks of expensively clad attendants, many speeches, bad music, mediocre food, and cheap booze. Followed shortly after by acrimonious divorce and cheer up martinis.
Listen people, celebrate your love of a lifetime by taking that 30k and putting a down on a house. Register for the items you would like in said house and receive them at a tasteful ceremony at your new home.

Cell phones possibly causing death of honey bees
This headline caught my eye, not simply because the mystery of the lost bees is intriguing, but also because I am currently reading Cell, by Stephen King. Cell is essentially about cell phones creating zombies (Oh, the subtlety).
He rages near constantly at the rudeness of cell users and thus wrote a somewhat diverting book in which he takes his revenge. It actually bothers me that King is so irked by cell phones. Sure some people talk on them when they should be talking to the checker or waitress- but these people are rude people and regardless of their cell-phones would find something equally rude behavior. Perhaps while buying their Disney Princess gowns....

Ed Norton to play Bruce Banner in upcoming The Incredible Hulk.
I can't believe someone as snotty as Ed Norton wants to play the Hulk.
That being said, I will still go see it in the theater... because I am a complete idiot.
"Edward is perfectly suited to bring one of the most popular and important Marvel icons to the big screen in a new and exciting way," Marvel Studios production president Kevin Feige said in a statement.
Said Norton, "Look, all this coke doesn't just magically appear in my nose, you know!"

Seattle man charged in bizarre duck case
A long convoluted story in which a dude jacks some crap from the Linens & Things [that you don't need] and attempts to escape in his car, which almost runs over his girlfriend's pet duck, Mr. Peepers, causing an onlooker to jump in front of the car to save the duck, thus being run over.
No, seriously.
Of course this couldn't happen today, when I actually have to go to the adjacent Best Buy. That would have been quite the show

Va. Tech: Gunman student from S. Korea
Now this is where I offend.
Headline alternatives:
Va. Tech: Gunman likes peanut butter sandwiches.
Va. Tech: Gunman boring white kid from Corvalis Oregon.
Va. Tech: Gunman had six fingers on his right hand.
I really am bothered that the only relevant detail- that he was a student- was completely ignored in favor of the fact that he was Korean. Also you screwed the pooch on punctuation. Excellent job news media.
Enjoy raking in the profits by providing self-indulgent America with pointless details in every new edition, thus enabling us to emotionally take advantage of a tragedy of which we have no part.

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

So, three days ago I got out of the shower and noticed that during the night I had scratched my back (or so I believed at the time) and a patch of it was red and swollen.
The next day the patch began to itch like nuts and I noticed that it was exactly square.
Yesterday I was displeased with life as I had been woken up by my own unconscious scratching of the patch.
Last night I was still waking myself up with the scratching to the point that I had to wear socks on my hands to prevent myself from irritating the skin further. I am driven nuts by this and am going to have to go and get some kind of stuff to put on it OR go to the doctor (which I HATE doing.)
The point that I meant to get to earlier is that I can’t determine why I have a square rash. My grandma thinks it is an allergic reaction—but to what? I am not wearing anything new or doing anything new (because I am boring).
My guesses:
Flesh eating bacteria.
Zombie plague.
WebMD has me convinced that I have cancer or hepatitis. I tried looking up my known allergies to look for something new. Interestingly, it noted that my latex allergy and my tomato allergy are connected as they both share a common protein. It also noted that it could be eczema, as that runs in the family too.
Also interestingly, it didn’t have any mention of zombie plague. I’m thinking government cover up.

Soon I will drive for miles with my turn signal on.

I can tell I'm getting old because when my single good looking dentist asked me how I chipped my tooth in that spot, rather than saying that some some crazy bitch slapped me in a club in Conshohocken Pennsylvania, I said, "oh I chipped it in college" as though I endured some kind of library accident... in my face.

Further evidence that I am old can be found in the occurences of last night. I wanted to just zone out and watch a little TV, so I started watching one of those police procedurals and was kind of dozing. Then I woke up a little and was channel hopping and when I flipped back to what I thought was the same show, it took me 20 minutes to realize that I had been so tired (both of procedurals and in general) that I watched the second half of the one with Mandy Patinkin and the first half of the Law and Order with Ice-T.

I called dibs in '91, Johansson!

WWTDD.com is reporting that Scarlett Johansson (previously linked to: Justin Timberlake, Derek Jeter, Jared Leto, Josh Hartnet, and Benicio del Turo) has pounced upon Ryan Reynolds in clear violation of the dibs that I called in 1991.

Ryan, I liked you when you had no abs and a bowl haircut... you just keep that in mind.


Readers, you may ask yourself why this is blogworthy here on SUC... well it's just a little something for the ladies.


RAAAWWWWRRRR.

Let me tell you a little bit about crows...

Some Points...

1. Crows are very smart. Excerpt from pbs.com article on crows in Japan:

The scene: a traffic light crossing on a university campus in Japan [!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!]. Carrion crows and humans line up patiently, waiting for the traffic to halt.
When the lights change, the birds hop in front of the cars and place walnuts, which they picked from the adjoining trees, on the road. After the lights turn green again, the birds fly away and vehicles drive over the nuts, cracking them open. Finally, when it’s time to cross again, the crows join the pedestrians and pick up their meal.
If the cars miss the nuts, the birds sometimes hop back and put them somewhere else on the road. Or they sit on electricity wires and drop them in front of vehicles.
Biologists already knew the corvid family–it includes crows, ravens, rooks, magpies and jackdaws–to be among the smartest of all birds. But this remarkable piece of behavior–it features in the final program of “Life of Birds”–would seem to be a particularly acute demonstration of bird intelligence.
The crows in Japan have only been cracking nuts this way since about 1990. They have since been seen doing it in California. Researchers believe they probably noticed cars driving over nuts fallen from a walnut tree overhanging a road. The crows already knew about dropping clams from a height on the seashore to break them open, but found this did not work for walnuts because of their soft green outer shell.

2. They are growing. Courtesy of Paul.

Excerpts taken from here: newsfromme.com

Hey, what is it with these huge crows, people? Is this a symptom of Global Warming that Al Gore didn't warn us about? I don't recall the crows of my childhood being this large. Two more years of growth and they'll be carrying off dogs and small children. I'll try to get some photos of them one of these days but take my word for it. These are big damn crows. Since I got skinnier, I'm starting to get worried. The birds in your yard should not weigh more than you do.

I'm getting e-mails from bird lovers and experts responding to my message of earlier this morning about how the crows in my neighborhood are getting frighteningly large. Several folks want to know if maybe these are ravens, instead.

No, they are crows. Huge crows. Crows of awesome, worrisome height and girth. Crows that if they get much larger will be able to grab up a full-sized man in their beaks and snap him in two like a Rold-Gold pretzel stick. Crows that could crush the roof of your car if they were to merely alight on it. I don't even want to think about what might happen if you parked under a crow that big. One good dump and they'd have to send in St. Bernards to find you.
And every time I see the crows, they're bigger than they were the last time I saw them. Soon, they will be the size of Graf Zeppelins and then, by God, maybe you people will listen to me.

I am not a paranoid person. I don't spend much time worrying about natural disasters or the economy or terrorism or even the administration of George W. Bush, who's making all those things worse by the moment. I rarely imagine doom lies ahead. Just look at some of the jobs I've taken voluntarily when a more apprehensive man might have imagined what could happen.
But I tell you: I'm deeply, deeply worried about the crows. And also by the fact that people love Dancing With the Stars. Somehow, that threatens our well-being, too.

I've been telling you people about the Monster Crows that I've been seeing in my area lately. Some of those birds must be three or four hundred pounds and every so often, I see them cracking open a Mazda the same way normal-sized birds break into peanuts. Here, thanks to my pal Dana Gabbard, is an article

about the crows. It doesn't mention anything about how huge they're getting but I understand that's because no one wants to alarm the population.

3. Wikipedia says that they will eat anything.

Extremely versatile in its feeding, it will take food from the ground [ off a bicycle] or in trees. They feed on a wide range of items and will attempt to feed on anything appearing edible, alive or dead, plant or animal [including Quiana]. It is also one of the most persistent species and is quite bold, especially in urban areas [like Tokyo, or GASP Seattle]. It is well known for its regular habit of killing domestic chickens [WTF], more so than any other species of Crow. In Japan, feral crows [????!!!!!!!!!!!] are considered to be a pest for ripping open garbage bags and taking wire coat hangers for their nests.

4. I know the god damn difference between a crow and a raven-- (FUN FACT) even though they are the same word in Japanese 'karasu.' Which I believe means 'black bird which can fuck you up.'

5. Japanese crows carry the uber-disease that will wipe us all out. Article on the bird flu carrying crows.

Interesting/creepy note in the article:

An executive who worked for the company that owned the infected chicken farm has committed suicide with his wife, said the police. People had complained that he had not reported the chicken deaths immediately. His name was Asada Nosan.

6. The problem is so bad (30,000 crows in Tokyo) that the Tokyo Metropolitan Government established a crow management project team in 2001 and launched a comprehensive campaign against the birds.

Article on the Crow Management Project.

Article on the crow bounty system, from Crow Busters.

Article on crows taking down the internet in Tokyo.

Article on Tokyo citizen's forum on crows.

Article on the increase in crow attacks in Tokyo

Article on cyclists being attacked by crows and having accidents. Helpful hint- this is what happened to me....

7. They live everywhere and attacks are on the rise.

Joggers in London urged to wear hats after bloody "mobbing"

Crows attacking cars and passerby in England

8. They are well known anti-Semites.

Israeli man stalked by crow, forced to wear helmet.

And I'm spent.

Maybe I didn't get it?

Last night I watched Little Miss Sunshine and thought to myself, Meh.


Having a series of "unusual" events happen= not good enough. I mean, yes, I see why one might think that this is "funny" but the movie was just flat.


Partially, I think that the movie makers were striving too hard to be arty and different. Maybe shooting for Garden State- Oh I'm funny, arty, and I have a message about family and failure- but fell very very short.

Maybe I was bored as hell because being broke, driving a beater, having parents who have dreams that supersede their interest in their children, depression, and sexually precocious children are all very real to me. Maybe if I had a silver spoon stuck up my ass I might have found the movie hilarious and moving.

Bitches promised me laughs. I guess they got two of them out of me.

It was fine, 3 monkeys. Oscar worthy? No. Worth seeing again? No.

Abject public humiliation? Check!

May I just preface this story with the note that had three drinks? Three. Regular drinks- not super drinks, just normal drinks. On St. Patrick’s Day… and I’m Irish Cherokee.

Last night I woke up with horrible stomach cramps. At about 9 am I crawled forth from my home with what felt like the worst hang over I have ever had in my entire life (aside from this party my friend Terry had in college). We’re talking vomit, shakes, the whole mess. I had plans with my friend Dawn, omelets (oh sweet zombie Jesus), rummage sale and museum. I choked down the omelet and started to feel pretty good… until we got in the car and start the winding winding road around Lake Washington. Up and down, swirling, twirling, it must be muskrat love the horrible urge to… vomit out the window. One more time?

I think this warrants both repetition and further detail:

Pulling into the charity rummage sale to benefit the most exclusive private school in Seattle, I rolled down the window and vomited from a moving vehicle—at noon, on Sunday.

I am awesome.

I am gorgeous and beautiful and full of a certain mystique that fills the hearts of men with thoughts of both everlasting love and powerful (sweaty) lust.

In all seriousness though, I have almost entirely given up on drinking because these days, I have one drink and the next day I wake up with what feels like a horrible stomach flu. I am now quite concerned that I may have developed an allergy to alcohol, or maybe it is just my reflux. Maybe I should actually take the prescription meds for my stupid reflux.

Meh. I’d rather vomit down the sides of my friends’ cars.

This Film Is Not Yet Rated

Last night Steve, Addy and I watched Kirby Dick's This Film Is Not Yet Rated, a film about the MPAA rating system. The movie stalks and reveals the MPAA raters and examines how the MPAA operates. I don't want to reveal too much, so I will simply say that the movie was very interesting and quite funny. We particularly enjoyed an animated segment which showed how films move from G to NC-17.


Our basic thought on rating movies is that we don't want anyone to decide which movies are shown in theaters. An NC-17 means that nobody will advertise the film, and viewers will never even know it existed. As adults, I feel we should have the right to decide for ourselves if a movie is too crude, violent, or sexually explicit. I would like to know if a movie is going to have bad language, violence, or graphic sex (particularly rape), so that I wouldn't bring a child or watch the film with my Grandparents, but surely there is a way to notify people of content without making an overall rating.


I don't want to be censored by my government and I certainly don't feel like being censored by some shadowy group of nobodies who are supported by an appeals court of hoity-toity white male officers of major theater chains.

Prank calls for boring boring people.

So, I tried to call that James character again, after he left my boss a voicemail. She (for some reason) didn't want to attempt call him.

Transcript of call:
Phone: Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring.
My brain: Yes! It's about to go to voicemail.
Elderly Korean Gentleman: Annyong haseyo.
My brain: Fuck.
Me: James please. (with slight Korean accent on James)
Elderly Korean Gentleman: Annyong haseyo.
Me: Thanks, sorry.

James, seriously, quit leaving a number that only Koreans can use. Get a cell phone, tell your relatives what the crackers call you. I feel like I'm harassing the elderly.

Let's talk about favors, again.

Let me make something clear:

When you repeatedly come to someone for favors, you do not get to haggle with them over how to accomplish the favor.

You see it's called a favor, because I don't have to or shouldn't do it. If I choose to take pity on you, it is now up to me as to how/when something will be done. Now you are inconveniencing me AND irritating me.

You should keep this in mind before asking me for a favor again, I know I will.

Annyong?

Sorry, I've been swamped at work and busy with my job hunt and another creative endeavors.

I spent most of the weekend, either at, or prepping for my uncle's 50th birthday party. So that was good and I ate my weight in various swine products and that was good.

So here we are at Monday again. Monday is ok by me; especially since been up since 5:30... wooooooooo! Less sleep= super giddy Quiana. I had to prep for a big prof. dev. meeting quite early this morning.

Tonight I'm going to see Art Spiegelman's lecture with Jim, so life is good. I'm sure the lecture will be awesome, presuming I can stay awake. Woooooooooooooooooooooooo.

Now, I have a work anecdote:

Background of anecdote: I knew I had to call a household in which there was only one English speaker. Everyone else speaks Korean... only.

Anecdote (transcript of phone call):
Ring ring.
Elderly Korean Gentleman: Annyong haseyo.
Me: Hello? May I speak with James please?
Pause.
EKG: Annyong haseyo.
Me: Is James there?
EKG: Annyong haseyo?
Pause.
Me: James? Please?
EKG: Annyong haseyo.
Me: James? sigh.
And then I hung up on him....

What was I supposed to do? I know that annyong haseyo means "hello," but if I had said annyong haseyo, he would have expected some Korean ability. An ability which I sorely lack.

Monday, monday, can't trust that day.

Monday Thoughts:

Some people in my Workplace seem to think that the rules do not apply to them. "No," said I to my boss, " I cannot go and ask colleague to change the date of Ridiculous Meeting for the third time. There is no X Resource available, it is against the rules, and this is the 3rd time we've asked her to change it."
Said boss, "Ok, I'll just go over her head."
"Ok," I grumbled, "whatever, rule breaker."
This situation brought to mind a quote from the movie Go. Said the drug dealer (disconbobulatingly named "Todd"): Wow, I didn't know we'd become such good friends, because if we had, you'd know that I give head before I give favors and I don't even give my best friends head so your chances of getting a favor are pretty fucking slim.
I know that there is a difference between trying to get a meeting moved and trying to get 20 hits of ecstasy, but I think you will all understand the relevancy of that particular quote.

My blog is so classy I should run the theme from Masterpiece Theater.
Which might I add is a HUGE part of my childhood memories. Alastair Cooke in his smoking jacket in the darkened library, next to a roaring fire. (And the Sesame Street version with Alistair Cookie.) That and the distinctive theme from Mystery!, the wonderful Gorey art, and the sound of Diana Rigg's amazing voice.

And I'm spent. Tonight I'm attending a superfantastic National Geographic Live! lecture, so I must hurry off now.

Notice the two "!'s" after these above names, ahhhh the excitement!

Dear hipster public radio station,

I would love to give you more money, but I refuse to give public radio more money than I give UNICEF, the UN World Food Program, PATH, or Pathfinder, my other charities. I don't make much money, and I regret to tell you that I probably would not increase my donation to you even if I made more money. I would simply rather give my few dollars to somebody who is attempting to end AIDS or fight poverty. No offense to you, I love your programing, live shows, and CDs-- I just pay you as much as I feel a few hours of listening a week warrants.
This American Life is good and so is non-obnoxious morning radio, but having a cure to AIDS would be awesome in the literal and traditional sense and I really don't think you can compete with that.
Let me know when you start educating women in foreign countries on family planning and farming. I'm all over that stuff. In the mean time, quit emailing me everyday.
The same goes to you, Special Olympics and World Wildlife Fund. But not you, National Geographic, you are tasty tasty nerd-nip, you do whatever you like. RAWR.