I've been asked--as I mentioned about a month ago--to contribute to the Month in Review panel at Change of Subject, the blog of Chicago Tribune columnist Eric Zorn. He provides the categories, we provide the examples; there's a largely Chicago/Illinois focus, but that's not necessarily written in stone (and I would imagine the focus will be wider this month than in many others.) Anyway: here goes...
MOST SIGNIFICANT STORY OF THE MONTH: “Public Official A” and the teachers’ pension scandal. No matter whether or not “A” equals Blagojevich, our “reform” governor’s image has taken a huge bullet—and I don’t think the damage can be repaired.
WINNER OF THE MONTH: Traditional media, both national and local, who regained some of their lost credibility by asking the right questions about the response after Hurricane Katrina. It was good to see journalists doing something to the administration other than tossing softballs and kissing butts. (Present company excepted, EZ...)
LOSER OF THE MONTH —The Hispanic Democratic Organization. Every teflon politician needs their scapegoats; Daley has just found another. (Runners-up: the present and future taxpayers of Chicago (gee, thanks for settling that Ryan Harris case, alderpeople...) and our (ahem) esteemed governor.)
MOST UNDER-REPORTED STORY --WTTW, Chicago’s largest so-called “public” television station, has hooked up with the WNBA’s new Chicago Sky team. Under the terms of this deal, the PBS station will produce, sell ads for, and broadcast all the team’s home games starting in May. How is this “television in the public interest”? Aren’t there FCC regulations about public-television stations accepting the sort of advertising professional sports will attract? Why isn’t anyone talking about this? (Runner-up: None. Reluctantly, I concede that “Marty Casey getting totally robbed by losing to J.D. on Rock Star: INXS”—as wrong as that was!—is not technically “news”. Unless you’re Channel 2, that is; then it’s among your top stories.)
MOST OVER REPORTED STORY—-From New Orleans, the stories of violence. Most particularly, the story about “people shooting at helicopters”. Sorry, there’s no local angle to this one—but every time I hear this reference it makes my blood boil. If you look closely at the initial reports—the source data, as it were—they use similar phrasing. I understand that most news is sourced through national bureaus, hence the similarities—but in the early days of the Katrina disaster, so many unsubstantiated urban legends popped up about what happened in New Orleans, particularly the Superdome and the Convention Center. Time, reflection, and proper investigation have shown:
--By and large, the “looters” were not crazed junkies searching for drugs, as Mayor Nagin said.
--The incident involving a group of survivors turned back while attempting to cross into nearby Gretna was not entirely a case of “rich white people turn away poor black people”. (link)
--There was not a wave of babies and children being raped in either the Superdome or the Convention Center-- one case has been substantiated, but no confirmation can be found of the “stories of a 14-year-old girl and a 7-year-old boy reportedly raped to death in the New Orleans Superdome” (as reported by Reuters, according to this link.)
The “people shooting at helicopters” story was given as an excuse for rescues and food drops to cease, for trucks and buses to be turned back from New Orleans—and my suspicion is that this was one incident, one expression of EXTREMELY poor judgement on the part of a frightened and frustrated individual, which has been reported as an indictment of an entire class of people who managed to survive under conditions none of the rest of us can comprehend. And it’s a reminder that there’s no substitute for responsible journalism, either in the “mainstream” or the “new” media.
STORY TO WATCH IN THE UPCOMING MONTH: The Ryan trial.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
They Broke My Show.
Not sure how many other fans of The Amazing Race there are in this crowd (besides Spins, of course), but the season premiere was tonight, and all I have to say is...
WTF was THAT??
For my take on the teams, go here; in fact, if you like good snark, go there and read through EVERYONE's take on it. This is my favoritemost TV site--thy have absolutely the best message boards of any forum I've ever seen, and I highly recommend it.
Too bad I can't say the same for this season's TAR...
WTF was THAT??
For my take on the teams, go here; in fact, if you like good snark, go there and read through EVERYONE's take on it. This is my favoritemost TV site--thy have absolutely the best message boards of any forum I've ever seen, and I highly recommend it.
Too bad I can't say the same for this season's TAR...
Also, DAMMIT!
How preoccupied/stupid I've been lately:
I forgot my own blogaversary!! By more than a WEEK!
::::throws some belated confetti at myself:::
:::lip-syncs the "Happy Blogaversary" song, or would if such a thing existed, though I would not actually SING it even if it DID exist because...Trust me. Everyone's happier if I don't sing.:::
:::wishes for a cheese danish....mmmmmmm.....cheese danish.....::::
I forgot my own blogaversary!! By more than a WEEK!
::::throws some belated confetti at myself:::
:::lip-syncs the "Happy Blogaversary" song, or would if such a thing existed, though I would not actually SING it even if it DID exist because...Trust me. Everyone's happier if I don't sing.:::
:::wishes for a cheese danish....mmmmmmm.....cheese danish.....::::
Monday, September 26, 2005
AUUGGGHHH!!!!
94.7, you whore.
It wasn't enough to break my heart back in the early 80's, when you were the first FM radio station I'd ever loved: WRCK ("It's W-Rock and it's rock come alive/Chicago's hits on 95!!"), by gradually becoming a clone of WLS-AM, even going so far as to bring in Steve Dahl and simulcast WLS's programming. That wasn't bad enough.
And it wasn't bad enough in 1991 when you went from "Z-95" to some weird-ass dance/Hispanic format that lasted, if I recall correctly, all of five minutes--destroying, in the process, the only radio station which would play the real cool college-radio music mixed in the same blocks with rap and dance and everything else. There was no "alternative" then--there was Z-95. And then there wasn't, and that was hard--but even THAT wasn't bad enough, was it.
No, now you've done it again. This morning I drove to work listening to "Sludge and Brian" on "The Zone", playing Slipknot and Alice In Chains; at lunchtime I got into the truck and pressed that second preset button, looking for something a little harder than the Fall Out Boy they were playing over at Q101. And I got...
...the Monkees.
And then the Ides of March, and then: a promo for "94.7--Chicago's REAL Oldies".
94.7, you are a lying, unconstant format-slut, and I will never fall in love with anything broadcast on your frequency again.
And now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going to go curl up on the sofa with a box of Kleenex and eat an entire pint of chocolate Haagen-Dazs, straight from the carton.
It wasn't enough to break my heart back in the early 80's, when you were the first FM radio station I'd ever loved: WRCK ("It's W-Rock and it's rock come alive/Chicago's hits on 95!!"), by gradually becoming a clone of WLS-AM, even going so far as to bring in Steve Dahl and simulcast WLS's programming. That wasn't bad enough.
And it wasn't bad enough in 1991 when you went from "Z-95" to some weird-ass dance/Hispanic format that lasted, if I recall correctly, all of five minutes--destroying, in the process, the only radio station which would play the real cool college-radio music mixed in the same blocks with rap and dance and everything else. There was no "alternative" then--there was Z-95. And then there wasn't, and that was hard--but even THAT wasn't bad enough, was it.
No, now you've done it again. This morning I drove to work listening to "Sludge and Brian" on "The Zone", playing Slipknot and Alice In Chains; at lunchtime I got into the truck and pressed that second preset button, looking for something a little harder than the Fall Out Boy they were playing over at Q101. And I got...
...the Monkees.
And then the Ides of March, and then: a promo for "94.7--Chicago's REAL Oldies".
94.7, you are a lying, unconstant format-slut, and I will never fall in love with anything broadcast on your frequency again.
And now, if you'll all excuse me, I'm going to go curl up on the sofa with a box of Kleenex and eat an entire pint of chocolate Haagen-Dazs, straight from the carton.
Friday, September 23, 2005
Yeah, Flash, It's All Good.
Thanks to Flash, who wondered whether I was all right. I am; I've just spent a misguided week forcing other priorities on myself. And I do mean forcing. I've created a system for myself which involves rolling dice to define which pieces of housework I have to do on a given day. (Yes. I am a dork. I thought I mentioned that quite a while ago.) And for the most part I stuck to it all week.
Then I realized: this is my house. It's supposed to make me happy, not tyrannize me. And so I said Screw it. I'm going to do what I want to do, not what I think I supposedly should do.
Of course, last night that involved eating a big fat burger and watching "The Apprentice". I'm okay with that. (I'm NOT okay with the fact that J.D. won Rock Star:INXS. I am VERY MUCH not okay with that. INXS was absolutely my favorite band in high school--I was the first of my friends to be up on them--and I remember sitting in a Denny's with Debbi talking about Michael Hutchence's death and how sad it was that we were getting older. So to see an asshat like J.D. get the lead singer job--and over MARTY, of all people, Marty who grew up in a suburb where I once lived with David, who now lives in the neighborhood I lived in with JP, and who totally fails to suck in all the ways that J.D. does not fail to...oh, and for whom I would rearrange my personal life in a moment, were it to come to that...No. Michael Hutchence would NOT approve. It does, however, continue my streak of having my favorite reality people come in second: Bo Bice on American Idol; Kris and Jon on Amazing Race...There were others I thought of when Marty got robbed, but they escape me now. Debbi, my partner in Rock Star, is currently out of town--the lucky beeeotch is on a cruise, for which she is paying almost exactly nothing because her friend who's with her is a travel agent, which almost makes me reconsider the whole antisocial thing--but when she gets back I trust we will share a long disconsolate phone call full of outrage, and also some margaritas.)
My plans for this night, however, have been grossly derailed, and I do mean GROSSly.
LJ staggered in at 5:30 this morning and proceeded to rob me of my final two hours of sleepy bliss. I knew he was drunk; when he's drunk he snores louder, farts more, and flops around like a beached carp. I took an elbow to the eyesocket at one point; had he not been emitting noises that would shame a chainsaw, I'd have sworn it was intentional.
The Water Department called me this morning. I've been trying to get them out to my house since literally February, when I discovered that they've been billing me about $40 a quarter for a water connection that doesn't exist. So needless to say, since I would be at work, LJ would be the one to let the inspector come in and see what they need to see. As I got ready for work, LJ got up to pee and I took advantage of his brief moment of wakefulness to remind him that the water guy was due between 11 and 1. He mumbled vaguely and returned to snoring. I was fairly sure he'd wake up in time...maybe.
Well, the water guy called at 11 to tell me he'd be there at 12:45. And just on a thought, at about noon, I called LJ's cell phone to let him know.
Voice mail.
I called again. Voice mail.
I called the house line. No answer.
House line again. No answer.
Cell again. Voice mail.
I said many bad words.
I hadn't been to lunch yet, so at about 12:15 I said Screw it and headed for home. It takes me 20 minute to get to work in the morning, on the average, and about 35 to get home at night. I was pushing it, I thought, but not by much.
I did not, however, take into account the idiots at IDOT. Apparently the best time to do roadwork just in front of the onramps to a major expressway? Is lunchtime. On a FRIDAY. Because no one would go home early on a FRIDAY. They had Cicero Avenue--normally 3 lanes going north--down to one lane. It was backed up for well over a mile, with no signs to indicate where the problem was or why. My 20-to-35-minute trip took nearly an hour. And just as I pulled up to the end of the traffic jam--they were fixing a fer-cryin'-out-loud POTHOLE, because nobody would need to get on a major expressway, etc.--the water guy called, to let me know he was there and nobody was home. I told him "Oh, somebody's home all right--he's asleep and I'm gonna kick his ass when I get there--but meanwhile I'm about ten minutes away." So the guy said he'd wait, and when I got there I found that LJ had woken up and let him in after he banged on the door a few times. I gave LJ some hell about making me have to come home like that and take up my whole lunch hour and burn all that gas, and then I left to go back to work and called my boss on the way to let him know I'd be about 30 minutes late.
By the way--there was no water connection, exactly where I'd said there wouldn't be one. The water department owes me some money.
About an hour before I'm supposed to go home, I call LJ to ask him something, and he answers the phone sounding like boiled hell on a plate, telling me he's sick. About twenty minutes later he calls back, and asks me to bring him home some chicken soup and "a bottle of that pink shit". (That would be Pepto-Bismol, for those of you who don't speak LJ.) Then on the way home, as I'm pulling out of the parking lot of the store, he calls again, PLEADING with me to bring the pink shit A.S.A.P. Now LJ does many things, but he does not often beg. I knew he was in bad shape.
I get home: no LJ. I call him and he says he's on his way home. He walks in about forty minutes later, shirtless, trailing The Pimp behind him (The Pimp has been staying with us since Tuesday). His first words: "Where's the pink shit? I threw up all on my shirt," he says. "We was in traffic and we couldn't even get over to the side..." The Pimp finds this all very amusing. I fix LJ some soup, of which he eats a few bites, then goes upstairs to sleep.
I'd feel worse for him if he hadn't brought it on himself, but I still hate to see him all miserable. (He's been acting different towards me lately--earlier yesterday, he actually APOLOGIZED for being short with me before he left for the night. "Yeah, I just called to say my bad if it sounded like I was snappin' at you..." And he wasn't really snapping, either--just a little brusque--which made it even stranger and sweeter. I think he's starting to believe that I really do care about him, which...about time, you know?)
My plan for the evening, though, involved solitude, a steak, and a long restful bout of doing nothing. Mostly solitude, meaning the presence of LJ and the Pimp was not on the agenda. Not that they interfered, per se; I just wasn't expecting them to be here. I didn't let it stop me, though; once they were both safely upstairs, I baked a potato and pan-fried my steak and had a grand old time watching NASCAR qualifying. (The steak was really yummy, too.)
So yeah, I'm fine; I just haven't been being very good to myself lately. I have to let myself do the things that matter to me--things like this blog, for example. I can't remember when I've gone so long without updating, other than when I was in the hospital, and I don't think I plan to go so long again.
Then I realized: this is my house. It's supposed to make me happy, not tyrannize me. And so I said Screw it. I'm going to do what I want to do, not what I think I supposedly should do.
Of course, last night that involved eating a big fat burger and watching "The Apprentice". I'm okay with that. (I'm NOT okay with the fact that J.D. won Rock Star:INXS. I am VERY MUCH not okay with that. INXS was absolutely my favorite band in high school--I was the first of my friends to be up on them--and I remember sitting in a Denny's with Debbi talking about Michael Hutchence's death and how sad it was that we were getting older. So to see an asshat like J.D. get the lead singer job--and over MARTY, of all people, Marty who grew up in a suburb where I once lived with David, who now lives in the neighborhood I lived in with JP, and who totally fails to suck in all the ways that J.D. does not fail to...oh, and for whom I would rearrange my personal life in a moment, were it to come to that...No. Michael Hutchence would NOT approve. It does, however, continue my streak of having my favorite reality people come in second: Bo Bice on American Idol; Kris and Jon on Amazing Race...There were others I thought of when Marty got robbed, but they escape me now. Debbi, my partner in Rock Star, is currently out of town--the lucky beeeotch is on a cruise, for which she is paying almost exactly nothing because her friend who's with her is a travel agent, which almost makes me reconsider the whole antisocial thing--but when she gets back I trust we will share a long disconsolate phone call full of outrage, and also some margaritas.)
My plans for this night, however, have been grossly derailed, and I do mean GROSSly.
LJ staggered in at 5:30 this morning and proceeded to rob me of my final two hours of sleepy bliss. I knew he was drunk; when he's drunk he snores louder, farts more, and flops around like a beached carp. I took an elbow to the eyesocket at one point; had he not been emitting noises that would shame a chainsaw, I'd have sworn it was intentional.
The Water Department called me this morning. I've been trying to get them out to my house since literally February, when I discovered that they've been billing me about $40 a quarter for a water connection that doesn't exist. So needless to say, since I would be at work, LJ would be the one to let the inspector come in and see what they need to see. As I got ready for work, LJ got up to pee and I took advantage of his brief moment of wakefulness to remind him that the water guy was due between 11 and 1. He mumbled vaguely and returned to snoring. I was fairly sure he'd wake up in time...maybe.
Well, the water guy called at 11 to tell me he'd be there at 12:45. And just on a thought, at about noon, I called LJ's cell phone to let him know.
Voice mail.
I called again. Voice mail.
I called the house line. No answer.
House line again. No answer.
Cell again. Voice mail.
I said many bad words.
I hadn't been to lunch yet, so at about 12:15 I said Screw it and headed for home. It takes me 20 minute to get to work in the morning, on the average, and about 35 to get home at night. I was pushing it, I thought, but not by much.
I did not, however, take into account the idiots at IDOT. Apparently the best time to do roadwork just in front of the onramps to a major expressway? Is lunchtime. On a FRIDAY. Because no one would go home early on a FRIDAY. They had Cicero Avenue--normally 3 lanes going north--down to one lane. It was backed up for well over a mile, with no signs to indicate where the problem was or why. My 20-to-35-minute trip took nearly an hour. And just as I pulled up to the end of the traffic jam--they were fixing a fer-cryin'-out-loud POTHOLE, because nobody would need to get on a major expressway, etc.--the water guy called, to let me know he was there and nobody was home. I told him "Oh, somebody's home all right--he's asleep and I'm gonna kick his ass when I get there--but meanwhile I'm about ten minutes away." So the guy said he'd wait, and when I got there I found that LJ had woken up and let him in after he banged on the door a few times. I gave LJ some hell about making me have to come home like that and take up my whole lunch hour and burn all that gas, and then I left to go back to work and called my boss on the way to let him know I'd be about 30 minutes late.
By the way--there was no water connection, exactly where I'd said there wouldn't be one. The water department owes me some money.
About an hour before I'm supposed to go home, I call LJ to ask him something, and he answers the phone sounding like boiled hell on a plate, telling me he's sick. About twenty minutes later he calls back, and asks me to bring him home some chicken soup and "a bottle of that pink shit". (That would be Pepto-Bismol, for those of you who don't speak LJ.) Then on the way home, as I'm pulling out of the parking lot of the store, he calls again, PLEADING with me to bring the pink shit A.S.A.P. Now LJ does many things, but he does not often beg. I knew he was in bad shape.
I get home: no LJ. I call him and he says he's on his way home. He walks in about forty minutes later, shirtless, trailing The Pimp behind him (The Pimp has been staying with us since Tuesday). His first words: "Where's the pink shit? I threw up all on my shirt," he says. "We was in traffic and we couldn't even get over to the side..." The Pimp finds this all very amusing. I fix LJ some soup, of which he eats a few bites, then goes upstairs to sleep.
I'd feel worse for him if he hadn't brought it on himself, but I still hate to see him all miserable. (He's been acting different towards me lately--earlier yesterday, he actually APOLOGIZED for being short with me before he left for the night. "Yeah, I just called to say my bad if it sounded like I was snappin' at you..." And he wasn't really snapping, either--just a little brusque--which made it even stranger and sweeter. I think he's starting to believe that I really do care about him, which...about time, you know?)
My plan for the evening, though, involved solitude, a steak, and a long restful bout of doing nothing. Mostly solitude, meaning the presence of LJ and the Pimp was not on the agenda. Not that they interfered, per se; I just wasn't expecting them to be here. I didn't let it stop me, though; once they were both safely upstairs, I baked a potato and pan-fried my steak and had a grand old time watching NASCAR qualifying. (The steak was really yummy, too.)
So yeah, I'm fine; I just haven't been being very good to myself lately. I have to let myself do the things that matter to me--things like this blog, for example. I can't remember when I've gone so long without updating, other than when I was in the hospital, and I don't think I plan to go so long again.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Well Damn!
After all my previous posts regarding how evil everyone has been to pick on my sweet little Kasey Kahne, I would be remiss if I failed to note today's...um...
Okay, I'm not sure WHAT to call it. But it wasn't pretty.
Still, he's got a long way to go before he's got a rep as bad as Robby Gordon's.
Okay, I'm not sure WHAT to call it. But it wasn't pretty.
Still, he's got a long way to go before he's got a rep as bad as Robby Gordon's.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
I'm Sorry, Guys...
I really haven't meant for things to devolve into a series of memes and cat posts, really...I am just so....fucking....tired.
I don't mean that in the lack-of-sleep sense; I mean that in the sense of total emotional and physical lassitude.
Part of it is watching the spin from the hurricane. This gem from our local evening news: "Some said that the help for the survivors would have come more quickly if so many of them were not black or poor. Bush denied those charges."
Um...WTF did you THINK he was gonna say? "Well, America, Kane...Kaney...Khan...That young Negro on the television was right. I don't care about the colored folks. In fact, I wish they'd all go back to...Where is it they came from again???" God, talk about useless "news"...
The whole thing makes me sick.
There's more going on than just news-sickness, though. I'm struggling to put my finger on exactly what's doing this to me; I have some likely suspects, but nothing I can change right off the bat.
(Can I confess? I don't like my new job. I like the work; I don't like the PLACE. I wish I had a copy of the e-mail I sent to the Brit today--oh, and there's another thing; tomorrow is his last day at Place Where I Used To Work (back to grad school with his tasty lil' self) and I'm losing my constant correspondent. A small loss in the grand scheme of things, but...you know? Anyway, it was a diatribe against the snippy provincialism of the Southwest Side, home of New Place Where I Work. I surprised even myself with the vitriol I expressed, and that takes some doing. I'm giving the job a year, and then...oh, who knows.)
I'm thinking if this pervasive lack of motivation doesn't improve soon, I'm going to do something I really don't want to do: go looking for help. (Been there. Tried it. Didn't work. Didn't enjoy it. And I don't want someone to throw pills at the problem, either.) But this just sucks. I feel pretty useless, truth to tell.
At least tomorrow's Friday.
I don't mean that in the lack-of-sleep sense; I mean that in the sense of total emotional and physical lassitude.
Part of it is watching the spin from the hurricane. This gem from our local evening news: "Some said that the help for the survivors would have come more quickly if so many of them were not black or poor. Bush denied those charges."
Um...WTF did you THINK he was gonna say? "Well, America, Kane...Kaney...Khan...That young Negro on the television was right. I don't care about the colored folks. In fact, I wish they'd all go back to...Where is it they came from again???" God, talk about useless "news"...
The whole thing makes me sick.
There's more going on than just news-sickness, though. I'm struggling to put my finger on exactly what's doing this to me; I have some likely suspects, but nothing I can change right off the bat.
(Can I confess? I don't like my new job. I like the work; I don't like the PLACE. I wish I had a copy of the e-mail I sent to the Brit today--oh, and there's another thing; tomorrow is his last day at Place Where I Used To Work (back to grad school with his tasty lil' self) and I'm losing my constant correspondent. A small loss in the grand scheme of things, but...you know? Anyway, it was a diatribe against the snippy provincialism of the Southwest Side, home of New Place Where I Work. I surprised even myself with the vitriol I expressed, and that takes some doing. I'm giving the job a year, and then...oh, who knows.)
I'm thinking if this pervasive lack of motivation doesn't improve soon, I'm going to do something I really don't want to do: go looking for help. (Been there. Tried it. Didn't work. Didn't enjoy it. And I don't want someone to throw pills at the problem, either.) But this just sucks. I feel pretty useless, truth to tell.
At least tomorrow's Friday.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
growl
An Open Letter To the Heat, The Flies, and the Box of Spaghetti That Looked Like It Was Full But Was Really Like 90% Empty:
All of you, please shut up.
Thank you.
--Gladys
All of you, please shut up.
Thank you.
--Gladys
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Wasted Weekend
What a total waste of a weekend.
The object lesson for this weekend may well be "Do not go out on Friday night and have margaritas with the girlies." That may be fun, but productivity goes to hell when you don't wake up til noon and can't too much look at food for a few hours after.
I was going to paint the front porch. I got as far as washing it down and then I realized: it was like 100 degrees out there. So--no. Just no. I do not do 90+ degree heat, unless by "do" you mean "sit in front of a fan with a series of Pepsis, 'Airline' reruns, and a cold towel on my head".
And so that's what I did. All weekend long, mostly. Didn't even do laundry or run the vacuum, both of which I intended to do. The vacuuming is more pressing than the laundry, really--I have several days worth of clothes, but White Cat has pissed off every other cat in the house--and unlike Whitey, they have all their claws. (Whitey is the last cat I'll ever declaw, even partially--he'd have all four except CR didn't want to be scratched.) So there are tufts of white fluff everywhere, from where he got bitchslapped repeatedly.
Which is remarkably how I feel when I think of having to go back to work tomorrow. I haven't blogged much about New Place Where I Work, largely because I've got no real concrete REASON to dislike it as much as I do, other than that it's filled with Republicans and the unconscious. Chicagoans will understand: it's a very, VERY South-side place, and not in a good way.
I really am a malcontent, aren't I? but....not where I want to work, not really what I want to do. I think I'd have the same problem almost anywhere I worked, right now; I'm not happy with my career choice, and I'm too scared to pursue what I really want to do. (There, I said it.)
And til I'm NOT scared: Monday-Friday, 8:30-5:00. :::sigh:::
The object lesson for this weekend may well be "Do not go out on Friday night and have margaritas with the girlies." That may be fun, but productivity goes to hell when you don't wake up til noon and can't too much look at food for a few hours after.
I was going to paint the front porch. I got as far as washing it down and then I realized: it was like 100 degrees out there. So--no. Just no. I do not do 90+ degree heat, unless by "do" you mean "sit in front of a fan with a series of Pepsis, 'Airline' reruns, and a cold towel on my head".
And so that's what I did. All weekend long, mostly. Didn't even do laundry or run the vacuum, both of which I intended to do. The vacuuming is more pressing than the laundry, really--I have several days worth of clothes, but White Cat has pissed off every other cat in the house--and unlike Whitey, they have all their claws. (Whitey is the last cat I'll ever declaw, even partially--he'd have all four except CR didn't want to be scratched.) So there are tufts of white fluff everywhere, from where he got bitchslapped repeatedly.
Which is remarkably how I feel when I think of having to go back to work tomorrow. I haven't blogged much about New Place Where I Work, largely because I've got no real concrete REASON to dislike it as much as I do, other than that it's filled with Republicans and the unconscious. Chicagoans will understand: it's a very, VERY South-side place, and not in a good way.
I really am a malcontent, aren't I? but....not where I want to work, not really what I want to do. I think I'd have the same problem almost anywhere I worked, right now; I'm not happy with my career choice, and I'm too scared to pursue what I really want to do. (There, I said it.)
And til I'm NOT scared: Monday-Friday, 8:30-5:00. :::sigh:::
Saturday, September 10, 2005
The Boys
This is one of those Cat Posts. If you're anti-cat, my apologies, but it could be worse--it could be a NASCAR post.
This is Cassidy, a.k.a. Stoopid Kitty. Stoopid Kitty is the escapee from the last few posts, and you can see how I might be surprised; the cat looks like he can barely get off the sofa, let alone squeeze through an opening the size of a soup can.
This is Sosa. Mikey and Sosa take turns being Stoopid Kitty's cuddle-buddies, which is just a little disconcerting at times, especially when Stoopid starts to hump them.
This is Sosa's brother Mikey. Mikey DOES have eyes, contrary to this picture; like me, he tends to blink when a camera is placed upon him. He also has an extra thumb, which is cute and endearing somehow.
This is White Cat, a.k.a. Dorfus, Butthead, BooBoo, etc. This is my baby kitty, who was a deceptively sedate little ball of fluffy adorableness when I picked him out at the Humane Society. He is now the King of the Thug Cats, engaged in a pitched territorial battle with Cassidy--which he appears to be losing, based on the patch of missing fur and the nick in his ear after their latest skirmish.
Not pictured: the litterbox; the thirteen pounds of food they eat between them every week or so; the cat-hair tumbleweeds.
This is Cassidy, a.k.a. Stoopid Kitty. Stoopid Kitty is the escapee from the last few posts, and you can see how I might be surprised; the cat looks like he can barely get off the sofa, let alone squeeze through an opening the size of a soup can.
This is Sosa. Mikey and Sosa take turns being Stoopid Kitty's cuddle-buddies, which is just a little disconcerting at times, especially when Stoopid starts to hump them.
This is Sosa's brother Mikey. Mikey DOES have eyes, contrary to this picture; like me, he tends to blink when a camera is placed upon him. He also has an extra thumb, which is cute and endearing somehow.
This is White Cat, a.k.a. Dorfus, Butthead, BooBoo, etc. This is my baby kitty, who was a deceptively sedate little ball of fluffy adorableness when I picked him out at the Humane Society. He is now the King of the Thug Cats, engaged in a pitched territorial battle with Cassidy--which he appears to be losing, based on the patch of missing fur and the nick in his ear after their latest skirmish.
Not pictured: the litterbox; the thirteen pounds of food they eat between them every week or so; the cat-hair tumbleweeds.
Friday, September 9, 2005
To The Searchers...
Yes, "q101 Woody, Tony, and Ravey fired".
To which I say: WOOHOO!!! About damn time!!
A bigger bunch of idiots I hope never to have to hear. They are--oops, "were"-- a prime illustration of the principle: if you don't know what you're talking about, it's best to shut the hell up. Better to be silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.
(To those of you who would say "If you don't like them, don't listen to them"--I didn't. And evidently, neither did a bunch of others. Which is why they got fired. Isn't the free market wonderful??)
Now if they'd just get rid of Manc0w, Chicago radio would be a much more pleasant place.
To which I say: WOOHOO!!! About damn time!!
A bigger bunch of idiots I hope never to have to hear. They are--oops, "were"-- a prime illustration of the principle: if you don't know what you're talking about, it's best to shut the hell up. Better to be silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.
(To those of you who would say "If you don't like them, don't listen to them"--I didn't. And evidently, neither did a bunch of others. Which is why they got fired. Isn't the free market wonderful??)
Now if they'd just get rid of Manc0w, Chicago radio would be a much more pleasant place.
Update
Stoopid Kitty came home last night. One of the neighbors knocked on the door around 9:00 and said "That cat you're missing--is he gray?" Which, not exactly, but the operative question was "is he HUGE?" and the neighbor said yes. "He ran across the street into that yard," he said, and of course I couldn't find him.
So when LJ came to bed, he told me he'd been sitting in front of the TV and heard a scratching noise at the door, and he went and opened it and Stoopid ran in and headed straight for the food bowl.
White Cat is really disappointed, but I'm glad I don't have to tell Tim I lost his cat.
So when LJ came to bed, he told me he'd been sitting in front of the TV and heard a scratching noise at the door, and he went and opened it and Stoopid ran in and headed straight for the food bowl.
White Cat is really disappointed, but I'm glad I don't have to tell Tim I lost his cat.
Thursday, September 8, 2005
I Did Something Really Bad Today
I think I misplaced one of Tim's cats.
In my basement, there are two glass-block windows, with the little jalousie thingies inside. On one of the windows, the little jalousie is broken out and there's a piece of sheet metal that clips over the hole. When I mow the lawn, I run an electrical cord out that window, after I move the metal plate.
Well, apparently I didn't put the plate back tightly enough the other day. Because this morning when I left for work, I noticed the window was open. I figured I'd fix it when I got home, but then as I drove to work, I thought to myself: I wonder if the basement door is closed? I learned about this one day when I was mowing the lawn and White Cat wedged his bulky little behind out the window and started strolling around like he owned the place; ever since, I've been extra careful. Or at least, I THOUGHT I was.
Cassidy, though, is HUGE. The cat weighs 30 pounds if he weighs an ounce; he looks like a big raccoon. I can't imagine him wedging his fat ass out the window--it doesn't seem possible! But when I came back this morning, after getting halfway to work and turning around to make sure the plate was in the window and the basement door was shut, I did a head-count: no Cassidy. And when I got home this evening: no Cassidy.
He may be somewhere in the house, but I doubt it. I've asked all the neighbors to keep an eye out, and I've looked under all the nearby porches, but so far, nothing.
Stupid cat. (Yes, I know--stupid Gladys, too. But I'M not the one who squeezed my enormous ass out the window and ran away.)
In my basement, there are two glass-block windows, with the little jalousie thingies inside. On one of the windows, the little jalousie is broken out and there's a piece of sheet metal that clips over the hole. When I mow the lawn, I run an electrical cord out that window, after I move the metal plate.
Well, apparently I didn't put the plate back tightly enough the other day. Because this morning when I left for work, I noticed the window was open. I figured I'd fix it when I got home, but then as I drove to work, I thought to myself: I wonder if the basement door is closed? I learned about this one day when I was mowing the lawn and White Cat wedged his bulky little behind out the window and started strolling around like he owned the place; ever since, I've been extra careful. Or at least, I THOUGHT I was.
Cassidy, though, is HUGE. The cat weighs 30 pounds if he weighs an ounce; he looks like a big raccoon. I can't imagine him wedging his fat ass out the window--it doesn't seem possible! But when I came back this morning, after getting halfway to work and turning around to make sure the plate was in the window and the basement door was shut, I did a head-count: no Cassidy. And when I got home this evening: no Cassidy.
He may be somewhere in the house, but I doubt it. I've asked all the neighbors to keep an eye out, and I've looked under all the nearby porches, but so far, nothing.
Stupid cat. (Yes, I know--stupid Gladys, too. But I'M not the one who squeezed my enormous ass out the window and ran away.)
Tuesday, September 6, 2005
And We ELECTED This Family. TWICE.
I am going to post this as a prime example of my new theorem: Stupid Speaks For Itself.
We elected this family. Twice. Just remember that.
"What I'm hearing is they all want to stay in Texas," she said. "Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality. And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this, this is working very well for them." --Barbara Bush, on the evacuees from Hurricane Katrina, 9/6/2005
We elected this family. Twice. Just remember that.
Monday, September 5, 2005
Bizzarro World
So LJ the Amazing Emotionless Man, who spent the long weekend out of state for reasons unknown; LJ, who woke me up on my day off at 8 AM by ringing the doorbell because I'd locked the deadbolt in his absence and didn't know he'd be back so early; LJ who then left ten minutes later: just sent me this text message.
"i miss u boo. i'll talk 2 u later, i got 2 hustle baby."
Around here? That's like Romeo and Juliet and Shakespeare's Sonnets all rolled up together.
And though I wonder what's behind all this...yeah, I'm still charmed.
"i miss u boo. i'll talk 2 u later, i got 2 hustle baby."
Around here? That's like Romeo and Juliet and Shakespeare's Sonnets all rolled up together.
And though I wonder what's behind all this...yeah, I'm still charmed.
Sunday, September 4, 2005
NASCAR Geek Returns
In the face of all the suffering and sorrow, I recognize that this is totally lame and pathetic and trivial.
However, please allow me just a moment of joy: I am watching the race, and Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s engine just went up in smoke, mathematically eliminating him from NASCAR's Chase for the Championship.
Just at the moment, I will take my joy where I can find it.
However, please allow me just a moment of joy: I am watching the race, and Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s engine just went up in smoke, mathematically eliminating him from NASCAR's Chase for the Championship.
Just at the moment, I will take my joy where I can find it.
Saturday, September 3, 2005
The Hits Just Keep On Comin'
This is proof that we have confounded the natural order of things:
From the Tribune:
Personally I think there's a special place in hell for price gougers--and make no mistake, that's what's happening here as well. People describe New Orleans as looking "like a war zone"--well, if you ask me, these gas-station owners and hotel operators who are jacking up their prices in the wake of the hurricane are nothing better than war profiteers. THOSE are the ones who need to be on the other end of the "shoot to kill" strategy, in my opinion.
From the Tribune:
SPRINGFIELD -- Gas stations with old-fashioned mechanical pumps encountered an unusual problem this week when prices climbed above $3.
The numbers on their pumps don't go over $2.99.
"When the pumps were made, no one anticipated that prices would go this high," said Bill Fleischli, executive vice president of the Illinois Petroleum Marketers Association. "But holy moly . . . it turns out to be a problem of great magnitude."
As a matter of fact, as many as 1,000 stations in rural communities around Illinois still use the vintage pumps. Those manufactured in the 1980s and even some from the early 1990s are mechanical rather than electronic, and their makers didn't think it was necessary to install numbers that high.
State regulators helped solve the immediate problem on Friday by telling stations with the older pumps they can post prices by the half-gallon rather than by the full gallon. Usually, the rules require that postings reflect the per-gallon price.
"The alternative would be to shut them down," said Chris Herbert, spokeswoman for the Illinois Department of Agriculture, which regulates gas pumps in the state. "But we don't want to disrupt the availability of fuel for consumers."
State officials told station owners to update their pumps.
Personally I think there's a special place in hell for price gougers--and make no mistake, that's what's happening here as well. People describe New Orleans as looking "like a war zone"--well, if you ask me, these gas-station owners and hotel operators who are jacking up their prices in the wake of the hurricane are nothing better than war profiteers. THOSE are the ones who need to be on the other end of the "shoot to kill" strategy, in my opinion.
More Bad News
Ohhh, man, this can't be good.
I wrote an e-mail to the Brit a few days back expressing a very cautious hope that maybe there was a light at the end of the tunnel; after all, don't repressive regimes eventually inspire a backlash, expressed at first within the artistic and creative communities? He, of course, was much less optimistic--but that's what he does, and part of why I'm still completely charmed (damn all my luck).
But after reading this, I'm not so sure that light at the end of the tunnel might not be an oncoming train. Whose idea was it to make them Supreme Court Justices for life, anyway?
This ain't gonna be pretty, is it.
I wrote an e-mail to the Brit a few days back expressing a very cautious hope that maybe there was a light at the end of the tunnel; after all, don't repressive regimes eventually inspire a backlash, expressed at first within the artistic and creative communities? He, of course, was much less optimistic--but that's what he does, and part of why I'm still completely charmed (damn all my luck).
But after reading this, I'm not so sure that light at the end of the tunnel might not be an oncoming train. Whose idea was it to make them Supreme Court Justices for life, anyway?
This ain't gonna be pretty, is it.
Friday, September 2, 2005
Long Weekend
It's been a long week.
I've been watching the hurricane coverage, of course, and reading about it and hearing about it on the radio and I just...can't, anymore. Layers and layers of human suffering and impossible tasks and total helplessness, and covering it all over is this thick slimy coat of good god, how did this HAPPEN? How did it come to pass that in the year 2005, in the richest nation in the world, thousands and thousands of people can be left to die like that? For nearly a WEEK? How can it be that scientists have said for years that this would be inevitable, that entire treatises have been written about exactly how bad it could be, and yet no one seems to have had a plan for how to deal with such a catastrophe--how could it be??
Then I read the messages at nola.com, all the pleas and cries for help, and I'm sitting here in Chicago, nothing I can do...You all know what I mean. I've done what I could; I gave money to the Red Cross and to an animal-rescue charity, but it all seems so woefully inadequate in the face of all that suffering. And then there's all the "shoot-the-looters" bullshit, and the graphics showing black folks and white folks doing EXACTLY the same thing except the caption says the black people are "looting" but the white people's caption says they're "finding food"...
Look. There's a limit, isn't there, to hate? To what people can do to each other? There is, isn't there?
I can't watch it anymore. I can't read about it anymore. I don't even KNOW anyone there and it's breaking my heart. And I have nothing new to say, no insight to offer, nothing more than a few bucks to throw into this huge abyss. Those poor people.
And then, when I stop reading, stop watching, and go out into the world, somehow the gas prices have risen fifty cents in the space of two days. There's no way the distributors would be feeling the pinch--if there is one--that quickly. But we're supposed to shoot looters, though, right? Maybe the corporations aren't "looting"--they're just "finding" a crapload of profits.
And this weekend, they're going to be "finding" a bunch of them from LJ. That's right: it's a holiday weekend, one of the most-travelled and most-dangerous holiday weekends, and gas prices are at their highest level in history, and my dear brilliant man has chosen this particular weekend to rent a car and drive to Minnesota. I don't so much care about the money, but I've explained to him that if anything happens to him, out there on the road with all the drunk drivers and the holiday maniacs, that I will haunt his ghost. He, of course, says he's gonna be fine. He always says that. I hope he's right.
The benefit of this, of course, is that I get the house to myself for a few days, just me and the kitties. Nobody flopping around in the bed in the middle of the night or snoring in my ears; no one leaving the seat up or monopolizing the TV. I love him dearly--things have been going a little better lately--but I still like the solitude. Even though he's rarely here on the weekends anyway, I find I seem to get more done when I know he's not coming home. This weekend, I think I may paint the front porch; lord knows it needs it.
Of course, I might just sleep in and spend the whole weekend in my pajamas, too...
I've been watching the hurricane coverage, of course, and reading about it and hearing about it on the radio and I just...can't, anymore. Layers and layers of human suffering and impossible tasks and total helplessness, and covering it all over is this thick slimy coat of good god, how did this HAPPEN? How did it come to pass that in the year 2005, in the richest nation in the world, thousands and thousands of people can be left to die like that? For nearly a WEEK? How can it be that scientists have said for years that this would be inevitable, that entire treatises have been written about exactly how bad it could be, and yet no one seems to have had a plan for how to deal with such a catastrophe--how could it be??
Then I read the messages at nola.com, all the pleas and cries for help, and I'm sitting here in Chicago, nothing I can do...You all know what I mean. I've done what I could; I gave money to the Red Cross and to an animal-rescue charity, but it all seems so woefully inadequate in the face of all that suffering. And then there's all the "shoot-the-looters" bullshit, and the graphics showing black folks and white folks doing EXACTLY the same thing except the caption says the black people are "looting" but the white people's caption says they're "finding food"...
Look. There's a limit, isn't there, to hate? To what people can do to each other? There is, isn't there?
I can't watch it anymore. I can't read about it anymore. I don't even KNOW anyone there and it's breaking my heart. And I have nothing new to say, no insight to offer, nothing more than a few bucks to throw into this huge abyss. Those poor people.
And then, when I stop reading, stop watching, and go out into the world, somehow the gas prices have risen fifty cents in the space of two days. There's no way the distributors would be feeling the pinch--if there is one--that quickly. But we're supposed to shoot looters, though, right? Maybe the corporations aren't "looting"--they're just "finding" a crapload of profits.
And this weekend, they're going to be "finding" a bunch of them from LJ. That's right: it's a holiday weekend, one of the most-travelled and most-dangerous holiday weekends, and gas prices are at their highest level in history, and my dear brilliant man has chosen this particular weekend to rent a car and drive to Minnesota. I don't so much care about the money, but I've explained to him that if anything happens to him, out there on the road with all the drunk drivers and the holiday maniacs, that I will haunt his ghost. He, of course, says he's gonna be fine. He always says that. I hope he's right.
The benefit of this, of course, is that I get the house to myself for a few days, just me and the kitties. Nobody flopping around in the bed in the middle of the night or snoring in my ears; no one leaving the seat up or monopolizing the TV. I love him dearly--things have been going a little better lately--but I still like the solitude. Even though he's rarely here on the weekends anyway, I find I seem to get more done when I know he's not coming home. This weekend, I think I may paint the front porch; lord knows it needs it.
Of course, I might just sleep in and spend the whole weekend in my pajamas, too...
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