Disproving any and all conspiracy theories that imply the malice of inanimate objects and/or intangible collectives: I got paid today.
"Yeah? And?" I hear you say.
Well, I wasn't supposed to get paid til TOMORROW. I had pretty much steeled myself for a long day of privation and fun-lessness and then four (well, three) days of work before another weekend rolled around. But something told me to check the balance this morning, and -WHAM!- paycheck. (I love my bank. They tend to credit me with things that allegedly don't exist yet.)
In the grand scheme of life, this improves exactly nothing; in the grand scheme of the next 14 hours, however, it makes me very very happy.
Chez Gladys became the Communal Beach House this weekend. Saturday morning I woke up to find Damian watching TV on the couch, having woken up early; then Tim called at about 11:00 Saturday night and showed up at nearly 1 AM; and THEN, Damian's little brother James showed up at about 5 AM Sunday morning (with an anonymous girl in tow who I didn't find out about til the two of them left late Sunday afternoon). Well, that brought us substantially over capacity--me and LJ in our room, Damian on the bed in the spare room, and Tim on the sofa--so James and Anonymous Girl apparently got the floor of the spare room. And everybody woke up around noon and came downstairs, except for Anonymous Girl who I still didn't know was there, and there was much bullshitting and loud-talking and male bonding. The guys and Anonymous Girl went off to a barbecue, leaving me (Don't ask. I'm not asking and you shouldn't either) at the house watching the race with Tim.
(An aside: The folks at Lowe's Speedway in Charlotte are gonna have SO much explaining to do after what they did to that track. That race? Was pathetic. 23 cautions isn't "intense" or "exciting"--it's just bad racing, and it had nothing to do with the skill of the drivers. They need to go back and look at their track and decide what needs to happen to make it a viable driving surface again. And what kind of word is "levegating", anyhow?) /NASCAR moment.
LJ came home and went upstairs in typical wordless LJ fashion; around midnight, James and Anonymous returned. At which point I gave James holy hell for the condition in which he left the bathroom when he left--towels on the floor, washcloths balled-up on the windowsill, the shower all grimy--and explained to him that a) this is not a Motel 6, and b) even if it WAS a Motel 6, I am not the maid. Which actually felt kinda good, giving him hell like that, and it didn't hurt matters that Anonymous was standing there listening to the whole tirade. So I fixed French toast for myself and some for Tim, and went upstairs to bed, and talked to LJ for a while. I'm forgiving his past few days of buttheadedness; he's dealing with a lot of shit right now, and just kinda wants to be alone to process it.
Which I can understand, being in the same sort of state of mind at the moment--except "alone" doesn't quite seem to be an option around Gladys's Summer Cottage. Then again, I had plenty of "alone" this winter, thankyewverrymuch, and all the company is kind of a welcome change.
Or it would be, if they'd pick their grubby towels up off the floor...
Monday, May 30, 2005
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Viva La Reznor, and Other Stories
Why Trent Reznor still fucking rules and probably always will...
MTV had negative credibility with me anyway--and to think we complained about them back in '91, about how little of substance and rebellion still remained in that whole concept!--but this takes them to the sub-basement of sellout hell, in my book.
What a sham we've become, this whole generation. Thank god there are a few of us left who won't give in.
In other news of those who won't give in, and who, in consequence, totally fucking rule--can you stand it if I mention the Brit again? On yesterday's ride home, he told me something that no one else at work knows about, something having to do with his history. Having been sworn to secrecy I won't go into details, but suffice it to say I now find him more awesome than ever. He's actually taken to waiting for me at the end of the day even when I don't have the car, so we can walk to the El together. Which is great, but now when I walk in the door at his building, I'm starting to get those LOOKS from the rest of the staff. (You know the LOOK--it's a slightly-older version of the look you get from your maiden aunt when you're eleven years old, right before she says "Oh, how wonderful--you're growing BOOBIES!") And of course I blush--as I've said before, I'll blush not just at the drop of a hat, but even at the suggestion that a hat might someday be dropped, anywhere, at any time--which does NOT exactly convey the cool, nonchalant image I'm striving for here.
(An aside: right now I'm listening to "Fascination Street"--best Cure song EVAH. I'm a big fan of abortive story-songs, where you come into the scene right in the middle and you're left with all sorts of mysteries and unanswerables. Most of the Afghan Whigs stuff is like that--particularly _Gentlemen_ and _Black Love_, either of which would easily make my list of Top Fifteen Albums To Play On Infinite Loop While Fucking. If I HAD such a list. Which, of course, I don't. Um....yeah.)
My task for the weekend: a room-by-room analysis of what it would take to whip the Catastrophe into shape. LJ and I were talking about whether it might not be wise to sell this house rather than sink any more money into its repair. While my stubborn, I-can-do-anything side rebels against the very thought, my practical side acknowledges that yeah, it might not be a bad idea. I think the crux of that decision will be made by whether or not I get this new job, and then whether or not I can refinance and get the money for repairs. It's a good house and I think I can make it amazing, if only I can get the money to fix the few major things that are wrong with it. I don't think I'll make that decision for a while yet--my bankruptcy is scheduled to drop off my credit in about nine more months, which will improve the lending picture considerably--but it's worthwhile to think about it.
My other task for the weekend: more updates. So off I go to...well, probably to do something else entirely. (But at least I'm honest about it.)
MTV had negative credibility with me anyway--and to think we complained about them back in '91, about how little of substance and rebellion still remained in that whole concept!--but this takes them to the sub-basement of sellout hell, in my book.
What a sham we've become, this whole generation. Thank god there are a few of us left who won't give in.
In other news of those who won't give in, and who, in consequence, totally fucking rule--can you stand it if I mention the Brit again? On yesterday's ride home, he told me something that no one else at work knows about, something having to do with his history. Having been sworn to secrecy I won't go into details, but suffice it to say I now find him more awesome than ever. He's actually taken to waiting for me at the end of the day even when I don't have the car, so we can walk to the El together. Which is great, but now when I walk in the door at his building, I'm starting to get those LOOKS from the rest of the staff. (You know the LOOK--it's a slightly-older version of the look you get from your maiden aunt when you're eleven years old, right before she says "Oh, how wonderful--you're growing BOOBIES!") And of course I blush--as I've said before, I'll blush not just at the drop of a hat, but even at the suggestion that a hat might someday be dropped, anywhere, at any time--which does NOT exactly convey the cool, nonchalant image I'm striving for here.
(An aside: right now I'm listening to "Fascination Street"--best Cure song EVAH. I'm a big fan of abortive story-songs, where you come into the scene right in the middle and you're left with all sorts of mysteries and unanswerables. Most of the Afghan Whigs stuff is like that--particularly _Gentlemen_ and _Black Love_, either of which would easily make my list of Top Fifteen Albums To Play On Infinite Loop While Fucking. If I HAD such a list. Which, of course, I don't. Um....yeah.)
My task for the weekend: a room-by-room analysis of what it would take to whip the Catastrophe into shape. LJ and I were talking about whether it might not be wise to sell this house rather than sink any more money into its repair. While my stubborn, I-can-do-anything side rebels against the very thought, my practical side acknowledges that yeah, it might not be a bad idea. I think the crux of that decision will be made by whether or not I get this new job, and then whether or not I can refinance and get the money for repairs. It's a good house and I think I can make it amazing, if only I can get the money to fix the few major things that are wrong with it. I don't think I'll make that decision for a while yet--my bankruptcy is scheduled to drop off my credit in about nine more months, which will improve the lending picture considerably--but it's worthwhile to think about it.
My other task for the weekend: more updates. So off I go to...well, probably to do something else entirely. (But at least I'm honest about it.)
AOL=POS
So obviously I'm back online and the cable bill is paid. But in those 36 hours of online-less-ness, I have learned an important lesson which I will pass along to you, my dearies:
America Online sucks massive donkey balls.
America Online via dial-up? Sucks massive pustulent syphillitic donkey balls.
I ran the phone cord across the living room at about 7:00 last night in an effort to get online by installing the dial-up version of AOL from one of the eleventy-thousand AOL disks that bombard me with promises of 1099 free hours over 50 days. (Just by the way? To use those hours up, you would have to stay online for 23 hours, 50 minutes, 58.8 seconds. Every DAY. That's as useful as offering a billion bananas all at once. You can eat some, you can give some away, but in a very short time all you're gonna have is a bunch of rotten bananas.) So I installed the software, plugged in the line, and clicked "new user".
It dialled the "get access number" number. Then dialled it again. And again, and again, and again, in an endless loop which never connected.
I called tech support--it took me ten minutes just to find the number in the help files, which I'm sure is exactly what they intended!--and got India. At least, I think it was India. It was not helpful, wherever it was. I said "I need a new modem string" and she said "No you don't" and told me to install an earlier version of AOL and try that.
So I installed AOL 8.0 and tried that. Same result. I went into my AOL 7.0 and dug out the old access number, and looked for where I could input it. I couldn't. It kept telling me to create a new location, and then dialled the number that never connected.
Finally, AOL 8.0 let me through, after ten squazillion tries. It got the access numbers, but then whenever it dialled them it kept disconnecting. Twice I got as far as to put my name and credit-card number in before it booted me off without letting me create a user name. But that was twice out of about 150 tries.
At 11:00--four hours later--I gave up.
I have no great love for Comcast--they'll cut you off as soon as look at you--but damn, I'm glad I've got 'em.
It's good to be back.
America Online sucks massive donkey balls.
America Online via dial-up? Sucks massive pustulent syphillitic donkey balls.
I ran the phone cord across the living room at about 7:00 last night in an effort to get online by installing the dial-up version of AOL from one of the eleventy-thousand AOL disks that bombard me with promises of 1099 free hours over 50 days. (Just by the way? To use those hours up, you would have to stay online for 23 hours, 50 minutes, 58.8 seconds. Every DAY. That's as useful as offering a billion bananas all at once. You can eat some, you can give some away, but in a very short time all you're gonna have is a bunch of rotten bananas.) So I installed the software, plugged in the line, and clicked "new user".
It dialled the "get access number" number. Then dialled it again. And again, and again, and again, in an endless loop which never connected.
I called tech support--it took me ten minutes just to find the number in the help files, which I'm sure is exactly what they intended!--and got India. At least, I think it was India. It was not helpful, wherever it was. I said "I need a new modem string" and she said "No you don't" and told me to install an earlier version of AOL and try that.
So I installed AOL 8.0 and tried that. Same result. I went into my AOL 7.0 and dug out the old access number, and looked for where I could input it. I couldn't. It kept telling me to create a new location, and then dialled the number that never connected.
Finally, AOL 8.0 let me through, after ten squazillion tries. It got the access numbers, but then whenever it dialled them it kept disconnecting. Twice I got as far as to put my name and credit-card number in before it booted me off without letting me create a user name. But that was twice out of about 150 tries.
At 11:00--four hours later--I gave up.
I have no great love for Comcast--they'll cut you off as soon as look at you--but damn, I'm glad I've got 'em.
It's good to be back.
Thanks, Ka!
Here are the lyrics to the godawfullest American Idol coronation song EVER.
Tell me if that's not like the worst thing ever written (non-ironically, that is).
Or, as "chaka" over at TWOP phrased it:
Tell me if that's not like the worst thing ever written (non-ironically, that is).
Or, as "chaka" over at TWOP phrased it:
Speaking of "Inside your Orifice," I have to say I had a bad feeling about the syntactic trainwreck that song would be when I saw the title alone. The lyrics, of course, left me smacking my forehead at my own failure of imagination. Because the singer wants to be inside my vagina, where I cry until the storm passes. My crying Scandinavian stormy vagina. Seriously, people. Bring back Ace of Base.
Friday, May 27, 2005
A Slight Obstacle To Progress
The following is a paraphrase from my dear significant other, upon being informed that if I do in fact get the job I'm interviewing for next week, the division of labor around Chez Gladys is going to have to shift precipitously:
Grocery shopping, cleaning, etc, is "female work".
If I thought for a moment that there was an iota of actual THOUGHT behind this allegation, I would have kicked LJ to the curb long ago (and thrown his ass out of the bed the minute the last word of the previous sentence was out of his mouth!), but I'm fairly sure it's just a relic from his upbringing. I'm dating a CONSERVATIVE, y'all. Didn't realize it til a few days ago, but that's what it is and there's no getting around it. Also? Not really bright, is LJ. I admit it.
Still, I'm fairly good at making people think about things they never thought about before...and...Okay, look. I know. I bitch about his neglect and everything but here's the deal: Neo-Neanderthal gender-role perceptions aside, he's a good guy. I appreciate a lot of things about him; he does his level best to make sure I'm safe and he has a very strong sense of honor, which I only question because he's male and my recent history with males hasn't been flooded with the "honorable" archetype. He's easy to get along with, doesn't complain, doesn't bicker, and he's appreciative, in his way, of the things I do for him.
But there's a biiiiiiiig honkin' hole in his gender logic, to wit:
IF "grocery shopping/cleaning/housekeeping" = "female work"
AND there exist two kinds of work, namely "female" and "male" work,
THEN "male work"= "things that are not grocery shopping/cleaning/housekeeping"
Like building things. Or home repair. Or working outside the house to support its upkeep.
...Oh. Wait. I do those things.
So....what's "male work" then?
Maybe "male work"= "filling the cooler in the back of the truck with ice and beer and finding places to hang out with the guys where the cops won't hassle you for selling weed".
If that's the case? I am SO installing a penis this weekend.
Otherwise, a conversation will be happening on gender equity, fair contributions, the "you eat here too" principle, and the wisdom of not being an asshelmet.
Unless LJ comes up off of about $160 to get the cable and Internet turned back on, I will be blogging only at work for a while.
Grocery shopping, cleaning, etc, is "female work".
If I thought for a moment that there was an iota of actual THOUGHT behind this allegation, I would have kicked LJ to the curb long ago (and thrown his ass out of the bed the minute the last word of the previous sentence was out of his mouth!), but I'm fairly sure it's just a relic from his upbringing. I'm dating a CONSERVATIVE, y'all. Didn't realize it til a few days ago, but that's what it is and there's no getting around it. Also? Not really bright, is LJ. I admit it.
Still, I'm fairly good at making people think about things they never thought about before...and...Okay, look. I know. I bitch about his neglect and everything but here's the deal: Neo-Neanderthal gender-role perceptions aside, he's a good guy. I appreciate a lot of things about him; he does his level best to make sure I'm safe and he has a very strong sense of honor, which I only question because he's male and my recent history with males hasn't been flooded with the "honorable" archetype. He's easy to get along with, doesn't complain, doesn't bicker, and he's appreciative, in his way, of the things I do for him.
But there's a biiiiiiiig honkin' hole in his gender logic, to wit:
IF "grocery shopping/cleaning/housekeeping" = "female work"
AND there exist two kinds of work, namely "female" and "male" work,
THEN "male work"= "things that are not grocery shopping/cleaning/housekeeping"
Like building things. Or home repair. Or working outside the house to support its upkeep.
...Oh. Wait. I do those things.
So....what's "male work" then?
Maybe "male work"= "filling the cooler in the back of the truck with ice and beer and finding places to hang out with the guys where the cops won't hassle you for selling weed".
If that's the case? I am SO installing a penis this weekend.
Otherwise, a conversation will be happening on gender equity, fair contributions, the "you eat here too" principle, and the wisdom of not being an asshelmet.
Unless LJ comes up off of about $160 to get the cable and Internet turned back on, I will be blogging only at work for a while.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Idol
I'm glad Bo didn't win.
See, every year they have a coronation song written for whoever will be the new American Idol. And this year's song was a complete abomination. It was called "Inside Your Heaven" and it is the most ghastly thing ever written, ever, by anyone. And yes, I am counting "MacArthur Park" in that evaluation. Puppies and rainbows and unintentional porno all up out the joint. The lovely folks in the forums at TWOP are having just WAY too much fun creating indecent variations on the title alone. I wish I had the lyrics--it's a trainwreck of epic proportions.
Yeah, Carrie can have it. Good luck with that.
Meanwhile, Bo will go on to greater things, I hope. Like calling me. Or letting me bake him some cookies.
(And by "bake him some cookies" I mean "screw him til he passes out from sheer exhaustion".)
What????!!!???
See, every year they have a coronation song written for whoever will be the new American Idol. And this year's song was a complete abomination. It was called "Inside Your Heaven" and it is the most ghastly thing ever written, ever, by anyone. And yes, I am counting "MacArthur Park" in that evaluation. Puppies and rainbows and unintentional porno all up out the joint. The lovely folks in the forums at TWOP are having just WAY too much fun creating indecent variations on the title alone. I wish I had the lyrics--it's a trainwreck of epic proportions.
Yeah, Carrie can have it. Good luck with that.
Meanwhile, Bo will go on to greater things, I hope. Like calling me. Or letting me bake him some cookies.
(And by "bake him some cookies" I mean "screw him til he passes out from sheer exhaustion".)
What????!!!???
Absolutely the Last Thing On Earth I Need
I missed my train stop today on the way home because of this.
And I STILL haven't managed to solve the little fucker.
AND there's a new one of these every DAY. Plus an interactive site, plus about a squazillion OTHER sites devoted to these evil little grids.
So the best thing I can do is to share them with you.
You're welcome.
(Link via Eric Zorn's Notebook....I'll get him for this someday.)
And I STILL haven't managed to solve the little fucker.
AND there's a new one of these every DAY. Plus an interactive site, plus about a squazillion OTHER sites devoted to these evil little grids.
So the best thing I can do is to share them with you.
You're welcome.
(Link via Eric Zorn's Notebook....I'll get him for this someday.)
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