Monday, April 16, 2007
I FINALLY DOWNLOADED FIREFOX!
After years of browser-related rage, I finally figured out how to get Firefox to work on my comp. Damn I'm good!
Turns out all I actually had to do was click on the little icon and hit "install," but let's disregard how sadly comp-unsavvy I am and move on...it's a miracle I've even got a blog...
I had ambitions plans for today to write a post expounding upon the myriad ways in which Freud's "The Uncanny" is reflected in our daily lives. However, this plan was derailed because a couple of things have happened since then that I cannot resist talking about. Maybe I'll find a link, or maybe--more likely--I'll spare you the Comp Lit BS for another day.
It was a halfway nice weekend here. Friday we had a Ladiez Nite at the 'BO Room; Saturday, Maggs and I hit up TRAX for a couple hours to get completely traxxxed for less than 5 bucks. As per usual, we were the only females there besides June, and the rest of the customers appeared to be middle-aged Norweigan gay men. Typical Trax Saturday crowd: Norweigans, June, Soccerball, LL, Derrick, me. You know, the FAM.
Then Maggs and I got sucked into Hobsonian's by some high school chums. Maggs was intelligent enough to not hop on the party train at 1:30 to the Shannon Arms several miles away. I, howev, was not, and felt somewhat less than fabulous the next day, but had a good time shooting the shit with the various sketchballs and no-goodniks that our diocese has produced.
Sunday--unlike Saturday, when it rained like whoa all morning--was a perfect day to trek to the hipster kingdom of Dolores Park to people-watch and show off your new mullet/bangs/ill-fitting frock and leggings/hideous high-waisted jumper unisuit. One of the greater joys in life is to chill at D park with some doobies and pals and a Roxy(TM) portable ipod dock, gawking at the oddballs that rove around on nice days. Sunday, the chief odd-job was a tall fellow with filthy dreads (looked like a combo of Tom Greene and John the Baptist) who wielded a hand-painted sandwich board reading:
emotional disstres (sic)
heal through my hands
TALK TO ME
He was probably hoping that no one would notice that the back of the sign said "6 FOOT 7 JEW WILL FREESTYLE RAP FOR YOU"...seriously...would that lower his spirit healing cred?
Well, I def got a holy vibe so I flagged him. With all the psychic pain I've been feeling lately, I figured this could not hurt. So, after notifying me that he was about to fall into a trance, he had me lay down in a cross position and then he sort of moved his hands over me while making this sound: "whooooooOOOOOOshhhhhhh...." Like the sound of wind whistling through the Himalayas....or perhaps a whale call...not sure.
Anyways this went on for quite some time and I was kinda wondering when it would be over and trying not to laugh cause then Maggs would laugh and it would be all over. Thankfully I was saved by the music that was bumping from my 'pod. When a certain song came on, the 6'7 Jew snapped out of his trance, rasped "is this Freedom by George Michael?" to no one in particular, then launched into an elaborate lip-synch performance during which be removed most of his clothing. (Though, mercifully, not his patchwork pants.)
Then when that was over he placed a cell phone call to his dad and engaged in an entirely mundane conversation.
Needless to say, assuming that the George Michael breakdown was part of the spirit healing procedure, I felt MUCH better.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Ugh. Today has been one of those days when nothing goes right, you weep while listening to George Michael slow jams, and just when things start to look a little brighter...you step in dogshit. During times like this, I try to remind myself of how much worse things could be. I could be homeless/parapeligic/terminally ill or any number of things that are far worse than being a shiftless quarterlifecrisis-ridden Gen Y cliche. For example, I could be sitting on the jury of a months-long murder trial, which is close to be vision of hell but, THANK GAWD, I managed to evade it this time around.
See, I got called in this week and forgot to send in the excuse form thing, so I ended up having to actually show up. I knew I was in for a long and boring day so I got supa dupa stoned and started making my sweet ass way down to the courthouse with my newest Ann Rule book and my 'pod bumpin some Shaggy. I had to be there at 1 but was running hella f-ing late and started seeing paranoid visions of arriving at 1:02 and being thrown in prison and subsequently sexually assaulted by Jackie Warners around every corner. So to play it safe I grabbed a taxi, unnecessarily tipped the cabbie 80% out of this strange need to be perceived as a baller by cabbies, and hustled inside.
So here I was sitting with all these mofoin zombies in the courthouse. I scanned the room for hot guys to sit near, but alas, there were none. So I perched in the corner and started doodling and thinking about funny stuff to entertain myself. Then they put on this HIGH-larious video with people talking about how jury service changed their lives and how it "makes democracy real." The intentions were good but the execution--well--I'll just say it ended up sounding kinda like a FUBU ad, cause they kept repeating the phrase "FOR the people, BY the people" over the soaring crescendoes of generic patriotic muzak, and the effect did not particularly make me swell with pride. But then again I am cynical.
For one, there are soooooo many reasons why I would make a bad juror. First of all, I suffer from self-diagnosed severe ADHD as well as acute Restless Leg Syndrome. Secondly, I hate justice and as a, um, (part-time) Catholic I don't feel entirely comfortable with standing in judgment. Mmmkay?
Next came the part where they weed people out by asking questions to determine if you are a racist or have some other weirdo bias that would make you an unfit juror. THe thing is, though, that you have to state your bias in front of like 70 people, so it's not like you can really just stand up there and make something up like "I hate white people" or "I believe in capital punishment for every crime including jaywalking" (like on that one episode of Star Trek: the Next Generation. Did anyone else see that, where they have to rescue Wes from that death planet? I mean...not that I was into that show or anything...whoops.)
Because, hypothetically, you could piss someone off and get your ass whooped/confronted outside the courthouse. That would be awk. Plus, the judge was pretty sharp and could deffy tell if you are making some shit up. Fortunately, he was also real snarky and kept saying "thanks for sharing." It was great! And kind of fun. Except when I got kinda yelled at for texting.
I didn't get picked for the jury. I didn't even have to stand up and state my bias. It was a trial about a collision between an auto and a bicyclist, and I planned on saying that I get really bad road rage. Which is true, but we didn't get that far. Oh well...NEXT YEAR, YOUR HONOR...NEXT YEAR.
Aight. This post was kind of wack I realize but it's the weekend, mayne. Time to go home, shower and Trax it up. I have a feeling I'm in for a TraXXXy kinda nite. Most of you know exactly what this means.
TO THE FELLAS,
Thursday, April 12, 2007
AT THIS POINT THIS SCENARIO SEEMS HIGHLY LIKELY!
How to lure Erica home early? We struck the following deal: E comes home if LL Cool JCL learns to jump into the splits, or if I teach myself Cantonese. We could easily make this happen!!
Judging by Erica's first email--in which she compares walking around Bangkok to tripping on Ecstasy--she seems to be liking it so far. But we so miss her!
Monday, March 19, 2007
Maybe this is kind of self-indulgent, but I hope it's cool if I just talk about my weekend. I always wonder: Why is it that, after so many years of imbibing alcohol regularly, it doesn't get old talking about all the crazy crap that happens when everyone is 'faced? Like, remember in high school how it was considered bad-ass to party till you puke? Thankfully that is no longer considered a badge of coolness (unless you are this guy http://www.google.com/musicl?lid=m7E8zXTzqzO&aid=IhAN0FKB8pI ), but it's still, like, a slightly more classy version of that.
Which brings us to St. Patrick's day--one of the best days of the year, and one of the only days where is it socially O.K. to start drinking the second you wake up, or even to wake up earlier than usual in order to start drinking. It is always a good time in this town, and particularly so this year because it fell on a Saturday. So basically by noon the streets were flowing with vomit. Literally, I stepped in vomit before noon. Me and LL Cool JCL enjoyed quite the day of debauchery--brunch boozing, park boozing, Trax boozing with June and Soccerball Head. Eventually we stumbled upon a t-shirt printing store and walked out with green shirts reading "Suck My Face" (mine) and "Kiss Me I'm a Tranny" (LL Cool JCL's). And so everyone all night to him was like, dude are you really a tranny? they did a really great job. Like, HUH? Some people have no sense of humor.
My shirt was not a joke, however. Anyway, we went into the downtown fray and ended up at a bar--we were instructed to drop the name "Seamus O'Shanahan" for free entry. Apparently we didn't start drinking early enough, cause the second our posse walked in we all felt soo...sober. Because the entire bar was filled with generic drunk people wearing tons of green plastic crap who were SO MUCH MORE drunk than us, and SCREAMING Journey hits so hard they were red and sweaty in the face. Which is enough to somehow erase the effects of 11 hours of boozing in our case. Nonetheless, a good time was had by most (not the puking people, eg, or the arrested people), especially because there was this Irish dude who bought copious shots and drinks for everyone who so much as looked at him. Ausome.
Thanks, Irish people, for being so prolific reproductively. Did y'all know that like 70% of Americans have Irish blood? I can't really substantiate that, but it's something like, really high. For such a small Isle they've really made quite a splash.
To the global community,
Anyhoo, so this job, despite the Gaylord's constant presence in my grill, is aight. It's very...how you say...weirdly friendly. Like, they made me write an introductory email to the whole office with fun friendly facts about myself. In the third person. With no prompt, WTF am I supposed to include? I don't have concrete, office-friendly hobbies or interests like "playing basketball" or "salsa dancing" or "spending time with my 4-year-old son," to name some examples from past emails I peeped. I mean liiiiike...do they REALLY know what I do on weekends? I thought about making something up like "playing backup tambourine in a Carole King cover band" (*NOT A TOTAL FABRICATION), but, this seems like the kind of office where they would be really into it and the "surprise" you at one of your made up performances in the name of team-building. So I guess good thing I am not actually in a Carole King cover band. (YET.)
I did bang out and then discard some more truthful introductory emails:
Hey all! You may have noticed a bright new face at reception. Meet "Tempist," a 23-year old graduate of XXXXX College. She graduated in 2005 with a degree in Inflated Career Expectations and has since waitressed and answered phones whilst living with her parents. For fun, Tempist likes to keep well abreast of the activities good-looking famous people to but mostly smokes doobies and drinks with her friends and sometimes plays the lotto. Catch her in the bar sucking face with the nearest short guy in a vest. Be sure to stop by and offer her a warm welcome!
Mind you this is a temp assignment!
See, I didn't want them to think I'm boring, but I also didn't want them to think I'm crazy. So I landed somewhere in the middle and as a result, no one talks to me. Which is cool.
Actually, the people here are pretty nice and now I have a regular dude who I chop it up with, "Paco." He swings by and we bullshit for 2 seconds and today we were bulshitting about how we were so beat from St. Paddy's day.
So I'm all: "Yeah dude, I am paying for it right now!"
And he goes: "Ha! Yeah. Well, you know what they say--sometimes, you just gotta have another drink!"
So I'm like, Yeah I hear that!
And he's like, I have a minibar in my office.
And I'm like hell yeah dude, assuming that he's being jokey of course. But 5 minutes later he comes back wielding a styrofoam cup half filled with whiskey and Baileys. Not wanting to look like a pussy I took it, obvi. And then I felt fucking great. And so now I have a coworker who feels me.
Alright. It is almost time for Dancing with the Stars with the one-legged bane of Britain Heather Mills.
Friday, March 9, 2007
I JUST found out that today is International Women's (Girl's) Day. Fuck! And the day is like, half over already. We need to celebrate women today. So tonight, instead of toasting the Global Community as per usual--toast Womankind. Toast yourself...you deserve it. You have come a long way!
I'm only being halfassedly sarcastic. I'm actually kinda flabbergasted that there is an International Women's Day. Are there any females out there who feel good about this, or who feel anything other than some combination of apathy and puzzlement? I don't get it...
You know, being a Wo-MAN ain't easy, but it ain't that bad either in this playground of wealth and liberty we call the U.S. and A. You can dress up like a Pussycat Doll and threaten to steal everyone's boyfriend and defend it with "feminist principles". You can be Starhawk (see yesterday's post) and defend it with feminist principles. You can more or less be whatever the hell you want and link it somehow to this amorphous notion of feminism.
This calls for futher discussion. But unfortunately I am using this Crapple laptop of mine that shuts down all the time and I also can't post the pics I want to. So, I'm gonna end here and finish later when i'm using a better comp.
LADIES MAKE SOME NOOOOOOOOOOOOISE!!!!!!!
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Peep this handsome couple demonstrating how Hypercolor gets you laid...
That is dead sexy. But it looks like that chick is getting a weird Hypercolor rash all over her arm and belly. They should've touched up that foto a bit before putting it all over the web.
Also, for the record, I want to mention that this blogger shizz sometimes will randomly delete words from my post. So it sounds I don't speak ENglish. Or that I am writing this after having crushed and snorted ADD medication off a binder. Which is not something I have done personally, but some of us have (in front of terrified prospies).
OK. So. Topic for the day is common office probs and solutions to those probs. For instance, what do you do with a chatty coworker? Or, is it OK to use personal email at work? Or, what is the correct way to ask a coworker from Arizona if her boobies are fake? Which is the office conundrum that Erica is facing as we speak.
It's been postulated that all women from Arizona have fake tits. (*Suggestions for better words for tits are WELCOME by the way and will be edited into the post*)
Here's a recent convo regarding the matter that went down at "Del Monte Asset Management" today:
dan: alan says they're definitely fake.
erica: how would he know?
dan: exactly. i asked him. he said in
the funniest part of the conversation was dan's insistence on using the word 'woman' instead of 'girl' so as not to offend
Yeah... I would feel so demeaned if referred to as a girl during a conversation about my fake tits...what?
Ewww. personally, I would much rather be called a girl than a woman. For some reason "Woman" conjures up images of...I don't know...THIS person:
Or THIS person:
who is the author of THIS book:
Neither of whom I feel ready to emulate at this point in my life. I'm gonna go watch the Pussycat Dolls reality show now.
Yup, that's about it for today. I = AUDI