STREET FIGHT!!!

So last Wednesday I got into a bit of a verbal altercation. With a complete stranger. Over a parking spot. Allow me to explain.

I was hurring to the downtown campus for my Corporate Finance midterm. I resolutely ABHOR paying for parking at that time of day, so I had my eyeballs peeled for a street spot. A street spot! I spied one, signalled, and began reversing into the spot.

To my surprise, the car behind me had someone still in it who moved up as I was backing up into the spot. I slammed on the brakes and honked my horn. He honked his. We sat there, silent. I put the car in reverse again. He honked his horn again. I still needed about a foot and a half to go. I got out to have a look. We were almost 2 feet apart and he had about FOUR FEET between his car and the curb behind him. The curb, even! Not another car! The curb! Below is a visual for your complete understanding of the situation:

Okay, before we continue, I have to point out an error in my graphic above--I was still jutting out into the entrance of a parking garage, so I still needed to back up about a foot. I apologise to my readers for submitting what is clearly an inadequate visual aid.

Anyway, I say to the guy:

Me: Hey, will you move back about another foot? I'm still in the road and I need to back up a little more.

Jackass: Naw. If I move back, you're gonna block me in and I won't be about to get out.

Me: (mind boggling at his terrible sense of spatial depth perception) Sir, I promise you will still have plenty of room to get out if you just back up a little more--you have plenty of room!

Jackass: (snorts in semi-positive way)

So I get back in the car, start to back up very slowly, and he puts his car in gear, and . . . CREEPS FORWARD and taps me! I leap out of the car and look at our bumpers. No damage. Now he has his window rolled up and is pretending to be on the phone.

Me: Sir! SIR! You have plenty of room! I am not going to block you in! You still have FOUR FEET behind you. Do not hit my motherfucking car you motherfucking asshole!

I did not say this last sentence out loud. Instead, I backed up a couple more inches so I was juuuuuust inside the curb, got out, took a picture of the distance between our cars (cameraphone), then took a picture of his license plate.

As I was doing this, he rolled down his window and said something like:

Jackass: Okay, I'm going to follow (photo?) your car one day.

Me: What does that even mean?

Jackass: (silence)

Keep in mind that I am trying to make it to class for an exam. So I heave my bag and get going. And instantly regret this stand of defiance. For the next 2.5 hours I fret and worry and squirm about three main scenarios:

1. Windows smashed
2. Entire body keyed
3. Car completely gone

What did I learn? This was not a battle worth picking. I felt like I aged 9 years during that class. Afterwards, I spotted my car up the block with immense relief. Then I saw his car still parked behind mine. Was he lying in wait for me? Armed, I'm sure? Would this be the end? I waited until a big, tall guy walked by and then I walked next to him back to my car. He wasn't in the car at all. My car wasn't touched.

Pussy.

Well blow me down! Um, actually don't please.

So guess what?

After all my pissing and moaning and whinging and wining and carrying on and huffing and puffing and grousing and griping and cursing and complaining, guess what?

I got a promotion.

Ha ah ah aha ha ah ah aha hah ha haha ha ha but it's true. My boss told me this morning. So I'm feeling pretty good right about now. Not-so-coincidentally, my frustration level today is fairly low. And I've noticed that I've been slightly nicer to people. Looks like this kind of shit actually works!

In sad-but-true news: you're the first person I'm telling. Rang Rob and he was having some kind of construction crisis and had to go before I could tell him. Rang my parentals and had to leave a message. How dare they be out at a moment like this. Anyway, yay for me?

Get ready for lameness!

Still in foul mood. Need to get some coffee (CAFFEINE!!!), but I'm hold with a vendor right now. And I need them to give me something, so I'm just going to wait.

Today's frustration level: pretty high. People are morons and I am kicking myself for not bringing my textbook for class tonight with me. Because we never use it. Except for tonight! Which I just realised approx 20 minutes ago. Grr. But people are still morons.

Ah! Time has passed. I got off the phone, got my coffee, and got spat on. By the creamer. We have the single-serv mini-cups (in four delicious flavours, no less) and they always burp out like that when you open them. A couple of precious supersweet drops on your hand or thumb. Once a supersweet superdrop actually made it on to my forearm. That one had heart.

This post is officially ridiculous. Fuck it, my favourite kind is hazelnut.

Well, helloooo there!

Check, please.

God diggity damn, am I in a bad mood today.

What? You want to hear all about it? OKAY!!!

Here goes: the number one reason is that it is annual compensation planning time at my company right now. You say, anna what? The time of year where the managers evaluate performance and allot raises accordingly, etc. Except. They don't. I'm seeing such crappy, piss-poor decision-making going on right now and it's all happening like a veeeery slow car crash that won't actually end for another couple of weeks. I'm taking about a skillion calls and emails because people don't read instructions, don't care about instructions, or don't realise there are instructions. I've got HR managers who aren't doing their jobs and thus failing their responsibilities. I've got a company trying to throw money at a situation instead of dealing with its problems. Which is creating huge problems since we are in year 3 of serious underperformance and that money hasn't been earned. But no one is being held accountable and the finger-pointing is rampant. And it just sucks. And it makes me not want to work here. And it makes my brief delight at being rated exceptional this year rapidly dissipate, since an asshole I work with who is excellent at jackshit just fooled his boss into getting the same rating.

And I think: What does it all mean? Who am I? What am I doing here?

And I remember: Ah yes, my company is paying for my MBA degree. It is my mantra. My beacon in a vast and stormy sea of shit. It's what keeps me going sometimes. But not today. Today I think it is going to require a little rebellion. An uprising of sorts. A veritable nose-thumbing at it all. Translation: I'm going to drink heavily. Hopefully soon. My liver must pay the price that my brain can no longer afford! Hurrah!

Self-destruction, here I come!

Add to list: Composer

So I made up this song late last year called You're Driving Me Nuts. I composed it in the late morning hours of 2 December 2006. How do I remember with such startling accuracy the precise moment of its genesis, you ask? Well, it was the morning that I was running around the house desperately trying to get my things together for a week-long business trip up to freezing motherfucking ass Chicago. And while I am tearing around, lugging my broken suitcase from basement, finding matching socks, cramming 3 oz toiletries into clear bag for bloody security compliance, et cetera et al, my parents. Let's just stop right there for a second.

My parents. Let me just make a really long story really short and say that at this point, my parents had been living with me in the house for three months. Day and night. Sleeping in the next room. My father either rooted in front of the laptop or hovering 3 feet away from me AT ALL TIMES. My mother, either blessedly sleeping, running me down in the hallway with her wheelchair, or getting me to fetch her water or tissues. Three months. So I was already a little tense.

So I'm packing like a madman but at every step, with every pair of undies packed, with every precious minute ticking by, an interruption. Like my dad, with the always-classic, I'm looking for something that I left right in this exact spot in the study three years ago and now somebody's bloody moved it! Have you seen it? No. Keep packing. My mother's voice, warbling from her room. Eleanor, come here for a second. I go. She throws 25 lbs* of drapery at me to pack in suitcase to give to Claire. Throw them on the pile. Keep packing. Go to kitchen for Ziploc bags. Dad scares the hell out of me by popping out of the basement door and asks me to help him hold the ladder while he trims a tree in the front lawn. I bellow I DON'T HAVE TIME and he shoots me wounded, betrayed look and nicks off.

At this moment is when the song begins to form. I write in in my head for the rest of the day and perform it for Claire when I land at Midway. And here it goes:

Chorus:
You're driving me nuts!
You're driving me nuts!
You're driving me driving me driving me driving me driving me driving me nuts!
REPEAT

Verse 1:
It's easy, it's simple
It's elemental
You're making me crazy!
You're making me mental!
Because. . .

Repeat Chorus

And that was the end of it for a while. But lately I have been working on Verse 2. I premiered a version of it yesterday afternoon to Claire over the phone. She listened and delivered the verdict: too many syllables. So I retooled it and came up with this:

Verse 2:
O how I've tried
to make it plain
I'm going loopy!
Completely insane!
That. . .

Repeat Chorus

Please let me know how much you enjoy it. Detractors not welcome.

*not an exaggeration, I had to pay excess baggage at the airport.

I just don't know what to do with myself

Yikesy. The lovely Elbo added me as a link to her fabulous blog, Discombombulation Station. See? I'm right down under the blogs-she-reads-everyday header. On the left. Lower. Keep scrolling. Below the pics, keep going. Lower. Right below the recently-updated-weblogs area. There! See? PRIME REAL ESTATE!

The point is, this puts the heat on me to update this thing. Regularly. Which I think was ALL PART OF HER EVIL PLAN IN THE FIRST PLACE! And it's totally working. I mean, I can eaaaaasily let down my dearest friends and family members, but vaguely disappoint an anonymous blog surfer? UNACCEPTABLE!

I'm yelling a lot in this post. Clearly I have a lot of pent-up anger. CLEARLY.

On a complete-180-utterly-non-sequitur-non-sequitur, I'm leaving the office now to go to a funeral. For reals. R.I.P., Ralphie. He was a good man.

This blog is a no-gay zone.

Know how I know you're gay? I don't. Know how I know my sisters are gay? See below.

As you know by now, I blogged for the first time in 932 years the other day. Upon preparing myself for another post, I happened to notice that I received 4 comments on the original-932-year-etc one. And I thought, well how very neat. Until I read them. Witness the gayness for yourself with my bonus real-time reactions in italics!

4 Comments:
At 12:32 PM, M&P's Favorite*I immediately knew this was Claire said...
i, too, longed daily for a new entry to appear...months of waiting and unquenched thirst for minutiae. and now, at long last, rewarded with a scintillating expose on the harsh reality of donning natural fibers. poetry. sheer poetry. excuse me while i put on a anne murray record and weep into my brandy snifter. *pretty damn gay, but kind of sweet
At 12:30 PM, Anonymous said...
This was indeed worth waiting for. I can't wait for the next entry, due around July, *shurrup. in which you excoriate*I immediately knew this was Leah a Birkenstock for being clunky. You've been railing about raw silk smell since I dared wear it around you in about 1992.*That's fucking right, biz! Nasty shit! Get over it or get rid of it. Better still, give it to me! *Fast becoming her stock response in fervent attempts to usurp my wardrobe. Believe me, she is weeeeelcome to this sweater.
At 4:41 PM, M & P's Favorite said...
A) leah, don't even bother being "anonymous" b/c only you would reply to a blog using 'excoriate'*Totally nailed it, nice one.
B) if el does decide to blog about her birkenstocks, it will include descriptions of pong akin to a thousand raw silk sweaters left soaking in vinegar and recently unearthed from a sulfur pit *I can't argue with this, really. The first rule created by my freshman year roommate was that the Birks had to go immediately into the closet once they were off my feet.
At 8:30 AM, Prolix*Again, dead giveaway for Leah said...
Hmmm... thought I had to be anonymous if I didn't have a Google account. Evidently not. I revel in my new assumed identity! *aaaand, gay.

But, I hear you ask, who are these people, really? Well, my sister Claire:

Ha haha ha ha ha h ah ah ha ha h aha haaa I had to have a reason to post that picture again. This, as you will recall, this is actually the friend of an old workmate of mine. I just had to put this picture up again. It fills me with such delight. Evil, evil delight!

To play fair, here is one of my favourite pictures of Leah, juuuuust realising that the writing was done in chalk. Pesky, very transferable chalk. Bwah ha ha ha!

And, scene.

O Happy Day!!!!

Holy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, I'm posting!

I'm really just doing this for my sister Leah, who mentioned a few days ago that she STILL CHECKS MY SITE FOR UPDATES. This despite the fact that I have not updated since AUGUST OF 2006. Her loyalty and dedication to my blog brought a tiny tear to my eye. Just the tiniest of tinies.

So a new year. And, yet, the same old fucking problems. Case in point: the sweater I am wearing right now. It is a gold silk lovely from Banana Republic that I bought a couple of years ago. I love it. It looks really good. I can't bring myself to get rid of it. But. it. fucking. stinks. And I'm not talking the sickly-sweet-nasty-ass-raw-silk-smell that I do truly despise and almost gag when I get a whiff, I'm talking about. . . a more. . . . organic pong.

I noticed this problem around this time last year, when I was sitting in my MicroEcon class. Naturally, I spent the entire class shooting poison eyes at everyone around me. . . until I realised that I was the pong originator. Horrified, I banished the sweater to the laundry room, where it sat for most of 2006 until I decided what to do with it. Finally, off to Avondale Cleaners where I asked the guy to do anything and everything to get the pong out. He immediately replied that he could make no guarantees. I said, well just try. And he said, no promises. And I said, OKAY, just see what you can do. And he said, pick it up Thursday.

This was a few weeks ago. And I am wearing it today. And the guy was right: he could make no guarantees or promises. Because the funk is still there. I have been walking around with my arms stiff at my sides like an android all day. Now I know you think I am being ridiculous and thinking oh just get rid of it already but if you saw it. . . I just looked down and realised that there are drops of my Thai noodle I had for lunch all over it. I don't know how many people have seen (and smelt) me today.

It's fucking out of here.

To be fair

K hasn't posted since 13 July. FACE!

Madly straightening up the place

I have the feeling like when a friend/acquaintance/rogue Spanish lover is on your way over to your house unexpectedly and you spend frantic minutes picking up clothes and papers and used tissues and whatnot just to get things somewhat presentable for your guest. As to offer a great departure to the rathole you normally live in. Why? Because Elbo might be reading this blog now! And I don't want her to see the crappy post that has been sitting here for OVER ONE MONTH NOW.

So basically that's a big screw-off to all (read: two) my faithful COP readers who have gotten dick-all for their patience.

As a consolation, would you like to be my rogue Spanish lover?

No?

Would you like me to tell you that I am very sorry and it meant nothing to me and it was only because I was obliteratedly hopelesslytatedly schnookered and I promise baby baby I'll never slap you around again and just to show you how serious I am here are some flowers that I bought just special for you with a little teddy bear with them because I know how much you like teddy bears huh baby huh?

No?

Well, I just don't know how to please you anymore.

Stories I Forgot to Tell You, Volume 1, Issue 1

Lo, this is the actual Dunkin Donuts that appears so prominently in the story below. I took a picture of it while driving by one morning and nearly got in a wreck.
When my parents first arrived in mid-APRIL for what-would-become-the-neverending-of-2006-visit, I did not yet know then what I know now. Sure, I expected my father to spend 2 solid days sorting through the 900 Christian magazines/newsletters/catalogues/solicitations he has received at the house since his last visit. And I knew that he would quickly monopolise my laptop at all hours of the day, cursing at his inability to manipulate the mousepad which is naturally the computer's fault, not his. I was not surprised to see my mother rapidly descend into her habit of remaining seated in the same spot on the couch for days at a time and the wholesale consumption of anything remotely sweet in the house. The subsequent dusting of the entire house with tissues, half-completed crossword puzzles, and glasses of water was almost comforting to me, a loving reminder that I was once again. living. with. my parents. But never.

Never did I suspect that attempted murder was afoot.

Scene: We arrive home one night from a lovely dinner out. I am fully sated, a little tipsy, and more than ready to throw on my pajamas and hop into bed. I come in the front door with my mother following behind and, as I am crossing the room, I glance over at the Chinese coffee table where I notice that there is something underneath the table, like shredded-up paper napkins or something. This is Tallulah's not-so-secret hideout, where she is likely to bring and destroy something she has gotten ahold of that is not supposed to. So I say to my mother as I am headed towards my room, "Hey, it looks like Lu got into something," and I'm a little irritated, thinking that it is a discarded paper towel or something that my mother has left around, and I don't like Lu misbehaving. I reach my room and hear my mother say, "Oh no," in a way that lets me know: fuck shit.

Flash to me on my hands and knees picking up dog-chewed remnants of my mother's PRESCRIPTION MOTION SICKNESS MEDICATION blister pack that is almost entirely empty to the tune of about 13 or 14 pills. I look at Lu and she doesn't seem out of the ordinary, just maybe a little mellow. Like she is a little high. And a little tired. I look at my mother and she is looks at me as if to say, "What? I don't have pets. I never even think about this kind of stuff." So I call the animal poison control centre and finally they tell me that they have only had two cases of this kind of medicine ingestion ever and in one it was way less and the dog was fine and in the other the dog, uh, DIED.

So I'm driving to the 24-hour animal hospital at fucking 1am with the dog in the back, who seems a little like she is just catching on that we are probably not going to the park. My mother was like I'm coming with you and I hissed NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! because my only consolation with the situation was that I could chain-smoke all the way there and all the way home. I see the vet, we talk, she pokes and prods Lu, I leave Lu there and drive home. I do, however, wake my mother up 5 hours later to go with me to pick the dog back up by 7am, lest they start charging a skillion dollars a minute in morning charges.

(Side story: when my mother was getting dressed, my father awoke briefly and said, "What's going on?" My mother explained that she and I were going to pick up the dog. He thought about this and then said why so early and my mother replied that they charge exponentially for additional time past 7am. And my father was quiet for a while and then my mother heard his voice rising from the pillow: "Worth every penny.")

Mum and I pick up Lu--apparently the only excitement is that she threw up once around 5am, a reaction to the charcoal pills administered to her to quell the effects of the poison. She's pretty out of it, though, so I get her into the back seat and start to drive us home. And my mother says, "Oh let's stop and get something to eat first." And I say, "Uh, well, I guess we can maybe do a drive-through or something, but clearly the priority is to get this animal home and settled." Which actually came out more like, "Um, ok."

So I point out a McDonald's that is across the street and my mother acts like I just suggested that she eat a piece of poo. So then she volunteers IHOP and I tell her there is no way that we are sitting in a restaurant when my just-pulled-back-from-teetering-on-the-brink-of-death dog is lying in the back seat of my car. And my mother rolls her eyes and says "Hunh!" all breathy, which means that I am being a total square and I really need to relax, man. Keep in mind that she has just paid approximately $300 for the hospital visit as punishment for almost killing my dog.

So we end up driving for a couple miles looking for something, and I'm just about to turn around when my mother bellows, "DUNKIN DONUTS!!!" And then proceeds to give me an order so extensive that I have to find a piece of paper to write it all down. The man working behind the counter actually has to help me carry it all to the car. So I get in and my mother is like, "Oh, let's just sit here and eat for a bit." And I am hungry, but I look at Lu and she is laying down and slowly looks up at me with watery, doleful eyes as if to say, is it almost over yet? So I take a swig of coffee and a bite of my croissant and begin to drive us out of the parking lot. And for the second time in less than twelve hours, I hear my mother say, "Oh no."

I stop the car and look back and Tallulah has vomited all over the back seat. And because she had been fed charcoal, the vomit is jet black and slimy. I nearly threw up. It was almost a Stand By Me-esque vomit extravaganza. My mother? Completely and utterly unfazed, continued to nibble on her doughnut and drink her juice. So I get Lu out of the car, clean up the back seat (sorry Big Lots parking lot), get towels back there--by this time, Lu is weak and leeeeaning against me for support, so I have to lift her back in the car. My mother? Eating, drinking. Ho hum.

I pull out of the lot and up to a traffic light and I hear the noise. The huck-huck-huck in the throat that lets me know that this is juuuuuuuuust before Lu is about to lose it again. So, with one foot on the brake and with one hand on the wheel, I grab a Dunkin Donuts bag and swivel around and god bless it if this dog doesn't spew every drop of black vomity goodness into that bag. I mean, not a spilled drop. Not one. Then the light turns green, and I turn towards home. I hand my Mum the bag and say, "Sorry about your fritter." And she says, "What?" And I say, "Oh, sorry about your bear claw." And my mother, who has shown NOT ONE IOTA of emotion, caring, empathy, or concern up to this point, howls:

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

As if she is starring in Sophie's Choice. As if portions of her body are being extracted out of her by force. As if falling down an interminable well of shame and regret.

When I point this out to her, she is quiet and seems a little embarassed. NOT, however, too embarrased to mention more than a few times before arriving home that (in a small voice), "It had just been so long since I had had one," and "I only got to have one bite."

I don't want to hear your shit.

And that's exactly the kind of attitude that keeps my readers coming back. Yeeeees.

I don't even know if you are going to be able to read the below IM convo I just had with K, but it was funny. A little slice of life, if you will. And you will. OH YOU WILL!

Anyway, I know you have missed me terribly. But I've had lots of shit to do. Like loll around in my bed on the weekends and surf the internet at work. Here are the highlights of the recent lowlights:

• more than 3/4 through Business Law course
• work has been eh but picking up
• parental drama with my mother's knee dying down*
• going to Chicago to see Claire and attend Lollapalooza in 2 weeks
• juuuuust started dating a boy so yay fun
• been flossing much more regularly
• planning my late birthday party for 26 August, mark your cals
• it's so hot, even I have been using my air conditioner
• putting one leg on the wagon (0 drinks this week so far, about to change tonight though)

Hope this satisfies you for a while. I'm probably going to have to start slow.

love, me.

*this reminds me that I have a story I have to tell you later.

A Lazy Sunday parody, how novel.

I know, I know: I'm officially the lamest. But Special K (with strawberries) and soy milk is so good that I don't care! I don't! I have been having this for breakfast for about two months straight now, and it never fails to please. And you can't toy with the recipe: I tried cow milk last week and just about threw up. A near-spew. Narrowly avoided. One slight variation that is barely permissible is the light soy milk--but it's just not the sweet, fatty goodness of the regular soy.

But to each her/his own. I won't judge you.

What? Yeah, I know. Shut up.

You know what's a good album? This one, over here to the right. Yes, the tiny picture. It's It Still Moves by My Morning Jacket. I don't know when it was released, it's not brand-new, that's for sure. I bought it because it has a song on it that my sister Claire put on a mix for me that I really like called Golden. But now I think my favourite one on the whole album is track number nine. I don't know what it is called. Shit I really need to get on this. Okay, hang on.

Got it: album was released in 2003. And the song is called Rollin' Back. I hope you are happy.

In other news, I have class now on Fridays. AWESOME!!! It's only through the first week of June, but AWESOME!!! Tomorrow Kat and I are having Spa Day hurrah. And Sunday I will probably just be doing homework shizz. Off to DC to see Gin next weekend and parentals will be here for most of June. I got an A in Global Econ. The digital camera my sisters and I bought for my dad's surprise birthday pressie arrived yesterday. Don't worry, he doesn't even know about this blog. So I can ramble on about all the RAMPANT SEXUAL DEVIANT ACTS I AM PERFORMING if I wanted to. This presumes that I am actually having sex. Which as of late, I am not. But on a good note, I don't have cancer. I'm not being facetious, the report from my biopsy came back all clear the other day. The office was very lassez-faire about it--I hadn't heard anything after a few weeks, so I rang and they were like "what? oh, ok, hang on. *wait* "ok, uh no, nothing, you're clear." *click*

Well, this post took a left turn. Eh, what do you expect after such an absence?

I want a refund on my crappy weekend.

This weekend I resolved to drink little and be very productive. I succeeded on completely inverse levels. At least the drinking was isolated to Friday night only, but nonetheless, it was bad. And by bad I mean that I fell out of the cab at my house. Recovered pretty quickly, but have a lovely blue and bloody knee to show for it. Also found my calculator and tissues that spilled out of my purse on the driveway the next afternoon.

So I didn't go out for the rest of the weekend, but it didn't matter--the weekend was already cursed. I wake up at 2am the next night to the progressively louder and consistent noise of a helicopter hovering over my neighborhood. I think oh well it's in the area nearby, but NO it is shining the spotlight ON MY STREET looking for god knows who. The scene was replete with policemen on foot walking around with flashlights, poking into bushes and whatnot. I watched for about a hour peeking out from my bathroom blinds while sitting on the toilet. Eventually everyone went away, so I watched an old SNL until 4am. It was a rare 95-96 season one with Jim Carrey. Probably would have been funnier at any other time than 4am.

The coup de grace? Last night's dream, in which I dreamt that the man I was probably supposed to marry showed up into town with his girlfriend and I had to host them for the whole weekend, taking them around to tourist spots and bars and shit. The whole time I kept thinking, "I can't BELIEVE I am doing this!" while seething with bitter jealousy.

Even my dreams hate me. Weekend, I want my money back.

Moon River, wiiiiider than a mile. . .

I'm crossing you in style some daaaaaaay. . .

My friends are all class. Well, one in particular.

INTERNATIONAL DAY OF LEAH!!!!!!

So I think I work pretty hard. I busted my hump all weekend, writing papers, reading case studies, conducting analyses, and researching business theory. And just for kicks, I picked up my OTHER sister from the airport, washed the dog, cleaned off the back porch, and did my taxes. I did a lot of stuff, and I still have a lot of stuff to do in the near future and a lot of people to do that stuff with--which I am cool with, it just means that I have to keep organised and focused and make sure I get everything done when I need it done.

So this morning I check my email, and there's one from Leah entitled: "feeling overlooked." Which refers to the fact that when I blogged about being busy I FAILED TO MENTION that, in addition, my sister Leah will be visiting in early May. So. Here goes.

MY SISTER LEAH WILL BE VISITING IN EARLY MAY AND I AM JUST WETTING MY PANTALOOOOOONS IN ANTICIPATORY EXCITEMENT JUST THINKING ABOUT IT. REALLY! I JUST WET MY PANTS! WET THEM STRAIGHT THROUGH!!!

As an visual ode to the occasion, I have created a collage of Leah, a veritable Leah melange of goodness. Behold:

LEAH!!! LEAH!!! LEAH!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!

Okay, that's quite enough of that. To bring us back down, here is a picture of Leah when she realised that the rock she had been leaning against was covered in chalk:



I love that one. See ya soon, Sis. Mwah!

Post titles? We don't need no stinking post titles!

The tension has been palatable. From the brownstones to townhomes to the farmhouses and palatial estates all over this great land of ours, one question has been on the people's minds: and it is: here it comes:

Will. Eleanor. Ever. Post. Again?

I know, I know, it's been rough. Every day checking the blog in ever-decreasing degrees of hope, wishing, PRAYING, that it would be the day that El would update.

Well, today is that day.

What have I got to say for myself? Let's see if I can nutshell it. I turn 30 in 9 days, the same day of the resurrection of Christ (oh that crazy Christ! but seriously, the competition is so fierce this year), but BEFORE then: my sister comes into town, then my parents, and then I get a piece of my cervix taken out. The latter for which they prescribed me exactly two valiums. That I am guarding like a crack addict.

Other than that, I've got a fuck-busy weekend coming up and I've been hungover at work the last two days in a row. AWESOME!!! I'm sitting here right now plotting the lies I could concoct to be able to leave early.

So, to conclude: you didn't miss much.

And, scene.

Amazing skies are here again!

Hurrah!

The seeds are oh-so-carefully being sown for Summer's arrival in the ATL!

It's getting darker later, resulting in impressive sky displays that I am taking crappy pictures of using my cameraphone on the way home from work. To wit:

Pretty sure this one was from last night:

Amazing cloud patterns from last week:
This was Monday night:
Last night, again, but I liked the blurriness:
Uh, okay, maybe I went a little overboard last night. But look at the reflection of the sun on the clouds!!

I loves me some Mother Nature! Rejoice!

Oh dear sweet Lord.

So two nights ago, I noticed a bit of a whiff of something not-so-pleasant smelling in my kitchen. Thinking maybe I didn't properly rinse something down the drain, I put some bleach in the sinks and didn't think too much more about it.

Well, last night I get home and the whiff is now definitely a stink. And it ain't good. I can't determine a point of origin, so I rebleach the sinks and throughly clean out the kitchen bin thinking that I'm covering both places that a STRONG PONG! would come from.

And then now. Today. Wednesday. I'm talking to a couple of colleagues at the office when I am inexplicably struck with the mind-blowing relevation that I microwaved cauliflower on Sunday. AND COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT IT.

It's been in there for three fucking days. Stewing. Rotting. Growing. Part of me wants to race home right now and deal with it and part of me never wants to go home again.

Can you imagine the unholy stench that is going to hit me when I open that door?

I'm scared.

I'm awesome!!!

Remember when I overexerted my quads in a bodysculpting class last year and I had to use the handicap stall for like a week? No? Well, take a stroooooll down memory lane if you like!

Anyway, this weekend I went for two brisk walks with Lu and while nowhere near the level of intensity from last year's fiasco, my legs are kind of sore today. Like when I have been sitting for a while and get up to go somewhere, I have to concentrate on walking normally. It feels a bit like I am an underoiled tinman and my legs are going clackety clack. Not from running, mind you, but from walking. WALKING. Two brisk walks, one Saturday and one Sunday.

In my defense, however, my neighbourhood is rather hilly. In spots.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't

I present to you a slightly dark picture of my beautiful and lovely sister Claire from last year's ACL Fest. This is for comparative purposes (see below)

Okay, so this post is either going to really piss off my sister or really crack her up. Went to a party last month and I met the friend of a friend of mine. And I could not get over how much she looked like my sister. That is, if my sister was a cross-dressing tranny. Now that I've dropped that bomb, let me just say that this woman was very nice and pleasant and it is not her fault that God also gave her a penis. Okay, she doesn't have a penis. But she is rather mannish. AND she looks like my sister. If my sister was a cross-dressing tranny. I took this picture of her and YOU CANNOT DENY THE SIMILARITIES!!!

See? Granted, my sister is much prettier and less, ahem, uh rode hard and put away wet, but you see where I am coming from. Don't you? And yes, I do feel like a total asshole for bashing this delightful woman who had no idea that I was going to take her picture in order to compare her to my sister if my sister had XY chromosomes. And a big hairy dick. Feel free to barrage me with hate comments, I defiantly stand by my story.

Lollapafuckyeah

I also scored a major coup today by getting Lollapalooza 06 festival tix for $45 each!!! Yay!!! August in Chicago with a skillion other people. And my sister. Yay!!

crap crap and more crap

Here is my new bed. It's all firm yet fluffy and wonderful. Although I did almost give myself a coronary streeeeeeetching the sheets over the box spring. I'm not doing that anymore. I got a bedskirt. Also my fantastiricacal pink 600TC are on it now. They rule, but they are pretty slippery. I was trying to read in bed the other night in a half-supine position and I couldn't get any traction with my feet. So, anyway, the bed:
So the other week, Tony D calls me on a Wednesday and is like what are you doing tonight? And I said going to my shit-useless-lame-as-fuck-marketing-class and he said oh well I guess I will just throw away this sweet motherfreaking ticket to the Stones show that was just given to me and I said what time shall I meet you? The show was great, even better than the October one--they played some really great songs that I don't think they play a lot live. It was awesome. So yes, I have now seen the Stones twice in less than 6 months and both times for FREE. Although the first time I did have to sell a little part of my soul. Anyway, here is Mick playing a little song on the piano:
Alrighty. Next up is the most adorable baby I know, Parker Elizabeth. This is Ali's baby that is coming up on a year old in the next couple weeks. She is also being christened--soon to be a good Catholic baby and not going to hell. What I like best about Parker is that she is extremely friendly and sociable and laughs a lot and is a very happy baby. Plus one time she fell asleep on my chest and my ovaries yearned. Simply yearned. Miss P:

Peace Accord

Contrary to K's vote of confidence, I think we have a victory on all sides. Lu had definitely poked around the reinforced area the next day, but overall things looked pretty secure. The next morning, I delivered the coup de grace: when getting ready for work, I was in the bathroom with the ex-door and I noticed that Lu was obviously nervous and guilty-looking when lurking nearby. Inspiration struck: I took the bag of door shreds intended for the rubbish pick-up and spread them over the fence area. Last night: untouched. Plus I am keeping her happy with lots of attention and positive reinforcement. Plus I am going to have a dog walker come on Tuesday and Wednesdays, hopefully starting next week.

Plus I will beat her into an oblivion if she doesn't quit pulling this shit.

This means war.

I'm at war with my dog. I fear it will be a fight to the death.

Advantage me: larger brain, opposable thumbs
Advantage Tallulah: at home all day alone, massive separation anxiety complex

War was initiated by Lu last week and was raging for three days before I was even aware of it. Then found note in mailbox left by neighbor that she had been running around the neighborhood via large escape hole under the fence. Which she would then CRAWL BACK UNDER to be home like nothing happened when I got home at night.

My response was admittedly weak, but it was dark and cold and I was exhausted: stuck bag of firewood into hole.

Tallulah promptly responded the next day by digging new hole next to original one and losing her collar somewhere.

First round: Tallulah, definitely.

I planned on staying home pretty much all weekend, but had to attend an engagement party Saturday night. Since I hadn't fixed the holes yet, I put Lu in the guest bathroom for a few hours. I lovingly placed one of her dog beds, a chewie, and some water for her comfort. Tallulah retaliated by EATING THE ENTIRE BACK OF THE DOOR. I came home to a large pile of sawdust at the base of the door. I open the door to find five times more sawdust and the water tipped over, so the room is an intoxicating blend of wet wood and panicked dog. I spend next hour cleaning up crap and Lu sleeps in basement. She tries to get me back chewing up some newspaper, but it doesn't faze me.

Second round: Tallulah, with the door and all. But my anger is brewing.

Sunday I set about repairing the hole and devising some way to win the war once and for all. In the bottom of the holes I placed a layer of firewood logs stacked side-by-side. Then a layer of metal netting staked down, topped with a lot of top soil all tamped down in it. Lastly, a shit load of black pepper all over the place. Hopefully she will get a snootful of pepper in her face and become afraid of the site. If she makes it to the netting, I'm hoping this will mystify her to the point of surrender. And there's no way she can move the logs.

Third round: God I hope me. Because otherwise shit is going to go down.

Can she just dig elsewhere along the fence line? Perhaps. But she has always dug here, so maybe my obvious attempts to keep her in the yard will translate to some kind of reassurance of love in her tiny dog brain. And besides, she doesn't really want to get out, she just wants attention.

Tonight: Judgement Day.

Strooooolling down meeeeemory lane

I was just sitting here in my office when a memory struck me from my college years. One of my best friends at the time, Cat Wall, had a dream/nightmare about an impending date. In reality, Cat met some guy at a frat party who went to UT. He invited her to his own fraternity party the next weekend and she accepted. Towards the end of the night, she asked him what fraternity he was in, and he replied the music fraternity. Throughout the week leading up to the date, Cat became more progressively stressed out about the date to the point that she had a dream about it.

In the dream, she brings me and another friend of ours as buffers to the party, which is actually more like a prom. Everyone is in formal dress and--as she imagined a music fraternity party to be--the party sucks. Everyone is lame and nerdy and we are having a terrible time. At the end of the dream, we retreat to a corner of the ballroom to sit at a large, tableclothed round table. To our surprise, another friend of ours, Kevin, is already sitting there, bowtie loosened, feet on the table, and smoking a cigarette. We all turn to look at him: Kevin looks around the room at the other partygoers, takes a deep drag on his cigarette, and proclaims, "Classic dorks." End of the dream.

That's really the post. A memory about someone else's dream. But in real life Cat did indeed drag both of us to the party and it did indeed suck. Differences included that it was at somebody's lakehouse versus a ballroom, attire was casual, and Cat and I beat two of the frat guys in a pool game, whereupon the ENTIRE FRATERNITY serenaded us in nineteen-part harmony.

The woot of all genius.

So a while ago, a random friend told me about woot.com . In a nutshell, this site sells one item per day for a set price. When that item is gone, you have to wait until midnight eastern time for a new item to post (the exception being the occasional but ever-exciting woot-off in which multiple products may be for sale in a subsequent fashion one day).

Needless to say, I am fascinated. I have yet to actually purchase a woot offering, and they tend to favour the technical/computery side of things, but the accompanying commentary and product description is always worth the visit. To wit: today's offering? A bag of random crap. For $1. And they sold out. IN FOUR MINUTES. God I hope you are reading this blog TODAY so you can read the product info. If not, here are some highlights:

Crap is a many-splendored thing. If crap be the food of love, crap on. It is better to have crapped and lost than never to have crapped at all. Crap, lift us up where we belong.

Yes, crap is in the air once again, so we're sending this randomly crappy, bag-shaped valentine to all the people we really love. If you don't manage to get one, it's because we're sulking over something you've done to upset us. Try to guess what it was!

and:

THE HOLY CRAP COMMANDMENTS v2.0:
I. Thou shalt expect nothing beyond one bag of some kind and your chosen quantity of crappy items (which should be THREE).
II. Thou shalt not whine and complain when some people's crap turns out to be nicer than yours.
III. Thou shalt take a moment to consider whether you might be better off just not buying this crap.
IV. Thou shalt not order just one crap and blame it on anything but your own inattention.
V. To paraphrase Stephen Stills, shalt thou not get the crap you want, want the crap you get.

Warranty: you wish

Features:
1 (one) bag
Some (some) crap

To quote woot.com, God bless the internet.

Le Porc Rose!

Continuing on in the grand tradition of thing-that-happened-over-two-months-ago, I present to you camera pics I took of Claire's and my adventure on Macy's Pink Pig ride last November. We actually bought "reserved" tickets, meaning we didn't have to stand in line with the rest of the riff-raff and we got free commemorative badges! Despite the ride being billed as "for children of all ages," it was decidedly not. Claire and I were the only ones over eight and we quickly discovered that we needed to sit in one car. Each.

Here is a pic of Claire having fake fun. Note child in wonder behind her.

Another picture of Claire next to the stationary car for scale purposes.
The overwhelming sign that greeted us upon entrance into THE PINK PIG TENT.
For kicks, they had the original pink pig car on display. A couple of things about this: a) it was not pink. ???? b) it was microscopic, easily half the size of the hip, new pink pig car. And enclosed! How did the kiddies of the 50's do it??? I'll tell you: no growth hormones and preservatives in everything they ate, that's how.
Afterwards, we bought a wooden pink pig train Christmas tree ornament.

Museum Shizz

I hate my job and I hate everyone who works here. Lame lame lame.

But instead of focusing on that, here are some camera pics from THANKSGIVING WEEKEND. I teem on the cutting edge of current news. Fuck off.

Okay, this is a shot of the High's Ten Marilyns. I have to say, now owning one, not impressed. Quality of colour reproduction frankly sketchy on some of them, and their version of mine had a frayed corner. A frayed corner! I mean, really, what is the art world coming to? Disgraceful. Moving on.

This was a nice pair of black and white suspended lips. As you can see. Can't remember the artist. But I like it.
Very large installment of pears and peaches on the new High veranda. There was a big sign saying do not fucking touch this you asshole. I was thinking, well no shit, but then I remembered that there are plenty of assholes who would do that because it looks all cartoony and it's not in a frame on a wall. I might add that this astounding relevation is coming from the person who hand-planted The Nightwatch and set off alarms when she was seven. At least when I fuck with art I pick the good shit.
Taken on the skywalk connecting the old and new wings. For a piece of shit camera phone, I think this is a pretty damn good picture, catching both my shadow near. . . . and far. Near. . . . and far. Near. . . . . . . . . . . . . . and far.
That's it from the High. You may now resume your normal activities.

I see. . . a basement! In the Alamo!

Will I ever post again with any semblance of regularity? Can I recreate the magic? Is the blog MEANT TO BE???

I cannot answer these questions now. The future is uncertain. All I can handle right now are recap bullets, mere soupcons of information. Bon appetit.

• Hols in Malta were great: click here for photo album
• Work is soul-sucking and not fun
• School is fairly intense and panning out to be a challenging semester
• I need a new mattress VERY badly
• I do not have gonorrhea or chlamydia (Did I have look up both those words to spell them correctly? Yes.)

That's all for now. Wipe your chin, you're dribbling.

Up yours, Screw Job!!!

I have to give a shout-out to my boy Andrew Duerson for the post title. We had a massive fake email fight about four years ago and he won by sending the above sentiment repeated about 9,000 times on the screen. Good times. Perhaps the only person who loved Jerry Orbach/Lenny more than I did. Anyway. On to the post!

What's this? What's this below? Some kind of map, eh? Well, let's see what's on it. . . ah, the lovely country of Malta, the veritable jewel of the Mediterranean! Where I will be spending the next two weeks! Merry Christmas, SUCKERS!

Amidst the hissing sounds of your jealous seething, I must bid you adieu. I'm off for the QCC*2 tomorrow; by this time Thursday, I will be sitting in the Milan airport waiting for my connection. But then AFTER that, I will be in Malta with my family. Drinking and fighting. I can't wait. Best of the hols to you and yours. See you soon, mwah!

love, el.

*why, the Quin Christmas Convention, of course

I'm a bad person!

Because I don't blog enough! For my two readers. But on a bright note, I just finished my first semester of grad school last night! Will feel weird to have my Mondays and Thursdays back. . . until next semester kicks in.

Other than that, things are pretty la la la lame. My excitement for the weekend basically boils down to picking up the second Warhol (that actually will be pretty cool) from the framer's and getting my hair cut. This is what is has come down to, how dismally pathetic my life has become lately: I am excited about getting. my. hair. cut.

For those of you are interested, keeping the length but putting in lots of long layers. For those not interested, eat a dick.

That was the trademark phrase of a high school friend of mine. Fellow by the name of Eric Smith. No idea what he is doing now. Hopefully not, um, eating a dick.

Well, this post has rapidly degenerated.

One more and then I'm done. For the day.

I am crampy. Crampety cramp cramp of the Highland McCrampingtons crampy. I am in fact using my cramps as an excuse to bog off the gym tonight. And instead go to a pre-trivia drinking session. And drink those cramps awaaaaay!

Back off, cramps! I'm druuuuunk!

Posting MAAAAAAANIA!!!

I know, I know, I can't believe it either. Pictures too!

Long story short, I bought a Warhol. A friend of mine had a line on a really good deal on a series of Marilyn silkscreens and I got one. So did Claire. They're being framed now and we're going to look at them on Saturday. This is the first piece of real art I have ever owned. It's like an investment and shit! Anyway, this first pic is mine:

Bad angle, but you get the idea: blue background, orange hair, pinky/purpley face with a silver sheen on the shadow bits. It's being framed white on white oh so museum nouveau!

This is Claire's:

Classic silver on silver, looks really neat. It's going to be black matte on black frame oh so stylish. Maybe too stylish. Hmm, maybe I will start a family feud and claim Claire's Marilyn for my own! She'll never know what hit her. Until she reads this blog entry.

Anyway, these are the only two Marilyns in the series with metallic silver paint. And we have both of them! It's all just too exciting for words.

I'm a posting fool, a posting fool

Here are some pics from the absolutelyfuckingamazing Stones show I went to last month. I know you can't really tell what is going on, but in the bottom one Mick is on the big screen, pointing to Keith where his teeth fell out. Lots of lights, lips and tongue graphics, at one point part of the stage detached and came ouuuuuuuuuut into the audience then went baaaaaaaaaaaack into the rest of the stage. These guys are pros. They left for precisely 1 minute during the fake will they/won't they encore bit, did two songs, and then were like peace out party people, last one turn off the lights, they were GONE. I guess after FORTY YEARS of doing this shit you pretty much get it down to a science. It was great. I screamed like a twelve-year old girl and bought a $45 tee-shirt.

Gin + vent = high hilarity

This was at the new(ish) Moreland shopping centre when Gin was here last month for a visit. They have these massive ground vents that BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! huge amounts of air into the, uh, air. Ginny and I stood on them for several minutes, giggling maniacally. Then when we were driving out we saw a lady unwittingly walk over one and her skirt blew completely up and oh how we laughed and laughed. Except the windows were down and she heard us. Sorry lady.

Remember meeeeeeeee?

Let's not dwell on the past. I know it's been a while. But it's a week of thanksgiving. . . so just be thankful that I am writing.

In response to people asking me how I am doing/what's going on/what's new, I created a snazzy catchphrase: "Work and school, rinse and repeat." This outstandingly comic witticism is not only true AND concise, it also keeps me from thinking up new things to tell people/boring them with mundane trivialities. Everyone wins.

I did a little Christmas shopping this weekend. In related news, I am working on a TOP SECRET project for my family and was able to get a little bit more done on that end. I also turned the heat on for the first time this season. It was less than 50 degrees in the house, now a toasty 67. I would have turned it on earlier, but the pilot light went out and I didn't feel like blowing myself up. Dropped off shizz at the Salvation Army, dented the fuck out of my car, and had sushi twice. Went to a birthday party, met my. . . what? Car? Gloss over? Go back? YES, I fucking put a dent the size of a fucking fist into my car this weekend. In my garage. Going >1 mile per hour. That's all I'm saying about it. Fuuuck! Moving on. Mlo and Liz's birthday party at famed gay club Friends, met up with my Biz Comm group to work on presentation, did research for tcm article due today shiiiiit. Cleaned up all the papers and shit on my dining room table, quite possibly the proudest moment of the weekend for me. I mentioned this to a friend and he snidely remarked, "Wouldn't this be the stuff that I saw the last time I was there?" He hasn't been to my house in probably two years. Asshole.

As is the corporate office protocol, approximately 63 people so far have asked me how my weekend was. This has been my response: "It was pretty low-key." I'm such a liar. But they don't really want to know anyway. Again, everyone wins. But looking at this post, I had a huge weekend. Except that I didn't get to go to U2. Like the dent, I don't want to talk about it.

See ya next month!

Oh, yeah.

Also, Happy Halloween. I was going to do something like send you one of those emails that makes you look at an idyllic scene for a while and then a really scary picture flashes up and it screams loudly and makes you shit your pants. But even I am not that much of a bastard.

Okay, I am, I just couldn't find one.

How much do I suck? Let me count the ways.

How long has it been? Eh, I don't even care anymore. I'm tired. All the time. My lack of energy used to make me feel bad, but now. Whatever. Don't care. The worst part? Even things that should be fun and good I am viewing as just another thing on my to-do list. Just another chore I have to squeeze in between work, school, house, pets, and bills. Things like trying to date or hanging out with my friends or even talking to my family members who I freaking love more than anything. Please dear loved ones, be patient with me. I just need. . . I just need. . . what do I need? Fuck I just need to fucking snap out of this!

Okay, stay tuned. Or don't, I understand.

Worst. Tattoo. Ever.

I just realised that I never posted the rest of the ACL pics. Don't worry, they all pretty much sucked anyway, so you're not missing anything.

But there was one.

One pic that perfectly demonstrates one man's obsession. With. The Boss.



This guy was in front of me for Built To Spill (Who were disappointedly feh; I mean, hi, I realise that it was VERY FUCKING HOT and that they are from Idaho, undoubtedly colder than Austin, but fuck the Arcade Fire is from Montreal and they were wearing full-on suit and wool gloves and shit and WAY more fucking animated and actually seemed psyched to be there). He seemed to be having fun and all but can you IMAGINE what he would have done if Bruce had popped on stage for a jam?

I couldn't stop staring at it, all the while noticing new Bruce details. There were actually four separate Bruces, you can't really see the one on his left shoulder region. And the totally blacked-in Bruce must have HUUUURT. Shit. This guy is a fucking FAAAAAAN. It was no problem snapping the pic, thanks for asking.

This shit is bookmarked. Twice.

In a quintessential encapsulation of what a sad state of affairs my life has become, this little link has become, in recent weeks, the gateway to my greatest source of visual pleasure. The calm and relaxation it provides me has been invaluable; I only hope you can share in some of my joy.

ps. you can help him out if he gets stuck. or not, it's up to you.

Guy In Philosophy Class Needs To Shut The Fuck Up

Yet another brilliant gem from people-that-I-wish-were-my-friends-at The Onion.

ACL Fest: band examination, Spoon

At least I think this is Spoon. I'm not sure, by this point I was drinking and did I mention how hot it was? Oh wait, there's the boy with the red trucker hat on in front of me. This is definitely a pic of the Spoon show. V good band, and hometown heroes at that so there was a HUUUUUUUUGE turnout for this show. Skillions of people.
On another note, K just sent me an mp3 of "Eleanor Put Your Boots On," a track off the upcoming Franz album. It's very jangly and happy and oh just lovely. I love songs with my name in them.

ACL Fest: chapter one, the saga begins

Hey? Want to see some crappy pictures I took with my camera phone???? You do? Well, here ya go! I call Photo 1: "Frat Boy Backpack from the Back." A simple composition at first glance, but upon digging deeper you may see the floating red head of Jeff Tweedy on the jumboscreen in the back ground. Yes, this is my photo of Wilco playing.

This one is a little better, just showing off THE SCENE. The scene that was ungodly hot. The light brown area you see halfway in the picture is dusty ground. Dusty hot ground. Dusty hot ground that got kicked up by 65,000 people all weekend and made breathing difficult. At night it looked like a nuclear fallout scene, replete with copious overtones of hacking coughs. FUN!!!

Anyway, this pic not only shows that there were a fuckload of people there (and this was Friday, the lightest day), but also the luxurious Austin skyline and the big Tejas sky. Under which we coughed. And burned.

Lataaaaaaaaaaahs

I'm out of here--off to Austin for a three-way with ACL Fest and Rita. Should be a good time, will try to take pics and, uh, remember stuff.

In other news, sleep really helps you feel functional. This sounds obvious until you get too little of it and then you realise you're forgetting to do things like shut the car door and wear underwear. These are purely hypothetical examples.

Moons over My Hammy

So I went to Miami this weekend. For fun in the sun, you say? Take in the exciting nightlife, perhaps? To gawk at impeccably bronzed, impossibly sculpted human beings in skimpy clothing? Revel in the Art Deco architecture and wide use of pastel colours?

Nope! I went to get some!

Ah, Miami: land of my ex. My wholly familiar and emotionally vapid ex. Bottom line: we have good times. This weekend we had some really good times. And then I flew home. So basically it was a 1300 mile-long booty call. Round-trip.

Plus I get sky-miles.

I'm only updating because Karen did.

Shit, I'm busy. Work is chaotic, school is heating up, and I have THE BOOT slowing me down. I need to get my ass moving. Spent first half of Labour Day weekend in drunken stupor, so consequently spent the second half in bed, recovering. Although I was productive at one point and cleaned my house--it smells all fresh and shit. What a concept, right, hilarious.

In my alcoholic convalescence, I watched a couple of really good movies (in addition to the second season of Curb, fifth season just out yay!): The first one was Kung Fu Hustle. Now, I remember thinking when this movie was released in theatres, "Hmm, looks good--I think I'll go see it." Naturally, I never went. So when the title peeked at me on the vid store shelf, I bit. And oh, am I so glad I bit. I loved it. I actually. . . I actually. . . shit, I don't really want to admit this, but certain scenes were so amazingly constructed that. . . I cried a little. At the beauty of it all. Smiling and crying. I wept tears of cinematic joy. Oh go fuck yourself.

The other film was Bubba Ho-tep. Can't even begin to explain the plot line on this one. Yes, I can: an old Elvis and JFK are still alive and live in an East Texas rest home, where a mummy is feasting on the souls of the residents and only the pair can stop him. Bruce Campbell is DEAD ON as a geriatric King and Ossie Davis is--as per the usual--outstanding.

I think you should stop reading this post and go rent this films.

Still reading, eh? Well, I'm out of here. I have a BITCH of a case study for Business Analysis to work on tonight. I'm actually a little scared of it. Hold me.