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:::november 2001::: <<<30 november 2001 8:02pm>>> i've had an interesting and exciting two days off. but i'm going to post about it later, because frankly, i'm knackered. we've got plenty of time to catch up. according to this Sparks test, i am scheduled to die on 22 May 2048, at the ripe age of 71. they weren't able to give me an exact time of day, which is annoying. what should i write in my Day Planner? should i just block that whole day off? i want to at least have breakfast first. the most likely causes of my death are predicted to be: Cancer (33%); Suicide (16%); Confusion (8%); Heart Attack (8%); or Alien Abduction (5%). <<<29 november 2001 11:17pm>>> current music::: James, Laid; Bloodhound Gang, One Fierce Beer Coaster i feel the need to explain the meaning of the word "sick", in the context that we use it, and thus clear up some confusion. it's basically old skater slang for extremely cool, excellent, unprecedented, the shit. if something is "sick", it rocks. examples:
so don't think i'm dissing your car/outfit/band/website/whatever if i refer to it as "sick" ;) <<<8:11pm>>> Grrrr! so i went out to do some brief shopping this evening, and rushed home in time to catch the new episode of The Simpsons, only to find that the usual Sunday night lineup had been swept aside for the network premiere of Episode I: The Phantom Dentist (so nicknamed because watching it is comparable to getting your teeth pulled). arrgghh. <<<4:22pm>>> M.O.B.Y. (Master Of Beats, Y'all) i'm going to make a mix CD or two for our upstairs neighbors. not because they asked me to; i've never even spoken to them. in fact, i don't think i've even had a good look at them. i'm doing it in the spirit of charity. these poor souls have one CD to their name, folks. and they play it OVER AND OVER AND OVER again. and, as i might have mentioned before, they seem to be almost deaf. hopefully, you can see what i'm getting at here. the fact that they play their music quite loudly at odd times is not what bothers me. hell, everyone's guilty of that at one point or another. old apartment buildings aren't known for their soundproof qualities; that's just a fact of life. what bothers me is that they play the same CD repetitively, or, more importantly, a *terrible* CD repetitively. it's some sort of horrible techno. i like some techno, but not this variety-- the single beat, one loop, boring, lame, infuriating Chinese-water-torture variety. in fact, i don't even think it's real techno; it sounds suspiciously like something they made themselves with ACID or something. now, i know what your first suggestion would be, and let me assure you, i've already tried it, and it doesn't work: apparently, people get their feelings badly hurt when you knock on their doors and say something along the lines of, "Excuse me, could you please turn your shitty music down? Just because you have no fucking taste, there's no need to broadcast it to the whole goddamn world." they get really upset. i know-- but what can you do? t'aint your fault they got low self-esteem. so i thought i'd go for the subtle approach, and hook them up with some Carl Cox and some Richie Hawtin and maybe a little Juan Atkins. i'm thinking, it's quite possible that they're just misguided. maybe they've never had the chance to hear the good stuff, and therefore they wouldn't know the difference. this could be a real mind-altering educational experience for them. i'll put the CD(s) in one of those slim cases and push it under the door. i won't leave a note or anything; i figure if it really makes a difference, they'll figure out where it came from eventually. yeah, real 'orrorshow. <<<2:36am>>> Welcome To Nasty, England. We Hope You Enjoy Your Stay. <<<25 november 2001 1:26am>>> current music::: The Cardigans, First Band On The Moon; Radiohead, The Bends Fiction this afternoon i went for drinks with my Russian goth friend. (well, i had soda.) she wanted me to go with her to a club, but i wasn't feeling very social tonight. "i feel like going for a walk," i said. "let's go to the beach." she wouldn't come to the beach. it's cold, she said, and it might rain. "that's the best time to go," i replied. i stayed a bit longer, had another coke, and said goodnight. i came home and spent the rest of the evening in the bathtub with a book. i don't read very much fiction anymore. i read a lot of history books and biographies. sometimes i read several books at a time, keeping one next to the tub for bathtime, one or two next to my bed and one in my bag for breaks at work. the last book i finished was The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook. before that, i read The Portable Swift, a collection of essays by Jonathan Swift, and Alexander Pope: A Literary Life. earlier this week i decided to re-read The Great Gatsby. i had a reason for choosing that particular title. i wanted to conduct a test. i wanted to see if i would hate it as much this time around as much as i did in high school when i was forced to read it. when i say i hated it, i really mean it. i remember becoming so incensed with it at one point that i threw it against the wall. it wasn't so much that i thought it was badly written; i just found the whole plot so ridiculous, and every single character so utterly, mind-blowingly appalling and boring and STUPID, that towards the end of the novel i couldn't have cared less whether any single character lived or died (including Nick), and by the time i finally finished it i just wanted to strangle every single one of them myself and get it over with. my recent thought was, if such a simple work of fiction caused me to react the way i did, then there must be something about it worth investigating further. what was it about it that roused me to such near-homicidal emotions? perhaps, i thought, it wasn't the book alone, but a combination of circumstances surrounding my first impressions of it. being young, for example, and being coerced to read stuffy old literature and write half-assed reports about it and take pop-quizzes about it. or having a great untapped reserve of adolescent anger or any other emotion, easily triggered by loaded prose. had i just set myself up from the start to hate it and never gave it a chance? so, i dug it out and started in, determined to be open-minded. i'm only a few chapters in, but already, i feel compelled to say this: i was right the first time. this book really does suck. and i still can't put my finger on the reason why. the best explanation i can come up with, is that i must be missing something. i haven't read anything else by F. Scott Fitzgerald, but if this is considered his masterpiece, i don't think i want to. the main characters haven't grown on me. they're just as vapid as before. everyone in this book is messed up. i can't even empathize with a single one of them. it's depressing and irritating at the same time. so, to hell with that. back in the box it goes. i've far better things to read, i'm afraid. <<<11:07pm>>> 
<<<23 november 2001 12:02pm>>> current music::: They Might Be Giants, Flood Ed's post today about Jehovah's Witnesses reminded me of the ones that used to tour our neighborhood every now and then when i was a kid. our whole neighborhood despised them so much, we all worked together in a carefully orchestrated plan of action to thwart them: when the Witnesses hit the first house on the street (who obviously hadn't been lucky enough to get a tip from the next street over), they would immediately send a kid out the back door to race from house to house, knocking on doors and warning the people inside that the Jehovah's Witnesses were on their way. when you got "the knock", that was the cue to slam all the windows shut, turn off all of the lights and the T.V., shut everyone up, and hunker down beneath window-level and pretend you weren't home. then you would all sit cowered down in silence for what seemed like an eternity, and the sound of the door-buzzer would cut through the unnatural stillness and send a shiver through your spine. only when the buzzer had stopped for a full minute or so would you send a lookout to peek through the curtains to see if they had moved on to the next siege. sounds ridiculous, and maybe in some ways it was. but for the most part it was the only way to deal with them and maintain peace. if you just opened your door and told them thank you, but we're not interested, they would try to force themselves inside. if you shut the door in their faces, they wouldn't just go away. but if you were skillful and stealthy enough to fool them into thinking that nobody was home, they would quietly move on without a fuss. i *vaguely* remember one incident we had at our house when i was about four. it was just me and mom at home, with my cousin who she was looking after that day, who was about six then and able to remember the details a bit more clearly. some Jehovah's Witnesses had come around, and managed to push themselves about halfway into the house while my mom was trying to force them out. mom was managing to keep her cool, and trying to push the door closed when one of the Witnesses said something about it written in the Bible that they should spit on our floor or some bullshit like that. mom said, "you spit on my floor, man, and you'll be lucky to walk out of here with just a black eye." <<<21 november 2001 12:51am>>> fuck. what is this? is it International Leave The Internet Month or something? that's like, four blogs now. <<<10:47pm>>> At Least There's Not A Movie Coming Out remember Mortal Kombat: The Album? (shh... i think it's somewhere in my closet.) ladies and gentlemen, i give you the Happy Hardcore Mix of "All Your Base Are Belong To Us". <<<20 november 2001 10:35pm>>> tonight, i shall sleep with a clear conscience. i am no longer a cradle-robber. Elijah Wood has developed facial hair. <<<10:27pm>>> current music::: The Murmurs, The Murmurs; Hole, My Body The Hand Grenade Rambling i have a problem. i hate my salad plates. these are four salad plates in particular, given to me as a gift. they're hand-painted Portuguese ceramic plates. a thoughtful gift from a close friend with good intentions. but... they are *so* ugly. they're mustard yellow, with big bright blue tulips painted all over them. that's sounds nice... but they're hideous. seriously, if i had a digital camera i would take a picture of these things and show you. they are vile. i have three sets of salad plates. my favorite ones are white with blue trim, with colorful happy flowers painted around the trim. i'm telling you, they're adorable. it's a joy just to eat a bagel off one. i usually match them up with my first set of dinner plates, which are just plain white with a thin blue trim. then i have a set of solid pale green salad plates that i really enjoy. nothing to shout home about, but they go well with my other set of dinner plates, which are pale blue. (you wouldn't think that combination would make an attractive table, but it does.) i don't know what to do with the yellow-tulip Portuguese plates. in the cabinet, i stack the salad plates so that they are on the very bottom. i avoid using them if at all possible. and if i open the cabinet to discover they are the only clean ones left, i just cringe. half the time, i find myself washing dirty plates by hand just so i won't have to use them. i can't bring myself to just throw them away or something. they were a gift, and after all, they are very well made. once i tried to bring myself to break them on purpose, but i couldn't do it. a friend of mine suggested i find some other use for them, like use them as candleholders or a candy dish on the coffee table. but then i'd still have to look at them, or worse, visitors would see them, and i'd be embarrassed that i had something that ugly in the house, or i'd be worried that they would secretly be thinking, "how could she have something that ugly in her house?" gaaahhh. they are just *so* hideous. thanks for listening. <<<19 november 2001 1:59am>>> It's 2AM, The House Is Silent, I Can't Sleep, And These Tests Are Getting Out Of Control
 Take the Affliction Test Today! <<<11:26pm>>> The Friday Five From Smattering.org, On Sunday (I Told You We Have Problems Here): 1. Name five things in your refrigerator: my dinner from last night, which i did not finish, covered with saran wrap. coca-cola. pre-bagged salad. feta cheese. I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. 2. Name five things in your freezer: the Thanksgiving turkey. several pounds of bulk meat. mahi-mahi fillets. several bags of frozen veggies. Bagel Bites. 3. Name five things under your kitchen sink: Electrasol dishwasher tablets. Windex. sponges. paper towels. Resolve carpet cleaner. 4. Name five things around your computer: cable modem. pomegranate candle. vintage souvenir mug from New Orleans, filled with pens. CDs. address book. 5. How do you plan to spend your weekend? i had no plans. therefore, i wasn't disappointed. <<<10:52pm>>>
 Take the Transformers personality test at android5.com! which one was Prowl? he was the police car, wasn't he? the badass Datsun 240Z panda. was he cool? i don't remember. i never paid much attention to the Autobots. i was down with the Decepticons. oh well, at least i'm not that big fat loser Optimus Prime. if they come up with a G.I. Joe test, i better fucking be Snake Eyes, that's all i have to say. <<<18 november 2001 10:34pm>>> I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again folks, *The Site They Tried To Ban* is back on the air. (well, nobody tried to ban us-- i think we just had a visit from the Mysterious Black Hole of Technical Difficulties-- but wouldn't that have been infinitely more interesting?) i did the best i could, but i'm afraid most of november is lost forever. you won't miss it. most of it was crap anyway ;) <<<4 november 2001 9:29pm>>> current music::: Carl Cox, Mixed Live Crobar Nightclub Chicago i watched Casino today on USA Network, which was kind of pointless, since we already have it on video. plus, this being USA, they always cut out the lovely, articulate language that makes a Martin Scorsese film-- well, a Martin Scorsese film, and dub it over with some pretty interesting alternatives. despite that, it's still a good film, but i always come away from it with the same feeling: man, that Ginger chick was SET!! i mean, what a fucking moron! it's obvious that Sam was crazy about her-- even after all the shit she pulled. all she had to do was ask for something, anything, and he would hand it to her on a silver plate. all he asked for in return was her honesty, and on top of that, he treated her decently, didn't slap her around or anything. this cunt had a million or so in jewelry practically dumped in her lap, the house, the car, the fur coats, a closet about as big as my goddamn apartment full of clothes --and, more importantly, a husband who trusted her and adored her. and all she's determined to do is blow it all on her co-dependent loser-sleazebucket-pimp-boyfriend. it's flaky bitches like this that give us all a bad name! <<<10:23pm>>> So That's Why They Ask For My Date Of Birth And Address Every Time I Buy Something. I Thought They Were Just Perverted. still a whole week to go before my birthday, and i've already recieved my first present-- from Origins, via friendly, standard form postcard: "It's time to celebrate! That's why we have a special treat, just for you. Use this $10 gift certificate with your next purchase at any of the Origins Retail Store locations. It's our way of bringing you a birthday filled with harmony, health and happiness. Inside and out. With warm birthday wishes, Your friends at Origins." awwwwww! see, they love me. <<<10:21pm>>> Don't Call It A Comeback Pete Loves McDonald's, and mentions something about God. <<<2 november 2001 9:04pm>>> current music::: Led Zeppelin, The Song Remains The Same "Father Ted" is my new favorite program on BBC America. not exactly Emmy material-- just an extremely silly, but frickin' hilarious T.V. show centering around three crazy Irish priests living on a remote island. |