. a d a m * b o m b .
Current mood: happy
Category: Friends

By JACQUELINE BEACH and MARK JOYELLA

October 29, 2007 -- They call it the Broadway Bomb - a mostly illegal and definitely dangerous skateboard race that sent a hundred daredevils rolling along Broadway from 116th Street to Bowling Green yesterday.

"It's absolutely dangerous," said Adam Dabonka, 29, who finished in third place without injury. "My skateboard flew and I slammed into the back of a white Mercedes. All I could think was, 'The board, the board!' - it was about to get hit by a bus, but I grabbed it and ran." 

The adrenaline-fueled race, which has a motto of "You could die," has grown from an underground event to a nearly - but not quite - legitimate competition.

The Bomb even has sponsors that award prizes to the top finishers.

"The Broadway Bomb is more than a race," said Ryan Daughtridge, owner of Bustin Boards, a sponsor. "It's a display of our sport's growth."

Getting to the finish line involves ignoring traffic lights, eluding police and dodging cars and pedestrians along the crowded eight-mile course.

"Some people bring foghorns to let people know they're coming," said Kaspar Heinrici, 28, a Pratt industrial-design student who won the race.

"My method is to approach stealthily," he said. "It's easier to get around people if they don't know you're coming."

8:09 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

. v e g a n s e x u a l .
Current mood: curious

http://www.stuff.co.nz/AAMB4/aamsz=300x44_MULTILINK/4147483a6009.html

is an article Chloe put me on to about vegans that won't do the deed with people who eat meat b/c their bodies are "graveyards". 

That's a little melodramatic, I think, but hey, I don't date smokers, so whatever turns you on, SoyBurger.  Got me to doing a little more reading on the subject of veganism, yet again. 

I'm fascinated by the lifestyle.  The food is tasty but pricey, and to be frank, I don't have the time or money to commit to eating like that.  Ever look at some of these recipes? THEY'RE LONG AND INVOLVED AS HELL, & there isn't that privelege of vegan restaurants up where I live, so, uh, not happening. 

Plus I don't do guilt, which I have realized is a central element to converting to this lifestyle.

I realize the evils of factory farming, but I can't muster the energy to lose sleep over sad chickens when I don't lose sleep over starving children.  Because my guilt WON'T CHANGE ANYTHING.  The world is a fucked up place, and maybe these wonderfully idealistic people didn't get that sense growing up and they gotta look for new shit to be sad about, but I sure did.  You can build a safe, happy little world around yourself with other like-minded people, but the world is still a desperate, tear-and mud streaked place.  The sun can only shine so many places at once--it's always dark somewhere. 

You can't change the state of the world simply by NOT doing things; the world is entirely too interconnected for that.  I hate that kind of thinking, where people imagine that they are effecting some great change by choosing to do the opposite of what others are doing.  That's why Satanists make me laugh, but not as hard as Scientologists do.  Because 'Xenu' will always sound like 'Xanadu' to me. 

But I digress.

It helps to not be part of the problem, but you have to find a solution to that problem, not just react to it, if you want it to go away.  If I chose to not drink milk or eat cheese, it wouldn't save one set of suffering cow tits from being expolited...because someone else has use for that milk, I can assure you. 

Yes, it's horrible and disgusting to me that cows are exploited.  Guess what?  Those panties from Vicky's on your skinny little ass were made by a 10 year old boy in Ecuador/the Philippines/Bangladesh/Thailand/Romania who was paid ten cents to make this item that retails in this great land of ours for 200x the cost of manufacture.

So are you going to start making your own thongs?

No one cares about some wanna-be hippy's personal choices.  They don't make as much of a difference as you'd like to think; with an increasingly more globalized economy, sad to say, almost EVERYTHING you buy or use depends on the suffering of others to exist.

The biggest, most important thing you can do as a conscientious consumer is to open your mouth, not just to shove a salad in it or to bash someone else's lifestyle b/c they eat meat, but to attack the institutions that finance, allow, & promote these unhealthy farming practices. 

 It just makes good sense to clean up the farming industry's act--it would benefit everyone, meat & leaf lovers alike. Writing a letter to one of the dorks that drafted the current Farm Bill (have YOU read it? I eat whatever the hell I want sans guilt or politics, but I've read enough of it to say that it's kinda messed up) is more effective to stop the suffering of animals than complaining about the smell of the bacon cooking in the communal kitchen in the grad student dorm, people. 

SO, BACK TO VEGANSEXUALS b/c it brings me to my initial reason for writing a blog:

I read some commentary here http://www.veganfitness.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=152992&sid=26ce94067843b4aff76d872eb657fcfb on veganism, greenhouse emissions, etc...and it's all stuff I already know. 

But, riddle me this, Batman, because something struck me about the section on the size of our current global population.

If we're already putting so much strain on the planet w/ greenhouse emissions & the depletion of natural resources...

because our industry is overpowering...

and our forests, grasslands, jungles, marshes, and fields are being destroyed to make way for things like highways and new housing b/c the population is ever-growing...

then, why do vegans have kids? Don't we have enough kids already?

And do they still go ahead and buy the fancy strollers, or do they go and buy used ones at the Salvation Army so they don't wind up in landfill?  Do they all use cloth diapers? 

I would think it's good to adopt a child that is already alive and suffering than to get knocked up and have one of your own, no?  It'll slow population growth, and you can raise this kid to believe in your ethics and morals just the same.  You can love them and care for them just the same.  Just to me it seems that if you're going to have such a serious commitment to a lifestyle, then do it all the way...you know?

Are there any sites or boards on vegan parenting beyond diet issues?  ::curious::

Jackie?  Chloe?  Can someone help me out here? Do you know any vegan parents or parents-to-be with some commentary on the matter?

7:42 AM - 34 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

a m e r i c a, i n k
Current mood: lazy
Category: News and Politics

11:24 AM - 13 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

. dueling b a n j o s part deux .
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Music

After the nightmare journey it took to get there, I was happy to settle in at camp.  The next morning, I awoke to the sound of strings and food prep--two of my favorite things.  Frank and company were partaking in some breakfast as they gathered around the shady, tented camp center to tune their instruments and exchange banter. The hot noon sun had not yet ascended fully into the summer sky, but it was warm all the same.  I was glad for our canopied palace, where we had overtaken a large section of a campsite with 3 or 4 other families that became friends during previous festivals.  There was a constant hustle and bustle of people and instruments and children and other fruit, and the familiarity of bare feet and unwashed faces among us. 

Frank, who reminds me so much of my own father, was ready to rock.  I might have caught him mid-lesson or mid-joke in this shot--it's hard to tell, but that's how he rolls.

Talia, however, is not so much of one to take the heat in stride.  Like a typical teenager, she wilts in the summertime when forced to go outside, and melts into the nearest seat with a liquid plop! and sports a look that dares anyone to try to entertain her.

Maybe if she wasn't wearing two shirts made of a synthetic material, she wouldn't be so hot after morning yoga!

This is just one of the many characters we were camping with. I think the hat, moustache, and shirt say it all.  The two pairs of glasses are a humorous side note. This cat was a hoot.

This being my first time at the festival and all, I'm itching to take a look around.  It's getting to be that time of day, when everyone is awake and in the mood.  For what, remains to be seen--there's no shortage of things to do here--but for me, I'm content with touring the grounds for now.

Let's go! I urged Talia.  Since I had gotten in so late the night before, I didn't have a chance to check in and get my wrist band, so we walked all the way to the front gate to get that handled.  On the way, we discovered that there was a sweet, muddy wooded path that cut just off the main pathway.  With renewed gusto for not wearing shoes until we returned to the City, Tal and I gleefully sank ankle deep into the deliciously squishy warm mud.

We were well rewarded for our efforts.

Feasting on the sights, smells, and sounds of the other campers and vendors, musicians, and passers-by made my stomach grumble.  We walked all the way back to Family Camping in the blazing hot sun, and rewarded ourselves with brie and pear sandwiches.

As the breakfast hour waned and we picked at lunch and all those nice things that come before and after it, Frank and Judi and the folks settled down in camp chairs and began picking and plucking and strumming and singing; the music seemed to come up from the warm verdant earth beneath us.  It was organic, healthy, and honest.

Later that night, the camp kids honestly took me for a couple of hands of poker.

We played by lantern.  A little piece of info about me.  I have no poker face.  When I have a crap hand, I laugh.  When I have a great hand, I laugh.  These kids, though, were hard to read.

It was time for the evening show.

You can't appreciate what's going on on this stage unless you were there. No words I have are capable of adequate description as to how my spirit felt that night, how it soared with the simple and yet artful sounds of real bluegrass. I felt rinsed and left to dry on the back steps of a familiar and comforting old porch. I was miles away, but I was home. 

I made friends with this dude Wade and his gf, who were working the event.  I took a walk with Wade afterwards and met some people around the camps. What an experience!  There were camps of people picking and drinking and eating--and all was open to all who came.  It was incredible, the laughing and the easy way complete strangers became friends.  I was in love with the idea, and ran around with Wade making friends everyplace I could.  One of his old college buddies was there, and we took a shining to one another.  His name was Travis, and he was tall, ghostly pale, and thin, with a thick head of shattered looking red hair that stuck out defiantly from underneath his baseball cap. He and his people had the laid back, and easy sensibility of most country kids, and we were instantly inseperable.  We shared beers, passed joints, and told jokes sitting in the back of Wade's pick up. The day was long and wearing on me, but we agreed to try to meet up the next day to catch some shows together and hang out. 

Back at camp, Talia and I settled down for the night, bursting and satisfied, so very full of fruit and cheese and good bread and homemade ice cream and all sorts of goodness. What I mean to say is, we have gas.  And in a tent on a summer night, that can be deadly.

A night to remember, all around.

The next day was awesome--one of the things that the family looks forward to all year--the tie dyeing tent.  Judi brought some stuff already pre-tied, and me, Tali, and Gabe set to work re-creating our whites into works of art.  When we got back to camp for lunch, we strung a line and hung them to dry in the soft, sweet breeze.  It made my heart happy.

It was hot and sunny that day--the farm where Greyfox is held is a hay farm, and it comes with all the associated items: the sweet-crunchy-honey-baked grass scent of hay, lots of hills, and miles and miles of clear views...not a tree for shade in sight.  The main stage was set up at the base of the largest hill on the farm, and I spent the day up there with some friends I'd made the night before. 

. shawnee .

. noah .

. travis .

. logistics.

We spent all day on that hill, goofing and lounging around, and I passed the entire day in the heat of the sun and the warmth of good company.  And it showed.

I burned the crap out of myself.  After the group split for dinner and such, I went back to my family looking and feeling rather worn out.  I went to lie down in my tent and put some cool compresses on my face to ease some of the heat devouring my face.  I fell into a deep, hot sleep for a few  hours, and awoke with renewed strength--and hunger.  We ate and spoke of our adventures, jointly and seperately.

As the day wore on, the clouds gathered and the heat and humidity began to stifle us, and we languished beneath the canopies, aching for some coolness.  We took the line down and brought in the card table and the books and gathered in dry space. As the rain began to fall in big, hard drops, we leapt up for glee, inspired, and Tali and I stood out in the rain and let it soak us.

It was the first notion of a shower I'd had since I left NYC the day and a half before, and it felt incredible.  Our thirsty skin drank up every drop it could, and my god child's unruly mane finally got a rinse.

The fat drops stung my face momentarily, but quickly brought relief, and feeling the mischief rising in me again, I grabbed Talia and we ran up the hill in the rain to explore, goof, laugh.

Kids of all ages were likewise enjoying the short and sudden rainstorm, happily sliding in the mud, dancing in the rain, defying the sky to do its worst.  Some people ducked for cover--others walked slowly in the rain and just sort of smiled and shrugged their way past other camps, resigned toand amused by their wet fortune. The hill became slippery with mud and hard to navigate, but we were laughing all the way, Talia and I. 

 We were young, free, wild, alive--and together. 

There are holes in the story. A million other wonderful little things  happened later that night when Sam Bush & his band played, and the next day as we disbanded that remain tucked safely away in our memories of the festival.  Many of these stories, though, are lacking photos (because I was too busy dancing or too stoned to take them) and most defy explaination anyway.  You'd really have to be at Greyfox to get a feeling for the sense of communion with strangers you get at one of these things, but this wasn't a story about a music festival, it was a story about me and my god daughter on an adventure together. 

The most of  important elements are there:

Open air

music

family

new friends

moonlight mischief

sunny days

dancing in the rain

and the beauty of youth.

10:22 AM - 7 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

. dueling b a n j o s : part 1 .
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Music

This year, I  missed the Grey Fox Bluegrass Festival. Bummer--but I will say that at least I missed sleeping, eating, and sliding in the 3 out of 4 days of rain that poured down on the festival, according to my family's reports.  Last year, it only rained in the middle of the scorching stretch of 80 degree weather, and it was blessed respite from the unforgiving sun that shone on the hills all day--but I'll get to that later. 

The best place to start is at the beginning, so let's go there.  I left work early Thursday of the festival week, and trooped it on over to Penn Station where I was supposed to catch a 5 o'clock train. I gave myself enough time for a leisurely walk, a bite to eat, and some last minute shopping at K Mart for my trip.  Well just my luck.  I get to Penn & there is some sort of weirdo delay somewhere along the line and all the trains, including and especially mine, are running late.  I have patience, so I park myself on the floor and wait. 

And wait.

And wait.

My train is nearly an hour late.  But that's okay!  Cuz I'm goin' to bluegrass!  I'm cool!  so I get on my train and happily we chug chug chug our way on thru our great state of New York, the tourists with their squirmy but cute pack of kids ultimately bound for Niagara, and me headed for the hills to soak up some bluegrass. 

But before I get there, there are a few more snags.  Quite literally in the middle of nowhere, in between two small town stops, the train's brakes unexpectedly squeal and grind to a halt. I'm half asleep, but I can swear I smell smoke.  The lights and air conditioning go out, and suddenly I am wide awake as I have been all day. 

The nose knows. I open my eyes and look around.  The looks around me convey some annoyance, but more widely, a general sense of unease at the situation.  Everyone is waiting.

The door to our car opens, and a group of harried and nervous looking people shuffle into our car.  They just keep coming, like clowns out of a circus car.  Keep it moving, all the way to the back, instructs the conductor, and now, I definitely smell smoke. 

In fact, little grey wisps of it are winding and curling their way into the car, otherwise imperceptible save for their milkiness against the hushed darkness in the car echoing the hushed darkness outside. 

Great. My train is late, and it's on fire. 

I never did get the offiicial story--one source said it was leaves and dry branches downed by a storm on the track that caught fire from the friction under the first few cars; another said that someone had been smoking in the restroom a few cars up, and when someone knocked on the door impatiently, they panicked and threw the lit butt into the garbage where it began to smolder and burned, but that the crew got it under control within minutes.

That being said, we still didn't f***ing move for another half hour till the local fire chief could make it out to check everything out and make sure it was safe. I was sunk.  The train only went so far in the general direction I needed to go in.  I was supposed to get off the train and catch a taxi that would take me to the festival grounds, where I would rendez-vous with my fam.  This being a small town and all, I had to call for a taxi and set the time I wanted one to come get me.  I missed it by well over 2 hours.

I finally get off the train and look around.

Exactly what it looks like.  Not a soul in sight.  I consider hitching a ride with one of these kind strangers at the station, commuters mostly, but I'd better act fast because they're pulling away at a rate that suggests their house might be on fire.  One woman offers me a ride but has no idea how to get out to the farm...and neither do I.  Dammit.  I smile and tell her I'll manage.  Waving as she drives off and the last of the commuters empty out of the parking lot, in my head I tell myself I'm fucked.

There is a taxi company office right across the street. Oh, lucky me!

I start to cross the parking lot, and even from so far away I realize they're closed. I try calling all the numbers listed in the window, but no one answers.  A mild panic begins to rise in my throat. It's late, far later than I'd planned on traveling out to this thing. I should have just waited till the morning and come up then.  I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm in the middle of nowhere with no idea how long I'm going to be stuck here.  I call the family and they tell me that they can come get me, they're just not sure where the train station is.  Oh, good, cuz neither do I.  ::whiiiiiiiine::

Then I spot, on the window of the station booth, a number for another taxi service in the area. They can send me someone within 15 minutes.  Overjoyed, I call my family back and tell them to wait up with the lanterns burning, I'm on my way!

I'm wondering if they're going to send me some psycho in an old Cutlass. I am in the middle of nowhere. Some "taxi service" could be a front for a kidnapping ring or a serial killer.  I am wearing all black, like a typical New Yorker, and I am always prepared.

I don't give a motherfuck what they are, so long as they drive me to the goddamned farm. 

Expecting a potential weirdo, I get this instead.

This is Tony. He is a nice ass guy.  Originally a New Yorker by way of Queens and Long Island, moved upstate after his divorce.  We get lost, and by the time we finally get to the farm, it's after 10pm.  I left work at 2.

What a sight for sore eyes. I finally rendez-vous with my crew, track and trekk and rail and road weary.  They're amazed that I--and everyone I've come in contact with--is still alive.

Back at camp, I strip out of all my black work clothes, by now crumpled and sticky and plain odious, and get into "people clothes".  Judi stuffs me with goodies like berries and cheese and I shuffle off to the tent I am sharing with my faery god child.

So, you're finally here, she says, eyes wide and full of teenaged happy.

I give her a Look.  Do you KNOW what it took to get here?!  I'm so tired!...

She blinks at me.  Okay, I demand, how happy are you to see me, though?

That good, huh?  Guess it was worth it.

What a journey.  The festival was its own brand of miraculous once I arrived, and one that deserves its own blog.....

(which willl follow shortly)

2:46 PM - 11 Comments - 13 Kudos - Add Comment

. s u p e r (absorbency) m a n .
Current mood: loved
Category: Romance and Relationships

My boyfriend is a MAN, in the real, old fashioned sense of the word.  Incidentally, he is also THE MAN.  He's sensitive and not afraid to show it, but he's no weepy emo fag-ass, either. 

(You know, these kids:) 
Dirty ass hair having motherfuckers! I hate you and your hair and your whiny music and your stupid pants! Get off my street!

::ahem::

He's loving and he's gentle, but he'd take a baseball bat to someone's head for me in a second. 

And he takes his shirt off when he plays guitar with his band, cuz it's sweaty work making metal.

Motherfuckin' sexy.

(If you're done gagging, I'll get to the real point of this blog.)

The joys of cohabitation with a man are many, especially when love is fresh and new.  G and I decided to live together when we were just three months into our relationship, and finally made the move at the 6 month mark. People thought we were crazy (rather, and specifically, that I am crazy, and poor Gino was taken in by my wacky ways and convinced to abandon all good sense to go on this adventure with me) but we knew what we were doing, and am happy to say that everyone who doubted the soundness of our decision was wrong.

NEH!

There are a number of factors that play into a successful bid at cohabitation.

First of all, if one of you has some kind of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder-like tendencies, you better both have them, or you're dead.  I mean murder-suicide, someones getting bludgeoned because of that hair in the drain or that toilet seat left up-- whatever. 

Luckily, we are both pretty neat and organized, and our fits of OCD tend to be over the same kinds of things, so our dusting and vaccuming schedules overlap. Fantastik.

Secondly, you better be able to meet some kind of middle ground on decorating, or you're liable to find yourself reading up on the kinds of imps and elves that thieve shit in the night, cuz things will start disappearing, especially if you are a guy. Thus far the only objection I have to G's style is that he's too sensible and serious sometimes.  He admires quality and things that reflect the look of being well crafted and executed, but sometimes, it's like being in a professor's office or a Pottery Barn showroom.  (Shut up and never mind that he IS a professor, that's no way for a leopard print loving gal like me to live! Whose side are you on anyway?!)
 

Luckily, we are both artists and have found ways to offend and amaze one another's design sensibilities with unexpected pieces of art and use of color.  We have solid, sensible pieces to anchor the room, and then go nuts on the little details that make it special. He vetoed my leopard print pillows in the living room, but I got a neon pink bathroom with leopard print lined shelves in exchange! And it was worth it. Long story short, you both have to live there, so you better find a way to love your (plural) space! 

Yup.  It's as much his space as it is yours, girls, so don't hog ALL of the closet space (get organized and toss things you're not gonna wear, give em to **charity**), and hear your boy out...

While the Sports Illustrated calendar should be thrown out [tacky! and no, G never had one], maybe there's a home for those baseball cards framed nicely in those glass picture frame coasters.  Cool and original, if you ask me.  By talking about your tastes and why you think a room looks good a certain way, you can get a lot more accomplished than by just trying to compete with one another...and if he's so clueless he CAN'T reason out a style for himself, then you can at least point out that you heard him and then ignore everything he's said anyway and go ahead and buy those chinz pillows and eff him and his little feelings.

Guys, if you're living with your girl, don't, for a split second, turn your back on that nasty, ratty old hat you refuse to wash, throw away, or more decently, burn. She is already planning its disappearance and demise.  But you didn't hear that from me.

But I digress.

Yes, I have plotted and schemed on articles of G's clothing.  Yes, there was a covert operation to replace that faded ass black polo shirt with the dragon embroidered on it.  Yes, he left the toilet seat up.  ONCE.

Yes, there are items I have longingly fingered in the stores only to look over at G with my best puppy dog eyes and see him widening his eyes in abject horror at my choice of fabric or color and slowly shaking his head hell-the-fuck-NO.  The last time he looked at red meat at the super market, I almost threw up on him in the aisle to demonstrate my feelings on the smell of it cooking in the house.  He misses steak, boy, let me tell you.

Point is, we're quirky, and there are ways in which we appear to be so different (and likewise, so similar) that it's scary.

But you know what?  We're cool because we work together and respect one another.  We can take care of ourselves and each other, and that makes living together a breeze.

He's a man, like his parents raised him to be.  He checks the door before bed to make sure the house is all locked up. He does the dishes if I cook.  He takes out the trash without me asking.  He puts his arm around me when we walk down the street. Emails me every day from work to tell me he loves me and see how my day is going. He can pick up his own socks and underwear from the floor. He's got a tool box--and he uses it. 

And when I have god awful cramps, he'll go out to get "Help, I've been shot" absorbency tampons without batting an eye at it.

Cuz guys, really.  No one at the drugstore thinks they're for you. 

I promise.

6:16 AM - 26 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

. f i s h y .
Current mood: embarrassed

Gino and I have a Japanese Ryukin Goldfish named Arthur    .

 is a very special goldfish and a very clever little boy.  He recognizes me and does little swimmy swimmy tricks to please me, like a barrel roll or swimming hard and fast all over the tank in little circles.  He knows I like it, because everytime he does it, I make sounds like a chipmunk caught in someone's squeaky, rusty screen door.

Now, let me remind you folks that I am a dog person. I have never had a goldfish in my life, and as pets go, I am generally of the school of thought that if it can't keep you warm on a rainy day in bed with a book, it's not a fucking pet, it's a piece of decor you have to feed. 

Nothing tops my pitbulls.

But , my swimmy boy, is a pretty neat pet.  He's quiet, low maintenance, and cute.  Also a good place to start for our first mutually owned and cared for life form, as the dogs have remained with my sisters, who have nothing else to do and no one else to play with.

Last night, G and I left  alone while we went out to run an errand in MidTown, picking up a table we bought from some bitch on Craigslist (yeah, some bitch, she told us to come down, and then broke out.)  The girl, J___, who posted the ad told us to come on down, the earlier the better.  Well. 

We left ASAP and headed on down.  We got there and there was no one home.  What the..? Ugh. The doorman called up and left a message.  It was a Lexington Avenue address.  I should have known we'd be dealing with some annoying bitch.

Mildly miffed but confident enough she'd be back shortly, we went for a walk and got something to eat instead of sitting in the lobby like idiots.  Or stalkers.

G had pork lo mein, which he ate just like a good Italian boy eats spaghetti and meatballs.  Not a noodle dropped, not a morsel missed.

  The man sure can .

*ahem*

Anyway, I ordered some , because Chinese food can be too heavy and, you know, GROSS sometimes.  I ate till I couldn't anymore, and took the remainder to go, figuring I'd have a snack before bed.

Yum yum yum yum yum!

Back to sitting in the lobby, but this time with a little brown paper bag.  Now we look like fucking drug dealers. 

We're starting to get antsy, so Gino heads up and knocks on the door again.  This time, the roommate, who isn't moving out, answers.  She has a soft voice, marked with both a sweet North Carolina accent, and an acrid and pointed acknowledgement that J___ is an asshole.

Bravo.

She hooks it up and completes the transaction for us, apologizing for rudeness that was not hers, because hearing that we'd waited for an hour offended her sensibilities. 

We thank her and wish her good luck and a good night, and we are on our merry way, funky green table and brown paper bag in tow.  J was never seen nor heard from.

(Today, I signed that annoying bitch up for every stupid e-mail list I could think of.  I hope she chokes.)

The 'ordeal' puts our bedtime at about 12:30.  The thrill of the hunt dies like the slow ebbing of passion after hot and heavy lovemaking, and we are languid and lazy and proud of our new acquisition. I am too tired to eat the goddamned sushi, so I stash it in the  and casting one last longing look at my increasingly swank living room, go off to snuggle with my Love Bug.

Today, Im hanging out, doing stuff, whatever, and the munchies hit.  I pad into my kitchen on bare feet, happily anticipating my Japanese delight.

 sees me coming and as I got closer to the counter, he comes swimming desperately to the glass trying to get my attention, opening and closing his little mouth at me, saying "Mommy, please, flakies now! Look how pretty I am!  And how hungry! Me so hungry, mesohungry, mesohungry!"

I stop and make a few stupid noises at him, but he's still doing the "Me so hungry!" dance, so I take out my paper bag, leave it on the counter, and grab the cannister I keep his fish flakes in.  Selecting a few choice looking flake steaks, I drop a couple in and snap the top of this tank shut.

And prepare for my own feast.

I'm standing there, happily pouring out my soy sauce and watching my little golden sweetie flash about, ferociously devouring the red, green, and dirt colored flakes, and humming a little tune...

I pop a roll into my mouth, and as I am in the middle of a VERY satisfying chew of Philadelphia roll with all of its cream cheesy goodness, when  swims over and looks at me, little fishy eyes rapt with adoration and love. 

And I realise I'm eating sushi in front of him.

The horror.

Oh, the horror.

I'm sorry, baby!

9:33 AM - 10 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

. about f a c e.
Current mood: amused
Category: Quiz/Survey

Around 'ere we say 'birds', not 'bitches'...

Some people were being up my ass acting like hemorroids recently. Real dodgy birds, talking smack about yours truly.  People who hardly know me!  To my boyfriend's mother, no less!  

Luckily, she loves me. And whatever, man.  I know who I am and what I'm about.  If you're reading this, you prolly have a pretty good idea what I'm about too. 

*Guns, dogs, art, tunes, my family of friends, natural stuff, love, comedy, and keeping it real.*

I didn't know there was much else.  Apparently, I am missing a healthy dose of gossip and fatty fat from my diet.

I'd prefer to have a deficiency, thank you.

Trim the fat, kids. That's the moral of this week.  Don't give anybody reason to talk about you, and if they have to anyway, fuckin' ignore 'em.  Therapists have to eat too--let those cats work out their issues on their time.

Don't let anyone else try to define you. 

Defy labels.  Repel bullshit.  Ignore gossip.

The quiz results below amuse me. 

♥ X  ♥ X ♥ X,

SBDS

What Your Face Says

At first glance, people see you as strong willed and stubborn. (no, really?) Overall, your true self is passionate and physical. (that goes back to I'll duct tape you to a chair and break your fucking face is you earn the privilege of making me angry.  not mad.  not annoyed.  angry.) With friends, you seem logical, detached, and a bit manipulative. (sue me for not eating a pint of ice cream and sobbing at the TV once a month.) In love, you seem energetic - almost manic. (I'm manic about EVERYTHING.) In stressful situations, you seem cheerful and optimistic. (How else can you be???? If it ain't gonan KILL you, you'll be able to handle it, man!)

Currently listening : Original Pirate Material By The Streets Release date: 22 October, 2002

2:16 PM - 7 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

. S c o t - f r e e .
Current mood: mischievous
Category: News and Politics

Well, I planned to take off from work on Thursday to go to the doctor and get my arm looked at (long story, just know that I suffer incredible pain and I cry at night.  And I'm wearing a piece that makes me look like I raided Michael Jackson's closet. It's not fashion, it's function, my shit is all busted.  Go say a rosary for me or something.) and have lunch with Micherr and do silly things like paint my kitchen with my one good arm--

 but it looks like that is not going to happen. Dammit.

Because the Prime  Minister of Scotland is coming here for a meeting and I know whatever moron who fancies themselves an actor but is really just an unemployable sack of joyless DNA strands who can type 40 wpm the temp agency sends me will find some way to embarass us in front of the PM.  So I'll be at work.

Now, this splits off into two totally spearate but impossibly linked rants.

My first one is about temps.

These people get jobs based on the fact that they can type fast, own khakis, and went to college.  Nevermind that they have a degree in Judi Garland 101 or Unimportant and Obscure French Films of the 1980s.  They spent 4 years sitting there, spent a lot of money, hooked up with anything that moved or bought them beer, and now they have a piece of paper that validates that as their important passage into adulthood and their credentials for entering the workforce. 

Right.

  I did not go to college (at least not for very long. I have a distaste for cheap beer and bottle blondes and atheletic teams, sue me). I can type probably about 65 wpm when I'm not doing 900 other things or wearing this godforsaken brace.  And not even I care, not even on a good day.

But I've been employed in one fashion or another since I was 14.  I have 3 resumes, one for each type of work I've done, and I have seen and/or done almost everything you can imagine at one time or another.  I am a career experimenter, so I think I have earned my right to a job.

These people that the temp agency sends me to sit at the front desk, sort the mail, answer the phone, and open the door are career morons. 

"Temp" actually means "moron" in some kind of ancient Middle English. 

I looked it up so you don't have to.

The people they usually send me have less personality than my shoe, and common sense to match.  I leave them a simple set of instructions to follow in my absence, including how to make the coffee, and somehow, they always manage to fuck it up.

Yes, instructions on how to make coffee.  You'd be surprised how many times I'm out for whatever reason and I return to reports of catastrophy in the kitchen, only to find the coffee burned, spilled ALL OVER the marble countertops, not even made, or even better, made-but-brewed-sans-filter.

This is not a necesary job skill and in no way reflects any significant portion of my responsibilities here. However. It's.fucking.coffee.  I'd like to know I can go to the gynecologist and get my already unpleasant PAP smear in relative peace, not worrying about coming back and finding my female investment banking clients wading in pools of stale coffee in their Prada, or worse, my bio-tech clients trying to grow stuff in it. 

I don't think that's too much to ask.

Secondly: the Prime  Minister.

For a moment, I gave pause as to whether or not I would post in my blog that the PM of a foreign nation was to grace our happy home.  Homeland Security is once again giving me the finger for endangering the welfare of wealthy American investors.  Well, right back at ya.

But then I thought, Who is gonna care that the PM of Scotland is coming?  Really?  Like care in the sense of getting mad enough to come down here n' want to do something?  After all, what is there to be mad about? Scotland is home of this

Saint Andrew's Golf Course

these...     

(Oooo, lots of these!)

and ...

So really.  You know?

I will, however, note that it is also home to these

which some people feel very strongly about.

::shrug::

I'm just sayin'. 

By the way, folks, I have some lovely friends in Scotland whom I miss and love dearly, and all jokes aside, it is a lovely place full of lovely people and a lot of ugly weather.  But I love freckles and castles and plaid, so I'll let it slide.

This week is Tartan Week here in New York, celebrating Scottish culture and influence...and beer.  They love beer.  So get plaid-glad and go check it out.... 

Miss you, Mark & Martin!

7:57 AM - 11 Comments - 15 Kudos - Add Comment

. k i c k s t a n d .
Current mood: embarrassed
Category: Religion and Philosophy

Oh, I've had so many misadventures in the last few weeks, but this one happened just yesterday before I left the office and I just had to share.

This is one of those things that only happens to me and poor schlubs like me who have the misfortune of sitting at the front desk somewhere.

The Chief was off at a trade show in CT. Someone sent a package over for im via messenger.  The messenger who arrived at my doorstep and planted himself in front of my desk smelled like he was carrying beer bottles in his ass, because those were the only two things I could smell.  Maybe the real messenger had been clipped by a taxi, and offered this guy $10 to bring me this package before 5:20pm EST.

Incredulous and gagging, I resisted the urge to even LOOK at him as I took the package from his hands and fumbled thru my signature.  His finger brushed against my hand.  It felt like the treaded bottom of a shoe. With gravel stuck in it.

As I handed the slip back to him, increasingly more focused in the report I was working on, hoping the smell of wheels grinding in my head would stifle the putrid ass cheese wafting up at me, he stood for a second, contemplating.

"Excuse me, Miss. These for the public?" he asked, gesturing toward my desk. 

Deadly focused on my paperwork, and simultaneously trying not to keel over, it took me a second to process that he was speaking to me.

"Sorry?" I asked, looking up.  By the time my I looked up from my desk to him, I just caught the tail end of the question.  I was stumped for a moment, not for having had my concentration broken, but for the fact that his mouth looked like he brushed his teeth with motor oil.

Colgate it ain't.

I followed his filthy finger to the bowl of Tootsie Pops I keep on my desk.

"Oh, yeah, sure, knock yourself out," I replied, the trance broken by the reminder of politeness and a sudden pang of guilt.  I couldn't tell when the last time this guy had a shower was, but I could tell you when he last had a beer.  His voice was well pitched, polite, and kind, and I felt sorry for his filth and guilty for my reaction it.  People have problems, man, and if there was something I could have done for this guy, I wish I knew what it was.

 But the man needed a kickstand. Jesus.

The fun never stops at the front desk.

6:31 AM - 8 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment