Sunday, June 30, 2002

Sick Leave

All day I have had a jet black, ten-ton headache.
You know you're too obsessed with blogging when you blog in sick.
See you tomorrow.

Saturday, June 29, 2002

Martha Stewart: Sing Sing Prison Bitch

I am amusing myself, picturing Martha Stewart in some funky NYC prison after being convicted for insider trading, and doing her 'Martha Stewart Living Show' from the pokey, so the proceeds can help defray her megamillion dollar fine.


(Enter: Martha clad in an orange jumpsuit, with fall leaves stenciled at a jaunty angle over one shoulder. Her prison number is in burnt umber, Copperplate Gothic Bold type.)

Good morning. Today, my assistants ChaCha and Shandalier are going to help me show you how to brighten up a Saturday brunch.
We have on hand some powdered eggs, some frozen grated potatoes called 'hash browns,' some lovely white, thinly sliced bread, and some fragrant coffee crystals.

(ChaCha): Yo, Martha don' ju forget abou' da oleo and we gots some jam in little packages too, yo.

(Shandalier): Whatup, what we need is some-bleepin-bleep-mutha-bleepin bacon grease to fry up some of this powdered motha-bleepin-egg-bleeped-up whatevah the -bleep- this -bleepin-bleep is suppose to be.
MStew, can you just ax them to get us some -bleepin- Bisquik and maybe a orange or sumphin?

(Martha): We have taken empty lavatory tissue cores and cut them in half with our serrated plastic knives, then decoupaged (with a powdered egg glue) some found objects we gathered from the outdoor recreational area to serve as napkin holders.
Note the lovely antique patina created by the egg wash.
(Shows finished napkin holders to camera)

(Shandalier): They smell like bleepin rotten bleepin eggs, girl.

(Cha-Cha): Shanda, don' be raggin her for her art, bitch, she tryin to make da joint more pleasan. Don't be such a bleepin puta, you ho skank.

(Shandalier): Bleep you, mothableeper, you just wanna make her your bitch and you be all kissin her ass and up in her face an all that.

(Martha): We have taken laundry marking pens and some classic corrugated board to create lovely calligraphied placecards, to make each guest feel as honored as they are.

(Shandalier rips a placecard in half, ChaCha slaps her in the head with Martha's DayTimer. Stray eggwash flies into Martha's hair. Shandalier rips Cha-Cha's jumpsuit.
Martha decks Shandalier.)

(Cha-Cha): Oh Martha, papi, are ju okay, baby?


Friday, June 28, 2002

Uh Oh... Something New to Poison My Mind

Like a tiny, gossamer insect, it's been fluttering in my peripheral vision for months now. I've heard the slight buzzing and caught what sounded like words a few times.
Something told me I should resist, but today I sat and faced the visions and sounds square on.
They beckoned me, like a glistening, long-legged vamp in aerobics tights and a ripped tanktop, with a bright red cherry clasped between her dazzling white teeth.

From the first moments I looked, I knew I'd become addicted.
It's called "Passions," an hour-long daytime drama on NBC.

Like a Mexican novella, only in English, it's pure, lurid sleaze. The acting is horrid, the music is worse. The sets are straight out of a midwest community college stage production. It's nasty. It's trashy. It's fabulous.

I love Passions.
I am a virgin to Passions.

All the men in the cast are outrageously pretty boys, wearing tight, grocery-snuggling pants and those silky knit Ricky Martin shirts. They are so camp, it's like old times before AIDS made queens get so serious and political.
All the women are succulent babes, except for the skank ho's and old battle-axes.
They have some talking doll named Timmy, who has a midget body and a chubby baby face and does freaky things. I'll have to get back with you on what kind of things.
His sidekick is a 300-year-old witch. I haven't caught her act yet.
There seem to be a fair number of sensual Hispanic cast members, who suck air through their teeth and thrust their heaving bosoms during love scenes, and those are just the men! ¡Ai, Caramba! ¡Muy caliente en los pantalones gigantes!
You expect to see blood after a kissing scene.
Today, beautiful Theresa is in jail, facing execution tomorrow, scheduled moments after her appeal was denied (uh huh). Her lawyer boyfriend Ethan, a big strapping Anglo boy with hair and looks like faded pop star Rick Astley (only Ethan has a chin).
Some bitches named Ivy and Rebecca are thrilled Theresa is about to be executed.
In a tender jail scene, where Ethan tearfully tells Theresa they are out of chances to spare her innocent life, a prison employee strolls casually past her cell, carrying a dainty tray filled with various lethal injectables meant for Theresa!! HAHAHAHAHA!
It don't get any better than that!

Who watches it?
Talk to me, baby, I'm jonesing to catch up.

Oh Good, the Insomnia is Back!

In our local Sunday paper's TV Guide, they have this disgusting before and after dental ad, where they show the most nauseating 'before' pictures, in full color. I think they are actually those fake hillbilly teeth you can buy out of a machine, in a bubble box.

Did you ever find yourself in the middle of a spirited debate wanting to say, "Hey, wait, it just occurred to me, I don't really care about this."

When I have insomnia, I sometimes just say to heck with it, I'm having a Coke.

Where did they put Rush Limbaugh? Is he still around?

I saw an HBO special on DC street hookers last night. That seems to be an unpleasant job. A hooker hit on me in Vegas once. She looked very sweet, like Sally Field in her Gidget days. She kissed my cheek right at the video bar at the Golden Nugget, then she ordered me a Frangelico and coffee, snuggled up next to me and asked if I'd kiss her back. I said no, but I did consider it for a few moments.
I didn't realize she was a hooker until I saw her the next morning, haggling with two guys over the price of a three-way. Glad I didn't kiss her. Eeuuw.

I never have seen the attraction to fishing. Boring silence mixed with stinky bait buckets and nasty fish guts just seems a bit much to me.

I would have gone to culinary school but I just cannot eat or stand to handle liver, duck, kidneys, heart, venison, quail, rabbit, entrails, giblets, goose, ostrich, wild boar, foie gras, escargot, mutton, fish heads, kim chee, squid, menudo or green bell peppers.

Thursday, June 27, 2002

Register to Win!


I looked at my site meter today and I noticed I am nearing the 10,000 hit mark.
Because I am a perfect balance between compulsive, competitive and impatient, I am sponsoring the FABULOUS 10,000 HIT SWEEPSTAKES, and I have some nice prizes for the 10,000th visitor to select from.
How will I tell who the 10,000 hitter is? Well, I am not sure, but as we close in on the number within 25 hits, I will ask you to reblog, asking me if you are it so I can compare domain names to the entrant.
Will that work? Maybe, but if not I have plenty of sneaky hacker pals who can probably guess the identity of the winner, what they were wearing when they entered, and when and with whom or what they last had sex.

The grand prizes will include:

• A long distance phone call from me to you, interviewing you about your blog or website and writing an official feature story on my blog about you. Or else we can just gossip and talk about other bloggers, your call.

• A dozen haiku, written about you!

But wait, there's more!
Select from this list of valuable prizes!

• Ten Texas scratch-off lottery tickets, mailed to your address, postage paid.
• One jar of La Fogata Fire Roasted Salsa, the best salsa in the civilized world, and a bag of tortilla chips, shaped like Texas, mailed to your home or office, in genuine Styrofoam peanut cushioning.
• A ten dollar gift certificate to
• One vintage (50's-70's) lesbian pulp fiction novel from my private collection!

Hurry! We are only a few hundred hits away from the BIG DAY!
Start hitting!
I Pledge Allegiance...

Hoo boy.
I am not getting into the court's ruling about the "under God' part of the pledge violating separation of church and state rules, but TECHFLUID has opened that can of worms and drawn some anonymous heckler to her reblog.
Attention feisty people: Go on over and talk about it. This oughtta be good.
Letting off Some Steam

Arggh. I am sick of my family.
My sister and brother in Austin are having a protracted battle about my extremely elderly mother's care, and they feel compelled to include me in every e-mail.
I finally had to haul off and send them a howler, which for those of you living in a cave and not reading the Harry Potter series, means a letter that when you open it, it screams so everyone within a city block can hear it. If you don't open it in a timely manner, it explodes and wreaks havoc.
My sister is a lawyer, meaning she has a doctorate in arguing, and my brother is an environmental scientist and avid birdwatcher, meaning he is incapable of communicating about emotional issues with other humans.
You can only imagine the e-mail.
I have another sister we adopted as an adult, and she drifts above the fray, healing the sick and looking innocent at all times. Bitch!
Mama will turn 90 in January. She is spoiled, hilarious, a little senile, totally hip and as demanding as JLo or Madonna. She's very cute, but a royal pantload.
She has outlived all but one sibling out of 13. Her baby sister, my Aunt Lily, is still alive but she's had a few strokes and won't outlast Mama. No way.
Mama comes to visit me clad in Banana Republic, Gap, Old Navy, Eddie Bauer and L.L. Bean togs, always with a jaunty little hat on and always wearing suede, leather or canvas skateboarder tennies to match her ensemble.
My sister the lawyer spoils her rotten, then acts aghast at Mama's brattiness.
I just want to get an occasional e-mail from my siblings saying hey how ya doin' instead of the latest chapter of Throw Mama from the Train.
My brother sent me a nice jpg pic of a painted bunting bird recently, and I was so relieved I actually sent him a thank you note.
These people are giving me a pain. I know now why grown adults run away to remote locations and don't leave forwarding addresses. Arrgggh.

Wednesday, June 26, 2002

8:30 a.m.

So far, I am a little behind on my Disciplined Work Plan.
I haven't put the 'do not disturb' sign up.
I am wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and I am barefooted.
I made half a pot of coffee and had an energy bar for breakfast.
My office is cool, but not that inviting.
I haven't actually written any articles but I did write to my clients and ask them who wants to read the finished articles now that the publisher is on maternity leave.
My left sinus is very sore and draining, and I think my face might be swollen and lopsided.
I may have to have a little nap so the aspirin can kick in.
I may need to run to the store to get some orange juice, in case this sinus thing is a prelude to a head cold.
Blogging helps loosen up writer's block.

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

Wednesday Resolution

Today I will put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on my front door.
I will wear long pants, an ironed shirt and shoes to inspire a worklike attitude.
I will make a whole pot of coffee. I will eat something with protein in it for breakfast.
I will make my office cool and inviting.
I will write my articles.
I will not have a nap until I am done.
I won't go on any errands until I am done.
I will barely blog until I am done.
There. I have said it.
Bad Procrastinator!

I have piddled around all week and had a hell of a time getting any work done.
It's too hot, or I am sleepy, or hungry, or someone comes to the door, or something comes along to distract me.
I need a visiting work dominatrix to come over and force me to do it.
Self employment requires self discipline and right now I have the former but not the latter. Somebody slap me!
Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

I flunked the only polygraph test I ever took.
Trouble is, I wasn't lying. Not even a little.
Years ago, a friend of mine, who happened to be the wife of a famous movie actor, and I were having dinner. Seems he was cheating on her, had a love nest set up for his girlfriend, and planned to dump my pal. He had started drinking again and was being a total prick. My poor friend was devastated. She loved the bastard.
Being a reporter and all, I asked if she wanted me to 'get him' for her.
She was and is a lady, never swears, never does anything bad, but she asked if I could keep her out of it and I said yes.
The next morning I started a bidding war between all the major tabloids and a few TV tabloids.
The Globe won the story.
They sent out a reporter that night. He and I met at his hotel and talked, then I gave him maps and names and numbers, and he gave me a signed contract.
All my facts were straight, but they could not find a soul to corroborate my story, so their lawyers said I had to be polygraphed.
I am so literal, I guess I flunked the test because of the way the questions were framed. For example, I already knew my pal's husband was cheating because another friend had told me before the wife did. So when they asked if the wife had told me at dinner about her husband, I said yes, meaning yes, we talked about it all night. That popped up as a lie.
Then the stupid polygrapher explained to me how when you inhale this way it shows as a lie or when you exhale that way it shows as a lie. So then, of course, I started watching my breathing and screwed up even worse on the second test.
Even thought I flunked the polygraph, the story ran and it really served to piss off the cheating husband. It even helped my friend leverage a bigger divorce settlement, because the husband hates negative publicity. The wronged wife was happy, and I got a huge check.
But whenever I think about polygraph testing, I know I'll probably flunk. I wouldn't submit to one again. I'm just not wired up that way.
Mammo, Take 2

Sheesh, back to the mammo salon again this morning.
Seems lefty wiggled or has something inside the doc needs to take another look at.
Twice a year, I go through this.
I go, they take pics, they develop the pics, the doc looks at them, they have me come back. That makes four sessions a year, usually followed by a sonogram.
I can see the reason elderly people talk about nothing but their health, something's always scaring the hell out of them.
I am not scared, just miffed that I have to go back to the hospital again this week and have my breast squashed two more times.

Monday, June 24, 2002

Another True Restaurant Story

When I was a kid of 15, I lived in a tiny suburb of San Antonio called Helotes.
There wasn't much to do back then for a young hippie girl except smoke dope and hang around the Stop n' Go, so I got a job as a dishwasher/busgirl at this fancy but countrified steakhouse.
My hippie best friend Barry and our friend Ronnie worked there, too.
Barry was a busboy and Ronnie was a cook.
We buspeople also served salads and refilled iced tea.
One day, I'd gotten my face on the front page of the Express News at an anti war protest. My parents didn't seem to mind, so I just sort of forgot about it.
Alas, a family of hayseed shitkickers came into the steakhouse soon after, and one of their devil spawn sons went to high school with me. They all seemed to know about my photo in the paper.
The daddy, a beer bellied cowboy with a deep, bellowing voice, started making remarks about gol-durn Communists going back to dadgum Russia whenever I was near their table. His minions snickered with each new tirade.
I told Barry and Ronnie about the man's verbal abuse.
Being the chivalrous gentlemen they were, Barry hawked up a loogie in the man's salad before serving it to him. Ronnie later dropped the man's huge steak on the floor, ground his boot into it, spit on it, winked at me, then returned it to the grill.
Now that I am a grown-up, the only time I send back food is when the potential addition of spit and boot prints will only enhance the flavor.
Is Nothing Sacred?

From AOL News: Dipping your tortilla chips in the guacamole or salsa at your table at Mexican restaurants may be tempting. But sampling these sauces may also tempt fate and make you a target for Montezuma's revenge. A new report shows many tabletop sauces collected from popular restaurants in Guadalajara, Mexico, and Houston, Texas, were contaminated with E. coli.
Overall, 66% of the sauces from restaurants in Guadalajara and 40% of those from Houston were contaminated with the bacteria, which commonly causes traveler's diarrhea. ..."

Swell. Now I have something new to obsess about.
I know Tex Mex restaurants, and if you ask them to bring you fresh salsa or nuke your existing salsa, someone is going to put in a booger or spit in it back in the kitchen.
Questioning a restaurant's salsa is the same as going to someone's home and asking if they washed their hands or touched their or anyone else's genitalia before they made your dinner.
It's just not done.
If I had to face either a little Montezuma's revenge or the wrath of a Mexican waitress, I'd go with the former. Pepto Bismo can handle E. coli, but nothing can take the chill off a pissed-off waitress.
In Lieu of Working...

I have to write enough articles this week to fill an entire magazine, so I thought blogging would be a wonderful way to postpone the inevitable.
Last night I was at the grocery store and went into rapture when I saw white meat peaches on display. I bought two fat, sassy ones and I am waiting for the perfect moment to attack them. Maybe I'll make bellinis, who knows?
My bliss was shattered moments later when a guy ahead of me in the express lane (10 items or less) loaded at least 30 items onto the counter. He was a big, knuckle dragging galoot, so I thought better of catching his eye so I could point at the huge express lane sign and ask if he could count to 10. I just hate that sense of entitlement so common to some people.
If I was a store clerk working the express lane, I'd be like Judge Judy.
"Upp, upp, upp, upp, young man, can you count? The sign says 10, you have 30, take it outta here, or you want I should call security? NEXT!"
Another thing that chaps my hide is when a car from a side street stop sign pulls out in front of me, then goes 20 mph less than I am going once they get ahead of me. If they were in such a hurry, why are they going so fucking slow?
I want to buy one of these for my neighborhood errands. That way when some jackass pulls in front of me, I can just scoop him out of my way.

Sunday, June 23, 2002

Back to Square One

Five people won the $70 million Texas Lotto last night.
They got $14 million each.
The lotto is back to $4 million. Cash option, which I always select, divides the prize in half. Two million would be a nuisance to win, considering the people I love who would want their cut, legal fees and trying to make it grow to some more obscenely huge amount.
Sigh. I need a new hobby.

Saturday, June 22, 2002

Dear Ann Landers

Advice columnist Ann Landers died Saturday at age 83.
I liked the old broad.
From her Hadassah do-dip hairdo, flipped up on one side and copied by older women from my Mom to everyone else in her age bracket, to her wake up and smell the coffee advice, she was a cool old gal who never pulled any punches.
Sad to see her go.
Iron Chef

Ugh, tonight is cod roe night on IronChef and I wouldn't be able to win this one if I were challenging.
I'd have to do cod roe nachos, cod roe and sour cream dip, cod roe tacos and maybe cod roe soup. Yuck.
I Think I Can Link!

Look what Jill taught me to do:
There's no link icon on Mac blogger, so she taught me how to sneak one in.
This is a test.
Blog Salad

• The guy who claimed to overhear a cell phone conversation in Arabic, plotting a terrorist attack in Las Vegas over the 4th of July weekend flunked a lie detector test.
Get a life, Pinnochio.
• Israel is ratcheting up plans to launch a wide scale offensive on Palestine. I wish both sides would simmer down at least until Dubya is out of office. He hasn't got a clue what to do to help diffuse this powder keg.
• DVD's are taking over videos and I like videos. Never fails. I had a Betamax. I have a Macintosh in a PC world. I had a $500 8-track player/recorder in the 70's.
If I own it, it's a universal signal that whatever I have will become obsolete before whatever you have does.
• Does anyone care that Martha Stewart does insider trading?
• Wynona Rider's shoplifting trial would get a lot classier if she'd remove that stupid arm sling. Who is she kidding with a prop like that? Seems more like something one o' them trailer trash Judd girls would do.
• Tom Cruise will appear on anything when he's pushing a movie. I just can't stand that little greasy headed weenie.

Friday, June 21, 2002

A Reprieve!

Just as I was packing to go to Austin to spend the night at the hospital with my mother, my sister called and said Mom was out of the hospital, feeling great and didn't need company, just some quiet, restful time in her own bed.
Driving up I-35 on shimmering hot asphalt in 95º heat, with bumper to bumper commuter traffic, amidst a $35 zillion highway construction project so I could spend the night in a hospital filled with mutated bacteria and nasty germs that would do a Motel 6 proud was a nightmare in the making.
To think, I have a whole weekend free to isolate, vegetate, contemplate and luxuriate in my own house, with my own cats, with my own computer, my own TV and my own little bed. Hallelujah!
Now, if you slugs would just give me some feedback, life would be perfecto.
A Good Ad

Seems I am always bitching about bad advertising, but Budweiser's done a good one.

A guy hitchhiking gets picked up by an 18-wheeler, hauling a large boat. The driver is a large, scruffy, sweaty guy.
The hitchhiker thanks him for the lift, then looks over to see a fucked up looking ventriloquist's dummy next to his thigh, saying in a harsh, piercing tone, "Eeeeeeeeee!"
The hitchhiker jumps from the moving truck, then lives to tell his pals about it over a cold Bud.
Bad, Bad Music

Mike over at Spacemonk is talking about bad music, and he's having a contest to see who can come up with the worst song ever.
Though I think I may have already won with Charlene's "I've Never Been to Me", drop in and voice your opinion anyway.

Some other songs I consider seriously bad:
"My Ding-a-ling" by Chuck Berry
"The Doggone Girl is Mine" Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney
"The Curly Shuffle" by Jump in the Saddle Band
"Fernando" by ABBA
"Eyes Without a Face" by Billy Idol
"Honey" by Bobby Goldsboro
"Watchin' Scottie Grow" by Bobby Goldsbore
"Baby, Baby Don't Get Hooked on Me" by Mac Davis
"I Write the Songs" by Barry Manilow
"Sometimes When We Touch" by Dan Hill
"Me and You and a Dog Named Boo" by Lobo
"The Rose" by Bette Midler
"Don't Give Up on Us Baby" by David Soul
"Ice Ice Baby" by Vanilla Ice
"Lady" by Styx
"Tie a Yellow Ribbon" by Tony Orlando
"I Can't get No Satisfaction" Britney Spears

God, I am making myself sick.
What's So Damned Funny?

I think I am funny. Some people tell me I am the funniest person they ever met.
I have even tried standup comedy and got a pretty decent reception.
Lately, the fates have conspired to strip away every vestige of funniness I have.
I am fucking sick of it.
It started to come undone after I quit smoking.
Then my helper Robert had the nerve to up and die.
Then my workload doubled, then I started having insomnia, then my Mom started having angina 20 times a day, then they stuck her in the hospital, now I have to go sleep in her hospital room with her so she doesn't start calling people in the middle of the night.
She also likes to get dressed at 3 a.m., wake me up and ask if I am "ready yet," but that's a whole 'nother story.
My kitten James is at that teenage boy stage now, where he's horsey and overly sensitive and thinks I am an asshole. He used to run to me when I whistled, now he just looks at me and yawns as he heads the other way. I know it's because I got him neutered, so I think he'll bear a grudge for several more months.
I have been in a funk for weeks now and it's gotten tedious.
You know life sucks when selecting a good watermelon is the highlight of the week.
The Texas heat isn't helping my funnybone, either. I could fire ceramics on my sidewalk and getting into my car mid-afternoon is like putting on a mink sweatsuit, lined in down feathers.
I have to make some changes. I need to laugh. I need to be amused. I need to be amusing.
I think it's time to turn Responsible, Serious Girl back into Bad, Funny Girl!

Vegas on the Fourth?

"LAS VEGAS (June 21) - The FBI said Thursday it is investigating a Nevada man's claim that he picked up a conversation in Arabic on his cell phone during which someone said there would be a ''hit'' on the ''day of freedom.''

A hit on Vegas? I wonder if they plan to hit the Aladdin Casino?
Those poor shmucks, they reopened the Aladdin last year after spending hundreds of millions remodeling it. They financed it on junk bonds and outrageous projected earnings.
Soon after their grand reopening, the terrorists attacked the WTC and the Pentagon, and thinned out Vegas visitors were not too keen on spending their gambling dollars in a casino with a Middle Eastern theme.
The Aladdin has declared bankruptcy, though they are still operating. Gee, I wonder if their slots are tight?
I dropped into the Aladdin to gamble a bit when I was in Vegas last April. The live music was loud and horrible, the drink service was slow and the machines were tighter than my jeans from high school. I lost about a hundred bucks in an hour or so and left, never to return.
They may as well have had bin Laden and Al Qaida slot machines for all the business they didn't have. The cocktail waitresses may as well have worn burqas for all the hiding out they were doing.
Anyway, I don't think terrorists will hit Vegas.
There are too many cameras all over, too many armed guards and too many free drinks and hookers to distract them.

Thursday, June 20, 2002

My Mammo

Today as the mammo lady was flipping my breasts all over to get the best view, I said, "If men had to get mammos, they would have come up with a less painful way to do it by now."
She said, "I don't know about that, men still have to get prostate exams."
I guess she'd heard my line before.
My breasts are little tramps.
They don't know fun fondling from medical fondling.
There they were, perky and happily being handled when suddenly the crusher came on and they were pressed into painful pancakes on the chilled mammo machine.
They always raise the platen too high and you have to tiptoe, lest your squashed breast rips off. Then they make you put your arm in a position nature did not intend for it to be in. Face it, it's an awkward procedure from start to finish.
After the ordeal was over, I dressed and left, free of residual pain.
Now three hours later, my girls are kind of sore and I feel sad for them.
But It could have been worse.
At least this time I didn't get the bulldyke mammographer with the mustache who spends far too much time "positioning" the girls.
Sixty-four Million!

The Texas Lotto is up to $64 million now, that means I will clear about $32 million after taxes and other fees.
I have been having an ongoing daydream about what I'd do with the money. Besides the bumper car ride attached to my new mansion, now I'll have enough to actually impact society.
For starters, my 15-year-old nephew will want a car. He mentioned a Porsche 911GT2, but I am thinking a beige Volvo wagon. Imagine some little pisher tooling around in a $189,000 Porsche. Suuure.
So far, that's all I've come up with to impact society. Putting a kid in a safe car.
It's a start.

Rant and Run

I had settled into a nice rhythm in life.
I'd wake up, do a little blogging, then some work, then an afternoon nap, maybe a little more work, then spend a quiet evening doing what I wanted.
My biggest client recently decided to turn the quarterly newsmagazine I write and edit into a monthly newsmagazine. More work, more meetings, and now travel.
So I am back from traveling, only to have to produce and write an entire issue by June 28.
I returned home from Dallas to frantic calls from my sister, the one who cares for my 89-year-old mother in Austin.
Seems Mom had a heart scare and had to be admitted to the hospital immediately. No blood clots, but her blood had thickened to the point where she wasn't getting proper oxygen, and she was getting pretty senile and sluggish as a result.
They caught it in the nick of time.
Now she's in the hospital getting her blood thinned out and being observed, after having a defibrillation or fibrillation or some kind of shock administered to her heart.
She's alert and sassy and her usual little pain in the ass self again.
Trouble is, Mom doesn't like the hospital and she's a night owl. So she calls my sister all through the night, telling her the nurse woke her up and scared her, etc.
That means one of us kids has to stay with Mom overnight in the hospital to keep her off the phone, keep her from getting dressed and leaving, etc. Basically, Mom is like a little monkey, chattering and wiggling all night when she's in the hospital.
As the only kid who is not living in the Austin vicinity, I usually draw all-night hospital duty to compensate for not having to deal with Mom's day-to-day upkeep.
That means I am expected in Austin asap to help keep Mom from going squirrely in the hospital all night long. That means I do not sleep while I am there.
They can't sedate her because they need her to be as natural as possible so they can get accurate heart readings.
I have no laptop, so I cannot work while I am there.
I'd go today, but I have a mammogram scheduled this afternoon.
So, soon off I go again, leaving my kitties and my comfy bed behind again this week.
It's pretty bad when getting a mammogram is the least of my worries this week.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002

Home Sweet Home

I am not comfortable as one of the herd of business travelers.
I don't like staying in hotels by myself, I don't like dining with strangers and discussing business, I don't like crowded airports, delays, little bags of peanuts and 4 ounce Cokes.
I don't like keeping track of receipts, itemizing expenses or riding in cabs.
Otherwise, I had a wonderful time.

Monday, June 17, 2002

Land of the Big Hair

I'm flying to Dallas this morning, home of the big hair and people who think they are hotshots.
Actually I'll be in Irving, a suburb of Dallas named for some Jewish dentist, I think.
I think I've been there before, I visited some gay-boy friends of mine years ago that lived in Irving, or Plano, or some damn place.
North Texas is like another state from South Texas. The trees are different, the weather is different, the people are different.
I don't want to go.
I'll be back tomorrow night, still I want to stay here with my kitties and not at some hotel with suspect bed linens and germs all over the shower and telephone. Eeeuuuw.
Better pack the Lysol spray. I hope the airport security doesn't consider that an incendiary device.

Sunday, June 16, 2002

Mary's Prize Haiku

Mary takes the train
Like a real live New Yorker
But she's from Jersey

Minutiae, her blog
Is like being in New York
Or maybe Jersey

To a Texan it's
Pretty much the same, really
New York, New Jersey

Mary grooms her hair
All of it, from head to toe
She shaves the good part

Barcodie gives her
Advice on what razor's best
He likes the Venus

I think Mary needs
A good new man in her life
I think BarCodeKing

I'm a yenta, so?
May as well matchmake, shall we?
Barcode, Mary, yes!
Who Is More Girly?
The results are in!

Mary was our winner, only missing one correct answer. Look for her haiku blog soon.

The correct answers are:

1. Cher or Brett Butler?
Cher! Brett's a man, or at least she should be.

2. Bono or Chastity Bono?
Bono! Sensitivity galore. Chastity has become a large bull dagger. She wasn't even girly as a toddler. My gaydar went off when she was about 3.

3. Jamie Lee Curtis or Jodie Foster?
Jamie Lee! Jodie is pretty, but she couldn't help that. She's totally butch.

4. Amy Grant or Hugh Grant?
Amy Grant! She's so girly she farts marshmallow clouds.

5. Prince or Liza Minnelli?
Prince! Liza's a female female impersonator, married to a wax dummy of a queen.

6. Tootie or Natalie?
Tootie! Her breasts are huge bazoongas that could put out an eye. Natalie is butch, plain and simple. She just wears girl clothes to please her demanding Jewish mother.

7. Little Richard or Richard Simmons?
Almost a tie, but Richard Simmons and his hot pants win by a Lee's Press-On Nail.

8. Madonna or Elton John?
Elton John! I just know Madonna's packing, and all the motherhood and marriages on Earth won't make her girly.

9. Paul McCartney or Paula Cole?
Paul McCartney! Somewhere along the way, all his testosterone evaporated and now he's as tough as pudding. Even his facial wrinkles look doughy and soft. He's all girl!

10. Moby or Eminem?
Moby! He's a wonderful girl. Eminem is just a nasty little boy.

Saturday, June 15, 2002

A New Contest!

Announcing the Who is More Girly Contest, where you pick the girlier of two choices.
The contestant getting the most correct answers will win a blog of haiku all about you. Enter the contest in the reblog comments box.

Who is more girly and why?

1. Cher or Brett Butler?
2. Bono or Chastity Bono?
3. Jamie Lee Curtis or Jodie Foster?
4. Amy Grant or Hugh Grant?
5. Prince or Liza Minnelli?
6. Tootie or Natalie?
7. Little Richard or Richard Simmons?
8. Madonna or Elton John?
9. Paul McCartney or Paula Cole?
10. Moby or Eminem?

Friday, June 14, 2002

I Want One

There's a new remote control gizmo on the market that I want.
It silences the booming bass stereos in cars.
One click and the boomba boomba boomba turns OFF.
I want one for my home and auto.
I want a holster so I can carry one with me at all times.
Kid in a Mustang next to me at the red light playing gangsta rap? Click.
Kid in a low rider driving by my house at 1 a.m. playing heavy metal? Click.
Neighbor detailing his car right next to my office window, playing hip hop? Click.
What could be better?

Thursday, June 13, 2002

Oh, Good.

I just returned from Robert's rosary, which is a Catholic thing where they say the rosary and everyone chimes in at the right time.
Robert had to lie there in front of everyone, which he would have hated because he didn't like to be the center of attention. He looked okay, for a dead guy, but still it was a horribly sad thing to see.
I eulogized him and felt very nice being able to do that for him.
By now, most of you know I am a lapsed Catholic, and I have turned against the Catholic church since the pedophilia charges came to light, and so many bishops and superiors in the church tried to bribe and lie their way out of it and cover for the criminals.
I was pleased to see lay Catholics running Robert's rosary, just normal folks with a strong faith in God.
Had there been a priest there, my mind would have wandered as to how many kiddies he's molested. I was so relieved not to have to feel that anger during Robert's ceremony.
I returned home to good news.
Seems the Catholic Bishops meeting in Dallas have finally copped to their utter failure to rein in perverted, child molesting priests.
They are finally begging for forgiveness from the laity, and moving closer to a zero tolerance policy toward child molesters in their ranks, past, present or future.
It's about time.
Now if they can just help police prosecute these Satanic bastards and start to incorporate some 20th Century ideals to the church, they may have stopped the hemorrhaging.
Three more things need to be done.
Ordain women priests, allow married men to become priests and stop the ridiculous no birth control, no freedom of choice rules.
Until they can get that far, they can continue to include me out.
Graffiti Woes

People have the wrong idea about Texas. We aren't all gun toting pickup drivers.
We have liberals here, we even have a Unitarian church and a witches' coven that meets regularly at the Resource Center.
I remember a reporter friend of mine was doing a Halloween story on witches, so she called me to see if I knew a witch. I got my address book out and gave her four names!

I used to own a rental house in a section of town that had gone to seed, with lots of gang activity, especially tagging.
The garage was detached and the doors faced the street, so I was constantly painting over gang graffiti. One day I just got sick of it and called in a witch for a consultation.
She said I should paint a little pentagram on the door.
Since I believe anything worth doing is worth overdoing, I painted a glossy, navy blue pentagram the size of a hula hoop on the white door.
The next morning, some religious fanatic motherfucker had PAINTED OVER IT with white paint. They actually de-grafittied my graffiti. They never bothered with the gang tags, but when I tagged my own property, well, you get it.
Disgusted, I went to the dollar store and bought a huge, framed picture of Jesus and I screwed the frame to the garage door. It was gone the next day.
Who would steal a picture of Jesus?
Anyway, I eventually sold the house after the last renter had apparently worked on his car engine on the new living room carpet. The bathtub was so gross, it took a cleaning lady three hours to get the grime out.
Never rent a house to a guy who shows up with a beer can in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth. And never buy a house with graffiti anywhere near it.


This week has engulfed me and swallowed me up.
From funeral plans and eulogy writing, to treadmill tests, to meetings for long overdue projects, to out of town visitors, to preparing to leave town Monday, I am up at 3 am trying to offload some frayed energy so I can nod out.
Tracy's talking about insomnia and burning out over at 'time for your meds.'
I can relate. Too much activity or too many demands in one concentrated span of time will cause the nutty little chipmunks in one's head to want to party all night.
Mine are like rave attendees on ecstasy tonight. I don't like the music and the dancing is making my head vibrate. I'm too old to have to think about raves, much less hosting one in my brain.
I am not bipolar. I am like any other middle-aged, post menopausal woman, I just have insomnia when I need it the least.
I was all set to go to sleep at 11. Then I noticed "The Godfather" was on. By the time Michael Corleone had taken over the mob, I was wide awake like it was high noon.
I went to bed anyway, and in the darkness I heard the list of what I had to do over the P.A. system of my mind...over and over and over.
So I log on and there's a letter from my sister, concerned about our 89-year-old mother, whose senility is growing like ivy. I scanned it as fast as I could so I wouldn't flip out.
Now I have heartburn to go with my insomnia.

Wednesday, June 12, 2002

Corporate Boondoggle

I have a client, a big corporation in San Antonio.
I edit their monthly magazine.
On Monday, they are sending me to Dallas for two days to take some training.

I also have a slick client in Dallas, and when they want me up there, the secretary arranges everything, all I have to do is step on a plane in San Antonio, step off in Dallas and taxi to their corporate headquarters.

This local client handles things differently.
First I have to get an e-ticket at the airport. What time I don't know.
Then at the DFW airport someone will meet me. Who I don't know.
Then I am going to check into a hotel. Which I don't know.
Then I will be taken to a suburb of Dallas, which I don't know.
Then I will spend the day at their company, where I don't know.
Then I will be taken to my hotel, by whom I don't know.
The next day will be about the same.
That I know.

Tuesday, June 11, 2002

Chinese Buffet

My ex of many moons ago, Cris, took me out to dinner at a really good Chinese buffet tonight. Oy, now I am suffering from massive food bloat.
First of all, whose idea is it to have all you can eat boiled shrimp and crablegs on the menu? I ate a small community of shrimp and about 14 crabs worth of legs.
Then I had some beef and broccoli, some sesame chicken, some teriyaki chicken, some rice, some beefy something, some green beans, some lemon chicken, steamed rice and three pieces of sushi.
I know I have iodine poisoning.
For dessert I had two 2" squares of chocolate cake. Then I loaded a plate with little watermelon slices, so people walking by could say, "Oh, what restraint she shows."
Buffet dining with an ex is a bad idea. There's no sense in hiding gluttony from an ex, she already knows that side of me, and it's not like I was hoping to get laid afterwards.
Besides, even if she tried something, my buffet belly would keep her at arm's length.
If I have even one sip of water, I am going to explode. No more blogger. No more Karen.
Just guts on the monitor. Guts and little pieces of rice. Ow.

Monday, June 10, 2002

Tech Fluid Haiku

Chari wins contest
Chari knows who's butch, okay
Takes one to know one

Her mom reads her blog
When I reblog over there
I'm Eddie Haskell

Her pic is there too
Her little hair sticks up high
Like a porcupine

She sells T-shirts there
Tech Fluid T-shirts on sale
Porcupine hair there

Call her Techie-Girl
She's a techno geek for sure
But the Princess, mmmm!

She has three kitties
All of them have blue, wild eyes
Like they are crazy

Techie is funny
She's always got a good line
And never steals mine

We Have a Winner!

Answers to the Who Is More Butch Quiz:

1. Martina Navratalova or Bob Costas?
Martina! She could crush tiny Bob Costas between her thighs while serving an ace right between Bjorn Borg's eyes.

2. Ellen DeGeneris or Melissa Etheridge?
Ellen! I always thought Julie Cypher was a secret butch, and like Chari said, Melissa narrates that icky Lifetime for Women show about spooky shit. Feh!

3. Hillary Clinton or Barbara Bush?
Barbara! She's so butch she makes George Senior look like Paul Lynde.

4. k.d. lang or Keifer Sutherland?
k.d.! Anyone who can appear on the cover of Vanity Fair with Cindy Crawford shaving her face is tons butcher than a little Canadian toe-headed boy named after liquid yogurt.

5. Dubya or Tony Blair?
Tony Blair! Dubya is just a sock puppet with his daddy's hand crammed up his ass.

6. Colin Powell or Dick Cheney?
Colin Powell! He's still able to function without a team of cardiologists trailing behind him. Plus he's got that Haitian gang thug look, and you just know he's packing a .357 down his pants. I bet he has some wicked tattoos, too.

7. Chandra Levy or Gary Condit?
Chandra's bones are butcher than Condit. She was able to bring him down from the grave.

8. Oprah or Star Jones?
Star Jones! She can kick your ass, then turn around and sue you for hassling her, then get her pal Barbara Walters to interview you and make you cry.

9. Angela Lansbury or Paul McCartney?
Angela Lansbury! She's all a swagger with her L.L. Bean cardigan and sensible shoes. She can run circles around old Veggie boy.

10. Prince or David Spade?
Prince! I think he actually has a dick, with Spade I am wondering.

And the winner is:
Chari at Tech Fluid! clapclapclap

Leftover Blog Salad

Sonny, it's spelled "enema," look it up.
In his newest bid for attention, he's dressed as Osama bin Laden in his latest video.
Gee, what a brilliant ruse, how controversial! Yawn.
Word: Yo, Em, you're a tiny white man, leave the rapping to the pros.
Eminem is Vanilla Ice 2000.
Tick, tick, tick, your 15 minutes are just about up. See you on celebrity boxing!

It's time for a new game...


1. Martina Navratalova or Bob Costas?
2. Ellen DeGeneris or Melissa Etheridge?
3. Hillary Clinton or Barbara Bush?
4. k.d. lang or Keifer Sutherland?
5. Dubya or Tony Blair?
6. Colin Powell or Dick Cheney?
7. Chandra Levy or Gary Condit?
8. Oprah or Star Jones?
9. Angela Lansbury or Paul McCartney?
10. Prince or David Spade?
Enter the contest today and win a blog of haiku, all about you.

Sunday, June 09, 2002

Sad News

My friend and helper Robert died this evening around 8. He was surrounded by his wife, sons and family when he crossed over. He was 33.
Thank you all for the good wishes during his illness and I'd appreciate anyone with any spiritual connection to do what you can to help send him on his journey safely. Thanks.
Blog Fish Salad

There are only so many fish in the sea.
Lobster, crab, shrimp, salmon, tuna, all of these get harvested to death.
The fish industry is smart. When the popular fish get over harvested, they just take fish who have horrible names and rename them to make them sound more appetizing.
Then they pretend they've been around for years and the consumer is just too unsophisticated to have heard of them. The Food Network is in on this plot, especially those wackos at the Iron Chef.
Take for example orange roughy.
Orange roughy used to be called snotfish. They renamed it and now it's delicious.
Yellowtail used to be called sheepgut.
Chilean sea bass used to be called whore fungus.
Redfish used to be called farthole.
MahiMahi used to be called dolphin fish.
Swordfish used to be called booger fish.
Halibut used to be called stinkybutt.
Red snapper used to be called pussyfish.
Don't be fooled by new, delicious sounding fish names. You could end up eating a grilled sheepshead.
Blog Salad Sunday

• Robert the handyman's wife Sylvia called me this afternoon.
As you may recall, Robert is my long term yardguy and handyman who's in the hospital after heart valve surgery and a myriad of other illnesses.
Seems Robert rallied earlier in the week, he was awake and able to respond to questions by nodding his head. Things were looking up.
This morning his ventilator or something got clogged and he started to lose blood pressure fast and had to have CPR. There's a team of doctors in with him now and they said it could go either way. Sylvia is a wreck and so are his three little sons. So am I, but like them I am powerless over the outcome.

• I mowed my lawn earlier today while the weather was hot and windy, so I have inhaled roughly 20% of every plant allergen known to mankind. I have a headache like I was smacked in the back of the head by a snow shovel. Canadian Tylenol with codeine has only served to make me stupid and still headachy.

• I went to the grocery store after mowing the lawn, and apparently it was toddler running free day. I managed to run over three and I winged another in the soda aisle.
Children under two feet tall have no business pushing grocery carts.

• Georgia peaches are on sale and I finally got some that don't taste like Styrofoam sprayed with peach scented air freshener. I'd make a fresh cobbler, except I don't want any company coming over because I am isolating this weekend.

More blog salad later, my head hurts so much I think napping is the only option.

Saturday, June 08, 2002

Lennox Beats Satan

Good, Lennox Lewis knocked Mike Tyson out in Round 8.
Tyson had two bloody eyes, a bloody nose and laid on the mat long after the fight was called. He lost every round, as I understand it.
I think true evil exists on earth, Satan exists within the souls of certain wretched individuals, like Tyson.
I don't care about his childhood, lots of people had bad childhoods and didn't grow up to be rapists and cannibals.
Now that Lennox has scrambled his brains just a bit more, perhaps now Tyson will do the world a favor and disappear.
Selena and Me: Two Degrees of Separation

In 1995, Grammy winning Tejano singer Selena was shot to death by her fan club president Yolanda Saldivar.
A movie was made about Selena's life and death, starring Jennifer Lopez and her fabulous butt. Most of it was filmed right here in San Antonio, the nearest big city to Selena's hometown, Corpus Christi.
I hadn't heard much about Selena until she was killed, I just knew she was some kind of Latin music singer and had a fashion boutique on Broadway with girly girl clothes in the window.
By the afternoon of her murder, several low rider-type cars in town had messages written on car windshields in white shoe polish. One said, "Selena will live on in our hearts forever."
My curiosity was piqued.
Yolanda Saldivar was a squatty little troll-like woman who'd been embezzling money from Selena's fan club and boutique. When Selena's micromanaging daddy Abraham Quintanilla demanded records, Saldivar flipped out and ended up killing Selena in a Corpus Christi motel parking lot.

Jacala's Mexican Restaurant is about two blocks from my house.
It's been around since the 50's, and so have many of its waiters. One of them, a little troll-like man named Frank used to be one of my favorites. He was very sweet, like a little Mexican leprechaun.
Turns out he was Frank Saldivar, Yolanda's daddy. Yolanda looked exactly like him.
When Yolanda was convicted, the hatred toward her in South Texas was palpable.
Old Frank had to take a leave of absence, that's how high the heat was.
He finally returned to work several months after Yolanda's conviction. But his heart wasn't in it anymore, he couldn't take the stares and whispers. He retired after nearly 40 years of service.
So, if Selena knew Yolanda, and Yolanda was Frank's daughter, and Frank used to wait on me at Jacala's, that makes two degrees of separation.
Weird, huh?

Blog Soup: Part 2

• There's a new Michelin tire commercial, where the Michelin man dances.
They made his legs skinnier and his torso's a little trimmer, too.
Now, that's going too damn far, slimming down the Michelin man.
Are we as a society so fixated on body image that we have to tolerate a more svelte Michelin man? I want my fat Michelin man back, damn it.

• Can anyone tell me why, in San Antonio, Jerry Springer's show is on at 3 p.m. and The View is on at 2 a.m.?

• What the fuck happened to Kirstie Alley? When she was on Cheers she was sort of respectable, pretty and funny. Now she's doing those ridiculous Pier One ads and making herself the Jerry Van Dyke of her era. Let this be a lesson to all the TV stars currently doing successful sitcoms. Save your money!

• Has anyone watched the dating shows 5th Wheel and Rendezvous?
I realize we homosexuals have our own odd mating rituals, but these shows must be so embarrassing for you breeders out there.
The 5th Wheel's premise is to get two men and two women in a Winnebago and have them chitchat, then go on a little date that has a switcharoo in the middle. After the four have gotten to know each other, the RV picks up another person and he or she tries to wedge in. The conversations these people have are simply unbelievable.
Imagine, knowing someone for five minutes, then on camera saying:
Him: "So, what's the kinkiest thing you've ever done?"
Her: "Um, I guess, like, watching porno while we were *giggle* doing it on the floor."
Him: "Wow, did you like that?" (rubbing her thigh)
Her: "Uh huh." (tossing her long, blonde hair)
Don't these people have parents and coworkers, for Chrissakes?

Then on Rendezvous, a blind date is arranged and the cameras follow them on their date as a panel of wiseacres make snide comments about the couple. They always select extroverted, borderline personalities, with no boundaries or sense of decorum. The couples invariably get sloshing drunk and emboldened in the process, performing for the cameras like Juicy Lucy and her trained gila monster.
The host is a flaming queen with creepy tinted glasses and a big Pompadour job.
I think gay men produce this show, just to poke fun at straight people.

Blog Soup: Part 1

Since Sunday is Blog Salad day, I think today will be Blog Soup day.
Okay. Let's get started.
I am a left wing liberal journalista and I live by the first amendment, but last night on HBO I saw the tail end of the hilarious Chris Rock show and his musical act was over the top.
A guy named Mystikal came out with three dancer/singer chicks shaking their asses, which was fine, no problem.
The song (Shake Somethin') was so graphic, I was embarrassed for this idiot's mother.
In case we didn't get the lyrics, he demonstrated them by dry humping the dancers between stanzas.
I was going to post the lyrics but they were too gross. They're on the web, see for yourself.
Why do these rappers leave nothing to the imagination in their "love" songs?
I watched in grotesque fascination, remembering long ago the Temptations singing, "Just My Imagination," and what a totally sensual song that was. Even Marvin Gaye's, "Let's Get it On" was bold but so restrained.
Chris Rock said later, on Bob Costa's Show, that he didn't like ice skating because it was too gay and too white. Fine, he has a point.
I don't like most rap music because it's too ignorant, too blatant, too violent and too graphic. So much rap talks about respect, yet I am supposed to respect some clown who sings about having his dick in his hand and what he wants to do with it?
We have enough ignorant youth breeding like lab rats without porn rap providing them the beat by which to hump. I fail to see how some of these rap artists could lower their sights any further.
I am not saying it should be banned or censored.
In fact, when the defunct rap group 2LiveCrew released, "As Nasty As They Wanna Be" in 1989, I bought a copy (and gave it away) just to protest Tipper Gore's demand that albums be rated like films.
It's fine to release garbage. It's fine to like garbage, but when someone as brilliant and well regarded as Chris Rock plays host to a scumbag like Mystikal, it drags down the quality of his show.
Rock and his wife are expecting a baby girl.
I bet he doesn't invite Mystikal to perform at the christening.

Friday, June 07, 2002


I forgot to make plans tonight, and I am thoroughly bored.
I am so bored I'm watching something on Showtime about Reagan getting shot by that poor schnook John Hinkley who thought Jodie Foster a) was straight and b) might give him a tumble if he offed the president.
I like the lady playing Nancy Reagan, she's a real bitch, just like Nancy.
I didn't know Reagan almost died, nor did I know how much everything was screwed up with the chain of command while Reagan was comatose. Al Haig was a real knob acting like he was in charge. Richard Dreyfus is playing Al, and he's also a knob.
I wonder if that bullet jogged Ronnie's Alzheimer's button or something?
My first experience with Ronnie was when he was Governor of California. First thing he did was implement a state income tax.
Texans don't pay state income tax and we don't like living in states that expect us to pay it. And that's my take on Ronnie Reagan.
Overdue haiku

Summer's here again
Watching my lawn turn brown
Oh wait, that's dog crap

Queer Poet's nice blog
Nicer: more paragraph breaks
Eyes can uncross now

Hoopty the blogger
Writes about picking his nose
Draws 60 comments

If I go broke soon
I'll make up a little sign:

Watching CNN
Slow news day, looks like to me
Karen Hughes is news?

Indians, Pakis
What are they fighting about?
They both talk funny

Bisexual folks?
I know why they do that stuff
They are all Libras

Romance confounds me
What I really need right now?
Cold watermelon.
Here We Go Again

Nobody won the $20 million Texas Lotto, meaning now it's up to $25 million.
Once again, visions of around $12.5 million (after taxes and the penalty for selecting the cash option) dance in my head.
Now, I have 2.5 million more to fantasize about spending.
In addition to the bumper car attraction I'd have added to my new mansion, I'd buy a Krispy Kreme donut franchise and have my nephew run it.
Get it Outta Here

I got nothin' to say, I just wanted this new post to bump that "Justice My Ass" post into the archives. Nobody seems to care that R Kelly is a pedophile, or that Dionne Warwicke got unbusted for pot, or that Paul McCartney... aww who cares about that old fart? Let's move on.

Thursday, June 06, 2002


As my site meter racks up more hits, I am obsessed with getting more, more, more.
Basically, I have become as competitive as Tracy over at Time For Your Meds.
She's the one who was so jealous of her neighbors' new birdhouse, she went out and bought live worms to lure the birds back to her yard.

So, in that tradition, this is going to be a search engine, hit gathering blog.
Watch me now- hey!

The weather here is getting hotter than "Gina Lee Nolan's naked pics"!
I am just about ready to cook some "low fat summer recipes" so my guests can dine like they are in "Martha Stewart's Kitchen" without getting as fat as "Shaquille O'Neal."
I sure feel safer now that Bush created the "Homeland Insecurity" cabinet position.
(Didn't "Tom Ridge" first say he didn't want to be a cabinet secretary? Oh, well, I guess he's learning to flip-flop like "Dubya's grammatical errors.")
Maybe Ridge can "Get Springsteen's new CD release at half price" as gifts for his new staff. Or maybe he can get them copies of "The Nanny Diaries: A Novel on sale at Amazon.Com."
I think "Oprah and Dr. Phil" could help select gifts, or maybe "Kelly Ripa's reading club" could recommend something.
It's getting late and I should be hitting the "350-count Egyptian cotton sheets I got for half price." But I have insomnia, and no "surefire, doctor approved safe treatment for insomnia, delivered to your door with no shipping charges" is on hand.
My vacation pics were developed, but they didn't feature "two hot lesbians, doing it in every position." Neither "the FBI" nor "the CIA" would be "embarrassed" to see these photos. It's not like they show "Pamela Anderson's naked breasts."
Salade Niçoise

I am fighting with my Canadian girlfriend.
They are so polite and sensitive, it's almost impossible to have a proper spat.
Here's a typical example of a recent exchange:

Her: Kindly send me no further unpleasant e-mail and I will return the favour.
Me: Fine. Do what you like.
Her: Thanks for the permission.
Me: Thanks for the haughtiness.
Her: Indeed. And thank you for failing to listen to me.
Me: It's been my pleasure. And thank you for behaving like a madwoman, run amok.
Her: Hardly. And please do me the favour of honouring my wishes not to argue.
Me: Too many u's four me to take seriously, daurling.
Me: You Canadian!
Her: Hrumph!
Me: Right back atcha!
Ride 'em Blogger!
I keep getting thrown offline when I try to post.
This is a test.
Further Dog Tales

Garbage day. I went out to take mine to the curb this morning, only to find my lawn newly dotted with a few plastic soda bottles, several stained, wadded up paper towels and some other small bits of paper wads, stuck to the dew on my lawn. I had to pick it all up and it was sickening.
I marched inside, washed my hands, and wrote this note:

Hi Pete,
Your black dog has been trashing my lawn. I hate picking up trash. Please so something to handle this situation. I'd really appreciate it.
Karen, next door

Then I stuck it under Pete's windshield wiper.
I am a Taurus. That means I will patiently explain something *once*.
After I have taken the trouble to patiently explain, I have no further patience for nonsense like this fucking dog's shenanigans.
This is not a trashy lawn neighborhood. We all mow, prune and refrain from having garbage and shit all over our lawns.
We don't have dogpacks cruising around.
I have never had to battle dog crap on my lawn, but I am sure that fucking mangy cur next door is saving himself three days worth of crap so he can come over and deposit a steaming catcher's mitt-sized pile of shit on my lawn.
That I will not pick up.
Pete will pick it up, after a scathing lecture about unleashed, uncollared dogs who like to shit on people's lawns not being appropriate for me or this neighborhood.
Then if the dog so much as sets one toe pad on my lawn, or strews even a Ding Dong wrapper on it, it's time to call in and report a giant, frothy mouthed rabid mongrel, terrorizing small children and snarling at passers by.

Justice, My Ass

Pothead pop singer Dionne Warwicke was let off with a tiny tap on the wrist after she was arrested at Miami International Airport with a mess of weed on her. The psychic seahag must have been too stoned to sense the fuzz catching her holding.
She's 61, that's too fucking old to be holding weed. Okay, it's not too old but she bitched too much about O.J. Simpson "being innocent" when he was on trial, and for that I can't stand her.
Here's what Dionne had to say for her bad self:
"Entertainers are sometimes placed in vulnerable situations which are completely beyond their control. To this day, I am puzzled about exactly what happened at the Miami International Airport, but through the grace of God I can now put this unpleasant chapter behind me."
Here's what happened, Dee- they caught you with 11 reefers in your lipstick case! Get real, you big-assed phony!

Meanwhile, kind of talented R Kelly was arrested for possession of a video of him having sex with a 14-year old girl. The case is said to be air tight, but RK's mouthpieces said the charges were totally false and he'd be exonerated.
Oh, bullshit.
Not only does the tape exist and was authenticated by experts, RK was sort of distributing it among underground pervy video collector jaggoffs. The damn thing is all over the East coast. Hell, I'm an old white bitch and I could probably track down a copy in a few days. Yeecch. A 14-year-old. What a creep.

Stolen from Reuters, reshaped by me:
The glinting of diamonds and sapphires led a Miami hotel security guard with a flashlight to find Sir Paul McCartney's fiancee's engagement ring -- lost in the bushes below the room where the former Beatle and Heather Mills stayed last month.
A spokeswoman for the hotel denied a British tabloid newspaper version of events that said the ring was lost when the former Beatle hurled it out of the window during a furious argument with his fiancee.
"There was no report of them having a fight, no guest complained about voices being raised," the woman told Reuters.
The News of the World said McCartney flung the ring off the balcony during a blazing argument with Mills.
A hotel bigwig said the couple did lose a ring, but the place it was found, directly below their room balcony, suggested it had fallen rather than being flung.
I think McCartney is known to be so cheap, he probably pretended to fling the ring but just dropped it at the last moment, for drama's sake. He is a Gemini, after all.

Wednesday, June 05, 2002

An Ordinary Morning

I just added Melly's "An Ordinary Morning" blog to my site. We are both from San Antonio, for one thing, and she's one of those deep-crazy-smart women like the San Antonio-based poet Sandra Cisneros.
I don't know Melly in person or online, but anyone smart enough to live in San Antonio is good enough for me. Check her site out and bienvenudo, comadre.
Six Feet Under: Afterthoughts

The Fisher Brothers didn't have to sell 25 percent of the business to Freddy. They could have refinanced the home for the cost of the plumbing. Ruth was left at least enough to pay the place off, if the mortgage wasn't already paid off.
Brenda's recently abandoned beachside cottage (I heard the waves) would run her at least $3,500 a month in rent.
How many rub-downs does the bitch have to do a month to make the rent, much less the the tons of beer, pot and the gourmet delicacies she's always sharing?
That means she must be beholden to Mommy and Daddy for the overage. Ha, what a loser.
That Damn Dog.

As I went out earlier to run an errand, that damn black Lab from next door was lounging on my front lawn, amidst about 10 pounds of garbage she had nicked from her daddy's trash can and strewed all over my fucking lawn.
I stood there lecturing her, not realizing my neighbors on the other side were peeping from their kitchen window. I said, "Look dog, you cannot strew garbage on my lawn, it's disgusting and so are you."
Then the dog rolled on her back and fucking smiled at me, wagging her nasty, muddy tail.
As I climbed in my car, Carmen the neighbor said, "Well, I guess you told her!"
I hate picking up garbage from my lawn. It could be medical waste, it could be spooge or feces or vomit for all I know. I am a germ-o-phobe as it is, now I gotta pick up human garbage that's been in a dirty dog's mouth.
And the dog was actually laughing at me while I was doing it! Bitch!
Pay it Forward

I just saw most of "Pay it Forward" on HBO and I have to ask, is Helen Hunt like Jodie Foster lite? And the kid, Haley Joe Osmond, is he one of those kid stars who's really 24 and just stuck in a little body like Webster or Gary Coleman?
Cute movie. What happened to Kevin Spacey's face? I missed that part.
I am Free!

I had a whole list of nagging errands I had been postponing, and today I just hauled off and finished them. Now I am free to blog guiltlessly because all my clients have the ball in their courts and I have nothing else to do.

Alas, I have nothing much to say.

My neighbor got another new dog, a grown black Lab who likes to stare at me when I get home at night. During the day she likes to bark, with her lips pressed against my office windows.
I finally went outside, eyed her and said, "Shut up, you!" It worked, can you believe it? Saved me the trouble of digging a hole under the fence to let her escape.
(Just kidding, dog lovers, save it)
I am stuck on this Texas Dyke list, where everyone likes to complain about political correctitude.
Some are rearing children and expect every gay function to be G rated so their kiddies can attend. Please, leave the kids at home and let the queers be queer.
Some are bisexual and want to discuss their boyfriends on the list. Spare me the details, I say.
Some are techno nerds and want to discuss things like bilateral X function multiple bandwidth hexagrams. I just delete them without reading.
Some are Kumbayas, who go ballistic if Arabs are mentioned in less than glowing terms.
I barely post to that list. I draw too many fucking lectures from the sourpuss uberdykes. I can't figure out how to unsub and they won't kick me off even if I stir the pot with both hands.
Summer is here in Texas now and it's too hot to go outside between 10 am and 7 pm.
I managed to go to the post office at 3, but I am still damp from that minimal exposure to outside temperatures. It's time to start canoodling with my pool owning friends.
With summer comes a more rotten disposition and tons more bitchiness from me.
Maybe I should move North. Nah, I hate snow and freezing weather and fail to see how those fucking autumn leaves can compensate for what follows.
I've seen Vermont in autumn, and yes it's spectacular, but then comes winter and they are cabin bound and stir crazy like rats on a ship.
In other news, Ralph Nader has launched a demand for an inquiry into the NBA referees screwing the Kings out of a conference title against the Lakers. It's a scandal, I tell you, and even Ralph the Head Nerd is pissed off.

The $20 million Texas Lottery

Tonight when I win the lottery I have chosen cash option, which will leave me with about 10 mil after taxes.
I intend to add a bumper car room to my house. I'll have about six bumper cars and invite people in after (their) work on Fridays for margaritas and collisions.
To add to the fun, I'll paint little slogans on the sides like, "Can you hear me now?" "Lakers 3peat," "Mike Tyson," "Dubya in 2004," "Taliban" and "Martha Stewart."

Tuesday, June 04, 2002

Blog Chef Salad

Tracy and Hoopty have stolen my blog salad concept, so now I am doing a deluxe chef salad, with more bite-sized bloggy bits.

• Watching "Queer As Folk" last night reminded me I am old enough to be advertising scoundrel/fuck machine Brian's mother. That means I am closer in age to Sharon Gless than I am to the regulars on that show. Ugh.
• Hummus is only good when people are around. Otherwise it tastes like library paste mixed with gym sweat.
• If I go to bed at 10 p.m., I wake up at 3 or 4 a.m. Further proof that I was not made for full-time, corporate drudgery.
• If Zed wasn't such a sweet, sensuous woman, I'd just forget about romance altogether and become a full time cranky old bat.
• Strawberries are really not that good, they just provide a reason to eat sugar and whipped cream.
• Gain laundry detergent smells so good it makes me want to wash my hair with it.
• After you see your kitten eat his first bug, kissing his little pink lips becomes an idea whose time has passed.
• My friend Brad asked if I wanted to see that new Nicholas Cage movie about Navaho war code. I said no, it's a dick flick. He hadn't realized there are chick and dick flicks.
I said, "Brad, do you see any women in this preview?" He said no, I said, "Dick flick!"
• If I was a billionaire, I'd hire a stooge to keep a list of books I wanted to read, films I wanted to see and CD's I wanted to buy. I'd pay $12k a year for someone to do that.
• I am out of energy bars, available only at Sam's, which means I'll go in to buy a bag of $3.74 bars and end up coming out with $200 worth of other stuff.
• No matter what anyone says, black panty liners are evil.
• When you stop smoking, most of your smoking friends either stop calling you or stop coming over.
• A worker at Six Flags Over Georgia was killed when he wandered into the path of an upside-down roller coaster and was struck in the head. Seems to me even a Walkman couldn't muffle the noise an oncoming roller coaster would make. Sheesh.
• A new study links excessive TV viewing with obesity among small children. Even worse if the TV's in the bedroom. Gee, I wonder how these scientists arrive at these brilliant conclusions?
• Top names for babies last year: Michael, Matthew, Jacob, and Emily, Madison and Alexis. Where have all the Jasons and Ashleys gone? I like to hide between rows in Toys R Us and yell "Madison, get over here this instant!" It causes a little stampede.
• Having babies should be at least as complicated as learning to fly. If God created orgasm as an enticement to breed, shouldn't he step in about now and take some of the hedonistic incentive out of it?

Monday, June 03, 2002

A Better Week Already

I stayed up till 3 a.m. last night watching 'The Sopranos' and 'Six Feet Under' on videotape.
I missed them at their regular times because I was watching the Lakers get handed another victory by the crooked NBA referees. Big mistake to think the Kings would be treated fairly. What a waste of time it was, watching that travesty.
Six Feet Under's season finale was so good, I was able to forget my sports angst and sleep peacefully until 7:30. Damn, that show is great. It's worth it to get HBO just for that and The Sopranos, not to mention Sex and the City.
At 8 a.m. I met my sister the Chinese medicine practitioner at a taco joint. She actually put an acupuncture needle in my hand while we were having coffee. Now I feel perky and alert. Nothing like eating a taco while my ki energy was being rerouted.
Turns out I am going to faux finish her living room wall to resemble a giant slab of malachite or adventurine. Should be fun.
Last night HBO also had a preview of the upcoming Lennox Lewis/Mike Tyson fight.
Tyson is a horrible human being, twisted and crazy and filled with rage that promoters like Don King feast upon. Lewis is articulate and sound minded.
I hope Lewis knocks Tyson out in round one and puts an end to his fading career. Odds are saying he will. I've no plans to watch the pay per view fight. I wouldn't give Tyson a penny if he was starving. Cable TV has a lot of nerve asking us to pay for special programming, especially something like a prizefight that could be over in three minutes.
My best friend Anna is home from Ethiopia, finally. Her house was starting to look like an African gift shop. She's pretty burnt out on the bureaucracy there.
She funded and put together two computer labs for the medical school students in Addis Ababa to use, but the honchos are so lame they wouldn't spring for the electricity or the staff to man the labs. It's like Mexico only more backward there, and no margaritas.
They do get American TV on satellite though, so even the poorest Ethiopian might well be familiar with The Osbournes, the NBA or the Drew Carey show. How embarrassing.
They have no Diet Coke in Ethiopia. No one needs to diet there.
Anyway, I am in a better mood today. I feel like I have removed a hair shirt from last week. This is a new month, a new week and a new day.

Sunday, June 02, 2002


Well, I am glad that week is over.
Last Monday I put Zed on a plane and things between us have been hazy ever since.
Then I saw Robert my critically ill helper in the hospital and he likely won't make it.
I failed to win the $16 million Texas lottery, which skewed my long-term financial planning.
My biggest client was dragging his feet and left me with unbillable time all fucking week.
The Lakers won the Western Conference finals and I hate them.
I have some cookies, but no milk.
One of my cats scattered the Sunday paper all over my living room floor while I was out watching the game.
I am out of Coke, all I have is diet Pepsi and I hate it.

This week has to be better. It just has to.

Blog Salad

I have no theme this morning, only random bits I plan to toss together.

• On AOL there's a newsy greetings menu when you first sign on.
This morning they listed hot spots for potential terrorist attacks. They are: Toronto, Pennsylvania, Boston, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, DC, and New Bern, N.C.
This is not over yet and I don't think the FBI has the wherewithal to stop them.

• John Tesh has his own radio show, late nights on Saturday. He plays music he likes, not necessarily his own. I think if he and Yanni had a concert together, they could fool the audience as to who was playing when.

• Everyone seemed to skip visiting the site I suggested on my Farm Porn comments page. Here it is again, it's hilarious and you should check it out. (Thanks, Raven)

• There's a Ph.D in England and a professor in KY who share my first and last name.
I bet they wish I'd change my name so's not to clutter up their egghead listings on search engines.

• I bought the Harry Potter movie Friday and have seen it twice this weekend. I am starting to think like they do. Hermoine is going to be a total babe when she grows up, and I'd still date Maggie Smith if I got the chance.

• A list I belong to is clamoring to get the NBA officials sanctioned for their blatant partiality to the Lakers in Game 6 of the conference finals. It's an outrage, I tell you.
Game 7 is at 6 pm central. Please watch if you can do hexes or spells, and put some hoodoo on the Lakers.

• My kitten James has started talking all night. He's got nothing much to say, he just likes to sit near my head and start making kitty noises, like meek, mee, eep, eek, meek eke, mee yow, meow, ee-oh, ee-ko, mroww, etc.
I need a translation dictionary so I can see what he wants and he can shut the hell up.

• India and Pakistan are at each other's throats. Both have nukes and both are stubbornly refusing to talk it out. I think they must have learned diplomacy from dykes who are recently broken up.

Saturday, June 01, 2002

Farm Girls

What's with all this farm girl and barnyard porn spam I get?
I haven't opened any of it, but I have to wonder why there's so damn much of it.
I don't like most porn, I am of the Anais Ninn school of erotica, so why send me so much creepy Green Acres porn spam?
Somehow I stopped being barraged with spam that will grow my penis by 3 inches, but now I am on the rural circuit.
I am a city girl. Hay makes me sneeze. I don't like gingham, pigtails or Daisy Duke cutoffs. I've never visited a farm porn site.
I blame Tracy for this.