Saturday, August 31, 2002

Time Stands Still

It's funny how the last blog seems to indicate the mood of the blogger, regardless of what has transpired since.
Luckily, my memory is too spotty to stay depressed for long. I often awaken and forget that I was even depressed the night before.
The bellinis (that's peach slurpies, Mike) Thursday night actually did cure me. So did deciding to go out on a nice dinner date last night.
On the Funny Girl List, we recently discussed depression and how there's no excuse for not getting long term depression sorted out.
One of the things we forget is that depression can look like extreme crankiness, making more than ourselves miserable.
Anyway, mine is gone for now, and good riddance.

Friday, August 30, 2002

Bellinis and a Little Chat

Today is a new day and after a few blenders of Bellinis last night with a good friend, things have smoothed out nicely. FYI, Bellinis are a blend of white meat peaches, peach brandy or nectar, and a whole bottle of champagne. I think Hemingway used to drink them at Harry's Bar in Rome.
I talked late last night with the woman I mentioned in my last blog. It was a peaceful chat where we both were able to settle things amicably and move on in separate directions.
A few weeks' fling is not worth months of animosity or the ruining of what could become a nice friendship.
Summer is starting to taper off in San Antonio. The light is changing outside and taking on a nice, fall glow. I love fall and spring. My Circadian clock adjusts happily to both seasons.
People on my reblog likened depression to a head cold. They are right. It comes, it goes, and some bouts last a shorter time than others.
I think mine may have converted to a chest cold. I am stuffy and coughing and have that sleepy feeling. Luckily I am off till the day after Labor Day, so I can sleep a lot and shake it off.
I guess it's true- when life hands you lemons, make Bellinis.

Thursday, August 29, 2002

Okay. I'm depressed.

I seem to have slipped into a medium strength depression. It's not bad, but I can feel the effects creeping up on me.
See, a few weeks ago, I got involved with someone who was at the tail-end of her relationship with a woman who had not made her happy in some time.
As we became closer and more intimate, her abysmal relationship suddenly revived.
Sadly, I had to scoop up my bruised heart and mangled pride and bail out.
She wrote me a hyperperky letter the next morning, hoping we could remain friends. It was too soon and too cavalier. I replied in a *somewhat* curmudgeonly way.
Rumor has it, she was offended. Apparently she forgot about my curmudgeonly tendencies. Or maybe she just didn't get how much she'd hurt my feelings.
I miss her and I care about her, but I am neither going to be anyone's other woman nor treated in a cavalier way, so here I am, wrapped in my tattered self esteem.
Joan Armatrading wrote the ultimate song for this wretched situation called, "The Weakness in Me." When one is at the receiving end of this song, it's depressing as hell. And here I am, on the receiving end, getting depressed as hell.
I have tried to remedy the situation with VISA therapy.
I ordered a bunch of books about Frida Kahlo, who had her own love problems with Diego Rivera. And I ordered Dusty Springfield's Greatest Hits on CD, so I can have the right background music for my dismay.
I guess the answer song for "The Weakness in Me" is Joni Mitchell's "The Last Time I Saw Richard," where she sang:
'I'm gonna blow this damn candle out
I don't want nobody coming over to my table
I got nothing to talk to anybody about
All good dreamers pass this way someday
Hiding behind bottles in dark cafes
Dark cafes
Only a dark cocoon before I get my gorgeous wings
And fly away
Only a phase, these dark cafe days..."

Yep. Depression is only a phase and I have faced and conquered it a hundred times.
Still, I wish it was a chore I could avoid.
White meat peaches are in season and champagne is always available. I think a blender full of icy cold Bellinis might just take the edge off...or maybe a trip to some dark cafe, since it is raining outside, and brooding conditions are ideal.
Already Panicking

I have insomnia. I think it's work-related.
Just the thought of going back to the corporate ratrace had my mind reeling as I laid in bed earlier.
What would my office be like? Most of the bigwig offices are glass on at least one side, and that means no privacy.
Would they let me bring in a CD player?
Where do they eat lunch?
All I saw around there was a Jack in the Box and a dump called The Curve.
I've never ventured into The Curve, but I suspect the decor is beer signs and pool tables, with a real hairy guy in an undershirt, frying greasy burgers behind a stained Formica counter. No can do.
And Jack in the Box? No way. Their food is inedible, and I've heard one too many urban legend maggots-in-the-meat stories about that place.
Plus, what if my insomnia continues? No naptimes in the corporate world, especially not with windowed offices.
And no more shopping at 2 p.m. when the crowds are light. I'd have to become a weekend shopper, which would only add to my basic agoraphobia.
Woe is me. I am hammocked between two worlds.
Too bad Miss Cleo the TV psychic was a fraud. I could use her advice right now.

Wednesday, August 28, 2002

Come September

I'll be happy again.
The Sopranos and Survivor are coming back with new episodes.
That's basically all I need to feel complete, if you throw in Six Feet Under.

I think I may have accidentally met Lauren Bacall online, through some work I do for my isp. How cool is that?

I had a meeting with my major client and the topic of my working there full time has come up again.
I am actually thinking about it. It would cut seriously into my travel adventures, but considering they have usually been about chasing the wrong woman, I am starting to think it might be better to just get back into the rat race and earn some serious cash.

I kind of miss having an office and getting to wear snappy clothes to work.
What I don't miss is commuting and having to be in the same spot day after day.
Maybe a nice new Lexus, BMW or Benz would make the commute easier.
Nothing like eight speakers of car shaking funk to clear one's head in the morning.

I dunno. It's starting to sound good to me. Giant flat screen TV, anyone?

Ha! Score One for Our Side

Ultra conservative right wing news pundit Bill O'Reilly gave the gay magazine "The Advocate" an interview that'll knock his conservative fans right on their asses.
Go here:
and see what he had to say about gay adoption rights, gay marriage, homophobic fanatics and other areas of interest to gays and lesbians.
Let's just say I am very pleased with this evolved and new O'Reilly, and hope he has enlightened a few of his more extreme, hate mongering fans.
In the News

They say bin Laden is alive in a cave somewhere near Bora Tora, or is that Tora Bora?
Whichever, my hunch is now that Dubya's plan to go after Saddam is getting a lukewarm response from Americans, he's finally decided to quit fucking around and have our military capture bin Laden and bring him in.
That way, the American public will say "Yay! We got him," and then be more likely to okay Dubya going after Saddam.
Why would Bush stall? Because each passing day nets more money for his war mongering military industrial complex campaign contributors, silly.
So the timing is right for Dubya to nab bin Laden, take a big bow and then say, "Okay, now may I please go get Saddam?"
And we Americans, being the gullible fools we are, will say, "Yes, George, here's a few more trillion for you. Go get him!"
Hey, if Dubya can bring in that asshole bin Laden, I'd probably be more likely to support the U.S. collapsing the Iraqi government.
But right now, I am a one-mission-at-a-time person, and until Dubya hands us bin Laden's head on a stick, I'll continue to doubt his competence at waging offense or defense.

Tuesday, August 27, 2002

Blissful Nothingness

The only chore I had to do today was taking my best friend Anna to the airport.
She's going back to Ethiopia for five weeks to set up a master's program in social work at Addis Ababa University.
Gee, and I painted a wall this summer.
Anna's great. We communicate on such a clear level, words are optional.
Today's example:

Anna: How's it going with...
Me: It's not.
Anna: Oh? Why?
Me: Ehhh.
Anna: Uh huh.
Me: Whatever.
Anna: Yep.

It's so much easier to talk in vague grunts and groans, especially when the topic is the same one we've covered many times in the past.
We ought to just number them:

Anna: How's it going with...
Me: 3
Anna: Got it.

Our IM's are even better. Say she is asking me to have lunch with her:

Anna: WF 12:15?
Me: y
Anna: bye
Me: bye

That means,
"Do you want to have lunch with me today at Whole Foods at 12:15?"

I love her. She cuts right through the bullshit.

Monday, August 26, 2002

Almost Done...

I am done painting, don't have any work to do until an easy meeting on Wednesday, then I begin Labor Day week. I thought about going on a road trip, but then I remembered all the worker bees who'll be thinking the same thing, and nixed that idea.
Planning anything outdoors is out of the question- West Nile mosquitoes have already killed one person in Houston, and I have no plans to be the first San Antonio victim.
I was watching trash TV tonight, Fear Factor and Dog Eat Dog, now Queer As Folk.
Pure crap, but sometimes the mind must be clouded with sensory crap as a diversion from the real crap in one's life.
While painting my sister's wall, I was at the mercy of her music collection and slipped in a compilation CD her ex had made for her when they were courting.
The cringe factor went pretty high when "Mac Arthur Park" came on. Richard Harris, poor dear, in his reedy voice singing those quasi-psychedelic lyrics, "I don't know if I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again...oh nooooo, oh nooooooo!"
Holy Christ, what was he thinking?
It did, however, make me want to watch Harry Potter again on video, so that's on my schedule soon. Richard Harris makes a much better Albus Dumbledor than a 70's rock star.
And, like Barcodie, I have nothing much left to say tonight.
Layer Three

After a weekend of faux finishing my sister's wall, I am off today to do layer three, the feathering and metallic stage. Then there's the glaze to tone it all down, then I am done.
I think this project has caused my spine to move out of whack, and my arms and flanks hurt like hell.
Lucky my sister's an acupuncturist.

Saturday, August 24, 2002


Josh Ryan Evans, that kid who played Timmy on "Passions" died. I just found out yesterday.
He wasn't a kid, he was 20, and he died of heart complications associated with achondroplasia, a genetic disorder that restricts cartilage growth and physical development.
His character on Passions had died in early August.
Now I feel kinda shitty talking bad about him. Sorry.
RIP, kid.
Egads, What a Night!

I have decided I want to be a tech rep for AOL.
They don't have to actually know anything and they can tell you whatever they like because you'll never find them again if they told you the wrong thing to do.
Here's how my 9th call to AOL last night sounded:

Me: Okay, I reinstalled AOL but my bookmarked files are gone.
AOL Tech: What do you mean by gone?
Me: They aren't there.
AOL Tech: They aren't where?
Me: They aren't where they are supposed to be.
AOL Tech: Do you know where they are?
Me: Sir, If I knew where they are, I wouldn't have called.
AOL Tech: Look in your data file, they will be there.
Me: I am looking in my date file, they aren't there.
AOL Tech: Uhh, it sounds like they were corrupted files and when you reinstalled AOL they must have eliminated themselves because they were corrupted.
Me: They were fine until your colleague must have told me the wrong thing to do.
AOL Tech: Oh no, they must have been corrupted somehow or they'd be there.
Me: Well let's find them then, shall we?
AOL Tech: Are you on a Mac?
Me: Yes that's why I called the 1-888 Mac AOL tech support number.
AOL Tech: I see. So, what's probably happened is the file got corrupted.
Me: Either that or some tech told me the wrong thing to do.
AOL Tech: No, it would be a corrupted file.
Me: So there's no way some tech just screwed up and had me delete something I needed?
AOL Tech: No it was a corrupted file.
Me: How do you know it wasn't just some idiot who told me to delete the wrong thing?
AOL Tech: Because the file must have been corrupted.
Me: Can we do a search or some damn thing to see if they just got stuck somewhere?
AOL Tech: Not with a corrupted file, no.
Me: Maybe it's just a misplaced file?
AOL Tech: Not if it was corrupted, and it sounds like this was a corrupted file.
Me: So, basically, what you are telling me is, five years of bookmarked sites are gone, is that about it?
AOL Tech: If a file is corrupted it's generally assumed to be gone because it was corrupted.
Me: Okay, so the bottom line is, I am, what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yeah, SCREWED.
AOL Tech: The bottom line is, your file was corr-
Me: Stop!! Goodnight!
We Interrupt This Blog...

I am having frightful problems with AOL and after six techs telling me six radically different things to try, I have now been reduced to AOL.4 instead of AOL.5, no address book and no bookmarked files.
I must call them AGAIN to try to unmangle this twisted wreckage.
So, if I seem missing in action for a day or two it's because of one of two reasons:
1. AOL can't fix this and I have to call in the heavy artillery, or
2. I went berserk and had to be hospitalized.

Friday, August 23, 2002

98 Degrees: More than a Cheesy 70's Chick Trio

I had to venture out for bottled water today in 98º heat.
My hair melted and fused to my head like a Ken doll.
I got a tan walking from the parking lot to the store.
It was so hot, I started hallucinating Sorrento's
Once inside the store, the heat turned me into a tar baby, attracting:
-people running their carts into mine
-people running into me
-children, not getting out of my way
-people, expecting me to move out of their way

Near the lunch meat aisle, there was one of those little 5'0" mini bulldykes, you know, with the little chopped off haircut and the neat and tidy khaki shorts with the sharp crease, the leather belt and the tucked in, ironed T-shirt and the tiny little combat boots?
She looked kind of like that icky doll boy Timmy on "Passions," but she was swaggering around like Sgt. Carter on "Gomer Pyle, USMC."
Anyway, I purposely walked by her cart really close, ahem-ed and let her watch me effortlessly heft a 24-pack of 16 ounce water bottles into my cart. Ha.
Heat makes me slightly aggressive, I think.
Poor Timmy, I hope I didn't scare her little butch midget ass.

It's cool this morning and I feel much less like I have burrs under my horse blanket today.

I read in the news today they are going to stop asking if anyone unknown to you has asked you to carry something aboard a plane, or whether you left your bag unattended at any point.
That makes sense. I mean, imagine being at an airport and having some swarthy guy say, "Pssst, vould you kindly carry this small parcel in your bag on your treep to Israel?" then not mentioning it to someone?
They are also letting people carry coffee or plastic bottles of soda thru the x-ray door.
Seems they used to be so strict, once they made a woman sample three bottles of her own breast milk to be sure it posed no threat to other passengers. Ugh.
When I went to Vegas, I saw them randomly search two people, a little old Latina grandma and a young cowboy with Wranglers and a cowboy hat who looked like Tim McGraw. I sure felt safer after I knew they were cleared of any suspicion.
Thinking about the blog I did yesterday on terrorists having the know-how to assemble bomb components from wherever they were, I thought post offices boxes could be likely targets. They are open 24 hours a day and unmonitored after hours. A time delayed detonator could be used, say around April 15 at noon, and cause untold havoc.
Malls with movie theaters that stay open late also could be good targets.
In fact, if I let myself start thinking about it, too many public places could be targets.
Instead of trying to stay ahead of the roaches, it just seems to me keeping new ones out to begin with would be the wisest choice.
Sending someone back to their own Middle Eastern country is not a punishment, and the Ellis Island days of "bringing us your poor, your tired and your huddled masses" are over.
People used to immigrate to America because this was the land of opportunity. Now the opportunities some seek is to destroy our infrastructure and kill as many of us as possible. This is 2002, not 1902.
I'm not xenophobic, I just don't like terrorist assholes and most of them lately seem to have Middle Eastern links. It's a pity so many legit Arabs are considered guilty by association, but these are troubling times and that sounds like a Middle Eastern problem, not ours.

Thursday, August 22, 2002


An al Qaeda videotape obtained by CNN shows a level of sophistication in bomb making that would allow terrorists to arrive in a target city unarmed and easily put together high-explosive devices to carry out destructive attacks, experts who saw the tapes say.
Essentially a training video for select al Qaeda recruits, the tape shows the steps needed to make pure TNT and bomb components using easy-to-obtain materials to make powerful explosives from scratch.


Until this matter is settled, immediate deportation and further immigration from citizens of any Middle Eastern country, with even one citizen deemed guilty of ever engaging in any sort of terrorism, should be denied.
If the rest of the poor, innocent Middle Easterners feel discriminated against as a result, they can spend their rage in their own countries, weeding out the snakes and bastards who make all of them look like criminals and have made Muslim and Islamic religions look like Satanism.

Okay, I Have Officially Had It.

August in Texas sucks.
It's 93º outside and hotter than habanero peppers. I don't know why 93 seems so hot this summer, but it does. It's usually 100º by this time of year.
I did a little experiment. I turned off the a/c and fan in my office, and immediately my fucking face began to smoke like I was about to spontaneously combust. I could barely make the trip across the rug to turn it all back on.
Something got into me today and I started craving spaghetti and meatballs.
I happen to make great meatballs, but the thought of turning on the stove to cook was so sickening to me, I ended up calling an Italian joint and ordering some to pick up.
Then the thought of going outside to drive in a steaming hot car to get it was so smothering, I ordered it delivered.
So my plan now is to just have people bring me food until late September.
I am hot and fussy and I want what I want when I want it and that's all there is to it.
I don't need a hug, it's too fucking hot to be hugged.
Besides, women drive me fucking crazy, all of them.
All I want is a cool breeze and a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. And garlic bread.

Oh Goodie, Already a New Survivor Scandal

AUGUST 19--When CBS last week announced the new "Survivor" cast, the network identified one contestant as a "top used car salesman" named Brian Heidik. The network bio says the 34-year-old California man previously worked as a stockbroker, motorcycle salesman, writer and actor. His "varying acting credits," CBS noted, included a 1992-3 stint on the soap opera "Days of Our Lives," and one-shot appearances on "Baywatch Nights" (1995) and "Doogie Howser, M.D." (1989).
They left out the 8 or 10 soft porn movies to his credit, the kind that have a weak plot and they pseudo-fuck in front of gauzy lenses.

My painting job was cut short yesterday.
See, to mix the paint for a faux finish, I need a dinner plate, where I squeeze different colors and mediums in concentric circles.
Seems my perfect sister doesn't need dinner plates, because I couldn't find any.
She must get taken to dinner every night.
We talked last night and she said she did have plates, I just missed them. I think she lied and ran out to get some last night.
She's going to Phoenix for a week, starting today. Phoenix and other nearby locales. She was very cryptic so I asked her a dozen rapid fire questions. I know she fucks around, but like a cat or a Baptist, it's just hard to catch her at it.
She's the perfect lesbian. Politically correct, runs marathons, delivers babies as a certified midwife clinician, just got a degree in Oriental medicine, her house looks like a Restoration Hardware store, even her damn dog is nice.
The only thing I have over her is I can make art, write and my feet are way cuter.

Wednesday, August 21, 2002


The guards let me out today to go paint my sister's wall.
I'll tell you all about it when I get back.

Tuesday, August 20, 2002

Tuesday Morning

I've got nothing much to say this morning, stayed up way too late and woke up way too early, thanks to a certain buff and white little animal who thinks it's really fun to put his wet nose on mine to awaken me. Never mind he's already standing on me with 15 pounds of kitty bulk before he does the nose thing.
Today is the day I must face the wall. I gave my sister a faux finish wall painting job for her birthday (July 9) and it's time I honor my offer. I am going with a green peridot gemstone effect, or maybe something darker like jade or adventurine colors.
Life is interesting right now in a 'don't want to talk about it' sense. Maybe I will in a few days or weeks, but for now I think enigmatic works best.
Looks like I'll be co-guest blogging with Chari for Grey Bird while she's gone to Europe. I may just pretend to be her and talk about Thilde the puppy, Mel the girlfriend and Woodstock the parrot. And I'll add some of her computer uber-jargon to make it seem legit. I may also include some soft porn disguised as her writing. She doesn't have my home address- oh wait- she's my blog guru and she'd slit my bloggy throat. Never mind.
Tracy is finally going back to work so we can expect some funny psych hospital blogs soon. Thank God. The girl needs to keep busy.
I am so glad summer is winding down. I have successfully avoided the heat by eschewing barbecues, pool parties and other West Nile mosquito opportunities, so I may make it to fall without contracting meningitis or skin cancer from sun exposure. I don't even have a white wrist watch patch this year.
Okay...I do need a haircut, but if that's all I can think of to say, it's time to wrap this up.

Monday, August 19, 2002

Enough Politics...Let's Talk Plumbing!

I couldn't stand the dripping pipe and the cake pan in my bathroom collecting the drips for one more moment. It was time to face up to my wussy butch ways and conquer them once and for all!
So I sat on the bathtub's edge and I did a technical drawing of the pipe as it connected to the floor, the little elbow that connected to the turner-offer, and the way that connected to the little hose, then what the thing looked like that connected the little hose to the toilet tank. It was a damn fine drawing, in the style of da Vinci.
I took the drawing to a nice man named Nacho at the Faucet Parts store. He sold me the exact parts, only I said the hose I needed was longer. He said no. I said yes. He sold me a longer hose. He was right, so I went back moments later and returned the longer one for the shorter one.
It was time to turn off the main water supply, located in a ceramic pipe buried in my front lawn.
The pipe was filled with dirt. As I kneeled over the pipe, scooping out dirt with my stainless steel chef's ladle, a convention of red ants started arriving, mistaking the new little piles of dirt for real estate they own. They also assumed I would dispute that claim, so they began to bite me like crazy little sons of bitches.
But I was not deterred from my task.
Minutes later, I unearthed the faucet and began to fight it, chanting "lefty loosey, righty tighty." With a screwdriver, hammer and some big extendo pliers, I was able to stem the flow to my house.
Then I went back to the bathroom, emptied the tank and unwrenched the existing fucked up parts. Yes, I did soak the floor, but that's okay because THE NEW PARTS FIT!
I turned the water back on outside (4 new ant bites) came back in, turned the little faucet on and the tank filled, no drips, no leaks and no more problem.
I am the master of my domain. I do plumbing repairs and I OWN A BIG WRENCH!
I am STILL a threat to Techfluid's marriage! :)
From online list Bushwatch, Something to consider

I didn't write this but I wish I had:

Analysis of Bush presidency suggests a nation overthrown

Consider this: An inarticulate, politically inexperienced man with family links to a previous national regime comes to provincial leadership. Subsequently he gains the highest national office without winning the popular vote. The election in which he was declared the victor is considered compromised by his brother's province. He appoints a chief law enforcement officer who has repeatedly called for constitutional revisions. Regulatory agencies are filled with those previously regulated. Soldiers patrol transportation centers. International treaties are abrogated. International legal organizations are shunned. Roles of police and military are blurred. Law enforcement agencies are centralized. Individual civil rights are reduced. A "shadow" government is created.

Domestic surveillance is increased. People are encouraged to spy on each other. Military budgets are increased. The military establishes a disinformation program. Media access to government is limited. Consultations with the legislative branch decline. Connections to corrupt corporate sponsors are disavowed. Efforts to further plunder natural resources for profit are initiated. Access to past administrations' documents is limited. A war mentality is established with imprecise enemies. Nebulous fear- inducing alerts are periodically released. National level profiling is introduced. People are imprisoned without public charges and unknown others are "disappeared." Does the word "coup" come to mind? --Bill Petz

Sunday, August 18, 2002

See? This is why...

This is part of why I don't trust those sleazy Republicans running our wars.
They talk out of both sides of their asses.
Who was Reagan's Vice President? Big Bush. You just can't trust those Iran Contra fuckers or their devil spawn. And let's not forget, Colin Powell was in on Reagan's big lies back then, too.

NEW YORK (Aug. 18) -- The United States gave Iraq vital battle-planning help during its war with Iran as part of a secret program under President Ronald Reagan even though U.S. intelligence agencies knew the Iraqis would unleash chemical weapons, The New York Times reported on its Web site on Saturday.

The highly classified covert program involved more than 60 officers of the U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency who provided detailed information on Iranian military deployments, tactical planning for battles, plans for airstrikes and bomb-damage assessments for Iraq, the Times said.

The Times said it based its report on comments by senior U.S. military officers with direct knowledge of the program, most of whom agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity..."

But wait! Here's more:

"The Times noted that Iraq's deployment of chemical weapons during its war with Iran has been invoked by President George W. Bush and Condoleezza Rice, Bush's national security adviser, as justification for seeking "regime change" in Iraq.

While senior officials of the Reagan administration publicly condemned Iraq's use of mustard gas, sarin, VX and other chemical weapons, Reagan, Vice President George Bush -- the father of the current U.S. president -- and senior national security aides never withdrew their support for the covert program, the Times quoted military officers as saying.

Current Secretary of State Colin Powell, who at the time served as national security adviser, was among the Reagan administration officials who publicly condemned Iraq for its use of poison gas, especially one incident in March 1988."


I am up for some trash activity today, so I am going to go play bingo with my best friend Anna and our mutual friend Anne. They are both style mavens, so I guess I'll have to iron and wear something socially acceptable.
Anyway, I am feeling lucky today, so maybe I'll hit a jackpot.
Wish me luck.

Saturday, August 17, 2002

Trash TV/Trash Politics

I've been noticing so many so-called reality shows have incorporated disgusting eating contests, like fishing blood balls out of earth worm spaghetti with one's face.
In one year, I have seen people on TV eat roaches, worms, putrefied fish and all kinds of other offal. People will do nearly anything to win a few bucks.
This is where we've come in 50 years of television.
A willingness to watch this type of garbage, plus the popularity of shows like Jerry Springer and his types, and the enthusiastic acceptance of "pro wrestling" indicates a huge dumbing down of the American public.
When I see Dubya's approval ratings, I am not surprised.
All that "wanted dead or alive," John Wayne-type posturing goes over great with middle America, who believe the feds are trying as hard as they can to find bin Laden.
We have satellite technology that can detect by heat and sight the gender of a field mouse scampering over a landscape at night, yet we can't find one man traveling outdoors with an entourage of at least a dozen men? Horseshit.
Bush has had 11 months to find bin Laden. Every day that passes, this "war" lines the pockets of his campaign contributors who make their money on defense contracts.
Finding bin Laden and bringing him to justice would influence the American public to want to stop funding a war where all we seem to do is drop bombs on dirt piles.
So what does Bush do? He starts wanting to go after Saddam Hussein in Iraq.
And we're gonna fall for it.

Friday, August 16, 2002

Dear Major League Baseball Players and Owners:

I understand you are facing a strike.
Fans are irate.
Even Dubya is furious, but then that's his new word of the month.
I saw a real pro baseball game once, the San Diego Padres playing some Colorado team. Mostly I talked through the game to all the cute chicks in our party, but the weather and refreshments were good, and the tickets were free.
I don't watch baseball on TV, that is unless I am craving the sight of a grown man scratching his balls or spitting. Surprising how infrequently that urge hits me.
So- enjoy your strike and know that after it's settled, you'll still have one person out there who won't notice whether you're playing again or not.
Consumer Bliss

Today I found six packs of Coke in tiny 8-ounce cans! They are the thickness of a regular Coke can, but only half as tall. I can't wait till I can spring them on company:
"Want a little Coke?"
So I'll come out, holding one of those tiny cans. How cute!
The Bitch Is Back!

Finally, I have completed my editorial work for the month, and unless some new pest contacts me for more baboonish corporate drivel, I am free for the next few weeks.

My only assignment penciled in is doing a faux finish on my sister's fireplace wall. I am going to make it look like malachite, only lighter. That should be fun. :o[

Now, I notice in my limited blogging time as of late, some of my commenters have been toying with me. This would include Chari, who insinuated I was a big fat baby, Tracy, who has nominated me for "most posts," which may be the shittiest Bloggy award category there is, and Mr. Barcodie, who mentioned the "most posts" category is already cinched by some Amish guy.

I try not to be competitive, but it's a slimy monster that exists just beneath my serene veneer, so I am fighting the temptation to bitchslap the crown off Miss Funniest Bloggy Award Winner Tracy and her little friend Chari, who runs second to her.
Don't make me do it, girls. I have the skillz.

Meanwhile, in my personal life, I am fighting the urge not to get a crush on someone I know who is far too young and far too cute for me.
In my effort to find a plausible rationale for indulging my geezerly urges, I have been wracking my brain, trying to come up with another couple who share the same vast age difference.
So far all I've been able to manage was Hannibal Lector and Clarise Starling.
That won't do. I don't even like organ meats.
I may have to go rent "Lolita" and expunge this nagging notion. The new Lolita with Jeremy Irons, not the old one.

Thursday, August 15, 2002

Thursday Night's Rant-o-Rama

What a day.

All day I wrote and wrote and wrote, deadline looming, and this one passive aggressive human resources clerk had to be the last pickle in the jar.
She's always late with her story leads, and as an external contractor, I can't go fuck with her desk or plug the earholes of her phone.

Meanwhile, back at the dysfunctional family ranch...

My older siblings are back to their e-mail quibblethon extravaganza.
Seems we are hammering out the end details for financing the cost of my Mom's retirement community, and my brother who drives a new truck, has a boat, a cherried out 1964 red Mustang convertible, a house and is building a lake house...has money worries and can't find a way to chip in his share after all.
Meanwhile, my sister was doing her best Joan Crawford, "No Wire Hangers EVER" routine, which backfired, so now she's claiming a near nervous breakdown.
This matter has been hashed, rehashed and minced into a rancid paté by now and I am sick of all of them. P'tooie!


In other news, my young cat James kept jumping up on my lap with his chin and bib suspiciously wet.
I looked all over for spilled water, only to find the source coming from an apparent crack in the metal accordion line that goes from the floor to the bottom of my toilet tank. It was making a hissing noise and squirting a super fine jet of water behind the toilet. So, being the handy tooltime butch I am, I fetched the scissors and some duct tape and lo and behold, it's totally fucked up now and dripping a steady stream of water onto a towel on the floor.
Now I have to call a femme friend over to fix it, and have her laugh at me and call me swishy. I've gone from sir to swishy in three days.

Add in the fact that my lower sinuses hurt like hell and I don't have anything to take to fix them. Plus I woke up cranky from my nap. :(
Thursday's Skimpy Blog

The trouble with being a writer is sometimes you have to write.
Alas, I fear another day of non-blog, forced writing lies ahead.
Work, work, work, that's all I do lately.

Wednesday, August 14, 2002


My main client is working me today like a rented mule, so this is going to be the skimpiest of skimpy blogs.
James my cat walked up and down my torso all night, so I am thinking of enrolling him in Spacemonk's duct tape yoga classes for cats/evening division.
Now Bart the older cat is sleeping on my foot, which with an ass as big as his is like having a canned ham on it.
Must work now.

Tuesday, August 13, 2002

Bloggy Haywire and More on Vegas

Tracy's flipped her wig again, offering a link to Jesus Christ's personal ad webpage. It's a very strange site worth a look.

• I figured out all the "sir" shit I got this weekend. Michele, my haircutter and former girlfriend, left what look like sideburns on my head. She usually trims them toward the top of my ear, but this time she left them looser and they have grown to the bottom of my ear, not connected to my head per se, just looking like they are.
So yes, I was walking around in Vegas looking like a fucking Elvis impersonator. Like a hunka-hunka burning sir. I must plot my revenge.

• Downtown Las Vegas must spend zillions of promotional dollars trying to attract a Pacific Rim, Asian clientele. I learned all these handy Hawaiian phrases while I was there:
-Ooka nooka pooka: You lose again, sistah
-Ookie bonka zikka binka oinka: Look at that bitch eating that ham steak!
-Nanka winga nadda: That chick with sideburns is a total loosah!
-Betta genna fooka manna: Bet a little more, sir
-Moka taka laka: Thanks for the money, chump
-Kahana maka spam wikka kona? You want Spam chunks with that ice cream cone?
-Datta maka fiteen, manna: Two Cokes and one small apple, that'll be $15, sir.

• For the Blog Con Vegas attendees, don't expect prompt and flowing free cocktail service while you're gambling. Service is slower, drinks are smaller and attitudes are a little crappier. Cocktail waitresses no longer resemble Playboy bunnies, either. Now they look more like retired school teachers who moved to Vegas because the dry heat helps their arthritis pain.

• More for Blog Con artists: Evening gamblers don't dress up anymore. Just leave on the sloppy T-shirts and baggy shorts, nobody gives a damn. Also don't bother thanking the cashier people, they never say you're welcome and they hate your guts and wish you were dead anyway.

• Please don't buy those fucked up cigars they sell in Vegas. They are cheap and they stink. Their only useful property is clearing out a row of slots you want to play. If you want to clear out a row of slot machines without cigar smoke, squeeze in and chat with the people on either side of you. Tell them to look when you almost hit a jackpot. Tell them to look when you hit a tiny jackpot. Ask them open ended, personal questions. Tell them you came to Vegas to celebrate the doctors finally getting rid of your fungus infections. Ask for a sip of their drink. Light up a clove cigarette.

Monday, August 12, 2002

Vegas: Like a Pretty, but Insincere Woman

We flew in on a nice new airliner with a horrid little lunch that consisted of a dry little bun with a slice of mystery meat and some faux cheese, with a packet of yellow mustard jammed beside it. A teeny bag of Fritos came with it. Dry. Jail food!
We got to the downtown hotel via a crowded shuttle, but it was kind of cool because we stopped at a few hotels on the strip and got to see them up close.
Westward Ho puts the ho in hotel, although it would be more aptly named Westward Mo.
Finally, we got to our hotel, and our room was gorgeous, spotless, cool and quiet.
Then we strapped on our fanny packs and hit the 106º streets.
The Golden Nugget stole the first of our money without benefit of cocktail support.
We wandered to other nearby casinos and lost more, then to my once beloved Binion's Horseshoe, where I attempted to replicate my $1,000 jackpot win from last April.
The Double Diamonds machine acted as if we'd never met and hadn't shared a thousand dollar secret. She wolfed down 20 of my hard earned dollars as if I meant nothing to her.
I walked away from her, heartbroken and bitter, determined to find another.
Then I went to some dollar machines my sisters had scored big on and they too showed little regard for my needs. Binion's casino can kiss my butt.
At around 6 or 7, we got hungry. We had prime rib and all the trimmings for less than 8 bucks each. Ooof. I had to have a nap afterwards. In Vegas!!! At around 9 we rehit the streets and won and lost more money. By the wee hours when we dragged in, I was down more than 200 bucks and fell into a deep coma-sleep.
We awakened around 11 on Saturday and breakfasted at Binion's coffee shop, where for $4.99 they brought a pot of coffee, two eggs, hash browns, toast and a smoked ham steak the size of a Ford pickup hubcap. I developed a breakfast belly that strained at my fanny pack. It was not a good look for me.
No humidity and using too much greasy hotel conditioner plasters one's hair down. I got called 'sir' about 12 times that day. I think my breakfast belly must have canceled out my breasts.
By Sunday, we'd hit the Stardust and spent 7 hours winning and losing the same $50.
Sunday night we managed to donate more money to the downtown economy.
I got frustrated and started downing beer and long island ice teas. Went to sleep drunk and exhausted around 1:30. Woke up at 6. Took a shuttle to the airport, had a blowout on the freeway, had to be rescued by another shuttle, lost another $20 or so at the airport, then came home.
Once in San Antonio, I bought a bottle of water at an airport cafe. The fucking cashier called me sir.
I think I may need to chat with my haircutter.
Vegas: Mecca, Schmecca

I am home and tired and didn't exactly float home on the wings of a huge jackpot.
Will write more later, after sleeping a few hours.
Let me just say Long Island ice teas at midnight with a 6 a.m. wake-up call was not a bright idea.
Ouch. Nap time.

Saturday, August 10, 2002

'SLuts Fo' Fun

Well, it's Saturday night and I hope Ms. Zipdrive is enjoying her evening. By now she's probably worked her way through half a dozen casinos. Cha-ching. Some people, like my 80 year old great-aunt, have the ability to size up a one-armed bandit and just know that it's going to pay. I don't know how she does it... I think she's got some kind of electro-magnetic touch. She always manages to win enough to pay for her trip, sometimes more. Let's hope Karen's a winner, or at least has gotten a hot cocktail waitress to wet her whistle.

The TV is on as I write this and I just watched a cute Holiday Inn commercial about a family on a road trip vacation. They've parked the car at the edge of the Grand Canyon to enjoy the view. Somebody in the car complains of boredom and is chastised by mom. "Now, now, grandma has waited 93 and a half years to see this" she says. Then, "Grandma, do you mind if we go to Las Vegas?" Grandma perks right up and yells "Sin City, here we come!" Old people really love to gamble... I wonder why? Perhaps Karen will answer that for us when she comes back. *wink, wink*

I like slots and craps but I never win. Having been an accountant, I'm pretty conservative. When I gamble, I usually have a budget and try to make the money last as long as possible. I'm satisfied with playing craps on the same $20 for three hours. It's fun and I haven't lost much money. I've never really been able to walk away when I'm ahead and losing a lot of money for any reason hurts my feelings. I tend to do better with little stuff like bingo boards, scratch off lottery tickets and pocket-change poker games with my friends. The most money I've ever won at once is $112. I'm still waiting to win the Mega-millions lottery.

Let's have a survey so that Karen has something to read when she gets back. Comment on any or all of the following: What games do you like? What's the most money you've ever won? Lost? What did you do? Why do old people like to gamble?

Friday, August 09, 2002

Oh, My Bags Are Packed...

I flopped around all night, dreaming of pinging slot machines, cocktail waitresses wetting my whistle and guys in dark suits paying me stacks of hundred dollar bills.

But before I go, I have to talk about those idiot legislators in Florida who made a law that says before a woman gives a baby up for adoption, the father must be notified.
I can almost kind of see that, but the stupid part is, if she doesn't know who the father is, she has to place a notice in her local paper describing or identifying men who may have fathered their child. She also has to disclose when and where the baby was likely conceived.
How embarrassing and humiliating that would be. Picture this ad:

"At the Oasis Bar parking lot, on or around Feb. 3, I had sex with three men in three different vehicles. One was in a large blue truck, one was in a red SUV and another was in a brown Camaro or Mustang. The men were one tall Jamaican, one small Puerto Rican or Cuban named Louie and a skinny white guy with tattoos. If any of you want my baby before I give it up for adoption, call 1-800-SKANK HO.

Florida is quickly becoming the stupidest Southern state in the nation. I see the Bush intelligence gene is alive and well in the Governor's mansion.

Thursday, August 08, 2002

Tomorrow: Mecca

After a long, hard summer, I look forward to my quarterly pilgrimage to The Holy Land.
I have almost finished packing the few clothes I am taking, now all I have to do is iron and starch my money (a ritual I do to make my bankroll thinner and less noticeable).
My traveling companion tells me her research shows the Stardust has the loosest slots in town, so we will no doubt be making a side trip to the land of elderly gamblers and pink and blue diagonal neon.
Our headquarters, the Golden Nugget, has fond memories for me.
It's there at the video poker bar a hooker tried to pick me up early one morning. I declined, but it was rather flattering that she'd think I'd go for it.
Also, my beloved Binion's Horseshoe is across the street, and they were kind enough to finance my last trip, and then some.
I think we'll skip the high end of the strip this time. Paris, Bellagio and the Venetian are still so new they have tight slots to pay for their mortgages and Aladdin, well, fuck those clowns and their goofy Middle Eastern motif.
Bally's slots are nice and loose but the slots get jammed up too easily, the slot service sucks, the drink service sucks, and they don't give a damn about it.
The Flamingo has too many hokey, noisy slots like the Munsters and other sitcom-themed machines that just annoy me.
Last night I laid in bed and visualized winning thousands of dollars. I even pictured myself mailing some money home to myself so I wouldn't get into it while I was there. Then Cris appeared in my dream and sternly lectured me to mail it in cashier's check form, with insured mail so I wouldn't lose it.
Oy, even in my dreams she's an accountant/psychologist.
Wish me luck.
A New Look

Thanks to my Blog guru Grey Bird for adding the new graphic to my site, and thanks to my local friend Elaine for collaborating with me on its design. She did most of the work, basically I just told her the mood I wanted.
While I'm in Vegas, Grey Bird may or may not do a guest blog or two for me. Be nice to her, and please stop in and say hi.

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

Oh Those Toes

Finally, a webpage to commemorate Camel Toes. Words cannot describe this hilarious site, stolen from my pal Raven.
How Could I Forget to Mention This?

Last weekend, murderer O.J. Simpson was in town to help his buddy open horse racing season at the Retama Polo Center. The center is owned by one of his neighbors in Florida who thought O.J. might be a welcome addition to opening day.
The murderer and his pals had dinner at Paesano's on the Riverwalk, where many locals reminded him quite vocally he was a murderer unwelcome in this town. One woman was so insistent, they threatened to call the police *on her* for disturbing the peace. Ha!
I would have walked out had I been dining there.
I guess his search for the "true killer" of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman will extend to every race track, golf course and luxury restaurant on Earth until he finds the culprit.

Tuesday, August 06, 2002

Blog Side Salad™

Is this in bad taste?
I bought some daddy-style duds for that 60's party at Goodwill, but I ended up wearing neither. Can I take them back and get a refund on my $7.99, or would that make me a colossally cheap, uncharitable bitch?

Oy vey, Tracy has flipped her wig about the Catholic church. I thought I was vocal about it, she's over there like Linda Blair with her head turning 360º.

Cris, my Vegas traveling companion dropped by today. She's excited about the trip, but being the stoic psychologist she is, she has difficulty expressing exuberance. She fondled the itinerary longer than I thought necessary, so that's how I could tell she was hyped. Whoopie, only three days to go.

My Kitten Is Gone

On August 10, 2001, James was born. Separated from his feral mama and siblings, he was found about three days later under a bush in Yuma, Arizona, screaming his fuzzy little head off.
My friend Katie rescued him, took him to a vet to get his runny little eye fixed, fed him infant kitten formula, babied him, started talking to me about him and sending photos. We thought he was a she at first.
By September, he was mine.
Now he's a full grown tomcat. He's all muscle, weighing in at around 15 pounds and counting.
Unlike his much older brother Bart, James is an acrobat. No distance is too far to leap, no fear in tackling any challenge.
When I am at my desk, he jumps on the back of my chair, despite the fact that it's only 3" wide. When I am asleep, he jumps on my chest, despite the fact that it scares the shit out of me and he gets a stern lecture.
When he wants me to wake up, he puts his pink, wet nose on mine and meows.
When company comes over, he strolls up and down them like he owns them.
He comes when I whistle, when he feels like it.
I am in love with him, bad habits and all.
But soon his baby pictures will come down from the top of my blog and be replaced with a more appropriate graphic. He's not a baby anymore.
My baby kitten is gone, and I miss him.

Monday, August 05, 2002

Ahhh, Sweet Justice!

This case really pissed us off in San Antonio and it's finally done.
I hope his pervert ass becomes well-worn in prison.

Ex-TV anchor pleads guilty in child porn case

SAN ANTONIO (Reuters) - A former San Antonio television news anchor arrested after police said he bought child pornography from a prostitute between newscasts pleaded guilty Monday and began serving a five-year prison term.

Gerry Grant, 43, pleaded guilty to buying four photos depicting children in sexual situations from a prostitute who helped police set up a sting on Oct. 16, 2000.

He had just finished anchoring the 6 p.m. newscast at ABC affiliate KSAT-TV and was arrested immediately after he left the hotel where he met the prostitute.

"I regret the horrible, stupid things I did," Grant told State District Judge Juanita Vasquez-Gardner after pleading guilty.

Grant had been slated to begin his trial Monday. According to court documents, prosecutors had said they would play in court audiotapes of him allegedly telling the prostitute about having "violent sex" with a child in Mexico.

He had faced up to 10 years in prison if convicted of possession of child pornography.

KSAT suspended Grant after his arrest and did not renew his contract. He had been working as a counter man at a bakery, but lost that job after customers complained.
Little Old Lady Blues

My Mom will be 90 in January, and it's gotten to the point where she needs an assisted living situation.
My older sister who lives next door to Mom was going crazy with her little routines, like Mom calling her at 3 a.m. to see what she was doing, etc.
So we found her a lovely retirement community on the campus of a beautiful Catholic university here in San Antonio.
As she ages, Mom is suddenly Catholic again, so she's delighted at the prospect of having daily mass in a chapel about 30 feet from her apartment, and little old retired Irish nuns all over the place.
The only problem is my brother. He's 10 years older than me, but he's a big mama's baby and he's having separation anxiety, so he's dragging his heels.
It's amazing that at our age, my siblings and I can still be so cranky and hard headed when it comes to group decisions.
Anyway, Wednesday we are allegedly all getting together to tour the facility.
If my brother balks, I have decided to just tackle him to the ground and pummel him.
Hell, he's 59, I think I can take him.

Sunday, August 04, 2002

Ouch, it's Sunday

The 60's party last night must have been great because I didn't get home until 3 a.m.
It was very odd to be at a party where half the guests were adults and teens in the 60's and the other half were born in the 70's and 80's.
What was really weird was that some people at the party kept making references to things going on in my life, and I realized it was because they read my blog.
Clay and Robert, a totally charming gay couple, won the best costume prize.
Clay was dressed as the perfect scroungy hippy, with the worst, rattiest bell bottom jeans ever. Robert, his 6'8" African American lover, came dressed in a judge's robes with a white curly wig like British barristers wear. He was doing the judge bit from "Laugh In."
Then Marianne, a conservative, rather uptight lady who taught many of us at the party reporting and feature writing in college, showed up on a 60's op-art mini dress and pageboy wig, looking very go go girl. She brought her 18-year-old daughter with her, and she looked like 60's model Jean Shrimpton. Fabulous! When Marianne did the pony during the judging contest, we all freaked out. They won the other grand prize.
With a bunch of snoopy reporters and newspeople at the party, the gossip got juicier as the liquor bottles started to empty.
The best part was, it wasn't that hot outside last night. There was a nice breeze and the giant patchouli incense sticks they had stuck into the ground every 10 feel kept the bugs away.
And there was no rap music.

Saturday, August 03, 2002

Jonesing for Las Vegas

If my blogs seem distracted lately, it's because this time next week I'll be at my spiritual Mecca, Las Vegas.
Cris, my lovely ex and sister of reblog contributor BigBoy in PDX, and I have been plotting our strategy on visiting The Holy Land.
No checked luggage. Carryon bags will include minimal clothing and toiletries.
Slots: Two coin maximum. She wants progressives only. Dollars and quarters only, no filthy nickels.
Meals: No time for many sit down meals, just a few quick slabs of prime rib, then back to the action.
Sightseeing trips: Please, it's too fucking hot. Big dam, big canyon, yeah, yeah, seen 'em already.
Shows: No thanks.
Table games: No, they scare me.
Any additional tips or ideas welcome.

Friday, August 02, 2002

With a Name Like Smucker's...

Smucker's has a new product, frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off and the edges sealed.
You throw one in the kid's lunchbox and by noon it's thawed.
I am not a parent, but this sounds like a really crappy idea to me.
If a parent's schedule doesn't allow enough time to make their kid a fucking PB & J sandwich, some priorities need to be switched around.

This weekend is "no state tax" weekend for people shopping for back to school clothes and shoes. It's virtually the only good idea to come from the Bush the Governor era.
Stores will be glutted with parents and unruly children all weekend. I'd rather pay double state tax than mingle in all that whining and kid-noise. But it is a good deal for the breeders.

I think they should have state-tax-free queer weekend. No kids allowed- just queers.
I'd hang out at Home Depot, Pottery Barn and Restoration Hardware all day. Yum.

Thursday, August 01, 2002

Blog Side Salad

It's too hot to think.
I had to run some errands around 2 p.m. today and the temp was only 91º but something called a heat index shoved it up to 97º. Now I know why they sell Slushies in 44 ounce sizes.
I am still pondering my costume for the 60's party Saturday night.
A denim work shirt and jeans is just too hot.
I have come up with this. Plaid shorts, a white T-shirt, black oxford shoes and black, executive length men's socks.
Yep, I am going as my Dad, in his beachwear.
At least I'll be cool.