kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Snarking

  • August Dog Days of Sweat

    See the face up there in the header? The one with the gaping mouth. That would be me. Me dealing with — or half-assed trying to deal with and summarily failing to deal with the heat. And the humidity. OH MY GAWD.

    I knew I never liked this kind of weather. But now I know I really detest it. Completely. And one might think that one might lose some poundage since she’s sweating rivers all day. But no. Instead, I make like a dirigible, or something. Oh, that I could float away on a summer breeze to a place far, far away.

    So if you’ve been taking notes, don’t ever plan a vacation here in August. Ever. Or September. Or October. It’s too freaking hot. And I don’t want to hear it from you guys from the Right Coast. Okay? You’re so done with the sucky weather about now, aren’t you? Plus, you get rain. We never get rain. Well, at least we haven’t had any this year. Okay, I know Texas is floating away and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, truly, but do you have any idea when the last time it rained here? Huh? My glasses are sliding off my nose. The inside of my elbows (is that an anatomically correct description?) are sticky, and the back of my knees (see parenthetical insertion earlier in this sentence) are beginning to drip. Hell, my fingers are sweating. Is that even possible? I’m beginning to feel like a braised dumpling.

    It’s Sunday evening. I’ve just finished making yet another knock down drag out pasta dish. (Check out the lips in the side bar….swagger, wink) And a salad I’ll have to try again all by itself just to savor the interesting flavors. And where do you suppose everyone else is? Downstairs. They’re watching 300. A couple of them for the umteenth time. They’ve eaten, and now they’re going to wallow, yet again, in surround sound, chest thumping, guts and glory. No thanks.

    I’ll just bitch and moan all by myself. (Insert fingers in ears at this point.)

    I haven’t been cranky all day. I did get to slide into the Pacific a bit after 8:00 this morning, the sea grass no longer grossing me out to the degree it used to. The water a soothing 75 degrees. The water smooth as glass with barely a swell to disturb the surface. If only I could get my fins on gracefully. But no. No matter how regally I stride into the water, and then lower my body in to slip on my fins, even the most gentle swell pushes me back into the sea grass, knocking me on my ass, scooping copious amounts of heavily grained sand into the crotch of my conservative black Ralph Lauren one piece suit. The one that’s three years old. The one that if I suck in my gut, I don’t look quite so bad. Well, to me, anyway. Like that matters, since what I’m there for is to swim. I’ve developed a bit of the buff attitude since I’ve figured out that quite a number of people are less than comfortable with the idea of swimming in the ocean. Interesting. (This is another swagger opportunity.)

    Today, I decided again to try the snorkel and mask so can swim differently, pick up more speed, and if I gird my loins, take a peek at any fish that may be swimming near by. Do I need to tell you what a pain in the ass the whole mask and snorkel are? Yes, the fish are great — well, the small ones — but the little black gizmo that keeps my snorkel pipe attached to my mask broke while I was already out some distance, so I had to find a different way to keep the stoopid pipe in the air. That would be the whole purpose of wearing it — so I could breathe while I was swimming, right? But then all was fine, and I was able to look at what little I could see under the surface of the water.

    Long golden strands of kelp still attached to the sea bed swayed in the current, the water a slightly cloudy and pale aqua hue. A shadow here and there — perhaps my own or that of my friends — caught my eye occasionally. And there were columns of bubbles rising heavily to the surface, released by scuba divers far below. Occasionally a fish would leap from the water and then quickly back flop back in. And if I wasn’t paying attention, I found myself swimming in circles with my friends far ahead, calling, “Where are you going?” like it was some kind of a plan on my part. Yes, a plan to put one arm and then the other into the water and stroke, stroke, stroke to shore where by 9:00, the small sandy beach was already packed with people, their towels and blankets spread on the damp sand, ready to bake themselves in the already sweltering heat.

    I’d like to be there right now, floating in the briny water. Letting the gentle swells lift me up, then leave me behind to wait for the next. It was lovely.

    But now it’s hot. And it’s nearly 10 PM.

    Wrecked Web

    I’d go out on the patio to cool down since every window that can be opened is opened, and the air is thick, damp, and still. But I can’t. It’s that time of the year, and the orb weavers are back. They have a tendency to build their webs very near the patio door, and across the patio, so when one of us tries to venture out to get the cats in for the night, or to look up at the stars or the moon, we snap the web across our faces and run screaming back into the house. Well, not quite, but we’d like to. It’s pretty disgusting imagining whether the spider is in my hair or not.

    Wjat

    The white blob in the center is the spider. If it’s this large already, I can’t wait to see how big it grows this season. Perhaps I’ll give them names this year. Gus. Or Barney. Maybe Eddie. Why not?

    And it’s a bit sad to see the damage we cause after they’ve worked so hard all evening to create their webs. I’m sure they’re disgusted by us and our nighttime fumblings. But they get right back to business after we’ve gone, and by morning, they’ve taken the whole web down and are no where to be seen.

    Just. Like. That.

  • Whining in the Men’s Room

    daily KOS A few days ago, our local paper ran Ellen Goodman’s piece on “The male-dominated blogosphere” where she spent three columns questioning why the “forceful, sometimes demagogic, message-monger organizing tool for the progressive end of the Democratic Party” has “chief messengers [who] are overwhelmingly men — white men, even angry white men.” Hmmm…sounds like nobody chose her for the kickball team.

    The piece continues on to point out that “the typical political blog reader is a 43-year-old man with an $80,000 family income. Is it any surprise that Hillary gets only 9 percent in most online-activist polls, while garnering more than 40 percent in traditional polls?” She’s approaching that high-pitched whine and it sounds like she’s gearing up to blame someone else for something that matters to her.

    Mention is made that “the blogosphere was supposed to be a place where gender didn’t matter and voice was all. So what happened?” Okay. She’s there. Wah-wah-wahhhhhh….

    She finishes by asking, “when will the members of these netroots look more like the nation?” Huh?

    There are so many comments I can make about this, I barely know where to start. So I’ll fudge by starting at the end. She’s kidding that she really expects the netroots (internet political activists) to look more like the nation, right?

    Take a look at some of the characteristics of netroots (for example, those who visit DailyKos.com) taken from a 2006 source:

    these internet users are perhaps more philosophical, financially savvy, and more engaged in online entertainment than the average internet user.Move People Up

    1. Let’s see. How does the routine go? You arrive at work with coffee in hand. You log in to your computer to check your email and your calendar for the day. Or, because you may have set your preferences to open to MSN or Yahoo, or any number of options that would allow you to personalize a homepage to include news, finance information and other snippets of information you’ve deemed important, you’re already “tuned in” for the day. And how long did that take?
    2. Now let’s compare. You don’t work in an office. You don’t have access to a computer that has internet access. Your boss most likely does, however. From the time you arrive at work, you are either in public, serving customers, or out and about taking care of whatever responsibilities your job expects of you. Yes, you may have already done the routine described above before you left for your shift. Maybe. But I doubt it. So perhaps you settle in during the evening after your shift. Hmmm…
    3. But what if you don’t have a computer. Or, what if you have a computer, but no internet access? What if your life is consumed with making ends meet and thinking about anything other than what goes on outside that singular goal, doesn’t matter? It’s too far away. Those people and what they’re campaigning for can’t possibly relate to you. In fact, you most likely don’t know who they are. Nor would you be able to recognize one of their names if questioned about it. Your world is as big as the block you live on.

    Door number 1, door number 2, or door number 3? Chances are, if you’re reading this, you are seriously not someone behind door number 3. Now that I’ve blathered on to this point, here’s the real issue that people like Ellen Goodman completely know and understand, and yet they continue to print their opinions as if they woke up one morning and everything in the country was brand new. Blink. Blink.

    The real issue is, what’s the ethnic, socio-economic break down of each individual in the scenarios I described above? There’s no way that number three involves any great number of whites. Sad, but true. Yes, there are areas of the country where it’s possible, but in what numbers? Remember that my rant is about Goodman’s question on internet political activists “looking” more like the nation.

    I’m fascinated to know what she believes our nation “looks” like, and the extent to which she knows anything real about the people and their lives after she gets past the “looks.”

    When you teach in public schools, you learn quite a bit about this country. I’ll try be completely objective, but will struggle with my sarcasm…You get to read and listen to all the crap that politicians and constituents, the media and supporters on one side or the other, throw back and forth. Spend some time in schools. No, not just an hour for a photo shoot, or for a visit that is prepared for. A real stay. Sit down and listen to the students, the teachers, the parents. No, I don’t mean interview them. I mean sit and immerse yourself in the day-to-day goings on. Listen. They are public schools. You are allowed to do this.
    You learn that a shocking number of families don’t have a place for their children to do homework or have basic supplies like paper and a pencil to work with. There are no books in the home. None. There is no newspaper that comes in the morning. There is no computer — and if there is one, chances are that a few video games are played on it, but that’s all. Discussion about current events concerning the economy, politics, or new legislation? Most likely not. Often, family members can be illiterate in their own language, so helping, discussing what is important to the country — sometimes, not their country — is most likely not going to happen.

    You also learn how many families sit down to eat a meal together. And if they do, whether it’s done without a television on that is tuned into anything but news. And what is news, anyway? Word of mouth information about the latest shooting a few streets over. Rumors of La Migra driving through the streets. Gossip about the new woman who has walked her children to school, and who acts like she’s too good for everyone else. About the man two houses down who is cheating on his wife. And the old man who urinates in the flowerless flowerbed right outside the office every single day in plain view of anyone who looks.

    Yes, I suppose that country could be set up with their own blogs so Goodman will feel better about the netroot being more diverse — more representative of the nation. So why not begin with those on the lowest rung of the economic ladder? Because what I’ve been describing is an economic issue. A societal issue. A generational issue. Poverty. It “looks” a bit different that most think it does. Take a look at the bios listed at Daily Kos. Look at the backgrounds, the experiences, the opportunities. Then think about it.

    Sure. You could probably find someone to fund a project like that. Maybe The National Endowment for the Humanities. I could make it work since there are humans somewhere in humanity, right? Or at least there are supposed to be. Because then, maybe, you’d have a chance of getting the lowest portion of the huddled masses to tune into what’s going on. To have a voice. To belong to a “growing power in politics.” The Netroot. But you’re going to have to get them desk jobs first. And if you can accomplish that, they’ll most likely feel much better about life in general, so may not have the number of complaints that others accustomed to their own rung on the ladder may have. That’s sure to piss everyone off. How dare they show up and like what I don’t like. What are they up to, anyway?

    Correct me if I’m wrong. Don’t people have to want to be involved to um…be involved? And is it just about being involved, or actually believing you are directly affected by what is going on, and that being involved could change your circumstances. You can lead a horse to water… It all depends on what flavor the drink is. And much of the time, if you get even the smallest taste, the experience is powerful enough to change lives. That gets people involved.

    Now, as for the gender side of this issue is concerned, women fit into the scenarios above just like men. Goodman discusses that with respect to the blogosphere, “half of all 96 million blogs are written by women.” But she also expresses concern that “what is touted as a fresh force for change looks an awful lot like a new-boy network.”

    So fine. We’ve all learned that men do talk. Well, of course they talk. They just like to “talk” with their computers. Women can do both. And regardless of the number of political blogs authored by men, women do read, do have opinions, and do vote. Do women want to be in the thick of a new-boy network any more than they’ve really wanted to be part of the old-boy network? A few will, just as they always have.

    And many will continue to rally around their own causes, raising public awareness on what matters to them, and to their families. But until someone figures out how to relieve an enormous number of women who have their own careers, and continuing primary responsibility for running their households and children, I’m thinking time for rolling up sleeves to dig into the arena of internet activisim isn’t going to happen any time soon.

    Lots did take time to get away and attend Blogher, though. Clearly, women bloggers do think and blog about politics. So maybe Ellen Goodman needs to get her head out of the Men’s Room and pay attention to what women are doing.

    Oh, and whining in print is even more unbecoming than in person.

  • Ranting about Urban Sprawl & Open Spaces

    I long for an entire day to sit and write. To mull over the time I’ve spent away and enjoyed. To remember and feel the endless blue of Lake Tahoe wash over me. To smile at how silly to not have known of such a beautiful, relaxing place. Tahoe is Blue Oh to be in that water right now…so clear. So soft. Like glass early each morning, before boaters disturb its calm.  Not salty.  Not murky.  No sea grass or kelp.  Just brisk, fresh water.
    But I also need time to relax and forget the angst I feel when I have to sit on a freeway with a ridiculous number of cars attempting to go somewhere. Anywhere but where they all are, inching along. Testing one another’s patience. Pushing limits. Practicing stupidity.

    I’m not good at that. I can’t say how many times I longed for a laser or something like one might find on the Starship Enterprise. Zapping another’s molecules into oblivion because they see nothing wrong with darting in and out of traffic. Speeding up to and around cars in a burst of energy and then slamming on their brakes at the last minute, making me gasp with worry about what could happen to them and others nearby. Forcing me to finally grab for my book so that I wouldn’t have to witness what might happen next. Traffic I’ve gotten to the point where I can barely sit in a car that I’m not driving because of it all. “Take a nap,” the MoH tells me. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be possible. If I’m going to die, I’d like to know about it, or plan to go down with a very noisy fight, screaming obscenities about why idiots are allowed to drive and why they think they’re so much more important than the rest of us.

    I’ve tried to blame it on the developers. Those individuals who just keep building. The ones who believe we all need to live on top of one another and then crawl to work each day on roads not intended to hold that many people. They’re just looking out for themselves. They want to make more money, so nothing else seems to matter except their bottom line. Once they’ve planted the last stupid palm tree in the last stamp sized neighborhood, they never look back to notice that on the best day, it’s difficult to see more than a mile or so through the haze.  They don’t care.

    Incline Village Park Since I’ve traveled from our Paradise to another quite different, through the hell that is east of Los Angeles and back in this last week and can remember a time when much of that land was covered with lush farms and dairies, then I can say that I see no point to the sprawl. It’s so ugly. All of it. And it’s so very sad. Squashville

    When I was small, we used to drive up the old 395 to see my grandparents who lived in Chino, and then Ontario. I remember the long two lane roads marked by broken lines of paint, and edged with enormous eucalyptus trees. I remember being able to see the wall of mountains in the distance that rose sharply into the sky. It was possible to get there without needing to drive on a highway that had more than two lanes venturing in one direction. There were no mega malls. There was no Honda complex or obscure distribution center where an unbelievable number of containers awaited loading and then shipment out to consumers elsewhere. There were no areas filled with housing so compact that our slice of Paradise looks grand in comparison.

    Open Space   I know I should be writing about things that are light hearted and carefree. I’ve just returned from vacation. But I’m always tired after returning — especially when I’ve had to sit in a car for 10 hours. Especially when three-quarters of the journey is filled with the most amazing beauty imaginable, Eastern Sierras and then just before arriving home, we’re welcomed back to reality with the ugliest slap possible. The slap of “who cares what happens later. Let’s just use up what we have right now. Who cares?” It reminds me of what a blast site must look like with its center wasted, and a wave of smoke emanating from that center. Somehow, “Urban Sprawl” is too kind a description, conjuring an image of a restless adolescent who has outgrown himself, stretching to ease his growth taxed limbs. Far too kind an image for this.  Tree, anyone?  Water, perhaps? Cheap Desert Housing

    I have crossed the line. I am now old. I qualify for geezerhood because I wax about what once was. I find no beauty in what has evolved. I wince to imagine that it’s okay for others to have no need for personality in their neighborhoods. To want cloned strip malls or shopping meccas at an arm’s reach. To be so close to their neighbors that it won’t matter that they can’t see the sun through the haze.

    Aren’t you glad I’m back?

    Just refer to me as your little ray of sunshine.On Mammoth Mt.

  • Slogged through Dog Days and alive to rant about it!

    Sometime around Valentine’s Day earlier this year after visiting my sister in VA, I was headed toward a security checkpoint at Regan National in D.C. and was sidetracked by the lure of books lined up in a shop. Cruising through the independent Olsson’s Books and Records before my flight home pretty much guaranteed that my wallet would be at least fifty bucks lighter. I love book stores in general, but my idea of heaven is to spend eternity in an independent book store.

    Why independent? The unique way that their selection of books comes together to convey a concise statement on what the shop is about, and how it differs from the next, intrigues me. Of course, they also stock the best-selling books that Barnes & Noble sells, that Borders is featuring, or that Amazon is promising to get to you faster than you can blink, but the books I’d never find, by authors I’ve never heard of who are published by smaller presses  is what captures my attention. The selection is unique, sometimes a bit odd, and of course, there is the tease of finding the perfect read that no one else has mentioned…yet. Oprah hasn’t put her seal of approval on it, it isn’t anywhere near the NY Times best seller list, and no Pulitzer Prize or Booker short list mention is on the radar screen.  So I would have to actually be looking at recently published books for any of this to happen, right?  Feh.

    I suppose I could find a book like that in a humongous chain store as well, but not always. And as much as I truly enjoy surfing through Amazon with obscure searches just to see what I can uncover, there are still gems that I know I would not find. Gems waiting to be found and marveled over. Well, not always.

    Back in February, I hadn’t started blogging yet. Was there life before blogging? If I think about it, I’m not sure blogging had even occurred to me yet– or had it? Anyway, while I was in Olssens, I did purchase five books. One, Slow Man, I finished on the flight home, and truly enjoyed even though it wasn’t an especially light-hearted read. The second, Dog Days, I naively waited to read, duped into thinking it would be “irresistable,” and all the while trudging through Mapping the Edge. Waiting, waiting to open that cover and surely snort the book up in one lazy afternoon. Dog Days by Ana Marie Cox NOT.

    For those of you who have been faithful, you know that I’ve been complaining about dragging myself through a book — kicking and screaming incessantly.  It’s been so long, I had to go back through my posts to see when I started it. It was April 9th! Ohmigod — that’s two months ago. Two months? Gone With The Wind Hell, I read Gone With the Wind in the 9th grade in a week. When I was a sophomore in college, I read one of Hemingway’s novels and several of his short stories every single week until I had read everthing. Two months? For a book that’s only 300 pages long and published over a year ago?  What the hell.

    Clearly, this has been an experiment. I’ve been on a quest to prove that not all books deserve to be read. Yes, I’ve already had S-U-C-K-E-R permanently printed on my head for purchasing Dog Days, but torturing myself to read the entire thing? It’s because I made that committment to myself to read all the books I currently have at home. You do remember part of that stack, right? IMG_1029   I spent the money, so I need to read the damn books! I can hear that nagging voice in my head saying, “Don’t go and spend more money for more books when you can force yourself to read the ones you already have, dork.”  Whot-evah.   The public library is calling my name right now…

    So if Dog Doo Days was such a complete waste of time, why did I buy it anyway, you’re wondering? No, I know you aren’t wondering, but it’s simple, really.  I must have had the idea of blogging on my brain, because I focused in on the back cover:

    “Ana Marie Cox is a columnist for Time and is the founding voice of the hugely popular political blog Wonkette. She has also written for Elle, Wired, Mother Jones, Slate, Salon, New York, and The New York Times Book Review, among other publications. She lives in Washington, D.C.”

    You get the idea, right? We’re all getting warmed up for the election next year, and something described as “snarky” and “a biting debut” with an author who’s a blogger as well? This had me written all over it. It didn’t matter that I had never heard of the blog. She sounded cool, looks way bitchy in the photo, and I love reading “firsts.”

    I really wanted to like the book’s main character, Melanie, but never could.  Her apartment is too dirty, her affair too gratuitous, and her best friend, too shifty. The political tidbits are interesting at times — the whole plot was a takeoff on Dubyah’s re-election campaign — but not enough to make me smile, let along giggle with evil glee at the parallels being drawn. I just didn’t care. I didn’t care so badly that not knowing who the “Clearheads” were for the entire book, and not once flipping back to refresh my memory, or correct my comprehension — a normal thing that readers do — didn’t really make a difference. And knowing who the Clearheads were, what their group believed, and how they could damage a campaign would be a key aspect of the plot. The only reason I know this now is because I flipped back to find out where the Clearheads first appeared — page 41 — right after the hotel room sex with the married journalist who refers to Melanie as “babe.”  Ick.

    I still don’t get it, because I can pretty much read anything. Thumbing back through the book, I suspect the style of Cox’s writing — something that works quite well for, uh… anything but fiction, just didn’t fit. When I read a novel, an edgy, biting tone from the author won’t carry the narrative. The dialogue of a character? Of course. But not the ins and outs of the story. It would be like trying to read a newspaper article that conjured up the voice of Mr. Rodgers — distracting — even if the piece is actually on Fred Rodgers, right?

    Anyway, I nursed my wounds by reading reviews at Amazon. Misery has to love company, right? And I hit pay dirt. After reading through several of the worst reviews I ever read (14 of 30 gave it only one or two stars with the rest seeming to come through because of their status as faithful blogflock members), I felt vindicated, but still pissed off that I read the whole thing. Ugh. Not worth it! Many reviewers agreed that although Cox is a superb writer, this book doesn’t come close to showing what she is capable of.  Can all good writers write fiction?

    So here’s the deal. I will proceed with my cost-saving commitment to read the books I currently have — but I’m going back to my tried and true method of reading. If any book doesn’t capture my complete attention by page 40, it is so not going to be finished. AT ALL.  And don’t mess with me on this.  I really don’t give a flying fart if you’re obsessed with having to read an entire book once you start it because Hell will freeze over and God will fall from the sky if you don’t.  Get over it because you won’t get more brownie points at the freaking pearly gates just because you finished all those stoopid books.  Nobody cares.  *Ahem*

    Now that I’ve wasted copious amounts of reading time (and blogging time) on two books in a row that have been less than entertaining, I’m so due for something painless.

    Painless usually means light and frivolous. Or something written about a place I’d love to travel to. Or that has characters I can live vicariously through. Oh, hell. Something that has steamy sex on every single page and burns my fingers just holding it, okay? Sheesh.  The Flame and the Flower  Nope.  Sneak read this one when I was fifteen!  Delta of VenusAh…no, again.  Read this one when I was 19.  Enthralling doesn’t quite get the point across.

    For the snobs out there who think I’m trashing my brain — or who are just too snooty to confess that they, too, occasionally read less than “constructive” material, I also have pulled up alongside me The Soul’s Code and Imperfect Control — both old books, but dusted off because of some of the crap that has been traveling through my brain lately. And no, I don’t read that sort of thing cover-to-cover. That would be completely dreary.
    I’ll bet you just can’t wait for that. You know me — I’ll try to find a way to connect the acceptable reading with the smut. Woot! Let’s hear it for the trash readers of America!

    What’s in your closet?

  • So Not Feelin’ the Photosh*t Love

    TrichotillomaniaOh my gawd — all I want to do is write.

    I don’t want to read Photoshop tutorials.

    I just want to poke the buttons to create something. You know — like my banner. The one I really want. Not the palm tree. But maybe me hanging from the palm frond and screaming, “I HATE PHOTOSHOP!”

    I don’t want to have to ask what the hell the “editor” is and then get completely pissed off when there isn’t a simple answer for what is probably the tool bar. And if it is the tool bar, why can’t they just call it that? You know, like why can’t all microwaves and remote controls be made exactly alike? What is up with always calling things different names? Jeez. Especially when it is a freaking functional thing.

    I just don’t want to deal with why I can’t open a photo, open a new workspace (or whatever the hell they call that!) then click and drag the photo into the workspace. I mean, how completely easy would that be? CRAP!

    I don’t want to watch the stoopid videos telling me how to do something and then when it’s time to do it, not be able to figure it out. Let’s see…how do I watch the video, which opens and runs on Firefox (okay by me) and have Photoshop open (which sort of goes away unless you’re “clicked” on it) and do what the tutorial says? Ph*ck! It just MAKES ME WANT TO PULL ALL MY HAIR OUT. Yah. I can do that and spin upside down while whistling Dixie out of where the sun doesn’t shine. Sign me up for the freak show before I completely explode.

    Every single direction has another set of directions so you can understand a term that’s in another set of directions. Can I please have visuals for gawd’s sake. That wouldn’t be TOO DIFFICULT would it?

    I want Al Gore’s computer set up The Guru of 3D -- Al Gore's Kind of a Computer Freak discussed here so I can open 14 freaking windows and look back and forth at them. Then maybe, just maybe I won’t have to jump up and do laundry, or get the hell out of this room before I start throwing things. REALLY.

    Cut and paste. Okay? It could be that simple. sh*t-s*it-*hit-shi*#@#!^%&*$$#^*(^$#%^^&*&**(*^%$$^&&*!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    I don’t like NOT being productive. EVER. I’m not good at it. Doing NOTHING or having NOTHING to show for my time just doesn’t cut it. And I’m NOT going for a walk to blow off this steam BECAUSE I ALREADY DID AT 5:30 THIS MORNING.

    Maybe if I lay down on the floor and kick and scream I’ll feel better. The capital letters and symbols aren’t cutting it. AT ALL.

    Watching this guy made me feel a bit better, however, because I LOVE my Mac. But he’s having the same sort of melt down that I am, so we must be soul mates or something. He does come around, though, so I’m sure that I will too, because I’m tenaciously, persistently, annoyingly, unceasingly, freaking NOT GIVING UP.

    But I’m so NOT loving PHOTOSHOP. NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT.

  • Don’t try to follow this train of thought…

    Okay, who’s the person that found my blog with a “motorcycle butt creme” search? Come on, you guys. I don’t write about that sort of thing…yet. But I couldn’t resist checking it out, and Golly Wally, I was the first hit! Of course, three hits down I found what the person was actually looking for — assistance from his online buddies about his Alaskan Buttpad:

    “I have a med on my strom seat as well, but my issue is the nose flying up when I stand up on the pegs. Then I have to spend the next minute or two pulling it out of my crotch, which results in weird looks and just general discomfort and a lot of frustration on my part.” Huh?

    Well, actually it looks like a pretty cool site, and you don’t even have to be a motorcycle owner to join their community. All righty then. My previous googlized reference to butt + creme was the odd connection between the advertising selected to sit alongside this commentary, and this snark session referenced here. But they’re both old news now. What’s really hot today is….you guessed it… American Noodle!

    Evidently, we’re all going to be sucked into the sensation of Fan-jaya-land soon. How about if I say let’s not, and say we did. I’m tired of his hair and charm as much as I’m sick of Haley Scarnatto’s blatant display of boobs (can’t call it cleavage because they just, well — hang there) and legs. UGH. Blink, blink, jiggle.

    What’s really news is that the Democratic Big Dogs are neck and neck in amassing their political war dollars so that we can be doused with rhetoric for the next, well, according to my desktop widget, 600 or so days. You do have one of those Bush countdown widgets, don’t you? I have mine wedged right next to my beloved whoopie cushion widget so that I can release pent up tension at will.

    As stated in Reuters “corrected” article today, Obama’s recent surge in the cash department or,”‘overwhelming response, in only a few short weeks, shows the hunger for a different kind of politics in this country and a belief at the grassroots level that Barack Obama can bring out the best in America to solve our problems,’ said Penny Pritzker, the finance chair for Obama’s campaign.”

    According to other sources, there is a new threat on the horizon to at least keep things interesting for Mrs. Clinton and her camp, who must have called Reuters this morning shortly after the first story aired about campaign funds, forcing the “correction.” Fred Thompson may be close to throwing his hat in the ring. Huh? You know, the guy who’s been in Tom Clancy movies and that TV show, Law and Order. He is a former U.S. Senator from Tennessee. This guy. Evidently there’s some serious potential voter lust growing for him out there in cyberland. It’s hilarious that he’s from the same county whose paper recently dropped Snarkann Coulter’s syndicated column for her continued inability to control her vomitous oral emissions. I wonder whether she thinks Fred is hot, too? Maybe she just likes guys from Tennessee, or guys with Southern accents in general and doesn’t know how to properly express herself. Buy enough batteries for this one, gentlemen.

    But enough of this drivel. Today is a day with no one at home but me. My Spring Break slacking RT and his cousin, who have been at our house on a major war monger toot for the past few days, have been:

    • blowing up minute military encampments that took hours to set up;
    • shooting air soft pellets at cans before 8am in Paradise;
    • engaging in lengthy sessions of Dawn of War online; and
    • sucking down copious amounts of Black Cherry Vanilla Coca-Cola without asking.

    But they have moved on to share themselves with my sister in law for a few days where they will most likely engage in similar behavior. Everyone. The future of America is safe.

    Silence. Ahhhh….