Satisfaction.

There's just something about a good heavy rain* falling on a freshly planted flower bed.


*This photo is pre-rain, and a bit old actually. And you can't see anything, so it's relatively pointless. But uploading it and adding it to this old post made me feel like I was doing something, as opposed to fucking off, like I have been. Ah well. The bed is even more full now. I'll get back to taking photos soon now that I have finally uploaded all the ones that have been in the camera for ages.

Well Said.

"No matter how corrupt, greedy and heartless our government, our corporations, our media, and our religious and charitable institutions may become, the music will still be wonderful.If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:

THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD WAS MUSIC"



-Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007)

Devastated.

There are no other words, really. First Hunter Thompson, then Molly Ivins, and now this:

Novelist Kurt Vonnegut dies at 84
POSTED: 1:46 a.m. EDT, April 12, 2007

By CRISTIAN SALAZAR, Associated Press Writer1 hour, 8 minutes ago

Kurt Vonnegut, the satirical novelist who captured the absurdity of war and questioned the advances of science in darkly humorous works such as "Slaughterhouse-Five" and "Cat's Cradle," died Wednesday. He was 84.

Vonnegut, who often marveled that he had lived so long despite his lifelong smoking habit, had suffered brain injuries after a fall at his Manhattan home weeks ago, said his wife, photographer Jill Krementz.

The author of at least 19 novels, many of them best-sellers, as well as dozens of short stories, essays and plays, Vonnegut relished the role of a social critic. Indianapolis, his hometown, declared 2007 as "The Year of Vonnegut" — an announcement he said left him "thunderstruck."

He lectured regularly, exhorting audiences to think for themselves and delighting in barbed commentary against the institutions he felt were dehumanizing people.

"I will say anything to be funny, often in the most horrible situations," Vonnegut, whose watery, heavy-lidded eyes and unruly hair made him seem to be in existential pain, once told a gathering of psychiatrists.

A self-described religious skeptic and freethinking humanist, Vonnegut used protagonists such as Billy Pilgrim and Eliot Rosewater as transparent vehicles for his points of view. He also filled his novels with satirical commentary and even drawings that were only loosely connected to the plot. In "Slaughterhouse-Five," he drew a headstone with the epitaph: "Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt."

But much in his life was traumatic, and left him in pain.

Despite his commercial success, Vonnegut battled depression throughout his life, and in 1984, he attempted suicide with pills and alcohol, joking later about how he botched the job.

"I think he was a man who combined a wicked sense of humor and sort of steady moral compass, who was always sort of looking at the big picture of the things that were most important," said Joel Bleifuss, editor of In These Times, a liberal magazine based in Chicago that featured Vonnegut articles.

His mother killed herself just before he left for Germany during World War II, where he was quickly taken prisoner during the Battle of the Bulge. He was being held in Dresden when Allied bombs created a firestorm that killed an estimated tens of thousands of people.

"The firebombing of Dresden explains absolutely nothing about why I write what I write and am what I am," Vonnegut wrote in "Fates Worse Than Death," his 1991 autobiography of sorts.

But he spent 23 years struggling to write about the ordeal, which he survived by huddling with other POW's inside an underground meat locker labeled slaughterhouse-five.

The novel, in which Pvt. Pilgrim is transported from Dresden by time-traveling aliens from the planet Tralfamadore, was published at the height of the Vietnam War, and solidified his reputation as an iconoclast.

"He was sort of like nobody else," said Gore Vidal, who noted that he, Vonnegut and Norman Mailer were among the last writers around who served in World War II.

"He was imaginative; our generation of writers didn't go in for imagination very much. Literary realism was the general style. Those of us who came out of the war in the 1940s made it sort of the official American prose, and it was often a bit on the dull side. Kurt was never dull."

Vonnegut was born on Nov. 11, 1922, in Indianapolis, a "fourth-generation German-American religious skeptic Freethinker," and studied chemistry at Cornell University before joining the Army.

When he returned, he reported for Chicago's City News Bureau, then did public relations for General Electric, a job he loathed. He wrote his first novel, "Player Piano," in 1951, followed by "The Sirens of Titan," "Canary in a Cat House" and "Mother Night," making ends meet by selling Saabs on Cape Cod.

Critics ignored him at first, then denigrated his deliberately bizarre stories and disjointed plots as haphazardly written science fiction. But his novels became cult classics, especially "Cat's Cradle" in 1963, in which scientists create "ice-nine," a crystal that turns water solid and destroys the earth.

Many of his novels were best-sellers. Some also were banned and burned for suspected obscenity. Vonnegut took on censorship as an active member of the PEN writers' aid group and the American Civil Liberties Union. The American Humanist Association, which promotes individual freedom, rational thought and scientific skepticism, made him its honorary president.

His characters tended to be miserable anti-heros with little control over their fate. Vonnegut said the villains in his books were never individuals, but culture, society and history, which he said were making a mess of the planet.

"We probably could have saved ourselves, but we were too damned lazy to try very hard... and too damn cheap," he once suggested carving into a wall on the Grand Canyon, as a message for flying-saucer creatures.

He retired from novel writing in his later years, but continued to publish short articles. He had a best-seller in 2005 with "A Man Without a Country," a collection of his nonfiction work, including jabs at the Bush administration ("upper-crust C-students who know no history or geography") and the uncertain future of the planet.

He called the book's success "a nice glass of champagne at the end of a life."

In recent years, Vonnegut worked as a senior editor and columnist at In These Times. Bleifuss said he had been trying to get Vonnegut to write something more for the magazine, but was unsuccessful.

"He would just say he's too old and that he had nothing more to say. He realized, I think, he was at the end of his life," Bleifuss said.

Vonnegut, who had homes in Manhattan and the Hamptons in New York, adopted his sister's three young children after she died. He also had three children of his own with his first wife, Ann Cox, and later adopted a daughter, Lily, with his second wife, the noted photographer Jill Krementz.

Vonnegut once said that of all the ways to die, he'd prefer to go out in an airplane crash on the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. He often joked about the difficulties of old age.

"When Hemingway killed himself he put a period at the end of his life; old age is more like a semicolon," Vonnegut told The Associated Press in 2005.

"My father, like Hemingway, was a gun nut and was very unhappy late in life. But he was proud of not committing suicide. And I'll do the same, so as not to set a bad example for my children."

___

Associated Press writers Michael Warren, Hillel Italie and Chelsea Carter contributed to this report.


I have to go now.

Reading Roundup.

I have spent a whole lot of time recently reading newspapers and political websites, which I realized is causing me to fall way behind in my book reading. Infinite Jest has once again proved incredibly thick and slow-going. I love it, but I tend to do my book reading right before I fall asleep, and that book is too much work (both mentally and physically). I really need a vacation in order to get serious about it.
On a recommendation from my friend K, I picked up a couple of Carl Hiassen books at a rummage sale recently. I am reading one, but I'm too lazy to go upstairs and check the title right now. It's about a murdered musician and a reporter who is kind of a fuckup. It's funny, and pretty smart, and in general a good, easy wind down at the end of a day. Thumbs up.
I still have the Shakespeare book on my night stand, but I haven't made any progress. Like the DFW book, it is really large and cumbersome, and I will need more time in larger chunks to get through it.
I have also been reading a lot of magazines, the best of which is a literary mag called The Believer (www.believermag.com), brought to us by the wonderful people at McSweeneys. The Believer is as close to being in a literature class as my brain has come for over ten years. I love it. I have been reading it monthly for over a year, and recently grabbed a stack of back issues on ebay for next to nothing. I love it.
Honestly, my heart isn't really in this post, but I am trying very hard to post more often. Sorry it's not that fun. I really have to go read now.

Chilling Out.

Literally, I mean. The temperature is dropping quickly, which means I only have time for a quick catchup. Gotta walk the hounds before it gets too cold.

Have finished bringing in the seedlings and covering the plants that are already in the ground. Waiting on a batch of organic pomegranate jelly to finish processing. Last night I made some fizzing bath bombs and lavender soap. Tomorrow I hope to bake some cookies and dog biscuits, and maybe, just maybe, make some ancho chile hot chocolate. Hell, if my first farmer's market is gonna be in the cold, I might as well make the best of it.
Here's a nice shot of the very weird sunset we had last night.

Pollen Panic.

It's that time of year again. Birds chirp, bees buzz, and my formerly forest green car is now a mucky shade of yellow.


(That line is where I rubbed off the pollen with my finger so you can see the difference in color.)

Are you sneezing yet?
I hope not, because if your nose gets too stuffy, you won't be able to smell this:



I appreciate wisteria more with each passing year. It's stay is far too brief, but will be followed, I know, by honeysuckle, and then giant magnolias. All of these things are lovely and have an intoxicating smell that I never got in the north (Though the lilacs up there are pretty amazing as well).

So anyway, everybody i know seems to be coming down with a "Spring cold", while I am getting started on what promises to be a hellacious allergy season.

By the by, there is a payoff for all the pollen:

These guys are gonna be huge.

FYI

I got tagged by Z. The results are (finally) a couple posts down. I forgot that it would post in the order that I started it, not in the order I finished it.

The Week in Photos.

That's a week starting last Wednesday and ending yesterday. I am SO far behind. Anyway, enjoy.

Here's Robyn Hitchcock in all his purple-trousered glory:


This is the monstrosity that is growing across the street. I think they're really trying to get it done (or at least presentable) before the golf tournament here in a couple weeks. Too bad the people coming to the tournament all have to come past our little shack on their way. A.J. suggested a large "We're here, we're queer, get used to it" banner for our patio, which I would totally do if only our landlords didn't drive by here every day.


This is the goose that sleeps on what used to be our pier. I don't know if it's Marge or Homer (no telling the sex of a goose long distance, is there?), but it's one of the pair that has chosen us.



P.S> Z, working on that tag - been busy!

Forty-Eight.

Tagged by Z.

3 Things That Scare Me:
Enclosed spaces scare the hell out of me. Except when they don't. I have a weird and inexplicable claustrophobia that only seems to strike when I'm doing something boring. For example, when I was at the very top of the St. Louis Arch, I was crammed up into the window, taking a photo staright down at the ground, with people pushing against me to get a better view, and I was completely unconcerned. All I cared about was how the picture would turn out (it was before digital). Being seated in the middle of a row at a movie theater before the movie starts, or on an airplane, however, makes me crazy.
Drowning. This has been a fear of mine for as long as I can remember. I am perfectly capable of swimming and treading water, but I can never quite let go. I think in a former life I may have been a cat that somebody drowned in a bag or something.
Heights. Again, love 'em, hate 'em. I like to be afraid in controlled circumstances, I guess. When I went to Canyonlands National Park, for example, I belly-crawled out onto ledges that were hundreds of feet in the air, on giant wide rocks that were incredibly stable and would probably not move in an earthquake. Had another person been holding me up, I would have hated it.


3 People Who Make Me Laugh:

The b.h. Every day.

Terry Pratchett. The guy is just brilliant. Small Gods is a masterpiece.

Grand Buffet. Yes, this is two people, but they are one unit, and they are quite clever. Politics and culture and a spoon full of sugar. All of these with good beats and often hilarious dance moves thrown in.


3 Things I Love:

Driving. Whenever I am stressed out, or need some time to think, or want to listen, to really listen, to a new CD, I get in the car and drive. I'm not fond of say, driving to the store, or running errands so much, but a good stretch of highway always makes me feel better.
Dogs. Mine especially, but dogs in general. They seem eternally optimistic to me, and their energy is contagious.
Food. Lots of it. All things non meat-related, but especially chocolate, cheese, and fresh fruit.
Junking. Flea markets, goodwill, thrift stores, church rummage sales- name it. I'm there. I also enjoy antiquing sometimes, but since I know so little I often feel out of my league (and am usually out of my price range).

3 Things I Hate:
Sprawl. I moved out of trhe city to get a little air, and a little space. And now we're getting closed in.
Crappy food. This includes crappy beer, too. I'd rather go without, honestly. I almost never eat fast food, except when I'm on the road and starving. I never feel satisfied when I'm through eating, and I often feel sick. I just don't know why they bother, you know?
Traffic. Driving is good. Sitting still in your car sucking on two hundred tailpipes is not.

3 Things I Don't Understand: Almost anything to do with the computer. Mostly I can blog, write e-mail, and if it isn't too specialized, look up information.
People who "don't read." I mean, how can this be? I understand if you don't know how to read, but otherwise, I don't get it.
Fashion. I find it interesting at times, and I wouldn't mind being able to afford nicer clothes for a rare occasion out, but I am simply not wired for it. My uniform is pretty much a band t-shirt with jeans and gym shoes, and after that I need help.

3 Things On My Desk:
A Sealab 2021 clock/snow globe-ey type thing, purchased for the b.h. at a yard sale two years ago. I love it.
Two pennies that have been smashed (legally, in a machine) and imprinted at the top of Pike's Peak. They have been there for some time, waiting for me to put them in a frame with photos of the b.h. and me actually standing at the summit of said peak.
Bills and receipts and other things that need filing.

3 Things I'm Doing Right Now:
Drinking my second cup of coffee. At two in the afternoon. It has been warmed up twice, if that makes me seem less lazy. I dropped a couple cardamom seeds in it just for kicks. Yum.
Listening to The Jayhawks Tomorrow the Green Grass. I will never tire of this record. Ever.
Procrastinating. I should really be doing somethink productive and garden related, but I'm enjoying the down time right now. Yesterday I popped out of bed and started cleaning right away, since the b.h.'s folks were coming for dinner. I didn't get a chance to loaf like I normally do on a Sunday, so I'm making up for it now.

3 Things I Want To Do Before I Die:
Travel. I do travel quite a bit, but I still haven't been out of the country. (Unless you count Tiajuana, which I don't. It was absolutely horrifying and depressing and I never want to see it again. I'm pretty much just blocking it out.) There are countless other places I would like to see, however, and I need to get on that. Soon.
Write. For real, I mean. Like, a whole book. And maybe get published. Yeah, that would be good. I'll be sure and use longer sentences when I do.
Get my black belt. In tae kwon do. I left off just over a year ago, days before my green belt test. I am not very good at TKD, but I really enjoy it, and when I was practicing regularly, I felt a lot better.



3 Things I Can Do:
Bartend. I've been at it for a long time, and though I do not have special Tom Cruise in Coctail-type skills, I pour good drinks quickly, and I can deal with just about as many of any type of customer you throw at me. When I want to.
Bake. I am not the best cook in the world, and due to our limited kitchen space, I don't try very often, but my cookies kick ass.
Talk. Or rather, I can ramble. I am not a public speaker by any stretch of the imagination, but I can talk to almost anyone, and I often do. In the grocery line, at the gas station, the post office, garden center, public park, bar, restaurant, name it. I come from a long line of long-winded people, and I am a champion talker.

3 Things I Can't Do:
Floss. It isn't that I am physically incapable, or that I have a particular dislike for flossing, but I can not get myself into the habit.
Remember. I have a terrible memory. I can remember six drinks long enough to make them, add the prices, and go on to the next order, but that's about it. I never remember the names of characters on tv shows that we watch regularly, or the names of movies, or actors, or books I've read, or bands that I see every other month. I also can't remember the plots of books or movies after I've seen/read them. Perhaps it's information overload. I do, however, remember the Sesame Street Buster Brown shoes I had when I was five, and my best friends' phone numbers from as far back as fifteen years ago, and the face of a customer who once threatened to kick my ass. (We get along fine now, but i do like to remind him, every six months when I see him, that he made a complete jackass of himself). I don't know what this says about me, but it is something I wish I could improve.
Sing. I don't try and don't really want to, so it's no big deal. I have karaoked exactly one time, with a good friend, while on crutches and pain pills. Sorry you missed it.


3 Things I Think You Should Listen To:
Live music. Especially in a smaller setting. Stadium shows are just not the same. Hearing your favorite song is a totally different experience in person.
Older people. No matter your age, somebody knows more and has seen more than you have. Ask them about it.
Water. Rain, rivers, ocean waves... all very soothing to me.


3 Things You Should Never Listen To: Z changed this to ‘3 Things You Should Never Have To Listen To, and I like it better that way, too:
Construction. I'm trying to drown it out with The Jayhawks right now. It's kind of working, but not really. God I hate the sound of an electric saw.
Stupid people. Seven years into this administration, and I've really had about as much as I can take.
Starlings. At least, not in large numbers. There is a very Hitchcock (Alfred, not Robyn) feel to the sound of a giant flock of them in your yard. It's really cool for about ten seconds, and then you actually start thinking about how many of them are there.


3 Things I'd Like To Learn:
Auto Mechanics. I'm still pissed that they made me take typing in high school rather than auto shop. I still hunt and peck, and I don't know anything about cars.
More languages. I am functional in Spanish, but would love to know more. I will get around to it at some point.
Carpentry. It would make me feel so much more self-sufficient.

3 Favourite Foods:
This is just off the top of my head, since I could not possibly narrow it down to three items.
Pizza. Good pizza. Real pizza, preferably from (in?) Chicago. Real cheese, good, buttery crust, and fresh garlic. Oh damn, I just drooled on myself.
Fennell. This is a new discovery for me, just over the last year or two, but I adore it. Planted a whole lot, too. Cross your fingers for me.
Cannoli. You know that line from The Godfather? "Leave the gun. Take the cannoli"? Yeah. Right there with him. (And hat tip to Sarah Vowell, while I'm at it.)

3 Shows I Watched As A Kid:
Tom & Jerry. I watched a few cartoons religiously, but I think this is the one I remember best.
Monty Python. I know- As a child? Does not compute. But for some reason it did. I have loved John Cleese since at least age three.
Soap. Again, I just got it. And I still love it. Never got actual soaps, but I do love a good satire. Desperate Housewives, anyone?


3 Bloggers I've tagged:
I don't want to be that guy, so no tagging, but perhaps a polite request to Jason, A.J., and Jamie? If you want, I mean.

Catchup.

Whew! It's been a long week. So long, in fact, that it's next week already and I am only now blogging about the last one. So we've been having some plumbing issues of late, and since neither the b.h. nor I has ever lived in a house with a septic tank for any length of time, it took us a bit to realize what the problem was. We called the landlord last tuesday, and he said he's send somebody out. I awoke the next morning early (for me, anyway) and came down the stairs to use the loo. I was still in my pjs, which is to say that I was almost completely naked. This is usually not a problem because our property is really large, and the windows in the house that don't have curtains look out at the private sides of the yard.
Not so on this particular morning. As I hit the third stair from the bottom, I heard a voice. Since the eyesore- er, condominiums have stared going up across the street, I have often been awakened by the sound of voices, but this one was really close. And it was female. Of course, had I been awake, I would have just backtracked up the stairs and put a robe on. Alas, I was only sort of awake, and therefore by the time I stopped I was a few feet away from a non-curtained window, looking out at an older couple with a back hoe. Thankful that the sun was in their eyes at that moment, I leapt toward the wall next to the window, looking around to figure out how to get into the bathroom without being seen. Through the kitchen? No. Definitely not, though I did take a step in that direction first (again with the lack of wakefulness). Through the living room then. Around into the office, and reach for the bathroom door with my left foot while hiding behind the office door. Opening bathroom door, I poked my head out, realised that I still had to break cover for at least two or three feet, so I reached out and pulled the curtain which serves as a door to my laundry closet(which serves as a laundry room)* over to the office door, thereby creating a nudity barrier between myself and the poor innocent couple that came to empty our septic tank. This was all probably very unneccesary, as they probably couldn't see and weren't looking, but I am quite shy.
I went back to bed, woke up a couple hours later, and went to work. When we got back in the afternoon, the couple were just finishing up. They had dug up a very sizeable part of the yard in order to get to the tank, and they had cut the (very poorly placed) telephone wire in the process, but they got the job done.
That night I slipped down to the 40 Watt to see Robyn Hitchcock. He was fantastic. He was wearing purple trousers and a purplish shirt with lizards on it. The Venus Three, his backing band, consists of Peter Buck, Scott McCoy (does that man have eyes, by the way? Has anyone ever seen them? Because every time I see him- day or night, inside or out- he is wearing sunglasses. Weird), and the guy who currently plays drums for REM. They did some new stuff and played several of my old favorites. I saw a lot of people I know and didn't really hang out with anybody, so I actually got to watch and listen to almost the whole set. It was very, very pleasant. (Photos to follow, when I get them uploaded.) The Creepiest Guy In Athens was there, front and center, as usual, and he spotted me before I spotted him, as usual, so there was no avoiding him. I also saw a woman that I had not seen in a few years, who I assumed (hoped?) was either dead or just gone. She didn't see me, though. Thank gods.
The phone was working again before we even woke up. No funny story there, just a general sense of annoyance that they didn't talk to us and then went and put the line back exactly where it had been (on top of the septic tank, where it will likely get cut again the next time said tank needs to be emptied. Fortunately it is unlikely that we will still be here then).
The patch of yard over the tank is now fenced in (chicken wire), and will make a lovely (and likely lush) flower garden. Putting in the posts was hard work, as the ground is somewhat brick-like out there. I also planted some of my pole beans. They were getting too big for their peat pots, so I mounded up some organic garden soil, bought a couple tall stakes, and plopped them down next to the "garden." It's not a real garden yet, of course, but I have a space marked off and it is currently under a tarp to keep the grass from growing. I hope to have enough cash after this weekend to get a truckload of soil and some boards to build boxes and get things started.

Today I spent a good bit of time sowing another round of tomatoes, peppers, and some flowers. The others are looking really good, though I have lost track of which are which in some cases. The moonflowers, sunflowers, and some of the four o'clocks have been planted in their respective spots and pots.

My first batch of homemade root beer was a total failure. The yeast (I used two different kinds in different bottles) must have been old, because there were no bubbles to speak of. Bummer. All is not lost, however. Both J and I decided to freeze a bottle and eat it in popsicle form. Mmmm. I will try again later, but first I am going to give Ginger Ale a shot. Ginger is a lot less expensive than root beer extract, so that's what I'll do until I get the yeast thing mastered. Bought some new yeast at the store yesterday, so I may give that a shot tonight.

Other than that, everything is pretty much the same.



I realize that this isn't as funny if you haven't been in my house, and I apologize (and Z, if you're still with me, I apologise for my spelling of apologize).

Pilgrimage, Part Two. Take Two.

Oh, my god. I am so pissed right now (That's anger, Z, for the record. I only wish I were the good kind of pissed. The British kind.)I just sat here and forced myself to finish the story I started in my last post. I was several paragraphs in, and suddenly my screen went momentarily blank. The next thing I saw was a "Your software is updating" message, followed by confirmation that yes, some software or other that I am *not* currently using has gone and updated itself. And in the process, it lost my entire post. Well, gee. I don't know what to say. Thanks? No. I think fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck is more appropo at the moment. The dogs are looking at me like I'm insane. They're the only ones who usualy get screamed at like that. I think they're laughing at the computer right now- "Oooooh - you're in trouble!!" So now I'm saving every two sentences. And now this is going to take a lot longer. Grr.
Anyway, Gr@celend is exactly like I remembered it: a gaudy, shaggy, hideous-in-the-best-possible-way time capsule from my childhood. I was disappointed in the tour guide, which is now a pair of headphones strapped to a small, multilingual box of electronically recorded blah. I guess it's practical if say, you only speak Mandarin, but I would much rather have an interesting, flesh-and-blood guide. Preferably one who knows some good (read: raucous and potentially bawdy) stories that you wouldn't hear anywhere else. My friend Christina had one like that once. He told their group that Elv!s like to fuck his way from one end of this white couch to the other:



Come to think of it, that particular guide is probably part of the reason for the headphones. *cough*

Anyway, it was a little dry. But the place itself is really cool. I took a ton of pictures, so those of you who don't want to make the trip and drop thirty bucks (including cars and planes - tweny-five if you just do the house. But parking was SIX BUCKS!!!) I will post a bunch of them below.

One of the things that really struck me this time around was how many gold and platinum records there are.

In short, there are a shitload. It is truly staggering. I couldn't even get them all into the frame. I think for me the Elv!s legend overshadows the music, so I don't often think about how many records he actually had.


In addition to these, there are about nine million outfits that he wore onstage. And yes, they are just as hideous in person (if not moreso).







I was taking pictures of everything, since our digital camera does just fine without flash (there is no flash photography alowwed anywhere inside the house). The best part was when I took this picture, I was holding my camera over the glass case. i had reached past the guard rail in front of it, and there was an alarm going off over the loudspeakers "Please move away from blah blah blah" over and over, and since I was listening to the tour on my headphones, I couldn't hear it. the b.h. grabbed my arm and pulled it back before I was able to get a better shot.



This room held a bucnh of stuff that had been pulled out of the "private areas" upstairs. Here's a somewhat fuzzy pic of the King's extremely fuzzy bed:



All I can say about this is eeeew. It made me sweat (in the bad way) just looking at it.
Also, this particularly terrifying statue came from up there. I wonder if it was in the bedroom?


This one made us all snicker a little:


I guess it's hard to see, but the sweat jacket has "D.E.A. Staff" embroidered into it. In the (sarcastic) words of Penn Gillettte: "Elvis didn't do no drugs!!"
His history with the DEA has always amused me.

One thing that had changed since my last visit was the fact that you have to exit many of the exhibits (car, plane, "Elvis After Dark," and the other non-house spots) through gift shops. I mean, there was a gift shop for each exhibit. Wow. And everything was made in China, and it was all very pricey. I heard that the estate has been purchased by some corporation, so I imagine this stuff is only going to get worse. Which is fine by me, because I don't really need to go back. It was fun while it lasted, but I think I'm gonna have to go Dollywood next time.























Finally, I don't know how well you'll be able to see it, but one of the King's horses was rolling around on his back in the field. And how.

A Pilgrimage of Sorts.

Sorry I have been so absent. I know you've all been hanging on the edge of your seats and everything,dying to know what I have been up to that is keeping me away from my ever important blog duties. Well, I was in Mississippi. The b.h. has a grandmother whom I have never met, and who has been quite ill, so we took a couple days to go see her. We didn't even get to see her that much, really, because we got a late start on Sunday, due to the loss of an hour that we could ill afford, what with getting to bed at five in the morning and all. The drive was around six and a half hours, which were spent white-knuckled, due to the driving skills (or lack thereof) of our good friend M. M's mom and dad live about thirty minutes from the hospital where granny is staying, so we decided that we would all ride together, see our respective families, and then take a ride up to Gr@celand to see the King.
We got to M's house, and to our great surprise, M's mom had supper on, so we couldn't very well leave. We spent about two hours there, all the while very aware that the window for hospital visiting hours was rapidly closing. M's mom is a real hoot, and she really likes to talk. Really, really likes it. I think I counted to twelve once during a silence that fell in the living room, but that was as high as I got.
We left M and his folks, sped to Tupelo, and promptly got completely turned around (Thank you, mapquest!). We got to the hospital around seven, an hour before visiting hours were to end. There were several different visits from various doctors and hospital staff while we were there, and from their remarks we understood that gran had had a very bad day on Saturday, and that she let everyone know it. It was pretty amusing. We stayed for a couple of hours (aparently they aren't overly concerned about "the rules" for visitors).

***I interrupt this program to bring you a special report***
The biggest effing bluejay I have ever seen is outside my window at present, alternately pigging out at the bird feeder and calling for a friend. He is making quite a racket. There is also a tiny woodpecker who is pulling a "Crazy Neighbor Ed", which I would explain by link if I knew how to link, but since I don't I will try to give you the short version:
He is perched on a very thin branch, pecking at a spot on the branch that is closer to the trunk of the tree than he is. I hope this makes sense. He is not making a lot of progress (just like Crazy Neighbor Ed!), so he is in no danger of actually falling.
***And now back to my regular scheduled blogging***

So we hung out with gran for a couple hours, then went to find a hotel room. On the way, we stopped at a grocery to grab a snack. The b.h. got himself a sandwich in the deli, and since they had no vegetarian options, I chose to hold off. "No problem," I said in what would have been a foreshadowing moment if only this scene were from a movie rather than my own stupid life, "I'll just eat some cheese and crackers and one of the yogurts we have in the cooler when we get back to the hotel."

We found a hotel. We went inside. I was so tired as to be very close to tears. I opened the cooler while the b.h. sat down to eat his deli sandwich. The cooler is a the small squishy kind, an insulated bag rather than a big blocky plastic thing. We use it for road trips because it takes up so little room and holds plenty of snacks and a few drinks for a day's drive. It also has an extra piece of insulation that goes on top of the food and ice after you put it in, providing extra prtection from the outside, or perhaps providing a barrier in case there are foods in it that do not need to be cold (or cannot get wet). That piece of insulation had been packed, in the haste of a sleepy morning, between the food and the ice. Twelve hours later, the yogurt and the cheese were inedible, and the poor frazzled guy who had packed the cooler was enjoying a sandwich at the table in front of me. Again, I almost cried. Instead, I opened the box of crackers, eating them dry and trying not to say anything that I knew I would regret (I knew it was an accident, after all, and I felt bad enough for him already). I also took a chance on an Odwalla fruit drink thingie.
We slept some, and then got up in the morning and went back to the hospital. We brought our wedding album, which gran hadn't seen yet. She remarked that J, our friend who performed the ceremony, looked like "a gangster." She actually made that remark about half of my family members, which goes to show that stereotypes about Chicago die almost as hard as those about rural Mississippi. The funny thing is that my family is not italian. Nor are they Greek, nor are most of them terribly olive-skinned at all, but I guess that hardly matters to a rural Southern septaugenarian. It was quite funny.
When we left the hospital, M's mom dropped him off ouside and we all drove up to Memphis. M was again at the wheel, and I found myself relieved that my stomach was completely empty. I made a note (out loud) that I would be doing the rest of the driving. We stopped in Tupelo to see Elvis's boyhood home, which as you might imagine stands in stark contrast to the one he built after he got famous.

This isn't a trick of the photography, by the way. the house was really tiny. Looks like one room. (We didn't pay to go in and find out, but how much could we have missed?) There really isn't much at the site, but they tried to fancy it up with a scary statue of Elvis (age thirteen)
, as well as a chapel and "The Fountain of Life", which is not nearly as impressive as its name suggests. There were a bunch of quotes about Elvis from famous people posted on signs along one wall, and a walkway that went around the house that had a square for each year of his life. The early ones showed stuff like this:

In the later years, there are no words inscribed, just numbers. I guess "Addicted to prescription meds, Elvis performs completely wasted on live television and forgets words to songs" isn't what they want us to remember.Anyway, it was interesting. And free. And, most importantly, the weather was completely beautiful and the trees were in bloom:


Okay, folks. That's all I've got in me for today. I have a bachelorette party to attend before I go to work, and I look like hell. Tomorrow (or, barring that, Monday): We go to Gr@celand!

Rock, Lobster.

I am not prone to hero worship. I do not have an unspoken urge to be famous or even to get on television. I have rarely been starstruck, though I have waited on Kevin Spacey, Billy Corrigan, and Kurt Vonnegut (Okay, Vonnegut made me giddy, but I was outwardly cucumber-like), and I have met some fairly famous bands under various circumstances. And living in this town, you might imagine that one would have their share of encounters with 80's college rock icons. But last night was the first time I met The World's Nicest Rock Stars.
They were so fun, and very chatty, and they danced around and rocked out to Earl Greyhound, who are rock stars in their own right - or at least they're about to be. I was a tiny bit star struck by Fred Schneider. It took me a minute to decide if Kate Pierson was actually who I thought she was. Her hair was hot pink, but it was not in a beehive, and she is much shorter in person than I imagined.
All in all, a lovely evening, despite not being able to afford the My Morning Jacket show.

My First meme!!

Ten things I like beginning with the letter L, as assigned by Z (who helped me figure out how to link in the *Evil New Blogger* - appropo that she is the first new link, no?).


Lavender. I don't remember when I first discovered it, but it is one of the best smells in the world. I mean actual lavender, by the way, the faux lavender scented nasty stuff. I plant it every Spring (one of these years it may actually come back), and I use the essential oil in my laundry. Oh, and soap. Love the lavender soap.
Lip Balm. I only ever use Burt's Bees. We always have at least four tubes of it - one in each coat, one on the nightstand, one in the medicine cabinet. I have been using it for over ten years, and since they put out the tinted kind, I will likely never buy anything else.
Lemons. Fresh lemonade, lemon pound cake, lemon slices, lemon vodka (Stoly). The b.h. makes a fabulous green bean recipe with lemon zest and carmelized pecans. I can't get enough.
Leeks. And garlic, and onions... has anyone noticed how much food is on this list yet?
Lindt Dark Chocolate.The bars with orange peel and almond slices are my absolute favorite, but I am also a big fan of the plain 70% Dark bar. Decadent. Yum.
Lyle Lovett. Does he count as two? One of my musical comfort foods. "If I had a Boat" is zen-like. The Road to Ensenada is a fantastic driving in the country record. And his live show is one of the bast I have ever seen.
Lucinda Williams. A woman who has been there, done that, and written some raw and painful songs about the whole trip.
Lake Michigan. I never lived on the lake, but it has always been there, just a quick drive away. It's huge - an ocean without the salt. It's scary - I jumped in the water in May one year, off of my friend's boat. Luckily he was a lifeguard, because my legs were numb almost immediately and I needed help getting back on. It's calming - living in the city can get pretty claustrophobic at times, but an afternoon at the beach will always set me straight. (Not that I'm sunning myself, mind you. I'm far too pasty and sensible for that). I didn't realize how much that lake meant until I moved to my new landlocked home. I really miss it.
Libraries. The local public library is loaded with good stuff, but unfortunately it seems to be a dumping ground for people who can't control (or even pay attention to) their children. I have often thought of going back to school and getting a degree in library science, but then I lie down until the feeling goes away. I guess it's good to know that it's there if I need it, though.
Loafing. Sometimes not doing anything is the best.

AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHH!!!!!!!

Is anyone else having trouble with this g.d. *New Blogger*?
I can only upload photos some of the time. I have to change the g.d. font every time I post (which is why this one is different than the last several). I am unable to make links within my posts. The script in a post sometimes runs into my sidebar. And as for making template changes? Hell no! If I were to do that, they promise me that they would save my old template so I could transfer information, but at this point I do not have much faith.
So out of curiosity, did everybody have to switch? Because I was forced to "upgrade" against my will. And is anybody else having these problems? Are there new instructions for creating links?

From the "Well, No Shit" file.

An article from the Detroit Free Press, entitled "Study: College Students Get An 'A' in Narcissism"

Blogger is not cooperating with me on makling a link, but the address is http://www.freep.com

Money Quote: "As an example, Twenge cited a song commonly sung to the tune of “Frere Jacques” in preschool: “I am special, I am special. Look at me.”

Actually, I would like to see a much longer piece written about this study, but the results of the "research" are completely obvious to anyone who has lived in a college town. What bothers me is that they don't address serious issues like eating disorders and other problems that stem from said narcissism. It's not that I don't want to punch these kids in the face. It's just that I want to hug them afterward.

Progress (the good kind).

So the basil was the first thing to come up - no surprise there, since it seems like it will grow whether I pay attention to it or not. I wouldn't be shocked if I went into the garden store and found a basil seed packet with leaves poking out. That's how well it grows here. Also, the green beans, oregano, sunflowers, and a few peppers are sprouting. I couldn't be happier. Well, I suppose I could be if it weren't so cold today, but I'll take what I can get. I'll just have to start an indoor project.
Friday I went to all of my local thrift stores. Wound up scoring a pair of Frye boots that look like they have never been worn and make me about a head taller than the b.h. They are beautiful and soft and leather, and best of all, they were SIX DOLLARS. Also got a fancy red pair, with some sort of design on them, that are not quite as tall and not quite as leather. I suspect I will probably wear them a couple times and then sell them in the store. But again, SIX DOLLARS. In addition to my fabulous footwear, found some vintage Gap corduroys and several new cotton shirts. Oh, and two pairs of pajama pants. I think the total on this stuff was around thirty bucks. Score.
I never buy new stuff, really, unless it's a t-shirt from a band that I see live. I am a firm believer the best way to support low to mid-level bands is to buy stuff directly from them. I learned the hard way that even if I like a band that I see, unless I totally love them, buying a CD isn't practical, because I see so many bands that the CDs wind up lost in a stack and I look at them six months later and think "Who is this and why do I own it?" With a shirt, it doesn't really matter who it is. It works to keep their name out there. Whenever I leave town, I try to pack shirts from local bands here in Athens to get their name out in Chicago or Nashville or wherever I'm going.
Anyway, I'm gonna go get my day started. Yay sprouts! Yay new clothes! Happy Sunday, y'all.

Winnie the Pooh and Oh My Fucking God

So I'm standing outside the bar, and I see this guy in a Winnie the Pooh costume walking across the street. Though Halloween is far off, I am not in the least bit surprised. Frat boys have costume parties all year. No biggie. What was interesting to me was that this guy actually fit the bill, as it were. He was a little pudgy around the middle and he looked right for it. He filled that costume out properly. It was kind of cute. Then I noticed the guy he was walking with. Another, smaller frat boy, dressed all in baggy black clothes, with a big fake medallion and various other faux rap star accoutrements. And he was in fucking black face. No kidding. Which was horrifying in and of itself, but then it struck me: Winnie the Pooh and- what rhymes with Tigger?
Yeah. Total assholes. And there's no way that they intended anything else. White kids are always dressing up in rap clothes (or as "white trash," or bikers, or hunters, or business executives) for their very exclusive (lame) parties. I have never seen any of them in blackface, though. Every once in awhile they outdo themselves.
Sometimes I hate it here.

Planting.

That's all I've been doing that's worth talking about. I've planted two kinds of tomatoes, pickling cucumbers, basil, dill, oregano, thyme, fennell, moonflowers, and some mixed four o'clocks. So far. And our meyer lemon tree (which was a gift from J and her s.o. for our wedding) is blooming. The smell is nothing short of intoxicating.
I've also spent some time trying to tame the flower beds around the house, in hopes that this year I will finally plant all of them. The problem with renting is that it's difficult to want to bother with the whole blasted yard (it's pretty large, and not at all tended prior to our presence) that we will eventually have to evacuate. But I've been getting to it a little at a time for the past couple summers, and this year I'm feeling particularly ambitious. In the meantime, progress is being made on the ridiculously overpriced condos from hell across the street. The guys who are putting them up have taken to communicating with each other by whistling very loudly, which as you dog owners may guess, tends to rile up the dogs. Which would already be annoying if it were late in the day, but since it generally starts at the crack of dawn (about an hour or two after I have fallen asleep), it actually pisses me off quite a lot. That and the trash which is constantly strewn about and regulary makes its way across the road and into our yard are really starting to get on my nerves.
On a lighter note, the geese are back. I think these may actually be *our* geese - the ones we call Marge and Homer, who are not afraid of us, and who will make their way across the pond whenever they see us come out, in hopes of getting fed - but I don't know if geese actually return to the same place year after year. If anybody knows about goose habits, I'd love an answer.
Also, the ducks are catching on. They aren't quite as aggressive as the geese yet, but they do stop by at least every other day. Photos to come.

A Thousand Words.

This is pretty much how I've been for the last two weeks, which is why I have been here so spottily. I have been keeping up with everyone else's blogs, but haven't had much to report. Yesterday was a One Nostril Day, and I got out and dug up the yard a bit, preparing for what I hope will be a banner garden year.
Today the b.h. and I went to the farmer's market in Atlanta, which was absolutely lovely and promises to make for fabulous dinner. I also bought a bunch of flower and veggie seeds from our local home improvement hell hole, as I simply could not wait for the ones I ordered online. So I'm off to dig in the dirt, or at least in the peat pods. Hopefully there will be more yard progress tomorrow. For now, I am just going to bask in the warm glow of my Two Nostril Night.

Finally.

A Summer Blockbuster I can actually look forward to.

http://www.apple.com/trailers/fox/thesimpsonsmovie/trailer3_large.html

S-A-T-U-R- D-A-Y NIGHT!

Apologies in advance for the lack of links on this post. The "New Blogger" doesn't seem to want to cooperate with me today. Fuckers.

So the b.h. played a show on Saturday evening, along with his band, some friends from Tennessee, and a fantastic band from Ohio whose name I cannot recall to save my life right now. (Sorry, guys).
After bartending for a room full of our friends for four hours, I was relieved by the night shift and we all made our way over to the Caledonia Lounge to see three more fantastic bands. Mother Jackson sounded better than they ever have, in my humble opinion; Still Small Voice was great, as usual, though I am not sure that the setting suits them as well as Tasty World; and Southern Bitch brought the house down for their CD release show. Wendy looks fantastic, having recovered (we hope) fully from her emergency surgery. She was stomping around stage in a pair of very tall, very glittery, gold high heels, that I could neither pull of nor stand on for more than a split second under the best of circumstances. It was really impressive. They all played as well as I have ever seen them.
At night's end I wound up piloting the van for our out of town friends, who at that point had been drinking for a full fourteen hours. I was immediately reminded how lucky I am to have learned to drive in a 1977 Ford LTD. The guys were sprawled out in the back and the b.h., who is not a driver, was in the passenger's seat. We left our car downtown (no tickets on the Lord's Day), and headed home. Mostly when I am around a group of very loud, very drunk people, I am immediately irritated and whenever possible i run in another direction. This particular group of guys has the distinction of being both very tolerable and highly amusing, however, and I can't remember the last time I laughed as hard as I did on that ride.

Overheard in the van:
"That monkey bit my uncle Johnny on the head you know."
"Yeah, he was a mean summbitch. They wound up pumpin 'im with a thirty ought six after he got that mailman."
"He threw that mailman twenty feet they said. Put 'im in the hospital."

Not sure how that coversation started, but the b.h. and I spent some time in bed later trying to decide if the monkey was real, or if it was a private joke that they had launched into. As it turned out, the monkey was real, and he was a chimp, and the chimp lived in a neighborhood called - wait for it - Frog @lley. Back in the seventies. I don't know. But it was funny.

Then we pulled into the grocery store parking lot to grab some frozen pizzas. The van's lights went straight into a car that was parked with what appeared to be three teenaged guys sleeping in it. The b.h. and I left the van running and the band inside while we ran for the food. When we came out, the formerly sleeping guys were gone, and from the van all you could hear, across the whole parking lot, was loud Irish rock music (we think it was Flogging Molly) and raucous laughter. The ride ended with Johnny Paycheck's Colorado Kool Aid, and if you haven't heard that song you should really go find it. I laughed so hard I almost wrecked the van.
Yesterday was a mix of errand running and loafing around. It was really cold and really windy, but I have heard that it should be seventy degrees by Thursday. I hope that's the end of the cold, because we are just about out of firewood, and I hate to pay five bucks a bundle for it at the grocery store.

Master Procrastinator.

Although I have actually done quite a bit of cleaning today, I am putting off emptying the dishwasher just a little longer. I am trying to hurry up and clean the house because the b.h. and I are hosting some friends from out of town whose band is playing in town today. The guys are extremely laid back, and probably wouldn't notice how filthy my house is (though you could harldy miss the dog hair tumble weeds blowing across the kitchen floor), and are likely to be too drunk to notice either way. I am, however, my mother's daughter, and therefore cleaning frantically. And listening to The Hold Steady. They are really great. They got band of the Year on either MySpace or Pitchfork or one of those internet sites, which in my book is much more prestigious than a Grammy any day. So yeah. Still procrastinating. Except I can't think of anything else to say. Crap. Oh well, to the kitchen then...

Tuesday is the New Sunday.

More or less, anyway. I did actually get some work done. But then I came home and loafed about quite a bit, and we watched The Dep@rted . It was fantastic. And not at all your typical Hollywood fare, which surprised and delighted me. I won't say more, in case some of you haven't seen it yet.
Okay, off to loaf some more. The b.h. has just set some thai coconut soup in front of me.

Appearances

Yesterday I went to a flea market/antique mall with my good friend J. J is a rather large and difficult to miss guy. He's about six and a half feet tall, long-haired, and built like a professional wrestler (which he was, for a short time). He has a propensity for wearing colorful clothing. He is also a Reverend-of sorts. He got a certificate from the church that advertises in the back of Rolling Stone magazine (a la' Chris In The Morning from Northern Exposure). He actually performed my wedding ceremony.

Anyway, I take great pleasure in shopping with J, because he likes to browse the way that I do, and his commentary is very amusing and often very audible. Case in point: In the middle of the antique mall, in an area where several other shoppers were browsing, he held up a plaque excitedly.

"This makes me happy on so many levels," he said.

The plaque read:

If you're to busy to pray you're to busy.

And J said, rather loudly: "If you're too busy to pray, you should learn how to fucking spell."

I laughed. He laughed. People looked at us like we had just shit in the middle of the aisle.

As I was checking out, J was hovering nearby perusing some jewelery and other accessories in a glass case. I thanked the woman who owns the shop (who had not even heard his earlier outburst, because we were in another room) profusely, and turned to leave. Still smiling from ear to ear (I love a bargain and my junk habit is easily satisfied in this particular establishment) I said

"Are you ready, Reverend?"

"Indeed I am," replied J, who then turned to the proprietress and said cheerfully and without irony "Have a wonderful day. And God bless!"

I think she may have lifted her jaw from the floor in time for church today, but I can't be certain.

Hey! There are people out there!

So, um, Blogger forced me to upgrade. And lo and behold, I discovered actual reader comments. Which I immediately published. I have no idea how it happened, but I'm glad it did. Anybody who has known me for any length of time knows that I have a difficult time with this whole tech-nol-o-gy thing (Thus my Yahoo! e-mail address, despite the fact that Gmail is clearly superior. I even have the "old" version of Yahoo! mail). Anyway, apologies (and thanks!) to those of you who have bothered to comment. I will now attend to the comments regularly.

I'm not a huge fan of this font, but I just tried to change it twice and I couldn't get it together. I'll ask the b.h. for help tomorrow.

I have just finished Eats Shoots & Leaves, a fantastic punctuation book written by a woman named Lynne Truss (I probably just misspelled her name, but I mean no disrespect). It is hilarious and amazing, and I recommend it to anyone who is as frustrated as I am by other people's stupidity. Mind you, I am also frustrated by my own stupidity, but there isn't nearly as much (heh). Anyway, the author is British, and she gives rules for both British and American punctuation, and I find myself borrowing from both, so forgive me. It just seems that some of their rules are much more logical. Examples? Don't ask me for examples! Read the book!

Why no examples? Well, because I have spent my entire (long) evening waiting on a group I have fondly dubbed The Visor Brigade. Theree are three kinds of people who wear visors: Golfers, Tennis Players, and Douchebags. These boys belonged in the third category. Yessir, white visors and red necks. It was nice to be busy, though.

At the end of the night the guy who headlined told us a great story about seeing Jack Black at LAX. Apparently, it was after Tenacious D, but before maximum JB saturation. Our hero was about 17 years old, and he was killing time in an airport gift shop before his flight. He saw JB in the shop, went up to him, and asked for an autograph. This was, he said, his first celebrity encounter, so we might imagine that he was probably outwardly excited. JB signed his plane ticket, then asked the kid to watch his bag. The kid agreed. JB set the bag down next to the checkout counter. Several minutes later, the kid was starting to get nervous that he was going to miss his flight. He asked the woman behind the checkout counter what time it was. She did not speak English, but she did laugh at him. Several minutes after that, he discovered that the bag in question had been lifted off the wall in the gift shop and dropped on the floor when he wasn't looking. Hilarious. A.J., take note. Apparently there is one thing old JB can teach you. Fan avoidance. And you oughtta be needing that soon.

Lies.

So the package says "washes off easily with soap and water", and being a foolish consumer, I somehow think that this means I will be able to remove it easily in the shower before bed. I am not a big fan of makeup anyway, but it really makes a difference in a bar setting, especially when one is not blessed with much pigment and doesn't often see daylight. When I applied this new mascara, i marvelled at the way it didn't fall in clumps from the brush (When did I buy that last tube? Probably sometime in the late nineties)and onto my freshly concealered and powdered under eye area. "Hey - this stuff really works!" I thought. Very exciting.
It wasn't until hours later, standing in the shower, scrubbing at my eyes with a washcloth full of soap, that I started to lose confidence. After that I tried actual eye-makeup remover (thanks for leaving that behind, Shayne), as well as face lotion, hand lotion, and vaseline. Now, eighteen hours later, I have started scraping it off with my fingernails, one clump of lashes at a time. There is a lovely racoon-like shadow all the way around my eyes from where I have been rubbing them. It is not pretty. Thank the gods it's Sunday and I don't have to leave the house.

At Least One Person I know Has His Shit Together.

So I find myself feeling not at all creative, and really tired of all the political shite that I seem to have become addicted to, and I do a Google search for A.J.'s movie. Here's what the critics are saying:

"The entire production is a by-product of a thriving regional film scene based in Atlanta, Ga., including The Signal’s uniformly excellent cast, who could all give the Hollywood types a run for their money. With the showiest parts in the piece, two players in particular get to shine: A.J. Bowen, who plays the maniacal betrayed husband and bug exterminator Lewis Fenton with some of Jack Nicholson’s savage glee from The Shining; and Scott Poythress as an affable know-it-all neighbor trapped between his lovable old self and the deadly new one struggling to be born."

"The cast in the film is top notch and I hope they stick with their Atlanta crew, as once this thing hits big they will surely have offers flowing in from everywhere. AJ Bowen’s portrayal of Lewis is a particular highlight as he is a major part of all three transmissions in the film and finds himself varying from evil villain, scorned husband, to kooky freaked out guy that may or may not be insane, but god damnit he’s entertaining."

"The Signal is hilariously violent. It was filmed by three different directors in three different parts (the first of which is probably the best). It’s not just another gory horror film (although it is gory), it is smart and has a relevant social message. It’s amazing to see what a bunch of young filmmakers can do on a low budget. Some of these sequences look like they should belong in a big scale movie."

"In the end THE SIGNAL will burn it’s transmission into your brain and leave you with an impression that will never go away. This is that film that leaves you with that special glow (yes, kind of like after sex), the smile that doesn’t fade and the conversations that never cease. Eventually, THE SIGNAL will earn its place amongst the greatest cult horror films of all time."

Convinced.

Well, I was dubious when I saw them at the store, but our electronic mouse repellers seem to be working very well. They are not exactly this brand (gods know we couldn't afford fifty-eight bucks a room for pest control*), but very similar. They do not seem to affect the dogs at all. All of this makes me very happy, and I was just sitting here marvelling at the lack of mice when I saw a moth. Blast!




*Actually, the devices we bought were about six bucks each.

Well Then...

I guess Daniel Radcliffe can officially forget about being typecast. And Warner Brothers can count on picking up a few more fans for the next movie.

Old School.

So The Bottle Rockets kicked much ass to about thirty people. Poured a drink for Pete Buck. No yogurt was thrown. It was unbearably cold outside, so I guess I can see why some people would stay home, but I was disappointed in everybody else. Sometimes this town really lets me down. At least the band didn't.

I haven't blogged much lately because I have been alternately so bored I had nothing to say and so busy I have no time to talk about it. Right now I have reached a comfortable middle ground. The big over-priced condos are coming along across the street. They have now got a third floor on the building, so in addition to being awakened every morning (even Sunday!) by loud, stupid machinery, I also get the feeling that the guys putting the roof on can probably see into my bedroom. Luckily at that hour there is nothing to see except me chanting incantations over a voodoo doll-esque "my little over-priced condo" set and burning incense. I do hope that they finish soon. Even though I have no desire to have neighbors within sight of my house, at least I would have a chance at sleeping through the night. In the meantime, I will continue to sneak over and fertilize the trees and shrubbery on that side of the pond in hopes that they will block out the view before there are any viewers.
Not much is really going on other than that. Have been doing some writing. Have interviewed for another (supplementary) job. Have seen Scott Miller at the Melting Point. Missed The Lemonheads twenty-five minute set at the 40 Watt on Saturday, complete with stupidly drunk Evan Dando getting cussed out by one Ms. Barry Buck. Wish I had seen it, but glad I didn't pay for it. Tonight the Bottle Rockets will rock Tasty World. Looking forward to it. Haven't seen them in years.

HOLYCRAPHOLYCRAPHOLYCRAP!!!

From Variety, which I have never read in my entire life until today:

This one sold in the lobby of the Egyptian Theater around 2 a.m.

Signal

Magnolia Films bought Park City at Midnight selection "The Signal," which premiered Tuesday morning. $2.3 million for U.S., U.K. and Australian rights.

Fucking A. Or perhaps, fucking A.J. I have never been so proud.

Ah...Sunday.

It's a rare occasion when the b.h. and I are both in the kitchen (he does about 99.9% of the cooking in our house), but it is a lot of fun, even with a hundred and twenty pounds of dog lying perpetually underfoot. Today we made a quick dash out in the rain to get some groceries, and then got to cooking right away. He made a lovely roasted cauliflower dish with a cilantro-ey curry sauce. I made a batch of homemade chai, which I am about to get a cup of as soon as I'm through posting. I also finally used up the last of our Georgia mountain apple supply in an apple cranberry pie. I am still slightly intimidated by the crust thing (rolling and crimping are not my strong suits), but it does get easier every time. And hell, if I ever hope to be half the pie lady that Jamie is, I'd better keep practicing.

Crossing my fingers and sending my best vibes to AJ, whose film The Signalwill debut at Sundance in just over twenty-four hours. Good Luck!

Overheard...

"If I cheated on my wife, they'd never find my dick."

Sometimes all you need is half the story.

Chicks Dig It.

Thankfully, the last band tonight was the best (least horrid is actually much more accurate, but I'm trying to be all glass-half-full here), so we ended the night on a slightly more positive note than the one on which we began it. After that I spent way too much time explaining to the bass player (who looked not unlike a bald Derek Smalls) that wearing his wedding band during shows would actually attract chicks. Honestly, boys. What are you thinking? That ring means that you put the lid down, you pick your socks up, that you might even know how to wash a dish. It means that you're already trained for christ's sake. And chicks dig that.

The Joy of Public Bathrooms.

So I'm standing (hovering, actually, at the risk of being slightly graphic) in the ladies' room, and the girl in the next stall starts talking. At first I thought she might be out of toilet paper or in desperate need of a tampon, either of which is a perfectly acceptable reason to start a stall-to-stall conversation with a complete stranger. She wasn't. Then I thought she might be in there with a friend. Checking for feet, I saw that this wasn't the case either. Was she talking to herself? I wondered. After a few minutes I realized that she was on her cell phone. Did the person on the other end realize where she was talking from? Somehow I'd have preferred to think she was talking to herself. I took extra time washing my hands, wanting for some odd reason to put a face with the voice of the bathroom talker. Alas, the bar was busy, and she was quite involved in her conversation, so I had to go.

Quote of the Year.

I know it's the beginning of Jamuary and everything, but seriously. I can't imagine anybody topping this one. If they'd like to try, they have 355 days.

(Drumroll)

"I didn't know she was a hooker. I thought she was a stripper."

Spoken by one of the biggest jackasses in town, in reference to his fornicating with a young lady in a public bathroom. In a bar. A bar where he used to work.

Runner up for quote o' the year 2007 is from the young lady's friend, who actually was a stripper:

"I know she does this for money sometimes, and that's one thing, but for free? In the bathroom?! That's just embarrassing"

Man, I love this fucking town.

The Department of Motor Vehicles.

I never, ever refer to the DMV by its full name, but I realized while typing that title that it is tremendously effective in conveying the sheer Brazil-like nature of that particular government office.
"Go in the middle of the afternoon," my friend K assured me. "That's what I did last time I had to renew my license and I was in and out of there in no time."
I also had to renew my vehicle tags, so I set out much earlier than I would normally do on a friday afternoon. The tag office was a snap. It took me longer to park my car and walk through the metal detector than it did to get my new stickers. You can't really appreciate that unless you have lived in a large city and waited in two lines for over an hour, only to be told yet again that you are in the wrong line, year after year until you finally, in an act of subconscious desperation, leave the keys in the ignition of your aging and decrepit rust-encrusted auto, and park it under the El tracks where it gets stolen, thereby saving your life, trimming your waistline, and restoring your sanity. Having had these experiences, I appreciated the tag office experience immensely. So much so that I may have frightened the middle-aged woman behind the counter and the fat security guard with my enthusiastic-bordering-on-psychotic grin and over-loud "Have a great day!!" as I blew through the doors of the courthouse and out into the horrific storm (a tornado watch, no less).
I was prepared for the worst.
It had stopped raining by the time I got there. The parking lot was pretty packed. I entered the front door and saw to my utter joy that there were currently only two people in the first line. And there were only a handful of people sitting in the waiting area. I was puzzled by this until I read the giant sign on the back wall indicating that no driving tests were given in the rain. Sweet.
I got to the front of the line and one of the women who works there came up to the older lady in front and explained that someone would be over in a minute to distrubute numbers to those of us in the first line. (Numbers that would then be called to move us into other lines, based on our individual needs--oh, the efficiency!! I became suddenly wildly optimistic. This was not the DMV I remembered from five years ago.) A few people walked in behind me. About a minute and a half passed before the second woman in line, who had been talking to her teenaged son and had not heard our instructions, turned to the first woman and asked what was going on.
"I don't know," she said, "She said there would be somebody here in a minute to give us numbers but there isn't anybody here." Obviously a literalist. They began discussing their general confusion. I began ignoring them and instead turned my attention to the guy at the first window who was trying to get his license back.
"So I got like, four tickets in a coupla months," he said very loudly. "If I take like, a defensive driving course or somethin' can I get like a couple points off that?"
The woman behind the counter looked weary. She also looked like she wanted reach over the counter and slap the shit out of him, but instead she answered "Yes" very stiffly and stared at her computer screen. This guy was about fifty pounds overweight, dressed in a rumpled pair of Dockers and an even more rumpled polo shirt. He was probably about thirty, but he looked a lot older. He continued his ill-advised blathering.
"Yeah, I drive for work all the time, and I'm not really paying attention, and I never wear my seatbelt, and of course I usually speed..."
My jaw was dropping a little lower with every word he spoke. The woman behind the counter looked up at him, and then, in an almost Ferris Bueller-like fashion, looked directly into my eyes, in a split second conveying both her desire to throttle him and her knowledge that this would be completely futile, because after I helped her bury the body there would be a whole line of similar nitwits waiting at her window when she returned. She looked back at him.
"You're all set."
"I can go then?"
"Yes sir," was her verbal response. You fucking useless waste of natural resources the implied end to that statement, clear as day on her face, which he wasn't looking at. He smiled and nodded at me as he walked outside, presumably to get on his cell phone while speeding through a school zone.
I was laughing and looking around for anyone else who may have been privy to the same conversation. They were still worrying about whether or not the promised paper numbers would actually materialize. They did. I had to bump up my weight on my new license by about ten pounds and change my address, but other than that my visit was incredibly uneventful. Which is exactly how I like it.

Random Weirdness.

Sometimes I will take a picture or make a note of something with the intention of posting it. Often I forget about these things for a long time. This is one of those things: