Cranky McSnidely

my brother

Wed, 29 Oct 2003 17:26:02 GMT

Well, you've all heard me rant and rave about the Bubba, but this is a new one: He tried kill himself over the weekend by setting himself on fire. He is now in Parkland Burn ICU and having the first of many surgeries today. He is in very bad shape and may not make it. Please light a candle or say prayers or think good thoughts or something for him.

Where the hell have you been?

Sun, 10 Aug 2003 04:23:22 GMT

Well now, it's only been about 4 months since last I wrote, but hey, life has been going on. Seriously, going on.

Many things have happened in my life, not the least of which being that I finally left Nazisu (Hell) to pursue a new life. When I left Hell I had decided that nursing was where I needed to be; however, since leaving and trying a summer semester and working part-time at a liquor store, an entirely new world of opportunities has opened itself to me. I have rediscovered that I can sell pretty much damn near anything and have people thank me for it. So, with that, I have been offered (after 3 months) an assistant manager's position with the liquor store, and have met about 10 other people, with extraordinarily interesting jobs, who are interested in hiring me. Neato. Now what?

Do I dance with the one that brung me, or do I see who else is on the dance floor?

Opinions? Comments? Questions? Fuck it. I need advice.

Don't lose your panties

Fri, 02 May 2003 15:26:37 GMT

It occurred to me yesterday that I had neglected to mention that I damn near lost my purple panties while in Hawaii. What happened was: We had to check out of Bellows before 9:00 am, but as anyone who has ever dealt with a hotel knows, you can't check into your hotel until 2:00 or so. Excuse me, you can check in anytime you want, but you can't have your room until 2:00. Fine. So, we leave Bellows dressed in our bathing suits so that we can kill time hanging at the pool or beach, whatever. I decided to put my bathing suit in a bag and wear a sundress (ahah! panties underneath) and just change when we got there. Seemed like a good idea, which it still does. ANYway, we get to the hotel, the s-l-o-w-e-s-t clerk ever in the history of the world checked us in (I swear to God, the other clerks checked in 4 groups before this lady even got our names entered in the computer.) and off we went to the pool to work on the tans. I go into the bathroom, change out of sundress and undies, put on cut-offs and halter top, go out to pool. While I was in the changing room, I decided to roll my panties up in my dress. Later, when Cynthia and I realized that we were seriously in need of food, I just left my bathing "suit" on and we took off through town. I started feeling a bit odd wearing that so I thought I would just grab the sundress out of the bag, throw it over my head and go. So I grabbed the dress, started to put it on when I heard someone hollering that I had dropped something. I turn around to see a gorgeous parking attendant from the Hilton Hawaii waving, yes, my purple panties. Now, had I been thinking, I would've just said, "Oh thanks, my bathing suit." But no, I was embarrassed and freaked, so I yelled,"My undies!!!" Gads. The dude was totally laughing at me, Cynthia was about to vomit from laughing so hard, and I tried to implode and disappear but damn it, it didn't work.

legal drugs

Thu, 01 May 2003 13:45:03 GMT

So I went to Starsucks again this morning and ordered a latte (and yes, I managed to keep it in the cup and off of me and the stairs). Anyway, I had the good sense to order a "grande" instead of my usual "venti" (which the young'un at this particular store always calls a "ven-tay," and while I don't know much Italian I'm pretty sure that his pronunciation is incorrect) because I had a Toffee Nut Latte (TNL). Now, I kinda thought to myself that a TNL would be more suited to an after-dinner drink but as I love toffee and it's still a latte, I also thought, "What the hell." Big mistake. Huge. A TNL is the legal equivalent of mainlining, except instead of heroin and cocaine, I was mainlining sugar and caffeine, which, on the whole, sounds like a good idea IF it's 12:30 at night and your friends still want to party but you're fading fast so a TNL would work great. 8:15 in the morning, however, ick. I am now sweaty, jinky, and have this weird urge to run naked through the office, yelling at everyone that I'm Wonder Woman, "See my invisible plane!?"

Boomtown Rats

Mon, 28 Apr 2003 14:16:23 GMT

Ooooo-wheeee, but I'm worn out. Had a wedding on Saturday, an anniversary party yesterday, back to work today. Man...and I'm still trying to get used to my new meds.

Yesterday I took my meds at 8:00 pm. Jeez, by 8:30 I was seeing double and sitting on the couch in and out of consciousness. Pretty picture: Me, on couch, barely functional, mouth hanging open, one hand covering one eye, trying to focus on Six Feet Under. Whoa.

Today, I am still recovering from the effects, wondering if I can walk out without anyone noticing that I'm gone.

Running for cover

Thu, 24 Apr 2003 18:39:01 GMT

Well, hmm, that's the last time I mention God on LJ.

Poi? Oy!

Wed, 23 Apr 2003 22:30:51 GMT

Poi. Yeah. Not so much. No, really. Not so much!

I had been looking forward to this Hawaiian adventure for over a year now.
Cynthia called me a year ago last February to tell me that her mom had
booked a cabin at Bellows Air Force
Station for the next April (!), and that I had been invited to go with
them. "Do you want to go," she asked. Uhm, yes, please--"Duh" times a
bajillion. (See ocyn's recent entries for the back story of why
they were going to Hawaii, other than it being, you know, Hawaii and
all.)

So we arrive in Hawaii, where even the airport is pretty. I sprint for the
door because I haven't cancered in 8 hours and a nicotine jones is one
hateful bitch-master. (Lest ye despair, I drank oodles of cheap but
ridiculously expensive "wine" on the plane--been on American lately? The
extra legroom? Paid for by bored and/or petrified customers trying to make
the trip as pleasant as possible by staying lit--how's that work? Five damn
dollars for a drink! Out-fucking-rageous, but what am I gonna do? Have a
ginger ale? Riiiiggghhhttttt.) Cynthia catches up, and we meet up with her
parents. (Cyn's mom is a saint and a sinner, and I adore her. I'm convinced
that Cynthia is actually my mom's and I truly belong with Mary Helen;
therefore, by making Cyn and me friends, fate is righting a wrong.) After
receiving our leis [insert "lei/lay" joke here], we are off to Bellows to
begin our days of wine and orchids (beer and shrimp chips, Mai Tais and
pretzels, pina coladas and ubiquitous pineapple/maraschino cherry on a
Barbie's Dream Pool patio umbrella, Bloody Marys and...ice, straight vodka
and...ice, etc)

Bellows is a lovely place, and if you have the means (Cynthia's generous
parents--Sir. Yes sir, Colonel Sir--you can only stay there if you are
militarily connected), I highly recommend staying there. The beach is
gorgeous and was within 15 steps of the cabin door. No, really. Cyn and I
had the front room with two twin beds, and some blankets, which really
confused me. (The presence of the blankets confused me. Not the blankets
themselves. [Image of blankets discussing faith and free will.]) The cabins
didn't have AC, not even window units, and I thought we would roast at
night. Ah ha, not so--lovely, quite cool breezes came through our windows
every evening and you better believe those blankets were needed.

Every morning, we rolled out of bed around 7:30, hit the beach by 8:30, and
then did whatever we felt like. I tanned, a lot, and was in search of Maui
Babe suntan lotion. Island "secret," deep tan. Island rip-off, deep tan
whether I used that stuff or not. Smelled good, though.

We went to the Dole pineapple plantation. Cynthia had to have a hat made of
pineapple leaves, and then was distressed to learn that she had to carry it
home on the plane. Kind of like getting a balloon when you're little and
then realizing that you have to keep it on your arm all day. Or winning that
humongous Pink Panther at the fair and realizing that you have to keep it on
your arm all day. "But Mom, I just thought YOU could take it home, and I'd
pick it up the next time I was at your house," said Cynthia pleadingly.
"Bite me," said mom. (No, not really.)

We even got to go to Schofield Barracks, where Cynthia and family once
lived, and where parts of From Here to Eternity were filmed. Pics of
the elementary school and a excursion to find the old house were the big
orders of the day. Me? I was happy looking at all the young soldiers. Pretty
boys in uniform! My favorite! Soldiers! My favorite! Sailors! My favorite!
Marines! You get it, I'm sure. BTW, the PX, or whatever it's called, rocks
my world. Tons of stuff, no tax. It's the shiznit, baby.

One sunny day, we all went to Waikiki. For what? I have no idea, because it
was very hot out and I was wearing a sundress and we stopped for drinks and
I had two Mai Tais and I talked like this for 40 minutes about my family and
boyfriends and god knows what else because Mai Tais are really FREAKIN'
STRONG. Cyn's dad will never let me live down the time I got tipsy on Mai
Tais in Hawaii. "Want a Mai Tai?" "No sir, no thank you." But mom says,
"We're out of Bloody Mary mix. Want some vodka on the rocks?" (Sound of
Shonda's feet flying her next door) "You bet!"

Luaus are fun! Many lovely dancers with ridiculously gorgeous, very
quick-moving hips, and flowing hair, and beautiful skin...sigh. (I'm really
not gay.) And Danny Couch, who
Cynthia says is in his 20s, but his hair looked dyed to me and I think he's
in his 40s. ANYway, he puts on a good show, but nothing like his mentor and
friend (we know this because Danny kept telling us that he is great friends
with...) Don Ho! Stop laughing! Don Ho
kicks tiny bubble ass! He's extremely gracious, very funny ("Tiny bubbles,
in the wine...I hate that song"), and does put on a helluva show. He gave
out glasses of champagne for just about any reason (veterans, newlyweds,
Brooklynites, etc.) I was, of course, wanting a glass of that free
champagne, and was trying to telepathically communicate my desire to Don Ho
(that's his name to you!). Hee! The last thing he thought of to celebrate
was divorce. "Anyone divorced out there?" Cynthia's brother, Jonathan, and I
SHOT out of our chairs. (The only thing funnier would've been if we were
sitting next to each other.) Cyn and I had free pics of Don Ho and we got
him to sign them after the show. Cynthia stood between his legs ("Don't
worry--there's nothing there"), and he wrapped his arms around my neck, and
I gave him a kiss on the cheek. I met Don Ho! Stop laughing!

Now, if you didn't already know this, there are a lot of Japanese tourists
in Hawaii. Uh huh, yes there are. I was conflicted over this because after
having spent a year in Japan, I'm conflicted about most things Japanese,
including how I feel about them as a entity. I won't go there, but I will
say that one upshot of a large Japanese tourist population is the presence
of authentic Japanese food. We happened upon a place serving my favorite
noodle dish: soba. Yummy, cold buckwheat noodles with pieces of nori served
with a soy-based sauce. Oh joy! I was thrilled. I haven't found any place in
Dallas that serves soba. Udon, yes. Soba, no. Please to try soba. (Shut up!
It's my LJ post.)

One really bad thing about the Japanese tourists is that all the karaoke
places were charging you to sing! I don't THINK so! This is America: You go
to the bar, you pay the cover, you buy the beer, you sing the song, you make
the ass out of yourself. This is Japan: You go to the bar (a little room
just for you and your friends), you pay the cover, you buy the beer, you
sing the song, you make the ass out of yourself in front of your friends
only! I'll be dipped in pigshit and called Louise before I'll pay to "sing"
in front of strangers. Bad enough I'm paying $15 for something called a
Backscratcher that doesn't actually include a soldier or tanned surf-Nazi
scratching my back, but to make me pay to karaoke! Bite me, Hale Koa hotel
management! (It was only a dollar, but that's not the point.)

All in all it was a fabulous trip, and thank god I've been invited back.

Oh wait, I forgot. Poi. It's purple. It's paste. It may be good for you, but
so is liver, and no thank you. Cynthia's family did their best to make sure
I understood that poi is really just a trick the islanders play on tourists.
"It tastes like paste." "Seriously, it's disgusting." See, I'll try
anything, foodwise, and I've always been that way. Natto? Tried it. Raw
quail eggs on sushi? Tried it. "Rat's asshole?" (Thanks, George Carlin.)
Haven't tried it, but only because I haven't been anyplace where it's on the
menu. Other than natto, which is the nastiest "food" ever, poi is the
foulest thing I've tried. You can mix it with other stuff on your plate, and
it'll pick up that flavor, and it is easy to digest and again, good for you,
but take a bite of that shit solo, and Jebus. I swear, I saw God. I saw
technicolor trailers coming off of people. The aura of those who actually
tried the poi? Ooo, scary. Eww. Eww, eww, eww.

Do like I did; go native. Wear tank tops, halters, and cut-offs. Get a tan.
Drink a lot. Go to a luau. Meet Don Ho. Go snorkeling and see pretty
fishies. Try the poi. But have that Mai Tai handy.

And another thing

Mon, 21 Apr 2003 15:20:57 GMT

God is dead. Wait now, hear me out. If God is in the details, then the details suck; therefore, Satan, Loki, Belial, Ashtaroth, blah blah blah Lucifercakes, is now in charge. And here's why: Manners are details, and manners are gone. Gone, gone, gone, GONE. "But, Shonda," you whine, "why would you say such a thing?" Because I can. See, I was out with ocyn and alexfiles (forgotten how to make them into a link, sorry) and, well, I slipped and fell down a couple of steps. NO, I wasn't drunk; at least then I would've had an excuse. I'm just clumsy. ANYWAY, down I went, in front of the whole damn place, and who helped me? alexfiles and some waiters. I am surrounded by people within a foot of where I fell; hell, I looked one guy right square in the eye, and he...looked back. NO-FREAKIN'-ONE helped me, offered to help me, looked even slightly sympathetic. As a matter of fact, the one dude looked slightly ANNOYED that I had disrupted his conversation. AAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!! THE HELL? I mean, if I'd just watched someone bust his/her ass, I would've helped, or damn, at least have inquired as to whether or not he/she/it was OK. The more I think about it, the madder I get. I have a nasty bruise on my leg, and on my upper arm (I don't know how that one got there. It's just there. Is that OK with you, Sherlock? Yes, I'm testy.)

Guys, this is to you: What happened? Where are the manners? Ah shit, girls, too. There were four of y'all sitting closer than DickDude and y'all didn't help either. Can someone explain to me why manners, kindness, chivalry, and whatever have died?

What happened to manners in general? My grandfather would've died before wearing a hat in doors, much less to dinner. And yes, a gimme-cap counts as a hat. Take that shit off when you come in. Your hair looks dirty? So you have to wear a cap? Don't care. You should've taken a shower. Opened the door too many times for pea-brained, ungrateful bitches? Keep opening doors. Just because Mandy Big-Boobs doesn't say thanks, doesn't make it OK for you to lose your manners. Be the better person here. Mandy just wasn't raised right. See someone (not just a woman) struggling with something? Help out. Offer to help out. They might say "no, thank you, I can manage" they might say "I can do it myself, you chauvinist pig, you," but more than likely, they will say "Yes, please, I'd really appreciate that."

And ladies, did a gentleman open that door for you? He's not being a misogynistic pig. He's being polite. He's probably not hitting on you. He's being polite. Fucking say "thank you." It's not your God-given right to be a bitch and ignore someone being kind just because you think you deserve to have the door opened for you. Guess what? You fuck it up for the rest of us who would love to have a door opened for us.

I don't remember my grandfather cursing, either. Wait, back up off me. I curse like a sailor (as is readily apparent when reading this) when I'm around my pals and on appropriate forums, like, uhm, this, but I try to rein it in when I'm in a public place. It doesn't bother ME if you fucking "cuss" but maybe the grandmotherly type sitting next to you having lunch with what looks to be her 10-year-old granddaughter might not appreciate hearing about your sex life with Whorey McSlutty and her German Shepard. Yep, girls, you too. Boyfriend pissed you off? Heard something about him and your sorority sister, and what? a dog, too!? Shut up. Wait 'til you're at (insert popular college bar here) before crying into your low-carb beer about what a fucking asshole he is and look, there's his best friend, Todd, so maybe you'll just go over there and give him a blowjob and that'll show Ricky, that fuck!

I would ask for tolerance and forgiveness for obvious distress, but I don't feel like it. Or maybe I will ask, because I don't want to be, you know, rude.

movies i saw this weekend

Mon, 31 Mar 2003 23:07:17 GMT

My friend here at Nazisu, Craig, keeps me in bad movies. And for this, I thank him. This weekend I had a triple-threat of two Troma films, and one indy British film, and while I didn't think this would be a good combo, it was. Nothing like zombies, sushi, and blood for an appetizing evening.

The Troma group, responsible for bringing us such gems as The Toxic Avenger and Tromeo and Juliet, has unleashed Redneck Zombies and Sgt. Kabukiman, N.Y.P.D. Oh dear Lord, but I almost speeyakked from laughing so hard. My SO, Chris, was so not getting into Redneck Zombies and I was spewing margarita from my nose (note to self: Maybe movies are funny if you drink enough margaritas.) because how can you not love a movie with a redneck named Elly Mae (large man, large man boobs, hairy, with an identity crisis) and a zombie autopsy by a pre-vet student whacked out on acid? Gratuitous eyeball-popping and eye socket sucking, hysterical dialogue (pre-vet guy spies body missing upper half, says "She's dead!" No? Half a body? Dead? Surely not.), and one zombie baby, chewing on a finger. Please, go spend the 3 bucks to check this one out. Remember, supposed to be bad. Deal with it.

Now, on to Sgt. Kabukiman. Hee! I love the name. And, Madame Butterfly is played throughout (a couple times on a tin-pan alley piano!). I can't even begin to describe this movie, but Kabukiman is passed on to a cop and when the dragon flies through the circle and the monkey rides the jaguar, well, just go rent it. Death by chopstick, pimp and ho made into sushi. Enjoy!

Finally, we come to Razor Blade Smile. The tagline is "Part assassin. Part seductress. All vampire." Uhm, vampire becomes hit woman. Great for leather and vinyl fetishists. Nice ending. Good atmosphere. Some sex, lots of gore. Schlocky, but with a good budget.

I also have to thank Craig for letting me borrow Bikers Chicks in Demon Town, or Demon Biker Chicks, or whateverthehell it was called. This is also a Troma flick and be on the lookout for Billy Bob Thornton, pre-Angelina, pre-Oscar, pre-freak afraid of orange food and antiques. Funny, funny, funny!

I think we should have a festival of bad movies. Suncrap, possibly. Sundunce? The Wide World of Poo. Shit-house Movies.

Another thing...

Fri, 28 Mar 2003 18:36:28 GMT

Uhm, kids. No, not y'all. Real kids. Children. Don't care for 'em. Didn't really like them when I was one. Don't like them any better now. And I'm going to tell you why because right now I'd rather do ANYTHING, including shopping at Old Navy (see previous rant), than work at the stuff I get paid to work on because my job is silly and pointless and out of a 40-hour work week, I think I've done 4 hours total on this ridiculous job. Anyway, back to why I dislike age-challenged humans. Because they are not as cute as their parents are insistent that you must believe they are. Oh, occasionally there is the little cutie that you might glance on at the store, or in the park, but, strangely enough, they're always asleep. Then they're cute. Then they wake up. Then they need to be put out of our misery. I understand that children cry and fuss and get cranky, but they should do that around other children, or in the privacy of their homes, or with their grandparents, not at a nice restaurant, not at the movies, not where adults tend to congregate. No, your child is not an exception. No, your kid is NOT the cutest I've ever seen. In fact, I HAVE seen cuter children. No, I'm not impressed that your kid can sort of say "thank you." No, I don't have 15 minutes to kill waiting for the gurgle-noise-Mom-thinks-sounds-vaguely-like-thank-you to come spewing out of your child's mouth along with bits of sandwich and flecks of milk. Yes, your child does have the largest head I've ever seen and I'm a bit concerned that hydroencephaly has set in and shouldn't y'all be visiting a doctor, like, NOW?

I've always been a bit, well, twitchy when it comes to children. I don't want to lie and say that yes, that is a beautiful baby, so I always go to the stock response of "Oh, look at the little feet. They're so tiny." It sounds like you're cooing over the kid but in reality, you're merely stating the obvious in a sweet voice. Another personal fave is to say, "Oh, that's a baby, all right," while winking and making that click-with-the-side-of-your-mouth noise. The problem is that to me ALL children ARE NOT precious. If your kid is ugly, I won't like it. I WILL make fun of it when you're not around. You WILL hear comments about the little feet and hands. You WILL NOT hear me say that it is cute, or darling, or precious, unless, by some miracle it actually is. Should I, and for the kid's sake, let's hope not, ever have a child, and it is unattractive, I will be the first to tell you. If you lie and tell me how cute my child is, I will argue with you. The looks of the parents are not a good indication of what the child will look like. I've seen some really pretty babies born to some fugly parents, and some god-awful, "Oh dear God, what happened to it?" kids born to some relatively OK parents. And I really think I should be in charge of deciding who should be allowed to breed, but they don't give grants for that kind of research any more, at least not since the early part of last century when a little thing called eugenics was going on, and that was such an ugly part of history, and despite how good my intentions are, I still end up sounding like Hitler so let's just sack up and know that I'll never be in charge and call it a push, shall we?

Now, if you're the only person with a kid in your immediate group of friends, DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT bore us with stories of your child. This is going to sound harsh, so take a Pamprin and deal with it: We don't care. Understand this, we do not care what it did last week, last night, last 10 minutes, ever. We don't have children, probably for a reason, so what makes you think that we have any interest WHATSO-GODDAMNED-EVER in what Cody, Emily, insert-annoying-popular-child's-name-here did? And, guess what? You are not the first person to ever have a child. You will not be the last. The odds are pretty good that YOUR child is not going to change the world but will, given your attitude and looks, be supremely unpopular, subject to ridicule and taunts, and will be generally miserable until it gets out of grade school, on in to college where it will meet with another survivor and will propagate the unattractive, school life in hell genes for another generation.

And while I'm at it, if you allow your little "angel" to run around, unchecked, do not shoot daggers at me if I attempt to discipline it. If you can't do your part then the rest of us are obligated to do it for you. So, if I'm at dinner and Junior decides to run past my table, I will stick my leg out and trip it. For it's own good, and for my own amusement. And I'm pretty sure the wait staff and my fellow diners will applaud and buy me drinks for having the nuts to take care of the situation. If you insist on taking Michaela out with you everywhere, realize that some situations might have adult overtones; therefore, when I light up my cigarette near you, you can politely ask me to put it out, but don't try to intimidate me with "looks" as though I just asked you sell your child into slavery. If I say a curse word, realize that your child has heard worse at day care, or at the movies that you insist on taking it to, and that an occasional chorus of "shit," "fuck that," and "Jesus Christ" is not going to warp your kid as much as your are with your holier-than-thou attitude

"Check your bits, ladies."

Tue, 18 Mar 2003 18:01:39 GMT

After having participated in my first, and probably last, peace protest, I have come to the conclusion that there are far too many people in the world with far too much time on their hands (and that the judicious use of soap and razor is highly underrated). And, if you're going to get naked to protest, why not do it in public where the opportunities for jail time (and exposure--no pun intended) are better?

Now, as those who know me will tell you, I am NOT a religious person by any means, and for that matter, I'm not really even that spiritual. All things "higher power" tend to disturb and unnerve me, not because of the otherworldliness, but out of a sheer "You're the only person looking out for you, so why are you depending on something you can't even see to take care of your future?" sense. (It always struck me as a slightly lazy way to go on with your life.) Petulance probably has something to do with it as well, but that sounds like I'm 8 and want the new Cher doll with "growing" hair and no one has given it to me yet so I'm just going to whine and pout until someone gives in; which, on second thought, is how I feel about the whole religion thing: Maybe if I ask (whine) long and hard enough, SOMETHING will happen, but it's highly unlikely because really, NO-FREAKIN'-ONE is listening!

In any case, going into this situation, which I knew was going to be rife with spirituality, was a difficult thing for me to do because: 1. I didn't wish to appear insincere, and in doing so to be killed with smudge sticks (which smell surprisingly, or not, like a dorm on Saturday after finals) and feathery, to-purge-the-bad-aura "thingies," and 2. have I mentioned I don't dig on anything religious. (OK, yes, the whole "getting naked in public" thing was going to be difficult, but I've lost 50 pounds so I was feeling better than usual about myself.) But go, I did.

Now, how does this relate to Saturday's nakedness-for-peace rally? Too many freakin' hippy chicks thanking the "goddesses" and calling upon the female "oneness" to try, through the power of the universal vulva, to make Shrub call off the troops. I mean, really, all he needs is one good "smudging," a verse or two of Kumbaya (again with the religious stuff--did it occur to the goddess-thanking, chihuahua-toting, ass-annoying woman that she was Kumbaya-ing to "the Lord?"), and some ticks on his bits and he'd be singing a new tune (probably Kumbaya), right? (There is a wonderful joke in here, somewhere, about Bush, vulvae, and nakedness, but I can't quite work it out.)

All right, so that the cynicism isn't too much (and so that I don't drown in my own nihilism), I will say that it was liberating to be naked, outdoors, with a lot of other women, pretending not to notice everyone else's body. (BTW, Cyn's boobies are celebrated for a reason.) It was rather heartening to know that of the other 42 women, no one's body was any better or worse than mine, and Vogue and Cosmo can bite my exposed ass.

I have absolutely no reason to believe that our "statement" in the grass of Lake Lavon is going to affect Bush's decision (if you watched TV last night, you will agree with me), but, for my own edification, being naked for a few minutes, in the warm sun, was rather nice. And the fishermen seemed to enjoy

Still trying to find the word for those things at the end of my legs...

Thu, 06 Mar 2003 18:43:45 GMT

Yesterday I had to take a personal day to try and get my life back on Central time. This whole international travel thing really knocks you down. You think you're doing OK until about midmorning and realize that the sack monster is not only calling you but really didn't let go earlier.

Pace. Pace. Pace. Everywhere you looked in Italy were rainbow flags hanging out of windows with "Pace" written on them. I picked up one for my place, but I'm a bit concerned that I'll be misunderstood and eveyone will think that I am promoting some new homosexual salsa.

I still hate my job. Nothing new there.

I want some gorgonzola and crackers. I also want a cheeseburger from Snuffers, some pasta with tuna, some creme brulee, and some 'za from Campisi's. But I really want that burger. Just a bite of it, all salty and greasy. Swooning now. I speeyacked my dinner last night so this morning I had a kolache AND a donut. I just finished a blood orange to try and atone for the badness that was me this morning. Nothing like going on a diet to make you fantasize about food.

London, Venice

Mon, 03 Mar 2003 16:07:41 GMT

Whoa, I'm back, and I'm still tired. Jet lag sucks. London was wonderful. Venice was gorgeous. I can't type anymore.

More later...

Wed, 12 Feb 2003 22:20:23 GMT

Let's see, I had a fairly rockin' Friday night, during which I met Ocyn's Satyric, went to watch dick-dancers, taught Ben to play Cricket, played pimp for Ben, played mom for Ben and Kel, got home at some ridiculous hour, only to feel crappy the next day. Yippee. I got a cold, sneezed all day Saturday and Sunday, felt miserable on Monday, closer to normal on Tuesday, almost home on today.

Ocyn's Satyric is quite a guy. Ben and I met O and S at a Thai place, where everyone indulged in a coconut soup, except for me. I didn't really care for it. Eh, no biggie. After the Thai place, we went to the Tipp, which I hadn't been to in years (bad memories) and I had 3 or 4 glasses of wine (Ben thought I was a merlot girl! Uh, the hell?) and Ben had his usual beer. It was an interesting evening, full of bitching and moaning and laughing. It's always fun to have a new audience for my old gripes.

I leave for London on Monday, and let me tell you, I refuse to let this war crap get in the way.

Upper Management and you

Tue, 04 Feb 2003 16:28:39 GMT

So, why is it that a manager and one of his "writers" can sit and talk for an hour and a half on God, the Koran, our place in the world and the afterlife, the Shuttle, and the everlasting "Why?" but I can't make a phone call over 2 minutes where I don't get dinged by the management?

This is the same manager who won't let his children celebrate Hallowe'en (they get Angel Day, whatever the fuck that is supposed to be) because it's Satan worship.

Guilty pleasures

Fri, 31 Jan 2003 14:58:15 GMT

OK, ocyn and alexfiles and I talked a bit about this at Trinity Hall a few weeks ago. I wanted to know what movies, books, music, whatever are their guilty pleasures. Now that Final Destination 2 is out, I feel safe in saying that I LOVED Final Destination. The deaths were quite original, the cast was cute and talented, and everyone seemed to know that they were in a B-movie, but played it straight anyway.

So, that being said, what are some of YOUR guilty pleasures. Feel free to explain, or not.

Sorry

Fri, 31 Jan 2003 14:28:20 GMT

To those who read my diarrhea of the mind, I apologize for putting that HUGE post. I didn't know how to do the "read more" thing, or how to do anything but type, so you got the whole article at once. Oops.

Coulorphobia

Thu, 30 Jan 2003 17:27:27 GMT

Send in the clowns?

First, make sure Shonda Purvis of Dallas isn't within screaming distance. "Evil!
Evil! Oh, dear God, but I hate clowns," says Ms. Purvis, 36. "Despise [them]. Get
the shaking heebs just thinking about them."

Ms. Purvis and others suffer from coulrophobia, the fear of clowns.

They join an estimated 6.3 million Americans from ages 18 to 54 who have
specific phobias, according to the Anxiety Disorders Association of America.

And with Cirque du Soleil having just started its three-week run of Alegria (with
two clowns) at Fair Park, shaking-heeb season has officially opened here.

You scoff? For heaven's sake, you ask, who in the world would be afraid of Bozo?
How could Ronald McDonald make anyone want to heave up her hamburger?

Ask Lisa Weihmuller of Arlington, who has feared clowns since visiting the circus
at age 6 or 7. "A clown got up right in my face, and I could see his beard stubble
underneath the clown makeup," she recalls. "He smelled bad and his eyes were
weird. ... He had this smile painted on his face, but he was not smiling. He was
yucky. Scary. Freaky. Weird.

"I'm 45 now, and ever since then I stay as far away from clowns as I can."

Horror movies

Popular culture has long acknowledged a dark side of clowning. Its ancient roots
embrace some aspects of shamanism and the supernatural.

Clowns may have evolved as jesters and tricksters, but the dark side never
vanished. Even Disney acknowledged it: Remember those sadistic drunks who
tortured Dumbo in Disney's animated classic?

Clowns in horror movies such as Poltergeist or Spawn are meant to scare the
baggy pants off you. Pennywise, the clown in Stephen King's It, lives in the sewer,
has razor-sharp claws and kills children. The Canadian theatrical horror clowns
Mump and Smoot perform a cabaret of carnage. And don't forget that serial
murderer John Wayne Gacy dressed up as a clown and performed at parties.

Yet even innocuous-seeming clowns can make people, especially children,
tremble.

Put yourself in the place of small child visiting the circus for the first time. A
stranger is suddenly bearing down on you. His face, barely recognizable as
human, is smeared with ghastly makeup. He wears outlandish clothes and
skateboard-size shoes. He has a huge red nose and flaming orange hair. He
cackles wildly and makes other weird noises ...

... and instead of understanding your fear, the adults you're with – these people
who are supposed to love you and protect you – why, they're LAUGHING, they're
telling you it's ALL RIGHT, for Pete's sake, they're even dragging you TOWARD
this horrible monster ...

Maybe it's a wonder that kids aren't terrified of clowns.

Forrest York of Mesquite recalls being traumatized by the Town Clown on the old
Captain Kangaroo TV show. "I was sitting in the living room and all of a sudden
the clown comes on," he says. "I'm scared, and I know I don't like this."

Mr. York, 38, has three boys and a girl. None is afraid of clowns. But when he
takes his youngest boy to McDonald's, he has to turn over his son's box of chicken
nuggets if it bears a picture of Ronald on the top.

"I'm not comfortable in any way looking at them," says Mr. York, who owns a
T-shirt that reads "Can't Sleep – Clowns Will Eat Me."

"It's a real discomfort and a need to get out of that situation. Just a real irrational
discomfort," he says.

Andrew Wixcel of Oak Cliff shares the feeling. It made his 30th birthday an
ordeal. "A 'friend,' knowing my fear, sent a clown to my workplace to perform for
me," says Mr. Wixcel, 40. "It wasn't funny. I asked him if he would leave if I gave
him $20, but he wouldn't. He made me watch him make a balloon wiener dog hat
for me to wear. I was shaking by the time he left."

Mr. Wixcel says he doesn't really hate clowns, though. "I'm sure they're all good
people. I don't have anything personal against clowns. I just don't like them. I
don't want them near me."

ihateclowns.com

Coulrophobia has spread to the Web, where sufferers can vent on sites such as
ihateclowns.com and clownz.com. A sample posting:

"My hatred of clowns began when I was 5 years old. I was at a circus, and a clown
came up to me and said, 'Would you like to see the monkey I have in my box?'
Well, of course I did, so I said yes. When I looked into the box, there was no
monkey ... only a mirror."

And this one: "[When I was 4 or 5,] my mother brought home a bizarre 3-D clown
picture and hung it on my bedroom wall. If you wound up its nose, it played 'Send
in the Clowns' ... and she'd wind it up every night when I went to bed. She'd shut
the light off, and every night that clown (he was bald, corpse-white, and had a dog
held in front of him) transformed into a rotting dead clown that wanted to climb
down and sit on me or eat me or something."

All this fear of clowns distresses Ruth Chaddick of Cuero, Texas. Ms. Chaddick,
48, is special events manager with Feld Entertainment, which operates the
Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus. A Ringling clown for five years, she
also worked with Ringling's now-defunct Clown College for 13 years. She taught
clowning and makeup, among other things.

"[Ringling clowns] were trained to be sensitive," she says. "If someone was
fearful, you would not push yourself on that person."

She can understand how children can be intimidated by their first real-life
encounter with a clown. "Children are used to seeing clowns 3 inches tall on TV,"
she says. "But at the circus, they're seeing this large person, all made up in
strange clothes. Momma has pushed them into the clown's arms and said, 'Here,
let's take a picture.' The parents have told them all their life not to talk to
strangers, and all of a sudden here's a stranger."

Clown sensitivity

Ringling clowns were taught how to deal with this, Ms. Chaddick says. "You make
yourself small. You get down to their level – squat or whatever – [and] use a soft
voice. We don't go around with big honking horns. Use a small voice, and take
anything away that might be fearful to [kids]."

But sometimes, even small gestures and a soft voice don't help. "I walked into a
store in Austin one time in clown makeup and costume," Ms. Chaddick says, "and
a grown woman – she really was fearful of clowns – she just freaked seeing me,
and I just turned around and walked out."

It's as simple as that, Ms. Chaddick says: "If it's an out-of-control fright, you just
remove yourself."

And rather than dwell on people whom clowns frighten, she'd prefer to recall
people whose lives clowns brighten. Ms. Chaddick herself got one autistic child to
utter his first words in years. On another hospital visit, the staff said they had a
girl in long-term care who hadn't smiled for three months. That day, the girl was
smiling.

"She smiled thinking about you coming," Ms. Chaddick says the staff told her,
"and she hasn't stopped smiling all day."

For those who can't force themselves to smile, though, there's help.

Dr. Colin Ross, a Dallas psychiatrist, sees coulrophobia as a garden-variety
phobia. It can be treated like most other phobias, with gradually increasing
exposure to the source of the fear. He sketches out the procedure after the
patient finds a therapist:

"You talk about it until you're comfortable with the subject. Then the therapist
shows pictures. Then maybe you look at a clown doll across the room, then
progress to holding it. Then a video of a clown, looking at it in longer increments.
Then going to a museum or store with clown costumes. Then going to the circus,
just walking in and out. Then staying for two minutes but not for clown act," he
says. Finally, you can face the music. And, hopefully, the clown.

"If that doesn't work, then you might try some anti-anxiety medications while
you're doing this work. Then you might try a variety of medications," Dr. Ross
says. If the fear still persists, "it might become a psychological puzzle – you might
want to see if something else underlies this fear."

Avoiding silly people

Thanks, but no thanks, says Mr. York. He's never consulted a therapist and
doesn't plan to. "I just find it a whole lot cheaper and easier to avoid the silly
people." (He's talking about clowns, we assume.)

Ms. Weihmuller wishes it were that simple. Unfortunately, she seems to be some
sort of clown magnet. If a clown is in the vicinity, he'll home in on her like a
Sidewinder missile.

"I was sitting at the Parks Mall one day by myself on one of those benches, and a
clown was there," she says. "There's lots of people walking around, kids angling
for his attention, and what does he do? He comes and sits right NEXT to me."

And Mr. York isn't sure there'd be any point in therapy, anyway.

"I don't know that I want to like them," he says. "I have this deep-down feeling
that some of them are serial killers and are wearing makeup to hide."

War

Thu, 30 Jan 2003 16:12:49 GMT

Is it wrong of me to not want a war just because I'm supposed to leave the country in a few weeks? I mean, I'm going to be seriously pissed if this bullshit about nukular weapons of mass distruckshun (uhm, yeah, oil!) fucks up my trip.

To satyric and ocyn, yes, your fwuppiness is fucking adorable. It is decidedly cute and happy and blah blah. I've tried, oh how I've tried to look on the bright side of life, but cynicism and darkness are just too attractive and enticing. So, and please know this is in no way personal, :P~~~~~~~~~~~~.

Bwaahahahahahahaaaaaa!!!!!!!!

One word

Tue, 28 Jan 2003 16:55:47 GMT

Found on yahoopicks, One Word asks you to write on the word of the day. You have 60 seconds to say whatever you feel like saying. Don't think, just write.

Yesterday: satellite
Today: doubt

Dig it.

food

Mon, 27 Jan 2003 18:16:42 GMT

Note to self: Cream soups = creamy vomit

what's bothering me now

Mon, 27 Jan 2003 18:08:49 GMT

My head hurts. Is this a sign of impending dehydration? Do I need to know how to put my own IV in? I'm tired of drinking water. I can't drink anything with sugar so Gatorade or juices are out.

I won $125.00 yesterday in a Super Bowl pool. That was neat, except I was so stressed about the score staying 3-3 that I wished Chris hadn't told me until afterward.

Uberbabe's uberbabe, Lis, wants me to write for her. She asked me if I was from Texas originally, and what I thought of Shrub. I said that I didn't like that he and his family say they are Texans, when for sure they are not, and that he's an idiot and our nation sucks right now.

I really hate certain people. Some I know personally and wish they'd get hit by the DART rail. Others I have killed so many times in so many wonderful ways. I'm a big fan of dreaming that people would get hit by Greyhounds (the bus, not the dog) and Mack trucks. Anything that if it doesn't kill you, leaves you maimed and disfigured so that children cry and run to their moms 'cause you're so hideous.

I'm tired and I want to go home

I hate my job

Tue, 21 Jan 2003 22:41:02 GMT

Quick note to say that there is nothing good to be had in Fujitsuland. I despise my job, my boss, my job, my boss, blah blah blah repeatcakes.

I shall move to Aspen and drive a taxi, or move to Jackson Hole and work in a bar, or never leave Venice, or throw myself on a handmade, faux pyre made of banana leaves that I will lovingly place on top of the lava that is making new Hawaii bits in the lovely, blue-green ocean, similar in color to the lovely, blue-green stones on the ring that was given to me the other night when I was also bemoaning the hell that is my working life while trying not to bore ocyn and alexfiles with the Beau-tales, which, let's be honest, are a bit boring anyway, but the Cab was flowing and the words were spilling, and I was really concerned about this one curl that kept flopping into my eye so while I was trying to sound intelligent and like I really knew what the hell was happening in the world I kept thinking about this rogue bit of hair so I would forget what had just been said so instead of clever and adorable I think I sounded slightly wonky and neurotic. But I'm not neurotic..

What's bothering me today?

Mon, 20 Jan 2003 21:27:43 GMT

Mostly the fact that my mom is getting my brother a car so that he can get around after he gets out of...prison! Yeah, that's right. My brother has been a guest of the state for over a year now and he gets a car as punishment. And is it a Pinto or a Gremlin or something he has a halfway decent chance of blowing up in? No. He gets a Mustang. Granted the 'stang is a '95 and has over 100,000 miles on it, but that's not really the point now is it? I had to buy my own damn car. And guess what? It's a '95 with over 100,000 miles on it. Ah, bullshit!

I go to college. Beau goes to rehab. I go to work. Beau goes to crack houses. I get credit cards and go in debt. Beau get my mom's checkbook and mom goes in debt. I sell my engagement ring to pay the rent. Beau trades grandmother's wedding ring for heroin.

And he gets a car. Mom says, "I'll buy you a car." Uh, Mom, THAT'S NOT THE POINT!

As I once overheard at a children's party, "Where's my cupcake?!" Isn't that just THE question? I played by the rules. I did my part. I became a somewhat useful member of society. I haven't crashed 3 previous vehicles (guess who bought them). I've never been arrested (although I think I should at some point but that's another rant). I'm nice to the wait staff. I'm even nice to cops. So? Where's my fucking cupcake?