For Those Of You Keeping Score At Home

Because I know you just hang on the teetering scales of karmic retribution that passes for my life.

But just in case I haven't expressed this adequately, since I've been told repeatedly how bad I am at coummincating, here goes:

It's been a helluva few years. The last 18 months seems to have made it a personal mission to age me decades. And I still really haven't gotten a break.

Now, I know lots of people don't get breaks, that's life, right? You have to keep trudging forward. But by the 8lb 9 oz babby jebus, it can be vexatious.

Last May I made the difficult decision to quit the only steady employment I'd had. It was literally making me sick, physically. Anyways, after two weeks of unemployed bliss, wherein I decided to overhaul my room, I got a call about a loved one.

So June found me headed east. They reckoned he had cancer and was dropping dead soon. The truth turned out to be far more complicated and every bit as scary. I became one of a two-man primary care-taking team. We had help from Hospice (an amazing organization) and it still took everything we had.

While everyone did admirably, the emotional tolls exacted on the participants were difficult to deal with, for each person and for each other. I think maybe everybody might need a little therapy. Seriously. It was some stressful shite. Twere not dull times, is what I'm saying.

And there were additional lovelies along the way--another loved one has inoperable cancer. He is tucked away somewhere dying and I can't help him and I really don't want to talk about it much more than that.

Life continues. Money is ever so scarce. The future is uncertain. Everyone struggles. Donald Drumpf. It's bleak, is what I'm saying.

In mid winter we decided we had plateaued, and I headed back West. After three weeks our Charge took a serious dip and I got a call from a Hospice nurse telling me that he was dying in a room in th ER as we spake.

SO, flew back to family, lived in ICU with my Number 1 Patient for a few weeks of a coma, and then we slowly got him out of there, into PT, and off the drugs and through the condition that was making him nutsy fagin.

Fair to say, was an emotionally challenging Spring. Perhaps this is where I began to feel frayed.

Everything has leveled out to an acceptable state, and I returned West once again in June, almost an exact year after I'd first left.

I have little money. I have no income. I have no real networking. I'm working on a side/dream project and trying to make an honest effort at it because HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME and it's easy to play Prufrock but maybe I could make on stage as even a Guildenstern, if not Hamlet himself.

And it's fine if you don't understand any of that. Because here's what it means: I GOT STRESS. liekwhoa.

I visited some friends, but I haven't had a break. Bad news, real life, responsibility, have dogged me every step of the way. I can't relax. It's me--I think I need 30 days of intensive Netflix/Deserted Island therapy.

Whatever the case, including that I'm in some kind of PTSD meltdown or just a mid life crisis, I haven't gotten a break. The beat goes on. I'd like a nappy break. Can I tag out?

I'm exhausted. And I'm my primary resource. This corporate structure sucks.

I know you peeps out there are feeling it, too. John Irving called it weltzenhammer and said it was German for "world hurt."

Kinda like Sorrow.

Interstellar - Does Being Dumb Help?

Late to the party, as always, but I finally got to see Christopher Nolan's Interstellar.

(And no, I still haven't seen Inception. Pls see mgmt with any complaints).

Very interesting movie and one that I'm really glad I was able to remain spoiler-free. Not because of any amazing PLOT TWEESTS, but so I could let the movie unfold as the story it was meant to be, rather than waiting for the other shoe to drop.

What I'd like to ask about is some very basic science used in the movie. It appears to be a bone of contentious discussion on the Interwebz, and I have a feeling this is one of those things I'm too dumb to understand. I invite anyone smarter than me (and they are legion) to disabuse me of my simple notion.

Mild spoilers and "scientific" discussion after this cut.

How Bad Is This Job?

I feel like people who hear me talk about this job don't really believe me when I try to express how awful it makes me feel.

But tonight I think I encapsulated it in a brief exchange with Handy J:

Working at this job is more awful than having cancer.

Look, Netflix, Seriously?

I can withstand one cheesey Thomas Jane movie available on streaming.

I can walk away from that.

But two? Two?

TWO!

So it looks like I'm watching at least part of The Punisher. Until I remember how much it sucks and fills me with a strange loathing for John Travolta that's best left unexplored.

Then I'll probably give in and watch at least part of The Deep Blue Sea because: Shark Wrangler Wut? Sheeyit--that's all you had to say. Also, this was my intro to Thomas Jane, whose real name I did not learn for years and called "Chirstopher Lambert's bastard child."

Oh, look: Twilight is available, too.

And then I should probably just start banging my head into concrete.

 p.s.

but really tho

I mean, you see this, right?

It gets even stupider.

Now wait just a minute here. . .

I think the may start to become embarrasingly revealing. So let's distract with the number one "those two guys they are so the same."

Totes twinsies! Oh my lord, what the crapshait????

Okay, I've gone too deep in the interwebz again. By gods, though, his hair is magnificent there. Truly.

Goodnight everybody!

p.p.s.

Thank you, Thomas Jane, for your incredible body of work.

Seriously. Thanks.

And god bless Roy Scheider.

I'm Having What Counts As A Deep Thought For Me

So, spanking as a fetish/paraphilia--I just don't get it.

Look, I'm not judging you for what you like. Paddle away, mofos. Why, some of my best friends are perverted ass slappers.

It's just something I cannot empathize with. I can understand that it produces a good feeling for you, but I can't for the life of me fathom how.

See, I've gotten my ass beat*, and it tweren't fun. There were lots of feelings involved in The Beatings*, but none of it was sexy. Not Never Not Once. You know what emotion I do remember?

Pain and fear, motherfucker. With a healthy dollop of anger and humiliation.

Anyways, that is the very long winded way of me saying that I never got how people who liked to be spanked could translate pain into pleasure. I know that masochists exist, but to have someone actually take true physical pleasure from being smacked in the behind? No, man. Just no.

I mean, there probably are a small percentage of true masochists who have some different wiring than the average h. sapiens.  So for them, pain really does equal pleasure. But most of that shit has got to be psychological satisfaction. From whence I reiterate my party's consistent platform: How You Gonna Tell Me Getting Your Redass On Is FeelGoodSexyTimes?

But today, for the first time, it occurred to be that maybe it wasn't the pain; maybe people craved the mental anguish, the penance, the guilt, etc.

What if some people want to be humiliated because they find it arousing?

And you know what? In the course of typing this post I can tell you that while I can, embarassingly, relate to this secondary theory more than the first, it remains that I cannot understand wanting to feel shame. To feel embarassed. Isn't that, like, the complete opposite of sexy?

Human beings sure are weird. And I just proved it by the amount of time I spent thinking about such a silly subject. Perhaps I need to expand my intellectual borders. Perhaps I'll annex Vienna.

* This is the obligatory disclaimer where i have to say that my parents didn't really beat me (because i don't even KNOW what a real beating feels like) and i have to apologize to my mom who says this makes her sound like a terrible parent and that makes her sad (and when she gets sad she beats my ass scolds me lovingly)

Though It's A Season Of Giving

It's wise to remember that not all things should be given.

Submitted by longtime Blahg booster Omer, I give you some home spun craftiness:

Source: http://kneelift.tumblr.com/image/105913546582

When To Call It, What To Call It

Here's one way to tell it: 

• Woke up and my foot is still a problem. The blister has left a crater in my heel. Were I a grosser, more sadistic person, I’d post a photo. Shoes hurt.
• Running behind, can’t stop for breakfast. And by breakfast, I mean my RDA of the Pepsi Colas and the Dr. Peppers. 
• Get to parking garage, lock keys in car.
• Locked out of computer at work. (Noticing a theme here?) Spend 10-20 minutes on hold with IT trying to get back on.
• Get pulled into surprise conference call at work. Literally have a phone to each ear as I try to coordinate getting locksmith.
• Locksmith arrives 30 minutes early. Good thing I finally answered my phone.
•  Locksmith can’t get into parking garage. Clock out from work and walk down to garage. . .
•  . . . Where I proceed to give the locksmith the wrong street entrance. Twice. Good times.
• Somewhere in all of this, traditional period cramps return with a surprising amount of vigor.

  

It’s fair to say that somewhere in all of this I got extremely flustered. But there’s an important point here of which I try to remind anyone who thinks my life is too awful:

In this world, there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. The story is all in how you tell it. Because: 

• I’m wearing my most comfortable pants and a fairly pretty new shirt today.
• My hair is not perfect, but it looks a bajillion times better than it did Monday. Also the zit on my nose mysteriously disappeared overnight.
• On a hunch and motivated by financial desperation, I called Ye Olde Credit Carde Company. I get AAA-like benefits and can get my car unlocked for free.
• I packed my dorky and inappropriate but very comfortable sandals. I wear them to run down to the garage.
• The sun is out and it’s a beautiful day.
• Even though I totally bollocks the directions, the locksmith is super friendly and nice when I finally do meet up with him.
• I use my clock out time to grab some beverages and jerky. To go.

"I'll take a glazed doughnut. And a bottle of anything. . . to go!"

Upon returning to the office, I decided to invoke a McConaugheDay, modified, of course.

For those of you new to the concept, a McConaugheDay is when, no matter what, everything is just “alright, alright, alright.”

It’s related to No Fucks Given. I’ve only invoked them in the past on a day off. Usually bowling is involved.

But here’s the thing about life: it tends to get easier the more slack you cut other people. There may not even be such a thing as true altruism, from my perspective, since most things are done to indirectly benefit the self, in some way. Rather than focus on the depressingly selfish side of that, I like to think of it as a really great incentive to make the world a better place.

So I’m calling it a McConaugheDay. It’s gonna be a test of my Zen and ability to Give As Few Fucks As Possible. But I think it’s worth a shot.

And no sooner was I looking up that lovely David Lee Roth image above than the Senior Partner comes over to educate me about how the expense report I submitted was wrong* and how I should stop my boss from doing such thing**.

And you know what? I ain’t even mad. Not upset, not victimized. not guilty, not picked on.

Perhaps the McConaugheDay is more powerful than I credited. We shall see.

*he don’t know the half of it. srsly.

** as if! ha!

Some People Say My Blog Is Funny

I don't really understand what they mean. I mean, I guess it's cool that people can laugh at my pain? I don't know. I'm just telling you the TRUFAX of what happens in my life. Is it my fault that it seems like a French farce had a baby with Woody Allen* and that's my life.

*and they managed to stop him from marrying it this time!~ed. apologize for obligatory Woody Allen joke, included at authorial insistence despite strong advice to the contrary.

If you think my blog is funny, that is like thinking the problem of Worst Cats is some kind of joke.

MEOW MEOW MEOW

It's no joke.

No joke at all.

~ed. the entertaining part of this entry was brought to you by linlin

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Welcome back to Ways I Know My iPhone Is Fucking With Me! It just created a random brand new playlist and it's all impossible male vocals, falsettos, reggae, ben folds five, fuuuuuuuuuuck. I really hope the neighbors can't hear this. Gawd, why do I own so much depressing music? This damn phone doesn't even know how to connect a call or ring properly: HOW THE FUCK IT KNOW HOW TO GIVE ME ANXIETY ATTACK? Apple: Making You Feel Unworthy Of Our Tech. Fook.

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Can you still see that gif of the cat moving? It's unsettling yet strangely hypnotic, yes?


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Tomorrow I start a job for which I am wholly unprepared. I haven't even looked up the two things the boss told me to (one work, one trivia). I've been a little preoccupied. And in a mall. Those places are institutionalized vampirism. 

Here's Why Helping Other People Is The Best Medicine

(I got stuff. Thangs.)

It's nothing noble: that notion to reach beyond yourself in moments of darkness. That urge to help another person isn't some altruistic act that elevates you to a Zen plane.

It's purely selfish.

When help another person, you take the opportunity to write the script for what you wish the universe was saying to you at that very moment. It's like you're writing instructions: see? see? THIS is what I need to hear!

You get to pour every ounce of love, compassion, honesty, empathy, gentleness, importance, and sympathy into it that you wish the world were showing you.

You get to live out what you need by becoming what you want. Tricky bit of business, that. Takes a particular type of neurotic not to almost make happiness out of that.

Fuck all dis noize!!! Imma jam on The Walking Dead!

spoilers of the broadest kind for Walking Dead to follow

Hush yore pretty little mouf, baybay. No worries. I got 600lbs of Walking Dead here. Aw yeah!

I'm Rick Grimes, biatch! Do I love Rickle Pickle because I aspire to be like him? Or do I love Sheriff Friendly because he aspires to be like me? Mobius strip of mutual admiration.

I don't know if my roomate's noticed, but every time I try to do Rick's voice I end up sounding like Bill Clinton. Damnit, Andy Lincoln! How you gonna make a southern-escapee not be able to do your accent?

Sorry, I laughed way too much at this one not to include it. It's okay if you don't get it. It's sort of the pinnacle of an Internet meme. You also have to be deeply, morbidly disturbed to think it's funny. I don't know how I ended up with so many Rick gifs.

Okay, seriously, is he just always eyefucking the camera? That looks like a godamn cologne ad.

It is also worth noting that many nice things happened to me today, including getting invited to a thanksgiving, congratulated by the gas station guy, and loaned $.25 in line to get sodas.

and that's why helping other people is the best medicine

Have You Found Yourself Saying "Bananas" Lately?

I've found myself using the word "bananas" as slang for crazy or over the top lately. I'm assuming I picked it up somewhere, maybe online? Since I caught myself saying it, I've noticed it being typed/said quite a bit.

Now, this may be a case of "you always see what you look for." But I can't help but feel that somehow "bananas" is part of some language virus that's spreading. Like douchebag.

Epiphany: Shark Week?

So I'm watching this interview. Okay, it's Kevin Pollak interviewing Craig Ferguson. Kevin's got what seems like a pretty cool podcast going on: Kevin's Pollak's Chat Show.

Craig Ferguson?, I hear you query. Oh, that Craig Ferguson. Seems to me that somebody has been spending more'n wee bit of time with Mister Ferguson. 

Don't judge me.

Anyhoo, Craigyferg did Shark Week at one point. Pollak asks him what led to doing something like Shark Week.

Craig replies with this long, but strangely reserved, description of shark shenanigans.

Kevin re-asks, specificing: what was your impetus for swimming with sharks in the first place? Because most of us wouldn't do that, swim with sharks.


And I was all:

Who wouldn't leverage their new position/status/access to get access to an opportunity to go on Shark Week? Seriously? Or do you mean someone wouldn't use their new millionaire status to go swim with sharks in general?

Either way, the answer is the same: this question is invalid because SHARKS!!!! Is there seriously somebody out there who, all other things being equal, would not totally go for some awesome Jacques Cousteau/Eugenia Clark(?) sharky encounters? I mean, really, is this even a question?

But then I stop. I mean I stop the interview, pause in thought, all things cease to move.

Because, what if there really are people who wouldn't want to swim with sharks? I mean, given the chance to do so in a controlled and (relatively) safe environment? I mean, I would also really like to pet a tiger. I don't foresee many actual opportunities in life were this might be possible without threat of grievous bodily harm. I mean, statistically, it seems a lot more likely that petting a tiger would get me killed (especially a caged one) than swimming with some sharks would. Those would be statistics I made up entirely in my head, but whatever. The point is, doesn't everyone want to pet a tiger? Maybe dog lovers a little less so?

Which is all to say: are there really people who wouldn't want to swim with sharks? Like, a large amount of people? Like a majority?

Mind blown. Must confer with Handy J and watch the rest of the interview.

Keeping It Real In The LBC

Prepare for randomness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

House/cat sitting for some friends in a ridiculous house in a ridiculous location. I am one house back from what is technically a public, but essentially a private, beach. I am unsure about my commas in that preceding sentence.

This place is stupid. Will update with pix later. My guest bedroom has an ocean view. So does the side porch. Unreal.

~~~

It's not always about money. Only mostly. Individual taste rules all. This is an awesome  house, but I wouldn't have purchased it. For the $$$, I would have liked something altogether different. But then again, I've owned approx 0 homes to date. Maybe a house like this is something you grow into?

~~~

As I have a place to myself, I am naturally not taking care of any business and am instead marathoning stuff on Netflix. Oh, Netflix, the destroyer of all good intentions.

Watching some episodic television and I come across That Actor With The Glasgow Smile. He's playing a Scot in this one. Scottish mobster. Surprise. You know the guy? I'm gonna bet his name is Tommy something. And I'm going to bet he's Irish. Let's find out together, shall we?

Survey says: Tommy Flanagan!

This guy has done a shit ton of work. You may remember him best from Sin City, Gladiator, or a little movie called Braveheart.

Everybody remembers this scene. Primae Noctis--worst wedding gift ever.

Now brace yourselves, because I know everybody relies on Braveheart for its stunning historical accuracy, but jus primae noctis might not ever have been an actual practice.

This just in: if a white guy is telling the story, remember there's a reason it's called history.

And apparently I don't know shit (today is just full of bombshells). Msr. Flanagan was born in Glasgow, it seems. See, I thought he was Irish because his Scottish accent was so good.

Too good. I could understand him. This led me to believe it was put on, rather than natural. Perhaps it is just his Scottish-American accent. Did you know he's on Sons of Anarchy? I didn't till just now.

~~~~

Long Hair Tip #17:

If you are housesitting and wearing something just horrible because it's laundry day and ALL your necessary garments are in the wash because Hey-Noone-Will-Knock and then somebody DOES KNOCK. . .

. . . you can drape your hair over your shoulders to hide your sketchy wardrobe as well as camoflauging the fact that you have no support garments on. Which is good, because it turns out there is a construction worker convention in the courtyard.

Just saying.

~~~~

I had lots more stuff to say, but I have fallen down a hole. It started with finding that Craig Ferguson reaction gif up there.

So this is Craig's last season on The Late, Late Show. Boo. Hiss. We are losing a national treasure. (No really, he's ours. He got his citizenship and everything).

How can anyone not love Craig Ferguson? He's gorgeous and silly and All That Is Light And Good In This World. He's just a few rungs below babby kittehs. He's that amazing.

Classy.

After you've watched craigyferg for a while, you can kinda tell what voice he's using just by his facial expressions.

And the dancing. My god, the dancing.

Who's at the door? Secretariat!?!?!

I could write a whole sonnet about these damn puppets.

What's not to love.

No, seriously, what? He is adorable. I'm totally getting lost in this image search.

Then it happened.

OKAY THAT IS FRIGGING IT I HAVE HAD IT WITH THE INTERNETS WHAT THE SAM HILL IS HAPPENING HERE HOLY CRAP CRAIGYFERG IS QUOTING..

..ACK...

HE'S QUOTING...

..KAFF...WHEEZE....

HE'S PULLING A MR. PILKINGTON!!!

I CANNOT EVEN WITH THIS HOW THE EFF DID THIS HAPPEN HOLY CRAP WE ARE AT DEFCON 1 STALKER ALERT I DONT UNDERSTAND ITS LIKE HE'S INSIDE MY BRAAAAAAAAAIN

yeah, okay.

that's pretty much it.

i quit, internet. 

you win.

Olympus Has Fallen

Imagine my surprise when the credits rolled and the director was Antoine Fuqua. I expect Fuqua to be uneven, maybe a little hammy/epic, but well shot and almost slavishly devoted to plot.

Or maybe I'm just talking outta my ass here. I'm probably at least partially conflating my expectations of Fuqua as a director with Gerard Butler as a producer/creative input.

See, I really enjoyed Law Abiding Citizen. I owned it. It was a comfort movie. Not a fall-asleep comfort movie, but one I would def watch on the regular couple times a year.

It was horrifically and viscerally violent in parts (dat opening scene), it also had lots of implied violence that was just as (if not more) disturbing. C'mon man, that scene where Clyde is calmly and cheerfully informing the rapist/murderer/pedophile(?) about how he's going to torture and dismember him and keep him conscious and looking in a mirror while it happens? That is some fucked up shit, man. Very disturbing. And well played.

Which is a long winded way of saying that I like violent movies, hell, I even like violent Gerry Butler movies, but I don't like Olympus Has Fallen. This is not the fun kind of violence. Which is a shame, because there's a shit ton of it. This movie had so many dead bodies as part of the interior and exterior props that I kept expecting Sheriff Rick to bust through bushes and lay six slugs from his heater into soon-to-be-zombies.

C'mon y'all: admit it. Rick is a Badass. And whoever has done the season branding and concept art totally has to be consulted if they ever do any film on the Dark Tower series. Fo realz.

There were some really good (and inexplicably unarmed) hand to hand combat scenes. They did a nice job with several of the Special Forces aspects, including knife defense and offense, tactical takedowns, and general gun competence. But, a lot of the action felt almost mean spirited. People were hurt excessively for no reason. I mean, they don't even make the evil guy a sadist or anything. They just need excuses to head tap or beat the shit out of anybody in the room who has a vagina. Am I supposed to be grateful because no one got raped?

And that's what I mean--lookit that thought right there. If a movie is entertaining me, I don't have time to draw that kind of conclusion. This movie, it gave me lots of time.

Gerry Butler is handsome and buff and skillful and manly and quippy and loves kids and he is completely wasted in this film. I'm not sure how Gerry was trying to play this. It's almost like he is doing a Mel Gibson/Lethal Weapon meets John McClane/Die Hard thing. And he doesn't realize that everyone else is in the Baysian Overkill Kablooey But Totes Serious Drama mode. Gerry's approach was too light hearted in the wrong places for a movie where not only to we get to see the killshots up close, we get to see the smear of blood left behind for the rest of the movie.

Gerry, you are better than this. You have your own charm. Don't conform to the blandness enforced by the rat bastards. You can act--I've seen it!

And just in case none of that was applicable and you were acting your heart out in that movie: stop fucking with your face, Gerry. I don't care if it's not technically surgery. Stop. It. Your face is fine. It's great. It's one of your most endearing features; don't pick at it.

Again---see? What kind of thought is that? How you gonna blow up the White House, BLOW IT UP, and me be over here thinking about Botox and the state of Gerry Butler's soul? It's your own damn fault, Olympus. You bring it on yourself.

It ain't just Gerry, though, to be fair. I'm pretty sure Dylan McDermott got tired of hearing, "Now we need you to literally snarl this line while you're waggling eyebrows here." I'm pretty sure they had to edit out most of Angela Bassett's takes because their genuineness clashed with the whole scene. Also pretty sure that Morgan Freeman will escalate to the Bitch Slap level rather than let you mis-direct his performance. Could be wrong.

Aaron Eckhart. Hmm. Okay, buddy. You're on the watchlist. In the past I would have scoffed at the mere thought, but that was before I, Frankenstein. New evidence has been brought to light, Dude. Watch yourself, Eckhart. Yes your a stupidly handsome blond--which is an accomplishment, in my book. However, you are still a blond. And you know for a fact that your nose rating is adversely affected by your chin/jaw ratio. And you're a blond. Which means, Mr. Eckhart, that you are not Required. We merely Tolerate you. And it would do you well not to fall out of Our favor. And no, We don't know why We are using the royal We now.

So, this has gone on far too long. The plot was ridiculous but not fun, grim but not realistic. The acting. . . was. Gerry Butler admittedly looked fine as hell and yes, I am always happy to see Ms. Bassett. But, the glibness, the disrespect you treat the subject matter with while offering nothing in return? You can't make that movie now. You can't show us our vulnerable underbelly and then try to soothe us with macho bullshit. That time has passed.

Furthermore, if you're gonna come at me like you are shooting at the White House, try building a set or five. Try not making your greenscreen so frickin obvious. And don't skimp on night effects just because the screen is darker. 

Wrong tone, wrong time. And a shame, because there was plenty of talent in front of and behind the cameras to make this collaboration something special.

Also wik, here is a delightful Q&A with cast from Walking Dead, addressing the Serious Issues.

*i was gonna put a disclaimer here about how the only reason i feel so free to glibly criticize like this is because there is absolutely zero possibility of this ever a) reaching or b) reaching and harming the critiqued. They will never see this. And if they did, would they really give a fuck what some loser on the interwebz thinks? It's almost unfathomable. But then i typed this instead.

Just Southern Sweet Talked My Printer Into Working

Whooooo!

I'm still not sure quite what did it, but it was a hell of an adventure getting there. I was working against the clock, since I had to use Handy J's computer to scan. And I had stolen his printer cable.

To take over to MY printer, b/c HJ's doesn't work (but I'm fingers crossed that it is only the printer that is kaput, and I will be able to scan). Dust off and plugged in my girl. Also, some time being spent mildly pissed that of all the shit I had, I hadn't managed to put my computer cable somewhere sensible? Sheesh.

Printer makes unholy animal sounds and releases blinking lights of protests. And, predictably, it tells me I am out of ink. Which sure doesn't sound right, but then again, I haven't had this thing plugged in for months. Ironically that was on purpose in an attempt to keep the ink from heating up and drying out. Oh, universe, you so crazy.

There might have been a sideplot involving a very sharp knife and the Magenta printer cartridge that got some unfortunate plastic surgery. To pass for bleck. Bleck ink. But it still didn't work because those ink bastards have got us by the balls. What to do?

Serious Sweet Talking begins. (You've got two main choices in situations with machines: you can either cuss up one side and down the other or you can sweet talk them).

On the off chance any of you are not familiar with this, the kinda line you run goes something like this:

Hey beautiful. Didja miss me?

Lookit you, ol' girl*, looking gorgeous!

C'mon sugar, I know you can do this.

C'mon baby, you got this.

Aw baby, why you wanna do that?

Darling, don't be like this.

Atta girl, that's it. Doing good.

This may look ridiculous, but if you have spent any time in your life trying to fix things, chances are some variant of one of these has come out of your mouth. The more desperate you are for it to work, the chattier you get.

It took about 45 minutes, a lot of unplugging, and an amount of conversating with an inanimate object that makes even me uncomfortable, but my sweet lil' Epson came through!

Please note, also employed the "Well, Let's Just Let That Set A Spell And Comeback" maneuver. Worked like a dream.

This is all good because I had documents that were due to someone today and I feel like shizzola and had been relying on HJ's computer to do this from home and was Not Pleased with the prospect of Leaving House (of Pain).

You go 'head now, Epson!

*P.S. I was unaware that my printer was was a girl until today.

My Epiphanies Are Your Inanities

We've had it wrong the whole time.
Always assuming that evil, though charming,
Will still be recognizably evil.

Creating explanations;
maybe we like bad boys because they are forbidden.

But the devil doesn't walk as Loki
Nor offer a Port salut across a room as Dr. Lecter
Nor sneer, nor jibe, nor scorn, nor jeer
Nor offer secret danger lurking near

Evil is Cary Grant. Evil is the Ideal made Real. It doesn't require negotiations or hesitations, twists and secrets before giving you Everything You Need. No translator needed. Straight line no exchange and gooooooo.

 He's Cary Grant. He's there with your martini, ready to rub your feet. He is beautiful and strong and suave and competent. He is kind but also challenges you. He makes you laugh.

Oh, that whole Evil part, darling. Can't be helped. In my blood you know. Love you.

And you actually want to believe it's that simple. If he's not really such a bad guy, just has this one flaw.

and OF COURSE you are thinking this,
because this is C.ary F.ucking G.rant
Are you kidding me?
Who wouldn't think about this?
Are you feeling okay? Do you know where you are?
Because that is Cary Grant, right there,
so. . . what were you saying? Because, you know, Cary Grant over there.
Are arguments are invalid because Cary Grant.

Because Cary Grant, that's why.

And that's why we gotta wake up. We thought the devil was Gabriel Byrne.
It's so much worse than we feared.

It's Moments Like These That Make Me Question The Reality of My Own Morality.

Because I can't decide if this is either the Worst Job Offer Ever or the Best Job Offer Ever:

Extras in Pop Music Video*

$50/day - male, female, all ethnicity and height/weight, 20s to 70s, model type, ordinary type, most shocking appearance, tattoo/piercing look etc...Must have an outgoing personality, provocative and MUST BE OK with kissing scenes! Kissing same and/or opposite sex.

 I mean, I think my confusion can only be interpretated a couple of ways:

1. Maybe I'm being delusional and imagining only pretty people there when the reality is stank breaf, cold sores, and Attack!Tongues.
2. Maybe I'm being delusional and they would never let in gross people, poor hygeine, etc, and that I'd be lucky if they picked me.
3. Maybe I need to get back into therapy to deal with these freakish esteem issues.
4. Maybe I need to get back into therapy because for a moment there I thought the freakish esteem issues were the problem. Obviously, the problem is that I have this problem in the first place. And publicly share it.

 EDIT:

Option 5. I totally need to go back to therapy because I just re-read the ad, saw the "provocative" requirement, and thought, "Oh, I guess I wouldn't make it into this shoot." Then I thought about what a fucked up thought that was. Then I realized I needed to stop typing.

EDIT II: I promise, Mom, it's not a porno.

(EW*): Always, No, Sometimes Think It's Me, But You Know When It's A Dream

I think a no, I mean a yes, but it's all wrong
That is I think I disagree

This song popped in my head and this train of thought left the station before it could be derailed by the later day's events.

Strawberry Fields. As a child I disliked the circular lyrics, the inexplicably monotonous sing-song of the chorus, the wildly vacillating lyrical tempo--I didn't sound right and easy and kind like some of their other songs.

As I grew, my love for the Beatles in their 907 Glorious Forms grew as well. Strawberry Fields seemed like another not-so-secret drug ode. (In my arrogant youth I also dismissed Chicago's 25 or 6 to 4 as pandering. Oh, the assured omnipotence of youth!) I heard there was a plaque somewhere, Times Square? Whatever.

But the lyrics had wormed their way into my personal soundtrack. I owned not only solo John Lennon albums, I owned Julian Lennon albums.  (PS, Julian, it's none of my business, but I can't help but feel that your dad was kind of a tool. I'm glad it didn't stop you from going into music. There's a darkness in the air that seems to guide me.)

And from Papa Lennon, I was grooving to tasty treats like,
 
No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low
That is you can't you know tune in but it's all right

But it wasn't until today that chanced to look up Strawberry Fields lyrics and stumble across an annotated version. 

I didn't know it was about Lennon's child hood. I didn't know it was about the ineffable sadness of knowing how profoundly different you are from the other kids. I didn't know that the title shared its name with a park Lennon frequented as a youth. I didn't know John Lennon was scared to sing it, as he considered it one of his most personal songs.

To quote Lennon himself:

I was different all my life. The second verse goes, ‘No one I think is in my tree.’ Well, I was too shy and self-doubting. Nobody seems to be as hip as me is what I was saying. Therefore, I must be crazy or a genius — ‘I mean it must be high or low,’ the next line. There was something wrong with me, I thought, because I seemed to see things other people didn’t see

I fully recognized that quote could be interpreted in a grandiose, arrogant way. It certainly seems to lean that way, no? But that's not how I took it. I took it as that terrible and constant feeling that you can't talk about the things you think with your peers--you scare them. You can't use logic or science in this debate, it makes your friends cry. You are different and you know it and if you're lucky some well meaning adult doesn't take a special interest in you because we all know how well that's gonna go, outcome irrelevant. 

Well, shut my mouth wide open: I just made a profoundly emotional connection to John Lennon--somebody I would never consider to have anything in common with me. I'd like to believe I'm like a lot of clever, witty, talented people, but it never occurred to me to be able to relate to Lennon.

So I told you all that just in case it has any bearing on what followed, which followed so very quickly I had no choice but to consider it a Result.

********************************************

It gets harder than it should be. Even though it's probably you making it hard in the first place, you just can't get away from it.

In my objective assessments, I feel like a sponge. In my self pitying moments, I consider myself a sin-eater.

It's just People: there's so many of them and they are all bleeding emotion in every direction and their thoughts are so loud and their sadness and anger is even louder. So many people, so many stories.

And you can't respond to all that. They'd cart you away in the next available straight jacket. Sometimes I wonder if insanity is just the absence of the ability to control all the input. Besides being institutionalized for trying to communicate with Everything All At Once, you also wouldn't then be able to accomplish anything your needed to do. Ever again.

So you fake it. You chant litanies in your head that become magical wards against interloping thoughts. You fall into a meditation and don't let it touch you. You put on armor and remind yourself to keep breathing.

Unfortunately, and perhaps what drives me here today, is the realization that you can put on your armor and shield yourself from Humanity, but you're still going to Witness it. You're Marked. All the defense systems in the world can't save you, there will be a chink here and there and all the back-burnered pain of Humanity will come surging in. 

Maybe it will dissipate in the wisps of uncomfortable dreams you don't remember, but that leave you feeling unrested. Could take the form of one too many beers and subsequent hangover pain that mutes the thoughts, but also serves the urge for penitent self-flagellation. You find a way to distract yourself, you choose a different poison.

But it's killing you all the same. The pills to stop the pain are just as harmful as the pain itself. Slow poisons, bad risks, self loathing, rage--whichever or all, you're going down.

*EW = Experimental Writing

Controversial Opinion Piece

I'm just gonna say it: Dudes, a shop vac IS NOT an acceptable replacement for a conventional upright vacuum cleaner.

It's not. You are lying to yourself and others by spreading this disinformation.

If you have Carpet, you need a real (i.e. NON-shop) vacuum. I don't care how many horsepower/rpm/btu thingies you got on that shop vac---it doesn't work as well.

I don't care that you can vacuum up wet stuff. So what? I've done that with a regular vacuum. Newsflash: I misuse common household appliances and products. Damn straight I've run over some spilled water and sucked up some soggy napkins. Too much water for the vac? No problem--just means you need to wait a while for the water to dry on/soak in. Go take yourself a smoke break.

The shop vac cannot compete when it comes to cleaning fibers. The lack of a motorized brush head along with the suction differential at the floor height means the shop vac will never, NEVER, be as efficient as an upright at cleaning carpets.

THIS IS SCIENCE. DOMESTIC SCIENCE.

It can literally take up to five times as long to clean an area with a shop vac as it does an up right. And I'm not talking just time here, but actual labor. You got to get your back into it with a shop vac; gotta scrub that floor like your brushing some teeth! That apron ain't staying pretty for this!

Literally five times as much work. I can say this because I literally just did 5 times as much work vacuuming a small area. I was freaking out of breath at the end of it. From vacuuming. My arm is still burning. This is both embarrassing and vexing.

SHOP VACS: THEY ARE SO NOT THE SAME THING

A Quick Guide For Driving On The Interstate

Louisiana may be a pit of bottomless despair littered with the broken dreams of the unfortunate. Or it could be a great place.

One thing that is not in contention are the state mandated rules for highway driving. Namely, Louisiana has mandated that "The Left Lane Is For Passing Only."

This is common freeway/highway/interstate etiquette: traffic should flow in the right hand lane, with the left hand lane left open for passing. The left hand lane should also be used whenever there are people/vehicles on the right shoulder. It's pretty cool that LA has gone to the trouble of making it a legal requirement as well as posted plenty of signage about it. Good form, you drunken swamp rats.

However, my travels today reveal that many people seem to be confused about the proper use of our beloved interstates--specifically, which lane they should be in. I've compiled a list of helpful hints.

If you are being passed by vehicles to your right, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

If you are towing a trailer, U-Haul, horses, or your home, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

If there is a line of cars behind you and a rig/18 wheeler to your right, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

If the person behind you has begun slamming their head against the steering wheel while you putter between 1 mile over and 5 miles under the speed limit, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

If you find yourself on the interstate for any reason, GET IN THE RIGHT-HAND LANE, MOTHERFUCKER.

Thank you and jah bless.

CatWatch! 2014: The Reign Of Sweetie Man Draws To A Close

Well, Saturday morning marked the end of Ket Relocation Project in District Feline.

Due to some personal issues, Sweetie Man was not able to return to DF in the evening, but the owner was home by then.

The prior evening revealed that the kets have decided to work on the owner's plumbing problems.

Kets say: You gotta watch out for the old tarpaper and cast iron pipes in these old houses. Mind the 4 foot drop.

Saturday marked our first "Provisions on Back Deck Only" day. So I went extra early and set up a lovely little ket environment.

Ket füd. Bonus wet füd not shown.

Ket treats and ket shelter (bed tucked under pool).

Then it was time to seek out Ket contact in the front yard.

Firstly, we set a bowl of delicious, nutritious wet ket füd out front. TWEEST: füd is 3 feet from me.

Secondly, we lob some dry treats at kets, creating trail to wet füd.

Thirdly, we bring ket toy to tempt otherwise sated kets.

Kets sighted, but no one is approaching.

Why, hello there. What's this?

Pretending to be disinterested.

Casually checking it out.

Preparing skillful pounce.

Raaah! Ket Atteck!

Dragging off kill.

I don't know if that video will come through. That's essentially my version of forcing you to look at endless pictures of my kids on my phone. In other words: it is essentially pointless and probably very boring.

After a day of big kills on the savannah, some kets seemed to be a little more confident about Sweeties.

That's right, follow the Sweetie Trail.

Closer, closer. . . .

BAM! Less than 3 feet away!

Aww yeah. Sweetie Man Strikes Again!

Despite all my attempts, these kets were clearly not ready for petting or snuggles of any kind. Which is disappointing. Let's take a look at our goals for this Ket Project:

Goals:

1. Get kittehs used to eating around people, shamelessly leverage Pavlovian techniques.
2. Convince kitteh to come within a 4 ft radius of a person.
3. Relocate eating area from under the house to the back porch. The long way. Erg.

Well, maybe 2.5 out of 3 goals accomplished. It's a start, at least.

Sweetie Man, out.

Credit for all Wikus manips used in CatWatch! 2014 to MizHowlinMad over at deviantart. http://mizhowlinmad.deviantart.com/