This morning I was dreaming of this lagoon or bay. I was watching some kind of engineering event, and they were sinking an aircraft carrier. As they sunk it in this lagoon, it produced a massive whirlpool.
I watched and wondered if anyone had anticipated this, as it seemed the whirlpool was sucking in all the boats moored along the docks and anchored further out in the shallows. (How could you sink an aircraft carrier in a shallow lagoon? Dream physics, I guess.)
I worried about the sharks. There was some kind of problem with the sharks attacking people in all of this.
At some point in this I finally gave up and woke up to answer my phone, which had been ringing constantly for about half an hour.
I checked the number, half expecting it to be some random drug addled or drunken friend who was about to get told off for SRS. When I saw it was my mom's number, my first thought was "Who's dead?"
I called her up and, bless her heart, she was making sure that I knew TEH TSUNAMI WUT WAS COMING TO GETZ ME.
I spent the next 15 minutes with my my iPad, my t.v., and my one good eye half open, checking every major news outlet and weather report and reassuring my mom that I was not in imminent danger and that it really was okay for me to go back to sleep.
I think she would have preferred that I responded by jumping in my car and driving east as fast as possible. However, I'm pretty sure my place of employment wouldn't have appreciated that, as it is business as usual today. (Or IS it? The office is strangely empty).
And anyhoo, I just would have driven to Vegas. And I can't afford that right now.
It's nice to know that my mom still loves me. Even at 1:30 in the morning.
************
A note on part of the reason why I don't watch the news anymore: newscasters are bloodthirsty, drooling, vuluturish little trolls.
I can't bear watching their eyes light up as they cross the line from reporting the same scant facts over and over to speculating on the bounty of possible horrors to come. Like children peering at a candy display and smearing their already grubby hands on display case, fogging up the glass with their anticipatory pants of breath--they salivate over not just what has been wrought but the possible carnage to come.
The worst are the portions of "talent" that are generally the most useless. I swear, the CNN weatherman was popping wood as he described the terrible weather battering Hawaii, and the the unpredictable nature of tides and weather behavior in such conditions. His eyes were alight as he pointed out possibility after possibility, each more dire than the next.
One of the regular anchors interrupted him to voice the only logical thought in the ten minutes of catastrophe masturbation that made up this chunk of television: what could the folks along the CA coast expect? What areas would be affected?
The weather-douche stammered and stuttered about, again, the UNPREDICTABILITY of all this and how we could all, hypothetically, be IN TERRIBLE PERIL. Then he quietly conceded that local authorities would be advising the CA residents on what to do. This saved him the embarrassment of having to report the actual facts that no major inundation is expected, and last report showed swells increased by a maximum of 12 inches.
These people are parasites on par with the paparazzi and the gossip hounds that chase around cracked out starlets and cover Anna Nicole's death for weeks on end. Actually, there used to be a difference between a newscaster and a tabloid journalist. Now they are one and the same.
They are all fear mongers, rubberneckers who wallow in filth and tragedy, social arsonists who fan the flames of hysteria under the guise of providing information services. They don't have to get a life, because they get their rocks off watching yours deteriorate.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Who makes your list?
When it's shit news?
When there's nothing to be done for it?
When there are no answers?
When there's nothing of worth to say, you just want to scream and rail and sob?
Who do you call?
The older I get, the shorter and more elusive that list gets. Most folks don't know you well enough, and you'll just be an imposition, making them uncomfortable.
Others know you, but they don't want to hear it. That's why they're not around in the first place. If they hear from you at all it should be either good news ornall about them. Usually they prefer the latter.
Then there's the folks you can't tell, because they just get more upset than you. And doesn't do either of you any good.
There's a small group who could definitely handle the news, but it's usually because they are already dealing with some monstrous shit of their own. And when you stop to think about it, it would be a pretty shitheel move to dump on them.
So, yeah. That list gets mighty small, mighty quick. Even more so when you get to feeling all sorry for yourself.
So when you see that decrepit drunk at the end of the bar, or the nervous lady babbling in the doctor's office, or the rando dude at the vending machine who just blurts out the craziness of their lives to you, I counsel forbearance.
They probably really don't have anyone else to tell.
When there's nothing to be done for it?
When there are no answers?
When there's nothing of worth to say, you just want to scream and rail and sob?
Who do you call?
The older I get, the shorter and more elusive that list gets. Most folks don't know you well enough, and you'll just be an imposition, making them uncomfortable.
Others know you, but they don't want to hear it. That's why they're not around in the first place. If they hear from you at all it should be either good news ornall about them. Usually they prefer the latter.
Then there's the folks you can't tell, because they just get more upset than you. And doesn't do either of you any good.
There's a small group who could definitely handle the news, but it's usually because they are already dealing with some monstrous shit of their own. And when you stop to think about it, it would be a pretty shitheel move to dump on them.
So, yeah. That list gets mighty small, mighty quick. Even more so when you get to feeling all sorry for yourself.
So when you see that decrepit drunk at the end of the bar, or the nervous lady babbling in the doctor's office, or the rando dude at the vending machine who just blurts out the craziness of their lives to you, I counsel forbearance.
They probably really don't have anyone else to tell.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Weekend Recap
Well, it was an auspicious weekend here at BlatherBlahg, consisting of more than two whole instances of leaving the house!
How do I afford this rock n' roll lifestyle?
Now, it's true that several of these out-of-cave experiences were necessitated by the obligation of feeding my friends' cats, but still. More stuff happened too!
Just about everyone who has the misfortune to communicate with me for more than 10 minutes is aware of my extreme lack of furniture and my seemingly endless and fruitless quest to find some.
A while back I decided I would go dorm style and do bean bags. This was before I realized that bean bags had become a designer niche market. A half decent (and half sized) bean bag starts at around $50 and goes up to $300 or higher for what I guess would be "bean couches" or "bean chaise loungers." Just Google "bean bag sale" and see what you get.
Lost in a sea of designer microsuede bags, I buckled and bought a $30-$40 bag from Amazon.com. The picture looked good, the person sitting on it looked comfortable, and it could arrive the next day. Yay!
Or not. As it turns out, the person posing out the bean bag had undergone some kind of shrink ray treatment, which reduced them in size by about 25% but maintained all their proportions. That is to say, the bean bag was tiny, yo. Like kid sized. And I may be small in many ways, but my ass is not even remotely child sized.
So, bean bag disappointment. I vowed never to buy another such item without seeing in in person.
This weekend I drove past a local bean baggery, and decided, "What the hell?" They had all kinds of pillowy options, and one I really liked that was about $150. I just couldn't. But I spied another, larger one that was less. It got kind of confusing, trying to sort out what bags were what and cost how much. I left with a $70 bag that seemed like a good choice.
I got home and put it in my living room and realized: I had purchased the bean bag Mt. Kilimanjaro. It's like a someone dropped a giant, slightly melted hershey kiss in my living room. Here's a photo. My forensic training comes in handy, and I cleverly remember to use a dollar bill to show you the scale of Mt. Beanimanjaro:
You might be thinking, "That's not so bad." But you are not Little Blue Bean Bag. LB3 now feels small and inadequate. And in truth, I had to use LB3 as an ottoman for my legs, because Mt. Beanimanjaro lifted me so far off the ground.
However, there is some happiness to this tale. Both Mt. Bean and LB3 got used this weekend, because I had an unexpected house guest. And no, I'm not making an oblique reference to bed bugs. But before I get to that, I must mention my bowling excursion on Saturday.
I finally talked Gunkle Blip and his Special Lady Friend into leaving their Hollywood lair making the epic five mile trip to my neck of the woods. It was his birthday, so I ponied up for a few sessions on the lanes and some really overpriced drinks and the barely functioning bar. I mean, seriously, how do you NOT have a bartender on staff at a bowling alley at 4:00 pm on a Saturday? Don't you realize those parents their with those screaming kids NEED a drink? Don't you realize that us folks next to the parents and their screaming kids NEED a drink?
Anyhoodle, after an embarrassing couple of games, I walked home and flew into a whirlwind preparing for the arrival of my last minute guest. This means I bought some booze and ordered delivery food.
The one and only Blackhawk the Destroyer swooped into town around 9:30 pm. What a cool cat. He's about an hour and half away from my current locale, doing work. So he worked all day Saturday and then drove out to see me. He is a very good friend. I had decided about two weeks to month ago that he needed to grow a goatee. So I was ready to start the Goatee campaign as soon as I saw him. But guess what? He has already got one! WAT? Just like the time I dreamed about him shaving off his moustache. Some people are psychic about lotto numbers, plane crashes, personal danger. I am psychic about my friends facial grooming habits. Go fig.
How did the night go? Well, I think we were pretty well behaved, all things considered. It was pretty low key. We had some big ideas about what we would make of our Sunday, but those *might* have been a little compromised by Saturday night. If I had to sum up the evening, I would say:
I would also strongly recommend that port. It was excellent. All 89473973 ounces of it.
Sunday I awoke at my customary usual disgustingly early hour. I had mercy on my houseguest, and just sort of creeped around for a few hours to let him catch up on his zzzz's. Of course, at Rancho de Hawkeye you only get the finest entertainment and accommodations. Look at the luxury BtD was awash in:
Only the finest Taiwanese imported air mattresses for our guests.
My knee was a little twingey, but we decided to wander Abbot Kinney area. There I got to show BtD what shopping for furniture was like in this magical land. If the paint peeling child sized antique rocking chair for $425 didn't do it for him, by the $3,800 leather club chair (Not Vintage, by the way) he got the gist of it.
We wandered back to the HawkCave, and were generally useless. My knee hurt more and more, and I can't figure out what I did to it. Bowling? We tried to watch Robin Hood. We came in halfway through the movie, so maybe we missed something vital. But overall, we spent most of the time going, "Why is that guy.....who is he. . . why would anyone do that. . . wait, is that the same guy who. . . ?"
It was very confusing. We really couldn't make out the plot. Apparently Ridley Scott has picked up a new camera trick. In addition to his constant Shaky Epileptic Action Scenes With Missing Frames, Scott now has a bizarre Zoom In and Pan Right On the Emotional Musical Cue move. In case the actor's facial expressions and the change in music weren't enough to indicate An Important Moment, Scott is really driving it home by whipping that lens around like it's a home movie with Cousin Ricky who just learned how to use the zoom bar and has been watching the IFC channel too much.
Some popcorn and my Announcement of Intention to Start My Life Of Whoredom later, (hey, that's what the Big City is all about--it worked for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman), Blackhawk was back on the road and I was passing out on the couch.
So endeth another epic and glamorous weekend. BtD really is a good friend, and it was wonderful to see him.
As of this morning my knee is officially really screwed up. I guess trying to walk it off yesterday wasn't the best idea. It only hurts when I walk or put weight on it, so I guess it's time for me to get that Hoveround I've been wanting. Seriously though, it really does hurt, and there's no bruising or swelling or anything. How? Why?
How do I afford this rock n' roll lifestyle?
Now, it's true that several of these out-of-cave experiences were necessitated by the obligation of feeding my friends' cats, but still. More stuff happened too!
Just about everyone who has the misfortune to communicate with me for more than 10 minutes is aware of my extreme lack of furniture and my seemingly endless and fruitless quest to find some.
A while back I decided I would go dorm style and do bean bags. This was before I realized that bean bags had become a designer niche market. A half decent (and half sized) bean bag starts at around $50 and goes up to $300 or higher for what I guess would be "bean couches" or "bean chaise loungers." Just Google "bean bag sale" and see what you get.
Lost in a sea of designer microsuede bags, I buckled and bought a $30-$40 bag from Amazon.com. The picture looked good, the person sitting on it looked comfortable, and it could arrive the next day. Yay!
Or not. As it turns out, the person posing out the bean bag had undergone some kind of shrink ray treatment, which reduced them in size by about 25% but maintained all their proportions. That is to say, the bean bag was tiny, yo. Like kid sized. And I may be small in many ways, but my ass is not even remotely child sized.
So, bean bag disappointment. I vowed never to buy another such item without seeing in in person.
This weekend I drove past a local bean baggery, and decided, "What the hell?" They had all kinds of pillowy options, and one I really liked that was about $150. I just couldn't. But I spied another, larger one that was less. It got kind of confusing, trying to sort out what bags were what and cost how much. I left with a $70 bag that seemed like a good choice.
I got home and put it in my living room and realized: I had purchased the bean bag Mt. Kilimanjaro. It's like a someone dropped a giant, slightly melted hershey kiss in my living room. Here's a photo. My forensic training comes in handy, and I cleverly remember to use a dollar bill to show you the scale of Mt. Beanimanjaro:
You might be thinking, "That's not so bad." But you are not Little Blue Bean Bag. LB3 now feels small and inadequate. And in truth, I had to use LB3 as an ottoman for my legs, because Mt. Beanimanjaro lifted me so far off the ground.
However, there is some happiness to this tale. Both Mt. Bean and LB3 got used this weekend, because I had an unexpected house guest. And no, I'm not making an oblique reference to bed bugs. But before I get to that, I must mention my bowling excursion on Saturday.
I finally talked Gunkle Blip and his Special Lady Friend into leaving their Hollywood lair making the epic five mile trip to my neck of the woods. It was his birthday, so I ponied up for a few sessions on the lanes and some really overpriced drinks and the barely functioning bar. I mean, seriously, how do you NOT have a bartender on staff at a bowling alley at 4:00 pm on a Saturday? Don't you realize those parents their with those screaming kids NEED a drink? Don't you realize that us folks next to the parents and their screaming kids NEED a drink?
Anyhoodle, after an embarrassing couple of games, I walked home and flew into a whirlwind preparing for the arrival of my last minute guest. This means I bought some booze and ordered delivery food.
The one and only Blackhawk the Destroyer swooped into town around 9:30 pm. What a cool cat. He's about an hour and half away from my current locale, doing work. So he worked all day Saturday and then drove out to see me. He is a very good friend. I had decided about two weeks to month ago that he needed to grow a goatee. So I was ready to start the Goatee campaign as soon as I saw him. But guess what? He has already got one! WAT? Just like the time I dreamed about him shaving off his moustache. Some people are psychic about lotto numbers, plane crashes, personal danger. I am psychic about my friends facial grooming habits. Go fig.
How did the night go? Well, I think we were pretty well behaved, all things considered. It was pretty low key. We had some big ideas about what we would make of our Sunday, but those *might* have been a little compromised by Saturday night. If I had to sum up the evening, I would say:
I would also strongly recommend that port. It was excellent. All 89473973 ounces of it.
Sunday I awoke at my customary usual disgustingly early hour. I had mercy on my houseguest, and just sort of creeped around for a few hours to let him catch up on his zzzz's. Of course, at Rancho de Hawkeye you only get the finest entertainment and accommodations. Look at the luxury BtD was awash in:
Only the finest Taiwanese imported air mattresses for our guests.
My knee was a little twingey, but we decided to wander Abbot Kinney area. There I got to show BtD what shopping for furniture was like in this magical land. If the paint peeling child sized antique rocking chair for $425 didn't do it for him, by the $3,800 leather club chair (Not Vintage, by the way) he got the gist of it.
We wandered back to the HawkCave, and were generally useless. My knee hurt more and more, and I can't figure out what I did to it. Bowling? We tried to watch Robin Hood. We came in halfway through the movie, so maybe we missed something vital. But overall, we spent most of the time going, "Why is that guy.....who is he. . . why would anyone do that. . . wait, is that the same guy who. . . ?"
It was very confusing. We really couldn't make out the plot. Apparently Ridley Scott has picked up a new camera trick. In addition to his constant Shaky Epileptic Action Scenes With Missing Frames, Scott now has a bizarre Zoom In and Pan Right On the Emotional Musical Cue move. In case the actor's facial expressions and the change in music weren't enough to indicate An Important Moment, Scott is really driving it home by whipping that lens around like it's a home movie with Cousin Ricky who just learned how to use the zoom bar and has been watching the IFC channel too much.
Some popcorn and my Announcement of Intention to Start My Life Of Whoredom later, (hey, that's what the Big City is all about--it worked for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman), Blackhawk was back on the road and I was passing out on the couch.
So endeth another epic and glamorous weekend. BtD really is a good friend, and it was wonderful to see him.
As of this morning my knee is officially really screwed up. I guess trying to walk it off yesterday wasn't the best idea. It only hurts when I walk or put weight on it, so I guess it's time for me to get that Hoveround I've been wanting. Seriously though, it really does hurt, and there's no bruising or swelling or anything. How? Why?
Sunday, March 6, 2011
BtD
In Da HOOUUUSSSEEEE!
That's right bitches. Mah first house guest. I boughten him liquor and he no pee on rug. Lack of rug may be a factor.
Choke on it, fuckwads.
Love,
Blatherblahg.
That's right bitches. Mah first house guest. I boughten him liquor and he no pee on rug. Lack of rug may be a factor.
Choke on it, fuckwads.
Love,
Blatherblahg.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Things That Piss Me
Oh man. I've been working on a Sneaky Rage Spiral this week, and it's about to blow.
I find it incredibly rude and a major turn off when you are trying to make simple plans, or even inquiries about plans, and the person you are talking to can't be bothered to be responsible for any of the information. They can't even be bothered to listen to you.
It's that specific situation where you say, "Hey, I don't know what your plans are for XYZ span of time, but maybe somewhere in that timeframe we could. . . "
And they respond with "Oh, I don't know what's going on/This completely unrelated thing is going on and I have nothing to do with it. Talk to my spouse/friend/pet turtle because they have organized it."
Note--there could be absolutely NOTHING organized, but they are still getting ready to pawn you off on someone else.
You interject, "I'm not trying to change any pre-set plans. I'm just wondering if you have time or interest in doing LMNOP any time in this upcoming timeframe. . . "
Again, you are cut off. Usually you are told to call the other person. Wait for them to call you back. I just want to ask these people, how do you even manage to get through the day without soiling your undergarments and drooling out all your unchewed food? You can't even express an opinion about a possible preference for a hypothetical situation---a situation who's execution hinges specifically on your interest.
Perhaps I am being too circumspect. Let me clarify: I don't give two flying fucks if your girlfriend/boyfriend/goatfriend wants to fart or blow a tin whistle. I am calling to ask if YOU are interested in something. All you have to do is listen for 30 seconds, and say yes or no. Hell, you can even listen for 30 seconds and THEN launch into your incredible tale of decision making handicaps and how NOTHING can be decided without consulting the Oracle, Your Pet Turtle.
Just do me the basic courtesy of hearing me out before you are lobbing the phone across the room at someone, screaming "INCOMING!" and then wandering off to sit in the john for a few hours.
Because you know what? I called YOU. I might get more than just YOU, I understand how these package deals work. But I called YOUR NUMBER. Not theirs. Please try and bear through a few torturous moments on the phone with me. Here's a little bit of helpful info--if you'll just sac up and tell me "No" from the get-go, then the conversation will be OVER. No need for pointless follow up. Imagine that! The mind boggles! The senses reel!
This kind of crap makes me want to turn off my phone and just avoid everyone. I can't imagine anything good coming out of such muddled and pointlessly laborious beginnings.
In summary: humanity sucks. Coast to coast.
ETA: Just because I don't want to harsh your mellow, let me share another incredible moment from Allie at hyperboleandahalf:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/05/sneaky-hate-spiral.html
I find it incredibly rude and a major turn off when you are trying to make simple plans, or even inquiries about plans, and the person you are talking to can't be bothered to be responsible for any of the information. They can't even be bothered to listen to you.
It's that specific situation where you say, "Hey, I don't know what your plans are for XYZ span of time, but maybe somewhere in that timeframe we could. . . "
And they respond with "Oh, I don't know what's going on/This completely unrelated thing is going on and I have nothing to do with it. Talk to my spouse/friend/pet turtle because they have organized it."
Note--there could be absolutely NOTHING organized, but they are still getting ready to pawn you off on someone else.
You interject, "I'm not trying to change any pre-set plans. I'm just wondering if you have time or interest in doing LMNOP any time in this upcoming timeframe. . . "
Again, you are cut off. Usually you are told to call the other person. Wait for them to call you back. I just want to ask these people, how do you even manage to get through the day without soiling your undergarments and drooling out all your unchewed food? You can't even express an opinion about a possible preference for a hypothetical situation---a situation who's execution hinges specifically on your interest.
Perhaps I am being too circumspect. Let me clarify: I don't give two flying fucks if your girlfriend/boyfriend/goatfriend wants to fart or blow a tin whistle. I am calling to ask if YOU are interested in something. All you have to do is listen for 30 seconds, and say yes or no. Hell, you can even listen for 30 seconds and THEN launch into your incredible tale of decision making handicaps and how NOTHING can be decided without consulting the Oracle, Your Pet Turtle.
Just do me the basic courtesy of hearing me out before you are lobbing the phone across the room at someone, screaming "INCOMING!" and then wandering off to sit in the john for a few hours.
Because you know what? I called YOU. I might get more than just YOU, I understand how these package deals work. But I called YOUR NUMBER. Not theirs. Please try and bear through a few torturous moments on the phone with me. Here's a little bit of helpful info--if you'll just sac up and tell me "No" from the get-go, then the conversation will be OVER. No need for pointless follow up. Imagine that! The mind boggles! The senses reel!
This kind of crap makes me want to turn off my phone and just avoid everyone. I can't imagine anything good coming out of such muddled and pointlessly laborious beginnings.
In summary: humanity sucks. Coast to coast.
ETA: Just because I don't want to harsh your mellow, let me share another incredible moment from Allie at hyperboleandahalf:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/05/sneaky-hate-spiral.html
There's something in the air
And it ain't Spring.
Local and nationwide b.s. news has a lot of certain kinds of hate in it this past week or so. Some of it very pointed, bigoted, racialist type hate.
Now, I'm not calling any of these fools out by name. Because I don't want them getting anymore press. We don't encourage hate here at BlatherBlahg. We're not even gonna dignify ourselves with a response to these insults. (We are also going to keep trying to order litres of cola. If you are not with me at this point, don't worry. It get's relevant again below).
What we ARE about here at BlatherBlahg is beauty, love, truth, sneaky manipulation of the legal system to avoid stalking charges, unrequited love, wasting time, and eating bagels.
So while we will not be directly addressing the spiteful little wankers and their hate-filled crap out there, allow this to be the retort. I think it gets the point across.
Local and nationwide b.s. news has a lot of certain kinds of hate in it this past week or so. Some of it very pointed, bigoted, racialist type hate.
Now, I'm not calling any of these fools out by name. Because I don't want them getting anymore press. We don't encourage hate here at BlatherBlahg. We're not even gonna dignify ourselves with a response to these insults. (We are also going to keep trying to order litres of cola. If you are not with me at this point, don't worry. It get's relevant again below).
What we ARE about here at BlatherBlahg is beauty, love, truth, sneaky manipulation of the legal system to avoid stalking charges, unrequited love, wasting time, and eating bagels.
So while we will not be directly addressing the spiteful little wankers and their hate-filled crap out there, allow this to be the retort. I think it gets the point across.
That's right! Wladyslaw Szpilman and Sol Star in the house--REPRESENT!
They're here, they're talented, they're cute as pie, and they ain't going anywhere. Haters can feel free to form a line to left and kiss my tuchas.
Hope everybody has a great weekend. Shalom, y'all.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
I Have Had A Day
It shouldn't have been A Day, but it was. Snuck up on me from behind and and walloped me but good.
My final shot at peace was blown out of the water when my new conditioner turned out to be some type of quick-crete product that is apparently meant for use to twist and lock your natty dredz. Fookin L.
Maniacal hair scrubbing, vinegar dousing, and general inanities later, and here I sit.
I wish I could find a mindless show to run in the background, one that would allow to climb into that boat with my ever elusive shipmates, Wynkles, Blinkenheimer, and the Nodster.
I wish I knew a good place to shoot some pool.
Seacrest out.
My final shot at peace was blown out of the water when my new conditioner turned out to be some type of quick-crete product that is apparently meant for use to twist and lock your natty dredz. Fookin L.
Maniacal hair scrubbing, vinegar dousing, and general inanities later, and here I sit.
I wish I could find a mindless show to run in the background, one that would allow to climb into that boat with my ever elusive shipmates, Wynkles, Blinkenheimer, and the Nodster.
I wish I knew a good place to shoot some pool.
Seacrest out.
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