How Do You Know That Japanese Character Doesn't Mean "Loser"?

Here are some good reasons not to get a tattoo in a language you don't understand. I'm pretty sure that Engrish can work both ways.




I'm just saying.

In Which I Become Old and Cranky

I'm not much of a basketball fan. I've never really been a fan. In high school, when I was supposed to be really excited about basketball, being a cheerleader and all, I found it nearly impossible to get to the games on time. (Oh, hi, Kathi. Hi, Julie. Nice scrunchi. When does the game start? What, this is half time? Oops. Sorry.) I haven't watched more than highlights on the news in (old and cranky moment:) 23 years.

Last night, I watched a complete buzzer-to-buzzer game (okay, during the commercials I watched Meerkat Manor) for the first time since we went to the games at that famed fire trap, Mac Court, as students at the University of Oregon.

The occasion is the Ducks' stellar year this year, bringing them to the Sweet Sixteen (and after last night's exciting game, to the Tangy Eight).

I know about the change in shorts fashion over the years. After all, I watch the news, but actually seeing those floppy, floppy shorts swing around the players' legs like silky skirts was disturbing to an old Tom Selleck fan like myself.

Here's a picture of the Duck uniforms the year I graduated:


Here is Malik Hairston playing in last night's game:


If there weren't free throws to give them time to hike them back up and pretend to tuck in their shirts, their shorts would be down around their ankles by the end of the first five minutes.

When will it all end, people? With the coolest players tripping over their own shorts? With one hand devoted entirely to holding them up, kind of like half of the no-hands rule from soccer?

Okay, I'm going to have to stop before my hair turns gray. er.

And Go Ducks.

A Short Confession in the Interest of Full Disclosure

Okay, so after my huffy "A.I. used to mean Artificial Intelligence, not American Idol" snit, I confess that while catching up on my "Fresh Air" podcasts this morning, I skipped over these entries:

• The author of an article about how the U.S. is not protecting the Iraqis who agreed to work for us as interpreters and now are targeted for death by their countrymen; and
• The author of a book called Bomb Scare, about the threat of nuclear weapons in the world today;

to get to this:

• A repeat of an interview with Will Ferrell.

Make It Stop

If I have to scroll over one more useless blog entry about the scandalous [pick one] voting/snarking/tickling on American Idol, I shall groan most deeply.

How do all these people make it through an entire episode?

I'm going to go donate money to Public Broadcasting, read a book and feel superior.

Your $3 Movie Review: Casino Royale

I'm just going to assume that you know the rules going in, you know, when watching any Bond movie:

1. Check your logic at the door.


2. It's cool, and quite manly, to point guns at people.


3. Bond can withstand beatings that would kill a crash test dummy.


4. Slightly witty things sound fabulous when spoken with the right accent.

Now to this Casino Royale attempt:

Daniel Craig: Yes and no. Yes, I like the buffitude. Yes, it's quite British to poo-poo the weight room in favor of extra rolls in the hay (and in the middle), but the muscles add some much-needed eye candy.

ESPECIALLY if you have to worry about the next stiff breeze driving away the last of your Bond's hairline. Come on, there must be some hairy guys in the British Isles somewhere. The Bruce Willis/Kevin Costner hair now/gone tomorrow look is less than ideal.

Second, and a huge Craig-as-Bond issue: Drew thought Daniel Craig was giving us the Blue Steel look all night, but I realized that it is not an acting thing, it's a physical defect that is difficult to overlook: his upper lip is too long, which gives him an endless pout.

How did they overlook this? That's a deal killer in my book.

I know. How superficial of me. But hey, this is a Bond flick. That's all there is.

And how old is Daniel Craig? The plot is based on this being Bond's first outing as an MI6, but he doesn't look any younger than any of the Bonds that have gone before him. It's confusing.

The rest:

OMG, who did the make-up for Vesper, the Bond girl? Hey, if you want her to have bigger lips, you can't just color outside the lines. It just looks like a chimp put her lipstick on.

Poor Judi Dench had the job of trying to stitch up the miles of action scenes into a coherent plot. She should get some kind of an Oscar for that.

Bottom line: A good time was had by all (except maybe the couple behind us who were forced to listen to our snarky comments). Sorry.

Funny Creatures We Saw At The Zoo In The Rain

Here's our zoo's new black bear. He comes right up to the glass, but he doesn't stay long because people are incredibly boring to look at. It's awfully cool to be so close to a fuzzy, wuzzy killer.
This cool crane bird kept posing for me so I felt kind of obligated to click away, even though I'm not much of a bird person. Ducks and penguins notwithstanding.
Hippos do not care about rain.
This puma was keeping a close eye out for loose babies. She feels that it's only a matter of time.
Mountain goat being all dramatic. As they are wont to do.

Catholicism: So Hot Right Now.

I thought I would educate myself today on some sainthood facts, being that it's Saint Patrick's Day and I have lots of better things to do, most of them involving the cleaning of something.

I looked up some saint info, hoping to find some delicious tidbits on some cool, kick-butt saints. It turns out that most of them do not land in the kick-butt category.

A large portion of them seemed to have claimed some dark-ages territory for themselves when it was easy to find pagans and whipped the natives into shape for God.

There seems to be a saint for every portion of the Old World map (Friesia, Bordeax, Brittany, some guy that got shipwrecked on the Isle of Mann, you get the idea), mostly a function of where the old popes sent their buddies to stake a claim for Rome.

The cool thing about Saint Patrick is that he probably would not be the patron saint of Ireland if not for the fact that a bunch of plundering Celt pagan Druids stole him as a kid, brought him back to Ireland, and enslaved him as a farmboy there for most of his teens. He escaped back to Britain, went to priest school, and came back to Ireland to kick some pagan butt. But he probably didn't kick any snake butt. The island has probably always been snake free. Lucky island.

Some interesting tidbits gleaned from way too much time looking for interesting tidbits about saints:

The official Catholic website lists 2 patron saints of firefighters:

St. Florian (feast day: May 4 - make your feasting plans early!): One of those saints who got to be a saint by being tortured to death by Roman meanies (another large subgroup). It seems one of the tortures was being set on fire. Not that he wasn't an awesome saint or anything, but that's a pretty lame excuse to get to be a patron saint of firefighting. Being set on fire against one's will. Not exactly in the firefighter's bag of tricks.

St. John of God (feast day: March 8 - make your feasting plans early!): This guy was mostly insane, but he did do some actual firefighting, which makes him a better candidate for patron saint-itude. He saved patients from a burning hospital, and saved the bulk of the hospital from burning by chopping the burning portion away, falling through the roof in the process, and then emerging (ta-dah!) from the flaming wreckage. I'd say we have a winner.

There's a patron saint for almost everything. Case in point: the patron saint of hoarseness is St. Bernardine of Siena, who, after becoming a priest, hung back from preaching for a while because of a bad hoarseness thing, but then got over it and preached a lot to make up for lost time.

I'm going to go pray to St. Martin de Porres, patron saint of hairdressers, to do something about my cowlick.

Off The Wagon.

Tell the wagon to circle around and get me in the morning. Today was all chocolate, all the time.

I'll think about dieting in the morning.

My Eyes Are Up Here, Buddy.

Obsess much?

Note To The Techno Gods: You Can Have My First Born.

Just leave me in peace.

You have me where you want me. I said Uncle. Now free me from the shackles of your "updates," which foul my podcasts and my You Tubes and your secret erasures which pock my office hard drives and leave them scarred and deformed.

Let. My. iPod. Go.

Note To Horror Movie Producers: Give Up.

It's already been done better than you can do with your all your CGIs and your DGMs (that's your Digital Goo Makers).

The Shining has already been made. There's not going to be another Jack. Timberline's not going to let you try another remake at their cool spooky snow lodge. And that scary little kid has grown up.

So go try to find a way to make a halfway decent romantic comedy, because The Shining has been done, and you can't make it better.

Sorry.

Obvy, I just watched The Shining all the way through for the first time on the Sci Fi Channel, and even though there were commercials (which helped me finish the laundry) and I kept noticing things like the bourbon in Jack's glass go from 1/4 full to 1/2 full after a cutaway, I can imagine the affect it must have had on theater goers. No wonder everybody still quotes that movie.

No wonder people keep trying to make horror pictures. They keep thinking they'll strike the same nerve.

Won't happen, people. I'm telling you. It's been perfected.

I Need A Version 1.1 Patch

I’m moody. (Certain family members will be going “duh” right now.) My latest dark mood started in earnest yesterday and gathered steam last night. Today I would warn anyone from telling me to smile or requiring me to watch “Terms of Endearment.”

I have a pretty good idea that the culprit is, once more, my body’s “everything in excess” approach to hormone usage.

The worst part about being jerked around by one’s own hormones is that there is no way for me to know whether my feelings are genuine or manufactured by my own pituitary demons for their black-hearted amusement. Because most of the time I can come up with a perfectly logical reason (say, an off-the-cuff query about the real need to watch “Animal Cops” yet again) for wanting to tear someone’s throat out, which, come morning, may seem a little out of balance, but at the time, seems merciful.

One would think that a glance at the calendar would serve the purpose, but as any husband knows, even looking in the direction of a calendar during a hormone storm could cause bloody casualties and lasting scars. And as I age, the calendar is less and less useful, if I were in any mood to look.

I wish I could get some sort of hormonal update download that would give me a hint when my hormones were pulling the strings. Maybe a hum in my left ear, or a little blind spot in the upper left-hand corner of my eye. It would have to be something obvious to me alone (not, like, a red spot on my forehead that could be diagnosed by others). Otherwise, the possible helpful comments of loved ones would only result in further shrieking devastation.

I have to say, I keep things under control a little better than an earlier version of myself had. Now, I usually just come across as distant and cold. Which, if they could only see into the dark, black, Marvel Comics-style mayhem going on under the surface, they would kneel and bow at my feet.

Your Face Is So...Three Dimensional.

Pointy faces.

Friday Night Blather.

My mind is not traveling in a straight line today. It's veering thither and yon. Like this.

• I had to hire a new CPA because our last tax preparers went all flaky on us. Unfortunately, this is the worst year, money-wise, for hiring a new CPA. We're broke. We spent all our money on non-tax-write-off-able stuff. Like Dean's rent. And Dean's food. And bike parts. And a new roof. We didn't even have enough to show a respectable charity write-off amount. How embarrassing. If we end up having to pay taxes, I will have to sell velvet paintings on the street corner for the money. I suppose CPAs are supposed to attempt to be non-judgmental, but I think I was testing her straight face.
• I bought concert tickets on a whim today. More like under duress. I checked my secondary email account just in time to find a presale from KNRK for the Decemberists. The tickets go on sale to the public tomorrow, but since I'm such an awesome radio listener, they gave me a password to order today. But only until 4 today. Well, it was 3:30. What else was I supposed to do? So I did. I bought 4 so Dean and Jenny could go with us.
• Don't be giving me that look. I know I just told you we were broke. But this is The Decemberists. Back off.
• I emailed Dean and Jenny at 6:15 to see if they were free that day, and Dean called me at 6:16. Seems that they are free.
• Never buy a pearly colored car. It looks dirty at the first molecule of dust. It only goes downhill from there. Right now, after 3 straight weeks of rain, it looks like a 60-year-old corrugated tin shed.
• British soccer players have cool names. At least they sound cool coming through my slightly damaged hearing. During a recent Blackburn/Arsenal match, there seemed to be a Tuareg, a Phlegmy, an Abudobby, a Flabbergast, and one Olly-olly Oxenfree.
• However, I heard a local urchin mom calling her personal urchin Anakin. Yes. The Skywalker of Jedi fame, later to exhibit a serious character flaw by assuming the cute nickname Darth Vader and killing people willy-nilly, if I have my Star War-abilia correct.
• Somebody shot and killed a sandhill crane in Vancouver. They should rot in jail.
• I'm going to go eat some chocolate now. Happy weekend!

Hey, It's Whole Wheat.

Finding news items like this is reason enough to get up in the morning.

See you at Krispy Kreme, baby.

The Oscars Are Over and I Feel a Little Woozy.

Here are some thoughts from last night's extrava-organza.

From the "red carpet" pre-pre-show:

• That fashion "expert" is saying that Jessica Biel's boobs are too big to wear that halter dress. I would totally wear that dress if I had those boobs. Mine would be lost in that dress. Quit being so gay, fashion "expert."
• The red carpet vultures are getting no good interviews. People just keep passing them by, pretending not to hear their plaintive cries. "Mr. Eastwood! Mr. Eastwood! ...I guess he's busy..."
• I was about to make fun of Ryan Gosling and his movie that nobody has heard of (Half Nelson? You mean like the wrestling move? Is it like Ice Castles, only with wrestling?), but now I feel bad because he's all about saving child war victims in Uganda.
• Then he goes and says this: "My mom told me that if you're making a decision for the money, you're making the wrong decision." aah.
• Nicole Kidman: didn't she read my blog from last year's Oscars? You know, where I was horrified at the large black blob trying to eat Charlize Theron's shoulder? And here she is with a large red blob trying to bite her neck. Pay attention, gorgeous people! You can't keep flaunting your gorgeousness like that, expecting us to forgive such atrocities just because you're otherwise perfect!
• George Takei is wearing the best gown of the night.
• Meryl Streep is so sure she is not going to win that she's thrown some old Grand Canyon souvenir necklaces on over her jammies. Bravo.
• Whoever that blond hostess chick is seems surprised that a 10-year-old isn't wearing "too much make-up."
• I love it that they make the press vultures try to entice their victims to come over to talk to them from behind hedges. It's like fishing for stars!
• Penelope Cruz: Why does it take such high tech engineering to make a dress stay on her body? It looks like she's wearing a suspension bridge with feathers.
  
• Somebody sewed sleeves onto the sides of Naomi Watts' strapless bumblebee outfit. I'm glad she realized they were sleeves and not just odd tubes hanging off the side of her dress at underarm level. Because that would have just been silly.
• I like Anne Hathaway's dress. Classy.
• Okay. Red hair isn't supposed to actually be red. I believe when they say red, they really mean a shade of orange. Patricia Field? I'm talking to you. Your hair should not match your red dress. Unless its Halloween and you're dressed as a crayon.
  
• I like Cameron Diaz's dress, even if some people say it looks like a half-eaten burrito. Her hair, though, is a disaster. Ironically, the color of refried beans.
• Cate Blanchett is perfect. Don't we hate her?
• Kate Winslett looks wonderfully pale. No sunlamps or spray-ons. Thanks, Kate Winslett!

On to the Ceremony!

• I like Maggie Gyllenhall and I like her dress.
• Lose the witty dance/silhouette thingies. Less than entertaining.
• It was almost worth the 5 hours of viewing to watch Will Ferrell, Jack Black and John C. Reilly belt out a "show tune" about comedy not being taken seriously.
• Yay, West Bank Story won Short Live Subject. Too bad he has to talk so fast to say something important to him, and yet they let that Hollywood Film Corral Sound Effects Orchestra go on and on. At least I'm assuming it went on and on. I left to pop some corn.
• That guy wins something for Happy Feet, but he didn't win anything for Babe? Bizarre.
• Quote of the night from William Monahan (Best Adapted Screenplay winner) upon making his way to the non-podium to accept his award: "Valium doesn't work."
• And what's with the no-podium thing? People are having to juggle their statues, or worse yet, put them down, to get out their little speeches. Ridic.
• That horse race mock-up thing is stupid and ugly. Get out.
• Just try not to like Tom Hanks. You can't do it.
• Anne Hathaway has eschewed the spray-on-tan look too. Drew says pasty is the new tan.
• Hah! That person I don't know just said "Stanley Kubrick, my great master." You just don't hear people describing their mentors as their great master anymore. Shame, I guess.
• Sherry Lansing wins Best Dressed Recipient of an Honorary Award.
• Gwyneth Paltrow is also sporting the Suspension Bridge of Tomorrow look.
• I liked when Jerry Seinfeld called all the nominated documentaries "incredibly depressing."
• What? This guy (Michael Arndt) quits his job as an assistant to Matthew Broderick to write Little Miss Sunshine and subsequently wins an Oscar for Original Screenplay? That's an awesome story.
• This always happens. One nominee blows the top off the place with their performance of their nominated song, and some other lame song wins. I first witnessed this back in 1975. I was 12 going on 13 and very impressionable. Someone once told me I looked like Liza Minnelli with my short hair and long eyelashes, so when I saw Liza kick some major Oscar ass with a show-stopping jazz-hands-a-flying ka-powie rendition of "How Lucky Can You Get," I thought the song was a shoo-in. Until they announced the winner: some whiny-ass hippy song called "I'm Easy" by Keith Carradine. Man. This year it was a medley from the Dreamgirls girls kicking vocal ass and taking vocal names. Then they open the envelope and find Melissa Etheridge's "I Need To Wake Up" inside. Man. SHE was even making fun of that song before the ceremony, joking that she had been able to rhyme An Inconvenient Truth with "youth."
• On that note, I'm going to go lie down for a while. I'm all academied out.
  

I'm No Boomer.

The Man keeps telling me I'm part of the Baby Boomer generation. I beg to differ.

Someone in The Man's Matrix of Knowledge has deemed that the generations break down like this: Seniors (born before 1946) Boomers (1946-1964) Generation X (1965-1981) Generation Y (1982-1999) and Generation Z (2000 - present). (Tom Bodett wonders whether we are in trouble, existentially speaking, since we seem to have run out of letters.)

My point is this:

• I don't remember JFK or MLK;
• I was 7 years old during the Summer of Love;
• I never screamed at the Beatles; in fact,
• I didn't curl up every Thursday or whatever to watch the Ed Sullivan show; and
• My favorite cartoon was Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner, not Howdy Doody, whatever that thing was.

I'm going to have to start my own tweener generation reference for myself and other 60 - 65 babies. I'm going to call it the Acme Generation. Because our generation keeps buying stuff and trying new stuff just try to get some dinner (let's face it, Wile E. is hungry - he just wants a Roadrunner sandwich), and the stuff just keeps failing on us. We got the Commodore 64 computers. We might have been able to play Pong on them, but once we touched the F1 button, the screen went blank, and there went $595 on 64K of deep fried RAM. We were told that when we grew up, we were going to get jet packs. All we got were VCRs and big hair. And my computer still doesn't work.
A more apt name would be the Disco Generation, but disco got a bad rap (again, the Acme curse). Thanks, Hooked on the Classics. If you don't get that reference, then you don't belong in my new generation. I suppose you could blame the demise of disco on all the coke, but every generation has their drug of choice. The Boomers had their pot. By the time I was in high school, the coke and qualuude references were flying so fast on Saturday Night Live, the censors could not keep up.
Saturday Night Live: another Acme Generation high point (note brilliant triple entendre). Get off of my SNL, Boomers!
More on this later. I'm just warming up.

My Own Duck

Since I stole that last duck picture, I took this picture at the zoo.

He's so fancy, he makes fancy ripples in the pond.

Field Trip!

My zoo membership has been burning a hole in my pocket this winter as it rained and snowed and rained with special guest wind. Today the sun was out, so I TOOK OFF. Actually I worried for an hour about the drive and my gas guage, left the garage, got about six blocks and wondered how I was going to manage to eat expensive and awful zoo food for lunch, turned around, ate a sandwich, changed my coat (because the first one seemed too, non-zoo-like), and then TOOK OFF.

This is what I saw: The meerkats in Portland are a little, um, rounder than the ones in Africa. But they are still good at keeping a sentry posted. Just in case.
This peacock was trying to impress some farm hens. It wasn't working. He tried everything. Even a cool shimmy move.
The polar bears were playing with this barrel. This barrel is made of sturdy stuff. They could make a commercial with these guys.
Die, barrel, die!
The tiger looking more fabulous than you.

This Blog Needs Some Eye Candy

So here's a delicious duck. Stolen fair and square from someone off the web. This duck has something to say. Too bad you don't speak duck.

Got One of those Sweet "Support Our Troops" Stickers?

Then you should read this.

Where We Celebrate a Sneak Peak of the Sun By Acting Like Overworked Peasants of Yore

The sun came out yesterday. The one sunny day in February we all wait for and absolutely drink. The sun gets so mobbed by all the sun-starved Pacific Northwesterners, it doesn't come back for four months.

Instead of playing in the sun, we needed to go out back and repair all the damage the PNW winter and two doofy dogs have done to the yard. I am talking chainsaw-size repair. The rot rotting away at our locust bean tree finally went too far this winter and the old fellow had to come down. Wonderful opportunity for chopping firewood and making a UPS truck-sized pile of brush into kindling and a smaller sized pile of brush at another location.

When we took a break for lunch and a trip to the yard & garden store, I managed to leave my purse, with about a hundred bucks, credit cards, gum, and a cool phone with a flower sticker at the local Baja Fresh.

Once I noticed it missing and sweated through every traffic light (all red - thanks, magic Drew!) back to the restaurant, I was sure it was a goner. But there it was on the counter. Someone had turned it in with every single dollar and stick of gum intact.

Thanks, good human, whoever you are!

Today I did more yard work. But it is all good, because my pants are loose.

So Angry Right Now.

So mad.

I must have mucked up something with all this ISP changing. Can't fix the toolbar. Can't re-install the toolbar. Can't download anything. Can't restore former settings. Comcast "Computer Doctor" program still doesn't think I have any internet communication at all, despite the fact that I'm talking to you right now.

So mad.

The dogs are hiding.

Tubes Untied: My Fruitless Search for Justice

So Comcast cost too much.

So we call Qwest and say, "Hey, Qwest, remember us? Come back and hook us up with some cheap DSL and a plain old MSN account, just like in the old days."

Two weeks later, still no plain old MSN account. Seems like MSN put an 0 where there should have been a 1, or vice versa. MSN, the leader of all things computer, could not figure out how to restore our service.

We called them back (okay, Drew called them back) and told them to kiss our asses and cancel our non-service.

Luckily, we had held on to our Comcast modem and account until we were sure we were squared away with Qwest/MSN.

So my job last night was to un-connect the Qwest DSL system of jiggers and pulleys, and re-install the cable one.

But something happened to the modem while it was biding its time on the bench. It could no longer talk. Talk, modem, talk! Say something!

Plug. Unplug. Screw. Unscrew. Restart. Restart. Restart.

It turns out that the "series of tubes" was just not full of internet goo yet, and I just had to be patient. This morning we're back in business.

And paying way too much. My nose hurts, we are paying so much. (Paying through the nose, get it?)

For Those of You Glued to the TV Coverage of Anna Nichole

Here are two stories about two Jennifers that you should pay attention to. Instead.

Citizen Power Isn't What It's Cracked Up To Be

Hey, remember when I got all mad at Comcast and their robber-like prices and headed over to Qwest for a DSL connection and even a dish if they behaved?

Man, was I naive.

Turns out that Qwest wants us to pay for DSL and some excellent MSN products, but doesn't really consider it important that we be able to use them.

After 10 days, one 1 1/2 hour-long "chat session," one hour-long telephone help-desk-from-the-basement-of-a-Mumbai-brothel session and two trips to our house by actual "technicians," I still do not have the use of this miracle of technology.

I hate them.

Sorry About the Hearing Loss.

Turns out that the reason our fax has been spewing "no fax" reports for the past several days when we have been out, is that it has been beating our answering machine to the phone and consequently screaming in everyone's ears.

Sorry about that.

I didn't pay much attention to it until today when I came home to a rather profane answering machine message that sounded exactly like someone receiving some unexpected hearing damage.

Oops. My bad.

I would blame it on Drew, as he was here when the fax was re-plugged-in, but we can't really expect him to configure electronics.

That's like asking an ape to crochet you an afghan.

You know he'll use that scratchy bargain yarn, and you'll just have to do it all over again yourself.

I Am Weak From Your Cuteness

Cute Overload, you have slain me once again with your onslaught of cuteness from naughty, naughty poodles. I'll be in the living room recuperating.

If You Loved Me You Would Buy Me a Chef

I could use a prep chef. You know, the one that stands in the kitchen and chops food for all the other chefs? All day? (Dream job? I think not.)

I know you're supposed to keep your fingers safely tucked under your knuckles, but I forget. And I get in a hurry, because who likes chopping vegetables? (Notice my hand is not shooting up, although I have lots of practice from my years as Teacher's Pet.)

I have cut myself while chopping vegetables so many times, I keep a stock of colorful bandaids on hand at all times. Winnie-the-Pooh ones are okay, but its hard to beat Hello Kittys. They breathe.

I cut myself so many times that when I lopped the top of my thumb off a year or so ago, I just put it back in place and bandaged it up tight. I wasn't sure whether it would work or not, but I figured, if it doesn't, who needs the last quarter-inch of your left-hand thumb anyway? I don't play the flute much anymore.

Turns out, it stayed pink and healthy, although a bit bulgy, and it's still there. A little bubble on the tip of my thumb.

There is currently a Pooh bandaid on my left pointy finger.

Yep. Chopping vegetables again. In case you were wondering.

Scrubs is the new M*A*S*H

TV stations love it. They often run long blocks of it. And on Saturday, when you should be doing so many other constructive things, it's so easy just to sit down, get comfy, turn it on, and watch the clock hands doing a jig around the dial.

While you veg. Although, I wish I could spell that "vedge." I think I'll start. It could catch on.

1st in a new series: I Would Totally Be BFF With...

Mo Rocca.

Suddenly the Super Bowl Comes Alive

Leave it to Dave Barry to pick out and flick us the Booger News!!!

What I Did This Weekend.

A list of the things I did this weekend:

1. Washed windows.
2. Picked up dog poop.
3. Brushed dogs (Sounds easy? It takes and hour and a half for a collie and a half).
4. Finished a painting of a nutria.
5. Framed three other paintings and hung them.
6. Vacuumed.
7. Bought a mop.
8. Mopped.
9. Cleaned both bathrooms.
10. Bathed both dogs (who both hate baths).
11. Did laundry.
12. De-pilled my sweater.

A list of things Drew did this weekend.

1. Drove to the Mojave dessert with a friend.
2. Met his brother and brother-in-law.
3. Rode their dirt bikes all over the desert.
4. Camped out in the desert with a roaring fire.
5. Rode their birt bikes some more.
6. Ate barbeque.
7. Drove home.

Which list would I rather have done? The former (for you grammar-challenged, that's the first one). Not a dirt bike fan. Not a desert fan. Not a camping fan.

But don't you think Drew owes me anyway?

That's what I was thinking.

As Long As We're Sharing Humiliating Wedding Pictures...

Once upon a time, my grandma-in-law made us this wedding picture album. Yes, she was very proud of it. No, I don't think she meant it to look like a view through Cinderella's toilet seat or a hemorrhoid donut for virgins, but there it is. Yes, we still use it. It makes a great conversation piece.

The Face of Disapproval

You give the worst pedicures ever. You are fired.

Blood Money

I bought Annie a new slinky black collar today. Partly because she has a date with some elementary school kids on Thursday in her role as a Pet Facilitated Therapy dog, but mostly because I felt bad for cutting one of her nails too short this morning and making her bleed. I was wondering why she was resisting so hard after the first couple of nails, but then I noticed she was leaving little red dots on the carpet.

Oops.

At Least I Left the World a Happier Place Today.

As far as I know I do not look particularly funny. Well, not that funny. However, when I walk around the supermarket with a shopping basket in one hand and a mop in the other, I become hilarious to teenage girls.

Super for my self image.

You Sure You Don't Want To Play? 'Cause You Look Like You Do.

I'm just sayin.

Why Cahnt the English Lunn to Speak?

Why do I ask? Because once upon a time, Sade's record company wrote, for an English record release, that her name (shortened from her full name of Helen Folosade Adu) is pronounced "Shar-day," and to this day, Americans think that means that Sade's name is pronounced "Shar-day."

Which would seem logical, until you realize that in English talk, such an "r" is only there to change the "a" sound from something that sounds like "Sadie" to the sound in words like "the Shah of Iran." So saying something is pronounced "Shar-day" means, to the English ear, that it is pronounced "Shah-day." Damn English.

So Americans, say "Shah-day." I know nobody else plays Sade anymore so this point may seem a little late, but Drew does, so this is for Drew. And, ultimately, for me, because hearing "Shar-day" makes me grind my teeth.

Oh, and "Bowie" rhymes with "Joey."

In Case You Miss the Big State of the Union Speech Tonight

Here's the current Bush administration policy in a nutshell.

Doing My Bit For Citizen Power

I heard on a podcast today (probably Fair Game from PRI with Faith Salie, I wasn't paying that much attention while I raked old leaves and new dog poop) that the fair citizens of the blogosphere can affect brand names, both positively and negatively, by, you know, griping and stuff.

For instance, a blogger was actually sued recently by ABC for coming down hard on its hate-filled talk jocks on their San Francisco station KSFO (which used to be a good station back in the 80s), and getting a lot of attention for doing so (especially, satisfyingly, after ABC sued).

Another champion sentence for your diagramming pleasure. You're welcome.

In a reverse instance, a couple of jokesters made a song about how they enjoyed Chicken McNuggets into a YouTube favorite. Sweet free ad for McDonalds.

I feel obligated to contribute to this trend of citizen power.

Good Things:

Nike. I like their clothes. Can't really use their shoes. Their shoes are build for less retarded feet. I like their campus in Not Beaverton. I applied to work there once, but they didn't want me. So I guess they're not that great.

Horny Toad. Piglet Award for Best Clothing Company. Best place to buy your Horny Toads: Title Nine.

Trader Joes. Green attitude. Delicious hummus. Ready-made pizza dough. Cheap wine. Quality salsa. I could go on. Worst problem? I have to drive across town to get there. That's not so green, is it, Trader Joes? Get on it.

McMenamins brew pubs and brew cinemas. Good beer, I am told. Good wine. Cozy pubs, some in lovingly restored buildings that others had long abandoned. That's green and commendable. They also cook ahi tuna properly as long as you ask.

Bad Things.

Sony. Sony, I used to trust you. But lately your quality has gone to seed. Case in point: my lousy workout radio. A static-y battery sucker. Nearly unusable. Boo, Sony. Boo.

Whoever made those wine bottle stoppers we bought at Fred Meyer. They have already both broken. I will find out who you are and write you a nasty letter. Probably not.

Comcast. Who can pay these rates? They should not be able to charge whatever they want, and they should not get to be the only cable provider available to us. That is unamerican. We refuse to be held hostage. We are voting with our feet. Goodbye, Comcast.

Qwest. Who has the time to spend an hour and a half on the phone trying to find out if their price can beat Comcast? This is not an exaggeration. Drew spent one and one-half hours on the phone with someone who really did not know what the company had to offer, or how much it would cost. This is ridic. Do we have an option? Sure. Comcast.

Take back the streets! Well, take back Madison Avenue.

I feel empowered. Well, I would feel empowered if anybody read this. Chances are, Mr. Comcast does not get down this way very often.

Snow Day for Dogs

Scotty liked the snow up to the point where it started caking in his hairy, hairy feet until it hurt. He looks unhappy because I told him to sit without having any treats in my hand, which he resents and thoroughly disapproves of. The photo session went downhill from here.

Annie wants to know why, if they can land a man on the moon, they can't develop an indoor doggy toilet. Having to go outside in this sort of weather is barbaric.

Her words, not mine.

Diet Update

Ten pounds down, ten to go. Although the next ten will be slower, as I move to the second "phase" of this diet. (I won't reveal which one. It hardly needs more publicity. Let's just say it rhymes with "Mouth Peach.")

I rewarded myself this weekend with a jacket that I found on the clearance rack of a shop I would not normally go into (or that would normally allow me in), however Dean was leading the way and happened to know the salesperson on "duty" (duty limited to vicious asides re: hipness-challenged shoppers while chatting with the carefully chosen few who rate). I wondered how small their phones were.

BTW, if you need a $75 t-shirt, I know a place.

Snow Day

Portland and Vancouver are at standstills again on account of a couple inches of snow. I don't know how the Midwest does it. The roads get so dang slippery here, the news footage looks like something from Benny Hill. Cars boinking into objects, moving or stationary, all the way down hills like pinballs with a screamy soundtrack.

I suppose PNW cities just don't feel it necessary to stock and man the plows and sanding equipment necessary to clear every road in town when we know it will all be rained on the next day.

Just stay home and wait it out. Tomorrow everything will be back to the normal shade of grey.

My family is blessed with many talents.

A command of the dance floor is one of many. Here are my sister and brother demonstrating the family moves in our swank hilltop estate, circa nineteen sixty-something.

No, I Didn't Watch the Game.

I was convinced the Seahawks were going to lose. I think God was probably convinced they were going to lose.

Sorry about that bobbled field goal set-up there, Mr. Romo. Try not to think about it. Or dream about it. All off-season.

Laces out, Tony!

Sorry, trying to be helpful.

Fair Warning.

It's January and that means diet time.

This time I'm serious. My blood pressure and my weight seem to be in a race for top number, so I'm hoping to put both in reverse for a while.

Diets take all the jolly right out of me, so you might want to smile and nod when I start contemplating the pros and cons of carrying out citizen's arrests using deadly force on thoughtless parking lot drivers.

Hey, you might not have felt the need to stop at that ever-so-inconvenient cross walk in front of the library when no one was looking, but when a mother and toddler are trying to get across, you better, by George Michael, stop. Because next time I'm coming at you with a kiddie badge, low blood sugar, and a sharpened piece of bok choy, and you're going down.

You know who you are.

Low blood sugar makes some people sleepy. It's just making me angry.

Just so you know.

He May Be The King of Booger Jokes, But He Can Write Better Than You.

Read this. I laughed out loud.

Obligatory Look Back at 2006 (or an excuse not to write anything original today)

Here at the Thousand Anxiety Wood, we saw several memorable blog moments in 2006. Here are some odd phrases that seemed to make sense at the time:

• Go Angry Filberts!
• I'm taking partial responsibility in successfully fulfilling my job as Dead Weight.
• I only wear shoes that rule. In case you were wondering.
• This is where I always baaa quietly to myself.
• I'm sure it has seen things that I would rather not ever see without a cleansing frontal lobotomy…
• Those shoes are mine, betch.
• Kind of like forced interpretive dance, with only one of us knowing the steps.
• The Bloody Stump
• Dammit, and damn their fascist rules.
• Almighty Father, please stop making jerks. Amen.
• I walked away slowly, so as not to look too delicious...
• Sub-elite level cyclist.
• It’s garbage day, Frozen Pizza Boy.
• I’m a slow reader. But jolly. Okay, I’m not jolly.
• Drew to Dean, whose head is wrapped in a wet scarf: Is that cool?
• Dean: If by "cool," you mean, "awesome."
• Oscar Pereiro trying to answer journalists' questions in English: ("I...[unintelligible]...go faster...[unintelligible garble]...zen I hear...Floyd garble garble...[long pause]...[unintelligible] yallow jersey...sank you").
• My son is a vicious pirate.
  
• Hear me now and believe me later. George Hincapie will win the Tour.
• I have been training for the weekend by wearing an underwire bra for two days in a row.
• "I am about to fall asleep in the most hostile way."
• I apologize for continuing to publish posts that I feel compelled to apologize for.
• My friends, I give you the Visayan Warty Pig. Gaze not too long, lest ye lose all hope of matching such beauty with thine own humble visage.
• I love children. I believe that children are the future. I just don’t like the way they act, sound, or smell.
• "Each pig, dressed in a numbered bib, was carried squealing into the arena for each event."
• Phrase of the week: dysfunctional douche-nozzles
• Viva los oysters el nudo!
• No, don't call me pathetic. How about "rather troubled but dealing with it quite bravely"?
• “The wettest month since (whatever)!” “Flooding in (everywhere with a river)!)”
• But if you played me one of those 60’s happy-sunshine songs right now, I would seriously slug you.
• My oven has a button that says "Stop Time." I haven't tried it yet.
• That said, walking into American Apparel is – well, it’s a cross between Term Project Day at Home Ec class and a look at the first clothing shop to open after a Mad Max-like apocalypse where the only thing left is one sterno-powered sewing machine and a truck full of jersey fabric, hijacked after being mistaken for a load of hooch.
• It’s not quite jersey weather in the Great Northwest. It’s tarp weather.
• The rest of the day, I walked around like somebody trying not to wake a panther sleeping on her head (a panther that has a tendency to be cross when wakened).
• This is Janice “Storm Saxon” McTracy, signing off and heading for the tub.”

Congratulations or whatever.

Sun Bowl: OSU 39, Missouri 38. Whatever. They're still ugly.

In Uglier News...

It turns out that scary new helmets are not an adequate substitute for practice. Or, one can only assume, a hangover cure. Vegas Bowl score: BYU 38 Ducks 8

Know What Else?

My corner on-the-way-to-work coffee kiosk gave me my mocha for free this morning as a Christmas gift. What did your coffee shop give you?

What Did Your Boss Give You?

I bet my present was better.

Chris Funk vs. Stephen Colbert: America Wins

Was it the presence of the Decemberists or Stephen Colbert that brought out Morley Safer, rock critic Anthony DeCurtis, producer Tim Anderson, NY Governor-Elect Elliot Spitzer, Peter Frampton, and, yes, Henry Kissinger to the Colbert Report Wednesday night? You be the judge.

We Celebrate Christmas in December so we Don't Go Crazy From Cold and Lack of Sunlight

Remember summer?

Wasn't it awesome?

Remember when the sun was warm? And it came up before 8:00? And stayed up past 4:30?

Good times.

I have a headache that could be due to TMJ, raging late-teenage hormones (okay, really, really late), the really good wine I drank last night (nah), or lack of sunlight. I choose to blame the angle of the earth.

So let's reminisce...

Drew, happy and filthy. With a beer.

A dragonfly that sat on my walkway for a while and posed for me.

A good reason never to wear this hat again.

Maryhill winery. Almost heaven. Columbia Gorge.

If Heather's stare isn't enough to scare the competition, get Dean. He will maim you with his steely gaze. Hey, you in the national champion jersey. You're going down.

Yeah. Summer. Good times.

Ho. ho. ho.

Another Sign of the End Times

I want a list of all the parents (you know there were some) who bought this before it was pulled.

You Have Been Warned

I have it on good authority (mine) that Dollar Tree has the worst Christmas Muzak in the universe. I can only assume that it is made to chase people out of the store, possibly as a precaution against buying too much broken-in-the-package, useless crap that some bewildered Laotian made ("What sort of people buy tiny plastic, fat, red-suited, white-bearded men with small, poorly wired lights coming out of their faces? Is this some sort of religious symbol?") (yes).

So long, Uncle Rummy.

For those of you without cable, enjoy.

No Wonder.

According to the rules for these things, my porn star name would be Fritzi Laurel Park Drive. I guess I'm safe from falling into that profession...

Mark Your Calendars

Chris Moore's You Suck Tour comes to Powell's: Tuesday, January 23, 2007 07:00 PM

I'm aiming for 5:00. That means I'll get there by 6, and still have to sit in the back.

Ooh, I should remember to sit over on the right side where the signing line begins. I'm guessing that will mean that I'll get trampled by everyone else fighting for a spot in line, and someone will stand on my foot, and then I'll slink out in a quiet huff.

Oh well.

Vindicated

I've always held the opinion that men are delicate blossoms on the flower that is manhood. More medical evidence to prove my case.

Creative Ideas. That's What We Need.

This is another reason why we need to go to Scotland.

The 7 Rules of Christmas Decorating (Deeply Discounted from the Original 12!)

Do not break these rules. Or I will be forced to make snide comments behind your back.

1. Plastic luminarias. Luminarias are cool only because they're incredibly dangerous. Brought to us by those safety experts south of the border, the original design calls for paper bags with candles inside, held down by a little sand. Awesome! Now they are making them out of electric bulbs and plastic. Take the danger away and you have a pretend paper bag. Paper bags are not pretty. And if you live in a region that does not have cacti, it's double silly. Do not ever use these.


2. Half-way-up tree lighting. If you have a humongous tree in your yard, congratulations. Trees are great. But do not try to put lights on it if you cannot reach the top. The lit-up outline of the bottom half of your tree is not attractive.


3. Large inflated decorations. Unless you want your neighborhood to look like a strip mall. These are the worst examples of Wal-Mart globalization and unnecessary gobs of petroleum by-products that will surely end up in the landfill after a half-hearted try at trying to dry them out enough to box them up for next year. Those who manage to box them up will undoubtedly pull out a wad of deadly black mildew next December, so they are just delaying the inevitable. And what is the deal with the one below? What is Santa trying to do? And where are his pants? And why is there a carousel inside an igloo? Wouldn't this scare eskimo children? Steer clear.


4. Colored "icicles." Bizarre.
5. Laura Bush. Do not try to put Laura Bush in your Christmas decorations. It will just bum people out. I feel sorry for her. I bet George never listens to her.


6. Mixing messages. I love nativity scenes. But not if they include Santa, reindeer or snowmen. Let's keep some separation of church and greed.


7. Excess. There is no such thing as an excess of Christmas decorations.

Oooh, Snap! And Crunch!

Drew: you've probably already seen all these because highway gore is "you people's" pastime, but there are some doozies in this collection. No gore visible, although some of the crashes are obviously uber-fatal.

Our Town (Not Exactly Like "Our Town")

We have brilliant arsonists in Vancouver (USA). According to a report in the paper, the allegeds were spotted leaving the restaurant/arson-target-in-question with a gas can in their hands at 3 in the morning. They returned to their SUV, apparently parked nearby, while three police officers watched. The police officers moseyed over and engaged the fellows, who reeked of gasoline, in conversation, during which the fire alarm sounded at the restaurant. Further inspection uncovered the protective tops from flares (the types of flares later found to have started the fire) in their pockets.

The restaurant's sprinkler system put the fire out.

There's an uglier, less amusing side to this story, but I like the dumb parts better.

Aaaaaargh!

Our leader being helpful to English reporters who can't understand why he can't admit to the chaos his administration has caused in Iraq:

"It's bad in Iraq." (long pause) "That help?"

This is Cyclocross.

Dean did some photobloggin, but he failed to include the one photo he took that best encapsulates the sport of cyclocross, which includes biking in mud, running in mud while carrying your bike, hopping in mud (ditto about the bike carrying), pink wigs, and beer. This photo captures everything but the beer, which, I believe, is implied nevertheless.

Sorry, That Had a Lot of Words In It.

Here are some pictures of the same subject instead.

Here's my student visa circa May of 1982. It seems I remember ripping up my driver's license to get a picture for it. Another example of how well prepared I was for this trip.

Here I am with Drew, panicking inside while I wait for my flight to Germany via British Airways. You could say I look white as a sheet, but I always do, so it's hard to tell... My most vivid memory of the flight? The headcheese. Mmmm, British cuisine...

Here is the view outside of my Frankfurt hotel. You probably can't tell from here, but those are naked ladies on the posters in the window. The professionals in the doorway have more clothes on this morning then they did the night before. The schoolchildren are trying to get gum out of the gum machine. At least I thought that was a gum machine. On second thought, I'm not so sure.

Velcome to Der Deutschlandischness

Insomnia isn’t as fun as it sounds.

My nose has been stuffy, so I have been taking Sudafed, which is the only thing that works without putting me to sleep. Just the opposite, in fact.

Unfortunately, my personal Sudafed side affect has been heightened to an extreme degree lately that I have had to give it up.

When I try to sleep after taking Sudafed during the day, my mind will go into an endless loop of whatever was in my head when I went to bed. This used to last a few hours, but this week it has gone on all night.

If you have read this blog before, you might guess that my last thought will inevitably be some sort of worry, real or imagined. Last night I tried to derail the unwanted thoughts by trying to construct a blog post about a time in Germany twenty-four years ago. Turns out a lot of it is gone now. Which is a pity because it was a good story and you would have gotten a kick out of it.

Here’s what I remember.

When I was a sophomore in college, I was invited to participate in a guinea-piggy program of immersion language study through a partnership program between the University of Oregon and Universität Tűbingen (founded in 1477, newbies) in Tubingen, Germany (Deutschland for you Deutsche sprechers).

Since we were the first group of students to be offered this program, it was soon clear that they had not worked out all the kinks yet. First, they did not arrange for travel to and from the program. It was left to the students to transport themselves to a pick-up spot in Stuttgart. This is akin to telling kindergartners to meet you up at the zoo for the class field trip. We scattered. Some spent a month wandering through the Mediterranean before the program started, some came into Germany early to hang out in the beer halls of Munich, and some just went to Berlin to heckle the (pre-glasnost) East Germans. I, being a small and timid creature, made arrangements to land in Frankfurt and be at the Stuttgart rendezvous about three days later. By myself.

Second, it was soon clear that the professors from Tubingen University had expected students with a better grip on the language than those sent to them. Our group all had two solid semesters of first-year German under our belt. That means we were still working out why the hell every noun had to be feminine, masculine, or “neuter.” Actually, I’m still not over that. But still, we could barely say “Ich liebe dich” without giggling.

I remember being completely shocked when, as I was in the Frankfurt airport trying to figure out how to get a rail ticket into town out of a vending machine, a well-meaning Ger-man told me that the machine was “kaput.” You mean they really say “kaput?” The thought would have been hilarious if I hadn’t been so terrified.

Cut to a small, frightened creature trudging through the streets of Frankfurt, looking for Moselstrasse (Mosel Street), where my well-meaning mom had booked a room in the Hotel Ambassador through her local travel agent (sight unseen, oooooobviously). It sounds like a likely place for young international travelers, right?

Turns out it wasn’t.

It was getting dark. I finally asked a nice policeman to direct me to the Ambassador Hotel on Moselstrasse. He gives me a very odd look, asks if I really want to go there. I say yes. He gives me directions and tells me to hurry before it gets dark, because it’s not a very nice neighborhood. Oops. Well, I’m committed. Off I trudge.

It was once a very grand hotel. Not so much by the time I walked in. I was smack dab in the middle of Frankfurt’s red light district. Working girls were lined up on the street and posed in second story windows. Windows without hos had x-rated pictures in them.

For a small, easily frightened girl from Vernonia, Oregon, it was too, too much. But it was dark, I was tired, my duffle weighed a ton, and I was here. I checked in, declined a ride up in the elevator with some leering men, spend my last bit of energy tugging my duffle up the stairs, had a private panic in my room, and went to bed.

In the morning, school children with little school book packs were marching past the naked-lady pictures in the windows on the way to school, and a few of the working girls were now lounging in doorways, wishing them a good day. I snapped a picture and went down to breakfast. Which was delicious.

The rest of the semester was slightly less panicky.

Talk Amongst Yourselves.

This is my day to post, and my time of the day-to-post in which I post, but I've burnt all that time up playing a trivia game and now my mouse hand is frozen stiff, so I am going to go thaw it out.

Bundle up, it's going to get chilly tonight.

By Popular Demand (Well, One Demand)

Here's a sampling of the photo shoot with the clowns. This photographer kicks ass (in spite of her wiggly models). If you need a good photographer, I can hook you up.

and I did it MY WAY

This year, Thanksgiving my way involved no turkey guts, no pot-luck stuffing with hidden raisin mines (ptew!), no bratty kids that I can't legally strike, and no last-minute gravy whisking in the bottom of the roasting pan.

This year, I hosted dessert night with folks who had been stuffed elsewhere, and were able to come up here, put their tootsies up and unwind with treats and booze.

I highly recommend it.

And the leftovers were more fun.

Final Note: the Ducks have disappointed me once again. Story of my life.

Clearance Sale on Weekend News.

Here are the good parts about Saturday:

• Spent too much money on clothes without (a) stepping inside a mall, (b) buying anything stiff or itchy, or (c) trying on a bra.
• Allowed Dean to introduce me to a new chocolate shop in town. So trendy there is no sign. So small we had to wait outside to fit in and there were only three people in the shop. So good you could literally go blind. 150 proof. Like the Everclear of chocolate.
• Went 30 miles out of my way to get my hair fixed by a genius. A savior of small-haired heads. Thank God for Sherry.
• Took Dean and Jenny out for lunch. They are funny. And fun.
• Walked the dogs without getting wet.
• Created a new mascott for a school based on the successful "Buckeye" notion. I just have to find a school to adopt it. Go Angry Filberts!

Here are the bad parts about Saturday:

• I spent too much money (bad piggy).
• I let a sunny day go by without raking leaves (bad piggy).
• I had to look in the dressing room mirror a lot (piggy piggy).
• The Ducks lost. Crap.

Here are the good parts about Sunday:

• Hung around at a doggy gift shop helping a photographer take Christmas-themed pictures of doggies. It was a Humane Society fund raiser.
• Met two bull dogs, two Shih Tzus, one mini poodle, one Leon De something-or-other, one Irishesque Setter, one mutt, one Cocker Spaniel, and a Jack Russell Terrier.
• Got my dogs' pictures taken (couldn't help it).

Here are the bad parts about Sunday:

• I had to drive out to padonkadonkville twice to go to this doggy boutique, and I had Drew's red-light mojo really bad. (Once to pull the morning shift as photographer's assistant, and once more in the afternoon to bring the dogs out to be models.)
• As usual, the Humane Society panicked and booked twice as many volunteer helpers as required, so we all got to stand around a lot.
• The Seahawks lost. Crap.

How was your weekend?

Enter Text Here: I H8 THINKING

So we were at the big game at fabulous new Qwest Field, which puts you as close to the football field as possible by stacking you on top of the approximately 300 rows below you, which gives you a great view of the field, and, incidentally, the blackberry of the party girl sitting directly (and I mean directly) below you.

Party girls are a subgenus of the species Girlus People Readerus, who I am sure you would recognize if I pointed out one to you: holds down a job, but works in order to afford shoes and happy hour, loves whichever soap opera her friends love, and goes to the mall in packs.

The particular party girl I was virtually standing on would often pick up her blackberry and text away with a someone. I'm sure I would have paid more attention to the messages if (a) I wasn't watching a football game, and (b) I had known the content earlier. When I finally looked closely enough to read, this is what her friend had just sent:

"Just bought a Michael Jackson CD - Man in the Mirror gets me every time."

Discuss.

Are You Worried?

Don't worry about whether we got into the game. Seven more tickets later, we got in.

Worry about whether I survived picking up a 200-pound retired roller derby bruiser when she fell from the (really steep) seats above and behind us onto Drew and nearly caused a domino effect all the way to the field (sort of a wave gone horribly, vertically wrong). Somehow she landed on her back, so I had to grab her around the shoulders and heave her back to a standing position like Dracula coming out of his coffin.

She survived with her beer still firmly in hand.

My shoulder is a little sore, but otherwise I am fine. I fully expected it to happen. I always sit behind the drunkest, foulest-mouthed houligan in the stadium. Who knew this time it would be a 50-year-old woman from St. Louis?

The game was the best kind: close but with a happy ending.

Maurice Morris gets no respect.

Tidbits About the Weekend Adventure in Seattle Will Be Trickling In.

I'll just leave you with this thought: what's it like to be brunching away at McCormick & Schmick's in Seattle-town on November 12, 2006, an hour before the big game, look down at your tickets, purchased with the best intentions by a dear friend some time ago and see this: "October 22, 2006. Seattle Seahawks vs. Minnesota Vikings. 1:00 p.m."?

It didn't turn out as grimly as you might assume. Although I thought our friend might have a stroke when we helpfully pointed it out.

More excitement later.

OMG, The Circle of Life Gets Really Close Sometimes.

I'm making cookies (medicinal). A tiny birdy flies into the big window and flops, stunned, to the patio. A hawk swoops down and grabs the tiny bird, and holds on to it with its scary but businesslike talons until it stops fighting. The hawk flies away with its dinner.

Deadly. And cool. Icy cool.

I Would Rub My Weekend Plans in your Face, but That Would Be Premature.

We have tickets to the Seahawks game on Sunday. The weather for Sunday is expected to be, to use a meteorological term, hideous. Cold rain with cold wind. In a "semi-open" stadium (Great idea, Qwest Field! In Seattle!)

We also have tickets to see some exhibition of dead people with no skin on. More on that later.

Off we go to the Only Place On Earth Wetter Than Here.

More wisdom later.

News You Can Muse

Just wanted you to know that my Comcast home page has an important link to a video regarding a python that ate a "gator" and then, apparently, exploded. Haven't watched it. I think the headline pretty much covers it.

Just wanted to update you on the dangers of eating live alligators.

P.S.: Santorum goes down!

Okay, This Has Been Fun. Now Go To Work.

It's been a fun week here in the TAW. I would have posted earlier, but I usually post on Drew's work shifts (every third day) when I've got the place to myself, but so far, it has been over two weeks, and he hasn't been to work yet.

Drew's vertigo is sticking to him like a smirk on Bush. I would feel more empathy if he at least looked sick. Or barfed once in a while, even if it was just for my benefit.

Unfortunately, it is one of those silent non-killers that just makes him feel like somebody blindfolded him and made him twirl around. It can be mildly entertaining at times, but those times are too far apart to make it worth my while.

Meanwhile, this is one of the things that happened:

We had a bird riot in our back yard yesterday when the rain storm pulled all the leaves off the grape vines, and the little neighborhood birds (don't ask me which kinds - that part of my education has been completely neglected) realized that there were grapes hanging underneath. It was a full-blown grape-pulling-off and hopping-around and snarfing-away orgy for a couple hours, until one doofus (you know the type), after overimbibing in overripe grapes flew directly into the picture window and turned instantly into a dead bird.

This put such a damper on the festivities that the rest of the birds just left with those bogus excuses that you always get when a party starts circling the drain.

Even after we disposed of the corpse, the birds refused to come back and finish the grapes. They had obviously learned their lesson about the dangers of grape eating and flying (unlike we humans), and swore off them for good.

The grapes are still bird free today. Weird.

It has rained two and a half inches today alone, probably the same yesterday and tomorrow. There is flooding here and there, but we live on a hill. No worries. Well, no flooding worries.

More wisdom later.