TV as Entertainment

Skeet Ulrich, wondering if the fallout has affected everyone's brains. And if the TV audience is buying any of this.

I know it's a wild idea, but I do like to use TV as entertainment, but it takes some work from the viewer to keep it interesting. I like to interact with the "action" on the screen, helpfully pointing out instances where I notice room for improvement.

Drew enjoys this, as long as I don't do it, you know, aloud. So television viewing can be fun and challenging chez me.

24 is particularly juicy pickings this season, as the plot is silly, the dialog varies from patriotically wooden to expositorily unctuous, and acting is not strictly enforced. But be assured that everybody is really upset. And they're under the gun. And the perimeter is secured. Only not that secure, because "CTU" (the hopefully fictional "Counter Terrorism Unit" Jack Bauer works for) is the least competent agency since the Bush administration.

Also fun viewing (although not in the classic, ha-ha sense) is Jericho, about a small Kansas town (with suspiciously Southern California views) getting kicked around after the CTU helpers from 24 really eff up, and the terrorists nuke all the nice places to live. There seems to be only one family in town who are of average intelligence. The rest are either dumb-asses, dumb-ass and power-hungry, or just intent on milling around like sheep in the town square. There is one sheriff's deputy that I am pretty sure is a leftover Muppet. The only other exception is the mystery guy, Hawkins, played by Lennie James, who is probably a counter-terrorist good guy, but in possession of his own personal nuke, so we're keeping an eye on him.

Last night's episode ended with a looming battle with the neighboring town of New Bern, as national order seems to have devolved into a patchwork of warring city-states. Skeet Ulrich was last seen passing out weapons, conveniently offered by Lennie "Hawkins" James, to all comers over 16. I, personally, would have required an oath. It would have gone something like this:

I, state your name, pledge to the town of Jericho that I will fight to the death as long as the viewers don't get too attached to me, in which case I will fight until I get a sexy-looking cut on my face, and that I promise to be cuter than the New Bern residents so the viewers know who to root for.
One town, under CBS, in sweeps week, with access to the town salt mine for all.

And we must always end each episode with a rousing TURTELTAUB! as Jon Turteltaub's name appears, huge, for about a minute, on the screen.

What Gives?

I hereby present the first installment in my highly anticipated new series, "What Gives?" in which I ask the thought provoking, yet highly entertaining question, "What Gives?"

• What gives, when you get some paint scraped off your bumper, the dealership tells you it will cost you $681 to fix?
• What gives, when God makes dogs so cute and useful, and then loads them with skunk juice in what the vet calls their "anal glands," but must actually be God's Sense of Humor Bags, and then makes said bags highly susceptible to plugging and/or leaking?
• What gives, whenever you answer the phone with a humorous "yellow" or "how's it hanging," that the person on the other line is there to tell you some ghastly bad news about somebody's health and/or jail residence status?
• What gives, whenever you run out of wine, that your blog entries become dark and brooding?
• Ha Ha!
• What Gives?

So Tired. Of Kids.

Her name is Annie. Yes, you can pet her. No, she doesn't want you to squeeze her nose. She likes it better if you pet in this direction. She's a smooth collie. She's a girl. She's seven years old. No, she's not up for adoption, she's here to meet you. You can read a book to her if you like. Thanks for stopping by.

Her name is Annie. Yes, you can pet her. No, she doesn't want you to ride her. She likes it better if you pet in this direction. She's a smooth collie. She's a girl. She's seven years old. No, she's not up for adoption, she's here to meet you. You can read a book to her if you like. Okay. Thanks for stopping by.

Her name is Annie. Yes, you can pet her. No, she doesn't want you to put your hands in her mouth. She likes it better if you pet in this direction. She's a smooth collie. She's a girl. She's seven years old. No, she's not up for adoption, she's here to meet you. You can read a book to her if you like. Thanks for stopping by.

Her name is Annie. Yes, you can pet her. No, she doesn't like it when you pull her tail. She likes it better if you pet in this direction. She's a smooth collie. She's a girl. She's seven years old. No, she's not up for adoption, she's here to meet you. You can read a book to her if you like. Thanks for stopping by.

Annie did get tired of kids, but it took nearly the whole four hours. It took me less time.

No Big Whoop

Interviews are no big thing. Just a bunch of people sitting around judging you.

If they ask you what your biggest weakness is, you could tell them: basketball.

UPDATE: I have a better idea. Say your weakness is that you're bad at poker. Non-gamblers will assume you are a bad bluffer, thus an honest type. Gamblers will want you on the job so they can invite a fresh patsy to their Thursday night card game. Win-win.

TGIF, People

Notes on the week behind and the weekend ahead:

• Saturday: I was able to follow the spring opener of the Portland Timbers as it happened, because Dean was on hand to text me updates. Isn't he the cutest?
• Sunday: Painting day. A camera was hung in the tree next to the bear. It's a ting-tangle of a good idea because it forces you to make up a story about how it got there, but all in all, not my best work. When/if I decide it's done, I'll post it.
• Monday: I missed Dancing with the Stars. I hope Apolo did well.
• 24 is getting silly. er.
• I couldn't make it through Heroes. Too silly.
• Tuesday: I follow the teachings of doggy guru Cesar Millan. This means that my dogs walk to the park in a beeline, without stopping to sniff or dawdle. Cesar calls this "migrating mode," and its important for the dogs to learn so everybody gets their exercise without jerking me around. Once we get to the park, and I give them the "all clear," its sniffy-sniffy all you like. I went on a two-park circuit Tuesday morning. Annie didn't get around to pooing in the first park. So we are in "migrating mode," hoofing it to Park Number Two, and about twenty yards away, Annie's back starts to get that telltale hump, her tail goes up, and she's trying to hold it, but she can't, and she's walking all humped over, and finally poops right there. What, you can't make it another 20 yards? You lousy dog. Hilarious, but lousy.
• Drew's idea of a hootenanny of a birthday: a present involving having fun (usually involving two wheels), lasagna and cheesecake. That's it. This year he got two out of three. He got the lasagna and cheesecake, but his present involved me having fun (which often involves two feet). In other words, new hiking boots. But they're doozies. I'm hoping he will enjoy hiking more if his feet don't hurt so much.
• Thursday: before I went into work I stopped by the county building to pick up some 4-part carbonless forms that the county requires to be filled out with every deed recorded in the county. Yes. Four-part carbonless forms in this day and age of copiers and scanners. Bizarre. That wasn't very entertaining, was it? Welcome to my work world.
• Thursday evening I stopped in at the Humane Society to pick up some supplies for Annie's therapy-dog adventures on Saturday. They keep moving the offices around in there, like if they just put the desks in the right locations, the building will magically get bigger and less awful. Poor things. That building's the ugliest piece of crap, and they're so poor compared to the Portland Humane Society. Not fair. I would give them money if I had it.
• Friday: I score a Jonathan Lethem and an Ian Rankin at the library.
• Tomorrow: Annie and I go to the local Home & Garden Show, where the Humane Society of Southwest Washington will have a booth set up. Annie will be available for kids to read to her. It's some program where they allow kids to read to dogs, because dogs won't correct them or make fun of their poor reading skills. But I certainly will.
• See you there. Bring some Dr. Seuss.

It's April 25th!

Happy Birthday to Drew

Happy Birthday to Drew

Happy Birthday to Droooooooooo

Happy Birthday to Drew.

Public Service Announcement

Randy Neves joined the KGW (Channel 8 Portland) news team in 2000, at which time they took this publicity photo of him.



Since then, he has put in some serious hours in expanding his hipness quotient. Unfortunately, the KGW news team has neglected to update his publicity photo. So in the interest of public service, I did my best with the tools at my disposal (a printer/scanner, a pencil and ten minutes) to produce this updated photo.



You're welcome, Randy. And citizens of Portland.

More Music for the Discerning Ear

Admit it. You Want Mr. Spock.

Sir Gilbert-and-Sullivan-A-Lot

Found this through Boing Boing. Thank you, crazy people with too much time on your hands!

Ducks Are Altruistic

Curling!

Get Swept Up in the Fun!

Notes from a piglet on a Thursday

• This week it's sunny on Thursday and Friday. Only. The days that I have to work.


• Last week it was sunny on Thursday and Friday. Only. The days...well, you know.


• Listening to Mika. Very Freddy Mercury on the dance floor. Maybe with a little "Electric Company" and Carrot Top thrown in.


• Although no one should ever use the word "lollipop" in a song again, ever.


• That means you, Mika. If that is your real name.


• Scotty is waiting for me to finish so I can pay attention to him some more.

• 

Damn Bear Update

The bear survives, but most of his tree is gone. I'm not sure where to go from here. It will either be a major breakthrough, or a pathetic failure.

Stay tuned.

Or not.

To Save The Bear or To Paint Over the Bear and Cry, That's the Question

The bear on my easel is killing me. It's looking at me, daring me to make it look less like a middle school art project, but I don't know how.

I hate that damn bear.

Summing Up

Been away from the computer this week. I will start at the beginning. No. I will sum up.

• Guilty pleasure confession: Dancing with the Stars. Apolo Anton Ohno is on this season, and he's cute as a meerkat. I just wish I could shave that 90's soul patch off of him.


• Kurt Vonnegut. He had such a dark opinion of his fellow humans, but revealed it with such light-hearted, jaunty language and imaginative, off-beat stories that just made me feel all fuzzy that somebody like that could be alive on this planet. But now he's not. Bummer. (BTW, that sentence is a good indication of why nobody pays me for my writing.)


• Not-so-guilty pleasure confession: This American Life on Showtime. I like it, but not as much as the radio version. There, I said it.


• Okay, which household in America has this combination of tickets under its roof: Rush (whose website seems to be beset by bad weather), Chris Isaak, The Decemberists, and NPR's Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me? Why, ours, of course. Hey, I had nothing to do with the Rush tickets. In fact, Drew had to find a "boyfriend" to go with him. I suppose he could have looked for a girl to go with him, but girls hate Rush. Oh, and mostly everybody else. But I do like Chris Isaak. I know. Guilty pleasure category again. However, nobody should feel guilty about The Decemberists or Wait, Wait. Unless you're some kind of Smug Elitist Hater.


• Mom and Dad are trying to find a house to buy in Longview while living in Eugene. Not easy. Especially when you're looking for the perfect house. But who wants a non-perfect house? Nobody. So if you know of a perfect house in Longview, give us a jingle. I'll be glad to have them closer, and Drew will be glad not to have to drive the Grass Seed Corridor of Death in spring and summer (gesundheit).


• Poor Dean is drowning in retail hell this weekend. Pity him until his paycheck comes.


• I, personally, am barely keeping my head above water (or ink - ha!) in the heart of a paper storm at work. I see some blue sky ahead, and then another storm gathers on the horizon. The dull ache of job security. With any luck, I'll get to paint this weekend.


• Hey, check Dean's blog for a dead brilliant photo of one of his team mates.


• Cheers.

Happy NonseculEaster!

Enjoy it with your peeps.

You Must Watch.

Because I said so.

More Pictures to Look At

Since I spent today holed up in the right side of my brain, I no words got, so here are some pictures from our trip up the Gorge this weekend.

We sampled some local art.

This is Drew trying to look like his back, knees, ankles and feet don't hurt. Sissy.

This is a piglet enjoying a lovely 7-mile stroll (or Death March, if you ask Drew) along the Old Columbia River Highway. No cars. It's awesome.

Here is the view from our window at Skamania Lodge, where we stayed Sunday night (thanks, Boss!). The Sunday brunch there is one of those ones where you get to eat everything you would normally avoid, either because of cost or calories, then you eat more of it. Then you have dessert. Ridiculous. I'd do it again in a minute.

Some Pictures to Look At

I felt the need to paint cranes after listening to the Decemberists' "The Crane Wife" too many times. Not my best work, but they are kind of birdy.

Watercolor is more and more frightening to me the more I work in oils. Here's a recent attempt.

Fort Rock from a trip we took last June when the wildflowers were blooming. Or wildflower.

This is a nutria. He ended up looking like The Lorax. That's okay with me.

Get That Old Bat Some Tequila - STAT!

I preface this post with a reminder that the fictional character I most identify with is a small, anxious, stuttering, ever-out-gunned piglet. My nickname in high school (okay, one of my nicknames) was Mouse. I have trouble looking people in the eye. I have trouble calling people on the phone. I tend to stay home rather than court trouble by, you know, being present.

With that in mind, imagine the fortitude it has taken for me to stay out from under the covers today after an old lady attacked me on a nature trail. I know!

Here's the setting:

The Salmon Creek Trail is a wide, paved trail through a wetlands area. The trail is probably wider than some two-lane roads I remember traveling on by bus in Germany once, but it would make a dandy one-land road with turnouts. That's how wide the trail is.

Normally, during the time it takes Scotty and me to walk its three-mile length, I will have said "good morning" to a dozen people. Over the three miles it takes to reach the end and turn around. In other words, not a crowded trail.

With this in mind, I have to say that I learned years ago that you teach your dog to walk at your side - your left side - and not to cross over. This is how all dogs are taught if they are to compete, either in the conformation ring or in obedience trials. Although my dogs don't compete for anything other than attention, it has practical uses. It keeps dogs out of traffic when walking on the road (on the left-hand side, as safety rules require), and it keeps your right hand free for other stuff.

This means I am often found on the left side of the path, letting Scotty sniff (as he would never think of crossing over to the right side of my body).

Why am I explaining this to you? Because I got yelled at for walking on the left side of the road. The very wide road.

Here's how it went down:

I was approaching a couple, probably in their sixties. I was on the left side of the road, letting Scotty sniff. I noticed they were sticking to their right side of the road, which is unusual. Usually, folks scooch over a little. You know, so we don't collide on the one side of the very wide road.

Since they didn't, I stepped off the path entirely. But it was too late. This woman had already loaded her gun a long time ago, and it was on a hair trigger. "Why don't you stay over on the right, instead of making an old lady go around you!" (I guess she was the old lady in question, although she was in her gym shoes, out for a hike at the time.)

I said, "I thought I was the one getting out of your way."

She hollered something like, "Get over to the right where you belong!"

I said, "Wow."

This is an out-and-back trail, so I knew we were bound to meet again. Even though I considered explaining to her about the dog, or asking her if she was always like this, I decided against it. People like that rarely ever give you any satisfyingly happy ending. Instead, when I saw her coming, I just made a point of moving over to the right for her. I even tried to make eye contact and smile, but she was having none of it. Neither was her husband, either out of shared outrage, or embarrassment, I couldn't tell.

A less pigletty person would be better at shaking something like this off. I tried at first to laugh and move on, as it was such a bizarre thing for someone to get so worked up about.

Instead, I find myself wondering about her. What's she like to live with? What does she do when she has to walk by loose dogs? Skateboarders? Unruly children? Her life must be a constant stream of outrage. How does she do it? Or is her umbrage all saved up for left-hand-walkers? Could be.

I also find myself thinking about retraining my dog to walk on the right side. This is actually the second time I've been yelled at for walking on the left. The last one was a bicyclist last summer, on the same trail, who didn't even need to worry about where I was at all (wide road, remember?).

You tell me. Should I teach a dumb dog a new trick (ambidextrousness) and keep clear of further elder-abuse (abuse of me by elders), or walk how I damn well please on the very wide trail?

As I Suspected

Here's a blog written by a Chinese American living in Arizona, who does the same thing for Chinese characters being misused by English speakers as engrish.com does for the other way around-like.

He finds lots of tattoos that don't mean what the wearer had hoped.

Hah!

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.