Okay, I love the cats.
But!
Stepping in extra fresh rabbit guts at 3:30 in the morning is disgusting. Even with shoes on. Even if I managed to catch myself before I re-enacted a late night version of the old banana peel routine.
Not like there's any revenge to had. What, like I'm going to trick Percy into walking on spaghetti sauce?
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Friday, June 17, 2005
Schedule
9:40 AM -- Woke up to the sounds of a catfight. Classic caterwauling right under my window. This after four and a half hours of sleep.
9:42 AM -- Stumbled outside and broke up the fight with Uncertain Doom, the lanky, curious tabby who lives across the street and is dumb enough to keep accosting Percy, a Quebecoise trapped in a cat's body.
10:00 AM -- Made coffee. Guzzled coffee. Nearly choked when I stepped in semi-fresh hairball. Told myself how much I love living with cats.
10:23 AM -- Third cup of coffee. Bad idea, that. Especially when in traffic. Drove with my middle finger out the window. If I'm not careful, it'll get shot off one of these days.
11:30 AM -- Remembered dream I was having right before the catfight intruded. Something that might have been sexual involving Leonardo diCaprio and fairies. Felt dirty, sought shower, which of course wasn't to be found in an office building. Had an extra long cigarette break instead, and a fourth cup of coffee.
12:45 PM -- Lunch. The waiter looked like young Donald Sutherland and sounded like Al Pacino with a Russian accent. Had more coffee and a discussion about Batman's ethics. The waiter's volunteered input: "Batman is dubious hero. Is why I like him. You see new movie?"
2:12 PM -- Overheard the office manager tell Todd, the new guy, that "two wrongs don't make a right." Was glad I'm a temp and I don't have to hear this woman think outside the box, like she did last week when she told Debra, the accountant, to "start the count at the start and end it at the end." Right. Moving on.
3:18 PM -- Phonecall from married friend about get-together this weekend. Did I get his e-mail? Are we getting together at 4 or 4:30? Is "Bob" coming? Didn't correct his assumption that "Bob" and I are involved.
3:52 - 6: 04 PM -- Napped.
6:15 PM -- "Bob" showed up. It's the only way anyone gets a hold of him.
"You look good," he said as he picked up Grizelda, the other cat.
My reply? "I haven't showered in two days."
Which isn't true. It only felt like I hadn't done so.
6:20 - 7:13 PM -- Caught up with neglected blog reads. Was intrigued by the amount of serious things people talk about and contemplated why I avoid doing so. Decided the conclusion is too simple to warrant further thought.
7:37 PM -- Started writing this. Remembered dream I had while napping: vampires invaded the city and I ended up assasinating their leader, Erik Estrada, who was only named that but looked nothing like the real Erik Estrada.
8:10 PM and beyond -- Who knows? "Bob" will probably want to go see Batman Begins again, which is fine because I don't have anything more pressing going on. Or maybe not. Maybe we'll go have that Indian food we kept talking about.
And that concludes that. Should the miraculous occur, and I end up finding a briefcase full of ten million pounds sterling, I'll write my next post from Tibet, where I will have gone to study martial arts with a secretive order of monk-like ninjas.
9:42 AM -- Stumbled outside and broke up the fight with Uncertain Doom, the lanky, curious tabby who lives across the street and is dumb enough to keep accosting Percy, a Quebecoise trapped in a cat's body.
10:00 AM -- Made coffee. Guzzled coffee. Nearly choked when I stepped in semi-fresh hairball. Told myself how much I love living with cats.
10:23 AM -- Third cup of coffee. Bad idea, that. Especially when in traffic. Drove with my middle finger out the window. If I'm not careful, it'll get shot off one of these days.
11:30 AM -- Remembered dream I was having right before the catfight intruded. Something that might have been sexual involving Leonardo diCaprio and fairies. Felt dirty, sought shower, which of course wasn't to be found in an office building. Had an extra long cigarette break instead, and a fourth cup of coffee.
12:45 PM -- Lunch. The waiter looked like young Donald Sutherland and sounded like Al Pacino with a Russian accent. Had more coffee and a discussion about Batman's ethics. The waiter's volunteered input: "Batman is dubious hero. Is why I like him. You see new movie?"
2:12 PM -- Overheard the office manager tell Todd, the new guy, that "two wrongs don't make a right." Was glad I'm a temp and I don't have to hear this woman think outside the box, like she did last week when she told Debra, the accountant, to "start the count at the start and end it at the end." Right. Moving on.
3:18 PM -- Phonecall from married friend about get-together this weekend. Did I get his e-mail? Are we getting together at 4 or 4:30? Is "Bob" coming? Didn't correct his assumption that "Bob" and I are involved.
3:52 - 6: 04 PM -- Napped.
6:15 PM -- "Bob" showed up. It's the only way anyone gets a hold of him.
"You look good," he said as he picked up Grizelda, the other cat.
My reply? "I haven't showered in two days."
Which isn't true. It only felt like I hadn't done so.
6:20 - 7:13 PM -- Caught up with neglected blog reads. Was intrigued by the amount of serious things people talk about and contemplated why I avoid doing so. Decided the conclusion is too simple to warrant further thought.
7:37 PM -- Started writing this. Remembered dream I had while napping: vampires invaded the city and I ended up assasinating their leader, Erik Estrada, who was only named that but looked nothing like the real Erik Estrada.
8:10 PM and beyond -- Who knows? "Bob" will probably want to go see Batman Begins again, which is fine because I don't have anything more pressing going on. Or maybe not. Maybe we'll go have that Indian food we kept talking about.
And that concludes that. Should the miraculous occur, and I end up finding a briefcase full of ten million pounds sterling, I'll write my next post from Tibet, where I will have gone to study martial arts with a secretive order of monk-like ninjas.
Sleepless
It would be insomnia, except it only happens when warm weather rolls around. It's past three bloody AM. I have run out of things to organize, wine to drink, books to read, asanas to breathe through. Summer is that wonderful time of year when my body rebels against normal sleep patterns. Every bloody, stinking June, it starts: nights spent awake, at least three of them a week.
The good part is that I read a lot more. The bad part is that I end up reading ambitious rubbish. Such as The Scar, by China Mieville, the plot of which doesn't pick up until page 276 only to conclude some 276 pages later in a stupefying, unsatisfactory manner.
Another good part is that I attempt to be more organized. The downside is that everything ends up being color coded, labeled, indexed or rearranged. Let me say this: wandering into Walgreens at 4AM in search of an orange binder (to go with the orange paper clips and post-its, which will be used to mark and store all my insomnia induced concoctations, such as apple-garlic sandwiches) is an underrated experience. Especially since I detest color coding.
But I do it anyway. Maybe it's a curse. That would be the romantic perspective. The truth is that I feel useless without papers to write, so I stay awake and try to pretend I do useful things. And no matter how useful those things may be, when they're performed in the dead of night as a form of escapism, they're just baggage. And I can't stop it from accumulating. All I do is catalogue it.
Ah, June, you always make a librarian of me.
The good part is that I read a lot more. The bad part is that I end up reading ambitious rubbish. Such as The Scar, by China Mieville, the plot of which doesn't pick up until page 276 only to conclude some 276 pages later in a stupefying, unsatisfactory manner.
Another good part is that I attempt to be more organized. The downside is that everything ends up being color coded, labeled, indexed or rearranged. Let me say this: wandering into Walgreens at 4AM in search of an orange binder (to go with the orange paper clips and post-its, which will be used to mark and store all my insomnia induced concoctations, such as apple-garlic sandwiches) is an underrated experience. Especially since I detest color coding.
But I do it anyway. Maybe it's a curse. That would be the romantic perspective. The truth is that I feel useless without papers to write, so I stay awake and try to pretend I do useful things. And no matter how useful those things may be, when they're performed in the dead of night as a form of escapism, they're just baggage. And I can't stop it from accumulating. All I do is catalogue it.
Ah, June, you always make a librarian of me.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Time Warp
How long has it been? Over a month, or somesuch, and thinking about posting doesn't count.
Unless you're in that Timothy Hutton movie and your thoughts become scary books that only Stephen King would write, which means they're not very scary after all, just moderately entertaining, and that only if you've got four hours until your connecting flight and the Schipol cafe and bar is totally free of Japanese businessmen who want to buy you drinks at nine o'clock in the stinking morning.
Yes, Mr. Nakamura, I still have your card after all this time. If I ever make it to Osaka, I'll be sure to look you up, which will probably be a breach of all kinds of etiquette. I suppose I could e-mail you, but that would be a pitiful attempt to recycle a moment only capable of surviving in its original context. Beyond your Cosmopolitan, my coffee and the jet lag all around us like haze in LA traffic, there isn't anything left to say.
Except, "Huh, I've kinda missed this."
Unless you're in that Timothy Hutton movie and your thoughts become scary books that only Stephen King would write, which means they're not very scary after all, just moderately entertaining, and that only if you've got four hours until your connecting flight and the Schipol cafe and bar is totally free of Japanese businessmen who want to buy you drinks at nine o'clock in the stinking morning.
Yes, Mr. Nakamura, I still have your card after all this time. If I ever make it to Osaka, I'll be sure to look you up, which will probably be a breach of all kinds of etiquette. I suppose I could e-mail you, but that would be a pitiful attempt to recycle a moment only capable of surviving in its original context. Beyond your Cosmopolitan, my coffee and the jet lag all around us like haze in LA traffic, there isn't anything left to say.
Except, "Huh, I've kinda missed this."
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Pope Mail #19
To: benedictxvi@vatican.va
Dear Pope,
How about signing up with Rent-A-German?
Think of all the people whose lives you would brighten.
Sincerely,
Z
PS: 19/1000
Dear Pope,
How about signing up with Rent-A-German?
Think of all the people whose lives you would brighten.
Sincerely,
Z
PS: 19/1000
Public Service Announcement
Until I'm finished with all the damn papers I have to write, there will be no further posts. Activity will resume as usual on May 11, or thereabouts.
Barring, of course, acts of god, such as a light descending out of the sky and bathing my desk with a warm glow while an awesome voice declaims, "Arise, Z, my child, and post on thine blog for thine papers are being composed by a hundred angels with a hundred typewriters, and thou needst not write them."
And that's a lot better than a hundred chimps pounding out Shakespeare, so I reserve the right to change my mind.
Barring, of course, acts of god, such as a light descending out of the sky and bathing my desk with a warm glow while an awesome voice declaims, "Arise, Z, my child, and post on thine blog for thine papers are being composed by a hundred angels with a hundred typewriters, and thou needst not write them."
And that's a lot better than a hundred chimps pounding out Shakespeare, so I reserve the right to change my mind.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Chimera Watch
Unfortunately I don't mean the TVR variety (hello there, you sexy thing... rrrr).
No, I mean the irony of killing them if they become too much like us. JD or not, Mr. Greely seems a little on the fuzzy side.
This concludes the (semi) serious portion of the blog.
No, I mean the irony of killing them if they become too much like us. JD or not, Mr. Greely seems a little on the fuzzy side.
This concludes the (semi) serious portion of the blog.
Pope Mail # 9
Dear Pope:
This feels a lot like I've stolen your lawn gnome and am now photographing it in front of various international landmarks, then sending you the pictures, except you don't have a chatty, overweight wife to gasp at the one where the lawn gnome looks like it's mooning you and then tell all the neighbors that some person stole your lawn gnome and is posing it rudely in front of the Pyramids.
Just me?
Sincerely,
Z
P.S. 9/1000
This feels a lot like I've stolen your lawn gnome and am now photographing it in front of various international landmarks, then sending you the pictures, except you don't have a chatty, overweight wife to gasp at the one where the lawn gnome looks like it's mooning you and then tell all the neighbors that some person stole your lawn gnome and is posing it rudely in front of the Pyramids.
Just me?
Sincerely,
Z
P.S. 9/1000
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Fun Fact
Evidently, the brain activity of a baby being circumcised is equivalent to that of a man being shot.
Hmm... I dunno. Could be.
I do know that out of a class of fourteen people only three actually stayed to watch the entire circumcision being performed. And that baby was purple from screaming.
Someone remind me why I'm doing a paper on this.
Hmm... I dunno. Could be.
I do know that out of a class of fourteen people only three actually stayed to watch the entire circumcision being performed. And that baby was purple from screaming.
Someone remind me why I'm doing a paper on this.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Perspective
Is Dr. Bob any worse than the ancient history professor who would periodically declaim things in Spanish?
The religious studies professor would would mumble and drone about 3/5 of every sentence, then yell (no, I mean YELL) out the remaining 2/5? Who'd do THIS even outside of LECTURE?
The math professor who had seniors write out the lesson content on the board (for extra credit), then she'd sit there and read Cosmo or chat with whoever her pet students were?
The English Lit professor who had no idea who wrote The Goblin Market? Or even what it was? And who pretended that wasn't the case later in the semester?
All those sorry damn professors who delight in using stupid phrases like "we religious historians", or "we in anthropology", or "we writers"?
Oh, wait. Bob does say "we writers" sometimes. Meaning himself. Whose publishing credits are suggestively absent from a comprehensive search. Yet who claims to have been "a mainstay in the cultivation of young [...] writers for some 20 years." Is this guy worse than all the others?
Yes. He's still present tense.
The religious studies professor would would mumble and drone about 3/5 of every sentence, then yell (no, I mean YELL) out the remaining 2/5? Who'd do THIS even outside of LECTURE?
The math professor who had seniors write out the lesson content on the board (for extra credit), then she'd sit there and read Cosmo or chat with whoever her pet students were?
The English Lit professor who had no idea who wrote The Goblin Market? Or even what it was? And who pretended that wasn't the case later in the semester?
All those sorry damn professors who delight in using stupid phrases like "we religious historians", or "we in anthropology", or "we writers"?
Oh, wait. Bob does say "we writers" sometimes. Meaning himself. Whose publishing credits are suggestively absent from a comprehensive search. Yet who claims to have been "a mainstay in the cultivation of young [...] writers for some 20 years." Is this guy worse than all the others?
Yes. He's still present tense.
Monday, April 25, 2005
I'm Going To Kill You
Yes, you, Dr. Bob.
I'm going to shoot vodka up your veins. Then I'm going to skewer you and roast you over a slow fire. And while that's going on, I'm going to pay Ben Stein to read The Stand out loud, making sure that Ben stops every three sentences to ask you if you see where things are going.
And I'll laugh. Maniacally.
Take that, Dr. Bob, you ridiculous fraud. Oh, and by the way, you pathetic windbag. Remember that paper you lauded as the very soul of diligence? The very spirit of excellence? A few hours of work, unrevised.
I laugh and point. That is all.
I'm going to shoot vodka up your veins. Then I'm going to skewer you and roast you over a slow fire. And while that's going on, I'm going to pay Ben Stein to read The Stand out loud, making sure that Ben stops every three sentences to ask you if you see where things are going.
And I'll laugh. Maniacally.
Take that, Dr. Bob, you ridiculous fraud. Oh, and by the way, you pathetic windbag. Remember that paper you lauded as the very soul of diligence? The very spirit of excellence? A few hours of work, unrevised.
I laugh and point. That is all.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Pope Mail #2
Pope Mail #1
Dear Pope:
I didn't know whether I should surf for internet porn or mail you, but being that I don't surf for internet porn, I decided to drop you a line.
Congratulations on being chosen, even though you scare me.
Sincerely,
Z
P.S.: 1/1000
Thus concludes my first epistle to the Pontiff. The road toward improving my karma shall be a long one indeed.
I didn't know whether I should surf for internet porn or mail you, but being that I don't surf for internet porn, I decided to drop you a line.
Congratulations on being chosen, even though you scare me.
Sincerely,
Z
P.S.: 1/1000
Thus concludes my first epistle to the Pontiff. The road toward improving my karma shall be a long one indeed.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Pope Mail?
Now that's exciting. The former Cardinal Ratzinger is proving just how open minded he is by introducing Pope Mail.
benedictxvi@vatican.va
I wonder if sending him 1000 e-mails is anything like folding 1000 paper cranes.
benedictxvi@vatican.va
I wonder if sending him 1000 e-mails is anything like folding 1000 paper cranes.
On The Street
I ran into my old homeless boyfriend today.
He's still homeless. Still looks like a filthy Hallmark Jesus. Still thinks I should have black hair.
He doesn't have anyone to drive him around but didn't want to me give him a ride either.
"Come back when you're thirty," he said.
Hah. That number will always go up. Eight years ago, he said twenty five. When I'm thirty, he'll say forty.
He's the sanest bloke I ever met.
He's still homeless. Still looks like a filthy Hallmark Jesus. Still thinks I should have black hair.
He doesn't have anyone to drive him around but didn't want to me give him a ride either.
"Come back when you're thirty," he said.
Hah. That number will always go up. Eight years ago, he said twenty five. When I'm thirty, he'll say forty.
He's the sanest bloke I ever met.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Interpret This
There's this radio show where, in addition to music, there's also a dream interpreter, and boy do I use the term loosely, who interprets the dreams of various callers. It might have started as a gimmick, it might not. That's not the point. The point is that no matter what kind of touchy-feely junk the interpreter spouts, people buy it.
This could say that yes, the interpreter knows how to actually interpret dreams. Or it could say that because the interpreter speaks in such crass generalities, like "where in your life do you feel overwhelmed?", "where in your life are you stretching too thin?" and "it might be that you're not spending enough time on yourself," there's going to be a match no matter what. It seems that a lot of people are hell bent on dicarding self examination in favor of gimmicky platitudes fed to them by some hack on the radio.
This interpreter means well. I should say that. But I'll also say the interpreter has made it as far as the interpreter has using the time honored skill of bullshiting. I should know. I used to be a psychic phone friend not once, but twice. A damn good one, before my stupid conscience kicked in.
And now the interpreter, with nothing but spare credentials and a lot of nebuspeak (what candidates do in election years), has managed to teach a course, albeit at a community college (yeah, I'm a snob), on lucid dreaming.
It looks like I'm wasting resources on higher education after all.
This could say that yes, the interpreter knows how to actually interpret dreams. Or it could say that because the interpreter speaks in such crass generalities, like "where in your life do you feel overwhelmed?", "where in your life are you stretching too thin?" and "it might be that you're not spending enough time on yourself," there's going to be a match no matter what. It seems that a lot of people are hell bent on dicarding self examination in favor of gimmicky platitudes fed to them by some hack on the radio.
This interpreter means well. I should say that. But I'll also say the interpreter has made it as far as the interpreter has using the time honored skill of bullshiting. I should know. I used to be a psychic phone friend not once, but twice. A damn good one, before my stupid conscience kicked in.
And now the interpreter, with nothing but spare credentials and a lot of nebuspeak (what candidates do in election years), has managed to teach a course, albeit at a community college (yeah, I'm a snob), on lucid dreaming.
It looks like I'm wasting resources on higher education after all.
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