Bye, Bye September

Well, once again it is the end of a month. What does that mean? Well, nothing, except that another is on the way in the odd cycle some Roman guys imposed on us several hundred years ago.

At work today I looked at my hands and they seemed small. I mean really small. Like they should be at the end of a child's arms instead of a sort-of man's. Maybe it was just my perspective, or something, there's no way for me to know. They just seem so small. I suppose the pudginess around the fingers doesn't help. They still look small to me. After all, it's true what they say. *sigh*

The best thing about this month is the comic strip thing. So far, I'm doing good, two a week. Eight posted. That makes me happy. They're fun for me to do and, I hope, they're fun for you people out there in Internetville to look at. More or less, this really is me and the way I spend my time. Not exciting, but it looks good, right. Yup, it's fun. Maybe, one day, I'll be able to make money off of things like this. I'm not going to hold my breath, mind you. If I did, I'd pass out and probably miss posting a strip. Fun stuff.

Also, at work, I hit my elbow, really hard, right in the not-so-funny bone. I hit it so hard, that it still hurts. When I tried to lean, head on hand and elbow on desk, on it at school, I yelped. (It was a little "yelp," but a "yelp" none the less.) My arm hurts when it bends. It hurts when it stays still. It hurts up to my wrist and into my armpit. It's not nice.

Well, psyduck is staring down at me from its perch on the monitor. It's telling me that I should climb in bed, read several pages, turn off the light, and sleep the night away. Who am I to argue with it?

And with that I say good-bye to the once seventh month and all of you. 'Bye.

BOOM

Okay, so this really happened on Monday, sue me.

9:45

That was the time I left work this morning.

Rain, Rain, Come Today

The chill in the air bit into my cheeks as I walked to my car this morning, twirling my keys like a gunslinger twirls his pistols. I wore shorts because I didn't want to dig my long pants out, I had an easier time just picking them off the floor, and the hairs on my legs had raised with goospimples. The air smelled crisp this morning. I hoped it was the smell of rain.

I parked in the lot at work and waited in my car until the time the door would be unlocked for me. I tuned the radio to NPR and heard about oil prices being raised to over $50 a barrel, a record breaker. Out the windshield, I watched the moon shining off to the east in it's fullness, making the parking lot look even more mysterious. Wind blew thin, wispy clouds in front of the moon.

I closed my eyes and listened to the news--hurricanes, hostages, hotel bombings--and the wind whipping the thin branches of the tiny tree I had parked next to. Off in the distance I heard the yowls of cats, each wanting to scare the other off to avoid a fight. My head dipped forward.

I opened my eyes, couldn't fall asleep that close to work time. Sleep would do me no good. News repeated itself and gave commercials for shows coming on later in the day.

Finally, the clock showed that I should get out of the car, so I did. As I walked toward the door, I looked at the moon, at least where it should have been. There was only a round, blurry splotch of light shining through the clouds. Wonderful. The wind blew and I smelled the crispness again.

Hours later, I looked out the front windows of the store to the right, to the east and saw the sun.

"Damn," I said.

"What?" asked GWKMA.

"The sun's coming up."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I was hoping for rain, that's all."

Materials

I used school material to print up my comic strips today. There's no printer attached to my computer, so I had to. I needed to see what these things look like on paper, in black and white so I can get them fixed before next spring.

Why? Well, those who need to know, know, and I don't want to announce anything here until I've laid down the money and can't back out because I'm a coward.

I also wanted to be able to mail a set to a friend of mine so I can get her opinion on them. She's one of those people, usually, who is honest, sometimes to the point of brutality, and will give feedback. She's someone I trust when it comes to art, as well. Hopefully, she'll also show them to her husband, and I'll get his opinion as well, since he's my friend too.

I'm also trying to write a decent letter to go along with the printings, it's only proper.

I coulda been a manager.

Jabba the Russian offered to make me a manager, today.

"Are you the manager?" he asked me, with his back facing me, in his thick accent as I exited the store. I had to change the big trash.

"No," I said, weaving around the dozen people he had encircling him and much of the door way.

"What is your name?"

I answered him. He said something in Russian and everyone started to laugh.

"I hear you do good work," he said to me as I wrestled with the door to the trash, one of his people was blocking it.

Of course you had to hear, I thought, you're not a regular customer. I bet this is the first time you've ever come here.

"So," he said in his thick accent, "do you want to be a manager?"

"No," I said, my hand in the trash, taking off the top layer so I could actually pull the can out.

"I can call Seattle. I know Bill Gates." More Russian and laughter. "He owns part of this, or something." Everyone laughs. "Do you want to be a manager?"

"No."

"No, the manager here, at this store."

"I don't want to be a manager, especially of these people."

Some guy said something in Russian. Jabba answered. They all laugh.

"What do you want to do," asked Jabba "you know, later on, in you life, after all this?" He gestured with his arm at the store.

"I want to make enough money so I don't have to work for anyone but myself ever again."

Some girl spoke, in Russian. Everyone laughed.

"And how do you plan on doing that?" he asked.

"I don't know, win the Lotto."

Everyone laughed. I struggled with the bag in the can. It was too full, hard to pull out. I knew I needed to go faster, had to get out of there.

"You know," he said, "I've never played the Lotto because--"

"It's impossible to win," I said. "I never play it either."

"You look like a smart guy, are you going to school?"

"Yeah."

"How old are you?"

I told him. He said something in Russian and laughter erupted from the crowd.

"And are you married or single?"

"Single," I said as the garbage bag finally slid out of the can.

More Russian. More laughter. I started to line the can with a new bag.

"Seriously," he said, "what do you plan on doing, you know, to, uhh, make your fortune?"

"Honestly, I have no freakin' idea what I'm going to do. I'll probably be replacing trash right here for the rest of my life."

I gave the door to the trash a hard push and it shut with a thump.

"Okay," he said, "we'll let you get back to work."

I picked up two bags of trash and walked away. As I turned around the corner, there was an outburst of laughter. I stopped, took eight deep breaths, and continued on my way.

Forsook

Trapped

I went to work with a... well it wasn't a negative attitude. I suppose it was about as positive an attitude I can get when I work a closing shift. In the first hour, my attitude turned negative.

I was helping some customer, taking her order, when some guy, who always comes into the store, barged up to the front, ignoring the line, three people. He demanded that we make him a mocha, or something, and threw his credit card at me, not the counter. I told him that I'd help him when it was his turn, and called out the lady's drink. He decided that I was wrong and rude and started yelling at me. I didn't say anything to him and did my best to ignore the nasty language spewed from his mouth. I took the lady's money and started to help the next person in line.

Suddenly, I had a flash of the future: Me, 40ish, still a green apron monkey, being yelled at by a 30-something with crappy hair and a shaved chest.

My feet dragged the rest of the night.

Closing Time

I close for the next three nights at work. I hate closing. For me, it's the worst possible shift. Why? Because I, for some unfathomable reason, am a morning person and like to get to sleep before the PM turns into AM. Alas, it will not be that way for the next three nights. Perhaps I'll enjoy my time there. Sure, and perhaps the moon will fall to Earth, melting on the way, and we'll all be eating fondue for months.

What day?

I woke up this morning to the belligerent buzzing of my alarm. I sat up and asked, "What day is it?" I slid out of bed and groped at the drawers under it so I could get some clean clothes.

"What day is it?" I asked myself again, out loud, as I headed off to the shower, where I sung songs from Annie. (It's a sickness, I know.) Eventually, the sun came up, and I stepped out.

I dressed, combed my hair, and headed back to my room. The light was off, so I flicked the switch. Finally, the calendar was visible, Thursday. Work first then straight to school.

Work is... well, I'm not sure how to explain it when I'm not miserable. It just is. I go, make coffee-based drinks, try to please people who don't want to be pleased, sing songs to myself, and hold back the urge to throw beans at everyone. Work is like--Have all of you seen Garden State yet? Did anyone else watch that new show Veronica Mars last night? They both have perfect examples of what I'm going to describe.--these scenes in movies and TV shows where there's one person sitting on a couch or a bench staring and the people around this person are in fast-forward, obviously doing something, going somewhere, moving. That's what work is like, me standing still and everyone else in fast-forward. Once in a while, the world slows down to my pace, breaks into my thoughts, but only for an instant before it whizzes away without me. In the end, I make sure to say good-bye to everyone working, using each person's name, before I walk out the door. I'm not sure why I do it. I sometimes fantasize that maybe I'll disappear if I don't remind people that I do exist, maybe that's why.

I like school.

For those who don't know, and since I can't remember if I've actually written it in this experiment in narcissism, I earned myself a BA in English some two and a quarter years ago. I seriously thought about teaching High School for a while there. I didn't really want to teach, I didn't think it would give me the energy most teacher seemed to get. I thought it would sap my strength, test my patience, and increase my stress without any personal or monetary rewards. At the time, though, I thought it was my only real option (since I fear that great standardized test we call the GRE). I went to the university (that didn't end in the phrase "of Phoenix") to my parent's house, since I was living there at the time, to discuss this teaching thing with a professional. In the end, she asked me if I wanted her honest opinion. I always prefer honesty, I said. She told me that she thought that I could make an excellent High School English teacher because I had an obvious passion for literature and a desire to see this passion spread to other. This made me happy. Then she said that she didn't think I should be a High School teacher because it didn't seem like the place for me. She recognized that I am a person who doesn't really have a lot a patience for people who don't want to be where they are. "The kids in High Schools are forced to be there," she said. "If you're lucky, three out of the thirty will be interested in what you're teaching, and I don't think those are the kinds of odds a person like you would need to stick with this profession. Honestly, Josh, I don't think you should pursue a career in teaching."

I shook her hand, thanked her for her time, and left. Everything she said was right and, most importantly, she gave me a good reason to stop thinking about my teaching credential.

That fall, while living with my parents and working at 'Bucks, I started attending the local JC part time. I took ceramics (my artistic passion that I have neither the money nor the truly astounding skill to pursue) and a class learning to draw on the computer with Adobe Illustrator. Illustrator is probably my favorite computer program. I like it more than my word processor. I like it more than QuickTime. I like it more than my internet browser. There's something so wonderfully artistic and mathematical about the program that captures my imagination. It's what I create all those weird comics about me in. I liked the class, I liked the teacher, and something inside me said I could turn it into a way to make money without serving evil.

Okay, I've gone off topic and I'm leaving it all there. Anyhow...

I like school. The class I have on Tuesday and Thursday is called Digital Painting. We're using Correl Painter and it's hundreds of different brushes to create odd drawings. (On assignment was to use a brush that has the illusion of heavy paint strokes, think of van Gogh's paintings, using complementary tertiary colors using the strokes to create depth. I drew a blue-green t-shirt on a field of red-orange, then used a tool to pull the "paint" in such a way that it look like it's on fire. I like it more each time I look at it.) The teacher gives really boring lectures that feel more like art history than anything else, and I'm not looking forward to the obligatory self portrait, but the rest is fun. How can I be so sure? Today, class started at 2:45 and ten minutes later it was 4:45 and time to go. A good time was had by me.

Today was Thursday. I went to work and school. I'm here now and going to watch mediocre television and eat ginormous, frozen grapes.

You have a good night as well.

A Story In As Many Parts As It Takes, Part III

Ada's Dance

Last Time

Time Before

It was obvious that no one had taken any time to decorate the gym. No streamers hanging from the ceiling or attached to the walls. No funky construction paper flowers taped up. Not even some asinine archway to walk under when the people entered. Even the room where the pictures had been taken wasn’t really decorated. A few potted plants on stools and a sky blue sheet were, apparently, all the items needed to create a memory that would last a life time.

There was only one thing that could be considered a decoration, and that was the DJ’s booth. Spinning, colored lights, pointing in all possible directions, covered the aluminum frame. Blues, greens, oranges, purples, reds, and yellows were thrown from the booth, splashing on the ceiling, the walls, the floor, and people. It also had a machine right in the center of it which periodically sprayed a toxic cloud that had a sharp smell to it and left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. Ada hoped that it would sterilize most of the people dancing there tonight. She knew that most of them would try to breed, but if there was a God, he, or she, would stop the production of sperm in most of the guys, and make the eggs in most of the girls go rotten. Especially in that Debbie.

“Stupid Debbie,” Ada muttered.

“What?” asked Derrick, who was standing right next to her.

They had stopped, just outside the circle that Chip was in.

“Why did we stop?” asked Ada.

“What?” he asked again.

“I said, ‘Why did we stop?’”

“I d-don’t know. I was right behind you and, you know, you stopped and started l-looking at the l-lights and the people. Sort of like you were h-hypnotized. I s-something wrong?”

“No,” Ada said, searching the circle of people for Chip. “I just got distracted. Look, there’s a gap other there.” She grabbed Derrick’s hand, again, and yanked him. The hole in the circle was only two people, a football drone and brunette bimbo, away from Chip. Ada knew that they had to rush to fill the hole before it closed in on itself. She jerked Derrick’s arm harder as she picked up the pace.

A hard, fast song was being played when Ada gave the football guy a bump with her butt to show that she had claimed this area for herself and, soon, the man of her dreams.

She let go of Derrick’s hand and turned to look at Chip. This close, she saw small beads of sweat glistening in different colors as the lights passed over him. It looked like his forehead was projecting a rainbow.

Ada sighed, closed her eyes, and started to move with the music. She began with her hips: left, right, left, right, over and over. Then she shuffled her feet in time to her hips: left, right, left, right. Her arms swayed with her feet and hips. Everything on her body was moving together, but not in time with the hard thumping of the music. She opened her eyes and looked around at the people. No one was really dancing. Very few were in time with the beat. No one would notice her rhythmic flaw.

Chip was dancing just as poorly as everyone else in the circle, in short, sharp jerks. The problem with his flailing was that it was against Debbie. His legs touched hers. His pelvis rubbed against hers. His hands copped quick feels of her arms, her hips, her breasts. And Debbie flashed her huge, bleached smile his direction with each touch, taking those opportunities to touch his arms, his face, his chest. Debbie easily touched him in all the ways Ada had only dreamed about touching him. The slut would probably ruin Ada’s sunrise by doing even more touching with Chip in the morning.

Ada flushed and turned away. Derrick had started to dance too. His dancing was more smooth than the rest of the dancing fools. Everyone else moved like a beginning piano student, in starts and stops, sometimes hard, sometime soft, but no technique, all staccato. Derrick moved as if he were Art Tatum at the piano, playing all the range of sounds, seamlessly moving up and down the scales, hard when it was necessary and soft just to keep the listener excited, sliding around like a smooth slur. He looked almost beautiful as he slid from a fo-Charleston to some hip-hop move he learned from watching music videos.

Ada was only marginally surprised by Derrick’s gracefulness. She knew that he had taken dance lessons at both of the studios in town since he was five years old. He had taken them all--tap, jazz, ballet, hip-hop, square, folk, even ballroom--and, with the exception of ballet, had mastered them. Now he taught the hip-hop class at one studio and the jazz class at the other, trying to get little kids to move in a way that’s not running in circles and trying to convince fat old ladies that they can be graceful as they jiggle around the floor. At his house, he taped music videos so he could dissect them and learn what people think is cool. Often, he complained about how simple the moves pop-stars did were and would say that James Brown could teach them a thing or two about pop-choreography, since they were all ripping him off anyway.

Sometimes, Ada didn’t understand why Derrick was afraid of dancing in public. He said he was afraid of making a fool of himself, but she knew he could do it and look wonderful on stage. When he had to perform, he closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see the people. His focus was on the music and his feet. He trusted his feet to take him where he needed to be, and so far they always had.

She looked at his face and saw that even now, his eyes were closed, but he wasn’t coming anywhere near hitting her or the guy next to his other side. Ada grinned because he looked so content just letting the music push the motions through his body. He looked amazing.

“Let’s slow things down a bit,” the DJ said and the music shifted to some crappy slow pop song.

Derrick’s eyes snapped open. He looked at Ada, took her right hand in his left, put his right in the small of her back, and urged her to move with him. She looked at him, uncertain.

“I’m sorry if I step on your feet,” she said.

“Little lady,” he said, making his voice as deep as he could, “let your mind go, and your body will follow.”

She put her left hand on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

The Front is Back, and so is the Back!

Well, I'm back from my trip to Cowtown. Dad's birthday was yesterday, but his party was on Saturday because that's when people could be up. Both brothers made it. One significant other to a brother made it and they brought their dog (who was on her period, but still cute and charming) and a very new (three weeks old, I think) kitten. Both sets of grandparents were there, even the ones who have to travel more than an hour. I don't think I've seen them since Easter, so that was great. All the uncles and aunts and cousins who live near by showed up. I had the opportunity to make them all (who were old enough to understand) disgusted (with only two words and a crude gesture), which is always fun. The aunt and uncle from out of county couldn't make it because my aunt had surgery, a skin cancer take off the back of her calf, Saturday was the first day she was allowed to be on her feet for an hour at a time. I'm hoping she'll be better soon.

As you can tell from the comic strip I did earlier (if it showed up on the page), I worked two days at my old store. It was fun and... not so fun. Not so fun because, even if it's with people I like to work with, I'm working at a 'Bucks. The same crap goes on everywhere. It was fun because people there are willing to be crazy. When I turn around and ask what soy nipples look like, they don't look at me like I'm crazy and then walk away, they answer me. (Apparently, soy nipples are just a darker shade of brown, and poke out a little. The machine that gets the milk from the bean has really tiny, little suction things.) Several customers recognized me. Not only by appearance, but they still remember my name and asked if I was coming back to stay. So, either I was quite good and they like me making their drinks, or every one else just sucks a whole lot. I'd like to think it's the first.

Alright, I'm off to Nemo's Realm. Must be at normal 'Bucks at five.

It's always strange.

True Story

An Idea Lost

I'm off to Cowtown tomorrow after class. It's the weekend of my Dad's birth. The brothers are supposedly going to be there on Saturday, as are both sets of grandparents (hopefully), all the in county uncles and aunts and cousins, and an aunt and uncle set who are two counties away, no matter how you drive, even though the county containing Cowtown shares a corner with the one that has my aunt and uncle. I'm keeping my fingers crossed, hoping they'll all be there.

The only problem with this trip is that I don't have my Dad's gift. Yes, all you thinking I don't, I do have one for him, it just hasn't come yet. The place I ordered it from said it would take 2-4 weeks to get it, so I thought that ordering it 3 weeks in advance would be enough time. It wasn't. In fact, just this morning, I got an e-mail from the place saying that it was shipped yesterday and I should allow 2-3 weeks to recieve the package. Oy.

What am I going to do? I'll tell you. I'm gonna print out a picture of the thing (at my parent's house because I don't have a printer), put the picture in a card, and give the card to my Dad. I know he'll like his gift, even if he has to wait another couple of weeks before I get it and can mail it to him. I know he'll understand.

Another Strip.

I've been thinking about this one since Sunday, when I spent the morning walking the mall and riding every escalator there. It was fun.

PS I'm trying a new free image host. If it works, everyone, who likes these things, should thank Wingb. If it doesn't work, oh well.

Three Things

I'm sitting on the couch, eating frozen grapes, watching Seinfeld, and wondering if I should be guilty enjoying myself so much.

Maybe this is all there really is to life.

Maybe a small moment of contentment is worth everything else.

Maybe this small moment will come crashing in.

But for now, I don't care. Seinfeld is funny. The grapes are sweet and cold. The couch is a little hard, but comfy enough.

Maybe it's me that's not comfy.

Maybe the grapes are too sweet.

Maybe Seinfeld isn't funny.

No, those things aren't true.

Grapes fill my stomach. Muffin tops fill my brain. My ass fills the couch.

Today, life is sweeter than the grapes I'll be buying tomorrow.

Here it is.

Here's the entire thing my Dad wanted to write to me through Haloscan, but it wouldn't allow him to use that many characters:

Josh, I'm glad you are thinking and questioning. It shows that you care, that you do want to help to make the world a better place, and that you do not want to be lied to and manipulated. For what that is worth, that speaks quite highly of you. Carl Sagen once said "REAL PATRIOTS ASK QUESTIONS."

Bottom line on the events of 911: it is important to examine the physical evidence after any crime to determine it's nature and what actually happened. The American people are all too willing to accept a silly, unsubstantiated CONSPIRACY THEORY from their government and the controlled media, and not take time to look at the actual evidence, or hear what actual eyewitnesses said. So, who are the conspiracy nuts? The very few who DO look at the actual evidence and then question what happened, or the vast majority who robotically believe that nineteen Arabs could defeat our nations defenses? Remember that in the middle of beLIEve is "lie." I personally feel that it is better to know based on inquiry, evidence and experience.

So here are just a few patriotic questions about the events of 911:

Why was there absolutely no wreckage of a Boeing 757 in the Pentagon, or on the lawn outside of the Pentagon? Why was the lawn absolutely unscathed by this "plane" crash?

Why was an engine from Flight 93 (which we were told crashed in Pennsylvania due to "heroes") found over one mile from the airliner impact site? Why were debris from this crash floating down over a resort eight miles from the crash site just minutes after the crash?

Who was running airliner high jacking war games in the Northeast US on 9/11/01? Answer: Dick Cheney. How did these "war games" diffuse and confuse our normally highly effective air defenses?

How many huge buildings collapsed vertically onto themselves (like controlled demolitions) in New York on 9/11. Answer: three. How may steel frame skyscrapers have ever collapsed due to fire previous or following 9/11. Answer: Zero.

Why was their no detailed forensic investigation into the collapse of these structures, despite the American Firefighters Association and others screaming that such a collapse was unprecedented, and needed to be investigated and understood? Why was the wreckage destroyed and quickly removed prior to investigation?

Why did eyewitnesses state that the planes that hit the Trade Centers had no windows and were not passenger airliners?

Why did the administration spend 7 million dollars on a much delayed and obstructed limited investigation of 9/11 (the biggest single-event crime ever committed in this country), when the conservative members of congress spent 45 million dollars to investigate Bill Clinton's sexual mis-adventures?

Why has all this been suppressed, and not covered in our "free" press?

Who has promoted a climate of fear based on these attacks?

Who (or what) honestly had the capability to freeze our nations defenses and actually pull off such a well coordinated attack?

Who, or what corporations, nations or organizations, have benefited as a result of these attacks? Follow the money.

And finally:

What does it mean when your government and mainstream media lie to you and suppresses the truth?

Well, Josh, I know I have rambled, and you know that's me. These are questions that do not have pleasant answers, and there are many, many more. But think of the alternative? Therefore: Keep asking patriotic questions.

So, there it is. I think that many of these questions have merit. I especially like: "Why was their no detailed forensic investigation into the collapse of these structures?" I thought about using it in my post, but thought that, if people are actually reading this blog who aren't family members or friends, those of you who haven't thought past the "official" line of September Eleventh, it would be easier to start with something simple, like "Why did NORAD and the FAA not see four planes fly off course?"

Politics will not be used often here. I just think it's important to think about the things we don't know around a time when horrible things happened.

Be well, everyone.

Garden State

Maybe I'm in a Jersey state of mind. I can't get this movie out of my head.

It was August when I walked into the theater nearest my place of residence to see the movie written and directed by JD (Zach Braff) from Scrubs. It wasn't just because I enjoy scrubs that I wanted to see this movie, I'd seen the trailers, and they fascinated me. They're cut like a dream and the music's haunting. I hoped the movie would live up to the expectation of the trailers.

And that's the problem with expectations, isn't it. They're hard to live up to.

I walked out of the theater, having enjoyed the film, a bit disappointed. I think I've said it before, but the endings to movies are what weigh most heavily in my mind, and I liked Garden State's ending better when Dustin Hoffman sat next to Katharine Ross on a bus, staring straight ahead, purposefully not looking at each other, a single question hanging in the air for the audience to snatch and think. It was nice that JD looked to one of the greatest film endings ever for his film, but, for me, it just didn't work as well. I didn't really feel the ending, which is strange, considering what the film's about.

On the surface, Garden State is about a boy going home. He sees the people who were once his friends. He sees his father. And he even falls in love. A bit deeper, it's about learning to feel again.

See, Andrew Largeman (JD's character in the film) is overly medicated. He takes lots of anti-depressants and he's been on them since he was young. The drugs have made him numb. Numb to feelings. Numb to desire. Numb to life. He lives in LA, but has to go home for his mother's funeral and decides to leave his pill 3000 miles away. His dad, who's also his psychiatrist, offers to get him more, but Andrew declines, he want's to know what it's like to be. And he starts to learn. It's obvious that the end is just the beginning.

Which is the way this movie got to me. A few days ago, the movie crept back into my brain. It started to dance around and tickle my neurons. At work, I constantly hummed songs from the soundtrack (which I now must own). The more I think about the film, the more I like it. The more I feel what happened before the ending and know that the ending isn't what matters, it's what led up to it. The same is true for Andrew, in the movie.

I have to go and see Garden State again. I have to own the soundtrack.

I think you do too.

Let's Get Political!

Because we all know that this day three years ago was the day "everything changed," I feel the need to get a little political.

First, I think the two main candidates for president are idiots. Both are only out to prove that they are "truly leaders of men." (What ever that means.) I really hate how the Democrats are making a big deal about the fact that their guy was in Vietnam. I think it was only eight years ago that they were saying that whether a man serves in the military isn't important. Hypocritical? And then there's the Republicans trying to convince us that helping out in a Senate race in Alabama is serving a country just as much as watching your friends get killed in a jungle. Pa-leeze. For what it's worth, I don't care if a president has served in the military. Serving in the military a personal choice that every man and woman in every nation makes (unless the draft bill passes) and I don't think it helps him or her to be a better leader. Why should any of us care about the military records of two men who are liars and can only make promises that will be broken as soon as it's advantageous to the ones with the money?

Second, when I re-register for voting, I think I'm going to go partyless. Sure, most of my views swing way to the left, probably in Socialist (cue scary music)territory, but does that mean I should register that way? I don't think so. I don't want to be carry a political label (Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, Green) around my neck. I don't want to be part of any group that only has a hazy notion of what it stands for. I don't want to be part of a party that's only argument to join it is "We're not [insert any political party name here], but we share some of the views of that group that made you like it in the first place." Yuck. If only political parties had ideologies that were more laid out so when it comes time to choose your party, you can find out which actually shares your ideals and works toward that better world you want to happen. Wait, that makes too much sense. There's no way people want politics to make sense, at least in this country.

Third, I'm not a conspiracy nut, I leave that to my Dad, but there is something that really bothered me three years ago (minus a week or so) and still makes me feel nervous and concerned. What happened to NORAD that day? For those who don't know, NORAD is the binational military organization that, supposedly, monitors all activities that take place outside and inside US and Canadian air space. Supposedly, NORAD uses radar and satellites to do this. Did the radar and satellites fail to notice four planes that are all supposed to be flying west turn toward the east? Was it human failure? Did the guys reading the data not notice a red flag for these aircraft?

Okay, let's drop it down a level, away from the military, what about the FAA? Surely, they know all the flight plans of the domestic flights in the US? Surely, someone, somewhere, noticed that four planes had veered so far off course that they were practically flying back to where they took off? What happened to this person? Did he or she not think it important enough to report? Sure, the plane that flies off course to avoid a storm has to be reported, but four planes that turned completely around, those are okay.

Now with such massive failures from two government agencies that are supposed to protect our airspace, what did the 9-11 Commission suggest they do to fix the problems? Seriously, I don't know. If the commission made any suggestions, NPR and the other local media here in Cowcity have failed to mention them. Aren't the men and women of the commission concerned that the billions of dollars put into these two agencies to buy the most sophisticated tracking equipment in the world isn't enough. Shouldn't there be an Air Czar or something to get both sets of data, in real-time of course, and search for irregularities?

If the FAA and NORAD had been doing their jobs that day thousands of people wouldn't have died. Yes, the planes may have been shot down if those flying weren't willing to land, but 300ish lives compared to thousands? Come on. And chances are, given the chance to land, with three or four F-16s off their wings, the people flying the 757s (I think) would have landed. That's what we're being told, right? That terrorist are really cowards?

I don't want to take anything away from the thousands of people who died that day, three years ago, but in their memory, we all deserve to know where the failure really was. We, as a nation, are so quick to blame the CIA and FBI for an intelligence failure, but we don't seem so worried about their backups failing. That disturbs me.

I know, so no one has to put it in the comments, that this post won't affect the world and the mainstream views of this nation's population, but I had to say something. Today is the right choice for saying it because if we really want to honor the memory of all those people, we need to know the truth, especially if it's more frightening than what we all want to believe.

And with that, I'm off to work.

Frude Dude

Freudian Inventory Results

Genital (40%) you appear to be stuck between a progressive and regressive outlook on life. Latency (66%) you may be using learning as an escape from living. Phallic (36%) you appear to have negative issues regarding sexuality and/or have an uncertain sexual identity. Anal (40%) you appear to have a good balance of self control and spontaneity. Oral (30%) you appear to be stubbornly and irrationally against receiving help even when it might be the more intelligent option.

Take Free Freudian Inventory Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

The first question of this test is what sex you are. With the little I know about Freud, I keep thinking that if you mark Female it'll tell you your problem is that you don't have a penis and and are just jealous of all of those who do.

Now that's a way to make friends.

Whoopy

Work is going much better than it was a week or so ago. I’m, more or less, back to my old self there. Quiet. Often humming or singing under my breath. (Today, songs from the musical Buffy episode, tomorrow, the world!) And, every now and then, throwing out a weird or biting comment.

Two days ago, I got off a nice zinger at the expense of Assistant Manager #1. She was the one in charge of the money, supposed to get us lowly peons change and whatnot. She played Shift Supervisor, but she kept forgetting to do the things she was supposed to do. “I’m a horrible Shift Supervisor,” she said.

I turned to her, looked her in the eye, and said, “That’s why you’re an Assistant Manager.”

Her eyes bulged. I started snickering. GIESW started snickering. FLIG had a nervous grin on. FABP looked a little scared. #1's cheeks puffed. I started to laugh. #1 smiled and said, “Oh, that was kind. That was nice. Who are you?”

Later, #1 headed out front to do some cleaning, as she walked out she said to GIESW, “I’m doing a spin. Maybe you could help me first and pull the knife out of my heart.” She turned to me and spoke louder, “The one [ticknart] shoved in there.”

I started laughing more.

I can’t be honest and say that I’m happy there, but “I have to admit, it’s getting better, a little better all the time.”

POSTED!

The posts I wanted to post yesterday are there! Hooray!

I don't have a clue why Blogger was acting stupid, but if you looked earlier today and didn't see last's night stuff and are now wondering why they're there, you know.

Something's Wrong

I've been trying, for nearly two hours, to post another picture, but Blogger won't let me. It's another strip, similar to yesterday's, but I think it's more funny.

Hopefully, I'll be able to get it up tomorrow. When I do, it'll have the original day and time it was supposed to go up on it.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Yes, it really is like this.

If you can't see it, I need better image hosting. Today's is at http://www.picgoo.com/uploads7/my_day_02.gif. Good luck.

What I did...

...instead of writing today:


Click on the thing if the picture isn't showing up.

Out

After last night's post, I'm all blogged out. I haven't visited with Ada since the last time I posted about her, I think it's about time I did. Maybe tomorrow.

Work is getting better, which means closer to what it was like a month ago than a week or two ago. That doesn't mean it's great, just better than it has been.

Can People Sneeze While They Sleep?

I am not a fifty-eight-year-old woman who weighs three hundred twenty-three pounds. (declarative)

Ignore the shrunken post. (imperative)

Won't you? (interrogative)

My dad turns fifty in a couple of weeks. When that day arrives, I'll be (about) half his age. That means the year I was born, he was my age (or turned my age at his next birthday). He had started a family at my age. (Thank you unprotected premarital sex for letting the world give me a shot at existence.)

At the rate I'm going, my penis will be falling off a rotting corpse before I even get a shot at starting a family.

Although, I have to admit to myself, I don't really know if I want to start a family. Sure, I'd like to find a woman to love and be with for the rest of my life (I'd prefer to go first, and probably would), but I've been wondering if children, or just child, would be part of that. What is in my genetic structure that future generations of humans need? I guess that if there's anything out of me that is needed, it's my desire for peace, but the way the world keeps pushing, it looks like more violence will be necessary for anyone to survive, unless, of course, there's some other-worldly enemy that can unite all of mankind, but is violence against a being so different it'll be very hard to understand it when we can barely understand ourselves? I guess that doesn't even work because then it's just violence against something other than humans, and violence is violence. Which really sucks.

Okay, I do think that children could be fun. Having a ball of fat and poop and drool would always make the day interesting. I know there's lots to learn from a human fluid machine. I can't really imagine what it's like being a parent, wanting to do everything for a little being that has no idea. Watching it learn and change and think and grow must be an amazing thing. But is it fair to bring one of these remarkable creatures into this world?

I'm just not as sure anymore as I used to be.

Maybe I'm only thinking this because I haven't had sex since Nixon was promising "Peace with Honor." Maybe.

Maybe I'm only thinking this because I don't like dating and find it to be too full of petty bullshit that drives me nuts. Maybe.

Maybe I'm only thinking this because I think that no matter which guy gets elected president the whole world is getting screwed. Maybe.

No matter what's done, the next generation is fucked, isn't it?

Another bit of Useless Writing.

Just One Of Those...

Some days, things happen that you don't want to share with anyone. Today was one of those days for me. I hope your day was better.

Many Crammed Into One

I'm sitting here in the dark, illuminated only by my computer screen, because I can't sleep. As tired as I feel, I can't sleep. I was in bed for over two freakin' hours trying to get into Slumberland, but didn't even come close. Sure, I don't have to be awake until seven, but I still feel exhausted. What to do? I don't want to read. Hell, I don't really want to be writing this right now. I want to be asleep. I don't care if I have a nightmare or a regular restless night, I just want to sleep. Eyes close, consciousness drift away, and me away from the world for at least eight hours. Is that so much to ask? I heard, on NPR, about a farm in Poland that's been getting crop circles every summer since 2000. The farmer has a little booth that sells t-shirts, balloons, and blow-up aliens in silver suits. He claims he's not in it for the money. Last year, he charged people to see his crop circles, but people complained. This year, there's been a 15% drop in the number of people, he said he was disappointed in that number, but only because people are missing out on the spirituality of it all. Some guy, who believes these crop circles are real, tried to record them getting made, but had his cameras pointed at the wrong field, so he missed it. Too bad for him. Just found a blog (bet you can't guess how I found it) that, along the side, has written on it ~Do Not Taunt Happy Fun Blog~. This made me laugh. She also has excellent taste in Muppets. Writing of Muppets, I ordered the Jim Henson's The Storyteller. I want this to come very quickly. The story I'm most looking forward to seeing is "Death and the Soldier," of which I have vivid memories. I suppose, after buying this one, I'll have to get the Greek Myths. *happy sigh* Now, if only they'd release the Muppet Show in season sets, instead of only three episodes per disc and do amazing releases of The Muppet Movie and The Great Muppet Caper and The Muppets Take Manhattan before more performers die. I won't hold my breath, though. Just like I'm not holing my breath to find a job that stimulates my brain and I enjoy going to on a daily (or semi-daily) basis. At least my dad got one of those. Maybe one of my brother's will as well. It's funny, I haven't seen my brothers since June. Before that, I hadn't seen them since Easter. We all went to visit our parents in August, but at separate times. In fact, I missed one by a few hours because I had to be to work at four the next morning. We used to see each other each day. And, other than that time one of them kicked me in the balls (I'm sure I deserved some pain, but a kick in the balls is never deserved unless your life is threatened.), I think we got along well. The three of us shared a room until I was in fifth grade. After I turned eleven, I thought I deserved my own room, and actually got it (as long as I'd give it up when company stayed the night, then I got the couch, but it was worth having my own room). Sometimes I miss them. They rarely missed an opportunity to throw out a Simpsons quote. They're the hardest people I know to gross out because once one of us says something, the others have to try to do on better, and if our mom gets involved it can be truly insane. Also, they're the only people I actually trust to be honest with me about... everything and anything. Yeah, I miss them right now. Well, it's getting up there in time and I still have to sleep because I still have school in the morning.

Cards

On my way to school this afternoon, I dropped a card off at work for OWGAWE. I won't see her tomorrow, her last day, which suits me fine, as long as she gets the card and knows it's from me. Part a me thinks that she doesn't deserve it, but it's a nice gesture. Plus, I tell her how jealous I am of her and I think she'll like that very much.

Assistant Manager #1 invited me to go out drinking tomorrow night as a good-bye celebration for OWGAWE. #1 knows I don't drink and she scheduled me to close tomorrow. I suppose I'm supposed to be happy because I was invited, right?

Short List of Life

1. Dishes are done. I cleaned the sink, therefore the kitchen no longer smells like vomit.
2. Clothes have been separated into easy access piles. Doing this will make it much easier to do the laundry thing tomorrow morning.
3. Johnny Logic is posting again. It's good to know he's doing well since he now lives 2500 miles away. I hope the Heels posts soon, I want to know her take on that strange and magical world known as Pittsburgh.
4. Fan is on. Room doesn't feel much cooler, but at least the air's moving.
5. Apparently, the "celebration" was "so cool." Which is great. I was sleeping, however. Aside from the time I woke up to pee, I slept until seven this morning. Oh, and Assistant Manager #1 made a point of telling me that they didn't bring me any left-overs. Isn't that nice of her?
6. Sleep is coming soon. That'll be good.