Seeing Spots: Procrastination Station |
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Mehitobel Wilson: writer, reader, chronic curmudgeon.
Tomboy bombshell cowgirl; lover of funk, attracted to roadsides. Besotted with spots. Friend to sleaze. Admirer of filthy films, fleshy steaks, Hong Kong rap, new felt and pocket-knocking 8-balls; prefers 10 gallons of hat and 4 fingers of Jack. Procrastination here breeds urgency there. Urgency begets sharper fiction. The dream: hone it to a splinter, and sink it deep. So I'm here. 
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Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Meet THIS Much like a breakup, one can not refuse a meeting, it seems. I hate meetings. Hate them. I HATE them. What is solved in a meeting that isn't solved over the phone (which I also hate?) What can I explain better in person than not? The only thing that happens in a meeting that doesn't happen over the phone is that people find out I've got facial piercings and tattoos and red hair and that I'm NOTHING like how they pictured me. I don't ask anybody else to meet with me. I tell them what they need to do, or what I will do, and... that's all anybody needs, far as I'm concerned. But when someone says, "We need to meet to discuss random crap that we could discuss over the phone just fine," I can't reply, "I don't meet, thanks. Holler if you have any questions." Plus, when I Have a Meeting, I miss a LOT of work and have to make up for it like crazy, people hysterical because they called a whole HOUR ago and I haven't returned their call yet, oh my GOD, I've singlehandedly caused them a mental breakdown. Meetings are, it seems, Great Fun to everyone else. They love it. They get to leave their offices and probably stop off for hair-n-nails appointments on the way, they get to lounge around and smile and see new people and basically fuck off work for a while, I guess. I hate phone calls at the house, too. At work, it's part of the job and I'm here ready to do it. At home, yes, I'm busy. No, now is not a good time. For WHOM is it EVER "a good time?" Even if you're on your ass staring at Oprah and massaging your gums, you're still engaged in an activity. This is why my ringer is off. My phone is a conduit to pizza delivery, tech support when my parents email me asking for computer repair, and the cops to tell them I've just shot an intruder. People think my outgoing message - "Please DO NOT leave a message, I don't listen to the machine. This phone does not ring. Please email me or, if someone has died, page me and I will return your call as soon as I can." - is a joke, and they leave long, long messages anyway. Sometimes they are time-sensitive. And then I get another voicemail (not that I hear either one until a month or two later) - bitching that I didn't respond to their message. Don't you listen? They don't listen. They DO listen when I'm standing right in front of them, true. I guess this is why people want to Meet. But Meetings are slippery, I can't record them and prove later that I DID say this and that I did NOT grant permission to that, etc. I hate them. Daaaay Ooooof Haaaaaaate! (think Pigs in Space and then go do something else, like I'll do now.)
La la la MURDEROUS RAGE I'm proud of this:  What Type of Villain are You? mutedfaith.com. Robert is the Despondent Villain, which is fitting and sweet. He sent me this and made my day. I'm, like, one signature & a working internet away from buying plane tickets & making reservations for Horrorfind, then collapsing on the floor and weeping since I could have bought a damn motorcycle or two more German Shepherds for that money, and I haven't even BEGUN to save book/toy/liquor/food/cab money yet. Tickamatock. But a new Godzilla game's coming out this Fall and I AM THERE. Stompishly. Saturday, June 26, 2004
Dark Hot The power went of 3 anna half hours ago and it's sonofabitchin' hot now. Hot wet. Dank. Don't want to write because my laptop battery doesn't hold a charge for long, and I would break the fucker if it died on me. I'd be displeased if/when it even interrupted me to WARN it was going to die. Read by candlelight (courtesy of David J. Schow - the candles, not the book) for a few hours but now it's just too goddamn hot. Streetlights are on deeper in the neighborhood and I'm tempted to take the dogs for walks, but don't know how much walking around I should do at 2am in a lights-out neighborhood. I can hear the beer getting warm. Friday, June 25, 2004
Who shot who in the what now? Quoted from Clinton's book - which he himself quotes as part of another speaker's dialogue (the other speaker has now given interviews saying Clinton manufactured the conversation): "We’ll spend whatever we have to spend to get whoever we have to get to say whatever they have to say to take you out. Read that aloud. I'll wait. No, no, try again. I'll go smoke a cigarette. Now, you're fucked. That nonsensical, ridiculous line, which no Arkansaw'n could remember over the years had it really been said (and, had it really been said, it would have been said by someone very, very stoned, I think) - will be stuck in your head like an Air Supply song, all day long. From now on this song will be entitled WSWWHTSTGWWHTGTSWTHTSTTYO. Pronounce this like Bruce Lee sneezing. Thursday, June 24, 2004
Now entering Fucked, population One More Man, it's nice to be in a place in my life right now when I can bitch about vanity and spending money on stupid bullshit. "Fucked" before was "sleeping in the rail yard and cooking shoplifted oatmeal in a scrounged tin can & mud-puddle water on top of a steam pipe." Now it's "buying crap." Poor me. Not long ago I extended my consumerism in a new direction: Prettiness Crap. I spent my whole life washing my face with hand soap and my hair with 99c crap, and was fine with it. Cut my hair (or shaved it completely) myself, etc. But the times, they are a'changin' for this nutritionally challenged, lax, sleep-deprived hard-drinking chainsmoker, and I thought: I'll buy some moisturizer. Easier said than done. I ended up sitting on the floor of Eckerd's examining the boxes and bottles and jars. It took me over an hour to choose a kind. And it was good. When I ran out, wouldn't ya know, they'd discontinued that, so I had to try again. Got a new thing. Then some other crap that looked good got launched, so I thought I'd try it. Then I got mad at my makeup drying out the area under my eyes, so I wanted eye cream. This comes in three flavors: no-wrinkles, no-puffiness, and no-dark circles. I got no-wrinkles because it, I guess, matched my concern the best. Immediately I grew puffiness AND dark circles - joy. By the way, lesson learned: never present yourself to your babyfaced boyfriend and say, "Look! Look at my eyes! They're the eyes of a 60-year old veteran!" - because Babyface will lean way in to look, so you have no choice but see how HIS undereyes look like an 11-year-old's. (He said he didn't see anything, which was sweet. I made him lasagne.) Anyway, the problem is, nothing ever quite works the way you want it to, with these potions. So you get a little feverish and think, "I'll try THAT instead, and if it doesn't work, fuck all this." It's like a jones: this is the last time. The last attempt. But, even as I think that, I have a few more things lined up to purchase, just in case this new bag full of crap doesn't work either. Also, I now understand the phrase "skin care regimen." See, when they charge $10-$20 a bottle for the potions (and these are the cheapie drugstore things, not even the insane department-store things) - you end up feeling like you should use ALL of them. So I do. This cleanser, that exfoliant, another cleanser, and then it's Creams, Lotions, and Oils time. So now I'm fucked, buying all this shit. It's ridiculous. Vanity is, as you can tell from my work, something that both entertains and disgusts me. I'm pretty conflicted about vanity: I was a butt-ugly kid, grew into an even uglier teen (with braces and a headgear AND glasses and a perm, natch) - and then went punk. It's hard to say for sure how much of going punk, with mohawks and piercings and ruined clothes and green eyebrows, was a defensive reaction: you can call me ugly and not bother me if I did it myself. You can make fun of my hand-me-down clothes if I got them out of a dump on purpose. There was a lot more to being punk that just that, but I think it probably figured in to some extent. I'll tell you what, though - and my MOM, of all people, pointed this out - running around with a giant mohawk and chains in your face not only really builds self-confidence (because you have to keep plugging along no matter how shitty people are to you, and you have to take responsibility for it because it's your choice to look that way) - but shows that it was hidden there all along. Not that anyone ever accused me of lacking confidence. Oh, I was going downstairs and just had to run back up here because I remembered that someone DID accuse me of lacking confidence - a young writer at Horrorfind last year did just that shortly after we met. I was so shocked and baffled that I didn't know how to respond - he may as well have said, "Well, since you're an ex-con with a prehensile dick..." When I said, "No one's ever said THAT to me before," he misunderstood and looked smug, as if he'd opened my eyes to my big flaw. I couldn't find a way in to explain that I'm nigh-delusional in my confidence. Note how I even said "nigh" right there - even I don't believe I'm delusional. I'm a LEO, for god's sake. My big tuff Krueger-dog isn't fond of thunderstorms. I'm lucky that he isn't the sort that goes apeshit - people on the rescue boards are always having problems with dogs that hurt themselves during storms. Krueger just uses his body to steer me to shelter, pressing his shoulder against me, and then, once I sit down, he tucks his head under my knees. Eike couldn't care less about storms, I don't think, but since Krueg and I are sitting quietly, she finds something to chew and joins us. I love those dogs so damn much. I'm only dicking around on the blog tonight because I bought an ergonomic lifty thing for my laptop that, I hope, will enable me to write for more than 3 hours at a time without having to stop from sheer pain. I like to be able to disappear into writing, lose all sense of time - this is why, other than simple work ethics, I won't write at my day job: I know I'll be interrupted. So a pain-free writing environment would sure be a big damn help. I'm giving the thingie a trial run right now. I'll give it a bigger one this weekend. Monday, June 21, 2004
Fun http://www.smalltime.com/dictator.html I couldn't stump it with Claude from "Less than Perfect," Maebe from "Arrested Development," Boomhaeur from "KotH," or Jane from "Coupling." ("Do you work in a helicopter?" Why, yes I do!) Robert stumped it with the Andy Dick char from "LtP" but it got Zoidberg from "Futurama." Then we did it as ourselves. I am Grace from W&G. Scarily, that's pretty appropriate. Robert is Stalin. Scarily, that's pretty appropriate. I'm getting pissed that, whenever folks in the Nascar stands wear red, the announcers say "the sea of red means Junior fans are packing the stands." Hey, now. Kasey's red too, bastids. I slept through the race yesterday, had it on the radio while I lay in bed. After JG's engine blew up and KK was still 34th and a lap down, I chose to sleep rather than be sad. Turns out I missed a LOT and probably would have put my fist through a wall had I watched it. Can't decide, therefore, if I'm glad I didn't watch it or not. I do wish I'd gotten to see that ugly-ass fantastic Dew car in action, though. It's monsooning again. Sunday, June 20, 2004
Goes and goes Spending money. Makes my stomach twist. My poor bedroom sucks, so I want it to not suck. I built a shelf across the window and went plant shopping tonight. I went to three garden centers and Walmart, and between the four of them, bought 1 (one) plant. Remembered the grocery store had a sign up for plants the other day and bought NINE there. Then ordered some more on the internet. Goddammit. Plus I finally put bids in on some prints I've been eyeing for a few months. Soon, I shall have pretty walls, and probably, a lot of dead plants. Stole this from Poppy Z. Brite's LJ: 1 WHAT COLOR ARE YOUR KITCHEN PLATES? Leopard, but we usually eat off paper plates. 2. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? Things that Never Happen, M. John Harrison. 3. WHAT'S ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? I have a laptop, but at the office, I have the Frankenstein's Monster US Stamp mousepad. 4. DO YOU HAVE ANY PETS? German Shepherds: Eike and Krueger; cats: Hazel and Tony's Cat; 2 parakeets, unnamed; 2 aquariums and a pond, all full of goldfish. 5. FAVORITE MAGAZINES? Fortean Times 6. LEAST FAVORITE SMELL? Puke and the fucking 3-month-old lemon/garlic rotten chicken I threw out last night. NEVER open tupperware "just to see how bad it is." I nearly got to smell puke. 7. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU THINK OF WHEN YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING? It would be worth it to get fired if I could just go back to sleep. Please. 8. FAVORITE COLOR? Leopard. 9. LEAST FAVORITE COLOR? Orange. 10. HOW MANY RINGS BEFORE YOU ANSWER THE PHONE? I don't answer the phone. I don't even have the ringer on. 11. FUTURE CHILD'S NAME: Not applicable. 12. WHAT IS MOST IMPORTANT IN LIFE? Sleep. 13. CHOCOLATE OR VANILLA? VANILLA! VANILLAVANILLAVANILLA. 14. DO YOU LIKE TO DRIVE FAST? Yes yes yes yes. 15. DO YOU SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ANIMAL? Yes. 16. STORMS - COOL OR SCARY? Cool until I lived in the tornado belt; now I'm irrevocably scarred and tend to get scared. 17. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR? 1977 Ford XLT tan/brown farm truck bought from a gay construction worker who subsequently went to prison before I could get the title sorted out. 18. IF YOU COULD MEET ONE PERSON DEAD OR ALIVE? Cataline. 19. FAVORITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK? Jack Daniels. 20. WHAT IS YOUR STAR SIGN? Leo 21. DO YOU EAT THE STEMS OF BROCCOLI? Yeah, strip 'em and eat the succulant innards 22. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY JOB WHAT WOULD IT BE? Kept woman 23. IF YOU COULD HAVE ANY COLOR HAIR, WHAT WOULD IT BE? I have any color hair. 24. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE? Sure. 25. FAVORITE MOVIES? I don't feel like answering this. 26. DO YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FINGERS ON THE RIGHT HAND? Yes, along with the fingers on my left hand. I type 84 wpm accurately and need all the fingers I can get. 27. WHAT'S UNDER YOUR BED? Boxes of books and two cats. 28. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE NUMBER? 37 29. FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH? NASCAR 30. WHAT IS YOUR SINGLE BIGGEST FEAR? Not telling 31. FAVE CD? I have to smack the person who just said "fave." That aside, I'm torn between LMF's Crazy Children and my funk mix. 32. KETCHUP OR MAYONNAISE? Mayo since I have to pick one of these two. 33. HAMBURGERS OR HOT DOGS? Or? What is "or?" I want them both, each with extra meat items as toppings. 37. FAVORITE SOFT DRINK? Cream soda. 38. THE BEST PLACE YOU HAVE EVER BEEN? I guess it's a tie between San Francisco and Savannah, except I wouldn't want to live in San Francisco. ---- I'm feeling sad for Marilyn Monroe tonight. Saturday, June 19, 2004
Yarrrr I can't believe I'm watching Fox Sports Net on purpose. I. Am watching. A sports channel. (Ooh, darts coming on now - do they have competitive eating on this channel too?) Wait, I watch bullriding and billiards all the time, never mind. (Last time I played darts was the first time I played darts. Geoff Cooper, who doesn't drink, put me in his basement with a bottle of Jack and two dogs, and, once I was so crosseyed drunk that I actually asked to please NOT drink any more, he said, "Wanna play darts?" ... aside: tonight, obsessing over obsession now that I've spent three full days trying to avoid here I mentioned to Robert that it sucked that I could get obsessed with anydamnthing - crocheting the Perfect Scarf, knotting the Perfect String of Pearls, finding The Perfect Bombshell Ensemble, whatever - but can't get obsessed about, um, exercise. He pointed out that it's because I only get obsessed with something that catches my fancy and that, on my first attempt, is shown to be a goal/project I can complete perfectly. He's absolutely right: I don't like doing anything unless there's some sign of aptitude at the outset. I don't do exercise perfectly, I do it sloppily - I want to be Cirque de Soleiling around, but I'm too weak or inflexible to do what I'd like right away. Impatient, me? Yes. When Mark Average Cabbageball was teaching me to play drums, he would show me something, and then go upstairs. I would happily sit in the basement until I had mastered it. Only then would I let him come back downstairs and see that I'd done right. Anyway, I was jovially pissed with Geoff for making me try something new - worse, something competitive - when I had no chance at perfection. I had very little chance of standing up, actually. Yes, only a really hardcore motherfucker would give someone who'd had nearly a liter of Jack... SHARP PROJECTILES. You realize that a high-five gone awry lacerated Robert's fucking eyeball once, yes? And I had no weapons at the time, certainly none that I was expected to fling. I flung the fuckers and that was about it. Geoff explained rules and numbers but I was concentrating on standing upright and not hurting him/the dogs/myself/the remainder of the bottle.) Sports channels: Speed Channel doesn't count. But I watched the FSN tonight to see if anyone mentioned why the hell Kasey Kahne qualified 34th. That's bad, but Jeff Gordon at the pole is so, so much worse. Kasey: during Daytona, I was signing my sig sheets for the DAMNED anthology. The next weekend, I watched the race, and all systems were normal, until Bill's shoefiller woke my ass up. The next week, the same son of a bitch did it again. I was very excited by this point. The NEXT week, I was all over him, and he slipped to, gasp, 3rd. Monday I looked up this Kahne chap and discovered that he was a 23-yr-old prettyboy, and was conflicted. Consulted with the Goldberg. She said all was well. Since then, Kasey's been a tease and a half. He comes SO CLOSE some weeks, so close that I have to put my tea glass down because I realize I'm squeezing it near the shatter point. Other weeks, eh, he turns left. I have a theory about this Sunday but I have to keep it to myself, because I'm such bad, bad luck, according to Robert. However, my theory makes me feel bad, because Sunday's Father's Day, and Dad's a HARDCORE Jeff Gordon fan. Crap. Tonight I spent sick, obscene, weep-inducing amounts of money ($100!!!) at the grocery store, and stomped around furious that Healthy Food (wheat bread, fresh vegetables, etc) cost so goddamn much money (I could get started on this whole class-war thing, but won't) - then made the Best Soup Ever. Unfortunately, though I am a soup addict, no one I know likes soup. No one, certainly, likes brown/wild rice-broccoli-cream-blue cheese soup with chicken base, no matter how fucking good it is. I'm a great cook. I'd write a recipe book if I had any idea what measurements I used. I learned on the "enough" vs. "not quite enough" system. My written measurements, after inventing something kickass, are all guesswork. My "palmful" translates as "uh, a quarter cup?" on paper. "Generous swath of white pepper. Splap of minced garlic. Wild rice, however much looks good to you, what, 2 tablespoons, maybe. Three. I don't care. You're eating it." Right, so I'll eat the Best Soup Ever all by myself for the next four days. Oh, to be clear: it wasn't hunnert-dolla soup, I bought a LOT of shit. I did not, however, buy pig ears, so the dogs hate me. ps. Why isn't there a "What 'Deadwood' Character are You?" quiz? I'd really like to know. I bet I'm Jane, but I wouldn't be suprised if I got Doc or Bill, either. Hell, as judgemental and full of moral rage and conflict as I am, I might well turn out as Bulloch. I NEED A QUIZ! I need to be identified.  Redneck Bear Which Dysfunctional Care Bear Are You? brought to you by Quizilla NO fucking shit.  You are: Angry eyes. Chill out dude! No need to be so pissed! Sure life's tough, but you gotta deal. You're one hell of an ass-kicker and never let anyone get close to you. What type of eyes do you have? brought to you by Quizilla Stupid fucking quiz. Correct, but stupid. (Results edited for spelling. Tony has called me "Betty Davis Eyes," for years but that's neither here nor there.) DEADWOOD QUIZ, STAT. Friday, June 11, 2004
''Young people, don't hate sex,'' First off: There's this. If we go on the understanding that the above is 100% factual (which we won't, correct? Correct?) - that's very distressing. But, I then consider certain Japanese entertainment: Psycho TV and more... And: "Consider the Million-Yen Challenge eating contests, where contestants face down a conveyer belt of food. Culinary delights include a block of ice accompanied by an ice pick and the "gigantic sushi of doom" -- between the rice and the fish lies a slab of wasabi, the hot green mustard that makes you feel like you've taken said ice pick and shoved it up your nose. On another game show, a sweaty, damp, fat guy (hapless fat guy equals funny across cultures, it seems) flew to Hong Kong to ingest massive amounts of herbal laxatives, then returned to Japan. His mission? To knock on people's doors to see if they would let him use the toilet. The poor sap didn't make it, though, and had a little accident in the car coming back from the airport. Finally, a show seemingly about the perils of baths ("The fourth leading cause of death amongst the elderly: hot baths!") features bikini'd young things squealing as they step into clear vats of scalding water. The longer they stay in, the longer their company gets to hawk their goods on the air. So as Yuriko screeches and writhes about enticingly, the commentators say helpful things like, "Look how red her skin is getting! I bet her boss is proud of her!" (No references given for verification, of course, so who knows if that's true, but here's the source of my cut/paste.) And, of course, Boong-Ga Boong-Ga (I forgot what it was called, so I had the distinct pleasure of googling for "Japan butt finger arcade game.") Here's some promotional material. Admire the list of spankable characters. If you're too lazy for it to load, they are: Ex-Girlfriend, Ex-boyfriend, Gangster, Mother-in-law, Gold digger, Prostitute, Con Artist, and... Child Molester. ("Spank 'em?" Must mean something a little different in Japan, since you POKE the ass with a pointy finger thingie. This is definitely something to keep in mind when I have a birthday in Tokyo. The spanking for good behavior is going to get someone's nose broken, methinks.) Anyway, this is a lazy, slapdash grab of info as I somewhat idly noodled on these poor no-sex-having Japanese folks. Say WE had poke-the-child-molester-in-the-ass arcade games and laxative-overdose game shows and boobly shows, and shows wherein people get on treadmills with troughs under them to catch their dripping sweat (he who drips most wins! Win extra money if you drink it AND THE OTHER PEOPLE'S SWEAT!) I think I'd lose a lot of interest in sex, myself, if that were the case. Actually, the sex part isn't what unnerves me about the article - it's the vision of hordes of young men locked in their rooms for weeks on end, while kawaii-impassioned 30somethings shop themselves into bits. I'm sad because there's grave danger over there, if the article is even partly true. And I'm sad because CRY OF THE LOSING DOGS is hella kickass title and I didn't think of it myself. Novel goes on untitled, then. LOOSE THE CRYING DOGS?
The OTHER Dog Meat We're fast approaching That Time of Year Again. Matt "was-Obsidian, now ain't" Johnson brought this to my attention yesterday. HUGE KOBAYASHI!!!! Takeru my heru. The wall's ugly as all hell, though. I was hoping for something more kitschy than that. Oh, well. I'm a wee smidgeon concerned by the fact that Nobuyuki Shirota won the Tokyo qualifier for 7/4/04 with a measly 31 dogs. I assume that our bearer of the Mustard Belt doesn't have to qualify. I mean, he's on the WALL. He's the TSUNAMI. World record holder for speed-consumption of cow brains, people. 57 cow brains in 15 minutes. Did you SEE that? It was so fucking cool. He waved for another plate. WAVED FOR ANOTHER PLATE. More brains. *Swoon.*  You didn't care for anybody else, and it was your downfall. Halfway through, you thought you could make it better on your own and split off from the group, but the jokes on you...because you're dead...because the zombie ate you... How fast would you die in a cheesy zombie flick? brought to you by Quizilla Fucking quizzes, I'm starting to hate them. They're always right. Quizzes suck. They're not funny when they're right. Here's cute dog fangs:  I go back to work tomorrow and can't sleep tonight. Typical. Just like a Sunday. Went to the (gasp) mall to buy LIQUOR and bought a blender instead by accident. This caused, due to my never having owned a blender before, a spate of Blending. Coffee drinks, yogurt/raspberry drinks, salsa, THE WORLD'S BEST GUACAMOLE (my dear god, it was killer), taquitos, probably other stuff - I forget. But now I have to go BACK to the bloody mall to buy the book. Le feh. The new TCM sucks, sucks, sucks. I should have known, but some people said it was better than they expected, so I gave it a shot. I had to watch the original TCM immediately thereafter to clean the bad taste from my brain. I want my money back. I'm trying to bore myself to sleep, and I'm taking you all with me. Monday, June 07, 2004
Cop Movie Disco The cops are being silly. They keep driving all over town in this giant snake of vehicles, all lit up and sirens a'howling. I don't know WHY they're doing this - drills? Testing routes & driver behavior - ie, are we going to pull over like we're supposed to? But it's cute. A real bitch to go buy cigarettes, but cute anyway. The fucking newspaper had an article on how to HIT ON foxy foreigners. Body language goes a long way in the discourse of Love. Screw that. If you're going to hit on anybody, why not hit on one of these fine lawmen? Lawsy, they're hot. Anyway, the town's a ghost town. NOBODY's here. Just me and the cops. Quite strange. There are a few people here, including a number of hapless tourists who had no idea that G8 was coming, because the national news either didn't touch on it, or didn't mention Savannah's involvement. The summit itself is on Sea Island, but the media and law enforcement are living here. One funny thing - I've made eye contact with damn near everyone I've passed recently. We're ALL staring at each other. What's in the bag, guy? Why are you looking at the bridge kinda funnylike, fella? Hey, fucker who just ran the red light, who you running from? Run from ME, beyotch, now is not the time to be a dick traffic-wise. (Savannah is FULL of dicks on the road. Dicks and idiots. My life dream is to be motherfucking Traffic Fascist, in charge of ALL drivers. These past few weeks I've been tempted to keep a box of bottles & rocks in my passenger seat to wing at the windshields of idiots/assholes - they need more punishment than a honk of the horn's going to give them. I have a concealed-carry permit but my road rage is SO FUCKING BAD that I won't drive with my gun. Argh.) Last night there was something a little odd in the air - distant storms, I guess. Heat lightning, I assume. I sat out back at 2am with Krueger, who was behaving a bit strangely. There were intermittent flashes. There were some booms now and then, but they were more... compact than thunder. Krueg sat pressed next to me and watched the sky. We were very quiet. When the helicopters came over us, he licked me. Odd, sweet little half hour in the back yard. The palmetto bugs have been assaulting me in my home. Fuckers. I don't have any murder spray so I just have to bludgeon them to death. One ran over my fingers while I was typing the other night. Fuckers. Today we have a sign-in/out sheet at the office. I'd thought it was so the receptionist would more easily be able to see who was here and who wasn't. Nope. It's for AID IN IDENTIFYING OUR BODIES IF WE GET BLOWN UP. I'm the redhead with tattoos and shitty dental work. If you find a body part with a bruise on it, it's mine. Sunday, June 06, 2004
Fiddling Drove downtown tonight, and I have to say, it's FUCKING RAD to see hordes of heavily-armed, uniformed people all over. Military Hummers loaded with dudes with HUGE guns, helicopters swarming, camo squads here, threatening dudes in tight black uniforms there; every fifth vehicle I saw was either military or law. I had "Car Wash" blasting as I drove. Right before we left the house, I almost hit the deck, before realizing the explosive concussions I was hearing were the fireworks that end the baseball game at the field three blocks away. I came home, called mom, told her about the gun dudes, and told her I might not be coming home after all - yeah, terrorists MIGHT kill us all, but I really would love to stay and be a part of this. By "be a part of this" I mean "sit at home, play with muddy dogs, drink beer, and watch the Reno 911 marathon." Friday, June 04, 2004
Slavering Beasties Got THE DOBERMAN GANG on video today; can't wait to watch tonight. Been years since I've seen it. Foxy: craploads of uniforms downtown. Shewee. Everyone here is saying the same thing with regard to next week: we don't know what might happen, we're expecting anything (including nothing - well, aside from horrible traffic) and we're just going to wing it. Tony plans to just stay at the bar the whole time, like they all do over St. Patrick's weekend. It's just easier to sleep there than to close up and come home at 7am, then come back at 3 to get the order in & stock, when we're truly anticipating traffic being a tremendous hassle (seeing as they're closing half the streets and changing the other half into one-ways, etc, we KNOW that'll be the case.) I was considering taking the dogs to Sylentwood for a few days, but my car's suspension needs to be checked, and I know THAT ain't gonna happen anytime soon, so I'm not sure if I want to drive. Hmm. Got to write a story. Ciao. Thursday, June 03, 2004
Awww Nice day, so far. 1. We're under a state of emergency. Rad! 2. I was told today that I could leave town if I wanted to, instead of having to stay for G8. 3. Immediately upon hearing that (I'd been "essential personnel" but now they don't want anyone to stay if we aren't comfortable doing so) I, contrary cow that I am - I, who have been making bitter cracks about deserving hazard pay since we're forced to stay - I now almost WANT to stay. Part o' history, hose down hippies, sweep up glass and board up windows after protesters smash 'em, etc. 4. Not so nice - well, nice, but a bummer: my mom suprised me by calling to say I had a little inheritance money from my grandmom. It's very hard to accept a gift and not be able to say thank you. Anyway, now I really DO get to go to Horrorfind. 5. On Dogs With Jobs today, for the second day in a row, they featured working-lines GSDs, yay! It's awesome how typey they are, and how Eike fits the type to a T. (They keep calling them "Czech Shepherds" on TV, which is a copout I've used myself to ward off the "That doesn't look like a German Shepherd to me." Eike's half German and half Czech, but they're all GSDs. 6. Went to a Pretty Dress store. Fell in love with a Pretty Dress and, thanks to my grandmom, I was able to buy it. I asked Tony if it was too whorey. He said, "You're too angry to ever be whorey. Whores are inviting." This is possibly the coolest thing anyone's ever said to me. 7. Since we haven't gone out to dinner since Valentine's, Tony took me out for lobster and filet mignon tonight. Lobster: forgot how good it was; haven't had it since my 22nd birthday. Steak: made me forget the lobster. 8. Went to Lowe's to buy a dryer belt so I can fix ours tomorrow. Found an employee man. Said, "Do y'all sell dryer belts?" He said, "Garter belts?" They did sell dryer belts - one. One belt. Glad the fuckers are pretty much universal. Glad it was only five bucks. 9. Got my fear-on at the house; someone was clogging upstairs, then tired of it and walked across the floor. I went up there (in my teddy, natch) with the monster maglite and cleared the premises, but for a minute, I was genuinely creeped out. 10. Robert loaned me his movie rentals - I had time to watch one. BIG FISH looks a little wonder-filled and sparkly, so CLUB DREAD it is. So far it's no SUPER TROOPERS but entertaining enough. (Entertaining enough for me to blog while it's on, yeah.) Thing is, I keep expecting Johnny Fairplay to show up. That's... unusual. So this is THURSDAY! Good to make up for lost time, since yesterday I fell asleep at 8pm and spent the night in a coma. Lost a whole day. Screw Wednesdays, anyway.
What is that sound? Don't tell me that the first movie that's spooked me in years is CLUB DREAD. Nah, it's on pause. Sounds, before, of fast stomping, then plain footsteps - were they upstairs? Were they in the soundtrack and, since the subwoofer's in my couch, that's why I felt the house move with the footsteps? It's quiet now - but the movie's on pause. What if a person upstairs waits, and will move again when I turn the movie on? Let's see, shall we? I shall now rewind to see if there is upstairs stomping again. Lick ear, hey, boobs - critter with dick... play. Noope. No footsteps in the movie. Crap. So, - what was that? You know what, fuck this. I'm going to make the rounds of the house real quick. |
