Older stuff moved somewhere else because the page was getting quite absurdly long, and how much narcissistic, poorly-written self-pity can you take in one sitting? Also, I'm not particularly thrilled with the new color scheme, either. Suggestions are welcome.
Walked out of my apartment, and almost smacked the cat in the nose with the screen door. I can't believe it's owners were so cruel as to toss it out on such a cold morning. Not that I would leave it wandering around my place all day, so I left it out on the porch.
What?
It's fun reading Republican's comments about the Presidential Debate last night, as they squirm around how Dubya said Mexico should be an alternative to foreign oil interests. Hearing him say "big foreign oil" the last few weeks has been fun, but that. . .
What a maroon.
So there's this black cat that wanders around the back of my apartment building. Scared the heck out of me the first night I was here, when it jumped onto the kitchen window sill, right next to the back porch.
It's not a stray. Its fur is in good shape, and it's not terribly thin. Besides that, it actually trusts people. Or I just have Cat Slave engraved on my forehead.
Let the thing in the apartment for a bit this evening. It wandered around like it owned the place, rubbed against every corner it could scent-marking the area, and curled up on the living room rug as if it had every intention of staying.
Charming little creature. Anyone got a suggestion for a name?
And the Austen 3:16 gag only makes sense if you have a copy of Jane Austen's Emma around for reference. Sorry.
It's a beautiful day. Really. About 80, low humidity, slight breeze. One would almost think this was a nice place to live.
After dragging my feet (and scraping the disks) for the last month or so, I finally got new brake pads put on the Toy van. It's been shrieking like a banshee for weeks; that's why I rented a car to head back to Illinois on Labor Day. All this time, I've been worried that it was something major, that I'd have to drop yet another couple hundred to keep the ancient rustbucket on the road, that the shop would have to keep it for days trying to find parts
and it cost forty bucks, and took a half hour.
Maybe I worry too much.
Wandered around outside waiting for 'em to finish working on it. Why is there a theater called Suburban World when it's inside the Minneapolis city limits?
Any road up, like I said before, I'm growing my hair out. Before it's ready for dreads, though, there's an intermediate period of looking plain jacked up.
This teaches the value of patience.
Addendum: Ebert & Roeper and the Movies? When did that happen? Richard Roeper seems like a nice guy and all, but he's no Gene Siskel. The banter just ain't the same. Maybe because him and Ebert both work for the same paper so there isn't that rivalry thing going, or because Roeper is younger and way less experienced, but the chemistry is not there. Well, guess Ebert knows what he's doing.
Oh, and I got the Projekt Records sampler and Black Tape for a Blue Girl t-shirt (which is, um, black) I ordered. I am not a Goth. Just thought I'd repeat that. To be on the safe side. Because I'm not.
So tomorrow, bright and early, I'm going to go to one of them little used car lots, and buy me a junky old '75 Grand Prix or something similar. Some huge, heavy old hunk of junk
And then me and the Minnesotans, we're gonna play Carmageddon.
Driving to work today, a woman on a bike rode across the street while I was waiting to make a right turn. And she should have, because she had the green. And in human societies, those of us behind the wheels of large, dangerous machinery yield the right of way to people. It's common courtesy.
And some old, white, male, asshole, wearing a suit and driving an S.U.V. (forgive me for being redundant) honked at me for waiting.
The van wouldn't have survived being thrown into reverse and slammed into him, and he might not even have been that seriously injured.
Clearly, I need something larger.
Maybe with a flame thrower. Oh, and an in-dash cd player, and some good speakers. Something to drown out the screaming
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
And oops. Meant to include that yesterday. Couldn't hurt, might help.
Managed to forget about Jessica's radio show again this week. Wednesday from noon to 2 Eastern, on WMBC. This is not difficult to remember. I just suck is all.
Jessica is one of the very few people I met on the 'net before meeting in what's still quaintly referred to as Real Life by some of us old relics. Unlike most of the other people, she was not a 5'7" redhead.
Considered ordering the DVD of Vision of Escaflowne from AnimeVillage, since they include an offer for a pack of Tarot cards like the ones used in the show. Then I realized I already have two packs of Tarot cards, and don't really need a third.
Then I wondered why the hell I have two packs of Tarot cards.
If it helps, one is Dave McKean's beautiful, painted Vertigo set.
Maybe I should just shut up now.
Perhaps you have a better sound card than I, and this will sound decent on your computer. But perhaps not.
Think I've realized the problem.
We're all bored to tears.
Seems odd, given the number of entertainment options available, the vast amount of information within easy access on any topic you'd care to mention, the sheer variety in appearance you can witness walking down the street of even a city the size of Minneapolis. . . but there it is. You see a few overblown action movies, read a couple of articles on Chinese foot binding, watch a handful of people walk by with intricate series of piercings and tattoos (find your own links for those, people), and it just becomes routine.
Or maybe I'm just speaking of me.
Received the usual contradictory directives at work, but this time pointed out that they were, in fact, contradictory. Wacky hijinks ensue.
Sweet creeping Zombie Jesus. Wrestling, comics and anime? Geek shite indeed.
The people responsible for such things at my job designed a way of handling classes up to 99 pages. Some troublemaking Negro then turned in a 115-page script, causing much wailing and gnashing of tooth.
I don't do these things on purpose. Honest. Only someone who really hated them would sit around thinking up ways to make their lives miserable.
Got an e-mail message from Jamie, from an Internet café in Ghana. Everyone gets to run wild across the planet but me.
Geek shite: added height and width attributes to the Prostitution & Drug Watch Area image on the main page, and copied the file to Earthlink's server instead of pulling it from Photo.net.
Mr. Greenspun doesn't have a problem with linking to his files like that, but I'm just too old-school to feel comfortable with it. And before you ask, the W3C images are a different case. I figure they're collecting information on what browsers are hitting them for their own, nefarious purposes, and who am I to interfere with the New World Order?
The Static Shock! premiere is this morning on Kids WB. Since a couple of the Milestone founders are involved with the project, including Dwayne McDuffie, co-writer of the first few issues of the comic, it should be good. Here's hoping, anyway.
Detailed reports on the differences between the Fox Kids version of Escaflowne and the original are available, if you're insterested in that sort of thing. Apparently, children in North America must be protected from the sight of blood, psychotic behavior and schoolgirl crushes. There's a dissertation in there somewhere. . .
Ten years later, and Twin Peaks holds up pretty well. There's a DVD of Fire Walk With Me in production, but it may or may not include the (apparently ton of) deleted scenes. More information, and what you can do to help, at the previous link.
Normally I'd figure the studios would ignore fan requests, but after Buena Vista changed their minds on including the Japanese soundtrack on Princess Mononoke, I've revised that opinion.
Wish they'd update that official web site, though. They make me look like good in that respect, and I suck.
Russian, actually. I thought it looked like something from India meself. Just goes to show, don't it?
Re-reading Alan Moore and David Lloyd's V for Vendetta. There's something to learn from the fiction of dystopian futures. We're living in one, after all.
Flying cars? Sorry, squire, is an Apache attack helicopter all right?
Apache. Christ. You'll notice that living European ethnic groups generally escape the indignity of having machines named after them. Ford Italian? The new Chevrolet Frenchman? Not gonna happen. But Jeep Cherokee? That's fine.
Oh, and mutter mutter Black woman on the cover of Newsweek and Time the same week, it must be the Olympics, mutter mutter mutter. I'm sure you can fill in the missing bits, it's so damned predictable there's not much point bothering to write it out.
Read about the police attacking nonviolent demonstrators, in Melbourne this time. Strange, how the cops never try to bust heads at, say, an NRA rally. "Police, Gun Nuts Clash, Dozens Killed" isn't a headline you'll see any time soon.
Which is a shame. Every time one of that lot gets bumped off, the average intelligence of the entire planet goes up.
You're wondering if I mean the gun nu- excuse me, weapons enthusiasts or the police?
Yes.
So I went for a walk down Nicollet.
Last time I went strolling down Hennepin at night, a woman offered me condoms. There are several possible reasons for this, none of which I care to consider in any depth.
Three (white) bicycle cops stopped a Black guy for no apparent reason. Sorry, I just said he was Black.
One of them said, paraphrasing, "Let me explain this, since your daddy didn't train you. When a police officer tells you to stop, you stop." Sound of metal - I think they cuffed him - and the sound of plastic on concrete as his lighter hit the ground.
Maybe this was a non-smoking section of the street.
They surrounded him with their bikes while the one gave the lecture, forming a triangle around him.
I stopped and stared at them for a moment, and they didn't even acknowledge my presence. Which just proves how arrogant and ignorant they were.
I was wearing a jacket. There could have been anything under it. If I were armed, I could quite easily have killed all three of them before they had a chance to react.
The thought crossed my mind.
Pity I hate guns. Perhaps I should work on that.
What's a penny made of?
Dirty copper.
I'm having a breakthrough day.
Got a call from the tax collector, looking for someone living in Minnesota with my generic name, but a different social security number. Really, that's the sort of thing I didn't need to know. Although I'm sure I would find out eventually. . .
Am almost done with Octavia Butler's Xenogenesis trilogy. It's been a while since I got through an entire novel, much less three. This would be a good thing if the time had been spent doing something productive instead.
Ah well. I shall learn enough Japanese to make it worthwhile to visit in a year. I shall also have dreads by then.
Have been told I'm writing as if I expect intelligent, curious students. Or rather, have been reminded that the audience I'm writing for has a low level of education, limited computer skills and no patience. They don't want to take the class, so give them the bare minimum, presented in a fashion that won't go over the heads of the slowest person in the room.
I'm thinking of suggesting they change the name of the company from University.com to, say, Community-College.com. Or Really-Fucking-Sad-Public-School-System.com. Am feeling snarky, which means I should not try to correct things now. Everything will read as though it were written by snarky Negro. I doubt this is the desired effect.
The other likely outcome, writing something I think is an over-the-top parody of a simplified lesson, something that would insult the intelligence of a paramecium, would probably get someone telling me that that's more like it, and make the rest of them just like that one.
I expect the police would subdue me eventually.
Sometimes, I'm asked why I seem so angry. I'm not, usually. But if I was, this would be one of the reasons why.
Bought a beautiful kitchen table at Ikea over the weekend. Now I just have to assemble the thing. . .
Not that I actually understand Japanese, mind you.
I have decided to try a new outlook on life. Think of me as a visitor from an isolationist, Third World country with almost native speaker English proficiency, but very limited understanding of the culture. Um, except for the walking pop culture encyclopedia stuff, but we can chalk that up to pirate tv and radio.
I figure this will explain me asking obvious questions and the constant gaffes. What do you expect from them foreigners?
Although my native informant was unable to tell me anything about the Guinness Oyster Festival. At this point, I'm guessing it's some pagan ritual involving the worship of decent beer and an obscene mollusk god.
Oh, calm the fuck down.
What's the word for when you really like somebody, and they feel the same way about you, and they'd probably sleep with you if you asked them but you know you'd both feel really shitty about it afterwards because they're seeing someone else, so you don't?
There isn't one?
Wonder how that fits into the strong form of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis?
Say what you will, the O.D.B. is a genius. Or just seriously fucked in the head. Who are we to judge?
Now, Flavor Flav, there's no question. Fucked in the head. Definitely.
Monster headache when I left work today. This may have been caused by:
Or I just need to get out more.
Can't find faux kente cloth wrapping paper here. Must not be trying hard enough. Oh well, looks like I'm giving tacky unwrapped birthday gifts again. At least I didn't buy the present in front of the recipient this time. . .
Is there such a thing as "People Skills for Dummies"? Because I'd really appreciate a copy.
Driving down the side streets for once, and saw a group of girls jumping double dutch. I might have seen that before while I've been up here, but don't remember it. The only thing that bothers me is, all of the girls were Black. I'd like to think neighborhoods aren't segregated. I'd like to think we've been in this fucking country long enough that maybe, just maybe, there's been some cultural exchange. Not appropriation, exchange. But I'm good at denial.
Wonder if the African-American community up here plays "Duck Duck Goose" like everyone else on the planet, or if they've adopted the local, effed-up variant "Duck Duck Grey Duck". . .
Anyway, check out Blu Magazine. Interviews with Geronimo Pratt and Assata Shakur, among other things. You should know who these people are. And who Dhoruba Bin Wahad is. Ignorance of your culture does not make you cool. And it is your culture. And mine. Ours. You may not like all of it, but do you really think I do either?
Am very worried that I'm the only person in my workplace who knows who any of those individuals are. Or what double dutch is. Asking about Maze featuring Frankie Beverly got me a bunch of blank stares Friday. Hell, I think I'm the only male there who wears earrings. It's not an environment I feel comfortable in.
Which is why I still have Illinois plates on the van, and why there's really no furniture in the apartment, and why I'd prefer to have a six month lease rather than the year-long one I had to sign to get the place.
Ready to bail at a moment's notice. Just waiting for someone to say the wrong fucking thing.
So. Dick Cheney and South Africa. In explaining his vote against a resolution calling on the then-government to release Nelson Mandela from prison, Mr. Cheney stated that at the time, the A.N.C. was considered a terrorist organization.
Republicans love that Agentless Passive construction. Wasn't it Tricky Dick Nixon what said, "mistakes were made?"
Anyway, this begs the question: the A.N.C. was considered a terrorist organization by whom? The white minority government? The people of Mr. Cheney's district? Mr. Cheney himself? In removing the by phrase from the sentence, Mr. Cheney manages to remove himself from the equation, in a statement which supposedly explains his actions.
And here I thought Republicans were all about personal responsibility.
All mouth and trousers is what they are.
One day, I will find the Minnesotan who put a nail through my van tire. I will say to him, "Hello. My name is Aaron Hawkins. You killed my tire. Prepare to die."
I have transcended salty. I am become salt. I am Lot's wife.
Tally of action figures sitting on my desk at work: the aforementioned Death, Quistis and Mace Windu, along with a Sporty Spice doll my charming younger sister gave me for Christmas, and a Jesse Ventura doll that Kathleen and Lisa sent me, and which I have yet to exact Terrible Revenge for. Although you could count giving them the first volume of Anime Village's sub of Vision of Escaflowne as revenge, since it convinced them to buy the second volume, and then to order the entire series. Buy.com dragged their feet on sending the order enough that I just loaned them my copy of the box set, though.
The Fox Kids! version will be rebroadcast this Friday, if you missed it over the weekend. As rumor had it, they did start with episode two, with a brief flashback to the action sequence in the first ep., Van fighting the dragon. The boring girls stuff has been cut out, as has all of the blood (and there was quite a bit).
Mind you, if conventional wisdom in the U.S. holds true, and exposing children to violence and homosexuality leads them to become violent and homosexual, and gun control laws don't work, then Japan (and much of the civilized world) should be incredibly dangerous places, consisting of 90% queers.
This does not appear to be the case.
Although it's hard to tell, as the media in this country rarely covers events outside the United States. Front page stories on the last episode of "Survivor" though. I must work on suffering fools gladly. I think that constitutes the majority of people skills around these parts.
Quarter of six on a Monday morning and I'm at work.
Needless to say, I'm not happy.
One could say this is a result of my own failure to budget my time wisely.
One could die in any of several, excruciatingly painful ways. One should probably keep one's fucking mouth shut, if one knows what's good for one.
Problem that I mentioned about a month ago (when the crackers blew me off) has, of course, returned to bite me in the ass. Luckily, I was told it wasn't a problem, so my belief that it is, probably owes to my genetic intellectual inferiority.
Am blasting the loudest, most offensive music I have with me, in the hopes of inducing a heart attack in the first of my co-workers to arrive. Then I'll set a knife up by the body, so the next person who comes in stumbles over the corpse and impales themselves on it, and then. . .
You know, perhaps I should take a vacation soon.
Quarter of six on a Sunday night and I'm at work.
Needless to say, I'm not happy.
Unless something unexpectedly wonderful happens between now and eight tomorrow morning, I'll probably not be happy most of Monday, either. Which means that if anyone looks over the brain-meltingly stupid script I'm working on and has any, ah, unsolicited, non-constructive criticism to offer, I might just tell them exactly what I think of them, this state, and anything else that comes to mind.
These people seem shocked, shocked! when someone says fuck.
They just don't know. In a sufficiently shitty mood, I use that like a comma. The real swear words I save for emphasis.
A little after 8 now. I've just rearranged the action figures on my desk so Death from Neil Gaiman's Sandman is about to bop Quistis Trepe from Final Fantasy VIII upside the head with Mace Windu's light saber.
Yep, that's probably a bad sign. . .
Just a little after 9. Brief flurry of activity, as the CTO and one of the developers ran in, fixed something, and left. One of the sites went down for some reason. Luckily, this seems to make me look good (Aaron works on Sunday night!) rather than leading them to the more obvious, at least to me, conclusion (Aaron has to work Sunday night, and he's sabotaging the servers as revenge!).
I guess not everyone is as distrustful as I am. What a sad, miserable way to look at life. Wait, no, that's just my low blood sugar talking.
Never mind.
Ten-ish. Went for a walk, and saw four rabbits hopping around.
Rabbits.
Keep in mind, I don't work in the suburbs. This is more-or-less downtown Minneapolis. And there are rabbits. Downtown. Rabbits. No, these concepts do not go together. Like Kosher pork rinds. It just ain't happening.
It occurs to me that I'm meant to turn in a first draft tomorrow. I'd say the scripts as they stand are sufficiently complete, yet crappy, to qualify as first drafts. Perhaps I should just go home now.
Unless the bunnies have eaten the van.
Context is everything.
I've been directed at work that all screen captures of web browsers must be taken using Microsoft Internet Explorer. Fine. Whatever. Writing a lesson on using Windows 98, I made a point of mentioning the Netscape Communicator icon on the desktop, with a note explaining that while the reference could be removed, I just bought a new pair of Doc Marten's and won't feel they're properly broken in until I've kicked some fools's head in.
I'm not worried that someone will take this seriously as a threat. They know perfectly well I'm not paid enough to buy Doc Marten's. . .
Can't shake the feeling I should be doing more with my life than I am now. Honestly, writing lessons on Windows 98? It's meant to be fairly intuitive. It was designed, by people working for the most successful software company on the planet, to be that way. And I've been told the previous lesson I wrote was "too advanced" for the target audience.
Not sat down and told this privately, mind. Not told precisely what was wrong, and which bits could be cut out and how much detail should be included. No, during a department meeting it was mentioned that the lessons weren't appropriate, and would be scrapped. Any time I do ask questions at this point, I either get one-word replies or am ignored entirely. I'm pretty much in fuckit mode at this point, turning out material that I consider to be crap. Stuff I could write in my sleep.
Hell, I think I am writing it in my sleep.
Time to wake up.
Friendly reminder:
Aaron swearing up a blue streak = mildly annoyed and blowing off steam.
Aaron sitting silently and scowling = majorly annoyed and holding it in.
Aaron sitting silently and smiling = I've decided to kill everyone in the room, and am casually deciding who to start with.
Reading rec.arts.anime.misc on USENET (always a mistake), and some twat actually, seriously, used the term "feminazi."
Listen. Idiot. Check the homicide reports for whatever backwater hellhole you live in, and compare the number of women murdered by men (the majority, most likely, by men they knew) as opposed to men killed by women, and tell me who's best deserving of the label "nazi."
Christ. Either they're getting stupider, or I'm getting less tolerant of fools as time goes on. Or, more likely and much more worrying, both.
This Saturday, Fox Kids is going to start airing Vision of Escaflowne, dubbed and edited to make it suitable for an American, male children's audience. The animation is lovely, the music (which apparently has been retained from the original) is fantastic, and the involved, complex story might even be coherent after the cuts. They're getting off to a bad start, though, as the first episode aired will be the second episode of the series. . .
It is not a half-hour toy commercial, it was originally intended to appeal to an older audience of both sexes, and I expect it to fail spectacularly. I would, however, be thrilled to be proven wrong.
Since the apartment had gone beyond "don't want to invite anyone over because it's such a bloody mess" and into "there could be alien life forms hiding in the piles of junk mail stacked on the floor" I spent most of Sunday afternoon hand-shredding checks and credit card offers for more money than I'll make in the next two years, tossing expired coupons welcoming me to the neighborhood, and finding, among other things, calling cards from U.S. West and Sprint, and my old video cards from when I lived up here before, tucked away in what passes for my personal organizer.
Thought I'd tossed those things, in a Luke-Skywalker-selling-his-landspeeder, "never coming back here again" fit of cleaning when I moved out of the old place down the street. Useless mild precognition, anyway. Can I get some winning lottery numbers or decent stock tips, please?
Haven't dusted, despite the layer of grit over everything in the living room, because the city still hasn't got 'round to re-paving my street. Every time a car goes by or the wind picks up in the least, a cloud of dust drifts in the window. I'd rather be slightly cool and dirty than hot and marginally less dirty, thankyouverymuch, so I've not closed the window. But what a brilliant suggestion. You're so much cleverer than I.
You should mourn the passing of Forum 2000, as do all good people, if for no other reason than that they offered a better explanation of Finite State Machines than my CS professor at U of I did.
It's remarkable how Barbie, the Powerpuff Girls and a Teletubby make it all seem so simple.
On the other hand, it's amazing how many developers I've run into working in The Corporate World who apparently never had an instructor inform them that the correct response to "Did you test this?" is not, under any circumstances other than a desire to die, "It compiled."
Note to employers outside the Twin Cities: if an applicant tells you he (as far as I can tell, they don't admit women [or people of color]) attended Brown Institute, close the interview immediately and call security. Trust me on this one. I've not met one of their graduates yet that I'd trust to install a screensaver properly.
Odd, how society seems to be moving in both directions at once. Anyone else looking forward to the debates between young women who grew up with the new, more-human-proportioned Barbie and young men who grew up with Lara Croft?
Race war? Pah. Everyone is going to look Puerto Rican in a few generations. Gender conflict is where the sparks are going to fly.
Can't come up with anything witty to say about pale, flabby men complaining about "fat AOL chicks," because at some point the Universe itself becomes so absurd that satire becomes impossible. Or at least people are so flat-out dumb that there's no way to parody them.
On second thought, replace "people" with "men" in that last sentence.
On third thought, include post-menopausal Republican women expressing their opposition to abortion. Or do they fall under "men" in this instance?
Sorry. Presidential election years bring out the worst in me.
So, yesterday I was notified that some scripts I wrote explaining The Internet for Real Estate Agents were at too high a level for the intended audience. Since I'd already dumbed things down to the point where even a moderately evolved primate could understand them, while trying not to oversimplify to the point of misrepresenting things or omitting tangential, but interesting information, I'm not certain how they're meant to be rewritten. I asked if I should just hit myself over the head with a baseball bat first. Perhaps serious brain damage will help me understand what's expected of me better.
And, from my lips to God's ears, walking to the van later I got a sudden, very painful headache, and pretty purple spots started wandering over my field of vision. Funny, Instant Karma never kicks in when I say or do something nice. Perhaps there is a lesson here. Or maybe I should just get a CAT scan.
Oh, and Cynthia Cooper of the Houston Comets rules. Damn shame I won't be able to see most of the playoffs, since I don't have cable. It's economic discrimination against cheap bastards, is what it is.
I know I said I'd be spending this weekend in Minneapolis instead of doing the road trip thang again, but this is soooo cool! Melissa Ferrick is playing at this music festival in Michigan. It's running through Sunday, so I'm gonna head up to that. I don't have a ticket, but it shouldn't be a problem for me to get one at the gate, right?
And the problem with my life is, 99% of the people reading this are going to get the joke immediately...
Anyway, she's doing a show here at 7th Street Entry on the 23rd. Less drama that way.
Bought a SPOOKY squeeking toy today at Big Brain Comics. You may not know what that is now, and Slave Labor Graphics doesn't currently have a description on their site, but soon, my friend, soon. You will know the squeek. And you will know fear.
Walked to the local Hollywood Video to rent Go Fish (but came to my senses at the store and didn't), and as I passed a parked car with some random white chick inside, there was the unmistakable sound of power door locks going down. Amazingly, I did not respond to this all. Must be getting old.
Despite how Tuesday's entry makes it sound, there is no Tower records anywhere near Minneapolis. There is one on Clark, in Chicago, and also the Towering Rose on Wabash (if it's still there; haven't checked lately). Bought the Peter Gabriel cd at the former, and if you don't know why the latter carries that name, ask somebody. Suppose I could re-write the passage for clarity, but I've decided to leave earlier stuff untouched, to make it easier for the doctors to observe the deteriorating state of my mind.
That's not a joke, but you should laugh anyway. It'll make me feel better.
I'm spending this coming weekend in Minneapolis. The road trips are getting out of hand. I've put 2300 miles on the poor wee Toy van since getting the new transmission put in, and I don't think it's very happy about this.
Spent part of Saturday at the lavateria in Karen's hood. Bilingual English-Spanish signs, Univision (with Don Pedro!) on the tele, and also COPS so people could see their relatives while washing clothes. And the cutest little girl wandering around getting into stuff, like Karen's clothes basket, and speaking a language which was neither English nor Spanish as far as we could tell.
And met Mary Cay, who's much too good for Karen but doesn't seem to have figured that out yet, and her friend Wendy, who justgotbackfromtwoyearsinJapanandwasinMinnesotafortwodays and really, really needs to get some sleep, or lay off the drugs, or something. The most wired person I've met in a while, except for Kimberly Murphy on a bad day.
Also saw The Matrix at the IMAX at Navy Pier. I think parking was almost as much as the tickets for the three of us, but what can you do? I'll never complain about the $6 parking charges in downtown Minneapolis again. No, wait, I haven't complained about it before. Never mind.
Spent most of Sunday at Woodfield and the mall formerly known as Yaohan with Karen and Kathleen and Lisa, who furnished further evidence that this year is a test from the Gods. Except for Kathleen, who as usual served as the voice of reason, we all bought way too much Sanrio crap. I swear those people are in cahoots with Lucas in putting some sort of mental control devices in the Polio vaccinations we received as children. Or we're all just suckers for Batz Maru and Hello Kitty.
I feel sorry for Keroppi.
All in all, I had fun. Even if me and Mary Cay did get carded buying a six pack of Blue Moon Belgian White Ale at the White Hen Pantry down the block from the ghetto, liquor-license-less Gino's East on Diversey.
I do think I should try hanging out with straight women at some point. Just to remember what it's like, y'know?
Also spent Friday night at Maul of America looking for an "I (heart) My Van" bumper sticker for Karen. Long story. Did manage to get a new wristband for the lovely Nightmare Before Christmas watch she gave me for, um, Christmas a few years back. And found a copy of the new Peter Gabriel cd at Tower. Seems to be an import only release for those of us in North America, because we suck.
So, me and Anja and Nick were sitting around at Anja's place, about to watch The Freshman (no clue whose idea it was to rent that...), when Nick mentions that it seems like she's a total freak magnet, and doesn't know a single normal person.
Anja and I coughed politely. Nick didn't take the hint. Cheeky moo.
Apparently, the WNBA regular season consists of only sixteen games. Found this out when I heard an announcer on MPR mention that the Minnesota Lynx would be playing their last home games tonight and Sunday. They have two more games on the road, but I blew my chance to see them for the year, unless I want to fly out to Charlotte or Houston.
Was going to make some predictable, trite dig at Minneapolis/Minnesota, mentioning how most teams are named for a city, rather than an entire state, but you're probably as tired of that shite as I am. Perhaps more so.
Note to self: lay off the crack.
I just don't feel angry enough at the world to spew bitterness today. Boring, ennit? Um. You should read Jill Nelson's column at MSNBC. The author of Volunter Slavery: My Authentic Negro Experience has some interesting things to say. You might not agree with all of them, but I don't particularly agree with everything I've ever said either (what the hell was I thinking when I wrote that O.J. entry?).
Any road up, maybe because I'm planning to drive to Chicago again on Saturday, I'm just feeling relaxed and stuff. Don't worry, I'm sure something will happen to piss me off tomorrow, and we'll all be able to find entertainment in my ineffectual, deluded ravings.
Bloody vultures.
Addendum: Thank you, Grand Old Party. Just watched George W.'s acceptance speech before the convention. It's nice to have a focus for your hatred. So, how many prisoners have died because Mr. Buck-Stops-Here Compassionate Conservative allowed them to? That an idiot like that can rise to national prominence is the best/worst demonstration of white male privilege it's ever been my displeasure to witness. Time for Clinton/Gore to go? Fine. No argument there. But why should I replace them with you?
Other than the chance of making Bush and Dick (Cheney) jokes for the next four years, that is?
The theme for this, the last year of the Twentieth Century (yes, it is; don't make me come over there) seems to be transitions. Practically everyone I know has moved or is planning on moving, sometimes just a few blocks, other folks across the country. I expect this is the gods' way of making sure everyone is in the proper location for Whatever Effed-Up Stuff is Coming Next.
Heard that the Republican vice-presidential candidate, Dick Cheney, voted against a (pretty much purely symbolic) resolution calling on the apartheid government of South Africa to release Nelson Mandela, back in the day. He's given a half-hearted, no, sorry, it wasn't even an apology. He gave a justification for doing it, and to be honest, it wasn't a very good one. Guess I'll check out the Nader/LaDuke position papers. . .
After only living here about four months, I finally moved some boxes into my storage locker in the basement of my apartment building. A small, symbolic step, but a positive one. I think.
Last time I was in the Chicago area, discounting the drive through on the way to Urbana last weekend, was on April First. I remember 'XRT playing some of their old April Fool's jokes, including one where they insisted they would be broadcasting in Spanish. Part of that gag included listing some artists, pronouncing the names with an over-the-top accent. If I have to explain why "Elvis Costello" was so funny, you're probably reading the wrong page.
- Info you can use: How To Un-AOL-ify Internet Explorer 5 under Windows 98 -
Run regedit. If you don't know how to do that, start getting used to that AOL logo, sonny.
To change the throbber (the animated icon in the upper right corner that indicates that a page is loading), open up the registry key My Computer\HKEY_CURRENT_USER\Software\Microsoft\Internet Explorer\Toolbar
Change the following to the value Default: BigBitmap, BrandBitmap, SmallBitmap, SmBrandBitmap.
To remove "Provided by AOL" from the title bar, move up to My Computer\HKEY_CURRENT_USER\Software\Microsoft\Internet Explorer\Main and edit Window Title. You can actually make this anything you want, but use your newfound knowledge for good, and not for evil.
Close all IE windows, open the program again, and you should be golden.
I'm confident the Knowledge Base article at Microsoft will eventually get around to mentioning that there are four string values you have to edit, rather than the two they have listed.
Sitting on Jamie's porch, watching the fireflies hover and glow and listening to the metallic buzzing of the cicadas, it crossed my mind that at some point I should start making some effort, no matter how small, to get used to thinking of Minneapolis as "home" rather than "that nasty little place I hate with every fiber of my being."
Guess I could move somewhere closer to nature up here, where there are fireflies and cicadas, but why try to duplicate downstate Illinois? Better to either move there, or get used to here.
Or just drink myself into a coma at night, so I don't notice any difference.
Tra la la.
Actually heard myself say "That. . . was a joke" during a meeting today. Not a good sign, unless you're working with Vulcans.
