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January 29, 2004
Completely unrelated things and links.
Please go tell CBS to get their freaking shit together. I had a compelling post written about their duty to fulfill the public trust, democracy isn't real without informed citizens, blah blah, and then I lost it. Thanks to EV, Jason, my mom, and most other people in the world for this news that I'm sure you have heard already, but seriously, go sign the petition if you like the concept of the United States and all.
Ugh. Is it 1962? What the fuck? I'm waiting to see the complementary appliance, a vacuum cleaner adorned with footballs and penises which also opens beers and scratches your balls for you. Good grief.
The latest show I am not allowed to watch: Animal Cops. My heart is in my throat here, and I keep involutarily making that girly high-pitched oh-how-sad "oooooooh!" sound. I understand that animal hoarding is a psychological disorder and all, and I feel for those people to an extent. But how can you be mean to the cute furry animals? How can you leave your dog ON THE PORCH when it has been hit by a car, let your horses starve to death, abandon bears?!? Wouldn't it be more satisfying to be mean to the humans? Especially after seeing this shit? I keep having to go on little jogs around the apartment in order to avoid a breakdown.
I just remembered something important (to me, at least), due to my recent dental adventures. I believe that I first became aware of my pointy things phobia as a child, while at the dentist. There was a rack of dental tools on a flexible arm thingy near my head, and the dentist kept moving it around to get at things, and the shiny shiny points of the scrapers and needles and who-knows-what-just suddenly made me want to run screaming. Interesting.
Related question: is it possible to have a mild phobia? Or is this one of those either/or things, like the brain doctors would tell me that I do not have a phobia at all, like you can't really claim to have a touch of the paranoid schizophrenia. I wonder if the brain doctors know what it feels like to have even a mild case of "my eyes are trying to crawl into my head."
Posted by hilatron at 10:57 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
January 28, 2004
Lessons Learned in the Last 37 Hours
There is nothing freakier than realizing that a piece of your tooth JUST BROKE OFF.
I do have an inner caveman, and he doesn't want any of the other cavemen to know that his chomping skills are waning.
I am unable to leave a thing like A BIG HOLE IN MY TOOTH alone.
I have a favored side of the mouth when it comes to chewing, and damn is it hard to switch.
I expect the worst.
I am morbidly fascinated by the GAPING CAVERN OF MY OWN MORTALITY that lies in wait inside my mouth.
I have a giant baby bicuspid.
I am a "good dental patient" even though I haven't been to the dentist in [timespan censored to avoid maternal smackdown].
I am strangely attached to my giant baby bicuspid.
Topical anesthetic is even better than the gas for making that Novocaine injection go down easy.
There is nothing happier than the words "I think we can fix it."
Except for the words "no charge."
It's good to have the hookup, yo.
I will floss every night. I will floss every night. I will floss every night.
Posted by hilatron at 10:16 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
January 24, 2004
Blogatron's Guide to the Democratic Presidential Candidates as High School Love Interests
My advisors have informed me that there is a problem with the 2004 Presidential election. It seems that we cannot trust Middle America(TM) with choosing a Democratic candidate, because their fast-food-addled, trend-obsessed brains cannot comprehend anything resembling an unspun piece of information, an unprocessed fact, or heaven forfend an Issue. The poor media has been reduced to doling out nothing but poll results, out-of-context clips, and press releases containing words of not more than two syllables, just to keep fickle Middle America(TM) on course. Therefore, I present you with a guide to the Democratic candidates, handily "juiced up" and put into an appealing format that any moron Middle American(TM) can understand.
DEAN
Dean, oh, Dean. He scares you a little; there's always that exhilaration mixed with terror when you get into his car (yes, he drives). You never know what will happen with him. You wonder if you'll ever have the courage to bring him home to meet the parents - can you imagine how your father would react to his take-no-shit attitude, his angry denial of authority? You and your girlfriends die laughing at the idea. You think about him all the time, heart pounding, but there's still that doubt. Can it last? What about his temper, his inconsistency? Do you believe him when he says "It's us against the world, baby?" There's a little part of you that suspects it's really all about him, that you're just an accessory. You know you'll never rest easy with him; you'll always have to be on the lookout that he doesn't get bored and go off with some other, faster, girl. Still, when he put his hand under your bra out behind the Denny's, you never felt so alive.
KUCINICH
Girl, you used Kucinich and you know it. Who didn't know he had a crush on you - making puppy-dog eyes whenever you were around? It was flattering, but embarrassing too, because face it, he's a geek. Those weird lunches he brings, the clothes that his mom actually makes for him, his Dungeons and Dragons Society at school - no, you would never have dated Kucinich. But you sure didn't drop many hints, did you? Yeah, you were more than a little nice to him. You strung him along just because you loved the power of having someone that devoted to you. But when he asked you to the prom while you were waiting for the bus with all your friends, what were you supposed to do? You'll never forget the look on his face when you turned him down, right in front of everyone, loudly enough so that all the cool kids could hear you disavowing him. You won't ever really know what that must have felt like for him, but those three dateless years you've got coming to you in college will give you a clue.
MOSELEY BRAUN
Well of course you remember her. The girl who tried out for the hockey team? But you don't talk to your friends about that one time, at that party, when you kissed. It was no big deal, you were just experimenting, but if anyone thought you were going to change your whole lifestyle, date a girl, well...I mean, you can't say the idea doesn't appeal to you, but you can't be sure of getting any support. You don't really know who your allies are here, do you? Probably even people who don't care one way or the other will stay silent just to avoid the hassle. You don't think you're ready for that battle yet. And hey, it's not like there aren't still a lot of options among the guys, right?
GEPHARDT, EDWARDS, LIEBERMAN, GRAHAM
Sure, you know these guys...sort of. You see them around; once in a while you'll flirt with one of them at a party or in the hall at school, just a casual thing. You think one of them is friends with your brother. And Lieberman, he plays...what is it...lacrosse, right?
SHARPTON
You just want everyone to know that IT'S NOT BECAUSE OF THAT. I mean you have no problem with the idea of dating a black guy, okay? And Sharpton, he's funny, he's smart. Captain of the debate team, but relaxed enough to pull that hilarious gag at the statewide championships, man, they'll be talking about that for years. Yeah, he's cool. And you like him, you really do. But there are...rumors, a couple of incidents in the past that make you think he's not a long-term prospect. Fun to hang out with, sure, but not boyfriend material. Did you mention that it has NOTHING TO DO WITH RACE? Oh. You did. Okay then. Well good.
CLARK
People ask you what's up with Clark. "Why didn't he go out for varsity football? We know he's great." Instead, he does drama. And yet he can clearly hold his own with the jocks; no one would dare call him a pussy or a freak. They really don't know what to think. Sure, there's a certain amount of admiration for him, but no one is ready to accept him like you are. They don't seem to see what you see, and that makes you nervous. Are you imagining his nobility, his intellect, his quiet strength? Why can no one else see the beauty of those big pretty eyes? When you go out with Clark, you're confident you'll have fun and you know you'll be treated with respect. But you need the companionship of your friends, your family, and you know they're put off by his refusal to conform. Not to mention that weird smile. I mean even you admit that it's a little creepy.
KERRY
The very fact that your mom likes Kerry so much pretty much sums up what makes you hate him sometimes. "Going out with The Bore again tonight?" cackles that bitch Sue-Ann. And so you laugh, and you play like you're just using him because he has the money to take you to nice restaurants. But a part of you that you don't even want to acknowledge is attracted to Kerry. His stability...I mean you're ten times more out there than he is, but at the same time you like the idea of settling down someday. There's never any questions with him. You know that out of all of them, you're probably safest with him. He's too bound by convention to even imagine hurting his girlfriend, after all. Can he fulfill you, though? You wrack your brain trying to come up with a concrete reason not to like him, and you can't. It's just that there's not much that gets you excited, either. Sometimes when you're out with him you close your eyes and you think about the dangerous excitement of Dean, the revolutionary thrill of kissing Moseley Braun, the amazing night with Clark when you talked for hours, feeling like the two of you were the only people in the world who got it. Kerry will never give you that. Can you give it all up?
Posted by hilatron at 09:00 PM | Comments (13) | TrackBack
January 22, 2004
A Series of Paragraphs With Headings*
WHY I SOMETIMES THINK THAT THE BEST THING FOR ME WOULD BE TO GET HIT IN THE HEAD WITH A MALLET. A RUBBER MALLET:
The damn painting. I bought this painting, see, this fabulous painting. I didn't really have the money for it, but it was so fabulous and so great, and then I got offered a crazy-ass discount on the painting, and so I took it as a sign and I bought it. In mid-December. And since mid-December, this fabulous and beloved painting has been sitting in a bag in my bedroom, in danger of getting kicked by sleepy bathroom-goers and sat on by cats and all manner of indignities. Why Hilatron, you say, this does not seem like the best place for a painting that you claim to like and actually want to look at! And I couldn't agree with you more. But there was a problem, and the problem was me. Before the painting could be hung, a decision needed to be made about where to hang it. For most people, this would involve picking a spot, and...well, that's about it. Just picking a spot, the end. But for me - no. For me, there first needed to be weeks--weeks! of agony about where to hang the painting. Here? No, because that's the perfect place for the plastic Tiki god. Here? But in the bedroom, no one will see it. Here? Will hanging the painting near an air conditioner be bad for it?
So before I could hang the painting, there had to be endless agony and multiple consultations. Experts had to be brought in, man-on-the-street interviews had to be conducted, measurements had to be taken using finely calibrated instruments borrowed from NASA. Finally, a spot was decided on.
Then there was the hanging of the painting. This should be a simple process, after the where-to-hang-the-painting debacle - hammer a damn nail in the damn wall, and hang up the damn painting. However, I have the unique ability to develop psychological problems at the drop of a hat, and this is what happened in the case of the painting. Every single day for the last three weeks I have woken up and said to myself, "Tonight when I get home from work I am going to hang up That Damn Painting." And every night, I have been piddling around my house when suddenly I yell "Damn! The painting!" and then I realize that it is 10:30 or so and too late for hammering. Every. Single. Night. I developed some sort of mental block in which I was unable to think about paintings, or see paintings, or contemplate hanging paintings, between the hours of 5:15pm and 10:00pm.
So last night at 10:30, where was I? Hopping up and down with rage, looking at the painting on the floor of the bedroom in a bag. Damn it! I finally decided to just damn the neighbors and get my damn hammer and hang up the damn painting for good and all, so that's the end of that sorry saga. Damn.
HOW DRY IS IT?
The arctic chill of last week has passed, but my skin carries the trauma onward. It is so dry that twice-daily moisturizer applications just make it laugh bitterly. So dry that when I stepped into the shower this morning, the sound of the water hitting the tub floor ceased as my skin sucked up all the moisture in the room. So dry that when I went to Walgreen's last night three dozen bottles of Vaseline Intensive Care leapt off the shelf and stuck to the back of my coat, held in place by the absorbent force of my desperate skin.
WHY DO I BOTHER?
I have been careful this week to go to bed on time, yet every day by three o'clock I would sell my left eye just to be allowed to crawl behind my desk for a nice little ten-hour nap. What's up?
BACK ON TRACK
That last entry, I realized, was not very Leisurely. I restored my mental balance by making mad updates over at the Agency. Links to all the new goodies can be found here.
*To avoid pulling a Bryan Lamb, I must attribute the style of this entry to Mimi Smartypants. Homage or clumsy imitation - whatever, at least my footnotes are in order.
Posted by hilatron at 10:15 AM | Comments (1)
January 20, 2004
Just a Simple Request
So I'm sitting here trying to come up with a topic for a new entry.
...
...
Hm.
Uh...
Well.
The problem is that I am feeling impatient today. I could tell you about my (fun) weekend, or I could elaborate on some mundane detail of my life in a (hopefully) amusing fashion, or I could bitch about the neighbors or work or stupid people or the cat, my God I do a lot of bitching, but I'm having one of those "Oh bleah, life, always the same!" moments. I want to spend the next week or so in a hack movie, so that I can skip over all the dish washing and walking around and, oh, just all the dull parts. I want some omniscient editor to sift through all the minutiae and pick out the good stuff. I want plot points only, payoffs without effort, effect without cause, and at least one car chase. I want my endless seething resentment for the presence of stupid humans to have its final vindication, clearly marking me in the right once and for all, preferably with some kung fu fighting involved. I want the things I already do by rote to pass without my awareness, just so that I do not have to waste one more single precious nanosecond of brain power on toasting yet another damn bagel. I want to close my eyes and fast-forward to the next time I'll say something witty, see someone I love, look supercool. I want the fly soundtrack without the juggling of headphones and batteries. I want to never have to do anything twice. I want to never demonstrate the phrase "one step forward, two steps back" again. I want to know that my every action is another mark on the path toward fortune, triumph, a happy ending. That's all.
Posted by hilatron at 02:23 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
January 16, 2004
Three Open Letters
An Open Letter to the Fox Network:
If you are going to continue to air Tru Calling, at least have the decency to provide free morphine or some other kind of pharmaceutical succor for the indescribable pain of watching the show for even the smallest amount of time. My cat leaned over about ten minutes into tonight's show and scratched the solution to tonight's "mystery" into my left leg, then vomited onto the TV remote. Half an hour into the screening, I heard a thump from within my refrigerator. When I opened the door, a rotten block of tofu screamed "What is with the rehashing of the alleged plot every five minutes? Do they think we cannot follow the writers' agonized machinations? Even I am smarter than these characters!" During the show's final scenes, my couch spontaneously combusted. The pattern of the ashes left behind spelled out the words "This is the worst pain ever (™Simpsons). Like Murder, She Wrote got hit in the head with a sledgehammer. Please oh please make it stop no no no aaaaaaah!"
Enclosed please find a bill for the couch.
All my best,
Hilatron
---
Oh Gumption,
Where art thou? I miss you. You left so suddenly, and without any warning. And since then, nothing - not a phone call, not a flicker of your presence anywhere. I'll soldier on, but it won't be the same with you missing. Call me!
Hoping to see you soon,
Hilatron
---
An Open Letter to the Wesley Clark Campaign:
I think your candidate is great. However, the best way to get that across might not be a telephone campaign featuring a prerecorded message from Clark himself. Not because he is a poor speaker, or because his voice is less than imposing, or because he lacks charm, but because, when you say to yourself "Yeah, Clark, know about him, gotta get off the phone so I can make another call" the message keeps going so that when you pick up the phone again his voice is still there, still speaking gravely about the Issues, and so you try again and AGAIN to disconnect, but no going, the unstoppable voice of Wesley Clark is there, waiting, on the other end every time you pick up the phone. It's a bit creepy. And polls show that candidates do not benefit from being associated with possessed appliances.
With fond regards,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 01:11 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
January 15, 2004
This link will only work for five minutes or so.
So I just found out that someone nominated a post on Blogatron for this Blorgy thing, and while I'm flattered and grateful, I can't deny the voice that grumbles "Oh, great. Another thing to obsess over, to falsely base our sense of self-worth on, to mourn the inevitable decline of. That's what we need." Statistics are my cruel mistress.
(That doesn't mean you can't go vote me some nice high numbers, though. Ahem.)
Posted by hilatron at 09:44 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 14, 2004
When You Are Feeling Blue Just Think of Me
If you are having a grumpy week I highly recommend that you acquire a ridiculous cat:
Posted by hilatron at 07:21 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
January 13, 2004
Hiss, spit.
I don't know who replaced my morning Earl Grey with Infusion of Bitch on Wheels, but with sixteen minutes to go I am struggling to hold on to "just don't fall asleep or kill anyone" as my standard for the workday. Think kind thoughts for me, friends.
Posted by hilatron at 04:44 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack
January 12, 2004
Two buses, a million train rides, mad fun
This weekend Josh and I went wheeling off to New York for a visit with the Captain and Agent Mike. Thank you kindly to them for the hospitality! Also sighted: the spectacular Jenni and the link-free (but equally great) Jayme. Much good food, mango margaritas, and chocolate in various forms was consumed, many amusing conversations were had, hours of bad television were logged. In addition, we froze nearly to death, were sneered at by sales help in snarky department stores and misled by books that pointed us to businesses which had gone out of business in less than a year, and watched the great movie Wave Twisters. A trip to the city might cause extreme tiredness and a mysterious case of miner's lung, but it's worth it for the replenishment of the soul.
Today was therefore a good day to use one of my large number of accumulated vacation days. It is at this point that I must give mad props to the Recycle Shop, a great place to add to my list of addictions and reasons why the house is never clean. Seriously, if you like random crap and weird surprises, don't fail to make a visit. Plus, the Recycle Shop offers the chance to buy things by the bagful, and who can resist that? It's like open bar after a cover charge. Load up!
Posted by hilatron at 08:32 PM | TrackBack
January 07, 2004
Anxiety Abounds
Hey if any of my real-life people who read this get strange letters* from "me," don't be alarmed: because I HAVE LOST MY ADDRESS BOOK. This rates a 6 on the Muppet Alien Freakout Scale** because it taps a direct line into at least three of my most cherished neuroses. One, I am a touch obsessive and so cannot let go of the idea that it must be here somewhere, did I look under the couch? Did I look real good? Maybe I should check through the file box one more time, because I could have missed it and it must. Be. Here. Somewhere. Did I look in the bathroom? Maybe I left it in the linen closet somehow? Because. IT MUST BE HERE SOMEWHERE. CHECK THE OVEN AGAIN. So round and round my house I go, looking at things that do not contain address books no matter how many times I poke them.
I am also feeling paranoid and exposed, because my stuff is...out there somewhere. Not that there was anything particularly interesting or damning in my address book anyway: no credit card numbers or true confessions, just, duh, addresses, and a list of movies I want to watch. But still. My stuff is floating around in the world, to be picked over by whoever might come across it, with no framework or context to put it in. I'm not there to defend my desire to watch Hitch-Hike as the choice of a completist, dammit, nor to explain that just because I've never used the datebook section does not mean that I have no life, I'm just not a datebook kind of girl.
These two things, however, are just feelings, and they'll pass. More ominous is the affirmation that this event has brought to my inner packrat. Sitting amongst the piles of crap in my house is not just the address book I used before the lost one, but also the one before that. And now that insistent little voice that makes me keep old catalogs and empty containers is all smug. "See? I told you you would need those someday, and now look! I've saved you with my brilliant retention! Now let's hear no more of this 'get rid of the pants with nail polish spilled all down the one leg' nonsense!" I will never hear the end of it. I am surely doomed.
*I know. I know that it would be strange to get a letter from me at all, smartass. I am aware that I suck. Thanks for sharing.
**We really need to institute this. You remember those alien muppets from Sesame Street, right? The ones who went "Eep. Eep. Eep." with vast aplomb until the phone rang and then they freaked their shit right out? I loved those guys. Anyway, I figure that one could break that down into ten levels of freakout, based on speed and volume of "eeps," and you'd have yourself a thing, there.
Posted by hilatron at 02:57 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
January 05, 2004
The First (and Only) Lower Body Blaster™ Update
Regular readers will remember the Lower Body Blaster™ experiment I embarked upon a few weeks ago. Here are notes from the first stages of that experiment - sadly, a trial which was to be cut short, as you shall soon see.
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Day 1: Before beginning my new regimen, I perform the standard ritual of reading the ingredients on the back of my tube of Lower Body Blaster™. Ingredients are as follows: Water, blah blah glycolic blah, blah blah liposomes of cocoa and caffeine, chemical, chemical, chemical, chemical, good name for a robot, chemical, chemical, chemical, chemical, chemical, aloe vera, chemical, fragrances, dyes.
Caffeine? Hmmmm. Does Lower Body Blaster™ propose to firm and tone my “problem” area by making it hyper and twitchy? If that worked I would be a size negative-two, “problem” areas or no. Not much to glean here, because I don’t know what most of the rest of this stuff is. Time to take the plunge.
Lacking the $30 or so it would require to purchase the Bliss-recommended exfoliant to use with Lower Body Blaster™, I am forced to substitute brisk rubbing in the shower. Can only hope that this transgression has not already destroyed the effectiveness of the product, that Bliss will smile forgivingly upon bending of the rules.
Lower Body Blaster™ itself is medicinal-smelling, and a bit greasy. Its effect upon application is a mild tingle and some stickiness, as though I’d sat in a puddle of melted cough drops. Is this the feeling of toning and tightening? Is it the last stand of my unsightly lumps? Only time will tell.
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Day 2: Application goes smoothly, with nothing new to report.
Later: Realize that I have developed a disturbing habit of absentmindedly fondling own right buttock to check for blossoming firmness. Note to self: stop acting like weirdo.
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Day 3: Late to work - delay while waiting for Lower Body Blaster™ stickiness to abate, the better to dress self. Efforts to stop touching self inappropriately not going well. No miraculous advances to report.
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Day 4: Realize at about lunchtime that I’ve forgotten my Lower Body Blaster™ today. Curses! This will anger the lump-management gods, for sure.
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Day 5: Disturbing revelation: overnight, a mild rash has developed in the Lower Body Blaster™ application area: a smattering of red bumps mars previously pasty-white skin. A variety of theories: Withdrawal due to yesterday’s omission? Allergic reaction to the poshness of the product? The unwanted fat bubbling to the surface? Must decide course of action.
Later: Have decided, after much soul-searching and more itching, to call off experiment. When it comes down to it, would rather be lumpy than bumpy.
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And that's that, folks. I guess it's back to the clearance aisle at Walgreen's for this robot. Say what you will about Suave, at least they never gave me hives.
Posted by hilatron at 05:40 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack