Writing

I guess this is a milestone of sorts for me. Carlin is the first celebrity I've cared about to die. And today I am genuinely sad that his mocking comedy will now forever be in reruns.

I saw Carlin perform in Seattle when I first moved here, with my best friends Sean and Kristen. It was a brilliant show, and will always remain in my head as the moment when I first realized that I wasn't in Salt Lake City anymore - that I had finally escaped, and Seattle was such a great place to be living instead.

And I was in the audience for MadTV when they recorded the laugh track for his Touched By An Atheist. If you hear a really loud, high-pitched squeal of delight all through the bit - yup, that's me.

There is a great tribute page for him on The Onion AV Club. Many fans have left their (appropriate) condolences and I recommend the long, but fascinating, 2005 interview.

And let me add the memoriam my wonderful (and sarcastic) Significant Other contributed this morning: "He's with the angels now." LOL.

I just finished reading The Portrait. It was... disturbing. It was written very like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a meandering journal of observations with plot thrown in on the side. And the plot was good, but I think the novel stood on its own without it - maybe even stood *better* without the finality of the story - just because the musings were so frighteningly perceptive.

Excerpt 1:

To impose yourself, to take the public by the scruff of the neck and give it a good shaking; to scream in its provincial little ear that I am a genius. And if you scream loud enough and long enough, it believes you.

Excerpt 2:

"It's like an addiction," she said. "I go mad if I can't use my hands. It's all I have, the only thing that makes it worthwhile getting out of bed in the morning."

I saw Kingdom of the Crystal Skull this weekend, and I know everyone is gonna mock me, but I really liked it. Of course, I liked Stargate and The Mummy too, and I know those are both hated by all you jaded post-modernist cynics. But I hated the Star Wars fiasco, so it's not just that I have low standards and am easily entertained (although that is probably true...).

I watch the trilogy fairly often (I saw Last Crusade a week ago), and it really felt to me that this sequel was pretty much just like the other three (well, better than Temple of Icky Things, which was kinda stupid): it was B-movie fun, fast-paced silliness, no real surprises, and a lot of over-the-top action/acting. Sure, it was missing Tom Stoppard's dialogue in #3 and the small-budget hilarity of #1, but it had its own wacky hijinks.

Personally, I only wished it could have been longer. I felt like the comedy had to take a backseat to the plot, while I would have loved some more pointless bickering and silly car chase scenes.

It does puzzle me that people are so vitriolic in their loathing of this movie. Is this a peer-driven attempt at being cool by pretending nothing is good enough for you? Are American audiences turning into hyper-critical self-important back-seat directors? Can't you just settle in and have a little fun? Or are you one of those miserable bastards that go to Disneyland and spend the whole time bitching about the omnipresent branding and overpriced kitsch?

From the Onion commenters:

God literally popped out of a box to melt nazi faces in raiders. if you can suspend your belief for that, interdimesional, poorly rendered, non-aliens shouldn't be an issue.

You know, I spend every trip to SLC the same way. The first day I think how crazy the place is, remembering all the weird stuff that I'd forgotten like how the radio stations all play exactly the same music that they did 15 years ago, and the drivers in the white sedans always want to drive you off the road - or worse, enforce the speed limit. The third day in SLC I spend thinking that I miss everyone and I wish I could move back so I could see them more. And I spend the last day wondering why the hell I stayed so long and promising myself that I will never, ever come back unless absolutely required. Ha!

My favorite moment from the trip (of which I didn't get a photo - doh!) was the giant black Toyota 4Runner SUV in front of me at Starbucks. With the license frame: "Give more, consume less." LOL.

And while Jeffrey and his brother were out joyriding in brother's luxe BMW, I had some fun taking pictures of the creepy pony. Jeffrey's brother has this 4-foot animatronic pony which is, without doubt, the scariest toy I have ever encountered. I kept turning to look at it the entire morning, expecting it to be secretly advancing on us, ala Blink. So I had a bit of stop motion fun when they weren't around and let Jeffrey discover it on his own when reviewing the day's camera shots.

Today I am exhausted from lack of sleep and not a little sick from all the eating and drinking. I'm too old to have that much fun without paying for it in a big way afterwards. And my skin was pretty unhappy with all the extra sun and dry air. I feel like my whole face has inflated and turned cherry red. :( What I really need is a few weeks of rain to recover - but of course Seattle is sunny today.

From the Seattle PI: Utah fine-tunes complicated liquor laws. Or: Utah makes their liquor laws just as confusing, but in a new and amusing way!

The best quote from this article: "I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that these alcopops are directed to our kids. It is a gateway drug." We were asking around the office, a gateway to what? Does Ernst & Julio Gallo really drive kids to crack? Joey said "coffee," which is probably accurate, since most Mormons don't really see a difference between coffee and crack, LOL.

For anyone who has never experienced Utah liquor laws, trust me, you haven't missed your chance. Even though you can *finally* have more than one drink per person at a table now, they can't be of the same liquor. So, a vodka margarita and a tequila margarita are fine, but a vodka martini and a lemon drop are RIGHT OUT. I am assuming you still have to have a special membership card to enter a bar (a "private club"). And although the silliness of selling wine coolers at the special state-run "liquor store" may seem a little extreme to outsiders, the only alcohol ever sold at the grocery store was sub-3.2% beverages (mostly in-state beer and modified Coors), so you pretty much have to go to the liquor store for most alcohol purchases anyway.

I am sooooo looking forward to spending this weekend there. :P

When I was eleven I got a cat named Caesar. He was a tiny kitten when he came into my life, but he quickly grew into a giant, fluffy gray tabby. He was an accidental addition to my life: I had been begging my mother for a cat for years, and when she finally said yes, I immediately came home with a little spotted female kitten from a friend's house. And my mom took in Caesar the same day from my older brother and his wife. It was an awkward moment. She wanted me to pick one, but they were kittens and I couldn't reject one. So they both stayed. And the female cat hated me almost immediately. But Caesar became the love of my life. At night, I would sneak him inside - even though it was forbidden - and let him sleep on my bed. I would clean up his kitten messes, and brush his tangled fur when he became a quarrelsome tom. I snuck him tuna and old clothes to sleep on out in the garage. He adored me and would rub against me with his whole body, just begging to be patted on the head or scratched under the chin.

Eventually the female cat had a tiny litter of her own. And a few months after that, she and her kittens disappeared. My mother told me they ran away. My sisters told me they went to the pound. I believed my sisters. But secretly I didn't care. As long as I had my fluffy Caesar I was happy.

As he got older, Caesar got pretty dirty. He lost a good chunk of one ear. Then his eye got pretty infected. I cried a lot and petted him more. He drooled on me and purred his heart out. Then one day he, too, disappeared. He was only a year old. My mother told me he ran away. My sisters told me he went to the pound. I didn't believe any of them. I knew he had died somewhere, all alone, fighting out his little half-feral tom life.

I never asked for another cat. My parents were relieved. They decided it was just a phase. My mother had never really understood the whole pet idea in the first place. Animals were more of a functional contribution to the farm in her mind. She hugged me and told me I was allergic to cats anyway. I didn't believe her. I was heartbroken without my Caesar. My high school years were lonely and bereft of his furry company. I kept the few pictures I had. For a long time I secretly kept his name tag in a little jewelry box. I would take it out and remember how much I loved him and how dirty and sick he had been at the end. And I hated myself because I hadn't taken better care of him. He was my best friend and the thing I loved most in the world, and I had let him slowly be eaten away by the cruelties of animal life because I was too young and stupid to know how to protect him.

Twelve years later I finally gave in and got another little kitten. His name was Orpheus, and he was an accidental addition too. I went to the Humane Society with my Significant Other and we came home with a little black female. And she hated me immediately. But the next day I found little Orpheus, the size of my hand, abandoned, crippled from hunger, and near death. And I couldn't say no, so home he came. He was a little wobbly at first, and jumped around the house like a bunny as he struggled to make his legs work again. But soon he could jump and snuggle and climb under the blankets and purr against my chest. And he was the love of my life. He adored me and would rub against me with his whole body, just begging to be picked up and held.

Orpheus grew up big and strong and I got him all his shots and the best food I could find, even though I couldn't afford it. I got him fixed when he was old enough and then I took him in for antibiotics after all the fights he got into anyway. I took him into the Kitty E.R. when his liver failed and paid $600 from my last credit card to keep him alive. I smuggled him his favorite blanket and fed him his favorite treats. And I thought, when he dies I don't think I'll ever ask for another cat. Because I'll be heartbroken.

But he got better. And he sleeps on my bed every night, even though I am allergic to cats after all. And I drool a little on him (because of the allergies) and he purrs his heart out. And even my little female cat comes around, snuggling up in the end and deciding she might like me too. And I look down at them and think, "I love you, Caesar."

Maybe I can never change the short, wretched life I gave my beloved friend, but I am making it up to him the only way I know how. By doing all the things for Orpheus that I should have done for him. And all the love that I give my little cats is the love that I owe my childhood cat. I miss him.

I often find myself watching my brain at work, puzzling over its various quirks. Note that I say *it*. Julia Sweeney mentioned something of the kind in Letting Go Of God, that we seem perversely incapable of viewing these innerworkings as being ourselves. My brain is a little machine, it isn't me. Except that it is. And I am afraid that I am not possessed of a sleek and efficient device like my MacBook laptop. No, my brain unfortunately more closely resembles a particularly badly-designed Rube Goldberg contraption, clicking away with little marbles and dominoes flying every which way. Kinda interesting if you are into the whole steampunk world, but not terribly useful if you are trying to take an exam on Etruscan politics or recall all the Roman emperors in order.

One of the things that most amuses me is my word recall. I have a pretty extensive vocabulary due to the many, many books I have read over the years. But it's not very accessible, as each word requires a tiny brain hamster to crawl through a maze, down a zigzag ramp, ride an elevator up, and then swing through the air to the correct elevated platform and ring the red bell. The yellow bell means the hamster gets flattened by a large Monty Python foot, and - alas - my brain hamsters are not too bright and I have lost many of them to the foot, resulting in me standing slack-jawed in the middle of a conversation and completely at a loss for words.

But, thankfully (I guess), I can usually manage to retrieve a word from this process. Most often not the right word, but a word nonetheless. And it's generally a word that is pretty close to almost being what I wanted, so if I send the hamster back a few times more I can sometimes find the RIGHT ONE. I wrote down some examples from today.

Searching...
1) dog-tagged. NO
2) dog-earred. NO
3) ear-marked. YES!

Searching...
1) black list. NO
2) white wash. NO
3) blackmailed. YES!

As I'm sure you can see, this means that most conversations with me can be quite entertaining as I dance around (sometimes quite literally) trying to find the right word. And then a hamster dies and it all comes to a painful, stuttering halt.

This is why I prefer to use email. And why I never answer my phone (sorry, Mom and Dad!).

I am not a big Apple fangirl. But in the past year my life has gone from 90% PC to 100% Apple (mostly because of work). And although it hasn't been a particularly painful conversion, there are some things that I really, really wish Santa would shove down Steve Jobs' throat in order to make my life a little less frustrating.

1) A docking station for laptops. Jesus F. Christ, Apple, how long is it going to take you to figure this one out? I have to plug in 6 different cords every day when I get to work and it really pisses me off. Especially because the damn monitor connector takes 10 minutes to align and attach.

2) A patch to Leopard that will let me navigate up out of network folders when I directly connect to a subfolder. In Tiger, all I had to do was open the little three line pulldown and select the parent folder, but now it only lists the subfolder and the computer name. Maybe I'm just stupid (very possible), but I can't for the life of me find any other way to go *up*.

3) A MacBook tablet. I used a Wacom art tablet in the 90s when I worked for IBM and became a pen addict. I've been using a tiny 4X6 pad instead of a mouse for about 7 years now. But to get immediate visual feedback (so I could, you know, actually draw), I would have to sink around $2000 into one of Wacom's tablet monitors, which I would then have to plug into my laptop (sort of defeating the concept of portability). The only portable tablet computers out there are PCs and are 12 inches wide, *and* cost almost $2000. And since all my graphics programs are Mac that is just not going to work for me. I am seriously considering trying to hook this Wiimote mod into my Mac as a temporary solution. The Apple iPhone has proved that Apple has the technology, and the rumors of a tablet have been floating for over TWO YEARS. Why, oh why, can't I have my MacBook tablet? *sniff*

Is that too much to ask for? I don't want to be greedy, Santa, but may I remind you that my childhood xmases were a bit meager (I mean, 18 years of socks was bad enough, but couldn't you at least have wrapped them? or put on a bow?). And you know I never get birthday presents because everyone is too distracted by the holidays. So if you could just give Steve Jobs a friendly little visit, Futurama-style, and let him know what I'm looking for in 2008, I would really appreciate it.

I hate shopping. I am only subjecting myself to the torture this month because I really need a Nice Dinner Dress. I don't have a nice dinner dress already because, well, I am not the sort of person you invite over for a nice dinner. Not unless you really want dear Auntie Margaret to start screaming across the table in the middle of the soup course that human race is - as a whole - going straight to hell and that soulless whore with blue hair is the one leading the way.

I bought my one and only formal dress on eBay seven years ago (because I mean it - I *really* hate shopping). And when I was invited to a wedding a few months back, I realized how ghastly inappropriate it was for nice events. I really didn't mean to upstage the bride. She was lovely. But the complete train wreck that was my outfit was hard to look away from. I don't have a photo, but to give you some idea, I really gravitate toward dresses like this and this. But the dress I wore was much more scant and revealing. Sharon Stone would have been ashamed.

So I need a new dress. There are company parties to go to, parties where I don't want to embarrass my Significant Other, or at least not more than he's used to. And I am not really that picky. I'd like something comfortable. Something that fits both formal events and the less-than-formal parties common in Seattle (where a t-shirt is still acceptable attire at a five-star restaurant). Something that doesn't scream slutty tasteless teenager *or* dowdy old grandmother. Something in a nice color. Something I can wear with a bra.

But after walking through the entire mall and looking in EVERY store, I realized that fashion was not in my favor this year. Pretty much all of them violated one of the rules above. Especially because strapless appears to be the big style indicator this season.

I mean, I've seen those stupid fashion shows on TV with the bitchy british blondes or Tim Gunn, offering all this advice to girls about what they should wear and how fashion is your friend. Fashion is *not* your friend. Not unless your friends are catty debutantes who talk about you behind your back and deliberately suggest outfits that make your butt look fat, just so they will look nicer by comparison. Fashion is about conformity. Conformity in color, body shape, height, quality (or lack thereof). Fashion is about buying that $500 dress at Nordstrom because everyone knows where you got it and how much it cost, and no one cares that it was made in a third-world country by sewing-challenged four-year-olds. It won't fit you nicely. It won't be a pretty color. But it will cost a lot of money. And it will probably fall apart after wearing it once, which is - let's face it - exactly what it's supposed to do.

And I am just ranting to properly express how much I hate this entire shopping industry. It's not just the act of shopping, you see, but the advertising, the sales staff, the restricted yearly color palette, the shabby end product. It's all crap. My favorite pieces of clothing have - universally - been the ones I made myself. And I am not so great with a sewing machine.

But in all my miserable search for a half-decent dress I did manage to stumble across something online the other day. In fact, this was not just a dress that I could settle on because I am tired of shopping - this was my dream dress. I loved the color. I loved the style. With minimal tinkering I could make it work with a bra. And it was a even a little quirky and playful, but dignified enough to meet a VP or two. But it's a fucking Gaultier. And it's $500.

I can't spend $500 on a dress. That is more than my entire wardrobe combined. Including shoes. It's not that I don't have $500; this is a moral dilemma thing. I am not that girl. That Sex-In-The-City girl who spends more on shoes than rent. But what if this is the only dress I like? What if there is an ocean of crap out there at the acceptable $200 and this is the only shining star? Or will this be the start of an avalanch of irresponsible spending? Will I follow this purchase with the $1500 bookcase that I've been drooling over? Will I run up my credit cards and burn down my house and find myself exactly where I was seven years ago: homeless, recklessly in debt, with no one to turn to.

*sigh*

I think there's a fine line between frugal and psychotically paranoid.