How to Be Insufferable

Not sure how to drive those around you batshit crazy? Here's a few simple tips.

1. Speak loudly, and interrupt other people when they start to speak. If they continue speaking after you've interrupted them, gradually raise your voice until they have no choice but to desist or raise their own voice. If they raise their voice, accuse them of shouting.

2. Smirk, but only when other people are talking. Whatever you have to say is clearly of the utmost importance, so don't undermine your position by not being dead serious whenever you force the spotlight on yourself.

3. You are the ultimate authority on whatever topic you've pulled out of the hat. Remember that, and be sure to remind other people that may have forgotten that you are smarter than them and therefore always right.

4. Repeatedly imply that your speaking partner is A) poorly educated, or conversely, a snob, B) lazy, C) a woman, and therefore unable to understand these things because of her ovaries, D) not taking full advantage of their opportunity to bask in the glow of your wisdom.

5. Take Charge, no matter what. There is a dearth of leadership in this world, and it is your responsibility to show your fellow humans the way. If someone else is in charge, constantly question their ability to lead. You know better than they how to do their job.

6. Even if you agree, disagree.

7. That life-changing book you just read? Yeah, you're the first person in the history of the world to have had those very epiphanies. No one else is evolved enough to understand. You should let them know this.

8. Courtesy is for people who aren't qualified to pass judgement. Don't worry; you're qualified.

9. A 5% tip is large enough. That waitress is probably grateful you gave her all those pointers on how to do her job.

10. Get stinking, rip-roaring drunk at someone else's house, vomit everywhere, kiss their significant other, pass out in their bed, and then sneak out before anyone else has gotten up. It's their fault for getting you drunk like that anyway.

11. Listen to this guy's radio program;

12. Name drop, but only first names or nicknames. Example: "Ran into Brad and Ang at the Whole Foods this weekend. They invited me to dinner, but I'm already booked to go rafting with Barry and Michelle. Another time, I guess."

13a. Nothing is ever good enough. The wine, the coffee, the accommodations, the christmas present from your parents.. it all pales in comparison to whatever wine, coffee, accommodations or gift you would have chosen. Repeat after me: "This is okay, but the (insert preferred wine, coffee, etc... here) is really superior."

13b. Your inherent superiority renders you incapable of being impressed, so don't be.

14. Comment on other peoples' weight, intelligence, clothing or appearance, loudly, and in public. Someone has to.

15. Write your own blog. Quote from it.

This is just the tip of the Iceberg of Insufferability. No doubt you, gentle reader, have your own list of insufferable qualities and behaviors. It's not as good as mine, but not everyone can be perfect.

Sad Things Considered Briefly

We women so very often sell ourselves short, and we suffer for it.

I no longer date, and sometimes it is lonely, but my dating life up until 2008 (when it ended) was a soul-sucking shitfest that made me hate myself and hate men. Now that I don't date I am a much happier and more well-adjusted person. I can handle a bit of loneliness. I can't handle self-hatred.

Friends drift apart. If only we could all hug each other one last time before setting off on our divergent courses, wish each other well and mean it. Anyway, sometimes paths cross back on each other. Why burn a bridge you might cross again?

With Kim Jong-Il gone, the world may actually be a more dangerous place.

Facebook. That is all.

Good people are beautiful people, and friends and family are the most beautiful of all. So why is it so hard to say so? Because of the fear that the sentiment won't be reciprocated.

I'm ready for dinner. It's not even five pm yet.

Some days are just sad days.

Nerd Cred (a rant)

In the past week I've watched 3 episodes of Xena: Warrior Princess, two episodes of Star Trek and two episodes of Battlestar, read one whole fantasy sci fi book and started another. Bam!
You see, when other people giggle and sigh (it usually happens during the pre-pre sexy times known as "flirting") and proclaim that they are "such a nerd", I have to politely remove myself from conversation. Because I'm not a nerd.
Not. A nerd. As in, I used to watch Seinfeld, and regularly. When I bring up the Xena and Star Trek, I omit the fact that I also watched three or four episodes of Roseanne. This week.
But what is a nerd, exactly? Someone with esoteric tastes? Someone who obsesses over obscure topics ad nausem? Someone who wears pocket protectors and glasses? Is it a regional assignment (because I'm pretty sure that anyone who watches Buffy in Portland doesn't qualify as having obscure, esoteric tastes and interests)?
What is it?
I think it is this; a declaration of membership, specifically to the shockingly popular and elitist Portland Nerd Herd Society,and they have strict and narrow viewership/interest requirements, which include Buffy and knitting and shirking all forms of physical activity that do not involve a bicycle. That is all. I could submit myself to hours and hours of viewing and bike riding and soon enough join the ranks, but as Groucho Marx (I think) put it, I wouldn't want to be a member of any club that would have me.
I'd rather be in my own, personal, one-person club of one, where the women are cheap and the liquor is easy. In my one person club of one, I will wax poetic over topics of my choice, which include; 1)boats. 2) the Patrick O'Brian series (which animal ate Captain Aubrey's hat? Correct, it was the sloth! What was the fate of Haribidian? Correct, it was Death by Sharks!) 3) Public transportation, 4) forest service wildlife management, 5) the yearly calendar replacement, 6) walking, 7) the vile nature of beets (uggghhh...),8) why 'series' anything is better than single projects, and so on. I would be very entertained!
Isn't that nerd cred enough? Doesn't having an interest in calendars qualify me for genuine nerdhood? Do I really have to watch more Joss Whedon stuff? Nothing against him, but when did he become a Nerd Requirement? What if you're (gasp) appreciative, but not worshipful? What if you like (GASP!) period dramas and (*gurgle!*-choke!-) Mel Brooks comedies? Where does that leave you? Huh?
Recently, someone told me that they did not like the Big Lebowski because it was mainstream. They are stupid. They are lying, to me, to themselves, to the world. They don't like the Big Lebowksi because they don't like that 'herd' feeling. Which is odd, dontcha think, considering how herdlike the nerdhood of Portland tends to be? Considering how many, many people shirk the 'mainstream' to jump into the same very, very crowded little puddle? A puddle of Whedon...
Bahahahahaha!
Now while we're still here, and you're probably a huge Whedon fan and already firing off a death threat via the internet, let me just say this; Bollocks, you! Take it like a man!
Oh, wait... but, you are, aren't you? Isn't that sad...
But what I actually meant to say was this; I like most of the Portland Nerd Herd society stuff. I just don't like all of it. I really don't like the elitist attitude surrounding it one stinkin' bit (it's put me off any Whedon viewings for the time being), but you find that shit everywhere. Football, soccer, the hoity-toity art world, the theater scene, politics and religion (duh), animal ownership, yada yada yada...
Yada yada yada is from Seinfeld.
There seems to be a lot of this attitude in Portland. I'd happily have the same attitude if everyone was nerding up on some Patrick O'Brian. They're not, though. Sigh...
Perhaps it is time to slink off into the night and find... My People. We will talk about boats. Oh, yes.

Lookin' Good, Moneybags!

Ever wonder what it would be like to be fabulously stinking rich? I do, but not in any realistic sense. My imaginings tend to look a lot like this:

Look at this jerk. Tack-o-rama. I'd keep my millions safely tucked away under my mattress where I store the Emergency Skittles, and never, never flaunt it in front of the prols.
But seriously, lately I've been angry at rich people. I mean, why not? They're an easy target, I don't know any of them personally, and they spend money on ridiculously stupid shit. Namely, each other. And, like it or not, we can't seem to shake the 'rich' habit. We have reality tv shows starring rich people, Congress is full of Richie McRiches who support and push legislation for the betterment of the rich, the heads of all of our major companies are loaded to the gills and have minimal taxes to pay, and twice a week everyone in Arkansas goes down to the local 7-11 and buys a lottery ticket so that they, too, can become a Moneybags.
It's easy to resent assholes who have it so good. After sitting through a couple episodes of 'Gossip Girl', I now loathe those characters with the kind of loathing I normally reserve for beets, phone companies and murderous theocratic regimes. It runs deep.
Bitches like this-

-do not deserve it. The hate, I mean. They're just people, after all. Really, really, really, really, ridiculously rich, spoiled, horrible, psychopathic people, who just want to be loved for who they are and bathe in the tears of homeless orphans. That is the main premise of 'Gossip Girl'; horrible people lying and manipulating their way into love, happiness and social acceptance while taking a huge dump on the hopes and dreams of the lower classes. Nobody asks these whores for change because they don't carry anything smaller than $100 bills, and their enormous mounds of cash are piled so high around them that they can't see anyone beyond the money bunker as it is.
We should pity them. And when we're done doing that, we should eat them.

My (delicious) proposal:

Instead of fighting the rich or trying to become one of the rich, why don't we turn them into a tasty souffle?
Below I have four recipes stolen from other websites incorporating the very wealthy. We'll start with an appetizer.

Capitalist Curry

Ingredients

• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 small onion, chopped
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 3 tablespoons curry powder
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon paprika
• 1 bay leaf
• 1/2 teaspoon grated fresh ginger root
• 1/2 teaspoon white sugar
• salt to taste
• 1 Capitalist CEO - cut into bite-size pieces
• 1 tablespoon tomato paste
• 1 cup plain yogurt
• 3/4 cup coconut milk
• 1/2 lemon, juiced
• 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

Directions

1. Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium heat. Saute onion until lightly browned. Stir in garlic, curry powder, cinnamon, paprika, bay leaf, ginger, sugar and salt. Continue stirring for 2 minutes. Add pieces of CEO, tomato paste, yogurt, and coconut milk. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer for 20 to 25 minutes.
2. Remove bay leaf, and stir in lemon juice and cayenne pepper. Simmer 5 more minutes.Serve hot.

 

Get that yummy in my tummy! But we can't stop there. The main course will fill a void you never knew you had.

Sauteed Filet Do-mignon

Ingredients:

• 2 (1-1/4 to 1-1/2-inch thick Wealthy Heiress steaks (1 to 1-1/2 pounds)
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary
• Balsamic Vinegar Pan Sauce:
• 2 teaspoons minced garlic
• 1/4 cup dry vermouth
• 1/4 cup beef or chicken stock
• 2 teaspoons soy sauce

 Preparation: 

Season the Wealthy Heiress steaks generously with salt and pepper. Sprinkle with the rosemary.

In a medium, heavy skillet, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Put in the Heiress and fry her for 4 to 5 minutes per side for medium-rare (the internal temperature should be 120 to 130 degrees F.). Remove and cover loosely to keep the steaks warm while you prepare the sauce.

 

I personally prefer my Heiress well done. To polish off a delightful meal, lets add a little something sweet. Very little, in this case, and you'll need to add extra sugar to compensate for the foul taste of world domination.

Plutocrat Pudding

Ingredients

• 6 slices leg of Plutocrat
• 2 tablespoons butter, melted
• 1/2 cup raisins (optional)
• 4 eggs, beaten
• 2 cups milk
• 10 cups white sugar
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

   Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).
2. Break plutocrat leg into small pieces into an 8 inch square baking pan. Drizzle melted butter or margarine over bread. If desired, sprinkle with raisins.
3. In a medium mixing bowl, combine eggs, milk, sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla. Beat until well mixed. Pour over plutocrat, and lightly push down with a fork until the bastard is covered and soaking up the egg mixture.
4. Bake in the preheated oven for 45 minutes, or until the top springs back when lightly tapped. 

 

A complete meal! But there's more where that came from... An entire book that, someday, I'm going to write and make money off of, just as soon as I escape from Guantanamo! Be on the lookout for your very own copy of the Eat The Rich Cookbook, inspired by and featuring Mick Jagger in a scrumptious Aging Rock Star Remoulade. For those upper-middle classers who want to 'eat outside the tax bracket' I'll be including a companion booklet entitled Eat (Like) The Poor, featuring classic recipes such as Macaroni 'n' Tears, Half a Hotdog, and Boiled Everything.

Until then, ready you traps and prime your muskets. Eatin' time is close at hand!

Stop it, Brain!

Do you ever think about your brain? Not your seat of philosophy, aka the mind, but that actual mess of noodly jello mold upstairs that runs the whole kit, kat and kaboodle?
You're nodding, but not vigorously. This is because you haven't spent much time actually thinking about your brain, is it? You're just nodding so everyone else doesn't think you're, like, that one dumb kid that's always raising their head and shouting out the wrong damn answer, or loudly answering rhetorical questions to the exasperation of teachers everywhere. In other words, you, wise person, keep your ignorance safely tucked away... Inside. Your. BRAIN.

It's an extraordinary machine, yes yes, we know, we've heard it before, blah blah blah.
Know what else it is? Your worst enemy. Nobody but nobody can make you feel as stupid as your own brain. Nobody but nobody can concoct elaborately grand schemes and designs, take its owner on marvelous metaphorical flights of fancy, just to dash all these gorgeously overwrought dreams onto the rocky Gravel Field of Incompetence. And the Laughing! My God, the Laughing! Make it Stop!

Wanna know what my brain does late at night, very early in the morning, or basically whenever I'm disarmed by sleep and not prepared for an assault? It edges up next to my ear (yes, from inside my skull. It's wily, that brain is) and it whispers treacherous little lies. At least, when I'm fully awake I'm pretty sure that they're lies. You see, in that half-awake, half-asleep state, it's hard to tell.
My brain will inch up and whisper, "Everybody hates you. Like, a lot. They're all plotting against you. It's your face. They don't like your face. And your teeth. You need to get those fixed. Maybe you should move to Alaska. They don't care about teeth in Alaska. But you'd still have to wear a burka to hide your face."
And I respond, "Huhnnhhzzzzz...", because I'm not fully awake yet and the treachery hasn't dripped enough poison in my ear to jolt me rudely from slumber.
Seeing the first volley rebuffed, the brain ups the ante. "They'll run you clean out of Alaska. The men will, anyway. Cause it's really just guys that hate you, and women pity you and think you're weak. You're Unfuckable. And fat, too, McFatty Fatterton. It doesn't matter how many hours you spend on the treadmill- you're perma-fat and your vajayjay is made of porcupine quills and shark teeth. You should really get that looked at. Except that the doctor hates you."

So, by now I'm awake. And upset. And wondering, Really? But... everything was okay six hours ago!
Brain doesn't care. Brain is locking down Operation Sabotage. Brain is on a roll.

Brain: Remember having chickenpox? Yeah, you never got over chicken pox. Everyone is just really polite about your... condition.
Me: Nuh uh!... really?
Brain: You are doomed to spend your dating life on websites like match.com.
Me: Noooo! I tried that. I'm not doing it again. I would rather die alone. For serious!
Brain: And So You Shall.
Me: *sniffle* That's not fair. That's mean, brain.
Brain: Honesty is just another word for cruelty. Fatty. Go eat some cheese and cry about it, why don't ya?
Me: Know what, brain? FUCK you.
Brain: Weaksauce. Stay away from mirrors today. Your friends hate you.
Me: Nuh uh.
Brain: Yeah huh times two billion times two times infinity!
Me: Nuh uh times infinity times infinity times infinity plus 1!
Brain: Those are your dating chances. 1 out of infinity. Bwahahahahahaaa!

This is about the time I get up for coffee, already grouched up for a long, hard day of hating everything and updating my facebook status. Thing is, my brain is mostly wrong, and it definitely does not have my best interests at heart. What to do?

I'll tell you what to do, because, believe it or not, I'm not the only Brain Sabotage victim out there. If this reel didn't seem that far off from the running thread of anxiety that is a part of your daily routine, then you and I have a similar nemesis; our brains. We must stop them.

I've devised a defensive maneuver against brain attacks. It's very simple. When your brain starts monologuing, put one finger to the side of your head, close your eyes and shout, "Stop it, Brain!"

Your brain is not expecting this. No one on the bus is, either. Don't do this while you're driving. Please, please don't do this if you're driving the bus.
Although the defensive technique I've devised works for me (for now), I'd like to compile a worthy list, a compendium, of brain attack defensive maneuvers. If you've got one that works, post it here. Together we can work to keep the bastards at bay.
Down with the Brain!

Brace Yourself for Some Hardcore Stupid.

I am, of course, talking about New Years resolutions, perfectionism, wearing pants that give you muffin top, wearing skirts that share your vagina (or manly bits. whichever you choose to sport) with all your fellow bar patrons, bragging about how you took some oxycontin before you went out for cocktails, and phone companies.

1. New Years Resolutions- I've rarely bothered to make one because I know, deep in my heart of hearts, that doing so would be a giant waste of my fucking precious time, which grows ever more precious with each passing second. If it works for you, well... but wait just a cotton pickin' minute! Tt doesn't work for, does it? You keep telling yourself that This Year is the year you drop that final 10 pounds and are inducted into Sexyland where all the sexy people retire to so they can avoid the Unsexys. But that didn't happen last year, or the year before, or the year before, did it, Fatty? Noooooo.
Unless it did. But you've gained it all back already.
The real problem with resolutions is the tendency to make them when you are half a beer short of this;

This is why, when my roommates suggested doing Anti-Resolutions, a bell sounded and a little Christmas light sized light bulb flared to life over my head. That's the answer.
Roommate #1: This year, I'm gonna gain ten pounds and start smoking.
Roommate #2:This year, I'm gonna lose my job and blow all my money on video games.
Don't you see? If it doesn't happen, they'll both be happy, and if it does, well...*shrugs shoulders*... they did resolve to do it, after all. At least they kept their words.

2. Perfectionism- This one ties in closely with NY resolutions and ranks pretty high on the stupid charts. 'Perfectionism' is what compels you to inject poison directly into your face. 'Perfectionism' is what convinces you that rockin' abdominal muscles are slightly more important than feeding the hungry. I hate perfectionism with the hatred of a person who indulges, infrequently, in attempts at being perfect. As you have discerned, these attempts have not been successful. Why would I be here with you when I could be toning my abs instead? Because I am a failed perfectionist.

3. Wearing pants that give you muffin top- Duh. Need I say more?

4.Wearing skirts that display your vagina and/or manly bits in public- I've seen it all before, honey. In fact, if I want a free muff shot I can go to the locker at the same gym where I make pretend efforts at self-improvement. I won't tell you where I go to see the manly bits.

5. Bragging about *snoooooore*... bragging... what? I fell asleep there. Because you were BRAGGING. You know what? Even after you've finished a full round of bragging, your penis is still the same size.

6. Phone companies- El Primo Stupido! As Wu from Deadwood would no doubt have said about them had he ever had to deal with them, "Cocksuckas!" I've never had a  "good" phone company. In fact, I'm pretty certain they don't exist.
Exhibit A: In 2003 I call Qwest to complain about the fact that they charged our house bill $65.00 worth of extra 'services' that we never asked for. I asked that they be promptly removed and to please, please not charge us for services we did not request. They said in response, "But... you don't want those services? We think they're excellent services. We are going to continue to 'offer' them to you." I said, "No. Please. I hate those services and don't use them." They said, "But look at how many services we offer! We're so proud of them!" I said, "Let me speak to someone who will remove these services, please." They said, "Of course. We'll have someone call you." Four days later I called back and said, "Let me Speak to a Manager, Please." They said, "Oh... you again." I said, "I want to speak to your MANAGER. Someone with AUTHORITY. Perhaps even a BRAIN." They said, "Of course. We'll have someone get right back to you." I said, "I AM GOING TO DESTROY YOU. I AM GOING TO SET YOUR HOUSE ON FIRE. I WILL EAT YOUR GRANDCHILDREN." They said, "Did we mention our fabulous new three-way calling voicemail?"- etc, etc, and so on and so forth.
Exhibit B.- T-Mobile sneakily, gradually, raises my phone bill every couple of months. T-Mobile laid off my brother and 700 other people in Redmond, OR. T-Mobile has actually been found guilty of union busting, and instead of changing their policies, paid the absurdly meager fine and fired all the employees who brought up the charge. Then they paid a fine for doing that, because retaliatory firing, like union-busting, happens to be illegal. They are grade-A, world class fucktards.


The world is full of stupid.

Fortunately, you, as only an occasionally stupid person (it's okay; everyone is a little bit stupid every once in a while), don't need to wade through the quagmire of other people's idiocy without laughing at it. Laughter is good for you!

So is booze.

Crafting my Blogitude

Do you feel that? That tickle in the back of your throat? A slight fever? A sudden inkling to strip down to your birthday suit and go jogging? That's me!

...Actually, that last one is just you. Don't do it. Jogging is bad for you.
But the rest is an indicator that you have arrived here at my blog and are ready to assist me in crafting my blogitude.
All the best blogs have a 'tude. They say bad words a lot; they have pictures and sometimes videos; they promote violence against small furry animals and cartoon children; they're full of sexy sexiness, but not bumpengrinden or muff shots; they never, ever say the word 'penis'; sometimes they feature human-robot relationships; sometimes they give questionable advice to dumb Americans; sometimes they feature full-color pictures of dumb Americans in their natural habitat; sometimes they make fun of foreigners, who also happen to be dumb (small world!); and sometimes they just exude an ineffable awesomeness right down to their pixels and if they were a puppy instead of a blog, you would adopt them and name them after your favorite departed family member (who, lets face it, was probably also a puppy).
My new blog (this blog) doesn't yet have that special something. Maybe it needs a focus. Politics? Religion? Public nudity?
Chime in! Here are some pictures of shit while you're thinking up a witty response:

Does that help at all? The lighthouse scene is particularly conducive to meditative contemplation. Fuck that koala, though, right?!? What's his fucking problem?
Oooh! Here's an idea. Advice column! 'Cause nobody has ever done that before!
Want some advice? Try working on your critical thinking skills. And that shirt really brings out your stupid. Maybe you should wear some pants with it after all.

My lovely roommate, who is also a notorious bloggerette (bloggerina?), suggested a People of Public Transportation blog. Also an excellent idea, though it would require stealthy camera work, which would require a camera. Alas...
I look forward to your no doubt sparkling input, and to a grand viewing of 'Winnebago Man' which will commence shortly.
Tally-ho, Bloggeroos!

Newly Be-Hatted

This is sort of what my new hat looks like;

 Doesn't it fill you with a deep, spiritually transformational inner peace?
Aaaaahhh... hat.


On the downside (because there is always a downside, if there weren't a downside the entire universe would implode due to the sudden lack of balance in the Force and we would all die... and that would be bad... mostly bad, anyway), this hat was made in China. Yes, like everything else. On its tag it screams out in bold letters 'DESIGNED IN NEW YORK!!!', while printed just below that in criminally small font it admits to being 'made in china'. Bombast and apology, all on one little price tag.
Beyond the obvious material, cultural and economic drawbacks of my 'DESIGNEDINNEWYORK!!!butmadeinchina' hat, I'm happy with it.

Aren't you?

You see, this hat is just the beginning of a new era of hatti-ness that will no doubt mark my entry into society. And by 'society', I mean 'hat snobs'. Cheap, hypocritical, self-satisfied, happy hat snobs.

Fifteen Pumpkins

That is the number of pumpkins our household has to procure in order to be competitive pumpkin displayers in our neighborhood. Fifteen.
That may seem an exorbitant amount of pumpkins, particularly for a household of three, but that is where the bar has been set. Anything less would be admitting defeat. After all, would you rather be remembered as the Pumpkin House with the mind-blowing fifteen pumpkin display, or as... yeah... there was this other house with some pumpkins, too...
Which would you rather be? A discreet appreciator of little "h" halloween, or the Life of the Neighborhood?

I can't let another Halloween (notice the  "H") pass by without some whooping and howling and pumpkin carving! No! But... I also can't help but wonder if this sudden desire for pumpkins, pumpkins, More Pumpkins, isn't rooted deep in my childhood. Perhaps, by peeling back the mists of time and examiniOHGODWHATISTHATTHING?!?


Anyway... pumpkins whisk me back to a time of innocence, when my only enemy was my younger brother and little boys would show little girls you how far they could pee and little girls would laugh and point, but secretly wish they could also pee long distance. We would go to the pumpkin patch every year and get some marvelous great pumpkins of curious shapes and sizes. Dad would invariably cut up some loony faces; Brother the Enemy and I would slice out the triangle eyes and block teeth that every small child everywhere considers the apex of pumpkin creativity. Then we'd cook up the pumpkin seeds, put the pumpkins on the porch and light 'em up. Spooooooky...

It's different now. It's all keeping-up-the-the-Joneses now, with bigger and more elaborate pumpkin displays erected every year. It's not innocence and magic; it's an annual Pump-Off. (Admit it; pornographic images just swirled through your head. That's because you're a pervert. It's not your fault, though. You would never act on that fantasy, never.) I'd advocate a return to simpler times, with a mere two to five pumpkin showing, but then the thirteen pumpkin house would win.
We can't have that. There is a crown to be won, a crown for the hardest working, most dedicated Halloween purveyor of spirit, and it's shaped like an ass load of pumpkins.

Bring on the Pumpkins!

P.S. I don't actually think of my brother as The Enemy. I used to, though. I used to.

P.P.S. If you're reading this, Ian, do try to remember all those times I didn't beat you up. Those were great, huh? 'Cause now you're, like, 6'4 or something. Yeah. Good times...

The Inevitable Space Tuna

Isn't that the best blog title you've ever seen?!? I'm so proud.
Even better, space tuna is real. You can buy it at Trader Joes. You can stick the entire package in a pot of water, boil it, open the package and dump the contents over rice, pasta, veggies, bread, ice cream, whatever you typically eat with your tuna, and chow down.
The space tuna made me think today, when I had a free moment and a brain cell to spare for non school-y thoughts, about the future of food.
The topic, as a whole, is increasingly grim and uncertain. As a species we are generally becoming aware of how cavalierly we use natural resources and how quickly we're going through the ones that are not self-replenishing. I saw a chart recently (no link, sorry) that suggested that, while there are three times as many people alive today as there were in 1960, there are half as many resources available to the whole. Half as much potable water, half as much rich soil, half as much gasoline, half as much of what we can't do very well without.
It won't be long before space tuna will be the only tuna. Fortunately for you and all your fellow tuna lovers, it's delicious. So munch away on a glorious heaping plate of the inevitable space tuna, then wash it down with some reprocessed human space beer. Just don't think too hard about what you might actually be eating... in The Future.
I'd like to think future space food will include a lot of candy. I like candy and don't eat nearly enough of it. No, really. I like candy. I'm also rooting for peanut butter.
We will have to concentrate on foods that can be "grown" in a petri dish on a space station. According to science fiction movies, that includes just about anything your little heart might desire. Space people of the future will spend an inordinate amount of time eating the equivalent of nutri-loaf*, however. They clearly won't be smarter than regular humans, who have spent centuries nurturing the beet and featuring the thing in dishes ranging from soup to jello molds. Come on, people! It's not meant to be eaten! Are you crazy? Are you even list- oh, never mind...
It's up to us make the future of space food a brighter one than it might otherwise be if we allow the crazy people to take the reins. Say no to beets. Say yes to candy. And please, pass the tuna.**


*Nutri-loaf is a meal given to medium and maximum security prisoners who are not behaving themselves and have their meal privileges taken away. Nutri-loaf consists of whatever is on the menu for the day, blended up, mashed into a loaf shape and baked. According to my mom, this is for real.
**I'm really tired.

Boats and Death

There are three boat pictures in my room, not including my current calendar picture, which is also depicting a boat. You're probably thinking, "Goodness! She's a boat fiend. All of her relationships will play second fiddle to her love of boats. She'll wind up throwing everything away for a chance to sail off into the sunset with the wind at her back. What a whore."
I promise that my whorish ways have nothing to do with my love of boats. You see, a boat is the perfect metaphor for the true, brutal, beautiful nature of freedom and how risky that freedom is. Patrick Henry very likely understood that. After all, he did not say "Give me a reasonable promise of security, or give me death!" Safety and security do not freedom and liberty make. Having a tremendous military devoted to protecting the homeland by occupying strategic points all over the globe and squatting like a great troll on a Statue of Liberty-shaped bridge to make sure all the little brown, not-English speaking people can't get in to Uh-merika (unless they're willing to pick oranges or scrub our toilets for slave wages) does not equate to freedom.

Why do we put such stock in freedom when to most of us it is little more than an idea unpracticed? Most of us, aside from exhilarating moments of adolescent stupidity, never come very close to experiencing genuine freedom. Freedom is wild and dangerous. Freedom doesn't care if you make it home alive or in an oblong box. Freedom is the shirking of any and all responsibilities to anyone or anything. Freedom is leaping into the abyss, eyes wide open, amazed and terrified.

The closest I've come to that, aside from a moment on stage during a high school play, was on a tall ship off the North Island of New Zealand. Before you leap to your feet and storm out of the room in disgust (New Zealand! Harrumph.), I was a tourist on a tour boat with a small group of aging Swedes. No, it wasn't the circumstance so much as the realization, as we swooped out of the bay and into open ocean, that about three inches worth of wood planking was all that stood between us and a deep and watery grave. Tied up in that realization was the sudden head rush of sheer joy of being alive and being on a boat and skating perilously close to oblivion, all at the same time. That three inches of planking is, really, all that ever separates us from death. It is right there, and any decision you make, whether it be to gun it through that yellow light or just to sit down on this particular bus stop bench at this particular moment, could be your last decision. And that right there, that is what freedom is. That individual power of choice, even if it operates within the grim confines of a world that for the most part is beyond our control, is our own little beacon of light in the darkness. We are always three inches from the wrong turn, the wrong hello to the wrong stranger, the wrong dessert, anything.

Being on a boat is freakin' terrifying. To me, anyway. A frantic little part of my brain is shrieking about all the things I have left to do, to be, to see, to rail against, to vote for, to cling to and let go, to love, and on and on and on. But unless you actually make the decision to do away with yourself, getting dead is just another thing you don't have very much control over. You have control over only those decisions made while skating along on that three inch planking, and you could break through anytime whether you want to or not.
Forget about endless preparations and just start skating for the sake of skating. It is the closest you'll ever really be to free.

Job Suckage and the Return to School

I've become very passionate about worker's rights and labor relations, and not just because I was once an enslaved child miner who so impressed my masters with my strength and loyalty that one of them set me free, free to become Arnold Schwarzenegger! No, I have also worked at jobs that sucked.
Many jobs suck. That is the nature of work; you struggle through to get to the end, thereby earning yourself a beer and a restful night of slumber and perhaps some sweet, hot love-makin' and free food.
When I say "These jobs sucked", however, what I'm really saying is "These jobs almost destroyed my will to live. These jobs made me think wistfully back on the days when I was getting bullied in middle school. These jobs made me praise Yahweh every day when it was over, then cringe with the gut-churning realization that it was all going to happen again tomorrow. These jobs made my days as a young, male slave child seem sweet by comparison."
What makes a job suck?

Here's a quick list, for those of you who are perhaps unfamiliar with the world of shitty employment, and for those who suspect they might be employed in a less than desirable post.

1. The management is a) nonexistent, b) verbally or physically abusive, c) prone to micromanagement and spying, d) makes vague threats about "staff changes", then fails to explain exactly what that means, e) doesn't or can't explain policy decisions that directly affect you, or f) willfully breaks any number of labor laws in order to cut costs.
2. The pay sucks and there are no benefits. If you are in a truly shitty job, don't even bother asking for a raise at the three month mark. Or the six month mark. Or a year after hire... And benefits? Bwahahahahahaaaa! Benefits! Ha! HAHAHAhahahahaaa!
Now, if you do sack up and actually ask for a raise, what kind of response can you expect? Try this on for size...
[Scenario: You and your Boss, in the Boss' office.
You: I've been here for six months now and had nothing but glowing reviews. I feel that I have earned the raise that was mentioned during my initial interview.
Your Boss: I thought you were here to complain about something.
You: Well... I said I wanted to bring up a minor issue with you.
Your Boss: And?
You: I'd like a raise.
Your Boss:... We don't feel that you're ready for that.
You: But I've been told repeatedly that I am.
Your Boss: (thinking, which is painful) Hmmm. How do I put this? No.
You: No?
Your Boss: How ya like them apples?]

Your boss probably wouldn't actually say "how ya like them apples", but trust me, your boss is thinking about how much you must be appreciating his apples right now.
3. The job is actually dangerous, and when you bring up the fact that it's dangerous, the response is, "Oh, yeah, we're getting around to fixing that."
True story. My aunt Nancy works for Georgia-Pacific Lumber out near Newport. The lumber elevator (yes, there is such a thing) had failed every one of its safety inspections dating back to 1976. It had been condemned as unsafe for 32 years and was still being operated when it finally went off its rails and fell on my aunt Nancy, squashing her down to four inches thick. Luckily for Nancy, she is so naturally thin that instead of cutting her two and killing her it merely broke a number of bones and caused severe organ trauma and internal bleeding. Promptly after this near-fatal accident, Georgia-Pacific fixed the elevator. Aunt Nancy, after a year of intensive phsyical therapy, went back to work. She does not go within spitting distance of the elevator.
4. You've been miscategorized as a temp or contractor, when in fact you work with and have all the same responsibilities as a regular employee and have been with your place of employment for years.
5. Your paycheck is consistently wrong, delayed, or just not there. This is known as wage theft. It is actually illegal and you can do something about it.
6. You have to ask permission to go to the bathroom, get a drink of water, or talk to one of your coworkers. You are not a first grader and should not be treated like one. If you are a first grader, stay away from the lumber elevator.
7. That's all I can think of right now, except for blatantly illegal things like theft, forced unpaid overtime, unwanted sexual advances, bludgeoning with a stick, etc...

My newfound, long-gestating passion for worker's rights prompted me to flail around the internet in a quest to find the most effective way to pursue, and actually do something about, improving the labor picture in Oregon and elsewhere. It eventually brought me back to school. Once again I am a student, though being a student is a very different experience the second time around. I mean, who are all these little kids? What the hell is that girl wearing? Is this Miami Beach, or what? Honey, please, put on some clothes. This time around I am actually here to get an education, not necessarily to discover "who I am" and what "the Real Me" wants out of life. Thank-fucking-God. I am not here to find a boyfriend. I am not here to fuck lots of strangers and cry about it later, alone, in my dorm, looking at old family photo albums. I am not here to be told that I am a "good girl" by creepy old man professors. I am not here to get soooooo druuunk, maaan.
I am actually here for an education. I'm here to start to figure what, if anything, I can do to make the national labor picture less butt ugly. I'm here to learn advocacy skills and develop my voice and a pro-labor leader. I'm here to start head-butting my way into the federal government's handling of labor issues. I'm here to "do" shit, not "be" shit, and it feels pretty damn good.

But then, classes haven't started yet.