My brother once sent a friend a letter that was cribbed entirely from The Lazlo Letters - specifically, the response Lazlo got from Richard Nixon with the P.S. about King Timahoe and whatever the other dog's name was (____ is still with us and well beyond her years ...). The recipient of the letter at the time hadn't read the book and was understandably bewildered, she'd kept the letter nonetheless. After he died, that friend gave me all the letters of his she'd kept and that one was naturally included. Somehow I figured out what it was, although I think it wasn't until several years later when I was reading the book myself and went, "wait, haven't I read this somewhere before?"

So, years later, I had a correspondence going through high school and into college with somebody I met at a forensics tournament. I was quite the letter writer in the day. Anyway, I had sent off a letter to her, and was listening to Laurie Anderson's Mister Heartbreak, when a thought occurred to me.

So, after I got her response, I wrote out ...

I got your letter.  Thanks a lot.
I've been getting lots of sun.  And lots of rest.  It's really hot.
Days, I dive by the wreck.  Nights, I swim in the blue lagoon.
Always used to wonder who I'd bring to a desert island.

I think I put in a P.S. a pointer to deciphering what the letter was all about, but otherwise it was just the lyrics to "Blue Lagoon" written out by hand.

I hadn't thought about that in ten years.

I'd thought about the song, of course. I couldn't hear the term sea change without doing so, and that term was all the rage politically a while back, and instead of thinking of the play I thought of the song that quoted it.

I saw a plane today.  Flying low over the island.
But my mind was somewhere else.
And if you ever get this letter.  Thinking of you.
Love and kisses.  Blue Pacific.  Signing off.

link (24 sep)

Oh, one more thing, entirely unrelated to the other two entries I've done so far today:

I'm supposed to refrain from all dairy products for two weeks. I don't know if I know how to eat, if it doesn't involve something dairy. There's probably cheese in or on everything I eat, plus the fact that whenever I sautee stuff, I usually do so in butter, and I like milk in my coffee, on my cereal, and with my cookies.

But. I'm supposed to refrain from dairy for two weeks. Keep a food diary, too.

I went to an allergist yesterday, for the first time ever. I was told at age 20 that I had "perennial allergic rhinitis," something that had never occurred to anybody in my family - least of all, me. I never knew as a child that other people could breathe better through their noses than I could through mine. I just assumed everybody woke up with one side of their head completely congested and the other mostly restricted. Every morning.

So at 20, I saw an otolaryngologist to have my deviated septum fixed and my tonsils removed (I was a kid when it was out of vogue to remove them, which meant that at 20 I had near-constant infection and abscesses), and after the procedure was done he also saw fit to prescribe Seldane-d for my allergies (the allergies I hadn't known I had, mind you). Lo and behold, I could breathe!

That worked a couple years, until I started having trouble sleeping, so the Seldane-d became Seldane-without-the-d, and then Seldane became a Very Unpopular Drug, and the same doctor put me on Claritin. That didn't work as well as Seldane, and I'd heard many good things about Zyrtec from other singers (whenever you get singers together they talk allergy drugs) so I picked some up when I was in Canada the next time and I've used it ever since.

But I was running out, and since I've actually got insurance again I figured I'd see a doctor and see about getting some more. So he gave me a prescription, but also the paper for the food diary, the instruction to refrain from dairy products, and told me to come back in two weeks. Oh, and I can't take the Zyrtec for two days before the return visit, as they're going to do a prick test and Zyrtec would, understandably, interfere.

So in a couple weeks I get to find out what exactly I'm allergic to (I always tell people "everything" since it's easier, shorter, and close enough to the truth). This'll be weird. At least in two weeks I can have dairy again.

link (23 sep)

So does the Olympics coverage stink? I wouldn't know.

I was thinking about this the other day, and I think the last time I saw any Summer Olympics coverage was, well, actually I don't think I can even remember when the last time I saw Summer Olympics coverage was. I haven't watched a damn thing from Sydney. I didn't watch any of Atlanta. I didn't watch any of Barcelona (I was in Germany at the time, and the only teevee available to me was a sad black and white one that was about 10 years past the point it was 10 years past its useful lifespan. Tennis? You couldn't see the ball. The Germans on my floor tried to watch fencing, and I don't know how they could stand it. You couldn't see the foils at all. It was hellish). Anyway, before Barcelona, I didn't watch Seoul (was it Seoul in 88?), before that was LA, and I think I watched LA but, y'know, I don't have any Olympic Memories from LA so maybe I didn't watch that one either. And 80 was Moscow, and I didn't watch that one either because (1) I was nine and had other things to do, and (2) there were no Americans in it.

I've watched most of the Winter Olympics over the same span, because there's less to do in Winter besides watch teevee, and because the Winter sports are just so much more fascinating to somebody from the plains. (Technically, I'm from a hilly part of a plains state, so I did grow up with greenery and not wheat and dead tallgrass, but Oklahoma is a land of football). I got really turned off Olympic coverage on the teevee during one of the ABC years, when they would cut away from a live, exciting hockey game to show an "Up Close and Personal" of some ice skater, then show you taped compulsories, then come back to the hockey game where, in the meantime, three goals had been scored. And ABC didn't see anything wrong with this.

Now, since the whole damn thing is taped this year, they're apparently more concerned with getting "good ratings" than they are with showing actual sports, and they're ruining their ratings in the process. Maybe they don't know better than us after all.

Oddly, I have actually been to a gymnastics event - it was the NCAA regionals hosted at OU when I was there. Pretty interesting, actually, for a non-fan. OU's men's team, though favored, didn't win (shocker!) but ended winning the actual national tournament a week or two later so it was possible to forgive them. That was the same year that OU's baseball team pulled out a surprise victory at the College World Series. Rah rah, go team. It was also, however, the, um, third year in a row that OU lost to Texas, Nebraska, and OSU in football (IIRC) and I believe they replaced the coach after the end of that season. Because Oklahoma, despite the baseball and gymnastics successes, is still the land of football.

link (23 sep)

Hey kids, do ya like the rock and roll?

I know I do, but I have a hard time going to rock concerts because in the land of rock audiences, the Me Decade never ended.

I've been a musician in some capacity ever since my parents plunked me into piano lessons at the tender age of five. I apparently forced their hand, as well as that of the piano teacher (Miss Jackson, her house smelled of old books, old woman, and gas heat), by being more talented than the average five year old. Miss Jackson didn't take students until they could reach an octave, and I could barely reach a fifth, but I had an ear for music. My brother and sister were both in lessons, and I would sit in the living room while my brother practiced his Beethoven sonatas and Chopin etudes, and when he finished practicing he'd get up, I'd go over to the bench, and pick out what it was he'd been playing. By ear. He was 14 and playing things that apparently are a bit more involved than the average five year old should be able to pick out.

But anyway, since I've been doing this music thing for so long, I've been on stage or in the hall more than most people, and I have to say that I don't understand what it is that makes people think rock musicians aren't due the respect that other musicians get.

There is only one difference between a rock show and any other musical performance: volume. And frankly, I could do without that, if it were possible. But it isn't. Because people seem to think that it's worth the ticket price to go somewhere a musician is playing, and then yell to make themselves heard over the music. Excuse me? Can somebody please explain the logic? There are environments much more conducive to talking than a rock concert, so if you're planning on having a conversation, why not make use of one of them instead?

See, I don't get this. If I pay to hear a band, I'm paying to hear them, not you. I don't want to hear you talk, I don't want to hear you sing along, I want to hear the people on stage, whose names are on the marquee, whom I paid to hear. The volume of the music doesn't give you permission to talk. Frankly, I'd prefer that they turn down the volume at most rock concerts, as I'm not currently deaf and the only thing that's going to make me so is hearing damage caused by attendance at too many loud concerts.

You want to dance? Great. I'm all for that. Dancing is quiet and doesn't detract from others' enjoyment of the show. You want to smoke? Please heed the rules of the venue. If it's a non-smoking venue, it won't kill you not to smoke for the two hours you're inside. If it's a smoking venue, I know that going in and I can decide if it's worth dealing with for me to see that band (and I have skipped shows because I knew that the venue would be too smoky, so I hope all you smokers enjoy your (1) concerts, (2) emphysema, and (3) lung cancer).

You want to sing? Do that in the car or the shower. Start your own band. Don't sing along with the band unless they ask you to. If they ask, I'll sing along too. But it's not about you, it's about them.

You want to tape the show? Unless the band specifically approves of taping, NO, NO, NO. The price of admission is a contract, an agreement that the performer(s) will do certain things, and you will do certain things. It does not, in any way, give you ownership of what you hear that night. You do not have the right to keep a recording of the show unless the band says so. Your ticket price allows you to experience the concert, but not to tape it. It's not about you, it's about the band.

Here's why this is important: the musician's value is in his performance. You wouldn't pay thirty bucks to hear the crazy old man singers do "Old Grey Mare." You wouldn't pay to hear somebody mimic a concert that happened before (Now! Live! These random five people imitate the concert that happened last night with air guitars and humming!), with the possible exception of those "1964" people who mock up a Beatles show, but if you read this diary you probably wouldn't pay money to hear them either (and there's the argument that what they're doing constitutes theatre and not a concert besides). So the thing that makes the concert of value at all is the musician's (or musicians') performance. "Tonight, one night only, the exact set of circumstances that will combine to make tonight's show!"

If the musician doesn't want you to tape that, it's his right and you have to respect it. He (please add "or she" wherever you see fit) makes his living by providing something unique every time he appears. That's why they call it live. You wouldn't pay to see somebody push "play" on their latest CD, would you? The concert you see exists as a unique point in space and time, which is the sole thing the musician has to offer. If the performers wish for you to respect that uniqueness and refrain from recording their performance, please do so. That uniqueness is the only thing the musician has.

(Yes, I've been to two Phish shows. Yes, I know that they encourage taping. Other bands don't. The argument that some bands allow and encourage taping, so this one should too, does not apply. There is no right or wrong, there is only Zuul, please do what the band wishes and don't apply one band's rules to another just because you think they're more favorable rules).

Sure, you bought all the CDs, and you know all the words. I did too, and I do too. But if I go to an opera, I can't sing along with the tenor just because I know how and I paid for my ticket. I can't tape it because I think it's too expensive not to do so. I can't talk to the people next to me throughout the show, because that would actually be recognized as rude behavior in any venue except for a rock show. Why don't you give rock musicians the same respect?

link (23 sep)

So, I warned her that if she had any specific sights or mvsevms that she wanted to see then she needed to make sure that I didn't suck her into my slack vortex (Sunday night's term coinage was "slack horizon"), and either she didn't take me seriously or the mvsevms weren't all that important.

Thing one: we were two hours late Sunday night meeting with Koog, and approximately as late getting to Columbia but we didn't actually miss any of the show.

Thing two: out of 44 available hours of the weekend, only one was spent at a mvsevm.

Tino often comments that I work too hard or too much. I don't really have much of a reply to that statement, 'cept that I probably don't work too much, really. Like my father, I don't have varying qualities of working. I'm either working too hard or I'm not working. The flip side of this is that my unproductive time is really unproductive.

I do believe that a splendid time was had by all though. Saturday night I ended up with a dozen (a dozen!) people in my apartment, and I made pizzas on the pizza stone I got a few years ago. I haven't really cooked for people the two years I've lived in the DC area. This isn't terribly surprising, as most of my friends here are vegematarians and I don't know my way around the vegetable end of the food spectrum well enough (I can't stand eggplant, never really got into squash, and half of the vegematarians hate mushrooms) to accomodate them, so I haven't tried.

Pizza's pretty easy to do in crowd-pleasing fashion though, so it worked well. My one complaint was that the pizzas ended up taking longer than I remembered them taking (14 minutes each) which meant that the whole thing was strung out over a longer period than I expected (the cooking, not the party). I spent a good portion of the first half of the party in the kitchen while the guests were in the living room, but that's par for the course.

The best idea I had was to go ahead and make the dough on Friday night and stick the pizza-size balls of dough in the fridge covered with damp kitchen towels (restaurant experience pays off occasionally). The downside of that was I was guessing how many people would really show up (if I hadn't guessed high there would have been trouble) and then making an appropriate amount of dough. Kneading triple the amount of dough by hand is also more than a little tiring.

Saturday after Em and Dave got here we got lunch in Adams Morgan (mmm ... mango margaritas), then walked to Dupont, where Em bought some CDs and I bought a rolling pin (later to come in handy) and a mortar and pestle (which I didn't use to make pesto after all, but now I have one). As Em's still hobbled we got a cab back to the house and they napped while I started the sauce. Since there wasn't any dough in the way, it was easy to get the sauce started and have all the dishes clean and put away so there was room on the counter for the actual prep. Oh, and the fresh tomatoes instead of canned were a good decision.

Best pizza of the night:

Roll out dough and rub with olive oil (I started out stretching the dough by hand, but it was a little less elastic than it needed to be for that to work well and I didn't have the patience to fight it)
Sprinkle corn meal on paddle; transfer dough to paddle
Spread a layer of pesto on dough
Sprinkle generous quantity of grated mozzarella cheese
Add: fresh spinach, sliced kalamata olives, chopped sun-dried tomatoes, thinly sliced red onion
Bake on a preheated stone in a 450-500 degree oven for 15-20 minutes

To that if you feel like going absolutely bonkers you may also add sliced fresh mushrooms, roasted pine nuts, crumbled feta cheese, or artichoke hearts, but it's quite good as listed.

Five bottles of wine and maybe a dozen beers were consumed. Nobody seemed to have any problems with the cats. Nothing was broken. Emily inspired me with some of her pictures from Paris, and I had to go grab my Paris photos (which took some looking and finding) and we stayed up until almost 3am talking.

Sunday saw us sleeping in, eating around one, and being late as mentioned earlier. In digging around the box of photos I had come across my Berlin pictures, so Sunday I ended up sharing those as well. I had numbered and packed up four rolls worth of prints and sent them to my parents while I was in Germany, and had used the numbers to provide annotations. Yesterday reading this stuff I was terribly amused. It's very lucky that I captioned all of them that way though, because without the notes I had no idea what some of those things were anymore. Oops. Maybe I'll get around to scanning some of the better ones eventually.

Phish were fun, the glowsticks were entertaining, the parking lot scene is amusing (I almost bought a t-shirt of the infamous picture of Nixon and Elvis in the Oval Office, retouched to have Elvis be one of the Phish guys, but I thought the tour dates on the back detracted from the shirt), Amanda made somebody's day by giving them her spare ticket (she'd bought four and we only used three), and there were several other Phish concert attendees at Bob and Edith's at the same time we were (who else would be that hungry at 2am Sunday/Monday?).

Oh, and note to Koog: isn't it obvious enough by now what the consequences would be, when I can get to the point of doing a Yoda voice with a Kinder Surprise toy unaided? There are secrets man is not meant to know, and I think what I'd be like stoned is on that list.

Today we were once again slow to rise. I made coffee and realized as I was putting the weekend's third load of dishes in the dishwasher that I'd cooked 18 person-meals in 48 hours. That's almost a month's worth of cooking when measured against my usual habits. Eventually we left the house, dropped Amanda's car off at her place (I'd driven it last night and dropped Amanda off at home before coming here), and got the aforementioned hour at the National Gallery. I've lived here two years and I'd never been to the East Wing.

Dave and I pondered over why they'd found it necessary to secure the ends of the big Calder mobile into a fixed position, and I concluded it was because of the temporary partitions they had installed on the upper level. Just a guess though. I was then sucked in by the 20th Century Art galleries, where I pondered over my affection for Warhol (is it wrong that I think he's a genius?), was fascinated by several things by people I'd never heard of, was gleeful at the Jasper Johns pieces they had ("Ooo! An actual Savarin can!"), was once again surprised and impressed by how talented Lichtenstein actually was, and then was totally entranced by the Calder room. The Modigliani and Matisse pieces in the little galleries leading to the upper observation area for the Calder room were just extra added bonuses.

I don't think I've been as instantly and viscerally moved to joy as I was in the Calder room since seeing Matisse's Apollo at the Moderna Museet in Stockholm. I often find that the art I like best is the stuff where the artist explores his or her own virtuosity, the stuff where I can imagine him or her thinking, "look what I can do!" I also like the stuff where that's turned on its head, hence the love for Warhol. But most of the art that grabs me is the stuff that is more appreciated than enjoyed.

Not so with Matisse, or, apparently, Calder. Matisse may have indeed been thinking, "look what I can do!" but what he could do better than anybody else was portray joy itself. When I came upon Apollo in Stockholm, it brought a light to my eyes and warmth to my heart. It's about three meters square, and the curators of the museum have thoughtfully placed a bench in front of it, where you can sit and soak it in. I returned to it twice during my visit. I had that same feeling of wonder in the Calder room this afternoon. It's not very often that the artists I like make things because they're beautiful, so I'm always (pleasantly) surprised to find beauty (a fish sculpture made of broken glass) and not just significance (Lichtenstein interpreting cubism or doing five views of Rouen Cathedral with Ben-Day dots; Green Marilyn) in what I'm looking at.

All that from a mere hour at the mvsevm.

link (19 sep)

Bleah. I would like to return the past week and exchange it for a new one.

Saturday, I was trying to get the hell out of the District for something, turning left at an intersection, and the car I was going to get behind came to a stop. So I did too, only about 20 degrees around the corner. Then he started to move, I let out the clutch, and hit him.

No damage at all to his car, I didn't even get out of mine, choosing instead to wave the guy off, but it was one of those stupid things. When I got where I was going, I checked my car, and there's a spot on the front bumper where I rubbed off about a quarter inch square of my paint. Ugh.

So today, I'm leaving work after a particularly annoying and headachey day (I've been annoyed and headachey all week), and I back out of my parking place ... directly into a passing Ford Expedition. I couldn't see her coming up the ramp and she couldn't see me backing out from beyond the 4-Runner parked next to me. Argh. Again, minimal damage, but enough this time that we exchanged insurance information. My insurance people called me an hour or two later, and I said, "no, I don't want to file a claim," but they'll pay any damages on her vehicle. Whatever. I really don't want to think about it.

I'm always sorta disturbed when small stuff like this happens, because I'm usually the sort of person who fucks up big when he fucks up at all. Rub some paint off in the parking garage? Pish tosh. I'm waiting for somebody to t-bone me in an intersection or ride up over my back bumper at the toll gates.

Just over five years ago I was stopped at an intersection and pushing buttons on my car stereo when there was a whump followed by a smaller whump, and I realized I'd been rear ended. By a woman driving a new(ish, at least) Cadillac Seville. In front of a car dealership. The second whump was one of the service guys from that same dealership slamming into the back of the Cadillac, as he didn't expect her to come to such a sudden stop. So when I walked up to the dealership to use their phone, the sales guy standing out front said, "looks like you could use a new car!" "I just need to use your phone." (Unfortunately there's no <growl> tag in HTML). When I got back to my car she was gone. I had all her insurance information anyway, but my dad suspected at the time she'd been drinking and didn't want to get caught by the police. Anyway, her insurance paid to fix my car.

Hallowe'en of that same year, I was driving the came car south on US-75 through Richardson, TX, on my way to a King Crimson concert that night in Fort Worth, after which I was planning to drive onto Austin, stay with friends, and see the show the next night there. Wreck happened in front of me, but I saw it coming and managed to stop. The old dude in the Grand Marquis behind me didn't. Again with the double whumping. Interestingly enough, there's so little happening in Richardson, TX, that the emergency response included five police cars, two fire trucks, and an ambulance, for a four car accident. The only people requiring the ambulance were the unfortunate old man who'd hit me, and his even less fortunate passenger, who had starred the windshield and was walking around in a daze, probably in shock. Once again, his insurance paid to fix my car (which I did drive all the way to Austin that night after the concert, although I'd had no dinner because the accident took my dinner window away from me).

The following January, I quit my job, drove the same car to visit my old college roommate, and was driving back so I could get to a job interview the next day. It had rained like hell the first half hour of the drive, but the rain had let up and the roads were fine. Except for the one patch just past the crest of a small hill, that is. I felt the car jump about an inch to the left and then regain traction, had enough time to think, "oh shit! Hydroplane!" and move my foot to the brake pedal, and then found out that on wet and slippery enough roads, steering into the skid doesn't help at all. The front end of the car turned about 30 degrees to the left and then the tires caught, causing the back end to flip around counterclockwise. The momentum smacked the car sideways into the Jersey barrier at about 60mph, backwards that is, and the car and I slid backwards a couple hundred yards down the left shoulder, grinding up against the wall. Looking directly at a semi coming right at me in the left lane at about 70. It passed by, as did several other cars. I noted that the engine had died, but when I turned the key it started right up. So I waited for an opening and did a U-ey and pulled over on the right shoulder. The car sounded kinda odd, like the rear wheel was grinding against the wheel well.

A couple of the cars that had seen my accident had stopped on the right shoulder, and one of them drove off immediately after I pulled around, but the driver of the other came by to check on me. By the time he got to me, I was puzzling over the right rear quarter panel, which looked oddly dark. After the previous experience in Texas I had made sure that the flashlight in the car actually had charged batteries, so I got my flashlight and returned to the rear of the car. The wheel was gone.

Uh.

Actually, it wasn't gone. The impact had broken the rear axle, but the wheel itself ended up underneath the car. It had been the source of the grinding noise. The guy who'd stopped didn't have a cell phone, so I said I'd wait for a trooper to show up, thanked him for staying, and allowed him to leave. Then I got back in the car, had another Dorito (only one of them from the open bag - I believe they were Cool Ranch - had ended up on the floor, a much better ratio than the 23 donut holes that met their untimely and rather dirty floor-matted death that high school morning), sipped from my Dr. Pepper, and waited for the trooper.

The car was totaled that time. Three wrecks, just under six months. None of them my "fault." (Hydroplaning on a straight road when no other cars are involved is a no-ticket, no-fault accident).

So now, fifty thousand miles later, I've dinged the paint on both the front and rear bumpers of my car in the span of five days. I prefer not to think of the time last year when I learned firsthand why it is they teach you to parallel park in reverse and not going forward (eight hundred bucks damage to the passenger door and quarter panel, inflicted by the front bumper of an Explorer that wasn't even scratched in the process), but that was over a year ago and doesn't really count now. Ugh. I must be having a bad Mercury transit or something.

Anyway, these two will be visiting this weekend, so that will rock. I'm probably going to take Monday off (my manager will be gone all next week, so it's not like she can really say no) to maximize the hanging out time. I'm cooking dinner at my place Saturday. Fedward Brand Pizza, probably. It's been a long time since I've made the dough and sauce. The sauce is easy enough to reproduce, but it'll take some effort to get the dough right. I'm even thinking of maybe doing the dough Friday night and throwing it in the fridge, although I don't remember how much rise I have to account for if I do that. Hm.

Anyway, in preparation for the visit I spent last weekend doing a bit of cleaning. I picked up substantial amounts of clutter, washed all the laundry that had been piling up, folded all the towels and put them all away for the first time in maybe 8 months (I have far too many towels for a single person, and two spare laundry baskets that clean towels can stay piled up in almost indefinitely without needing to be folded), even washed and dried my old down comforter, and vacuumed. And decided, "hell with this," and I bought a new vacuum. It was the trip for the new vacuum that featured the first of the two fender bumps mentioned above.

The vacuum I bought isn't on the web anywhere (how can anybody not put something on the web in this day and age?) which is almost enough to keep me from buying it, but the one just like it is. Or you can see an actual photograph of the sister model as it's badged for sale in the states. But you can't see the photograph of the one I bought, as it's a Kenmore, and for some strange reason you can't buy it online. Whatever. It's black where that one's grey, it's dark blue translucent plastic where that one's light blue translucent plastic, but otherwise it's the same thing. It's not as way rad as the Dyson (can you tell I actually looked into this vacuum thing for a while? My sister's got a Dyson. It kicks ass) but I don't have to rewire my house for 220V power, so it's a tradeoff I can live with.

In cleaning just my living room I had to empty the canister once before I could finish. The sum total of cat hair and dirt picked up by this thing came to four canisters full (about two bags full for my old vacuum, if it worked that well, which it doesn't). And I'd even vacuumed recently with the other one. Sheesh. Anyway, I didn't sneeze once during all the vacuuming, it's quiet, it looks cool, and it's on sale at Sears until the end of the month. If you're in the market for a new vacuum, I recommend it.

The other domestic gadget I highly recommend is the Black and Decker Scumbuster. The first time you use it to scrub the tub, it'll be the best fifty bucks you ever spent.

link (14 sep)

So, do I have anything to say around here yet? Hm.

If you read astrogirl you may or may not be wondering who the other Taurus Rising she knows is. It's me. This actually came as a shock to me because I'd run my chart based on what time my mom always told me I was born, and according to that I had Gemini rising. I still kinda know myself based on that, since Gemini rising was in opposition to the Sun in Sag, and, well, it brought certain things out. Plus, whenever you put me in the same room with a Twin, well, you can't stop the jabbering.

But mom remembered wrong. I guess I can't blame her, what with the labor pains and stuff. I was born at 4:10. If you're the curious non-skeptical type, you can check out what Astrodienst says about me. Oh yeah, and if you somehow find your interest in astrology piqued, let Debbi Kempton-Smith be your guide. Somehow I suspect you'll maintain your skepticism (or outright disdain, but hey).

Hmph. I've run out of steam here. I guess I didn't have much to say after all. Bed now.

link (8 sep)

"I need some packing materials."

"What for?"

"To pack."

"To pack what?"

"Some things."

"What kind of things?"

"Zorak things."

Allergy season made the news last night. They mentioned how if you're an allergy sufferer you might notice your symptoms getting gradually worse over the next few days. Notes on this:

1. Slow news day, eh?
2. They're a little late.
3. Gradually, my ass.

Saturday morning I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. My nose dripped all weekend. Bleah.

Anyway, this morning's soundtrack:

• Chemical Brothers, Block Rockin' Beats
• Chemical Brothers, Dig Your Own Hole
• Chemical Brothers, Elektrobank
  (the above three are the first three tracks on the Dig Your Own Hole CD)
• Handsome Boy Modeling School, Rock 'n' Roll (Could Never Hip Hop Like This) (twice)

Play the above very loud. The last one has been an earworm since I heard it in a couple commercials lately (I think one of them was an NFL promo, but I wasn't paying that much attention). Advertisers seem to like certain albums I own a whole lot:

• The Dockers people use several tracks off Thievery Corporation's DJ Kicks CD
• Moby, Play is everywhere (almost every ad for a FOX television show, it seems, plus they used the last track twice in the X-Files ep they reran last week, which isn't exactly an advertisement but is close enough)
• The VW Cabrio ad is Pink Moon by Nick Drake, which I don't yet own but the box set is tops on my list.

Oh, and if any of you remember and care, the theme music from the show "IRS The Cutting Edge" on way old MTV was Theme for Kinetic Ritual, by Klark Kent, who was Stewart Copeland in disguise. My sister had the 10 inch EP, which she later sold without asking me if I wanted it. I did later get the IRS CD of Klark Kent's Kollected Works so I guess all is not lost.

Anyway, I need to go get some packing materials. I have a defective thing to send back to somebody.

link (5 sep)