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Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Auto parts
Amputees experience phantom sensation in their missing part, particularly when the injury is recent. That must be why yesterday when my car was in the shop and I was at work I still felt the need to read the Announcement Bulletin Board email about "Car Has Headlights On In Parking Garage" to make sure it wasn't mine.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
1:47 PM
Pyro Radio
I found out the hard way that the one song you most definitely do not need to hear on your car radio at the moment the "Check Engine" light comes on, drawing your attention to the fact that the needle on the heat gauge is off the scale, is Arthur Brown's "Fire".
Note to the classic-rock impaired: that's the one that starts with the guy shouting "I am the god of hell fire and I bring you... FIRE!" It also contains the refrain "you're gonna burn, burn, burn!"
Note to alarmed parental and/or friend units: there was indeed subsequent automotive drama involving engine failure on a busy highway, a tow truck and a Shih-Tzu, but all is currently well, as am I. Extra-special thanks to friend J.J. for motor oil and spring water in adversity.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
5:56 PM
ID = Ego boost
Yes! The supermarket checkout lady person rang up my wine purchase by entering my year of birth as 1974.
Double Yes!: When I enthused "Thanks!" meaning "Thanks for making me 14 years younger!" she apparently interpreted it as "Thanks for making me older; I'm not old enough to buy alcohol." It sounds crazy, I know, but the lady actually narrowed her eyes at me and demanded to see my ID.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:28 PM
With a song in my broken heart
This coming Saturday a party will take place fêting the former Czar of The Style Invitational. That's a Washington Post humor contest; there's a link elsewhere on this page that you can click to learn more about it if'n you want.
The man who lorded over the contest and its faithful followers for nearly a decade handed the orb and scepter to another despot then stepped down to pursue other, ah, pursuits. Plans for the party have been in the offing for several months. Knowing that the "band" composed of Losers, as the regular entrants are known, would be "performing" at the party, several Losers wrote "songs" in honor of the day. Turns out that the lead vocalist has a limited range. In the words of a bandmate, "if it's not a Beatles song, [lead singers name]'s never heard of it." Crap. 'cause I wrote one based on a suitably apocalyptic Jackson Browne tune that 2 other band guys thought was just fine. Sing it myself, you say? You've obviously never heard me sing. Count your blessings.
Here's the song, preserved in electrons for posterity:
Before The Czar Bailed
(to the tune of "Before The Deluge" by Jackson Browne)
Some of them were slackers
And some of them were geeks
Who were writing jokes and hoping to hit pay dirt
With the mania of the OCD
They kept entering each week
With the hope to win a pen or Loser t-shirt
They spent years under a Czarist rule
And their hands reached for the gopher drool
With their hearts they mourned bumper stickers won but unmailed
In the troubled years that came before the Czar bailed
Some of them got much ink
And some of them got none
And for some of them it was only the Czar chat that mattered
Though they were brash and crazy and uncouth
They were trying in vain to have fun
And their t-shirts, once so fine, grew torn and tattered
And in the end they traded inspired zings
For the deep frustration that no ink brings
They exchanged their gripes on Losernet
They waxed bitter and they wailed
And for a decade they were crushed before the Czar bailed
Now let Grace Fuller list our rankings high
And let the Empress keep our humor dry
Abdication's won us our freedom, say goodbye
Bye, bye, bye
Now the Czar who once enslaved us is just some guy
Some of them were cheesed off
At the way that they were abused
By the man who taught them to forge their bons mots into poop gags
And they struggled to beguile him with them
Only to be refused
By the fickleness of Weingarten (that old gassy windbag)
But when the news was out that the Czar stepped down
They danced naked down over in Losertown
And in attempts to celebrate a thing so joyful their sense failed
Believed that they would get more ink after the Czar bailed
Now let Grace Fuller list our rankings high
And let the Empress keep our humor dry
Abdication's won us our freedom, say goodbye
Bye, bye, bye
Now the Czar who once enslaved us is just some guy
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:59 PM
Lord, what of the ring?
Watching Thelma and Louise on cable for about the dozenth time (hey, it's got Charlie Sexton singing a John Hiatt song - what more do you need?) the other day, something occurred to me. [WARNING - SPOILERS DEAD AHEAD]: Scant minutes before the gals discover their nest egg has been burgled, Louise accepts an engagement ring from Jimmy. If the need for scratch was as desperate as her meltdown reaction indicated, why not pawn the ring? "Sentimental reasons" doesn't suffice, as a few scenes later Louise is shown removing all her jewelry and offering to a 10,000 year-old-man in exchange for his hat.
It's possible I'm missing a fine point in an otherwise fine film. Which, I hasten to point out, is NOT just about two chicks out on a male-bashing rampage. Their spree starts with Louise's existential moment of choice when she shoots Harlan -- almost reflexively -- when his actions and attitude bring deep-buried pain bubbling to the surface. Admittedly, it's possible I'm missing a fine point in a philosophical question as well.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:11 PM
The National Mall? That got a cineplex?
I spent yesterday afternoon minding the ComedySportz store. The pay for the 6-hour stint is lousy but as with anything if you have the right attitude it can be fun. In addition to overseeing ticket sales for the matinee and answering phone calls from folks wondering just what goes on at such a place and are there seats available for tonight's show, my main duty seems to be answering questions from walk-ins. Questions unrelated to ComedySportz, that is. "Excuse me, where is the nearest restroom?" is the most common. Yesterday also brought a Hispanic teenager who, after a whispered conference with two older Hispanic women, came in to ask urgently where the nearest Ticketmaster was. I asked what event she was so eager to see, thinking it to be boy-band related. "Oh, a traditional Spanish group we know," she replied bashfully, gesturing toward the ladies waiting by the door. I directed her to Hecht's, where I recalled having picked up tix once upon a time in the pre-Internet days. But the capper question came from a man sporting overalls, a sun-smacked red complexion and a thick hick accent. He wanted to know what other malls were nearby, explaining that he, his wife and son were on a daytrip from Winchester, VA, an hour and a half away. My expression must have told him I believed there to be more unique sights to be seen in the metropolitan DC area than shopping malls so he hastened to add "We thought about driving into Washington City, but we're afraid we'd get lost." I directed him to Fashion Centre at Pentagon City and he was happy, even though they were probably not going to make it to the Ritz Carlton in time for high tea.
Oh, and I met Patch Adams' son. Cool day.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
5:17 PM
Ha, ha, ha, ho, ho, ho
On today's laugh track to get me through a stressy kind of day:
In other news, Brian the Red reports receipt of his Boxcar Willie cassette and concomitant discovery that he no longer owns a working tape player. Way to harsh my mellow, Brian.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:35 PM
The Crying Name Game
Co-worker Kitti, answering calls these days from folks around the country who are using our agency's proposal-submission software, was moved to tears by a request for a change of name. I had an "awwwwww" moment myself when she told me about it. The name changee was a man, calling from California. A newlywed, he wanted to change his last name in our database from his to his new husband's.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:18 PM
You say "potato salad", I say "no, thank you"
I have written previously of the culinary mystery wherein any two individual ingredients in a given food item can be fine together but when presented as a whole are yucky. A similar issue came under discussion yesterday at a local barbecue place as I was explaining to my dining companion that I didn't care for potato salad. It was established that potatoes are ok by me (I looooove mashed potatoes!) I have nothing against eggs, mustard, mayonnaise, and whatever else normally makes up your standard potato salad recipe. Even combinations are ok: when living in France I learned to eat my frites with mustard and so help me I liked it. Devilled eggs? Not my favorite, but I'll eat a few to be polite. And so on. It's only when ALL of the ingredients get together in the backyard and say "Hey, kids! Let's put on a potato salad!" that I head for the exit. I don't know why.
My friend accepted the above explanation gracefully, secure in the knowledge that my unwanted side dish was his for the taking. The restaurant owner/manager, however, happened to be walking by just as I was saying "I don't like it." I swear I heard a cartoon-like "Errrrrrrrt!" as he slammed on his brakes and demanded to know just what was wrong with his potato salad. I trotted out the above explanation, complete with the endorsement for individual items. He was sure something was wrong with me, I could tell. He asked if I liked baked beans. I sensed a side-order upgrade/substitution was about to happen. I made a "kinda" gesture and he excused himself, returning moments later with a little dish of beans for me to taste. While he waited. I took a dainty bite, smiled and nodded and eventually he went away.
I don't have to tell you how I really feel about baked beans, do I?
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
6:39 PM
If you have to explain it...
The search engine report tells me that folks looking up "Mens sana in corpulent sano" are led here because that warped phrase appears in a November post. It is also, according to the search I just this minute did, the only place in the world of web where it occurs. That's because I made it up; a Rumination at once highbrow and potty-humoresque. I didn't think it would be used but it was featured in the February 26 Ruminations also-rans. Yay! Only the Rumination of the Day makes the site archives, so here it is again for those who don't subscribe (and why the heck don't you, hmmmm? Funny stuff! Mostly not written by me!):
People assume that because I'm overweight I'm not intellectual. I arch an eyebrow and say "Mens sana in corpulent sano." If they don't get it, I just sit on their necks and fart loudly.
At the risk of overexplaining the joke, the original Latin phrase is "mens sana in corpore sano", meaning "a healthy mind in a healthy body." "Corpulent" of course means "fat". I put the farting part in for the unwashed masses.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:11 PM
Shoot! The Moon!
A cool Christmas 2002 gift from my cool SIL Jo was a cobalt blue glass crescent moon ornament that graced my kitchen window alongside a not-quite-as-cool sun suncatcher I bought at the drugstore. They saw me coming; it was right there by the pharmacy and they knew I'd need something shiny to look at while I waited for my prescription to be filled.
Anyways, "graced" is in the past tense because a few weeks ago the string broke and the moon fell down went smash. I was crestfallen. (Crescentfallen?) Jo, if you're within the sound of this blog, I am so so sorry this happened. If you know where to get your hands on another one, let me know. That moon meant the world to me.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:47 PM
Seven Year Hitch
It was seven years ago today that I first reported for duty at the place where I continue to do duty and put up with doody in exchange for a living wage. My ID badge thingy still carries the photo taken either that day or a day or two later. I feel as if I have aged so much in the interim, but last week when I used said badge thingy as photo ID to pick up concert tickets, the ticketsellerlady said she had no trouble putting the two faces, one flat, thirtysomething and laminated, the other 3D, fortyish and slightly more wrinkled, together. No, she didn't put it that way. When I went to open the necklace pouch/badgeholder that doubles as my going-out purse to produce my drivers license she said, "That's ok. That picture is clearly you." I coulda kissed her. Come to think of it, though, my license picture is 2 years older than the badge picture.
The concert, BTW, was John Hiatt. Of course it was fabulous.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:10 PM
Pop culture
It's not a smart dietary choice, I know, but sometimes a bag of popcorn from the candy store at the mall is needed to feed the soul, if not the body. Twice in the past week I have indulged myself. Having a bag of popcorn at your desk usually makes you very popular (not that I'm not already, natch), but something about this particular stuff, popped in a big square glassed-in carnival-style maker, also seems to make people want to tell you all about their popcorn memories as they stand around mooching and munching. Most have to do with old-fangled stovetop popping. I used to be pretty adept at that myself, to the point where the oil-to-seed ratio was near perfect, resulting in just a few unpopped kernels and non-oily snacky stuff. Sadly, like the art of nauscopy, this skill is now lost. To me, at least.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:26 PM
We have a weiner!
A laurel and hearty handshake to Brian the Red for being the first to correctly identify "Don't Touch My Moustache" as being a more-or-less phonetic rendering of "you're welcome" in Japanese.
Congratulations, Brian-san! Send me your snail-mail address and I'll get that Boxcar Willie tape off to you posthaste. As a bonus, I'll include two pieces of scotch tape so you can cover the do-not-erase holes and record over it.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:22 PM
Not my greatest asset
I guess one's writing does reveal oneself. A recent listing of search strings that led people to this very blog included "light skinned big booty women". That gave me pause until I saw that all of those words appeared in February 2003, albeit not in that order or indeed even in the same day's posts. "Skinned" is what I did to a knuckle, and "Big Booty" is an improv warmup game. In very much the same vein, the rest of the words were used separately and innocently enough. But yes, yes, YES, there is no denying that, put together as the searcher did in that MSN search engine, "light skinned big booty woman" would be one way to describe me.
Still, somehow I doubt that the person looking for same stuck around here for long.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:11 PM
Don't touch my moustache
I scheduled my most recent haircut for lunchtime. The place is right across the street from the office and the benefits of a midday scalp massage during a stressful workday are not to be pooh-poohed. Before I left for my appointment co-worker Kitti asked me to ask the stylist on her behalf for prices on eyebrow waxing. So I did. Thanks to a slight language-barrier problem the stylist thought I was asking for myself. I wouldn't have minded so much but for the fact that she also apparently felt it necessary to quote me the price for upper-lip waxing, too. Twice.
(A Boxcar Willie cassette goes to the first person to correctly identify where the title for today's post comes from.)
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:39 PM
Dark Brownian Movement
Four words: Dark Chocolate Kit Kat. The ones for sale at the office snack bar carry a tie-in contest with the Cat In The Hat movie, offering some fabulous prize or other if your Kit Kat reveals itself to be covered in red and white chocolate. Presumably, you must then preserve the candy to claim your prize. I know the chances of my ever winning are slim to nil, but that doesn't stop me from whispering a little prayer to the chocolate gods (or Godivas) before unwrapping each bar that I will see no red and no white.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:44 PM
In Synchronicity
About 3 weeks ago I was on my way somewhere that took me past the Falls Church Home Depot where one of the D.C. sniper shootings happened. I usually get a creepy feeling when I pass by there but this time was all the more oogy since I noticed a white van parked under the sign. (It was believed for a time that the sniper(s) drove a white van.) Still yet even more creepy: I was listening to John Hiatt sing "Trudy and Dave" on the CD player at the time and at the precise moment my brain made the white van connection Hiatt was singing the line "In the middle of a strip mall shots rang out."
The Home Depot is at the end of the strip, but it freaked me out all the same.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:31 PM
Back in Black (until I change the color scheme)
Did I ever need that break! But I missed you all (you two?)
As I suspected, once I stopped blogging, many blogworthy events/moments happened. The blogworthiest is I learned from my brother that come September I will be an aunt. Or, as my smartass brother says, an uncle. They don't know yet. Hardy har har.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
5:51 PM