April 27, 2005

in for a fucktastic weekend

Thursday morning: Counselor's appointment.

Friday morning: Quadruple wisdom tooth extraction.

Saturday morning: Pain.

Sunday morning: Pain.

Monday morning: Probably pain then too.

And for some reason I haven't been able to figure out, I constantly feel like I'm going to throw up. Maybe it has something to do with my mortal terror of general anaesthesia.

In the meantime...

Froggy go boom! Germany has exploding toads. What's creepy is that it always seems to happen at the same time of night. Even their exploding wildlife is precise!

Ouchy the Clown will make you laugh til you hurt, or hurt til you laugh, whichever you like. I wanna hire him for our company picnic this year, but I don't think the management would like that.

Dirty stories about hobbits at Peachy's Orchard. I think I have the beginnings of a pain-management plan for this weekend. It's going to involve lots of prescription narcotics and h0bbit pr0n. Maybe I'll have Ouchy show up and cane me across the back of my legs, too, to make me forget about my teeth. I have a feeling that's about what it'll take.

So that's my weekend at a glance. So much goddamn fun, I'm surprised people aren't beating down the doors to join in.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 08:29 PM | Comments (0)

April 25, 2005

yeah, we know it looks stupid...

...but if you leave, they track you down. You're gonna get beaten no matter where you go, and you're gonna endanger whoever you're staying with; so unless you have a foolproof escape plan that prevents him from finding you, it's more dangerous to leave, necessary though it is.

Sheelzebub has much more on why women stay. Took the words right out of my mouth.

sbt/sbc

Posted by Frida Peeple at 07:54 PM | Comments (0)

April 24, 2005

New word

It's not in the dictionary, because I made it up 5 minutes ago.

nirvodka: [n] The pleasant enlightened state one achieves from the imbibement of spirits.

okay, I'm gonna go throw up again [no, sorry, it's not vodka-related...I don't know what the hell it is]...

sbt/sbc

Posted by Frida Peeple at 07:29 AM | Comments (0)

April 22, 2005

Should I...

...be worried about the amount of light I'm getting when I have an onion sitting on my computer desk that is--how do I put this--SPROUTING BECAUSE IT THINKS IT'S UNDERGROUND?

Time to save up for a sunlamp and get the hell into a day job.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 09:10 AM | Comments (0)

April 19, 2005

More Weird Shit From Ananova, With Commentary

So in between making up juvenile songs about how Michael Jackson touches little boys* ["Alouette" works very well for this, and allows for lines about Macaulay Culkin's butt], I took a look at the news. Not the normal news, of course; that sucks. Just the freaky shit.

~Like this: Booze wasn't enough. Pot wasn't enough. They had to make moonshine out of pot [that's actually not a bad idea, come to think of it] and leave it sit outside. Because, you know, nobody's going to steal your Double Whammy Gunja Moonshine. Especially not monkeys, since they're so calm and non-mischievous and stuff. Considering this happened in India, this would also explain a lot of the people I meet in chat who can't find my Yahoo profile and have to ask me "asl" over and over again. They're not stupid. They're just stone zonked off their ass.

~Folks, if your pet dies, you may want to have a small, quiet service at home. This is fine. But for goodness' sake, don't do the cremation yourself. Jeez.

~Ever wonder how people handle bladder issues during a marathon that's being broadcast on national TV? Well, here's one way. If you don't have a bashful bladder, you can always try the Squatting On National Television method. Christ, I can't even go when there's somebody else in the bathroom. Next time I'm asleep and I have to go, I'm going to have dreams about that marathon.

~Where do you go when you want machinery that lasts forever and runs like clockwork? It's always been Germany, right? Well, if you've been wishing they'd apply their world-class craftsmanship skills to fuckdroids, your wait is over.

~This thief made one crucial mistake: she forgot to set it to "vibrate". [The most frightening thing about it is, I can think of at least two people off the top of my head who would love to have that phone.]

~Now, fellas: No more excuses!

~Call me weird, but I actually think this is a good idea.

~I like Star Wars too, but this just makes me snicker.

~Speaking of nerd icons, chess champ Garry Kasparov got whacked in the head with a chessboard by somebody who didn't like his politics. Relations between dorks and twerps have said to have fallen even further from their usual shaky state following the incident. Spokespeople for the dipwad and geek communities have declined to comment on the effects of crumbling dork-twerp relations on their own negotiations. The president of MENSA gave assurances that no further hostilities would ensue.

~No, I'm sorry. Not every girl is crazy about a sharp dressed man. Neither is every restaurant owner.

And lastly...

~"Honey, do peanuts ever have legs?"

This has been Frida Peeple, bringing you News That Makes You Want To Edge Slowly Toward The Door™.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...
__________
*Sorry, folks, I really wanted to believe he was just a weird dude who happened to like kids, and I tried to suspend judgment as long as possible even when it didn't look good. But, uh...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 08:49 AM | Comments (0)

April 18, 2005

Not For Babies

If you're a mother, or if you like children, or if you believe in the sanctity of motherhood, or anything even remotely related, you're not going to want to read this. I'd apologise in advance, but I'm sorta not sorry. So.

I tried not to hate children. And it wasn't really that terribly hard, either, as long as I took the advice on the backs of most household product containers and kept out of their reach. That, folks, was until somebody with a baby and a toddler moved into the next apartment and decided that she needed to keep her rear window open at all times.

To paraphrase the Borg, cuteness is irrelevant. Youth and tenderness are irrelevant. When I have only been asleep for three hours and something wakes me up, I want it to die. I do not give a fuck who or what it is.

I want a hysterectomy just so I can laugh in people's faces when they ask me when I'm planning to have children. I want to volunteer at Planned Parenthood and send everybody home with so many condoms and birth control pills they'll have to hire a separate bus to take them home. If you see somebody climbing up the side of the water tower with a giant bag of stolen Ortho-Tri-Cyclen, grab some binoculars, and you might get a closer glimpse of me.

I have fucking had it. Children should be counted as pets for renting purposes. They should make family and non-family apartment buildings so that people who want their sleep and thoughts interrupted constantly by shrill piercing shrieks can have it to their hearts' content, and the rest of us can have some goddamn quiet before what's left of our hair falls out.

If you want to have children, that's your business. And you're very strident about it being your business, too. I've seen many blog entries devoted to "You won't believe what so and so said to me; they told me to do this or that with my child! The nerve!" It's called drive-by mothering, and I don't blame people for being mad about it. If I were a parent, I probably wouldn't want people telling me what to do with my kids either. So fair enough. But if you draw that line in the sand, you make yourself that much more solely responsible for them. If nobody else gets a say in how to raise them, then nobody else should have to put up with every shriek and babble. If you don't think it takes a village, don't make the whole fucking village listen to it.

If you're a parent and you don't like this, I don't fucking care. Close your goddamn windows. Then maybe people will be able to get some damn sleep, and you won't have to worry about them falling asleep at the wheel while you're driving down the road with your precious widdle children.

And maybe I'm just pissed because some of the same precious widdle children that are leaping around in apartments all over America and shrieking their heads off and waking people up, and are so staunchly defended by their doting parents, are going to be the same people who in ten or twelve years shoot up their school, or orally rape a developmentally disabled girl, or sit and pick their nose and watch somebody else do it. And the pretentious cocksuckers that raised these monsters will call that "parenting."

I need coffee. Actually, no, I need a vodka and coke. But I can't have one, so I'm going to drink coffee.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 08:00 PM | Comments (0)

No.

Okay, I'm going to post this because I have it written down someplace and I want to throw this piece of paper out. If you're offended by Pope jokes, I don't give a flying fuck. Go read something else.

Pope vs. Cat

Pope: Believed to be the highest representative of God on earth
Cat: Believes self to be God on earth

Pope: Expects people to kiss his ring
Cat: Expects people to kiss his ass

Pope: Does not believe in birth control
Cat: Obviously does not believe in birth control

Pope: Pretty much goes wherever he wants
Cat: Pretty much goes wherever he wants

Pope: Lives to a ripe old age, then dies from a urinary tract infection
Cat: Lives to a ripe old age, then dies from a urinary tract infection

There. That's one more piece of paper I can recycle.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 04:16 AM | Comments (0)

April 17, 2005

Why LJ's Rich Text Mode [and Pantene] Sucks

[If you don't use LiveJournal, you don't have to read this. Actually, you don't have to read this anyway, but I figured that the people who don't like it have already fucked off long ago. I started writing this in LJ, actually, but as the great Dr. Thompson said, "Why shit in your own nest?"]

I found out that in rich text mode, it sticks in P breaks instead of br/ breaks. It's an automatic double line break, which is very annoying when doing memes and other things where I use a single break after the question and a double break between the answer and the next question--this helps group the question and answer together and facilitate reading. If it weren't for that, I might use rich text mode because it's similar to Movable Type and WordPress and keeps me from having to type out all the HTML by hand like a common house slave. I wrote to support asking why it does this, and I got this answer:

The way the HTML is rendered within the rich text editor depends on
your browser; LiveJournal does not specify the HTML code to be used while
generating this content. As such, you may wish to use an alternate
browser; otherwise, you can simply update using plaintext mode.

In other words, rich text mode sucks because Internet Explorer sucks. Okay, then, I'll just use Netscape or Firefox, right? That should give me a different tag, right?

EXCEPT RICH TEXT FUCKING MODE DOES NOT WORK IN NETSCAPE OR FIREFOX.

I get the screen and everything, but the area where you're supposed to type doesn't work. You can type in a title, but you will get no cursor in the entry box and you cannot paste text into it.

So they're right! The way HTML is rendered within the rich text editor DOES depend on your browser! It depends on you using INTERNET EXPLORER BECAUSE NO OTHER BROWSERS RECOGNISE THE RICH TEXT MODE JAVASCRIPT IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I closed the support request. I was going to ask them why the browser assigns your tags instead of LJ, and why they said to use other browsers when other browsers don't goddamn work; but I have a feeling I'd get another highly informative, but ultimately useless, answer.

In short, all questions about rich text mode can be answered this way: "If you don't like it, don't use it! Fuck you, we're not changing it!"

And people wonder why more people don't write/call customer support more often. It's like the goddamn Pantene thing where I e-mailed them to tell them their new formula of conditioner is so perfumey and stinky it gives me headaches and makes me nauseous. They e-mailed back and are like, "Oh, we didn't know anybody would have this reaction to it; it tested as safe. We should continue this by snail mail." Leap up my ass, Pantene, you're not gonna do anything about it. You're just gonna send me a free fucking sample of something I CAN'T USE ANYWAY BECAUSE IT MAKES ME SICK.

And that's just how customer support is. They're not interested in changing their product so that the customer actually likes it. They're just interested in mollifying you so you'll shut up, and if you won't use their product anymore, they'll find somebody else. That's all they want. They want to sell their product or service; and they want the customer to shut his stinking cake hole and buy it. With free stuff it's even worse, because you get the "shaddap, it's free" line. Well, so's the flu, but I'm not happy I got it. I didn't quite get that treatment at LJ support, but I did sort of get the "it's your fault, you're using the wrong browser" spiel. They must have learned that from Microsoft. It doesn't matter. The rich text mode could crash your computer and rape your grandma, and they're not gonna fix it. Not because LJ itself is bad--it's not; but because nobody that makes anything gives enough of a crap about their end users to fix it unless it can cause a lawsuit. And if it's a manufacturer who actually DOES fix things, then it charges you out the ass. "It's your fault that we had to make a decent product, because you wouldn't stop complaining, you whiners; so now you have to pay more."

Or, if the corporation has enough money and enough of a monopoly, they can do like Microsoft does and keep defecating out mediocre products and charging people $35 per call to call tech support so the tech support can tell the users it's their fault the product doesn't work.

It would mean a lot fewer possessions and conveniences, and probably much higher prices for commodities...but some days I wonder if it wouldn't be better to go back to people just making things by hand. That way if Bill Gates made software or furniture or beer barrels, and his product sucked, word of mouth would get around, nobody would buy from him, and the fucker would starve. And so would everybody else who's too goddamn cheap to make a decent product.

As bad as Pantene reeks, though [yes, it literally does give me headaches and nausea; how could it not, when my whole head is redolent of something that smells like a cross between cheap aftershave and dryer sheets?], Portia de Rossi is still hot. And she's gay. But I have a feeling she's too old for me. *sigh* I wonder if she had to switch over to something else too. I wonder if she even used it in the first place, or just endorsed it [though she does have incredible hair...*sigh* again]. In fact, I wonder how many people just said, "Goddammit, that's another brand that changed their formula to Whorehouse Reek, I'll have to switch again" and didn't complain like I did. I wonder how many people have hives and sneezing fits and watery eyes and dizziness and vaginitis and 57 other forms of bodily irritation, and aren't connecting it to the ridiculously unnecessary amounts of perfume in everything.

[No, I have never used Pantene because of de Rossi. I have used it because it's one of the few conditioners that doesn't make naturally curly hair look like a giant Brillo pad, and because it didn't used to stink so bad. I'd go to a salon, but the fuckers would want to get me in a chair and trim my ends, even though straight-across ends on curly hair make you look like you're wearing a manicured hedge upside down. If you don't believe me, look at a heavy-metal band member who's just had a haircut.]

Now it's that time of day when I have to go break something. Excuse me...

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 03:59 AM | Comments (0)

April 12, 2005

Sometimes...

...when a gal feels down, she just has to go clothes shopping.

So I ordered one of these.

It just sort of says it all.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 11:19 AM | Comments (0)

April 10, 2005

have you any dreams you'd like to sell...

I think I do. I'm gonna stick some of those "5¢" yard sale stickers on them and hope some sucker snaps them up.

Okay, so no Lean Pockets before bed either.

In no particular order:

~I helped fend off an attack of raiders at my workplace [although I don't remember actually doing this in the dream], hid a box of...some kind of evidence up on a shelf, then climbed up to a top shelf myself and hid til it was over. I had a note in the box mentioning something about having taken four prisoners. Soon the mold tech from day shift came in, and I showed him the box with the stuff in it, and the note; and he read it and was pleased. Then I came down from the shelf, and some blond guy named Eric, who in real life doesn't work there, asked if I wanted to get laid this weekend. He was cute, and I liked him, so I said sure, all the while thinking "what am I saying?", but he disappeared soon after that.

~Some weird thing about masturbation and frotteurism. Part of it involved inanimate objects, although why a throw pillow would feel the need to engage in frottage escapes me. Then there was a segment with these two people "having sex" by, um, how do I put it delicately...rubbing their things against the ground while squatting/sitting next to each other in an alley. And one of them was an underage boy. Then they spotted a pair of stockinged feet sticking out from between a parked car and a box of some kind, and I knew they were going to think it was a corpse; but it was actually a kid that they were going to find and want to adopt. This sort of segued into...

~Something in a hospital where I was on a table in a waiting area/room [maybe or maybe not wearing a gown], and a doctor was telling the people before me about...something. Maybe cancer or something. And there was somebody waiting after me, on an examining table nearby, but I don't remember now what their deal was. And somewhere along the line I met up with two other people, a guy and a gal, and we were like the Nerd Squad or something. Then it was time for the three of us to go home, and I tripped on down the halls and up and down the short flights of stairs [somehow my unconscious loves to stick in long bendy hallways and lots of stairs]. And I saw one of the ladies from work sitting in a little waiting room with a gown on toward the front of the hospital. And then there was a guy who was doing a play, and I wanted to play a certain character who was really cool and only had a few lines to memorize. So I grabbed the playbook [it was really big and thick] and went looking for the director guy to ask him if I could do this part, but I never found him.

~And holy shit, I dreamed I was in this, it was like a tattoo parlour or a barber shop or something, and I was with a friend, and there was a cup of beige pills sitting there, so I took one. And then I had second thoughts and looked, and it said "Acid [something]" on the side, and I thought, Oh shit, I'm gonna freak out now. And [probably because I've been reading F&L: Campaign Trail] Hunter S. Goddamn Thompson was there, although I didn't see his face; and I told him I was about to have a trip; and he said something to the effect that it was all right, he'd keep an eye on me. So I calmed down somewhat, and waited for the pretty colours, but they never came.

~And the last one [I think] was about going onto MSN Messenger [which I don't even have] and trying to de-friend somebody who'd friended themselves onto my list. Turns out the somebody was a hacker who had discovered me stealing pictures off the web and wanted to punish me with a virus. So my screen started showing all this brown and tan stuff that was supposedly the virus, with an explanation of what I'd done to get it. I tried to boot up my computer twice, but I still got it, and there was text on there about how a person could unlock or get rid of the virus by going to some website [which I couldn't do without control of my computer]. There was also a list of punishments I could put myself through to have the virus removed. Then it segued into some thing about Thomas Jefferson or somebody drawing battle plans, in some kind of erasable marker or something, onto a giant painting, thus drawing a comparison between current computer-based theft of art and past defacement of art by famous people who did it for good reasons. He was giving a lecture to some people, and the painting was many feet long and up on a lighted stage. It involved something about an attack on an enemy, and as he drew, he'd explain the strategy, often repeating important phrases 3 or 4 times [don't ask, I don't know why either]...and I think somewhere around there is where I woke up.

So, from this we can conclude the following:

~The Fear and Loathing books will make their way into your unconscious.

~I think too much about work.

~The Jackson trial needs to be over soon, so I can stop having disturbing dreams involving underage boys.

~Part of me wants a lay and part of me doesn't. I'm still going with the part that doesn't...because I don't need a disease, I don't really know how well the Depo actually works, and I'd much rather find somebody who gives enough of a shit about me not to use me and then fall asleep.* [To those who were wondering, this is why women--to the point of being stereotypical about it--demand an emotional commitment. It's not just because we become emotionally attached, though a great many of us do. It's because if you're not, you usually treat us like total horseshit in bed. The converse stereotype--that men don't want an emotional commitment--is just that, a stereotype. Many guys do just want to get laid, but I've met a surprising number who are not physically interested in a gal if there's no potential there. I'm beginning to suspect that the "Oog ugg me go get sexual conquest" thing is, partially, a piece of posturing guys do for each other to keep from looking soft.]

~Because of the hospitals: Either I should work in the healthcare industry, or my unconscious is using a Douglas-Adams-esque metaphor for the big honkin' mental ward that is the world.

~I think a lot about art.

~Simpson's IDT cartoons somehow get into my unconscious too, because he had a hilarious one about Thomas Jefferson recently.

~I'm afraid of getting a virus in spite of having a firewall and updated anti-virus software.

There's probably something else I could glean from that, but I sorta don't want to know.

This I do know: REM rebound can be really, really goddamn bizarre. That's the only explanation I can think of for why this crap only happens on the weekends.

I'm frankly not even sure I can handle having friends.

Eh.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...
__________
*So that would mean finding a boyfriend, which frankly is a situation that's way too complicated for me to handle effectively. I just fuck that up every time. I'd much rather just have some close platonic friends for the emotional intimacy, and take care of the physical side myself. Please? And to the people who say, "oh, you've had your heart broken, just keep trying," I say, "Go fuck a porcupine." And they'll probably do it, too, because they're stupid. I'm sorry, folks. If somebody's tried something several times, it's failed spectacularly over and over again at great cost to them, and you're still telling them to try it, you're stupid and probably a sadist. I've talked about that before, though, how the media cranks out happy endings because that's what sells, and so people think that the ideal happy ending of having a smoochy partner forever and ever and ever is the fucking norm instead of the ideal. Why do they think that? Everybody say it together: They're Stupid! So I won't cover that again, at least until it makes me really enraged again.

Posted by Frida Peeple at 04:34 AM | Comments (0)

April 09, 2005

new art up!!11!omglol

I finally got around to posting another piece up at my artwanted page. It's a couple months old, but that just goes to show how goddamn lazy I am.

wing leaf feather maze (c)2005 me

The lines are acrylic, the rest is watercolour. I made it a functional maze with one unique correct path starting in the top half of the figure 8 in the lower left corner, and ending in the lower half. It should be workable at the resolution at which I posted it.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 01:20 PM | Comments (0)

April 05, 2005

What Makes America Great

Buying purposeless stuff.

You know what's coming, so let's get started.

~If you're not already ashamed to be American, this should do the trick. It works for me in ways that even Abu Ghraib couldn't. I don't even want to walk into an Italian restaurant knowing that this exists.

~These things are just plain creepy. Why would anybody want a headless armless torso with plants growing out of it? I keep expecting them to lurch forward, moaning, "muuuuulch....MUUUUUUUUUUULCH..."

~Now these I can think of a use for, albeit a limited one. When a baseball player is found guilty of using steroids, he should have to carry one of these around, everywhere he goes, for six months.

~And he has to sleep in this. If that don't get 'em to stop, I don't know what will.

~Honour the ancient wisdom of the Orient with--what else--a teddy bear! Because nothing speaks of centuries of Far Eastern enlightenment and knowledge like a synthetic, mass-produced toy that was invented 100 years ago in North America.

~If somebody has given you one of these fake Oriental bears [well, it was probably made in China by people who have a 12th century standard of living, if that counts], you can pretend to burn it in this fake fireplace. No, as the gods are my witness, and as badly as I wish I were, I'm not making it up.

~To my enormous dismay, I'm not making this up either. If somebody could explain to me exactly what the hell is the thing with the bears, maybe I could accept it better. On the other hand, perhaps I'm better off not knowing. Sort of like the whole plushie thing.

I'm tired.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Hilarious IM conversation for the day:

annoying_im_person: hi
sorry_no_pic_no_cam_no_mic: yes?
annoying_im_person: can we talk pls
sorry_no_pic_no_cam_no_mic: I don't know, can we?
annoying_im_person: yes we can of course
sorry_no_pic_no_cam_no_mic: oh.
annoying_im_person: give me a kiss
sorry_no_pic_no_cam_no_mic: You like kisses from other men?
annoying_im_person: sorry bye

Moral of the story: If you're not going to check my profile, you deserve whatever you get. 'Night, kiddies.

Posted by Frida Peeple at 09:12 AM | Comments (0)

April 04, 2005

Album Review Update

Haven't listened to Guero yet, but judging from the lyrics, I'm guessing Beck has started to run out of ideas. Doesn't mean he's there yet, and I'll still give it a listen. I haven't yet heard a Beck album I didn't love, even if Sea Change is still too depressing for me to listen to most of the time.

I never thought I'd say this, and it pains me deeply, but Tori Amos's The Beekeeper sucks. I'm very, very sorry, Tori, and I don't usually say this without listening to the whole album, but I'm on track 11, and it's been pretty much all drivel. I somehow got myself to like Scarlet's Walk, and I'm even the person who defended the Smashing Pumpkins' Adore when everybody else was holding their noses and running away, but this...this sounds like it was written and performed by a tenth-grade Tori fan with braces. This is so bad it makes me want to cry. It's so hyper-femmy, you can actually feel yourself growing extra ovaries as the album progresses. This record would make Barry Bonds menstruate. It's exactly the kind of hoochie-coochie-smoochie stuff that I listen to when I need to throw up for some reason. The only place where the overpowering sweetness has actually resonated with me so far is in "Ribbons Undone" and that's because I have an inexplicable weepy soft spot for mommy-daughter songs. [I get the same way with Madonna's "Little Star."] It's cutesy, it's treacly, it's unimaginatively metered, and it makes me want to crap in a corner and drag my ass across the room like a dog. This is music by, about, and for, middle-aged women who are experiencing a hormonally induced upsurge in traditionally expressed femininity. If that's you, buy this, because you might like it unless you have a rudimentary understanding of the fundamentals of creative writing, in which case you'll probably hate it for many of the same reasons I do. If you're not a forty-year-old woman who likes bad poetry, strange pronunciations and mouth noises, put it down NOW--unless you really feel the need to support Tori and her family, who I'm sure are very nice people. I have no doubt in my mind that Tori herself is an extremely nice person, and has written tons of excellent stuff, which is why it pains me to write a review like this; but to be any kinder would be a glaring misrepresentation of the truth as I see it. This, too, I will still hear through to the end, even though I had to stop drawing and play solitaire instead because my frustration over the music was affecting my artwork.

[Update: The last third of the album isn't as bad as the first two thirds, which still isn't saying a whole lot, but it at least measures up to Scarlet's Walk. "Original Sinsuality" and the title track have some of the sparkle she's famous for, "Goodbye Pisces" is catchy, and "Marys of the Sea" and "Toast" make a good ending to what could have been a half-decent album if she'd 86'd about 1/3 to 1/2 of the tracks. It's still not worth $15 unless you're such an enormous Tori fan that you'll buy absolutely anything she produces, up to and including Christmas albums and recordings of her rehearsing scales.]

I did get a replacement copy of Arcade Fire's Funeral. I personally liked it, but I'm not sure how many other people will like it. It has lots of strings, guitar, piano, synths, and lyrics about parents, friends, graves and neighbourhoods. It's twee in places, but not to the point where you want to go wash the stickiness off your hands. Bowie and Byrne like this band for a reason: It sounds like it was inspired by them. Bottom line: If you like David Bowie, the Talking Heads, and the Smashing Pumpkins, you should like Arcade Fire. AF sounds enough like the aforementioned artists to remind you of them, but not enough to sound like they stole from them. If you're one of the two dozen people, like me, who actually liked Adore, you will definitely like Funeral and may actually glue your CD player shut once it's in there. [If, however, you think Bowie, Byrne and Corgan are a bunch of lousy hacks who have no business recording music, you're gonna hate this like the plague. If you have mixed feelings about any of the three, it's iffy.] There are places where it even almost reminds me of a stringy, acoustic Hüsker Dü. If these guys ever get a chance to work with Brian Eno, I will buy the resulting album no matter what. Shit, they almost sound like they have Eno in the band already, their sound is so textured. [Additional note: If you didn't care for the Pumpkins but liked the Cranberries, you'll probably still like this.]

Okay, I'm gonna go back and finish Beekeeper. I may end up bleeding from the ears, curled under my computer desk and snivelling for my mommy, but by gods, I'm gonna finish it.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 11:43 AM | Comments (0)

April 03, 2005

well, jeez.

I know e-mail has pretty much eclipsed a lot of other forms of communication; and although I've never thought the Pope was all bad, he wasn't one of my top ten favourite people; but either I'm reading this wrong or it's just a tad crass.

For centuries, one of the surest signs that a pope had died was the closing of the massive Bronze Door beneath a portico off St. Peter's Square. But the first word of John Paul II's death came in an e-mail.

Now I know it says the doors that are traditionally closed to signal a pope's death were already closed for the day, and that the tradition isn't even always used, but...I mean, it's the Pope. They couldn't send a spokesperson or something out to talk to the press?

So apparently, it is no longer a craven, lily-livered act to break up with your SO using e-mail. If they can use it to announce the Pope's death, it's not gauche. [Except it sorta is, but not officially anymore.]

Come to think of it, there are a lot of ways to break up using e-mail...getting a free e-mail address and putting "Lola" or "Antonio" as the sender's name, and using it to send steamy missives to your regular addy so your wife or live-in girlfriend, who you know snoops, will see them...becoming a spammer [nobody's gonna want to sleep with you then, I guarantee you]...taking up celebrity e-stalking as a hobby, printing out pictures of your Hollywood love and copies of your fervent e-mail declarations of affection and taping them to the walls around your computer, until your SO is so disgusted and disturbed that she/he leaves...

Why, there must be fifty ways to e-leave your lover. At least.

But screw that. The Pope's dead, and the Vatican used e-mail to tell us. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they're so busy arranging his funeral [like they haven't had five years to do that] that they couldn't do it any other way. I'd hate to think them unmannerly.

So now the other other shoe has dropped. I can give the news a rest.

sbt/sbc

Posted by Frida Peeple at 04:42 AM | Comments (0)

April 02, 2005

lucky

Lucky that my mom has the kind of sense of humour that she has instead of the kind of one I have.

I e-mailed her yesterday morning [it being April Fool's Day] and told her I'm pregnant. Of course, I'm about as pregnant as Deion Sanders, so I hit enter about 10 or 15 times and put "Happy April Fool's Day!" at the bottom of the e-mail so she'd get it, right?

Well, she didn't scroll down that far.

After I e-mailed her, I went to town to meet with an admissions person at a business college about taking a pharmacy technician AAS program. I had thought about doing their criminal justice program, but the pharm tech seemed like a better fit; the only difference was that some of the classes in the pharm tech have to be taken on campus, whereas the other program was available completely online. So I paid the application fee, took the placement test to see whether I needed remedial classes [and basically prove that I didn't] and got a peek at the people going through spring quarter orientation. Kids, I thought. Last time I went to college, I was their age. Or they were my age, however you want to look at it. Now I go and I'm surrounded by kids. Ten years changes a lot of things.

Did some other shopping, picked up the new Beck and exchanged my Arcade Fire CD, and went home, but instead of going to my place, I swung by my mom's. I forgot to knock and went in, hollering "hi" as I came in, and I could hear both of them laughing as they said hi from the other room. I couldn't see them, and I couldn't figure out what was so funny, so I asked if they were naked or something, and Mom said no and came out of the kitchen. She and Dad were still giggling.

Apparently it went like this: She got my e-mail but didn't see the "April Fool's" part at the end because it was off the bottom of the page and she didn't scroll down to look. So, naturally, she panicked. She left a message on my machine because I had already left, sent me an e-mail saying "WHAT???!!!???" and then spent the next four hours thinking, "It can't be, it has to be some sarcastic statement or a metaphor or something...and then on the other hand, these things DO happen out of the blue" and taking valerian. Then about half an hour before I came home, she was lying down to elevate her swollen leg when it hit her [or Dad mentioned, I don't remember] what day it was. Then she got it, and they'd been laughing for half an hour straight when I showed up.

Now if I'd been her, I'd have been furious. I really shouldn't play pranks on people because I don't generally like having them played on me [mainly because it wastes my time and energy, since I generally assume people are sincere]; but all bets are off on 1 April, and this one was just too perfect. They said they were happy for the laugh, and they didn't mind at all, but I hated the idea of causing them a whole morning of distress like that. I'd really meant for the joke to be gotten in five minutes. Five fewer carriage returns would have accomplished that.

I should've just stuck to disconnecting the chains inside all the toilets at work, or coming in early with a stack of fake memos about some outrageous policy change and posting them all over the plant or something. On the plus side, this is going to be a good running gag...until I get sick of the pregnancy references and it starts to make me uncomfortable, which will probably be sometime today.

[D, if you mention this at work, and--even inadvertently--start a rumour that I'm pregnant, I will spackle your malodourous ass shut. That's the last goddamn thing I need at that place. ;) ]

And I don't wanna go swimming today. I wouldn't show up, except it's the first day and I don't want them to think I've changed my mind. It's too damn early, I wasn't ready. It's too damn cold out to be going round with wet hair, and I can't blowdry it unless I want it to look like an afro. And I don't feel well. I can't think straight and my stomach hurts and my brain will not shift out of neutral today no matter what I do. That's the problem with being intelligent: Your drooling-idiot brain-fart days look like a regular person's normal day, so nobody gives you a break when you can't tow yourself out of whatever mental mudwaller you're stuck in. You can't come across as distracted or tired; you just look stupid. I don't want people to think I'm stupid unless there's a purpose behind it, such as getting them to leave me alone.

Must go shower and get ready to paddle around in a piece of Lycra and a rubber hat, in water that's about 5 degrees too cold. If I still feel like crap I'll just dress back in and leave early.

Dear Minnesota: IT'S APRIL. WHY THE FUCK IS IT STILL BELOW FREEZING AT NIGHT?? GET WITH IT.

Thank you.

same bitch time, same bitch channel...

Posted by Frida Peeple at 05:11 AM | Comments (0)