Speaking of Poe, I was just checking to see the most recent ways people end up on my blog and this one was top of the list: "come here pretty please" and it was interesting to see that this is from the song Haunted by Poe but refers to a different post I mentioned it in. Perhaps only interesting to me.
And more searchin' fun:
voluntard to go with celebretard from last time I guess?
I finished reading Chuck Palahniuk's novel Haunted today. I enjoyed it as I do all of Chuck's sunshiney tales. As you can see, the cover is quite something. It was designed by Michael Collica. It's a striking colour and complimented what I wore to work today. That's a different issue.
I thought I would introduce the book to a bookshelf downstairs.
On my way down, I thought I'd pop into the laundry room. I walked in in the dark with book in hand. Something caught my eye and I almost threw the book across the room.
The cover glows in the dark! It's even creepier than the non glowing version.
Michael? Meet Poe. She wrote a brilliant CD called Haunted. Poe? Call me. Hello. Where are you? I wonder if my blog glows in the dark? Can someone hold it under the light a few minutes and then check it? Thanks. You're the best.
I'm going to visit some of my family on Saturday for a week. An assortment of sisters will be there.
Let me tell you a few things about one of my sisters.
She's the type of person people mean when they say happy-go-lucky, someone always ready with a funny story or poised to laugh at one of yours.
Things are generally pretty black and white with her - you're either with her or you're with the terrorists. Never one for putting on airs (and having no heirs), she's at her most comfortable living, laughing and lounging around in loose fitting attire.
A few years ago, a local beer company had a promotion where if you bought a case of beer, you got a free t-shirt. As sis was home and on vacation, she took this as a chance to expand her limited wardrobe options. In a very short span, she managed to go home with 6 new t-shirts.
Every one was earned proudly and honestly. Now, normally you wouldn't catch her tossing back beer like it was going out of style or smoking a pack a day either but when you're on vacation, well, what are you gonna do?
Although I'm not a religious man, I've been praying she's already set for clothes this year.
And speaking of praying, have I mentioned that she's a nun?
After a hard day at work buying coffee and massages, I'm left with pockets full of the stuff.
I cart it home and throw it into an old round can that used to belong to a gift bottle of booze. And there it sits until the can is full. And then it spills over into a little ceramic dish. And eventually I head to the grocery store and say hi to the Coinstar machine. I love this machine.
If you're not familiar, this is how it works. You feed your change in, machine counts it, takes 9 cents on the dollar for doing this, spits out a voucher you can redeem with the disinterested sort at customer service and off you jaunt, a merrier and richer soul.
While I'm feeding the machine and softly murmuring to it, people slow down and sometimes stop completely to gawk at the coin count displayed on the video screen. Sometimes they ask how it works. I tell them (as does the large sign on the machine).
Some scoff at the 9 cents per dollar it higway robs you of. Some say hey, thass not a bad deal.
At a lot of the banks here, they charge you anyway if you try and redeem more than 4 rolls of dirty money you've had to fight with and count yourself. The machine is a much nicer and cleaner mistress. I tell them this.
They watch the numbers roll me toward wealth a while longer and go off on their way.
Not me, I stay until the end because hey, it's my game, my voucher.
Today's take after the machine burped?
--I just checked out their website again and they've got inspirational stories of how the machine has basically saved lives. Oh man.
Does anyone else remember seeing Klaus Nomi performing with David Bowie on Saturday Night Live in 1979? I did and recall thinking it seemed like aliens had landed and gotten really good booking agents.
Since I was too busy learning myphone number around that time, I didn't give the scary monsters another thought. Until I saw the cover for Simple Man somewhere in my travels and thought, oh, they must have cleared Klaus for landing again.
My next close encounter was this morning when I watched the documentary The Nomi Song. I'd read something about it and thought I should learn a little more.
Und I did.
There are some interesting interview clips with people who collaborated with and supported Klaus on his rise to the middle of the new wave performing fringe and some of the stage footage is definitely captivating. His great pipes and presence are on clearly displayed but so is a real feeling of loneliness.
This slice of life doc is chock full of creativity, betrayal and tragedy. Or as it's known around here -- Sunday.
The year Nina Hagen scared the shit out of my little sister, I was 23 and sis was 20.
I had maladjusted to life in the big city after moving from a small dirt patch and my most sheltered sister was visiting for the summer.
To liven up her visit, I bought tickets to Nina Hagen's show at the Concert Hall.
Nina, 32, burst ferociously onto the stage in a wedding veil proclaiming herself the mother of punk (so what the funk) and making sure we all knew she was serious about marrying her 18 year old punky boyfriend.
She invited us all to Ibiza to party with her. We didn't end up going but we did stick around for the show.
Nina had her big big blonde hair on, crazy make up and she just threw herself into performing for the crowd. It was a loud but short show clocking in at just over an hour. I guess she was anxious to get back to her young punk and press some more records.
Ms. Hagen fired off great versions of some of her hits like Russian Reggae, New York, My Way, Ekstasy and a solo version of Don't Kill The Animals, a song she'd recorded with Lene Lovich.
Sis looked mildly terrified for the first couple of songs, uncomfortable for a few and then bemused by the whole thing. Afterward, she said that she found the whole thing weird and that it was a bit extreme. What would the point have been if Nina hadn't been a bit extreme?
While doing research on ants for a new anthill condo cleaning business I’d been contemplating, I got bored and abandoned the idea. They’re on their own.
Because I had already spent 10 seconds on a nature website, http://www.nature.ca/ I thought I might as well have a look around.
I was very upset to learn that wild ass is nearing extinction! Why a ‘nature’ site is talking about the perils of the dating world is beyond me.
There are reportedly 2000 wild ass in Ethiopia and 250 in Somalia. Correct me if I’m wrong but aren’t these generally thought of as hungry countries? Should someone consider moving that ass around? Or at least recheck the numbers? Or book Alex Trebek for a telethon?
Nature is so messy. I hope I didn’t get any on me.
Because I lead a life filled with danger and intrigue, I have reviewed some of the words that lead people to me and my words. I like to think that there’s a level of anonymity to my blogging but I guess you found me. At least if you're looking on Google for:
Passion and embarrassment Debra Wilson titties Dale hooker, chile Somalians in Rome
Should I rename my blog?
Stupid cocksucker – Although only ranked currently at about the 6th link in the search world, I am still very busy so please, take a number .
Searches where I’m #1 in the world? Vicky Harrison stuck in mud. Who? Why did Dale just throw a shoe at my head It wasn’t me. Honest.
My current favourite: Black American fullfigure formal wear. You have to run the words full and figure together, they've spent enough time apart.
So, if it’s large and in charge prom shit you’re looking for, I’m the man. I’ll fit some bling around your thing and cover up that junk in the trunk.
Remember my brother? The one I always fought with?
Well, one satisfying thing about having a brother is that sometimes, you can get him into trouble without ever really trying.
One late summer morning when I was 9, Mom asked if I wanted to go for a drive with her and one of her cronies. Having planned nothing for the day but lamenting the approach of another school year, I agreed.
Relegated to the back seat and slumped down so I was sitting more on my back with knees pressed firmly into the vinyl upholstery, we drove. And drove.
We found ourselves up country where there wasn't a lot to see apart from the odd scarecrow watching over a field of someone else's dreams.
Now and then we'd pass a roadside kid holding out a clear glass of hazelnuts for sale.
Then, at a little stand, we stopped and got out to buy some fresh fruit and I felt special when the farmer lady handed me the paper bag.
We each had a juicy plum from our bounty before heading back out on tour. Enroute and with nothing worth eavesdropping about, I sat back and ate a few more plums and reached for my a few of my favourite daydreams. Bored. Another plum. Boring. Two more. Maybe I shouldn't have any more, there's only one left. I'll save it for later.
Eventually, I heard rumblings that we should be heading back toward home. Following this was a very interesting noise I'd never heard my stomach make before. And then another. And one more that didn't sound right at all. Uh oh, how far could we be from home and a bathroom I wondered?
As my fear began to rise, introductions were made: Car? Meet gravel covered road. With every rock and bump, I thought my bowels might betray me. I was too embarrassed to say anything in front of company and what would we have done anyway? Stopped by the side of the road? I settled for alternating between doubling over in pain and crossing my legs and turning a lovely shade of plum.
Every mile that passed felt like a prison sentence that got longer rather than shorter. I made deals with myself about how much further I could make it and then I'd start over with each small success.
After just less than an eternity, we made it back to the land of smoother roads and places I recognized. Mercifully, I could see our house in the distance.
When we finally neared it, I spied someone in front through my squinting eyes. The car was still rolling to a stop when I bolted and ran as fast as I could in my condition.
It was my brother near the front door kicking at the lawn absent mindedly. He looked up at my approach and said heyyy, where did you guys go?
The pressure that had built in me over the last 40 minutes took me to a point where this extra half second delay was something I hadn't counted on. What else could I do but burst into tears and like a lunatic, push him aside and beeline for the bathroom?
I made it.
The only thing sweeter than my relief was hearing my mother yell what did you say to him? what-did-you-say!? followed by the thwack of her hand against the back of his head and my brother's wail of nuthin! honest!
A bunch of teams are playing and someone will probably win.
I believe that there will be a film about at least one country too poor to afford real balls to practice with and so they kick at the air valiantly. They dream their round little dreams until they nearly make it to the semi-finals.
I've just watched Heart of Gold, the Jonathan Demme picture documenting Neil Young's performance at the Ryman Auditorium (the Grand Old Opry).
One more post like this and I'm Sophia from Golden Girls.
Picture it. Toronto, 1987.
I fluked into tickets for Neil Young at the CNE bandshell. I went not really knowing much or caring for Neil's work. Along with 20,999 other people, I was treated to a full on rock n roll blast of a night. One of the best shows I've seen.
Neil came out and did an acoustic set which was powerful. He did his new song at the time This Note's For You and changed the lyrics to point out the name of the beer company that was sponsoring the bandshell concerts that year.
For the second half of the show, Crazy Horse joined him and rocked the hell out of everyone. They did a bigger louder version of the same song just to punch the execs in the face one more time. The show was like a really satisfying summer storm. Thunder, lightning and that special crackle in the air afterward.
Back to the film, it's a really warm and satisfying quieter rumble of a storm but with no less intensity.
I still couldn't do a thesis on Mr. Young nor can I say I run out and buy his music. But I do admire his work and recommend the dvd.
The second disc I haven't watched yet but it has a performance on the Johnny Cash Show so I'm sure there's got to be some worth in that.
What seemed important to me growing up has little importance to me now. The most important thing to me when I was 13 was to figure out a way to kill my brother. He was a real dick. He's still a dick but I no longer have the youthful energy required to plot and connive as I once did.
The house my parents rented while I was living this story had two staircases. The main staircase was just off the living room while the service set of stairs was off the kitchen and narrow enough for the old tyme narrow people.
My brother and I fought a lot. We'd chase each other through the house up one set of stairs and down the other all the while creating a terrible ruckus.
My mother, being a religious zealot in good local standing would abide no taking of the Lord's name or any other offensive talk in her house. Unspoken and understood.
One fine day, brother and I were racing and chasing each other up and down the stairs. At some point, we lost track of who was chasing who and both ended up tearing down opposing sets of stairs. We stopped short in the living room on either side of Mother who was bent on ending our foolishness once and for all.
Although we were both taller than her, she still seemed quite formidable. The devil possessed me for a moment and I looked my brother square in the eye over Mother's hair and asked him sneeringly what are you gonna do now you stupid cocksucker?
A dozen tiny blood vessels burst in my head at more or less the same time. I had but a moment to act. I did the bravest thing possible in the circumstances and tore up the stairs to my bedroom and stayed there until I thought the coast was clear.
I came back downstairs 20 minutes or so later only to run square into Our Lady of Intermittent Lashings again.
She looked at me and said in as quiet a voice as she could manage Don't you ever let me hear you use language like that in my houseagain. And I never did.
We have a busy group of computer geeks who work in the same building I do because we have a busy group of regular geeks always messing up their computers.
Someone who sits near me was complaining that she had a major problem and her computer was knackered. She called the geek squad and as they couldn’t help over the phone, they told her to sit tight and they’d be right down.
Minutes turned into an hour just like they do. She called back. Yes, we'll be right down. More minutes, more grousing on her part.
Unless it’s me complaining, I don’t want to hear it. I suggested she call up and say Look, if I’m late for my part time job at Hooters, someone’s going to get it. Imagine how fast someone would come running?
She wouldn’t do it. It’s the end of the day. I’m going home. And she’s going to be late for her part time job.
Bre had an interesting link on her site about numerology, runes and birth mates. Turns out she's cosmically linked up with every famous evil doer this side of the solar system. And she always seemed like such a nice girl.
Some of my birth mates turned out to be real thinkers, stinkers and tyrants too (hi Rosie!):
Britney Spears, Calista Flockhart, Cary Grant, Charles de Gaulle, Dwight Eisenhower, Eddie Murphy, Eliza Dushku, Friedrich Nietzsche, James Brown, Jane Seymour, John Lennon, Justin Timberlake, Kim Jong Il, Lewis Caroll, Ray Bradbury, Rosie O'Donnell, Thomas Edison, V. I. Lenin
Reading about the clothing dilemmasof one Gizmorox made me think about my own situation. This was a nice break for me as I'm usually busy performing humanitarian acts like thinking up ways to help more babies get bought by or born to the Jolie Pitts. Not only does the child benefit, possibly a country or a whole continent can see an upswing in business and for sure, the local tattoo artists get a bit busier.
Back to me. Current issue. I'm a little bit colour blind. I pick my clothes out for work the night before and every light in the house has to be on while I'm doing this so I can reasonably ensure that item A matches item B.
In the morning, I tend not to have enough time for options. If I have time to eat cereal or read the newspaper, then I have time to think of excuses to not go to work. And if I think of a reason to not go to work, I might as well take a week off. From there, who knows? So, my clothing is picked out and there's little time for any disruption of my routine.
If there's going to be an issue, it's usually by the tell no lies light of the sun that I'll find out I'm still not properly matched.
But sometimes it's not until later when I see others pointing and laughing.
Jennifer Government by Max Barry, a book I read about on JJ's blog a while back.
While all three have their finer points, Jennifer's way out in front of the pack. It's a fast and wild ride. Although I'm not finished yet, I'm starting to wonder if I should have gotten that face tattoo right away.
Setup: Nerdy Dale likes to make 'mix tapes' for his friends.
The Comedy: As nobody has my all encompassing taste (or ego) I look at it as a public service of sorts. Giving til it hurts. Everybody.
The Middle Part: A friend of mine asked me for some peppy music. What she really meant was music she wouldn't have to think about or get too closely involved with. I generally get so heavily involved with my music that there's always that uncomfortable point where the music has to tell me, it's not me it's you!
The Tragedy: Realizing that everything is about love, sex and death, what do you put on a disc meant for someone who's recently buried her husband at an obscenely young age? I'd be looking for any distraction I could find too. So many stages to get through and so little time.
The End: I did manage to find some fairly innocuous choices after wandering through a few times. I think she'll like it.
A gentleman at work is retiring. For that reason alone, I feel the need to register some disdain.
I don’t know him well but some people I work with have regular dealings with him. He’s generally regarded as efficient and nice (two qualities not often found around here).
On Friday last, he was taken to lunch by two women I work with. At this lunch, he produced gifts for each of them. Well, not so much gifts as corsages. Yes, corsages. One rose, some freesia and a bit of greenery.
Let me break this down. These women are in their early 40’s and not on their way to the prom. It was a casual Friday which around here practically means cutoffs and a tank top. Are you ready boobs? Start walking! Let’s just say these tasty little garnishes looked even more wildly out of place than they would have at any other time through the week.
With as much dignity as they could muster, they ate lunch, enjoyed and finished lunch and walked about 2 blocks back to work with their fella. They stood behind me at my desk until I noticed and let me be the one to honk , point, laugh, gesture and draw everyone else around so I could belittle the whole situation.
I did make it abundantly clear to everyone that it was the sweetest and most genuine gesture I’d seen in a long time but again, so ridiculous that it couldn’t go without commentary. Everyone else agreed it was sweet and not at all insane.
Of course, I wouldn’t want to embarass their benefactor or make him feel anything less than the giving soul he is so I’ll just say Happy Retirment Bill Jones! You big lug.
I was online looking at flight options for a visit to see the family in July.
From Saturday to the following Saturday looked to be a good proposition and would give me plenty of time to tire of everyone.
I checked fares and carriers (sounds very disease-y doesn't it?) and made my decision. From July 1 - July 8, 2006.
Click here, click there, and so on and on.
Review Your Choices, click click click. There's a lot of duplication and confirming required for such a straightforward transaction. Clickety click, barba trick and then I'm done.
I go to email la familigia about my royal visit. While I'm cutting and pasting flight times from the confirmation email, my heart quickens as I notice that somehow I've booked myself going and coming on the same day. But I reviewed everything 5 times didn't I?
Is a 4 hour turnaround long enough to visit my rather cumbersome family? Yes, frankly it is.
But, being generous of nature and to a fault, I realize, it simply wouldn't be enough time for them to spend with me.
Selflessly, I logged back in, changed the flight, confirmed everything 5 times and it looks like I now will be spending nearly 7.5 hours with them.