Link-a-licious!

OK, I'm finally back from my mini vacation/sanity break, just in time to sneak in a post before tomorrow's observance of a Day Without Weblogs (in honor of World AIDS Day). I'm going to have to make it fast since I'm going to a lecture tonight at the Mt. Adams Bookstore (Reinventing Ireland from Dublin to Galway), so I forewarn you: this post is mostly piffle.

I had every intention of posting last night, but I went over to Zappagirl's and watched Fantasia 2000 on DVD. I was supposed to go see it when it played in the IMAX theaters earlier this year, but somebody procrastinated and forgot to take me for my birthday. I sent him a snarky email after watching and then....

And then we got distracted.

It amazes me on a daily basis what a wide array of subjects there are on the Internet. Sometimes I feel like a tourist staring wide-eyed at the vastness of it. (Good God! Look at the size of that thing!) Looking for one tiny thing on a search engine usually sends me on tangents that I'd never imagined.

I swear, if I got my computer at home to the point where it was actually net-worthy, I'd never leave the house again.

I tried for a while to use the internet for mostly educational purposes, telling myself I was bettering myself and not actually goofing off at work. And then I started reading other online journals and snarky television recaps. And then I started taking goofy online tests and playing with random name generators. And then I started lurking in the forums of the sites I usually read.

I finally broke. I registered for a few forums the other day, and posted a couple of brief comments.

Does this make me a complete loser?

If that doesn't, this certainly will. Allow me to share some of the places that have sucked hours away from my all too brief life, and the tiny nuggets of wisdom that I have taken away from them.

According to the Wu Name Generator, my name is Thunderous Beggar.

My glam name is Nova Sugartwist.

My mobster name is Malevolent Dominic "3 Fingers" Romano.

I would have been a minstrel in medieval times.

If I was a Bond Girl, my name would be Ura Lottaman.

According to this site, someday I'm going to have a band named Hideous Mirror Carnival. Well, unless I start that German death metal band that sings about depression and madness...then I'll name it Döömsdäy. (And if I had a thrash-core band that wrote songs about social ills, it would be Skulduggerie. Cool.)

Of course this will be when I'm not running my new company, Compmax MetaDummydata.

I had a little too much fun with the DJ name creator and couldn't decide which name I liked best, so I'll be laying down the phat tracks as that Scratch Tweakin' Freak, The One True Electro Devastator, Mixmaster Smoking Toast.

I don't believe I just used the word phat.


And writing this journal doesn't make me a freelance internet writer, but it does make me an Autonomous Web Article Architect. See?

Ever wanted your own action figure? It's your lucky day!

Looking for the perfect reference guide for your world domination plans? Look no further.

Have no idea how to tell that surrealist in your life how you feel about them? This may help.

For those of you who don't want to call a Psychic Friend or have your cards read, try this. And pass the wasabi.

Yes, I know everyone's been linking here lately, but it's just funny. And I am so going to hell for this.

It's social. Demented and sad, but social.

And that's it for now. Until next week, and oh yeah...from now on, you may address me as the Funkmistress of Paranormal Vegetables, Myopic R. Poutylips.

Out of the Closet and Into My Heart

Hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving. Mine was a lot of fun. Spent the day with the family eating eveything that wasn't nailed down, then went over to Roger Mexico's to trade reports of the day's events and do some much needed catching up. And now I've completely shaken off the last of the tryptophan and emerged from my turkey coma, ready to tell you a story.

I've always had a special place in my heart for Will and Grace. Partly because the show is funny funny funny, but mostly because I identify with it a little too well.

During my formative years, I was Grace Adler. No, I wasn't an interior decorator. I was a cover girl. A gal pal. A fag hag. From the age of about eleven to somewhere in my mid-twenties, at least one of my close male friends was gay. (I wasn't aware that my best friend in junior high was gay when we were eleven, but I had my suspicions. When he came out to me over cheesecake and coffee, I shrugged and kept eating.) And more than once, I either had a serious crush or dated someone who wasn't sure where he fit on the Kinsey scale.

For those of you who missed last night's episode, it was a flashback to 1985 when Will and Grace were in college, and had been dating for about three months. Grace was seriously smitten, and had been convinced by a friend if she didn't have sex with him soon he would end up being "just a friend." Will was still closeted and in denial, and after being outed by Jack (still in high school and already secure in his preferences), spent the majority of the show trying to figure out how to avoid Grace's advances. Finally at the end of the show, he came out to her, she got pissy, they didn't speak for a year, then made up blah blah blah.

Sometimes art imitates life in a scary scary way. (For those of you that have known me for a long time, I'm sure you already know what story I'm going to tell.) This is my weird little parallel Will and Grace story....

It was the fall of 1987, and I was stuck in a three hour Bio 101 lab. Boring doesn't begin to cover it - we were focusing on botany. Zzzzzzzzzzzz. I ended up partners with this attractive guy named Glenn, who was as equally bored by looking at slides of plant cells as I was. After a week or two, we worked out a system: rush through the slide work and the worksheets, then spend the rest of the class gabbing. He was friendly, funny as hell, and we had lots in common. I actually started looking forward to lab time. Yeah, I had a crush, but I wasn't able to work up the courage to ask him out. (I'm obviously not the most confident person in the world right now, but back then I was the poster child for low self image and awkward romantic situations.)

When the next quarter rolled around, I was dismayed to learn that Glenn had dropped the class, and I had no way of getting ahold of him. We'd never bothered to exchange numbers, and his listing in the student directory was wrong. After many frustrated mornings of "What the hell do I do now?" conversations with my friend over coffee, I decided upon a completely ridiculous plan. I took out an anonymous personal ad in the campus newspaper addressed to him. Heh heh. Ball's in your court now, buddy.

And then he wrote back. He wanted to meet. Oh shit. Now I felt like a complete moron.

I finally decided to invite him (still anonymously) to the nightclub that my friends were taking me to for my 19th birthday. That way if things went awry, I'd be around compassionate people and I could have a few beers in the process. (19 was legal for beer in 1987. Damn, I'm old.)

Well, long story short. He showed up. I finally mustered up the courage to go talk to him and let him know about my silly little personals plot. I then proceeded to make a complete stammering ass of myself. After about 45 minutes of this, I returned from a bathroom trip to find that he was gone. Damn. Blew it again. I took a good sized swallow off my Bud Light and resigned myself to pouting.

It was at this point that Glenn showed back up, with a pack of Hostess Cupcakes covered in birthday candles. He'd run across the street to the Circle K. Absolute sweetest thing anyone has ever done for my birthday, hands down. More beers ensued, as well as some sticky snack-cake smooching in a dark corner of the club.

About a month later, I took him to a party being thrown by my friend Ron (the cheesecake and coffee guy). Most of the guests were gay, and as it turned out, one of the other attendees had dated Glenn before I met him. Gossip spread throughout the party, and someone pulled me aside to let me know that my boyfriend was not necessarily on the straight and narrow. Glenn pulled me aside about a half hour later to explain the situation, but the way he explained it made it seem like a one time experimental thing. I bought his version of the story, and went on enjoying the party.

After we'd been dating for about three months, I started questioning what exactly was going on. We were together constantly, and it was obvious that he cared a great deal for me, but things had not progressed on a physical level since the night of my birthday. Not that I wanted sex at that point in the relationship, but the guy's hands never moved once. Either I was dating the politest man in the known universe, or something was seriously wrong. After running into him unexpectedly at the Metro (a gay club) one night while I was out with Ron, Glenn decided we finally had to talk.

"I think we both know what's going on here. I think we both know what I am."

I pretty much spent the next week drunk and sobbing. My heart was crushed. Logically I knew that there was nothing I could do to change his gender preferences, but logic didn't make much sense where I was at that point. After all, I was the last woman he'd dated. What if I was his last ditch effort at heterosexuality and I sucked so much that he'd given up on the female of the species completely? My self image was already pretty much in the toilet at this point in my life, and this most certainly didn't help.

Eventually we talked again. We ended up being best friends for about five years. He moved to Chicago for a while and I lost track of him, but he called me a few years back and left a message on my answering machine. "It's Glenn. I'm home. Call me."

We met for drinks and compared notes on the previous years when we had been separated. I saw him a few more times.(Actually he did show up to my birthday dinner two years ago; yes, he'd brought Cupcakes again. We both got a good laugh out of that one.) The last time I saw him was about a year ago, when we ran into each other on Fountain Square. I was on my way to happy hour with the suits, he was on his way to work at the restaurant where he waited tables. We exchanged pleasantries and phone numbers, and promised we'd get together after the holidays. So much for that.

At this point, we've veered from the Will and Grace scripting. Besides the memories of the five years we spent practically inseparable, our lives took radically different paths. We had no more mutual friends. He was still full of his "big city" stories of life in Chicago, and I was still the small town girl who never made it out of the backwaters of Cincinnati. He seemed more materialistic, and my gushing about writing projects and the poetry group didn't seem to interest him all that much. I guess people change, and that's just the Way Things Are.

I still miss my friend, though. Our story might not have been as glamorous as Must See TV, but I think we were running neck and neck in the wacky hijinks department.

Trouble in Whoville

First off, I'd like to like to apologize to anyone who thought that Monday's post was directed towards all men. I feel priveleged to know a lot of men (and women, for that matter) who didn't get the asshole gene.

Greetings and salutations to Mitch. The flavor of the day is Mocha Java.

CrewsClues posted a link to Artistic Prison, which amused me to no end. I have a nomination...anyone who ever touched the multi-million dollar production of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, now playing at a theater near you.

(Forewarning: there may be some upcoming obscure Seussian references. Get thee to a library if you get confused.)

I'll admit I haven't seen it yet, and in most probability I will shuffle into the local multiplex with a shamefilled expression, possibly in disguise. I may even like the movie. That remains to be seen. But something about the whole project bothers me. Maybe because the original animated feature was a classic, and I have a hard time accepting people messing with the classics. JohnnyB's been needling me about this for a few weeks now, and my mom started in on me today. Yes, I've seen the costumes and the sets. They're gorgeous. Yes, if anyone can pull off the Grinch, it would be Jim Carrey. Yes, I know that Dr. Seuss' widow greenlighted the project. Yes, I know that Rick Baker did all the makeup effects. (I watched the Extra about him the other night when I couldn't sleep.) But to paraphrase Jeff Goldblum's character in Jurassic Park, just because you can do something doesn't mean you should do something. You're messing with my childhood, kids. In my reality, the Grinch is Boris Karloff, Cindy Lou Who is June Foray, and Chuck Jones is directing, not the artist formerly known as Opie.

Maybe I'm just grimacing because The Nightmare Before Christmas was re-released in the theaters and played for a whopping five days, one matinee showing each day. Who was the mastermind behind that marketing idea? I was all jazzed about seeing it on the big screen again, and it's all gone.

I think what's really bothering me about this whole Grinch debacle is the way it's being shoved down America's throat. Entertainment Tonight has been all over the project since day one, the aforementioned Extra did an hour about the genius that is Rick Baker, but led off every single feature with reference to the Mean Green One. Non stop commercials, banners on practically every website known to man, who knows how many T-shirts and stuffed toys and lunchboxes and notebooks and anything else they can slap Jim Carrey's mug on...but I think the last straw was when Visa proclaimed itself the "official card of Whoville," in a marketing tie-in I'm sure they paid beaucoup bucks for. The commercial I saw started with the "Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store./"Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!" revelation, and then completely negates the theme of the freakin' story by adding "but just in case...." Gratuitous shots of all the Whos down in Whoville, the tall and the small, buying as many presents as they can carry and putting them all on plastic. Way to miss the point, guys. What's next? The Lorax, as brought to you by Exxon? (I'm not even going to offer up my thoughts on the Broadway show Seussical.) Did you send everyone in the cast and crew a Thneed for Christmas, Ron Howard? Huh? Huh? Did you?

(And if you think I'm linking to anything relating to this box office bonanza, you're sadly mistaken. I'm just a bad banana with a greasy black peel.)

No, actually, I have seen the next Seussian project that Hollywood is planning on overproducing: The Cat in the Hat, starring Tim Allen. (I was screaming "No! No! No!" when they announced that little tidbit at 3am.) Gee, maybe if we're really lucky, they'll cast the Olsen twins as Thing 1 and Thing 2.

Bet they don't have troubles like this in Solla Sollew. You know the place. "On the banks of the beautiful River Wah-Hoo,/ Where they never have troubles. At least very few."

Whoo hoo! We are good to go. Now I can actually go back to work.

Just a quick note to everyone (and also a test)...I know that my archives are messed up. Apparently it has something to do with the problems Blogger was having this weekend, as well as the upgrade last night. I've noticed a lot of people are having problems posting, so I will see if I am having the same difficulty.

Keep your fingers crossed....

Welcome to My Nightmare

This entry has been rated NC-17 due to extreme language and mature content. Those of you with delicate constitutions are advised to seek entertainment elsewhere on the Internet, because you’ll probably be offended and not very entertained. (And yes, Mom, this includes you….)

I have come to the realization that, for the most part, Monday entries are not going to be happy entries. I swear, that’s not how this one started. In fact, when most of the situations occurred, I was laughing about them.

It all started Thursday night. I had gone to Uno’s after work to get dinner and a beer and to see if my favorite bartender had returned from his vacation to London. (He had, but was not back to work yet.) I finished my pizza, settled up my bill, and started to head to my car in the parking garage a few blocks away.

It was pretty late at this point – about 11:30 pm – and the streets were mostly deserted. Downtown Cincinnati pretty much rolls up the sidewalks at dark, with the exception of the bars, especially on weeknights. At this point, the only people on the street besides me was a group of four African-American men, all appearing to be in their late teens or early twenties. I moved to the side of the pavement to allow them to pass, and the one walking nearest me did the same.

As the group passed me, the one nearest me called out, “Let me suck your pussy, baby. Please, let me suck your pussy.”

I suppose he was trying to shock me, or send me into some sort of panic. He’d probably made the assumption that since I was alone, female, and conservatively dressed (I was still in my corporate clothes), a comment like that would traumatize me. Sorry, fella, it didn’t. I rolled my eyes and continued walking to my car.

By the time I’d reached my car, my reaction to the run-in had changed. I still wasn’t shocked; I was more irritated than anything else. What a rude individual! Did his little comment towards me make him tougher in his companions’ eyes? Would he have said the same thing to me if I’d been dressed in my leather jacket and combat boots? What would his reaction have been if I’d said something back to him? Does he actually have any success with that pick up line? The more I thought about it, the more it grated on my nerves.

I stopped off at Warehouse on my way home to simmer down. It was the kickoff night for the new Thursday night format (post-punk), and unfortunately the turnout didn’t look all that great. (Part of it was due to lack of advertising, but the owner had made the coincidental mistake of debuting the new night on the same evening as some big Backbeat hoo-haa at Vertigo.) As it turned out, there were less than 20 people in the club (including the staff), but they were all fun people. Tomm, Hippie, Rosencrantz, SchizOphelia Jones, and Gunter were all working, and Diamond Doug had stopped by for a Foster’s. I filled everyone in on my little face-off, which was met with a round of “whatevers.”

“See, I would’ve said something to them,” Rosencrantz commented. “I would’ve turned around and said ‘OK, let’s go. Right here. Right now. On your knees!’ In my experience, men usually turn and run when you turn the tables on them like that.” She proceeded to tell a story about a guy flashing her at Sudsy’s (the local laundromat/bar) whom she completely humiliated. (She announced loudly to Mr. Exhibitionist Guy, “Omigod! Did you just show me your dick? Are you going to show everyone else here?” Mr. Exhibitionist Guy turned 37 shades of red, finished folding his clothes, and ducked out the back exit.)

The crowd never got any bigger at the Warehouse that night, but we didn’t care. It was nice to have the place to ourselves. Gunter played anything we wanted to hear, and we danced all night like it was 1987 all over again. At some point I decided the whole evening was one big John Hughes movie and I was channelling an older, even more jaded version of Molly Ringwald. And it was good to hear the Clash in a dance club again. The previous comment outside Uno’s was forgotten for a while, at least.

The comment didn’t go away, though. It was filed away in the back of my head, biding its time, waiting for its moment to strike.

Friday was just a bad day. Work sucked, Rosencrantz was helping JohnnyB do the last minute packing of his worldy belongings, and I realized I wasn’t going to get to see him before he left. I ended up at Roger Mexico’s (as usual) for late night movies and beer.

My cousin came into town for the week, and we went out Saturday night for dinner (Kaldi’s) and dancing. Since I am not a huge fan of the Saturday night crowd at Warehouse and I wasn’t sure what kind of music she liked, we opted for the mainstream scene on Main Street. (I hereby relinquish my fishnets and boots for the week, and begrudgingly accept my 100 anti-cool points.) We ended up at Electra, which was packed, and not as horrible as I expected. Yeah, the crowd was cheesy. Yeah, the music was so-so. I didn’t care; we danced for the majority of the night.

At 1:45, the DJ announced last call, and the mood in the club changed. Desperation has a particularly acrid smell, and suddenly any previous reticent behavior by the male populance was abandoned in hopes of hooking up with someone, anyone. One minute I was dancing alone, the next minute I was fending off a sweaty moron whose idea of getting to know me was grinding on me to the Vengaboys. Charming. I moved away, didn’t make eye contact, nudged them away with a firmly cocked elbow, ready to up the ante if none of my retreating moves worked.

It had been a long time since I’d dealt with a crowd where surgically attaching oneself to another person was the modus operandi for meeting a possible romantic interest. For some reason, the kids that populate the clubs on the nights I usually attend are a bit more refined than that. They talk to people, they have a few drinks, and if they do dance with someone, it’s generally not a heavy petting session set to music. (But the drunken frat boys on Main Street are the “normal” people, and the polite guys on Wednesday nights are considered freaks because they’re wearing all black rather than Abercrombie and Fitch. But I digress. I will save my “stop picking on the goth kids” diatribe for another day.)

On the way home, my cousin and I laughed about how glad we were to be out of that scene, and how ridiculous and annoying the intoxicated yuppie boys were. I went home, went to bed, and forgot about the whole situation.

Unfortunately, the Thursday night run-in teamed up with the Saturday night last call experience, and launched a bit of an attack on my mind Sunday night. I’d been laying around the apartment watching TV and rehashing the past couple of days, and I started thinking too much about the situation. About the general level of intoxication in the club the night before. About how many people were leaving with people they didn’t know. About how many people were going to end up as statistics after that night. Drunk driving. Sexual abuse. Date rape.

This is what these people did for a good time. Every weekend. And way back when, I played along with the game just like they did. I told myself I was having a good time and that the guys I met weren’t all that bad, and they’d call. Really they would.

(Signpost up ahead: NOW ENTERING MYOPIC’S UGLY PAST. ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. LAST CHANCE. I MEAN IT.)

I’d been lucky, for the most part. But between me and other people I knew, the experiences of drunken trysts gone bad were buried in pretty shallow graves. There’d been tales of roofies, one night stands, acquaintance rapes, and other movie-of-the-week situations. Painful personal memories that I thought I’d left far behind, not realizing they ‘d been following close behind, hiding in the shadows. The more I tried to put them out of my mind, the more they persisted.

It was at this point I realized it was after midnight and there was no chance I’d be sleeping anytime soon, and I was in this personal hell by myself for the rest of the night. It was too late to call anyone, and everyone was busy with their own lives anyway.

Before any of you who have actually read this far start planning an intervention, let me reassure you. I’m OK. A bit exhausted, but OK. For the most part I can handle my personal demons, but every once in a while they become overpowering, and I have to hold on for dear life and ride out the storm. It always passes, and I always survive.

I guess what bothers me the most is that this kind of behavior goes on unchecked. Everyone I know has become a statistic of some kind or another, a case study, and the resulting trauma is considered a worst case scenario of having a good time. I shouldn’t know people that have been found in dumpsters hours after the club closed. I shouldn’t have had to be an escort for friends that had to visit the surgical side of Planned Parenthood. I shouldn’t know people that have tried to mentally block out their entire Spring Break because a group of guys from another college attempted to gang rape them. I shouldn’t know people that are afraid to go out by themselves because they’re afraid of running into some guy they met at a bar the previous week that won’t leave them alone.

And yet I can say I know someone that fits every one of those descriptions. And somehow I get the feeling that I’m not the only one.

And this is someone’s idea of fun.

I Have an Excuse...

Yeah, right. I'm lazy. That's my excuse.

No, actually that's not it. The problem is that I have 3 or 4 different sets of friends, and trying to juggle all of them equally is a little tough. For example, during the week I see Roger Mexico a lot, since he lives a few blocks from me. This weekend I spent most of my time hanging out with JohnnyB, and ended up neglecting Roger Mexico. Well, that and my pager batteries were nearly dead so I didn't know he'd been calling me.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

JohnnyB is moving back to his hometown in northeastern Ohio for a few months, which is bumming me out big time. Since he was in between jobs at the moment, and his parents were going out west for the winter, he'll be housesitting for them and taking care of the dog. It's a rational decision for him, but I'm going to be in a deep blue funk for a while. I don't do well when separated from close friends for long periods of time. (I've nearly lost it the past two summers when Roger Mexico was working on a cruise line.) Granted, he'll be coming to visit a lot, but...I'm gonna rack up some major mileage on my car, not to mention burning through a couple of vacation days. And I don't even want to think about the phone bills. I see some major emails over the next coupla months.

Since our time with him is becoming limited, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern invited us over for dinner, along with Diamond Doug, another member of our poetry group. Since Diamond Doug is a vegetarian, Rosencrantz did an experimental dinner, and we had vegetarian shepherd's pie (or sheep's pie, as we dubbed it). Yummy. I didn't even pick out the mushrooms. Of course, none of us had any idea what the "brown stuff" was (turned out to be some soy product called Vita Veggie Chunks or something along those lines)....

We theorized that Diamond Doug was secretly Bacchus. JohnnyB rarely drinks. Same with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. (I have no such excuses. I'm not a professional alcoholic, just a top seeded amateur.) With the addition of Diamond Doug to this soirée, we all proceeded to get stupid drunk. Several beers met their demise. So did a bottle of merlot. Rosencrantz broke out the port for dessert. JohnnyB discovered the Absolut Mandarin, and we killed that off. I drew the line when he started chilling shots of Kamchatka vodka. And all the while, Diamond Doug sat there and sipped on his Foster's like nothing was happening.

Anyway....

I went over to Roger Mexico's Monday night full of apologies since I'd pretty much dissed him all weekend. He guilt-tripped me for about 30 seconds, and then we fell into our usual hanging out roles: him at the keyboards composing, me on the couch hitchhiking on whatever sonic journey he's decided to undertake for the night. Most nights, I try to stay quiet while he's working, occasionally interjecting a comment like "I like that part" or "That line is nice."

That night he wanted more specific feedback. Uh oh.

If there's one job I can't handle, it's the role of critic. I know that sounds crazy since I bitch about so much stuff online, but I don't like telling someone what to think. I realize that I'm just offering my opinions, and the other party can do with my remarks as he or she pleases, but who am I to offer up my opinion in the first place?

And yes, criticism can be a beneficial thing. But it gets a bit hazy when you start talking creative projects. There is no cut and dried way to effectively dissect art. Think back to the scene in Dead Poets Society when they read the chapter at the beginning of the textbook about plotting poetry on a graph. I saw this movie when I was an English major, and I was tearing my hair out. Comparing Shakespearian sonnets to e.e. cummings, for instance, is nigh impossible. Apples and oranges, folks.

So who am I to tell Roger Mexico how to write his music? I've always thought of his music as the symphony that plays inside his head. I've seen him struggle looking for the right sound, the right filter, and the right notes to express what he hears internally. I can't do what he does. Not even if I'd kept up with my piano lessons as a kid. So how can I sit on the couch and smugly tell him that the first chord in the synchopated part is all wrong, and he needs to change it? At one point he was running through a series of effects and acted me to let him know if any of them struck my fancy. When he got to the one I liked, I simply said "There." Not there as in "I like that one and you should consider using it," but there as in "That is the perfect effect, and you shall use that one and no other, so say I." How presumptuous of me! I don't even know what I'm talking about half the time. The music theory classes I took in high school can only get me so far, and I end up making up terms to get my point across. "I like that pointy line. Did you do anything with the underwater thingie you were working on the other night?" Jeez.

I'll be the first to admit that I have odd tastes, and I try not to subject others to my opinions as The Law. "Good" and "bad" are such subjective terms when it comes to gray areas like this. And a lot of people don't get that. They seem to think that if you don't like a certain thing, then something must be seriously wrong. For instance, Roger Mexico will not see animated features. No Disney stuff. No South Park, no Simpsons. Zappagirl thinks he's completely insane, but I respect his opinions and choose to watch The Powerpuff Girls at JohnnyB's. (Oh wait. Not anymore. Sigh.) Your opinion is just that, folks. An opinion that you hold as your own. You may choose to use someone else's critical remarks as a guideline, but it never is the gospel truth.

And I will admit it, that beat in Roger Mexico's newest song that I so vehemently insisted needed to be cut has grown on me. That sneaky guy knew what he was doing all along.

Enough, Already!

Day two of Fun in Florida: A Nation in Crisis. Advantage, Bush. By 225 votes. Two counties not reporting. Oh yeah, and all the absentee ballots from the military folks overseas. All we did at work today was watch the numbers change and announce them to anyone who would listen.

Oh, the migration to Canada is cancelled until further notice. Heard from a resident (welcome, William!) that the situation isn't much better up there. Any other suggestions, gang?

I'm kind of at a loss for words. I've got lots of subjects that I could rant about from my little virtual soapbox, but I've got a lengthy list of typos that I need to go back and correct. And a link or two that I forgot to add to the sidebar. (This is what I did for the first hour at Warehouse last night: sit at the bar, drink way too much coffee, and proofread my archived entries. Hello, my name is myopic, and I'm a big loser.) That, and I've been reading Squishy archives for about an hour straight, and I'm feeling kinda inferior. Oh well, something to aspire to, I suppose.

Roger Mexico gave me a ride home from the club last night, and I spent the next two hours or so listening to him compose. I know it sounds crazy, but one of my favorite things to do is watch him work. (Watch? Listen? It's a bit of both, but it's mostly an aural experience.) He adjusts settings on a bunch of keyboards and mixing boards and the computer, and I sit on the couch and smoke and see where his latest project takes me. Last night's work in progress was a trip to Uneasyville. He mixed this scraping sound under the rhythm tracks, and it was like someone was running their fingers down a chalkboard inside my head, but in a good way.

That made absolutely no sense.

I can't describe it. "Terrible beauty" was the phrase I kept using last night. If you'd been there, you'd understand. Part of my brain was reaching sonic overload and was screaming for him to stop and turn on the TV or something, but the other part was terrified that he would stop, and the twitchy-in-a-good-way feeling in my mind would go away forever. Audio paradox.

Time to go clean up my mistakes. No post tomorrow (probably); I'm taking a vacation day, and will be attending to my ailing car. Hooray for three day weekends!

Is It Over Yet?

Three guesses what my subject is tonight.

I was a good American yesterday (whatever that means). I went out and performed my civic duty. I trudged down the hill to the mondo huge apartment complex a few streets over, to my polling location at the clubhouse. (Why doesn't my apartment building have a clubhouse? We don't have an exercise room or an indoor pool...or a humongous rent like Clubhouse-having complex. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.) I punched little holes in a card that signified my voice in the future of the country. I trudged back up the hill to my apartment, fixed myself some macaroni and cheese, and settled in to watch the returns. Well, after the usual Tuesday night Buffy/Angel fix. (I watched the returns on NBC during commercial breaks; that's got to count for something.)

Somewhere around 10:45pm I called Roger Mexico to find out what the plan was for the post-election party. (He had planned to have an after-hours gathering and invite a few people over after the bars closed for a celebratory beverage. Or an opportunity to cry into our beers without shame, depending upon the outcome.) "I'm not going anywhere just yet," he replied. "It's way too close."

Too true. I hung up the phone and glued my eyeballs back to the TV screen.

At 1:00am, he called me. "Guess we're not going for that beer tonight."

"Nope, guess not." I was exhausted from watching. Not tired like I wanted to sleep, but tired like I'd run around the block a few hundred times. Bush in the lead. Gore in the lead. Bush. Gore. Bush. Gore. Whoops, jumped the gun on Florida. Pretend you didn't see that, America. I wanted off the political roller coaster. And since I'd been attempting to watch all three networks, I had no idea what the correct facts were. CBS had been reporting Nevada as a Republican casuality for hours, while the other two stations were still claiming it was too close to call.

"Too close to call." Four little words I think I could go for the rest of my life without ever hearing again.

I finally fell asleep in front of the TV around 2am, when it pretty much had been decided that our new president would be Dubya. (I think my brain made me sleep to spare me from the accompanying trauma.) Ah, sleep. There are no political parties in my dreams, no issues, no mudslinging campaigns....

But there does appear to be a ringing telephone in my dreams. Feh. Hello? Hi, Roger. What the hell time is it, anyway? 4:00? 5:00?

"They've pulled Florida again. There's like a 500 vote difference between them."

My brain was having problems comprehending this concept. 500 votes? He's talking about some local race, right? The school levy or something. Presidential races don't run this close. I mumbled something to the effect of "You're kidding. This is ludicrous," and went back to sleep.

Well, here it is, 24 hours later and we are still sans a President-elect. I've spent the entire day checking the AP newswire to find nothing but the parties still sniping at each other over possible shady dealings in the Sunshine State. I'm sure that history and civics classes all over the nation had a field day, finally having a more up to date example of the Electoral College at work than the Harrison - Cleveland election of 1888.

By now I'm sure that every other online journalist/blogger has posted their take on this whole fiasco, and while I feel excited to have participated in one of the most exciting elections ever, I just want the whole thing to be over with. I want to be able to go to bed tonight knowing whether my rights as an individual are going to be challenged over the next four years. I want to know if Tipper's going to be picking out new curtains for the Lincoln Bedroom or if that guy who dared to ask the immortal question, "Is our children learning [sic]?" will be packing his bags for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. (If the recount seems to be too much of a bother, I think Omar has a great solution to the dilemma before us.)

If the race goes to Dubya, I say we all pack our stuff into a Ken Kesey-esque school bus, head for the Great White North, and form an artists' colony. Either that or we pool our resources and stage a coup in a Central American country. Who's with me?

Arrgghh. I've got a political migraine THIS BIG and it's got Warehouse written all over it. Time to go dance and drink. I'll paint the school bus later.

Election Night Angst

I’m going to try to make this a quick post, since I still haven’t voted, and must get out of here on time so that I may do so. (And for those of you out there who haven’t made your voice heard, get off your butts now and cast that ballot!)

I don’t want to go off on a political diatribe, but all I can say is, "This man really graduated from Yale?" I hang my head in shame at the quality of education being offered by Ivy League universities.

Actually, I will be exceptionally happy when this election season is over, mainly because if I see one more political advertisement on TV, I’m going to lose my mind. The negative campaigning has been excessive this year, although I will admit one particular mudslinging ad had the exact opposite effect on me. It was supposed to show what a horrible evil liberal candidate A was, and the evidence they provided was that he supported causes I already believed in. I’d like to thank Candidate B for pointing that out. (And kudos to Candidate A for gracefully stating his response like a grownup.) Not that Candidate B was going to get my vote in the first place, but now that I know where everyone stands, I’ll go vote for Candidate A like the horrible evil liberal that I am.

And thus ends my political diatribe.

Well, the FDA seems to have it out for me today. First they pull all the cold and cough remedies with PPA off the market. Guess I should ditch that Robitussin in my medicine cabinet, huh? Then in the same breath they condemn ma huang. Bye bye Metabolife and Up Your Gas. (And of course, now I’m confused. I used to buy Up Your Gas under the counter at the health food store when ma huang was illegal in Ohio, but when I did a search for it on Google, I found a "ma huang free" version. Did they change the formula, or are there two different products?) And while I’m sorrowing over this news, I see a link for a finding that St. John’s wort decreases the efficacy of indinavir (an HIV protease inhibitor), as well as other medications used to treat heart disease, cancers, and organ transplant rejection. Not that I’m currently taking any of these medications, but how is it affecting the vitamin supplements I take? If I get a flu shot this year, will it negate that?

Sure, I see how it is. I find something that works for me, and suddenly there’s a risk that it could kill me. It’s just like the Seldane thing all over again. I’ve personally used these products for some time now, and I’ve not had a problem, but I guess nothing good can last for too long.

Good news on the music front for Moby fans (Roger Mexico, I’m looking in your direction). Play: The B Sides came out today. Haven’t heard it yet, but I’m sure it probably kicks butt. And on a somewhat related note, the new Fatboy Slim album also came out, and is supposed to be very house music based. Plus Bootsy Collins and Macy Gray guest on the album, and there’s a song that samples Jim Morrison. Whee! My Christmas list is getting longer and longer…

Enough. Must go be a good American and cast my vote, then attend a post-election gathering. If things go the way we want, it’s a celebration. If not, we’ll knock back a few consolation beers and start planning our defection to Canada.

Weekend Woes

Back when I was a kid, I used to announce to the world that I was having the worst day of my life practically once a week. It’s become a bit of a family joke. (I was an elementary school pessimist.) So in the spirit of my childhood whininess, let me tell you about the past few days of my life….

Worst. Weekend. Ever.

Actually the fun (or complete lack thereof) started when I signed off Thursday night. I finished posting, and hustled out to my car, bound for the Elliott Smith show. Humming “Everybody Cares, Everybody Understands” to myself, I crossed the bridge to Newport, only to get lost in construction. Every time I go to Southgate House it becomes more and more complicated. I swear the orange construction cones are breeding in an evil plot to take over Northern Kentucky. So I finally found a spot a few blocks away, and parked the car, at which point it started to rain. NOOOOOOO!!! For once, my hair looked halfway decent and I was bound and determined to keep it that way for a while. Umbrella? Check. I joined the straggling parade of concertgoers and turned the corner to find – a line. A very long line. All the way down the steps and down the block. Shit. I stood in line, thankful that I had remembered the umbrella, since the mob of people didn’t seem to be moving and the rain was picking up. After about five minutes of standing there, going absolutely nowhere, one of the Southgate House employees came outside to let the soggy masses know that the sold was sold out and only ticketholders would be admitted. Arrrrgggghhhh.

(“Thank you for buying your tickets in advance” echoes through my head. I didn’t even know Southgate House did presales.)

That’ll teach me to buy my tickets in advance. I guess I underestimated the drawing power of a folk popster who gets no mainstream airplay. Guess my tastes aren't as obscure as I like to pretend they are.

As I walked back to my car trying to figure out my next plan of attack, I realized that the guy I’d been standing behind was someone I used to go to swing nights with. Sorry, Jason. Hope you had fun…you lucky bastard.

OK, fine. I decided to go to Spy Club and catch up with Nash. He probably wasn’t there yet, but I’d surprise him this way. I’d just pop in, have a drink, and wish him a happy birthday. All I had to do was find a parking place and…

Hey, what are those flashing lights behind me? Oh, it’s a police car. Terriffic.

I pulled over, presented my license to the police officer, and tried to figure out what the heck I’d done wrong. All my lights were working, I’d signalled when I changed lanes, I was wearing my seatbelt. Turns out that my license plate was illegally placed (it’s in the back window due to an accident that destroyed the frame that holds it on the back bumper). Mind you, the plate’s been in the back window for six years, and this is the first time anyone has ever told me that it’s illegal. But I didn’t end up getting a ticket out of it; the officer shook his finger at me, and sent me on my merry way.

Friday evening was uneventful. Since the Dulcify show was cancelled, Roger Mexico was going to hang out with a friend, and give me a call when he was home. He called and I went over to his house to watch The Terminator. We considered starting Goodfellas, but I reminded him of how long it was, and the fact that he had to work on Saturday. Another night, perhaps.

Saturday. Supposed to go to Paramount’s Kings Island with Zappagirl and Timmy. Waited all day for them to call. Finally called her at 7:45. They were eating dinner and had completely forgotten. She promised to call me back after they returned home, and we rescheduled the roller coaster outing for Sunday. As far as I know, they’re still waiting for their food at Fuddrucker’s, since they never called back that night or the following day.

That night I had a dream that everyone I knew had moved and left no forwarding address. I kept trying to call people and all I would get was that annoying tone and mechanical woman’s voice telling me that the number I’d dialed was no longer in service. (I have discovered the technical term for my weird aloneness paranoia. It’s eremophobia. Thanks to whoever wrote the Phobias course on Learn.com.)

Oh well. At least I still had The X Files season premiere to look forward to, right? I threw on a pair of shoes and made a quick run to the convenience store for snacks (United Dairy Farmers rather than the hippie store, since I had a craving for ice cream). I’d be back in plenty of time.

Well, that is, if my car would start. Which it wasn’t, of course. After a minute or two of cursing a blue streak, I headed over to the pay phone. Who to call? Rosencrantz and Guildenstern? Too far away, and they were supposed to be moving stuff from Rosencrantz’s old house. JohnnyB? Still at his parents’ house (I assumed), since I hadn’t heard from him since Halloween. Zappagirl? Still at Fuddrucker’s as far as I knew, and too far away. Mom and Dad? Way too far away. Roger Mexico? Maybe still at work, but possibly on his way home. I dialed his cel phone. No answer. Still at work, then. I started walking home, trying to figure out what to do if I couldn’t get my car started. I was parked at a meter, and would be ticketed in the morning, or worse yet, towed. I couldn’t afford either of these at this juncture.

I finally got ahold of Roger Mexico, and he drove me back to my car, where we determined the problem was a dead battery. Of course, neither of us had jumper cables. (I used to, but the loser that broke into my car on Christmas Day last year made off with them, as well as all my holiday CDs and JohnnyB's Christmas cookies.) We drove back to the theater where he works, and borrowed a set from another crew member. He jumped the battery (which was so dead it would barely hold the charge), added a quart of oil and some antifreeze, and figured out what’s been wrong with my idle for the past two years. We ditched my car, went back to his apartment for an anti-stressing beer, and arranged to have him take me out on Friday to get a new battery.

If I haven’t mentioned this before, Roger Mexico rocks. He’s had an equally crappy week, between working 80+ hours and having to deal with the whole band fiasco, and was on his way to Vertigo to meet up with friends, but still took time out to save my butt yet again. Dude, if you’re reading this, I owe you big time. You’re racking up major points on the good karma scale.

So I’m taking the bus this week, which is a good thing because it’s saving me money, but is a bad thing because I have to get up early to walk to the bus stop, which is a 15 minute walk uphill. And I am not a morning person. I try to take the bus when I can, but usually the idea of an extra thirty minutes of sleep wins out over the idea of being frugal with my paycheck. But that option is sitting motionless in the parking lot, so the snooze bar will remain untouched this week.

Of course, this means I either need to find a bus that runs past my voting location or I’ll have to get up super early tomorrow to voice my opinions on the future of America.

I checked my ratings on Bloghop today, and have discovered that someone hates my journal. I wonder who? Someone having a bad day who happened to stumble across my ramblings at the wrong time and place? Vindictive ex? Someone who accidentally clicked on the wrong teeny tiny ratings box? Since the ratings are anonymous and provide no room for comments, I guess I’ll never know who it was or what they disliked. Actually, I feel a little bit better about the lousy rating, if that makes any sense. My first crappy reviews! I feel like such a misunderstood artist! (On the other hand, thanks to all of you who continue to show me love with your positive comments. It’s nice to know that someone out there is reading, and actually likes what I have to say. I need an ego boost every now and again.)

So I guess this week can't be any worse than last week, right?

Time will tell. At least I have ice cream in the freezer.

Stuff and Junk

No subject tonight, just a few random thoughts. I must be brief tonight, since I am going to the Elliott Smith show at Southgate House, and have no idea how many people are going to be there. What kind of following does he have in Cincinnati? It could be five people, it could be 300. I don't listen to the radio much anymore, so I don't know how hard 97X has been supporting his new album.

First off, a retraction from last night's entry. It looks as though the Dulcify shows have been cancelled. It seems Roger Mexico and his bandmate have parted ways. It was inevitable, but he had figured they would finish out their scheduled performances and pack it in. Guess not. Oh well. I now have the very rare demo CD. (Well, besides the fact that most, if not all, of the songs are out there as MP3s in various locations around the 'net.) It was fun while it lasted.

I also found out that Psycho Beach Party is closing at the Esquire today, and as usual, I have procrastinated and missed yet another feature that will be next to impossible to find at the sad sad little Blockbuster Video by my house.

That always happens to me. One night, too many things to do. I go a week without any plans, and then there's eight billion social occasions on the very same night. (To add to the frustration, Nash called and invited me to Spy Club for his pre-birthday celebration. Sorry babe, I'm booked, and I can't afford the drinks there at this point.)

Being poor sucks. I'm just sayin'.

The Big Pig Gig ended last week, and they're starting to collect the pig statues from downtown to ready them for auction. (For those of you who weren't downtown this summer, The Big Pig Gig was modeled after a public art exhibit of fiberglass cows in Zurich, which was later adopted by Chicago. Artists in the Cincinnati area submitted designs for creating original artwork on fiberglass pigs, and they were placed all over town. Proceeds from the auctions, both live and online, will benefit local charities. Toronto's doing the same thing right now, except they're using moose.) I miss them. Fountain Square looks so empty and drab without them. I didn't get to see all of them, and some of them were kind of tacky, but it made working downtown a little less humdrum. I'm sure they'll be doing a book of the collection, so if anyone wants to know what to get me for Christmas....

Lookie, lookie! I finally got my links up (on the sidebar for now...will tackle more complicated stuff later)! Right now, the links are to friends' webpages. I'll include my personal favorites (written by people I don't know) when I actually get a links page set up. But for now, these are the people in my neighborhood (with all apologies to Sesame Street for ripping off that line and using it for such a silly reference).

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I just saw an ad in the paper...Hootie and the Blowfish will be playing at Jillian's. Remember when you couldn't turn on the radio without hearing them on every damn station? I wasn't even aware of the fact that they were still together, but apparently they are, and have a new album out. Shows you what I know.

OK, that's all for now. Lousy post, I know. But time is of the essence, and I need to get moving.

Busy Doing Nothing

As mentioned in my previous entry, I think it's safe to say that I won't be writing on a daily basis. I'll still try to write as often as possible, but I feel like a complete loser when I explain to friends that I won't be out 'til late because I'm posting a new entry.

I figured getting my posts written these last few days would be easy. Most of my friends are out of town or busy right now. Roger Mexico is suffering through tech hell week at his job, so he's working ungodly hours. JohnnyB went to visit his family for the weekend. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were working all weekend. Of course, that was just a cue for the other people on my phone list to call me. (For crying out loud, Mike Dangers called me twice yesterday. He never calls.)

Oh and while I'm thinking about it...waiter, bring us another cup of coffee! Corvus has come to play! (Even though I missed him when he was in town....)

The real task, of course, will be making the self castigation stop. I started writing this to get back in the habit of writing on a regular basis, and blowing off writing to go watch movies is not exactly the self-discipline I was looking for. I guess that's what happens when you're your own boss, and you have no management skills.

OK, so it's decided. No more berating myself for not posting every day. Whew. I feel better now.

Brief recap of what's gone on since the last full entry...Nash called me on Friday to request my help with the makeup for his Halloween costume. I can safely say I will not be leaving my day job to be a makeup artist for Limp Bizkit, but it wasn't bad for two amateurs working from a picture in Modern Guitar or whatever magazine it was. I saw him the following day, and he had not been able to get the makeup out of the inside of his ear.

The Fearfest plans fell through again on Saturday, and I ended up at Zappagirl's baking cookies and playing the Millenium Edition of Trivial Pursuit. Timmy kicked our butts. (Critical notes on the Millenium Edition: yes, the see-through plastic pieces are very pretty, but quite impractical. It makes it difficult to discern what pieces of pie you've already got. I spent a good twenty minutes aiming for pink, only to realize it was brown I needed. Also, the picture questions are dumb and gimmicky.) Afterwards, I went over to Roger Mexico's to watch movies. (He had been at the Warehouse with a friend of his.) He filled me in on what I had missed at the club (i.e., not a lot). The theme this year was FetishFest or something like that, and by popular demand they brought back the charity spanking booth, with all proceeds going to AIDS Volunteers of Cincinnati. (Your dominatrix for the evening: Rosencrantz.) He'd meant to donate money, and not get his money's worth (i.e., not get spanked), but apparently was peer pressured into it. Teehee. I can sympathize with him. The last time we did the spanking booth, the owner of the club paid for every employee to come up and get their lumps. OUCH. I recall tending bar with a stinging derrière for a good 30 minutes or so.

But on a good note, about $200 was raised for AVOC this year, and Rosencrantz didn't break any paddles this year.

I didn't do anything on Sunday but sleep and watch TV. Just call me the couch spud.

I had every intention of writing on Monday, but Zappagirl called and invited me over for pizza. I have no will power, especially when I'm hungry. We spent the majority of the night downloading new ringtones onto her cel phone. Her phone now plays Tom Jones' "Sexbomb" if you call her, which she thinks is the funniest thing ever. And I'll agree, it is pretty damn funny.

Halloween was pretty uneventful. Went over to Zappagirl's (again) to watch Toy Story 2. Drank too much coffee, switched to beer. Discovered that Chex Mix is the heroin of the snack food family, because we practically inhaled a family size bag in about an hour or so. (Wait, if we inhaled it, I guess that would make it the cocaine of the snacking genre. Whatever.) Madmatt, a friend from way back when, joined us and we spent a good hour or so checking out his website and lurking in the chatroom. Once again, I really did mean to post last night. I was going to tell ghost stories and everything. Guess I'll have to save 'em for later since all I managed to get typed was that pathetic little apology at 2 am.

Before I move on to what I actually planned on writing about tonight (or Monday, originally), I do have a brief announcement. Dulcify (Roger Mexico's band) is playing at Top Cat's this Friday night with Chivalrous Dogs and Candy Afterlife, and of course I'm pimping the show. If you live in the Queen City area, and you were looking for something to do Friday night, you just found it. Come check 'em out. They'll also be playing at the OurMusik 2000 Festival at Southgate House on November 10th in the parlour. (And if you don't live in the area, then go to their website and take a listen to their MP3s.) I'll be at both shows, so come out and play with me. Buy me a beer and I'll be your best friend!

(end shameless promotion for band)

On to the silliness! The vocabulary word for the day is mondegreen.

mondegreen n. a series of words that result from the mishearing of misinterpretation of a statement or song lyric. For example, I led the pigeons to the flag for I pledge allegiance to the flag.

This has been the source of many loud bouts of giggles in Zappagirl's computer room. We had been reminiscing about our club glory days (nights?) one evening, and got on the subject of how many songs our friends had intentionally changed the lyrics to. Case in point, Ministry's "Thieves." The lyrics are something like "Thieves! Thieves and liars!" but we'd always sung them as "Teeth! Teeth and pliers!" To me, it's always been a fun mosh pit song about going to the dentist.

We picked on Ministry a lot. "Burning Inside" will forever be a song about doing laundry. "Washing with Tide! Washing with Tide!"

But my favorite still has to be our version of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit." Zappagirl and I had gone to Spy Club one night, and we had remarked that if the DJ played some Nirvana, it would be just like the old days at R-Club. Apparently, the DJ was psychic, because the next song was the aforementioned grunge anthem. We both sqealed with delight (we are such girls), and both found ourselves, unprovoked, singing the chorus:

"A to-mah-to! A to-may-to!
A po-tah-to! A po-tay-to!
Ja-la-pay-ño! Ja-la-pee-ño!
I'm albino! I'm albino!"

For those of you not familiar with the collected writings of Kurt Cobain, these are not the lyrics. But this is the only way I sing this song now, and apparently I'm not the only one. (The group of friends I went out with used to sing these lyrics at the top of our lungs every time the DJ played it. We usually drowned out the recording. It's a wonder we never got kicked out of that bar.)

Of course, these are all intentional mondegreens. Unintentional ones are even funnier. A few examples:

My sister used to think one of the lines to "I Can See Clearly Now" was I can see all octopuses in my way. Octopuses, obstacles. I guess a mob of angry cephalopods waving their tentacles at you would be an obstacle.

My mother used to sing One ton of mirrors to "Guantanamera." Thanks for the Spanish lesson, Mom.

I sitll hear the words She's so funky, yeah in the background in Peter Gabriel's "Games Without Frontiers." Guess I didn't take enough French to decode Jeux sans frontières.

Back when Nine Inch Nail's The Downward Spiral was big, a guy came into Zappagirl's record store looking for "that song about the airplane." After a bit of quizzing, the staff determined he was looking for "Closer" and had heard the chorus as I want to fuck you like an aeroplane rather than animal. Numerous avaiation jokes ensued. ("Is that a Cessna in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?")

(For more examples of great moments in human stupidity, go here or here. It will make you feel better about the way you misheard songs.)

Enough with the wackiness. I've been here way too long, and I'm out of water and need to make a pit stop. But it's OK, because as CCR didn't say, there's a bathroom on the right.

The Best Laid Plans

OK, so much for the daily thing.

If the day were longer, I would have enough time to work, be social, and keep up with the postings. In a perfect world, I'd be writing meaningful entries every day.

Of course, this is not a perfect world. I'll have a full post tomorrow, I swear. Much to tell, not enough time to type it...

I'm such a big slacker.