Same As It Ever Was

I always feel guilty when I get lax about posting. Granted, I doubt that there's anyone out there that starved for the details of my day-to-day life, but I know that from time to time there are a few of you out there tapping your foot impatiently. And I really do appreciate all the foot tapping. I primarily post here for my own amusement (or sanity, as the case may be), but it's nice to know that some folks are interested in the odd goings-on in my life.

But as I've said many times, a lot of my writing is fueled by angst, and when things are going well, I'm less apt to stop by and bitch. I just find that I have less to say. (I've noticed the same thing happens with my poetry and fiction writing.) I suppose I could tell you work stories, but I'm saving them all up for one big post, coming soon. I promise.

So until I get home and find my "wacky work stories" notes, I'll just update you on what's been going on recently. (Believe me, it could have been much worse. The other night I was feeling pissy about the Amazing Disappearing Friend, who has been missing in action for over a month, and almost posted about that. Now aren't you glad I just kept playing spades online instead?)

I've been spending entirely too much time playing online spades with Zappagirl. And as if that wasn't bad enough, she's dragged me along in her addiction to Sweet Tooth as well. But at least I can say I've met some rather nice folks while blowing my time there. (Yeah, I've met my fair share of losers as well, but that's to be expected.)

I finally broke down and turned on my air conditioning the other night. Wasn't it just yesterday that I was complaining about the weather being cold and rainy? Well, as is the norm in Cincinnati, the weather abruptly changed from record-breaking chilly nights to hot and humid days. And the rain hasn't gone away. The pollen and mold counts have been through the roof, and I wake up every morning with a stuffy head and puffy eyes, feeling like I've gargled with sandpaper. I love spring.

I'm finally starting to become more comfortable with driving my car. I'm not saying that I've gotten better, mind you. I've just learned to accept that trying to get out of Zappagirl's garage is a life-threatening adventure. I just try not to notice the glares and muffled curses from other drivers when I stall out my car and roll backwards 5 feet in an effort to get moving again.

Oh, by the way, my car has officially been dubbed Shirley (after Shirley Manson of Garbage), since she's only happy when it rains. It seems to rain almost every time I drive for longer than 5 minutes, no matter what the weather was like before I got in the car. I swear that clouds form as soon as I turn the key in the ignition. I'm beginning to suspect that my car is a reincarnation of the lorry-driving rain god in So Long and Thanks for All the Fish. But at the moment, she seems to be a tiny Scottish rock star with an attitude.

I have discovered that Kismet, my female cat, is a strange little girl. Besides her constant need to follow me everywhere in the apartment, she has a strange obsession with water. If I'm washing my hands, she tries to get in the sink. If I'm making coffee and filling the reservoir, she tries to stick her head in the way. If I'm taking a bath, she perches on the side of the tub and tentatively sticks her paw in the water, shakes off the excess water (inadvertently catching me in the eye with suds every single time), and spends the next five minutes bathing her wet paw. And then she repeats the whole process with her other front paw. Usually during this, Ma Huang will join her in the bathroom, just to see what's going on. Yes, my cats are voyeurs. Creepy.

And as if the weird water thing wasn't bad enough, she's developed a mischevious streak of evil, and is teaching Ma Huang her tricks. In the past week, they have savaged a roll of toilet paper, a roll of paper towels, and numerous plastic grocery bags. Ma Huang has taken to chewing through anything that looks like thread or yarn, and I am now down one pair of drawstring pants and have to hide all of my shoes with laces. Kismet, on the other hand, likes to steal things from the bathroom and bring them into the living room to play with them. Sponges, Q Tips, the hairtrap from the tub drain... she's not particular.

And she's started chewing on my hair when I try to sleep. Yeah, thanks, baby. I guess 3 am is prime kitty play time, and should just resign myself to the fact that I'm never going to get any rest.

Roger Mexico is finally coming for a visit in two weeks, after many failed attempts in the past months. We've been keeping in touch via email and instant messenger and phone calls, but it will be nice to see him again. I haven't seen him since Thanksgiving, and still haven't quite gotten used to the fact that he doesn't live three blocks away, even though he moved a year ago. So if I'm not answering my phone that weekend, now you know why.

And speaking of Roger Mexico, Garageband Records finally worked out whatever difficulties they were having, so the link to Monologue's page is now functional again. I'll start bugging him to upload some new songs.

On a related musical note (see what I did there? It's a good thing that I amuse myself...), for those of you looking for something new and interesting on the radio, tune in to WAIF-FM (88.3) this Monday night from 12 midnight til 2 am. Android, a friend of Roger Mexico's will be hosting Art Damage this week. To put it into his words, "I will be performing my monthly ritual of filling the airwaves with sonic oddities for your listening pleasure. I will spin some local (Cincinnati, OH-area) and nonlocal musics from artists including: Amp, Tarwater, Fennesz, Mischling, 8Fold, Mystic Dub Star, Coil, Broadcast, Songs:OHIA, Nina Nastasia and many others. Newly- or unreleased stuff as well as a few blasts from the past will be heard. As a very special treat I am also going to play several tracks from Nocturnal Emissions' forthcoming release of absolute magnificence 'Collateral Salvage.' The sound is quite a departure & I am certain you will find it as riveting and poignant as I do. So please give a listen if you can...." For those of you not in the WAIF listening area, the show will also be webcast.

As of today, the busy season at my job is officially over. I'll get a couple of months to catch my breath, and then we start all over again with a new school season. I'm taking a training class on animal handling tomorrow, so at least if an emergency crops up next year, I will be able to fill in for educational programs.

Hmmm. What a boring entry. Maybe I should have ranted about the Amazing Disappearing Friend after all.

The Finale Conflict

(Warning: Contains spoilers. Do not read if you still want to be surprised by your as-yet-unwatched season finale videotapes.)

Man, it's going to be a loooooong summer.

Granted, the only reason why I'm aware that summer is around the corner is the endless barrage of season finales on television. It has been unseasonably and record-breakingly cold here for the past few nights. Naturally Mother Nature waited until the heat had been shut off in my building to make with the bone-chilling weather, so it's been chilly in my apartment. I don't think it's ever been chilly in here; usually the heat is turned up so high that I have to crack my windows in sub-zero temperature.

Since my windows have been tightly shut for the last week or so due to torrential downpours and 35 degree nights, the cats haven't been able to participate in their favorite pasttime of watching birds and sniffing the outside air. Instead, they've been taking part in their second favorite pasttime, which is chasing each other around the apartment at full speed and trying to beat the living daylights out of each other. Which is fine, except they have now extended Kitty Smackdown into an all-night event (from about 7:00 at night to 4:00 in the morning) and Ma Huang, not being the most graceful cat in the world, has a tendency to thud into things when his brakes don't work. I can't imagine what my downstairs neighbors think I'm doing every night.

So for the past few nights, I've been wrapping up my TV watching habits for the season. All of the shows that I watch on a regular basis have concluded, and I've got some rather mixed feelings about the way things have turned out.

The X Files is finally over, and actually finished with a decent episode. David Duchovny was back, which is always a good thing in my book, and the writers actually managed to piece together the mytharc into something that almost made sense. Although I'm still not sure how I felt about the dead characters appearing to Mulder á la The Sixth Sense, it was nice to see Krychek and X back again. And I think they may have FINALLY killed off the Cigarette Smoking Man. If a surface-to-air missle fired directly into his head doesn't send him to the great Moreley factory in the sky, I don't know what will.

There were a few things that bugged me, though. What happened to Skinner? Who's going to take care of Gibson Praise now? What about the damned Miracle Baby? And what in the name of all that is holy was the deal with the last scene with Mulder poignantly touching Scully's cross and waxing poetic about the afterlife? The truth is out there, and it's God? Um, yeah. Chris Carter, you got some 'splaining to do in the inevitable movie(s). And you better hurry, since the world-ending alien invasion is due on December 22, 2012.

Onto Monday night - the season finale of Angel. I've grown increasingly apathetic about this show all year, what with the (other) Miracle Baby returning from the hell dimension all growed up and Charisma Carpenter's amazing disappearing hair, but this was the last straw. Lorne, the empathic karaoke demon, packed his bags and went to Vegas? NOOOOOOO!!! And don't even get me started on the whole "Cordelia is a higher being" thing. That belongs on some craptacular WB show like Charmed or something. Oh wait. This is a craptacular WB show.

Poor Angel. Stuck at the bottom of the ocean and no hair gel in sight.

After a spotty season, Buffy the Vampire Slayer wrapped up with a bang. That collective shout of joy you may have heard at approximately 9:00 pm Tuesday night was every member of the Buffy viewing audience heralding the return of Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles. His absence has been painfully felt this past season, and he got to kick some major ass (for a few minutes, at least). I'm not sure how I feel about the whole re-souling of Spike, especially given his last interaction with Buffy. But at least they finally gave Dawn something to do besides whine and scream for help and steal things. And Xander got to save the world from destruction with the power of love and his big ol' heart. You go, boy. You ain't nobody's butt monkey. Even if the ending was a rip-off of A Wrinkle in Time, I was on the edge of my seat for the entire two hours.

Since Buffy was two hours long, I had to tape Smallville for later viewing. (And after a lengthy phone call from Rushboy in the middle of watching the tape, it was rather late when I finished.) Talk about your bad proms, man. Clark takes Chloe as his date, only to find out that Lana is dateless for the evening. The slimy reporter from the Inquisitor finds the spaceship in the Kent's storm cellar, almost gets the smackdown from Pa "Don't You Call Me Bo Duke" Kent, and they both go running off into the middle of a tornado. And what's to become of Lionel Luthor? Will the ceiling fall in on him and crush him, leaving Lex in charge of Luthorcorp, or will he narrowly escape and screw up Lex's buy-out plans? Much as I like John Glover and the way he's played the senior Luthor, I'm keeping my fingers crossed for that ceiling to give so Lex can fulfill that old saying about absolute power and corruption. Of course, I'm also hoping that maybe the tornado finishes off Lana as well, so I won't have to be subjected to Kristen Kreuk's wooden attempts at emoting anymore. But I'm not holding my breath here, folks. We all know they can't kill off Lana and the Teen of Steel will probably discover he can fly and pull the truck out of the funnel cloud. But I can still dream, right?

Stupid My So-Called Super Powers. Stupid vampires with souls. Stupid alien invasions and conspiracy theories. Stupid television shows. I really need to get out more.

Nightclubbing

It's hard to believe, but The Warehouse just celebrated its 10th anniversary last weekend.

I say that it's hard to believe because a) most nightclubs in Cincinnati stay open an average of a year or two, and b) I've practically been going there since it opened and there's no way I could possibly be that old. But since I haven't been out dancing in nearly six months, Zappagirl and I decided to stop in on Friday night to catch up.

Since we wanted to arrive fashionably late, we ordered Chinese delivery and watched Ocean's Eleven over General Tso's chicken. What an eye candy movie. It should be against the law to be as charming and attractive as George Clooney. After the movie (and much coffee, naturally), we ran upstairs to hurriedly get ready.

Now in my book, "going out" clothes means little black dress, but the question remains: which little black dress? I had decided upon a short tank dress with silver buckles at the waist, accentuated by a long blue and silver scarf and black boots. Not exactly trendy, but fun and functional with a retro flair. Zappagirl remarked that I looked like the goth Mary Tyler Moore, and offered me her beret so I could toss it into the air in front of the club. (She, on the other hand, was wearing a long skirt with a black corset , which provided her with a handy built-in place to put her drink.)

Since it had been a long while since we'd been downtown, we were both a little apprehensive. "Tell me again why we're doing this," Zappagirl commented as we sped down the expressway with the Beastie Boys blaring at top volume. "Aren't we too old for this?"

"Nah," I replied. "We're never too old. Hey, you missed the turnoff." Indeed she had. Zappagirl, in her nervous condition, had completely driven past Vine Street. "Just follow the spotlight," I suggested, indicating the sweeping light in the night sky. (Dave, the owner, has always been partial to renting spotlights for special events.)

After parking and getting our hands stamps and arm bands (Dave had been at the front door when we entered and comped our admission - we're such rock stars), we headed towards the back to scout out the dance floor and get a drink from the bar. "Do I want to drink the well whiskey here, or should I shell out the extra buck for the good stuff?" Zappagirl asked as we greeted our bartender.

I shuddered at the thought of the McCormick's whiskey. "Spend the extra buck. Trust me on this."

The format on Friday nights has recently changed from house to goth/industrial, and the crowd was reflective of the change. The majority of the patrons were in their early 20s and bedecked in black. It looked like a Hot Topic (or as I like to call it, the Goth Gap) exploded.

The music was mopey and undanceable, so we decided to head back to the front and mingle. We stopped by the mini-bar to say hello to Mkie Dangers, who welcomed us with mystery shots that tasted suspiciously like Tang flavored paint thinner. After being completely dissed by the guy who still thinks we're the beautiful people, we settled at a table to people watch. We were joined in a matter of seconds by a short Hispanic man intent on chatting up Zappagirl. He asked her name. She gave an exasperated sigh and turned to me. "Do I have a name?"

"No, not tonight," I replied.

She relayed her lack of moniker to her would-be suitor, in hopes that he would get the message. No such luck. He continued his game of 20 Questions with her. Was she from around here? (She told him she was from Venus.) Did she like music? (She said no, overlooking the fact that she is in charge of the music department at her job.) Did she like to dance? (Again, no, although we'd been commenting that we were dying to dance once the music got a little more upbeat.)

Finally, she flagged down the largest bouncer in the club. "Jaybear, be my boyfriend," she smiled at him. Jaybear explained to the guy that we were with him, and he should probably move along. We thanked Jaybear, and he headed off to look for underage drinkers to kick out of the bar.

We decided to move to the front bar and get another drink and make up new lyrics for the Minsitry videos that they were showing on the TV screens. "Burning Inside" had already been re-written as "Washing with Tide" several years ago by Rosencrantz, so we busied ourselves in coming up with satirical words to fit "The Land of Rape and Honey." The result was an ode to insecticide called "The Land of Raid and Bug Spray." ("Kills flies!")

Zappagirl at this point had again found a new admirer, a blond guy I'd seen before but couldn't quite place. Regrettably, he turned out to be 20 years old, and any man that theoretically could have been a babysitting charge is too young. (Yeah, like she was going to do anything anyways. She's too in love with Timmy.)

After a few minutes, we were joined by another friend, whom I'll call Rushboy (for reasons that will become clear momentarily). He breezed past me without saying hello, and asked of Zappagirl, "Hey, aren't you Myopic's friend?"

Zappagirl looked at me. "I don't know. Am I your friend? If not, what the hell is your car doing parked in my garage?"

Rushboy immediately apologized. It had been some time since I'd seen him last and he hadn't recognized me now that I'd let my hair grow out. We all started catching up, but eventually the conversation floated back to the new Rush album, which we preceded to talk about for the next 20 minutes. Well, Rushboy talked about it. I just smiled and nodded a lot.

At this point it was last call, and we still hadn't set foot on the dance floor. The music was still mopey goth, which is fine for background music, but not exactly toe-tappin' stuff. "It's like Perkigoth Radio," Zappagirl commented, citing our favorite online station to play spades by.

"Yeah," I added. "Without the perki-."

The music picked up during after hours (they had switched DJs during the break), and, after choking down a shot of Jagermeister with a group of ex-bartenders, we headed out to the floor, where we were joined by a local DJ who goes by the unfortunate on-air moniker of Penis John. We spent the rest of the night dancing, until the lights came up, signalling the end of the night.

"Anchor?" Zappagirl suggested as we retrieved our purses from behind the bar. But of course, the Anchor was our next stop. How better to wrap up a fun-filled evening?

We decided to add to the fun by dragging a few other people with us and cramming them all in Zappagirl's car. A hearty breakfast was had by all, and the Barbie band performed two Patsy Cline numbers for our listening pleasure. It was just like being young again.

Of course, the following day I was reminded of why I don't do this on a regular basis. Ow. Every muscle in my body hurt from dancing for two hours straight, and I was exhausted all day. Maybe it's a sign: if the club one frequents is having a ten year anniverary party, maybe it's time to hang up the dancing shoes.

Or maybe not. I'll let you know when my knees stop hurting.

A is for Adaptations

It's funny. Now that I actually have interesting things to write about, I find I don't have the time.

Actually, scratch that. I have the time, it's just that I don't have the energy. I'm still finding myself coming home after work and collapsing on the couch. Maybe I'm still getting back into the swing of things. After all, I had a four month period when I pretty much could eat and sleep whenever I felt like it.

I'm really not complaining. I still love my job. It's been hectic, with every school in the area trying to get in that last field trip before class id dismissed for the summer. The weather has not been cooperative; it's been rather rainy, so every morning I am greeted by messages on my voice mail from school that don't want to walk around the Zoo in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Last week, the rainy days fell in the middle of a three-day special event we had planned for International Migratory Bird Day. We had scheduled activities for the attending school kids where they were banded as flocks of birds and "migrated" to different stations around the Zoo. Each station represented a challenge that migratory birds had to face in their return to their breeding grounds, and the "flock's" fate was determined by a random number drawing. Each number signified a different scenario and outcome, ranging from fatality to successful breeding.

I got to work at challenge stations on two out of the three days. The first say I was stationed at "Collision with Manmade Structures," and the second I was at "Natural Predators." For the most part, it was lots of fun. The kids were very enthusiastic, and their excitement made the volunteers enjoy it all the more. It was rather depressing, though, to tell a group of bright-eyed (and rain-soaked) first graders that they had been "killed" by a peregrine falcon or had "fatally collided" with a communications tower and therefore would not be looking for a mate and raising chicks this year. But the kids took their fates in good stride, and it got me away from my desk for a few days.

And I got a free Charley Harper T-shirt, which is always a good thing.

One of the main requirements of this job, I have discovered, is flexibility and adaptation. Outdoor programs are constantly being moved inside due to inclement weather. In addition to answering the phone and scheduling school groups, I have to be ready to set up chairs and tables for programs, juggle room assignments for late arriving groups (and forgetful staff members), and assist in getting animals for demonstrations at a moment's notice. I have to be able to refer phone calls about billing errors, the price of the train ride, and what to do about hormonal male robins that have mistaken their reflections in windows for competition.

The latest adaptation came in the form of a cancellation of the Zoo's participation of Action Auction. Although we support public television, it was decided that we should not participate when fur coats are being auctioned. And personally, I agree. I'd feel uncomfortable taking bids for a coat made from dead animals while representing an organization dedicated to conservation.

And that frees up another night this week. Hooray! I have another evening to waste watching bad TV, laughing at my cats chase each other around the house, and playing online spades! (My social life continues to be glamorous, as you all can tell.)

I'm still working more hours than I'm scheduled for. I'm still bolting my lunch at my desk, on the days I actually get to grab lunch. But I don't mind. It's a different experience from working in corporate America. The stress is still there, but it's a different kind of stress. There's still deadlines and insanity, but most of it is concerned with getting the right group of kids to the right animal demonstration, and teachers that aren't sure if they'll be bringing enough chaperones for their scheduled field trip. And I'll take that over sending out checks from sold stocks any day of the week.