Archive for June, 2005

Did Blogger mess up my .css, or did the .css gnomes mess up my .css? Either way, the line spacing in this blog is seriously not right and it’s not my fault. I hope I have internet access when I get home so I can adjust this mother. After I go to the pool and drink some wine. Er, maybe I’ll just wait till tomorrow.

Went out to lunch. Had some margaritas. It seems to be a common thing here. Especially on Fridays. Now I am buzzed just enough to not want to do any work. All I can think about is sitting by the pool with a glass of pinot grigio and getting a tan. God, I miss being tan. I also miss working out every morning (I don’t have a gym here yet). My figure hasn’t suffered, but I’m sure it will if I don’t keep running, as evidenced by some of my older former colleagues.

Right now, I’m listening to one of my favorite running songs, “Move Your Feet” (appropriate), by Junior Senior. This guy saw them last night and I’m totally jealous. I haven’t seen them play since SXSW 2004. Poor me.

I’m glad I got here early today because I’m definitely leaving early. Tomorrow I’m going to Pinot Days in San Francisco. Looks like it’s going to be all Pinot Noir, which is okay (I prefer those to most reds), but with a little luck (and cooperation from my comrades) I’ll be able to hit up a place with some good white afterward.

I’m all out of news. Let the countdown begin. As I listen to “The Girl with the Sun in Her Head” by Orbital. Yes, I’m old school. Why keep looking for new shit when you’ve already found what you like?

So yesterday I’m standing in the Jams & Jellies aisle of the Safeway, eyeing the spreadable condiments for the best deal. I’m there for the peanut butter. Oh yes, the peanut butter. I know I want some of that.

Shelved above the peanut butter and next to the jelly is the most ingenious product ever invented. Bearing a label with cartoons of happy fruit and peanuts, proud to be swirled together for the sake of unending deliciousness, this glass jar screams, “I’m Goober and you know you want me.”

I stood in the aisle for a good five minutes, I’m sure. I was already buying peanut butter (’cause sometimes you just want a plain ol’ peanut butter sammich). Did I really need another peanut butter-esque item? But I do have a penchant for foods I can eat straight out of the jar leaving no messy cleanup. I’m not even going to kid myself into thinking I might actually make a sandwich with this stuff. It was going to be spoon-to-mouth or nothing at all. Is this a sign that I’ve truly hit rock bottom? Sitting at home eating a big jar of Goober with a spoon? I haven’t done that since college! Of course not, I concluded. Hitting rock bottom would entail living out of a garbage can and not being able to afford Goober, which I’ll admit, is a bit pricier than the cost of peanut butter and jelly separated in equal amounts. But like Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, the unique tasty flavor and lack of comparable substitutes overrides the reasonably higher price for this item.


Goober, I love you. *hugs*

Addendum: But not the grape kind displayed here. Strawberry is a far superior flavor of jelly, as it is better than just about any grape-flavored food in the world. Do you drink grape milkshakes? Do you eat the grape Skittles first? Of course not. Because grape is just nasty… unless you’re eating grapes. Or drinking wine.

The most annoying thing about cell phones used to be how obnoxious some people behave while using them. Now, it’s how high my bill is for last month because I didn’t know I went over my 600 “whenever” minutes. That’s a lot of minutes for someone who hates talking on the phone anyway!

This month, of course, I’ve only used 300 minutes. The cell phone month ends on the 25th. Ughhhh. I wish you could backward-apply minutes. Instead of “rollover,” they could be “fall back.” You’re like, “Crap! I’ve learned my lesson. I’m going to use fewer minutes the following month,” and when you carry out the month like a good little phone-user and use only half the minutes you paid for, you can then use them as a “fall back” plan for paying for the previous month.

Great idea, Kat! To any wireless provider reading this, I will totally use your services if you have a plan feature like that. And offer free phones identical to my Sidekick. (riiight)

A member of Fark, a newsgroup I frequent (heavily frequent), is currently suffering a tragedy. His wife is brain dead with no chance for recovery and she is carrying their unborn child.

There IS hope for the baby, so her family is taking donations to offset the $1500/day ICU costs as we count down the days until she can give birth. I’m sure the husband isn’t working at a time like this, so I imagine they have many other financial problems as well.

A lot of people on Fark made donations to the Susan Torres Fund. The thread for this posting made me feel all squishy inside, so I donated too. Most people donated around $20, (every little bit helps!) and I bet the power of Fark will pay for at least a day.

It was nice to see a bunch of people who normally bicker about media, politics, and grammatical errors come together and do something nice. :-)

As of July 21, mother and baby are still doing well. I was happy to read this article and learn that the family has received over $400,000 in donations. Yay!

This short tale called The Aphrodisiac Prank is probably the funniest thing I’ve read in awhile. This is the best cure for boredom, unhappiness, and possibly a dry spell with your mate, since the dinner he makes his wife at the end looks really good with the exception of the oysters. I would definitely eat pistachio pudding with green M&Ms; on it, in addition to a large chocolate rabbit garnished by strawberries.

Expecting to do nothing on Friday, I ended up going to the Friday social at work with a couple of people who sit near me. While I was hanging out there, Damon buzzed me to see if I wanted to go back to 1015. I liked the crowded, multi-room “rave cave” (thanks, Fiona), so I said yes and we took off.

Unfortunately, I had this massive cystic zit from hell on my cheek and it was still healing. I solved this problem by wearing huge black sunglasses that covered most of my face all night. Yes, I was one of those lame fuckers who wears sunglasses inside. Since I don’t even try to pretend that I’m cool, I figured it was okay and better than sporting some giant zit all night. Also, I was surrounded by ostentatious hair colors, intricately assembled outfits, and attention-whore accessories (hula hoops??), so I felt as though my antics would be barely noticeable. But no, I still got flack for the sunglasses. “Oh it’s so bright in here,” moaned some I-just-moved-from-the-suburbs-to-be-a-rockstar-in-the-city asswipe. I should have picked off my scab and made him eat it.

At one point in the evening, I was on the dancefloor when some jerk walked by and we knocked shoulders. He gave me the look of death, and although he couldn’t see it, I gave him the look of, “Tough shit, you’re on a dancefloor” and kept dancing. Are there actually people in this world who expect people to clear a path for them for no other reason than they want to walk by? I didn’t know that guy from Adam and the club was crowded. Yeah, there’s gonna be some human contact involved. If you don’t like it, stay home. Or at least stay off the dancefloor.

Damon spent most of the night in the pillow room way upstairs and chilled. I’d been drinking rum and cokes all night (we got started at an 80s nostalgia bar down the street), so I left my purse behind a big stuffed tiger and danced elsewhere. Unfortunately, when I needed another drink, I couldn’t find my way back to the pillow room, so I had to solicit people for info.

“If I were looking for a giant tiger with pillows in front of it, which way would I go?”

I eventually found Damon, got bored (again, I wasn’t in the mood for sitting), and went to the breezeway to have a cigarette. There I met some Irish guys who kept asking me why I was wearing sunglasses. So I kept asking them why there were so many goddamn Irish people in San Francisco. They were on vacation and looking for an afterhours club. I told them about VXN, but could not find any more information. I ended up walking around some and their ringleader followed me. But I was like, “Dude, I don’t know.” And one other guy in the Irish pack was mad because I spilled his drink which he left unattended on a ledge in a dark room after 2:00. Prepositions are great.

Damon and I left pretty early. The music was starting to grate on him and I wasn’t loving it as much as last time. We couldn’t find anywhere to eat near 101, so we went to McDonald’s. Yuuuuuck. I totally hate that place and immediately remembered why after they wouldn’t let me substitute a milkshake for a coke as part of a value meal even though it was their entire ad campaign a couple years ago. I went without the shake and begrudgingly ate the quarterpounder, feeling the awkwardness of cheap meat being masticated by my jaw. Fuck you, McDonald’s!

The morals of this story are don’t eat at McDonald’s, dance on the dancefloor, and don’t mess around with girls in big dark sunglasses. They’re nothing but trouble.

My mp3 player got burninated, so I walked to work sans tunage. It kind of sucks because I don’t want to hear el creepos honking at me, and now that I’m used to walking with music, going without is kind of boring. I get songs stuck in my head, so I sing them while I walk to let it all out. Today’s song was Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain.”

But since I was more aware of my surroundings, I was able to spot a razor lying on the sidewalk. Not the kind you shave with, but the kind you try to slit your wrists with even though someone will obviously find you before you’re not even close to dying because such razors don’t make deep enough incisions and it will take you forever to lose enough blood to even slip into unconsciousness. It was a cry-for-help razor. And it was a good find, since Walmart put an annoyingly adhesive sticker on my windshield after changing my oil. Fucking Walmart.

I didn’t know where to put the razor, so I just held it as I continued walking to work. As people approached me on the sidewalk, a lot of them looked at me, eyeballed my hand, and quickly moved aside. When I thought about it, I guess walking down the street singing a song that you only know a few of the words to brandishing a razor is somewhat odd.

So I tucked the razor inside my wallet and began singing Frank Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” instead.

If it’s true that you are what you eat, then you can call me Creamy McHardDonut.

“Heeeeey,” yells some witless frat boy from the peanut gallery. “That’s like the perfect porn star name.”

Shut up, asshat.

Yes, I walked over to Building 6 for a Krispy Kreme donut. I ain’t too proud! It wasn’t one of those plain ones that tastes like two bites of burnt sugar and sits in your stomach like a rock for three hours. This was one of the chocolate-covered cream-filled ones that tastes okay… but still sits in your stomach like a rock for three hours.

Cream isn’t supposed to be crispy anyway, and neither word is spelled with a K. I should have bought Krispy Kreme stock when I lived in Louisiana and they started to pop up all over the Deep South and spread like an addictive, artery-clogging disease all over the Lower 48.

Back then, I cared more about my fellow man and didn’t think it was right to profit from the masses’ unhealthy decision to eat donuts every morning. Now, I see that my fellow man is an idiot. You can’t help folks that can’t help themselves I guess.

Anyway, Krispy Kreme was just a fad and their shit has levelled off by now.

As many of my friends will concur, the saying, “Keep Austin Weird,” is really stupid. The morons who buy those stupid t-shirts are just conforming to whatever stereotype they’re trying to block. Such banal garbage is right up there with “78704–more than a zip code, a way of life.” Nope, it’s really just a zip code.

As I roamed the streets of San Francisco this weekend, I thought about Austin and how I can be just about anywhere in that city and know exactly where I am. Navigating the city is pretty simple, and finding the right places to hang out is as easy as a couple of phone calls and half an ear to the ground. In fact, Austin is downright familiar. Austin makes sense.

San Francisco, however, does not make sense. Chewbacca.