December 16
Thought I was kidding? From my inbox:
Date: Wed, 15 Dec 1999 16:50:09 -1000
From: whoever@xxxmail.com
Reply-To: diary-l@hawaii.edu
To: The Diary List <diary-l@hawaii.edu>
Subject: idea for a webringLike I really have the time for this but it's just a thought and right now I
want to know if there's enough interest to get it started.A webring for people whose journals are more or less a
'laundry list' of their days. (If there's already a ring
like this someone please let me know).Was thinking the ring would be called The Laundry Journals
or something along those lines.Only requirement would be that you have been keeping the
journal for at least a month.If anyone's interested, email me directly (whoever@xxxmail.com). If there's
enough interest I'll see if I can get something together in the next couple of
weeks.
Obviously, this person's got enough time for because it's being proposed. How queer is this? How fully does it prove to me that there's an idiotic webring for every stupid fucker with access to a computer. How about "The Death Eluders WebRing: For Those of Us Who Woke Up This Morning!" or "PhoneFancy: For People Who Keep Journals About Their Phone Conversations!"
Listen to my words: What the web does not need is another freaking webring about stupid people and what they spend their retarded days doing ("Monday: 10:05 am: I looked out the window for 8 minutes and reflected deeply on the moisture my breath leaves on the glass. It moved me to compose a sonnet, which I will share with you") If it's imperative that one be formed, and you are just the person who must form it, don't torture me all fucking day long with your idiocy. Bastards.
Oh, and what the FUCK is a "laundry list" of days? What, in the name of crucified christ does that MEAN? Do any of you keep such a thing? If so, what IS it?
Today, Today Today:
So much shit happened today, I can't even determine where to begin. First, there was the house inspection for Angelo & Eleanor's new house or, really, soon to be new house. I managed to tear myself away from my desk for an hour and a half (god, I'm a rebel, a forbidden long lunch..woo) to sit around with my grandmother and mom while Angelo followed the poor inspection guy from room to room, asking him annoying questions and giving stupid suggestions ("I hear that termites don't eat wood that's sprayed with camel piss! That's how we used to keep the little bastards away when I was in the Navy and we were stationed in the Philippines!")
I race back to work to pick up Dan, the guy I'd been walking around all day, (clarification: Dan is a potential faculty recruit to the Educational Monolith. When faculty recruits are invited, I set up a day or two worth of appointments with other doctors to meet and hang up and talk molecules. There's usually a seminar given, which I coordinate, a dinner at a fancy restaurant I organize, which I'm not invited to, and there's always one or two last minute scheduling tragedies. Today was chock full of tragedies) to find that the person he's supposed to be meeting with is nowhere to be found. Fuck me.
That's solved when the guy shows up. Everyone's fine. Then my phone rings. 4:00 appointment canceling (note: 4:00 appointment had already been rescheduled from the morning when he was far too busy to meet.) fuck me. I retrieve Dan from late-arriving guy's office, walk him all the fuck way over like a million buildings where you need to walk up and around and down and it's just a big fat pain in my ass.
I run back to my building to the Chri...Holiday party already in progress. (note: When I walked Dan over to his first meeting, we had to go past the room where the party was being held. The only two things in the room were a punch bowl and a gigantic plastic jug of vodka. I said "wow..the party's going to be GREAT this year!" he replied "all parties with plastic jugs of vodka kick ASS!") The food was vile, but you'll never get me to confess it. There was a (i shit you negative) FOUNTAIN OF ALCOHOL. It was so tacky, I'll say it again: A FOUNTAIN OF ALCOHOL! Indeed, a flowing, bubbling fountain of vodka'd punch with lime and lemon and whatever (molecules? DNA? foreskin? who the fuck knows, I work in the Death Star.) floating in it. I complemented one of the party coordinators: "The vodka fountain was a classy touch!"
After I could tolerate the fun no longer, I escaped back to my office, where BS sat, pretending to be busy. "That party is GREAT!! The food is oh my god, the best EVER. And you should see the FOUNTAIN they've got..." She looked up from what she was doing (read: looking up the weather on the web and said "Oh, was the BCMM party today? I'd forgotten."
I sit down. My phone rings. It's the realtor. He proceeds to tell me of Angelo's freak out about the house. He keeps me on the phone until it's 10 minutes after I was supposed to retrieve Dan. I SPRINT back to the holy shit out of the way building, run into the office (spend a good 5 minutes petting the puppy that happened to be there) and learn that he's gone.
"gone?" i repeat. "where did he go?"
"about 5 minutes ago. he said he'd find his way back".
Fucckkk. I run BACK to my office. He's not there. His stuff's nowhere to be seen. I'm operating on the assumption that either he's been killed or he made it back to the hotel just fine. Either way, I've got two drinks in me now, and don't much care.
Clinton Crossing:
"Oh, my god! It's like a MANSION. I want to LIVE HERE! I LOVE IT!! It looks RICH and HAPPY!"
Nicole loved it.
"There's a Tommy Hilfiger...ooh...and a DKNY....oohhh....and look...are those stores down there?? Ooh....Calvin Klein.....wwoooo...I hope Marty's awake when I get home because we are going to have SEX!"
We went into stores I never,ever go into when I go alone. The extent of my fun is usually the Nike outlet, (when I'm in a more gym-going frame of mind and need new crosstrainers, and no, I don't care that they're made by slave people earning a 10th of a penny a day. god bless america!), the Gap outlet (where, as I may have mentioned, they sell holy fucking shit five dollar pants), the Crate and Barrel outlet (I'm mad for the place, but can't recall a time I've ever actually purchased anything) and the Kitchen Gourmet (where I got my mother something I think is screamingly funny, which gives you more insight into my inner doofus: it's a glass cutting board with the words "Elvis Parsley" and drawing of Elvis with parsley hair and sideburns. They also had John Lemon and Tina Turnip..har har har. It really WAS funny.)
The most peculiar thing happened while I was waiting to pay for the cutting board. We'd gotten coupon books from the management office, so in ever store we checked to see how much of a discount it offered. Le Gourmet Chef was 10 percent (15 percent? I dunno) off any purchase over $25.00. Elvis Parsley only cost $19.99. The woman in front of me looked over and said something that I didn't catch, but I knew it was about my fabulous money saving coupon. I offered it to her. Fine, very nice. She takes it, thanks me, gets run out. She hands the coupon over and saves three dollars.
The woman takes out her wallet, and HANDS ME A DOLLAR. "Take this, part of my savings". I push it back at her "I didn't PAY for the coupon..that's okay, you keep it." She pushes it back at me "no, take it. This way, we ALL save.." Nicole looks at me. I look at the woman. The dollar sits on the counter like a turd. She gathers her stuff to leave. I grab the dollar and stick it in my pocket. "Fine. I'll take the dollar." The woman smiles at me and walks out the door.
It was really fucking strange. I totally didn't need the dollar, but I took it because she just left it there. People are freaks.
Wish Lists:
You know, I'm really opposed to these things. I mean it. Seriously. I HAVE one, but never intended make that knowledge public. For a few reasons. I think it's weird. I love all of you people without you buying me stuff. Me making the list public seems really sleazy, a la "I make you laugh, now you must pay me BACK, Mwhahahah!" and that's so not the case. I'm flattered you want to get me stuff, and I'm not going to prevent you. My wish list is here. Knock yourselves out. You're all definitely invited to my BHT&TM party. Speaking of, I can't wait to go to work tomorrow and talk about how much fun I had at the Chri...Holiday Party.
Oh, and in case you were wondering how the house thing ended with my grandparents: an hour or so after an annoying, weary conversation with my mom, my grandmother called. "Did you talk to your mother?" she asked, hesitantly. "Better than my mother, I talked to ARTY. I hear you had quite a time after I left. Was Angelo smoking crack again? Are you taking the house or not? " She laughed. "Oh, we're taking the house, I want the house. I told your grandfather....." "To go shit in a hat?" "Exactly. We're taking the house, if we can still get it. I want birds, goddammit!"
The band I was most obsessed with in the 80's was Men at Work. Looking back on this in retrospect, during a time of a million pretty-boy bands, they were really a peculiar pick. They were nothing at all good looking, and yet I had two distinct and separate crushes on two of the band members. Greg Ham, the guy who played the flute, sax and keyboards, and Ron Strykert, the guitarist.
You'll note they're sitting next to eachother in this photo. That much fox, sitting so close together would have sent 13 year old Dana off into fits of underaged horniness. Of course you know the two of which I speak. I won't even insult your intelligence by pointing them out.
I went to see them when I was 13. I remember being able to think of nothing else for the entire summer. The show was easily the most thrilling thing that had happened to me at that time. (aside from being born, probably). When they took to the stage, I remember crying and crying like you've seen photos of girls doing for the Beatles.
Nick and I went to see them this year. Well, we went to see the remaining two members of them. Neither of us expected anything much, and I've got to admit, the show fucking kicked ass. It sounds so peculiar, but really, take my advice. I'd never lead you astray. They were great. No, really. Stop laughing. I'm so not kidding. Ask Nick if you don't believe me. Tell me you all don't sing along when you hear Down Under. Yeah, right. That's what I thought, you ingrates.
