Thursday, July 31, 2003

The floor paint is evil. It said, "soap and water washable." So I painted my floor a nice green, then tried to wash my hands with soap and water. All it did was entirely cover both of my hands with green paint. What the label should have said is, "may come off with the use of industrial strength soap and aggressively applied steel wool." After half an hour of scrubbing, my hands are mostly clean, and very raw. Ouch.

Wednesday, July 30, 2003

I try not to complain about the sorry state of my romantic life around here too much, mostly because I don't want to hear from the two old men in the balcony about why I'm a romantic disaster (ok, it's mostly just Ryan). I make an exception today, as this ws nothing less than fucking hilarious.

I went to the lumber yard with the dad to get materials to make a new bed. Whilst there, the forklift driver first said how much he liked the putrid pink streaks in my hair (they looked cool when they were purple), then engaged me in a 20 minute conversation about what's wrong with society once hearing that I study sociology (I've not yet learned to lie about what I do). This guy is about my mom's age (55ish), but looks about the same age as my dad (60ish), and as my dad's standing around, impatient to get the fuck out of there, the guy actually ASKS ME OUT!!! In front of my father, who is roughly his age. Savor that for a moment.

Dad must have cottoned on to the fact that I don't want too be there, cause he elegantly points out that I'm about to be late before I have to figure out how to say no, and we zoom away. Well, as zoomy as you can get with lumber badly strapped to the top of a car. My father was entertained. Bastard. It's not funny. Every time I want to ask someone out, there's some damn stupid reason that compels me not to, but this dude thinks nothing of casually inviting someone he's known for twenty minutes out for dinner. I don't know whether to feel annoyed or ashamed.

And to top it all off, I was late for helping Jon move.
I'm back. The depths of hell (correcting papers) have momentarily spat me back out.

Yesterday was possibly the longest day on earth. I woke up at 5:30am, started correcting papers at 6, worked until 1, went to school at 2. I was in class until 6:30, then had a meeting of the Slightly Distracted/ing Reading Group at 8. So what did I do? Took a 15 minute nap in the TRC (meeting room/lounge/library at school). This is silly. This is not supposed to happen during the summer.

Stayed at school until an ungodly 11pm. I came home and fell asleep in my clothes. Woke up this morning to find Ryan's lovely comment regarding the adverts at the top of the page. He suggests dropping the word "porn." As I have now dropped the word porn once (twice!), that should be sufficient for hilarity. Although it'll probably only turn up a lot of blocking software, at I do believe that blog*spot is a *family* joint.

Oh, well. Consider it my present to you, Ry.

Monday, July 28, 2003

After one mention of the word "wicca" and one mention of Harry Potter, I have the never-ending cycle of spells-for-sale websites through my ad banner. This one is by far the most enjoyable, for simple entertainment factor. The least enjoyable? The fact that most of the ads refer specifically to love spells. That's right folks, even the mysterious forces of the internet think I'm desperate.

Sunday, July 27, 2003

My evening news reported that Arab sources "claimed" that five Iraqis died in a US led raid today, while the BBC reports that the incident reportedly "left up to five Iraqis dead." Apparently, Arab sources are not to be trusted (according to the US). American sources that tell us Saddam's sons are dead, however, are not to be questioned, regardless of the amount of evidence they fabricated to get us into this fucking situation in the first place.

Pot (aka American "Sources")--
Was so nice to hear from you again.
-- Kettle (aka Arab "Sources")
PS What's with this "you're black" business? Your world-wide campaign against brown people is well documented, but this is getting ridiculous.

This bit of micro-fiction brought to you by my continued disgust with the entire situation.
Excellent. I'm half evil. *quirks one sinister eyebrow.*

I am 50% Evil

With a style rating of 60%

There is evil here with sufficient style to look cool

Test created by Jamie - take it here.
I spent my morning in redneck heaven... hell... depends on your perspective, I guess.

Things I saw at the gun show:

1. guns.
2. knives.
3. swords.
4. a transsexual selling guns (oh, yes -- my uncle had to ask someone to verify this, and my dad kept referring to the "he/she." *facepalms*).
5. a sign reminding potential customers that "the difference between the men and the boys is in the price of their toys." Confused, I asked if that made me a man or a boy. My uncle informed me in all seriousness that I was neither. I figured that meant that I was also not a potential customer, and didn't buy anything from that vendor.
6. a knife handle emblazoned with uncle sam and the phrase, "to those who did this, we are coming for you" or some such. Yes that's right, you with the boxcutter: meet the US Army under the overpass at nine tonight. We'll tell the Sharks and the Jets to stay home.
7. a vendor telling his wife, "you get some money out of this guy this time, or I'm gonna beat you." OK, so he was ostensibly joking.
8. bumper stickers that made me have to leave the room, as I was laughing a bit too hard. They'll have to forgive me -- the only GWB quotes I'm used to seeing on on cars are along the lines of, "they misunderestimated me!"
9. numerous adverts for conceal and carry classes, along with signs next to guns that said "perfect for conceal and carry!" Hell, folks: anything small enough to stuff down your pants is perfect for some bad-ass to turn against you. And, hey boys, it just might fill up some of the empty space down there.
10. a dealer saying, of an automatic, "it's almost as accurate as an AK-47." Because when shooting 100 rounds per minute, it's all about the accuracy. Even more so when cycling 600-640 rounds/minute.

I haven't been to one of these things since early 2001 (yes, before September). I now remember why. I quite enjoy shooting at paper with my target pistol. Watching a bunch of soldier-of-fortune wanks drool over guns is not so enjoyable. And the sheer pervasiveness of tacky american flag regalia is blinding -- I nearly bought a 9/11 "kick-their-asses" style t-shirt for $5, just to see who would inquire first as to whether I'd sustained a massive head injury.

Saturday, July 26, 2003

Target has finally gone off the deep end.

I was innocently trying to find new pants (again trying to replace the shrunken size nines), this time accepting the inevitable and escorting a size 11 to the change room. Oh, hell no. I would have had to purchase a size 15 -- yes, FIFTEEN -- in order to fit into a pair of target pants. I bought girly literature instead, and resolved to make my own fucking pants.

I then came home and decided to take a nice, relaxing bath with my girly book in order to cool off from what will hence be known as The Evil Target Trouser Incident (ETTI). I also made the (near-)fatal error of shaving my legs. Apparently, my subconscious decided that I needed to lose some weight after the ETTI, as I removed two sizable chunks of skin from my left leg. I then nearly bled to death while yelling for my mom to come get me band-aids so that I would not bleed all over her beautiful bathroom. Next time, I yell twice and after that the rugs are forfeit.

It has, however, been a fairly productive day. Trina's wedding dress is nearly done, and she shall be bee-you-tee-ful. It is also finally raining, so maybe now my hands and knees will be movable again (they hate humidity). All in all, an amusing day.

Also, Chris is a BIG DORK. The damn fool is pawning off his old board-and-block shelving on me. Not that I don't need it or didn't ask about it, but he's so desperate to be rid of them that he sounds like a used car salesman. So I'm being vengeful and calling him a BIG DORK on my blog:-) I have NO life.

Friday, July 25, 2003

I am hot.

This is not an invitation to ruminate in the comments box about whether or not I am attractive (*cough*Ryan*cough*). My house is a bloody sauna. I presently have an elaborate system of fans vainly trying to direct the cooled air from the AC in the livingroom into the guest room. My basement is nice and cool, but unfortunately uninhabitable.

I am also whiny.

I cannot sleep in the heat, but am too hot to do anything. I tried to get out the "comfort reading" today (books I've read a million times that always make me feel better), and discovered that the book I wanted was destroyed in the flood. Kind of like my bed in the nice, cool basement.

On the good side, my bedroom gets a new window on Monday -- one I'll actually fit through should the house do something inconvenient like burn down. Have also started making plans to replace other furnishings as well, and to paint/tile/cover the floor in some manner. Will have a new bed sometime next week. Am considering throwing a party to celebrate, but those who would appreciate the hilarity of a bed-warming party live too far away.

I miss you guys *pout*.
Have reintroduced myself to Instant Messenger. As I've had nothing but issues with it in the past, I've got my doubts, but if you want to talk to me, I'm xturtle78. As if I don't waste enough time on the damn computer.

Thursday, July 24, 2003

I would like to point out that the people who make jeans are evil.

Since my mother decided to do me a favor and wash my two pairs of jeans in the hot cycle, then dry them on high, I ran out to Old Navy to attempt to replace them. First off, I couldn't find the same kind. For years, they've sold the same styles of jeans, at a reasonable price, sized for normal people. No more. They have cut their inventory in half, jacked up the price, and now a size 11 fits just like my shrunken size 9s. Evil.

I went home and put on a skirt.

Wednesday, July 23, 2003

Jon had a great rant today... two of them, actually, but one of them I told him to write up (actually, I told him to write it up and sent it to a publication of some sort, but didn't have a blog in mind...:-). He makes several salient points about how we view political campaigns, candidates, and our choices in supporting/voting for them.

My favorite point, and the one he needs to shout to the masses, is the point that choosing a candidate to support ought not to mean that one ceases to think critically about what that candidate says and does. Nor should election. Questioning elected officials, or those who would wish to be elected, is not a breach of patriotic duty; it IS a patriotic duty. If I elect someone to do what I think is best for my country, and suddenly I find that's not what's being done, I'm going to complain as loudly as I can to whomever I can. I would want everyone to know that this person who was elected to represent what I think no longer does so. If I blindly support everyone I vote for, I am in tacit agreement with everything they do, whether it represents my personal beliefs or not.

Elected officials are not heroes. They are not people who know better than you what to do with your vote. They are elected because direct democracy would be a logistical nightmare (and you thought DC traffic couldn't get much worse...). The process only begins with election, yet we act as if it ends there. I am partially responsible for the decisions of every elected official who represents me. You can bet your ass I'm going to raise a stink if I don't agree with them.
One killed in NY City Hall shooting

According to the BBC, Michael Bloomberg has said that the shooting was "not terrorism" but was in fact "an attack on our democracy."

Glad he cleared that up for us.
I got one of those funny GWB "resume" emails today. Under "past work experience" it read:

* I ran for congress and lost.
* I produced a Hollywood slasher B-movie.
* I bought an oil company, but couldn't find any oil in Texas;
company went bankrupt shortly after I sold all my stock.
* I bought the Texas Rangers baseball team in a sweetheart deal that
took land using taxpayer money.
* Biggest moves:
* Traded Sammy Sosa to the Chicago White Sox.
* With my father's help (and his name) was elected Governor of Texas.

The slasher movie bit intrigued me, so, of course, I googled it. According to this site, the movie in question is "THe Hitcher," but there are others for which he sat on the production board, and the site linked above points to an Amazom List of some of these. The reason the compiler is in such a snit? Bush was aparently influential in getting The Forces of Evil (Disney) to make R-rated movies. I guess the "what about the children" arguments are reserved for when it's politically expediant.

At any rate, my Amazon account is now going to insist on "recommending" god-awful movies to me, so the THREE of you who read this (yes, Jon has joined us *waves*) had better appreciate the weirdness. Or else I'll buy "The Hitcher" and cause you to read it.

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

According to the BBC, Saddam's sons have been killed. They have even been "positively identified," as their boodies were in "an identifiable condition."

First off, how the hell do you identify two people who probably have their own "doubles," just like dad? Unless a field DNA fingerprinting kit has finally been invented, I'll wait for the autopsy, thanks. Especially when my other choice is to take the word of "American Officials." I think it no longer counts as cynical to say that American Officials have a tiny (huge) problem with embellishing (lying about) their "case" against Iraq's Most Wanted.

At any rate, what a relief that will be. Qusay was the chief offspring in charge of hiding weapons of mass destruction. His ability to make them both invisable and incorporeal will surely cement his place in history as "the man who hid that which was not there."

And thank god we won't have that psycho Uday around to flog footballers anymore. He just went too far with that one. Sheesh! You can tell what's on the collective British mind, when that's the ultimate tale of treachery listed in their story. "Never mind the TV execs he whipped, or the personal assistant he killed, the miserable git had his players beaten for losing football matches! Outrage!"
I am now, quite acciddentally, the "cool" TA. One of my students spotted me at First Ave the other night, and we had a fairly involved conversation about the show. This must end. I'll have to bring my crochet to class or regale them with tales of role playing games, just so that it is patently clear that I'm completely unhip.
We're in the middle of Pat Robertson's 21-day "Prayer Offensive." Apparently, he has reason to believe that his god won't mind all of Robertson's little minions compulsively praying for the decline or demise of three Supreme Court justices.

It's offensive, all right.

Even way back when the Church of the Racist, Elitist Snobs (CRES) was attempting to indoctrinate me into its xenophobic ways, it was made clear that it was NEVER acceptable to pray for something unfortunate to happen to someone. We couldn't pray that Saddam be successfully killed in Gulf Wars, Episode One (apologies to the creator of this lovely advert). As Christians, we could only pray with love and compassion in our hearts, or apparently Very Bad Things would befall us (a similar instruction is found in the Wiccan Rede, without mention of Very Bad Things, in reference to spellcasting: "An Ye Harm None, Do What Ye Will." Also in Star Wars: Use the Force for Good. Spirituality is everywhere, man.)

Robertson's version of Christianity seems even more devoid of moral or spiritual content than my former CRES brethern. He points out that, "[o]ne justice is 83-years-old, another has cancer and another has a heart condition." He then asks if it might not be possible for his god to encourage them to retire. Now, I'm pretty sure ol' Pat doesn't think these people, whom he holds responsible for creating heathen children in our public schools, allowing wicked women to murder their unborn children, and letting men sodomize each other are worthy of beholding his god face to face. That leaves praying for indorect contact, and his god's usual means of this kind of communication is any of a number of painful medical conditions... or death.

So much for do unto others.

Monday, July 21, 2003

Bush Stonewalling Will Bring On Probe, an article by Thomas Oliphant reprinted by Common Dreams from the Boston Globe, certainly bears reading. Unfortunately, I'm not in a serious mood tonight, so the actual content of the article mercifully avoids discussion. Instead, I'll focus in the unintentionally funny headling. See, "stonewall" for me will always bring to mind the riots that started the modern American gay rights movement, even if that's not the intended use of the term. So the idea of stonewalling bringing about a "probe" is... amusing...

Damed overgrown teenager, I am.
If you post a comment and want to see if I've responded to it, pay no attention to the comment counts; they are off due to Enetation idiocy. Just click on the comments button to see if any have been added. I'm told they're working on fixing this. It'been out for three days. Grrr.
Start playing the funeral march, boys and girls. I think I have too give up getting drunk. Two is now my official limit, one is preferrable. Apparently, I'm getting old; ever since the Whisky Incident (you know which one I'm talking about) I can't get tipsy without feeling depressed (not the I-hate-myself melodramatic kind, but the sluggish, my brain isn't eating its neurotransmitter Wheaties today kind) for days afterward. As I have enough neurotransmitter issues, I think I'll be permanent DD from now on. I like feeling happy.

On a happier note, I got to go to a show with Melissa, who is back from her year abroad. Saw the Black Eyed Peas at First Ave. Wasn't sure how it'd be, but it was incredibly entertaining. Their new female vocalist is the most impressive thing on their latest album, and was also the most impressive part of the show. That Justin Timberwank BS you hear on your radio doesn't hold a candle to this woman, whose name I have no intention of knowing as it would ruin my image of knowing nothing about music, which is an accurate image that I would like to retain. Rambling...

Goddamn paper is a pain in the ass. 'Nuff said.

Had the G-8 yesterday -- it was a blast, good to see all the girls again. Also lots of food. LOTS of food. It was a wonder I fit into my going-out jeans. Seriously, as mom had washed them last, I had to fight both my fat and the shrink factor that mom induces on everything she touches. It was dicey for a mo, but it all worked out in the end. (That could be a really lame pun, but it's untentional).

The damn insurance guy who's handling mom's accident claim called at eight this morning, and then completely repeted the conversation we'd had last time about the possibility of a buy-out on my claim. I think he's trying to bamboozle me, but I can't tell how playing dumb would help. There is, of course, the outside chance he's not playing, but I don't see how he could be that dumb and retain his job. At any rate, welcome to the land of more stress I did not need.

Off to take a shower and try to wake up some more.

Sunday, July 20, 2003

If I promise to buy huge, expensive gifts for my girlfriends for weddings and births, do you think they'll be kind enough never to invite me to another shower? This is the most crass, obnoxious concept I've heard: let's throw a party specifically for the purpose of milking gifts out of people. But no, it gets better: let's make sure we don't have to suffer the bad taste of our friends and family by registering for the gifts we want so that they don't have to be at all thoughtful or unique in their gift giving. Then let's sit through a bunch of stale party games like "pin the penis on the groom" to make it look like we're not all really in a hurry to watch the bride open her presents so that we can eat the damn food.

OK, so this one wasn't bad at all -- I actually know and like most of the people who were there, and those I didn't know I ended up liking. It also turned into a regular party fairly quickly, except for the games. Also, I'm a total wet blanket: I don't do well at "when I get married" or "when I'm pregnant" talk because I don't want to get married or pregnant. I'm a complete fish out of water, which of course means I sit in a corner for half of the event and stare into space. But as showers go, this one was one of the best.

All right, I'm too grumpy to continue to be awake. G'night!

Saturday, July 19, 2003

Obsession number 54366: Harry Potter books.

Which HP Kid Are You?

This just confirms suspicion, I'm sure.

Mmmm... eating Ramen for lunch, while taking a break from a paper. I feel like I'm back in undergrad, only it's not three in the morning.
Moved the "comments" tag up above the post divider... makes much more sense. Also made a backup copy of my blog code, as this buggering Blogger bastard deletes the entire thing every time I try to edit it.

Jon sent me Dubya quotes. They make up for He Who is Keeper of The Bushisms Calendar (Keith) no longer being in our office. Except we can't wallpaper our office with a web page. Damn.

Going back to that paper now.
I want this guy to be my new best friend. He's hilarious. Also from Wolverhampton. If you don't know why that should make you laugh, you've never met Ryan or Forrest or been to England. You've been deprived.

And yes, I'm working on the paper.
I just tried to change this stupid thing so that it would show only 7 days on the front page. I got an error message that read something like "apache tomcat." Now, I'm no computer expert, but when an application starts sending attack helicopters and fighter jets at me, I leave the formatting alone.

See the Blogger advert on this page? Run away. Run away fast.

So I suppose I should actually write about what I've been up to... except that it hasn't been much. Went to Duluth last weekend for Vampire with Denny et al (if you have to ask what Vampire is, you've obviously wandered onto this site whilst looking for turtle porn. It's a role playing game. Like tv, only you're one of the actors and there's no canned laughter. More than slightly geeky). Then proceeded to get very drunk and crash at Anton's, after a series of different philosophical conversations that, in my post-inebriation recollection, seem to have been about bisexual dating imperialism in ancient Rome. Don't ask. I obviously don't know.

Watched the Taylor's Falls whitewater rodeo competition (once more for those not in the know: boats, not horses). Yay Forrest! You rock (you also probably don't read this -- and yet, I address you... ).

Friend Melissa is home from England. Shall see her this weekend, at the annual summit (our mums grew up together, and met two other friends while working together when they were younger than they are now, and the four of them each had a daughter within about four years of each other -- we call it the G-8 summit). Shall attend post summit festivities in the form of a show in beautiful (crummy) downtown (ha!) MPLS. Two stunningly beautiful women spend a night on the town... and I'm sure I'll run into them at some point:-).

Am supposed to be getting the #%$^ing incomplete squared away by redoing a paper this weekend. This got off to an inauspicious start when I realized that I didn't have the original paper at home, as I had finished it at school. Went out to buy tickets for this weekend's night life, stopped and bought myself lunch at TGI Fridays, meandered to school where I both printed and emailed the paper so I'd have digital and hard copy, stopped to buy a CD, came home and listened to CD, fell asleep from all of the running around. None of these things got the paper revised. Damn.

So, now that I've procrastinated going to bed for more than an hour, I'll say good night! I'm sure I'll be posting again tomorrow, since I'll be meaning to work on the paper.
All right, I should now have comments again... hit "refresh" if they don't show up the first time.

For your time wasting pleasure, I offer:

The Pooh personality quiz:

Take the 100 Acre Personality Quiz!

And an article that Tom Tomorrow brought to my attention (as he says, this is some "seriously fucked up shit"):

Now that I think about it, you may want to visit these two links in reverse order, so that Pooh and friends can ameliorate the creeping sense of dread inspired by the second link. The FBI can't POSSIBLY find anything wrong with Pooh. Er... can they?

Friday, July 18, 2003


The blog is back up!!! I have to go through and put the comments back in, but I haven't got time at the moment, so the two people reading this will just have to deal:-)

Wednesday, July 16, 2003

And another quiz, for when this fucking thing will finally post again (am thinking about moving it to another website, as the problem is allegedly with blog*spot).

Your alter poet is Thomas Stearns Eliot. For you,
life rocks pretty hard!

Who is Your Alter Poet?
brought to you by Quizilla

Apparently, I'm T.S. Eliot. So that's why the quiz had all of the freakin' cat references in it...

Monday, July 07, 2003

I'm a lemur. You know you're jealous. Cheeky monkey.

You Are A Lemur!  You?�re adorable and everyone loves you!  You enjoy looking wonderful and you often go out to tan or sunbathe when it is sunny and warm.
Lemur-Youre a Lemur! Youre adorable and everyone
loves you! You enjoy looking wonderful and you
often go out to tan or sunbathe when it is
sunny and warm.

(pictures)What Kind Of Monkey R U?
brought to you by Quizilla
Check it out, I'm back online -- and now with comments! At last! A chance for me to know with certainty that no one is reading this!

Seriously, I went through hell to get the damn thing to take comments at the behest of Ryan. You know what to do.
Ok, the 'net ate my blog, so let's see if this gets it back up. *completely ignores how bad that sounded*
It would seem that the all-knowing force that looks at the content of this blog in order to decide which adverts to put at the top saw my "Pat Buchanan is an idiot post" and decided to link to the info page for the book "Useful Idiots" at the Conservative Book Service.

Fucking amazing.

Which makes me think, what else could I write here, just to see what links would show up?

In the immortal words of a Northern Sun t-shirt: Nuke a godless, communist gay baby seal for Christ.

There, let's see what that gets us.

Sunday, July 06, 2003

I am not a romantic disaster.

Many scoff, most disagree, but I maintain that the above is fact. I have been a DATING disaster for quite some time now, but this fact alone has gone a long way to keep me from anything related to romance, disasterous or otherwise.

Confused? I was too as I found myself relating awful dating stories to a friend. I had complained about being seen as a romantic disaster, and after my horror stories, he asked if I thought I was one. My response confused the hell out of me: I haven't really tried in years.

Thus, CJ learns a cold, harsh truth: dating and romance have very little to do with each other. Just dating's a snap, especially the disasterous kind. You go out, you flirt (which I seem to do incessantly, so long as nothing's at stake), you snog a bit, you say "goodnight, I'll call you" whether or not you mean it, and you're done. Until, of course, the other party decides that it's fun to spread viscious rumors about you, but that's the disaster portion of events.

Romance is pain. It's not having a clue what to do because, for once, you care about doing it right. It's about not wanting to flirt because if this does happen, damnit, it's not going to involve artifice or flattery or coquettish behavior that is completely out of character. It's the utter confusion that occurs when you're simultaneously elated just to be able to spend time in the other party's presence and utterly disparing at the thought that though you don't understand what you're feeling, you think it might be approaching that overused four letter L-word, which will probably completely freak the other party out and cause you to hear the most devastating sentence in the entire world: "We're too good of friends."

And yeah, it's stereotyped, which makes it even harder when you consider that I've tried to avoid pidgeon-holing myself with girly behavior most of my life. It's like a fucking teen soap opera. And it's even harder to figure out when you're busy teaching snotty undergrads that everything we "know" about the big, scary, fucking L-word is wholy made up by whatever group you've been socialized into. Knowing that your feelings are a product of the collective neuroses of your predecessors doesn't make it any easier to write them off, and so you're left feeling completely out of control because you should know better but can't help yourself.

Fuck. I'm milimeters away from arguing structure versus agency within my own non-existant love life. I'm in sociological hell.

And so, yeah -- I haven't tried in years. It's easy, with the guys who are fun, or cute, or just a little different from what I'm used to, to go out and have a good time and feel pretty and not have to think about how ruled I am by my society's insane and destructive ideas of romance and love. Dating has nothing to do with either. Shove someone I actually care for in my face, however, and I won't even try. Who wants to get hurt that badly over something that may or may not exist?

Friday, July 04, 2003

I am apparently a unicorn:

You are a Unicorn! You are wild. You hate men, and
can only be tamed by a maiden. Of all Mystical
Beings you hate Dragons. You feed on plants and
fruits, and you don't eat meat. Your favorite
colors are silver and metallic. You live in
glories, which range in size from five to
thousands of Unicorns. You are a fast runner
and you are very athletic. You live in the
forests and on the plains. You are immortals
and cannot die unless killed. But, you won't
attack unless provoked. Unicorns are very
peaceful with a few exceptions.

(Pictures in results)What Mythical Being are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

How disturbing. I wanted to be a dragon.
Here we go. This makes much more sense.

You are a Dragon! You love to eat lambs, cattle,
and most of all you have a taste for Humans.
You don't like any color in particular, and you
are very solitary, choosing to live inside
mountains and atop cliffs. You love to fly, and
to breathe flame. Spells are another talent of
yours. Dragons are immortal and cannot die
unless they are slain. You are quite the
magician, since spells simply bounce off your
protective armor. You also hate anything you
cant eat.

(Pictures in results)What Mythical Being are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

See what I mean:-)?
OK, here's mine:


What ancient empire are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I'm a people person now. Who'da thunk...

I did not do the Jedi one, as I would not understand it...
Hehe... Denny sent me html for quizzes...

HIS scores, not mine (I'll take them later):

You are rome...powerful, but overly belligerant.

What ancient empire are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

:: how jedi are you? ::

Thursday, July 03, 2003

OK, I'm told it's been awhile since I bitched into the void, so here's why:

1) spent a week house and dog sitting.
2) was without car for half of that week, due to parts suppliers being illiterate. Tell me, if Subaru Imprezas come with standard All Wheel Drive, why would you send front wheel drive rear bearings to the mechanic for one?
3) my basement flooded. This is where I live (insert "you live in your mother's basement" jokes here). Half of my stuff, including my bed, had to be thrown out. The reconstruction continues.

So that we're clear that not everything is fucking awful, I did get to go to Taste of Minnesota (aka Fried Food Fest) last night and see a free Wallflowers concert. Bob's son sounds remarkably like Bob, though more melodic (not hard).

Also remarkable, Ryan and I agree on one political certainty: Pat Buchanan is nuts. We probably have different ideas of why, or in what context, but when you're trying to find common ground between a bleeding-heart liberal and... well... Ryan, you learn to start small.

And now, here I am, only one research methods exam administration away from a holiday weekend, which I will probably spend drying out my shit. And damnit, all I really want is a little whitewater... denied again...