2/18/03
11:04pm
PASSING OF THE DINOSAUR, AND OTHER FUN MOODSWINGS OF THE MANIC DEPRESSIVE
God, I love being bi-polar. Manic-depressive... whatever the hell PC term they'll tag on it this week.
Only when you're manic-depressed can you go from being on top of the world in a whirlwind of action one minute to an Eyore-esque cave-dweller the next. Guess who became the donkey from Winnie the Pooh?
I try to laugh it off, but it's times like this that I'm my own worst critic, times like this that countless numbers of stories and pieces of art have been sacrificed to the pent-up frustration inside me. Destruction in hopes of creation and renewal. Prayers for rain in Dali's desert. I feel like a nuisance when I'm in this mood. I feel like the relatively simple questions I ask friends are unwanted and annoying to them, when all I was trying to say was I needed their help. A direction. SOMETHING. I hate feeling like this. I held the mouse over the Empty Trash for too long this time, damn close to deleting my entire life's work and saying 'Fuck it' while signing the resignation letter of Smiling Goth Productions. Commiting a form of creative suicide, I guess. I might have regretted it after the fact. Maybe. I blame it on being tired.
I've been plagued with stranger and stranger dreams lately, not necessarily nightmares by my standards, more like aggravating subconscious sitcoms. Last night featured giant geckos, a poisonous snake, a midget black goat that turned into a small black kitten and then into a silver kitten, and on into a gray and black striped kitten. My little brother was in the dream, and he drove his Mustang through my apartment somehow before morphing into my friend Ann from high school. Needless to say, I didn't feel very rested after a night like that.
Also during the night Pants went on a cabinet-opening rampage, kicking everything in the cabinets out onto the floor. More often than not, I will wake up in the middle of the night with the feeling of someone staring at me, and there will be the Pants, watching me sleep. When I acknowledge that she's there, she attacks me. What restful nights I have.
Monday, February 10, 2003
2/10/02
10:59pm
Q'ed UP, FED UP, AND THE WORLD IS DEAD TO ME
Ooooh... I guess I better change that before someone takes it as a threat. Jesus. Have we really become so soft? What happened to the 80's mentality of me-me-me and screw the rest?
But seriously. I caught whatever everyone else down here on the Good Ole Wang of USA has been spreading, like some weird symbolic STD. Some 14 year old kid died of Bacterial Meningitus (did I even spell that right? I can't see straight, forgive spelling errors). So here I am, hopped up on Funky NQ and Quilling. Q'ed up. Praying with the Other Green Fairy. Hanging with Ogre in a headphone.
Tybalt and Dante are jamming in the background, and I can hear the groove like background to the songs in my earphones. My throat wants to shout. My heart wants to shout. I stare at a screen blankly. I wait for the morphing words to tell me what to write. My short moments of sanity spreading into sentences of eavesdropped thoughts.
Scary when I don't even know what's coming out of my own head, and my left brain doesn't know what the right brain is doing. Should they be paranoid? I think so. My thoughts have become a string of obsessed babble, working a message across a hazy medium, until what comes out of me looks almost like an impressionist painting.
Picking daisies, with a mantra of 'she loves me, she loves me not.'
So late, too late, wondering just when the world stuck its head up its own ass, and just how far it did before I realized it had done that. Not some of my better works, but hell, the night is young and I'm not tired.
Send me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning for something better to read than the filth they plague us with in everyday life. Demand more for your almighty dollar.
10:59pm
Q'ed UP, FED UP, AND THE WORLD IS DEAD TO ME
Ooooh... I guess I better change that before someone takes it as a threat. Jesus. Have we really become so soft? What happened to the 80's mentality of me-me-me and screw the rest?
But seriously. I caught whatever everyone else down here on the Good Ole Wang of USA has been spreading, like some weird symbolic STD. Some 14 year old kid died of Bacterial Meningitus (did I even spell that right? I can't see straight, forgive spelling errors). So here I am, hopped up on Funky NQ and Quilling. Q'ed up. Praying with the Other Green Fairy. Hanging with Ogre in a headphone.
Tybalt and Dante are jamming in the background, and I can hear the groove like background to the songs in my earphones. My throat wants to shout. My heart wants to shout. I stare at a screen blankly. I wait for the morphing words to tell me what to write. My short moments of sanity spreading into sentences of eavesdropped thoughts.
Scary when I don't even know what's coming out of my own head, and my left brain doesn't know what the right brain is doing. Should they be paranoid? I think so. My thoughts have become a string of obsessed babble, working a message across a hazy medium, until what comes out of me looks almost like an impressionist painting.
Picking daisies, with a mantra of 'she loves me, she loves me not.'
So late, too late, wondering just when the world stuck its head up its own ass, and just how far it did before I realized it had done that. Not some of my better works, but hell, the night is young and I'm not tired.
Send me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning for something better to read than the filth they plague us with in everyday life. Demand more for your almighty dollar.
Sunday, January 19, 2003
ANYONE KNOW A GOOD LAWYER?
* addition to post: Dante is alive and well, and still doing hair in downtown Orlando, at AltaModa Salon & Spa. For anyone looking for him, click the link for the site. To set the record straight, he was unceremoniously fired from Amici Salon and Spa after he had handed in his two weeks' notice. No good deed goes unpunished. Read on below for the ghastly tale of bad management, bad salon tactics, and an overall bad taste in the mouth. *
Well... Seems Dante is going to be having problems getting money from Amici Salon and Spa owner, Marcus Michels, aka one of the many Senior Vice Presidents of Orlando's Morgan Stanley.
In their conversation tonight, Marcus told Dante "Good luck trying to prove it in court."
But let me start from the beginning. Dante started working at Amici Salon and Spa of Winter Springs last year. He was doing managerial duties, which included inventory, lighting changes, and being the lackey if anyone needed labor done around the salon, along with doing his duties as a hair dresser. He had to sign a No Compete agreement AFTER he was already working there, which would consitute duress, since he was given the paper to sign on a weekend and told that if he didn't sign it, he would lose his job.
So while he was there, he created a training manual for the assistants of the salon. He was assured by the salon manager that he would be compensated for his work, and even the salon manual states that any work above and beyond the call of duty will be rewarded.
Well.... long story short, the salon manager left, and left Dante hanging. The salon owner stepped in and appointed Dante one of the new managers of the salon (in all there were four), and told him he would be compensated for the work he was to do. Needless to say, when things started to look not-so-rosy, Dante covered his ass and looked for a new job, and got one at Alta Moda salon on Central Blvd. He did the polite and professional thing, and gave his two weeks notice, along with an invoice for the work he had done. As soon as the one manager, Rebecca, the harlot ex-Rachel's dancer, found out about the two week's notice, she fired him.
Dante had been assured by Marcus Michels (the salon owner) that his new information would be given out to the clients that asked for him, which it turns out, was one of the many many many lies this Morgan Stanley Senior VP has told. Dante has even had people call the salon and ask for him to see what they were saying, and as it turns out, those chipper front desk assholes have been telling his clients that he left them high and dry, when, in fact, he was fired unceremoniously and with no good reason.
Which brings us to tonight. Dante called up Marcus, and said that it had been two weeks since he had left another copy of the invoice with him, and what was going on. Marcus told Dante that he wasn't going to pay him and hung up.
Dante called back, and kept his cool rather well, considering the rudeness of this so-called "professional". He told Marcus that Marcus owed him that money, and that he still owed him a power strip that the salon managers April and Rebecca, have refused to give him. In fact, they shorted him on his last paycheck, which I thought was pretty gross, since April hit on Dante so much and claimed to be his friend, you would think she would have had some balls to stand up to her skanky partner in crime.
All Dante asked of Marcus was to be paid for the work he had done as a manager and for the training manual, and to have his power strip returned to him. That's when Marcus claimed he didn't owe Chuck a damn thing, and that he had no contract with him, so therefore, Dante was S.O.L.
And that's when I come to this forum, and I shout my rage at the injustice of it all. Dante's clients have no idea that he now works at Alta Moda, (phone number to contact him at: 407-481-8883) and that he was dicked over for doing the honorable thing, while this corporate fuck-nut "financial advisor" screws over all the little guys to make a profit. What a great guy. Marcus also told Dante that the clients will have to call his (Marcus's) house, because he is NOT going to hand out Dante's information, no matter what. Kind of funny, since two weeks ago he assured Dante that he WOULD be more than happy to hand out Dante's info to anyone who asked for it.
Seems to me at the very least there's a small claims case here. Since we're talking about a bill for over $3,000, along with what Dante is owed for his managerial duties, not to mention this new development of blocking his income by not telling his clients where he is now, when they have the info, -- oh, yeah, and SLANDER when the front desk wenches tell his clients he left them high and dry and what a terrible person he is (after he had been fired by Rebecca and April)-- I'd tack on a nice $10,000 pricetag.
So I ask again.... Anyone know a good lawyer?
* addition to post: Dante is alive and well, and still doing hair in downtown Orlando, at AltaModa Salon & Spa. For anyone looking for him, click the link for the site. To set the record straight, he was unceremoniously fired from Amici Salon and Spa after he had handed in his two weeks' notice. No good deed goes unpunished. Read on below for the ghastly tale of bad management, bad salon tactics, and an overall bad taste in the mouth. *
Well... Seems Dante is going to be having problems getting money from Amici Salon and Spa owner, Marcus Michels, aka one of the many Senior Vice Presidents of Orlando's Morgan Stanley.
In their conversation tonight, Marcus told Dante "Good luck trying to prove it in court."
But let me start from the beginning. Dante started working at Amici Salon and Spa of Winter Springs last year. He was doing managerial duties, which included inventory, lighting changes, and being the lackey if anyone needed labor done around the salon, along with doing his duties as a hair dresser. He had to sign a No Compete agreement AFTER he was already working there, which would consitute duress, since he was given the paper to sign on a weekend and told that if he didn't sign it, he would lose his job.
So while he was there, he created a training manual for the assistants of the salon. He was assured by the salon manager that he would be compensated for his work, and even the salon manual states that any work above and beyond the call of duty will be rewarded.
Well.... long story short, the salon manager left, and left Dante hanging. The salon owner stepped in and appointed Dante one of the new managers of the salon (in all there were four), and told him he would be compensated for the work he was to do. Needless to say, when things started to look not-so-rosy, Dante covered his ass and looked for a new job, and got one at Alta Moda salon on Central Blvd. He did the polite and professional thing, and gave his two weeks notice, along with an invoice for the work he had done. As soon as the one manager, Rebecca, the harlot ex-Rachel's dancer, found out about the two week's notice, she fired him.
Dante had been assured by Marcus Michels (the salon owner) that his new information would be given out to the clients that asked for him, which it turns out, was one of the many many many lies this Morgan Stanley Senior VP has told. Dante has even had people call the salon and ask for him to see what they were saying, and as it turns out, those chipper front desk assholes have been telling his clients that he left them high and dry, when, in fact, he was fired unceremoniously and with no good reason.
Which brings us to tonight. Dante called up Marcus, and said that it had been two weeks since he had left another copy of the invoice with him, and what was going on. Marcus told Dante that he wasn't going to pay him and hung up.
Dante called back, and kept his cool rather well, considering the rudeness of this so-called "professional". He told Marcus that Marcus owed him that money, and that he still owed him a power strip that the salon managers April and Rebecca, have refused to give him. In fact, they shorted him on his last paycheck, which I thought was pretty gross, since April hit on Dante so much and claimed to be his friend, you would think she would have had some balls to stand up to her skanky partner in crime.
All Dante asked of Marcus was to be paid for the work he had done as a manager and for the training manual, and to have his power strip returned to him. That's when Marcus claimed he didn't owe Chuck a damn thing, and that he had no contract with him, so therefore, Dante was S.O.L.
And that's when I come to this forum, and I shout my rage at the injustice of it all. Dante's clients have no idea that he now works at Alta Moda, (phone number to contact him at: 407-481-8883) and that he was dicked over for doing the honorable thing, while this corporate fuck-nut "financial advisor" screws over all the little guys to make a profit. What a great guy. Marcus also told Dante that the clients will have to call his (Marcus's) house, because he is NOT going to hand out Dante's information, no matter what. Kind of funny, since two weeks ago he assured Dante that he WOULD be more than happy to hand out Dante's info to anyone who asked for it.
Seems to me at the very least there's a small claims case here. Since we're talking about a bill for over $3,000, along with what Dante is owed for his managerial duties, not to mention this new development of blocking his income by not telling his clients where he is now, when they have the info, -- oh, yeah, and SLANDER when the front desk wenches tell his clients he left them high and dry and what a terrible person he is (after he had been fired by Rebecca and April)-- I'd tack on a nice $10,000 pricetag.
So I ask again.... Anyone know a good lawyer?
Saturday, January 11, 2003
PS
If anyone has ANY love of SmilingGoth.com you might REALLY want to start buying something.
I'm jobless, and it's costing me money I don't have to keep the site up and running. If you've enjoyed the show, then donate or buy something, please.
Click on the donations/tip button on the bottom of any of the site pages, or you can go get something for your money by clicking HERE.
If anyone has ANY love of SmilingGoth.com you might REALLY want to start buying something.
I'm jobless, and it's costing me money I don't have to keep the site up and running. If you've enjoyed the show, then donate or buy something, please.
Click on the donations/tip button on the bottom of any of the site pages, or you can go get something for your money by clicking HERE.
DREAMING FORBIDDEN COLORS...
Woke with the itch of broken crystal in my palms, burning like stigmata. After a few minutes of pushing myself to remember the dream I had had, I saw an image of a woman screaming on a bed. Her legs had been torn off and eaten, and her belly was ripped open and hollowed out, her insides also eaten. And still she screamed.
Another fragment of dream: broken crystal goblets. I was trying to fix them, and the broken crystal stuck into my palms like a partial crucifixion. I heard someone talking behind me, and I turned to see Nemesis lying naked on a huge bed. He was laughing at me for trying to fix everything that was broken, telling me that I was too caring, too forgiving.
"Humans were made for sacrifice," he says. He struggles with the chains that hold him to the bed. I tell him that he's just saying that so I'll release him.
Other people enter the room and stare at Nemesis, applauding me for catching and imprisoning him. I feel protective of him, and I want the people to go away, to stop staring at my creation. I realize that Nemesis is right, I DO try to fix everything, and I AM too caring and too forgiving, because the reason I have him chained to the bed is so I can fix him, heal him, and save the world from him at the same time... and to some extent, save HIM from the world.
The rest of the dream is just broken beyond repair. I remember only that I saw Andrew Eldritch (yes, from the Sisters of Mercy) singing "For Her Light" by the Fields of the Nephilim.
Watch now as I fling poetry at you:
And what becomes of the old factory senses?
Our old factory sense of smell
Mildewed and rotting in the basement of the subconscious
Talking Heads don't make much sense
Words of my thoughts written over my face
Words of feeling scrawling over my breasts and stomach like so many roaches
Once there was an artist
Swallowed by the works they'd created
Hands eaten by the mouths it fed
Swirling thoughts suspended in the smokey haze of Nag Champa and cool night of the air.
Happy Birthday, Tybalt.
Woke with the itch of broken crystal in my palms, burning like stigmata. After a few minutes of pushing myself to remember the dream I had had, I saw an image of a woman screaming on a bed. Her legs had been torn off and eaten, and her belly was ripped open and hollowed out, her insides also eaten. And still she screamed.
Another fragment of dream: broken crystal goblets. I was trying to fix them, and the broken crystal stuck into my palms like a partial crucifixion. I heard someone talking behind me, and I turned to see Nemesis lying naked on a huge bed. He was laughing at me for trying to fix everything that was broken, telling me that I was too caring, too forgiving.
"Humans were made for sacrifice," he says. He struggles with the chains that hold him to the bed. I tell him that he's just saying that so I'll release him.
Other people enter the room and stare at Nemesis, applauding me for catching and imprisoning him. I feel protective of him, and I want the people to go away, to stop staring at my creation. I realize that Nemesis is right, I DO try to fix everything, and I AM too caring and too forgiving, because the reason I have him chained to the bed is so I can fix him, heal him, and save the world from him at the same time... and to some extent, save HIM from the world.
The rest of the dream is just broken beyond repair. I remember only that I saw Andrew Eldritch (yes, from the Sisters of Mercy) singing "For Her Light" by the Fields of the Nephilim.
Watch now as I fling poetry at you:
And what becomes of the old factory senses?
Our old factory sense of smell
Mildewed and rotting in the basement of the subconscious
Talking Heads don't make much sense
Words of my thoughts written over my face
Words of feeling scrawling over my breasts and stomach like so many roaches
Once there was an artist
Swallowed by the works they'd created
Hands eaten by the mouths it fed
Swirling thoughts suspended in the smokey haze of Nag Champa and cool night of the air.
Happy Birthday, Tybalt.
Friday, January 03, 2003
1/03/03
12:16am
GOD'S ON NITROUS
Which explains all my unanswered prayers....
Apparently God likes to attend fetish parties wearing vinyl. Go figure. Vinyl should be worn by all, because God wears vinyl... and makeup. There, I've gone and said another blasphemous thing... but think about it: the only way God could have made us in His image is if He's a transvestite. Think about that one. God's a goth. Wooo-ha!
While basking in The Light of my Shirley McClain plane, I can say such things as: I am the lovechild incarnate of Anais Nin and the Marquis de Sade.
And you know Anais would SO have been all over the Marquis, she was a masochist at heart otherwise she wouldn't have hung out so much with Henry Miller.
So at any rate, new year discoveries: God in an alcove doing nitrous, The Pants is actually an alien hybrid, and not a cat at all, and the final discovery: I like egg nog.
Helping Chuck create his own journal, thanks to Anna for the help. She really loves her hair... :)
Now I'm curious to see what Chuck's writing....
Hope everyone had a happy friggin' new year.
'Til the next God sighting, keep on truckin'.
12:16am
GOD'S ON NITROUS
Which explains all my unanswered prayers....
Apparently God likes to attend fetish parties wearing vinyl. Go figure. Vinyl should be worn by all, because God wears vinyl... and makeup. There, I've gone and said another blasphemous thing... but think about it: the only way God could have made us in His image is if He's a transvestite. Think about that one. God's a goth. Wooo-ha!
While basking in The Light of my Shirley McClain plane, I can say such things as: I am the lovechild incarnate of Anais Nin and the Marquis de Sade.
And you know Anais would SO have been all over the Marquis, she was a masochist at heart otherwise she wouldn't have hung out so much with Henry Miller.
So at any rate, new year discoveries: God in an alcove doing nitrous, The Pants is actually an alien hybrid, and not a cat at all, and the final discovery: I like egg nog.
Helping Chuck create his own journal, thanks to Anna for the help. She really loves her hair... :)
Now I'm curious to see what Chuck's writing....
Hope everyone had a happy friggin' new year.
'Til the next God sighting, keep on truckin'.
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
NOTE TO THE FAITHLESS... I AM NOT A GOTH
It's official. This test told me so. :)
I have to admit that it's hard to type when I'm laughing so hard. A big thanks goes out to Algernon for bringing this test to my attention.
Apparently I'm not a goth, but my "gothic daddy" is, oddly enough, Nick Cave. Just look how horkin' hot he is. I think I have his eyes. :)
who's your gothic daddy?
brought to you by Quizilla
It's official. This test told me so. :)
I have to admit that it's hard to type when I'm laughing so hard. A big thanks goes out to Algernon for bringing this test to my attention.
Apparently I'm not a goth, but my "gothic daddy" is, oddly enough, Nick Cave. Just look how horkin' hot he is. I think I have his eyes. :)
who's your gothic daddy?
brought to you by Quizilla
Monday, December 23, 2002
12/23/02
12:53pm
IN SEARCH OF CARROT TOP AND OTHER AMUSING CHRISTMAS TALES
It's been an eventful past few days... which explains why I haven't written all that much. Somehow things seem to be coming together. Now I have people to hate Florida with, instead of moping at home alone. :)
I can't remember if I mentioned Anna Young before, but I will take the time to do it now. Again, if necessary. Can we say amazing woman? Yes, I knew that we could. :)
Seems life has a funny way of sending us down a path and just when we think we went in a HUGE circle, we find out that the people we were looking for were at the end of that path all along. At the end of this FLA-la land path waited Anna and friends, which seemed to be the most unlikely place I would find people so much like me. I'm glad I found them, though. Anna is one of those people that can bring life to a room and spark everyone up. Gotta love that.
We hung out and went to Independent Bar (formerly Barbarella's, which I think is a LOT cooler name, personally) and she introduced me to some of her friends. Tybalt is an amazing musician (listening to the CD he gave me the other day, and I have to say, HE MUST GET SIGNED!!). He's one of those laid-back sexy goth guys and you can see talent swirling in the air around him. Awesome guy.
Annabelle and --crap.. I can't remember her name, but she was a gorgeous little blonde girl-- they are natural goths. I was amazed. Ended up chatting with Annabelle a little bit at Anna's pre-Christmas Christmas party last night.
And so.... it all leads up to this:
At the party I unfortunately got SUCH a neck ache, and it started travelling up into the base of my skull. Yes, a migraine waiting to happen. I was having such a good time, too. The whole experience was just flowing together, from the images of Baracca on the television, to the black light paintings, and snippets of conversation ranging from meditation and language evolution to metaphysics and time travel. By the time I left my head was swimming with inspiration and disjointed surrealist poetry.
So on the ride home, with my head bursting with words yet to be born, and flinging poetry out the window of the car on the tips of cigarette ashes, watching the cherry of Chuck's cigarette as it dipped and swayed into the ash tray and back to his face, I was watching the night fly past. The wind screamed and tore at the doors of the car as if trying to wrench them from their hinges. And if I looked down, I could pretend I was flying through the night.
"Carrot Top lives around here somewhere," Chuck said and my train of thought was derailed. I swear the caboose hit me on the way off the tracks.
"Mmmm...," I said.
We drove on, and I started to piece back together some of the thoughts and inspirations, wishing I had a notebook and pen. Always the irony of not having pen or paper that I get the urge to write. I think back on one time that I only had a pen, and I ended up writing the entirety of my short story "The Vigilante Psychic" all over my arms, hands and legs. I learned to be ambidexterous again. Friends asked what the hell I had done to myself, and I said it was my grocery list.
"Right in there, I think," Chuck broke in again, and pointed to one of the many developments of the Wang. They all look alike to me. Same cardboard cutout pre-fab houses, same concrete sign at the entrance. I could drive past a hundred and think we had gone in circles a hundred times.
"Mmm....," I said again. It seemed like a good, solid, non-biased answer that could be interpreted any way he saw fit. The underlying truth was hidden: I'm terrified of Carrot Top. I fear him more than clowns. He twists my mellow and makes me fear the very word "Stand-up comedian". What's even more terrifying than seeing Carrot Top on the TV is that he lives so damned close to us that I might see him walking down the highway one of these days. And what do I do if this happens??? There is no duck-and-cover drill for hiding from a stand-up prop comic... is there? Will I be forced to dial down the center if he catches me at a payphone???!!
The inspirations flitted away and into the treetops as I opened the door to get out of the car. I watched my ideas as they soared into the night above me. At least I didn't have to think about the threat of Carrot Top anymore.
12:53pm
IN SEARCH OF CARROT TOP AND OTHER AMUSING CHRISTMAS TALES
It's been an eventful past few days... which explains why I haven't written all that much. Somehow things seem to be coming together. Now I have people to hate Florida with, instead of moping at home alone. :)
I can't remember if I mentioned Anna Young before, but I will take the time to do it now. Again, if necessary. Can we say amazing woman? Yes, I knew that we could. :)
Seems life has a funny way of sending us down a path and just when we think we went in a HUGE circle, we find out that the people we were looking for were at the end of that path all along. At the end of this FLA-la land path waited Anna and friends, which seemed to be the most unlikely place I would find people so much like me. I'm glad I found them, though. Anna is one of those people that can bring life to a room and spark everyone up. Gotta love that.
We hung out and went to Independent Bar (formerly Barbarella's, which I think is a LOT cooler name, personally) and she introduced me to some of her friends. Tybalt is an amazing musician (listening to the CD he gave me the other day, and I have to say, HE MUST GET SIGNED!!). He's one of those laid-back sexy goth guys and you can see talent swirling in the air around him. Awesome guy.
Annabelle and --crap.. I can't remember her name, but she was a gorgeous little blonde girl-- they are natural goths. I was amazed. Ended up chatting with Annabelle a little bit at Anna's pre-Christmas Christmas party last night.
And so.... it all leads up to this:
At the party I unfortunately got SUCH a neck ache, and it started travelling up into the base of my skull. Yes, a migraine waiting to happen. I was having such a good time, too. The whole experience was just flowing together, from the images of Baracca on the television, to the black light paintings, and snippets of conversation ranging from meditation and language evolution to metaphysics and time travel. By the time I left my head was swimming with inspiration and disjointed surrealist poetry.
So on the ride home, with my head bursting with words yet to be born, and flinging poetry out the window of the car on the tips of cigarette ashes, watching the cherry of Chuck's cigarette as it dipped and swayed into the ash tray and back to his face, I was watching the night fly past. The wind screamed and tore at the doors of the car as if trying to wrench them from their hinges. And if I looked down, I could pretend I was flying through the night.
"Carrot Top lives around here somewhere," Chuck said and my train of thought was derailed. I swear the caboose hit me on the way off the tracks.
"Mmmm...," I said.
We drove on, and I started to piece back together some of the thoughts and inspirations, wishing I had a notebook and pen. Always the irony of not having pen or paper that I get the urge to write. I think back on one time that I only had a pen, and I ended up writing the entirety of my short story "The Vigilante Psychic" all over my arms, hands and legs. I learned to be ambidexterous again. Friends asked what the hell I had done to myself, and I said it was my grocery list.
"Right in there, I think," Chuck broke in again, and pointed to one of the many developments of the Wang. They all look alike to me. Same cardboard cutout pre-fab houses, same concrete sign at the entrance. I could drive past a hundred and think we had gone in circles a hundred times.
"Mmm....," I said again. It seemed like a good, solid, non-biased answer that could be interpreted any way he saw fit. The underlying truth was hidden: I'm terrified of Carrot Top. I fear him more than clowns. He twists my mellow and makes me fear the very word "Stand-up comedian". What's even more terrifying than seeing Carrot Top on the TV is that he lives so damned close to us that I might see him walking down the highway one of these days. And what do I do if this happens??? There is no duck-and-cover drill for hiding from a stand-up prop comic... is there? Will I be forced to dial down the center if he catches me at a payphone???!!
The inspirations flitted away and into the treetops as I opened the door to get out of the car. I watched my ideas as they soared into the night above me. At least I didn't have to think about the threat of Carrot Top anymore.
Friday, December 20, 2002
12/20/02
11:34pm
SURROGATE SEX PARTNERS, INC.
So here's my idea... for those who may be lacking something in their love life...
SURROGATE SEX PARTNERS.
not getting enough bang from your buck? Surrogate Sex Partner.
partner too tired, has serial headaches? Surrogate Sex Partner.
partner not quite into the kinkier things that you might be into? Surrogate Sex Partner.
For your every sexual need, without the muss and fuss of an actual relationship. Some people might call these "whores" and "prostitute", but these partners DON'T GET PAID. They're there because they wanna be. And the best part is, after they've done their thing: THEY GO HOME. Say goodbye to fights, say goodbye to disinterest. With Surrogate Sex Partner you can trade in for a newer model and no one's feelings are hurt. It's not cheating if your partner's cool with it.
Surrogate Sex not for you? Need the guilt and blame instead?
SURROGATE SEETHING BITCH
All the hell of a bad relationship ANY time you want it.
partner not placing enough of the blame on you? Surrogate Seething Bitch
partner not fighting enough for your satisfaction? Surrogate Seething Bitch
partner not jealous when you flirt with others? Surrogate Seething Bitch
Surrogate Seething Bitch comes in male and female models and is guranteed to piss you off or your money back!
Still not enough? Need something more?
SURROGATE PSYCHO
All the psychosis and stalking with only half the relationship!
for those nights when your partner just isn't scaring you enough... Surrogate Psycho is the answer!
partner not insanely jealous of your every friend? Surrogate Psycho
partner not crazy enough? Surrogate Psycho
partner not stalking you? Surrogate Psycho
partner not trying to burn down your house? Surrogate Psycho
want a dangerous one-night stand? Surrogate Psycho
Our Surrogate Psychos are raised on the finest drugs and alcohol, then watered with high lead content and mind altering drugs. When they reach early maturity we set them free under high-power lines with no adult surpervision, guidelines of society, or knowledge of right and wrong. Surrogate Psychos come in male and female, and are acquainted with every loophole the law will allow, so that we can guarantee that you will either need a restraining order, be slapped with a restraining order for something you didn't do, or your money back!
Oh yeah.. .and by the way, in case there's any Darwin candidates reading this: it's fake. I made it allllll up. There are no Surrogate People. So there. You'll just have to make due with the singles scene.
11:34pm
SURROGATE SEX PARTNERS, INC.
So here's my idea... for those who may be lacking something in their love life...
SURROGATE SEX PARTNERS.
not getting enough bang from your buck? Surrogate Sex Partner.
partner too tired, has serial headaches? Surrogate Sex Partner.
partner not quite into the kinkier things that you might be into? Surrogate Sex Partner.
For your every sexual need, without the muss and fuss of an actual relationship. Some people might call these "whores" and "prostitute", but these partners DON'T GET PAID. They're there because they wanna be. And the best part is, after they've done their thing: THEY GO HOME. Say goodbye to fights, say goodbye to disinterest. With Surrogate Sex Partner you can trade in for a newer model and no one's feelings are hurt. It's not cheating if your partner's cool with it.
Surrogate Sex not for you? Need the guilt and blame instead?
SURROGATE SEETHING BITCH
All the hell of a bad relationship ANY time you want it.
partner not placing enough of the blame on you? Surrogate Seething Bitch
partner not fighting enough for your satisfaction? Surrogate Seething Bitch
partner not jealous when you flirt with others? Surrogate Seething Bitch
Surrogate Seething Bitch comes in male and female models and is guranteed to piss you off or your money back!
Still not enough? Need something more?
SURROGATE PSYCHO
All the psychosis and stalking with only half the relationship!
for those nights when your partner just isn't scaring you enough... Surrogate Psycho is the answer!
partner not insanely jealous of your every friend? Surrogate Psycho
partner not crazy enough? Surrogate Psycho
partner not stalking you? Surrogate Psycho
partner not trying to burn down your house? Surrogate Psycho
want a dangerous one-night stand? Surrogate Psycho
Our Surrogate Psychos are raised on the finest drugs and alcohol, then watered with high lead content and mind altering drugs. When they reach early maturity we set them free under high-power lines with no adult surpervision, guidelines of society, or knowledge of right and wrong. Surrogate Psychos come in male and female, and are acquainted with every loophole the law will allow, so that we can guarantee that you will either need a restraining order, be slapped with a restraining order for something you didn't do, or your money back!
Oh yeah.. .and by the way, in case there's any Darwin candidates reading this: it's fake. I made it allllll up. There are no Surrogate People. So there. You'll just have to make due with the singles scene.
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
12/10/02
3:50pm
DO GOTHS HAVE TO ALWAYS BE GOTH?
I came across an article, oddly enough, about this very blog that you are reading. From people in the land Down Under (aka Australia, for the geographically impaired). I'm still not sure how to feel about the whole thing. Seemed slightly amused, which is good, since I am all about the humor.
Read the Article and Decide for Yourself
Ms. Sinclair notes that in my picture (the article is dated September 25th, so she's referring to the old version of this blog) I'm not smiling. Heh heh heh..... horrid irony of ironies. At least The Pants got an honorable mention. *GRIN*
To anyone expecting some sort of angst-ridden entries of a teenie bopper goth grrl, afraid you're going to have to look elsewhere, my friends. Note the word Smiling in front of Goth. I am a paradox, and I like it that way. Catch me drunk and you'll get the depressed homesick story, and maybe even my eye-witness account of The Thing That Happened in New York Last Year, or possibly my own rantings about guns, Goth, and government. That's the beauty of being the Smiling Goth, you never know what's gonna come out of my mouth at any given moment.
On a side note, I usually don't go off the deep end unless we're talking metaphysics. Yes, metaphysics. Not Stoner Physics where people stare wide-eyed through a cloud of reeking smoke. Real, hardcore, Einstein-based physics and metaphysics. I WILL give you a headache. I even use visual aides.
I suspect that a lot of people venturing into this blog either assume I'm going to go into suicide ranting, or talk about how bad high school was (it was HORRIBLE), or about the many issues pertaining to goths heard 'round the world. Or maybe they're Christian fundamentalists looking for some bizarre proof that goths are evil, something they can bring back to the congregation as PROOF. What brave soldiers of JC they are. Look at them skulking in the ether-bushes trying to catch me unawares. *Smile*
I'm too damned old to play high school goth, believe it or not (damn the eyes of the walleyed teenager that carded me at the club). I'm oldschool, baby. I'm Generation X, and damned proud of it. Underneath my polished black vinyl exterior and new car industrial scent is a core of oldschool Punk Rock (I still hold the Ramones to be in the punk genre, so myah).
And as for The Pants.... you gotta love The Pants. She's a fuzzy ball of fearsome. *Grin*
But seriously, not all goths are morose and death-obsessed. There's quite a few oldschool goths with a sense of humor (albeit we laugh hysterically when people on crutches or in a wheelchair fall down a flight of stairs, but come on, who DOESN'T? It was in Naked Gun for gawd's sake!). I refuse to live up to my stereotype, goth-dammit!!
Now go to my site and buy something for a christian for christmas.
3:50pm
DO GOTHS HAVE TO ALWAYS BE GOTH?
I came across an article, oddly enough, about this very blog that you are reading. From people in the land Down Under (aka Australia, for the geographically impaired). I'm still not sure how to feel about the whole thing. Seemed slightly amused, which is good, since I am all about the humor.
Read the Article and Decide for Yourself
Ms. Sinclair notes that in my picture (the article is dated September 25th, so she's referring to the old version of this blog) I'm not smiling. Heh heh heh..... horrid irony of ironies. At least The Pants got an honorable mention. *GRIN*
To anyone expecting some sort of angst-ridden entries of a teenie bopper goth grrl, afraid you're going to have to look elsewhere, my friends. Note the word Smiling in front of Goth. I am a paradox, and I like it that way. Catch me drunk and you'll get the depressed homesick story, and maybe even my eye-witness account of The Thing That Happened in New York Last Year, or possibly my own rantings about guns, Goth, and government. That's the beauty of being the Smiling Goth, you never know what's gonna come out of my mouth at any given moment.
On a side note, I usually don't go off the deep end unless we're talking metaphysics. Yes, metaphysics. Not Stoner Physics where people stare wide-eyed through a cloud of reeking smoke. Real, hardcore, Einstein-based physics and metaphysics. I WILL give you a headache. I even use visual aides.
I suspect that a lot of people venturing into this blog either assume I'm going to go into suicide ranting, or talk about how bad high school was (it was HORRIBLE), or about the many issues pertaining to goths heard 'round the world. Or maybe they're Christian fundamentalists looking for some bizarre proof that goths are evil, something they can bring back to the congregation as PROOF. What brave soldiers of JC they are. Look at them skulking in the ether-bushes trying to catch me unawares. *Smile*
I'm too damned old to play high school goth, believe it or not (damn the eyes of the walleyed teenager that carded me at the club). I'm oldschool, baby. I'm Generation X, and damned proud of it. Underneath my polished black vinyl exterior and new car industrial scent is a core of oldschool Punk Rock (I still hold the Ramones to be in the punk genre, so myah).
And as for The Pants.... you gotta love The Pants. She's a fuzzy ball of fearsome. *Grin*
But seriously, not all goths are morose and death-obsessed. There's quite a few oldschool goths with a sense of humor (albeit we laugh hysterically when people on crutches or in a wheelchair fall down a flight of stairs, but come on, who DOESN'T? It was in Naked Gun for gawd's sake!). I refuse to live up to my stereotype, goth-dammit!!
Now go to my site and buy something for a christian for christmas.
Monday, December 09, 2002
12/09/02
5:15pm
THE GOTH THAT STOLE CHRISTMAS
OK... So I spent all day coding up a shopping cart for the site. Now the least you can do IS GO BUY SOMETHING!!!!
The new and improved ONLINE STORE at Smiling Goth Productions. See what all the hype is about!!
Oh yes, and always remember: get a Goth a gift!
5:15pm
THE GOTH THAT STOLE CHRISTMAS
OK... So I spent all day coding up a shopping cart for the site. Now the least you can do IS GO BUY SOMETHING!!!!
The new and improved ONLINE STORE at Smiling Goth Productions. See what all the hype is about!!
Oh yes, and always remember: get a Goth a gift!
Friday, December 06, 2002
12/06/02
12:40pm
COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT....
So it just hit me that I've been spending more and more of my time doing absolutely nothing. Nothing. Me. Even when I'm sitting around APPEARING to do nothing I have a pen poised in hand and a notebook in front of me waiting for me to channel a story into it from the mysterious ether of my sub-consciousness. Lately, however, I've fired up the computer and chatted with everyone, but done NOTHING. I look for jobs, but no one's hiring. I sit in my pajamas and stare out the window at the wind-ripped surface of the retention pond outside. Maybe all my thoughts are being sucked out into those murky depths, eaten by the turtles and seaplants that lurk under the brackish water.
I'm afraid of dying here, to be honest. Afraid that if I stop being creative I'll lose everything that makes me who I am. I fear the lack of change on the wang. I stare in frustrated disbelief at the content lackies surrounding me, happy in their mundane existence, unknowing and uncaring that there might be more to life than mindless overwork without pay, liquid sunshine, and a choice of clubs that all play the same music and cater to the same crowd. I wonder at how people can honestly go about daily life with no challenge and be happy. Every day I realize more and more why people come to Florida to die. They jump into the safe little box, throw on their blinders, and it's a straight, unquestionable line to the grave. Granted, not EVERYONE on the wang is like that, but a LOT of them are. At least on the shaft of the wang. Dunno about the head and balls of it.
As we were driving through a town I can't even remember the name of, there was a mural on the side of a building-- some bar, I think-- and the mural was a plane crashed into the side of the building, done in Florida pastels. Underneath the plane was written "9-11-01 We will never forget. God Bless America!" Is that all it was to the people living here? A fading memory? Something to fill up their newstime with? Something to gasp about and claim that their distant cousin or friend's cousin worked in the Towers?
Seeing the mural made up my mind. I definitely want to go home. Home to where we're all haunted still, be it by memories or ghosts, but haunted, which proves we're still alive. Home to the REAL. Where the amount of bullshit is a corporate formality and not to be taken seriously, but if you stand by the coffee maker you'll find the truth. Here they spoon-feed bullshit, and power-trips, and expect you to swallow it for less than half the pay with almost the same housing costs. The mantra is "If you don't like it, there's the door."
Sad thing is that that "door" only opens up to an exact replica of the same room you just left. It's a state where the businessman is king, and fuck all the worker people. You don't like it? There's the door. Bully tactics of small businesses that think they're big. Capitalism at it's worst. There's wetlands red tape all over the area, yet there's no requirement on cars to have catalytic converters or to even be inspected. The area is filled with endangered wildlife, you would think they would do more to protect it. There's only so many letters to my congressman I can write.
12:40pm
COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT....
So it just hit me that I've been spending more and more of my time doing absolutely nothing. Nothing. Me. Even when I'm sitting around APPEARING to do nothing I have a pen poised in hand and a notebook in front of me waiting for me to channel a story into it from the mysterious ether of my sub-consciousness. Lately, however, I've fired up the computer and chatted with everyone, but done NOTHING. I look for jobs, but no one's hiring. I sit in my pajamas and stare out the window at the wind-ripped surface of the retention pond outside. Maybe all my thoughts are being sucked out into those murky depths, eaten by the turtles and seaplants that lurk under the brackish water.
I'm afraid of dying here, to be honest. Afraid that if I stop being creative I'll lose everything that makes me who I am. I fear the lack of change on the wang. I stare in frustrated disbelief at the content lackies surrounding me, happy in their mundane existence, unknowing and uncaring that there might be more to life than mindless overwork without pay, liquid sunshine, and a choice of clubs that all play the same music and cater to the same crowd. I wonder at how people can honestly go about daily life with no challenge and be happy. Every day I realize more and more why people come to Florida to die. They jump into the safe little box, throw on their blinders, and it's a straight, unquestionable line to the grave. Granted, not EVERYONE on the wang is like that, but a LOT of them are. At least on the shaft of the wang. Dunno about the head and balls of it.
As we were driving through a town I can't even remember the name of, there was a mural on the side of a building-- some bar, I think-- and the mural was a plane crashed into the side of the building, done in Florida pastels. Underneath the plane was written "9-11-01 We will never forget. God Bless America!" Is that all it was to the people living here? A fading memory? Something to fill up their newstime with? Something to gasp about and claim that their distant cousin or friend's cousin worked in the Towers?
Seeing the mural made up my mind. I definitely want to go home. Home to where we're all haunted still, be it by memories or ghosts, but haunted, which proves we're still alive. Home to the REAL. Where the amount of bullshit is a corporate formality and not to be taken seriously, but if you stand by the coffee maker you'll find the truth. Here they spoon-feed bullshit, and power-trips, and expect you to swallow it for less than half the pay with almost the same housing costs. The mantra is "If you don't like it, there's the door."
Sad thing is that that "door" only opens up to an exact replica of the same room you just left. It's a state where the businessman is king, and fuck all the worker people. You don't like it? There's the door. Bully tactics of small businesses that think they're big. Capitalism at it's worst. There's wetlands red tape all over the area, yet there's no requirement on cars to have catalytic converters or to even be inspected. The area is filled with endangered wildlife, you would think they would do more to protect it. There's only so many letters to my congressman I can write.
Monday, December 02, 2002
12/02/02
6:12PM
JESUS WALKS INTO A LADY...
OK.. So this one is for Adamantium and his dealings with the public. Stop if you've heard this one before...
Lady walks into Adam's place of work and asks him for a print of Jesus and a lighthouse. He's telling me this story and I'm thinking she wants separate prints, but NO. She wants a print of Jesus AND a lighthouse. She describes this picture to him and apparently it's a stormy sky, saying I suppose that Jesus is NOT a fairweather friend, and he will be your lighthouse on rough seas, and la la la. Yay, JC. Poor guy hasn't suffered enough, now he's gotta be sold in prints of him and a Maine lighthouse??
I told Adamantium to tell the woman that it is historically IMPOSSIBLE for such a picture to exist, that Maine and modern-day lighthouses were nowhere NEAR discovered/invented at the time of Jesus-- not to mention FILM for a print. Adamantium did the more professional thing and sent her on her merry way to the Christian bookstore around the corner instead.
Sooo... the holidays are almost over...I'm still stuck on the wang and can't get home for Christmas since NO ONE IS BUYING MY FUCKING BOOKS OR PRINTS OR DONATING TO MY CAUSE!!!! You think that fucking site is FREE??
Do me a favor, seriously... Go to my site and click that Donation button. Even a dollar will get me one step closer to home for the holidays. If you've enjoyed my writings, donate, dammit. If I made you laugh or feel like part of a crowd, please... help me out. I'm out of a job, I'm out of patience, and I want to GO BACK TO NY!!! :(
OK.. I'm done sounding like a charity case... even though I sort of AM a charity case... but I always did depend on the kindness of strangers. I should get my own TV telethon... Send The Smiling Goth back to Gotham!! I promise not to interfere with regularly scheduled shows unless they're dumb.
6:12PM
JESUS WALKS INTO A LADY...
OK.. So this one is for Adamantium and his dealings with the public. Stop if you've heard this one before...
Lady walks into Adam's place of work and asks him for a print of Jesus and a lighthouse. He's telling me this story and I'm thinking she wants separate prints, but NO. She wants a print of Jesus AND a lighthouse. She describes this picture to him and apparently it's a stormy sky, saying I suppose that Jesus is NOT a fairweather friend, and he will be your lighthouse on rough seas, and la la la. Yay, JC. Poor guy hasn't suffered enough, now he's gotta be sold in prints of him and a Maine lighthouse??
I told Adamantium to tell the woman that it is historically IMPOSSIBLE for such a picture to exist, that Maine and modern-day lighthouses were nowhere NEAR discovered/invented at the time of Jesus-- not to mention FILM for a print. Adamantium did the more professional thing and sent her on her merry way to the Christian bookstore around the corner instead.
Sooo... the holidays are almost over...I'm still stuck on the wang and can't get home for Christmas since NO ONE IS BUYING MY FUCKING BOOKS OR PRINTS OR DONATING TO MY CAUSE!!!! You think that fucking site is FREE??
Do me a favor, seriously... Go to my site and click that Donation button. Even a dollar will get me one step closer to home for the holidays. If you've enjoyed my writings, donate, dammit. If I made you laugh or feel like part of a crowd, please... help me out. I'm out of a job, I'm out of patience, and I want to GO BACK TO NY!!! :(
OK.. I'm done sounding like a charity case... even though I sort of AM a charity case... but I always did depend on the kindness of strangers. I should get my own TV telethon... Send The Smiling Goth back to Gotham!! I promise not to interfere with regularly scheduled shows unless they're dumb.
Monday, November 25, 2002
11/25/02
4:08PM
PUBLISH ME, GODAMMIT!
I'm no media whore, but when I see stupid shit getting published (I will use Stephen King's Everything's Eventual as an example, since he's big enough that even the dumbest yokel will know who I'm talking about) where the author brags about how he didn't have any intention of actually being taken seriously, and blah blah blah, and WOW, look at all that MONEY, har har har, I get upset. I get upset for four reasons:
1) It takes away the hard-won accomplishments of the original electronic authors. Like a WalMart moving into a small town. Sure, the customer got their dollar's worth, but has anyone seen many mom-and-pop shops anymore?
2) He got all the credit, dammit. There were e-books around before Stevie decided to try his hand at it, and all of a sudden he's the guru and spokesman for the electronic publishing industry?
3) If he hadn't pointed it out and seemed to BRAG about the fact that he is now a cultural icon, I think I would have gone on loving his work (even if it IS Tabitha's in a few cases).
4) PUBLISH ME, damn it.
The reason I'd like to get published? It's a simple one. So I can collect autographed copies of my own books.
It would be kind of funny.. I can see it now.. all the books signed 'To: Suzi, Keep on Truckin'. Bird is the word. ---unintelligible signature that somehow reads "suzi" '.
How funny would THAT be? Friends come to the house and they look through the library and happen upon, lo and behold, all of my novels. They get that look that says they know something's up, but they aren't quite sure WHAT yet. They take one of the books and open it, and there's the autograph. And ALL of them would be signed exactly the same way. :)
I was actually toying with the idea of autographing all my books anyway, even if I didn't write them. Just to throw people off.
I am a few steps away from being legitimately published (i.e. "legitimately"= "paid for my writing"), I hope. I submitted a story to an anthology, and just finished the final edit of a story about a vampire cockroach. Yes, that's right, a vampire cockroach.
Also on my plate is a brand spank-me new sex advice column I'll be femmedomming at Legion Studios . So send in your questions HERE or email Derrek at Legion and I'll do my very best.... To answer them, of course.
Talk to you soon!
Suzi
4:08PM
PUBLISH ME, GODAMMIT!
I'm no media whore, but when I see stupid shit getting published (I will use Stephen King's Everything's Eventual as an example, since he's big enough that even the dumbest yokel will know who I'm talking about) where the author brags about how he didn't have any intention of actually being taken seriously, and blah blah blah, and WOW, look at all that MONEY, har har har, I get upset. I get upset for four reasons:
1) It takes away the hard-won accomplishments of the original electronic authors. Like a WalMart moving into a small town. Sure, the customer got their dollar's worth, but has anyone seen many mom-and-pop shops anymore?
2) He got all the credit, dammit. There were e-books around before Stevie decided to try his hand at it, and all of a sudden he's the guru and spokesman for the electronic publishing industry?
3) If he hadn't pointed it out and seemed to BRAG about the fact that he is now a cultural icon, I think I would have gone on loving his work (even if it IS Tabitha's in a few cases).
4) PUBLISH ME, damn it.
The reason I'd like to get published? It's a simple one. So I can collect autographed copies of my own books.
It would be kind of funny.. I can see it now.. all the books signed 'To: Suzi, Keep on Truckin'. Bird is the word. ---unintelligible signature that somehow reads "suzi" '.
How funny would THAT be? Friends come to the house and they look through the library and happen upon, lo and behold, all of my novels. They get that look that says they know something's up, but they aren't quite sure WHAT yet. They take one of the books and open it, and there's the autograph. And ALL of them would be signed exactly the same way. :)
I was actually toying with the idea of autographing all my books anyway, even if I didn't write them. Just to throw people off.
I am a few steps away from being legitimately published (i.e. "legitimately"= "paid for my writing"), I hope. I submitted a story to an anthology, and just finished the final edit of a story about a vampire cockroach. Yes, that's right, a vampire cockroach.
Also on my plate is a brand spank-me new sex advice column I'll be femmedomming at Legion Studios . So send in your questions HERE or email Derrek at Legion and I'll do my very best.... To answer them, of course.
Talk to you soon!
Suzi
Friday, November 22, 2002
11/22/02
12:40pm
WARCRY OF THE DICTATOR?
Well, kids. It's coming. Fast and furious and Gawd knows when, but SOON, and it's coming right for us. War's ugly sunset is clouding the horizon and there's nothing we can do to stop it. Baby bush and co. are hellbent on starting a war in the middle east, and they're trying to justify it with the threat of terrorism. I don't sympathize with either side. I hate equally and equally do I hate. Do I point fingers? Hell yeah, one in particular, stuck in the middle of my hand. I point it right at the people who helped the assholes to begin with. The threat was always there, and now they've let it grow up and become a full-blown outbreak. Congrats, the U.S. funded the terrorists to begin with.
I'm sure this entry will have someone screaming at me, but it needs to be said, regardless of what viruses a certain person in the Washington, D.C. area may send my way (by the way, whoever you are, I have your IP addee and I WILL report you if you send me another one-- don't make me have to find out who you are). It's called freedom of speech, and freedom of expression. If we don't have those, we have what jr. wants to make this country.
Honestly now, how much spying DO they need to do to fight terrorism? They already know WHO the terrorists are, and knew it for quite some time before last year's events, so now they have to start invading the privacy of U.S. citizens??? I disagree with that. Will I open the door if they decide to knock it down? Sure. I have nothing to hide. Ask and ye shall receive. Will I let them read my private thoughts in the name of 'protecting the people'? Probably not. As much bitching as I do about everything I think is wrong, I'd probably be put away because SOME of my thoughts might be considered non-patriotic. Well, duh. EVERYONE has non-patriotic thoughts at some point. Some folks talk shit, others write it down and eventually just throw it away. I think it's wrong to start invading the privacy of people who are just average people because Big Brother says it's a good idea. How many people say shit they never intend to act on? Millions, if not BILLIONS. That's why it's called 'talking shit.' It's a form of venting, and it's HEALTHY. And now this guy comes along-- a man who's run businessES into the ground, by the way-- and says it's in the name of PROTECTING THE PEOPLE that he wants to start intercepting emails and things like that?? Bullshit. And here's why:
What if, for example, this journal entry of me venting my frustration and fear is read by agents hired to filter out all the terrorist things that could POSSIBLY be communicated. I've posted this publicly, I know people might actually read this. BUT... what if these folks read it and find for whatever crazy reason that I'm un-American for posting it. Me. Born and raised here, and exercising my right to free speech and expression BECAUSE I AM American. We have the right to disagree with government actions, that's what makes us America. But with everything jr. is trying to do, suddenly this entry is un-American BECAUSE it disagrees with him. And I'd be in trouble. Scary, isn't it? A paranoid law, a couple of the wrong keywords in my content, and suddenly free-speaking lil me could be a threat.
My question, and my fear, is that this attempt at war with the middle east is just a diversion to something far bigger and scarier.
12:40pm
WARCRY OF THE DICTATOR?
Well, kids. It's coming. Fast and furious and Gawd knows when, but SOON, and it's coming right for us. War's ugly sunset is clouding the horizon and there's nothing we can do to stop it. Baby bush and co. are hellbent on starting a war in the middle east, and they're trying to justify it with the threat of terrorism. I don't sympathize with either side. I hate equally and equally do I hate. Do I point fingers? Hell yeah, one in particular, stuck in the middle of my hand. I point it right at the people who helped the assholes to begin with. The threat was always there, and now they've let it grow up and become a full-blown outbreak. Congrats, the U.S. funded the terrorists to begin with.
I'm sure this entry will have someone screaming at me, but it needs to be said, regardless of what viruses a certain person in the Washington, D.C. area may send my way (by the way, whoever you are, I have your IP addee and I WILL report you if you send me another one-- don't make me have to find out who you are). It's called freedom of speech, and freedom of expression. If we don't have those, we have what jr. wants to make this country.
Honestly now, how much spying DO they need to do to fight terrorism? They already know WHO the terrorists are, and knew it for quite some time before last year's events, so now they have to start invading the privacy of U.S. citizens??? I disagree with that. Will I open the door if they decide to knock it down? Sure. I have nothing to hide. Ask and ye shall receive. Will I let them read my private thoughts in the name of 'protecting the people'? Probably not. As much bitching as I do about everything I think is wrong, I'd probably be put away because SOME of my thoughts might be considered non-patriotic. Well, duh. EVERYONE has non-patriotic thoughts at some point. Some folks talk shit, others write it down and eventually just throw it away. I think it's wrong to start invading the privacy of people who are just average people because Big Brother says it's a good idea. How many people say shit they never intend to act on? Millions, if not BILLIONS. That's why it's called 'talking shit.' It's a form of venting, and it's HEALTHY. And now this guy comes along-- a man who's run businessES into the ground, by the way-- and says it's in the name of PROTECTING THE PEOPLE that he wants to start intercepting emails and things like that?? Bullshit. And here's why:
What if, for example, this journal entry of me venting my frustration and fear is read by agents hired to filter out all the terrorist things that could POSSIBLY be communicated. I've posted this publicly, I know people might actually read this. BUT... what if these folks read it and find for whatever crazy reason that I'm un-American for posting it. Me. Born and raised here, and exercising my right to free speech and expression BECAUSE I AM American. We have the right to disagree with government actions, that's what makes us America. But with everything jr. is trying to do, suddenly this entry is un-American BECAUSE it disagrees with him. And I'd be in trouble. Scary, isn't it? A paranoid law, a couple of the wrong keywords in my content, and suddenly free-speaking lil me could be a threat.
My question, and my fear, is that this attempt at war with the middle east is just a diversion to something far bigger and scarier.
Friday, November 08, 2002
11/08/02
9:42am
MORE FROM THE DESK OF THE SMILING GOTH
I think Pants got her paws on some chocolate, because now she's running around like a maniac attacking anything and everything, including yours truly. Can't say I enjoy being attacked by an insane hopped-up cat, it isn't pretty. She apparently likes the sound of my fingers typing at the keyboard... and attacks it. Stupid cat.
I had to give her a time out. I know, how stupid does that sound? I gave my cat a time out. I just hope she doesn't tear my bedroom apart.
In other news.... I finished the synopsis to Nemesis yesterday. What a draining experience that was when coupled with having to write an About the Author. Then last night I pushed myself even further and did some site collaboration. So, it's finally up and running: http://www.JavaAddicts.com
Go. See. Feel. Love.
9:42am
MORE FROM THE DESK OF THE SMILING GOTH
I think Pants got her paws on some chocolate, because now she's running around like a maniac attacking anything and everything, including yours truly. Can't say I enjoy being attacked by an insane hopped-up cat, it isn't pretty. She apparently likes the sound of my fingers typing at the keyboard... and attacks it. Stupid cat.
I had to give her a time out. I know, how stupid does that sound? I gave my cat a time out. I just hope she doesn't tear my bedroom apart.
In other news.... I finished the synopsis to Nemesis yesterday. What a draining experience that was when coupled with having to write an About the Author. Then last night I pushed myself even further and did some site collaboration. So, it's finally up and running: http://www.JavaAddicts.com
Go. See. Feel. Love.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
11/06/02
9:09pm
LIKE GIVING CAFFEINE AND SUGAR TO AN OVERACTIVE CHILD
As appealing as that above statement IS, I doubt I'll get the chance to put it into practice any time soon. No one lets their little darlings wander unattended near my door long enough for me to find out if a huge chocolate bar will have the same affect as crack on my ADD (that stands in this case for Attention-to-other's-homes Deficient Disorder) neighbors' kids. Damn them for thinking of me as anything but the quiet girl next door. Neighbors like that make me wish I WAS evil just so I could torment them with their own superstitions. Maybe I'll start studying evil on weekends so I can get my evil-from-home certification in one of these fine categories:
TV/VCR Repair
Air Conditioning
Auto Repair
Pure Unadulterated Evil-Doer
Weird Crazy Cat Lady
Witch in the Haunted House
Accounting
or get any of these other popular degrees:
High School Diploma for the Home-schooled Basement Dweller
Un-wed Teenage Mother
I feel an almighty bitch-fest coming on... sad thing is, I have no reason for said bitch-fest.... Unless of course you consider thatmy nice peaceful somewhat middleclass apartment building is going downhill fast. Besides those assholes who leave their dog messes EVERYWHERE the dog feels like shitting except on THEIR lawn, the ghetto truly IS next door. I can hear them at all hourse of the day-- I think they have like ten kids in a two bedroom apartment-- running up and down the stairs, screeching and tripping. More than once I have almost tripped over THEIR toys on our shared staircase. As if the nice quiet time erradication wasn't enough, I can hear some pounding drumbeat of what I fear may just be "The Ketchup Song" playing over and over again. I'm not innocent, but I don't play the SAME song over and over again, no matter how catchy. What are they running over there, some sort of at-home Payola scandal? But, as always, it gets WORSE. Scattered amongst a pile of ratty-looking shoes, they have a baby carriage up on blocks on the PORCH--which is also partly MY porch-- for gawd's sake. A BABY CARRIAGE. Like I want my guests seeing that as soon as they come to visit. Geeze. Meanwhile their screened-in porch is empty. I mean EMPTY. Oh wait, except for that cheap-ass tiny little chime that they have dangling from the beams. So why can't they just put the carriage out on THEIR PRIVATE PORCH? I'll tell you why: they don't want to see it. And neither do I.
So help me, I really am going to go on a rampage of dogshit gifting one day. Included in that gifting I'm going to have to put a baggy in the carriage (I know they're expensive, hence the baggy, so the baby won't actually be forced to sit in dog doo). But the message will be sent: throw your shit where _I_ live and you will face the consequences. If you don't like YOUR mess in YOUR yard, what the hell makes you think _I_ like it in MINE?
And for those dog owners who think it's someone else's problem: how would you like it if I emptied my cat's litterbox on your doorstep? At least the litter-coated kitty presents will give you a fair warning and the added ability to scrape it off your shoes. Your precious Fluffy's piles are landmines waiting to happen to the unsuspecting moonlight stroller. Not to mention I have light beige carpeting all throughout my apartment, much to my dislike. You try getting dogshit out of carpeting. Even worse when you don't own a dog.
Look into the dark souls of most angry people, and you will find someone that looks a lot like that angry person's neighbor standing with their finger on the lightswitch.
---------- END RANT ----------
Oh, and for posterity's sake, I have offically submitted a story to a competition. The hopeful outcome if I get accepted is that I will be included in an anthology. The main theme was absinthe... of which I know only in theory how to make it, and that it will give you some nasty seizures and hallucinations. Never took the stuff, personally, and never made it. Even had Roman wormwood growing in my yard, just never felt a need to poison myself or anyone else. I'd chop up a little bit (and I mean a LITTLE bit) of the stuff and throw it into salads. Helps the digestion.
So in order to write the story I scoured every out-of-print text on herbology that I had in hopes of finding some description of the symptoms of absinthe intoxication. There was nothing worth using, unless you count the repeated phrase "CAUTION: Consult a physician before using this herb. In larger doses it can cause symptoms of poisoning." Well duh. Apparently the stuff is addictive (I can't imagine why, considering it has 75% alcohol content), and you get your basic visuals, etc. Some sites I found had personal stories of individual experiences with the stuff. Most of the stories were from little gothlings who wouldn't know absinthe from NyQuil (and I suspect a lot of the experiences WERE from NyQuil, to be honest). So I finally followed link after link after link, found enough information on wormwood and its effects when combined with the ingredients for absinthe, which were mostly poisoning symptoms, oddly enough, and wrote the story. I admit it, I faked the orgasm of experience and fudged some details I had gleaned from some friends who had visited the seedier side of New Orleans and Europe and actually tried the stuff. Based on my own knowledge of the ingredients and how they WOULD taste when combined, I also fudged the taste-- which oddly enough WOULD taste a lot like NyQuil, just with a LOT of sugar.
So anyway. I sent this story in to this competition, and now I'm absolutely tweaking with nerves, which could explain my sudden bursts of rage, I suppose. I have no one else to take out the stress on, except my online journal. Hmmm. And of course my not-so-fictional neighbors (who are still blissfully unaware of my projected anger, by the way).
9:09pm
LIKE GIVING CAFFEINE AND SUGAR TO AN OVERACTIVE CHILD
As appealing as that above statement IS, I doubt I'll get the chance to put it into practice any time soon. No one lets their little darlings wander unattended near my door long enough for me to find out if a huge chocolate bar will have the same affect as crack on my ADD (that stands in this case for Attention-to-other's-homes Deficient Disorder) neighbors' kids. Damn them for thinking of me as anything but the quiet girl next door. Neighbors like that make me wish I WAS evil just so I could torment them with their own superstitions. Maybe I'll start studying evil on weekends so I can get my evil-from-home certification in one of these fine categories:
TV/VCR Repair
Air Conditioning
Auto Repair
Pure Unadulterated Evil-Doer
Weird Crazy Cat Lady
Witch in the Haunted House
Accounting
or get any of these other popular degrees:
High School Diploma for the Home-schooled Basement Dweller
Un-wed Teenage Mother
I feel an almighty bitch-fest coming on... sad thing is, I have no reason for said bitch-fest.... Unless of course you consider thatmy nice peaceful somewhat middleclass apartment building is going downhill fast. Besides those assholes who leave their dog messes EVERYWHERE the dog feels like shitting except on THEIR lawn, the ghetto truly IS next door. I can hear them at all hourse of the day-- I think they have like ten kids in a two bedroom apartment-- running up and down the stairs, screeching and tripping. More than once I have almost tripped over THEIR toys on our shared staircase. As if the nice quiet time erradication wasn't enough, I can hear some pounding drumbeat of what I fear may just be "The Ketchup Song" playing over and over again. I'm not innocent, but I don't play the SAME song over and over again, no matter how catchy. What are they running over there, some sort of at-home Payola scandal? But, as always, it gets WORSE. Scattered amongst a pile of ratty-looking shoes, they have a baby carriage up on blocks on the PORCH--which is also partly MY porch-- for gawd's sake. A BABY CARRIAGE. Like I want my guests seeing that as soon as they come to visit. Geeze. Meanwhile their screened-in porch is empty. I mean EMPTY. Oh wait, except for that cheap-ass tiny little chime that they have dangling from the beams. So why can't they just put the carriage out on THEIR PRIVATE PORCH? I'll tell you why: they don't want to see it. And neither do I.
So help me, I really am going to go on a rampage of dogshit gifting one day. Included in that gifting I'm going to have to put a baggy in the carriage (I know they're expensive, hence the baggy, so the baby won't actually be forced to sit in dog doo). But the message will be sent: throw your shit where _I_ live and you will face the consequences. If you don't like YOUR mess in YOUR yard, what the hell makes you think _I_ like it in MINE?
And for those dog owners who think it's someone else's problem: how would you like it if I emptied my cat's litterbox on your doorstep? At least the litter-coated kitty presents will give you a fair warning and the added ability to scrape it off your shoes. Your precious Fluffy's piles are landmines waiting to happen to the unsuspecting moonlight stroller. Not to mention I have light beige carpeting all throughout my apartment, much to my dislike. You try getting dogshit out of carpeting. Even worse when you don't own a dog.
Look into the dark souls of most angry people, and you will find someone that looks a lot like that angry person's neighbor standing with their finger on the lightswitch.
---------- END RANT ----------
Oh, and for posterity's sake, I have offically submitted a story to a competition. The hopeful outcome if I get accepted is that I will be included in an anthology. The main theme was absinthe... of which I know only in theory how to make it, and that it will give you some nasty seizures and hallucinations. Never took the stuff, personally, and never made it. Even had Roman wormwood growing in my yard, just never felt a need to poison myself or anyone else. I'd chop up a little bit (and I mean a LITTLE bit) of the stuff and throw it into salads. Helps the digestion.
So in order to write the story I scoured every out-of-print text on herbology that I had in hopes of finding some description of the symptoms of absinthe intoxication. There was nothing worth using, unless you count the repeated phrase "CAUTION: Consult a physician before using this herb. In larger doses it can cause symptoms of poisoning." Well duh. Apparently the stuff is addictive (I can't imagine why, considering it has 75% alcohol content), and you get your basic visuals, etc. Some sites I found had personal stories of individual experiences with the stuff. Most of the stories were from little gothlings who wouldn't know absinthe from NyQuil (and I suspect a lot of the experiences WERE from NyQuil, to be honest). So I finally followed link after link after link, found enough information on wormwood and its effects when combined with the ingredients for absinthe, which were mostly poisoning symptoms, oddly enough, and wrote the story. I admit it, I faked the orgasm of experience and fudged some details I had gleaned from some friends who had visited the seedier side of New Orleans and Europe and actually tried the stuff. Based on my own knowledge of the ingredients and how they WOULD taste when combined, I also fudged the taste-- which oddly enough WOULD taste a lot like NyQuil, just with a LOT of sugar.
So anyway. I sent this story in to this competition, and now I'm absolutely tweaking with nerves, which could explain my sudden bursts of rage, I suppose. I have no one else to take out the stress on, except my online journal. Hmmm. And of course my not-so-fictional neighbors (who are still blissfully unaware of my projected anger, by the way).
Sunday, November 03, 2002
11/03/02
3:42pm
WHAT LOOKS LIKE A PENIS AND IS COVERED IN ORANGES? .....FLORIDA.
So weird shit happens when you live on America's wang. I admit it. I'm surprised more people don't use the greeting "how's it hanging?" But I digress.... On to the story to end all parties.
Dante and I are sitting at home, spending the ever-popular and mostly obligatory and unavoidable "quality time" together. The phone rings. It always happens that way. If the damned phone wasn't worth a small fortune, I'd throw it out the window. Watching Dante discover all of the phone's technological goo-gaws and gadgets is like watching evolution in progress. :) He told me that for someone who hates technology as much as I do, I picked a good phone. Well, duh. If I'm going to make monthly payments on a piece of plastic to be able to communicate with the outside world, it better damn well tell me who's calling and take messages! For the price I would have liked it to answer itself and open the door for houseguests, but that's apparently asking too much of Sprint. They keep telling me they're a phone company, not a servant supplier. Damn them all.
So anyway. Derailed my own train of thought once more. The reason for the phone mention is that I got the WEIRDEST call. In fact, I keep GETTING this call, and have gotten it repeatedly for the last five months. So. Roughly five months ago, I get this weird message on voicemail asking for some guy Daniel or David, or whatever. It sounded like a little kid who could barely speak English, much less figure out that they dialed the wrong number. We kept getting these messages about once a week. I started to get pissed, since after the third one I was itching to stay home just so I would be able to answer the phone and tell this kid he had the wrong number and stop calling.
I finally manage to be home one day, and I tell this little-boy-sounding person that they have the wrong number, no one by the name they're asking for lives here, and the number was changed. They say thank you and I hang up the phone. And I KNOW this has happened to at least everyone in their natural life: within two seconds, THE PHONE RANG AGAIN. Same weird voice, still asking for someone named Daniel. Now I do something which, in retrospect is rude, but more than deserved: I LAUGH and I tell them, "You STILL have the wrong number. Hitting redial doesn't make it right the second time around." To those who hit redial as a solution to a wrong number problem: STOP IT. It's mildly annoying the first time you call, imagine my wrath the second time.
This wrong number has continued for MONTHS now. I was starting to suspect the thinking capacity of a person, even a child, who could consistently call the wrong number and ask for the same person. Needless to say, I came to many unkind assumptions.
It finally made sense the other day when the SAME PERSON called AGAIN, asking for Daniel. I told them, "You have the wrong number." They said thank you, as usual, and hung up. Dante and I went to the store, and when we got back there was a message. You guessed it. Our stupid little redial-pushing child-sounding friend. Apparently her name--yes, it's a she-- is Irma, and the message she left on voicemail this time was pathetic at the very least of its worries.
She seems to think her ex-boyfriend lives at MY number, and I must be the new girlfriend who is wicked and keeping him locked up or not giving him the messages because I'm jealous. A-HEM. Wicked? Yes, thanks. I admit to that. But honestly, if I was really dating her ex, wouldn't I have pulled a Jerry Springer long ago and screeched into the phone, "He ain't your bebbe's daddy, so stop calling here, you skank boy-sounding ho!"
I mean, seriously. It's just bad taste to go calling up your ex's house--especially if he has a new woman in his life-- and begging him to take you back. Even more pathetic to leave a sorry-ass whiney message on someone else's voicemail because you lack the higher brain function of hand-eye coordination enough to dial the right number in the first place.
So what did I do with this absolutely heart-wrenching outpouring of emotion from some stranger left on my voicemail? I saved it, of course, and now use it to entertain guests at my parties. Think of it as a Don't Drink and Dial public service announcement.
3:42pm
WHAT LOOKS LIKE A PENIS AND IS COVERED IN ORANGES? .....FLORIDA.
So weird shit happens when you live on America's wang. I admit it. I'm surprised more people don't use the greeting "how's it hanging?" But I digress.... On to the story to end all parties.
Dante and I are sitting at home, spending the ever-popular and mostly obligatory and unavoidable "quality time" together. The phone rings. It always happens that way. If the damned phone wasn't worth a small fortune, I'd throw it out the window. Watching Dante discover all of the phone's technological goo-gaws and gadgets is like watching evolution in progress. :) He told me that for someone who hates technology as much as I do, I picked a good phone. Well, duh. If I'm going to make monthly payments on a piece of plastic to be able to communicate with the outside world, it better damn well tell me who's calling and take messages! For the price I would have liked it to answer itself and open the door for houseguests, but that's apparently asking too much of Sprint. They keep telling me they're a phone company, not a servant supplier. Damn them all.
So anyway. Derailed my own train of thought once more. The reason for the phone mention is that I got the WEIRDEST call. In fact, I keep GETTING this call, and have gotten it repeatedly for the last five months. So. Roughly five months ago, I get this weird message on voicemail asking for some guy Daniel or David, or whatever. It sounded like a little kid who could barely speak English, much less figure out that they dialed the wrong number. We kept getting these messages about once a week. I started to get pissed, since after the third one I was itching to stay home just so I would be able to answer the phone and tell this kid he had the wrong number and stop calling.
I finally manage to be home one day, and I tell this little-boy-sounding person that they have the wrong number, no one by the name they're asking for lives here, and the number was changed. They say thank you and I hang up the phone. And I KNOW this has happened to at least everyone in their natural life: within two seconds, THE PHONE RANG AGAIN. Same weird voice, still asking for someone named Daniel. Now I do something which, in retrospect is rude, but more than deserved: I LAUGH and I tell them, "You STILL have the wrong number. Hitting redial doesn't make it right the second time around." To those who hit redial as a solution to a wrong number problem: STOP IT. It's mildly annoying the first time you call, imagine my wrath the second time.
This wrong number has continued for MONTHS now. I was starting to suspect the thinking capacity of a person, even a child, who could consistently call the wrong number and ask for the same person. Needless to say, I came to many unkind assumptions.
It finally made sense the other day when the SAME PERSON called AGAIN, asking for Daniel. I told them, "You have the wrong number." They said thank you, as usual, and hung up. Dante and I went to the store, and when we got back there was a message. You guessed it. Our stupid little redial-pushing child-sounding friend. Apparently her name--yes, it's a she-- is Irma, and the message she left on voicemail this time was pathetic at the very least of its worries.
She seems to think her ex-boyfriend lives at MY number, and I must be the new girlfriend who is wicked and keeping him locked up or not giving him the messages because I'm jealous. A-HEM. Wicked? Yes, thanks. I admit to that. But honestly, if I was really dating her ex, wouldn't I have pulled a Jerry Springer long ago and screeched into the phone, "He ain't your bebbe's daddy, so stop calling here, you skank boy-sounding ho!"
I mean, seriously. It's just bad taste to go calling up your ex's house--especially if he has a new woman in his life-- and begging him to take you back. Even more pathetic to leave a sorry-ass whiney message on someone else's voicemail because you lack the higher brain function of hand-eye coordination enough to dial the right number in the first place.
So what did I do with this absolutely heart-wrenching outpouring of emotion from some stranger left on my voicemail? I saved it, of course, and now use it to entertain guests at my parties. Think of it as a Don't Drink and Dial public service announcement.
Thursday, October 31, 2002
10/31/02
4:53pm
HAPPY HORKIN' HALLOWEEN
I'm back to my pseudo-gothique self, and IT FEELS GREAT. I so was not blonde. Couldn't even pretend to be, although I had the hair. Dante just did my hair blue-black, red, and left some platinum streaks in it. So now I look my age, instead of the 16 I've been pulling off for the past decade and a half. :) It isn't all bad. Now I won't get carded.... as much.
Found myself hopped up on Nestle Crunch bars today... right now. How can I resist-- or ANYONE for that matter-- when they call them "Fun Size"???!! Honestly. So 1 bag of Nestle Crunch "Fun Size" chocolate bars, 1 Grande Starbuck's Mocha Frappacino, and three Reese's Nutrageous (also "Fun Size") chocolate bars later... and I'm literally shaking. And they market this stuff like it's CANDY-- oh wait... I guess it IS candy. :) See what sugar will DO to you????
I've been playing Public Relations/Marketing Director for a local business these past few days, and wow. I feel now like I know what evolution must have faced when it reared its head. The folks at this business are of the mindset that the internet is some sort of passing fad, that for their purposes, it's just not necessary. I tried pointing out the free advertising angle. Didn't work. I tried talking up the virtual tour. Didn't work. I was basically told since it's not for a national market, the website is pointless. Free advertising and a place to showcase all the great things you have to offer is.... Pointless??
I felt somewhat like the first evolved human to hold up fire, and all the cavedwellers around me ran into the back of the cold damp cave instead of reaping the benefits of the flames. Also felt like I just offered the wheel-- no strings attached, since I'm not charging these nice folks to help them out-- and the cavedwellers just held up their hands and said, "No thanks, we'd rather do it the hard way."
I just don't get it. I don't understand how some folks, even in this day and age, who ARE computer literate, can honestly think that just because I create a page to be viewed in Internet Explorer means I've waved my e-wand and made it go live, too. I talk about the web around here and people look at me like I'm a witch. Funny... they don't LOOK Amish.
I guess it wouldn't be so upsetting if I was getting paid for what I'm doing... but come ON. I said I would do this just as a favor to the business, and it's FREE, so why are they holding me back???? Arrgh.
I'll feel better tonight after I've given some trick-or-treaters bags of gravel and told them it's Rock Candy. >:)
4:53pm
HAPPY HORKIN' HALLOWEEN
I'm back to my pseudo-gothique self, and IT FEELS GREAT. I so was not blonde. Couldn't even pretend to be, although I had the hair. Dante just did my hair blue-black, red, and left some platinum streaks in it. So now I look my age, instead of the 16 I've been pulling off for the past decade and a half. :) It isn't all bad. Now I won't get carded.... as much.
Found myself hopped up on Nestle Crunch bars today... right now. How can I resist-- or ANYONE for that matter-- when they call them "Fun Size"???!! Honestly. So 1 bag of Nestle Crunch "Fun Size" chocolate bars, 1 Grande Starbuck's Mocha Frappacino, and three Reese's Nutrageous (also "Fun Size") chocolate bars later... and I'm literally shaking. And they market this stuff like it's CANDY-- oh wait... I guess it IS candy. :) See what sugar will DO to you????
I've been playing Public Relations/Marketing Director for a local business these past few days, and wow. I feel now like I know what evolution must have faced when it reared its head. The folks at this business are of the mindset that the internet is some sort of passing fad, that for their purposes, it's just not necessary. I tried pointing out the free advertising angle. Didn't work. I tried talking up the virtual tour. Didn't work. I was basically told since it's not for a national market, the website is pointless. Free advertising and a place to showcase all the great things you have to offer is.... Pointless??
I felt somewhat like the first evolved human to hold up fire, and all the cavedwellers around me ran into the back of the cold damp cave instead of reaping the benefits of the flames. Also felt like I just offered the wheel-- no strings attached, since I'm not charging these nice folks to help them out-- and the cavedwellers just held up their hands and said, "No thanks, we'd rather do it the hard way."
I just don't get it. I don't understand how some folks, even in this day and age, who ARE computer literate, can honestly think that just because I create a page to be viewed in Internet Explorer means I've waved my e-wand and made it go live, too. I talk about the web around here and people look at me like I'm a witch. Funny... they don't LOOK Amish.
I guess it wouldn't be so upsetting if I was getting paid for what I'm doing... but come ON. I said I would do this just as a favor to the business, and it's FREE, so why are they holding me back???? Arrgh.
I'll feel better tonight after I've given some trick-or-treaters bags of gravel and told them it's Rock Candy. >:)
Monday, October 21, 2002
10/21/02
11:11pm
SOME PEOPLE HAVE SO MANY ISSUES THEY HAVE A YEAR'S WORTH OF SUBSCRIPTIONS
Today was a bad day. I can say this in retrospect. In general it's been a pretty bad week, even. And I'm not just saying that as the resident Gawth. It really was a pretty crappy time had by all.
The scoop du jour (in a nutshell): this dumbass cokehead that works at Dante's place of work is messing shit up for everyone else. Most people would blame the cokehead, but I blame both the cokehead and ESPECIALLY management. The Management has successfully shunned every employee in that place due to favoritism for the cokehead.
Said cokehead has been through one month of rehab, and went out to the same scene that got him into it to begin with. One word: duh. The guy is either a complete idiot, or an idiot savant. Jury's still out on that one. Here's a Darwinism Candidate in the making though. He's got four kids by three different women, AND he's a cokehead just smart enough to stick thugs on innocent people to get the money he should have paid them. So the guy said no to birth control and yes to drugs??? Back asswards, that's what he is. My main issue with him is that not only is he an asshole worthy of divine annihilation, but he's making life miserable for people I actually like.
In Dante's case, Dante has been nothing but nice to the guy and given him the benefit of the doubt, despite my advice to shun him like a social leper. This guy has stood Dante up when Dante was doing him the favor by taking off work so he could drive this cokehead's sorry ass to a class. Not only does the guy not call to say, "Hey, I'm hungover from last night's coke binge, not going to the class, sorry." but he doesn't even answer the door when Dante knocks. Classy. Really. Fucking. Classy. Where can I get a guy like that to father some illegitimate children for me?
So the latest in the noose of events is this guy went out on a cokebinge to end all binges and doesn't even have the courtesy of showing up to work the next day. Management says, "He is sooo fired." Apparently the guy has habit-- other than coke-- of just not showing up, or showing up late. Doesn't call or anything, just figures everyone else will cover for him. So this past time, a call comes in the middle of the end of the day from a "hospital" claiming they have an amnesia patient claiming to have been assaulted and doesn't remember anything except the name of the place he works at?? (ahem--bullshit!) They describe the guy to the receptionist and she asks if his name is the cokehead's name. Sure enough, wouldn't ya know it? His memory came flooding back! It was truly a miracle.
The next day Dante was in high spirits because this mental midget is finally out of his hair, right? Wrong. He gets to work, and there's cokehead waiting to talk to the manager. Instead of punishing this asshole for just BEING an asshole, this woman calls her action "humane" and not only takes him back, but takes away the customers Dante was supposed to be dealing with that day! Not only THAT, but gives him back his old wages, and takes away the commision Dante made on one of cokehead's customers. So now, the receptionists look like idiots because they had had to call all of cokehead's customers to either cancel or reschedule his appointments, and then they had to call the customers back again and say, Nope, sorry, we were wrong, he's here.
So now what we're looking at is a VERY ugly situation of a manager sacrificing the needs of the many for the needs of the one (Sorry to sound so Star Trekkian, but Spock has some good philosophies on occasion, especially when you apply his logic to a corporation). The manager has now successfully lost all of her employees' respect because she just let this scumbag walk all over her for apparently no good reason, AND she just alienated herself from her employees by showing them that she doesn't care about how THEY feel because she's too busy making life easier for an employee who doesn't appreciate her help, nor does he want it. Not only that, she sent a bad message, basically that the employees don't matter as much as this worthless excuse of a team member who contributes NOTHING to his workplace.
Kind of makes you wonder why any of those employees bother to keep showing up in the first place.
11:11pm
SOME PEOPLE HAVE SO MANY ISSUES THEY HAVE A YEAR'S WORTH OF SUBSCRIPTIONS
Today was a bad day. I can say this in retrospect. In general it's been a pretty bad week, even. And I'm not just saying that as the resident Gawth. It really was a pretty crappy time had by all.
The scoop du jour (in a nutshell): this dumbass cokehead that works at Dante's place of work is messing shit up for everyone else. Most people would blame the cokehead, but I blame both the cokehead and ESPECIALLY management. The Management has successfully shunned every employee in that place due to favoritism for the cokehead.
Said cokehead has been through one month of rehab, and went out to the same scene that got him into it to begin with. One word: duh. The guy is either a complete idiot, or an idiot savant. Jury's still out on that one. Here's a Darwinism Candidate in the making though. He's got four kids by three different women, AND he's a cokehead just smart enough to stick thugs on innocent people to get the money he should have paid them. So the guy said no to birth control and yes to drugs??? Back asswards, that's what he is. My main issue with him is that not only is he an asshole worthy of divine annihilation, but he's making life miserable for people I actually like.
In Dante's case, Dante has been nothing but nice to the guy and given him the benefit of the doubt, despite my advice to shun him like a social leper. This guy has stood Dante up when Dante was doing him the favor by taking off work so he could drive this cokehead's sorry ass to a class. Not only does the guy not call to say, "Hey, I'm hungover from last night's coke binge, not going to the class, sorry." but he doesn't even answer the door when Dante knocks. Classy. Really. Fucking. Classy. Where can I get a guy like that to father some illegitimate children for me?
So the latest in the noose of events is this guy went out on a cokebinge to end all binges and doesn't even have the courtesy of showing up to work the next day. Management says, "He is sooo fired." Apparently the guy has habit-- other than coke-- of just not showing up, or showing up late. Doesn't call or anything, just figures everyone else will cover for him. So this past time, a call comes in the middle of the end of the day from a "hospital" claiming they have an amnesia patient claiming to have been assaulted and doesn't remember anything except the name of the place he works at?? (ahem--bullshit!) They describe the guy to the receptionist and she asks if his name is the cokehead's name. Sure enough, wouldn't ya know it? His memory came flooding back! It was truly a miracle.
The next day Dante was in high spirits because this mental midget is finally out of his hair, right? Wrong. He gets to work, and there's cokehead waiting to talk to the manager. Instead of punishing this asshole for just BEING an asshole, this woman calls her action "humane" and not only takes him back, but takes away the customers Dante was supposed to be dealing with that day! Not only THAT, but gives him back his old wages, and takes away the commision Dante made on one of cokehead's customers. So now, the receptionists look like idiots because they had had to call all of cokehead's customers to either cancel or reschedule his appointments, and then they had to call the customers back again and say, Nope, sorry, we were wrong, he's here.
So now what we're looking at is a VERY ugly situation of a manager sacrificing the needs of the many for the needs of the one (Sorry to sound so Star Trekkian, but Spock has some good philosophies on occasion, especially when you apply his logic to a corporation). The manager has now successfully lost all of her employees' respect because she just let this scumbag walk all over her for apparently no good reason, AND she just alienated herself from her employees by showing them that she doesn't care about how THEY feel because she's too busy making life easier for an employee who doesn't appreciate her help, nor does he want it. Not only that, she sent a bad message, basically that the employees don't matter as much as this worthless excuse of a team member who contributes NOTHING to his workplace.
Kind of makes you wonder why any of those employees bother to keep showing up in the first place.
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