grrgoyl

I hadn't planned on a work rant, but I just have to get this off my chest.

Last weekend someone had written on the message board a big list of "Please don't"s. Unfortunately that same night it had once again become relevant for me to add my $.02 about not dumping food in the sink.

Maybe I shouldn't have written "(27th time asking)," except it was, and as most parents raising children will hopefully back me up, I'm getting pretty fucking tired of repeating myself. Maybe I shouldn't have written that garbage cans don't get backed up and require expensive plumber visits, but I hoped that, like with children, if I provided the rationale behind the request (even though I feel it should be fairly obvious) it would drive the point home finally.

For whatever reason, the following night I got the phone call from my day shift liaison (I'm hesitant to call anyone "friend" anymore in this place) about whether or not I was needed to come in, and to my surprise she asked if there were any problems the prior night. When I said no, she launched into a laundry list of complaints from the staff about things they thought I hadn't done, each more petty than the last. Coincidence? I doubt it.

The one that stuck in my craw was the accusation that the cats' water bowls were empty. It was also empty for me, which is why I put an extra one in the cage. So a) you expect me to believe the cats drained two bowls in the space of two hours between shifts? b) even if they did (they didn't), what the animals do after I leave is hardly in my control, and c) even if they did (they didn't), isn't the point of giving them water for them to drink it? It's not a decorative measure.

I made sure to set her straight on this point, but she didn't sound convinced. So why were all the other "please don't"s fine but mine pushed them over the edge? Probably because I made them feel stupid. Well, I'm sorry, but they're a little stupid, and not likely to get smarter by coddling and tiptoeing around their porcelain feelings. I firmly believe there would be a bit less stupidity in the world if more people were taken to task for it. This is just my public service.

~*~

In Tery's news, she ran her second triathlon a few weekends ago. It went much better for her, in part because she knew what to expect, in bigger part because we arrived much earlier so she had more time to get settled in.

No, the two big highlights of the race were MyFriendDeb came to keep me company, except when I asked her to videotape Tery running she refused, stating "people waste so much time with a camera stuck to their face they miss the actual event right there in front of them." It was only much later I thought of the comeback I should have made: That we weren't there for ourselves, we were there for Tery, and perhaps she'd like to see herself in the race. Whatevs. Next year I just won't ask her.

More exciting, Tery has decided now that she's "officially" a triathlete to get a tattoo to commemorate. I can't let her have all the fun, so I'm getting one too -- a bike chainring on my left inner forearm, because the only thing I love more than biking is tattoos with circular motifs. We still have to find a parlor and extra money, so it won't happen for awhile yet. I'm just thrilled Tery wants one too.

~*~

Biking, biking, biking. Probably no one else cares, but I do so here we are. I'll hide it behind a cut because I'm nice that way and I fully expect no one to read it. But feel free to prove me wrong. But since (practically) no one is going to read it anyway, I might as well put it here as anywhere.

( ::Don't you dare come in here...:: )

~*~

Last but certainly not least, swankyfunk drew me ♥ Severus Snape ♥! (reposted with permission):



She's made of all kinds of awesome.


COMING SOON: Parade of Homes 2011 and my review of The Room

I've decided I'm running for office. And the only item on my agenda will be putting some kind of cap on these political TV ads. I'M SICK TO DEATH OF THEM. And I suspect I'm not the only one.

I can't stand the smear campaigns. Just because your opponent may or may not have done these horrible things you claim is not a reason to vote for you.

Our local news has a "truth test" you can read on their website to learn what is truth and what is exagerration (or outright lie). As you'd expect, every statement has a little bit of truth to it, but most are just taken out of context.

My point is, if we need a third party "truth test" to know what to believe, how on earth can we trust any of these people in Washington?

~*~

So what's new? I'm still biking, which isn't NEW, I suppose. I've gotten so hard core that not only do I swallow bugs now, I chew first. I think of it as a little protein bite (these are very tiny bugs, like gnats. I'm not talking horseflies). The good news is with the colder weather, the protein bites have become much fewer and further between.

I never thought of myself as a rage fanatic, but I've noticed I can't seem to leave the house without making at least one enemy. Mostly these are pedestrians, or even other bikers, who simply can't grasp the concept of using only one side of the path. I have stories that could fill hours, but no one wants to hear them I'm sure.

Occasionally my warpath extends to motorists. Not often, since my contact with them is limited to crossing one intersection to get to the park. But sometimes that 100-foot stretch is all I need.

One morning I had had a perfectly lovely ride (on Thursdays I don't start work until 10 a.m., so I get to go out early and be all smug in front of the poor schleps commuting to their 9-5). I was waiting to cross the intersection to head home. The light turned red, when suddenly this huge ass pickup truck literally screeched to a halt in a full straddle across the crosswalk. As the light was solidly red 10 seconds before he arrived, I can only wonder what the hell he was doing that he didn't notice. I'm willing to bet texting illegally.

I crossed, giving him a sarcastic little salute. That was all I was planning on doing, I swear, until my reptile brain took over, turned my vision white, and lifted my hand to smack the front of his vehicle as I passed.

I've done this once before. It was also a huge ass pickup (universally shitty drivers?) but that one had the sense to realize he was in the wrong and do nothing. This guy, however, laid on his horn and didn't stop until I was out of sight (I stopped to flip him my middle finger before moving on). Perhaps he thought his big, manly truck could be damaged by a girl slapping it?

I know I can't claim total innocence here. Like I said, I honestly wasn't planning on doing anything more than wave angrily. But it just isn't right. If someone came to a stop stretched diagonally across two lanes, people would get a little upset (they just wouldn't have the luxury of acting on it like I did). Cyclists get to use a very tiny percentage of the road as it is, and even that isn't safe from assholes like this guy.

But I've put two and two together. The one thing shared in common between everyone who angers me, be it pedestrians, cyclists, motorists, other shoppers in a store, neighbors, movie theater audiences, is this: They act inconsiderately, like they're the only ones on the planet. Ironically as our population explosion continues, people are behaving more selfishly, not less. It's about courtesy. It's about manners. It's about civility. These are becoming quaint antique concepts, like brunch and cotillions. Perhaps I was born in the wrong time. Perhaps I should be living on a remote mountainside. Perhaps I will someday.

~*~

Speaking of remote mountainsides (ha!), I went biking this weekend again with Gerry after a very long hiatus (his schedule, not mine). I thought I was done for the season, but he asked and I couldn't resist.

We went to Green Mountain trail, which is as unremote as you can get and still be in the "mountains" (technically the foothills). It's a popular spot for quick rides because it's close to civilization and a fairly short loop (about 10 miles, though you have to work for it in places).

It was a lot of work going up, since Gerry insisted on ignoring all the easy-looking sloping singletrack and sticking to doubletrack strewn with loose, exceedingly treacherous rocks (where the term "rockdonculous" was coined). Bleah. But we went the long way around the hill on the way back, down some crazy fun hard-packed singletrack that propelled this trail straight to the top of my list of favorites (well, before the list consisted solely of the Audubon Loop, so take that for what it's worth).

The two highlights were first coming across a scenic overlook where a memorial plaque sat, dedicated to "Anita Salazar: For cancer warriors and warriors of all dibilitating diseases." Yep, "debilitating" was misspelled. I don't know which broke my heart more, the mistake or not having a camera to show y'all. It's okay, I will certainly return to this trail again.

The second highlight was when a snake crossed our path. Gerry spotted it first, and he must have the eyes of a hawk because it was only about 9 inches long, very tiny. He told me to get it off the trail before someone else ran over it. I was going to, but as soon as it noticed me it turned and coiled threateningly, and it was then I saw the teeny tiny rattle. My first rattler!

I really didn't want to risk it, but Gerry took off his glove and shooed it off. It tried to strike at him -- little guy meant business. But didn't succeed, fortunately, because I've since turned up literature online that says baby rattlers are more dangerous than full-grown snakes because they haven't learned how to control their venom and release it all in one dose (though it's probably less venom than an adult).

Next trip will hopefully be Lair o' the Bear, cuz that trail will hang over my head until I finally get to do it.

~*~

Last but not least, a fairly quickie movie review. ( ::Ghost Writer:: )

I didn't even bother checking out the bonus features, which normally means I'll be purchasing it and saving them for later, but not in this case. I'm not so far gone with Ewan love to buy everything he does anymore. Not since Phantom Menace.

~*~

Coming soon: Halloween, and my truly kick-ass costume

It's happened. I've become a bike snob. It's because when you're out there pedaling, there isn't a lot to think about except your fellow bikers. It was just a matter of time before I started judging everyone I see out there.

Cut in case you don't want to read how everyone sucks but me.

( ::People who don't wear helmets:: )

( ::People who pass you who probably shouldn't:: )

( ::People who don't fit their bikes:: )

( ::People who insist on taking up the whole path:: )

Alright, I'm done being a bitch. I suspect it won't be long before I start snapping at people for making U-turns half a mile ahead of me.

We had the best Fourth of July ever, because it rained almost the entire day and night. Good because it discouraged most of the asshole backyard displays. Good because the ground was nice and wet so we didn't mind the ones that did go off so much. Bad because it means the asshole backyard displays have plenty of left-overs to use the rest of the month.

I had hoped to go to Deer Creek Canyon today, but I learned my lesson about rainy weekends and dirt trails at Barr Lake. Plus I didn't relish the thought of dealing with a bunch of people taking a three-day weekend and flocking to parks statewide.

I hit Cherry Creek instead, and at first thought I'd regret my decision to stay home -- until I reached the side where the wetlands are, and a spot where the path was completely submerged by a 2-inch deep puddle that stretched for about 500 feet. Before realizing how deep it was, the first two pedal strokes sprayed water straight up my back to my neck. By the time that puddle was done with me, my shoes were soaked through to the skin. Which helped me cool down at least, but I get worried about negative effects on Rogue Leader's chain, etc.

If this was what a paved trail looked like, I couldn't imagine what a dirt trail had going on; I absolutely think I made the right decision to avoid it. For once.

Logan's new hang-out is the top of the ledge surrounding our kitchen. I searched the whole house for 15 minutes before I realized he was serenely perched watching me the whole time. Ah, cats. When he finally came down, he was covered in dust from slinking through every nook and cranny up there.

For a week we had noticed he smelled kind of perfumey, like a beauty salon -- a fragrance quite incongruous with his scrappy tomcat appearance. We eventually figured out it was because he was dragging his big tomcat tail through the incense diffuser oil and wafting it around as he walked.

This cat is a feather duster and an air freshener in one, making him twice as useful as most of the other creatures in this house, including the humans.

~*~

This is Tery's last weekend in the hoosgow (from the Spanish juzgado, as I learned when she made me look it up). The first weekend she was terrified. She wept almost the whole way there. I told her not to cry or they'd know she was fresh meat. I reassured her it was only fear of the unknown; once she knew what to expect it wouldn't be nearly as bad. I was right.

Her hard time started 8 am Saturday morning and ended 4 pm Sunday evening. She was in a pod system with 6 other women, some of whom were also "weekenders," others who were actual full-time inmates. The full-timers had a lot of resentment and contempt towards the weekenders, until Tery, bored out of her mind, picked up a broom to tidy up, earning their respect and friendship.

As you'd expect, the most punitive aspect of jail, unless you're in the general population, isn't the fear of getting shanked or avoiding daily riots, but pure boredom. Cell phones and personal books aren't allowed. They provide reading material, mostly of the popular culture, Danielle Steele variety. In fact, one woman brought in a self-help book which was confiscated. No bettering yourself in here! You're being punished!

That and the food. From her description I'd probably go hungry for two days. I'm a picky eater when the food is edible. The worst was corn bread that bizarrely seemed to revert back to raw dough as she chewed it.

The part I would be the most afraid of, the toilet arrangements, was actually a cubicle with a privacy curtain. We were both picturing a toilet seat stuck in the middle of the room for everyone to watch. Not so bad, except for pooping. But since I wouldn't be eating, that wouldn't be an issue either.

But her punishment has been my reward. The first weekend was hell because when I got home from the hospital after the animals had been alone all night, they were were wide awake and in full melee cage match mode. These past two weekends I wasn't needed on Saturday, giving me a luxurious night/morning all to myself at home (and much calmer animals).

This Saturday night wasn't quite so luxurious though, because after nearly two months of more or less behaving, Tracey's dogs made their unwelcome nighttime reappearance until 3:00 in the a.m. (Oh, I might not have mentioned: She finally had a hearing with the City, where presumably they explained to her about noise laws and how most people like to sleep at night, and how we weren't just being harpy bitches. We had hoped this would solve the problem forever. Nothing's forever, Virginia.)

I spent all that time composing my complaint to the HOA. Unbeknownst to me, someone else was even more upset. That someone for some reason came ringing MY doorbell at about 3:10 a.m.

"Is this Tracey that lives next to you?" she asked me. I had no idea how she knew her name but I'm not my sharpest at 3 a.m. so I didn't ask.

"Yes it is. As well as her dogs," I said slightly louder, as they were barking ferociously on the other side of the door at that moment.

"Can I come in and use your phone to call the police?" I explained it wouldn't do her any good, they wouldn't come (I've called before. They say it's a matter for Animal Control, who won't do anything until Monday morning). She didn't care though. "I'll go back and use my cell phone. I'm calling the police and telling them she's got a meth lab!" this last was said very loudly directly at Tracey's door.

Highly suspiciously, the dogs had gone silent, and in fact I didn't hear another peep for the rest of the night. This strongly suggests to me she was in there listening to our exchange, though why she let the dogs run rampant for so long into the night is anyone's guess. MY guess is either a.) she just didn't care or b.) she was doped up and passed out. Neither option makes me very happy.

Not helping her case is the fact we've noticed she now parks across the street in the strip plaza and hoofs it back and forth. Hard to imagine a reason for this other than she's trying to conceal her comings and goings. It's all verrrrrrry shifty.

~*~

Apparently someone else who is shifty is all of Tery's employees (I love me a good segue).

An elderly woman who Tery described as "a little unstable" (and not in the ambulatory sense of the word) brought her dog in. The dog was elderly too and needed significant assistance from staff to get it downstairs.

The problem started after she left. Her husband had died the month before, leaving her two pendants set with black opals or some other semi-precious, not terribly valuable stone. She had attached one of them to the dog's collar and after her visit noticed the stone was missing. She was inconsolable to Tery on the phone, threatening to bring in the police, etc, etc.

Let me tell you, if my husband had left me something of such high sentimental value, you know the last thing I would do with it? Stick it on a goddamn dog collar.

Tery, being the excellent manager she is, talked her down and promised to search for it. She spent the whole afternoon combing the parking lot, which unfortunately is lined with a lot of black gravel. She called the woman back with the news. She was a little more reasonable, but ended the conversation with a warning to Tery to keep a closer eye on her employees.

There are about five people downstairs at any given time, and believe me, it's not such a big place that someone prying loose a piece of costume jewelry is going to go unnoticed. Unless they were all in it and planned to split the profits. I made Tery laugh by imagining that scene: "Here's what we'll do -- we've got this sweet rock and we're gonna sell it, see? Then we'll allllll be rich and we can leave this joint once and for all, see?" (We amuse each other highly by talking like old-time gangsters from black and white films. We get bonus points if we manage to incorporate the phrase "get-away sticks" which we once heard someone call their legs.)

Now if the woman had jewelry made of cheeseburgers and donuts, I'd say she might have a case.

~*~

Lastly, some very quick and nonspoilery movie reviews:

Observe and Report: Makes Paul Blart: Mall Cop look like an Oscar contender. In fact, I started out afraid it was going to be a direct rip-off of Blart. I finished wishing it were more like Blart. Paul Blart with F-bombs and Seth Rogen's voice which annoys the hell out of me. Although Patton Oswalt as a tyrannical little restaurant manager was kind of funny.

I Tivo'ed these next two movies and ended up liking the exact opposite of what I expected.

What Happens in Vegas had a very promising premise: Cameron Diaz and Ashton Kutcher have a wild drunken night in Vegas, wake up married and realize they hate each other. Just as they storm off for a divorce, her slot machine (dirty) hits the jackpot of 3 millllllion dollars. Judge Dennis Miller sentences them to make the marriage work (in a highly overdue speech about how the sanctity of marriage isn't threatened by gays nearly as much as by Vegas fly-by-night weddings, loved it). The challenge becomes who can drive the other off first by being more intolerable. Unfortunately it goes down the road of predictable and banal: they end up falling in love for real (evidently after just one weekend work retreat), yeah, totz didn't see THAT coming.

On the other hand, Yes Man was a hit. Jim Carrey obeys life guru Terence Stamp and starts saying yes to everything. Wackiness ensues. But not the usual "Jim Carrey throwing himself against a wall for a laugh" wackiness, which is why I liked it. That and lovable Murray from "Flight of the Conchords" was his boss, which was a huge check in the plus column. Carrey's love interest was vacant-eyed Zoey Deschanel which would normally be a negative, but she wasn't that bad. And for once, a case where I can't say necessarily the book was better -- it was based on it (loosely) but of course more filmic and cohesive. The fact it had a Harry Potter theme party didn't influence my opinion in the slightest.

• As we sat in traffic at a light, I saw a Cooper Mini that was somewhat reluctant to enter a particularly frenzied rotary. As I watched, the car behind it suddenly slid forward and tapped its bumper. "Holy crap!" I exclaimed, "That car totally just hit that Cooper!" Both drivers moved on though, and my sister replied blandly, "Sometimes you just gotta give 'em a nudge," as if this sort of thing happened all the time. When did honking the horn stop being good enough? Like I said, everyone is in such a big damn hurry.

• I saw a flight attendant nearly come to blows with a passenger because he wasn't returning his seat back to its upright position quickly enough for her satisfaction. Meanwhile small children and infants are allowed to sit in parents' laps completely unrestrained. Has there ever been any scientific evidence supporting the life-saving properties of moving that extra 12 degrees forward in the event of a plane crash? Or is this just flight crews drunk with what little power they have?

Evidently my new Rickman desktop wallpaper is so lifelike my Schminky turned around, noticed it and meowed at him, mistaking him for an actual person.







Tery's only comment on the new look: "It's awfully....Rickmany."



Coming soon: My review of Paranormal Activity

Soup:

In traffic on my way to the hospital my eye was caught by a GMC Jimmy with all of its doors off. Imagining itself to be a war-time Jeep? I'm not sure, but it looked pretty damn silly. I thought I'd give the driver the benefit of the doubt -- perhaps he'd lost them all in an accident. The way some SUV owners drive it wouldn't be impossible. Then he moved ahead of me and I saw he had one of those scrolling marquee signs over his license plate, reading "Show me your boobs!!" Oh, just an ass then. An ass mistaking Denver for Ft. Lauderdale.

~*~

Appetizer:

I realize how pathetic it sounds, but getting mail is the highlight of my day. This is why I compulsively order stuff online, so I have an almost constant flow of mail to look forward to.

So maybe you can appreciate why my world came crashing down Thursday when I realized the lock on our box was broken. The tab inside that latches it closed was missing the nut holding it on the bolt.

"No problem," I thought. "I'll just replace the nut." After fishing around I found one that seemed to fit, except wouldn't hand-tighten properly. "No problem," I thought. "I'll just get a ratchet wrench." It seemed to be going swimmingly until suddenly the whole damn bolt snapped right off in my hand. Okay, THAT was a problem.

This was at 7 pm, so no hope of calling anyone. First thing Friday morning I called our post office and described my situation (leaving out my attempted DIY). His first (and second) question was did I know who did it? "No one did it, the bolt was really old and just snapped," I answered. Choice B was "I suppose if anyone 'did it' I did." Choice C was "Even if it was a criminal act, how the hell should I know? It's not like I monitor the mailbox (most of the time)."

Once I convinced him there were no suspects he could bring in for questioning, he said only, "Okay, I'll send Maintenance out today." Oh, cool. That was easy.

Except of course it wasn't, because I'm still me and they're still a government agency. After neither of us did anything more about it all day, I called again at the end of my shift to find out the deal. I spoke to someone else, who told me I had to come in, fill out a lock change form and pay a $25 fee. Huh. I wish I had known this 8 hours earlier. I also felt slightly less nervous about covering up my vandalism since I would be paying for it.

I rushed in before they closed to jump through their hoops. Fortunately the clerk was really friendly and funny, or it could have gotten ugly. As it was, I couldn't resist asking why guy #1 couldn't be bothered to give me correct information. "I hate to say it, but he was probably a supervisor. They don't know what's going on." I snorted. "So how did he get to be supervisor?" He shrugged. "If you can't do the job, you get promoted?" We both had a chuckle at The Man and I promised I wasn't taking his name or anything.

Nice guy told me 2-3 days, might even be done Monday. That wasn't bad, even if I had to suffer a weekend of essentially two Sundays.

Except it wasn't Monday. Or Tuesday. Wasn't in fact until Wednesday. But let's not be too hasty, I didn't actually get the call until this morning Thursday. I wish nice guy hadn't raised my hopes falsely. But hey, what's the point of complaining? It's not like I can threaten to go somewhere else to get my mail delivered.

~*~

Entree:

About two weeks ago Ryan invited me to a downtown thing, "La Piazza," some kind of pavement chalk art (I at first thought it was trompe l'oeil, but no); well, I should say he forwarded me the ad, and when I asked about inviting MyFriendDeb, he copied me on the email asking John permission (when if you ask me it should've been John begging us to be included. Thank god they broke up for good before we had to deal with THAT bit of awkwardness).

It took place this past weekend, and Ryan at the last minute sprang the idea of bringing Lucy along (you remember my pal Lucy?) It didn't thrill me, but I couldn't really say no.

I worked all night and got up to meet Deb about 10:30ish. Ryan texted me because he was having a hard time getting going, they'd be a little late, sorry. Whatever, Ryan, Deb and I were on the train halfway there already.

It turned out to be full of awesome:



( ::More over here -- slightly bigger cuz they're purty:: )

We sort of regretted lingering respectfully over every little piece in the beginning, especially when it became obvious that the threatening rainstorm was no longer a question of "if" but "when." As big fat drops started plunking down, two guys with a ladder and a camera were dashing madly through the crowd, desperately trying to capture the masterpieces before they were washed away. Heartbreaking, but Deb assured me that was the point of the medium: the transient nature of beauty. (Deb's favorite was under a makeshift canopy so hopefully most of her survived.)

Did I say rainstorm? It began as a torrent and turned into hail. Kerrrazy. The kind of cool thing was the rain only washed away the loose chalk dust, leaving a subdued but perfect glassy image underneath:



We joked that such an event would be impossible in a place like Seattle, unless the pieces were all postage-stamp sized. I said a 4" x 6" piece would be the height of ambition. She laughed as I mimed frantically finishing a Polaroid-sized square before the rain hit.

Ryan never actually showed, instead bothering me with a stream of increasingly anxious texts asking about the weather and whether there was any point in them leaving the house. There wasn't, and I don't know if it was because I didn't have to see Lucy or because of my new self-protective, do-what-you-want attitude I've had to adopt towards Ryan, but I really wasn't that concerned.

Same thing with working out yesterday; Ryan teased me with an email asking if I minded if he rejoined me. Of course I didn't. Then he texted me all apologetic that he'd had a bad day and couldn't make it. Oh, Ryan, Ryan...I don't know what's sadder, the fact that you still think I'm actually counting on you for anything or the fact that I have to refuse to do so to avoid having my heart broken time and time again.

~*~

Dessert:

We've had just about all the foolishness from Tracey's dog(s) that we're going to take. Out there 24/7 barking their heads off at EV.RY.THING (which I grant you isn't as annoying as when they bark at NOTHING). Our only recourse is to keep fining her, and her only recourse is to keep paying the fines (presumably) and still not do anything about the underlying problem.

So I turned to Amazon, in search of a bark-stopping device you can put on your own property and not rely on your neighbor doing the right thing. It emits a painful (?) whistle only the dog can hear whenever they bark. The hope is that they're smart enough to make the association and think twice before barking again. Which is not at all a given here -- if these dogs had any trace of intelligence, surely they could learn after five years of watching the same people march back and forth twice a day that we aren't intruders or a threat (unless they can read our minds and see the murderous BB gun fantasies therein). But better get Board approval first -- they'd rather have a vicious dog barking at all hours than a bleeding eyesore of a radio device (it looks like a tiny birdhouse).

In addition to the numerous and occasionally humorous horror stories in the reviews that make us think maybe we don't have it that bad, there's a fair share of people expressing concern over punishing the animal when a bad owner is to blame. Fuck that. Until someone invents something that lets me inflict pain on Tracey without being prosecuted (voodoo doll? ski mask and a baseball bat? Doesn't need to be high-tech), I'll happily take it out on her dog(s).

Yes, I "love animals," but some animals need to work a little harder to earn it. Dogs most of all.

~*~

Aperitif:

I saw S. Darko. Being such a huge fan of Donnie, how could I not? Despite the massive online fan protest (which I wasn't aware of. Hell, I'd probably watch it even if I was).

Immediately afterward I had a detailed, thoughtful review planned out, most of which I have now forgotten. I'll cut anyway in case of inadvertent spoilage, and because after-dinner cocktails should be optional.

( ::What do you think God's farts taste like?:: )

In conclusion, it's obvious this was a labor of love (the screenplay was written by a guy who calls himself "Donnie's #1 fan"). But in his attempt to stay unswervingly true to the laws of Donnie's universe, he became too fearful to bring anything new to the table. I don't think it deserves the vitriol being heaped upon it by the faithful -- it should be seen by Donnie fans perhaps to satisfy their curiosity. Anyone else will probably leave hopelessly confused and wondering what all the fuss with the first movie was about.

To give you an idea of what Tery is up against at the hospital, she was working Reception alone the other night but knew it wasn't going to be enough.  One of the assistants would have to go home (and the only choice was a girl who'd already been sent home by Tery twice that week).  Tery, tired of always being the bad guy, phoned down to Dr. E. (the medical director) and asked her to "cut A. loose."  A few minutes later A. came upstairs and cheerfully informed Tery she was there to relieve her, thinking she was doing Tery a big favor by sending her home (Tery had worked like a 12-hour day). 

Later on the phone Tery pointed out Dr. E.'s mistake to her.  "Oh, THAT'S what you meant by 'cut her loose.'  We need to work on our code words."  What?  In what language does "cut her loose" mean anything besides "let her go"?  My god. 

Consequently yours truly needed to make some sacrifices on the weekend, which I'm normally happy to do.  Friday night was actually pretty busy with patients so I had to stay the whole shift.  Saturday I had one patient, a small, bony, shivery chihuahua Parvo puppy, who only required two shots of antibiotics from me -- one at 9 pm and one at 5 am.  I had to stay a full night just waiting to give the dog one stupid shot.  Tery was desperate and asked me to give up three hours, but of course I still had to stay to give the shot.  True, I slept most of the time, but the only thing worse than giving up three hours from your shift is giving them up and having to "work" them anyway (which I realize is technically illegal, but like I said, I wasn't exactly the paragon of industry during that time, and in fact rarely am after midnight).  She promised to ask her doctors to give a little more thought to the med schedule in such a situation.

However, this was my first weekend with the new hours, sleeping in until noonish or so on Saturday, and it was HEAVENLY.  Almost like a proper weekend.  Meandered out into the living room whenever I damn well felt like it, watched a little TV with Tery, enjoyed a luxurious breakfast.  All lovely.  And it turns out the four hours on Sunday night pass so quickly (evidently Sunday always has a huge workload so I actually get to spend the whole shift on just one account, as opposed to the weekdays when I'm bounced all over the place) it's barely like working at all.

~*~

Last weekend I got pulled over on my way home from the hospital.  The cop looked exactly like Matt Lauer, and said he got me doing 50 in a 40.  I found all my documents except my insurance card, which it turned out he didn't ask for a second time, fortunately. 

I knew damn well why he picked me out of a herd of other vehicles that was leaving me in the dust even before his lights came on.  Because a few miles earlier there's a place where the road crests into a big hill, and just below the edge of it you can see the top of a building that has always made me insanely curious.  The roof is shaped into a series of four sequential domes, each of which has a ceiling fan lit from below.  A fancy parking garage?  A greenhouse?  I had to know, and that night I drove down there to find out.  It turned out to be not nearly so interesting from below -- only one discernible entrance with a soda machine next to it, and no windows at ground level.  A group home of some sort, I surmised.  But I noticed an SUV skulking around behind me, approaching on the side street I would be turning onto to get back on the main road, and slowing down to a crawl to obviously let me go in front of it.  I have a strong suspicion it was this cop. 

Sure, my detour probably looked a little suspect.  The building was on a dead-end, so I really had no other reason to be down there.  It wasn't exactly the nicest part of town either.  He pulled me over, saw I was harmless, and then made up an excuse about speeding (he didn't ticket me or even give me a warning).    Since I don't always think the most clearly at 5 am, I stutteringly asked if this was about my explorations, and tried to explain my curiosity -- evidently not very well, because then he asked if I'd been drinking.  I of course pooh-poohed that idea, but I often worry about being given a sobriety test after working all night, if I would fail it out of fatigue (one would hope they'd use a Breathalyzer as well). 

But my real point is, where are these johnny-on-the-spot cops when I've got some asshole climbing into my backseat despite there being two other lanes to pass me?  Or when some dick needs to get into my lane WHATEVER THE COST and cuts me off, despite there being five empty car lengths behind me?  Nowhere to be found, that's where.  But pull ME over because I stopped to check out some unique architecture.  Yeah, I know.

Since I no longer need to hurry up and sleep, I now take my very leisurely time getting home (which drives the tailgaters round the twist -- yet they refuse to pass me, making me think it's less about being in an actual hurry and more about forcing me to go faster.  I don't take kindly to people trying to force their will on me) and NO detours. 

~*~

A few days ago I was completely harangued by a doctor in a dictation.  He started the report by saying, "I want you to call your supervisor right now before typing this report.  You people have been messing up my reports for years and I'm tired of it." 

Naturally that took me a little aback, but I wasn't about to call the supervisor without having an actual problem, and certainly not just because this guy told me to.  And for the record, I'd never done a report for this man in my life, so he wasn't talking about me specifically anyway.

Some dictators have what are called "standards," which are templates we can pull in for sections that are common to all their reports.  Most of the time these standards are numbered or otherwise easily identified.  This guy asked for one of his standards; he had six (three for each eye, right or left), and the broad, vague titles and very limited information that he gave made it virtually impossible to tell which one he wanted.  I eliminated one because he said, "NOT the one that uses this drug and this drug," and that was where his helpfulness ended. 

He provided a few more bits that would have fit into any of the standards, then signed off with "I hope you don't screw it up because you people are really getting on my nerves."

Do you know what's getting on MY nerves?  Slaving away for tuppence a day listening to doctors who apparently think we're all mind-readers, therefore it's not necessary to bother opening their mouths when they speak, or slow down instead of vomiting the report up in a single breathless stream of syllables that would make an auctioneer say "What was that again?", or stop chewing their lunch, or put some distance between themselves and the gaggle of shrieking, laughing nurses in the breakroom, or use a phone that doesn't cut out every third word, or not dispense portions of the report in between taking other calls while I sit and wait, making NO MONEY AT ALL, etc. etc.  THAT'S what's getting on my nerves. 

But I can't say that to him.  So I called my supervisor, explained the situation and his attitude, and asked her to please make sure I was using the correct standard.  She came to the same conclusion I did and okayed it, then said, "We've been dealing with this guy for years.  He's impossible."  She listened to the beginning of the dictation and sighed heavily.  "We've asked him to try to be more helpful and maybe number his standards, but he's apparently happier wasting five minutes lecturing us with every report." 

On a funny note, I did some reports by Dr. Shirley Nurse.  Dr. Nurse!  Sounds like Dr. Girlfriend from Venture Bros.  I need little moments like that to counteract Dr. Dipshit there (note:  not his real name).

~*~

I've got a whole saga about trying to buy an iClone, but since there are a few more chapters still waiting to develop, I think I'll wait.  Hope the suspense doesn't kill anyone.

I've been toying with the idea of this post ever since hearing the news about Prop 8 passing in California. I've put off writing about it mainly because I know it would be preaching to the converted. I know everyone on my F-list already supports gay marriage, and if you don't and somehow have been faking it up to now, well, don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out, because I'm afraid it simply wouldn't work out between us.

My initial reaction to the news, after disbelief, was of course anger. A simmering, festering rage which pretty closely resembled my general reaction to injustice of any sort. I spent a lot of time on Daily Kos, because I knew I would find many people who agreed with me. There seemed to be a lot of fingers being pointed there, so many to blame: The anemic, inadequate advertising of the anti-Prop 8 people, the complacency of liberal voters who just assumed everything would be fine without their input, worse still people somehow confused by the wording and thinking they were voting "yes" on gay marriage, of course the LDS who started the whole thing, but most disturbingly the African-American voters who evidently approved it to the tune of 70%.

This issue bothered me most of all, that the same people weeping in the streets after overcoming generations of discrimination would turn around and pass that oppression onto another group. Obviously I voted for Obama, not because he's black, but because I felt he was the far superior choice. But thinking about those black voters turning out in record numbers to deny gay people their rights tinged Barack's victory with an ugly shade of bitterness.

Which of course is utterly unfair. It's as absurd to say all blacks are homophobic as it is to say all Republicans are racist. I prefer to see the statistic as a function of religion, in that blacks tend to be bigger church-goers, hence more religiously conservative.

Who I blame most of all now is the stupid Californians who elected to give voters the power to amend their constitution by popular vote. THAT is the stupidest thing I've ever heard (in hindsight). This is why we have elected officials. Kay puts it best in Men in Black: A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals. Yes, yes they are, and they shouldn't be given such direct power, without any checks and balances, over such an important document as a constitution. As someone put it on the Kos, the purpose of a constitution is to protect everyone's rights, especially minorities who don't have the numbers to stand up to the majority in a vote. To allow a majority to deny people's rights in it subverts the entire spirit of the document, an argument I devoutly hope will be heard in many a California courtroom in attempts to reverse this appalling event.

The thing is, I know the war isn't over. As much as these religious hysterics wish the gay community would just give up and disappear forever, it's never going to happen. I know with absolute certainty that one day there will be marriage equality. What I'm not so sure about is whether it will happen in my lifetime. I hope Tery and I aren't finally making vows as shriveled, arthritic but inspirational 100-year-olds, but it's entirely possible. On that day I suppose we'll turn around and vote against people marrying their dogs, which seems to be the next logical step in the twisted minds of these religious types. Bigotry: pass it down.

I just wish, and I'm sure that I'm not alone, that I could sit everyone opposed to gay marriage down in a room, gag them (since that's the only way to get them to shut up) and make them put on their "listening ears," as Judge Judy puts it. In fact, I'd let Judge Judy deliver the lesson.

Lesson #1: IT'S NOT A CHOICE. Or I suppose it is a choice, inasmuch as people choose to act on their homosexual urges, just as others choose to pursue a heterosexual relationship. We can choose our partners intellectually, but it's our hearts and bodies that tell us who we're drawn to.

I never gave homosexuality a single thought until college. I remember having a schoolgirl crush on my preschool teacher (Vivian -- she was beautiful, I think we all did) as well as Leslie, a cute blond I would sit with on the bus every day and quietly adore (I can't begin to guess what she thought of it. We never talked at all, that I remember). Then from about second grade through high school I was all about the boys, 100% (apart from the occasional inappropriate but unrecognized tingling I sometimes got on sleepovers with my best friend Lisa).

Then, freshman year of college, walking to class I passed a girl who gave me a small, shy smile unexpectedly that rocked my world, pardon the cliché. It turned out my boyfriend at the time, Dan, knew her, had gone to high school with her, and introduced us. It wasn't long thereafter that I ditched Dan (he was a psycho anyway) and hooked up with Alice, my first girlfriend. It was thrilling, despite the fact we were both too shy to do more than kiss and hold hands. It wasn't until meeting my sister's roommate, Old Friend Bear, that I fell hard for a girl, but that's a whole other story.

So. I could have chosen to ignore my feelings of excitement when I looked at Alice. I could have kept dating Dan the bipolar nutjob (though I doubt for much longer). Would my life have turned out differently? I might never have met Tery, who I have not the slightest doubt is my soulmate and will be my life partner, legally sanctioned or not. On the other hand, perhaps I would have met someone else who gave me tingles, like Old Friend Bear, and if not her someone else. I might have spent my whole life denying what my heart and body was telling me. Many do. But when happiness, let alone of the lifelong variety, is so hard to find, why would anyone make that choice?

Lesson #2: GAYS HAVE NO INTEREST IN RECRUITING OR MOLESTING YOUR CHILDREN, OR FORCING THEIR BELIEFS ON CHILDREN OR ANYONE. We just want to live our lives and be happy, like anyone. I know it's hard to imagine, people not trying to control other people's lives, but we're out here. If what makes you happy doesn't hurt anyone or anything else, then that's all I care about. Try it sometime.

Lesson #3: MARRIAGE IS NOT THE EXCLUSIVE PROPERTY OF RELIGION. This cannot be repeated enough. Atheists can get married. Non-practicing Christians can get married. Drunk people in Vegas can get married with Elvis presiding. Why aren't religious types getting up in arms about these shenanigans? And if it really were all about the "sanctity of marriage," why aren't they working harder to persecute people getting divorced? And if people get divorced, THEN it falls squarely into the legal realm. What's that all about?

Because all they care about is what goes on in the bedroom and "one man and one woman," which is pretty damn funny when you think these people tolerated and even promoted polygamy at one time in their own history. But social attitudes change, and the church that wants to survive changes with them. Unless we're talking about the Bible, which is really all they do. Which brings me to the next lesson.

Lesson #4: STOP CHERRYPICKING THE BIBLE. We've all heard this argument, even I'm sure the Bible thumpers, but they choose to be willfully ignorant. An endless parade of Bible scholars has proven that the translation "abomination" carried very different connotations than it does today, ones that aren't nearly so grimly condemning, a crucial fact that isn't raised nearly enough. Someone once explained that basically any non-procreative sex was labeled that way back then, when the earth had a population of only 100 or so.

But even putting that aside, they also ignore the long list of other "abominations" in the Bible, such as eating lobster, shellfish, birds and even anything that walks on four feet. And a score of other forbidden activities that seem ridiculous nowadays, like not wearing polyblends or shaving a certain way. THOSE passages aren't meant to be taken literally, clearly, but the ones that suit their argument are.

It's a little like arguing with a ferret. Or a very petulant child.

Lesson #5: JUDGE NOT LEST YE BE JUDGED. These people scream on sidewalks that gays are going to hell. If this is true, then it's our business, and getting hostile about it isn't going to change our minds. However, I prefer to fantasize about fundamentalists dying and standing outside their version of the Pearly Gates, only to be told that there's no place for hateful bigots in Paradise. So sorry.

Lesson #6: BE HONEST, GAY MARRIAGE REALLY DOESN'T DIRECTLY AFFECT ANYONE ELSE'S MARRIAGE. HONESTLY. The minute someone gives me a rational, cogent, true example of how gays (or for that matter, anyone else) getting married affects their own relationship negatively, I'll respectfully concede the argument. Unless a lesbian has stolen the affections of your wife and they get married, that might be something. But then gay marriage would make everyone else work a little harder on their own relationships, and how can that be a bad thing?

I'm out of steam. My solution would be to label marriage as "A binding contract recognized for all legal purposes between two consenting, unrelated adults." Full stop. I didn't even throw love into it, how about that? That simple phrasing eliminates incest, marrying a minor, and bestiality. Can we all be happy with that? Probably not, since it will still allow teh horrible, horrible buttsex, and we all know that's what this really all boils down to. Those religious folks are right pervs, aren't they?

I'll leave you with this Harvey Milk video, which I defy you not to at least tear up at:

Ahhh, July Fourth...the holiday when everyone in America but me (and swankyfunk) get the day off to celebrate the birth of our country, and when the stupider Americans lose various digits after buying illegal explosives that shouldn't by right be sold to anyone but professional event coordinators.

Normally Independence Day is only a source of moderate irritation to me. But that was when I didn't have to work the kennels. This year the Fourth fell squarely onto my shift. Imagine taking care of 16 dogs. Now imagine doing it in Baghdad.

I could see a few public displays far off in the distance. These were not the problem. The problem was at least two neighbors behind the hospital setting off large (and quite illegal) shows of their own, only a few blocks away, not to mention still more across the street at the Taco Junior. I watched a few rockets with trepidation, as they seemed likely to land right on top of me.

Some dogs were completely unfazed by the noise, like this monster of a Bassett hound, Waylon Elvis.



Others didn't play it so cool, like Sharkey, a standard Schnauzer who attempted to climb on top of my head in terror. Or Sissy the chihuahua, who needed desperately to pee but had to do so while running back down the stairs. Poor things.

As much as I pride myself on having mastered the attitude of calm assertiveness preached by Cesar "Dog Whisperer" Milan necessary to be a pack leader (actually had it even before we started watching him), that only takes you so far when you're essentially a complete stranger to the dog, unfortunately.

I hustled through everybody as fast as I could, promising to make it up to them in the morning. Back inside, I followed Tery's advice and set up a radio in the ward to play soothing music for the dogs, although it took the better part of a quarter hour for us all to agree on a station. Finally I found the auditory equivalent of Xanax (lite jazz) and went about my work.

There seemed to be an abnormally high amount of emergency traffic whizzing by all night. As each one passed, I made a silent prayer that it represented another idiot mutilated beyond recognition. The air inside the hospital had the metallic stink of gunpowder even with all the windows shut.

By about 11 p.m. it seemed to be mostly over. I poked my head in the ward and actually heard some dogs gently snoring over the sound of the radio. Well, that wasn't TOO bad, I thought.

In the morning I got a bit of a headstart, looking forward to giving the dogs some extra quality outdoor time after our hectic evening schedule. My plan was working well until about 4 a.m., when, to my complete incredulity, the people behind us decided it was the perfect time to set off some residual mortars they had left over. Setting off personal fireworks at dusk on the Fourth of July is annoying, but at least in the celebratory spirit of things. Doing it at 4 in the morning is just you being a douchebag.

"God DAMMIT!!" I screamed at them, but they either didn't hear or didn't care. So, whereas I tried not to rush the dogs through as I had done previously, they still had to perform under a certain amount of duress. Why can't I work at a cat hospital?

But there was good to all this: A) At least I was making time and a half holiday pay. B) At least Honus, the beagle who makes my life hell even without a good reason and who had been boarding just the weekend before, had gone home. And C) I had my favorite dog, the dog I would steal if I thought Tery wouldn't notice, Baby Face the greyhound, who chatters her teeth when she sees me, stretches like a cat and just wants me to wrap my arms around her in a big hug. I love her so.



I also had this pair, Megan and Morgan:



They're Rottweiler/German shepherd mixes (how many different guard dogs can we squeeze into one body?) and obviously twins. The only difference between them is 3 pounds and the color of their collars, with no indication anywhere of which is which. Smart, huh? They snarled and barked quite savagely at me the first weekend they arrived, but now we're best of friends.

~*~

Our neighbors are still annoying, surprise surprise. Reggie has all but vanished since our little run-in, but occasionally we'll see Clarence, his father? older brother?...I don't know, but he's far less pleasant than Reggie and uses the balcony for EVERYTHING. He'll come home at midnight, get on the phone and carry on a conversation, you guessed it, out on the balcony. Tery told me he had a knock-down screaming fight with his girlfriend (?), on the balcony. It's like the 1000+ square feet of condo he's got behind the balcony simply doesn't provide the living space needed (despite being devoid of furniture). Thank god they're only renting -- if they owned, I wouldn't put it past them to stick the toilet out on the balcony just so he could feel a breeze up his ass when he takes a dump. Am I hostile? Sure. But some things are better not done in full view of all your neighbors, no matter how nice the air feels.

THIS JUST IN: Apparently they feel their balcony also makes an ideal staging ground for Roman candles. They set off two of them FROM THEIR BALCONY before Tery threatened to call the cops and they stopped. The city of Aurora won't even permit full-size barbecue grills on balconies, why on earth do they think it's okay to set off fireworks?? The HOA has been notified, I'm sure there will be a nice little fine in it for them. Neighborhood police, springing into action!

Then there's Tracey, our beloved FCW. We're still trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, even in the face of increasingly odd activity. Like the night Tery noticed she had filled the stairwell landings with computer monitors, so many Tery wouldn't have been able to leave if she needed to. Clunky old CRT monitors that she got from god knows where, to do god knows what with. Then Tery said 15 minutes later they had all been whisked inside her unit. Strange. Possibly suspicious.

She also has attached a little trailer to her Chevy sedan for transporting who knows what. Which wouldn't really bother me except when she isn't using it, she has it propped up between the curb and her car. Which also wouldn't bother me except that when she goes out she leaves it there so no one else can use that spot (our complex doesn't have assigned parking, which I thought was a good thing until now). And of course it isn't a spot out along the periphery of the lot where no one else ever parks, but a real primo spot practically in front of the mailbox. I guess she just isn't happy unless she's pushing legal boundaries somehow, though granted I prefer this parking infraction over the meth lab.

Tery tells me she noticed a towing company's ticket on her windshield, and although it apparently didn't do much in the way of immediately rectifying the problem, I feel better knowing someone else is stepping up to the plate. It's exhausting being the only stool pigeons in the complex.

~*~

Now, to finish on a happy note, I give you the boys:

Just to give us all a sense of closure (okay, give ME a sense of closure. I'm sure everyone else stopped caring about it long ago), here are the results of my fabulous movie quote meme:

3-way tie for first place: kavieshana, minikitkatgirl and velmaneuwirth. Well done indeed!

3-way tie for second place: bluemoon02, trappedinabay and vagynafondue. Not so well done, but I love you for participating at all.

No actual prizes, I'm afraid. Just the warm fuzzy feeling of knowing you've made me very happy.

Oh, the answers no one got, if you haven't already gone to IMDb:

1. One of the ugliest bitches I've ever seen in my life rolled up, and I'm not one to call women ugly, but I think this woman was, because she had a penis. 200 Cigarettes. IMDb didn't have my favorite quote from Martha Plimpton, "What, are they all just walking the streets like zombies because it's too uncool to be prompt?" One of my top 20 favorite movies, even though it might be uncool to say so.


2. At the beep please leave your name, number and a brief justification for the ontological necessity of modern man's existential dilemma and we'll get back to you. Reality Bites Another very guilty pleasure.


11. Philoméne likes the sound of the cat's bowl on the tiles. The cat likes overhearing children's stories. Amélie. Nothing guilty about it, this is one of the best movies I've ever seen.

~*~

Enough of that nonsense. Now for some neighbor bitching. Our neighbor with the murderous dog (Reggie, for the sake of future brevity), was having ANOTHER party this weekend. Never has so much entertaining been done with so little furniture. I've got nothing against parties, you can party like it's 1999, just don't make me listen to it.

As I was walking out to my car, I noticed him on his balcony chatting with a woman. Whatever she said must have been terribly exciting, because he suddenly turned towards the park and let out this very loud whooping "A-hooooooooooooo!!!" noise that echoed into the open space. He turned back in time to see my look of reproach before I continued on my way.

I don't understand people who make unnecessary noise. Moving furniture makes necessary noise. Drilling a hole or hammering makes necessary noise. Skydiving or riding a rollercoaster might inspire an impromptu "A-hooooooooooooo!!!" Standing and chatting with a friend, in my view, does not. I don't know if it's a guy thing or a Reggie thing, but it gets on my nerves something fierce. It's like he has to cause a disturbance to feel alive or something. This isn't an "A-hooooooooooooo!!!" neighborhood. You want to make noise like that for no good reason, go live on Colfax.

Tery told me the next day he approached her and assured her we wouldn't have any more noise problems from him. Sure, piss me off but apologize to Tery. I don't know why the change of heart. Perhaps he finally took a look around and realized he was the only party animal in the complex. We'll see.

~*~

My new big thing is recycling. I mean, I've alway recycled as much as possible, but recently I discovered the Shriners have recycling bins a couple of miles away from us that take nearly everything (i.e. glass, paperboard and junk mail), as opposed to Tery's work bin that only accepts cardboard, plastic and aluminum. So now about every two weeks I load up my back seat and drop it all off on my way home from work Sunday morning. I feel good doing it, and our trips to the garbage have been cut almost in half.

Recycling awareness is a double-edged sword, however. I'm happy to do what I can for Mother Earth, but at the same time the evidence of so many others who couldn't care less is all around. It's maddening. Even at the recycle bins, last week I saw someone had left an old, stained, torn up mattress by the bins. Okay, by whose definition is THAT recyclable? But since there's no regulating who comes and goes, people are free to do shit like that.

Which brings me to our own garbage bins. Every time I go out there they are full of cardboard boxes -- clean, new boxes that can easily be recycled. I pull them out as much as I can, but where does my responsibility end? Do I just do my part and not worry about anyone else? Because that's the precise attitude that got the boxes into the bin in the first place. Similarly I have a neighbor who once a month makes several trips to the bin carrying glass bottles (possibly beer, though who am I to assume?). I can hear them rattling around before being tossed in (none too quietly), and the noise is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me. Do I stomp out there and demand that he recycle? Where does my responsibility end?

I emailed our Homeowner's Association asking them to put something in the newsletter about the Shriners' bins, because it took a fair amount of internet work for me to learn about them. My request has been ignored as of this writing (this was 2 months ago).

However, there's a comical new set of rules posted on the bins now. About making sure bags are tied up tight so garbage doesn't fly around, and about breaking boxes down first. A.) No word about recycling the boxes, and B.) These monkeys can't be bothered to make sure trash ends up IN the bins. You really think a silly poster about rules is going to change anything?

Where does everyone else's responsibility begin?

~*~

Finally, my attempted foray back into Kung Fu. As I said last time, I really miss it, enough to try to find a DVD that would help me get back into it. The only one that looked halfway promising was by "Master Bob Klein." I decided to take a chance on it, despite Amazon reviews calling him a joke and the fact that he looked kind of like a porn star/internet predator on the cover.



It arrived this weekend. I skipped through it before heading to work to check it out.

I'm not sure I'll be able to use it, given that I won't be able to stop laughing.

Don't get me wrong: the things he says about reasons behind the moves and techniques sound familiar from my time with Jonas. And the moves look the same. The problem is the production values, which are basically nonexistent. His "studio" is a plywood floor that thumps hollowly with each step. In the first part his student is a chick from 1982, with fluffy hair, leg warmers and a Bedazzled sweater.

Even worse is when he moves outside for the actual "workout" section. In our classes with Jonas, most of us ranged from fairly normal to downright beautiful, graceful people. Then there was Chris. Chris was awkward, uncoordinated, stiff, and had a tendency to fart when he kicked. We all felt bad for Chris, of course no one made fun of him because we were all adults, but you could see the mortification written all over his face.

Apparently all Bob Klein had was a class full of Chrises; a tall drink of water who resembled Spike from Notting Hill (Rhys Ifans) who had the moves right, they just looked ridiculous on his beanpole physique, a shorter guy who tried to be too showy and was consequently forever overbalancing and stumbling everywhere, and a guy who looked like a wino they picked up off the street on the way over. The Master would explain the move, then they would all do it together repeatedly -- however, "together" in this instance does not mean "synchronized." As I puttered around getting ready for work, I'd glance at the TV and just burst out laughing. Not helping the situation was the soundtrack of cheesy synthesizer music that would have been more suitable for an episode of "Barney."

I hope the T'ai Chi DVD I ordered (NOT Master Bob Klein's) is better or this will all have been a waste of time.