Pls help im very ded n i need hlp

different pic for the Doper age game

2007-12-31T17:05:00.000-08:00

I changed the picture because the first one yielded astronomically high guesses. So the awful guesses in the beginning of the thread don't apply to this pic -- that was a different pic that I've now burned.

Hi guys

2005-05-30T23:21:00.000-07:00

Hey there, breathless public. If you are reading this, I am dead.

Got you there! Ha. (Not really dead.) Anyway, I suspect you are not reading this, since it's been roughly eight years since I've posted anything. Or rather two months, about the equivalent of a decade in webtime. Anyway, I just wanted to report that: 1) I am doing my new thing and am very happy 2) This is probably my last post since I am not taking time to blog anymore. However, in case you are concerned, this doesn't mean that I'm SOOO busy I can't even breathe, it just means that I have a certain amount of time for my own stuff, and I probably won't be using it for blogging -- much to your impoverishment, yes, and 3) I love you all and I would be exactly where I am today without you.*
Love,
anya

*Just kidding -- I'd be WAY better off. Oh well. JUST KIDDING. Really, you were instrumental.

I am a mountain-biking marvel

2005-03-28T17:58:00.000-08:00

I hit the trails yesterday with my mountain-biking dad (some people take up golf when they retire; not my pops, nosirree. He takes up rocks and dirt and disc brakes and full-suspension systems). I'm a road cyclist who has made only the occasional foray off said road. It's always been fun, but the thing is, mountain biking requires SKILLS not actually necessary for road riding. I don't know who you've asked, but chances are those in the know could tell you that I like most sports but that I have more heart than innate talent or, say, hand-eye coordination. Point being, I have spent more time off the bike than necessarily on it in my previous mountain biking excursions. I have always had a great time and I really have loved it -- bikes plus trees and flowers and all that sort of thing.

However: THIS time, something clicked. I was bobbing, weaving, juking boulders, jumping ditches, and navigating steep, rocky descents with ease. I have learned to keep my weight way back, relax, and not brake unless I need to, in which case I feather the front one and put a little more pressure on the back one, unless I feel my back wheel start to skid in which case I ease up, etc, etc. I started screaming, "I am a mountain biking marvel!" and I forced Pops to agree with me. I rode a bunch of stuff he told me to walk. At one point, where he had told me to walk, and where he NEVER rides, he assured me, I ignored him as usual. I was halfway through it when I did take an unfortunate spill off the side of a cliff, but I landed on a grassy knoll and all was well. Pops made sure to point to all the rocky places I COULD have fallen, but he kept missing the point that that was not where I HAD fallen. Why bring up what could have been? I say.

Now it rained last night, and tragically, the trails are closed. But they might be open in two more days, at which time I will again instruct them as to who owns them and their mother.

sleeping in

2005-03-23T16:55:00.000-08:00

For some reason, I can't get over the fact that I get to SLEEP IN right now. I forgot what it was like. In college, I never had early classes, and so I did my fair share of sleeping in. In law school, there were at least some days when I could sleep. But since I started working, they expect you to actually get there by like 9 or even 8. And if you have to get there by 9, you actually have to get up BEFORE 9. I have tested this out a lot of times, isolating the variables, and believe me, it's true. Anyway, then at some point I took up cycling and so I would start riding on Saturday mornings by 8 or 9. Strangely enough, I didn't mind getting up for that. Then on Sundays I go to church (not early, but still not late enough to just sleep until I wake up.) The result has been that I haven't truly slept in for years. To those farmer people and people who commute really far or people who get up really early for some other reason and who think that getting up at 7 IS sleeping in, to you I say, that is sad and I'm glad I'm not you. I also say that soon I will be you, but perhaps let's not dwell on that. Back to sleeping in, I really recommend it. Today I got up at 12 noon. Yesterday my mom brought me breakfast in bed at the ripe hour of 11 a.m. Take that.

mindless pointless stuff I must share

2005-03-21T23:01:00.000-08:00

The other day as a result of reading some posts about dentists and dental work and stuff I was thinking that it would be cool if we were like sharks and we got new rows of teeth when the old ones wore out, or just had multiple rows of teeth, or whatever it is that sharks have. Then we wouldn't need the dentist. A whole profession, poof. But actually, would we need him/her even more because we would have more teeth?? I bet that at least we wouldn't need nearly so many dentures and such, and that if a tooth was bad, we would just get it pulled out. And we would only need to get the first row whitened. It's an interesting line of thought that I plan to pursue when I have more time.

Anyway, I finally went to the dentist after no dental care for 2. 5 years, and even 2.5 years ago, my mouth wasn't completely tip-top. So during the x-rays and such I got a little worried about the verdict. Not because I fear dental work, but because I am paying cash for this and also I have limited time. However, for me, a decay-prone individual, I considered the damage minimal: one root canal and three fillings. I've had the root canal and the three fillings already, and now I'm just waiting for my permanent, tooth-colored crown. In the meantime I have a crazy sexy silver crown and I try to smile widely to show it off as often as possible. After I came home from my 9:00 a.m. dentist appointment today, I went back to bed until 12:45 p.m. It is really quite amazing, this no work thing. Only two more weeks, though, so I gotta live it up.

my next thing doesn't start until April 7

2005-03-09T18:11:00.000-08:00

So take that. It is so weird, this feeling of not having to do anything at a certain time for four weeks. I have a lot to do, but I can do it on my own schedule. On Monday I slept until 12:00 noon. That felt so good, on Tuesday I slept until 12:30 p.m. Whew. The next day I got up at 10:30 a.m., but I didn't get to sleep until 4 a.m. Moving day. I don't really live anywhere now for awhile. It's fun. Now I'm staying with my brother and his wife and three kids. Tonight is my nephew's birthday so I bought a Sponge Bob pinata and hung it from the chandelier. Update, a few days later: Bob took quite a beating. Birthday boy nephew just turned 14 . After letting the smaller two kids take a few token swings, he basically bludgeoned unfortunate SB to death with his bare fists, no blindfold. It wasn't really a traditional pinata situation, except for the fact that two of the kids ended up crying because they each got less candy than the other one. Anyway, back to me -- I like this not having to get up at a certain time thing. I could get used to it. But I better not, because starting April 7, I'll be getting up at 600 or 6:30 a.m. (also known as the middle of the night) for awhile.

last day at work!! woohooo!!!!

2005-03-02T10:46:00.000-08:00

Woooooohoooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Last day at work!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm so excited. I still have work to do today, but anyway at noon they're having a luncheon thing for me at a yummy Italian restaurant. I um think they're giving me a present and I hope I know what it is, but I'm not gonna jinx myself by typing it here. I hope it's what I think it is.

No one at work even knows I have a blog so it's OK that I write about this stuff here.....I feel a little bit weird about the lunch because at these things, my boss, who is a really nice and good guy, usually makes a speech about how great the person was, etc, etc. And although my boss is a good friend outside of work (I'm good friends with his son too, who is my age), our working relationship was sometimes strange. And strained. Our personalities are rather different and he was....eccentric. He would often forget that I'd told him something and therefore he'd feel like he was uninformed about something when really I'd told him already. He also has a hard time making divisions between our duties -- he would often want all of us to know about all aspects of Project X, so we would sometimes have to duplicate duties/knowledge, which seemed like a waste of time. For my part, I didn't really put my whole heart and soul into this job in certain ways. I feel bad about that. I could have worked harder at some points and so it will be embarrassing to me if he says how great I was when secretly I don't think he thinks I was THAT great and secretly we both know that I feel like certain things could have been run somewhat differently. In any case, on the whole, he's actually a great boss so I should stop blogging and finish the stuff I gotta finish. Don't worry, I'll update you on whether I got the thing that I think I might be getting.

PS Are blogs supposed to be funny and interesting? Or is it more like you're just supposed to spew out whatever random, boring thoughts you've had most recently? I think it's the latter. Phew.

attempt to explain leaving! moving! and selling all my stuff!

2005-03-01T13:17:00.000-08:00

I keep wanting to post about this, and then I decide not to because it's such a big thing that it can't be addressed in a blog post. But then it's all I think about lately, and I don't really feel like updating you lucky people with a bunch of stuff that seems frivolous in comparison. Maybe once I post about this I can go back to being frivolous again. I'm selling or giving away all my possessions, including my house. I'm leaving my job and I'm going into the ministry, a homeless, itinerant ministry as close as possible to the way that Jesus and his disciples lived in the New Testament. They left all and followed him, receiving no salary, having no home. Leaving the "cares of life" behind, I'll travel around, staying in one place for about a year (but moving among and staying with different people in our faith -- a different home every two-three days or so) with another, more senior (female) minister. For the rest of my life. Pretty non-frivolous, no?

I have felt called to do this since I was 13 years old and fought it with every fiber of my being, for about 14 years. Finally I came around about 5 years ago and have since been in the process of paying off my law school loans and enjoying the peace, joy, and happiness that has come with submitting to God's plan for my life. One of my aunts jokingly asked me if I have to vote Republican now.....the answer is most emphatically no. :-) NTTAWWT...well, I mean, arguments could be made that there is, but let's not go into that here.

I know most people don't understand what I'm doing, and to many it seems crazy and ridiculous and frightening and foolish and whatever else, but it is very real to me. We do it this way because that's the way Jesus did it. One of the many reasons that this way works perfectly is there's no organization, or outside funding, or structure, or collection plate, or buildings to maintain. I've grown up knowing ministers like this, carrying the gospel this way, my whole life, so it's not new or strange to me as a concept...but doing it myself is, of course, a whole different thing.

I've done a bunch of other stuff, done whatever I've wanted to, been a student, a lawyer, a traveling person with no job, and stuff in between. Some of that time, I've been miserable. All of that time, I've been unsettled. But the life I have within now and the lasting peace and joy I've known since making this decision (about five years ago) is something that cannot be denied. It is the right thing to do, it's my calling, it's what gives me peace and meaning, and it's the only path I want because it's the path for me. So there you go. If ya got questions, feel free to ask 'em.

having a bad friend, being a bad friend

2005-02-25T09:55:00.000-08:00

Auuuggh! I just got a call on my voicemail at work, from a woman who I was close friends with from about 1996-1998. I gradually realized she was toxic in certain ways, and I didn't want to be friends with her anymore. I won't go into them here, but suffice it to say she had a lot of emotional problems, was very self-absorbed, had been deceitful, had put me in some weird positions/situations and basically she needed therapy, badly. Close to the end, I told her about some of my issues with our friendship. She appeared to be listening. The next time we talked, she told me she had figured out the problem -- I was hard to get along with when I was on my period. Hmmmmmmmm.

So anyway, I gave up and stopped calling her or making plans with her. Then, on a whim, I called her to see if she wanted to come to my law school graduation. I shouldn't have done this, since I was not ready to be friends with her. She was happy I called (and she came). During the same phone call, she asked me to be her maid of honor at her upcoming wedding. ?????? We hadn't even spoken in weeks, maybe months. I didn't know what to do. In horror, I heard myself saying, "OK," even as in my mind I was desperately screaming, "No! No! What are you doing!? Why would you be her bridesmaid! You can barely stand her! No! No! No!" But I guess I was too afraid of her reaction if I said no. She could turn evil in a second and really hurt my feelings. She had, as someone else observed, "a highly developed sense of being wronged." Back then, I was less secure and a lot more afraid to tell someone something they wouldn't want to hear. I was afraid of what they might say to me. I have learned that a lot of what other people do and say is not about me -- it's about them. Anyway. I didn't know what to do about the wedding thing. So I did the only sensible thing. When I moved, all my numbers changed and I never contacted her. She had called me at my old number several times, but I never responded.
Now I'm in a different town, different job, and it's been five years since I've seen her. She left a friendly but hesitant voicemail and said she hoped I'd call her back. I know I need to call her. I'm glad she found me, because I wouldn't have known how to get in touch with her.

Update since I started writing this: I called her. She was very happy to hear from me. Me dropping off the face of the earth was the elephant in the living room that no one was mentioning for a few minutes. I broached the subject and she said, "Girl, I'm not worrying about that. I'm just glad you called me." That made me happy. It was actually really good to talk to her. She was pregnant and about to be married when we last talked. Now she's been married happily for five years and has two kids. She says her husband helped her through a lot of what she was going through at the time. Yay. Maybe we can pick up again where we left off... and maybe not....but in any case, I won't do that again. I'm glad she found me now, because pretty soon, it woulda been a lot harder to find me. I've thought about trying to find her several times and didn't ever get around to it. So I'm happy that a weird unfinished situation is tied up all pretty.

Leaving My Job! Selling My House! Selling My Car! Moving!

2005-02-17T12:05:00.000-08:00

I'm leaving my job and moving! More on that later. (Maybe.) After this week, I have one full week left plus three days at work. CRAZY! I'm excited about moving on. That's why I've hardly posted here, because I've been focused on this stuff. It's strange that I'm going. I'm trying to turn over work duties, projects, etc. and put a bunch of the stuff that's in my head into binders (probably should have done that before), etc. It's stressful, but mostly when I hear people talking about work stuff I'm glad that I don't have to worry about any of it pretty soon. Not that I don't like my job - I do - it's just not what I'm meant to do forever. I am getting clothes together and buying things and giving away other things and doing all manner of things in order to get ready to go. I will be selling my house for a little profit -- which will pay off my law school loans, woohoo! Anyway, that's that for all that right now. And THAT, for the 2.5 people who were wondering, is why I haven't posted anything lately.

Please update your records to reflect my figure skating skills

2005-01-28T14:20:00.000-08:00

Just now it was hailing outside, then pouring big huge raindrops and hailing at the same time, it seemed like (is that possible? hmmm maybe not). Nemo is getting BIG and he's stinking up the garage bigtime with all his poop. He's not trained yet. Lovely.

Went ice skating in Yosemite last Saturday. The sun was shining through the trees and huge mountain-rocks, and it was beautiful, and there’s a big open fire pit next to the rink, and it was lovely. But the point is that I skated on figure skates -- successfully -- for the first time. I used to in-line skate a lot, and played roller hockey sometimes, so I'm really used to allowing my heel to lift up and the front of my foot to go down -- you can when there's a wheel there. The first time I ice skated after in-line skating for years, I wore figure skates (with that evil ridged blade thing at the toe), and promptly fell flat on my face (I believe this is called a toe pick) like a million times. My hips were a bloody, bruised purple/blue and I was miserable. What was so annoying is that I could have skated on HOCKEY skates just fine, since they have the sense to curve up so you can don't have to keep your feet all flat. Ever after, I've rented hockey skates when I skate (like once a year tops), and all is well. At Yosemite, they only have figure skates to rent, imagine that. Well I wasn't going to sit and not skate, but I was very dismayed. I asked the guys working there if anyone had any hockey skates just sitting around, I begged and pleaded for them to be just kidding, they really did rent hockey skates - good joke, huh?!, I threatened to write my congressman, etc., but nothing I did made a pair of hockey skates manufacture themselves in my presence. SOOOO I got on the ice with a dumb pair of skinny shiny tan things, feeling all prissy and Kristi Yamaguchi-ish. Kristi might argue there was no resemblance at all. Whatever.

But then I made an amazing discovery. Gingerly at first, then with more confidence, I found out that I could actually do it!!!! That other time, it seemed that one second I would be skating, and the next second, I would be facedown on the ice. But somehow I was able to skate without moving the front of my foot down in that very bad way, and pretty soon I was zinging around the curves, crossing over, skating backwards (technically, skating backwards shouldn’t have been a problem anyway since that stupid ridgy thing is in the front), doing triple lutzes, spinning like a top, and throwing my friends up in the air and catching them. OK, that last stuff is not strictly “true” but anyway I was an ice-skating wonder, I tell you what. My roommate N and I weaved artfully between skaters, facing each other, one backwards and one frontwards, just like in Monster, except that we're not lesbians and I didn't go out and kill eight truckers afterward. It also seemed like figure skates support your ankle better. I will probably still get hockey skates in the future just because, but now my (considerable) skills are not confined to the hockey skate realm only, and this made me happy.

Happy Birthday, Dr. King

2005-01-17T17:01:00.000-08:00

There is nothing more dangerous than to build a society, with a large segment of people in that society, who feel that they have no stake in it; who feel that they have nothing to lose. People who have a stake in their society, protect that society, but when they don't have it, they unconsciously want to destroy it. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

Our nettlesome task is to discover how to organize our strength into compelling power.

If a man is called to be a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the host of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well.

I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become reality. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.

Violence as a way of achieving racial justice is both impractical and immoral. It is impractical because it is a descending spiral ending in destruction for all. It is immoral because it seeks to humiliate the opponent rather than win his understanding; it seeks to annihilate rather than to convert. Violence is immoral because it thrives on hatred rather than love.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

----quotes from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

You know,

2005-01-07T13:06:00.000-08:00

just because I have nothing interesting to report doesn't mean I don't have things to report:

I finally got some pretty dark pink curtains for my red, pink, and orange room. And a curtain rod. Currently I have old purple curtains nailed to the wall. But now when I go to put up the curtains with my handy dandy portable drill (drills are amazing inventions. They screw screws into the wall, easy and quick-like. It's crazy. Why didn't someone tell me about these before??), I can't find this one piece that goes into my drill. It's that round piece that you put in the hole in the front before you put in the actual drill bit. Where would such a piece go to? If that piece were missing, could I get a replacement piece from the hardware store? Do I have to buy a whole new drill? These are the questions that have caused my curtains to stay in the package on the floor of my closet for two weeks.

Nemo has been eating the sheetrock off the unfinished walls of the garage. I hope it's good for him.

Don't get the Blockbuster version of Troy. They cut out certain parts, as it were. Helloooooo, when a certain asspect, I mean aspect, of a movie is alluded to in a review, you expect the film to, you know, reveal it. Whatever!

Me and Tara Reid, we know how to put it down

2005-01-04T16:17:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!And Boldog új évet! Courtesy of MS Word Clip Art, that's Happy New Year in Hungarian, of course. Huge bulldogs all around, sweet. So, New Year's was fun. The 31st is my friend K's birthday so they usually have a combination party thing. We ate and played games and banged pots and pans outside at midnight. Yes cutting edge, yes dangerous, yes out of control, but we all escaped with our lives, believe it or not. A friend of mine went to a Valenzuelan party at which everyone got a cup of 12 grapes and everybody popped one grape per second into their mouth for the last twelve seconds of the year. Hmmm….this would seem to put a bit of a damper on the New Year’s Kiss, not to mention the New Year’s Countdown Out Loud Together...not sure how that all turned out...

Over the holidays, one of my cute, athletic, smart, and funny nephews took up - yes -CROCHETING. What a renaissance man he is. We got him a plastic needle (OK, mine's plastic too) -- "Mr.Blue" -- and he learned amazingly quickly. Mr. Blue goes in the door, etc., Mr. Blue goes out the door, Mr. Blue’s legs go over the top of the door frame, Mr. Blue should be in Cirque de Soleil, Mr. Blue goes in the door again. Or whatever. Anyway, I’m faster than he is. Of course, if that should change, I’ll have to off him. Um, he’s SEVEN. That would be embarrassing.

2004-12-30T17:48:00.000-08:00

Roxalana's Pad

Augh i'm very ded

2004-12-30T17:32:00.000-08:00

Ok not really but I am so drained from this day at work. Have you ever been really busy and then a new project lands on your head and so you spend all day on that project and it's as if you didn't even come to work to do all the stuff you thought you were really busy with? Yeah well that's what happened to me today. The bright side is that at this job, since I'm in-house, if it doesn't get done sometimes it just doesn't get done. The people in my office actually just told me to just go home since it's New Year's weekend and all. Unlike in a law firm, where you would have to hold your wedding in the lobby if a client was waiting for a document.

Soooo anyway, I insist before I go on doing SOMETHING I wanted to do, and that something, lucky enough for you, is posting a picture of Roxalana's cage, which I recently remodeled. Well, that is to say I bought hot pink new sand, which is good for reptiles to digest, and new wallpaper. Well, wallpaper. As she didn't have any before. I figure I'm on a roll with the very original and oh so heartwarming concept of posting a picture of your pet and all. And also there's a new pink hot rock but I don't know if you can see that in the picture. Roxalana is an Irian Jaya carpet python and she eats mice. It is fun to watch.

2004-12-29T10:44:00.000-08:00

Nemo!

Nemo the Magnificent

2004-12-29T10:19:00.000-08:00

We're getting a dog. My housemate's son is 3 years old and this will be his dog. He's a German Shepherd, black with white paws, really cute. He's about 10 weeks old. He's gonna live in the garage and outside. It's California, he'll be fine. The people already named him "Nemo" because he seemed runt-like, "lucky fin"-like, I guess, but now he's just as big as any of them. However, we're keeping the name to minimize adoption trauma.

Tsunami

2004-12-29T10:09:00.000-08:00

The death toll from the tsunamis is up to 80,000, I read this morning. And they worry that it may double from disease because of lack of access to clean water and stuff. I wonder what the last natural disaster was that caused this much devastation? I just read about two people from the US who were scuba diving during the tsunami and didn't even know anything was happening until they surfaced. There's a lesson there somewhere...
Speaking of tsunamis, I know a guy, 20, who has been saving up for a month-long trip in Thailand this January, just swimming, surfing, and hanging out. I remember thinking, "I guess he won't go now" -- actually, he left yesterday, and is going to spend the whole month volunteering, in construction and whatever else, helping to rebuild. Pretty cool...

YOUR NAME HERE

2004-12-23T22:59:00.000-08:00

Watch your sales increase and your profits rise! It won't be from paying me $100 and so I'll use your business's name for this post title, but I'll do it anyway, if you want. OK, just kidding. I just hate seeing the same post up here for more than a day or so. Quantity, not quality, that's the name of my game. Anyway I have no time nor space to post anything. I'm at one of my brothers' homes for the holidays and every three seconds someone else comes in here and looks at the screen, asks what I'm doing, and wants me to do something else. I have a shy bladder, in the literary sense. I need PRIVACY to create these works of genius. On the bright side, I can actually pee anywhere, any time, for any audience. Well, I've never actually done it for an audience. At least, not on purpose. At least, not a paying one. Anyway, heh, I guess that wraps up this subject...

whose idea was working at this time of year anyway

2004-12-21T11:43:00.000-08:00

I KNOW that some people don't get Christmas off at ALL (I used to be one of them! So there!) and furthermore that some people don't even have a job, and furthermore that some people eat lunch at the Costco sample tables every day, and some people don't vacuum unless they're going to have company, et cetera et cetera. But I'm talking about ME right now, and none of that applies to me, except for the samples. And the vacuuming.

Point being, I feel very cheated that Christmas is on Saturday such that the observed day off in my office is FRIDAY. First of all, although I am 32, I have still never fully recovered from the shock of learning that the working class, unlike the student class, does not get at least two freaking weeks off at Christmas/holiday time, or possibly six. Ludicrous.

Anyway, back to Friday -- who minds going to work on Friday?? Not me, unless for some reason I had some trip to the islands to go on or something that I could leave for earlier, which I obviously don't. Friday, the pain is almost over anyway AND there is a lot of fudge floating about, AND, it's Christmas Eve day anyway, AND it's a Friday, and half the people are gone anyway; you think we were really going to stay for the whole thing anyway?? Riiiiiigght. Giving us this day off to make up for the Saturday day off is like an almost completely worthless throwaway day off. Naturally, we should get MONDAY off. Friday, let the chips fall where they may, and Monday, when many people are suicidal about the return to laboring for a living, everyone can smoke a joint and stay in bed. Then, we have only a four-day week to get through till we get another holiday day off. Which, duh, of course, should ALSO be observed on the following Monday. Do I have to explain everything?!

So this is uncharacteristic of me, I guess

2004-12-17T15:48:00.000-08:00

in that I really cannot stand George W. Bush and that I usually do not see eye to eye politically with the people who tend to be the flag-waving, yellow-ribbon posting Support Our Troops people. Not that I don't support our troops; I do. But I don't support whatsoever the foreign policy of this administration. And our pre-war, war, and "post"-war strategies seem to have been dreamed up by -- oh, I don't have the strength for this.

ANYWAY, I have a troop pen pal soldier person. It's not HIS freaking fault that his President is the biggest idiot in the history of short, powerful white dudes (isn't he short? or was that just compared to Kerry?). I just got his name and address today, and I'm gonna write to him and send him cheery, funny notes and care packages. I think the guys who sign up for this are the ones who don't get that much mail or something so anyway. If you want to comment to this post and send any messages along to him, I'll add them to my letter(s). I can't tell you his name for his own security, but to give you some background on him, um he's a military dude, he probably has a canteen, maybe he took one of those pictures where he looks all serious in his uniform with a flag in the back, and um he gets up really early, I'm betting. OK I'm being silly because they really did not tell me anything about him except his name, so anyway there you go. But I think it will be fun to send him stuff. Maybe I'll make him a camo scarf!

a story about Walter, enemy of parking meters and hero of the people

2004-12-16T09:33:00.000-08:00

For one semester during law school I was a Certified Law Student, which means that through a law school clinic I could represent indigent clients in criminal court under the supervision of an attorney. Looking back, it was probably my favorite thing in all of law school. We represented clients on misdemeanors, although I think one can also do felonies in California in this context.

My first client’s “crime” – if you can call it that – I thought of it as more like a karmic good deed – was stealing quarters from parking meters. Yep, that’s right folks. I doubt that there are any real criminals in San Francisco, so of course it makes perfect sense that the cops and DA’s office would spend their resources arresting and convicting people who steal….quarters. From parking meters. (Just by the way, Walter explained to me that his procedure didn’t affect the time on the meter, and so he didn’t cause unwarranted parking tickets.)

The irony about this particular violation of the law is that the immediate “victim” of the crime is that public object of affection, known as the Department of Parking & Traffic. The DPT is more widely beloved even than MUNI (SF’s public transportation system that is similar to the efficient and functional system in Tokyo in that they are both on the earth). Now anyone who has lived in San Francisco knows that this is a fascist organization, possibly led by Satan, whose unrelenting persecution of the citizenry and cunningly-designed labyrinthine bureaucracy has caused a respectable share of insanity, general despair, and bankruptcy. I suspect that its ultimate goal is the mass and grisly suicide of all car-driving, -owning, or -parking individuals within city limits.

From no parking signs (or is it yes parking signs) whose interpretation actually requires a law degree, to street cleaning signs that promise (and deliver) $30 tickets between 12:00 a.m. – 2:00 a.m. Tuesdays and Thursdays (which of course means you can’t park there on MONDAY or WEDNESDAY night – gotcha!) to a $150 ticket for the tow (by a city-contracted towing company) of a non-running car parked too long on the same street because it was waiting for a scheduled tow from the same city-contracted towiug company so it could be donated to the “Give it to the Kids” program – yes, this really happened to me – the DPT’s practices surely violate several Geneva Conventions. The DPT is not, then, among the world’s most sympathetic victims of crime and mayhem.

But I digress. Anyway, to a person, those who heard about my client’s “crime” expressed regret that he hadn’t embezzled the DPT profits from fiscal year 1999 and bought crack for his entire neighborhood. Suffice it to say that while some people felt that Walter should be knighted, no one felt that he should – as the DA proposed – go to jail. I won't use this particular post for any pondering about the criminal justice system and the related issues of mental health, drug addiction, and homelessness.

With all this digression and such perhaps you are expecting something very amazing. I’d like to adjust any wayward expectations at this point. It was an interesting and rewarding experience that I thought I would recount. No one becomes president or wins the lottery. OK, now back to our regular program.

So, I don’t mean to paint Walter as some saintly individual; from his record, it appears that Walter was a bit too comfortable on the fuzzy side of the criminal code, mostly as a result of what appeared to be a substance abuse problem. Apparently he had gotten a few warnings about his parking meter habit, and I guess the police finally decided to take a bite out of crime by taking him in.

Anyway, during my first meeting with Walter, we went over the charges against him, which included the parking meter thing as well as “possession of paraphernalia for smoking crack” or some such thing. Knowing that you can smoke crack out of any old glass tube, and it’s not necessarily against the law to have a glass tube, unless of course there’s actual crack in it, and figuring we could get this part dropped at least, I asked, “What did this so-called “crack pipe” look like?” Walter helpfully reached into his pocket in the middle of my office at the law clinic, pulled out a glass tube with some burned residue of something that I’m sure lightens the mood and said, “Oh, just like this!” Ha. OK then. That clears that up, and, a picture’s worth a thousand words, as they say. All the same, you can go ahead and just put that away now, oh there goes the dean, how’s it going, sir, fine here, thanks so much.

Anyway, in my discussions with Walter, in reaching for some signs of stability to tell the judge about, such as residence, or employment, or family – we uncovered the fact that he had worked at a carnival that sets up in Chinatown/North Beach area for awhile each year and that it was in town right now. I went to the carnival director person and got a letter from him, stating that he would hire Walter back if he came to him for a job.

Armed with the letter, I eagerly went to court on our scheduled date. Walter didn't show. He also hadn't shown at our scheduled meeting at the law clinic, but I hoped he was saving his bus fare for the big day. I was able to reschedule and prevent a warrant, but I wasn't sure what I would tell the judge if he failed to appear again. There wasn't a way to call Walter, as he didn't have an address, much less a phone. So, armed with his mugshot photo, I took to the grimier streets of downtown and asked around.

Walter wasn't a handsome guy, at least anymore, but his photo really did not do him justice. Mughshots rarely do, as any visitor to the Smoking Gun can attest. I found myself in the unlikely position of defending him to laughing transients who wondered why anyone would trouble themselves to look for someone who looked like THAT. These comments from people for whom a shower is a luxury and a change of clothes a distant memory. After they stopped joking about the branches of the ugly tree, et cetera, several people did say they had seen him around. I felt like I kept just missing him. I never did find him on that trip, but he mentioned that he heard I was looking for him when he finally showed up at the clinic one day, unannounced.

I learned that for someone addicted to rock cocaine, too high or not high enough is a bad time for a court appearance. These things are hard to manage, as the time your case will be called on some date in the future is as hard to predict as how much crack you will have that morning. Although Walter seemed to be mostly passed out while we waited through the calendar, he was able to perk up during our appearance. We got the paraphernalia charge dropped, the theft charge reduced, and his sentence cut to probation. Considering that the DA was recommending something crazy like three months locked up, I considered that a victory, and Walter definitely did. As probation is one misstep away from losing one's freedom, I did worry about what would happen the next time he decided to take $1.25 that didn't belong to him. However, Walter had a plan to go to somewhere in Southern California, where I think he had some family. I hope he made it.

in Japan they have some weird toilets

2004-12-15T11:57:00.000-08:00

I don't just mean the traditional kind that are on the floor so you get to squat - like a urinal on the ground - although those are fun.

I mean they have these extremely computery, digitaly, many-fangled contraptions with all sorts of inscrutable symbols, pastel-colored stick figures, and mystery functions. There are controls whereby you can warm the seat, cool the seat, have a bidet, flush, go for a swim, and do a lot of other things that I don't know why you'd want to combine with going to the bathroom. Not all toilets that I saw were like this - some were your standard flush with a silver handle type thing, or push a button on the top of the tank, but many were really rather confusing (at least to me). Of course, everything in Tokyo seems to be very digitalish, including the vending machines that dispense hot or cold canned drinks out of the same machine (cool), and automated trains that are always on time and working (we all understand that the Apocalypse will come before this happens in San Francisco).

With this in mind it is easy to understand how that in the subway restroom one day, as I sat there for a while, pondering the myriad buttons at my disposal (heh) and wondering which one might actually flush the contents of the toilet bowl, I finally settled on a likely-looking panel that flashed red and seemed bigger than the others. I pressed the button firmly, and stood up confidently, pulling up my pants and waiting for the quiet, respectable flushing sound to commence. Instead, the red button began flashing faster, and the airwaves were assaulted by repeated high-decibel squeals in rapidly-changing tones, not unlike an air raid siren sampling a violent video game. With astute logic, I rapidly ascertained that I had actually pushed the automated subway bathroom alarm, the one that indicates I AM HAVING A HEART ATTACK ON THE TOILET AND I NEED IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE AND WIDESPREAD ATTENTION.

Without stopping for the standard hygiene-related activities, I raced out of the bathroom, found my waiting friend and shoved him into a subway train soon to depart in the opposite direction from our destination. As the doors closed I noticed at least five uniformed, grim but determined-looking subway employees descending on the screaming restroom, ready for the life-saving task ahead of them. They would probably have efficiently taken out my appendix if necessary. It was a narrow escape.

the ugly hat

2004-12-14T16:55:00.000-08:00

Usually my posts are earth-shakingly significant. This one is no different. Anyway, one time I went skiing with a bunch of people, including one of my brothers. Middle Bro was wearing a rather --- interesting hat/beanie/touque thing. It was not so much a fashion disaster as a state of emergency. Anyway, in true Middle Bro fashion, he didn't care what everyone thought of his hat, since he liked it, and so he wore it cheerfully all day.

At the end of the day, as we were leaving the park, I remember that Middle Bro was receiving some additional feedback regarding his headwear. In more Middle Bro fashion, he started speaking to a total stranger as if they were best of friends. To a random, pretty woman, he said, pointing to his head, "What do you think of my hat? Isn't it a nice hat?" She smiled at him, seemed to look up at his hat and then look him in the eye, and said, "Yes, it's very nice." He trotted off happily, exclaiming "Hey! You guys! SHE likes my hat! See that woman, she said she likes my hat!" I looked at her again and realized she was a woman I'd seen earlier that day --- skiing with a guide. At the time she'd had a vest on that said BLIND SKIER. I heard her friend laugh and say to her, "I don't think he knows how insincere you were..." I guess you know it's time to give it up when a blind person is the only one who likes your hat.

Some of my best friends are women

2004-12-13T09:45:00.000-08:00

As if we are not interesting enough, here are some interesting tidbits of information about some women that you may or may not know:

*In 1873, Belva A. Lockwood had completed her studies at the National University Law School, but the school refused to give her a diploma because she was a woman. Finally she wrote a letter to President Ulysses S. Grant, who was also the President of the school:

"No. 432 Ninth Street., N.W.,

"Washington, D.C., September 3, 1873.

"To His Excellency U.S. Grant, President U.S.A.:
"SIR,---You are, or you are not, President of the National University Law School. If you are its President, I desire to say to you that I have passed through the curriculum of study in this school, and am entitled to, and demand, my diploma. If you are not its President, then I ask that you take your name from its papers, and not hold out to the world to be what you are not.

Very Respectfully,

Belva A. Lockwood

A week later she received her signed diploma.

Stuff about Marie Curie:

*Marie Curie almost didn't get her name on her first Nobel Prize -- the one she shared with her husband and another man, even though she did most of the work -- because she was a woman. They listed her as "Madame Curie" although she had a doctorate.

*Dr. Curie apparently had no idea that radium, with which she worked with her whole life, was dangerous, or else she ignored the signs. She slept with a vial of the blue glowing radium beside her bed each night. Many of the "Radium Girls" died of cancer. They were girls who worked painting radium on tiny watch dials so they would glow in the dark, licking the tiny paintbrush between strokes. Dr. Curie, her daughter, and her son-in-law all died from (complications due to) exposure to radium.

More stuff about the above in case you care:

Lawyer Chick

Marie Curie

I so suck at crocheting

2004-12-08T16:17:00.000-08:00

There's no other way to say it.

My friend L had the coolest, most beautiful scarf on the other night. It was brown with purple and green fringy stuff - it would have cost like a million dollars in the store. My rooommate N and I found out L made it herself! For $8 of yarn. So of course we came over the next day to learn to crochet too. We'll have as many scarves as we want, in every color imaginable! We can make all our Christmas presents! We can sell them on ebay! We can rule the world!

Suffice it to say that although we started at the exact same time, N's scarf is roughly the length of a football field while I am still on my fourth or fifth row. I mean, it's really probably like my 20th row, but there are only 4 or 5 actual rows that actually EXIST since every so often I notice there are way too many loops or not enough or something and I have to tear it all out. OK, mine has more rows than that, but seriously it's about 7" long -- N's is almost a scarf already. "I think I'll be done with this one tomorrow!" she said perkily, absentmindedly typing a paper and plucking her eyebrows while her fingers nimbly wove three inches of scarf every ten seconds or so. Sigh.

Apparently I come from a long line of people who bite at this stuff. Neither of my grandmothers knew/know how to knit or crochet. My mom says she learned how to knit and forgot three times. I can vouch for this, as last year she tried to "teach" me to knit at Christmas time:

Mom: OK, see you go like this, then you put it over here...no, wait. OK, start over. You loop around, here you go, now I've got it..wait a second here....this silly thing.
Me: What are you doing?
Mom: I'm just starting it off here for you. It's called "chaining." See, first you have to start it off and then you knit from that.
Me: Um, OK. Do you know how to start it off?
Mom: Of course I do! See, I'm doing it, here, OK, now where does this string go? Oh, I'm all mixed up. Anya, I'm no good at this stuff! Do you know I learned to knit and forgot three times?
Me: Yes.
Mom: OK, well anyway, just let me do it myself for a minute and then I'll remember. OK, take your yarn like this...
Me: Like this?
Mom: Yes -- no. Let me see. Yes.
Me: Two strings hanging down?
Mom: No, two strings?! Why would you have two strings hanging down? What, this extra one's just hanging out there? You only have ONE.
Me: Oh, OK. I thought you had two.
Mom: OK, let me go back to my own needles now and show you how to go...
Me: You have two strings!
Mom: I do? Oh, yeah, I guess I do. Yeah, well, I mean, well, you need two strings.
Me: Maybe I could get this plant here to teach me....

At this point we wisely gave it up.

So! It is apparent that I have no natural talent for crocheting. I actually have what would appear to be a severe learning disability for crocheting. However, I am determined to make a go of it. My scarf, though it doesn't strictly have the same NUMBER of loops on every row (the Nazis were really into everything all neatly in a row, you know), is going to be very very pretty. It's blue and sea-foamy green and turqoisy with a hint of light purple. It would cost many dollars in the store. So ha! By this time next(leap)year, I'll be sportin' it proudly.

100 guilty men, 1 innocent man, and all that

2004-12-08T16:11:00.000-08:00

At some point I'll post some cites to back this up, but in the meantime, let's just pretend that I know everything:

1) Eyewitness testimony is one of the LEAST RELIABLE types of evidence
(because our memory of what we have seen is very inaccurate --- our brain makes up missing pieces, and details, events, etc. can be suggested later and "inserted" into our brains and made a part of our "memory." The insertion can take place through participating in or hearing conversations about the events, looking at pictures, re-visiting the "scene," etc.***

2) Jurors consider eyewitness testimony one of the MOST CREDIBLE/RELIABLE type of evidence.

3) [Insert any race here] people are generally not good at distinguishing or recognizing the faces of people of [insert different race] heritage.

If the above is true, then in criminal cases there must be many "eyewitness" identifications of people that are incorrectly made. And these bad identifications are probably given undue credence by jurors. And the wrong guy is probably convicted a lot. DNA evidence has freed a lot of people lately, which seems to indicate that, for whatever reason, the wrong guy in fact does get convicted, all too often. This is troubling.

***Have you ever looked everywhere for something and imagined its color in your head? I've been loooking EVERYWHERE for my bright orange Black & Decker drill case. Just yesterday I finally found it, but you know what? It's not orange. It's BLACK. It has one orange buckle thing. The drill ITSELF is orange, yes. I transferred the drill & buckle color to the case in my mind, and I would have sworn -- ha! I would have testified under oath that it was orange. I also told my roommate that I was looking everywhere for my ORANGE drill case. She didn't say, "Orange? That thing is black!" She said, "Hmmmm, I haven't seen it." When I found it, I said, "Hey you know my drill case? I thought it was orange. It's really black." She said, "It is? I was imagining it orange!" If I had told her I was looking for my black drill case, what do you want to bet she would have imagined it black (as it really is)? We BOTH would have testified under oath that it was orange. I don't think we would have even thought of the color as an issue in question at all -- we would have had no idea we were lying (is it lying if you think it's true?). TWO EYEWITNESSES, SAYING THE SAME THING. You see?

2004-12-07T08:47:00.000-08:00

This is my pet snake. I am glad I'm not a mouse.

The Wildflower ; this is probably interesting only if you ride bikes

2004-12-03T15:43:00.000-08:00

This summer I did a century ride (100 miles), called the Wildflower, with some of the folks in my cycling club. If you'd like to relive it with me, in great and excruciating detail, it is your lucky day:

At the last minute, I joined 15 or 16 of my comrades to do the Wildflower. Although I grew up in the town where this is held, I never cycled back then, except around town. It was fun to do a century along the same roads I'd been on as a kid, looking for picnic spots and swimming holes. The food was really good, but since I'd heard so much about how good and gourmet it was, I think I was expecting waiters and linen tablecloths or something.

The first hill, a 4-mile loop up Humboldt road, was an evil, pothole-laden and deceptive gradient, and it made me feel slower than your grandmother trying to make a left turn when straight has the right of way, and I remember thinking, "How can I possibly do 100 miles when my legs are screaming bloody murder the first time we get above sea level?!?" However, the Hill Possibly Designed by Satan rewarded us with an almost-screaming descent, and after that, the roads were much better, and much prettier.

Shady, tree-lined Honey Run Road follows the curves of a creek up to a cool and historical Covered Bridge. After the Bridge, the climb gets steeper, and the shade gets scarcer. I heard a few folks opine that the road to Paradise (the town at the top) was no paradise... Anyway, it was windy and steep in parts but still fun. Photocrazy (company that takes pictures of people during events and posts them on the web for you to buy) chose to set up at a stretch that was very close to the top of the (big) hill, but not at the crest, so we were raggedy and sweaty and cotton-mouthed, and still climbing, when we were supposed to smile and look sexy. Right before the top they had the nerve to put up a sign that said "Slow Down." Yeah, I WAS going to blast up this mountain range at 22 mph, but since you asked...

Howard, a cousin of somebody with us, flew in from Washington to do this ride. Before the ride started he told us numerous times of the many thousands of miles he’d ridden, how “Seattle to Portland” (200 miles in 2 days, or 1 day if you’re a little sick) is not that hard, and about how superb and otherwise Navy SEAL-like he was. He looked like he weighed a good 250, so I figured maybe he was one of those sleeper cardio-fit guys. Around one curve on the side of the road up to Table Mountain, I saw Howard half-standing, half draped all over his bike seat, looking like his heart rate was roughly 300. A passing cycling yelled out, “You OK?” Howard didn’t notice me (someone who knew him) also riding by. With a weak lift of his hand he tried to wave in a cool-guy manner and quite unsuccessfully attempted to twist his drooling grimace into a smile. “Thanks, just waitin’ for my wife, man,” he said. I let out a surprised guffaw that I quickly tried to change into a cough and rode on by. Poor Howard.

The fabled wildflowers blanket the top of Table Mountain. “Fabled” is the operative word here -- I think they must have bloomed too early this year or something. I counted like three or so. Anyway, as we climbed, I remember thinking that it sure was hot for April 25th. We heard later that the temperature set a heat record for the day. Although it was only about 85 or 90 F, I heard that the temperature coming off the pavement was 99, and I'm telling you that going up Table Mountain Road, it.was.hot. Coming around one curve, I saw one poor guy throw up at the side of the road, and several people walking their bikes. I guess the combination of the heat and the climb, my own relative lack of conditioning, and, I realized later, a caffeine deficiency (I hate it when I forget to shoot up) was giving me a headache that threatened to turn evil. Mostly I headed it off by hydrating a lot, but at one point I really wanted to throw my bike in the back of the sag wagon and ride on up in style. I did stop by the side of the road, twice, for a couple of minutes each, to let my heart rate get down to a calm 180, but still. Luckily, all good things come to an end, and so do hills. At the lunch stop they had run out of turkey sandwiches, so I chose ham instead of duck paté. (Really.) But they had good cookies.

The last 25 miles were somewhat hot and quite headwindish, but I was so happy not to be climbing anymore that I didn't care. Also, four of my cycling club homies and I kept up a lovely pace line for the whole 25 that really helped get us home. At the fairgrounds we ate yummy chicken and salad and some rice-with-sweet-spices dish and bread and ice cream sandwiches and, for those so inclined, Sierra Nevada ales and such. All things considered, it was a lovely ride, with good views, good food, and good sweaty fun.

2004-12-03T15:28:00.001-08:00

Alvira Holtum, Champion Juggler

I have a relative named Cannonball Holtum, a perfomer who caught cannonballs for a living and performed other miraculous feats such as holding, with arms outstretched, two horses pulling in opposite directions, and other strongman stuff. He performed in his own shows and in circuses, etc., in Europe and the US, including a "most successful" two month run at the American Roof Garden (above the American Music Hall in NYC) in 1893. His daughter, Alvira Holtum, a champion juggler and other stuff-er, sometimes performed with him.

ebay mania

2004-12-02T10:07:00.000-08:00

So I have a regular job and everything, but I've always thought it would be cool to buy stupid stuff at Goodwill/clean out my closets, and sell the stuff on ebay, so I can have extra money to use for stuff like traveling. So far I've sold:

Hawaiian dress, $1 at Goodwill; sold for $5.00
Russian dress, $30 (OK, I bought this in Russia), sold for $75.00 (resulting in interesting correspondence with buyer who wants to go to Russia)
Eddie Bauer rain poncho, $6.00 at Goodwill, bidding is at $11.50
Anyway, as you can see, I'm well on my way to riches and fame, and it's fun too.

Farzad Story, Part Two: The Customers Unite

2004-11-29T17:32:00.000-08:00

There was an awkward, stunned silence. The other servers and I stopped our usually-constant movement and looked around uncertainly. Someone went after Farzad. I didn’t know what to do. And was I supposed to continue to serve this boozed-up bigot? Finally someone said loudly, “That was very rude – why would someone ever say such a thing?” Someone else answered, “Only an inconsiderate [something or other] would do that.” Others chimed in, addressing him directly, asking who he thought he was and expressing strong disagreement with his idiocy. Boozy Bigot yelled out a stupid response or two, causing his wife to sink further in her chair. What was interesting – and gratifying – was that absolutely no other conversation or activity was happening in that room except for that related to the situation. No one was attempting to carry on and pretend it hadn’t happened, as people are sometimes wont to do after an event – no matter how unsettling – that does not directly involve them.

Someone shouted, “If you feel that way, then you should leave.” He yelled back, “I don’t have to leave! I’m not finished with my dinner!” Someone else shouted, “Well, I’ll PAY you to leave!” “Yeah, we’ll pay for your dinner!” “Yeah!” “Oh yeah, it’s worth anything to get this loser out of here!” “Where’s his check? We want his check!”

My cue. Nervously glancing back at my customer, and hesitating for a second (out of loyalty to him? That corporate customer-is-always-right stuff is deeply ingrained), I grabbed the check out of my pocket and handed it to a man in the center of the room. He yelled out the total, and said, “I’ll put this much on it!” Somebody else said, “Here, I’ve got some!” The energy in the room was contagious as I ran around grabbing cash from the ever-growing number of hands waving in the air. The whole restaurant staff (except Farzad) had stopped working and was gathered around to watch the unfolding scenario.

Man with Check shouted, “OK, we’ve got it!” “What about the tip?” someone else yelled. “Yeah, get her a tip! Make it a big one, she had to deal with him!” (He had actually been no trouble until now, but no point mentioning that at this juncture.) “Here, I’ve got the tip!” said another. I stuffed the check and the money, enough for a nice fat 20%, into my apron and everyone looked expectantly at Boozy. I saw his wife’s stricken face and I felt sorry for her, especially. She had to live the rest of her life with him (maybe) and furthermore, the configuration of the half-booth was such that she couldn’t even get out if he didn’t move first.

“I’m still eating!” he protested, but it was half-hearted at best – he knew he was done for. “Get him a To Go container!” yelled the masses. “Yeah! A To Go container!! Get him out of here!!” Hastily I grabbed a take-out carton and put it on his table. His wife scraped the food in as fast as humanly possible and finally he lumbered to his feet. As he made his way to the door, cheering erupted. The unhappy couple left the room to roaring cheers and loud applause. It seemed like a scene from a movie – one of those unrealistic moments where the viewer must suspend disbelief because everyone knows that a crowd of strangers doesn’t spontaneously burst into applause, let alone oust a man from a restaurant just because he’s a jerk and a racist.

After he left, the crowd called for Farzad. They wanted him to come back, and they wanted to hear the song that had been so rudely interrupted. It was not as if they were demanding their entertainment – the sense was that they didn’t want Boozy Boy to have any hint of a victory. A man who didn’t want to hear a song if it wasn’t in English and especially not if sung by a dark-skinned man from some “other country” was not the entertainment coordinator here, no sir.

We went back to the office and told Farzad that they were all asking for him, and that they wanted him to come back and sing. He looked sad and lonely, and he sort of shook his head “no” and stared at the floor. We tried to tell him about what had happened, and a little bit of light came back into his eyes. He couldn’t believe that the customers had actually paid to get rid of his heckler. When he heard the customers yelling his name, he agreed to come back. He entered the room to boisterous applause. He sang the beautiful song again, from start to finish, uninterrupted. That time it did make me cry.

pls hlp im very ded nd i need hlp

2004-10-13T18:01:00.001-07:00

I named my blog after this because of its great importance. Please do the right thing with this one! It only takes a few seconds of your time to forward this, three times, to everyone you've ever known.

From: "ihavenohead" headless@hotmail.com
To: havingbabiesforeva@hotmail.com, poptartsarecows@hotmail.com, ihatemoney@hotmail.com, carsrunoverhats@hotmail.com, no-one_likes_me@hotmail.com, foam4eva!@hotmail.com, hitler_is_my_brudder@hotmail.com, dead_people_make_love@hotmail.com, cats_are_pretty_obvious@hotmail.com, kites_suxx@hotmail.com, my_mums_a_preying_mantis@hotmail.com,i_was_born_a_lesbian@hotmail.com,
rabbit_shat_on_my_mom@hotmail.com, Cats_smell_like_butter@hotmail.com, catz_at_hotmail_suxx@hotmail.com, i_smoke_pot_nd_im_a_retard@hotmail.com, caroline_is_obese@hotmail.com, genatels_of_moms@hotmail.com, k?k@hotmail.com, 10x_for_fet@hotmail.com, dancing_queer_monkey@hotmail.com, i_am_a_cool_demon_who_kills_babies@hotmail.com, fantasy_dragon_farting_princess@hotmail.com, ghengis_khan_killed_flys@hotmail.com, i_sell_porn_for_sex@hotmail.com, sex_is_monkey@hotmail.com, rockpile_for_sperm@hotmail.com, stephen_is_annoying_my_dog@hotmail.com, carlkurmi_is_ghey@hotmail.com, sour_hairballz@hotmail.com
Subject: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: k
Date: Sat, 18 Sep 2012 11:56:24 +0200
+954655437-76548-765470

pls,

this kid

is a poor child

who is dying

of toe cancer,

he gains

1 hitpoint evry e-mail

that is sent

send dis 2 all of

yor frnds and he will sur5,

if you dnt, he will die

10q

ps: you will die if you ignore this

PS from me (anya): the picture of him doesn't come out on here, and it's just a drawing of him that someone did, but he looks pretty bad.

The WinCo cake - not very interesting (as Rob would say)

2004-10-13T18:01:00.000-07:00

For my parents' 40th Anniversary party, my mom had ordered a special cake. The day of the party, my dad and I went to pick it up at WinCo, a warehouse-type grocery outlet. When we arrived, there was no cake for us at the bakery. Party in two hours, no good. As a replacement, I asked the woman working in the bakery to decorate one of their standard sheet cakes with some simple words such as "Happy 40th Anniversary." She told me that they had a 48-hour advance notice requirement for cake decoration. To be fair, I think she may have thought I was requesting more decorating thatn just the words. Arggh...I explained very carefully that we HAD given them 48 hours' notice...we had in fact given them a WEEK'S notice...but since they hadn't had the notion to actually MAKE the cake, we were in a position of needing one on shorter notice. She agreed to have someone write the words on the cake and we waited while that was done. I should have been much nicer. No excuse, but that 48-hour notice thing really got me. Sort of a retail Twilight Zone moment.

Back at home: Explain the fiasco to my sister-in-law. Finish with, "That's the last time we order a cake from Winco!!!" Puzzled look from sis-in-law. "W-Winco?" she asks, expression changing from bewilderment to amused horror. "Your mom said the cake is at COSTCO!"

Oh, dear. Well, that would explain why WinCo hadn't miraculously had a Happy 40th Anniversary cake just sitting around in case we stopped in. Augh -- painfully remember my explanation of the "week's notice" concept through gritted teeth, irritation not hidden, to the poor bakery lady. Go to Costco to pick up Cake #2. Upon return, recount cake story to my mother. Mom feels very bad about how I've treated the bakery lady. Poor bakery lady, not at fault in any way, victim to our collective stupidity/lack of communication, and my rudeness to boot.

Mom insists that I call the bakery lady to apologize. OK, OK, I will, I say. Half-hour later, Mom asks if I've called yet. No. Mom dials phone and hands to me. Wonderful thing happens: I apologize profusely and explain the mix-up. Tell her that regardless of any sort of mix-up, I should never have been rude and am very sorry. She is unendingly gracious, accepts my apology, thanks ME profusly for calling back, and warm fuzzy feelings zing back and forth across the phone lines. We wish each other a great day and a happy life, and hang up somehow feeling like best of friends. The good feelings we have in connection with this incident are such a nice contrast to the not-so-good feelings we had before that I sense we are both actually sort of glad it happened, and that our faith in our fellow human is somehow restored or something.

Moral of the story: Never force your mother to order her own anniversary cake.

Farzad Story, Part One: Booze, Bigotry, and Belligerence

2004-10-13T18:00:00.000-07:00

I put myself through college working as a server at Lyon's Restaurant. Lyon's used to have these fairly cheesy "clubrooms" with a full bar, live music, and servers who wore better uniforms than the coffeeshop-side people. In my clubroom we wore tuxedo tops and bow ties. Like I said, cheesy.

Anyway, one of my managers was a guy named Farzad and he had a really beautiful voice. I think he had sung professionally with his brother or something. He was from Iran and spoke Farsi. He was sort of roughly handsome with strong features and dark chocolate skin. Every once in awhile, at our request, he would come up and sing some beautiful, romantic song in Farsi. Sometimes he would also sing it in English. I suppose the customers loved it -- I never really thought about them. I loved it. His rich, full voice and the mournful beauty of the songs sometimes made me want to cry.

One Sunday we had a full clubroom and Farzad agreed to sing. He was sort of shy about singing in the restaurant, but he sometimes would, if he wasn’t too busy. This town was fairly homogenously white & Eurocentric, but as it was a college town, people were not completely unexposed to broader culture.

A few minutes after he had begun, I heard a loud, alcohol-soaked voice from the other side of the room, yelling. It was one of those things that is incongruous and hard for the brain to place at first. Why would someone be yelling? In the middle of the song? His words took on meaning quickly. "You shouldn't be up there singing that.....I don't know what this is....what are you singing for...can’t even understand what you’re saying….why don't you [I can’t remember exactly what he said here; his meaning was “why don’t you go back to your country”]...is he the manager? What is he singing for...." I looked around in horror and saw the owner of the voice, a sixtyish, redneck, alcoholic-looking good old boy, moderate gut, bolo tie, belt with a buckle, and polyester slacks with a crease down the pant leg, looking like the kind of guy who probably never left Butte County in his miserable life, yet sure that all his strongly held political and social opinions were wisdom from the good Lord himself. In dismay I realized he was in my station. His mousy wife sat next to him, silent and mortified.

Farzad's voice faded away. The look on his face broke my heart as he mumbled something about being sorry and that he wasn't going to sing anymore, stepped away from the mic, and disappeared down the hall to the manager’s office.

To be continued...

I do not like cats at all and I also hate them

2004-10-01T16:51:00.000-07:00

I don't like cats, at all. No sirreee, I do not like them. I also don't like it when people try to make me hold their cats or like their cats or usually even share zip codes with their cats. Why do they want me to do this?

If I had something you hated (like telemarketers) and you told me you hated them, or even were actually allergic to them, would I say, "I know you hate telemarketers," while inexplicably trying to make you cradle the phone in your lap and continue blithely and cheerfully, "...but MY telemarketer is not like OTHER telemarketers. In fact, MY telemarketer is really not like a telemarketer at all."? What if this very thing happened a lot to you in connection with telemarketers and their owners and in fact you had heard many variations of "Trust me, my telemarketer is a unique telemarketer. Actually, my telemarketer is like the anti-telemarketer."? Wouldn't you be the slightest bit suspicious? Wouldn't you wonder how it is that almost everybody's telemarketer is allegedly not at all like the usual telemarketer? And when, against all odds, it turned out that their telemarketer was much like every other telemarketer you'd had the good fortune to meet, such that the non-usual type of telemarketer was actually so common that it was, by definition, the usual telemarketer, wouldn't that just confirm for you that you really do not like usual telemarketers, non-usual telemarketers, or any telemarketers at all?

Before I begin to digress, let's focus on my main point, the essence of which you have no doubt grasped. I don't like them. They are evil, they are hateful (and they hate you too, by the way -- except me --- they love me), they are stuck-up, they do nothing useful (unless you call leaving plague-infested roadkill on your front porch "useful"), they cause lacerations and death, they shed every last one of their hairs every day and grow it all back at night, and they make weird annoying noises.

In addition to all the excellent supporting sentences I have added to my topic sentence: I am allergic to your furry friends (I'm not sure how they became yours, but they're certainly not mine, so anyway) to boot, such that they make my throat itch, and eyes water, and my nose run, and I can't BREATHE very well around them. I realize that I am hopelessly high-maintenance in that I like air to go in and out of my lungs, freely, all day, day in and day out.

I also realize that starting out a blog with a post about how much I hate cats might immediately alienate half of my loyal audience. However, when you consider that: 1) I don't have an audience at all; 2) I only started this blog so I could comment to someone ELSE's blog; and 3) I don't like cats, it actually makes sense to begin as I have. Anyway, there you go. I should add, though I hate to admit it, that I have had a couple of cats that I liked OK. (Crock pot thing, really easy. You can have the recipe.)