Eight (Part Three)

I say lots of things, mostly nonsensical. These are fairly common though for me.

Eight Things I Often Say

1. I just ripped one: I say it so that people around me don’t think the boiler’s exploded and start making for the fire escapes.



2. Will there be cake?: If you want the Guv’ner’s attendance anywhere, there will be cake…oh yes, there will be cake.



3. Do you want to see my finger?: Because ingrate, I will show you my finger.



4. Get out of my office: You have no idea how many times I say this. Sometimes I even say it to myself!



5. See anything you like?: People are always staring at me. I’m pretty sure it’s not my fabulous serene beauty so what? Do I have a booger? Is my top on backwards again? Did I pull a “Britney” and forget my underwear and indeed my skirt?



6. Where is my machete?: Seriously, do not fuck with my machete.



7. Where is my Diet Pepsi?: Let me make one thing crystal clear. I don’t do a single thing till I have my Diet Pepsi. Don’t even try to make me. No I won’t Xerox your document, not until fizzy, caffeinated, faux-sweetened goodness is in my tummy. And it better not be Coke. The Guv’ner does not do Diet Coke. If you bring me Coke I will heat it to boiling point and pour it in your pants.



8. Fuck you, you fuckin’ fuck! . There’s always a reason to use this. I live in New York City. Whether it be a rude commuter slamming their bag/child/crotch in my face on the subway or a fucktard on a cell phone wandering all over the street in front of me like a lost chicken, while I'm trying to walk home, or a demented fuckstick on a phone, driving an SUV through a red light in the crosswalk and almost sending me into orbit. I once had the distinction of uttering this phrase at a raised volume while kicking a yellow NY taxi cab that tried to kill me when I was crossing the street on my light. Fuck YOU you fuckin’ fuck!

Eight (Part Two)

Back due to no demand, whatsoever...

Eight Things to Do Before I Die

1. Live in a desert town. See last entry. I think I've made my desert love perfectly clear.



2. Swim with dolphins: Preferably not overly amorous ones who would try to do it with me using their stupendous marine appendages.



3. Go to Antarctica: Do you know the movie “The Thing”? For some bizarre reason, despite that movie being about alien life forms and its starring one (i.e., a bearded Kurt Russell), that movie actually inspired me to want to go to Antarctica. Now how screwed up do you think I am?



4. Finish writing a book: Again, see last entry. One day I will finish it damnit. And I will tie people down and force them to read it too. And don’t laugh because it might be you.



5. Go to Key West: OK I know what you’re thinking, “How hard can that be?” but honestly, you don’t know me. Every time I try to go to Key West I get my ass evacuated before I get anywhere near it due to various Hurricanes. I’ve gotten as far as Islamorada in the middle Keys to this point. I’m pretty sure someone in the Keys hates me and plans all this evacuation nonsense the second I book a ticket to any place in Florida. Bastards! They’ve obviously heard of my legendary capacity for tequila and are aware of the very real possibility I will make Key West a dry town within hours.



6. Drive across the U.S.A. and Canada: I’ve always wanted to drive across the country and now I want to do the same to Canada (I have no shame). There are so many places to see and no time (or money to do it). This makes me very sad. I like to drive. And I like to go places. This seems the perfect combination to me, why won’t my life cooperate? Won’t someone give me a grant?



7. Own a Vespa: I love Vespas. The closest I’ve ever come to owning a Vespa was an old Honda, 49cc Moped that used to belong to my room-mate’s dad. This was back in the 1990s, and I used it to zip around my town at a whopping 30mph (35 if you could find a vertical hill and coax a gale force wind to blow behind you!) The thing was fun but not very cool. I mean it had pedals, for the love of God. Pedals! The idea was you can either ride the bike with the engine or pedal it like a bicycle. In theory yes. In actuality? Don’t even go there. I once broke down a mile from home and tried to pedal that sucker home. It was like pushing a military tank with a feather. Oh you can pedal ok, but I defy anyone to make that sucker actually move. On the upside, I made three local teenagers practically laugh till they vomited.



8. Quit Swearing: Because I’m a potty mouth and it has to stop. I won’t though because swearing is funny, goddamn it. In print at least.

EIGHT

The lovely Mr. Radloff tagged me to do this meme thingy. If I ever meet Mr. Radloff face-to-face some day, I will have to kill him.

Naturally I can never just dole out one word answers I have to post a diatribe, so here's what I'll do. I'll post the first part today. And subsequent parts (rants, all of them) in following days. No? Believe me I'm doing you a favour by not killing you with words.

Eight Passions In My Life

1. Food: Who doesn’t love food? An idiot with no taste-buds, that’s who. Sadly good food is fattening so I must reluctantly limit my consumption of it and sacrifice my “all cake all the time” mantra, for a few carrots or accept that I may just be mistaken some day for the Goodyear Blimp. If a genie granted me three wishes, after the obvious “world peace” and “Get Britney a Decent Weave” my main wish would be that I could just eat food 24 hours a day without putting on an ounce.



2. Animals: Honestly, I love animals. People can bite me most of the time but animals are special. They provide unconditional love and trust. They live by instinct and are non judgmental. Me, I can’t even read animal cruelty stories on the news because it would ruin my entire week or send me into an axe-wielding homicidal frenzy. When I'm in a position to donate to charities it’s almost always animal shelters. I think being a crazy old cat lady one day sounds appealing.



3. Men: Men are nice to look at. You know, in theory. Naturally not all men. I mean look at Fabio. Or don’t, might be a more prudent idea.



4. Travel: The Guv’ner loves to travel. I would travel full-time if I didn’t have to do tiresome things like work and care for cats and men. I love to visit new places. I really want to do a lot more tropical traveling and maybe some sliding around in the Antarctic too. I would like to be one of those eccentric people who just live in an RV and go where they please.



5. Photography: I love photography. I love taking pictures and I love looking at pictures (again, not pictures of Fabio). I would love to be in the position to travel and take pictures and therefore kill two passions with one stone. Or something...



6. Music: I love music like everyone else. I play it too and have done since I was six and took up the recorder. I can read music, I can write music, I have written hundreds of songs, played in three bands, recorded for the BBC and played live in the UK and Europe. (Yes, I am aware the UK is IN Europe, thank you). I love having a fresh new song to listen to – those first few moments of aural delight, before it becomes familiar, are magical.



7. The Desert: Not to be mistaken for “The Dessert” which I’m also quite passionate about, particularly Lemon Meringue pie!
   
   I love the desert. I can only fathom that this is because I grew up in a cold country with long dark hours in winter and often extreme snow/wind/fog/rain. Really though I truly believe I was born to be a desert dweller. I just have a fascination for it and I feel a pull towards it. I love heat, sun soaked landscapes and sparse terrain. I am over the city.



8. Writing: Sure I’m passionate about it, but I’m also lackadaisical when it comes to actually doing it. I have started about eight books and haven’t finished a single one. I aim to rectify this, I really do, but you know, you have to have things aligned just right to be that creative.

Next up, 8 Things to do before I die. Boy, I bet you can hardly wait, huh!

Silly Britain

Apparently The Kingdom of Great Britain, of which I am a vexed citizen, has some rather antiquated laws, still on their books. They just published a list of the top ten ridiculous ones. You'd think maybe instead of publishing them, they might just go ahead and abolish them but whatever.

1. It is illegal to die in the Houses of Parliament.
   
   That’s a hard one because YOU want to try staying awake and indeed alive listening to some of the claptrap that they talk about in that place. Besides does this mean if Guy Fawkes had succeeded in blowing up Parliament, he’d have made criminals of all those he murdered? Tsk!



2. It is an act of treason to place a postage stamp bearing the British monarch upside-down.
   
   Firstly, why would the Queen be upside down? Does she hang by her knees from the parallel bars? Is she secretly a bat? Also, note that there is nothing in there about not being able to draw a moustache, glasses and horns on the Queen’s portrait. So long as she’s right side up you can have her brandishing a golden dildo and you'd still be rocking.



3. In Liverpool, it is illegal for a woman to be topless except as a clerk in a tropical fish store.
   
   Really, I would like the job of the person who comes up with these laws. WTF? I mean really? Do the piranhas react better to a topless woman? Was there some lady of the past (or of the night) who declared herself and her tropical fish shop her own country or something and this was the resulting law.



4. Mince pies cannot be eaten on Christmas Day.
   
   Well I break this law every year and I didn’t even KNOW I was breaking a law or I would have enjoyed those pies EVEN MORE. Mmmm mince pies. Contrary to what you American types might think, mince pies are nothing to do with meat. They're fruit pies. Mincemeat is a fruit filling. Don't say the Guv'ner never teaches you anything.
   
   Apparently this law relates to regulating "gluttony". But why single out the mince pie anyway? You can stuff a whole pig in your piehole but that’s ok? A turkey dripping with grease and stuffing? But have a mince pie and you’re pushing the limits, pal.



5. In Scotland, if someone knocks on your door and requires the use of your toilet, you must let them enter.
   
   Being from Scotland, I have never heard of this law. I wouldn’t be letting any of you compromised bladdered riff-raff use my lavatory with your germed up derrieres. The thing that worries me slightly about this law is, it doesn't exactly state what it is you are permitted to enter. The toilet? The house? Your no-no place? What?



6. A pregnant woman can legally relieve herself anywhere she wants, including in a policeman's helmet.
   
   …I’d say that’s called justice only if it was a policeman’s “helmet” that got her in that state in the first place.



7. The head of any dead whale found on the British coast automatically becomes the property of the king, and the tail of the queen.
   
   I just…firstly does the Queen HAVE a tail? Is it a royal trait? I mean all that in-breeding must have some consequences, surely? But then the question arises, what does the Queen’s tail want with a whale part? And do the whales normally wash ashore in parts? And what does the King do with the head, does he make a nice chowder? And do we actually have a king?



8. It is illegal to avoid telling the tax man anything you do not want him to know, but legal not to tell him information you do not mind him knowing.
   
   “I’m 72 you know! I have measles. I like blue! This survey is pants! My son is called Graham. I live in a tree!”



9. It is illegal to enter the Houses of Parliament in a suit of armour.
   
   Well thank you so much for ruining my next trip to London, pigfuckers.



10. In the city of York it is legal to murder a Scotsman within the ancient city walls, but only if he is carrying a bow and arrow.
    
    As a Scot and a Sagittarian I am staying the hell out of York for the foreseeable future. I wonder if honestly you could get off on a technicality should you actually murder a Scotsman carrying a bow and arrow in the city of York? Who wants to test this?

November Spawned A Monster

I cross posted this from Live Journal since I'm saucy like that. And I'm omnipotent. Get used to it, citizens.

I just realized, it's November. I'm not sure what I was expecting the day after the 31st of October, but still. November. That's like...the end of the year!

So because I'm bored and somewhat kind of heart, here are some interesting facts about November. You can pay me later. I accept food stamps and naked photos.

• According to Morrissey and his fey hair, it "spawned a monster in the shape of this child"! I wonder if Morrissey was born in November because, if so it would go a ways to explaining THIS photo of someone's dad going to the Bingo Hall Social. Aaaaargh!



• November 5th, we Brits celebrate "Guy Fawkes Night". Mr. Fawkes was some dude who, with a bunch of Catholics, tried to blow up parliament with gunpowder, back in the olden days and given the fact he had a ton of it he failed miserably and ended up executed by the Protestants.
  
  I imagine the night of the "incident" went something like this.
  
  "Are these gunpowder kegs in position? Yes? OK then. Light the thingy then on the count of 'one' run like your knackers are on fire. Which they will be if you don't pay attention to that last point! Wait... What do you mean you 'didn't bring any matches?'"
  
  Now we remember his "lack of win" by letting off fireworks, roasting marshmallows on a bonfire and setting scarecrows on fire. Don't knock it till you've tried it.



• Allegedly, it is somewhat customary for humans of the male persuasion in Melbourne, Australia to grow a big, furry mustache during the month of November. This is apparently known as "Movember" for "moustache" and "November". So if you're a fan of the Village People or the seventies, take a trip to Melbourne some nice November day.



• In Finland, November is celebrated as "Month of the Dead". That's Month. Take that Mexico. And let me tell you from the experience of one particularly blurry night in Helsinki, the Fins know how to throw a fucking celebration. Those people drink like prohibition is just over the horizon and barreling towards them. And I'm from Scotland so you know, don't go thinking the irony's lost on me here! So dude...don't go to Finland in November. As well as your balls freezing off you're liable to get iced in another way. Just saying.



• In Croatia, November is known as "studeni" which apparently means "cold one". I'm not sure if they are referencing the weather, Hilary Clinton, a stiff (Hi Finland!) or they want another hit of Karlovačko. Believe me, regarding Karlovačko? I imbibed that very Croatian beer while sitting in a square in Split once (at least I think it was square, it was spinning a lot though). For two days afterwards I thought I was the Russian prime minister. That stuff is dangerous. They say it's only twelve percent proof, but twelve percent of what, that's what I want to know...



• November is the most boring month of the year because I can find almost nothing interesting that happened during it, probably because everyone's getting either hammered or murdered. Even Wikipedia was like, "Dude, that is SO all I have, go find a life or something, please!"

So welcome to the Inebriated Month of the Dead Mustaches.

Brain In Trouble - Send Help

I'm exhausted. My brain is thinking this:

Goddamn allergies, why did I take a double dose of Benadryl this morning and not notice it was the nighttime version? I'm going to fall asleep at the Photocopier. My eyes feel like they spent an hour looking at Carrot Top.

Why is my office phone clock an hour slow? Why does it not obey daylight savings rules?

Why was there no egg and cheese croissants at the cafeteria this morning when the only reason I came in early was to procure these beasts? A pox on you all, cafeteria people.

I have a headache too. Where is my sympathy? I get no sympathy.

And it's Halloween. That means a parade. In the Village. And I live in the goddamn Village. And every year I can never get my ass home without walking ten blocks out of my way to circumnavigate Washington Square Bloody Park which is closed to the public on Halloween - even for the drug dealers! And I can only get onto my street with ID (or if I show that nice policeman with the big gun, my boobs).

And my back neighbours who are fucksticks will throw an outdoor party till 4am full of screeching, inebriated ghouls and it will result in homicide (by me, after the egg throwing fails to hit any target).

I want a pumpkin to carve.

I want to sleep.

Just In...Work Can Make You Sick

From the current issue of Forbes magazine:

If you're a member of corporate America, chances are you've got access to a state-of-the-art gym, a gourmet cafeteria and an array of wellness services, including health risk assessments, telephone and Web-based consultations, and weight-loss programs.

Why yes! And we have a heliport on the roof and a little immigrant man who earns minimum wage to fan our corporate farts out of the nearest window. And did I mention the swimming pool and jacuzzi with cocktail bar on the roof (you know, next to the heliport?)

Um...no, no and hell no, Mr. McFancypants.

Don't get me wrong, we have some "stuff" going on. For instance, we have yoga. You have to pay for it but it's there, on the premises should you need to meditate out your stress. We also have things like 'Weight Watchers' for those wanting to be tinier and healthy living seminars and then we have a little mini university where we can do various software classes, etc. for free.

I even did a defensive driving course a couple of years back which everyone I knew found hilarious. "Like you could be any more defensive!" they snorted. "You beat drivers' heads with a tire iron if they so much as look at you funny at the lights!"

Haters.

Anyway, I took the course which saves 10% on your car insurance for three whole years, without even involving a gecko or a caveman!

OK, so I live in Manhattan and don't have a car, big deal. But at least I know that tailgating will get you a lot more up close and personal with some dude's pick-up than nature ever intended, thank you defensive driving! And you wouldn't believe the various suspicious practices people like to get up to while driving that really, they shouldn't. Yes, I mean you.

But really what I'm saying is, my company aren't so much state-of-the-art cool as, trying really hard to go from very staid and vanilla to something more youthful and creative. I mean we have an on-site pub once a week how's that for a start? Besides face it, nothing brings out the "youthful" in a group of executives quite like free liquor.

But despite a noticeable shift toward promoting healthy workplaces, your job can still make you sick. From uncomfortable workspaces to poor air quality to depression-inducing stress, there are plenty of opportunities to come home feeling worse than when you left in the morning.

Damn straight, Einstein. Sonny, I wrote the book on the coming home feeling worse than when you left. And I usually feel pretty bad when I leave, due to the fact I've just been forced to get out of a warm comfortable bed to do expense reports. Going home feeling worse than when you arrived comes from working with giant, IQ deficient assholes all day, and while my current employer has mercifully freed me from those for the most part, my last job provided enough of them to see out the next millennium.

[Berman] says that everything from mold spores to office furniture that off-gases formaldehyde to changes in humidity can affect a worker's upper respiratory system.

Whoa! Hold up one goddamn minute here. Did you say formaldehyde? The stuff they embalm dead people with? OK I know it's used for a lot of other stuff but really. My desk/dead people - two things I don't want to see in the one sentence ever again, ok? I don't suppose I can go home because I'm "allergic to my gaseous desk"? I didn't think so.

In fact, work-related stress has a powerful impact on employees. A study in the November issue of the American Journal of Public Health demonstrated a significant relationship between work stress and depression.

That's...no. Really? Stress at work is linked to depression? Tell me you are shitting me? It usually makes me want to buy the world a Coke.

I'm not sure I can accept that someone wrote that paragraph, seriously.

Five Lame Things About Me

At the request of The Lady...

Peoples, these are the instructions. I’m not going to tag anyone because then you’ll all hate me and say mean things like “God, the Guv’ner is a slave driver and is trying to steal information about us for the FBI.” Which, while possibly true, is quite unfair of you and I might cry.

TO DO: List 5 things you do, did or like that some may consider “totally lame,” but that you are totally proud of. Tag 5 others:


1) I like toys. Not little kid toys but theme toys. Like my X-Files dolls. I have Mulder and Scully and sometimes I pose them in compromising positions and take photos (see Exhibit A) and I think this is quite hilarious. They live in a cabinet in my living room with my South Park Dolls, my Dalek cookie jar and my giant imagination. I will even use props (See Exhibit B). This is because I have a) too much time on my hands, and b) I’m slightly retarded.

2) I often cut my own hair and think it looks great. I mean I do go to salons but in between it gets all annoying and odd and I’m not made of money so out come the scissors and then I think it looks fabulous and all those people on the subway are only looking at me out of sheer jealousy at my all-encompassing beauty.

3) I secretly like big, emotional soundtrack type songs that make you cry. I hate to admit this since I’m a former punk band member and formerly of the school of “if it’s not obscure it’s heinous” but soundtrack emotionally draining songs? Get me every time. Even that abortion of a song Aerosmith did for “Armageddon” with the really creepy video that intersperses Steven Tyler looking like the Grim Reaper with parts of the movie that make him look like he’s having a love affair with his own daughter. Ew! Actually, him having an affair with anything of the human species is kind of frightening to think about.

4) I watched “Rock Of Love With Bret Michaels” on VH1. Need I say more?

5) I like to listen to conversations on the scanner radio between pilots flying into the NY airports and the control tower. This does not make me a geek. They say the occasional funny thing like “This is American 509 Heavy, I just spilled hot coffee on my crotch and burned my berries, it was high-larious. Oh and yeah, there’s an Air France jet about to collide with us if you could do something about that, over?”

I am not lame!

For Future Reference

After a crazy, busy, grouchy day at work, as I was sitting on a bench outside my building scrolling through tracks on my iPod, a cherubic, blue eyed eight year old approached me with a smile and a piece of paper which she held out to me, practically begging me to mess with her head.

"No thanks!" I said. "I already have ten of those."

"It's for the fortune teller." she told me. "So you can find out your future."

"I know my future." I replied. "It involves homicide and a bong."

She looked at me not saying anything, probably because she didn't understand either word although she understood enough to know I was being a douche.

"I'm kidding." I said, feeling bad for her. "I don't have a future. And neither do you. We're all going to die, so you should ditch the paper and get a real job."

She blinked at me, unsure what to say. "I'm only eight." she pointed out.

I sighed. "Just gimme the flier." I said.

Poor kid. Who sends an eight year old girl out to hand out fliers to strangers?

The Guv Gets Her Serious Head On

So this crazy Iranian dude with the impossible name that sound straight out of "Team America" is a few blocks from where I am right now, being driven in police motorcades and wined on dined on the public's tax dollars. Hell there's nothing we like more than a genocidal, bigoted dictator hanging out in the city. Maybe Dubya would like to join him for an aperitif? I'm sure they'd have lots to talk about.

People are all pretty liberal and outspoken about it. "We don't like him, what he has to say or what he stands for but we support his right to say it."

Well fuck that. I'm a pretty liberal person myself and I say "Screw that guy and the plane he flew in on." You hate the west so much, stay the fuck in the middle east, asshat. Don't come to my city and spout your nonsense here. Can I come to Iran and tell you the multitude of things I find offensive about your country? I'm thinking not.

While I agree with people having the freedom to say whatever the hell they want, I also agree that I have the right to not donate my tax dollars to pay for him to do so on American soil.

Hell, my sister had a tiny glitch in her visa and was denied entry to the U.S. People accidentally answer questions on the visa waiver form incorrectly and get sent back to where they started. If you have previous drug convictions or sometimes a traffic offense they can stamp your passport "DENIED", yet this guy only wants to wipe out entire races for no sane reason; he only encourages people to beat women with sticks if they are caught holding a boyfriend's hand in public; he only wants to destroy the U.S., the Jews and the entire western civilization because he's a ranting lunatic and we, because we are so frightened of being categorized as bigots or dictators ourselves, are all for letting him come here and talk about it in the name of "freedom of speech". Screw you Iranian dude.

I'm sure the six zillion cops outside my building right now are all working for free though, right?

The Guv'ner Defends Scotland. Sort of.

Gosh it's hard to be Scottish.

I liked this part of the article:

Think of the worst possible stereotype of the Scot; double it, and you have got [Grounds keeper] Willie — a red-haired, bearded, foul-tempered, incompetent, haggis-eating, testosterone-filled boor who spends his private time secretly videotaping couples in their cars.

Jeeze they say that like it's a bad thing!

I'm not getting what we Scots are getting their panties twisted about. That's a fairly accurate description. Throw in hip flasks of Glenfiddich and a pocket knife and you practically described each and every one of us. In fact, I'm PROUD of my red beard and foul temper.

I did enjoy the parts about Americans wondering whether or not the Internet had reached Scotland yet (answer: No, we prefer the tried-and-tested 'two tin cans and a taut rope' for our communication methods) and did we know what microwaves were (midgets gesturing for attention perhaps?)? We prefer our cooking the traditional way - a Sassenach (English person) in a cauldron with appropriate seasoning.

Call me romantic (really, it'll be the first time ever) but I think most Americans when they think of Scotland are probably more likely to think of lochs, loch Ness Monster, castles, scenery and Sean Connery. Me, I think of butter tablet and soda scones and my beloved Irn Bru and the fact I could kick each and every one of your weak, pasty, American asses, ye bourbon drinking fanny-pack sportin' wee girls.

Huh?

Three's The Charm

Yesterday The Guv'ner had a not at all unusual urge for cake. In fact, days when this urge does not present itself are generally days I call a doctor and demand to know what's wrong with me. (Usually he asks me, "How long have you got?")

Luckily our cafeteria stocks such emergency items as cake and they're always freshly baked on the premises, so I scooted on down there and procured some sugary sustenance.

I remembered to dedicate my cake eating to Pistols, mainly because the cake I was eating was Tres Leches Cake, which I know is his particular favorite snack. In fact, I know he likes to eat tres leches cake three times a day (for balance - three milks? Thrice daily) Tres Leches Cake is like a chubby girlfriend with an overbite - you think she's groovy, you like her more than most girls but you don't want your friends to know about her. Pistols loves the Tres Leches but he'll never come out and admit it.

In fact, he's dreaming about it right now. Just do it, Pistols. Just eat the cake.

Why The Scots Are Strange Part One

My homeland of Scotland has been responsible in part at least for some of the greatest inventors and entertainment ever. John Logie Baird (nothing to do with Yogi Bear), Alexander Bell - inventor of the telephone, Robert The Bruce, Robert Burns, Sean Connery, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Robert Luis Stevenson, William Wallace, The Bay City Fucking Rollers, people! The Proclaimers? OK, I'm not sure I'm proving this point very well.

Ahem...

Anyway, now someone back in my homeland has decided to break some records by making the biggest bowl of porridge ever.

This baffles and confuses me somewhat. Of all the great stuff we could be attempting to do, like cure cancer or transplant brains or produce great tasting chocolate with zero calories or banning kilts on almost anyone or cloning more sheep - someone chooses to instead make a giant bowl of oatmeal.

I was particularly alarmed by this quote: Not only will we have the largest bowl of porridge in the world, we'll also have the world's largest spurtle.

I'm not sure I want to know what a "spurtle" is or if it's even legal, although we're talking about a country where sheep are pin-ups so who the hell knows.

Actually, to many Scotsmen, after a few drams of whisky, most sheep probably make them produce a "spurtle".

The Guv'ner Recommends...

The other day I bought some chocolate covered pretzels (two food groups in one - 'yum' and 'yummier') and dragged my lazy carcass to Times Square to see a movie. Usually I am anti-Times Square movie viewing since the time I went to see the 'Sixth Sense' there and spent more time listening to the traffic honking by outside and smashing over metal grids in the road to concentrate on the actual dialogue and creepy silences. Seriously, who thinks putting a movie theater next to the melting pot of humanity is a good idea? A MORON that's who and when I find out his name, his ass is toast. I see dead people. I'll show YOU dead people, pal.

Anyway, the movie was showing barely anywhere else so choice was not on my side.

This was a different theater and the movie was "Sunshine" a film I'd been chomping at the bit to see since I first heard the basic outline (and the fact it was directed by Danny Boyle and written by Alex Garland who brought us the fab "28 Days Later" of which I'm a huge fan). Plus I'm a sucker for anything suspenseful, doomlike and sci-fi so long as it's good sci-fi. Some say I'm a sucker, PERIOD, but to those people I say "Bite it, hater!"

This was good sci-fi. The basic plot premise involved 8 astronauts flying on a mission to the Sun, which is dying, knowing that if it dies, so does Earth which is currently in the midst of a solar winter. The astronauts are carrying a nuclear bomb the size of Manhattan which has to be jettisoned into the Sun and detonated in the hopes it will kick start the star and reignite life on Earth. See? How awesome does that sound? Tell me you didn't just pee in your pants a little with the awesomeness of that. Things are compounded when in the "dead zone" - an area beyond Mercury where all contact with Earth is lost - they receive a distress signal from the previous spacecraft who disappeared seven years ago while attempting the same mission. They have a dilemma of whether to continue on to the Sun and deliver their payload, which has no guarantee of success, or to divert to the lost ship in the hope of recovering the second bomb therefore having two chances of success, but at the possible compromise of their oxygen supply. Then a small human error causes a domino effect (nothing to do with pizza) of catastrophe that leaves them fighting to survive long enough to deliver the payload.

So those chocolate pretzels. I had eaten maybe three of those before forgetting they existed for the duration of the movie. I was balanced on the edge of my seat with a look on my face that said, "What. The. Fuck." for the whole movie. In fact, I can't remember a time I was last so slack-jawed with awe at a movie. It was terrifying, magnificent, awesomely beautiful to look at, menacing, heart-breaking and included one of those moments where your stomach falls through your rectum and hits the floor with a thud when a little plot twist kicks in towards the end.

Naturally I have one question. What is it about sci-fi movies (and scary ones in particular) that bring out geek boys and practically no one else? The theater had about sixteen people in it. All alone. Fifteen men of different ages and varying degrees of hygiene, and then me (I just showered, honest).

I guess what I'm saying here is, if you get a chance to see "Sunshine" and suspense is up your alley (maybe with a touch of horror action toward the end) then GO DAMMIT. Honestly, I am still a little freaked out.

The Real Yankees Vs. Red Sox

In baseball there are the guys who wear the uniform "modern" - slightly wider legs, looser shirts. Usually they're the younger, Hispanic guys. Then there are the old schoolers who wear their uniform fitted and featuring the knee-high sock thingies - normally the young, in awe newbies just up from the minors, or the old codgers hobbling round the bases with their oxygen tanks.

This latter look doesn't work for everyone, especially a great big fathead like Roger Clemens. Roger, when you have a big, wide ass the diameter of Texas and you attempt this look, you look like a giant, retarded pussy. Either that man does not own a full-length mirror or it's a special mirror that lies to him (and if those exist I'd like one that will tell me I'm five ten, 110lbs and 19 again).

Also, the Red Sox catcher, Jason Varitek (for some reason I tend to call him Homotek although I'm ashamed because it's insulting to gay people to suggest he might be one of them, but it tickles me that if he knew about it, his big, swollen head would probably explode with indignance, a big macho guy like him) has the same big, wide ass and those same girly socks, only on him it's even worse because those socks are RED. Only a great, big, flaming fan of Liberace would wear those. Oh, duh! See what I did there? And they make him look like an enormous, out-of-proportion, bearded lady, which of course he is. (I don't like him, but I think I hide it well. Just don't get me started on David Ortiz, or as I like to call him "That Big Fuckin' Fuck")

Strike two against Varitek is on his uniform collar he has the name "TEK" embroidered. Any grown man, even a hairy girlie-man like Varitek, who not only shortens their name to sound like a "KEWL DUDE" but also has it embossed on his gear, deserves to be cock punched, but since he doesn't have one I'll settle for pummeling his great, fat head until he is dead. Plus, a team captain who blatantly needs to wear a giant "C" on their uniform to validate themselves doesn't deserve to live amongst decent people.

Unless of course, that "C" doesn't stand for "Captain". Then I concur, Jason.

The Way Things Aren't

I’m getting really pissed off with the way things are. Not at work or home in particular, just in life in general. Why do the all the best foods like cake and donuts and cookies and grilled cheese and French fries and…and…fudge and chocolate and roasted potatoes and mashed potatoes and mushrooms fried in garlic butter and pizza and nachos and crème brulee and lemon meringue pie…why can’t these foods have three calories, zero fat or carbs and come recommended by a doctor? I want someone to say, “Guv’ner, you could stand to lose a few pounds, I prescribe two entire layer cakes and a pecan pie, twice a day or else you will die!”

Why, just for one day in my life, can’t I wake up, mouth watering and think, “I can’t wait to get to work so I can nibble on a carrot.”?

A Short Aside

One of the ladies I work with just returned from a meeting with one of our creative guys, whose name is Richard Evans.

She just came back and loudly exclaimed to the whole corridor, "OMG I LOVE DICK!"

I am the only ten year old in this building, I swear.

Shattered Dreams

I actually posted this in my Live Journal but it's more fitting over here.

When I was a kid I always loved the Bacharach song “Do You Know the Way to San José?”. I still dig it, it's a lounge classic, baby.

Now, I was growing up in Scotland, where it was chilly and instead of palm trees we grew thistles and heather and men wore skirts. So I thought San José had to be about the most exotic place known to man, because that song just conjured up images of sunshine and beaches and riding around in convertibles wearing a headscarf, to my little, ideal self, even though it’s actually about going to L.A., working menial, mundane jobs while waiting to be discovered and resulting in broken dreams and a burning desire to return home, in this case, to San José. But its melody, the tempo, the Spanish name just seemed so special. So foreign and tropical and sunny and perfect.

You see, when I was a child, I assumed all of California was like a 1960s, Technicolor “Gidget” beach movie, full of ice cream parlors, bronzed surfer boys who said things like, “Golly gee Susie, you sure look like you need a milkshake!” and, “Silly, girls don’t surf, girls fetch Coca-cola and sit around on the sand and look pretty!” while girls with demi-perms, full-coverage swimwear a nun would approve of - that cinched in their waists like a corset and made their boobs pointy - indeed sat diligently around on the sand looking pretty and beaming Ultrabrite smiles, while Rock or Skip or Bud partook of some wave cruising in some fiendishly unflattering shorts.

Then one day, in the autumn of 1999, I actually did it. I ended up in San José, visiting friends who were living in nearby Mountain View.

And I wanted to stop the nearest pedestrian and ask, “Do you know the way to San Francisco, because San José sucks!”

OK, it didn’t suck per se. It was fine. It was just a regular concrete city. It just wasn’t tropical or exotic in any way and in fact, it looked more like what an ex-coworker of mine back in the UK used to call “San Joe-zay” because she didn’t know any better.

Or maybe she did…

The Hurricane Guy

You know what job I want? I want to be that guy who decides what this season's hurricanes will be called. The ones they choose now are just unacceptable, quite honestly. Take this year:

We had Barry. Barry? What's he going to do, bluster into your state and steal your girlfriend then hit 700 home runs?

Then there was Dean. Hurricane Dean? Sounds like he's more likely to blow into town and install new spark plugs in your Oldsmobile.

Hurricane Humberto is kind of sad. Your mama could totally kick Humberto's ass.

Then there's going to be a Jerry who will show up to appraise your jewelry and feed you matza before Lorenzo gusts in to shake his dynamic bon-bon and seduce your sister.

Olga however - now Olga sounds like a hurricane!!! A huge fucking hurricane. A hurricane with a 3000 mile eye. Olga's a ball breaker, although I'm sorry, you can't call a hurricane Sebastien. What's Sebastien going to do, blow into town and look for the nearest hair salon?

Also, excuse me for not being alarmed at the idea of Hurricane Tanya. She might hit you with her handbag or poke you with an eyeliner stick but really...You can't call an almighty force of nature "Tanya" and keep a straight face, surely.

Hurricanes should have names like "Thor" and "Gunter" and "Tempest". They shouldn't sound like they're coming to town to do your taxes.

Fuck You T-Mobile

Please try not to pass out and hit your head with astonishment at an update. The Guv'ner's very busy you know. Be darn lucky you got anything, ingrate.

My young man and I went to the T-Mobile store at lunchtime because his cell phone SIM card ceased working. This made me realize a couple of things: 1) SIM cards can break for no apparent reason without even leaving the phone, and 2) T-Mobile stores will rip off orphans to grease the corporate pocket.

They told us a new SIM would be $20. No tax if we paid cash (HUH????) We're like "Dude, you'll take credit and that money will go in the fucking register!" So then they give us a twenty dollar leather cell phone case, ring it up and charge the $20 plus give us the new SIM. Which isn't on the receipt because it is FREE.

So let's recap: Basically they want to get money out of you and a SIM is free so they tell you the SIM is $20, ring up an accessory for that price, give you the SIM AND the accessory so they can keep the books straight as a twenty dollar sale and you get conned to shit into buying something you didn't want in the first place.

The boy wanted a case anyway. he didn't like the one they gave us and asked to switch to one better suited to his needs. Which they agreed to. And it turned out to be cheaper (only fifteen bucks) so they refunded the extra five. Which means that SIM magically now costs only $15 (hmmmm....) further proving my point - the SIM is free and they don't "throw in" the accessory that's what you're paying the fucking money for.

This does not sit well with the Guv'ner who didn't have the wits about her on the spot to tell them to go fuck themselves sideways, but who will be shortly formulating a plan.

So the moral is: SIM cards are free. if a store tries to charge you by "throwing in" some other accessory tell them to stick the accessory where the sun don't shine and take the SIM card. They can't charge for that. Fuckers.