I have to say, I'm pretty darn excited about our trip to Boston/NYC over New Year's.
But you know what I'm even more excited about? A secret road trip to Lambert's. Yes, Lambert's, home of the throwed rolls, in Springfield, MO.
Jessi, D and I made a pact to head to Lambert's at the earliest opportunity. It will take us about twelve-and-a-half hours to get there. We'll eat, stay the night in a hotel and then eat again the next day ... and drive back.
And trust me. It will be worth it. Lambert's rocks.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
I Deleted My Horses
I deleted my horses -- all ten of them -- and my puppy, Peanut, on Facebook.
It was too much time suckage. I loved them, but I loved them too much, and I am too busy and important to deal with horses and puppies the way I was.
(I kept my Pet Society pet Imogene, though. She is awesome. I love her.)
It was too much time suckage. I loved them, but I loved them too much, and I am too busy and important to deal with horses and puppies the way I was.
(I kept my Pet Society pet Imogene, though. She is awesome. I love her.)
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Thoughts From An Unapologetic Liberal After the Election
It's been a while since I posted, and what better place to pontificate on the mixed feelings I'm having after the election?
Last night was amazing. First: How quickly it all was over. I really only have had experience with the two previous elections, one of which took days and the other of which took hours upon hours to be settled. Second: The speeches, both the concession and the victory speech, were truly awesome. Both candidates did an excellent job -- but I have to say, Obama's victory speech gave me goosebumps.
Last night I was feeling elated. Today, I'm feeling for the people who backed the losing candidate, too. I was there the past two elections. I know how heartbreaking and devastating it is to see all the hopes you've wrapped up in the person you want to win come crashing down. And it makes it worse when people who backed the other candidate are gloating. So I'm trying not to do that.
Here is what I am thinking and feeling right now:
*Relief that Hillary was not the Democratic nominee. I have a lot of respect for Hillary, don't get me wrong. But I've seen as the Democrats have tried -- and failed -- to beat the Republicans at their own game in the past two elections. The Republicans have the monopoly on attack advertising and using key words and phrases to hammer home a point. Nobody does it better. And the Democrats have been doing themselves a disservice by trying to beat the Republicans at their own game. The only way to respond to that kind of campaigning is to act as if it isn't worth your time -- to rise above it, as it were. To spend as little time as possible contradicting and correcting the misconceptions being perpetrated by the other side, and then move on, focusing on the positive aspects of your campaign and not playing tit-for-tat with the other candidate. I think Obama did that admirably. He never once appeared flustered or upset by some of McCain's comments during the debate -- while McCain was huffing and puffing like a big bad wolf with some serious angst issues every time Obama scored a hit. Obama's campaign ads were uplifting and positive, leaving a good taste in the viewer's mouth, while McCain's were frightening and negative, leaving a bad taste in the viewer's mouth. And I don't think Hillary could have run a campaign like that. I think it would have been too much for her to resist to bite back at McCain and give him a taste of his own medicine -- and that didn't work for Gore or for Kerry. You can't fight that kind of fire with fire. You can fight it with water, though.
*Empathy for supporters of McCain. Really, I do feel it. Although I also feel as though many of them are being -- for lack of a better word -- poor losers. But that could just be due to my exposure to many of my McCain-supporting acquaintances via social networking sites. I didn't have a MySpace or Facebook page in 2004, so it's hard to say. But I can say this: I'm pretty sure I wasn't that ungracious. Was I depressed and sad? Absolutely. And my husband did say, more than once, "Maybe we should just leave the country" -- the refrain I'm hearing over and over again today. I kept telling him no -- that the thing that makes this country great is that every four years, we get to start over again. It's not a lifetime sentence to be saddled with a Bush; it's only four years. Eight, tops. It's going to be okay. And as hesitant as I am to use words like "unAmerican" -- I think that leaving the country because someone you didn't vote for won the presidency is, well, unAmerican! That's why this country is so great, and that's what I tried to explain to my husband: We have more freedoms here than any other country in the developed world. (Except gays. But I don't think that's permanent.) Our freedom of speech and freedom of the press is absolutely unprecedented. I don't WANT to live anywhere else! I truly do love my country. And it made me so, so sad to be called unpatriotic for feeling the way I do about it. I don't believe I said anything (out loud) like, "Well, better start praying harder for the country," or "Now things are really going to go down the tubes." I still had hope. Which leads me to ...
*Hopeful. Above all, I feel hopeful. I feel like Barack Obama was the better candidate by far, and I feel alive and glad that other citizens rallied behind his banner. I feel like we really ARE going to get some actual change in this country. I'm very, very happy with how the election turned out. I feel like the sky is the limit for Americans again; like we can regain the respect we've lost throughout the world; like we can again deserve descriptions such as "the city on the hill" or "the light in the darkness."
*Right. Not in the sense of right vs. left, or wrong vs. right -- just like this is exactly where we need to be at this moment in time. I think Sarah Palin (in her infinite wisdom, or lack thereof -- there I go being catty about the woman; I can't help it; I think she's a beyotch!) was right: God will choose the person who was supposed to win. God has spoken, Sarah. God has spoken loud and clear.
*Secure. This mostly has to do with that awful amendment (48) on the Colorado ballot -- the "definition of a person," aka life begins at conception. I feel as though my reproductive and privacy rights are intact. And that makes me feel good.
Oh, what a night!
Last night was amazing. First: How quickly it all was over. I really only have had experience with the two previous elections, one of which took days and the other of which took hours upon hours to be settled. Second: The speeches, both the concession and the victory speech, were truly awesome. Both candidates did an excellent job -- but I have to say, Obama's victory speech gave me goosebumps.
Last night I was feeling elated. Today, I'm feeling for the people who backed the losing candidate, too. I was there the past two elections. I know how heartbreaking and devastating it is to see all the hopes you've wrapped up in the person you want to win come crashing down. And it makes it worse when people who backed the other candidate are gloating. So I'm trying not to do that.
Here is what I am thinking and feeling right now:
*Relief that Hillary was not the Democratic nominee. I have a lot of respect for Hillary, don't get me wrong. But I've seen as the Democrats have tried -- and failed -- to beat the Republicans at their own game in the past two elections. The Republicans have the monopoly on attack advertising and using key words and phrases to hammer home a point. Nobody does it better. And the Democrats have been doing themselves a disservice by trying to beat the Republicans at their own game. The only way to respond to that kind of campaigning is to act as if it isn't worth your time -- to rise above it, as it were. To spend as little time as possible contradicting and correcting the misconceptions being perpetrated by the other side, and then move on, focusing on the positive aspects of your campaign and not playing tit-for-tat with the other candidate. I think Obama did that admirably. He never once appeared flustered or upset by some of McCain's comments during the debate -- while McCain was huffing and puffing like a big bad wolf with some serious angst issues every time Obama scored a hit. Obama's campaign ads were uplifting and positive, leaving a good taste in the viewer's mouth, while McCain's were frightening and negative, leaving a bad taste in the viewer's mouth. And I don't think Hillary could have run a campaign like that. I think it would have been too much for her to resist to bite back at McCain and give him a taste of his own medicine -- and that didn't work for Gore or for Kerry. You can't fight that kind of fire with fire. You can fight it with water, though.
*Empathy for supporters of McCain. Really, I do feel it. Although I also feel as though many of them are being -- for lack of a better word -- poor losers. But that could just be due to my exposure to many of my McCain-supporting acquaintances via social networking sites. I didn't have a MySpace or Facebook page in 2004, so it's hard to say. But I can say this: I'm pretty sure I wasn't that ungracious. Was I depressed and sad? Absolutely. And my husband did say, more than once, "Maybe we should just leave the country" -- the refrain I'm hearing over and over again today. I kept telling him no -- that the thing that makes this country great is that every four years, we get to start over again. It's not a lifetime sentence to be saddled with a Bush; it's only four years. Eight, tops. It's going to be okay. And as hesitant as I am to use words like "unAmerican" -- I think that leaving the country because someone you didn't vote for won the presidency is, well, unAmerican! That's why this country is so great, and that's what I tried to explain to my husband: We have more freedoms here than any other country in the developed world. (Except gays. But I don't think that's permanent.) Our freedom of speech and freedom of the press is absolutely unprecedented. I don't WANT to live anywhere else! I truly do love my country. And it made me so, so sad to be called unpatriotic for feeling the way I do about it. I don't believe I said anything (out loud) like, "Well, better start praying harder for the country," or "Now things are really going to go down the tubes." I still had hope. Which leads me to ...
*Hopeful. Above all, I feel hopeful. I feel like Barack Obama was the better candidate by far, and I feel alive and glad that other citizens rallied behind his banner. I feel like we really ARE going to get some actual change in this country. I'm very, very happy with how the election turned out. I feel like the sky is the limit for Americans again; like we can regain the respect we've lost throughout the world; like we can again deserve descriptions such as "the city on the hill" or "the light in the darkness."
*Right. Not in the sense of right vs. left, or wrong vs. right -- just like this is exactly where we need to be at this moment in time. I think Sarah Palin (in her infinite wisdom, or lack thereof -- there I go being catty about the woman; I can't help it; I think she's a beyotch!) was right: God will choose the person who was supposed to win. God has spoken, Sarah. God has spoken loud and clear.
*Secure. This mostly has to do with that awful amendment (48) on the Colorado ballot -- the "definition of a person," aka life begins at conception. I feel as though my reproductive and privacy rights are intact. And that makes me feel good.
Oh, what a night!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Craziest Person I Ever Met
It seems a shame to waste my first blog in just over a week on this -- but I'm going to anyway. Brace yourself, kids, it's gonna be a long one.
A few years ago, I became inadvertently entangled with a crazy person. The story is below. For the sake of literary flow, I won't interrupt the telling with details on how I obtained certain pieces of information, so you should know that once I could see this was turning into a real mess, I visited the police station and obtained some public records -- notably a tape and reports of some 911 phone calls that were made. These records, plus voice recordings and transcripts of said voice recordings, were part of the evidence that we collected that the judge refused to look at ... but I'll get to that later.
So. One day D and I were hanging out with our friend "Todd." Todd was living with this guy, "Caleb," and Caleb's wife, "Penelope." Todd was complaining about life with Caleb and Penelope -- mostly Caleb. Caleb is a very controlling man. He created a list of daily chores for Todd and would call Todd when Todd was out and say things like, "You need to come home and do the dishes right now or I'm kicking you out of the house." He was one of those people who does that kind of thing: Threaten people with the most extreme punishment you can think of for petty, stupid things. He gave Todd the room with a broken window, in the wintertime, and then bitched that Todd hadn't fixed the window. He would also call Todd's mom and tell her that Todd was partying way too hard and that he, Caleb, was worried about Todd. Very manipulative guy. Caleb is also from Evergreen, oddly enough (although several years older than myself), and Caleb claims to have been a professional snowboarder.
(This is a total aside. Todd still believes that Caleb was once a pro rider -- despite copious evidence that Caleb is a liar -- but I don't believe a word of it. 1) Because Evergreen isn't that big, and 2) because I know some professional snowboarders -- REAL pro riders -- from Evergreen, and 3) because they have never even heard of Caleb. Also because the only proof he offers is that he's a good snowboarder and he has a bunch of boards from this one company -- which he easily could have bought or been given as a gift, as it's a local company. He had these pictures he tore out from magazines and would say things like, "This is me doing a jump, but I got like twice that high, the photographer just didn't get that." (He didn't say these things to me, I only was physically in proximity to Mr. Crazy thrice.) And there would be no label on the magazine picture ... and let's not forget that sports photographers have cameras that can take, like, fifty shots a second. Liar, liar, pants on fire!)
So Todd is telling us all this, and eventually D and I are like, "Dude, why are you putting up with this? You're not on a lease. You don't HAVE to live there. If he is making your life that miserable, just move out!" Todd had a vehicle at the time, but no license, so we agreed to help him move out.
That went like this: Thursday night, Caleb calls Todd to bitch at him about something and says, "You need to get over here right now or you're kicked out." Todd says, "Actually, I don't even want to live with you anymore, so I'll come get my stuff." Caleb swears at Todd a little bit, threatens him some more, and we go over there with Todd and pack up some of his stuff. When we get there, Caleb says, "Sorry I freaked out on you, man, this is probably for the best," so we think everything is cool and we get a bunch of Todd's stuff, but we can't fit it all in his vehicle and my vehicle. So we ask if it's okay to come back later and get the rest of his stuff, and Caleb says that's fine.
Friday afternoon Caleb calls Todd. He tells Todd that it's his and Penelope's anniversary, so can he wait until tomorrow to come get the rest of his stuff. Todd says no problem.
Saturday rolls around. D and I are at work all day. We leave around 5 to find a very distressed Todd. Caleb has been calling his phone all day -- which Todd has not been answering, because it was in my car -- saying progressively crazier things like, "Hey man, you need to come get your shit out of my house and you need to come get it NOW, or I'm gonna get it out of my house for you, and you're not gonna like the way I get it out of my house. I need this room. I need this room NOW. Come get your shit."
So we go over there and pack up the rest of Todd's things. Caleb is stomping around moodily -- he must have just realized he wouldn't be getting rent from Todd anymore. Or something. I don't know what his deal was. He's being a big baby, is the point. We get everything loaded up and start driving back into Columbia. (Caleb and Penelope and Todd lived about fifteen minutes outside of Columbia -- this is pertinent, I promise.) So we're driving home and it's about to ice storm. Not good weather to be out in. We're almost back in town when Caleb calls Todd's cell phone and tells him we need to turn around RIGHT NOW and give him back the mailbox key. Todd tells D to turn around. D asks why and Todd tells him. D says, "screw that, the weather is horrible and there's no mail on Sunday anyway, he can wait until you see him in school on Monday and you can give him the key then." Todd (who is kind of a pansy) is too scared to tell Caleb this, so he asks D to call and tell him.
D calls Caleb and reiterates: No mail on Sunday, it's ice storming, you can wait until Monday to bring the key back. Caleb says, "You need to turn around right fucking now and give me back my key." D is not happy with this. He says, "We're not turning around, you can wait until Monday, it's not going to kill you, and the way you're acting, you're lucky nobody's beat your ass yet." Hangs up the phone.
At this point, Caleb calls the sheriff's office and tells them that D and Todd stole his HOUSE key, they're driving a so-and-so year and make and model, pull them over if you see them. Lie #1 that I could prove.
We make it home without incident and Todd calls the Columbia police non-emergency line. He tells them what happened and explains that his ex-roommate is a little unhinged and he's not sure what to do. The dispatcher tells him not to take the key back, to just wait until Monday and give it back to him in a public place.
Sunday. All day, Todd's voicemail is blowing up with Crazy's messages. "Give me back my key, man, or else. I'm gonna do something you won't like, don't make me do it." Penelope even weighs in at one point: "Please give Crazy -- I mean, Caleb -- the mailbox key back and it will all be over. He's going to do something stupid if you don't."
Monday. A sheriff's deputy shows up at D's work with an ex-parte -- a temporary restraining order. On it, Caleb says that D threatened to "kick his ass and kill him," that D is a drug trafficker and that Caleb fears for "my life, my wife and my property." (Those were Lies #2, #3 and #4, in case you were keeping track.) D tells the deputy it's total BS, and the deputy says, "Well, you'd better get it taken care of, otherwise it will become a full restraining order and if you two run into each other at Wal-Mart, you can be arrested for violation."
We go to court a couple of weeks later. We have the aforementioned evidence that Caleb flat-out lied to the police. Caleb's evidence looks like this: Some pictures of D and Todd blowing up action figures with fireworks one summer (not illegal), and a letter from someone in Colorado claiming that "things happen" to people who have disagreements with Todd. D tries to show the judge our evidence (police records, phone recordings), and the judge says, "I'm not looking at that, if you have evidence you want me to look at, you need to file a restraining order against Mr. Crazy here."
Then the judge says, "You two just leave each other alone for the next six weeks and we'll drop this whole thing. Okay?"
THE VERY NEXT DAY, I'm dropping Todd off at school. He calls me about twenty seconds after he leaves the car and says, "Guess what I just saw?"
"What?"
"Caleb was lurking behind the bushes so he could memorize your license plate number."
That is it. That is the last straw for me. I go to the Columbia police, then to campus police when they won't help me, because I want it on record that this guy memorized my license plate number, so when he calls and says, "Um, yeah, someone threw a brick through my front window and I just saw a 1999 Subaru Outback with plate # so-and-so drive away," they know he's full of it. I find a detective willing to listen to me at campus police. I tell him my story and show him the evidence. D tells him the story. I drag Todd into the station and bully him into telling the story, too, because he's the one who got us into this mess -- he was being a baby about it, too. "We're going to work in the same field, I don't want any trouble with him." Little late for that.
The detective finishes listening to all of this, expresses amazement that the judge refused to look at our evidence, notes that Crazy Boy has perjured himself and could thus land himself in jail, and finally says, "Do you want me to talk to him?" "YES!" I tell him, in tears at this point. "I don't even know this guy. I just want him to leave me alone."
Six weeks later at the second ex-parte hearing, guess who doesn't show up? The judge dismissed the order, and Crazy Boy had to pay all the court fees. Ha ha.
Fast forward to a couple of years later. I'm in Colorado starting an internship when Todd calls me. "Hey, remember when Caleb memorized your license plate number?" Yes, I remember. "Well I asked him why he did that and he said he wanted to do a background check on you so he could show you were an unreliable witness."
Two problems with this story: 1) I never talked to the judge. In fact, my involvement was limited to procuring public-record documents until that jackass decided to involve me and my car on his own time. I was not a witness to anything. 2) You can't get information on a person using a license plate number. You can find out if the car is stolen or has been involved in any crimes, and to whom it's registered, IF you have access to a police database.
"Anyway, he had his friend in the CIA look up your plates and you have a warrant out for your arrest in Denver." For what? "Parking tickets."
I'm sure you can see the holes in this story without me having to point them out. I'll just say this: I'd been pulled over two weeks before for having a tail light out, and didn't get arrested. No warrant. But to make sure, I called the city and asked if there was a warrant out for my arrest. There was not. I asked if I had any outstanding parking tickets. I did not. I called Todd back, told him that Crazy was full of it and recommended that he not believe anything else Crazy told him.
This all came back to me because last night I was hanging out with Todd and he mentioned that he'd been taught to snowboard by Crazy. I said, "I can't believe you still talk to him," and he said (finally!) that he doesn't talk to Crazy anymore, but that Crazy and Penelope have a kid. "That poor child," was all I could say.
Then I said, "You know, what a crock of shit. That guy was such a liar. 'Ooh, I have a friend in the CIA who's going to risk his job to look up something because of a pointless vendetta I have against this girl I've never even been properly introduced to. She has a warrant out for her arrest.' What a crazy, crazy liar. What, you have nothing better to do with your time than make things like that up? Seriously. Get a life, loser."
And finally, Todd agrees with me.
But I don't know if that's the end of the story. I hope it is. I get this feeling sometimes, though, that I'm not rid of Crazy yet. I hope he's learned his lesson: Don't lie to the police, especially not when someone who's been trained as an investigative journalist is involved, because she'll send a detective to your grad-school class to pull you out and warn you that you're headed for jail time and probation if you don't quit being crazy.
I think it just kills him that he didn't do anything to us -- he was crazy, he had to pay court fees for being crazy, nothing happened to us. We "won." I hope he's not looking for a rematch.
Moral of the story: Stay far away from crazy liars.
A few years ago, I became inadvertently entangled with a crazy person. The story is below. For the sake of literary flow, I won't interrupt the telling with details on how I obtained certain pieces of information, so you should know that once I could see this was turning into a real mess, I visited the police station and obtained some public records -- notably a tape and reports of some 911 phone calls that were made. These records, plus voice recordings and transcripts of said voice recordings, were part of the evidence that we collected that the judge refused to look at ... but I'll get to that later.
So. One day D and I were hanging out with our friend "Todd." Todd was living with this guy, "Caleb," and Caleb's wife, "Penelope." Todd was complaining about life with Caleb and Penelope -- mostly Caleb. Caleb is a very controlling man. He created a list of daily chores for Todd and would call Todd when Todd was out and say things like, "You need to come home and do the dishes right now or I'm kicking you out of the house." He was one of those people who does that kind of thing: Threaten people with the most extreme punishment you can think of for petty, stupid things. He gave Todd the room with a broken window, in the wintertime, and then bitched that Todd hadn't fixed the window. He would also call Todd's mom and tell her that Todd was partying way too hard and that he, Caleb, was worried about Todd. Very manipulative guy. Caleb is also from Evergreen, oddly enough (although several years older than myself), and Caleb claims to have been a professional snowboarder.
(This is a total aside. Todd still believes that Caleb was once a pro rider -- despite copious evidence that Caleb is a liar -- but I don't believe a word of it. 1) Because Evergreen isn't that big, and 2) because I know some professional snowboarders -- REAL pro riders -- from Evergreen, and 3) because they have never even heard of Caleb. Also because the only proof he offers is that he's a good snowboarder and he has a bunch of boards from this one company -- which he easily could have bought or been given as a gift, as it's a local company. He had these pictures he tore out from magazines and would say things like, "This is me doing a jump, but I got like twice that high, the photographer just didn't get that." (He didn't say these things to me, I only was physically in proximity to Mr. Crazy thrice.) And there would be no label on the magazine picture ... and let's not forget that sports photographers have cameras that can take, like, fifty shots a second. Liar, liar, pants on fire!)
So Todd is telling us all this, and eventually D and I are like, "Dude, why are you putting up with this? You're not on a lease. You don't HAVE to live there. If he is making your life that miserable, just move out!" Todd had a vehicle at the time, but no license, so we agreed to help him move out.
That went like this: Thursday night, Caleb calls Todd to bitch at him about something and says, "You need to get over here right now or you're kicked out." Todd says, "Actually, I don't even want to live with you anymore, so I'll come get my stuff." Caleb swears at Todd a little bit, threatens him some more, and we go over there with Todd and pack up some of his stuff. When we get there, Caleb says, "Sorry I freaked out on you, man, this is probably for the best," so we think everything is cool and we get a bunch of Todd's stuff, but we can't fit it all in his vehicle and my vehicle. So we ask if it's okay to come back later and get the rest of his stuff, and Caleb says that's fine.
Friday afternoon Caleb calls Todd. He tells Todd that it's his and Penelope's anniversary, so can he wait until tomorrow to come get the rest of his stuff. Todd says no problem.
Saturday rolls around. D and I are at work all day. We leave around 5 to find a very distressed Todd. Caleb has been calling his phone all day -- which Todd has not been answering, because it was in my car -- saying progressively crazier things like, "Hey man, you need to come get your shit out of my house and you need to come get it NOW, or I'm gonna get it out of my house for you, and you're not gonna like the way I get it out of my house. I need this room. I need this room NOW. Come get your shit."
So we go over there and pack up the rest of Todd's things. Caleb is stomping around moodily -- he must have just realized he wouldn't be getting rent from Todd anymore. Or something. I don't know what his deal was. He's being a big baby, is the point. We get everything loaded up and start driving back into Columbia. (Caleb and Penelope and Todd lived about fifteen minutes outside of Columbia -- this is pertinent, I promise.) So we're driving home and it's about to ice storm. Not good weather to be out in. We're almost back in town when Caleb calls Todd's cell phone and tells him we need to turn around RIGHT NOW and give him back the mailbox key. Todd tells D to turn around. D asks why and Todd tells him. D says, "screw that, the weather is horrible and there's no mail on Sunday anyway, he can wait until you see him in school on Monday and you can give him the key then." Todd (who is kind of a pansy) is too scared to tell Caleb this, so he asks D to call and tell him.
D calls Caleb and reiterates: No mail on Sunday, it's ice storming, you can wait until Monday to bring the key back. Caleb says, "You need to turn around right fucking now and give me back my key." D is not happy with this. He says, "We're not turning around, you can wait until Monday, it's not going to kill you, and the way you're acting, you're lucky nobody's beat your ass yet." Hangs up the phone.
At this point, Caleb calls the sheriff's office and tells them that D and Todd stole his HOUSE key, they're driving a so-and-so year and make and model, pull them over if you see them. Lie #1 that I could prove.
We make it home without incident and Todd calls the Columbia police non-emergency line. He tells them what happened and explains that his ex-roommate is a little unhinged and he's not sure what to do. The dispatcher tells him not to take the key back, to just wait until Monday and give it back to him in a public place.
Sunday. All day, Todd's voicemail is blowing up with Crazy's messages. "Give me back my key, man, or else. I'm gonna do something you won't like, don't make me do it." Penelope even weighs in at one point: "Please give Crazy -- I mean, Caleb -- the mailbox key back and it will all be over. He's going to do something stupid if you don't."
Monday. A sheriff's deputy shows up at D's work with an ex-parte -- a temporary restraining order. On it, Caleb says that D threatened to "kick his ass and kill him," that D is a drug trafficker and that Caleb fears for "my life, my wife and my property." (Those were Lies #2, #3 and #4, in case you were keeping track.) D tells the deputy it's total BS, and the deputy says, "Well, you'd better get it taken care of, otherwise it will become a full restraining order and if you two run into each other at Wal-Mart, you can be arrested for violation."
We go to court a couple of weeks later. We have the aforementioned evidence that Caleb flat-out lied to the police. Caleb's evidence looks like this: Some pictures of D and Todd blowing up action figures with fireworks one summer (not illegal), and a letter from someone in Colorado claiming that "things happen" to people who have disagreements with Todd. D tries to show the judge our evidence (police records, phone recordings), and the judge says, "I'm not looking at that, if you have evidence you want me to look at, you need to file a restraining order against Mr. Crazy here."
Then the judge says, "You two just leave each other alone for the next six weeks and we'll drop this whole thing. Okay?"
THE VERY NEXT DAY, I'm dropping Todd off at school. He calls me about twenty seconds after he leaves the car and says, "Guess what I just saw?"
"What?"
"Caleb was lurking behind the bushes so he could memorize your license plate number."
That is it. That is the last straw for me. I go to the Columbia police, then to campus police when they won't help me, because I want it on record that this guy memorized my license plate number, so when he calls and says, "Um, yeah, someone threw a brick through my front window and I just saw a 1999 Subaru Outback with plate # so-and-so drive away," they know he's full of it. I find a detective willing to listen to me at campus police. I tell him my story and show him the evidence. D tells him the story. I drag Todd into the station and bully him into telling the story, too, because he's the one who got us into this mess -- he was being a baby about it, too. "We're going to work in the same field, I don't want any trouble with him." Little late for that.
The detective finishes listening to all of this, expresses amazement that the judge refused to look at our evidence, notes that Crazy Boy has perjured himself and could thus land himself in jail, and finally says, "Do you want me to talk to him?" "YES!" I tell him, in tears at this point. "I don't even know this guy. I just want him to leave me alone."
Six weeks later at the second ex-parte hearing, guess who doesn't show up? The judge dismissed the order, and Crazy Boy had to pay all the court fees. Ha ha.
Fast forward to a couple of years later. I'm in Colorado starting an internship when Todd calls me. "Hey, remember when Caleb memorized your license plate number?" Yes, I remember. "Well I asked him why he did that and he said he wanted to do a background check on you so he could show you were an unreliable witness."
Two problems with this story: 1) I never talked to the judge. In fact, my involvement was limited to procuring public-record documents until that jackass decided to involve me and my car on his own time. I was not a witness to anything. 2) You can't get information on a person using a license plate number. You can find out if the car is stolen or has been involved in any crimes, and to whom it's registered, IF you have access to a police database.
"Anyway, he had his friend in the CIA look up your plates and you have a warrant out for your arrest in Denver." For what? "Parking tickets."
I'm sure you can see the holes in this story without me having to point them out. I'll just say this: I'd been pulled over two weeks before for having a tail light out, and didn't get arrested. No warrant. But to make sure, I called the city and asked if there was a warrant out for my arrest. There was not. I asked if I had any outstanding parking tickets. I did not. I called Todd back, told him that Crazy was full of it and recommended that he not believe anything else Crazy told him.
This all came back to me because last night I was hanging out with Todd and he mentioned that he'd been taught to snowboard by Crazy. I said, "I can't believe you still talk to him," and he said (finally!) that he doesn't talk to Crazy anymore, but that Crazy and Penelope have a kid. "That poor child," was all I could say.
Then I said, "You know, what a crock of shit. That guy was such a liar. 'Ooh, I have a friend in the CIA who's going to risk his job to look up something because of a pointless vendetta I have against this girl I've never even been properly introduced to. She has a warrant out for her arrest.' What a crazy, crazy liar. What, you have nothing better to do with your time than make things like that up? Seriously. Get a life, loser."
And finally, Todd agrees with me.
But I don't know if that's the end of the story. I hope it is. I get this feeling sometimes, though, that I'm not rid of Crazy yet. I hope he's learned his lesson: Don't lie to the police, especially not when someone who's been trained as an investigative journalist is involved, because she'll send a detective to your grad-school class to pull you out and warn you that you're headed for jail time and probation if you don't quit being crazy.
I think it just kills him that he didn't do anything to us -- he was crazy, he had to pay court fees for being crazy, nothing happened to us. We "won." I hope he's not looking for a rematch.
Moral of the story: Stay far away from crazy liars.
Monday, October 6, 2008
One of those moments ...
I had a flashback today. (Not a fun one, though, so get your mind off that drug-addled track!) For some reason I started thinking about the day I found out my dad had died ... most of that day, as you might imagine, is pretty fuzzy for me. I was dazed. But there are a few moments out of that day that stand out crystal-clear. It's odd thinking back on it, like swimming in a sea of salty, briny water and suddenly being struck in the face with a freshwater current.
What I remembered today was calling my dad's friend to tell him the news. I don't remember dialing the phone number or even who answered the phone, maybe I left a message and he called me back ... I really don't recall. But I do remember the conversation we had. I told him we had some bad news and said, "You know Dad's in Australia right now ... well, he had another heart attack."
"So what's his status?" this friend asked. "Is he okay?"
"No," I said, but that's all I could get out. I could not for the life of me come up with the words. I thought about trying to break it to him gently, which by itself was ironic -- him, old enough to be my dad, literally, and me trying to be gentle. "He's dead," I think is what I finally said, although "said" is too strong a verb, really, for what came out of my mouth. More like, "choked," "gasped" or "whispered."
It was surreal. And it reminds me that life is not fair. It's not fair that I had to make that phone call and say those things. It's not fair that the stock market crashed today (well, almost). Life ain't fair. But you know, it's still pretty good.
Yesterday, I had a good moment. I was leaving work and the general manager said he had to do my employee evaluation. I was like, "Okay, let's set up a time," and he said, "Actually, all I really wanted to say to you is that you're awesome. I wish all our employees were like you. I wish you worked more than once a week. And I would kick anyone off their shift if you wanted it so we could have you work."
Nice.
What I remembered today was calling my dad's friend to tell him the news. I don't remember dialing the phone number or even who answered the phone, maybe I left a message and he called me back ... I really don't recall. But I do remember the conversation we had. I told him we had some bad news and said, "You know Dad's in Australia right now ... well, he had another heart attack."
"So what's his status?" this friend asked. "Is he okay?"
"No," I said, but that's all I could get out. I could not for the life of me come up with the words. I thought about trying to break it to him gently, which by itself was ironic -- him, old enough to be my dad, literally, and me trying to be gentle. "He's dead," I think is what I finally said, although "said" is too strong a verb, really, for what came out of my mouth. More like, "choked," "gasped" or "whispered."
It was surreal. And it reminds me that life is not fair. It's not fair that I had to make that phone call and say those things. It's not fair that the stock market crashed today (well, almost). Life ain't fair. But you know, it's still pretty good.
Yesterday, I had a good moment. I was leaving work and the general manager said he had to do my employee evaluation. I was like, "Okay, let's set up a time," and he said, "Actually, all I really wanted to say to you is that you're awesome. I wish all our employees were like you. I wish you worked more than once a week. And I would kick anyone off their shift if you wanted it so we could have you work."
Nice.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Jerkface McJerksalot
Up in Conifer yesterday, I was made aware of a well-known truth.
But I need to back up a bit to tell this story properly.
One of my managers up there is an extremely nice woman. Nice, nice, nice. Her husband comes in to sit at the bar sometimes. He is not so nice. He's a motorcycle guy -- used to work on them, now just rides one, when he's not in his new SUV -- and is one of those depressingly negative people who never has anything good to say. (Except about his wife -- he really does love her. That's about his only redeeming quality, however.)
He wears a lot of leather and he has a silver skull ring on just about every finger. No, I am not making this up. He also tells misogynistic jokes at the bar and seems to try and find ways to be offensive just for fun.
I try not to be one of those feminists who yells, "That's not funny!" at every stupid joke. I never, ever respond to this guy's prodding, a) because he's not important enough for me to really give two shits, and b) because that would only make him happy. But just so you get the idea, I'm going to record here one of the jokes he's told that I actually remember, which I did not respond to when he told it:
Q: Why do doctors spank babies when they're born?
A: To knock the dicks off the dumb ones.
Hahahahahahahaha.
Point being, the guy is an asshole. A self-affirmed asshole. He likes it. But I always was under the impression that beneath the asshole lay a misunderstood man with a heart of gold.
So yesterday, one of the bar regulars (but not necessarily MY regular) asked me if I had a boyfriend. I responded, no, I have a husband.
"You're not married," Asshole tells me. (He is also one of those people who doesn't ask questions, he makes statements and waits for you to contradict him. You know the type, I'm sure.)
"Yes, I am."
"Since when?"
"Since August."
"Let's see the ring." I show him the ring.
He responds with a scathing, dismissive: "That's not a real ring."
Honestly, this just made me laugh inside. First of all, because for all of this guy's authority-shunning, macho man, I-do-things-my-way-and-to-hell-with-everyone-else, he clearly still buys into the whole diamond ring business. Which is ridiculous. Second of all, because he wears so many rings -- I was half-tempted to say, "Well, I guess you'd know, wouldn't you?" But that probably would have gone over his head.
Or I could have said, "Gee, I could have sworn it was circular and fit on my finger in the way a ring usually does. My bad!"
Or I could have said, "Yeah, it really sucks that instead of buying me a diamond, instead I got a 3.5-karat ring with the rarest gem IN THE WORLD. Which will likely appreciate in value, whereas if you tried to pawn your diamond, you'd be lucky to get one-tenth of what you paid for it."
I could have said all these things. Instead, I just chalked one up to me being too likely to see the good in people.
He's not an asshole with a heart of gold. He's just an asshole.
The upside is, he also thinks he's the quickest wit in town. The other day he told D he needed to buy a new hat because his current hat is "gay/faggy." Some combination of those words. I'm ruining this by forgetting the comeback D hit him with, which was funny.
So it'll be interesting to see future visits from this dude, because he's bound to heckle my man, and D has no reservations about heckling him right back.
But I need to back up a bit to tell this story properly.
One of my managers up there is an extremely nice woman. Nice, nice, nice. Her husband comes in to sit at the bar sometimes. He is not so nice. He's a motorcycle guy -- used to work on them, now just rides one, when he's not in his new SUV -- and is one of those depressingly negative people who never has anything good to say. (Except about his wife -- he really does love her. That's about his only redeeming quality, however.)
He wears a lot of leather and he has a silver skull ring on just about every finger. No, I am not making this up. He also tells misogynistic jokes at the bar and seems to try and find ways to be offensive just for fun.
I try not to be one of those feminists who yells, "That's not funny!" at every stupid joke. I never, ever respond to this guy's prodding, a) because he's not important enough for me to really give two shits, and b) because that would only make him happy. But just so you get the idea, I'm going to record here one of the jokes he's told that I actually remember, which I did not respond to when he told it:
Q: Why do doctors spank babies when they're born?
A: To knock the dicks off the dumb ones.
Hahahahahahahaha.
Point being, the guy is an asshole. A self-affirmed asshole. He likes it. But I always was under the impression that beneath the asshole lay a misunderstood man with a heart of gold.
So yesterday, one of the bar regulars (but not necessarily MY regular) asked me if I had a boyfriend. I responded, no, I have a husband.
"You're not married," Asshole tells me. (He is also one of those people who doesn't ask questions, he makes statements and waits for you to contradict him. You know the type, I'm sure.)
"Yes, I am."
"Since when?"
"Since August."
"Let's see the ring." I show him the ring.
He responds with a scathing, dismissive: "That's not a real ring."
Honestly, this just made me laugh inside. First of all, because for all of this guy's authority-shunning, macho man, I-do-things-my-way-and-to-hell-with-everyone-else, he clearly still buys into the whole diamond ring business. Which is ridiculous. Second of all, because he wears so many rings -- I was half-tempted to say, "Well, I guess you'd know, wouldn't you?" But that probably would have gone over his head.
Or I could have said, "Gee, I could have sworn it was circular and fit on my finger in the way a ring usually does. My bad!"
Or I could have said, "Yeah, it really sucks that instead of buying me a diamond, instead I got a 3.5-karat ring with the rarest gem IN THE WORLD. Which will likely appreciate in value, whereas if you tried to pawn your diamond, you'd be lucky to get one-tenth of what you paid for it."
I could have said all these things. Instead, I just chalked one up to me being too likely to see the good in people.
He's not an asshole with a heart of gold. He's just an asshole.
The upside is, he also thinks he's the quickest wit in town. The other day he told D he needed to buy a new hat because his current hat is "gay/faggy." Some combination of those words. I'm ruining this by forgetting the comeback D hit him with, which was funny.
So it'll be interesting to see future visits from this dude, because he's bound to heckle my man, and D has no reservations about heckling him right back.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is
It's easy to feel disenfranchised and powerless in modern society. We hear about all these massive problems and think, "Well, that's truly awful, but what can I, a single human being, really do about it? Nothing I do will have an effect, anyway. Might as well just forget about it."
That is deceptive thinking. I don't believe in the devil as such, but if Satan really is running around putting thoughts into our heads that will mire our souls in an existential bog, then those are the kinds of thoughts he is working with.
We all make choices. Some of them are big, obvious choices -- voting comes to mind. But other choices, although smaller, are just as significant. We can choose where to shop and what to buy there. We can choose what brands we support. You get the drift.
People often ask about my wedding ring because it's unusual. I didn't want a diamond -- not only because my dad told me that diamonds are the most overpriced gems on the planet (they aren't rare, but most of the world's diamond mines are controlled by a single company, DeBeers, so it's quite easy for DeBeers to set the price on diamonds and the rest of the world will blindly follow along), but also because diamonds are the source of a great deal of bloodshed and calamity on the other side of the planet. People say that maybe the rising divorce rate has something to do with the advent of the third wave of feminism and the rise of women in the workplace, (b.s.) or our culture's increasing tendency toward instant gratification, or pick your argument.
But what if it's something more insidious and subtle than that? (I'm about to start sounding like a freaky New Age hippie right about now. Fair warning.) There are many people who believe gems and minerals have the ability to absorb energies. What if you're using something to symbolize your commitment and your union that is literally dripping with negative energy? What if that diamond you're wearing on your finger is slowly but constantly poisoning your interaction with your loved one by mixing your energies with the energy of pain, of death and of loss? And do you really want to carry around a chunk of stone on your finger that someone shed blood over? That might have been used to purchase an obscene amount of weapons that will be used against innocent people just trying to dig a life out of the dirt?
I don't. So I have my moldavite ring, which has one of the highest energy resonances out of any gem (probably the highest, actually), and nobody died to put that gem on my finger. It's a symbol of love that is untainted by negative energy. You don't have to have a diamond engagement/wedding ring. You can choose something that's more personal and better reflects your own tastes, or you can go with a diamond. Whatever. But you do have a choice.
Believe it or not, I don't spout my opinions about diamonds and other things outside this blog unless I'm asked directly about them. People ask about my ring, and I tell them what moldavite is and why it has significance for me. If they ask why I didn't want a diamond, I'm happy to share with them. But if they don't ask, I try to just keep it simple. My choice is between me and the universe. I remember going ring-shopping with my buddy who was getting ready to propose to his wife. Once the diamond-seller figured out who I was and what I was doing there, she started in on me: "Do you have a boyfriend? When is he going to propose? Have you thought about what kind of diamond you'd like?" And since that wasn't the time or place to go into it, I demurred, and later told my friend he was lucky that the saleswoman didn't get to hear my diatribe on blood diamonds, since she was being pushy about it -- trying to get another sale.
I guess I just think it's sad that so many people feel so powerless to effect change in the world, when all it takes is intelligent consumerism. I was buying green products before you could find them on the shelves of your friendly neighborhood grocery store. I had to go out of my way to get them, yes. But it was that important to me, and it still is. I'll happily pay a few cents more for the product that's safer for the environment. Soon (I hope!) there will be a label available that designates whether products are slave-labor free. When that label is available, I will seek out those products that carry it and use my choice as a consumer to make it more difficult for people to be sold on the black market as slaves. If the people buying those slaves suddenly can't sell the fruits of that slave labor to any corporate entities, they might start looking for easier ways to make money. Because people don't buy and sell slaves to be evil. They do it because it's lucrative.
Tangentially, that's also why I don't shop at Wal-Mart. Let's just say I don't agree with their operating practices, at all, because to detail why I don't shop there would take up a whole nother blog. I can't even remember the last time I bought something at Wal-Mart. It was probably seven or eight years ago. And more than one person has said to me, "Big deal, YOU don't shop at Wal-Mart. It's not like they're losing money, there are plenty of people still willing to shop there." That is very true. But just think for a moment ... if I were in the habit of buying everything I could at Wal-Mart, they would have made thousands upon thousands of dollars off me in the past eight years. Instead, they don't have a dime of my money. And in every consumer survey I've taken that's asked about such things, I have noted that Wal-Mart will never get any of my future money, either, unless the company makes some serious changes. At least I know, when I read a horrible story in the newspaper about something Wal-Mart has done to an employee, that my dollars did not contribute to Wal-Mart's legal defense. And when people are interested in my reasoning and ask me about it, I happily share with them. Maybe I've even converted one or two. I don't know. It doesn't matter. It's my choice, nobody else's.
And, in my opinion, it's the responsibility of each and every consumer to examine their choices and to choose wisely. I think it's safe to say that nobody reading this blog has ever bought a human being (did you know that the market for people has actually dropped -- you used to have to pay the equivalent of $40,000 to buy a person, now they go for about $300) and forced them to work without pay, under the threat of pain or death if they try to stop or leave. But how many of our cell phones contain materials that were mined using slave labor? How many of our cars? How many of our clothes?
It's hard to say, because that special little label hasn't been made available -- yet. But in a perfect world (okay, in MY perfect world), everyone would take these things into consideration before making a purchase. Nobody would knowingly buy something that was created using the blood and sweat and tears and suffering of another human being, just because it costs a few dollars less.
There is a high cost of low prices. Someone always suffers when we decide we want to cut corners and have this great style of living but not pay quite as much. Be aware. Think. Choose well.
That is deceptive thinking. I don't believe in the devil as such, but if Satan really is running around putting thoughts into our heads that will mire our souls in an existential bog, then those are the kinds of thoughts he is working with.
We all make choices. Some of them are big, obvious choices -- voting comes to mind. But other choices, although smaller, are just as significant. We can choose where to shop and what to buy there. We can choose what brands we support. You get the drift.
People often ask about my wedding ring because it's unusual. I didn't want a diamond -- not only because my dad told me that diamonds are the most overpriced gems on the planet (they aren't rare, but most of the world's diamond mines are controlled by a single company, DeBeers, so it's quite easy for DeBeers to set the price on diamonds and the rest of the world will blindly follow along), but also because diamonds are the source of a great deal of bloodshed and calamity on the other side of the planet. People say that maybe the rising divorce rate has something to do with the advent of the third wave of feminism and the rise of women in the workplace, (b.s.) or our culture's increasing tendency toward instant gratification, or pick your argument.
But what if it's something more insidious and subtle than that? (I'm about to start sounding like a freaky New Age hippie right about now. Fair warning.) There are many people who believe gems and minerals have the ability to absorb energies. What if you're using something to symbolize your commitment and your union that is literally dripping with negative energy? What if that diamond you're wearing on your finger is slowly but constantly poisoning your interaction with your loved one by mixing your energies with the energy of pain, of death and of loss? And do you really want to carry around a chunk of stone on your finger that someone shed blood over? That might have been used to purchase an obscene amount of weapons that will be used against innocent people just trying to dig a life out of the dirt?
I don't. So I have my moldavite ring, which has one of the highest energy resonances out of any gem (probably the highest, actually), and nobody died to put that gem on my finger. It's a symbol of love that is untainted by negative energy. You don't have to have a diamond engagement/wedding ring. You can choose something that's more personal and better reflects your own tastes, or you can go with a diamond. Whatever. But you do have a choice.
Believe it or not, I don't spout my opinions about diamonds and other things outside this blog unless I'm asked directly about them. People ask about my ring, and I tell them what moldavite is and why it has significance for me. If they ask why I didn't want a diamond, I'm happy to share with them. But if they don't ask, I try to just keep it simple. My choice is between me and the universe. I remember going ring-shopping with my buddy who was getting ready to propose to his wife. Once the diamond-seller figured out who I was and what I was doing there, she started in on me: "Do you have a boyfriend? When is he going to propose? Have you thought about what kind of diamond you'd like?" And since that wasn't the time or place to go into it, I demurred, and later told my friend he was lucky that the saleswoman didn't get to hear my diatribe on blood diamonds, since she was being pushy about it -- trying to get another sale.
I guess I just think it's sad that so many people feel so powerless to effect change in the world, when all it takes is intelligent consumerism. I was buying green products before you could find them on the shelves of your friendly neighborhood grocery store. I had to go out of my way to get them, yes. But it was that important to me, and it still is. I'll happily pay a few cents more for the product that's safer for the environment. Soon (I hope!) there will be a label available that designates whether products are slave-labor free. When that label is available, I will seek out those products that carry it and use my choice as a consumer to make it more difficult for people to be sold on the black market as slaves. If the people buying those slaves suddenly can't sell the fruits of that slave labor to any corporate entities, they might start looking for easier ways to make money. Because people don't buy and sell slaves to be evil. They do it because it's lucrative.
Tangentially, that's also why I don't shop at Wal-Mart. Let's just say I don't agree with their operating practices, at all, because to detail why I don't shop there would take up a whole nother blog. I can't even remember the last time I bought something at Wal-Mart. It was probably seven or eight years ago. And more than one person has said to me, "Big deal, YOU don't shop at Wal-Mart. It's not like they're losing money, there are plenty of people still willing to shop there." That is very true. But just think for a moment ... if I were in the habit of buying everything I could at Wal-Mart, they would have made thousands upon thousands of dollars off me in the past eight years. Instead, they don't have a dime of my money. And in every consumer survey I've taken that's asked about such things, I have noted that Wal-Mart will never get any of my future money, either, unless the company makes some serious changes. At least I know, when I read a horrible story in the newspaper about something Wal-Mart has done to an employee, that my dollars did not contribute to Wal-Mart's legal defense. And when people are interested in my reasoning and ask me about it, I happily share with them. Maybe I've even converted one or two. I don't know. It doesn't matter. It's my choice, nobody else's.
And, in my opinion, it's the responsibility of each and every consumer to examine their choices and to choose wisely. I think it's safe to say that nobody reading this blog has ever bought a human being (did you know that the market for people has actually dropped -- you used to have to pay the equivalent of $40,000 to buy a person, now they go for about $300) and forced them to work without pay, under the threat of pain or death if they try to stop or leave. But how many of our cell phones contain materials that were mined using slave labor? How many of our cars? How many of our clothes?
It's hard to say, because that special little label hasn't been made available -- yet. But in a perfect world (okay, in MY perfect world), everyone would take these things into consideration before making a purchase. Nobody would knowingly buy something that was created using the blood and sweat and tears and suffering of another human being, just because it costs a few dollars less.
There is a high cost of low prices. Someone always suffers when we decide we want to cut corners and have this great style of living but not pay quite as much. Be aware. Think. Choose well.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Word to the Wise
On October 10, find out where Call + Response is playing at a theater near you, and then go see it.
Then tell all your friends.
It's a "rockumentary" about human trafficking. But that doesn't even begin to capture how powerful and moving it is.
And it's not one of those documentaries that leaves you feeling hopeless and overwhelmed, despite the very serious subject matter.
And 100 percent of the proceeds go toward various projects to stop human trafficking around the world.
And it's a just plain freaking awesome film.
Then tell all your friends.
It's a "rockumentary" about human trafficking. But that doesn't even begin to capture how powerful and moving it is.
And it's not one of those documentaries that leaves you feeling hopeless and overwhelmed, despite the very serious subject matter.
And 100 percent of the proceeds go toward various projects to stop human trafficking around the world.
And it's a just plain freaking awesome film.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Fringe Pisses Me Off
I know everyone thinks J.J. Abrams is a genius. Well, I don't. (J.J. Abrams is the man behind such television hits as Felicity, Alias and Lost, for those who don't know). I've never really gotten into any of his shows, and because a friend recommended it, I found myself watching the series premiere of Fringe on Sunday night (they re-ran it, I guess to try and get more people hooked).
And I think Fringe sucks.
Let's be clear: I was an avid, avid X-Files fan. I'm all about the creepy government conspiracy alien abduction demon possession television.
But Fringe is trying way too hard. Plus, the belief line in television is fine. Really, that's why it pisses me off. They over-explain the mystery to make it sound plausible. But inevitably in the over-explanation, there's a flaw that I just can't dismiss, a flaw that renders the entire plot completely implausible. X-Files was a real mystery/spooky conspiracy show -- nobody knew what the hell was going on, although they had their theories, and nothing was ever really explained. This gave the viewers the opportunity to conjecture solutions to the mystery on their own, plus it never tried to force some obviously fake solution into a good mystery hole. X-Files ruled.
I can even give a good example of this. In last night's episode of Fringe (which I had to endure watching because Damon, for some unknown reason, actually is engaged by the show), they were seeking a man who was murdering women and performing surgery to remove some part of their brains, the pituitary gland, for some unknown reason. At the beginning of the episode, the man had just had sex with a stripper and was preparing a sedative so he could do the surgery on her.
First problem: Strippers aren't prostitutes. I know that might seem like a small distinction to the writers of a television show, but really, they're not. Most of them, although they do choose to remove their clothes for money, have too much self-respect to ho themselves out on top of it. Not all, but most. So for this guy to find an attractive stripper willing to meet up with him in a seedy hotel room -- not likely. Just make her a prostitute, writers. What the hell?
Okay. So then, the stripper starts to experience severe abdominal pain. The guy puts her in his car and drops her off on the street. She winds up in the hospital and they tell her they need to do a C-section on her to "get the baby out." She tells them she's not pregnant (in between screaming bouts of pain). She dies on the operating table. Instead of reviving her, they do the C-section and remove whatever is inside of her. People start screaming and fainting when they see what it is they removed.
Second problem: Sure, don't even worry about the chick who just died on the table. I mean, she's just a prostitute. The "baby" is more important.
Then we find out that the thing inside her actually was a baby. Just a baby that grows really fast.
Third problem: That's not fucking scary. I mean, I wouldn't want that baby inside me, that's not what I'm saying. But come on ... it's a baby. It's a baby that's growing quickly. And you're going to scream and faint over that? Come on!
So we come to find that the serial-killer man was a result of an experiment to grow human soldiers for the military. The soldiers grew to the correct size very rapidly; the problem was stopping the aging process once they reached the ideal "age" for a soldier. This guy is a remnant of that experiment, and the only way he can keep himself from growing super-old, super-fast, and dying, is by stealing other people's pituitary glands and doing god-knows-what with them.
I know. I know.
So what happened to the stripper/prostitute? Well, before he was able to remove her gland, they had sex, and she got pregnant.
Fourth problem: A genetic experiment is unlikely to be able to reproduce. Bear in mind this experiment was supposed to take place back in the '60s or so. We hadn't even gotten as far as cloning at that point in time. Cloned beings probably can reproduce, but when you start messing with DNA and hormones to make something grow faster, or slower, or whatever it is that you're doing with it -- Mother Nature doesn't like that shit. She usually finds a way to make sure that whatever you're doing with her can't be replicated through reproduction.
And fifth problem: It takes several days after fertilization for an egg to implant itself into the uterine wall. That's what the morning-after pill does, people, it prevents the fertilized egg (now an embryo, I suppose) from implanting. And I guess I can buy that, if this magical genetic growing-and-aging man actually can reproduce, that once implanted, the embryo would grow at a frightening rate. But. Did the embryo suddenly develop little fins to swim itself down the fallopian tubes? No? Then I guess it's still going to take a couple of days to get to that point, isn't it, boys and girls? Yes.
I told you Fringe sucks.
So once I figure out what's going on in this lame show, I point out to D that none of this is feasible and that Fringe is stupid. He says, "Well, most people don't know that much about pregnancy." I guess we can thank the religious right for that -- I mean, why would it be remotely important to know the basics of how pregnancy occurs? Exactly.
If I were a Fringe writer, here is what I would have done: Forget about that stupid surgery crap to remove the pituitary gland. I would have made the soldier-man a sort of hybrid who could only reproduce via sporing or something crazy like that, because he's not human. So he tries to spore, but it doesn't work unless he has a protected area in which the fetus can gestate. He starts trying to use the uterus for such things, but obviously, the baby kills the women and usually dies right after birth. He's got this tremendous urge to reproduce, so huge that he doesn't care how many people he kills until he succeeds, and he just keeps trying these messed-up methods until he gets caught. That is some weird, alien, unbelievable television right there. A super-growing man stealing pituitary glands is just stupid. Like I said, not scary. Vaguely creepy, but not really. It's definitely no X-Files plot.
And whoever they have playing the lead female -- I don't know her name -- is no Dana Scully. And Pacey isn't even close to a Fox Mulder. Not that every show like this needs to follow an X-Files dynamic, but they're trying hard enough to copy the X-Files that it's obvious, except they're not doing a very good job.
And the worst thing about Fringe: It comes on during The Biggest Loser. Which, as you all should know, is my favorite show.
Next week, I'm putting my foot down. No more Fringe. It's lame. If I have to miss the ending of Biggest Loser again (yes, I missed the ending this week; yes, I was pissed off about it; yes, it was the season premiere; yes, Fringe sucks big salty donkey balls), then I'm going to take some drastic anti-Fringe action.
Fuck that show.
And I think Fringe sucks.
Let's be clear: I was an avid, avid X-Files fan. I'm all about the creepy government conspiracy alien abduction demon possession television.
But Fringe is trying way too hard. Plus, the belief line in television is fine. Really, that's why it pisses me off. They over-explain the mystery to make it sound plausible. But inevitably in the over-explanation, there's a flaw that I just can't dismiss, a flaw that renders the entire plot completely implausible. X-Files was a real mystery/spooky conspiracy show -- nobody knew what the hell was going on, although they had their theories, and nothing was ever really explained. This gave the viewers the opportunity to conjecture solutions to the mystery on their own, plus it never tried to force some obviously fake solution into a good mystery hole. X-Files ruled.
I can even give a good example of this. In last night's episode of Fringe (which I had to endure watching because Damon, for some unknown reason, actually is engaged by the show), they were seeking a man who was murdering women and performing surgery to remove some part of their brains, the pituitary gland, for some unknown reason. At the beginning of the episode, the man had just had sex with a stripper and was preparing a sedative so he could do the surgery on her.
First problem: Strippers aren't prostitutes. I know that might seem like a small distinction to the writers of a television show, but really, they're not. Most of them, although they do choose to remove their clothes for money, have too much self-respect to ho themselves out on top of it. Not all, but most. So for this guy to find an attractive stripper willing to meet up with him in a seedy hotel room -- not likely. Just make her a prostitute, writers. What the hell?
Okay. So then, the stripper starts to experience severe abdominal pain. The guy puts her in his car and drops her off on the street. She winds up in the hospital and they tell her they need to do a C-section on her to "get the baby out." She tells them she's not pregnant (in between screaming bouts of pain). She dies on the operating table. Instead of reviving her, they do the C-section and remove whatever is inside of her. People start screaming and fainting when they see what it is they removed.
Second problem: Sure, don't even worry about the chick who just died on the table. I mean, she's just a prostitute. The "baby" is more important.
Then we find out that the thing inside her actually was a baby. Just a baby that grows really fast.
Third problem: That's not fucking scary. I mean, I wouldn't want that baby inside me, that's not what I'm saying. But come on ... it's a baby. It's a baby that's growing quickly. And you're going to scream and faint over that? Come on!
So we come to find that the serial-killer man was a result of an experiment to grow human soldiers for the military. The soldiers grew to the correct size very rapidly; the problem was stopping the aging process once they reached the ideal "age" for a soldier. This guy is a remnant of that experiment, and the only way he can keep himself from growing super-old, super-fast, and dying, is by stealing other people's pituitary glands and doing god-knows-what with them.
I know. I know.
So what happened to the stripper/prostitute? Well, before he was able to remove her gland, they had sex, and she got pregnant.
Fourth problem: A genetic experiment is unlikely to be able to reproduce. Bear in mind this experiment was supposed to take place back in the '60s or so. We hadn't even gotten as far as cloning at that point in time. Cloned beings probably can reproduce, but when you start messing with DNA and hormones to make something grow faster, or slower, or whatever it is that you're doing with it -- Mother Nature doesn't like that shit. She usually finds a way to make sure that whatever you're doing with her can't be replicated through reproduction.
And fifth problem: It takes several days after fertilization for an egg to implant itself into the uterine wall. That's what the morning-after pill does, people, it prevents the fertilized egg (now an embryo, I suppose) from implanting. And I guess I can buy that, if this magical genetic growing-and-aging man actually can reproduce, that once implanted, the embryo would grow at a frightening rate. But. Did the embryo suddenly develop little fins to swim itself down the fallopian tubes? No? Then I guess it's still going to take a couple of days to get to that point, isn't it, boys and girls? Yes.
I told you Fringe sucks.
So once I figure out what's going on in this lame show, I point out to D that none of this is feasible and that Fringe is stupid. He says, "Well, most people don't know that much about pregnancy." I guess we can thank the religious right for that -- I mean, why would it be remotely important to know the basics of how pregnancy occurs? Exactly.
If I were a Fringe writer, here is what I would have done: Forget about that stupid surgery crap to remove the pituitary gland. I would have made the soldier-man a sort of hybrid who could only reproduce via sporing or something crazy like that, because he's not human. So he tries to spore, but it doesn't work unless he has a protected area in which the fetus can gestate. He starts trying to use the uterus for such things, but obviously, the baby kills the women and usually dies right after birth. He's got this tremendous urge to reproduce, so huge that he doesn't care how many people he kills until he succeeds, and he just keeps trying these messed-up methods until he gets caught. That is some weird, alien, unbelievable television right there. A super-growing man stealing pituitary glands is just stupid. Like I said, not scary. Vaguely creepy, but not really. It's definitely no X-Files plot.
And whoever they have playing the lead female -- I don't know her name -- is no Dana Scully. And Pacey isn't even close to a Fox Mulder. Not that every show like this needs to follow an X-Files dynamic, but they're trying hard enough to copy the X-Files that it's obvious, except they're not doing a very good job.
And the worst thing about Fringe: It comes on during The Biggest Loser. Which, as you all should know, is my favorite show.
Next week, I'm putting my foot down. No more Fringe. It's lame. If I have to miss the ending of Biggest Loser again (yes, I missed the ending this week; yes, I was pissed off about it; yes, it was the season premiere; yes, Fringe sucks big salty donkey balls), then I'm going to take some drastic anti-Fringe action.
Fuck that show.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Yum.
I heart angry rocker boys.
Trent is at the top of my list. He is so cute.
Then come the boys from Rise Against! Mmm.
That is all.
Trent is at the top of my list. He is so cute.
Then come the boys from Rise Against! Mmm.
That is all.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
table for one
I'm one of those oddities among humans, one who's happy to spend lots and lots of time alone. Right now I'm eating lunch at Le Central, one of my favorite restaurants, alone. I didn't bring a book with me, which is why I'm blogging with my delicious tomato basil soup. I just dribbled some down my chest, and there's no one here to laugh except the snooty servers, and they are too snooty to laugh.
I just think maybe it's a little odd that I don't even consider asking my coworkers if they'd like to join me, because truth is, I'm perfectly happy all alone.
I just think maybe it's a little odd that I don't even consider asking my coworkers if they'd like to join me, because truth is, I'm perfectly happy all alone.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Am I Mean, Or Just Honest?
I was talking to my BFF Rachel the other day, and she informed me that one of our mutual friends back in CoMo is getting married to her long-term boyfriend.
"Oh," I said. "How's he doing?" (Let's call him Joe for the purpose of this exercise, and she can be Jane, although anyone from the CoMo area who ran with the same Chili's crew as I did will be able to recognize both Joe/Jane and the other couple I'm about to discuss.)
And the reason for me asking how Joe was doing is because Joe was released from prison a couple of years ago. Jane was dating him before he went in and continued to visit him and keep their relationship alive while he was in. But another reason I asked is because I heard, from a very reliable source, that Joe has a tendency to beat the shit out of Jane for no apparent reason. It's not something Jane likes to talk about, for obvious reasons, and it was something she apparently hid very well, judging by the continuation of my conversation wtih Rach:
"He's doing really well, actually," she tells me.
"Oh, that's good," I say. "Has he stopped beating the shit out of her yet?"
Pause. "Oh. Um. I didn't know that was a problem," she tells me.
Then I feel kind of bad, because this was following on the heels of another conversation about another Chili's CoMo couple. Let's call them Josh and Janet. Josh and Janet have been married for a few years and they have a kid together. Josh has been having some pretty serious health problems lately.
And some more background on Janet/Josh: I was working with both of them when they first started dating, and I didn't think it was going to last -- I still think she was kinda stupid to marry him. First, because he comes from a country outside the U.S., and a man who comes from the same small town as Josh used to work with Damon, and he told Damon once that Josh has a wife, kids, entire family back where he's from. There was really no reason for that dude to tell a complete lie about Josh. Second, he was such a player. He used to come up to me all the time, because I can hold a conversation in his native language, and he would say things like, "You are the most intelligent, beautiful girl I have ever seen." "Your eyes are gorgeous." "You are the most beautiful girl here." "You are so smart, I've never met anyone as smart as you." Ad nauseum. You get the idea. When he would turn on the charm, I would say, "But, Josh, what about Janet?" And he would reply, "Who's Janet?" I lost a lot of respect for him over that. But it didn't stop him; he would do that shit ALL THE TIME until he and Janet finally got married.
And one time when Rachel was back in CoMo visiting, he tried to kiss her while Janet was at work. Same, smooth style: "You are so beautiful, you could have any man you wanted," blah blah blah. This was while he was married to Janet, incidentally, and after their kid was born.
Anyway! Earlier in my conversation with Rachel, she said, "I finally talked to Janet again, I haven't heard from her in months, it sounds like Josh is doing really well and his condition has entirely cleared up."
"That's good," I said. Then: "I wonder if he's cheated on her yet." (I think he definitely has -- and if he hasn't, it's because the girls he's tried it with have been too smart to fall for his lines.)
So after I told Rachel about Jane and Joe and how Joe likes to hit Jane, I started to feel bad, as in judgemental. Why can't I just be happy that Jane and Joe are getting married? Why can't I just be happy that Josh seems to be better?
Is it because I'm a bitch?
Or is it because I'm not swallowing the sugar coating they put on their relationships?
Beats me.
"Oh," I said. "How's he doing?" (Let's call him Joe for the purpose of this exercise, and she can be Jane, although anyone from the CoMo area who ran with the same Chili's crew as I did will be able to recognize both Joe/Jane and the other couple I'm about to discuss.)
And the reason for me asking how Joe was doing is because Joe was released from prison a couple of years ago. Jane was dating him before he went in and continued to visit him and keep their relationship alive while he was in. But another reason I asked is because I heard, from a very reliable source, that Joe has a tendency to beat the shit out of Jane for no apparent reason. It's not something Jane likes to talk about, for obvious reasons, and it was something she apparently hid very well, judging by the continuation of my conversation wtih Rach:
"He's doing really well, actually," she tells me.
"Oh, that's good," I say. "Has he stopped beating the shit out of her yet?"
Pause. "Oh. Um. I didn't know that was a problem," she tells me.
Then I feel kind of bad, because this was following on the heels of another conversation about another Chili's CoMo couple. Let's call them Josh and Janet. Josh and Janet have been married for a few years and they have a kid together. Josh has been having some pretty serious health problems lately.
And some more background on Janet/Josh: I was working with both of them when they first started dating, and I didn't think it was going to last -- I still think she was kinda stupid to marry him. First, because he comes from a country outside the U.S., and a man who comes from the same small town as Josh used to work with Damon, and he told Damon once that Josh has a wife, kids, entire family back where he's from. There was really no reason for that dude to tell a complete lie about Josh. Second, he was such a player. He used to come up to me all the time, because I can hold a conversation in his native language, and he would say things like, "You are the most intelligent, beautiful girl I have ever seen." "Your eyes are gorgeous." "You are the most beautiful girl here." "You are so smart, I've never met anyone as smart as you." Ad nauseum. You get the idea. When he would turn on the charm, I would say, "But, Josh, what about Janet?" And he would reply, "Who's Janet?" I lost a lot of respect for him over that. But it didn't stop him; he would do that shit ALL THE TIME until he and Janet finally got married.
And one time when Rachel was back in CoMo visiting, he tried to kiss her while Janet was at work. Same, smooth style: "You are so beautiful, you could have any man you wanted," blah blah blah. This was while he was married to Janet, incidentally, and after their kid was born.
Anyway! Earlier in my conversation with Rachel, she said, "I finally talked to Janet again, I haven't heard from her in months, it sounds like Josh is doing really well and his condition has entirely cleared up."
"That's good," I said. Then: "I wonder if he's cheated on her yet." (I think he definitely has -- and if he hasn't, it's because the girls he's tried it with have been too smart to fall for his lines.)
So after I told Rachel about Jane and Joe and how Joe likes to hit Jane, I started to feel bad, as in judgemental. Why can't I just be happy that Jane and Joe are getting married? Why can't I just be happy that Josh seems to be better?
Is it because I'm a bitch?
Or is it because I'm not swallowing the sugar coating they put on their relationships?
Beats me.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
short one today
1. Nine Inch Nails -- awesome. Trent Reznor -- still my celebrity crush. Mmm. Tasty.
2. I have a serious pimple farm breaking out on my forehead. SERIOUS.
2. I have a serious pimple farm breaking out on my forehead. SERIOUS.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
My Postal Worker is Very Weird
The guy who runs the post office in Morrison, Carl ... well, let's just say he's a little unusual. A lot unusual. This morning I had to mail a package to my youngest brother for my mother so it would reach him in time for his birthday (it's his first year of college ... wow, unreal!). So I head into the post office at about 9 a.m. to mail the package.
I'm writing the address and he says, "So, I'm finally meeting the person behind mailbox 327! Susan, right?"
"No, it's Amber," I tell him. "You were close."
But this is not even remotely the first time I've met Carl. No, no, no. A brief history of my interactions with the fun postal workers in Morrison:
* First, before I had to sign up for a post office, my neighbor, Maja, warned me that the people at this post office "are stupid." (I believe those were her exact words.) I wasn't quite sure what that meant but decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.
* Second, I first met Carl when I was signing up for my PO Box. My house, which is only about a three-minute walk from the post office, does not have a mailbox simply because it's so close. I actually had to deal with Carl twice during this little episode, once when he explained to me how to go about getting a mailbox (which requires a Colorado driver's license, which led me into a strange Catch-22 situation, because I couldn't get a PO Box without a driver's license, and I can't receive mail at my house, so once the license was issued, there was nowhere for them to actually send it -- because Colorado can't make it simple and just give you the license before you leave the office, like they do in Missouri. And let me tell you: Colorado's DMV is hell on earth. If you ever have to go, bring a book, because you could easily be there for hours. I was there for four the first time I had to go, then for three when I needed the license reissued because, obviously, it never made it to me.)
* I spoke with Carl again last year in November when I had to renew my PO Box.
* I spoke with Carl again in November, when there was a note in my PO Box that I had too much mail to fit in there, and I had to pick it up from the front desk. He lectured me about checking my mailbox every day, and I told him I'd checked it the day before and it was empty (which was true; he didn't believe me). Proof that it wasn't my fault, but that rather, the post office was hanging onto my mail, came when I found the November and October issues of Glamour in the stack of mail. Magazines get to you at least two weeks before the month starts. What was a six-week-old magazine doing in this stack of mail? Hmmm.
* I see Carl (although don't necessarily talk to him) every single day when I walk in the post office to pick up my mail at my box. Except on Sunday. But he doesn't work Sunday anyway.
* I distinctly remember mailing a package (can't remember what or to whom) and hearing all about Carl's time spent in Vietnam and his post-traumatic stress disorder, and how thunderstorms wake him up (I think there had been a thunderstorm the previous night).
* Within the past two weeks, I've had to pick up a package from the front desk because the contents were damaged and leaking. Carl was very inquisitive about this package; when I returned to give him back his plastic box, he even asked me what was in it (is this legal? I wasn't sure).
* JUST LAST WEEK, I bought stamps from Carl. In fact, every single time I've mailed a package or bought stamps (except for one stamp-buying incident), it was from Carl. And last week we spent about five minutes on the stamps, because they were out of the ones I wanted and I had to select an alternative.
And he finally got to meet me this morning.
???????
I'm writing the address and he says, "So, I'm finally meeting the person behind mailbox 327! Susan, right?"
"No, it's Amber," I tell him. "You were close."
But this is not even remotely the first time I've met Carl. No, no, no. A brief history of my interactions with the fun postal workers in Morrison:
* First, before I had to sign up for a post office, my neighbor, Maja, warned me that the people at this post office "are stupid." (I believe those were her exact words.) I wasn't quite sure what that meant but decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.
* Second, I first met Carl when I was signing up for my PO Box. My house, which is only about a three-minute walk from the post office, does not have a mailbox simply because it's so close. I actually had to deal with Carl twice during this little episode, once when he explained to me how to go about getting a mailbox (which requires a Colorado driver's license, which led me into a strange Catch-22 situation, because I couldn't get a PO Box without a driver's license, and I can't receive mail at my house, so once the license was issued, there was nowhere for them to actually send it -- because Colorado can't make it simple and just give you the license before you leave the office, like they do in Missouri. And let me tell you: Colorado's DMV is hell on earth. If you ever have to go, bring a book, because you could easily be there for hours. I was there for four the first time I had to go, then for three when I needed the license reissued because, obviously, it never made it to me.)
* I spoke with Carl again last year in November when I had to renew my PO Box.
* I spoke with Carl again in November, when there was a note in my PO Box that I had too much mail to fit in there, and I had to pick it up from the front desk. He lectured me about checking my mailbox every day, and I told him I'd checked it the day before and it was empty (which was true; he didn't believe me). Proof that it wasn't my fault, but that rather, the post office was hanging onto my mail, came when I found the November and October issues of Glamour in the stack of mail. Magazines get to you at least two weeks before the month starts. What was a six-week-old magazine doing in this stack of mail? Hmmm.
* I see Carl (although don't necessarily talk to him) every single day when I walk in the post office to pick up my mail at my box. Except on Sunday. But he doesn't work Sunday anyway.
* I distinctly remember mailing a package (can't remember what or to whom) and hearing all about Carl's time spent in Vietnam and his post-traumatic stress disorder, and how thunderstorms wake him up (I think there had been a thunderstorm the previous night).
* Within the past two weeks, I've had to pick up a package from the front desk because the contents were damaged and leaking. Carl was very inquisitive about this package; when I returned to give him back his plastic box, he even asked me what was in it (is this legal? I wasn't sure).
* JUST LAST WEEK, I bought stamps from Carl. In fact, every single time I've mailed a package or bought stamps (except for one stamp-buying incident), it was from Carl. And last week we spent about five minutes on the stamps, because they were out of the ones I wanted and I had to select an alternative.
And he finally got to meet me this morning.
???????
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