Today’s moment of Atlanta Traffic Idiocy: MLK at Washington Street, 8:38 am. This is a four-lane, one-way street. The right lane is blocked by a Gwinnett County Transit bus which has stopped there for no apparent reason (no one is getting on or off). I am grumpy in the morning and so the contradiction annoys me: how can they be in transit if the bus is just sitting there? That's being in stasis. The next lane is blocked by another bus reading (seriously) Nancy and Udean’s Christian Tours. It’s parked mostly in the second-right lane just ahead of the GCT bus, probably to try to heal the Gwinnetians with prayer. The next lane is theoretically open to forward traffic, only a Lincoln Navigator has that one blocked because he wants to turn into his parking deck but traffic inside the parking deck has backed up to the street. A UPS driver with a vital delivery to make has stopped in the far left lane to read over his clipboard. All this, and me without an AK-47 (Chip won’t let me borrow his).

Which brings me to the second-ever contest on my blog: I will give a valuable prize to anyone who submits, in the form of photographic proof, evidence that any UPS driver ANYWHERE has ever used a parking space. Be warned, my friend Laurel will be able to tell if you’ve Photoshopped your entry!

Michael Jackson is being arraigned today. I can’t decide if I think he’s guilty or not. It’s terrible for those kids if it’s true and awful for him if he’s falsely accused. Personally, I find him so totally weird and disconnected from reality that it’s hard to believe he’d be into something as ordinary as run-of-the-mill paedophilia. I couldn’t tell you what I think he’s into, just that it’s some fetish so totally bizarre and (pardon the pun) off the wall that it doesn’t have a name yet.

In Fulton County, a couple is under arrest for the beating death of their five-month-old, who annoyed its father with its crying. Now, I may not seem qualified to dispense child-rearing advice, not having any of my own, but here’s a thought: if you want the kid to stop crying, STOP BEATING IT. Call it a hunch.

Hmpf. Once I become Supreme High Dictator, some things are gonna change - first of all, there will be an IQ prerequisite for certain activities, driving and procreating chief among them. Doubtless some bedwetting liberals will whine that I am discriminating against the less intelligent and uneducated, and to them I have but two words: damn right.

“This must be a Thursday,” said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer. ”I never could get the hang of Thursdays." (Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy)

The Leafs beat the stinkin’ Flyers 4 - 1 last night but I didn’t get to see anything but the recap because I went shopping. I heartily dislike shopping; it’s amazing how often I find myself doing just that. I had to buy a new dress because my salesweasel is getting married this weekend and it’s a black tie affair. I still have the dress from the last black-tie wedding I attended (that of the World’s Greatest Boss) but it’s a size 10 and I knew without even trying that it wasn’t going to work, certain bits having expanded since 1994. After my mom and I went to several places, I finally bought a dress at Dillard’s; we then repaired to Olive Garden to refresh ourselves with wine and pasta (which we do a lot, hence the expansion).

The whole wedding concept makes me a little uncomfortable; was I EVER that optimistic? About anything? Somehow I doubt it. I’m the sort of person who monograms things and puts her name in new books instantly, so there’s no chance of not getting them back when stuff is sorted into piles of Rightful Ownership. I seem to recall Billy Crystal making a similar remark in When Harry Met Sally but I’m too lazy to look it up. If I ever have to get married, I want to do it in Las Vegas with an Elvis officiating. I’d also feel better if I could steal Wanda Sykes’s line and vow, instead of that whole “til death us do part” thing, “Eh...I’ll give it a shot.”.

A while back I bought this great frog at World Market: he’s a sandbag frog, kind of a lime green with darker bits and semi-metallic specks in the cloth. I finally remembered to bring him to work today so he could sit on my monitor. He’s a really good frog. His name is Clyde; all my frogs are named Clyde in honor of Eric Cartman’s Clyde Frog. I also remembered to bring my lucky bamboo plant to work and assign its watering to Sheila. Not that I’m lazy, not that it’s in her job description, but we both want the poor, innocent little bamboo to survive so it’s better that I don’t interact with it.

Today has been totally wack. I just now had my lunch and it’s 3:00. I was going to post a movie review of Cold Creek Manor but be warned, I can’t think of anything scathingly funny to say about it - yes, it sucked that bad.
*Spoilers Follow*
Based on the previews, I was expecting a horror movie and it sorta started off that way, but changed its mind at some point. Evidently nothing supernatural is involved and the little boy is not under the influence of some evil force from beyond, he’s just weirder than grits. Also I think it underwent some serious editing, as certain things the characters said - really more the way they worded things - seemed to be in response to scenes we hadn’t viewed. For example, Sharon Stone’s character spews this sobbing, hysterical “I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you” speech to Dennis Quaid, but prior to that, she never says - or acts like - she doesn’t believe him, really. She makes the standard “Oh, he’s just being nice” remark about the villain of the piece, but the minute something truly weird happens, he tells her to take the kids and go stay with a bud, and off she goes. Not enough to have warranted such a sobbing apology, in my opinion. Not even the megalicious Stephen Dorff, for whom I have lusted ever since he was a lovely evil vampire in Blade, could save this piece of offal. Finnovar didn’t watch the last ¾ of it - it was so bad he couldn’t even delight in making acerbic remarks. Sprocket hated it too - no plot, Juliette Lewis doesn’t get nekkid and much worse - no gunts, blood or grossness. Juliette Lewis does get a bloody nose, but it doesn’t bleed enough to count.

It is rainy and gloomy today, but boy the weekend was beautiful! Charles Schultz wrote that the secret to happiness is owning a convertible and a lake: when the sun is shining you can drive around in your convertible and when it rains, you can say, “Oh well, the rain will fill up my lake.” I don’t know if he’s right about the lake part as I don’t own one (not YET, anyway) but he is spot-on about the convertible. It is utterly impossible to be in a bad mood riding around in your convertible on a perfect sunny day in Atlanta with Led Zeppelin on the stereo. IMPOSSIBLE.

It occurs to me that, including the two I have now, the last six cars I’ve owned have been convertibles of one sort or another. As a convertible expert, therefore, allow me to address some of the most common questions and misunderstandings about these automobiles.

Regarding putting the top down, which model is the easiest?
The Chrysler Sebring. The push of one button raises or lowers the top, with simultaneous window adjustments.

Which one is the biggest pain in the butt?
The Mercedes 380SL. This car has a ragtop underneath a hardtop but removing the hardtop is impossible for one person to manage and fairly difficult for two. Looks cooler, though.

Don’t they mess your hair up?
That sorta depends on what your hair was like in the first place. If you have a stylish, meticulously arranged coif, yes they do. If, however, you are like me and the normal state of your ‘do is an unruly, windblown mass of locks, which incidentally earned me the nickname “SaladHead” (‘cause it’s tossed - thanks, Scott!), then driving sixty miles an hour in a car with no roof doesn’t make much difference. Simply think of the convertible as a styling accessory, though larger and rather more expensive than hair gel.

I’ve heard they’re awfully loud, so what about road noise? How can you hear your passenger?
You can’t - hence the allure of the vehicle.

Aren’t they dangerous? What if you are thrown from the car?
Hmmm...personally if I’m going to be thrown from a car I’d rather just be thrown out of it and not pass through a reinforced steel roof or a hunk of glass first - but that’s just me.

You currently own two convertibles. Isn’t that a bit contrary to your practical, not to say miserly, nature?
Well, yes. I needed a no-mileage, no-problems vehicle for commuting - thus, the Sebring, but I could not bring myself to part with the ‘Vette as she is the only vehicle I have ever wanted my entire life: black-on-black, six speed manual tranny, removable hardtop with a fast, loud, high-taching engine wrapped in a gorgeous fiberglass package. I plan to justify the financial expenditure of keeping her by being buried in the Corvette. In fact, given the state of Atlanta traffic, I shall probably be cremated in the Corvette, rather sooner than I had expected.

So you like convertibles. Can your opinion be substantiated, say with a celebrity endorsement?
Yes, of course. Consider these words of wisdom from Jimmy Buffett:
"The five o'clock Friday blows, I got to let it go.
Put on my weekend clothes, turn on the rock 'n' roll
Throw all my cares away -
I live for a ragtop day!
It's a ragtop day!
It’s a ragtop day!" (Ragtop Day by Jimmy Buffett, Michael Utley, Will Jennings)

Yesterday was rather eventful. As I walked back to my office following an enchanting journey to make a deposit at the bank, I passed a group of guys engaged in the popular local sport of loitering about the Marta station. One of them hollered, “Woooo-hoooo!” to which I did not respond. I know what you’re thinking: whoa, she must have a will of iron to be able to resist such a witty and seductive bon mot as “Woooo-hooo!”

Since I was playing hard-to-get, the guys stepped it up a notch by yelling, “Mmmm-MMMMM!” and “Hey, you a hottie!” What I want to know is, has this EVER actually worked? In the entire history of guydom, has a chick ever responded to the dulcet allure of “Hey, you a hottie!” by stopping in her tracks, walking over to the guy and saying, “Oh, you smooth talker you! Do me, do me NOW!”??? Didn’t think so.

Once I turned the corner, I saw a great deal of police activity across the street from my office! Ever since we’ve been in this building (1998 or so), a guy across the street has had a little stand where he sells ice-cold sodas, a selection of chips and candy, sunglasses and purses. We often buy drinks and treats from him because his merchandise is quite a bit cheaper than the same items at the newsstand further down the block. I couldn’t figure out why he was getting busted, as he has the appropriate street-vendor permits and keeps them posted on his kiosk like a good boy. Well, lo and behold, the Kate Spade and Louis Vuitton purses he’s been selling are - brace yourselves - FAKE! I am so glad the Atlanta Police Department is on top of this heinous criminal activity.

I don’t care to look up a bunch of crime statistics but I’m prepared to assume that if Atlanta is no better than any other major city, at least it’s no worse. We have our fair share of burglaries, muggings, rapes and murders, but by goddess I will no longer have to live my life cowering under the threat of counterfeit Prada and faux Fendi! All those who care about me can rest easy, now that a posse of Atlanta’s finest has saved me from the clear and present danger posed by knock-off designer purses. Even better, consider this: should I get carjacked or mugged, I can be certain that I have lost a genuine Prada bag worth $450, not a sorry cheap ripoff for which I paid only $25. Thank all the gods and goddesses for the diligence and hard work of the Atlanta Police Department. We probably don’t even need the security guard in our lobby anymore.

My brother did very well in his recital last evening. Here are the pieces he performed, the titles of which will not be properly italicized because I dislike the way italics display in my blog: Handel’s Sonata #16 in G Minor, Op. 2, No. 8, which is really a piece for piano and two violins, but Bo transcribed it for piano and two double-basses - the other double-bass part was performed by his instructor, Dr. Milton Masciadri; Motivy by Emil Tabakov; Passion by Sarah Black (incidentally, my brother’s lovely girlfriend); Valentine by Jacob Druckman (a piece for the performer with Tourette’s, ha ha); Bottesini’s Concerto #2. Shameless plug: buy Dr. Masciadri's cd here!

Afterward a bunch of us went to the Taco Stand for some eats, conversation and conviviality. Bo and I were able to catch some of Game 7, won 4 -1 by THE LEAFS. Can I get a “boo-yah!”?!?

It’s been an odd day at work: it sure seems busy, I’ve felt busy, placed & taken calls, sent & received e-mails, had a meeting with my salesweasel - but I don’t seem to have accomplished much (if anything) and unlike some days, it’s not because I deliberately chose to goof off. I’ve worked, I just don’t have much to show for it. Well, I DID accomplish lunch with the World’s Greatest Boss who treated me to some great seafood at Ray’s, and lunch with the WGB is never a bad thing.

I watched School of Rock over the weekend. I thoroughly enjoyed this movie. Yeah, it’s a bit formulaic and predictable, but its funny/cute/cool moments outweigh the “it’s been done” moments. I’ve thought Jack Black was hilarious ever since the days of Tenacious D (a CD no music collection should be without, in my opinion). And the movie’s worth the rental fee just to hear the chubby girl belt out “Chain of Fools”.

When I went to Amazon to get a link to the CD, there was an ad up for Nordstrom, “shop now for fun and flirty spring dresses”. In my head, I hear my spring dress saying to my sandals, “Hey baby - you’re new here, aren’t ya?”, asking my bra “So, you come here often?” and trying to buy my jacket a Manhattan.

Taking a half-day off and heading to Athens later today because my brother is giving a bass recital, about which I learned yesterday at around 5:15. I just adore planning ahead, don’t you? It’s at six this evening and he better have a short program planned because Game 7 of the Leafs/Senators series is tonight. I love my brother and all, but this is HOCKEY we’re talkin’ ‘bout here.

I am very cute today. I have on new shoes. It doesn’t matter that my hair decided to be frizzy, that my eyes and cheeks are puffy because of pollen allergies or that my makeup is rather haphazard because of morning coming so damned early. Nope, what matters is that I have on new shoes and therefore, I am very cute today.

I purchased my new shoes on Saturday during a shopping expedition with my mom. I had to go out and spend $200 that I didn’t have on a new carpet shampooer. How this pertains to my new shoes is that spending $200 that I didn’t have was too much for me to handle all at once, so first I had to spend $75 on assorted stuff at Target and then buy a $110 pair of Cole-Hahn sandals, so as to work up gradually to the $200 purchase. See how that works?

Mom helped me assemble the new carpet shampooer, which I kind of resented. That is, I didn’t resent her helping me, I resented the fact that assembly was required at all. I mean, here I’ve had to spend lots of money that would be far better spent on more cute shoes on some stupid implement of work in order to do household chores that I don’t even enjoy - the least they could do was sell it in one piece. But they didn’t, so we put it together and after I had couched and had a Diet Coke, I felt sufficiently recovered to shampoo the carpets.

The main reason I had to shampoo carpets was to rid them of several spots of Sprocket-wee. I was emptying the waste tank from the shampooer outside because it kind of grossed me out to pour diluted doggy-wee down my sink drain and at one point, when I was almost finished, I came back in to find said doggy lifting his leg and weeing directly onto the carpet shampooer, which I suppose expressed his sentiments about the whole thing. Why do I even bother? But yes, it was great fun cleaning the outside of my new carpet shampooer with Clorox.

On Sunday the 'rents came up so my dad could re-hang my satellite dish. During some of the high winds we’ve had recently, it’s blown off-course enough that several channels weren’t coming in and on others, programs were often interrupted by the blue “Searching for satellite signal - please stand by” message. This is totally unacceptable during Stanley Cup playoffs. Mom bought me a new chimney-mount thing and Dad installed it. He climbed up a ladder and stood on my roof working, while big fat bees and mean red wasps angrily asserted their opposition to the satellite dish. My dad is the bravest man in the world.

While he was busy with that, Mom deplored the state of my rose bush and pruned it for me. Since she was being so gardeny, I asked if she’d prune the hedge along the front of my house. It’s not as bad as it sounds; I have one of those heavy-duty electric hedge clippers. She said sure and started attacking my shrubbery, which is growing exponentially in lovely, rich green foliage. If I cared at all about my lawn, the hedge would be brown and dying, but since I hate my lawn, it is getting even by thriving.

The hedge clippers were plugged into an outlet inside the garage and a long orange extension cord was looped around front. At this juncture, Dad descended the ladder in search of a Philips-head screwdriver. I had one, but it was in the house and the extension cord for the hedge clippers was stretched across, kind of blocking the door. So Dad unplugged it without saying anything to Mom. I went in, he plugged it back in; I found the screwdriver and needed to come back out so he unplugged it again. Then he stood there, with this totally evil grin on his face, waiting. Every time Mom got going really good, he’d unplug the cord and wait a few seconds. I could just picture her looking down at the clippers in puzzlement. Dad had it timed perfectly so that just before she got frustrated enough to walk around inside the garage to see what was up, he’d plug it back in.

So that was my weekend but despite all my hard work shopping, shampooing carpets and annoying my parents, I am very cute today.

Well, as of last night my beloved Blues are out of the playoffs, the first team to make an ignominious exit. I KNEW they shouldn’t have fired Coach Q, I KNEW it! And being eliminated by the San Jose Sharks makes it even worse. For the remainder of the playoffs, therefore, I will be switching my allegiance to my brother’s favorite team, the Toronto Maple Leafs. It irritates me every time I write that because the grammarian in me insists that it ought to be “Toronto Maple Leaves” but I must be consistent with the official party line, I suppose, so “Leafs” it is.

During playoff season a couple of years ago, I went as far as painting “Go Leafs Go” in huge, Toronto-blue letters on the back window of the ‘Vette. En route to work one morning, I was driving down Decatur Street. They had the lane beside me closed for utility work and when the light at Piedmont turned red, I wound up stopped beside one of the guys working - well, hanging around the work spot leaning on an implement of some sort. He read the back window and asked me, puzzled, “What does that mean?” I answered, “It means I want them to win!” but I’m not sure he really understood. I haven’t decided whether to paint my vehicles this year, however. When I did it before, the Leafs didn’t reward my sacrifice by winning the cup so I’m not sure they really appreciated the gesture.

My brother looks very much like Toronto Maple Leaf Darcy Tucker. In that link he doesn't look nearly as much like Bo as this one picture I have on my computer, in which the resemblance is downright eerie, but I don't think I can post pictures from my hard drive on here. Anyhow, one of these days, we plan to attend a game with him holding up a sign - he wants something along the lines of “President of the Darcy Tucker Lookalike Club” but I prefer “Darcy Tucker’s Evil Twin”. I don’t look like any of the Maple Leafs, myself. I suppose that’s a good thing.

I'm worried about tonight's game because even though they'll be back home at the Air Canada Centre, Mats Sundin (my favorite Leaf) and Joe Nieuwendyk are hurt, possibly questionable. [I get extra points for spelling "Nieuwendyk" correctly.] One more thing: GO LEAFS GO!!!

I will never, ever eat Bluebell ice cream. No, it’s not because I’m already addicted to Godiva ice cream (white chocolate raspberry swirl, yummers!) - it’s because I find the Bluebell commercial JUST. THAT. ANNOYING. I hear it every frickin’ morning and every frickin’ morning, it gets on my very last nerve. The commercial starts with this hokey song in which a guy sings about the good old days of his youth spent happily frolickin’ by the swimmin’ hole; it’s a veritable cornucopia of cliché illustrating the kind of childhood nobody really had but about which television and movies reminisce in endless platitudes. I’m not even to the annoying part yet. The song goes on to tell about Mama hollerin’ out the screen door “Would you kids like some homemade ice cream?” - that’s the part that irks me. If it was THAT long ago and they’re THAT country, would Mama really find it necessary to specify that the ice cream was homemade? Would they have access to any other kind? NO. And another thing...what kind of mama has to ask if her country-ass children want ice cream? YEAH they want ice cream, they’re kids. But the ‘homemade’ comment is what irritates me. “Bluebell tastes just like the good old days” - well, you know what the good old days taste like to me? Attic dust and lemon polish! And I don’t want any attic-dust-lemon-polish-flavored ice cream, thank you very much.

I’ve noticed a new phenomenon on the roadways lately. People doing the most remarkably stupid things in traffic is nothing new in Atlanta, to be sure, but lately I’ve noticed that the perpetrators of such idiocy are blowing horns, giving dirty looks, making angry and sometimes obscene gestures to the rest of us - as if we are the ones in the wrong. Excuse me, but I am not the one blocking traffic in four directions while stopped in the middle of an intersection, attempting to turn left underneath a large white sign with huge black letters saying “NO TURNS” (Marietta at Peachtree, 5:40 Monday evening, for you Atlantans). I am not the one who decided, ten feet from a stoplight, that although I am in the far left lane of a four-lane, one-way street, I wish to turn right at said stoplight and will therefore drive perpendicular to the street and damnation to everyone attempting to proceed forward (MLK at Forsyth during morning rush-hour, one day last week). I am not the one who is attempting to BACK a giant, mid-80s model Cadillac the wrong way down Marietta Street during morning rush - that guy kept turning around, sticking his head out the window and frowning at me for not letting him reverse down the street. Where he thought I was gonna go is beyond me - even if I wanted to let him back down a busy thoroughfare, I was surrounded by minivans, SUVs and Bell South trucks, all of which - like me - wanted to proceed forward. The thing that gets to me is the dirty looks and angry gestures - as if they have the perfect right to do whatever dangerous, illegal and totally brainless thing they’re doing, and we have the audacity to be in their way. I might excuse it if the people doing dumb things had out-of-state or even faraway county tags on their cars, but invariably when I see something truly idiotic, it’s from someone with a Fulton or Dekalb county tag. You live here - why don’t you know where you’re going?

The parking deck I use is like two giant corkscrews, with one corkscrew running up and the other corkscrew running down. You can tell which direction each corkscrew goes by the giant yellow arrows painted on the floor, or by the green neon arrow directing you as you enter, or by the fact that all the cars already parked there are pointed the way you’re supposed to go - that’s what I like to call “a hint and a half for your happy ass”. Nonetheless, this is too complex for some people to grasp and they go barreling through the parking deck headed the wrong way, and then do the ‘dirty look angry gesture’ thing at us dolts who are trying to proceed in the proper direction. Tuesday, this guy in a Honda almost hit me doing that. I absolutely refuse to yield to stupidity, so I just sat there while he gave me dirty looks. After all, I was headed the correct way. After a few seconds of impasse, he actually dared to give me the finger! I lowered my window and uttered what is, to those who know me, the most dreaded phrase in the English language: “Let me TELL you ONE thing, buddy!” This phrase always precedes a diatribe which is, in a bit of a contradiction, generally not limited to one thing nor aimed at a bud. I completely terrorized that Honda driver. I began by telling him it was my fault, as I should not expect someone to know the correct direction in which to drive when they are too stupid to realize the importance of patriotism during wartime, which was obvious from his choice of a Japanese import [as opposed to my solid, staunchly American auto] and I hoped he was sorry for his detrimental contribution to a struggling economy, unless he was a communist which he probably was because he was obviously too stupid to be anything else. Perhaps the highlight of my fulmination came when I asked if his mother knew he was an ill-mannered goon who made obscene finger gestures to young women. Nah - it was probably the “I’m going the right way, you’re going the wrong way, and you have the steel cajones to give ME the finger?!? You’re not just a moron, you’re rude too! You must be a lawyer!” part. I ended it by screaming, “You better just back up and LET ME BY!” which he did. You realize, of course, that someone in some other blog somewhere is ranting about an idiot in a Honda who was driving up the parking deck ramp in reverse.

I think that all cars ought to come with a paintball gun and a supply of paintballs as standard equipment. Whenever we see someone doing something irretrievably stupid, we could shoot paintballs at their car. It wouldn’t keep the idiots off the road but that way, we’d at least have fair warning. It’s too bad they don’t make paintballs that spell out “IDIOT” in the middle of the paint sploosh.

Giving up chocolate for Lent was one of the best things I’ve ever done. Fortunately for me, I’m blessed with a great bunch of chocoholic friends, who were horrified at what I’d done and set out to make it worth the effort. First up was Nancy, who was dismayed at the thought of me waiting until after Easter to purchase Cadbury eggs, a confection to which I’ve been addicted for many years. Knowing that the leftover eggs would be stale, broken, mushed and nasty, she presented me with a sweet Easter basket shaped like a chicken, full to the brim with Cadbury eggs. Next Vennie sent over a huge chocolate bunny - solid chocolate, not one of those rip-off hollow bunnies. Thursday Cheryl gave me a Target bag which turned out to be full of Cadbury eggs, Nestle crunch caramel eggs and Dove chocolate bunnies. Then yesterday the Easter Bunny (who quite frankly I am beginning to suspect of being my mom) left an Easter bucket (yeah, a bucket) full of treats, including Cadbury eggs and a Spongebunny! I got a stuffed Spongebob who is wearing a pink-and-blue beanie with big, floppy, pink bunny ears attached. Man, I have the greatest friends - it’s like Cheryl says: friends are gifts you give yourself, and as for me, I choose only the very best.

Movies I watched this weekend: The Missing, which was okay. It was a bit predictable and nothing special, but had some good moments. I was more disappointed in it because I’d expected great things from Tommy Lee Jones and Cate Blanchett so when it was just a good-to-average western, I felt kinda cheated. Then I saw a preview of Wonderland, which appeared to be a murder mystery starring the lovely, talented and blessed-with-beautiful-teeth Val Kilmer - good enough for me so I decided to watch that, too. It turned out to be even more interesting as Wonderland is based on the true story of some brutal murders with which porn star (and incidentally, cokehead) John Holmes was involved - perhaps peripherally, perhaps more actively. The story was told in flashbacks from a couple of different points of view and was very interesting, if a bit violent. Side note: Kate Bosworth plays Dawn Schiller (John Holmes’s girlfriend) in the movie. She looked very familiar to me and I was eager to learn where I knew her from, but when I looked her up on the imdb, I hadn’t seen any of the things she was in previously. I hope I never see The Horse Whisperer - blecccch. Some things I just know right away aren't for me and movies touted as "heartwarming" are paramount among them (pun intended).

Cheryl and I went to the range last night for a little target practice. We hadn’t been in ages and it showed; I was way, way off my game. With my first clip, I had 3 rounds that didn’t even hit the guy. They hit the target, but Jose himself was unscathed. ‘Jose’ is what we named the menacing, AK47-wielding, bushy-moustached hoodlum on our targets. We use tactical silhouettes sometimes too, but Jose is fun because you can target specific body parts. If you plug him square in the eye, Cheryl will sing, to the tune of the National Anthem, "Jose cannot seeeeee!"

I did a bit better as time went on and by my 5th and 6th clips, I was getting some half-decent clusters. Then my gun jammed, a rare occurrence with WinClean ammo, so I ejected the round and tried to continue. My gun wouldn’t fire! Cheryl looked at it, tried a few things, put in a different magazine and was perplexed. She summoned the rangemaster - not the usual fellow who’s a very nice guy named, I think, Walt, but some firearms mega-genius who, after piddling with it for a while, handed it back and said, “Uh...something’s wrong with it. Maybe the trigger mechanism?” Well, thank you, Captain Obvious! Us poor widdle stupid girr-ruls would never have guessed!

Captain Obvious: Uh...before you leave, I can give you the name and number of a real good gunsmith. He does excellent work.
Cheryl: We already know the name of a really good gunsmith. We call him “Dad”.

Among other esoteric hobbies, my dad makes replica black powder pistols. He has a hella cool pirate pistol with brass trim but I’m still not allowed to play with it. Funny, at the time I didn’t think he really meant that whole ‘banned for thirty years’ thing - I mean, he never liked that waterbed anyway. But I’m sure he can fix my gun; he fixed the slide on it about a year ago. It’s very important to me because it’s not technically my gun, it’s Cheryl’s gun, and I’d hate to have broken something with which she trusted me. How does one break a gun, anyway? I’ve broken lots of stuff, like glasses and, lord knows, Playstation controllers, but how the hell do you break a Smith & Wesson 9mm?!? Leave it to me...

Of course, there are worse things to break. Just ask Ilaire Coroiu, whose penis exploded during sex. I’m NOT kidding.

Man, I can’t believe my cat finked on me and posted such humiliating stuff on the internet. I never should have used his name as my password; I've now changed it to an obscenity that he probably doesn't know and couldn't spell correctly. This is why dogs are better than cats; Sprocket would never have done this to me. Okay, Sprocket would never have done it because he doesn’t know about the slugs or the Abba cd, but still...

Anyway, in my defense, it’s not my Abba cd. I was dating a guy who left it at my house. Oh, wait - that’s even more humiliating, dating a guy who listens to Abba. It was a lie anyway. The truth is that I only bought that Abba cd because “Waterloo” was stuck in my head, had been for days, and of all the annoying songs to get stuck in your head, only “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart” is worse than “Waterloo”. This was ‘way before MusicMatch or iTunes, mind you, so I was forced, for the sake of all humankind, to buy the cd, listen to “Waterloo” and get it out of my head before I climbed a bell tower and started shooting. At the time, I thought it'd be safe because I wore a paper bag over my head during the purchase.

And I don’t cry during The Rock anymore. Really, I don't. In a subsequent viewing, the horror had worn off enough for me to notice that when the alloys come off the “Ferrari”, they aren’t real Ferrari alloys, leading me to conclude that the whole car was an imitation. No actual ponycars were harmed during the filming of this movie. There’s not much I can say about the other stuff, though. Gimme my Spongebob; I want a nap.

Greetings and salutations, blog readers. Lest you think this is the usual author, allow me to disabuse you of that notion straightaway. It is I, Finnovar, bantam panther and lord of all that I survey. I blog today in revenge. Nearly a fortnight ago, SHE submitted me to the Grand Inquisitor, who subjected me to proddings, pokings, piercings with needles and other excruciating tortures better left unwritten, a treachery for which SHE believes I do not intend to seek revenge, inasmuch as I have not thus far anointed her bedding with a hairball. Hers is not an accurate assessment of the situation. I fully intend to avenge my maltreatment, but upon reflection have determined that regurgitation ill befits my dignity and have decided to avail myself of this forum instead. After cohabitating with her for nigh upon a decade, I know all her dirty little secrets and will forthwith reveal the most embarrassing of them.

(1) Eats ice cream straight from the carton
(2) Sleeps with a stuffed toy - some square, revoltingly yellow thing SHE calls a “Sponge-Bob”
(3) Owns an ABBA cd - would that it were Barry Manilow; with the extortion proceeds I'd never have to eat dry kibble again.
(4) Is frightened of slugs - you should have heard the fuss SHE kicked up when I dispatched her to dispose of one which had invaded my garage. After pouring salt and dropping a telephone directory upon it, SHE still had to summon help to dispose of the slug-corpse.
(5) Cries during sad movies - I can hear my Grandmáma professing dubiousness regarding this one, but I assure you that my claim has veracity. Here are just a few examples: The Rock, Con Air, Grand Prix, Gone in Sixty Seconds (It's true: SHE cried when Nic Cage wrecked the yellow Ferrari, when the criminals demolished the blue Corvette, when Yves Montand destroyed his Ferrari and when Nic Cage trashed the Shelby, respectively.)

Vengeance is mine! And yes, it is difficult to type without opposable thumbs.

I close my eyes
Then I drift away
Into the magic night
I softly sway
Oh smile and pray
Like dreamers do
Then I fall asleep
To dream my dreams of you
--"In Dreams", Roy Orbison

Last night I had a dream in which I was dining with the governor - governor of what, I don’t know, but it definitely wasn’t Sonny Perdue. During the salad course, every time I tried to take a bite, I’d drop a tiny cube of tomato, a strip of grated cheddar or a small lettuce fragment onto the pristine white tablecloth. All the while that political theory, foreign policy and other matters of great import were being discussed, I was obsessed instead with surreptitiously flicking salad debris back into my bowl or underneath the table so my mess didn’t show. Oh, no - using bad table manners in public! More correctly, I should have begun by saying I had a nightmare last night. Anyway, I finally gave up and quit trying to eat the salad but the governor noticed and boomed out, “Is something the matter with your salad?!? You don’t like it?!? We’ll have someone bring you another one!” thus calling everyone’s attention to me and adding to my humiliation. The waitstaff whisked away the offending salad and bestowed upon me a seafood salad, so I was able to drop and try to retrieve small chunks of lobster and shreds of crab instead. I either woke up or don’t remember the main course, although I’m sure it involved at least one of the following: tomato sauce for splattering, spinach for lodging between my front teeth, julienne vegetables for leaping off my fork, English peas for rolling into my lap, or one of those dishes that’s totally impossible for me to eat without making a complete mess even in my own home, such as barbecued ribs or crab legs.

One of the funniest/weirdest dreams I’ve ever had, at least that I remember, involved going on a ski trip with my friend Jorge. [Side note: I don’t ski. I’m best at things that don’t require a lot of balance and coordination. I don’t think Jorge skis either; he’s more of a ‘lounge on the beach while waiters bring drinks’ kind of person - as am I.] But anyway, we were skiing and at this particular resort, the difference between the beginner slopes and the expert slopes was the obstacles. Specifically, garbage dumpsters. Dotting the slope were these giant green garbage dumpsters placed on their backs with their plastic lids opening upward, in line with the slope, so that if you weren’t skilled enough to maneuver around them, you’d ski right into a garbage dumpster. Once you'd skied into one, they were deep enough that you had to wait until a friend or a resort employee skied by to rescue you after much pointing and jeering. They didn’t contain garbage, by the way - they were clean traps. That’s all of the funny/weird part, garbage dumpsters on the ski slopes, but if you’re interested, I made it down the black diamond slope without getting dumpstered. I didn’t rely on my skiing expertise to do it; instead, I used cunning. Every time it looked like I was headed for a dumpster, I took a dive and scooted around it on my behind, hid on the far side of the dumpster until no one was looking, got back up and skied a few more feet. Success through cheating, that’s my motto.

A headline from Neal Boortz's website:
HEAD OF 9/11 COMMISSION SAYS CLINTON BLEW IT
Everybody say it with me now - "I thought that was Monica!"

Man, I was so proud of myself last month. I stretched the budget to the absolute max and didn’t spent a penny unnecessarily in order to pay off my credit card, my gas card and my Sam’s Club balance. I was feeling so good about the financial picture and so pleased with my achievement...until this weekend, when I became aware that I had $3.51 in the bank, no gas in my car, just opened my last pair of disposable contacts so a new box needs to be ordered immediately if not sooner, the housekeeper’s coming today (and will doubtless expect to be paid), my allergy prescription needs refilling, I need to buy tax software to get my return done, the oil in my car needs changing, I’m low on cat food, low on dog food, low on people food - not to mention that I need to buy a new carpet shampooer because the one I have leaves copious amounts of water in the carpet whenever I try to use it, not to mention the sorry state of the carpet itself. And since I don’t get paid until the 15th, where will the money come from for all of these things? Why, from the stinkin’ credit card I was so happy to have eradicated from my life three short weeks ago. Sometimes I feel so discouraged and beaten down by things...it seems that I never make any progress at all and never manage to get ahead no matter what I do. I feel like a hamster (not a dancing one, a regular one) who runs and runs on his little wheel until he’s ready to drop from exhaustion, only to find himself in exactly the same cage as he was when he started. I’d cry, but I’m out of Kleenex too.

But enough depressing stuff. One can only wallow in self-pity for so long before it becomes boring, even to oneself. At the inaugural Grand Prix of Bahrain, it was another Ferrari one-two and another decisive Schumacher victory. Told you so! Told you so! Jenson Button finished third for BAR, so good on him. Also gotta give props to Ron Dennis and Kimi Raikkonen: while it’s true that an engine failure a mere seven laps on normally wouldn’t be cause for praise, what a glorious blow-up it was! No poofty little plume of white smoke and a delicate little rooster-tail of oil for Kimi, no sirree - he blew up his engine in a masterful style, with great leaping gouts of flame arching from the back of his McLaren and streaming out behind. Way to go, Kimi! Seriously, I’m not being sarcastic. If you’re gonna fail, fail IN FLAMES! I haven’t seen such spectacular flamage since Gerhard Berger hibachied his Ferrari (‘89 San Marino).

I didn’t think much of the new circuit, to be honest. I’ve heard praise from the drivers about it being technically challenging and so forth, and while it’s true that they’d know better than me, what I saw was a circuit eerily reminiscent of Magny-Cours - by which I mean utterly sterile, uninteresting and devoid of any distinguishing characteristics. The wide track and generous run-off areas were rendered fairly pointless by sticking the damn thing in the middle of the desert; anyplace other than the race line was too covered in grit, dust and sand to be usable. I want more tracks with character, by Limecat! Tracks that are so cool even small parts of them are famous: Eau Rouge, Mirabeau, Parabolica, Druid’s Bend...[note to Nancy: those are legendary pieces of Spa, Monaco, Monza and Brands Hatch, respectively.]

If I were in charge of the calendar, I’d drop Magny-Cours, Bahrain and Hockenheim (I used to like that track but they’ve castrated it). I’d bring back Estoril, alternate the British GP between Brands Hatch and Silverstone and make the German GP the Nurburgring. Yeah, I know there’s a race at the Nurburgring, but I mean the REAL Nurburgring, not just that little scrap of it they use today. Back in the day, the German GP was like 14 laps long (I’m not kidding). That’s what F1 needs, 14 miles of winding road through the picturesque forests of the Eifel plateau, with 89 left-handers and 85 right-handers, not what looks to be an untalented kindergartner’s drawing of a dog stuck in the middle of the freaking DESERT! And the pretty red cars would win there, too. Nyah nyah nyah.

Formula One weekend coming up! It’s an all-new track (Bahrain) but the same old prediction from the Helmeister: Ferrari dominance. It’s not just red hot tifosi love that makes me say that, either: Michelin’s having tyre failure (they blame detached drainage hatches), McLaren had an engine die in practice so Kimi’s starting at minus-10 from wherever he qualifies - and what’s that I see at the top of the practice time sheets? Why, it’s one of the pretty red cars! As an ITV reporter stated, “It is difficult to look far beyond Michael Schumacher for Bahrain’s inaugural F1 winner.” Ain’t it, though?

I wish WSB Radio would get a different automotive sponsor for the morning commercials. The last few days it’s been Hummer of Marietta with Neal Boortz’s sidekick Royal Marshall giving the testimonial. He says things like, “All the ladies love to see me coming in my Hummer!” and “Once I got a Hummer, I was SOOOO popular with the ladies" and “If you see me and my Hummer on the street, gimme a wave!”. Every time, this makes me snicker like a sixth-grader who sees someone’s underpants and, if timed improperly, snort Diet Coke up my nose, because to hip young urbanites like myself “hummer” doesn’t mean an ugly civilian version of the military Humvee; it’s slang for...uh...sexual gratification of the oral variety, when received by a male. Here, I’ll use it in a sentence.

“Hey, Paul! Did you score?!?”
“No, but she gave me a hummer!”
“Sweeeeet!”

Okay, with that in mind, read Royal’s quotes again. Yes, I know I’m very immature for my age.

The World's Greatest Boss brought me a bottle of red wine this morning, a 1996 Freemark Abbey Cabernet Sauvignon. Is he trying to hint that I should start drinking on the job? There is that whole liver damage issue but on the other hand it might help immensely when dealing with idiots. I've often thought that certain people I have to work with would probably make sense if I were high. VERY high.

Of course, there is this one person with whom I have to work who never makes any sense and wouldn't no matter what I did or how much I drank...this person's behavior once prompted me to say to the World's Greatest Boss, "Being able to work for you is like being given keys and title to a brand new Ferrari Modena Spyder 360, black-on-black, V-12 four-cam...and [Name Deleted] is the birdshit on my windshield."

True dat.

My mom just reminded me that I left something very important out of yesterday's blog with regard to "Kung Fu Fighting". I have a dancing hamster who twirls nunchakus and sings "Kung Fu Fighting" in his wee little hamster voice. Here, I will activate him. Too bad you can't hear him. By the way, his name is Bruce (three guesses why).

Dancing hamsters were a prominent focus of my Christmas gift purchases a couple of years ago. Bo got Jacques the hockey hamster who sings "Ice Ice Baby", my cousin Aaron got Disco Don who shakes his groove thang and Mom got a girl hamster with a briefcase who "Works Hard For the Money", which oddly enough I don't see anywhere on their site, but I know she exists - she lives on the bottom shelf of a curio cabinet in Mom's living room. I'd have bought my dad the army sergeant hamster if I'd known he existed before now (the hamster, not my dad).

There was a funny extra about the hockey hamster: there was this big white circle with red lettering "WARNING" on the box. At first glance, I assumed this to be the typical "keep fingers away from moving parts" or "small objects may present a choking hazard to children" but what it really said was (paraphrasing) "Do not allow your hamster on the ice without helmet and protective equipment".

And in case anyone is wondering, MOM, hell yeah I want the leprechaun hamster. He sings "Come On Eileen" which incidentally was another one-hit wonder (Dexy's Midnight Runners).