Never trust me to disarm a bomb.

It became readily apparent tonight that I don't handle loud beeping and time limits well... at all. Our alarm has only been functional for a couple weeks now, and let's just say I'm not quite used to having to quickly enter numbers onto a little keypad. Tonight after work, I was a bit tired, holding a paycheck, sunglasses, wallet and other small cumbersome things, and right after I opened the front door, I get this: BEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEP. Crammed awkwardly between the door and the door frame, I leaned sideways and started putting in the code. Of course, Jack found the bit of outside that he can see interesting, so he was slowly creeping toward my feet to the open crack. It was then that I hit the wrong freaking number... Thirty seconds go by as I try reentering the number frantically, thinking I had to pull off some magical button pushing to reverse my first entry. And then: "BEEEEP BEEEEP WOOWOOWOOOWOOOWOOOWOOOWOOO!" Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!! Too much pressure, I'm thinking. So I call Tony, desperately asking how to shut the thing off.

Let's just say all was resolved, and I'll never touch a bomb in my life.

It has been a very, very, very long day.
That is all for now.

Carry on.

Well... before I slink off to sleep tonight, I thought I'd throw out one last look at what hair I have now.
Because tomorrow it may all be gone... It's just something I have to do. You know, for preemptive grieving purposes.



And yes... that's a penguin back there. Go figure.

I know you can't alter space and time.
I had the power, once upon a time.
A time that was easy and happy and wrong.

But "once upon a time"s never stick around, and all we've got left is what used to be.
And "what used to be"s never taste as good. If you can swallow them at all.

But I had the power, once upon a time. And sometimes, I wish I had used it.

In the January 23, 2003 edition of Las Vegas CityLife, there's a little story in the Court Beat section that goes something like this:

It all begins when police spot an occupied stolen Jeep Cherokee. Naturally, wanting to return the vehicle and arrest the suspect (as police are wont to do), on go the lights and siren. The suspect gives chase, and soon it's a full-fledged pursuit. This kind of thing happens everyday...

The difference in this story lies with one Brett Gall, who mere streets down the way is climbing into his pickup truck. Without putting on his seatbelt, Gall proceeds out into traffic, where, moments later, he's struck by that stolen Jeep Cherokee. His neck is broken as he goes "bouncing inside the cab like a rag doll" and then thrown from the truck.

The driver of the stolen Jeep is charged with "felony reckless driving with substantial bodily harm" on top of the stolen vehicle posession.

Case closed, right?
Nope.

Gall finds it necessary to sue. In this country, he'd be insane not to, right? But he's not suing the criminal who slammed into his pickup truck; he's suing the poilce department that was trying to apprehend the man. Yeah, that makes a hell of a lot of sense.

What I don't like about CityLife's description of the whole event is that they make sure to go into detail about how he was violently tossed around the cab of his pickup, going on to talk about how tense the situation was in the hospital as he lay in a coma surrounded by family and a pregnant girlfriend (you know, because if we hear about that, we'll sympathize with him).

It's not that I don't feel for the guy. It was a sad thing that happened to him, and I don't wish it on anyone. But the police should not be held responsible for the action of a criminally reckless driver. And, honestly, I just can't get over the fact that Gall wasn't even wearing a seatbelt. ...I'm thinking that if he would have been obeying the law in the first place, he wouldn't have been thrown from his truck.

Let's give the poilce a chance to do their jobs people, not punish them at every opportunity when something goes badly for you.

If you loved me like you say you do, you'd buy me a signed red edition of Danielewski's House Of Leaves.

But I know you don't, so that's fine.

Whatever.

(Jenny pouts.)

Actual Conversations WIth Actual People Who Have Actual Problems
Tonight's edition: Fighting the world's evils.

[22:53] [SpedRacer] hackers suck wild boar ass
[22:53] [Kittyfire] lol... that they do.
[22:54] [SpedRacer] i'm raging against the wild boars today
[22:54] [Kittyfire] it's a noble effort. why in particular tonight, though?
[22:54] [SpedRacer] dunno.. change of pace...
[22:54] [Kittyfire] makes sense
[22:54] [SpedRacer] tomorrow, headless non catholic nuns
[22:55] [Kittyfire] they're tough though, dude... really, be careful tomorrow
[22:55] [SpedRacer] yeah... i'll try to keep a low profile
[22:55] [Kittyfire] they look harmless, but they'll eat your soul using only their hands and rulers
[22:55] [SpedRacer] and massive claws secretly hidden in their foundation garmets
[22:56] [Kittyfire] deadly... just deadly.
[22:56] [SpedRacer] yes'm
[22:56] [Kittyfire] if I were you I'd change the agenda to fighting against blind, toothless bunnies.
[22:57] [Kittyfire] much easier
[22:57] [SpedRacer] LOL
[22:57] [Kittyfire] except for the rare psychic ones that shoot lasers from their asses

Madlibs. THE best way to increase your vocabulary of juvenile, vulgar phrases. Phrases like, "nine-year-old cake encrusted thong" and "amoeba-covered testicle skin." You know, because everyone needs a little more testicle description in their lives.

Laughing, and with smiles as big as they could make them, the two little girls delighted in their new invisible game.

"Okay, I'm X's and..."
"And I'll be O's!"
"Yeah! Okay, I get to go first."

From where I stood, I couldn't quite see how (or if) they were marking their moves on the floor or any of the other rules of their makeshift tic-tac-toe game. But without fail, after the older one, a six-year-old with dirty blonde hair, called out her "X here!," her fourish sister, wearing nearly all pink, hopped a bit and called out, "O!" throwing her hands into the air and smiling like she'd won a prize.

That's what I love about little girls.

Sure enough, though, the game inevitably needed the validation of an authority figure. Turning to her mother, who was cradling yet another child in her arms only a few feet away, the six-year-old asked, "Will you play our game, Mommy?"

And after hearing the mother's answer, I now know why the world is headed for ruin.

She looked up from the infant, pursed her lips, and stared at the floor where the girls stood.

With a stern, matter-of-fact tone, she replied, "There's no game there. It's just a floor."

The four-year-old looked down and wrung her hands a bit, waiting for her sister to convince their mother to join. The six-year-old studied the floor for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not she had actually been playing a game. Looking up, she stammered, "...But... but, we're playing tic-tac-toe..."

"No, you're not. You have to have some way to write X's and O's for that.... Now stop it. You're making a fool of yourself."

With that, the girls stood silently for a moment, and looking at the tiles on the floor one last time, shuffled their feet back to the chairs from which they had originally sprung.

For a while, I pondered that sentence: "You're making a fool of yourself." How could a child make a fool of herself? And, quite frankly, who was she supposed to be worried about being a fool in front of? Me? I was the only other person there. Perhaps this mother was stressed. Naturally, with three children all under the age of ten, I could see how she would be. But could that have been the only reason for her fun-killing comment?

The question simmered in my mind for a few more minutes, and then, as I watched the mother stare worriedly at the ticking clock as her little girls swung their dangling feet in their chairs, I realized something. As long as you let it, history will repeat itself. This woman was clearly trapped in some kind of time vortex where she subconsciously relived her own tense, joyless childhood again and again. She might even have actually believed that by enacting this kind of self-absorbed, prudish parenting, she was doing the best she could for her girls. She probably didn't know better.

What scares me is that there has to be exact replicas of that scene playing out every night, in every town... And twenty years from now, the world will be populated by nine-to-fiving joyless children of joyless parents who believe that nothing exists if they can't see it, that they need to "straighten up and act right," and that whatever they do, they should never, ever, make fools of themselves for the sake of actually living.

There are those that believe that the way a person writes, signs their name, or even doodles can provide insight into their personality and personal drives. Graphology, they call it. "The process of doodling appears to only be a partially conscious one. Not once does it appear that the pen takes on a life of its own, and the "artist" himself is surprised by the results."

When you think about it, the very process of all art stems somewhat from the subconcious. You might even carry the idea further to say that every action is controlled, in some way, by underlying mental processes of which we are unaware. Writing, for instance, relies upon the conscious mind for crafting and creation, but every word may be flavored by the mood and persuasions of the subconcious. So, it's not a leap for me to believe that doodling and handwriting have the power to reveal their creators as well..

...Although, by looking at a doodle I did last night while in the trenches of sheer boredom, a graphologist may have you believe that I have "much ambition" and "a strong drive to prove [myself]." ...Anyone who knows me can stop laughing now. And that's the point - interpretation. Of course an artist's (and I apply that word to myself only in the loosest of all ways) work reflects things about him or her that they haven't even yet discovered. But being able to say that arrows, for instance, point to a highly motivated personality in all cases of doodlers is a bit of a leap.

Could I really say that these interpretations accurately reflect my own personality? In ways, I suppose... But of course, I might not even know myself as well as my meandering hand might.

Give a cat a cardboard box, he'll jump in it the first chance he gets.
Upholster it and throw a pillow in for comfort, and he looks at you like you've stolen something from him.

Hours piled one upon the other, and the car drove on. This Saturday morning, afternoon, and night kept whispering in our ears the same tired mantra: "There is nothing to do... There is nothing to do..." In the entertainment capital of the world, we were bored - yes, the situation looked pitifully bleak. No park, no show, no bowling, no minigolf with comically sized clown heads. So we trained our eyes on the sidewalks, the small shops, and stores... and our eyes gave us nothing. And the car drove on. There are moments like today that stagnate and swell. All you can do is hope to ignore them and drive on.

This man impresses me. His words seem rare, honest, and without the self-righteousness of most of the Christians I've known. ...Weird.

Mid-walk on this impossibly warm January day (it must have been at least 70 degrees, and the sweater I had optimistically chosen to wear wasn't helping), Tony and I passed by a house with a for sale sign. Naturally being on the lookout for a bigger box to store my things in, I always take a closer look at realtor signs... You know, as though I could afford a house... This particular sign though was fabulous.

Below the bold red "SOLD" sticker that covered most of the sign was the realtor's name.
It read, "Call Darwin Bible."

Darwin Bible.

That man's parents are my heroes.
Fucking brilliant.

We haven't come a long way...

"Girls don't like to play games."
"Maybe they're not socially conditioned to compete like men are."

Comments from 1958? Try yesterday.

That's right girls; we don't like to play games or compete. Wouldn't we just rather work on some sewing project? Get back in the kitchen, honey, because you don't belong on the field.

In the year 2003, the female athlete is a lot like the vagrant you pass on the way to work: sure you know they're there, but you ignore them because you don't think they should be. We should be ashamed to live in a society where a woman's achievements - on par with and, many times, better than a man's - receive little to no recognition merely because of her gender. Women constitute slightly over half of this planet's population, are solely responsible for the upbringing of far more children than men, have limitless untapped capabilities, and could be Earth's greatest asset. But as far as the media, and perhaps the general populace, are concerned...?

"Try taking off that top... then we'll give you a trophy."

I like being with you because you make me feel better about myself. You know, in that look-how-much-better-I-am-than-you kind of way. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to put you down. After all, I love you. Don't I? Yes, that's what I said. So there you have it; we're perfect for each other. I love every little flaw on you. They perfectly compliment my much smaller ones until you can barely see mine at all. I know you love me, oh I do. But trust me, when I'm standing next to you, I'm sure there are others who want me so much more, and yet. here I still am. True love - that's why.

That must be it.

"As the pattern gets more intricate and subtle, being swept along is no longer enough."
-Waking Life

Every time I see this movie, I'm blown away, and my mind starts building entirely new worlds... like an eager child with a new box of Legos.

I've sold myself every day this week. And everyone who sees me thinks it legitimate. No one seems to mind the bare-faced soul dealing going on right in front of them. Shouldn't they be concerned? Shouldn't they at least feign shock? No...

The nights have gone by, and not one face has worried. I've been selling my soul off by the hour in little manageable packages. I'm less alive than I was on Monday, but I haven't turned heads. My spiritless smile doesn't elicit gasps. And my "Have a good night," sounds perfectly normal.

So why do I feel like a corpse?

Some woman on a news show, talking about the dangers of legitimizing rap music by teaching it critically in schools, just brought up the example, "Do we bring porn into Las Vegas high schools, where prostitution is legal, so that they can think about why they see their parents going in and out of brothels?"

WHAT?
Where do I even begin with that? Oh yes...

Prostitution is not legal in Las Vegas.
Yes, it's legal in all but two counties in Nevada. Clark County (Las Vegas' county) is not one of them.

I'm fucking sick of hearing people say that.
God damn.
Now I'm all worked up.
I hope that woman's happy.

Do you think that tagged cows wonder why they're wearing earrings?

What is my cat doing to the stuffed penguin?

Creatively redecorating it.Making it his South Pole bitch.Taste-testing. You know, so that the emperor isn't poisoned.Practicing dissection for his upcoming biology final.

Pollhost.com

I had only enough time to make it to the water, where the cold met my toes with a barrage of angry knives.

“And I trusted you,” he choked out, throwing a chunk of seaweed past my left arm.

The moon was my only witness, but I could tell she found the whole thing laughable. Her smile taut; her face a stoic pale.

Ten more steps.

“Where the fuck are you going?” He had stopped at the wet edge of the beach and was toeing the line between us.

“It doesn’t matter.”

I only said that. It meant everything. The past two years had meant everything. But lies can make anything happen if you let them. And I did.

Five more steps.

Spikes of cold blood shot up through my legs, carrying the message of the ocean to the rest of my body. I steadied myself and made my slow footing toward the cliff beneath the waves.

“It doesn’t matter at all,” I whispered up to the moon.
She didn’t care.

“What?” he called out from the sand, as if he’d missed something important. He wouldn’t want to miss anything important.

But he also didn’t want to get those new shoes wet.

I looked at her one last time and thought of Sylvia penning, “She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.” But she kept on staring, with that unbreakable smile, drinking my regret with the lapping of the waves at my neck.

Now playing - Soul Coughing - Soft Serve

"My candyland melted down to syrup while I watched the water roll down..."

Sometimes I want green. I want water. I want fog. I want snow. Sometimes.
You feel this need to bathe in light, and all I need are stars. We all have our desires.
And what I desire is everything you have - isn't it funny how things work that way?
And everything you want I'm drowning in.
But everything's good, if we have sound.
And envy is easier to swallow down.

This is what I'm hearing in my head right now.
[Warning: The following may be disturbing to readers with eyes.]

"You'd better shape up, 'cause I need a man. And my heart is set on yoooouuuu..."
No! God nooooo! Make it stop!
"You're the one that I want...."
I hate Grease! AHHHHHH! Nooooo!
"Oooh oooh oooh... honey... the one that I want..."
Okay brain, I'm going to start jamming things in my ears if you don't stop this at once.
{Crickets chirping.}
That's better.
"Oooh ooh oooh...."
AHHHHHHHHH!

My head is a scary scary place right now.

It's a full month after graduation, and I have yet to receive my diploma.
I'm beginning to suspect foul play....

Save Roe.

With the 30th anniversary of the Roe vs. Wade decision mere days away, she's there, calmly stating facts, speaking up for rights, and opposite her, the blond talking head interrupts loudly, "Because of it, your daughters have the right to slaughter their babies. And you're proud of that?"

Stop stop stop stop stop. Right there. Just shut up.

I don't care what side of the abortion issue you come down on. When you start saying things like "slaughter babies," "abortion holocaust," and "kill children," I automatically have to dock you 50 I.Q. points. I can understand if you're a sixty year-old white politician with a religious mob to appease, but this particular flapping head was a woman. And that makes about as much sense to me as a black republican.

[I began to write out the facts as I know them, heatedly proclaiming what I believe, and then I realized that it doesn't matter. It doesn't. If "pro-life" people want to force their religion on women, if they want to deny access to proper contraception and sex education while at the same time denying women a choice during pregnancy, they can have their hoardes of poverty-stricken children, unwanted and resented. They can have their world populated by only those who haven't had the education to understand biology and risk. Their world is an overcrowded theocratic one. They can have it. And they can throw Bible's at it all they want.]

Time for another magical
Magic Eight Ball Conversation!

What follows is an actual conversation with an actual Magic Eight Ball
and could indeed be an actual waste of time.

Magic Eight Ball Question (MEBQ): Should I be sleeping right now?
Magic Eight Ball Answer (MEBA): Outlook not so good.
MEBQ: I don't know... I am tired. Are you sure?
MEBA: It is decidedly so.
MEBQ: Well, at least it's good to see you so confident. I was beginning to think you were losing your all-knowing edge.
MEBA: You may rely on it.
MEBQ: In a world like this, it's comforting to be able to rely on something.
MEBA: Cannot predict now.
MEBQ: ....How the world is going to end up? Can you even predict how I'm going to end up?
MEBA: Outlook good.
MEBQ: That's nice to know anyway. So, am I doing an alright job of things so far?
MEBA: Very doubtful.
MEBQ: You are an all-knowing ball.
MEBA: It is decidedly so.

Woooohooooo hooooo! Yeah baby!
The Raiders are in the Super Bowl!

Woooooooooo yeah!
We all know where I'll be next Sunday. Oh yes. Yes yes.
Mmmm.... tasty silver and black.... mmmm....

{Jenny looks around and pretends to regain composure.}

Um. So yeah, I'm excited. Because, you know, it's fun stuff and all that. Uhhh, so... yay.

:)

Waking Life. Fight Club. Amelie. Adaptation.
More that I can't think of to name.

I've seen enough movies about the value of changing your life, actually getting out there and living it, than I can obviously name. But have I heeded their cinematic advice? Obviously not.

Imagine if I did though...
But my moments of self-discovery and motivation are few and far between, and I think that they'll remain that way until my own movie plays out.

------------------
*As an addendum - Adaptation was lovely. Layered, complex, thoughtful. I highly recommend.

The days have been quiet, and my mind has seen fit to mimic them. All I bring to this night is a dry throat, a bit of work-weary fatigue, and a growing addiction to SimCity 4. No, I haven't exactly been leading the exotic life of late.

A few recent items of minimal note:

I have trained my cat to fetch a ball. No, I'm not lying. He actually chases and returns the thing, placing it neatly at my feet. You may now call me Brilliant and mean it.

I have also uncovered the truth behind action movie mentality. Two things are key to understanding how a person can sit through more than 10 minutes of a Vin Diesel/Tom Cruise/Bruce Willis movie.
A) Action movies follow a simple, repetitive formula - running, guns, explosion, half-naked chick, guns, explosion.
B) The cognitive capacity of a 3 month old infant encourages the use of repetition to discover how the world around him works. The three month old delights in engaging in such repetitive behavior.
So what have we learned? Because action movie fans have attained only the intelligence level of a three to eight month old child, they are able to sit through every formulaic piece of crap that the profiteering suits in L.A. throw at them.... and enjoys it.

Tony told me tonight about overhearing a coroner after he had examined a body.
He said, "There is nothing remarkable about the body."


Until my brain reawakens, I leave you kiddies with that to think about.

If we're all going to die, might as well do it laughing at the man who took us there...

Gulf War 2 (aka World War 2.5)
Too Stupid To Be President

One fifty five A - M has rolled around. I feel like liquid. All the world is sleeping. Or so it seems. And here I sit, alone, with my thoughts. And a restless black cat with a hyperactive tail. You're here, but you're not. I like it that way.

Trust me.

That's all you can do. And I'll be honest with you, these are the moments that taste the best. Like buttermilk and vodka. And lying face down in the snow.

Calvin and Hobbes may be on some tropical retirement island, but good comics are still out there...
Check out this individually-sized serving of said goodness:

This Modern World by Tom Tomorrow
Today's strip makes particular sense to those with a brain.

Sinfest by Tatsuya Ishida
Start at the beginning. You'll thank me.

My New Filing Technique Is Unstoppable
The best thing about these has got to be the 'Get Your War On' series.

I just added two new galleries as visual aids. Have at 'em.
Just try not to blow milk out your nose when you burst out laughing.

I just read an amazing line from Adaptation...

"We are what we love, not what loves us."

Why haven't I seen that movie yet?

...I have always judged myself by others' acceptance (or rejection) of me. I just can't imagine being worth anything if no one else thinks I am. Maybe it's wrong. No, it is wrong. But will I ever be able to say, "All of you can go fuck yourselves. I am who I am."? I have my doubts. In fact, I have an army of them, waiting over that hill there, ready to storm over the fields of self-confidence at the very moment they sense an uprising.

It's why I need my own song.
It's why I have a comment system on this site.
It's why I haven't been alone since I was fifteen.
It's why I love cats....

....Cats?
Yeah, you heard me.

It doesn't matter.
What happens happens.
And if I'm meant to realize that I am what I love and not what loves me, then I will.

You know it, baby.

---

What has eight arms and eight legs?

Eight pirates.

---

Thank you. Thank you. I'll be here all week.

Currently listening to: Islands In The Stream

Yes... The Islands In The Stream recorded in the mid-eighties by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton.

"What's wrong with me?" I should be asking myself.

But I'm not. I'm not gagging. I'm not stabbing my ears with forks. All seems normal, and to tell the truth, I actually feel pleased.
Here's what I've learned about music in my short life. Sometimes, music doesn't have to be good; sometimes it doesn't have to be lyrically meaningful. Sometimes, all it has to do is remind you of the happy times when you heard it first.

Right now, hearing this otherwise intolerable music, I'm in my girlhood kitchen, laughing at my mother as she sings into a spoon... With pigtailed hair, I'm wearing my favorite rainbow-striped tennis shoes that "match" my red corduroy pants. My sister sits on the counter as my mom finishes the dishes. She has clown-sized, red Kool Aid lips, and she bows her head shyly as my dad comes at her with his brand new video camera. "Come on, Rooskie, show us that smile." I bound, grinning mischevieously, out the sliding door to the swingset beside the pomegranate tree. And I can hear, "Islands in the stream, that is what we are...."

And it's just wonderful.

The windows of your car were down. The wind dripped from our hair.
I'd spent so many nights alone. I'd gotten used to it in a way.
In a way, I needed you like air.
"What are you thinking about?" you asked as the houses and lights and lawns passed us by.
"Everything," I said, and caught a glimpse of your watered eyes...
The windows were down, because we had opened them all.

Begin shameless plug.

Looking to buy a new Pottery Barn slipcover for more than 60% off retail price? I know you are...
I just so happen to have one at my disposal. Check out my eBay auction.

End shameless plug.

I feel so dirty....
But it had to be done, and I make no apologies.
So there.

I would have come full circle if I had started here.

I was born in, what was then, the middle of Las Vegas. I lived in the throbbing heart of North Las Vegas until I was eight years old and left behind what I considered, in my third grade brain, an irreplaceable house and neighborhood. We drove up the road to Boulder City, just around the foothills from the vistas of Vegas, and there we stayed. (That is, until Tony and I trudged back down here to Henderson last October.)

There's your backstory.
My actual point?

Through junior high and my early high school years, I considered Boulder City, Nevada one of the most elitist, snotty places in the world, a small town bog of thoughtless stagnation. Because of course, 15 year-olds who've never really travelled can make those kinds of judgements.
Now that I have some sense....

I've realized that it's the epitome of everything I want. Smiling people. Parks, trees, mountains.... Cute little houses with well-trimmed lawns.
I know it's corny, and I don't care.
Just look at the place. It's lovely, and I want all of it....

What are these? Well, I'll tell ya. These are my two favorite shots from last night's Strip wandering. Jenni, Tony, and I took to Las Vegas Boulevard with a camera and a sprinkle of tourist-local confliction.


Noticeably, they're both non-touristy shots, but I think they show off what Jenni would call "the real Vegas." I don't know about that so much. But I do know that I've always wanted a picture of that Coca Cola mural. The Insomnia picture is a sign just off the Strip for some place next to the Blue Note jazz club. I have no idea what it's for, what kind of place Insomnia is, or what you can buy there, but damnit, if there's any person who can appreciate a good neon sign that says "Insomnia," it's me. The, ahem, curious picture below it can be found in the GameWorks / M&M World / movie theater complex next to the MGM Grand. It's from a wall-sized mural of a Coca Cola advertisement. And well... it's just dirty as all hell to those with dirty minds. We've always loved that wall, and now I have a picture of it. Enjoy.

From the couch in the living room, between bites of Snackin' Cheese, Tony tells me that once he and his work partner, Dave, ran into a sex offender who hadn't registered. How does said sex offender make a living?

"Get this... he crochets."

"He crochets for a living?" I repeat incredulously, looking up from my typing mid-sentence.

"Yep. I'm just afraid to know what kinds of things he crochets."

It's 9:30. You know what that means....

Impromptu Game Review!

So, Applekid's newfound love appears to be Egyptian Space Taxi... a game whose theme is both befuddling and oddly entertaining. But what else do you expect from Europeans? Of course, it's also frustrating as hell. But if you got the dexterity and patience, this weird take on Moon Lander should be just right.

My new favorite, though, has to be Toboggan Jump, which while meant to be enjoyed during the holiday season, is still hilarious and fun to play in January. Thrust a toboggan full of little people down an icy hill and, hopefully, get them sailing through the ring at the bottom. The color commentary is super funny and seeing your little sledders go flying through the air on fire just makes the world better.

And now it's time for some fun with ExplodingDog. Bust out the party hats and snuggle up with your favorite stick person.
My five favorite explosions for the last part of 2002:

5. I thought you loved me more than anything, and I thought you would come back to me.
4. I talk to myself.
3. You think too much.
2. That's high school physics.

And my personal favorite....
1. You'll love it, trust me.

"Not that we ever tried to accomplish anything," he continued, "but I think that if we had, we would have gotten places."

"You mean, other than where we are now?" I retorted bitterly.

He shook his head and swung his eyes around our situation.

"Yeah, other than where we are now."

I had to admit that things weren't going the way I had planned. After all, I had had hopes of smiles and laughing and bunnies and sunshine... all that happy crap. Looking at us now, it was clear that we hadn't tried very hard to get there. I mean, we were up to our asses in cow dung.

"I never thought I'd say this," he continued after a minute of only the sound of buzzing flies, "but I hate cows."

I laughed. And then coughed. And then continued to shovel away with my hands.

Sometimes I think the concept of honesty is a dangerous thing. When you put all of your faith and trust into someone, they have the power to destroy you - in the most basic and brutal of ways. And the question, 'Are you telling me the truth?' just amplifies that power. They begin with your trust, and when it's questioned that faith must be reevaluated and, if the questioner is suitably placated, reaffirmed. Real trust involves complete vulnerability. Are you willing to give someone the power to crush your emotions?

I don't know.
I just wish it didn't have to involve that crushing part.

I had to do it... What I'd look like as a South Park character. Though I'm not sure the show could work in an apathy-riddled cynic and bring any humor to her. Heh. Such is life.

It feels good to be back home on dp.com...
Ahh....

{Jenny stretches out and makes herself comfortable.}

And look! No pop-ups! Yummy.
Want a donut? I think we still have some left.

All I need are wings.
...or maybe a pair of flippers...

I just saw Ben Kweller on Carson Daly's show as I was wandering aimlessly through crap night television.
Just when I thought I had found another good musician that no one's ever heard of.
Damn you Carson Daly.

Disclaimer:
I don't actually mean any of this.
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Did you ever see that movie The Rules Of Attraction?

Yeah, I know it got bad reviews... and it does have James Van Der Beek in it. But damnit, I liked it. Must have been something about the emptiness in us all...

But that's beside the point. There's a scene in there where Van Der Beek's character is trying to seduce some drunk chick he's met at a party, so he whips out his guitar and belts out his best rendition of a Counting Crows song. Anna Begins.

"And every time she sneezes, I believe it's love... etc etc etc."

So, he's pluggin' away at his acoustic, and the girl's eating it up, ready to strip down right then and there on the edge of his dorm room bed. She thinks he wrote it, and he goes along with it. Any lies are worth it to get to the action. If she likes the sensitive artist type, then that's what he'll be, by God.

"Wrap her up in a package of lies...
It does not bother me to say this isn't love..."

And it occurs to me that we all dance this little dance, and it's fucking sick. We impress each other with selves that aren't true, and we say things we don't mean, because hell, none of us really believe in love. Do we?

I don't think so.

"...'cause if you don't wanna talk about it, then it isn't love.
...But I'm sure there's something in a shade of gray or something in between.
And I can always change my name, if that's what you mean."

So it's all or nothing. And I say it's nothing.
Sure it's romantic to believe in it. Sure it gives your life meaning.
Maybe there's nothing wrong with that - I feel it. I don't know that I could be without Tony.
But it all comes down to proximity and chance and hormones and acceptance.
It does.
And as soon as you come to that...

"...and every word is nonsense..."

Eventually Ven Der Beek's character gets the girl naked and has his way. They have boring and, in the truest sense of the word, meaningless sex. All thanks to Anna Begins... but feel free to replace it with your own false self of your choosing.

The dog's name was Edward.
Or so he said.
I thought it was an odd name for a dog anyway. Nothing normal like Spike or Buster.

That wasn't the point, he said. "We're here to talk about you and your problems.
We've had some good times together. You've fed me. I retrieved all those balls you seemed to carelessly fling about. You've even done a good job of keeping my mange to a minimum."

I marvelled silently at both this new turn of events and Ed's impressive grasp of the English language.

"But..." he continued with that dramatic pause that everyone loves to employ after the word 'but,' "you have this way of scratching me behind the right ear far too roughly. Honestly, it really turns me off of you."

He dropped his head to wrap his black jaws around a stick, and without returning my incredulous gaze, walked past me down the sidewalk.

And all this time, I thought I'd been doing some good. We entertained each other. I had stopped feeling lonely. I thought there may have even been some creature-to-creature affection growing.
Oh well.
I guess some people just can't get past a little rough ear-scratching, though, huh?

Beautiful.
I just reacquired my domain name... Ahhh....

When things are good and ready, I'll throw you all toward the land of no pop-ups and sexier things.
Woohoo.

Mmmmmm.....
It's always good to hear someone soaking in the Pumpkins and making it their own...

We're all so alike at times.

Tony's going to wake me up in six and a half hours, but am I sleeping? No. And why not? Ummm... yellow. That's not an answer. Sure it is.

Okay, now I'm talking to myself. Time for bed.

In the spirit of self-discovery and, more accurately, boredom, I've decided to be like everyone else and start my '100 things about me' list. Yeah, no one actually cares about the insignificant little details that other people think are worthy of sharing with the world: "56. My favorite color is blue. 57. Doritos frighten me." But that's not the point. Everyone likes to talk about themselves, even if no one is listening. And I like being self-absorbed as much as the next gal, so why the hell not, I asked myself.

I'm stuck at #50 though. It's pretty sad.
Maybe I'll dredge up some inane little details as filler, or maybe a dam will break and two decades' worth of repressed memories will come flooding through my fingers. Wheeee! Repressed memories!

We can only hope, people. We can only hope.

Maybe it all goes back to Janine...
Whether it's trivial to be concerned about or not, there are still no songs lifting my name into musical immortality. There are plenty of songs about plenty of girls. None of them exalt a Jenny for her unique blend of woman/goddess/girl... Sure, other girls are special... other girls get songs...

Barenaked Ladies - Jane
Cake - Jolene
Ben Kweller - Lizzy
Soul Coughing - Janine
Weezer - Jamie
Ben Folds - Losing Lisa
Smashing Pumpkins - Lily, Bye June, Starla, To Sheila... etc, etc...
Counting Crows - Anna Begins
Pete Yorn - For Nancy

The point is that I could keep listing them like this all night and still not stumble upon one Jenny song....

{Correction}
As Tony points out, there's always the fabulous "Jenny (867-5309)" by eighties one-hit wonder Tommy Tutone. Ohhh yeah, these lyrics make me feel special: "Jenny I've got your number / I need to make you mine / Jenny don't change your number."

So I guess I should say there aren't any good songs with the name Jenny. And that's all I really want, people... Just a little love and adoration...

(sigh)
I'm pathetic.

I've been staring at this clock for the past 45 seconds. Time to move on...

....But it's so mesmerizing.....
{lapsing into catatonic state}

[thud]

{lying face down on the desk}

Jenni made quick work of the magnetic words: culling, rearranging, placing, and grouping. Inspired by the "butt" magnet, she worked at a furious pace to devise her masterpiece. When she came out the other side of her genious, the world was given this:

after begining easy
ed always rose essentially void
licking and manipulating his breast
and butt juices
incubating some drool
slow barren and flood raw
picture it friends and moon my mother
it's an equinox

Sheer brilliance, Jenni.

Jenny And Tony's List Of Things To Accomplish On Saturday:
(...and what actually happened...)

1) Go full-out grocery shopping to restock the currently 81% booze-filled fridge.
    What actually happened: Decided that Walmart, which is both evil and incessantly crowded, wasn't our cup of tea. Instead stopped into Vons quickly to retrieve kitty litter, kitty food, and yes... more booze. We can eat some other time.

2) Get my car's oil changed [it's about 4,000 miles overdue for one] and have it cleaned inside and out.
    What actually happened: The thing about oil changes is that they take a long time... so... yeah. No go on that one. And it's clean enough for right now. ... As long as you don't look inside it.

3) Go hiking along the old railroad tunnel by Lake Mead.
    What actually happened: You know, I really have no idea what happened to that one. I think by the time we got back to the apartment with the tequila, all thought of physical activity had been eradicated.

4) Drop off the insanely overdue library books before a mob of bespectacled old women charge our door.
    What actually happened: We dropped off the books. !!! This one was easy enough because it gave us time in the car to listen to a comedy show I'd baked... Oh the things we could do if only we had incentives like that all the time.

5) Buy the X-Files Season 6 collection and have a mini-marathon.
    What actually happened: We did indeed buy the set (all $129.99 of it, paid for graciously by my last night's Megabucks winnings), and we did start watching episodes. But by the end of episode two, I was four margaritas into the night, and we all figured, hey, we gave it a good shot. So instead we had more booze. :)

One out of five? Not too horrible right?

Okay... so yeah... we're lazy....
And damn, we need to drink less.

"He asked, so I'll tell him."
Some of the most beautiful and honest reasons for writing...
This post really captures what it is to let a brooding pot of thoughts become words.

Mirror to fingertips feels like the cool blue plastic of childhood toys, so innocuous and easy. She sat for a moment with her hand on the mirror. Still as stone. She had reached that numbness and was bathing in it, drinking in the cold of her own mind. Her fingers, cracking, dry, and bitten down, found their reflections without sound and caressed them. It would be so easy, she thought, and to feel anything... anything at all...

The cool blue plastic of kindergarten kitchens never felt like this.

Kittyfire sighs and looks at the product of her quasi-madness with a tinge of sadness.

At the end of the day, some people have clung to words and some have actually lived.
I cling to mine. I cling to others'.
And at the end of the day, other people have actually lived.

And I have my words.
Drawings of stars.
Not the stars themselves.

Happy New Year people.
Not that I was among those 300,000 people on the Strip...
I was with family. Watching the fireworks on TV. With nary a drop of revelling in sight.

Every year, I become more and more convinced that how a person spends New Year's Eve is a good indication of how they live the rest of their lives. There are the exciting people, who want to get out there and drink up the noise. There are the social butterflies, who just have to be surrounded by thousands of other smiling people. And then there are the complacent, the sadly-destined... who spend the night in front of the TV and come midnight there's no one around to kiss.

I hate the category I fall into.
But every time New Year's Eve rolls around, I never do anything to pull myself out of it.

So here I am. Hundreds of thousands of people have hangovers and great memories, and I have too much time on my hands.