John McCain's Favorite Joke

Circa 2003, as told to us by Zug.

"I feel terrible for all the mothers in the state of Arizona. Because, as you know, Barry Goldwater from Arizona ran for President of the United States, Morris Udall from Arizona ran for President of the United States, Bruce Babbitt from Arizona ran for President of the United States, and I, John McCain from Arizona ran for President of the United States... Arizona may be the only state in the nation where mothers no longer tell their chilren that some day they can grow up and be the President of the United States."

WTF

One of my neighbors is doing some karaoke, and is either drunk, or just super, super bad at karaoke.

The other neighbor is just randomly shouting every few minutes. I am blaming the football game, because that is more comforting to me than the thought of an old guy randomly shouting every few minutes for now reason.

It's times like these when I'm glad I have a vacuum.

Fair warning: this is both unnecessary and moderately gross.

A week ago, I opened my freezer to get some ice. Apparently at some point in the past couple of months, I had put a bottle on top of my fridge just a smidge too close to the front, and every time I opened the freezer door, that bottle of creme de menthe was slowly, slowly coming closer to toppling. And this time, it finally came down.

As I watched this bottle fall, in stupidly slow motion, I realized that I had no shoes on, and being barefoot in a room full of broken glass would be a terrible way to spend my Sunday. So I reached out a foot and tried to slow it down.

This is what I tell myself now, at least, because it's a better reason for me to leave a foot in the way, or something. I caught the bottle with the big toe on my left foot.

No lie, it hurt a lot. I used roughly three languages worth of swears, then put a bag of ice on it and whined occasionally over the next week. The nail turned an unpleasant purple color, and I figured that would be that.

This evening I noticed that the front of the nail was leaking. Curious, I put my foot in my lap to take a look at it, craned my head down, and gingerly touched the top of the nail.

It... squirted at me. The top of my toenail turned into a squirt gun of week old blood and clear sticky shit. It squirted me IN MY FACE.

After I had washed four times and finished going "BLAAAAARG," I reflected that this must be what it's like to be a French woman in a horror film.

Now that the nailbed is empty, when I push down on the top of my toenail it makes a rodent-like squeaking noise. It's adorable smallness does not make up for the earlier disgust, but it's a step in the right direction.

Just so you know

Things that are good

Things that are bad

A change in fortunes

The last time I went on my usual trip to New York (New Year's, 2006/07), I had a wonderful time. I was in a cheerful mood when I drove back home, though exhausted when I finally stepped out of the car. Things didn't go well from the moment I stepped through the door; by the end of the night, I had dumped my boyfriend, driven to a friend's house and cried on her couch through three hours of Home and Garden Television. I spent a lot of the next week sniffly, but other than that one thing (snort), the rest of the week was weepy but otherwise uneventful.

This time, I was reasonably confident that nothing worse could happen, aside from an eye-rolling, "Well, I have to pay rent the first day I get back."

And I walked into my leasing office, and there was my ex-boyfriend, sitting at the table, signing his lease.

Blarg.

Rationally, I know this is a meaningless development. One of my friends lives in this complex. I like him a lot. It would make me smile to see him. We work at the same place, so it would make sense for us to cross paths, either coming or going, at some point. And yet, in the two months I've lived here, I've never spotted him biking past or walking past or hitching a ride with his girlfriend past. This is what my rational mind is telling me.

My irrational mind was telling me it was a bad sign. Bad juju. A bad omen. It was, unfortunately, spot on for the week.

Other highlights of the week:

• I lost power for 25 hours! Fuck you, recently restocked fridge full of groceries!
  
• My oven set on fire! Piss off, half-made Strawberry Panzanella!
  
• A 55 gallon fishtank a quarter filled with water was dropped on my hand. All bones intact, some bruising remains, but should be gone in a day or two. I think I did all the swearing that was called for in that situation already.
  
• A tree bough missed crashing into the hood of my car by a foot or so!
  
• A crazy lady nearly drove head-first into my car because the three no-left-turn signs mean nothing to self-assured Ann Arborites!
  
• I finished watching Twin Peaks and I will never be complete, ever, ever again!
  

Now, I read a whole mess of blogs on skepticism and critical thinking. I recognize this for what it is: Superstitious thinking. It's just an unpleasant coincidence that all of this nonsense should fall so closely together with the contrasting pleasantry of my vacation. It is a touch of the much-loathed woo.

This is one of those tricky times to be an atheist. Sometimes, shit happens. As Penn Jillete puts it, "We live in a random universe filled with pain."

Every now and then, though, it would be wicked nice to have someone to blame.

[Edit: Which is not to say that the whole week has been utterly terrible. A gentleman I went to college with popped up from out of the blue, and it was good to hear from him. Thus far, he has not accidentally been killed in a freak explosion, which is promising.]

Unusual hygiene question

I went out with some friends last night to a nightclub in Detroit. Good times were had by all, and eventually after a fair amount of revelry and dancing, it was time to leave.

Now mind you, I was not inebriated, as it was my duty to get people home in one piece via the Brandtmobile. However, I had had enough to drink that my ability to make higher-function decisions about fashion-worthiness (which are fairly limited to begin with) was a bit slow. So when I found a pair of sunglasses on the crosswalk back to my car, I snatched them up and took them with me. I figured I was safe to pick up sunglasses that had been abandoned in the middle of a Detroit street at three in the morning.

The glasses themselves are pretty terrible to behold

. 

Sitting here now, muchless sleep-deprived than I was last night, they make me think of the sort of thing that people in the 80s thought that we would be wearing today, that kind of bizarre future aesthetic that was only ever big in movies. However, they offer full-coverage, which is something I look for in sunglasses while I'm driving, and my last part of enormous ugly sunglasses just bit the dust recently.

So the question is: How does one go about cleaning sunglasses? Are there any strange diseases you can get from sunglasses? Should I just pop over to my nearest tattoo parlor and ask if I can just pop them in the autoclave, or will letting them soak in a bowl of vinegar be adequate?

Any thoughts? Hopes? Dreams?

I am the master of cable-age

I wrote a while back about how this thing was stinkin' up my apartment while I blocked it. It occured to me I should like, put a picture up of it or something.I cannot express how many terrible films went into the making of this scarf. It is filled with the cries of a thousand murdered harlots, I tellsya.

I did a swatch of this in a different yarn, and it's probably six inches square if I put a finishing border on it. I'm thinking of finishing it off and turning it into the fanciest dishcloth that I own.

A letter that isn't likely to be read, because I can't get to sleep

Dear whoever it was in front of me who really, truly wanted to go to Olive Garden,

I know how it is. Man, those breadsticks are fucking tasty. However, sometimes we all forget that the turn is coming up, and it's just unfortunate when you're starved for chewy Italian goodness, but you just have to keep going, make a couple of Michigan lefts, and try again with your head out of the clouds this time. It is not acceptable to decide you can take the turn if you just, you know, slam on your brakes and hope that the person behind you is paying attention.

I wasn't even the person behind you. I was the person three cars behind you, and luckily for me, I was listening when my driving instructor, my mother, my father, and Click and Clack told me about maintaining reasonable distances from the driver in front of me.

However, the recent drivers-ed graduates behind me hadn't had this drilled into their head yet.

Now, everyone was okay, and hell, there wasn't even any noticeable damage to my rear bumper, and I just had a ridiculous series of moments where I was thinking "Sweet I'm not going to hit the guy in front of me," glancing in my rear view mirror, and thinking "Wait maybe I am going to still." But it could have been worse, all because of your impatience for having a swarthy man point a peppergrinder in your face.

In summation, please try to take others in consideration when you're on the warpath for some parmesan goodness, douchebag.

-Sasha

Dear car-full of sixteen year olds,

Driving is, as we have just covered, a bit on the stressful side. You're just learning and it looked like you were still new to not having an adult in the car with you.

In the future, please keep in mind; at least one hand on the wheel at all times. I would've hated to tell the policeman that I saw you using both hands to light your cigarette when you should've been paying attention to what was going on ahead of you, or, you know, steering your car. Speaking of which, seriously. Knock that shit out already. I don't mean to sound like a PSA, but smoking is gross and makes you gross by association.

On the other hand, I'm glad you're okay, that your car was okay, that we were all okay, and I do appreciate your complimenting my pants. It was somewhat flattering to know that, even in a full-on panic attack, you could take time to check out my ass.

-Sasha

Score!

I drove to Belleville last night to pick up my new dining room table. It's freaking adorable.

There's only two issues with it that I can see off hand: a chunk of the veneer has torn off the side of the leaf. I may just strip that off and see if I can find some kind of replacement veneer for it.

Also, the swivel joints are CAKED with really heavy motor grease, so it smells faintly like garage when you're sitting in them. On the other hand, they definitely don't catch or squeak.

It was pretty hilarious trying to fit the whole shebang in my car; the table was deposted and in the back seat, there was a chair lying across it, two chairs in the trunk, and one chair riding shotgun with me. The seller helped me guide things in, but getting it out again to put into storage was an exercise in swearing and grunts.

Now all I need is to find an apartment to put it in.

I found it

If you have played Animal Crossing, you will understand why I want this table as hard as I do.

Day 1 of the Musikmesse

I'm eating Paprika Pringles.

They're FUCKING DELICIOUS.

The view

Frankfurt is a fancy-lookin' town. For example, this is what it looks like out of my window on the 44th floor.

(Sorry about the monster-file.)

I made a puppet.

He's the best puppet I've ever made so far.

There's not really a good shot amoung them, and these are all several months old. I've since begun the Mark Wood Mark Two, this time with more felting, so that his face won't be so damn floppy.

In my defense, I swear I was neither drunk nor stoned when I decided to make a puppet of Electric Violinist Mark Wood, nor am I creepily enamored with him. Those of you who know me well know that I don't handle boredom well. Perhaps you just hadn't realized how poorly I handle it.

My apartment smells

Wool is one of those wonderful luxury fibers. I love to knit with it; it feels wonderful if you spend the cash to get the good stuff, it's got the right amount of stretch and give, and it looks damn fine when everything is said and done.

The one downside is blocking it. Blocking it means you dip the whole thing in warm water, press the excess water out, and then spread it out to dry. It sets the stitches, makes laces and cables stand out better, and gives everything an extra touch of zing.

The downside is that in the meantime, it smells. Wet wool is not a sexy smell at all.

Also, I'm going to Germany in a week. Squee!

It's all about Search

I have a dirty-love for the BBC radio, because it's really the Fox News of NPR.

They keep referring to Yahoo as "The Mighty Yahoo."

Heh.

Huh?

I had a dream last night, about Rocky Horror Picture Show. I'm not sure why, or even how, because I've never actually seen Rocky Horror.

Mostly it was just Tim Curry dancing around in dominatrix gear.

It was a very confusing way to wake up.

This is why I usually ignore those ads

This bank of ads accompanied a conversation I was having with my mom about my birthday present. Do I now need to mark google ads as being not safe for work?

Not for the easily engrossed

I'm starting to think more memes should involve reading wikipedia articles.
I do feel a bit bad about this, though. I got five books for Christmas, and I've still only read half of one of them.

Instructions:

1. The first article title on the Wikipedia Random Articles page is the name of your band.
2. The last four words of the very last quotation on the Random Quotations page is the title of your album.
3. The third picture in Flickr's Interesting Photos From The Last 7 Days will be your album cover.
4. Use the graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post the result.

Good news! That Varied Tit is just looking for lunch, not being all dead.

Band Name | Album Title | Photo Credit

Happy Birthday so far

Being as I'm just crawling into bed now, I'm positive I will be a useless husk come Monday morning. But boy, this has been one of those cockle-warming birthdays, so far.

Highlights from today's BBC World Broadcast

"Militant Fruitarian"

Stupendousness

I managed to insult my neighbor's religion inadvertantly after 11 at night. This may be a new record for my ability to gnaw on my toes.

They had their music playing loudly enough to wake me from a light doze. While irritating, this is the first time this has happened since I moved in, and compared to every neighbor I've ever had since I started college, this is a new record. So I figure that I'd be polite and knock on the door, rather then try the floor-stomping routine.

I put on a shirt and pants, and go downstairs. Knock knock.

No response. I can hear talking inside.

Hmph. This isn't how I'd planned this to go. Once again, knock knock.

The stereo shuts off completely. I hear something about religion, door, and this time of night. I make a poor judgement at this point, but one that made a certain degree of sense at the time; when I'd gotten home from teaching, I could see through the front window that there were two girls at my door. I figured one of them was my roommate's new convenient distraction, and frowned a bit, since I knew he was out of the apartment eating dinner somewhere else. By the time I'd gotten my bass out of the car, and checked the mailbox, they were on their way down the stairs, and it turned out it was two high schoolers shoving religious tracts into people's doors.

No one appears to be coming to the door, but the stereo is off. I figure they've gotten the hint, and start walking back up the stair. As I reach the landing, the door opens, and there's my neighbor. She looks irritable.

"Oh," I say. "I'm sorry to be a bother, but I have to work in the morning, so I was just hoping you wouldn't mind turning your stereo down."

She nods, and apologizes. I smile and say, "Not to worry, I'm not some late-night Jehovah's Witness or something."

From the look on her face after that comes out of her mouth, I know that was the wrong thing to say. "I am a Jehovah's Witness, actually."

I'm not sure how to react. I'm half-asleep, which makes me muddy as is. Something tells me I should apologize, but I'm not feeling terribly apologetic, and I don't like lying to people when I know I'm not coherent enough to carry it off ever at all. So instead I get all lame and just say, "Hmm, okay."

"Right," she says.

"I, um."

We look at each other awkwardly for a moment. She goes back into her apartment. I walk up the stairs.

Now I can't get back to sleep.

Goddamnit.

You know you've hit rock bottom when...

One Missed Call, a movie only noteworthy for it's creepy mouth-eye poster, currently has a rating on Rotten Tomatoes of 00%.

In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Movie, currently has a rating on Rotten Tomatoes
of 06%.

You know you've failed in life when a Uwe Boll movie has a higher rating than yours does.