Thank you, Mr. Loper...

It's been a crazy couple of weeks, filled with drama--a play run, a friend blowing town due to horrific circumstances, oh, and there's been lots of work to do at the same time...

And as far as work goes, Thursday took the cake. We had a committee meeting for the community economic development strategy plan we're preparing. We lucked out and had a quorum so the goals and strategies could be approved. We had a speaker to give the committee information about the workforce training needs in the region. We also had a subconsultant who (conspicuously absent up to this point) decided to make his presence known.

Every once in a while, he would make some backhanded complement to our work, annoying, but that's to be expected from an academic sub. Once the Chair of the Committee left and the presenter started, he really became obnoxious--he challenged every bit of data she presented for absolutely no reason.

The entire time, I just kept thinking..."somebody really needs to punch this guy in the neck."

Hooray!!!!

Greg's show opened last night at the Duplex. I'd read parts of the script and really had my doubts about it. It worked. It was really good. It was really, really funny.

Home Pride

So, I was home two weekends ago for the Miss O Pageant. My mom and the other "Ladies" as they're now know are getting a little old for the carrying of tables and all the running through the auditorium that's required.

Now, I've been hearing about the horrors of the out-going Miss O's mother for the better part of a year. The girl is sweet, but mama's a harpy. The final night of the Miss Wis Pageant, after her daughter didn't make top ten, not only did she refuse to speak to her loser child, but she spoke to the head of the organization that sponsors Miss O to say the Ladies should be fired and someone who knows what they're doing should be called in. This was quite funny since she didn't allow her daughter to listen to any of the Ladies' advice and between that and her astonishing lack of talent, she didn't even place.

Gordy did get her revenge on pageant day: she threw the entire family (including the precocious little sister known for getting chocolate prints on gowns) out of the auditorium 'cause the families of the contestants aren't allowed. She extended the rule to include the family of the current queen. She was so proud. It was excellent.

The girl's final appearance on stage as Miss O was entirely choreographed by mama. She bought her new dresses to wear (the girl is short, pale and curvy--mama favors white and pastels that are cut straight across), chose her final performance song (Climb Every Mountain) and choreographed the singing of it.

I heard her for the first time when she came out to sing the national anthem. Veterans were openly weeping and NOT from pride. I'm not a flag-waver by any means, but this was offensive.

She then came out to start mc-ing. My niece (the one in her 20s) was sitting next to me and the first thing she said was, "Who picked out that dress?!" It was a lovely pale yellow ensemble with a strapless satin top, a waist belt and tulle skirt. (On the Cosby Show rerun I'd seen the night before, Claire Huxtable had had the same dress for her sweet-16 party in 1958.) Trish and I spent the rest of the night racing to call who'd purchased her clothes (the ladies or the mama) not that it took more than a glance--the girl gained or lost 30 lbs each time she came out in a new outfit.

I don't even like to think about the hideous mistake that was made with her dress for the finale. Ill-fitting, white version of the black dress the very tall, very thin Miss Wis was wearing. Take into account that it had to be bustled so she could dance in it... Ughh... She would've been better off in a white potato sack with sequins thrown at it.

But the piece-de-resistance was her final performance. The Ladies did convince her to wear the dress made for her under their instruction instead of her mama's. So other than her rendition of "Climb Every Mountain", which had the audience flinching with every high note, there was only one problem. Mama rechoreographed the number after the dress rehearsal. The girl finished in a full lunge down on one knee. Umm...her gown had a front slit almost to the waist. My entire section got a fine crotch view. I don't even want to think about the poor Northwestern reporters sitting in the orchestra pit.

The new girl is gorgeous. Seriously fantastic body. Very smart, albeit young, and incredibly nice. Oh, and her dad knows my brother and at the very least talks a great line of BS about following whatever mom and the other ladies have to say.

After their first meeting, they're very hopeful. She may not win Miss Wis., but she should go far in undoing the damage caused by the last one.

PS. Atom, I would've called to say hi, but there was NO spare time.

I got me an urgin'...

I just looked at the Northwestern's slideshow of the spearfishing on Lake Winnebago. It made me remember a muskie fishing event when I was 4 or so.

I never went fishing for the muskelunge, but I do remember them being bigger than I was and laid out in rows on my grandpa's driveway and then someone using an ax to decapitate them for easier cleaning.

A little kid watching the beheading of something bigger than she is...hmmm... Even after all the deer and fowl butchering I watched/gofered for, that was a bit disturbing.

So if you feel like splurgin' let's go up to Sturgeon Bay.

A Holiday Tune...

City kitchens, busy kitchens
Filled with holiday smells...
On the floor there are remnants of baking...

Cookies crumbling, dried fruit tumbling
Biscotti...pile after pile...
And in every still corner you hear...
Tiny mice...tiny mice...
It’s Christmas time in the City...
Hear them squeak...
Watch me freak...
Soon it will be...Christmas Day...

Is me really monster?

- - - -
COOKIE MONSTER
SEARCHES DEEP WITHIN
HIMSELF AND ASKS: IS ME
REALLY MONSTER?
BY ANDY F. BRYAN
- - - -

Me know. Me have problem.

Me love cookies. Me tend to get out of control when me see cookies. Me know it not natural to react so strongly to cookies, but me have weakness. Me know me do wrong. Me know it isn't normal. Me see disapproving looks. Me see stares. Me hurt inside.

When me get back to apartment, after cookie binge, me can't stand looking in mirror—fur matted with chocolate-chip smears and infested with crumbs. Me try but me never able to wash all of them out. Me don't think me is monster. Me just furry blue person who love cookies too much. Me no ask for it. Me just born that way.

Me was thinking and me just don't get it. Why is me a monster? No one else called monster on Sesame Street. Well, no one who isn't really monster. Two-Headed Monster have two heads, so he real monster. Herry Monster strong and look angry, so he probably real monster, too. But is me really monster?

Me thinks me have serious problem. Me thinks me addicted. But since when it acceptable to call addict monster? It affliction. It disease. It burden. But does it make me monster?

How can they be so callous? Me know there something wrong with me, but who in Sesame Street doesn't suffer from mental disease or psychological disorder? They don't call the vampire with math fetish monster, and me pretty sure he undead and drinks blood. No one calls Grover monster, despite frequent delusional episodes and obsessive-compulsive tendencies. And the obnoxious red Grover—oh, what his name?—Elmo! Yes, Elmo live all day in imaginary world and no one call him monster. No, they think he cute. And Big Bird! Don't get me started on Big Bird! He unnaturally gigantic talking canary! How is that not monster? Snuffleupagus not supposed to exist—woolly mammoths extinct. His very existence monstrous. Me least like monster. Me maybe have unhealthy obsession, but me no monster.

No. Me wrong. Me too hard on self. Me no have unhealthy obsession. Me love cookies, but it no hurt anyone. Me just enthusiast. Everyone has something they like most, something they get excited about. Why not me? Me perfectly normal. Me like cookies. So what? Cookies delicious. Cookies do not make one monster. Everyone loves cookies.

Me no monster. Me OK guy. Me OK guy who eat cookies.

Who me kidding? Me know me never actually eat cookies. Me only crumble cookies in mouth, but me no swallow. Me can't swallow. Me no have no esophagus. Me no have no trachea. Me only have black fabric throat. Me not supposed to be able to even talk.

Me no eat cookies.

Me destroy cookies.

Me crush cookies.

Me mutilate cookies.

Me make it so no one get cookies.

Everyone right. Me really is cookie monster.


From: http://www.mcsweeneys.net

Which response it best? A poll.

Last night, Greg picked up some Ben and Jerry's vanilla fudge caramel ice cream. It pretty much sucked. The fudge and caramel had been overswirled into the ice cream so there wasn't a distinct flavor of either. We were equally unhappy but came up with two different solutions to the problem:

Tina's solution: Pour some Hershey's chocolate syrup on top so it would taste like something.

Greg's solution: Seal a rat in the container and ship it back to the factory in Vermont.

You be the judge. Which should we have done?

No more Halloween for Tina...

This morning, I woke up in abject terror: I had been dreaming that I was hiding in a crawl space from Michael Myers. Even scarier, I was hiding with Archie Bunker.

Woo Hoo

The Union Star cheese shipment has arrived! Have a curd-y day! I intend to!

Heart aflutter

Greg was browsing in an Eastern philosophy/new age book store yesterday and bought me a present: three polished rocks in varying shades of gray and blue. Why? you may ask, as I did: Because when he picked them up and the sunlight hit them, they reminded him of my eyes. Oh.

The token was followed up with this afternoon:

When together and forward press the girl's lips
Like coral they are colored, beneath precious stones of azure
and met with the boy's as to the sun and the night encountering
then shall the seas much rejoice.

Turmoil...

I hate turmoil. Job issues two-sided. Vacation issues.

I HATE IT!!!!!!

Luckily, I can amuse myself with blogging about food.

Stacy's grandmother died last night. My mom called to tell me this afternoon. Unexpectedly, I turned into a freakin' distraught mess.

It wasn't unexpected and considering that she's been hallucinating that the Nazis are after her for the last 6 months or so (they left Holland after WWII) it's probably for the best, but still it makes me very sad. Perhaps it's because this is the 3rd set of condolence cards I've had to write in the past 2 months...

So have a zoetigheid for Oma...

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah...

Ruby, the fan dancer in Greg's show has repeatedly invited us to see her other performances. Well, most of them require going to a warehouse district in Brooklyn after midnight on a weekday, so we've declined. Saturday night was our chance to make it up to her. We went to the NYC Burlesque Festival Gala at The Supper Club in Times Square.

It was fantastic...crowd watching alone was worth the price of admission. However, I did think our $20 would get us chairs. We knelt behind a wrought-iron balcony railing for 3 hours--literally--so we could see the stage. Great blues band played first, then a gazillion burlesque acts. Everything from the grotesque to the sublime. It was an interesting experience in avant garde theatre (almost nothing in it was even remotely sexual) and some of the acts had put a lot of thought into their performances and it was very much their "art"; it just happened to involve disrobing.

The standouts included a woman who recreated Manet's The Picnic; a trio from Atlanta who included a seriously ugly man on stilts in an antebellum gown from under whose skirts came two "soldiers" in blue and gray who did a well-choreographed sword fight/striptease while the man sang mid-19th Century ballads funereally in a gorgeous baritone; and Ruby's Big Apple Burlesque's film noir scene complete with radio announcers, singers and flashbacks. Others however, were downright silly and, occasionally, grotesque. Everybody had a gimic however, and as far as I can tell, if you have an odd minor talent, say, the ability to do rope tricks, balance glasses of wine on your forehead, hula hoop, etc., and can take your clothes off concurrently, you've got a job.

If you ever get the opportunity, I'd highly recommend the experience. Plus, I'm workin' on my act...

The fastest man in the world...

runs like a little girl.

I swear to God, we'd never seen anything like it. He was walking in front of us last night as Greg and I were walking home after dinner in the East Village. He got a text and took off: elbows out, forearms up, hands dangling, legs flipping up and out to the side. Seriously, if he'd been smaller and blonder, he could have been my 6 year-old niece.

But here's the thing. He was faster than freakin' Superman. He was two blocks away in literally five seconds. If he had better form, I'm guessing he'd win gold medals; as it was, he had a hookup with someone in a shadowy doorway. I guess the latter could actually be better...

From the Blastocyst Community Bulletin...

There will be a new blastocyst orientation session at the Federal Building on Market Street at 2pm (use the side door). All blastocysts will receive a Social Security number, $50 cash and a free copy of the Employment Times.
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The annual Blastocyst pancake supper will be held at the Grange Hall Sunday from 6am `til 11am. Cost is $5 ($3 for embryoblasts 8 days and under). Because of last year's maple syrup disaster, powdered sugar will be substituted.
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FOR SALE---framed portrait of President Bush signing the Blastocyst Civil Rights Act of 2006. Autographed on back by Sen. Brownback. $10 + s&h. 555-1323.
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All of us at BCB mourn the passing of associate editor Hank Grindle, 12 days, a long-standing member of the local blastocyst community for 7 days and 3 hours. In lieu of flowers, contributions can be made to the VFW. Our condolences to Gladys, his wife of 10 days and 8 hours.
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BLASTOCYST ROOMMATE wanted to share 2-bedroom apartment on west end. $575 + utilities. Non-smoker preferred. Pets negotiable. No vacuum cleaners. 555-3421.
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BLASTAEROBICS! Come move and groove to a hip-hop beat at Marcy's Gym. Great way to make friends while increasing your lifespan by up to 36 hours! You'll have a BLAST! 555-MOVEIT.
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FOR SALE: Petri dish. 4-inch diameter, like new. Only used by my grandmother on Sunday. $10 or best offer. 555-9845.
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Feeling small? Join the Dale Carnegie blastocyst support group. Professional moderator helps you speak with confidence and raise self-esteem. Stay afterward for free résumé-building workshop.

(I can't take credit for this...it's practically viral, but I thought it worthy of a post. Oops. Just found out the source from the guy who sent it to me. "That bastion of angry liberal bloggers at www.dailykos.com ".)

It's a fucked up world...

Saturday afternoon, Greg's grandmother went to get her mail. There's a letter addressed to "Mrs. Vera", the name she's known by at the store that delivers her groceries. It lists items from one of her shops (very specific to two weeks ago) as well as graphically detailing how she'll be raped and killed if she doesn't call the number at the bottom of the page and give them $10,000. She calls the police, they come and tell her it's probably just a prank, but she shouldn't throw out the letter just in case. We stupidly assume that her son, Greg's uncle, will be coming over to stay with her since he's a 15 minute drive away.

Sunday: Greg and his sister take the letter to the grocery store in question--conveniently located down the street from where the family lunch is to take place. The store management is really concerned and can't believe they weren't contacted by the police, but they have a pretty good idea of who this could be and will look into it.

Lunch: We decide we need to tell the restaurant people because Rose (age 91) who owns the joint, lives next door and also gets her groceries delivered from the same place. The more people who know about it/are on the lookout the better. Plus, if anything is going to happen with this, the restaurant people can make it happen. Theirs is one of the most venerable in the old Italian core of the Bronx--they have clout in many ways.

We grab Rose's daughter-in-law and tell her what's happened. 5 minutes later, her husband calls a buddy of his who's the captain of that precinct at home, who then calls the captain of Greg's grandmother's precinct at home, to ask why the hell nothing has been followed up on this. Greg is then called on his cell by the second captain and is asked to come in to swear out another statement. Fine. We finish dinner, I go home with Goog, Greg is dropped off at the precinct. It's 5:45.

At the station, after waiting forever, Greg is grilled three ways from Sunday. The first was the liason guy who's really pissed that another precinct captain got involved in this. (I'm guessing that people being called at home on the Sunday of a four day weekend was NOT a happy thing for anyone involved.) The second about why his grandmother isn't there herself--with the flat out statement, "I'm sure you're a great guy, but we really have to consider the possibility that you've already killed your grandmother and you're concocting this story to cover it up--but I'm sure you're a great guy. 'Cause we see this all the time." Luckily, Greg is sane enough not to be insulted and has no problem with that.

In the meantime at the house, Greg's uncle calls and can't understand why I'm there or why Greg is at the station. I ask him where the hell he's been. "It's just a prank. She should just put it out of her mind." He goes off on how we're totally overreacting. (This is the guy who bragged to me that he flashed a weapon at a neighbor who'd told his mother not to walk her dog on his lawn.)

Greg then arrives at the front door with two cops behind him. Of course, I've double locked the door so he can't get in and it's thundering so we don't hear him knocking right away. The cops have their hands on their weapons when I open the door. They retake her statement in person. They agree that it's probably a prank, but they will take it seriously and detectives will follow up on it. Granted, aggravated harrassment doesn't rank anywhere near the top of their list of things to be dealt with, but c'mon, the initial complaint hadn't even been entered into the system. They leave. It's 9:15.

She feels better just because the situation has received some serious attention. We felt better that the businesses involved and her neighbors are on the lookout.

Additional Wackiness

Greg was invited to a proposal on Monday. That's right, he got a call from the GW's boyfriend, asking him to come over 'cause he was going to propose. What?!!! Greg was one of about a half dozen of her friends, standing outside looking quizically at each other while he popped the question inside. Very, very odd.

Riotous Cavalcade of Crazy Activity

DC Trip
Went down on Friday. Met B at her office. FYI: The Discovery Channel has the best lobby EVER! A dinosaur skeleton, a robotic baby mammouth and a perpetual motion machine that goes "dink". Assorted fun with the Walker clan, followed by the baptism of Susy's baby. Back on the Saturday midnight train--populated entirely by drug mules and us--but we missed the flooding.

In thunder, lightning or in rain?
The only way to see MacBeth is in the open air with storms blowing through. Everything portentious was accompanied by a gust of wind. Fantastic staging. FANTASTIC!

Dental Dilemma
Not that anyone will care, but I'm having my post and crown fitted this evening.

New route to weight loss...

Post-root canal, I have a temporary filling until the 28th of June--granted, it's been less than 24 hours and the area may become less sensitive--but for now eating is almost more trouble than it's worth.

It's not that it hurts, it just feels wrong. Evidently I've needed the rc for a very long time. The dentist's comments included: "We gave you a shot of novocaine just in case, but I don't really think you even needed that--this nerve is obliterated."

The root canal itself went very well, (I got to see the before, during and after x-rays) it's just that there's so little left of the tooth wall that it's very susceptible to fracture (thus the odd sensitivity) even when filled with cement--so it's quite possible that I just spent $900 only to have my tooth pulled anyway.

So until that crown is fitted on the 28th, I'm chewing slowly on the right side of my mouth and drinking a hell of a lot of V8.

Sendin' shivers up and down my spine...

Guess who I ran into in the elevator again on Saturday? The father of the girl next door. That's right, Princess' parents were back for the 5th time. She got a grill and they had to drive down from Boston to put it together for her. You'd think someone with a law degree would be able to follow simple instructions, but evidently not.

I actually laughed in his face when I said, "My God! You're back again?!!!" He looked a little chagrined. I think he gets that I think they're all pathetic.

Seriously, I love to hate this girl with an obsessive passion that knows no bounds, not even that of neighborly civility.