First the short version:
- They sold me a hotel room.
- They ensured me it was available and charged my credit card.
- The hotel then told me they've been sold out for months.
- Travelocity told me no rooms were available.
- No resolution.
Now the really long-winded version:
(Just stop reading now, and save yourself some time and never use Travelocity.)
I'm going to the annual Coachella festival in Indio, California at the end of April. A bunch of high school buddies and me will meet in Burbank and drive over to the Palm Desert area where we will go to our hotel and party down for a few nights. And then we'll go and see lots of fun bands like Bauhaus, New Order, Weezer, Wilco, Gang of Four, Fantomas, blah blah blah.
We divvied up the chores to get this thing done and I (stupidly) volunteered to get the hotel room. Everything around there that was affordable was sold out. I looked on Yahoo! Travel (which says Travelocity on it) and their site said they could book these cheaper hotels that were sold out on other sites. I booked it as fast as I could. Then I received my e-mail confirmation:
First line of e-mail:
YOUR TRIP TO INDIAN WELLS IS CONFIRMED
Page down:
YOUR TRIP HAS NOT BEEN CONFIRMED WITH THE HOTEL
Now how in the hell can that happen? Shouldn't a travel site not list a hotel that isn't available? Isn't that the whole reason you put in the dates you want to book there in the first place? Call me crazy.
So I call Yahoo! Travel and get somebody from halfway across the planet I'm sure, and she is of no help at all and basically tells me I should cancel my reservation. Great. Thanks for your help. I go to Travelocity's site and see that the room is still listed as available. Not wanting to make the same mistake, I pick up the phone and call Travelocity and tell the lady what happened to me at Yahoo! Travel and I saw that these rooms are still available. She took a look and ensured me that the rooms were available. I told her to book the rooms for me, and she did. She sent me an e-mail receipt with confirmation not like the earlier one, which contradicted itself.
I let it be for a month. Am I dumb or what? Then I decide to call the hotel and make sure that my reservation is there. The lady at the hotel gets all pissed at me and tells me I don't have any reservation, and she's been sold out since November. Great. So I call Travelocity and the fellow halfway across the globe tells me matter-of-factly that the reservation isn't confirmed.
This is the part where anyone who knows me can envision me completely blowing my lid and letting the motherfucker have it. He basically told me to cancel my reservation and book another one. Right. This is the part where anyone who knows me can envision me completely blowing my lid and letting the motherfucker have it. I asked for a manager. He told me that the managers were all busy and I'd have to hold for some time. This is the part where anyone who knows me can envision me completely blowing my lid and letting the motherfucker have it.
Anyways, there is still no resolution to this point and I'll probably be reserving a much more expensive hotel room much further away from the venue. All I can say is: Never use Travelocity.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Apple Store adventures - part 2
Being in the Apple Store in downtown San Francisco is kind of surreal. There are a bunch of people aimlessly moving slowly from computer to computer, gadget to gadget. It's the store where you can actually buy cool. All I wanted were some new headphones. And I heard the Apple In-Ear headphones were good.
I asked the Apple store representative about the In-Ear headphones. She told me they were amazing, and explained how she liked them better than the stock earbuds that come with any iPod because her ears were too small. Then I think she farted. I didn't hear it, but she was kinda squirming around while she was telling me about the fact that the Sony earbud headphones had a cord that wrapped around the back of your ear. And then it smelled stinky. I tried to hold my breath for as long as I could, but it was futile. I was about ready to hand her the 40 bucks and run, just so I could get away from the stench. For a moment I thought my friend Jesse laid it because he moved away from where we were standing as soon as I smelled it. He denied it.
Anyway, these Apple In-Ear headphones have got to be the worst I have ever heard. I had these lame Koss earbud-style phones a while back that had poor sound quality, but at least it was a listenable experience. The Apple earphones had absolutely NO bass whatsoever. They fall out of my ears on average about every 2 minutes.
After finding the article on the web that describes the "prescribed insertion method" for these things, I realized it was all me. Operator error. Suddenly these things had great sound and they sealed off the outside world nicely so all I heard was the music. Well, until about 10 seconds later. The canalphones (as they're now called) lost their seal and there went the bass.
Now I'll have to pay the fart lady a visit at the downtown Apple Store again. Hopefully she'll remember that she told me I could "try 'em for two weeks and if I didn't like 'em, bring 'em back." If she doesn't rememeber, maybe if I tell her she farted while telling me the tech specs, it'll jog her memory.
I asked the Apple store representative about the In-Ear headphones. She told me they were amazing, and explained how she liked them better than the stock earbuds that come with any iPod because her ears were too small. Then I think she farted. I didn't hear it, but she was kinda squirming around while she was telling me about the fact that the Sony earbud headphones had a cord that wrapped around the back of your ear. And then it smelled stinky. I tried to hold my breath for as long as I could, but it was futile. I was about ready to hand her the 40 bucks and run, just so I could get away from the stench. For a moment I thought my friend Jesse laid it because he moved away from where we were standing as soon as I smelled it. He denied it.
Anyway, these Apple In-Ear headphones have got to be the worst I have ever heard. I had these lame Koss earbud-style phones a while back that had poor sound quality, but at least it was a listenable experience. The Apple earphones had absolutely NO bass whatsoever. They fall out of my ears on average about every 2 minutes.
After finding the article on the web that describes the "prescribed insertion method" for these things, I realized it was all me. Operator error. Suddenly these things had great sound and they sealed off the outside world nicely so all I heard was the music. Well, until about 10 seconds later. The canalphones (as they're now called) lost their seal and there went the bass.
Now I'll have to pay the fart lady a visit at the downtown Apple Store again. Hopefully she'll remember that she told me I could "try 'em for two weeks and if I didn't like 'em, bring 'em back." If she doesn't rememeber, maybe if I tell her she farted while telling me the tech specs, it'll jog her memory.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Spam n' eggs, Spam n' spam...
Today I actually clicked on some of those spam e-mails I always delete. The temptation to get free Starbucks for a year was too much to resist. So after getting my free Starbucks for a year coupon, I decided to head over to the local Starbucks and get a triple mocha latte with extra whip. It worked! Being the planner-aheader that I am, I brought my notebook computer so I could test the waters of spam again.
I logged on at the comfy sofas at the Starbucks that used to be called Circadia on the corner of Mariposa and Bryant, kitty-corner to the Muni bus barn. After signing into my Yahoo mail account, I found 69 bulk e-mails that were ripe for the picking. Just as I was about to click on one with the subject line "Mexican Pharmacy tj" my iPod ran out of juice. There's not much that will take the wind out of your sails easier than having your iPod die. Especially while it's in the middle of "Red Alert" by Basement Jaxx.
Suddenly, like an angel descending from heaven, the words "Claim your Apple iPod 40GB" glowed from my computer screen. Click. Almost immediately a punk rock bike messenger was handing over a box and demanding my signature. Unfortunately the iPod was the damn U2 version and had nothing loaded on it except for U2. There's always some hitch when stuff is free. Thank god for Under a Blood Red Sky.
This spam thing was like a dream come true. Actually it was like having unlimited wishes, but always with some loophole in the wish making it not exactly what you wanted. I was having so much fun consolidating my debt and selecting new desktop computers, I neglected to check my battery usage. I clicked on every single spam link, and the last one from Conjurer H. Giggling had the subject line asking "Leegardnersf wanna play? knead" This one sounded kinda odd, but hey how bad could it be? I envisioned myself playing "knead the bread dough" or playing "knead the sore calf muscle" at Starbucks as the baristas cleaned the espresso machines for the next morning. Instead, some huge hairy dude in a wrestling outfit busted through the door. He wore a jock strap and protective cup on the OUTSIDE of his singlet. "WHO'S LEEGARDNERSF?" He shouted into the room full of computer caffeine addicts. He shouted "WHO WANTS TO PLAY KNEED?" Now I understood. Knead. Check.
My computer ran out of juice and shut off. The wrestler guy barreled over to a sofa near the door. I silently said "Oh fuck" to myself. He angrily confronted a web design-y hipster. "YOU LEEGARDNERSF?" I discreetly closed my computer and got the hell outta there. I hopped on the 22 Fillmore and listened to "With or Without You" for the 20th time that afternoon. When I arrived home, I plugged my computer in and looked for some new bulk e-mails in my Yahoo account. There were too many to count. I clicked on "Paris Hotels $49 a night." Nothing. Clicked again. Nothing. I clicked on "Need Quick Cash?" Nothing. It looks like I better just realize that spam is just spam. Unless it's spam n' eggs. Or bacon eggs n' spam. Or spam spam n' spam...
I logged on at the comfy sofas at the Starbucks that used to be called Circadia on the corner of Mariposa and Bryant, kitty-corner to the Muni bus barn. After signing into my Yahoo mail account, I found 69 bulk e-mails that were ripe for the picking. Just as I was about to click on one with the subject line "Mexican Pharmacy tj" my iPod ran out of juice. There's not much that will take the wind out of your sails easier than having your iPod die. Especially while it's in the middle of "Red Alert" by Basement Jaxx.
Suddenly, like an angel descending from heaven, the words "Claim your Apple iPod 40GB" glowed from my computer screen. Click. Almost immediately a punk rock bike messenger was handing over a box and demanding my signature. Unfortunately the iPod was the damn U2 version and had nothing loaded on it except for U2. There's always some hitch when stuff is free. Thank god for Under a Blood Red Sky.
This spam thing was like a dream come true. Actually it was like having unlimited wishes, but always with some loophole in the wish making it not exactly what you wanted. I was having so much fun consolidating my debt and selecting new desktop computers, I neglected to check my battery usage. I clicked on every single spam link, and the last one from Conjurer H. Giggling had the subject line asking "Leegardnersf wanna play? knead" This one sounded kinda odd, but hey how bad could it be? I envisioned myself playing "knead the bread dough" or playing "knead the sore calf muscle" at Starbucks as the baristas cleaned the espresso machines for the next morning. Instead, some huge hairy dude in a wrestling outfit busted through the door. He wore a jock strap and protective cup on the OUTSIDE of his singlet. "WHO'S LEEGARDNERSF?" He shouted into the room full of computer caffeine addicts. He shouted "WHO WANTS TO PLAY KNEED?" Now I understood. Knead. Check.
My computer ran out of juice and shut off. The wrestler guy barreled over to a sofa near the door. I silently said "Oh fuck" to myself. He angrily confronted a web design-y hipster. "YOU LEEGARDNERSF?" I discreetly closed my computer and got the hell outta there. I hopped on the 22 Fillmore and listened to "With or Without You" for the 20th time that afternoon. When I arrived home, I plugged my computer in and looked for some new bulk e-mails in my Yahoo account. There were too many to count. I clicked on "Paris Hotels $49 a night." Nothing. Clicked again. Nothing. I clicked on "Need Quick Cash?" Nothing. It looks like I better just realize that spam is just spam. Unless it's spam n' eggs. Or bacon eggs n' spam. Or spam spam n' spam...
Thursday, March 03, 2005
One of our finest
Did you watch the Academy Awards? Did you see the part where Chris Rock was asking who the hell Jude Law was? Man that was funny. I mean, we all know that Jude Law is a huge star now. He's a hottie, right? That's all it takes. Hottie? Star. Not really, because I'm wondering why Adriana Lima isn't a huge star yet if that's the formula.
Did you see the part on the Academy Awards where Sean Penn came out and tried to one-up Chris Rock by saying Jude Law "is one of OUR finest actors"? Oh shit, man. What a pompous ass. I can just see Sean Penn backstage snorting a fat line of blow and doing the requisite double sniff afterwards to make sure he got all of it up his schnoz, then telling his coke buddies how he was gonna set the record straight on Jude Law. It could have only been a better made-for-TV moment if Mr. Law were actually in attendance because he was such a fine actor that he'd be up for an award for one of the 10-fucking-million movies he was in last year.
Unfortunately, none of the people at the house party I was at caught the retort from Chris Rock later in the show. But I read it online. He apparently said something about his accountants wanting a word with Mr. Penn. Lame. It's Chris Rock for cryin' out loud! He LIVES for shit like that. Please, Chris Rock, don't let Penn get away with being a stuffy shit. I can't decide what was more disappointing - that, or the fact that Adriana Lima wasn't up for best actress.
Did you see the part on the Academy Awards where Sean Penn came out and tried to one-up Chris Rock by saying Jude Law "is one of OUR finest actors"? Oh shit, man. What a pompous ass. I can just see Sean Penn backstage snorting a fat line of blow and doing the requisite double sniff afterwards to make sure he got all of it up his schnoz, then telling his coke buddies how he was gonna set the record straight on Jude Law. It could have only been a better made-for-TV moment if Mr. Law were actually in attendance because he was such a fine actor that he'd be up for an award for one of the 10-fucking-million movies he was in last year.
Unfortunately, none of the people at the house party I was at caught the retort from Chris Rock later in the show. But I read it online. He apparently said something about his accountants wanting a word with Mr. Penn. Lame. It's Chris Rock for cryin' out loud! He LIVES for shit like that. Please, Chris Rock, don't let Penn get away with being a stuffy shit. I can't decide what was more disappointing - that, or the fact that Adriana Lima wasn't up for best actress.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Grounded
I flew back from Seattle last Friday, and boy are my arms tired! (Insert drums and crash sound effect here).
Actually, I had probably one of the more miserable flying experiences in recent memory, and that's saying a lot. I know, I know, you're probably saying "Golly, Lee, you're always griping about stuff that happens on airplanes. What could possibly be more miserable than:
a. Almost having to pee your pants while the flight crew blocks your entrance to the toilet.
b. Getting smacked on the head by the Frenchman in the seat behind you.
c. Being held at gunpoint on a hijacked plane."
Okay, so C never happened, and I hope it doesn't ever happen. But the other two are in fact, fact. Well, this time it was nothing in particular. Except maybe that the stewardessesses skipped me and the gentleman next to me whilst giving out complimentary feces-laden water and juices and soda with feces-laden ice cubes. That, and the lady behind me kept letting her newspaper rest on my head.
Lately I've noticed the pilots of these planes are becoming a little more aggressive with their flight maneuvers. I mean, do they think they're some ace pilots hot-dogging in the friendly skies? If so, we can probably find a nice flight pattern over Iraq or Afghanistan to hot-dog it at will whilst dodging the scud missiles or whatever the US Gov't sold them a while back. IT'S A DAMN PASSENGER PLANE. TREAT IT AS SUCH. Lily made the analogy of a bus driver maneuvering like he's driving a sportscar. I've seen that on Muni. It ain't pretty.
Whoever the fuck was flying this Alaska Air MD80 decided to take the super-agrro pattern while coming in to land at SFO. I looked out the window and we were heading straight toward the San Mateo bridge. That or the surrounding WATER. I felt queasy. I don't normally feel queasy on flights. I looked up toward the front of the cabin and saw just about everybody looking out their windows. About 15 rows in front of me somebody puked. Hopefully into the little barf bag nobody seems to notice anymore.
Now this has nothing to do with weather, or mechanical issues, or anything. It has to do with some asshole in the cockpit who thinks he's some slick pilot who could do wonders in a smaller plane. Let me tell you, we were all pretty fucking impressed. I am so gonna say YOU SUCK to the smiling trio in the cabin the next time something like this happens. But I ain't flying for a while. That, or I'm gonna push the limits of how many in-flight drinks you can buy.
Actually, I had probably one of the more miserable flying experiences in recent memory, and that's saying a lot. I know, I know, you're probably saying "Golly, Lee, you're always griping about stuff that happens on airplanes. What could possibly be more miserable than:
a. Almost having to pee your pants while the flight crew blocks your entrance to the toilet.
b. Getting smacked on the head by the Frenchman in the seat behind you.
c. Being held at gunpoint on a hijacked plane."
Okay, so C never happened, and I hope it doesn't ever happen. But the other two are in fact, fact. Well, this time it was nothing in particular. Except maybe that the stewardessesses skipped me and the gentleman next to me whilst giving out complimentary feces-laden water and juices and soda with feces-laden ice cubes. That, and the lady behind me kept letting her newspaper rest on my head.
Lately I've noticed the pilots of these planes are becoming a little more aggressive with their flight maneuvers. I mean, do they think they're some ace pilots hot-dogging in the friendly skies? If so, we can probably find a nice flight pattern over Iraq or Afghanistan to hot-dog it at will whilst dodging the scud missiles or whatever the US Gov't sold them a while back. IT'S A DAMN PASSENGER PLANE. TREAT IT AS SUCH. Lily made the analogy of a bus driver maneuvering like he's driving a sportscar. I've seen that on Muni. It ain't pretty.
Whoever the fuck was flying this Alaska Air MD80 decided to take the super-agrro pattern while coming in to land at SFO. I looked out the window and we were heading straight toward the San Mateo bridge. That or the surrounding WATER. I felt queasy. I don't normally feel queasy on flights. I looked up toward the front of the cabin and saw just about everybody looking out their windows. About 15 rows in front of me somebody puked. Hopefully into the little barf bag nobody seems to notice anymore.
Now this has nothing to do with weather, or mechanical issues, or anything. It has to do with some asshole in the cockpit who thinks he's some slick pilot who could do wonders in a smaller plane. Let me tell you, we were all pretty fucking impressed. I am so gonna say YOU SUCK to the smiling trio in the cabin the next time something like this happens. But I ain't flying for a while. That, or I'm gonna push the limits of how many in-flight drinks you can buy.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
El Presidente
I received an e-mail today containing a letter written by John Cleese. It was a notification of revocation of our independence from England. Apart from being totally hilarious, it made a good point about us not being able to elect a competent president, and now we have to do a bunch of things in a proper Brit fashion. It's too bad. We were becoming a pretty good country. I mean, not too long ago who didn't want to be an American? Now half of America is ashamed to be American. I know I am. We're represented by a buffoon. And to the rest of the world, it looks like we want him in the oval office.
And this Monday we're supposed to pay homage? What is it that we're supposed to do exactly on President's Day? I can understand most of the other holidays. At least the American ones. Independence day = grill, drink beer, blow stuff up. Thanksgiving = eat. President's Day = ?
I think I'm gonna write a letter to the editor of the San Francisco Chronicle (a fine newspaper if you're normally into reading the Weekly World News) and preach to the choir a little. Maybe say something about the fact that we're better off giving a day to pay homage to John Cleese than this fucking nimrod we call our leader. Hopefully I won't be the only one. We should all do something to pay homage. Wear a FUCK BUSH shirt. Stick a flag with Bush's face on it in some poo. Anything.
I'm also starting a campaign immediately - GAVIN FOR PRESIDENT 2008!
And this Monday we're supposed to pay homage? What is it that we're supposed to do exactly on President's Day? I can understand most of the other holidays. At least the American ones. Independence day = grill, drink beer, blow stuff up. Thanksgiving = eat. President's Day = ?
I think I'm gonna write a letter to the editor of the San Francisco Chronicle (a fine newspaper if you're normally into reading the Weekly World News) and preach to the choir a little. Maybe say something about the fact that we're better off giving a day to pay homage to John Cleese than this fucking nimrod we call our leader. Hopefully I won't be the only one. We should all do something to pay homage. Wear a FUCK BUSH shirt. Stick a flag with Bush's face on it in some poo. Anything.
I'm also starting a campaign immediately - GAVIN FOR PRESIDENT 2008!
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
me & my me & my me & my me & my me & my ...
Last week one of my "friends" in Seattle invited to me to go to his friend's house to watch the superbowl in HD. Now if that's not one of the best things you can hope for while you're on the road, I don't know what is. So on Super Sunday I call my "friend" around 3 hours before kickoff. Left a message. No callback. Left another message about an hour before kickoff. No callback. So I proceeded to watch the game in my hotel room with no beer and nobody to sing "Live and Let Die" with.
I had a Superbowl party at my house 2 years ago. Lily and I stocked up on food and beverages. People came over. We even had a mock Superbowl before the real one using Madden 98 on Playstation 1. Raiders vs. Bucs. I was the Raiders. And just like the in real game, the Raiders lost. I vaguely remember getting my ass handed to me just like the Raiders did. Even though none of us were really fans of either team (we were mildly rooting for the local team), we still had a great time.
Okay, back to the 2005 Super Sunday. That day in the hotel I understood what the hell Super Sunday is really about. It's not about watching a game. It's about hanging out with your friends. Which is what most events are about. Unless you're my friends who are Giants season-ticket holders - in which case, it's about watching a game. But it's also about drinking. Drinking a lot of beer. But that wouldn't be any fun unless your friends were there too. So when you decide to go to tonight's venue, remember that the "S" in TNSC is for "Social". And buy your friend a drink.
I had a Superbowl party at my house 2 years ago. Lily and I stocked up on food and beverages. People came over. We even had a mock Superbowl before the real one using Madden 98 on Playstation 1. Raiders vs. Bucs. I was the Raiders. And just like the in real game, the Raiders lost. I vaguely remember getting my ass handed to me just like the Raiders did. Even though none of us were really fans of either team (we were mildly rooting for the local team), we still had a great time.
Okay, back to the 2005 Super Sunday. That day in the hotel I understood what the hell Super Sunday is really about. It's not about watching a game. It's about hanging out with your friends. Which is what most events are about. Unless you're my friends who are Giants season-ticket holders - in which case, it's about watching a game. But it's also about drinking. Drinking a lot of beer. But that wouldn't be any fun unless your friends were there too. So when you decide to go to tonight's venue, remember that the "S" in TNSC is for "Social". And buy your friend a drink.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
LLMB020305
As I was putting the finishing touches on the 203rd edit I've been working on, I remembered that I hadn't writtten this week's edition of "Lee Lee the Musical Bee". I thought about it for a minute, and what was noteworthy in recent memory. Like the fact that my car had been broken into, but being as my car is a beater and we don't keep anything but melted cassette tapes and grocery bags in there, there was nothing to steal. Then I realized that all that was just me recalling working on the edit and thinking about the car thing and whether I should write about that, while I was at this "music" event in the basement of 222 Club listening to a guy warp a rasta voice on his laptop while a gal played an endless loop that she too was warping. It was kind of mind-numbing, but at least I had earplugs. It was such a drone that it brought me back to my gig in Seattle that went full-circle and eventually was killed. Maybe that would be good to rant about. But then I emerged from the blackout I was in while drinking myself silly with the writer of the ad, who had just recently moved from San Francisco and was pining for his days of watching "football" matches at Mad Dog in the Fog with his buddies. And all that was just an endorphin space out after a hard bike ride through Golden Gate park where I came across a new dirt trail and narrowly escaped the lusty come-hither look of a guy in the bushes that made me pedal the hell outta there. And then I woke up this morning and remembered that I hadn't written this week's edition of "Lee Lee the Musical Bee."
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Born Again
On Saturday my computer died. I hadn't even touched it or moved it for hours. It was playing some music through iTunes. Perhaps the Mail app was open. Then it started making a crunching noise. Not a good, "wow, my CPU is really churning through some data" kind of noise. But a "wow, that sounds like my hard drive is eating itself" kind of noise. Without running through my complete list of tech repair maneuvers, let's just say it was the first time in my computing experience that it truly seemed dead.
Enter Apple Computer tech support. If you're a gambler like me, you don't buy the "extended care" plan you're always offered whenever you buy a piece of tech gear. If you gamble and you lose, what Apple wants you to do is go down to your nearest Apple Store and belly up to the "Genius Bar". You can sign up online for a place in line, so you can limit your waiting to 2 hours or so. During which, you watch helpless souls try to figure out why their iPod doesn't play anymore. You watch a friendly "Genius" explain to an elderly couple how to set up and use a Mac - which is slightly more difficult than plugging in your VCR and setting the time. You check your place in line on the iMac G5 nearby. You check it again. And again. And again. At this point you start to wonder where you can buy the new Apple "ProCare" card. Only 99 bucks for the ability to actually schedule an appointment with the "Genius" of your choice, instead of waiting in line with cheap bastards like me.
And then... my name was called. I told the Genius who called himself "E" that I ran the hardware test CD and it said my drive was dead, so I wanna use my warranty while it's still in effect and put it in the shop. He told me to hold up and then plugged in his firewire drive. He couldn't find an OS. He asked me if I backed up my computer recently. I had done so, and he promptly erased my drive. He had me install the OS right there at the bar. Voila! Good as new. E is a goddamn Genius.
The moral of the story is this: Back up your computer as often as possible. So DO IT NOW. If not, I'll look forward to reading your rant in the near future.
Enter Apple Computer tech support. If you're a gambler like me, you don't buy the "extended care" plan you're always offered whenever you buy a piece of tech gear. If you gamble and you lose, what Apple wants you to do is go down to your nearest Apple Store and belly up to the "Genius Bar". You can sign up online for a place in line, so you can limit your waiting to 2 hours or so. During which, you watch helpless souls try to figure out why their iPod doesn't play anymore. You watch a friendly "Genius" explain to an elderly couple how to set up and use a Mac - which is slightly more difficult than plugging in your VCR and setting the time. You check your place in line on the iMac G5 nearby. You check it again. And again. And again. At this point you start to wonder where you can buy the new Apple "ProCare" card. Only 99 bucks for the ability to actually schedule an appointment with the "Genius" of your choice, instead of waiting in line with cheap bastards like me.
And then... my name was called. I told the Genius who called himself "E" that I ran the hardware test CD and it said my drive was dead, so I wanna use my warranty while it's still in effect and put it in the shop. He told me to hold up and then plugged in his firewire drive. He couldn't find an OS. He asked me if I backed up my computer recently. I had done so, and he promptly erased my drive. He had me install the OS right there at the bar. Voila! Good as new. E is a goddamn Genius.
The moral of the story is this: Back up your computer as often as possible. So DO IT NOW. If not, I'll look forward to reading your rant in the near future.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
living large
Some people think that if you're taking business trips and living out of a hotel, then you've like hit the big time or something. You check into a room and stay there for weeks at a time. WOOHOO! High-rollin' playa. I used to think that. Then it became a reality for me. The only thing that's posh about hotel living is the fact that you can get out of bed and not do anything about its messyness. You come back from work and the bed is made again. Sweet. Other than that, hotel living kinda sucks. I have to reconfigure my mind to which channel ESPN is on. There's no stereo. And I feel like I'm fighting housekeeping about keeping a glass on the nightstand for water.
There is a strange phenomenon going on with the current hotel though. It's this weird game I'm involuntarily playing with housekeeping: Every day I come back to the hotel and find a new bar of hotel soap, wrapped in this hotel chain's paper, and there's another hotel-sized bottle of shampoo. It's always sitting on the edge of the tub on top of the bathmat, which has been folded in that weird hotel way to emphasize its girth. So I take the soap and shampoo and put it next to the tissue box. As of today I have 6 bars of soap and 5 bottles of shampoo. I can't remember how the numbers diverged, but it doesn't matter.
I can't honestly understand how somebody who takes so much care to fold the towels in such a way as to do the "fannning out in a clamshell shape" day after day wouldn't notice the growing mountain of soap and shampoo next to the tissues. Do they think that I can possibly use a whole bar of soap and an entire bottle of shampoo in one day? Why don't they take them back? I'm really gonna mess with their minds by putting all the stuff back on the edge of the tub when I leave. Apparently these things are invisible to them unless it's on the edge of the tub. Or maybe it's their way of letting me know I've hit the big time.
There is a strange phenomenon going on with the current hotel though. It's this weird game I'm involuntarily playing with housekeeping: Every day I come back to the hotel and find a new bar of hotel soap, wrapped in this hotel chain's paper, and there's another hotel-sized bottle of shampoo. It's always sitting on the edge of the tub on top of the bathmat, which has been folded in that weird hotel way to emphasize its girth. So I take the soap and shampoo and put it next to the tissue box. As of today I have 6 bars of soap and 5 bottles of shampoo. I can't remember how the numbers diverged, but it doesn't matter.
I can't honestly understand how somebody who takes so much care to fold the towels in such a way as to do the "fannning out in a clamshell shape" day after day wouldn't notice the growing mountain of soap and shampoo next to the tissues. Do they think that I can possibly use a whole bar of soap and an entire bottle of shampoo in one day? Why don't they take them back? I'm really gonna mess with their minds by putting all the stuff back on the edge of the tub when I leave. Apparently these things are invisible to them unless it's on the edge of the tub. Or maybe it's their way of letting me know I've hit the big time.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Fly the Friendly Skies
I've been on far too many airplanes recently. So much so that it's becoming less like a rare treat and more like getting on a bus. I've become aware of the power of alcohol for making the bus ride a little less nerve-ridden. On my most recent adventure, I made my way through the throngs of suits to find a bar in the "B-travel" section (which includes ATA, AmericaWest, and AlaskaAirlines). It was the only bar that had sports on the TV. I promptly ordered a pint of Anchor Steam. The guy sitting at the table next to mine slammed his pint, then followed that up with what I could only guess was a Jack n' Coke. Another woman bellied up to the bar and was there for about a minute and left a bottle of Heineken behind. What a magic trick! After looking around at all the people who looked like they travel more regularly than I do, and seeing how many drinks they had, I figured I better have another Anchor.
Time came to get aboard the flying bus, so I went down to the gate and boarding had already begun. I got into my seat and we took off. As we were passing through ten-thousand feet, the thought of urinating started becoming an obsession. But the "fasten seat belts" light was still illuminated, so I counted to 10 countless times. Finally the light went off and I turned to head to the closet in the rear they refer to as a "restroom". The beverage cart was already coming down the aisle, so I started toward the restroom in the front of the plane. Occupied. The first class attendant (named Cathy) ordered me to wait at row 6 - the first row outside of first class. Luckily there was nobody there, so I took a seat and tapped my foot for about 2 minutes.
One of the pilots exited the cabin and tapped Cathy on the shoulder. She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the restroom which was marked "Occupied". He went in. Okay, so I'd been had. The restroom was never occupied at all and Cathy knew this. I had to go to the little zen place in my mind to get over this. Meanwhile another stewardess (named Theresa) came to the front to sub for Cathy, who had just gone into the cabin to provide a little naughtiness to the flight crew I'm sure. The pilot who had just dropped a load went back into the cabin. I waited another minute and started toward the bathroom, which I was now sure was free. Theresa blocked my entry and said, "No, you have to wait". I said "But there's nobody in there." She told me to go back to row 6. I saw that the beverage cart was still blocking my way to the restrooms in the rear. I was about ready to make a break for the front restroom, but instead I went to that little zen place in my mind again and politely said to Theresa "I have to use the bathroom." This really set Theresa off so she got in a huff and told Kirk (our other flight attendant) to move the cart so I could get by to the rear bathroom. I wonder if I should start wearing Depends to the airport. Live and learn.
Time came to get aboard the flying bus, so I went down to the gate and boarding had already begun. I got into my seat and we took off. As we were passing through ten-thousand feet, the thought of urinating started becoming an obsession. But the "fasten seat belts" light was still illuminated, so I counted to 10 countless times. Finally the light went off and I turned to head to the closet in the rear they refer to as a "restroom". The beverage cart was already coming down the aisle, so I started toward the restroom in the front of the plane. Occupied. The first class attendant (named Cathy) ordered me to wait at row 6 - the first row outside of first class. Luckily there was nobody there, so I took a seat and tapped my foot for about 2 minutes.
One of the pilots exited the cabin and tapped Cathy on the shoulder. She took a key from her pocket and unlocked the restroom which was marked "Occupied". He went in. Okay, so I'd been had. The restroom was never occupied at all and Cathy knew this. I had to go to the little zen place in my mind to get over this. Meanwhile another stewardess (named Theresa) came to the front to sub for Cathy, who had just gone into the cabin to provide a little naughtiness to the flight crew I'm sure. The pilot who had just dropped a load went back into the cabin. I waited another minute and started toward the bathroom, which I was now sure was free. Theresa blocked my entry and said, "No, you have to wait". I said "But there's nobody in there." She told me to go back to row 6. I saw that the beverage cart was still blocking my way to the restrooms in the rear. I was about ready to make a break for the front restroom, but instead I went to that little zen place in my mind again and politely said to Theresa "I have to use the bathroom." This really set Theresa off so she got in a huff and told Kirk (our other flight attendant) to move the cart so I could get by to the rear bathroom. I wonder if I should start wearing Depends to the airport. Live and learn.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
An Ant's Life
Remember that movie "A Bug's Life"? Remember all the cute little ants you rooted for to beat the grasshoppers, and when they won at the end you yelled "Hooray"? Is that the way you really feel about ants? I sure as hell don't. Especially after the rains brought an infestation into my kitchen this week. They creep me out to no end. I look at the minions scrambling around aimlessly to find a scrap of food (or a dead ant) to carry back to the colony and it gives me the willies. I certainly don't go "Hooray!"
Lily and I did a little research on how to rid ourselves of the heebie-jeebies, and we discovered that vinegar is a deterrent. And then through trial and error I found that it's not actually a deterrent as much as it throws their scent trails off; hence they don't make ant trails and gather. So after making a little playpen to contain them out of vinegar-soaked paper towels, I did some research on the web on how to make sure they didn't stick around.
Terro looked like the winner ant solution, so off I went to the local Ace Hardware to buy it. I also bought some traditional baits called "MaxAttract" just to make sure I covered my bases. Terro is some gel-type stuff that looks like the bottled hand sanitizing gel you might see people rubbing their hands with after getting off Muni. Especially the number 19 Polk. Terro gives you paper discs about the size of a quarter that state "PLACE TERRO HERE" so the ants will know where dinner is served.
Terro is to ants like shit is to flies. They circled around and on top of the globule I set out for them. And because it seemed so popular, I dropped a bunch onto the tops of the traditional ant baits as well. About 2 hours later there were probably 20 times as many ants in the paper towel pen as before. A day later, the ants dropped off to about 1/3 of the original bunch. I felt so proud that I'd done my husbandly duty of keeping the house safe from intruders that I showed Lily as soon as she walked in the door home from work. She said "aw". She felt bad that we had done this to them. I can't win. Hooray!
Lily and I did a little research on how to rid ourselves of the heebie-jeebies, and we discovered that vinegar is a deterrent. And then through trial and error I found that it's not actually a deterrent as much as it throws their scent trails off; hence they don't make ant trails and gather. So after making a little playpen to contain them out of vinegar-soaked paper towels, I did some research on the web on how to make sure they didn't stick around.
Terro looked like the winner ant solution, so off I went to the local Ace Hardware to buy it. I also bought some traditional baits called "MaxAttract" just to make sure I covered my bases. Terro is some gel-type stuff that looks like the bottled hand sanitizing gel you might see people rubbing their hands with after getting off Muni. Especially the number 19 Polk. Terro gives you paper discs about the size of a quarter that state "PLACE TERRO HERE" so the ants will know where dinner is served.
Terro is to ants like shit is to flies. They circled around and on top of the globule I set out for them. And because it seemed so popular, I dropped a bunch onto the tops of the traditional ant baits as well. About 2 hours later there were probably 20 times as many ants in the paper towel pen as before. A day later, the ants dropped off to about 1/3 of the original bunch. I felt so proud that I'd done my husbandly duty of keeping the house safe from intruders that I showed Lily as soon as she walked in the door home from work. She said "aw". She felt bad that we had done this to them. I can't win. Hooray!
Thursday, December 30, 2004
The Curse of New Year's Eve
I'm sick. No fevers or anything like that, but a nasty cough that would make anyone turn and run to get a SARS-style mask if they wanted to hang out and chat. It's kind of a bummer, seeing as how I'd like to go out and revel with the revelers and bid farewell to 2004. Still hoping for a dramatic recovery, but at this point it's probably better to watch the ball drop on the tele with Dick Clark... er, Anderson Cooper? The irony in that is how Dick Clark is "the man who never ages" and Anderson Cooper looks like he could be 60 (but he's actually 37).
Anyhows, New Years Eve has always been a lame holiday for me and probably countless others because the expectations are higher than Scott Weiland two weeks after rehab! I mean, what better holiday than a day where we're EXPECTED to go out and make a bunch of noise and get drunk and have a hangover the next day. But no such luck this year for yours truly.
This isn't the first time. I got really ill in the late 90's and sweated out my fever in bed. My roommate Luke busted through my door half-wasted at about 11 and looked at me cross-eyed while babbling something about a party, then saw me under the covers and turned around and yelled "WOOHOO" as he ran down the hall. The next year, my girlfriend got us tickets to Primus at the Oakland Arena. We had about 3 shots of Jaegermeister each before BART-ing it over. Once we made it inside, we got into a huge fight which forced us to leave before the show began. And most recently, I was on a job in Chicago and couldn't make it back to SF to be with friends. The saving grace was that Lily was able to come out and take one for the team.
So now I look forward to NYE 2005 to do some reveling. With Anderson Cooper.
Anyhows, New Years Eve has always been a lame holiday for me and probably countless others because the expectations are higher than Scott Weiland two weeks after rehab! I mean, what better holiday than a day where we're EXPECTED to go out and make a bunch of noise and get drunk and have a hangover the next day. But no such luck this year for yours truly.
This isn't the first time. I got really ill in the late 90's and sweated out my fever in bed. My roommate Luke busted through my door half-wasted at about 11 and looked at me cross-eyed while babbling something about a party, then saw me under the covers and turned around and yelled "WOOHOO" as he ran down the hall. The next year, my girlfriend got us tickets to Primus at the Oakland Arena. We had about 3 shots of Jaegermeister each before BART-ing it over. Once we made it inside, we got into a huge fight which forced us to leave before the show began. And most recently, I was on a job in Chicago and couldn't make it back to SF to be with friends. The saving grace was that Lily was able to come out and take one for the team.
So now I look forward to NYE 2005 to do some reveling. With Anderson Cooper.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Merry fucking Xmas
Done all your Xmas shopping yet? I haven't. None of it. Well, I actually got a few gifts for my family when were in Spain, but they weren't going to be Xmas gifts. But since we've now reached that time of year for MANDATORY gift-giving, the Spain gifts will be used for that purpose. And I suggest we all call it "X"-mas and not "CHRIST"-mas, because there is hardly a whiff of Christ in there anymore. Now I'm not advocating putting Jesus back in there as much as I'm advocating calling the holdiay "SHOPFEST" so we're aware of what the 25th of December really means. It means giving gifts and receiving gifts.
For some of us with a major tendency to accept guilt into our lives as a motivational factor, we will go to church and perform the requisite sequence of sitting, standing, and kneeling. But for a large majority of Americans, we do nothing more to celebrate this holiday than handing over credit cards and receiving merchandise which will be wrapped with paper and bows and put under a decorated tree. Don't get me wrong, I find it all really beautiful and heartwarming to spend time with friends and family and stuffing your gut like it's Thanksgiving again. It's just the blatant merchandising and mandatory nature of the buying that kills me.
So while you're out there on the night of the 24th, looking for that gift for cousin Charlie that you forgot to get, just remember that this is what Jesus really wants you to do.
For some of us with a major tendency to accept guilt into our lives as a motivational factor, we will go to church and perform the requisite sequence of sitting, standing, and kneeling. But for a large majority of Americans, we do nothing more to celebrate this holiday than handing over credit cards and receiving merchandise which will be wrapped with paper and bows and put under a decorated tree. Don't get me wrong, I find it all really beautiful and heartwarming to spend time with friends and family and stuffing your gut like it's Thanksgiving again. It's just the blatant merchandising and mandatory nature of the buying that kills me.
So while you're out there on the night of the 24th, looking for that gift for cousin Charlie that you forgot to get, just remember that this is what Jesus really wants you to do.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
music can kill
So aside from my previous rant about wearing earplugs to shows to avoid face melt-age, it appears that there is now a convincing body of evidence that music can indeed kill. Just today, I read an article about the former guitarist of Pantera - "Dimebag" Darrell - was shot and killed onstage by a gunman in the audience. Now I guess I'm gonna have to recommend that in addition to the earplugs, everybody should wear a bulletproof vest to any and all metal shows, and a bulletproof helmet wouldn't be a bad idea either.
I know I'll be getting a letter soon from the USHMA - United States Heavy Metal Association - declaring that I have singled out metal as the only violent type of music warranting such protective gear. But I also know that with all the moshing and people wearing spikes and lyrics talking about beating the crap out of your neighbor and such, it's hard to point the finger in any other direction.
On the other side of the spectrum (not really, but hear me out) - John Frusciante of the Red Hot Chili Peppers is doing the unthinkable by recording and releasing 6 albums in 6 months. Now if that's not a death wish, I don't know what is. I only hope the subsequent touring schedule doesn't kill him in the process. But then, that would be the Chili Peppers' legacy, wouldn't it?
I know I'll be getting a letter soon from the USHMA - United States Heavy Metal Association - declaring that I have singled out metal as the only violent type of music warranting such protective gear. But I also know that with all the moshing and people wearing spikes and lyrics talking about beating the crap out of your neighbor and such, it's hard to point the finger in any other direction.
On the other side of the spectrum (not really, but hear me out) - John Frusciante of the Red Hot Chili Peppers is doing the unthinkable by recording and releasing 6 albums in 6 months. Now if that's not a death wish, I don't know what is. I only hope the subsequent touring schedule doesn't kill him in the process. But then, that would be the Chili Peppers' legacy, wouldn't it?
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
What a week!
Last week I flew to Detroit. As many of you may know, TNSC co-founder Alan Chimenti is close friends with another famous Lee - Lee Iacocca, the former president of Chrysler who once said "Don't die waiting for prosperity to come." Chrysler has fallen on hard times lately, and taking a cue from the success of Apple Computer, they've decided that he's the Steve Jobs of Chrylser, and they're hoping that Iacocca can produce the same kind of magic.
Iacocca got in touch with AC and begged him to edit a huge monstrosity of a piece for a trade show that was happening ASAP in Auburn Hills, Michican. It was to be played on 9 screens side-by-side with pictures moving from screen to screen in a motion they referred to as "screen gymnastics". Fascinating. Well, it turns out that AC was booked (as he always is), and Iacocca begged and pleaded, but to no avail. Luckily for Lee and for me, I was available. So off I went to MI.
I had a meeting with the boardmembers of Chrysler Motor Corp. where Mr. Iacocca was thrilled by the fact that a person named "Lee" would be editing his masterpiece. He insisted I call him "Lee" and not "Mr. Iacocca". I obliged, even though I knew he was not really Lee, that his real name is Lido. But I smiled and played along with his little game of trying to be a "Lee".
The Chrysler video team and I worked furiously to get the "screen gymnastics" to work correctly, and they even brought in Mary Lou Retton to choreograph the gymnastics. Fascinating. In the end it was a wonderful installation to behold, and Mr. Iacocca, I mean Lee, was so exploding with joy that he gave me a ticket to see the world champion Detroit Pistons play the main contenders to their throne, the Indiana Pacers. Of course I jumped at the opportunity to see a game of such magnitude and with nearly courtside seats.
Lee sent me to the game with his nephew, who I wasn't too thrilled about going with, but what was I gonna do? Well, we got to the arena and Iacocca's nephew, whose name is also Lido proceeded to get really drunk. I mean belligerent and sloppy drunk. He MUST have spilled about 5 of my beers, so I probably only drank one over the course of the game. And a boring game it was. The Pistons were getting blown out, much to the dismay of the home fans. Then came the hard foul on Ben Wallace and the reactionary shove on Ron Artest.
Lido got really excited and amped up. He sprayed as he shouted in my face "DID YOU SEE THAT?!?!?!!! BIG BEN SMACKED THAT LITTLE BITCH ASS!!" I looked over and saw Artest lying on the scorers table. When I turned around, Lido yelled "BIG BEN SMACKED YOUR ASS!!!" in the direction of Artest, while simultaneously knocking the beer out of my hand and right into Artest's face. I immediately turned and hurried toward the concessions stand, fully aware that this may be my last chance to buy a beer before they stopped selling. As I was about to reach the top step, I heard a ruckus and turned to see Lido getting pummeled by Artest. People all over the place were scrambling to get out of there, to get in there, to get a piece of the action. A group of fans with Pacers gear shoved their way through everybody including me and pushed me out into the hallway, where security was yelling "EVERYBODY GET OUT!!!" I've never felt so unwelcome at any time other than at Lucky 13 after last call.
I pretty much figured that Lido wouldn't be coming out of the arena anytime soon, much less getting up at all. He probably had a lot of paperwork to fill out with the police. Luckily my flight was the red eye, so I grabbed my bags from the hotel and headed down to the airport. I saw the video of the riot replayed over and over on SportsCenter as I waited for the flight. Poor Lido.
The next day I went to a Charlie Hunter show with Critters Buggin at the Independent. And I forgot my earplugs.
Iacocca got in touch with AC and begged him to edit a huge monstrosity of a piece for a trade show that was happening ASAP in Auburn Hills, Michican. It was to be played on 9 screens side-by-side with pictures moving from screen to screen in a motion they referred to as "screen gymnastics". Fascinating. Well, it turns out that AC was booked (as he always is), and Iacocca begged and pleaded, but to no avail. Luckily for Lee and for me, I was available. So off I went to MI.
I had a meeting with the boardmembers of Chrysler Motor Corp. where Mr. Iacocca was thrilled by the fact that a person named "Lee" would be editing his masterpiece. He insisted I call him "Lee" and not "Mr. Iacocca". I obliged, even though I knew he was not really Lee, that his real name is Lido. But I smiled and played along with his little game of trying to be a "Lee".
The Chrysler video team and I worked furiously to get the "screen gymnastics" to work correctly, and they even brought in Mary Lou Retton to choreograph the gymnastics. Fascinating. In the end it was a wonderful installation to behold, and Mr. Iacocca, I mean Lee, was so exploding with joy that he gave me a ticket to see the world champion Detroit Pistons play the main contenders to their throne, the Indiana Pacers. Of course I jumped at the opportunity to see a game of such magnitude and with nearly courtside seats.
Lee sent me to the game with his nephew, who I wasn't too thrilled about going with, but what was I gonna do? Well, we got to the arena and Iacocca's nephew, whose name is also Lido proceeded to get really drunk. I mean belligerent and sloppy drunk. He MUST have spilled about 5 of my beers, so I probably only drank one over the course of the game. And a boring game it was. The Pistons were getting blown out, much to the dismay of the home fans. Then came the hard foul on Ben Wallace and the reactionary shove on Ron Artest.
Lido got really excited and amped up. He sprayed as he shouted in my face "DID YOU SEE THAT?!?!?!!! BIG BEN SMACKED THAT LITTLE BITCH ASS!!" I looked over and saw Artest lying on the scorers table. When I turned around, Lido yelled "BIG BEN SMACKED YOUR ASS!!!" in the direction of Artest, while simultaneously knocking the beer out of my hand and right into Artest's face. I immediately turned and hurried toward the concessions stand, fully aware that this may be my last chance to buy a beer before they stopped selling. As I was about to reach the top step, I heard a ruckus and turned to see Lido getting pummeled by Artest. People all over the place were scrambling to get out of there, to get in there, to get a piece of the action. A group of fans with Pacers gear shoved their way through everybody including me and pushed me out into the hallway, where security was yelling "EVERYBODY GET OUT!!!" I've never felt so unwelcome at any time other than at Lucky 13 after last call.
I pretty much figured that Lido wouldn't be coming out of the arena anytime soon, much less getting up at all. He probably had a lot of paperwork to fill out with the police. Luckily my flight was the red eye, so I grabbed my bags from the hotel and headed down to the airport. I saw the video of the riot replayed over and over on SportsCenter as I waited for the flight. Poor Lido.
The next day I went to a Charlie Hunter show with Critters Buggin at the Independent. And I forgot my earplugs.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
ear-splittin' madness
Me and a bunch of pals went to Bottom of the Hill on Saturday night to see some bands none of us had ever heard of, much less heard before. That can be a rewarding experience if you're up for something new. Kinda like going to the same restaurant where you always get the same thing and then just closing your eyes and pointing at the menu and going with it. Except you might have to eat again because your choice turned out to be filled with cilantro and eggplant. You wouldn't go to another show to clear your ears out. I digress. The bands at Bottom of the Hill were: Smegma, Comets on Fire, and Wolf Eyes. And the articles that got us off our barstools to venture out to Potrero promised "ear-splitting madness" and "face-melting volume". One article even said "The latest release from Wolf Eyes will molest you. That is for certain." Well sheeit, where do I sign up? Without actually providing a review of these bands, I will say this: Volume promised, volume delivered. If you ever read an article that talks about a band being so loud that it melts your face, bring some damn earplugs. I even reminded my friends that if you're old like me, BRING EARPLUGS. Did they? No. We were at the front corner of the stage as Comets on Fire setup, and I put in my earplugs so's not to get my ears split. The first crash of the cymbals and guitar crunch were so loud that as I looked around the crowd you could see two sets of people - the people who weren't looking at the band, but looking at their friends with fingers firmly planted in their ears and expressions like "my face is melting from the volume", and the other people with earplugs nodding heads in slight headbang-age. One person in my group remembered to bring one earplug, so only half his face melted. Wolf Eyes was the kind of band that likes to use a lot of feedback, and by that time we had moved to the back of the room but even there people were holding their fingers in their ears and looking around like "What the hell? They're melting my face even way back here!" A lot of people were tired of being "molested" by Wolf Eyes so they left en masse. I hate wearing earplugs, but I hate my ears ringing for the next day or week even more.
After the show we went to Baghdad Cafe and I had a Sloppy Joe, fried mozzerella sticks, wings, and mac and cheese. God bless America.
After the show we went to Baghdad Cafe and I had a Sloppy Joe, fried mozzerella sticks, wings, and mac and cheese. God bless America.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Whoa, my very own section!
First off, thanks to the Robot for seeing that I needed an outlet to vent/rant, and giving me my very own forum to do so. I'm a little concerned as to what will happen to the TNSC rant section now, given that my rants were a healthy portion of that section in the past. But ya gotta love that new rant section being right there in plain view of all TNSCers, with no clicking necessary. Perhaps some TNSCer with aspirations to have a section named after him or her in some future version of the TNSC website will follow my lead. I'm still trying to figure out if this section will contain some musical angle to it, since I am Lee Lee the MUSICAL Bee, but just for grins, let's do that: I missed the Mclusky show at Bottom of the Hill last Saturday, and I fear that I'll live to regret that. They sound kinda like a modern day PIL, so if you're into that sorta thing, go to their site and listen.
Okay, so what's on the dartboard this week is post-election realization that those computerized voting machines were RIGGED! I know, it's hard to believe that more people might have voted for somebody other than that son of a Bush, but reports are coming out from all over the place that we might actually have elected somebody with a brain into office instead of Goober. If you wanna read any more on the political buzz about secession, here's an article that says we probably aren't allowed to.
Stay tuned...
Okay, so what's on the dartboard this week is post-election realization that those computerized voting machines were RIGGED! I know, it's hard to believe that more people might have voted for somebody other than that son of a Bush, but reports are coming out from all over the place that we might actually have elected somebody with a brain into office instead of Goober. If you wanna read any more on the political buzz about secession, here's an article that says we probably aren't allowed to.
Stay tuned...
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