Quotes from C

 "I watered your Zen Garden. (in Plants vs. Zombies) But not your actual plants.  I think some of them are dead now."

Neil Gaiman does not enjoy Hollywood.  His short stories reveal a deep deep dislike- obvious author avatars end up abandoning their morals and treasures in order to escape that hellish landscape.  However, he's had three movies out in the last three years- after languishing in development hell for nigh on two decades.  

I read his blog and am shamelessly dramatizing the interaction.  

He was in talks for a film version of Anansi Boys.  The producer asked if the main characters had to be black- venture capital likes to get behind at least one white actor.  Gaiman nodded, and asked if the producer had read the book.

"Of course!  Will you consider it?"

"Because it's about the children of an Arfrican trickster god..."

"I know, I know.  And if it were up to me..."

"Right.  You aren't going to make this movie."

"So you feel very strongly about the all black cast.  I see.  Well, we can work with that..."

"No.  You aren't going to make this movie because you asked that question.  Good day."

And that was the end of that.  

Or a mustache.

One of my old friends recently swung through on a visit.  He's been living in Germany, teaching the English.  We threw together the tattered remnants of our high school crowd (those who aren't too far away or too unpleasant) and went out playing board games and smoking hookah.  Woooo!  It was delightful to see all of them again- gawky adolescence has matured into capable and charming adulthood.  Or it has in them- I remain as acerbic and awkward as ever.  I doubt any of them would list their old compatriots as too irritating to spend time with, regardless of cause.  

Regardless, the whole event has put me in a high school reunion state of mind.  Contemporary culture dictates that someone's appearance at their 10th reunion is the best that they could do- it's the only reunion where one is still childish enough to deceive.  There's a silent assumption that whatever guise one brings to the meet and greet will be fixed in the minds of the old clique, the half-forgotten crush, the nemesis.  One hopes to be svelte, immaculately attired, and glowingly happy.  

I was (and am) about as socially adept as a Stellar's Jay.  B and I have discussed trickery that is likely to make him appear comfortably rich and me look like a functioning adult.  These are the small deceptions; the smashing dress, the rented car, the inflated job description...  but one worries about small errors that will stick in the mind.  If I should speak in sharp tones to my dear one, we are clearly on the brink of dissolution.  If the dress does not fit right, I am clearly as inept with clothing as ever.  And Lord forbid I get a giant zit just before the big dance.  

The last comment is gentle chiding from my internal adult.  Will I really think of the woman who is six months pregnant as six months pregnant for the next fifteen years?  

Yes.  Yes I will.  

So there is only one safe plan: confusion.  I will wear an eyepatch and claim to have scratched my cornea.  I will bring a box of infant wolverines who need to be bottle fed every hour.  I will have an elaborate magic marker tattoo of fighting kitchen appliances peaking out of my backless dress.  I will drink only club soda, and if someone presumes to congratulate me on potential parturition, I'll dig out an AA chip and warmly insist that it saved my life.  Anything to draw attention away from essentials.  

In short, I think the thing will be High School writ large- and I plan on falling back on my old coping technique- impenetrable oddity and making others uncomfortable.  

In keeping with the theme of the last post, I thought I'd share a couple of my car games.  Please continue to treat me like a functioning adult after reading this- I do spend way too much time alone in the crummy.  

1.) Yelling "Yelling in the car!" over and over again.  Not used when there are passengers.

2.) Playing "Does someone live in that shack?".  Extraordinarily depressing.  The answer is yes.

3.) Thinking of dishes that involve plant products from a single botanical family.

4.) Brainstorming longterm post zombie apocalypse plans.

5.) Gender swapping all the songs on country stations.  

The last one is confusing.  I started because many of the songs are basically "Ho, I reinforce stereotypes about my gender!  Ho ho, ladies like shoes and worry about gaining weight!  Guys like cold beers and trucks and do not groom too much!  Oh ho, I contain so many gender typical traits that I am very lucky to have found a person of the opposite gender who will tolerate said traits.  God must have brought us together.  Yes, we will have childrens now."  I figured that changing "guy" to "girl" and "mama" to "daddy" might be entertaining, but the typecasting is so strong that it's hard to think of your singer as anything other than a horrific parody of a homosexual.  I guess that reveals something anyways.  

However, a significant portion of the songs are either sad or disturbing.  Disturbing songs are cute little turns of phrase in the original, but post swap several centuries of gender politics rear their misshapen heads.  (All songs are swapped)

"All the boys say 'Save a horse, ride a cowgirl'"- disturbing.  

"Dug my key into the side of her pretty little souped up four wheel drive... took a Louisville slugger to both headlights... Maybe next time she'll think before she cheats"- creepy.  

"She slapped my face and shook me like a rag doll- don't that sound like a real woman?  I'm gonna show her what little boys are made of; gunpowder and lead."- Oh dear God, call the police.  

But the sad ones prove that feminism is for everyone.  

"Phone rang early one morning

Her daddy's voice, he'd been crying.

said "It's your momma, you need to come home,

this is it, I think she's dying."

He laid the phone down by her head

The last words that she said 

"Cowboy don't cry.

Ride baby ride.

Lessons in life show us all in time

too soon God will let you know why

It's going to hurt every now and then

if you fall get right back on up again

but cowboy don't cry.  

Ahahahaa...  we totally do that to all boys, don't we?  And it's only sad when it's done to a girl.  Then there are the ones about dying in a war, worrying about providing for your family, watching your hometown die...  Really shows a maturity and depth of emotion lacking in the "Must be more to life than this job/ waiting for Prince Charming" songs women sing.  And what's this about no record company wanting to release Dolly Parton's latest album?

Can't sleep, bed's on fire.

My most severe period of depression occured midway through my junior year of high school.  For three weeks, I felt increasingly disconnected from everyone and despaired about my lack of ability to communicate.  Then I realized that listening to Pink Floyd's The Wall every night probably had something to do with it.  I stopped, and eventually I felt much better.

This left me with the belief that if I feel like crap, I might be overlooking a relatively simple fix.  

It's got me wondering whether listening to Stop Making Sense on repeat (between extended bouts of pop country) is responsible for my desire to edge towards drivers in the next lane, hit every single tag in the center divider, and bite nearby cars.  It could just be lots of driving and stress... but the lyrics are making a lot of sense.  

No, he doesn't have a job yet. Why do you ask?

So we got a roommate- she's very pleasant and has inspired me to throw things away.  She has so few things!  Her code name: Thrasher.  She picked it.  

Jim's a pretty fussy cat about treats.  He doesn't like people food, though I have tried to corrupt him.  He's a solid fan of liver flavored canned cat food, the gravy from the catfood pouches (not the nuggets) the algae wafers one feeds to fish, and squid entrails.  He's also crazy angry picky about dry catfood- if I want him to lose weight, all I have to do is buy a different brand of catfood and then endure six weeks of caterwauling and refusing to be petted.  I've tried buying a different brand and then going to work for two weeks, but C caves after two days.  This is why my cat is fat.

People are going to wonder about some of the items on that list.  Suffice to say, our cat is spoiled. 

Case in point- he started trying to crawl inside one of Thrasher's kitchen boxes around 2 am a couple of nights ago.  C figured that there was nori or fish sauce or something inside, so he put it up on a very high shelf and forgot about it.  I was helping her get it down the next day, and mentioned that the cat loved something inside it.  She nodded;

"Oh, that's probably the dried squid"

"Dried squid?  Really?"

"Yes, for snacking.  Lots of MSG.  Sooo tasty."

"Dried squid?"

"Um, yeah."

"That's probably it- the cat loves squid entrails...."

I have a list of reasons for this little exchange.  Either I'm being gaslit, she has a strange and dry sense of humor, or she eats weird things.  The best bit is that I've had roommates with mad skills for each possibility.  (In order: Amy, Rebecca, Tan)  

 As an avid zombie hater and plant lover, I feel compelled to share the following video:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0N1_0SUGlDQ

The house is full of tasty things.  Clearly I must not be working hard enough.  

Ground indicator

Cuervito has a small token hanging in his vehicle that serves only to indicate which way the ground is.  The fact that the token is inscribed with an image of Saint Christopher is pure coincidence, as he is not prey to such superstitions.  

Since I have a teensy operating budget at work, and since a compass with a arrow that unfailingly points at the ground is $35 more than a compass which tells you which way north is, I've janked together my own damn protractor/plumbline so I can work out slope.  However, small non-breakable weights with string attachable parts are less common than you might think.  Fortunately, I also have a Saint Christopher medal hanging around.  It works pretty well if you need to know where the ground is.