From MSNBC, unfortunately:
U.S. OFFICIALS told NBC News that evidence found in Afghanistan also showed plans to attack other targets in Washington state, including massive hydroelectric dams, including the Grand Coulee Dam. The dam is one of the world’s largest concrete structures and the main power-generating site on the Columbia River — one of the nation’s biggest sources of electricity.
I think I get it. It's a big ass dam.
I did not take an unsick day today, even though I really wanted to do so. On Friday, I will take a legitimate vacation day. Guilt mixed with prorated vacation is a stressful thing to contemplate at 6 AM when you're a two-hour drive from work and there's a warm naked body in the bed with you. On the plus side, the afternoon goes a lot faster than the morning on days like these. But allow me to reiterate: when it's 7:10 AM and you're resigned to a day of work and the low-oil buzzer in your car starts going off, it feels like the day will never end. In other words, there's always a minus side.
A nice e-mail showed up in my inbox today, from Laura Maffei. I think I have a new read.
My favorites are here, here, here, and here.
Is four too many? Are you overwhelmed? Good. Yes, that's what I'm saying.
Laura also teaches at Wagner College, a school my brother considered attending (before he fled to England... but that's another story). What I'm really interested in is this class she's teaching (yes, I even read her cv...):
Discovering Gotham
A literature course presenting fiction, poetry, and essay where New York City is character as much as setting. Explores how New York City defines and is defined by its literature. Papers and writing exercises emphasize analytical response.
This is what I missed in school. I got everything I could out of the Humanities Department at my teensy little Engineering school, but it really wasn't enough. You can keep your campus, and I could do without a dorm, but I really felt cheated when it came to insightful reading and writing. There were too many thoughts dashed off too quickly so I could get back to Thermodynamics homework.
Sorry for the relative lack of entries today... I've been Googlewhacking.
I'd tell you what I found, but then I'd be unwhacking it. As it is I'm dewhacking the whack. (Except that technically, googlewhacking discussion doesn't count against the whack. It just sounds good.) And I feel a real nihilistic agorophobia about it, too.
And of course, there are bunches of good ones here.
I just realized this website was completely devoid of my name, or it required a silly amount of time to hunt down my identity. Whoops. A few weeks ago it occured to me that it was stupid to have the "hurled by kate mac" under each post, if I was the only one writing, and so I got rid of my byline. I guess I just never completed the thought until today.
So, yeah.
I'm Kate.
I'm 25 (but I'll be 26 soon!).
I'm trapped in NJ.
I'm getting married.
I'm an Engineer.
I also write.
I drive a 1991 RX-7 convertible with a manual transmission.
I'm very nearly six feet tall.
I just quit my rowing club.
I've been in one fight.
anything else?
Jennie set up an amazon.com wishlist to help the Natomas Middle School Library get some things they need. Think about helping them out, if you can. I can think of no better cause than a school library, and not just because that's where all of my old children's books went. I bought them The Boxcar Children.
via jish.nu.
Are you recently out of work? Hoping to be let go, so you can move on to more interesting ventures? On your way to a shiny new job? Go read The Recession Chic Lie. A good read in any case.
Since I've been watching several of you board the employment -> unemployment ship lately, or dock and come ashore, I thought there might be some interest. Who knows, maybe I'll join you on deck soon.
After reading on McSweeney's yesterday that Neal Pollack was going to receive a prominent mention on last night's episode of Dawson's Creek, I decided I'd better tune in to see what the fuss was about.
He was mentioned, as a back-of-the-book reviewer of some professor's book, and he was called the Greatest Living Writer of our Something-or-other. Yadda yadda, patcherownback, thanks.
Now I'll admit (proudly!), I wasn't paying the closest attention. I'm making wedding invitations these days and TV's been excellent background entertainment. Making one of something is fun and feels creative. Making 80 of something requires nothing but good resistance to RSIs. Still, I'm so very pleased and excited about what's coming out of this little project. My wedding will also be my first real foray into graphic design (I'm discounting anything I made previously that required Elmer's Glue and glitter) and I'm just beside myself with awe when it comes to my own creativity.
(Please, like you've never stared into your own navel and thought it could use a little more sparkle...)
But anyway, what I really want to talk about is Pacey, the wacky boat-dwelling recluse chef. The one who slept with his ex-girlfriend after she offered him a trip around the world with her father. Why was he packing if he decided not to take the trip? You know, at the end. Right before the feel-good moment of the week, when all of his friends showed up to tell him how great he was. That slutty blond girl waitress walked in and he was packing. She interrupted him. Then she dragged him outside and surprise! The friends got all rhapsodic about how they'd miss him, and then surprise! He announced he wasn't leaving. Help?
No, really. Help. I know you saw it. I can't be the only one.
i'm building models out of papier-mâché,
one for the head of each of my friends.
i'm building them up one by one,
larger than life, with bright colors and big hair.
next i'm going to send them to nasa,
and see if i can get them flown to the moon.
then i'll throw a manic teaparty,
and see whose head goes craziest.
My boss frequently leaves earlier than I do, yet never says Goodbye. This is a new development.
One of those songs that's always stuck somewhere in my head, her version of Lieber and Stoller's Is That All There Is? was Peggy Lee's breakthrough. It was the soundtrack of my life for a while there. Peggy Lee died last night. She was a great singer and a great lady.
via metafilter. more here.
I just called Comcast. Still no multiple IP addresses allowed, even though their website FAQ says:
My account has multiple IP addresses. Do I need to take any special steps?
No. These will be generated automatically for your new account. Be assured that you will have the same number of IPs on your new account as you had on your previous one.
I can't believe that one company can suck so bad and so hard. Comcast couldn't automatically generate my ass. My second IP address (the one going to MY computer, not my roommate's) hasn't worked since before they switched off the Excite @Home servers. Each person I speak to is dumber than the former. This one told me someone in tech support told her to tell me to buy a router as a "temporary fix" for the problem.
Finally I asked if I could speak to someone in Tech Support. They gave me a separate number for direct access to Tech Support (the woman I spoke to in my local office couldn't even transfer me herself), and this is key: 888-793-9800.
So, after 11 calls to Comcast since January 7th, I spoke charmingly to Tom in Tech Support, somewhere in Michigan, and he said he'll add the second address, no problem. No Problem. 48-72 hours, $6.95/month, don't tell anybody. He also said he'll be over for dinner.
I'm no groupie, but many of my friends are of the musical genus. Which begs the age old question, do hot chicks attract musicians, or encourage musical ability? Anyway, because I care, and because simply reading this page may lead you to pick up a piano and start pounding away, I'd like to share this with you. Best of luck. I said BEST OF LUCK. No, not, "guess the duck." BEST! of LUCK!
PS That's GENUS. Not "Genius," you, uh, genius.
It's hard to archive properly. It really is. Blogger eats my archives for breakfast some days, and then it takes me weeks to notice (I'm not in the habit of rereading old weblog entries -- I may be a narcissist, but I'm not into self-torture, and even I know that I tend to prattle on sometimes. Like now, for example. Here's a sample of writing I'd hate to find in my archives. Righto.).
Anyway, if you noticed that they were mostly gone, they're back now. I didn't really disappear from June until January. But that reminds me, I'm approaching a year of this, almost. It's been fun. Well, I've had fun. Remember that time I lost all my archives from June through January? That was a blast. Point being, are you reading? Seriously, I'm curious. Let me know if you are. Because I'm going to keep doing this either way, but I'm wondering about you, my audience. What do you think? Should I lose the splash of hot orange? Ease up on the conversational tone in my writing? What do you think?
Looking for a new car? Try the USPS Surplus Vehicle sale. Looking for your own Segway? Keep an eye on the Tampa, FL listings.
All I really have to say about this is that Marc and I spent most of four years sharing a twin-sized bed with one pillow. And for two of those years, we were six feet up atop a loft with no safety rails. And when we were, shall we say, of limited cognitive function, we had the common sense to sleep on the floor.
Sorry, but You Know You're From The Capital District When...
1. You refer to downtown Albany as "The City".
2. You explain to your friends from out-of-town that nobody actually calls it the Thaddeus Kosiusko Bridge.
3. You understand how people can say they live in Clifton Park when their mailing address is Halfmoon.
4. You know enough to avoid any vehicle on the Northway with Canadian plates.
5. You know that Mason & Sheehan isn't a cheap Champagne.
6. You know who that guy Ken Goewey is. You may even actually know Ken Goewey.
7. You await the opening of Jumpin' Jacks & Kurver Kreme every year.
8. There's a mini-mall every 1/4 mile; if not, you're in Vermont.
9. You think every place has a Central Avenue and Wolf Road.
10. You know Arbor Hill and Hamilton Hill aren't clothing designers.
11. It's SODA dammit! And people who call it POP make you want to slap them.
12. You don't consider what Domino's or Pizza Hut sells to be Pizza.
13. You know that 'First Night' isn't a Sean Connery movie.
14. You aren't freaked out when you see the GE sign lit up at XMAS.
15. You know that AirTite Windows knocked RESNICK's sign down.
16. You still sometimes call it the "Knick" instead of the "Pepsi".
17. You know who Nina (of Manchester) and her husband are, AND how they sell diamonds for less than 33%.
18. Everybody likes Jack Byrne, but Terry Morris is STILL number one.
19. The Egg: It isn't just for breakfast anymore.
20. There's no such thing as waiting for the left turn arrow at an intersection.
21. You can feed a family of 12 at Ralph's for under $50.
22. There is a college (Russell Sage) that specializes in a MRS degree.
23. Your career ambition is to work for the State.
24. You thought Hoffman's Playland was the the BEST amusement park as a child.
25. You know a 'Tobin's First Prize' is something to eat and not a contestwinner.
26. While driving down Loudonville Road, you know what it means to make a right turn at 'the dog'.
27. You know that the 'the Berkshire Spur' isn't a foot ailment, and you may have been to a prom at the old rest stop there.
28. The big thing in the summertime is the 'Jericho'.
29. Grandma's Pies weren't made by your momma's momma.
30. With even the slightest threat of snow, you know that Ichabod Crane school is closed.
31. No matter how many times they change their name, the ice cream place on Albany Shaker will always be 'Jim Dandy's'. And the one on Columbia Turnpike will always be Vigor's.
32. You know there's nothing International about our airport.
33. You know how to say AND spell 'Schenectady' and 'Rensselaer'.
34. You know not to drink the water at the Washington County Fair.
35. You're noticed that the Channel 10 5:00pm anchors don't seem to worry about the camera adding 10 pounds.
36. Live at 5 is dead by 6.
37. You can answer this question: "What color Orange Ford do you own?"
38. You understand the importance of Denny's to one's social life.
39. You've called it Smallbany, Nonebany, or Fallbany.
40. You took you mother to the Tulip Festival for Mother's Day.
Gone are the days when you could just slap a chain-letter list of quirky geographic characteristics at the top of your webpage and call it humor. So I'm prefacing the list of quirky geographic characteristics I just received via e-mail and which I'm now reprinting below with this paragraph. I know, this isn't much better. But much to my dismay, I'm guilty as charged. And to my further dismay, this isn't an overwhelmingly inaccurate description of my impressions of New Jersey. Don't ask me to clarify; some of them still leave me in the dark. But the very fact that I've received this message at all really says something, I think. Anyway, without further ado...
You're a genuine New Jersey resident if you can relate to at least 10 of these...
1. You've been seriously injured at ActionPark.
2. You know that the only people who call it "Joisey" are from New York (usually The Bronx) or Texas.
3. You don't think of citrus when people mention "The Oranges."
4. You know that it's called "Great Adventure," not "Six Flags."
5. You've ordered a hard roll with butter for breakfast.
6. You've known the way to Seaside Heights since you were seven.
7. You've eaten at a diner, when you were stoned or drunk, at 3 A.M.
8. Whenever you park, there's a Camaro within three spots of you.
9. You remember that the "Two Guys" were from Harrison.
10. You know that the state isn't one big oil refinery.
11. At least three people in your family still love Bruce Springsteen, and you know what town Jon Bon Jovi is from.
12. You know what a "jug handle" is.
13. You know that a WaWa is a convenience store.
14. You know that the state isn't all farmland.
15. You know that there are no "beaches" in New Jersey - there's "The Shore," and you know that the road to the shore is "The Parkway" not "The Garden State Highway."
16. You know that "Piney" doesn't refer to a tree.
17. Even your school cafeteria made good Italian subs, and, you call it a "sub" not a "submarine sandwich" or worse yet, a "hoagie" or a "hero."
18. You remember the song from the Palisades Park commercials.
19. You know how to properly negotiate a Circle.
20. You knew that the last question had to do with driving.
21. You know that "Acme" is an actual store, not just a Warner Bros. creation.
22. You know that this is the only "New..." state that doesn't require "New" to identify it (like, try -Mexico, -York, -Hampshire ... doesn't work, does it??)
23. You know how to translate this conversation: "Jeet yet?" "No, Jew?"
24. You only go to New York City for day trips, and you only call it "The City."
25. You know that a "White Castle" is the name of BOTH a fast food chain AND a fast food sandwich.
26. You consider a corned beef sandwich with lettuce and mayo a sacrilege.
27. In the 80's you wore your hair REALLY high.
28. You don't think "What exit" (as in, ... do you live near?) is very funny.
29. You know that the real first "strip shopping center" in the country is Route 22.
30. You know that people from the 609 area code are "a little different."
31. You know that no respectable New Jersey resident goes to Princeton -- that's for out-of-staters.
32. The Jets-Giants game has started fights at your school or local bar.
33. You live within 20 minutes of at least three different malls.
34. You can see the Manhattan skyline from some part of your town.
35. You refer to all highways and interstates by their numbers.
36. Every year, you had at least one kid in your class named Tony.
37. You know where every clip shown in the Sopranos opening credits is.
38. You've gotten on the wrong highway trying to get out of Willowbrook Mall.
39. You've eaten a Boardwalk cheesesteak with vinegar fries.
40. You have a favorite Atlantic City casino.
41. You start planning for Memorial Day weekend in February.
42. You've never pumped your own gas. And why would you want to, really?
Interesting statistic from this article on unmarriage:
Men in their late 30s and early 40s will outnumber women five to 10 years younger by two to one, by 2010, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.
I'm just looking out for you, here. You, the one looking to put off the quest for the cute young wifey.
Has Jon Bon Jovi ever buttoned his shirt all the way up? Ever?
Never mind. Forget I asked.
The most apt commentary I've ever read of the Capital District of New York State is here.
I had my first dress fitting on Saturday morning. Here's how it went:
Oh God, I'm a bride.
The wedding is three months away.
The wedding is less than three months away.
The wedding is twelve weeks away. Eleven and a half.
I'll be married before we spring ahead.
The ulcer medication gets sucked down a little quicker these days. There's a little more urgency everywhere. I'm driving faster. Staying up later. Going out more. Cuddling harder. Writing longer. Working less, but screwing off more. My pupils are dilated and my concentration is diluted. If you have something to tell me, tell me in small, discrete pieces or I promise to ignore you. I'm self-involved in a whole new way. My shoulders are up somewhere around my earlobes.
We'll be married before the next Star Wars movie comes out.
An actual, living person just told me that this bra doesn't hold my boobs high enough.
There is stuff to do, pending stuff, important stuff. Just give me another goddamn bra already!
Everybody else at work is getting a computer upgrade, so the Engineering department just picked up some plucked out memory. I'm now up to 320MB, wheee!
I'm frazzled. I'll admit it. This was a busy week, what with the Erik Christiansen Open Mic World Tour and all the weekend planning. It's one of those out-of-town wedding whirlwind weekends I've got planned. We're looking at a dress fitting, the florist, the priest, the cake lady, the photographer, and addressing invitations till my hand falls off. So, I'll most likely not be back in this space till Monday. Or perhaps I shall be -- those late nights at Mom and Dad's get a little quiet, and Marc's all snivelly and snotty, bedded down with a severe case of the Januaries.
There's some speculation on Metafilter that this free* ride's about to end. I'm going to stay tuned for the details -- I've got an enormous amount of faith in Pyra and I'd gladly pay for functionality.
*In the interest of full disclosure, I am paying for ad-free blogspot and a pyrad. And Erik bought me a Google AdWord for Christmas, but I'm not going to tell you where it is.
Diane. My only friend with a four-seater car totalled it two weeks ago. First thing she said when she called me? "Don't worry, the cast will be off in time for the wedding."
Erik. When we passed Quakerbridge Mall last night, I remembered how he tried to teach me to drive stick in the parking lot and the Miata got going so fast I was afraid to stop, so we just circled the mall for a while.
Ed. Eddie's Miata came from a crazy used-car salesman on Long Island. We all went to take a look and E&E dove underneath with tools and a mirror. I had to tell the salesman, "We're Engineers."
The NYC Antihoot, hosted by Lach at the Fort at Sidewalk Café, sucks. And let me tell you why.
First, there's Lach. A self-serving little wanker of a man*, referencing him on your weblog (which he finds while he ego-surfs) will result in your e-mail address being added to his mailing list. Apparently he does most, if not all, of the scheduling at Sidewalk, so if you're looking for a starter gig in NYC, you're somehow obliged to suck him off repeatedly until he graces you with a tips-only hour show with a few lovelorn bill-mate miserables half-listening to you. Their sole purpose is to stroke your ego and his with a few seconds of meager applause and a buck or two in the tip mandolin.
Second, there's Lach at the antihootenany, which probably used to be fun and interesting but now is just part of an increasingly dead scene. The way it works is this... A bunch of people show up with guitars and ratty notebooks and tophats and Lach gives a big hearwarming speech about how the order in which people play won't matter, how a number's just a number and how he doesn't want anyone to fixate. Then Lach passes out numbers. Then a whole bunch of Sidewalk regulars stumble in and Lach inserts them ahead of you in the lineup. Once the regulars are done playing, the format switches from two songs per to one song per. Lach enforces this format by literally yanking the plug from the soundboard after each performer's act.
Everyone pimps their upcoming show at Sidewalk. Lach tells the same jokes he's been telling for at least ten years. Two-thirds of the crowd takes off to catch the F Train before it stops running. This includes many of your so-called friends. After an act finishes, you overhear someone ask the performer what number he was: "Twelve." Things started at 8, and it is now 11:30. This man replies: "Really? I'm forty-seven." You are fourteen, and it takes 8 more performers to get to you. Lach sits up front at the sound board and tries to make eye contact with the people in the back while holding his finger up in what's probably meant to be the universal sign for "shush" but which comes out looking like the universal sign for "I'm number one, you cocksucker".
To make things worse, someone apparently forgot to inform 90% of the acts that there was supposed to be some anti in their antifolk. Can you sing and play guitar like Ani Difranco? Great! Go do it in your living room. Angst is best served unaccompanied. Having dreams where you're reborn as James Taylor? Fantastic. But please realize this -- we already have a James Taylor.
The icing on the cake is the tip (jar) mandolin, which is passed repeatedly and which you may see Lach emptying into a big wad of bills which he will stand in the bar area and count while not listening to any act after midnight. These funds go toward keeping the Antihoot running, whatever that means.
Save your time (not to mention your dignity). Go to Philly and peep Adam Brodsky's antihoot. Draw number 8 and play three times: 8th, 16th, and as part of the big ugly circle jerk at the end of the night. Make it home by 2 AM. Adam's a far nicer guy, runs a much dirtier hoot, and will never, ever, make you feel like you paid to play.
And fercrissake, if you've got to go to NYC, rock the fuck out. And don't just stay to see Kimya and Drew. If you're lucky, maybe Lach'll offer you a gig. Wheee!
* This name-calling, and, for that matter, this rant in general, were a lot more scathing when I wrote them at 2 AM after I discovered that my cable modem was down. Thank you Comcast! I toned things down once this morning before I discovered my car was frozen shut, and then toned it back up again when I arrived at work an hour late only to discover that Blogger was down. So, I may be projecting just a bit.
Four is the number I reached when I counted down from one hundred for the second time while waiting for you three days ago. I stood in the vestibule of your apartment building, our meeting place, waiting like an impatient train passenger already late for work. Two others passed. The doors opened, slammed, opened, and slammed; then opened, slammed, opened, and slammed.
A kid in a black snowsuit whaled the outer door with a snowball. The glass, impregnated with metal rebar, did not crack. I scowled at him and he ran away from me. I am imposing but girlish -- a frightening prospect for a child craving motherness but satisfying with my substantial gaze to the child craving simple attention.
When the door opened and you entered the vestibule you greeted me with an annoying brain teaser, a trick of language. I marveled at your intelligence, despising your condescension. You are older than I. You regret being born first, and you resent me for the innocence that accompanies my youth.
You clutched my neck, from behind -- an affectionate gesture fraught with threatening strength. It was not an embrace, but an enclosure.
We left the building. We wandered up the street, vagrants.
To follow up on my November post about the Harvard professor gone missing, Time Magazine reports the discovery of his body in a rather ambiguous way. Actually, "his body" may not quite be the right terminology...
FOUND. A body carrying the identification of DON WILEY, 57, Harvard molecular biologist and researcher of deadly viruses like Ebola, who had been missing since Nov. 16; in the Mississippi River in Vidalia, La. Wiley had been attending a meeting in Memphis, Tenn.
So, like I said, Jerry, Joe, and apparently The Powerpuff Girls have got plooj. And I seem to have come down with a case myself, thanks to a 2 for $4 sale on Tropicana before Christmas over at Genuardi's. But now? Shop Rite's got 'em 2 for $3. The world may never be the same.
Is it really necessary to keep the office temperature hovering around minus two? Are we really saving money on electricity, as the rumor goes? Does the electricity bill really go down when each employee gets his or her own space heater? Can the silk blouse ladies please turn off the headlights now? Yeah, I know it's cold. Maybe a sweater vest would help.
It's finally winter here in the great Northeast and I cannot seem to get warm. My new apartment is warmer than the last one (cathedral ceilings, I miss ya) but rolling over and slapping my bare ass up on the icy wall is still a mid-slumber risk. So I get up and take a shower that's hot for about 7 minutes, until our milkjug-sized hot water heater decides to go into hibernation for the morning.
Then I put on half of the clothes I own, endure the perforated leather seats that always seem like such a good idea until mid-December of each year in the car that won't heat up again until April, and come here, where I chug down an extra large Dunkin Donuts coffee and crank the heater under my desk to III, whatever that means.
Ah, winter. Someone take me skiing, quickly, to remind me that I shouldn't spend the day with my thumb on an aerosol nozzle in the hopes of speeding global warming.
(with apology and thanks to to catholic.org.)
1. The Aesthetician will often begin with the Sign of the Cross or a greeting and blessing.
2. The Hairy Customer begins by saying “Bless me Aesthetician for I have sinned, it has been ____ (number of days, weeks, months, etc.) since my last waxing. These are my eyebrows”.
3. Confess all mortal pluckings committed since your last waxing by kind and number (this is important). Hold NOTHING back. You may also confess any shaving or trimming.
4. At the end of your confession say these or similar words: “For these and all the beauty mistakes of my life I am sorry.” By this you tell the Aesthetician that you are finished. Otherwise, she might think you are still thinking or even trying to summon the courage to tell her "the big one".
5. The Aesthetician may ask questions for clarification or give you some counsel on a point from your confession. Answer briefly.
6. The Aesthetician will suggest an eyebrow shape. Listen carefully and remember it. You can refuse an eyebrow shape if it is too vague or impossible to do in a reasonable time.
7. The Hairy Customer makes an act of contrition in these or similar words: O my Aesthetician, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all of my extraneous facial hair because of Thy just punishments. But most of all because they offend Thee my Aesthetician, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to shave no more, and to avoid the near occasions of overplucking. Amen. Memorize a good act of contrition.
8. The Aesthetician will apply hot wax and fabric strips to your forehead, and then rip them away thusly. (The words necessary in English for forgiveness are “I absolve you from your brows in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit”). Do not leave until the Aesthetician has given you an application of a soothing skin balm. She will not refuse you this salve unless it is clear that you are not sorry for your brows or you have no intention of amending their shape.
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