Month: October 2006

Scanning my #$@! photos: A 21-Day Salute (Day the first)

look ma, one hand!

Despite my busy-ness, despite my picayune woes, and mainly because I am both stubborn and perverse, I am going ahead with my monster plan for the next three weeks.

Yes, from the obsessive neurons that brought you Cheering the Hell Upâ„¢ and Cleaning My Damned Apartmentâ„¢ comes the next 21-Day Saluteâ„¢, Scanning My #$@! Photosâ„¢. You have The BF’s anal-retentive brother to thank for this; on my recent visit to The BF Family Farm, I was both agitated and inspired by the masterful job The BF’s Brother (a.k.a., TBFB) did on the family photos.

I suppose I should have dug deep, deep down into the detritus of my ancestors’ photo boxes to find some more appropriate salutory photo. But frankly, I suspect that if one exists, it is at the very bottom of a scarily large pile.

So instead, I have chosen the above gem, taken on the set of one of the many Gatorade commercials I authored, me, whose lack of coordination was rivalled only by her lack of fashion sense.

Lest you miss the finer, more spectacular points of this photo, I must needs point out the following:

1. That actor-boy is holding up my out-of-shape, copywriter ass WITH ONE HAND!!!

2. My (white) cross-trainers have Velco straps!!!

3. I am wearing an actual Tilley Hat!!!

Betcha can’t wait ’til tomorrow…


If computers R the sp@wn of S@t@n, why @M I const@ntly coming up with @ddition@l re@sons to use one?

zuikkin' english

My Macs continue to conspire against me, one getting hinky as soon as I get the other one fixed. For months I’ve been hobbling along on my 12″ PowerBook, watching my useful time working in Photoshop slowly shrink as the program decides to lock up more and more, in much the same way that it did on my G5 before it went south in July.

Die on me once, shame on you; die on me twice, shame on you, you mercenary POS robber barons.


So this afternoon, after a new business meeting down in Orange County, I’m driving back up to one of the 67 Apple stores in the Los Angeles area to give them even more of my money. Why?

(a) Because #@*() Apple won’t let me install the Tiger OS that came with my $2800 PowerBook on my $3000 G5 and I need it to sync the computers and end this madness

(b) Because I killed the “a”, “q” & “1” keys on my spare keyboard and I’m tired of swapping back & forth or finding work@arounds

(c) All of the above

For some reason, WordPress decided to gobble up 1/3 of this post between my pushing the “publish” button and it showing up on a browser near you. I don’t know why; clearly, I am more technologically handicapped than I even realize.

Anyway, as I said (I think) the first time I posted this, the events of the past several days have helped me understand why The BF says he must visualize half-clad young Japanese women before he can wrap his mind around other people’s stupid computer questions. I am just trying to take care of my own stupid computer problems and all I can think about is a stiff bourbon and a long, hot bath, followed by a swift whomp to the head with a 2×4 before falling into a deep, deep sleep until sometime next year…


Image above is a still frame from a Japanese TV show called Zuiikin’ English, in which half-clad young Japanese women aerobicize to common English phrases such as “I Was Robbed by Two Men” and “Spare Me My Life.” Via TV in Japan.

The downside of getting your shit together

Oh, no!

You start with the easy stuff: cleaning. Sorting. Trips to Goodwill. More trips to Goodwill.

Then maybe you drop a pursuit or two, say, your previous livelihood, for example. And then maybe you add another, one that you know will prove useful to your down-the-road self, but that you’re not too facile with now so it takes a lot of time. A lot of non-paying, stress-raising time.

And as you prune and cull and pitch and clean, you start to notice what’s left, say, your heart’s desire, for example. Which should be a series of shiny, happy moments for you and that organ in the top left quadrant of your chest cavity, only it feels more like someone took all your clothes away and hid them in a closet and then ripped off a wall of your house and replaced it with glass.

So instead of feeling happy and graceful and proud and clean, you feel like a lumpy, pigeon-toed spaz who’s been thrust into Swan Lake against your will and everyone else’s better judgment.

I’ve never said it before, but I’ll say it now: the only change that’s easy to make is four quarters for a dollar.

And only that when you’ve just come from the bank…


Most excellent photo by Javier Bravo via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Shedding excess baggage


I’ve gotten a little better with the clothes packing; I generally come home from a trip with everything worn, plus or minus that extra pair of underpants I threw in just in case.

But I still take along too much stuff-stuff: books, magazines, and a to-do list sixteen days long called All the Crap on My Laptop. If I were flying to Perth and back with four layovers and weather delays at each, I wouldn’t have the time to get through the stack of New Yorkers alone, much less all the projects I plan to fill my many, many idle hours of travel with.

Here’s what I ended up doing: walking…a lot. Eating…a lot. Doing that thing you do in motel rooms a lot…a lot. (What? You don’t watch late-night cable and drink bourbon when you’re on vacation? Wackos.)

And in those few waking hours when I wasn’t hanging out with some nice Bloomingtonian or walking the farm or driving around The Half-Blind BF (he lost a contact mid-trip), did I do the work I brought with me to do? Oh, no. I walked around a bookstore, looking for more not-work to do.

So how is it that on the way home, my baggage felt significantly lighter? And that this morning, despite a delayed flight (where yet more work did not get done) which also delayed bedtime until 2 am, I woke up feeling rested and refreshed instead of anxious and fretful?

Yeah. I guess I got my work done on this trip, after all…


Photo by Sidereal via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.