Tuesday, October 18, 2005

well, tickle me elmo. Yeah, I'm in one of those moods. Semi-cantankerous, nonsensical, fierce, blustering -- borderline rude. I say borderline because I rarely cross those boundaries, although I am sorely, sorely tempted. I'm not one for depression -- I honestly am far too fidgety to really be depressed. I get bored with melancholy and segue right into anger, or better yet... dancing. I couldn't sit around and cry for very long because a) my sinuses would act up and b) the amount of coffee I drink has acted as such a profound diuretic for so, so long that instead of tears, I weep tumbleweeds. And I know negativity is a waste of time. But honestly, I didn't have anything else I needed to do right now. So, since I'm in this MOOD... this wretched, uncute, ingracious mood... why not just rant a little? I have to be honest; I fear ranting in my blog to some degree, unless I'm trying to be funny. I mean, what if this is someone's first Blogcabin experience? They'll think I'm psychotic. But I guess you could call that truth in advertising. I'm NOT editing this post. I just WON'T. Things that are driving me bonkers right now: Is there some sort of memo that goes around telling everyone else who the cool indie/alt/edgy bands are? Why am I not on the mailing list? For the love of Pete, how many skinny, tousle-headed whiny rock quartets is Rolling Stone going to proclaim to be the next big thing? Are Drew Barrymore and Kate Moss going to date all of them? And why, when I hear them, can I not grasp the appeal? They have weird names that I jumble when I try and refer to them in hip conversational circles and songs that no one but a parrot with a pan flute could sing along with. DOES NO ONE MAKE MUSIC THAT IS MUSICAL ANYMORE? I'm sorry, but honestly, heroin addiction and squawking like a chicken do not a Rock God make. GEEZ. Everyone has these people on their iPods but me, and I have to admit, I DON'T CARE. NO SQUAWKING ON MY iPOD! If I see one more ironic band name, I'm going to cut my bangs across my forehead, buy cat's-eye glasses, and start wearing Neighborhoodies just so the Hipster Zombies don't eat my BRAIN. Okay, do you NEED to stop in the MIDDLE of the sidewalk? Why do people not pull to the side? If you braked in the middle of the highway, you'd get rear-ended. But somehow, when you block the entire City of Vancouver behind you on the path because you cannot walk AND open your cell phone at the same damn time, you get off scott-free. I just want to poke people with my umbrella and yell, "Move!" I mean -- do you not see that you just caused a 17-body pile up? People seem so oblivious to their surroundings. I mean, I am too -- how else would I not notice walls until I walked into them -- but there are limits to what is reasonable. Ever since I worked as a barista, I try not to pay attention to what baristas are doing when they make my coffee. Invariably, something is going awry -- they pull the shots too long, burn the milk, scoop the foam on top instead of free-pouring... ahhhh! I can taste the difference, kids. But I don't want to be critical. I know not everyone is as anal or coffee-obsessed as I am. But sometimes, I look at them and I know they know they're doing it wrong. They just don't care. And why should they? It's just a dumb job at a dumb wage and they know that 99% of the people they serve won't notice that they just turned milk into pudding because they left the steam wand in the milk jug for eight hours while I stood and watched in horror. I'm not one of those people who rhapsodizes about the amount of crema on their shot or buys $80 coffee beans that were picked by virgins on the sides of volcanoes. I don't care that much. But GEEZ. Take some pride in the little things, people. Stop being a jerk just because no one notices! I hate money. Okay, no... I don't hate it. But I hate how giant chunks of it go to stuff that I can't control. I'm trying to be responsible -- to hack away at debts and pay bills. But meanwhile, my jeans are falling apart and have turned this odd shade of pencil-lead gray. I keep putting off buying shoes. Buying shoes would eliminate a week's worth of groceries. And even as I say that, I think, "What blessings I have -- I have money to get my basics!" (usually). But I would love to be effortless and heedless for a moment. I do know how rich I am compared to so many other people in the world -- don't get me wrong. But I seem to have messed up the whole urban professional trajectory. I'm working downtown, but I'm rockin' the flip flops. I have the iPod, but uh... there's a Hanson song on there (wait, that's a taste issue...). And for freakity freak's sakes, I have a stain on my new twenty-dollar hoodie in the shape of Venezuela. It was such a good deal! And that's probably where it was made! Ahhh, the guilt of complaining about money! The whole PayPal link on blogs debate is so reflective of our society's dismissive attitude towards writing as an art form unless it shows up as a novel or a screenplay. If you want to put one up and let people decide whether or not they want to contribute to you, do it! Why is it shameful? Writing is a form of art, and if it's not considered as such, well -- crap, then I guess I'm hooped. Does no one here give to museums where they don't own paintings? If you think someone is a hack writer, bypass the link. If you think they're a great writer -- if they give you joy every freaking day and you have a couple bucks, toss it their way. I have seen some lovely and dedicated writers with incredible followings -- three, off the top of my head -- agonize about whether or not to ask their hordes of fanpeople to help support them. We go to movies with ASHTON KUTCHER in them, for heaven's sakes. The guy is a millionaire, and his claim to fame is playing mentally vacant, testosteronally-charged (Testaroni? the San Francisco treat?) men. Is that somehow less worthy than someone whose writing picks up your soul and twirls it around in the summer sun? People spend hours every day writing the stuff you spend your coffee breaks reading, yet all your cash goes to the dude at Starbucks who just scorched your 1%. I'm just thinking about art patronage lately, is all. And one day, when I can afford it, I'll give more than I do. And maybe I'll have a patron or two myself to support my haiku projects! Ha! Right. Okay, well, evidently that's enough ranting, because I've worn myself out. Remember, all you BlogCabin newbies -- this isn't the usual Meg. But she's allowed sometimes! 10:57:29 PM    well, yes, but...  [] inanimation. If you read my blog daily -- and I'm not presuming you do -- you'll know that a nine month-old did an entry here on Saturday. And it was a good one -- much more clever than the ones I do, really. Thing is, she can't walk or talk, but she can blog. She did a damn good job, in fact. So other stuff in my life started to get ideas, and before I knew it, everyone wanted to be a guest blogger. I said no. I mean, come on. It's still my blog. I'm supposed to be writing it. And quite frankly, I don't think inanimate objects are destined to be writers. Yep -- that's right. Household objects. They wanted to blog. On Blogcabin. Like I said, I tried to refuse. But then they played hardball. They refused to function until I said yes. My hands were tied. I'm not responsible for any of the following content. I'm all for self-expression, but this is a bit much. Really. I'm freakin' going to bed. My Life Is Pain. by Meg's Clock Radio Every single morning, she hits me. I don't do anything to merit the abuse, but I receive it nonetheless. I've tried to understand the whys... the hows. But it doesn't make sense. As soon as I open my mouth, she smacks me across the face like I was cursing her out. I'm sick of being a victim. All I'm trying to do is wake her up. SHE NEEDS TO GET UP.  SHE KNOWS THIS. Somehow, though, I've become a scapegoat to her schedule. It's like dealing with a schizophrenic. "Clocky, promise you'll wake me up at 5:30 am. Okay?" She smiles at me like I'm her best friend... and I can't resist. And I wake up a few minutes in advance and get ready, and at 5:30 on the dot, I greet her with as much cheer and enthusiasm as I can. What do I get? SMACK! Of course, I fall silent. It usually takes me, like... ten minutes to recover. Then I try again. SMACK! I can't tell you how empty I am inside. One day, she'll know all I tried to do for her. One day, I won't be there. Then she'll never wake up. That will serve her right. She needs me. *sob* The Sweetest Thing. by Meg's Coffee Do you know what it feels like to be loved? I do. And when she holds me every morning, I know what it is to be needed and wanted and appreciated and known. Her love consumes me and gives me purpose. I'm not much for blogging, but I managed this haiku: hot, black, rich and hot caffeine is my gift to you pour me in your soul She's my girl. We've been together as long as I can remember. She's tried to walk away -- but I always know she'll be back. When it's right, it's right. Love you, baby. Holy Frick. by Meg's iPod Okay, holy frickin' what the hey, Batman. If that dame drops me ONE MORE TIME on my FREAKIN' FACE, I swear, I'm not going to work anymore. Is everyone listening? I have enough to remember without getting a 9.3 on the Richter Scale every time she stumbles and lets me fly out of her hand. Hello, have you noticed I have a belt clip? Do you not see those little pockets on your FREAKING BAG?!? I'm just freaking humming along, belting out whatever JustinTimberlake/OutKast/Black-Eyed Peas/MTV Sheep/Lame Ass music she's forced me to memorize, and BAM! On my head, on the cement. I'm made of anodized aluminum, not freaking KEVLAR. @#&! GET A GRIP, BUTTERFINGERS. Holy Frick. I'm Clean Already, For Heaven's Sakes. by Meg's iBook Some people should not own white computers. That's all I'm saying. If I get wiped down or disinfected one more time, I'm going to need a rubdown with cocoa butter and an hour in the sauna. Heaven forbid I should get a fingerprint on me. OHHH NO! THE HORROR! I understand the whole OCD thing. But we're not living in a hospital here. Eat some fried chicken. Don't wash your hands. Do an entry. Break me in. Gimme a little dirt. I'm starting to feel like a pansy here. Oh yeah. One more thing. If you ever put another picture of a Krispy Kreme as your desktop just because you are on some whack diet, I'm totally going to gain a pound and give you back problems when you carry me around. Got it? Frazzled. by Meg's Blow Dryer Get me all overheated -- and then blow me off and walk away. And then you think I'm going to blog? Right. Find someone else to vent all their hot air. I gotta rest up for tomorrow morning. Ticket to Ride by Meg's Bus Like Coffee, I just chose to write a poem. I may be a big, noisy lug, but I have a sensitive heart. So here's my Ode To Meg: I'm sorry I don't have a seat Just when you look tired and beat And I'm sorry that I'm often loud When I'm bustling with a crowd I didn't ask them all to come But the driver's got me under his thumb 'Go here! Go there!' he yells at me They might pay, but I work for free Pedals pushed and seats a' soiled All my plans to wander foiled But when you get on, I have to smile And hope that you stay for a while You know I love you more than the rest Even the guy who grabbed your... oh, never mind. I Can't Help It If I'm Dull by Meg's Razor Seriously. I have nothing to say. I'm bored. My job sucks. I'm tired. Leave me alone. I Didn't Want To Go Last by Meg's Tweezers Everyone says I'm picky. I think I'm just detail-oriented. 7:51:11 PM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:29:11 PM.