Oh, and there's that posting problem again, although I've learned that posts will show up eventually, without my having to do anything. Aggravating but workable. I've also lost two archives on this blog, which is more disturbing.

We did talk about things other than computer stuff, although Matt got started in on why he would choose a Unix server over a Linux one. Or something like that, I kind of zoned out and did some people-watching while that was going on. An amazing lot of people there who looked like they were trying hard to be "pub" people, but looking around like they didn't know why they were there.

Walking out of the place after dinner, we interrupted the peregrinations of a large group of Asian tourists, who looked like they were just fascinated by where they were. Got interrupted by another group as I was trying to turn the corner at West Temple. Must be NuSkin time again.

Matt and I attended the Meet Up on Wednesday, and although six were signed up to go, there were only four of us there. Dan and Levi showed up, and we all sat in the back of Squatters Pub. The food is okay, I probably should have gone for the chimichanga rather than the classic cheeseburger, but we shared a plate of calamari, and that was just what my tastebuds had been screaming for.

Just one question: Why must everything, now, in all the trendiest, hippest, pubs, come with aioli? I mean, it's fine in its place, but really unnecessary with calamari. And how come ketchup, in restaurants across the broad spectrum of quality and price points, comes in little containers rather than a bottle on your table? (Yeah, okay, that's two questions, but what-the-fuck?) Is there a ketchup shortage, some problem with ketchup tomatoes? (Yeah, okay, we discussed this at the Meet Up; I'm just full of scintillating conversation, dontchaknow?) Those little cups don't contain enough ketchup to satisfy my ketchup RDA. I'm tellin' ya....And I'm sorry, but I don't especially need designer mustard. Just a nice, good quality mustard will do on my regular-joe hamburger, thankseversomuch. Picking mustard seeds out of my teeth for several hours after I eat is not my idea of entertainment.

It's like being punished for choosing a meal that does not conform to the latest Cool Gourmand Requirements.

But the calamari was tender and battered lightly, and there weren't too many babies on the plate. Which is another disturbing trend. What ever happened to just having sliced tentacle on there, when did baby squid (or octopi, it's so hard to tell when they've been battered and deep fried) make their appearance? I'm just askin'.....

In the meantime, you might want to check out this "letter", if only to reassure yourself of your own mental superiority.

It sure made me feel like my IQ hadn't dropped as significantly as previously believed. (Although a lot of what is alleged in this "letter" could be or is true, what the letter mostly reveals is the writer's own insecurity.)

Makes me almost ashamed to have been born in Canada

Of course, it's getting harder and harder to be optimistic about the entire situation. If there is a war with Iraq, I might have to give up the whole thing as a complete loss.

I keep hoping I can trust the majority to think rationally. This may be a personality flaw.

Matt sent me a couple of links a couple of weeks ago, regarding the whole "loss of freedom since 9/11" thing. There was a whole list, printed in Newsday (and which I cannot, now, find via the link or via searching), which enumerates the various efforts our gummint has made towards catching what it perceives to be terrorist criminals.

Yep, we're losing a lot as a country, but there are already outcries about the more egregious things done, and a complete stop put to the whole Operation TIPS debacle. Personally, I'm counting down till the next presidential election, and maybe the voters can put that all behind.

Maybe.

My mother hasn't been in contact with the kids for a while. Mum sent Trystan a birthday card (she made it herself with her computer, innit special?) and a small check. She did call that week and wonder what we were doing for his b-day dinner, but no one seemed too anxious to have her and the Evil Little Troll join us. No point in forcing everyone to be nice and try like anything to avoid anything approaching a political conversation, or even anything resembling our real thoughts and feelings about anything much at all.

That would've been bad, oh, so very bad.

I can't wait for Christmas.

There may be some subjects I've been avoiding over the past few weeks, not least of which is the fact that my sister (Kathryn) is going bananas. Going bananas in much the same way her husband did, but with more seeming time to drown her sorrows in alcohol. Not much I can do about it, not unless I want to start another family rift; this of course would last for a good few years, with me being the Bad Sister. All I can do is stand by and watch, and hope she doesn't crash and burn in the same way.

I feel so blessed to have such a crazy family.

My brother, Jason, last time I spoke to him, could do nothing more than complain about how much he misses his ex - that would be the woman who beat him over the head with heavy objects, sending him to the hospital periodically for stitches, and causing him to be arrested each time. That would be because, y'know, if there's violence in the household, it must be the man responsible. After all, who would stay home and beat the children, otherwise?

Not that I'm bitter, or worried, or anything like that. All I can do is feel their distress. Ain't much fun being so empathetic.

Wow. I've really been remiss. And going out of my mind, but that's not something anyone need concern themselves about here.

Har!

Just discovered another synthpop band that should go down in history as being the most literate of all time. Spray is magnificently wonderful in the way they use their words, and as the intro to their lyric page suggests, there are a lot of them. Good words, words some may have to look up in a dictionary, not that anyone of that type would be reading this particular blog. I use too many, myself. Matt and I had to have the cd, just one of those necessities. I mean, how could anyone resist I Am Gothic, with lyrics such as:
I am gothic
I am pale
I am scary
I'm insane
I'm a loner
I am cold
I feel special when people don't phone
?

The trouble with posting a review at Amazon.com is that I always get sucked into writing more than just the one. I go there with all good intentions, but it's like the Black Hole of Critics Guilt. I see all the books and movies that I've noted that I own, and am moved to comment. And then I realize it's been a while since I've read any William Gibson, and I would have to get each individual Terry Pratchett book to make sure I was talking about the right one. So much work.

Not that I'm compulsive about stuff like this, or anything. Not in the least....

Okay, sorted the password problem, but have already done a review for Amazon. Ah, well.....

The Rapture was written (and directed) by Michael Tolkin, who is also responsible for The Player (which I've seen several times, and is one of Matt's favourites - Tim Robbins is always a good choice), and The New Age (which I haven't seen, but now I'm very curious).

Actually, I've always preferred the movie, The Rapture. I saw this with a friend (Robert, where are you now?) in 1991, right when it came out. We were both so stunned by the movie and certain concepts it played with, that we walked home from the theater at the Beverly Center to our apartment building near MacArthur Park (and if you follow the link, you will be able to see the building - the short, red brick behind the peaked windows, past the west end of the lake (far left if you're moving the thing counter-clockwise). This panorama thingy is cool....).

I think I'm going to have to post a review, which for right now will be at Amazon, because I apparently can't remember my IMDB password (so rarely do I feel moved to post a review at IMDB).

Like conspiracy theorists and the folks who thought that 2000 would send us all hurtling into a barbaric world, Apocalyptic Wowsers strike me as being people who look forward to the disintegration of society, lots of bloodshed, and living like cavemen.

(So, whatever happened to the militias? We never hear about them anymore....)

My opinion is that the joyfulness is related to seeing the smiting of those who don't measure up - for whatever reason is ascribable to any group or individual - kind of Schadenfreude-in-advance. Although, if you follow the prescribed methods of the more religious wing-nuts, you might just sail through and be caught up in the Rapture. And while you're enRaptured, you can be safe in the knowledge that those folks down the street, who don't believe the same things as you, didn't make it. It's an "I told you so" kinda thing, I think. Bugs the shit out of me.

In the plus column, Frankie rides so much better.

And, a little levity: $769.95 - Price of the Beast with all accessories and replacement soul, from this site - The Number of the Beast. A more comprehensive list is found here. I bring this up because, while I was flitting about the American Idol message boards, I came across a poster who was, well, disturbed that another poster had the number "666" in her screen-name (mine generally tends to be "Lap Dog of Satan," which has a long and storied history, none of which I am going into at this time). The first lectured the second about associating herself with things unholy, and the second took the telling-off with grace and aplomb. Heh. Strange to see that kind of off-topicality again.....

Anyway, I did a bit of a search, just to see if I could come up with anything regarding The Number of the Beast that didn't theorize that Bill Gates was Satan incarnate, or that These Last Times were The Last Times, et cetera, et cetera. Not much luck, but - wow! - the number of sites willing to share theories about what is truly going on with a simple little number.

So many people breathlessly awaiting the end of the world, as if this world, for them, is beyond fixing, and they would really rather not bother to try. Looking for the Debbil under every rock and in every boardroom (or government) - it seems to me as though one or two of them might get the thrill of their lives if they were actually right.

Unless one counts spending an incredible amount of money to make Frankie feel better. Having a motor mount break, causing the clutch fan to hit the frame, break, and then fly into the radiator and destroy that will make a mechanic's profits for the day.

Poor, poor, Frankie.

What bothers me more I think, though (despite the fact that I was lucky to end up with a functional vehical at all, and parting with a check that big was one of the most psychically painful things I've ever had to do), is that Randy - who I've been going to since Steve closed his shop (I'd worked with Steve when I did the secretary thing for my bro-in-law, Mike, at his shop. It's all very incestuous, mechanic-wise) - is selling his shop. Selling his shop to someone who will put his brother in charge, oh-he-who broke into my vehicle two visits ago (according to Randy at the time). Oh, yeah, there's a trust issue.

Randy's brother's name is Andy, by the way, they're twins. Randy is the Mormon, Andy is, uh, different. (Not that I want to start speculating on their growing up, or current relationship.)

But all this means is that I am now going to have to find a mechanic I can trust, without my brother-in-law to guide me (because he died last November). Kathryn (my sister) might have a suggestion, but I bet anything (perhaps the cost of repairs to Frankie?) that she's going to question why I won't take Frankie to Andy. Argh. (That's the kind of relationship we have. Kathryn, despite being four years younger, thinks and acts like an older sister. Sometimes it's cute, sometimes it bugs.)

Argh, argh, grrrr.....

Not that I'm accomplishing anything of a tangible nature at the moment, but time-suckage is time-suckage.

It was all I could do not to get deeply involved in the posts, myself - I mean, I read some, and posted a couple (mostly to tell people they were taking it all too seriously) - but that is more unjustifiable time-suckage than I can take, even for me.

Yes, it's true, I've been sucked into American Idol. I apologize to everyone, but for the past couple of weeks I have watched both the sing-off programs and the results programs. Ugh. It was the voices that got me, and the surprise I felt that they actually found some talent to be on their little pablum-producing production.

Of course, I do expect pablum to be produced, because the imagination to make anything resembling something new is lacking. I can see one contestant who will break out of that mold, but otherwise we're going to end up with a new, if short-lived, crop of boy-band imitators and more tired divas, all singing the same kind of crap playing on your favourite radio station.

I really have no will-power, it's worse than Bachelorettes in Alaska. I think this fascination has a lot to do with the sadism inherent in any competition, which American Idol has honed and refined to quite a breath-taking quality. Yes, what a good idea! Let's force the bottom two contestants stand up on stage (the first one all alone for at least one break) for at least ten minutes! You can watch the nerves crack in fine lines, as these contestants await their fate, as if this is the only chance they'll ever get to do anything with their voices.

No, I am not voting. That would violate my own personal law of inertia.

What's worse, though, is that today I checked out the message boards attached to this circus, and although I shouldn't have been surprised, was stunned and amazed at the seriousness with which "fans" take the whole thing. Do you think they know that in a few months they won't care at all? Until the next round....

Finally! Something I've been meaning to write about, but it took picking up a copy of Elle yesterday to really get me in the right frame of mind (pissy) to get down to it. Why is it that every fashion magazine must now have a celebrity on the cover? I realize we're now a very celebrity-driven society, but c'mon!

I remember the time when I was a new subscriber to Vogue, and then I was sick of Madonna, and I wrote to complain about putting her on the cover. At least at that point (lo, these fifteen years ago, now) it was a fairly rare thing. Now I am shocked, shocked I say! when I see an actual model on the cover of either Vogue or Elle. [Truth is, my memory is so vague at this point, anyway, I don't recall the last time that was.] At least put an actual icon on the cover for crying out loud, not just some random bippy who happens to flip past on the radar. That should rid us of at least 80% of the noxious cover pollution.

Or, maybe it's just a summer thing: Elle covers and Vogue covers. It's either that or the beginning of a trend I don't want to think about. This kind of thing tends to happen right when I want to start paying attention to the magazines again. Not that Elle's fashion photography is anything to shout about, recently. And they dropped my favourite fashion writer, Sweetie.

I don't know how this happened, but I have started getting professional discount subscription offers from magazines. I took W up on it (a $12 sub for what they normally try to charge $18 for ain't bad, and that was their "special, introductory offer"), since I've been extremely impressed with their lay-outs recently, and I attempted to do the same with Elle ($9 for an "introductory" $12 sub) but lost the envelope somehow (I blame the couch). I must've mentioned costume designer on some form, somewhere, at some point, and despite all the claims that "No, no! We don't sell your private information!" I'm guessing that the information got sold.

Oh, and my "free bag" from W is a plastic wonder I could possibly put my cell phone in. Wow. Thanks, W, 'preciatcha!